This article is from the book “VILNIUS a Personal History” written by Tomas Venclova.
From reading Mr. Venclova’s Bio you can understand why we are excited and honoured to have him as one of the contributing writers for VilNews. In the future we will continue to post excerpts from his book for your reading enjoyment. We thank the publisher, The Sheep Meadow Press for their gracious consent in allowing us to share Mr. Venclova’s book with you and we would like to direct you to The University Press of New England who is the book’s distributor.

Published at:
Sheep Meadow Press
http://sheepmeadowpress.com/
Distributed by:
University Press of New England
http://www.upne.com/index_new.html

MINDAUGAS, GEDIMINAS and VILNIUS

The first Lithuanian ruler, Mindaugas, is wreathed in mystery and ambiguity―almost as much as St. Christopher on the city’s coat of arms. His rise occurred at a time when Lithuania first confronted the German knights, the so-called Knights of the Teutonic Order. Like most founders and unifiers of nations, Mindaugas probably was not a very attractive character. He did away with the majority of his opponents (among them, quite a few of his relatives), adopted Christianity, was crowned King by the Pope, but then broke with Christianity after his wife’s death―in any case, that is what the Teutonic Knights claimed. His wife’s sister, who was married to Grand Duke Daumantas, came to the funeral. According to the story, “The king shamelessly violated the law, robbing the woman of her honor by force and keeping her as his wedded wife.” Daumantas killed Mindaugas and fled to the Russian city of Pskov, where he adopted the Orthodox Christian faith. He became a famous ruler and was later canonized. Meanwhile, for a good half-century the Lithuanian state disappeared from history: what happened during this time is beyond reliable historical knowledge.

What is clear is that there were no longer any kings, only grand dukes. (After the First World War an attempt was made to restore the old monarchy. When the German Prince von Urach was called to the throne, he intended to call himself Mindaugas II. But the idea never went beyond this operetta-like plan.) Historians, relying less on documents than on patriotism, have been trying to prove that the story of Mindaugas is connected with Vilnius: he was said to have been crowned and murdered in this settlement. In any case, he is credited with having built the first cathedral, whose Romanesque ruins can be found in the vaulted cellars of the present-day Cathedral. When Daumantas took revenge against Mindaugas, they say, the cathedral again became a pagan place of worship. Ardent supporters of this tale have even found twelve stone steps and the sacrificial altar of the cult site.

Admittedly, like most stories from that period, this one has a touch of the absurd. Still, Mindaugas became the symbol of the threatened state. Not long ago, a memorial to him was erected at the mouth of the Vilnia. A somewhat naïve play* portrays him as the first Lithuanian patriot. It influenced the generation that subsequently took to the barricades for the liberation of the country from Communism. Nevertheless, the true founder of the city was not Mindaugas, but Gediminas, a ruler who came to power after this “blank” period in the history of Vilnius.

Legend has it that at first Gediminas did not rule here but in Trakai, a town surrounded by lakes, not far from the present-day capital. During his lifetime this distance seemed greater than it does today, for between the two cities lay a forest only traces of which are left. On an island in one of the lakes of Trakai there stands a huge stone castle that was built not by Gediminas, but by one of his successors. From Trakai, Gediminas set out to go hunting at the confluence of the Neris and Vilnia. The aforementioned Latin history continues the tale: “On the peak of the hill with his spear he killed a forest bull (our word for it is “aurochs”) driven toward him out of the forest thicket and the steep mountain slopes. Tired from the daylong hunt and happy at having killed the beast, he spent the night in Šventaragis Valley. In his dream he saw, on the peak of the same hill where he had killed the animal, a huge wolf that looked as if it were made completely of iron or was wearing iron armor. Hundreds of other wolves howled within it, and their howling echoed across the surrounding fields and forests.”

By happy coincidence, the pagan high priest Lizdeika lived nearby and interpreted the dream. He said a city as hard as iron and with a reputation as powerful as the howling of wolves must be founded on this spot. “And the ruler heard him out and thought the high priest had correctly interpreted the will of the gods. After observing all the rituals, he determined that the site for the castle was to be the spot where he had just killed the aurochs.” At this point, the myth turns into reality. Today, a castle built of masonry walls and stone―the oldest structure in the Vilnius―still stands on the hill, its rough appearance a contrast to the city’s later, more sophisticated architecture. But in its own way the castle fits in with the skyscrapers that now rise on the far shore of the Neris. History repeats itself: both then as now, naked pragmatism rules―then for defense, now for commerce. Just as in Trakai, the castle dates to a time somewhat later than Gediminas’s rule, but, like the hill, it bears his name.

The prophetic dream and its consequences are familiar to cultural anthropologists and mythologists, who note that the wolf links the foundation myths of Vilnius and Rome: the animal stands for the symbol of tribal leaders throughout Europe. Gediminas doesn’t dream just anywhere; he dreams in the Šventaragis Valley, at a sacred place. The name of the valley―the low plain where Vilnius Cathedral stands―is derived from the words šventas (“holy”), and ragas (“horn”). It is still called that today. “Horn” may refer to the bend in the river. Medieval chroniclers even invented a Duke Šventaragis who supposedly reigned sometime between Mindaugas and Gediminas. All that the chronicles say of him is that he ordered a funerary site to be constructed at the confluence of the rivers where, according to pagan tradition, he, his successors, and the most important ruling families would be cremated. In other words, there was already a religious center in the valley, obviously a place of worship―perhaps the one that was built on the ruins of Mindaugas’s Cathedral. Clearly, it was no accident that Lizdeika turned up. A contemporary researcher maintains that it was the high priest who advised Gediminas to spend the night near the burial site in the valley rather than in one of the nearby houses. Only at a religious site can you have a dream that will determine the future for hundreds of years. And when you prepare for a prophetic dream, you have to offer a bull, better yet a wild aurochs, as the animal sacrifice―hence, the theme of the hunt.

Lizdeika is also a figure with roots in the world of ritual and myth. He is the only Lithuanian pagan high priest whose name has entered the chronicles. His name has the same root as lizdas (“nest”)―apparently, the priest had been abandoned as a child and was found in an eagle’s nest. Mythologists consider this a typical shaman story of the sort that was common among many tribes in the Eurasian lowland plains. The old chroniclers invented a more conventional genealogy for Lizdeika: he is supposed to have been a high-ranking relative of Gediminas, who was concealed from his enemies in a tree. Incidentally, the Lithuanian noble family Radziwiłł traces its origins to Lizdeika―the name Radziwiłł (Lithuanian: Radvila) is equivalent to “foundling.” Did these beautiful and amazing adventures really take place? It’s a question that cannot be answered. The myth is part of reality and has a clear meaning: Gediminas founded the political capital at the place where the religious capital already existed, and then he blended the two. Lizdeika, by virtue of his authority, sanctioned the act.