Nationalism and the Reshaping of Urban Communities in Europe, 1848-1914

Nationalism and the Reshaping of Urban Communities in Europe, 1848–1914

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Also by William Whyte OXFORD JACKSON: Architecture, Education, Status and Style, 1835–1924 CLASSES, CULTURES, AND POLITICS: Essays in Modern British History, (with Clare Griffiths and James Nott) THE ESTABLISHED CHURCH: Past, Present and Future, (with Mark Chapman and Judith Maltby) REDEFINING CHRISTIAN BRITAIN: Post-1945 Perspectives, (with Jane Garnett, Matthew Grimley, Alana Harris, and Sarah Williams)

Also by Oliver Zimmer A CONTESTED NATION: History, Memory and Nationalism in Switzerland, 1761–1891 NATIONALISM IN EUROPE, 1890–1940 POWER AND THE NATION IN EUROPEAN HISTORY, (with Len Scales)

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Nationalism and the Reshaping of Urban Communities in Europe, 1848–1914 Edited by

William Whyte University Lecturer in Modern History, St John’s College, Oxford

Oliver Zimmer University Lecturer in Modern History, University College, Oxford

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Editorial matter, selection and introduction © William Whyte and Oliver Zimmer 2011 All remaining chapters © their respective authors 2011 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN 978–0–230–24628–7 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

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Contents

List of Table and Illustrations

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Preface

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List of Contributors

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Introduction William Whyte and Oliver Zimmer

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Section I Contested Territory 1 The Municipal and the National in the Bohemian Lands, 1848–1914 Jeremy King

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2 Venice 1848–1915: The Venetian Sense of the Past and the Creation of the Italian Nation David Laven

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3 Interpreting Municipal Celebrations of Nation and Empire: The Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888 Stephen Jacobson

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4 An Urban Civilization: The Case of Municipal Autonomy in Belgian History 1830–1914 Maarten Van Ginderachter

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Section II Towns and the Nation-State 5 Nationalism and the Defence Town: The Case of Karlskrona, Sweden Mary Hilson

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6 Negotiating for Garrisons in France at the Beginning of the Third Republic Jean-François Chanet

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7 Wither the Local? Nationalization, Modernization, and the Mobilization of Urban Communities in England and France, c. 1900–18 Pierre Purseigle

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8 Building the Nation in the Town: Architecture and Identity in Britain William Whyte

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9 The Nation is a Town: The Netherlands and the Urban Content of the National ‘Imagined Community’ Henk te Velde

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10 Urban Economies and the National Imagination: The German South, 1860–1914 Oliver Zimmer

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Section III Conclusion Concluding Remarks and Observations John Breuilly

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Index

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List of Table and Illustrations

Table 6.1 Distribution of cities authorized to take out a loan for barracks between 1874 and 1879 according to the number of inhabitants

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Images 3.1 La Esquella de la Torratxa, 20 October 1888, p. 660 (Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona) 3.2 Photograph of part of the universal exhibition in Citadel Park (Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona) 3.3 A lithograph of the castle of the three dragons as a postcard (Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona) 3.4 La Esquella de la Torratxa, 28 April 1888, p. 267 (Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona) 3.5 La Esquella de la Torratxa, 9 June 1888, p. 365 (Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona) 3.6 La Esquella de la Torratxa, 18 August 1888, p. 515 (Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona) 5.1 Karlskrona in its regional context 5.2 Karlskrona in its local context 7.1 The mutiny of the 17th infantry regiment 8.1 Manchester town hall in 1877 (RIBA library photographs collection) 8.2 The Guildhall in Northampton (RIBA library photographs collection) 8.3 Entrance to Birmingham University (RIBA library photographs collection) 8.4 John Rylands Library in 1899 (RIBA library photographs collection) vii

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86 87 100 101 134 135 183 205 214 218 219

viii List of Table and Illustrations

Figures 6.1 Graph of cities authorized to take out a loan for barracks between 1874 and 1879 according to the number of inhabitants 6.2 Distribution of cities that have taken out a loan for the barracks between 1874 and 1879 according to their per capita expenses

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Preface

This project has been huge fun to do and this book has been immensely enjoyable to edit. For this, we must chiefly thank our contributors and the participants in the workshop that began it all. In addition to those whose work is published here, we are grateful to Robert Evans, Robert Gildea, David Hopkin, and Uffe Østergård, whose contributions to this study were pivotal. We must also thank the Leverhulme Trust and both the Modern European History Research Centre and John Fell Fund at the University of Oxford for practical and financial support. Ollie Douglas was a wonderful research assistant and Ruth Ireland has been an invaluable editor. David Joseph helped speed the manuscript through the press. Nor should we forget the important role that Zoë Waxman and Nahum Whyte played in this work. Without Nahum, in particular, it would all have been finished months ago. But then it would have hardly been worth doing at all.

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List of Contributors

John Breuilly is professor of nationalism and ethnicity at the London School of Economics. He is the author of numerous books and articles, including Nationalism and the State (1994) and Austria, Prussia and Germany, 1806–1871 (2002). He is currently working on modernisation theory and German history. Jean-François Chanet is professor of modern history at the Institut d’études politiques de Paris. He is the author of Vers l’armée nouvelle. Réforme militaire et République conservatrice, 1871–1879 (Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2006) and is currently writing a book on the political crisis of 1877 in France. Mary Hilson is Senior Lecturer in Scandinavian History at University College London, having previously worked at the universities of Uppsala and Helsinki. Her published work includes Political Change and the Rise of Labour in Comparative Perspective: Britain and Sweden 1890–1920 (Nordic Academic Press, 2006). She is currently researching the history of the consumer co-operative movement in the Nordic countries in the inter-war period. Stephen Jacobson is the author of Catalonia’s Advocates: Lawyers, Society, and Politics in Barcelona, 1759–1900 (University of North Carolina Press, 2009) and has published various articles on the history of Spanish and Catalan nationalism. He is currently working on a book on banking, crime, and politics in nineteenth-century Barcelona. Jeremy King is associate professor of history at Mount Holyoke College, in western Massachusetts. In 2002, Princeton University Press published his study, Budweisers into Czechs and Germans: A Local History of Bohemian Politics, 1848–1948. His current research concerns liberal racial law and administrative practice, and centres on the Moravian Compromise, enacted in imperial Austria in 1905. David Laven is senior lecturer in Italian historical and cultural studies at the University of Manchester. He is the author of Venice and Venetia x

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under the Habsburgs, 1815–1835 (Oxford University Press, 2002), and is currently engaged in a study of Venetian and Italian identity as in the works of nineteenth-century historians of the Serenissima. Pierre Purseigle is lecturer in history and Director of the Centre for First World War Studies at the University of Birmingham. He is currently writing a comparative history of wartime mobilization in France and Britain, 1914–1924. Henk te Velde is professor of Dutch History and Head of Department at Leiden University. He has written books about the history of Dutch liberalism and nationalism, styles of political leadership, and political traditions. He is now writing a book about West-European parliamentary cultures in the nineteenth century. Maarten Van Ginderachter is lecturer at the Department of History (Centre of Political History) of Antwerp University. He is the author or editor of four books on social democracy and national identity and has contributed to journals such as Nations and Nationalism, Social History, the International Review of Social History and the History Workshop Journal. William Whyte is fellow and tutor in history at St John’s College, Oxford. He is the author of Oxford Jackson: Architecture, Education, Status, and Style, 1835–1924 (Oxford University Press, 2006), and is currently writing a book on the development of Britain’s civic universities. Oliver Zimmer is fellow in modern history at University College, Oxford. He is the author of A Contested Nation: History, Memory and Nationalism in Switzerland, 1761–1891 (Cambridge University Press, 2003), Nationalism in Europe, 1890–1940 (Palgrave, 2003), Power and the Nation in European History (ed.) with Len Scales (Cambridge University Press, 2005), and is currently completing a book on nationalism’s impact on three urban communities (The Nation in the Town: Reshaping German Communities, 1860–1900) for Oxford University Press.

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Introduction William Whyte and Oliver Zimmer

On the face of it, towns and cities have figured rather prominently in accounts of modern nationalism. Writing from an expressly theoretical point of view, for instance, Ernest Gellner has seen in the growth and proliferation of cities one of the chief engines behind the formation of modern national cultures.1 The same can be said of Gellner’s most prominent critic Anthony D. Smith, who in his earlier work on nationalist ideology identified an urban-based intelligentsia as one of the vectors in the cultivation and spread of nationalist doctrines.2 Historians such as E. H. Carr have also pointed to the close affinity between ‘the rapid expansion in numbers and importance of urban populations’ and the spread of modern nationalism in Europe in the later half of the nineteenth century.3 More recently, towns and cities have provided the locus for many of the national festivals, commemorations and public rituals that have attracted so much attention from historians and social scientists alike.4 What is striking, however, is how little these accounts tell us about the status of towns in the history of nationhood in nineteenth-century Europe. Indeed, the neglect of towns as an object of analysis by students of nationalism is as regrettable as it is unwarranted. As institutionally dense spaces are located at the intersection of local, regional, national and transnational developments, towns and cities are ideally suited for investigating nation-formation as the product of an unpredictable and contentious process of encounter and redefinition between state and society. What historians are faced with, instead, is a literature built on the fault line between an abstract-theoretical and a symbolic-descriptive approach. For while Ernest Gellner and those influenced by him have treated towns and cities as little more than a metaphor for modernization (nationalism’s alleged alter ego), 1

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most students of national festivals and commemorations have been interested not in towns per se but rather in the struggles over symbolic representations that often happened to take place in urban contexts. Yet while the divergence between these two research paradigms is rather obvious, what has been much less visible, if rather more consequential, is the shared developmentalist logic that informs them. Finding expression in concepts such as ‘nation-building’ and ‘nationalization’, much of the research produced over the last two decades consequently adheres to what is in effect a teleological vision of how national cultures and institutions took shape. This account maintains that, by the outbreak of the First World War, if not before, most European societies were thoroughly nationalized, leaving historians with the sole task of reconstructing the various stages of the overall process, highlighting the social mechanisms, political strategies and cultural symbols that shaped the national drama.5 Perhaps the main problem with this and cognate perspectives is that the populations which the self-professed nation-builders encountered did not for the most part consist of free-floating individuals ready to sing from the hymn sheets provided by nationalist intellectuals and activists. Throughout the nineteenth century, most Europeans were still tied, in some way or other, to highly institutionalized groups and corporations. These ranged from different kinds of civic associations to the urban municipalities of varying size and complexity that are the focus of this book.6 Towns and cities thus offer opportunities for addressing a number of problems that are still little understood. Chief among them is the question of how people from different walks of life experienced nationalism and the nation-state – not as passive recipients of pre-packaged ideological messages and institutional programmes, but rather as active participants in a process that was not only contentious but also principally open-ended. Instead of investigating how societies were ‘nationalized’, then, the contributors to this volume begin by asking how Europe’s nationalisms and incipient nation-states affected the development of nineteenthcentury towns and cities. How did official nation-building initiatives influence collective loyalties and institutional arrangements in different urban contexts? How did towns and their inhabitants respond to the challenges that these initiatives inevitably posed to established modes of belonging and patterns of identification? While people had often little choice but to engage with the increasingly nationwide administrative, legal, cultural and economic reforms that punctuated the nineteenth

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century, their responses to them were not uniform but were shaped in significant ways by local political cultures, traditions and milieus, as well as by prevalent economic structures, possibilities and expectations. In seeking to shed light on the diverse ways in which urban populations engaged with nationalist ideologies and national institutions, and how they imagined themselves as members of various communities, the present book also aims to make a contribution to the broader debate on how nationalism was accommodated and mediated in Europe in the nineteenth century. Urban historians have, of course, already hinted at the possibilities that such an approach throws up. Lynn Hollen Lees and Andrew Lees, in particular, have argued that ‘Cities ought to be seen as a “third force” in modern European society, occupying a large space between individuals and nation states and mediating the contacts between them.’7 And, indeed, there is a substantial literature exploring the city as a site for political action and a space where political subjectivities could be articulated. Important comparative studies have been produced on associational culture, on ethnicity and on religious identity in urban Europe.8 For Germany, the works by Richard Evans and Jennifer Jenkins on Hamburg’s political culture in the late nineteenth century have been immensely influential, while Ronald Aminzade and Jean-François Chanet have used comparative history to shed new light on the interaction between state and urban municipalities in France during the same period.9 British urban historians have extensively explored the religious and class relationships fostered by the nineteenth-century city, and have argued that Victorian urban spaces produced ‘liberal governmentality’ and ‘bourgeois modernity’.10 However, few of these works use urban history to investigate how nationalism and the emerging nation-state were experienced and accommodated, how both affected people’s sense of national belonging, and how their activities – whether they supported or opposed the central state’s nation-building efforts – helped to shape the construction of a national society in the making. On the whole, the nation is taken as a given, and urban historians have seen the town as their central problematic.11 This book, by contrast, seeks to problematize both the city and the nation. The urban contexts considered in this book thus range from middle-sized towns in the German south or ‘defence towns’ in Sweden and France, to important national – even international – cities such as Barcelona, Manchester and Venice. This gives the volume a significant comparative dimension: enabling it to explore not only the different experiences of different types of town, but also to highlight

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the structural differences between those urban communities which were within nation-states and those outside them. Such an approach enables us to stress differences as well as similarities; to highlight the ways in which nationalism was contingent on its context. It also allows us to trace the particular experiences of specific towns: exploring such themes as citizenship, denominational relations, architecture, military and defence policy, education and the urban economy. Each of these factors, we show, helped to define the urban community and to mediate that community’s experience of nationalism and nation-state formation. In that sense, one of this book’s major contributions is helping to encourage historians of nationalism to pay closer attention to the multiplicity of urban experiences in nineteenth-century Europe, while at the same time inviting urban historians to consider the variety of nationalisms that existed at the same time. Moreover, in considering the interplay between nationalism and urban development both before and after the rise of nation-states, the book marks a step towards a more nuanced understanding of the process of nation-formation in nineteenth-century Europe. To this end, the first part of the book concerns ‘Contested Territories’. Of course, to some extent, all territories are contested; not even the oldest and apparently best-established nation-states are ever homogenous. Likewise, towns are always places of conflict as well as of cohesion. No urban space is undifferentiated. There is now a significant volume of work on the tensions between different ethnic and religious communities within Europe’s cities.12 Much has also been written about the battles between urban elites and those whom they governed.13 The extent to which the streets and public spaces of European towns were sites of struggle – places where competing ideologies were played out – has also been widely explored.14 But the relationship between these disputes and the wider story of nation formation has not been extensively investigated. These four studies – of Bohemia, Venice, Barcelona and Belgium – provide a good introduction to such key themes as the relationship between the town and the state, and the tensions between local loyalties and national identity. The contested territories of Section I are towns where nationalism is disputed. Jeremy King’s account of the municipal and the national in nineteenth-century Bohemia is a case in point. He shows the unintended consequences of municipal reform within a non-national state; ironically, the divergence of distinct nationalities was actually hastened by legislation designed not to serve that purpose, but rather to shore up the position of the Austrian state. A rather different argument is made

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by David Laven in his investigation of nationalism in Venice. Under both Austrian and Italian rule, he argues, the Venetians’ primary loyalty remained focused on the city. Freedom from Hapsburg rule did not, in his view, turn Venetians unequivocally into Italians. Instead, the city remained the principal locus of patriotism, and the Italian nation was seen as a stage on which civic patriotism could be displayed. Such contested territories are not only found in multinational empires, as our next two chapters indicate. In the first, Stephen Jacobson explores the Barcelona World Fair of 1888. This, he shows, was a highly ambiguous event. On the one hand, it was a celebration of Spanish nationalism. On the other, it was a tribute to Catalan national identity. But it was also something more – or, rather, less. For the World Fair was not a success in broadcasting either Spanish or Catalan nationalism. It thus reveals the limitations of nationalist rhetoric within these contested territories. The final chapter in this section looks at a nation-state that was riven by linguistic and ethnic differences from the start. In Belgian, Maarten Van Ginderachter shows, the municipalities were key to the establishment of the kingdom and a central part of a national myth about Belgian identity. But they also, he maintains, acted as a break on national cohesion, undermining the state’s capacity to harness national differences. To that extent, at least, the relationship between the nation and the town was highly problematic. The second section of the book examines urban spaces within the nation-state. Naturally, there is still contested territory here; indeed, a number of the chapters point to sharp debates and disagreements within the towns that they describe. But the nation-states explored in these chapters were more coherent and less threatened by alternative national discourses. Sweden, France, Britain, the Netherlands and Germany: in each of these places, the nation-state became an unavoidable reality – and one that was often freighted with profound moral and political significance. These chapters, therefore, trace the responses of urban communities to the undeniable fact of nationalism and, in so doing, they disclose a more complex and ambivalent story than might at first be expected. In the first chapter, for example, Mary Hilson reveals the resilience of local identities and power structures within the strikingly centralized Swedish state. Similar insights emerge in Jean-François Chanet’s excavation of the response made by towns to the demands of the French national government. Likewise, in his comparative study of Northampton and Beziers on the eve of the First World War, Pierre Purseigle is able to reveal the complex matrix of meanings employed during the mobilization of the French and British populace. Local

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and national loyalties, parochial and patriotic rhetorics – the different discourses of nation and town cut across one another in one context, and reinforced each other in others. In his chapter, William Whyte seeks to show how municipal architecture was used to express these competing and co-existing themes. The town halls, schools, universities and hospitals he explores expose the mutually constitutive nature of both municipal and national identity within Britain. A similar agenda informs Henk te Velde’s account of Dutch nationalism, where he shows the city as a place to perform nationalism. Nonetheless, he points to a change in emphasis as the century went on. At the start of our period, he argues, most Dutch citizens conjured up an image of a town when they thought about the nation. By the end of the era, changes in politics, the growth of cities and the development of nationalist thought had tipped the balance away from the urban and towards the national. Finally, in his chapter, Oliver Zimmer explores nationalism within three south German towns. He shows that the experience of nation-building was interpreted differently by different socio-economic milieus within these urban spaces. None of them rejected the nation-state, but each of them dealt with it in ways that reflected their own particular interests, concerns and horizons. Taking the urban and the national equally seriously consequently provokes two – mutually sustaining – conclusions. Put simply, they are these: first, that towns were important to nationalism; and, second, that nationalism was important to towns. Looking at the period between the revolutions of 1848 and the outbreak of the First World War, it is clear that nationalism was both ubiquitous and various in its forms. The chapters in this book suggest that a significant variable shaping this situation was the urban context in which nationalism was played out. The ubiquity of nationalism meant that towns – and especially civic elites – were forced to engage with it politically, economically and rhetorically. But towns were not simply the passive recipients of ideological or legislative pressures; they also helped shape the contours of nationalism itself. This is most obviously the case within the contested territories of this book, where towns played an important role in defining what was, or was not, contested. The municipal politics of Hapsburg Bohemia, for example, were crucial in constituting the distinct national groups that struggled for power within the Bohemian lands. Likewise, what one might call the Belgian municipal imaginary played an important part in undermining the national cohesion of the Belgian state. Yet even within nation-states, towns also helped to define the nationalist project. So the fact that the national and the municipal were seen as mutually

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reinforcing in both Holland and Britain played an important part in legitimating each. The chapters which follow also indicate that the urban context is particularly significant when exploring the everyday experience of nationalism in the nineteenth century. It is again in “Contested Territory” that the pull of both nation and town is most obviously evident. In both Barcelona and Venice, for example, the nation was seen chiefly as a platform on which civic patriotism could be displayed. But even within apparently centralized nation-states, the competing impulses of municipal and national and loyalty were also evident. The competition between French towns for state funding and the political struggles within Swedish cities over military spending both show the continuing salience of the particular and the civic. The disputes within south German towns may have been articulated in nationalist language, but also concerned the very specific interests and experiences of competing urban elites. This does not mean, of course, that research on nationalism and the town can be reduced to a simply binary – the national and the municipal, the local and the countrywide. Nor does it suggest that the relationship between nationalism and the urban should be seen as nothing more than one of acceptance or resistance. Rather, it means that historians of nineteenth-century towns need to be more attentive to the ways in which debates were shaped by nationalism and historians of nationalism need to be more aware of the ways in which nationalism was shaped in and out of urban contexts. If this volume does nothing more than encourage a dialogue between these two, previously discrete sub-disciplines, then it will have served its purpose well. As this suggests, considerable further work is required on this topic. This book is predominantly focused on Western and Central Europe. It would be interesting to see to what extent the urban and the national interrelate within the rather different circumstances of Eastern Europe.15 This volume also addresses the period from 1848–1914. It would be fascinating to trace these interactions in the first half of the nineteenth century – before, that is, even those states which had opposed nationalist discourses came increasingly to embrace them.16 The story after the First World War is equally important. To what extent did mass democracy, increasingly ideological politics and the still larger growth of towns and cities shape the relationship between the urban and the national?17 John Brieully’s observations in the Conclusion also pose new problems for the historian. To what extent can one use towns to explore the distinction between nationalism as an explicit political doctrine and as a discourse about national interest and identity? In what ways does the

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urban illuminate the difference between cases where the nation-state sets the frame for collective action and where it does not? Is there a profound disjunction between nationalism in the pre-modern and modern town? Undoubtedly, these new areas of analysis will require different sources and reach novel conclusions. Our focus and the distinction we have made between contested territories and nation-states may not always be appropriate. Nonetheless, in a number of respects, this book offers not just a research agenda, but also the means by which to pursue that agenda. In particular, these chapters point to four themes that run throughout the volume: the role of the built environment, the role of the military, conflicts over the distribution of resources and the way in which the nation was imagined – or conjured up – within urban contexts. Each of these topics offers a useful way of engaging with the issues presented by towns and nationalism. All deserve further attention. Historians have increasingly recognized that buildings offer a valuable source of evidence for the public presentation of nationalist ideals.18 Architecture has also been used to explore the pervasiveness of civic pride.19 Increasingly, the question has been asked whether town halls and other municipal edifices should be seen as symbols of civic or of national patriotism.20 Yet, much of this literature has been concerned more with the production of architecture than with its reception.21 Moreover, there is a continual temptation to see the built environment as passive, univocal and simple to interpret. It is none of these things. As these chapters show, buildings and urban spaces were capable of bearing multiple meanings and of being continually reframed by circumstance. This is most obvious in William Whyte’s chapter, which explores the overlapping symbolism of city and nation, but it can also be seen in Stephen Jacobson’s subtle exploration of Catalan and Spanish references within the buildings of Barcelona. Henk te Velde’s chapter on Dutch nationalism widens this analysis yet further, looking at the battles over public space as well as the contested meanings of public buildings. Taken together, these chapters suggest that there is still much more work to be done not just on the built environment, but also on the way that historians of nationalism and of the town approach the built environment. Buildings and spaces are complex and often contested sites, which reveal the ambiguities of ideology and the tensions within communities. They are thus an excellent way of teasing out the relationship between the nation and the town. The importance of the military in shaping and reflecting debates about the nation within urban communities is highlighted in five of

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our chapters. Historians have recognized that the army and navy were among the most tangible embodiments of nineteenth-century nationalism: both a potent symbol of the nation and a powerful cohesive force in their own right.22 These chapters suggest that the military played a more ambivalent role as well. Maarten Van Ginderachter suggests that the army failed to instil any sense of Belgian nation belonging. Both Mary Hilson and Jean-François Chanet show that the location of military bases was a highly contentious issue – and one that was argued about in terms both of the national and of the local interest. David Laven also shows the significance of the army and navy in shaping nationalist consciousness. He argues that opposition to conscription was an important part of the Venetian desire to escape Austrian rule and that the Italian state’s investment in the Arsenale led many Venetians to identify with an Italian nationalist rhetoric that seemed to offer both material advantage and a special role for the city. In Pierre Purseigle’s chapter, too, the intermeshing of both national and civic imperatives is also made plain. The First World War did not, he makes clear, lead to an eruption of unconstrained nationalism. Instead, the populations of Britain and France were mobilized for conflict with the language and images of the nation in the town and the town in the nation. The chapters on the military bring out another aspect of the relationship between national and urban development: the central role of material resources and interests. Both Chanet and Hilson are able to demonstrate that material interests could be a key influence in shaping municipal responses to national defence. It was those towns that had suffered most from the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–71, Chanet tells us, that were most willing to take the risk of investing in the building of an expensive garrison, hoping for decent long-term returns on the invested capital. And as Hilson shows in her study of the Swedish defence town of Karlskrona, the interests of the military could at times clash with those of the dockworkers. Although less directly than in the chapters on the military, the centrality of urban economic interests is also obvious in the contributions of Laven, te Velde, Ginderachter and Zimmer. What these chapters suggest is not that patriotic or national sentiment played a marginal role in the actions of urban communities, but rather that these motives interacted in often complex ways with material interests, including considerations of urban prestige. Quite frequently, town authorities had to weigh up the material interests of their populations against the status interests of their communities, which formed part of a wider, increasingly national context. Defending one’s urban material interests was legitimate, but only so long as this could

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not be construed as ‘unpatriotic’. This helps remind us that nationalism, albeit never hegemonic, nevertheless exerted a constraining influence on the actions of nineteenth-century communities. Finally, towns and cities provided the cultural and institutional context for people’s national imagining. As the contributions by te Velde and Zimmer particularly show, this statement amounts not to a descriptive truism but, at least potentially, to an important intervention into the debate over nationalism as an ideology – its origins, nature and development. This is in part because the leading theorists have tended to focus on nationalism in the singular, depicting it as an ideology or cultural process that was imposed from above on more or less passive populations. Both the modernists (such as Gellner and Hobsbawm) and their critics (including Anthony D. Smith) have shown very little interest in the question of how different urban contexts might have interacted with nationalism, and how this might have engendered different national conceptions.23 This idea of the plurality of national(ist) visions, forged in and out of urban communities, informs te Velde’s contribution, where he insists that Dutch towns – to use his own words – coloured people’s national sentiments. In a country that had once been the first trading nation but which was not among the most industrialized countries of the nineteenth century, towns – most of them small- or medium-sized – remained central to people’s sense of community. Te Velde’s suggestion that, with the arrival of the anonymous city of the late nineteenth century Anderson’s abstract national community had become the norm, offers an interesting hypothesis for further research. Yet, as Zimmer argues in his own contribution, if towns and cities grew larger and more anonymous as the century wore on, they nevertheless continued to contain within them a variety of different socio-economic milieus. The members of these milieus competed with each other in the market place, but they were also bound together by shared interests and normative orientations. Even in an era of ‘high industrialization’, then, towns and cities did not consist of free-floating individuals unconditionally ready to embrace the ideas of nation-building intellectuals and politicians. We should, therefore, not assume, Zimmer argues, that small German shopkeepers selling locally envisioned the nation in the same way as did urban merchants engaged in national and international trade. Without wishing to endorse some kind of social determinism, historians may find that socio-economic milieus whose activity was transnational in scope imagined the nation in more abstract terms than did those whose economic livelihoods tended to rely on local (including face-to-face)

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interactions. This insight has potentially important implications for the debate over civic and ethnic forms of nationalism.24

Notes 1. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford, 1983). 2. Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Revival in the Modern World (Cambridge, 1981), esp. ch. 6. 3. Edward H. Carr, Nationalism and After (London, 1945), pp. 17–19. 4. For influential examples of this scholarly genre, see, inter alia, G. L. Mosse, The Nationalization of the Masses: Political Symbolism and Mass Movements in Germany from the Napoleonic Wars through the Third Reich (Ithaca, 1975); Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983); J. R. Gillis (ed.), Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity (Princeton, 1997). 5. The degree to which Gellner’s central point, which is that nationalism offered a sense of community to people who had been uprooted by the effects of industrialization while simultaneously providing them with opportunities for self-expression, has served as the (mostly implicit) guiding assumption for historians interested in how nationhood was constructed and represented in the nineteenth century, is indeed striking. For a programmatic formulation of a different viewpoint, see, for example, Celia Applegate, ‘A Europe of Regions: Reflections on the Historiography of SubNational Places in Modern Times’, American Historical Review 104 (October 1999), pp. 1157–82. 6. One of the problems, it seems to us, is that these corporations have, more often than not, been regarded as little more than the agencies smoothing the path towards the modern public sphere, as the devices through which national communities were forged. This has been particularly marked in the study of civic associations. The influential theoretical account is, of course, ˝ Jürgen Habermas, Strukturwandel der Offentlichkeit (Neuwied, 1962). On the role of civic associations in Germany, see Thomas Nipperdey, ‘Verein als soziale Struktur im Deutschland des späten 18. und frühen 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Thomas Nipperdey (ed.), Gesellschaft, Kultur, Theorie. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur neueren Geschichte (Göttingen, 1976), pp. 174–205. For a challenge to the classical model of the public sphere, see James M. Brophy, Popular Culture and the Public Sphere in the Rhineland 1800–1850 (Cambridge, 2007). 7. Andrew Lees and Lynn Hollen Lees, Cities and the Making of Modern Europe, 1750–1914 (Cambridge, 2007), p. 281. 8. Graeme Morton, Boudien de Vries and R. J. Morris (eds), Civil Society, Associations, and Urban Places: Class, Nation, and Culture in Nineteenth-century Europe (Aldershot, 2006); A. C. Hepburn (ed.), Contested Cities in the Modern West (Basingstoke, 2004); Hugh McLeod (ed.), European Religion in the Age of the Great Cities, 1830–1930 (London and New York, 1994). 9. Jennifer Jenkins, Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Provincial Politics in Fin-de-Siècle Hamburg (Ithaca, NY, 2003); Ronald Aminzade, Ballots and Barricades: Class Formation and Republican Politics in France, 1830–1871 (Princeton,

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10.

11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19. 20.

Nationalism and the Reshaping of Urban Communities in Europe 1993); Jean-François Chanet, Vers l’armée nouvelle. République conservatrice et réforme militaire, 1871–1879 (Rennes, 2006). Philip Waller, Democracy and Sectarianism: A Political and Social History of Liverpool, 1868–1939 (Liverpool, 1981); R. J. Morris, Class, Sect, and Party: The Making of the British Middle class, Leeds, 1820–1850 (Manchester and New York, 1990); Patrick Joyce, The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the City in Britain (London, 2003); Simon Gunn, The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority and the English Industrial City, 1840–1914 (Manchester and New York, 2000). Though see, for example, D. K. Buse, ‘Urban and National Identity: Bremen, 1860–1920’, Journal of Social History 26 (1993), pp. 521–37. For specific cities, see Laimonas Breidis, Vilnius: City of Strangers (London, 2009); Mark Mazower, Salonica, City of Ghosts: Christians, Muslims, and Jews (London, 2005). Richard Evans, Death in Hamburg: Society and Politics in the Cholera Years, 1830–1910 (Oxford, 1984); James Vernon, Politics and the People: A Study in English Political Culture, c. 1815–1867 (Cambridge, 1993). The key text here is, of course, Pierre Nora (ed.), Les Lieux de Memoire (Paris, 1984–92). See also Mario Gandelsonas (ed.), The Urban Text (Cambridge, MA, 1991); Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. David Nicholson-Smith; Oxford, 1991) and Simon Gunn, ‘Ritual and Civic Culture in the English Industrial City, c. 1835–1914’, in Robert J. Morris and Richard H. Trainor (eds), Urban Governance: Britain and Beyond Since 1750 (Aldershot, 2000), pp. 225–41. For two instructive recent examples, see Scott Spector, Prague Territories: National Conflict and Cultural Innovation in Franz Kafka’s Fin de Siècle (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2000); Jeremy King, Budweisers into Czechs and Germans: A Local History of Bohemian Politics 1848–1948 (Princeton, 2002). Towns as a specific focus of analysis have been even more rare in the monographic literature for the early nineteenth century. See, for example, Abigail Green, Fatherlands: State-building and Nationhood in NineteenthCentury Germany (Cambridge, 2001); Oliver Zimmer, A Contested Nation: History, Memory and Nationalism in Switzerland, 1761–1891 (Cambridge, 2003). Some of the most interesting work on this relates to colonial and postcolonial experience of nationalisms; see, for example, Gwendolyn Wright, The Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism (Chicago and London, 1991). See also, William Whyte, ‘Modernism, Modernization, and Europeanization in West African Architecture, 1944–1994’, in Martin Conway and Kiran Klaus Patel (eds), Europeanization in the Twentieth Century: Historical Approaches (Basingstoke, 2010). Andreas W. Daum and Christof Mauch (eds), Berlin-Washington 1800–2000: Capital Cities, Cultural Representation and National Identities (Washington and Cambridge, 2005); Maiken Umbach, German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism 1890–1924 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 70–73. Asa Briggs, Victorian Cities (London, 1963), ch. 4; Jenkins, Provincial Modernity, ch. 8. Laura Kolbe, ‘Symbols of Civic Pride, National History, or European Tradition? City Halls in Scandinavian Capital Cities’, Urban History 35 (2008), pp. 382–413.

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William Whyte and Oliver Zimmer 13 21. William Whyte, ‘How do Buildings Mean? Some Issues of Interpretation in the History of Architecture’, History and Theory 45 (2006), pp. 153–77. 22. Geoffrey Jensen, ‘Military Nationalism and the State: The Case of Fin-De-Siècle Spain’, Nations and Nationalism 6 (2004), pp. 257–74. 23. See also Oliver Zimmer, ‘Circumscribing Community in Constructions of Swiss Nationhood’, in Timothy Baycroft and Mark Hewitson (eds), What is a Nation? Europe 1789–1914 (Oxford, 2006), pp. 100–19. 24. For a recent critique of the classical distinction between civic and ethnic nationalism, see Oliver Zimmer, ‘Boundary Mechanisms and Symbolic Resources: Towards a Process-oriented Approach to National Identity’, Nations and Nationalism 9 (2003), pp. 173–93.

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Section I Contested Territory

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1 The Municipal and the National in the Bohemian Lands, 1848–1914 Jeremy King

Between the revolutions of 1848 and the outbreak of the Great War in 1914, imperial Austria experienced an extraordinary expansion of nationalism and of national conflict. German, Czech, Polish, Ukrainian, Italian, Slovene and other national movements became major players and rivals, in the process transforming public life. This chapter examines that process through a municipal lens. What was particular about the intersection of the national with the municipal in imperial Austria? How did municipal and national politics affect one another, and what can we understand, through their dynamics, about Austrian politics more generally? ‘Whosoever understands political life in Austria,’ wrote Josef Redlich, a prominent Austrian jurist, in 1910, knows how the Austrian municipality, . . . over the course of the last half-century, has not only emerged as the principal actor in all local administration but has also developed into the most important organ, without parallel, of free political activity by the population. All of us in Austria know that the municipality has proven itself to be the central bulwark of the strongest political force in Austria, the national movement, in each nation’s settlements. This is because the autonomous municipality in Austria, in struggles of nationality against nationality and wherever there has developed a sharp party antagonism of a social or political nature within an individual nationality, has become the most important object of struggle, and the most important instrument for the victor of the moment to expand political power.1 17

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This chapter concurs with and builds on Redlich’s assessment, using a top-down, legal approach. In recent years, several historians have studied the municipal–national nexus in late imperial Austria through bottom-up, social approaches. Gary Cohen’s case study of German politics in Prague, my own case study of German and Czech politics in Budweis/Budˇejovice and additional works have explored political parties, civic associations, the press and additional aspects of local politics and of everyday life in one city or another.2 They have drawn little, however, from a rich tradition of Austrian legal scholarship.3 An exceptional and useful element in that legal tradition is its focus on the imperial Austrian state. Non-national and then in its final years multinational, that state has been neglected by many historians of nationalism because of their national assumptions or social methodologies and because of imperial Austria’s destruction in 1918. At a landmark conference in 1966 concerning the ‘nationality problem’ in imperial Austria and in the other half of the Habsburg Monarchy, Hungary, one historian made a telling criticism: there were ‘a dozen or so papers on the Slavic nationalities alone but none at all explaining the government’s position’.4 Two years later, Jiˇrí Klabouch, a legal historian in the Austrian successor state of Czechoslovakia, published an outstanding study of municipal self-government. National movements, he showed, in Austria’s municipalities, had captured control over public organs whose constitutional configuration endowed them with an ‘undercurrent of hostility’ towards the very state of which they formed the most local part.5 Since then, however, few historians have followed Klabouch’s lead in bringing the state into narratives and explanations of local national politics.6 Yet Austrian historiography has gained analytical distance from nationalism that Klabouch’s generation (and Redlich’s) lacked, most recently by embracing social constructivism, by pulling apart ‘ethnic’ or ‘racial’ groupism and by taking much more seriously questions of national indifference.7 Older, top-down and legal approaches can enrich newer, bottom-up and social ones, and vice versa. And together, these approaches can help us make more sense of the municipal and the national in imperial Austria, by clarifying the reciprocal influence of national and non-national agents and structures. National leaders had particular success in shaping public life in Austria at the municipal level, but in the process found their nationalism particularly constrained and moulded by non-national forces. Trading off breadth for depth, this chapter focuses on just one of imperial Austria’s regions: the Bohemian lands. Today making up the Czech Republic, the Bohemian lands consist of Bohemia, Moravia

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and Austrian Silesia. Ruled by the Habsburg dynasty from 1526, they counted as three historically linked crownlands in imperial Austria. Highly industrialized, the region was inhabited at the start of the twentieth century by more than 9 million inhabitants (6.3 million in Bohemia, 2.4 million in Moravia and 660,000 in Austrian Silesia). Many of those inhabitants spoke two languages, Czech and German, and almost all the rest spoke one or the other. The higher a person’s status, the more likely it was that he or she knew German, because of long-standing but fraying ties between that language and power. The Austrian census – which between 1880 and 1910 included a question about ‘language of daily use’, but did not record bilingualism – showed a ratio between Czech and German of something between 3:2 and 2:1.8 Czech nationalism, one of the two principal nationalisms of the Bohemian lands, was in large measure ethnic. Czech activists, who understood themselves as champions of a downtrodden majority, tended to define potential followers by the Czech language, and to seek to ‘awaken’ what they understood as natural sentiments in defence of Czech culture and of a Czech ancestral community. German nationalism in the Bohemian lands at first favoured more civic discourses. To be German did not necessarily mean speaking German as a native or having German-speakers as ancestors. Rather, it meant participating in the supposedly universalist and superior German public culture of Central Europe. At the end of the 1870s, however, German leaders shifted towards discourses like those favoured by their Czech rivals, who were gaining ground. Germans took up an ethnic nationalism, characterized by a continuing condescension for Czechs and by a new hostility towards Jews.9 Neither Jews nor Protestant Christians, however, made up even 2 per cent of the population; something like 96 per cent of the population was Catholic. Thus religion did not function as a primary national differentiator in the Bohemian lands. Two notes regarding terminology are in order. First, ‘municipality’ serves as a translation from German of Gemeinde and from Czech of obec. In imperial Austria, not only cities and towns were known formally as municipalities; villages were, too. In certain contexts, so were territorial corporations of citizens larger than cities or towns.10 But in this chapter, ‘municipality’ refers primarily to urban political units, whose scale, demography and much more rendered them in practice quite different from their smaller and larger namesakes. Second, Selbstverwaltung/samospráva is perhaps best translated into English as ‘self-government’, and is important to distinguish from ‘autonomy’. Redlich concluded his assessment, quoted at the start of this essay, with

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the claim that ‘municipal autonomy [Autonomie], as the term is meant in Austrian political usage’, ‘shows itself to be the decisive characteristic of the Austrian municipality’. But another leading Austrian jurist took pains to note in 1905 that genuine autonomy – a subordinated form of lawmaking – characterized Austrian municipalities only to a very limited degree.11 What Redlich meant, and Klabouch in fact wrote, was self-government, or the administration of local public affairs by officials elected from amid the citizenry, rather than appointed by state authorities. This chapter is organized into four sections. First is a discussion of the municipal institutional framework, laid in place between the revolutionary year of 1848 and the liberal constitutionalist victories of the 1860s. Second is an overview of national and nationalizing politics during the golden age of municipalities in imperial Austria, between the 1870s and 1914. The third section pushes into the specifics of that age, by examining nationalization in municipal daily life. The final section draws conclusions.

The institutional framework Between 1848 and the end of the 1860s, the basic structures of a modern municipal order were laid down in imperial Austria, albeit with stops and starts. This restructuring, part of a larger modernization of the Austrian (and Hungarian) state, resulted from an unstable dynamic pitting liberal centralists against conservative or ‘feudal’ federalists, as well as both against the Habsburg dynasty, or the Crown. Liberal components to the new order were perhaps the most visible, but not necessarily the strongest. Municipalities emerged as more or less uniformly organized local public administrative units, their councils elected by citizens of substance and endowed with considerable powers of self-government – yet triply checked by higher self-governing bodies, by the state administration and by individuals defending their rights through appeals to the courts. In keeping with the post-absolutist order in Austria, they were constitutional yet monarchical, and emphasized protection of property, the rule of law, formal equality and liberty of individuals, representative government and, to some degree, separation of powers.12 At first, the national movements figured as lesser players in Bohemian and Austrian politics, and slid and spread across the main centralist– federalist, liberal–feudal political divide. The Crown, the nobility, the Church, commercial circles and other non-national factors held clearer,

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stronger positions. But the German movement soon settled on the liberal side and the Czech movement on the federalist or ‘state rights’ one, while politics as a whole became more national – or rather, multinational. German, Czech and other national leaders grew more powerful, liberals grew more German, federalists grew more Czech and Polish and so on. The Austrian municipal order, which became law in 1849 and then was renewed in 1862–64, contained few openly national provisions. It contained many national implications, however, given the ongoing multinationalization of politics, as well as asymmetries between the national movements. ∗

∗

∗

‘The foundation of the free state is the free municipality.’13 So read the first clause of the Provisional Municipal Law of 17 March 1849, issued as an imperial patent days after Austria’s new Emperor, Francis Joseph I of Habsburg, had disbanded a revolutionary Constituent Assembly, and pre-empted its proposed constitution by imposing his own, less liberal one. Over the following months and years, as the dynasty regained its balance in the wake of the upheavals of 1848, even the imposed constitution was set aside and substantial parts of the Provisional Municipal Law were suspended. Yet the basic ideas and architecture of the legislation, anything but reactionary, either persisted or returned, and endured until imperial Austria’s dissolution in 1918. Creating a far freer municipality than had existed previously, the Provisional Municipal Law did indeed lay a foundation for a freer Austria.14 ‘The jurisdiction of the free municipality’, the Provisional Municipal Law continued, ‘is: (a) natural, and (b) delegated. The natural encompasses everything which intimately concerns the interests of the municipality, and may be carried out fully within its boundaries . . . . The delegated encompasses attendance to certain public affairs delegated to the municipality by the state.’ A subsequent section defined natural interests in economic, property-related terms. (Municipalities in Austria received considerable income from real estate and enterprises that they owned. Their powers of taxation are covered briefly below.) Another section delegated certain public affairs to the municipality, including the announcing of laws and decrees, the collection of state taxes, the supervision of weights and measures, policing and cooperation in conscription and in the quartering of troops. The natural jurisdiction, specified the Provisional Municipal Law, ‘receives the necessary curtailments only with regard to the common good and by law’.

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But ‘all official matters delegated to the mayor by this law or assigned through later decrees, as well as all orders and decrees of the public administration issuing from the district authority, must be executed by him precisely, and in the fashion denoted by the law or by the superior authority’.15 Behind this distinction between ‘delegated’ and ‘natural’ jurisdictions lay the intent by the Crown to reorganize Austria’s public administration into two tracks, state and self-governing. The first track was appointed, professional and top-down – in a word, absolutist. The second, which did not yet exist, was to be elected, civic and bottomup – liberal. During 1848, the state administration had expanded, at the expense of sovereign lords, and had been rearticulated into nested tiers. Now, in 1849, came the municipalities, ‘purposefully conceived’, in Klabouch’s words, as an ‘organic complement’.16 In fact, the Provisional Municipal Law provided not only for ‘local municipalities’ (Ortsgemeinden/místní obce) but for superordinated district and county ones (Bezirksgemeinden/okresní obce, Kreisgemeinden/krajské obce). These higher municipalities, also endowed with natural and delegated jurisdictions, were to stand parallel to the district and county tiers of the state administration. By ‘municipality’, then, the legislation meant not so much ‘municipal government’ as ‘self-government’, a term not yet common in Austria in 1849.17 Obec, the Czech word for ‘municipality’, serves as the root for obˇcan, or ‘citizen’. According to the Provisional Municipal Law, provided that a self-governing corporation of citizens at any territorial level acted within legal bounds, it could be checked or overridden within its natural jurisdiction only by a higher municipality, not by the state administration.18 As fate had it, however, the district and county municipalities fell victim to the growing counterrevolutionary backlash before they could be constituted. Local municipalities did not fare much better, at least in the 1850s. The principal author of the Provisional Municipal Law was Count Franz Stadion, Emperor Francis Joseph’s Minister of the Interior. He devised the two-track system on the one hand to consolidate and to centralize the monarchical state, and on the other hand to encourage citizens to identify with that state by introducing elements of liberal, representative government. In other words, Stadion hoped to repeat the successes of reformers in Prussia after the defeat of that neighbouring state by Napoleon’s armies in 1806. The state apparatus or ‘political administration’, as it was called in Austria, was to be counterbalanced and served by self-government, centred on the supposedly apolitical

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‘administration of property’. Klabouch notes that Stadion also sought to accommodate Austria’s diverse regions and political traditions without strengthening centripetal forces. This motive accounts for the decision to focus not on reviving long-standing crownland assemblies or diets, but instead on creating new self-governing bodies.19 The Provisional Municipal Law specified that the citizens of the (local) municipality would be represented by its legislature, or municipal council. At the start of its three-year term, that legislature would elect two or more councillors from its midst, as well as the mayor, who would serve as the executive organ of the municipality in its natural jurisdiction.20 This much was simple. But who would elect the council members, and how? The Provisional Municipal Law contained an electoral order which was rooted in the understanding, to quote Klabouch again, that ‘the act of voting in the municipality was an act of property administration, and in no way the exercise of a political right’. It was liberal, but not democratic. To quote from Stadion’s exposition presenting the legislation to the Emperor for sanction on 15 March 1849, Only the majority of interested persons, and not the majority of the mass, can be entitled to the decisive voice in the affairs of the municipality [ . . . .] In the local municipality, only its burghers, who are tied through material interests to the interests of the municipality, and those among its members who are tied through spiritual interests, are entitled to participation in the election of the representative body. But they are not entitled in completely equal measure. They are entitled rather in proportion to the share that they have in the interest of the municipality, in proportion to the share that they have, through taxes, in defraying the burdens of the municipality.21 This unequal weighting of votes was to be achieved in two steps. First, citizens were to be partitioned into voters and non-voters on the basis of status and wealth. Entitled to vote were to be the following individuals: those paying a specified annual sum in direct state taxes for real estate or for commercial activity within the municipality; those formally recognized by the municipality as privileged members, or burghers; and those non-privileged members, or individuals with the right of domicile, who counted as notables – priests, ministers, rabbis, state officials, persons with a university degree and so on. Some women were to qualify for enfranchisement, usually through property; they would vote through a male proxy. Although the minimum direct tax payment was set by

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decree in April 1850 at what may seem a low level of one gulden, in fact most Austrians paid no direct tax. (Indirect taxes on tobacco, alcohol and additional goods, however, were hefty.) This, together with the denial of notable and burgher status to women, the limited granting of burgher and domiciled status to newcomers and the setting of legal majority at the age of twenty-four, left only the wealthier, educated, older and mostly male part of the population, less than 20 per cent, with the vote.22 Second, the Provisional Municipal Law partitioned voters into electoral bodies; these were to number three in the case of larger settlements, and two in the case of smaller ones. Voters were to be assigned to an electoral body according to how much they had paid in direct taxes the previous year. Those who had paid the most were to be placed in the first electoral body, and those who had paid the least in the third; each electoral body was to contain individuals who had paid one-third of all direct taxes in the municipality. Also voting in the first electoral body were notables. Also voting in the third were burghers who had no tax liability. Data concerning individual municipalities in the 1850s are scarce, but in Mährisch Ostrau/Moravská Ostrava, an industrializing town in northern Moravia with a population of slightly less than 2,000, the first electoral body, when constituted in 1850, had 42 voters. The second had 39, and the third 204. In every municipality, the electoral bodies, voting separately, were to elect equal numbers of representatives. Thus votes in the third electoral body, the largest and least affluent, were to count for considerably less. Electoral procedures heightened inequalities still further. Voters were to vote for representatives of their electoral body ‘orally and publicly’; this provision opened the door to the exercise of pressure on less independent individuals. A minority bloc within an electoral body had little hope of seeing any of its candidates elected, because the law did not provide for proportional representation. And once elections were completed, minorities had little say because both the council and its executive committee made all decisions on the basis of simple majority rule.23 ‘Crownland capitals and county seats’, the Provisional Municipal Law noted, ‘will receive their own [municipal] orders, through laws.’ By the time those orders were issued a year later, in the spring of 1850, the political climate had become considerably less liberal. They took the form not of laws but of decrees, and reduced the size of the electorate still further, as well as increased the power of the political administration over policing. In the Bohemian lands, only five cities received ‘special statutes’, and came to be known as ‘statutory cities’: Prague and

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Reichenberg/Liberec in Bohemia, Brünn/Brno and Olmütz/Olomouc in Moravia and Troppau/Opava in Austrian Silesia.24 In 1850, the first elections for local municipalities took place under the new system. As it turned out, they were also the last. New municipal governments had barely taken up their work when on 31 December 1851 Francis Joseph suspended his constitution of 1849, including its provisions regarding crownland diets and a central parliament. He also proclaimed a set of principles for new laws, to be issued on his own authority. Several of the principles concerned municipalities. Chief executives, or mayors, were to require confirmation in their election by the government, or were simply to be appointed. They were to make an oath of loyalty and obedience to the monarch, as well as of conscientious fulfilment of their other duties. Even in matters internal to the municipality, certain acts and decisions were to be made subject to review and confirmation by the political administration. In short, the natural jurisdiction of municipalities – self-government – was to be dismantled. And so it was over the following few years. When new elections became overdue in 1854, council terms were extended by decree. When council members resigned or died, replacements were appointed. Throughout the 1850s, Francis Joseph’s neo-absolutist regime expanded the delegated jurisdiction, saddling municipalities with ever more obligations and treating them as little more than extensions of the political administration into Austria’s localities.25 ‘Because municipal assets and land are property of the municipality as a moral person, not of the municipal members of the moment’, declared the Provisional Municipal Law, ‘any alienation of municipal assets and land, and any distribution of the same, is forbidden. Only exceptionally, with proper justification, can approval hereunto be granted by the diet.’ But during the 1850s, many municipal leaders exploited their authority, which was shielded from public oversight by counterrevolutionary measures yet subjected to often spotty monitoring by the political administration, to privatize municipal property for personal gain. Revenues from property fell even as the expansion of the delegated jurisdiction made expenditures rise. Because municipalities possessed only limited authority to assess local taxes, as surcharges to state ones, municipal finances deteriorated badly.26 At the end of April 1859, a new municipal law was at last issued, in the form of an imperial patent. ‘The state authorities’, it declared, ‘oversee municipal government, the administration of municipal matters, and attendance to those public affairs which are assigned to the local municipality.’27 Self-government was not to be resuscitated. Before the law

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could be implemented, however, neo-absolutism suffered a devastating blow. On 24 June at Solferino, not far from Milan, a large Austrian army under the Emperor’s personal command was bested by French and Piedmontese-Sardinian forces. Lombardy was lost to Piedmont-Sardinia, which expanded to become the kingdom of Italy. In Austria, Baron Alexander von Bach, the Minister of the Interior and the architect of the new municipal law, fell from power amid a swelling financial and political crisis. Over the following two years, Francis Joseph was forced to concede, among other things, a new constitution, a new parliament and the reconvening of the diets. Struggles over the powers of the legislatures, the relationship between the crownlands and the central government (the federalist–centralist question) and the position of Hungary vis-à-vis the rest of the Habsburg Monarchy continued for a decade – and indeed, flared up again repeatedly thereafter. But already at the end of 1860, new municipal elections were ordered, the first since 1850. They were held not on the basis of the 1859 municipal law, but of the more liberal, provisional one of 1849. ‘The newly elected municipal representative bodies shall assume the jurisdiction legally accorded them’, the relevant decree declared, ‘and shall continue therein until the entry into force of a new municipal order, created by law.’28 An Austrian scholar later commented with only some exaggeration that ‘What happened in Prussia in 1808 – the rebirth of the state through the rebirth of the municipality – appears half a century later as a problem in Austria.’29 On 5 March 1862, a new imperial municipal law, ‘whereby the fundamental requirements for the regulation of municipal affairs are established’, was sanctioned by Francis Joseph. Only the fourth law of the new constitutional era, and the first not concerned with the workings of the parliament itself, it began: ‘With the accord of both houses of My Parliament, I hereby . . . ’. Article 1 declared that ‘All immovable property must form a part of a local municipality. Excepted herefrom are palaces, chateaux, and other buildings, together with appurtenant gardens and parks, meant for the residence or sojourn of the Emperor and of the Sovereign Court.’30 Tension between monarchical and liberal principles carried through the following pages. In many ways, the law was based on the Provisional Municipal Law of 1849. Two jurisdictions were distinguished, one delegated and the other ‘independent’, which corresponded closely with the previous ‘natural’. At the insistence of the House of Deputies, the lower House of the new parliament, the term ‘local municipality’ in the legislative draft by Francis Joseph’s minister gave way in many places to ‘municipality’,

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so as to allow the broadest possible interpretation. The electoral system again was to favour the propertied, the male and the educated. Decisionmaking was to occur by majority rule, and special statutes were to be provided for larger cities, whose mayors once more were to require imperial confirmation.31 There were also differences, and inconsistencies. On the one hand, the 1862 law subjected the independent jurisdiction to oversight by the executive organs of higher self-governing bodies (such as the diet executive committee), and weakened the political administration by stipulating that the delegated jurisdiction could be expanded only by imperial or crownland laws, not by decree. On the other hand, the law conceded to the political administration ‘a supervisory right over the municipalities to the extent of assuring that they do not exceed their jurisdiction, and do not violate existing laws’, and even the power to dissolve municipal councils. Friedrich Tezner, one of imperial Austria’s great jurists, commented acidly in 1896 that this attempt at coordinating the political administration with municipal self-government ‘provides eloquent testimony to the confusion which must result from legislation rendered completely free of juridical considerations, and placed entirely under the rule of a political slogan’. Municipalities verged on becoming ‘independent republics within the monarchical state’, at the same time that their every act could be challenged.32 Both Klabouch and a scholar of Tezner’s generation, Carl Brockhausen, ascribe this outcome to ambivalence on some issues by centralist and federalist representatives, to conflict between the House and the Crown, and to compromise.33 The Austrian municipal law of 1862 differed from that of 1849 by leaving important matters to be decided at the crownland level. Legal space was created for district self-governing bodies between municipal and crownland ones, for example, but whether or not such bodies were actually established was left up to each diet and to the Emperor. Electoral bodies were not mentioned; the law simply stated that ‘Crownland law regulates the constitution of the municipal representative body through an electoral order with due attention to securing the interests of higher taxpayers.’34 This division of labour between the parliament and the diets allowed the Crown to postpone and to spread out confrontation on some of the most difficult municipal issues, and helped centralist liberals and federalist aristocrats in the parliament find common ground in their distrust of state power, even as they continued to disagree on the solution, by centralizing authority while checking its monarchical track with a self-governing one, or

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decentralizing authority by pushing beyond self-government to genuine autonomy.35 In 1863 and 1864, the Emperor sanctioned crownland municipal laws passed by the Silesian, Moravian and Bohemian diets. They were quite similar on most points. As in 1849, enfranchisement depended on wealth and status, and was filtered through three electoral bodies in order to dilute the vote of less wealthy or less educated individuals. Now, though, not only physical persons who paid a direct state tax of one gulden had the right to cast a ballot. So did legal persons – corporations, foundations, dioceses and so on. This innovation was consistent with the understanding of municipal government as first and foremost the administration of property. Brockhausen goes so far as to argue that taxpayers were not the real voters in municipal elections. ‘Rather, it is the plots of land, the buildings, and the trades themselves, which vote through the hand of their owner . . . The owner may be a minor, or otherwise not of legal majority; the owner may be of the female sex. But the interest of the tax object in participating in the rule of the municipality is preserved.’36 In Bohemia, the diet created self-governing bodies at the district level, with legislative and executive branches. But in Moravia, a similar initiative failed, blocked by German liberals who feared that Czech leaders, strong in rural municipalities which ringed more German urban ones, would exploit district bodies to national advantage. More broadly, liberals fared better than did federalists. The exception was Galicia, to the north and east of the Bohemian lands, where Polish federalists not only established district bodies akin to those in Bohemia but succeeded, in the 1870s, in having them absorb the powers exercised elsewhere in Austria by district offices of the state administration.37 In addition to the 1862 municipal law, several other pieces of legislation enacted at the imperial level during the 1860s shaped municipalities over the following decades. At the end of 1863, a law confirmed the right of Austrian citizens to live where they wished, but allowed municipalities to expel those residents who required poor relief to their place of domicile – domicile being an inherited status which individuals could change to a different municipality only with its consent. Rural, poorer municipalities were saddled with a disproportionate share of poor relief, and domicile was all but petrified, just as large numbers of Austrians began to leave their ancestral villages for towns and cities.38 In 1867, in connection with Francis Joseph’s concession of autonomy to Hungary through the so-called Compromise, modifications were made to the constitutional law of 1861 regarding

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the Austrian parliament. Among other things, legislative jurisdiction over municipal affairs was reallocated from the parliament to the diets. The following year, a law reorganized the lower levels of the political administration into district captainships and governorships, parallel to the executive organs of district self-governing bodies (in crownlands where they existed) and of diets.39 Municipalities, with their twin jurisdictions, tied together the two-track system at its bottom-most rung. Conceived twenty years previously, that system now at last began to function. Both imperial and crownland legislation during the late 1860s and early 1870s also laid down rights and responsibilities regarding primary education – a field of growing conflict between the national movements, and soon the largest item on municipal budgets. In 1867, Austrian Constitutional Law Nr. 142 concerning the General Rights of Citizens established in its famous Article 19 that ‘All nations [Volksstämme] of the state are equal in their rights, and each nation has the inviolable right to preserve and to promote its nationality [Nationalität] and language. For all languages whose use is customary in the land, the state recognizes equality of rights in schools, government institutions, and public life.’ A final sentence, added at the insistence of German liberal representatives from Bohemia, established that ‘In those crownlands inhabited by more than one nation, public institutions of education shall enable each of the nations to be educated in its language, without being compelled to learn a second language of the land.’ The intent was to protect Germans from being required to learn Czech. And the effect was to condemn bilingual schools, one possible vehicle for equality between ethnolinguistically defined German and Czech ‘nations’ in the Bohemian lands, to extinction. In 1869, an imperial primary school law made school attendance mandatory between the ages of six and fourteen, established a system of public, secular primary schools, assigned legislative jurisdiction regarding many details to the diets and placed the bulk of the financial burden on the municipalities. Over the following several years, diets and municipalities used their considerable powers in the field of schooling to meet the preferences of voters, who tended to view secular education with suspicion, and to give high priority to keeping their taxes low. The liberals who held sway in parliament during the 1870s responded by increasing central state control. Teachers ceased to be municipal employees, and municipalities lost most of their control over the school budget to supervisory boards overseen by the political administration, but remained responsible for coming up with the money.40

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After the 1860s, little change occurred in the basic structures of self-government and political administration in the Bohemian lands, including the municipalities. Between 1867 and 1871, a coalition of federalist aristocrats and Czechs pushed hard to win an autonomous position for the Bohemian lands, modelled on that implemented in Hungary. Thirty years later, German leaders tried to resist a new policy of greater linguistic equality imposed by the political administration, and demanded the partition of Bohemia into German and Czech territories. But both attempts failed. Only minor reforms, involving such matters as the right of domicile and the number of statutory cities, came to fruition. The splitting of jurisdiction over political administration and self-government proved unwise. In Klabouch’s words, ‘neither the Parliament nor the individual diets were able on their own to change matters fundamentally in both branches of the internal administration, which were tied one to the other’. Another reason for the deadlock was that propertied elements embraced the new status quo, whose electoral system concentrated power in their hands. The Crown, too, proved determined to defend its prerogatives, if necessary through repeated dissolution of representative bodies, through energetic use of gendarmes and through the proclamation of states of siege.41 Through experiments and reversals, through conflict and compromise, a foundation had been created that proved firm enough to support predictable and fairly effective governance for the following fifty years.

Nationalization in the golden age of municipal self-government, 1870–1914 Stability of structure by no means imposes stability of content or function. Municipal government underwent tremendous change between the 1870s and the First World War. Four trends connected with the nationalization of municipal politics in the Bohemian lands are discussed in this section: the dramatic expansion of municipal government; the nationalization of Austrian politics as a whole; the favouring by municipal political structures of national partitioning over national condominium and compromise; and the ossification of municipal electorates, such as to make them the most narrow in Austria. Some nuance is then folded in, through comparison of quickly growing towns and cities with slowly growing ones, of Bohemia with Moravia, and of linguistically homogeneous municipalities with linguistically mixed ones.

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During the second half of the nineteenth century, in imperial Austria and elsewhere, urban populations increased enormously. The scope of municipal government increased even more. Town halls, long concerned with policing, trade, communication networks, communal property and additional such matters, took on many new fields, including sanitation, public health, gas and electricity distribution, public schooling and lighting, fire fighting, parks and cultural institutions, social welfare programmes and building codes. Cities developed mass transit systems, public housing programmes and additional infrastructure projects. New urban forms were born, together with new expertises and bureaucracies. In the historiography concerning Central Europe, the era is known as a transitional one, from municipal government as the administration of property to the administration of services. In imperial Austria, these broad trends hold doubly true, for several reasons. First, the municipal ordering of the 1860s gave Austrian municipalities unusually broad latitude in Europe at the time. Some used their powers aggressively. Second, as will be seen shortly, municipalities in much of imperial Austria became a central arena of national politics. As national politics expanded, municipalities expanded with them. And third, the political administration continued to assign ever more tasks to municipalities: the carrying out of the decennial census, the administration not only of municipal elections but also of district, diet and parliamentary ones, and additional statistical-administrative matters without number or end. This pattern characterized not only the delegated jurisdiction but also the supposedly independent one. In a further blurring of the two tracks, laws came to mandate many programmes to municipalities even in their capacity as self-governing institutions.42 More activities and more employees meant more taxes. By the early years of the twentieth century, in many places in the Bohemian lands, municipal taxes exceeded the state taxes to which they were added as surcharges. Even then, municipalities found themselves ever more strapped for cash. Borrowing mounted, as did attempts at deriving new revenues from commercial ventures: not only gas and electric works, slaughterhouses, brick works and the like, but also savings institutions, fee-collecting middle schools and barracks purpose-built for rental to the military. In some measure, the municipal fiscal crisis can be blamed on Czech or German leaders attempting to use their control of town hall to overshadow, outbid and out-educate German or Czech rivals. But this can easily be exaggerated. The huge expansion of mandatory expenditures often rendered municipalities capable of making discretionary

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ones only on a small scale.43 The Austrian state was more to blame than nationalists. Or to view the same matter from another angle, national movements, in seizing control of this town hall or that, scored victories more against each other than against the state. Roughly parallel to the shift from the administration of wealth to the administration of services was a shift from a politics of the notables to a politics of parties. To be sure, many individuals had run for election under the banner of supposed parties already in the 1860s. In Budweis/Budˇejovice, in southern Bohemia, the ‘Party of Progress’ backed one slate of candidates in 1865, and the ‘True Party of Progress’ another. Elsewhere, one had the ‘Mayor’s Party’, the ‘Tradesmen’s Party’ and so on – ad hoc, local groupings centred on individuals and specific problems. Soon, though, genuine parties (truly true parties, one could say) took hold of municipal elections. From the 1870s, their formal structures, networks, newspapers and dues-paying memberships did much to reframe many local concerns in regional and ideological terms, and even in state terms, too.44 This homogenization and broadening of municipal politics, part of a larger transformation of Austrian politics as a whole, took primarily national forms. In the Bohemian lands, the parties which came to dominate electoral contests at municipal and other levels, as well as associational life and public discourse more generally, tended to understand themselves as Czech or German. Why was this so? Why did national leaders prove more successful than political entrepreneurs centred on differences of rich versus poor, centralist versus federalist, Christian or Aryan versus Jew and so on? There are many reasons, including the attention paid by Austria’s nationalists to language in an age when the relationship between language and social mobility was undergoing revolutionary change; the pairing off of national movements into rivalries which generated excitement and followers, but at first relatively little concern on the part of the non-national Crown; the contours of Austria’s electoral systems; and the demonstration effect of national successes elsewhere in Europe. Throughout the nineteenth century, much of the population in the Bohemian lands was nationally indifferent. More and more, though, burghers, Moravians, Catholics, ‘Budweisers’ and other such individuals found themselves pushed to make a choice between Czech and German.45 This process of nationalization in the Bohemian lands, whether at the municipal level or at any other, was characterized by asymmetries. As has been noted, German nationalists tended at first to favour civic rhetorics, while Czechs heavily favoured ethnic ones. Germans

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were strongly over-represented among the wealthy and among liberals, while Czech leaders oriented themselves more towards the lower classes and the federalist or state-rights end of the spectrum. These patterns were linked to another: Czech-speakers outnumbered German-speakers in the Bohemian lands by a ratio of something between 3:2 and 2:1. Czech nationalism found advantage in a game of ethnic headcounts and egalitarianism, or quantity, and German nationalism in one of differentiation and ranking, or quality.46 The electoral order used in Austrian municipalities, with its weighting of votes by wealth and status, turned out to favour the German side – although that had not been the principal intent of its creators, who had been less German than liberal. During the 1850s and 1860s, many towns featured a German majority on the municipal council and a Czech-speaking (but not necessarily Czech) majority in the population as a whole. (The distinction between Czech and Czech-speaking, German and German-speaking, is important, precisely because of ethnically nationalizing discourses implying the contrary.) German factory owners, merchants, attorneys and their peers held sway in the first and second electoral bodies, while Czech leaders often had difficulty capturing even the third body, and the great majority of residents could not vote. Over time, the socio-economic profile of the Czech-speaking population began to ‘catch up’ with that of the German-speaking population. Thanks to government policy, court rulings and civic initiatives, the Czech-language educational system came to rival the German-language one, and formerly firm links between social advancement and command of German grew loose and ever more rusty. The Czech middle classes expanded enormously. More and more, Czech quantity matched or overwhelmed German quality, even within the inegalitarian setting of the municipality. By the turn of the century, the national majority on municipal councils had come to correspond much more closely with the linguistic majority of the local population. Municipal electoral politics had become nationalized in an ethnic fashion. In Bohemia, by 1900, only 23 of 7,743 municipalities (21 led by Germans, 2 by Czechs) counted as exceptions.47 Also important, in addition to the expansion of municipal government and to the nationalization of politics in Austria, was that municipal structures interacted with demography to make politics more mononational at the municipal level than at others. In Austria as a whole, in its crownlands and even at the district level, national mixing was considerable. Often, one national movement could claim only a

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small ethnic majority, and in Austria as a whole no national movement could claim one at all. This pattern encouraged national compromise and accommodation – or stalemate and strife. At the local level, though, Austria was not nearly so diverse. In Bohemia, which censuses (polling a single ‘language of daily use’ for each citizen) showed to be approximately 63 per cent Czech-speaking and 37 per cent German-speaking, fewer than 5 per cent of all municipalities had a linguistic minority larger than 10 per cent. The linguistic border in Bohemia was, in the words of a prominent demographer at the turn of the century, ‘quite sharp, and almost without transitions’. German-speakers inhabited the mountainous rim and Czech-speakers the central plain. To be sure, in Moravia, where Czech-speakers made up closer to 70 per cent, local mixing was not nearly as rare: of the 44 largest municipalities, 12 had a linguistic minority larger than 20 per cent, and an additional five a minority larger than 10 per cent.48 But even in Moravia, town hall most often was held by just one national movement, and was understood increasingly by its leaders as vested national patrimony.49 The Austrian municipal order contributed significantly to this exclusion of minorities. As has been mentioned, the tiered electoral system placed Czech-speaking minorities at a disadvantage, especially in the early decades. In municipal governments, the simple majoritarian fashion in which representatives and executives were elected reduced the presence of minorities – Czech or German, linguistic or national or otherwise. So did the simple majoritarian fashion in which those municipal governments made decisions. Jiˇrí Malíˇr notes that this powerlessness led to low electoral participation within minority populations.50 That reduced their influence still more. Municipalities, as it turned out, led a trend in Austria towards national separation or partition. ‘National equality of rights’, an approach to Austria’s national conflicts which had first received serious attention in 1848, emerged as a central and dynamic principle of Austrian constitutional law and of administrative practice from the 1860s onwards. But it was implemented more and more through even-handed institutional segregation, or what might be called a genuine policy of ‘separate but equal’ – as opposed to the American policy of that name, which was not equal at all.51 At the municipal level, in the Bohemian lands, this took the form of the Czech and German movements each having their own towns, as well as their own monolingual public primary school systems. From about 1900, voluntary associations formed in Bohemia and Moravia through which municipal officials could exchange information and coordinate the communication of their interests to other bodies.

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It was all too common, however, for neighbouring municipalities within the same crownland to belong to different and rival associations, Czech and German.52 Finally, the position of municipalities within Austrian politics gradually changed, from bold and challenging to conservative and even retrograde. This trend both reflected and caused the failure to bring about any significant reform of the municipal electoral system. In the 1870s, the electorate for parliament resembled that for municipalities. But by the First World War, it included all adult males, and was no longer partitioned into electoral bodies. Diet electorates did not grow or level out nearly as much, yet still changed significantly. Municipal electorates, for their part, shrank, if not absolutely then at least proportionally. The lower classes were joined as non-voters by some formerly enfranchised women.53 The democratization of elections to the parliament may have helped to render it less capable of forming working majorities. Municipalities, anything but democratic, did not often have that problem. Rather than miring down in factional struggles, municipal governments proved united and resolute in using their powers to make life difficult for Social Democrats and for other working-class political activists. Long after the oldest and most elitist German and Czech parties – Liberals and so-called Old Czechs – had faded from relevance in parliament and in the diets, they continued to hold sway in many municipalities. Not that they failed to respond to the changing times. Their stance towards the state softened, becoming much less hostile. On the German side in particular, some leaders looked to increases in central state power at the expense of self-government, especially in the field of policing, as their best hope for holding back the hordes.54 ∗

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∗

National politics evolved somewhat differently in municipalities which were growing rapidly. Growth implied factories, and workers – who were more in need than the middle classes of certain services delegated by the state to municipalities. Workers, though, usually could not vote. Indeed, the special statutes of the largest cities enfranchised a particularly small part of the population, and tended to assign less than 10 per cent of voters to the first and second electoral bodies.55 Tensions could run high, particularly in German-led cities or towns which pulled workers from Czech-speaking parts of the countryside, and thereby poured national oil onto a class fire.

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In such municipalities, which included Brünn/Brno in Moravia and Budweis/Budˇejovice in Bohemia, German leaders used self-government to preserve national power. Making selective grants of burgher status, which entitled non-taxpayers to vote in the third electoral body, they counterbalanced the growing number of Czech taxpayers who lived inside the municipal boundaries. They also refused to incorporate neighbouring municipalities which were developing large working-class districts. One effect was to preserve the German majority in the municipal government, even as Czech-speakers became a large majority within the metropolitan area. Another was to offload onto surrounding, poorer, Czech-led municipalities the financial burden of providing schooling and social services to many people who worked downtown.56 Prague, which Czechs dominated already in the 1860s, was exceptional, not only for its size. The municipal government, far less constrained by a German minority than the Bohemian or Moravian diets were, styled itself increasingly as a sort of shadow Czech government within Austria. It convened international exhibitions, interacted with foreign governments through their consulates in the city, established a Czech–French press service and acted in various international fora as a representative of the Czech ‘nation’. Then again, not all politics was national. Prague, too, refused to incorporate new working-class districts, although they were overwhelmingly Czech-speaking.57 Differences were also significant between Bohemia and Moravia. In Bohemia, linguistic mixing was less common at the local level. Nationalization also took hold earlier. In most cases, municipal council majorities which did not coincide with linguistic majorities had been reversed by the 1870s. (Budweis/Budˇejovice was one of the 23 exceptions.) In Moravia, the ‘battle for town hall’ in many cases started much later, and was still underway in 1914. Moravia also lacked district self-governing bodies, so national conflict centred more tightly on municipalities. In the field of language rights (discussed in the next section), no legislative ordering of affairs at the municipal level was ever achieved in Bohemia. But in Moravia, the so-called Moravian Compromise of 1905 established generous minority rights for individuals in their encounters with municipalities and with other self-governing bodies.58 Finally, a distinction should be made between linguistically homogeneous and linguistically mixed municipalities. In homogeneous ones, nationalization of the ethnic sort which came to prevail in Austria generally meant that only one national movement fielded candidates. After the 1860s, though, it usually fielded two, three or more slates.

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Both national movements developed multi-party systems. (The Social Democratic Party claimed to be neither Czech nor German, but internationalist. The minority of its adherents who could vote at the municipal level, however, increasingly divided into Czech and German factions in the Bohemian lands.) In bilingual municipalities, the parties within each national system frequently formed an electoral coalition. Instead of choosing between right and left (or to be more precise, right and more right), voters could chose only between Czech and German. In the absence of proportional representation, linguistically mixed municipalities acted as what Malíˇr terms a ‘brake on political differentiation’.59

Nationalization and municipal daily life As they captured and nationalized the municipalities, how did the Czech and German national movements of the Bohemian lands use those structures to nationalize daily life, to push national views of the world on non-elite parts of the population? They did so above all through language policy. The Provisional Municipal Law of 1849 and the crownland municipal orders of the early 1860s said next to nothing about language use. As has already been noted, the second sentence of Article 19 of the General Rights of Citizens, from 1867, stated that ‘For all languages whose use is customary in a land, the state recognizes equality of rights in schools, government offices, and public life.’ And ‘government offices’ surely included municipalities. But for years, few laws or decrees converted the ‘recognizes’ of Article 19 into actual protection, especially at the municipal level. National majorities in municipal governments – majorities which, to repeat, did not necessarily coincide with the linguistic majority of inhabitants – regularly discriminated against the language of their national rival. This Tocquevillian ‘tyranny of the majority’ bears examination. Some municipalities exploited their right of self-government to decide that they would conduct their business in only one language of the land – perhaps just in internal communications and deliberations, and perhaps in dealings with the public as well. Residents who knew only the other language had to find translators and interpreters at their own expense, even if some of the officials with whom they dealt were bilingual. Here, policy at the municipal level contrasted increasingly with that of the courts and of the political administration.60 Municipal governments also used and abused their powers to promote Czech over German, or vice versa, in public schools. Responsible under

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the 1869 Imperial School Law for providing a free primary education to all resident children, they nonetheless refused in some cases to open a school which used the language of the weaker side, and in other cases to fund such schools adequately. Encouraging parents in other ways as well to enrol their children in a ‘majority’ school, municipalities engaged in what was decried by German leaders as ‘Czechization’ and by Czech leaders as ‘Germanization’. The actual effect in town after town seems to have been nationalization in both directions.61 Municipalities also practiced linguistic and thus national discrimination in public life more generally. A famous case, from the 1890s, was the decision by Prague’s municipal council to make all street signs monolingually Czech, and to declare the Czech names official proper nouns whose use was required even in the German language. Other municipal ordinances focused on the language used in inscriptions on gravestones.62 This black-and-white, Czech-and-German description of dynamics, however, requires the folding in of some shades of grey. In the Bohemian lands, the German language had long been used in public life and in education much more than the Czech language. Only gradually did that pattern come to be understood in ethnically national terms as unequal and thus as unjust. In the 1860s and 1870s, the reluctance of a Germandominated municipal government to open a Czech-language school could still stem from a hostility not so much towards Czechs as towards the idea of compulsory formal education. Some Czech-dominated municipal governments, too, were reluctant to open Czech-language schools, with all their costs and social implications.63 National parties began using town halls in aggressively national ways only some time after capturing them. And in the meantime, minority language rights and other limits on majoritarian rule at the municipal level were growing. A pivotal source of language rights – as Gerald Stourzh has shown – were Austria’s high courts. In 1883, in a case concerning Budweis/ Budˇejovice, the Administrative Court of Justice in Vienna, finding a violation of Article 19 of the General Rights of Citizens, overruled an attempt by the German majority of the municipal council to prevent members from speaking in Czech if they were capable of speaking in German. Subsequent decisions established the right of citizens to communicate with municipal authorities in whichever language of the land they wished, and to be communicated with by those authorities in that language as well. Between 1884 and 1886, on the basis of Article 19 and of the Imperial School Law, the same court also constructed

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a right of parents to demand the opening of a minority school by a municipality, provided that resident, school-age children belonging to that minority averaged forty or more in number over five consecutive years.64 A lesser source of language rights at the municipal level was new legislation. In 1873, a Bohemian law partitioned school boards at the local and district levels into Czech and German bodies. Municipal councils continued to appoint a substantial number of representatives to the boards, which set budgets that the municipality then had to fund. But the national majority on a municipal council now found itself constrained in its efforts to appoint disproportionately penny-pinching men as the overseers of minority schools by the stipulation that it could appoint only men who were ‘members of that nation for which the school represented by the local school board is meant’. Czechs were to set the budget for Czech schools and Germans for German ones; budget disputes between the municipality and either local school board were to be decided by the district school board of the ‘nation’ in question.65 Some municipal councils attempted to circumvent the spirit of the law by appointing ‘Czechs’ who actually acted more like Germans, or vice versa. This tactic, in addition to fanning local national conflict, prompted the Administrative Court of Justice to develop a due process for determining national belonging.66 After 1873, ‘minority’ schooling in Bohemia expanded enormously. In Moravia, a package of laws known as the Moravian Compromise of 1905 included a similar national partitioning of local school boards. It also contained a law ‘concerning the regulation of the use of both languages of the land within the autonomous administrative authorities’. Each municipal council, laid down Law 3 of the Moravian Compromise, could decide in which language(s) of the crownland the municipality would officiate, conduct its internal affairs and communicate with crownland and imperial administrative authorities. A municipality which used only one language, however, had to accept written submissions in the other. As a rule, it had the right to have those submissions translated at crownland expense, and then to adjudicate them in its own language. Excluded, though, were the largest municipalities, as well as any of Moravia’s municipalities in which 20 per cent of residents were shown by the decennial census to use the other language. They were required, in all written and oral communication with any party, to use the party’s language.67 Legislation of the same sort was proposed more than once in Bohemia, but never won passage through the diet, in which national extremists kept gaining ground.

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Limits on majoritarian rule in the field of municipal language policy also took softer forms. Imperial authorities leaned on municipal governments to refrain from discrimination by unofficially linking language policy to subsidies for all kinds of employment and construction. Perhaps most importantly, national underdogs did their best to pressure their opponents in town hall. Using the press, self-help organizations, the law, private ties and discourses of national equality and justice, they achieved much, case by case and step by step, between the 1860s and the First World War.68 Municipal institutions were put to national uses in everyday life in non-linguistic ways, too. National leaders in town hall hired clerks, policemen, inspectors, engineers, public health officials, janitors and other workers on the basis of national loyalties. They discriminated in awarding charity, public contracts and business licences. As has already been mentioned, they froze municipal boundaries, so as not to incorporate newer districts whose residents tended to side with the other national movement. They used their leverage to support national causes both symbolically and financially, as well as to shape elections and censuses. Even in nationally homogeneous communities, national leaders permitted particular public statues, named streets after particular people and places and promoted the performance in municipal facilities of particular plays and music.69

Conclusions Municipalities served as an important ecological niche for the Czech and German national movements, as a setting in which they thrived. What distinguished the municipalities from other niches, such as civic associations, schools, the press, diets and the parliament? How did the municipal and the national affect one another, and what insight do their dynamics offer into Bohemian and Austrian politics more generally? Redlich and Klabouch, the German and the Czech scholars with whom this essay began, agree that the Czech movement benefited more from municipal structures than the German one. They point to the importance of municipalities as a school for Czech politics; many a Czech mayor went on to serve in one of the diets, in parliament or even in the imperial government. More broadly, they credit municipalities with contributing to the trend between 1848 and 1914 of Czech socioeconomic indicators catching up to German ones.70 Czech-dominated municipalities, whose demand for infrastructure and specialized services was just as insatiable as that of German-dominated ones, promoted the

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growth of non-German enterprise. They provided significant backing for Czech culture, including the fine arts and architecture. And whether Czech-dominated or not, all municipalities with Czech-speaking residents were required by law to participate in developing the primary tier of a modern Czech school system, roughly at par with its German counterpart. Talk of Czech gains may seem to imply German losses, at least from national perspectives. Yet German leaders probably embraced municipal self-government no less than Czech ones did. This was because of imperial Austria’s nature as something other than a nation-state, and of what Klabouch terms the undercurrent of ‘hostility toward the state’ of local government. The Czech movement gained vis-à-vis the German movement, and both gained vis-à-vis the Habsburg state. Or to be more precise, their increasingly co-equal dominance of municipalities, the lowest branches of the imperial Austrian state, promoted the state’s nationalization in German and Czech senses simultaneously (not to mention Polish, Ukrainian, Italian and Slovene ones). Contributing to this trend was the fact that the rules of the municipal political game favoured national actors considerably, Habsburg actors to some degree and others not at all. Municipal electoral orders, based on wealth and status, meant that Social Democrats, proponents of a politics of class, had almost no voice in town halls. Imperial Austria did not become a national state. But it became a multinational state, and indeed a multinationalizing one, especially through its municipalities.71 Although the undemocratic nature of the municipal franchise helped the national movements against Marxism, it hindered them from nationalizing the lower classes. Czech and German leaders waged many battles against each other for town hall. But they generally remained mindful of their middle-class commonalities, and did not try overly hard to expand the electorate. To the extent that nationalization of the lower classes (and of Social Democracy) did occur, it was probably more in other niches. Questions of party politics and class aside, however, the national niche of municipal politics tended not to cultivate extremes. It lay somewhere near the middle of a continuum in terms of the ability of the national movements to shut out one another, as well as higher reaches of the Habsburg state, and to cultivate at least an appearance of national self-determination. Both German and Czech national majorities ultimately profited from a structuring of municipal politics devised at the middle of the nineteenth century to serve not their interests but those of a non-national state. National minorities, also both German and Czech, turned out

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to benefit from limitations imposed on municipal self-government by that state, which discovered new legitimacy, but also new dangers, in becoming multinational. Such were the ironies and unintended consequences generated by the encounter of the municipal with the national in the Bohemian lands of imperial Austria between 1848 and 1914.

Acknowledgement For suggestions and criticisms that helped me improve this chapter, I thank John Breuilly, John Deak, William Whyte, Oliver Zimmer and two anonymous reviewers.

Notes 1. Josef Redlich, Das Wesen der österreichischen Kommunal-Verfassung (Leipzig, 1910), pp. 61–62. 2. Gary Cohen, The Politics of Ethnic Survival: Germans in Prague, 1861–1914 (Princeton, 1981) (second, revised edition: West Lafayette, IN, 2006); Jeremy King, Budweisers into Czechs and Germans: A Local History of Bohemian Politics, 1848–1948 (Princeton, 2002). See also William Hubbard, Auf dem Weg zur Grossstadt: eine Sozialgeschichte der Stadt Graz, 1850–1914 (Vienna, 1984); Cathleen Giustino, Tearing Down Prague’s Jewish Town: Ghetto Clearance and the Legacy of Middle-Class Ethnic Politics around 1900 (Boulder, 2003); Pavel Kladiwa, Obecní výbor Moravské Ostravy 1850–1913 (Ostrava, 2004). 3. A small part of that legal tradition was transmitted to the United States by Redlich, who taught at Harvard Law School for a number of years after the First World War. He published, among other studies, Austrian War Government (New Haven, 1929). 4. Arthur Haas, ‘Metternich and the Slavs’, Austrian History Yearbook, vol. 4–5 (1968–69), p. 121. 5. Jiˇrí Klabouch, Die Gemeindeselbstverwaltung in Österreich (Munich, 1968), p. 7. See also Josef Redlich, ‘The Municipality. – I. Austria: The Commune System,’ Journal of the Society of Comparative Legislation, vol. 8, no. 1 (1907), p. 15. 6. The best exceptions include John Boyer, Political Radicalism in Late Imperial Vienna: Origins of the Christian Social Movement, 1848–1897 (Chicago, 1981); John Boyer, Culture and Political Crisis in Vienna: Christian Socialism in Power, 1897–1918 (Chicago, 1995); Peter Urbanitsch, ‘Die Gemeindevertretungen in Cisleithanien’, in Adam Wandruszka and Peter Urbanitsch (eds), Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, vol. 7/1: Verfassung und Parlamentarismus: Die regionalen Repräsentativkörperschaften (Vienna, 2001); Milan Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek ˇceské samosprávy: samospráva a její vliv na hospodáˇrský, sociální a ˇ intelektuální rozvoj Cech 1862–1913 (Prague, 2006); Lukáš Fasora, Jiˇrí Hanuš, and Jiˇrí Malíˇr, eds., Obˇcanské elity a obecní samospráva 1848–1948 (Brno, 2006).

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7. See, for example, Rogers Brubaker, Ethnicity without Groups (Cambridge, MA, 2004); Pieter Judson and Marsha Rozenblit (eds), Constructing Nationalities in East Central Europe (New York, 2005); Pieter Judson, Guardians of the Nation: Activists on the Language Frontiers of Imperial Austria (Cambridge, MA, 2006); Tara Zahra, Kidnapped Souls. National Indifference and the Battle for Children in the Bohemian Lands, 1900–1948 (Ithaca, NY, 2008); Tara Zahra, ‘Imagined Noncommunities: National Indifference as a Category of Analysis’, Slavic Review, vol. 69, no. 1 (Spring 2010), pp. 93–119. 8. King, Budweisers, pp. 57–61. See also the data appendices of Emil Brix, Die Umgangssprache in Altösterreich zwischen Agitation und Assimilation (Vienna, 1982). 9. See the early chapters of King, Budweisers; and of Pieter Judson, Exclusive Revolutionaries. Liberal Politics, Social Experience, and National Identity in the Austrian Empire, 1848–1914 (Ann Arbor, 1996). This essay understands nationalism or nationhood in the spirit of works by such scholars as Benedict Anderson and Rogers Brubaker. See Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, second edition (London, 1991); Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed (New York, 1996); Brubaker, Ethnicity without Groups. 10. For a discussion of why Austrian law treated territorial corporations of citizens in undifferentiated fashion, almost regardless of size, see Werner Ogris, ‘Die Entwicklung des österreichischen Gemeinderechts im 19. Jahrhundert’, in Wilhelm Rausch (ed.), Die Städte Mitteleuropas im 19. Jahrhundert (Linz, 1983), pp. 86–92. 11. Josef Ulbrich, ‘Autonomie’, in Ernst Mischler and Josef Ulbrich (eds), Österreichisches Staatswörterbuch. Handbuch des gesamten österreichischen öffentlichen Rechtes, vol. 1 (Vienna, 1905), pp. 380–83. For additional remarks on ‘autonomy’ by Redlich, see ‘The Municipality’, pp. 19–20. See also ˇ Rudolf Slawitschek, Selbstverwaltung und Autonomie (Leipzig, 1910); Zdenka Hledíková, Jan Janák and Jan Dobeš, Dˇejiny správy v ˇceských zemích od zaˇcátku státu po souˇcasnost (Prague, 2005), p. 297. 12. A recent overview of these developments may be found in John Deak, The Austrian Civil Service in an Age of Crisis: Power and the Politics of Reform, 1848–1925 (University of Chicago doctoral dissertation, 2009), ch. 3. 13. Allgemeines Reichs-Gesetz- und Regierungsblatt für das Kaiserthum Österreich (henceforth RGBl.), Nr. 170/1849, 203, §1. See also §33 of the imposed or ‘octroyed’ constitution of 4 March 1849, regarding the fundamental rights of the municipality. Both these laws, and indeed almost the whole of Austrian legislation between 1848 and 1914, may be accessed at http://alex.onb.ac.at. 14. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 14ff.; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2199–204. 15. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §2–3, §71ff., §127ff., §138. 16. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 7; Redlich, Kommunal-Verfassung, p. 71. 17. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 32ff.; RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §142ff., §159ff. 18. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §110, §154, §167, §169, §177. 19. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 34–35; Hledíková et al., Dˇejiny správy, pp. 273ff.; Deak, Austrian Civil Service, ch. 3.

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20. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §4, 5, 27, 58. 21. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 136; Redlich, Kommunal-Verfassung, p. 74. 22. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §7–30; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2203– 24; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 36–42, 130–33. 23. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §4, 36–66; Lukáš Fasora and Pavel Kladiwa, ‘Obecní ˇ samospráva a lokální elity v cˇeských zemích 1850–1918’, Ceský ˇcasopis historický, vol. 102 (2004), p. 813. 24. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §6; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 41; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2203, 2211; Hledíková et al., Dˇejiny správy, p. 298. 25. RGBl., Nr. 2/1852 and Nr. 4/1852, especially points 10, 11, and 13. See also Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 46–49. 26. RGBl., Nr. 170/1849, §74, 79; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 50; Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, pp. 107–15; Redlich, ‘The Municipality’, pp. 30–31. 27. RGBl., Nr. 58/1859, §96. 28. RGBl., Nr. 261/1859; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 54–58. An 1852 decree requiring confirmation of the mayor by the political administration remained in force. 29. Carl Brockhausen, Die österreichische Gemeindeordnung (Grundgedanken und Reformideen) (Vienna, 1905), p. 3. 30. RGBl., Nr. 18/1862. 31. RGBl., Nr. 18/1862, Articles 4–6, 9–11, 14, 22; Brockhausen, Gemeindeordnung, pp. 2–37; Max Kulisch, ‘Gemeinden: Gemeindewahlen’, in Mischler and Ulbrich (eds), Österreichisches Staatswörterbuch, vol. 2 (Vienna, 1906), pp. 335–47. 32. RGBl., Nr. 18/1862, Articles 6, 16, 18; Friedrich Tezner, Handbuch des österreichischen Administrativverfahrens (Vienna, 1896), pp. 388–89. For similar remarks, see Redlich, ‘The Municipality’, pp. 15, 27, 40. 33. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 62, 68; Brockhausen, Gemeindeordnung, pp. 26–37. See also Deak, Austrian Civil Service, chapter 3. 34. RGBl., Nr. 18/1862, Articles 11, 17. 35. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 73–80. 36. Brockhausen, Gemeindeordnung, p. 82. The crownland municipal orders may be found in Graf Anton Pace (ed.), Ernst Mayrhofer’s Handbuch für den politischen Verwaltungsdienst in den im Reichsrathe vertretenen Königreichen und Ländern, fifth edition, vol. 2 (Vienna, 1896), pp. 455ff. For a discussion of electoral provisions of the Bohemian municipal law, see František Schwartz, Výklad zákona obecního (ze dne 16. dubna 1864) a zákona o zastupitelstvu okresˇ ním (ze dne 25. ˇcervence 1864) pro Království Ceské, third edition (Prague, 1898), pp. 957ff. 37. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 85, 102. Crownland laws generally remained within the framework laid down by imperial laws regarding self-government and political administration. But ‘federal’ law did not trump crownland law, nor did ‘constitutional’ laws trump other ones. Francis Joseph was not bound by his own previous decisions, and thus could set a different course in Galicia. Edmund Bernatzik, Die österreichischen Verfassungsgesetze mit Erläuterungen, second edition (Vienna,

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39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45.

46. 47. 48.

49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54.

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1911), pp. 435–38, 985; Rudolf von Herrnritt, Handbuch des österreichischen Verfassungsrechtes (Tübingen, 1909), pp. 120–22, 202–06. RGBl., Nr. 105/1863; Brockhausen, Gemeindeordnung, pp. 54ff.; Klabouch, ˇ Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 127; Zdenka Stoklásková, ‘Domovské právo a obecní samospráva’, in Fasora et al. (eds), Obˇcanské elity, pp. 138–45. RGBl., Nr. 141/1867, especially §11, 12; and Nr. 44/1868. RGBl., Nr. 62/1869; Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, pp. 59, 93–99; Pace, Mayrhofer’s Handbuch, vol. 4 (1898), pp. 620, 716–43, 847–55. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 55ff., 87–89; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2112–21; Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, pp. 20ff. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 98. King, Budweisers, chapter 2; Ernst Mischler, ‘Selbstverwaltung, finanzrechtlich’, in Mischler and Ulbrich (eds), Österreichisches Staatswörterbuch, vol. 4 (Vienna, 1909), p. 239; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 118–22. For case studies, see Pavel Cibulka, ‘Královo Pole – život po boku moravské metropole’, in Fasora et al. (eds), Obˇcanské elity, pp. 271–83; Kladiwa, Obecní výbor. King, Budweisers, chapter 1; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 231ff.; Bruce Garver, The Young Czech Party 1874–1901 and the Emergence of a MultiParty System (New Haven, 1978); Judson, Guardians of the Nation, especially chapter 3. See King, Budweisers; Jeremy King, ‘The Nationalization of East Central Europe: Ethnicism, Ethnicity, and Beyond’, in Nancy Wingfield and Maria Bucur (eds), Staging the Past: The Politics of Commemoration in Habsburg Central Europe, 1848 to the Present (West Lafayette, 2001), pp. 112–52; Judson, Guardians of the Nation; Zahra, Kidnapped Souls, introduction and chapter 1. See King, Budweisers; Judson, Exclusive Revolutionaries, pp. 49–68. Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, p. 152; Redlich, Kommunal-Verfassung, p. 67. Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, p. 152; Heinrich Rauchberg, Der nationale Besitzstand in Böhmen (Leipzig, 1905), p. 32; Jiˇrí Malíˇr, ‘Obecní samospráva a národnostní problematika na Moravˇe pˇred r. 1914 (Deset poznámek k ‘boji o radnice’ moravských mˇest)’, in Národnostní problémy v historii mˇest (Prostˇejov, 1993), pp. 84–86. Malíˇr, ‘Obecní samospráva’, p. 82; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, p. 2266. Malíˇr, ‘Obecní samospráva’, p. 79. Gerald Stourzh, Die Gleichberechtigung der Nationalitäten in der Verfassung und Verwaltung Österreichs, 1848–1918 (Vienna, 1985); King, Budweisers, especially chapter 4; Jeremy King, ‘Who Is Who? Separate but Equal in Imperial Austria’ (article manuscript, 2010); Jeremy King, ‘Which Equality? Separate but Equal in Imperial Austria’ (article manuscript, 2010). Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, pp. 26–29, 33, 35–36, 179; Hledíková et al., Dˇejiny správy, p. 306; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 96. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 132, 143; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2210, 2214. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 101, 108, 128, 139–44, 157–61, 169–70; King, Budweisers, chapters 3–4.

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55. Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2216ff. In Bohemia, statutory cities continued to number only two. But in Moravia and Silesia, they increased during the 1860s and 1870s from three to nine. 56. King, Budweisers, chapters 3–4; Fasora and Kladiwa, ‘Obecní samospráva’, p. 822. 57. Jiˇrí Koˇralka, ‘Evropský význam Prahy jako metropole národa bez státu’, in ˇ Václav Ledvinka (ed.), Praha-Cechy-Evropa. 1100 let kulturní, hospodáˇrské a politické metropole stˇrední Evropy (Prague, 2003), pp. 88–97. 58. Malíˇr, ‘Obecní samospráva’, pp. 76–78; Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, p. 2269; Fasora and Kladiwa, ‘Obecní samospráva’, p. 817; King, ‘Which Equality?’. 59. Urbanitsch, ‘Gemeindevertretungen’, pp. 2258–60; King, Budweisers, chapters 2–4; Malíˇr, ‘Obecní samospráva’, p. 80. 60. For examples, see King, Budweisers, especially chapters 2–3. For a comparison of municipalities with the political administration (the object of the Stremayr language ordinances of 1880 and the Badeni language ordinances of 1897), see Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, pp. 138–41. 61. King, Budweisers, especially chapters 2–3; Hannelore Burger, Sprachenrecht und Sprachgerechtigkeit im österreichischen Unterrichtswesen 1867–1918 (Vienna, 1995), pp. 37–66, 87–110. 62. Stourzh, Gleichberechtigung, pp. 112–15. 63. Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, p. 92. 64. Stourzh, Gleichberechtigung, pp. 106–10, 169–75; Pace, Mayrhofer’s Handbuch, vol. 4 (1898), pp. 671–72. 65. Bernatzik, Verfassungsgesetze, pp. 989–91; Pace, Mayrhofer’s Handbuch, vol. 4 (1898), pp. 500–13, 551, 737–40. 66. King, ‘Who Is Who?’; Stourzh, Gleichberechtigung, p. 203. 67. Moravian Laws 2 and 3 of 1906, in Landesgesetz- und Verordnungsblatt für die Markgrafschaft Mähren (Brünn, 1906), pp. 10–43; King, ‘Which Equality?’. Coming as it did after decisions by the Administrative Court of Justice that established a right of parties to choose the language in which they communicated with a municipality, Law 3 seems in some cases to have strengthened not individual rights but group ones, that is, to have bolstered the right of municipalities with large national majorities to refuse bilingual treatment to some parties. 68. Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, p. 111; Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, p. 21; King, Budweisers. 69. King, Budweisers; Nancy M. Wingfield, Flag Wars and Stone Saints: How the Bohemian Lands Became Czech (Cambridge, MA, 2007). 70. Redlich, Kommunal-Verfassung, p. 68; Klabouch, Gemeindeselbstverwaltung, pp. 93, 159–61. See also Hlavaˇcka, Zlatý vˇek, pp. 8–9. 71. Regarding nationalizing states, see Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed.

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2 Venice 1848–1915: The Venetian Sense of the Past and the Creation of the Italian Nation David Laven

In recent years debates in the historiography of Italian unification and national identity have focused overwhelmingly on the work of Alberto Banti, and most notably on his La nazione del Risorgimento published in 2000.1 Central to Banti’s thesis is the notion that the Risorgimento was a mass movement in which the participants,2 whether moderate or radical, shared core beliefs – informed by a canone risorgimentale, a central corpus of patriotic texts – about the nature of the Italian nation. Banti’s approach has won many disciples and spawned numerous imitators. It is not my intention here to rehearse my own reservations about his methodology, or to challenge the findings of those he has inspired.3 What I do wish to argue is that, in overlooking the pivotal importance of local and municipal sentiment, and in explicitly minimizing the role of interest as a key explanatory factor behind the growth of patriotic sentiment, Banti has distorted our understanding of Italian nationalism. Through focusing on the example of Venice in the period between the insurrection of 1848–49 and the outbreak of the Great War, I wish to demonstrate how interest, defined in largely local terms, could combine with a fierce sense of municipal pride and identity to form the foundations and building blocks for the creation of a sense of nationhood, even if at different times and in different circumstances these same forces could constitute major obstacles to the development of patriotic sentiment. In doing this, I must acknowledge my debt to experts on Germany, such as Alon Confino and Celia Applegate,4 who have fruitfully explained the ‘the spasmodic and contested process by which provincial Germans attempted to construct notions of nationhood and localness’.5 47

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The engagement of Venetians with Italian patriotism and the evolution of national sentiment in the Risorgimento and Liberal eras cannot, of course, be considered as ‘typical’ of the experience of other Italian cities. As contemporaries were quick to recognize, the former Serenissima and its inhabitants were distinctive in terms of tradition, dialect, location, economic needs and history. But this does not invalidate Venice as a case study. Venetian responses to the struggle for Italian nationhood were not always similar to those in Milan, Florence or Genoa, still less Rome, Turin or Naples. But it is precisely because of the distinctiveness of so many of Italy’s cities – and, indeed, because of strong and enduring belief in their distinctiveness – that it is appropriate to select as a case study an example often considered especially unusual. Through looking at Venice it is possible to tease out the ways in which shared local interests and identities could both reinforce and reject the national, sometimes employing the sets of symbols, the rhetoric and the programmes that it offered, sometimes finding them awkward and alien. Yet underpinning these dialogues between the national and the local were always questions of practical politics. This was true for Venice; but it was also true for other Italian cities from Palermo to Parma, and from Ancona to Aosta. In exploring the city as a key locus of Italian patriotism, I also want to examine the paradox that, in the short term, unification actually served to undermine the Italian sense of the nation. The idea of Italy as a weak state, unable to inculcate genuine patriotic feelings among its citizens is a commonplace, frequently summed up in a maxim, wrongly attributed to Massimo D’Azeglio: ‘We have made Italy, now we must make Italians.’6 It is true that for many rural dwellers, impoverished and exclusively dialettofoni, the idea of Italy was completely alien. Despite the apparent endorsement offered to unification by the heavily rigged plebiscites of 1860–70, peasants – effectively excluded from public affairs until the eve of the Great War by a restrictive electoral system – were hostile or indifferent towards nation and state: the new order meant burdensome taxation and conscription, aggravated by unpopular policies of anticlericalism and levels of repression unknown before unification.7 But, as contemporaries often remarked, even among the urban elites there was apparently less enthusiasm for patriotic rhetoric or action than in France, or Germany or even Russia. After 1870, it became a commonplace to argue – as it turned out quite mistakenly – that only a dramatic spilling of blood in a patriotic war would attach Italians to the national flag, the state and the ruling dynasty.8 Yet what is most striking about the relative failure of the new Italian state to foster a stronger sense of

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patriotism is that this was in large measure a direct consequence of the path taken to unity. The post-1861 Kingdom of Italy was, on the one hand, a product of great power rivalry, in which the aspirations and views of Italians were almost entirely incidental; on the other hand, it was the creation of an unlikely coalition forged from Piedmontese expansionists and a relatively restricted group of patriots. The latter, often former republicans of Mazzinian bent, who constituted the core of the so-called party of action, were characterized by their desire to see unification at almost any cost; the price they paid was acceptance of the House of Savoy and polices of ‘Piedmontisation’. Something united these ill-matched allies beyond their shared desire to see the creation of a single state. With few exceptions, the key figures in both parties were inherently suspicious of Italy’s traditional diversity. Worried that municipalism and localism would create fissures, provide radicals and reactionaries with the opportunity to push their agendas at local level, or even legitimate foreign intervention, the new Italian state deliberately set about imposing uniformity and centralization. Municipalism and local autonomy were jettisoned. Discarding municipalism was disastrous. Historically, urban Italians had seen the city as the chief reference point for their identity: in many ways shared pride in municipality embodied what it meant ‘to be Italian’.9 Yet the very nature of the new Italian state, ruled over by a dynasty that had little time for a heritage of comuni, meant that municipalism was not initially exploited to build consensus. Moreover, the nature and pattern of unification, in which those responsible went out of their way to prevent debate about the terms and conditions of annexation, ensured that the government remained largely unresponsive to, or ignorant of, the needs of the periphery. In this context, the energetic desire ‘to make Italians’, so regularly expressed by vocal elements of the political classes, did not derive from the fact that ‘Italians’ had not existed prior to unification, but, on the contrary, reflected the extent to which the actual process of creating a nation-state had undermined a common italianità. The new state had squandered the tradition of the comuni. This spirit had underpinned the mid-century revolutions, and, before 1848, had been recognized and celebrated by the more intelligent and perceptive of political commentators: Giuseppe Ferrari, Carlo Cattaneo and Michele Amari. As the Genevan economist and historian, Simonde de Sismondi, had stressed in his vastly influential Histoire des républiques italiennes,10 the distinctive contribution of Italy to the history of liberty had been made by the medieval republics, which embodied the repossession of liberties lost under the despotic rule of the Caesars.

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But while this distinctively Italian sense of the municipal as the basis of liberty was undermined by the process of Italian state building, it did not entirely disappear. Because Italians continued to see their interests in local and municipal terms long after unification, judging the state on how effectively it accommodated and protected them, the educated and enfranchised elites gradually came to locate municipal pasts within the framework of the new Italy. Increasingly they were forced to recognize that the nation offered the sole arena in which to pursue municipal interests and express municipal identities. And, in the process, they came to bracket those interests with the nation. At the same time Italian governments came to recognize that only by rebuilding the connection between the local and the national could they hope to secure the allegiance of citizens.11 For Venetians, among whom municipal identity remained especially strong, the celebration of the city’s distinctive and proud history eventually came to be subsumed within a grander narrative of the Italian nation: local loyalty fused with patriotism.

Municipalist revolution After the Congress of Vienna, Venetia seemed virtually immune to the conspiracy and insurrection that dogged the rest of the peninsula. Both Silvio Pellico and Giuseppe Mazzini notoriously despaired of the region.12 Today it is the Bandiera brothers who are still celebrated as the great Venetian heroes of the prequarantotto, yet the brothers’ achievements amounted merely to the establishment of an ill-supported secret society, a complete failure to start a mutiny in the Austrian navy and an ill-conceived expedition to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, which ended in their execution.13 Restoration Venice was unedifying for patriots. Then came 1848. The dramatic change was not prompted by a sudden engagement with debates about the future of Italy, but by growing disillusionment with the shortcomings of Austrian government: failure to deal with economic crisis, high taxation, heavy censorship and increasingly draconian policing. Nevertheless, while Venetians remained sceptical of the ideas of Mazzinian republicans or pro-Piedmontese moderates, there were clear signs – for example, at the Italian Scientific Congress held in Venice in 1847, or during the debate about the construction of a Milan to Venice railway – that the educated classes were beginning to accept that Venice’s future might lie in tighter links with the rest of the peninsula. In the aftermath of Pius IX’s election in 1846, this sentiment was also detectable in a wave of support for the neo-Guelph programme of Vincenzo Gioberti. Such

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enthusiasm was not limited to Venice. Gioberti’s ideas of establishing an Italian federation under Papal presidency had the virtue of accommodating both Catholicism and the traditions of diversity that marked the peninsula, while also recognizing the cultural potency of italianità. Nevertheless, it is striking that, of the major political thinkers of the 1840s, Gioberti alone seems to have received widespread support within the capital of the former republic: neo-Guelphism could accommodate both venezianità and Venetian religiosity.14 When the Venetian revolution broke out in March 1848 it immediately assumed a strongly municipalist character. The insurgents’ cry of ‘Viva la Repubblica! Viva San Marco!’ reflected the traditions of the pre-1797 regime. While the population wanted to see an end to direct Austrian rule, there was little thought of Venice’s potential commitment to a wider agenda of Italian unification. Pursuit of independence (or at least autonomy) from Vienna and a sense of shared italianità made Venetians (initially) happy to collaborate with other Italian states to secure their newfound gains, but the revolution’s hugely popular leaders – Daniele Manin and Nicolò Tommaseo – were primarily concerned with Venetian and not Italian independence. National symbols, most notably the tricolour,15 were used with varying degrees of enthusiasm at different stages, but Venetians cared principally about the fate of Venice itself. This priority persisted throughout 1848–49, not only in dealings with Milan, Turin and patriots from elsewhere in the peninsula, but also with the Venetian mainland. When, in March 1848, Manin looked to the establishment of an Italian federation, he did so because it offered the structure best suited to accommodate Venetian traditions, aspirations and interests. The city had long since ceased to be of maritime or military significance,16 and had no chance of survival as an independent municipality. Any strategy had, therefore, to be pursued within a wider Italian or international context. Some conservatives, such as the podestà, Conte Giovanni Correr, simply wanted greater autonomy within the Austrian Empire. Faced with potential radicalism, they feared cutting all ties with Habsburg forces of order. The belief that federalized Austrian rule was compatible with flourishing civic autonomy also echoed the thought of Cattaneo, the Milanese economist, briefly head of Milan’s rebel government in 1848. Plans for autonomy within the empire would be revived by Venetian delegates during the final peace negotiations with the Austrians in June 1849.17 Meanwhile, deep suspicion persisted for integration with other parts of Italy. In the spring of 1848, Manin and Tommaseo baulked at suggestions for a Lombardo–Venetian Constituent

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Assembly: they had no intention of being out-voted or marginalized by more populous neighbours. When a worsening military position persuaded the reluctant Manin to agree to the Assembly, Tommaseo held firm.18 Manin and Tommaseo were even more hostile to the idea of approaching the House of Savoy for protection: annexation into a Piedmontesedominated Kingdom of Upper Italy was scarcely more attractive than rule from Vienna.19 This antipathy for Piedmont highlighted tensions with the mainland, where, by May, the Austrian army had started to reassert control. For the Terraferma it made sense to look to King Carlo Alberto. This did not spring from any great desire to be ruled by the House of Savoy, nor did it reflect an ideological commitment to greater unity. It was based on the straightforward calculation that the Piedmontese army offered a chance of defeating the Austrians.20 Manin himself only conceded a plebiscite in hope of military aid. No one was surprised when, in early June, those areas of the Venetian mainland not reoccupied by the Austrians voted overwhelmingly for annexation; among the propertied classes it was also hoped that Carlo Alberto would help uphold a more conservative order than that promised by Manin.21 Faith in Piedmont was misplaced: within a fortnight the major mainland cities had all fallen. The disastrous conduct of Carlo Alberto’s war effort led to a hardening of Venice’s opposition to a Kingdom of Upper Italy. Only two leading figures in Venice entertained pro-Piedmontese sympathies, the Veronese-born Jacopo Castelli (swiftly appointed as one of Carlo Alberto’s commissari regi), and the Lombard-born Pietro Paleocapa. Their stance arose from a fear of popular republicanism, rather than any passion for Piedmontese rule, although both subsequently moved to plum positions in Turin.22 As summer progressed, Manin began to put pressure on the Piedmontese commissari to quit the city. When, on 4 September 1848, Carlo Alberto’s token military presence departed, there was widespread relief, accompanied by an outburst of republican sentiment. Manin himself would always have preferred help from Paris.23 The Terraferma’s hopes in Turin were not motivated merely by military considerations; they also represented resentment at Venice’s attempts to reassert its former hegemony. As early as April 1848 Manin made it clear that representatives from the Terraferma would only play a consultative role in decision-making.24 A republican and democrat within the capital, Manin believed in the traditional relationship between Venice and the provinces: full political rights were not to be conceded. This, in turn, was underpinned by long-standing Venetian suspicion for the lands

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beyond its immediate hinterland, the Dogado.25 Since Venice’s medieval expansion onto the Terraferma, relations with subject cities had often been tense. At times when Venice was threatened, as during the League of Cambrai or in 1797, acts of mainland resistance were generally balanced by high levels of collaboration with the invader.26 After 1814, too, the mainland aristocracy had proved much readier to pursue careers in the Habsburg administration than had Venice’s patriciate.27 In the face of Austrian reoccupation, the arrogance of the former-Dominante intensified. Two days before the plebiscites, Manin had called elections for 18 June. The new Assembly was intended to determine the future of Venetia, but the delegates were to come only from the capital and the Dogado. Manin’s desire to deprive the mainland of a voice was prompted only in part by his suspicion of pro-Piedmontese sentiment, and a historic sense of superiority; Venetians now feared that rather than providing military assistance (which proved grudging, tardy and scant), Carlo Alberto would try to use Venice as a bargaining chip in future negotiations with Austria. Any mainland vote in favour of annexation risked giving legitimacy to such cattle-trading.28 While pro-Piedmontese fusionists were few and far between in Venice, there was an impulse towards a more aggressively republican and nationalist policy. The origins of this are not to be detected among locals. Rather it reflected the presence of activists from elsewhere in Italy, eager to highjack what remained an essentially municipal revolution. For example, the Mazzinian Circolo italiano attracted few Venetians, but a high percentage of refugees from Lombardy, Tuscany and Naples. Another constant thorn in Manin’s flesh was the radical Lombard, Giuseppe Sirtori.29 In the autumn of 1848, Manin contemplated his expulsion. Manin acted with more resolution against the Tuscan Antonio Mordini, the Friulian Francesco Dall’Ongaro and the Triestine Giuseppe Revere, as dangerous to good order and security; more expulsions followed in January 1849.30 Admittedly, in the final weeks of resistance, Sirtori and the Neapolitan Girolamo Ulloa assumed control of the military organization of Venice. By this stage, those determined to defend the city were prepared to gamble on radical and more aggressive leadership. Yet the famous resolution of 2 April 1849, that ‘Venice will resist the Austrians at whatever cost’, was an expression of local cussedness – bourgeois and popular – not the fanaticism of outside radicals. In contrast, elements of the propertied classes rallied round the patriarch, Jacopo Monico, who began to support the restoration of Austrian rule.31 Yet even the members of this group of born-again austriacanti, men who preferred the Habsburgs to the rule of godless

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radicals, were motivated by a form of Venetian patriotism, a desire to jettison the lost cause of independence and to avoid further suffering from bombardment, hunger and cholera.32 In many senses, 1848–49 represented the last hurrah of municipalism. For many revolutionaries the tradition of comuni represented not an obstacle to fashioning the nation, but the basis from which a free Italy might be constructed. From the earliest stages of the spring 1848 crisis, when Italy’s panicking rulers made concessions, demands for change had often been locally based. Thereafter, the motor for change had not come from states, but from political pressure from within individual cities. Support for a broader Italian federation or even for a united Italian state sprang in part from the need for some sort of united front in the face of potential foreign intervention. But it also represented the chance to create a national arena in which long-standing local tensions could be negotiated or municipal claims asserted: a united Italy was a means by which Livorno could free itself from the patronizing domination of Florence, Palermo could break away from Naples and Bologna could redefine its relationship with Rome. Similarly, while the Genoese rising in the spring of 1849 was triggered by fears of an Austrian occupation, resistance rapidly fused nationalist rhetoric with an even stronger spirit of municipalism.33 For Venice, 1848–49 offered not only the chance to overthrow distant rule from Vienna, simultaneously challenging Trieste’s commercial hegemony in the Adriatic,34 but also to reassert its territorial dominance over the neighbouring mainland, and to negotiate its relationship with the lands to the west of the River Mincio. The defeat of the 1848–49 revolutions effectively killed any vision of an Italy of the comuni. In one sense the tragedy of 1848–49 was that so many Italian patriots came to agree with the judgment of the Tuscan democrat Montanelli, who famously argued that the only way for Italy to achieve independence was both to discard political animosities between moderates and democrats, and to jettison municipal and regional loyalties.35 In suggesting the latter, he risked losing sight of the point that celebration of the distinctive identity of the individual states, regions and, above all, cities lay at the very core of italianità. As the federalists and many moderates recognized in the years before 1848, municipal and regional loyalties did not run counter to a belief in the nation, but provided the basic ingredients from which an independent Italy could be constructed. As Azeglio had observed in 1847, in a passage praising the annexation of Lucca by Tuscany as a step towards greater national unity, ‘The love of one’s own city . . . is sacred, useful and to be

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admired; it is the fertile origin of prosperity, civilization and all those goods that, taken together, shape the power and fortune of nations.’36

The legacy of the ’quarantotto and la terza dominazione austriaca Any failure to recognize Italy’s diverse municipal heritage risked producing a state that was utterly alien to the vast majority of its citizens. This was evident from the absence of consensus and allegiance that characterized the Kingdom of Italy, which emerged from the events of 1859–60. Yet, while a few thinkers and politicians – Cattaneo, Brofferio, Minghetti and Ridolfi – retained municipalist and federal ambitions, the harsh reality of the post-1849 status quo made it quite clear that the political map of Italy could only be radically redrawn through the action of the great powers.37 This fact was underlined in the 1850s by the total failure of the radical democrats to threaten the established order though a series of ill-managed conspiracies and attempted insurrections. Indeed, after the Paris Peace Conference of 1856, it became evident that the only possibility of a serious challenge to the postrevolutionary order would have to come from Piedmontese exploitation of great power rivalry. In recognizing the dominant role that Piedmont had to play, and in increasingly subscribing to the myth of the Savoyard dynasty, patriots rejected the basis on which a successful state might actually have been constructed. In doing so, they reduced their appeal in Venice, where much of the population was both extremely proud of its long-standing historical independence, and of the fact that their resistance had endured longer than anywhere else in Italy. Indeed, it was widely and internationally recognized that 1848–49 saw the ‘redemption’ of Venice: henceforth the legend of the corrupt and decadent city, based in large part on the work of the French historian Pierre Daru,38 was challenged by foreign writers, who recognized that Venetians could ‘be enrolled among the virile populations of Europe’.39 After 1850, Manin’s committed anti-Austrianism gradually fused with a growing loathing for Mazzinian radicalism. In 1856, he launched a much-publicized attack on Mazzini in the pages of The Times.40 Once seen as the embodiment of scepticism about the House of Savoy, Manin helped to establish the Società italiana nazionale (SNI), and came to champion Italian unification under the House of Savoy. Manin no longer stood for Venetian interests: his antagonism towards Austria and Mazzinianism had turned him into a nationalist, albeit one who never entirely jettisoned either his republican or his federalist sentiments.41

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In contrast, during the 1850s, the overwhelming majority of Venetians once again distanced themselves from the national cause. This did not mean that anti-Habsburg sentiment died; the contrast between the triumphant celebrations that greeted the Austrian army in 1814, and the resentful silence of 1849 could hardly have been greater. The depredations caused by the Austrian blockade and siege of the city had been immense, and, as outsiders observed, the population viewed the Habsburg regime with considerable distaste.42 In the early 1850s, the Venetians had good reason to loathe Austrian rule. By an imperial decree of 16 October 1849, Francis Joseph had installed the aging Marshal Radetzky as Governor General of Lombardy– Venetia. Convinced of the fundamental loyalty of the peasantry, and the irredeemable untrustworthiness of the elites, Radetzky imposed a variety of punitive measures on the kingdom. Free port privileges, extended in 1830, were confined to the island of San Giorgio, worsening the dire economic situation. The authorities did not hurry to rebuild the railway causeway blown up during the defence of Venice. Matters were further worsened by the relocation of the central administrative offices of Lombardy–Venetia (formerly divided between Venice and Milan) to the garrison city of Verona, and by the removal of the fleet to Trieste.43 The dismissal of low-level government servants accused of working for the revolutionary regime, the levying of approximately twice as many conscripts as before 1848, and the systematic persecution of Venice’s Arsenale workers for their revolutionary sympathies helped foster further resentment, which was scarcely counterbalanced by the amnesties granted to Venetians who had deserted from the army during the revolution.44 Forced loans and an increase in property tax managed to alienate those wealthy elements whose conservatism might otherwise have drawn them into the Austrian camp. Admittedly Radetzky tried to win over the peasantry through abolishing the hated rural poll tax, but this had little effect on Venice’s urban population.45 The suspension until July 1855 of the so-called Congregazione centrale deprived Venetians of any channel through which grievances could be voiced, a situation aggravated by Francis Joseph’s apparent indifference to all petitions and delegations.46 The impact of the uncompromising old Marshal’s government in the early 1850s was enormously detrimental to Venice. Statistics for the consumption of meat and flour show a 20 per cent drop between 1845 and 1854; population fell from 128,000 to 120,000 by 1857.47 Punitive Habsburg policy, coupled with the interweaving of memories of 1848–49 within a broader national cult of the ’quarantotto, risked

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generating within Venice a stronger allegiance to projects for national unification. However, after a brief period when some Venetians flirted with Mazzinianism, the city reverted to its traditional passivity. Already in 1853, in publicly admonishing Lombardy, Radetzky could point to Venetians as an example to imitate.48 Two key elements played a part in the Venetian move towards quiescence. On the one hand, the gradual introduction of more indulgent policies, first by Radetzky and then Maximilian (the Emperor’s younger brother replaced the Marshal in 1857), went some way to appeasing Venetian hostility, without actually winning Venetian fidelity. On the other hand, Venetians came to recognize benefits of remaining within the Habsburg system, given the policies towards the Church adopted respectively by the Piedmontese and the Austrians. During the 1850s, several measures combined to make Austrian rule less onerous: the re-establishment of the free port in 1851; the appointment of a consigliere civile to advise the military governor in 1853; the official end of the state of siege in 1854; and, in 1856, the separation of military and civil authorities, the re-opening of the congregazione centrale and the concession of an extensive amnesty.49 The year 1856 also saw a visit from the Emperor, and attempts to recapture some of the old gaiety of Carnovale. Such measures reduced resentment, but they did not win the hearts of Venetians: when Maximilian arrived in Venice in March 1857 he was treated to a frosty reception.50 The youthful archduke made a conscious effort to appeal to both Lombard and Venetian, but was hampered by the prevailing attitude in Vienna, where policy was dominated increasingly by Alexander von Bach and by the Emperor’s neo-Josephist advisers.51 Maximilian was thus forced to use personal relationships – he systematically sought to cultivate the Lombardo–Venetian elites – carefully orchestrated celebrations and festivals, and an astute programme of public works (albeit limited by a restricted budget). That Maximilian had some success can be seen in Cavour’s genuine anxiety about the archduke’s charm offensive on the eve of Plombières. Unfortunately, Francis Joseph had neither the vision nor the courage to over-rule the dominant policy in Vienna. Disillusioned by imperial intransigence over reform and by continued nationalist agitation, albeit principally confined to Lombardy (for example, celebrations of the tenth anniversary of the Milan insurrection), and by the growing popular unrest surrounding conscription, Maximilian unsuccessfully petitioned to resign in September 1858; he was recalled in April 1859. The archduke never succeeded in his stated aim to ‘transform [Venice] into one of the most important and frequented ports in

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Europe’.52 Nor did he manage to bring the Venetians back squarely into the Habsburg camp. As Eva Cecchinato has observed, what emerges in this period is typified by the stance of the moderate Venetian paper, L’Età presente. That the paper was not characterized by any fierce sense of nationalism was perhaps unsurprising given the activities of the Austrian censors. What, however, was constantly evident was a fear that Venice was being left behind in a process of economic growth and modernization: ‘Overall, what emerges strongly from the pages of the weekly is a sense of exclusion and marginality, and the urgent desire to exit from such a peripheral situation. The general image presented was that of the Habsburg Empire as being on the outskirts of advanced Europe, within which Venice was in turn kept at the margins.’53 More important to many Venetians than Vienna’s slow – even faltering – movement towards a more conciliatory stance was the impact of the Emperor’s religious policy. During 1848–49, relations between the Venetian Church hierarchy and the revolutionary regime had deteriorated. Despite the strong presence of clergy within the various Venetian assemblies, the religious hierarchy had lost patience with the revolution, which tolerated radical and often anticlerical outbursts.54 The 1852 election of the conservative Benedictine, Pietro Aurelio Mutti, as Monico’s successor facilitated Radetzky’s plans to eliminate the liberal and patriotic elements within the Venetian Church. So too did the return of the Jesuits to Venice in 1850, two years before they were readmitted to the rest of the Empire. The 1855 Concordat also went some way towards reassuring Catholics.55 Although not always strictly honoured by the Emperor, the Concordat stood in stark contrast to Piedmontese policies. The Siccardi laws of 1850, and the closure of religious houses in 1855 were symbolic of the fundamentally anticlerical position of Turin.56 It did not matter that Vittorio Emanuele II sought to limit the impact of reforms introduced by the Rattazzi–Cavour coalition, or that he had a good personal relationship with Pius IX. In the eyes of Venetians, Piedmont was aggressively hostile to Pope and Church. Venice’s Sarpian heritage notwithstanding, aggressive anticlericalism was unpopular within this deeply pious city. Thus, although the Church hierarchy was sometimes disappointed with Francis Joseph for his failure to observe the letter of the Concordat – most notably over questions of censorship – in general the ecclesiastical authorities were vastly more hostile to both Vittorio Emanuele and the nationalist agenda.57 The conservative hierarchy of the Venetian Church continued to condemn the government in Turin, especially after it actually seized Papal territory in 1859–60. Some members of the lower

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ranking clergy were more problematic for Austria. As Andreas Gottsman has stressed, it was by no means rare for parish priests to attract police attention.58 However, the motives for clerical opposition were not necessarily linked with fervent anti-Austrian sentiment or nationalism. Parish clergy often identified with their flock’s economic plight, and resented the status quo because of the poverty of ordinary Venetians. Others were motivated by the hardships they themselves faced, especially when their economic conditions failed to improve after the 1855 Concordat.59 Despite widespread dissatisfaction with Austrian rule, when war broke out in 1859, Venice did not witness any significant activity in support for the Piedmontese. Whereas large numbers of volunteers arrived from Lombardy to swell the ranks of Franco-Piedmontese forces, almost none were forthcoming from east of the Mincio. Nor were there spontaneous risings in Venetia. Nevertheless, the decision of Napoleon III, sanctioned by Vittorio Emanuele, despite the fury of Cavour, to seek peace before Venetia had been liberated caused disappointment and was widely regarded as a betrayal. In addition, the Piedmontese annexation of Lombardy soon caused major economic problems for Venice. A tariff barrier now cut Venice off from its Lombard hinterland.60 With the rapid expansion of Savoyard rule in 1859–60, Venetians felt further marginalized, triggering a brief flurry of nationalist sentiment, which reached its height in January 1860. Aware of the threat posed by nationalist agitation throughout Venetia, the Austrian authorities had already taken preventative measures, including preparing a list of 367 potential political enemies. Many of these numbered among the 320 deported without trial to Olmütz in Moravia and the Serbian fortress of Pétérvaradin on the orders of Governor Cajetan Alexander Graf von Bissingen-Nippenburg. Bissingen was dismissed for his clumsy handling of the affair; his arbitrary actions also played a part in the introduction of the law for the protection of personal liberty, which prevented such pre-emptive arrest without trial in the future. By October 1860, only 90 of the 320 were still being held. Moreover, the nationalist agitation in Venetia, and in the capital in particular, amounted to little beyond the circulation of flysheets and occasional throwing of fireworks at cafés frequented by Austrian officials or known austriacanti.61 The symbolic closure of Venice’s theatres, which lasted until 1862, probably had as much to do with fears of intimidation by a handful of nationalist hotheads as with any deep-seated sense of discontent at separation from the rest of Italy.62 Although the Austrian authorities fully expected the March 1861 declaration of the new Kingdom of Italy to trigger a wave of protest and agitation, nothing came of it: the tax boycott called for by

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Alberto Cavalletto and Andrea Meneghini (the leaders of the Venetian exiles in Turin and key figures within the ill-supported the Comitato Politico Veneto Centrale) was utterly disregarded, and, despite sporadic anonymous threats to the lives of Austrian officials, virtually no terrorist action took place.63 Thus, while many Venetians had hoped, in the aftermath of Vittorio Emanuele’s annexation of Lombardy and Garibaldi’s victories in the south, that they too would be freed of rule from Vienna by military action,64 by 1861 such wishful thinking had largely evaporated. This must be seen above all as a realistic response to the political situation both within the Kingdom of Italy, and more widely across Europe. In the 1860s, the new Italian state was faced with severe unrest in the newly annexed south. The speed of Garibaldi’s successes in the so-called mezzogiorno had forced a rapid and ill-considered incorporation of formerly Bourbon lands into the Savoyard state. The ensuing crisis had obliged the prime minister, Ricasoli – a Tuscan aristocrat who instinctively favoured local autonomy and municipalism – to enforce an aggressively centralist structure in the newly annexed territories.65 Between 1861 and 1865, the undeclared civil war in southern Italy required the commitment of ever more troops: by 1864 some 116,000 men were deployed against the southern ‘brigands’. The new kingdom was in no position to fight the larger Austrian army. It also became clear, as Civiltà Cattolica (by far the most widely read journal or paper in Italy) did not tire of stressing, that the Italian state was extremely keen on massacring its own citizens. According to conservative figures, over 5,200 so-called brigands died at the hands of Italian soldiers and civil guards in the first half of the 1860s, many summarily executed or condemned by special military tribunals.66 As the Italian state murdered its citizens, the Austrians passed laws against arbitrary arrest. Moreover, as Cattaneo pointed out, there had been much more autonomy in Lombardy before 1859. Italian unification suddenly became a lot less beguiling: recognition of the improbability of annexation, and an awareness of what ‘liberation’ might actually entail curbed enthusiasm for the national programme. Given the shortcomings of the new kingdom, sacrifices were not merited in pursuit of unity. Yet Venetians still had strong reasons to resent Austrian rule in the period 1859–66. One reason was an intensified dislike of conscription, coupled with relative ease of evasion of military service through flight to the new Kingdom of Italy.67 Another was the continued economic and demographic decline of Venice. 1860–65 saw a decrease in Venice’s maritime and landward commerce (in large part because of decreased trade

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with Trieste in goods destined for the Lombard market). The population, while growing slightly, did not return to pre-1848 levels.68 Although the tiny nationalist opposition saw political emigration as the key weapon against Austrian rule, the relative demographic weakness cannot be attributed to significant numbers of Venetians quitting the city. Indeed, after Francis Joseph’s visit of December 1861 and January 1862, when he was rapturously welcomed by his Venetian subjects, almost all active opposition to Austrian rule fizzled out in Venice;69 occasional protests and agitation continued in Friuli, Verona, Treviso and Padua.70 The relatively mild prison sentences imposed in the high treason trial of 1863, held in Venice but involving accused from the mainland, seem to have been sufficient to act as a deterrent. Moreover, although the trial was held before a military tribunal, the scrupulous manner in which it was conducted highlighted the fundamental decency and fairness of Austrian rule, helping to sabotage opposition and to highlight the contrast with the arbitrary nature of the new Italian regime. Those accused were middle-aged – forty to sixty years of age – and had been adults during the dramatic events of 1848–49; with the exception of the habitually disruptive students of Padua, a nationalist stance had less allure for the younger generation. The reduction of many sentences on appeal further undermined those who would demonize Habsburg government as tyrannical. The diminutive secret societies, active in only the most halfhearted fashion in the years after 1859, now evaporated. By 1863–64, Venice’s Italian patriots believed that they should work within the Austrian system to improve Venice’s position. Former advocates of revolution – the same men who had issued death threats, thrown fireworks and distributed (unread) patriotic flysheets – now urged Venetians to collaborate with the Austrian authorities, even to the point of seeking office.71

From unification to the Great War Venice’s population singularly failed to embrace nationalism in the final years of Austrian occupation. Meanwhile, the failure of Conte Alessandro Malaguzzi-Valeri’s 1865 mission to Vienna, charged with purchasing Venetia from Austria,72 meant that acquisition of Venice by the Italian state was unlikely to occur except through war. When conflict came, alliance with a victorious Prussia rather than Italian feats of arms secured Venetia for the House of Savoy. The conduct of the hostilities further underlines the absence of profound nationalist sentiments in Venice. The inglorious conduct of the Italian army and

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navy during 1866, which left many Italian patriots convinced of the utter ignominy of the new state, was matched by the failure of the Venetians themselves to act. In almost every other part of Italy, with the exception of Rome itself, troops fighting for the cause of unity – whether Garibaldini or regulars – were assisted by streams of volunteers or partisan activity; this simply did not occur in Venetia. Indeed, the one victory in which Venetians played a part was as sailors in the Austrian navy when it defeated a much larger Italian force at Lissa. The Italian crews – who made up around a third of the total force and who were drawn overwhelmingly from the lands of the former Venetian Republic – greeted victory over the Neapolitans and Genoese who fought under the tricolour with cheers of ‘Viva San Marco!’:73 a powerful legacy of venezianità persisted, which had no time for the new kingdom. Nevertheless, the arrival of the Italian forces of occupation did trigger celebrations. Foreign journalists, such as the Daily Telegraph reporter George Augustus Sala,74 described popular rejoicing, and held that the city would see a rebirth under Italian rule. The Times in its leader of 8 November stressed that the annexation of the city was a ‘national jubilee’. And the overwhelming endorsement of unification through a plebiscite, which saw 647,426 votes in favour and only 60 against would tend to indicate that both veneziani and veneti were firmly committed to their future within Italy as subjects of the House of Savoy. But how genuine was Venetian commitment to unification? It is a mistake to read too much into the plebiscite. Like all those that preceded it, it was heavily rigged and carefully managed by the authorities. A heavy military presence encouraged appropriate voting. The initial endorsement of the Church proved half-hearted. The patriarch, Luigi Trevisanato, soon let it known that he had considered the plebiscite no more than a formality to rubber-stamp a foregone conclusion. For the Church, the ‘yes’ vote had simply been a vote in favour of order. The patriarch made it quite clear that he expected the clergy to remember that the current government was labouring under excommunication.75 In the following decades militant Catholicism (focused around the paper, Il Veneto Cattolico, later renamed La Difesa) would prove a stumbling block for many Venetians when it came to identifying with the new state.76 Admittedly, Venetians’ participation in a national debate about the relationship between Church and state helped to pull them out of their parochial approach to politics and to integrate them much more fully into the political and spiritual life of the nation. But patriarchs and most mainland bishops remained veneti, underlining the fact that – in Venetia – the hierarchy of the universal Church retained

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strongly regional roots, and exercised office with an eye firmly on local interests.77 Even allowing for a fair degree of malpractice, intimidation and clerical sophistry during the plebiscite, the vast majority of Venice’s population seem to have welcomed unification in 1866. Material issues and interest would soon begin to impact on the loyalty to the Italian state, hampering the process of ‘making Italians’. Almost immediately Venetians started to articulate criticisms of the institutions that the new government, now located in Florence, began to impose. For example, lawyers were horrified at much of the 1865 civil code, too heavily dependent on French models and significantly less rational than the Austrian Allgemeines Bürgerliches Gesetzbuch; they were equally unhappy about the Italian commercial code, and the criminal code, which was a great deal less clear and humane than that operating within the Habsburg lands.78 There was also anxiety about the alleged economic advantages brought by annexation. It had been widely hoped that the change would restore Venice as a great commercial centre, and bring investment for the infrastructure of the city and its hinterland. However, the cost of dealing with the unrest in the south, coupled with the vast expense of the 1866 war, had left Italy with an enormous state debt. Venice was annexed just as the government ended a five-year spending spree on roads and railways. Rather than receiving a much-needed injection of cash, Venice and its hinterland actually received rather less than under Austrian rule. As the Lombard economist and engineer, Luigi Tatti, observed: ‘It is true that since this noble region has been embraced by the Italian fatherland, it has acquired its part of the national debt, but so far none of the benefits of belonging to Italy.’79 Moreover, with Venice lost, the Austrian Südbahn Railway Company deliberately set about a policy of avoiding Italy and undercutting the cost of Italian railways, thus ensuring that Trieste remained the port of favour, a sort of southern Hamburg for German and other central European merchants.80 Given this policy, Venice found itself as a purely Italian port. This now threw it into competition with Genoa, Ancona, Livorno and Naples. At its crudest level, unification compounded rather than improved the commercial prospects of Venice, generating resentment of and competition with its Italian rivals. To the extent that Venetians were incorporated into the royal navy – already riven with rivalries between Genoese and Neapolitans – the experience served often to exaggerate their own municipal identity. The failure of unification to act as a panacea for Venice’s ills undermined the identification of Venetians with the newly united Italian

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state. This was further aggravated by the fact that the city’s elites proved unwilling to participate wholeheartedly in national politics. The representatives of Venetia initially elected in 1867 for the most part championed autonomy; many soon resigned as they came to understand the nature of the new state. Low turnouts for elections were unsurprising given that men of ability and influence were reluctant to stand for parliament.81 Disillusioned with the new order, Venetians, whether bourgeois or noble, did not figure prominently in national politics after unification, and, in consequence, failed to win the sort of concessions for the city that might have integrated it more effectively, and attached its population to the new order.82 A want of enthusiasm for national politics was echoed in a general reluctance among Venice’s elites to serve in the armed forces.83 This outlook created a sort of vicious circle. Resentful of national institutions, Venetians failed to engage with them, thereby making the introduction of measures beneficial to the city more unlikely, and so intensifying resentment. One exception to this trend was Luigi Luzzatti, the Jewish government minister and brilliant economist. From 1895 Luzzatti worked closely with the comune to boost economic growth in both traditional and new industries. Even when out of office, he managed to secure state subsidies to attract shipping and manufacturing to Venice. In addition, he used his ministerial influence to win government money for restoration and cultural projects such as the shifting of the Marciana Library from the Palazzo Ducale to the Zecca, and the rebuilding of the San Marco campanile, which spectacularly collapsed in 1902.84 Luzzatti represented the way in which engagement with national politics permitted the pursuit of local interests. He was also a rarity: Venetians did not feature prominently among the leading political figures after unification. One key element in Venice’s long and distinguished history as an independent republic helped to drag its population into a more nationalist stance: growing interest in colonial expansion. This had two key consequences for Venetians. First, if Italy were to reposition itself as an imperial power it required a navy. By the 1880s, the Arsenale, so run down by the Austrians after 1849, had acquired new machinery from Britain, and began to construct warships: the Amerigo Vespucci was launched in 1882, followed by the Francesco Morosini – named after the seventeenth-century warrior doge – three years later.85 Second, Venice’s past was especially important in seeking historical legitimacy as a colonial power, for Venice alone of the Italian states had successfully retained a significant overseas empire for most of its history. Thus from the 1880s, many Venetians came to identify with an

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Italian nationalist rhetoric that seemed to offer both material advantage and a special role based on Venice’s distinctive past. If some Venetians were sceptical about irredentism – why should Venetians want rival Trieste within the national frontiers? – shipbuilding brought jobs and money to the city, and its history provided legitimacy for expansion both within the Balkans and more generally within the Mediterranean. Industrialization and imperialism did not always fit comfortably with Venice’s other interests. During the final decades of the nineteenth century, tourism became increasingly important to the city’s survival. Tourists came to see not an industrial city but a vast museum. Admittedly after 1866 there was a growing interest in ‘living’ Venice – delight in the popular picturesque often combining with sex tourism – but the key attraction remained the city’s uniqueness and its much mythologized past. Sea bathing and shopping were merely additional draws.86 The tension that existed between preserving the city’s elegant decay, and revitalizing the economy and urban fabric gave rise to much debate among Italy’s cultural elites: one need think only of d’Annunzio’s Il fuoco, and Marinetti’s interventions after the collapse of the campanile.87 For Venetians themselves it meant choices of allegiance, which led many into a nostalgic admiration for the former republic and to emphasize the distinctiveness of Venetian culture. The sentimentalized realism of the so-called venezianità evident in the paintings of Ettore Tito, the opposition of the anti-pontisti to a new road bridge connecting the city to traffic from the mainland and the resistance to industrialization (led by the city’s greatest social historian, Pompeo Molmenti) all represented a fierce sense of Venetian identity, which was distinctively anti-modern. Yet those Venetians who campaigned for the bridge across the lagoon or were glad to see the grey steel of battle ships leaving the Arsenale did not reject their venezianità. In fin-de-siècle Venice both camps recognized that the only way to secure their vision of the city’s future lay within the arena of the Italian state.

Conclusion In the early years of the twentieth century, the Istituto Italiano d’Arti Grafiche published its Collezione di monografie illustrate. The first series in this collection was entitled Italia artisitica, and consisted of heavily illustrated, short works, which celebrated the history and artistic patrimony of various Italian cities. The first two volumes addressed Rome and Florence; the third dealt with Venice, and was entrusted to Pompeo

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Molmenti. In the final pages of his contribution to the Italia artistica series, the distinguished social historian turned angrily on those who had contributed to a myth of Venice as a corrupt and evil city: ‘the gullible, deceived, or mercenary historians, . . . the poets, . . . the dramatists, . . . the novelists, who have created for Venice a history murky with crimes, . . . the artists with their painted lies . . . ’ Lambasting a romantic tradition that paid scant attention to historical accuracy, which populated the city with ‘hired assassins, bravoes, executioners’ and filled its canals with a nocturnal traffic of funereal gondolas bearing pallid, kidnapped maidens, or laden down with the bleeding corpses of murdered men, Molmenti paid tribute both to a new historiography that presented a more accurate picture of the Republic, and to a new breed of artists who understood and loved ‘la vera Venezia’.88 Molmenti was quite clear that it was the end of foreign domination over the city and its political redemption through incorporation into the newly united Kingdom of Italy that had led to this transformation, permitting also a rebirth of the great Venetian artistic tradition. Similarly, in the field of historical studies, it was unification that had allowed a more rigorous archival approach to the past, and which had freed Venice from ‘the legend of terror and mystery, which had surrounded the Republic’.89 According to Molmenti the citizens of the Republic had been vigorous and self-reliant; they had not relied on fate to fashion their fortune, but had secured it through valour, cunning and industry, battling both infidels and Christian enemies of liberty. What was of especial significance to Molmenti was that Venetians, ‘resolute, united and in harmony’, had been able to retain their independence through the centuries ‘in the midst of the Italians’ who were ‘divided, fragmented, unarmed, wanting in practical political ideas’.90 There was no doubt that in Molmenti’s account Venetians were Italian patriots, and unification a great boon: after all, the book ends with a photograph of Ettore Ferrari’s Vittorio Emanuele II monument on the Riva degli Schiavoni, in which the Venetian lion of Saint Mark reclines at the base of a statue of the mounted re galantuomo; the final pages of text are in large part a hymn to the benefits of freedom from foreign rule, and, by extension, to incorporation within the expanded Savoyard kingdom. Yet it is also noteworthy that the penultimate illustration is of the statue to Goldoni, the most obviously and self-consciously Venetian of literary figures; that the final quotation comes from the dialect poet, Pietro Burati; that the last three paintings are all contemporary works by local artists, reflecting a distinctive, modern venezianità. Molmenti larded his delight at Venice’s newfound liberty with warnings against those who risked jeopardizing

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the distinctive beauty of the città lagunare through restoration. It is hard not to sense that, for Molmenti, however committed to the national cause (and he served both as a deputy and as Under Secretary for Fine Arts), the value of the nation was ultimately to be measured in terms of how far it was commensurate with the preservation of his native city, and its past glories. Molmenti’s position is informative when thinking about the relationship between Venice and Italy, and more generally about the relationship between Italian cities and Italian nation(alism), for a number of reasons. His account demonstrates how the Risorgimento permitted a radical reconceptualization of the nature of ‘Venetianness’ within the national context. For the first half of the nineteenth century Venice had been considered corrupt and decadent, the fall of the Republic explained as the consequence either of the ruling oligarchy’s craven inability to fight and reform, or of indolence and immorality of the entire population: in short, Venice had been seen to embody the worst national failings that had made Italy so vulnerable to foreign domination.91 Molmenti would have none of this. He recognized (correctly) that the fall of Venice was brought about purely by the French aggression: as he remarked laconically, ‘Venice fell, killed by Bonaparte.’92 This altered narrative facilitated the insertion of Venice within a national tale of resurgence that culminated in unification: Venice had not succumbed to weakness and then been redeemed, but had simply been betrayed, misused and oppressed. In challenging the romantic narrative in this way, it was possible for Venetians to make new claims about their difference from, even superiority over, other Italians, while simultaneously asserting their fundamental ‘Italianness’. What I wish to reiterate here is that, contrary to the emphasis in much recent historiography, in Venice – and the same is true for many other cities – the national was often viewed principally from a municipal perspective; attitudes to the nation were shaped by local sentiment, whether this was defined in terms of tradition and allegiance, or of political and economic interest. Thus for Molmenti, while there was no inherent clash between venezianità and italianità, the nation was first and foremost an arena in which Venice’s glories could be successfully honoured, its interests pursued. In theory, too, the nation provided a much more congenial arena in which to defend the local than had the multinational structure of the Habsburg empire. Nevertheless, the city remained the principal locus of patriotism (scarcely surprising in a country where the term patria is reserved generally for one’s home city). This is a point that seems often to be neglected, or at least

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underestimated, in the historiography of the Risorgimento, which is inclined to see the strength of municipalismo as one of the greatest obstacles to the ‘making of Italians’. Instead, the city, although often overlooked, was the unit from which the nation could be most successfully constructed.

Notes 1. Alberto M. Banti, La nazione del Risorgimento: Parentela, santità e onore alle origini dell’Italia unita (Turin, 2000). 2. On the Risorgimento as ‘movimento “di massa” ’ see especially Alberto Mario Banti and Paul Ginsborg, ‘Per una nuova storia del Risorgimento’, in Alberto Mario Banti and Paul Ginsborg (eds), Storia d’Italia. Annali 22. Il Risorgimento (Turin, 2007), pp. xxiii–xxiv. 3. For my critique of Banti see David Laven, ‘Why Patriots Wrote and What Reactionaries Read: Reflections on Alberto Banti’s La nazione del Risorgimento’, Nations and Nationalism, 15 (2009), pp. 419–26. 4. See principally: Alon Confino, The Nation as Local Metaphor. Württemberg, Imperial Germany, and National Memory, 1871–1918 (Chapel Hill, NC, 1997); Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley, CA, 1990). 5. Confino, The Nation, p. 27. 6. On the origins of this phrase, see Banti, La nazione, p. 203. 7. On the difficulties of stimulating Italian patriotic sentiment, see David Laven, ‘Italy. The Idea of the Nation in the Risorgimento and Liberal Eras’, in Timothy Baycroft and Mark Hewitson (eds), What Is a Nation? Europe 1789–1914 (Oxford, 2006), pp. 255–71. 8. Christopher Duggan, Francesco Crispi 1818–1901: From Nation to Nationalism (Oxford, 2002), pp. 412–14. 9. Peasants too could possess a strong allegiance to the city. In large areas of the south, they were often urban dwellers, travelling into the surrounding fields on a daily basis. In the north and centre, too, cities played a pivotal part in the agrarian economy. For example, in the 1830s the single biggest occupation of Paduans was agricultural labour, while the city’s markets served as economic and social hubs for the surrounding countryside. David Laven, ‘Town, Gown and Garrison in Early Nineteenth-Century Padua, 1815–1835’, Quaderni per la Storia dell’Università di Padova, 28 (1995), pp. 135–55. 10. Jean-Charles-Léonard Simonde de Sismondi, Histoire des républiques italiennes du moyen âge (16 vols; Paris, 1809). 11. For this idea in the Fascist era, see Stefano Cavazza, Piccole patrie. Feste popolari tra regione e nazione durante il fascismo (Bologna, 1997). 12. On Silvio Pellico’s disdain for the Venetians, see C. Cantù, ‘Il Conciliatore. Episodio del liberalismo lombardo’, Archivio Storico Italiano, 23 (1876), pp. 8–114, 272–96, 469–88; 24 (1876), pp. 90–114, 270–90, 452–68; 25 (1877), pp. 65–83. Pellico’s comments are to be found in 23 (1876), p. 295. On Mazzini’s views, see Franco Della Peruta, Mazzini e i rivoluzionari: il ‘partito d’azione’ 1830–45 (Milan, 1974), pp. 54–55, 233, and Angela Mariutti de

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13. 14. 15.

16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

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Sanchez Rivero, Organismo ed azione delle società segrete del Veneto durante la seconda dominazione austriaca (Padua, 1930). On political passivity, see David Laven, Venice and Venetia under the Habsburgs, 1815–1835 (Oxford, 2002), pp. 20, 149–50, 193, 211–13. Gianpietro Berti, ‘Aspetti della fortuna di Vincenzo Berti nelle province venete (1843–49)’, Archivio Veneto, 108 (1976), pp. 95–130. On the tricolour during the Venetian revolution see Giandomenico Romanelli, Michele Gottardi, Franca Lugato and Camillo Tonini, Venezia Quarantotto. Episodi, luoghi e protagonisti di una rivoluzione 1848–49 (Milan, 1998), p. 133. On the patriotic symbolism of Venetian coins in 1848–49, see Roberto Martucci, L’invenzione dell’Italia unita. 1855–1864 (Milan, 1999), p. 282. Giovan Battista Cavedalis wrote in July 1848, ‘Venice is a fortress, but a sui generis fortress: with 160,000 inhabitants and without productive territories. Separated from the mainland it cannot sustain itself without other countries coming to its assistance.’ Maria Cessi Drudi (ed.), Carteggi di Pietro Paleocapa del 1848–49 (Venice, 1952), p. 27. On Venetian attempts to gain a constitution within the Habsburg Empire, see Giorgio Candeloro, Storia dell’Italia Moderna. 3. La rivoluzione nazionale 1846–1849 (Milan, 1979), pp. 467–68. Ginsborg, Manin, p. 204. Ibid., pp. 126–61, 184–94. On the plebiscite see ibid., pp. 207–08, and Candeloro, La rivoluzione, pp. 195–98. More generally on the problems of fusion and defence of the mainland, see Ginsborg, Manin, pp. 210–51. Eva Cecchinato, ‘Searching for a Role: Austrian Rule, National Perspectives and Memories of the “Serenissima” in Venice, 1848–66’, in Laurence Cole (ed.), Different Paths to the Nation: Regional and National Identities in Central Europe and Italy, 1830–70 (Basingstoke, 2007), pp. 122–43, 128. Ginsborg, Manin, pp. 254–57, 261–66. Ibid., p. 278. Ibid., pp. 151–52. More generally on tensions with the provinces see pp. 158, 189–90. Ibid., pp. 122–23. Laven, Venice, pp. 36–39; Giovanni Scarabello, ‘Il Settecento’, in Gaetano Cozzi, Michael Knapton and Giovanni Scarabello (eds), La Repubblica di Venezia nell’età moderna. Dal 1517 alla fine della Repubblica (Turin, 1992), pp. 594–646, 669–71, and Giovanni Scarabello, ‘Gli ultimi giorni della Repubblica’, in G. Arnaldi and M. Pastore Stocchi (eds), Storia della Cultura Veneta: 5/II: Il Settecento (Vicenza, 1986), pp. 487–508. Marco Meriggi, Amministrazione e classi sociali nel Lombardo-Veneto (1814–1848) (Bologna, 1983), passim; Laven, Venice, pp. 86–89. Candeloro, La rivoluzione nazionale, p. 272. On Sirtori see Pietro Rigobon, Gli eletti alle assemblee veneziane del 1848–49 (Venice, 1950), pp. 213–14. Ginsborg, Manin, pp. 276, 311. On Monico’s position during 1848–49 see Paolo Pecorari, ‘Spunti e documenti ineditit per una storia religiosa del quarantotto veneziano (dal carteggio del patriarca Jacopo Monico)’, Archivio Veneto, 102 (1974), pp. 57–119;

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32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

Contested Territory Silvio Tramontin, ‘Patriarca e clero veneziano nel 1848–1849’, in Maria Leonardi (ed.), La chiesa veneziana dal tramonto della Serenissima al 1848 (Venice, 1986), pp. 111–35. Ginsborg, Manin, p. 353. Significantly even those contemporaries who sought to stress the nationalist and anti-Austrian origins of the Genoese rising, or to condemn it as a manifestation of anarchism and disorder, were forced to acknowledge its fundamentally municipal character. Thus in including Giuseppe Avezzana’s decrees, stressing the role of the ‘cittadini’ in defending their ‘patria’ (city), in his work on the revolution, Emanuele Celesia, who sought to highlight the importance of ‘una patria italiana’ (his italics), ultimately stressed the municipalism of the revolt. Emanuele Celesia, Della Rivoluzione di Genova nell’Aprile del 1849 esposta nelle sue vere sorgenti (No publisher’s details, 1850), pp. 2145–52. From a very different perspective, Luigi Scalchi, Storia delle guerre d’Italia dal 18 marzo 1848, al 28 agosto 1849, 2nd edition (Rome & Bologna, 1862) bitterly condemned the revolt, but recognized that the youth of the city had fought ‘for the honour of Genoa’ (p. 452). Scalchi largely attributed the failure of the revolt to ‘relentless municipal hatred’ (p. 436). On Venetian rivalry with Trieste see Laven, Venice, pp. 95–102. Candeloro, La rivoluzione nazionale, pp. 299–300. Raccolta degli scritti politici di Massimo d’Azeglio (Turin, 1850), p. 311. In the years between 1849 and unification, probably the clearest statement of the way in which a pattern of loyalties based on the comune could radiate out to the nation was made by Cattaneo in a series of articles on the primacy of the city in Italian history, published in Il Crepuscolo in 1858. Pierre-Antoine-Noël-Bruno Daru, Histoire de la République de Venise (Paris, 1819). The Times, 1 September 1849. For positive judgements on the Venetians by French observers, see, for example, A. Le Masson, Venise en 1848 et 1849 (Paris, 1851), Anatole de la Forge, Histoire de la République de Venise sous Manin (2 vols; Paris, 1852–53); Xavier Gnoinski, Dix-sept mois de lutte à Venise 1848–49 (Paris, 1869). David Laven, ‘Mazzini, Mazzinian Conspiracy and British Politics in the 1850s’, Bolletino Storico Mantovano, 2 (2003), pp. 267–82, 276. Raymond Grew, A Sterner Plan for Italian Unity. The Italian National Society in the Risorgimento (Princeton, NJ, 1963), pp. 15–101. See, for example, Ruskin’s pro-Austrian diatribe against Venetian ingratitude. Jeanne Clegg, Ruskin and Venice (London, 1981), p. 83. On Radetzky’s treatment of Venice see Franco Della Peruta’s preface to Massimiliano d’Asburgo, Il governatore del Lombardo-Veneto 1857–1859 trans. Roberto Della Seta (Pordenone, 1992), pp. xiv–xvii; Marco Meriggi, Il RegnoLombardo Veneto (Turin, 1987), pp. 347–69. More generally on the aftermath of 1849, see Alvise Zorzi, Venezia austriaca 1798–1866 (Rome-Bari, 1985), pp. 105–11, and Piero Del Negro, ‘Il 1848 e dopo’, in Mario Isnenghi and Stuart Woolf (eds), Storia di Venezia. L’Ottocento e il Novecento (vol. i; Rome, 2002), pp. 107–86, 167–73. The mildly nationalist Il Lombardo-Veneto particularly attacked the sacking of arsenalotti at a time when Austria was seeking to expand its navy. Cecchinato,

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45.

46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54.

55.

56. 57.

58. 59.

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‘Searching for a Role’, p. 135. On the paper’s role as sole opposition mouthpiece, see G. Gambarin, ‘Il giornale “Lombardo-Veneto” (18 giugno 1850–4 novembre 1851)’, Archivio Veneto, 90 (1959), pp. 64–99. For an interesting assessment of Radetzky’s attitude to the Emperor’s Italian subjects, see Alan Sked, The Survival of the Habsburg Empire. Radetzky, The Imperial Army, and The Class War, 1848 (London, 1979). On the tax burden after 1849 see, for example, Silvio Lanaro, ‘Una regione in patria’, in Silvio Lanaro (ed.), Storia d’Italia. Le regioni dall’Unità a oggi. Il Veneto (Turin, 1984), pp. 409–68, 412. The congregazioni did not actually meet until late 1856. Della Peruta (ed.), Il governatore, p. xv. On Radetzky’s alienation of the propertied elites see Meriggi, Lombardo-Veneto, pp. 368–69. Piero Del Negro, ‘Il 1848 e dopo’, p. 171. Eva Cecchinato, La rivoluzione restaurata. Il 1848–1849 a Venezia fra memoria e oblio (Padua, 2003), p. 280. On the amnesty, see Zorzi, Venezia austriaca, p. 124. Della Peruta (ed.), Il governatore, p. xviii. On the status of the ‘Generalgouverneur’, see Brigitte Mazohl-Wallnig, Österreichischer Verwaltungsstaat und administrative Eliten im Königreich LombardoVenetien 1815–1859 (Mainz, 1993), pp. 361–82. Della Peruta (ed.), Il governatore, pp. xix–xxv. Cecchinato, ‘Searching for a Role’, p. 136. Pietro Rigobon, Gli eletti alle assemblee veneziane del 1848–49 (Venice, 1950). On clerical attitudes to 1848–49, see Giovanni Vian, ‘La Chiesa cattolica e le alter Chiese cristiane’, in Mario Isnenghi and Stuart Woolf (eds), L’Ottocento, vol. i, pp. 649–709, 654; Sivlio Tramontin, ‘Patriarca e clero veneziano nel 1848–1849’, in Bruno Bertolli, Gabriella Dri and Maria Leonardi (eds), La Chiesa veneziana dal tramonto della Serenissima al 1848 (Venice, 1986), pp. 111–35. On the patriarch’s opinion of the radical press, see Antonio Pilot, ‘Il Patriarca Cardinale Jacopo Monico contro il “Sior Antonio Rioba” nel 1848’, Rassegna Nazionale, 43 (1923), pp. 136–39, and Paolo Pecorari, ‘Motivi d’intransigentismo nel pensiero del patriarca di Venezia Jacopo Monico durante il biennio 1848–49’, Archivio Veneto, 93 (1971), pp. 44–54. On clerical hostility to Austrian rule after 1849 see Silvio Tramontin, ‘La diocese nel passaggio dal dominio austriaco al Regno d’Italia’, in Bertoli, Dri and Leonardi (eds), La Chiesa, pp. 11–55, 14–16; Giovanni Vian, ‘La Chiesa’, p. 655. For the Siccardi laws see A.C. Jemolo, Chiesa e Stato in Italia negli ultimi cento anni (Turin, 1963), pp. 142–51. Maximilian repeatedly stressed his desire ‘to favour in every way the interests of religion whenever the opportunity presented itself’. Della Peruta (ed.), Il governatore, p. 125. Andreas Gottsman, Venetien 1859–1866. Österreichische Verwaltung und nationale Opposition (Vienna, 2005), p. 235. Della Peruta (ed.), Il governatore, p. xvi, and Vian, ‘La Chiesa’, p. 655. For the varied outlook of parish priests in the Restoration period, see Laven, Venice, p. 172. For the fractured loyalties of the Venetian clergy see Gottsman, Venetien, pp. 195–96.

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60. Giorgio Roverato, ‘La terza regione industriale’, in S. Lanaro (ed.), Storia d’Italia, pp. 165–230. 61. Gottsman, Venetien, pp. 388–96. 62. Ibid. The Fenice remained closed, notwithstanding a vote by a majority of its shareholders to reopen in 1865. 63. Ibid., pp. 426–28; Zorzi, Venezia austriaca, p. 134. 64. In 1859, the novelist Ippolito Nievo wrote Venezia e la libertà d’Italia, an impassioned plea stressing the need to liberate Venice as a precondition for Italian independence and liberty. Sergio Romagnoli, ‘Ippolito Nievo’, in G. Arnaldi and M. Pastore Stocchi (eds), Storia della Cultura Veneta: 6 Dall’età napoleonica alla prima Guerra mondiale (Vicenza, 1986), pp. 165–87. 65. For the complex debates surrounding unification in 1860 the best account remains Denis Mack Smith, Cavour and Garibaldi 1860. A Study in Political Conflict (Cambridge, 1954); On Ricasoli see Thomas Kroll, Die Revolte des Patriziats. Der toskanische Adelsliberalismus im Risorgimento (Tübingen, 1999), passim. 66. Martucci, L’invenzione, p. 313, and Franco Molfese, Storia del brigantaggio dopo l’unità (Milan, 1964), p. 419. 67. Gottsman, Venetien, pp. 451–98. It should be noted that Italian deserters also found their way to Venetia. Ibid., pp. 466–77. 68. According to the figures provided by the Venetian podestà for his six years in office, the population hovered around 123,000. Pier Luigi Bembo, Il comune di Venezia nel triennio 1860, 1861, 1862. Relazione del podestà conte Pierluigi Bembo (Venice, 1863); Pier Luigi Bembo, Il comune di Venezia nel triennio 1863, 1864, 1865. Relazione del conte Pierluigi Bembo nel ditto triennio (Venice, 1866), pp. 28–32. 69. Gottsman, Venetien, p. 430. 70. On the resistance to Austrian rule more generally, see ibid., pp. 386–451. 71. Gottsman, Venetien, pp. 442–51. 72. John W. Bush, Venetia Redeemed. Franco-Italian Relations 1864–1866 (New York, 1967), pp. 38–39. Enrico Decleva, ‘Il compimento dell’unità e la politica estera’, in Giovanni Sabbatucci and Vittorio Vidotto (eds), Storia d’Italia. 2. Il nuovo stato e la società civile 1861–1887 (Rome-Bari, 1995), pp. 113–215, 137. More generally on the diplomacy surrounding 1866 see R. Blaas and N. Blakiston (eds), Il problema Veneto e l’Europa 1859–1866 (Venice, 1966), and R. Blaas, ‘L’Austria di fronte al problema veneto’, in La questione veneta e la crisi del 1866. Atti del XLIII Congresso di Storia del Risorgimento italiano (Venezia. 2–5 ottobre 1966) (Rome, 1968), pp. 49–77. 73. Zorzi, Venezia austriaca, p. 238. On Venetians in the Habsburg navy, see also Lawrence Sondhaus, In the Service of the Emperor: Italians in the Austrian Armed Forces 1814–1918 (Boulder, CO, 1990) and Lawrence Sondhaus, The Habsburg Empire and the Sea: Austrian Naval Policy, 1797–1866 (West Lafayette, IN, 1989). 74. George Augustus Sala, Rome and Venice, with other Wanderings in Italy, in 1866–7 (London, 1969). 75. Vian, ‘La Chiesa’, p. 661. On Trevisanato’s appointment under the Austrians, see Gottsman, Venetien, pp. 213–15. 76. Vian, ‘La Chiesa’, p. 663.

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77. Silvio Lanaro, ‘Genealogia di un modello’, in S. Lanaro (ed.), Il Veneto, pp. 5–96, 33. 78. Maria Rosa Di Simone, ‘Diritti e istituzioni nel passaggio dall’Impero d’Austria al Regno d’Italia’, in Mario Isnenghi and Stuart Woolf (eds), L’Ottocento, pp. 189–204, 195. 79. Luigi Tatti, Nota sulle ferrovie complementari del Veneto ai confini austriaci (Milan, 1872) cited in Albert Schram, Railways and the Formation of the Italian State in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1997), p. 86. 80. Ibid., pp. 126–29. 81. Low turnouts were not confined to national elections: after greater powers were granted to municipal authorities in 1903, Venetians proved strangely uninterested in exercising their constitutional rights at any level. ‘Filippo Grimani e la “nuova Venezia” ’, in Mario Isnenghi and Stuart Woolf (eds), Storia di Venezia. L’Ottocento e il Novecento (vol. i; Rome, 2002), pp. 323–47. 82. Lanaro, ‘Una regione’, pp. 432–34. 83. Ibid., pp. 434–35. See also Piero Del Negro, ‘Il Veneto militare dall’annessione all’Italia alla prima Guerra mondiale’, Archivio Veneto, 121 (1983), pp. 75–94. 84. Lanaro, ‘Una regione’, pp. 441–42; Paolo Pecorari, ‘Luigi Luzzatti e Venezia’, in Mario Isnenghi and Stuart Woolf (eds), L’Ottocento, pp. 305–47. 85. Margaret Plant, Venice: Fragile City 1797–1997 (New Haven, 2002), p. 175. 86. Andrea Zannini, ‘La costruzione della città turisitica’, in Mario Isnenghi and Stuart Woolf (eds), L’Ottocento, vol. ii, pp. 1123–49. 87. John Pemble, Venice Rediscovered (Oxford, 1995), pp. 159–65. 88. Pompeo Molmenti, Venezia (Bergamo, 1905), pp. 116–17. 89. Ibid., pp. 119–22. 90. Ibid., pp. 122–23. 91. On the notion of Italian decadence, see Silvana Patriarca, ‘Indolence and Regeneration: Tropes and Tensions of Risorgimento Patriotism’, American Historical Review, 110 (2005), pp. 380–408. The negative view of Venice, its social structures and its constitution, of course, long predated 1797. It is, for example, clearly detectable in the works of Machiavelli. 92. Molmenti, Venezia, pp. 122–23.

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3 Interpreting Municipal Celebrations of Nation and Empire: The Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888 Stephen Jacobson

Within the field of nationalism disputes abound, so it is surprising, and perhaps suspicious, when consensus prevails. The study of universal exhibitions represents a rare case where agreement has prevented the emergence of an interpretative dialectic that can serve to deepen understandings. Historians have depicted these gargantuan and grandiose celebrations of industry, science, art, pedagogy, progress and peace as key instruments in promoting national identity and patriotic pride. The leading scholar on the major European venues, Paul Greenhalgh, has argued that exhibitions ‘catered to the educated as well as the ignorant, providing a formula and a rationale for national culture which was capable of being interpreted by a wide cross-section of the population’.1 Rob Kroes and Robert Rydell, experts on America’s ‘world’s fairs’ and mass culture, have described these spectacles as ‘primary weapons in the cultural arsenals of emerging nation-states’.2 In his fine study of the Crystal Palace Exhibition of 1851, Jeffrey A. Auerbach asserts that ‘The Great Exhibition was arguably the greatest defining occasion for nineteenthcentury Britons between the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 and Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897.’ He states that ‘Victorians used the exhibition to define themselves as a nation’.3 These scholars have been careful to stress that men and women, adults and children, who, upon passing through the turnstiles, often having saved up for months, did not become instantaneously converted into gregarious victims and exponents of government propaganda. Fairgoers observed displays with a curious and critical eye, interacting with and interpreting them in unexpected ways. Planning and execution entailed 74

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complex negotiations with multiple actors – trade unions, architects, engineers, builders, politicians, royal houses, bureaucrats, private sponsors, philanthropists, charities, religious bodies, major exhibitors and various disgruntled groups who threatened to boycott the enterprise for one reason or another. Predictably, influential associations and individuals took advantage of the great sums of money to garner their own slice of the pie. All the same, exhibitions broadcasted a loud and clear patriotic message. The endless displays of the host nation were juxtaposed with the impressive, but smaller, displays of visiting countries. Magnificent installations, sophisticated machinery, novel inventions, awesome army and naval technology, eye-catching pavilions, electric lights, colourfully attired colonial subjects, evening fêtes with fireworks, military and municipal bands, parades, sport competitions, hot-air balloons, roller coasters and other forms of entertainment conveyed the impression that the state, the empire and the market together promised material progress, world peace, moral betterment and domestic bliss. For this reason, Greenhalgh has described the Crystal Palace Exhibition, to take one example, as ‘a giant counter-revolutionary measure’, and has asserted that exhibitions were ‘a principal means whereby government and private bodies presented their vision of the world to the masses’.4 Despite the existence of these and similarly focused studies, much remains to be said. For the most part, historians have concentrated on the well-known and easy-to-interpret exhibitions of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries – London (1851, 1862), Paris (1855, 1867, 1889, 1900, 1937), Philadelphia (1876), Chicago (1893), St. Louis (1904) and New York (1939).5 These took place in rich and powerful countries where it was not difficult to rally support for generously funded projects trumpeting patriotic pride, technological ingenuity and faith in the future. In such places, exhibitions served as spiritual tonics to countries divided by class and ideology, but most citizens passed through the gates with the understanding that the nation was a God-given transcendent entity.6 Celebration came naturally. More interesting are those exhibitions sponsored by municipalities where the ‘nation’ was a subject of contestation or confusion.7 The Vienna Exhibition of 1873, for example, attracted 7 million visitors, a figure which exceeded all previous exhibitions with the exception of that of Paris in 1867.8 However, scholars have not examined how organizers and visitors dealt with contrasting national and imperial identities in what must have been a fascinating event. Nor have historians analysed hundreds of smaller exhibitions, taking place around the globe, where elites and ordinary

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people attempted, and often struggled, to blend municipal and regional pride with exalted visions of the nation.9 By turning our attention to the Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888, we can help fill these gaps and offer an additional perspective. It took place in a city that was rarely thought to be typically ‘Spanish’, and in a state that would give rise to competing nationalisms. Barcelona had been the historic capital of the medieval principality of Catalonia, and, even in 1888, local residents ordinarily spoke to one another in Catalan (rather than Spanish) in their daily lives.10 Eager to occupy a national and international stage, planners sought to find a formula that would portray Barcelona’s medieval past and industrial present as the soul and heart of Spain. On one level, they achieved their goal, silenced sceptics and exceeded expectations. During the planning stages, many doubted the municipality’s ability to put on a world-class show. Once under way, however, visitors and residents cast aside their reservations and embraced the buoyant atmosphere. Barcelona presented itself as a leading Spanish centre for art, architecture and urban planning; the nucleus of the industrial heartland of Spain, and the chief commercial contact with the country’s small but profitable empire in Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines. Some 1.5 million attended. This number was probably higher than that of any other exhibition previously held in a similar-sized European city, even though it paled in comparison with the 32 million who poured into Paris the following year.11 On another level, the exhibition marked a turning point in the way ordinary people came to regard the nation. Even before the gates closed and the displays were disassembled, residents began to question the relationship between Barcelona, Catalonia and Spain. In the aftermath of the exhibition, the small political movement known as ‘Catalanism’, founded in the early 1880s, gained momentum. By 1892, activists had elaborated a full programme for home rule. When the Spanish state entered crisis following the humiliating defeat to the United States in the Spanish-American War of 1898, Catalanists were poised to fill the political void. In 1901, a regionalist party captured four of six seats from Barcelona to the Spanish Congress of Deputies. Thereafter, Catalan ‘nationalist’ parties, dedicated to self-government, dominated municipal politics in Barcelona and many other Catalan towns and cities. In the end, the Universal Exhibition of 1888 did not inculcate a durable image of a unified and confident Spain. Its legacy casts doubt upon the arguments of historians who have stressed the transformative power of celebrations, holidays, monuments and buildings.12 The optimistic message of Spanish liberal nationalism, so

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clear and convincing during the exhibition itself, was unceremoniously disremembered. The legacy of the exhibition also throws into question the dominant school of thought used to explain nationalism in Spain. Advocates of the ‘weak nationalization thesis’ have argued that the country’s liberal statesmen failed to ‘nationalize’ the country around a fixed set of symbols and holidays, an integrated system of highway and railway communications, a well-funded network of public primary and secondary schools, a shared patriotic historical narrative, a uniform code of civil laws or even a single spoken language. A weak state with a largely uneducated and illiterate population, so the argument goes, opened up space for the rise of peripheral nationalisms.13 Such authors have emphasized that nationalism took root in the country’s two most industrialized regions – first Catalonia and later the Basque Country. The Catalan textile and Basque steel industries were the scenes of severe social conflict. The lack of sophisticated mediating state institutions was a visible contributing cause of revolutionary violence. Local elites possessed the financial means to support regionalist political parties touting decentralist solutions to the shortcomings of a skeletal state. For their part, Catalan nationalists argued that self-government would help address the problems of an industrial society, and would reflect and promote the culture, history, language and idiosyncrasies of the Catalan people. This theory has much explanatory value, especially with regard to institutions, such as schools and communications. It is true that statesman lacked the resources, and perhaps the will, to launch an aggressive project of nation building, such as that which took place in neighbouring France under the Second Empire and the Third Republic. However, it is also certain that the task of French statesmen was easier, given that Paris towered over provincial cities in size, status, wealth and influence. Other than Spain, no major country in Europe was characterized by a relatively unindustrialized centre and a more industrialized periphery consisting of various former medieval crowns with diverse customs, laws and languages. For this reason, the rise of nationalism in Catalonia and the Basque Country had as much to do with historical factors, nineteenth-century patterns of industrialization and migration and internal dynamics taking place within Catalonia and the Basque Country as it did with the ambitions and acumen of state-builders in Madrid. Moreover, it is simply not true that Spanish statesmen shunned opportunities to promote nation and empire. The oft-repeated image of liberal-oligarchic statesmen, ignorant and fearful of patriotic initiatives,

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runs contrary to the history of the Universal Exhibition. It would be hard to imagine a more successfully staged enterprise with its endless, inaugurations, unveilings, parades and tributes. In 1888, the Barcelonese readily imbibed the central messages of Spanish nationalism, even if their enthusiasm ultimately proved fleeting. The history of the exhibition teaches different lessons with respect to both the history of Spanish nationalism and the transformative effects of monuments, buildings, festivals and holidays. The simple fact is that the Universal Exhibition was a temporary intoxicant. While ordinary men and women, journalists and intellectuals toured the grounds and attended ceremonies, many questioned the place of Barcelona and Catalonia within Spain. The exhibition announced the arrival mass politics, quickly becoming commonplace in all of Europe, in which ideas and allegiances could be spread by means of celebrations, commemorations, festivals and other theatrical devices. Yet, it would be naive to think that orators, architects, urban planners and event promoters could script political outcomes. After all, popular enthusiasm existed side by side with satire, scepticism, repugnance and indifference. What is more, towering images and rhetoric did not always triumph over the written word and daily conversation and debate. Even well-choreographed and lavishly funded events, such as universal exhibitions, enthusiastically received by crowds caught up in the moment, could provoke meditative and enduring responses.

The Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888 and Spanish patriotism When the Barcelona Universal Exhibition opened its gates on 7 April 1888, more than just the fairgrounds were on display. The city itself was the main attraction. Barcelona had been undergoing unbridled growth for almost two centuries, as the population had expanded from some 30,000 to 250,000 persons. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a dynamic though demographically stagnant medieval city had become a bursting metropolis with a thriving textile industry fuelled by a productive, export-oriented agrarian economy. Although not as large as the state capital of Madrid, Barcelona was the centre of an industrial belt stretching well into the countryside. Levels of steam-power mechanization in Catalonia were lower than in Belgium or Germany, but higher than in France.14 The province of Barcelona, home to some 900,000 souls, was the most populous of the country’s forty-nine provinces.15 The city was the perfect place for Spain’s first

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world exhibition. The ‘Black Legend’ – in which Spain was said to be characterized by religious superstition and intolerance, a hubristic rejection of science, the capacity to inflict and tolerate infernal acts of cruelty and a disposition towards slothfulness and bravado typical of the Latin races – seemed not apply to the industrious Catalans. Like many such exhibitions, city hall was the chief engine of promotion. The ‘Universal’ – as it was colloquially called – began as a private initiative by Eugenio Serrano, a Galician who resided in Barcelona and who was one of the coordinators of the Spanish displays to Frankfurt (1881), Bordeaux (1882), Amsterdam (1883), Nice (1884) and Antwerp (1885), exhibitions smaller than that of Barcelona.16 Originally planned for 1887, the project ran aground due to financial difficulties, prompting the municipality to come to the rescue. In April 1887, the Liberal mayor Francesc Rius i Taulet, travelled with a delegation to Madrid and secured a loan from the central government of 2 million pesetas, an amount which underwrote a febrile construction project but would not come close to covering expenses. The organizing commission consisted of the mayor, the city’s two richest bankers, a prominent industrialist, the dean of the bar association and the law school and urban notables able to use their connections and charisma to marshal the aid of key associations and enterprises. Its president, Manuel Girona, founder and largest shareholder of the Bank of Barcelona, lent 1.5 million pesetas of his personal fortune.17 Nonetheless, the principal organizer was city hall. The mayor was the most visible figure, a lightening rod for praise and criticism.18 It is impossible to generalize about the relationship between the municipality and the state during the entire nineteenth century. Barcelona was a large, diverse, divided and revolutionary city in which municipal government was a contested forum rather than an immovable pillar reflective of local or regional consensus. The initial decades of the Restoration Monarchy (1876–1923) was a period in which city hall and state government worked in close collaboration, and in which both suffered from critical problems of legitimacy. In accordance with the Municipal Law of 1877, the central government appointed mayors and deputy mayors. Although the city’s fifty alderman (regidores) were elected, the Electoral Law of 1878 limited the franchise for all elections to the so-called middle classes – middle-income heads of households, functionaries, army veterans, university graduates and the like. This not only left large sectors of the population without representation, but, as everyone knew, elections in Barcelona, as elsewhere in Spain, were a sham. Two dominant parties – the Liberals and the Conservatives

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Image 3.1 The mayor, shackled by debt, is pursued by the vulture of the city’s creditors. Empty champagne bottles and broken glasses, symbolic of feasts and fetês, lay at his feat. (La Esquella de la Torratxa, 20 October 1888, p. 660; Image courtesy of Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona)

(technically called the Liberal-Conservatives) – rotated in and out of power based upon the implicit promise that once the governing party hit a crisis, it would cede power to the other. The turno pacífico – as this corrupt but functional arrangement came to be called – was perpetuated by electoral fraud. Elections did not determine which party would govern; rather, the process worked in reverse. Once the two parties had negotiated a peaceful handover, a new prime minister would confirm his mandate by rigging a resounding victory at the polls. The turno worked at all levels of state power: provincial deputations and town halls rotated from one party to the other in unison with the central government.19

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The Universal Exhibition took place during the ‘long parliament’ of Prime Minister Práxedes Mateo Sagasta (1885–90), when Liberals governed city hall and state government. During this period, Sagasta succeeded in putting through an impressive legislative programme, crowned by the Law of Associations (1887), the Jury Law (1888), a Spanish Civil Code (1889) and the Law of Universal Suffrage (1890). At the time that the exhibition was being planned, though, the Liberal Party had not yet realized its ambitious agenda and was keen to avoid an internal crisis that often precipitated a negotiated handover of power. For this reason, the prime minister had good reason to accept the petition of his Barcelona colleagues. After all, the turno político was not an arrangement in which the central government simply dictated its wishes from the top-down to the compliant city governments with regard to urban planning, education, health, sanitation and other municipal matters. Rather, for the turno to work properly, central legislators needed the cooperation and collaboration of local political bosses who could deliver elections, placate and negotiate with local opposition and maintain the fidelity of the rank and file. When Francesc Rius i Taulet, the powerful head of the liberal political machinery for Barcelona and Catalonia, travelled to Madrid in April 1887, he bargained from a position of great strength. A loan of 2 million pesetas was a reasonable amount to pay in order to keep the Liberal Party from the second largest city in Spain on board and in line. In addition to party unity, the government had other reasons for embracing the proposal. Like the mayor, the prime minister welcomed the opportunity to impress foreign guests and ambassadors and to generate enthusiasm for the government and the monarchy. For some time, Barcelona had been hostile territory as elites had been showing their discontent with the turno pacífico of the two dynastic parties. In 1885, a group of notables, with various ideological inclinations and from diverse associations, had gathered at the Chamber of Commerce to protest two measures considered contrary to the ‘moral and material interests’ of Catalonia – the lowering of protective tariffs and the promise to promulgate a Spanish Civil Code. Catalanists had promoted the initiative, but it had been joined by high-profile persons and prestigious institutions who remained faithful to the monarchy and the constitution but were dismayed at political outcomes in Madrid. Following this meeting, this group drafted the Outline of Grievances (Memorial de Greuges), in which they petitioned King Alfonso XII to intervene directly in parliamentary affairs by pressuring the government to undo these initiatives. The King died unexpectedly of tuberculosis later that year, leaving his wife, María

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Cristina de Habsburgo, as Queen Regent. Even though the framers had directed their ire against the Conservative Party in power in 1885, Liberals had no intention of redressing these grievances by raising tariffs or abandoning a bi-partisan project to codify the civil law. By sponsoring the Universal Exhibition of 1888, then, state and municipal politicians sought to stem the tide of discontent and to demonstrate that, despite accusations to the contrary, they were indeed committed to promoting the moral and material interests of Catalonia. City and state politicians were not only concerned with voting elites. Barcelona, like the rest of Europe, was in the throes of an economic crisis, a cause of massive unemployment. By creating construction jobs and promoting a celebratory atmosphere, politicians hoped to palliate economic woes and to drum up popular support for the Regency. In the short term, they were successful. One government supporter claimed that construction projects alone employed 25,000 people, which, given average family size, fed 100,000 mouths.20 The final reason that the government decided to sponsor the exhibition was perhaps the most obvious. Municipal and national governing authorities were eager to identify themselves with the Spanish nation. Previously, the ‘nation’ had been the discursive province of the mythical pueblo (represented by the Republican Party) and, in times of crisis, the army. In 1888, on the eve of the coming of universal suffrage, politicians of various ideological stripes and sizes were eager to contest this terrain. The primary example of this new spirit occurred during official opening ceremonies in late May, in which the government carefully staged opulent celebrations showcasing the international prestige of the royal family and the place of liberal Spain within the world of advanced industrial nations. The prime minister, the mayor, various cabinet ministers, army generals and urban notables accompanied the Queen Regent and the royal family to a host of parades, banquets, competitions and unveilings, in which they were received with roaring enthusiasm despite the inevitable cries of opportunism in the republican press. Soon thereafter, others copied this strategy. Opposition politicians travelled to Barcelona where they toured the grounds, delivered speeches, shook hands, visited charitable institutions, captured headlines and banqueted with local party leaders and other sympathizers. As such, the exhibition was not merely an exercise in Liberal Party propaganda; rather, it was a forum in which political leaders, from the republican left to the conservative right, competed over who could heap higher praise on the hard-working and patriotic Catalans. Material progress, municipal and regional pride and Spanish patriotism, then, were the dominant themes of the Universal Exhibition.

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In order to disseminate this message, organizers paid careful attention to urban planning. The exhibition took place in the most symbolically charged space in the city, a public park that occupied the lands upon which the Citadel Fortress had formally sat. In the aftermath of the War of Spanish Succession (1702–14), the Bourbon Monarchy had built the Citadel in an (unsuccessful) attempt to prevent the rebellious city from again raising arms. Its construction had involved egregious acts of violence that had become etched into collective memory: Official figures reveal that some 1,000 houses, 17 per cent of those in the city, had been razed to clear space for the fortress and its esplanade.21 In the nineteenth century, terrible executions of liberals had taken place behind its walls; other prisoners had suffered and died in its dank prisons. Following the ‘September’ or ‘Glorious’ Revolution of 1868, the revolutionary municipality had torn down the fortress – a symbolic act constituting a bureaucratic equivalent of the storming of the Bastille – and converted it into a park. In preparation for the exhibition, city hall levelled most of the remaining barracks. Many Liberals, including Mayor Francesc Rius i Taulet, had been September Revolutionaries. Even though many such men had turned oligarchic, and politics had become infected by electoral fraud and corruption, liberalism had at least partially triumphed in Spain. By the opening of the exhibition, citizens possessed broad economic liberties, a respectable basket of judicial rights and broad freedoms of speech, press and assembly. The park symbolized the victory of a liberal constitutionalist spirit over absolutism. Its central monument, built before there was any talk of an exhibition, was a gigantic cascade fountain, featuring sculptures of Venus and Aurora. The goddesses of love and light proclaimed the victory of light over darkness, of love over hate and of liberalism over absolutism. At the entrance to the park (and later the Universal Exhibition) stood an equestrian statue of General Joan Prim, a local and national hero from the Catalan town of Reus, a veteran of various imperial adventures in Puerto Rico, Mexico and Morocco, and the leader of the Revolution of 1868. After the Revolution, the popular General once again endeared himself to the people by sanctioning the demand to destroy the Citadel.22 In 1870, he fell victim to an assassin’s bullet. The closest equivalent that Spain had to a Bonaparte or a Garibaldi, the martyred Prim stood for the contributions of Catalonia to the forging of a liberal nation and the conquest and reconstitution of the Spanish Empire. The exhibition depicted Barcelona and Catalonia as leading centres of an industrializing nation. Some of its venues were temporary while others were permanent. The Universal was not large enough to convince many displayers to erect their own pavilions, a practice introduced

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Image 3.2 Photograph of one of the walkways of the Universal Exhibition in Citadel Park. Notice the statue of Prim in the foreground, the Castle of the Three Dragons in the upper left-hand corner and the Triumphal Arch in the background. On the left-hand side, one can see (from bottom to top): the Temporary Customs-Duty House, the Pavilion of the Spanish Colonies, the New Model Church, the Umbracle (Tropical-Plant Greenhouse), the Martorell Museum and the Hivernacle (Winter Plant Greenhouse). (Photograph by Pau Audouard; Image courtesy of Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona)

in the Paris Exhibition of 1867. Only Japan and Seville, in addition to a few private companies and associations, constructed free-standing buildings. The Palace of Industry, a massive edifice of 50,000 square metres, designed in the shape of a fan, housed the principal exhibits. Its size compared favourably to Hyde Park’s Crystal Palace, some 90,000 square metres. The Universal Exhibition also featured a number of other buildings, including a machine gallery, two greenhouses, a museum and various palaces, pavilions and galleries for science, agriculture, transportation, fine arts, the colonies, maritime exhibits, minerals and the army and navy. Some of these structures were impressive, but others were forgettable. One commentator accused Elias Rogent, the architect in charge of planning, of failing to tap the full potential of his colleagues. This critique probably referred to the fact that Elias had not commissioned the talented Antoni Gaudí for any of the permanent

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structures even though his projects were already receiving great public acclaim. Nonetheless, Gaudí designed the much-lauded temporary pavilion for the Transatlantic Company, a steamship line, owned by Claudio López Bru, one of the exhibition commissioners, which ran a fleet of ships between Barcelona, various Spanish ports and the colonies of Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines.23 The star architect of the exhibition was Lluís Domènech i Montaner, whose International Hotel and Restaurant were the two major showpieces. Along with Gaudí’s creations, these building inaugurated a movement later known as modernisme in Barcelona. Although the hotel was supposed to have been permanent, it was torn down after closure due to structural concerns stemming from the fact that it had gone up in a miraculous fifty-three days. ‘The Castle of the Three Dragons’, as the restaurant later became known, was permanent. This massive building was behind schedule (as were many of the building projects); it did not serve its first meal until August; and the elaborate design had to be drastically scaled back. Domènech resigned as the supervising architect after refusing to accept changes that sacrificed much costly and time-consuming ornamentation.24 Despite these problems, practically everyone applauded its startling originality. Domènech believed that architecture should serve nationalistic ends. He had previously expressed his ideas in an article entitled ‘In Search of a National Architecture’ published in Catalan in the inaugural issue of the revivalist literary journal, La Renaixensa, in 1878. He contended that Spain needed to redress its lack of a unified architectural tradition, and called for a new movement that would blend the two great traditions of the medieval kingdoms of the peninsula. The first of these, present in central and southern Spain, was the ‘Mudejar’ style, which itself consisted of a combination of Christian Renaissance and Arabesque forms. The second was really two separate traditions, the Romanesque and Gothic, prominent in Catalonia and the north and east of the Iberian Peninsula.25 This architectural vision, though, was more than just a pastiche of medieval styles. Like Gaudí, he used industrial materials as ornamentation (as opposed to merely structure), a technique which gave his creations the striking stamp of unabashed modernity. The Castle of the Three Dragons was a giant medieval Romanesque castle constructed out of the red brick of modern factories adorned with ceramic tiles, Arabesque geometric designs and wrought iron. The Triumphal Arch, the work of the architect Josep Vilaseca, played off of this formula. Also constructed out of red brick, it combined Mudejar and classical

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Image 3.3 Postcard of the restaurant, later known as the Castle of the Three Dragons. (Lithograph by J. Amigó; Image courtesy of the Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona)

styles, and symbolically portrayed Barcelona as the leading province in a united Spain.26 For its part, Gaudí’s Transatlantic Pavilion was a miniature Moorish palace with Gothic portals.27 Taken as a whole, designs, colours and materials paid homage to past and present, Catalonia and Spain, north and south, and celebrated peninsular unity. The most emblematic structure of the exhibition was the statue of Columbus, a monument paying homage to the Spanish Empire. Like many such municipal building projects, city hall had planned for the statue before it contemplated hosting the exhibition. In 1881, municipal authorities had commenced the construction of Columbus Boulevard, which was part of a larger project redeveloping the port. In the same year, the municipality held a competition for a Columbus statue where the boulevard intersected with the Ramblas, the central artery of the old city where the palaces of the wealthy, the opera house and the Bank of Barcelona were found. The promotion of the cult of Columbus was nothing new, but had been taking place throughout Spain, and in Cuba and Puerto Rico, since the 1860s.28 In Barcelona, the statue and the boulevard also compensated for the lack of references to imperial Spain on the names of city streets.29 During the exhibition, a visitor could exit the exhibition through the gate by the statue of General Prim, walk past the International Hotel while viewing the Mediterranean, stroll down Columbus Boulevard (illuminated by electric lights during some

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evenings) and look up at the great man pointing towards the sea with the majestic mountain of Montjuïc in the background.30 The unveiling took place on 1 June 1888, twelve days after the official inauguration celebrations. Sixty metres in height, the statue was said to be the tallest in the world, yet another tribute to the spirit of progress

Image 3.4 Columbus handing out cigars: Satirical depiction of the Columbus statue based on a cigar manufacturer’s display. (La Esquella de la Torratxa, 18 August 1888, p. 515; Image courtesy of Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona)

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and science. Its architects claimed that it was a few metres taller than the statue of Nelson in London, which incidentally commemorated the sinking of the Spanish and French fleets at the Battle of Trafalgar (1805). It was also taller than the Statue of Liberty (not including the pedestal). The Queen Regent attended the unveiling, which, at its base, contained sculptures of Catalans who contributed to the voyages. The mayors of Barcelona and Genoa delivered speeches. The latter proclaimed the ‘union between Barcelona and Genoa, between Spain and Italy’. Four curtains, each decorated with the flag of Spain, were drawn to the sound of the Royal March, the equivalent of the national hymn. Canon salvos echoed from the fort atop the mountain of Montjuïc and from the harbour, where the Spanish fleet was stationed along with war ships from participating nations.31 Columbus – the most recognizable ‘Spanish’ hero to the outside world and perhaps within the country itself – featured again at the exhibition. Throughout the 1880s, the liberal government had been promoting 12 October, the day Columbus first set foot in the New World, as the day of the ‘Conquest of America’. In so doing, it sought to endow the country with one secular holiday, hence breaking the monopoly of the Church.32 In celebration of empire, the municipality organized a parade with floats, divided into five sections, each representing a continent. Persons dressed as savages, with knives and spears in hand, marched alongside European gentlemen and ladies, natives in traditional garb, circus animals, men clothed as oriental despots and Spanish troops from Cuba, Puerto Rico, Morocco and the Philippines. As might be expected, the parade was steeped in ‘Orientalist’ imagery commonplace in world exhibitions since the Crystal Palace.33 The Africa continent of the parade, for example, featured: Four savage blacks with hatchets . . a Zulu . . a Senegalese . . . a camel . . . a Tunisian Jewess . . . two Bedouins on horseback with lances . . . six groups of Arabs with rifles, two women with headscarves . . . two mules with an Egyptian minder . . four guides with costumes from One Thousand and One Nights . . a float pulled by five pairs of oxen; on top of the float, a lion in the foreground; in the background, a camel and an Egyptian temple surrounded by palm trees. Behind the float, eight Arabs on horseback, four Egyptians with fezzes, and four wrapped in tunics . . . 34 The official inauguration was held on 20 May 1888. The boy King, Alfonso XIII, was in attendance, accompanied by his mother, María

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Cristina, the Queen Regent. The Duke of Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales (the future Edward VII), the Prince of Bavaria and the Duke of Genoa were also present. Although this roster of foreign royalty was not very long, the government’s enormous diplomatic effort paid dividends. The highlight was a procession of sixty-seven war ships, of which thirty were first-class ironclads. Sent from Spain, Portugal, France, Great Britain, Holland, Russia, Austria-Hungary, Germany, the United States and Italy, they boasted 449 canons and 20,000 seamen.35 They alone guaranteed a strong international presence. The Spanish fleet was the largest, consisting of twenty vessels, among which its torpedo ship, the Destructor, could compete with Europe’s finest.36 In the spirit of other exhibitions, the ceremony exuded a counter-revolutionary air. The London Daily News correspondent astutely observed that the purpose of this massive display of firepower was that ministers ‘wished to show Spanish Republicans that all the Monarchical Powers of Europe took great interest in the success of the Regency, and of the present institutions of Spain, and that they would be much displeased if any revolution changed the form of government’.37 The Queen Regent and the royal family stayed in Barcelona from 16 May to 6 June, accompanied by the Liberal Prime Minister Práxedes Mateo Sagasta, various members of the cabinet and other dignitaries. The Royal Palace in Barcelona had burned down in 1875, so the royal court converted city hall into what became satirically called ‘city palace’.38 Between these dates, Barcelona was home to a dizzying calendar of balls, banquets, processions and other fêtes. The Queen Regent made appearances in popular neighbourhoods, and received local notables, foreign guests, ambassadors and consuls. She undertook acts of charity, attended the opera and theatre and performed numerous rituals. She visited foreign royalty aboard the warships, where she was greeted by salvos from her hosts and other nations. To coincide with the festive atmosphere, the municipality staged horse races, sailing regattas and bullfights. At night, the theatre and opera entertained guests. The opera house, the Liceo, put on Wagner’s Lohengrin in order to please the German-speaking Queen Regent who attended with other royalty and the prime minister the evening of the inauguration. The season then continued with Thomas’s Hamlet, Meyerbeer’s L’Africaine and a mixture of well-known and novel performances.39 The inclusion of contemporary French and German operas, in addition to a typical selection of Italian ones, added to the spirit of cosmopolitism. The famous French actress Sarah Bernhardt performed in the Principal Theatre in the spring, to the delight of French visitors.40

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During the hot summer, attendance waned and the grounds had a more serious tone. The organizing committee followed a precedent set at the Paris exhibition of 1867, and sponsored professional and academic conferences on workers’ rights, law, economics and pedagogy. In order to keep up enthusiasm, organizers filled some weekend and holiday summer nights with special concerts and fireworks. In addition to special events, the exhibition continued to offer other forms of entertainment. A ‘Magic Fountain’ of electric lights and water entertained guests during special evenings. Adjacent to the Triumphal Arch, a hot-air balloon allowed paying spectators a bird’s eye view. The roller coaster, though not a novelty in Barcelona, was still a thrill. As was the case with the Paris exhibitions, theatre and circus acts, and human and animal oddities, gravitated to the city. Although these were not allowed inside the grounds because of their purported lack of scientific or pedagogical value, they gathered at the Plaza de Cataluña, the city centre. In the autumn, the exhibition again gathered steam, although the number of international guests dwindled. Nonetheless, a small but steady flow of royalty and Spanish notables and politicians maintained a relentless pace of sumptuous banquets and congratulatory toasts. The King of Portugal, the Spanish princess Isabel and (her husband) the Prince of Bavaria passed through in September and October with their small but extravagant entourages. Barcelona’s newly titled ‘bourgeois aristocracy’ of bankers and industrialists, together with aristocrats from all over Spain, splashed out for receptions. The Church predictably got in on the act. A period running from 24 September to 23 October commemorated the Virgin of Mercy, the patron saint of Barcelona. A large parade took place on 24 September, her saint’s day, and events terminated on 21 October with another round of celebrations. Ceremonies attracted a number of visiting priests, so churches celebrated extra masses.41 As such, the Church competed with the government in the race to institute patriotic holidays. Special events continued until closure. In the autumn and early winter, there were band, choral and floral-arrangement competitions, horse and carriage races, sailing regattas, bullfights, Basque handball games, statue and portrait unveilings, concerts, maritime festivals and traditional Spanish regional dances. The mayor bestowed honours on outstanding schools and students.42 In accordance with protocol, the awards committee handed out gold, silver and bronze medals to products grouped into a host of categories ranging from shipbuilding machines to neckties, from butter to municipal epidemic prevention services. The exhibition featured 10,635

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registered exhibiters and awarded more than 8000 prizes including honourable mentions.43 All in all, the Universal projected Barcelona and Catalonia as the engine of a modern, industrial Spain, which, with the help of technology and science, had emerged out from centuries of decadence. El Diario Mercantil proclaimed that ‘Barcelona, a capital of a province, has undertaken through its own initiative what Paris, London, Vienna, Philadelphia, Turin, and Berlin were able to organize through the help of powerful nations with fabulous resources and an enthusiastically patriotic populace’. It added that ‘Barcelona has delivered a demonstration of its immense resources . . ., resources that it has mobilized with splendid abandon, resources that should be the cornerstone, the Gordian Knot for the regeneration of Spain.’44 The foreign press echoed this theme. The Times of London offered this effusive summary: Since the line of International Exhibitions began not one has been the occasion of a more striking spectacle than that which was opened on Sunday in Barcelona . . . In matters of splendour and sumptuousness, if a stranger were to judge by his experience of any public Spanish festival, he would probably conclude the country was the wealthiest in Europe, as he might infer England was the poorest. At Barcelona there were special opportunities and reasons for the production of impressive scenic effects beyond those at the ordinary disposal of Spanish authorities. Spain has been put on its mettle. It has determined to show Europe its resources, and its ability to compete with the most progressive States in manufacturing and commerce. This Exhibition proceeds from a thought which Spaniards have lately realized, that they have their own place in the community of nations, and have for generations needlessly abdicated the benefits. Barcelona enjoys peculiar advantages for an effective assertion of the general right. It can, without risk of being derided as an impostor, demand of the world recognition of real industrial victories it has won.45

Competing views of the exhibition The above description accurately reflects the triumphal spirit of showpiece celebrations. The Barcelonese turned out in great numbers to attend the parties, unveilings, inaugurations and competitions, and to tour the palaces, galleries, pavilions and grounds. International visitors, such as The Times correspondent, came away dazzled by opening

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ceremonies. Barcelona was the factory of Spain, a patriotic supporter of constitutional monarchy, empire, and the general spirit of Pax Europa then permeating all of Europe in the wake of the Congress of Berlin (1885). The fleets fortified the message of international peace. The banker and senator Manuel Girona, president of the coordinating committee, stressed this theme. In the inaugural toast, given at a banquet honouring domestic and foreign news correspondents, held the evening before the unofficial opening on 7 April, he urged all countries to disarm. He toasted to ‘The here-assembled Spanish and foreign press and to the wish that the nations of Europe will cease their armed peace that has caused so much damage to the economy by recruiting so many young men into the military when they could be usefully employed in agriculture, industry, and commerce.’46 It would be a mistake, however, to assume that the only messages floating around Barcelona came from monuments, buildings, sermons, speeches and toasts. The Universal Exhibition remained open for more than eight months. During this extended period (the longest to date of any exhibition), it was impossible to sustain the momentum present at set-piece celebrations. As the exhibition melted into the urban landscape, Barcelonese discussed thousands of country and regional displays while tabulating and debating the costs and benefits of the event. Even during moments of jubilation, no one claimed that relations between city and state were altogether harmonious. El Barcelonés, for example, was the official newspaper of the mayor, Francesc Rius i Taulet, and the Liberal Party. Of all of the dailies, it produced the most indigestible patriotic drivel. Yet, even this propagandistic organ, with its small but faithful readership of party addicts, found it difficult to deliver an unambiguous message. During the official opening, it praised ‘A country that in a short period of time will succeed in presenting itself to the other nations of the world with the composure demanded by progress and civilization and will encounter the means to introduce to these nations the sources of its wealth and the generators of its enlightenment.’ However, it also mentioned that other Spaniards had long doubted the patriotism of the Barcelonese. ‘We can take pride in that Barcelona, the eldest sister of the Spanish provinces, will, in a brief period of time, contribute greatly to the glorification of the Peninsula. Once concluded, we are sure that the Exhibition will help bring to an end those unfounded suspicions that our compatriots have long held with respect to Barcelona.’47 The conservative daily Diario de Barcelona, by far the bestselling paper in the city (with 40 per cent of the market), also lent its support.48

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It expressed its quelled version of national pride with such precious titbits as ‘for some time now, Spain has been first in all the world’s nations in the production of lead’.49 Yet its pages also revealed the existence of serious tensions between Barcelona and Madrid. In its reporting of opening ceremonies, it claimed that the foreign Queen Regent had been fed a steady diet of anti-Catalan propaganda before departure. It suspected that she had been told of the ‘dry and unsavoury character of the Catalan people, of their egoism, of their materialism, of their haughtiness, of their political scepticism’. However, it hoped that the warm reception had dispelled false impressions: ‘The formal and circumspect people who are normally not generally given to demonstrations of loud and uproarious behaviour characteristic of the Mediterranean peoples, on Wednesday spontaneously abandoned their shops, closed their stores, and demonstrated their enthusiasm for the representatives of the institutions that they love. The Queen’s satisfaction, mixed with the favourable impression that our culture has made on foreign nations, fills us with legitimate pride.’50 During the royal visit, the editors sought to pressure the Queen and her ministers to address the demands in the Outline of Grievances (1885), which various urban notables had presented to her husband, Alfonso XII, shortly before his death. The Republican daily La Publicidad also echoed this theme. It hoped that the exhibition would dispel the unfounded opinions of ‘enthusiasts of the Spanish nation’ by demonstrating that ‘neither Catalonia nor Barcelona house a miserly, disingenuous, and exclusivist spirit’. Although this organ was ideologically opposed to the conservatives of the Diario de Barcelona, it also sought to pressure Madrid to raise tariffs in order to alleviate the problem of unemployment within the region’s textile factories. The success of the exhibition, it hoped, would lead to a better understanding between Madrid and Barcelona – an understanding that would open the eyes of politicians to the legitimate complaints of Catalonia as stated in the Outline of Grievances. If all went well, the exhibition would help statesmen comprehend ‘the legitimate aspirations of Catalonia’. It called for ‘justice to be done so that our grievances do not disappear into a vacuum’ and that politicians realize ‘what is equitable, national, and patriotic about our complaints and our economic aspirations’.51 Many commentators, however, did not write for the political press and were not wrapped up in the politics of tariff reform or civil law codification. They did not see the necessity to court the monarchy and the government, or even to dispel the stereotype that Catalans peered down on Madrid and central Spain with a snubbed nosed and a deprecatory

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eye. On the contrary, many believed that the exhibition confirmed essential differences. For example, the art critic Javier Yxart, a mouthpiece for the rich and cultivated, believed that Barcelona was an ideal setting because it was an ‘international’ rather than typically Spanish. His comments are worth citing in length: The first Universal Exhibition in Spain must be logically held in Barcelona . . . Where else could this confirmation of our commerce, of our industry, be held except in this ancient Mediterranean port, this industrial centre, this emporium of commerce? . . . Barcelona, very Barcelonese, eminently bourgeois, is the population centre most inclined and most accustomed to welcoming foreigners. Other Spanish cities, with the exception of some places in Cantabria and Andalucia, are above all Spanish. In their heart, they harbour a Castilian character that often takes the form of a rancid Spanishness reeking of hostility and disdain for all that is foreign . . . Whereas our old provincial capitals have turned their back on the world and have chosen to look toward the Royal Court, Barcelona turns toward and peers over the Pyrenees toward Europe . . . 52 Pages and pages of such remarks fill Yxart’s opening essay. This wellheeled individual depicted the rest of Spain with disdain and ridicule: Spain, classical Spain, the Spain that still fills the popular imaginations of so many, is austere and pretentious, noble and devout like an old Castilian man! Or it is a flamenco dancer, flirtatious and carefree, with a coloured skirt and with a merrily ringing tambourine raised above her head! All this is almost completely foreign to us . . . Upon crossing the Ebro, I understood what the Spanish nation was really about; upon arriving in Madrid, I was convinced why this was the true capital, the court of the old Spain of the history books. The Barcelona that I left behind appeared in my memories as something different, something continental and not peninsular, with its black-soot chimneys of an English suburb, with its restaurants and bookstores of a Parisian boulevard, with its sails and riggings of an Italian port.53 The art critic took joy in differentiating ‘bourgeois’ and ‘commercial’ Barcelona from ‘noble’ and ‘devout’ Castile or from ‘carefree’ and ‘flirtatious’ Andalusia. Other commentators, however, depicted differences in another light. For example, El Diluvio (The Flood), was a well-selling

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federal–republican daily. It highlighted the democratic and egalitarian aspirations of a city that Engels had once claimed raised the barricades with greater frequency than anywhere else in the world. It observed that visiting señores from other parts of Spain were surprised by the lack of hierarchy. Such visitors ‘say that among Catalans there are no social classes, neither in dress, nor in the seating arrangements in the churches and theatres, nor along the boulevards’. Catalans constituted a ‘nationality that was different and special, a nationality with a more popular spirit and more democratic customs than those of the other peoples and regions of Spain’.54 The governing authorities had hoped that the exhibition would assuage tensions and drum up support for a liberal nationalist project. Although they accomplished this in the short term, the exhibition also brought unintended consequences. The arrival of a bevy of guests from other regions in Spain – with different accents, dress, table manners and culinary tastes – proved to many that Catalans were profoundly different. Not only did the organizers have to listen to such ruminations, but they also faced stinging criticism from other groups who, in an effort to wound the government, sought to belittle the event. This was the strategy of the Reformist Party of Francisco Romero Robledo. At the time, this charismatic politician and expert electoral fixer had temporarily broken with the Conservative Party, which he believed was too compliant with the government and had abdicated its role as a true opposition party. The Reformist organ in Barcelona, La Nación, portrayed the exhibition as a disaster: ‘After a half hour, one has walked through the shadowy warehouses of the Palace of Industry and wandered through the deserted gardens being cared for by a few industrialists. Weary visitors are left to observe a dozen charming girls selling drinks to quench their thirst . . . Nothing seduces, nothing is attractive, nothing is worthy of being remembered by the person who has deposited a peseta in the turnstile.’55 If the relatively innocuous Reformist Party had been the only dissenting voice, then city hall could have tolerated and even welcomed such token opposition. It could also have put up with the correspondent from Paris’s Le Figaro, a Spaniard with possible links to the Reformist Party. He had called the exhibition a ‘fritter’ (buñuelo), a hilarious characterization repeated with frequency among critics and satirists.56 La Nación and Le Figaro, however, were only the tip of the iceberg. A more influential and persistent source of opposition came from a group of ‘Catalanists’ dedicated to achieving self-government for Catalonia and defending its native language, industry and civil laws. At the time, Catalanism was

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only a nascent political force. It had not yet founded a political party able to challenge the Liberal and Conservative oligarchy, contest elections, and send deputies to the Spanish parliament. Nor had it succeeded in publishing a viable daily newspaper in Catalan. Its only effort, El Diari Català (1880–81), had not lasted long. Even though the Barcelonese ordinary spoke to one another in Catalan, they preferred to read and write in Spanish. Nor had Catalanists convinced industrial and agrarian economic elite to abandon dynastic political parties in favour of a regionalist alternative. However, their ranks included a number of committed intellectuals, poets, playwrights and muckrakers who were able exert considerable influence on public opinion. The Catalan Centre (Centre Català) represented the left wing of the Catalanist movement.57 Its members and sympathizers were angered at the decision to use the Universal Exhibition to promote the importance of Barcelona to what they considered a hopelessly decadent Spain. Had the exhibition been cast as a festival of blooming Catalan nationhood, their mood would surely have been more jovial. Nonetheless, this group took an interesting stance. Contemporary historians have tended to portray nationalists as persons with congenitally exalted visions of grandeur. However, these budding nationalists were quite the opposite. In fact, they protested against the needless bombast. They felt that the municipality was promoting Barcelona as a leading European city when pretensions should have been more measured: ‘The capital of an enslaved region, and as such decadent and poor, cannot compare itself to similar cities in prosperous and well-governed nations.’58 ‘We will always protest when our modest patria is compared to London, Berlin, or New York and even to Madrid or Rome, in the same way that we would protest when a daughter or sister decides to leave behind the humility of the middle class and to try to imitate the ladies of the aristocracy.’59 Instead of spending on ostentatious celebrations, banquets, and temporary buildings, they argued that funds should be used to improve public hygiene, to build better markets, to pave streets, to construct more spacious theatres and to promote scientific and charitable associations.60 The Centre did not call for a boycott, but it vociferously protested the decision to host the exhibition and warned that the municipality would fail to complete its projects in time. In some respects, they were correct as many buildings were finished late. Once gates opened, the Centre threw water on the flames of success. Its chief act of protest consisted of sponsoring an alternative ‘Floral Games’, a competition of Catalan poetry first held in 1859 and annually celebrated on the first

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Monday of May. In order that the Queen Regent and other guests could attend, official organizers moved the games to the third Monday of the month. The Catalan Centre, however, insisted on the traditional date. In the end, both games took place to packed houses on different dates. At the protest games, the playwright Conrad Roure delivered an inaugural address in which he proclaimed that poetry ‘embodies the sentiments of the people and the distinctiveness of their nationality’.61 The official Floral Games served as a forum of protest for another wing of the movement. The Catalan League (Lliga de Catalunya) was a group of conservative and Catholic intellectuals and professionals who had split from the Catalan Centre, which they considered too democratic, anti-monarchical and secular. These individuals did not denigrate the exhibition, which they believed successfully promoted Barcelona and Catalonia to the outside world; however, they were loath to swallow the liberal patriotic message being trumpeted by city hall. At the opening of the Floral Games, they took advantage of the presence of the Queen Regent to present her with a petition, the Message to the Queen Regent. In this document, they urged her to follow the example of her Habsburg relative, Francis Joseph I, who in 1867 had granted self-government to Hungary. The petition had an angry tone. It complained about the abundance of Spanish-speaking functionaries who were ill-equipped to carry out their jobs, much less govern, given that they had little knowledge of the region’s language and laws. Judges were ‘unfamiliar with our venerated laws, and those know them, consider them repugnant’. Teachers ‘teach our youth incomplete or partial histories in which they erase the most glorious deeds of our past’.62 The petition came to form the cornerstone of the Catalanist movement: home rule; the conservation of Catalan civil law; the recognition of Catalan as an official language; and the ‘Catalanization’ of the civil service, judiciary and teaching corps. It should be stressed that Catalanists failed to capture the spotlight. The Catalan Centre’s prophesy of failure caused its leaders much embarrassment. The more upbeat Catalan League succeeded in taking over the lead of the movement, but their influence was muted. The daily newspapers, all printed in Spanish, hardly made any mention of the Message to the Queen Regent. Unlike the Outline of Grievances (1885), which petitioned Madrid to raise tariffs and preserve Catalan civil law, the more radical Message did not have broad-based support: It did not feature leading industrialists, merchants, bankers or lawyers among its signatories. At the time, it represented the dreams of a few activists outside the political mainstream. Still, it must be stressed that the Universal Exhibition by no means stopped or silenced the movement. Indeed, behind

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the veil of planned celebrations and ceremonies, a broad spectrum of groups and individuals doubted official rhetoric: industrialists and workers concerned about tariffs; landowners worried about the potential abolition of traditional family, inheritance and property law; intellectuals dedicated to the revival of language, history, art, architecture and culture; and ordinary men and women, fed up with political corruption, and convinced that Catalans were essentially different from other Spaniards. After the exhibition, Catalanists would continue to work at crafting a coherent political platform that could appeal to such diverse groups. The loudest and most punishing voice of protest, however, came from federal–republicans, representatives of the lower-middle and workingclasses disenfranchised from the political system. Its central organ, El Diluvio, remained hostile from start to finish. Its chief grievance was the high cost of the exhibition. At the opening of the fair, the newspaper reported that the municipality had spent in excess of the government loan of 2 million pesetas. Official books revealed that the price of construction projects alone had exceeded 3.5 million pesetas, a worrying development since many buildings were then far from complete.63 Upon closure, the newspaper reported that the municipality was carrying a debt of 30 million pesetas and was servicing an annual deficit of 3.8 million.64 To federal – republicans, the exhibition had been, above all, ‘a pretext to manage various millions’.65 El Diluvio also took aim at the poverty of some of the country exhibits, complaining that great nations had not taken the event seriously: ‘Is there anyone who witnesses at the exhibition any evidence of the industrial power of England, any evidence of the puissance of the United States which threatens to invade the world?’66 It favourably reviewed the various Catalan exhibits, which occupied about one-third of the space allotted to Spain, but it still complained that they did not ‘represent the entire productive capacity of Barcelona’.67 The acidic members of the Catalan Centre were less forgiving and predictably vituperative: ‘The Catalan section is a veritable synthesis of the Andalucian spirit of pretentiousness that has infected many of us.’68 Some members of the foreign press also lambasted their countries’ disappointing showings. The Birmingham Daily Post observed that ‘the English section is somewhat poor, except for the machinery, in which department England and Barcelona are both good’.69 The Times correspondent noted, ‘The British section is, I understand, in an especially backward condition and is absolutely devoid of decoration. There seems to be a difficulty as to the provision of funds . . . But it is incredible that English exhibitors for

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the sake of a little additional expenditure will suffer themselves to be completely eclipsed by other nations.’70 Critics also claimed that the exhibition had failed to promote the Spanish empire or Hispanic civilization. Many Latin American countries were spending princely sums in preparation for the Paris Centennial Exhibition the following year, and hence had limited budgets for Barcelona. Mexico, for one, erected a bombastic Aztec Palace in Paris in 1889, but the country did not even appear in Barcelona.71 Nor did visiting countries put on dazzling displays of empire. Great Britain, for example, had built Indian Palaces at other exhibitions, but did nothing of the sort in Barcelona.72 Organizers also failed to showcase the Spanish Empire in Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines. They had planned for a Pavilion of Spanish Colonies, but this nondescript building opened late. Once open, colonial exhibits failed to fill the space. By the time the catalogue appeared, it had been renamed the ‘Supplementary Pavilion’ for lack of a better name. It housed exhibits from the colonies in addition to those from some other Latin-American countries and Spanish provinces, which did not fit into the Palace of Industry.73 One satirical pamphlet, written in verse, described the colonial exhibits as ‘four cigars, four rocks, sugar, a bit of rum, and two or three ridiculous objects that do not inspire either admiration or disdain’. The poet opined that the exhibition was not a ‘fritter’ but was rather ‘pleasant and nice’. However, it had ‘cost more than it is worth’.74 Perhaps the most damaging criticism came from the weekly periodical La Esquella de la Torratxa, a satirical rag representative of republican and working-class (anarchist and socialist) opinion, which boasted an extensive readership among a wide sector of the population. From April to December, it dedicated the lion’s share of its pages to lampooning the exhibition, pavilion by pavilion, gallery by gallery. In addition to text, it ran cartoon after cartoon. Predictable jokes about persons and products from different nationalities made for good fun. It never tired of mocking the habits and dress of the French, English, Italians, Turks, Chinese and North Americans. Many cartoons were rather harmless: there was not enough accommodation, so visitors had to sleep on pool tables; the city was an enormous construction site; new uniforms made the police resemble the Prussian Army; the pricey restaurant at the International Hotel forced guests to go so hungry that they left looking like skeletons; prostitutes lost business with the decline of foreign visitors.75 Yet the periodical blasted a potent and critical political message. The numerous satires of the city mayor, Francesc Rius i Taulet, were

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scathing. Cartoonists portrayed him and other dignitaries getting fatter and fatter in one banquet after the next while many citizens went hungry. Others showed him vainly vying for the title of marquis (which he later received) at the expense of a municipality spiralling into debt.76 Caricaturists could not resist the mayor’s long ‘mutton chops’. They portrayed him as a flying ass, and joked that a statue be erected in the Plaza de Cataluña in honour of this creature.77 Cartoons, jokes and droll comments suggest that residents were by no means hypnotized by the mixture of Catalan and Spanish imperial imagery, by the blending of the Mudejar architectural style of southern Spain with the Romanesque and Gothic of medieval Catalonia or by the exaltation of Columbus and the discovery of the Americas. Rather,

Image 3.5 A flying ass inspires the exhibition. The Castle of the Three Dragons, the Triumphal Arch, and the Palace of Industry are also depicted. (La Esquella de la Torratxa, 28 April 1888, p. 267; Image courtesy of Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona)

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Image 3.6 The Triumphal Arch depicted as a chocolate factory (La Esquella de la Torratxa, 9 June 1888, p. 365; Image courtesy of Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona)

satirical portrayals demonstrated that monuments and celebrations were not only interpretable but that they were also a source of harmless curiosity rather than towering symbolism. The editors mocked the architecture of each and every building. The Triumphal Arch, for example, resembled a giant chocolate factory. In a like manner, La Esquella took interest in the display of a Cuban cigar manufacturer who made fun of the statue of Columbus by depicting the discoverer handing out cigars rather than pointing to the sea.

Conclusion On balance, the Universal Exhibition was everything critics and supporters claimed it to be. On the one hand, the government succeeded in promoting an intoxicating patriotic atmosphere in which people turned out in droves during opening ceremonies, the procession of

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the fleets, the visit of the Queen and other royalty, the Columbus Day parade, the Virgin of Mercy Day celebrations and numerous other commemorations, competitions, awards, parties and unveilings. On the other hand, criticism was not undeserved: no major invention was on display for the first time in Barcelona; the professional and scientific conferences did not feature any great discoveries or breakthroughs; and many countries were either conspicuously absent or had brought small displays.78 The year was crowded with exhibitions, so this was probably expected. Copenhagen, Brussels, Bologna, Melbourne, Glasgow and various British cities also held exhibitions of one kind or another in 1888.79 The municipality did not even attempt to rebut the accusation that it had failed to cover expenses. Accounting records report a total cost in excess of 11 million pesetas. The government loan (2 million), gate receipts (1.5 million), donations, lottery tickets and other income did not cover half. Two municipal bond launches, each of about 3.5 million pesetas, made up for the shortfall.80 To be sure, delight and criticism were not incompatible. It is not difficult to imagine a person who joyfully visited the grounds with his or her family, then complained of the hole in his or her wallet or purse, later speculated about corruption and then paid another visit to enjoy American soda water, to take a ride on the roller coaster, to puff on a cigar at the Philippine Tobacco Company pavilion and to amble through the Machine Gallery. It is not difficult to imagine this same person participating in acts of Spanish patriotism, but then turning a sympathetic ear when listening to those tireless Catalanists. After gates closed on a cold winter evening on 10 December 1888, residents became consumed by their quotidian concerns, new municipal and national political debates and the persistence of a deep economic crisis. Ultimately, images of fat politicians and bankers feasting on fifteen-course meals while drowning themselves in Spanish cherry and French wines and champagne, amid a depression in which many went hungry, were more everlasting than the Palace of Industry, the Palace of Arts or the International Hotel. These ‘ephemeral vistas’, to borrow Greenhalgh’s expression, were dismantled. The critique of oligarchy governing city, region and country, though, continued. The exhibition failed to create a legacy of triumphant Spanish liberal nationalism. In November 1888, a month before the exhibition closed, the Liberal party attempted to take political advantage of the momentum. The Ministry of Justice published a Spanish Civil Code in the hope that the popular enthusiasm generated by the exhibition had removed suspicions that the government intended to run roughshod

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over traditional Catalan laws of family, inheritance and property. In the opinion of the framers, the Code respected the diverse laws of the various regions including Catalonia, and drew an appropriate balance between Spanish unity and regional diversity. To no avail, Catalanist organizations, the legal community, federal–republicans, and many other associations launched a string of protests and ‘town meetings’ throughout Catalonia. Some of the most successful attracted thousands of people, announcing the advent of ‘mass politics’ in Spain. They were held in the style of a local fête of Catalan customs, folklore, traditions and popular culture. In this way, protesters imitated forms of mobilization introduced during the Universal Exhibition. As a result, the Catalanist movement, which had struggled to make its voice heard during the exhibition, returned quickly and forcefully to the political scene.81 In 1892, a number of diverse groups, many of which had been born during the civil code protests, formed the Catalanist Union. In its inaugural meeting in Manresa, delegates promulgated the Articles of Manresa (Bases de Manresa), a draft constitution for a potentially self-governing Catalonia. This document was largely based on the Message to the Queen Regent, presented to the Queen at the exhibition. In the 1890s, the spirit of liberal Spanish nationalism would quickly lose ground to ascendant Catalan nationalism in Barcelona. From a comparative perspective, the Exhibition of 1888 was very much like other exhibitions, whether large or small, or whether universal, international, national or regional. The nineteenth century was a period of exhibition mania where similar events took place from Constantinople to St. Petersburg, from Bologna to Glasgow, from Trieste to Stockholm and from Clermont-Ferrand to Pernambuco. Exhibitions effectively equated local and regional industry, agriculture and pride with the ascendancy of a technologically advanced liberal state promising to better the moral and material lives of citizens within a community of advanced, peaceful nations. Accompanied by ambitious projects of urban planning, they introduced a dazzling arsenal of monuments, buildings, holidays and celebrations. But they were also forums where elites and ordinary people rethought the role of the municipality and its surrounding region within the nation. They did not implant a vision of grandeur from the top down; nor were they quasi-democratic manifestations of municipal patriotism or resistance from the bottom up. Rather, they were large and loud announcements of the new symbolic politics of the nation, an expensive and highstakes game with multiple outcomes unbeknownst to the players at the time.

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Acknowledgement I would like to thank my colleagues Enric Ucelay-Da Cal and Marició Janué for helping me in the interpretation of some of the monuments and for reading and commenting on a previous draft.

Notes 1. Paul Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vistas: The Expositions Universelles, Great Exhibitions, and World’s Fairs, 1851–1939 (Manchester, 1988), p. 113. 2. Robert W. Rydell and Rob Kroes, Buffalo Bill in Bologna: The Americanization of the World, 1869–1922 (Chicago, 2005), p. 48. See also, Robert W. Rydell, World of Fairs: The Century-of-Progress Expositions (Chicago, 1993), and All the World’s a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916 (Chicago, 1984). 3. Jeffrey A. Auerbach, The Great Exhibition of 1851: A Nation on Display (New Haven, 1999), pp. 4–5. 4. Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vistas, pp. 27, 29. 5. Historians who have examined the displays of visiting nations have also concentrated on the major exhibitions. For Mexico, see Mauricio Tenorio-Trillo, Mexico at the World’s Fairs: Crafting a Modern Nation (Berkeley, 1996); For Scandinavian displays, see Bjarne Stoklund, ‘International Exhibitions and the New Museum Concept in the Latter Half of the Nineteenth Century’, Ethnologia Scandinavica 23 (1993), 87–113. 6. For the role of exhibitions in healing ideological wounds, see R. D. Mandell, ‘The Affair and the Fair: Some Observations on the Closing Stages of the Dreyfus Case’, Journal of Modern History 39, no. 3 (September 1967), 253–65. 7. A few historians have thrown into question the extent to which universal exhibitions were useful in promoting national identity. See Abigail Green, ‘Representing Germany? The Zollverein at the World Exhibitions 1851–1862’, Journal of Modern History 75, no. 4 (December 2003), 836–63. In a similar manner, conflicting images of German identity at the Barcelona Internacional Exhibition of 1929 are explored in Marició Janué i Miret, ‘Auto-representación nacional y conflicto socio-político: Alemania en la Exposición Internacional de Barcelona de 1929’, Spagna contemporanea 31 (2007), 113–36. 8. The Paris exhibitions were the largest: 1867 (11 million); 1878 (16 million); 1889 (32 million); 1900 (48 million). The Chicago Columbine Exhibition of 1893 hosted 27 million people, about one-fourth of the population of the United States. For the number of visitors to the Paris exhibitions, see Jordi Casassas, Entre Escil.lia i Caribdis. El catalanisme i la Catalunya conservadora de la segona meitat del segle XIX (Barcelona, 1990), p. 247. His figures come from W. Plum, Les expositions universelles au 19è siècle, spectacles du changement socio-culturel (Bon-Bad Godeberg, 1977). For figures for Vienna and some others, see ‘Exposició. Victoria lúgubre’, La Veu del Centre Català, 16 June 1888, p. 201.

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9. Recently, the field has received a promising addition: Eric Storm, The Culture of Regionalism: Art, Architecture, and International Exhibitions in France, Germany, and Spain, 1890–1939 (Manchester, 2010). Unfortunately, his book appeared just as this manuscript was being submitted. Hence, I have been unable to consult it. 10. In nineteenth-century Barcelona, Catalan natives used Spanish for writing, formal oratory, and for conversations with Spanish speakers. They tended to use Catalan language for daily conversation. Joan-Lluís Marfany, La llengua maltractada: el castellà i el català a Catalunya del segle XVI al segle XIX (Barcelona, 2001). 11. It is difficult to give an exact calculation of the number of persons who attended. Official figures and newspapers reported that 1,220,000 guests paid one peseta each. However, a few hundred thousand also entered via a multiple entry pass, and others entered for free. For official figures, see Satunino Lacal, El libro de honor. Apuntes para la historia. Exposición Universal de Barcelona (Barcelona, 1889), p. 196; and Diario de Barcelona, 11 December 1888, p. 15238. Further complicating matters, some newspapers reported that organizers were corrupt and gatekeepers were skimming; for this reason, official figures might not have reflected the true number of visitors. For a reference to such accusations, see ‘La Exposición’, El Barcelonés, 26 June 1888, p. 1. 12. In this respect, my approach respectively differs from Maiken Umbach, ‘A Tale of Second Cities: Autonomy, Culture, and the Law in Hamburg and Barcelona in the Late Nineteenth Century’, American Historical Review 110, no. 3 (June 2005), 659–92; and ‘Memory and Historicism: Reading Between the Lines of the Built Environment, Germany c. 1900’, Representations, no. 88 (Autumn 2004), 26–54. The classic work on this subject is Pierre Nora ed., Les lieux de Mémoire, 2d ed., 3 vols. (Paris, 1997). 13. This school of thought has an extensive bibliography. See Juan J. Linz, ‘Early State-building and Later Peripheral Nationalism against the State: The Case of Spain,’ in Samuel N. Eisenstat and Stein Rokkan eds., Building States and Nations, vol. 2 (London, 1973), pp. 177–62; Juan Pablo Fusi, ‘Centre and Periphery, 1900–1936: National Integration and Regional Nationalisms Reconsidered,’ in Francis Lannon and Paul Preston eds., Elites and Power in Twentieth-Century Spain (Oxford, 1990), pp. 33–40; Borja de Riquer, ‘Reflexions entorn de la dèbil nacionalització espanyola del segle XIX,’ L’Avenç, no. 170 (1993), 8–15; Carolyn P. Boyd, Historia Patria: Politics, History, and National Identity in Spain, 1875–1975 (Princeton, 1997); and José Álvarez Junco, ‘El nacionalismo español: las insuficiencias en la acción estatal’, Historia Social 40 (2001), 29–51. I have discussed this body of literature in Stephen Jacobson, ‘Spain: The Iberian Mosaic’, in Timothy Baycroft and Mark Hewitson eds., What is a Nation? Europe 1789–1914 (Oxford, 2006), pp. 210–30. 14. Jordi Malquer de Motes, ‘The Industrial Revolution in Catalonia’, in Nicolás Sánchez Albornoz ed., The Economic Modernization of Spain, 1830–1930 (New York, 1987), pp. 169–90 [172]. 15. Censo de la población de España según el empadronamiento hecho en las Península é Islas Adyacentes el 31 de Diciembre de 1888 (Madrid, 1889), p. 510.

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16. For these exhibitions and their urban plans, see Pere Hereu i Payet, ‘L’arquitectura de l’Exposició’, in Xavier Fabre´ i Carreras et al., Arquitectura i ciutat a l’Exposició Universal de Barcelona, 1888 (Barcelona, 1988), pp. 181–288 [194–99]. 17. Yolanda Blasco and Lluïsa Pla, ‘Manuel Girona, el fundador de la banca moderna’, Historia Social 64 (2009), 79–99 [97]. 18. For a detailed analysis of the roles of the mayor, city hall, and the various commissions, see Marta Jové i Campmajor, ‘Polèmiques, expectiatives i valoracions a l’etorn del certamen’, in Fabré i Carreras et al., Arquitectura i ciutat, pp. 39–70. 19. For an overview of the municipal and electoral laws and the working of the turno pacífico in Barcelona, see Cèlia Cañellas and Rosa Toran, El personal polític de l’ajuntament de Barcelona (1877–1923) (Barcelona, 1996), pp. 39–54. For the working of the turno in all of Spain see Stephen Jacobson and Javier Moreno Luzón, ‘The Political System of the Restoration, 1875–1914: Political and Social Elites’, in José Alvarez Junco and Adrian Shubert eds., Spanish History since 1808 (London, 2000), pp. 94–110. 20. Lacal, El libro de honor, p. 42. 21. Albert García Espluche and Manel Guàrdia i Bassols, Espai i societat a la Barcelona pre-industrial (Barcelona, 1986), pp. 62–63. 22. For Prim, see Josep M. Fradera, ‘Juan Prim y Prats. Prim conspirador o la pedagogía del sable’, in Isabel Burdiel and Manuel Pérez Ledesma eds., Liberales, agitadores y conspiradores (Madrid, 2000), pp. 239–66. For the forging of Prim’s heroic reputation in Catalonia during the War of Africa, see Albert Garcia Balañà, ‘Patria, plebe y política en la España isabelina. La guerra de África en Cataluña (1859–1860)’, in Eloy Martín Corrales ed., Marruecos y el colonialismo español (1859–1912). De la guerra de África a la ‘penetración pacífica’ (Barcelona, 2002), pp. 13–78. 23. Juan José Lahuerta, Antoni Gaudí, 1852–1926. Arquitectura, ideología y política (Barcelona, 1993), p. 12. 24. For a capsule history of the design and construction of this building, see Rossend Casanova, El Castell dels Tres Dragons (Barcelona, 2009). 25. Lluís Domènech i Montaner, ‘En busca d’una arquitectura nacional’, La Renaixença 1 (1878), 149–60. 26. For the symbolism of the Triumphal Arch, see José M. Serraté et al., ‘Aspecto general del recinto y palacios. Inauguración presidida por S.M. el Rey Alfonso XIII y S.M. la Reina Regente’, in Estudios sobre la Exposición Universal de Barcelona inaugurada en 20 de Mayo cerrada en 9 de Diciembre de 1888 (Barcelona, 1888), p. XXXII. 27. For a description of this palace see J. Yxart, El año pasado. Letras y artes en Barcelona (Barcelona, 1889), pp. 202–03. 28. For the commemoration of Columbus in Spain, Cuba, and Puerto Rico, see Chris Schmidt-Nowara, The Conquest of History: Spanish Colonialism and National Histories in the Nineteenth Century (Pittsburgh, 2006), pp. 53–95. 29. The streets of the newly constructed residential neighbourhood, the Eixample (‘the Extension’), exuded liberal patriotism; but they paid homage to Catalonia’s medieval imperial and constitutionalist past and the sites of the region’s heroic battles against Napoleon during the Spanish

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30. 31. 32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

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War of Independence (1808–13). For this, see Stéphane Michonneau, Barcelona: memòria i identitat. Monuments, commemoracions i mites (Vic, 2002), pp. 41–55. For Columbus boulevard and the statue, see Lahuerta, Antoni Gaudí, p. 17; Michonneau, Barcelona, pp. 123–42. For the unveiling ceremony, see Diario de Barcelona, 2 June 1888, p. 6949. For a complete history of the insitutionalization of ‘The Day of the Conquest of America’ (later ‘The Day of the Race’) as the national holiday of Spain, see Carlos Serrano, El nacimiento de Carmen. Símbolos, mitos, y nación (Madrid, 1999), pp. 313–39. Jeffrey A. Auerbach and Peter H. Hoffenberg eds., Britain, the Empire, and the World at the Great Exhibition of 1851 (London, 2008); and Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vistas, pp. 52–81. ‘La cabalgata’, El Barcelonés, 10 October 1888, pp. 1–2. For a description of opening ceremonies, see Diario de Barcelona, 20 May 1888, pp. 6402–04. This was at least the opinion of The Times correspondent. ‘The Barcelona Exhibition’, The Times, 16 May 1888, p. 15. ‘The Fleets at Barcelona’, Daily News, 26 May 1888. El Diluvio, 16 May 1888, p. 4166. Tomás Caballé i Clos, Los teatros de Barcelona durante la Exposición Universal de 1888 (Barcelona, 1942). El Diluvio, 1 May 1888, p. 3661. Diario de Barcelona, 25 September 1888, p. 11835. For a summary of the autumn schedule, see Diario de Barcelona, 11 September 1888, p. 11211. A specific chronicle of events can be also found in the centennial volume: Comissió Ciutadana per a la Commemoració del Centenari de l’Exposció Universal de l’Any 1888, Exposició Universal de Barcelona. Llibre del centenari, 1888–1988 (Barcelona, 1988). Exposición Universal de Barcelona de 1888, Lista oficial de los premios (Barcelona, 1888). Estudios sobre la Exposición Universal de Barcelona inaugurada en 20 de mayo cerrada en 9 de Diciembre 1888 (Barcelona, 1888), p. 11. ‘The Barcelona Exhibition’, The Times, 26 April 1888, p. 5. Diario de Barcelona, 9 April 1888, p. 4515. ‘El triunfo’, El Barcelonés, 21 May 1888, p. 1. For the respective market share of city newspapers, see Jové i Campmajor, ‘Polémiques, expectatives’, p. 48. Silvino Tros i Codina, ‘Exposición Universal de Barcelona. Nuestra riqueza de plomos’, Diario de Barcelona, 8 August 1888, p. 9833. Diario de Barcelona, 18 May 1888, pp. 6288–89. ‘A propósito de un brindis’, La Publicidad, 9 April 1888, p. 1. Yxart, El año pasado, pp. 163–64. Ibid., pp. 164–65. ‘El sentido democrático y liberal de Cataluña’, El Diluvio, 13 May 1888, pp. 4039–40. These excerpts from La Nación were reprinted and rebutted in ‘La Exposición’, El Barcelonés, 28 June 1888, p. 1. Ibid.

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57. For a detailed analysis of the Centre and the Exhibition, see Josep Pich i Mitjana, El Centre Català. La primera associació política catalanista (1882–1894), pp. 251–56. 58. ‘Actitud inconseqüent’, La Veu del Centre Català, 10 March 1888, p. 130. 59. ‘Barcelona y los barcelonins’ La Veu del Centre Català, 3 March 1887, p. 124. 60. Ibid. 61. Cited in Pich i Mitjana, El Centre Català, p. 261. 62. Missatje a S.M. Donya Maria Cristina de Habsburg-Lorena, Reyna Regent D’Espanya, Comtesa de Barcelona (Barcelona, 1888), p. 4. 63. El Diluvio, 10 May 1888, p. 3943. 64. ‘Sin déficit’, El Diluvio, 18 December 1888, p. 10962; ‘La honra de Barcelona’, El Diluvio, 21 December 1888, pp. 11075–76. 65. El Diluvio, 7 April 1888, p. 2841. 66. ‘La exposición’, El Diluvio, 6 December 1888, p. 10579. 67. ‘La exposición. IV’, El Diluvio, 9 December 1888, p. 10685. 68. ‘Exposició. Victoria lúgubre’, La Veu del Centre, 16 June 1888, p. 203. 69. ‘The Barcelona Exhibition’, Birmingham Daily Post, 19 May 1888. The English exhibit was the largest in the Machine Pavilion, covering more than 1000 square meters. The next largest were Spain (more than 800 square meters), and Germany (478 square meters). Catálogo general oficial (Barcelona, 1888), pp. 96–97. 70. ‘The Barcelona Exhibition’, The Times, 6 May 1888, p. 8. 71. For Mexico, see Tenorio-Trillo, Mexico at the World’s Fairs, pp. 15–63. 72. Greenhalgh notes that Great Britain sponsored Indian Palaces at the major European exhibitions between 1851 and 1878, and then constructed 24 palaces between 1886 and 1939. Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vistas, p. 59. 73. Catálogo general oficial, p. 98. 74. C. Gumá, Guía cómica de la Exposició Universal de Barcelona (Barcelona, 1888), pp. 61, 94. I have not attempted to translate the quote into verse. 75. La Esquella de Torratxa, 14 April 1888, p. 236; 28 April 1888, p. 247; 26 May 1888, p. 247; 23 June 1888, p. 387; 30 June 1888, p. 409; 29 September 1888, p. 613; 24 November 1888, p. 749. 76. La Esquella de Torratxa, 14 April 1888, p. 231; 21 April 1888, p. 256; 9 June 1888, p. 263; 27 October 1888, p. 685. 77. La Esquella de Torratxa, 26 May 1888, p. 334; 17 November 1888, p. 733; 8 December 1888, p. 779; 22 December 1888, pp. 803, 805; 29 December 1888, p. 821. 78. At the Palace of Industry, each country occupied the following amount of space (in square meters). Spain (16,4000 square meters), France (6600), Germany (2200), Austria (2200), England (1600), Italy (1600), Belgium (1600), United States and Canada (1400), Hungary (1100), Latin American Republics (700), Turkey (500), Japan (300), China (150), Portugal (150), Sweden (150), Switzerland (150), Russia (140), Holland (120), Chile (100), Norway (90), Denmark (25). Japan constructed its own pavilion. See Catálogo general oficial, pp. 95–97. For some comments concerning the space occupied at the Machine Pavilion, see note 70 above. 79. ‘The Barcelona Exhibition’, The Times, 13 May 1888, p. 15.

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80. The official accounting figures, dated 22 March 1890, were reprinted in Lacal, El libro de honor, pp. 195–96. 81. I explain this in Stephen Jacobson, ‘Law and Nationalism in NineteenthCentury Europe: The Case of Catalonia in Comparative Perspective’, Law and History Review 20, no. 2 (Summer 2002), 307–47; and Catalan Advocates: Lawyers, Society, and Politics in Barcelona, 1759–1900 (Chapel Hill, 2009), pp. 227–38.

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4 An Urban Civilization: The Case of Municipal Autonomy in Belgian History 1830–1914 Maarten Van Ginderachter

‘La commune c’est toute la nation.’1 This aphorism summarizes the central importance of the local level (that is, of communes or municipalities) in Belgium’s history. One might even say that the country was founded on a municipal revolution, rather than a national one. During the Belgian Revolution of 1830, it was indeed the Brussels city council that formed a provisional government to establish a national authority.2 On 8 December 1830, the National Congress, the interim parliament, acknowledged this explicitly, stating its desire ‘to consolidate the victory of Brussels by rallying to it the interests of all municipalities’.3 Politically, the crucial role of local government was translated in the notion of municipal autonomy or liberty (autonomie/liberté communale, gemeentelijke autonomie/vrijheid); a key principle of Belgian political life. In its restricted sense, municipal autonomy refers to the institutional relationship between municipalities and central government, to their degree of independence from control by higher authorities. But the concept also has a more metaphorical, symbolic meaning, referring to the urban heritage of Belgium. Historically, the region was the most densely populated and most urbanized area of Europe. In 1550, 22.7 per cent of the population lived in cities with at least 10,000 inhabitants. At the time, this was the highest rate of urbanization in the whole of Europe (compared to 15.3 per cent in the Netherlands, 15.1 per cent in Northern Italy, 8.6 per cent in Spain, 4.3 per cent in France, 3.8 per cent in Germany and 3.5 per cent in England and Wales). In the ensuing centuries Belgium lost its lead, but it was still in the European vanguard in 1850 with an urban population of 20.5 per cent (compared to 32.5 per cent in the British Isles, 29.5 per cent in the Netherlands, 110

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20.3 per cent in Italy, 17.3 per cent in Spain, 14.5 per cent in France and 10.8 per cent in Germany).4 Consequently, the local, municipal level was almost naturally imagined as urban. Municipal, urban autonomy became one of the pillars of the Belgian grand narrative that historians developed during the nineteenth century, culminating in Belgium’s foremost historian Henri Pirenne (1862–1935). Pirenne famously defined the Belgian medieval civilization as a decidedly urban culture of independent trading cities that were jealous of their freedoms and abhorred both foreign rule and despotic interference. The Belgian ‘national character’ was considered to be deeply ingrained with this mentality. This Pirennist reading remains influential to this day. The central argument of this chapter is that municipal autonomy in its dual (institutional and symbolic) meaning had both a strengthening and weakening impact on processes of national identification. On the one hand, it functioned as an institutional safety valve that relieved the pressure from ideological and socio-economic conflicts that could have threatened the unity of the nation. Liberal city authorities, for instance, could follow their own agenda under a hostile Catholic government and vice versa. The municipal level also played a crucial role in alleviating the tensions of democratization, with the communes acting as a laboratory for electoral reform. Symbolically, the patriotic trope of municipal autonomy – the idea that freedom-loving Belgians jealous of their cities’ independence had withstood foreign princes since time immemorial – could unify the nation. Indeed, one of the problems Belgian historians were confronted with in the early nineteenth century was the diversity of the urban landscape that had existed in the Southern Netherlands. Imposing continuity and uniformity on this often turbulent past, they presented love of freedom and abhorrence of foreign rule and despotic interference as the golden threads of Belgium’s history. The evident differences between the towns and principalities were subsumed under the headings of ‘unity through diversity’ and of ‘municipal autonomy’. As such, they prefigured modern Belgium’s union despite the differences between catholics and anti-clericals and Flemings and Walloons. On the other hand, municipal autonomy may have undermined the state’s capacity to harness differences within the nation as it provided local interests with an institutional outlet to ignore or circumvent national policies. On the symbolical level, the idea that urban independence and resistance against central intrusion were typically Belgian traits was a unifying myth with an inherent weakness. Indeed, it could easily turn into its own opposite – in other words, an eminently patriotic excuse to justify division and to escape the state’s nationalizing

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reach. I hypothesize that in the long run municipal autonomy – in combination with a very liberal interpretation of the state’s duties, the limited nature of patriotic initiatives in civil society and the gradual rise of a competing Flemish identity – may have diluted the diffusion of the Belgian imagined community even before the First World War. After a short introduction to Belgium in the long nineteenth century (which began with the breakdown of the Ancien Regime in the late 1780s and lasted until the beginning of the First World War), the role of municipal autonomy and the relationship between central state and city in Belgian historiography will be discussed. Subsequently, I will develop my hypothesis concerning the role of municipal autonomy in national identification processes.

The Belgian nation in the long nineteenth century The ‘modern’ Belgian nation took shape in the late eighteenth century, when elites in the different principalities of the Southern Netherlands jointly began to protest against the efforts at modernization made by the Habsburg Emperor.5 While the ancien régime concept of patria denoted allegiance to one’s sovereign, the new patriotism involved loyalty towards civic virtues, freedom, the constitution, the Catholic religion and the notion of an inalienable Belgian territory. For the first time in history the vocable belge – the Belgian vocabulary – began to refer roughly to what we today call ‘Belgium’. Previously, the Latin Belgium or French Belgique did not exclusively refer to the Southern Netherlands (the Dutch term België did not even become common until after 1830). Before the late eighteenth century, Belgium and Belgique were still synonymous with the whole of the Low Countries as they had existed before the Spanish revolt. After the period of French rule between 1795 and 1814, the European powers ‘amalgamated’ Belgium into the Dutch Republic – or, rather, what was now a monarchy under the house of Orange: the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. This attempt to re-establish the Low Countries failed when Belgium seceded in 1830. At that moment French – spoken in Wallonia, the south of the country, and by the elites across the linguistic border – became the sole language of state, although more than half of the population used a Flemish dialect of Dutch. Against this background, from 1835 onwards, the Flemish movement arose, intent on protecting Flemish vernacular culture. Originally the movement was Belgian nationalist and it campaigned to strengthen the fatherland. The so-called flamingants (the supporters of the Flemish movement) believed

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that Belgium needed a healthy Flemish population to protect it from French annexation. This acute fear of France alleviated in the last quarter of the nineteenth century after the French defeat by Germany in 1871. Concomitantly, the Flemish movement’s Belgian patriotic enthusiasm dwindled as a result of disenchantment with the slow development of language legislation. Scholars have generally agreed, however, that Belgian unity did not become seriously challenged until after the First World War when Flemish nationalism turned anti-Belgian.6

The city and the state in Belgian historiography: the issue of municipal autonomy There is a considerable literature on the institutional history of the relationship between cities and the state – that is, between centralization and municipal autonomy – in nineteenth-century Belgium.7 One of the moot issues in the scholarly debate is how deeply the central government could intervene in daily life to diffuse a sense of Belgian nationhood among its citizens. On the French and the Dutch periods a consensus obtains. During the French annexation of the Southern Netherlands (1795–1814), it is agreed that a far-reaching centralization abolished the ancien régime autonomy of cities, doing away with their political rights as electors in the Estates-General and their fiscal-financial independence (although the latter measure was quickly revoked because of the financial difficulties of the central government). The juridical prerogatives of cities were all repealed and their formal status equalized with that of small and rural towns. Central government strictly controlled these municipalities. All local personnel – the mayor, his adjuncts, the members of the municipal council and administration – were appointed by the state. In the United Kingdom of the Netherlands (1815–30) cities regained their franchise to elect representatives to the provincial Estates and some of their juridical prerogatives, but it was not a return to their ancien régime independence. For instance, the King could appoint a mayor who was not elected to the municipal council, while rural municipalities were completely subject to the supervision of higher authority.8 It is generally agreed that between 1795 and 1830 a host of unpopular government measures – such as taxation and conscription under the French, and autocratic royal rule in political and religious matters under the Dutch – undermined the possible nationalizing effects of centralization. The degree of centralization in the newly founded Belgian state, however, has been subject to scholarly dissent. It is clear that

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the municipalities had a dual function from the very start: they administered local affairs and acted as agents of the central government. But which function prevailed is open to debate. Els Witte, one of Belgium’s most influential contemporary historians, has stressed the impact of central government. According to Witte, the liberal founders of Belgium – being the intellectual heirs to the ideals of the French Revolution – were in favour of a centralized unitary state with ‘one single political centre’ that ‘compensate[d] for the disintegration of traditional centres of power’.9 In the words of J. B. Nothomb, one of those founding fathers, ‘decentralizing Belgium was tantamount to denationalizing her’.10 One of the measures meant to counter localist tendencies was the abolishment of cities’ right to be directly represented in parliament. Nothomb consequently called the national Chamber of Representatives ‘the personification of Belgium, which can only be a power through unity, through centralisation’.11 The municipal authorities, Witte wrote, ‘became the basic administrative units of the state, were delegated tasks that were co-ordinated by Brussels, and were given in fact very little real power. Their (elected) mayors were the links by which they were incorporated into the centralized system.’12 A majority of scholars however have characterized Belgium as a unitary, but decentralized state. According to Léon Dupriez, professor of comparative constitutional government at the University of Leuven after the First World War, Belgium was ‘unquestionably the most decentralized country of all on the European continent’.13 Carl Strikwerda, an American historian renowned for his expertise of nineteenth century Belgium, also argued that the country took a distinctly different path from the Netherlands and France, which ‘all imposed more centralized rule’.14 In the scholarly dispute about centralization versus municipal autonomy, I tend towards the latter. To my mind, there are four misconceptions on the part of those supporting the heavy centralization thesis: firstly, they tend to focus overly on the centralizing policies of the new state in the economic and industrial domains; secondly, they compare nineteenth-century municipal autonomy with the independent cities of the ancien régime and not to the contemporary situation in other Western European countries; thirdly, they overestimate the impact of the French republican tradition on Belgian state formation; while, fourthly, underestimating the distrust of the state that was traditionally widespread within Belgium. First of all, the Belgian state generally acted as a ‘night watchman’, that is, a classic liberal state with minimal functions. The areas where it

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was more active were the economy and the industrial sector. The state intervened directly to create a unified economic space by abolishing the octroi (the consumption tax several historic cities could autonomously raise), by establishing free trade treaties with neighbouring countries, by founding the National Bank of Belgium and by creating a dense transport network. Belgium was indeed one of the few countries in Europe where private initiative played a subordinate role in the building and managing of the railway network. The aim was to reduce transport costs to make Belgian heavy industrial exports competitive. Moreover, the state’s interventions clearly favoured employers against workers. For instance, indirect taxes on consumption disproportionately taxed the masses, representing 63.2 per cent of the state’s fiscal revenue in 1840 and 75 per cent in 1912.15 Outside these sectors, the Belgian state was not a particularly zealous centralizer. Of course, vis-à-vis the ancien régime situation, the central state did limit local autonomy; it introduced a more unified and rational juridical and administrative system and intervened more directly in daily life. The old fiscal and political autonomy of cities and their juridical superiority in comparison with rural communes, which had been reintroduced in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, were abolished. Moreover, the new Belgian constitution explicitly stipulated in article 32 that members of parliament represented the nation as a whole and not any particularist interest, be that provincial or municipal. Secondly, Belgium was indeed founded as a unitary state in which the ancien régime jurisdictions remained abolished. This fact alone, however, does not amount to proof of a strong political centre imposing its centralization agenda on its administrative and/or historical subunits.16 Compared to neighbouring countries, the municipal level retained a significant number of responsibilities. Article 41 of the Belgian constitution consecrated the principle of local autonomy, stating that all exclusively municipal and provincial matters were to be dealt with by their respective authorities. The Municipal Act of 1836 confirmed this high degree of institutional autonomy. Six years later, a new Municipal Act was passed, partly at the insistence of Leopold I, who – being a fierce champion of (royal) centralization – likened the principle of municipal autonomy to anarchy.17 The Act of 1842 enabled the King to appoint burgomasters from outside the municipal council. Yet this did not dramatically undermine the independence of local government as all municipal decisions still had to be reached by consensus in the municipal executive – the so-called collège, which included aldermen chosen from within the municipal council as well as the burgomaster.

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According to Dupriez, the joint responsibility of the collège explains why the municipal level was more resistant to central control in Belgium than in France, where ‘all the powers and functions of administrative regulation, in the commune, belong to the mayor alone’. In Belgium the consensual model provided a better guarantee against central intrusion because the collège was less prone to give in to the pressure of a superior authority than an individual.18 In this respect it is striking that the French word for mayor in Belgium was never ‘maire’, but ‘bourgmestre’, in order to differentiate Belgium from France and its centralizing policies.19 Moreover, the direct supervisory level of the communes (departmental in France, provincial in Belgium) was less intrusive in Belgium. In France the prefect was a more emphatic representative of central government in a tradition of stronger ‘imperial’ power.20 The communes in Belgium had a large and relatively autonomous playing field. ‘Belgian towns kept a great many powers, including local taxation, subsidies to schools, churches and charitable groups, and control of the police and the militia.’21 The central state ‘was only responsible for national defence, diplomacy, law and order and security. All other public attributions belonged to the jurisdiction of the municipalities as long as – in the spirit of the time – private initiative did not take care of them.’ There were many private institutions in civil society that fulfilled tasks of public interest such as the provision of hospitals, welfare bureaux and church schools, but as collective needs expanded beyond the reach of private institutions, so did the municipal responsibilities. It was only when the ‘night watchman state’ was gradually replaced by a welfare state after the First World War that a shift occurred from the municipal to the national level.22 In the nineteenth century, it was progressive municipalities that tackled pressing social needs, fought rising cost of living, established minimum wages in public works and founded unemployment funds. Thirdly, the exaggeration of the young Belgian state’s centralizing will is part of a tradition that overestimates the impact of the French republican tradition on Belgian state formation. Especially among Flemish nationalists, many believe that an overly centralizing Belgian state waged a cultural war against the Flemish in imitation of the French Republic’s supposedly negative attitude towards the petites patries.23 In Belgium, while there was indeed an important French influence, such influence was only one of many and not necessarily the most consequential. The Belgian constitution, for instance, was an eclectic patchwork, incorporating French, British and Dutch influences. Forty per cent

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of the articles were almost directly derived from the constitution of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, 45 per cent from French texts (the 1830 Charte constitutionnelle, the 1814 Charte octroyée and the 1791 constitution) and 5 per cent from British practices. Only the remaining 10 per cent was considered to be truly original.24 The constitution, however, did have a more pronounced British character (a bicameral system, monarchy, checks and balances, ministerial responsibility, suffrage for the propertied classes) through considerable British influence on the Dutch constitution of 1815 and the French of 1830.25 Moreover, a majority of Belgian founding fathers abhorred Rousseau’s interpretation of liberalism with its emphasis on the general will (volonté générale) and its implied need for centralization of state power. The Belgian political system as it was engineered in 1830–31 has even been called ‘nation-less’ because it did not purport to represent the one and indivisible will of the nation, but rather the widest possible array of individual and collective interests in society that had to be safeguarded. In sum, the Belgian liberal state model resembled the British more than the French, particularly where municipal autonomy was concerned.26 Indeed, the need for national unity was not debated in terms of a strengthening of central power, which was the exact opposite of France, where the Revolution had clearly impressed the idea that local liberty and decentralization were incompatible with national unity.27 Fourthly, the tension between centralization and municipal autonomy that was present at the founding of Belgium was very often resolved in favour of the latter during the nineteenth century. A crucial role was played by a strong tradition of decentralization, sometimes bordering on anti-state sentiment, which had survived the breakdown of the ancien régime. The strong imprint of Counter-Reformation catholicism and the fact that the Southern Netherlands had for centuries been the extreme periphery of larger states, such as Spain, Austria and France, account for a weak centralizing tradition. As a result of the Counter-Reformation, the Church had gained a central position in the administration of basic social services, especially education and welfare. An absence of religious pluralism prevented the state or other secular authorities from developing into an autonomous overarching arbiter, as was the case in the Dutch Republic. The Belgian constitution essentially respected this state of affairs.28 Moreover, the negative memories of the recent centralization attempts of Emperor Joseph II, the last Austrian ruler of the Southern Netherlands, and those during the period of French annexation and in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands strongly influenced the state order of independent Belgium.

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The result was that in 1830 a majority in both Catholic and liberal public opinion did not favour a strong centralizing state. Consequently, the compromise between liberals and catholics on which the country was founded consecrated the (relative) withdrawal of the state from the public domain in the name of freedom. That way liberals obtained a liberal-democratic constitution that sanctioned the separation between state and Church, but, in exchange, the catholics did not have to fear a strong, pervasive laic state and they could retain their grip on society through their social institutions thanks to the freedoms of religion and education.29 For instance, the constitution prohibited any restriction on the Catholic initiative to found schools.30 All in all, a certain aloofness towards the central state was ingrained in the Belgian constitution and municipal autonomy was one of the ways this manifested itself. However, at the end of the 1850s practical attitudes towards centralization changed somewhat. In the first quarter century of Belgium’s independence, the country was governed by joint Catholic–liberal governments. These were called ‘unionist’ in the spirit of the concerted resistance against William I of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. In 1857, however, the unionist era ended. The power struggle between catholics and liberals at the national level introduced a more pragmatic attitude towards centralization and municipal autonomy. The party in power at the national level sometimes tried to establish more central control, with the other clinging to municipal autonomy. This would create serious conflicts up to the First World War, but it did not stop Belgium from being the most laissez-faire state of nineteenth-century Europe, as Janet Polasky, an American specialist on Belgian history, has argued.31 Thus far I have surveyed the literature that addresses the institutional link between the state and the city in the form of centralization or municipal autonomy. Their impact on processes of national identification is the theme of the next section.

Municipal autonomy and national identification processes Since the 1990s and the breakthrough of constructivist and modernist notions in Belgian research on nationalism, scholars have been paying more attention to the multiple ways in which national and urban identities interacted during the nineteenth century. Older local allegiances were framed and reshaped within the new nationalist context. The prince-bishopric of Liège, for instance, which had been outside the state structures of the Southern Netherlands for centuries, became

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integrated into the Belgian space during the French period. Its ‘historical absence’ was reinvented as a sign of true Belgian patriotism and Liège, with its particularist heritage, became a paragon of the true Belgian love of freedom.32 Yet, historians still have much ground to cover. How centralization and municipal autonomy have affected the diffusion of national consciousness throughout Belgian society has remained a relatively neglected theme. The interaction between urban life and national identification processes begs many questions as well. For instance, to what extent was the Belgian nation accepted in peripheral towns? How did Belgian and Flemish nationalism interact with nineteenthcentury urban development? How did the construction of Belgianness and Flemishness connect to divergent evolutions in cities, small towns and the countryside?33 As to the question of municipal autonomy and national identification, the answers thus far provided can be divided into three categories. Those in favour of the strong centralization thesis argue that the state’s apparatus was relatively successful in impressing a clear sense of national belonging on the population.34 Among those supporting the high institutional degree of municipal autonomy two lines of argument exist. A minority holds that prior to the First World War municipal autonomy and a highly developed sense of localism were obstacles to national integration.35 Most, however, argue the opposite, invoking two reasons. First, Belgium’s early industrialization, the firm grip of the Brussels ‘high finance’ on the financial running of the country and its precociously dense communication space compensated for ‘weak’ centralization. The country was even in the European vanguard when it came to turning peasants into Belgians.36 Second, as I have already noted, municipal autonomy is at the symbolic heart of the Belgian national narrative. Urban decentralization and local particularisms are considered to be typically Belgian traits that give Belgians a self-evident sense of unity, a train of reasoning which constitutes to my mind a form of circular logic. In the knowledge that the relationship between centralization, municipal autonomy and national identification is a contested issue and that there are still many research gaps, the remainder of this chapter will offer some hypotheses that can serve as a foil for future research. I will propose an alternative reading of nineteenth-century nation-building in Belgium based on my own research and following the cue of some recent publications that have drawn scholarly attention to ethno-nationalist currents within the Flemish movement prior to the First World War.37 This ‘revisionism’ departs from the broadly accepted view, embodied by Lode Wils, the éminence grise of nationalism scholars in Belgium, that the

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German Flamenpolitik planted the seed of anti-Belgian rancour within the extreme wing of the Flemish movement during the Great War. I hypothesize that municipal autonomy – in both its institutional and symbolic meanings – had a contradictory impact on processes of national identification. It at once strengthened and undermined the nation. In the long run, however, municipal autonomy may have weakened Belgian nationhood because it was embedded in the broader context of a non-interventionist state and an ideologically polarized civil society that left ample space for the growth of a competing (Flemish) sub-state identity. Let us start with the ambiguous impact of municipal autonomy on national unity. On the one hand, it protected the nation from breaking apart over harsh ideological and socio-economic conflicts at the national level, by offering the ‘losers’ local relief. Shortly after 1830, one of the Belgian revolutionaries, the early socialist Adolphe Bartels, explicitly summarized this view: ‘Municipal liberty is a guarantee for minorities, offering them a sphere of independence.’38 This was especially true after the end of the ‘unionist’ governments in 1857. During the period of liberal cabinets (1857–70) and the long reign of Catholic government (1884–1914), the party out of power could find solace at the local level. It could set out its own policies in the cities and provinces where it held an electoral majority, almost as a substitute for central power. The municipalities also functioned as a safety valve or, to put it differently, as a laboratory for democratization. The extension of the franchise was first enacted locally, where new groups of voters could gradually learn how to use their newly conquered rights. In 1871, for instance, the electoral tax for municipal suffrage was lowered to ten francs. At that moment only 7 per cent of all adult males were entitled to vote for parliament, against 25 per cent for the municipal council. The latter figure even rose to 48 per cent with the extension of the vote to all men with a certificate of primary education in 1883.39 The result was that large cities usually had a more democratic representation at the municipal than at the national level. The impact, however, of suffrage extensions on processes of national identification is ambiguous. Marnix Beyen, for instance, has argued that the central state underused the unifying potential of elections. It did not seize them as a medium to promote an ‘impartial’ sense of nationhood. Instead it left the instrumentalization of elections to the parties and their partisan interpretation of the nation.40 On the other hand, municipal autonomy could undermine the state’s capacity to harness differences within the nation. Firstly, the attempts of the central government to limit municipal autonomy or to control

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local authorities put a serious strain on the nation’s unity, creating huge political crises. The area of education provided an especially raucous battleground. As a result of the compromise on which Belgium was founded, the central state had largely withdrawn from the field of education and left it to the discretion of private (mainly Catholic) and municipal initiative. When the liberal government tried to gain control over the schools and attempted to limit municipal autonomy in education, a harsh School War broke out between 1878–84, amounting to a state of latent civil war. The ensuing mass mobilization of Catholic forces contributed to the thirty years of catholic domination in national government. The centralizing tendencies of the liberal School Act of 1878 were immediately revoked on the Catholics’ return to power in 1884. The municipal authorities were left free to decide whether they would organize official primary education or whether they would ‘adopt’ an existing ‘free’ (in most cases Catholic) school, which would then receive official funding. The catholic School Act of 1895 reintroduced a certain measure of centralization in that it allowed the national government to offer direct funding to those free (Catholic) schools that local anti-clerical authorities refused to adopt and subsidize. Of course, socialists and liberals vociferously decried this measure.41 In the same year, the Municipal Act was adapted. With the so-called ‘law of the 4 infamies’, the Catholic government tried to counter the democratic effects of the 1894 introduction of general plural suffrage for national elections by introducing new restrictions on municipal suffrage. The electoral age barrier was raised by five years to thirty, the obligatory period of residence in a municipality was extended to three years and house owners and rural dwellers received an additional vote. Overall, the municipal electorate was made 20 per cent smaller than the parliamentary electorate, with peaks of 37 per cent in urbanized regions.42 This is a clear example of how a party in the national government opportunistically tried to limit municipal autonomy in an attempt to weaken its opponents locally. Secondly, there was a possibly divisive downside to the compensatory working of municipal involvement. ‘Pillarization’, for instance, was inaugurated at the municipal level by the Ghent socialists as a response to their exclusion from national government. The concept of pillarization refers to the vertical, class-cutting compartmentalization of Belgian society into separate ideological communities (pillars) that completely covered the social needs of their members with a host of institutions like unions, mutual aid societies, consumer cooperatives, sports and leisure clubs. The self-contained world the Ghent socialists

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created around their cooperative Vooruit (Forward) was explicitly meant to be a state within a state. Through political pressure and alliances they succeeded in 1900 in having their and their adversaries’ union unemployment payments subsidized by the municipality. This ‘Ghent system’ proved to be crucial in the development of ‘subsidised freedom’ (liberté subsidiée) at the national level. This involved the state creating social legislation but leaving the practical realization to the private sector, providing government funding for private initiatives which were in fact state responsibilities.43 ‘This policy led to a unique Belgian situation: services, which in most other countries were undertaken by the state, were carried out by private organizations with community funds.’44 ‘Subsidised freedom’ actively stimulated pillarization, which may have weakened national unity – although opinions on this diverge. Jan Erk, for one, attributed the drifting apart of Catholic Flanders and anti-clerical Wallonia to the process of pillarization, which gave a permanent and more profound character to transient electoral tensions.45 Guy Vanschoenbeek, by contrast, saw membership of a ‘pillar’ as conducive to supra-local, national identifications.46 It is my view that given the central state’s minimal responsibilities (as explained above), municipal autonomy may have combined with pillarization to handicap the nationalizing potential of the Belgian state in spite of the dense well-connected networks within the country. A high and early degree of industrialization and the central government’s economic programme (doing away with internal barriers and creating better communications) did indeed create a precocious unified communication space within Belgium’s limited territory. This meant that an important formal prerequisite for turning peasants into Belgians was present at a relatively early stage. Moreover, the leading francophone elites did engage eagerly in various nation-building activities. Yet, due to their non-interventionist ideology, they did not bring the full weight of the state to bear and did not aim their efforts at the population at large. Well into the nineteenth century, their offensive was restricted to the informed, enfranchised and well-off citizen who knew French. Even when patriotic impulses from within civil society were focused on the masses, they generally could not compensate for the state’s limited nationalization policies. The ideological conflict made Catholics, liberals and socialists emphasize other values than the fatherland, or rather they defined patriotism in such a partisan way that its unifying potential across the ideological divide was reduced. Catholic primary education is a case in point.

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The central state failed to use the schools (and also the army) to instil patriotism in its citizens. Belgium’s primary education system was weak. Child labour rates remained high. The first legislation restricting child labour was only introduced in 1889 (compared to 1839 in Prussia and 1841 in France). Through the constitutionally guaranteed freedom of education, the Catholic Church could found its own schools, and through the principle of municipal autonomy it could gain control over municipal schools outside the large liberal urban centres. The result was that the church was able virtually to monopolize primary education in the nineteenth century.47 Its educational project for the popular classes could be summarized in one word: catechism. This accounts for the low educational level of the general population before the First World War. Around 1900, for every 1,000 conscripts there were 101 who were unable to read and write (against 47 in France, 23 in the Netherlands and 5 in Germany).48 Liberals tolerated this since the Belgian export industry was based on the massive input of underpaid and undereducated workers. It was only in the last third of the nineteenth century that progressive liberals started to campaign for decent public primary education, a cause that was also taken up by the socialists. Yet, a law on obligatory schooling was only passed on the eve of the Great War. Neither did the army function as an effective school of the nation. It was generally disdained because of the draft lottery and the practice by which richer individuals could pay someone to take their place. General personal military service was only introduced between 1909 and 1913. The symbolic appeal of municipal autonomy – the ostensibly typical Belgian local resistance to central power – was also limited. Undoubtedly, Belgian nationalism at times permeated the discourse of urban dignitaries, but the principles of unity in diversity and of municipal autonomy were often invoked to escape the interference of central government and they could easily turn into a patriotic excuse to justify particularist self-interest.49 Even in Brussels – which associated itself extremely closely to the Belgian nation-building project – invoking municipal autonomy was the way to further local and even parochial interests over the greater good.50 Shortly before the First World War, for instance, there were plans to fuse the different communes of the Brussels agglomération into one large municipality. Although this was in the interest of better administration, most local politicians opposed it with the argument that the project was incompatible with ‘the considerable powers our national tradition confers to the municipal authority’.51 The nation, as it were, was invoked to fend off the nation.

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Another example of the limited patriotic rallying potential of the myth of municipal autonomy was the abolition in 1860 of the octroi, the consumption tax several historic cities could autonomously raise (in Ghent, for instance, the octroi was responsible for two-thirds of the city’s revenue in the period 1840–50, in Antwerp for 90 per cent52 ). The abolition meant the end of municipal fiscal autonomy and the reinforcement of central power and state fiscal authority. From that moment on, municipal financing depended on the central government’s redistribution of state tax proceeds. At the same time, it was also a step towards an open market economy by doing away with the internal customs barriers.53 In 1849, when the government launched the first abolition proposal, several city councils rejected it because it impinged on municipal autonomy. The Ghent council voted it down with 17 votes against two abstentions, arguing that it is of paramount importance to our nationality that the Belgian nation retains its traditional and historic character, the mark that distinguishes it from other nations; Our country is the true country of municipal freedoms [ . . . ] One can say, if one is so inclined, that this is parochial patriotism, but we, we say that parochial patriotism and even homestead patriotism, are the most solid bases of national patriotism. Importantly, the council stressed that its rejection was not a token of distrust towards central authority, nor did it insinuate that the government was behaving unpatriotically.54 Eleven years later, those exact same Ghent councillors welcomed the abolition of the octroi as a true blessing for the nation. The town council even sent a congratulatory address to the government claiming: ‘That this abolition by facilitating all the relations between the diverse parts of the country, will tighten the links of national unity even more.’ Municipal autonomy was not mentioned at all.55 What had changed? In the intervening decade, several middle-class groups that suffered from the octroi because it artificially raised food prices had gradually been able to bring more pressure on their municipal representatives as a result of the lowering of the voting tax in 1848.56 On top of that the government had worked out a favourable system to compensate for the loss of municipal taxes. It seemed that the ideal of the age-old Belgian municipal autonomy was not so much a nationalist mobilizing myth as a flexible opportunistic argument to be deployed according to the needs of the moment.

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Conclusion Municipal autonomy was a central principle in nineteenth-century Belgium. In its institutional meaning it refers to the degree of local autonomy towards central intrusion, but it also has a more symbolic sense linked to Belgium’s urban heritage. One of the key myths of nineteenth-century Belgium was the resistance of its cities against foreign princes and centralization. In this chapter I have argued that municipal autonomy in its dual incarnation at once strengthened and weakened national unity, with the latter possibly prevailing in the long run. First, municipal autonomy relieved the pressure resulting from non-participation in the national government by granting the opposition a high degree of municipal leverage. For instance, during the long reign of Catholic governments between 1884 and 1914, liberals and socialists could steer their own course in the municipal councils they controlled. Moreover, one of the most pressing political issues of the nineteenth century – suffrage extension – was partly defused by extending the municipal vote to new groups of voters. Second, municipal autonomy was used by local governments to escape the central state’s reach. This may have diluted the diffusion of Belgian nationhood during the nineteenth century and created a space for a competing (Flemish) identity given the overall context of the Belgian system. I hypothesize that the state did not take full advantage of the highly and early developed communication and transport network to turn peasants into Belgians. As a result of the anti-centralizing tradition in the Southern Netherlands and of the Catholic–liberal compromise on which Belgium was founded, the ruling elites were firm believers in minimal state intrusion, something which was reflected in the relative weakness of two classic nation builders: primary education and the army. The elite’s relative indifference towards citizens’ schooling was linked to the outlook of Belgium’s export industries as productivity gains were largely based on the massive input of lowly paid and uneducated labourers. Finally, patriotic campaigns emanating from within civil society and directed towards the masses could not completely compensate for the state’s limited initiatives in spreading patriotism among the popular classes. The ideological conflict between liberals, Catholics and socialists that would climax in the process of pillarization made each of these groups stress their own values rather than an overarching sense of patriotism when addressing the masses. Catholic primary education, which was the uncontested market leader in the Belgian schooling

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system, is a case in point. Its main aim throughout the nineteenth century was to form committed catholics rather than good patriots or citizens. Let me be clear about the implications of my argument. Evidently, identification processes are no zero-sum equations in which one group identity completely supersedes the other. Local, regional and national identities are not mutually exclusive and they can coalesce in a number of ways with other sources of collective loyalty (gender, religion, etc.). In this process identities are (re)shaped and reinforced by one another. More concretely, I mean that different ideological (Catholic, liberal, socialist and so on) interpretations of Belgian nationhood need not have hindered the growth of a truly unifying sense of Belgianness, and that there was never a monolithic conflict between Belgian nationhood and Flemish ethnicity (indeed, their nineteenth-century symbiosis has been convincingly attested). I do, however, propose two adjustments to the accepted scholarly interpretation of nation-building in Belgium. First, I contend that among the popular classes a sense of Belgian nationhood was slow to arise, perhaps as late as the First World War and slower in any case than one could expect of such an industrially precocious and well-connected nation. Second, I argue that the imbrication of the Flemish movement and Belgian nationalism prior to 1914 has been overestimated. Already before the Great War there were signs within Flemish society of an ethno-nationalist aversion to the Belgian state because it allegedly embraced a ‘foreign’ (French) culture. It should be emphasized that this ‘revisionism’ is not a complete reversal of scholarly interpretations as they stand, but merely a fine-tuning of our knowledge to new empirical findings and theoretical frameworks. The Great War and the German Flamenpolitik are not absolute caesura that created an anti-Belgian sense of Flemish ethnicity ex nihilo. Yet the First World War does retain the same central position it held in the old interpretation in explaining the rise of anti-Belgian Flemish nationalism. Indeed, the Flemish ethno-nationalist potential that did exist was not sufficiently politicized before 1914 to spawn a separatist form of nationalism. It had no concrete political meaning and remained in the realm of romantic stereotyping. The Great War, and especially the collaboration of a flamingant fringe and the (perceived) linguistic discrimination of Flemish soldiers at the front, created the conditions for the politicization of Flemish ethno-cultural beliefs. Of course, more research is needed to examine the hypothesis that municipal autonomy in the long run may have hindered the nationalization of the masses during the nineteenth century. This is but a

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part of a more ambitious research programme for the future: one that would investigate processes of national identification in the middlesized towns that made up the majority of the Belgian urban landscape during the long nineteenth century.

Notes 1. A member of the Belgian parliament in 1946 quoted by Marcel Van Audenhove, ‘L’autonomie communale’, in Het openbaar initiatief van de gemeenten in Belgïe 1795–1940/L’initiative publique des communes en Belgique 1795–1940 (Bruxelles, 1986), pp. 69–83, 69. 2. Els Witte, ‘The Formation of a Centre in Belgium: The Role of Brussels in the Formative Stage of the Belgian State (1830–40)’, European History Quarterly, 19: 4 (1989), pp. 435–68, 439. 3. Quoted in ibid., p. 444. 4. J. De Vries, European Urbanization, 1500–1800 (London, 1984), pp. 39, 45. 5. Sébastien Dubois, L’invention de la Belgique. Genèse d’un État-Nation (Bruxelles, 2005); Johannes Koll, Die belgische Nation: Patriotismus und Nationalbewusstsein in den Südlichen Niederlanden im späten 18. Jahrhundert (Münster, 2003); Lode Wils, Van Clovis tot Di Rupo: de lange weg van de naties in de Lage Landen (Leuven, 2005). 6. On Belgium’s so-called ‘nationalities’ problem’ in the long nineteenth century, see Kas Deprez and Louis Vos (eds), Nationalism in Belgium: Shifting Identities, 1780–1995 (Basingstoke, 1998); Jean Stengers and Eliane Gubin, Le grand siècle de la nationalité belge: de 1830 à 1918. Histoire du sentiment national en Belgique des origines à 1918. Tome 2 (Bruxelles, 2002); Wils, Van Clovis tot Di Rupo; Els Witte, Jean-Pierre Nandrin, Eliane Gubine and Gita Deneckere, Nouvelle histoire de Belgique. Volume 1, 1830–1905 (Bruxelles, 2005). 7. See the survey of nineteenth-century legislation on the issue compared to the situation in the US in: Léon Dupriez, ‘Local Government in Belgium’, The American Political Science Review, 14: 3 (1920), pp. 408–22. 8. See Adolphe Bartels, Documents historiques sur la révolution belge (Bruxelles, 1836), pp. 409–14; Louis Malvoz, ‘De plaatselijke instellingen in België van het einde van het ancien régime tot de gemeentewet van 1836’, Gemeentekrediet van België. Driemaandelijks tijdschrift, 40: 158 (1986), pp. 5–64, 19; Paul Orianne, ‘Les structures administratives de la commune de 1836 à 1940’, in Het openbaar initiatief van de gemeenten in Belgïe 1795–1940/ L’initiative publique des communes en Belgique 1795–1940 (Bruxelles, 1986), pp. 37–68, 39. 9. Witte, ‘The Formation of a Centre in Belgium’, p. 436. 10. Quoted in ibid., p. 437. 11. Quoted in ibid., p. 440. 12. Ibid., pp. 444–45. 13. Dupriez, ‘Local Government in Belgium’, p. 412. 14. Carl Strikwerda, A House Divided: Catholics, Socialists, and Flemish Nationalists in Nineteenth-Century Belgium (Lanham, MD, 1997), p. 29. 15. Guy Vanthemsche, De paradoxen van de staat. Staat en vrije markt in historisch perspectief (Brussel, 1998), pp. 71–83.

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16. See on this topic: Daniel Ziblatt, Structuring the State: The Formation of Italy and Germany and the Puzzle of Federalism (Princeton, NJ, 2006). 17. Philippe Raxhon, ‘Mémoire de la Révolution française de 1789 et Congres national belge (1830–31)’, Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis/Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine, 26: 1–2 (1996), pp. 33–83, 38. 18. Dupriez, ‘Local Government in Belgium’, p. 418. 19. Strikwerda, A House Divided, p. 29. 20. Vivien Ann Schmidt, Democratizing France. The Political and Administrative History of Decentralization (Cambridge, 1990), p. 4. 21. Strikwerda, A House Divided, p. 29. 22. Van Audenhove, ‘L’autonomie communale’, pp. 71–72. 23. This negative interpretation of centralization has been corrected for France. Timothy Baycroft, ‘Peasants into Frenchmen? The Case of the Flemish in the North of France 1860–1914’, European Review of History/Revue européenne d’Histoire, 2: 1 (1995), pp. 31–44; Jean-François Chanet, L’école républicaine et les petites patries (Paris, 1996); Stéphane Gerson, The Pride of Place: Local Memories and Political Culture in Nineteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY, 2003); Anne-Marie Thiesse, Ils apprenaient la France: l’exaltation des régions dans le discours patriotique (Paris, 1997). 24. J. Gilissen, ‘La constitution belge de 1831, ses sources, son influence’, Res Publica, 10 (1968), pp. 107–41. 25. Henk De Smaele, ‘Eclectisch en toch nieuw. De uitvinding van het Belgisch parlement in 1830–1831’, Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 120: 3 (2005), pp. 408–16, 412. 26. Henk De Smaele, ‘Politiek als hanengevecht of cerebraal systeem. Ideeën over politieke representatie en de invoering van de evenredige vertegenwoordiging in België (1899)’, Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 114: 3 (1999), pp. 328–57. 27. Schmidt, Democratizing France, p. 4. 28. Jan Art, ‘Social Control in Belgium. The Catholic Factor’, in Clive Emsley, Eric Johnson and Pieter Spierenburg (eds), Social Control in Europe, 1800–2000. Vol. 2 (Columbus, 2004), pp. 112–24, 112–13. 29. Els Witte, ‘De specificiteit van het “verzuilingsproces” langs vrijzinnige zijde. De inbreng van de historische dimensie’, Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis/Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 13: 1 (1982), pp. 23–57, 39–40. 30. Jeffrey Tyssens, ‘De vermaledijde staat? Overheid en onderwijsverstrekking in België’, in P. Boekholt et al. (eds), Tweehonderd jaar onderwijs en de zorg van de staat (Assen, 2002), pp. 60–74, 61–62. 31. Janet Polasky, ‘Transplanting and Rooting Workers in London and Brussels: A Comparative History’, Journal of Modern History 73: 3 (2001), pp. 528–60, 542. 32. Jo Tollebeek, ‘Enthousiasme en evidentie. De negentiende-eeuwse Belgischnationale geschiedschrijving’, in Jo Tollebeek (ed.), De ijkmeesters. Opstellen over de geschiedschrijving in Nederland en België (Amsterdam, 1994), pp. 57–74, 58. 33. On differences between rural and urban environments in the spread of nationhood see: Miroslav Hroch, Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A Comparative Analysis of the Social Composition of Patriotic Groups

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35. 36.

37.

38. 39.

40.

41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

47. 48. 49.

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among the Smaller European Nations (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 107–16; Stengers and Gubin, Le grand siècle de la nationalité, p. 21. E.g. Els Witte, ‘1828–1847. De constructie van België’, in Els Witte, JeanPierre Nandrin, Eliane Gubin and Gita Deneckere (eds), Nieuwe geschiedenis van België. Dl. 1: 1830–1905 (Tielt, 2005), pp. 194, 198–207. Patricia Penn Hilden, Women, Work, and Politics: Belgium 1830–1914 (Oxford, 1993), p. 43. E.g. Remieg Aerts, ‘Een andere geschiedenis. Een beschouwing over de scheiding van 1830’, in Peter Rietbergen and Tom Verschaffel (eds), De erfenis van 1830 (Leuven, 2006), pp. 15–33, 23; Lode Wils, ‘De twee Belgische revoluties’, in Kas Deprez and Louis Vos (eds), Nationalisme in België: identiteiten in beweging 1780–2000 (Antwerpen, 1999), pp. 43–50, 49. Marnix Beyen, ‘Een uitdijend verhaal. De historiografie van de Vlaamse beweging, 1995–2005’, Proceedings of the Symposium on the Historiography of the Flemish Movement and of Other National Movements in Europe. Special issue of Wetenschappelijke Tijdingen, LXIV, 2005 (Antwerpen, 2005), pp. 18–34; Gevert H. Nörtemann, Im Spiegelkabinett der Historie: der Mythos der Schlacht von Kortrijk und die Erfindung Flanderns im 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 2002); Maarten Van Ginderachter, Het rode vaderland. De vergeten geschiedenis van de communautaire spanningen in het Belgische socialisme voor WOI (Tielt/Gent, 2005). Bartels, Documents historiques sur la révolution belge, p. 405. Els Witte, ‘Tussen experiment en correctief. De Belgische gemeentelijke kieswetgeving in relatie tot het nationale kiesstelsel’, in Les élections communales et leur impact sur la politique belge (1890–1970) (Bruxelles, 1993), pp. 13–72, 14–15. Marnix Beyen, ‘Een wankele basis voor de natie. Verkiezingen en nationalisme in België, 1890–1920’, in Els Witte et al. (eds), Natie en Democratie – Nation et démocratie (1890–1921) (Brussel, 2007), pp. 21–31, 31. Jeffrey Tyssens and Paul Wynants, ‘Deux jeunesses, deux races. Question scolaire, démocratie et nationalité’, in Els Witte et al. (eds), Natie en Democratie – Nation et démocratie (1890–1921) (Brussel, 2007), pp. 308–17. Witte, ‘Tussen experiment en correctief’, p. 39. Strikwerda, A House Divided, pp. 134, 261. Art, ‘Social Control in Belgium’, p. 119. Jan Erk, ‘Sub-state Nationalism and the Left-right Divide: Critical Junctures in the Formation of Nationalist Labour Movements in Belgium’, Nations and Nationalism 11: 4 (2005), pp. 551–70. Guy Vanschoenbeek, ‘Socialisten: gezellen zonder vaderland? De BWP en haar verhouding tot het “vaderland België” ’, Bijdragen tot de eigentijdse geschiedenis/Cahiers d’histoire du temps présent 3 (1997), pp. 237–55, 239–40. Gita Deneckere, ‘1878–1905. Nieuwe geschiedenis van België’, in Nieuwe geschiedenis van België. Dl. 1: 1830–1905 (Tielt, 2005), pp. 443–664, 477. Ibid., p. 574. Chantal Kesteloot, ‘Autonomie communale et spécificité bruxelloise: une première approche’, in Els Witte, André Alen and Hugues Dumont (eds), De Brusselse negentien gemeenten en het Brussels model (Brussel, 2003), pp. 495–510, 497. Witte, ‘The Formation of a Centre in Belgium’, p. 440.

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51. Kesteloot, ‘Autonomie communale et spécificité bruxelloise’, p. 497. 52. Yves Segers, ‘Een omstreden verbruiksbelasting: de stedelijke octrooien in Belgie (1799–1860)’, Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis/Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 30: 3–4 (2000), pp. 325–69, 331. 53. Ibid., pp. 357, 359. 54. ‘Rapport des Commissions des Finances, du Commerce et de l’Industrie, présenté au Conseil Communal, en séance du 12 Mai 1849’, in Mémorial administratif de la ville de Gand (Gand, 1850), pp. 162–71, 171. 55. ‘Abolition des octrois. Adresse’, in Mémorial administratif de la ville de Gand (Gand, 1860), pp. 499–500. 56. Between 1848 and 1856, 60 per cent of the Ghent electorate was middle class (artisans, innkeepers, bakers and small shopholders) Marc Reynebeau, ‘Politieke orientatie en ontwikkeling. De strijd om de Gentse gemeenteraad 1848–1869’ (unpublished master thesis, Ghent University, 1977), p. 26.

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Section II Towns and the Nation-State

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5 Nationalism and the Defence Town: The Case of Karlskrona, Sweden Mary Hilson

It is probably fair to say that historians of Sweden have paid relatively little attention to towns as an object of analysis in studying nineteenthcentury nationalism.1 Recent studies of nation-building in the second half of the nineteenth century have, for example, focused on the role of elite societies such as the Götiska Förbundet, on the large rural temperance movement (though this also had an urban presence), or on the role of historians such as Erik Gustaf Geijer.2 Nationalism has been widely seen as a top-down phenomenon which could overcome the social problems and divisions engendered by mass emigration, industrialization and the rise of the socialist labour movement. The main focus of these efforts was understood to be the rural peasantry, seen as the embodiment of a uniquely Swedish democratic tradition enshrined in the constitution of 1809, and as the bearers of an authentic Swedish culture.3 Historians agree Sweden had been an unusually centralized state since the Reformation or even before.4 Even the earliest attempts to codify the relationship between Crown and towns in the fourteenth century were remarkable for ‘the strong mark of centralisation – an endeavour to secure royal influence and control’.5 As Rune Bokholm has shown, this was strengthened with the development of a state bureaucracy alongside the reformed Lutheran Church in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.6 The relationship was not entirely one-sided, however. As Eva Österberg (among others) has shown, the institutions of local government and, above all, the parish councils, had a dual function: on the one hand, they were part of the state apparatus of control at a local level, but on the other they also offered a channel of access to the state through which ordinary people could articulate their grievances. The 133

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existence of such channels has sometimes been cited to explain the relatively peaceful and consensual nature of Swedish peasant society in the early modern period.7 Industrialization came relatively late to Sweden, and the rural population remained in a majority until well into the twentieth century. Nonetheless, by the second half of the nineteenth century the existing arrangements for local government had become inadequate in response to rapid social and economic change. The municipal reform legislation of 1862, influenced by new thinking at home and abroad on the desired extent of state activity, laid the foundations for modern

Image 5.1 Karlskrona in its regional context. Map reproduced with kind permission of Nordic Academic Press

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municipal government in Sweden. Rune Bokholm’s research shows how the last quarter of the nineteenth century was a period when the towns’ freedom of action expanded vis-à-vis the central state, as local municipalities took pragmatic steps in response to the infrastructural problems engendered by rapid urbanization. After the turn of the twentieth century the pendulum swung in the other direction, and town councils became incorporated into the expansion of state activities such as the establishment of the welfare state.8 The dynamic relationship between central state and municipality came sharply into focus in the town that forms the case study for this chapter, Karlskrona in southern Sweden. As the main base of the Swedish navy, Karlskrona’s economic, social and political development had always been closely affected by the decisions of the Royal Naval Board (Kungliga Marinförvaltningen) in Stockholm. It was also an important site for the commemoration and performance of a particular type of conservative nationalism extolling Sweden’s past status as a great naval power, which came to prominence in the early twentieth century in the context of a bitter political debate over the future of Swedish defence policy (a debate which also had far-reaching constitutional implications). The second part of the

Image 5.2 Karlskrona in its local context. Map reproduced with kind permission of Nordic Academic Press

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chapter explores the ways in which this nationalist political debate was represented in the local context, and its potential to provoke conflict when it coincided with local interests. The challenge to the presence of the national state, in the form of the naval authorities, coalesced into the development of oppositional political movements, thus challenging common assumptions about the weakness of progressive politics in Karlskrona and other European military towns in the face of ‘big navy’ parties of the political Right.9 The chapter begins, however, with a discussion of the main currents of nationalist debate in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century Sweden, and in particular on the emergence of defence as one of the main nationalist causes.

Nationalism and the politics of defence in Sweden In Sweden, as in many other European countries, there was a fundamental change in the nature of nationalism as a political doctrine after about 1870. Historians have pointed out the continuities between this new current of ‘greater Sweden’ (storsvensk) nationalism with earlier, liberal aspirations to pan-Scandinavian unity and the re-annexation of Finland in the 1850s and 1860s.10 But from the 1880s nationalism became predominantly a conservative cause. Three issues were catalytic in the remaking of Swedish nationalism.11 The first was the so-called ‘tariff conflict’ (tullstriden) of the 1880s, which united industrialists and the larger farmers in opposition to free trade.12 The second was the Union with Norway, which during the 1890s faced mounting challenges from Norwegian nationalist demands for independence.13 The third, of most interest to us here, was defence. The eventual secession of Norway in 1905 confirmed Sweden’s status as a second-rate power and renewed fears about the security of Swedish interests in the Baltic in the face of the ‘Russification’ policy in the Grand Duchy of Finland.14 This provoked an intense debate about defence which dominated Swedish politics until the outbreak of the European war in 1914.15 The significance of these three issues – protectionism, the Union and the navy – in the emergence of a modern conservative party in early twentieth-century Sweden shows strong parallels with Britain, though it was actually Wilhelmine Germany that Swedish conservatives looked to as a model.16 As in Britain, an important theme of this agitation was the need to transcend existing or emerging party divisions (‘country before party’ or fosterlandet främst – literally: the fatherland first) in the interest of national unity (nationell samling).17 But the debate was becoming increasingly polarized along party lines. The loss of Norway in 1905

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was a watershed for moderate conservatives like Harald Hjärne or the later prime minister, Arvid Lindman, who thereafter shifted their position from strict neutrality towards support for strengthened naval and military defence.18 For the left, 1905 was by no means a crisis; instead labour movement organizations campaigned for the peaceful secession of Norway unhindered by Swedish military intervention.19 Although there was some support for radical pacifism within the Liberal and Social Democratic parties, especially among the ‘defence nihilists’ of the Social Democratic youth movement, the majority of the left supported cautious reductions in defence expenditure, and regarded the defence issue as a distraction from the main issue of constitutional reform.20 Historically, Sweden’s security policy relied primarily on the army to protect Swedish neutrality against the traditional enemy, Russia.21 Investments in defence during the 1890s were thus directed towards the army, culminating in the construction of a new fortress at Boden in the north of the country, and the introduction of conscription in 1901.22 From the turn of the century, however, the focus of the debate shifted towards the navy, and in particular to the so-called ‘f-type’ armoured warship (f-båt). A parliamentary commission of enquiry appointed by the conservative Lindman government reported in 1910 in favour of constructing a new fleet of this type of ships.23 This had enormous implications for the naval budget, and the proposal was defeated in the second chamber of the riksdag (parliament), but this decision was overturned by the conservative majority in the upper chamber. However, the new Liberal government which took office in 1911 immediately cancelled the order, and the defence debate escalated. A national campaign raised 17 million kronor in public subscriptions for the construction of an armoured warship, and the Sverige was launched 1915. The agitation culminated in the so-called Farmers’ March (bondetåget), which mobilized peasant supporters of the navalist cause to march to Stockholm in the early spring of 1914, precipitating the fall of the Liberal government and major electoral gains for the Right Party in the ensuing second chamber elections.24 It is impossible to separate the defence issue from the other great controversy of Swedish politics at this time, that is, suffrage reform and parliamentarianism. The emerging right-wing coalition was predominantly drawn from the larger industrialists and farmers in the upper chamber of parliament, and military officers, senior bureaucrats and court officials. They had a natural figurehead in the new King, Gustav V (1907–50), who like his father Oskar II (1872–1907) was willing to assert himself against the challenge of parliamentarianism, and did so

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in his speech to the Farmers’ March demonstrators in Stockholm in March 1914 (the so-called ‘palace yard coup’ or borggårdskupen) where he openly criticized the government and by implication the principle of parliamentarianism.25 Ultra-conservatives like Sven Hedin and Rudolf Kjellén sought to mobilize this royal support, arguing that the King stood for the national ‘popular will’ (folkvilja), above the tussles of parliamentary struggle.26 This evoked some powerful historical precedents. As Patrik Hall has pointed out, the unity of king and people has been a dominant idea in Swedish national history writing.27 There should be little surprise, therefore, that Gustav’s position provoked historical comparisons with the authoritarian monarchs of Sweden’s great power period, in particular Karl XII, and less favourable ones with the so-called ‘Age of Liberty’ (1719–72), when Sweden was governed by a form of quasi-parliamentarianism.28 The Karolinska Förbundet (Caroline Society), founded in 1910 in memory of Karl XII, included one-fifth of army officers among its members, and was thus extremely influential.29

The political economy of the dockyard town Many naval dockyards were established during the early modern period, and can thus be considered to be among the earliest large industrial establishments in Europe. By the nineteenth century the political geography of the dockyard town had developed some distinctive features.30 Firstly, the location of naval dockyards was generally determined by strategic requirements rather than other considerations such as access to raw materials.31 The importance of the French west coast dockyards from the late eighteenth century, for example, indicates the shift in focus away from the Mediterranean (Toulon) towards the conflict with Britain (Rochefort, Brest, Cherbourg).32 Karlskrona dockyard was typical in this respect, founded in one of the provinces that only twenty years earlier had been conquered from Denmark. This meant, however, that unlike the large commercial shipyards, dockyards often developed in isolation from other industrial establishments. Secondly, most dockyards were under the direct control of the state, and decisions about their management were thus governed by strategic and political considerations rather than commercial ones. In Karlskrona, like in many other dockyard towns, the dockyard dominated the local economy and was the main provider of local employment.33 It was also typical, however, in the remarkably hands-off attitude of the naval authorities in their relationship towards the town’s general welfare. There are relatively few examples of the naval authorities providing

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amenities such as housing or social facilities, in contrast to the extensive provision of worker housing by the largest Gothenburg shipyards for example, or the dominance of single companies in shipbuilding towns like Jarrow and Wallsend in the north-east of England.34 Yet even without such provisions, dockyard towns appear to have been characterized by the strong social cohesion of the dockyard workforce, and sometimes marked patterns of residential segregation.35 As Jean Quellien has shown, the homes of late nineteenth-century Cherbourg dockyard workers were segregated to the extent that they practically formed a town within a town, and provoked a certain amount of rivalry between les ouvriers de l’arsenal and les ouvriers de la ville.36 The high wall surrounding the dockyard could, as Malcolm Crook notes of Toulon, act as a powerful symbol of its situation as a ‘realm apart’ from the rest of the town.37 Thirdly, the status of the large dockyard workforces, which sometimes consisted of many thousands of workers, was often ambivalent: neither military nor civilian.38 With the exception of Britain, where the principle of free, civilian dockyard labour was long established, there was a trend towards the civilianization of dockyard labour during the second half of the nineteenth century, and a preference for hiring free labour. The Second Empire abolished conscription of labour to the French dockyards in 1864.39 At Karlskrona, naval personnel continued to be employed in the dockyard when not required for duty elsewhere, alongside some penal labour, but from the 1860s this practice was strongly criticized by a number of inquiries, which argued that employing these men for civilian tasks was an inefficient use of resources, and moreover did not help to create good seamen.40 Their numbers were reduced accordingly, from over 58 per cent of the total workforce in 1868, to just over 16 per cent by the turn of the twentieth century.41 For the predominantly civilian workforce by the end of the nineteenth century, direct employment by the state produced a distinctive yet dynamic system of industrial relations which was perhaps most notable for the politicization of workplace conflicts through the active involvement of dockyard parliamentary representatives. Karlskrona was typical of many European dockyard towns in its long historical continuity as an industrial workplace and naval base. It was founded in 1690 as the main base of the Swedish navy, which was relocated from Stockholm.42 The move was driven partly by the need for an ice-free winter port, but it also reflected a shift in the strategy of the Swedish state following the defeat of Denmark in 1658 and the incorporation of the formerly Danish provinces of Blekinge, Halland and Skåne

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into the Swedish realm. Karlskrona grew rapidly from its foundations, so that by the late eighteenth century it was one of the most important towns in Sweden. Thereafter it began to decline, however. Founded to serve the interests of an early modern Baltic power, it now had to be adapted in line with the much more modest aspirations of a small, neutral state. After the loss of Finland in 1809, the Russian Empire now stretched as far west as Åland, which renewed the strategic significance of the Stockholm archipelago, ice or no ice. The advent of iron and steel shipbuilding meant that the dockyard infrastructure, designed for the construction of wooden sailing ships, had become obsolete, and by the mid-nineteenth century the yard was stagnating, its future seriously in doubt.43 Following several decades of stagnation, the government invested in new workshops, docks and a railway system during the 1870s and 1880s, which created the capacity for the construction of smaller vessels, including torpedo boats and later submarines.44 The dockyard’s principal tasks remained, however, the maintenance and repair of the existing fleet, and the fitting out of new ships constructed in private shipyards. Until the end of the First World War it was able to hold its own, and even to expand its workforce, but this could not be sustained after the war. Following the defeat of Germany in 1918, and the retreat of the Russian threat, economy in military spending became a political priority, and this was duly reflected in the sharp contraction in the dockyard workforce in the years 1918–20.45 The town’s vulnerability to government defence policy was exacerbated by its lack of a commercial industrial sector.46 The archipelago, which made it such an attractive port from a strategic point of view, was a serious hindrance to commercial traffic, and in that respect Karlskrona lost out to the neighbouring port of Kalmar, which was also better connected inland.

Nationalist politics and local interests: Naval defence in Karlskrona For these reasons, local attitudes to the navy were rather more complex than they may first appear. There certainly could be no doubt about the importance of the navy to Karlskrona, or indeed, the importance of Karlskrona in the naval defence of the nation. The very name of the town, from its founder Karl XI, marked its historic associations with Sweden’s era of great power status, which, as we have seen, had begun to possess something of a nostalgic attraction for conservatives during the early twentieth century.47 The town’s parks, streets, monuments

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and public buildings commemorated the height of Sweden’s great power period (stormaktstid). The presence of the navy was also acknowledged through the performance of public rituals and spectacles. As the Norwegian historian Roy Andersen has suggested, the armoured warship was ‘the most important symbol of national strength and success’ at this time, intimately linked with national identity even for smaller nations.48 The dockyard ship launch never took on quite the significance that it did in Plymouth and Portsmouth during this period, but launches were nonetheless public events, performed in the presence of the naval authorities from Stockholm as well as all the luminaries of the local military establishment.49 More informally, the 1 May reveille was, by the early twentieth century, a well-established tradition, which took the form of an early morning musical parade to the most important naval sites in the town. The tradition was thought to have its roots in the early morning tour of Björkholmen (the district where many dockyard workers lived) by the town watch to rouse the dockyard workers, or the use of a band of drummers to summon off-duty naval servicemen in the event of a potentially disastrous fire in the dockyard.50 The music was usually provided by the fleet band, and the itinerary of the parade included the houses of the most important personages in Karlskrona, including the head of the dockyard and the Admiral-in-Chief. Between two and three thousand citizens took part in May 1914, and a general holiday atmosphere was reported in the town, with the various restaurants and other meeting places extremely busy.51 In September 1911, Karlskrona residents witnessed a spectacle of a very different kind when a large-scale naval exercise was held in the archipelago. This was in effect a mock sea-battle, which took place over five days, with the ‘Red’ side off Karlshamn preparing to attack Karlskrona, which was itself defended by the ‘Blue’ side. Each day’s events were reported by the newspapers in great detail, almost as if they were part of a real war, with special correspondents filing reports from different locations in the archipelago. ‘[W]e can expect an attack on Karlskrona at any time’, it was reported in Karlskrona-Tidning, and the town ‘must thereafter be considered as being in a state of siege for some days. War and imaginary bloodshed will be in the air for at least four days, and the inhabitants of the town are doubtless waiting anxiously for the first shot [to be fired].’52 This was an uncomfortable reminder, perhaps, of what the town might face in the event of a real war. The exercises were timed to coincide with the visit to Karlskrona of the King and Queen, the first such visit since their accession. Most of the royal itinerary was taken up with military duties, including a trip out into the

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archipelago to watch the naval manoeuvres, and a tour of the dockyard to inspect the various workshops and facilities. The right-wing newspaper Karlskrona-Tidningen noted the significance of the visit in terms of the developing political links between the monarchy and the defence and also, it was claimed, the loyalty of the population of Karlskrona to what the monarchy represented: It should be a matter of particular satisfaction to us, that [this visit] is occurring at a time when Karlskrona presents herself at her best as she does just at the moment. Despite the anti-social forces (samhällsupplösande makter) which are now appearing, the Swedish people are, to their credit, for the most part a royally-minded people, and it is with the most upright feelings of loyal veneration and appreciation that the population of Karlskrona now welcomes Their Majesties.53 The town was decorated for the occasion with blue and yellow flags across all the streets that the royal entourage would pass through, and many also turned out to line the route, only to be disappointed when it was changed at the last minute.54 Such public commemorations of Karlskrona’s role in Swedish naval defence were not universally welcomed, however. The labour newspaper Blekinge Folkblad criticized the expensive arrangements for the royal visit, which would have to be borne by the town’s taxpayers.55 Before 1911, Karlskrona had seemed to be anything but the ‘natural’ territory of political conservatism. On the eve of the 1905 parliamentary election, the editors of Karlskrona-Weckoblad were pessimistic about the chances of a Rightist candidate winning much support in Karlskrona, where most of the electors were thought to be either Liberal or moderate in their political views.56 In 1896, one of the most recent occasions when there had been a straight fight between Liberals and Right, the Liberal candidate had won convincingly. The tables were turned in 1899, but the victory of Admiral von Otter was attributed to the candidate’s personal following. Indeed, the existence of a clear delineation between left and right cannot be taken for granted, at least before 1914. The contests of the 1900s were represented as the struggle between two strands of liberalism, more or less reformist, although clearly anti-socialist. Typically of the time, the winning candidate in 1905, G. W. Roos, was not aligned with any political party, although his views were beginning to awaken suspicions among the Social Democrats. By 1908, there was a tendency in some circles at least, notably among the Social Democrats, to view the election as a straight contest between left and right, even though

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the candidate associated with the Right, O. Holmdahl, did not describe himself as such.57 Even before 1911, however, the question of defence had gained some prominence in electoral discourse. All candidates appealed directly to the civilian dockyard workforce for their votes, citing their willingness and ability to tackle dockyard issues such as pensions, wages and working conditions.58 Three years later, the pledges of the rival candidates over dockyard and naval matters were even more hotly debated.59 Both candidates declared that they thought it desirable to reduce military expenditure, but neither was prepared to make a firm commitment. The nominal candidate of the Right, O. Holmdahl, argued that he could not support reductions in the military budget where local interests were concerned: If, for example, the question of dredging the eastern channel to Karlskrona arose, and it seemed that current expenditure would be exceeded, should he then say no, if he were convinced of the necessity of such a scheme for maintaining the naval base in Karlskrona? Or, if it were necessary for Karlskrona’s defences that one of the islands should be fortified, should he then say no for economic reasons, even though he knew that it was necessary in order to save the millions which had already been put into fortifying Karlskrona?60 It was thought to be in Holmdahl’s advantage that he was a local man, a former mayor of Karlskrona, who had therefore ‘a living knowledge and experience [of the fact] that Karlskrona has and will depend on the fleet for its existence’.61 His supporters pointed approvingly to the dockyard employee reported to have urged his colleagues to ‘vote for a native of the town, who knows our and the town’s real needs’, and he was adopted as the official candidate of various military societies, although the absence of two local ships and their crews was thought to undermine his support.62 His opponent, U. Leander, also drew attention to his efforts to secure improvements in dockyard wages, pensions and holiday entitlement, and pledged his support for the dredging scheme; as he put it, ‘local patriotism urged everyone in the community to try to keep the fleet in Karlskrona’.63 The public debates over the defence issue during the years 1911–14 were followed with close interest within the Karlskrona labour movement. Although the dockyard workers were clearly seen as one of the most important groups among the electorate, possessing the ability to affect the outcome of the election, there is little evidence to suggest

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that Social Democrats were inhibited in their criticism of pro-defence nationalism. A Blekinge Folkblad editorial in 1907 condemned the ‘dark fatalism’ which insisted that there was no future for Karlskrona outside the naval base, looking forward instead to ‘a future Karlskrona [sustained by] peaceful means’.64 Prime Minister Karl Staaff’s important speech on defence, delivered in Karlskrona in December 1913, was also criticized by the local liberal newspaper for overturning the promise to prevent further increases in the defence budget put forward at the 1911 election, but no specific comment was made about the implications of this for Karlskrona.65 The Social Democratic labour council passed a resolution in January 1914 expressing its ‘determined protest against the armaments frenzy and scare campaign (rustningshets- och skrämselagitation) which is presently happening in our country’.66 It was also steadfastly opposed to the Farmers’ March of 1914, arguing that it represented a cynical attempt by the Right to manipulate the peasant population in order to claim that the voice of the people was behind their demands.67 It was suggested that most of the participants in the demonstration had little idea of why they were really taking part, and had simply been lured by the promise of a cheap outing to Stockholm. A protest rally organized against the march in Karlskrona was reported to have attracted over 3,000 people, and passed resolutions against increased defence spending and the monarchy. A small group of young officers in the crowd attempted to raise a shout for the King, but was heckled down.68 Following the resignation of the Staaff government in the wake of the Farmers’ March, there was a new election in the spring of 1914. It was obvious that defence was going to be the main issue of debate, though this was now coupled to constitutional reform following the intervention of the King in the palace yard coup (borggårdskupen). The divisions between the parties were clearly drawn, with the Right adopting the slogan ‘For King and Country’ and attempting to portray their Liberal and Social Democratic opponents as dangerous republicans.69 The election campaign was an unusually bitter one, and the turnout, at 70 per cent of those entitled to vote, reached record levels.70 A number of interest groups actively campaigned in the election, especially on behalf of the Right.71 The campaign for the second election of 1914, which fell during the autumn as part of the normal electoral cycle, was much quieter by contrast, overshadowed by the outbreak of war in Europe. Not surprisingly, defence was the foremost campaign issue for the Right Party in Karlskrona. Under the patriotic slogan ‘For King and Country’, the Right linked its advocacy of defence with its strong support of the monarchy, asserting the need for a strong individual to take responsibility for the defence of the country, free from the distraction of

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party ties or parliamentary majorities. The example of Germany under the strong hand of the Kaiser was contrasted approvingly with the French Republic.72 Both the Liberals and the Social Democratic Party attempted to turn this patriotic language to their own advantage. For the Social Democrats, this meant campaigning for the ‘people’s country’ (folkets fosterland): a democratic nation in which all could take pride.73 The Liberals argued for the need to consider the defence question in ‘its broadest sense’ by tackling ‘enemy forces . . . within the nation’. As the city of Karlskrona became filled with troops mobilized in response to the outbreak of war, they supported local temperance campaigners in their demands for tight restrictions to be placed on the sale of alcohol, a move which was condemned by the Right as a slur on the exemplary behaviour of the servicemen stationed in the town.74 The simple assumption that big navy policies would benefit Karlskrona, and would thus work automatically in the interests of the party which committed itself to spending the most on naval defence, is not borne out by the evidence of the 1914 elections. The situation was complicated by the obsolescence of the dockyard infrastructure, which had been allowed to decay for a period during the mid-nineteenth century, and had since been overtaken by technological changes in shipbuilding.75 The trend towards the deployment of larger battleships from the turn of the century raised further questions about the dockyard’s long-term future. The largest ship constructed at Karlskrona during the period 1885–1910 was only 210 tons displacement, and even after 1910 the dockyard did not have the capacity to build anything larger than 1,600 tons.76 The period from 1910 was thus one of prolonged enquiry into the dockyard’s future, which produced little in the way of concrete results. The furore over the ‘f-type’ armoured warship sparked an investigation to establish whether the hull of the 7,000-ton Sverige could be constructed at Karlskrona, but the scheme was rejected as the necessary expansion would require the costly purchase of private land outside the existing dockyard site. The naval administration and the minister concerned supported the first two stages of the modernization proposal, but balked at the third, citing the uncertainty surrounding the future of this class of vessel.77 These uncertainties over the future of the dockyard complicated the defence debate in Karlskrona during the parliamentary elections of 1914. Defence campaigners justified their advocacy of increased military spending with reference to the alleged threat from Russia and the need to protect Swedish neutrality. But their demands had to be tailored to perceptions of local circumstances and interests. The Liberal naval minister, visiting Karlskrona during the election campaign

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for an opportune tour of the dockyard, faced criticism not only from the Right but also from a local Social Democrat that the government was deciding to concentrate on large ships only.78 The preference for very large battleships would be unlikely to benefit Karlskrona directly, since these ships would almost certainly have to be constructed in larger, private shipyards. Moreover, any move to concentrate the fleet in the Stockholm area, in the face of a potential Russian threat, would undermine Karlskrona’s status as the main base of the Swedish navy. The Right Party issued a leaflet to all citizens suggesting that this was indeed the aim of Liberal naval policy, and that this would have disastrous consequences for Karlskrona.79 By advocating a more modern, high-speed fleet, the Right Party’s policy provided for a navy which would not be bound to Stockholm, but would continue to be based in Karlskrona. The implications of this were straightforward. ‘How should a Karlskrona resident vote? For the pro-defence [party], for in their programme the interests of the country are one with the interests of Karlskrona.’80 The civilian dockyard workforce, which numbered almost 1,500 in 1914, was seen as an important target of this campaigning, and the Right Party in particular campaigned aggressively for the dockyard workers’ vote. Special election meetings were organized for the dockyard workers, sometimes held together with meetings for new military conscripts, at which different speakers warned of the dire threat from Russia, and described the ‘work opportunities’ for the dockyard which the Right’s defence programme would offer.81 Opponents were highly critical of what they saw as political opportunism, accusing the prodefence campaigners of hiding their propagandizing behind evenings of light entertainment – music, singing, recitations and even cinema – laid on for the dockyard workers and other groups, a strategy which they condemned as ‘scare tactics and . . . election promises for lower ranked officers and dockyard workers’.82 The Liberal newspaper Blekinge Läns Tidning also condemned the dockyard authorities’ willingness to grant permission, against normal regulations, for the display of posters on the dockyard gates advertising these meetings, while simultaneously refusing to display Liberal political posters.83 Both papers addressed columns specifically to the dockyard workers, advising them to vote one way or the other in the dockyard’s and their own interests. The Liberals drew attention to the record of their candidate Leander in parliament during the Staaff government, when, they suggested, he had been active in drawing attention to dockyard affairs, and in particular bringing a motion on dockyard expansion and modernization.84 The introduction

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of paid holidays for dockyard men was cited as another achievement of the Staaff government. Karlskrona-Tidningen countered with its own address to the dockyard workers, suggesting that the Right had been equally influential in securing dockyard holidays.85 But the main issue was not changes in conditions of employment so much as the future of dockyard employment altogether. Social Democrats and Liberals linked the debate over the future of naval construction with their critique of the big business interests behind the Right Party. Karl Hildebrand, who addressed a meeting of dockyard workers on the need for improved defence, was condemned by the Liberals as a prominent supporter of private ownership, who would therefore do all that he could to ensure that new construction went to private shipyards. ‘Do Hrr Dockyard Workers know who Hr Hildebrand really is?’ they asked. [He is] the most ardent supporter of private capital in Sweden . . . . Now, Hrr Dockyard Workers know very well that the previous government wished to enlarge the dockyard and for that reason induced parliament to buy land next to the dockyard wall. The idea, of course, was that armoured warships (pansarbåtar) should also be built here. But how do Hrr Dockyard Workers think it will turn out if Hr Hildebrand and the Right win the election? It is certain then that only smaller ships will be built here, as has been the case up until now. Everyone knows, after all, where the Sverige is being built! The Right will always favour private shipyards and hold back the state dockyards. It is in the nature of the thing.86 It is difficult to gauge how the dockyard workers themselves responded to these attempts to win their votes. The 300 or so dockyard employees reported to have attended one of the Right’s political meetings in 1914 accounted for only a minority of the dockyard workforce. There is evidence that some members of the dockyard union were uncomfortable with the Right’s attempts to woo them, and the matter was debated at a branch meeting in March 1914. The prevailing view seemed to be that the union should avoid political controversy at all costs, and no action was taken.87

Conclusion In many European nation states the question of national defence became very prominent in the decades leading up to the outbreak of

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the First World War in 1914. This was also the case in Sweden, despite its neutrality. Nationalist agitation was based upon three related issues – naval defence, economic protection and constitutional reform – and contributed to the emergence of the modern right in Swedish politics. As elsewhere in Europe, it might be expected that this politics had a particular resonance in towns that were closely associated with defence and related industries, in this case the naval dockyard town of Karlskrona in south-eastern Sweden. However, as the above discussion has attempted to show, attitudes to naval defence were ambivalent in Karlskrona, and the demands of the navy provoked not so much support for the nationalist cause as an assertion of local interests. Indeed, the emergence of progressive political movements in the town can be partly traced to growing opposition to military dominance of the council chamber from the 1890s. The last uniformed council chairman left office in 1901, although the military presence did persist thereafter.88 Two developments in particular were influential in this respect. The first was the changing nature of dockyard labour: the emergence of new forms of labour dispute and the breakdown in the notion of the dockyard workforce as a community apart. The second, perhaps more important, was the continued question mark about the long-term future of the dockyard and, as a consequence, the prosperity of the town. The parliamentary commission established in 1914 proposed a modernization programme costing 2.3 million kronor, which would increase the capacity for new construction, and eventually enable the dockyard to produce the largest armoured battleships. The development was, however, blocked by the naval board in Stockholm.89 Typically, it provoked a conflict between local actors desperately trying to secure the future of the town, and the very different considerations of the Stockholm-based naval administration. The local case was taken up by the Social Democratic parliamentary representatives for Blekinge county, and also by the town council, which was all too well aware ‘to what extent the town’s economy is dependent on retaining the dockyard in its entirety’.90 These constraints made it easier for the Social Democratic labour movement to oppose nationalist demands for naval expansion, and instead campaign for civilian uses for the dockyard’s infrastructure. In July 1916, a new commission of enquiry began, with the participation of the Social Democratic parliamentarian J. A. Ingvarsson, to ‘investigate the desirability of organizing the operation of the dockyard in Karlskrona so that it is placed on a footing to undertake repairs and new construction of ships other than warships for state purposes’.91 The

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commission noted the disadvantages faced by Karlskrona, especially in terms of labour and raw materials, but its eventual proposal was to establish a civilian dockyard alongside the existing naval installations, and to run the two enterprises in tandem. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the naval administration reacted firmly against it, suggesting that it was inappropriate for a naval dockyard to compete in the civilian sphere, and that the dockyard’s future developments should involve military purpose only.92 Moreover, there was, it was suggested, a fundamental difference in the nature of the dockyard’s work and that carried out for civilian purposes in the private sector, in that private shipyards sought to compete economically, while the state dockyard had to be concerned with quality. No progress had been made, although it is interesting that there was a marked willingness to consider other uses for the dockyard apart from naval defence. In 1919, there were further proposals, this time originating from the dockyard workers themselves, and backed up by a motion from the Social Democratic group on the town council, to turn some of the spare capacity over to work for the state railway board, and thus avoid the expected contraction in the dockyard workforce.93 A small amount of this work was indeed carried out, but it was always problematic, and no transition in the main areas of the dockyard’s work ever took place.94 The upshot was that the dockyard’s position within the wider naval establishment shifted very little during this period: its main role continued to be the repair and maintenance of the fleet, and new construction was confined to the private shipyards. We should therefore be wary of making assumptions about a link between dockyard labour and its symbolic meaning in terms of national interests. There is evidence of a strong link between the Karlskrona dockyard workforce and the local Social Democratic movement, for example, and many dockyard workers appear to have resisted vigorously the attempts of the political right to campaign for their votes on the basis of support for the navy. Yet ambiguities were always present. When the Karlskrona workforce came out on strike in 1928, the defence minister and former young socialist radical Per Albin Hansson defended the use of seamen as strike breakers, arguing that the work they were performing was essential for state security.95 The same points could also be made about many other European dockyard and military towns during the period of the naval arms race before the First World War. For example, the visit of the French naval minister to Cherbourg during the early 1900s provoked a bizarre intermingling of political cultures, with the dockyard union band alternating between military marches and L’Internationale.96

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This ambivalence was best illustrated in the relationship between dockyard town and national state. Decisions concerning dockyard production and the future development of the locality were invariably taken in the metropolis, and local considerations brought little influence to bear on this decision-making process. The determination of naval authorities to ensure that military and strategic requirements were not compromised had frequently led to the underdevelopment of other sectors, which could make the closure of a dockyard particularly devastating for the local community.97 Economic dependence was thus usually reflected in political dependence and a strong tradition of lobbying at national level to attempt to influence defence policy.98 The town council in Karlskrona campaigned vigorously for the adoption of a scheme which would turn the dockyard capacity over to civilian production when the dockyard was threatened with closure after the First World War. In this case the dockyard did not close, but the joint action of a local coalition was mirrored in other dockyard towns at this time, together with the notion that the state had some kind of responsibility towards the wider community associated with the dockyard. It was this tension between local and national interests which appears to be one of the most significant and distinctive influences on the politics of the dockyard town.

Notes 1. Much of this chapter is based on Mary Hilson, Political Change and the Rise of Labour in Comparative Perspective: Britain and Sweden 1890–1920 (Lund, 2006), especially pp. 211–19, and is reproduced by kind permission of the publisher, Nordic Academic Press. 2. Torkel Molin, Den rätta tidens mått. Götiska Förbundet, fornforskningen och det antikvariska landskapet (Umeå, 2003); Patrik Hall, Den svenskaste historien. Nationalism i Sverige under sex sekler (Stockholm, 2000); Samuel Edquist, Nyktra svenskar: Godtemplarrörelsen och den nationella identiteten 1879–1918 (Uppsala, 2001). 3. Bo Stråth, ‘The Swedish Image of Europe as Other’, in Bo Stråth (ed.), Europe and the Other and Europe as the Other (Brussels, 2000), p. 365; Bo Stråth and Øystein Sørensen, The Cultural Construction of Norden (Oslo, 1997); Henrik Berggren and Lars Trägårdh, Är svensken människa? Gemenskap och oberoende i det moderna Sverige (Stockholm, 2006). 4. Klas Åmark, ‘Att skriva Norges – och Sveriges – historia’, Historisk Tidskrift, 121 (2001), pp. 406–21, 416; Steven Koblik (ed.), Sweden’s Development from Poverty to Affluence, 1750–1970, translated Joanne Johnson (Minneapolis, 1975), p. 11. 5. Rune Bokholm, Städernas handlingsfrihet. En studie av expansionsskedet 1900–1930 (Lund, 1995), p. 28.

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6. See Bokholm, Städernas handlingsfrihet, pp. 28–32 for an overview. 7. Eva Österberg, ‘Bönder och centralmakt i det tidigmoderna Sverige. Konflikt – kompromiss – politisk historia’, Scandia, 55 (1989), pp. 73–95; Eva Österberg, ‘Vardagens sträva samförstånd. Bondepolitik i den svenska modellen från vasatid till frihetstid’, in Gunnar Broberg, Ulla Wikander and Klas Åmark (eds), Tänka, tycka, tro: Svensk historia underifrån (Stockholm, 1993), pp. 126–46; Peter Aronsson, Bönder gör politik. Det lokala självstyret som social arena i tre smålandssocknar, 1680–1850 (Lund, 1992); Bo Rothstein, ‘State Structure and Variations in Corporatism: The Swedish Case’, Scandinavian Political Studies, 14 (1991), pp. 149–71. For a summary and critique see Börje Harnesk, ‘Den svenska modellens tidigmoderna rötter?’, Historisk Tidskrift, 122 (2002), pp. 78–90; Stefan Nyzell, ‘Striden ägde rum i Malmö.’ Möllevångskravallerna 1926. En studie av politiskt våld i mellankrigstidens Sverige (Malmö, 2009), pp. 350–75. 8. Bokholm, Städernas handlingsfrihet. 9. Duncan Tanner, Political Change and the Labour Party, 1900–1918 (Cambridge, 1990), p. 190; Kenneth Lunn, ‘Labour Culture in Dockyard Towns: A Study of Portsmouth, Plymouth and Chatham, 1900–1950’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiednis, 18 (1992), pp. 275–93; Donald Reid, ‘The Third Republic as Manager: Labor Policy in the Naval Shipyards, 1892–1902’, International Review of Social History, 30 (1985), pp. 183–206. 10. Bo Stråth, Union och demokrati: De förenade rikena Sverige-Norge 1814–1905 (Nora, 2005), p. 297; Nils Elvander, ‘Från liberal skandinavism till konservativ nationalism i Sverige’, Scandia, 27 (1961), pp. 366–86, 376. 11. See Stig Hadenius, Fosterländsk unionspolitik. Majoritetspartiet, regeringen och unionsfrågan 1888–1899 (Uppsala, 1964); Nils Elvander, Harald Hjärne och konservatismen. Konservativ idédebatt i Sverige 1865–1922 (Uppsala, 1961). 12. See Leif Lewin, Ideologi och strategi. Svensk politik under 100 år (Stockholm, 1984), pp. 46–64. 13. See especially Stråth, Union och demokrati, pp. 290–315. 14. Hans Holmén, Försvar och samhällsförändring. Avvägningsfrågor i svensk försvarsdebatt, 1880–1925 (Göteborg, 1985). 15. Jarl Torbacke, Försvaret främst. Tre studier till belysning av borggårdskrisens problematik (Stockholm, 1983); Berndt Schiller, ‘Years of Crisis’, in Steven Koblik (ed.), Sweden’s Development from Poverty to Affluence, translated Joanne Johnson (Minneapolis, 1975), pp. 197–228. 16. Stråth, Union och demokrati, p. 293; Elvander, Harald Hjärne och konservatismen, pp. 6–7. 17. For these debates in Britain, see Frans Coetzee, For Party or Country: Nationalism and the Dilemmas of Popular Conservatism in Edwardian England (Oxford, 1990); Anne Summers, ‘The Character of Edwardian Nationalism: Three Popular Leagues’, in Paul Kennedy and Anthony Nicholls (eds), Nationalist and Racialist Movements in Britain and Germany before 1914 (London, 1981), pp. 87–98. 18. Elvander, Harald Hjärne, p. 416. 19. See for example Martin Grass, ‘Den starkaste brygga mellan Nordens folk för fredligt arbete?’, Arbeiderhistorie (1988), pp. 76–105; Christer Strahl, Nationalism och socialism. Fosterlandet i den politiska idédebatten i Sverige 1890–1914 (Lund, 1983), pp. 66–78.

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20. Strahl, Nationalism och Socialism, p. 44; Herbert Tingsten, The Swedish Social Democrats: Their Ideological Development, translated Greta Frankel and Patricia Howard-Rosen (Totowa, NJ, 1973), pp. 489–505. 21. Holmén, Försvar och samhällsförändring. 22. Holmén, Försvar och samhällsförändring; Stråth, Union och demokrati, p. 358; Playford V. Torson II, The Defense Question in Sweden 1911–1914 (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Minnesota, 1972). 23. For a detailed discussion of this debate see Lewin, Ideologi och strategi, pp. 137–46. 24. For the bondetåget see Torbacke, Försvaret främst. 25. For borggårdskupen see Torbacke, Försvaret främst; Lewin, Ideologi och strategi, p. 140. 26. Leif Lewin, Ideology and Strategy: A Century of Swedish Politics, translated Victor Kayfetz (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 92–96. 27. Hall, Den svenskaste historien, pp. 99, 107. 28. Elvander, Harald Hjärne, p. 431; Lewin, Ideology and Strategy, pp. 90–93. 29. Torbacke, Försvaret främst, pp. 160–61. 30. Trevor Harris, ‘Government and the Specialised Military Town: The Impact of Defence Policy on Urban Social Structure in the Nineteenth Century’, in Michael Bateman and Raymond Riley (eds), The Geography of Defence (London, 1987), pp. 100–40; G. J. Ashworth War and the City (London, 1991). On Karlskrona dockyard see Ann Hörsell, ‘Från segel och trä till ånga och stål, 1866–1910’; Björn Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, both in Erik Norberg (ed.), Karlskronavarvets historia, vol. 2 (Karlskrona, 1993). 31. Harris, ‘Government and the Specialised Military Town’, p. 101; Ashworth, War and the City, p. 64. 32. Jean Quellien, ‘Un milieu ouvrier réformiste: syndicalisme et réformisme à Cherbourg à la «Belle Époque»’ Mouvement Social, 127 (1984), pp. 65–88, 66. 33. Rune Hillbom, Karlskrona 300 år, volume 2 (Karlskrona, 1982), p. 10. 34. Peter Hilditch, ‘The Dockyard in the Local Economy’, in Michael Duffy et al. (eds), The New Maritime History of Devon, vol. 2 (London, 1994); Sidney Pollard and Paul Robertson, The British Shipbuilding Industry, 1870–1914 (Cambridge, M.A., 1979), pp. 53–55. Sheerness, in south-east England, presents an exception here, and exhibits some features of the company town: see Harris, ‘Government and the Specialised Military Town’, p. 102. For Gothenburg, see Tommy Svensson, Från ackord till månadslön. En studie av lönepolitiken, fackföreningarna och rationaliseringarna inom svensk varvsindustri under 1900-talen (Göteborg, 1983); Bo Stråth, Varvsarbetare i två varvstäder. En historisk studie av verkstadsklubbarna vid varven i Göteborg och Malmö (Göteborg, 1982). 35. Harris, ‘Government and the Specialised Military Town’, p. 119; G. Le Bouëdec, ‘Le port et l’arsenal de Lorient. De la compagnie des Indes à la Marine cuirassée: une réconversion réussie (XVIIIe –XIXe siècles)’, L’information historique, 56 (1994), pp. 94–100, 100. 36. Quellien, ‘Un milieu ouvrier réformiste’, pp. 67–68. 37. Malcolm Crook, Toulon in War and Revolution: From the ancien régime to the Restoration, 1750–1820 (Manchester, 1991), p. 24.

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38. Ken Lunn and Ann Day (eds), History of Work and Labour Relations in the Royal Dockyards (London, 1999), introduction. 39. Reid, ‘The Third Republic as Manager’, p. 186. 40. Hörsell, ‘Från segel och trä’, pp. 66, 68. 41. The workforce roll for 16 March 1868 was made up as follows: 524 (civilian) day labourers, 729 seamen, 53 prisoners. Hörsell, ‘Från segel och trä’, pp. 66, 68. Convict labour was used in the British dockyards during the early nineteenth century, especially for dock excavations; see Harris, ‘Government and the Specialised Military Town’, p. 126. 42. For the foundation and early history of Karlskrona dockyard, see L. Ericsson, ‘Pionjärer och rustningar 1680–1721’, in Erik Norberg (ed.), Karlskronavarvets historia, vol. 1 (Karlskrona, 1993). 43. Hörsell, ‘Från segel och trä’, and Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, pp. 7–80. 44. See Hörsell, ‘Från segel och trä’, and Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, pp. 81–134. 45. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i en föränderlig omvärld’, p. 110. 46. Hillbom, Karlskrona 300 år, pp. 45–54. 47. For the interest in Karl XII, the Karolinska Förbundet and the commemoration of the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Poltava, see Elvander, Harald Hjärne, pp. 419ff. 48. Roy Andersen, ‘Ideologiske forutsetningar for den militære opprustningen i Norge 1890–1900’, Historisk Tidskrift, 78 (1999), pp. 48–60, 55. 49. For example, Karlskrona Weckoblad, 21 June 1894 described the launch of the minesweeper Gudur, in the presence of ‘the naval minister, the commanderin-chief, and many officers of all ranks together with a large number of other interested parties’. 50. Förening Gamla Carlscrona, 1:a maj-reveljen i Karlskrona: ett 20-årigt perspektiv (Karlskrona, 2000). 51. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 2 May 1914. 52. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 6 September 1911. 53. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 6 September 1911, 8 September 1911. 54. Blekinge Läns Tidning, 9 September 1911. 55. Blekinge Folkblad, 9 September 1911. 56. Karlskrona Weckoblad, 14 September 1905. 57. Karlskrona Weckoblad, 2 September 1908. 58. Blekinge Folkblad, 1 September 1905, 26 September 1905. 59. The 1908 campaign seemed to be a particularly bitter one, with the first result being declared null and void after the losing party alleged that election irregularities had taken place, and a new ballot had to be organized several months later. A new poll was held in December 1908, and the original winner, the Liberal Ulrik Leander, increased his majority. Blekinge Läns Tidning, October 1908, passim. 60. Karlskrona Weckoblad, 2 September 1908. 61. Ulrik Leander, En fängelsedirektörs minnen (Stockholm, 1936), p. 298; Karlskrona Weckoblad, 22 September 1908. A correspondent to the newspaper wrote that, ‘every grant towards [defence], and all the money which is used for it, benefits our community, and is useful to its citizens, trade

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62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69.

70. 71.

72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

Towns and the Nation-State and business, and consequently any potential riksdagsman must see it as his foremost duty to work for something of vital necessity to this community, and not concern himself with such unimportant, not to say unnecessary questions such as introducing absolute veto and votes for women’. Karlskrona Weckoblad, 22 September 1908, 25 September 1908. Karlskrona Weckoblad, 2 September 1908, 9 September 1908, 11 September 1908. See also Leander, En fängelsedirektörs minnen, p. 310. Blekinge Folkblad, 7 November 1907. Blekinge Folkblad, 22 March 1913. Blekinge Folkblad, 10 January 1914. Announcement placed by SAP Blekinge district styrelsen, in Blekinge Folkblad, 28 January 1914. Blekinge Folkblad, 9 February 1914. Karlskrona-Tidningen (6 March 1914) reported on a Liberal meeting in Stockholm under the headline ‘Cheers for republicanism at Staaff demonstration.’ Peter Esaiasson, Svenska valkampanjer 1866–1988 (Stockholm, 1990), pp. 114, 116. In Karlskrona these included the Women’s Union for Sweden’s Naval Defence (Kvinnoförbundet för Sveriges sjöförsvar), with 125 members; the Association of Independent Defence Supporters (Föreningen frisinnade försvarsvänner), campaigning to keep politics out of the defence question; Young Sweden Union (Ungsvenska förbundet) and Farmers’ March Defence Union (Bondetågets försvarsförbund). Karlskrona-Tidningen, 4 March 1914, 14 March 1914, 17 March 1914, 21 March 1914. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 4 September 1914. Blekinge Folkblad, 5 September 1914. Blekinge Läns Tidning, 2 September 1914; Karlskrona-Tidningen, 18 August 1914. Hörsell, ‘Från segel och trä’, pp. 53, 64. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, p. 81. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, p. 87. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 27 March 1914. Right Party election leaflet, issued with Karlskrona-Tidningen, 28 March 1914. The address asked, ‘What influence would the Staaff programme have for Karlskrona and its environs? It would be the ruin of our community.’ Emphasis in original. Right Party election leaflet, Karlskrona-Tidningen, 28 March 1914; Blekinge Läns Tidning, 26 March 1914. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 9 March 1914; Blekinge Läns Tidning, 10 March 1914. Blekinge Läns Tidning, 10 March 1914, 13 March 1914, 21 March 1914. Blekinge Läns Tidning, 17 March 1914. Blekinge Läns Tidning, 28 March 1914. Karlskrona-Tidningen, 29 March 1914. Blekinge Läns Tidning, 24 March 1914. Marinmusei arkiv, Karlskrona, Statsanställdas förbund avd 2136 arkiv, MVAF minutes, 12 March 1914. See Janvik Bromé, Karlskrona stads historia, vol. III, 1862–1930 (Karlskrona, 1930), p. 3.

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89. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, pp. 82, 87. 90. Blekinge Folkblad, 31 January 1916; Karlskrona kommunarkiv: Kommittén utsedd att följa örlogsvarvets verksamhet: Protokoll med handlingar, 1919–20, stadsfullmäktige meeting, 19 July 1919, §13. 91. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, pp. 83–84. 92. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, p. 86. 93. Folkrörelsearkiv i Blekinge län: Socialdemokratiska fullmäktigegruppen, Karlskrona, Protokoll, 1919–34, 2 April 1919. 94. This provoked angry allegations of unfair competition from the Swedish Shipbuilding Association (Sveriges Varvsindustriförening). The naval authorities denied this, arguing that they were taking on private work for military ends, principally the need to maintain a competent workforce in readiness for military goals. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, p. 89. 95. Gäfvert, ‘Kontinuitet i föränderlig omvärld’, p. 117. 96. Quellien, ‘Un milieu ouvrier réformist’, p. 75. 97. For the impact of dockyard closure see Ann Day, ‘Driven from Home? The Closure of Pembroke Dockyard and the Impact on its Community’, Llafur, 7 (1996), pp. 78–86. 98. Ashworth, War and the City, p. 64.

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6 Negotiating for Garrisons in France at the Beginning of the Third Republic Jean-François Chanet

Students of nationalism have long recognized the existence of a link between the constraints imposed by modern warfare on the security of states and the progress of national consciousness among the masses. Eric Hobsbawm, for example, has observed that, from the French Revolution onwards, ‘state interests now depended on the participation of the ordinary citizens to an extent not previously envisaged [and that] whether the armies were composed of conscripts or volunteers, the willingness of men to serve was now an essential variable in government calculations’.1 But most writers either tend to regard this link as self-evident or deal with it at only a theoretical and superficial level. They generally do not examine in detail the practical arrangements that this important social and cultural change involved. As part of his reflections on industrial society, for example, Ernest Gellner interprets this development through the concepts of equality and mobility he considers fundamental, but he does not really go beyond a functional comparison: according to him, there is a marked similarity between the need for a modern army to offer recruits a general and generic training and the need for a modern state to give people a national education.2 The awareness of this similarity led the politicians and social elites to identify the army itself as a school. This process is indeed characterized by a gradually extended equality in military service – which General Foy, a member of the opposition under the Restoration, called ‘the blood tax’ in a 1824 speech to the Chamber of Deputies3 – and by mobility in a double sense: the spatial mobility of young men from the countryside, who would scarcely have had other occasions to travel far from their home; and the social mobility that several years of military service could offer. 156

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Eugen Weber has rightly pointed out that the effect on political acculturation of this process was as little self-evident in France as elsewhere, and that to be truly efficient it had to mix with other simultaneous material and social changes, especially the greater ease of transport and communication and the rise of popular education. He quotes an English writer, Philip Gilbert Hamerton, whose wife was French and who observed in the early 1870s ‘that the army had come to be recognized as national after 1870, and that soldiers and military service were now to be accepted’.4 ‘By the 1890s’, Eugen Weber adds, ‘there is persuasive evidence that the army was no longer “theirs” but “ours” ’ He mentions one of the instruments of this appropriation: ‘Regimental festivals celebrating the unit’s feats of arms began in the 1870s; regimental colours became the centrepiece of special ceremonies; every barracks had a special room that served as a regimental tabernacle.’ According to him, the result of the multiplication of such ‘quasi-religious’ ceremonies ‘may merely have been that local patriotism was replaced by regimental allegiance’.5 One could argue that the local patriotism did not exclude the regimental – or national – allegiance. This is precisely what this chapter will consider in more detail. The links between the spread of democratic consciousness, the equalization of military obligations and the strengthening of national sentiment are obviously of great interest from the point of view of political history. But that is not the theme I will emphasize here. I will rather show how the necessity of enlisting and maintaining a larger number of troops after 1871 led to a transformation in the relationship between the French and their army. This was a development that gradually transformed the relationship between town and country too. The vast majority of recruits were rural, but the garrisons were installed in towns; the impact of military service and the influence it had on the people’s national sentiment thus depended on how townspeople and rural soldiers related to each other. In less than a year, from the summer of 1870 to the spring of 1871, the people of France were able to assess just how illusory the power they believed their country had wielded under Napoleon III actually was, and how wide the divisions were, exacerbated as they had been by military defeats, invasion and Léon Gambetta’s desire to continue the fight in the name of a self-proclaimed government. This so-called government of ‘national defence’, was made up of members – physically separated between Paris and Tours and then Bordeaux, and as divided about the conduct of the war as about the political decisions that had to be taken – who proved unable either to repel the invaders or to win the elections

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of 8 February 1871. At least the government was justified in reminding the people of France that, since the Revolution, two regimes and two sovereigns – the two empires and the two Napoleons – had ended up giving their country over to invasion. Nevertheless, the difference between the two Emperors was considerable. This time – and it was with just such a reminder that Henry Contamine opened his classic book on The Revenge – France had been defeated not by a coalition of European states but by ‘a single adversary, whose population was scarcely any greater than its own, 39 million inhabitants as against 38 million’.6 This bitter realization made the need to imitate the Prussian victors appear pressing,7 even though it did not prevent the French politicians and intellectuals from building a ‘francocentrism’ that Rogers Brubaker has acutely analysed.8 However, was the defeat due to military unpreparedness or to political foolishness and the diplomatic isolation that it had produced? The debate on this question began with the proclamation of the Third Republic. For Adolphe Thiers, the second answer was the correct one and was a good reason not to seek to adopt Prussian military institutions just as they stood. The army quickly won the right to apportion blame, with the notable exception of Marshal Bazaine, who had allowed himself to be trapped in Metz and had surrendered the city and his army at the end of October 1870, which made him the ideal traitor for a French public eager to see guilty individuals named whose personal faults would make the country forget its innumerable anonymous shortcomings. Within the army itself, it is true, critical analysis of the causes of the defeat gradually led to the assertion of an ‘almost universally shared topos, to wit the responsibility of the command system’;9 in turn, this analysis was to form the basis of a wide-ranging examination of the relationship between authority and obedience.10 For the time being, however, the horror caused by the Paris Commune encouraged a sort of rehabilitation,11 just as it helped to increase awareness of the social usefulness of a return to conscription, provided that it was organized in such a way that the greater part of the ‘blood tax’ would fall on the working classes. This was precisely the thrust of the 1872 Law on the Recruitment of the Army. For the propertied classes, accepting the principle of compulsory military service – a principle they had successfully opposed when Napoleon III had sought to reintroduce it after the Battle of Sadovà and to which, under the terms of the 1872 legislation, there were in practice many exceptions – became all the more a duty since its selective application seemed more obviously to safeguard their interests.12 It was consequently typical of the process that John Breuilly has called ‘mobilisation’.13

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Thus there was no difficulty in reaching agreement on the need for a considerable increase in the size of the army if there was to be any hope of prevailing in the early battles, which now more than ever were regarded as decisive. But this new army, however different it might have been from the ‘new army’ as Jean Jaurès was to conceive it almost forty years later, was intended to play a primarily defensive role. The fact that the idea of revenge was present in people’s minds did not mean that the political and military leaders had any bellicose intentions – far from it. While the country’s defences did indeed have to be restored as a matter of urgency, this was not in order to go on the offensive. Rather, the country had to be prepared for the eventuality of a further German attack. The tasks of conquering, pacifying and administering France’s colonies subsequently assigned to the army by the Republicans14 did not prevent this peacetime army from being called on to take part in the social war being waged in metropolitan France, or even becoming a collaborator in their anti-clerical policy:15 both these functions were more important than any preparation for revenge. Thus the first task was to organize this army in order to enable it successfully to fulfil the tasks that awaited it – and these, as everybody then agreed, were not simply strictly military tasks. This job was made more difficult by the situation of the public finances, which was not helped by the reparation payments of 5 billion francs imposed by Bismarck. We will see in the second section how and why the government passed the law of 4 August 1874 in order to hasten the reorganization of the army’s garrisons and the negotiations that were conducted on this legal basis. We will then examine the ways in which towns and cities were induced to compete with each other, the outcomes of that competition and the benefits they hoped to obtain from acquiring a garrison. This achievement by what Adolphe Thiers called the ‘conservative Republic’ – a de facto, if not yet a de jure republic – shaped France’s military organization for a long time.16 In a final section, we will assess its importance.

Reform and finance The need to make a success of the now vital operation of mobilizing more troops very rapidly led inevitably to the adoption of the basic dual principle underpinning the new military organization, which was enshrined in the law of 24 July 1873: the establishment of permanent organizational structures, based on an army divided into corps and a

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territory divided into eighteen army corps regions, and the grouping of units, which implied stable garrisons.17 The subject and modalities of the negotiations over the new garrisons make them particularly interesting to those seeking to understand the new balance of power that was emerging at that time between the central state and local communities. The administrative practices inherited from previous regimes, a sense of patriotic urgency and the place of the army in a France racked by pain would suggest that the state had both the desire and the means to impose its will throughout the country. However, it was not feasible to draw up a national plan for reconstituting the country’s military garrisons in the offices of the government, which were still divided between Versailles and the rue Saint-Dominique in Paris, without having detailed knowledge of local resources and the means whereby they could be appropriated and adapted to the army’s new organizational principles. The ground was prepared by General de Cissey as early as 1871, when the towns and cities that had applied to house an artillery school were invited to submit bids, and then in 1872, on the occasion of the engineers’ general inspections.18 While no final decisions could be taken before the passing of the law of 24 July 1873 and the publication of its enforcement orders on the 28 and 29 September, everything proceeded apace immediately afterwards. On 15 October, Cissey’s successor at the ministry, General du Barail, published an order of the day in which he began by announcing that ‘in compliance with the decree issued by the President of the Republic on the 15th of October 1873, the new composition of the army corps, divisions and brigades shall come into force on the 21st of October inst’.19 On 22 October, the following circular, addressed to the commanders of the army corps, was issued by the general staff’s first bureau: My intention is to identify as promptly as possible the troops constituting the army corps in each district and the elements of those corps that have often had to be quartered in other regions because of a lack of barracks. On arrival at your general headquarters, you must start, without delay, to obtain the means of accommodating your troops within the territory under your command. To this end, you should immediately contact the authorities in those municipalities that seem to you suitable locations for stationing your troops, but only those, in order not to raise any unrealisable hopes. These municipalities should send you their applications and

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observations; you will examine their bids and then draw up and submit to me a general plan for garrisoning the troops in your army corps. This plan should take account above all of the need for rapid mobilisation and of any subsidies that the municipalities will be willing to grant.20 The corps commanders found themselves in very different situations in this regard. General Clinchant found quarters for the troops of the 1st corps in barracks that were already old (departments of Nord and Pas-de-Calais).21 The density of military establishments along the northern border made it possible to meet the army’s needs, albeit at the cost of stretching the grouping principle to some degree: ‘In Cambrai and Valenciennes, there is a slight shortage of places for the troops, considering the garrisons that have been assigned to these two towns by the minister; however, Bouchain, in the former case, and Condé, in the latter, could perfectly well accommodate the overflow’, he wrote to the prefect on 15 June 1874. The reaction of the mayor of Valenciennes is typical of the way in which some municipalities urged the military – in vain – to comply with the rules that they themselves had laid down: ‘However, the town has no desire to see the overflow from its garrison going elsewhere; it would much prefer to take advantage of the probably unique situation that presents itself today to supplement its garrison and to keep an entire regiment within its bounds.’22 The situation in the IVth region (the departments of Eure-et-Loir, Mayenne, Orne and Sarthe), whose administrative centre was Le Mans, was rather different. ‘Of all the corps commanders, I am unquestionably the least blessed,’ complained General Deligny: ‘it can be said that everything has to be built from nothing throughout the area under my command.’23 Where barracks had to be built or rebuilt, everything became complicated. The army corps commanders were the minister’s direct and, in principle, exclusive interlocutors. As soon as the circular of 22 October 1873 had been received, they started applying themselves to the task of following the instructions it contained. However, these instructions made their way only slowly from the top to the bottom of the ‘official channels’. At Sens (Yonne), it was not until December that the mayor received a letter from the sub-prefect ‘that was intended to prompt bids for the establishment of a garrison’.24 Several more weeks went by before the municipal council was able to meet. As far as barracks were concerned, the aim of ensuring ‘uniformity of instruction and guidance’ came up against internal as well as external constraints. Assessment of needs and of the municipalities’ bids required

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preliminary studies that could be carried out only by officers of the Engineers Corps. Cavalry general, du Barail, would undoubtedly have loved to be able to dispense with the sappers’ frequently extravagant requirements and opinions. At the bottom of a letter sent by the general staff’s first bureau to General Deligny on 17 November 1873, he added in his own hand these significant lines: ‘My view is that, in the circumstances in which we find ourselves, we have to proceed quickly and keep expenditure low. I am inclined to believe that it would be to our advantage to replace the very expensive, monumental barracks built to a uniform design with lighter, simpler designs that are much better suited to the troops’ needs. The construction industry has made very considerable progress from which we should be able to benefit.’25 Although they recognized the progress the construction industry had made, the officers of the Engineers Corps were not prepared to embrace the future in a hurry under the pretext of making savings. This is why the appointment of General Séré de Rivières as head of the ministry’s engineering department on 28 January 1874 was of such great importance.26 In just a few weeks, he was able to establish himself as the principal official in charge of reorganizing the garrisons and ensuring that the task of drafting the agreements to be concluded with the municipalities was entrusted to the regional heads of the Engineers Corps. As early as 19 February, he submitted a report on this question to the minister. Faced with the predictable inadequacy of the bids submitted by the municipalities – 20 to 25 million of the 110 million that was required, according to his calculations – and recognizing the impossibility of taking the balance all at the same time from the war budget, he suggested that the municipalities be requested to add further advances, repayable by the state (including interest), to the loans they would have to take out in order to pay the subsidies already promised. Since it was based on the assumption that the interests of the state and those of the municipalities were complementary, this scheme turned the reconstitution of the army’s garrisons into a collective enterprise and the object of a transaction. The circular issued by General du Barail on 11 May 1874, five days before the fall of the Broglie cabinet, made it clear to the army corps commanders that the agreement of his colleagues from the Ministry of the Interior and the Ministry of Finances to settle the question of the advances and their repayment would relieve the War Office of ‘the most awkward part of the negotiations on this important measure’.27 It also confirmed that the army needed to rely on the prefects’ authority in order to negotiate the essential arrangements, since not all the municipalities were inclined to make the necessary sacrifices.

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The search for a legal framework The conditions and objectives of these negotiations inevitably made the Office of Departmental and Communal Administration in the Ministry of the Interior, which at that time kept the municipal and regional councils under close supervision through the prefects and sub-prefects, the main interlocutor of the Engineering Division. Its agreement in principle to the Rivières project implied a right of scrutiny over the process as a whole. The instability that characterized holders of the Interior Minister’s portfolio during this period, when the new regime’s institutions were not yet established on a permanent footing, did not have any great effect on the way the applications were processed. This was because, from the period immediately following the Commune until 1877, the post of director of departmental and communal administration was held by the same senior member of the Council of State, Henry Durangel, who was constantly mediating between the wishes of the military and the capacity for independent evaluation that the prefects and mayors were seeking to preserve. In practice, the consultation between army officers and prefects was not as close as the mutual professions of goodwill might lead us to suppose. Here and there, officers thought they could conduct the negotiations by themselves, at the risk of appearing responsible for the delays due to this misapprehension as soon as the first difficulties arose. Changes of opinion about the location of the troops were no less damaging to the harmonious co-existence of the various departments. Within the army itself, the dominance of the engineers gave rise to tensions and conflicts. There were many technical reasons why this dominance was justified. However, on more than one occasion, it offended the other army elements associated closely or distantly with the enterprise. Some corps commanders showed some irritation at seeing their proposals contradicted or corrected. What they heard of the conflicts of opinion about the main thrust of defence policy, of the debate on the advantages and disadvantages of the army’s new organizational structures and, finally, of the uncertainty that continued to hamper the functioning of the various institutions and thereby undermined confidence in the law encouraged many municipal councillors to exercise the greatest possible caution when they came to vote on the large sums they were being asked to make available. Thus a municipal councillor in Lisieux displayed considerable hesitation on 27 March 1874 ‘in the face of the government’s instability and the indecision that still reigns in the National Assembly with regard to

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the various systems of military reorganisation that have been laid before it’.28 On 9 June, the speaker of the finance committee of the Rennes municipal council was no less circumspect and observed, as his colleague in Lisieux had done, that the final decisions could not be taken without the deputies having had their say. It sometimes happens that ministers change, and with them the decisions they have taken. Thus the agreement of the ministers of the interior, of war and of finances, which we are told exists with regard to this decidedly most unusual scheme, offers us only a mediocre guarantee. In any event, it does not obviate the need for a decision by the National Assembly, which must give its ruling on the request for a loan, as well as on all the conditions to which that loan will be subject.29 In their haste to distribute troops across the country in accordance with the law of 1873, the army was not ignorant of the fact that each loan provided by a municipality or department was supposed to be the object of separate legislation. The means whereby they were able to circumvent this difficulty cannot be understood unless it is considered within the political context in which it was adopted. Three events in particular stand out. As negotiations were beginning on the financially awkward question of garrisons, the government was ruthlessly exploiting the right to undo what universal suffrage had already done. The law of 20 January 1874, which authorized the replacement of Republican mayors by men loyal to the government, created an environment that was, on the face of it, susceptible to the pressures being jointly exerted by army officers and prefects. The failure to resolve the political crisis, with France trapped between a failed Restoration and the need to consolidate the existing regime for which it seemed impossible to obtain a majority, led the Assembly into an impasse from which the only way out seemed to be a four-month prorogation, from 5 August to 30 November. Thus the legislation required at this stage of the military reorganization, which was recognized as a priority, had to be passed as a matter of urgency before this new adjournment. And so it was that, on 17 July, the bill on the improvement of the defences on the country’s eastern border was adopted. As far as the garrisons were concerned, the army, taking note of the parliamentary paralysis – in other words, of the paradoxical and provisional nature of a legal situation in which maintenance of the state of siege guaranteed it a pre-eminent position – managed to persuade the Assembly, on 4 August, the day before the

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adjournment, to transfer to the military its powers to scrutinize the expenditure incurred.30 ‘This bill was adopted, together with many others, almost without debate’, noted the Nouvelliste de Rouen the next day.31 The report of the proceedings shows that the debate, however brief it may have been, nevertheless enabled two Republican deputies to express reservations. In their view, the bill’s most questionable article was the fourth which, for the duration of the prorogation, authorized the president of the republic to approve any agreement to be concluded between the state and municipalities by a decree issued in the Council of Ministers and countersigned by the ministers of the interior, of war and of finance. Louis Latrade, a deputy from the Corrèze, regretted that this article ‘transfers the power of scrutiny to the government, which is itself incurring the expenditure’. Then his colleague Paul Bouchet, a deputy from the Bouches-du-Rhône, demanded that the words ‘municipal councils’ that were used in the legislation should be interpreted restrictively so that the municipal committees, which represented the executive in those towns in which they had replaced the elected councils, could not commit municipal funds in any agreement reached with the government. This opponent of mayoral rule had no hope of winning his case, but the rapporteur Léon Say explained all the same that: ‘The authority invested in the government is very specific, since it has been granted for the period of prorogation only. Those agreements and resources that have not been approved when the assembly returns will be the object of separate legislation.’32 The following weeks saw a flurry of activity, from the ministerial offices to the meeting rooms of the municipal councils, the intensity of which can be imagined. However impatient they might have been to settle everything that could be settled before the Assembly’s return, the legislation did not provide the military with the means to force civilians – civil servants as well as elected representatives – intent on defending the local interests of those under their administration to give in to their demands. The most conclusive evidence of this impatience is to be found in the letter that the Minister of War (in reality General Séré de Rivières) wrote to his colleague the Minister of the Interior (although the original addressee was the councillor of State Durangel) on 23 October, thus a little more than a month before the end of the period laid down by the law of 4 August. It is my pleasure to acknowledge, my dear Minister and colleague, that the officials in your department have worked most devotedly

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to ensure the success of the negotiations we have been conducting with the municipalities on the establishment of garrisons. Considerable progress has been made, since I have already had the honour of sending to you 60 agreements bearing my approval. However, it is important to complete the process, and today it is to your department that this task mainly falls, since it is the only one capable of ensuring that the municipalities take the measures required to fulfil their commitments. You will surely agree with me, my dear Minister and colleague, that it is highly desirable that almost all the agreements, if not every single one, should be the object of a decree before Parliament returns, when the exceptional powers granted to the President of the Republic will expire.33 This objective was not achieved. The delays, which were inevitably extended by the proliferation of formalities, the dispatch of copies of documents along the hierarchical channels and by correspondence of all kinds between the parties to the negotiations offer a convenient explanation. However, who would be satisfied by this? In the towns concerned, the question of the garrison was a focal point for passions and interests. This is why it reveals more clearly than any other issue the permeability between civil servants and politicians to which the military and civil authorities were disinclined to adapt, even if they had not also been ill-prepared. There is virtually no doubt that the architects of the military reforms saw the law as a weapon that would enable them to counter political instability with the most certain of responses. And, it will be agreed, this was a by no means minor achievement of the ‘conservative Republic’. However, the law did not enable them to force the municipalities to agree to sacrifices that they were unwilling to make.

Garrisons: A good investment? In his letter of 5 November 1873 to the Minister of War, General Deligny declared his intention of impressing on the municipalities ‘the advantages that garrisons can bring to towns and making them understand that the offers of subsidies are, ultimately, nothing more than the advance of a capital sum that can be amortised over a relatively short period of time’. ‘It is these considerations above all,’ he added, ‘that will persuade them to make funds available to the state. I also urge that appeal be made to their dedication and patriotism, but I think that the

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question of interest, prevailing over all the others, will constitute the strongest and soundest argument.’34 On reading the resolutions passed by the municipal councils, it becomes evident that the general had the merit of lucidity. Whether elected or nominated, council members were visibly reluctant to give way to patriotic appeals without having obtained guarantees on two points, namely that the promised garrison strengths would remain stable and that sites within the area subject to their towns’ octroi duties would be chosen for the barracks.35 On the first point, the engineers had always been opposed to the introduction of figures into the agreements. The undertaking given by the army, the permanency principle governing the location of garrisons, which seemed to have acquired the status of a new dogma, and – more particularly – the guarantee represented by the payment of advances should, in their view, have been sufficient. After all, it was difficult to imagine that the state, having made its repayments, would then move troops that were going to cost more than 100,000,000 francs to install. However, the vast majority of the agreements were concluded and ratified before the law on officers and manpower, which was passed on 13 March 1875, came into force. The new legislation provided for the establishment of 144 metropolitan regiments of the line, each with four battalions consisting of four companies, thirty battalions of infantrymen, seventy-seven regiments of cavalry (six of them in Algeria), thirty-eight artillery regiments and four regiments of engineers, to which were added, among others, four regiments of pontoniers and a service corps made up of fifty-seven companies.36 Now the implementation of this legislation gave rise, in some towns, to reductions in troop numbers that took effect at the very worst moment, just as they were beginning to pay their subsidies to the Treasury. The bitterness of the ensuing discussions can be imagined. One of the towns that reacted most vigorously was Saint-Lô, whose municipal council decided, as early as 15 April 1875, to send a deputation to the Minister of War. The representations continued for four months, with the prefect playing his part by supporting the mayor. Thus it was the prefect whom the engineering department entrusted with the task of obtaining the municipality’s agreement to a 12.5 per cent reduction in the subsidy of 100,000 francs stipulated in the agreement of 1 July 1874. It was made clear to the prefect that this concession could not be regarded ‘as being of general application, considering that of the 28 towns whose garrisons have been reduced in accordance with the law of 13 March 1875, only eight have believed it necessary to demand that

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their agreements be amended’.37 Should not the restraint displayed by the twenty others (i.e. more than two thirds) be seen as an indication of their confidence in the profits they would gain from the installation of troops rather than of their patriotism? The first benefit the towns were expecting was an increase in revenue from octroi duties. From Amiens to Nîmes and Bayonne, from Rennes and Saint-Malo to Chaumont and Gray, via Coulommiers, Châlons, Épernay and Belley, the resolutions adopted by municipal councils reflect a firm resolve on their part that the sites chosen for the new barracks should lie ‘within the area within which octroi duties are levied’.38 The obvious importance of this requirement makes it regrettable that there are very few studies of this institution which, nevertheless, played a key role in the economic and social life of towns and cities in the nineteenth century.39 Robert Laurent’s fine monograph on octroi duties in Dijon, now old and insufficiently emulated, provides some valuable information. At the end of the century, revenue from octroi duties, which in the period 1800 to 1801 had accounted for a little more than two thirds of the town’s total resources, constituted nearly half of the total revenue listed in the budget.40 The ease of collection and the revenues they provided often encouraged the authorities to increase the duties in order to meet pressing financial needs. In Dijon, as elsewhere, this was particularly the case immediately after the war, and the changes consisted less of increases in existing taxes than in the addition of new products to the tariff. This was an indication that these new products were now sufficiently widely consumed or used for the authorities to hope to gain significant revenue from them. Robert Laurent notes that, from the 1850s onwards, the municipal councillors kept a closer watch than previously on fluctuations in revenue which, he rightly emphasizes, ‘recreates a climate better than any commentary and helps us to understand people’s mentality and their reactions to economic circumstances in the Second Empire and at the beginning of the Third Republic’.41 The attention they paid to the beneficial financial effects of the installation of troops confirms this. It also tends to show that, in this area, the disasters of 1870–71 were merely ‘an accident with limited consequences’.42 Undoubtedly, the sources of Dijon’s prosperity did not exist everywhere to the same extent. However, the general tendency among contemporaries was to observe an increase in prosperity throughout the 1870s to previously unknown levels. This was particularly true from 1875–76 onwards in the construction industry,43 whose recovery was encouraged by the army.

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Thus the predominant view, even among the most reserved and cautious, was that however onerous it might seem at first, this was a profitable long-term investment for the communes involved. Towns and departments exchanged information on this subject, which the army took the lead in circulating, albeit on a selective basis since it expected that towns seeking to emulate one another would agree to sacrifices that were sometimes regarded as excessive at first sight.

The well-understood interests of the two parties At this point we should briefly review, in the light of the short debate that preceded the vote on the law of 4 August 1874, the method adopted to ensure that the reconstitution of the nation’s garrisons went ahead and the results that were obtained. Firstly, it should be noted that nobody on 4 August considered criticizing in principle the measure to be voted on. However, Latrade, a Republican deputy from the Corrèze, declared that ‘serious abuses have occurred in its implementation’. The towns were not all being treated equally. The army was providing them with only partial and misleading information, with the aim of obtaining greater sacrifices from them. Their contributions could vary twofold as a share of the total expenditure, depending on the individual case. Faced with these criticisms, General de Cissey, although he was no longer the minister, protested that he had ‘never concealed anything from anybody’ and the rapporteur Léon Say replied ‘that the towns’ interests in contributing to the costs of the garrisons vary, that they are in different situations with regard to their budgetary resources and that, consequently, it seemed unfeasible to make use of standard agreements’.44 As always, the figures, however indispensable they might be, must be interpreted with caution. At the time that the agreements were signed, the troop numbers on which the officers of the Engineering Corps and the municipalities based their calculations had not yet been stabilized. It was the law of 1875 that provisionally gave them official status. However, a longer-term perspective was required. Despite these uncertainties, the sacrifices being made had a good chance of being beneficial in the long term, since it was difficult to imagine that the army, which was after all committing a not inconsiderable share of its own budget to the operation, would in the short term change the location of its garrisons. This is confirmed by the military map of France on the eve of the First World War: not only had the towns selected in 1874 – with just a few exceptions – retained their garrisons, but in quite a number of cases their

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initial sacrifices had enabled them to obtain increases in troop numbers as a result of the progress that had been made in the grouping of military units, which was still very incomplete at that time. As with all construction projects of a certain scale, the initial estimates of the costs had to be revised upwards as the work proceeded. Here too, however, the extent of their initial sacrifice was, for the municipalities, the best argument they could advance in resisting the military’s subsequent attempts to pressurize them. NB: Only three of them are not administrative centres (of a district or department): Bourgoin, Cette and Magnac-Laval. In order to give a suitable basis of comparison, we chose to leave in all the administrative centres of the metropolitan districts and departments, except the departments of Seine and Seine-et-Oise, which were attached to the military government of Paris. We also left in the cities listed in the 1878 Statistical Yearbook of France as cities of more than 10,000 inhabitants, which were not administrative centres (pp. 24–25). As appears on Table 6.1, Figures 6.1 and 6.2, relative to the size of their populations, the larger towns and cities made considerably less effort than the smaller ones. Obviously, they embarked on the negotiations from a position of strength: it was inconceivable that Amiens or Bordeaux could be deprived of large garrisons, whereas there was no reason at all to station even one battalion in Bellac or Mamers. Thus towns with fewer than 10,000 inhabitants had to offer the state proportionately larger sums of money. What is certainly more surprising and remarkable is the differences in the levels of subsidy paid: in order to obtain more or less the same number of troops (between 700 Table 6.1 Distribution of cities authorized to take out a loan for barracks between 1874 and 1879 according to the number of inhabitants Population

50,000 >100,000 All

Number of cities in France

Ratio

7 35 36 13 11 7 3

97 113 111 35 17 16 8

0.07216495 0.30973451 0.32432432 0.37142857 0.64705882 0.4375 0.375

112

397

Number of cities authorized to take out a loan

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Number of cities 40

Ratio French cities

0.7

35

0.6

30

0.5

25

0.4

20 0.3

15

0.2

10

0.1

5 0

0 50000 >100000 20000 30000 50000 Number of inhabitants

Figure 6.1 Graph of cities authorized to take out a loan for barracks between 1874 and 1879 according to the number of inhabitants

0.6

Ratio of cities whose per capita expenses are higher than 20 frs / Total of the cities

0.5

0.4

0.3

0.2

0.1

0 60000

Inhabitants number Figure 6.2 Distribution of cities that have taken out a loan for the barracks between 1874 and 1879 according to their per capita expenses

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and 900 men), Foix gave only 50,000 francs while Châteaudun had to pay 500,000. True, the Ministry of War had to take into account the inequalities in the communes’ situations and finances. However, is it not revealing that one of the towns that suffered most during the FrancoPrussian War also proved to be the most generous to the army, as if it was more important to it than to the others to continue the resistance of wartime by making sacrifices in peacetime? This is one indication of the effectiveness of central government’s control over information flows and, conversely, of the weakness of the communications (except those between government departments, whether civil or military) that would have enabled towns of similar sizes to make significant comparisons. The army was able to exploit local pride by threatening to locate the garrison in a neighbouring town in order to extract greater sums of money from the one it preferred. Thus the criticisms voiced by deputy Latrade, who was no doubt aware of the competition between Tulle and Brive, were well-founded. Military leaders had a tendency to put garrisons up for auction and to extract as much as possible from the towns, because they believed that no price was too high to pay for a garrison, given the financial benefits they could potentially bring to a town. Whether out of conviction or with reluctance, the military negotiators, like the army as a whole, also recognized majority rule, which in the light of the election results tended to work to the advantage of legitimate interlocutors rather than of administrators appointed in accordance with changing circumstances. Despite inevitable frictions, the enforced collaboration between the Ministers of War, of the Interior and of Finance made it possible to avoid any excessive imbalance of power in the conduct of the negotiations which the army could have exploited if it had been left in sole charge of proceedings. Because they arose out of the drive to adapt to new circumstances – both with regard to the defence of the nation and within its political institutions – the internal tensions generated by the army’s own reorganization, while they undoubtedly exacerbated the climate of uncertainty that characterized this period, also opened up new forms of debate and public deliberation, thereby creating a space that could no longer be suppressed. It should be added that the role played during these decisive years by General Séré de Rivières revealed this reality in a very particular way. Raised on 30 July 1888 to the rank of grand officer of the Legion of Honour, he was also in the same year assigned to the army reserve list and superannuated. His last battle involved defending the engineering department, which had been the subject of complaints from successful tenderers to the Chamber of Deputies and

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accused by the Comte de Roys during the budget debate of 1880 of having ‘cost hundreds of millions’ and having embarked on a massive building programme without ‘any administrative preparation’.45 As for the economic and financial aspect of the question, the army ensured that the civilian authorities faced their responsibilities. At a time when the country seemed both united in regarding the army’s recovery as a priority and capable of bearing the necessary tax rises, their line of conduct followed a logic that could scarcely be questioned. As far as the garrisons were concerned, if they had been the only ones to believe that the municipalities could find the necessary resources locally, the ministries of the interior and finance would not have agreed that the military should look for preference to the communes and municipalities to make available the ‘ways and means’ required to fulfil their commitments. This was undoubtedly another significant criterion for differentiating between the towns, and in itself a worthy subject for another study. Some towns, such as Cosne,46 had to turn to the Consignments and Loans Fund in order to make good the shortfall in local credit, which risked delaying payment of the promised sums. However, the loans, issued with a state guarantee and mostly at the very favourable rate of 5 per cent – perhaps too favourable according to Maurice Lévy-Leboyer, for whom this is one factor that explains ‘the French craze for fixed-interest securities’47 – were received everywhere in a way that proved that they were regarded, like those raised to liberate French territory, as a means of ‘obtaining a fair return for capital that would otherwise go unused’.48 They all constituted so many opportunities for the activities of what Alain Plessis describes as ‘the multiple world of local banks’.49 The mayors themselves took up their pens to hurry the process along or to congratulate themselves on the successful results of the operation. On 24 February 1875, Maurice Prost, mayor of Lons-le-Saunier, suggested to the Monarchist deputy for the Jura, Paul Besson, that ‘since money is currently in very abundant supply, this would be an opportune moment to issue the loan with which we will be burdened’. At the same time, the mayor of Bourgoin announced that the loan of 600,000 francs ‘was raised with eagerness by the inhabitants’.50 The fiscal consequences of the towns’ contributions to the reorganization of the garrisons confirm the importance of the octroi duties. Any of the mayors could have said as the mayor of Orange did: ‘I am fully aware of how much disgust the words “additional tax” arouse.’51 What could be more natural, therefore, than to use the octroi duties to raise the necessary resources, either by increasing the existing tariffs, firstly those on wines and spirits, or by establishing new ones on products

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that were now widely consumed? However regrettable the scarcity of studies on this subject might be, Robert Laurent’s graphs showing the steep rise in revenue from Dijon’s octroi duties in the decade from 1872 to 1882 could certainly apply to many other towns, if only because of their growth. There is nothing original in observing that the Republicans had all the reasons in the world to present themselves, behind Gambetta, as the good and true ‘conservatives’. The political stabilization they were promising, and from which the Monarchists shrank at the risk of appearing to be troublemakers, is also reflected in the durability of the fiscal compromise that was re-established under Thiers’ presidency.52 This is what inspired Alphonse Peyrat to say, as early as 1872, that ‘the Republic will survive’ because ‘it is too visibly, now, the guarantor of interests for which it was, until today, a bogeyman’.53 On the other hand, the garrison transactions illustrate the power of local democracy faced with a state that had long been centralized. The army was able to take advantage of this tendency, the extent of which Gambetta and Ferry had obviously assessed much more accurately than the Duc de Broglie and Buffet. In many respects, however, it also limited the army’s hold over French society. This is what explains the bitterness of the negotiations between the Ministry of War and the towns on all sorts of questions, ranging from the provision of parade grounds and rifle ranges to that of reserved beds in hospitals, via the water supply.54 In September 1872, General Cissey received a memo from the general staff’s first bureau pointing out to him the difficult living conditions endured by the troops in the Abbeville garrison. ‘The municipalities are doing nothing to help the soldiers. They are even refusing to exempt the troops’ meat from the octroi duty. [ . . . ] Consequently, we have the honour of proposing that the Minister decide that the municipality of Abbeville should, firstly, be instructed to take steps to reduce the price of the meat supplied to the troops to a reasonable rate and, secondly, be warned that, should it fail to comply with this demand, the garrison will be immediately withdrawn.’ The minister noted his approval in the margin. This did not prevent the subsequent negotiations with the municipality on strengthening the garrison. Thus it is hardly surprising that some Republicans in the army felt that they had not benefited from the distribution of the garrisons as much as was claimed. An article published in l’Avenir militaire in April 1877 contained some remarks on the subject that reflect a whole state of mind. For the author, the towns’ financial support for the military installations ‘was not as disinterested as it might seem at first sight’:

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We will say nothing of the general activity, the gaiety, the entertainments, the revues, the music, or of the various services that troops provide for the maintenance of good order, assistance in the event of fire or flood, or of the workers placed at farmers’ disposal at harvest time, etc., nor of all sorts of other advantages of this kind, the lure of which has so often driven the magistrates in certain towns that did not have a garrison to apply to have one. However, it is clear to us that, while the building of a barracks demands some immediate sacrifices from a small town, the advantages that we have just briefly outlined constitute appreciable compensations that have been carefully considered, evaluated and planned by those who benefit from them. It would be at least fair and, perhaps patriotic, if at the same time the merchants and inhabitants of these places were to content themselves in their business dealings with the profits that would naturally accrue to them through the increase in the floating population and the arrival in the municipality of military personnel, that is men who do not have a reputation for hoarding but who, on the contrary, are in the habit of spending, in the places they happen to find themselves, the money they receive from the state and that sent to them by their families.55 Awareness of the advantages that accrued to the towns sharpened reactions to the conditions under which the troops were installed and received. Many questions are raised here about the place of the army in France’s towns and cities. For historians, the fact that they are closely linked to the impressions that the early days of the Third Republic have left in the national memory merely serves to complicate them further: the material aspects of the new relationships between soldiers and civilians, which became part of everyday life as part of a process in which the army undeniably played a more complex role than that of guardian of traditions, have necessarily been supplemented not by the only representations that have come to be seen as signs of recognition of the Republican tradition but rather by a composite set of practices and rites in which nostalgia had the benefit of age. We can no longer be satisfied with the one-dimensional picture Eugen Weber has left of the means by which townspeople have accustomed themselves to the duties the state’s need for a military reform created for them. With regard to the country’s defence, the central state – which, even in the opinion of the Republican leaders, could not survive without a strengthened army – could not afford a fully binding policy. The state

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consequently had to leave a space for negotiation and the towns used this space to assert themselves and to increase their standing. In the last third of the nineteenth century, the Republican state strengthened its power but left the means of expression and consolidation to the local levels of government, which were local communities of citizens as well. While keeping in mind the exceptional circumstances of the 1870s, we must not forget that these negotiations also reactivated arguments and self-representations that came from a distant past. The creation of the departments in 1789–90 had, in this respect, a long-term structuring effect. The French revolutionary reforms caused frustration in the cities it deprived of some of their old prerogatives, but at the same time they kept hoping they would get new ones, and these expectations themselves became a way of government. In this way it was generally admitted that the city par excellence was that which was endowed with political and administrative powers.56 Obtaining a garrison only reinforced in many towns a collective belief already noticeable during the ancien régime, as Bernard Lepetit has shown. Local elites in particular tended to consider the presence of former defence equipment (walls or castle) not only as a principle of identification of urban character but also as an argument to legitimize claims to the state.57 Thus we can better understand how the state’s purposes and interests and the towns’ were complementary, beyond the strong sense of local identity the pro domo argumentation of the town councils apparently reveals. Their conventional patriotic speeches arguably do not prevent them from contributing to nation-building to some extent unintentionally or unconsciously. We may compare this process to the one Oliver Zimmer analysed for Switzerland: in the 1870s the Swiss federal state introduced basic knowledge tests for military recruits which were used to establish league tables. These served as a stimulant for local competition between the cantons, and even between the municipalities within the same canton, in order to improve the standard of elementary education.58 In doing so, they made a rather unintentional contribution to national patriotism. In the same way, in France, it was projects designed to integrate that emanated from the centre – here, new garrison buildings as consequence and part of the military reform – which provided towns with opportunities to shine and leave a distinctive imprint on the national landscape. It shows again how the theme of competition between the parts that make up a national society, whether regions, departments or towns, is important to understand the process of nationalization during the nineteenth century.

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Notes 1. Eric J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780. Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge, 1990), p. 83. 2. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 2nd edition (Oxford, 2006), pp. 27–28. 3. ‘Sur le recrutement de l’armée’, Chambre des députés, séance du 28 mai 1824, Discours du général Foy, t. II (Paris: P.-A. Moutardier, 1826), pp. 317–35. 4. Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen. The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914 (London, 1977), p. 298. See Philip Gilbert Hamerton, Round My House: Notes on Rural Life in France in Peace and War (Charleston, SC, 2009 [1876]). 5. Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen, p. 298. 6. Henry Contamine, La Revanche, 1871–1914 (Paris, 1957), p. 25. Cf. Michael Eliot Howard, The Franco-Prussian War: The German Invasion of France, 1870–1871 (London and New York, 2002 [1962]). 7. Claude Digeon, La crise allemande de la pensée française (1870–1914) (Paris, 1959). Cf. the three books of Allan Michell, The German Influence in France after 1870: The Formation of the French Republic; Victors and Vanquished: The German Influence on Army and Church in France after 1870; The Divided Path: The German Influence on Social Reform in France after 1870 (Chapel Hill, 1979, 1984, 1991). 8. Rogers Brubaker, Citizenship and Nationhood in France and Germany (Cambridge, MA, 1992). 9. Anne Rasmussen, ‘Une “science militaire”? Préparer au commandement les chefs de 1914’, in Stéphane Audoin-Rouzeau, Annette Becker et alii (eds), La politique et la guerre. Pour comprendre le XXe siècle européen. Hommage à Jean-Jacques Becker (Paris, 2002), p. 156. 10. Cf. Emmanuel Saint-Fuscien, Obéissance et autorité dans l’armée française de 1890 à la fin de la Première Guerre mondiale: discours et pratiques (Ph.D thesis, EHESS, 2008). 11. Among many publications: Jacques Rougerie, Paris libre 1871 (Paris, 2004 [1971]); William Serman, La Commune de Paris (Paris, 1986); Robert Tombs, The War against Paris 1871 (Cambridge, 1981) and The Paris Commune 1871 (London, 1999). 12. See Annie Crépin, Défendre la France. Les Français, la guerre et le service militaire, de la guerre de Sept Ans à Verdun (Rennes, 2005), pp. 318–28, and Jean-François Chanet, Vers l’armée nouvelle. République conservatrice et réforme militaire, 1871–1879 (Rennes, 2006), pp. 38–45. Cf. Richard D. Challener, The French Theory of the Nation in Arms (1866–1939) (New York, 1955), and Allan Mitchell, ‘A Situation of Inferiority: French Military Reorganisation after the Defeat of 1870’, American Historical Review, 1 (1981), 49–62. 13. By this he means ‘changes which can create the expectation and capacity on the part of large numbers of people to insist on some sort of political representation’ (John Breuilly, Nationalism and the State, 2nd edition (Manchester, 1993 [1988]), pp. 19–20. 14. See in particular Jean-Charles Jauffret, Parlement, gouvernement, commandement: l’armée de métier sous la 3e République, 1871–1914, 2 vols (Vincennes,

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15.

16.

17.

18.

19. 20. 21.

22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

Towns and the Nation-State 1987) and Jacques Frémeaux, L’Afrique à l’ombre des épées, 1830–1930, 2 vols (Vincennes, 1994). See Jean-François Chanet, ‘Armée et République, mouvement ouvrier et conflit religieux, des lendemains de la Commune à la Belle Époque’, in Armée et maintien de l’ordre (Paris, 2002), pp. 119–42. See Robert Gildea, The Third Republic from 1870 to 1914 (London-New York, 1988) and France, 1870–1914 (London, 1996); Jean-Marie Mayeur and Madeleine Rebérioux, The Third Republic from its Origins to the Great War, 1871–1914 (Cambridge, 1984); David Ralston, The Army of the Republic. The Place of the Military in the Political Evolution of France, 1871–1914 (Cambridge, MA, 1967). Algeria constituted the 19th region. In 1897, because of the concentration of increasing numbers of troops near France’s eastern border, a 20th army corps was formed, to be stationed in the departments of Aube, Meurtheet-Moselle (except for the Briey district, which remained in the sixth region) and Vosges, with Nancy as its administrative centre. Cf. Douglas Porch, The March to the Marne. The French Army 1871–1914 (Cambridge, 1981). Georges Gugliotta, Un officier du corps d’état-major: le général de Cissey (1810–1882), réorganisateur de l’armée française (Ph.D thesis, University of Montpellier-III, 1987). For an abstract, see idem, ‘Un grand commis de la République: le général de Cissey (1810–1882)’, in Olivier Forcade, Éric Duhamel, Philippe Vial (eds), Militaires en République, 1870–1962. Les officiers, le pouvoir et la vie publique en France (Paris, 1999), pp. 217–22. ‘Ordre du ministre de la guerre à l’armée’, L’Avenir militaire, n. 169, 21 October 1873, p. 1. Service historique de la Défense [SHD], Château de Vincennes, Archives du Génie, 4D2S, 2. ‘A network of dilapidated barracks, built for the most part between the last third of the 17th century and the middle of the 19th century,’ explains Odile Roynette, who has worked particularly on the archives of this army corps, in which ‘considering the scale of the resources available, no new barracks had been constructed inside towns until the Great War, which made it [ . . . ] unique among the military regions’ (« Bons pour le service ». L’expérience de la caserne en France à la fin du XIXe siècle [Paris: Belin, 2000], p. 130 sq.). Archives départementales [AD] du Nord, 2 R 859. Copy of a letter to the mayor of Valenciennes, Bultot, to the sub-prefect, dated 6 August 1874, beforehand a letter from General Clinchant to the prefect, Lille, 15 June 1874. SHD, 4D2S, 4. Letter from General Deligny to the Minister for War, Le Mans, 5 November 1873. SHD, 4D2S, 1. Letter from the mayor of Sens to the Minister of War, 7 September 1874. SHD, 4D2S, 4. Handwritten addition by General Barail to a letter from the general staff’s first bureau to General Deligny, 17 November 1873. Cf. Henri Ortholan, Le général Séré de Rivières. Le Vauban de la Revanche (Paris, 2003). AD Nord, 2 R 859. Copy of Barail’s circular to the army corps commanders, Versailles, 11 May 1874.

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28. SHD, 4D2S, 3. Extract from the proceedings of the Lisieux municipal council, 27 March 1874. 29. SHD, 4D2S, 4. Extract from the proceedings of the Rennes municipal council, 9 June 1874. 30. Law of 4 August 1874 on expenditure on army garrisons. C.f J.-B. and J. Duvergier (eds), Collection complète des lois, décrets, ordonnances, règlements et avis du Conseil d’État (Paris: Impr. Charles Noblet, 1874), pp. 286–87. 31. ‘Bulletin du jour’, Nouvelliste de Rouen, n. 217, 5 August 1874, p. 1. See on the same page: ‘Assemblée nationale. Séance du 4 août. Présidence de M. Buffet’. 32. J.-B. and J. Duvergier (eds), Collection complète des lois . . . , p. 287, note 1. Louis Chassaignac de Latrade, born in Sauvebœuf (Dordogne) in 1811, a graduate of the Ecole polytechnique, had already taken part in the Republican Party’s struggle against the July Monarchy, particularly after he joined the editorial staff of the National. The provisional government of 1848 had appointed him to the post of commissioner in Gironde and then in Dordogne. He represented the Corrèze in the Constituent Assembly and then in the Legislative Assembly and was included on the 2 December list of proscribed individuals. He returned to the Corrèze at the end of the Second Empire and was appointed prefect of that department by the government of National Defence. He was elected a deputy in the by-election of 27 April 1873. On the personality and deeds of Latrade, see Alain Corbin, Archaïsme et modernité en Limousin au XIXe siècle, 1845–1880, vol. 2, La naissance d’une tradition de gauche (Paris, 1975), esp. pp. 909–10. Paul-Émile-Brutus Bouchet, for his part, belonged to the generation that acquired its political education in opposition to the Second Empire. Born in Embrun in 1840, he became a lawyer in the town of his birth before settling in Marseille, where he worked to get Gambetta elected in 1869 and where the government of 4 September appointed him deputy public prosecutor of the republic. After resigning on the 23 March 1871, he was arrested for his alleged participation in the Commune; after being remanded in custody for three months, he was acquitted by the Council of War. Elected a deputy in the by-election of 7 January 1872, he sat in parliament with the extreme left. See Pierre Larousse, Grand Dictionnaire universel du XIXe siècle, vol. 16, supplement, p. 399. 33. SHD, 4D2S, 4. Draft of the letter from the Minister of War to the Minister of the Interior, office of departmental and communal administration, Paris, 23 October 1874. The last paragraph has been re-written. The first draft, which has been crossed out, was more urgent: ‘You will certainly share my opinion, dear Minister and colleague, that it would be regrettable if the agreements that have been signed to date, together with the relevant decrees, were not all submitted for approval to the President of the Republic before Parliament returns and, if I may say so, I am relying on your department to continue providing the devoted assistance they have not ceased to provide in order to achieve this objective.’ 34. SHD, 4D2S, 4. Letter from General Deligny to the Minister of War, Le Mans, 5 November 1873. 35. According to Pierre Larousse’s definition in his Grand Dictionnaire universel du XIXe siècle, the word ‘octroi’ means ‘the duties that cities levy on some products or materials entering inside them’ (t. XI, 1874, p. 1226). In the 1870s, this indirect tax could also be found in the Netherlands, in Prussia, Spain and

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36.

37.

38.

39.

40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45.

Towns and the Nation-State Portugal. In France, from the Second Republic, it was the Assembly instead of the government that had the power to authorize the establishment of such tax and to change the local limits within which it was collected. Jean-Paul Bertaud and William Serman, Nouvelle histoire militaire de la France. I. 1789–1919 (Paris, 1998), pp. 511–12. See also the information provided by Jean-Charles Jauffret in André Corvisier (ed.), Histoire militaire de la France. 3. De 1871 à 1940 (Paris, 1992), p. 18. SHD, 4D2S, 4. Reply by the engineering department to the prefect of la Manche, 12 August 1875. The additional agreement of 29 November fixed the subsidy at 87,500 francs. SHD, 4D2S, 3. Resolution adopted by the Amiens municipal council, 7 July 1874. In the same filing case, in the Bayonne file, the letter of 7 November 1874, in which Mayor Châteauneuf asks the head of engineering to reject sites too ‘distant from the town, outside the area within which octroi duties are levied’. See also: 4D2S, 1. Resolutions adopted by the Coulommiers municipal council, 25 January and 6 May 1874; agreement of 15 October 1874 with Châlons; agreement of 8 November with Épernay, as well as the payment of the octroi duties, amended accordingly and dated 29 November; 4D2S, 4. Resolution adopted by the Belley municipal council, 12 July 1874 (request for changes to the limits and addition of surcharges); resolution adopted by the Chaumont municipal council, 17 November 1874 (here too, changes to the limits, increases in existing duties and introduction of new taxes); resolution adopted by the Gray municipal council, 25 July 1874; resolutions adopted by the Rennes municipal council, 4 May and 9 June 1874; resolution adopted by the Saint-Malo municipal council, 1 May 1874; unnumbered filing case, file no. 198-9-1722 (1). Resolution adopted by the Nîmes municipal council, 15 May 1874. Two articles published in the journal Recherches contemporaines published by the University of Paris-X-Nanterre reflect a limited renewal of interest, essentially in the Paris region: Philippe Lacombrade, ‘Chronique d’une réforme avortée: l’échec de la suppression des octrois parisiens à la Belle Époque (1897–1914)’, in Recherches contemporaines 4 (1998–99), pp. 77–107; Pierre-François Claustre, ‘L’octroi de Paris (1798–1943). Bilan historiographique et perspectives de recherche’, Recherches contemporaines 6 (2000–01), pp. 299–316. Robert Laurent, L’octroi de Dijon au XIXe siècle (Paris, 1960), pp. 23–26. Ibid., p. 31. Ibid., p. 38. Cf. Michel Lescure, Les sociétés immobilières en France au XIXe siècle. Contribution à l’histoire de la mise en valeur du sol urbain en économie capitaliste (Paris, 1980), p. 6 and Immobilier et bâtiment en France. 1820–1980. Histoire d’une filière (Paris, 1983). On the fluctuations in the construction industry, see the observations by in Georges Duby (dir.), Histoire de la France urbaine, t. 4, La ville de l’âge industriel. Le cycle haussmannien (Paris, 1983), p. 80. For the report on this debate, see J.-B. and J. Duvergier (ed.), Collection complète des lois . . . , 1874, p. 286, and the Nouvelliste de Rouen, 5 August 1874, p. 1. Général Séré de Rivières, Réponse aux attaques dirigées contre le service du génie lors de la discussion du budget ordinaire de 1880 (Paris: E. Plon, 1880), p. 45

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46. 47.

48. 49.

50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55. 56. 57.

58.

181

(pp. 5–7 for the quotations). See the account of this ‘parliamentary ambush’ in H. Ortholan, Le général Séré de Rivières, pp. 440–47. SHD, 4D2S, 4, Cosne file. Maurice Lévy-Leboyer, ‘Le marché financier’, in Fernand Braudel and Ernest Labrousse (eds), Histoire économique et sociale de la France, III, L’avènement de l’ère industrielle, 1789-années 1880 (Paris, 1976), 2 vols, reprinted in vol.,1, coll. ‘Quadrige’, 1993, p. 434. The author notes that the adjustment coefficient for each franc in an annuity was 17.50 F in 1871, rising to 19.20 F in 1875 and then to 27 F in 1880 (p. 435). Louis Bergeron, Les capitalistes en France (1780–1914) (Paris, 1978), p. 175. Alain Plessis, ‘Les banques locales, de l’essor du Second Empire à la ‘crise’ de la Belle Époque’, in Michel Lescure and Alain Plessis (eds), Banques locales et banques régionales en France au XIXe siècle (Paris, 1999), pp. 218–20. SHD, 4D2S, 5 (Bourgoin). As previously, 4D2S, 1 (Joigny) et 4 (Lons-leSaunier). SHD, 4D2S, 5. Resolution adopted by the Orange municipal council, 18 May 1875. See on this subject the remarks by Jean Bouvier, ‘Le système fiscal français du XIXe siècle: étude critique d’un “immobilisme” ’, 1971, reprinted in L’historien sur son métier. Études économiques, XIXe -XXe siècles, (Paris, 1989), pp. 180–93. Statement reported by Juliette Adam, Mes angoisses et nos luttes, 1871–1873 (Paris, 1907), p. 217. See Odile Roynette, ‘L’armée et la conquête de l’eau dans les villes du Nord de la France à la fin du XIXe siècle’, in Philippe Bragard, Jean-François Chanet, Catherine Denys and Philippe Guignet (eds), L’ armée et la ville dans l’Europe du Nord-Ouest du XV e siècle à no jours, (Louvain-la-Neuve, 2006), pp. 47–57. ‘L’emplacement des troupes à l’intérieur’, L’Avenir militaire, n. 421, 21 April 1877, pp. 1–2. Marie-Vic Ozouf-Marignier, La formation des départements. La représentation du territoire français à la fin du 18e siècle (Paris, 1992), p. 117. Bernard Lepetit et al., ‘Les miroirs de la ville: un débat sur le discours des anciens géographes’, Urbi, 2 (1979), pp. CVIII–CXVIII. Cf., Bernard Lepetit, ‘L’évolution de la notion de ville d’après les Tableaux et Descriptions géographiques de la France, 1650–1850’, Urbi, 2 (1979), pp. XCIX–CVII, and Les villes dans la France moderne (Paris, 1988). Oliver Zimmer, A Contested Nation. History, Memory and Nationalism in Switzerland, 1761–1891 (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 177–88.

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7 Wither the Local? Nationalization, Modernization, and the Mobilization of Urban Communities in England and France, c. 1900–18 Pierre Purseigle

On 21 June 1907, soldiers of the 17th Infantry Regiment left their barracks in Agde and marched to Béziers in protest against the suppression of the local winegrowers’ revolt. Their mutiny was the climax of a crisis which had been convulsing the southern part of France since March of that year. The mutineers improvised a billet in the heart of this Meridional town, where they were photographed, holding the butt of their rifles in the air, surrounded by townsmen and women. It remains, to this day, one of the most enduring images conjured up by the name of Béziers. The mutiny of the soldiers of the 17th went on to gain iconic status in the French pacifist tradition thanks to the song composed soon after the events by Montéhus.1 These soldiers, recruited and stationed in the local area, had come to embody the unreliable nature of the southern regions, whose local identity was deemed to threaten the integrity of the French nation-state. The challenge they so dramatically issued to the military authorities underlines the problematic nature of the articulation between local and national identity in France at the turn of the twentieth century. Yet, when the First World War broke out in August 1914, Béziers responded unreservedly to the call to arms. In this particular urban context, the indisputable success of national mobilization questions conventional interpretations of the process of nationalization. It also prompted a comparative study of urban and national mobilizations in Britain, France’s main ally in 1914. Comparing the experience 182

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The mutiny of the 17th Infantry Regiment

of Béziers with that of an English town, Northampton, broadens and deepens the scope of the analysis. Historians of Britain have legitimately been concerned with Britishness and the cultural articulation of the four nations. They have, as a consequence, sometimes neglected local identities and can seem to assume that locality had lost its relevance by 1914 thanks to the social and economic modernization Britain had experienced. As a result, the ‘local’ has only been explored in a tiny minority of accounts of Britain during the war. Encouraged by developmental perspectives on nationalism and nation-building, historians of the First World War have long assumed that the process of nationalization of the British and French polities had reached its apex in August 1914. In recent years, however, a string of works on France and Germany in particular have demonstrated that nation-making and centralization had not systematically entailed the gradual withering of local identities.2 Of course, nineteenth-century scholars have not overlooked the continuing significance of local identities in France and Britain. They notably demonstrated how the nineteenth-century municipal experiments had prompted a reformulation of ‘civic prides’ and local identities.3 Recent works on late nineteenth-century France and Germany in particular have thus rightly pointed up the role of local elites in fostering a sense of belonging, steeped in a past that local history, civic rituals and

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commemorations unearthed and extolled.4 It is also difficult to argue today, as Keith Robbins rightly did twenty-five years ago, that ‘the territorial dimension in modern British history’ has been excluded ‘from serious consideration’.5 Cultural practices, reforms of local governance and the emergence of local public services all attested to the continuing relevance of the local.6 Historians have, in particular, significantly furthered our understanding of local party politics.7 It nonetheless seems relevant to bring social movements into this analysis of the politics of place insofar as social conflicts contributed to the redefinition of the relations between localities and both the French and British nationstates in the decades before – as well as during – the First World War. Two instances of local mobilization in Northampton and Béziers will allow us to approach the mechanisms of identity formation and mobilization which, this chapter will suggest, were concomitant and concurrent processes. Furthermore, the analysis of wartime national mobilization in France and Britain also invites us to revaluate the importance of contention in the urban experience of the war, for social movements and conflicts did not merely demonstrate the frailty of the consensus stipulated by the prescriptions of nationalism. In fact, urban contention constituted a critical mediation of the war experience, whereby national and infra-national identities were asserted, mobilized and played out on the urban stage. Urban civil societies thus ensured, to a large extent, the success of national mobilization in Britain and France during the Great War. It is also perhaps at that level that the contingent, ongoing and contested nature of these mobilizations appears most clearly.8 This chapter will first strive to locate the consolidation of urban identities in the larger process of social and political modernizations in late nineteenth-century Europe. It will then examine social movements that agitated both towns and focus in particular on two episodes of urban and regional mobilization: the 1905 ‘March of the Strike Brigade’ led to London by Northampton shoemakers, and the 1907 winegrowers’ revolt in Languedoc that culminated in the mutiny of the 17th Infantry Regiment. Finally, I will look at some of the modalities of urban mobilization in wartime to show that Béziers and Northampton presented two analogous yet specific modes of appropriation of the national idea.

Local assertion and national integration Northampton was, at the end of the nineteenth century, a mediumsized industrial town. It dominated a largely rural county whose fortune had been tied to the shoemaking industry since the Napoleonic Wars when the armed forces’ demand for boots and shoes had spurred the

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development and reorganization of the local economy, and helped transform Northampton into a manufacturing centre.9 Imperial expansion and subsequent conflicts sustained a trade which accounts for the growth of the town.10 In 1851, over half of Northampton households relied on the shoemaking industry.11 By the turn of the twentieth century, the industrialization of the town had been achieved. The mechanization and modernization of the local productive capacity had led to the concentration of the activity in large factories, geared to meet the demand of the national and international markets.12 While the town had undeniably benefited from the development of the dominant industry, commentators nonetheless brought attention to an indispensable diversification, lest the dependency of the town compromise its economic and social stability.13 Béziers, known as the ‘wine capital’, stood at the heart of a region entirely dedicated to winegrowing and was a major centre of the national and European wine markets. A few indicators illustrate the extent to which the economic destiny of the town was inseparable from the success of the local intoxicant. In 1914, the department of the Hérault, where Béziers is located, produced over a quarter of the national wine production (27.9 per cent).14 In the district (arrondissement) of Béziers, vines covered 77.7 per cent of the land and generated 90.4 per cent of the local revenue.15 The town’s dependency on the wine market had first been dramatically demonstrated between 1873 and 1881 when phylloxera – a destructive infestation of vines – destroyed a large part of the southern vineyard. Eventually restored thanks to the import of Californian grafts, the local winemaking industry then took a decidedly capitalist turn. Although the modernization of the local economy ushered in a prosperous ‘Golden Age’ in the last ten years of the nineteenth century, it also entrenched for decades to come the town’s dependency on the wine market; a vulnerability illustrated by the 1907 uprising.16 By 1900, the dominant political cultures in both Northampton and Béziers revealed a high degree of acculturation to the national political life despite their strong respective oppositional traditions. Indeed Northampton and Béziers also enjoyed a well-established reputation of political radicalism and conflicts. These had, on several occasions, pitted the local community against national institutions. Yet this radical heritage, mobilized effectively in times of local or national crisis, contributed to a significant extent to resolving apparent tensions and contradictions between the assertion of local identity and the consolidation of the nation-state. The last decades of the nineteenth century were a period of significant changes for the shoemaking industry and Northampton’s economy

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more generally. Politically, however, the local dominance of the Liberal Party – although gradually challenged by the organization and growth of the labour movement – was in no way threatened.17 In the economic realm, free trade policies chimed in with the interest of local manufacturers, reluctant to challenge a liberal orthodoxy also embraced by a significant section of the trade union membership.18 Up until the First World War, the Northampton electorate thus consistently refused to lend its support to Conservative and Unionist candidates, bucking national political trends to justify its reputation as a radical stronghold.19 This reputation had arguably been firmly established in the 1880s through the Bradlaugh dispute. When Charles Bradlaugh (1833–91) first stood to represent Northampton in parliament in 1868, he was already a well-known if controversial figure celebrated in radical and freethinking circles.20 The militant atheism of the co-founder and chairman of the National Secular Society led him to make parliamentary history and he has since remained a symbol of Northampton’s identity. Although elected in 1880, Bradlaugh’s atheism prevented him from swearing the oath required from incoming members of parliament and brought about a conflict between the urban polity and the national parliamentary authorities.21 For despite the legal obstacle to his taking a seat in the Commons, Bradlaugh was obdurately chosen to represent the town in 1881, 1882, 1884, 1885 and 1886. Only then was he allowed by the Speaker of the House to take the oath, in the face of a virulent but ultimately unsuccessful conservative campaign. Northampton’s loyalty to Bradlaugh, however, ought not to be mistaken for commitment to secularism. In the eyes of the large nonconformist community, Bradlaugh’s struggle was, in fact, a fight for religious pluralism. But for them, as well as for other groups – liberal, radical and progressive voters – what was at stake was more fundamental: it was the right of the borough freely to choose its representative, to defend its ‘Rights’ and to uphold a liberal interpretation of the constitution.22 The dominant political culture in Béziers was typical of what is commonly known as the Midi Rouge, a large swathe of the southern part of France where an advanced form of radical republicanism held sway and where socialism and syndicalism had precociously developed.23 Béziers, in particular, was a secularist stronghold where the local progressives celebrated a tradition of opposition to the centralized state, exemplified in the town’s resistance to the 1851 coup that had inaugurated the Second Empire.24 By the turn of the century, however, the local Radical Party, supported by the influential Masonic lodges, exemplified the conservative evolution of the regime, now identified with the middle and

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upper-middle classes and the established political and social order.25 The town’s Député (MP), Louis Lafferre (1861–1929) embodied what many deemed to be the drift of the Radical Party he had co-founded in 1901. Lafferre could nonetheless rely on the staunch militant secularism of many of his constituents to thwart the rising Socialist challenge. A growing presence in the associational landscape, the Socialists had adopted an idiosyncratic position determined by the local socio-economic conditions. In fact, up until the 1920s, the structure of landownership in the area hampered the development of a truly collectivist and revolutionary programme for most agricultural labourers also enjoyed the benefits of private ownership.26 These socio-economic characteristics accounted for the evolution and balance of the local political forces. In 1907, the crisis not only pitted the local community against the government over the fate of the winemaking industry. It also forced a redefinition of political allegiances. Though Lafferre’s parliamentary seat remained safe, his allies were defeated in the subsequent municipal elections by a group of independent radicals and socialists standing for ‘communal interests’.27 By that time, right-wing organizations in Béziers were so weak that they effectively teetered on the brink of irrelevance. However, the reaction of their mouthpiece, Le Publicateur, to the election of the Socialist Barthe to represent the second constituency shows that by 1914, the defence of the local industry had become the overarching principle around which local political life revolved. Despite its staunch Catholicism and virulent antirepublicanism, Le Publicateur could not help paying tribute to Barthe, who had ‘the right to be proud of his success, for one must admit that he ensured it through his boundless dedication to the cause of winemaking’.28 The evidence offered by the history of Béziers therefore sits uneasily with Eugen Weber’s take on the nationalization of the French masses; a process he assimilated to colonization: We are talking about the process of acculturation: the civilization of the French by urban France, the disintegration of local cultures by modernity and their absorption into the dominant civilization of Paris and the schools.29

Social conflicts and collective identities In Béziers, as in Northampton, local identities did not only withstand the forces of modernization. In fact, the process of modernization contributed to the redefinition of local identities and ultimately

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accounts for their resilience and continuing relevance to the denizens of an urbanized Europe. At the turn of the twentieth century, social movements and contention played a critical role in articulating urban, local and national identities. It is therefore necessary to focus on social conflicts to further our understanding of nationalism in an urban setting. In the Northamptonshire village of Raunds, located twenty-five miles north-east of Northampton, life largely revolved around the production of boots and shoes.30 There, a dozen factories worked to meet the demands of government departments and of the armed forces in particular. As a result, Raunds and the surrounding villages largely benefited from the Boer War. Once the guns had fallen silent in South Africa, however, workers could not resist the downward pressure exercised on their wages. Though the unionization of shoemakers helped improve their bargaining position, their situation by 1905 worsened to the point where collective action was felt to be unavoidable.31 From Northampton, the National Union of Boot and Shoe Operatives sent one of its organizers, James Gribble. In keeping with its traditional commitment to arbitration, the Union initially attempted to resolve the dispute through several mediations, which successively failed. As a consequence, a strike that was to last ten weeks broke out on 11 March 1905. At the end of the ninth week, however, the strikers’ unity and commitment appeared to be flagging. The strategy elaborated at that point by James Gribble highlights some interesting elements in the local repertoire of contention, and underlines how identities emerged out of the process of claim-making and political representation. It shows how social movements allowed for and performed a critical mediation between local, urban and national identities. To regain the initiative, Gribble announced that the Raunds workers would march to London to lay their grievances before the secretary of state for war, Arnold Foster. Gribble picked 115 men out of the 300 volunteers that came forward to take part in this journey to the capital city which they intended to reach on 12 May. There, they made their way to Hyde Park where 10,000 trade unionists and sympathizers welcomed them.32 While the marchers took part in the political rally organized to support their cause, Gribble led a delegation to the House of Commons, in the hope that they would be granted an interview with Foster. Despite a spectacular interruption of the then ongoing debate, Gribble was not allowed to meet any cabinet minister. In the meantime, the secretary of state had nonetheless consented to send George R. Askwith to Northampton. He was to conduct an inquiry into the conditions of the shoemaking industry and to report back to the minister on the

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possible ways out of the crisis. De facto the cabinet had thereby taken the responsibility of the ensuing negotiation.33 In doing so, the minister had met one of the marchers’ main demands. The strikers eventually walked back to Raunds where they arrived on 22 May, after holding one last public meeting in Northampton in front of 8,000 people.34 A few days later, Askwith’s mediation enabled workers and employees to reconcile their differences and to draw this conflict to a close.35 To the historian of nationalism, the history of the March of the Strike Brigade reveals important aspects of the articulation of local, urban and national identities. The Tory government initially strove to confine the dispute within the realm of industrial relations and encouraged workers and employers to hold a parley. In this business, however, the government remained the principal. The workers therefore did not hesitate to call upon the War Office to help resolve this matter. After all, it threatened to damage further a reputation already undermined by the department’s poor management of the nation’s effort during the Boer War.36 Most significantly, the strikers insisted on the coincidence of the local and national interests: in their view, the working conditions of the Northamptonshire shoemakers were inseparable from the welfare and performance of the British armed forces. Finally, the strikers believed that the state could not avoid assuming its duty of mediation and thus ensuring that the ‘fair wage clause’ be upheld. In so doing, they were reasserting the nature of the relationship that defined the rights and responsibilities of the state with regard to its citizens. State intervention was integral to the national social contract and this was the point that the marchers intended to hammer home.37 The failure to meet Arnold Foster and to lay a memorandum at the Bar of the House of Commons did not diminish the political importance of the gesture. Parliament was the place where justice be claimed and where the rights of the local community should be asserted and would hopefully be upheld.38 The destination of the march was therefore consistent with the political objectives of the movement. Its forms also revealed the severity of the crisis and its existential nature. Building on his military experience, Gribble had indeed organized the marchers in a martial fashion.39 Gribble himself put his men through the drill, before the ‘contingent’ set out for London, preceded by a cyclist corps who opened the way. Marching four abreast, carrying their rations on their back, the ‘Strike Brigade’ thus made it to London under the authority of Jimmie ‘General’ Gribble. The patriotic impression that the marchers intended to make was spelled out on the way by a band playing ‘Rule Britannia’ as

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they entered towns and villages.40 Of course, processions and marches in nineteenth Britain were often accompanied by a brass band. This constituted an accepted ritual of affirmation and contention. There is also no evidence to conclude that Northamptonshire shoemakers were more patriotic – or more susceptible to the appeal of nationalism – than their fellow workers in the rest of the country. It is, however, possible to perceive here a conscious attempt to strengthen the marchers’ case by formulating it in terms of a communitarian defence that coincided with the national interest. In presenting their movement as that of patriotic workers, the marchers may have also meant to reassure their audience and the national polity as to the objective of their direct action. This mobilization of class and community was a local interpellation of the state authorities, but should not have been misconstrued as a challenge to the existing political order. The marchers also drew on popular militarism to suggest the image of a mobilized manhood.41 The message was meant to be loud and clear: in agitating for better working conditions and wages, they were fighting for their livelihood and that of their family. Welcoming the marchers back in Northampton, Poulton, a local labour leader, insisted on the ‘manly’ way in which ‘these sons of Northampton’ had conducted their movement.42 Two years later, a simmering regional crisis erupted in the south of France. The 1907 Meridional Crisis resulted, quite simply, from the overproduction of poor quality wine that the market could no longer absorb. As winegrowers had given priority to yield over quality, wine prices fell dramatically. The southern vineyards were therefore in a constant state of crisis between 1901 and 1909. Imports from Algeria and the fraudulent production of wine offered convenient explanations for the woes of the winemaking Midi.43 After a 1905 law had lowered tax on sugar, however, fraudsters and the northern beet growers were singled out for condemnation, while the state’s inaction was increasingly perceived as hostile indifference.44 The crisis crystallized on 11 March 1907 when a parliamentary inquiry commission was met by a delegation of winegrowers from the small village of Argelliers. Thenceforth, the protests, demonstrations and meetings across southern France grew exponentially. On 12 May, 120,000 persons converged on Béziers, and on 9 June, half a million people brought their grievances into the streets of Montpellier, the regional capital city. The demonstrators were accusing fraudsters and beet growers in the north of putting their very livelihood in jeopardy and calling upon the state to protect winemakers.45 The interpellation of the national authorities took a dramatic turn when the Argelliers Committee asked winegrowers and their supporters

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to withhold from paying their tax, and asked the municipal assemblies to resign in protest at the republic’s inaction. A month earlier, indeed, a riot had already forced the mayor of Béziers to resign. On 19 June in Narbonne, the army’s intervention left protesters mourning the first victim of the revolt. Two days later, the 17th Infantry Regiment mutinied in Béziers and seemingly threatened to transform a social movement into a fully fledged insurrection. Clemenceau, the head of government, cunningly destabilized the movement’s leadership, increased the military presence in the south and finally restored public order. The movement gradually ran out of steam after the passing of an anti-fraud law on 29 June. Legitimately concerned about the state of the local industry, protesters expressed a deeper anxiety; they feared economic depression would ultimately lead to the disappearance of their way of life. This was, in their eyes, no less than a life-and-death struggle, an existential fight that cut across classes and overrode social and political antagonism. As the Socialist mayor of Narbonne, Ernest Ferroul, put it on 16 June 1907: Forgetting our fratricidal wars and whatever has divided us until now, we are defending the native land, the nourishing soil and its products. Is it not legitimate? When the black flag flies over our town halls, when we are demanding Right and Justice, one is sniggering, saying we are reactionaries. We are not monarchists, opportunists, radicals, or socialists any more; we are nothing but Southerners who demand the right to live.46 Unity was the order of the day and the leaders of the movement as well professional organizations insisted on fostering class collaboration.47 Though he remained a staunch supporter of the government, Lafferre could not but acknowledge that such unity of purpose revealed the undeniable depth of the crisis and called for the intervention of the state. One does not bring 200,000 people together through artificial means, when a heart-rending interest is not at stake . . . . For it is the communal life of the city that is at stake, it must be averted at the national level.48 The majority of demonstrators concurred with the deputy of Béziers on one fundamental point: it was up to the Unitary Republic to save her Meridional constituents. Even where Occitan appeared to supplant

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French as the language of contention, Rémy Pech and Maurice Agulhon demonstrated that the vocal assertion of regional identity did not entail a rejection of the Universalist Republic.49 The regionalist interpretation of the 1907 events undeniably gained a new vigour in the 1970s when Occitanist organizations rose from the ashes of earlier regionalist movements. In these post-1968 reconstructions, even though the mutiny of the 17th Infantry Regiment had only lasted a day, it assumed a paradigmatic value: here was a regiment largely made up of men born and bred around Béziers, who had stood up to the coercive machine of the nation-state to demonstrate where their loyalty lay in refusing to suppress the revolt of their kith and kin. Regionalists, though, remain as misleading as Eugen Weber who refused to acknowledge that the events of 1907 provided a corrective to his modernizing model. In many ways, the protesters had indeed demonstrated their acculturation to the national and Republican political culture. But the mutiny, as well as the resignation of municipal councils across the region, also illustrated the tension between legality and legitimacy. Popular sovereignty, however, was not here understood in conventional universalist terms. The mutineers had demonstrated that popular sovereignty had communal roots that Republican institutions could simply not afford to ignore. Although the protests in Béziers and Northampton differed in many respects, their comparison allows us to underline the commonality in the forms and modalities of urban contention in Britain and France at the turn of the century. The shoemakers’ march to London and the 1907 Meridional protests were designed to strengthen each movement both internally and externally. Forms, languages and images combined to demonstrate the depth of the crisis, to assert the determination of the communities and to impel the government’s intervention.50 These protests also underline the importance of the political usages of place and of the choice of the urban space as a site of contention. Significantly, the Strike Brigade held its Northampton meeting in the town’s market square, while the 1907 mutineers brought their grievances onto the Allées Paul-Riquet, the largest marketplace in Béziers. The marketplace was the beating heart of both towns, but was also the meeting point of the urban and rural populations of the surrounding area. Moreover, it may not be devoid of interest to consider not only the geography of these protests, but also their itinerary. It is virtually impossible at this stage to account with any certainty for the itinerary chosen for the March of the Strike Brigade. It is, however, interesting to note that the strikers did not opt for the shortest route.

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They were to return to Raunds after a tour through some of the county’s centres of shoe manufacturing and after their final public meeting had been held in Northampton. The movement thus revealed a social and political topology of interest to scholars of nationalism. Its leaders and supporters explicitly invoked the strikers’ sense of place to stress their belonging to a community defined both by class and locale. This, however, was not a mere rhetorical device, for the March of the Strike Brigade was both a performance of the marchers’ local identity and a performative assertion of that identity.51 The marchers had chosen to draw on the strength of shoemakers’ unionism in Northampton, but also to call the county’s population to witness the severity of the situation. The point here was to impress upon them that this sectoral crisis was likely to affect the prosperity of the local community, loosely defined to encompass a variety of class and professional identities, as well as urban and county senses of belonging. Similarly, the map of the 1907 protests testifies to the demonstrators’ attempt to define a topology of contentions which articulated the movement in communal and regional terms. The route chosen by protesters undeniably corresponded to the imperatives of mobilization: as we noted above, towns and cities were, in this respect, obvious stages of contention on which mobilized identities were performed and reasserted. In Béziers, as well as in Northampton, contention sanctioned but also reordered the imaginary political geography. This underlines the malleability of identities and the contingent nature of their mobilization. Building on Pierre Bourdieu’s analysis of the dialectic of the demonstration,52 and on Michel de Certeau’s distinction between ‘place’ and ‘space’, we may therefore envisage how urban contention articulated ‘senses of place’ and ‘spaces of mobilization’.53

The wartime mobilization of urban identities, 1914–18 Historians have demonstrated that the outbreak of war in 1914 did not lead to an eruption of nationalist enthusiasm.54 The conflict was nonetheless to be a protracted trial of the nations as it challenged the very fabric of the belligerent societies. The modalities of urban mobilization in 1914–18 therefore allow us to continue our analysis with an investigation into a range of practices elicited by the war effort: the raising and support of local military units, the assistance to war victims, various charitable initiatives and the commemoration of military and patriotic service. Wartime mobilization ran across and along the boundaries of multiple social and cultural spheres. It revealed the plurality of urban identities and the complex set of concomitant senses of

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belonging that affected and hallmarked the commitment to the national war effort. In towns and cities across the belligerent nations, the local elites reflected and shaped the social responses to the conflict. The wartime discourses and iconography produced by civic authorities, newspapers and voluntary organizations show how local elites used the main symbols of local identity to stress that victory would belong to the urban community as well as to the nation. The wartime systems of representations thus rested on a process of acculturation, on the appropriation of the national narratives through local cultural codes. In Northampton and Béziers, the vision of the war offered to the local community fell into line with the national mobilization whose ‘totalizing logic’ enlisted the cultural, moral and ideological commitment of each nation to fight an uncivilized enemy to its capitulation. Defeat was not merely construed in military and strategic terms but was synonymous with the end of one’s culture, identity and way of life. The dominant discourses on the war therefore presented the conflict as a defensive one imposed on France and Britain by German aggression.55 Beyond the conservative and nationalist groups of both towns, Béziers radicals and Northampton liberals concurred with the majority of local socialists in presenting the Entente as the last bulwark against the German autocracy and militarism that was threatening democracy. In other words, besides the denunciation of a barbaric enemy and the evocation of the German ‘atrocities’, the ideological vindication of the conflict echoed the dominant political cultures, and such propinquity certainly strengthened its purchase among populations of both towns. The local dimensions of the martial involvement of the population first appeared in the representation of the threat posed to the local identities. Since the war was ultimately waged to preserve everyday values, the local elite immediately resorted to some specific figures to underline the mobilization of local communities. In reference to the billeting of the Welsh Territorial Division, Northampton’s daily newspapers thus depicted a cobbler whose handshake with a soldier symbolized the effort that the town was contributing in service of those who would be defending it on the front line.56 Local cultural codes were also used in the debasement of the enemy and underpinned the local vision of an intrinsically inferior German. The bad shoes of the Hun logically came to represent, in contrast to the great quality of the locally made boots, the inherent weakness of the Central Powers.57 In Béziers, as in Northampton, the organizers of charity days turned to the main symbols of local identity, namely vine and wine, to stress that victory would

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belong to the local community as well as to the nation. In a somewhat traditional depiction of the rapacious and barbaric ‘Boche’, the enemy is defeated by Bacchus and a jolly ‘Poilu’ both sitting astride a wine barrel.58 Here the opposition is made blatant between the winedrinking southern Frenchman and the beer-drinking, grape-treading German, whom Bacchus nicknames ‘phylloxera’ after the infestation which had done so much damage to local vines. The utilization of specific local schemas of representation ensured a perfect understanding and reception of wartime propaganda. Similar mechanisms were thus at work on both sides of the Channel. The success of the patriotic days that explicitly pandered to civic pride underlined the potency of local identities in the process of mobilization. During the war, local communities established an order of priorities that stressed, for instance, the necessity of propping up the local economy and of supporting the towns’ traders at the expense of their national or regional rivals. A more significant example was the organization of assistance to war victims, which was not only organized at the local level but was also primarily directed at the members of the local communities. A single principle presided over the war victims’ relief, which the Northampton Independent summed up in a blunt way: ‘Our own prisoners first.’59 But these discriminatory processes were not a crude expression of local selfishness that, after all, might have been vindicated by the scarcity of available resources. The success of the wartime mobilization rested on a set of discriminatory processes that structured the local commitment to national defence. Local solidarities and identities ultimately reinforced national resilience. When, in February 1918, the Northampton elite weighed in with the organization of a ‘Tank Week’ dedicated to war loans, the chairman of the organizing committee spelled out the call to civic pride, and conjured up a national competition with the other towns holding a ‘Tank Week’ at the same time.60 In the French case, however, two specificities ought to be brought to light. First, there is the central and indeed instrumental role played in this mobilization of local identities and solidarities by the prefect, the local representative of the government, deemed to embody the presence of the Universalist Republic in every department. Organizer of the departmental main charity day, the prefect assumed control of all aspects of the events and ensured that the local symbols and emblems figured prominently on the promotional material. Across the country, prefects could also rely on what appear to be a cottage industry, churning out material and artefacts which, explicitly resorted to local cultural codes.

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Enrolled in mass armies, the combatants of the First World War remained, first and foremost, civilians in uniform. As a result, the solidarity between the front and the home front remained a problematic issue throughout the conflict. Deemed critical to the cohesion of belligerent societies by political and military leaders alike, it remains central to our current historiographical discussions.61 In Britain as well as in France, local identity enabled soldiers and civilians to mediate their experience, to conjure up solidarity. Here, however, the comparison must take account of the critical difference between the systems of military recruitment in operation in France and Britain, as they determined the forms of the local mediations of the wartime national experience. In Britain, the regimental system had been established in 1881 as a system of localized recruiting. The explicit objective of this reform was to strengthen the link between the army and civilian society, to extol a common identity and combine civic and martial pride.62 In Northampton, the ‘Pals Battalions’ raised along the lines of preexisting sociabilities – professional in particular – enabled the local community to bring itself, albeit vicariously, to the front line. In this process of local appropriation of the war experience, the ‘Cobblers’ of the 7th Northants constituted the medium of choice.63 Indeed, shoemaking offered a well-established semantic field for the local press to plough. In search of a metaphor to extol the resilience of those Northampton lads imprisoned in POW camps, the Northampton Independent proudly announced they were ‘sticking to the last’.64 In France, conscription was part and parcel of the national Revolutionary heritage, the modern manifestation of the levée en masse, the republican concept of the nation in arms. Though the 1907 mutiny illustrated the distance between the local populations and the military institution, it did not follow that the Meridional towns had renounced patriotism. As a matter of fact, when the war came in August 1914, the recruitment centre of Béziers registered half as many draft dodgers as the country as a whole (0.89 per cent against 1.5 per cent).65 Yet, the image and reputation of the Meridional soldiers proved extremely resilient throughout the war and also explains the virulence of the so-called ‘15th Army Corp polemic’. This polemic broke out in the autumn of 1914 when, after a series of defeats, southern regiments fighting within the 15th and 16th Army Corps were accused of having fallen back under the enemy’s fire. In many instances, national newspapers invoked the ‘indolence’ of the southerners held responsible for this retreat. This polemic reactivated traditional stereotypes and the opposition between the south (Midi) and

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the north that were translated through publications and private correspondence alike. Problematic as a result, the local appropriation of the war experience had been made even more difficult by the relocation after the 1907 mutiny of the 17th Infantry Regiment; a unit with which Béziers had had a long-established relationship. This makes all the more remarkable the efforts made by the local elites and by the town council in particular to strengthen the links with the 96th Infantry Regiment, which had succeeded to the 17th. These efforts culminated in 1917 when the town council officially proclaimed that the 96th had obtained its droit de cité, a revealing turn of phrase denoting both acceptance and citizenship.66 The local appropriation of the national idea in wartime France and Britain therefore followed a similar logic in both countries. One may surmise, however, that the language of civic pride had greater purchase in England than in France where the ‘social relations of sacrifice’67 were also articulated in terms of a ‘blood tax’, inseparable from the revolutionary notion of levée en masse.68 Furthermore, the Military Service Act, which established conscription in 1916, also created with the local military tribunals an unprecedented institutional framework through which the interest of the local community and the prescriptions of nationalism were to be mediated and balanced. Operated by the town’s dignitaries selected from each quarter of the local community, these tribunals heard appeals against conscription lodged by reluctant conscripts, their family or their employer. These tribunals provided a site where agents of the state pursued military manpower in face of individual opposition and local economic interests. They arbitrated between the demands of the military and the interests of local communities, which were formulated in economic, moral or political terms. Representatives of urban civil society thus adjudicated conflicts which often reflected a wider debate over the extraction of the means of war making.69 From the November 1915 to December 1918, the Northampton Military Tribunals examined 8,000 individual cases, amounting to almost 26,000 appeals. Judges met over 200 times and hearings lasted five hours on average (twenty-five cases per hour).70 Relatively neglected by historians so far, local military tribunals have recently attracted the interest of a handful of scholars whose work may highlight some of the most critical dimensions of the local wartime mobilizations.71 The conflict put national constructions to a dramatic test and reinforced the terms of the social contract to which citizenship refers. The deliberations of the local tribunals thus contributed to the process of negotiation and bargaining that manufactured the popular

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consent to the war effort.72 Elaborated as much through struggles and conflicts as through outspoken support, the success of the wartime national mobilization thus hinged on the capacity of belligerent societies to maintain or create the fora and the procedures which could allow the assertion and articulation of urban and national identities.

Conclusion Pace Eugen Weber, Northampton and Béziers did not merely manage to preserve their identity in spite of the process of modernization. The transformations undergone by the local economies in this period increased the towns’ dependency on the already dominant industry and heightened their degree of integration into the national markets. Contrary to the assumptions of modernization theories, both towns illustrated the paradox already highlighted by Pierre Bourdieu’s reflections on the regional idea: The paradox is that, in a challenge to the combination of universalist rationalism and evolutionist economism that led one to expect universalizing effects of economic unification . . . , these mechanisms are very obviously the result of the beginning of universalization.73 The process of political modernization which chimed in with the local political culture also reinforced the distinctive senses of belonging which the towns’ populations drew upon in times of local and national crisis. The mobilization of urban identities did not necessarily set them in a collision course with nationalism, even when protesters took on national authorities. In fact, the experience of Béziers and Northampton would suggest that the consolidation of the national polity proceeded from the capacity of the French and British political system to accommodate such assertion of local identity. The relationship between the national centre and the urban periphery was one of collaboration and integration as well as one of resistance and open conflicts. The comparative perspective I have adopted emphatically rejects essentialist definitions of identities propounded by regionalist or nationalist movements. It rests on a pragmatic approach to communal, local and national identities. As a result, identities are here defined as cognitive as well as political resources, which enabled agents to make sense of their experience, and which were mobilized in a contingent manner to carry out particular social or political agendas.74 Finally, following Ferdinand Tönnies’s classic, the transformations of nineteenth-century European societies have been considered in terms of

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a transition from Gemeinschaft to Gesellschaft.75 Yet, as José Harris suggested ‘the dichotomies he had identified were not purely time-specific but were universal and dialectical’.76 The comparative history of urban mobilization may therefore shed new light on both the mechanisms and chronology of this transition, as it suggests some of the ways in which historical agents ‘negotiate[d] a (doubtless painful and difficult) accommodation between the two [models]’.77 As the urban history of the First World War enjoys a revival, the comparative approach adopted here demonstrates that the belligerent communities both relied on and transformed the multi-layered fabric that tied individuals and groups to the imagined national community.78 In fact, the process of mobilization hinged on urban and infra-national solidarities that did not undermine the nation at war but ultimately reinforced the resilience of the belligerent nation at large. It is hoped that this chapter will have convincingly stressed the necessity to place the wartime mobilization into the larger context of the modernization and nationalization of Europe that characterized the long nineteenth century.

Notes 1. R. Pech and J. Maurin, 1907. Les mutins de la République (Toulouse, 2007), p. 220. 2. J.-F. Chanet, L’école républicaine et les petites patries (Paris, 1996); A.-M. Thiesse, Ils apprenaient la France. L’exaltation des régions dans le discours patriotique (Paris, 1997) La création des identités nationales. Europe XVIIIème – XXème siècle (Paris, 2001); Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley, 1990); Alon Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor. Württemberg, Imperial Germany and National Memory, 1871–1918 (Chapel Hill, 1997). 3. J. M. Ellis, ‘ “For the Honour of the Town”: Comparison, Competition and Civic Identity in Eighteenth-century England’, Urban History 30 (2003), pp. 325–37. For a discussion of the relationship between architecture and urban identity, see E. Allen, Civic Pride (London, 1997); A. J. Richardson, Civic Pride: The Major Public Buildings of England and Wales (Liverpool, 1988); Asa Briggs, Victorian Cities (London, 1990). See also William Whyte’s chapter in this book. 4. Applegate, A Nation of Provincials; D. K. Buse, ‘Urban and National Identity: Bremen, 1860–1920’, Journal of Social History 26 (1997), pp. 521–37; Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor; S. Gerson, The Pride of Place. Local Memories and Political Culture in Nineteenth-Century France (Ithaca & London, 2003), Stephane Gerson, ‘Une France Locale: The Local Past in Recent French Scholarship’, French Historical Studies 26 (2003), pp. 539–59. 5. Keith Robbins, ‘Core and Periphery in Modern British History. Raleigh Lecture on History’, Proceedings of the British Academy (London, 1984), p. 276.

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6. Jose Harris, Private Lives, Public Spirit: Britain 1870–1914 (London, 1994), pp. 17–19; David Cannadine, ‘The Transformation of Civic Ritual in Modern Britain: The Colchester Oyster Feast’, Past and Present 94 (1982), pp. 107–30; M. Savage, ‘Political Alignments in Modern Britain: Do Localities Matter?’, Political Geography Quaterly 6 (1987), pp. 53–76; Jon Lawrence, Speaking for the People: Party, Language, and Popular Politics in England, 1867–1914 (Cambridge, 1998). 7. Jon Lawrence, ‘The Politics of Place and the Politics of Nation’, TwentiethCentury British History 11 (2000), pp. 83–94. One should also mention the contribution of political geographers. See in particular J. A. Agnew, Place and Politics in Modern Italy (Chicago, 2002). 8. Pierre Purseigle, ‘Mobilisation, Sacrifice, Citoyenneté. Angleterre – France, 1914–1918. Contribution à l’histoire des communautés locales en guerre’ (PhD thesis, University of Toulouse, 2006). 9. Northampton Corporation, copies of minutes, November 1914 to October 1915; R. L. Greenall, A History of Northamptonshire (London, 1979); R. L. Greenall (ed.), Northamptonshire Life 1914–39. A Photographic Survey (Northampton, 1979); V. A. Hatley, Shoemakers in Northamptonshire, 1762–1911. A Statistical Survey (Northampton, 1971), p. 4. 10. R. L. Greenall, A History of Northamptonshire (London, 1979), p. 105. 11. M. Dickie, Town Patriotism and the Rise of Labour. Northampton, 1918–1939, Centre for the Study of Social History (PhD thesis, University of Warwick, 1987), pp. 19–20. 12. Cynthia Brown, Northampton 1835–1985. Shoe Town, New Town (Chichester, 1990), p. 69. 13. A. P. White and V. A. Hatley, The Story of Northampton (Dewsbury, 1986), p. 152. 14. Jean Sagnes, Socialisme et syndicalisme dans l’Hérault de 1905 à 1921 (Montpellier, 1976), p. 730. 15. SAGNES, Jean, 214. Archives Départementales de l’Hérault (thereafter ADH), Par 1600 1914. 16. Rémy Pech, Entreprise viticole et capitalisme en Languedoc-Roussillon. Du phylloxéra aux crises de méventes (Toulouse, 1976), and Jean Sagnes, Le mouvement ouvrier du Languedoc (Toulouse, 1980). Archives Nationales de France (thereafter AN), F1c III 1128 Rapports de préfets sur l’esprit public, la vie économique et la vie politique. Rapport du Préfet de l’Hérault au Ministre de l’Intérieur, 10 March 1923. 17. For the earlier period, Eric Hobsbawm and Joan Scott offered some fascinating insights into the lives of the ‘political shoemakers’ in their seminal article, first published in 1980. E. J. Hobsbawm and J. W. Scott, ‘Political Shoemakers’, in E. J. Hobsbawm and J. W. Scott (eds), Uncommon People. Resistance, Rebellion, and Jazz (New York, 1998), pp. 18–43. 18. Henry Pelling, Social Geography of British Elections, 1885–1910 (London, 1967), pp. 110, 123. Ross Mckibbin, ‘Why Was There No Marxism in Great Britain?’, The English Historical Review 99 (1984), pp. 297–331, 322. 19. Pelling, Social Geography of British Elections, pp. 109, 415. 20. Edward Royle, ‘Bradlaugh, Charles (1833–1891)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004; online edn, May 2008), http://www. oxforddnb.com/view/article/3183, accessed 29 January 2010.

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21. Library Research Paper 01/116: The Parliamentary Oath: The United Kingdom Parliament. See also W. L. Arnstein, The Bradlaugh Case. A Study in Late Victorian Opinion and Politics (Oxford, 1965). 22. The Times, 14 March 1881. See also Edward Royle, ‘Charles Bradlaugh, Freethought and Northampton’, Northamptonshire Past & Present 6 (1980), pp. 141–50. 23. Sagnes, Socialisme et syndicalisme, p. 91. 24. Jean Maurin, Armée – Guerre – Société. Soldats languedociens (1889–1919) (Paris, 1982), pp. 12–13. 25. Sagnes, Socialisme et syndicalisme, p. 102. 26. AN, F 7 12991; A.D.H., 4 M 1108, Rapport du Préfet de l’Hérault au Ministre de l’Intérieur, 2 April 1920. 27. Pierre Pistre, Francs-maçons du Midi (Perpignan, 1995), p. 175. A.D.H. 3M élections, box 2438. 28. A.D.H. Par 791, 1 May 1914. 29. Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914 (London, 1979), p. 486. 30. G. R. Askwith, Industrial Problems and Disputes (London, 1920); A. C. Allen and L. J. Bartley, An Epic of Trade Unionism: The Rushden and District Branch of the National Union of Boot and Shoe Operatives (Rushden, 1934); Keith Brooker, ‘James Gribble and the Raunds Strike of 1905’, Northamptonshire Past and Present VII (1981–82), pp. 275–90. 31. Leather Trades Review, 19 April 1905, cited in A. C. Allen and L. J. Bartley, An Epic of Trade Unionism: The Rushden and District Branch of the National Union of Boot and Shoe Operatives (Rushden, 1934), p. 40. 32. Ibid., p. 43. 33. The Times, 13 May 1905. G. R. Askwith, Industrial Problems and Disputes (London, 1920), pp. 97–100. 34. Brooker, ‘James Gribble and the Raunds Strike of 1905’, pp. 275–90, 284. 35. The Times, 31 May 1905. 36. Leather Trades Review, 19 April 1905, cited in Allen and Bartley, An Epic of Trade Unionism, p. 40. 37. Leather Trades Review, 19 April 1905, cited in Ibid., p. 41. 38. ‘The March of the Strike Brigade’, The Northampton Daily Reporter, 20 May 1905. 39. Allen and Bartley, An Epic of Trade Unionism, p. 41; Brooker, ‘James Gribble and the Raunds Strike of 1905’, pp. 275–90, 282 40. J. R. Betts, The Raunds Strike and March to London, 1905 (Raunds, 1991), pp. 35, 55. Interestingly, the band that welcomed the marchers on Trafalgar Square chose to do so by playing the Marseillaise. For similar forms of protest among miners in particulars, see Frank Machin, The Yorkshire Miners. A History (Barnsley, 1958); J. E. Williams, The Derbyshire Miners. A Study in Industrial and Social History (London, 1962) and E. J. Hobsbawm, Worlds of Labour. Further Studies in the History of Labour (London, 1984). 41. On popular militarism, see Anne Summers, ‘Militarism in Britain before the Great War’, History Workshop Journal 2 (1976), pp. 104–23. 42. The Northampton Daily Reporter, 20 May 1905. 43. Sagnes, Le mouvement ouvrier, pp. 12–19. 44. Mireille Lacave and Jean Sagnes, L’Hérault d’autrefois (Ecully, 1991), p. 380.

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45. Jean Sagnes, Monique Pech and Rémy Pech, 1907 en Languedoc-Roussillon (Montpellier, 1997), p. 58. 46. Speech made in Perpignan, quoted Félix Napo, 1907: La révolte des vignerons (Toulouse, 1971), pp. 244–46. 47. Sagnes and Pech, 1907 en Languedoc-Roussillon, p. 43; Archives Municipales de Béziers, Dossier Crise viticole de 1907. 48. L’Action, 19 May 1907. 49. Rémy Pech, ‘1907. Révolte contre Marianne ou Marianne en révolte?’, in Rémy Pech (ed.), Per Robert Lafont (Montpellier, 1990), pp. 223–41; Maurice Agulhon, ‘Conscience nationale et régionale de 1815 à nos jours’, in Maurice Agulhon (ed.), Histoire vagabonde (Paris, 1988), pp. 144–73. 50. Charles Tilly, ‘Social Movements and (All Sorts of) Other Political Interactions – Local, National, and International – Including Identities’, Theory and Society 27 (1998), pp. 453–80, 467. 51. Pierre Bourdieu, ‘L’identité et la représentation. Eléments pour une réflexion critique sur l’idée de région’, Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales 35 (1980), pp. 63–72, 66. 52. ‘The social world is representation and will, and to exist socially, is to be perceived, and to be perceived as distinct.’ Ibid., pp. 66–67. See also Vincent Robert, Les chemins de la manifestation, 1848–1914 (Lyon, 1996). 53. ‘A place is the order (of whatever kind) in accord with which elements are distributed in relationships of coexistence. It thus excludes the possibility of two things being in the same location. The law of the “proper” rule in the place: the elements taken into consideration are beside one another, each situated in its own “proper” and distinct location, a location it defines. A place is thus an instantaneous configuration of positions. It implies an indication of stability. A space exists when one takes into consideration vectors of direction, velocities, and time variables. Thus space is composed of intersections of mobile elements. It is in a sense actuated by the ensemble of movements deployed within it. Space occurs as the effect produced by the operations that orient it, situate it, temporalize it, and make it function in a polyvalent unity of conflicting programs or contractual proximities . . . . In short, space is a practised place.’ M. D. Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley, 1984), p. 117. 54. J.-J. Becker, 1914: Comment les français sont entrés dans la guerre (Paris, 1977); Jeffrey Verhey, The Spirit of 1914: Militarism, Myth, and Mobilization in Germany (Cambridge, 2000); A. Gregory, The Last Great War: British Society and the First World War (Cambridge, 2008). 55. Stéphanie Audoin-Rouzeau and Annette Becker, 14–18: Retrouver la guerre (Paris, 2000). 56. Daily Echo, 29 August 1914; Mercury, 4 September 1914. 57. Northampton Independent 12 and 19 December 1914, 25 March 1916. After the conflict, a history of wartime Northampton made an extensive use of this image. See W. H. Holloway, Northamptonshire and the Great War (Northampton, 1920), pp. 216–19. 58. ADH 2 R 783: Journée de l’Hérault (15 October 1916) au profit exclusif des œuvres de guerre du département, organisée par le préfet et les municipalités. 59. Independent, 20 July 1918. 60. Northampton Independent, 16, 23 February and 9 March 1918.

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61. Benjamin Ziemann, War Experiences in Rural Germany, 1914–1923 (Oxford, 2007). 62. Peter Simkins, ‘The Four Armies, 1914–1918’, in David Chandler (ed.), The Oxford Illustrated History of the British Army (Oxford, 1994) and Kitchener’s Army: Theraising of the New Armies, 1914–16 (Manchester, 1988); David French, Military Identities. The Regimental System, the British Army, and the British People, c. 1870–2000 (Oxford, 2005). 63. Northampton Independent, 6 February 1915. 64. Northampton Independent, 20 April 1918. 65. Maurin, Armée – Guerre – Société, p. 379. 66. A.M.B. ID 104, extraordinary meeting, 26 October 1917. 67. J. M. Winter and J.-L. Robert (eds), Capital Cities at War: London, Paris, Berlin, 1914–1919 (Cambridge, 1997), p. 10. 68. John Horne, ‘ “L’impôt du sang”: Republican Rhetoric and Industrial Warfare in France, 1914–1918’, Social History 14 (1989), pp. 201–23. 69. On the articulation of war making, state making, protection, extraction, distribution and production, see Charles Tilly, Coercion, Capital, and European States, AD 990–1990 (Oxford, 1990), pp. 67, 83, 97ff. 70. Northampton Independent, 14 December 1918. 71. Adrian Gregory, ‘Military Service Tribunals: Civil Society in Action, 1916–1918’, in Jose Harris (ed.), Civil Society in British History. Ideas, Identities, Institutions (Oxford, 2003). Stuart Halifax, at the Queen’s College, Oxford, and a team of scholars led by Prof. Ian Beckett at the University of Northampton are also investigating the tribunals. 72. Pierre Purseigle, ‘Warfare and Belligerence. Approaches to the First World War’, in Pierre Purseigle (ed.), Warfare and Belligerence. Perspectives in First World War Studies (Boston/Leiden, 2005), pp. 1–37. 73. Bourdieu, ‘L’identité et la représentation’, pp. 63–72, 70. 74. Tilly, ‘Social Movements’, pp. 453–80, 457. On the difficulties raised by the use and misuse of ‘identity’ as a category of analysis see R. Brubaker and F. Cooper, ‘Beyond “Identity” ’, Theory and Society 29 (2000), pp. 1–47. 75. Ferdinand Tönnies, Community and Civil Society (Cambridge, 2001). 76. Jose Harris, ‘Tonnies on “Community” and “Civil Society”: Clarifying Some Cross-currents in Post-Marxian Political Thought’, in Mark Bevir and Frank Trentman (eds), Markets in Historical Contexts: Ideas and Politics in the Modern World (West Nyack, NY, 2004), p. 141. 77. Ibid., p. 144. 78. Roger Chickering, The Great War and Urban Life in Germany: Freiburg, 1914–1918 (Cambridge, 2007); Maureen Healy, Vienna and the Fall of the Habsburg Empire: Total War and Everyday Life in World War I (Cambridge, 2004); J. Knezevic-Lazic, ‘The Austro-Hungarian Occupation of Belgrade during the First World War: Battles at the Home Front’ (PhD thesis, Yale University, 2006); J. M. Winter and J.-L. Robert (eds), Capital Cities at War: London, Paris, Berlin, 1914–1919 (Cambridge, 1997).

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8 Building the Nation in the Town: Architecture and Identity in Britain William Whyte

The thirteenth of September 1877 was a grey and soggy day in Manchester: ‘The morning commenced with a drizzling rain and it fell more or less nearly the whole of the day, making everything very disagreeable, and particularly the streets, which were a complete puddle.’1 The drizzle did not, however, dampen the interest of the thousands of people assembled in those sodden thoroughfares, gathered together to watch the opening of Manchester town hall.2 People had come from all across the city to inaugurate this massive – and massively expensive – new building, built to the designs of the local architect Alfred Waterhouse.3 The hall was a huge undertaking: made up of 14 million bricks and 500,000 cubic feet of stone, it took more than a thousand men to build it. A great Gothic construction, it was inspired by the cathedrals and public buildings of the thirteenth century, and with its enormous tower it dominated the surrounding streetscape. Inside, the long corridors were floored with patterned tiles and lined with polished oak panelling. The grand ceremonial spaces were still more striking: the great hall, with its hammer beam roof; the reception rooms, with their massive alabaster and oak fireplaces; and the banqueting room, with its statues and paintings and beautiful carpet. At each corner of the building, there was a huge circular staircase, each one over 300 yards apart from the other.4 This was a truly spectacular structure. Little wonder, then, that the people flocked to its opening. Despite the rain, despite the ominous news from the Russian–Turkish War, despite the rival attractions of innumerable other events, this new civic centre was big news. As a local author put it: There’s nowt beside it talked abeaut just neaw. For th’ last Four or five days there mit not ha’ bin a savage war gooin on. Russians an’ 204

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Turks mit ha’ bin smookin th’ pipe o’ peace under th’ walls o’ Plevna, an’ boat races mit ha’ bin gooin on upo’ the Danube, Manchester wur everythin’ to everybody; an’ whether Victoria, or Bertie Ned, or Oliver Cromwell sit on th’ gowden peearch of owd England seemed to ha’ bin forgotten for th’ time. Manchester wur a State of itsel’. It knew no government nobbut its own; no creawn nobbut a skull-cap; no throne nobbut th’ Mayor’s cheear . . . 5 Nor did the celebrations end there. Indeed, the city was en fête for three whole days: culminating in a massive, monster meeting on 15 September, when nearly 45,000 Manchester workmen marched through the streets, forming a procession five or six miles long.6 Here, it seemed, was proof both of the city’s importance and the loyalty it commanded from its people. As several historians have subsequently commented, the town hall and manner of its opening equally exhibited the passionate local patriotism of the citizens of Manchester.7 The city

Image 8.1

Manchester town hall in 1877 (RIBA library photographs collection)

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did indeed seem a state in itself, with no government but its own and no throne but the mayor’s chair. Yet, at the same time, this local celebration was also a strikingly national event. It was not just the people of Manchester who were interested in the new town hall: the celebrations were covered by newspapers across the country. In Birmingham and Darlington, in Exeter, Aberdeen, Belfast and beyond: Manchester made the news.8 ‘All the world’, wrote The Times, ‘has heard of the scale on which Manchester has organized a local administration.’9 Here was an opportunity to discuss it and the ‘magnificent building’ it had erected.10 Here was a chance, as the Birmingham Daily Post put it, ‘to celebrate the completion of a work of which not Manchester only, but England, may well be proud’.11 The town hall itself expressed this twin theme of city and nation. It was covered in ornaments – in statues and heraldic devices – intended to tell the story of the city and to fit that story into a wider history. There were images of local worthies and figures of St George, Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth. The three great staircases literally embodied the nation, with each one named after the granite used to build it: the English staircase used stone from Cumbria, the Scottish used stone from Kirkcudbrightshire and the Irish used stone from Armagh. The opening of the building likewise spoke of national as well as local pride. The bishop of Manchester, James Fraser, took the opportunity to celebrate the people of England: ‘a united people, who, he believed would be knit together as one man on any great question that touched the honour of the realm or the vital interest of the nation’. The radical MP John Bright – a local politician with a national reputation – spoke on still wider issues, calling for a renewed interest in policy towards India, which was experiencing a massive famine at the time.12 That he spoke in a hall ornamented with the arms not only of Manchester but also of the towns and countries across the world with which the city traded may perhaps have reinforced the sense that this was an international affair. Certainly, the participation of the Lord Provost of Edinburgh and the Lord Mayor of York was proof that these were not purely parochial proceedings.13 The tensions which underlay the opening of the town hall are also noteworthy. As Elizabeth Hammerton and David Cannadine noted nearly thirty years ago, civic ceremonies can expose conflict as well as consensus, the imposition of power as well as popular consent.14 Similarly, arguments about buildings – about their shape, their style, their ornamentation and their meaning – can reveal real differences of principle and practice. The nineteenth century witnessed battles over the

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Foreign Office in London, over the new Examination Schools in Oxford, and over the paintings in the Palace of Westminster, among many others.15 At Manchester, comparable themes can be found. It was notable, for example, that the Queen had snubbed the opening of the town hall, perhaps advised against it by her prime minister, Disraeli, who disapproved of the radical mayor, Abel Heywood.16 It was believed that local Tories had agitated against him – and the decision to let Heywood preside over the opening and to conclude the celebrations with a procession of workers reflected a desire to see off this anti-radical action.17 So too, the bishop of Manchester’s speech at the opening expressed some powerfully anti-monarchical emotions. While praising the loyalty of the people of Manchester, and celebrating the national pride of the people of England, he added – to cheers – that ‘he thought the Queen would regret the day when she withheld her gracious presence from among the citizens of Manchester’. This was, as commentators noted, a remarkably forceful – perhaps even unpatriotic – statement.18 The building itself also proved controversial, with critics unhappy that Waterhouse was chosen as architect, and displeased about details of the ornamentation.19 The murals, by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Ford Madox Brown proved particularly problematic. Designed to provide ‘the most comprehensive epitome of the rise and progress of Manchester that can be compressed into 12 pictures’, they expressed the desire of the city to place its recent development within a larger story.20 But Brown’s suggestions for images included such controversial topics as the Peterloo Massacre, a notorious attack on radical protest, which were regarded as simply too political, and were replaced by less controversial themes like the opening of the Bridgewater Canal.21 By contrast, Waterhouse’s proposals for sculptures on the façade of the building were altered to present a far more radical past for the town.22 In these – as in other – ways, common celebration did not necessarily denote unanimity of opinion.23 The town hall thus illustrates a number of issues. In the first place, it exemplifies the power of civic patriotism in nineteenth-century Britain. Manchester was just one of dozens of towns and cities who sought to express their importance and independence in the erection of grand new buildings.24 Secondly, it reveals the ways in which this local loyalty was related to wider identities and discourses. Manchester’s significance was demonstrated by its national prominence, its past was related to a wider national history, and its achievements were understood within the context of the nation as a whole. This impulse was widely felt throughout the country and throughout this period, pushing even the smallest towns to claim their own prominent part in a broadly understood

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national story.25 Thirdly, it can be seen that this wider context had international as well as national aspects. Manchester’s global ambitions were embodied in the ornamentation and architecture, and its imperial involvement was exemplified in John Bright’s speech on India at the opening banquet. This was a far from uniquely Mancunian experience. Similar connections – some far less tangible than this – have been traced by Catherine Hall in her work on Birmingham, a city whose ‘provincialism had its metropolitan dimensions’ and a town which was ‘imbricated with empire’.26 Finally, and just as importantly, the case of Manchester town hall exposes the tensions and conflicts which challenged and complicated local, national and imperial identities. Differences in politics, in class and in culture; the problems of defining a British as opposed to an English, Scottish or Welsh nationality; the challenges of political and social change: all these centrifugal forces acted on the urban life of Victorian and Edwardian Britain, threatening to break up other, broader loyalties.27 A single town could be riven with religious differences, ethnic conflict and tension between the urban, bourgeois elite and the working class who made up the majority of the population.28 The study of architecture is a singularly fruitful way of analysing the relationship between urbanism and nationalism.29 A social art sans pareil, architecture is always intended to communicate a message – and as a building is designed, built, inhabited and represented in different media, so it leaves traces of meaning which the historian can uncover.30 Architectural history is especially helpful when exploring the complicated problem of how town life relates to national identity in Britain.31 Victorian and Edwardian Britain presents a particularly interesting case: at once the most highly urbanized nation on earth, and a country with several apparently competing and co-existing nationalities within it. On the one hand, as F. M. L. Thompson put it, ‘Urbanization has been so thoroughgoing in the two centuries since 1750 that it has in effect liquidated what was a social region, by turning it into the nation.’32 On the other hand, this nation-state was not even sure what it was called.33 Even contemporaries were confused about the distinction between Britishness and Englishness, while the place of other national, regional and local identities remains a matter of heated historiographical debate.34 Christopher Harvie’s recent work, A Floating Commonwealth, captures these themes well: The peculiarity of the Victorian United Kingdom was that it was a great power which was also a compound of ethnic nationalities and had become quite recently an urban society run by public authorities

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with great autonomy: a structure that combined the modernist hegemony of the state with the existence of ‘cultural communities’ not distant from those which post-modernists would recognize.35 The interaction of these forces and the interplay of other issues left a rich deposit of architectural evidence. Buildings like Manchester town hall articulate a complicated – but not impenetrable – set of messages. They reveal that local patriotism remained strong throughout this time, that it both drew on and sustained a more general national loyalty. But this was a very particular sort of nationalism: one that stressed regional, local and cultural independence; one that could even make room for rival nationalisms. In other words, while the nation found a place within the town, its place was always relational – contingent on other, local loyalties.

The nation and the town Until comparatively recently, of course, the very idea of British nationalism would have seemed oxymoronic. In Marjorie Morgan’s words, the British ‘have tended to see nationalism like rabies, as something that never made it across the Channel’.36 Yet in the last twenty years, stimulated by the perceived crisis of national identity in the United Kingdom, a panoply of publications has been produced on British national identity.37 What had seemed an unproblematic issue now appears to be a highly contentious series of questions. The nature of Britishness is the subject of serious and sustained debate. For some scholars, like Keith Robbins, the nineteenth century saw a process of ‘blending’, as cultural, social and economic links between the component parts of the United Kingdom led to the creation of a common British identity.38 For other writers, like Linda Colley, by contrast, Britishness was overwritten on top of other identities in the eighteenth century, the creation of war against France, and defined against a menacing, Catholic ‘Other’.39 Still others have doubted the salience of British nationalism altogether: a number seeing Britishness merely as the imposition of Englishness on colonial subjects; a number challenging the idea of a British identity itself.40 ‘Because the state in Great Britain enshrined more than one civil society’, writes Graeme Morton, ‘there was no coherent British nation-state, no coherent and overwhelming sense of Britishness.’41 As this suggests, the debate about British nationalism inevitably invites further argument about the constituent parts of the United Kingdom – and, specifically, the relationship between British national

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identity and notions of Englishness, Scottishness, Irishness and Welshness. Increasingly, it is accepted that the national identities of the Scots, the Welsh and even some of the Irish drew on Britishness as part of their self-definition. James Loughlin, for example, has convincingly argued that claims to a common British national identity were an important aspect of Ulster Protestant identity in this period: ‘British nationality’, he writes, ‘was a local issue in Ulster.’42 Likewise, in Scotland from the eighteenth century onwards, Scottishness was underwritten by a discourse about Britishness.43 As Colin Kidd puts it, a ‘sentimental’ Scottish nationalism stressed the hybridity of the United Kingdom and a union of equals between England and Scotland, which – it was asserted – had created a British state and a British nation.44 So too, in Wales it has been suggested that Britishness remained an important category of identity for many of its inhabitants, despite the growth of Welsh cultural nationalism and the continued – though threatened – existence of a distinctive Welsh language.45 But where an English identity fits into this remains unclear: as Peter Mandler puts it, ‘it is more difficult to pin down “Englishness”, make it stable or consensual, than Germanness or Frenchness, or indeed Irishness and Scottishness’.46 Is it right to talk about English nationalism, for example? Chris Waters, for one, thinks not. There was no such thing as English nationalism, he writes, ‘no nationalist movement as such, not even much interest in marking St George’s Day or in flying his flag’.47 Yet, for Gerald Newman, such a claim is simply absurd, demonstrating again the continued capacity of English nationalism to conceal itself.48 Moreover, while the existence of English nationalism is still the subject of debate, the existence of an English identity is broadly accepted – and widely studied.49 Two different perspectives have increasingly shaped this search for Englishness: one global and one local. That contemporaries sometimes stretched definitions to include the worldwide empire is clear. Thus it was, for example, that the poet laureate Alfred Austen prefaced his collection, Songs of England, with the explanation that he used the word ‘England’ to include not just the English themselves, but all those – Scots, Irish, Canadians, South Africans, Australians, even Indians – who ‘feel an instantaneous thrill of imperial kinship’.50 Historians like Catherine Hall have repeatedly emphasized the role of empire in constituting national identity in the nineteenth century: pointing to its involvement in both national politics and local communities.51 Yet even this approach is far from uncontested. Not only has it been argued that the empire was more important in constructing a British rather than an English identity,52 but other historians

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have pointed to a profound lack of knowledge of – or interest in – the empire among ordinary Victorian and Edwardian Britons. Jonathan Rose’s study of reading cultures reveals a remarkable level of disengagement from imperialism within working-class communities.53 Bernard Porter is equally unconvinced by arguments that stress the all-pervasive power of empire. Britain, he argues, was not steeped in imperialist ideology and Britishness (much less Englishness) was not defined in terms derived from empire.54 The local dimension of English identity is arguably still more problematic and still less well-understood. For Eric Evans, the parochial and regional are primary identifications and Britishness describes a national affiliation. There is no room for Englishness. ‘The quest for a distinctively English, as opposed British identity is’, he writes, ‘one that will prove fruitless. “British” is the dominant descriptor of patriotic identification; and at any level more local than that of “Britain”, the English were more likely to identify with their own regions and localities than with the whole country of England per se.’55 More recent writers have gone further still.56 Philip Harling has pointed to the continuing ‘centrality of locality’ in the nineteenth century, emphasizing the power and importance of local, rather than national, government and observing that the ‘enduring power of the local’ has been underestimated.57 From a different perspective, Keith Snell has drawn attention to ‘The Culture of Local Xenophobia’ in this period, pointing out that the word ‘foreigner’ was widely used up until the 1940s to describe anyone from another parish or locality.58 This analysis fits well with the work of anthropologists on British life in the late-twentieth century59 and of sociologists looking at Britain in the mid-twentieth century,60 as well as the findings of historians working closer to this period.61 It certainly suggests that assumptions about national identity and nationalism – whether British, English or otherwise – need to be re-examined. To add yet another object to this kaleidoscope of themes may seem frankly foolhardy – or even just absurd. But, in reality, an investigation into the nature and function of urban life in the United Kingdom offers a way of exploring and perhaps ultimately reconciling many of these competing approaches. This is not to say that it will necessarily simplify matters. The Victorian and Edwardian city is itself the subject of a voluminous and vibrant literature. Whether the urbanization of Britain suddenly transformed the nation is a matter of dispute, with some writers pointing to a slower, more piecemeal pattern of development than others.62 Whether rural – rather than urban – Britain came in this period to be seen as embodying the spirit of the nation is also

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the subject of contentious debate.63 Contrariwise, the extent to which urban life was sharply demarcated from its rural surroundings has been questioned, while the importance of suburban growth and the intricate links between town and country are undeniable.64 Nonetheless, it is clear that Britain’s development as an urban nation – with over half its population living in towns or cities by the middle of the century – is a significant fact.65 Britain, wrote Lowell in 1908, ‘is becoming more and more a collection of cities, and this has already wrought a marked change in the character and political temperament of her people’.66 Indeed, as Keith Robbins puts it, ‘this development arguably creates a greater rupture with “the past” ’ than any other single factor affecting contemporary life.67 If Andrew and Lynn Hollen Lees are correct to see cities as ‘a “third force” in modern European society, occupying a large space between individuals and nation-states and mediating the contacts between them’, then urban Britain should be an important site for the construction and articulation of both local and national identity.68 Taking urban life seriously may consequently allow us to overcome the conceptual problems raised by much modern discussion of national identity and nationalism in Britain between 1848 and 1914. The existence of English nationalism has often been denied precisely because no evidence exists for the sort of top-down, state-sponsored nationalist project that some historians have seen emerge in nineteenth-century continental Europe.69 The reality of British nationalism has also been doubted – and for similar reasons.70 Until the twentieth century, the state made absolutely no effort to enforce national ideologies or to express them symbolically. Indeed, it has been argued that a diffuse form of patriotic consciousness grew precisely because it was defined against the state, rejected the notion of a unified nation-state as irrelevant and was, in some respects, actually anti-nationalist in its emphases.71 Yet by looking at local – rather than central – government, and by exploring the experiences of the fiercely independent corporations of Victorian and Edwardian Britain, a rather different picture emerges. It suggests that the stories and symbols of English history became a resource which was used to legitimize local loyalties and to claim a place for each town within the wider nation. This rich array of images and narratives served to frame civic identities and to underwrite both English and British nationalism. Indeed, the civic story and the national narrative were mutually reinforcing. It is thus to this local level – and, more specifically, to urban government – that we must look for anything like a nationalist project within Britain. True enough, this project was neither homogenous nor hegemonic. Different repertoires of symbols could be

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used – some English, some British, some imperial, some something else altogether. Different towns – and different elites within towns – stressed different aspects of the nation’s history and identity. But an exploration of nationalist symbols within urban Britain exposes a commonly agreed national identity: one based on shared history and a shared understanding of that history; one that was grounded in the story of England, but which had room within it for other national and sub-national identities.

Architecture and patriotism As the example of Manchester town hall suggested, public buildings provide striking evidence of this process at work.72 Simon Gunn’s work on nineteenth-century urban life has shown that the city centres of England were ‘recreated as a monumental, moral, and aesthetic space and a site of consumption and spectacle’.73 In this spectacle, town halls, courthouses and other official buildings were actors as well as backdrops.74 These edifices were designed to express the importance of the towns who built them – and, often, the urban elites who commissioned them.75 In Leeds, in Birmingham, in Liverpool and beyond, civic pride was given architectural form in civic buildings.76 Nor was this conspicuous construction confined to the massive shock-cities of the north. In small and southern Colchester, for example, ‘the most powerful expression of . . . civic anxiety, pride and competitiveness was the new town hall’, which was built between 1898 and 1902 for the strikingly large sum of £55,000. It was larded with local symbols: ‘a storehouse’, as the Essex Review put it, ‘of local history’; a ‘secular shrine’, as David Cannadine later observed, ‘to civic antiquity’.77 In Oxford, too, the town hall was a monument both to urban independence and to the city’s historical inheritance.78 Everything, from the ornaments to the style in which the building was built was self-consciously and explicitly designed to evoke the genius loci of the place.79 Yet these local symbols also referred to national themes. At Manchester, as we have seen, the opening of the town hall provided the opportunity for discussions of British and imperial politics, while the decorative scheme situated the city’s history within the wider story of Britain as a whole. Likewise, at Leeds, while the massive town hall was undoubtedly – as Asa Briggs has influentially argued – a powerful symbol of civic confidence and rivalry with nearby Bradford, it also embraced a more national dimension.80 Opened by Queen Victoria, the entrance was dominated by a ‘colossal statue’ of the monarch herself, standing no less than eight feet six inches high.81 In that sense, it was linked to a

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thousand other public buildings throughout the nation – and, for that matter, the empire.82 Once again, this combination of symbols representing both the town and the nation was not confined to large cities alone. The newly incorporated city of Oxford evoked national events when building its town hall. Unable to attract a member of the royal family to lay the foundation stone, it nonetheless vicariously associated the event with the monarchy, and thus with the nation. To this day, one can still read the inscription on the side of the building which announces that the stone was laid by the mayor on 6 June 1893, ‘Being the wedding day of HRH the Duke of York and HSH Princess Victoria

Image 8.2

The Guildhall in Northampton (RIBA library photographs collection)

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Mary of Teck.’ A diminutive statue of Queen Victoria at the top of the building completes the message. Similar impulses affected the Guildhall in Northampton, a place that was seen as important for the community itself and for the town’s place within the country at large. Statues illustrated the distinctive development of the town, murals evoked scenes of local history, and the name of every mayor since 1377 was painted on the walls. But it is striking how tangentially many of these figures related to the town. Thomas à Becket, Eleanor of Castille, even John Dryden, these were really national rather than local names, chosen to stress Northampton’s place within a wider – indeed, nationwide – history.83 It might be argued that this is only to be expected. Town halls were, of course, always likely to be required to fulfil different rhetorical functions, after all, they were often employed for a wide variety of practical purposes. Local democracy and civic pageantry were only a small part of the brief. Post offices, art galleries, concert halls – even police and fire stations were all included in many civic buildings.84 At tiny Eye, in Suffolk, for example, the small but striking town hall incorporated a library and a lock-up for prisoners as well as the usual rooms for public meetings and municipal events.85 Even given this, however, the extent to which these symbols of civic pride deliberately referred not just to the offices housed by the building, but also to wider national themes is striking. And, in some cases, this may even have led to still grander, imperialist expressions. As Christopher Harvie puts it: One doesn’t have too look to closely at Glasgow’s George Square, Belfast Town Hall, Liverpool’s ‘Three Graces’, or Carthays Park in Cardiff to realize that, engraved on that pale, florid baroque, were the words ‘Britain’ and ‘Empire’.86 Debates will naturally rage about the specifics of this analysis – Keith Robbins, for one, would doubt the claims about Cardiff.87 But the fact that contemporaries looked at town halls and saw more than just the image of the city is clear. ‘A town hall’, wrote the architect Sir Charles Barry, ‘should be the means of giving due expression to public feeling on all national and municipal events of importance.’88 Both aspects – both the civic and the patriotic – were undeniably important. Nor was this symbolism confined to the homes of local government. By the 1880s, important visitors to Manchester were taken on a tour of the city’s ‘official institutions’, which included the Free Trade Hall, the future university Owens College, and the Royal Exchange as well as the town hall.89 Municipal markets, water pumping stations, bridges and

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museums also expressed the city’s importance.90 The extent to which such apparently utilitarian buildings as libraries and local hospitals conveyed a message about identity is equally remarkable.91 In the first place, they were, of course, symbols of municipal achievement. The hospital at Blackburn for example, was intended to be sufficiently striking that it would be ‘an honour to the town’ as well as a boon to the sick.92 More than this, though, hospitals could link towns to a wider, national community. So, at Northampton, the free dispensary was built in 1844 to mark the Queen’s visit. Governed by the urban elite, subscribed to – and serving – the local working class, the Royal Victoria Dispensary was a parochial concern with national pretensions.93 As this suggests, the opening of these buildings was often marked by the invitation of a nationally known celebrity; the chief prize, of course, being a royal visit. Thus it was that the General Infirmary at Leeds was just one of many hospitals opened by the Prince of Wales – though the event was made still more patriotic by marking the occasion with a ‘National Exhibition of Works of Art’.94 In many ways, the apotheosis of these trends can be found in the new universities and colleges which were established in this period.95 They marked a major – and seriously underestimated – change in the educational and social life of the state. These were great civic projects: founded and funded by local families; attended and supported by local men and women.96 They were intended to express local pride and enhance local life.97 As Lord Rosebery put it in 1912: ‘every great city seems to consider it a matter of pride and a necessary appanage of its own position that it should hold a University within its walls’.98 These institutions even looked to civic architecture when designing their own buildings. At Sheffield, the university was modelled after the local town hall.99 At Birmingham, the university owed much to the architect’s experience of building infirmaries.100 At Bristol, the university imitated the local school in its choice of Gothic architecture.101 As such, these new institutions should be seen as quintessentially civic. The university, wrote the Sheffield Daily Telegraph in 1913, ‘is the institution in which the city takes most pride, from which it is entitled to expect most, and which it will most gladly maintain’.102 But, again, the universities were also much more than solely civic. Just as much as town halls or hospitals, they were explicitly national in their aims, their ideals and their image.103 It was Rosebery who pointed to the cathedral at Edinburgh, the public library at Glasgow and the university of Dundee as evidence of both local benevolence and national pride.104 The superior virtues of Scottish education – and, especially,

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Scottish higher education – were indeed an important part of Scots national consciousness.105 The foundation of universities in Wales was an equally central element in the Welsh imagination: ‘a powerful symbol of popular achievement and of national status’.106 To be a nation, it was argued, you needed a national university. English universities likewise cultivated a certain patriotic pride, seeing their existence as proof of progress and evidence of national advance. ‘Future historians of England’, claimed one author, ‘will regard the foundation of its . . . new universities as the most noteworthy incident that has marked the opening of the twentieth century.’107 Universities also competed among one another, forging a national system out of local initiatives. All were seeking a place on the national stage. All saw themselves as national as well as local institutions. ‘Brains’, declared the University of Bristol in its appeal of 1922, ‘are our first line of national defence.’108 Supporting the local college, it implied, was a patriotic duty. The same thing had been said at Leeds nearly fifty years earlier, in 1875.109 Unsurprisingly, this competition was also given architectural expression. Every institution had its claim to fame. Bristol pointed to its magnificent entrance tower, which, with the largest clock bell in England, surpassed similar instruments at the Palace of Westminster and Manchester town hall, the place that had previously claimed the record.110 Impoverished Dundee at once imitated Manchester,111 and vied with older universities for the architectural laurels.112 Controlling the complex symbolism of the university – with its claims to universalism – and both town and nation caused problems for architects and patrons alike. At Birmingham, for example, the new campus was to be a great advertisement for the university, attracting students and benefactors, and demonstrating the distinctiveness of the institution. Its place within the nation was recognized when the King came to open it in 1909.113 Its place within the city was expressed by the elaborate local symbols which covered the exterior and were included within the great stained-glass window of the hall.114 And at the centre of this display was the main entrance, over which were to be placed nine statues. Seeking to stress the local links of the university, the architect suggested that these should be Birmingham men. Hoping to avoid controversy and to emphasize the university’s wider role, the building committee wanted a selection of ‘great men’ of all ages. The vice chancellor believed that ‘it would be considered an advantage to select Englishmen, to a great extent, and men connected with the Midland District of England, as far as possible’.115 The result was a compromise in which local, national and universal figures jostled shoulders, with

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Image 8.3 Entrance to Birmingham University (RIBA library photographs collection)

Darwin, Newton and Watt coupled with Plato, Virgil and others. Little wonder that The Times considered the building one of which both ‘the people of Birmingham and the nation are justly proud’.116 This balancing act can also be seen in the John Rylands Library built in Manchester in the 1890s by Basil Champneys. Here again, the local, the national and the universal were joined together. A statue of Gutenberg faced one of Caxton, Herodotus faced Gibbon, Thales of Miletus faced Francis Bacon and Homer was opposite Shakespeare. In that sense, the library juxtaposed the heroes of British history with the heroes of European thought, bringing wider culture to Manchester

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and stressing the city’s place within this great inheritance. The decision to build in Perpendicular Gothic – a uniquely English style – meant that this international scene was situated within a distinctively national setting. It was, as the architect J. M. Brydon put it, ‘eminently an English building founded on English types’.117 And, indeed, the library was intended to evoke the architecture of Oxford and Winchester as much as Manchester.118 The front elevation, too, displayed the arms of all the universities in England, Scotland and Ireland. As this suggests, although institutes of higher education had their own particular needs and their own particular narratives, they nonetheless sought to embody many of the same themes as other civic buildings. They were also part of a streetscape that evoked the city and the nation. It is thus evident that the architecture of urban life in nineteenth and early twentieth-century Britain was freighted with ideological

Image 8.4

John Rylands Library in 1899 (RIBA library photographs collection)

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significance. Public buildings were self-consciously seen as symbolic. They embodied and expressed a series of messages about identity, about the importance of the local and of the national. And it was not just local government that sought to express itself in this way. Voluntary bodies, charitable foundations and universities all looked to find a similar balance. But this still leaves us with a number of difficulties. In particular, we need to relate this architectural rhetoric to wider issues of nationalism and national identity, to the lived experience of ordinary British citizens. More than this, we need to understand how these buildings were understood by those who designed them, paid for them and used them.

The national and the local How did the British view their public buildings? It is of course possible that many simply ignored them, or took them for granted.119 Certainly, Selig Brodetsky’s memoir of Whitechapel in the late nineteenth century suggests that this was true for some.120 For others, the impact of official architecture may only have been negative. Robert Roberts, in his record of life in a Salford slum recalled that the Salford Technical Institute – opened by the Prince of Wales in 1896 – was looked on with awe, ‘but nobody would have had the courage to enter’. A relative who did pay a visit returned, having decided, ‘that it wasn’t “for people like me” ’.121 These responses, however, were probably untypical. The nineteenth century saw an effusion of interest in architecture, one that was felt at every level of British society. For the very wealthy – those who could afford to build – this period provided opportunities to erect massive houses and create fantastic architectural effects. And, as Mark Girouard and Joe Mordaunt Crook have shown, these were the people who were able to embody their identity in architecture.122 The middle classes were also keen on architecture, as shown by their reading of Ruskin and their attempts to build houses, schools and other structures that exemplified the values he and other critics advocated.123 At lower social levels, too, architecture was important. Even the humblest terraced house reflected the latest fashions and the desire to strike a distinctive pose.124 Mercantile and manufacturing buildings were also the subject of remarkable interest. At Bristol in 1901, the police were actually required to control crowds which had gathered to view the decorated façade of a factory. They were forced to remain on duty for two whole days.125 Town halls, hospitals and universities – these were still more public edifices, and had concomitantly still more public interest

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shown in them. After all, no fewer than 400,000 people trooped through Glasgow Municipal Buildings when they were opened to the public in 1889.126 Architecture was just one part of a wider programme of what would now be called branding: an attempt to create a coherent corporate image for the town or city.127 A generation after 1914, its legacy was still being felt. In his memoirs, the playwright Alan Bennett recalls that in the 1940s, ‘one had a sense of belonging to Leeds that can’t have been unlike the feelings of someone growing up in a fifteenth-century Italian citystate’. This was explicitly associated in his mind with the omnipresence of civic symbolism, especially the city’s coat of arms: ‘Everywhere in Leeds’, he writes, one was confronted with the owls and the lamb in the sling and the motto ‘Pro Rege et Lege’. One could not escape those arms. They were on my schoolbooks and they were at the tram stop; they were on the market; they were over the entrance to the Central Library . . . At every turn there was this reminder that you were a son or daughter of the city.128 These were all the products of this period: municipal tram stops were first erected in 1894; the market was built in 1857 and refaced in 1904; the Central Library was built in 1884.129 They all helped to contribute to a sense that the city was one place, a unified whole. More than that, this common vocabulary and shared symbolism provided a frame through which to encounter civic buildings. They were all, as a result, seen as embodiments of the city as a whole. In R. J. Morris’s words: ‘by the 1870s, it was the municipal, its buildings, actions, and public figures like the mayor who were the known community for each urban place’.130 This framing device was not merely rhetorical. It made reference to – and drew on – the very real power and independence of Britain’s towns.131 The autonomy of urban councils in the Victorian and Edwardian era is now widely acknowledged. Local authority expenditure grew twice as fast as central government spending in the years between 1850 and 1890, and actually rose to a high of 55 per cent of public outlay in 1905, only beginning to decline after 1911.132 Throughout this period, as E. P. Hennock puts it, ‘initiative lay overwhelmingly with the local authorities’.133 The cultural authority of provincial towns also increased in the nineteenth century. While London was the centre of Georgian artistic and literary life, the other towns reasserted themselves

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under Victoria.134 The local press grew in relative importance.135 Local history became ever more popular.136 Within this context, it is not hard to understand why municipal buildings were seen as embodiments of civic pride as well as of civic identity; proof of the independence of each urban community.137 Yet, as has already been noted, civic buildings did not just make reference to local history and urban identity, they also linked the city and the town to the nation. As a result, they also drew on national histories and national identities. They were framed by national discourses. In particular, municipal architecture reveals the hegemony of a very specific national history: what has subsequently become known as the Whig Interpretation of History.138 Stressing England’s unique – and uniquely successful – constitutional development, the English talent for self-government and the overwhelming desire for liberty, the Whig Interpretation was inescapable in nineteenth-century England and was as influential on politicians and members of the public as it was on historians.139 As Michael Bentley puts it, For entire cohorts of school-children in the century after 1850 . . . England’s constitutional history functioned not as the accompaniment to but as the explanation of her glory, while the crucial personalities in moulding that history . . . became icons of textbooks and role models for their collective heirs, the British public.140 These were the personalities and stories that ornamented public buildings. The Whig Interpretation was not, however, an alternative to local history, nor did it erase other national narratives. From the eighteenth century onwards, for example, English urban histories reveal proof of ‘provincial urban’ identities co-existing with an ‘increasing sense of national identity’.141 By the Victorian era local studies were explicitly linked to this common island story.142 The local was underwritten by the national, even as the national was legitimated by the local.143 In Scotland and Wales, too, the Whig Interpretation proved capacious – and captivating. Although it stressed English values and the English constitution, it was a tradition capable of encompassing a number of different identities. As Colin Kidd has shown, a version of it was articulated in Scotland from the mid-eighteenth century onwards. This is why Hume abandoned his History of Britain for a History of England and the Scottish lawyer Sir John Dalrymple began his Memoirs of Great Britain by proclaiming that ‘The history of England is the history of liberty.’144

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It is also why statues of the Scots hero William Wallace could be seen by contemporaries as memorials not just to Scottish nationalism but also a wider British identity. ‘Wallace’, as Kidd affirms, ‘was seen as a champion of British freedom.’145 He had, in other words, become a part of the Whig pantheon.146 The great municipal buildings of Victorian and Edwardian Britain – and the ornaments on them – were thus seen through the lens of Whig history. Their statues and heraldry and portraits and murals could only be understood by reference to this wider, national story. Arguably, this is what was happening in Scotland, where the towns gave birth to an architecture that was self-consciously Scottish but also a celebration of Scottishness within Britain; a movement that found its embodiment in civic architecture across the country.147 The function of municipal building, claimed one Glaswegian councillor, was to ‘adorn our civic palaces with historical illustrations of the growth and history of our city and country’.148 To this end, when the grand new Glasgow city hall was opened, it was larded in civic, national and imperial imagery, with the massive pediment showing Queen Victoria receiving tribute from both the four nations of the United Kingdom and the colonies of the empire. The fact that the building was inaugurated by the Queen herself once again only served to make the symbolism more complete.149 The murals at Manchester town hall are another case in point. The council eventually agreed on eleven themes, which took in the whole sweep of Whig history – from the Romans to the Industrial Revolution. Many of them had only the most tangential links with Manchester. The baptism of Eadwine, the invasion of the Danes or the trial of Wycliffe: these were classics of the Whig tradition, but scarcely had anything to do with the city.150 Their inclusion reflects the inclusiveness of the Whig tradition, but also its ascendancy – and they reveal, too, the way in which it framed the view of even the proudest municipal symbol. As the official guide to the hall put it, the whole effect was intended to illustrate not only the continuity of the city’s self-government, but also the fact that ‘Manchester had an important part in struggle between King and parliament.’151 This was old-school Whiggery, and it was repeated all across the country. When people looked at civic buildings they saw – and were intended to see – the nation as well as the town.

Conclusion This did not mean, of course, that Britishness was imposed from above. Nor that it was a stable and all-encompassing identity. The people of

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nineteenth-century Britain were strongly localist in their interests and often parochial in their views. In England, nationalism had to co-exist with this local pride. ‘It is no doubt’, wrote James Burnley in 1875, ‘a proud thing to be able to say “I am an Englishman”, but still prouder is the boast of the Englishman who can add, “and a Yorkshireman.” ’152 For town dwellers, civic pride was still more important. The result was a multiple identity. As the Congregationalist minister of tiny Romsey in Hampshire put it in 1907: ‘In modern England, our patriotism is a threefold cord, combining love of land, of county, and of town or village.’153 The same claims were felt in Scotland and in Wales, where assertions of a common British heritage co-existed with separate nationalist impulses – and, importantly, with rivalry between different urban communities. Hence the competition between Glasgow and Edinburgh, or between Leeds and Bradford; hence too the battle between Cardiff, Swansea, Aberystwyth and Bangor to play host to National University of Wales.154 Civic buildings reflected this complexity, this multivalent identity. They reveal persistent attempts to exemplify community and retell the story of the locality. They did so, however, within the context of a generally accepted national story. Whig history – the progressive narrative of English constitutional development – provided the matrix into which other accounts could be woven. The existence of these multiple – though mutually dependent – narratives perhaps explains why defining and isolating either Britishness or Englishness has proved so problematic. Not only are they each potentially destabilized by other local and imperial identities, but they turn out to be mutually constitutive. Although Celtic nationalism threatened to subvert British identities still further, it too could find a place within the Whig interpretation. For Whig history was a broad and capacious church: a mansion with many houses. There was, then, no sense that the essential values of Britishness (or Englishness, for that matter) were situated exclusively in any one location. The countryside was not the sole repository of national spirit, nor was the capital. Every town could be incorporated. Nor, indeed, was there any problem integrating other spirits – be they imperial, Atlantic or European – within the pantheon. Indeed, the use of imperial imagery paradoxically reinforced this identity. It enabled otherwise potentially marginal towns to demonstrate their centrality. It is, in that respect, surely not a coincidence that municipal buildings in Belfast, Glasgow and Cardiff emphasized the empire as well as the nation-state. This imperial symbolism articulated the fact that these provincial cities were part of the metropole rather than the colony. In a

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game of competitive advantage, empire was a trump card to play, but it was not an alternative to a broader British identity; indeed, it was complementary. At the opening of the town hall in Manchester, John Bright drew attention to the city’s place within a still wider history, comparing it to Carthage and Tyre, Venice and Genoa. ‘We must bear in mind’, he said, that great cities have fallen before Manchester and Liverpool were known.’155 The twentieth century was to bear out his warning, with much of urban Britain experiencing economic and political decline. Recent reports have suggested that some towns – including Liverpool – will simply never recover.156 This should not, however, blind us to the remarkable importance of urban Britain in the nineteenth century. Here was a self-confident, politically independent and culturally rich arena, one that was memorializing itself in grand new buildings, demonstrating its distinctiveness in high architectural style. Here was a place – or, rather, a series of places – where definitions of the nation and of the town were constituted by and, at the same time, dependent on each other.

Notes 1. Liverpool Mercury, 14 September 1877. 2. John Archer, ‘A Classic of Its Age: Manchester Town Hall’, in John Archer (ed.), Art and Architecture in Victorian Manchester (Manchester, 1985), pp. 127–61. 3. Colin Cunningham and Prudence Waterhouse, Alfred Waterhouse, 1830– 1905: Biography of a Practice (Oxford, 1992). 4. Alfred Waterhouse, ‘A Description of the Town Hall at Manchester’, Transactions of the RIBA 1876–77, pp. 117–36. 5. Benjamin Brierley, Ab-O’Th’-Yate at the Opening of the New Town Hall (Manchester, n. d. [1877]), p. 9. 6. Birmingham Daily Post, 17 September 1877; Aberdeen Weekly Journal, 18 September 1877. 7. Patrick Joyce, Visions of the People: Industrial England and the Question of Class, 1848–1914 (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 182–83; Simon Gunn, The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority and the English Industrial City, 1840–1914 (Manchester and New York, 2000), ch. 7; John Parkinson-Bailey, Manchester: An Architectural History (Manchester and New York, 2000), ch. 6. 8. Birmingham Daily Post, 14 and 17 September 1877; Northern Echo, 12 September 1877; Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 12 September, 1877; Aberdeen Weekly Journal, 18 September 1877; Belfast News-Letter, 14 September 1877. 9. The Times, 14 September 1877. 10. Birmingham Daily Post, 7 September 1877.

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11. Birmingham Daily Post, 14 September 1877. 12. William E. A. Axon, An Architectural Description of the Town Hall, Manchester (Manchester and London, 1878). 13. The Times, 14 September 1877. 14. Elizabeth Hammerton and David Cannadine, ‘Conflict and Consensus on a Ceremonial Occasion: The Diamond Jubilee in Cambridge in 1897’, Historical Journal 24 (1981), pp. 111–46. 15. David Brownlee, ‘ “A Regular Mongrel Affair”: G. G. Scott’s Design for the Government Offices’, Architectural History 28 (1985), pp. 159–78; William Whyte, ‘ “Rooms for the Torture and Shame of Scholars”: The New Examination Schools and the Architecture of Reform’, Oxoniensia 66 (2001), pp. 85–101; Emma L. Winter, ‘German Fresco Painting and the New Houses of Parliament at Westminster, 1834–1851’, Historical Journal 47 (2004), pp. 291–330. 16. Northern Echo, 12 September 1877. 17. Margaret Beetham, ‘Heywood, Abel (1810–1893)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (accessed 13 August 2008). 18. The Era, 16 September 1877. 19. John Archer, ‘A Civic Achievement: the Building of Manchester Town Hall. Part One: The Commissioning’, Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society 81 (1982), pp. 3–41. 20. Brown to Waterhouse, quoted in Julian Treuherz, ‘Ford Madox Brown and the Manchester Murals’, in Archer (ed.), Art and Architecture in Victorian Manchester, pp. 162–61, 172. 21. Treuherz, ‘Manchester Murals’, pp. 174–75. 22. Terry Wyke and Harry Cox, Public Sculpture of Greater Manchester (Liverpool, 2004), p. 24. 23. See also Terry Wyke, ‘The Albert Memorial and the Making of Civic Manchester’, Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society 102 (2006), pp. 90–115. 24. Colin Cunningham, Victorian and Edwardian Town Halls (London, 1981). See also Asa Briggs, Victorian Cities (London, 1963), ch. 4. 25. Paul Readman, ‘Commemorating the Past in Edwardian Hampshire: King Alfred, Pageantry, and Empire’, in Miles Taylor (ed.), Southampton: Gateway to Empire (London, 2007), pp. 95–113. More generally, see Paul Readman, ‘The Place of the Past in English Culture c.1890–1914’, Past and Present 186 (2005), pp. 147–99. 26. Catherine Hall, Civilising Subjects: Metropole and Colony in the English Imagination 1830–1867 (Cambridge and Oxford, 2002), p. 289. 27. The locus classicus of this is, of course, Tom Nairn, The Break-Up of Britain: Crisis and Neo-nationalism (London, 1977). See also Murray Pittock, ‘The British Image: Self and Other in the United Kingdom’, Skhid-Zakhid 4 (2001), pp. 161–72. On class see R. J. Morris, Class, Sect, and Party: The Making of the British Middle Class, Leeds, 1820–1850 (Manchester and New York, 1990). 28. Philip Waller, Democracy and Sectarianism: A Political and Social History of Liverpool, 1868–1939 (Liverpool, 1981). 29. See, for example, Felix Driver and David Gilbert (eds), Imperial Cities (Manchester and New York, 1999); Andreas W. Daum and Christof Mauch

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30. 31. 32.

33.

34.

35. 36. 37.

38.

39. 40.

41.

(eds), Berlin-Washington 1800–2000: Capital Cities, Cultural Representation and National Identities (Washington and Cambridge, 2005). More specifically, see M. H. Port, Imperial London (New Haven and London, 1998) and Standish Meacham, Regaining Paradise: Englishness and the Early Garden City Movement (New Haven and London, 1999). William Whyte, ‘How do Buildings Mean? Some Issues of Interpretation in the History of Architecture’, History and Theory 45 (2006), pp. 153–77. See Patrick Joyce, The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London and New York, 2003), pp. 130, 144, 164. F. M. L. Thompson, ‘Town and City’, in F. M. L. Thompson (ed.), The Cambridge Social History of Britain, 1750–1950 (3 vols; Cambridge, 1990), pp. 1–86, 2. As the MP Leo Amery complained in 1913: see Keith Robbins, History, Religion, and Identity in Modern Britain (London and Rio Grande, 1993), p. 251. Rebecca Langlands, ‘Britishness and Englishness? The Historical Problem of National Identity in Britain’, Nations and Nationalism 5, 1 (1999), pp. 53–69. See also, Peter Mandler, ‘What is “National Identity”? Definitions and Applications in Modern British Historiography’, Modern Intellectual History 3 (2006), pp. 271–97. Christopher Harvie, A Floating Commonwealth: Politics, Culture, Technology on Britain’s Atlantic Coast, 1860–1930 (Oxford, 2008), p. 7. Marjorie Morgan, National Identities and Travel in Victorian Britain (Basingstoke, 2001), p. 3. Key starting points include Gwynn Williams, When Was Wales? A History of the Welsh (Harmondsworth, 1985); Robert Colls and Philip Dodds (eds), Englishness: Politics and Culture (Beckenham, 1986); Gerald Newman, The Rise of English Nationalism: A Cultural History, 1740–1830 (London, 1987); Keith Robbins, Nineteenth-Century Britain: Integration and Diversity (Oxford, 1988); Raphael Samuel (ed.), Patriotism: The Making and Unmaking of British National Identity (2 vols; London and New York, 1989); Murray Pittock, The Invention of Scotland: The Stuart Myth and the Scottish Identity, 1638 to the Present (London, 1991); Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation, 1707–1837 (London, 1992). Keith Robbins, ‘An Imperial and Multinational Polity: The “Scene from the Centre”, 1832–1922’, in Alexander Grant and Keith J. Stringer (eds), Uniting the Kingdom? The Making of British History (London and New York, 1995), pp. 244–54. Linda Colley, ‘Britishness and Otherness: An Argument’, Journal of British Studies 31 (1992), pp. 309–24. Michael Hechter, Internal Colonialism: The Celtic Fringe in British National Development, 1536–1966 (London, 1975). See also Eugenio Biagini, ‘Introduction’, in Eugenio Biagini (ed.), Citizenship and Community: Liberals, Radicals, and Collective Identities in the British Isles, 1865–1931 (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 1–18, 13 and Stephanie Barczewski, Myth and National Identity in Nineteenth-Century Britain: The Legends of King Arthur and Robin Hood (Oxford, 2000), p. 49. Graeme Morton, Unionist Nationalism: Governing Urban Scotland, 1830–1860 (East Linton, 1999), p. 8.

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42. James Loughlin, Ulster Unionism and British National Identity since 1885 (London and New York, 1995), p. 45. 43. Colin Kidd, Subverting Scotland’s Past: Scottish Whig Historians and the Creation of an Anglo-British Identity, 1689–1830 (Cambridge, 1993). 44. Colin Kidd, ‘Sentiment, Race, and Revival: Scottish Identities in the Aftermath of Enlightenment’, in Laurence Brockliss and David Eastwood (eds), A Union of Multiple Identities: The British Isles, c. 1750–c. 1850 (Manchester and New York, 1997), pp. 110–26. 45. Matthew Cragoe, Culture, Politics, and National Identity in Wales, 1832–1886 (Oxford, 2004) and Keith Robbins, Great Britain: Identities, Institutions, and the Idea of Britishness (Harlow, 1998), p. 275. Though cf. Neil Evans, ‘Gogs, Cardis, and Hwntws: Regions, Nation and State in Wales, 1840–1940’, in Neil Evans (ed.), National Identity in the British Isles, Coleg Harlech Occasional papers in Welsh Studies 3 (1989), pp. 60–72. 46. Peter Mandler, The English National Character: The History of an Idea from Edmund Burke to Tony Blair (New Haven and London, 2006), p. 4. See also Robbins, History, Religion, and Identity, p. 268. 47. Chris Waters, ‘The United Kingdom: British Nationalisms during the Long Nineteenth Century’, in Timothy Baycroft and Mark Hewitson (eds), What is a Nation? Europe, 1789–1914 (Oxford, 2000), pp. 272–92, 283. 48. Newman, Rise of English Nationalism, p. xvii. 49. See, for example, Mandler, English National Character; Paul Langford, Englishness Identified: Manners and Character, 1650–1850 (Oxford, 2000); Robert Colls, Identity of England (Oxford, 2002). 50. Alfred Austin, Songs of England (London, 1900), p. iii. 51. Hall, Civilising Subjects; see also Catherine Hall, Keith McClelland and Jane Rendall, Defining the Victorian Nation: Class, Race, and the Reform Act of 1867 (Cambridge, 2000). 52. Readman, ‘Commemorating the Past’, p. 95. 53. Jonathan Rose, The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes (New Haven and London, 2001), ch. 10. 54. Bernard Porter, Absent-Minded Imperialists: What the British Really Thought about Empire (Oxford, 2004). 55. Eric Evans, ‘Englishness and Britishness: National Identities, c. 1790– c. 1870’, in Stringer and Grant (eds), Uniting the Kingdom?, pp. 223–43, 232. 56. See also Richard Price, British Society, 1680–1880 (Cambridge, 1999), ch. 5 (although he sees the end of localism occurring in the 1880s). 57. Philip Evans, ‘The Centrality of Locality: The Local State, Local Democracy, and Local Consciousness in Late-Victorian and Edwardian Britain’, Journal of Victorian Culture 9, 2 (2004), pp. 216–34. 58. K. D. M. Snell, ‘The Culture of Local Xenophobia’, Social History 28 (2003), pp. 1–30, 3. See also his Parish and Belonging: Community, Identity, and Welfare in England and Wales, 1700–1950 (Cambridge, 2006). 59. Scott K. Phillips, ‘Natives and Incomers: The Symbolism of Belonging in Muker Parish, North Yorkshire’, in Anthony P. Cohen (ed.), Symbolising Boundaries: Identity and Diversity in British Cultures (Manchester, 1986), pp. 141–54.

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William Whyte 229 60. Margaret Stacey, Tradition and Change: A Study of Banbury (Oxford, 1960) and W. M. Williams, The Sociology of an English Village: Gosforth (London, 1956). 61. See, for example, Hester Barron, The 1926 Miners’ Lockout: Meanings of Community in the Durham Coalfield (Oxford, 2010). 62. E.g. the debate between David Ward, ‘Victorian Cities: How Modern?’, Journal of Historical Geography 1, 2 (1975), pp. 135–51 and David Cannadine, ‘Victorian Cities: How Different?’, Social History 2 (1977), pp. 457–82. 63. See Martin, J. Weiner, English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit, 1850–1980 (London, 1981) and, most recently, Paul Readman, Land and the Nation in England: Patriotism, National Identity, and the Politics of Land in England, 1880–1914 (London, 2008). 64. F. M. L. Thompson, The Rise of Suburbia (Leicester, 1982); P. J. Waller, Town, City, and Nation: England, 1850–1914 (Oxford, 1983), p. 193. See also, Thompson, ‘Town and City’, pp. 47, 62. 65. C. M. Law, ‘Growth of the Urban Population in England and Wales, 1801–1911’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 41 (1967), pp. 125–43. Scotland somewhat lagged behind, but by 1911 58.6 per cent of Scots lived in towns. See R. J. Morris, ‘Urbanisation in Scotland’, in W. Hamish Fraser and R. J. Morris (eds), People and Society in Scotland: vol. ii, 1830–1914 (Edinburgh, 1990), pp. 73–102, 74. 66. A. Lawrence Lowell, The Government of England (2 vols; London and New York, 1908), vol. ii, p. 143. 67. Robbins, Great Britain, p. 287. 68. Andrew Lees and Lynn Hollen Lees, Cities and the Making of Modern Europe, 1750–1914 (Cambridge, 2007), p. 281. 69. John Brieully, Nationalism and the State (2nd edn; Manchester 1993), pp. 87–88. 70. Graeme Morton, ‘What If? The Significance of Scotland’s Missing Nationalism in the Nineteenth Century’, in Davit Broun, R. J. Finlay and Michael Lynch (eds), Image and Identity: The Making and Remaking of Scotland through the Ages (Edinburgh, 1998), pp. 157–76. 71. Peter Mandler, ‘Nation and Power in the Liberal State: Britain, c. 1800– c. 1914’, in Len Scales and Oliver Zimmer (ed.), Power and the Nation in European History (Cambridge, 2005), pp. 333–54. 72. See also Avner Offer, Property and Politics, 1870–1914: Landownership, Law, Ideology and Urban Development in England (Cambridge, 1981), p. 221; Andrew Lees, Cities Perceived: Urban Society in English and American Thought, 1820–1840 (Manchester and New York, 1985), p. 236. 73. Gunn, Public Cultures, p. 53. 74. E. P. Thompson’s notion of architecture as theatre is winningly deployed in Deborah E. B. Weiner, Architecture and Social Reform in Late-Victorian London (Manchester and New York, 1994). See also Deborah Epstein Nord, Walking the Victorian Streets: Women, Representation, and the City (Ithaca and London, 1995), ch. 1 for an analysis which relies more on Baudrillard and Benjamin. 75. Joyce, Visions of the People, p. 182; Kate Hill, ‘ “Thoroughly Imbued with the Spirit of Ancient Greece”: Symbolism and Space in Victorian Civic Culture’, in Alan Kidd and David Nicholls (eds), Gender, Civic Culture, and

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76. 77.

78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86. 87. 88. 89.

90. 91.

92. 93. 94.

95.

96.

97. 98. 99.

Towns and the Nation-State Consumerism: Middle-class Identity in Britain, 1800–1940 (Manchester and New York, 1999), pp. 99–111. Cunningham, Victorian and Edwardian Town Halls. David Cannadine, ‘The Transformation of Civic Ritual in Modern Britain: The Colchester Oyster Feast’, Past and Present 94 (1982), pp. 107–30, 117–18. Wendy Norbury, ‘Oxford Town Hall: Planning, Building, and Financing the Oxford Municipal Buildings of 1897’, Oxoniensia 65 (2000), pp. 133–59. William Whyte, Oxford Jackson: Architecture, Education, Status, and Style, 1835–1924 (Oxford, 2006), p. 123. Briggs, Victorian Cities, pp. 157–83. Leeds Mercury, 7 September 1858. Thomas R. Metcalfe, An Imperial Vision: Indian Architecture and Britain’s Raj (London and Boston, 1989). Cynthia Brown, Northampton, 1835–1985: New Town, Shoe Town (Chichester, 1990), pp. 46–47. Cunningham, Victorian and Edwardian Town Halls, ch. 1. Building News 3 (1857), pp. 44–45. See also Edward Kaufman, ‘E. B. Lamb: A Case Study in Architectural Patronage’, Art Bulletin 70, 2 (1984), pp. 314–45, 318, 333, 339. Harvie, Floating Commonwealth, p. 80. Robbins, Great Britain, p. 275. Quoted in Richard DeZ. Hall, Halifax Town Hall: An Account of its Building and Inauguration (Halifax, 1963), p. 42. Simon Gunn, ‘Ritual and Civic Culture in the English Industrial City, c. 1835–1914’, in Robert J. Morris and Richard H. Trainor (eds), Urban Governance: Britain and Beyond since 1750 (Aldershot, 2000), pp. 225–41, 230. Mark Girouard, The English Town (London, 1990), pp. 216–18. Alistair Black, A New History of the English Public Library: Social and Intellectual Contexts, 1850–1914 (Leicester and New York, 1996), ch. 10. See also George Hatton, The Inauguration of the Manchester Free Library; A Poem (Manchester, 1853). Quoted in Jeremy Taylor, Hospital and Asylum Architecture in England, 1840–1914: Building for Health Care (London, 1991), p. 43. Brown, Northampton, pp. 34–35. Leeds Mercury, 20 May 1868; Taylor, Hospital and Asylum Architecture, p. 33. See also Bodleian Library, GA Oxon c.317 (24), Anon, ‘The Story of the Acland Hospital’ (n.d). William Whyte, ‘ “Redbrick’s Unlovely Quadrangles”: Reinterpreting the Architecture of the Civic Universities’, History of Universities 21 (2006) pp. 151–77; W. H. G. Armytage, Civic Universities: Aspects of a British Tradition (London, 1955). A. H. Halsey, ‘Oxford and the British Universities’, in Brian Harrison (ed.), The History of the University of Oxford, vol. viii: The Twentieth Century (Oxford, 1994), pp. 577–606, 580. See, for example, Yorkshire College Annual Report 1 (1874–75), p. 6. Congress of the Universities of the Empire (London, 1912), p. 3. Sheffield University Archive, US/CHA/5/2(1), 2–11.

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William Whyte 231 100. Taylor, Hospital and Asylum Architecture, pp. 7–9, 18. See also Ian Robert Dungavell, ‘The Architectural Career of Sir Aston Webb (1849–1930)’ (PhD thesis, London, 1999). 101. Andor Gomme, Michael Jenner and Bryan Little, Bristol: An Architectural History (London, 1979), p. 323 102. Sheffield Daily Telegraph, 7 January 1913. 103. Generally, see Märtha Norrback, Kristina Ranki, Helga RobinsonHammerstein and Rainer Knapas (eds), University and Nation: The University and the Making of the Nation in Northern Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Helsinki, 1996). 104. Archibald Stodart-Walker (ed.), Rectorial Addresses Delivered Before the University of Edinburgh 1859–1899 (London, 1900), p. 220. 105. R. D. Anderson, Education and Opportunity in Victorian Scotland: Schools and Universities (Oxford, 1983), ch. 1. 106. Kenneth O. Morgan, Rebirth of a Nation: A History of Modern Wales (Oxford, 1981), p. 110. See also, Geraint H. Jenkins, ‘The Finest Old University in the World’: The University of Wales, 1893–1993 (Cardiff, 1994). 107. Arthur Smithells, From a Modern University, Some Aims and Aspirations of Science (Oxford, 1921), p. 9. 108. Bristol University, Our First Lines of National Defence (Bristol, 1922), p. 1. 109. Yorkshire College Annual Report, vol. 1 (1874–75), pp. 1–42. 110. Roger Gill, ‘The Buildings of the Main Precinct’, in J. G. Macqueen and S. W. Taylor (eds), University and Community: Essays to Mark the Centenary of the Founding of University College, Bristol (Bristol, 1976), pp. 15–28. 111. John Boyd Baxter, quoted in Builder 90 (1881), p. 58. 112. The College 6 (1908–09), p. 44, quoting The Meal Poke (1903), p. 90. 113. The Mermaid 6 (1909–10), 7 July 1909: Royal Visit Souvenir Edition. 114. Eric Ives, Diane Drummond and Leonard Schwartz, The First Civic University: Birmingham, 1880–1980 (Birmingham, 2000), p. 441. 115. Birmingham University Archives, UC/7/iv/8/39, Oliver Lodge, ‘Preliminary Statement Concerning the Proposed Nine Statues on the Outside North Front of the Great Hall’ (10 April 1905). 116. The Times, 7 July 1909, p. 18. 117. Basil Champneys, ‘The John Rylands Library, Manchester’, RIBA Journal 3rd series 7 (1900), pp. 101–10. 118. John Maddison, ‘Basil Champneys and the John Rylands Library’, in Archer (ed.), Art and Architecture, pp. 162–49. 119. Rogers Brubaker, Margrit Feischmidt and Jon Fox, Nationalist Politics and Everyday Ethnicity in a Transylvanian Town (Princeton and Oxford), p. 146. 120. Selig Brodetsky, Memoirs: From Ghetto to Israel (London, 1960), p. 32. 121. Robert Roberts, The Classic Slum: Salford Life in the First Quarter of the Century (1971; London, 1979), p. 147. 122. Mark Girouard, The Victorian Country House (New Haven and London, 1979); J. Mordaunt Crook, The Rise of the Nouveaux Riches: Style and Status in Victorian and Edwardian Architecture (1999). 123. J. Mordaunt Crook, ‘Ruskinian Gothic’, in John Dixon Hunt and Faith M. Holland (eds), The Ruskin Polygon (Manchester, 1982), pp. 68–71. See also Mark Girouard, Sweetness and Light: The ‘Queen Anne’ Movement, 1860–1900 (Oxford, 1977); Weiner, Architecture and Education; William Whyte, ‘The

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124. 125. 126. 127.

128. 129. 130.

131. 132.

133.

134. 135.

136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143.

Towns and the Nation-State Intellectual Aristocracy Revisited’, Journal of Victorian Culture 10, 1 (2005), pp. 15–45. Stefan Muthesius, The English Terraced House (New Haven and London, 1982), ch. 17. Michael Stratton, The Terracotta Revival (London, 1993), p. 14. William Young, The Municipal Buildings Glasgow (Glasgow and London, 1890), p. 12. John Nelson Tarn, ‘Housing Reform and the Emergence of Town Planning in Britain before 1914’, in Anthony Sutcliffe (ed.), The Rise of Modern Urban Planning, 1800–1914 (London, 1980), pp. 71–98, 73. Alan Bennett, Untold Stories (London, 2005), pp. 512–13. Frederick Dolman, Municipalities at Work (London, 1895), ch. 6; Susan Wrathmell and John Minnis, Leeds (New Haven and London, 2005). R. J. Morris, ‘Structure, Culture, and Society in British Towns’, in Martin Daunton (ed.), The Cambridge Urban History of Britain, vol. iii: 1840–1950 (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 395–426, 423. See also Richard Rodger, ‘The “Common Good” and Civic Promotion: Edinburgh, 1860–1914’, in Robert Colls and Richard Rodger (eds), Cities of Ideas: Civil Society and Urban Governance in Britain, 1800–2000 (Aldershot, 2004), pp. 144–77. Donald Read, The English Provinces, c.1760–1960: A Study in Influence (London, 1964). Harling, ‘Centrality of Locality’, p. 217; Ursula K. Hicks, British Public Finances: Their Structure and Development, 1880–1952 (London, 1954), p. 108. E. P. Hennock, Fit and Proper Persons: Ideal and Nationality in Nineteenthcentury Urban Government (London, 1973), p. 4. See also Richard H. Trainor, ‘The “Decline” of British Urban Governance since 1850: A Reassessment’, in Morris and Trainor (eds), Urban Governance, pp. 28–46. Roy Porter, London: A Social History (London, 1994), ch. 7. James Grant, The History of the Newspaper Press (3 vols; London, 1871), vol. iii, pp. 205–06. See also, Ian Jackson, The Provincial Press and the Community (Manchester, 1971), pp. 11–12. Charles Dellheim, The Face of the Past: The Preservation of the Medieval Inheritance in Victorian England (Cambridge, 1982), pp. 45–58. Lees and Hollen Lees, Cities, pp. 134, 187–88. John Burrow, A Liberal Descent: Victorian Historians and the English Past (Cambridge, 1981). Jonathan Parry, The Politics of Patriotism: English Liberalism, National Identity, and Europe, 1830–1886 (Cambridge, 2006), ch. 2. Michael Bentley, Modernizing England’s Past: English Historiography in the Age of Modernism, 1870–1970 (Cambridge, 2005), p. 19. Rosemary Sweet, The Writing of Urban Histories in Eighteenth-Century England (Oxford, 1997), p. 238. Dellheim, Face of the Past, pp. 70–75. This bears comparison with Maiken Umbach, ‘A Tale of Second Cities: Autonomy, Culture, and the Law in Hamburg and Barcelona in the Late Nineteenth-Century’, American Historical Review 110 (2005), pp. 659–92 and German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism 1890–1924 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 70–73.

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William Whyte 233 144. Kidd, Subverting Scotland’s Past, p. 210. 145. Kidd, ‘Sentiment, Race, and Revival’, p. 121. 146. See also Colin Kidd, Union and Unionisms: Political Thought in Scotland, 1500–2000 (Cambridge, 2008). 147. Though see Rodgers, ‘The “Common Good” and Civic Promotion’, p. 161. 148. James Schmeichen, ‘Glasgow of the Imagination: Architecture, Townscape and Society’, in W. Hamish Fraser and Irene Maver (eds), Glasgow (2 vols; Manchester and New York, 1996), vol. ii, pp. 486–518, 498. 149. Young, Municipal Buildings of Glasgow, pp. 12–18. 150. Treuherz, ‘Ford Madox Brown and the Manchester Murals’, pp. 172–73. 151. Axon, The Town Hall, Manchester, pp. ix–x. 152. Charles Dellheim, ‘Imagining England: Victorian Views of the North’, Northern History 22 (1986), pp. 216–30, 220. 153. Quoted in Readman, ‘Commemorating the Past in Edwardian Hampshire’, p. 105. 154. Morgan, Rebirth of a Nation, pp. 110–11. 155. Times, 14 September 1877. 156. http://www.policyexchange.org.uk/images/libimages/418.PDF (accessed 18 August 2008).

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9 The Nation is a Town: The Netherlands and the Urban Content of the National ‘Imagined Community’ Henk te Velde

Since it was created, the European Union has increasingly determined the politics of the member states. Yet ‘public opinion’ remains an almost exclusively national phenomenon, and Europeans consider themselves as citizens of a national state instead of the Union. Many Europeans still cannot imagine the Union as anything other than a reproduction of their own country on a larger scale.1 Even though the Union has existed for quite some time now, apparently it is still not easy really to imagine politics outside the scope of a national arena. Using the Dutch example, I will argue that the nineteenth century provides a parallel to this situation. At that time, the modern nation-state was a rather recent invention, and most people still pictured national politics as local politics writ large. Their conception of citizenship was in fact derived from their idea of local citizenship. If the nation was an abstract ‘imagined community’, the content of that image was provided by the very concrete local community.2 People ‘imagined’ the nation based on the concrete experience of the urban community they participated in on a daily basis. It is therefore a pity that classic literature about nationalism does not pay much attention to the local urban context in which much modern nationalism developed. It is a pity not because local identities differed from or were opposed to national identity, but because the image of the nation was filled with elements derived from the local context. Even those who were ‘nationalists’ or had a ‘national consciousness’ at least partly derived their image of the nation from the locality they lived in. And even if their nationalism was ‘modern’ in the sense that the nation belongs to modernity, their image of the nation might 234

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be traditional, in the sense that they imagined the nation as if it was a large version of the local town they inhabited. Literature about Dutch nationalism does not say much about the local context either. As in other countries, there was an upsurge of studies of nationalism from the 1980s onwards. In 1987, the Dutch historian Hans Blom wrote a historiographical essay about political history of the Netherlands in the nineteenth century. He could then still say that there were hardly any modern studies about the nationalism of the period,3 but by that time historians were already at work. They started with a historicization of nineteenth-century historical writing. Dutch historians had built up their profession by concentrating on the national aspects of the history of their country – the Dutch Revolt of the sixteenth century was anachronistically presented as a nationalist project – and they also actively contributed to the nationalist movement of their own days at the end of the nineteenth century.4 In the 1980s, Niek van Sas, among others, argued that a study of modern nationalism should not concentrate on the Dutch Republic, but rather on the ‘long’ nineteenth century. The period around 1800 had until then been largely overlooked because national history had reached rock bottom then – or so most people thought because the Dutch Republic disappeared, the economy was in decline, and for a couple of years the Dutch even became part of the Napoleonic Empire. Now it turned out that it was a period of feverish nationalism in which the modern unitary national state was really founded.5 The end of the nineteenth century was the second period that was reassessed. Nobody had ever doubted that this was a time of modernization, imperialism and the advent of mass democracy. But its intense nationalism now became the subject of scholarly research.6 These new studies used approaches that were popular in international literature, such as invention of tradition and a new interest in newspapers and public opinion, and they also paid attention to other cultural aspects and mentalities. The predominant perspective of these years was modernization, and, inspired by Eugen Weber’s seminal Peasants into Frenchmen, Hans Knippenberg and Ben de Pater, two Dutch historical geographers, published a book about the ‘unification’ of the Netherlands, a title which referred to the process of national geographical and mental integration caused by such developments as the building of the railway system, the growth of the cities and the emergence of national political societies and parties.7 Just like Weber they concentrated on the disappearance of local differences. In the meantime studies of the history of Dutch cities and

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towns mostly used quantitative methods, and even if they said something about cultural history, they hardly touched upon the matters that are at stake in this book and this chapter, at least until recently.8

Imagined communities, newspapers and towns To a large extent modern nationalism has been an urban phenomenon. The facilities for publicity in the shape of newspapers and other means of communication, for mass meetings and for institutions such as societies, have been mainly available in the cities and towns. The general literature about nationalism does not pay sufficient attention to this background.9 The three most inspiring modern classics about nationalism, by Ernest Gellner, Benedict Anderson and Eric Hobsbawm, differ in many respects, but they have in common the fact that they present the nation as a modern invention and perhaps as the instrument of modernization par excellence.10 These authors were less interested in historical differences between concrete national communities than in the general effects the ‘nationalization’ of societies had – Gellner being the most obvious case in point. They shifted the focus of attention from nationalist ideas to the practices and social effects of modern nationalism, but they did not say much about the locus of these practices (probably because this was not crucial to their own purposes). To convey their argument, both Anderson and Hobsbawm give a lot of examples, but they hardly localize the practices they describe. The national question is, according to Hobsbawm, ‘situated at the point of intersection of politics, technology and social transformation’, but in terms of geography this intersection remains a metaphor.11 Of course, the societal background of nationalism figures prominently in the work of this excellent social historian, but the local context is not very important in his book. Perhaps this is because the point of Hobsbawm, Gellner and Anderson is exactly that the nation is an image. This image is connected to national institutions that have concrete effects, but as such it is an abstraction, something you cannot ‘see’, or, in the famous phrase coined by Anderson, an ‘imagined community’. Let me offer the example of Dutch newspapers. According to Anderson, one of the most important instruments in creating the imagined community of the nation is the modern newspaper. The reader consumes his daily every morning or even twice a day, alone and in silence, but he ‘is well aware that the ceremony he performs is being replicated simultaneously by thousands (or millions) of others’. ‘What more vivid figure for the secular, historically clocked, imagined

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community can be envisioned?’, Anderson asks.12 It is indeed a powerful image (even if we know that much nineteenth-century reading was not a solitary business13 ), but the assumption that newspapers foster a national imagined community is not self-evident. It is true that the early newspapers did not say much about local affairs: anyone who wanted to know what was happening in his town went to the market place. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth century newspapers could not compete with the speed of local gossip in face-to-face communities and concentrated on news from far away and abroad instead.14 But they were published in a local context such as Rotterdam, Amsterdam or Arnhem, as was indicated by their names: the Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant (1844), which still exists having merged with the Algemeen Handelsblad (nieuwe Amsterdamsche Courant) (1828), and the then wellknown Arnhemsche Courant (1814). These were newspapers with liberal views and to a large extent a national readership but their local basis was obvious. This was even more true for local newspapers such as the Groninger Courant or the Middelburgsche Courant, both from the northeastern and south-western fringe of the country, respectively: the capital of the province of Groningen and the capital of the province of Zeeland (Middelburg). Even if these local newspapers all advocated the importance of the national community – as the Leeuwarder Courant already did in the late eighteenth century, by for instance paying a lot of attention to the lives of the members of the Orange family15 – they still also contributed to the development of a local imagined community. Only at the end of the nineteenth century did neutral names such as Telegraaf or Nieuws van den Dag become common. It could be argued that it was only then that the local basis of national newspapers began to lose its importance, in particular for the new newspapers directly connected (instead of loosely affiliated) with political parties, of which the orthodox Protestant Standaard (1872) was the first. The editor of the newspaper, Abraham Kuyper, was also the most important political leader of his period. When he said (in 1897) that the reader of a newspaper knows that at the same time in the morning or evening thousands of people in the same ‘fatherland’ were reading the same texts producing the same emotions and convictions, he already seemed to have read Anderson.16 The ‘imagined community’ he was referring to was primarily his own politico-religious group, but this group was organized on a national basis. From the 1870s onwards, a new situation emerged. The relationship between towns and cities on the one hand and the nation at large on the other changed. At the end of the nineteenth century, the conditions of

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modern mass society began to appear in the Netherlands. If you look at it closely, however, both before the 1870s and after that time, the town or city was the community people had in mind when they talked about the nation: first the small town with its social control that still existed throughout most of the nineteenth century, then the more anonymous big city of the twentieth century.

The towns and the Dutch Republic A comparable picture could be painted for a number of European countries. However, in the Dutch case there is an additional, historical reason to highlight the towns in the story of nationalism. The Dutch state that came into existence in the sixteenth century was an odd sort of federation. It consisted of seven sovereign provinces that formed a union dominated by the largest and richest one by far, the province of Holland, that is, the western part of the current Netherlands. For its part Holland was dominated by the largest and richest city by far, Amsterdam. From the late seventeenth to the beginning of the nineteenth century, it had around 200,000 inhabitants, while the republic as a whole had between 1.5 and 2.5 million. The next largest city, Leiden, had only 70,000 inhabitants. Although decisions could only be reached unanimously in the Dutch Republic, in practice Amsterdam had a very large finger in the pie and the Netherlands could to a certain extent be pictured as a kind of extended city-state. What’s more, the province of Holland in particular was already urbanized to an unusual degree, and cities and towns dominated the politics and economy of the Dutch Republic. To a certain extent they had a sense of ‘Dutchness’ in common that could be called upon strategically,17 but patriotic loyalty was divided between the ‘country’, the province and the town, and the town was not the least important of the three. It was also the most tangible community. It was not difficult to ‘imagine’ the urban community. The towns were surrounded by walls and until the early nineteenth century the town gates closed at night and almost literally sealed off the urban community from the outside world. ‘Citizenship’ was also confined to the towns: it was local, exclusive and covered a wide range of social activities.18 The same was true for civil society in general. The Netherlands had a powerful civil society already at the end of the Middle Ages and in the early modern period,19 but most of it – the only conspicuous exception being the Calvinist Church (the republic did not have a state church) – was organized on the local level.

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Like the German Bürger the Dutch word burger has multiple meanings: bourgeois and citizen in the modern sense, and also burgher with citizen rights in an early modern town. Citizenship in the modern sense – that is, national yet really inclusive only in a legal and political sense – only really emerged at the end of the eighteenth century when the Dutch Republic disappeared in the wake of the French Revolution. The Dutch ‘Patriotic Revolution’ of the 1780s had been – as it were – a prefiguration of the French Revolution, with people demanding democratic rights, but even this revolution still took place in the local context. The revolution prevailed in the city of Utrecht, but it stopped at the town gates; in a decentralized country such as the republic, revolution was a local affair.20 Some parts of the republic sympathized with the ‘Patriots’, others remained loyal to the Orange Party. The republic was a patchwork of towns and regions with hardly any centralization at all. The Patriotic Revolution was crushed in 1787. Not until the French revolutionary armies conquered the republic in 1795 did a unitary national state come into existence. Although all kinds of political changes followed, the idea and practice of the unitary state have remained the basis of Dutch politics ever since. The new unitary state also had a modern parliament which replaced the early modern States-General of the republic. The representatives, who were elected in constituencies, were supposed to represent the country as a whole, not (only) their own constituency, whereas the States-General had consisted of representatives of the independent provinces who held an imperative mandate, just as the provincial estates contained representatives of the towns who also had to do what their masters told them to. The political order consisted of three levels: national, provincial and local government. Partly in order to prevent the old provincial loyalties from hindering the new unitary state, the provincial level of government remained the least powerful and least visible of the three. Moreover, the organization of the state was top-down. Although a parliament with two chambers already existed, during the first half of the nineteenth century the King remained the single most powerful factor in politics. Whereas the burgomasters of Amsterdam had considered themselves almost as princes of the republic whose power could rival that of the Prince of Orange, now the King appointed the burgomasters of the city (as well as those of other cities and towns, a situation that has remained in existence ever since). Symbolically, the change in the balance of power was demonstrated by the metamorphosis of the Amsterdam town hall into a royal palace. When Louis Napoleon had become King of the Netherlands in 1806,

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he had confiscated the town hall at the central place in the city (the ‘Dam’) and added a balcony in order to wave at his people in the most important city of the country (then, after London and Paris, probably the biggest city of Europe). Curiously, the town hall has remained a royal palace ever since. In 1851, the legal reduction of the towns was completed. Until then they had still retained a separate statutory position, but now Amsterdam and the other cities and towns were merged into one category with villages and rural communities in a new local government act. In the meantime civil society had also changed. From the late eighteenth century onwards, national organizations began to appear, with meetings of a national board and with national annual reports. These organizations stimulated a national orientation of the people at large, but they did not as yet change the social reality their members lived in, which was mainly local. In fact, a national organization such as the Society for the Common Good (Maatschappij tot Nut van ‘t Algemeen, founded in 1784) was based on branches with a firm local footing.21

Decentralized nationalism Cities and towns were now just subordinate parts of a national unitary state. In nationalist celebrations there seemed to be a harmonious hierarchical scale running from the local to the national level. Nineteenth-century nationalism cherished the Golden Age of the seventeenth century and this nationalism had strong local overtones: the celebration of the ‘Relief’ of Leiden in the Dutch Revolt was a national but also a local matter, and the same held true for many of the ‘heroic’ moments in the Dutch past. In most cases statues for national heroes from the seventeenth century were put up in the town they had been born or living in: for the national poet Jacob Cats this was the small town of Brouwershaven (a statue was put up in 1829); for the painter Rembrandt and the poet Vondel this was Amsterdam (1852 and 1867, respectively); for Rembrandt’s colleague Frans Hals the provincial capital Haarlem (1899); for the colonial hero Jan Pietersz Coen this was the sleepy small town of Hoorn (1887).22 In this way local patriotism did not compete with Dutch nationalism, but contributed to it. National commemorations also focused on the towns where the memorable events had happened: the first battle of the Dutch Revolt in Heiligerlee/Winschoten in the north-eastern province of Groningen in 1868 (a statue was put up in 1873); the taking of the small town of Den Briel in the south-western part of the province of Holland in 1572; the

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commemoration of William of Orange in the town of Delft where his court had been and his monumental tomb was. The lack of rivalry between local and national patriotism had something to do with the parallel between the historical and actual relevance of the regions involved. Most ‘canonical’ events had happened in the western part of the country where most celebrations took place, and which remained the most important part of the country. Also, nationalist celebrations were not really ‘centralized’. For instance, the commemoration of Den Briel in 1872 in fact consisted of a large number of local commemorations and individual celebrations in many different towns.23 This pattern was replicated when ‘Queensday’, a new national holiday, was introduced in the 1890s.24 Though the organizers had introduced the holiday as a means to further national integration, the organization of the day was nevertheless in the hands of local committees. The holiday had a strong local flavour; there was not just one big celebration in a large city. In theory the liberal governments of the period did not want to interfere with private enterprise, in practice they encouraged nationalist initiatives but they did not often organize them themselves. Although the Dutch state of the nineteenth century was firmly centralized politically and although the new railway system (which developed rather late and only was near completion in the late 1860s) was increasingly turning the country into an integrated whole, nationalism still had a strong local basis. Formally, the country did not even have a capital. When the new kingdom was founded in 1813–14, Amsterdam was at first designated as such, but a year later, when Belgium joined the United Kingdom (1815–30), the line in the constitution about this subject was dropped in order to avoid conflicts with Brussels. Not until the 1930s did Amsterdam officially become the national capital. Although nobody doubted that Amsterdam was the main city, this formal uncertainty reflected the somewhat insecure position of the biggest city of the Netherlands. From the eighteenth until the middle of the nineteenth century Amsterdam was a city in decline. The number of inhabitants only started to grow again at the end of this period. By the eighteenth century, it had already lost its paramount international position in economy and finance, and in the nineteenth century, it began to feel the competition of cities such as Rotterdam and The Hague that remained smaller but grew at a faster pace. In the second half of the nineteenth century the signs of a new division of labour began to appear: Rotterdam became the most important seaport and economic power, The Hague the city of administration and government, Amsterdam the city of culture

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and popular politics.25 The Netherlands has retained the curious combination of Amsterdam as capital and The Hague as the royal residence and the locus of government, ministries and parliament. Rotterdam and The Hague only became serious competitors to Amsterdam at the end of the period under investigation here. In the middle of the nineteenth century, Dutch towns and cities still retained much of the atmosphere of the seventeenth century. In 1940, Johan Huizinga, the historian, looked back with nostalgia to the time before the end of the nineteenth century when not only small towns but also Amsterdam still had that atmosphere, and people still lived in the smalltown world of the seventeenth century.26 The towns had not grown very fast, and often even had declined after the Golden Age, and they were still confined within their old walls. Even if the separation between town and country was not as clear-cut as these walls would suggest – within them there used to be meadows, and there were houses on the other side of the walls – they still separated the local community from the outside world, symbolically and materially. Even in cities such as Amsterdam where the walls had lost all their previous military value, it took a long time before they were finally torn down completely. Only after a new law on the defence of the country was introduced in 1874 were all walls surrounding old fortified towns replaced by parks, villas and public utilities such as hospitals. This moment marked the symbolic and material divide between the early modern and the really modern town. Before that time the town stood for community in general, be it national, political or social. The town was the real community people experienced and consequently the most obvious imagined community. It could be argued that people do not often fantasize without examples but form a picture of an imagined community according to the real communities they know. Even the inhabitants of the rather big city of Amsterdam did not live in an anonymous world, not before the 1870s at least. Amsterdam was an archipelago of boroughs, districts and neighbourhoods, often separated from each other by rivers and canals. Most ordinary people hardly left their neighbourhood, if only because the means of transportation were absent, slow or too expensive. Most other towns were rather small because they were densely populated, with many people living in a few square kilometres. The small scale of public life affected conceptions of politics and the nation. Liberalism set the tone of Dutch public life in the third quarter of the nineteenth century. However, this was not the individualist liberalism of an anonymous mass society, but rather a moral liberalism which advocated a communitarian conception of ‘responsible freedom’

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that fitted into a small town. In this context a liberal force such as ‘public opinion’ allegedly had a good effect, just because it was guided by the pressure of social control. In the words of the British contemporary John Stuart Mill: ‘It is in a small society, where everybody knows everybody, that public opinion, so far as well directed, exercises its most salutary influence. Take the case of a tradesman in a small country town: to every one of his customers he is long and accurately known; their opinion of him has been formed after repeated trials; if he could deceive them once, he cannot hope to go on deceiving them in the quality of his goods; he has no other customers to look for if he loses these, while, if his goods are really what they profess to be, he may hope, among so few competitors, that this also will be known and recognized, and that he will acquire the character, individually and professionally, which his conduct entitles him to. Far different is the case of a man setting up his business in the crowded streets of a great city.’27 Mill spelled out the consequences of the small-town atmosphere. More often than not this remained implicit. In the Netherlands it was just the world as the contemporaries knew it. This environment coloured their national sentiments. In a sense the Dutch Golden Age was a world the Dutch had lost, because the Netherlands used to be a world power and was just a small country among other small countries now. On the other hand, the built-up environment had not changed radically since and the small-town atmosphere was still there. Often the attitude of liberal and/or Protestant poets and intellectuals, who wrote history or critical patriotic verses, was still the attitude of (early modern) burghers. The patriotism of the liberal poet Everhardus Johannes Potgieter, for instance, was coloured by the city of Amsterdam he inhabited.28 His liberalism was a kind of modernism in a still largely early modern atmosphere. At first glance his patriotism seems clearly of the national kind. He wrote about national themes and he and his political friends had a clear picture of national identity and national traditions. He deemed the national context superior to the local, but the values he cherished were the values Mill attached to the small country town, and the national community he had in mind had the tangibility of a town. This remained an implicit quality. The spatial dimension of the nation did not present itself as a problem. The Dutch elite filled, as it were, the rather abstract, legal and political idea of national citizenship with the images the local situation provided.29 And although images of Dutch landscape were often about sea, dunes and so on, the image of citizenship virtually excluded the countryside and was confined to the context of the town. The national

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citizen was implicitly pictured as a member of an urban community. The liberal cultural historian and intellectual Bakhuizen van den Brink recommended Amsterdam to the literary authors of his time as a worthy scene for their stories. Amsterdam was now part of the national state, and while he did not want to revive local particularism, he believed that its old and magnificent history could now function as the lively background to the history of the bourgeoisie, the most important part of the nation. How would it be possible to give a better impression of the bustling energy, political conflicts and liberty of the Dutch Republic, than by studying Amsterdam where this could all be found ‘confined within a small area’ (‘binnen eene kleine ruimte beperkt’)?30 In this context nationalism was not necessarily a phenomenon of masses and crowds. National celebrations could sometimes be confined to formal dinners for an elite audience which had to pay much more than workers could afford.31 The common people were often primarily regarded as a passive audience, although the attendance of the lower classes increasingly became a priority of the bourgeois organizers and things started to change.32 Often the national imagined community still did not work as it later would. When in 1849 a new King was crowned in Amsterdam after the old King had died rather suddenly, people in the outer provinces did not hear about it until a number of days after the event. They had not been able to participate in the celebrations even in their minds. Although in theory a national event, in practice the coronation had been a local affair. To a certain extent this had been different in 1814, when King William I of the new United Kingdom of the Netherlands was crowned in Amsterdam. The dates of the celebration were known a long time before it took place and for the occasion Amsterdam seems to have hosted up to three times its normal population.33 In addition, an invited crowd of 2,000 notables attended the coronation of the King which took place in the Nieuwe Kerk (to this day still the church where royal ceremonies are carried out). The city was full of triumphal arches and other decorations and a big display of fireworks was presented to the population of Amsterdam. In a way the celebrations served to present Amsterdam as the capital of the new kingdom. In the course of the nineteenth century many national celebrations became a combination of local celebrations, not only Den Briel in 1872 and Queensday, but also the celebration of the 25-year jubilee of King William III in 1874, and in particular the coronation of the young Queen Wilhelmina in 1898. This event was probably the most ‘national’ celebration of the nineteenth century.34 Although the official part of

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the celebration was organized in Amsterdam, the Queen also went to The Hague, and in almost every city, town and village, celebrations were organized. Since the abolition of the duty on newspapers in the early 1870s their readership had grown quickly and most newspapers presented special issues on the occasion of the celebration. Although the festivities still took place in a local context, the national imagined community had decidedly changed. The nation had really become a supra-local entity. As I have argued, it is doubtful whether this was already the case around the middle of the nineteenth century. Even the elite, who participated in a national culture of newspapers, magazines, societies, universities and politics, still conjured up an image of a town when they tried to imagine the nation. For the rest of the population, the nation was mostly an abstraction that only became concrete on specific occasions, often connected with the royal Orange family and/or the church. They had no access to national politics. What good did the fatherland do to the common people, a left liberal critic asked in 1891, and what could it mean to them? Small wonder, he wrote, that most of them did not know much about the nation, except the Calvinist Church, the Orange family and their hometown.35 Until the 1880s and 1890s, the suffrage was limited to a small elite, and elections had nothing of the British experience of the hustings. Noisy public meetings did not exist in the Netherlands. In 1877, it could still be said that ‘an inhabitant of our cold and reasoning country with a red flag in his hand would be almost quite as odd as an inhabitant of the tropics on ice skates’ (the Dutch national pastime, of course).36 Almost the only way the ‘common people’ could express their opinions was by petitioning, a means they sometimes used successfully when religious issues were at stake. In 1853, a ‘No Popery’ agitation combined national petitions by orthodox Protestant ministers with the boycotting of shops and people in the local context of cities such as Amsterdam and conservative Utrecht.37 The town was the political battlefield for the common people. Formally, most people did not have a say in local politics either, but in local politics they knew how to voice their discontent. They used the means of the traditional repertoire of collective action, in the words of Charles Tilly. They assembled in the local marketplace, and smashed the windows of the mayor or other notables; in short, they preferred direct action to the more symbolic indirect means of the modern repertoire of protest, such as demonstrations.38 In most cases they also addressed their discontent to the local instead of the national authorities (the one

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exception being the King, the only national authority whose importance everybody was aware of). This type of politics was more effective during the republic when politics in general were mainly local politics; the beginning of the nineteenth century in particular was a curiously quiet period in terms of politics. The national mobilization of people without the vote did not start until the 1870s. Religion or the monarchy could arouse emotions, but the national community was not a thing most people cared about a lot. At least, they scarcely pictured themselves as members of a Dutch national community. That is why early socialists hardly addressed national politics, but turned to the local authorities instead, even if they wanted to petition. They felt citizens of their town in the first place.39

The anonymous city and the new nation Many things changed in the second half of the nineteenth century. In the 1860s, the railway system was extended and cities began to grow at a quicker pace. The changes in society that produced these new movements were most visible in the big cities. Already in the 1850s medical doctors who were concerned about public health started to advocate government measures to improve the condition of people living in the slums.40 The (Liberal) national government left this type of action to private initiative, but local authorities were confronted much more directly with the problems. Starting in the 1880s this resulted in the installation of sewers and water, and later also gas and electricity in the big cities. In the short run, the pragmatic Social Liberals who first introduced these improvements dominated local politics, in particular in Amsterdam. It seemed to be the introduction of a new type of local community, based on social politics and pragmatic administration. In the long run, however, this type of politics depended on the national government, and stimulated a national orientation in politics.41 In the 1870s and 1880s, new groups began to organize on a national level, at first in a rather loose way. In the 1860s, inspired by German and Anglo-American examples, orthodox Protestants started to come together one day each year in the meadows of a rich landowner, in order to sing and pray. This was an occasion to experience a national community: ‘A wonderful sense of community, as if we are all brothers and sisters.’ Often this community remained mere ‘theory’, but now this was something ‘vivid and real’.42 The railway system allowed them to do this just for a day, and special trains would bring the Calvinists to their destination, each year different, but always the rural estate of some

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aristocrat not far away from a railway station. In the 1880s, the early socialist association Sociaal-Democratische Bond copied these gatherings and organized national meetings where the members of the, still largely independent, local branches could meet. They once even used almost the same meadows as the orthodox Protestants had done, near The Hague, although they cursed the aristocrats the Protestants were proud to be able to present as their supporters.43 The imagined national community now really meant something to people for whom it had until then been an article in a newspaper at most. Besides the No Popery agitation of 1853, national politics had until then been the field of government, parliamentary politics and a few single-issue movements. Now orthodox Protestants (Anti-Revolutionary Party, 1879) and socialists (Sociaal-Democratische Bond, 1882) organized on a permanent basis and publicly and noisily manifested their opinions. Both new political groups were most visible in Amsterdam and their actions still had local overtones, but something had changed. Now even common members of both groups had national, perhaps even international ambitions. They felt part of a supra-local, national community. This community was no longer pictured as an enlarged (early modern) town, but it was symbolized by and also experienced in their mass meetings, the readership of their newspapers and the national party gatherings. This community still showed some similarities to local situations, but in this case not to the small scale of the older, early modern towns, but to more anonymous modern cities. In the last decades of the nineteenth century cities such as Amsterdam and – to a certain extent – The Hague, changed from an archipelago of neighbourhoods into a connected city: new large streets were laid that broke through old neighbourhoods and bridged old canals, and many canals were filled in.44 This did not mean the end of all intimacy, of course, but for the first time the experience of anonymity became a part of daily life in the large cities of the Netherlands. A new and much more anonymous world of uniform working-class districts, large central buildings, huge public spaces, cafes, bars and shopping malls came into existence. A modern artist such as the avant-garde writer Willem Kloos was enthusiastic about the rather nondescript new district in Amsterdam he was living in: he could walk about as he liked and nobody cared, he wrote in the early 1880s.45 Until the middle of the nineteenth century, Amsterdam had hardly known any really large buildings, besides churches and the town hall (or royal palace). In the early 1860s, the huge exhibition hall Paleis voor Volksvlijt was built after the example of Crystal Palace in London, and in the 1880s

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Amsterdam got its new Rijksmuseum and central railway station. Until the 1840s, the open waterfront had given the ‘Dam’ – still the central square today – rather the character of a large quay than a plaza, and only the new railway station really cut the centre of Amsterdam off from the docklands. It is no coincidence that many national developments of the end of the nineteenth century found their first expression in Amsterdam or even originated there: new political and social movements, a new literary movement, a new type of local politics and modern city life, a new type of mass ‘Orangism’ or monarchism. People who wanted to experience modern society went to Amsterdam, in particular if they wanted to watch a crowd. In 1883, a world fair drew 1.5 million visitors and symbolized the new self-confidence of the city.46 The orthodox Protestants met in their revival-like annual mission festivals and the socialists also met near The Hague and later in the meadows of Friesland. The Mayday meeting of 1890 in Friesland even allegedly converted their later leader Troelstra to socialism. Troelstra started his life as a poet, publishing his poetry in the regional Frisian language, but now he switched to Dutch and to the national political scene: ‘The impression of this meeting was overwhelming. I can still see among the thousands of Friesian workers the thousand people from Amsterdam, and I can still hear their singing, the songs of the old Sociaal-Democratische Bond, that testified to the new faith that inspired them.’47 But in order really to experience anonymous masses one had to go to Amsterdam. Visitors from other parts of the country had always been struck by the hustle and bustle of the crowds in the Dam Square, but in the course of the nineteenth century the appearance of the crowds changed. In 1848, the square was the scene of the so-called Dam Rising. This was a riot of the early modern kind, directed against the town authorities. But by 1886 the Palingoproer – or ‘eel riots’ – showed that something had completely changed. The riots were a response to the authorities’ attempt to ‘civilize’ the working classes by banning the popular amusement of pulling eels from a rope tightened across a canal. This ‘sport’ took place in the Jordaan, the most populous working class district, which was located near the centre of Amsterdam, and was now more easily reached than before as some of the canals had been filled in. In 1876, the prohibition of the rather vulgar but popular kermess, or festival, had already caused riots, but these had hardly been political. Even if in 1886 the riots were still largely without political motivation, the socialists were now involved. Imitating the Paris Commune, they

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and others built barricades, and something resembling a class war was fought along the narrow canals of the Jordaan with tens of people left dead in the streets.48 Of course, it was not a coincidence that Amsterdam was a city of revolutionary socialism. The tensions caused by the modernization of Amsterdam had, as it were, provoked the riots. The riots as such were not a sign of a new national orientation, though. They were clearly still part of what would later be called the ‘old movement’ of socialism, which was more local and more supranational than national. But in a couple of years the ‘modern movement’ would appear, with a disciplined national organization and modern trade unions. For them, the local situation was much less important, and they increasingly paid lip service to the international movement. The national scene was becoming the most important focus of the movement, and the modern movement consequently concentrated on national politics. The introduction of both general suffrage and proportional representation (instead of constituencies) in 1917 could be seen as a sort of conclusion to this development. However, this came at a price. The malaise of the Social Democratic Party of the 1920s had something to do with the loss of the local impetus.49 By becoming more national, the movement threatened to become more abstract and less an important part of ordinary’s people’s lives. It took some time before national organizations, such as youth movements, could fill this void. Their socialism – although not necessarily nationalist – was decidedly national in the sense of supra-local. In 1887, a year after the Palingoproer, King William III turned seventy. The mayor of Amsterdam seized the opportunity and asked the local ‘society for the refinement of popular amusements’ to organize popular celebrations. It was a huge success, and was accompanied by a lot of celebrations in the Jordaan. This was a stronghold of socialism and of popular Orangism, and probably there were also some people who just liked the amusement and participated in both riots and celebrations. The same society started to organize Queensday.50 At the national level, socialism and Orangism were ideological competitors; at the local level in Amsterdam, it was an actual physical competition between the two. On the occasion of monarchical celebrations Orangists often beat up socialists – these occasions were called ‘Oranjefuries’.51 The competition was heaviest when both Orangists and socialists were rather undisciplined social movements. The feud died down when the socialist movement turned into an organized modern political party. But until that time, both socialists and Orangists both still used the repertoire of direct action, albeit in the service of a supra-local ideology. There was

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also a direct relationship between this process and the change from the local to the national level. Locally based movements tended to concentrate on direct (local) action, national parties or movements acted more symbolically and with more discipline.

Contesting the urban public space Amsterdam was the capital, The Hague the city of court and government. The social elite of The Hague partly coincided with the national elite, and elite clubs in The Hague were important national and political meeting points.52 The Hague was also the scene of many nationalist and other national manifestations. Often the two cities were joined together in a common celebration, for instance when, in 1898, the young Queen Wilhelmina’s assumption of power was first celebrated in Amsterdam and then in The Hague, the royal seat. People who wanted to court publicity were well advised to visit both cities, as did, for instance, the South-African Boer president Paul Kruger in 1884 as well as 1900. The South-African Boers, who were partly from Dutch descent, attracted a lot of nationalist sympathy when they fought the British in two wars around 1880 and 1900. Arguably, this was the first time that a massive, populist nationalism appeared in the Netherlands, which also led to mass demonstrations. In both 1884 and 1900, Kruger stayed in the hotel Des Indes in the centre of The Hague and appeared on the balcony to greet the many people who came to pay him tribute.53 In 1900, newspapers even announced that he would show himself there between three and four pm. This was during the second Boer War, when he was at the pinnacle of his popularity; the station at The Hague resounded with the psalms that the fishermen and farmers from surrounding villages (all fellow orthodox Protestants) were singing when he arrived.54 Kruger came to The Hague in order to talk to the foreign secretary and other politicians, but he also visited Amsterdam, where he repeated his success of 1884 when he had been received at the new Amsterdam Central Station by people singing patriotic songs. His ride by carriage through the city had also been cheered by thousands.55 The 1880s were also a time for other national (but not nationalist) manifestations. In 1885, at the beginning of the session of parliament socialists organized a large demonstration for general suffrage in The Hague. Two days before, the 10,000 participants from Amsterdam had already held a procession in the capital; their songs had rung out in the streets and canals of the city.56 In The Hague the workers did not get permission to use the Malieveld, a large green close to the centre of the city

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that is still used for demonstrations today, and had to conclude their procession in a hall instead. When they crossed the city the demonstration nevertheless attracted a lot of attention from the public. The participants declared that they were the real ‘National Assembly’, parliament being just a bourgeois club. This was an indication that socialists were now trying to appropriate the nation for their own purposes.57 But this was another nation than the nation of the nationalists, of course. The socialist nation was primarily a scene or theatre of political action. Nevertheless, memories were now also attached to national instead of local actions;58 the nation became part of the world of the workers, and socialism was connected with national instead of local developments – with huge masses instead of a local neighbourhood. The socialists also fought a battle over the use of urban public space. Amsterdam and The Hague clearly were the biggest prizes and many participants in the demonstration were received in procession at the railway station in their hometowns. In some towns they were less lucky and were met by counter-demonstrations. It was also symbolic that they were refused the use of the Malieveld, for in the coming years this public space would be the theatre of nationalist manifestations. In the 1890s, for example, it was there that Wilhelmina decorated the ‘heroes’ from a petty colonial war in the Dutch Indies that had aroused a lot of national sentiments. The most famous moment occurred much later, in 1918. When it seemed that socialists, inspired by what happened in Germany, were about to stage a revolution, the religious parties organized an enormous meeting at the Malieveld in support of the monarchy. When the Queen arrived, she was cheered loudly; the horses of her carriage were unharnessed, and the crowd pulled it instead.59 The event made a lasting impression and seemed to turn the Malieveld into a symbol of royalism. As late as 1984, an architect proposed to turn the green into a monument for Wilhelmina, but meanwhile it had in fact largely been taken over by socialist and other demonstrators – and the green was also still used for the kermess and other social events as always had been the case. However, the main reason why the event was remembered was that it had so clearly showed the massive scale of modern nationalism. This was the image of the modern nation: people who had come from the farthest corners of the country in order to cheer the Queen and to be together in a large, disciplined and anonymous mass in the centre of a big city. An equerry had never seen anything resembling this event. The immense green was completely packed, and the royal carriage had to move very slowly through ‘the jostling crowd in this endless sea of people’.60 The Queen was ‘overjoyed’. A member of

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the cabinet wrote in his diary that he would always remember that day. It was almost impossible to reach the Malieveld. ‘What a sea of people! What enthusiasm! I have never seen anything like it.’61

Conclusion The meeting at the Malieveld in 1918 was a spectacular example of the new meaning the nation had acquired in the previous decades. The changing image of the nation had followed three stages. First, during the republic, the ‘country’ was, besides the province and the town, just one of the entities that could claim patriotic loyalty. Then, from around 1800 the country was proclaimed to be the most important by far, but for most people it remained an abstraction that had not much relevance for their daily life. Even those who were involved in national politics and other national affairs – mostly the elite – imagined the nation according to the town, the local context they lived in. The nation was then in the situation the European Union is in now: sometimes visible, often important in politics, but not experienced as part of the life of the citizen. Only at the end of the nineteenth century did this situation change. In this third phase national politics began to matter to all citizens, and from 1919 all adult citizens had the vote. Moreover, they no longer experienced the nation as a traditional town writ large, and new elements began to suffuse their images, such as mass meetings, impersonal city traffic and anonymous housing estates. Civil society also changed, joining national organizations with national targets became normal now, even though many kinds of local societies did continue to exist. This was a gradual development, and elements of the older situation continued, but only now did ‘banal nationalism’ really become part of the lives of most Dutch citizens.62 Whereas until the 1870s the image of the nation had been connected with historic memories of the Golden Age, and had been implicitly situated within the walls of an early modern town, the modern nation conjured up the image of an anonymous but disciplined mass. If anything resembled the imagined community of the modern nation in reality, it was the anonymous but well-ordered modern city.

Notes 1. As Paul Scheffer, Een tevreden natie. Nederland en het wederkerend geloof in de Europese status quo (Amsterdam, 1998) argued for the Netherlands. 2. For an investigation of the importance of the local situation for the process of imagining see the contribution of Oliver Zimmer in this volume.

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3. J. C. H. (Hans) Blom, ‘Een “vernieuwde politieke geschiedenis” van de negentiende eeuw in het verschiet’, De Negentiende Eeuw 11 (1987), pp. 55–62, esp. 60–61. 4. Piet B. M. Blaas, ‘The Touchiness of a Small Nation with a Great Past: The Approach of Fruin and Blok to the Writing of the History of the Netherlands’, in A. C. Duke and Coenraad A. Tamse (eds), Clio’s Mirror. Historiography in Britain and the Netherlands (Zutphen, 1985). 5. Nicolaas C. F. van Sas, De metamorfose van Nederland. Van oude orde naar moderniteit 1750–1900 (Amsterdam, 2004) brings together the work of the principal author; in English see Nicolaas C. F. van Sas, ‘The Patriot Revolution: New Perspectives’, in Margaret C. Jacob and Wijnand Mijnhardt (eds), The Dutch Republic in the Eighteenth Century. Decline, Enlightenment and Revolution (Ithaca/London, 1992); cf. Nicolaas C. F. van Sas, ‘Varieties of Dutchness’, in Annemieke Galema, Barbara Henkes and Henk te Velde (eds), Images of the Nation. Different Meanings of Dutchness 1870–1940 (Amsterdam, 1993). A synthesis of the literature on cultural developments can be found in Wijnand Mijnhardt and Joost Kloek, 1800: Blueprints for a Society (London, 2004). 6. Among other things see Maarten Kuitenbrouwer, The Netherlands and the Rise of Modern Imperialism. Colonies and Foreign Policy, 1870–1902 (New York, 1991) – originally in Dutch (1985); Henk te Velde, Gemeenschapszin en plichtsbesef. Liberalisme en nationalisme in Nederland 1870–1918 (Den Haag, 1992); Martin Bossenbroek, Holland op zijn breedst. Indië en Zuid-Afrika in de Nederlandse cultuur omstreeks 1900 (Amsterdam, 1996). 7. Hans Knippenberg and Ben de Pater, De eenwording van Nederland. Schaalvergroting en integratie sinds 1800 (Nijmegen, 1988). 8. Jan Hein Furnée, ‘Naar een integrale geschiedenis van de negentiendeeeuwse stad. Vijftien stadsbiografieën in perspectief’, De NegentiendeEeuw 33 (2009), pp. 96–122, offers a fine historiographical overview. 9. Recently things have began to change, see e.g. Andreas Fahrmeir and H. S. Jones, ‘Space and Belonging in Modern Europe: Citizenship(s) in Localities, Regions, and States’, European Review of History 15 (2008), pp. 243–53. 10. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford, 1983); Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, revised edn (London, 1991); Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780 (Cambridge, 1990). Cf. Anthony D. Smith, Nationalism and Modernism. A Critical Survey of Recent Theories of Nations and Nationalism (London, 1998). 11. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism, p. 10. 12. Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 35. 13. See for the Netherlands e.g. W. van den Berg, ‘1848: B.H. Lulofs publiceert ‘De declamatie; of de kunst van declameren of recitéren. Op gehoorsafstand’, in M. A. Schenkeveld-van der Dussen (ed.), Nederlandse literatuur, een geschiedenis (Groningen 1993), pp. 473–78. 14. For a local Dutch newspaper: Marcel Broersma, Beschaafde vooruitgang. De wereld van de Leeuwarder Courant 1752–2002 (Leeuwarden, 2002), p. 87, who also quotes Daniel Defoe: ‘we read more of our own affairs in the Dutch papers than in any of our own’. 15. Broersma, Leeuwarder Courant, pp. 90–91.

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16. Cf. Henk te Velde, ‘Kappeyne tegen Kuyper of de principes van het politieke spel’, in Henk te Velde and Hans Verhage (eds), De eenheid en de delen. Zuilvorming, onderwijs en natievorming in Nederland 1850–1900 (Amsterdam, 1996), p. 129. See also Kuitenbrouwer, The Netherlands and Modern Imperialism, pp. 51–52. 17. Nineteenth-century essentialist conceptions of an early national identity have been abandoned, but recently a new interest has emerged in the many ways the notion of the fatherland could be used, and the way it developed among other entities of identification. See e.g. Alistair Duke, ‘The Elusive Netherlands. The Question of National Identity in the Early Modern Low Countries on the Eve of the Revolt’, BMGN 119 (2004), pp. 10–38; cf. p. 37. Most recently see Robert Stein and Judith Pollmann (eds), Networks, Regions and Nations. Shaping Identities in the Low Countries, 1300–1650 (Leiden, 2010), esp. the contributions by Duke, ‘In Defence of the Common Fatherland. Patriotism and Liberty in the Low Countries, 1555–1576’ and Pollmann, ‘No Man’s Land. Reinventing Netherlandish Identities, 1585– 1621’, pp. 217–62. For what changed in the eighteenth century see the literature in Note 5. 18. About citizenship e.g. Maarten Prak, ‘Burghers into Citizens. Urban and National Citizenship in the Netherlands during the Revolutionary Era (c. 1800)’, Theory and Society 26 (1997), pp. 403–20, esp. 404. 19. See, most recently, Bas van Bavel, ‘The Medieval Origins of Capitalism in the Netherlands’, and Maarten Prak, ‘The Dutch Republic as a Bourgeois Society’, BMGN The Low Countries Historical Review 125 (2010), pp. 45–80, 107–40. 20. See e.g. Van Sas, Metamorfose van Nederland, pp. 252–3. 21. On the society see W. W. Mijnhardt and A. J. Wichers (eds), ‘Om het Algemeen volksgeluk: twee eeuwen particulier initiatief 1784–1984: gedenkboek ter gelegenheid van het tweehonderdjarig bestaan van de Maatschappij tot Nut van ‘t Algemeen’ (Edam, 1984). On Dutch civil society in general, Remieg Aerts, ‘Civil Society or Democracy? A Dutch Paradox’, BMGN The Low Countries Historical Review 125 (2010), pp. 209–37. On the nineteenth-century situation, Maartje Janse, ‘Towards a History of Civil Society’, De Negentiende Eeuw 32 (2008), pp. 104–21. These articles are signs of a new interest in the development of civil society in the Netherlands. 22. Cf. Van Sas, Metamorfose, pp. 577–79. 23. Cf. Frans Groot, ‘De strijd rond Alva’s bril. Papen en geuzen bij de herdenking van de inname van Den Briel, 1572–1872’, BMGN 110(1995), pp. 161–81; Frans Groot, ‘Papists and Beggars. National Festivals and Nation Building in the Netherlands during the 19th Century’, in Peter van der Veer and Hartmut Lehmann (eds), Nation and Religion. Perspectives on Europe and Asia (Princeton, 1999), pp. 161–77. Because a Catholic–Protestant controversy was involved in the celebration, it led to serious scuffles in some religiously mixed towns. 24. Te Velde, Gemeenschapszin en plichtsbesef, pp. 123–34. 25. See e.g. Michiel Wagenaar and Rob van Engelsdorp Gastelaars, ‘Het ontstaan van de Randstad, 1815–1930’, Geografisch Tijdschrift 20 (1986), pp. 14–29; Rob van Engelsdorp Gastelaars, ‘Verstedelijking in Nederland tussen 1800 en 1940’, in Ed Taverne and Irmin Visser (eds), Stedebouw. De geschiedenis van de stad in de Nederlanden van 1500 tot heden (Nijmegen, 1993).

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26. Johan Huizinga, Nederland’s beschaving in de 17e eeuw (1st edn 1941; Groningem, 1984) pp. 46–47, 136–37. 27. His ‘On Civilization’ (1836), quoted by Eugenio Biagini, ‘Liberalism and Direct Democracy: John Stuart Model and the Model of Ancient Athens’, in Eugenio Biagini (ed.), Citizenship and Community. Liberals, Radicals and Collective Identities in the British Isles, 1865–1931(Cambridge, 1996), p. 29. 28. Cf. Lodewijk van Deyssel, De wereld van mijn vader (1st edn 1893; Amsterdam, 1986) pp. 184, 195, and Henk te Velde, ‘Liberalism and Bourgeois Culture in the Netherlands, from the 1840s to the 1880s’, in Simon Groenveld and Michael Wintle (eds), Under the Sign of Liberalism. Varieties of Liberalism in Past and Present (Zutphen, 1997), pp. 62–77. 29. Prak, ‘Burghers into Citizens’. 30. Reinier Cornelis Bakhuizen van den Brink, ‘Vondel met roskam en rommelpot’, in R.C. Bakhuizen van den Brink (ed.), Studiën en schetsen over vaderlandsche geschiedenis en letteren (Den Haag, 1870), esp. pp. 1–15. 31. Te Velde, Gemeenschapszin, pp. 54–55, 130–31. 32. Jan van Miert, Wars van clubgeest en partijzucht. Liberalen, natie en verzuiling. Tiel en Winschoten 1850–1920 (Amsterdam, 1994), pp. 91–97. 33. Remieg Aerts and Piet de Rooy, Hoofdstad in aanbouw 1813–1900. Geschiedenis van Amsterdam III (Amsterdam, 2006), pp. 46–48. 34. Dirk Hendrik Couvée, Leve de Willemien! Het jaar 1898 van Wilhelmina’s inhuldiging opnieuw beleefd (Den Haag, 1958); Jan Bank and Maarten van Buuren, 1900. The Age of Bourgeois Culture (Assen, 2004), ch. 1; Te Velde, Gemeenschapszin, pp. 148–53. 35. J. B. Meerkerk, ‘Vaderlandsliefde’, Vragen des Tijds 1 (1891), pp. 208–20. 36. W. J. N. Landré, ‘Twee kamerleden’, Het leeskabinet (1877), p. 49. 37. Among other things, Annemarie Houkes, Christelijke vaderlanders. Godsdienst, burgerschap en de Nederlandse natie (1850–1900) (Amsterdam, 2009), ch. 1. 38. Piet de Rooy, ‘Zes studies over verzuiling’, Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 110 (1995), pp. 380–92; Jacques Giele, De Eerste Internationale in Nederland. Een onderzoek naar het ontstaan van de Nederlandse arbeidersbeweging van 1868 tot 1876 (Nijmegen, 1973). 39. Giele, Eerste Internationale, pp. 179–82. 40. Eddy Houwaart, De hygiënisten. Artsen, staat en volksgezondheid in Nederland 1840–1890 (Groningen, 1991). 41. Dirk Jan Wolffram, Vrij van wat neerdrukt en beklemt. Staat, gemeenschap, sociale politiek, 1870–1918 (Amsterdam, 2003); Aerts and De Rooy, Amsterdam. 42. A novel quoted by Houkes, Christelijke vaderlanders, p. 103. 43. Johannes Charité, De Sociaal-Democratische Bond als orde- en gezagsprobleem voor de overheid (1880–1888) (Den Haag, 1972), pp. 32, 60–61; I thank Jan Willem Stutje who is preparing a biography about the socialist leader Domela Nieuwenhuis, for sharing his draft manuscript with me. 44. Among other things, Aerts and De Rooy, Amsterdam; Michiel Wagenaar, Amsterdam 1876–1914. Economisch herstel, ruimtelijke expansie en veranderende ordening van het stedelijk grondgebruik (Amsterdam, 1990); Pieter Stokvis, De wording van modern Den Haag. De stad en haar bevolking van de Franse Tijd tot de Eerste Wereldoorlog (Zwolle, 1987).

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45. G. Stuiveling (ed.), De briefwisseling Vosmaer-Kloos (Groningen/Batavia, 1939), p. 134. 46. World fair: Aerts and De Rooy, Amsterdam, pp. 433–37; Ileen Montijn, Kermis van koophandel. De Amsterdamse wereldtentoonstelling van 1883 (Bussum, 1983). 47. Pieter Jelles Troelstra, Gedenkschriften (Amsterdam, 1927) I, pp. 260–61. 48. Dennis Bos, Waarachtige volksvrienden. De vroege socialistische beweging in Amsterdam 1848–1894 (Amsterdam, 2001), pp. 207–21; Piet de Rooy, Een revolutie die voorbijging. Domela Nieuwenhuis en het Palingoproer (Bussum, 1971). 49. Jasper Loots, Voor het volk, van het volk. Van districtenstelsel naar evenredige vertegenwoordiging (Amsterdam, 2004), pp. 181–83 and passim. 50. Te Velde, Gemeenschapszin en plichtsbesef, ch. 5. 51. E.g. Bos, Volksvrienden, pp. 250–56. 52. Jan Hein Furnee, ‘Vrijetijdscultuur en sociale verhoudingen in Den Haag, 1850–1890’ (PhD thesis, Groningen, 2007). 53. Kuitenbrouwer, The Netherlands and Modern Imperialism, pp. 198–99. 54. Willem Hendrik de Beaufort, Dagboeken en aantekeningen, Hans de Valk and Marijke van Faassen (eds) (Den Haag, 1993), pp. 98–102. 55. Kuitenbrouwer, The Netherlands and Modern Imperialism, p. 199. 56. Bos, Volksvrienden, p. 195. 57. Stefan Duding, Deugdzaam liberalisme. Sociaal-liberalisme in Nederland 1870– 1901 (Amsterdam, 1997), pp. 128–33. 58. Willem H. Vliegen, De dageraad der volksbevrijding. Schetsen en tafereelen uit de socialistische beweging in Nederland I (Amsterdam, 1902), pp. 127–43, is still useful as an important source about the occasion, but it is in fact the combination of the history of the socialist movement with personal memories of one of its most prominent members. Coming from the peripheral province of Limburg, Vliegen was a living example of the nationalization of socialism at the time. 59. Henk te Velde, ‘Den Haag: het Malieveld. De “vergissing van Troelstra” in November 1918’, in Wim van den Doel (ed.), Plaatsen van herinnering. Nederland in de twintigste eeuw (Amsterdam, 2005), pp. 21–31. 60. Cees Fasseur, Wilhelmina. De jonge koningin (Amsterdam, 1998), pp. 562–63. 61. Hans de Valk and Ton Kappelhof (eds), Dagboeken van P.J.M. Aalberse 1902– 1947 (Den Haag, 2006), p. 221. 62. Michael Billig, Banal Nationalism (London/New Delhi, 1995).

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10 Urban Economies and the National Imagination: The German South, 1860–1914 Oliver Zimmer

If we still know rather little about how ordinary men and women experienced nationalism and the modern nation-state, this is in part because the communal embeddedness of people’s national imagination has received scant attention in a field in which many works are pitched at a highly abstract level. In the terminology of Benedict Anderson, the most influential theorist of recent decades, nations are imagined communities; what had enabled people to imagine a large and abstract community like the nation was print capitalism: a languagebased revolution in the means of communication that started with the Reformation and reached its apogee in the mass-produced newspapers and novels of the nineteenth century.1 The downside of Anderson’s brilliant account is that it leaves little room for the creative ideological energies that nationalism engendered outside the confines of high and official culture. Yet it is precisely these creative energies, I should like to argue, that deserve our attention. For what they reveal, among other things, is that the nineteenth century, often referred to as the classic ‘era of nationalism’, produced a plurality of often sharply contrasting national(ist) visions. The general idea I want to pursue in this chapter is quite straightforward: that the national community of people’s imagination was often not abstract but concrete, more akin to the communities people knew from their everyday experience than to the large, territorially bounded communities they encountered in newspapers, novels and in the first national museums that sprang up in the late nineteenth century; and that, consequently, imagining the nation often involved a projection that took as its benchmark a familiar community of limited size and complexity. What I should like to propose is that the 257

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ways in which people related to nationalism depended in important ways on the immediate social worlds they inhabited in their capacity as citizens, producers, consumers, members of particular professions and associations and so on.2 These contexts influenced how individuals and specific communities experienced the process of nation-formation, and how they related to, and constructed, particular nationalist ideologies. They shaped the cognitive lenses through which nationhood was experienced, imagined and defined.3 When it comes to searching for some of the patterns that may lie behind this often bewildering plurality of manifestations, towns might be a good place to start.4 Before I say more about the towns that are the empirical focus of this chapter, let me briefly address some of the possible objections to the argument I have just outlined. One such objection might be that the establishment of the German nation-state in 1871 had led to a flattening out of existing national visions, to an extent where they became virtually indistinguishable from each other. It is indeed hard to deny that the creation of the Second German Empire introduced a teleology into debates surrounding German nationhood, one that was real rather than imagined, framed within powerful institutions rather than discursively created.5 As has been noted in the Introduction to this volume, within the context of an existing nation-state, nationalism invariably acted as powerful moral code.6 This explains, for instance, why it became increasingly difficult to defend regional and local interests in purely regional or local terms. From the Battle of Sedan onwards German regionalists – the Württemberg Democrats or Bavarian Catholic-conservatives who had sided with Austria in 1866 offer illuminating examples – had to demonstrate that their strong regional loyalties were commensurate with the interests and ambitions of the wider national community. With the nation-state in place, people increasingly had to frame their public concerns in a language that was, if not openly nationalist, then at least seen to be commensurate with the progress and prosperity of the wider national community.7 Recognizing the power of the nation-state should not make us fall prey to some kind of top-down or centre-periphery diffusionism, however. In particular, the establishment of the nation as a self-evident category should not be confused with the existence of a shared national vision. For while the heightened interdependence between the local and the national in much of Europe in this period is not that surprising, we still know much less about people’s national imagination, or their nationalist visions, and even less about what might have shaped

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them.8 One of this chapter’s contentions is that we may gain a better understanding of these processes if we approach nationalism indirectly: less via the in-your-face nationalism of the big parades, festivals and nationalist movements – the sort of practices and organizations that were instrumental in creating the illusion of national wholeness and of a shared national identity – and more through an exploration of how local communities adapted to the social and institutional changes that nationalism helped to bring about. How did townspeople perceive such changes? What kinds of nationalist idioms did they foster as they saw themselves confronted with the nation-state and its institutional and cultural apparatus?9 Since people imagined the nation with the aid of cognitive maps that were partly defined by their economic activity, I want to address these questions through a comparison of different urban economies and the economic milieus that operated within them in the period from 1860 to 1900.10 My focus will be on three medium-sized towns: the industrial town of Ludwigshafen am Rhein in the Bavarian Palatinate; the former imperial city of Augsburg in Bavarian Swabia; and Ulm in the state of Württemberg, like Augsburg a former imperial city. The three towns share a number of features. To begin with, they were all confessionally mixed: Ulm’s population was roughly 75 per cent Protestant, Augsburg’s two-thirds Catholics and in Ludwigshafen am Rhein the two Christian confessions were about evenly matched. Where they differed quite sharply, however, was in terms of their economic traditions and structures. Founded in 1853 with a population of under 2,000, within three decades Ludwigshafen emerged as one of Germany’s centres of chemical industry, which, by the turn of the century, would come to dominate the world market. Meanwhile, as Ulm remained largely confined to crafts and small trade, Augsburg, like Ulm an old Gewerbestadt, developed a significant textile manufacturing industry from the 1850s. Yet Germany’s towns, including the ones examined here, did not remain unaffected by nationalism and the nation-state, as some of its students have come close to contending.11 They did not form part of a separate universe, more virtuous and pure than the larger arena in which national politics was played out. As David Blackbourn and James Retallack have noted quite recently, they were neither better nor worse, neither more progressive nor more backward, neither more or less authentic or real than the nation-states to which they were connected by various ties.12 Yet local communities mattered because they partly defined people’s mental maps, the cognitive and emotional frames through which they experienced the world around them.

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The chosen comparison offers a number of advantages when it comes to exploring how people imagined German nationhood in the nineteenth century. The main one is not, I think, that they represent the south of Germany, for the bias in favour of Prussia has now been rectified thanks to historians such as Dieter Langewiesche, David Blackbourn, Celia Applegate, Alon Confino, James Retallack and many others.13 It consists in the fact, rather, that medium-sized towns offer opportunities for integrating social (including economic), political and cultural history perspectives. This integration has been difficult to achieve in accounts of entire regions or states, or of large cities such as Berlin or Hamburg, which over the last ten to fifteen years have received much attention.14 The most innovative works within these methodological genres have undoubtedly generated a wealth of new insights: some have thrown light on patterns of cultural representation, while others have been particularly instructive about how Germany’s states supplemented the process of nation-formation. Where they have been slightly less successful, however, is in bringing out nationalism’s experiential dimension.15 A second potential advantage of the approach employed here consists in the comparative method itself: contrasting three medium-sized towns offers opportunities for exploring how broadly similar socio-economic milieus imagined the nation out of different urban contexts, and how far these contexts shaped cognitive patterns underpinning visions of national identity. The chapter is divided into three sections. I begin with an overview of the national economic context. The main part offers a portrait of economic life and economic structures in Ulm, Ludwigshafen and Augsburg. The third and final section examines how economic milieus and their activities shaped people’s national imagination.

Economic milieus in context In 1850, Germany was still a mostly rural society, with the bulk of its population living in villages and very small towns rather than cities. In fact, as late as 1871 approximately 64 per cent of Germany’s inhabitants lived in municipalities with populations under 2,000. By 1900, that percentage had dropped to 46 per cent, while 29 per cent now lived in towns with populations of between 20,000 and 100,000; yet even at that point, only 16 per cent of the total population dwelled in large cities such as Berlin, Hamburg, Breslau, Frankfurt, Munich or Stuttgart.16 These demographic shifts went hand in hand with a massive economic transformation, one that occurred within an extraordinarily short space

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of time, and one that turned Germany into the largest industrial economy on the European Continent. Aided by the liberalization of trade and the freedom of movement, by the turn of the century Germany had become a more mobile society, although short-distance migration remained the norm during the entire imperial period.17 The German south, whose commerce and industry were lagging behind parts of the Rhineland, Silesia and Saxony by several decades, could not exempt itself from these developments. Thus, in the course of the 1860s both Württemberg and Bavaria introduced more liberal economic regimes, abolishing the guilds and enabling people to move freely without fear of legal discrimination. The same liberal principles underpinned the imperial constitution of 1871. Yet in substituting place of residence for place of origin as the basis for entitlements to poor relief, the imperial state took matters to another level.18 Designed to safeguard the freedom of movement against local attempts to exclude unwanted newcomers, Freizügigkeit increased the potential financial burden on towns in particular. Against the background of these changing institutional parameters, the three towns evolved different aspirations, economic structures and mechanisms of adaptation.19 The professions represented ranged from craftsmen, shopkeepers and small traders working for local markets, to tradesmen, merchants and industrialists whose target markets were national or even transnational in scale. How far did economic activity shape people’s view of the social worlds they inhabited? This question has been of some interest to historians. In his German Home Towns, for instance, the US historian Mack Walker identified two kinds of economic actors: ‘hometownsmen’ and ‘movers and doers’. The movers and doers (among whom merchants and reformist civil servants dominated according to Walker) believed in mobility and demanded changes to the status quo: economic above all, but also administrative, legal, cultural and social. In stark contrast, the social status of the hometownsmen (represented mainly by artisans and small traders) rested on local pedigree, inherited citizenship and, quite frequently, membership in a guild.20 When applied to the second half of the nineteenth century, both the usefulness and the limitations of Walker’s dichotomy become apparent.21 For one thing, the rise of economic liberalism in the 1860s meant that the movers and doers could no longer be excluded. Many caught up with the hometownsmen economically. What is just as important to recognize, however, is how successful the latter often were in adapting to a changing economic environment.22 All in all, the hometownsmen

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and movers and doers of Germany’s late nineteenth century entertained economic visions that were, in fact, not always that far apart. Yet while the boundaries separating the two groups were by no means rigid, they were not entirely fluid either. One conspicuous difference concerns the construction of national identities, or, to put it more precisely, the conception of community on which it was based. While for some (let us call them hometownsmen) community was something given and essential, for others (let us call them movers and doers), it represented something in the making. Although in reality hometownstyle economies were perfectly capable of adaptation, compromise and integration with modern hybrid economies, their champions nonetheless often imagined the nation as an essential given. To the movers and doers, by contrast, community (including the imagined community of the nation) appeared more fluid and malleable. I shall return to this point in the final section of this chapter. But first we need to gain a better understanding of the urban economic actors that became the protagonists in this story: who they were, what preoccupied them, how they encountered each other within the urban economy, their relative weight and their ability to shape urban economic life according to their own tastes and preferences.

Urban economies Towns offer a remarkably rich source to the historian, but they do not lend themselves as platforms from which to construct a histoire totale. The same applies to the economic life that takes place within them. Like the towns themselves, this life is simply too complex to be grasped in its totality. The best we can do, then, is to paint scenarios that we deem sufficiently characteristic of a particular urban economy. What gives these scenarios their particular flavour is a town’s economic milieus, the ways in which they interact with each other and the tensions and conflicts of interests these interactions bring to the fore. In Ludwigshafen, for instance, industrialists and their champions on the liberal-dominated town council saw themselves confronted with a small group of local small traders (particularly innkeepers), whose protectionist demands were rejected as unjustified by the majority of the town’s business community (including, as we shall see, the craftsmen and small traders). In Augsburg, meanwhile, we witness an ideological convergence between the economically dominant textile manufacturers and large sections of the local crafts and small-trade community; both came to endorse a List-style economic nationalism based on protectionist

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tariffs. Finally, in Ulm, the least industrialized of the three towns, a small group of merchants (some of them Jewish) fought for the building of large warehouses for the international grain trade, an initiative that was opposed by the majority of the local craftsmen and small traders organized in the Gewerbeverein. Let me begin with Ulm, where trading activity of a certain size and complexity only became common with the introduction of the freedom of trade in Württemberg in 1862. It was from then onwards that Ulm’s Kleingewerbe – the craftsmen, shopkeepers and small traders, many of whom joined the local trade association, the Gewerbeverein, which with a membership of over 300 in 1875 was the largest local economic association – saw itself confronted with the presence of a small yet increasingly influential group of tradesmen and merchants.23 The latter, some of them recent arrivals, were organized in the local merchants association, the Handelsverein, which in the 1870s had a little over 100 members. In his detailed 1875 report to a state official, Ulm’s mayor, von Heim, noted that the local community of traders and merchants, while still ‘very young’, was also promising and on the rise. This was in contrast to the local Kleingewerbe, which, as the Free Conservative von Heim was keen to point out, was in need of reform.24 To many a member of Ulm’s Gewerbeverein, however, people engaged in supra-local trade were an alien presence. For some local artisans in particular, people who traded in goods they had neither produced nor would necessarily sell locally were morally dubious. Yet Ulm’s merchants were increasingly unwilling to have their prospects dented by the leading members of the local Gewerbeverein. The resulting tension between two sections of the local economy became one of the defining features of Ulm’s economic life between 1860 and 1900. An examination of the debate surrounding the proposed construction of transit and storage warehouses for grain brings out some of the mechanics behind this conflict. Since the early 1870s, certain members of the Handelsverein, led by the Jewish merchant Gustav Maier, had tried to persuade the municipal council of the economic benefits of such warehouses. Their aim was to turn Ulm into a centre of the south German grain trade, outstripping larger towns such as Munich, Nuremberg, Stuttgart, Mannheim or Augsburg. The champions of the warehouse project doubtless had economic logic behind them. The expansion of the railway network in southern Germany since the 1840s had reinforced competition in the grain trade. As a consequence, Ulm had gradually lost out as a marketplace for grain to more favourably located centres such as Mannheim, to

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the point where it was in danger of becoming redundant. The only way to prevent this, the leaders of the Handelsverein insisted, was to create a market capable of attracting grain merchants from all over Germany. This in turn required the construction of big transit warehouses for grain near the main railway station. Ulm’s merchants, in other words, did not envisage the nation as a municipality writ large but as a community in the making; one which, if it was to be competitive internationally, had to be flexible and dynamic, just like the towns and cities that provided its component parts. As exponents of the Handelsverein justified the warehouse project in a statement to the municipal authorities in 1874: Ulm’s exceptionally favourable location at the junction of six railway lines . . . is bound to attract the attention of the agile trader. Situated between two of the main producers and consumers of trade – namely, Austria-Hungary and Galicia on the one hand, and France, Italy and Switzerland on the other – Ulm . . . would be ideally placed to act as broker for the significant export trade carried out each year between these countries and Germany.25 When four months later the municipal council had still not responded, the Handelsverein insisted that the matter was urgent, all the more so as Stuttgart had recently decided to build a number of transit storehouses in an attempt to revitalize its grain trade. If Ulm failed to act now, it would miss the boat. For a while, Gustav Maier and his allies seemed to get their way. Thus in 1875, Ulm’s mayor expressed his strong support for the warehouse project in a report addressed to a state official. Given the obvious lack of industrial development in Ulm, and in view of the predicament in which the local small traders found themselves, the flourishing of Ulm’s nascent merchant community was all the more important. Heim thus reassured the state official that the city council was keen to pursue the warehouse project, adding that the construction of the ‘warehouses and trading areas will begin shortly’.26 When in 1875 the authorities made a first step towards the project’s realization by purchasing a piece of real estate near the railway line to Heidenheim, Ulm’s ‘Handelsstand was delighted’.27 But the municipal council, supported by the local small-trade lobby, proved reluctant, delaying the building of the first warehouses for more than a decade. When by the summer of 1877 no progress had been made, the members of the Handelsverein launched a more concerted campaign, using both the local press and public meetings to promote their common cause. Against those who insisted that the project should

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be paid for by those who stood to benefit most from its realization, its members insisted that the warehouses would benefit the local economy as a whole.28 The ‘Suez Canal and the railway through the Gotthard’, the association argued in its 1877 bid, were only ‘two of a series of transport innovations’ that were certain to ‘transform world trade’. Those towns that were ‘quickest at grasping the significance of these profound transformations’, were bound to rise in importance as trading centres. Provided Ulm’s political leaders acted quickly and decisively, the petitioners noted, the town would be ideally placed to benefit from these developments.29 It was again Gustav Maier who, at a 1880 meeting of Ulm’s National– Liberal Deutsche Partei (of which Maier was not a member, but whose membership included a fair number of local small traders), insisted that Ulm should have both a warehouse for grain and a transit warehouse for the storage and onward transport of other goods too. Yet the meeting’s final resolution, which took account of reservations raised by the local small-trade lobby, fell well short of Maier’s expectations. Instead of outlining a plan of action, it merely invited the municipal council to ‘revisit the warehouse question and reach a final decision on it’.30 In the course of the same year, the National–Liberal Ulmer Schnellpost published a series of articles in which the economic benefits of warehouses were once again highlighted and existing fears and reservations revealed as unfounded.31 The envisaged warehouses did not constitute ‘a revolutionary invention, but merely the reshaping of age-old institutions so as to bring them in line with a new situation’.32 The warehouses were described as timely instruments, suited to promoting Ulm’s trade to the point where it would regain its place as one of southern Germany’s foremost trading towns.33 But the municipal authorities would not lend their financial support to the project, let alone take the lead in its realization. The opponents of the warehouse project, most of them organized in the Gewerbeverein, only entered the frame when the Handelsverein renewed its pro-warehouse campaign in the summer of 1877. Some of their arguments were straightforward. For example, the point that an investment that most benefited a particular section of Ulm’s economy – namely merchants engaged in supra-local trade – should not be paid out of the local purse; or the charge that the ‘Manchester men’ of the Handelsverein, who would shout ‘help yourself’ whenever the local Gewerbe called for municipal assistance, had lost their way. Another argument that Ulm’s small traders marshalled against the warehouse project demonstrates their familiarity with international markets

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despite the limited geographical scope of their own economic activities: Hungarian grain, they noted, tended to be more expensive than wheat imported from the United States, for which Mannheim and Heilbronn had established themselves as the main trading centres. In raising this point, the Gewerbeverein sought to question the community-mindedness of Ulm’s merchants, who kept insisting that the warehouses would benefit the interest of the local consumer.34 Other reservations against the warehouse project were of a more subtle kind. Their deeper roots lay in a sense of status deprivation widespread among the local small trade and crafts. As has been pointed out already, these sections of the local economy had enjoyed a privileged status until the introduction of the freedom of trade in Württemberg in 1862. Economic liberalism and the legislative changes brought about by German unification not only increased economic competition but also extended social entitlements (in the form of communal poor relief and social-welfare provision) and, albeit in more limited fashion, rights of political participation at the municipal level. While certain crafts (such as tailors, shoemakers or carpenters) tended to be more adversely affected by the crisis than those engaged in food production or the building trade, large sections of the Handwerk no doubt lost of their former prestige.35 As a representative of the local crafts commented on the difficulty that he and his professional colleagues now faced in recruiting able apprentices: ‘The sons of lower civil servants down to the office clerk yearn to study at university or to become tradesmen, while the Handwerksstand is being coerced into recruiting its apprentices from among the lowest social classes, people who are often seriously wanting in terms of cultural education and character.’36 The quotation reminds us of the persistent hold, especially among master craftsmen, of a normative vision whose foundation was the self-evident recognition of ascribed status, a vision that had been severely challenged (but one that would remain salient for decades to come) by the ascent of economic liberalism.37 The wider nation, from this point of view, was to be built from traditional socio-economic corporations; although larger than those, it had to be of the same basic structure. What added insult to injury was that the members of formerly marginal communities – the sons of workers, people without local citizenship rights or Jews, whose economic activities had for centuries been subject to severe legal restrictions – appeared to be doing rather well. Whether these perceptions were real or imagined (and they were usually a bit of both), it is against this background that the attitudes and political initiatives of the Gewerbeverein must be judged. Thus, in a remarkable

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statement published in the Ulmer Tagblatt in 1877, one of the association’s members, while not openly opposing the warehouse project, argued that Ulm’s merchant community was not really as dynamic and vibrant as it liked to portray itself.38 ‘Warehouses of this kind’, he contended, ‘presuppose a commercial and speculative ingenuity’ that Ulm’s native merchants did not, on the whole, possess. They were not even imbued with the ‘entrepreneurial alertness of those whose ancestors were not Ulmers and who used to earn their livelihood not as traders but as peddlers’. Thanks to their ‘tireless activity’, the latter group had already begun to make significant inroads into ‘the terrain traditionally occupied by Ulm’s merchant community’. It was now not a question of if, but of when, these sons of these peddlers would be the ‘sole representatives of Ulm’s Handellstand’.39 The author of the article was of course referring to the handful of Jewish tradesmen and merchants (such as Gustav Maier or Max Dreyfuss) who played a leading role in Ulm’s Handelsverein. For quite a few members of Ulm’s small-trade community it seems, the conspicuous role of Jews in Ulm’s economic life symbolized the vanishing of an era in which their status and public recognition had been secure. Moreover, in claiming that the Handelsverein was being colonized by Jews, this particular member of the Gewerbeverein suggested that Ulm’s Handelsverein had been hijacked by a handful of movers and doers with no roots in the local Gemeinschaft. How did the hometownsmen fare in Ludwigshafen? If the recollections of the artisan Georg Kuhn are anything to go by, they were thin on the ground.40 There was, he tells us, no crafts sector to speak of in 1853, the year of the town’s foundation. Kuhn even doubted whether a Handwerkerstand actually existed when Ludwigshafen became a town in 1859, at which point its economy consisted mainly of companies engaged in the Rhine trade. A collective spirit – Gemeinschaftsgedanke is the word Kuhn employs – among Ludwigshafen’s crafts had only emerged in the course of the 1870s, when the chemical factories and machine works began to dominate the urban landscape. Its first manifestation was the establishment of the Gewerbeverein Ludwigshafen, a local small-trade association, in 1872. Yet this association was rather unusual. The core of its membership was not made up of craftsmen, small traders and innkeepers, as was the case in towns such as Ulm where these professions had existed for decades or even centuries. According to Kuhn, the early membership of Ludwigshafen’s small-trade association, in addition to artisans and tradesmen, also included factory owners and civil servants. Its activities had been ‘neutral’ rather than geared ‘towards representing the interests of its members’. A library had been established

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from the outset; ‘visitations of industrial plants and other objects of interest’ formed as much a part of the association’s range of activities as did discussions of various themes at its fortnightly meetings. It was not until the late 1880s that this standard programme was complemented by debates centring ‘on questions of specific concern to the crafts’. The themes with which the members had come to preoccupy themselves had ranged from ‘new legislation’ to ‘various measures and projects relating to town and state’.41 Kuhn offers an intriguing explanation of why a corporatist identity took so long to germinate among Ludwigshafen’s local crafts and small trade. The chief reason, he insists, was the lack of a shared sense of place uniting its members. The absence of local roots among the members of these groups proved a serious obstacle to their ability to constitute themselves as a professional corporation. In contrast to more established towns, where the native population served as the recruiting ground for the local Kleingewerbe, including the Handwerk, Ludwigshafen’s artisans and small traders comprised of ‘young elements’ who originated ‘from all over the world’. This was of course an exaggeration: the town’s population consisted mainly of short-distant migrants from the Palatinate and the neighbouring states of Bavaria, Baden and Württemberg. But Kuhn’s basic point still applies: Ludwigshafen was a young industrial town without any established corporatist traditions or networks.42 Kuhn fails to mention another, perhaps even more important, reason why economic corporatism failed to get off the ground in Ludwigshafen: the bulk of its artisans and craftsmen were not selfemployed entrepreneurs working individually or heading small workshops (as was the norm throughout the nineteenth century, not only in Germany), but rather formed part of that large industrial workforce that from the 1870s gave the local economy its distinctive flavour. In the late 1880s, for example, the chemical giant BASF (Badische Anilin- und Sodafafabrik) alone employed more than 900 workers with a background in the building trade, including dozens of bricklayers, locksmiths, blacksmiths, turners, carpenters, electricians and coopers, to name just the most important professions.43 Most of them had been socialized not during the era when the guilds had still been a powerful presence (with their patriarchal culture of the whole house and their emphasis on privilege and ascribed status), but under a more recent regime geared towards transferrable skills and their applicability in a fast-changing economic environment. The majority of Ludwigshafen’s craftsmen were employees; only a few were self-employed master craftsmen.44

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This is not to say that no efforts had been made at establishing corporatist norms, institutions and practices in Ludwigshafen. The debate over licence restrictions for inns demonstrates this well. Flaring up in 1885 and 1886, it featured as its protagonists the city council, the association of innkeepers, the district government and the government of the Palatinate.45 At a meeting on 20 April 1885, the town council decided to abolish the charter regulating the licensing of inns, the so-called Ortsstatut über den Wirtschaftsbetrieb, which had been in place since 1881. This charter had made the issuing of new licences for inns subject to an internal means test.46 Yet, as the council came to agree, while this principle had served the interests of Ludwigshafen’s innkeepers, it had violated those of its wider population. Unsurprisingly, the council’s decision would trigger fierce protests from the association of local innkeepers. What is more surprising is that, just a week after the town council had decided to cease protecting established innkeepers from competition, the district government declared its ruling invalid. Decisions of this kind, the state authorities claimed, required the consent of a municipal assembly, a so-called Gemeindeversammlung. In addition, the council was asked to consult with the local innkeepers to find a mutually agreeable solution to the problem.47 Four weeks later the mayoral office invited the association of innkeepers, the Wirteverein, to express its view on the matter.48 Its members defended the Orsstatut by evoking a time when many local inns had been ‘in the hands of scoundrels and deadbeats’, people who had sometimes been ‘unable to pay their gas bills, let alone their taxes’. Innkeepers of this sort had been ‘so dependent on their guests that they were unable to interfere when the latter conducted themselves in a reprehensible and immoral way’. As the licensed innkeepers were keen to stress, however, what had prompted them to oppose the abolition of the existing charter was by no means fear of increased competition. Mixing the language of corporatism with that of local civic pride, they reassured the council that what had really swung them into action in the first place was the damage the envisaged reforms were likely to cause to ‘the honour’ of both their trade and the municipality at large.49 Yet the innkeepers’ plea would fail to influence the outcome of the ballot conducted on 18 October 1885. At the beginning of an especially appointed meeting, the 161 citizens in attendance (amounting to about a third of Ludwigshafen’s then 509 citizens with full voting rights) agreed to take their decision in an open ballot. Of the 161 citizens taking part in the ballot, 156 voted in favour and five against

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abolishing the existing charter on the licensing of inns.50 While we do not know who voted for and who against the motion, the records offer detailed information on the professions that were represented at the said Gemeindeversammlung. The list includes 10 factory overseers; 13 innkeepers/brewers; 4 grocers; 2 pensioners; 15 teachers; 1 boat owner; 58 artisans; 4 members of the food trade; 10 civil servants; 1 office clerk; 38 tradesmen; 6 railway or factory workers; and 2 factory owners.51 What appears to have been responsible for the near-unanimous vote in favour of reform was the belief that Gewerbefreiheit, the freedom of trade, was indivisible. This, at any rate, is how Mayor Kutterer, in his response to the district government, summed up the debate that took place immediately before the decisive ballot. Several citizens had argued that the Ortsstatut had created ‘a monopoly for one local trade’, and since this went ‘against the intentions of the freedom of trade’, it needed to be abolished in the interest having a level playing field for all members of Ludwigshafen’s economy.52 Kutterer also pointed to the negative repercussions of protectionism for local house prices. Restrictions on granting licences for inns had led to ‘a rapid rise in the value of commercial buildings’, which represented an ‘outrageous injustice’. In a letter to the district government dated 25 October, he also lamented that the licensing restrictions for inns had been used by ‘external breweries’ that owned ‘a large number of Ludwigshafen’s inns’. All this had inhibited the proliferation of inns in line with the rise of the town’s population. There were now only twentyone inns in a town with 21,000 inhabitants, thus only half as many as had existed before the Ortsstatut was introduced in 1881. In and around the Hemshof particularly, the town’s northern, working-class district (whose population had ‘increased by 4,000’ since the introduction of the restriction), ‘not a single new inn had been approved’.53 The question of adequate provision for a fast-growing population again moved to the centre of the debate when on 13 November 1885 the district government in Speyer refused to accept the municipal assembly’s verdict on the existing Orsstatut.54 In its appeal of 26 November, directed to the government of the Palatinate, Ludwigshafen’s council insisted that the decision over how to regulate the local economy should be left up to the local authorities concerned: ‘For it is the municipal authorities alone that are in a position to judge whether economic restrictions of this kind are commensurate with all the relevant conditions at the local level.’ And with regard to the local innkeepers’ association: ‘That the concerns expressed by the innkeepers’ association spring from sectional material interests cannot be seriously doubted.’55

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The government of the Palatinate would unreservedly endorse the council’s decision. It even censured the district government for its obstructive behaviour towards Ludwigshafen’s citizens: ‘When the municipal council, which along with the municipal assembly is closest to the situation on the ground, . . . decides to abolish the existing Orsstatut, then the superior authority has no reason to deny its approval, thereby maintaining a situation which those most affected experience as outmoded and even burdensome.’56 In 1896, the innkeepers’ association would make another attempt at subjecting the issuing of licences to a means test, but to no avail.57 Neither Ludwigshafen’s innkeepers nor their opponents linked their arguments (at least not explicitly) to the concept of the German nation. But this does not alter the fact that the latter served them as a mostly silent referent. Both sides were engaged in a controversy over the legitimacy of Gewerbefreiheit, a concept that in the last third of the nineteenth century evoked national connotations. Implicitly at least – for they referred to themselves as members of the German Mittelstand – the innkeepers imagined the nation as the sum of pre-existing building blocks, and thus as a corporation write large. By contrast, those who opposed the Ortsstatut asked that these building blocks should come to resemble the national institutional framework that had recently come into being, through a process of adaptation and reconfiguration; this was not because the latter was seen as a cause for enthusiasm, but because it was supposed to guarantee a level playing field. How did economic debates intersect with imagined nationhood in the city of Augsburg? That a degree of hometown spirit remained alive there well beyond the abolition of the guilds in 1868 does not really come as a surprise. Augsburg was, after all, an established town; one where self-employed artisans and craftsmen had for centuries formed the dominant part of the urban economy.58 The master artisans in particular, who before the introduction of the freedom of trade in Bavaria in 1868 had supplied the core of the urban citizenry, had once enjoyed a high degree of recognition. Throughout the imperial period, moreover, self-employed craftsmen and small traders often continued to occupy important functions within the urban social-welfare system, mainly as voluntary helpers charged with assessing benefit claims from applicants living in the same urban neighbourhood. In occupying such roles, many continued to act as gatekeepers, controlling access to communal resources and seeking to defend the exclusivity of local citizenship at a time when universal manhood suffrage resulted in a massive expansion of the national electorate.59

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Initially at least, however, Augsburg’s craftsmen and small traders had resided with the liberal movers and doers. Before the introduction of Gewerbefreiheit in Bavaria in the late 1860s, artisans who suffered from the corporatism of the guilds had quite frequently advocated reform. Many had supported the liberal movement. In 1860, for example, the Augsburger Anzeigeblatt published a poem by a local locksmith praising the movement for economic reform and even associating it with a broader liberation of mankind: ‘Mechanisation conquers the world peacefully, through machines and steam . . . Let us unite, let us be brave and take a new path! Only progress, not police, can protect us. May science and work be free! . . . Fill up the glasses and join in: Long live the free crafts association!’60 With the nationwide introduction of the freedom of trade things began to change, however. The 1870s saw a revival of the hometown spirit that affected even the formerly liberal sections of the crafts trades, masters and non-masters alike. Thus the Fortschritt, Bavaria’s liberal movement with a strong following in Augsburg, switched from a free trade to a protectionist stance; and in 1878, Augsburg’s national liberals around Joseph Völk and mayor Ludwig Fischer explicitly endorsed economic tariffs, distancing themselves from left-liberal opposition to Bismarck’s protectionist agenda.61 Although Augsburg’s self-employed craftsmen had on the whole little to gain from measures designed to protect Germany’s agricultural producers and industrialists, many instinctively endorsed economic protectionism. During the crisis of the 1870s, for instance, many began to advocate restrictions to Gewerbefreiheit; and not a few joined one of the various Innungen, corporatist interest organizations that were proliferating at the time, many of them evolving into national organizations. In 1880, Augsburg’s magistrate counted close to twenty local Innungen representing various local trades, describing their activities – such as the issuing of regulations for apprentices, the ‘solemn registration of both new and leaving apprentices’, or the provision of support for travelling journeymen – as ‘salutary’ and worthy of unreserved support.62 Thus, while the reality of the hometown as an urban community of citizen-producers had gone for good, in Augsburg and elsewhere from the late 1870s the spirit of the hometown experienced a certain revival through the proliferation of corporatist organizations and rhetoric. What undoubtedly strengthened this tendency was that, compared to Ulm and Ludwigshafen, Augsburg’s movers and doers were relatively thin on the ground. The sector that dominated Augsburg’s urban economy, and which to an important degree shaped its political culture

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too – textile manufacturing – had been conspicuously ambivalent about Gewerbefreiheit. Many of the town’s textile entrepreneurs had turned protectionist well before the legendary conservative turn of the late 1870s. Most had opposed the 1862 free trade agreement between Prussia and France, using arguments that were reminiscent of Friedrich List’s ˝ Das nationale System der politischen Okonomie (1841–44). In the 1870s, moreover, some of Augsburg’s foremost industrialists (such as Theodor Hassler or Albert Frommel) played a leading role in the Centralverband deutscher Industrieller (founded in 1876). Initiated by Rhenish heavy industrialists and southern textile manufacturers, this association was to exert a key influence on Bismarck’s protectionist turn at the end of the 1870s.63 It is hard to deny that material interests played a key role in this: like most of Germany’s textile industry – but unlike, for example, Ludwigshafen’s chemical industry – Augsburg’s cotton-weaving and cotton-spinning factories produced overwhelmingly for the German mass market.64 That Augsburg’s manufacturers were more protectionist than their Ludwigshafen counterparts may well explain why, from the late 1870s, a degree of common ground seems to have evolved between them and the town’s craftsmen and small traders. Their shared reservations about economic liberalism became visible during several meetings of the liberal Bürgerverein, the town’s most important liberal association. At an 1875 meeting, for example, the association conducted a ‘lengthy debate’ on the issue of travelling salesmen, some of whom sold merchandise locally via so-called Wanderlager. In the subsequent discussion, the banker Rosenbusch, after conceding that this form of trade was causing ‘great damage’ to local businesses, expressed his support for the imposition of a ‘high commercial tax’ on those who engaged in this sort of commercial activity.65 At a 1878 meeting of the Bürgerverein, during which the future of the freedom of trade was discussed at some length, the factory owner Pfeil, after insisting that Gewerbefreiheit was ‘here to stay’, nevertheless noted that the German people were ‘in their majority not yet ready for the enjoyment of full liberties’. Specifically, Pfeil contended that ‘both apprentices and workers’ still required ‘strong supervision’ if they were ‘to achieve anything’.66 Speaking on the same theme in 1880, master builder Gollwitzer (the owner of a large building firm) lamented that liberalization of trade had tempted many young craftsmen into setting up their own business before they had ‘acquired the necessary training’. The results were ‘overproduction and tastelessness’. Meanwhile, master tinsmith Zimmermann located the main problem in the ‘pride of many parents’, who were eager for

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their offspring ‘to enter the state civil service’ rather than ‘learn the father’s craft’.67 The question of corporatist organization continued to preoccupy the local crafts and small-trade sectors; particularly after an 1881 imperial law encouraged the setting up of such corporations (the so-called Innungen) on a voluntary basis. Yet on the important question of what kind of Innung – voluntary or compulsory, freiwillige Innung or Zwangsinnung – was most conducive to the future of the local Gewerbe, the association remained divided.68 The 1881 imperial law was the subject of a special meeting held in March 1883 and was attended by more than 200 people.69 It began with a talk by master tailor Brach, on whether the existing Gewerbeordnung was in need of reform. That the crafts required help was beyond argument in Brach’s mind. But the question was whether this task could be achieved through the introduction of voluntary Innungen, as imperial legislation prescribed. In drawing up rules guiding the registration, employment and examination of apprentices, as well as in exhibiting and awarding prices, Augsburg’s crafts and small-trade sector had made a start. But if these efforts were to bear fruit in the long run, a larger proportion of the local crafts would have to participate. Despite the current lack of active participation, however, Brach expressed his preference for encouragement over compulsion. After speaking out against peddling and the placing of contracts by tender, Brach invited those present to accept the following three-point resolution: that compulsory professional corporations were unsuitable to improve the lot of the crafts; that the imperial law of 18 July 1881 was to be exploited to the full; and that the abolition of the freedom of trade would ‘bring disadvantages for the entire German people, as well as for each craftsman who is qualified, intelligent, eager and industrious’.70 After chairman Goebel had spoken for, and printing shop owner Racke against, the proposal, the final ballot ended with a resounding defeat of the proposed resolution against the abolition of Gewerbefreiheit in general and the introduction of the compulsory Innungen in particular.71 What we find in Augsburg, then, is an urban economy in which the textile manufacturers, the driving force behind the town’s early industrialization, had defined the agenda since the early nineteenth century. Their predominance was no doubt regretted by some, and even resented by others, including many self-employed artisans. But it could not really be contested. The self-employed small businessmen, most of them craftsmen or small traders, could not demand in all seriousness that their former glory be restored at the expense of industries that rested on mechanized production, and which employed the bulk of the

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town’s working population. Along with machinery and metalworking industries (which, while growing at a much faster rate than the textile companies, employed much fewer workers than the latter) the textile companies managed to shape the local economy largely according to their own tastes and preferences. While the textile manufacturers produced locally, they mainly produced for a national market that from the early 1870s suffered from a crisis of investment and overproduction. This largely explains their quasi-natural sympathies for List-style economic nationalism.

Imagining nationhood How did the members of different socio-economic milieus situate their activities within the local, national and transnational spheres? As we have seen, for most economic actors operating in the urban arena these different levels of identification were closely intertwined rather than mutually exclusive. Thus, the local craftsmen and small independent tradesmen organized in Ulm’s Gewerbeverein were rooted locally and tended to produce almost exclusively for local markets. Yet even the staunchest hometownsmen were exposed to international influences in their respective trades, in part because German consumers began to develop a taste for foreign products and fashions. Local producers often fiercely lamented this, but their lamentations only confirmed the degree to which international trade influenced local markets as well as the sensibilities and tastes of local consumers. Several of Ulm’s craftsmen visited national exhibitions, and some, such as the furniture manufacturer Foerstler, in his capacity as chairman of the local Gewerbeverein, even attended the 1878 World Exhibition in Paris; most of his professional colleagues read about national and international exhibitions in the local press, which covered them in great detail. Besides, the various local museums that were set up in support of local crafts pursued an educational mission in which foreign products and standards of production often served as a benchmark. The international focus was even more pronounced among industrialists, whether they were in charge of an Augsburg cotton-weaving factory or directing the production of a company in the chemical industry. In the second half of the nineteenth century, then, both hometownsmen and movers and doers were used to thinking in transnational terms. What is striking, however, is that whether economic actors moved their gaze outward to the global or inward to the locality, both these orientations often reinforced the national focus, certainly after 1871.

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While each perspective – locality, nation, inter- and transnational – only acquired its full meaning in relation to the other two, economic actors often felt obliged to justify their transnational and local preoccupations in national terms. The nation, it appears, often provided the hinge on which the other two perspectives rested.72 And since urban liberals had been in the vanguard of Germany’s national movement since the 1840s, German nationalism continued to rest on the twin concepts of ‘progress’ and ‘power’.73 To conform to this vision, towns were compelled to grow and expand, not only culturally (education) but also demographically and economically.74 This explains why, when conflicts arose over the shape and development of an urban economy, economic actors took frequent recourse to nationalist arguments to defend their interests and livelihoods. Turning to the more specific nationalist visions fostered within particular urban economies and economic milieus, we encounter a fundamental difference in the way hometownsmen and movers and doers imagined the nation. Broadly speaking, the movers and doers conceived of both their town and the German nation as communities in the making; they regarded them as work in progress, as projects under construction. The hometownsmen, by contrast, often perceived their town as an essential given, one whose authentic character was rooted in a specific community of native citizen-producers; and it was through this cognitive prism that they tended to imagine the national community that was Germany. Ludwigshafen’s economic elites and their supporters on the town council adhered more to the former pattern. Whenever they linked local and national perspectives, they placed their emphasis on growth and ceaseless expansion. When they resorted to nationalism, they usually stressed their town’s exceptional status within the German Empire. They liked to portray Ludwigshafen as the embodiment of Germany’s dynamic potentials, as an entity that pointed beyond the confines of the present and towards an even more powerful future. As this vision was put in a special report on the town’s chemical industry that appeared in the liberal Pfälzischer Kurier in 1889: ‘The Hemshof, this factory town par excellence, is the seat of Ludwigshafen’s big industry, a piece of America as is hardly to be found anywhere else on German soil, one of the capitals of modern paint industry. The Hemshof is Germany’s Chromopolis.’75 And, in the same report, the BASF was described as the ‘brightest star within the galaxy of Ludwigshafen’s big industry’, ‘the queen of the industrial towns of the Palatinate’ and ‘the dyeing capital of Germany’.76 When the famous anthropologist Wilhelm Riehl

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visited in 1857, he described Ludwigshafen as a ‘fragment of a large city’, with a townscape littered with new buildings and a few, unpaved roads.77 It would indeed take until 1885 for the town council to name the town’s fifty-nine streets and sideways, replacing the Napoleonic quadrature system that had established itself in parts of the Palatinate and Baden.78 Meanwhile, looking back to his childhood in Ludwigshafen during the 1880s, the writer Adam Ritzhaupt, the offspring of a working-class family, noted that what characterized the town of his youth was what educated people would describe with adjectives such as ‘chaotic, soulless, and ugly’, but which he himself had experienced as a ‘boundless, forceful restlessness’. As he elaborated: ‘Where are the quiet streets inhabited by old ladies, retired councillors and majors? The town of youth gives little consideration to the comforts of old age. There are no parks and promenades suitable for old folks . . . . Everything is new; everything is young; the houses, the families.’79 It is unlikely, of course, that this nationalist vision – one in which Ludwigshafen appeared as the incarnation of all the central virtues associated with the new Germany, particularly its dynamism and unprecedented penchant for growth and expansion – was shared by Ludwigshafen’s innkeepers, some of whom we encountered in this chapter. It is more probable that they imagined the nation in more corporatist terms, in ways that would have enabled them to emphasize their own status within, as well as their contribution to, the welfare of the German nation. They clearly saw themselves as part of the German Mittelstand, that elusive stratum that from the late 1870s was portrayed by some as the nation’s central pillar. But in a town such as Ludwigshafen, dominated as it was by factories, short-distance migration and a highly fluctuating workforce, such a vision of community and collective status was bound to remain relatively marginal. The hometown spirit carried much greater weight in Ulm, where from the mid-1870s members of the local crafts and small trades saw themselves increasingly on the defensive. When they resorted to nationalist arguments, they did so to lend credence to their broadsides against the consequences of economic liberalism. As a spokesman for the Gewerbe argued in a local daily: ‘It is imperative that the political emancipation from foreign domination that we have recently achieved can be extended to the economic and ethical spheres as well. The purpose of the current movement, it seems to me, is to ensure that the national spirit comes to reign supreme in all fields of activity.’80 The author was referring to the movement that stressed the virtues of the German middle classes, the Mittelstand, a concept ideally suited to mediating

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between local and national spheres. It appears that the corporatist vision prevalent among local craftsmen and small traders possessed a high affinity towards the organic nationalism that found expression in the ideology of the German Mittelstand. According to this view, the lower middle-classes constituted the organic core of the nation; their protection from the negative consequences of free trade was therefore deemed in the national interest. Mittelstand, too, stood for a self-evidently given community, and one that was vital for the authenticity of the nation. As a member of the Gewerbeverein put it in a reader’s letter in 1881: ‘Even our champions of Manchester Liberalism begin to accept that in the preservation and strengthening of the middle classes – the Mittelstand – lies the key to the social question.’81 The movers and doers who congregated at the meetings of Ulm’s Handelsverein subscribed to a different national vision. Gustav Maier, for example, kept pointing out that the apostles of economic protectionism had been citing Friedrich List out of context. What List had argued, Maier noted on one occasion, was that Germany needed protection as long as it was lagging behind Britain and France; yet as Germany had now caught up with (and in some respects, overtaken) these nations, such protection could no longer be justified. Above all, Maier endorsed the left-liberal belief in the benefits of free trade to consumers.82 As a consequence, Maier and his allies tended to imagine the nation not as a large corporation but as a community in a constant state of flux. The nation of Ulm’s movers and doers was abstract rather than concrete, individualist rather than corporatist – a little like Maier’s own life as a merchant and future director of the Frankfurt branch of the Reichsbank.83 To call Maier and like-minded members of Ulm’s urban economy ‘cosmopolitans’ would be missing the point. Even so, they imagined different communities – locality, nation, the transnation – not as givens but as constantly emerging entities that were linked in dynamic ways. Augsburg’s two dominant economic milieus seem to have wavered uncomfortably between the communal visions of the hometownsmen and the movers and doers. The town’s crafts and small traders were, above all, centred on the locality, and many may have imagined the nation through the prism of the local economy on which their livelihoods depended. Some members of the local crafts defended the principle of Gewerbefreiheit as the least bad option. However, as we have seen, many, perhaps the majority, were in favour of introducing compulsory Innungen, corporatist professional organizations much like the former guilds. Meanwhile, Augsburg’s textile manufacturers had long

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championed the kind of tariff protection that the empire would adopt in 1879. Their creed was that of Listean economic nationalism. While the gap in social class and political influence separating these two economic milieus could at times make for a tense relationship, the shared reservations about economic liberalism nevertheless established some common ground. Thus, when in April 1881 Chief Customs Officer Diehl gave a public lecture on the new customs tariff in the liberal Bürgerverein, he drew extensively on the work of Friedrich List. After he had concluded his talk, another liberal notable, District Court Chief Officer Kuby, asked those present to ‘raise from their seats in honour of the economist Friedrich List’. The next person to take the rostrum was architect and building firm owner, Karl Albert Gollwitzer. While acknowledging List’s achievements in promoting German economic interests, Gollwitzer nevertheless insisted that the present economic crisis had revealed the limitations of his model. Protective tariffs had ‘not had the desired effects, neither in the metal-working nor in the cotton industry’. What threatened Germany’s industry was ‘not competition from abroad but over-production at home’. Germany, he concluded, had ‘to direct its gaze increasingly to the East, where there were plenty of outlet markets’. The main problem, Gollwitzer contended, were the markedly ‘bad terms of transport’ in Eastern Europe. To rectify this situation, the German Empire needed ‘to put pressure on Austria’. The main precondition for ‘economic prosperity’ at home, Gollwitzer asserted, was that nothing was ‘undertaken that might diminish the Empire’s powers’. In fact, people had to do all they could so that the empire’s ‘powers were duly enhanced’.84 The topic would be resumed only three weeks later in a lecture on ‘Germany’s future outlet markets’. Once again, the speaker argued that the various attempts at restricting the freedom of trade – customs duties and Innungen in particular – had not brought the desired effects. What Germany needed was ‘new markets in southeastern Europe and Asia’. Austria ‘had to extend its territory in order to get access to the sea’. In particular, it had to gain ‘the port of Salonicki’.85

Conclusion This final example from Augsburg suggests that some of Germany’s hometownsmen had come a long way. Of course, most Germans were engaged, to varying degrees, in the generic process of national imagination that Benedict Anderson has identified as the key to modern nationalism. But while one consequence of this engagement may have

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been the gradual absorption of an abstract and broad image of the nation, another, and perhaps more important one, was the fashioning of a series of specific national visions. The point of this chapter has been to demonstrate that these visions were shaped, to an important degree, in and out of particular local and socio-economic contexts. Starting from the assumption that both the locality and the nation appeared as primordial communities endowed with an authentic essence, some economic actors adopted a perspective in which the power of the nation-state loomed increasingly large. Local entrepreneurs such as construction company owner Gollwitzer were no radical proponents of free trade – their business and customer base was firmly local – but nor did they wish to see the return of the guilds. And yet, as far as their economic sensibilities and interests were concerned, they had very little in common with someone like Gustav Maier, the Jewish merchant who sought to establish Ulm as a south German centre of the international grain trade. While for Maier and some of his associates in the Ulm Handelsverein economic prosperity was the result of a pattern of economic exchange shaped by international markets, Gollwitzer subscribed to the kind of economic nationalism that formed the linchpin of Friedrich List’s economic theory. Its two central premises were, firstly, that (at least the large) nations (such as Germany) formed integrated wholes deserving of protection (from the competition of more advanced economic powers such as Britain); and, secondly, that the kind of economic differentiation that resulted from adherence to the principle of values of exchange (a principle supported by Adam Smith and other economic thinkers whom List labelled the ‘cosmopolitan school’), because it disregarded national borders, was to be rejected. As List justified this holistic view in the 1840s: If the English are enabled through new inventions to produce linen forty per cent cheaper than the Germans can by using the old process, and if in the use of their new process they merely obtain a start of a few years over the Germans, in such a case, were it not for protective duties, one of the most important and oldest branches of Germany’s industry will be ruined. It will be as if a limb of the body of the German nation had been lost. And who would be consoled for the loss of an arm by knowing that he had nevertheless bought his shirts forty per cent cheaper?86 Yet Gollwitzer’s ultimate recommendation – that Germany put pressure on Austria and expand eastwards in an effort to colonize new

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markets and territories – was equally in tune with the economic imperialism List had preached roughly forty years earlier. Like List (the son of a Reutlingen tanner), but now emboldened by the existence of a powerful nation-state, Gollwitzer (and we must assume he was not alone in this) had no difficulty in extending his holistic conception of community, gained and solidified during a lifetime as local entrepreneur (Gollwitzer’s father had founded the company that his son would join in his mid-twenties), onto the national plane. Yet whereas the Ulm merchant Gustav Maier went by a cognitive map on which nations did not figure as the principal economic units, Gollwitzer’s communal holism, a legacy of the hometown era, predisposed him towards national expansion. From his vantage point eastward expansion, rather than exchange, was the best way to retain the nation as an integrated community. Up to a point, then, both men’s nationalist visions (for Maier was no cosmopolitanism either) reflected the sphere of circulation and exchange that defined their livelihoods as local entrepreneurs.

Acknowledgement I would like to thank Christine Krüger, Tobias Straumann and William Whyte for their feedback on previous versions of this chapter. I am particularly indebted to Jim Brophy for a close reading of the text, complete with a series of illuminating comments and suggestions.

Notes 1. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 2nd edn (London, 1991). 2. For a recent plea for integrating macro and micro as well as social and cultural history, see Geoff Eley and Keith Nield, The Future of Class in History (Michigan, 2007); William H. Sewell, The Logics of History: Social Theory and Social Transformation (Chicago, 2005). 3. For an important theoretical essay addressing a similar set of issues, see Eric Kaufmann, ‘The Lenses of Nationhood: An Optical Model of Identity’, Nations and Nationalism, 14, 3 (2008), pp. 449–77. The communal framing of the national imagination is the theme of Oliver Zimmer, ‘Circumscribing Community in Construction of Swiss Nationhood’, in Timothy Baycroft and Mark Hewitson (eds), What is a Nation? Europe 1789–1914 (Oxford, 2006), pp. 100–19. 4. Michael Billig’s influential book, Banal Nationalism (London: Sage, 1995) is concerned with everyday representations of the nation in a (post-1945) world of extensive mass communication – not with how specific social contexts may have shaped the national imagination.

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5. On the institutional development of Germany in the later part of the nineteenth century, see, inter alia, David Blackbourn, The Long Nineteenth Century: A History of Germany 1780–1914 (Oxford, 1997), esp. chapters 4, 7; Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Deutsche Gesellschaftsgeschichte, vol. 3: Von der ‘Deutschen Doppelrevolution’ bis zum Beginn des Ersten Weltkrieges 1849– 1914 (Munich, 2007). On individual states’ contribution to the formation of a national infrastructure in the decades before 1871, see especially Abigail Green, Fatherlands. State-building and Nationhood in Nineteenth-century Germany (Cambridge, 2001). 6. The classic general account of the differences between pre- and postnation-state nationalism is John Breuilly, Nationalism and the State, 2nd edn (Manchester, 1993). 7. Gerd Zang (ed.), Provinzialisierung einer Region. Zur Entstehung der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft in der Provinz (Frankfurt am Main, 1978); Dieter Langewiesche, Liberalismus und Demokratie zwischen Revolution und Reichsgründung (Düsseldorf, 1974); Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Berkeley, 1990); Alon Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor: Württemberg, Imperial Germany, and National Memory, 1871–1918 (Chapel Hill/London, 1997); Green, Fatherlands; Siegfried Weichlein, Nation und Religion: Integrationsprozesse im Bismarckreich (Düsseldorf, 2004). For Switzerland, see Zimmer, A Contested Nation: History, Memory and Nationalism in Switzerland, 1761–1891 (Cambridge, 2003), esp. chapters 5–6. 8. The question was raised more than a decade ago by one of the pioneers of research into the region–nation link in nineteenth-century Germany: Celia Applegate, ‘A Europe of Regions: Reflections on the Historiography of SubNational Places in Modern Times’, American Historical Review 104 (1999), pp. 1157–82. 9. For critiques of classical conceptions of national identity, see Rogers Brubaker, Ethnicity without Groups (Cambridge, MA, 2004), p. 24; Oliver Zimmer, ‘Boundary Mechanisms and Symbolic Resources: Towards a ProcessOriented Approach to National Identity’, Nations and Nationalism 9, 2 (2003), pp. 173–93. 10. For a similar perspective, yet one focused more on the mediating influence of entire urban cultures, see the contribution of Henk te Velde in this volume. 11. In the German case, the assumption of local separateness has been particularly marked in the historiography on nineteenth-century liberalism. See, for example, James Sheehan, ‘Liberalism and the City in Nineteenth-century Germany’, Past and Present 51 (1971), pp. 116–37, 136; Thomas Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918. Arbeitswelt und Bürgergeist (Munich, 1993), p. 535; Karl Heinrich Pohl, Kommunalpolitik in Dresden und München vor 1914’, in James Retallack (ed.), Sachsen in Deutschland. Politik, Kultur und Gesellschaft 1830–1918, (Bielefeld, 2000), pp. 171–88. 12. David Blackbourn and James Retallack, Localism, Landscape, and the Ambiguities of Place: German-Speaking Europe, 1860–1930 (Toronto, 2005), p. 18. 13. Applegate, A Nation of Provincials; Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor; Green, Fatherlands. For a particularly rich and pioneering work on this theme, see Zang, Provinzialisierung einer Region. 14. See especially Jennifer Jenkins, Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Liberal Politics in Fin-de-Siècle Hamburg (Ithaca and London, 2003); Jan Palmowski,

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16.

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18. 19.

20. 21.

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23. 24. 25.

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Urban Liberalism in imperial Germany: Frankfurt am Main 1866–1914 (Oxford, 1999). Jenkins’ book on liberal cultural politics in Hamburg addresses the question, but her near-exclusive focus is on the prolific urban reformer, Alfred Lichtwark. Klaus Tenfeld, ‘Urbanization and the Spread of Urban Culture in Germany in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries’, in Friedrich Lenger (ed.), Towards an Urban Nation: Germany since 1770 (Oxford, 2002), p. 16. For a concise new overview of socio-economic developments before unification, see James Brophy, ‘The End of the Economic Old Order: The Great Transition, 1750– 1860’, in Helmut W. Smith (ed.), Oxford Handbook of Modern German History (Oxford, 2010). See, for example, Blackbourn, The Long Nineteenth Century, chapters 4, 7. Dieter Langewiesche, Wanderungsbewegungen in der Hochindustriali sierungsperiode. Regionale, interstädtische und innerstädtische Mobilität in Deutschland 1880–1914’, Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 64 (1977), pp. 1–40. The process is discussed in Weichlein, Nation und Region, pp. 200–23. See, for example, Dieter Langewiesche, ‘ “Staat” und “Kommune”. Zum Wandel der Staatsaufgaben im Deutschland im 19. Jahrhundert’, Historische Zeitschrift 248 (1989), pp. 621–35. Mack Walker, German Home Towns. Community, Society, and General Estate, 1648–1817 (Ithaca & London, 1971), p. 310. Mack Walker’s thesis has attracted a great deal of critical attention, not least from early modern historians. See, for example, Elisabeth Fehrenbach, Politischer Umbruch und gesellschaftliche Bewegung. Ausgewählte Aufsätze zur Geschichte Frankreichs und Deutschlands im 19. Jahrhundert (Munich: Oldenbourg Verlag, 1997), pp. 146–50. Yet what strikes me as worth noting is that, even if by the middle of the nineteenth century the hometown had disappeared as an institutional reality (and most critics of Walker’s argument have looked at the hometown as an institutional reality), this does not mean that it had vanished as a powerful ideal: corporatism retained a powerful attraction to some groups within Germany’s urban communities. It was one of the mental maps people used as they tried to cope with the effects of ‘modernisation’. The persistence of corporatist-style institutions and patterns of thought in nineteenth-century Europe, and particularly their capacity to adapt to changing circumstances, has been highlighted by a number of historians. See, for example, William H. Sewell, Structure and Mobility: The Men and Women of Marseille, 1820–1870 (Cambridge: CUP, 1985); for Germany, see James Brophy, Popular Culture and the Public Sphere in the Rhineland 1800–1850 (Cambridge: CUP, 2007). Peter Schaller, Die Industrialisiserung der Stadt Ulm zwischen 1828/34 und 1875 (Stuttgart, 1999). Antwort OB v. Heim an Visitationskommmissaer Herrn Regierungsrath Rentschler, 12 Oktober 1875, Staatsarchiv Ludwigsburg: E 179 II. Schreiben des Handelsvereins an den Gemeinderath Ulm. 2. Februar 1874. Stadtarchiv Ulm [hereafter cited as StAUlm]: 724/22 Nr. 1, See also Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 240 (15 October 1874).

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26. Antwort OB v. Heim an Visitationskommmissaer Herrn Regierungsrath Rentschler, 12 Oktober 1875, Staatsarchiv Ludwigsburg: E 179 II. 27. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 294 (17 December 1875); no. 32 (9 February 1876). 28. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 166 (20 July 1877). 29. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 198 (26 August 1877). 30. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 18 (23 January 1880). Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 18 (23 January 1880). 31. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 40 (18 February 1880). 32. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 38 (15 February 1880). 33. Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 42 (20 February 1880). 34. Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 206 (6 September 1877). 35. Friedrich Lenger, Sozialgeschichte des deutschen Handwerks (Frankfurt am Main, 1988), pp. 104, 118–21, 131, 136–38; Thomas Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1800–1866, p. 260. 36. Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 90 (17 April 1884). 37. On this, see Brophy, The End of the Economic Old Order. 38. Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 167 (22 July 1877). 39. Ibid. 40. Georg Kuhn, Aus der Geschichte des Handwerker- und Gewerbeverbandes Ludwigshafen am Rhein (MS, February 1944). Stadtarchiv Ludwigshafen am Rhein [hereafter cited as StALu]: M, nr. 286. 41. Kuhn, Geschichte, p. 2. 42. On Ludwigshafen’s social and economic history, see Wolfgang von Hippel, ‘Zwischen kleindeutscher Reichsgründung und Weltkriegs-Katastrophe – Ludwigshafen zur Zeit des Zweiten Deutschen Kaiserreichs 1870/71–1914’, in Stefan Mörz und Klaus Jürgen Becker (eds), Geschichte der Stadt Ludwigshafen am Rhein (Ludwigshafen: Stadtarchiv, 2003), pp. 366–758. 43. ‘Der Hemshof, die Farbenstadt Deutschlands’, Pfälzischer Kurier, 28/29 March 1889. 44. See v. Hippel, ‘Zwischen Kleindeutscher Reichsgründung’, pp. 377–441. 45. The reformed Reichsgewerbeordnung of 1879, § 33, section II, entitled state governments to make the issuing of licences for inns dependent on a means test. Based on this imperial law, the Bavarian government in August 1879 decreed that licence restrictions would indeed apply for towns under 15,000 inhabitants. 46. On this debate, see StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 47. Kgl. Bezirksamt Speyer and Gemeinderat Ludwigshafen, 29 August 1885. StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 48. Bürgermeisteramt an Wirteverein Ludwigshafen, 28 September 1885, StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 49. Vorstand des Gastwirth-Vereins LU a. Rh. an Bürgermeisteramt 3 October 1885, StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 50. Ludwigshafener Anzeiger, no. 245 (19 Oktober 1885). 51. See Verzeichnis der bei der Gemeinderatswahl 1884/89 stimmberechtigten Gemeindemitglieder’, StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 52. Bürgermeisteramt LU an k. Bezirksamt’, 25 October 1885, StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 53. Ibid. 54. K. Bezirksamt an Bürgermeisteramt, 13 November 1885, StALu: Lua, nr. 60.

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55. Sitzung Stadtrat, 26 November 1885, Rekurs zhd. Regierung d. Pfalz. StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 56. The government of the Palatinate’s justification can be found in a letter that the district office in Speyer sent to the Bürgermeisteramt on 15 February 1886, StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 57. Gesuch des Gastwirtevereins Ludwigshafen an den Gemeinderat Ludwigshafen, 9 Juli 1896, StALu: Lua, nr. 60. 58. Ilse Fischer, Industrialisierung, sozialer Konflikt und politische Willensbildung in der Stadtgemeinde: Ein Beitrag zur Sozialgeschichte Augsburgs, 1840–1914 (Augsburg, 1977). 59. See, for example, Bekanntmachung die Handwerksgesellen betreffend. Augsburg, 28 Juni 1862, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 3, nr. 707. 60. Augsburger Anzeigeblatt (12 February 1860). 61. Frank Möller, Bürgerliche Herrschaft in Augsburg 1790–1880 (Oldenbourg, 1998), p. 405. 62. Stadtmagistrat Augsburg an Stadtmagistrat Kissingen, Augsburg, 17 März 1880, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 267. 63. Möller, Bürgerliche Herrschaft, p. 403. 64. Fischer, Industrialisierung, pp. 25–28. 65. Meeting 28 November 1876, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 422. 66. Meeting 10 December 1878, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 422. 67. Meeting 21 April 1880, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 422. 68. See the meetings of 10 June 1879 and 25 June 1879, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 422. 69. Meeting 12 February 1883. Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 37. 70. Ibid. 71. Police report on the meeting of 6 March 1883. Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 37. 72. For an attempt at going transnational in the German context, see Sebastian Conrad and Jürgen Osterhammel (eds), Das Kaiserreich Transnational. Deutschland in der Welt 1871–1914 (Göttingen, 2004). More recently, Glenn Penny has praised the turn towards transnational history for its alleged promise to ‘free German history from the tyranny of the modern, the nationstate, and the limiting perspective of the late twentieth century’. See his article, ‘The Fate of the Nineteenth Century in German Historiography’, The Journal of Modern History 80 (March 2008), pp. 81–108, 83. At the risk of appearing as a bit of a Spielverderber, one wonders if it is still too early to call attention to transnationalism’s need for more archivally driven social history. For nuanced discussions of the substantive connections between the local, national and transnational dimensions in German history, see David Blackbourn, ‘Europeanizing German History: A Comment’, Bulletin of the German Historical Institute 36 (2005), pp. 25–32; Celia Applegate, ‘A Europe of Regions: Reflections on the Historiography of Sub-National Places in Modern Times’, American Historical Review 104 (1999), pp. 1157–82; David Blackbourn and James Retallack, Localism, Landscape, and the Ambiguities of Place. German-Speaking Central Europe, 1860–1930 (Toronto, 2007), introduction. Also, it is worth observing that it has been known for some time that nationalism and the nation-state, rather than transnationalism’s ‘Other’, as they are often portrayed, were from the very outset quintessentially

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73.

74.

75.

76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84. 85. 86.

Towns and the Nation-State transnational phenomena. See, for example, Christopher Bayly, The Birth of the Modern World. Global Connections and Comparisons 1780–1914 (Oxford, 2004). This did not change with the split of the liberal movement in the late 1870s. No doubt the National Liberals were conservative on certain issues (including democratic participation and religious pluralism), but in other respects (particularly Bildung and economic modernization) they remained firmly wedded to their vision of progress and power. See, for example, David Blackbourn, Marpingen. Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Nineteenth-Century Germany (New York, 1994), ch. 9. As Thomas Nipperdey has reminded historians, its interventionist and anti-liberal economic tendencies notwithstanding, the Kaiserreich’s economic regime was consistently that of a liberal market economy. The tariffs that Germany imposed on imported goods (13 per cent on average) were undoubtedly higher than those of Britain, the Netherlands or Switzerland, but lower than those of France, the USA or Russia. See Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918, Vol. I, p. 281. ‘Der Hemshof, die Farbenstadt Deutschlands’, Pfälzischer Kurier (28/29 March 1889). ‘Der Hemshof, diese Fabrikstadt par eminence, ist der Sitz der Ludwigshafener Grossindustrie, ein Stück Amerika, wie es kaum ein anderer Fleck deutschen Bodens wieder zeigt, ein Hauptort der modernen Farbenindustrie, er ist die Farbenstadt, das Chromopolis Deutschlands.’ Ibid. Wilhelm Heinrich Riehl, Die Pfälzer. Ein rheinisches Volksbild, Kaiserslautern, 1964 [1857], pp. 236–37. Stadtarchiv Ludwigshafen: Pa I, nr. 8, pp. 471–72, 7 October 1885. Adam Ritzhaupt, In Sonne und Rauch. Erzählungen aus dem Kinderleben (Karlsruhe: sine datum), pp. 6–7. Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 95 (25 April 1879). Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 6 (9 January 1881). Ulmer Tagblatt, no. 101 (2 May 1879). The most important representative of Ulm’s merchant community, a native of Ulm and a prolific writer and commentator, Maier took up his new post in Frankfurt in 1880. His departure is telling. See Ulmer Schnellpost, no. 99 (30 April 1881). Meeting 12 April 1881, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 422. Meeting 4 May 1881, Stadtarchiv Augsburg: 5, nr. 422. Friedrich List, The National System of Political Economy (New York, 1966 [1841–44]), pp. 146–47. On holism as a feature of List’s thinking, see Mark Metzler, ‘The Cosmopolitanism of National Economics: Friedrich List in a Japanese Mirror’, in A. G. Hopkins (ed.), Global History. Interactions between the Universal and the Local (Basingstoke, 2006), p. 106.

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Concluding Remarks and Observations John Breuilly

Introduction There is a general consensus that nationalism and a widespread and significant sense of national identity are modern, meaning not just recent but closely linked to the transformations of modernity. There is also general agreement that modernization is bound up with urbanization, understood as a demographic shift from countryside to town, an increase in the size of towns in which strangers come together, and of towns becoming the centres of power, wealth and culture. Within this consensus there is a danger that nationalism, national identity and urbanization are all collapsed into one broad notion of modernization. One consequence is neglect of the specific role the town plays in these changes. The chapters in this volume begin to correct this neglect. First, they insist that the town is a certain kind of locality with its own interests and identities. Second, rather than set the urban/local against the national as distinct or opposing identities the contributors show how they inform and shape each other. Within this common concern there is great diversity. It is not my intention to summarize this diversity; readers can do that themselves by reading the book. Rather I seek to conceptualize and reflect upon varied understandings of the urban, the national and the modern which in part account for this diversity. To do this, I make three distinctions: between nationalism as explicit political doctrine or project and as discourse about national interest and identity; between cases where the nation-state sets the frame for collective action and where it does not; and between the pre-modern and modern town. 289

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Nationalist politics or national identity? Jeremy King’s analysis of the rise of German and Czech movements in the towns of later nineteenth-century Bohemia and David Laven’s study of the response of Venice to Risorgimento nationalism focus on nationalism as explicit doctrines and movements. King shows how urban change shaped competing national movements; Laven argues that Venice was indifferent, even hostile to Risorgimento nationalism. The urban/nationalism relationship is very different in the two cases. King shows how national movements were formed within towns, as one response to urban modernization. The result was a middle-class dominated urban politics framed in terms of German or Czech identity to which subsequent popular forms of collective action had to adjust. This is not nationalism in the sense of a project to create a nationstate but in the more limited sense of national movements seeking to control particular towns. In the case of Italy the nationalist movement is a nation-state project but one which is external to Venice, a former city-state still possessed of distinct authority in the Habsburg Empire. Laven suggests there was a distinctively urban-based nationalism which provided a potential alternative to centralizing, territorial Risorgimento nationalism, both moderate and radical. Venice rejects Risorgimento nationalism both because of its city-state interest and identity and because of Risorgimento hostility to this Italian tradition of municipal autonomy. King argues that German and Czech conceptions of the national were initially different, with Germans stressing education, occupation and civic status while Czechs emphasized language, and Laven contrasts two different understandings of the national, this time framed outside and within the city of Venice. Nationalism as a distinct political project is less central to or altogether absent from the other chapters. It figures in Jacobson to the extent that a distinct Catalan critique is made of the Universal Exhibition’s attempt to promote Spanish identity. Hilson suggests that conservative nationalism is aiming at a powerful state and navy helped shape politics in Karlskrona. Ginderachter argues that urban autonomy in Belgium provided space for the development of Flemish nationalism. Chanet, though mainly looking at urban material interests, does hint that republican or conservative nationalist values influenced the attitude of particular towns to garrison building. But generally these and the remaining chapters look at towns in nation-states where there is little in the way of competing national movements and where there is, instead, general agreement that all

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parties worked for a common national interest. The role of towns is in framing the ideas of national interest and identity in particular ways, often in conflict with other such ideas. I make a distinction between interest and identity because the various chapters tend to focus on one or other of these concerns. Urban interest is central to Mary Hilson’s account of how the Swedish dockyard town of Karlskrona responded to national policies on navybuilding, to Pierre Purseigle’s analysis of how shoemaking interests in Northampton and winemaking interests in Béziers pressed their radical and sectional concerns against the nation-state and to Jean-Francois Chanet’s study of how French towns sought to exploit the early Third Republic’s expansion of the army, in particular the increased number of garrisons. Te Velde and Ginderachter are concerned more generally with the changing ways towns fit into a developing nation-state framework in the Netherlands and Belgium. In Ginderachter the central concern is with how urban autonomy permits or blocks state-led nationalizing processes. Te Velde considers how far urban modernization alters the urban/national relationship. The remaining chapters focus on issues of identity rather than interest. Jacobson shows how competing conceptions of both urban and national identity informed the propaganda and symbolic activity at the Universal Exhibition in Barcelona. Whyte has similar concerns but focused on the styles, symbols and ceremonies associated with British civic architecture. Zimmer explores how different kinds of people in three German towns visualize the nation in different ways. Despite this diversity the concern is not with nationalism as a distinct political project shaped in the town and/or to which the town responds but with the national as an institutional and/or symbolic framework within which towns form representations of their own interests and identities. Clearly interest and identity relate to one another. However, in practice it is difficult for historians to relate, for example, the representations of town and nation in the architecture of civic buildings to the pursuit of specific interests within the town. In part the difficulty is because producing representations and pursuing interests are distinct spheres of action involving different groups. Admittedly it is usually the wealthiest urban groups that most influence public representations of the town. Yet even then there is a disjunction between interest and representation, as when merchants or manufacturers defer to some dominant aesthetic ideal. A good opportunity for linking the two is when strong differences of opinion are expressed within the town. Yet although it is rare for any public building, sculpture, monument or festival to be exempt from

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criticism, it remains difficult to relate the criticisms to distinct interests. Liberals and Conservatives in Manchester agreed that the town hall had to be in the neo-Gothic style. Zimmer makes the interest–identity connection by arguing that those representing conservative interests and those advocating innovation and open competition visualized both town and nation in different ways. Representation is understood not as symbolic projection or value commitment but as a cognitive category.1 Material and ideal interests have to be articulated and such articulation cannot be provided by the interest itself, although that articulation must be appropriate to the interest pursued. There is still a problem when a sharp change of situation ‘requires’ a sharp change in an interest and its articulation. For example, the entrepôt port of Hamburg with an interest in free trade subsequently developed manufacturing industries which favoured protectionism. Is the ‘vision’ (‘open’ versus ‘closed’ town) a function of the interest or does one vision continue to shape interest articulation, perhaps delaying adjustment to a new situation? It is easier to pose than to answer the question. Cases of contrasting or even opposed visions can help us take the argument further. In 1847, Richard Cobden, ending a triumphal tour of Europe following the repeal of the Corn Laws, spoke to a great banquet of Hamburg merchants and raised a toast ‘to free trade, the source of all other freedoms’. Yet this merchant community, although firmly committed to freedom of trade in the sense of opposition to tariffs or other restrictions on entrepôt trade, also supported the compulsory guild system that operated in Hamburg, a practice which Cobden passionately abhorred. Theirs was a ‘vision’ which combined closure with openness, underpinned by the idea that freedom in one sphere had to be balanced by restriction in another if there was not to be social breakdown.2 This contrast between restricted and open visions of the urban– local, the national and even the transnational suggests other lines of inquiry. Te Velde has a telling quotation from the Protestant evangelical Abraham Kuyper in 1897 which uncannily anticipates Benedict Anderson’s argument that a community of readers of a newspaper constitutes an ‘imagined community’. Anderson was interested in the nation as such a community but Kuyper was referring to a community of Christian believers. There can be other imagined communities. One could be the urban community. Readers in various towns might not imagine themselves as a community of a particular town but as certain kinds of urban inhabitants who form a community with similar inhabitants of other towns. Take the case of the Manchester Guardian,

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which was a national newspaper by mid-nineteenth century but which spoke for and to certain kinds of urban readers. The liberal notion of the urban, the national and the modern projected in the Guardian was shaped through partisan conflict within individual towns, and those parties formed connections between towns. One such organized set of connections was the Anti-Corn Law League. The very word ‘league’ deliberately conjured up associations with the Hanseatic League. The celebration of neo-Gothic town halls expressed the idea that progressive urban–national interests in Britain could look to the autonomous towns and city-states of northern Europe (less so to the city-states of Catholic Italy) with their medieval civic buildings. I have selected a theme in nineteenth-century Britain to do with freetrade radical and liberal representations of the urban as a distinctive kind of community which is also national and transnational. There is a debate in German historiography over the nature of liberalism which has affinities to these notions of restricted versus open visions. Lothar Gall argued the case for the centrality of what he called mittelständisch liberalism in the German lands of the nineteenth century with a focus on the self-governing community. Wolfgang Mommsen set against this a notion of liberalism as the ideology of modernizing bourgeois elites, which wanted to break down communal barriers and restrict the influence of popular but anti-free trade sentiments in both urban and state politics. The two positions in part passed each other by as they tended to focus on different times and towns. Gall and his collaborators in the research project ‘Stadt und Bürgertum im 19.Jahrhundert’ focused on medium-sized towns and the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries while Mommsen (and the Bielefeld ‘bourgeoisie’ research project) was more interested in big-city liberalism in the Second Empire.3 The chapters in this volume allow us instead to explore the idea that these are directly competing ideologies or visions which can develop in the same time and place and shape each other through their mutual tensions.

Nation-state or not? My second distinction concerns whether the context of urban action is the nation-state or not. When all significant agents in political conflict agree that this takes place within a nation-state and that the interests of this state are paramount, there is little room for an explicit nationalist politics counterposed to other political movements and doctrines which are not nationalist. Instead the focus shifts to the conflicting ways

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in which the ‘national’, as interest or identity, are elaborated. This in turn links to the specific role of the nation-state. Is that state itself an agent of ‘nationalisation’ which is imposed upon its subjects? Eugen Weber in Peasants into Frenchmen presented the forces of nationalization as either the deliberate work of nation-state governments, in this case the republican nationalists of the Third Republic, and/or as the impersonal processes of ‘modernisation’ such as increased social mobility (from countryside to town, from smaller towns to larger cities and from one region to another). This leaves little room for distinctive contributions by particular groups, including towns, in the formation of national identity. Not surprisingly many of the contributors criticize and reject Weber’s argument.4 However, there are different situations in which one could explore the active role of towns in shaping national identity. One is when nationalism or national identity is promoted outside the nation-state context. In nineteenth-century Bohemia there is no nation-state and no state interest in promoting national identity. Rather it is the urban– local emergence of national movements that forces adjustments upon the state, for example in using national language categories in censuses and legislating on the language of school instruction and urban government. The underlying argument is reminiscent of classic studies by Karl Deutsch and Ernest Gellner, and is echoed in the closely historically informed work of Miroslav Hroch. Increasing numbers of Czech-speakers stream into towns dominated by German speakers. This is linked to a shift from local market towns becoming specialized economic units within more extensive commercial networks, often also turning to the capitalist employment of wage-labourers, as well as expanding urban government to such matters as provision of elementary education and infrastructure. All this promotes a process whereby Czech speakers come to commit to representations of themselves as members of a Czech nation rather than as urban immigrants who can only climb the social ladder by learning German. This in turn leads German speakers to represent themselves as members of a German nation. The source of ‘nationalisation’ here is not the nationalizing state but the impersonal modernizing process transforming two differently placed language groups into competing national movements. However, such a nationalizing process only works if there are two or more possible national movements, whether or not the state also projects itself as national. Thus, in addition to the Bohemian case, there are potential competitors in Barcelona (Spanish, Catalan) and in Belgium (Belgian, Flemish). In all the other cases, the focus is on

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nation-states (even if of recent formation) in which there is no significant national movement able to compete with the dominant one.5 The concern is not with how the town originates national identity but how it shapes it within that given national context. The exception that proves the rule is provided in Laven’s chapter. He argues that the national was rejected by Venice, not in the name of some alternative national idea but by Venice as a distinct urban community which did not accept the Italian nationalist project on offer. However, that does not mean Venetians rejected the idea of being Italian, just that they could give no political content to such an idea. Once Venice was included within an Italian nation-state, it adjusted its interests and even identity to that new reality. However, Laven does not go on to investigate just what concepts of national interest and identity were then elaborated within the city. The problem with how I have so far phrased these points is that I use phrases like ‘the nation state’ and the ‘given national context’. The objection of many of the contributors to Eugen Weber’s thesis is that the town becomes simply a site of reactions to ‘nationalising’ processes initiated elsewhere, whether by a zealous nation-state government or by impersonal processes of modernization. The objection to this way of approaching the subject, and the starting point for an alternative approach which these chapters offer, is to question that word ‘given’. Nation-states may be ‘given’ in the sense that there is a modern territorial state with legitimacy and sovereign powers which is accepted both by its subjects and other states as national, but that tells us nothing about just what the ‘national’ means in terms of interests and identities. Nation-states do not, by their mere existence, generate such interests and identities. National communities are changeable and open-ended. In many cases political actors have a sense of the nation as a fragile, endangered community, and that intensifies the effort to project particular senses of the national. Furthermore, these projections are plural and in conflict, and that actually gives such visions a sharper content and meaning. There is nothing automatic or consensual about the formation and continuation of a national community. Indeed, it is precisely these conflicting attempts to project ideas of the national which contributes also to the idea that the ‘national’ is a given, underlying all these conflicts. To disagree one must agree on a framework within which that disagreement can take place, but equally that framework itself is formed through the process of disagreement. Once these points are accepted, then it becomes vital to look at just how such competing ideas of the national are formed and why some prevail at particular times. These chapters describe and analyse the

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specific role of towns in this process and herein lies their originality and significance. However, there is one further step which I think could be taken, even if it means moving away from a focus on particular towns. This is how a notion of the ‘urban’, both transcending and connecting particular towns, is formed, carrying with it conceptions of the national. One promising line of research would be to explore how selfconsciously urban groups take up political connections across different towns, as with the case of the Anti-Corn Law League already mentioned. There may be distinct liberal and conservative, Catholic and Protestant, bourgeois and labour interests within particular towns but they can only become significant, ‘national’ and self-conscious about their interests and identities by means of forming larger-scale collective movements, above all political parties. Thus, for example, National Liberal-dominated big-city governments in Germany established formal associations concerned with urban government as such. The logic of the arguments of many of these chapters pushes one towards a study of the role of the urban in national politics and urban representations of the national.

Urban and national modernity This takes me to my third theme: the role of modernity in shaping the urban/national interaction. Modernity and modernization are complex and contestable concepts and to help develop this theme I will make three distinctions between social relations, economic interests and political institutions. One common image of the modern city is of a special kind of society. Two particular changes from earlier social relations are identified: community to class and local self-sufficiency to extensive interdependence. If we define modernization as a shift from small-scale, multifunctional relationships (as exemplified in urban guilds) to large-scale and functionally specialized relationships (as exemplified in the factory), then the first of these changes draws attention to what is happening within the town and the second to the relationship between the town and a wider world.6 The first conjures up images of increasing numbers of people living together as strangers, with different classes living in different parts of the town and moving between separate spheres such as work, home and school. The town itself can only be represented as an imagined community and such imagining interacts with that national imagining as well as other kinds of large-scale imagining such as those

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of class and religion. Most of the chapters either focus on one or a few towns over a short period of time or on a larger set of towns over a long period so this process tends not to be explicitly considered. Te Velde comes closest to this theme with his argument that urban modernization in the Netherlands is closely associated with new forms of nationalism and national identity. However, some contributors question this image of urban change. In many towns small-scale economic enterprises still dominate, and in various parts of the town one can find face-to-face communities, not a mass of strangers. This is especially the case when looking at the small numbers involved in public affairs. However, it is difficult, from this perspective, to see why a new sense of national identity should be generated in such ‘pre-modern’ (or, to take te Velde’s term, ‘early modern’) towns rather than being a passive response to national incorporation from outside. An alternative explanation could focus on the second dimension of extensive interdependence. Towns can remain small and organized as milieus of face-to-face community but at the same time become increasingly specialized in regional, national and even global divisions of labour. Zimmer argues that some people might resent the consequent sense of dependency and seek restrictions and rules which reduce it while others pursue greater openness and interdependency. However, whichever response is involved it promotes connections to similarly minded people in other towns and this in turn stimulates specifically urban ideas of national identity. It seems to me that any ‘modernist’ argument for an active urban contribution towards national identity must involve at least one of these dimensions of change if there is to be any social explanation of the rise of specifically urban forms of nationalism and national identity. A narrower account might focus on economic interests, arguing that modernization produces new and distinct interests (e.g. business advocacy of protectionism or free trade, labour demands for legal recognition of unions and strikes), which can only be effectively pursued by taking up connections at a national level and promoting representations that fuse the urban and national. Of course towns also compete against each other (e.g. on the location of garrisons) but I would suggest that this is less important in the formation of urban–national identities than the construction of alliances between similar interests across a range of towns. However, this again is a subject for further research. A more narrow political focus could look at urban government. Many of the chapters consider two related aspects of this. The first

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concerns the degree of autonomy urban government enjoys. As Ginderachter argues, such autonomy provides the space within which distinctly urban conceptions of the national can be shaped, but it also makes it possible for these to take competing forms (e.g. a Flemish nationalism in Belgian towns, a Catalan emphasis in Barcelona) or for a distinctly non-national, even anti-national politics to develop, as in Venice. However, one should distinguish between what I would call premodern and modern forms of autonomy. In the pre-modern context towns are self-sufficient communities free to devise their own forms of self-government. This would not provide promising ground for the elaboration of conceptions of the national. Laven points to a possible ‘municipal’ basis for Italian nationalism in such towns but I am sceptical that this could ever have given rise to an enduring nationalism or any widespread sense of national identity. Laven’s own argument implies this when he suggests that one reason for an urban interest in national unification was a belief that it might free the town from a dominant neighbour or its local ruler. One finds something similar in the German lands in 1848. Municipal radicals in the Bavarian Palatinate supported German unification as a means of gaining freedom from Bavarian rule. However, if national unification means anything it must entail new forms of intervention and uniformity which this ‘municipal nationalism’ would vehemently oppose. Modern urban autonomy takes the form of the uniform provision for such autonomy by the territorial state, in the way that King describes for Austria and as outlined by te Velde and Ginderachter for the Netherlands and Belgium. A variant can be found in Britain where statute law does not impose forms of urban government but rather enables towns to reorganize themselves or to assume and finance certain functions. (A case of imposition from the centre was the Poor Law of 1834 but this ran against the more general tendency of permissive legislation such as the Municipal Corporation Act and the Free Libraries Act.) Such uniform law can have two ‘nationalising’ effects. First, it makes it clear that the town’s form of government is a function of the territorial state which increasingly is a nation-state. Second, as urban government takes on a more standard form, this itself can promote closer connections between towns and in turn the idea that towns share common interests and identities within the nation-state. In just such a way in many European states by 1900 there came into being organizations to represent the interests of urban government as such. Many of the chapters also draw attention to the growth of urban government – sometimes imposed by the state (e.g. the provision of

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compulsory elementary education), sometimes initiated by the town to cope with specific problems (e.g. water supply and sewage). As King shows, the new issues coming within the purview of urban ‘public’ affairs acquire a national meaning, such as the language question in schools. One can extend the argument to other chapters. Splendid town halls were not built just as symbols of town identity but as places in which new governmental functions were to be discharged. When the Birmingham Council House was built (in neo-classical mode) in the 1820s it was only intended to make a cultural claim, being a concert hall designed to continue and expand the Triennial Music Festival. When Manchester town hall was built some forty years later (in the ‘urban’ neo-Gothic style), it was as the site of a powerful urban administration. The architect Alfred Waterhouse spent as much thought on the accommodation of the gas and water departments as he did to murals and external appearance. Such urban government generally remained an elite domain ruled by people one might describe as ‘national liberals’ even if that designation means something different when applied to Joseph Chamberlain or Johannes von Miquel. These powerful big-city governments could run ahead of state modernization in such matters as welfare, public health and infrastructure provision. Then these national liberals might see it as their mission to generalize urban progress to the national level. Conversely, the national government might be promoting such changes, moving towards mass politics and communication and seeking to bring towns along in this direction. So there was great variety in how the modernization of the town interacted with that of national society or nation-state. This in turn means a great diversity in the ways the urban came to be articulated as national and the national as urban. However, without some distinct process of modernization, I find it difficult to see how any such articulation could occur.

Conclusion I have identified three themes as being of central importance to this book: a distinction between nationalist politics and national discourse within the town; whether the town develops a sense of the national within a nation-state or some other context; and the role of modernity in shaping ideas of the national within the town. Taken together the chapters demonstrate the importance of investigating specific roles towns play in the development of modern nationalism and popular national identity. They also show how complex and

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various are the ways this subject can be approached. The chapters also point to a general deficiency of recent work on nationalism, namely the absence of research on the local and the popular. There are numerous studies of the politics of nationalism and the role of intellectuals in shaping nationalist ideology. There are many debates about the role of the state or modernization or myths and memories but these are rarely informed by detailed studies of particular places and groups. Conversely, research into subjects such as the social history of workers, peasants and middle-class groups is usually not connected to those debates about nationalism. The two need combining if our understanding of the social bases of nationalism and national identity is to be advanced. The book suggests many ways to do this. The subject which I found increasingly important and puzzling as I read and reflected upon these chapters is how the ‘urban’ – understood as something more than particular towns and cities – could be articulated at the national level as both imagined community and collective practice. I have also touched upon the problems of connecting interest to identity, of specifying the difference the context of a nation-state makes and of exploring how modernity in the town shapes nationalism and national identity. All these questions and many more are addressed in this rich collection.

Notes 1. Before we can have a conception of an urban or national ‘interest’ we need to ‘know’ what a town or a nation is. The sheer complexity and ultimate unknowability of our world means we need to deploy ideas about this world and how it works before we can pursue material or ideal interests in that world. This idea of the national as a cognitive category (although he uses the term ethnicity) is reviewed in Henry Hale, ‘Explaining Ethnicity’, Comparative Political Studies, 37(4) (2004), pp. 458–85. 2. I argue this case in ‘ “Ein Stück Englands?”: A Contrast between the Freetrade Movements in Hamburg and Manchester’, in Andrew Marrison (ed.), Free Trade and its Reception 1815–1960: Freedom and Trade, Vol. 1 (London, 1998), pp. 105–26. Cobden’s journal of his tour provides fascinating detail on what happens when someone with a passionately ‘open’ vision encounters a whole variety of ‘closed’ social arrangements, whether economic, cultural or political. 3. I reviewed these issues in the literature up to about 1990 in ‘Liberalism and the German Bourgeoisie: Germany in Comparative Perspective’, Archiv für Sozialgeschichte, 32 (1992), pp. 384–404. 4. A very useful review article which looks at the debates Weber’s book stimulated, both in French and other European historiographies, is Miguel Cabo and Ferdinando Molina, ‘The Long and Winding Road of Nationalization: Eugen

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Weber’s Peasants into Frenchmen in Modern European History (1976–2006)’, European History Quarterly, 39(2) (2009), pp. 264–86. 5. One can find, for example, Irish movements in British cities like Manchester and Liverpool, and Polish movements in the Ruhr district but these do not provoke a counter national movement framed in English or German terms because these minorities can never seriously contend for urban, let alone state, power. 6. I elaborate on this idea of modernization in ‘Modernisation as Social Evolution: The German Case, c.1800–1880’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Sixth Series, 15 (2005), pp. 117–47.

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Index

Aberdeen, 206 Adam, Juliette, 181 Administrative Court of Justice in Vienna, 38, 39 Aerts, Remieg, 129, 254–5 Agde, 182 Age of Liberty, 138 Agglomération community, 123 Agnew, John A, 200 Agulhon, Maurice, 192, 202 Åland, 140 Alberto, Carlo, 52–3 Albornoz, Nicolás Sánchez, 105 Alen, André, 129 Allen, A. C., 201 Allen, E., 199 Alfonso XII, 81, 93 Alfonso XIII, 88, 106 Algemeen Handelsblad (publication), 237 Algeria, 167 Allgemeines Bürgerliches Gesetzbuch (ABGB), 63 Allóes Paul-Riquet, 192 Amari, Michele, 49 Åmark, Klas, 150–1 Amerigo Vespucci (warship), 64 Amiens, 168, 170 Aminzade, Ronald, 3, 11 Amsterdam, 79, 237, 238, 241–2, 244 Amsterdam Central Station, 250 Ancien Regime, 112 Ancien régime (old order), 113, 176 Ancona, 48, 63 Andersen, Roy, 141, 153 Anderson, Benedict, 43, 236–7, 253, 257, 279, 281, 292 Anderson, R. D., 231 Ann Schmidt, Vivien, 128 Anti-Revolutionary Party, 247 Antwerp, 79, 124 Aosta, 48

Applegate, Celia, 11, 47, 68, 199, 260, 282, 285 Archer, John, 225–6 Architecture in Britain identity and, 204–23 patriotism and, 213–20 Argelliers, 190 Argelliers Committee, 190 Army Corps, 196 Armytage, W. H. G., 230 Arnaldi, G., 69, 72 Arnhem, 237 Arnhemsche Courant (1814), 237 Arnstein, W. L., 201 Aronsson, Peter, 151 Arsenale (dockyard), 56, 64 Art, Jan, 128 Ashworth, G. J., 152 Askwith, George R., 188–9, 201 Audoin-Rouzeau, Stéphane, 177, 202 Auerbach, Jeffrey A., 74, 104, 107 Augsburg, 259 economy of, urban, 262, 272–3 guilds in, abolition of, 271 liberalism in, economic, 273 population of, 259 self-employment in, of craftsmen, 271–2, 274–5 textile manufacturing in, 274, 278–9 trade in, freedom of, 263, 272–4 Augsburger Anzeigeblatt (publication), 272 Augustus Sala, George, 62, 72 Aurelio Mutti, Pietro, 58 Austen, Alfred, 210 Austin, Alfred, 228 Austria Austrian census of, 19 Austrian Constitutional Law Nr. 142 of, 29 bottom-up, social approaches in, 18 302

Zimmer

Index Counter-Reformation Catholicism in, 117 dissolution of, 21 free municipality of, 21 Habsburg Monarchy, rule by, 19 Imperial School Law of, 38–9 jurisdictions of, delegated and natural, 22, 29 languages of, 19, 38 modernization of, 20 multiparty systems of, 37 municipal government of, 31 municipalities of, 19–20, 31, 33 municipal order of, 20–1 national equality of rights approach in, 34–5 ‘nationality problem’ in, 18 national movements in, 18, 32 political administration of, 17, 20–3 conservative, 35 minorities of, exclusion of, 34 municipal level of, 33–4 municipal politics, expansion of, 32 national politics, expansion of, 31, 35 population of, increased urban, 31 Provisional Municipal Law of, 21–5, 37 regions of, 18 self-government of, 27–8 socioeconomic profile of, 33 top-down, legal approaches in, 18 see also Bohemian lands Austriacanti, 53–4, 59 Austrian census (1880–1910), 19 Austrian Constitutional Law Nr. 142, 29 Austrian Empire, 51 Austrian Silesia, 19 Austrian Südbahn Railway Company, 63 Axon, William E. A., 226 Aztec Palace, 99 Bach, Alexander von, 57 Bacon, Francis, 218 Baden, 268, 277 Balañà, Albert Garcia, 106

303

Balkans, 65 Bank, Jan, 255 Bank of Barcelona, 79, 86 Banti, Alberto M., 47, 68 Barcelona (Barcelonés), 92 demographics of, 78 economic crisis of, 82 elections of, 79–80 industrial belt of, 78 international visitors to, 91–2 Liberal-Conservatives of, 79–81 Madrid, tensions with, 93 modernism in, 85 municipal government of, 79 municipal politics in, 76 patron saint of, 90 Queen Regent, 89, 93 Restoration Monarchy of, 79 Royal March of, 88 Royal Palace in, 89 Triumphal Arch in, 90, 101 turno pacífico, 80–1 see also Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888 Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888, 5, 76 architect for, 85 Castle of the Three Dragons, The, 85 Christopher Columbus, statue of, 86, 88 competing views of, 91–101 features of, 84 General Prim, statue of, 86 history of, 78–9 International Hotel and Restaurant, 85, 86 location for, 83 municipal celebrations of, 74–101 ornamentation technique, 85 Spanish patriotism and, 78–91 themes of, 82–3 Transatlantic Pavilion, 86 Triumphal Arch, 85–6 see also Barcelona (Barcelonés) Barczewski, Stephanie, 227 Bar of the House of Commons, 189 Barron, Hester, 229 Barry, Sir Charles, 215 Bartels, Adolphe, 120, 127

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Index

Bartley, L. J., 201 BASF (Badische Anilin- und Sodafafabrik), 268, 276 Basque Country, 77 Bastille, 83 Bateman, Michael, 152 Battle of Trafalgar, 88 Battle of Waterloo, 74 Bavaria, 261, 268, 271, 272 Bavarian Catholic-conservatives, 258 Bavarian Palatinate, 259 Bavarian Swabia, 259 Baxter, John Boyd, 231 Baycroft, Timothy, 13, 68, 105, 128, 228, 281 Bayly, Christopher, 286 Bayonne, 168 Bazaine, Marshal, 158 Becker, Annette, 177, 202 Becker, Jean-Jacques, 177, 202 Becker, Jürgen, 284 Becket, Thomas à, 215 Beckett, Ian, 203 Beetham, Margaret, 226 Belfast, 206 Belfast Town Hall, 215 Belgian Revolution of 1830, 110 Belgian vocabulary, 112 Belgium Belgian Revolution of 1830, 110 Belgian vocabulary of, 112 centralization in, degree of, 113–14, 116–19 Chamber of Representatives in, 114 collège, responsibilities of, 115–16 communes in, 116 constitution of, 115, 116–17 decentralization of, 114 economic programme for, 122 education system of, primary, 123 Flemish movement in, 112–13 France, annexation by, 113 Ghent system, 122 industrialization in, 122 jurisdictions of, ancien régime, 115 liberalism in, 117–18 local autonomy of, 115 local level of, history of, 110 Municipal Act of, 115, 121

municipal autonomy in city and state in, 113–18 history of, 110–24 national identification process and, 118–24 municipalities of, 120 municipal liberty in, 120 municipal suffrage, tax for, 120 National Bank of Belgium, 115 national character of, 111 national identification in, 119 nationalism in, 118–20, 123 in nineteenth century, 112–13 octroi, abolishment of, 115, 124 Orange Party of, 112 patriotism in, 119 personification of, 114 pillarization in, 121–2 political administration of, 110, 117 population of, 110 steam-power mechanization in, 78 transportation in, 115 unionists of, 118 as urban civilization, 110–24 Bellac, 170 Belley, 168 Bennett, Alan, 221, 232 Bentley, Michael, 222, 232 Bergeron, Louis, 181 Berggren, Henrik, 150 Berlin, 260 Bernatzik, Edmund, 44 Bernhardt, Sarah, 89 Bertaud, Jean-Paul, 180 Bertolli, Bruno, 71 Besson, Paul, 173 Betts, J. R., 201 Bevir, Mark, 203 Beyen, Marnix, 120, 129 Béziers, 182–3 Allées Paul-Riquet of, 192 local identities in, 187–8, 194–5 Meridional Crisis in, 190–2 Meridional soldiers of, 196 mobilization in, 184 in nineteenth century, 185–6 political administration of, 185, 186–7

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Index 17th Infantry Regiment, 191, 192, 197 urban mobilization in, 184 wartime mobilization in, 194 wine production in, 185 Biagini, Eugenio, 227, 255 Billig, Michael, 256, 281 Birmingham, 206, 208, 213, 216, 217–18 Birmingham Daily Post (publication), 98, 206 Bissingen-Nippenburg, Cajetan Alexander Graf von, 59 Björkholmen, 141 Blaas, Piet B. M., 253 Blaas, R., 72 Black, Alistair, 230 Blackbourn, David, 259–60, 282–3, 285–6 Black Legend, The, 79 Blakiston, N., 72 Blasco, Yolanda, 106 Blekinge, 139 Blekinge Folkblad (publication), 142, 144 Blekinge Läns Tidning (publication), 146 Blom, Hans, 235, 253 Blood tax, 156, 158 Boer War, 188, 250 Bohemia Bohemian lands, region of, 18 languages of, 29, 34, 36 national equality of rights approach in, 34 Party of Progress in, 32 political administration of, 30, 33 population of, 19 self-government of, 28 Bohemian lands Czech national movements of, 37 ethnic nationalism in, 19 German nationalism in, 19 German national movements of, 37 Imperial School Law of, 39 institutional framework, 20–30 languages of, 19, 38, 40 municipal and state taxes in, 31 municipal government of, 36

305

municipal laws passed by, 28 national equality of rights approach in, 34 nationalization in, 32–3 municipal daily life and, 37–40 in municipal government, 30–7 political administration of, 20–1, 30, 32 population of, 32 regions of, 18–19 self-government of, 30 statutory cities of, 24–5 see also Bohemia; Moravia Bokholm, Rune, 133, 135, 150–1 Bologna, 54 Bordeaux, 79, 157, 170 Bos, Dennis, 256 Bossenbroek, Martin, 253 Bottom-up, social approaches in Austria, 18 Bouchain, 161 Bouches-du-Rhône, 165 Bouchet, Paul, 165 Bouchet, Paul-Émile-Brutus, 179 Bourbon Monarchy, 83 Bourdieu, Pierre, 193, 198, 202 Bourgoin, 170 Bouvier, Jean, 181 Boyd, Carolyn P., 105 Boyer, John, 42 Bradford, 213 Bradlaugh, Charles, 186, 200–1 Bragard, Philippe, 181 Breidis, Laimonas, 12 Breslau, 260 Breuilly, John, 42, 158, 177, 282, 289–301 Bridgewater Canal, 207 Briel, Den, 240–1, 244, 254 Brierley, Benjamin, 225 Briggs, Asa, 12, 199, 213, 226, 230 Bright, John, 206, 208, 225 Brink, Bakhuizen van den, 244 Bristol, 216, 217

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Index

Britain, 136, 138 architecture in identity and, 204–23 patriotism and, 213–20 British nationalism in, 212–13 Britishness of, 183, 211 cultural articulation of, 183 economic modernization of, 183 English identity in, 210–11 local identities in, 183, 196 mobilization in, 184 municipal buildings of, 223 national and local identity of, 210, 220–3 nationalist symbols within, 213–17 nationalization of, 183 national mobilizations in, 182–3, 184 regimental system of, 196 social modernization of, 183 territorial dimension in, 184 urban life in, 212 see also United Kingdom British Isles, 110 Brix, Emil, 43 Brockhausen, Carl, 27 Broberg, Gunnar, 151 Brockhausen, Carl, 27–8, 44 Brockliss, Laurence, 228 Brodetsky, Selig, 220, 231 Broersma, Marcel, 253 Bromé, Janvik, 154 Brooker, Keith, 201 Brophy, James M., 11, 283 Brophy, Jim, 281 Broun, Davit, 229 Brown, Cynthia, 200, 230 Brown, Ford Madox, 207 Brownlee, David, 226 Brown, Madox, 233 Brubaker, Rogers, 42–3, 46, 158, 177, 203, 231, 282 Bru, Claudio López, 85 Brubaker, Rogers, 158 Brünn/Brno, 25, 36 Brussels, 114, 123, 241 Brydon, J. M., 219 Bucur, Maria, 45 Budweis/Budejovice, 18, 36

Budweisers, 32 Burati, Pietro, 66 Burdiel, Isabel, 106 Burrow, John, 232 Buse, D. K., 12, 199 Bush, John W., 72 By-laws (Ortsstatut), 269, 270–1 Cabo, Miguel, 300 Calvinist Church, 238, 245 Cambrai, 161 Campanile (bell tower), 64, 65 Candeloro, Giorgio, 69–70 Cañellas, Cèlia, 106 Cannadine, David, 200, 206, 213, 226, 229–30 Cardiff, 215 Carnovale, Giovanna, 57 Carr, Edward H., 1, 11 Carthays Park, 215 Cartoons (La Esquella de la Torratxa), 99, 101 Casanova, Rossend, 106 Casassas, Jordi, 104 Castelli, Jacopo, 52 Castle of the Three Dragons, 85 Catalan Centre (Centre Català), 96–8 Catalanism, 95–6 Catalanization, 97 Catalan Journal (Diari Català), 96 Catalan League (Lliga de Catalunya), 97 Catalonia, 76 liberalim in, 83 nationalism in, 77 self-government of, 77 Spanish Civil Code of, 81 steam-power mechanization in, 78 Catholic Church, 123 Catholic Civil Association (Bürgerverein), 273, 279 Catholicism, 51, 62, 187 Catholics, 19, 32, 121 Cats, Jacob, 240 Cattaneo, Carlo, 49, 51, 55, 60, 70 Cavalletto, Alberto, 60 Cavazza, Stefano, 68 Cavedalis, Giovan Battista, 69 Caxton, 218

Zimmer

Index Cecchinato, Eva, 58, 69–71 Celesia, Emanuele, 70 Central Association of German Industrialists (Centralverband deutscher Industrieller), 273 Central Congregation (Congregazione centrale), 56 Central Europe, 19, 31 Centralization Belgium, 113–14, 116–19 France, 183 Germany, 183 Sweden, 133 Central Library, 221 Central Powers, 194 Certeau, Michel de, 193 Cette, 170 Challener, Richard D., 177 Châlons, 168 Chamber of Commerce, 81 Chamber of Deputies, 156 Chamber of Representatives, 114 Champneys, Basil, 218, 231 Chandler, David, 203 Chanet, Jean-Francois, 3, 5, 9, 12, 128, 199, 290–91 Charité, Johannes, 255 Chaumont, 168 Cherbourg dockyard, 139 Chicago, 75 Chickering, Roger, 203 Christian Renaissance, 85 Christians, 32 Chromopolis, 276 Cibulka, Pavel, 45 Circolo Italiano, 53 Cissey, General de, 160, 169, 174 Citadel Fortress, 83 Citizenship (droit de cité), 197, 239, 243–4 Civiltà Cattolica (magazine), 60 Clegg, Jeanne, 70 Clemenceau, 191 Clinchant, General, 161 Cobblers, 196 Cobden, Richard, 292, 300 Coen, Jan Pietersz, 240 Cohen, Anthony P., 228 Cohen, Gary, 18, 42

307

Colchester, 213 Cole, Laurence, 69 Colley, Linda, 209, 227 Colls, Robert, 227–8, 232 Columbus, Christopher, 86, 88 Columbus Boulevard, 86 Comitato Politico Veneto Centrale, 60 Commercial trade (Gewerbe), 265, 277 Commons, 186 Communities in England and France, urban nationalization, modernization, and mobilization of, 182–98 wartime mobilization of, 193–8 Compromise, 28–9 Comte de Roys, 173 Concordat, 58–9 Condé, 161 Confino, Alon, 47, 68, 199, 260, 282 Congress of Berlin, 92 Congress of Vienna, 50 Conquest of America, 88 Conrad, Sebastian, 285 Conservative Party, 82, 95 Conservatives (podestà), 51 Consignments and Loans Fund, 173 Constituent Assembly, 21 Contamine, Henry, 158, 177 Conway, Martin, 12 Corporatist interest organizations (Innungen), 272, 278, 279 Correr, Conte Giovanni, 51 Corrèze, 165, 169 Cosne, 173 Coulommiers, 168 Counter-Reformation, 117 Cristina, María, 88–9 Crook, Joe Mordaunt, 220 Crook, Malcolm, 139 Cooper, F., 203 Corbin, A., 179 Corrales, Eloy Martín, 106 Couvée, Dirk Hendrik, 255 Cox, Harry, 226 Cozzi, Gaetano, 69 Cragoe, Matthew, 228 Crépin, Annie, 177 Cristina, María, 81–2, 88–9 Crook, Joe Mordaunt, 220, 231

Zimmer

308

Index

Crook, Malcolm, 139, 152 Crystal Palace Exhibition, 74, 75, 84, 88 Crystal Palace in London, 247 Cuba, 76, 85, 86, 88, 99 Culture of Local Xenophobia, 211 Cumbria, 206 Cunningham, Colin, 225–6, 230 Czechization, 38 Czech Republic, 18 Daily Commercial (Diario Mercantil), 91 Daily Telegraph (publication), 62 Dall’Ongaro, Friulian Francesco, 53 Dalrymple, Sir John, 222 Dam Rising, 248 Dam Square, 248 Darlington, 206 Das nationale System der politischen Okonomie (Friedrich List), 273 Daum, Andreas W., 12, 226 Day, Ann, 153, 155 D’Azeglio, Massimo, 48, 70 Deak, John, 42–3 de Beaufort, Willem Hendrik, 256 de Certeau, Michel, 193 Defoe, Daniel, 253 de la Forge, Anatole, 70 Delft, 241 Deligny, General, 161, 162, 166 Della Seta, Roberto, 70 Dellheim, Charles, 232–3 de Motes, Jordi Malquer, 105 Den Briel, 240 Deneckere, Gita, 127, 129 Denmark, 138, 139–40 Denys, Catherine, 181 de Pater, Ben, 235, 253 Deprez, Kas, 127, 129 de Riquer, Borja, 105 de Rivières, Séré, 162, 165, 172, 178, 180–1 de Rooy, Piet, 255–6 de Sismondi, Simonde, 49 De Smaele, Henk, 128 Destructor, 89 Deutsche Partei (German party), 265 Deutsch, Karl, 294

de Valk, Hans, 256 de Vries, Boudien, 11 De Vries, J., 127 Diamond Jubilee (1897), 74 Diario de Barcelona (publication), 92, 93 Dickie, M., 200 Digeon, Claude, 177 Dijon, 168, 174 Disraeli, 207 Dobeš, Jan, 43 Dodds, Philip, 227 Dolman, Frederick, 232 Domènech i Montaner, Lluís, 85, 106 Dreyfuss, Max, 267 Dri, Gabriella, 71 Driver, Felix, 226 Drummond, Diane, 231 Dryden, John, 215 Du Barail, General, 160, 162 Dubois, Sébastien, 127 Duchy of Venice (Dogado), 53 Duding, Stefan, 256 Duffy, Michael, 152 Duggan, Christopher, 68 Duhamel, Éric, 178 Duke, A. C., 253 Duke, Alistair, 254 Dumont, Hugues, 129 Dundee, 216, 217 Dungavell, Ian Robert, 231 Dupriez, Léon, 114, 127–8 Durangel, Henry, 163 Dutch Golden Age, 243 Dutch nationalism, 235 Dutch Republic, 117, 238, 244 Calvinist Church of, 238, 245 citizenship in, 239, 243–4 Dutch Golden Age, 243 Dutch newspapers of, 236–7 liberalism in, 242–3 modernization in, 235–6 modern mass society of, 238 in nineteenth century, 235 No Popery agitation of 1853, 247 Orangists of, 249–50 Patriotic Revolution, 239 political administration of, 239–40, 245–6

Zimmer

Index provinces of, 238 Queensday, 241, 244–5, 249 railway system in, 246–7 in sixteenth century, creation of, 238 Sociaal-Democratische Bond, 247, 248 town hall in, 239–40 unification of, 235 see also Netherlands Dutch Revolt, 235 Eastwood, David, 228 Economy Augsburg, 262, 272–3 Karlskrona, Sweden, of dockyard towns in, 138–40 Ludwigshafen, 262 Northampton, 185–6 Ulm, 263 Edinburgh, 216 Edquist, Samuel, 150 Edward VII, 89 Eisenstat, Samuel N., 105 Eleanor of Castille, 215 Electoral Law of 1878, 79 Eley, Geoff, 281 Eliot Howard, Michael, 177 Elizabeth, Queen, 206 Ellis, J. M., 199 Elvander, Nils, 151–3 Emanuele, Vittorio II, 58–60, 66 Éminence grise (grey eminence), 119 Emsley, Clive, 128 England and France constitutional development in, 222 local assertion, and national integration, 184–7 population of, 110 Scotland, unification with, 210 self-government of, 222 social conflicts in, and collective identities, 187–93 urban communities in nationalization, modernization, and mobilization of, 182–98

309

wartime mobilization of, 193–8 wartime mobilization in, 197 Whig Interpretation in, 222 see also Béziers; Britain; Northampton Englishness, 210 Espluche, Albert García, 106 Épernay, 168 Erk, Jan, 122, 129 Esaiasson, Peter, 154 Espluche, Albert García, 106 Essex Review (publication), 213 European Union, 234 Evans, Eric, 211, 228 Evans, Neil, 228 Evans, Philip, 228 Evans, Richard, 3, 12 Examination Schools in Oxford, 207 Exeter, 206 Fahrmeir, Andreas, 253 Farmers’ March (bondetåget), 137–8, 144 Fasora, Lukáš, 42, 44–6 Fasseur, Cees, 256 Fehrenbach, Elisabeth, 283 Feischmidt, Margrit, 231 Ferrari, Ettore, 66 Ferrari, Giuseppe, 49 Ferroul, Ernest, 191 15th Army Corp, 196 Fin-de-siècle (end of the century), 65 Finland, 136, 140 Finlay, R. J., 229 Fischer, Ilse, 285 Fischer, Ludwig, 272 Flamingants, 112–13 Flemish identity, 112 Flemish policy (Flamenpolitik), 120 Floating Commonwealth, A (Harvie), 208 Floral Games, 96–7 Florence, 48, 54, 63 Förbundet, Götiska, 133 Forcade, Olivier, 178 Fortschritt, 272 Foster, Arnold, 188, 189 Fox, Jon, 231

Zimmer

310

Index

Foy, General, 156 Fradera, Josep M., 106 France anti-clerical policy of, 159 Belgium, annexation of, 113 centralization of, 183 conscription in, 196 Counter-Reformation catholicism in, 117 education system of, primary, 123 francocentrism in, building of, 158 French revolutionary reforms in, 176 garrisons in as investment, 166–9 negotiating for, 156–76 parties, interests of, 169–76 Italian patriotism in, 48 legal framework, search for, 163–6 local and national identity in, 182, 183, 196 Meridional Crisis of, 190–2 military map of, 169 military organization in, 159–62 mobilization in, 158, 184 Napoleon III, power of, 157, 158 national defence government of, 157–8 nationalization of, 183 national mobilizations in, 182–3, 184 political administration of, 157, 164 population of, 110, 111 reform and finance in, 159–62 Second Empire of, 77 17th Infantry Regiment, 182 steam-power mechanization in, 78 in Third Republic, beginning of, 77, 156–76 wartime mobilization in, 197 see also England and France Francesco Morosini (warship), 64 Franco-Prussian War, 9, 172 Frankfurt, 79, 260 Fraser, James, 206 Free movement principle (Freizügigkeit), 261 Free municipality of Austria, 21 Free Trade Hall, 215

French, David, 203 French Republic, 116 French Revolution, 114, 239 Friedrich List, 273, 278, 279 Friesland, 248 Friuli, 61 Frommel, Albert, 273 ‘F-type’ armoured warship (f-båt), 137 Furnee, Jan Hein, 253, 256 Fusi, Juan Pablo, 105 Gäfvert, Björn, 152–5 Galema, Annemieke, 253 Galicia, 28 Gambetta, Léon, 157, 174, 179 Gamla Carlscrona, Förening, 153 Gandelsonas, Mario, 12 Garibaldi (Garibaldini), 62 Garrisons in France as investment, 166–9 negotiating for, 156–76 parties, interests of, 169–76 Garver, Bruce, 45 Gaudí, Antoni, 84–5 Geijer, Erik Gustaf, 133 Gellner, Ernest, 1, 10–11, 156, 177, 236, 253, 294 Gemeinschaft, 267 Gemeinschaftsgedanke (community idea), 267 General Infirmary, 216 General Rights of Citizens (Article 19), 38 Genoa, 48, 63, 88 George Square, 215 German Empire, 279 German Home Towns (Walker), 261 Germanization, 38 Germany centralization of, 183 communities of, 259–60 economic liberalism in, 266 education system of, primary, 123 German nationalism in, 276 hometownsmen, 261–2 industrialization of, 261 Italian patriotism in, 48 middle classes of, 277–8 municipalities of, 260

Zimmer

Index nation-formation process of, 260 nationhood for, imagination of, 275–9 as nation-state, establishment of, 258 population of, 110, 111, 260 railway network in, expansion of, 263 Second German Empire of, 258 steam-power mechanization in, 78 trade in, liberalization of, 261 urban economies of, 262–75 see also Augsburg; Ludwigshafen; Ulm Gerson, Stéphane, 128, 199 Ghent, 124 Gibbon, 218 Gilbert, David, 226 Gildea, Robert, 178 Gilissen, J., 128 Gill, Roger, 231 Gillis, J. R., 11 Ginderachter, Maarten Van, 5, 9 Gioberti, Vincenzo, 50–1 Girona, Manuel, 79, 92, 106 Girouard, Mark, 220, 230–1 Giustino, Cathleen, 42 Glasgow, 215, 216, 223 Glasgow Municipal Buildings, 221 Glorious Revolution of 1868, 83 Gnoinski, Xavier, 70 Golden Age, 240, 242 Gollwitzer, Karl Albert, 279, 279–81 Gomme, Andor, 231 Gordian Knot, 91 Gothenburg shipyards, 139 Gothic architecture, 216 Götiska Förbundet, 133 Gottardi, Michele, 69 Gottsman, Andreas, 59, 71–2 Graf von Bissingen, Cajetan Alexander, 59 Grand Duchy of Finland, 136 Grant, Alexander, 227 Grant, James, 232 Grass, Martin, 151 Gray, 168 Great Britain, 99

311

Great War of 1914, 17, 47, 48, 120, 123 Green, A., 12, 282 Greenall, R. L., 200 Greenhalgh, Paul, 74–5, 102, 104, 107–8 Gregory, Adrian, 202–3 Grew, Raymond, 70 Gribble, James, 188–9, 201 Groenveld, Simon, 255 Groningen, 237 Groninger Courant (publication), 237 Guàrdia i Bassols, Manel, 106 Gubin, Eliane, 127, 129 Gubine, Eliane, 127 Gugliotta, Georges, 178 Guignet, Philippe, 181 Guildhall, 215 Guilds in Augsburg, abolition of, 271 Gunn, Simon, 12, 151, 213, 225, 229–30 Gustav V, 137–8 Haas, Arthur, 42 Habsburg Empire, 58 Habsburg Monarchy, 26 Habsburgo, Cristina de, 82 Hadenius, Stig, 151 Hague, The, 241–2, 247, 250–1 Halifax, Stuart, 203, 230 Hall, Catherine, 208, 210, 226, 228 Halland, 139 Hall, Patrik, 138, 150, 152 Halsey, A. H., 230 Hals, Frans, 240 Hamburg, 260 Hamerton, Philip Gilbert, 157, 177 Hamish Fraser, W., 229, 233 Hamlet (Thomas), 89 Hammerton, Elizabeth, 206, 226 Handelsverein, 263–4, 265, 267 Handwerk (commercial activities), 266, 268 Hanuš, Jiˇrí, 42 Harling, Philip, 211, 232 Harnesk, Börje, 151 Harris, Jose, 199–200, 203 Harrison, Brian, 230 Harris, Trevor, 152

Zimmer

312

Index

Harvie, Christopher, 208, 215, 227, 230 Hassler, Theodor, 273 Hatley, V. A., 200 Hatton, George, 230 Healy, Maureen, 203 Hechter, Michael, 227 Heilbronn, 266 Heiligerlee/Winschoten, 240 Heinrich Riehl, Wilhelm, 286 Hemshof, 276 Henkes, Barbara, 253 Hennock, E. P., 221, 232 Hepburn, A. C., 11 Herodotus, 218 Hewitson, Mark, 13, 68, 105, 228, 281 Heywood, Abel, 207, 226 Hicks, Ursula K., 232 Hildebrand, Karl, 147 Hilditch, Peter, 152 Hillbom, Rune, 152–3 Hill, Kate, 229 Hilson, Mary, 5, 9, 290–1 Histoire des républiques italiennes (Sismondi), 49 History of Britain for a History of England (Hume), 222 Hjärne, Harald, 137, 151–3 Hlavaˇcka, Milan, 42 ˇ Hledíková, Zdenka, 43–5 Hobsbawm, Eric J., 10–11, 156, 177, 200–1, 236, 253 Hoffenberg, Peter H., 107 Holland, 238, 240 Holland, Faith M., 231 Holloway, W. H., 202 Holmdahl, Right O., 143 Holmén, Hans, 151–2 Homer, 218 Hometownsmen, 261–2 Horne, John, 203 Hörsell, Ann, 152–4 Houkes, Annemarie, 255 House of Deputies, 26 House of Savoy, 49, 52, 55, 61 Houwaart, Eddy, 255 Hroch, Miroslav, 128, 294 Hubbard, William, 42 Huizinga, Johan, 242, 255

Hungary Compromise of, 28–9 Habsburg Monarchy in, 18, 26 modernization of, 20 Hunt, John Dixon, 231 Identities. see local identities; national identities Il Veneto Cattolico (publication), 62 Imperial School Law (1869), 38 Independent (publication), 195 India, 208 Indian Palaces, 99 Industrialization Belgium, 122 Germany, 261 Sweden, 134–5 Venice, 65 Ingvarsson, J. A., 148 International Exhibitions, 91 International Hotel and Restaurant, 85, 99 Irishness, 210 Isabel, 90 Isnenghi, Mario, 70–1, 73 Italianness (italianità), 49, 50–1, 54 Italian Scientific Congress, 50 Italy civil war in, 60 as comuni, vision of, 54 Italian patriotism in, 49–50 Italian state building in, 50 kingdom of, expansion to, 26 localism of, 49 Lombardo–Venetian Constituent Assembly of, 51–2 municipal heritage of, 55 municipalism of, 49–50 Piedmontese exploitation of, 55 population of, 110, 111 see also Venice Ives, Eric, 231 Jacob, Margaret C., 253 Jacobson, Stephen, 5, 290–1 Janák, Jan, 43 Janse, Maartje, 254 Japan, 84 Jarrow, 139

Zimmer

Index Jauffret, Jean-Charles, 177, 180 Jaurès, Jean, 159 Jelles Troelstra, Pieter, 256 Jemolo, A.C., 71 Jenkins, Geraint H., 231 Jenkins, Jennifer, 3, 11–12, 282–3 Jenner, Michael, 231 Jensen, Geoffrey, 13 Jews, 19, 32 Johannes Potgieter, Everhardus, 243 Johnson, Eric, 128 Johnson, Joanne, 150–1 Jones, Hugh Stuart, 253 Jordaan, 248–9 Joseph, Francis, I, 21, 22, 25–6, 28, 44, 56–8, 61, 97, 117, 272, 299 Joseph II, 117 Joyce, Patrick, 12, 225, 227 Judson, Pieter, 42–3, 45 Junco, José Álvarez, 105–6 Jura, 173 Jury Law, 81 Kappelhof, Ton, 256 Karl XII, 138, 153 Karlskrona, Sweden, 133–47 nationalism, and politics of defence in, 136–8 naval defence in, nationalist politics and local interests of, 140–7 political economy, of dockyard towns in, 138–40 Karlskrona-Tidningen (publication), 141–2, 147 Karlskrona-Weckoblad (publication), 142 Karl XI, 140 Karl XII, 138 Karolinska Förbundet (Caroline Society), 138–40 attack of, 141 commemorations of, public, 142 dockyards of, 143, 145 employment statistics, 147 founding of, 138, 139–41 labour movement of, 143–4 patriotism in, 143 Sverige, construction of, 145 Kaufman, Edward, 230

313

Kaufmann, Eric, 281 Kennedy, Paul, 151 Kermess (outdoor fair), 251 Kesteloot, Chantal, 129–30 Kidd, Alan, 229 Kidd, Colin, 210, 222–3, 228, 233 Kingdom of Italy, 55, 59, 60 Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, 50 Kingdom of Upper Italy, 52 King, Jeremy, 4, 12, 290 King William III, 244, 249 Kirkcudbrightshire, 206 Klabouch, Jirí, 18, 20, 22–3, 27, 30, 40–6 Kladiwa, Pavel, 42, 44–6 Kleingewerbe, 263, 268 Kloek, Joost, 253 Kloos, Willem, 247 Knapas, Rainer, 231 Knapton, Michael, 69 Knezevic-Lazic, J., 203 Knippenberg, Hans, 235, 253 Koblik, Steven, 150–1 Kolbe, Laura, 12 Koll, Johannes, 127 Kroes, Rob, 74, 104 Kroll, Thomas, 72 Krüger, Christine, 281 Kruger, Paul, 250 Kuhn, Georg, 267–8, 284 Kuitenbrouwer, Maarten, 253–4, 256 Kulisch, Max, 44 Kutterer, Mayor, 270 Kuyper, Abraham, 237, 292 Lacal, Satunino, 105 Lacave, Mireille, 201 La Difesa (publication), 62 Lafferre, Louis, 187, 191 Lahuerta, Juan José, 106–7 L’Africaine (Meyerbeer), 89 La Nación (publication), 95 Lanaro, Silvio, 71–3 Landré, W. J. N., 255 La nazione del Risorgimento (Banti), 47 Langewiesche, Dieter, 260, 282–3 Langford, Paul, 228 Langlands, Rebecca, 227 Lannon, Francis, 105

Zimmer

314

Index

La Publicidad (publication), 93 La Renaixensa (journal), 85 Larousse, Pierre, 179 Latrade, 169 Latrade, Louis, 165, 169, 172, 179 Laurent, Robert, 168, 174, 180 Laven, David, 5, 9, 290, 295, 298 L’Avenir militaire (publication), 174 Law, C. M., 229 Law of Associations, 81 Law of Universal Suffrage, 81 Law on the Recruitment of the Army (1872), 158 Lawrence Lowell, A., 229 Lawrence, Jon, 200 Leander, Ulrik, 143, 153–4 Ledvinka, Václav, 46 Leeds, 213, 221 Lees, Andrew, 3, 11, 229 Lees, Lynn Hollen, 3, 11, 212, 229, 232 Leeuwarder Courant (publication), 237 Lefebvre, Henri, 12 Le Figaro, 95 Legion of Honour, 172 Leiden, 238 Le Mans, 161 Lenger, Friedrich, 283–4 Leonardi, Maria, 70–1 Leopold I, 115 Lepetit, Bernard, 176, 181 Le Publicateur (publication), 187 Lescure, Michel, 180–1 Less, Lynn Hollen, 3 L’Età presente (publication), 58 Levée en masse (nation in arms, concept of), 196, 197 Lévy-Leboyer, Maurice, 173, 181 Lewin, Leif, 151–2 Liberal-Conservatives, 79–81 Liberalism, 242 Liberalism Augsburg, 273 Belgium, 117–18 Dutch Republic, 242–3 Germany, 266 Spain, 83 Liberal Party, 81, 82, 92, 137, 142, 144–7

Liège, 118–19 Lindman, Arvid, 137 Linz, Juan J., 43, 105 Lisieux, 163–4 Lissa, 62 Little, Bryan, 231 Liverpool, 213, 215 Livorno, 63 Local identities Béziers, 187–8, 194–5 Britain, 183, 196, 210, 220–3 Northampton, 187–8, 194–5 Localism of Italy, 49 Lohengrin (Wagner), 89 Lombardo–Venetian Constituent Assembly, 51–2 Lombardy, 53, 57, 60 London, 75, 189 London Daily News (publication), 89 Lons-le-Saunier, 173 Loots, Jasper, 256 López Bru, Claudio, 85 Lord Rosebery, 216 Loughlin, James, 210, 228 Low Countries, 112 Lucca, 54 Ludwigshafen, 259 BASF (Badische Anilin-und Sodafafabrik), 268 chemical industry of, 259 Gemeindeversammlung municipal assembly, 269–71 Gemeinschaftsgedanke, 262 Gewerbeverein Ludwigshafen of, 267 Handwerkerstand, 267–8 inns, licence restrictions for, 269–71 Kleingewerbe, 268 Ortsstatut über den Wirtschaftsbetrieb charter, 269 population of, 259 trade in, freedom of, 267–8, 270 urban economy of, 262 Lugato, Franca, 69 Lunn, Ken, 153 Lunn, Kenneth, 151 Lutheran Church, 133 Luzón, Javier Moreno, 106

Zimmer

Index Luzzatti, Luigi, 64, 73 Lynch, Michael, 229 Machin, Frank, 201 Mack Smith, Denis, 72 Macqueen, J. G., 231 Maddison, John, 231 Madrid, 77, 78, 79, 93 Magic Fountain, 90 Magnac-Laval, 170 Mährisch Ostrau/Moravská Ostrava, 24 Maier, Gustav, 263–5, 267, 278, 280–1, 286 Malaguzzi-Valeri, Conte Alessandro, 61 Malieveld, 250, 251, 252 Malír, Jirí, 34, 37, 42, 45–6 Malvoz, Louis, 127 Mamers, 170 Manchester, 217 John Rylands Library in, 218 patriotism of, 205–6 Perpendicular Gothic in, 219 townhall in, 223 Manchester Liberalism, 278 Mandell, R. D., 104 Mandler, Peter, 210, 227–9 Manin, Daniele, 51–3, 55, 69–70 Mannheim, 263, 266 March of the Strike Brigade (1905), 184, 192–3 Marfany, Joan-Lluís, 105 Marrison, Andrew, 300 Martucci, Roberto, 69, 72 Mateo Sagasta, Práxedes, 81, 89 Mauch, Christof, 12, 226 Maurin, Jean, 199, 201, 203 Mayday meeting of 1890, 248 Mayeur, Jean-Marie, 178 Mayor, Lord, 206 Mayor’s Party, 32 Mazohl-Wallnig, Brigitte, 71 Mazower, Mark, 12 Mazzini, Giuseppe, 50, 68 Mazzinianism, 55, 57 Mazzinian radicalism, 55 McClelland, Keith, 228 Mckibbin, Ross, 200

315

McLeod, Hugh, 11 Meacham, Standish, 227 Meerkerk, J. B., 255 Memoirs of Great Britain (Dalrymple), 222 Meneghini, Andrea, 60 Meridional Crisis, 190 Meriggi, Marco, 69–70 Message to the Queen Regent petition, 97 Metcalfe, Thomas R., 230 Mexico, 99 Michell, Allan, 177 Middelburgsche Courant (publication), 237 Midi, 190 Midi Rouge, 186 Midland District of England, 217 Mijnhardt, W.W., 254 Mijnhardt, Wijnand, 253 Milan, 26, 48, 51 Milan to Venice railway, 50 Military Service Act, 197 Mill, John Stuart, 243 Ministry of Finances, 162 Ministry of the Interior, 163 Minnis, John, 232 Mischler, Ernst, 43–5 Mittelstand (German middleclass), 271, 277–8 Mobilization Béziers, 184, 194 Britain, 182–3, 184 England and France, 182–98 France, 158, 182–3, 184, 197 Northampton, 184, 194 Modernism (modernisme), 85 Modernization, 158 Austria, 20 Britain, 183 Dutch Republic, 235–6 England and France, 182–98 Hungary, 20 Molfese, Franco, 72 Molina, Ferdinando, 300 Molin, Torkel, 150 Molmenti, Pompeo, 65–7, 73 Monarchical Powers of Europe, 89 Monarchism, 248

Zimmer

316

Index

Monico, Jacopo, 53, 58, 69, 71 Montaner, Lluís Domènech i, 85 Montijn, Ileen, 256 Montjuïc, 87, 88 Montpellier, 190 Moravia Bohemian lands, region of, 18 language of, 36 Moravian Compromise of, 36, 39 municipal government of, 36 municipal laws passed by, 28 national equality of rights approach in, 34 national movement of, 34 population of, 19 self-government in, 28 Moravian Compromise, 39 Moravians, 32 Mordaunt Crook, J., 220, 231 Mordini, Antonio, 53 Morgan, Kenneth O., 231 Morgan, Marjorie, 209, 227 Morocco, 88 Morosini, Francesco, 64 Morris, Robert J., 11–12, 221, 226, 229–30 Morton, Graeme, 11, 209, 227, 229 Multi-party systems of Austria, 37 Munich, 260, 263 Municipal Act, 115, 121 Municipal Assembly (Gemeindeversammlung), 269, 270 Municipal autonomy in Belgium (Autonomie), 20 city and state in, 113–18 history of, 110–24 national identification process and, 118–24 Municipal government Austria, 31 Barcelona (Barcelonés), 79 Bohemian lands, 30–7 Moravia, 36 Municipalism, 49–50, 54 Municipalities (Obec), 22 Austria, 19–20, 31, 33 Belgium, 120 Germany, 260 Municipal Law, 79

Municipal order of Austria, 20–1 Muthesius, Stefan, 232 Mutti, Pietro Aurelio, 58 Nandrin, Jean-Pierre, 127, 129 Naples, 48, 53, 54, 63 Napoleon, Louis, 237, 239 Napoleonic Empire, 235 Napoleon III, 59, 157, 158 Narbonne, 191 National Assembly, 163, 164, 251 National Bank of Belgium, 115 National Congress, 110 National equality of rights approach in Austria, 34–5 National Exhibition of Works of Art, 216 National identities France, 182, 183, 196 United Kingdom, 209 Nationalism Belgium, 118–20, 123 Bohemian lands, 19 Britain, 212–13 British, 209–10, 212–13 Catalonia, 77 decentralized, 240–6 Dutch, 235 ethnic, 19 Germany, 19, 276 Karlskrona, Sweden, 136–8 Netherlands, 240–6 Spain, 76–7 Spanish liberal, 76–7 Sweden, 133, 136 United Kingdom, 209–10 Venice, 61 ‘Nationality problem’ in Austria, 18 Nationalization Bohemian lands, 30–40, 37–40 Britain, 183 England and France, 182–98 France, 183 National movements Austria, 18, 32 Bohemian lands, 37 Moravia, 34 National Secular Society, 186

Zimmer

Index National Union of Boot and Shoe Operatives, 188 Negro, Piero Del, 70–1, 73 Netherlands as ‘imagined community’, 236–8 constitution of, 117 Counter-Reformation catholicism in, 117 decentralized nationalism, 240–6 education system of, primary, 123 French annexation of, 113 independence of, 113 newspapers of, 236–8 in nineteenth centery, 246–50 political autonomy of, 115 population of, 110 public space, contesting of, 250–2 towns of, 236–8 urban content of, 234–52 see also Dutch Republic Newman, Gerald, 210, 227–8 New York, 75 Nice, 79 Nicholls, Anthony, 151 Nicholls, David, 229 Nield, Keith, 281 Nieuwe Kerk, 244 Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant (publication), 237 Nieuws van den Dag (publication), 237 Nievo, Ippolito, 72 Nîmes, 168 Nipperdey, Thomas, 11, 282, 284, 286 Nora, Pierre, 12, 105, 151 Norberg, Erik, 152–3 Norbury, Wendy, 230 Nord, Deborah Epstein, 229 Norrback, Märtha, 231 Nörtemann, Gevert H., 129 Northampton, 183 economy of, 185–6 following Napoleonic Wars, 184–5 local identities in, 187–8, 194–5 manufacturing centre of, 185 March of the Strike Brigade, 184, 189, 192–3 Meridional Crisis in, 192 mobilization in, 184

317

National Union of Boot and Shoe Operatives in, 188–90 in nineteenth century, 184–6 Northampton Military Tribunals of, 197–8 Pals Battalions in, 196 political administration of, 185–6 Royal Victoria Dispensary in, 216 secularism in, 186 shoemaking industry of, 185 urban mobilization in, 184 wartime mobilization in, 194 Welsh Territorial Division of, 194 Northampton Independent (publication), 196 Northampton Military Tribunals, 197–8 Norway, 136, 137 Nothomb, J. B., 114 Nouvelliste de Rouen (publication), 165 Nuremberg, 263 Nyzell, Stefan, 151 Occitanist, 191–2 Octroi (local tax), 124 Office of Departmental and Communal Administration, 163 Ogris, Werner, 43 ‘Old movement’ of socialism, 249 Olmütz/Olomouc, 25 Orange Party, 239 Orangism, 248, 249 Oranjefuries, 249 Orianne, Paul, 127 Ortholan, Henri, 178, 181 Ortsstatut über den Wirtschaftsbetrieb charter, 269 Oskar II, 137 Österberg, Eva, 133, 151 Osterhammel, Jürgen, 285 Outline of Grievances petition, 81, 93, 97 Owens College, 215 Oxford, 213, 214, 219 Ozouf-Marignier, Marie-Vic, 181 Padua, 61 Palace of Industry, 84 Palace of Westminster, 207, 217

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318

Index

Palatinate, 277 Palermo, 48, 54 Palingoproer, 248, 249 Palmowski, Jan, 282 Pals Battalions, 196 Paris, 77, 157 exhibitions of, 75 garrisons in, 160 military government of, 170 see also France Paris Commune, 158, 248 Paris Exhibition of 1867, 84 Paris Peace Conference of 1856, 55 Parkinson-Bailey, John, 225 Parliament (riksdag), 137 Parliamentarianism, 137 Parma, 48 Parry, Jonathan, 232 Party of Progress, 32 Pastore Stocchi, M., 69, 72 Patel, Kiran Klaus, 12 Pater, Ben de, 235 Patria (homeland), 112 Patriarca, Silvana, 73 Patriotic Revolution, 239 Patriotism Barcelona Universal Exhibition of 1888, 78–91 Belgium, 119 Britain, 213–20 France, 48 Germany, 48 Italian, 48, 49–50 Italy, 49–50 Karolinska Förbundet, 143 Manchester, 205–6 Spanish, 78–91 Sweden, 143 Venetian, 54 Venice, 48–9, 54 Pax Europa, 92 Peasants into Frenchmen (Weber), 235 Pech, Rémy, 192, 199–200, 202 Pecorari, Paolo, 69, 71, 73 Pellico, Silvio, 50, 68 Pelling, Henry, 200 Pemble, John, 73 Penn Hilden, Patricia, 129 Pérez Ledesma, Manuel, 106

Perpendicular Gothic, 219 Peruta, Della, 68, 70–1 Peyrat, Alphonse, 174 Pf älzischer Kurier (publication), 276 Philadelphia, 75 Philippines, 76, 85, 88, 99 Phillips, Scott K., 228 Phylloxera, 195 Piedmontisation, 49, 55, 59 Piedmont-Sardinia, 26 Pillarization, 121–2 Pilot, Antonio, 71 Pirenne, Henri, 111 Pistre, Pierre, 201 Pittock, Murray, 226–7 Pius IX, 50 Pla, Lluïsa, 106 Plaza de Cataluña, 90 Plessis, Alain, 173, 181 Plymouth, 141 Polasky, Janet, 118, 128 Political administrations Austria, 17, 20–3 Belgium, 110, 117 Béziers, 185, 186–7 Bohemia, 30, 33 Bohemian lands, 20–1, 30, 32 Dutch Republic, 239–40, 245–6 France, 157, 164 Northampton, 185–6 Sweden, 136, 137–8, 143 Pollard, Sidney, 152 Pollmann, Judith, 254 Porter, Bernard, 211, 228 Porter, Roy, 232 Port, M. H., 227 ‘Popular will’ (folkvilja), 138 Porter, Bernard, 211 Portsmouth, 141 Potgieter, Everhardus Johannes, 243 Poulton, 190 Prague, 24, 36 Prak, Maarten, 254–5 Preston, Paul, 105 Price, Richard, 228 Prim, Joan, 83 Principal Theatre, 89 Print capitalism, 257 Pro Rege et Lege motto, 221

Zimmer

Index Prost, Maurice, 173 Protectionism in Sweden, 136 Protestant Christians, 19 Protestants, 246–8 Provisional Municipal Law of 1849, 21–5, 37 Provost, Lord, 206 Prussia, 22, 26, 61, 260 Prussian Army, 99 Puerto Rico, 76, 85, 86, 88, 99 Purseigle, Pierre, 5, 9, 291 ’quarantotto (the year 1848), 56–7 Queensday, 241, 244, 249 Queen Victoria, 74, 206, 213, 215, 223 Queen Wilhelmina, 250 Quellien, Jean, 139, 152, 155 Radetzky, Marshal, 56 Radical Party, 187 Ralston, David, 178 Ramblas, 86 Ranger, Terence, 11 Ranki, Kristina, 231 Rasmussen, Anne, 177 Rattazzi–Cavour coalition, 58 Raunds, 188–9, 193 Rausch, Wilhelm, 43 Raxhon, Philippe, 128 Read, Donald, 232 Readman, Paul, 226, 228–9, 233 Rebérioux, Madeleine, 178 Redlich, Josef, 17–20, 40, 42–6 Reformist Party, 95 Reichenberg/Liberec, 25 Reichsbank, 278 Reid, Donald, 151, 153 Relief of Leiden, 240 Rembrandt, 240 Rendall, Jane, 228 Rennes, 164, 168 Reno Flood (Diluvio), 94–5, 98 Republican Party, 82 Responsible freedom, 242 Restoration Monarchy, 79 Retallack, James, 259–60, 282, 285 Revenge, The (Contamine), 158 Revere, Triestine Giuseppe, 53 Reynebeau, Marc, 130

319

Rhineland, 261 Ricasoli, 60 Riehl, Wilhelm, 276–7 Rietbergen, Peter, 129 Right Party, 142–3, 146–7 Rigobon, Pietro, 69, 71 Rijksmuseum, 248 Riley, Raymond, 152 Ritzhaupt, Adam, 277, 286 River Mincio, 54 Rivières project, 163 Robbins, Keith, 184, 199, 209, 212, 215, 227–30 Robert, J.-L., 203 Robertson, Paul, 152 Roberts, Robert, 220, 231 Robinson-Hammerstein, Helga, 231 Robledo, Francisco Romero, 95 Rodger, Richard, 232–3 Rogent, Elias, 84 Rokkan, Stein, 105 Romagnoli, Sergio, 72 Romanelli, Giandomenico, 69 Rome, 48, 54 Roos, G. W., 142 Rose, Jonathan, 211, 228 Rosebery, Lord, 216 Rothstein, Bo, 151 Rotterdam, 237, 241–2 Rougerie, Jacques, 177 Roverato, Giorgio, 72 Royal Court, 94 Royal Exchange, 215 Royal March, 88 Royal Naval Board, 135 Royal Palace in Barcelona, 89 Royal Victoria Dispensary, 216 Royle, Edward, 200–1 Roynette, Odile, 178, 181 Rozenblit, Marsha, 42 Russia, 48 Russian Empire, 140 Russian–Turkish War, 204 Russification policy, 136 Rydell, Robert W., 74, 104 Sagnes, Jean, 200–2 Sagasta, Práxedes Mateo, 81, 89 Saint-Dominique, 160

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320

Index

Saint-Fuscien, Emmanuel, 177 Saint-Lô, 167 St. Louis, 75 Saint-Malo, 168 St George, 206 St George’s Day, 210 Sala, George Augustus, 62 Salford Technical Institute, 220 Samuel, Raphael, 227 Sans pareil (social art), 208 Sas, Niek van, 235 Savage, M., 200 Saxony, 261 Say, Léon, 165, 169 Scalchi, Luigi, 70 Scales, Len, 229 Scarabello, Giovanni, 69 Schaller, Peter, 283 Scheffer, Paul, 252 Schiller, Berndt, 151 Schmeichen, James, 233 Schmidt-Nowara, Chris, 106 School Act, 121 School War, 121 Schwartz, František, 44 Schwartz, Leonard, 231 Scotland, 210, 222, 223 Scott, G. G., 226 Scottishness, 210 Scott, Joan Wallach, 200 Second Empire, 77, 186 Second German Empire, 258 Segers, Yves, 130 Seine, 170 Seine-et-Oise, 170 Self-employment in Augsburg, of craftsmen, 271–2, 274–5 Self-government (Selbstverwaltung/samospráva), 19 Austria, 27–8 Bohemia, 28 Bohemian lands, 30 Catalonia, 77 England and France, 222 Moravia, 28 Sens (Yonne), 161 September Revolution of 1868, 83 Séré de Rivières, General, 162, 165, 172

Serman, William, 177, 180 Serrano, Carlos, 107 Serrano, Eugenio, 79 17th Infantry Regiment, 197 Seville, 84 Sewell, William H., 281, 283 Shakespeare, 218 Sheffield, 216 Sheffield Daily Telegraph (publication), 216 Shubert, A., 106 Siccardi laws of 1850, 58 Silesia, 28, 261 Simkins, Peter, 203 Sirtori, Giuseppe, 53 Sismondi, Simonde de, 49 Skåne, 139 Sked, Alan, 71 Slawitschek, Rudolf, 43 Smith, Adam, 280 Smith, Anthony D., 1, 10–11, 253 Smith, Denis Mack, 72 Smith, Helmut W., 283 Smithells, Arthur, 231 Snell, K. D. M., 228 Snell, Keith, 211 Sociaal-Democratische Bond, 247, 248 Social Democratic Party, 37, 137, 142, 144–7, 249 Social Liberals, 246 Società italiana nazionale (SNI), 55 Society for the Common Good, 240 Sondhaus, Lawrence, 72 Songs of England (Austen), 210 Sørensen, Øystein, 150 South Africa, 188 South-African Boers, 250 South Germany. see Germany Sovereign Court, 26 Spain, 76 Black Legend of (religious superstition), 79 Catalanist movement in, 96–8 Counter-Reformation catholicism in, 117 lead, production of, 93 liberalism in, 83 population of, 110, 111

Zimmer

Index Spanish-American War, 76 Spanish liberal nationalism in, 76–7 Spanish-American War of 1898, 76 Spanish Civil Code, 81 Spanish Congress of Deputies, 76 Spanish Empire, 86, 99 Spector, Scott, 12 Spierenburg, Pieter, 128 Staaff, Karl, 144 Stacey, Margaret, 229 Stadion, Franz, 22–3 Standaard (publication), 237 Statistical Yearbook of France (1878), 170 Statue of Liberty, 88 Stein, Robert, 254 Stengers, Jean, 127, 129 Stodart-Walker, Archibald, 231 Storm, Eric, 105 Stourzh, Gerald, 38, 45–6 Strahl, Christer, 151–2 Stråth, Bo, 150–2 Stratton, Michael, 232 Straumann, Tobias, 281 Strike Brigade, 189, 192 Strikwerda, Carl, 114, 127–9 Stuiveling, G., 256 Stuttgart, 260, 263 Subsidised freedom (liberté subsidiée), 122 Suez Canal, 265 Summers, Anne, 151, 201 Supplementary Pavilion, 99 Svensson, Tommy, 152 Sverige, 145 Sweden centralization of, 133 conservative party of, 136 constitution of, 133 Farmers’ March of 1914, 144 industrialization of, 134–5 Liberal Party of, 137, 145–6 nationalism in, 133, 136 in nineteenth century, 133 Norway, succession of, 136, 137 parliamentarianism in, 137–8 political administration of, 136 controversies within, 137–8 electoral discourse, 143

321

protectionism in, 136 Right Party of, 142, 144, 146, 147 Royal Naval Board of, 135–6, 141 security policy of, 137 Social Democratic Party of, 137, 142–3, 144–6 tariff conflict of, 136 see also Karolinska Förbundet (Caroline Society) Sweet, Rosemary, 232 Tamse, Coenraad A., 253 Tank Week, 195 Tanner, Duncan, 151 Tarn, John Nelson, 232 Tatti, Luigi, 63, 73 Taulet, Francesc Rius i, 79, 81, 83, 92, 99 Taylor, Jeremy, 230 Taylor, S. W., 231 Telegraaf (publication), 237 Tenfeld, Klaus, 283 Terraferma, 52–3 Te Velde, Henk, 6, 8, 9, 10, 282, 291–2, 297–8 Textile manufacturing in Augsburg, 274, 278–9 Tezner, Friedrich, 27, 44 Thales of Miletus, 218 Thiers, Adolphe, 158–9 Thiesse, Anne-Marie, 128, 199 Third Republic, 77, 158 Thompson, E. P., 229 Thompson, Francis Michael Longstreth, 208, 227, 229 Three Graces, 215 Tilly, Charles, 202–3, 245 Times, The (publication), 55, 62, 91, 98, 206, 218 Tito, Ettore, 65 Tollebeek, Jo, 128 Tombs, Robert, 177 Tommaseo, Nicolò, 51–2 Tonini, Camillo, 69 Tönnies, Ferdinand, 198, 203 Top-down, legal approaches in Austria, 18 Toran, Rosa, 106 Torbacke, Jarl, 151–2

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322

Index

Tours, 157 Trade (Handwerkerstand), 267 associations of, 263, 265–6, 275, 278 Augsburg, 263, 272–4 commercial, 265, 277 freedom of, 270–4, 278 Germany, 261 Ludwigshafen, 267–8, 270 regulations for, 274 Ulm, 263–7 Tradesmen’s Party, 32 Trägårdh, Lars, 150 Trainor, Richard H., 12, 230, 232 Tramontin, Silvio, 70–1 Transatlantic Company, 85 Transatlantic Pavilion, 86 Trentman, Frank, 203 Treviso, 61 Trieste, 56 Triumphal Arch, 85–6, 90, 101 Troelstra, 248 Troppau/Opava, 25 Tros i Codina, Silvino, 107 True Party of Progress, 32 Turin, 48 Turno político agreement, 80, 81 Tuscany, 53, 54 Tyssens, Jeffrey, 128–9 Ulbrich, Josef, 43–5 Ulloa, Neapolitan Girolamo, 53 Ulm, 259 Deutsche Partei (National-Liberal), 265 Gewerbeverein of, 263, 265–6, 275 Handelsverein of, 263, 264–5, 278 industrial development in, 264 Kleingewerbe of, 263 population of, 259 trade in, freedom of, 263–7 urban economy of, 263 Ulmer Schnellpost (publication), 265 Ulmer Tagblatt (publication), 267 Ulster Protestant, 210 Umbach, Maiken, 12, 105, 232 Unitary Republic, 191

United Kingdom, 113 British nationalism in, 209–10 constitution of, 117 independence of, 113 national identity crisis in, 209 political autonomy of, 115 urban life in, 211–12 Universalist Republic, 192, 195 University of Bristol, 217 University of Leuven, 114 Urbanitsch, Peter, 42–6 Valenciennes, 161 van Bavel, Bas, 254 van Buuren, Maarten, 255 van den Berg, W., 253 van Deyssel, Lodewijk, 255 van Engelsdorp Gastelaars, Rob, 254 Van Ginderachter, Maarten, 5, 9 van Miert, Jan, 255 van Sas, Nicolaas C. F., 253–4 van Sas, Niek, 235 Vanschoenbeek, Guy, 122, 129 Venetian Church, 58 Venice Arsenale workers of, 56 Austrian rule of, 57–8 Austrian Südbahn Railway Company of, 63 Catholicism in, 51, 62–3 Concordat of, 58 demographic decline of, 60–1 Dogado, 53 government of, Marshal’s, 56–7 Great War, from unification to, 61–5 imperialism in, 65 as independent republic, 64–5 industrialization in, 65 italianità, 51 Italian patriotism in, 48–9 Italian port of, 63 Italian Scientific Congress in, 50 League of Cambrai, threats from, 53 manufacturing in, 64 military organization of, control of, 53 municipalism in, 54 municipalist revolution, 50–5 nationalism in, 61

Zimmer

Index national politics of, 64 national symbols of, 51 Piedmontese, support for, 59 Piedmontese rule of, 52–4 Punitive Habsburg policy of, 56–7 ’quarantotto and la terza dominazione austriaca, legacy of, 55–61 quiescence of, 57 redemption of, 55 Restoration Venice, 50 shipping in, 64 Siccardi laws of, 58 tax boycott in, 59–60 Terraferma, expansion into, 53 unification of, 62–4 Venetian Church, relationship with, 58–9 Venetian patriotism in, 54 Venetian revolution in, 51 Vienna, independence from, 51 Verhage, Hans, 254 Vernon, James, 12 Verona, 61 Versailles, 160 Verschaffel, Tom, 129 Vespucci, Amerigo, 64 Vial, Philippe, 178 Vian, Giovanni, 71–2 Victoria, Queen, 206, 213, 223 Vienna, 51, 54 Vienna Exhibition of 1873, 75 Vilaseca, Josep, 85 Virgin of Mercy, 90 Visser, Irmin, 254 Vliegen, Willem H., 256 Völk, Joseph, 272 von Bach, Baron Alexander, 26, 57 Vondel, 240 von Herrnritt, Rudolf, 44 Vos, Louis, 127, 129 Wagenaar, Michiel, 254–5 Wales, 110, 210, 217, 222 Walker, Mack, 261, 283 Wallace, William, 223 Waller, P. J., 229 Waller, Philip, 12, 226 Wallsend, 139 Wanderlager (wall runs camps), 273

323

Wandruszka, Adam, 42 War of Spanish Succession, 83 Waterhouse, Alfred, 204, 207, 225–6, 299 Waters, Chris, 210, 228 Weak nationalization thesis, 77 Webb, Aston, 231 Weber, Eugen, 157, 175, 177, 187, 192, 198, 201, 235, 294–5, 299–300 Wehler, Hans-Ulrich, 282 Weichlein, Siegfried, 282–3 Weiner, Deborah E. B., 229 Weiner, Martin, J., 229 Welshness, 210 Welsh Territorial Division, 194 Whiggery, 223 Whig Interpretation of History, 222 White, A. P., 200 Whyte, William, 1–13, 42, 199, 281, 291 Wichers, A. J., 254 Wikander, Ulla, 151 Wilhelmina, Queen, 244–5, 250, 251 William I, 118, 244 William III, 244, 249 William of Orange, 241 Williams, Gwynn, 227 Williams, J. E., 201 Williams, W. M., 229 Wils, Lode, 119, 127, 129 Winchester, 219 Wingfield, Nancy, M., 45–6 Winter, Emma L., 226 Winter, J. M., 203 Wintle, Michael, 255 Wirteverein (association of innkeepers), 269 Witte, Els, 114, 127–9 Wolffram, Dirk Jan, 255 Woolf, Stuart, 70–1, 73 World Exhibition in Paris (1878), 275 Wrathmell, Susan, 232 Wright, Gwendolyn, 12 Württemberg, 259, 261, 263, 266, 268 Württemberg Democrats, 258 Wycliffe, 223 Wyke, Terry, 226 Wynants, Paul, 129

Zimmer

324

Index

Young, William, 232 Yxart, Javier, 94, 106–7 Zahra, Tara, 42–3 Zang, Gerd, 282 Zannini, Andrea, 73 Zeeland, 237

Ziblatt, Daniel, 128 Ziemann, Benjamin, 203 Zimmer, Oliver, 42, 176, 181, 229, 252, 291–2, 297 Zorzi, Alvise, 70–2 Zwangsinnung (forced separation), 274

Zimmer