The Social Democratic Moment: Ideas and Politics in the Making of Interwar Europe

T H E S O C I A L D E M O C R AT I C M O M E N T The Social Democratic Moment Ideas and Politics in the Making of Int...

Author: Sheri Berman

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T H E S O C I A L D E M O C R AT I C M O M E N T

The Social Democratic Moment Ideas and Politics in the Making of Interwar Europe

Sheri Berman

H A RVA R D U N IV E R S IT Y P R E S S

Cambridge, Massachusetts London, England

•

1998

Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Berman, Sheri, 1965– The social democratic moment : ideas and politics in the making of interwar Europe / Sheri Berman. p. cm. ISBN 0-674-44261-X Based on author’s dissertation, Harvard University. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Sveriges socialdemokratiska arbetareparti—History—20th century. 2. Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands—History—20th century. 3. Socialism—Sweden—History—20th century. 4. Socialism—Germany—History—20th century. I. Title. JN7995.S86847 1998 324.2485⬘072⬘09042—dc21 97-47061

For Gideon

Contents

Preface

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

1

Reexamining Interwar Social Democracy

1

2

Evaluating the Role of Ideas

14

3

Sweden’s Political Development and the Programmatic Beliefs of the SAP

38

Germany’s Political Development and the Programmatic Beliefs of the SPD

66

5

Sweden’s Path to Democracy

96

6

Germany’s Path to Democracy

122

7

The Origins of Social Democratic Hegemony

150

8

The Collapse of German Democracy

176

9

Understanding Interwar Social Democracy

201

Notes

233

Index

301

4

Preface

From one perspective, this book is about political decision making. It asks, what are the key factors that lead political parties and politicians to choose one course of action over another at particular points in time? From another perspective, the book is about the connection between ideas and politics. It asks, when do ideas influence the behavior of political actors, and how do they do so? And from yet a third perspective, the book is about European social democracy and the political dynamics of the interwar years. It asks, why did Social Democratic parties offer such varied responses to the challenges of democratization and economic crisis, and how did these responses influence the political paths traversed by different countries in the years between the two world wars? These three facets come together in the book’s rather simple argument: that the crisis decision making of interwar Social Democratic parties was shaped in large part by those parties’ ideas, with different ideas yielding different policy responses even when parties faced similar challenges. These differing political responses, in turn, critically shaped European politics during the interwar years. “For social scientists who enjoy comparison,” Peter Gourevitch once noted, “happiness is finding a force or event which affects a number of societies at the same time.”1 By such logic, if no other, transnational cataclysms like wars and depressions have great virtues, which are magnified when they wreak their havoc on different victims. During the half century before the First World War the political and economic development of Germany and Sweden showed important similarities: both countries were late industrializers; both had a relatively weak and divided bourgeoisie and liberal movement; neither could make the transition to a full parliamentary ix

x

Preface

democracy before 1914. The end of the war caused the final collapse of the old regime in both countries, bringing about democratization in each. In both Germany and Sweden, moreover, the task of leading this transition fell to the Social Democrats. A decade later, both countries were battered by the Great Depression, with all its chaos and disruption, and once again the Social Democrats were the dominant political actors in each country at the start of the crisis. Even though the German and Swedish Social Democrats belonged to the same transnational political movement, they responded quite differently to both democratization and depression—with important consequences for the fates of their countries and the world at large. Analyzing their responses provides an interesting commentary on competing explanations for policy choices during these years. What such analysis uncovers, interestingly, is the important influence of the long-held ideas of each party about politics and economics—ideas I term “programmatic beliefs.” In addition to being about decision making, therefore, this book is about the ways some ideas can become and remain a powerful political force, and about the mechanisms through which they can influence political behavior. Ultimately the book has three goals. The first is to shake up some of the standard ways contemporary political science views political decision making. The second is to contribute to a growing debate in the field about the role of ideas in political life. The third is to use these theoretical discussions, and the comparative method, to enhance our understanding of European political development. As we will see, the interwar period was a moment in time when Social Democratic parties were confronted with immense challenges as well as a brief opportunity to dramatically influence the course of world history.

Acknowledgments

This book began as a dissertation at Harvard University, and my first debt is therefore to my advisers Peter Hall, Andrei Markovits, Paul Pierson, and Daniel Jonah Goldhagen. They saw the dissertation through a large number of permutations and provided constructive criticism and support through every stage of the process. The study began, in a very different form, in 1987–1988 when I spent a year at Uppsala University in Sweden. I would like to thank the Swedish Institute and the Council of Europe for providing funding for that year and the Department of Political Science at Uppsala University for providing me with a home base. For financial support during various stages of this project I would like to thank the Jacob Javits Fellowship program, the Mellon Foundation, and the Krupp Foundation. I would also like to thank the Arbeiterkammer in Vienna, the Friedrich Ebert Stiftung in Bonn, and the Arbetarrörelsens arkiv in Stockholm for allowing me to use their research facilities. Many people have read parts of this book and provided me with constructive comments and criticisms. In addition to my advisers I would like to thank Bruce Morrison, Kathleen McNamara, Daniel Philpott, Kathryn Stoner-Weiss, Tom Harsanyi, and especially Gideon Rose for helping to make this a better book. Jannick Gefflot and Katya Krivinkova kindly checked my German and Swedish notes, respectively. I would also like to thank Bilbo, Hjalmar, and Smilla for making the last stages of the writing much more enjoyable. At Harvard University Press I would like to thank Michael Aronson and Jeff Kehoe for seeing the book through to publication.

xi

Successful politics is always “the art of the possible.” It is no less true, however, that the possible is often achieved only by reaching out towards the impossible which lies beyond it. Max Weber, “Value Judgments in Social Science”

CHAPTER

1 Reexamining Interwar Social Democracy The history of European labor during the period between the two world wars is the story of the decline and downfall of European democracy. The rise of Fascism was primarily determined by the failure of Europe’s strongest democratic force to fulfill its constructive task. adolf sturmthal, the t ragedy of european labor

Political developments in interwar Europe not only led directly to the Second World War but also created the political cleavages and institutional structures that still shape European politics today. Between 1918 and 1945, Europe’s long process of political, economic, and social modernization culminated in a period of unprecedented progress and destruction. As Ralf Dahrendorf notes, only then did “the many” move from being in the “shadow of history” to being its main actors; mass society and politics finally came to stay.1 In short, the liberal, democratic society that citizens of the West now take for granted can be understood only through the prism of the period between the two world wars. Precisely because the politics of these years had such momentous impact on European and world history, attempts to explain them have dominated the discipline of political science, and particularly comparative politics, ever since. A glance through the literature in areas ranging from political modernization to social theory, from democratic theory to policy making, reveals how many important paradigms and how much of our understanding of Western society is based on the experience of the 1920s and 1930s, and contemporary scholars continue to find the interwar period a captivating field of inquiry.2 Despite this extensive literature, however, more remains to be said. In the last third of the nineteenth century, Karl Marx’s writings provided the foundation for a new political movement in Europe. By the outbreak of 1

2

The Social Democratic Moment

the First World War, social democracy, one of the offshoots of this movement, had become the single most powerful political force in many European countries. When the old order finally collapsed in 1918, several Social Democratic parties found themselves in positions of power that would have been unimaginable before 1914. These parties not only were stronger than ever but also confronted a situation in which traditional political, social, and economic forms were being questioned or discarded. In a number of European countries, Social Democratic parties assumed the task of building and leading new democratic regimes. Even though contemporary observers felt strongly that the success or failure of these democratic experiments depended on the decisions made by these parties, political scientists have given these decisions little attention, particularly from a comparative perspective.3 This book examines the actions of two Social Democratic parties during the interwar years: the German SPD (Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands) and the Swedish SAP (Sveriges Arbetarparti). From its founding in 1875, the SPD was the most powerful Social Democratic party in Europe. Marx and Engels, moreover, took a special interest in German social democracy, enabling it to exert an important influence over the international socialist movement. The Swedish SAP may have lacked the international stature of its German counterpart, but by the end of the interwar period it was the most successful Social Democratic party in Europe, having laid the foundations for a period of democratic political hegemony unrivaled by any other party in twentieth-century European history. Understanding the actions of these two parties therefore sheds light on a range of political phenomena. This book focuses on party behavior during the crises of democratization in 1917–1919 and depression in 1930–1933. During both of these periods the German and Swedish Social Democrats faced similar challenges. At the end of the First World War, both had to form their first governments. This required answering two questions that had long bedeviled the international socialist movement: First, what should the correct relationship be between Social Democratic parties and “bourgeois” democracy? And second, under what conditions should Social Democrats form coalitions with nonsocialist parties? A decade later both had to help manage a capitalist economic order seemingly on the verge of collapse. This required them to confront two other long-standing questions: How should Social Democrats deal with the recurrent problems of the capitalist system?


3

And should social democracy try to escape its seemingly permanent minority status by expanding from a worker’s to a people’s party? Because almost all Social Democratic parties had to confront all four of these questions at some point, examining how the SPD and SAP dealt with them illuminates the most important issues in the history of social democracy. The experiences of these parties, however, should be of interest not only to students of social democracy but also to anyone concerned with the broader theoretical issues of democracy and democratization. During the revolutionary years at the end of the First World War in particular, the SPD and SAP had to force the liberalization of nondemocratic political regimes; manage rapid mass mobilization; and decide how to interact with political forces that had previously opposed or even repressed the labor movement. Examining the responses of the German and Swedish Social Democrats to the political challenges of the early twentieth century, therefore, provides insight into the crucial role played by social democracy in the formation and stabilization of interwar political regimes, as well as the problems facing democratic reformers in general. Furthermore, an examination of social democracy and its interactions with other political forces during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries should also help us understand the role played by workers and other socioeconomic groups in supporting different types of political regimes. Finally, this story should be of interest to anyone concerned with policy making during times of crisis. During the Great Depression the SPD and SAP had to maneuver through one of the most tumultuous periods in the history of Western civilization. Economic collapse led to political turmoil, and during the 1930s large numbers of people across Europe and North America questioned the viability of both democracy and capitalism. As a result, political leaders with bold responses to the Depression gained the opportunity to radically restructure traditional patterns of economic and political life. The SPD and SAP were still the most powerful political forces in their respective countries (although the position of the former had deteriorated somewhat), yet they acted quite differently, with dramatic consequences. Examining their responses to the Depression offers a window onto the possibilities for imaginative, progressive policy making during periods of economic and political crisis. This is, of course, also a subject of immense topical interest. The theoretical argument I develop in this book is an ideational one: I contend that the key to the SPD’s and SAP’s different actions lies in each

4


party’s long-held ideas and the distinct policy legacies those ideas helped create. The specifics of this argument are detailed in later chapters, but the general line of causation can be stated simply: specific versions of social democracy became institutionalized in the identities and organizational structures of both the SPD and the SAP in the period before the First World War, and these pushed the two parties in different directions with respect to the issues they would find themselves facing during the interwar years. In contrast to what reigning explanations in the literature suggest, neither structural nor institutional variables can sufficiently account for the choices made by these parties during this period. What is missing from existing accounts, I argue, is a proper emphasis on the ability of the SAP and SPD to shape their own fates, as well as those of their countries, and on how the ideas held by these parties influenced their political behavior over time. Before embarking on an investigation of these parties’ behavior and the role played by ideas in determining it, however, it is worthwhile to examine more closely the dilemmas the German and Swedish Social Democrats faced. The Challenges Facing Interwar Social Democracy

The features of the interwar landscape were shaped by the nature of each country’s economic and political development and the history of key political actors; thus the crises that developed in Germany and Sweden at the end of the First World War and during the Great Depression can be understood only by stepping back and examining the period before 1914. Even before Marx died, divisions had surfaced within the movement claiming his intellectual mantle. The most important fault line concerned how his followers viewed the existing economic and political system, and whether they felt revolutionary violence was required to overthrow it. Despite being committed to the transformation of society, most European Socialist parties (including the SPD and the SAP) rejected early on the use of insurrectionary activity to gain power. Moreover, despite their fight against the structures of bourgeois-capitalist society, most socialists found the opportunity to use at least one of these structures—elections—simply too tempting to resist. As Adam Przeworski and John Sprague put it: “Barricades were no longer needed when workers could cast ballots; votes were ‘paper stones.’”4 When they accepted the possibility of a peaceful parliamentary road to socialism, these “Socialist” parties evolved into “Social Democratic” ones.


5

Such an evolution, however, confronted these parties with new dilemmas. In contrast to the predictions of earlier Socialists, by the end of the nineteenth century it was clear that workers were not becoming a majority of European electorates. Furthermore, capitalism seemed destined to persist over the short and even medium term. The stability of the existing order, combined with a recognition that workers alone could not provide the electoral base for a “parliamentary road to socialism,” posed uncomfortable questions for Social Democratic parties. Should they boycott the system and hope for its demise or instead use the political tools at their disposal (such as elections) to push for incremental reforms that might help improve the lives of workers within the existing order? If the latter, should Social Democrats stand aloof as a principled isolated minority, or should they ally with relevant nonsocialist parties in attempts to extract reforms from the existing regime? Further complicating these general questions for the German and Swedish Social Democrats was the particular legacy of their countries’ industrial development. Both nations began the industrialization process relatively late (Sweden, in fact, got started roughly a generation after Germany) but developed rapidly thereafter. Partly as a result of the timing and nature of the industrialization process, both countries developed extensive state involvement in the economy, a concentrated industrial structure, a relatively weak bourgeoisie, and a divided liberal movement. Around 1870, moreover, political leaders in both countries instituted a series of political reforms designed to help limit the impact of the societal changes brought about by industrialization on the distribution of political power. By the early years of the twentieth century, the contradictions between the growth of the middle and working classes and semiautocratic political systems dominated by traditional elites led to increasing tensions within both Germany and Sweden. Since both countries had a relatively weak and divided liberal movement, however, their bourgeoisie were unable to play the role classically attributed to them—spearheading political modernization. The German and Swedish Social Democrats, on the other hand, had grown increasingly powerful since their founding in the last third of the nineteenth century, and by the First World War they were the largest parties in their respective parliaments. (The SPD achieved this status in 1912, the SAP in 1914.) It would necessarily fall to them, therefore, to lead any movement for a transition to parliamentary democracy. Consequently, in the first decade of the twentieth century both the SPD and the SAP were forced to reconsider their position in the contemporary order, their rela-

6


tionship to nonsocialist parties, and the extent to which incremental reforms and democratization should be their immediate political goals. Despite growing demands for it, neither Germany nor Sweden made the transition to full parliamentary democracy before 1914. The First World War temporarily postponed domestic political conflicts, but by 1917 the hardships accompanying the war and the example of the Russian Revolution brought earlier demands back to the surface. Now, however, the prewar division in both countries between those favoring and opposing further democratization had widened into a chasm, while the controversy over cooperating with nonsocialist groups had ripped the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties apart, culminating in the formation of left-socialist splinter parties that opposed accommodation with bourgeois politics. As the armies of the Central Powers finally collapsed in 1918, so too did the old order across much of Europe, and the mainstream remnants of the SPD and SAP were thrust into power. Their responses to the challenge of governing would be critically affected by the way they had defined their relationship to “bourgeois” democracy and nonsocialist parties during the prewar era. The paths of the new democracies in Germany and Sweden began to diverge after 1919, as a result of the differing impacts and consequences of the First World War and the way in which the SPD and SAP responded to the collapse of the old regime. Despite this, however, the German and Swedish Social Democrats once again found themselves facing several similar challenges during the 1920s. Both the SPD and the SAP were the strongest political force in their systems, but neither was strong enough to form a majority government on its own. This circumstance, along with proportional representation and a divided right, made it impossible for either country to achieve stable governments. Since the Social Democrats in both countries were most closely associated with, and had the greatest stake in, the new democratic system, this situation was extremely problematic for them. Both the SAP and the SPD, therefore, were forced to confront again an old political dilemma: Should they stay the political course or instead reach out to nonproletarian groups in the hope of forming a majority coalition, transforming themselves in the process from “worker’s” into “people’s” parties? Alongside this political dilemma arose an economic one. Following democratization, both Sweden and Germany faced serious economic problems (although the German difficulties were obviously much greater). As


7

key players in the initial democratic regimes in both countries, both the SAP and the SPD were responsible for the direction of government economic policy, and both initially tried a strategy of socialization. When circumstances forced them to abandon these efforts, each party faced during the 1920s the challenge of devising a new economic program—one that protected their constituencies from the vicissitudes of the capitalist system, while at the same time moving society toward a Social Democratic future. When the Depression hit, both parties found themselves in the uncomfortable position of watching the capitalist system apparently collapse around them. Voices within the labor movement in Germany and Sweden called for a proto-Keynesian economic policy, which—since implementing such a course shift would require a majority coalition—raised again the question of reaching out to other groups suffering during the crisis, especially farmers. Here again the actions of the SPD and SAP would be critically shaped by their earlier attitudes and behavior, particularly with regard to crossclass outreach and economic reform. The challenges confronting the German and Swedish Social Democrats at the end of the First World War and during the Great Depression were critically affected by the nature of each country’s earlier history, particularly its economic and political development. And yet while historical, structural, and institutional factors largely determined the situations Social Democratic parties faced at these critical junctures, such factors did not determine how the parties would respond to these situations. As Marx put it: “Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but rather under circumstances found, given and transmitted.”5 Among the crucial factors shaping the responses of the German and Swedish Social Democrats to the challenges of the interwar years, I contend, were each party’s long-held ideas and the distinct policy legacies these ideas helped create. The ways in which these ideas influenced the actions of the SPD and SAP will be discussed extensively in later chapters, but the argument can be summarized briefly here. The Argument

It is sometimes difficult for contemporary observers to understand how attached to ideas Social Democratic parties were in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Because these parties’ appeal was based explicitly

8


on the desire to create a better society, the ideas associated with them played a crucial role in keeping activists loyal to the cause and attracting voters. These parties thus found it difficult and costly to abandon, contradict, or move beyond their stated beliefs. Perhaps more important, however, in solidifying the attachment of the SPD and SAP to particular ideas was the fact that during the last decades of the nineteenth century distinctive versions of social democracy had become institutionalized in the identities and organizational structures of each party. Once this had occurred, the ideas associated with these parties took on a life of their own, changing the incentives facing political actors and hence their decision making over the long term. As we will see, once different versions of social democracy became institutionalized within the SPD and SAP, the parties found themselves placed on distinct policy-making trajectories, with their decision making constrained both practically and intellectually by the weight and consequences of their past behavior. The version of social democracy that became institutionalized with the Swedish SAP had three main characteristics. The first was a relatively flexible and undogmatic view of Marxism. Many SAP leaders asserted that because Marx and Engels had written over a generation earlier, some of their views were out of date, and thus certain modifications to them were naturally appropriate. The theme of remaining true to the “principles” or “ideals” of Marxism, while at the same time adjusting to the needs of the day, gained widespread acceptance within the party before 1914. A second characteristic of the SAP’s version of social democracy was a commitment to evolutionary reform work and a belief that such reforms could contribute directly to the construction of social democracy. In the years before the First World War, the party focused its efforts on the achievement of practical political and economic reforms, arguing that such reforms were chiseling away at the core of the bourgeois-capitalist system. In addition, the party came to view democracy not merely as a means but also as an end, and hence placed the achievement of a parliamentary system and universal suffrage at the forefront of its political agenda. A third characteristic of the SAP’s version of social democracy was a relatively mild view of the class struggle. From early in its history the SAP exhibited a willingness to reach out to groups outside the industrial working class and emphasized areas of potential interest overlap between workers and other socioeconomic groups. This, combined with the party’s emphasis on democracy, led it to join in tactical alliances with left Liberals to


9

push political reforms and to be open to cooperation with other progressive forces in the years before 1914. When Sweden’s political order was thrown into turmoil at the end of the First World War, this version of social democracy and the policy legacies it helped create played a crucial role in shaping the party’s response to the crisis, helping it steer a reasonably clear and confident course toward longterm objectives. Having long pursued a political strategy with democratization and tactical cross-class cooperation at its core, the SAP entered the revolutionary period with a set of ideas and experiences well suited to guiding it through the chaotic years ahead. When the old regime seemed on the verge of collapse, there was little question about what the immediate goals of the party should be. As in the past, the party’s energy and resources would be concentrated on bringing together all democratic-minded groups in order to achieve the final democratic breakthrough. When the Depression hit Sweden in the early 1930s, once again the SAP’s version of social democracy and the policy legacy it helped create shaped the party’s response to the crisis. Having long emphasized that reform work within the capitalist system could contribute to the future Social Democratic goal, the SAP worked throughout the 1920s to develop an economic strategy capable of helping Social Democrats control, or at least manage, the capitalist system. When several SAP members proposed a “Keynesian” solution to the Depression, the party was able to recognize the economic and political possibilities this new economic strategy offered to social democracy and adopt it without repudiating its previous economic positions or view of capitalism. Similarly, having long adhered to a relatively mild view of the class struggle, the party had formed tactical alliances with nonsocialist groups and developed an agricultural program in the period before the First World War. This facilitated the formation and acceptance of a cross-class appeal during the 1920s and enabled the SAP to make the final transition from a worker’s to a people’s party without a large break with the past. This, in turn, was crucial in helping the SAP cement an alliance with Swedish peasants—the necessary prerequisite for the passage of its innovative economic program in 1933. The version of social democracy that became institutionalized within the German SPD before the First World War differed greatly from that of its Swedish counterpart. First, the SPD became associated with an orthodox and inflexible view of Marxism, which left little room for purposeful human action. In this view socialism would come about as the result of eco-

10


nomic laws, not the efforts of individuals or political parties. Despite radical changes in the external environment during the years after its founding, the SPD found it difficult to accept revisions of the masters’ views even as they appeared increasingly anachronistic. A second characteristic of the SPD’s version of social democracy was a denigration of the value of contemporary reform work. Although the party eventually took up the fight for political and economic reforms in Wilhelmine Germany, it never conceived of this work as part of its long-term goal of transforming society, nor did it integrate such work into its theoretical understanding of the transition from capitalism to socialism. In addition, although the party also eventually decided to focus on the achievement of parliamentary democracy, its embrace of “bourgeois” democracy was tentative and never connected to the ultimate goals of social democracy. A third characteristic of the SPD’s version of social democracy was a relatively strident view of the class struggle. Well into the twentieth century, the party remained attached to the view of all nonproletarian groups as a “single reactionary mass.” This, in conjunction with its ambivalence toward democracy, made it extremely difficult if not impossible for the SPD to accept alliances with nonsocialist groups, even when such alliances might enable the party to achieve concrete goals. Consequently, before the First World War the party gave little thought to the specifics of how to work within a democratic political system or cooperate with other groups to achieve its aims. The end of the war threw Germany’s political order into an even greater crisis than it did Sweden’s, and the SPD’s response to these years was crucially affected by the version of social democracy it had developed previously. In the confusing and rapidly changing environment of 1917– 1919, the party was forced to fall back on its long-held beliefs and experiences for guidance but found these to be of little use. Because it had not developed a democratization strategy or a framework for cooperation with nonsocialist groups before 1914, the party bickered about its role as the old regime collapsed around it, and it was forced to deal with each challenge during the revolutionary years individually, in an ad hoc manner. As a result, the SPD failed to seize the moment and use its substantial power to transform and democratize Germany more fundamentally, a lost opportunity that bequeathed the Weimar Republic even shakier foundations than necessary. When the Depression hit Germany, once again the SPD’s version of


11

social democracy crucially conditioned its response to the crisis. Because the SPD had never really integrated its practical reform efforts with its long-term goals, the party had great difficulty during the 1920s developing a strategy for working within the capitalist system to achieve social democracy. When several reformers proposed a Keynesian-type solution to the crisis, therefore, the party was divided over how to respond. For some, continued adherence to orthodox Marxism ruled out trying to save and perhaps even improve the capitalist system; others, having never really considered the possibility of using the democratic system to control economic development, found Keynesianism simply too large of a break with the past to be assimilated on such short notice. Similarly, because it had long clung to a relatively strident view of the class struggle, the SPD found it difficult to reach out explicitly to nonproletarian groups. Before the First World War the party could bring itself neither to cooperate with left Liberals nor to formulate an agricultural program. Attempts by a few activists to move the party beyond its traditional proletarian base and toward a people’s party strategy in the 1920s and early 1930s ran up against many of the party’s long-held principles, and so got nowhere. This inability to reach out to other groups, especially peasants, helped doom any hopes for a radical course shift on the part of the SPD during the final years of the Weimar Republic. Although the focus of this study is on explaining the behavior of the SPD and SAP during the key periods of democratization and depression, it is worth noting briefly just how important this behavior was for later European history. The SAP vigorously championed the cause of democratization in Sweden in the years before the First World War and retained this leadership position during the collapse of the old regime in 1917–1918. During the early 1930s the party developed a strong interventionist economic policy and cemented an alliance with Swedish peasants. These actions were crucial in leading Sweden toward decades of Social Democratic hegemony. The SPD, on the other hand, was largely overwhelmed by the events of Germany’s revolutionary period and was unable to exploit the opportunity to democratize Germany more completely. A decade later, moreover, despite heated intraparty debates, the SPD did not put forward a convincing new economic program in response to the Depression, nor did it formulate a successful appeal to groups outside the working class. This contributed to the conditions in which Hitler and the Nazi party rose to political prominence and ultimately to national leadership. To be sure, various factors differentiating politics in Germany and Swe-

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den during the interwar years ensured that these countries’ fates were not entirely contingent—that is, not all outcomes were possible in each nation. Even had the SAP not played its hand so successfully, for example, Sweden probably would not have slipped into fascism—because it lacked certain historical and ideological legacies, was not traumatized by defeat and humiliation in the First World War, and had a sturdier economy during the interwar period. Similarly, certainly by the time the Depression began to make itself felt in Germany, no matter what the SPD had done in response to this crisis it could not have transformed its country into a full-fledged social democracy; the SPD’s stock had sunk too low, and the nation’s political divisions had hardened too dramatically. Nevertheless, a wide range of possible outcomes still existed for each nation and the actions of the respective Social Democratic parties helped determine which of these possible outcomes actually emerged. As will become clear in the following chapters, the interwar period was a moment in time when Social Democratic parties critically affected the course of European history. Outline

The outline of the rest of this study is as follows: Chapter 2 examines the connection between ideas and political behavior. First, I discuss some of the problems inherent in previous ideational analyses and show how they can be overcome. Then I develop a theoretical framework for analyzing the impact of ideas on political behavior and sketch out how it can be applied to the cases of German and Swedish social democracy. Chapter 3 briefly treats Swedish political development prior to the twentieth century and then discusses the development of the SAP, focusing on its distinctive set of beliefs and how they became institutionalized in the identity and organizational structures of the party. Chapter 4 repeats this procedure for Germany and the SPD. Chapter 5 describes how the Swedish Social Democrats, acting on the basis of their beliefs, were able to spearhead the movement for democracy in Sweden during the first decades of the twentieth century and steer Sweden through the revolutionary years at the end of the First World War. Chapter 6 shows how the German Social Democrats, acting under the influence of their beliefs, missed opportunities to push the Wilhelmine regime toward democratization before 1914, and temporized and floundered during the German Revolution.


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Moving on to the Depression, Chapter 7 addresses how the beliefs of the Swedish Social Democrats facilitated the adoption of successful political and economic strategies during the 1930s, and how these contributed to eventual Social Democratic hegemony. Chapter 8 examines how the German Social Democrats, crippled by a set of beliefs with little relevance to the tasks at hand, missed an opportunity to adopt the same policies as their Swedish counterparts, thus facilitating the Nazi’s eventual rise to power. Chapter 9, the conclusion, elaborates this study’s findings about the connection between ideas and politics, while showing (in light of the previous discussion) why the standard nonideational explanations in the existing literature cannot adequately account for the SPD’s and SAP’s behavior. After describing how the two parties’ interwar actions relate to the history of the Social Democratic movement, finally, it presents the implications of this study for theories of political development in general.

CHAPTER

2 Evaluating the Role of Ideas Belief systems have never surrendered easily to empirical study or quantification. Indeed, they have often served as primary exhibits for the doctrine that what is important to study cannot be measured and that what can be measured is not important to study. philip converse, “the nature of belief systems”

In order to understand the challenges facing Social Democratic parties during the interwar years, we must pay careful attention to their countries’ historical development and structural environment. Many scholars have gone even further and have argued that how parties responded to those challenges can be explained in the same way. Historical and structural variables so constrained political actors during these years, the reasoning runs, that one need not look past them in order to explain party actions; from this perspective, a detailed examination of actual party decision making is time-consuming and unnecessary. But these scholars are wrong. A close look at the Swedish and German cases reveals that the weight of external constraints has been exaggerated—that parties and politicians during the interwar years had more freedom of action than is commonly believed. If we want to understand why these actors responded as they did, we have to go beyond the historical and structural variables that have received so much attention in the existing literature and instead open the “black box” of the decision-making process, examining in particular the role played by each party’s ideas in shaping its policy choices. Developing an intellectual framework for such an examination is the goal of the following pages. Even though most people live their lives as if ideas matter a great deal, and most practitioners and nonacademic students of politics take their import and significance for granted, political science neglected the study of ideas for decades. Although there has been a recent rise in interest, ideas14


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based explanations are still met with skepticism by many within the discipline.1 Much of the responsibility for this state of affairs lies with ideational theorists, for three reasons. First, they do not agree among themselves on basic definitional questions. A prerequisite for social scientific analysis is the definition of terms, but ideational theorists have had trouble defining their independent variables in such a way that they can be clearly identified and observed. Before ideas can be used to explain outcomes, we must know exactly what they are and how they come to play a role in political life. Second, ideational theorists have not been able to reach a consensus about how their independent variables influence political outcomes. In order to compete with other social scientific theories, ideational theorists must develop coherent explanations for the mechanisms through which ideas shape political behavior. Ideational theories require, in other words, a theory of causality. Third, ideational theorists have had difficulty devising empirical tests capable of demonstrating ideas’ power and independent impact. In order to develop a progressive research program, ideational theorists must devise hypotheses about the impact of ideas on political behavior and test them against real-world data. Like other theories, a successful ideational theory requires three things. First, the terms of analysis must be clearly defined. Second, an argument about the way the independent variable influences the dependent one must be elaborated. Third, hypotheses must be derived from the theory and then tested. None of these tasks present insurmountable problems, and by stepping back and carefully considering the basic premises of ideational analyses, a powerful framework for analyzing the impact of ideas on political behavior can in fact be constructed. This chapter is divided into three sections. The first responds to two main objections raised against using ideas as independent variables and discusses a particular category of ideas that should be promising independent variables for ideational theorists. The next section deals with issues of causality, putting forth an ideational theory of decision making and then deriving testable hypotheses from it. The third section then discusses how ideational theorists can properly study the connection between their independent and dependent variables, that is, between ideas and particular political outcomes. The Case for Studying Ideas as Independent Variables

After the Second World War, political scientists shunned the study of ideas, largely in reaction to the politicization of ideology in earlier decades and

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the disastrous consequences such politicization seemed to have yielded. Clifford Geertz noted then that “the militantly hostile approach to ideology is a . . . response to the political holocausts of the past half-century.” The ideas of Stalin’s Soviet Union and Hitler’s Germany had led to unprecedented campaigns of internal and external aggression; as a result, Geertz lamented, “the fate of ideology has turned out to be . . . isolation from the mainstream of social thought.”2 And indeed, for those shaped by the Second World War and its aftermath, the term ideology had ominous overtones: it stood “in contradiction to ‘truth,’ science and valid knowledge in general.” 3 In recent years, however, as collective memory of the early twentieth century fades, normative reservations about emphasizing the role of ideas in politics have been replaced by methodological ones. One methodological challenge stems from the widespread belief that ideas are epiphenomenal—that is, they are simply the consequence of other factors and are therefore not worth studying in their own right. A second methodological challenge stems from the fact that ideas “have never surrendered easily to empirical study or quantification.”4 Political scientists prefer to study things they can see, measure, and count, and ideas seem the opposite— vague, amorphous, and constantly evolving. Both of these objections are serious but not ultimately decisive; I deal with each in turn.

Are Ideas Epiphenomenal? The most famous proponent of the belief that ideas are epiphenomenal was Karl Marx.5 In “The German Ideology” he argued: “The phantoms formed in the human brain are . . . necessarily, sublimates of their material life-process, which is empirically verifiable and bound to material premises. Morality, religion, metaphysics, [and] all the rest . . . have no history, no development; but men, developing their material production and their material intercourse, alter, along with this, their real existence, their thinking and the products of their thinking. Life is not determined by consciousness, but consciousness by life.”6 For Marx, ideas were best viewed as the result of material factors, having little or no independent value or impact. Interestingly enough, many contemporary scholars with little interest in, or sympathy for, Marx’s larger political goals have followed in his footsteps here, viewing the ideas of individuals and groups primarily as a consequence of their economic interests or position in the international divi-


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sion of labor. (This is true, for example, of many rational choice and political economy analyses.) In the field of international relations, realists have been the primary proponents of the view that ideas are epiphenomenal or merely instrumental. As E. H. Carr once noted: “The realist has . . . demonstrate[d] that . . . intellectual theories and ethical standards . . . [are] both the product of circumstances and interests and weapons framed for the furtherance of interests.”7 Social scientists have generally accepted arguments such as these, and have therefore studied ideas primarily as dependent variables, examining how the ideas held by individuals and groups have been shaped by different aspects of their environment. This is certainly a legitimate avenue of research. Yet there is no inherent reason ideas cannot also, under certain circumstances, operate as independent variables, influencing how individuals and groups try to shape their environment. Some might say that before ideas can be employed as independent variables a scholar must show that they cannot be traced back to some ultimate nonideational variable that could be said to be “purely” independent. Skeptical of the autonomy of ideas, that is, such scholars seek that perpetual grail of political scientists and metaphysicians alike—what Aristotle termed the “unmoved mover.”8 In this view, for ideas to be accepted as legitimate variables, ideational theorists would have to prove that at no point in time was their development or acceptance influenced by structural variables. In the abstract this may seem reasonable, but in practice it is both extremely difficult to achieve and more than is expected of other independent variables. Almost any independent variable can, at some point, be analyzed as a dependent variable: scholars have shown that even class and the structures of free market capitalism can be understood as the result of more “fundamental” factors.9 Political scientists have long recognized that today’s “dependent” variable is often tomorrow’s “independent” variable, and find nothing improper in such an intellectual transition as long as proper social scientific procedure is followed.10 We should hold ideas to the same standards that we do other potential independent variables, and not confront ideational explanations with unusual and perhaps insurmountable obstacles. Showing that ideas can be considered independent variables does not require showing that they were at no point influenced by other factors. As Brian Barry has put it: “It always seems to me quite easy to agree that [ideas] should always be regarded as being themselves capable, at least in principle, of explanation. But this does

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not mean that they are therefore bogus explanations. If I arrive late for an appointment because I missed my train, this is an explanation even though one could add that I missed my train because I overslept, overslept because I stayed up late . . . and so on as far back as time and patience permit.”11 What is required to show that ideas can be considered independent variables is demonstrating that they cannot be reduced to some other (structural) factor in the contemporary system. Ideational theorists should therefore pay careful attention to the evolution and acceptance of an idea in order to be able to show that it indeed can be considered as a (potential) independent variable. This would require examining how different conditions enable certain ideas to take on a life of their own, influencing political behavior over an extended period of time. (This process will be discussed further below.) If this can be done—if an ideational theorist can show that over time an idea takes on a life of its own, separate from the context within which it arose—then the fact that its development was influenced by other factors is an analytically distinct subject that is only indirectly related to the ultimate outcomes being explained.12 To put it another way, deciding whether a proposed correlation is spurious does not necessitate showing that an independent variable was not at any point influenced by other factors. Rather, as Max Weber once noted, “A correct causal interpretation of a concrete course of action is arrived at when the overt action and the motives have both been correctly apprehended and at the same time their relation has become meaningfully comprehensible.”13 Determining causality, in other words, requires two things: first, establishing a connection between the proposed independent and dependent variables, and, second, explaining why this connection exists—showing precisely how the independent variable influences the dependent one. (It is worth noting that many other types of political science explanations never even attempt this second step.) In the context of a study of ideas, this means that we must not only show that ideas are correlated with political behavior but also be able to explain how ideas actually influenced behavior. If these standards are met—if it can be shown that a specific idea held at time T cannot be reduced to any other variable in the contemporary system and had an effect at time T ⫹ 1, then the criteria for suggesting causality would seem to be met. In this regard, current students of ideas may be paying the price for the sloppiness of their predecessors, who did indeed often indiscriminately attribute relevance to ideas without recognizing that finding a correlation


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between particular ideas and outcomes was not equivalent to demonstrating a causal relationship between them.14 Partly as a reaction to this kind of research and its unsustainable claims, many turned away from the study of ideas altogether, believing that such inquiries could not meet the rigorous standards of social scientific analysis. As Robert Putnam once wrote: “For any hopeful advocate of social ‘science’ a step in the cold and murky waters of the literature on ‘ideology’ is a shocking and disillusioning experience.”15 Nonetheless, such objections can be overcome by scaling down and specifying the claims of ideational analyses and simply following proper social scientific procedures, as discussed further below.

Are Ideas Too Fuzzy to Study? If the first challenge to the study of ideas is the notion that they are epiphenomenal, the second is the notion that they are too vague and amorphous to be used in rigorous analysis. Most political scientists prefer to study things that can be readily observed and easily quantified. As one scholar has noted: “Unlike the analyst who can index his variables with such measures as GNP per capita, arms budgets, trade figures, votes in the UN General Assembly, or public opinion polls, those interested in the beliefs of decision-makers have no yearbook to which they can turn for comparable evidence, much less quantitative data presented in standard units. One result is relatively limited agreement on the appropriate categories into which to code whatever data is available.”16 Yet the neglect of ideas which this leads to, as Philip Converse once noted, is “a primary exhibit for the doctrine that what is important to study cannot be measured and that what can be measured is not important to study.”17 A vicious circle has developed: ideas have been seen as problematic variables largely because political science has lacked proper ways of conceptualizing their role and influence—which has been due, in turn, to the lack of attention paid to the subject.18 The first step in the development of a rigorous theoretical framework for the analysis of ideas, therefore, must be a proper definition of terms: “As many commentators on the problems of [ideas] have noted, uncertainties about the meaning of [ideas] lie at the heart of much of the confusion, and the way to progress, if progress there is to be, must cross the arid plain of definitional clarification.”19 In order to be useful independent variables, ideas must be able to be clearly identified and associated with specific political actors.

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Ideas range across a spectrum. At one end lie ideologies or worldviews (Weltanschauungen), which represent, in the words of Raymond Aron, “a total vision of the historical world.”20 Ideologies provide mental frameworks within which human beings can order and understand the entire world in which they live. They furnish abstract guidelines, a general outlook, a manner of thinking.21 Such inclusiveness, however, makes ideology a problematic variable for political analysis: something that explains everything, of course, explains nothing. Whereas it may be possible to posit a general connection between a holistic view of the world and the behavior of individuals or groups, it would be very difficult to learn anything about the motivations or actions of political actors in specific contexts from something as broad as an ideology.22 It would be almost impossible, in other words, to generate any hypotheses or predictions about particular instances of political behavior simply by knowing something about ideology. Two examples, Christianity and Marxian socialism, will suffice. Over the centuries, Christianity has been “sufficiently flexible to accommodate itself to empire, to its absence, and to a system of states, and it equally managed to endorse slavery and then oppose it.”23 Although we might be able to predict that a political actor professing a strong attachment to Christianity would try to live a “good” life, we could not predict much about exactly how the actor would try to achieve this goal—we could not, in other words, on the basis of religion alone predict whether a Christian would act like Saint Francis or Torquemada. This is because ideologies do not, in general, provide specific guidelines for action in everyday life.24 The same is true for socialism. A wide range of political actors have claimed to be acting under the socialist banner in the century and a half since Marx’s writings appeared. Russians, Cambodians, and all too many others used socialist ideology to justify totalitarian terror, while European Social Democrats used the same ideology to undergird their infinitely tamer strivings toward the modern welfare state. Turning to the cases examined in this study, both the German SPD and the Swedish SAP shared the broad ideological label Socialist (or, more correctly, Social Democratic). From this fact we know that they both paid homage to a particular intellectual tradition; hoped for a future free from capitalist exploitation; and shared a vision of the good life characterized by a high level of social equality. However, as we will see in later chapters, on the basis of this shared ideology we could not predict how they would


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interpret their shared intellectual tradition, attempt to create a future without capitalist exploitation, or try to achieve a more equal society. On the basis of their shared ideology, in short, one could not predict much in particular about how they would try to put their ideas into practice or their actions during the interwar period. If one end of the spectrum of political ideas is occupied by ideologies too broad to be useful, the other end is occupied by policy positions that may be too narrow to be interesting. The fact that a party or politician favors gun control or a flat tax, for example, may affect behavior in certain circumstances but has little relevance for larger and more substantial inquiries. If we want to learn more about broader categories of political behavior, we should examine a category of ideas with relevance to more than a single area of activity. In order to obtain useful and provocative results, therefore, I suggest concentrating on the complex of ideas lying between ideologies and policy positions—the middle range of ideas I call “programmatic beliefs.”25 “Programmatic belief ” is an admittedly arbitrary appellation, but it captures the most important and distinctive characteristics of the kinds of ideas likely to repay attention. Like ideologies, programmatic beliefs are abstract; systematic and coordinated; and marked by integrated assertions, theories, and goals.26 They differ from ideologies, however, in that they are not “total visions of the world,” but rather are directly relevant only to particular categories of human action. Within their specific domains, programmatic beliefs provide guidelines for practical activity and for the formulation of solutions to everyday problems. They supply, in other words, the ideational framework within which programs of action are formulated. When political actors seek to formulate responses to particular challenges, it is, therefore, to their programmatic beliefs that they should look. The defining feature of programmatic beliefs is that they provide a relatively clear and distinctive connection between theory and praxis. Another important distinction between ideologies and programmatic beliefs is that the latter should lend themselves to clear and coherent definition. We should be able to state distinctly what particular programmatic beliefs are, and how they differ from others. An actor’s adherence to a particular set of programmatic beliefs, moreover, should imply something about that actor’s response to specific situations or challenges. Programmatic beliefs should provide, in the words of John Ruggie, “mutual expectations and a mutual predictability of intention.”27 Along these lines, later

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chapters of this book will describe the distinctive set of programmatic beliefs developed by the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties and show how these beliefs exerted a crucial influence over the actions of these parties during the interwar years. A final important characteristic of programmatic beliefs is that we can identify the political actors through whom they operate. In order to function as an independent variable, ideas not only must be able to be clearly defined and identified but also must be associated with specific political actors. This latter criterion is important because ideas do not have any independent impact by themselves, as disembodied entities floating around in a polity. They can influence politics only by acting through or on a particular political actor. If the researcher cannot clearly identify specific political actors holding particular ideas, then he or she should avoid an ideational explanation. In summation, there is no reason ideas cannot be held to the same standards as other potential independent variables, and no reason an ideational theory cannot be developed to compete with alternative explanations of political behavior. Before moving on to this task, it is worthwhile to lay out some explicit questions, based on the preceding discussion, that might be asked when considering whether it is worthwhile beginning an investigation into the impact of ideas in any particular case: 1. Are there real differences between the ideas held by different individuals or groups, and do they imply different policy choices on the part of those who hold them? 2. Is it possible to establish a plausible connection between these differences and decisions made by political actors? 3. Did the relevant ideas predate the decisions being explained? 4. Is it impossible to deduce the specific content of the ideas from knowledge of some other observable variable in the system at the time the decision was made?28 The first question addresses the claim that ideas are too fuzzy to study; it basically asks whether programmatic beliefs can be identified and defined for the relevant political actors. Many recent analyses focusing on culture would have trouble meeting even this criterion because it is very difficult to demarcate these concepts in anything resembling a definitive manner and even more difficult to infer particular policy choices from them. As one group of scholars notes: “Abstract, unobserved concepts such as [ideology


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or culture] . . . can be a hindrance to empirical evaluation of theories and hypotheses unless they can be defined in a way such that they, or at least their implications, can be observed and measured.”29 If we cannot, for example, come up with a relatively clear and generally accepted definition of a particular culture; cannot derive (relatively uncontroversial) policy implications from the culture; and are not able to identify political actors through whom the culture operates, then culture simply should not be used as an independent variable. A good example here would be the debate over the impact of “Asian culture” on political outcomes. Some argue not only that there is a distinctive “Asian culture” but also that it makes Asia unsuited for particular political and social outcomes, namely “Western” democracy. Yet this “Asian culture” would not fit any of these criteria: there is little agreement on what “Asian culture” is (or even if it exists at all); few agree on what policy implications, if any, could be drawn from “Asian culture”; and it is almost impossible to agree on the actors “carrying” or acting on the basis of “Asian culture.”30 The second question asks whether ideas are consistent with the outcomes at issue. Although correlation and causality should not be confused, we need to find an example of the former before we can investigate the latter. This is the “congruence procedure” laid out by Alexander George: “The determination of consistency is made deductively. From the actor’s . . . beliefs, the investigator deduces what implications they have for the decision. If the characteristics of the decision are consistent with the actor’s beliefs, then there is at least a presumption that the beliefs may have played a causal role in this particular instance of decision-making.”31 A prerequisite for ideational analysis is therefore finding a situation where the beliefs of a political actor appear to be linked with choices made. But, in contrast to what has often been the case with past ideational explanations, this apparent linkage should be considered the starting point of an analysis, not its end.32 The last two questions address the objection that ideas are epiphenomenal. The third question is a test for the possibility that independent and dependent variables are intertwined or perhaps caused by some third, omitted variable. If the relevant ideas predate the decisions or outcomes that we are interested in explaining, then the chance that both our independent and dependent variables might be caused by some other variable is greatly diminished. Similarly, the fourth question, by telling us to check whether our ideational variable can be reduced to some structural charac-

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teristic of the contemporary environment, reminds us that in many cases ideas can be epiphenomenal and steers us away from situations where outcomes can be more readily or parsimoniously explained by some nonideational factor. If a researcher can answer all four questions in the affirmative, there is a strong prima facie case for exploring the impact of ideas on political behavior in detail. Explaining Political Behavior

Once we have accepted that ideas can matter, we are still left with the task of explaining how and why they matter and showing that they did, in fact, matter. This requires setting out a theory about the connection between ideas and political behavior and testing hypotheses derived from it. Developing an ideational theory requires two things: first, showing that a particular idea can be considered an independent variable, and, second, describing the mechanisms through which it influences the dependent variable. Once such a theory has been elaborated, the ideational theorist must then develop a methodology for studying the role played by ideas in shaping political behavior. In order to show that an ideational theory provides a better explanation for the outcomes in question than other relevant theories, ideational theorists must put forth a framework within which hypotheses about the connection between their independent and dependent variables can be tested. Turning first to theory development, two related sets of issues must be investigated at this stage. First, as noted earlier, we must show that a particular idea can be considered an independent variable. This requires examining how certain ideas are able to become and remain a powerful force in politics.33 It involves looking at how different conditions enable certain ideas to attain political salience and take on a life of their own, influencing political behavior over an extended period—becoming, in short, independent variables. Operationalized with respect to the cases discussed here, this means investigating how distinct programmatic beliefs came to dominate the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties. How did two parties, both claiming adherence to the same intellectual tradition and cross-national political movement, become associated with such different interpretations of social democracy? Second, we must examine how ideas influence political behavior. This


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involves looking at the mechanisms by which ideas shape the motivations and choices of political actors, driving the decision-making process down one path rather than another. Operationalized with respect to the cases discussed here, this means investigating how the respective programmatic beliefs of the German and Swedish Social Democrats led them to respond to democratization and depression in strikingly different ways.

What Conditions Affect the Influence of Ideas on Political Behavior? John Stuart Mill once noted that “ideas, unless outward circumstances conspire with them, have in general no very rapid or immediate efficacy in human affairs.”34 Before examining how ideas affect the decision making of political actors, therefore, it makes sense to investigate the “outward circumstances” that allow some ideas to become and remain a powerful force in politics in the first place. The first factor stressed by many ideational theorists in examinations of how ideas achieve political salience is the role played by “carriers.”35 In order to be heard in a world where different ideas are calling out for attention, an idea must be adopted by a person or group that is able to make others listen or render them receptive. Carriers act as intellectual entrepreneurs, bringing different ideas into the political system. The carrier’s status within the system will affect the likelihood of an idea’s gaining political salience: the greater the influence of the carrier, the greater the chance that the idea carried will attain political importance. Similarly, the lengthier and more successful the carrier’s career, the more likely it is that his or her ideas will gain acceptance. The longer a carrier has to mobilize support and provide incentives and disincentives for cooperation, the greater will be the chance that others will come to accept the idea. Prominent carriers, moreover, will be better positioned to ensure that their ideas remain a force in politics even after they have left the scene. The chief mechanism for this is the ability of a carrier to build a consensus around an idea, getting it accepted as the most suitable means of understanding and reacting to events in a particular sphere.36 Here is a situation where leadership can play a crucial role in shaping history: by inserting new ideas into the political arena and working to ensure their acceptance by others, individuals can critically influence the evolution of politics. (Think what Margaret Thatcher did for monetarism, or Ronald Reagan for supply-side economics.)

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Later chapters of this book will show how effective certain party leaders were in articulating their beliefs and maneuvering their organizations toward the adoption of particular political stances. The development of the Swedish SAP and its version of social democracy, for example, cannot be understood without reference to its first leader, Hjalmar Branting. Branting, the leader of the SAP from its founding in 1889 to his death in 1925, worked tirelessly to ensure the adoption of his particular “reformist” view of social democracy, especially during the early years of the party’s existence, when its role in Swedish society was still heavily debated. He was a charismatic and admired figure who used his conciliatory and persuasive talents to win supporters for his vision, and who adroitly mentored the careers of like-minded individuals, helping them rise through the party hierarchy. In Germany the situation was complicated by the fact that the Social Democratic movement was the object of special attention from Marx and Engels. By the last decades of the nineteenth century, the SPD had become the most powerful Social Democratic party in the world and had come to believe that much of its reputation and strength derived from its position as the standard-bearer of Marxist ideology. Within the SPD, therefore, challenges to orthodoxy faced greater psychological and intellectual resistance than they did in many other Social Democratic parties. Karl Kautsky’s intellectual brilliance further enhanced the SPD’s theoretical preeminence but served to reinforce the hold of rigid traditionalism. Especially after Engels’s death in 1895, Kautsky was unquestionably the most important Marxist theoretician in Europe, and his interpretation of Marxism became the SPD’s official credo. As time passed, however, and the situation in Wilhelmine Germany began to diverge from that laid out in the writings of Marx and Engels, first Engels and then Kautsky defended the party’s official orthodoxy from increasingly frequent attacks. Even though they played no official role in running the party, their interventions into policy debates played an important role in stifling challenges to traditional doctrine, such as Eduard Bernstein’s revisionism, helping to maintain the intellectual hegemony of a distinct set of programmatic beliefs. Although carriers can play a key role in inserting ideas into political debate and helping them gain salience, the most important factor determining whether ideas are able to influence politics over the long term is “institutionalization,” that is, whether or not an idea becomes embedded in an institution or organization. Once institutionalized, ideas take on a life of


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their own, changing the motivation and perception of political actors, affecting their decision making over the long term.37 This dynamic will become very clear in our examination of the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties. Maurice Duverger once remarked, “Just as men bear all their lives the mark of their childhood, so parties are profoundly influenced by their origins.” 38 Unlike most of their competitors, Social Democratic parties were born “modern.” From very early in their histories, these parties aimed at the mobilization of a mass constituency, and hence quickly developed an extensive and sophisticated organizational apparatus. The design of this apparatus, in turn, was critically influenced by the ideas held by early Social Democrats. Even after these leaders passed from the scene and the conditions that had shaped their views had changed, the organizational structures they helped design continued to shape the policy-making process of their parties. Later chapters of this study will show how the programmatic beliefs of the SPD and SAP influenced the development of, and relationship between, the parliamentary, administrative, and theoretical sections of these parties. In Germany, the “orthodox” version of social democracy associated with the SPD had little to say about everyday politics or the mundane functions of a political party. Kautsky and other intellectuals found little to interest them in the daily activities of party activists, preferring to direct their energies instead to abstract theoretical debates with little relevance for practical politics. Consequently, the roles of theoretician and politician became divorced within the SPD, with critical consequences for the party’s policy making and development. In Sweden, on the hand other, the “reformist” social democracy associated with the SAP entailed no necessary division between the party’s everyday efforts and its long-term goals. By the end of the nineteenth century, most Swedish Social Democrats accepted the view that they could and should work within the existing system to help bring about a Social Democratic society. In contrast to the situation in the SPD, therefore, SAP theoretical work was concerned with helping to develop political and economic strategies that would allow Social Democrats to slowly transform the existing system. Many of the party’s most important figures—Branting, Ernst Wigforss, Nils Karleby, Gustav Möller—were active contributors to theoretical debates, as well as key figures in the party hierarchy and in SAP governments. Not surprisingly, therefore, the parliamentary, administrative, and theoretical branches of

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the SAP exhibited a much greater degree of coordination than did those of their German counterparts. In addition to becoming institutionalized in the organizational structures of European Social Democratic parties, ideas also became embedded in these parties’ self-understanding and identity. Joseph Schumpeter once noted that what gave socialist parties “a special claim to attention and dignity all [their] own that is both intellectual and moral [is] their clear and close relation to a doctrinal basis.”39 Unlike most political parties today, as well as most of their contemporary competitors, the appeal of Social Democratic parties was explicitly ideological. These parties presented themselves as the carriers and representatives of an intellectual and moral tradition and pledged solidarity to an international movement based on adherence to a set of values and goals. For supporters and opponents alike, therefore, social democracy was indelibly tied up with a particular set of ideas. Changing the nature of its political appeal is difficult for any political party. Since party ideas indicate to voters what kinds of policies the party will pursue and what values it stands for, contradicting or abandoning aspects of these ideas may be regarded by the public as a loss of integrity or responsibility. In addition, no political party that wants to retain a core of committed activists or supporters can afford to change the nature of its appeal from election to election. As Anthony Downs has noted, “Ideological immobility is characteristic of every responsible party, because it cannot repudiate its past actions unless some radical change justifies it.”40 Since the appeal of Social Democratic parties was directly tied up with the ideas they claimed adherence to, it would prove particularly problematic for them to abandon or contradict aspects of their beliefs once these were set in place. This study will show how different versions of social democracy became part of the identity of the German SPD and Swedish SAP. By the turn of the twentieth century, the SPD had become known as the carrier and defender of an “orthodox” socialism closely tied to the works of Marx, Engels, and Kautsky, while the SAP had become associated with a “reformist” version of social democracy that, although rooted in Marxism, diverged greatly from the tenets set out by the founding fathers of socialism. Similarly, as a result of the SPD’s early and determined identification of itself as a worker’s party, attempts during the interwar years to expand the party’s appeal to groups outside the industrial proletariat encountered stiff


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resistance. Becoming a Volkspartei would have required, if not repudiating, then at least reevaluating the party’s traditional view of its role and position in society, and this was simply too great and too rapid a change for many to accept. The SAP, on the other hand, did not identify itself as purely a worker’s party in the years before the First World War, reaching out instead to small farmers and left-wing liberals from early on, and often referring to itself as a “people’s party” by the turn of the century. The SAP thus found it relatively easy to formulate a cross-class appeal during the 1920s and 1930s, since its long tradition of cooperation with groups outside the industrial proletariat meant that such an appeal could be construed as consistent with the party’s previous history and praxis.

How Do Ideas Influence Political Behavior? If investigating the “outward circumstances” that enable some ideas to become and remain a powerful force is one important component of the study of the connection between ideas and politics, another is examining how ideas exert an independent influence over political behavior. This brings us back to the issue of causality: What are the mechanisms by which ideas shape the choices of political actors? In order to answer this question, we need to examine the microfoundations of politics and develop a theory of decision making. Since behavior is a “function of both the environmental situations in which actors find themselves and the [attitudinal] predispositions they bring to those situations,”41 any theory of the decision-making process must answer two questions. The first concerns the “attitudinal predispositions” of actors: What are the most important factors motivating political behavior? Or, to put it another way, what do different actors want, and why? The second concerns the impact of the actor’s situation. How do environmental factors influence the choices of political actors?42 Regarding the first question, ideational explanations argue that ideas determine the goals toward which actors strive; they provide actors with a way of conceptualizing the ends of political activity without reference to the specifics of any political context. Therefore, a crucial assertion or proposition undergirding ideational analyses is that preferences are endogenous: political actors strive to ensure that their behavior coincides to as great a degree as possible with their own particular ideas about the way the

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world works. In this view, “action is often based more on identifying the normatively appropriate behavior than on calculating the return expected from alternative choices.”43 One way of clarifying this view of motivation is to contrast it with that of the school of “modern political economy,” perhaps the most widely applied type of political analysis in the field today. Scholars working in this tradition argue that political behavior is motivated by the desire to maximize income or economic return, however defined. So, for example, Jeffry Frieden, in his study of policy making in Latin America, argues that in the political economy approach “the causal arrows are straightforward: economic interests lead groups to engage in political behavior that affects the evolution of national politics.” For his cases, Frieden operationalizes this as “workers prefer higher to lower wages, and capitalists prefer higher to lower profits.”44 Ideational explanations, on the other hand, argue that rather than always maximizing income, the behavior of political actors will often be motivated by an attempt to achieve the particular ends posited as paramount by the ideas they hold: the policy preferences of political actors will, in other words, be shaped primarily by the normative guidelines and criteria provided by their ideas. As in the modern political economy approach, actors in ideational explanations are purposeful and have specific reasons for their behavior. The difference is that in ideational explanations actors are not motivated by economic interest but instead “make choices based on subjective models that diverge among” them.45 Furthermore, as noted previously, unlike political economy approaches (and rational choice analyses in general), ideational explanations do not merely posit or assume interests but instead investigate how they develop. Ideational analysts argue that interests are neither given, nor can they be inferred from the (economic) environment; instead, they evolve out of the ideas and beliefs held by actors themselves. Regarding the second part of a theory of decision making—the impact of the environment on the choices of political actors—ideational theories argue that ideas play a crucial role in shaping how political actors perceive the world around them. Therefore, a second crucial assertion or proposition undergirding ideational analyses is that reality and actors’ perceptions of it are not synonymous. Ideas play a crucial role in structuring actors’ views of the world by providing a filter or channel through which information about the external environment must pass. Ideational theorists assume


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that reality is often too complex and/or ambiguous to be dealt with directly, and they argue that this leads political actors to rely on a “wide range of cognitive shortcuts in order to make sense of the social world.”46 According to ideational theories, therefore, political behavior will often be influenced by incomplete or distorted information flows. As one pair of scholars puts it: “The elementary screening devices used by individuals in looking at the world tend to obscure those elements of reality that are not consonant with prior attitudes. As far as possible, individuals see what they want to see.”47 In contrast, therefore, to many other views of decision making, ideational explanations clearly distinguish between what Robert Jervis has called “the operational milieu” (the world in which a decision is carried out) and the “psychological milieu” (the world as the actor sees it).48 Again, a comparison with another approach might prove helpful. Most political economy explanations, for example, do not distinguish between reality and actors’ perceptions of it. Instead, they assume that actors have access, if not to perfect information, then at least to relatively full and accurate information. If this were not the case—if there were a large gap between reality and political actors’ perceptions of it—then it would be impossible to predict the behavior of political actors based solely on knowledge of their material interests and an examination of their economic environments, as most political economy analyses do. (As Judith Goldstein once noted: “Only in a world of complete information could interests be perfectly congruent with strategies.”)49 Herbert Simon once summed up the implications of the differences between such (rationalchoice–based) political economy approaches and a perspective that takes actors’ beliefs and perceptions seriously in the following way: If we accept [preferences] as given . . . and if we postulate an objective description of the world as it really is, and if we assume that the decisionmaker’s computational powers are unlimited, then two important consequences follow. First, we do not need to distinguish between the real world and the decisionmaker’s perception of it: He or she perceives the world as it really is. Second, we can predict the choices that will be made by a rational decisionmaker entirely from our knowledge of the real world and without a knowledge of the decisionmaker’s perceptions or modes of calculation. If, on the other hand, we accept the proposition that both the knowl-

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edge and the computational power of the decisionmaker are severely limited, then we must distinguish between the real world and the actor’s perception of it and reasoning about it. That is to say, we must construct a theory (and test it empirically) of the process of decision making. Our theory must include not only the reasoning processes but also the processes that generate the actor’s subjective representation of the decisionproblem, his or her frame.50

Having already discussed the process by which some ideas are able to become and remain a powerful force in politics, and how an actor’s “frame” or preferences are generated, as well as elaborated the core assertions or propositions undergirding ideational analyses, I can now turn to the task of devising empirical tests capable of confirming or disconfirming hypotheses based on ideational theory.

Studying the Connection between Ideas and Politics

Once a theory has been elaborated, two tasks remain: hypotheses must be derived from it and then tested. “Every theory to be worthwhile must have implications about the observations we expect to find if the theory is correct.” 51 What, then, does an ideational theory lead us to expect? What evidence would confirm that ideas, and not some other independent variable, deserve explanatory primacy in the analysis of a particular case?52 From the assertions or propositions elaborated earlier, a number of testable predictions can be generated. If ideas are exerting an important influence over behavior, political actors should strive to make decisions consistent with their beliefs. Rather than finding actors assessing the options placed before them on the basis of which is most likely to provide the greatest reward (given a particular economic situation, for example, as political economy explanations would predict), an ideational explanation predicts that we will find political actors evaluating options based on their expected psychic return—on the extent to which they fit in with the actor’s ideas.53 “Appropriateness” should therefore be the most important criterion for measuring the worth of policy alternatives. Since, however, the definition of what is appropriate will remain reasonably constant within a given set of ideas, ideational explanations predict that a particular actor will make similar choices over time, even as the environment changes.


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In addition, if an ideational explanation is correct, we should find that ideas affect the way political actors perceive the constraints and opportunities provided by their environment. Since ideational theories argue that reality and actors’ perceptions of it are not synonymous, decision making should often be influenced by incomplete or distorted information flows. Actors with different ideas should consequently evaluate similar situations in different ways and judge the value of different alternative courses of action accordingly. Ideational explanations predict, therefore, that actors with different ideas will make different decisions, even when placed in similar environments. These predictions differentiate ideational explanations from other types of theories. In particular, if an ideational explanation is correct and ideas are the primary factor motivating and shaping choices, then political actors should be much less sensitive to changes in their external environments and much less concerned with “cost-benefit” calculations than most political economy and rational choice explanations would predict. Indeed, if an ideational explanation is correct, we should find that decision making is a path-dependent rather than an efficiency-driven process, in which previous decisions and cognitive criteria constrain and facilitate the evolution of political choice.54 These predictions are borne out by the investigation of the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties presented in subsequent chapters of this book. The programmatic beliefs of the SPD and SAP shaped party actions by conditioning the way in which decision makers understood the challenges they faced and the potential responses available to them. Decision makers in the SPD and SAP also tended to identify and interpret the challenges they faced within existing frameworks and to match problems with solutions they had applied in the past, rather than searching for politically or economically “optimal” solutions. Potential courses of action that differed from previous behavior were rejected simply because they represented a break with the past, while other alternatives were legitimized when practical or intellectual precedents for them could be found.55 Once a particular set of programmatic beliefs became institutionalized in the organizational structures and identities of the SPD and SAP, in other words, the parties’ decision making became constrained by past practice and intellectual inertia. This is simply another way of saying that the decision making of these parties was path-dependent, with the choices they made at time T influencing the choices they made at time T ⫹ 1. “Path

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dependency,” as Douglass North has noted, “means that history matters. We cannot understand today’s choices . . . without tracing their evolution through time.”56 In order to uncover (if and) how ideas shape political outcomes, the analyst of ideas will therefore have to investigate decision making over an extended period. This brings us to the last section of this chapter, and to issues of methodology and case selection. Methodology and Case Selection

To test whether the arguments and predictions of ideational theories are in fact consistent with the facts of a given case, researchers will need to dig into the details of political decision making, and students of ideational explanations should therefore find process tracing to be the most appropriate methodology. As Robert Jervis has argued, one may describe outcomes without necessarily probing the nature of the process by which those outcomes emerged, but, “and the qualification is crucial, if one wishes to probe the ‘why’ questions . . . then analysis [of these processes] is certainly necessary.” 57 Process tracing means opening up the “black box” of decision making instead of “bracketing” it, looking closely at the way a decision was arrived at and the factors that influenced the participants. It involves reconstructing actors’ motivations, as well as their definitions and evaluations of situations; it “seeks to establish the ways in which the actor’s beliefs influenced his receptivity to and assessment of incoming information about the situation, his definitions of the situation, his identification and evaluation of options, as well as, finally, his choice of a course of action.”58 With an appropriate research methodology in hand, the final hurdle is selecting appropriate cases with which to test the theory. As noted earlier, four basic questions need to be answered affirmatively before investing the effort in a careful explication of political decision making: the researcher should not waste time or effort in ideational analysis unless there are solid grounds for thinking that relevant programmatic beliefs exist, that they are probably not epiphenomenal, and that their implications correlate with the case’s political outcomes. Beyond these strictures, however, something more can be said about the situations in which ideas can be expected to matter greatly for political action, and how to use the comparative method to study them. Ideas should play a greater role where situational stimuli are weakest or most confused. Since, as noted previously, political behavior is a function


35

of both the environmental situations in which actors find themselves and the ideas they use to interpret and respond to those situations, the less clear or direct pressures the environment provides, the more leeway actors will have to follow the dictates of their own beliefs. Indeed, many scholars have argued that ideas matter most during periods of great uncertainty: when political actors find both their most general cultural orientations and their most down-to-earth rules of thumb inadequate.59 Studying crises should therefore prove particularly rewarding for students of ideas. Crises are periods, Stephen Krasner has noted, when politics becomes “a struggle over the basic rules of the game rather than allocation within a certain set of rules.” 60 They force decision makers to act quickly, while freeing them from many normal constraints. During such times, the historical legacies and structural factors that may normally influence political behavior recede in importance. Crises are also times, however, when a shift in historical trajectories is possible because it is during such periods that traditional patterns of political, economic, and social life are questioned, providing political actors with unique opportunities to reshape dramatically the contexts within which they operate. It is during crises, therefore, that ideas can function as “switchmen,” in Max Weber’s phrase, shaping the choices of actors and thereby selecting the track onto which political history will be routed.61 If students of ideas would benefit from employing process tracing and focusing on decision making during crisis periods, they should also employ comparative analysis. In an ideal scenario, the scholar would use cases where the outcomes to be explained vary and the relevant political actors are matched in everything except the ideas they hold. In such a situation everything would be held constant except the proposed independent variable (ideas), thereby ensuring that an analysis could provide us with unequivocal evidence of causality. In the real world, however, it is virtually impossible to find such situations. Consequently, the best the political scientist can attempt is to construct good comparisons and to be explicit about their drawbacks, as well as alternative explanations. As Marc Bloch, one of the great comparativists, once noted, a good comparison involves choosing “from one or several situations, two or more phenomena which appear at first sight to offer certain analogies between them; then to trace their line of evolution, to note the likenesses and differences, and as far as possible explain them.”62 The German and Swedish cases treated here fit these criteria well. Dur-

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ing the period covered by this study, Germany and Sweden shared many important similarities that previous studies have either downplayed or ignored. Both countries began the interwar period by making the transition to full democracy and exited it by instituting new political regimes. These nations also shared important legacies from the prewar period (e.g., both had political regimes that mixed monarchical and representative elements, and both industrialized relatively late in the nineteenth century), as well as many important structural and institutional similarities during the interwar years (e.g., both used work-creation schemes to deal with unemployment, both had a divided liberal movement, both had proportional representation systems that had difficulty producing stable governments). Since the SPD and SAP responded very differently to the similar challenges they faced during the crises of democratization and depression, factors common to both cases can be eliminated as potential explanations for the parties’ responses.63 Because I am using only two cases, however, and cannot therefore completely control for all potential independent variables, I complement my “horizontal” study of Sweden and Germany during the crises of 1917–1919 and 1930–1933 with a “vertical” study of the decision making of the SPD and SAP over extended periods. (In social science terminology, I will employ within-case analysis.)64 By examining what was going on in Germany and Sweden during the periods preceding and following my two focus cases of 1917–1919 and 1930–1933 (i.e., examining the last decade of the nineteenth century through the first decade and a half of the twentieth, and then the 1920s), I should be able to further control for the effect of potential independent variables unique to each country. In other words, since important factors differentiate the German and Swedish cases (the effects of which could not be controlled by my horizontal comparison), analyzing the decision making of the parties over an extended period facilitates an assessment of what role, if any, particularistic country-level variables played in shaping outcomes in the cases under investigation. If an examination of the SPD and SAP over time reveals that these parties followed a decision-making trajectory that was consistent and connected to their particular ideas, despite changes in the particular environment they faced, then an ideational explanation will be given further plausibility. Subsequent chapters will therefore use a process-tracing approach to examine the history of the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties from their founding in the late nineteenth century up through 1933, focus-


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ing in particular on the crises of democratization at the end of the First World War and Depression during the early 1930s. Relying on primary source material (including transcripts of parliamentary debates, internal party documents, party literature, and memoirs), as well as secondary accounts from the period and later, I will reconstruct the process through which the Swedish and German Social Democrats decided on particular courses of action. This, in conjunction with a comparative study of the distinctive historical and structural contexts of Germany and Sweden, should help uncover the most important factors influencing the development and decision making of the SPD and SAP during these years. To further enhance the plausibility of the ideational explanation developed in this study, in Chapter 9 I will consider alternative explanations for the actions of the German and Swedish Social Democrats, showing how and why they cannot account for the outcomes in these cases. These cases, finally, offer more than simply a good opportunity to test an ideational theory. They are crucial cases for any student of the interwar period, European political development, or the history of social democracy. Because much of the literature on these subjects focuses on these two cases, demonstrating the failure of existing theories to adequately account for their outcomes provides a solid rationale for a thoroughgoing reexamination of the way we think about many crucial issues and debates in comparative politics.

CHAPTER

3 Sweden’s Political Development and the Programmatic Beliefs of the SAP I believe . . . that one benefits the workers . . . so much more by forcing through reforms which alleviate and strengthen their position, than by saying that only a revolution can help them. hjalmar branting , letter to axel danielsson

For over half a century, political scientists and commentators have paid far greater attention to Sweden’s domestic political arrangements than the country’s size and geopolitical importance would seem to merit. In particular, ever since the appearance of Marquis Child’s Sweden: The Middle Way, both left and right have seen in this small Scandinavian nation a model for, respectively, their hopes and fears.1 Despite this interest, however, little has been written in English on how Sweden became the paradigmatic social democracy. Many observers assume, therefore, that the country’s political development, particularly the evolution of Social Democratic hegemony, was continuous, inexorable, and conflict-free. This is not the case. Until the turn of this century, Sweden’s political development shared several important characteristics with Germany’s. It was only at the end of the First World War that Sweden made the transition to full parliamentary democracy, and only in 1933 that the Social Democrats were able to form a majority government. To understand why and how the country ended up on such a distinctive political path by the end of the interwar years, one must examine the development and actions of the most important political actor during this era—the Social Democrats. From its formation in 1889, the Swedish Social Democratic party (Sveriges Arbetarparti, or SAP) grew continuously, until it became the largest party in the country in 1914. Like its German counterpart, the SPD, 38

Sweden’s Political Development

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the SAP drew its inspiration from the teachings of Karl Marx and insisted on the need for a radical transformation of society. The two parties diverged significantly, however, from this common basis, with each developing its own set of programmatic beliefs. By the end of the nineteenth century, these beliefs had become institutionalized and critically affected the parties’ subsequent development and policy making. This chapter describes Sweden’s political development to 1900, focusing on the period after the reorganization of the political system in 1866. It then describes the development of the SAP’s programmatic beliefs during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and traces how they became institutionalized in the party’s identity and organizational structures. Chapters 5 and 7 will continue the story of Swedish political history, showing how the SAP, acting under the influence of these programmatic beliefs, reacted to the challenges of democratization at the end of the First World War and economic collapse during the Great Depression. Sweden’s Political Development and the 1866 Reforms

In order to understand the development and importance of the SAP, one must first understand the political scene onto which the party entered. By the last third of the nineteenth century, Sweden’s political system, like Germany’s, was characterized by a mix of monarchical and representative elements. Industrialization was transforming the social and economic base of the country, but traditional elites worked to prevent further liberalization of the regime. Understanding the dynamics emanating from this particular political situation requires a short detour into Swedish history. At the height of its relative power in the seventeenth century, Sweden was known as the “Hammer of the East”: “Swedish cavalry rode victoriously into the five capitals of Moscow, Warsaw, Berlin, Dresden and Prague. . . . The Austrian, Prussian, Polish and Russian state-systems all experienced its formative shock.”2 The strength and success of the bureaucratic-absolutist regime pioneered by Gustavus Adolphus inspired many imitators, and it is an interesting historical irony that Sweden provided “the military and bureaucratic state which was eventually to serve as the model for the Prussian empire and even to influence later attempts to modernize the Russian administration.”3 By the mid–eighteenth century, however, Sweden’s time as a European great power had passed, and the country was becoming a backwater, stagnant economically and politically.

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This stagnation, and the increasingly bitter conflicts it helped spawn between different groups within the Riksdag (parliament), created an opportunity for a shift in the locus of political power. In 1772, King Gustav III was able to ally himself with conservative elements in the bureaucracy and stage a coup, which was followed by a new constitutional order that greatly increased the power of the throne while curtailing that of parliament. In further changes several years later, the king took another step toward consolidating his power.4 This “creeping absolutism” was checked by the fallout of the Napoleonic Wars, and for the first half of the nineteenth century Sweden was governed by a constitution that combined both liberal and conservative elements. Sweden’s political system experienced another series of reforms in 1866. In a pattern reminiscent of what was going on in Germany at the time, the old four-chamber system was replaced by a bicameral legislature with an upper house dominated by conservative elites and a more representative lower chamber. The initiator of the reforms and the most important figure shaping the political system during these years, Louis de Geer, saw the changes as a way of bringing Sweden into the modern era and of avoiding demands for more radical democratization: “In order not to hasten pressure from below and in order to be able to control it . . . when it comes— and it will come—it is necessary to give representational rights to as large a number as can be given without risk.”5 In addition, de Geer, like Bismarck, was convinced that some democratization would help preserve the power of the throne, since he assumed that under the right conditions the lower orders could be counted on to be more reliable supporters of the monarchy than the aristocracy. As was the case with the German system instituted at about the same time, Sweden’s new political arrangements mixed monarchical and representative elements. The king retained impressive powers. He had the right of initiative and veto, and his signature was required on most legislation before it could become law. The king appointed the government, which was not dependent on the parliament for its continuation in office. And he had the ability to call new elections regardless of whether the parliament was in session. To help him carry out his political functions, the king relied on an advisory council (stadsrådet), which drew primarily on members of the upper chamber. This latter body was probably more aristocratic in nature than its pre-1866 counterpart. Only six thousand Swedes were eligible to vote for


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representatives to the upper house, and the voting for this chamber was indirect, building on an extremely undemocratic system of local suffrage.6 Not surprisingly, therefore, its members were drawn from the very upper echelons of Swedish society. In the late 1860s more than one-third of the 125 representatives in this house were barons or counts, and over one-half were nobles and/or large landowners. Legislation could not be passed without the assent of this chamber, and throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries it was able to thwart attempts to liberalize Sweden’s economic and political system. Unlike Bismarck, however, de Geer did not give his country universal suffrage for the lower house of parliament. Instead, that chamber drew on essentially the same groups that had participated in elections to the lower Estates in the pre-1866 system. Suffrage was based on income and property qualifications, excluding most workers and small peasants, and the number of votes varied according to income and property, with the wealthiest members of society having hundreds or more apiece. The suffrage, furthermore, was not based on the “personality principle,” and corporations and businesses could (and did) cast many votes. In the late 1860s approximately 6 percent of the population (or 22 percent of all adult men) had the right to vote for representatives to the lower house, and only about one in four of these actually availed themselves of that right.7 Just as industrialization was taking off and agriculture beginning to stagnate, therefore, Sweden’s new political arrangements locked in the political power of conservatives and large landowners. It is ironic, one observer has noted, that at the same time “the Tory Disraeli was preparing a bill that was nearly to double the electorate and the Prussian Junker Bismarck was about to write the principle of equal manhood suffrage into the constitution of his North German confederation, . . . a franchise was constructed [in Sweden] that left four fifths of the adult male population without a voice even in the more popular chamber.”8 Turning from Sweden’s political system to its economic and social development, we see that changes in these areas were profound during this period. The country was just emerging from a period as the “sick man of northern Europe”—extremely poor and weak after the loss of Finland to Russia in the early part of the nineteenth century. The most dramatic consequence of such conditions was the mass emigration of Swedes during the nineteenth century, especially to the United States. Horrible economic conditions, a repressive labor system in both rural and urban areas,9 high

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population growth, and hated compulsory military service led to the flight of a greater percentage of Sweden’s “sons and daughters overseas than . . . any other country besides Norway and Ireland.”10 Industrialization in Sweden began in earnest during the last third of the nineteenth century, a hundred years later than in England and roughly a generation later than in Germany. Before then, Sweden had been an overwhelmingly agricultural society; in 1870, 72 percent of its population was still employed in the agricultural sector.11 Yet Swedish agriculture had undergone important changes during the previous decades. The number of landowning farmers had dropped dramatically, and a large agricultural proletariat had arisen. The agricultural sector in general (especially the peasantry) was faring badly, and the enclosure movement in Sweden had occurred in such a way as to encourage the continual parceling out of the land among the peasants, contributing to their increasing pauperization.12 As might be expected in a country undergoing late industrialization, the state played a relatively important role in the process. This was facilitated in Sweden, as in Germany, by the existence of a large and powerful bureaucracy. The state invested in infrastructure and transportation, and was active in the development of the country’s natural resources, particularly the iron industry. To protect its nascent industrial sector, moreover, the state engaged in a variety of protectionist practices.13 As in Germany, the economic depression of the 1870s led to a weakening of liberal forces in Sweden and increased pressure for tariffs. An agricultural crisis in the 1880s also contributed to the call for more state help as farmers joined with industrialists to demand greater protectionism. Many view the struggle over tariffs during this period as the beginning of modern Swedish politics, as a previously apathetic populace confronted an issue that created relatively clear and strongly felt divisions.14 Turnout doubled for the 1887 election, to 48 percent.15 For the first time, candidates’ positions, and not their personalities, assumed primary importance. As a result, the old, loosely organized parliamentary parties fell apart and the government—contrary to previous practice—became actively involved in parliamentary debates. The first protectionist assault was beaten back, but in 1887 the king dissolved the second chamber and called for a new election. Intensive electioneering and debate followed. The question was ultimately settled by an electoral fluke, and tariffs were imposed on both agricultural and industrial products (in some cases the tariffs imposed were even higher than their German counterparts).16 As in Germany, the tariff controversy initiated a conservative renaissance. The chancellor, Gus-


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taf Boström, was an admirer of Bismarck and, like his hero, used his period in office to help cement an alliance between upper-class and agrarian interests. Since the workers and small farmers who were most negatively affected by tariffs did not yet have the suffrage, many protectionists opposed democratization of the voting system. One consequence of the tariff controversy, therefore, was the solidification of a conservative movement based on protectionism and antidemocratic, antisocialist sentiment.17 At about this time the outlines of Sweden’s labor market were forming. The nation’s first real unions began to develop during this period, and employers responded to the organization of workers by using lockouts and imported strikebreakers. These developments, together with the extremely rapid nature of the industrialization process, helped create a pattern of labor market conflict that foreshadowed Sweden’s future status as strike capital of the Western world. In 1879, several thousand workers struck at the sawmills in a Swedish town called Sundsvall. Soldiers arrived at the scene, dispossessing at least a thousand laborers and imprisoning their leaders. Although there had been many strikes before, this incident made workers realize that they were powerless without adequate organization. It was not until 1898, however, that a central labor confederation (Landsorganisation, or LO) was formed in Sweden. In response, employers also took steps to organize and coordinate their activities, and this effort was facilitated by the nature of Sweden’s industrial structure. Typically for a late industrializer, Sweden developed large, concentrated industrial firms, which made cooperation among business leaders (and between business and the state) easier.18 Four years after the foundation of the LO, a central employer’s organization (Svenska Arbetsgivarföreningen, SAF) was formed. The level of labor market conflict remained extremely high during the late nineteenth century and actually worsened in the early years of the twentieth. As in Germany, in Sweden late industrialization helped produce a powerful and concentrated business establishment, as well as an increasingly well-organized and determined labor movement. In addition, although industrialization was changing the nature of Swedish society, old elites were determined to block important reforms of the country’s political system. Not surprisingly, therefore, in a pattern we will see again in our discussion of Germany, the period from about the turn of the century to the end of the First World War was dominated by a struggle between groups favoring and opposing democracy. Also as in Germany, late industrialization in Sweden contributed to the

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development of a relatively weak and divided Liberal movement, while the Social Democratic party grew continuously after its founding. Consequently, despite the fact that some Liberals were active in the suffrage movement, it was to the Social Democrats that the main burden of fighting for democracy fell. In contrast to its German counterpart, however, the SAP proved quite successful in this role. In order to understand why this was the case, we first need to examine the development of the SAP and its programmatic beliefs. The Development of the Swedish Social Democratic Party and Its Programmatic Beliefs

As in many other European countries, the early Swedish labor movement was dominated by Liberals, but in time (especially after Sundsvall) many workers began agitating for more independent and radical labor organizations. August Palm was perhaps the most important figure agitating against Liberal domination of Sweden’s workers’ movement. Once an independent labor movement began to take shape, however, Palm’s influence began to fade. During the following years, Hjalmar Branting gradually became the central figure within the Swedish labor movement. In 1886, he gave what many consider to be the first real programmatic speech of Swedish social democracy. In it he declared his adherence to a Marxist worldview while asserting that reforms were necessary both to improve the contemporary position of workers and to prepare the way for the future socialist society.19 Three years later, in 1889, a congress of delegates from unions and a variety of socialist clubs convened and formed the SAP.20 The Swedish government responded to the political organization of workers as did other European governments—with repressive measures. Laws were passed forbidding the incitement of strikes, legalizing strikebreaking, and discouraging political agitation, and as a result many of the early leaders of the movement spent time in jail.21 Before moving on to a discussion of the early years of the SAP and the development of the party’s programmatic beliefs, a word must be said about Branting’s unique position in the party’s history: his longevity in office, combined with his uncommon talents, enabled him to exert unparalleled influence over the development of Swedish social democracy. Branting was the SAP’s first leader, retaining this post until his death in 1925. In contrast, therefore, to its German (and indeed most of its other


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European) counterpart, the SAP was guided by a single leader from its founding up through its first taste of governing power after the First World War. This gave the SAP a continuity not shared by most other Social Democratic parties. In addition, Branting had several qualities that eventually enabled him to build a consensus within the Swedish labor movement around his own political vision. Although he was by heart a pragmatist and a moderate, his background and conviction also made him an idealist, convinced that people could and should create a better world. As we will see in later chapters, this helped him steer the SAP toward compromises with Liberal and other groups, while not allowing the party to lose sight of its ultimate goals. In addition, although unflagging in his determination to shape the SAP in accordance with his own vision, he was a natural conciliator who helped placate many of the different strands present in the Swedish labor movement. Finally, although an intellectual, he was also able to inspire confidence and loyalty among the working classes. As one of his colleagues noted in 1920, “Faith in Branting has become so universal in our country that no counterpart to it . . . is likely to be found . . . in this or any other country during the last quarter of a century.”22 Branting’s views were shaped by his early (and continuing) relationship with the Liberal movement; during his university years he traveled in radical Liberal circles. Thus, early in his life, Branting established contacts with many of the future leaders of Sweden’s Liberal movement, and even after moving firmly into the Social Democratic camp, he maintained his friendships with many of these figures.23 Branting’s view of liberalism differed greatly from Palm’s and that of other important figures in the young SAP. From early in his career Branting was committed to cooperation with Liberals for the achievement of certain goals; as we will see, his vision of social democracy combined many of the classic values of the Liberal and Socialist traditions. Branting argued that it was the task of the Social Democratic movement to complete and then take a step beyond traditional Liberal goals in order to create a better society. Branting’s views and the policy positions they engendered critically shaped the SAP’s development and helped differentiate the SAP greatly from its German counterpart. During the SAP’s early years, Branting, Frederik Sterky, and Axel Danielsson were the leading figures in the party; all three were intellectuals. From the party’s founding, intellectuals, in general, played a much greater role in the leadership and running of the SAP than was the case with the

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SPD. For example, in addition to occupying key positions in the SAP hierarchy, Branting, Sterky, and Danielsson ran the party’s newspapers and were active participants in the debate over the future of the labor movement.24 Although it is difficult to judge the independent causal impact of the SAP leadership’s background, it seems reasonable to believe that the preponderance of intellectuals contributed to the intensity and quality of ideological debate within the party (in comparison to, say, its Danish and Norwegian counterparts) and in helping Swedish social democracy recruit supporters outside the traditional working class. Nils Elvander, for example, argues that the background of SAP leaders helped to create a “consciousness of the importance of white-collar workers as a [crucial group] in between the working class and the bourgeoisie which was expressed in the party’s first program in 1897.”25 At the outset, Branting, Sterky, and Danielsson represented three different currents within the young Social Democratic movement: Sterky, a revolutionary, argued that participation with the existing regime was justified for propaganda purposes only; Danielsson was also a radical but was more willing than Sterky to explore different courses of action; and Branting was an optimist, committed to moderation and a parliamentary strategy.26 In the years after the party’s founding, these different currents vied for supremacy within the SAP. As time passed, however, Branting’s views slowly gained ground. At the 1891 Norrköping party congress, anarchist elements were dealt a powerful blow and Sterky’s influence started to decline,27 while the party began to place increasing emphasis on finding a way to bring about democratization.28 Danielsson soon moderated his position, becoming more interested in reform work, and in 1892 he published a series of articles noting that he had “changed his views on a number of important issues.” He no longer believed in “a single reactionary mass,” had become a determined supporter of “parliamentarism,” and hoped that at least in some countries the social question could be solved through democratic means. Furthermore, he was now convinced that cooperation with other democratic-minded groups could further both political and economic goals. “I view the conquering of the state and communes as the only rational tactic for a Social Democratic party.”29 At its first congress the SAP had essentially endorsed the aims of the international Socialist movement as expressed in the SPD’s Gotha program while declaring its support for a number of reform measures, including


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universal suffrage. Branting, however, helped push through a resolution stating that “cooperation at elections, [joint] suffrage agitation, etc. with such forces that show themselves seriously committed to defend and widen the rights of the people, can occur [in order to achieve] definite, current goals.” 30 By 1897, the party decided that it needed a program of its own, and Branting and Danielsson were given the task of writing the first distinctively Swedish Social Democratic program. This document announced that the SAP “differentiated itself from other political parties . . . [in that] it wanted to completely transform the economic organization of bourgeois society and carry out the social emancipation of the working class.”31 Despite the radical language, however, many have commented on the significant reformist tendencies inherent in the program. Indeed, looking back years later, Branting remarked that the program “was for its time a revisionist program before revisionism.”32 In contrast to early German programs, for example, the SAP favored gradual socialization; stressed union activity; referred to the emergence of the new middle class; and mentioned neither recurrent capitalist crises nor increasing impoverishment.33 In addition, the program envisioned a connection between the long-term goals of the Socialist movement and its political strategy (e.g., the conquering of political power, the organization of workers). A linkage between theory and praxis, between the party’s actions in the contemporary period and the ultimate aims of the labor movement, existed in the early pronouncements of the SAP in a way that (as we will see in Chapter 4) had no real counterpart in the SPD. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Swedish SAP and the German SPD shared the broad ideological label Social Democratic. However, their understandings of what socialism and democracy were, what their correct relationship was, and how they would be achieved differed greatly. Early in their histories, in other words, the Swedish and the German Social Democratic parties developed their own unique set of programmatic beliefs. The rest of this chapter discusses the development of the SAP’s programmatic beliefs during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, focusing on the parties’ positions in four central areas: Marxism, the transition to socialism, democracy and parliamentarism, and the class struggle. The programmatic beliefs of the Swedish and German Social Democratic parties differed in each of these areas. By the turn of the

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century, moreover, the programmatic beliefs of the SAP and SPD were clearly becoming institutionalized in each party’s self-understanding and identity, as well as in their organizational structures. The SAP and Marxism

The SAP, like the SPD, conceived of itself as a Marxist party, and the party’s most important leaders identified themselves as Marxists. However, Marxism came relatively late to Sweden; once it arrived, the relatively peripheral nature of the SAP to the international Socialist movement during the party’s early years enabled many of its leaders to interpret the master’s works fairly loosely. As we will see in Chapter 4, the centrality of German social democracy not only to Marx and Engels but also to the international Socialist movement helped foster in the SPD a narrow, dogmatic adherence to the writings of the masters. By the last decades of the nineteenth century, the SPD had become the most powerful Social Democratic party in the world and had come to believe that much of its reputation and power derived from its position as the standard-bearer of Marxist ideology. Challenges to orthodoxy, therefore, faced psychological as well as intellectual resistance within the SPD. Swedish Social Democrats, on the other hand, could tinker with Marxism without fearing the wrath of Engels and other famous socialist intellectuals of the day, or worrying very much about criticism from abroad. Thus, even though the SAP’s version of Marxism moved increasingly away from the original writings of Marx as time passed, party leaders could assert that they remained true to the fundamental principles of the Socialist movement—a stance, as we will see in the next chapter, that their German counterparts could not bring themselves to adopt. Although proclaiming a belief in the necessity and inevitability of the socialist transformation of society, the SAP did not assert that Marxism could provide a complete guide for action across both time and space.34 By the end of the nineteenth century, there was a general feeling among Swedish Social Democrats that, because Marx and Engels had written over a generation earlier, accepting changes to their views was natural and appropriate. For example, in his 1902 introduction to Engels’s “Socialism’s Development from Utopia to Science,” Branting wrote that Marx and Engels could not have foreseen the developments of the last years “any more than the utopians of half a century ago could have understood the socialism of Marx and Engels.” Although modifications to socialism were therefore


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necessary, the core of the socialist worldview remained the same: “Just as capitalism was at one time a bitter historical necessity, so will it move aside for socialism. But the possibility to fight and bridle capitalism [is] much better than it was at the time when Marx and Engels began. Class society . . . is beginning to change . . . [and the] reasons for this are to be found in Social Democratic political activity.”35 During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the SAP increasingly stressed this theme of remaining true to the principles or ideals of Marxism while adjusting practical policies to the needs of the day. In 1906, Branting argued that “contemporary social democracy’s fundamental idea . . . preserves the essentials of Marxism, but does not swear by the master’s words as infallible, least of all those passages dated by changing historical circumstances. Moreover, these modifications [of theory] according to new developments . . . are in a deeper sense in complete harmony with Marxism’s own spirit. Only a Marxism that failed to conceive of itself properly as a doctrine of development could wish to proclaim the validity of Marxist propositions referring to social conditions that since his time have changed completely.”36 For the SAP, therefore, Marxism came to be viewed not primarily as a statement about historical and economic necessities, or as a methodology for analyzing societal development, but rather as an abstract view of a better and more just world. Consequently, the SAP stressed the “humanist” or “idealist” elements of Marxist thought. One important way in which this manifested itself was in the party’s emphasis on the importance of human beings working together to create a better and more just society. Ernst Wigforss (a crucial figure in the interwar SAP) was central in shaping the SAP’s perspective on Marxism. He urged Social Democrats to recognize that although economic development limited or shaped what was possible, human action was necessary for the development of socialism. Socialism, in Wigforss’s view, could “never be proven [but was rather] . . . an ideal that has to be implemented.”37 This logic led him to argue that it was the task of Social Democrats to show, “on the one hand, . . . what overwhelming importance economic conditions had and have not only for humanity’s material life but also for its spiritual life, and on the other hand, [to make it clear] that ideals could not be forgotten in development, that they played a necessary role, and that it was essential to give them their proper place, both to understand what they could and could not accomplish.”38 It should be stressed that although Wigforss rejected the belief that economic developments would inevitably

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lead to socialism, he did not jettison the objective of transforming capitalist society. In order to help lead the way toward a better and more just society, Wigforss developed the idea of “provisional utopias.” These were “tentative sketch[es] of a desirable future. . . . [They] served as a critique of existing social conditions and as a guide to present action, yet . . . [could] be revised in accordance with future experience.”39 For Wigforss and the SAP, the crucial thing was to find concrete, pragmatic policies that would help the party achieve the objectives and ideals of Marxism. For the SAP, therefore, Marxism came to be appreciated primarily for its emphasis on the need to change the world and focus on the crucial role to be played by workers in that transformation. The SAP presented Marxism as a doctrine that demanded that workers take control of their destinies and change their surroundings in order to create a society where all citizens could enjoy the fruits of their labor. Since the world around them was constantly changing, however, workers could not rely merely on guidelines for action set out in the past. Consequently, while the labor movement had to remain true to its principles and ideals, it also needed to remain open to new ways of achieving its goals. The SAP’s flexible and undogmatic view of Marxism generated a very different understanding of the role of a Social Democratic party than did the SPD’s version. Swedish Social Democrats, unlike their German counterparts, were taught that human action, and not merely economic or historical developments, was necessary for Social Democratic success and the achievement of socialism. The role of a Social Democratic party was not merely to follow or facilitate historical changes but rather to spearhead the struggle for a Socialist society. Not surprisingly, given these views, most SAP intellectuals were intimately involved in the everyday activities of the party. Since Marxism could provide only abstract guidelines for action, it was necessary for Social Democrats to develop their own plans for furthering the cause of workers. In contrast, therefore, to the SPD, where intellectuals engaged primarily in academic debates about historical or economic development, in Sweden intellectuals were encouraged to involve themselves in debates about policy making and the everyday problems facing the Swedish labor movement. Consequently, men like Wigforss, Gustav Möller, and Nils Karleby not only helped create a particularly Swedish approach to social democracy but also were leading policy makers and politicians. Within the SAP, intellectual and policy work were not seen as separate spheres of activity but as two sides of the same coin—the struggle for


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socialism. In fact, the SAP leadership consciously strove to avoid what it called the “German” and “English” extremes: the former being the domination of theory over practice, the latter being the absence of theory. The early integration of intellectuals into the upper echelons of the party leadership and the close connection between theory and praxis within the SAP set it apart from its European counterparts and critically shaped the party’s development and actions during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The SAP and the Transition to Socialism

Although all Social Democratic parties came to reject the idea of a violent overthrow of the existing society, they had different beliefs about how the transition to socialism would occur. In Sweden an increasingly evolutionary and reformist view of socialism came to dominate the SAP. According to this perspective, socialism would not emerge as the result of an unpredictable revolution or the sudden collapse of bourgeois-capitalist society; instead, it would develop gradually and would depend on Social Democratic efforts to reform the contemporary system bit by bit until an entirely new type of society existed. From early in its history, therefore, the SAP displayed a greater interest in and dedication to reform work than many of its European counterparts. Already in 1889, for example, Branting asserted: “I believe . . . that one benefits the workers . . . so much more by forcing through reforms which alleviate and strengthen their position, than by saying that only a revolution can help them.”40 Socialism “would not be created by brutalized . . . slaves,” he noted, but rather by “the best positioned workers, those who have gradually obtained a normal workday, protective legislation, minimum wages.”41 Since reforms helped provide workers with “the will, the insight and ability to create . . . a thoroughgoing transformation,” it was the task of social democracy to obtain “all the reforms . . . that [could be] forced from bourgeois society.”42 Most SAP leaders also believed that in a “backward” country like Sweden, where socialism was by definition a long way off, it was politically necessary to achieve some early concrete results in order to keep workers both willing and able to fight for the movement’s ultimate goals. Oddly enough, therefore, it may be the case that Sweden’s relative political and economic backwardness during the late nineteenth century may have made the SAP more reform-oriented than its German

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counterpart. For example (as will be discussed further in Chapters 5 and 6), the suffrage was much more restricted in Sweden than in Germany during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This meant that the SAP could not hope to gain political representation, much less political power, by itself—it needed to form alliances with other progressive elements. In addition, the country’s underdevelopment led many early Social Democrats to argue that reforms were necessary to raise the working class to the level where it would be capable of spearheading the struggle for socialism. Before the turn of the century, the SAP’s demand for reforms was justified primarily along these lines, that is, by the need to increase the wellbeing of workers and to help educate and prepare them for the future socialist society. Both Branting and Danielsson were strong advocates of reform work, and they struggled during the early years of the party’s existence to ensure that the SAP made improving the conditions of workingclass life a top priority. As time passed, however, many Swedish Social Democrats began to argue that reforms were, in fact, integral to the achievement of socialism itself. Reforms came to be seen as more than simply a way to remedy contemporary injustices or to improve the material resources of the working class; they were, instead, steps on the way to socialism. A typical example of this development can be seen in Frederick Ström’s 1907 essay “The Working Woman and Socialism.” Ström argued that social democracy must try to [win] from contemporary society . . . all that which can ensure the working class a materially and spiritually acceptable existence and raise the working class to a higher culture, while at the same time step by step driving the social order over to socialism and thereby approaching its final goal. Both of these tasks are in their fundamentals, one and the same . . . [So] when social democracy demands worker protection, it does so not merely to . . . make the lives of workers easier, but also . . . [because it] knows that a working class physically impoverished . . . and spiritually [weak] because of poor working conditions can never be . . . the champion and carrier [of socialism].43

What is crucial about this view of the transition to socialism is not merely its emphasis on reforms—since all Social Democratic parties came eventually to embrace reform work—but the assertion that reform work could contribute directly to the achievement of socialism. In contrast to the


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SPD, therefore, where reform work was viewed primarily as a “sideline” activity or as merely a useful way to improve the quotidian existence of workers, reforms became central to the SAP’s understanding of the nature and tasks of social democracy itself. Indeed, the concept of “reformist socialism” became intimately connected with the SAP and served to differentiate it from most of its European counterparts. As Branting once noted: “A dividing line runs between reformist and negative socialism. . . . I have met a narrow-mindedness that says: vote against this [proposal], it will pass in any case. Then later the decision can be attacked, one can beat one’s breast, pointing to the fact that one voted against it in order to create better conditions for the working classes. For my own part I believe that such tactics are completely valueless for a large party. . . . Above all it should be observed, that in debates about social reforms one should never . . . present [them] as relatively unimportant or [act] indifferently [toward them].44

Similarly, in 1906 Per Albin Hansson (Branting’s eventual successor) urged Social Democrats to remember that “our goal is partially a practical one: a new society which will be the fruit of socialist thought. . . . But just as certainly as apples do not fall from trees before they are ripe . . . socialist society will not come to us . . . before the masses are educated and . . . ways of thinking have been changed.”45 An important consequence of the SAP’s evolutionary, reformist view of the transition to socialism was that, since historical or economic developments could not alone ensure the ultimate victory of socialism, Social Democrats were encouraged to debate and analyze different potential ways of achieving the party’s long-term goals. As early as 1886, Branting urged his followers to remember that even when “we have a clear goal it remains for us to investigate the means and ways the workers’ movement can use to bring itself closer to its future ideals.”46 Similarly, Danielsson argued, “We are skeptics, opportunists, where tactics are concerned. To dogmatically maintain that a certain tactic is relevant for all parties, under all conditions, is insanity.”47 Decades later, Hansson noted that “we have never demanded that all party members should swear on each point in our program. Within the framework of a common Social Democratic worldview we leave the freedom to . . . think differently.”48 This willingness to “let a hundred flowers bloom” helped generate a high level of research and debate within the

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party on contemporary problems facing social democracy, and was crucial in helping the SAP adapt to changes in its environment during the early twentieth century.49 The SAP’s willingness to debate different ways in which the party could push Sweden along the path to socialism helped liberate it from many of the paralyzing ideological struggles that characterized the SPD in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The SAP, for example, did not consider its status as a “Marxist” or “socialist” party threatened by different views about the exact way in which socialism would be achieved. Moreover, since the SAP had embraced reform work early on, it was not forced to reexamine long-term principles once the party had grown strong enough to actually influence the policy-making process. As we will see in Chapter 4, debates in Germany over whether the SPD should avail itself of opportunities to reform the Wilhelmine order spawned long-lasting internal divisions within the party and hindered its ability to react in a coherent and effective manner to changes in the German political system. In Sweden, on the other hand, the party’s early embrace of reform work and its assertion that such work would be crucial in ensuring the transition to socialism meant that “the problems which in Germany led to struggles between ‘radicals’ and ‘revisionists’ . . . never existed. . . . Hjalmar Branting . . . placed the movement on a course for which such a struggle would have been meaningless.”50 Furthermore, reform work was not viewed as a “bourgeois” endeavor or as peripheral to the goals of a Social Democratic party. Instead, each reform was presented as a small triumph for the labor movement and a step along the path to socialism. The SAP’s view of the transition to socialism also helped bring together the party and union wings of the labor movement. In an interesting contrast to the pattern in a number of other European countries, the main union confederation in Sweden—the LO—was largely created by the SAP in 1898. Throughout the history of the Swedish labor movement, coordination between the two branches was relatively close, and union and party elites often overlapped. Although the LO and the SAP became distinctive entities, the political and practical spheres were never divided up between them (as often happened elsewhere). The idea, for example, that unions (and not the party) should fight primarily for the material well-being of workers never enjoyed the level of support in Sweden that it did in Germany. In fact, in order to ensure that the union-party link remained secure and that unions did not degenerate into purely “materialistic” organiza-


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tions, a policy whereby all union members were automatically associated with the SAP (tvångsanslutning) was instituted during the labor movement’s early years.51 At the time of the LO’s founding, Branting justified this policy by arguing that the “reactionary” nature of the contemporary system meant that it was absolutely necessary for the two arms of the labor movement to remain closely linked. Branting feared that without a direct tie to the SAP the LO might fall into the same trap as, for example, its English counterparts: “The English unions,” he wrote in 1897, “have without a doubt done much to better the economic position of their members and their [strong] organization stands as a model for unions everywhere. But, and there is a but, . . . without socialism as a guiding star they have neglected to work at conquering political power and instead limited themselves . . . [merely] to raising wages.”52 Although as time passed and both the party and the unions grew in membership, and differences arose between them,53 the SAP’s emphasis on reform work meant that the everyday activities and the long-term goals of these two arms of the labor movement coincided to a very high degree. This would later help save the Swedish labor movement from many of the conflicts that plagued its German counterpart. In addition, the SAP’s belief that the transition to socialism required active intervention on the part of the labor movement meant that a great degree of emphasis was placed on coordinating union and party activities. For the SAP, political efforts, reform work, and economic improvement were not separate spheres of activity but instead were all parts of a strategy of socialist transformation. If and when the SAP found itself in a position to influence Swedish political development, therefore, its task would be clear—to work with other parts of the labor movement to push reforms that could help move Sweden along the path to socialism. The SAP and the Political System

Another crucial component of the SAP’s programmatic beliefs can also be traced back to the earliest phases of the party’s history. From its inception, and in contrast to the SPD, the SAP strongly asserted the need for, and essential value of, parliamentary democracy. Even though Social Democrats had little chance of gaining any real representation or power in the parliament during the late nineteenth century, the party justified its willingness to work within Sweden’s undemocratic political structures by pointing both to what such participation could achieve in the short run

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and to how such participation could help the party achieve its long-term goals. The earliest and most consistent demand of the SAP was universal suffrage; although all European Social Democratic parties eventually demanded it, few were as focused on this goal as the SAP. August Palm made suffrage reform his most important political demand, and already in 1887 the young Swedish labor movement passed the Lilljansreslution, which stated: “Because universal suffrage can end the injustice that the largest part of society’s citizens should have heavy obligations but no rights, because universal suffrage is a necessary prerequisite for people becoming masters in their own house, . . . and because universal suffrage is the only way to solve the social question peacefully, . . . this meeting demands universal, equal, and direct suffrage.”54 Following in Palm’s footsteps, Branting also regularly urged his party to recognize the value of parliamentarism and understand that the achievement of democracy was the prerequisite for the achievement of other socialist goals.55 Danielsson also became a vociferous advocate of political reform, arguing that political equality was a crucial component of the Social Democratic vision.56 Partly as a result of efforts by Branting, Danielsson, and other leading Social Democrats, the SAP decided early in its history to elevate the achievement of parliamentary democracy above all other policy aims. The extremely restrictive nature of the Swedish suffrage in the late nineteenth century, however, made it virtually impossible for the SAP to achieve political influence on its own: rather than preventing pragmatic tendencies, as mentioned earlier, this may actually have forced the SAP to be more amenable to cooperation than its German counterpart. In an exchange with Palm, Branting reasoned that isolating the labor movement made sense solely if one believed that “only a purely socialist [electoral win] is a victory for the workers. . . . As long as a victory for the Liberals over [the reactionaries] is more likely than a victory for [a socialist party], . . . we friends of freedom in Sweden [would do well] to follow our Danish brothers’ example and . . . fight against the ruling reaction[aries].”57 The SAP’s emphasis on the achievement of parliamentary democracy led the party into a decades-long collaboration with left-wing elements of Sweden’s Liberal movement. As a result of its focus on democratization and its collaboration with Liberals, much of the SAP’s propaganda, particularly its election material, was concentrated on the goal at hand—democratization—and was relatively free of radical or abstract language. A typical


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example is a turn-of-the-century election manifesto, trumpeting the fact that “Democracy is our goal!”: In a majority of [electoral districts] the situation is such that a purely labor candidate has little chance of winning in the contemporary situation. The task [for those workers who are eligible to vote is therefore] . . . to support those candidates . . . favoring universal suffrage. . . . Universal, equal, and direct suffrage, without any restrictions and reservations, through which a class of . . . citizens would [no longer] remain without the vote—our old demand—is the firm point to which Sweden’s workers should unshakably hold themselves and test those who desire their votes.58

The SAP justified its participation in the political system and its cooperation with Liberals with reference to both short- and long-term goals. In the immediate future, it was argued, participation in the existing system would enable Social Democrats to push for reforms that would improve the position of workers and the power of the labor movement, and help push Sweden along the path toward social democracy. Universal suffrage in particular, by increasing greatly the number of workers who could vote, would naturally improve the SAP’s position in parliament, and hence its ability to pressure the old regime for change. Over the long term, however, democratizing Sweden’s political system was seen to be important not merely as a means but also as an end in itself. Achieving democracy was crucial not only because it would increase the power of the SAP in the Swedish political system but also because it was the form socialism would take once it arrived. Political, economic, and social equality went hand in hand, according to the SAP, and were all equally important characteristics of the future socialist society. In contrast to the SPD, therefore—which often denigrated democracy as a “bourgeois” concept—the SAP argued that democracy was every bit as important as socialism in defining the identity and goals of a Social Democratic party. Along with this conception of democracy came a view of the state that differentiated the SAP from many of its European counterparts. Although the SAP recognized the repressive nature of the contemporary Swedish state, it fully expected that, once democratized, the state would prove an indispensable instrument in the achievement of a Social Democratic society. The concept of the “withering away of the state” did not generally appear in the party’s programs or propaganda, nor did the SAP claim it as

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a long-term goal. Consonant, therefore, with the party’s desire for political power was a belief that gaining control over government institutions would provide opportunities to materially improve the lives of workers: “The Swedish Social Democrats have from the beginning been positively disposed to the state. They have not confused the abstract concept and the concrete form. They have never confused the struggle against a certain political system with the struggle against the state in general. They have understood both that the state is an unavoidable form of organization for a civilized society and that it is a natural instrument for societal transformation.” 59 For the SAP, a distinction developed between a state under the control of reactionary capitalists and one under the influence of workers. The latter could be used to effect reforms and change the balance of power in society, and thus should be seen as a crucial tool in the struggle for socialism.60 As we will see in Chapter 5, political activity before the First World War assumed a significance for the SAP that it did not have for parties that were either negatively disposed toward the state or uncertain in their views. SAP leaders argued that Social Democrats, once they were in control of the state, would use it as a tool to help fulfill the demands of the working class and the general public.61 For the SAP, the road to socialism would be a parliamentary one. The goal of the party was to gradually increase its power within the Swedish political system in order to force concessions from the old regime. If and when the system began to totter, therefore, the party’s task would be clear: the SAP would continue to intensify the pressure for democratization and prepare itself for taking over the control of the state. Such control, in turn, would enable the SAP to accelerate Sweden’s journey along the road to social democracy. The SAP and the Class Struggle

A final aspect of the SAP’s programmatic beliefs that is relevant to this study is its view of other social groups and the class struggle. Early in the history of the SAP, a relatively harmonious view of the class struggle began to evolve within the party. One observer asserts that “already in 1882 there was in Palm’s consciousness the idea which would later play such a large role in Swedish social democracy . . . the willingness to consider elements within the bourgeoisie as necessary allies to the working class in the struggle against reactionary elements.”62 Per Albin Hansson also argued later on


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that from its birth the SAP had conceived of itself not merely as a workers’ but rather as a people’s party. As evidence of this, he noted that the first Social Democratic newspaper in Sweden was entitled “The People’s Will” (“Folkviljan”); the SAP’s original paper was entitled “The People’s Paper” (“Folkbladet”); and public places built by the party were given such names as “The People’s House” (Folkets hus) and “The People’s Park” (Folkets park).63 Although Hansson may have oversimplified his party’s views on this subject somewhat in retrospect,64 it is nevertheless true that the SAP began to see the value of reaching out to groups outside the industrial proletariat much earlier than did most of its European counterparts. By 1890, Danielsson was arguing that the SAP must “come in closer contact with the people, in particular the people who do not yet feel themselves revolutionary, but who want to improve their political situation. . . . We must become a people’s party.” Reflecting this, when the first issue of Danielsson’s Arbetet came out in 1887, it was designed to appeal not only to Malmö’s workers but also to the “economically dependent” middle class.65 Branting was also an early advocate of “big tent” view of the class struggle, declaring that it “should . . . be carried out in such a way that it does not close the door to an expansive solidarity among more than just [manual workers]. The goal . . . is through struggle to come to a solidarity that . . . stretches across the entire nation and through this . . . includes all human beings.”66 Given his background, it is perhaps not surprising that Branting was particularly eager to keep the SAP in close contact with progressive elements of the middle class. In 1886 he wrote: “In a backward land like Sweden we cannot close our eyes to the fact that the middle class increasingly plays a very important role. The working class needs the help it can get from this direction, just like the middle class for its part needs the workers behind it, in order to be able to hold out against [our] common enemies. And . . . we would only be doing the task of the reactionaries if under contemporary conditions we were to fully isolate ourselves and . . . be equally hostile to all old parties.”67 As a result of such views, by the turn of the century, the SAP’s electoral manifestos were addressed not merely to the proletariat but, more expansively, to “Sweden’s working people” or to “all progressive citizens in the city and country.” Despite such statements, however, the SAP at this time lacked a coherent strategy for reaching out to social groups outside the industrial working class. As a result, during the last years of the nineteenth century, several important figures within the party began to debate the SAP’s relationship

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with, and policies toward, different sectors of Swedish society. Perhaps the most crucial, but problematic, nonproletariat social group for Social Democrats was the peasantry. Many investigations of the 1930s Swedish workerfarmer alliance assume that the mere existence of a freeholding peasantry was enough to ensure cross-class cooperation. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, however, the relationship between farmers and workers was as strained in Sweden as it was in many other parts of Europe. Up through the interwar period, Swedish farmers were largely conservative, and they consistently sided with employers in disputes over social and economic policy. In his memoirs, for example, Ernst Wigforss recalled: When I entered Parliament [in 1919] the old conflict between workers and farmers was still one of the important realities of our political life. . . . The conservative position was built on the ability to bring together the interests of leading groups within agriculture and industry . . . [while] within the Liberals it was the agricultural wing that gave the leadership the biggest problem when they tried to cooperate with the Social Democrats. . . . [In addition,] the new farmers’ parties were thought to represent a break-off of the most conservative elements from the conservative parties.68

Despite (or perhaps because of) this animosity and the continuing importance of farmers in Swedish society, the SAP struggled to define its relationship with the agricultural sector of the population. In the mid1890s, Georg von Vollmar’s challenge to the SPD leadership in Germany sparked a debate in the SAP.69 Danielsson supported Vollmar’s assertion that small farmers shared a potential community of interest with workers and should be differentiated from the owners of large estates. Branting was more reserved, arguing that small-scale farming was economically inefficient and therefore doomed to disappear. However, despite reservations such as these, the belief that socialism would be achieved only gradually led many in the SAP to argue that farmers should be helped within the framework of the existing system. Danielsson, for example, argued in 1894 that “whether or not small farming is doomed to die it is not the task of social democracy to hasten the impoverishment of agriculture. . . . [We] don’t expect, as do the anarchists, that intensive poverty will bring forth socialist change. . . . Let [us try to reach a] compromise with farmers . . . through this [we will] solve some of our most urgent tasks . . . and move from being


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a sect, as Bebel (a leader of the German SPD) wants, to becoming a people’s party.” 70 Even Branting, despite his skepticism regarding small farming’s future, was critical of the inflexible orthodoxy exhibited by many of his German counterparts who argued “that one should not hold out to the farmers the prospect of their situation being improved. This [position] must be seen in conjunction with our German party colleagues’ absolute antipathy to all talk of workers counting on legislated minimum wages or the right to a job. . . . [Although] a secure existence cannot be guaranteed for the economically weak in the contemporary society, we must not neglect to demand now all the possible help and support that [we can for] them.” 71 Similarly, the SAP newspaper Social-Demokraten argued: “Let us . . . win the industrial and agricultural proletariat for our ideas without undervaluing the worth of the support troops that can be enlisted from the class of small farmers.”72 The publication of Eduard David’s Sozialismus und Landwirtschaft in 190373 reignited the debate over agricultural policy in Sweden, as it did in Germany. David celebrated the virtues of small farming and rejected the superiority of large-scale production. Many advocates of agricultural reform within the SAP were heavily influenced by David’s work and contributed sections to the party’s 1905 program calling for state support of agricultural credit, the formation of farmers’ cooperatives, free agricultural education, and so forth. In the early years of the new century, the argument that the party should distinguish between farmers who worked the land themselves and those who did not gained ground within the SAP. Increasing numbers of Swedish Social Democrats came to believe that given time and effort, small farmers could be made to see some community of interest with workers. Reflecting the increased interest in agricultural issues, the 1908 SAP party congress decided to devote more resources to agitation in rural areas, and a brochure entitled “The Agricultural Question and Social Democracy” was distributed. It proclaimed: “Concerning agriculture, we Social Democrats have no desire other than . . . to bring about relationships as favorable as possible in the countryside. . . . On the other side it should be near to the hearts of those [working in the agricultural sector to see] the wages and working conditions of industrial workers improve [so that] their purchasing power and need for foodstuffs will grow.”74 In the following years, a number of important figures within the SAP began to agitate for a more concerted effort to win over small farmers and agricultural workers. Erik Palmstierna, for example, who quit the left Lib-

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erals in 1910 to join the SAP, put forth a program designed to attract small farmers to the party. This built partly on the work of another recent convert to social democracy, Carl Lindhagen, who argued that the SAP’s emphasis on reform work and democratization provided a common basis upon which certain agricultural groups could be won over. In 1910, Gustaf Steffan published an article in Tiden that advocated a mixed economic system designed to push society toward democracy and eliminate poverty. Steffan’s article caused a large debate in both the Social Democratic and the general press, and helped spur the party’s executive committee to appoint a task force, with Lindhagen at its head, to work out a proposal for a new agricultural program. The proposal submitted by the task force had as its aim widening the party’s appeal to groups outside the proletariat, especially small farmers and agricultural workers. In order to achieve this, however, it suggested changes in the SAP’s program that went beyond simply rethinking agricultural issues, and largely for this reason the proposal was not well received. But dissatisfaction with this proposal did not lead to the disappearance of agricultural reform from the SAP’s agenda, and a new committee was appointed by the party executive in 1911 to rework the task force’s original suggestion.75 Interestingly, the program submitted by this new committee retained many of the suggestions made by the original task force, particularly the notion of the desirability of increasing the party’s social basis. In order to break down the hostility between workers and farmers, the committee stressed the insecurity facing both groups, stating that small farmers, peasants, and agricultural workers belonged, along with industrial workers, to the exploited classes.76 It favored supporting these agricultural groups through a variety of social, financial, and educational policies. In addition, it stated that within capitalism there were areas where workers owned the means of production, and in such areas “it was only right that the fruits of labor fell to [the owner]. . . . [A]s opponents to the system of exploitation we do not have any objection against this kind of noncapitalist small property and we never meant this [kind of property] when we stated that we wanted to fight the repressive and exploitative system of private capitalism.” 77 The program was accepted by the 1911 party congress, and with its adoption the party took a large step toward a folkparti strategy. Although the SAP’s agricultural program diverged significantly from “orthodox” conceptions of economic development and the class struggle,


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the 1911 congress stressed that it was remaining true to the SAP’s long-held principles. By officially characterizing small farmers and peasants as groups suffering from unbridled capitalism and trying to make them see the benefits to be gained by transforming society, the SAP argued that it was merely recasting its traditional message. Reflecting this, the congress added the following passage to its official program: Capitalism demands . . . not merely the submission of wage workers. Even . . . the independence . . . of the old middle classes—small farmers, craftsmen, small shopkeepers—. . . is lost. Concerning agriculture in particular, small farmers understand that their debts stem from . . . private capitalism and [that they] are scarcely less oppressed by capitalism than the propertyless agricultural workers. . . . [The achievement of socialism] can only be realized through the political struggle of workers and other groups in society which suffer from the exploitation of the capitalist system. Social democracy, whose task is to clarify the goals and means of this struggle and bring the masses together for this [task,] strives, therefore, to conquer political power and in this way, along the path toward which developments themselves point, bring about [socialism].78

Although not wholly successful at the time, these early steps toward a “people’s party” strategy would prove crucial for the SAP during the interwar period. Unlike its German counterpart, the SAP entered the interwar era with a framework within which it could appeal to the interests of different social groups without having to radically rethink either its own goals or its role in society. When Sweden made the transition to full parliamentary democracy in 1918, the SAP could thus legitimately claim that it was, “is, and shall remain the party of the propertyless and exploited.”79 During the interwar period, this inheritance would critically help the SAP integrate the interests of workers, certain middle-class groups, and peasants, and facilitate the construction of a coalition that would dominate Swedish politics for decades. Conclusion

During the last decades of the nineteenth century, a new party emerged that would play a crucial role in Swedish politics. In the years after its founding, the SAP began to develop a distinctive set of programmatic beliefs, including an undogmatic and flexible interpretation of Marxism;

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an evolutionary view of the transition to socialism, which stressed the importance of reform work; an emphasis on the necessity and value of parliamentary democracy; and a relatively harmonious view of the class struggle. The history of the SAP illustrates the important role individuals can play in bringing certain ideas to political salience and in maintaining their importance. By virtue of his particular talents and long tenure as leader of the party, for example, Branting, was able to exert a large influence over the SAP’s development. Men such as Palmstierna, Lindhagen, and Steffan played a crucial role in highlighting the importance of agricultural issues for social democracy, while Möller and Wigforss, especially during the interwar years, drove home the importance and potential long-term implications of reform work. The SAP’s experience also highlights the interaction that can occur between ideas and institutional structures. The concept of “reformist socialism” was absorbed into the SAP’s self-understanding and identity. By the turn of the century, the SAP had developed a distinctive political profile and view of social democracy, as reflected in its propaganda, political manifestos, and educational efforts. As we will see even more clearly in Chapters 5 and 7, the SAP presented itself as the party of democratization and progressive reforms, and as the force in Swedish society dedicated to improving the lives of the vast majority of the country’s citizens. People both inside and outside the party came to associate the SAP with particular programmatic beliefs and policies. In addition, the SAP’s programmatic beliefs helped shape the party’s organizational development. The SAP’s “reformist socialism” required integrating the party’s everyday efforts into a strategy for the transformation of society. This, in turn, helped create a direct linkage between the roles of theoretician and policy maker within the party. Hence, unlike what we will see in the SPD, many of the most important figures in the SAP—Branting, Wigforss, Möller—not only helped shape and disseminate the party’s vision of social democracy but also were policy makers, politicians, and practitioners. In addition, the SAP’s programmatic beliefs influenced its relationship with Sweden’s unions. These beliefs placed heavy emphasis on achieving material improvements in the lives of workers and joining the economic and political parts of the labor movement’s struggle. This meant, in turn, that the party and union were viewed as two sides of the same coin, and that the achievement of labor’s ultimate goals required close coordina-


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tion of SAP and LO efforts. Consequently, the links between the unions and the party were quite close in Sweden. As we will see in Chapter 5, the SAP’s programmatic beliefs also facilitated cooperation with other political forces in Sweden. As a result of the party’s early emphasis on reform work and democratization, the SAP decided to cooperate with other progressive groups in Swedish society. This led to a tactical alliance with left Liberals in the years before the First World War—an alliance that not only played a crucial role in Sweden’s democratization but also helped to further cement within the SAP a flexible, consensual, and reformist vision of social democracy. Finally, the SAP’s programmatic beliefs placed the party on a particular policy-making path, guiding it toward a certain level of involvement and type of engagement with the issues that would confront it during the interwar period. In particular, the party’s programmatic beliefs facilitated the development of a long-term political strategy based on reform work, conquering the structures of the state, and tactical cross-class alliances. The story of Swedish political development during the first third of the twentieth century, told in Chapters 5 and 7, is to a large degree the story of how the SAP, acting on the basis of these programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies that grew from them, responded to the challenges of democratization and economic collapse.

CHAPTER

4 Germany’s Political Development and the Programmatic Beliefs of the SPD The SPD is a revolutionary party, but not a revolution-making one. We know that our goal can only be achieved through a revolution, [and] we also know how little it is within our power to make this revolution, as little as it is possible for our opponents to hinder it. karl kautsky, der weg zur macht

Soon after German unification in 1871, a political party formed that would play a critical role in the nation’s subsequent history. The German Social Democratic party (Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands, or SPD) grew continuously until, by the early twentieth century, it was the single largest political party in the country, as well as the most important national party in the international Socialist movement. Like its Swedish counterpart, the SPD drew its inspiration from the teachings of Karl Marx and insisted on the need for a radical transformation of society. The two parties diverged significantly, however, from this common basis. Early on, the SPD developed several crucial characteristic programmatic beliefs that differed from those of its Swedish counterpart. By the early years of the twentieth century, these beliefs had become institutionalized in both parties, critically affecting their respective development and policy making. This chapter describes the political structures established by the Reich constitution of 1871 and the dynamic they imparted to politics in imperial Germany. It then moves on to a discussion of the SPD, describing the development of the party’s programmatic beliefs during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and showing how they became institutionalized within the party. Chapters 6 and 8 pick up the story of German political history and explain how the SPD, acting under the influence of its programmatic beliefs, reacted to the challenges of democratization at 66

Germany’s Political Development

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the end of the First World War and economic collapse during the Great Depression. The Reich Constitution and German Political Development

In his history of Germany, Gordon Craig notes a message sent by President Ulysses S. Grant to Berlin on the occasion of the formal proclamation of the German Empire.1 Grant congratulated the German government for having completed the unification process and for deciding to adopt a federal system like that of the United States. The president indicated that he hoped this similarity would soon be joined by another: that Germany would soon develop a fully democratic form of government. Craig notes that Grant was not alone in failing to understand the nature and implications of the new German constitution. Indeed, the document designed by Bismarck to govern the new German Empire was not merely complicated and ambiguous; it also encompassed seemingly contradictory elements. This was no accident: in order to make the new Kaiserreich work, Bismarck had to satisfy the often conflicting demands of public opinion, conservative elites, and small states with particularistic interests. The document that emerged was a balancing act resting on three pillars: monarchism, popular democracy, and federalism. The monarchical principle was firmly embedded in the executive branch. In order to become law, however, legislation required the assent of a Reichstag, which was to be elected by universal manhood suffrage and secret ballot—features unmatched by any other major parliament in Europe at that time.2 The new Kaiserreich, moreover, was also a federal system, with significant responsibilities left to state and local units. Power, in short, was distributed unevenly and somewhat ambiguously among the different branches and levels of government. Scholars have long debated the significance of this constitution for German political development. Some argue that the political system created in 1871 was “an autocratic semi-absolutist sham constitutionalism,” which sustained a traditional absolutist regime hidden behind a more liberal facade.3 Others contend that Bismarck “made Germany a constitutional country. Not only was the franchise the widest in Europe, with the only effective secret ballot. The parliament [also] possessed every essential function. It was the seat of power. The King of Prussia, later called the German Emperor, directed the executive, but so did, and does the President of the United States.”4 Both assessments capture important aspects of the Ger-

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man political system, but they oversimplify its nature and implications. Perhaps Carl Schmitt best caught the essence of the Reich constitution, as well as the problems associated with it, when he described it as a “dilatory compromise between monarchism and parliamentarism.”5 As the years passed and Germany became an increasingly industrialized and modern nation, however, this compromise proved ever more difficult to sustain. By the turn of the twentieth century, the tensions within the system were giving rise to constant frustration and political friction, finally exploding at the end of the First World War. Because the specific features of the Bismarckian system provided the context for the development of the SPD and its programmatic beliefs, it is worthwhile to sketch its most important features. The Bismarckian System

The Kaiserreich was composed of twenty-five states, which retained important powers and distinctive types of government. At the national or federal level, the government consisted of an executive (including the emperor, his chancellor, and their staffs), a federal council composed of delegations from the states (the Bundesrat), and a national parliament elected by universal manhood suffrage (the Reichstag). The executive branch had unchallenged powers in international affairs. The emperor was given sole control over foreign policy and ultimate warmaking authority, and was made supreme commander of the military. In the domestic sphere, however, the executive’s powers were more circumscribed. The emperor could initiate and propose legislation, but in order to become law, a bill required the assent of both the Bundesrat and the Reichstag. If agreement could not be reached on an important piece of legislation, the emperor could dissolve the Reichstag in the hope that new elections would produce a more compliant majority. But the Reichstag could not be dissolved permanently; a date for new elections had to be set immediately upon its dissolution. The emperor’s power was further enhanced by the fact that he was also the king of Prussia, by far the largest and most powerful German state. The emperor’s influence over the German political system was not direct, however, but instead was exerted through his chancellor. This chancellor was ultimately dependent on the emperor, who could appoint and


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dismiss him, yet he was rarely a mere puppet: in fact, it was often the chancellor and not the emperor who directed the everyday affairs of the Reich. During Bismarck’s twenty-eight-year tenure, for example, the Iron Chancellor was the key figure in shaping Germany’s path in both the domestic and international spheres. Of the two legislative bodies created by the constitution, one had a distinctly conservative and the other a more representative tinge. The Bundesrat was composed of delegations from the states, which were elected on the basis of local suffrage systems. These varied greatly between the more liberal southern and southwestern states and Prussia’s extremely undemocratic system of weighted voting. Prussia controlled seventeen of the fifty-eight votes in the Bundesrat, and the local Prussian delegation could therefore block legislation it deemed dangerous to its own interests. The antidemocratic nature of the Prussian suffrage and the influence this state exerted in the Bundesrat therefore acted as an important conservative bulwark in imperial Germany.6 The Reichstag, on the other hand, had important, if often unexploited, powers. Its assent was required for all legislation, and it could amend, delay, or defeat any bill it disliked. This power was particularly important in the financial sphere. Since the national budget could not be passed without the Reichstag’s approval, even army financing was potentially at its mercy. Not surprisingly, therefore, by the turn of the century debates over the budget became an extremely heated forum in which competing demands on the political system were openly voiced. The 1871 constitution did not give Germany a parliamentary system— that is to say, the chancellor did not need the confidence of a majority of the parliament to remain in power. He did, however, need to assemble parliamentary majorities for each legislative initiative under consideration, and this could easily become a cumbersome, if not impossible, task. As Germany became an increasingly modern society and the role of the national government grew, chancellors were forced to assemble de facto parliamentary majorities upon which they could rely to pass their legislative programs. Consequently, although Germany, like Sweden, did not make the transition to a parliamentary regime before the First World War, something resembling protoparliamentary behavior did begin to develop in the first decade and a half of the twentieth century.7 As for the final pillar of the political system, federalism, most matters

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affecting the everyday lives of citizens in the Kaiserreich—such as education, police, and health—were left to state and local governments. The states were also in charge of executing laws passed by the national government, a feature that left room for them to manipulate and circumvent policies they disagreed with. Perhaps the most important power reserved for the states was the right to levy direct taxes. The national government was limited to tariffs and postal and telegraphic services, as well as to whatever indirect taxes on consumption could be agreed on by the legislature. This limited the ability of the national government to grow and perform the functions increasingly demanded by a modern industrialized society. In Chapter 6 we will see how this caused increasing problems for Germany in the decade before the First World War and how it provided a springboard from which demands for a liberalization of the political system were launched. While Bismarck remained in power, this system functioned reasonably well. In fact, during the Iron Chancellor’s reign, Imperial Germany registered many impressive legislative achievements. During much of Bismarck’s period in office, the Reichstag was dominated by Liberals who succeeded in passing many important economic and labor market reforms, including the removal of constraints on unions and the recognition of the right of workers to form coalitions to pursue better wages, hours, and working conditions. One recent study of the period concludes: “German liberals do not compare so badly with their British counterparts in terms of their response to labour interests in trade unionism and the right to strike.”8 It was during Bismarck’s tenure, moreover, that Germany moved to the forefront in social policy. Health insurance was created in 1883, accident insurance in 1884, and old-age and invalid insurance in 1889. Joseph Schumpeter’s remark, while perhaps overly laudatory, contains real truth: “German public authority [in the late nineteenth century] was . . . more alive to the social exigencies of the time than was English political society. . . . Germany led in matters of ‘social policy’. . . . The civil service, much more developed and powerful than in England, provided excellent administrative machinery as well as the ideas and drafting skills for legislation. And this civil service was at least as amenable to proposals for social reforms as was the English one.”9 Bismarck’s support for Germany’s incipient welfare state, of course, did not spring from his empathy for the working classes. The social legislation passed during the 1880s is more accurately viewed as an example of Bismarck’s ability to


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exploit the German political system and his position in it to manipulate public opinion and political parties, co-opting elements of the middle and working classes and cutting the ground out from under his opponents. Perhaps the most (in)famous example of such Machiavellianism occurred during the “Great Depression” of 1874–1879 and 1890–1894. During the first years of the new empire, the main threat to Bismarck’s vision of Germany came not from small socialist groups but from the powerful Liberal movement. Although Liberals dominated the Reichstag during the 1870s, the effects of late industrialization and the divisive legacy of unification created important conflicts within the Liberal movement. When an economic downturn came after the crash of 1873, Bismarck exploited these divisions, using a tariff package to engineer a logroll between more conservative National Liberals and old agrarian elites. The “Iron and Rye” coalition that emerged from this deal enabled Bismarck to maintain his hold on power and to “protect” Germany from groups advocating the liberalization of the political system. As would be the case half a century later, a depression thus led to a startling political realignment in Germany. By the end of the 1880s, however, the political system of the Reich was already showing signs of wear. Bismarck was dismissed by a new kaiser in 1890, and the delicate balancing act he had perfected quickly began to fall apart. Many felt that without Bismarck at the helm the system would not be able to continue. According to J. C. G. Röhl: “Some observers expected that Germany would revert to the loose federation which had existed until 1866, others that she would become a parliamentary republic, and others again that Bismarck would return to establish a kind of dictatorship.”10 In fact, nothing so dire occurred. Instead, a sort of stalemate developed, with forces on the left demanding liberalization while forces on the right toyed with the idea of a Staatsstreich. Consequently, as in Sweden, the main political struggle in the last decade of the nineteenth century and first decades of the twentieth century was between groups favoring and opposing political liberalization. Also as in Sweden, the Liberal movement remained divided and weakened, while the Social Democratic party grew continuously. In such a situation, the burden of fighting for democracy fell primarily to the Social Democrats. In contrast to its Swedish counterpart, however, the SPD did not fully embrace this role until after 1918. In order to understand why this was the case, we must now examine the development of the SPD and its programmatic beliefs.

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The Development of the German Social Democratic Party and Its Programmatic Beliefs

The earliest workers’ organizations in Germany, as in many other European countries, were founded by bourgeois Liberals. After 1848, Liberals encouraged the formation of educational societies (Arbeiterbildungsvereine) and savings and self-help cooperatives for workers in an attempt to gain allies in their struggle against royal absolutism.11 The first important workers’ association to break away from the liberal movement was the Allgemeiner Deutscher Arbeiterverein (ADAV), created by Ferdinand Lassalle in 1863 and bearing the unmistakable stamp of its leader. Lassalle had started out as a committed Liberal but grew increasingly disillusioned; by the 1860s, he was arguing that all classes outside the working class were a “single reactionary mass,” and that workers had to struggle alone to achieve their goals.12 Lassalle’s personal philosophy was a strange combination of state worship, democracy, and authoritarianism. He argued that the state was “an abiding engine for the moral uplift and regeneration of mankind. . . . [The state] exists to develop the freedom of mankind. It is the union of individuals into a spiritual whole; its purpose is to enable the individual to attain heights which he could never have reached by his own unaided efforts. . . . [The state’s ultimate role] is to facilitate and bring about the cultural progress of mankind.”13 It was through universal manhood suffrage that workers would conquer the state and achieve their historic mission: “The democratic state, with far-seeing spirit and mighty hand, [will] systematically transform capitalism and save society.” 14 Despite Lassalle’s emphasis on universal suffrage, however, his own movement was organized in anything but a democratic manner; autocracy and centralization were the key characteristics of the ADAV. In describing his vision of the workers’ movement, Lassalle once argued that “the rank and file must follow their chief blindly, and the whole organization must be like a hammer in the hands of its president.”15 As one might imagine, such a party was not to everyone’s taste. Disillusioned with the Verein’s nationalist, pro-Prussian policies and the heavyhanded leadership of Lassalle’s successor, many socialists joined a rival group formed in 1869, the Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterpartei, or SAP. The SAP’s leaders were August Bebel and Wilhelm Liebknecht. Both men called themselves Marxists but in fact had little theoretical training; with Marx and Engels alive and active, Bebel and Liebknecht felt they could devote


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themselves to the organizational needs of the incipient German Socialist movement, confident that theoretical issues would be well taken care of. An incipient “division of labor” therefore began to develop between the intellectual and practical leaders of German socialism. Reflecting this, Liebknecht remarked that “theory and practice are two different things, and unreservedly as I trust Marx’s judgment on theory, in practical matters I [go] my own way.”16 Given this background, it is not surprising that the new party offered as its platform a mixture of both Marxism and bourgeois radicalism. It called for the elimination of capitalist wage “serfdom,” the encouragement of cooperative work, and the establishment of political liberty and equal civil rights.17 Despite government harassment, the ADAV and the SAP together managed to poll over 6 percent of the vote in the 1874 national elections. Because party leaders realized that dividing the Socialist, working-class vote played right into the hands of Bismarck and the reactionaries, in May 1875 they held a unity congress and formed a single new party, the SPD. The final program adopted by the congress at Gotha contained a mixture of Lassallean and Marxist elements, calling for the establishment of a “free state and a socialist society,” the breaking of the “iron law of wages” through the abolition of the wage system, and the end of social and political inequality. In the first election after its founding, the SPD outstripped even its own hopes, winning more than 9 percent of the votes cast and becoming the fourth-largest party in the Reichstag. Bismarck was disturbed by these developments and attempted to have the party outlawed. This move was defeated by a large majority in the Reichstag, but the chancellor was later able to manipulate a series of attempts on the kaiser’s life to whip up anti-Socialist fears, and in 1878 managed to pass the anti-Socialist laws. These regulated the Socialist press, eliminated Socialist meetings, and provided pretexts for the arrest of several Socialist leaders. They did not, however, prevent the party from participating in elections or taking seats in the Reichstag. The period of the anti-Socialist laws was critical for the history and self-understanding of the SPD; later on, the party itself would refer to this time as the “heroic years.”18 After the initial confusion caused by the government measures, the SPD rallied itself and continued much of its activity, with its Reichstag delegation acting as executive committee and gaining influence as the most important legal arm of the party. Many leaders

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went into exile, working on clandestine Socialist publications that were smuggled back into Germany. The party also held a series of congresses in other European countries, actually managing to triple its share of the German vote during this period. This newfound strength meant that the SPD “could now, under some conditions, function as the balance of power, and it was an unwonted spectacle to see the socialist deputies courted by parties that so far had barely acknowledged their existence.”19 Such developments, in turn, helped convince Bismarck that, in dealing with the workers, he would require a carrot alongside the stick, resulting, as noted earlier, in his support for a series of welfare measures. In 1890, the Iron Chancellor was dismissed and the anti-Socialist laws allowed to lapse. In contrast to what Bismarck and the reactionaries had hoped, the 1880s had turned out to be a decade of triumph for the workers’ movement. Government repression meant that “the workers had more reason than ever to view the socialists as their true defenders.”20 The SPD’s support within the electorate increased at an impressive pace (in the February 1890 elections, the SPD received nearly 20 percent of the vote), and union membership rose almost fivefold. On the party itself, however, the anti-Socialist laws had a somewhat contradictory effect. For those excluded entirely from participating in the life of the party, the experience of being denied many important rights increased the distrust and disgust they already felt for the German political system. Reinforcing this turn away from the existing regime was the fact that the SPD was able to overcome many of the obstacles thrown its way, leading to an exaggerated confidence in what the party could achieve on its own, or through pure opposition to the existing regime. As noted earlier, the anti-Socialist laws did not ban all the functions of the SPD; the role of some sectors of the party in the political life of the Reich actually grew during this period. The members of the parliamentary delegation, for example, became increasingly involved in the Reichstag, and their power within the party increased. As a result, by the end of the 1880s the relative power of, and the relationship between, individual sectors of the SPD was quite different from what it had been a decade earlier. This would have important consequences in later years. Perhaps the most important effect of the anti-Socialist laws on the SPD was to deepen the divide that already existed between theory and praxis within the party. Many of the party’s theorists and intellectuals were either abroad or barred from any official involvement in the party, and they


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became alienated not only from the German political system but also from those within the party who stayed behind and continued to participate in the Reich’s political life. Such theorists and intellectuals also grew increasingly out of touch with, and uninterested in, everyday political problems. The party’s leaders and practitioners, on the other hand, concerned with keeping the labor movement together in a time of repression, had little time or concern for the increasingly esoteric debates of their theoretical colleagues. The result was that those in charge of the daily management of party affairs were left to carry on their activities with little theoretical or long-term guidance. In this context it is not difficult to understand a development that many analysts of the period have found puzzling: during the years of the anti-Socialist laws, the hold of “orthodox” Marxism on the party grew at the same time that the party’s parliamentary functions (and, in particular, the parliamentary delegation) increased in importance. By the beginning of the 1890s, the divide between theorists and practitioners that had been present at the SPD’s founding was becoming increasingly institutionalized, a condition reflected in the adoption of the party’s new Erfurt program in 1891. The most striking feature of this program was its division into two separate parts.21 The first, theoretical section was drafted mainly by Karl Kautsky and adhered closely to the writings of Marx and Engels.22 It was primarily an analysis of the deleterious consequences of economic development for the proletariat, rather than a foundation on which a political strategy could be built. There was, for example, no discussion of political power or tactics, or of the state, despite a recognition that the struggle of the working class was a political as well as an economic one. This part of the program painted an extremely grim picture of the future course of capitalist development: monopolization, exploitation, poverty, “class warfare,” and economic crises would inevitably grow over time. The only solution to these problems was the “conversion of capitalist private property . . . into common property, and the change of production of goods into . . . socialistic production.” This solution, moreover, could only be “the work of the working classes, because all other classes, in spite of conflicts of interests among themselves . . . have, for their common aim, the maintenance of the foundations of the existing society.”23 The Erfurt program’s second section was written primarily by Eduard Bernstein and concentrated on the practical demands of the party. It was essentially a laundry list of reforms, most of which could be supported by

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progressive liberals. For example, it called for universal manhood suffrage for all elections; compensation for elected officials; the liberalization of labor laws; a declaration that religion was a private affair; the secularization of the schools; and graduated income and property taxes. No real attempt was made to tie the two halves of the Erfurt program together; consequently, the relationship between the two remained unclear. In justifying this lack of integration, Kautsky argued that, since the nature of future society was a “question to which no human being can give an answer,” 24 concrete political praxis and the realization of socialist goals could not be directly connected. In a somewhat more perspicacious commentary, Paul Kampffmeyer argued: “It is a curious thing that the present schism between radicals and possibilists runs right through the middle of the Erfurt program as it runs—you almost feel you can touch it—through the minds of our most gifted theoreticians and party leaders. On the one hand they heap anathema after anathema upon bourgeois society; on the other they labor with burning zeal to patch up and improve it.”25 This split between theory and praxis would haunt the SPD throughout the period of this study. The party was increasingly pushed toward pursuing practical benefits for its constituency and participating in the political life of Wilhelmine Germany. Its continued attachment to the principles elaborated in the Erfurt program, however, made pursuing a coherent strategy of progressive reforms problematic. The combination of theoretical radicalism and de facto reformism that came to characterize the SPD in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century increased tensions both within the party and between the party and other participants in the German political system. Both Germany’s SPD and Sweden’s SAP shared the broad ideological label “Social Democratic.” However, their understandings of what socialism and democracy were, what their correct relationship was, and how they would be achieved differed greatly. Early in their histories, in other words, the Swedish and German social democrats each developed a unique set of programmatic beliefs. The rest of this chapter describes the development of the SPD’s programmatic beliefs during the late nineteenth century, focusing on four central concepts: Marxism, the transition to socialism, democracy and parliamentarism, and the class struggle. The beliefs of the German and Swedish Social Democrats differed significantly in each of these areas. By the turn of the century, moreover, the programmatic beliefs


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of the SPD and the SAP had become embedded in each party’s self-understanding and identity, as well as institutionalized within their respective organizational structures. These beliefs thereby affected not only the internal development of each party but also party responses to the challenges presented by the external environment. The SPD and Marxism

The interpretation of Marxism that developed within the SPD during the last decades of the nineteenth century is often referred to in the historical literature as “orthodox” or “scientific.” These labels indicate the rigid nature of this interpretation, as well as its links to important scientific developments of the day. More so than the version of Marxism that came to dominate the SAP during the same years, that of the SPD was heavily influenced by the writings of Friedrich Engels and the theories of Charles Darwin. The main figure shaping the SPD’s doctrine during these years was Karl Kautsky.26 Kautsky was the dominant Marxist intellectual of his time. His writings were often the first (and sometimes the only) interpretation of Marx available to an entire generation of socialists in Germany and other parts of Europe,27 with the result that “it was not so much in the original writings of Marx and Engels but rather through the [work of Kautsky] that Marxism was spread throughout the world.”28 The version of Marxism elaborated by Kautsky in the late nineteenth century was an integrated theoretical system containing laws of historical and social development. The system had a “scientific rigor” and no value judgments. According to Kautsky, the role of the socialist was not to argue for the moral superiority of his or her views but to recognize the causal and “objective” nature of material reality. This interpretation of socialism left little room for purposeful human action: socialist society would be the product of economic development, not of individual efforts. Kautsky viewed Marxism as the only theory and method of historical investigation that was valid for the analysis of social phenomena. “It was thanks to his interpretive work that the stereotype known as scientific socialism—the evolutionist, determinist, and scientific form of Marxism— became universally accepted in its main lines.”29 With the exception of Darwinism,30 Kautsky opposed all additions to or reinterpretations of this Marxism. Unlike what many in the SAP believed, for example, Kautsky

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argued that although liberalism and socialism were historically connected, they were not on a logical continuum. He argued that bourgeois liberalism was an outdated and perhaps reactionary system. The mission of the proletariat was not to achieve liberal ideals but to “destroy the individual liberty of capitalists and landlords, and in place of this unbearable compulsion of individuals over the whole, set the compulsion of the whole over the individuals, a compulsion which is grounded in the nature of man and will therefore be borne gladly by everyone.”31 Kautsky did not reject working for certain “liberal” reforms, but he did not see such reforms as part of the party’s ultimate goals, nor as contributing directly to the development of a future socialist society. This “scientific,” orthodox Marxism generated a very different theoretical understanding of the role of a socialist party than did the SAP’s version of Marxism. German Social Democrats were taught that specific economic developments were necessary before their political action could have any effect. The logical consequence of this interpretation of Marxism was political passivity. In addition, this view of Marxism generated a very different understanding of the meaning of socialism itself. Socialism became a theoretical system, a method for analyzing history, economics, and society. It provided no concrete vision of a future socialist society, nor could it justify attempts at concrete long-term planning. As we saw with the Erfurt program, while early on the party had accepted the need for certain reforms, little or no effort was made to link this reform work to the party’s ultimate goals, and the connection between the party’s actions in the contemporary world and the future socialist society remained abstract at best. Not surprisingly given these views, most of the party’s “intellectuals” played a small role in the everyday activities of the SPD. Kautsky, for example, despite his close identification with German social democracy, was never a member of the party’s Reichstag delegation, executive committee (Partei Vorstand), or political leadership group (Parteigremien). Instead, his ability to spread his views rested on his intellectual stature and, in particular, on his control of the party’s theoretical journal, Die Neue Zeit. This journal, although the key intellectual organ of a large and growing political movement, devoted little effort to analyzing either the challenges facing, or the activities of, the SPD, remaining devoted almost exclusively to abstract, theoretical issues of little concern or relevance to the party’s practical needs. Thus, for example, “in all the years from 1882 to 1914 there was only one article in Neue Zeit . . . on the subject of a post-revolutionary


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society, and this treated the problem merely in an historical context as a discussion of past millenarian societies.”32 The fact that this orthodox Marxism became the official credo of the SPD had important ramifications. It helped create within the party a view of theory divorced from the problems of the contemporary world and the needs of a growing political party. It encouraged theorists to devote themselves primarily to academic debates and to separate themselves from the politicians, policy makers, and bureaucrats who increasingly dominated the labor movement. Consequently, the distance between theory and praxis and between theoreticians and practitioners was much greater in the SPD than in its Swedish counterpart. As time passed and the practical demands on the party grew, this division threatened both the internal cohesiveness and the political effectiveness of the SPD, yet this state of affairs proved extremely difficult to alter. The SPD and the Transition to Socialism

As we saw in Chapter 3, the Swedish Social Democrats developed an evolutionary, reformist view of the transition to socialism. The SPD’s official position, by contrast, was that this transition would be a revolutionary occurrence. Socialists would be the beneficiaries of this “revolution,” largely without having to help it along or prepare for its eventuality. Kautsky, for example, argued that “the development of a plan of how the future state should be set up is not compatible with . . . [a] scientific standpoint.”33 According to him, the SPD was “a revolutionary party, but not a revolution-making one. We know that our goal can only be achieved through a revolution, [and] we also know how little it is within our power to make this revolution, as little as it is possible for our opponents to hinder it. . . . [T]he revolution cannot be arbitrarily made by us . . . and we are just as incapable of saying when and under what conditions and in what form it would appear.”34 Furthermore, this transition was inevitable and would be the result of inexorable laws of historical evolution. The future socialist society would arrive largely without the active intervention of individuals, as a result of economic developments. As August Bebel explained: “Finally, [one day] through a mighty crash the whole [load of] junk will collapse like a house of cards.35 Bourgeois society is working so effectively towards its own downfall that we need merely wait for the moment to pick up the power dropping from its hands. . . . Yes, I am convinced that the realization

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of our aims is so close that there are few . . . who will not live to see the day.” 36 In 1885, Bebel wrote to Engels, “I go to sleep with the thought that the last hour of bourgeois society strikes soon.”37 One consequence of this view was that the party’s theorists and intellectuals devoted little effort to analyzing how the transition to socialism or the collapse of capitalism might actually occur. Their efforts were focused instead on uncovering and analyzing “objective” historical and economic developments and the potential conflicts inherent in bourgeois capitalism. Another consequence was that the SPD did not try to integrate its contemporary reform activities with its long-term goals because, according to its official doctrine, the transition to socialism was something that the party could neither plan for nor actively bring about. As the SPD grew in strength, however, this situation began to change. In protest against the “reactionary” German political system, the party had begun its parliamentary career refusing to vote even for legislation that would be beneficial to the working class. But as the party’s ability to influence legislation increased, it became more and more difficult to justify not using parliament to improve the everyday lives of workers. During the last decade of the nineteenth century, even Engels and Kautsky began to reconsider their views on reform work. Both began to see reform work as useful not only for improving the lives of workers but also as an important tool for exploiting the contradictions inherent in the bourgeois camp.38 It must be stressed, however, that such work was still not viewed as contributing directly to the transition to socialism or socialism itself. Nonetheless, the shift toward increasing acceptance of reform work provoked a reaction from the left wing of the SPD. For example, a group of young intellectuals at the Berliner Volks-Tribüne argued that socialism was “much more than a stomach question” and had “nothing to do with . . . logic or morality.” Socialism was “as much a product of capitalism as the steamship.” 39 Similar criticism was voiced by the participants in the Jungen rebellion, one of whom argued that, if “the proletariat was the true grave digger of capitalism, the primary task [of the party] was to bring the proletariat to consciousness and not to moderate capitalism.”40 The most powerful challenge to the SPD’s increasingly confusing and ambivalent views on reform work came not from the left, however, but from the right—from revisionists and reformists.41 By the mid-1880s, many had already begun to bemoan the failure to apply Marxism to the increasingly large number of practical problems facing the party. Heinrich


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Braun, for example, was an early critic of the “inability or unwillingness of Marxists to show that their theory could be applied to practical social and political problems.”42 He criticized the abstract and inflexible nature of Kautsky’s Neue Zeit and favored intellectual interchange with bourgeois intellectuals. To further these goals, Braun started the Archiv für Soziale Gesetzgebung und Statistik and later the Sozialpolitische Centralblatt, which attracted articles by the likes of Lujo Brentano, Ferdinand Tönnies, Max and Alfred Weber, Georg Simmel, and Werner Sombart. Even though Kautsky’s own views were beginning to shift during this period, he found Braun’s assertions simply too radical a break with SPD traditions. As Braun continued his attack on the party’s theoretical passivity and failure to exploit opportunities for reform, Kautsky became increasingly disillusioned with him, believing that he was providing support for all that “is unclear and confusing in our party.” Furthermore, Kautsky argued that Braun’s paper had become an “organ for the systematic [and] intentional corruption of the . . . movement.”43 By the 1890s, however, criticisms such as Braun’s were becoming increasingly vociferous. The last decade of the nineteenth century was a good time for the German workers’ movement. The anti-Socialist laws were a thing of the past, and the SPD was firmly established on the political scene. Furthermore, the second half of the decade was a period of economic recovery for Germany. Rapid economic growth came after a long depression, and the position of German workers improved markedly. The departure of Bismarck also brought a new chancellor, Caprivi, who was more positively disposed toward reforms. It was under these conditions that Engels could declare: “The growth of [the SPD] proceeds . . . irresistibly. . . . All government intervention has proved powerless against it. . . . If it continues in this fashion, by the end of the century we shall . . . grow into the decisive power in the land, before which all powers will have to bow, whether they like it or not.”44 Early in the 1890s, the Bavarian Social Democratic leader Georg von Vollmar began a dispute over the way the party should react to changing economic and political conditions. Vollmar and many of his supporters came from south German states where electoral laws were more liberal and collaboration with bourgeois liberals was a viable option.45 Vollmar criticized the party’s stance toward its reform work, arguing against those who asserted that: “He who busies himself with small, momentary betterments, is lost for the revolution. . . . [Many believe that our] eyes must only see the

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misery in the present order, only its incapacity for betterment. . . . Such an opinion will doubtless be regarded by its representatives as especially loyal to principles, but it is at bottom nothing but the policy of sterility and despair.” In a passage that would remain as relevant at the end of the period covered by this study as it was for the late 1800s, Vollmar reminded the SPD that “every one of us knows that when a person has sunk below a certain standard of living, he has indeed the power to take part in a street riot, in a revolt, to break windows or even to crack skulls; but for an enduring, earnest and conscious effort he is no longer available.”46 Vollmar’s assertions and actions led to heated disputes, but it was not until Eduard Bernstein’s challenge a few years later that the party’s official stance was attacked in a systematic manner on both intellectual and practical grounds.47 Bernstein put forth a new interpretation of social democracy, which echoed many of the themes that had come to dominate the Swedish SAP. He argued that although Marx may have been correct in laying out certain abstract, general guidelines, his predictions regarding economics and politics simply could not be reconciled with contemporary developments. In 1898, Bernstein recalled the moment when, after giving a lecture to the Fabian Society in London, he recognized that current attempts to defend Marxism were an “injustice to Marx.” He began arguing that the SPD’s insistence on “a sudden leap from capitalism to socialist society” was creating both theoretical and practical problems for the party. Bernstein argued that Marx’s economic theories and view of history were incorrect, and that since socialism could not be seen as inevitable, it should be seen as desirable: ethical and moral considerations should be stressed in the struggle for and formation of a better society. According to this view, socialism could emerge only as the result of an evolutionary development process spurred on by human action. Bernstein urged the party to make the most of the possibilities offered by the political system and to make compromises in order to facilitate alliances with other progressive groups. The party would achieve its full potential only “when it found the courage to emancipate itself from a phraseology which is actually obsolete, and if it were willing to appear what it really is today: a democratic socialist reform party.”48 Bernstein’s attacks continued for several years and created increasing discomfort, especially at higher levels of the party. The “revisionist controversy” finally came to a head at the Dresden party congress in 1903. Against the calls of many on the left, the congress decided to allow the revisionists


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to remain within the party, but it rebuked them for challenging the party’s principles and program. The “standpatters” remained in control (at least of the party’s theoretical leadership), indicating that despite changes in German political and economic life, as well as in the SPD’s activities, the party’s official view of socialism would remain largely unchanged. Karl Kautsky emerged once again as the unchallenged authority on socialist doctrine, but, as had been the case before, he played no role in the day-to-day workings of the party. The end of the “revisionist controversy” was a relief to the party leadership, much of which had felt threatened by Bernstein’s challenge. Kautsky had tried to persuade Bernstein to leave the party and wrote to him that if “the materialist conception of history and the concept of the proletariat as the motor force of the coming revolution are erroneous . . . then I must state that my life no longer has meaning.”49 Bebel also found fault with Bernstein and other “right-wing” critics of the party’s official view of socialism. He viewed revisionism as an attack on “the entire basis of Marxism” 50 and rebuked Vollmar by arguing: “With what will we awaken enthusiasm? . . . With a demand for . . . reforms like the eight-hour day?”51 “If we push [the achievement of] our beautiful goal into the cloudy future and continually stress that it will [only] be future generations that will achieve it, then the masses will, completely correctly, desert us entirely.”52 Bebel feared that accepting the reformist or revisionist challenge would rob the party of its ultimate rationale, making it opportunistic and incapable of arousing and educating the masses.53 Thus, while the SPD became increasingly involved in the promotion of a variety of reform measures, the party’s practical work did not significantly change the nature of its theoretical foundations, its propaganda, or its official attitude toward socialism or the existing system. Kautsky continued to see a direct conflict between theoretical and practical work, arguing that “the bridging and balancing of differences, which is such an important task of practical politics, is the death of theory.”54 Among the consequences of the divergence between the party’s theoretical radicalism and its practical efforts was an increasing gulf between the unions and the SPD. In Germany, as in Sweden, there was much overlap between the membership and leadership of the main “free” trade unions and the Social Democratic party. Partly as a result of the different ideas about socialism held by the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties, however, the relationship between the SPD and the free trade unions

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differed from that of their Swedish counterparts. Over time, the leader of the German unions, Carl Legien, chose to emphasize the economic (i.e., labor market and social policy) functions of the trade unions and evolved the concept of “neutrality.” This meant that the unions should be not only equal to and separate from the SPD but also, at least potentially, nonpartisan. “The trade-unionists, like the southern Social Democrats, were finding the revolutionary character of the party a handicap in recruitment. Their natural tendency was, therefore, to emphasize only the pursuit of the workers’ material interest, and leave the propagation of the socialist gospel to the party.” 55 The unwillingness of the party to place long-term improvement in the material needs of the working class at the forefront of its agenda contributed to the drifting apart of the movements, especially in their everyday activities. Furthermore, since the SPD never integrated its reform work within any long-term strategy, there seemed little need to coordinate such activities among the different sectors of the labor movement. “How great was the indifference of . . . the party theorists to trade-union affairs is shown by the fact that Neue Zeit’s semi-annual subject index contained no section on trade-unions until the last half of 1897.”56 As a result, the unions continued their own reform work without much “interference” from the SPD, binding themselves closer to the Wilhelmine state and becoming increasingly bureaucratic. As we will see in the next chapter, the divergence between theory and practice also led to conflicts between the national and lower levels of the SPD. Lower-level functionaries and organizations, frequently finding little of use in the pronouncements of national leaders, sometimes went their own way, decreasing the overall coherence and hence power of social democracy in Germany.57 Finally, as a result of the divergence between the SPD’s theory and practice, the real achievements of the party often appeared bourgeois, incoherent, and divorced from its long-term goals. By failing to develop a way to tie necessary reform work to the ultimate goals of its movement, the SPD was left with no way of differentiating its practical efforts from those of its opponents. Too great an emphasis on reform work seemed to threaten the SPD’s identity as a Social Democratic party. In addition, the insistence by orthodox Marxists that the transition to socialism could only be a revolutionary occurrence helped preclude the development of any long-term strategy for the transformation of society, meaning that each policy challenge was acted upon in an ad hoc manner. As Bernstein remarked: “A keen


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observer could not avoid the fact that German social democracy had theory, principles, demands, goals, an admirable organization, in short almost everything needed by a powerful political party. Only one thing was missing . . . the party lacked a definite . . . systematic, guiding” program.58 This meant, of course, that if a revolutionary collapse of the existing system did not occur, or if the party was suddenly placed in a position of power, neither its theory nor its praxis would be able to provide it with a viable guide for action. The SPD and the Political System

As we saw in Chapter 3, the Swedish Social Democrats decided early on to participate actively in the contemporary political system and made the achievement of democracy the focus of their practical efforts. In the years before the First World War, the SAP integrated democratization into its view of the transformation of society. The SPD, on the other hand, had a very different view of the nature and usefulness of bourgeois politics in general and democracy in particular. The SPD’s acceptance of participation in parliament and the usefulness of democracy was grudging, ambivalent, and limited, especially at first. As with all Social Democratic parties, the SPD accepted a legal route to socialism. This did not truly lessen the SPD’s hostility toward the existing political system.59 In fact, in its early years the party leadership continually expressed its opposition not just to the governing regime but to the entire framework of bourgeois politics. Some within the SPD argued, for example, that the state would ultimately “fade away,”60 while others remained somewhat more uncertain about the development of bourgeois political structures. At the Erfurt party congress, Liebknecht remarked that “differential assessments of the state [within the movement] are the reason why the concept of the state does not appear in the Erfurt program.”61 He also argued that “if Social Democracy participates in the [Reichstag] farce, it will become an official socialist party.”62 Liebknecht held this view throughout the 1870s, reminding Social Democrats that they should expect nothing from their parliamentary activities and that they were useful primarily for purposes of agitation.63 Bebel and Kautsky held similar views. Bebel asserted: “Whoever believes that we can reach the final goal of socialism through the present-day parliamentary-constitutional means, either doesn’t know [this system] or is a charlatan [Betrüger]64. . . . The purpose

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of our participation in the Reichstag was merely to demonstrate to the masses that the bourgeoisie will not even satisfy their most elementary needs.” 65 Similarly, Kautsky argued that “demanding the democratization of all public institutions and improving the social conditions of workers within the existing state and social order was at the same time nonsense as well as an abandonment of the entire earlier character of our movement.”66 As a result of these attitudes, up until the 1890s the SPD did not really participate fully in the Reichstag. By the turn of the century, however, this situation began to change because the party could not afford to ignore the opportunities that such involvement seemed to offer, which led to a reevaluation of the party’s role and position in the contemporary political system. Kautsky and Engels began to change their views of parliamentary activity by the end of the nineteenth century. Engels began to argue that the Reichstag could be used to exploit the contradictions between bourgeois parties and to achieve some concrete successes for the workers’ movement. The shift in Kautsky’s views was more gradual. Kautsky had never completely rejected all parliamentary activity but had long been skeptical of its ultimate value. He had also believed that the growth of the SPD would lead the bourgeois parties to suspend the Reichstag. As time passed, however, Kautsky also began to see advantages in parliamentary work, hoping, like Engels, that it could be used to exploit the divisions within the bourgeoisie and to hasten the demise of liberalism. Kautsky also increasingly appreciated the opportunities the Reichstag offered for electoral and political agitation.67 The SPD’s shift away from opposition toward “ambivalent parliamentarism” 68 in the last decade of the nineteenth century did not occur without resistance. A suspicion of “bourgeois parliamentarism” and a belief that any collaboration would only slow the inevitable collapse of the contemporary system retained a powerful hold over some sectors of the Socialist movement. The party’s move toward greater acceptance of parliamentary work led to the formation of an incipient left wing within the party, which included anarchists and a variety of radical intellectuals. The Berliner Volks-Tribüne, for example, became a forum for protest against the party’s “accommodationism.” Max Schippel, the editor of the Tribüne, argued: “Our future victory . . . lies entirely in this unshakable conviction . . . that the successful education of the masses, and that alone, has a real and fundamental meaning for us.”69 Similarly, the young intellectuals in the


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“Jungen rebellion” in the 1890s protested the party’s parliamentary activity. Paul Kampffmeyer, one of the most prominent members of this group, argued that participating in the Reichstag was simply an “attempt to prolong the life of a moribund institution.”70 While the left criticized the party’s new parliamentarism, the right criticized its ambivalence. Bernstein, for example, who wanted social democracy to recognize itself as liberalism’s “temporally [and] spiritually . . . legitimate heir,”71 argued that democracy was “both a means and an end. [Democracy] is the means of the struggle for socialism and it is the form socialism will take once it has been realized.”72 By the end of the nineteenth century, reformists and revisionists increasingly argued that by refusing to accept completely the necessity and desirability of democracy and the need to subsume other goals to its achievement, the SPD was hurting the working class and helping to perpetuate the reactionary system it claimed to despise. In response to these increasing attacks from the left and right, a centrist SPD group began to emerge. By the end of the nineteenth century, this group had become the dominant faction within the party and looked to Karl Kautsky as its theoretical leader. Centrists accepted the need for parliamentary work, but they never developed a real belief in or strategy for a parliamentary road to socialism. Kautsky, for example, while increasingly accepting parliamentary activity, never really lost his faith that politics was secondary to economics. Consequently, although important, political activity could not, in his view, be the primary motor for socialist transformation. Similarly, Engels, despite his acceptance of parliamentary work, remained unable “to produce a systematic theory of revolutionary politics”73—to connect contemporary political action to the future socialist goal. As a result, while the SPD’s parliamentary representation and activity grew throughout the late nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, the nature and goals of the party’s parliamentary role remained relatively undiscussed. No real attempt was made to understand how electoral success could be translated into real power for the working class, nor was any real attempt made to analyze systematically how participation in parliament could be used to increase the democratic, much less socialist, aspects of society. This did not, however, seem to trouble most of the party’s leaders too much. In his introduction to Marx’s Class Struggle in France, Bebel expounded as follows on the question of what the party should do if the next

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election brought it victory: “To rack our brains [Kopf zerbrechen] over the answer to this question is not our task.” In an attempt to ensure his colleagues at the 1903 Dresden party congress that he had the situation under control, Bebel asserted: “If we, for some reason, found ourselves tomorrow in the position of being able to oust our opponents from power and place ourselves in the saddle, don’t worry yourselves about it, we will know what we need to do.”74 Merely a decade and a half later, Bebel’s party would have to confront just this challenge. The SPD and the Class Struggle

A final aspect of the SPD’s programmatic beliefs that is relevant to this study is its views of other social groups and the class struggle. In Chapter 3 we saw that the Swedish Social Democrats put forth a relatively mild view of the class struggle, reaching out to other social groups in an attempt to increase their power in society and hasten the achievement of some of their long-term goals. The SPD, on the other hand, while also pressed to expand its appeal and abandon its exclusively proletarian emphasis, maintained its attachment to a relatively harsh view of the class struggle and its self-identification as a purely workers’ party throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As was the case with most Social Democratic parties, the SPD began its life as an almost exclusively urban party. In the 1880s, however, only about 15 to 20 percent of Germany’s population lived in cities with over twenty thousand residents, and agriculture remained by far the largest single occupational category—making it difficult for the SPD to ignore the rural, and in particular, the farming population.75 Because the infamous Junkers exerted a disproportionate influence on German politics at the time, and on historical scholarship since, many tend to overlook the fact that Wilhelmine Germany, as a whole, had a diverse agricultural sector: “The 1895 census . . . registered some 5.6 million ‘agricultural enterprises’ in Germany, ranging from small garden plots to extensive latifunda. Over threequarters were less than five hectares in size, but these occupied only about 15% of agricultural land, whereas more than half of the available land was taken by properties ranging in size from five to fifty hectares, and almost a quarter by the 25,061 large farms and estates of over 100 hectares.”76 As was the case in Sweden, within the agricultural sector the peasantry represented the most problematic and important group for the German Social Demo-


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crats, and during these years debates over the role and significance of the peasantry in economic and political development reflected and deepened the party’s theoretical and organizational divisions. Early SPD agricultural propaganda emphasized the inefficiency of smallscale peasant farming and the nationalization of the land. While Bebel and Liebknecht exhibited some sympathy for the “doomed” peasantry, the 1871 Dresden congress generally confirmed that inevitable conflict or hostility existed between the peasantry and the goals of a socialist party.77 This view remained characteristic of the party up through the 1880s. Kautsky, for example, wrote in his commentary on the Erfurt program that “the peasants must recognize that they are lost beyond saving.”78 The hostility of the party toward religion also aroused much resentment in rural society. As we have seen, however, the expiration of the anti-Socialist laws and the concomitant rapid growth in the electoral fortunes of the party brought pressures for change. Another factor pushing the SPD toward a reconsideration of its stance toward agriculture was the renewed effort by the right to mobilize farmers. Economic difficulties and tariffs had created a divergence of interest between large and small landowners, and by the late 1880s peasant discontent could no longer be channeled through existing institutions.79 In the early 1890s the SPD called for increased agitation in rural areas and issued the slogan “out into the countryside.” The party’s efforts, however, were largely confused, often emphasizing the hopelessness of smallscale farming, while vaguely attempting to express sympathy for the peasants’ plight. The party made little effort to differentiate between the needs of different sectors of the rural population. So, for example, peasants and small landowners both received brochures about the eight-hour day and nationalization. In addition, much of the party’s propaganda was theoretical and scientific, with little direct relevance for the everyday needs and demands of the rural population.80 Expressing his frustration with the party’s efforts and results in rural areas, Bebel wrote in a letter to Engels: “I heard farmhands saying: you have made clear to us bluntly that you are not going to help us but we do not want to go under, and that is why we vote for the Anti-Semites. The Antis promise to help us.”81 The most important and consistent challenge to the SPD’s views on agriculture and the peasantry came from south and southwest Germany, areas dominated by peasant farming. Vollmar, the leader of the Bavarian Social Democrats, argued that Social Democrats should aim for the libera-

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tion of the masses of society, not just the industrial proletariat. He also maintained that since workers were not becoming a majority as Marx had predicted, Social Democrats needed to expand their appeal, and the peasantry was the natural place for the party to turn.82 Thus, in 1892 the Bavarian SPD adopted its own agricultural program, which put peasants and workers on a par with each other and declared social democracy to be the party of all laboring people. In the following elections the party gained five seats and entered the Bavarian Landtag for the first time.83 Another important protagonist in the fight for a change in attitude toward agriculture was Eduard David. In a series of articles in the Berlin Sozial Demokrat and later in his influential book Sozialismus und Landwirtschaft, David asserted that by not differentiating among agricultural groups, the theoretical section of the Erfurt program hindered the SPD’s growth. He argued that small peasants were not disappearing and that, as workers of their own property, they did necessarily contradict Social Democratic tenets.84 The SPD’s 1893 congress in Cologne made clear the confusion and disappointment that reigned within the party on agricultural issues, and it generated a resolution calling for more study of them. Most delegates seemed to believe that the main problem lay in the party’s lack of effort, rather than in the nature of the party’s effort itself.85 At the 1894 Frankfurt party congress, the forces favoring an official shift in the SPD’s agricultural program managed to go a step further and force through a resolution calling for a reconsideration of the Erfurt program. A commission was set up to comment on and propose changes to existing doctrine. Discussing the need for a shift in the SPD’s position, Hermann Molkenbuhr argued that the party “must take a position on all pressing national issues, such as the deepening crisis in agriculture. . . . We cannot . . . disregard the difficulties of everyday life.” While theorists “can choose what issue to deal with,” politicians need to deal with all issues presented to them. In this endeavor the theoreticians’ “noble philosophical sounding speeches” were of little help.86 A heated debate over proposed changes occurred at the 1895 congress in Breslau. Bebel and Liebknecht favored changes in the party’s official stance, arguing that purely practical considerations made some outreach necessary, but that it could and should occur without a watering down of principles. This proved to be an untenable position, however, and under the influence of Engels and Kautsky the debate over the proposed changes


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soon became one over Marxism and the fundamental identity of the SPD. Radicals argued that the program would dangerously dilute the ideology of the party and warned of other dire consequences if the Social Democrats were “to sully their ranks with ultimately unreliable peasants.”87 Kautsky reminded his colleagues that the “very first line of the Erfurt program asserts that economic developments necessarily lead to the decline of small enterprise.” 88 Furthermore, the new agrarian program would fundamentally change the nature of the SPD, since “it emphasizes not what divides us from democrats and social reformers but what we have in common with them, and it thereby arouses the impression that social democracy is simply a kind of democratic party of reforms.”89 Similarly, Engels argued: “It is the duty of our party to make clear to the peasantry again and again that their position is absolutely helpless so long as capitalism holds sway, that it is absolutely impossible to preserve their holdings as such, and that capitalist large-scale production is absolutely sure to run over their impotent and antiquated system of small-scale production as a train runs over a pushcart.” 90 From July 21 to October 3, 1895, 156 local meetings were held across Germany to discuss the proposed program, of which 138, or 88.4 percent, rejected the program; only 3.9 percent favored adopting it without major revisions. The most important reason given for rejection was that the program was not “proletarian” and that it conflicted with long-standing Social Democratic principles.91 In the final vote at the SPD’s party congress, Kautsky’s resolution opposing any modification of the reigning SPD stance toward agriculture triumphed by a vote of 158 to 63. Not surprisingly, in the years that followed the Breslau conference, the SPD’s activity in agricultural areas decreased. As one analyst notes: “Kautsky’s resolution placed before activists the choice of either going to villages with empty hands or denying the party’s position and thereby betraying the party.”92 Observers both inside and outside the SPD recognized that the party’s confusion and refusal to consider any shift in agricultural policy would critically affect its electoral appeal and, hence, its political power. The bourgeois press reported on the results of the Breslau congress with glee. For example, in the Preussische Jahrbücher, Hans Delbrück wrote: “More strongly has a party seldom blamed itself! A large commission of leading men was set up in order to work out a socialist agricultural program and when it was all over [the party decided] that it wasn’t socialist after all.”93 Similarly, Bebel wrote in a private letter that “the Breslauer decisions have increased

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our waiting period at least ten years, but [in return] we have saved our ‘principles.’”94 The party not only decided not to reach out to the peasantry but also rejected accommodation with middle-class groups. Bernstein urged the SPD to recognize the political importance of the middle class and the potential opportunities presented by cooperation with liberal groups. He noted that in contrast to Marx’s predictions, the middle class was not disappearing but instead was becoming increasingly differentiated; he emphasized, in particular, the growth of the “new middle class.”95 Bernstein argued that this group shared, at least potentially, a strong community of interest with workers, but that an alliance could not be realized if the Social Democrats continued to propagate the necessity of middle-class proletarianization. Bernstein argued that the party should instead stress that it had no “idea of destroying bourgeois society as a civilized, orderly system. On the contrary, social democracy does not wish to dissolve this society and to make proletarians of all its members. Rather, it labors incessantly at lifting the worker from the social position of a proletarian to that of a ‘bourgeois’ and thus to make ‘bourgeoisie’—or citizenship—universal.”96 As was the case with the peasants, however, an appeal to the middle class presented a challenge to the party’s official view of socialism, as well as to its self-identification, and so most of the party’s leaders remained opposed to any such démarche. Bebel, for example, believed that the bourgeoisie was incapable of independent politics and doomed to disintegration. During the 1890s, he continued to maintain that society was being divided into two groups and that the SPD’s victory would come with the collapse of the bourgeoisie and its system.97 Kautsky mounted a campaign against any change in the SPD’s position toward the bourgeoisie or middle classes. He argued that despite its growth, the new middle class would become proletarianized as part of a general process of increasing misery, and social conflict would continue to take ever more virulent forms. In the end, therefore, the proletariat could rely only on itself.98 As one might expect, these attitudes led to an official rejection of cooperation with liberals. Kautsky, Engels, and Bebel polemicized against the idea of “Blockpolitik,” and the party refused to consider explicit electoral or political arrangements with other parties. This attitude led to frustration on the part of many from the center-left. For example, one famous German liberal—Max Weber—was continually disappointed by the SPD’s “revolu-


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tionary posture” and what he viewed as its concomitant inability to advance the working class toward political responsibility.99 The development of the SPD’s attitudes toward nonproletarian social groups and the class struggle provides yet another interesting illustration of the ways in which ideas can become embedded in an institution and affect policy making. In the years after the party’s founding, the concept of the SPD as a purely proletarian party became part of its official program and self-identification. Opponents of change continually pointed out that a shift in strategy would require a radical reevaluation of the SPD’s position in society. Consequently, even as conditions in Germany began to change, and many began to recognize that the SPD’s views on social and economic development were faulty, it was extremely difficult for the party to abandon its perspective on the class struggle and its position on cross-class cooperation. Once again, however, the logic of the situation eventually forced the SPD to reconsider its stance. In the decade before the First World War, tensions within the German political system were building and the SPD became the single most powerful force in the Reichstag. Partly as a result, opportunities for cooperation with progressive liberals in order to reform the existing system became increasingly tempting. Yet as we will see in Chapter 6, the SPD’s reactions to these opportunities were critically shaped by its programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they created. Conclusion

In the last third of the nineteenth century, a new party emerged that would play a crucial role in German politics. In the years after its founding, the SPD began to develop a distinctive set of programmatic beliefs, including an orthodox and inflexible interpretation of Marxism; a vision of the transition to socialism that downplayed the importance of human action; a denigration of the value of “bourgeois” political structures; and a strident view of the class struggle. The role played by carriers in bringing ideas to political salience and in maintaining their status in political debate is well illustrated by the actions of Karl Kautsky and Friedrich Engels. Because they were the premier socialist theoreticians of the day, these men were able to exert a large influence over the SPD’s policy positions, even though they never actually

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played a role in the everyday operation of the party. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Engels died in 1895), their opinions were accepted as the final word on all theoretical debates, and the version of socialism they elaborated became closely associated with the SPD. Once certain ideas became embedded in the official programs and pronouncements of the SPD, they began to take on a life of their own and were therefore difficult to change. This was due not merely to the attachment of certain important individuals to these ideas, but, more importantly, to a widespread fear that abandoning these ideas would decrease the party’s appeal, coherence, and political power. Consequently, although the political, social, and economic environment confronting the SPD changed radically in the years after the party’s founding, it proved extremely difficult for the party to shift its policy responses accordingly. Indeed, as we will see more clearly in Chapters 6 and 8, even when new strategies or policies appeared to hold out the promise of greater political success, it proved extremely difficult, if not impossible, to get them accepted if they conflicted with the party’s long-held principles. An examination of the SPD also provides many good examples of how ideas can shape the development of an organization. The party’s orthodox and relatively inflexible interpretation of Marxism created a view of theory detached from the problems of the contemporary world and the needs of a growing political party. This helped sever the roles of theoretician and practitioner within the SPD, leaving the former to engage in abstract, theoretical debates and the latter to either passively accept or ignore the party’s official principles. In addition, the SPD’s programmatic beliefs also influenced its relationship with the unions. The party’s orthodox Marxism combined with its assertion that the transition to socialism would be a revolutionary occurrence not requiring the active intervention of the labor movement helped drive a wedge between the SPD and the free union movement. The latter came increasingly to see itself as the most important force in German society fighting for the material improvement in the lives of workers. Unlike the situation in Sweden, these improvements were never integrated into a long-term strategy for attaining political power or social transformation. Hence, the link between the unions’ everyday reform efforts and the actions of the SPD was more tenuous in Germany than in Sweden. In addition, the SPD’s programmatic beliefs made cooperation with other forces in German society extremely difficult.


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The party’s denigration of “bourgeois” political structures and its strident presentation of the class struggle served to deepen the cleavages that already existed in German society. As we will see in Chapters 6 and 8, even as it became increasingly clear that workers alone would never provide the SPD with the electoral support or political power necessary to push Germany along the path to socialism, the party’s programmatic beliefs helped block efforts at cooperation with Liberals. Finally, as will be discussed further in coming chapters, the SPD’s programmatic beliefs placed the party on a particular policy path, guiding it toward a certain level and type of engagement with the issues that would confront it after 1918. In particular, we will see that the SPD’s programmatic beliefs hindered the development of a strategy for using the party’s increasing electoral support and political power to bring about changes in the German political system or change the balance of power in German society. The story of German political development during the interwar years is, to a large degree, the story of how the SPD, crippled by its programmatic beliefs, responded to the crises of the revolution and the Great Depression. This story is told in Chapters 6 and 8.

CHAPTER

5 Sweden’s Path to Democracy What we Social Democrats . . . want is not simply to win in a moment of stormy upheaval something that we cannot hold on to. We want something lasting. hjalmar branting , may day speech, 1917

After the turn of the century, politics in Sweden, as in Germany, became increasingly a struggle between forces favoring and opposing democratization. Sweden had experienced great economic advances in the last decades of the nineteenth century, and the growth of the working and middle classes had shifted the battle lines in national politics. During the first decades of the twentieth century, the Swedish Liberal movement remained divided and slowly lost support, however, while the Social Democrats grew quickly, becoming the largest party in 1914. In such a situation, democratization could not be achieved only, or even primarily, through the efforts of the bourgeoisie. Instead, the struggle for political change would have to be spearheaded by workers and their political representative—the SAP. Indeed, as we have seen, the SAP decided early in its history to make democratization its chief goal. During the first decade and a half of the new century, the party agitated both inside and outside of parliament for political liberalization, and it often joined in tactical alliances with left Liberals in order to pressure the old regime. Although such measures were not able to bring about full democratization before the First World War, by holding fast to this course the SAP established itself as the leader of Sweden’s progressive forces and the champion of democracy. This had important consequences for the party’s actions during the turmoil of 1917–1918. Unlike what we will see in Germany, when the old regime in Sweden began to collapse at the end of the First World War, the Social Democrats had a clear sense of what they could and should be doing. Having long empha96


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sized the centrality of political reform and the value of tactical cross-class alliances, the party was prepared to take advantage of the chaos of 1917– 1918 and spearhead the final push for democratization. The key to the party’s ability to steer a steady course during these years and exploit the opportunities afforded to it by a confusing and rapidly changing environment, in other words, cannot be found merely in the characteristics of Sweden’s political situation or the socioeconomic profile of Swedish society but also in the nature of the SAP’s programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped create. Political Development in Sweden before the First World War

Sweden’s first voting organization (allmänna rösträttsföreningen i Stockholm) was founded in 1886 by leading socialists. It soon became superfluous, however, when the SAP was formed three years later with universal suffrage at the forefront of its agenda. In order to give expression to its demands for political reform, the SAP designed a scheme for “people’s parliaments” (folksriksdagen), popularly elected bodies that could confront the government with a demand for democracy.1 The SAP invited left-Liberal advocates of political liberalization to help organize these people’s parliaments, recognizing that the increasing power of conservatives in the years after the tariff controversy2 threatened both workers and sectors of the middle class. Bourgeois suffrage groups were at first hesitant to cooperate with the SAP because of its advocacy of “radical” measures (e.g., strikes and extraparliamentary protest), but they eventually joined the effort, and the first people’s parliament was elected in 1893.3 The tension, however, between the Liberal and Social Democratic members was palpable and was increased by the government’s posting of police around the area where the meeting occurred.4 Conservative Prime Minister Gustav Boström remarked that he did not recognize “any representatives of the Swedish people selected in a manner other than that which our basic laws prescribe,”5 and the assembly was unable to force any changes. The Social Democrats, wanting to put further pressure on the regime, in 1894 adopted a resolution calling for “something more and something different” to be done to force democratization; in particular, the popularity of a mass strike strategy grew within some sectors of the party. The Liberals, however, refused to consider any further extraparliamentary measures, although the two sides did agree to call another people’s parliament for 1896. By this point, some bourgeois groups were growing increasingly uncom-

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fortable with the demands of the Social Democratic–Liberal alliance. One group of farmers, for example, declared that it would oppose any attempt to lower significantly the income barrier to voting.6 In addition, the lower house of the Riksdag stated its opposition to further reform proposals. The second people’s parliament did not lead to major changes, the SAP’s demands for more radical measures finally caused a split with the Liberals, and plans for a third people’s parliament were dropped.7 Despite its failure to bring about political reform, the people’s parliament movement did have important consequences. Hundreds of thousands of people participated, at some level, in the election and calling of these assemblies. Information about and practice in democratic governance spread across Swedish society. Furthermore, despite tensions, the Liberal and Social Democratic movements remained in contact and were able to spread their message to each other’s supporters. Finally, the movement kept universal suffrage on the political agenda and forced the opponents of political reform to recognize that demands for change would not disappear. During these years, the increasing pressure for political reform split the Liberal movement. In 1895, disaffected left-Liberal elements joined together to form the People’s party (Folkpartiet), which placed gradual suffrage reform at the forefront of its agenda. (During the following years, nonetheless, its policies veered to the right, partly under the influence of its rural supporters.) In 1896, Branting was elected to the lower chamber as a result of an electoral alliance with left Liberals, thus becoming the first Social Democratic member of parliament; it was six years before he was joined by others. Consistent with their strategy of gradual reform work, from their first entry into the Riksdag the Social Democratic MPs acted moderately to achieve their goals and maintain constructive relations with elements of the Liberal movement: Characteristic for the [SAP delegation’s] . . . parliamentary technique [was] above all a reluctance to engage in the “politics of demonstration.” Of course, the party did not draw back from using [its parliamentary] platform for propaganda purposes, but it sought to avoid putting forward proposals which were beyond the realm of possibility. . . . In this connection it is also worth noting the willingness to compromise and cooperation which [was] so characteristic of the Social Democratic delegation. Such behavior is natural for a large and influential group with


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responsibility for making decisions. [It is striking, however], to find this tendency strongly developed already within the small, permanent opposition group.8

Under Branting’s guidance, Social Democratic MPs worked to become members of committees and parliamentary groups, avoided radical rhetoric, and concentrated on taking reform suggestions a step further than Liberals, rather than trying to achieve their long-term goals in a single session. In particular, the small SAP delegation concentrated its efforts on pressing for suffrage reform and on becoming the recognized champion of the “weak” against the “strong.”9 As one observer of Swedish politics during these years later noted: “With remarkable skill [Branting] . . . educated the Social Democratic members of parliament . . . to cooperate. . . . One is indeed surprised over how easily and flexibly the party ‘operates’—using Branting’s own phrase—on the parliamentary scene.”10 Over time, many Conservatives began to believe that in order to forestall more radical changes in the future some concessions should be made in the present, and thus in 1896 the government submitted a bill that lowered the income barrier for voting. Some Conservatives opposed this as too radical, while Social Democrats and some left Liberals rejected it as not going far enough. The Liberal movement split again in 1900, partly over disagreements about the pace and nature of political reform; the platform of the new Liberal Union Party (Liberala samlingspartiet) called for suffrage for all men over twenty-five who paid local taxes.11 In subsequent years the debate continued. The government put forth a suffrage reform bill in 1902 combining some aspects of the Liberal program with various “guarantees” to make it more palatable to Conservatives, but this time military issues entered the fray as well. The previous year, over heated opposition, the government had passed a bill increasing the length of military service, which, along with already extremely high military expenditures, enraged the left.12 The SAP’s campaign against the government’s military policies linked the issues of conscription and suffrage reform, declaring that “civic spirit is unthinkable without civil rights.”13 In response to these developments, a special SAP congress was called for April 1902 to discuss political tactics, in particular the possibility of a mass strike. The congress was divided over whether compromise or radicalization was more likely to achieve results. In particular, many on the left agitated for a mass strike, while moderates and the union leadership were opposed.

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Throughout heated discussions, Branting stressed the need for party unity and attention to the long-term ramifications of tactical decisions; after a marathon debate over the merits of a mass strike, he suggested as an alternative the organizing of demonstrations every week before the meeting of the parliamentary committee appointed to deal with suffrage reform. He argued that if the committee did not put forth an improved proposal after these public demonstrations, then a mass strike could be reconsidered. The congress finally agreed to Branting’s compromise proposal and released a manifesto declaring: “The government has spoken on the question of suffrage reform—it now remains for the Swedish people to answer. What remains is to make clear for the power holders in our land what the Swedish people want. . . . [They] no longer wish to wait for their rights, [and] they will no longer put off their demand for universal, equal and direct suffrage.”14 The demonstrations began at the end of the congress and continued until April 20, and the response of the police, especially in Stockholm, called forth unexpected support from society: “Workers and poets . . . the upper and lower classes, had never stood so close in Sweden as they did at this point.”15 Despite the increasingly tense political situation, the Conservatives refused to relinquish some prerogatives without guarantees about keeping the rest. As a result, more than one hundred thousand workers (over 40 percent of the industrial workers in Sweden at this time, and twice the total union membership) participated in a mass strike on May 15–17.16 During the ensuing parliamentary session, vociferous debates broke out among Conservatives, Liberals, and Social Democrats on issues ranging from proportional representation, to reform of the upper house, to increasing parliamentary control over legislation. When the dust cleared, the weak position of the SAP in the parliament, divisions among Liberals, and Conservative intransigence worked together to block a move toward universal suffrage. The government’s own watered-down reform bill was defeated, however, while Branting’s proposal for universal suffrage gained sixty-eight votes in the lower chamber. In addition, SAP actions and the worker demonstrations had made clear the determination of the labor movement and kept the issue of suffrage reform at the forefront of the agenda. An increasing number of Conservatives began to feel that the momentum was slipping away from the forces of the status quo. One Conservative MP remarked: “If we wish to get universal suffrage with guarantees we must get it now—if we tarry, make no mistake about it, we shall assuredly get it without guarantees.”17


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After the 1902 demonstrations, the domestic political situation remained tense. Employers formed three centralized organizations in order to help fight the growing power of the labor movement, developments that only contributed to further labor market conflict.18 Nevertheless, as would happen often in later years, an external crisis helped break the political deadlock. In the summer of 1905, a controversy erupted over the status of Norway’s union with Sweden. Norway had extensive autonomy in its domestic affairs, but when the Swedish government refused to give in to Norway’s demand for greater autonomy in conducting its foreign affairs as well, the Norwegians insisted on dissolution of the union. At first the Swedish king refused to accept the Norwegian declaration of independence. However, partly in recognition of the fact that neither Germany nor England wanted a war in Scandinavia, he eventually agreed to a referendum on the issue. Both monarch and government were shocked when only 184 votes out of 368,000 cast favored a continuation of the union.19 As a result of this debacle and the ensuing furor, Boström was forced to resign, and a new cabinet that could count on at least some support from parties in the lower house of parliament was appointed. Sweden was thereby given its first cabinet not entirely dominated by large landowners, big businessmen, and high-level civil servants, as well as its first government that could claim some degree of popular support. In the following years, the king increasingly withdrew from direct interference in legislative affairs as parliament, pushed by the growing importance of the left, began to demand greater policy-making authority.20 Despite the ascension of a government under the Liberal Karl Staaff, the political stalemate continued. Although the Social Democrats and Liberals had formed electoral alliances and collaborated in parliament, divisions between the two groups had been growing along with pressure for reform. Staaff was uneasy with SAP demands that went beyond liberalization, with its willingness to engage in extraparliamentary maneuvers, and with its pacifist tendencies. As a result, in 1906 he put forth a bill that drastically sharpened penalties for “inciting a riot” and for antimilitarist propaganda. This led to some Social Democrats being sent to jail for offenses such as distributing pamphlets with the message “Not one man, not one penny for militarism,” or writing brochures containing pacifist quotes by Tolstoy.21 Staaff ’s bill and its consequences prompted Frederick Ström to write to Branting: “There is no man as hated as Staaff [by members of the SAP]. . . . It is my [view] that any [further] cooperation with the Liberals will explode our party.”22 Yet despite his moves away from the Social Democrats, Staaff

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was not able to put together a center-right majority, and his suffrage reform proposal was defeated by the upper house. When the king refused his request for new elections to the lower house, Staff resigned and was replaced with the Conservative Arvid Lindman.23 In 1907, Lindman put forward a compromise reform proposal. He suggested universal suffrage for the lower house for men over twenty-four, combined with a limitation of multiple voting in local elections (to a maximum of forty votes apiece from the previous high of five thousand). This would have made Sweden’s voting system rather similar to what had prevailed in Germany since the 1870s.24 The SAP declared that the proposal was insufficient because of its conservative “guarantees” and failure to accept women’s suffrage, as well as because, under Lindman’s reform, in communal elections one-seventh of the population would still control 90 percent of the votes, the power of business to control large numbers of votes would remain, and few, if any, Social Democrats would be eligible for election to the upper chamber. Branting declared that the labor movement would keep the suffrage question “on the agenda . . . until real democratization was achieved. . . . Do . . . you really believe,” he asked the Riksdag that such a monstrosity like the 40-grade communal suffrage scale has any future in an epoch of democracy? . . . The nation will not be contented with any solution that does not take aim at reforming the first chamber. But [this government’s] proposal offers . . . hardly any change in this regard. . . . In fact, this proposal might very well . . . strengthen this chamber’s power, rather than diminish it. . . . The reform which must be carried out is not the government’s proposal . . . nor the Liberal proposal . . . but rather the one put forth by social democracy. . . . [For it is only through our reform] that the Swedish people will be made to feel like masters in their own house.25

While the Social Democrats and a small number of left-wing Liberals opposed the bill, the Liberals split on the issue, enabling it to pass. In a not-unfamiliar pattern, an important step toward democratization in Sweden was thus taken by a Conservative government hoping to stave off more radical demands.26 Nevertheless, within the labor movement dissatisfaction over the pace of reform grew, and worker frustration was exacerbated by increasingly tense labor market relations. Conflicts in this area began to change from struggles over wages to struggles over worker freedom and the unrestricted right


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of employers to direct the work process. After a series of skirmishes from 1905 to early 1909, divisions between the labor movement and the increasingly well-organized and determined employer confederations culminated in a general strike and lockout in August 1909. This stoppage turned out to be very long, perhaps the longest strike in the Western world up to that time. When all was said and done, the workers were forced to accept many of the employers’ conditions, and the labor movement was seen as having suffered a serious defeat.27 In addition, the strike increased tensions between the Social Democrats and the Liberals. During November 1909, Staaff gave a well-publicized speech harshly criticizing the labor movement for its “lawless” tactics and creating disorder. This, in turn, brought forth condemnation from Branting, who warned Staaff against going the way of some of his German counterparts who—by attacking the labor movement—had weakened the position of liberalism while strengthening that of the reactionaries.28 During the following years, the loosened suffrage requirements resulting from the 1909 reform dramatically increased the representation of the SAP in the parliament, but the Swedish political climate remained cool to further major changes. By 1911 this stalemate had helped push the Liberals and Social Democrats into cooperating once again during elections. These efforts paid off when, after a tense campaign, a potential majority for the left (i.e., the Social Democrats and the Liberals) emerged. At first the king tried to forestall the formation of a left government, but he finally retreated to trying to limit its power and frustrate its workings. The Social Democrats, in turn, made clear their willingness to support the Liberals in their efforts, as long as they stuck to a program of political reform: “If the Liberals desert the task that has been given to them historically—of preparing and partially carrying out a democratization of the old Sweden— then we will once again find ourselves in our old position. . . . [Our task in the contemporary period is to] help the Liberals to democratize the country, to give them our support against an attack from the right, and to push them when they are not moving forward.”29 Given the opposition of the king and his advisers, and the strong divisions within the Liberal movement, the new government had to walk a very fine line, and in fact an explosion was not long in coming. Before his ascension to power, Staaff had criticized Sweden’s large defense expenditures, saying that it was ridiculous that more than 50 percent of the state budget should be going to new military spending, and soon after coming

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to power he canceled the construction of a naval vessel that had been ordered by the previous government. In response, the king issued a statement expressing his displeasure and encouraged a private campaign to collect money for the ship, while Conservatives grumbled about a government that “plays ducks and drakes with our national independence” instead of following the proud traditions of Charles XII.30 As the relationship between the king and the government grew increasingly strained, the queen (a German princess anxious that Sweden remain a potential ally for the German monarchy) and Conservatives urged the monarch to take a tough stand. In addition, nationalist-militarist organizations increased their propaganda.31 Under pressure from the king, and threatened by deep splits among Liberals over military policy, Staaff indicated that he was willing to make concessions on defense issues, but public opinion shifted against him nonetheless. On February 6, 1914, more than thirty thousand farmers came to Stockholm to assure the monarch of their support, and forty thousand more signed petitions to the same effect. Speaking to the farmers, the king defended his right to state his views without having to consult the government. The next day Branting attacked “the tendency [in Sweden] to reintroduce the personal will of the king . . . against the will of the people,”32 and on February 8 the labor movement called its own protest march, which resulted in the largest demonstration yet seen in Stockholm. A manifesto released by the SAP declared: “We are confronted with dangerous times. For months heated and frightening agitation has occurred, which threatens to culminate in unbelievably exorbitant military burdens. . . . [The right] appears to want to paper over the overwhelming rejection of the continually rising military burden—our country spends proportionally more on defense than any other similarly positioned country—which expressed itself in the 1911 election. . . . In [response to this right-wing] agitation . . . the broad mass of the people must rise up in . . . resistance.” 33 One consequence of the competing demonstrations was to increase the enmity between workers and farmers. Hoping to defuse tensions within his own movement as well as within Swedish society, Staaff demanded that the king stop his pronouncements and his encouragement of antigovernment demonstrations. In response, the monarch replied that “he did not wish to deprive himself of the right to address the Swedish people freely.”34 With no choice left to him, Staaff resigned. On the day of his resignation Branting wrote in Social-Demokraten that democratic Sweden appreciated the departing government: “As Karl Staaff leaves his position . . . he can go . . . with his head raised high . . .


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[and] with a united and sincerely felt thanks for [doing right] when it really counted.” 35 After Staaff ’s departure, the king asked the Conservative Hjalmar Hammarskjöld to form a new government. (It is worth noting that even Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II had been forced to back down and apologize during a similar crisis, the Daily Telegraph affair, a few years earlier.)36 The elections in the spring of 1914 were probably the most bitterly contested in Swedish history; voting turnout was the highest ever recorded.37 “The spitefulness of the campaign was genuinely extreme. Accusations of treason came from both sides; Staaff in particular was subjected to personal attacks. . . . [The most incredible rumors were spread]: how Staaff bought a house and tried to pay the workers in rubles; how ministers, in their insolence, forced the King to wait on them at government dinners. . . . [A favorite souvenir from the campaign was] an ash tray in the form of Staaff ’s face, so that you could put out a cigarette in his eyes.”38 The Social Democrats responded to the propaganda of right-wing groups by organizing an extraordinary number of campaign meetings and distributing over 2 million brochures attacking the “reactionary threat to the power of the people” and the recent increases in military expenditures.39 The party’s election manifesto declared: In his speech to the farmer’s march [borggårdstalet] the king, at the instigation of his . . . ministers, personally appealed for a military policy which went against that decreed by his own cabinet, and [which would result in] even higher burdens for the people. . . . [Consequently], this election must be seen as a struggle for or against unrestricted royal prerogative [personliga kungamakten] in our country. . . . To [such] provocation the Swedish people must . . . give their unambiguous answer. It must be clear for once and for all . . . that a government, supported by the majority of the voters and parliament, should not be able to be hindered or stopped in its work . . . because the King decides to step in and declare that he “does not support” such a policy or that he “will not abandon” certain demands. . . . Social Democracy stands unshakable in this struggle for the rights of the people. Every vote for the [SAP] is a declaration that shall be heard and understood: the people’s will, and no other, shall alone be the final arbiter in Sweden.40

In the end, the Liberals lost a third of their seats, most of which went to the Conservatives, while the SAP increased its share of the vote to 30 percent.

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The result was that Hammarskjöld remained in office, although the Conservatives received only 38 percent of the vote.41 When war broke out in August, Hammarskjöld declared his intention to protect Sweden’s neutrality. Given the extremely strong ties of Sweden’s upper and intellectual classes to Germany, and the almost hysterical fear of Russia prevalent throughout much of Swedish society, this declaration was welcomed by the left.42 Both Staaff and Branting pledged to support Hammarskjöld in his neutrality policy, saving his government (at least for the time being) from what almost certainly would have been continual crises. The borgfred in Sweden had begun. Another series of elections in the fall, however, further devastated the Liberals: “From having been the largest party in the Riksdag and the holder of the power of government, the Liberal coalition party had during 1914 first been driven from power by a courtyard coup and then lost 45 seats in two elections and become the smallest party in the popularly elected second chamber.”43 By the end of 1914, in contrast, the Social Democrats had finally become the largest party in the second chamber. At the start of the First World War, Sweden’s political future was unclear. As was the case in Germany, the Social Democrats had finally become the largest political force in parliament, and the pressure for a shift toward a more parliamentary and democratic regime had been building. On the other hand, Conservatives seemed unwilling to give up their remaining prerogatives, and the government remained in their hands. Indeed, in both Germany and Sweden it would only be the pressures generated by the war that would finally break the political deadlock. One important difference between Sweden and Germany, however, lies in the role their respective Social Democratic parties had played and would play in the struggle against the old regime. In the decades before the First World War, the SAP had spearheaded the struggle for democratic reform in Sweden and had devoted the bulk of its activity both inside and outside the parliament to the achievement of this goal. Having long placed democratization at the center of its political strategy, claiming that it was a crucial prerequisite for, and part of, the creation of a better society, the SAP entered the First World War as the leading progressive force in Swedish society. As was true in Germany, however, only the pressures generated by the war would break the deadlock. Extreme privation combined with growing frustration to produce increasing political radicalization during the war


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years. The reaction of the SAP to the social and political strains that came to a head in the years 1917–1918 would affect not only the shape of Sweden’s emerging democracy but also the SAP’s ability to retain its dominance over progressive democratic forces during the interwar period. As we will see in the following sections, the SAP’s actions during the revolutionary period can only be understood in the context of the party’s programmatic beliefs. As one contemporary Social Democrat remarked, the SAP had been “so directed toward obtaining universal suffrage, so powerfully involved in the political issues of the day, that the parliamentary foundation for a Social Democratic governing program . . . already exist[ed] when the hour [actually] arrived” for the SAP to take power.44 Having placed democratization at the center of its political program for so long, the SAP remained steadfast in its demands, leading the fight against the discredited old regime. This enabled the party to fight the forces of left and right during the years 1917–1919 and retain its position at the head of the movement for progressive, democratic change. This greatly contrasted with the actions and fate of its German counterpart, as we will see in Chapter 6. The Swedish Revolution of 1917–1918

By 1916 the borgfred was clearly over.45 Both the Liberals and the SAP had been attacking the government for quite a while, and Branting in particular had intensified his demands for reform. He warned the government of the “serious consequences” that would accompany continued intransigence.46 The SAP’s February 1917 congress attacked the government’s “starvation rule” and unwillingness to turn over power to the people. While Social Democrats stepped up their attacks, Sweden was being rocked by massive demonstrations and popular protests. The food situation had become extremely precarious; a bad harvest combined with the English blockade had created near-famine conditions for the poorest sectors of society.47 (During the war, Prime Minister Hammarskjöld became known popularly as “Hungerskjöld.”) Hunger protests broke out all over the country, while soldiers marched through city streets without their officers to express their solidarity with the workers. Rumors spread of hidden food in the countryside, ransacking occurred in many areas, and clashes between police and demonstrators often turned violent.48 When the government’s 1917 military budget proposal was rejected by the majority parties in the Riksdag, Hammarskjöld resigned. Sympathetic Conservatives presented him with a

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petition of six hundred thousand signatures urging him to stay on, but the continuing domestic crisis combined with his bungling of a serious diplomatic incident finally forced him to resign on March 5, 1917.49 The king replaced Hammarsköljd with another conservative, Carl Swartz, but his tenure (March 30–October 2) was one of increasing domestic turmoil. Conditions in Sweden worsened, and radicals increased their propaganda. Justice Minister Petersson declared that the government “could not rely on the troops to handle the situation.”50 “With May Day approaching, a number of security measures had been instituted by the government. The garrison troops in Stockholm were exchanged for regiments from the countryside, whose forces of farm boys were regarded as more reliable. The internal security service was strengthened and emergency units held in continued readiness. . . . [W]ith the tacit approval of the government, [private groups] began to organize a civil guard of ‘reliable and courageous’ persons.”51 Protests larger than any before in Swedish history continued. In one particularly bloody episode, masses of people were driven from Gustav Adolf Square in Stockholm by mounted police. Branting, believing that democracy was finally within the party’s reach, was determined to keep the SAP on the moderate course it had long pursued, despite the radicalization of Sweden’s political situation. The SAP leadership recognized the potential danger of growing extremism and was determined not to lose control over the workers. Branting remained convinced that the best way to do this was with concrete reforms; the Conservative government had to be forced out. In April, after returning from a trip to Russia, he gave an electrifying speech in parliament warning Conservatives that Sweden could not long remain a “museum for outdated constitutional forms” and that “impulses from Petrograd” should not be ignored.52 It was in the context of the increasingly tense domestic and international situation that the labor movement’s annual May Day demonstration occurred in 1917. This May Day had been eagerly anticipated by workers and feared in almost apocalyptic terms by many on the right. In Stockholm alone, between fifty and sixty thousand workers participated in what turned out to be a peaceful demonstration. Branting was the keynote speaker; his speech laid out the tactics the Social Democrats would pursue in coming months and is worth quoting at length. This giant demonstration . . . bears witness to the fact that even here [in Sweden] a new day is dawning. . . . [Although the food crisis is extremely


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serious,] it is only one side of the whole wretched system under which the Swedish people have suffered for too long. . . . Think how it has been. [We have come so far] that we now have a majority in the second chamber . . . [yet] the first chamber strikes down [our proposals for democratization]. The proposal returns, it is the same story. . . . It is for us [Social Democrats] unthinkable that in such a time Sweden’s workers find themselves facing uncertainty [concerning the future] of the current unjust suffrage system—with its 40-grade communal scale, with its exclusion of the masses of . . . citizens [and] women. . . . [This system] acts as a rotten left-over from a long past time. . . . We [Social Democrats] attach [these reform issues] to elections . . . because what we want is not simply to win in a moment of stormy upheaval something that we can’t hold on to. We want something lasting. . . . Behind our Swedish democratic breakthrough should not be merely a “mood” which is a reflex from the events occurring in the world around us. No, the advance shall be confirmed through a solid decision by the . . . Swedish people. . . . We must take help from the rising wave, we should in all our actions . . . let [it] take us as far as possible. . . . But . . . we know that all of us together must unite in order to be able to conquer . . . the gargantuan task before us. [We must rebuild society] so that there is not merely room for a little minority [but instead a better life] for the overwhelming masses.53

The SAP and union leadership also announced in May the formation of a new joint working committee (arbetarkommitten). The party leadership was aware that the unions were wary of the strikes and disturbances sweeping the country, fearing a backlash similar to that which occurred after the 1909 strike, and so the SAP was eager to develop a common, acceptable strategy for dealing with the revolutionary situation and the transition to democracy.54 On May 11, the working committee released a circular discouraging “meaningless attacks” to achieve political goals, but it stated firmly that the working class would not accept anything less than its full demands. “Hunger and need reign the land. . . . The World War would have created difficulties for our people regardless, but without the reaffirmation of right-wing rule after the coup [borggårdskuppen] of 1914 the Swedish people would not now . . . face complete starvation. . . . The revolution in our eastern neighbor has reignited all aspirations for freedom, the world war’s releasing of a democratic [wave] over the whole world must have irresistible repercussions even here in Sweden.” The circular ended with the following warning: “It is not our nature to threaten. But we are

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sufficiently aware of the mood of the people across the country. The working class has shown its . . . self-discipline recently in the most admirable way in its May First demonstration. But when these masses now demand their rights . . . you can believe that they will not be put off with a ‘no’ or a little finger, when only the whole hand will do. Our foremost [demand] is, therefore, complete constitutional reform.”55 The fact that the different branches of the labor movement remained in contact during this period and were able to cooperate was an important factor contributing to the ability of the SAP to retain control over its constituency. Although conflicts did occur, the union and party leadership remained convinced that they shared important goals and that these goals could best be achieved by avoiding factionalization. From May 20 to 23, the SAP executive continued to discuss strategies for dealing with the revolution. Branting favored a common line with the Liberals and negotiations with the Conservatives, but he said that if the government and the right refused the party’s overtures the labor movement should consider other tactics. The main issue, he said, was how the working class could take advantage of the changing international and domestic environment to achieve its goals. Hansson also stressed the need to keep pressuring the government in order to achieve a political breakthrough. Möller argued that it was crucial to stay in the forefront of the movement for reform, since SAP passivity would create a “deep pessimism” among the working class, with devastating political ramifications. The executive released the following statement on May 22: “[It is the party’s] conviction and expectation that the mood of the working class, which is now expressing itself in such powerful ways, will lead, even in our country, to thoroughgoing constitutional reform, thereby laying the ground for a true democratic order, under which our people can, unhindered by unjust aristocratic privileges, carry out the social reforms demanded by the changing times.” 56 The party decided that during the period leading up to the election it would focus on channeling the popular movement from revolutionary to electoral activity. All parties recognized that the elections in the summer of 1917 would be crucial. The labor movement’s goal was to increase the SAP’s position in the Riksdag to the point where the pressure for reform could no longer be resisted. The SAP’s election manifesto asked: “Shall Sweden be the last refuge of reaction? . . . Isn’t it an infamy for our country that when all of Europe stands like never before in the shadow of democracy and freedom,


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our Swedish people . . . should remain under the authority of industrialists and large landowners, of big capitalism and bureaucracy, all welded together in the first chamber’s current majority? . . . Sweden’s people must . . . [vote] for the party that above all carries forward the demand for a democratization of our constitution . . . [the SAP].”57 The SAP’s efforts paid off; the left won a large victory, with the Liberals claiming 27.6 percent and the SAP 31.1 percent of the vote. Although the left had a clear majority in the Riksdag, the king tried to prevent the formation of a pure left government; at the very least he wanted to keep Branting out of power. The king tried to put together an all-party government but finally gave in as a result of domestic radicalization and Conservative advice. Lindman, for example, argued that the left should be forced to accept the consequences of their actions and deal with the turmoil sweeping the country. (In another historical coincidence, Lindman urged the king to hand over power using almost the exact same phrase as Lundendorff would in Germany the following year. He said the left should be forced to “eat the soup it has prepared.”)58 A Liberal–Social Democratic government was thereby given the green light in 1917, signaling a large step toward parliamentarization in Sweden. The SAP now faced (as its German counterparts did one year later) the opportunity to enter the government and guide the country along the path to democracy. How would the party react? The SAP and Political Power

Long before most of its European counterparts, including the SPD, the SAP began to grapple with the issues of cross-class cooperation and democratization. At the 1904 congress of the Socialist International in Amsterdam, Branting had refused to support the strong condemnation of revisionism and “ministersocialism” (socialist participation in a nonsocialist government) put forth by Kautsky, Guesde, and others, arguing that it was wrong to condemn for all time a policy that could some day potentially prove beneficial. Indeed, since at least the appearance of a government led by a Liberal in 1905, the SAP had debated the possibility of cooperation with a bourgeois government, and as in Germany, the debates grew more heated as Social Democratic electoral fortunes rose. The increase in the SAP’s and the left’s share of the vote in the 1908 elections, for example, made the issue of governing responsibility a hot topic in the Social Democratic press and

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at meetings of the party executive. The leadership agreed that the SAP could support a liberal government but should not actually join one. In response to a newspaper article questioning this policy, Branting argued that it would be wrong to join a government where the SAP could not exert decisive control over policy. He urged Social Democrats to recognize “the difference between seeking a position as the controlling and initiating power . . . [and a position involving] only a sort of partial responsibility for political [development].”59 Debate continued with the 1911 election. After the Liberals made several attempts to dampen the tension that had arisen within the left over the past years, Branting urged the SAP to cooperate once again. “Only a sterile dogmatism which has lost all touch with reality,” he argued, “can think that in [Sweden’s current political] situation defamation of those who would fight right-wing rule [i.e., the Liberals] would favor Social Democracy.”60 As noted earlier, this cooperation had resulted in a major victory for the left. In the election’s wake, Staaff asked the SAP what it thought about participation; the party reiterated its unwillingness to enter a bourgeois government, but this time more opposition arose from within the ranks. Some argued that while this stance made sense for practical purposes at that particular time, it should not become a permanent stance based on principle.61 Branting replied that if the party continued to grow, the issue should indeed be reconsidered.62 The leadership decided that, in the future, such decisions should not be taken without more extensive intraparty discussion. When the war broke out in 1914, the Social Democrats recognized that its end was likely to bring changes and that it was necessary for the party to debate strategies for the future. At a meeting of the party executive after the September 1914 elections, a strong majority argued that, as the largest party in the parliament, the SAP should investigate the possibility of a common left reform program with the Liberals. The executive decided that if negotiations with the Liberals resulted in the development of an acceptable framework of action, then the SAP “should take the parliamentary consequences that would [naturally] follow.”63 In October another meeting attended by the SAP executive, parliamentary group, and editors of the party newspapers revisited the topic. Branting argued strongly for the executive’s line. The SAP was no longer a small opposition party, he said, but rather the biggest party in parliament. This gave the party great responsibility and also meant that it could direct, rather than follow, a left coalition


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government. Furthermore, if the Social Democrats refused to accept governing responsibility, the result would be continued right-wing rule. “If such a situation were to occur, our voters would get the impression that voting Social Democrat did not bring any practical result.”64 In addition, it would also conflict with the party’s long-term commitment to using its political power to achieve incremental reforms and democratization. After heavy debate, the meeting decided to fight for the development of a Social Democratic–Liberal platform at the coming party congress. The increasing momentum for the executive’s line deepened splits within the party. A group that had long been dissatisfied with the SAP’s moderation, electoral alliances with the liberals, folkparti strategy, and unwillingness to pursue a completely antimilitarist line stepped up its attacks on what it viewed as the party’s rightward drift. In 1912, oppositional elements had formed a left Social Democratic organization (socialdemokratiska vänsterföreningen). One of these radicals, Ivar Vennerström, bemoaned the “rapid growth in the number and influence of bourgeois elements [in the party], which practically and theoretically stand far from social democracy’s work and way of thinking. . . . [In addition, the] support for a liberal politics which stands outside the framework of social democracy threatens to eliminate [the SAP’s] character as a Social Democratic [party] and get rid of the boundary which must always exist between a revolutionary Social Democratic and a reformist bourgeois party.”65 Furthermore, in a well-publicized piece entitled “The Fortified Poor House” (befästa fattighuset), three of these radicals argued that the SAP’s reformism had not substantially helped workers and that Sweden remained the home of reaction and class oppression. To their attack Branting replied that “it had been the strength of socialism since Marx’s day to fearlessly choose to see reality as it is and not try to push it aside in order to make it better conform to certain dogmas.” To ignore the positive achievements of the SAP and the benefits of tactical cross-class cooperation, he felt, was a gross misrepresentation of history.66 At the 1914 party congress, Branting and other moderates vociferously defended their views against attacks from the radical minority. Branting reminded the delegates that the party had rejected participating in the government in 1911 for fear of being overwhelmed by a larger Liberal party, but that now the situation had changed. He repeated that a government should be formed with the Liberals only in the context of a clearly delineated democratic program; if the Liberals rejected the SAP’s demands, they

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would have to take responsibility for continued right-wing rule. The SAP could then go to the voters and say: “We have not been trapped by formulas, we have seriously tried to bring about a politics to the advantage of the masses of the poor and weak. Large groups of voters will no longer want to support a party of which it can be said with some justification that it bears responsibility for continued right-wing rule. . . . We must see what we can do for our people. The party congress should join the party executive . . . and demonstrate the [SAP’s] desire to do all it can for Sweden’s people.”67 Zeth Höglund was the main speaker for the opposition. He argued that the party was becoming polluted by “bourgeois tendencies” and that the so-called left Liberals could not be trusted. Moreover, joining a Liberal government would force the SAP to put aside its socialist demands. In particular, Höglund was concerned to prevent any Social Democratic participation in the expansion of the military. He urged the assembled delegates to recognize that “our party is faced with a decision whether it will be a bourgeois reform party or the Social Democratic party which up until now has been so . . . victorious.”68 In the coming years, the SAP’s acceptance of defense expenditures to protect Sweden’s neutrality again brought forth vociferous condemnation from the radicals. In 1915, Höglund was sanctioned for refusing to accept party discipline, but a few months later he disobeyed a party decree once again. In 1916, three radical leaders were forced out of the party executive.69 The stage was set for a final showdown between radicals and moderates at the 1917 party congress. The radical leaders argued that the split within the party had its origins in the SAP’s tendency to immerse itself in reform work and cross-class cooperation, thereby losing sight of socialism. In response, Branting and the party executive argued that the radicals had not been interested in fruitful dialogue, but rather had worked to undermine the party’s strength during an extremely difficult and dangerous time, and furthermore had misrepresented the party’s strategy. The SAP had always viewed reform work not merely as an end in itself, Branting argued, but rather as part of a strategy for achieving socialism. That the party’s current power allowed it to achieve only certain reforms did not mean that it had abandoned its ultimate goals. “Just because the party was not able to . . . achieve all its ideals immediately did not mean that it had relinquished them,” he argued.70 After further heated debate, a resolution condemning the radical opposition passed 136 to 47. As a result, in May 1917 the radicals broke off


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to form the Swedish Social Democratic Left party (Sveriges socialdemokratiska vänsterparti).71 The main goals of the new party were to end cooperation with the existing “bourgeois” system and to use extraparliamentary measures to bring about change. The Left Socialists argued for a general strike and set up workers’ and soldiers’ councils. Their program also called, among other things, for immediate nationalization of the land and worker control of industry. It is difficult to measure the exact strength of the Left Socialists due to the instability of the period, but in 1917 the new party captured the support of four out of twenty-eight Social Democratic constituencies and had 24,000 members (as opposed to the SAP’s 114,000). In 1917 it received 8.1 percent of the vote (to the SAP’s 31 percent), and fifteen out of eightyseven Social Democratic MPs defected.72 In addition, the party’s momentum was increased by the general radicalization resulting from the war and the Swedish government’s food and military policies, as well as the victory of radical elements in neighboring Finland and Norway.73 Hence, the radicalized environment made the threat posed by this breakaway party real. How the SAP reacted to it was crucial not only for the future of the social democracy in Sweden but also for the outcome of the revolutionary period. When Lenin traveled to Sweden in April 1917, he warned the Left Socialists to beware of the SAP leader’s political saavy: “Branting is smarter than you. He is much smarter than you.”74 As noted earlier, despite the breakaway of the radical elements, the SAP and the Liberals still managed to capture a majority of the votes in the elections in the summer of 1917. After years of debate, therefore, the time had finally come for the SAP to make a decision about the conditions under which it could participate in the formation of a government, and ironically the defection of the radicals facilitated the debate somewhat. Throughout the late summer and early fall, negotiations between the Liberals and the SAP went on at a frantic pace. At a meeting of the party executive on September 17 and 18, Varner Ryden reported that the Liberals had agreed on the desirability of joint Liberal–Social Democratic government, on the need to eliminate the 40-grade scale, and on a continuation of the policy of neutrality. Several Social Democrats were unsure, however, about how far the Liberals were prepared to go if the upper chamber continued its resistance to democratization. The Liberals wanted the king to promise that he would not repeat his actions from 1914, but it was unclear what they would do if he refused or if Conservatives remained

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intransigent. Despite such worries, most members of the SAP executive agreed that since a joint Liberal–Social Democratic government had the greatest likelihood of forcing through a constitutional reform, the party should continue to work toward this outcome. In order to make their demands clear and increase the pressure for change, the party executive released a letter to the king urging him to recognize that any attempt to avoid constitutional reform or to keep the SAP out of government would lead to “profound and extremely divisive splits” in the country and destroy any hope of internal unity.75 The SAP executive and parliamentary group met again a month later. By now the king’s stated preference for a government including parties other than the SAP and Liberals had increased the level of frustration within the party and populace at large. Hansson argued that “if the right . . . will not give up its opposition to constitutional [reform,] then . . . there will be a battle over this issue. In that case . . . we must have a left government that is willing to fight.” He argued that the party should participate in the government only if it was sure that the Liberals would not compromise too much. Möller also felt that the king’s call for a wider coalition was an attempt to confuse the situation and delay political changes. The right would never let go of its privileges, he argued, and including any part of it in the government would be a recipe for disaster. The meeting eventually voted to reject the king’s urgings and to continue negotiations with the Liberals for a pure government of the left.76 Over the next few days, the SAP and the Liberals continued to try to thrash out a strategy and program for a joint government, and they finally succeeded.77 On October 19, 1917, Social Democrats became members of a national government for the first time in Swedish history. The new government’s platform promised constitutional reform, protection of Sweden’s neutrality, and an improvement in the increasingly desperate food situation.78 The Social Democrats (and the Liberals) could not sit back and enjoy their victory for long, however. Sweden’s domestic situation remained tense, Conservatives made clear their continued opposition to full democratization, and the Left Socialists responded to the new government by declaring a socialist republic.79 The coming year would be a difficult one for the new government, and the way in which the SAP responded to the challenges it faced during this time would critically shape the party’s rela-


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tionship with different sectors of Swedish society, as well as the contours of Sweden’s political development during the postwar years. The Final Struggle for Democracy

In the face of pressure from both left and right, the SAP leadership recognized that even after the formation of a new government, major efforts would be necessary to force complete democratization. Branting in particular understood that the coming months would be crucial, and that if the coalition fell apart before the end of the war and a Conservative government returned, the democratic “window of opportunity” might be shut for a long time to come. Confirming Branting’s fears, the Conservatives continued to oppose demands for full democratization. Soon, however, momentum for change of some kind became almost irresistible. The SAP continued with its strategy of trying to use the revolutionary situation to force concessions from the Conservatives. The party executive sent out word to district organizations and workers’ locals to begin action aimed at forcing democratic reform. Leaders met to discuss how to formulate their demands so as to maximize their chances of achieving them peacefully, while ensuring that the Left Socialists would not be provided with a pretext for radical agitation. In the following weeks and months, the SAP would walk a fine line—implicitly threatening Conservatives with revolutionary agitation, while at the same time working to secure the democratic reforms that would convince the masses of the correctness of the SAP course. During debates in the Riksdag, Social Democratic MPs continually emphasized the “revolutionary mood reigning among the people” and warned Conservatives that if they did not give in “the political struggle . . . will be fought with entirely different weapons . . . which will finally serve to sweep away the final remains of reactionary rule in this country.” Even Branting, the epitome of moderation, warned the chamber in dire tones of what would happen if the SAP’s demands were not met.80 Despite rising levels of frustration both within the party and among the populace at large, the SAP stuck with its limited demands for universal suffrage, parliamentary government, new local elections, the end of certain military and conscription policies, and an eight-hour workday. One dispute centered on whether the party should demand a republican form of government. Branting, having

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been at the government negotiations, was convinced this would disrupt the process, and he succeeded in deferring this issue to a future plebiscite. As the winter of 1917–1918 progressed, the SAP kept up the pressure. The LO leader, Herman Lindqvist, “let it be understood that he was having a great deal of trouble preventing a general strike.” However, this threat (like many others made by the SAP during this period) had little chance of being carried through and was useful primarily as a way of pressuring the Conservatives.81 The Social Democrats also declared that if the Conservative majority in the First Chamber rejected the government’s demands it would resign from the government, “with immeasurable consequences under the existing situation.”82 A special committee was set up in parliament to deal with constitutional questions. While some Conservatives were willing to compromise, many continued to resist demands for universal suffrage unless they were accompanied by guarantees. The Conservative leader in the First Chamber, Ernst Trygger, stated: “If there are people who want to drive through their demands by revolution, there are people who will [fight to] prevent the revolution.” 83 In addition, right-wing and farmers’ parties still refused to discard the tax qualification for voting. (This provision had eliminated 30 percent of the electorate from voting in certain districts during the 1917 elections and had hit the SAP’s constituency especially hard.) The insistence even by many farmers who voted Liberal that the suffrage remain tied to income qualifications, combined with the rural-urban cleavage over the food situation, served to increase domestic tensions and raise hostility between workers and farmers even further.84 The final scene in this drama began with the abdication of the German kaiser (November 9, 1918). Inspired by events in Germany, the Left Socialists renewed their call for a socialist republic. On November 11 an appeal signed by the Left Socialists, the Social Democratic Youth League, and an organization that called itself Sweden’s Soldier and Worker Association demanded, among other things, the construction and consolidation of workers’, soldiers’, and peasants’ communes throughout the country. During the following days, the domestic situation became even more tense and confused. On November 12, one observer noted in his diary: “Reports from the naval and army ministries . . . regarding the situation within the army and navy . . . state that the atmosphere is very revolutionary. Precautionary measures have been taken in a number of cases. Troops of questionable loyalty [within the army] have been sent home and those within


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the navy removed to Karlskrona. The bolts have been taken from all the rifles in storage and put in the hands of trustworthy officers.”85 After the abdication of the kaiser, the Swedish government issued a communiqué stating that democratization and constitutional reform could and would no longer be put off.86 On November 15, the leadership of the SAP and the unions met to discuss the newly radicalized situation and the labor movement’s strategy for controlling the masses and constitutional reform. Oscar Larsson urged the party to continue to stand fast behind its program, and to consider a mass strike if the right continued its intransigence. Branting also argued that the party should continue to fight for its core demands and not allow the radicalized situation to deter it from focusing on democratization and parliamentarization.87 The SAP and the LO joined to release a manifesto reiterating demands for constitutional reform, while also stressing the need to remain within the framework of legality. Two leaders of the SAP also met with the king and warned him of what might happen if reforms were not approved soon.88 While the constitutional committee was debating changes, the labor movement kept up the pressure. In a particularly well-publicized speech at Linköping on December 1, 1918, Hansson stated that “tension is increasing with every day. If democratic reforms are rejected there is not a power in the world that could hinder the demonstrations widening . . . into a general strike. . . . The socially dangerous power of the right must be dealt with.”89 In a meeting of the SAP and LO leadership on December 7–9, Branting reported that the constitutional committee was still stuck on some issues. In particular, the Conservatives still resisted completely democratizing the first chamber. However, the right was under pressure from sectors of the business community and the king to give in so as to avoid further radicalization. Branting suggested that the party continue on its course but expressed reservations about further mass pressure, arguing that it could potentially tear the Liberals apart. Hansson, however, argued that without such pressure “the right would never have given up as much as it had.”90 Ultimately threatened with civil war and pressed by the king (who feared meeting his German counterpart’s fate), the Conservatives finally acquiesced on December 17, 1918. After decades of spearheading the struggle for democratization, the SAP had finally managed to achieve one of its most cherished goals. Equipped with a tradition of fighting for democracy, a history of collaboration with the Liberals, and a leader who was at once a political pragmatist and an optimist, the SAP was able to weather the

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difficult years at the end of the First World War without deviating from its long-term practice and began the interwar years as the reaffirmed champion of the democratic, progressive forces in Sweden. Conclusion

Partly because of its late industrialization and the mixed character of its political system, Sweden at the turn of the twentieth century had a divided and relatively weak Liberal movement. In this situation the bourgeoisie was unable to play the role classically ascribed to it—namely, spearheading political modernization. The only force capable of playing this role in Sweden (and, as we will see, in Germany as well) was the labor movement, and in particular the Social Democratic party. By the turn of the century, the SAP had indeed taken up this role, deciding to subsume other goals to the achievement of democracy and taking important initial steps to expand its appeal to groups outside the industrial proletariat. With the end of the First World War and the collapse of the old regime, the SAP found itself thrust into power, as did many of its European counterparts. Although the final achievement of democracy, therefore, cannot be understood without reference to external conditions, such factors by themselves cannot provide an adequate guide to the path traversed by Sweden and other European countries during these revolutionary years. In order to understand why the SAP responded as it did to the challenge of democratization, we must look inside the party itself, and in particular to the legacy created by its programmatic beliefs. Having long pursued a political strategy with democratization at its core in the years before the First World War, the SAP entered the revolutionary period with a set of ideas and experiences well suited to guiding it through the chaotic years ahead. When the old regime seemed on the verge of collapse, there was little question as to what the immediate goals of the party should be: as in the past, all energy would be concentrated on achieving the final democratic breakthrough. By 1914 the party had already accepted the principle of ministersocialism; consequently, unlike its German counterpart, it did not find itself having to begin discussing the value of cooperating with Liberals and participating in a non-Socialist government as the world around it collapsed during 1917–1918. Although there were heated debates in Sweden during 1917 and 1918 about the exact platform on which the SAP could join in a coalition with Liberals, the


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desirability of democratization and the legitimacy of cross-class cooperation had been accepted much earlier. That the SAP entered the First World War with a strategy capable of guiding it through the difficult years ahead enabled it to act relatively coherently and aggressively and to maintain its leadership of Sweden’s workers and progressive forces as the old regime fell apart. When the dust had settled, the SAP could legitimately claim to have played a critical role both in bringing about democratization and in avoiding a dangerous radicalization of the country. For example, in its first postwar electoral manifesto the SAP declared: “In the last ten years . . . a huge change has occurred,” a change due largely to the “growing power and influence” and the reform work carried on by the party since the earliest days of its existence.91 This helped undercut the appeal of the new Left Socialist party and enabled the SAP to appear aggressive, consistent, and in possession of a successful strategy for dealing with political challenges. The capital the party gained as a result of its active struggle against the old regime and its championing of democracy would prove critical during the difficult decade of the 1920s.

CHAPTER

6 Germany’s Path to Democracy I remember . . . when I was in Germany before the Revolution: a group of German Social Democrats came late to the Congress because they had to wait to have their tickets confirmed, or something of the sort. When would Russians ever do that? Someone has said: “Well in Germany you cannot have a revolution because you would have to step on the lawns.” joseph stalin, quoted in milovan djilas, conversations w ith stalin

Germany and Sweden both experienced increasing domestic pressure for political change in the decade and a half before the First World War. Given their similar political structures, this was not surprising: in both countries the contradictions between a semiautocratic political system dominated by traditional elites and the growth of the middle and working classes generated by industrial development led to dissatisfaction with the status quo. By 1914, significant majorities in both Germany and Sweden favored some parliamentarization and even democratization. In both countries, however, the Liberal movement remained divided, helping the Social Democratic parties gain a plurality of the national vote during this period (the SPD became the largest party in Germany in 1912, and the SAP achieved this status in Sweden in 1914). In such a situation, any push for parliamentary democracy would require the active participation, if not the leadership, of the Social Democrats. As we saw in Chapters 3 and 5, the SAP did indeed take up this role in Sweden, spearheading the struggle for democracy up through the end of the First World War. The SPD, on the other hand, played a different role in Germany’s political life. Before the First World War, the SPD found itself increasingly pushed into parliamentary involvement, yet the party nevertheless remained unsure of its role in a “bourgeois” political system. Debate 122


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over this issue continued to rage within the party up through (and beyond) the final collapse of the Kaiserreich in 1918. This ambiguity critically affected the SPD’s actions during the German revolution. Unlike what we saw in Sweden, when the old regime collapsed in Germany at the end of the First World War, the Social Democrats had little idea of what they could or should be doing. The SPD’s lackluster performance during the revolution in Germany demonstrates that, without adequate ideational guidance, political actors are likely to flounder during a crisis, often passing up opportunities that the situation affords. Although it would be wrong to ignore the difficulties associated with Germany’s transition to democracy, it would be just as wrong to ignore the fluidity of the situation in 1917–1920 and the failure of the SPD to use its power more intelligently. Successful revolutions result not simply from widespread political unrest but from the ability and willingness of key political actors to seize the opportunities such unrest affords. The Bolsheviks and the Nazis both understood this; as Lenin wrote, “Every revolution arises only out of a situation in which . . . objective changes are accompanied by a subjective change, namely the ability of the revolutionary class to take revolutionary . . . action.”1 Even democratic revolutions often need careful forethought and bold maneuvers to be successful. In Germany after the First World War, however, the SPD—lacking a theoretical framework for, and practical experience in, the process of active democratic reform—found itself reacting to, rather than guiding, events. The SPD’s indecisive relationship to the political system and other political groups, as well its tendency to fall into a defensive posture, remained characteristic of the party through the 1930s. Such a pattern, in turn, can be understood only in the context of the party’s programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped create. Political Development in Germany before the First World War

During the new century’s first decade and a half, the semiabsolutist balancing act that Bismarck had bequeathed to Germany proved increasingly difficult to maintain. In a pattern reminiscent of the Swedish case, the growth of mass political interests, the pressures generated by an increasingly modernized and industrialized society, and the rigidity of much of the traditional elite helped shift the battle lines in German politics. A potential majority favoring changes in the system emerged but remained latent and

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disorganized. At several crucial junctures the Social Democrats—the most important factor in Germany’s political equation—remained unsure of how to act. As a result, although no formal alliance of progressive, democratic forces arose in Germany, the deficiencies of the system (which fostered the discontent among all parties from the Social Democrats to the National Liberals) lent a new dynamic to the Wilhelmine political order. As was the case with Sweden, therefore, it would be misleading to view Germany’s democratization in 1918 in historical isolation. Not only had the pressure for political change been building for many years, but the main actors had long struggled with the issues that would come to the fore during 1917–1920. In order to understand, therefore, the actions of the SPD in these years, we must step back and examine the party’s reactions to developments within the German political system from the turn of the century onward. As in Sweden, labor conflict in Germany increased during the early years of the twentieth century.2 In 1905, for example, Germany experienced its largest labor conflict to date, the Ruhr coal miners’ strike. Workers called for increased state supervision of conditions in the mines; the Prussian government responded positively, but reactionary elements in the Prussian Landtag defeated reform proposals. This brought the connection between economic and political reform into sharp relief once again. After a month the strike was called off, with the workers having received no real concessions from the employers. Dissatisfaction among the rank and file grew. These and similar events, combined with the success of mass strikes in Russia, led to a renewed debate within the German labor movement over the means of effecting political change. Many within the SPD, searching for a concrete way to express the party’s “revolutionary” politics, voiced support for the mass strike.3 At the SPD congress in 1905, for example, August Bebel asserted that he welcomed the sharpening of class antagonism, since it created a “clear situation” in which compromise with the ruling class was shown to be useless. He put forth a resolution (which passed handily) calling on the party to use the mass strike should employers try to eliminate recent gains made by the workers.4 Soon afterward, conservatives in some states discussed limiting the suffrage as a response to the SPD’s increasing electoral success. Even though all understood that this would constitute an attack on the labor movement, in response to objections from the unions, the SPD backed down from its


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mass strike threat. This episode not only showed the confusion of the SPD over how to promote change but also demonstrated the need for a new strategy for confronting conservative elites. The right wing of the party agitated for cooperation with other progressive forces (as the SAP was doing in Sweden), while the left wing demanded a radicalization of the party’s politics and open confrontation with the existing regime. In 1908 the Daily Telegraph affair raised fundamental questions about the functioning of the German political system.5 As a result of some erratic, off-the-cuff remarks on foreign policy he made to an English newspaper, “the Emperor found himself confronted with the greatest crisis that occurred in Germany until 1918, and, in the debates in the Reichstag . . . with a united front of all the political parties.” Even Chancellor Bülow joined in insisting that the emperor refrain from more such policy statements. Wilhelm was forced to release a statement saying that in the future he would “ensure the stability of Imperial policy by respecting his constitutional obligations”—an announcement, as Arthur Rosenberg put it, “that read like an abandonment by the Emperor of autocratic government.”6 In the aftermath of the Daily Telegraph affair, pressure for political change increased. Support for the Reichstag’s role in foreign policy grew, and parties to the left of the National Liberals increased their agitation for movement toward a more parliamentary regime. The need for a shift in the Wilhelmine order became even clearer with the onset of a budget crisis in 1909. As noted in Chapter 4, the Reich constitution granted the power of direct taxation only to the individual German states; the national government was limited to the use of indirect taxation, tariffs, and fees in order to finance its budget. With the growth in the role of national government, however, and in particular the increase in defense spending that occurred in the early twentieth century, the Reich found itself saddled with an increasingly high level of indebtedness. In 1908 the government put forth a plan to reform national finances. A new tax bill proposed raising money to cover the Reich budget mostly from new indirect taxes but also suggested the imposition of some direct taxation. This generated a storm of protest from the Conservatives, who recognized, correctly, that a shift to direct taxes would increase pressure for democratization. The ensuing debate over financial reform turned out to be a critical point in the struggle for political change in Wilhelmine Germany. The Conservatives found themselves increasingly isolated as both the Catho-

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lic Center party and the National Liberals refused to support further increases in indirect taxation. As a result of Conservative intransigence, the “blue-black” (Center-Conservative) coalition that had implicitly supported Bülow fell apart, and the chancellor resigned. Observing these events, the Bavarian ambassador Lerchenfeld wrote: “I am witnessing my fourth chancellor crisis. . . . Three crises came from above, this one from below. We have come a step closer to a parliamentary regime in Germany.”7 Indeed, this episode made clear that in Wilhelmine Germany, governing against the will of a parliamentary majority was becoming increasingly difficult. Stepping up the pace of political and economic reform, however, would require the consolidation of a new parliamentary majority, and, in fact, the debate over financial reform did seem to open up possibilities for new political alliances. Liberals had become increasingly dissatisfied with the pace of political and economic reform and frustrated with Conservative intransigence. The desire to put together a majority in favor of change led left-wing Liberals to revive the idea put forth by Friedrich Naumann earlier in the century of an alliance of all groups stretching from the National Liberals to the Social Democrats (“from Basserman to Bebel”).8 Chances for the success of this strategy seemed to improve in 1910, when left Liberal groups united in the Progressive People’s party (Fortschrittliche Volkspartei), and an anti-Junker liberal business organization (Hansabund) formed to fight the power of conservative agricultural interests. Both groups favored political reform, including an end to the three-class voting system in Prussia. Yet, throughout this period, the Social Democrats remained somewhat confused. The SPD had long demanded direct taxation, since indirect taxation, being regressive, hit its constituency disproportionately hard. The budget crisis thus presented the Social Democrats with an opportunity to realize one of their major reform objectives. A problem, however, was the association of financial reform with the arms buildup. As Carl Schorske put it, the tax bill was a “jewel of reform in a setting of military steel.”9 Revisionists in the party argued that the masses would not understand if the party joined with the Junkers to defeat one of its long-held goals. They argued further that, beyond the specific issue, the time was ripe for the Social Democrats to abandon their isolation and join in a progressive alliance against the Conservatives. Party radicals, on the other hand, argued that the taxes at issue were a mere pittance, and they railed against the possibility of being associated with imperialism and the “reactionary” politics of the Wilhelmine regime.10 They opposed cooperation with Liberals


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because this would mean a break with the tradition of revolutionary socialism—it would entail watering down, if not shedding, the party’s millenarian language, vague threats of insurrectionary behavior, and doctrine of increasing class struggle. The financial reform question thus reignited a debate that had long raged within the SPD over political alliances. Yet, while some party leaders, like Franz Mehring, seemed ready to change their positions regarding cooperation with liberals, Kautsky—even as he came to diverge from the radical camp on other issues—held firm. He argued that the correct response to “the contradictions among bourgeois parties” was not to exploit them for legislative purposes but rather to launch a propaganda campaign aimed at “wresting the proletarian masses” from their grasp. The choice before the SPD, he said, was between struggling against “bourgeois society as a whole” and striving for partial reform of the existing conservative regime; Kautsky clearly favored the former.11 The confusion and divisions within the SPD were reflected at the party’s 1909 and 1910 congresses, where the debate over political alliances assumed center stage but was ultimately left unresolved. Continued Conservative intransigence on suffrage reform, meanwhile, combined with the financial question and still more labor conflict,12 led to further demands for a shift in SPD policy. Party divisions were also heightened by the actions of the regional Baden chapter. Politics in the south and southwest of Germany had long been less confrontational than in Prussia, and during the early years of the twentieth century, states in this area had begun reforming their political systems.13 Not surprisingly, opportunities for collaboration between the SPD and other progressive forces were extremely tempting in these areas. In 1910, the Baden Social Democrats took advantage of these opportunities, collaborating with Liberals and voting for the state budget. Wilhelm Kolb, the leader of the Baden SPD, recognized the implications of this decision and argued that the national party must decide “whether [it] would pursue a serious revolutionary or a serious reformist policy. . . . [T]he attempt of the Marxists of . . . [Kautsky’s] school to demonstrate the correctness of their teaching breaks down in the face of reality. K. Kautsky permits [all] to take part in a general strike—in theory. But as soon as comrade Luxemburg comes along and wishes to make a practical test, Kautsky, the adamant man of principle, transforms himself with the turn of the hand. . . . The breakdown of the breakdown theory has never been so clearly illuminated.”14 The actions of the Baden SPD unleashed a storm of protest within the

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party, and the national leadership quickly and sharply condemned the regional chapter. Bebel, for example, criticized the Badenese for telling the party: “‘Our whole strategy has to change. You’ve been entirely negative and we need positive actions now.’ Which means that we’re to give up everything that we’ve fought for and that has made us great. We’re to give up that which has made us the strongest party in Germany, which today has over three million followers and tomorrow will have four million. In spite of all these triumphs, we’re suddenly to say, ‘We’ve gone wrong! We must strike off in new directions.’”15 Bebel was unwilling, however, to risk a split within the party over the issue and so reached a compromise whereby he threatened to expel any member who voted for a budget in the future, but rejected a motion calling for such members’ automatic expulsion. This once again left the question of alliances in limbo; as Carl Schorske notes: “To what unholy confusion had the party now arrived!” The 1912 Elections

The prospects for a progressive coalition seemed tempting not only to SPD reformists but also to certain Liberals. The obvious partner for the SPD, the Progressives, had been increasing their attacks on the status quo. In the run-up to the 1912 elections, the Progressives asserted, “Equal rights are our starting point, the general welfare our goal,” and put forth a practical program very similar to that of the SPD. In fact, the 1912 elections were awaited anxiously by all parties: should the elections produce a further shift to the left, the pressure for political change would become almost unbearable. Maximizing the chances of an electoral breakthrough, however, would require explicit electoral agreements between the SPD and Liberals, a topic that was hotly debated during the preelection period. Interestingly, by this time even Kautsky’s position seemed to shift. Changes in Germany’s domestic situation, combined with a growing international debate over imperialism, had led him to drift even further away from regarding all nonproletarian groups as a “single reactionary mass.” In 1911 he wrote in Neue Zeit: “Social Democracy is not alone in the world. . . . So long as we do not command an absolute majority, it will always be one of our important tasks to exploit the contradictions among the bourgeois parties and to direct the brunt of our attack against those who are most dangerous and damaging to the proletariat at any given moment.” 16 Sensing the possibility of a great victory, the party leadership decided to throw all its effort into the 1912 campaign.


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The first round of voting fulfilled all expectations. The turnout was the highest ever recorded (84.9 percent). Together the SPD, the Progressives, and the National Liberals garnered 62 percent of the vote, while the Conservatives emerged as the biggest losers, even in their traditional East Elbian strongholds. Moreover, the SPD emerged as the clear winner, collecting over one-third of all the votes cast. Attention now turned to the second round: Could a coalition be formed that would ensure the final defeat of the blue-black bloc?17 The two Liberal parties had little difficulty in supporting each other’s candidates, since they were direct opponents in only three constituencies. The interesting question, therefore, regarded cooperation between the Social Democrats and the Progressives. Certain difficulties appeared immediately. First, the Progressives were in an uncomfortable position as the “middle” party, facing an almost equal number of Social Democratic and blue-black candidates in the second round.18 Second, the SPD was extremely hesitant to pull back its own candidates in areas where they faced Progressives, since this went against long-standing party tradition and would unleash a storm of internal protest. Nevertheless, the leadership of the SPD and Progressives managed to negotiate an elaborate system of logrolling, the precise terms of which were kept secret in order to minimize internal protest and external propaganda. Both parties had some difficulty implementing the deal. Some local SPD leaders feared that supporting Progressives would lead to the breakdown of their own organizations, since many had long treated the left Liberals as their main enemy (!), and so essentially ignored the order of the national leadership to dampen (dämpfen) their own campaigns in order to help certain promising Liberal candidates. There was also local-level resistance from some Progressives, especially in places where supporting SPD candidates would on balance weaken the left Liberal candidate’s showing.19 Still, in the end, the most striking outcome of the 1912 election was the general leftward drift of the electorate. Reform-minded parties emerged much strengthened in the new Reichstag, and the SPD found itself the most powerful single party by far, with twice as many votes as its closest competitor. The election thereby left the SPD in an even more critical position in the German political system than it had occupied before, something that did not go unrecognized by the general public. The Frankfurter Zeitung, for example, echoing a common viewpoint, noted that the SPD found itself at a critical juncture “which demanded something difficult, perhaps too difficult, from the party: it needs to make a valiant decision to

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leave behind the haze of its future state and move into the light of day, in order to carry out practical politics.”20 The SPD’s annual party congress, however, revealed deep dissatisfaction. Radicals were naturally outraged that there had been any cooperation at all with bourgeois parties, but many others also voiced objections to at least some aspect of the agreement with the Progressives. Trying to defend the party’s actions, Philipp Scheidemann, a member of the SPD executive committee, argued that “extraordinary situations . . . demand extraordinary measures.” 21 This comment is interesting not only for its halfhearted justification of the party’s actions but also because it seemed to indicate that the leadership did not necessarily see the agreement as the beginning of a long-term change in strategy. Indeed, the following period made clear that few within the SPD were eager to engage in a radical reevaluation of the party’s positions. Despite the fact that an important shift in tactics had occurred, the desire to avoid internal conflict, combined with a fear that the party might be forced to reconsider some of its long-held principles, meant that the full significance of the 1912 election remained unexamined. In particular, the SPD neither engaged in any extensive analysis of the implications of cooperation with Liberals nor devoted much effort to determining what the party should do if and when a real parliamentary regime was introduced. In 1913, the Wilhelmine regime found itself buffeted by controversy once again. After a dispute broke out between soldiers and civilians in the small Alsatian town of Zabern, the colonel of the local regiment gave orders to confine some of the demonstrators to the barracks for a night. The colonel had no jurisdiction over civilians, and thus had clearly overstepped his authority. The public was outraged, and a storm broke out in the Reichstag; on December 4, 1913, the overwhelming majority of the Reichstag joined in passing a vote of no confidence against the government. Since Germany did not have a parliamentary regime, the chancellor was not forced to resign, but the Reichstag’s agitation did not pass unnoticed: in March 1914, the kaiser issued a new set of service regulations (Dienstvorschriften) stating that civil authorities had ultimate control over the use of the military in all internal matters. The whole episode provided a further indication that the political situation in general, and military relationships in particular, was under strain. As the chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, would later write of this period: “While the stormclouds gathered ever more heavily on the world horizon, an almost inexpli-


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cable pressure weighed on the political life of Germany. . . . The word ‘Reichsverdrossenheit’ [dissatisfaction with the Reich] rose up out of the darkness.22 Indeed, on the eve of the Great War “the German nation found itself in an intolerable state of political tension. The enmity between the ruling aristocracy and the masses had increased steadily for years. Although incidents like the Daily Telegraph interview, the 1912 election, and the Zabern affair did not of necessity point to a revolution, nevertheless they were typical of a prerevolutionary period.”23 As was the case in Sweden, however, the final breakthrough to parliamentary democracy could not be achieved in the prewar period. Although the war would temporarily delay political change, pressures for liberalization and democratization returned with a vengeance at its close. When the old regime finally started to collapse, however, the most important actors in the drama about to unfold—the Social Democrats—found themselves in very different positions in the two countries. Whereas the SAP’s programmatic beliefs had long pushed the party toward direct engagement with the challenges it would confront at the end of the war, the SPD had long avoided dealing with these same challenges. Through 1914, a lingering suspicion of bourgeois politics and parties, combined with a desire not to exacerbate the divisions caused by debates over changing tactics, had led “the majority of [German] Social Democrats and, above all, the party leadership [to] lean toward a tactic of ‘postponing’ all nonimmediate . . . issues, not only of political praxis, but also of political theory.” 24 In contrast to its Swedish counterpart, therefore, as the world war began, the SPD found itself without a “road map” to guide it through the confusing and rapidly changing times ahead. War, the Party Split, and the Collapse of the Old Regime

The chain of events unleashed by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand created a frenzy within the SPD. The first response of the party was to proclaim that Germany’s treaty with Austria-Hungary was purely defensive and that it would not support hostilities under any circumstances. In the days and weeks following the assassination, the Social Democrats organized a number of mass meetings to highlight the desire for peace. On a trip to Paris, party leader Hermann Müller, speaking for his colleagues, assured the French Socialists that an SPD vote for war credits

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was out of the question. Soon, however, under the impression that Russia and France were the aggressors and that Germany was in danger of a Russian onslaught, opinion within the party began to shift.25 Some suggested tying support for the government to a promise of reform, but such an explicit link was rejected.26 In the vote for war credits on August 4, all the SPD members present voted in favor. Hugo Haase read out the following statement: We are confronted by an hour big with fate. The consequences of the Imperialist policy by which an epoch of competitive armaments was brought in, and the antagonisms between the nations accentuated, have broken upon Europe like a deluge. The responsibility for this rests upon those who maintained this policy: we disclaim it. [Nevertheless,] for our people and its peaceful development, much, if not everything is at stake, in the event of the victory of Russian despotism, which has stained itself with the blood of the best of its own people. Our task is to ward off this danger, to safeguard the civilization and the independence of our own country. And here we make good what we have always emphatically affirmed: we do not leave the Fatherland in the lurch in the hour of danger.27

At the Reich’s moment of need, the Social Democrats proclaimed their loyalty to the state they had long rejected. The emperor responded to the patriotism of the Social Democrats with the well-known declaration: “Henceforth, I know no parties any more, only Germans.” In return for SPD support, restrictions on Social Democratic meetings and press were lifted, all legal proceedings against the unions were dropped, and the government promised action on the Prussian electoral system. The Burgfrieden had begun. As hopes for a rapid German victory vanished, however, so did Social Democratic unity. Over the next three years, as the illusion of a defensive war became harder to maintain, splits within the party deepened. An increasing number of Social Democrats made clear their unwillingness to vote for a continuation of the war credits, and some members were eventually expelled as a result of their refusal to toe the party line. Matters came to a head early in 1917, when those opposed to the SPD’s war stance broke off to form a new party, the Independent Social Democratic party of Germany (Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands, or USPD).28 Among its many consequences, this split had important ramifications


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for the SPD’s future political behavior. Although the new party was a relatively incoherent group, unified only by opposition to the war, most of the SPD’s prewar radicals and theorists ended up there, leaving what remained of the SPD (now referred to as the Majority Social Democrats, or MSPD) controlled chiefly by bureaucrats who had been on the right wing of the old party.29 Because of the nature of the SPD’s prewar decision-making apparatus and its history of separating theory and practice, these men had little experience in anything other than managing day-to-day party affairs and tended not to look beyond the immediate tasks set before them. The main rationale the SPD leadership gave for remaining part of the war effort and punishing internal opponents was that this course would enable the party to protect the needs of the working class while moving toward the achievement of the movement’s long-term goals. Despite the increasingly severe nature of military rule, however, the SPD had not insisted on any important concessions from the regime in return for its continued support. Such contradictions did not go unrecognized; as one member later argued: “At least [we] should have demanded [from the government] . . . proof that a new era had really begun, a clean unequivocal break with the past, the resolution to make a fresh start.”30 During 1917 and early 1918, demands for reform grew, the Reichstag became increasingly restless, and the old regime did its best to delay political change. Yet the MSPD remained hesitant and cautious, unsure of what, if anything, it could do. This stolid course would soon be put to the test. Germany’s Collapse

As the war’s end approached, the pressures on the German political system increased. The dictatorship of Hindenburg and Ludendorff made it impossible, however, for these pressures to achieve any immediate outlet. Rather than moving to position itself at the forefront of the forces of change (as the SAP was doing in Sweden), the MSPD merely came along for the ride, remaining essentially uncertain of its role throughout the entire democratization process. In March 1917, the Russian Revolution inflamed the war-weary German populace. In its wake the USPD, MSPD, and Progressives called for complete democratization, and the National Liberals also accepted the need for substantial change. Their leader, Gustav Stresemann, proclaimed in the Reichstag: “It is impossible to blindfold oneself [regarding the need for

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reform]. . . . A new era demands new rights. . . . We are of the opinion that one does not have to wait for that until after the war. . . . It is the opinion of my political friends and my Fraktion that the time has come to begin a reorganization of affairs in Germany and the federal states.”31 As one historian wryly noted: “The Russian Revolution had accomplished what could not be accomplished in Germany in three years of war. The reform of the German Constitution suddenly became the question of the day.”32 In July a speech given by Matthias Erzberger of the Center party electrified the Reichstag and the country; it condemned the German government’s handling of the war and announced that the regime could no longer count on the support of the Reichstag. The MSPD supported Erzberger but went no further. The failure of the MSPD and other reform-minded parties to press their attack on existing leadership structures during this period allowed the direness of Germany’s position to remain hidden, and would have important consequences later on. It meant that public knowledge of Germany’s military defeat would come only as the imperial regime relinquished power, providing fuel for the “stab in the back” legend during the Weimar years.33 During the late summer of 1917, nonetheless, the MSPD took a belated first step on its journey from opposition to power as it joined with the Progressives and the Center in a Reichstag working group (Interfraktioneller Ausschuss). This body drafted a resolution calling for a “peace without conquests,” rejecting all annexations, and renouncing all political, economic, and financial oppression. With its founding, an entirely new situation in German politics arose: a united parliamentary majority, seemingly prepared to use its powers to achieve wide-ranging domestic and foreign policy goals, faced a weak government. Yet, while domestic pressure forced a new chancellor, Michaelis, to accept the working group’s peace resolution, he qualified his acceptance with the stipulation that he would follow it “as I interpret it.” Not surprisingly, little was done.34 This episode illustrates once again that concrete reforms would emerge only after initiatives by the majority parties in the Reichstag. Such focused pressure was slow in coming, however, not least because the largest and most important party—the MSPD—still had neither a plan for democratization or cross-class alliances, nor any conception of its own role in postwar Germany. During the winter of 1917–1918, deteriorating conditions on the home front combined with anger over Germany’s treatment of Russia in the


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Treaty of Brest Litovsk served to ratchet up domestic tension still further. Disturbances within the army and navy grew, and on January 28, 1918, four hundred thousand laborers in Berlin stopped work; strikes followed across the entire country. All the outbreaks were brutally suppressed.35 As the year progressed, the failure of the spring offensives and the entrance of U.S. forces in large numbers made it clear to the High Command that Germany had lost the war.36 In order to saddle others with the blame for his failures, Ludendorff urged the final democratization of Germany at the end of the summer, when outright defeat was nigh.37 On October 3, 1918, Prince Max von Baden became the head of a new government, one explicitly based on the support of the Reichstag parties. With the formation of Prince Max’s cabinet and the acceptance of universal suffrage, Germany became a full parliamentary democracy. The necessary alterations to the constitution were made in October, against the continued resistance of the Conservatives.38 Yet the Reichstag, taken aback by Germany’s sudden collapse, remained somewhat confused during these final weeks. Throughout the fall the new regime, and the MSPD in particular, acted hesitantly and reactively, suggesting change rather than demanding it, accepting power rather than seizing it. Both at home and abroad, this tentativeness confused and frustrated constituencies that otherwise might have supported and helped stabilize the new regime. Popular unrest in Germany continued and grew during October rather than subsiding—because of the seeming impotence and passivity of the Reichstag parties, the kaiser’s failure to abdicate, and the intransigence of the military. Arthur Rosenberg’s damning conclusion holds up well sixty years later: The real significance of this peaceful revolution [Germany’s democratization] never reached the masses. They were taking revenge for the fact that the Reichstag majority had not won all these changes by fighting for them but had received them as a gift from above. If a great battle over constitutional reform had raged publicly for months, the workers and middle classes would have taken sides about it and looked upon the victory as their own. In 1918 the sudden complete victory of German middle-class democracy followed nine months of deathly silence politically. In order to have faith in the new system the masses would have had to see it in working order. The man in the street could not understand the change. . . . Thus at the end of October the masses realized that the War was hopelessly lost, but the decision as to whether peace was at length to be

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concluded still apparently lay with the higher officers. Even the supporters of the Reichstag majority did not believe that there had actually been a decisive revolution in Germany and that the Reichstag now possessed the power. This lack of confidence and of contact between the Reichstag majority and the nation became one of the chief causes of the November revolution.39

As with the German people, so with President Wilson. He too did not appreciate the magnitude of the changes of early October and could not understand why Prince Max’s regime, if it was so new, continued Germany’s losing war effort. Had the new regime moved vigorously to make and proclaim a real break with the old order rather than floundering during the fall of 1918, it is quite possible that its peace negotiations with Wilson might have gone more smoothly and that the war might have been terminated some days or even weeks earlier, removing one of the most important reasons for continuing domestic turmoil in Germany.40 The new regime truly began to break with the past only in late October, after Ludendorff switched positions once again and advocated renewed military efforts in response to Wilson’s later diplomatic notes. Together the kaiser and the government dismissed Ludendorff and reasserted civilian control over the German military. Meanwhile, the Naval High Command was preparing to send the fleet into a last battle with the British Navy, “a plan which became the final detonator of revolution.”41 At the end of October the sailors, having no taste for such an obvious suicide mission, mutinied. Workers’ and soldiers’ councils soon appeared spontaneously across Germany, and the Revolutionary Shop Stewards (revolutionäre Obleute) movement formed in Berlin, demanding that these councils form a provisional government. These disturbances, it is important to note—like their forerunners—were less a reflection of revolutionary sentiments than expressions of the frustration of a war-weary people wanting peace and real reform.42 By the beginng of November, the government, and especially the MSPD, realized that something had to be done in order to satisfy the masses and prevent radicalization and to meet Wilson’s demands. It became clear that “if the SPD was not able to assert itself vis-à-vis the kaiser and the military then its participation in the government was not just pointless, it was also dangerous.” 43 The leaders of the SPD had previously opposed the kaiser’s removal, despite the fact that the bourgeois parties would not have resisted


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such a demand.44 Now, however, the SPD felt obliged to demand Wilhelm’s ouster in order both to placate the masses and reach an understanding with the USPD.45 Under pressure from all sides, the kaiser abdicated on November 9. As representatives of his government negotiated an armistice ending the fighting in the west, Prince Max transferred the office of chancellor to Friedrich Ebert, and Philipp Scheidemann proclaimed the founding of the German Republic from the balcony of the Reichstag (much to Ebert’s chagrin).46 On November 10, a Council of People’s Representatives (Rat der Volksbeauftragten) was formed, consisting of three MSPD and three USPD members. Within days, the entire political structure of Wilhelmine Germany had evaporated. As Theodore Wolff, a prominent liberal and editor of the Berliner Tageblatt, wrote in his diary in November: “The total impotence of the monarchists with, to put it mildly, the complete absence of any inclination to resist, the abandonment of the old regime by all its supporters and privileged protectors without lifting a finger in its defence, has been so astonishing to the revolutionaries that they simply do not know what to make of it.”47 The MSPD and Political Power

With the unceremonious collapse of the old regime, the Social Democrats found themselves in a position of unprecedented power. They moved haltingly into their new position, however, and lacked a road map to guide them through the confusing times ahead. As Erich Matthias has noted: Natural as it is for us to speak of January 30, 1933, as the day when the Nazis seized power, it would not occur to us to talk of a Social Democratic seizure of power in November 1918. Yet the real power which then fell to the Social Democrats was much greater than the measure of control over the apparatus of state which originally accompanied Hitler’s appointment as Reich Chancellor. But [in contrast to the Social Democrats] . . . the Nazis as soon as the door opened a crack, seized one position of power after another with breath-taking speed and from the first moment left no doubt at all that they considered the whole state as their well deserved booty.48

The MSPD’s confusion during this period can be seen clearly by looking at the party’s Würzburg congress of October 14–20, 1917.49 Here the party

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found itself forced to confront problems it had long tried to avoid (problems which its Swedish counterpart had for the most part dealt with during the prewar period). Changing domestic and international conditions, increasing pressure for democratization, and the formation of the Interfraktioneller Ausschuss compelled the MSPD finally to reevaluate the positions to which it had long adhered. A key theme at Würzburg was the party’s failure to predict and prepare itself for the changes occurring in Germany. Dr. Paul Lensch stated that he wished that, for once, “inside German Social Democracy it would not be [interpreted] as a shame [to admit] . . . that historical developments have proven us wrong. . . . For a party based heavily on the foundation of agitational needs . . . such a declaration is very difficult. We must pronounce what is, we must be honest toward ourselves, the party, and historical development.” 50 Following up on this theme, some speakers stressed that the time had come to recognize that the SPD had grown too large, and the situation in Germany too dire, for the party to continue to ignore its responsibilities. Friedrich Stampfer, for example, argued that the SPD could no longer limit itself to the politics of rejection, of protest, because we have become too strong and must now push a politics of positive demands. . . . When a young boy [comes] crying, and says he has been beaten up unfairly, then you comfort him. But when the boy becomes bigger and stronger and the same thing happens—and he can do nothing more than complain about the injustice done to him—. . . then one becomes annoyed. . . . It is the same with the party. As long as it was small and weak, its emphasis . . . could be on protest, it could go out . . . and say “we have fought in the Reichstag, we have rejected this and that [and] it has not helped”. . . . But when the voters ask what have you achieved . . . then a party of our strength . . . cannot say “nothing”!51

Similarly, Otto Stollten pleaded with his colleagues not to shy away from accepting [political] responsibility. A large party that can influence things . . . has the duty not to shut itself out, but rather to use every opportunity to gain for the working class whatever possible. We cannot have it all, since we do not have a majority. Our politics must, therefore, be one of compromises, and the party must be prepared to make compromises, so that something can be achieved for the workers.


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This is the essence of politics. This [kind of policy] has long been practiced, but always pulled back by the revolutionary demonstration politics. This must end . . . we must engage in truly practical politics that can bring about concrete achievements for the working class.52

Arguing along these lines, some urged the SPD to use its existing powers, and in particular its support of war credits, to pressure conservative elites, but much of the party leadership rejected this course. Determining what reforms, if any, could be achieved became a main theme of the congress. Not only was the party’s confusion in this regard bemoaned, but also its failure to put forth a coherent plan of action for the postwar period. As one delegate remarked: “We have the task of showing the people at this moment the way out of this misery, clear and plainly so that all can understand. We must be able to state briefly what we think are the tasks to be faced after the war.”53 In one area the congress had little trouble reaching agreement—social policy. This was largely because the SPD had become increasingly involved in social policy work during the prewar period, and therefore knew what could and should be achieved. Rudolf Wissell gave the keynote speech in this area and demanded such reforms as the eight-hour workday, unemployment insurance, and the formation of a government labor ministry. Yet, in contrast to the concrete proposals put forth in the social sphere, the SPD’s pronouncements on economic policy were vague. In his speech on this topic Heinrich Cunow remarked: “The German Social Democrats must abandon their negative inertia, their attachment to old, outdated illusions and forms, [and move] toward real . . . participation in the rebuilding of [Germany’s] destroyed economy on a sounder economic basis and in a better form.” He also noted that, contrary to the proclamations of the SPD “at the beginning of the war that the capitalist system would in a short time collapse and out of the chaos a socialist system would arise,” capitalism, although weakened, would clearly survive.”54 As Philip Schiedemann noted, this left “the problem of a socialist economic order loom[ing] gargantuanly before us. On our shoulders is placed the immense task not just to be theoreticians and agitators as we previously were, but [instead] to be practitioners of socialism.”55 In order to help prepare a new economic policy for the coming era, a committee was appointed to rework the Erfurt program. Since, however, the party had little experience to build on in this area and did not specify how new policies could be reconciled to the

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Marxist doctrines to which the party still genuflected, it is not surprising that the committee was unable to produce a viable program during the hectic period that followed.56 Another important issue debated by the congress was the need for alliances with bourgeois parties. Although the strongest party by far, the SPD seemed unlikely to garner a complete majority in the near future, and thus needed partners in order to shape German political developments. This need to discuss cross-class alliances was reinforced by the experience of the Interfraktioneller Ausschuss. As one delegate remarked during debate on this topic: “Bernstein has not only written pure nonsense.57 Many of his sentences reveal a mature historical understanding. [As he has pointed out,] the English working class achieved its greatest victories not in the period of revolutionary phrases but rather when it cooperated with sections of the radical English bourgeoisie. . . . There is a politics of strength and a politics of weakness. . . . As long as one is weak one should be on one’s guard for compromises. A party that is strong, however, and is cognizant of its strength, does not need to fear compromises.”58 The Würzburg congress revealed that a majority of the SPD belatedly recognized that the immense changes brought about by the war demanded changes in the party as well. Yet, while new policies were suggested and debated, continued divisions and limited time meant that no coherent plan of action capable of guiding the party through the years ahead ultimately emerged. Consequently, as Germany’s situation became even more precarious, and the need for confident action became even more imperative in the months afterward, the SPD remained mired in debate and confusion and was thus unable to lead the forces of progressive change. Almost a year after the congress, at the end of the summer of 1918, the situation in the MSPD had not changed very much. Many still remained opposed to joining a new democratic government. Some argued against polluting the party by cooperation with bourgeois elements, while others merely wondered if the party had anything to gain through participation.59 What was changing, however, was that this stance was increasingly challenged by a growing number of Social Democrats willing to accept crossclass cooperation and governing responsibility. Eduard David, for example, pleaded with his colleagues to recognize that, if the party did not join the government, then “we will have to accept that at a time when there was something to save [in Germany] we refused to give our help. . . . Will we make an earnest attempt to save the situation along with those who


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accept our conditions or will we say: ‘with you we will have nothing at all to do?’ This is the politics of intransigence [a]nd was [after all] the crucial point between the [USPD] and ourselves.”60 Similarly, Robert Leinert asked, “What can we offer the workers when they return from the front?” Continuing on the current path would only “embitter them with a policy of talk instead of action.”61 Eventually, of course, the MSPD did join the government when asked, but this was done against the wishes of a large minority of the party. On October 17, 1918, the Parteivorstand released a statement justifying the party’s decision as follows: “Only in order to protect our country and its economy against collapse have representatives of our party made the sacrifice of entering the government.”62 The equivocation and lack of enthusiasm exhibited by the MSPD toward the new political system had crucial consequences for the health of the new regime. “The hesitancy of the party executive on the issue of the Constitution and the widespread critique of the parliamentary system by the party press may have contributed [to the fact that] the constitutional changes of October 1918 were barely recognized as a fundamental change in the power structure and were not at all sufficient to rein in radical currents. The SPD was now paying for never being clear about what constitutional order [it wanted] or what, after the achievement of a majority, was to be striven for in the interest of the proletariat.” 63 As one Social Democrat later remarked: “It was unfortunate that we found ourselves in a situation that we were not prepared for. . . . We had not fought for it ourselves, it had, so to speak, fallen in our laps.”64 A more damning criticism of the SPD’s actions during this period came from Friedrich Stampfer, a member of the SPD executive: “We should have emphasized to the masses that with the realization of democracy half of the program of social democracy had been achieved, and that the task facing the party now was to extend the position that we had won. We should have impressed upon our party comrades that democracy was not just a preliminary stage on the way to socialism, but rather a valuable achievement on its own. Clearly [the party] lacked the intellectual preparation; [our] socialist theory had not considered the possibility of a takeover of power at a stage when it was not possible to bring about socialism.”65 In the fall of 1918, the MSPD found itself in possession of an unprecedented amount of political power. In contrast to its Swedish counterpart, however, the MSPD had developed neither a strategy for using this newfound political power nor any clear conception of what it wanted to

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achieve with it. This forced the MSPD to react to each challenge it faced during this period in an ad hoc manner; its responses were, therefore, uncoordinated and often counterproductive. Furthermore, without a set of relevant beliefs or experiences to guide it, the party became fearful of any radical changes in the status quo. This contributed to the party’s overreaction to the left and its decision to seek an alliance with the forces of the old regime; these, in turn, further alienated the SPD from many of its original supporters. Only in the context of the party’s programmatic beliefs and the legacy they bestowed on the MSPD can we therefore understand the “staggering lack of constructive initiative and tactical elasticity”66 exhibited by German social democracy from 1918 to 1920. Lost Opportunities, 1918–1920

In the months and years immediately following the collapse of the Wilhelmine Reich, the SPD found itself confronted with several key decisions in areas ranging from military policy to social policy. The hesitancy with which it handled these issues helped undermine the new republic. During the early phases of the German revolution, the military found itself in a condition of collapse. It more or less fell apart during the fall of 1918: revolts and desertions were commonplace, and troops showed little inclination to remain under the control of their officers.67 Support for reform of the army was high, as was support for the formation of a new republican fighting force (Volkswehr). The post-Ludendorff military leadership recognized that its position was threatened, and in response moved quickly to exploit the fears and disorder of the new government. On November 10, one day after the kaiser’s abdication, General Groener called Ebert to propose a logroll between the military and the new government.68 Groener told the new chancellor that the officer corps was particularly concerned to fight Bolshevism and was at the government’s disposal for this task. In return for Ebert’s allowing the authority of the general staff and officer corps to be preserved, Groener offered vague promises of loyalty to the new regime.69 Ebert, also fearing Bolshevism and the disorder that could result from the military’s continued collapse, agreed to the deal. But the pact between the two men was lopsided: the military leadership retained almost unhindered control over the armed forces, while Groener’s loyalty proved fleeting, a disparity that had fateful consequences for the Weimar Republic.


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Also on the heels of the MSPD’s movement into the government came the revelation of an agreement between the unions and the employers.70 By the end of the war, business leaders feared (and indeed expected) socialization and were prepared to make concessions to retain their property. This, together with a desire to prevent a possible leftward swing in the unions’ demands, led the employers to approach the unions and suggest a partnership between labor and capital. The agreement reached between the labor market partners recognized the unions as the “authorized representatives” of the workers; eliminated support for “yellow” (non-socialist) unions; instituted an eight-hour day; and accepted the establishment of workers’ committees in all firms with at least fifty employees. These achievements were important and should not be downplayed. Nevertheless, given the rapidity of the old regimes’ collapse and the impact that had on the position of the two partners, it is undeniable that the deal was favorable to the business community: As one commentor notes, “The business world and especially . . . heavy industry was able to safeguard and even enlarge its sphere of influence. This success is all the more remarkable since the fighting strength of the unions was appreciably increased by a mass influx of members in the months after the November collapse; for instance, the membership of the ‘free trade unions’ associated with the workers’ parties rose from about 2.8 million at the end of 1918 to 7.3 million at the end of 1919.” 71 Most interesting from the perspective of this study, however, is the lack of coordination during these negiotiations between the unions and the MSPD. In order to maximize their power and their ability to exact concessions from old elites, it would have made sense for the two arms of the labor movement to coordinate their actions as much as possible. Yet, as in its dealings with the military, the MSPD’s failure in the period before Germany’s collapse to come up with a plan of action and goals to strive for left the party unable to exploit fully the opportunities afforded it, and forced the unions to fend for themselves. As Albert Grzesinski, a key figure in the union movement, recalled: “No agreement whatsoever existed between the leaders of the Social Democrats and of the trade unions regarding the proper procedure to be followed. Nothing was prepared. Everything happened unexpectedly. . . . Without orders to guide us, we had to act upon our own initiative. I had to fall back on my own and my friends’ resources.” 72 A third important political decision taken by the MSPD in the immediate postwar period concerned decision-making power in the new republic.

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Lacking a plan of its own, the MSPD decided that the national assembly should be empowered to make all decisions regarding the future development of the German political system. On November 29 the Council of People’s Representatives called for elections to a constituent assembly. This assembly, the First National Congress of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Councils, met in Berlin from December 16 to 20 to decide on a date for national elections. Out of 514 delegates, nearly two-thirds were members of the SPD, less than one-fifth came from the USPD, and the rest either were members of bourgeois democratic groups or had no official party affiliation. The leaders of the extreme left, Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg, did not even receive a seat. This outcome was a fairly accurate reflection of the balance of power on the left. Especially during the early phase of the revolution, the power of left-wing radicals was quite small. Both the USPD and the Spartacists lacked the mass base and organizational power of the MSPD. Research has shown that the great majority of the workers’ and soldiers’ councils were dominated by the MSPD, moderate elements of the USPD, and even certain bourgeois elements. The councils in general saw themselves not as opponents of, or replacements for, the ruling Social Democrats, but rather as the local and regional representatives of the government.73 Despite the congress’s domination by candidates sympathetic to the MSPD, however, its demands reflected a desire for quicker reforms and much dissatisfaction with the achievements of the MSPD-led government. In contrast to the hopes of the MSPD leadership, the congress called for at least some socialization; the “disarming of the counterrevolution”; an end to the wearing of badges of rank and uniforms while off duty; a voice for the soldiers in the election of their officers; and the formation of a “People’s Militia.” These demands (known as the “Hamburg points”),74 reflected a relatively broad consensus on the need to democratize the army, the civil service, and the economy. Yet the government continued to hesitate, and its failure to act led to heavy criticism during December. Wilhelm Dittman of the USPD warned his MSPD colleagues that “the workers and soldiers councils would not stand by idly if the government and the Zentralrat nullified the most important resolutions of the entire congress.”75 Similarly, Gerhard Obuch asserted that “the danger from the left is just a bogeyman used in the attacks from the right,” while Hugo Haase argued that all it would take to


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decimate the Spartacists was to push through the social and economic measures being demanded by the masses.76 On December 28, the USPD withdrew from the Council of People’s Representatives because of the MSPD’s unwillingness to reform the army, and the government’s use of antirepublican troops (under the command of a reactionary general) to quell disturbances in Berlin. The withdrawal of the USPD led to the dismissal of almost all civil servants who were USPD members; when the USPD chief of police in Berlin refused to resign and the pace of reforms continued to plod, another bloody confrontation occurred in January 1919. This “January rising”—a movement led by elements to the left of the MSPD, including the newly formed Communist party—resulted in a large workers’ demonstration in Berlin and the storming of the Vorwärts building. A counterdemonstration called by the MSPD succeeded in largely neutralizing the movement, and the USPD offered to call the whole thing off. While Dittmann tried to find a formula satisfactory to both sides, Ebert decided “to teach the radicals a lesson they would never forget.”77 In order to put down what was actually a rather pathetic affair, Ebert’s colleague Gustav Noske relied chiefly on troops made up of reactionary ex-soldiers— the Freikorps. These troops went on a rampage, violently suppressing the workers and murdering the two best-known radical leaders, Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg; total casualties exceeded one thousand.78 This episode further tarnished the MSPD’s standing as an agent for real change in Germany and strengthened the forces of the old regime. Protests against the government continued to break out across Germany, but the elections of January 19, 1919, were a renewed victory for the forces of democracy. The SPD emerged as the largest party by far, receiving 38 percent of the vote. The USPD received 7.6 percent of the vote; the left liberals (DDP) 18.5 percent; the Catholic Center (Zentrum) 19.7 percent; and the right liberals (DVP) 4.4 percent. The USPD refused to enter a coalition with the MSPD; the majority coalition of the wartime Interfraktioneller Ausschuss therefore reconstituted itself as the “Weimar coalition.” Together these parties had captured over 76 percent of the vote; in comparison, the 1919 elections in Sweden gave the Social Democratic–Liberal coalition only 56 percent (the SAP receiving 30.5 percent, the Liberals 25.4 percent, and the Left Socialists 5.8 percent). The National Assembly chose Friedrich Ebert as Germany’s first president; Ebert then called on Philipp

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Scheidemann to form a government. In this government the MSPD held almost all the important portfolios, including defense, economics, food, and welfare. The new government’s mandate clearly included far-reaching economic and social policy goals (including some nationalization); soon the Assembly got to work preparing a constitution. And yet once again, because the SPD had developed neither a political nor a constitutional strategy of its own, the party did not exert much direct influence over the formulation of the final document. Instead, the most important figures in this endeavor came from the liberal camp (e.g., Hugo Preuss, Max Weber, Friedrich Naumann).79 During the early months of 1919, the balance of forces in Germany began to change. Turbulence grew throughout the winter. Strikes plagued the country, and isolated instances of Council Republics (Räterepubliken) were declared. Now, however, in contrast to 1918, the demands made by those involved in disturbances showed clear signs of radicalization and a rejection of the “Weimar” parties. The MSPD-led government dealt with these uprisings with the help of the Freikorps, feeding the disgust of many and further weakening support for the MSPD and the free trade unions.80 Throughout this period, the SPD leaders reacted defensively to demands made by the masses, often using force to ward off attacks from the left. The party made little attempt to reach out to a broad constituency or to increase the pace of reform. Rather, it continued to see the mass movement as a threat instead of a challenge and proved unable or unwilling to change course. The counterproductive nature of this position was reflected in another set of elections in June 1919 in which the SPD’s share of the vote declined significantly, while the USPD scored impressive gains. The SPD’s window of opportunity was closing quickly. Indeed, the ramifications of the Versailles treaty, together with the ineptitude of the MSPD and the radicalization of the workers, soon caused a shift in the sympathies of the middle class and a renewed sense of power on the right. On March 13, 1920, a group of right-wing militarists under the leadership of Wolfgang Kapp and General Ludendorff attempted a putsch. Among the leaders of the military only a single figure, General Reinhardt, was prepared to use force to fight the insurrection; and so despite their attempts to appease the army, Ebert and Noske were now left without troops to defend the government. Many members of the bureaucracy also refused to support the republican forces, while members of the old conser-


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vative elite received news of the putsch with glee. The failure of the SPD to move earlier against certain reactionary structures left over from the Wilhelmine state had now returned to haunt it. The MSPD became paralyzed and confused during the putsch. Its failure to put forth a strategy for dealing with the uprising led the trade unions (under Carl Legien) to become the leading defenders of democracy. Deciding that only a show of mass force could deal with the situation, the unions reversed their traditional stance and agreed to a general strike. This was hugely successful, rallying workers as well as important sections of the middle class throughout the country, and the putsch quickly collapsed. In its aftermath the strikers and unions made a number of demands on the government: the resignation of Noske and two other ministers with ties to the military; harsh punishment for right-wing participants in the coup; a purge of the army and civil service; and the socialization of certain “ripe” industries. “Never before and never after was the solidarity of the common people of Germany as great as it was during the Kapp days. Never before and never after had they so great a chance to rid themselves, once and for all, of the powers of reaction and aggression and to lay the foundations for a living democracy. This chance they forfeited.”81 Despite the relatively clear-cut demands of the strikers and unions and the surge in support for the republic after the putsch attempt, little action was taken. Of the 705 people officially listed as having taken part in the coup, only one, Kapp, got a prison sentence; nothing much was done to deal with either the military or the bureaucracy, and no socialization occurred.82 “Once again a golden opportunity was thrown away.”83 The handling of the Kapp putsch furthered the destructive trends set in motion by what Theodore Wolff called “the Dupe’s Revolution.”84 Unrest continued throughout Germany (the Ruhr, in particular, was the site of a violent uprising),85 workers flocked to parties further to the left of the MSPD, and the consolidation of the right continued apace. The elections of June 1920 were a debacle for the parties of the Weimar coalition; the SPD and the DDP suffered heavy losses, while the parties of the right (DNVP and DVP) and left (USPD and to some degree KPD) saw their share of the vote balloon. Thus the parties most closely associated with the new republic lost their majority less than two years after having been swept into office and only a year and a half after they had enjoyed the support of 76 percent of the electorate. Not surprisingly, by this point many saw the MSPD not as

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the embattled leader of a new Germany but as a group of unimaginative, “so-called revolutionaries.” Observing the unfolding events, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “Under the pretense of a great upheaval, the old want of character persists.”86 The parties of the Weimar coalition would never again regain their mandate; an opportunity to more firmly establish the foundation of democracy in Germany had passed. Conclusion

It would be folly to downplay the difficulties facing the SPD during 1918– 1920. The legacy of a lost war and the extreme disruption of German society and the economy did indeed confront the SPD with an extremely demanding task upon taking the reins of the state. It is also true, however, that many measures that could have strengthened the new democracy were not taken, while many actions that unnecessarily weakened the republic were.87 Contrasting the behavior of the German SPD and the Swedish SAP, perhaps more important than any particular policy choice was the fact that the latter acted offensively while the former did the reverse. As a result, at the end of the revolutionary period, the SAP could continue to proclaim itself the leader of the progressive forces in Sweden, while the SPD’s indecisiveness opened it to attacks from both the German left and right. Both parties’ actions, furthermore, can be understood only in the context of their respective programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped create. The SPD’s programmatic beliefs contributed both directly and indirectly to the party’s inefficacious behavior during the revolutionary period. For some in the party, continued adherence to an orthodox Marxism directly ruled out certain courses of action. Hence the resistance, especially before 1917, of some within the SPD to alliances with Liberals and the difficulty of the final decision to join the government were linked to the hold certain ideas had over particular individuals. In general, however, the main influence of the SPD’s programmatic beliefs was more indirect. Since the late nineteenth century, the programmatic beliefs of the SPD had pushed the party down a particular path. The party’s official positions—that capitalism was on the verge of collapse; that the current political system could not and should not be reformed; that cross-class cooperation was impossible— hindered attempts to adapt to opportunities afforded by the increasingly strained Wilhelmine system. Consequently, although the SPD gradually


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came to accept some participation in the system in the years before and during the First World War, the party never seriously debated the longterm viability of a political or economic strategy based on collaboration with existing structures. Instead, it stuck with its traditional positions, fearing that any radical break would increase internal tensions and cause a loss in support. Consequently, unlike its Swedish counterpart, the SPD was not able to develop a coherent political program for taking advantage of changes in its political environment during the prewar period. As the old regime started to collapse, many belatedly began to recognize the need for a course shift, but divisions within the party, the antitheoretical nature of most of the MSPD’s leaders (a legacy, at least partly, of an organizational structure shaped by the party’s programmatic beliefs), and the short time frame within which events unfolded condemned to failure any attempt to come up with a strategy during the revolutionary period. This lack of planning forced the party to move from situation to situation without an overarching conception of where it should be going. In the extremely unsettled and portentous situation of 1918–1920, such behavior on the part of the SPD had momentous consequences for the fate of interwar German democracy.

CHAPTER

7 The Origins of Social Democratic Hegemony We Social Democrats cannot accept a system where during all times, even the best, up to 10 percent of the workers must be unemployed, and during worse times, even more. We refuse to admit that this is necessary and natural despite how much people come armed with theories stating that this must be so. ernst w igforss, speech in second chamber of parliament, 1930

By the start of the 1920s, Sweden had democratized successfully. It would be another decade and a half, however, before the SAP vaulted to political hegemony. Two crucial SAP choices helped bring about this transition: the decision to respond to the economic crisis of the Great Depression with innovative Keynesian policies, and the decision to ally with the farmers’ party in order to form a majority electoral coalition. The German Social Democrats, in contrast, chose a different path during this same period, with important implications for the fate of the Weimar Republic. Understanding the different decisions made by these two parties requires focusing on their programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped create. A crucial difference between the SAP and the SPD during the interwar years was that the former adjusted much more successfully to functioning in a democratic-capitalist society. Although both parties found themselves disappointed and confused when democratization did not lead directly to socialism, the SAP was eventually able to develop a dynamic new strategy; when Europe was thrown into crisis in the early 1930s, it was able to imple150


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ment its new plans and bring about a transition to Social Democratic hegemony. As was the case during the Swedish revolution, moreover, during the Depression the SAP looked to its programmatic beliefs for solutions. Before 1914, such beliefs had directed the party toward practical reforms and alliances with other democratic-minded groups in Swedish society. During the interwar period, therefore, the SAP could look back on a long tradition of using its political power to progressively improve the lives of the working class and of reaching out to other social groups suffering from unfettered capitalism. In the 1920s the SAP drew on this legacy to construct an explicit people’s party appeal and a new view of capitalism. When the Depression hit Sweden, the SAP was able, therefore, to take advantage of the longing for change engendered by the crisis by offering the electorate dynamic and innovative political and economic programs. It was the perceived success of the SAP’s strategy for dealing with Depression, in turn, that catapulted the party into the hegemonic position it retained for decades. This chapter analyzes the origins of Social Democratic hegemony in Sweden. First, I sketch the background political and economic conditions of the 1920s. Then I discuss the development of political and economic theory within the SAP during the same period. Finally, I trace the mixture of the two in the formulation, adoption, and implementation of the SAP’s crisis package, which set the mold for later Swedish politics. Political and Economic Conditions in Sweden after the Transition to Democracy

Swedish politics during the years following democratization was unstable. From 1919 to 1932, Sweden suffered through ten governments. Ironically, this situation was largely a result of the advent of democracy itself, because whereas before 1918 the Social Democrats and Liberals could often cooperate in order to achieve their shared goal of political liberalization, once this had been achieved, strains within the coalition began to appear almost immediately. By 1919, many within the SAP argued that continued cooperation with the Liberals was weakening the party and that the alliance would soon break up regardless of what the SAP did. At a meeting in August 1919 to discuss this topic, Branting agreed, stating that with the

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achievement of democracy and the eight-hour day the platform on which the government had originally come to power had largely been fulfilled. “But we should not close our eyes,” he reminded his colleagues, “to the political consequences of the coalition’s break-up. If this should result in a large number of Liberals being driven over to the right, the consequence would be a right-wing regime, even if of a somewhat moderate variety. This, in turn, would lead to conflicts between workers and this government, which probably would not be especially peaceful.”1 For their part, the Liberals were also being urged to end the coalition. In particular, the farmers’ wing of the party wanted an end to concessions to the SAP, and this pressure increased as a result of the activities of anti-Socialist farmers’ parties that had formed during the war (see below). Not surprisingly, therefore, soon after passing a sweeping constitutional reform, the Social Democratic–Liberal coalition government broke up in 1920 when the SAP tried to push through certain economic reforms.2 During the election of 1920, negotiations between the Liberals and the SAP collapsed, and the Liberals cooperated with Conservatives in a number of districts instead.3 The outcome of the election was a slight setback for the SAP, but the party still remained the largest in parliament.4 Because the Liberals and Social Democrats were no longer actively cooperating, however, a purely Social Democratic minority government came to office in March 1920 with Branting as prime minister. The SAP was reluctant to take this step but felt that it had to try forming a government, since it had initiated the previous one’s breakup; not doing so, some party members feared, might endanger the functioning of the new democratic political system.5 The party released a statement declaring that its minority status limited its mandate and that its main goal was reforming communal taxation;6 and when the party’s tax bill was defeated, the government resigned. The first pure Social Democratic government in world history thus lasted only six months. The SAP formed minority governments twice more in the years ahead but remained out of power during the latter part of the decade. During the interwar period the Swedish bourgeois (i.e., non-Socialist) parties remained split among liberal, farmer, and conservative groups. As was the case in Germany, the liberal part of the spectrum was particularly divided. In 1923 the main liberal party (Liberala Samlingspartiet), which had been on the downswing since 1914, split into two new parties (Frisinnade Folkpartiet and Liberala Riksdagspartiet). This split could not, however, reverse the liberal decline, and by 1930 the two parties together cap-


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tured only about 13 percent of the vote. The divisions on the bourgeois side of the political spectrum meant that the strength of the business community in the economic sphere could not be translated directly into political power. This may have led employers to rely more on economic than political weapons in their struggle with the labor movement, thereby contributing to Sweden’s extraordinary rates of labor market conflict. From 1890 to 1930, Sweden led the Western world in strikes and lockouts; in 1928 alone, a remarkable 5 million workdays were lost.7 A government minister remarked: “One lamentable fact is that during the last years our country has become the land of strikes, boycotts and lockouts. In this respect we have broken all world records.”8 Farmers were, in general, anti-Socialist, and allied with employers in most disputes. Both Conservative and Liberal parties had heavy agricultural contingents, although the latter was oriented more than the former to petty freeholders. In 1914–1915, two distinctive farmers’ parties were founded, which gained significant support as a result of discontent with the government’s wartime food policies. These parties were considered to be on the far right and were characterized by a peculiar brand of anticapitalist sentiment; both were pro-German during the war and opposed demands for democratization. These parties “regarded big capital and supranational socialism as children of the same spirit” and helped keep alive the hostility between workers and farmers that had grown as a result of the war and the difficult food situation accompanying it. Hence, at the beginning of the interwar period, hostility between farmers and workers was a fact of Swedish political life.9 As for the Left Socialists, in a pattern not dissimilar to the one in Germany, once the war was over and Sweden had successfully democratized, divisions within the party grew. In particular, conflicts arose between those Left Socialists favoring the Bolshevist insurrectionary model and those preferring a legal route to power. The Bolshevist wing eventually left to form a communist party, and in 1923 most of the remaining Left Socialists rejoined the SAP. In the coming years, the increasing dogmatism of the Comintern caused further splits within the Swedish communist movement. Groups to the left of the SAP usually garnered around 5 or 6 percent of the total vote during the 1920s, increasing somewhat as the Depression made itself felt in the early 1930s.10 As in many other European countries, the First World War had an extremely disruptive effect on the Swedish economy. From 1913 to 1918,

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wages, prices, and the cost of living tripled.11 There was a general consensus, consequently, that price stability should be the main goal of the nation’s economic policy.12 When the Europe-wide depression reached Sweden in the fall of 1920, many interpreted it as a necessary corrective to the economic problems generated by the war. Interest rate policy during the early 1920s accentuated the downswing despite the devastating effects this had on unemployment rates and industrial production.13 By the mid-1920s, the economy was on the upswing, but indicators remained mixed. Industrial production seems to have increased, and to have reached a very high level in comparison with other industrial countries, and in 1924 Sweden was able to return to the gold standard. The price of these successes, however, was high: during the downturn, GNP had fallen by almost one-third and unemployment had increased to almost 30 percent.14 Conservatives and businessmen attributed much of Sweden’s continuing economic trouble, particularly its problem with unemployment, to overly high wages. As was the case in much of Europe, the hourly wages of Swedish industrial workers rose rapidly after the war, due at least in part to the introduction of the eight-hour day, and rising wage costs led to rationalization and high unemployment.15 During this time, a leading figure in the main Swedish employer confederation, the SAF, commented: “Everyone . . . has realized that the wage reductions which have occurred . . . are really just adjustments and are simply not enough. A reduction of less than 20 percent will not be able to contribute effectively to winning back industry’s competitiveness.”16 The severity of Sweden’s unemployment problem had already been clear at the beginning of the war. In 1914 the Swedish government appointed an advisory council to “prepare measures to counteract the unemployment expected under the present circumstances and alleviate its effects.”17 The unemployment commission (Arbetslöshetskommissionen, or AK) consisted of representatives of different labor market groups.18 The system that was devised was national in scope but retained the principle of primary local and individual responsibility; individuals had no automatic right to relief, and the national government stepped in only when the local commune was unable to bear the burden. Relief standards were set as low as possible in order to make receiving benefits extremely unattractive. By the early 1920s a “work line” dominated the AK, but this organization never provided work for anywhere near the number of people who applied for it.19 Hence, cash payments supplemented relief work programs.


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The SAP opposed this system for a number of reasons. First, and most important, it objected to the AK’s ability to refer unemployed workers to businesses involved in strikes (the so-called konfliktdirektiv).20 Second, the SAP preferred an insurance-based system to one relying primarily on relief works and cash payments. Since 1911, the party had called for an unemployment insurance system and, especially after 1927, looked to Germany as a model.21 At this time some unions in Sweden already had their own unemployment programs, and many favored the expansion of these as the most effective way of dealing with unemployment.22 As in Germany, disputes over the nature and level of unemployment compensation were heated during these years, and Social Democratic governments chose to resign when they could not get parliamentary support for their proposals on this subject. Economic and political conditions in the 1920s led to frustration and an increasing desire for change on both ends of the political spectrum. By the end of the decade, there were indications that the bourgeois parties were eager to cooperate more, and the 1928 campaign was the most heated since 1914. Within the labor movement, frustration had been growing over the ineptitude of previous governments. Hansson, for example, argued in 1928 that the decade’s shifting and unstable governments had “decreased confidence in parliamentary democracy and was creating widespread political dissatisfaction.” 23 The SAP’s 1928 electoral campaign emphasized the undemocratic nature of Swedish society. A party electoral brochure argued: “Universal suffrage is incompatible with a society divided into a small class of property owners and a large class of the propertyless. Either the rich property owners will try to get rid of universal suffrage or the poor will try, with the help of universal suffrage, to secure themselves a share of the collective wealth.” 24 The SAP’s calls for increased inheritance taxes and the introduction of some measure of industrial democracy were interpreted by the bourgeois parties as signs of radicalization. In many areas the bourgeois parties joined forces, painting the Social Democrats and Communists as a single entity.25 The outcome of the election was considered a defeat for the SAP: the party’s share of the vote dropped somewhat, and it lost fifteen seats in Parliament, while the Conservatives gained eight new seats and were able to form the next government. In the final analysis, therefore, the 1920s were a difficult decade for both Sweden and the SAP. As the decade progressed, intelligent political observers understood that in a system characterized by a plurality Social

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Democratic party and a divided right, the only way to end political instability was for either half of the political spectrum to devise some way of creating a majority coalition. To do this, however, a strategy capable of radically restructuring political and economic patterns would be necessary. The SAP, like its German counterpart, failed to achieve any major political or economic changes during the 1920s; in Sweden, however, this failure led many Social Democrats to begin reconceptualizing the party’s role in the political and economic spheres. Building on the party’s previous reform and cross-class outreach efforts, important figures within the SAP began to devise strategies to help their party push Sweden further along the path to social democracy. These efforts bore fruit when the party put forth a new understanding of capitalism and the government’s role in the economy, while at the same time forging an alliance with the Agrarian party. In order to understand how the SAP was able to recapture the political and economic initiative in the early 1930s, however, one needs to examine not only the nature of the SAP’s environment but also the development of the party’s views on politics and economics during the 1920s. The SAP and the Folkhemmet

Amid political instability and signs of impending economic depression, people across Europe longed for an end to the conflicts and volatility of the 1920s. In some countries the call for national unity came from the right, particularly from growing fascist movements. In Sweden, however, the call for social cooperation came from the Social Democrats. Some argue that the cross-class, worker-peasant alliance that arose in Sweden in the early 1930s was inevitable—emerging out of the logic of either economics or class structures.26 This study argues, in contrast, that the SAP’s emergence as the natural party of government cannot be understood without reference to the party’s programmatic beliefs. The concept of the “people’s party,” of the unity of interest between different social groups, had a long history within the SAP. Consequently, when political and economic conditions seemed to call for new strategies, the SAP already had both an ideational framework within which a successful appeal could be formulated and experience in reaching out to groups outside the industrial proletariat. The main figure in the political renewal of the SAP was Per Albin Hansson, who became the party’s leader soon after Branting died. Hansson spent most of his adult life within the Social Democratic movement.27 In


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1908 he was appointed chairman of the Social Democratic Youth League and, having attracted Branting’s attention, was called to work at the party’s Stockholm paper, Social-Demokraten. He was elected to parliament in 1917, served in Social Democratic governments during the interwar period, and became party chairman in 1928. Very much a product of traditional Social Democratic politics, Hansson’s policies emerged from his belief in evolutionary socialism and the centrality of democracy. Hansson’s concept of socialist society as the “people’s home” (folkhemmet) was articulated in a 1928 Riksdag debate, and it is worth quoting his speech at length: The basis of the home is community and togetherness. The good home does not recognize any privileged or neglected members, nor any favorite or stepchildren. In the good home there is equality, consideration, cooperation, and helpfulness. Applied to the great people’s and citizens’ home this would mean the breaking down of all the social and economic barriers that now separate citizens into the privileged and the neglected, into the rulers and the dependents, into the rich and the poor, the propertied and the impoverished, the plunderers and the plundered. Swedish society is not yet the people’s home. There is a formal equality, equality of political rights, but from a social perspective, the class society remains and from an economic perspective the dictatorship of the few prevails.28

Hansson presented the folkhemmet as the natural culmination of the SAP’s reformist, evolutionary social democracy: “It is people themselves who in cooperation [with each other] and through gradual reforms make life easier to live. Given this development a cooperation over party boundaries should be natural. . . . [We should] compromise . . . but not give up our principled views. On the contrary, the firmness of our ideological convictions is a precondition for compromises.”29 In his calls for cooperation and the “people’s home,” Hansson reminded Social Democrats and others that the party’s main goal was the expansion and deepening of the concept of democracy. “In a democratic society no one can have a legitimate claim to be favored above others. . . . Differences of social class and economic dictatorship stand in untenable opposition to political equality. The unavoidable consequence of universal suffrage is social equality, just economic distribution, and popular rule in all spheres.”30 The concept of the “people’s home” gave Hansson a standard against which he could criticize the inadequacies of capitalist society. In particular, he condemned capitalism

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for its undemocratic nature and the insecurity it produced. By joining together in the “people’s home,” individuals could help eradicate the deficiencies of the contemporary system: “It is not a question of one’s bread being the other’s death, but of everyone’s right to live and work under more secure conditions . . . with access to the material welfare and cultural goods that an employed and well-organized society with just distribution can offer its members. It would be the most natural thing in the world if the oppressed united to help each other.”31 Hansson argued that the themes of democracy and security, cooperation and community, were the natural basis on which the SAP should try to attract new voters and break the political deadlock of minority government. He did not believe that there was a necessary trade-off between appealing to workers and to other social groups. He argued that certain social conflicts were avoidable because “the expansion of the party to a people’s party does not mean and must not mean a watering down of socialist demands.”32 Instead, by bringing people together, the SAP could finally “solve the problem of changing [the contemporary] class society into the good, democratic people’s home.”33 Hansson grounded his strategy in the SAP’s own history and traditional values. As noted in Chapter 3, the SAP had early on embraced a less conflictual view of the class struggle than that of many of its European counterparts. Together with the decision to concentrate its efforts on the achievement of democracy, this led the SAP to try to attract, or at least break down the hostility of, nonproletarian groups in the period before the First World War. By the early years of the century, the Swedish Social Democrats were directing much of their propaganda and aiming many of their policies at the “people,” the “weak,” or the “oppressed.” Hansson argued that the folkhemmet would reassert and recast this traditional emphasis of the SAP. He argued furthermore that this inclusive strategy was Branting’s legacy to the party and had always been the correct basis of Swedish social democracy: “It is anchored in our party program and . . . we must work to realize this idea to the highest degree possible. . . . If I did not believe in the possibility of uniting the interests [of the many,] . . . I would not believe in socialism either.”34 Hansson was not alone in his desire to expand the SAP’s appeal. Throughout the 1920s, many within the party began to consider new ways of reaching out to nonproletarian groups. Perhaps partly due to difficulties dealing with Liberals after 1920, an increasing number of Social Democrats


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began to turn their attention to Sweden’s small farmers. Like most of their European counterparts, Swedish farmers saw their economic position deteriorate during the 1920s. The SAP had adopted an agriculture program in 1911 that accepted the right of small farmers to ownership of their land, and a new program adopted in 1920 continued on this policy path. It stated once again that workers and small farmers were on the same side, both exploited by and suffering from the capitalist system. The conflict between capital and labor had widened over the previous years, the party declared, “to encompass a thoroughgoing societal division between the exploited and their capitalist exploiters.” The party favored various measures to help small farmers and was particularly interested in fostering cooperative trends within the agricultural sector. During the 1920s, Per Edvin Sköld, one of the SAP’s most important spokesmen on agricultural issues, agitated for increasing the organization of small farmers along the Danish model.35 And while the 1920 program favored societal ownership of large landholdings and natural resources, it reaffirmed that it would otherwise leave private landownership untouched.36 During the middle and late 1920s, the SAP continued to debate the correct relationship between social democracy and small farmers. Like other European Social Democratic parties, the SAP had a strong tradition of advocating free trade, since tariffs hit workers the hardest by raising the cost of food and other products.37 Nonetheless, by the end of the decade, the crisis within agriculture had led to increasing calls for tariffs, which, together with the political stalemate, led some Swedish Social Democrats to reconsider their views. At a meeting of the party executive in 1928, for example, Möller argued that “we must find ways to bring our party closer to a real people’s party. We should carefully accumulate experience concerning the relationships and mentality of farmers. We should direct ourselves toward breaking down the distrust which rises up against us from many directions.” The executive decided to arrange a conference to help rethink the party’s agricultural policy and relationship with farmers.38 In 1929 a debate over raising tariffs on sugar pushed the SAP further toward a reconsideration of its views on agriculture. Amid increasing calls for protectionism, a group of Social Democrats including Wigforss, Sköld, and Allan Vougt favored providing farmers with support payments in order to prevent a catastrophe on the land. Subsequent intraparty debate showed that within the SAP a large group was willing to provide farmers

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with cash disbursements provided the farmers agreed to a larger role for the state in shaping and directing agricultural development. As we will see in the next section, this shift in views toward agriculture was part of a larger change going on within the SAP.39 By the end of the decade, the belief that the state could and should play a larger role in controlling economic development was growing within the SAP. By the beginning of the 1930s, therefore, the SAP was armed with a new political appeal and had taken important steps toward creating a new understanding with Sweden’s farmers. Hansson’s folkhemmet strategy had fallen on fertile ground within the SAP because, in contrast to what we will see in Germany, the explicit acceptance of a people’s party strategy did not require the SAP to radically reevaluate either its self-conception or its goals. By the time the Depression began to make itself felt in Sweden, the folkhemmet had already become a centerpiece of Social Democratic propaganda and complemented a belief that, once in control of the state, social democracy could and should radically change the functioning of the capitalist system. The SAP and the Development of “Keynesianism before Keynes”

Once democratization had been achieved, Social Democratic parties across Europe turned their attention to economic reform. In almost all parties this shift caused confusion and controversy, and the SAP was no exception. As was the case in Germany, the SAP’s initial efforts at socialization were defeated, forcing the party to reexamine its long-term economic strategy. Unlike its German counterpart, however, the SAP did eventually adopt a radical new understanding of the economy and was able to use this as a weapon in the struggle to break the deadlock in its nation’s political system. Various explanations, from the role of economists to the structure of political and economic institutions, have been put forward to explain this shift;40 what has been insufficiently appreciated, however, is that the SAP’s ability to assimilate and exploit the new economic ideas of the early 1930s cannot be understood without reference to the party’s programmatic beliefs. Because the SAP had long accepted the need for gradual reforms and the desirability of working within capitalism to improve the lives of the Swedish people, the logic of Keynesianism was neither foreign nor antithetical to the party’s self-conception and its understanding of the transition to socialism. In order to understand how and why Keynesianism was accepted


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by the SAP, therefore, we must first examine the development of the party’s views on economic policy during the 1920s. One of the first acts of the Social Democratic government that came to power in 1920 was to set up a socialization commission. Political opposition and economic difficulties, however, led the commission to produce various “white papers” and proposals but few concrete results.41 Yet even in 1918, doubts had been raised about the desirability of socialization. Many argued that the party had never regarded socialization as a goal in and of itself, but rather as means to an end; what the SAP now needed, they felt, was to find more practical and efficient ways of achieving traditional goals. Gustav Möller, for example, began to push this line. His influential 1918 article “The Social Revolution” argued that socialism could be achieved only gradually and that experimentation with different policies was necessary. Furthermore, Möller urged his colleagues to remember that the expansion of democracy to all areas of society was the movement’s ultimate goal: a socialist society would be one where “complete democracy rules and economic exploitation does not exist.”42 Möller felt that the basic problem with capitalist economies was their “planlessness” and their inability to provide for the needs of all citizens. In the political sphere, social democracy had to create a majority for its view of the good society; in the economic sphere, it had to work to increase production—the pie had to grow so that all could get larger and more equitably distributed shares. At a meeting of the party executive called in May 1919 to discuss economic reform and socialization, Möller was given an opportunity to elaborate his views. Some attendees expressed doubts about the efficiency and possible antidemocratic consequences of state control of the economy. Bernhard Eriksson, an MP who would become one of the SAP’s chief social policy spokesmen, argued: “There is much truth in our opponents’ observation that state management is not as economically advantageous as private management. This is above all because of the bureaucratization inside state enterprises. On the whole it is doubtful whether the state is suited to administer economic firms.”43 Others argued that an overemphasis on socialization would drive away many potential voters and still fail to meet the expectations of many workers. Möller, however, argued that sidestepping the issue of socialization and economic reform would make the party appear directionless and increase the frustration of the working classes. In order to remain a dynamic and popular political movement now that democracy had been achieved, he felt, the party had to provide the

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electorate with a clear indication of how it would work for the continual transformation of society. “The point,” Möller argued, “is not to present a specific socialization program, but we can investigate what measures are needed to increase production. That is the only way genuinely to improve the social position of the great mass of people. Just as constitutional questions previously were the natural focus of our electoral platform, so now socialization questions must become fundamental.”44 Möller stressed what would become an increasingly important theme of SAP debates on economic policy: economic reforms had to be judged at least partly on their ability to contribute to the increasing prosperity of society. This criterion became central for the new generation of leaders taking control of the SAP in the mid-1920s, who had watched the communist experiment in Russia and lived through the economic shocks generated by the First World War. “Increased production means a higher standard of welfare for all people,” Wigforss argued.45 Oscar Larsson called for “a powerful increase in material production.”46 Rickard Linström urged Social Democrats to remember that if “socialism is to flourish then it must build on reality. . . . Increased production” is the only basis upon which a more equitable society can be built.47 Nils Karleby asserted that “improvements in the efficiency of economic activity has always been, and should continue to be, the only means . . . of improving society’s welfare.”48 The most important single contribution to the debate over SAP economic policy in this era was Nils Karleby’s Socialism in the Face of Reality.49 As with Möller, Karleby’s economic policy prescriptions stressed traditional themes of Swedish social democracy. He argued that while the party had to remain true to its (Marxist-inspired) ideals, it had always been the essence of Swedish social democracy to formulate strategy with regard to continually evolving circumstances. This mix of idealism and pragmatism, he argued, was the defining characteristic of the SAP and differentiated it from its German counterpart: [The SPD presents itself] as the true administrator of [Marx’s] heritage. Not on a single point has this party been able to create something independent, not on a single point has this party been able to more than uncritically take up (and as a rule, in the process coarsen the content of) the Master’s word. Those who have had to confront practical tasks and have tried to find guidelines for action within [the SPD] have been terribly disappointed. . . . [If, on the other hand, one studied the SAP’s] prac-


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tical work and intellectual life, one would come to the conclusion that this party . . . was fundamentally superior to the German both in questions of theoretical clarity and independence and in questions of practical capabilities.50

Karleby urged social democrats to view capitalism, or bourgeois property relations, as a bundle of rights. If ownership is only the conglomeration of a number of individual rights, then these rights could be separated from one another and gradually made subject to societal influence. “This conception gives Social Democrats a rationale for gradually stripping away the prerogatives of capitalists, like layers of an onion, until nothing remains.”51 This led Karleby to argue that any reforms or legislation limiting capitalists’ control over societal and economic resources was a step in the direction of a socialist society. Just because some capitalist structures remained, in other words, that did not mean society was not fundamentally changing: “All social reforms . . . resulting in an increase in societal and a decrease in private control over property [represent a stage in] social transformation. . . . [Furthermore], social policies are, in fact, an overstepping of the boundaries of capitalism . . . an actual shift in the position of workers in society and the production process. This is the original [and uniquely] Social Democratic view.”52 Karleby’s work suggested, in other words, that “reforms do not merely prepare the transformation of society, they are the transformation itself.”53 Karleby’s book had an immense impact on the Swedish labor movement. It provided an intellectual foundation for the generation of SAP leaders coming to age in the 1920s and 1930s, while reinforcing and reinvigorating the SAP’s traditional emphasis on gradual reforms and working within existing structures to achieve long-term goals. Future Prime Minister Tage Erlander recalled how the book was “read with a feeling of . . . emancipation. . . . [Karleby] taught us that socialization was one instrument for socialist transformation among many others and by no means the most important.” 54 Alongside Karleby, many within the SAP came to accept that the best way of transforming society was not by directly controlling all its economic functions but through economic planning.55 By exerting influence, often indirect, over the production and distribution of resources, Social Democrats could reach many of their goals without the potential inefficiency and loss of freedom connected with traditional socialization strategies. Within

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the SAP, therefore, emphasis was increasingly placed on developing reform strategies capable of giving workers greater control over their jobs and lives and on devising ways to use the power of the state to control the capitalist system.56 It is only against this theoretical background that the SAP’s economic course shift in the early 1930s can be understood. The Formulation and Adoption of Keynesian Policies in Sweden

While many within the SAP became interested in the economic ideas that would eventually become known as Keynesianism,57 the development of these ideas within the labor movement and their acceptance by the SAP were to a large degree the result of the efforts of Ernst Wigforss. Wigforss embodies many of the unique characteristics of Swedish social democracy that this study has described: he believed in an evolutionary and reformist socialism that had revolutionary goals; he was a practitioner-politician, as well as an important theorist; and his politics had their roots in both Liberalism and Marxism. Wigforss spent much of his adult life in party service, serving in parliament from 1919 to 1953 and occupying the critical post of finance minister from 1932 to 1949.58 Although not trained as an economist, Wigforss began studying economics in order to help the party devise new means for achieving Social Democratic ends. He recognized that “What is missing in our Swedish Social Democracy, as well as in the large part of the international social democratic movement is . . . clarity regarding the ways [to achieve our goals. If we could create this] then we could also create the self-confidence that is necessary in order to succeed.”59 During the interwar period, Wigforss and an important group of Social Democrats closely followed the economic and social policy debates conducted in England.60 Social Democratic newspapers and journals of the period (especially the party’s main theoretical organ, Tiden) were full of discussions about and reviews of the latest books and research reports emerging from England. Wigforss recalls how in the years leading up to the Depression, “it was natural to follow English Liberal politics [and] discussions within English Liberalism, especially within its more radical forms.”61 Particularly influential was The Yellow Book.62 This came out in February 1928; by March, Wigforss had already published three commentaries on it in Arbetet. In these articles he stressed that “there [are other] ways to deal with unemployment . . . besides the lowering of wages.” A more productive use of existing resources


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could achieve results without further injuring the wages and life chances of working people. Interestingly, many of the Social Democratic reformers focused on the overlap between the thinking of radical Liberals in England and the Social Democrats in Sweden. Wigforss, for example, argued: “If we had Liberals here in Sweden of the English type . . . a Left political course would be secured for the near future.”63 Rickard Lindström, another key figure in transmitting the English debate to Sweden as London correspondent for a number of Social Democratic newspapers, argued that “the [English] Liberal programs of the contemporary period include so much pure socialism that there is more than enough for a common action platform for the two parties of the Left.”64 (This reveals as much about the SAP’s view of socialism as it does about the politics of English liberals.) Through his studies of economics and the English radical Liberals, Wigforss became convinced that the way to conquer the economic crisis was through stimulating aggregate demand.65 In his 1928 article “Savings, Wastefulness and the Unemployed,” Wigforss argued: “If I want work for 100 people I do not need to put all 100 to work. . . . [I]f I can get an unemployed tailor work, he will get the opportunity to buy himself new shoes and in this way an unemployed shoemaker will get work. . . . This crisis is characterized above all by a relationship which is called a vicious circle. . . . One can say the crisis drives itself once it begins, and it [will] be the same once recovery begins.”66 In a pamphlet called “The Economic Crisis,” Wigforss outlined a new approach to economic policy. He argued that the main problem with capitalism was that it allowed productive resources to go to waste, thereby artificially lowering demand and the standard of living of the vast majority of individuals. He favored putting these resources back into use through state-sponsored work programs. To counter those who argued that his policies would rob the Swedish people by encouraging inflation, he argued that “to the degree that these workers [employed by state-sponsored programs] are provided with the purchasing power that savers have hesitated to use, total purchasing power will not exceed [what can be satisfied by what is produced] and therefore the prices of goods will remain the same.” 67 In his 1932 election pamphlet “Can We Afford to Work?”68 Wigforss again argued that government-initiated work creation, and the concomitant rise in purchasing power, was the only way to get the economy back on its feet. He asserted that the policies advocated by the SAP would

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free the economy and the great masses of Swedish society from the chains placed on them by capitalists. During the early 1930s, Wigforss and his fellow advocates of a “Keynesian” course shift undertook an intensive campaign, first to convince their party and then to help their party convince the electorate, of the viability of these new economic ideas. The 1932 Victory of the SAP’s Crisis Program

By the late 1920s, the signs of economic depression could not be ignored in Sweden; the labor movement in particular was beginning to feel the sting of the economic downturn. High and increasing levels of unemployment weakened the unions and caused dissension among the rank and file. The LO demanded a reevaluation of government unemployment policy, and especially of the system of emergency works projects. The unions grew increasingly concerned that the AK system was leading national and local governments to exploit cheap labor and carry out projects union members would otherwise have been hired to do.69 In 1928, in response to the inadequacies of contemporary policy, the LO put forth its own seven-point program for dealing with unemployment. It called, among other things, for state work programs to pay open market rates and for economic policy to be revamped to deal with the problem of permanent unemployment. It was during 1930, however, that the SAP first actively pushed a new strategy for dealing with unemployment and the growing economic crisis.70 The SAP put forward a motion calling for ending the emergency work system and replacing it with productive state-sponsored works.71 In the Riksdag debates Wigforss argued: “It cannot be logical that a society should say: ‘here we have unemployed workers, here we have access to capital, here we have raw materials—all that we need, but there is no way to put people to work to use the raw material, to put the capital to use in producing useful products.’ We Social Democrats [cannot accept a system] . . . where during all times, even the best, up to 10 percent of the workers must be unemployed, and during worse times, even more. We refuse to admit that this is necessary and natural despite how much people come armed with theories stating that this must be so.”72 Wigforss’s arguments and the SAP motion, however, were rejected by the bourgeois parties. Conservative leader Arvid Lindman argued that the SAP’s policies in general, and public work in particular, would only hurt the private sector and hinder recovery.73 The increasing impact of the Depression made issues of economic and


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unemployment policy the focus of elections in the early 1930s. By 1932, Wigforss and other proponents of Keynesian policies had won over the SAP’s parliamentary delegation and most of its leadership to their new economic course, but they still had to win over the minority of delegates favoring a renewed emphasis on socialization at the 1932 party congress. Hansson opened the congress by urging the assembled delegates to recognize the significance of the party’s crisis proposal and the need for positive action during such a dangerous time: From its beginning . . . our party has fought the struggle for democracy . . . and [has never given in to the] tendency . . . to denigrate democracy as only a “form” that when the time comes can be exchanged for something better. . . . [Furthermore], the best way to strengthen and protect the democratic order is to make sure that all citizens feel secure and comfortable under it. . . . The policy expressed in our 1930 program is designed to assist those hurt most by the current crisis and is nothing more than a continuation of our party’s traditional line . . . . The number who have lost faith in the capitalist system and bourgeois politics is continually growing. Not just workers are suffering . . . but also farmers see their security threatened, and deep in the middle class a feeling of insecurity is growing, as well as the desire for a radical change. People are looking for leadership and it is our task to give it to them!74

After Hansson’s opening talk, many members of the leadership came forth to explain the rationale behind the crisis program. Rickard Sandler urged his colleagues to recognize that the SAP could not sit by and wait for the economic cycle to run its course: “We must abandon the view that we or our children will enjoy some kind of ‘freebie’ socialism, which . . . ‘developments’ will place in our hands.” The only way society would be pushed in a socialist direction, Sandler argued, was if the party used all its power to push it along this path.75 In response to Sandler’s comments, many others spoke up to agree with his emphasis on the need for positive action, but they rejected the idea of waiting any longer for new policy recommendations. Fredrick Ström, for example, argued that the party must now unite behind a positive program; if it did not, the danger was that “the masses [would] travel the same path that they have done in many other countries—for example, in Germany, where they are in the process of being divided up into Communists and Nazis.”76 Möller also urged the congress to unite behind the crisis program, arguing that since it would increase

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society’s control over economic development, the program was perfectly consistent with the goal of socialization.77 Not surprisingly, Wigforss was the most pointed and skillful proponent of the crisis program. Like Möller, he stressed that it would enable Social Democrats to use the power of the state to organize and control the market, and that it should be seen as part of an overall strategy of “economic planning.” Such a strategy, Wigforss argued, would provide the SAP with a positive and powerful new appeal that would help reshape traditional patterns of political and economic life. Against the . . . harmful line pursued by the bourgeois [parties] . . . I do not think it will suffice to put forth negative [arguments]. . . . Instead we must put forth a positive socialist politics, which can convince people that we can create order just as well as the bourgeois [parties], while at the same time bringing about for the people an easing of their burdens. . . . If we at this congress can unite around a declaration which shows that we will bring these socialist ideas to [fruition], if we can unite around not just pushing them here at the congress but also out in our districts in an entirely new way than previously, take them up in discussions, convince all our fellow [citizens] that this is timely politics, then the congress . . . will have made a real contribution.78

After further debate and questioning, the congress ultimately united behind the crisis program and joined it to a clear people’s party approach, closing with the following statement: In the contemporary situation the Social Democrats see as their most important task working with all their energy to help all groups suffering from the unprovoked effects of the economic crisis. . . . The party does not aim to support and help [one] working class at the expense of the others. It does not differentiate in its work for the future between the industrial working class and the agricultural class or between workers of the hand and workers of the brain. The party begins from the premise that society . . . has the responsibility . . . to ensure care for those who are suffering, regardless of what group they belong to. Only such a policy, which aims at securing the best for all working people, is a “people’s policy” in the true meaning of the phrase. . . . Against the bourgeois majority’s opposition to this democratic policy we appeal to Sweden’s people. . . . We appeal for support around a policy that without consid-


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eration to group or class interest will strengthen and expand democracy to ensure the security of the common good.79

The SAP entered the 1932 campaign with a new economic appeal and a determination to learn from the problems of the 1920s, especially from its 1928 defeat.80 The party understood that the current crisis was creating desperation, and hence a willingness to try new solutions. However, it was recognized that the party had to “go to the voters not simply with an idea . . . but also with well-formulated practical suggestions for the realization of the idea.”81 Commenting on the campaign afterward, Wigforss declared: “Again and again we were struck by the recognition that we Social Democrats . . . could link our explanations of the party’s economic policy to the clear interest of the majority of the population and express viewpoints on the economy that, without theoretical detours, addressed themselves to everyday common sense. . . . Against this simple common sense, it was now our opponents who had to appeal to often incomprehensible theories about the economic context.”82 The SAP carefully framed its appeal to exploit the crisis and attract as wide a range of voters as possible. During the campaign, the party marshaled all its resources and its most popular figures in an all-out offensive.83 Hansson, for example, put out a brochure entitled “Social Democracy on the Eve of the Election,” which declared: “Social democracy’s view of transformative work does not follow a fatalistic belief that everything will arrange itself. . . . On the contrary, our view . . . emphasizes daily politics—at every situation trying to do the most and best possible for the people. In the current crisis social democracy interprets its . . . next task as working with all its energy for speedy and effective help for those . . . citizens who have had to suffer . . . as a result of the crisis.”84 Social-Demokraten ran articles on the party’s economic proposals, proclaiming: “Humanity carries its destiny in its own hands. . . . Where the bourgeoisie preach laxity and submission to . . . fate, we appeal to people’s desire for creativity and inclination for organization, conscious that [we] both can and will succeed in shaping a social system in which the fruits of labor will not [be] destroyed, but instead go to the benefit of those who are willing to . . . participate in the common task.”85 The confluence of Wigforss’s economic strategy and Hansson’s political strategy was particularly evident in the SAP’s 1932 election manifesto: “We [see] a crisis developing which claims victims in all sectors of society. . . . In the middle of abun-

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dance . . . misery and unemployment prevails. . . . At the same time that social democracy strives for measures for lasting improvement of the situation [it also] devotes its efforts toward inducing the state to bring effective help to the innocent victims of the crisis. [Social democracy] does not question . . . whether those who have become capitalism’s victims . . . are industrial workers, farmers, agricultural laborers, forestry workers, store clerks, civil servants or intellectuals.”86 The election was a huge success for the SAP: the party received its largest-ever share of the vote (41.7 percent). The bourgeois parties, however, still had a majority in the lower (as well as the upper) chamber. One more bold move, it was clear, would be needed for complete SAP success. The Genesis of the “Cow Trade”

The Social Democrats presented a wide-ranging series of proposals to the 1932 Riksdag, containing all the elements of a “Keynesian” stimulation package.87 Emphasis was placed on replacing the emergency work system with state-sponsored work programs paying market-level rates as part of a demand-stimulus strategy and on the multiplier effect of these programs. Wigforss argued that the SAP program would get the economy going again: “Once we set to work half the unemployed in the country [we] can calmly wait and see [how] the other half get back to work as well.”88 Finally, the party proposed balancing the budget over an economic cycle rather than over a single year. This, it was argued, would maintain the goal of balanced budgets but would also take into account the obvious effects the budget had on economic cycles. As noted earlier, however, the Social Democrats could not pass their crisis program alone. The need for a parliamentary majority, combined with tension in both the domestic and international spheres, led the SAP to search for coalition partners. Explaining the background to his party’s actions during this period, Hansson recalled: “Anti-democratic forces [exploited] the desperation . . . brought forth by the economic difficulties. . . . Nazism’s successes in Central Europe also had repercussions here [in Sweden]. In addition, the undermining of the position of the government because of the difficulty of creating a solid parliamentary basis . . . [was also important]. . . . Even if . . . the anti-democratic forces had only small success at elections it was clear that confidence in democracy’s ability to give the country powerful leadership was on the way to being destroyed.”89


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The SAP let it be known that it was interested in cooperating with other groups in order to ensure the most effective response to the Depression. Articles in Social Democratic newspapers and journals analyzed the impact of the crisis on different groups; particular emphasis was placed on convincing the farmers and segments of the middle class of the benefits of the party’s proposals. During the election, the party argued that bourgeois agricultural policy favored large-scale and hurt small-scale farmers, and that the obsession with frugality and lowering state expenditures was detrimental to the wide majority of the agricultural population.90 Wigforss, for example, noted that increased purchasing power . . . also means increased demand for agricultural products, and it is therefore strange to see the farmers’ representatives within the bourgeois parties oppose [our] program of public works. No one denies that our exports of butter and meat are suffering from the decreased demand from other industrialized countries. . . . But if one recognizes this, then one also has to admit that increased purchasing power among Sweden’s workers would also benefit Swedish agriculture. . . . It is the task of social democracy . . . to convince the broad mass of the agricultural population that their interests will not be fulfilled by a demand to further decrease purchasing power in society.91

Hansson in particular stressed the concept of the folkhemmet and the party’s desire to carry out its policies without driving an inseparable wedge between different political groups. SAP propaganda played up the theme of community. Furthermore, in elaborating on the crisis program to the Riksdag, Wigforss argued that the policies it contained did not go against liberal principles. The dominant aim of the SAP, he stressed, was simply to get the economy back on its feet.92 The party’s first attempt at coalition building was directed toward the Liberals. The SAP hoped that a majority could be formed on the basis of shared anti-free-trade sentiment. The Liberals, however, could not be convinced to go along with important financing provisions of the SAP’s program.93 The bourgeois parties argued that all sorts of catastrophes would occur if the SAP’s policies were enacted: inflation would explode; socialization would occur; state finances would be ruined; the labor market would be thrown out of whack.94 When negotiations with the Liberals deadlocked, the SAP decided to form a minority government; with no sign of support from other groups, prospects for majority rule seemed to be dimming.

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However, one last option was available. As noted previously, beginning in the late 1920s an agricultural crisis had hit Sweden along with European countries. In 1929 the Agrarian party and the Conservatives proposed dealing with the situation by increasing tariffs on certain agricultural products. These protectionist proposals were defeated by a coalition of the SAP and Liberals. The Social Democrats were then willing to consider some agricultural support programs, but were not yet prepared to give up their adherence to free trade.95 As noted earlier, however, at this time important figures within the SAP were agitating for a change in the party’s agricultural policies. In particular, the party began to discuss a proposal that would help domestic farmers by forcing all foreign grain to be mixed with a certain percentage of homegrown grain (inmalningstvång).96 The agricultural crisis deepened in 1931, as did agitation within the SAP for a shift in agricultural policy.97 Sköld was a crucial figure here. At a meeting of the party executive in November 1931, he urged his colleagues to remember that although unemployment was key, the party must not ignore the agricultural situation. The party should dedicate itself to coming up with an appeal that could call forth solidarity from farmers. Wigforss agreed, saying that up until now the SAP had rejected increased help to farmers but that this policy should no longer be maintained.98 In 1932, the Social Democrats debated different agricultural policy options, while Conservatives and Agrarians continued their call for farm supports. Against the backdrop of increasing political frustration and the rising fortunes of the Nazis in Germany, a special committee (välfärdsutskottet) composed of all the parliamentary parties except the Communists was appointed to deal with the crisis.99 Yet despite a general feeling that something needed to be done, the political system remained stalemated, with the bourgeois parties opposed to SAP proposals, and vice versa. Behind the scenes, however, discussions were taking place. On one side, the Social Democrats began negotiating with Pehrsson i Bramstorp, an important leader of the farmers’ party, who had indicated that he might be willing to consider trade-offs.100 In early 1933, the SAP put forth a budget bill including restrictions on foreign imports of milk and dairy products, as well as other regulations to benefit domestic farmers.101 On the other side, negotiations were going on among the bourgeois parties, and on May 2 they announced that they had united on a common program, which included the maintenance of the AK system. The situation thus became even more critical for the SAP. During this period, Wigforss wrote to his brother:


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“Nobody knows if [the Social Democratic government] will remain. There are not many who are eager to bring down the government, but their views of what we can be pressed to are exaggerated. A governing crisis is just as likely as a peaceful agreement.”102 At this point, Hansson took it upon himself to intervene. Hoping that discussions with the farmers might still bear fruit, he convinced the other parties to delay a vote on the various proposals. Negotiations between the SAP and the farmers continued, getting bogged down on the financing of the SAP’s program and the wage issue.103 On May 19, the newspaper Svenska Morgonbladet reported that the bourgeois parties remained united in their opposition to paying market wages in state employment programs, and talk began to be heard about dissolving parliament. On May 21, the Conservatives organized a large demonstration in Stockholm. As one commentator noted: “A disinclination to make concessions was growing within the two largest parties, the Conservatives and the Social Democrats.”104 Yet while the bourgeois parties were united in their opposition to important aspects of the SAP’s program, they could not agree on issues of free trade and protectionism. The Conservatives remained committed to supports for agriculture, but the Liberals demurred. After months of negotiations, the Agrarians became convinced that the bourgeois parties could not form a stable majority coalition and thus became more willing to accept the Social Democrats’ offer of a logroll. At the end of May, the Social Democrats and the Agrarians reached their famous “cow trade”: in return for accepting protection on certain agriculture products, the SAP was able to form its first majority government and turn the basic principles of its crisis agreement into government policy.105 Postscript: Social Democratic Hegemony

The formation of the first majority Social Democratic government and the passing of the SAP’s crisis package ushered in a new era in Swedish politics. The SAP’s program, it is true, probably served primarily to accelerate an upswing that was caused largely by international trends.106 However, the institutionalization of these policies coincided with an economic recovery, and in the eyes of Swedish voters this connection was powerful. (As we will see in Chapter 8, in Germany the Nazis were the beneficiaries of a similar phenomenon.) Previous economic and political traditions appeared outdated and discredited, and the Social Democrats appeared prescient. The

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SAP was determined to capitalize on its skill and good luck: in the 1936 election the party emphasized the “success” of its Keynesian policies and asserted that this success justified pressing further with its goals.107 SAP electoral propaganda asserted that experience had shown that the state could be a positive force in the economy, and that it should therefore expand its powers to prevent future crises and secure the welfare of all citizens.108 As Herbert Tingsten notes: “At no earlier point in [Swedish history] had a party so systematically grounded its electoral propaganda . . . on what had already been accomplished and on [an argument] that the politics of the future should go further on [the same] path.”109 Retrospectively analyzing his party’s actions, Gunnar Myrdal mused: “If it can possibly be said that we had [at] this time unbelievably good luck, we can however be allowed to attribute to [ourselves] a certain skillfulness in exploiting our good fortune.”110 The strategy paid off handsomely; the party won a full 46 percent of the vote in the 1936 election and easily formed a second Social Democratic–led government.111 With only one minor exception, the SAP would not relinquish control of the government for four decades; Social Democratic hegemony in Sweden had begun. Conclusion

Far from being preordained, Social Democratic hegemony in Sweden was largely the result of a series of choices made by the SAP. In particular, the party’s decisions to adopt a Keynesian crisis program and to pursue an alliance with the Agrarian party were crucial. These decisions, in turn, cannot be understood simply by examining the structural characteristics of the environment the party faced. The party’s programmatic beliefs were also crucial. During the prewar period, the SAP’s programmatic beliefs pushed it down a particular policy path. Before 1914, the party had begun reaching out to groups outside the industrial proletariat. The formation of an agricultural program and willingness to form tactical alliances with left Liberals provided the foundation on which a full-fledged people’s party strategy could be built during the interwar period. When the SAP’s new leader, Per Albin Hansson, began to look for a way to help his party break Sweden’s political deadlock, he relied on Branting’s legacy and on previous efforts by the SAP to expand its appeal when developing his “people’s home” strategy. Unlike what we will see with its German counterpart, the SAP was able to


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integrate a people’s party strategy into its interwar political repertoire without having to reevaluate its ideological heritage, ultimate goals, or position in society. By 1914, the SAP had also become associated with a reformist, evolutionary socialism that emphasized the need to work within existing structures in order to create a better society. Men like Nils Karleby, Gustav Möller, and Ernst Wigforss all looked to their party’s emphasis on gradual reforms and changing society from within when constructing a new Social Democratic economic strategy during the interwar years. Discussing the genesis of Swedish Keynesianism in his memoirs, for example, Wigforss recalled that although the work of the English reformers “made a strong impression, it is equally true that [we] looked to just these books, these people, these ideas because they corresponded best to what [we] thought we needed and . . . to our earlier ways of thinking.”112 Unlike what we will see with its German counterpart, the SAP was able to integrate Keynesianism into its economic repertoire without having to reevaluate its ideological heritage, ultimate goals, or position in society. Indeed, as Chapter 8 will show, the SPD’s rejection of the economic and political strategies adopted by the SAP played a crucial role in shaping not only its own fate but also that of the Weimar Republic.

CHAPTER

8 The Collapse of German Democracy Are we standing at the sickbed of capitalism not only as doctors who want to heal the patient, but also as prospective heirs who can’t wait for the end and would gladly help the process along with a little poison? . . . We are damned, I think, to be doctors who seriously want to cure, and yet we have to maintain the feeling that we are heirs who wish to receive the entire legacy of the capitalist system today rather than tomorrow. This double role, doctor and heir, is a damned difficult task. fritz tarnow, at the 1931 spd congress

By the start of the 1920s, Germany had become a full parliamentary democracy, but the foundations of the new regime were shaky and extremists on the right and left remained thorns in Weimar’s side. Over the next decade the republic was buffeted first by the Great Inflation and then by the Great Depression, blows that helped contribute to its ultimate collapse. Such an outcome was not inexorable, however, and the behavior of the republic’s key political actors in response to the crisis supplied crucial links in the chain of events. The SPD, as inheritor of the mantle of democracy during the German revolution and the only force capable of offering an alternative to the Nazis during the Depression, held center stage throughout this period. As Heinrich August Winkler once noted, “Writing the history of the [SPD] in the years from 1918 to 1933 is, to a large degree, writing the history of the Weimar Republic.”1 Unlike their Swedish counterparts, the German Social Democrats never managed to adjust fully to a leading role in bourgeois-capitalist democracy. Although the SPD correctly viewed the Weimar Republic largely as a creation of the German labor movement, and evolved during these years from 176


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an organization based on opposition to the existing order into a staatstragend party par excellence,2 it remained surprisingly unsure of both its own role in the republic and the republic’s role in the creation of a future socialist society. In fact, despite the dramatically changed environment in which it operated after 1918, the party held fast to many of its prewar positions. Most important, it continued to view itself as a workers’ party and remained unable to conceive of how to influence a capitalist system to benefit the working classes. While its Swedish counterpart, after some comparable fumbling, eventually developed a new economic and political strategy, the SPD could not or would not devise a plan to lead Germany toward a more social democratic future. Consequently, when the Depression hit Germany the SPD found itself without a strategy capable of guiding it successfully through the difficult time ahead. In a familiar pattern, therefore, the party found itself reacting to rather than guiding events. Just as Germany’s fate during the final years of the Weimar Republic was partly determined by the SPD’s actions during the depression, moreover, so those actions, in turn, can be understood only in the context of the party’s programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped create. The rest of this chapter analyzes the course of the SPD and of the Weimar Republic from the German revolution until its collapse in 1933. First, I briefly sketch out the political and economic conditions of the interwar period. Then I discuss the evolution of political and economic theory within the SPD. Finally, I turn to the Great Depression and explain why the SPD found itself in a disastrous defensive position during Weimar’s final years. Political and Economic Conditions during the 1920s

Although the German political system stabilized somewhat in the aftermath of the Kapp putsch, both the extreme right and left remained opposed to the regime. In the early 1920s, the Communists and radical rightwing groups each supported various insurrectionary uprisings, and the latter in particular were responsible for a series of spectacular political murders. One of the most vexing issues of the early 1920s (and indeed of the entire interwar period) was reparations, extracted by the Allies from Germany in recompense for the costs incurred during the First World War. After much haggling over the form and amount of these payments, in May

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1921 the German government accepted the “London ultimatum” and embarked on the “policy of fulfillment,” the intention of which was to comply to as great a degree as possible with Allied demands in order to show that they were unreasonable. When the Reparations Commission declared Germany to be in default on its obligations, however, France and Belgium decided to exploit their legal rights to the utmost, sending troops into the Ruhr in January 1923. In an attempt to compensate those of its citizens who refused to cooperate with the invading authorities, the German government printed money, thereby contributing to the outbreak of the Great Inflation.3 Eventually, the German government was forced to give in and resume reparations payments, and in November a new currency, the Rentenmark, was created, which set the groundwork for economic stabilization. By 1924 the effects of an improved economic situation could be seen in the political sphere: in the December elections the extreme right and left suffered significant losses and the SPD scored impressive gains. The German economic stabilization of the mid-1920s benefited some sectors more than others, however. Export industries, for example, fared relatively well; every year between 1924 and 1930, Germany’s share of world trade increased. Less sensitive to wage costs and more committed to free trade, these industries became crucial supporters of the “policy of fulfillment” and of cooperation with organized labor. Such support contributed, in turn, to the significant advances in social policy made by Germany during the mid-1920s.4 Heavy industry and agriculture, on the other hand, suffered throughout the 1920s and successfully lobbied for substantial support from the government.5 For labor the situation was mixed; workers enjoyed increasing benefits and wages, but unemployment remained a persistent problem.6 In addition, although strike levels declined after 1924, it became increasingly necessary to resort to arbitration to solve disputes.7 In order to help stabilize the economy during the 1920s, German governments pursued a number of countercyclical policies. During the 1925– 1926 downturn, for example, a large-scale attempt was made to stimulate exports, encourage work creation, and increase domestic purchasing power. In addition, in order to encourage trade with Russia, the government began what was essentially a credit-creation scheme (the “Russian bills” or Russengeschäfte).8 To deal with unemployment, German governments also resorted to a number of innovative measures. In 1922 a nationwide network of labor exchanges was created, and public-works programs (a tradition carried over from the prewar period) were instituted. The labor


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movement supported these programs, arguing that they were more productive than simple cash payments. Work creation did not, however, dull the desire for a national system of unemployment insurance, and on July 16, 1927, that long-held goal of the labor movement finally became a reality.9 Germany also made progress in foreign policy, due largely to the efforts of Gustav Stresemann, foreign minister from the fall of the Great Coalition in 1923 until his death in 1929.10 In 1924 the Dawes plan lowered the burden of reparations and secured final French withdrawal from the Ruhr. In 1925 the Locarno treaties marked an important step toward Germany’s reintegration into Europe, and the following year Germany became a member of the League of Nations. Those improvements in Germany’s domestic and international position helped the party most closely associated with the republic—the SPD. In the 1928 election, the last before the onset of the Depression, the fortunes of the Social Democrats improved, while the parties of the extreme right (DNVP and NSDAP) suffered important losses. Some contemporary observers saw this as a final “affirmation of the Republican form of government,” a sign that the “regime is not in question.”11 However, alongside these positive developments an alarming trend continued: the parties of the bourgeois middle were disintegrating, and less stable splinter groups began capturing their constituencies.12 In the aftermath of the 1928 election a “Great Coalition” formed, including the SPD and four centrist parties—the DDP, the DVP, the BVP, and the Center—with the SPD’s Hermann Müller as chancellor. This government scored an important foreign policy victory in the following year with the passage of the Young plan, which revised reparations, set a time limit on Germany’s payment obligations, and pledged the Allies to evacuating the Rhineland five years ahead of schedule.13 Still, signs of economic downturn created increasing tension within the coalition over economic and social policy. In particular, a rapid increase in unemployment led to a large deficit in the unemployment insurance system. The SPD argued that the best way to deal with these shortfalls was by increasing contributions, while the DVP argued for a substantial revision of the system. After much debate, a lastminute compromise offered by the Center leader Heinrich Brüning—to raise contributions significantly yet leave the system essentially intact—was accepted by the DVP but rejected by the SPD, under pressure from the unions. As a result, the Müller government resigned on March 27, 1930. Scholars have long debated the wisdom of the SPD’s decision to end the

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Great Coalition. It is important to recognize, however, that the SPD was paying a high price for its continued tenure in government during such trying times. In attempting to deal with the downturn through traditional methods from 1928 to 1930, the party had supported a number of extremely unpopular measures; SPD finance minister Rudolf Hilferding, in particular, had “elaborated a program that would have pleased the most conservative of economists.”14 The most troubling aspect of the party’s decision to leave the government in 1930, however, was that it was not the “prelude to a new policy but an escape into noisy opposition without tangible aims.”15 During the following months the SPD, the most important bulwark of democracy in Germany, proved unable to mount a convincing challenge to the forces of extremism. In order to understand how the SPD found itself trapped in a sterile defensive position during the decline of the Weimar Republic, we must step back and examine the development of the party’s views of politics and economics during the 1920s. Volkspartei or Arbeiterpartei?

During the 1920s, the Swedish SAP completed its transition from a workers’ to a people’s party—Per Albin Hansson’s folkhemmet, as described in Chapter 7. This switch broadened the SAP’s appeal, facilitated alliances with other social groups, and was an important factor in the party’s crucial 1932 election victory. It was also the precondition for the eventual creation of a majority Social Democratic electoral coalition in Sweden. The SPD was unable to match these feats. This was due partly to certain features of the interwar German landscape16 and to the nationalist backlash generated by Versailles. It was also due partly to the SPD’s continued divisions over how to view democracy—as merely a “bourgeois” system or as a good in and of itself—and its concomitant reluctance to embrace its new status as the leading party of a bourgeois-capitalist democracy, with all that implied for the need to expand the party’s appeal beyond its core constituency and accept fully the need for cross-class alliances.17 Eduard Bernstein had recognized decades earlier that workers could never provide by themselves a sufficient basis for electoral hegemony. Many of his colleagues could never quite bring themselves to agree. As discussed in Chapters 4 and 6, the SPD’s ambivalent relationship to democracy meant that little thought had been given in the prewar period to how the party might exploit it in order to help achieve Social Demo-


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cratic goals. Many assumed that once the Wilhelmine system disappeared, working-class hegemony would emerge naturally and smoothly. When it became clear, after 1918, that mere control over the levers of power would not result in the immediate realization of all the party’s goals, there was much frustration and disappointment. Some argued that the SPD should expand beyond its traditional worker base and draw new groups into the Social Democratic fold. Advocates of this Volkspartei strategy insisted that despite past disappointments, the revolutionary years showed that under certain conditions some other groups might support the SPD. A prerequisite for this, however, would be a shift to an explicitly people’s party appeal. These elements pushed the party toward an acceptance of a new program in 1921 that declared the SPD the party of the working people (des arbeitenden Volkes), seemingly indicating “the conscious metamorphosis . . . from a class to a people’s party.”18 But this change did not last very long. Since the SPD had rejected cross-class outreach in the years before the First World War, those favoring a people’s party strategy during the Weimar period appeared to favor a radical shift in the party’s self-perception and long-term strategy. Becoming a Volkspartei required reevaluating, perhaps even repudiating, the party’s earlier emphasis, and this was simply too rapid and disturbing a change for many. The readmittance to the SPD in 1922 of the democratic elements of the USPD sealed the fate of those hoping for a shift. These old radicals (who had joined the USPD in 1917) were strongly opposed to any weakening of the party’s traditional stance, and they helped ensure that the SPD’s 1925 program returned the party to rhetoric of economic determinism and class struggle from thirty years before.19 The resistance to reaching out to disaffected groups beyond the proletariat revealed itself in various ways. For example, when SPD Reichstag deputy Toni Pfülf argued in Bavaria in 1923 that “the German people must once again become a people’s community [Volksgemeinschaft],” her audience was outraged. One man responded: “‘People’s community’ is the worst kind of slogan! There can be no people’s community for the worker because of his class position.”20 Similarly, even Social Democratic organizations “formed after 1918 that openly embraced republican virtues or bourgeois self-help notions directed their message at untapped working-class constituencies, not the middle class.”21 Even though white-collar workers and civil servants began to show interest in the SPD, the party failed to develop a coherent appeal to these groups or put forth a practical long-

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term strategy for integrating their interests with those of the working class. Indeed, despite the fact that the share of workers in the SPD dropped from 90 percent before the First World War to 60 percent by 1930, the party remained largely ignorant of, or indifferent to, the problems of groups outside the proletariat and gradually slipped back to its prewar identification as an exclusively workers’ party.22 Another consequence of the SPD’s proletarian emphasis was a failure to formulate an agricultural program until the late 1920s, despite the insistence of many that ignoring the increasingly desperate plight of farmers contributed to the destabilization of the German political system. At the 1927 Kiel congress the party dropped its insistence that small-scale agriculture had to disappear, but it continued to emphasize public control of production and focus almost exclusively on the needs of consumers as opposed to those of producers. The SPD also ignored the important differences between small and large farmers. For example, when Karl Böhme, a leader of south Germany’s farmers, protested the unfair advantages given to Prussia’s large landowners by the tax system, then finance minister Hilferding remained deaf to his pleas—this despite the fact that Böhme’s organization, the Deutscher Bauernbund, was an early and important friend of the republic.23 Given the paucity of the SPD’s understanding of agriculture and its problems, as well its failure to devote much effort to publicizing its new program after 1927, it is not surprising that not much success was achieved in breaking down the traditional hostility between Germany’s workers and farmers.24 We cannot understand the SPD’s failure to break out of its “workers’ ghetto” and respond to increasing demands for new political and social relationships simply by looking at the environment the party faced. The reason the SPD rejected such a change lies largely in the party’s programmatic beliefs and prewar history. Having so long conceived of itself as the party of the proletariat, the SPD dreaded the loss of its ideological purity and was skeptical of risking the traditional support of industrial workers in an attempt to reap the hypothetical rewards of a cross-class strategy—and so it retained its sectarian focus. The Weimar Republic thus found itself in the unfortunate position of having its most important defender unwilling or unable to reach out explicitly to, or accept direct responsibility for, more than a minority of German society. Throughout much of Europe, the political and economic confusion of the 1920s led to a widespread longing for a sense of national unity and


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purpose and an end to societal cleavages and strife. The political party capable of tapping into and exploiting these failings would profit tremendously. In Sweden the SAP co-opted the “people’s party” concept and offered the country a chance to radically reshape traditional political alliances and patterns. In Germany, however, the concept of the “people’s party” became almost exclusively associated with the right, and in particular with the NSDAP. It was the Nazis, not the Social Democrats, who proved adept at tapping into and exploiting the desire for community and rejection of the old order.25 Indeed, a common and effective theme of right-wing propaganda during the Weimar years was the “divisive” class focus of the SPD. The NSDAP’s ability to achieve what no other German party had ever done—namely, develop an explicity cross-class appeal and vision of the future that tapped into the needs and desires of society’s different segments—was crucial in its eventual supplanting of the SPD as Weimar’s dominant party. The Development of Economic Theory in the SPD

As we saw in Chapter 7, during the 1920s important figures within the Swedish SAP began to develop a new view of the capitalist economy, a process that facilitated the party’s eventual adoption of a new economic doctrine during the Depression. At the same time, the SPD in Germany also engaged in debates over economic reform and socialization. In contrast to its Swedish counterpart, however, the SPD inherited from the prewar period a theoretical framework that failed to link reform work to long-term change and denied Social Democrats an active role in societal transformation. This legacy hindered the SPD’s efforts to develop a strategy for using its newfound political power to transform the German economy. When the Depression hit Germany, the SPD was without a plan for reacting to the economic and political crisis—and, as during the German revolution, therefore found itself on the defensive during a crucial phase in Germany’s history. The transition to democracy led the SPD, like the SAP, to turn its efforts to economic reform, and during the immediate postwar period both parties appointed socialization commissions to work out a program for economic transformation during their first years in government. However, while neither of these committees was able to devise an economic strategy, the ramifications were more serious for the SPD.26 Having for so long

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emphasized socialization as the centerpiece of Social Democratic economic policy and as the only “reform” capable of contributing to socialist transformation, the SPD’s failure to achieve this goal left the party not only without a strategy for the transition to a socialist economy but also with little to differentiate its practical efforts from those of its bourgeois partners. This probably helped push many disgruntled workers into the arms of the Communists. In an attempt to remedy this situation, during the 1920s the party focused much of its attention on trying to formulate a new economic strategy. The two most important innovations in economic theory during this period were Rudolf Hilferding’s concept of “organized capitalism,” and the economic democracy program of the ADGB. Hilferding, like Kautsky an Austrian by birth, came to the SPD under the latter’s patronage, and during the interwar years replaced him as the SPD’s premier theorist. In a series of works beginning with his 1910 Das Finanzkapital, Hilferding asserted that increasing business concentration, the growth of monopolies, deepening connections between industry and the banks, and the dependence of the whole system on certain state policies meant that capitalism was shifting from the blind and chaotic laws of the free market to a more predictable, organized system of production.27 Contemporary developments, in other words, were pointing toward an economic system free from crises and violent change, one that should prove a transition phase on the way to socialism. Based on his analysis of economic developments, Hilferding argued that it was crucial for the labor movement to conquer the power of the state; therefore, he tirelessly opposed the SPD habit of downgrading the value of “bourgeois” democracy.28 He also argued that it was possible for the working class to make important gains within bourgeois-capitalist society. Hilferding’s theory of “organized capitalism” was perhaps the most important innovation in Marxist economic theory in the first third of the twentieth century; his updating of Marx’s analysis of capitalist development influenced Lenin and Hobson, among many others. Hilferding’s brilliance as a theorist did not, however, translate well into the sphere of practical politics; in particular, he was not able to derive from his theory a concrete economic strategy. This was partly because he could not abandon his attachment to Marxist economics, and in particular the belief that economic forces rather than political power were the ultimate arbiter of history. So while he believed that Social Democrats could benefit from the changing nature of the capitalist system, he did not ultimately believe that


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they themselves could control its development. Reflecting this, when placed in a position of power he tended to base his actions on the prescriptions of orthodox economic theory, relying during crises on the “self-regulating” powers of the capitalist system. Although his practical policies often raised storms of disapproval from within his own party (Rudolf Wissell, for example, once accused him of “carrying out the policies of the DVP”),29 he defended them by arguing that there was little politicians could or should do to interfere with the market. Orthodox Marxists, Hilferding once noted, were the last and best of the classical economists, since both relied on ineluctable economic mechanisms and denigrated government intervention in the economy.30 As was the case with the SPD, the ADGB (the main German trade union organization) recognized the need to replace socialization with a new economic strategy in the postrevolutionary period. For example, in a speech at the ADGB’s 1925 congress Fritz Tarnow declared: Each of us knows, on looking at the developments of the last years, that something has broken. An illusion has burst. That which we believed for decades . . . namely that on the day we wrested political power it would be child’s play to realize the final goals of our movement, has not been fulfilled. . . . It is already necessary to ask ourselves whether this situation must remain, whether we cannot introduce into our labor movement . . . an ideology in which the masses can believe, an ideal! . . . We need in the trade union movement not a sun in the firmament but rather a goal that can be realized on earth, the attainment of which we come closer to all the time so that everyone can see. . . . That is the enormous recruiting power that lies in the idea, namely that we can reach step by step the final goal, the transformation of the economy and therewith of society in the day to day struggle.31

In the late 1920s the ADGB put forth an economic democracy program calling for strengthened social policy, improved factory legislation, extension of the scope of works councils, and an increase in the power of worker representatives over public organizations.32 On a more abstract level, the program sought to extend the forms of political democracy to the economic sphere. This, the unions argued, would help overcome the traditional split in German social democracy between politics and economics and provide the foundation for the transition to socialism. In addition, the program argued that “the structure of capitalism itself [is] changeable, and

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that capitalism before it is broken, can also be bent.”33 Based on this analysis, Fritz Tarnow, one of the most important figures behind the program, argued that a crucial aspect of economic policy must be increasing the purchasing power of the masses. It was an irony, Tarnow noted, that in modern capitalism the “new side of class relations [was] that to the dependence of wage labor on capital has been added the dependence of capital on the worker-consumer.”34 The ADGB’s economic democracy program was the single most important economic policy initiative to emerge from the German labor movement during the interwar years. As is obvious from the preceding discussion, the concerns and conclusions of the program paralleled in many ways the developments that occurred within the Swedish SAP at the same time. However, one crucial flaw in the ADGB’s program was that it was apolitical; it had little to say about how to make economic democracy politically viable, or how the structures of economic democracy would relate to the political system, even if by some unlikely chance the program did receive majority support. In the final analysis, the unions were not in a position to add the necessary political dimension to their economic initiatives; for this they had to depend on the SPD. By 1930, the push for economic democracy faded into the background, partly as a result of the increasing economic crisis. The pattern that had begun to develop with the ADGB’s program, however, would reappear during the coming years. During the Depression the ADGB would generate a new economic strategy—the WTB plan—and once again find itself dependent on the SPD to turn its program into political reality. The story of the rise and fall of the WTB plan is a microcosm of the tragedy of German social democracy. The Collapse of German Democracy

After the fall of the Great Coalition in March 1930, the crisis in Germany only worsened. Almost all economic indicators continued their precipitous slide, while regional elections returned victories for a Nazi party that had until very recently been moribund. In spite of these trends, the SPD did not shift its tactics in preparation for the 1930 election.35 In particular, despite the fact that Communist and Nazi success was attributed largely to the frustration caused by rising unemployment, the party did not offer a positive economic program. In addition, the SPD responded to Nazi attacks


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with confusion—sometimes lumping the NSDAP and the KPD together as “radical rabble and hoodlums,” sometimes referring to the Nazis as the “battering ram of the bourgeoisie,” and sometimes concentrating on the Center’s Brüning as the real “German species of fascism.”36 Not surprisingly, therefore, the SPD was overwhelmed by the Nazis’ dynamic and broad-based campaign. The election was a disaster for both the republic and the Social Democrats; the Nazis skyrocketed to 18.3 percent (from 2.6 percent in 1928), becoming the second-largest party in the Reichstag, while the Communists increased from 10.6 to 13.1 percent. The SPD remained the largest party despite a significant drop in support, but the collapse of most bourgeois middle parties continued. After the elections, the SPD declared its most important task to be the defense of the republic from attacks by the left and right, eventually deciding to tolerate Brüning’s return to power as “the lesser evil.”37 In a familiar pattern, however, the party failed to exact any social, economic, or political concessions in return for its support, despite the fact that Brüning could not remain in office without it.38 Brüning’s most important goal was ending reparations, and so he saw in the misery of the Depression a potential silver lining: by keeping to the strictest possible economic course, he would prove that it was impossible for Germany to meet its financial obligations while also ensuring a “healthy” cleansing of the economy. Once Germany was freed from dependence on the Allies, in turn, Brüning believed that the country would be able to rebuild its economy and military. Such a strategy, he felt, was the best way to eliminate the Nazis’ appeal; if democracy was sacrificed in the process, it would be a price worth paying for Germany’s “freedom.” Consequently, throughout his tenure in office Brüning chopped away at what remained of Germany’s social support system. The necessity of suffering, however, did not extend equally to all groups in society. As part of his attempt to keep conservative support, Brüning instituted a number of programs to funnel money to big business and agriculture, the most (in)famous of which was probably the Osthilfe.39 The SPD’s response to the Depression during the early period of Brüning’s tenure was confused. The party attacked the chancellor’s “antisocial” policies, but its own proposals suggested that the differences between them were more ones of emphasis than substance. The party supported Brüning’s goal of a balanced budget, and hence accepted the need to cut state expenditures. The main contrast the SPD offered was that it favored shifting existing government spending around so as to allow for a widening of

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social support and work-creation programs. To pay for these measures the SPD suggested a somewhat amorphous program, including extreme frugality in public outlays, a lowering of military expenditures, a decrease in the pensions and benefits of bureaucrats, and increased taxes on upper-income groups.40 Over time, however, the inconsistencies in the SPD’s position became increasingly problematic. As one commentator notes: “Acceptance of the principle of deflation undermined the ability to oppose wage cuts; lower wages, in turn, would cancel the benefits of a shorter work week . . . [s]horter hours at reduced wages might lead to more jobs, but at the expense of those still working.”41 Despite their opposition to many of his policies, the SPD leaders maintained their support of Brüning, saving his government more than once from falling. (Brüning’s memoirs make clear that he often turned to members of the SPD for support, and reveal Hilferding to have been a confidant.)42 The party justified this by pointing out the possible consequences of a Nazi inclusion into the national-level government, along with the fragility of the SPD-led government in Prussia.43 However legitimate these fears may have been, calls by party dissidents for an end to toleration grew louder. Many argued that toleration made little sense if the SPD had no positive program or political strategy. Some urged the party at least to make clear to Brüning that the outer limits of toleration had been reached, and that continued support would be dependent on concrete achievements for the working class.44 At the SPD’s 1931 congress there was wide-ranging agreement that something needed to be done to break out of the sterility of the past years and slow the growth of radicalism. Franz Pietrich, for example, remarked: “On the one hand we claim that Brüning’s policies can only make the crisis worse and increase our misery, but on the other hand we must tolerate his government. . . . We must concentrate our energy on breaking out of this intolerable situation. . . . If we do not find a way out of this vicious circle then I am very skeptical about the future.”45 Fritz Tarnow gave the most electrifying speech of the congress. He summed up the dilemmas emanating from the SPD’s policies in the following manner: “Are we standing at the sickbed of capitalism not only as doctors who want to heal the patient, but also as prospective heirs who can’t wait for the end and would gladly help the process along with a little poison? . . . We are damned, I think, to be doctors who seriously want to cure, and yet we have to maintain the feeling that we are heirs who wish to


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receive the entire legacy of the capitalist system today rather than tomorrow. This double role, doctor and heir, is a damned difficult task.” Tarnow urged his colleagues to recognize that “it is not so much the patient that is causing us such trouble but rather the masses standing behind him. . . . If we recognize this and find a medicine—even if we are not convinced that it will fully cure the patient—we should . . . [nonetheless] give the medicine and not be so concerned that we also in fact wish for the patient’s demise.” 46 In the remaining sessions of the congress, speakers debated the merits of Tarnow’s attack. Many embraced his frontal assault on the party’s immobilism. Others, however, rejected the idea that the party could reform its way out of the crisis. Wilhelm Dittman, for example, argued: “The Social Democratic party has always rejected painting ‘fantasy’ pictures or promising illusions (fata morgana). . . . We want the current situation to develop further, and can only follow in the general direction that these tendencies show us.”47 Richard Kleineibst also doubted that Tarnow’s strategy could help the party regain the workers’ confidence: “I believe that the working class will not understand why we want to heal the sick body [of German capitalism], for, in the end, we will have to produce its medicine from the very bones of the workers.”48 In the final analysis, the congress essentially ignored Tarnow’s call for change and decided to stay the course. As Friedrich Stampfer recalled, this “had a consolidating effect internally, but hardly [provided] a boost externally.”49 In addition to creating dissension within the party, the sterility of the SPD’s position increased tensions in the party’s relationship to the unions. By 1930 the unions had begun shifting from support of the “policy of fulfillment” to a belief that reparations were simply too much of a burden on an already weakened economy.50 In addition, fighting unemployment had become by far the most important theme of internal union discussion. In 1931 the unions began to consider seriously some of the many job-creation proposals that had been emerging at an increasing pace as the Depression deepened; the most important of these was the WTB plan.51 This plan began as the brainchild of Wladimir S. Woytinsky, a Russian émigré who became head of the ADGB’s statistical bureau.52 For some time, Woytinsky had been working on the possibilities of active intervention by the state in the economic cycle, and in a series of articles he began to build the framework for a full-fledged Keynesian-type assault on the Depression. By 1931, he had come to the conclusion that Germany’s only way out of the crisis was through stimulating the domestic economy.53

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Building on earlier union acceptance of the desirability of increasing purchasing power, Woytinsky joined with Fritz Tarnow and Fritz Baade (an agricultural expert and SPD member of parliament) and eventually submitted a proto-Keynesian program.54 (The program got its name from the initials of its sponsors.) The WTB program called for approximately 2 billion marks to be spent on work creation. The work generated by these programs would be “socially useful,” would pay competitive wages, and (through a multiplier effect) would help create the basis for a self-perpetuating recovery. Initially, deficit financing would be necessary.55 Woytinsky’s arguments mirrored those made at the same time by his proto-Keynesian Swedish counterparts. He argued that the time had come for Social Democrats to surrender their faith in historical development (“to stop lulling the masses with sozialistische Zukunftsmusik—socialist future music)”56 and the “mystical powers of the market,” and to recognize that improvement would depend on active intervention in the economy. Woytinsky was especially eager to allay any fears of inflation. He argued that the underutilization of resources in the German economy was great enough, and the amount of spending (especially in comparison to previous welfare or credit-creation programs) small enough, so as not to call forth any inflationary danger. In addition, he correctly pointed out that deflation was destroying the value of money and the resources of the German economy more than any modest inflation ever could.57 As support for his position, Woytinsky stressed some of the new economic literature emerging from England, especially following the pound’s release from gold on September 21, 1931.58 In addition to his economic arguments, Woytinsky urged his colleagues to recognize that the WTB plan was perfectly designed for social democracy: by using the levers of power to help improve the lives of the masses, by helping to tame the anarchy of the market, and by showing the way to a more organized and just economy, the WTB plan could finally provide the labor movement with a concrete step on the way to a new economic and social order.59 Woytinsky suggested that the labor movement begin a frontal assault on deflation and the radical right under the banner “the struggle against the crisis.”60 The WTB plan was ultimately embraced by the union movement, and on February 16, 1932, the national executive of the ADGB declared its support.61 The unions began planning a large-scale press campaign to pop-


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ularize the program and called for a special “crisis” congress to put pressure on the government for a course shift.62 A union newspaper declared: Work creation is the central task of German economic policy in the near future. . . . [We] know that a solution to the unemployment problem is difficult and . . . that the financing of work creation . . . is controversial . . . but a solution must be found. . . . There is no time to lose. . . . The Americans [for example] are trying now [also] to put their own house in order. Indeed, the situation in America is more favorable than ours. However, the biggest advantage of the Americans consists in that they do not see their economy as much as we do through theory and therefore it is easier [for them] to find the courage to do what the situation calls for.63

Woytinsky began a feverish campaign and placed himself at the forefront of the move for an activist government policy.64 At around the same time that Woytinsky, Tarnow, and Baade were advocating their plan, a number of bourgeois activists were also urging a Keynesian course shift. Within Brüning’s government itself, important figures advanced innovative work-creation programs and financing strategies (some of which were later used by von Papen and Hitler).65 Outside of the government, some economists affiliated with both universities and private institutions also urged a course shift and put forth work- and credit-creation plans.66 Included in this group were men like Wilhelm Grotkopp, Ernst Wagemann, Rudolf Dalberg, Robert Friedländer-Prechtl, and Heinrich Dräger. Although those favoring a Keynesian-type solution to the crisis were a minority of the economics profession, they were not insignificant in either number or reputation.67 Even within the business community there were figures (particularly among the export-oriented sector) who were willing to consider some form of work creation.68 Many of these bourgeois reformers increasingly stressed the political aspects of a Keynesian course shift. Friedländer-Prechtl, for example, argued that without a new economic strategy political radicalism would continue to grow: “Rather than allowing the most insignificant repairs to the [capitalist] structure, they [the bourgeoisie] would rather risk its crumbling and burying them.”69 Similarly, industrialist Edmund Pietrkowski emphasized that in order to eliminate the appeal of the NSDAP and KPD, “a million men must be gotten off the street” and back to work.70 As time passed, Woytinsky also increasingly stressed the political importance of his plan: “If we succeed

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through work creation in bringing to a halt the wave of increasing unemployment and initiating a countertendency, if [we] can reinstitute confidence among broad sectors of the population for the state, [when the people] understand that thousands of the unemployed can be given work, then the preconditions for the purification and stabilization of the political situation will be created.”71 Such arguments were also increasingly employed in union propaganda. For example, the newspaper of the German metal workers union warned: “Our people have been waiting for months for advice and direction. . . . It is [getting] late. . . . We must come forward with a work creation program, regardless of any scientific differences of opinion, otherwise the quacks [i.e., the Nazis] will find increasing support for their views. We can’t wait until our theoreticians are united; the issue at hand must . . . be solved.”72 However, despite increasing pressure from inside and outside his own government, Brüning stuck to his course.73 While Brüning was stalling those within his own government who were calling for a shift in economic policy, the SPD was debating whether to adopt the WTB plan. Having earlier failed to develop a strategy for actively working within the existing capitalist system to achieve its goals, the party was confused and divided over how to respond to the unions’ call for an economic course shift, with different factions putting forth their own ideas for dealing with the crisis. On the right, some argued for work creation, but many of these “reformers” scorned the idea of deficit financing. On the left, many argued that the time was ripe for a full-fledged “socialist” strategy.74 Amid this confusion, Rudolf Hilferding emerged as the most important figure in the debate, and from 1931 to 1932 he and his followers employed ideological, economic, and political arguments in a campaign against the plan.75 Hilferding began his attacks by stressing that the WTB plan was “unMarxist” and threatened the “very foundations of our program.”76 As he had during past economic downturns, Hilferding claimed that the only solution to economic difficulties was to wait for the business cycle to run its course. In this view, an “offensive economic policy” had no place because the ultimate arbiter of developments was the “logic of capitalism.”77 Hilferding’s attachment to orthodox economics also led him to attack the program for (what he considered) its detrimental economic consequences, and in particular its inflationary potential. As noted earlier, he remained convinced of the essential correctness of Brüning’s economic course and insisted that any attempt to intervene actively would backfire on the work-


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ers. Furthermore, he was convinced that if the SPD pushed Brüning, his government would fall and be replaced by one even further to the right.78 Such views were echoed by Hilferding’s most important ally within the ADGB, Fritz Naphtali (head of the the union economic research institute, the Forschungsstelle für Wirtschaftspolitik), who also called the WTB plan “un-Marxist” and stated that he did not “believe that we can do very much, nor anything very decisive from the point of view of economic policy, to overcome the crisis until it runs its course. . . . The crisis, with all its changes and shifts of purchasing power, is a means of correction which must necessarily be accepted.”79 Although Hilferding fought attempts at a course shift with all his power, he privately recognized that his position doomed the SPD to continued sterility. In a letter to Karl Kautsky he wrote: “Worst of all in this situation is that we can’t say anything concrete to the people about how and by what means we would end the crisis. Capitalism has been shaken far beyond our expectations but . . . a socialist solution is not at hand and that makes the situation unbelievably difficult and allows the Communists and Nazis to continue to grow.”80 In order to counteract the appeal of the WTB plan, Hilferding and others worked on a counterproposal, which eventually became the “Umbau der Wirtschaft” (Reorganization of the Economy) program.81 Its centerpiece was a declaration that the time was ripe for building a socialist planned economy, and the program was characterized by relatively orthodox Marxist terminology. It called for the creation of a large-scale economic planning mechanism; the nationalization of banks, insurance, and key industries; state control of monopolies; the expropriation of large estates; shortening the workweek; work sharing; and a limited work-creation program to be financed from increased taxes and a forced loan.82 Recognizing that the situation had become such that demands for action could no longer be ignored, on February 17, 1932, the SPD introduced two bills in the Reichstag based on the “Umbau” program, which called for some work creation, albeit in a tentative manner. For example, on March 20, 1932, an article in Vorwärts defended work creation but said that it would be “an illusion to expect a restimulation of the economy from the provision of public works.”83 By the time of the ADGB’s “crisis” congress in April, therefore, it was clear that while the SPD accepted the need for some work creation, there was little chance that the party would support the WTB plan. Despite the

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party’s negative response, advocates of the plan continued to push for a course change. For example, at this meeting Wilhelm Eggert (a member of the union executive committee) emphasized the increasing desperation of the masses and pointed out that both the NSDAP and the KPD had workcreation programs. Theodore Leipart (head of the woodworkers’ union) and Tarnow also gave strong speeches in favor, and criticized those who used the “specter of inflation” to justify passivity.84 However, despite their original enthusiasm for the WTB plan, the unions recognized that they needed to avoid an open split in the labor movement at such a dangerous time and that any shift in economic policy could be achieved only through political channels. As a result, the ADGB decided to continue pushing its goal of work creation, but to try to do so under the banner of “Umbau der Wirtschaft.” While the labor movement was debating what, if anything, to do, the Nazis were moving to steal its thunder. In the months before the July 1932 elections, the NSDAP put forth a wide-ranging work-creation program, while attacking Brüning and the SPD for their part in prolonging the misery of the workers. The Nazi paper Der Angriff declared: “Only by the elimination of Social Democratic management of the economy is a recovery . . . possible . . . social democracy has created neither social policy nor social reform.”85 In a speech to the Reichstag on May 10, Gregor Strasser asked: “We [should] tell the German people . . . that they are dying because of the management of the problem of creating employment? . . . The state must never ask: Have you the money for it? For works’ programs there is always money.” Strasser derided the government’s obsession with the gold standard and called for deficit financing of work creation if necessary. (After hearing Strasser’s speech, Fritz Tarnow remarked: “This speech should have been given by one of us.”)86 During the campaign, the Nazis actively and successfully propagated their economic strategy. The party distributed six hundred thousand copies of its “Wirtschaftliches Sofortprogramm,” which avoided abstract language and laid out concrete suggestions for large-scale work creation. The program was organized around the basic principle: that “Our economy is not sick because there is a lack of production opportunities, but rather because the available production opportunities are not being put to use.”87 At the same time, the Nazis’ recent shift in emphasis toward rural areas and their formulation of a wide-ranging agricultural program began to bear fruit as the earlier inability of the SPD and other democratic parties to


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deal with the needs of small farmers now came back to haunt them. By the late 1920s, the crisis in German agriculture had become particularly acute and the political situation in rural areas more volatile. Early in the republic the peasantry had tended to vote liberal or conservative, but they, like other bourgeois groups, soon began to desert traditional political parties. During the second half of the 1920s, most peasants either withdrew from the national political arena or gave their support to the new splinter parties; they did not disproportionately support the extreme right.88 Like their Swedish counterparts, German farmers had become saddled with debt during the 1920s and so were interested in devaluation and the strengthening of the internal market.89 Representatives of farmer organizations became some of the most vocal critics of the policy of deflation during the early 1930s.90 Large landowners were able to use their influence on the DNVP and other political organizations to secure a large amount of help (including the notorious Osthilfe), but the peasantry found itself without a powerful political champion. Some within the SPD saw in this situation a fresh opportunity for the workers to attempt a tactical alliance with the farmers. Fritz Baade, for example, suggested that the purchasing power argument propagated by the unions was the perfect way to link the demands of labor and agriculture.91 However, the traditional antipathy of the SPD toward agriculture (combined with its adherence to free trade and the policy of cheap food) once again blocked such a course shift. And so, even during the Depression, the SPD ignored or dealt only superficially with the increasingly grave crisis on the land. Hitler, in contrast to the SPD, was never one to let an opportunity pass him by. Having essentially ignored rural areas before, he now turned the force of his organization toward winning over the increasingly dissatisfied and radicalized peasantry. In 1930, the NSDAP published a detailed agrarian program, and the results of the Nazi shift were, to say the least, impressive. Having nowhere else to turn, even agricultural areas that had not traditionally shown much support for the radical right eventually stormed to Hitler’s banner.92 Thus, the Nazis in Germany were able to pull off the same trick as the SAP in Sweden—the NSDAP entered the 1932 elections not only as the party of work creation but also as the champion of all the “little people.” In contrast to the forceful and direct nature of the Nazi economic appeal, the SPD’s “Umbau der Wirtschaft” program “contained no thoughts

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capable of stimulating the imagination of the masses. Abstract phrases conjured up abstract goals. One could not find in it ways out of the [problem of] mass unemployment.”93 Whatever potential this program might have had, moreover, was not exploited due to a lack of public discussion and a halfhearted effort by the party organization to get the message out to the masses. Some aggressive members on the right of the party did succeed in presenting a more strident front, adopting some Nazi propaganda techniques and trying to appeal to different social groups.94 Overall, however, the lack of any overarching economic or political strategy rendered the SPD’s campaign incoherent. In a strange twist of fate, some weeks before the elections even the barrier that Brüning had long claimed was the only thing between Germany and deficit-financed work creation disappeared.95 As a one-year moratorium on payments was due to expire, the Lausanne conference (June 16– July 19) declared the official end of reparations.96 Brüning did not, however, remain in power to see the moment he had so long awaited. On May 30, he was forced to resign and was replaced by the reactionary Fritz von Papen.97 Along with Brüning disappeared the argument that the SPD could not push the WTB plan for fear of alienating the government. But by this time the party was attached to its “Umbau der Wirtschaft” program, and the fact that by now both von Papen and the NSDAP supported work creation led the SPD to shy away from emphasizing such measures even more. The July elections were a disaster for the SPD, with the party dropping to 21.6 percent of the vote and losing its position as the largest party in the Reichstag for the first time since 1912. The Nazis claimed this distinction, capturing 37.3 percent of the vote, and the Communists also increased their share to 14.3 percent. While it would be ridiculous to try to reduce this outcome to a single factor, the SPD’s failure to put forth a positive program for dealing with the misery caused by the Depression and the NSDAP’s success in just this area played a crucial role in shaping the results.98 In the months that followed, von Papen continued the attack on what remained of Weimar democracy. This still did not satisfy those forces pushing for an even more thorough evisceration of the republic, and on September 12 the government was brought down by a no-confidence vote, with new elections being scheduled for November 6, 1932. In the meantime, revelations of secret contacts between members of the ADGB and


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elements on the right led the SPD to agree to discuss the WTB plan once more. A closed meeting of forty SPD and forty ADGB representatives took place in a room in the Reichstag.99 After Gerhard Colm, an independent economist, presented the unions’ arguments for work creation and deficit spending, Hilferding responded: “Colm and Woytinsky are questioning the very foundations of our program . . . Marx’s theory of labor value. Our program rests on the conviction that labor, and labor alone, creates value. . . . Depressions result from the anarchy of the capitalist system. Either they come to an end or they must lead to the collapse of this system. If Colm and Woytinsky think they can mitigate a depression by public works, they are merely showing that they are not Marxists.”100 Woytinsky began his rebuttal: “The flood of unemployment is rising, [and] the people are at the end of their patience. The workers, holding us responsible for their misery, are deserting the party to join the Communists and Nazis. We are losing ground. There is no time to waste. Something must be done before it is too late. Our plan has nothing to do with any particular value theory. Any party can execute it. And it will be executed. The only question is whether we take the initiative or leave it to our enemies.” According to his memoirs, Woytinsky was cut off at this point by Otto Wels (leader of the parliamentary fraction of the SPD), who insisted that he would not permit Hilferding to be called a liar.101 Wels’s opposition to the plan seems to have been motivated not only by his attachment to Hilferding but also by his annoyance at the unions for putting forth their own program to deal with the crisis.102 In the end, the belief that a choice existed between traditional SPD thought and policies and the proposals of the trade unions, together with the party’s limited vision of economic and political possibilities, was overwhelming. All of the SPD representatives at the meeting except Baade supported Hilferding, and once again the party rejected the WTB plan. The SPD’s campaign in the fall of 1932 reflected the party’s increasing radicalism—the party moved from its exclusive emphasis on saving the republic to declaring, “Socialism is now the goal!”103 Interestingly, for the first time in many years, the NSDAP also seemed to be suffering. Financial troubles and political differences caused internal tensions, while the elimination of reparations and the acceptance of work creation by von Papen robbed the Nazi appeal of some of its force and distinction. As a result, for the first time in four years, the Nazi vote declined: in the November 1932 elections, the NSDAP lost 2 million votes and thirty-four Reichstag seats.

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This led many to breathe a sigh of relief, believing that the crest of the Nazi wave had been reached. For example, newspapers across Germany predicted that Hitler would never now gain power and that “the Republic has been rescued.”104 During the following weeks, Germany continued to stumble along, and the brief regime of General Kurt von Schleicher fell due to its lack of an independent political base.105 Behind the scenes, however, Von Papen, Oskar von Hindenburg (the president’s son), Alfred Hugenberg, and others were maneuvering to bring Hitler into a right-wing government that would finally put an end to democracy and “Marxism.” These machinations, combined with the fact that no other party was able to mount a convincing challenge to the Nazis or offer any real possibility of forming a working coalition in the Reichstag, led Hindenburg to finally name Hitler chancellor of Germany on January 30, 1933. As Henry Turner points out: It was a triumphant conclusion to a remarkable political comeback. A mere month earlier, Hitler had appeared finished. His party had suffered a staggering setback in the last national election, as two of three voters rejected it, and even heavier losses had followed in state and local elections. Dissension and rebellion had broken out among his disappointed followers. Signs of improvement in the economy threatened to deprive him of one of the issues he had so successfully exploited since the onset of the depression. . . . Upon attaining his goal, Hitler himself reportedly marveled at how, as so often before, he had been rescued just as all seemed lost.106

Postscript

Like the Swedish Social Democrats, Hitler was prepared to exploit the opportunity fate offered. He recognized that any party that could convince the electorate that it was willing and able to deal with Germany’s economic and political suffering would receive a huge political payoff. Hitler once explained, for example, that there were in fact two ways of dealing with the Depression. One could either actually conquer the problems, or one could instead conquer “the feeling of distress. And that could be done . . . by making a purposeful start.”107 During Hitler’s first months in office, nearly 2 million Germans found jobs as a result of programs instituted by his predecessors; this, combined with several highly publicized work-creation


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programs instituted during the early period of Nazi rule, led the electorate to connect the economic upswing that occurred after 1933 with the NSDAP’s rise to power.108 Consequently, in Germany as in Sweden, during the mid-1930s the “party of the people” consolidated its support among the masses based partly on the “success” of its economic strategy. Conclusion

By the beginning of the 1920s, the fragility of German democracy was apparent in a number of ways. Parties committed to democracy were palpably weakening, while the forces of the right continued their slow consolidation. In addition, Germany was racked by foreign occupation and the Great Inflation. Although the system gained some political and economic stabilization in the second half of the decade, its foundations remained shaky. Consequently, when the effects of the Great Depression began to be felt, the structural fault lines left over from the incomplete democratization of the revolutionary period revealed themselves in the suceptibility of significant sectors of the population to calls for radical change. This presented the main defenders of the Weimar Republic—the Social Democrats—with an undeniably formidable challenge. If social and political disruption in Germany during the Great Depression acted as a constraint, however, it was also an opportunity. To the force that offered a convincing way out of the crisis would go potentially great political rewards. That it was almost exclusively the extremist parties, and in particular the Nazis, that successfully reaped these rewards was to a large degree a result of the failure of the Social Democrats to offer a dynamic and viable alternative. This, in turn, can be explained only by looking at the party’s programmatic beliefs. As one recent study points out, what is so frustrating about studying the SPD during the end of the Weimar Republic is that all the pieces of the puzzle were there, yet the party could not put them together.109 The German Social Democrats were presented with the same economic and political policies as their Swedish counterparts. Although the situation in which the SPD found itself was much more difficult than that facing the SAP, ultimately the German Social Democrats failed to expand into a people’s party and become the champions of Keynesian work creation more for internal than external reasons, particularly as a consequence of the party’s programmatic beliefs and prior experiences.

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In a postmortem on the interwar SPD, Julius Leber argued that the party’s long-term identification with Marxism had led it to maintain the rhetoric of radicalism while quietly abandoning its substance. This, he argued, had led to a doctrinaire rigidity and an inability to produce realistic plans of action.110 This study has argued along the same lines, noting that the SPD’s programmatic beliefs affected the party’s actions during the end phase of the Weimar Republic in two main ways. For some party leaders, continued adherence to orthodox Marxist tenets directly ruled out certain courses of action. Continued attachment to rigid and outdated orthodox Marxist rhetoric, moreover, meant that even if the SPD had wanted to change course, it would be forced to pay a heavy price among voters for abandoning its “principles.” For others within German social democracy, however, the main influence of the party’s programmatic beliefs was more indirect: their irrelevance to the practical tasks at hand meant that each situation had to be dealt with in an individual and ad hoc manner. In the final analysis, there was never a chance during the Depression for the SPD to spearhead a move from democracy to social democracy, as the SAP did in Sweden. Nevertheless, had the SPD thought more carefully about what it wanted and how to achieve it, it could certainly have better exploited the opportunities the situation offered. Had the party been willing to broaden its appeal beyond the working classes, had it been willing to embrace dynamic Keynesian solutions, the appeal of the Nazis would have been undercut. The result in Germany, therefore, would almost certainly not have been the totalitarian Götterdämmerung that occurred. Rather than a mere postscript to a lengthy process of historical development, the interwar period in general, and the actions of the Social Democrats in particular, was crucial in determining Germany’s final fascist outcome.

CHAPTER

9 Understanding Interwar Social Democracy I have come across men of letters who have written history without taking part in public affairs, and politicians who have concerned themselves with producing events without thinking about them. I have observed that the first are always inclined to find general causes, whereas the second, living in the midst of disconnected daily facts, are prone to imagine that everything is attributable to particular incidents, and that the wires they pull are the same as those that move the world. It is to be presumed that both are equally deceived. alexis de tocquev ille, quoted in bruce r. kuniholm, the or ig ins of the cold war in the near east

This study has analyzed the choices of the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties in response to the crises of democratization and depression. On one level, I have tried to show that these choices cannot be understood simply by looking at the environment the parties faced; instead, they need to be explained with reference to the parties’ different programmatic beliefs and the distinct policy legacies those beliefs helped create. On another level, I have argued that the actions of these parties at these points in time had important consequences, helping to shape the political outcomes that emerged in each country by the mid-1930s. The wave of democratization at the end of the First World War and the Great Depression were “critical junctures” in European history—moments in time when a shift in historical trajectories was possible. The decisions made by the Social Democrats in Germany and Sweden during these periods were a crucial factor in determining the political path each country eventually followed. This chapter draws together the strands of the story told in Chapters 3 through 8. I focus first on the question of what caused the decisions at 201

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issue, summing up my ideational argument and comparing it with other competing explanations of political behavior. I then move on to a broader discussion of the implications of my analysis for our understanding of the history of social democracy and political development in general. Explaining Interwar Social Democratic Decision Making

The ideational argument I have presented in this study goes against the grain not only of much of the existing literature on the interwar period but also of much of the literature on comparative political behavior. Before turning to my own thesis, therefore, it is worth considering the adequacy of other explanations for why the SPD and SAP made the choices they did during the interwar years. Two broad alternative theoretical approaches to these questions appear in the literature. The first camp, consisting of “coalition” theories, emphasizes the influence of economic variables on the formation of political coalitions. The second camp, consisting of “statecentric” and “institutional” theories, emphasizes how domestic institutional contexts shape the policy choices of political actors. Neither does a very good job of accounting for the decisions in question here. Coalition theories seek to explain the formation of political alliances. They use a “second image reversed”1 perspective, analyzing how the changing nature of the international economic system leads different socioeconomic groups to join together to support particular policies and alliances at various times.2 Political actors, in this view, are motivated by a desire to maximize their income or share of the national economic pie, and political coalitions emerge as a result of the tendency of socioeconomic groups to follow their material (i.e., economic) interests. The alliance choices of political actors are seen as severely constrained, if not determined, by their positions in the international and domestic political economies. Politicians serve merely as conveyor belts, translating societal pressures into policy choices without playing a major independent role in the process.3 They respond to “objective” realities and mediate the formation of coalitions accordingly. From this perspective the political coalitions that emerged in Sweden and Germany during the interwar years would be best understood as a product of the particular economic logic of each country’s situation. For example, Ronald Rogowski’s and Peter Gourevitch’s analyses of the 1930s argue that the political alliances formed during this time were held to-


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gether by shared economic goals and interests. From this perspective, the SAP’s successful expansion into a people’s party, particularly its alliance with the Agrarian party, is best understood by reference to the shared interest of workers and farmers in particular economic policies. The failure of such a coalition to coalesce in Germany, in turn, would have to be explained by correspondingly divergent economic interests. State-centric and institutionalist perspectives on politics enjoy a long history in political science. Indeed, an earlier generation of political scientists concerned with interwar Europe often viewed the collapse of the Weimar Republic as “the result of some very ill-advised formal institutions and procedures.”4 For various reasons, these approaches went out of fashion for some time, but they have recently returned in force, with many scholars “focusing on the significance of institutional variables for explaining outcomes in their respective fields.”5 In contrast to coalition theories, state-centric and institutionalist theories tend to focus on the policy-making process rather than on alliance formation. Societal pressures, from this perspective, are indeterminate, filtered and shaped by the nature of the state and other domestic institutions. Precisely what causal mechanisms are at work is unclear in such analyses— in particular, it is difficult to discern exactly what factors are viewed as motivating political behavior—but these scholars contend that different types of state structures are more or less favorable to the introduction of certain kinds of policies than others. For example, Margaret Weir and Theda Skocpol’s influential analysis of the early 1930s argues that countries’ acceptance or rejection of Keynesian strategies during the Depression was critically affected by the type of preexisting national unemployment programs, the presence or absence of pseudocorporatist structures, and the nature of the countries’ economics profession. Policy choices in the 1930s, for them, are “react[ions] to existing means . . . national states had for coping with unemployment and its effects.”6 Whatever their particular emphasis, all such analyses argue that the kinds of policies political actors will choose can be predicted by examining the characteristics of the state and the domestic institutional context. Unfortunately, neither coalitional nor state-centric and institutionalist theories provide a satisfactory understanding of the decisions I have been concerned with in this study. Turning first to coalition theories, it is clear that many different economically plausible coalitions were possible. The worker-farmer coalition in Sweden and the Nazi’s agglomeration of con-

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servative, peasant, and petit bourgeois interests (among others) did not spring naturally from any unique logic of either economics or class structure. In Sweden, the SAP actually tried first to achieve an alliance with the Liberals in the early 1930s on the basis of a shared interest in free trade, and it turned to the farmers only as a second choice when the Liberals would not bite. That this latter coalition formed was due as much to the SAP’s willingness to present itself as a “people’s” party and realistic coalition partner, and its ability to formulate viable compromises, as to any overwhelming economic rationale. Similarly, the Nazi coalition in Germany was held together primarily by the NSDAP’s political appeal (e.g., its attacks on the passivity of the dominant Weimar parties). Workers and farmers in Germany as well as in Sweden shared the economic objectives of ending deflation and increasing domestic purchasing power during the early 1930s. The failure of these groups to coalesce in Germany was primarily due not to divergent economic interests but to the SPD’s long-standing inability or unwillingness to reach out to farmers and the legacy of political animosity this helped entrench.7 The socioeconomic alliances formed in Germany and Sweden during the interwar years, in short, had less to do with structural factors than with the ability of national political leaders to devise policies that could reshape traditional political patterns.8 As for state-centric and institutionalist analyses, these also run into problems with the German and Swedish cases. First, state policies in the two countries were not dissimilar enough to account for the very different choices made by the SAP and SPD. Both Germany and Sweden experimented with work creation during the interwar years, and although only Germany had a national-level unemployment insurance program, many Swedish unions had long run their own unemployment insurance schemes, which the SAP had long fought to expand. In addition, during the 1920s in particular German governments had in fact often deviated from fiscal orthodoxy and flirted with proto-Keynesian policies similar to those ultimately adopted by Sweden. What the Germans in general and the SPD in particular lacked in the early 1930s was not experience with such policies, but rather a theoretical understanding of the economic mechanisms by which they could counteract deflationary situations. Second, although it might possibly be true that Sweden had more “pseudocorporatist” institutions than Germany, these institutions by themselves were unable either to ensure a smooth transition to democracy at the end of the First World War or to create cross-class compromise and a


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smoothly functioning democratic system after 1918. Had they been so able, the SAP would not have had to fight so hard for full parliamentary democracy and Sweden would not have had to suffer through more than a decade of short-lived minority governments and continual policy stalemate after the First World War.9 What enabled the SAP to reach out to other groups before and after the war was less a particular bureaucratic or institutional structure than the party’s willingness to formulate policies that could facilitate a shift in political alliances. Third, the emphasis certain scholars have placed on the role of economists during the Depression is misleading. It is true that economists helped shape responses to the Depression in both countries, and that the German economics profession was more oriented toward purely academic pursuits than its Swedish counterpart.10 However, some economists in both countries called for a course shift, and in neither Germany nor Sweden could they make policy by themselves: their ideas had to become integrated into a larger political force and married to an attractive political rallying cry. What was ultimately crucial was that the economists calling for a course shift in Germany, unlike those in Sweden, were largely ignored by the only force capable of harnessing the political power of Keynesianism to the flagging republic—the Social Democrats.11 Beyond their inability to account for the outcomes of these particular cases, coalitional and state-centric theories both paint misleading or incomplete pictures of how political decisions are made. In coalitional theories, actors are seen as responding to signals provided by some aspect of their external environment. They are not considered to have significant freedom of choice, but rather to be severely constrained by environmental pressures. Since the outcomes of the political decision-making process are believed to be largely predictable by looking at the context in which it occurs, these theories see little reason to open up the “black box” and examine the process itself. The relative simplicity such approaches offer may well be seductive; it comes, however, at a high cost in terms of accuracy and insight. In the cases considered here, for example, the actual political decision making that took place looked dramatically different. Even during the revolutionary years at the end of the First World War and the Depression, material constraints were neither absolute nor unambiguous and decision makers in both countries could well have selected any of several courses of action.12

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Regarding state-centric and institutional approaches, it is clear that the ideational explanation put forth here owes much to the insights of scholars working in this tradition (especially the social learning approach that grew out of the latter.) This book has shown how, once institutionalized, the programmatic beliefs of the SPD and SAP were able to exert a long-term impact on decision making, creating a policy-making dynamic inconsistent with alternative explanations of political behavior. In particular, as insitutionalists would predict, we have seen that during the period focused on by this study, the decision making of the German and Swedish Social Democrats was a path-dependent process, with previous decisions shaping responses to new challenges. Nevertheless, the ideational explanation offered here differs from traditional state-centric and institutional analyses in the explicit attention paid to the origin of institutions and in the type of institutions it focuses on. Most state-centric and institutionalist scholars have focused on how the external institutional environment an actor faces influences decision making. Until recently, such scholars have not focused on explaining how the relevant institutions came to influence decision making in the first place or the exact mechanisms through which they do so. The ideational analysis presented here is an attempt to fill in these lacunae. By focusing on how different versions of social democracy became institutionalized in the SPD and SAP, I have tried to illuminate the process by which these parties’ self-understanding and organizational structures developed and how these, in turn, critically impacted party decision making during the critical junctures of 1917–1919 and 1930–1933. Therefore, an important implication of this study is that institutionalists need to spend more time investigating how ideas interact with a wide range of other factors to create long-lasting institutional configurations and uncovering the mechanisms by which particular institutional configurations affect political behavior.13 Ideas and Interwar Social Democratic Decision Making

Now that we have examined alternative explanations for the decision making of the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties, we can turn to a summation of the ideational argument presented in this study. As argued earlier, to the extent that ideas shape political actors’ goals and perceptions of the environment, we should observe distinctive patterns of decision making and behavior. First, we should find actors striving to make deci-


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sions consistent with preexisting beliefs; “appropriateness” (rather than, say, maximization of economic gain) should be the most important criterion actors use when evaluating the worth of different policy options. Since actors’ ideas (and hence their definition of “appropriateness”) tend to change slowly at best, moreover, we should find that a particular actor makes similar choices over time, even as the external environment changes. Second, we should find actors perceiving the constraints and opportunities provided by their environment through the prism of their ideas. Actors with different ideas should evaluate similar situations in different ways, and judge the feasibility of different alternatives accordingly. We should find, therefore, that actors with different ideas make different decisions, even when placed in similar contexts. In general, therefore, if ideas are a crucial factor motivating and shaping choices, then political actors should be relatively insensitive to changes in their environment and relatively unconcerned with “cost-benefit” calculations. As noted above, therefore, ideational explanations predict that decision making will be a path-dependent process, in which previous decisions and cognitive criteria constrain and facilitate political behavior. Chapters 3 through 7 demonstrated that the behavior of the German and Swedish Social Democratic parties conformed closely to these predictions. Even though the environments facing the SPD and SAP changed greatly from the late nineteenth through the first third of the twentieth century, these parties did not deviate much from an established pattern of political behavior and remained on distinct policy-making paths. During the time covered by this study, the SPD moved from being a small opposition force to a staatstragend party, and the German political system evolved from semiauthoritarian to democratic. Yet despite increasingly strong incentives for a course shift, the SPD remained suspicious of “bourgeois” democracy, unwilling to explicitly condone cross-class cooperation or a shift to a people’s party appeal, and unable to integrate its everyday reform work into a strategy of social transformation. The SAP, on the other hand, was characterized from early in its history by a democracy-first strategy, a belief in the value of cross-class cooperation, and a view of reforms as steps on the way to a better society. Even when the Swedish political environment proved hostile to this program, and the party was unable to effect much change (for example, around the turn of the century and then again during the 1920s), the SAP remained true to the course traced out in the nineteenth century by its first leader, Hjalmar Branting.

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Similarly, even when the SPD and SAP were confronted with similar situations both before and during the interwar years, they acted differently. In the years before 1914, for example, both parties confronted a situation in which the contradictions between a semiautocratic political system dominated by traditional elites and the growth of the middle and working classes generated by industrial development led to dissatisfaction with the status quo. Prior to 1914, majorities in both Sweden and Germany favored some political liberalization and, as the First World War drew to a close, even democratization. And in both countries the liberal movement was divided and the Social Democrats grew to become the largest party in parliament. Despite such similarities, however, the parties chose different courses of action. The SPD refused to join with left-wing liberals and make political liberalization its top priority, while the SAP did just that. Both Germany and Sweden faced political chaos at the end of the First World War, and the differing actions of both parties during the turmoil were crucially shaped by their respective programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped to create. The SPD had consistently resisted calls to make democracy and evolutionary reform work its overarching priorities during the prewar years, and had refused to reach out to nonproletarian groups. When the party found itself literally thrust into power in 1918, it had neither a relevant set of ideas nor experiences to guide it, and so missed a chance to reform the German political system more thoroughly. In the crunch, therefore, it had to deal with each issue on an ad hoc, piecemeal basis, with the confusion and incoherence that implies. In Sweden’s revolutionary turmoil, however, the SAP’s programmatic beliefs and the policy legacies they helped create led the party to spearhead a vigorous push for democratization. The SAP had long placed democratization at the forefront of its agenda and accepted the need for (at least tactical) cross-class cooperation to achieve its goals. As the old regime collapsed, therefore, the party moved swiftly and surely on its previously thought-out course, bringing together progressive groups and fighting for the final breakthrough. The Depression hit both countries at the end of the 1920s, and once again the parties responded differently, guided by their programmatic beliefs and prior experiences. The SPD had never really integrated its reform efforts into a strategy of social transformation, because its programmatic beliefs posited little connection between the party’s everyday practical efforts and the eventual achievement of social democracy. Thus even though


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the SPD found itself the most important political party in Germany after 1918, it remained unable or unwilling to devise plans for using its power to reshape the existing capitalist system. When several reformers proposed a Keynesian-type solution to the Depression in the early 1930s, the party was divided over how to respond. For some, the new plan contradicted traditional principles and policies; for others, it was simply too novel and unfamiliar to be assimilated on such short notice. In the end the party decided more or less to stick with its traditional economic program. Similarly, because it had long adhered to a relatively strident view of the class struggle, the SPD had failed to formulate an agricultural program before 1914 and was cool to calls during the 1920s to abandon its traditional isolation and exclusive focus on workers. Despite the obvious minority status of workers and the fact that Germany’s new democratic system required coalition governments, the SPD stuck to its traditional proletarian emphasis and rejected attempts to move toward a people’s party strategy, dooming any hopes for a course shift in response to the Depression. The SAP, meanwhile, had long emphasized the need for gradual reform of the existing economic order and the ways Social Democrats could use political power to reshape the capitalist system. Throughout the 1920s, the party worked hard to come up with a new economic strategy to achieve this kind of transformation, and it found in Keynesianism the perfect solution to this goal. Party leaders recognized the economic and political possibilities inherent in the new policies, and integrated them into the party’s traditional strategy of transforming capitalism from within. Similarly, having long adhered to a relatively mild view of the class struggle, the SAP had accepted the need for tactical cross-class cooperation and formulated an agricultural program in the early years of the century. This facilitated the formation and acceptance of an explicitly cross-class appeal and the final transition to a people’s party strategy in the late 1920s—which in turn was a necessary precondition for the party’s alliance with Swedish farmers and the passing of its innovative economic program in 1933. What Conditions Affect the Influence of Ideas on Political Behavior?

Ideas can influence political behavior only when they come to permeate the thought and practice of important political actors. Why and how, one must thus ask, were certain ideas able to become and remain a powerful force in

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the SAP and SPD during the years covered by this study? Two factors in particular stand out: carriers and institutionalization. To be heard in a world where many views call out for attention, an idea must first be adopted by a person or group able to make others listen—that is, it must find a “carrier.” In Sweden, Hjalmar Branting played a singular role in shaping the development of the SAP and its programmatic beliefs. Branting’s influence flowed from his exceptional leadership qualities, his ability to forge compromises, and his powers as head of the party from the late nineteenth century until his death in 1925. Branting espoused a social democracy that combined idealism and pragmatism; his willingness to tolerate wide-ranging debate on practical politics while insisting on the maintenance of certain ideals helped blunt discontent from both left and right. Branting also mentored some of the most important figures in the second generation of SAP leadership, helping them rise through the party hierarchy; these men, in turn, perpetuated and expanded Branting’s ideas after his death. During the interwar years, other figures in the SAP also played a crucial role in bringing particular ideas to the forefront of political debate. Wigforss’s championing of “Keynesianism” is perhaps the most obvious example. Beginning in the mid-1920s, Wigforss worked to spread his ideas throughout both the labor movement and Swedish society, and his efforts were crucial in finally winning over a majority of the SAP for a course shift in the early 1930s. Similarly, Per Edvin Sköld played a pivotal role in pushing the SAP toward greater awareness of the needs of Sweden’s farmers and of the potential for compromise that existed between this group and the labor movement. In Germany the situation was more complicated, largely due to the fact that the SPD’s main theoretician in the prewar period was not part of its political leadership group. Wilhelm Liebknecht and August Bebel—who headed the party organization in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—were generally willing to leave theoretical questions to Karl Kautsky; during their tenure, Kautsky’s “orthodox” interpretation of Marxism became the SPD’s official credo. Kautsky’s position as the SPD’s preeminent theorist allowed him to exert a great deal of influence over the party’s development. His interpretation of Marxism and socialism left little room for theoretical flexibility and was often invoked to criticize attempts at doctrinal diversity. Kautsky’s influence, for example, was critical in squashing both Bernstein’s revisionist challenge and attempts to mod-


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ernize the party’s agricultural program. Similarly, Kautsky’s heir as theoretical leader of German social democracy—Rudolf Hilferding—was able, by virtue of his intellectual abilities and the respect he was held in by other party leaders, to exert a powerful influence over the policy making and development of the SPD during the interwar years. Although he did not approve of some of his party’s positions (in particular its habit of denigrating democracy), he was crucial in quashing the WTB plan and in keeping the SPD on the devastating course it traversed during the final years of the Weimar Republic. One final carrier who should be mentioned is Karl Marx. The fact that Marx was German and not Swedish may seem trivial, but it had important repercussions for the parties focused on by this study. Marx was perhaps most concerned with Germany, and his writings were often directed toward analyzing and criticizing developments there. This attention and the centrality of German social democracy not only to Marx (and Engels) but also to the international Socialist movement helped foster a narrower, more dogmatic adherence to the writings of the master. By the last decades of the nineteenth century, the SPD had become the most powerful Social Democratic party in the world, and had come to believe that much of its reputation and power derived from its position as the standard-bearer of Marxist ideology. Challenges to orthodoxy, therefore, faced psychological as well as intellectual resistance within the SPD. The Swedish Social Democrats, on the other hand, could tinker with Marxism without fearing the wrath of Engels or worrying very much about criticism from abroad. Thus, even though the SAP’s version of Marxism moved increasingly away from the original writings of Marx as time passed, party leaders did not feel it contradictory to assert that they remained true to the fundamental principles of the socialist movement—a stance their German counterparts could never bring themselves to adopt. Carriers can bring certain ideas to prominence and promote their acceptance; the critical factor for ensuring that they remain a force in politics over an extended period of time, however, is whether or not the ideas become embedded in an institution or organization. Once institutionalized, ideas can take on a life of their own, changing the motivation and perception of political actors (and hence their decision making) over the long term. Distinctive programmatic beliefs became institutionalized in the SPD and SAP in various ways. First, they became embedded in the parties’

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identities and self-conceptions. Unlike most political parties today (as well as most of their contemporary competitors), the appeal of Social Democratic parties in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was explicitly ideological. Barred from directly influencing policy making in their countries, these parties relied on their stated ideas to show the electorate what they stood for and to differentiate themselves from potential competitors. Particular versions of social democracy and the promise of a better world they held out became crucial in helping the SPD and SAP keep activists loyal to the cause and attract voters. Later on, therefore, these parties found abandoning, contradicting, or moving beyond their stated beliefs difficult and costly, something that had an important impact on party behavior. By the turn of the century, the SPD had become associated with an “orthodox” version of social democracy, closely tied to Engels’s and especially Kautsky’s interpretations of Marx. One influential interpretation of the development of the SPD argues that this version of social democracy remained dominant within the party because it served to integrate different groups into a single political movement.14 Challenges to it thus threatened the unity and self-perception of the SPD, and consequently could not be allowed. Although this interpretation has been questioned,15 it seems clear that not just intellectuals but also many of the party’s supporters felt that what made the SPD unique was its position as the standard-bearer of Marxian socialism, and that threats to the dominance of their party’s particular programmatic beliefs threatened its appeal and ability to stand up to enemies of the labor movement. This dynamic can be seen clearly in the internal SPD debates over the value of a workers’ versus a people’s party strategy. As early as the late nineteenth century, Bernstein, Vollmar, and others had begun pointing out that workers would never provide the SPD with a majority and that cross-class cooperation was necessary if the party was to begin changing society. The SPD refused such a course shift, however, arguing that it would diminish the party’s Social Democratic profile, as well as force it to repudiate some of its long-held principles. Practically identical arguments were raised again in the 1920s when reformists in the party pointed out how damaging the SPD’s almost exclusive emphasis on workers was for the new German democracy. Again, such arguments were rejected by those unwilling or unable to tolerate such a course shift. In contrast to its German counterpart, the SAP had emphasized from early in its history its willingness to cooperate with other “progressive”


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forces and its support of an evolutionary, reformist social democracy. Consequently, as it became increasingly clear that workers alone could not provide the SAP with the support it needed to begin changing Swedish society, the party was able to reach out to left-wing Liberals and small farmers without having to reevaluate either its identity or its position in society. This left the SAP much better placed than the SPD to begin formulating a strategy for working within the democratic-capitalist framework to capture a majority of the electorate after the transition to democracy in 1918. A second way in which a certain set of programmatic beliefs became institutionalized in the SPD and SAP was through the way the roles of theoretician and politician developed in the two parties. In Germany there was relatively little overlap between the two, especially prior to the First World War. Based on their particular views of Marxism and social democracy, Kautsky and other intellectuals in the SPD found little in the everyday activities of the party that was interesting or attractive. Their energies were thus most often directed toward subjects with little direct relevance to the party’s political efforts, which in turn fostered a trend whereby the SPD’s politicians and bureaucrats often carried out their daily activities without any overarching strategy, creating the ad hoc, uncoordinated policy dynamic that plagued the SPD up through 1933. In Sweden, on the other hand, many of the most important figures in the history of the party—Branting, Wigforss, Karleby, Möller—were directly involved in shaping the party’s particular view of social democracy and also played important roles within the party hierarchy and in SAP governments. The SAP’s emphasis on gradual reform of the existing system required integrating the party’s everyday efforts into a strategy for the longterm transformation of society and posited a direct link between the roles of theoretician and politician. This link helped create, in turn, a policymaking dynamic within the SAP that was more in tune with political and economic realities than that in the SPD, and this was crucial in shaping the party’s actions at the end of the First World War and during the Great Depression. A third way in which ideas became institutionalized in the SPD and SAP was through the relationship that developed between Social Democratic parties and unions. Although these groups were linked in Germany and Sweden, in the latter they were more integrated both theoretically and practically. Partly as a result of the SPD’s radical theoretical pronounce-

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ments and obstructionist policy stances, German unions had already begun to distance themselves somewhat from the SPD in the political sphere and direct their focus more exclusively toward “economic” (i.e., labor market and social welfare) activities by the end of the nineteenth century. This lessened the SPD’s contact with some of the most important issues facing workers in their daily lives and gave many intellectuals within the party further reason to ignore those spheres of activity, which became seen as “union prerogatives.” This division surfaced in the somewhat different paths taken by the party and union leadership at the end of the First World War, and in the uncoordinated and ultimately catastrophic response of the labor movement to the Depression and the collapse of the Weimar Republic. In Sweden, on the other hand, the idea that unions should fight primarily for the material well-being of workers and should distance themselves from political efforts never enjoyed the support it did in Germany. The version of social democracy championed by the SAP from early in its history placed heavy emphasis not only on achieving the kind of reforms favored by unions but also on joining the economic and political parts of the labor movement’s struggle in order to ensure continued pressure for gradual reform of the existing order. Consequently, although conflicts between the SAP and LO leadership often occurred, the party’s work in the political sphere and union work in the economic sphere remained fairly well coordinated. The particular version of social democracy that developed within the SAP helped foster a high degree of cohesion within the labor movement, and this in turn helped keep theory and praxis closely linked in Sweden. These bonds facilitated the more coherent response of the Swedish labor movement to both the revolutionary years at the end of the First World War and the Depression. A fourth way in which certain ideas became institutionalized in party practice, at least in Sweden, was through organized cooperation between different political groups. In order to achieve its primary goal of democratization, the SAP decided early on to seek an alliance with Liberals. Although this alliance broke down, often acrimoniously, on many occasions, it nevertheless helped cement within the party a more flexible, less conflictual, and more practically oriented version of social democracy. In addition, this alliance helped bind the left wing of the Liberal movement closer to the Social Democrats, decreasing the SAP’s isolation in society and giving support to those who felt that evolutionary reform could effect longterm changes. Conversely, the continued political isolation of the SPD in


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Germany helped institutionalize within the party a dogmatic, conflictual, and abstract version of social democracy. By refusing, until 1912, to seek an official alliance with other progressive forces in order to achieve at least some of its goals, the SPD enabled itself to hang on to a set of ideas that had diminishing relevance to the realities of political life in Wilhelmine Germany. The SPD, the SAP, and the Evolution of European Social Democracy

If one set of questions raised by the cases I have analyzed concerns what caused each party to make the choices it did, another concerns the importance of these cases for our understanding of the broader history of European social democracy. From the time of its founding, for example, the SPD was the most powerful Social Democratic party in Europe. It was pivotal in shaping the international Socialist movement, and its massive organization and electoral success made it a model of modern political organization, not only for socialists but for a wide range of political activists around the world. Yet by the end of the interwar years the SPD was a shadow of its former self, overtaken and eventually destroyed by a new political movement even more successful in mobilizing and organizing a disciplined mass constituency. The SAP lacked the international stature and influence of its German counterpart, but by the end of the interwar period it had established itself not only as the most successful Social Democratic party in Europe but perhaps as the most powerful political force in any democratic system in any part of the world. Examining the development and actions of the SPD and SAP—the most powerful and most successful of Social Democratic parties—should provide us with important insights into the evolution and prospects of the entire Social Democratic movement. Social democracy originated in the middle to late nineteenth century from a split in the European socialist movement over how to view existing political systems and how to bring about changes in them. One branch of the movement decided to reject the idea of a violent overthrow of the existing bourgeois order and to instead participate in one of its most controversial processes—elections. With this decision to accept the possibility of a peaceful parliamentary road to socialism, socialist parties such as the SPD and SAP evolved into Social Democratic ones. They soon found themselves confronted with new dilemmas. By the end

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of the nineteenth century, it had become clear that workers alone could never provide Social Democratic parties with an electoral majority, and that capitalism was destined to persist over at least the short to medium term. These facts seemed to mean that the parties could no longer maintain the long-held socialist belief that “the breakdown of the present social system [was] unavoidable . . . and that economic evolution [would] inevitably bring on the conditions that will compel the exploited classes to rise against [the] system of private ownership.”16 Yet some parties did maintain such faith. Up through the interwar period, for example, the SPD refused to expand its official appeal beyond the working class, or to devote itself fully to reforming the capitalist system. This stubbornness helped doom the party to permanent minority status and, eventually, to political impotence. Nevertheless, some within the SPD recognized the dilemma the party faced and fought to move German social democracy onto a new path. Like their Swedish counterparts, they decided that a rejection of violence and an acceptance of elections necessitated a fundamentally new vision of the political and economic role of a Social Democratic party. Eduard Bernstein was the most important representative of this vision of social democracy in Germany. Like his contemporaneous Swedish colleague Branting, Bernstein built his vision of social democracy around two main tenets. The first was a belief that following the rejection of violent means, a gradual, reformist strategy was the only remaining alternative for a Social Democratic party. The second tenet was a belief that participating in elections made sense only if Social Democrats were willing to accept democracy as not only a necessary but also a sufficient means for achieving socialism. Each of these tenets had important practical implications According to men like Branting and Bernstein, once it became clear that the existing system was not working toward its own demise, Social Democratic parties had to recognize that the transformation of society could emerge only from their own efforts. Capitalism, they argued, could and should be changed from within, step by step, until a new form of social and economic organization existed. In addition, this “reformist” (Branting) or “evolutionary” (Bernstein) version of social democracy recognized that since the transformation of society would be a long and slow process, Social Democratic parties needed to provide their constituencies with rewards and encouragement along the way in order to sustain political momentum. In this view, reforms were as much a political as an economic necessity.


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In Sweden this vision of social democracy came to dominate, with dramatic implications for the SAP. The party presented each reform as a small victory for the labor movement and a step along the way to a better future. By arguing that its everyday efforts were part of a strategy of societal transformation, the SAP not only tried to differentiate its efforts from those of its competitors but also strove to provide workers with concrete evidence of the party’s efficacy and progress toward its goals. Branting continually castigated those who denigrated the value of contemporary reform work or who saw it merely as a stopgap or ameliorative measure. Instead, the party presented reforms as a way of freeing workers from the tyranny of the market, of rescuing their life chances from the whims of capitalism. This rhetoric reached its culmination in the SAP’s embrace of Keynesianism in the early 1930s. The new economic ideas appeared to be one more way Social Democrats could use political power to control the inequities, inefficiencies, and unpredictability of capitalism, helping to create a society where citizens were less dependent on the vicissitudes of the market for a stable and productive livelihood. In Germany the SPD, on the other hand, rejected such an interpretation of social democracy despite the urgings of Bernstein and others. Although, over time, the party found itself drawn increasingly into parliamentary and reform work, it never integrated these efforts into a long-term strategy of social transformation. Therefore, the SPD presented its reforms as ways to make the lives of workers more palatable, but not as essential parts of the struggle for socialism. As Bebel once explained: “We fight for . . . everything that we can get from the existing state, but what we do achieve—and this must be continually stressed—is just a small concession and does not change the actual situation at all.”17 Bebel rebuked challenges to the party’s official stance (from Bernstein and others) by arguing: “With what will we awaken enthusiasm? . . . With a demand for . . . reforms like the 8-hour day? . . . If we push [the achievement of] our beautiful goal into the cloudy future and continually stress that it will [only be future generations that will achieve it, then the masses will, completely correctly, desert us entirely.” 18 What Bebel and many other SPD leaders did not realize was that this dilemma was at least partly of their own making. By failing to tie necessary reform work to the ultimate goals of its movement, the SPD was left with no way of differentiating its practical efforts from those of its political competitors or of convincing its followers of the viability of its long termstrategy. In addition, the party’s everyday efforts often appeared uncoordi-

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nated and contradictory, creating frustration not only among its constituency but also among other progressive forces in German society. The SPD’s ultimate goals appeared increasingly hazy and out of reach as time passed, further disillusioning workers and leaving the party open to attacks from both left and right. (Interestingly, both the Communists and the Nazis attacked the SPD as a party of “bourgeois reformers” who had betrayed the “true” interests of the workers.) Finally, the divide between the party’s practical work and its stated long-term goals perpetuated a divergence between theory and praxis within the SPD, which had a devastating effect on the party’s actions at the end of the First World War and during the Great Depression. The second guiding tenet of “reformist” or “evolutionary” socialism was the centrality of democracy. For both Bernstein and Branting, acceptance of elections and of a “parliamentary” route to socialism was merely one part of a larger commitment to democracy, which (as Bernstein put it) was “both a means and an end. It is the means of the struggle for socialism and the form socialism would take once it has been realized.”19 Democracy was central in this vision because it was a concrete manifestation of the most important ideals of socialism: it represented the equality and classlessness at the heart of the socialist project. Consequently, extending democracy throughout the economy and society was seen to be a primary task of the movement. Again, since this view came to dominate the SAP, it is the Swedish case that best demonstrates its consequences. The SAP decided early on to subsume other goals to the achievement of democracy, and it presented this strategy to its constituents as crucial for enabling the movement to dominate and transform society. In addition, the party also argued that democracy was the form of political and social organization associated most closely with the working classes, since it was these groups that most highly valued the principles of equality and classlessness embodied by democracy. By the end of the nineteenth century, both Germany and Sweden experienced increasing domestic pressure for political change, and the Social Democrats in each country faced a choice: Should they make the compromises necessary to join with other progressive but non-Socialist forces in society to spearhead the struggle for democracy, or should they stand aloof in principled isolation? As we know, the SAP chose the former strategy, the SPD the latter. Some have argued, when examining the German case, that the failure to achieve a breakthrough to parliamentary democracy before


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the First World War, even after the 1912 electoral pact between the SPD and the left Liberals, showed that Bernstein’s “revisionist” strategy was bankrupt. They claim that even had such a strategy been pursued more aggressively, it could not have succeeded, given the external situation the SPD faced. In his classic analysis of the SPD, for example, Carl Schorske writes: The dilemma of Social Democracy lay in the fact that the tactic required for winning middle-class support was in contradiction with the tactic required to extract concessions from the Conservatives. The demonstrations and mass actions of the Social Democrats would frighten the middle class back into the arms of the Junkers; but without strong action supported by the middle class as well as the workers the Junkers could not be moved to make concessions. In this socio-political impasse, the tragic legacy of Germany’s incomplete bourgeois revolution came to the surface once again. There was in fact no right tactic for Social Democracy to pursue in terms of the constitutional issue alone. The constitutional issue was one which, in the long run, was solved only by revolution; and it is difficult to see how, whatever the tactic of Social Democracy, it could have been otherwise.20

The comparison with Sweden, however, should lead us to question this widely held view, for various reasons. First, it is hard to judge the potential viability of Social Democratic–Liberal cooperation in Germany from the limited experience of such cooperation during the prewar years. The alliances that did occur were tentative, hedged with reservations, and followed years of Social Democratic hostility toward Liberals. Given this pattern, it is not surprising that Liberal voters were hesitant to support Social Democratic candidates (and vice versa). Cooperation in Sweden occurred only as a result of a conscious Social Democratic strategy of subsuming other goals to the attainment of democracy, and even then there was always tension within the Swedish Liberal camp over the relationship. Second, it is misleading to judge the SPD’s prewar cooperation only by the success or failure of democratization before 1914. The left Liberal–Social Democratic alliance in Sweden was also unable to force complete democratization before the First World War, but its prewar efforts had a number of important consequences and paid handsome dividends later on. Cooperation helped splinter the Liberal movement, strengthening leftwing elements and tying them closer to the Social Democrats. It also kept

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the SAP from becoming further isolated in Swedish society and helped strengthen faith in the ultimate victory of a gradual strategy of transformation. When the Swedish system did collapse, as it was bound to do eventually, the SAP had earned a position at the forefront of the movement for democratic change, helping the party to react more successfully to the challenge of democratization and instilling within workers a deep and abiding belief in democracy as a crucial achievement of the labor movement. The SPD’s prewar stance, on the other hand, not only weakened the potential left-wing drift of German Liberals but also critically impaired the functioning of the German political system. The Reichstag failed to develop further in the years before the First World War largely because no strong political force consistently worked to change it. Its full powers were never utilized, and the increasing failures of Conservative governments remained unexploited. Even had a prewar Social Democratic–Liberal alliance in Germany been unable to overcome the intransigence of conservative elements, the benefits of such cooperation would still have been great. The SPD would have placed itself at the forefront of the movement for democracy, energizing not only the labor movement but also other democratically minded forces. Furthermore, such a prewar alliance would have forced the Social Democrats to confront head-on questions regarding their role in bourgeois capitalist society. This would have helped the party avoid the internal divisions and uncertainty that hindered its ability to play its hand more successfully during 1917–1919 and adjust to its role as the most important pillar of democracy during the Weimar Republic. The programmatic beliefs of the SPD, however, made it difficult if not impossible for the party to take advantage of the opportunities the prewar situation offered— a pattern that would occur repeatedly in years to come. The SPD’s continual berating of “bourgeois” democracy during the interwar years, moreover, left many sectors of the labor movement with a tenuous attachment to the Weimar Republic, considerably weakening the pro-democratic forces in Germany. A comparison of the experiences of the SPD and the SAP leads to the conclusion that once the decision for social democracy had been made, the explicit acceptance of a “reformist” or “evolutionary” strategy offered clear advantages to Social Democratic parties. First, it provided them with a way to work toward restructuring the capitalist system and shifting the political balance of forces in society. This process was slow but effective: by the end


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of the interwar years, the SAP not only had succeeded in devising ways to use its political power to help control and even reshape the market economy but also had put together a lasting majority coalition. The SPD, on the other hand, although favoring some reform work, never integrated such efforts into a concerted strategy for shifting the political or economic balance of power in German society. The SPD’s version of social democracy did not offer Germans any concrete hope for a Social Democratic future or even a way out of the economic crisis, and consequently the party found its political power rapidly waning during the early 1930s, whereas that of the Nazis rose commensurately. A “reformist” or “evolutionary” vision offered another benefit to Social Democratic parties. Many commentators from Marx on have noted that one of the most important sources of power for the bourgeoisie was its ability to portray itself as the future of the entire society, as the standardbearer of the universal interests of all citizens. This enabled the bourgeoisie to extend its economic dominance to the political and even the cultural spheres. The Swedish SAP was able to flip this situation around, however, making workers appear the universal class and social democracy the natural form of political and economic organization. To a large degree this striking success was a result of the vision of social democracy embraced by the SAP and the policy path this vision placed the party on. The SAP fought for democracy, Keynesianism, and the welfare state not merely because those things would be good for the proletariat but rather, it argued, because they would benefit the vast majority of society, which it portrayed as suffering from the inequities of outmoded forms of political and economic organization. By adopting early on a strategy that appealed to the wide masses of society in their status as consumers, citizens, or dependents on the market, the SAP was able to radically shift the nature of political discourse in Sweden. This strategy was crucial in helping the SAP alter the political balance of power in society. Before the First World War, it helped the party further divide the Swedish bourgeoisie and Liberal movement, drawing their most progressive elements to the left and leaving the rest too weak to form an independent political alternative. During the interwar years, the SAP worked to lessen the hostility of Sweden’s peasants toward social democracy, eventually convincing a significant segment of this group to tie its fortunes to the SAP’s crisis package in the early 1930s. Consequently, by the time it formed its first majority government in 1933, the SAP had maneu-

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vered itself into a very auspicious political situation. Not only was it the largest political force in the country, but through its efforts it also had significantly decreased the likelihood of any other majority coalition coalescing. This was a crucial reason the SAP’s entrance into power in 1933 became the departure point for a period of political hegemony unprecedented in the history of the world’s democracies. It would be wrong to ascribe the successes and failures of the SPD and SAP entirely to the different interpretations of social democracy they adopted, but it would be equally wrong to assess their fates without recognizing the crucial role played by their different interpretations of social democracy—that is to say, their programmatic beliefs. Interwar Europe and Theories of Political Development

These cases have significant implications not merely for the study of Germany, Sweden, and social democracy but also for our theoretical understanding of political development in general. The cases’ eventual outcomes —Nazi tyranny versus Social Democratic hegemony—were so important that they served as building blocks for several of the leading theories of political development, and so a reconsideration of the cases should lead us to reexamine those larger theories as well. The first lesson in this area that can be drawn from our analysis is to be skeptical of theories that focus exclusively on what A. J. P. Taylor called “profound” or “general” causes, ignoring the crucial role that contemporaneous political actors and their decisions can play in shaping the fate of different political regimes.21 It is simply not possible to understand the rise of social democracy in Sweden and the collapse of democracy in Germany during the interwar years without reference to crucial decisions made by the SAP and SPD. The second lesson is to be skeptical of theories that focus exclusively on the bourgeoisie or middle class when explaining the success or failure of democracy. A comparison of Sweden and Germany points to the conclusion that in many cases workers may be the pivotal actors initiating and supporting democratic regimes. As for the denigration of the role played by contemporaneous political actors, many scholars argue that the historical trajectories of different European countries during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries can be understood only with reference to events hundreds of years earlier—some even locate causes as far back as the Middle Ages. Such macrohistorical


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approaches focus on long-term patterns of domestic development as the driving forces of history and politics.22 Scholars in this camp deny the role of individual or collective decision makers, interpreting political phenomena not as discrete, contingent events but as the culmination of lengthy historical trends; once countries are placed on certain tracks, there is little chance of their changing course. Stable democratic regimes, in this view, require a wide range of preconditions, which emerge as the culmination of long-term development processes. Perhaps the most well known theory in this camp argues that capitalist development critically shaped European political development, and thus the regimes that formed during the interwar period. These “capitalist development” theories argue that different processes of economic development produce fundamentally different types of political regimes. Barrington Moore, for example, explains the fascist political outcome in Germany by looking to the commercialization of agriculture in the sixteenth century; his explanation more or less ends with the process of industrialization in the middle to late nineteenth century.23 Alexander Gerschenkron, Thorstein Veblen, and James Kurth, on the other hand, focus on the process of industrialization itself, arguing that there was an “elective affinity” between late industrializers and the development of authoritarian and totalitarian political regimes.24 Capitalist development theories have been extremely important in helping us to understand cross-national political development. They remind us that economic and political development are crucially linked and that different domestic forms of capitalism shape the power and preferences of socioeconomic groups. However, despite the important insights generated by these theories, the factors they highlight did not differ enough between Germany and Sweden to be able to explain their vastly different political outcomes. Both Germany and Sweden industrialized comparatively late (Sweden, in fact, even later than Germany), and both countries faced similar economic imperatives and developed many similar economic structures. However, shared patterns of economic development did not lead to shared political outcomes in the interwar period. A relatively weak bourgeoisie; a state that actively intervened in the economy and developed important ties to the business community; an industrial structure characterized by large and concentrated firms; and high levels of labor market conflict were key characteristics of both Germany and Sweden on the eve of the First World

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War. Despite these similarities, the experiences of these countries with democracy during the interwar period were very different: Sweden was eventually able to leave this legacy behind, whereas Germany proved unable to do so. The concept of historical paths proves to be of limited use here: a focus on long-term economic factors leaves unanswered the question of why some countries were able to make dramatic shifts in their politics at different times. As for the role of workers in spearheading democratization, another set of theories has argued that a “bourgeois revolution” prior to the First World War was a prerequisite for a successful interwar democratic outcome. This approach, which has been popular with political scientists, historians, and sociologists, is closely related to the German Sonderweg school. According to this view, while most countries in western Europe had undergone a capitalist revolution by the end of the nineteenth century, not all had experienced a political or social one.25 These last had thus undergone a “partial or unsuccessful modernization,” in the words of Ralf Dahrendorf, and ended up on a “fascist track” to modernity.26 For democratic development to occur, there must be a complete break with the past, not only in the economic but also in the political and social spheres. A successful revolution that can remake society, in turn, depends on the existence of a bourgeoisie strong enough (and willing) to lead the forces of change. In such analyses the bourgeoisie is the key to both successful societal modernization and political democratization.27 Works stemming from the “bourgeois revolution” school have provided a useful framework for analyzing patterns of historical development in Europe. They highlight the difficulty of establishing a stable democratic regime overnight and remind us that power and authority patterns in the economic and social spheres critically influence those in the political sphere. Furthermore, they correctly recognize that for those countries where full democracy had not already been established by 1914, the option of a bourgeois-led transition to democracy probably no longer existed. However, despite the important insights generated by such theories, they are not able to adequately account for dynamics of interwar Germany and Sweden. In recent years the most basic premises of these theories have come under increasing fire. David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley’s influential book The Peculiarities of German History argues “in a nutshell [that], liberaldemocratic institutions have rarely been established in any pure form as


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the direct result of violent political convulsions (revolutions) in which the ‘bourgeoisie’ as such played a leading role.”28 Even the few cases examined here contradict the predictions and arguments of the “bourgeois revolution” approach. Although Sweden and Germany ended up on opposite ends of the political spectrum in the early 1930s, neither experienced a complete “bourgeois” revolution in the prewar period. While the political regimes of both countries had liberalized somewhat by the First World War, a full transition to democracy could not occur until the aftermath of the war and the scare of the Russian Revolution had weakened the old regime. More important, however, in neither of these cases did the bourgeoisie play the role these theories lead us to expect for it. Instead, partly due to their late industrialization, the bourgeoisie and the liberal movement in both Germany and Sweden remained relatively weak and divided during the prewar period. As a consequence, in both countries it fell to workers, and in particular to Social Democratic parties, to spearhead the struggle for democracy.29 The Social Democrats in Sweden, at least, seemed to realize this. Recognizing that the country’s late and rapid industrialization and the social dislocation and conflict accompanying it helped create a relatively weak bourgeoisie and a divided Liberal movement, the SAP understood that democratization would occur only if workers and their political representative—social democracy—became the main driving force and social support for democracy. As previous chapters have noted, this fact was constantly on the minds of early leaders of the SAP (especially Branting) and was an important factor motivating the party’s early focus on democratization and acceptance of alliances with left-wing Liberals. Describing his party’s actions during the period covered by this study, one leading Swedish Social Democrat noted: “The country’s political backwardness influenced [the SAP] directly. In other countries democracy had been brought about by bourgeois liberalism. In Sweden [however] the bourgeoisie had primarily been undemocratic, and the consequence was that we got a strong and large Social Democratic party which had to take up the work that in other lands had been carried by the bourgeoisie.”30 This study of Germany and Sweden, in short, should lead us to reevaluate the way we think about the development of democracy in Europe. Up through the 1970s, many scholars often employed an idealized version of (English) political development as the fundamental basis of comparison, and thus came to the conclusion that democracy could only be the result of

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a long-term political evolution and required a wide array of social and economic prerequisites.31 This type of analysis presented German fascism as the result of a horrific “divergence” from the “normal” pattern of political development. However, if one compares Germany not to countries with relatively peaceful and gradual political development (such as England) but to countries that were able to make the transition to full democracy only under the pressure of the First World War, a very different picture emerges—of the German case in particular, and of the development of democracy in general. Although gradual political and economic development and a dominant bourgeoisie or middle class are certainly auspicious for successful democratization, the analysis presented here suggests that they may not be necessary for it. This study, therefore, provides a historical perspective on a debate that has been reignited among political scientists since the beginning of the “third wave” over the relative import of longterm structural versus short-term political factors in shaping the chances for stable democracy. The cases presented here seem to indicate that under certain conditions particular political actors may be able to help foster democratic development even where conditions would not necessarily seem to be overwhelmingly in favor of it. Just as the coalition and state-centric theories discussed earlier faced both empirical and theoretical problems in accounting for SAP and SPD decision making, so theories emphasizing long-term patterns of development face similar troubles in accounting for the Swedish and German cases. Not only do their empirical predictions prove inaccurate, but some of the assumptions they rest on distort important aspects of European political development rather than illuminating them. In particular, such theories neglect the role of contemporaneous individual and collective decision makers and portray political phenomena as the ineluctable culmination of lengthy historical trends. The years between the two world wars, in this view, are best understood as an extension of these paths, rather than as a period worth studying in and of itself. Yet the Swedish case shows that it was possible for a nation to switch paths or “jump its tracks” during the interwar period. If some countries did alter their “destinies,” then the outcomes in others that did not do so may well have been less predetermined than many have believed. At the very least, certain actors in these latter countries—such as the SPD—may resemble the dog that did not bark in the Sherlock Holmes story, their potential impact on history noticeable by its absence.


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To say that an emphasis on historical “paths” and socioeconomic preconditions has led scholars to overlook the role of politics in general (and the actions of Social Democratic parties in particular) during times when a shift in historical trajectories was possible is not to say that all potential political outcomes are equally possible in all cases. As noted throughout this study, several important factors differentiated interwar politics in Germany and Sweden and ensured that each country’s history was not entirely fluid. Even had the SAP played its hand less successfully, for example, Sweden would probably not have slid into fascism—because it lacked certain historical and ideological legacies, was not traumatized by defeat and humiliation in the First World War, and had a sturdier economy than did Germany during the interwar period. Similarly, no matter what the SPD had done in response to the Depression, Germany could not have been transformed at that point into a full-fledged social democracy, because the SPD’s stock had sunk so low and because the nation’s political divisions had hardened so drastically. Nevertheless, a wide range of possible outcomes still existed for each nation throughout the interwar period, and the actions of the respective Social Democratic parties helped determine which of these possible outcomes actually emerged. Perhaps Karl Marx put it best when he argued: “Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but rather under circumstances found, given and transmitted.”32 With regard to the cases examined here, this means simply that historical legacies and structural variables established the challenges Social Democratic parties faced, but they did not dictate how Social Democratic parties would respond to these challenges.33 Ultimately, therefore, social scientists should strive to put historical and structural factors in their proper perspective, while also appreciating the way in which the actions and decisions of political actors can affect political outcomes. The true relationship between profound and particular causes—between the environments within which the SPD and SAP had to maneuver and their decisions during the interwar period—is captured well by an analogy of Marc Bloch’s: [Let us take the] case of a man who falls off a cliff. For this to happen a large number of determining elements was necessary—gravity, a terrain resulting from geological changes, etc. It would be, therefore, per-

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fectly legitimate to say that, were the laws of celestial mechanics different, had the evolution of the earth been otherwise, were alpine ecology not founded upon the seasonal migration of flocks, the fall would not have happened. Nevertheless, should we inquire as to the cause, everyone would answer: “A misstep.” It is not that this antecedent was most necessary to the occurrence of the event. Many others were just as necessary. But it was distinguished from all the rest by the fact that: it occurred last; it was least permanent, the most exceptional in the general order of things; by virtue of its greater particularity, it seems the antecedent which could have been most easily avoided. For these reasons, it appears to have exerted a more direct influence upon the result, and we scarcely can avoid the feeling that it was really the sole cause of it.34

My contention in this book has been that historical and structural factors by themselves were necessary but not sufficient causes of the interwar period’s ultimate political outcomes. Those outcomes cannot be fully explained without reference to the specific decisions made by key political actors at the time—the crucial “missteps” of which Bloch writes. The most important of these actors, I have argued, were Social Democratic parties, and a crucial element shaping their decision making was the particular version of social democracy each developed—that is to say, their programmatic beliefs.

Conclusion: Ideas and Politics

Perhaps the most important single difference between the Swedish and German Social Democratic parties during the period covered by this study was that the SAP made itself appear a dynamic, progressive force, whereas the SPD allowed itself to be seen as a party of unimaginative bureaucrats determined to maintain the status quo.35 This happened largely because the SAP was more successful than the SPD in exploiting the opportunities it faced. During crises, the Swedish Social Democrats managed to place themselves at the forefront of movements for change, while their German counterparts reacted to events rather than guiding them. This different behavior cannot be understood without a careful examination of each party’s programmatic beliefs. As noted earlier in this study, during crises, political actors do not have enough time to adapt their policy repertoires to events in measured, incre-


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mental steps. Instead they must act quickly, and they require a shorthand way of making decisions and evaluating options. Under pressure they tend to identify and interpret problems within existing frameworks, reaching for solutions they have applied in the past. As some scholars have noted, in such situations ideas act as “road maps,” providing political actors with guidance in confusing and rapidly changing environments.36 In politics as in travel, maneuvering through unfamiliar territory without a map can prove difficult and even hazardous, and so actors who enter periods of crisis having thought through the relevant problems in advance (like the SAP) are more likely to perform well in the crunch than their unprepared counterparts.37 Sometimes, however, political actors’ ideas will be irrelevant to a particular crisis—incapable, that is, of diagnosing the situation or providing responses to it. In these cases, actors at first are likely to do nothing at all: “Aspects of [a] situation that cannot be dealt with in established ways are only incompletely perceived and processed, with the result that salient dimensions of a problem or issue at hand are often ignored.”38 Without any previous experience dealing with a particular problem, it may be difficult even to recognize, much less develop a coherent response. So actors may disregard a problem, failing to recognize its seriousness or simply hoping that it will go away. As time passes, however, and the problem persists, pressure generally increases for some kind of response. At this point, decision makers without relevant theoretical guidance (like the SPD) will usually act tentatively and reactively, pushed reluctantly into motion by their environment rather than pulled by an already formulated plan of attack. Their ad hoc attempts at policy making, nevertheless, are apt to run up against existing beliefs about what kinds of behavior are appropriate; and if the new policies or tactics being considered appear to conflict with some long-held goals or principles, the actor is likely to face cognitive dissonance.39 In conclusion, this study shows that a political actor’s ability to take advantage of opportunities during a crisis depends not only on the incentives and disincentives presented by the environment but also on the actor’s own confidence, skill, and will. Confidence flows from knowing what one wants to achieve and from having a framework for action at hand. Skill and political sophistication flow from integrating theory and praxis, so that each can inform the other. Will flows, most importantly, from having ideas one believes in.

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Adolf Hitler once argued: “The lack of a great, creative, renewing idea means at all times a limitation of fighting force. . . . The fact of having a new great idea to show was the secret of the success of the French Revolution; the Russian Revolution owes its victory to [such an] idea, and only through [such an] idea did fascism achieve the power to subject a people in the most beneficial way to the most comprehensive creative renewal.”40 Hitler believed that “bourgeois” parties—and in this group he surely included the SPD—lacked such ideas and were thus incapable of handling threats from extremists like himself. Here for once he may have been right: parties without such “great ideas” did indeed find themselves at a loss during the turbulence and upheavals of the interwar years. But as the Swedish case shows, extremists were not the only ones who recognized this basic truth.

NOTES INDEX

Notes

Preface 1. Peter Gourevitch, “International Trade, Domestic Coalitions, and Liberty: Comparative Responses to the Crisis of 1873–1896,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 8, Autumn 1977, p. 281. 1. Reexamining Interwar Social Democracy 1. Ralf Dahrendorf, Society and Democracy in Germany (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1969), p. 64. 2. Alexander Gerschenkron, Bread and Democracy in Germany (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1943); Friedrich A. Hayek, The Road to Serfdom (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972); Theodore Adorno et al., The Authoritarian Personality (New York: Harper, 1950); Hannah Arendt, Origins of Totalitarianism (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973); Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966); Hermann Rauschning, The Revolution of Nihilism (New York: Longman, Green, 1939); and William Kornhauser, The Politics of Mass Society (New York: Free Press, 1959). More recently see Peter Gourevitch, Politics in Hard Times (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1986); Margaret Weir and Theda Skocpol, “State Structures and the Possibilities for ‘Keynesian’ Responses to the Great Depression in Sweden, Britain, and the United States,” in Peter Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer, and Theda Skocpol, eds., Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Gregory M. Luebbert, Liberalism, Fascism, or Social Democracy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991); and Ronald Rogowski, Commerce and Coalitions: How Trade Affects Domestic Political Alignments (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). 233

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Notes to Pages 2–16

3. Adolf Sturmthal, The Tragedy of European Labor, 1918–1939 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1943); Evelyn Andersen, Hammer or Anvil: The Story of the German Working-Class Movement (New York: Oriole Editions [reprint], 1973); and Otto Bauer, The Austrian Revolution (London: Leonard Parsons, 1925). 4. Adam Przeworski and John Sprague, Paper Stones. A History of Electoral Socialism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), p. 1. Also Adam Przeworski, Capitalism and Social Democracy (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1985), esp. chap. 1. 5. Karl Marx, “The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte,” reprinted in Robert Tucker, ed., The Marx-Engels Reader (New York.: Norton, 1978), p. 595. 2. Evaluating the Role of Ideas 1. Recent book-length studies include Peter A. Hall, ed., The Political Power of Economic Ideas (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989); Kathryn Sikkink, Ideas and Institutions (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1991); Robert Keohane and Judith Goldstein, eds., Ideas and Foreign Policy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993); Judith Goldstein, Ideas, Interests and American Trade Policy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993); and Yuen Foong Khong, Analogies at War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 2. Clifford Geertz, “Ideology as a Cultural System,” in David Apter, ed., Ideology and Discontent (London: Free Press, 1964), p. 51. See also Ngaire Woods, “Economic Ideas and International Relations: Beyond Rational Neglect,” International Studies Quarterly, 29, 1995, p. 163. 3. Giovanni Sartori, “Politics, Ideology and Belief Systems,” American Political Science Review, 63, 1969, p. 398; Daniel Bell, “Afterword,” in Daniel Bell, ed., The End of Ideology (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988). 4. Philip Converse, “The Nature of Belief Systems,” p. 206 in Apter, Ideology and Discontent. See also Robert Dahl, Polyarchy (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1971), pp. 181–182. 5. One of the fundamental ironies of Marxism, as Isaiah Berlin has noted, is that “it set out to refute the proposition that ideas decisively determine the course of history, but the very extent of its own influence on human affairs has weakened the force of its thesis.” Karl Marx, 4th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 208. For a discussion of how Marxist scholars have inhibited the study of ideas as independent variables, see Reinhard Bendix, “The Age of Ideologies: Persistent and Changing,” in Apter, Ideology and Discontent.


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6. Karl Marx, “The German Ideology,” reprinted in Saul Padover, ed., The Essential Marx (New York: New American Library, 1978), p. 295. 7. E. H. Carr, The Twenty Years’ Crisis (New York: Harper and Row, 1964), p. 68. 8. Artistotle, Physics, book 8, chap. 5, in Richard McKeon, ed., The Basic Works of Aristotle (New York: Random House, 1941). See also John Harsanyi, “Explanation and Comparative Dynamics in Social Science,” Behavioral Science, 5, April 1960. 9. Karl Polyani, The Great Transformation (Boston: Beacon Press, 1957); Adam Przeworski, Capitalism and Social Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Adam Przeworski and John Sprague, Paper Stones (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986); and Grace Stedman-Jones, Languages of Class (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 10. Paul Pierson, “When Effect Becomes Cause: Policy Feedback and Political Change,” World Politics, 45, July 1993, p. 627; and Theodore J. Lowi, “American Business, Public Policy, Case Studies, and Political Theory,” World Politics, 16, July 1964. 11. Brian Barry, Sociologists, Economists and Democracy (London: CollierMacmillan, 1970), p. 97. See also Albert Yee, “The Causal Effects of Ideas on Politics,” International Organization, 50, Winter 1996, esp. p. 84. 12. Another example here might be useful. The fact that the unique structure of the government and constitution of the United States was shaped by the country’s particular situation in the late eighteenth century does not mean that once in place these structures could not be conceived of as exerting an independent impact over subesequent American political development. 13. Max Weber, “The Nature of Human Action,” in Mary Brodbeck, ed., Readings in the Philosophy of the Social Sciences (London: Collier-Macmillan, 1968), p. 30. 14. Robert Keohane and Judith Goldstein, “Ideas and Foreign Policy: An Analytical Framework,” in Keohane and Goldstein, Ideas and Foreign Policy, p. 11. 15. Robert Putnam, “Studying Elite Political Culture: The Case of Ideology,” American Political Science Review, 65, 1971, p. 651. 16. Ole Holsti, “Cognitive Approaches to Decision-Making,” American Behavioral Scientist, 20, September/October 1976, p. 21. 17. Converse, “The Nature of Belief Systems,” p. 206. 18. Clifford Geertz put it this way: “What—by a curious selective omission the unkind might well indict as ideological—is not so often considered is the possibility that a great part of the problem lies in the lack of conceptual sophistication within social science itself, that the resistance of [ideas to] analysis is so great because such analyses are in fact fundamentally incomplete.” Geertz, “Ideology as a Cultural System,” pp. 48–49.

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19. Putnam, “Studying Elite Political Culture,” p. 654; see also John Jackson and John Kingdon, “Ideology, Interest Group Scores, and Legislative Votes,” American Journal of Political Science, 36, August 1992, p. 814. It should be noted, nonetheless, that many other legitimate variables have not overcome this methodological hurdle. For example, the institutionalist literature is distinctly problematic in this regard. See Kathleen Thelen and Sven Steinmo, “Institutions in Comparative Politics,” in Kathleen Thelen and Sven Steinmo, eds., Structuring Politics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Walter Powell and Paul Dimaggio, “Introduction,” in Walter Powell and Paul Dimaggio, eds., The New Institutionalism in Organizational Analysis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); Peter Hall, Governing the Economy: The Politics of State Intervention in Britain and France (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), p. 19; and G. John Ikenberry, “Conclusion,” in Ikenberry, David Lake, and Michael Mastanduno, eds., The State and American Foreign Policy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), p. 226. 20. Raymond Aron, The Industrial Age (New York: Praeger, 1967), p. 144. 21. Franz Schurmann, Ideology and Organization in Communist China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), esp. pp. 1–22. 22. See, however, the essays by John A. Hall, Stephen Krasner, and John Ferejohn in Keohane and Goldstein, Ideas and Foreign Policy. 23. Hall, “Ideas and the Social Sciences,” p. 41. 24. Schurmann, Ideology and Organization, p. 22. 25. The concept of “programmatic belief ” has much in common with Philip Converse’s “belief systems” and falls somewhere between Schurmann’s “pure” and “practical” ideologies. See Converse, “The Nature of Belief Systems in Mass Publics,” esp. p. 207, and Schurmann, Ideology and Organization, pp. 18–58. See also Hall, “Ideas and the Social Sciences,” p. 41, and Elinor Scarborough, Political Ideology and Voting: An Exploratory Study (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), esp. p. 28. 26. On the history of the concept of ideology, see George Lichtheim, “The Concept of Ideology,” History and Theory, 4, 1965. 27. John Gerard Ruggie, “International Responses to Technology,” International Organization, 29, Summer 1975, pp. 569–70. See also Peter M. Haas, “Introduction: Epistemic Communities and International Policy Coordination,” International Organization, 46, Winter 1992, p. 27. 28. These are a modified version of the criteria laid out by Talcott Parsons in “The Role of Ideas in Social Action,” in his Essays in Social Theory (Glencoe, N.Y.: Free Press, 1954), p. 20. See also Brian Barry, Sociologists, Economists and Democracy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), p. 49. 29. Gary King, Robert Keohane, and Sidney Verba, Designing Social Inquiry:


30.

31.

32.

33. 34.

35.

36. 37.

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Scientific Inference in Qualitative Research (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), pp. 109–111. See, for example, Fareed Zakaria, “Culture Is Destiny: An Interview with Lee Kuan Yew,” Foreign Affairs, 73, March/April 1994; and Kim Dae Jung, “Is Culture Destiny? The Myth of Asia’s Anti-Democratic Values,” Foreign Affairs, 73, November/December 1994. See also Ian Buruma, “The Singapore Way,” New York Review of Books, October 19, 1995. For a “cultural analysis” that does attempt to adhere to the above criteria, see Frank Dobbin, Forging Industrial Policy: The United States, France, and Britain in the Railway Age (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Alexander George, “The Causal Nexus between Cognitive Beliefs and Decision-Making Behavior: The ‘Operational Code’ Belief System,” in Lawrence S. Falkowski, ed., Psychological Models of International Politics (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1979), pp. 105–106. See also Yee, “The Causal Effects of Ideas.” Again, here too many cultural analyses fall short, settling merely for a finding of “plausibility,” that is to say, showing that culture is consistent with the outcomes being explained, rather than showing how culture actually influenced outcomes. Robert Jervis, “Ideas and Foreign Policy” (paper presented at the American Political Science Association conference, New York, 1994), p. 6. John Stuart Mill, “The Claims of Labour,” Edinburgh Review, 81, 1845, p. 503; quoted in Peter A. Hall, “Conclusion,” in Hall, The Political Power of Economic Ideas, p. 390. See also Robert Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse: Ideology and Social Structure in the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and European Socialism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989). Kathryn Sikkink, Ideas and Institutions; Goldstein, Ideas and Interests, chap. 1; idem, “The Impact of Ideas on Trade Policy: The Origins of U.S. Agricultural and Manufacturing Policies,” International Organization, 43, Winter 1989; Hall, “Introduction,” in Hall, ed., The Political Power of Economic Ideas, pp. 9– 10; G. John Ikenberry, “Creating a New World Order: Keynesian ‘New Thinking’ and the Anglo-American Settlement,” in Keohane and Goldstein, Ideas and Foreign Policy; and Marc Trachtenberg, “Keynes Triumphant: A Study in the Social History of Ideas,” Knowledge and Society, Past and Present, 4, 1983. G. John Ikenberry and Charles A. Kupchan, “Socialization and Hegemonic Power,” International Organization, 44, Summer 1990, esp. p. 289. Peter Hall, “Policy Paradigms, Social Learning and the State: The Case of Economic Policy Making in Britain,” Comparative Politics, 25, April 1993; Keohane and Goldstein, Ideas and Foreign Policy; Goldstein, Ideas and Inter-

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38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43.

44.

45.

46. 47.


ests; Sikkink, Ideas and Institutions; and Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse, esp. chap. 2. Maurice Duverger, Political Parties (New York: Wiley, 1954), p. xxiii. Joseph Schumpeter, Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy (New York: Harper and Row, 1950), p. 305. Anthony Downs, An Economic Theory of Democracy (New York: Harper and Row, 1957), p. 110. Fred I. Greenstein, Personality and Politics (New York: Norton, 1975), p. 7. Douglass North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), esp. p. 20; Herbert Simon, “Rationality in Psychology and Economics,” Journal of Business, 59, 1986; Peter Evans, “The Role of Theory in Comparative Politics,” World Politics, 48, 1996, p. 3. James March and Johan Olson, Rediscovering Institutions: The Organizational Basis of Politics (New York: Free Press, 1984). p. 20. See also Aaron Wildavsky, “Choosing Preferences by Constructing Institutions: A Cultural Theory of Preference Formation,” American Political Science Review, 81, March 1987. Jeffry Frieden, Debt, Development and Democracy: Modern Political Economy and Latin America, 1965–1985 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), pp. 7, 17. See also Ronald Rogowski, Commerce and Coalitions: How Trade Affects Domestic Political Alignments (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989); and Helen Milner, Resisting Protectionism: Global Industries and the Politics of International Trade (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988). North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance, p. 17. In fact, it may be possible that ideas can actually shape what actors see as their “economic” interests, since it is often difficult, if not impossible, for actors to define abstractly what, in fact, their own economic interests are. Pierson, “When Effect Becomes Cause,” p. 611. March and Olson, Rediscovering Institutions, p. 44. See also Ernst B. Haas, When Knowledge Is Power: Three Models of Change in International Organizations (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); Alexander George, “The Causal Nexus between Cognitive Beliefs and Decision-Making Behavior: The ‘Operational Code’ Belief System,” in Falkowski, Psychological Models; idem, “‘The Operational Code’: A Neglected Approach to the Study of Political Leaders and Decision-Making,” International Studies Quarterly, 13, June 1969; George Lakoff, Women, Fire and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987); Haas, “Introduction”; Adler and Haas, “Conclusion,” International Organization, 46, Winter 1992; North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance;


48. 49. 50. 51.

52.

53.

54.

55.

56. 57. 58.

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and Yuen Foong Khong, Analogies at War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). Robert Jervis, Perception and Misperception in International Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), p. 13. Goldstein, Ideas, Interests and American Trade Policy, p. 10. Simon, “Rationality in Psychology and Economics,” pp. 210–21 and North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance, pp. 22–23. King, Keohane, and Verba, Designing Social Inquiry, pp. 28–29; and Kenneth Waltz, Theory of International Politics (Reading, Mass.: Addison Wesley, 1979), chap. 1. I use the term primacy intentionally. History is indeed complicated, but the essence of political science is arguing that some factors are more important than others and that simplifications of reality are justified in the interest of explanatory power and simplicity. Even the political economy explanations discussed above do not claim that other variables “are unimportant, only that they do not hold explanatory primacy. [Instead], the pride of place [is] ascribed to economic interest.” Frieden, Debt, Development and Democracy, pp. 255–256. Similarly, in order to be successful, ideational explanations need not argue that other factors are unimportant, which would be ridiculous, but only that ideas are the dominant factor shaping outcomes. Hall, “Policy Paradigms”; idem, “The Movement from Keynesianism to Monetarism: Institutional Analysis and British Economic Policy in the 1970s,” in Thelen and Steinmo, Structuring Politics; March and Olson, Rediscovering Institutions; and James Alt, “Crude Politics: Oil and the Political Economy of Unemployment in Britain and Norway,” British Journal of Political Science, 17, April 1987. John L. Campbell, “Recent Trends in Institutional Analysis: Bringing Culture Back into Political Economy” (paper presented at Stanford Center for Organizational Research, October 1994), p. 1. As Peter Haas once argued: “Faced with a new situation, we identify and interpret problems within existing frameworks and according to past protocols and then try to manage the problems according to operating procedures that we have applied in analogous cases. Aspects of a situation that cannot be dealt with in established ways are only incompletely perceived and processed, with the result that the salient dimensions of a problem or issue at hand are often ignored. Haas, “Introduction,” p. 28. North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance, p. 100. Jervis, Perception and Misperception, p. 13. Alexander George, “The Causal Nexus between Cognitive Beliefs and Decision-Making Behavior: The ‘Operational Code’ Belief System,” in Falkowski,

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59.

60. 61.

62. 63.

64.


Psychological Models, p. 113. See also Alexander George and Timothy McKeown, “Case Studies and Theories of Organizational Decision-Making,” Advances in Information Processing in Organizations, 2, 1975; and Khong, Analogies at War, pp. 64ff. Haas, “Introduction”; Adler and Haas, “Conclusion”; Geertz, “Ideology as a Cultural System,” p. 64; Ann Swindler, “Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies,” American Sociological Review, 51, April 1986, p. 273; Bendix, “The Age of Ideologies,” p. 296; Peter Gourevitch, Politics in Hard Times: Comparative Responses to International Economic Crises (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1986), pp. 9–10, 32–33. Stephen Krasner, “Approaches to the State: Alternative Conceptions and Historical Dynamics,” Comparative Politics, 16, January 1984, p. 234. Max Weber, “The Social Psychology of the World Religions,” reprinted in H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, eds., From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology (New York.: Oxford University Press, 1968), p. 280. Marc Bloch, Land and Work in Medieval Europe (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1968), p. 45. On the comparative method, see also “Symposium on Comparative Methodolgy,” Arend Lijphart, ed., Comparative Political Studies, 8, July 1975; Theda Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1979), pp. 33–40; and Ruth Berins Collier and David Collier, Shaping the Political Arena (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991); and Atul Kohli, ed., “The Role of Theory in Comparative Politics: A Symposium,” World Politics, 48, October 1995. David Collier and James Mahoney, “Insights and Pitfalls: Selection Bias in Qualitative Research,” World Politics, 49, October 1996, esp. pp. 69–71 and the citations therein. 3. Sweden’s Political Development and the Programmatic Beliefs of the SAP

1. Marquis Child, Sweden: The Middle Way (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1938). 2. Perry Anderson, Lineages of the Absolutist State (London: Verso, 1979), p. 198. 3. J. A. Lauwerys, ed., Scandinavian Democracy (Copenhagen: Danish Institute, 1948), p. 84. 4. Nils Herlitz, Grunddragen av det svenska staatskickets historia (Stockholm: P. S. Norstedt och Söners, 1928), pp. 188–217; and Nils Andren, Från kungavälde till folkstyre (Stockholm: Ehlins Folkbildningsförlaget, 1955), pp. 14–35. 5. Quoted in Georg Andren, ed., Riksdagen från 1866: historisk och statsveten-


6.

7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14.

15. 16.

241

skaplig framställning (Stockholm: Victor Pettersons Bokindustriaktiebolag, 1937), p. 74. Only companies and citizens who paid tax could vote in these elections. In 1871, 11 percent of the population could vote in these elections; this figure rose until 1885, when the depression pushed it back down to 12 percent. Douglas Verny, Parliamentary Reform in Sweden, 1866–1921 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957), pp. 49–93; and Rudolf Kjellen, Rösträttsfrågan, 1869–1909 (Stockholm: Hugo Gebers, 1915). Dankwart Rustow, The Politics of Compromise (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1955), p. 20. Anybody without employment could be drafted into military service or civilian enterprises, or ordered to work at less than market wages for those who informed on them. The law also permitted corporal punishment by employers. See Eli Hecksher, An Economic History of Sweden (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954), p. 170; and Arthur Montgomery, The Rise of Modern Industry in Sweden (London: P. S. King and Son, 1939), p. 63. Franklin D. Scott, Sweden: The Nation’s History (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977), pp. 369–370. Hecksher, An Economic History of Sweden, p. 142. In the late 1860s and 1870s, landowning farmers were estimated to constitute less than one-third of the entire agricultural class. Kurt Samuelsson, From Great Power to Welfare State (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1968), p. 146; Arthur Montgomery, Svensk socialpolitik under 1800-talet (Stockholm: Kooperativa förbundets bokförlag, 1934), pp. 16–30; and Hecksher, An Economic History of Sweden, pp. 143–166. Montgomery, The Rise of Modern Industry in Sweden, pp. 104ff. Arthur Montgomery, Svensk tullpolitik (Stockholm: Isaac Marcu, 1921); Sten Carlsson, Lantmannapolitiken och industrialismen: Partigruppering och opinionsförskjutningar i svensk politik 1890–1902 (Stockholm: Lantbruksförbundets tidskriftsaktiebolag, 1953), pp. 65–81; and Leif Lewin, Ideology and Strategy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), chap. 2. Leif Lewin, Bo Jansson, and Dag Sörblom, The Swedish Electorate, 1887–1968 (Stockholm: Almqvist and Wicksell, 1972), pp. 41–45. It was discovered that one of the free traders was in debt on his municipal taxes. According to the Parliament Act, this disqualified not only him but also all the candidates on lists that included his name. As a result, all of the twenty-two free traders from Stockholm were replaced by twenty-two protectionists, thereby giving the protectionists a majority in both chambers of parliament. Sten Carlsson, “Protectionister och frihandlare, 1885–1895,” in Sten Carlsson and Jerker Rosen, eds., Den Svenska historien, industri och folk-

242

17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.


rörelser 1866–1920, vol. 9 (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1968). On the extent of the tariffs, see Montgomery, Svensk tullpolitik, esp. pp. 125, 142. Rustow, The Politics of Compromise, pp. 38–39; and Torbjörn Vallinder, I kamp för demokratin: rösträtssrörelsen i Sverige, 1886–1900 (Stockholm: Natur och Kultur, 1962), p. 18. Many of the giant firms associated with Swedish industry today (e.g., ASEA, Electrolux) got their start during this early period of industrialization. “Vaför arbetarrörelsen måste bli socialistisk,” reprinted in Hjalmar Branting, Tal och Skrifter: socialistisk samhällsyn (Stockholm: Tiden, 1926), pp. 87–118. On the early development of the SAP, see John Lindgren, Det socialdemokratiska arbetarpartiets uppkomst i Sverige, 1881–1889 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1927); Birger Simonson, Socialdemokratiet och maktövertagandet: SAPs politiska strategi, 1889–1911 (Göteborg: Bokskogen, 1985); Seppo Hentilä, Den svenska arbetarklassen och reformismens genombrott inom SAP före 1914 (Helsingfors: Suomen Historiallinen Seura, 1979); and G. Hilding Nordström, Sveriges socialdemokratiska arbetarparti under genombrottsåren, 1889–1894 (Stockholm: KF, 1938). The Åkarpslagen of 1889 forbid the encouragement of strikes and legalized strikebreaking. In the same year the Munkorgslagen (literally, the “muzzle law”) was passed, placing limits on free expression and organization. Gustav Möller, “Hjalmar Branting,” in Hjalmar Branting: festschrift (Stockholm: Tiden, 1920), p. 9. Nils-Olof Franzen, Hjalmar Branting och hans tid (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1985), pp. 79ff; and Leif Kihlberg, “Branting och Staaff,” Tiden, 9, 1960. Branting ran Social-Demokraten in Stockholm starting in 1887; Danielsson ran Arbetet in Malmö from 1887 to 1899; and Sterky ran Ny Tid in Göteborg from 1892 to 1898. Nils Elvander, Skandinavisk arbetarrörelse (Stockholm: Liber, 1980), p. 44. John Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin: några drag ur den svenska socialdemokratiens historia (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1936), pp. 50–80. It should be noted that even Sterky’s views moderated greatly in the following years. An interesting comparison can be made here with the SPD’s St. Gallen congress, which occurred at about the same time. Both the Norrköping and the St. Gallen congresses condemned the use of violence, but interestingly the vote was much closer in Sweden than in Germany. Arbetet, July 2, 1892; and Social-Demokraten, July 8, 1892. See also Axel Danielsson, Om revolutionen i Sverige (Stockholm: Arbetarkultur, 1972). Reprinted in Hjalmar Branting, Tal och skrifter: kampen för demokratin I (Stockholm: Tiden, 1927), p. 11. Program reprinted in Från Palm till Palme, pp. 144–145.


243

32. Quoted in Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, p. 207. 33. Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagandet, pp. 204–205; Leif Dahlberg, “SAP ideologiska utveckling 1889–1914,” in Från Palm till Palme, pp. 253–254; Rickard Lindström, “Till det socialdemoratiska partiprogrammets historia,” Tiden, 1926; and Rolf Karlbom, Revolution eller reformer: studier i SAP:s historia 1889–1902 (Göteborg: Göteborgs Universitet Historiska Institution, 1985). 34. On the SAP and Marxism, see Gunnar Gunnarsson, Socialdemokratisk idearv (Stockholm: Tiden, 1979); Mats Dahlkvists, Staten, socialdemokratien och socialism (Stockholm: Prisma, 1975); and Gunnar Gunnarson, “Kautsky, Bernstein och Marx,” in Jan Lindgren, ed., Bilden av branting (Stockholm: Tiden, 1975). 35. Hjalmar Branting, “Förord och noter till ‘Socialisms utveckling’ av Engels,” in Branting, Tal och Skrifter: socialistisk samhällsyn, pp. 271–280. 36. Hjalmar Branting, “Partinamn och partigränser,” Social-Demokraten, October 6, 1906, reprinted in Branting, Tal och skrifter: stridsfrågor inom arbetarrörelsen, (Stockholm: Tiden, 1929), p. 114. 37. Ernst Wigforss, “Klasskampen och livsvärderna,” reprinted in Ernst Wigforss, Vision och verklighet (Stockholm: Prisma, 1971), p. 16. See also idem, “Socialism och moral,” Tiden, 1910; Winton Higgins, “Ernst Wigforss and the Renewal of Social Democratic Theory and Practice,” Political Power and Social Theory, 5, 1986; and Timothy Tilton, The Political Theory of Swedish Social Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), esp. pp. 42–44. 38. Ernst Wigforss, Ur mina minnen (Stockholm: Prisma, 1964), p. 152. 39. Tilton, Political Theory, p. 44. 40. In a letter to Axel Danielsson in jail (1889), reprinted in Från Palm till Palme, pp. 189–190, quote on p. 189. 41. Quoted in Zeth Höglund, Hjalmar Branting och hans livsgärning, part 1 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1928), p. 194. 42. Branting, “Den revolutionära generalstrejken” (1906), reprinted in idem, Tal och skrifter: stridsfrågor inom arbetarrörelsen, p. 125. 43. Quoted in ibid., p. 154. 44. Branting in a speech to the Riksdag, May 21, 1913, in Hjalmar Branting, Tal och Skrifter: Ekonomisk och social arbetarepolitik (Stockholm: Tiden, 1928), pp. 242–280, quote on p. 280. 45. Per Albin Hansson (1906), quoted in Jan Lindhagen, Bolsjevikstriden: socialdemokratiens program (Stockholm: Tiden, 1972), pp. 179–180. 46. “Vaför arbetarrörelsen måste bli socialistisk,” in Branting, Tal och Skrifter: socialistisk samhällsyn, quote on p. 107. 47. Arbetet, July 4, 1890. See also Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 2, p. 29.

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48. Per Albin Hansson (1929), in Anna Lisa Berkling, ed., Från Fram till folkhemmet: Per Albin Hansson som tidningsman och talare (Stockholm: Metodica, 1982), p. 223. 49. Tolerance, however, was not unlimited. In 1908, for example, obstreperous anarchist leaders were expelled from the party. The leader of the extreme left was Hinke Bergegren, whose program can be inferred from the following statement: “Universal suffrage is something which doesn’t move me at all. For my part I think a program of assasinations is excellent and such attacks would terrorize the ruling classes. We should inject the poison called hate which would make us ripe for any kind of violence.” Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratien, vol. 2, p. 35. 50. Nils Karleby, Socialism inför verkligheten (Stockholm: Tiden, 1976 [original 1926]), pp. 104–105; see also Jan Lindhagen, Socialdemokratiens program: rörelsenstid, 1890–1930 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1972), pp. 39–43. It should be noted, however, that a group of radicals remained dissatisfied with the party’s (and in particular Branting’s) reformism and assertions that contemporary society could be changed from within. In Chapter 5 we will see how this contributed to a party split during the First World War. 51. Donald Blake, “Swedish Trade Unions and the Social Democratic Party: The Formative Years,” Scandinavian Economic Review, 3, 1960; and Klas Årmark, “Sammanhållning och intressepolitik: Socialdemokratien och fackföreningsrörelsen i samarbete och på skilda vägar,” in Klaus Misgeld, Karl Molin, and Klas Årmark, eds., Socialdemokratiens samhälle: SAP och Sverige under 100 år (Stockholm: Tiden, 1988). 52. Branting, “Varför böra fack vara socialistiska?” (1897), reprinted in idem, Tal och Skrifter: socialistisk samhällsyn, p. 105. 53. Not least over the policy of tvångsanslutning mentioned earlier. 54. Quoted in Vallinder, I kamp för demokratin, p. 16. 55. Ironically, given later history, years before universal suffrage become a reality in Sweden, Branting argued for it using the recent transition to a more democratically elected German Reichstag as a favorable example. See his arguments in the 1899 and 1902 suffrage debates in the Riksdag, recounted in Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 2, p. 61. See also Branting, “Rösträtt och arbetarrörelse” (1896), reprinted in idem, Tal och skrifter: kampen för demokratin I (Stockholm: Tiden, 1927), pp. 145–156; and Timothy Tilton, “Ideologins roll i socialdemokratisk politik,” in Misgeld, Molin, and Årmark, eds, Socialdemokratins samhälle, p. 382. 56. See, for example, Danielsson, “Anarki eller socialism,” Arbetet, May 27, 1891. 57. Branting in Folkviljan, November 11, 1884, quoted in Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, p. 103. See also Höglund, Hjalmar Branting, p. 135. 58. The 1902 election manifesto reprinted in Sven-Olof Håkansson, ed., Svenska


59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

72. 73. 74. 75.

76. 77.

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valprogram: 1902–1952, vol. 1 (Göteborg: Göteborgs Universitet, Statsvetenskapliga Institution, 1959). See also Branting, “Dagspolitikens skiljelinje,” Tiden, 3, 1905, esp. p. 164. Nils Karleby in Axel Danielsson, Om revolutionen i Sverige, p. 42. Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagandet, p. 40. Branting, “Förord och noter till ‘Socialisms utveckling’ av Engels,” reprinted in Branting, Tal och skrifter: socialistisk samhällsyn, esp. p. 271. Lindström, “Till det socialdemokratiska partiprogrammets historia,” p. 436. Per Albin Hansson, “Folk och Klass,” Tiden, 1929, p. 330. As we will see in Chapter 7, Hansson’s own success in widening the SAP’s appeal in the late 1920s and early 1930s would rest on the party’s previous “people’s party” efforts. Quote in Från Palm till Palme, pp. 38–39. See also Danielsson, Om revolution, esp. pp. 28–29. Hjalmar Branting, “Socialism i arbetarrörelsen,” reprinted in Alsterdal and Sandel, Hjalmar Branting: socialism och demokrati, quote on p. 72. Branting, “De närmaste framtidsutsikterna” (1886), reprinted in idem, Tal och skrifter: kampen för demokratin I, p. 33. Ernst Wigforss, Skrifter i urval: Minnen, 1914–1932 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1980), p. 289. See Chapter 4. Axel Danielsson, Arbetet, November 27, 1894. “Industriarbetarparti eller folkparti?” (1895), reprinted in Hjalmar Branting, Tal och skrifter: stridsfrågar inom arbetarrörelsen (Stockholm: Tiden, 1929), pp. 50–51. Social-Demokraten, November 29, 1894. Eduard David, Sozialismus und Landwirtschaft (Berlin: Sozialistische Monatshefte, 1903). See Chapter 4. Quoted in Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagendet, pp. 192–193. Lars Björlin, “Jordfrågan i svensk arbetarrörelse 1890–1920,” Arbetarrörelsens Årsbok, 1974. See also Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagendet, pp. 167–211; Clas-Erik Odhner, “Arbetare och bönder formar den svenska modellen,” in Misgeld, Molin, and Årmark, et al, Socialdemokratiens samhälle; Tingsten, Den svensk socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 1, pp. 186–195; Lotta Gröning, Vägen till makten: SAP:s organisation och dess betydelse för den politiska verksamheten 1900–1933 (Uppsala: Almqvist och Wicksell, 1988); and Tilton, “Ideologins roll i socialdemokratisk politik,” p. 375. Björlin, “Jordfrågan i svensk arbetarrörelse,” pp. 105–109. Per Thullberg, “SAP och jordbruksnäringen 1920–1940: från klasskamp till folkhem,” Arbetarrörelsens Årsbok, 1974, p. 129.

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78. The 1911 program reprinted in Från Palm till Palme, pp. 150–151. 79. Gustav Möller, Tiden, 1918. 4. Germany’s Political Development and the Programmatic Beliefs of the SPD 1. Gordon Craig, Germany 1866–1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 38. 2. For comparisons of voting eligibility across Europe, see Leif Lewin, Bo Jansson, and Dag Sörblom, The Swedish Electorate, 1887–1968 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1972). 3. Hans-Ulrich Wehler, The German Empire, 1871–1918 (New York: Berg Publishers, 1985), p. 55. 4. A. J. P. Taylor, Bismarck: The Man and the Statesman (New York: Vintage Books, 1955), p. 98. 5. Carl Schmitt, Staatsgefüge und Zusammenbruch des Zweiten Reiches (1934), quoted in Dieter Grosser, Vom monarchischen Konstitutionalismus zur parlamentarischen Demokratie (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff, 1970), p. 3. 6. Manfred Rauh, Föderalismus und Parlamentarismus im Wilhelminischen Reich (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1973). 7. This will be discussed further in Chapter 6. It is worth noting here, however, that there is a large amount of disagreement over exactly how far along the road to a parliamentary system Germany had gone before 1914. For analyses that focus on the development of parliamentary behavior, see Manfred Rauh, Die Parlamentarisierung des Deutschen Reiches (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1977), and Grosser, Vom monarchischen Konstitutionalismus. 8. John Breuilly, Labour and Liberalism in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Manchester, England: Manchester University Press, 1992), p. 138. 9. Joseph Schumpeter, Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy (New York: Harper and Row, 1950), p. 341. 10. J. C. G. Röhl, Germany without Bismarck: The Crisis of Government in the Second Reich, 1890–1900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), p. 9. 11. On the early relationship between liberalism and the labor movement, see Breuilly, Labour and Liberalism; Wolfgang Schieder, “Das Scheitern des bürgerlichen Radikalismus und die sozialistischen Parteibildung in Deutschland,” in Hans Mommsen, ed., Sozialdemokratie zwischen Klassenbewegung und Volkspartei (Frankfurt: Athenäum Fischer Taschen, 1974); and Gustav Meyer, “Die Trennung der proletarischen von der bürgerlichen Demokratie in Deutschland, 1863–1870,” Archiv für die Geschichte des Sozialismus und der Arbeiterbewegung, 2, 1912. 12. In fact, Lassalle’s hostility to liberalism led him to suggest a tactical alliance


13. 14. 15.

16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24.

25.

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between the nobility and the working class against the liberal enemy. Hence his famous flirtation with Bismarck. See Gustav Meyer, Bismarck und Lassalle (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1928). Quoted in Alexander Gray, The Socialist Tradition (London: Longman, Green, 1944), p. 341. Quoted in Paul Kampffmeyer, Changes in the Theory and Tactics of the German Social Democracy (Chicago: Charles Kerr, 1908), p. 11. Quoted in Robert Michels, Political Parties (New York: Free Press, 1962), p. 78. On Lassalle see William Dawson, German Socialism and Ferdinand Lassalle (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1891); Helga Grebing, The History of the German Labour Movement (Dover, N.H.: Berg Publishers, 1969), pp. 36–59; and Eduard Bernstein, Ferdinand Lassalle und seine Bedeutung für die Arbeiterklasse (Berlin: Vorwärts, 1904). Quoted in Harry Marks, “Movements of Reform and Revolution in Germany” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1927), p. 64. Doctrinal differences were not, however, the main force separating the ADAV and the SAP. Acrimonious relations between the two were caused largely by differing attitudes toward Prussian and German nationalism. In particular, the SAP chose to abstain on the vote for war credits against France on June 19, 1870, while the Lassalleans voted with the majority. Vernon Lidtke, The Outlawed Party: Social Democracy in Germany, 1878–1890 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966). Peter Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1952), p. 41. Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, p. 81. Hans-Josef Steinberg, Sozialismus und deutsche Sozialdemokratie: Zur Ideologie der Partei vor dem 1. Weltkrieg (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1979), pp. 40–70; Grebing, The History of the German Labour Movement, pp. 75–80; Marks, “Movements of Reform and Revolution in Germany,” pp. 59–144; and Harry Marks, “The Sources of Reformism in the Social Democratic Party of Germany, 1890–1914,” Journal of Modern History, 11, September 1939. For an English translation of the program, see Bertrand Russell, German Social Democracy (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1965), pp. 137–141. In fact, it was an almost verbatim recapitulation of chap. 4, paragraph 7, of Marx’s Capital. Erfurt program, reprinted in Russell, German Social Democracy, p. 138. Quoted in Horst Heimann, “Marxismus, Revisionismus und Reformismus in der Geschichte der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, 10, March 1983. Paul Kampffmeyer, “Schrittweise Sozialisierung oder gewaltsame Sprengung der kapitalistischen Wirtschaftsordnung,” Sozialistische Monatshefte, 10, 1899,

248

26.

27.

28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33.


p. 466. See also Susanne Miller and Heinrich Potthoff, A History of German Social Democracy from 1848 to the Present (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986), p. 46; Sigfried Marck, Sozialdemokratie (Berlin: panVerlagsgesellschaft), p. 15; Richard Evans, “Introduction,” in Richard Evans, ed., The German Working Class, 1883–1933 (London: Croom Helm, 1982); and Dieter Klink, Vom Antikapitalismus zur sozialistischen Marktwirtschaft (Hannover: J. H. W. Dietz, 1965), pp. 6–15. The amount of work on Kautsky and his interpretation of Marxism is huge. See Massimo Salvadori, Karl Kautsky and the Socialist Revolution, 1880–1938 (London: NLB, 1979); Gary Steenson, Karl Kautsky: Marxism in the Classical Years (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1978); Leszek Kolakowsi, “German Orthodoxy: Karl Kautsky,” in Leszek Kolakowski, Main Currents of Marxism: The Golden Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978); Walter Holzheuer, Karl Kautskys Werk als Weltanschaung: Beitrag zur Ideologie der Sozialdemokratie vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1972); Ingrid Gilcher-Hotley, Das Mandat des Intellektuellen: Karl Kautsky und die Sozialdemokratie (Berlin: Siedler, 1986); and Erich Matthias, “Kautsky und der Kautskyanismus: Die Funktion der Ideologie in der deutschen Sozialdemokratie vor dem ersten Weltkrieg,” Marxismusstudien, 2, 1957. Among his more important works were Karl Marxs ökonomische Lehren, which served as a sort of introductory guide to Marxist economics; Ethik und materialistische Geschichtsauffassung, which was an exposition of Darwinist and Marxist views on morality; and Das Erfurter Programm in seinem grundsätzlichen Teil erläutert, which was translated into twenty-three languages and remained the most influential interpretation of the goals of the SPD in the period before the First World War. Hans Kelsen, Sozialismus und Staat: Eine Untersuchung der politischen Theorie des Marxismus (Leipzig: C. L Herschfeld, 1923), p. 194. Kolakowsi, “German Orthodoxy: Karl Kautsky,” pp. 31–32. On Kautsky and Darwinism, see Holzheuer, Karl Kautskys Werk als Weltanschauung, pp. 20–21; and Steinberg, Sozialismus und deutsche Sozialdemokratie, pp. 43–59. Karl Kautsky (writing as Symmachos), “Freiheit,” Der Sozialdemokrat, 28, July 1881, quoted in Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, p. 150. Peter Nettl, “The German Social Democratic Party 1890–1914 as a Political Model,” Past and Present, 30, April 1965, p. 73. Quoted in Klaus Novy, Strategien der Sozialisierung: Die Diskussion der Wirtschaftsreform in der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt: Campus, 1978), p. 16. See also Rudolf Walther, “. . . aber nach der Sündflut kommen wir und nur wir” Zusammenbruchstheorie, Marxismus und politisches Defizit in der SPD, 1890– 1914 (Frankfurt: Ullstein, 1981).


249

34. Kautsky in Der Weg zur Macht (Berlin, 1920), p. 57. See also Matthias, “Kautsky und der Kautskyanismus,” p. 163; Steenson, Karl Kautsky, p. 78; and Ernst Wangermann, “Die Auseinandersetzung über das Verhältnis von Reform zu Revolution in der deutschen und österreichischen Sozialdemokratie,” in Internationale Tagung der Historiker der Arbeiterbewegung, 1973 (Vienna: Europa, 1975). 35. Quoted in Hans-Josef Steinberg, “Die deutsche Sozialdemokratie nach dem Fall des Sozialistengesetzes: Ideologie und Taktik der Sozialistischen Massenpartei in Wilhelminischen Reich,” in Mommsen, Sozialdemokratie zwischen Klassenbewegung und Volkspartei, p. 51. 36. Quoted in Sebastian Haffner, Failure of a Revolution, Germany 1918–1919 (Chicago: Banner Press, 1973), pp. 15–16. 37. Quoted in Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, p. 223. 38. Walther, “. . . aber nach der Sündflut,” p. 74. 39. Stanley Pierson, Marxist Intellectuals and the Working-Class Mentality in Germany, 1887–1912 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), p. 13. 40. Ibid., pp. 20–21. See also Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, pp. 305ff; Steinberg, “Die deutsche Sozialdemokratie nach dem Fall des Sozialistengesetzes,” p. 55. 41. Broadly defined, revisionism refers to the attempt (made largely by Bernstein and his followers) to change the SPD’s praxis by grounding it in a reevaluation of Marxism and a new understanding of social democracy. “Reformists” (e.g., Vollmar), like the revisionists, were interested in changing the SPD’s praxis but, unlike the revisionists, were relatively uninterested in theory. Reformists were basically interested in turning the SPD into a laborreformist, as opposed to a Social Democratic, party. For a comparative discussion of the growth of European revisionist and reformist movements, see Bo Gusfafsson, Marxism och Revisionism: Eduard Bernsteins Kritik av Marxism och des idehistoriska Förutsättningar (Stockholm: Svenska Bokförlaget, 1969); and Francois-Georges Dreyfus, Reformisme et revisionisme dans les socialismes allemand, autrichien et francais (Strasbourg: Maison des Sciences de Homme, 1984). 42. Quoted in Pierson, Marxist Intellectuals, p. 72. 43. Ibid., p. 76. 44. Friedrich Engels, “Introduction” to Karl Marx, The Class Struggles in France, 1848–1850 (originally printed in 1895) reprinted in Robert Tucker, ed., The Marx-Engels Reader, (New York: Norton, 1978), p. 571. 45. David Rosen, “German Social Democracy between Bismarck and Bernstein: Georg von Vollmar and the Reformist Controversy, 1890–1895” (Ph.D. diss., University of Wisconsin, 1975); and Georg von Vollmar, Über die nächsten Aufgaben der deutschen Sozialdemokratie (Munich: Ernst, 1891). For a general history of the party during these years, see Gary P. Steenson, ”Not One Man!

250

46. 47.

48. 49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

54.

55.


Not One Penny! German Social Democracy, 1863–1914 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1981). Quoted in Kampffmeyer, Changes in the Theory and Tactics of the German Social Democracy, pp. 28–29. The best discussion of Bernstein and his views in English remains Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism. See also Horst Heimann and Thomas Meyer, eds., Bernstein und der Demokratische Sozialismus (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz Nachf. GmbH, 1978). Particularly influential to revisionists across Europe was Bernstein’s Die Voraussetzungen des Sozialismus und die Aufgaben der Sozialdemokratie (Stuttgart: J. H. W. Dietz, 1899); English edition, Evolutionary Socialism (New York: Schocken Books, 1961). Bernstein, Die Voraussetzungen, p. 230; and Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism, p. 218. Quoted in Pierson, Marxist Intellectuals, p. 123. See also Wangermann, “Die Auseinandersetzung über das Verhältnis von Reform zu Revolution,” esp. pp. 96–97. Hans Jörg Sandkühler, “Die Entwicklung des wissenschaftlichen Sozialismus aus dem Kapital-Verhältnis zum Determinismus-Problem in der Arbeiterbewegung,” in Heimann and Meyer, Bernstein und der Demokratische Sozialismus, p. 226. Suzanne Miller, Das Problem der Freiheit im Sozialismus (Frankfurt: Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1964), p. 282; and idem, “Zur Rezeption des Marxismus in der deutschen Sozialdemokratie,” p. 27. Quoted in Matthias, “Kautsky und der Kautskyanismus,” p. 162. See also Pierson, Marxist Intellectuals, pp. 123–124. Again, this does not mean that Bebel did not support certain reforms. He did, but his view of reform work was quite different from Bernstein’s. As he once explained: “We fight for . . . everything that we can get from the existing state, but what we do achieve—and this must be continually stressed—is just a small concession and does not change the actual situation at all.” Quoted in Holzheuer, Karl Kautskys Werk als Weltanschauung, pp. 46–47. Gilcher-Hotely, Das Mandat des Intellektuellen, p. 261. Furthermore, Kautsky’s diaries make clear that he evaluated his socialist colleagues on the basis of their theoretical aptitude and not their practical abilities as leaders of a working-class movement. See Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, p. 282. Carl Schorske, German Social Democracy, 1905–1917 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), p. 12. See also Richard Hunt, German Social Democracy 1918–1933 (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1970), pp. 153–159; and Selig Perlman, The Theory of the Labor Movement (New York: Kelly Publishers, 1970).


251

56. Schorske, German Social Democracy, p. 12. 57. Guenther Roth, The Social Democrats in Imperial Germany (Totowa, N.J.: Bedminster Press, 1963), pp. 87–93 and chap. 7. 58. Quoted in Walther, “. . . aber nach der Sündflut,” p. 238. 59. Some argue that the hostility of Bebel and Liebknecht toward parliament was caused largely by their dislike of the new Prussian-led Reich. See, for example, Carlton J. H. Hayes, “The History of German Socialism Reconsidered,” American Historical Review, 23, October 1917, pp. 70–71; Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, p. 15; and Roth, The Social Democrats in Imperial Germany, p. 96. 60. August Bebel’s Die Frau und der Sozialismus (Stuttgart: Dietz, 1900). 61. Protokoll über die Verhandlungen des Parteitages der Sozialdemokratischen Partei Deutschlands, Erfurt (Berlin, 1891), p. 335. See also Kurt Schumacher, Der Kampf um den Staatsgedanken in der deutschen Sozialdemokratie (Stuttgart: K. Kohlhammer, 1973). 62. Quoted in Lidtke, The Outlawed Party, p. 56. 63. See, for example, Roth, The Social Democrats in Imperial Germany, p. 96; and Abraham Joseph Berlau, The German Social Democratic Party, 1914–1921 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1949), p. 32. 64. Quoted in Gustav Seeber, “Wahlkämpfe, Parlamentsarbeit und revolutionäre Politik,” in Horst Bartel, ed., Marxismus und deutsche Arbeiterbewegung (Berlin: Dietz, 1970), p. 282. 65. Quoted in Rosen, “German Social Democracy between Bismarck and Bernstein,” p. 95. 66. Quoted in Gilcher-Hotley, Das Mandat des Intellektuellen, p. 109. 67. Walther, “. . . aber nach der Sündflut,” p. 53ff; Salvadori, Karl Kautsky, pp. 149ff; Grosser, Vom monarchischen Konstitutionalismus, p. 34ff. 68. Lidtke, The Outlawed Party. 69. Pierson, Marxist Intellectuals, pp. 13ff. 70. Ibid., p. 21. 71. Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism, p. 241. 72. Bernstein, Die Voraussetzungen, p. 178; and Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism, p. 239. 73. Gareth Stedman Jones, “Engels and the End of Classical German Philosophy,” New Left Review, 79, May–June 1973, p. 35. 74. Quoted in Matthias, “Kautsky und der Kautskyanismus,” p. 193. 75. Figures from Volker R. Berghahn, Imperial Germany 1871–1914 (Providence, R.I.: Berghahn Books, 1994), table 23, p. 306, and table 36, p. 312. 76. Ian Farr, “Tradition and the Peasantry in the Modern Historiography of Rural Germany,” in Richard J. Evans and W. R. Lee, eds., The German Peasantry:

252

77.

78. 79.

80.

81.

82.

83. 84.

85. 86. 87. 88. 89.


Conflict and Community in Rural Society from the Eighteenth to the Twentieth Centuries (London: Croom Helm, 1986), p. 23. For an analysis of the regional and social distribution of landholdings, see Athar Hussain and Keith Tribe, Marxism and the Agrarian Question: German Social Democracy and the Peasantry (London: Macmillan, 1981), pp. 62–67. William Harvey Maehl, “German Social Democratic Agrarian Policy, 1890– 1895, Reconsidered,” Central European History, 13, June 1980, esp. pp. 126– 128. Karl Kautsky, Das Erfurter Programm (Stuttgart: Deitz, 1902), p. 152. David Blackbourn, “Peasants and Politics in Germany, 1871–1914,” European History Quarterly, 14, 1984; and Maehl, “German Social Democratic Agrarian Policy,” p. 136. See also Geoff Eley, Reshaping the German Right: Radical Nationalism and Political Change after Bismarck (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990). Hans Georg Lehmann, Die Agrarfrage in der Theorie und Praxis der Deutschen und Internationalen Sozialdemokratie (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1970), pp. 19– 34. Quoted in Athar Hussain and Keith Tribe, Paths of Development in Capitalist Agriculture: Readings from German Social Democracy (London: Macmillan, 1984), p. xii; and Lehmann, Die Agrarfrage, p. 61. See, for example, his pamphlet “Bauernfrage und Sozialdemokratie in Bayern” (Nuremberg, 1896), reprinted in Hussain and Tribe, Paths of Development in Capitalist Agriculture. Hussain and Tribe, Marxism and the Agrarian Question, pp. 94–95. Eduard David, Sozialismus und Landwirtschaft (Berlin: Sozialistische Monatshefte, 1902). On David see Rosen, “German Social Democracy between Bismarck and Bernstein,” pp. 211–221; Hussain and Tribe, Marxism and the Agrarian Question, p. 112; and Frieda Wunderlich, Farm Labor in Germany 1810–1945 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), p. 35. Some of David’s articles are reprinted in Hussain and Tribe, Paths of Development in Capitalist Agriculture. Lehmann, Die Agrarfrage, pp. 61–63. Quoted in Pierson, Marxist Intellectuals, p. 99. Steenson, “Not One Man! Not One Penny! p. 201; Salvadori, Karl Kautsky, pp. 51–55. Lehmann, Die Agrarfrage, pp. 165–166. Kautsky, “Our Latest Program” (1895), reprinted in Hussain and Tribe, Paths of Development in Capitalist Agriculture, p. 111. See also Karl Kautsky, Die Agrarfrage (Stuttgart: J. H. W. Dietz, 1899), and the general discussion of Kautsky’s views on agriculture in Hussain and Tribe, Marxism and the Agrarian Question, pp. 104–136.


253

90. Friedrich Engels, “The Peasant Question in Germany and France,” reprinted in Hussain and Tribe, Marxism and the Agrarian Question, pp. 17–18. 91. Lehmann, Die Agrarfrage, pp. 175ff.; and Maehl, “German Social Democratic Agrarian Policy,” pp. 150–155. 92. Lehmann, Die Agrarfrage, pp. 211–212. 93. Preussische Jahrbücher, 81, 1895, pp. 387ff., quoted in ibid., p. 189. 94. Ibid., p. 207. 95. “This term had become familiar to German social thought in the 1890’s; it referred to the ever-increasing number of technical personnel, white-collar workers, office and sales clerks, and government employees.” Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism, p. 202. 96. Bernstein, Die Voraussetzungen, p. 181. See also Gay, The Dilemma of Democratic Socialism, p. 203. 97. Walther, “. . . aber nach der Sündflut”, p. 53ff. 98. For Kautsky’s views on the middle class(es), see Holzheuer, Karl Kautskys Werk; Gilcher-Hotley, Das Mandat des Intellektuellen; and Steenson, Karl Kautsky. 99. Anthony Giddens, Politics and Sociology in the Thought of Max Weber (London: Macmillan, 1972), esp. p. 17. 5. Sweden’s Path to Democracy 1. The resolution setting out this strategy at the 1891 party congress read as follows: “In order to increase the pressure . . . on the parliament and government [for political reform] the congress empowers its representatives to begin at once preparing . . . to arrange elections by universal suffrage to a people’s parliament which will meet in Stockholm the same time as the 1893 parliament and to undertake the measures circumstances require in order to bring about suffrage reform. At the same time the congress gives the representatives [the task] of preparing for the possibility of . . . a mass strike . . . should the 1893 parliament, despite [our efforts], not accept universal suffrage. . . . [Finally, the congress urges the representatives] to make this people’s parliament as impressive as possible and [to ensure] widespread participation so that any further opposition from the (existing) parliament [to our demands] would be unthinkable.” Torbjörn Vallinder, I kamp för demokratin: rösträttsrörelsen i Sverige, 1896–1900 (Stockholm: Natur och Kultur, 1962), pp. 49–50. 2. See Chapter 3. 3. Vallinder, I kamp för demokratin; and Sten Carlsson, “Höger och vänster i strid om rösträtten, 1890–1909,” in Sten Carlsson and Jenker Rosen, eds., Den svenska historien: industrien och folkrörelser 1866–1920, (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1968).

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4. John Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin: Några drag ur den svenska socialdemokratiens historia (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1936), p. 84. 5. Quoted in Dankwart Rustow, The Politics of Compromise (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1955), p. 55. See also Knut Bäckström, Arbetarrörelsen i Sverige, vol. 1 (Stockholm: Arbetarkultur, 1958), pp. 321–339. 6. In Sweden, the term bourgeois refers to all non-Socialist parts of the political spectrum. 7. Rudolf Kjellen, Rösträttsfrågan, 1869–1909 (Stockholm: Hugo Gebers, 1915), p. 101ff. Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin, pp. 88–89; Birger Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagendet: SAPs politiska strategi 1889–1911 (Göteborg: Bokskogen, 1985), pp. 91ff.; and Bäckström, Arbetarrörelsen i Sverige, vol. 1, pp. 328–330. 8. Ragnar Edennman, Socialdemokratiska riksdagsgruppen, 1903–1920 (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1946), pp. 1–2. 9. Herbert Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 1 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1941), p. 180; and Nils-Olof Franzen, Hjalmar Branting och hans tid (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1985), p. 179. 10. Otto von Zweigback, Svensk Politik, 1905–1929 (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1929), p. 164. 11. The party’s heterogeneous composition made it difficult for it to agree on much else. See Carl Grimberg, Svenska folkets underbara öden, 1907–1945 (Stockholm: P. S. Norstedt och Söners, 1963), p. 28; and Douglas Verny, Parliamentary Reform in Sweden, 1866–1921 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957), pp. 136ff. 12. During the early twentieth century, defense expenditures took up at least half of the state budget. In addition, during this period Sweden probably had the highest military budget of any small European state. See Grimberg, Svenska folkets underbara öden, pp. 123, 144. 13. Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin, p. 93. 14. Text reprinted in Sigurd Klockare, Mullrande åska: Kampen för allmän och lika rösträtt: de hemliga protokollen från SAP-kongresserna 1902 och 1907 (Stockholm: Arbetarrörelsens Årsbok, 1982), pp. 13, 73ff. 15. Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin, p. 99. 16. Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagendet, p. 133; and Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, p. 199. 17. Quoted in Rustow, The Politics of Compromise, p. 64. 18. Svenska arbetsgivareföreningen (SAF), Centrala arbetsgivareförbundet (CA), and Allmänna arbetsgivareföreningen (AA) were all formed at this time. 19. Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, pp. 212–213. 20. Nils Herlitz, Grunddragen av det svenska staatskickets historia (Stockholm: P. S.


21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30.

31. 32. 33. 34.

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Norstedt och Söners, 1928), pp. 248ff.; and Nils Andren, Från kungavälde till folkstyre (Stockholm: Ehlins Folkbildningsförlaget, 1955), p. 89. A contemporary cartoon captures how Conservatives viewed these developments. It shows the doormen to the cabinet room watching two new members of the government; one doorman says to the other: “Petersson [a commoner name], for shame! And two at that!” The second replies: “Now we won’t have to wait long for the revolution.” Cartoon reprinted in Åke Thulstrup, När demokratin bröt igenom (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1937), p. 27. Zeth Höglund, Hjalmar Branting och hans livsgärning, part 1 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1928), pp. 398–400. Quoted in Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, p. 221. See also Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagendet, pp. 112–113. Axel Brusewitz, Kungamakt, herremakt, folkmakt: författningskampen i Sverige, 1908–1918 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1951), pp. 15–19. Germany had universal suffrage for the lower house of parliament but an upper chamber elected by a weighted system of voting at the state level. See Chapter 3. Speech reprinted in Klockare, Mullrande åska, pp. 56–57. Verny, Parliamentary Reform, pp. 163–174; Brusewitz, Kungmakt, herremakt, folkmakt, pp. 25–35; and Andren, Från kungavälde till folkstyre, pp. 70–73. Bernt Schiller, Storstrejken 1909: förhistoria och orsaker (Göteborg: Akademiförlaget, 1967); and idem, “Years of Crisis, 1906–1914,” in Steven Koblik, ed., Sweden’s Development from Poverty to Affluence, 1750–1970 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1975). Zweibeck, Svensk Politik, p. 186; Höglund, Hjalmar Branting, pp. 473–475. Branting, “En falsk ‘klyfta’” (1911), reprinted in Branting, Tal och Skrifter: kampen för Demokratin II (Stockholm: Tiden, 1927), p. 112. On the 1911 elections and the behind-the-scenes maneuvering during the formation of the government, see Brusewitz, Kungmakt, herremakt, folkmakt, pp. 45–51. Quoted in Leif Lewin, Ideology and Strategy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 107. See also Nils-Olof Franzen, Undan stormen: Sverige under första världskriget (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1986), pp. 19–20; and Höglund, Hjalmar Branting, pp. 498ff. Thulstrup, När demokratin bröt igenom, pp. 91ff.; and Franzen, Undan storman, pp. 35–40. Quoted in Thulstrup, När demokratin bröt igenom, p. 101. See also Verny, Parliamentary Reform, pp. 186ff. Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1914 (Göteborg: Framåt, 1915), p. 4. Quoted in ibid., p. 101; and Lewin, Ideology and Strategy, p. 110.

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35. Quoted in Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin, p. 136. 36. See Chapter 6. Von Zweigback also commented on the differing responses of the German and Swedish monarchs. See his Svensk Politik, pp. 288–289. 37. Seventy percent of eligible voters participated in the 1914 elections. In 1911 the figure had been 51 percent. 38. Lewin, Ideology and Strategy, p. 111. 39. See the SAP’s 1914 election manifesto, reprinted in Sven-Olof Håkansson, ed., Svenska valprogram 1902–1952, vol. 1 (Göteborg: Göteborgs Universitet, Statsvetenskapliga Institution, 1959); and Thulstrup, När demokratin bröt igenom, pp. 104–106. 40. Manifesto reprinted in Socialdemokratiska partisyrelsens berättelse för år 1914, pp. 9–10. 41. This was correctly interpreted as another setback for parliamentarization. 42. Not all businessmen were unabashedly pro-German, however. For a discusssion of the role played by some of Sweden’s leading industrialists during the First World War and the transition to democracy, see Sven Anders Söderpalm, Sotrföretagarna och det demokratiska genombrottet (Lund: Gleerups, 1969). 43. Schiller, “Years of Crisis, 1906–1914,” in Koblik, Sweden’s Development from Poverty to Affluence, pp. 225–226. 44. Gerhard Magnusson, Socialdemokratien i Sverige: I ansvarstider (Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt & Söners, 1924), p. 413. 45. The best summary in English of this period is Carl-Göran Andrae, “The Swedish Labor Movement and the 1917–1919 Revolution,” in Koblik, Sweden’s Development from Poverty to Affluence. Otherwise see Sigurd Klockare, Svenska revolutionen 1917–1918 (Luleå: Föreningen Seskaröspelen, 1967); Franzen, Undan Storman; Söderpalm, Storföretagarna; and Leif Bureborgh, “Sverige och WWI,” in Från Palm till Palme: Den svenska socialdemokratins program, 1882–1960 (Stockholm: Raben och Sjögren, 1972). 46. Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, p. 311; and Franzen, Undan Storman, p. 185ff. 47. During the war, England tried to maintain a complete blockade of the Central Powers. Knowing that food and goods destined for Germany were often shipped through Sweden, the English extended their blockade to Scandinavia as well, rationing neutrals according to the British conception of their domestic’s needs. 48. Grimberg, Svenska folkets underbara öden, p. 217ff. 49. The diplomatic incident occurred because the Germans had been using the Swedish cable system in Argentina to send compromising messages to Berlin. The revelation of this by the British was interpreted by many as a large breach of Sweden’s neutrality. It was referred to in the press as the “Luxburg affair” after the German minister in Argentina. See Sten Carlsson, “Sverige under första världskriget,” in Carlsson and Rosen, Den svenska historien, vol. 9; and


50. 51. 52.

53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60.

61.

62.

63. 64.

65.

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Steven Koblik, “Wartime Diplomacy and the Democratization of Sweden,” Journal of Modern History, 41, March 1969. Quoted in Klockare, Svenska revolutionen, p. 49. Andrae, “The Swedish Labor Movement,” p. 236. Brusewitz, Kungmakt, Herremakt, Folkmakt, pp. 145–147. Branting was, however, horrified by the Soviet experiment and was an early critic of Lenin and the dictatorship he instituted in Russia. Hjalmar Branting, Tal och Skrifter: Kampen för demokratin II (Stockholm: Tiden, 1927), pp. 217–246. The following quotations are taken from this edition of the speech. See also Socialdemokratiska partisyrelsens berättelse för år 1917 (Stockholm: Arbetarnas Tryckeri, 1917), pp. 57–58. “Protokoll över socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens möte,” May 20–22, 1917 (Arbetarrörelsens archiv och bibliotek, hereafter AAB). Circular reprinted in Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1917, pp. 51–52. “Protokoll över Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens möte,” May 20–22, 1917 (AAB). Manifesto reprinted in Håkansson, Svenska valprogram, 1902–1952, vol. 1; and “Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för År 1917,” pp. 50–52. Brusewitz, Kungamakt, herremakt, folkmakt, pp. 90–113. Cf. Gerhard A. Ritter and Susanne Miller, eds., Die deutsche Revolution: Dokumente (Hamburg: Hoffman und Campe, 1975), p. 27. Social-Demokraten, January 7–9, 1909. See also Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 2, p. 93. Quoted in Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin, p. 123. See also Branting’s speech at the 1911 party congress, reprinted in Gunnar Gunnarson, ed., Arbetarrörelsens genombrottsår i dokument (Stockholm: Tiden, 1965), pp. 206–207. See, for example, Arbetet, September 29, October 18, 30, 1911; Arbetarbladet, September 29 and December 12, 22 ; Ny Tid, September 29, 1911. See also Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 2, p. 95. Hjalmar Branting, “Segern,” Tiden, 1911. On the development of the party’s view toward participation see Simonson, Socialdemokratien och maktövertagandet, esp. pp. 40–42; Per Albin Hansson, Samverkan i svensk politik (Stockholm: Tiden, 1941?); and Anna Lisa Berkling, ed., Från fram till folkhemmet: Per Albin Hansson som tidningsman och talare (Stockholm: Metodica, 1982), pp. 241–244. Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1914, p. 50. Speech from the meeting reprinted in Branting, Tal och skrifter: kampen för demokratin, vol. 2, pp. 181–184. See also Agne Gustafsson, “Branting och partivänstern,” Tiden, 9, 1960, p. 581. Quoted in Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin, p. 126.

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66. 67. 68. 69.

70. 71.

72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77.

78.


Grimberg, Svenska folkets underbara öden, pp. 143–145. The 1914 party congress, in Från Palm till Palme, pp. 197–198. Ibid., p. 200. Despite these divisions, when several radical leaders were convicted of treason and sent to jail in 1916, Branting came to their defense and assured Höglund that “the struggle for complete justice should and must continue.” Franzen, Hjalmar Branting, p. 300. Protokoll från sveriges socialdemokratiska arbetarpartis tionde kongress, February 12–20, 1917 (Stockholm: AB Arbetarnas Tryckeri, 1917), p. 29. Its main basis was the former Social Democratic Youth League headed by Zeth Höglund. However, the party’s opposition to the mainstream Social Democrats hid important internal splits—within the Left Socialists there were Bolshevik sympathizers, as well as a group committed to the achievement of democracy. On the background and makeup of this new party, see Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 1, pp. 229–241; Klockare, Svenska revolutionen, pp. 22–35; Jan Lindhagen, Socialdemokratiens program: i rörelsens tid, 1890–1930 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1972), pp. 51–66; idem, Socialdemokratins program: Bolsjevikstriden. (Stockholm: Tiden 1974); and Bureborgh, “Sverige och WWI,” pp. 85–86. Göran Therborn, “Den svensk socialdemokratien träder fram,” Archiv för studier i arbetarrörelsens historia, 27–28, 1984; and Bureborgh, “Sverige och WWI,” pp. 85–86. See Zeth Höglund’s own estimation of the new party’s chances in his memoirs, Revolutionernas år: 1917–1921 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1956), esp. pp. 26–29. Quoted in Andrae, “The Swedish Labor Movement,” p. 239. “Protokoll över Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens möte,” September 17, 1917 (AAB). “Protokoll över möte med socialdemokratiska partistyrelsen och socialdemokratiska riksdagsgruppens förtroenderåd,” October 12–16, 1917 (AAB). One important sticking point was Branting’s position in the new government. Branting had been ill and was not eager to take over any particular ministry, preferring instead to be a sort of overall adviser. Eden (the Liberal leader) was adamant on having him in the government, however, and it was finally agreed that Branting should take over the finance ministry. This was a particularly inauspicious choice, and Branting resigned from the post before the government’s term of office was due to expire. “Protokoll över möte med socialdemokratiska partistyrelsen och socialdemokratiska riksdagsgruppens förtroenderåd,” October 13–16, 1917 (AAB). The seriousness of Sweden’s food situation should not be downplayed. One observer notes that at this time “Sweden faced . . . an economic crisis that threatened to destroy its industrial complex and create widespread malnutri-


79. 80.

81.

82. 83. 84.

85. 86. 87.

88.

89. 90.

91.

259

tion.” Koblik, “Wartime Diplomacy,” p. 29. See also Knut Bäckström, Arbetarrörelsen i Sverige, vol. 2 (Stockholm: Arbetarkultur, 1963), pp. 358–364. Without control over territory or the state apparatus, however, this remained more a thorn in the side of the dominant regime than a viable entity. See Andra kammarens protokoll 1917 (41), esp. pp. 35 and 66, and (51), pp. 41 and 57. See also Georg Andren, ed., Sveriges riksdagen från 1866: historisk och statsvetenskaplig framställning (Stockholm: Victor Petterson Bokindustriaktiebolag, 1937), pp. 509–510. Andrae, “The Swedish Social Democrats,” p. 251. At an extraordinary meeting of the LO representative assembly and the SAP leadership on December 6–9, it was pointed out that economic conditions were not favorable for a general strike. In addition, most believed that there was not much chance of inducing a strike during the Christmas season. Ibid., p. 247; see also Franzen, Undan storman, pp. 357–366. Quoted in Andrae, “The Swedish Social Democrats,” p. 245. It should be noted, however, that in contrast to the farmers, some sectors of the business community were favorably disposed toward political reform during this time. See Söderpalm, Storöretagarna, esp. p. 172ff. Värner Ryden, quoted in Klockare, Svenska revolutionen, p. 163. See also Verny, Parliamentary Reform, p. 209. Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1918 (Stockholm: Arbetarnas Tryckeri 1918), pp. 18ff. “Protokoll fört vid gemensamt sammanträde med socialdemokratiska partistyrelsen, LO representantskap och partipressens redaktörer,” November 15, 1918 (AAB). Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1918, pp. 18ff; Franzen, Undan storman, pp. 360–362; and Thulstrup, När demokratin bröt igenom, pp. 200–205. See Klockare, Svenska revolutionen, p. 164; and Verny, Parliamentary Reform, p. 211. “Protokoll fört vid gemensamt sammanträde med socialdemokratiska partistyrelsen, LO representantskap och partipressens redaktörer,” December 7– 9, 1918 (AAB). Reprinted in Håkansson, Svenska valprogram, vol. 1. 6. Germany’s Path to Democracy

1. Quoted in Leszek Kolakowski, Main Currents of Marxism: The Golden Age (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 495. 2. In addition, during this period German employers (like their Swedish counterparts) formed centralized organizations to confront the increasing power

260

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.


of the unions: the Hauptstelle deutscher Arbeitgeberverbände (mainly heavy industry) and the Verein deutscher Arbeitgeberverbände (mainly light industry). As time passed, those backing the mass strike strategy began to shift. As in Sweden, many revisionists eventually became strong advocates of the mass strike. Susan Tegel, “Reformist Social Democrats, the Mass Strike and the Prussian Suffrage, 1913,” European History Quarterly, 17, 1987. Carl Schorske, German Social Democracy, 1905–1917 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), p. 42; and Richard Reichard, “The German Working Class and the Russian Revolution of 1905,” Journal of Central European Affairs, 2, 1953, pp. 141–142. The kaiser gave an interview to the Daily Telegraph in which he proclaimed his friendship for England, adding that Germany’s naval fleet was directed primarily against Japan and that, during the Boer War, he had secretly supported the English. Before he allowed the interview to be published, he sent a copy to Chancellor Bülow to ensure that it was acceptable to the government. Bülow did not read the article himself, and its publication was approved by the Foreign Office with only minor alterations. Publication of the interview, however, created a furor. Wilhelm’s musings on the Boer War were almost completely false, and the entire German public was outraged over the emperor’s alienation of Japan and willingness to reveal confidential communications. Arthur Rosenberg, Imperial Germany: The Birth of the German Republic 1871– 1918 (Boston: Beacon Press, 1964), pp. 52–53. Compare this episode with the Swedish king’s statements during the farmers’ march in Sweden in 1914. See Chapter 5. Quoted in Manfred Rauh, Föderalismus und Parlamentarismus im Wilhelminischen Reich (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1973), p. 245. See also Dieter Grosser, Vom monarchischen Konstitutionalismus zur parlamentarischen Demokratie (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff, 1970). Beverly Heckert, From Basserman to Bebel: The Grand Bloc’s Quest for Reform in the Kaisserreich, 1900–1914 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1974), pp. 28–32; and Moshe Zimmerman, “A Road Not Taken: Friedrich Naumann’s Attempt at a Modern German Nationalism,” Journal of Contemporary History, 17, 1982. Schorske, German Social Democracy, p. 166. Solving the budget crisis through cutting expenditures was a theoretical but probably not a practical option; the vast majority of German politicians supported the foreign and domestic policies causing the deficits. One problem with this argument was that, in earlier years, SPD spokesmen had advocated that the cost of the new fleet be financed by direct taxes and


11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23.

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had attacked the navy bills for not being so financed. At the time, the party did this purely as a propaganda move, to show up the limitations of ruling-class patriotism. This stand came back to haunt them, however, in the current debate over finance reform. Massimo Salvadori, Karl Kautsky and the Socialist Revolution, 1880–1938 (London: New Left Books, 1979), p. 135. In 1909, a total of 131,244 workers were involved in labor conflicts in Germany; the number in 1910 was 369,011. The situation in Germany was probably not as devastating for the labor movement as that in Sweden, where after the 1909 strike union membership dropped precipitously. See Chapter 5. For example, between 1904 and 1906, Bavaria, Baden, and Württemberg passed suffrage reforms that gave these states electoral systems very similar to that which existed for the Reichstag. Manfred Rauh, Die Parlamentarisierung des Deutschen Reiches (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1977), p. 154. Quoted in Schorske, German Social Democracy, pp. 187–188. See also Hannelore Schlemmer, “Die Rolle der Sozialdemokratie in den Landtagen Badens und Württembergs und ihr Einfluss auf die Entwicklung der Gesamtpartei zwischen 1890 und 1914” (Ph.D. diss., Alber Ludwigs Universität zu Freiburg, 1953). Quoted in Carl Cavanagh Hodge, “Three Ways to Lose a Republic: The Electoral Politics of the Weimar SPD,” European History Quarterly, 17, 1987, p. 172. “Praktische Wahlagitation” (1910/1911), p. 34, quoted in Salvadori, Karl Kautsky, p. 150. The following analysis draws primarily on Jürgen Betram, Die Wahlen zum Deutschen Reichstag vom Jahre 1912 (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1964). In fact, an agreement with the Right could have potentially given the Progressives seven more mandates than an agreement with the SPD. Betram, Die Wahlen zum Deutschen Reichstag, pp. 228ff. These problems in implementing the agreement, combined with the fact that the Progressives did do better than the SPD in the second round of voting, have led many analysts to proclaim the failure of the “revisionist” or collaborationist strategy. In particular, some have argued that the SPD was forced to sacrifice more than it received in 1912. (This, for example, is the conclusion of Schorske’s German Social Democracy.) Close examination of local-level dynamics and shifts in voting patterns, however, make such a conclusion difficult to sustain. Betram, Die Wahlen zum Deutschen Reichstag, p. 248. Ibid., p. 233. Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, Betrachtungen zum Weltkrieg, vol. 1 (Berlin: R. Hubbing, 1919–1921). Rosenberg, Imperial Germany, p. 58. For a general review of the domestic

262

24. 25.

26. 27.

28.

29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.


situation in Germany on the eve of the First World War, see V. R. Berghahn, Germany and the Approach of War in 1914 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1973), esp. chap. 8. Grosser, Vom monarchischen Konstitutionalismus, p. 60. Edwyn Bevan, German Social Democracy during the War (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1918), pp. 16–17; Abraham Joseph Berlau, The German Social Democratic Party, 1914–1921 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1975), pp. 80–96; and Suzanne Miller, Burgfrieden und Klassenkampf: Die deutsche Sozialdemokratie im Ersten Weltkrieg (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1974). Bevan, German Social Democracy during the War, p. 18; and Miller, Burgfrieden und Klassenkampf, pp. 71–73. Speech reprinted in Ralph Haswell Lutz, ed., Documents of the German Revolution: Fall of the German Empire, vol. 1 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1932), p. 15. For a fuller rendering of events from August 1914 to the final break in 1917, see Schorske, German Social Democracy, pp. 285–322; Bevan, German Social Democracy during the War; Berlau, The German Social Democratic Party, 1914– 1921; Miller, Burgfrieden und Klassenkampf; Eugen Prager, Die Geschichte der U.S.P.D.: Entstehung und Entwicklung der Unabhängigen Sozialdemokratischen Partei Deutschlands (Berlin: Freiheit, 1922); and Lenore O’Boyle, “The German Independent Socialists during the First World War,” American Historical Review, 56, 1951. For interesting personal accounts, see Richard Müller, Vom Kaiserreich zur Republik, ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der revolutionären Arbeiterbewegung während des Weltkrieges (Vienna: Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft, 1924) and Eduard David, Das Kriegstagebuch des Reichstagsabgeordneten Eduard David, 1912–1918 (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1966). Kenneth R. Calkins, “The Election of Hugo Haase to the Co-chairmanship of the SPD and the Crisis of Prewar German Social Democracy,” International Review of Social History, 13, 1968. Dr. Behne, “Unsere moralische Krise,” Sozialistische Monatshefte, January 20, 1919, pp. 34–38. Speech in the Reichstag, March 29, 1917, reprinted in Lutz, Documents of the German Revolution, pp. 250–256. Rosenberg, Imperial Germany, p. 157. Ibid., pp. 169–170. See also Gerald Feldman, Army, Industry and Labor in Germany 1914–1918 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992), pp. 364–373. Bevan, German Social Democracy during the War, pp. 187–188. Bevan’s book includes an interesting exchange about the status of parliamentary democracy in Germany in 1917 (p. 198 n. 1; p. 199 n. 2). Theodor Wolff (a left-Liberal), for example, argued in the Berliner Tageblatt on July 23: “We can sum up in one word all that has hitherto been carried through by the Reichstag for the


35.

36.

37.

38.

39. 40.

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internal renovation of the German Empire—Nothing. . . . A lick-spittle sham parliamentarism does not carry us forward to a system of regulated control and a new distribution of power; it only plunges us deeper into conditions in which everything is obscure and everything depends upon personal decisions and uncontrollable influence.” In response, the conservative Das grössere Deutschland responded (August 18): “We are bound for once to agree with the Berliner Tageblatt when it says that the appointing of two parliamentarians to offices in the government had nothing to do with establishing parliamentary government. We hail the fact, not only because we do not think highly of parliamentary government, especially in a country like Germany, with its party divisions [!], but chiefly because the new chancellor has in this matter shown himself a man who indeed will not allow the conduct of affairs to be taken out of his hand.” This was in spite of the fact that the workers demanded little more than that which could be achieved by the formation of a bourgeois democratic republic. Feldman, Army, Industry and Labor, pp. 442–458. On August 13, Ludendorff told von Hintze, the secretary of state for foreign affairs, “In the middle of July I told you that I was certain I could break the enemy’s sprit by my present offensive. I am no longer certain.” Quoted in Rosenberg, Imperial Germany, p. 237. Along with his recommendations that Germany pursue an armistice, Ludendorff noted: “I have advised His Majesty to bring those groups into the government whom we have in the main to thank for the fact that matters have reached this pass. We will now therefore see these gentlemen move into the ministries. Let them now conclude the peace that has to be negotiated. Let them eat the broth they have prepared for us.” Recounted in the diary of Obersten von Thaer, sections reprinted Gerhard A. Ritter and Susanne Miller, eds., Die deutsche Revolution: Dokumente (Hamburg: Hoffman und Campe, 1975), p. 27. Rosenberg, Imperial Germany, pp. 245–249; and S. William Halperin, Germany Tried Democracy: A Political History of the Reich from 1918–1933 (New York: Norton, 1946), pp. 22–79. Rosenberg, Imperial Germany, pp. 255, 257. Unlike the British and French, the American leader cared greatly about the form of the German government. For Wilson it was indeed a war “to make the world safe for democracy”; for him the elimination of “militarism,” “despotism,” and “autocracy” were important war aims. He was not very clear in his own mind about what changes he wanted, although he, like many others in the West, overestimated the power of the kaiser and pressed for his abdication. His responses to the German peace notes during October demonstrated his concerns: acceptance of the fourteen points; whether the new chancellor

264

41. 42. 43.

44.


spoke for the regime that had begun and conducted the war; absolute security of future allied military supremacy; and an end to unrestricted submarine warfare and the scorched-earth policies of retreating German armies. Because the transition to Prince Max’s government had not been accompanied by major visible alterations in the German political system, Wilson (and almost everybody else abroad) was skeptical of the extent of the changes. Upon receiving the first note from Prince Max, for example, he was pleased that the war seemed to be ending. “Only one thing troubled him. How could he have correspondence with Germany under autocracy?” Diary of Josephus Daniels [secretary of the navy], October 8, 1918, quoted in Arthur S. Link, ed., The Papers of Woodrow Wilson, vol. 51 [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985], p. 275). Wilson was open to the argument that, as one of his closest aides put it on October 8, “It is the hand of Prussianism which offers this peace to America” (Joseph Patrick Tumulty to Wilson, ibid., p. 267). He asked the Germans repeatedly during October for proof that the regime change was real and lasting, threatening that if the United States “must deal with the military masters and monarchical autocrats of Germany now, or if it is likely to have to deal with them later . . . it must demand not peace negotiations, but surrender” (Robert Lansing to F. Oederlin, ibid., p. 419). The details of Allied-German relations during this period can be found in Harry R. Rudin, Armistice 1918 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1944); and Klaus Schwabe, Woodrow Wilson, Revolutionary Germany, and Peacemaking, 1918– 1919 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1985). Relevant documents in James Brown Scott, ed., Preliminary History of the Armistice (New York: Oxford University Press, 1924). E. J. Feuchtwanger, From Weimar to Hitler (London: Macmillan, 1993), p. 11. For a description of the uprising and the sailors’ demands, see Ritter and Miller, Die deutsche Revolution, pp. 41–51. Heinrich August Winkler, Von der Revolution zur Stabilisierung: Arbeiter und Arbeiterbewegung in der Weimarer Republik, 1918–1924 (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1984), p. 41. In fact, Prince Max wrote in his diary: “Thank God I have in the Social Democrats allies on whose loyalty towards me I can entirely rely. With their help I hope to save the Kaiser. Such is the irony of fate.” Quoted in A. J. Ryder, The German Revolution of 1918 (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1967), p. 126. For SPD discussions over the monarchy see the meetings of Prince Max’s cabinet between October 7 and November 9 in Die Regierung des Prinzen Max von Baden, Quellen zur Geschichte des Parlamentarismus und der politischen Parteien, vol. 2 (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1962), esp. pp. 338– 339; and the Conferences of the Secretaries of State, October 24, 1918, reprinted in Charles Burdick and Ralph Lutz, eds., The Political Institutions of


45.

46.

47.

48.

49.

50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

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the German Revolution, 1918–1919 (New York: Hoover Institution, 1966), esp. pp. 18, 24, 27. As Carl Herold, a member of the Catholic Center Party, noted, “Concerning the issue of the Kaiser . . . we regret the form of an ultimatum, but after the Social Democrats have accepted this standpoint [I don’t think] a revolutionary movement could be stopped if the Social Democrats left the government over a failure of the Kaiser to abdicate.” See Die Regierung des Prinzen Max von Baden, p. 601. Scheidemann recounts in his memoirs that Ebert was livid at this step. See his Making of a New Germany, vol. 2 (New York: D. Appleton, 1929), p. 242. Two hours after Scheidemann’s delaration, Karl Liebknecht proclaimed the founding of the “Free German Socialist Republic.” Like its Swedish counterpart, this entity existed more in theory than in reality. For the declarations of both Scheidemann and Liebknecht, see Ritter and Miller, Die deutsche Republik, pp. 77–79. Theodore Wolff, Through Two Decades (London: William Heinemann, 1936); selections reprinted in Henry Cord Meyer, ed., The Long Generation: Germany from Empire to Ruin, 1913–1945 (New York: Harper and Row, 1973). Erich Matthias, “Social Democracy and the Power in the State,” in The Road to Dictatorship (London: Oswald Wolff, 1964), p. 59; see also Matthias, “German Social Democracy in the Weimar Republic,” in Anthony Nicholls and Erich Matthias, eds., German Democracy and the Triumph of Hitler (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1971), pp. 47–48. During the war, the party had not been able to meet normally, so this meeting gave vent to a discussion and anlaysis of party activities from 1914 onward. He added, however, that this did not mean “that we must be a ‘government’ party. That is the least of my concerns.” Protokoll über die Verhandlungen des Parteitages der Sozialdemokratischen Partei Deutschlands (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1973), p. 359. Ibid., p. 362; see also pp. 376–377. Ibid., p. 377. Ibid., p. 414. Ibid., pp. 163, 450. Ibid., p. 408. Susanne Miller, “Das Verhältnis der Sozialdemokratie zur Theorie des Sozialismus in der Weimarer Republik,” in Horst Heimann and Thomas Meyer, eds., Reformsozialismus und Sozialdemokratie (Berlin: J. H. W. Deitz, 1982), pp. 399–400; Miller, Burgfrieden und Klassenkampf, p. 350; and Rosemarie Leuschen-Seppel, Zwischen Staatsverantwortung und Klasseninteresse (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1981), p. 8.

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57. Bernstein had split with the SPD over the war and was now a member of the USPD. 58. Protokoll über die Verhandlungen des Parteitages der Sozialdemokratischen Partei Deutschlands, 1917, pp. 368–369. 59. One can follow the debates in Protokoll der Sitzungen des Parteiausschusses der SPD 1912–1921, vol. 2, ed., Dieter Dowe (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1980). 60. Ibid., p. 602. 61. Ibid., p. 582. 62. Miller, Die Bürde der Macht, p. 35. See also William H. Maehl, The German Socialist Party: Champion of the First Republic, 1918–1933 (Lawrence, Kans.: American Philosophical Society, 1986), pp. 1–3. 63. Grosser, Vom monarchischen Konstitutionalismus, p. 162. 64. Max Cohen-Reuss, quoted in Heinrich August Winkler, Die Sozialdemokratie und die Revolution von 1918/1919 (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1979), p. 57. 65. Friedrich Stampfer, Die Vierzehn Jahre der Ersten Deutschen (Karlsbad: Verlagsanstalt Graphia, 1936), p. 304. 66. Matthias, “German Social Democracy in the Weimar Republic,” p. 56; Richard Löwenthal, “The ‘Missing Revolution’ in Industrial Societies: Comparative Reflections on a German Problem,” in Volker Berghahn and Martin Kitschen, eds., Germany in the Age of Total War (London: Croom Helm, 1981); Albin Gibben, “Probleme staatlicher Sozialpolitik in der Weimarer Republik,” in Hans Mommsen, Dietmar Petzina, and Bernd Weisbrod, eds., Industrielles System und Politische Entwicklung (Düsseldorf: Anthenäum, 1977), p. 249; and Erich Matthias, “Die Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands,” in Erich Matthias and Rudolph Morsey, eds., Das Ende der Parteien (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1960), pp. 101–102. 67. A memo to the minister of foreign affairs in October 1918 noted: “Among the working masses the belief is widely held that large-scale desertions are daily occurrences and that one can no longer reckon with a serious capability of military resistance. The masses are supported in this belief by numerous soldiers on leave who, perhaps in order to boast, report about the lack of discipline. The desire for peace is, especially in the big cities, so enormous that the working masses generally are neither angry nor dismayed about the ostensible situation at the front, but rather feel at best a sorry, often malicious satisfaction that the War must end, even if it ends with Germany’s defeat.” Quoted in Richard Bessel, Germany after the First World War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 47. See also Gerald Feldman, “Economic and Social Problems of the German Demobilization, 1918–1919,” Journal of Modern History, 47, 1975. 68. Groener had succeeded Ludendorff as quartermaster general of the army and was the head military figure during the revolution. Throughout the period,


69.

70.

71.

72. 73.

74.

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Ebert remained probably the most important figure within the SPD; his impulse for order, his conservative instincts, and his bureaucratic mind-set led him to make a series of decisions with fateful consequences for the new democracy. See D. K. Buse, “Ebert and the German Crisis,” Central European History, 5, 1972; and Richard Hunt, “Friedrich Ebert and the German Revolution of 1918,” in Leonard Krieger and Fritz Stern, eds., The Responsibility of Power: Historical Essays in Honor of Hajo Holborn (New York: Doubleday, 1967). For Groener’s recollection of the agreement, see his Lebenserinnerungen; relevant sections are reprinted in Miller and Ritter, Die deutsche Republik, pp. 98– 99. This agreement is sometimes referred to as the Stinnes-Legien agreement, after the main business and union figures behind it, or as the Arbeitsgemeinschaft or (ZAG), after its main institutional structure. Eberhard Kolb, The Weimar Republic (London: Unwin Hyman, 1988), p. 14. See also Charles Maier, Recasting Bourgeois Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975), pp. 59–69. Ritter and Miller, Die deutsche Revolution, contains a selection of documents relating to the formation of the ZAG, including the text of the agreement (documents 1–5, pp. 233–248). On the behavior of the unions in the preceding period, see John Snell, “Socialist Unions and Socialist Patriotism in Germany, 1914–1918”, American Historical Review, 59, 1953. Albert Grzesinski, Inside Germany (New York: Dutton, 1939), p. 49. The research on the council movement is extensive. See Eberhard Kolb, Die Arbeiterräte in der deutschen Innenpolitik 1918 bis 1919 (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1962); Miller, Die Bürde der Macht; Peter von Oertzen, Betriebsräte in der Novemberrevolution (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1976); Detlev Lehnert, Sozialdemokratie und Novemberrevolution: Die Neuordnungsdebatte 1918/1919 in der politischen Publizistik von SPD und USPD (Frankfurt: Campus, 1983); Reinhard Rürup, “Problems of the German Revolution, 1918–1919,” Journal of Contemporary History, 3, 1968. On the demands of the congress in general, see also Holger Herwig, “The First German Congress of Workers and Soldiers’ Councils and the Problem of Military Reforms,” Central European History, 1, June 1968; Wolfgang Mommsen, “The German Revolution, 1918–1920: Political Revolution and Social Protest Movement,” in Richard Bessel and E. J. Feuchtwanger, eds., Social Change and Political Development in Weimar Germany (London: Croom Helm, 1981); Richard Löwenthal, “The ‘Missing Revolution’ in Industrial Societies: Comparative Reflections on a German Problem,” in Volker Berghahn and Martin Kitchen, eds., Germany in the Age of Total War (London: Croom Helm, 1981), esp. p. 251. Reprinted in Ritter and Miller, Die deutsche Revolution, pp. 155–156.

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75. Cabinet meeting in joint session with the Zentralrat, December 20, 1918, reprinted in Burdick and Lutz, The Political Institutions, p. 110. 76. Obuch’s statement was made at a meeting of the Executive Committee in the Presence of the Cabinet, December 7, 1918, and Haase’s at a joint meeting of the Cabinet and Zentralrat, December 28, 1918. Burdick and Lutz, The Political Institutions, pp. 87–88, 161–162. See also the joint cabinet meeting of the Cabinet and Zentralrat on December 28, pp. 149–163. 77. Halperin, Germany Tried Democracy, p. 121; Richard Hunt, German Social Democracy, 1918–1933 (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1964), pp. 29–30. 78. See Theodore Wolff ’s account of this episode, reprinted in Meyer, The Long Generation, pp. 88–91. For the cabinet discussion of the events (December 28, 1918), see Burdick and Lutz, The Political Institutions, pp. 137–148. 79. For an interesting first-person account of the formulation of the Weimar constitution, see Arnold Brecht, The Political Education of Arnold Brecht: An Autobiography 1884–1970 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970). See also Rainer Marwedel, “Konstruktion und Kampf: Bruchlinien sozialdemokratischer Verfassungspolitik,” in Wolfgang Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung und Weimarer Republik: Materialen zur gesellschafteschen Entwicklung, 1927–1933, vol. 2 (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1978); and Wolfgang Luthardt, Sozialdemokratische Verfassungstheorie in der Weimarer Republik (Opladen: Westdeutscher, 1986). 80. Kolb, The Weimar Republic, pp. 20–21; Rosenberg, A History of the German Republic, pp. 35–53; and Berlau, The German Social Democratic Party, pp. 245–254. 81. Evelyn Anderson, Hammer or Anvil: The Story of the German Working-Class Movement (N.Y.: Oriole Editions, 1973), p. 72. 82. There was one area of Germany where some action was taken, however, and that was Prussia. When the “new rulers [of Prussia] did undertake energetic reforms [of the civil service] after the Kapp putsch had exposed their earlier mistakes, the Prussian civil service helped the state to become the democratic bulwark that it was to be during the crisis-ridden years of the 1920’s.” Dietrich Orlow, Weimar Prussia, 1918–1925: The Unlikely Rock of Democracy (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1986), p. 115. 83. Halperin, Germany Tried Democracy, p. 186. 84. Wolff, in Meyer, The Long Generation, p. 91. 85. Werner Angress, “Weimar Coalition and Ruhr Insurrection, March–April 1920: A Study of Government Policy,” Journal of Modern History, 29, 1957. 86. Quoted in Peter Gay, Weimar Culture: The Outsider as Insider (New York: Harper and Row, 1970), pp. 9–10. For a semifictional account that captures the disappointment and anger on the Left regarding the revolution, see Alfred Döblin’s November 1918: A German Revolution, translated by John Woods (N.Y: Fromm International Publishing Corporation, 1983).


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87. This conclusion is in line with the current state of historiography on the German revolution. In the years after the Second World War, the dominant interpretation of the revolution (and, indeed, of the Weimar Republic itself) was that its outcome had been preordained. According to this view, the only alternatives in 1918–1920 were “the social revolution in conjunction with those forces calling for the dictatorship of the proletariat or a parliamentary republic in conjunction with conservative forces like the old officer corps” (Karl Dietrich Erdmann, “Die Geschichte der Weimarer Republik als Problem der Wissenschaft,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 3, 1955, p. 7). As time passed, however, and more material became available, this view became increasingly untenable. By the end of the 1970s, there were few left who would defend it. Later historical work returned to the judgment of one of the first historians of the period, Arthur Rosenberg. In his History of the Weimar Republic, he portrayed the years 1918–1920 as rather open, and the final fate of the republic as largely dependent on the decisions of those involved. Some of the new historians even asserted that the situation in Germany in 1918– 1920 offered the possibility of a “third way.” I would take an intermediate view, arguing that while some accommodation with old elites may have been necessary to help avoid chaos during the immediate postwar period, that which actually occurred exceeded the demands of the situation. In other words, the level of social and structural continuity between the Kaiserreich and the republic was not an unavoidable outcome but the result of conscious choice. Furthermore, the most important choices—by far—were those of the Social Democrats. On the historiography of the revolution, the best place to begin in English is with Kolb’s Weimar Republic, which contains several excellent historiographical essays and an extensive bibliography. See also note 73 and Francis Carstens, Revolution in Central Europe, 1918–1919 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972); and Reinhard Rürup, “Problems of the German Revolution,” Journal of Contemporary History, 3, October 1968. For a somewhat contrasting view, see E. Jesse and H. Köhler, “Die deutsche Revolution 1918–1919 im Wandel der historischen Forschung,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, 45, 1978. 7. The Origins of Social Democratic Hegemony 1. “Möte av SAP:s Partistyrelsen, Riksdagsgruppens förtroenderåd, Socialdemokratiska regeringsledamöterna, och redaktörer,” August 18–19, 1919 (Arbetarrörelsens arkiv och bibliotek, hereafter AAB). 2. Gunnar Gerdner, Det svenska regerinsproblemet, 1917–1920 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1946), pp. 34, 86, 122–139; Olle Nyman, Parlamentarism i Sverige (Stockholm: Bokförlaget Medborgarskolan, 1963), pp. 24, 37; and Sten Carlsson, “Borgare och arbetare,” in Sten Carlsson and Jerker Rosen,

270

3.

4.

5.

6. 7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

12.


eds., Den svenska historien: vår egen tid från 1920 till 1960-talet (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1968), pp. 16–20. Gerdner, Det svenska regeringsproblemet; Sten Carlsson, “Efterkrigspolitik och radikala stämningar,” in Sten Carlsson and Jerker Rosen, eds., Den svenska historien: industri och folkrörelser, 1866–1920, (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1968), p. 344. The exact results were SAP, 29.7 percent; Liberals, 21.8 percent; Conservatives, 28.1 percent; Farmer’s National Association, 6.2 percent; Agrarian Party, 7.9 percent; Left Socialists, 6.4 percent. In addition, electoral participation dropped significantly to only 55 percent. Gunnar Gerdner, Parlamentarismens kris i Sverige vid 1920 talets början (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1954), p. 443; Nyman, Parlamentarism, pp. 30–31. For the text of the statement, see Gunnar Magnusson, Socialdemokratien i Sverige: ansvarstider (Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt & Söners, 1924), pp. 175–176. Per Holmberg, Arbete och löner i Sverige (Stockholm: Raben och Sjögren, 1963), pp. 62, 223; Klas Årmark, “Sammanhållning och intressepolitik,” in Klaus Misgeld, Karl Molin and Klas Åmark, eds., Socialdemokratins samhälle (Stockholm: Tiden, 1988), p. 62. On the development of Sweden’s labor market, see Anders Johansson, Tillväxt och Klassamarbete: en studie av den svenska modellens uppkomst (Stockholm: Tiden, 1989). Quoted in Knut Bäckström, Arbetarrörelsen i Sverige, book 2 (Stockholm: Arbetarkultur, 1963), p. 126. Sven Anders Söderpalm, “The Crisis Agreement and the Social Democratic Road to Power,” in Steven Koblik, ed., Sweden’s Development from Poverty to Affluence, 1750–1970 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1975), pp. 260–261; and Åke Thulstrup, Reformer och försvar: konturerna av Sveriges historia 1920–1937 (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1938), pp. 20–21. On developments on the left of the political spectrum, see A. Sparring, “The Communist Party of Sweden,” in A. F. Upton, ed., Communism in Scandinavia and Finland (New York: Anchor Books, 1973); and Nils Elvander, Skandinavisk arbetarrörelse (Stockholm: Liber, 1980), chap. 3. Svante Beckman with Hans Chr. Johansen, Francis Sejersted, and Henri Vartiainen, “Ekonomisk politik och teori i Norden under mellankrigstiden,” in Sven Nilsson, Karl-Gustag Hildebrand, and Bo Öhngren, eds., Kriser och krispolitik i Norden under mellankrigstiden (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1974), p. 28. Eli Heckscher, An Economic History of Sweden (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954); Erik Lundberg, Konjunkturer och Ekonomisk Politik (Stockholm: Konjunkturinstitutet, 1958); Arthur Montgomery, Svensk Ekonomisk Historia mot internationell bakgrund, 1913–1939 (Stockholm: Koopera-


13.

14.

15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

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tive Förbundets Bokförlag, 1946); idem, The Rise of Modern Industry in Sweden (London: P. S. King and Son, 1939), pp. 229ff; and Bo Södersten, ed., Marknad och Politik (Lund: Universitetsförlag Dialogs, 1987). Beckman et al., “Ekonomisk politik,” pp. 31–32, and Erik Erik Lundberg, Ekonomiska kriser för och nu (Stockholm: Studie förbundet Naringsliv, 1983), p. 42. E. H. Phelps Brown with Margaret Browne, A Century of Pay (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1968), pp. 209–219; Erik Lindahl et al., National Income of Sweden (Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt och Söner, 1937), pp. 232–252; and Beckman et al., “Ekonomisk politik,” p. 32. Montgomery, The Rise of Modern Industry, pp. 234–235; and idem, How Sweden Overcame the Depression 1930–1933 (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1938), p. 25. Quoted in Johansson, Tillväxt och klassamarbete, pp. 53, 95. See also Sven-Anders Söderpalm, Direktorsklubben (Stockholm: Zenit, Raben och Sjögren), p. 12. Edgar H. Clark, Jr., “Swedish Unemployment Policy” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1939), p. 15. The following section on unemployment policy draws particularly on Nils Unga, Socialdemokratin och arbetslöshetsfrågan, 1912–1934 (Stockholm: Archiv, 1976); Berndt Öhman, Svenskarbetsmarknadspolitik 1990–1947 (Stockholm: Prisma, 1970); and Clark, “Swedish Unemployment Policy.” For example, in 1932, only 27.7 percent of the total number of unemployed seeking relief were given work. See Clark, “Swedish Unemployment Policy,” p. 137; see also Hilding Nordström, “Några ekonomisk faktor rörande statliga nödhjälpsarbeten,” Tiden, 1926. There is some debate in the literature over when and why the Social Democrats came to see wage rates as a matter of dispute. See Unga, Socialdemokratin. For information on German unemployment policies, see Chapter 8. Clark, “Swedish Unemployment Policy,” p. 10. Nyman, Parlamentarism, p. 65. Ernst Wigforss, “Fattiga och rika” (1928), quoted in Herbert Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 1 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1941), p. 319. See also the SAP’s 1928 election manifesto, reprinted in Sven-Olof Håkansson, Svenska valprogram 1902–1952, vol. 2 (Göteborg: Göteborgs Universitet, Statsvetenskapliga Institution, 1959); and Rickard Lindström, “Partikongressen,” Tiden, 1928. Thulstrup, Reformer och försvar, pp. 101–102; John Lindgren, Från Per Götrek till Per Albin: några drag ur den svenska socialdemokratiens historia (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1936), pp. 248–250; Leif Lewin, Planhushållningsdebatten (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1967), pp. 16–17.

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26. For a discussion of such theories, see Chapter 9. 27. On Hansson’s background, see Timothy Tilton, The Political Theory of Swedish Social Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), pp. 125–126; and Anna Lisa Berkling, ed., Från Fram till folkhemmet: Per Albin Hansson som tidningsman och talare (Stockholm: Metodica, 1982). 28. This speech or excerpts from it can be found reprinted in a number of sources. See Berkling, Från Fram till folkhemmet, pp. 227–230; and Tilton, Political Theory, pp. 126–127. 29. Hansson quoted in Berkling, Från Fram till folkhemmet, p. 9. 30. Ibid., p. 198. 31. Ibid. 32. Per Albin Hansson, “Folk och Klass,” Tiden, 1929, p. 80. 33. Hansson quoted in Berkling, Från Fram till folkhemmet, p. 194. See also Per Albin Hansson, Samverkan i svensk politik (Stockholm: Tiden, n.d.). 34. Hansson quoted in Berkling, Från Fram till folkhemmet, pp. 189, 32, 207. 35. Per Thullberg, “SAP and jordbruksnäringen 1920–1940: Från klasskamp till folkhem,” Arbetarrörelsens årsbok, 1974, pp. 140ff. 36. Ibid., pp. 129–130. 37. Despite this, in the past the party had made compromises on this issue when it meant the achievement of other, more important goals. So, for example, in 1919, under pressure from the farmers’ wing of its Liberal coalition partner, the SAP had accepted some agricultural tariffs in return for the passage of the eight-hour day and other social reforms. 38. “SAP partistyrelsens möte,” September 25 (?), 1928 (AAB). 39. Thullberg, “SAP and jordbruksnäringen,” pp. 155ff. 40. See Chapter 9 for a discussion of such analyses. 41. On the work of the socialization commission, see Tilton, Political Theory, pp. 89–102. 42. Gustav Möller, “Den sociala revolution,” Tiden, 1918, p. 243. See also the article by Nils Karleby, “Statsreglering och socialism: Några principella anmärkningar om socialistisk politik,” Tiden, 1, 1919. 43. “Partistyrelsens möte,” May 16, 1919 (AAB). 44. Ibid. 45. Ernst Wigforss, Vision och verklighet (Stockholm: Prisma, 1971), esp. “Klasskampen och livsvärda,” “Göteborgsprogrammet,” and “Egendomsutjamning och Arvsskatt.” 46. Oscar Larsson, “Ekonomisk eller kulturell Individualism,” Tiden, 6, 1909, p. 15. 47. Quoted in Carl Grimberg, Svenska folkets underbara öden, 1907–1945 (Stockholm: P. S. Norstedt och Söners, 1963), pp. 341–342. 48. Nils Karleby, Socialism inför verkligheten (Stockholm: Tiden, 1976 [originally published in 1926]), p. 145; see also idem, “Statsreglering och socialism.”


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49. Karleby, Socialism inför verkligheten. For an English summary of Karleby’s work and influence, see chapter 4 in Tilton, Political Theory. Karleby was one of the SAP’s main spokesmen on economic issues in the period from 1915 until his death in 1926. In 1920, he became part of the party secretariat and was the secretary of the SAP’s socialization commission. In 1922, he became the editor of the party’s main theoretical journal, Tiden. 50. Karleby, Socialism inför verkligheten, p. vii. 51. Tilton, Political Theory, p. 81. See also Rickard Lindström, “Bor socialdemokratiska partietsprogramm revideras,” Tiden, 1928, pp. 154–155. 52. Karleby, Socialism inför verkligheten, pp. 85, 83. Karleby is here discussing what would later be elaborated by theorists in the 1970s and 1980s as the theory of decommodification of labor. See, for example, Walter Korpi, The Democratic Class Struggle (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1983); idem, The Working Class in Welfare Capitalism (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1980); and Gosta Esping-Andersen, Politics against Markets (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). 53. Tilton, Political Theory, p. 82. 54. Tage Erlander in his introduction to Karleby’s, Socialism inför verkligheten, pp. 21, 28. 55. On this point see Leif Lewin, Planhushållningsdebatten (Stockholm: Almqvist och Wichsell, 1967). 56. Ernst Jungen, “Socialpolitik och Socialism,” Tiden, 1931; Ernst Wigforss, “Personlig frihet och ekonomisk organisation,” in Ernst Wigforss, Vision och verklighet (Stockholm: Prismer, 1967); Ernst Wigforss, “Socialism in Socialdemokrati,” Tiden, 4, 1949; Timonthy Tilton, “A Swedish Road to Socialism: Ernst Wigforss and the Ideological Foundations of Swedish Social Democracy,” American Political Science Review, 73, 1979; Winton Higgins, “Ernst Wigforss: The Renewal of Social Democratic Theory and Practice,” Political Power and Social Theory, 5, 1985; Paul Lindblom, Ernst Wigforss: Socialistisk idepolitiker (Stockholm: Tiden, 1977); Tage Erlander, “Introduction,” in Ide och handling: till Ernst Wigforss på 80-års dagen (Stockholm: Tiden, 1960). 57. Rickard Lindström and Gustav Möller have already been mentioned; Gunnar Myrdal was another devotee of note. 58. Much has been written about the development of Swedish Keynesianism. However, it is important to differentiate between the development of economic theory in Sweden and the policy making of the SAP. Many of the economists who in retrospect came to be seen as part of the “Stockholm school” did not have direct ties to the SAP and did not directly influence the party’s crisis program in the early 1930s. With the exception of Bertil Ohlin (the leader of the Folkpartei and the most important advocate of “social liberalism” in Sweden), the crucial figures in the formation of the SAP’s crisis package came from within the party itself. On the development of

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Swedish Keynesianism, see Donald Winch, “The Keynesian Revolution in Sweden,” Journal of Political Economy, 74, 1966; Harald Dickson, “Grundzüge der schwedischen Wirtschaftstheorie vor allem der Stockholmer Schule, während der letzten 25 Jahre,” Weltwirtschaftsliches Archiv, 68, 1953; Lars Jonung, “The Depression in Sweden and the United States: A Comparision of Causes and Policies,” in Karl Brunner, ed., The Great Depression Revisited (Boston: Martinus Nijhoff, 1981); Bent Hansen, “Unemployment, Keynes and the Stockholm School,” History of Political Economy, 13, 1981; and Lars Jonung, ed., The Stockholm School of Economics Revisited (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). On Bertil Ohlin, see Otto Steiger, “Bertil Ohlin and the Origins of the Keynesian Revolution,” History of Political Economy, 5, 1973; and Olof Wennås, “Bertil Ohlin om Socialism, Liberalism och Folkpartiet,” in Liberal Ideologi och Politik (Stockholm: Folk och Samhälle, 1984). 59. Ernst Wigforss, Minnen II 1914–1932 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1951), p. 350 (the statement was made originally at the 1932 party congress). See also “Partistyrelsens möte,” May 12, 1929 (AAB). 60. In his memoirs Wigforss states that he first became acquainted with radical English Liberals like J. A. Hobson, H. G. Wells, and Bernard Shaw around the First World War. See his Minnen II, pp. 118–120. Karl-Gustav Landgren and Otto Steiger later carried on lengthy debate over the exact import of these contacts. Landgren argued that the Swedes developed no new ideas during the 1930s and simply applied what they had learned from the English. Steiger, on the other hand, argued that policies of the 1930s emanated from homegrown sources—that Keynesianism in Sweden developed almost completely independently from Keynes. Steiger’s view seems more justified (and is supported by the memoirs of those involved, especially Wigforss’s, as well). However, this is almost irrelevant for this study. What is important here is understanding why the SAP was able to develop an effective strategy in the early 1930s. Regardless of whether the inspiring ideas came primarily from home or abroad, the important thing was the ability and willingness to adapt and exploit them. This is, as we shall see, the most important difference between the SAP and the SPD. See Otto Steiger, Studien zur Entstehung der Neuen Wirtschaftslehre in Schweden (Berlin: Duncker und Humboldt, 1971); idem, “Bakgrunden till 1930-talets socialdemokratiska krispolitik,” Arkiv för studier i arbetarrörelsens historia, 4, 1975; Karl-Gustav Landgren, Den “nya” ekonomien i Sverige (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1960); idem, “Socialdemokratisk krispolitik och Engelsk liberalism—ett genmäle till Otto Steiger,” Arkiv för studier i arbetarrörelsens historia, 2, 1975; Carl G. Uhr, “The Emergence of the ‘New Economics’ in Sweden: A Review of a Study by Otto Steiger,” History of Political Economy, 5, 1973; and Bo Gustafsson, “A Perennial of Doctrinal History: Keynes and the Stockholm School,” Economics and History, 16, 1983.


61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

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Wigforss, Minnen II, p. 51. Also known as Britain’s Industrial Future (London: E. Benn, 1928). Ernst Wigforss, Arbetet, March 14, 1928. See also Wigforss, Minnen II, p. 267. Rickard Lindström, John Bull hemma hos sig, p. 47; quoted in Landgren, Den “nya” ekonomin, p. 47. See also Ernst Wigforss, “Engelsk Socialism,” Tiden, 2, 1928. Similarly, Gustav Möller wrote: “Sweden finds itself in the fortunate situation of being able to realize the program that the English Liberals . . . have declared for England—namely conquering unemployment.” “Svensk arbetslöshetspolitik—socialdemokratisk och borgerlig,” SAP brochure 1930, p. 15. Wigforss was also especially interested in the works of well-known Swedish economists like Gustav Cassel, Knut Wicksell, and David Davidson. Ernst Wigforss, “Sparen, slösaren och den arbetslöse,” Tiden, 1928, pp. 501, 504. Ernst Wigforss, Den Ekonomiska Krisen (Stockholm: Tiden, 1931), p. 56. Ernst Wigforss, “Har vi råd att arbeta?” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1932). Unga, Socialdemokratin, pp. 126–128; and Öhman, Svensk arbetsmarknadspolitik, p. 72. Otto Steiger’s influential study of the development of Keynesian economics in Sweden asserts that the Social Democrats began to devise “countercyclical” policies before the First World War. He emphasizes a Social Democratic motion from 1912 stating that unemployment represented an inefficient use of social resources that could be conquered only by state efforts to increase total demand. “[This] shows us that the Swedish Social Democrats had already developed views about the usage of public works before the war that . . . fulfill Keynesian criteria” (Steiger, Studien zur Entstehung, p. 110). Steiger argues that the reason the SAP did not institute expansionary policies earlier in the interwar period was that the party remained in a minority position in Parliament up until the early 1930s: the Social Democrats could not put forth a new economic strategy because they knew it would be voted down by the bourgeois parties and the (conservative) first chamber. This argument is problematic for a variety of reasons. First, there is little reason to believe that the SAP failed to put forth a new economic strategy just because it feared that it might be voted down. As noted earlier, Social Democratic governments chose to resign over unemployment policy, indicating that they were willing to fight even for losing causes. Second, the SAP sometimes supported traditional bourgeois measures during the 1920s because the party accepted the economic logic behind them. Steiger is certainly correct to point out that many of the individual ideas that would come together to form the SAP’s crisis package had a long history within the SAP. He overlooks, however, the important differences between the

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71. 72.

73. 74. 75.

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

83.


policies put forth before and after 1930. The mere existence of certain expansionary ideas or policies was not enough to ensure the emergence of a Keynesian strategy; as we will see in later chapters, many of the constituent parts of such a strategy existed in Germany without leading to the acceptance of a “Keynesian” antidepression strategy in the early 1930s. What differentiated the SAP’s later policies from those in the 1920s, and from the proposals put forth by many of its European counterparts, was the addition of a new economic theory that provided a comprehensive view of the functioning (and malfunctioning) of capitalist economies. This gave the SAP’s proposals a coherence and political power that their predecessors (and their counterparts in other European countries) did not have. Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1930 (Stockholm: Arbetarnas Tryckeri, 1930), pp. 35ff. Ernst Wigforss, Andra Kammars Protokoll, 47, 1930, p. 24. See also Landgren, Den “nya” ekonomien, p. 66. (Compare this with Gregor Strasser’s speech in the Reichstag, discussed in Chapter 8.) Landgren, Den “nya” ekonomien, p. 70. Protokoll från sveriges socialdemokratiska arbetarpartis fjortonde kongress i Stockholm, March 18–23, 1932 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1932), pp. 6–9. He was unsure, however, if the party should wait to hear from its socialization group about different possible scenarios before making a final policy decision. Ibid., p. 429. Ibid., p. 452. Ibid., pp. 448ff. Ibid., p. 475. Ibid., pp. 515–516. See also Per Albin Hansson, “Socialdemokraten inför valet” (SAP electoral brochure, 1932). Söderpalm, “The Crisis Agreement and the Social Democratic Road to Power.” Hansson at the 1932 party congress, p. 363. Ernst Wigforss, Skrifter i Urval, VIII: Minnen, 1914–1932 (Stockholm: Tiden, 1980), p. 54. See also Higgins, “Ernst Wigforss,” p. 223. Steiger also notes how concerned Wigforss was with the political, as well as the economic, side of his program: “Wigforss emphasized that in his handling of the unemployment question he did not just want to show that this problem could be solved through state employment programs but was also guided by the goal that his solutions must also be able to gain resonance in political debate.” Steiger, Studien zur Entstehung, p. 84. (A comparision with the SPD’s 1932 campaign is instructive; see Chapter 8.) For information on the campaign and the party’s propaganda efforts, see Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1932 (Stockholm: Arbetarnas Tryckeri, 1932).


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84. “Socialdemokraten inför valet.” 85. Social-Demokraten, September 15, 1932; see also Lewin, Planhuhållningsdebatten, p. 79. 86. Reprinted in Håkansson, Svenska valprogram 1902–1952, vol. 2. 87. Socialdemokratiska partistyrelsens berättelse för år 1932, pp. 46ff. 88. Ernst Wigforss, andra kammarens protokoll, 55, 1932, p. 101. 89. Per Albin Hansson, “Varför vi gick: en redogörelse för regeringskrisen” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1936), p. 5. See also Nyman, Parlamentarismen, p. 65; Göran Therborn, “Den svenska socialdemokratin träder fram,” Arkiv för studier i arbetarrörelsens historia, 27–28, 1984, p. 45; Grimberg, Svenska Folkets, p. 384; and Karl-Gustaf Hildebrand, “Inledning,” in Sven Nilsson Karl-Gustaf Hildebrand, and B. D. Öhman, eds., Från medeltid till välfärdssamhälle (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1974). On fascism in Sweden, see Eric Wärenstam, Fascismen och Nazism i Sverige (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1972). 90. See, for example, Ernst Wigforss’s article “Arbetare och Bonder under Krisen,” Tiden, 1932; and Per Edvin Sköld, “Jordbruket och Krisen” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1932). 91. “Har vi råd att arbeta?” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1932), p. 21. 92. Landgren, Den “nya” ekonomien, pp. 89–90. 93. “Partistyrelsens möte,” September 21–23, 1932 (AAB). 94. Clas-Erik Odhner, “Arbetare och bönder formar den svenska modellen,” in Misgeld, et al., eds., Socialdemokratins Samhälle, pp. 97–98; Therborn, “Den svenska socialdemokratin,” p. 8; Thulstrup, Reformer och Försvar, pp. 137– 138; and Gustav Möller, “Kampen mot arbetslösheten: Hur den förts och hur den lyckats” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1936), p. 5. 95. The following section draws most heavily on Olle Nyman, Krisuppgörelsen mellan socialdemokraterna och bondeförbundet 1933 (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wicksell, 1944); see also Nyman, Parlamentarism, pp. 75ff.; Odhner, “Arbetare och bönder formar den svenska modellen,” esp. pp. 97–99; and Sten Carlsson, “Folkhemspolitiken,” in Carlson and Rosen, eds., Den svenska historien: vår egen tid från 1920 till 1960-talet. 96. Thullberg, “SAP och Jordbruksnäringen,” pp. 154ff. 97. Erik Helmer Pedersen, Per Thulberg, Stein Tveite, Matts Dumell, and Eira Johansson, “Nordens jordbruk under världskrisen,” in Kriser och krispolitik i Norden (Stockholm: Almqvist and Wicksell, 1974). 98. “Partisyrelsens möte,” November 14, 1931 (AAB). 99. The committee had twenty-four ordinary members, thirteen of whom came from the bourgeois parties and eleven from the SAP. 100. Nyman, Krisuppgörelsen, pp. 27–28. 101. Thullberg, “SAP och jordbruksnäringen,” p. 164. 102. Quoted in Grimberg, Svenska folkets, p. 381. 103. During the election, the Agrarian party had campaigned on a platform that

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104. 105.

106.

107.

108. 109. 110. 111.

112.


rejected any change in the AK system. See Hansson’s report to the party executive on negiotiations with the farmers, “Partistyrelsens möte,” May 19, 1933 (AAB). Nyman, Krisuppgörelsen, pp. 37–39, 42. The party executive’s vote on the agreement occurred at a leadership meeting (“Partistyrelsens möte”) on May 27, 1933. In addition, while the Agrarians conceded the principle that state work programs should not be a form of poor relief but instead a form of productive unemployment compensation, the two parties had difficulty coming to an agreement on the exact level of wages to be paid. The compromise that was reached set the “market” wages at the level of an unskilled worker. In addition, the SAP had to settle for somewhat less funding for its programs than it had hoped. The other negative aspect of the compromise for the Social Democrats was that it did not contain a fixed agreement on unemployment insurance. Clark, “Swedish Unemployment Policy,” esp. pp. 222–223; Jonung, “The Depression in Sweden and the United States”; Arthur Montgomery, How Sweden Overcame the Depression (Stockholm: Bonniers, 1938); and Richard Lester, Monetary Experiments (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1936), pp. 225– 282. Gustav Möller, “Kampen mot arbetslösheten” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1936); and Per Edvin Sköld, “Bättre bärgning åt den fattiga jordbruksbefolkningen: Ett avsnitt av social demokratisk socialpolitik” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1936); and Per Edvin Sköld, “Socialdemokratin och jordbruket” (Stockholm: Tiden, 1936). See the 1936 election manifesto in Håkansson, Svenska valprogram 1902– 1952, vol. 2; see also Valter Åmen, “Vad lär oss Tyskland,” Tiden, 25, 1933. Tingsten, Den svenska socialdemokratiens ideutveckling, vol. 1, p. 377. Gunnar Myrdal, “Tiden och partiet,” Tiden, 1, 1945. There is some evidence that after 1932 the SAP even increased its share of the rural vote. See Oscar E-son Tjärdal, “Lantarbetarnas ställning till socialism,” Tiden, 1935. Wigforss, Minnen II, p. 129. 8. The Collapse of German Democracy

1. Heinrich August Winkler, Von der Revolution zur Stabilisierung: Arbeiter und Arbeiterbewegung in der Weimarer Republik, 1918–1924 (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1984), p. 11. 2. Andrei S. Markovits, “The Legacy of Liberalism and Collectivism in the Labor Movement: A Tense but Fruitful Compromise for Model Germany,” in Andrei S. Markovits, ed., The Political Economy of West Germany: Modell Deutschland (New York: Praeger, 1982), esp. pp. 142–151.


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3. It should be emphasized, however, that the collapse of the German currency had its origins in the government’s financing of the First World War. Gerald Feldman, Vom Weltkrieg zur Weltwirtschaftskrise (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1984); idem, Iron and Steel in the German Inflation, 1916–1923 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977); idem, ed., Die Nachwirkungen der Inflation auf die deutsche Geschichte, 1924–1933 (Munich: R. Oldenburg, 1985); idem, ed., Die Erfahrung der Inflation im internationalen Zusammenhang und Vergleich (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1984); and idem, The Great Disorder: Politics, Economics, and Society in the German Inflation, 1914–1924 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 4. Theo Balderston, The Origins and Course of the German Economic Crisis (Berlin: Haude & Spener, 1993); David Abraham, “State and Classes in Weimar Germany,” in Michael Dobkowski and Isidor Walliman, eds., Radical Perspectives on the Rise of Fascism in Germany, 1919–1945 (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1989); and idem, The Collapse of the Weimar Republic, 2d ed. (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1986). 5. Abraham, The Collapse of the Weimar Republic. For a different perspective see Harold James, The German Slump: Politics and Economics, 1924–1936 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987). 6. The debate over the import of wage increases in particular, and labor’s gains in general, is a central facet of the “Borchardt debate” which will be mentioned below. 7. It should be noted that this development was not restricted to Germany. In Sweden, for example, increasing labor conflict during these same years led to the reactivation of a law on the books since 1906 (lag beträffande statlig förlikningskommission vid tvister), which allowed government intervention in labor disputes. Furthermore, in 1928 a National Labor Court (Arbetsdomstolen) was set up to rule on disputes over interpretations of collective bargaining agreements. See Anders Johansson, Tillväxt och Klassamarbete: en studie av den svenska modellens uppkomst (Stockholm: Tiden, 1989), p. 95. 8. Dieter Hertz-Eichenrode, Wirtschaftskrise und Arbeitsbeschaffung (Frankfurt: Campus, 1982); Michel Held, Sozialdemokratie und Keynesianismus: Von der Weltwirtschaftskrise bis zum Godesberger Programm (Frankfurt: Campus, 1982), pp. 97–98; Feldman, Vom Weltkrieg zur Weltwirtschaftskrise, pp. 59–87. 9. The program was, however, plagued with problems from the outset. In its first year, for example, it was able to provide support for only approximately seven hundred thousand people, far less than the actual number of unemployed. Peter Stachura, ed., Unemployment and the Great Depression in Weimar Germany (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1986); Frieda Wunderlich, Die Bekämpfung der Arbeitslosigkeit in Deutschland seit Beendigung des Krieges (Jena: Gustav Fisher, 1925); and Lothar Pommernelle, “Die Notstandsar-

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10.

11.

12.

13.

14. 15. 16.

17.


beiten der produktiven Erwerblosenfürsorge” (Ph.D. diss., University of Jena, 1929). Stresemann was also the head of the DVP, a right liberal party with close ties to big business and, at least originally, an ambiguous commitment to democracy. On the DVP and other liberal parties during the interwar period, see Larry Eugen Jones, German Liberalism and the Dissolution of the Weimar Republic (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988). On Stresemann see Henry Turner, Stresemann and the Politics of the Weimar Republic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963). Hugh Quigly and R. T. Clark, Republican Germany: A Political and Economic Study (London: Methuen, 1928); selections reprinted in Henry Cord Meyer, ed., The Long Generation (New York: Harper and Row, 1973). On the collapse of the bourgeois middle, see Jones, German Liberalism and the Dissolution of the Weimar Party System; idem, “‘The Dying Middle’: Weimar Germany and the Fragmentation of Bourgeois Politics,” Central European History, 5, 1972; idem, “In the Shadow of Stabilization: German Liberalism and the Legitimacy of the Weimar Party System”; and Thomas Childers, “Interest and Ideology: Anti-System Parties in the Era of Stabilization,” both in Feldman, Die Nachwirkungen der Inflation. Despite the obvious advantages to Germany, the nationalist Right mounted a vicious campaign against the Young plan and forced a referendum on the issue. However, in the December 1929 referendum only 13.8 percent of the electorate voted with the Nationalist, right-wing parties. One side effect of the campaign, however, was that it brought the Nazis into national prominence. William Smaldone, “Rudolf Hilferding: The Tragedy of a German Social Democrat” (Ph.D. diss., SUNY Binghamton, 1989), p. 409. Erich Matthias, “Social Democracy and Power in the State,” in The Road to Dictatorship (London: Oswald and Wolff, 1964), p. 62. Including, for example, the lack of a strong unified peasant party for the SPD to ally with. Distinctive peasant parties did arise in Germany during the 1920s (e.g., BVP, Deutsches Landvolk, Deutsche Bauernpartei); by the late 1920s to early 1930s, however, many of these parties’ supporters had been won over by the Nazis. See below. Walter Euchner, “Sozialdemokratie und Demokratie: Zum Demokratieverständnis der SPD in der Weimarer Republik,” Archiv für Sozialgeschichte, 26, 1986; Susanne Miller, “Die Sozialdemokratie in der Spannung zwischen Oppositionstradition und Regierungsverantwortung in den Anfängen der Weimarer Republik,” in Hans Mommsen, ed., Sozialdemokratie zwischen Klassenbewegung und Volkspartei (Frankfurt: Athenäum Fischer, 1974), pp. 102–103; Richard Saage, “Parlamentarische Demokratie, Staatsfunktionen und das Gleichgewicht der Klassenkräfte,” in Richard Saage, ed., Solidargemeinschaft


18. 19.

20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25.

26.

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und Klassenkampf: Politische Konzeptionenen der Sozialdemokratie zwischen den Weltkriegen (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1986); idem, “Gleichgewicht der Klassenkräfte und Koalitionsfrage als Problem sozialdemokratischer Politik in Deutschland and Österreich,” in Horst Heimann and Thomas Meyer, eds., Reformsozialismus und Sozialdemokratie (Berlin: J. H. W. Deitz, 1982); idem, Rückkehr zum starken Staat? (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1983); and Wolfgang Luthardt, Sozialdemokratische Verfassungstheorie in der Weimarer Republik (Opladen: Westdeutscher, 1986). Richard Hunt, German Social Democracy, 1918–1933 (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1964), p. 134. Heinrich August Winkler, “Klassenbewegung oder Volkspartei? Zur sozialdemokratischen Programmdebatte, 1920–1925,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 8, 1982; and Hans Kremendahl, “Könnte die SPD in der Weimarer Republik eine Volkspartei werden?” in Heimann and Meyer, Reformsozialismus. Quoted in Donna Harsch, German Social Democracy and the Rise of Fascism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993), p. 32. Ibid., p. 22. Some of this change in the party’s membership was probably caused by a drop in the percentage of workers in the population and a concomitant rise in the number of white-collar workers and civil servants. Susanne Miller and Heinrich Potthoff, A History of German Social Democracy from 1848 to the Present (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986), p. 95; Peter Lösche and Franz Walter, Die SPD: Klassenpartei, Volkspartei, Quotenpartei (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1991); Peter Lösche, “The Evolution of the SPD,” German Politics and Society, 14, June 1988; and Hagen Schulze, Weimar: Deutschland, 1917–1933 (Berlin: Severin und Siedler, 1982), p. 73. Carl Cavanagh Hodge, “Three Ways to Lose a Republic: The Electoral Politics of the Weimar SPD,” European History Quarterly, 17, 1987, pp. 178–183. Rosemarie Leuschen-Seppel, Zwischen Staatsverantwortung und Klasseninteresse (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1981), pp. 197–210. Peter Fritzsche, Rehearsals for Fascism: Populism and Political Mobilization in Weimar Germany (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990); Rudy Koshar, Social Life, Local Politics and Nazism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986); and Sheri Berman, “Civil Society and the Collapse of the Weimar Republic,” World Politics, April 1997. Michael William Hohnhart, “The Incomplete Revolution: The Social Democrats’ Failure to Transform the German Economy, 1918–1920” (Ph.D. diss., Duke University, 1972); David Barclay, “The Insider as Outsider: Rudolf Wissel’s Critique of Social Democratic Economic Policies, 1919–1920,” in Gerald Feldman, Die Erfahrung der Inflation (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1984); William Carl Mathews, “The Continuity of Social Democratic Economic Policy

282

27.

28.

29. 30.

31.

32.


1919–1920,” in Feldman, Die Erfahrung; Hans Schieck, “Die Kampf um die deutsche Wirtschaftspolitik nach dem Novembersturtz” (Ph.D. diss., University of Heidelberg, 1958); and Klaus Novy, Strategien der Sozialisierung: Die Diskussion der Wirtschaftsreform in der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt: Campus, 1978). Thomas Meyer, “Organisierter Kapitalismus,” in Thomas Meyer, Susanne Miller, and Joachim Rohlfes, eds., Lern und Arbeitsbuch deutscher Arbeiterbewegung, vol. 2 (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1984); Bern Brackmüller and Reinhard Hartmann, “Organisierter Kapitalismus und Krise,” in Wolfgang Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung und Weimarer Republik Materialien zur gesellschaftlichen Entwicklung, 1927–1933, vol. 1 (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1978); and Günter Könke, Organisierter Kapitalismus, Sozialdemokratie und Staat (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1987). See, in particular, Hilferding’s speech to the 1927 Kiel congress, “Die Aufgaben der Sozialdemokratie in der Republik,” reprinted in Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung und Weimarer Staat, vol. 1. On Hilferding’s political theory see Smaldone, “Rudolf Hilferding, The Tragedy of a Social Democrat”; see also idem, “Rudolf Hilferding and the Theoretical Foundations of German Social Democracy, 1902–1933,” Central European History, 21, 1988; Richard Breitman, German Socialism and Weimar Democracy (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1981), pp. 120–127; Wolfgang Krumbein, “Vorläufer eines Dritten Weges zum Sozialismus,” in Saage, Solidargemeinschaft und Klassenkampf. The DVP was a right-wing liberal party and the representative of (sectors of) big business. Smaldone, “Rudolf Hilferding,” pp. 427–428. Robert Gates, “The Economic Policies of the German Free Trade Unions and the German Social Democratic Party, 1930–1933” (Ph.D. diss., University of Oregon, 1970), p. 78. “Protokoll der Verhandlungen des 12. Kongresses der Gewerkschaften Deutschlands,” Breslau 1925, p. 231 (my emphasis). See also John Moses, Trade Unionism in Germany from Bismarck to Hitler 1869–1933 (London: George Prior, 1982), pp. 357–361. David Abraham, “Economic Democracy as a Labor Alternative to the Growth Strategy in Weimar Germany,” in Markovits, The Political Economy of West Germany; Cora Stephan, “Wirtschaftsdemokratie und Umbau der Wirtschaft,” in Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung, vol. 1; Heinrich Potthoff, “Die Freien Gewerkschaften: Perspektiven, Programme und Praxis,” in Saage, Solidargemeinschaft und Klassenkampf; Heinrich Potthoff, “Theorien der Arbeiterbewegung in der Weimarer Republik-Wirtschaftsdemokratie,” in Meyer, Miller, and Rohlfes, Lern und Arbeitsbuch; Günter Könke, Organisierter Kapitalismus; and Hans Mommsen, “Class War or Co-


33.

34. 35.

36. 37.

38.

39.

283

determination,” in Hans Mommsen, From Weimar to Auschwitz (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991). Fritz Napthali, Wirtschaftsdemokratie, Ihr Wesen, Weg und Ziel (Berlin: Verlagsgesellschaft des ADGB, 1928), p. 12. See also “Die Verwirklichung der Wirtschaftsdemokratie,” reprinted in F. Deppe and W. Rossmann, eds., Wirtschaftskrise, Faschismus, Gewerkschaften (Cologne: Pahl Rugenstein, 1981). Quoted in Gates, “The Economic Policies,” pp. 102–103. Wolfram Pyta, Gegen Hitler und für die Republik: Die Auseinandersetzung der deutschen Sozialdemokratie mit der NSDAP in der Weimarer Republik (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1989); Harsch, German Social Democracy, chap. 3; Wolfram Wette, “Mit dem Stimmzettel gegen den Faschismus? Das Dilemma des Sozialdemokratischen Antifaschismus in der Endphase der Weimarer Republik,” in Wolfgang Huber and Johannes Schwerdtfeger, eds., Frieden, Gewalt, Sozialismus: Studien zur Geschichte der sozialistischen Arbeiterbewegung (Stuttgart: Ernst Klett, 1976). Harsch, German Social Democracy, pp. 79–85. Heinrich August Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe: Arbeiter und Arbeiterbewegung in der Weimarer Republik 1930–1933 (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1987), chap. 2, section 3; Eberhard Kolb, “Die sozialdemokratische Strategie in der Ära des Präsidialkabinetts Brüning: Strategie ohne Alternative?” in Ursula Büttner, ed., Das Unrechtsregime: Internationale Forschung über den Nationalsozialismus, vol. 1 (Hamburg: Christians, 1986); and Hans J. L. Adolph, Otto Wels und die Politik der deutschen Sozialdemokratie, 1894–1939 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1971), esp. p. 234. Erich Matthias, “Die Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands,” in Erich Matthias and Rudolf Morsey, eds., Das Ende der Parteien (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1960). The Osthilfe was originally designed to protect industrious farmers but soon degenerated into a support plan for large estate owners. Support for agriculture and troubled industry grew to almost 4 percent of social product in 1932 from 1 percent in 1927. The absolute spending figure for agricultural and industrial support was 3 billion Reichsmark, a figure that (as we will see below) was larger than most advocates of work creation called for. Dietmar Petzina, “Elemente der Wirtschaftspolitik in der Spätphase der Weimarer Republik,” Vierteljahreshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 21, 1973, p. 132; Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe, pp. 129, 177; and Albert C. Grzesinski, Inside Germany (New York: Dutton, 1939), p. 149. In addition, Brüning quietly increased the Russengeschäfte program. As noted earlier, this was essentially a credit-creation program and was not dissimilar from the financing of some of the work-creation proposals that Brüning later rejected—a contradiction that was not entirely unrecognized by

284

40.

41.

42.

43.

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.


the business community. See Michael Wolffsohn, Industrie und Handwerk in Konflikt mit staatlicher Wirtschaftspolitik? Studien zur Politik der Arbeitsbeschaffung in Deutschland 1930–1934 (Berlin: Duncker und Humboldt, 1977), pp. 175–190. “Das Krisenjahr 1930,” Jahrbuch der deutschen Sozialdemokratie 1930 (Berlin: Vorwärts Buchdrückerei, 1930) and “Richtlininen der SPD zur Überwindung der Wirtschaftskrise,” Gewerkschafts-Zeitung, 40, June 1930. See also Held, Sozialdemokratie und Keynesianismus; Rainer Schaefer, Die SPD in der Ära Brüning: Tolerierung oder Mobilisierung? (Frankfurt: Campus Forschung, 1990), pp. 82ff. Harsch, German Social Democracy, p. 157. See also Hagen Schulze, ed., Anpassung oder Widerstand?: Aus den Akten des Parteivorstands der deutschen Sozialdemokratie, 1932–1933 (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1975), pp. xx–xxiii. Heinrich Brüning, Memoiren 1918–1934 (Stuttgart: Deutsche, 1970), for example, pp. 105, 115–116, 118, 133, 315, 501–502; see also Gottfried Reinhold Treviranus, Das Ende von Weimar (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1968), pp. 156–161. See, for example, the SPD’s press statement of October 16, 1930, on the (unsuccessful) attempt to remove Brüning from office. Reprinted in Gerhard Schulze, Ilse Mauer, and Udo Wengst, eds., Politik und Wirtschaft in der Krise, 1930–1932 (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1980), esp. pp. 432–434. See also Rudolf Hilferding, “In the Danger Zone” (1930), reprinted in David Beetham, ed., Marxists in the Face of Fascism (Totowa, N.J.: Barnes and Noble Books, 1984); and Eberhard Kolb, “Die sozialdemokratische Strategie in der Ära des Präsidialkabinettes Brüning-Strategie ohne Alternative?” in Büttner, Das Unrechtsregime. Schaefer, Die SPD in der Ära Brüning, esp. pp. 118–148. Protokoll über die Verhandlungen des Sozialdemokratischer Parteitages, 31 Mai bis 5 Juni in Leipzig 1931 (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1974), p. 60. Ibid., pp. 45–46. Ibid., p. 66. Ibid., p. 73. Friedrich Stampfer, Die ersten vierzehn Jahren der Deutschen Republik (Offenbach: Bollwerk, 1947), p. 634. Schulze, Mauer, and Wengst, Politik und Wirtschaft in der Krise; Peter Jahn with Detlev Brunner, Die Gewerkschaften in der Endphase der Republik (Cologne: Bund, 1988); Michael Schneider, “Tolerierung-Opposition-Auflösung: Die Stellung des Allgemeinen Deutschen Gewerkschaftsbundes zu den Regierungen Brüning bis Hitler” and idem, “Arbeitsbeschaffung: Die Vorstellungen von Freien Gewerkschaften und SPD zur Bekämpfung der Wirtschaftskrise,” both in Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung, vol. 1; Michael Schneider, “Konjunkturpolitische Vorstellungen der Gewerkschaf-


51.

52.

53. 54.

55.

56. 57.

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ten in den letzten Jahren der Weimarer Republik,” in Hans Mommsen, Dietmar Petzina, and Bernd Weisbrod, eds., Industrielles System und Politische Entwicklung in der Weimarer Republik (Düsseldorf: Athenäum, 1977); and Thomas Hahn, “Arbeiterbewegung und Gewerkschaften: Eine Untersuchung der Strategiebildung der Freien Gewerkschaften auf dem Arbeitsmarkt” (Ph.D. diss., Free University of Berlin, 1977). The most complete discussion of union debates over work creation is Michael Schneider, Das Arbeitsbeschaffungprogramm des ADGB (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1975). See also “The Development of State Work Creation Policy in Germany, 1930–1933,” in Stachura, Unemployment and the Great Depression; Gates, “The Economic Policies.” Woytinsky’s life was fascinating. After the rise of the Nazis, Woytinsky fled Germany for the United States, where he contributed to the New Deal. In his autobiography (Stormy Passage [New York: Vanguard Press, 1961]), one gets an engrossing account of some of the most important events of the twentieth century. See also Emma Woytinsky, ed., So Much Alive. The Life and Work of W. S. Woytinsky (New York: Vanguard Press, 1962). He had previously hoped for international action to stem the crisis. Tarnow had, for example, in 1928 published Warum arm sein? (Why be poor?) (Berlin, 1928). See also R. Wagenführ and W. Voss, “Trade Unions and the World Economic Crisis,” in Hermann van der Wee, ed., The Great Depression Revisited (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1972). Wladimir Woytinsky, “Arbeitsbeschaffung und keine Inflationsgefahr,” Die Arbeit, 3, March 1932; and idem, “Der WTB Plan der Arbeitsbeschaffung,” reprinted in G. Bombach, H. J. Ramser, M. Timmermann, and W. Wittmann, eds., Der Keynesianismus: Die beschäftigungspolitische Diskussion vor Keynes in Deutschland, vol. 1 (Berlin: Springer, 1976), pp. 172–175. Wladimir Woytinsky, “Aktive Weltwirtschaftspolitik,” Die Arbeit, 8, 1931, p. 439 See Wladimir Woytinsky, “Probleme der Währungspolitk,” Die Arbeit, October 10, 1931; idem, “Arbeitsbeschaffung und keine Inflationsgefahr”; and idem, “Thesen zum Kampf gegen die Wirtschaftskrise,” reprinted in Schneider, Das Arbeitsbeschaffungsprogramm, pp. 225–230. These points about the currency were echoed by many of Brüning’s own advisers. See below and Henning Köhler, “Arbeitsbeschaffung, Siedlung und Reparation in der Schlußphase der Regierung Brüning,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 17, 1969, esp. p. 280. On “Inflationsangst,” see Peter-Christian Witt, “Die Auswirkungen der Inflation auf die Finanzpolitik des Deutschen Reiches, 1924–1935”; and Gerhard Schulz, “Inflationstrauma, Finanzpolitik, Krisenbekämpfung in den Jahren der Wirtschaftskrise, 1930–1933,” in Feldman, Die Nachwirkungen.

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58. Held, Sozialdemokratie und Keynesianismus, esp. pp. 92–95. 59. Wladimir Woytinsky, “Sozialistische Wirtschaftspolitik heisst Heute Arbeitsbeschaffung,” Leipziger Volkszeitung, 68, March 21, 1932. 60. “Thesen zum Kampf gegen die Wirtschaftskrise,” p. 230. 61. Gates recounts that it was Woytinsky’s tireless efforts to allay inflationary fears that finally won over one of the most powerful unions—the German Metal Workers Union (Deutscher Metallarbeiter-Verband, DMV). This was crucial in ensuring more widespread acceptance of the program. See Gates, “The Economic Policies,” pp. 206–210. 62. Gerard Braunthal, Socialist Labor and Politics in Weimar Germany: The General Federation of German Trade Unions (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1978), pp.62–65; Wolfgang Zollitsch, “Einzelgewerkschaften und Arbeitsbeschaffung: Zum Handlungsspielraum der Arbeiterbewegung in der Spätphase der Weimarer Republik,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 8, 1982; Ursula Hüllbüsch, “Die deutschen Gewerkschaften in der Weltwirtschaftskrise,” in Walter Conze, ed. Die Staats-und Wirtschaftskrise des Deutschen Reichs, 1929–1933 (Stuttgart: Ernst Klett, 1967). 63. “Arbeitsbeschaffung-die zentrale Aufgabe deutscher Wirtschaftspolitik,” Gewerkschafts-Zeitung, 42, February 20, 1932. In the same issue see also “Unsere Lösung: Arbeitsbeschaffung!” The minutes of the relevant union meetings can be found in the collection of union documents edited by Peter Jahn and Detlev Brunner, Die Gewerkschaften in der Endphase der Republik (Köln: Bund, 1988), pp. 499–513. 64. Particularly influential was his monograph Internationale Hebung der Preise als Ausweg aus der Krise (Leipzig: Hans Buske, 1931). Wilhelm Grotkopp, for example, stresses the influence of this work on other economists. Wilhelm Grotkopp, Die Grosse Krise (Düsseldorf: Econ, 1954), p. 45. See also Bombach et al., Der Keynesianismus, vol. 3, esp. p. 222. 65. Helmut Marcon, Arbeitsbeschaffungspolitik der Regierungen Papen und Schleicher (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1974); and Schulze, Mauer, and Wengst, Politik und Wirtschaft. Among two of the most popular suggestions that were used by later governments were the discounting of commerical bills and tax vouchers (Steuergutschein). In the former plan, public bodies were encouraged to place orders for new roads, buildings, and so forth, incurring a debt that was to be repaid over periods ranging up to twenty-five years. Private firms were also given contracts, drawing bills of exchange for payment. These bills were then accepted by special financial institutions like the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Öffentliche Arbeiten (Öffa, the German Public Works Association), the Deutsche Rentenbank-Kreditanstalt, and Deutsche Bau-und Bodenbank. To make the process self-perpetuating, a contractor was given a large number of bills. When each fell due, he could detach the bill bearing the


66.

67.

68.

69. 70. 71. 72.

73.

287

next serial number, forwarding that in replacement for one just reaching its term. The latter plan—tax vouchers—allowed businesses to defray the payment of certain taxes for a number of years, while using the freed-up resources to increase employment and production. The tax vouchers could also be used as collateral for loans and were discountable. C. W. Guillebaud, The Economic Recovery of Germany (London: Macmillan, 1939); Bombach et al., Der Keynesianismus, vol. 1, p. 81; and Gerhard Kroll, Von der Weltwirtschaftskrise zur Staatskonjunktur (Berlin: Duncker und Humblot, 1958). Carl-Ludwig Holtfrerich remarks that the general interest in a course shift can be seen from the fact that over twenty-one thousand different suggestions to free the mark from gold (and thus break the deflationary spiral) were sent to the Reichsbank and the Berliner Handelhochschule. Holtfrerich, Alternativen zu Brünings Wirtschaftspolitik in der Weltwirtschaftskrise (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1982), pp. 21–22; Grottkopp, Die Grosse Krise, p. 335; Marcon, Arbeitsbeschaffungspolitik, p. 37; and Balderston, The Origins and Course of the German Economic Crisis, pp. 301–331. George Garvey, “Keynes and the Economic Activists of Pre-Hitler Germany,” Journal of Political Economy, 83, 1975; Grotkopp, Die grosse Krise; Kroll, Von der Weltwirtschaftskrise zur Staatskonjunktur; Hans Heer, Burgfrieden oder Klassenkampf (Berlin: Hermann Luchterhand, 1971); Hans Staudinger, Wirtschaftspolitik im Weimarer Staat, ed. Hagen Schulze (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1982); Bombach, et al eds., Der Keynesianismus: Die Geld und Beschäftigungstheoretische Diskussion in Deutschland zur Zeit von Keynes, vol. 3 (Berlin: Springer, 1981). Carl-Ludwig Holtfrerich, “Was the Policy of Deflation in Germany Unavoidable?” in Jürgen Baron von Kruedener, ed., Economic Crisis and Political Collapse: The Weimar Republic 1924–1933 (New York: Berg Publishers, 1990), p. 68; Wolffsohn, Industrie und Handwerk; and Reinhard Neebe, “Konflikt und Kooperation, 1930–33: Anmerkungen zum Verhältnis von Kapital und Arbeit in der Weltwirtschaftskrise,” in Werner Abelshauser, ed., Die Weimarer Republik als Wohlfahrtsstaat (Stuttgart: Steiner, Wiesbaden, 1987). Quoted in Bombach et al., Der Keynesianismus, vol. 1, p. 32. Quoted in Wolffsohn, Industrie und Handwerk, pp. 189–190. Woytinsky, “Arbeitsbeschaffung und keine Inflationsgefahr,” p. 153. Gates, “The Economic Policies,” chap. 5; “Raus aus dem Engpass,” Deutsche Metallarbeiter Zeitung, 9, February 27, 1932; and Wolfgang Zolltisch, “Einzelgewerkschaften und Arbeitsbeschaffung: Zum Handlungsspielraum der Arbeiterbewegung in der Spätphase der Weimarer Republik,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 8, 1982, p. 104. To alleviate demands for a change he did, however, appoint a commission led by former Labor Minister Heinrich Brauns to study means of dealing with

288

74.

75.

76. 77.

78.

79. 80. 81.

82.


unemployment. The commission recommended work creation, but Brüning’s cabinet remained divided over financing measures. See Gates, “The Economic Policies,” pp. 186–187; Schaefer, Die SPD in der Ära Brüning; and Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe, pp. 436ff. To follow the internal government discussions on economic policy during Brüning’s tenure, see Gerhard Schulz, Mauer, and Wengst, Politik und Wirtschaft in der Krise and Akten der Reichskanzlei: Das Kabinett Brüning I: 30 März bis Oktober 1931 (Boppard am Rhein: Harald Boldt, 1982), and Das Kabinett Brüning II: 10 Oktober 1931 bis 1 Juni 1932 (Boppard am Rhein: Harald Boldt, 1988). Thomas Meyer, “Elemente einer Gesamttheorie des demokratischen Sozialismus und Hindernisse ihrer Durchsetzung in der Weimarer Republik,” in Heimann and Meyer, Reformsozialismus; Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe, pp. 431–511; Harsch, German Social Democracy, p. 165; and Schaefer, Die SPD in der Ära Brüning, pp. 380–392. Reflecting this, Hilferding appears in Woytinsky’s memoirs as the evil villain of German social democracy and the main cause of the WTB plan’s defeat. See Stormy Passage, esp. pp. 468–471. Ibid.; Robert Gates, “German Socialism and the Crisis of 1929–1933,” Central European History, 7, 1974, p. 351. See, for example, his talk at the fourth congress of the AfA; and Cora Stephan, “Wirtschaftsdemokratie und Umbau der Wirtschaft,” in Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung, vol. 1, pp. 283–287. Hilferding, “In the Danger Zone,” pp. 254–258; Harold James, “Rudolf Hilferding and the Application of the Political Economy of the Second International,” Historical Journal, 24, 1981; Masaaki Kurotaki, “Analyse der Weltwirtschaftskrise von Rudolf Hilferding,” Keizai Gaku, 48, November 1986; and Staudinger, Wirtschaftspolitik in Weimarer Staat, esp. pp. 88–89. Gates argues that in fact there was some flexibility in Hilferding’s thought, but that he was ultimately unable to make a full break with orthodoxy. See “The Economic Policies,” pp. 235–240. Quoted in Adolf Sturmthal, The Tragedy of European Labor, 1918–1939 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1943), pp. 86–87. Quoted in Smaldone, “Rudolf Hilferding,” p. 436. See also Hilferding’s article “In Krisennot,” Die Gesellschaft, July 8, 1931. Gates, “The Economic Policies,” pp. 221–222; Held, Sozialdemokratie und Keynesianismus; and Franz Ritter, Theorie und Praxis des Demokratischen Sozialismus in der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt: Campus, 1981). “Das Gespenst der Arbeitslosigkeit und die Vorschläge der SPD zu ihrer Überwindung” (SPD Pamphlet, January 15, 1931); “Umbau der Wirtschaft-Sicherstellung der Existenz der Notleidenden,” Sozialdemokratische Partei-Korrespondenz, 27, August–September 1932; Georg Decker, “Zwischen


83. 84.

85.

86. 87. 88.

89.

90. 91.

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Kapitialismus und Sozialismus: Eine Betrachtung zum Wirtschaftsprogramm des AfA-Bundes,” Die Gesellschaft, 9, May 1932; “Der Umbau der Wirtschaft,” Gewerkschafts-Zeitung, 2, July 1932. See also Eberhard Heupel, Reformismus und Krise: Zur Theorie und Praxis von SPD, ADGB, und AfA-Bund in der Weltwirtschaftskrise 1929–1932/3 (Frankfurt: Campus, 1981). Schneider, Das Arbeitsbeschaffung programm, p. 130; and Gates, “The Economic Policies,” pp. 257–259. Schneider, Das Arbeitsbeschaffung programm, pp. 90–96; and Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe, pp. 538–540. The final statement of the congress (“Entschliessung des ADGB Krisenkongresses 1932”) is reprinted in Deppe and Rossmann, Wirtschaftskrise, Faschismus, Gewerkschaften, p. 160, and in Moses, Trade Unionism in Germany, pp. 501–503. For a full set of documents relating to the congress and reactions to it see Luthardt, ed., Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterbewegung, vol. 1. Quoted in Max Kele, Nazis and Workers: National Socialist Appeals to German Labor, 1913–1933 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1972), p. 190. For the text of Strasser’s speech see Bombach et al., Der Keynesianismus, vol. 2, pp. 247–248. For Tarnow’s comment see vol. 3, pp. 382–383. Quoted in Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe, p. 638. In the 1928 elections, for example, the NSDAP share of the vote in the predominantly rural districts of East Prussia, Pomerania, East Hannover, and Hesse-Darmstadt was below its national average. Horst Gies, “The NSDAP and Agrarian Organizations in the Final Phase of the Weimar Republic,” in Henry A. Turner, ed., Nazism and the Third Reich (New York: New Viewpoints, 1972), p. 75, n. 2. See also Richard J. Evans and W. R. Lee, eds., The German Peasantry (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986); Robert G. Moeller, German Peasants and Agrarian Politics, 1914–1924 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986); Shelley Baranowski, The Sanctity of Rural Life: Nobility, Protestantism, and Nazism in West Prussia (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995); and Werner Angress, “The Political Role of the Peasantry,” Review of Politics, 21, July 1959. Barry Eichengreen, Golden Fetters: The Gold Standard and the Great Depression, 1919–1939 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), p. 288; HertzEichenrode, Wirtschaftskrise, pp. 50–52. Hans Beyer, “Die Agrarkrise und das Ende der Weimarer Republik,” Zeitschrift für Agrargeschichte und Agrarsoziologie, 13, 1965. Fritz Baade, “Arbeiternot ist Bauerntod,” Vorwärts, 160, April 6, 1932. See also Harri Bading, “Agrarpolitik und Arbeiterklasse,” Sozialistsiche Monatshefte, 74, 1931. Also Wolfram Pyta, Gegen Hitler, pp. 395–405 and fn. 7, pp. 344–345 n. 7.

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92. Angress, “The Political Role of the Peasantry”; Martin Broszat, Hitler and the Collapse of Weimar Germany (Berg: Lexington Spa, 1989), pp. 72–73; Jens Flemming, “Grossagarische Interessen und Landarbeiterbewegung. Überlegungen zur Arbeiterpolitik des Bundes der Landwirte und des Reichslandbundes in der Anfangsphase der Weimarer Republik,” in Mommsen, Petzina, and Weisbrod, Industrielles System; Dietrich Orlow, The History of the Nazi Party: 1919–1933 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1969), p. 151ff.; Charles P. Loomis and J. Allan Beegle, “The Spread of Nazism in Rural Areas,” American Sociological Review, 11, December 1946; and J. E. Farquharson, The Plough and the Swastika: The NSDAP and Agriculture in Germany, 1929–1945 (London: Sage, 1976). 93. Winkler, Der Weg in die Katastrophe, p. 638. See also idem, “Choosing the Lesser Evil: The German Social Democrats and the Fall of the Weimar Republic,” Journal of Contemporary History, 25, 1990, esp. pp. 220–221. 94. Woodruff D. Smith, “The Mierendorff Group and the Modernization of Social Democratic Politics, 1928–1933,” Politics and Society, 5, 1975. 95. On Brüning’s claim that he was only “100 meters from the goal” (of work creation), see Treviranus, Das Ende von Weimar, and Arnold Brecht, Mit der Kraft des Geistes: Lebenserinnerungen (Stuttgart: Deutsche, 1967), esp. p. 137. 96. Consequently, by this time even many of the objections to deficit-financed work creation raised in the “Borchardt debate” had also been eliminated. For an introduction to the debate see Knut Borchardt, “Zwangslagen und Handlungsspielräume in der grossen Wirtschaftskrise der früheren dreissiger Jahre: Zur Revision des überlieferten Geschichtsbildes,” Jahrbuch der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1979; idem, “Wirtschaftliche Ursachen des Scheiterns der Weimar Republik,” in Karl Dietrich Erdmann and Hagen Schulze, eds., Weimar: Selbstpreisgabe einer Demokratie (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1980); and idem, “Noch Einmal: Alternativen zu Brünings Wirtschaftspolitik?” Historische Zeitschrift, 237, 1983. For criticisms of Borchardt see CarlLudwig Holtfrerich, “Alternativen zu Brünings Wirtschaftspolitik in der Weltwirtschaftskrise,” (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1982); Charles Maier, “Die nicht-determiniertheit Ökonomisher Modelle,” Geschichte und Besellschaft, 11, 1985; Clas-Dieter Krohn, “Ökonomische Zwangslagen und das Scheitern der Weimarer Republik,” in Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 8, 1982; and Ursula Büttner, “Politische Alternativen zum Brüningschen Deflationskurs,” Vierteljahresheft für Zeitgeschichte, 37, 1989. For an introduction to the debate in English, see the essays in Ian Kershaw, ed., Weimar: Why Did German Democracy Fail? (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1990), which has an excellent bibliography of the controversy in both German and English; and Jürgen Baron von Kruedener, ed., Economic Crisis and Political Collapse: The Weimar Republic, 1924–1933 (New York: Berg, 1990). 97. It should also be pointed out that the last days of the campaign were thrown


98.

99.

100. 101.

102. 103.

104. 105.

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into confusion when, after months of suspicion, Papen finally carried out a coup against the Prussian government. The SPD response to the attack was confused. Some within the party did not seem to grasp its significance, and few recognized that passivity might hurt the party in the elections. After having sacrificed so much for the Prussian bulwark, the SPD let it slide from its hands over several months before the final yank came on July 20. On this fateful day, Joseph Goebbels wrote in his diary: “We need only show the Reds our teeth and they’ll knuckle under.” On July 21: “The Reds have missed their big moment. It will never come again.” Quoted in Miller and Potthoff, A History of German Social Democracy, p. 118. See also Harsch, German Social Democracy, p. 200; Karl Rohe, Das Reichsbanner Schwarz Rot Gold (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1966), p. 437; Hans Mommsen, Die verspielte Freiheit: Der Weg der Republik von Weimar in den Untergang 1918 bis 1933 (Berlin: Propylaen, 1989), p. 452; and Hans-Peter Ehni, Bollwerk Preussen? Preussen Regierung, Reich-Länder Problem und Sozialdemokratie, 1929–1932 (Bonn: Neue Gesellschaft, 1975). For example, William Sheridan Allen’s The Nazi Seizure of Power (New York: Franklin Watts, 1984) provides an excellent account of how the Nazis’ antiSocialist propaganda, combined with an insistence on the need to get people back to work, managed to attract diverse social support during the early 1930s. Allen identifies the desire for clear answers to difficult economic and political problems, and a perception that the Nazis could and would give them as crucial to the Nazis’ success. The exact date of this meeting is difficult to determine. Woytinsky’s memoirs seem to place it sometime in August, and this is accepted by Donna Harsch. Gates, however, seems to indicate that it took place much earlier, in February. I follow Woytinsky’s memoirs here, because even though his chronology is somewhat confused, he provides the most complete record of the meeting. Regardless of when the meeting took place, however, it reveals the factors that motivated SPD decision makers. Woytinsky, Stormy Passage, p. 471. Ibid., pp. 471–472. Pyta points out that functionaries like Wels tended to feel inferior to intellectuals like Hilferding and Naphtali and did not think they were in a position to contradict their arguments. Gegen Hitler, p. 499. Woytinsky, Stormy Passage, p. 469; and Harsch, German Social Democracy, p. 166. Harsch, German Social Democracy, pp. 213–215. See also Lewis Edlinger, “German Social Democracy and Hitler’s National Revolution of 1933,” World Politics, 5, April 1953. Quoted in Henry Ashby Turner, Hitler’s Thirty Days to Power: January 1933 (Reading, Mass.: Addison Wesley, 1996), p. 1. On Schleicher’s machinations and the SPD, see Richard Breitman, “On Ger-

292

106.

107. 108.

109. 110.


man Social Democracy and General Schleicher 1932–1933,” Central European History, 9, December 1976; and Gerard Braunthal, “The German Free Trade Unions during the Rise of Nazism,” Journal of Central European Affairs, 15, 1956. Turner, Hitler’s Thirty Days, p. 160. On the problems facing the Nazi party during 1932–1933, see also Orlow, The History of the Nazi Party, pp. 233ff.; and Thomas Childers, “The Limits of National Socialist Mobilization,” in Thomas Childers, ed., The Formation of the Nazi Constituency (London: Croom and Helm, 1986). Quoted in Wolffsohn, Industrie und Handwerk, p. 107. Analyses show that recovery in Germany began before any possible impact of Nazi policy. Richard Overy, The Nazi Economic Recovery (London: Macmillan, 1982), pp. 27–28; Guillebaud, The Economic Recovery of Germany; and Joseph Lee, “Policy and Performance in the German Economy, 1925–1935,” in Martin Laffan, ed., The Burden of German History (London: Methuen, 1988), p. 138. Harsch, German Social Democracy, p. 241. Julius Leber, Ein Mann geht seinen Weg (Berlin: Mosaik, 1952). 9. Understanding Interwar Social Democracy

1. Peter Gourevitich, “The Second Image Reversed: The International Sources of Domestic Politics,” International Organization, 32, Autumn 1978. 2. Ronald Rogowski, Commerce and Coalitions: How Trade Affects Domestic Political Alignments (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989); Peter Gourevitch, Politics in Hard Times: Comparative Responses to International Economic Crisis (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1986); and idem, “Breaking with Orthodoxy: The Politics of Economic Policy Responses to the Depression of the 1930’s,” International Organization, 38, Winter 1984. 3. This is in fact characteristic of most “societal”-based theories of politics, with pluralist theories being the other obvious example. Theda Skocpol, “Bringing the State Back In: Strategies of Analysis in Current Research,” in Peter Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer, and Theda Skocpol, eds., Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). 4. Harry Eckstein, “Constitutional Engineering and the Problem of Viable Representative Government,” in Harry Eckstein and David Apter, eds., Comparative Politics: A Reader (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1963), p. 97. See also F. A. Hermens, Democracy or Anarchy? (Notre Dame, Ind.: The Review of Politics, University of Notre Dame, 1938); and Douglas Rae, The Political Consequences of Electoral Laws (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1971). 5. Kathleen Thelen and Sven Steinmo, “Historical Institutionalism in Compara-


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tive Politics,” in Sven Steinmo, Kathleen Thelen, and Frank Longstreth, eds., Structuring Politics: Historical Institutionalism in Comparative Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 1. See also Skocpol, “Bringing the State Back In,” and G. John Ikenberry, David A. Lake, and Michael Mastanduno, “Introduction: Approaches to Explaining American Foreign Economic Policy,” in G. John Ikenberry, David A. Lake, and Michael Mastanduno, eds., The State and American Foreign Economic Policy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988). 6. Margaret Weir and Theda Skocpol, “State Structures and the Possibilities for ‘Keynesian’ Responses to the Great Depression in Sweden, Britain, and the United States,” in Evans, Rueschemeyer, and Skocpol, Bringing the State Back In, p. 125. According to Weir and Skocpol, a key reason for the acceptance of active labor market policies in Sweden during the Depression was that previous Swedish governments had dealt with the problem of unemployment through relief works rather than unemployment insurance. This meant that both intellectually and administratively the government was prepared to deal with Keynesian-style “active” labor market schemes. Nils Unga, on the other hand, argues that it was dissatisfaction with relief works, especially with the policy of paying below-market wages, that led to a shift to Keynesian-style “active” labor market schemes. Furthermore, Unga argues that the inability of the Social Democrats in the 1920s to force a shift from relief works to unemployment insurance contributed to their willingness to compromise on an unemployment policy based on “active” labor market schemes paying market wages. Unga, Socialdemokratin och Arbetslöshetsfrågan, 1912–1934 (Stockholm: Archiv, 1976). See also Donald Winch, “The Keynesian Revolution in Sweden,” Journal of Political Economy, 74, April 1966; idem, “Keynes, Keynesianism and State Intervention,” in Peter Hall, ed., The Political Power of Economic Ideas (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989); Harold James, “What Is Keynesian about Deficit Financing: The Case of Interwar Germany,” in Hall, The Political Power of Economic Ideas; C. G. Uhr, “Economists and Policymaking, 1930–1936: Sweden’s Experience,” History of Political Economy, 9, Spring 1977; and Lars Jonung, “Knut Wicksell’s Norm of Price Stabilization and Swedish Monetary Policy in the 1930’s,” Journal of Monetary Economics, 5, 1979. 7. It should be noted that those who would argue that the hostility between workers and farmers was simply too great to allow a political alliance also concede the power of ideas in politics, if implicitly. 8. In addition, the primary source material on the decision making of the SPD and SAP that I examined revealed little emphasis on the kinds of factors located as crucial by coalition theorists. As noted in Chapters 7 and 8, for example, some Social Democrats in both Sweden and Germany stressed a

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9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15.


potential shared economic interest between workers and farmers in “Keynesian”-style policies, but those who opposed a course shift, especially in Germany, relied almost exclusively on political arguments. They seemed to have little interest in or knowledge of what the needs or goals of the farmers were; that they had long been opposed to the labor movement was all that mattered by the early 1930s. Now, of course, actors can be influenced by factors they are not aware of and can be motivated by things they choose not to articulate, but the almost complete absence of the type of considerations stressed by coalition theorists revealed by research on the SAP and SPD should make one wary of imparting primary causal significance to them. In other words, some institutional explanations fall into the “constant cannot explain a variable” trap. Certain pseudocorporatist institutions existed for many years in Sweden, making it difficult to attribute to them the shift in political and economic patterns that occurred in the early 1930s. Gerhard Kroll, Von der Weltwirtschaftskrise zur Staatskonjunktur (Berlin: Duncker & Humbolt, 1958); Hans-Joachim Rüstow, “Entstehung und Überwindung der Wirtschaftskrise am Ende der Weimarer Republik und die gegenwärtige Rezession,” in Karl Holl, ed., Wirtschaftskrise und Liberale Demokratie: Die Ende der Weimarer Republik und die gegenwärtige situation (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck och Ruprecht, 1978); and G. Bombach, K. B. Netzband, H. J. Ramser, and M. Timmermann, eds., Der Keynesianismus: Die beschäftigungspolitische Diskussion vor Keynes in Deutschland (Berlin: Springer, 1981), p. 382. On Keynesianism and social democracy see Adam Przeworski, Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), chap. 6; and Claus Offe, “Competitive Party Democracy and the Keynesian Welfare-State,” in Claus Offe, Contradictions of the Welfare State (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1984). This would seem to be true about all political behavior, even that which occurs during moments of crisis; as Robert Jervis has put it, even people in a burning house—who can be predicted to rush for an exit—might leave through various windows or doors. They might even, we can add, choose to remain inside trying to gather their possessions until overcome by the smoke. Robert Jervis, Perception and Misperception in International Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), pp. 19–21. Peter Hall, “Policy Paradigms, Social Learning and the State,” Comparative Politics, 25, April 1993. Erich Matthias, “Kautsky and der Kautskyanismus: Die Funktion der Ideologie in der deutschen Sozial democratie vor dem ersten Weltkrieg,” Marxismusstudien, 2, 1957. Hans-Josef Steinberg, Sozialismus und deutsche Sozialdemokratie: Zur Ideologi der Partei vor dem 1. Weltkrieg (Berlin: J. H. W. Dietz, 1979), pp. 10–32.


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16. Karl Kautsky, The Class Struggle (New York: Norton, 1971), p. 90. This statement was originally written in 1891 as part of Kautsky’s commentary on the SPD’s Erfurt program. 17. Walter Holzheuer, Karl Kautskys Werk als Weltanschauung: Beitrag zur Ideologie der Sozialdemokratie vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1972), pp. 46–47. 18. Suzanne Miller, Das Problem der Freiheit im Sozialismus (Frankfurt: Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1964), p. 282; and Matthias, “Kautsky and der Kautskyanismus,” p. 162. 19. Eduard Bernstein, Die Voraussetzungen des Sozialismus und die Aufgaben der Sozialdemokratie (Stuttgart: J. H. W. Dietz, 1899), p. 178. 20. Carl Schorske, German Social Democracy 1905–1917: The Development of the Great Schism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), p. 168. 21. A. J. P. Taylor, Origins of the Second World War (New York: Atheneum, 1961), pp. 102ff. See also Paul Kennedy, “A. J. P. Taylor and ‘Profound Forces’ in History,” in Chris Wrigley, ed., Warfare, Diplomacy and Politics: Essays in Honour of A. J. P. Taylor (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1986). 22. Charles Tilly, Big Structures, Large Processes, Huge Comparisions (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1984). 23. Barrington Moore, Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1967). 24. Alexander Gerschenkron, Economic Backwardness in Historical Perspective (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1962); Thorstein Veblen, Imperial Germany and the Industrial Revolution (New York: Viking, 1954); and James Kurth, “The Political Consequences of the Product Cycle: Industrial History and Political Outcomes,” International Organization, 33, Winter 1979. The outline of these arguments runs as follows: Early industrialization had low capital requirements, and was facilitated by the existence of an elite, which, having already undergone the commercialization of agriculture, could finance the first industrial enterprises. The gradual movement of this class into commercial ventures meant that it did not feel threatened by the rising bourgeoisie and did not demand agricultural protection. Early industrialization allowed decentralized production and did not require major state interference. This constellation of differentiated elite interests, diffuse economic and political power, and the absence of international competition led to the gradual development of a democratic political system. Late industrialization, in contrast, had high capital requirements and required planning. It often occurred with an intact, traditional agricultural elite and a small, independent bourgeoisie, leading to calls for agricultural protection. Late industrializers faced strong international competition and could jump into the industrialization process knowing what its advanced stages looked like, and thus plan accordingly. Later stages of industrialization also

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Notes to Page 224

required a level of resource mobilization that could not be accomplished by individuals alone—large banks and state involvement were necessary—and featured products that lent themselves to large-scale, concentrated means of production. This led to cartelized business and financial structures. Moreover, the rapidity of industrialization meant that economic development outpaced society’s ability to adapt, resulting in social conflict and often leading to the state stepping in to quell the demands of the lower classes. State support of rapid development of industry, further, undermined the traditional role of the bourgeoisie. This constellation of fossilized elite interests, concentrated economic and political power, and intense international competition, in turn, led to the development of an authoritarian or totalitarian political system. 25. This approach probably began with Karl Marx. See, for example, “The Bourgeoisie and the Counter-revolution” (1848), in Karl Marx, The Revolutions of 1848 (London: Harmondsworth, 1973); and idem, “A Radical German Revolution,” in “Toward the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Law: Introduction” (1844), reprinted in Saul K. Padover, Karl Marx on Revolution (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1971), pp. 422–426. For a good overview of this literature and the debates surrounding it, see Richard Evans, “The Myth of Germany’s Missing Revolution,” in Richard Evans, ed., Rethinking German History (London: Unwin Hyman, 1987). See also Ralf Dahrendorf, Society and Democracy in Germany (New York: Doubleday, 1969); Talcott Parsons, “Democracy and Social Structure in Pre-Nazi Germany,” in Talcott Parsons, Essays in Sociological Theory (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1954); and A. J. P. Taylor, The Course of German History (New York: Coward McCann, 1946). 26. Different aspects of the “fascist historical track” can be stressed. Political scientists and historians tend to emphasize the discrepancy between economic and political development. A more “sociological” approach, on the other hand, views the fascist track as one where the old social order was never eliminated, that is, where preindustrial elites and their values remained the dominant force in society. This type of analysis has been most fully developed with regard to the German case. The thesis is that the German bourgeoisie proved incapable of taking the lead in modernizing Germany’s political structures, and preindustrial elites remained determined to retain power. This accounts for the nature of German unification (undemocratic and directed from above); the irresponsibility of the army; the oppression of the masses; and the development of a national ideology that was antidemocratic, antiWestern, and reactionary. According to this view, the failure to extirpate the power of preindustrial traditions and elites in the pre-1918 period vitiated any progress toward liberal democracy in Germany during the interwar period. 27. The most interesting recent work on the interwar period stems from this

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tradition. Gregory Luebbert argues that (liberal) democractic outcomes in the interwar period could occur only in countries where liberal parties had established their dominance in the period before 1914. According to Luebbert, liberalism, fascism, and social democracy “derived from different patterns . . . of politics and [social] organization in the period before 1914. . . . They were not alternatives in the sense that societies acting collectively, or leaders acting on behalf of societies, could consciously choose among them. One of the cardinal lessons of the story I have told is that leadership and meaningful choice [during the interwar period] played no role in the outcomes.” Luebbert, Liberalism, Fascism or Social Democracy: Social Classes and the Origins of Political Regimes in Interwar Europe (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), p. 306, emphasis added. Luebbert differs from the “bourgeois revolution” approach, however, in that he differentiates between liberal democratic and social democratic outcomes. In Luebbert’s analysis, it is not the different “democratic” regimes (i.e., the liberal and the social variants) that should be grouped together analytically but rather the fascist and social democratic ones. He views these latter types of regimes as the result of liberalism’s failure to establish its hegemony over society during the prewar period. Luebbert has certainly provided an exciting new perspective on the interwar period and, as is the case with the analysis presented here, reminds us that for European countries that had not made the transition to full democracy before the First World War, the option of a bourgeois-led transition to democracy no longer existed. The differences I have with Luebbert’s analysis stem first from his assertion that by 1914 the political chances of Social Democratic parties, as well as the fate of different political regimes, was already decided. In addition to differing over the import of the interwar period and political actors’ decisions in shaping the political fates of different countries, Luebbert’s analysis shares with other “historical” theories of political development the problem of being unable to account for the timing of a political event: Why, for example, did the NSDAP and the SAP both come to power first in 1933 if all the structural conditions for their dominance had been present by the outbreak of the First World War? (On this point see the review by Herbert Kitschelt, “Political regime Change: Structure and ProcessDriven Explanations?” American Political Science Review, 86, December 1992.) I also, of course, differ with Luebbert over how best to explain the different choices made by Social Democratic parties. For example, Luebbert emphasizes the way in which Social Democratic parties interacted with agricultural groups. I also think this is a crucial policy area to examine, but I focus on how ideas and their policy legacies shaped the different choices made the SPD and the SAP in this area. 28. David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley, The Peculiarities of German History (Ox-

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29.

30.

31.

32. 33.

34. 35.

36.


ford: Oxford University Press, 1984), p. 88. For an introduction to the general debate over these issues in the German case, see Geoff Eley, From Unification to Nazism: Reinterpreting the German Past (London: Unwin Hyman, 1986); Jürgen Kocka, “German History before Hitler: The Debate over the German Sonderweg,” Journal of Contemporary History, 23, 1988; C. G. Röhl, ed., From Bismarck to Hitler: The Problem of Continuity in German History (London: Longman, 1971); Richard Evans, Rethinking German History (London: Unwin Hyman, 1987); idem, “German History: Past, Present and Future,” in Gordon Martel, ed., Modern Germany Reconsidered, 1870–1945 (London: Routledge, 1992); and Charles Maier, The Unmasterable Past (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988). For a cross-national analysis stressing the crucial role played by the working class in democratization, see Dietrich Rueschemeyer, Evelyne Huber Stephens, and John D. Stephens, Capitalist Development and Democracy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). Gustav Möller, “Ministersocialism,” Tiden, 1917. See also Hjalmar Branting, Tal och Skrifter: Kampen för Demokratin II (Stockholm: Tiden, 1927), especially “En falsk ‘klyfta,’” p. 114. See the works cited in notes 23, 24, and 27; see also Robert Dahl, Polyarchy: Participation and Opposition (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1971); and Seymour Martin Lipset, Political Man (New York: Anchor Books, 1963). “The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte” reprinted in Robert Tucker, ed., The Marx-Engels Reader (New York: W.W. Norton, 1978), p. 595. For a somewhat similar perspective on Social Democratic decision making during the contemporary era, see Herbert Kitschelt, The Transformation of European Social Democracy (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft (New York: Vintage Books, 1953), p. 191. One way in which this lack of dynamism manifested itself within the SPD was in the aging of the party. In 1890, the average age of the party executive was 39.6; during Weimar, it was between 50 and 55. Similarly, in 1930 the proportion of members under 20 was only 1.2 percent, while 55.4 percent were over 40. The SAP, in contrast, was a much younger party. For example, the oldest minister in the pure SAP government that came to power in 1921 was 43. See Hans Mommsen, From Weimar to Auschwitz (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), pp. 52–53; Donna Harsch, German Social Democracy and the Rise of Nazism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993), pp. 26, 29; and Günter Könke, Organisierter Kapitalismus, Sozialdemokratie und Staat (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1987), p. 13. Peter Haas, “Introduction: Epistemic Communities and International Policy Coordination,” International Organization, 46, Winter 1992, esp. p. 28; Robert Keohane and Judith Goldstein, “Ideas and Foreign Policy,” in Robert


37.

38. 39.

40.

299

Keohane and Judith Goldstein, eds., Ideas and Foreign Policy: Beliefs, Institutions and Political Change (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993), esp. pp. 13–17; Judith Goldstein, Ideas, Interests, and American Trade Policy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993), esp. chaps. 1 and 6. Fritz Scharpf, Crisis and Choice in European Social Democracy (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1987), esp. p. 10; and Peter Hall, “Policy Paradigms, Social Learning and the State: The Case of Economic Policy Making in Britain,” Comparative Politics, 25, April 1993. Haas, “Introduction,” p. 28. If situations continue to arise that existing ideas are unable to deal with, the ideas will come under increasing pressure. During the period covered by this study, however, the hegemony of particular programmatic beliefs was never successfully challenged, although the collapse of the SPD in the early 1930s initiated a process that culminated in a “paradigm shift” in 1959 with the Godesberger program. On the process of ideational change see Hall, “Policy Paradigms,” and Ernest B. Haas, When Knowledge Is Power: Three Models of Change in International Organizations (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990). Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1971), p. 533.

Index

ADGB, 185–186, 190, 193, 196–197 Agrarian party (Sweden), 172, 173, 278n105 “Agricultural Question and Social Democracy, The” (SAP brochure), 61 Agriculture. See Farmers; Peasants AK (Arbetslöshetskommissionem), 154–155, 172 Allen, William Sheridan, 291n98 Allgemeiner Deutscher Arbeiterverein (ADAV), 72–73 Anti-socialist laws, Germany, 73–75, 89 Arbeiterbildungsvereine, 72 Arbetslöshetskommissionem (AK), 154–155, 172 Archiv für Soziale Gesetzgebung und Statistik, 81 Aristotle, 17 Aron, Raymond, 20 Austria-Hungary, 131 Baade, Fritz, 190, 195 Baden Social Democrats, 127–128 Barry, Brian, 17–18 Bavarian Social Democrats, 89–90 Bebel, August, 128, 217, 250n53; development of the German SPD and, 72, 210; transition to socialism and, 79–80; on revisionism, 83; on parliamentary activities, 85–86, 87–88, 251n59; peasants and, 89, 91–92; on class warfare, 124 Bergegren, Hinke, 244n49 Berlin, Isaiah, 234n5 Berliner Volks-Tribüne, 80, 86 Bernstein, Eduard, 140, 180; revisionism of, 26; Erfurt program and, 75–76; interpretation of social democracy from, 82, 83, 210, 212, 216, 217, 218, 219; transition to socialism and, 84–85, 92 Bethmann-Hollweg, Theobald von, 130–131 Bismarck, Otto, 40, 41, 43; German constitution and, 67; political system under, 68–70, 123;

social legislation and, 70–71, 74; SPD and, 73, 74 Blackbourn, David, 224–225 Bloch, Marc, 35, 227–228 Blockpolitik, 92 Böhme, Karl, 182 Bolshevism, 123, 142, 153 Borgfred, 106, 107 Boström, Gustaf, 42–43, 97 Branting, Hjalmar, 38, 106, 156, 157, 210, 213, 216, 218, 258n77; reformist view of social democracy of, 26, 27, 52, 56, 108; Marxism and SAP and, 44, 49, 113; Swedish labor movement and, 44–45, 55; SAP program and, 47, 64; on the transition to socialism, 51, 52, 53, 54; on class struggle, 59, 61; Liberal party and, 98, 99–100, 103; suffrage proposals and, 100, 102; on the Swedish monarchy, 104–105; Swedish revolution (1917–1918) and, 108–109; SAP and political power and, 111–112; democratization and, 117, 119, 151–152; Hansson on legacy of, 158 Braun, Heinrich, 80–81 Brentano, Lujo, 81 Breslau party congress, SPD (1895), 90 Brest Litovsk, Treaty of, 135 Brüning, Heinrich, 179, 187, 188, 191, 192–193, 196, 283n39 Bülow, Bernhard von, 125 Bundesrat, 68, 69 Burgfrieden, 132 “Can We Afford to Work?” (Wigforss), 165 Capitalism: challenge of the Great Depression to, 3; parliamentary road to socialism and changes in, 4–5; Erfurt program on, 75; transition to socialism and collapse of, 80; peasants and, 91;

301

302

Index

Capitalism (continued) Hilferding’s theory of, 184, 192; German social democracy and, 185–186 Caprivi, Leo von, 81 Carr, E. H., 17 Carriers: influence of ideas on political behavior and, 25–26, 209–210; development of German SPD and, 93–94, 210–211 Center party (Zentrum), 145, 179 Child, Marquis, 38 Class struggle: Swedish SAP and, 8–9, 58–63, 64; German SPD and, 10, 88–93; Erfurt program on, 75; mass strikes and, 124 Class Struggle in France (Marx), 87 Colm, Gerhard, 197 Communist party (Germany), 145, 184, 186, 196 Communist party (Russia), 162 Communist party (Sweden), 153 Conservative party (Germany): financial reform and, 125–126; collapse of Germany after World War I and, 135 Conservative party (Sweden), 99, 100, 115; agrarian policies and, 105–106; Swedish revolution (1917–1918) and, 107–108, 110, 111; democratization and, 117, 118, 119, 151–152; election (1920) and, 152; election (1928) and, 155; agrarian policy and, 172, 173 Converse, Philip, 14, 19, 236n25 Council of People’s Representatives, 137, 144, 145 Council Republics (Räterpubliken), 146 Craig, Gordon, 67 Cunow, Heinrich, 139 Dahrendorf, Ralf, 1, 224 Daily Telegraph affair, 105, 125, 131, 260n5 Dalberg, Rudolf, 191 Danielsson, Axel, 45–46, 56; SAP program and, 47; on the transition to socialism, 53; class struggle and, 59, 60–61 Darwin, Charles, 77 David, Eduard, 61, 90, 140–141 Dawes plan, 179 Delbrück, Hans, 91 Democracy: challenge of the Great Depression to, 3; Swedish SAP and, 56–57, 158; German political development and, 67, 180–181; Sweden’s path to, 96–121 Democratic theory, 1 Democratization (Germany): challenges to Social Democrats during, 2–3, 11, 36; SPD and, 85, 176, 177, 219; historical conditions and, 124; collapse after World War I and, 135; interwar years and, 150–151 Democratization (Sweden): challenges to Social

Democrats during, 2–3, 11, 36; de Geer’s views on, 40; political developments before World War I and, 106–107; SAP and final struggle for, 117–120, 120–121; interwar years and, 150–151; political and economic conditions after transition to, 151–156 Denmark, farmers in, 158 Depression (Great Depression, 1930–1933): challenges to Social Democrats during, 2–3, 7; Swedish SAP and, 9, 11, 151, 154; German SPD and, 10–11, 187; Hitler and, 198–199; Social Democratic decision making and, 208–209 Depressions: Sweden’s political development and, 42, 151; Germany’s political development and, 71 Deutscher Bauernbund, 182 Dittman, Wilhelm, 144, 145, 189 Downs, Anthony, 28 Dräger, Heinrich, 191 Dresden party congress, SPD (1903), 82–83, 88 Duverger, Maurice, 27 Ebert, Friedrich, 137, 142, 145, 146, 265n46 Economic conditions: Social Democratic parties and dilemmas in the 1920s and, 6–7; Sweden’s political development and, 42; German SPD and transition to socialism and, 81, 89; after Sweden’s transition to democracy, 151–156; in Germany after World War I, 177–180. See also Depression “Economic Crisis, The” (Wigforss), 165 Economic development, Wigforss on, 49–50 Economic system: divisions over approaches to overthrowing, 4; parliamentary road to socialism and changes in, 4–5 Economic theory, and SPD, 183–186 Eggert, Wilhelm, 194 Elections, as route to changes in the political system, 4–5 Elections (Germany): 73, 128–131, 145, 147, 178 Elections (Sweden): 42–43, 111, 112, 105–106, 110–111, 112, 152, 155, 166, 166–170, 174 Eley, Geoff, 224–225 Elvander, Nils, 46 Engels, Friedrich, 80, 89, 211; German social democracy and, 2, 26, 72; “orthodox” socialism tied to works of, 28; international Socialist movement and, 48–49, 93–94; Erfurt program and, 75; German SPD and, 77, 90, 91; parliamentary activities and, 86, 87 England: labor unions in, 55; Liberalism in, 164, 165, 274n60 Erfurt program, 85; two parts of, 75–76; agricultural propaganda and, 89

Index Eriksson, Bernhard, 161 Erlander, Tage, 163 Fabian Society, 82 Farmers: Sweden’s SAP in the 1920s and, 153, 158–160; “cow trade” agreement and, 170–173; German SPD and, 182. See also Peasants Farmer’s march, 105 Farmers’ parties (Sweden), 153 Fascism, 12 Federalism, and German political development, 67, 69–70 Finland, 41 Folkhemmet, 156–160, 171, 180 Folkparti, 113 Folkpartiet, 98 Folksriksdagen, 97 Fortschrittliche Volkspartei. See Progressive People’s party France, Socialists in, 131–132 Frankfurter Zeitung, 129–130 Franz Ferdinand, Archduke, 131 Frieden, Jeffry, 30 Friedländer-Prechtl, Robert, 191 Frisinnade Folkpartiet, 152–153 Geer, Louis de, 40 Geertz, Clifford, 16, 235n18 General strike (Germany), 127 General strike (Sweden), 99–100, 115 George, Alexander, 23 “German Ideology, The” (Marx), 16 German Social Democratic party. See Sozialdemokratische Partie Deutschlands (SPD) Gerschenkron, Alexander, 223 Goldstein, Judith, 31 Gotha program, 46 Gourevitch, Peter, 202 Grant, Ulysses S., 67 Great Coalition, 179–180, 186 Great Depression. See Depression Great Inflation, 178 Groener, Wilhelm, 142 Grotkopp, Wilhelm, 191 Grzesinski, Albert, 143 Guesde, Jules, 111 Gustav III, king of Sweden, 40 Gustavus Adolphus, king of Sweden, 39 Haas, Peter, 239n55 Haase, Hugo, 132, 144–145 “Hamburg points,” 144 Hammarskjöld, Hjalmar, 105–106, 107–108

303

Hansabund, 126 Hansson, Per Albin, 53, 58–59, 110, 116, 119, 155; as SAP leader, 156–157, 170, 174; folkhemmet concept and, 157–158, 160, 171, 180; unemployment policy and, 167; agrarian policy and, 169, 173 Herold, Carl, 265n45 Hilferding, Rudolf, 180, 184, 185, 192–193, 197, 211 Hindenburg, Oskar von, 198 Hitler, Adolf, 16, 191, 195, 198–199, 230 Hobson, J. A., 184, 274n60 Högland, Zeth, 114, 258n71 Hugenberg, Alfred, 198 Ideational theory: skepticism regarding importance of, 14–15; elements for success of, 15; belief that ideas are epiphenomenal and, 16–19; difficulty of empirical study or quantification of ideas and, 19–24; explaining political behavior using, 24–34 Ideology, 14–37; policy legacies of Social Democratic parties and, 3–4, 7, 95; historical and structural variables constraining political actors and, 14; politicization of, after World War II, 15–16; studying ideas as independent variables and, 15–24; programmatic beliefs and, 21–22; role played by carriers, 25–26; institutionalization of ideas and key role of, 26–28; appeal of Social Democratic parties and, 28; development of an organization and, 94–95; interwar Social Democratic decision making and, 206–209 Independent Social Democratic party. See Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (USPD) Industrialization (Germany): transition to parliamentary democracy and, 5–6; Liberal movement and conflicts over, 71 Industrialization (Sweden): transition to parliamentary democracy and, 5–6; Sweden’s political development and, 41–42 Inflation, after World War I, 178 Intellectuals, in Swedish SAP, 45–46 Interfraktioneller Ausschuss, 134, 138, 140, 145 International socialist movement, 2 “January rising,” 145 Jervis, Robert, 31, 34, 294n12 Jungen rebellion, 80, 87, 88 Kampffmeyer, Paul, 76, 87 Kapp, Wolfgang, 146, 147, 177 Karleby, Nils, 27, 50, 162–163, 175, 213

304

Index

Kautsky, Karl, 27, 66, 184, 193, 210–211, 213; interpretation of Marxism by, 26, 77–78, 93, 212; “orthodox” socialism tied to works of, 28, 83; Erfurt program and, 75, 76; transition to socialism and, 79, 80, 81; parliamentary activities and, 85, 86, 87; peasants and, 90, 91, 92; ministersocialism and, 111; reform and, 127; elections (1928) and, 128 Keynesian economic policy: response of Social Democratic parties to calls for, 7; Swedish SAP and, 9, 160–166, 273n58, 275n70; German SPD and, 11, 200 Kleineibst, Richard, 189 Kolb, Wilhelm, 127 Konfliktdirektiv, 155 KPD, 187, 191, 194 Krasner, Stephen, 35 Kurth, James, 223 Labor movement: Keynesian economic policy and, 7; in England, 55; Social Democratic parties and, 213–214 Labor movement (Germany): SPD and, 83–84; during the early years of the twentieth century, 124–125, 142; after World War I, 178–179; SPD and, 185–186, 189 Labor movement (Sweden): Sweden’s political development and, 43; Branting and, 44–45; SAP and, 54–55, 56, 64–65, 163; democratization and, 108–109 Landgren, Karl-Gustav, 274n60 Landsorganisation (LO), 43, 54–55, 119, 166 Larrson, Oscar, 119, 162 Lassalle, Ferdinand, 72 Leadership, and influence of ideas on political behavior, 25–26, 210–211 League of Nations, 179 Leber, Julius, 200 Left Socialists (Germany), 145 Left Socialists (Sweden), 115–116, 118, 153 Legien, Carl, 84, 147 Leinert, Robert, 141 Leipart, Theodore, 194 Lenin, Vladmir, 115, 123, 184 Lensch, Paul, 138 Liberala Riksdagspartiet, 152–153 Liberala Samlingspartiet, 152 Liberalism, English, 164, 165, 274n60 Liberal party (Germany): Reichstag domination by, 70, 71; workers’ organizations and, 72; political and economic reform and, 126; elections (1912) and, 129; elections (1919) and, 145; SPD alliances with, 148, 219–220 Liberal party (Sweden), 96; development of the

Swedish SAP and, 44, 45, 56–57, 97–99; Kautsky and, 78; struggles over suffrage and, 101–102, 103; agrarian policies and, 105–106; elections (1917) and, 110–111; SAP and, 112, 113–116; democratization and, 119, 151–152; SAP cooperation with, 120; election (1920) and, 152; agrarian policy and, 171–172 Liberal Union party, 99 Liebknect, Wilhelm, 251n59; development of the German SPD and, 72–73, 210; on the Erfurt program, 85; peasants and, 89; balance of power after World War I and, 144, 145 Lilljansreslution, 56 Lindhagen, Carl, 62, 64 Lindman, Arvid, 102, 111 Lindquist, Herman, 118 Lindström, Rickard, 162, 165 LO (Landsorganisation), 43, 54–55, 119, 166 Ludendorff, Erich, 135, 136, 146, 263n37 Luebbert, Gregory, 297n28 Luxemburg, Rosa, 144, 145 Majority Social Democratic party (MSPD): collapse of the old regime after World War I and, 133, 134, 135, 137; political power and, 137–142; lost opportunities (1918–1920) and key decisions of, 142–148, 149 Marx, Karl, 7, 227; new political movement in Europe and, 1–2; German social democracy and, 2, 26; belief that ideas are epiphenomenal and, 16; “orthodox” socialism tied to works of, 28; formation of Swedish SAP and, 39; international Socialist movement and, 48–49, 211; formation of German SDP and, 66, 72–73; Erfurt program and writings of, 75; Hilferding’s theory of capitalism and, 184; theory of labor value of, 197 Marxism: divisions and challenges facing, after Marx’s death, 4; Kautsky’s interpretation of, 26, 77, 212; Branting and, 44, 49, 113; Swedish SAP and, 39, 48–51, 63–64; German SPD and, 77–79; Bernstein on, 82, 83; Majority Social Democratic party (MSPD) and, 140 Matthias, Erich, 137 Max of Baden, Prince, 135, 136, 137, 264n40, 264n44 Mehring, Franz, 127 Michaelis, Georg, 134 Middle class: transition to parliamentary democracy and, 5; Swedish SAP and, 59; German SPD and, 92 Mill, John Stuart, 25 Ministersocialism, 111, 120 Modernization, and World War II, 1

Index Molkenbuhr, Hermann, 90 Möller, Gustav, 27, 50, 64, 110, 116, 158, 175, 213; socialization and, 161–162; unemployment policies and, 167–168 Monarchism, and German political development, 67–68 Moore, Barrington, 223 Müller, Hermann, 131, 179 Myrdal, Gunnar, 174

305

Obuch, Gerhard, 144 Ohlin, Bertil, 273n58 “Organized capitalism,” 184 “Orthodox” Marxism: German SPD and, 9–10, 11, 27, 28, 48, 77–79, 94, 200; anti-Socialist laws and, 75; courses of action and adherence to, 148; Hilferding on, 185 Osthilfe, 187, 195, 283n39

Pietrich, Franz, 188 Pietrkowski, Edmund, 191 Policy making, 1; ideas held by Social Democratic parties and, 3–4, 7, 95 Political behavior: ideational theory and explaining, 24–25, 32–34; conditions affecting the influence of ideas on, 25–29; study of how ideas influence, 29–32 Political conditions: World War I and, 9, 10; differences between Germany and Sweden regarding, 11–12 Political movement: Marx and foundation of, 1–2; Social Democratic parties and, 2 Political parties. See Social Democratic parties; Sozialdemokratische Partie Deutschlands (SPD); Sveriges Arbetarparti (SAP) Politicization of ideology, after World War II, 15–16 Popular democracy, and German political development, 67 Preuss, Hugo, 146 Process tracing, 34, 36–37 Programmatic beliefs: distinction between ideology and, 21–22; party actions shaped by, 33–34; development of the Swedish SAP and, 44–48, 64–65; development of the German SPD and, 72–77 Progressive People’s party, 126; elections and, 128, 129, 130; collapse of Germany after World War I and, 133 Protectionism, and Swedish SAP, 159–160 Provisional utopia, 50 Przeworski, Adam, 4 Putnam, Robert, 19

Palm, August, 44, 56 Palmstierna, Erik, 61–62, 64 Papen, Fritz von, 191, 196, 198, 291n97 Parliamentarism: Swedish SAP and, 56; German political development and, 68, 69, 85–87 Parteivorstand, 141 Peasants (Germany), and SPD, 88–92 Peasants (Sweden): Sweden’s political development and, 41, 42, 98; SAP writers on the conflict between workers and, 60–61; SAP’s efforts to win over, 60–63; support for Sweden’s monarch from, 104 Peculiarities of German History, The (Blackbourn and Eley), 224–225 “People’s Militia,” 144 “People’s parliaments,” 97 “People’s party”: Swedish SAP as, 29, 63, 156, 203; Liberal movement and, 98 Pfülf, Toni, 181

Rat der Volksbeauftragten. See Council of People’s Representatives Reformism: Swedish SAP and, 8, 26, 27, 52–53, 54, 56–57, 64, 103, 106, 108; German SPD and, 10, 78, 80–81, 125–127; Branting’s view of, 26, 52; Erfurt program on, 75–76 Reichstag, 67, 68, 69; Liberal party and, 70, 71; SPD and, 73, 74, 85–87, 93; foreign policy and, 125; elections (1912) and, 129, 130 Reparations Commission, 178 Revisionism: Bernstein’s view of, 26; German SPD and, 80–81, 83 Revolutionary Shop Stewards (revolutionäre Obleute) movement, 136 Riksdag, 40; agrarian reform and, 98; Liberal coalition party and, 106; elections (1917) and, 110–111 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 148 Rogowski, Ronald, 202

Naphtali, Fritz, 193 Napoleonic Wars, 40 Nationalization, 146 National Liberals, 71; reform legislation and, 124, 125, 126; elections (1912) and, 129 Naumann, Friedrich, 126, 146 Nazism, 123; Swedish politics and repercussions of, 170, 172; German SPD and, 176, 183, 186, 194, 196 Neue Zeit, Die (SPD journal), 78–79, 81, 84, 128 Norrköping party congress (1891), 46–47, 253n1 North, Douglass, 34 Norway, and union with Sweden, 101 Noske, Gustav, 145, 146, 147 NSDAP, 179, 183, 187, 191, 194, 197, 204, 289n88

306

Index

Röhl, J. C. G., 71 Rosenberg, Arthur, 125, 135–136 Ruggie, John, 21 Ruhr: coal miners’ strike, 124; after World War I, 178 Russia: mass strikes in, 124–125; communism in, 162 “Russian bills” (Russengeschäfte), 178, 283n39 Russian Revolution, 6, 134 Ryden, Varner, 115 SAF, 43, 154 Sandler, Rickard, 167 “Savings, Wastefulness and the Unemployed” (Wigforss), 165 Scheidemann, Philipp, 130, 137, 139, 145 Schippel, Max, 86 Schleicher, Kurt von, 198 Schmitt, Carl, 68 Schorske, Carl, 126, 219 Schumpeter, Joseph, 28, 70 Schurmann, Franz, 236n25 Simmel, Georg, 81 Simon, Herbert, 31–32 Skocpol, Theda, 203, 293n6 Sköld, Per Edvin, 158, 172 Social democracy: as a political force in Europe, 2; challenges facing, during the interwar period, 4–7; Swedish SAP’s version of, 8–9, 52–53; German SPD’s version of, 9–10; SPD and SAP and evolution of, 215–222 “Social Democracy on the Eve of the Election” (Hansson), 169 Social Democratic Left party, 115 Social Democratic parties: as a political force, 2; challenges of democratization and depression and, 2–3; revolutionary years at the end of World War I and, 3; evolution of Socialist parties into, 4–5; parliamentary road to socialism and, 4–5; Swedish SAP’s understanding of role of, 50–51; interwar decision making and, 202–206. See also Sozialdemokratische Partie Deutschlands (SPD); Sveriges Arbetarparti (SAP); Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (USPD) Social Democratic party, German. See Sozialdemokratische Partie Deutschlands (SPD) Social Democratic party, Swedish. See Sveriges Arbetarparti (SAP) Social-Demokraten (SAP newspaper), 61, 169–170 Socialism in the Face of Reality (Karleby), 162– 163

“Socialism’s Development from Utopia to Science” (Engels), 48 Socialist parties, evolution into Social Democratic parties, 4–5 Socialization (Germany), 183–184, 185 Socialization (Sweden), 161–162, 163–164, 168 “Social Revolution, The” (Möller), 161 Social theory, 1 Sombart, Werner, 81 Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterpartei (SAP), 72–73 Sozialdemokratische Partie Deutschlands (SPD): influence on international socialist movement of, 2, 26; challenges of democratization and depression and, 2–3, 11, 36; after World War I, 3; ideas as key to policy legacies of, 3–4, 7; transition to parliamentary democracy and, 5–6; cooperation with nonsocialist groups, 6; postwar German democracy after 1919 and, 6; economic dilemmas in the 1920s and, 6–7; Keynesian economic policy and, 7; “orthodox” Marxism associated with, 9–10, 11, 27, 28, 48, 94; characteristics of social democracy institutionalized with, 9–11; differences between politics in Germany and Sweden and outcomes of, 11–12; shared ideological Social Democratic label between Swedish SAP and, 20–21, 47–48, 76–77; influence of programmatic ideas on, 22, 33–34; Kautsky’s interpretation of Marxism and, 26; institutionalization of ideas and structure of, 26–28; identification as a worker’s party, 28–29, 180–182; Gotha program of, 46; Marxism and, 66, 77–79; programmatic beliefs and development of, 72–77, 95; anti-Socialist laws and, 73–75, 89; transition to socialism and, 79–85; Dresden party congress (1903) and, 82–83, 88; free trade unions and, 83–84; political system and, 85–88; class struggle and, 88–93; 1912 elections and, 128–131; development of economic theory of, 183–186; evolution of European social democracy and, 215–222 Sozialismus und Landwirtschaft (David), 61, 90 Sozialpolitisiche Centralblatt, 81 SPD. See Sozialdemokratische Partie Deutschlands Sprague, John, 4 Staaff, Karl, 101–102, 103–105, 106, 112 Staatssreich, 71 Stadsrådet, 40 Stalin, Josef, 16 Stampfer, Friedrich, 138, 141, 189 State, Swedish SAP’s view of, 57–58 Steffan, Gustaf, 62, 64 Steiger, Otto, 274n60, 275n70, 276n82

Index Sterky, Frederik, 45–46 Stollten, Otto, 138–139 Strasser, Gregor, 194 Stresemann, Gustav, 133–134, 179, 280n10 Strikes (Germany), 124–125 Strikes (Sweden): political development and, 43, 97; after democratization, 153; unemployment and, 155 Ström, Frederick, 52, 101, 167 Suffrage: evolution of Socialist parties into Social Democratic parties and, 4–5; Sweden’s political development and, 40–41, 97; Swedish SAP and, 47, 57, 155; Germany’s political development and, 67; Erfurt program on, 76; Swedish political parties and struggles over, 99, 101–103 Sundsvall, 43 Svenska Morgonbladet (newspaper), 173 Svensk Arbetsgivarföreningen (SAF), 43, 154 Sveriges Arbetarparti (SAP), 38–39; success of, in Europe, 2; challenges of democratization and depression and, 2–3, 11, 36; after World War I, 3, 38; ideas as key to policy legacies of, 3–4, 7; transition to parliamentary democracy and, 5–6; cooperation with nonsocialist groups, 6; postwar German democracy after 1919 and, 6; economic dilemmas in the 1920s and, 6–7; Keynesian economic policy and, 7, 160–166; “reformist” social democracy associated with, 8, 26, 27, 64; characteristics of social democracy institutionalized with, 8–9; differences between politics in Germany and Sweden and outcomes of, 11–12; shared ideological Social Democratic label between German SPD and, 20–21, 47–48, 76–77; influence of programmatic ideas on, 22, 33–34, 64; institutionalization of ideas and structure of, 26–28; identification as a worker’s party, 29; Marxism and, 39, 48–51, 63–64; Sweden’s political development and, 39–44; programmatic beliefs and development of, 44–48; intellectuals and, 45–46; role of a Social Democratic party and, 50–51; transition to socialism and, 51–55, 64; political system and, 55–58; class struggle and, 58–63, 64; elections (1917) and, 109–111; political power and, 111–117; struggle for democratization and, 117–120, 120–121; unemployment policy and, 155–156; folkhemmet and, 156–160, 171; election (1932) and, 166–170; agrarian policy of, 170–173; evolution of European social democracy and, 215–222 Swartz, Carl, 108 Sweden: The Middle Way (Child), 38

307

Swedish Social Democratic party. See Sveriges Arbetarparti (SAP) Tarnow, Fritz, 176, 185–186, 188–189, 194 Taylor, A. J. P., 222 Tingsten, Herbert, 174 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 201 Tolstoy, Leo, 101 Tönnies, Ferdinand, 81 Transition to socialism (SAP’s view), 51–55, 64 Transition to socialism (SPD’s view), 79–85 Trygger, Ernst, 118 Turner, Henry, 198 Tvångsanslutning, 55 Umbau der Wirtschaft program, 193, 195–196 Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (USPD), 181; collapse of the old regime after World War I and, 132–133, 137; Majority Social Democratic party (MSPD) and, 141; Council of People’s Representatives and, 145; elections of 1920 and, 147 Unemployment: Swedish programs for, 154–155, 165; election (1932) in Sweden and, 167–171; German SPD and, 186, 204 Unga, Nils, 293n6 Unions. See Labor movement Veblen, Thorstein, 223 Vennerström, Ivar, 113 Volkspartei, and German SPD, 28–29, 180–182 Volkswehr, 142 Vollmar, Georg von, 60, 212; on reform work, 81–82, 83; peasants and class struggle and, 89–90 Voting. See Election headings; Suffrage Vougt, Allan, 159 Wagemann, Ernst, 191 Weber, Alfred, 81 Weber, Max, 18, 35, 81, 92–93, 146 Weimar Republic, 176–177, 182, 199–200 Weir, Margaret, 203, 293n6 Wels, Otto, 197 Wigforrs, Ernst, 27, 50, 64, 150, 175, 213, 274n60, 276n82; Marxism and SAP and, 49–50; farmers and, 60, 159; Keynesian policies and, 162, 164–166, 167; election (1932) and, 168, 169; SAP agrarian policy and, 170, 171, 172–173 Wilson, Woodrow, 136, 263n40 Winkler, Heinrich August, 176 Wissell, Rudolf, 139, 185 Wolff, Theodore, 137, 147, 262n34

308

Index

Workers: parliamentary road to socialism and Social Democratic parties and, 4–5; development of German SPD and, 72–73 Worker’s party: democracy and, 3; German SPD and identification as, 28–29; Swedish SAP and, 29 “Working Woman and Socialism, The” (Ström), 52 World War I, 2, 6; Social Democratic parties after, 3, 5; Sweden’s political order after, 9, 38, 96–97, 106–107, 112, 120; German’s political order

after, 10, 123, 131–137, 177; Swedish economy after, 153–154 World War II: political developments leading to, 1; politicization of ideology after, 15–16 Woytinsky, Wladimir S., 189–191, 191–192, 197, 285n52, 286n61, 291n99 WTB plan, 186, 190, 193 Würzburg congress (1917), 137–140 Yellow Book, The, 164 Zabern affair, 130–131

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The Politics of Retribution in Europe

Democratic Politics in the European Parliament

The Politics of Citizenship in Europe

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Ideas and Politics in Social Science Research

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Social Democratic Party Policies in Contemporary Europe

The Politics Of Democratic Inclusion

Democratic Representation in Europe: Diversity, Change, and Convergence (Comparative Politics)

Making Europe: People, Politics, and Culture

The Sentimental Citizen: Emotion in Democratic Politics

The Politics of Retribution in Europe

Democratic Politics in the European Parliament

The Politics of Citizenship in Europe

The Politics of Ethnicity in Central Europe

The Politics of Privatisation in Western Europe

The Social Construction of Europe

Europe and the politics of capabilities

Making Policy in Europe

Semi-Citizenship in Democratic Politics

Rational Foundations of Democratic Politics

Politics, Law, and Community in Islamic Thought: The Taymiyyan Moment

Social Vulnerability in Europe: The New Configuration of Social Risks

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