Georg Herwech was preeminently the German political poet of the 1840's. With youthful arrogance and unstable talent he burst onto the literary and political stage in 1841 with the publication of his Gedichte eines Lebendigen. The contagious excitement generated by this work showed that he both touched and epitomized the revolutionary aspirations of Germany's intellectuals. Gottfried Keller described the immediate impact of Herwegh's work on him: “The new tone struck me like a trumpet blast which suddenly arouses a large camp of the people's army.” And his reaction was typical: Herwegh was feted by literary circles and political coteries impatient for the revolution that his poetry impelled. When the revolution did come in 1848, Herwegh led a battalion into battle, only to flee precipitately in defeat. But the poet outlived his reputation. He spent most of the years after 1848 in exile, growing increasingly estranged from Germany, his infrequent later poetry never equalling the vigor of his first verse. He had lived for revolution, and when that revolution failed he passed the rest of his life in futile and impotent grasping for the past or some imagined future. “They were like the court clock at Versailles, which pointed to one hour, the hour at which the King died,” wrote Alexander Herzen, describing the empty lives of the exiled revolutionaries of 1848 like Herwegh. “And like the clock, they had not been wound up since the death of Louis XVI.”

Intellectual history has always been a bit embattled in the English-speaking world, especially the sort of intellectual history that deals with cosmic moods and ideas. There always been those who have tried to place the practitioners of this kind of intellectual history on the defensive. However, the great masters of this discipline— a Dilthey or a Burckhardt or a Lovejoy—continue to cast their spell over many of us. Even in this most utilitarian and political of decades, their achievement remains breathtaking. But it is no use pretending that the approach to history that focuses on “Geistesgeschichte” has no “blind spots.” As with any human enterprise, it has its strengths and weaknessess, its keen insights, its narrowness of vision. This paper is an attempt to point to some of the sources of both the abiding greatness and the blind spots of this approach to history, and to explain why this sort of intellectual history still speaks to many of us.

The Treaty of Belgrade, concluded in 1739, ended over fifty years of Austrian expansion at the expense of the Ottoman Empire. From the siege of Vienna in 1683 to the Peace of Passarowitz in 1718, the Austrians enjoyed almost absolute supremacy on the battlefield and at the peace table, forcing the Turks deep into the Balkan peninsula and adding to the Habsburg possessions such cities as Buda, Pest, Timişoara, Cluj, Debrecen, and finally Belgrade, guardian of the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers and bastion of Austrian might in southeastern Europe. Given these successes and the apparent decline of the Ottoman state, in the 1720's and 1730's Austria appeared capable of establishing its hegemony over most of the remaining Turkish possessions in Europe.

The Revolution of 1848 is a favorite subject for historians of Germany because, in so many ways, it inaugurated contemporary German history. It is a Significant “watershed” in political, social, and even intellectual history. But our understanding of this great upheaval is nonetheless still vexingly deficient. In particular, the political impact of pre-March social change, though it is the subject of much recent inquiry, is not well understood. German society was so complex, so diverse, and in such a bewildering state of tranistion that general observations are hard to make; what is true in one place is often false in another. So there is no comprehensive study. for example. of the agrarian uprisings of 1848, and opinions differ widely on their scope, intensity, and siginifcance. The role of the working class is also murky and unclear, partly because that class was beginning its long-term transformation from a traditonal guild artisante to a modern factory proletriat, a process which gratly complicates sociological definitions.

At the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in 1904, the traditionally close relationship between Imperial Germany and Tsarist Russia appeared as cordial as ever. Russia had an alliance with France but, except for its lucrative financial advantages for the Russians, this Dual Alliance remained largely an untested one vis-à-vis Germany. Less than a year after the conclusion of peace between Russia and Japan meaningful friendship between Russia and Germany ceased to exist. Within another year, Russia settled her major Asiatic differences with Great Britain, thus completing the process of isolating Germany diplomatically. The culminating period in this deterioration of Russo-German friendship occurred during the seven-month interval between the end of the Portsmouth Peace Conference in September 1905 and Germany's refusal to participate in the international loan to Russia in April 1906. This paper seeks to examine the causes of Russo-German estrangement within the framework of interrelated and often conflicting considerations of German Weltpolitik, Russian military defeats, the Revolution of 1905, and the international aspects of the Moroccan question.

The recent controversy over Germany's war aims during World War I has centered primarily around the positions taken by the Kaiser, the Foreign Office, and the army high command. The views of the navy have been largely neglected. This is unfortunate because the navy was, in a way, the status symbol of the German Empire. It was not, like the various armies, a divisive, particularist force, but rather a national Reich institution—the “melting pot” of Germany. It flew the Imperial black-white-red banner, was funded by the Reichstag, had a state secretary in the Imperial cabinet under the chancellor, recruited its officer cadets from all the German states and cities, trained them in the national naval school at Mürwik, and swore an oath of allegiance to the German Kaiser. Yet as the junior service, the navy struggled to escape from the shadow of the Prussian army and to establish its own identity. The issue of war aims provided it with just such an opportunity.

Universal suffrage is a commonplace in today's political world. In modern Western states it seems self-explanatory that there should be a general right to vote, or at least the pretense of such a right; and it is rather the exception to universal suffrage that requires explanation—at best as a quaint local peculiarity, at worst as a sign of pigheadedness or paranoia. In our era of bland populism, it is easy to forget the nineteenth century's passion over suffrage matters. But passion there was: from the sanscullottes of the 1790's to the suffragettes of the 1910's, no decade of the nineteenth century, no part of the Atlantic world was entirely free from this all-important question. Indeed suffrage issues erupted regularly whenever and wherever internal political tensions ran highest. Anti-Bourbon agitation in Restoration France, Chartist demands in England, Negro emancipation in the United States, demands for reform of Bismarckian Germany's Prussian heartland—these issues spanned the century, and they all contained at least some taint of the suffrage question. The European revolutions of 1848–49 came roughly at the mid-point of this century-long suffrage debate, and these revolutions too raised in various ways the issue of the right to vote. And one of the most interesting discussions of the franchise question came in February and March of 1849, when Germany's abortive constitutional convention, the Frankfurt National Assembly, turned its attention to an Electoral Law for the lower house of the projected national representative body.

On September 14, 1930, the National Socialist German Workers' Party led by Adolf Hitler scored its first national triumph by polling over six million votes and winning more than a hundred seats in the German Reichstag. Its gains came mainly at the expense of the established bourgeois parties. The success of the National Socialists stemmed primarily from the ability of Hitler and his colleagues to articulate the anxieties and frustrated ambitions of the German middle class. These anxieties grew out of a multitude of factors, of which the world economic crisis was the most spectacular. But the dramatic character of the world economic crisis has generally obscured the extent to which these anxieties were the product of certain long-range factors present in the structure of German society ever since the end of the previous century. In the period before World War I the German economy underwent a series of changes which resulted in a partial rationalization of its productive and distributive processes. This process was accelerated during the course of World War I and reached a climax in the middle of the 1920's before the world economic crisis deprived German management of the capital it needed for the purposes of rationalization.

On November 12, 1918, three days after Germany had been declared a republic in Berlin, the Provisional National Assembly of the German population of Austria unanimously declared in Vienna that “German-Austria is a constituent part of the German Republic.” Had the declaration been accepted as more than a statement of intent, diplomatic relations between the two independent states would have been replaced by German-Austrian participation in the German government. In fact, the two governments continued to function independently and relations between them were conducted primarily through their respective foreign ministries despite the declaration of union (Anschluss). Moreover, just as conflicts between Berlin and Vienna had plagued the alliance between the German and Austro- Hungarian empires during World War I, disagreements about the Anschluss marred relations between the new German and Austrian republics in the weeks following the armistices of 1918. While the governments in both capitals desired the unification of the two states, there was discord between them about the procedure to follow to secure it. During the winter of 1918–19 Berlin and Vienna narrowed the differences between them about questions of tactics, but fundamental disagreement about the ultimate importance of Anschluss was never completely overcome. An examination of the disagreement between the two governments and its partial resolution may shed light on the complexity of the Anschluss issue, both as a problem of the peace settlements of 1919 and as background to the annexation of Austria by Germany in 1938.

In 1965, Ralf Dahrendorf published his compelling work Society and Democracy in Germany. In this fruitful union of sociology and history, he argued convincingly that an overwhelming penchant for concord and synthesis has been the bane of the German mind for the past century and a half; not only in political thought but in traditional institutions such as the legal and educational systems, and ironically even in the supposedly radical Social Demorcatic Party. Everywhere in German life Dahrendorf preceived a quest for certainty—an obsessive need for some objective authority to deliver unimpeachable judgments that would find universal acceptance. More than settling disputes, such authorities were expected to obviate the need for disagreement altogether. The converse of this desire for harmony was an inability to accept conflict as normal; wherever conflict reared its ugly head, Germans sought to banish this unnatural phenomenon by appeal to a higher power. In this curious refusal to recognize ambiguity in life and society, Dahrendorf found the key to the German problem: what roadblocks the German ideology has placed in the way of development toward liberal parliamentary government.

Germany under the Weimar Republic played the role of champion of minorities in Europe. A combination of revisionist hopes, völkisch arrogance, and humanitarian concern for the fate of lost kin motivated the Minderheitenpolitik of the Reich. Most historians have interpreted this episode as a link between the imperialism of Wilhelmian Germany and that of the Third Reich, a refinement—dictated by weakness—of Berlin's continuing efforts to dominate Eastern Europe.

In April 1920 Friedrich Ebert admitted to a Swedish socialist that Social Democracy had failed to create a consolidated democratic republic for Germany. The president of the Weimar Republic noted that the social divisiveness which he and his colleagues had tried to overcome had increased. Though he left it unmentioned, he knew also that socialist democracy which he had outlined as the main goal during the German Revolution of 1918–19 had not been realized. However, in explaining why the army and administration still required reforming, why the universities remained “breeding stations of reaction,” Ebert blamed solely the Treaty of Versailles. He did not acknowledge that he and his party had contributed to the legacies left for the Weimar Republic by the critical period 1917–20.

In the issue of June 1971, there appeared David Felix's “Reparations Reconsidered with a Vengeance,” which constitutes an assault upon my article, “Reparations Reconsidered: A Reminder,” in the December 1969 issue. Unfortunately, Mr. Felix has attacked an article which I did not write rather than the one which I did write. My brief ten-page essay addressed itself exclusively to the question of how much Germany was initially asked to pay and consisted of little more than a close textual analysis of the London Schedule of Payments of May 5, 1921. My main point, which Mr. Felix accepts, was that this document established the German reparations debt at a nominal value of 50 billion gold marks, not the figure of 132 billion gold marks widely cited in the general literature concerning the period. Secondly, I pointed out that Germany had offered to pay a considerably larger amount less than two weeks before. Mr. Felix ignores this point while attacking my conclusion based upon it to the effect that the London Schedule constituted a victory for the Germans. Finally, I remarked briefly that, with a high ostensible figure and much lower actual payments, the Germans had an excellent propaganda position and made the most of it, leading the English-speaking world to believe that the reparations burden was both outrageous and unpayable. I concluded that “We shall never know what Germany could have paid, had she seen any reason to do so, but we can easily demonstrate that the settlement was not outrageous, even in German eyes” (p. 365).

The question Wer ist schuld am Krieg?, the focus of a propaganda battle already during the Great War, has obsessed German historians unlike any other issue in their recent history. In America the publishing success of Barbara Tuchman's Guns of August, the acclaim of Solzhenitsyn's August 1914, and the continual appearance of paperback introductions testify to an abiding interest in the outbreak of the First World War. But with the exception of the memorable debate between Sindey Fay and Bernadotte Schmidt, there have been no major American contributions because the issue of causes and responsibilities has been seen primarily as an academic problem.

One of the ideological appeals which the Nazis used to capture the petit-bourgeois and peasant vote in Germany was that of “middle-class socialism.” In this catchall term, the alienated “little man” in modern German industrial society saw an expression of both his strong anticapitalist feelings and his yearnings for economic independence. The concept also reflected a romantic proclivity for a preindustrial artisan economy. In directing themselves to these people who felt most ill at ease in modern industrial society, the Nazis promised low interest rates, curbs on big business, benefits to the small entrepreneur, and a return to a society free of large industry, department stores, and a vocal proletariat. The Nazis made this appeal partly for reasons of political expediency, partly because many of Hitler's followers took the tenets of middle-class socialism quite seriously. Several years in power, however, indicated to the more realistic Nazi leaders that it was quite impossible to reincarnate a utopian past in highly industrialized society gearing for war. As a result, after abortive attempts at realizing some of the ideas embodied in middle-class socialism, the Nazi regime made the necessary compromises with big business, and middle-class socialism became pretty much a dead letter. What is seldom realized, however, is that the Nazi regime betrayed middle-class socialism not once, but twice: initially, to economic exigency in the Reich, and then, once again, to political expansion among German ethnic groups outside Germany's borders.

Although most students of contemporary German history, especially of the National Socialist period, are aware of the United States Document Center at Berlin (BDC) and its general holdings, that archive is not being exploited to its potential. This is primarily because the Document Center was created and organized for the political purpose of compiling information on the activities of individual Nazis. For this reason, the holdings lend themselves most readily to the study of individual involvement and to quantitative research on the personnel of various groups and agencies of the Third Reich. Unfortunately, this same organizational arrangement makes it extremely difficult and time-consuming to pursue a non-biographical or non-quantitative research problem. Nevertheless, the collections contain information to be found nowhere else—information on institutional, political, social, and economic problems which go well beyond the scope of an individual's involvement or beyond the sociological data which might be compiled from the personnel files. Unfortunately, there are no adequate finding aids for the Document Center, and a general vagueness of knowledge about the full extent of its holdings seems to plague even veteran users and the document center personnel themselves.