European Encounters : Intellectual Exchange and the Rethinking of Europe 1914-1945 [1 ed.] 9789401210775, 9789042038325

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EUROPEAN STUDIES

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EUROPEAN STUDIES An Interdisciplinary Series in European Culture, History and Politics Executive Editor Menno Spiering, University of Amsterdam [email protected] Series Editors Robert Harmsen, Université du Luxembourg Joep Leerssen, Universiteit van Amsterdam Menno Spiering, Universiteit van Amsterdam Thomas M. Wilson, Binghamton University, State University of New York

EUROPEAN STUDIES An Interdisciplinary Series in European Culture, History and Politics 32

EUROPEAN ENCOUNTERS

Intellectual Exchange and the Rethinking of Europe 1914-1945

Edited by Carlos Reijnen and Marleen Rensen

Amsterdam - New York, NY 2014

Le papier sur lequel le présent ouvrage est imprimé remplit les prescriptions de “ISO 9706:1994, Information et documentation - Papier pour documents Prescriptions pour la permanence”. The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of ‘ISO 9706: 1994, Information and documentation - Paper for documents Requirements for permanence’. ISBN: 978-90-420-3832-5 E-Book ISBN: 978-94-012-1077-5 ©Editions Rodopi B.V., Amsterdam - New York, NY 2014 Printed in The Netherlands

NOTE FOR CONTRIBUTORS European Studies is published several times a year. Each issue is dedicated to a specific theme falling within the broad scope of European Studies. Contributors approach the theme from a wide range of disciplinary and, particularly, interdisciplinary perspectives. The Editorial board welcomes suggestions for other future projects to be produced by guest editors. In particular, European Studies may provide a vehicle for the publication of thematically focused conference and colloquium proceedings. Editorial enquiries may be directed to the series executive editor. Subscription details and a list of back issues are available from the publisher’s web site: www.rodopi.nl

CONTENTS

Authors in this volume

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CARLOS REIJNEN AND MARLEEN RENSEN European Encounters: Intellectual Exchange and the Rethinking of Europe (1914-1945) 13 Part 1– Political and Ideological Encounters JOHN NEUBAUER Interbellum: A Europe of States and Statelessness

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FRITS BOTERMAN German Intellectuals and the Crisis of Culture (1918-1940)

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JORIS GIJSENBERGH Divided Fronts: The Anti-communist and Anti-fascist Defence of ‘Democracy’ and ‘Europe’

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ROBIN DE BRUIN Projector or Projection Screen? The Portuguese Estado Novo and ‘Renewal’ in the Netherlands (1933-1946)

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Part 2 – Science and Humanities ERWIN DEKKER The Intellectual Networks of Otto Neurath: Between the Coffeehouse and Academia

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GEERT SOMSEN Universalism in Action: Ideals and Practices of International Scientific Cooperation

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ANNEMARIE VAN HEERIKHUIZEN Paris 1933: A ‘Société des Esprits’ Chaired by Paul Valéry

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EUROPEAN STUDIES Part 3 – Literary Encounters

GUIDO SNEL Krleža’s and Kosztolányi’s Encounters: A Diagnosis of ‘Typically Danubian Idiocy’?

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MARLEEN RENSEN Exemplary Europeans: Romain Rolland and Stefan Zweig

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MARJET BROLSMA Dostoevsky: A Russian Panacea for Europe

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Part 4 – International Movements DANIEL LAQUA Exhibiting, Encountering and Studying Music in Interwar Europe: Between National and International Community

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GEORGE HARINCK ‘We may no longer restrict our horizon to one country’: Neo-Calvinism and Internationalism in the Interbellum Era 225 ANNE-ISABELLE RICHARD In Search of a Suitable Europe: Paneuropa in the Netherlands in the Interwar Period

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FRITS BOTERMAN is Professor emeritus of Modern German History at the University of Amsterdam. He published widely on German culture and politics, among which two lengthy volumes on German (cultural) history in the nineteenth and twentieth century and a dissertation about Oswald Spengler. MARJET BROLSMA is a Lecturer at the European Studies Department of the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. She has degrees in cultural history and journalism at the University of Groningen and the Humboldt University in Berlin and currently works on a dissertation about the reflections of Dutch intellectuals on the perceived crisis of European civilization in the interwar period. She is particularly interested in the transnational mobility of idea’s and in the connection between the cultural criticism and political engagement. She has published articles on Oswald Spengler, cultural transfer and the research of periodicals. ROBIN DE BRUIN is a Lecturer in Modern European History at the European Studies Department of the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. He published on the issue of European integration in Dutch politics as well as on the Dutch civil service under Nazi rule. Currently, he is starting a new research project about European technocrats in the interwar years. ERWIN DEKKER is a Lecturer in cultural economics at the Erasmus University in Rotterdam, the Netherlands. He has recently completed his PhD thesis ‘The Viennese students of Civilization: Humility, Culture and Economics in Interwar Vienna and Beyond’. He has published in the field of cultural economics and intellectual history, and is currently working on valuation regimes. Previously he has worked as a lecturer at the European Studies Department at the University of Amsterdam, where he specialized in political economy. JORIS GIJSENBERGH is a PhD student and junior lecturer in Political History at the History department of the University of Nijmegen, the Netherlands. He specializes in democracy in the 1920s and 1930s, con-

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ceptual history, transnational contacts, anti-communism, anti-fascism and journalism. He has published on the varying complaints against the parliamentary system and the social democratic views on democracy. In his dissertation he examines Dutch attempts in the interwar period to improve the democratic state and society. He studies debates on repressive measures against so-called ‘anti-democrats’, in order to establish how politicians, journalists and private contra-revolutionary organisations defined ‘democracy’. GEORGE HARINCK is Professor in the History of Neo-Calvinism and Director of the Historical DocumentationCentre for Dutch Protestantism at the VU University Amsterdam, the Netherlands. He specializes in the international relations and cultural history of Dutch Protestantism and published widely on these topics (see www.hdc.vu.nl). Currently he is working on the history of the international Protestant relations between the Netherlands and the USA (1880-1930), on the political stance of the German theologian Karl Barth in the Cold War and on the Dutch history of theological education. ANNEMARIE VAN HEERIKHUIZEN is Assistant Professor at the European Studies department of the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Her research interests centre on the cultural-political developments and transformation of the idea of European unity since the Renaissance. Currently she studies the debates on the League of Nations during the Interbellum period, with special attention to the intellectual conferences that were organized by the International Institute for Intellectual Cooperation. Her publications include Pioniers van een Verenigd Europa. Bovennationaal denken in het Nederlandse Parlement (1946-1951) (Phd dissertation, Amsterdam, 1998); ‘Max Kohnstamm’s New Europe’, in European Identity and the Second World War, eds. Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle, 159-170. Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. DANIEL LAQUA is Senior Lecturer in Modern European History at Northumbria University in Newcastle upon Tyne, United Kingdom. He is the author of The Age of Internationalism and Belgium, 1880 – 1930: Peace, Progress and Prestige (Manchester, 2013) and the editor of Internationalism Reconfigured: Transnational Ideas and Movements Between the World Wars (London, 2011). His current research examines ‘campaigns beyond borders’ in twentieth-century Europe.

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JOHN NEUBAUER is Professor emeritus of Comparative Literature at the University of Amsterdam, Corresponding Fellow of the British Academy (FBA), and co-editor of the comparatist journal arcadia. His publications include Symbolismus und symbolische Logik (1978), The Emancipation of Music from Language (1986), and The Fin-de-siècle Culture of Adolescence (1992). He has been co-editor of The Reception of Laurence Sterne in Europe (2004), of the four-volume History of the Literary Cultures of East-Central Europe (20042010), and of The Exile and Return of Writers from East-Central Europe (2009). His present interests include, music and language in the nineteenth century, theories of literary history, and adaptation in the arts and evolution. CARLOS REIJNEN is Assistant Professor in East European Studies at the European Studies Department of the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. He specializes in European integration and East-West relations within Europe, with a focus on Central Europe and the Balkans. He published on the history of European integration, Czechoslovakia in the interwar years and the idea of Europe since the 1970s. For his PhD dissertation (Leiden, 2005) he studied the Czech perception of Europe and European integration. Currently he is working on the rethinking of Europe and the intellectual and cultural East-West relations after the Cold War. MARLEEN RENSEN is Assistant Professor of Modern European literature at the European Studies Department of the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. In her PhD dissertation (2008) she investigated French intellectuals of both the left and right in the interwar period. Currently she is working on Franco-German relations in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and focuses on intellectual exchange and cultural mediation, with some of the most recent research looking specifically at the practices of writing of ‘European lives’. ANNE-ISABELLE RICHARD is a University Lecturer at the University of Leiden in the Netherlands. She holds a PhD in history from the University of Cambridge. She is currently finishing a book on the influence of colonialism on the European movement in France and the Netherlands in the interwar period. GUIDO SNEL is Assistant Professor affiliated to the European Studies Department, University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. He holds a

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PhD in comparative literature and specializes in contemporary European literatures, with a specific focus on Central and Eastern Europe and the Balkans. He is also a literary translator (from Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian into Dutch) and a novelist (in Dutch). GEERT J. SOMSEN is a Senior Lecturer in History of Science at the History Department of Maastricht University. His work focuses on the ideological uses of science in Western democracies from late-nineteenth to mid-twentieth century, in particular its association to internationalism. In 2008 he published ‘A History of Universalism: Conceptions of the Internationality of Science, 1750–1950’ (Minerva, 46, 361-379, free access). His most recent book is Neutrality in Twentieth-Century Europe: Intersections of Science, Culture and Politics after the First World War. New York and London: Routledge, 2012 (edited with Rebecka Lettevall and Sven Widmalm). Somsen is currently working on George Sarton’s internationalist historiography of science.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 13-30

INTRODUCTION: EUROPEAN ENCOUNTERS INTELLECTUAL EXCHANGE AND THE RETHINKING OF EUROPE (1914-1945)

Carlos Reijnen and Marleen Rensen

Abstract This introductory chapter explores the concepts of intellectual ‘encounter’ and ‘exchange’ that are central in this volume. It addresses theoretical and methodological issues related to historical research on the interwar period as an age of intense cultural exchange among writers, artists and academics who are directly or indirectly engaged with the reevaluation of the concept ‘Europe’. The transnational perspective is offered as a tool for analyzing cross-border encounters within a European context. Europe is presented here as both an idea and a zone of intellectual exchange. More specifically, the concepts of European ‘spaces’ and ‘Europeanization’ are used to study the relevance of encounters and exchange for the rethinking of Europe. Looking back on the intellectual scene of the 1920s, the German critic and literary translator Ernst Robert Curtius recalled the intensive crossborder encounter of the period: How many paths and encounters there were in the spiritually relaxed Europe of the time! Rilke translated poems by Valéry, who showed them to me in manuscript. At Scheler’s I saw the first issue of Ortega’s Revista de Occidente. Valery Larbaud introduced Joyce into France. Sylvia Beach’s bookstore, ‘Shakespeare and Company’, was an international meeting place as was that of her friend Adrienne Monnier diagonally opposite. From 1922 on the ‘Décades’ at Pontigny were taking place again. The Pen-Club was founded (...) A Europe of the mind – above politics, in spite of all politics – was very much alive. This Europe lived not only in books and periodicals but also in personal relations. (Curtius 1973 [1946], 170)

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Curtius may not be a neutral observer, for he portrayed a ‘Europe of the mind’ which he actively supported himself. There is, however, no doubt of the great extent to which the intellectual scene of interwar Europe crossed national boundaries. Writers and artists met within the framework of avant-garde movements, at literary conferences and at cultural gatherings. Cities such as Berlin, Paris and Moscow were the focal points of European encounters, harbouring eager young artists, established academics and uprooted émigrés and exiles. Some were looking for challenges, others were trying to escape hardship and national limits. The Great War gave new impetus to intellectuals in their need to rethink European civilization, as a reaction to the persistent perception of Europe as a civilization in decline. The shaping of ideas about Europe’s ‘renewal’ was strongly connected with the increase in transnational contact between writers, artists and academics. Cultural exchange resulted from meetings and intellectual debates, but also from the search for inspiration across national borders. Writers in Western Europe turned to Russian literature to revitalise lost European values, Catholic intellectuals in Northern Europe embraced corporatist and fascist solutions, as coined by Salazar and Mussolini, and many others throughout Europe shed national skins to commit to the European federalism of the Pan-Europa Movement. This volume addresses the making and remaking of ideas about Europe in the interwar period as a result of intellectual exchange. It contributes to the history of the idea of Europe, adding a crucial but understudied perspective: the importance of transnational exchange and transnational inspiration for the construction of these ideas and identities. The volume explores the hypothesis that exchange and the rethinking of the idea of Europe are strongly related. The contributions examine how these mechanisms contributed to the production of new understandings of Europe and of projects for Europe’s future. In this introduction, we outline the mechanisms and stages of exchange, and the conditions they set for rethinking Europe. Intellectuals between the wars The First World War had a profound impact on cross-border cultural and intellectual contact within Europe. Many of the established networks of artists and academics were seriously disrupted during the war, particularly with regard to German participation (Charle 2004, 119-120, 241;

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Trebitsch 1998, 51). Many intellectuals, both in Germany and the allied countries, passionately engaged with the national cause and published collective declarations in which they endorsed or even promoted the war. Former friends and colleagues were now considered enemies. Those intellectuals who did not withdraw into the national sphere, attempting to maintain relationships in wartime, had to cope with various difficulties: letter writing was obstructed by severe censorship and travel was only possible by means of permits which were difficult to obtain. Nevertheless, the war also generated new international contacts. Irrespective of the obstacles, several efforts were made to connect intellectuals on both sides of the front. For example, the French pacifist writer Romain Rolland published a number of open letters to German colleagues to encourage them to join him in his struggle for peace. He also appealed to the intellectual elite of Europe to help establish an international alliance of independent minds that would publicly campaign against the war (Rolland 1914). Artists and scientists from across Europe and the world supported him. Such initiatives – rare and exceptional in the midst of warfare – continued and intensified after 1918. Although the intellectual response to the shock of war took many different forms, there seemed to be a shared sense of urgency concerning the condition of European civilization, which needed re-evaluation. The trench warfare, the loss of millions of lives, the suffering and severe destruction were often linked to modernity and its discontents: industrialization, mechanization and the rise of the masses. Paul Valéry, Oswald Spengler and many others articulated a sense of crisis in modern civilization. The perceived decline of European culture, dating back to at least the last quarter of the nineteenth century, gained new urgency from the war and provoked cross-national debates about nation-states and the future of the continent. This debate also related to the fear that Europe had forever lost its superior position in the world to newly emerging global powers, the United States, the Soviet Union and Asia. The Great War thus profoundly changed the way in which Europe was perceived and experienced. In a way, the idea of Europe itself had suddenly presented itself as a central concern. As Spiering and Wintle argue: ‘One undeniable effect of the First World War was that many were forced to actually think for the first time about the very concept of Europe’ (Spiering & Wintle 2002, 4). Intellectuals who were preoccupied with rethinking Europe attempted, each in their own way, to cope with the crisis they perceived. Some were inclined to restore the old traditions

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of Europe, yearning for its former days of glory. Others engaged with hopeful new projects that would regenerate European civilization, or, alternatively, pursued a radical new start inspired by the revolutionary upheavals in Russia (Hewitson & Audoria 2012; Bugge 1993). Regardless of the ideology and the values they tried to defend or redefine, many intellectuals saw it as their primary task to re-establish international cooperation. One particular group intended to contribute in this way to the reconciliation and peacemaking process. At a time when politicians were attempting to restore diplomatic relations between the nations of Europe, pacifist intellectuals, for their part, set about building bridges. International dialogue seemed the way to deal with the misunderstandings and hostilities between the nations, which had mounted through four years of war propaganda. Hence, the postwar era saw the rise of an impressive number of intellectual undertakings that advocated communication and understanding among nations. Akira Iriye has demonstrated in great detail that cultural cooperation and exchange in particular were perceived as instruments of peace in the interwar years (Iriye 1997, 61). He argues that this form of cultural internationalism was in fact rooted in the nineteenth century but came fully to fruition in the 1920s. A prime example is the Institut international de coopération intellectuelle of the League of Nations, established in 1922, which invested extensively in exchange in the fields of cultural education and academic research. Similar projects were started at the time by the PEN Club and other associations, and by periodicals such as The Criterion, Europe and Die Europaïsche Revue, which all aimed to foster international exchange and understanding through culture on a European or global scale (Vanheste 2007; Ifversen 2002). It was not only culture that was assigned a pivotal role in the recovery of Europe after the war. Religion, law, economics and science were other domains where intellectuals, who all emphasised the international orientation of their field, took initiatives to establish international networks and forms of cooperation. Since the arts and sciences had been mobilised for warfare, it is, in a sense, paradoxical that so many intellectuals after 1918 desired to play a part in the restoration. Even if the responsibility of the intellectual remained a topic of debate throughout the 1920s and 1930s, intellectuals generally persisted in the conviction that they had obligations towards society. In this respect, they continued a tradition that started before the First World War. Voltaire, Zola and many others can be considered their historical precursors, if ‘intellectuals’ or ‘clercs’ are

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broadly understood as writers, artists or academics who enter the public domain. Just as the figure of the intellectual has long historical roots, the ideal of intellectual exchange and cooperation well predates the interwar years. To a certain extent it expressed a desire to return to the Republic of Letters, the supranational community of men of letters dating from the sixteenth century who aimed to share knowledge across political and religious borders. This self-governing intellectual community, which was imagined to be cosmopolitan, open and independent, experienced fundamental changes in the nineteenth century. The specialization of disciplines within science was one factor at play that shattered the all-encompassing community; however, another, and arguably more important factor, was the rise of nationalism. The Republic, once united by language and culture, lost much of its universal appeal in an age when language and literature were increasingly considered expressions of the nation and science was organised into national institutions. Nationalism certainly did not break down all intellectual transnational networks, and it even brought about new forms of transnational exchange (Leerssen 2006; Somsen 2008). However, the process of nationalization severely challenged, if not destroyed, the ideal of an open and inclusive European intellectual community with a common culture and tradition (Burke 2012, 198). After the First World War, the ideal of a Republic of Letters was revived in several intellectual circles. For example, echoes of the character and aims of the Republic of Letters came rather explicitly to the fore in the Institut international de coopération intellectuelle of the League of Nations. Annemarie van Heerikhuizen’s contribution to this volume illustrates that some of its members saw themselves as the rightful heirs of the Republic’s legacy. Similar terms were used by the International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU) for the community of scientists. As Geert Somsen notes in his chapter, their dream of a ‘brotherhood of science’ was supposed to be a form of international collaboration, with the purpose of working towards a better society. There had always been a gap between the ideal and reality of the Republic of Letters. Rivalry and competition, protectionism and elitism, stood in the way of equality and openness (Goodman 1994; Casanova 1999). In the interwar period, obstacles seemed to be more fundamental, with language being a primary concern. The diversity of languages in Europe was considered to be a source of ignorance and misunderstand-

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ing. Therefore, international periodicals were keen on translating foreign texts and circulating them throughout Europe. Some even tried to go beyond the limits of conventional European languages by promoting the use of artificial languages for international communication. Esperanto, first invented in the late nineteenth century, regained popularity in 1914 and was imagined to be the international language of the future, which would ultimately be acknowledged by the League of Nations and become an official language (Panchasi 2009). Theatre and film were considered to be other means to communicate across national frontiers. However, as Daniel Laqua points out in his contribution, music was perhaps most promoted as a universal language. More than language, politics was the challenging reality that intellectuals had to deal with in the years between the wars. International tensions, which continued after 1918, repeatedly threatened the ideal of a supranational intellectual community. For example, in the immediate aftermath of the First World War, German intellectuals were occasionally treated with hostility. For example, Gerhart Hauptman, who had signed the patriotic manifesto Aufruf an die Kulturwelt in 1914, provoked protests in France and Belgium when he was elected an honorary member of the international PEN Club (Vandevoorde & Verbruggen 2011, 155, 158). Moreover, cross-national associations such as the PEN Club, were often primarily nationally organised and participation in the larger transnational framework served to raise national prestige as much as advance international cooperation. Later during the interwar era, the rise of totalitarian regimes changed the political domain dramatically once again. Contact and collaboration were disrupted and censorship and severe repression forced many intellectuals into exile and isolation from their homeland. The emergence of the new ideologies of communism and fascism seriously troubled the ideal of the Republic of Letters, particularly with regard to its independence. Should intellectuals be contemplative thinkers who remain detached and independent, or should they rather be activists who enter the political arena? This dilemma stirred much debate and divided the intellectual community profoundly: it was not just a split between fascism and antifascism, or communism and anticommunism; both political camps were deeply fragmented from within. Some intellectuals maintained an apolitical stance, but others aligned themselves with party politics, whether revolutionary or democratic. Hence, the ideal of the Republic of Letters as a singular community of intellectuals was severely tested in the 1930s (Compagnon 2011). Nevertheless, interna-

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tional contacts often persisted and the ideological divides engendered new intellectual encounters. Encounters ‘Encounter’ can be defined in different ways. Here we use it as either a confrontation with, or coming together of, people, ideas, cultures, concepts and practices. This applies to face-to-face meetings between individuals, or groups who gather at seminars, but also includes correspondence, book translations or ideas and ideologies. The exploration of such a wide range of material and immaterial encounters provides a key to understanding the movement and transmission of ideas across the continent and beyond, as well as the forces that were active in that process. The present volume will focus on two particular aspects of encounters. Firstly, we examine how encounters had an impact on exchange, and how intellectuals interacted and related to one another. Secondly, we explore the way these cross-national encounters influenced, shaped and spread ideas about Europe. This study of European encounters showcases institutional agencies, networks and individual actors that shaped encounters. For example, the Institut international de coopération intellectuelle, the Confédération internationale des travailleurs intellectuels, and the International Council of Scientific Unions organised conferences and round-table meetings on a regular basis. Similar activities were arranged by the PEN Club, the Vienna Circle, the Pan-Europa Movement and the Europäische Kulturbund. Many of these associations were intimately related to each other through individual members who participated in more than one circle. A crucial role was played by cultural mediators such as Paul Valéry, Valéry Larbaud, Erns Robert Curtius, Thomas Mann, Emile Mayrisch, Karl Anton Rohan, Otto Neurath and Stefan Zweig. A typical example is T.S. Eliot, who firmly believed in the importance of cultural exchange and established countless international contacts through his work as an editor and literary critic. He explicitly pointed to the mediating function of The Criterion as part of a large network of interrelated foreign periodicals that provided the basic infrastructure for intellectual encounters and exchanges: (...) the existence of such a network of independent reviews, at least one in every capital of Europe, is necessary for the transmission of ideas – and to make possible the circulation of ideas while they are still fresh. The editors of such reviews, and if possible the more regular contributors, should be able to

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Carlos Reijnen and Marleen Rensen get to know each other personally, to visit each other, to entertain each other, and to exchange ideas in conversation (...) their co-operation should continually stimulate that circulation of influence of thought and sensibility between nation and nation in Europe. (T.S. Eliot 1948, 116)

Even if this quotation reflects a future ideal more than a reality, scholars generally acknowledge that the intellectual domain in the interwar years became more international in terms of structures and practices (Trébitsch 1998; Sapiro 2009; Vandevoorde & Verbruggen 2011). The older ‘mechanics of internationalism’ that had been developed in earlier centuries not only survived the First World War but intensified and was renewed (Geyer & Paulmann 2001, 3-4). Several factors contributed to increasing internationalization. Firstly, newly found institutions, such as the League of Nations, provided a new international framework for intellectual life. Secondly, the internationalization of the intellectual scene was also a result of heightened mobility during the interwar years. Thousands of people were forced into migration and exile in 1917 and the 1930s and many more were displaced due to the Peace Treaties of Versailles and Trianon, which created many new borders. Forces outside politics also contributed to a higher degree of mobility. The internationalization of transport, new railways and forms of communication, which had their origins well before the First World War, further expanded and greatly improved the opportunities for intensive exchange (Geyer & Paulmann 2001, 21). Historians have argued that the development of an international infrastructure around 1900 occurred alongside the building of cross-border intellectual networks that were committed to international programmes or ideologies such as pacifism (Eyffinger 1999, 7). More recent scholarship shows that politicians and engineers in the 1920s and 1930s actively engaged in the building of Europe through the railways and radio broadcasting (Van der Vleuten 2006; Anastasiadou 2010; Lommers 2011). The international dimension of intellectual contact is a fairly recent topic of study. From the 1990s onwards, scholars began to investigate the transnational character of intellectual networks and encounters in order to move beyond the traditional approach of national or comparative history. As Sapiro, Casanova and others have shown, the adoption of a transnational perspective provides valuable insights into long neglected international strands of thought. It foregrounds the entanglement and interaction of formal and private networks across the entire continent. This volume participates in and benefits from the insights that have

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emerged from the field of historical studies of Europe in cross-national perspective, sometimes referred to as ‘transnational studies’ (Casanova 1999; Cohen & O’Connor 2004; Sapiro 2009; Laqua 2011). This collection focuses particularly on European encounters that have shaped European identities and contributed to the rethinking of Europe. In most chapters of this volume, the Europeanness of these encounters relates to meetings on European soil of intellectuals from different nations or regions within Europe, such as Franco-German dialogues, meetings between intellectuals from the East and West, or exiles in major European cities. This includes internationalist gatherings that brought together intellectuals from outside Europe to exchange knowledge and ideas. Exchange In this volume, encounters are studied as hothouses of intellectual exchange. The study of cultural contact and exchange has a long-standing tradition in many fields of academic research. In the social sciences it has resulted, for example, in the analysis of social networks, and in the humanities in the exploration of cultural transfer, which has been the paradigm since the 1980s. Cultural transfer studies originally had a strong focus on transfer between nations and seemed to aim at bridging national differences and oppositions. Its founding fathers, Michel Espagne and Michael Werner, focused on Franco-German transfer and also referred to the discovery of the colonial past, which was the context of their approach (Espagne & Werner 1985). National and political preoccupations have declined over the years, leading to a stronger focus on regional or peripheral transfer, border areas and reciprocity. Moreover, the difference between the sending and receiving ends of transfer was gradually abandoned. This increasing degree of attention to the interconnectedness and multidirectional relationships has been labelled the study of histoire croisée or entangled histories (Zimmermann & Werner 2002). Above all, these new approaches help to grasp the multifaceted or unexpected outcomes of transfer, or exchange. Our focus builds on the reciprocity and unpredictability of exchange that the new incarnations of cultural transfer studies are designed to unravel. Two clarifications need to be made with regard to our approach. Firstly, in this volume, intellectual exchange is what happens when encounters take place, and may involve ideas, attitudes or plans for action.

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Exchange is generally mutual, but not necessarily, in cases of non-personal encounter between one or more intellectuals, on the one hand, and new movements, ideologies or cultural phenomena, on the other. We are interested in the outcomes of these exchanges, in particular how they affect ideas about Europe. It is important to notice that the result of intellectual exchange generally has an impact on all participants. For example, Robin de Bruin’s contribution on the Dutch attempt to embrace Portuguese corporatism shows how foreign ideologies were domesticated in Dutch traditions. In doing so, the Portuguese ‘original’ was also affected: losing or gaining international legitimacy. However, exchange should not necessarily be understood as a creative process that automatically leads to change in ideas or behaviour. The process of exchange can also lead individuals or communities to persist with or intensify existing cultural ideas and practices. Secondly, intellectual exchange is studied as a performative event that requires a stage. In most cases these stages have a great bearing on the outcome of the exchange, in this case, the rethinking of Europe. In the study of cultural transfer or exchange the focus is usually on the actors involved in transfer or exchange, or on the outcomes. However, stages are not passive or neutral facilitators of encounters, but determine the language, the audience and the scope of the encounters. Put differently, intellectual exchange takes place in cultural spaces that make the exchange possible and have an impact on its outcomes. For example, novelists discussing the future of Europe are confined to the communities, traditions and vocabularies of the literary scene. This inevitably makes discussions more metaphorical, intentionally or non-intentionally, or prescribes a more prominent role to the cultural domain. This volume brings together intellectual conferences, academic disciplines, literature, migrant communities, religious circles, political movements, ideology and friendship as spaces of encounters and exchange. The diversity of these spaces is considerable. Firstly, we can distinguish between institutionalised and non-institutionalised spaces. International academic circles often depend on personal contacts and one-off conferences, whereas religion, for example, is usually well-run and structurally financed. Secondly, important differences can also be discerned between personal and formal or public spaces. Artistic intellectual contacts tend to be fuelled by personal contacts and loyalties, but political spaces are ultimately part of a more formal and public domain. Artistic encounters can be private, while political or academic encounters are staged as public

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events and as forms of communication to an audience. Thirdly, some encounters and exchanges are intentional, others are unexpected or even unwanted. For example, encounters between migrants, or between migrants and the receiving communities, are not automatically self-chosen or desired. Others are intentional, such as participants in the Pan-Europa Movement, although some of these intentional encounters are one-sided, as is the case of European authors reflecting on Russian literature as a source of renewal. Finally, we can discern a difference between spaces that are defined by their participants, and those that are defined by their cultural products. Of the latter, the literary domain is enlightening: the novel, for example, can be considered a space of encounter. Authors can explicitly reflect on meetings and exchanges with colleagues, but can also primarily communicate through their novels, in which case the encounter is not strictly personal. By connecting different types of cultural spaces we intend to explore the relationship between these spaces and the exchanges taking place. How do these spaces determine the types of exchanges? In the first half of the twentieth century, many perceived a European crisis, but the way in which the awareness of this crisis and the urgency associated with it were expressed often depended on the particular stages and contexts of the intellectuals who were looking for new encounters. For example, the European natural scientists who engaged in promoting world peace attributed a new relevance to themselves, but depended on their own vocabularies and networks to work with these issues. These vocabularies and networks were international and open on the one hand, but on the other, quite distant from the perspective of politicians. The relationship between intellectual exchange and cultural spaces is rarely unidirectional, but is instead multi-directional and dynamic. In the selection of encounters in this volume the element of ‘pioneering’ is important. This book mostly showcases encounters that were triggered by the new interwar reality. Rather than intellectual encounters and exchanges that took place within well-established or traditional settings, we study encounters that tried to explore new territories. The interwar years produced many attempts to move beyond the limits of a singular cultural space. For example, solutions for peace or prosperity were no longer merely drawn from traditional political circles, but natural scientists and artists now claimed these challenges as ‘theirs’ as well. Therefore, while encounters may be restricted by cultural spaces, they can also challenge

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them. Politicians and economists who promoted European cooperation joined intellectual and literary circles in the Pan-Europa Movement. The need for encounters and exchange seems linked to moments of crisis and insecurity, or to times that require change, such as the interwar years. In a period in which new national or state borders were created and others reinforced, international exchange seemed the way to overcome limitations, particularly for those at the margins of national, political or academic culture. The connection between new borders and crisis and insecurity explains why the ‘rethinking of Europe’ was intimately connected with encounters and exchange. When exchange is intrinsically transnational or self-declaredly ‘European’ it – accidentally or intentionally – influences ideas about Europe. Willingly or unwillingly, transnational intellectual encounters on European soil endow the encounters with ‘European’ meaning. Even when the intellectuals involved distanced themselves from the ‘European’ discourse, as was the case in Calvinist circles, as discussed in George Harinck’s contribution to this volume, they influenced ideas about Europe. Disconnecting from ‘Europe’, as a common identity or destination, from political plans, or religious or cultural practices, is at least as significant in its reflection of ideas about Europe as support for it. Ideas of Europe and Europeanization The intimate relationship between intellectual encounters and cultural spaces is particularly relevant when studying the evolution of the idea of Europe. This idea is not only ideologically flexible, but also encompasses personal identities, political strategies and cultural programmes, and therefore inevitably connects personal, professional, political and spiritual domains. This diversity results in a vast collection of modes of expression and vocabularies in which ideas about Europe are communicated. For example, plans for a European customs union were drawn up and promoted by different groups of intellectuals from those who explored the integration of Europe as a theme in novels. Corporatist Europe differs strongly from pacifist Europe, or the Europe that unites against fascism or communism. For other intellectuals featured in this volume, Europe was first of all a cultural and historical identity, or the realm of Christianity. These discourses are often perceived to be related to each other, since they all claim Europe as a unity, but the cultural spaces in which these ideas are expressed sometimes remain insular.

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Traditional histories of the idea of Europe, such as Dawson’s The Making of Europe, Hay’s Europe, Chabod’s Storia dell’idea di Europa or Duroselle’s L’Idée d’Europe dans l’histoire, all studied ‘Europe’ as a singular discourse and created a canon of European history in the process (Swedberg 1994). After the Cold War, which produced two worlds that adhered to ‘Europe’ but had dramatically different expectations linked to it, the multi-polarity of the idea of Europe was gradually recognised. Gerard Delanty’s Inventing Europe: Idea, Identity, Reality set the paradigm for this reappraisal (Delanty 1995). Recently, more emphasis has been put on the infrastructure that creates different ideas of Europe, with these being studied in relation to the cultural spaces in which they are expressed. In Der Europäer – Ein Konstrukt, Bluche, Lipphardt and Patel attempted to make an inventory of the varieties of the ‘European’ by also focusing on the stage or scenes (Schauplätze) on which or with which the ideas and practices were realised (Bluche, Lipphardt and Patel 2009, 17). Interesting examples of this can be found in the specific ‘Europeanness’ produced by the Collège d’Europe in Bruges, the racial and biological framings of the European race in nineteenth and twentieth-century Europe, or, currently, in the internship programme of the European Commission. Ultimately, this book is about the question of what produces ideas of Europe. Inevitably, all of the case studies in this volume display increasing levels of, or calls for, European interdependence. This does not necessarily mean that this increase is recognised, appreciated, or, in fact, labelled as European. On the contrary, John Neubauer’s chapter about émigré circles in Europe points to hostilities and a growing awareness of cultural differences as a result of migration. Intellectual encounters can cause conflict and fragmentation as well. Consequently, émigré journeys through Europe have fortified the image of Europe as a continent of struggle and conflict. In Joris Gijsenbergh’s contribution, we see similar situations in the international committees that attempted to combat nazism or communism. These committees are also not explicitly ‘European’, but produce certain images of Europe. Perceptions of growing cooperation and conflict enhance the interconnectedness of Europe and can therefore be considered as processes of ‘Europeanization’, a concept with origins in the social sciences and which used to be largely connected to post-war European integration. In recent years, other disciplines have also embraced the concept and tried to disconnect it from an exclusive focus on EU matters (Conway & Patel 2010; Flockhart 2010). From a historical perspective, Europeanization is

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defined by Von Hirschhausen and Patel as ‘a variety of political, social, economic and cultural processes that promote (or modify) a sustainable strengthening of intra-European connections and similarities through acts of emulation, exchange and entanglement and that have been experienced and labelled as “European” in the course of history’ (Von Hirschhausen and Patel, 2). They explicitly point out that this encompasses both ‘integrative elements’ and ‘fragmentation and conflict’. The concept of Europeanization emphasises the process of increasing interdependence within Europe, within a self-proclaimed ‘European’ context. This process could lead to both more and less European political or cultural cooperation. With this in mind, Europeanization as a theoretical concept is only valid from the moment that European selfawareness surfaces. The interwar period is an era to which the concept of Europeanization is most applicable. The vast destruction and changes in Europe heavily impacted upon borders, interconnectedness, migration, means of transportation or travel opportunities. These changes also led to psychological and spiritual challenges, in relation to which intellectuals acted as pioneers. Initiating a League of Nations or promoting academic exchange requires a new way of perceiving Europe, and influences perceptions of Europe as well. This on-going and self-reinforcing process is what we would like to call Europeanization. The chapters in this volume all address processes of Europeanization which occurred through different means and within different cultural spaces. Contributions and general conclusions The volume is divided into four sections, structured according the types of exchange or the nature of the ideas that are generated. Section One presents political and ideological encounters. John Neubauer studies intellectual migrant communities, which greatly increased as a result of ideological change. He points out that the First World War brought about major waves of exiles that continued throughout the interwar years and the Second World War. The exile centres of Vienna, Berlin, Moscow and Paris witnessed many intellectual encounters, but these by no means resulted in the same peaceful or Europeanist direction. Frits Boterman argues that German intellectuals were heavily influenced by the war, with regard to their position in society and ideas about Europe. The ideological clashes of socialism and fascism both triggered and constrained German transnational encounters with other intellectuals in Europe. Joris

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Gijsenbergh focuses on the international organizations that tried to combat the rise of nazism and communism, but were caught up in national preoccupations and ideological fragmentation. He demonstrates that communists and anticommunists, fascists and antifascists, all participated in international networks that shared ideas and experiences. Finally, Robin de Bruin analyses how Portuguese corporatism was perceived and adopted in Dutch political circles. He argues that Salazar’s Estado Novo was embraced by some Dutch politicians, but often without deep knowledge of the Portuguese specificities: their perception was largely determined by Dutch society and politics. Section Two introduces a number academic figures from the natural and social sciences and the humanities. Erwin Dekker opens the section with a contribution that focuses on the philosopher and economist Otto Neurath of the Wiener Kreis, whose intellectual network extensively crossed national borders. Neurath promoted the education of workers around the world and sought the means through science and town planning. In order to promote international understanding, he created a universal language for science as well as a universal pictorial language that would be easily understood. Geert Somsen’s contribution deals with international scientific cooperation in the 1930s, which vigorously attempted to make science and cooperation relevant to international peace, but became caught between internationalist and European agendas. Annemarie van Heerikhuizen reconstructs the 1933 conference of European intellectuals and scientists in Paris, organised by the Institut international de coopération intellectuelle of the League of Nations. Despite lofty ambitions, the papers and reports reveal strong ideological and national stereotypes and misconceptions among the participants. Particularly interesting are the debates about the use of culture and the role of elites in Europe’s crisis. Section Three offers encounters and exchanges from the field of literature, presenting those that explicitly used ‘Europe’ as a point of reference. Guido Snel delves into the literary encounters between the Croat writer Miroslav Krleža and Hungarian author Deszõ Kosztolányi. They subtly developed their encounter through their creative work, which proved to be deeply connected by their ideas on Central Europe after the collapse of the Habsburg Empire. Marleen Rensen’s contribution showcases the Franco-German friendship between Romain Rolland and Stefan Zweig, who exchanged letters and ideas, not only during the wars, but also between them. This friendship was of great significance to

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Zweig’s attempts to recover a European consciousness through the writing of artist’s lives with a particular European profile. Finally, Marjet Brolsma maps the Dutch admiration for the work of Dostoevsky, which was thought to hold the key to the regeneration of European civilization. While the cult of Dostoevsky can be regarded as a ‘European’ phenomenon in the 1920s, the Dutch case illustrates that each nation had its own interpretation of the novels of the Russian author. Section Four turns to organised or institutionalised forms of European exchange, such as the Pan-Europa Movement and religious cooperation. Daniel Laqua explores new territories by looking at conferences and exhibitions on European music. He argues that music was a vehicle for both nationalism and internationalism. George Harinck presents religious attempts at European and international cooperation, and uses the Dutch Calvinists as his starting point. He outlines the tension between the Calvinist reluctance towards Europe as a political or religious identity and their growing inclination towards international cooperation. Anne-Isabelle Richard investigates the Dutch involvement in the PanEuropa Movement, revealing some of the reasons behind the reticence with which a ‘Pan-Europe’ was approached. The chapter shows that, despite reservations, the Dutch activities resembled the model of Coudenhove-Kalergi’s propaganda network. Some general conclusions can be drawn from our case studies. Firstly, one of the most striking tendencies is that intellectual exchange was both desired and pursued, but not exclusively under an explicitly European flag. For many, ‘Europe’ proved difficult to detach from political agendas and was therefore avoided or even opposed. Moreover, in many cases active participation in European networks resulted in an experience of division and conflict, rather than in an increased awareness of Europe as a political or cultural unity. Secondly, most intellectual exchange shows a strong interconnectedness between the personal, cultural and political domains. Crossing national borders coincided with crossing disciplinary, professional or personal borders. This made the encounters attractive and fascinating, but may also explain their lack of success. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, European or international intellectual exchange was sought after to strengthen ideas or movements, but often depended heavily on personal connections, preferences and loyalties.

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References Anastasiadou, Irene. 2011. Constructing Iron Europe: Transnationalism and Railways in the Interbellum. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Bluche, Lorraine, Veronika Lipphardt and Kiran Klaus Patel. 2009. Der Europäer - ein Konstrukt. Wissensbestände, Diskurse, Praktiken. Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag. Bugge, Peter. 1995 [1993]. Europe 1914-1945: The Nation Supreme. In The History of the Idea of Europe, eds. Kevin Wilson and Jan van der Dussen, 83150. London and New York: Routledge Burke, Peter. 2012. A Social History of Knowledge II: From the Encyclopaedia to Wikipedia. Cambridge UK: Polity Press Casanova, Pascale. 1999. La république mondiale des lettres. Paris: Seuil Charle, Christophe and Jürgen Schriewer eds. 2004. Transnational Intellectual Networks: Forms of Academic Knowledge and the Search for Cultural Identities, Frankfurt am Main etc: Campus Verlag. Cohen, Deborah and Maura O’Connor eds. 2004. Comparison and History: Europe in Cross-National Perspective. New York: Routledge. Compagnon, Antoine. 2011, La République des lettres dans la tourmente (1919-1939). Actes du colloque international, Paris, les 27 et 28 novembre 2009, Collège de France. Paris: CNRS/Alain Baudry. Conway, Martin and Kiran Klaus Patel, eds. 2010. Europeanization in the Twentieth Century: Historical Approaches. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Curtius. Ernst Robert. 1973 [1946]. Hermann Hesse. In Essays on European Literature. Princeton N.J.: Princeton University Press. Delanty, Gerard. 1995. Inventing Europe: Idea, Identity, Reality. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Eliot. T.S. 1948. Notes towards the Definition of Culture. London: Faber. Espagne, Michel and Michael Werner 1985. ‘Deutsch-französischer Kulturtransfer im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert. Zu einem neuen interdisziplinären Forschungsprogramm des C.N.R.S.’ Francia: Forschungen zur westeuropäischen Geschichte 13: 502-510. Eyffinger, Arthur. 1999. The 1899 Hague Peace Conference: ‘The Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World’. The Hague etc: Kluwer Law International. Flockhart, T. 2010, ‘Europeanization or EU-ization?’ The Transfer of European Norms Across Time and Space’. Journal of Common Market Studies 48: 787-810. Geyer, Martin H. & Johannes Paulmann eds. 2001. The Mechanics of Internationalism: Culture, Society and Politics from the 1840s to the First World War. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goodman, Dena. 1994. The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment. Ithaca [etc]: Cornell University Press. Hewitson & D’Auria. 2012. Europe in Crisis. Intellectuals and the European Idea 19171957. New York, Oxford: Berghahn Books. Hirschhausen, U. von and Kiran Klaus Patel. 2010. ‘Europeanization in History: an Introduction.’ In Europeanization in the Twentieth Century: Historical Ap-

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proaches, eds. Conway, Martin and Kiran Klaus Patel, 1-18. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ifversen, Jan. 2002. The Crisis of European Civilization After 1918. In Ideas of Europe since 1914. The Legacy of the First World War, Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle eds, 14-32. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Iriye, Akira. 1997. Cultural Internationalism and World Order. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Laqua, Daniel ed. 2011. Internationalism Reconfigured: Transnational Ideas and Movements Between the World Wars. London: I.B. Tauris. Leerssen, J.T. 2006. National Thought in Europe: A Cultural History. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Lommers, Suzanne. 2012. Europe on Air: Interwar Projects for Radio Broadcasting. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Panchasi, Roxannel. 2009. Future Tense: The Culture of Anticipation in France between the Wars. Ithaca N.Y: Cornell University Press. Rolland, Romain. 1914, Au-dessus de la mêlée. Journal de Génève supplément, 22 septembre 1914. Sapiro, Gisèle ed. 2009. L’espace intellectuel en Europe. De la formation des États-nations à la mondialisation, XIX –XXI siècle. Paris: La Découverte. Somsen, Geert. 2008. A History of Universalism. Conceptions of the Internationality of Science from the Enlightenment to the Cold War. Minerva 46: 361-379. Spiering, Menno and Michael Wintle, eds. 2002. European Identity, Europeanness and the First World War: Reflections on the Twentieth Century, 1-14. In Ideas of Europe since 1914: The Legacy of the First World War. Houndmills and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Swedberg, Richard. 1994. ‘“The idea of Europe” and the origin of the European Union – A sociological approach.’ Zeitschrift für Soziologie, 23: 378-387. Trebitsch, Michel. 1998. Organisations internationales de coopération intellectuelle dans l’entre-deux-guerres. In Wolikow, Serge and Annie BletonRuget eds. Antifascisme et nation. Les gauches européennes au temps du Front populaire, 49-58 Dijon: Presses universitaires de Dijon. Van der Vleuten, Erik and Arne Kaijser, eds. 2006. Networking Europe. Transnational Infrastructures and the Shaping of Europe, 1850-2000. Sagamore Beach, MA: Science History Publications. Vandevoorde, Hans & Verbruggen, Christophe 2011. Inleiding. De PEN-club: ‘a world-parliament of literature. Nederlandse letterkunde. Themanummer De international PEN. 16 (3): 123-131. Vanheste, Jeroen. 2007. Guardians of the Humanist Legacy: the Classicism of T.S.Eliot’s Criterion Network and Relevance to our Postmodern World. Leiden [etc.]: Brill. Werner, Michael and Bénédicte Zimmermann. 2002. ‘Vergleich, Transfer, Verflechtung. Der Ansatz der Histoire croisée und die Herausforderung des Transnationalen’. Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 28: 607-636.

Part 1– Political and Ideological Encounters

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 33-48

INTERBELLUM: A EUROPE OF STATES AND STATELESSNESS

John Neubauer

Abstract The Interbellum years made important international encounters and exchanges possible that tried to defend European ideals of personal freedom and civil rights. Unfortunately, the same decades became increasingly dominated by intolerant nation states and ideologies that generated stateless, homeless, and often helpless individuals. György Lukács’s notion of ‘transcendental homelessness’ (1916) offers a framework to look at four subsequent waves of exiles between 1919 and 1939, exiles who found only a highly precarious and temporary abode in Vienna, Berlin, Moscow, and Paris. Leaving behind their native cultures, these exiles and émigrés became acquainted with other languages and cultures, but seldom profited fully from positive encounters, because, in the words of Arthur Koestler, they were often regarded as the ‘scum of the earth’ by the officials, but often also by the inhabitants, of their host countries. Homelessness The title of this volume speaks of ‘encounter’, ‘exchange’, and ‘rethinking’. Let me give a twist to this ‘friendly’ perspective by confronting you with a different encounter: (On the day when I was) arrested, there had been three occasions when I believed that my execution was imminent. The first time in the sola of the Villa Santa Lucia, with three guns digging into my ribs, when Bolín had called for a rope in such a threatening voice that I thought he needed it to hang me (though he only wanted it to tie my hands); the second time, when the car had stopped on the improvised execution ground on the Camino Nuevo; the

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John Neubauer third time, a few hours later when, after Bolín had told me that I would be shot at night, they took me out of the police station at nightfall and put me into a lorry, with five men behind me, their rifles across their knees; so that I thought we were driving to the cemetery, whereas we only drove to the prison (…) Much worse was another episode on the same day: being photographed for the rogue’ gallery against a wall in the street, hands tied, in the midst of a hostile crowd. This time (…) a painful childhood memory was suddenly revived. I felt as helpless as at the age of five when, in a doctor’s surgery, I was without preliminary warning tied with leather straps to the operating chair, then held down and gagged by way of preparation for a tonsillectomy. I have described this scene in Arrow in the Blue, and have explained how the sensation of utter helplessness and abandonment to a hostile, malign power, had filled me with a kind of cosmic terror. It had been my first conscious acquaintance with ‘Ahor’, and a main cause of the anxietyneurosis. As I stood against the wall in that street in Malaga, equally defenceless and exposed, obediently turning my head at the bellowed commands of the photographer, that trauma was revived (Koestler 1954, 350).

Malaga probably gives away the time and place of this encounter: the Spanish Civil War. The speaker is Arthur Koestler, who came to help the republican cause, as did André Malraux, George Orwell, Ernest Hemingway, John Dos Passos, W.H. Auden, Stephen Spender, Ilya Ehrenburg, Louis Aragon, Elsa Triolet, and many lesser communist and left-wing writers and journalists. The firing lines of the Spanish Civil War were, indeed, where the European leftists encountered each other between 1936 and 1938. Only Koestler was caught by Franco’s army. He was formally condemned to death, and he escaped only due to an international rescue movement to save him.1 Koestler was born in 1905, in Budapest, my own native city. He was too young to participate in the bourgeois revolution of 1918 and the communist one of 1919, though he remembered positively the changes that the communists introduced in his school.2 His Jewish parents were 1 Facing death, Koestler recalls here the traumatic childhood removal of his tonsils, performed by my own grandfather. The chapter in the autobiography of his childhood Arrow in the Blue carries the title Dr. Neubauer. 2 ‘During those hundred days of spring it looked indeed as if the globe were to be lifted from its axis (…) Even at school strange and exciting events were taking place. New teachers appeared who spoke to us in a new voice, and treated us as if we were adults, with an earnest, friendly seriousness’ (Koestler 1952, 62). Those were days, Koestler writes, of ‘hopeful and exuberant mood’ (64). The family fled for good when the Commune was defeated and Romanian troops occupied Budapest (68-69). See Neubauer and Török 2009, 26.

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no revolutionaries, but the threat of a White Terror after the defeat of the communists made them flee to Vienna at the end of 1919 – together with close to 100,000 others. By the time of his Malaga arrest in 1936, Koestler became one of the most remarkable stateless nomads of Europe – a group that will be the centre of attention in my paper, for I wish to argue that any adequate consideration of the interbellum ‘encounters’, ‘exchanges’, and ‘rethinking Europe’ must include the notion of transzendentale Obdachlosigkeit’ that György Lukács coined in 1916, during World War I. ‘Transcendental homelessness’ was central to his Theory of the Novel, first printed as a journal article, but by the time it was published as a book in 1920, Lukács had already rejected it, for by then he had himself built a rickety ideological home in the Communist Party, which made him literally ‘homeless’. In an earlier article I have shown that Mihail Bakhtin refigured ‘transcendental homelessness’ during his own exile under Stalin into a ‘linguistic homelessness’, in order to elaborate a new theory of the novel. Today I want to show that forced evictions, displacements, exile, and emigration were the existential conditions of life, not only during the wars but also between them. The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy collapsed in the wake of World War I: Hungary lost two-thirds of its pre-war territory, and new nations – among them Poland, Czechoslovakia, Greater Romania, and the Kingdom of Serbia, Croatia, and Slovenia – (re)emerged. Yet the new borders did not diminish ethnic tensions; on the contrary, millions fled from their homes, others were expelled or exchanged. As Michael Marrus writes: In 1918 huge masses of refugees appeared in Europe, victims of the newstyle nation-states – especially those consolidating their precarious existence in the postwar world. It was estimated in 1926 that there were no less than 9.5 million European refugees, including two million Poles to be repatriated (…) 250,000 Hungarians, and one million Germans expelled from various parts of Europe (Marrus 1985, 51-52, based on de Byras 1926, 56).

Marrus’s impersonal statistical figures come alive in Joseph Roth’s novel Hotel Savoy (first published in 1924), which portrays the turmoil of a Viennese hotel that is crowded with refugees and returning soldiers captured during the war. The victorious allies wanted, but sadly failed, to create homogenous national populations. The shocking numbers, and the vast human suffering behind them, became a key source of World War II and the still worse refugee problem after it. We ought to distinguish these post-war

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refugee waves from my present subject, the individual, rather than mass, displacements of exile and emigration. Both originated from nationalist, racist, and other ideologies of intolerance and hatred; but the refugee masses were usually settled by moving people to linguistic and cultural environments that were in some way familiar to them, whereas exile and emigration almost always led into alien territories, cultures, and linguistic environments – nations and cultures that vigorously resisted the alien intrusion, for, in their view, they would create mixed rather than homogeneous populations. Put in a somewhat oversimplified way: mass removals wanted to homogenise, whereas exile de-homogenised. Could exile ‘intrusions’ lead to ‘encounters’, ‘exchanges’, and ‘rethinking Europe’ in a positive sense? Perhaps in a few cases, but, I am afraid that exile seldom contributed to the emergence of a common European disposition. Before I discuss my main topic, the exile centres in Vienna, Berlin, Moscow, and Paris, I should say something about the major exile waves, namely 1) the exodus from revolutionary Russia, 2) the exodus of mostly Jewish Hungarians in 1919, 3) the exodus of Spaniards after the Franco’s victory, and 4) the exodus of Jews and leftists, not only from Nazi Germany but also from other countries with right-wing, anti-Semitic, or fascist regimes. Four waves of exodus The Russian exodus started after the outbreak of the revolution in 1917, but intensified in 1922, when the communist government allowed select emigration within its New Economic Policy. The emigrants were not only members of the aristocracy and supporters of the Tsarist regime, but also performing artists, theatre directors, musicians, scientists, and writers (Schlögel 1994 and 1995). They included the writer Vladimir Nabokov, the linguist Roman Jakobson, the ballet directors Serge Diaghilev and George Balanchine, as well as the ballerina Alexandra Danilova, the composer Igor Stravinsky, the chess champion Alexander Alekhine, the sociologist Pitirim Sorokin, and the actor and director Mikhail Chekhov (a nephew of Anton).3

3

Ivan Bunin, Dmitri Nabokov, ballerina teacher Olga Preobrajenska 1918 to Paris; Sergei Rachmaninoff, Ayn Rand, Anna Pavlova, Otto Struve, Vladimir Zvorykin, Ilya Prigogine, economist Wassily Leontief left in 1925.

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The Russian émigrés settled mainly in Berlin, Paris, and the newly independent East-Central European countries. Of the latter I mention only the popular Russian-Estonian writer Igor Severyanin; the colourful Pavel Irtel (Freiherr von Brenndorff), a former White Army officer who published Nov’ (1928-35), the most important Russian literary publication in Tallinn and settled after the war in Göttingen; and the novelist Mikhail Petrovich Artsybashev, who gained European popularity with his novel Sanin (1907), immigrated to Warsaw, and published there (-1927) the violently anti-Bolshevik journal Za svobodu (For Freedom). Roman Jakobson, Nikolay Trubetzkoy, and Sergei Karcevskiy were founding members of the Prague Linguistic Circle in 1926, but had to flee Czechoslovakia after the Munich treaty of 1938. The second exodus consisted of leftist and communist Hungarian writers and intellectuals. Fearing a White Terror (which materialised in 1920), they fled Hungary after the collapse of Béla Kun’s short-lived Hungarian Soviet regime (the Commune). While this largely Jewish exodus numbered closely a 100,000 people (and was thus smaller than the anti-communist White Russian one) its impact on Hungarian culture can only be compared to the brain drain following the suppression of the 1956 revolution. I shall discuss these Hungarian exiles in the context of Vienna, where they first stopped. The third exodus of the interwar years was released by the collapse of the Spanish republican cause in 1938. This important, though relatively small, group did, contrary to expectations, not settle in France. The leading Spanish writers passed, via detention camps, through France, and went on: Jorge Guillén and his friend Pedro Salinas went to the US; Luis Cernuda went to Great Britain and later to the US and Mexico; Rafael Alberti fled to Argentina in 1939; Manuel Altolaguirre and Emilio Prados settled eventually in Mexico. The huge exodus from Germany started right after Hitler came to power in 1933, and continued throughout the remainder of the decade. The Czechs fled after the Munich Treaty of 1938 exclusively westward, to England or the US, sometimes after a brief stay in Paris. Many Jewish Hungarian writers – among them György Faludy, Ferenc Fejtõ, Pál Ignotus, Baron Bertalan Hatvany, and Ferenc Molnár – were driven out of the country because of Hungary’s anti-Semitic laws, enacted in 1938, 1939, and 1941. The composer Béla Bartók, not a Jew, left because of the anti-Semitic laws, the imminent war, and the government policy.

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Cities of the stateless The Hungarians that fled after the collapse of the country’s Commune turned Vienna into the first twentieth-century exile center. Most of the Hungarians crossed the border illegally and lived without proper papers in the city, for instance in the flimsy barracks of Grinzing, a temporary hospital during the war, now inhabited, as Joseph Zuffa writes, ‘by political refugees, Zionists, struggling artists, university students, indigents, rebellious predecessors of the ‘beat generation’, self-appointed saints, philosophers, and messiahs – a weird medley of rootless humanity’ (Zuffa 1987, 123). Others did better. The poet and theatre man Béla Balázs found privacy in Schloss Waisnix, while the filmmaker Alexander Korda moved into a luxurious hotel to impress his potential producers. George Lukács, who had been Commissar for Education and Culture during the Commune, was smuggled out in a chauffeur disguise. Balázs found him ‘a most heartrending sight – deadly pale, with sunken face, nervous and dejected’. In Hungary, he was accused of instigating murder, and he carried a gun in order to prevent being kidnapped. A protest against his extradition in the Berliner Tageblatt was signed by prominent Germans, including Thomas and Heinrich Mann. Balázs left Hungary when the police found his diary in his abandoned apartment. He escaped on a boat with his brother’s passport, and wrote, upon arrival, ruefully about his fake sideburns and moustache: ‘I had the hideous face of a Jewish-broker, with a monocle on my nose. Sad, isn’t it, that one can mask me like this? Perhaps some an unmasking? If not of myself, then of the race’. Obsessed with his identity, he adopted a slightly maudlin self-image: Have I been exiled when I ran abroad, or did I arrive home? My ‘home’ cannot be located on a map. And if that is the case, so be it. … Conclusion: I am not an exile. […] I am not interested in their national-political life (Nonsense! Not true, either. How it hurt when I read ‘Bratislava’ over the port of Pozsony, and how glad I was when the Viennese paper wrote that this is not yet final.) I do not look for their company: I am a wanderer, and a lonely, non-national foreigner (for the Jew is not nationless either); but Hungarian strings are strung over the lyre of my heart, and I relate in Hungarian songs what hurts (Balázs 1982, 2: 361).

Finding politics and the company of his friend Lukács too dangerous, Balázs turned to writing. He earned good money with a book, and with a regular column of film criticism he started in 1922 for the newspaper Der Tag. Out of these reviews grew his next book, Der sichtbare Mensch (1924),

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a pioneering theory of silent films that established his international reputation and allowed him to move in 1926 to Berlin, a centre of interwar film culture. For Balázs, filmic faces, movements, and gestures revealed thoughts and feelings. Hence he treasured close-ups and camera operators. Unfortunately, this displeased his communist colleagues, who believed that material reality and class struggle determined psychology; close-ups and cameramen recorded merely subjective gazes. In Vienna, Balázs cultivated ties with German authors and Hungarian filmmakers. He befriended Leonhard Frank, Robert Musil (who loved his film aesthetics), Arthur Schnitzler, the actress Helene Weigel, who became later Brecht’s wife, and the composer Hanns Eisler. Balázs also frequented the Café Filmhof, where the émigré Hungarian filmmakers of future fame gathered, including Alexander Korda, his screenplay-writer Lajos Biró, and Mihály Kertész, who became known as Michael Curtiz, the director of Casablanca and other film classics. Korda and Kertész had been directors of the nationalised film industry during the Commune, but no card-carrying communists. Lukács disapproved of Balázs’s success in the bourgeois-capitalist world, belittled his friend’s recent literary works, disapproved of Balázs’s promiscuity, and did not support his application for Party membership, for he considered him incapable of total dedication. The Party did, indeed, reject Balázs’s membership – yet continued to accept his dues. In spite of all this, Balázs joined Lukács when their legendary Budapest Sunday Circle reassembled in Vienna early 1921. The new members included the economist László Radványi (the later husband of Anna Seghers), and, occasionally, also Hanns Eisler. In trying to reassess the Commune, Lukács justified the suppression of individuality to a common ideology, while Ervin Sinkó compared such a surrender to an unio mystica with god. The communist leaders were also torn. Béla Kun wanted to dictate the Party line from Moscow, while Jenõ Landler, who remained in Vienna, preferred to work with allies in Hungary. Death settled the issue: Landler died in 1928, while Béla Kun disappeared from Moscow during the purges a decade later. The most important non-communists among the exiles included the avant-garde Activists around Lajos Kassák and his journal Ma (Today). Kassák was a revolutionary, but had rejected in Hungary Béla Kun’s dictatorship by insisting on the freedom of the artist. The young sociologist and philosopher Karl Mannheim fled because he had been appointed professor during the Commune; he went on to Freiburg, and wrote a

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one-act tragedy before embarking on the sociological projects that brought him world fame. The liberal exiles included the young brothers Michael and Karl Polányi, who became world famous intellectuals, and Oszkár Jászi, who pleaded for a Danubian Federation, land distribution, and a democratic social system. Jászi came to edit the liberal Bécsi Magyar Újság, which reported on the Hungarian White Terror and the trials of communists, but still could be legally registered and distributed in Hungary. Contributors to the paper included not only the Polányi brothers, Balázs, Kassák, and Mihály Károlyi, the leader of Hungary’s bourgeois revolution, but also Andor Gábor, a brilliant young a-political cabaretist back in Hungary, who became in Vienna the most radical communist, attacking even Oszkár Jászi. At the request of the Hungarian government, Gábor was finally expelled from Austria and, subsequently, also from France. He continued to play controversial roles in Berlin and Moscow. Departure from Vienna was gradual. The artist László Moholy-Nagy left for Berlin as early as 1920. Jászi became in 1925 professor of political science at Oberlin College. Kassák returned to Hungary in 1926. Lukács was expelled from Vienna in 1930. Hitler’s annexation of Austria in 1938 turned Vienna from a safe haven into a capsized ship. Touch and go in Berlin The Viennese Hungarian exiles who drifted to Berlin in the early 1920s met there a colony of Hungarian expatriates in the theatre, the art world, the film industry, publishing, and other cultural institutions. The Hungarian expats of the Weimar Republic rightly proclaimed: ‘Berlin is our Paris today’. Moholy-Nagy found in Berlin the portrait painter Lajos Tihanyi, the art critic Ernõ Kállai, who wrote the lead article for the September 15, 1921 issue of Ma which featured Moholy-Nagy, and the constructivist sculptor László Péri, who had an exhibition with Moholy-Nagy in 1922. Moholy-Nagy himself joined the Bauhaus in 1923.4 Turning to film, we observe that Alexander Korda established himself in the film metropolis of Berlin, and gradually brought over other Hungarians, including Balázs, who arrived in May 1926, by now as the internationally acknowledged author of Der sichtbare Mensch. Balázs was the 4 Marcel Breuer and Andor Weininger were other important Hungarians at the Bauhaus.

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scenarist for Korda’s Madame wünscht keine Kinder (1926), and he subsequently wrote the scenario for the lost film Die Abenteuer eines Zehnmarkscheines (1926), which featured a ten-mark banknote as the protagonist. Balázs was so critical of the capitalist film industry that the biggest German film company, UFA, refused to work with him, but Balázs managed to make two important contributions. He rewrote the scenario of The Threepenny Opera when Bertolt Brecht and director G.W. Pabst were unable to resolve their differences, and he helped Leni Riefenstahl to direct her first film, Das blaue Licht (1932) – for which she never paid him and not even gave credit after Hitler assumed power. In 1930, Balázs published his book on sound films, Der Geist des Films, and the novel Unmögliche Menschen, which showed how isolated Hungarian intellectuals and artists gradually engage with peasants and workers in revolutionary activities – a trajectory Balázs personally attempted to follow in Berlin by immersing himself in educational and theater projects. He became the artistic director of the communist Arbeiter-Theater Bund Deutschlands that staged agitprop performances, but he was soon dismissed. He participated also in László Radványi’s Marxistische Arbeiterschule (MASCH), which followed the changing line of the German Communist Party, and involved such luminaries as Lukács, Alfred Einstein, Egon Erwin Kisch, Ludwig Renn, Erwin Piscator, John Heartfield, Hanns Eisler, Walter Gropius, Bruno Taut, and Alfred Kurella. Very few other East-European writers and intellectuals came in those years to Berlin. The Czechs and Poles were happy to have finally overcome German and Austrian cultural and political domination – unaware of what was ahead of them. The Romanians traditionally migrated to Paris. The Romanian Jewish painter M.H. Maxy did come to Berlin for his creative years, 1922-23, but then returned to Bucharest. There were, however, Romanian, Yugoslav, and Slovak nationals in Berlin, whose mother tongue was Hungarian. Berlin’s largest, most glittering and divided émigré community was Russian. Nina Berberova, who was my colleague at Princeton when she wrote her memoirs entitled The Italics are Mine,5 offers an impressive list of writers she and her husband Vladislav Khodasevich6 met there; it includes Maxim Gorkij, Viktor Shklovsky, Roman Jakobson, Ilya Ehren5 The Russian original (Kursiv Moi) of The Italics are mine was published in the Soviet Union only in 1983. 6 On Khdasevich, see Tomas Venclova in Rubins 2005, 166-81.

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burg, Boris Pasternak, Vladimir Nabokov,7 and, the most outlandish of them all, Andrey Bely. Berberova was away when Bely first visited them, but upon return she found the following scene: the whole room was littered with ashes, butts were stuck in an inkwell, in a soap dish, and (…) [her husband] said that the minute Bely came through the door everything around was transformed. He brought with him the magic of transformation. When he left, all again became as it was. (…) He brought and took away something that no one else had (Berberova 1969, 156).

Recounting that Bely decided, after much hesitation, to return to the Soviet Union in 1923, Berberova writes: ‘Bely left. Berlin became empty – the Russian Berlin (I knew no other). The German Berlin was only the background for these years’ (Berberova 1969, 167). Did Bely’s greatness enhance the Russian insularity, or was it the other way around? Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that Berberova’s account of her two years in Berlin contains no reference to the German culture around her, let alone to the Hungarians in Berlin, many of whom, of course, sympathised with the Soviet Union. True, not only Bely returned to the Soviet Union. He was followed by Shklovsky, Pasternak, Ehrenburg, and Gorky (in 1928, after four years in Sorrento, Italy). The isolation of the Russian Berlin community was not just politically motivated. In any case, it represented a sharp contrast to the cosmopolitanism of the Hungarians. Close encounters in Moscow The Polish communist writers Bruno Jasieñski, Witold Wandurski, and Ryszard Stande came to the Soviet Union as early as the late 1920s and early 30s, but were killed off a few years later. Most exiles, almost exclusively Germans and Hungarians, reached Moscow when communists had to flee from Germany after 1933. I select a few episodes, focusing on Lukács, Balázs, and Ervin Sinkó. Balázs left Berlin for Moscow in 1931, before the completion of Das Blaue Licht and Hitler’s assumption of power. He was commissioned to make a film on the Hungarian Commune. Lukács came already in 1930, but was sent back to Germany next year to do underground work. When 7 Berberova 1969, 197-99, 199-200 and 236; 321-25. On the Russian émigrés in Berlin, see also Rubins 2005, xviii-xix and Kalb in Rubins 2005, 41. According to Rubins, the major center of Russian émigré culture between 1920 and 1924 was Berlin (xiii).

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he definitely had to leave Germany, he withdrew as much as he could into the Marx and Engels archives. Balázs received a number of additional film commissions, none of which could be carried out, but he earned good money with children books and with indemnifications for broken film contracts – enough to buy for himself a dacha outside Moscow. The other exiles, including Lukács, continued to live in the seedy and highly supervised Hotel Lux for foreign exiles – and were irritated. Yet, the dacha owner felt even more homeless than his friend, and his insecurity led, rightly or wrongly, to paranoia. It is true that Balázs was severely attacked several times within the German-Hungarian literary exile community, which was lethal during the years of the Stalinist purges. He survived, but only by offering some highly questionable proofs of his loyalty. That he slavishly glorified Stalin on his birthday was, of course, not unique – although Lukács offered for the volume only an essay on Stalin’s books in the capitalist countries. It was more shocking that Balázs reacted to the disappearance of his brother Ervin Bauer, a leading theorist of biology, by immediately informing the authorities that he had no contact with his brother and followed a different political line. And then there was the film for which he was invited to the Soviet Union. The problematic production did reach completion, but the film was never shown and seems to have disappeared. Balázs blamed Boris Shumyatsky, director of the Soviet film industry, who was two years later arrested and executed in 1938. In his still unpublished diary Balázs notes on January 2, 1940 that during filming he had not even an inkling that he was dealing ‘with an organised counter-revolutionary force that reached all the way to the very top’.8 Did he really believe that Shumyatsky was the head of a counter-revolutionary complot – rather than incompetent administrator? I would generously assume that Balázs wrote this to safeguard himself against an eventual GPU inspection of his diary, but one cannot say the same concerning an unpublished postwar note of Balázs’s wife, according to which her husband’s memos ‘made him very trustworthy in the eyes of the GPU, and contributed to the unmasking of Shumyatsky, a skillful saboteur’.9 Whatever services Balázs performed for the GPU, naïvely or consciously, they did not make him feel at home in the Soviet Union. As we 8 Unpublished diary note from January 2, 1940, quoted in Neubauer and Török 2009, 67. 9 Unpublished note quoted in Neubauer and Török 2009, 67.

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saw, he had agonised about his Hungarian Jewish identity already when he had arrived in Vienna, and he tried everything thereafter to acquire a different one. He immersed himself into the cosmopolitan world of the Weimar Republic, he was outraged when Johannes Becher did not list him among the German writers in Soviet exile, and he was greatly disappointed when his application for Soviet citizenship was rejected. However, by 1945 Balázs reverted to the Hungarian language, and he was eager to re-accustom himself to the ‘smell’ of his people. He started a symbolic autobiography that staged him as a ‘Wandering Jew’ returning to his motherland. With a ‘tired, sad desire’ he wanted to merge into a community that was wiser than he by himself. Such a return, he wrote, would be a logical fulfillment of his life and of world history; His ‘terrible and wonderful’ fate would be wasted if he did not complete his work on his ‘Wandering Jew’. Well, he didn’t, but he did write a few poems, intended as gifts of a homecoming exile. He wanted to share the suffering of those who remained at home by returning ‘with the small tattered troops of my memories, to capture a new Heimat’. Ervin Sinkó had different encounters. He moved from his Vienna exile to Serbia to write his monumental autobiographical fiction The Optimists. He went to Paris to find a publisher, and after many refusals, he was invited, with the help of Romain Rolland, to Moscow, where, so they thought, his manuscript would surely find a publisher. He arrived in Moscow in May 1935, was promised publication in various languages but was finally expelled from the Soviet Union on April 14, 1937, because he had no income. The publication promises were time and again reneged by intimidated bureaucrats who shied away from controversial decisions. Instead of revolutionaries and heroes, Sinkó found in Moscow only functionaries, who atrociously played ‘the eternal egg-dance of the immortal Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’ (regény 111). The story repeated itself with Sinko’s other manuscripts and film scripts. One day in 1937 Sinkó found the dejected movie director Eisenstein in the room of Isaac Babel, who shared an apartment with him. A ranking Party Committee just stopped the filming of Bezhin Lug (Bezhin Meadow). As Babel told Sinkó subsequently, Eisenstein burst into his room like a madman, cursing, gnashing his teeth, banging his head with his fist, now crying and now laughing (469). In the end, he had to confess his ‘mistakes’. Sinkó’s contract for a film script was also rejected, but he was not as lucky as Balázs. Encouraged by journalistic outcries against mis-

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managements in the industry, he wrote an angry letter to Pravda, in which he mentioned that Babel helped him complete the script. Learning about this, the panic-stricken Babel rushed off to retrieve the yet unpublished letter without consulting with Sinkó. Like Balázs, Sinkó then initiated a lawsuit against the film company, but went through a bitter disappointment: Babel promised to support him, but then flatly denied in court having known about the script (504-508). Babel’s fear overruled his friendship, but this did not help, for he soon disappeared. Once Sinko returned to France in 1937, he had to fear the French bureaucracy as well as the long arm of Moscow. He placed a few reviews and articles in communist and fellow-traveller journals, but after giving a carefully worded lecture about his Moscow experiences to ‘The Friends of the Soviet Union’, he was baffled to see that his accepted articles did not see print. Finally, a distinguished lady discreetly informed him that his lecture displeased the comrades; but, she added, his articles and book manuscript would get published if he publicly defended the Soviet trials and executions. As Sinkó found out later, these were Moscow directives, transmitted to France by Louis Aragon, the powerful communist French poet (600-609). Sinkó refused to comply and fled from France to Bosnia when the war broke out. Farewell to Paris For centuries, Paris had been considered the Mecca of writers and intellectuals, but different countries had different approaches to it. For the Romanians, it had always been a sort of ‘home turf’, partly because of the linguistic kinship. Tristan Tzara, arrived in Paris in 1919, by way of Zürich’s Dadaist Café Voltaire. The next Romanians – Benjamin Fondane, Claude Sernet, Ilarie Voronca, Emil Cioran, and others – arrived in the 1920s and 30s, mainly for cultural rather than political reasons, though increasing anti-Semitism in Romania discouraged Jewish writers like Fondane from returning. He died in a concentration camp. Sernet and Voronca, also of Jewish descent, survived the war, but Voronca committed suicide right afterwards. Those Romanians who survived and settled in France became highly regarded writers in the French language. Robert Harold Johnston believes that Paris became the principal city of the Russian émigrés during the 1920s because the French government

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was the most hospitable of them all.10 I wonder. Their status as apatrides became particularly problematic once the French government recognised the Soviet Union in 1924. Berberova, who moved in 1925 to Paris, found a politically torn and yet self-enclosed Russian community there (Berberova 1969, 221-223 etc.). Of the writers, only Henry Troyat, born as Lev Tarasov, became integrated into the French community, once he became winner of the Prix Goncourt in 1938 and member of the Académie Française. Ivan Bunin did receive the Nobel Prize in 1933, but he remained largely in the Russian circuit, which consisted not only of individuals but also a very large number of cultural organizations. In Paris, the Russian émigrés came to read modernist writers like Thomas Mann, Virginia Woolf, or André Gide, but Berberova did not get to know personally those who lived in Paris, not even the famous expats from the US and Ireland (Berberova 1969, 286, 350). She writes movingly about the western, especially French, refusal to accept the truth about the inhumanity of Stalin’s totalitarianism (Berberova 1969, 229-37, 283-85). She felt profoundly excluded by confronting ‘the stone countenance of modern France’ (Berberova 1969, 357). Some of the German-Jewish refugees tried to accommodate themselves. Walter Benjamin, for instance, started his unfinished Arcade project in Paris. But by 1938-39, the city became overcrowded with foreigners, many of whom desperately tried to get residency permits or visas to go elsewhere. Degrading encounters with hatred of foreigners, with French bureaucracy, and with the equanimity of foreign embassies yielded sagas of exile life, for instance Anna Seghers’s Transit (1944), Lion Feuchtwanger’s Exil (1940), or Franz Werfel’s Song of Bernadette (1942). The Hungarians, their neutral passports notwithstanding, had similar experiences, though not all of them became bitter. Applying for a residency permit, Ferenc Fejtõ encountered a ‘cold wind of foreigner hatred’ at the police station in 1938, yet he still considered France more hospitable than Switzerland, England, or the US (Fejtõ 2007, 215). The great poet György Faludy rallied all his wit to save his ‘love affair’ with 10

See Johnston 1994, 260-78. On the Russian émigrés in Paris see Rubins 2005, xix-xxiii. She quotes the émigré Dovid Knut’s remark that the capital of Russian literature had moved to Paris (xxii). Rubins also notes a generational shift among the émigrés: “Many younger writers dissociated themselves from the political and religious preoccupations, cultural snobbery, aesthetic conservatism, and elitism of the older émigrés by imitating their French bohemian peers and establishing their own publishing ventures” related to the French avant-garde (xxiii).

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Marianne, by claiming that ‘the villainy of the authorities and the unbearable atmosphere at the Préfecture’ failed to drive him to despair. ‘Though we stopped wooing the lady we preserved our love for her’ (Faludy 2002, 35). The promiscuous Koestler found unrequited love insufficient. He thought that he and other ten-thousands were treated by the French as ‘scum of the earth’ – the title he gave to his scathing account of his experiences in France shortly before and during the war (Koestler 1941). In the end, both Faludy and Koestler escaped to French Africa by joining the French Foreign Legion. No, such interwar encounters decidedly lacked sociability! To be sure, mass displacements, emigration, and exile were only part of the picture. They resulted from earlier and interwar political and military power conflicts that continued into World War II and beyond. My paper has not dealt with the intellectual, artistic, and social movements that aimed at a “rethinking of Europe” on more peaceful and liberal grounds. Several articles in this volume deal with networks of cooperation. Unfortunately, the ideals and plans of such networks, which included also the League of Nations and the International PEN Club, foundered, not just because of external pressures, but primarily because of internal dissension. There was, to be sure, plenty of good will, but the products of “rethinking” differed from each other so that visions of a more congenial Europe remained on the drawing boards and never reached the stage of political realization. Another World War, as well as a Cold War, had to pass before tentative and still very fragile ideas of a more comprehensive European cooperation could be launched.

References Balázs, Béla. 1982. Napló 1919-1922. Budapest: Magvetõ. Berberova, Nina. 1969. The Italics are Mine. Trans. Philippe Radley. London: Longmans. Bryas, Madeleine de. 1926. Les Peuples en marche: les migrations politiques et économiques en Europe depuis la guerre mondiale. Paris: Pedone. Faludy, György. 2002. My Happy Days in Hell. Trans. Kathleen Szász. London: André Deutsch. Fejtõ, Ferenc. 2007. Budapesttõl Párizsig; Párizstól Budapestig. Budapest: Kossuth.

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Johnston, Robert Harold. 1994. ‘Paris: Die Hauptstadt der russischen Diaspora.’ Der groâe Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917 bis 1941. Ed. Karl Schlögel. München: Beck. Kalb, Judith E. 2005. Nina Berberova. In Twentieth-Century Russian Émigré Writers, ed. Maria Rubins, 38-49. Detroit: Thompson Gale. Koestler, Arthur. 1941. Scum of the Earth. London: Gollancz. Koestler, Arthur. 1954. The Invisible Writing. London: Collins. Koestler, Arthur. 1952. Arrow in the Blue. An Autobiography. London: Collins. Marrus, Michael. 1985. The Unwanted: European Refugees in the Twentieth Century. NY: Oxford UP. Neubauer, John, and Borbála Zsuzsanna Török. 2009. The Exile and Return of Writers from East-Central Europe. A Compendium. Berlin: de Gruyter. Roth, Joseph. 1978. Hotel Savoy. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch-Verlag. Rubins, Maria, ed. 2005. Twentieth-Century Russian Émigré Writers. Dictionary of Literary Bibliography vol. 317. Detroit: Thompson Gale. Schlögel, Karl, ed. 1994. Der große Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917-1941. München: Beck. Schlögel, Karl, ed. 1995. Russische Emigration in Deutschland 1918-1941. Leben im europäischen Bürgerkrieg. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Venclova, Tomas. (2005). Vladislav Khodasevich. In Twentieth-Century Russian Émigré Writers, ed. Maria Rubins, 166-81. Detroit: Thompson Gale. Zuffa, Joseph. 1987. Béla Balázs. The Man and the Artist. Berkeley: University of California Press.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 49-61

GERMAN INTELLECTUALS AND THE CRISIS OF CULTURE (1918-1940)

Frits Boterman

Abstract The First World War and its aftermath changed the position of intellectuals in Europe dramatically and politically and culturally reordered the continent. Now, even more than before the war, they attributed a political and societal mission to themselves, or were called upon by others. German intellectuals operated at the centre of these developments. They were confronted with the arrival and clash of new ideologies and moved between reconciliation, dialogue and exclusion. Some of them yielded to the ideological temptations and became ‘fellow travellers’ of communism or fascism, and contributed to what Julien Benda called the ‘treason of the intellectuals’. The rise of fascism and communism, and consequently the search for allies and partners and the expansion of exile communities, prompted national and transnational encounters with other intellectuals, most prominently in France. As a result, discussions about the nature and future of Europe were at the centre of their intellectual exchange. Introduction After the First World War Europe was tangled up in a deep political, cultural and moral crisis. Because of the catastrophic war and the heated tensions in Europe as a result of the Treaty of Versailles the position of European intellectuals changed dramatically. The intellectual scene now received a different, more political character and became directly involved in the conflicts and discord that arose during the interwar years. As representatives of a nation that seemed to bear the burden of the First World War most visibly, German intellectuals were at the heart of

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the attempts at rethinking both the role of the intellectual and the idea of Europe. In this chapter I will examine the historical background of the position of German intellectuals, the consequences of the war for their viewpoints and their transnational encounters. A dominant tradition in historiography of the interwar years analyses the period in the context of the tripartite competitive relations of communism, fascism and parliamentary democracy and speaks of the ideological temptation of power by fascism and communism. What positions did intellectuals in Germany and in Europe at large take with respect to these systems? And finally: how did this translate into new ideas of Europe? Intellectuals and the war The first cause of the altered intellectual environment is of course the First World War itself, which dramatically changed the face of Europe and the world. The war drastically altered Europe’s political condition. Mighty empires crumbled and new states were emerging. The endless mass killings in the trenches and the senseless suffering ultimately resulted in deep disillusionment. Two million Germans died and 60% of the soldiers were injured. Across the globe, more than 10 million soldiers perished (Bessel 1993, 5ff). The dramatic and agonizing course of the war, the supremacy of technology over human will, leaving no place for heroic individualism, led to opposition to the war (in the form of strikes) and to a major societal dichotomy. War front and home front, soldiers and officers grew apart, and material conditions worsened dramatically. Neither the hoped-for national unity, the ‘spirit of 1914’ or the ‘union sacrée’, nor the coveted cultural synthesis between art and life, between ‘Geist und Macht’ would survive the four years of bitter conflict. Instead, it brought a complete absence of national consensus, deep divisions, economic malaise, and utter cultural fragmentation, the impact of which would continue to be felt throughout the Weimar period. However, against the background of the destructive and devastating material, physical and psychological effects of the war and the decline of Europe, two new world powers emerged: the United States and the Soviet Union. The American troops helped the Allies to victory and with his Fourteen Points (1917), the American president Woodrow Wilson laid the foundations for a future world order, with the League of Nations as its cornerstone. In the same year, the Bolsheviks, led by Lenin and Trotsky, were successful in overthrowing the autocracy of the Tsar and estab-

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lishing a dictatorship founded on Marxist-Leninist doctrine in Russia, followed by more than a decade of extremely violent and bloody civil war. A second cause that contributed to the changed intellectual climate was that the war resulted in a virtually irreconcilable disparity between the Germans as the defeated party, and the French, capitalising on their victory. The French prime minister, Raymond Poincaré, expressed the general sentiment by saying that the ‘Huns’ should be forced to pay retribution as well as urging that their influence in Europe should be restricted. The Treaty of Versailles caused a rupture in European relations, putting further pressure on already strained alliances. The imposed nature of the treaty and its restrictive provisions (most importantly, the occupation of the Rhineland, reparations and accepting sole responsibility for the war) embittered the majority of the German population and incited retaliation, hate and resentment within right-wing circles among the so-called National Opponents. Although the 1920s saw a number of efforts to reconcile France and Germany, bilateral and European cooperation as an ideal remained very difficult to realize. A third important cause is the ideological impact of the war on the domestic culture and politics within European states. Tension mounted among various political parties and groups resulting in clashes of political and ideological convictions. The lack of political consensus was visible in every nation. Both in the Weimar Republic and in the Third French Republic, the debate centred on domestic political order or, in other words, whether and to what extent parliamentary democracy, the party system, formed an appropriate instrument to solve the moral, cultural and political crisis in which the various countries found themselves. Many European countries opted for a form of authoritarian dictatorship. Apart from the issue of democracy and related values such as freedom, social justice and civil rights, the rise of socialism and communism strongly impacted upon intellectuals. As a result of the consequences of the revolutionary events in Russia, but also in other countries (most notably Hungary and Germany) intellectuals turned to the socialist or communist model. Strong belief in Marxist doctrines and hence in the inevitability of the socialist revolution convinced many left-wing intellectuals that Lenin had realised the hoped-for utopia that served as an example for their own countries. Other forms of state socialism, whether or not based on the values of ‘Fronterlebnis’ that had arisen during the war, were also incorporated in the prevailing socialist ideology.

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The fourth cause involves the cultural and intellectual world itself. The war and the revolutionary situation had not only divided and ripped apart what some had called the European Republic of Letters, but had also caused internal divisions within the groups of intellectuals that existed before the war. An essential difference with the situation before 1914 was that their political engagement increased, or, put differently, it became much more difficult to refrain from a political stance. Since the war, they could no longer take a pure cultural and aesthetic position, but were forced or felt obliged to intervene in the political scene, at home and abroad. Intellectuals from across Europe now responded to events beyond the national border, such as the rise of fascism and communism, the Spanish Civil War and the threat of war. The position of intellectuals was further complicated as a result of the profound cultural crisis in which Europe was perceived to find itself in. This crisis was a bolt from the blue, particularly for the more conservative or politically neutral intellectuals and academics, known in Germany as ‘Gebildeten’. Like a patient, culture was dissected, diagnosed and found to be as good as dead. The realisation that European civilization might well disappear was widespread in these circles and instilled much fear. In 1919, the French poet Paul Valéry wrote in his essay ‘The crisis of the spirit’ (‘La crise de l’ésprit’): ‘We civilizations now know ourselves to be mortal’ (Heumakers 2003, 56). A single European culture appeared to be an illusion. The war seemed to have thrown Europe into chaos. Modernism, expressed in all forms of modern mass media such as radio, photography or film and which also played a role in the avant-garde movements, was experienced by conservative intellectuals as an unwelcome reality that had to be rejected and countered at all cost. The West, America in particular, became a metaphor for these undesirable modern phenomena, leading to cultural pessimism and a profound sense of crisis. The conundrum of a cultured civilization which had existed for a long time in Germany was exploited in propaganda directed against the Western Allies – first by Thomas Mann, during the war, followed shortly thereafter by Oswald Spengler who in his magnum opus The Decline of the West (Der Untergang des Abendlandes) considered Western culture doomed (Boterman 1992, 56). After 1919, this antithesis was used to fight superficial and materialist Americanism and domestic enemies (Jews and Marxists). The Revolt of the Masses (La rebelión de las masas) by the Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset described the origin of the ‘mass-man’ who was

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responsible for the ‘vertical human migration’ that threatened higher cultural forms. As a result of the new mass culture, the old bourgeois elite came under pressure from various groups. Young revolutionary conservative intellectuals engaged with politics and resisted the old and the new order. Intellectuals and artists from both the left and the right of the political spectrum responded to the cultural crisis by developing revolutionary ideas that were worlds apart from the traditional conservatism and liberalism of the nineteenth century. In this context, a modern international avant-garde emerged which largely harboured left-wing utopian visions of a better world; art, social criticism and politics became linked. The war engendered a revolutionary anti-bourgeois attitude among this group, which signified a clear departure from the rational, liberal and middle class worldview. The nineteenth-century liberal idea of the autonomous individual, which Marx, Darwin and Freud had already undermined, was now under serious attack. Dadaism and expressionism in Germany, surrealism in France, futurism in Italy and constructivism in Russia all challenged the bourgeois society. These groups vigorously rejected the old idea of ‘l’art pour l’art’ and attributed a clear political and social function to art, causing bourgeois artists to persevere even stronger in their esthetic understanding of art. Not all left-wing intellectuals were involved in such avant-garde movements. Generally, the intellectual left was marked by internal differences and was divided between Marxist, pacifist and more humanist, religious and social democratic groups. It is noteworthy that the common enemy, capitalist middle class society, was not always the focus of these groups. They were more commonly engaged in rivalry and competition among themselves. The communists considered the social democrats to be social fascists, while the social democrats viewed the communists as advocates of a totalitarian ideology. Revolutionary intellectuals from the right were equally divided. An important group formed what is generally referred to as the Conservative Revolutionary Movement (Breuer 1993). The movement was not an exclusively German phenomenon, and triggered international exchange. They were represented in other countries, for example by Gabriele d’Annunzio in Italy and Charles Maurras in France. Here too, a strong aversion to democracy, liberalism and in this case Marxism was apparent. Their criticism of democracy, their radicalism and their (self-) destructiveness even united factions from both the extreme left and the extreme

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right in their desire for a radical new order in Europe. The ‘hunger for wholeness’ (Gay 2001, 70ff) was felt strongly on both sides. It is even more difficult to analyse fascism or National Socialism or other right-wing radical authoritarian movements and groups in terms of a cohesive ideological group. This subject has led to heated discussions among historians. The key questions are: is fascism a fundamental antimiddle class, modernist and revolutionary movement related to left-wing radicalism, an anti-materialist revision of Marxism, or is it a variety of extreme right-wing thought that opposes left-wing and modernist movements? Or is it, as Roger Griffin claims, forging its own course in modernism (Griffin 2007)? Compared to the relatively straightforward origins and programmes of Marxism, fascism and National Socialism are more difficult to analyse. Ideologically, fascism drew from eclectic sources. The origins of German Nazism are highly complex, but almost certainly go back to the Romantic cultural nationalism of between 1800 and 1900; however, it is safe to assume that without the occurrence of the First World War, Hitler would have forever remained a simple landscape artist. On the one hand, the fascist movement, with a large following throughout Europe, aired the same revolutionary and militant views that were upheld by extreme left-wing groups, which explains the cross-border interaction among intellectuals. Ultimately, the Nazi utopia turned out to constitute an ethnically homogenous ‘Volksgemeinschaft’, being antidemocratic and anti-Marxist in nature (pro-worker but opposed to class divides). This ideal of purity would not only set an example in Germany, but elsewhere in Europe too: attempts at reversing the Treaty of Versailles, ‘Heim ins Reich’, ‘Lebensraum’ in Eastern Europe and Russia and the ethnic reconstruction of Europe. Hitler and his followers’ racist biopolitics, based on anti-Semitism, Social Darwinism and eugenics, opposed both liberalism and the accepted nineteenth century idea of nationhood. This can best be described as ‘reactionary modernism’ (Herf 1984), merging traditional ideals with modern instruments, cultural romanticism with a veneration for technology and fulfilling both the need for security and a plan for the future. This theoretically totalitarian worldview was put into practice after January 1933. Politics, in Hitler’s view, meant war. ‘Deutschland wird entweder Weltmacht oder überhaupt nicht sein’, according to Hitler in Mein Kampf (Hitler 1931, 742). Fascism in Italy under Mussolini had a different, more leftist ideological background, which was also to be found in France. In sharp contrast to Germany, in France a bridge was formed between champions of left-

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wing ideology and right-wing nationalism as advocated by intellectuals like Charles Maurras and Maurice Barrès of the ‘Action Française’. The interpretation of French fascism in the interwar years is still highly contested among historians (Knegt 2011, 206-220). How popular was fascism there; was France perhaps immune to fascism; and how can it be analysed and classified? According to Zeev Sternhell in a well-known and controversial book published in 1983, Ni droite, ni gauche. L’idéologie fasciste en France (Neither Right nor Left: Fascist Ideology in France), the origin of fascism can be found in ultra-left circles in France around 1900. It involved a synthesis of revolutionary syndicalism, anarchism and nationalism and an ideology comparable to Mussolini’s fascist construals, which was influenced by the sociological theories of Georges Sorel, the philosophy of life of Henri Bergson, as well as a fundamental loathing for the bourgeois liberal republic. New ideas of Europe The complex political and ideological relations in Europe and the changed position of the intellectual also resulted in new efforts to propagate a European idea. For instance, Julien Benda connected his wellknown plea for independent intellectuals to raising common European awareness. During the interwar years many European intellectuals acted and thought in a way that would eventually backfire. It was by virtue of the freedom of expression, the pluralism of democracy and the free position held by intellectuals in society that they were able to express themselves freely, which some of them did by representing right or leftwing totalitarian blueprints that proposed severe restrictions on that freedom. Benda suggested to combat this ‘treason of the I ntellectuals’ and the nationalism that lay at the heart of it with a European approach. In his Discours à la nation européenne (1933), he took a stand against nationalism and advocated a Europe as a ‘nation of values’ to overcome the moral crisis. The concept of Europe in the interwar period radically differs from contemporary liberal democratic and pluralist connotations. At the time, the European idea carried a range of meanings and served as an alibi or pretext for numerous newly developed utopias, based on ideological or philosophic beliefs. This did not prevent international contacts and organisations and transnational encounters, and perhaps even contributed to them. Roughly speaking, two camps among German intellectuals can

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be identified: those who persevered in the language of struggle, conflict and war and those who wanted to demobilise or who were bent on dismantling the rhetoric and culture of war. The latter were particularly Europe minded. This group, according to Vanessa Conze in her Das Europa der Deutschen (2005), perhaps also provides more insight into the prehistory of the establishment of the European Community, which took shape in 1957 with the signing of the Treaties of Rome. The backdrop to all their ideas of Europe was the ‘primal catastrophe’, a term dubbed by diplomat historian George L. Kennan to describe the First World War. The anti-Western sentiments, as expressed in the antithesis ‘Kultur-Zivilisation’ continued to exercise an important influence in Germany until well after 1945. It wasn’t until the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s that the Federal Republic would come to consider itself as part of the West: ‘der lange Weg nach Westen’, in the words of the German historian H.A. Winkler (Winkler 2000). The experiences of war and the flawed Treaty of Versailles led to other models for and ideas of Europe that did not square with the Western idea of democracy and international systems of law, exemplified by the League of Nations. For right-wing liberals and conservative citizens, the national paradigm – in its most radical form – was decisive. National pride had been injured by Versailles and the majority of Germans did not accept the blame for the atrocities of war. In interwar Germany several concepts of Europe existed next to each other: a Christian, primarily Catholic, ‘Abendland’ concept, the ‘Reich’ idea of the Conservative Revolution that combined Nazism with the ideal of an ethnically pure ‘Volksgemeinschaft’, the ‘Mitteleuropa’ vision of Friedrich Naumann, Karl Kautsky’s plan for a ‘United States of Europe’ and the Paneuropa union proposed by Richard Coudenhove-Kalergi. The preconditions for the latter project were the reconciliation between France and Germany, international collaboration and arbitration, and the advancement of prosperity, peace and democracy or, in the words of the Irish historian John Horne, the ‘cultural demobilisation’ of war (Horne 2004, 234). The French Minister of Foreign Affairs, Aristide Briand and his German colleague Gustav Stresemann were pre-eminent examples of this movement of reconciliation, as were the supporters of the League of Nations. In the mid-1920s, the European Movement emerged, symbolised by the Treaty of Locarno (1925) and Germany’s entry in the League of Nations in 1926 and the Briand-Kellogg-pact of 1929. Stresemann

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announced in the ‘Reichstag’ that peace between France and Germany was not merely a Franco-German affair, but a European one. In September 1929, Briand proposed a European federal union which he presented to the League of Nations. Its objectives were the abolition of war and the promotion of collective security in Europe. Following a period of false stability, however, the ideal of Locarno proved to be an illusion. In reality, both evacuating the Allied troops and keeping up the reparations that Germany owed to France proved to be arduous tasks. For Briand, Locarno was a way of endorsing Versailles, but for Stresemann it was an instrument to revise the Treaty and to keep the frontiers to Eastern Europe open. The initial optimism was unfounded. Also Briand’s federal plan was soon abandoned after the depression of 1929 and the rise to power of the Nazis in 1933. Hitler withdrew from the League of Nations’ disarmament conference and began an aggressive foreign policy, seeking rearmament, effectively putting an end to the European movement. Whilst Hitler was rallying forces in Germany through a campaign of violence and inveiglement and forcing intellectuals, scientists and artists to flee the country, a different situation was emerging in France. Part of the Weimar culture moved to Paris, the capital of Europe by then. Antifascism at home and abroad Paris now became the heart of the anti-fascist movement and hence the centre of intellectual encounters and exchange. After 1933 the French capital became not only the refuge for persecuted German writers, academics and intellectuals who had fled their country, but also the place of internal political conflicts. The common struggle of European intellectuals against Nazism reached its climax at the International Writers Conference which was held in Paris from 21 to 25 June 1935: the ‘Congrès international des écrivains pour la défense de la culture’ (Erster Internationaler Schriftstellerkongreß zur Verteidigung der Kultur, Klein 1982). A number of writers had already attended a congress in Moscow in August and September of 1934, including Klaus Mann and Ernst Toller. Left-wing writers such as André Malraux also attended; André Gide, Romain Rolland and Henri Barbusse sent their best wishes. Barbusse initiated the First International Writers Conference in Paris. From their countries of exile, a number of German émigré writers, intellectuals and artists attempted to raise an anti-fascist front against Hitler

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and set their hopes on getting support from their French counterparts in their resistance to Hitler. Between 1935 and 1937, all thinkable attempts were undertaken to mobilise intellectuals from different schools in the battle against fascism. The intent was to welcome both communist and moderate writers at the conference. Eventually, writers from 37 countries were invited, including prominent figures such as the German writers Heinrich, Klaus and Thomas Mann, Anna Seghers, Ernst Toller, Bertolt Brecht, Ernst Bloch, Lion Feuchtwanger, Alfred Kantorowicz, Gustav Regler, and French writers like Louis Aragon and Julien Benda. From the United States came Sinclair Lewis and John Don Passos, the Soviet Union sent a strong delegation and Menno ter Braak represented the Netherlands. Gide and Malraux were co-chairmen. The theme of the conference was defending European culture, and discussing how to rescue it from destruction by the Nazis. Despite the meagre outcome (in the words of Bertolt Brecht, ‘humanism could not vanquish barbarism’) and the gap between illusion and reality, the conference served a purpose, albeit largely symbolic. Round-table meetings, discussions and lectures were held to discuss themes like the role of the writer in society, safeguarding culture, humanism, and the relationship between democracy and national traditions (Palmier 2006, 748). But these were primarily examined in abstract literary terms rather than in the concrete and assertive language of political intervention. Benda highlighted the fundamental difference between the Western and communist perception of art and thus identified the crux of the discussions. He was strongly criticised by those who followed the Stalinist line. The conference was a celebration of freedom, according to Henri Barbusse, but its unity was partly a facade. Mutual mistrust reigned. The communist delegates continued to blame the social democrats for their share in Hitler’s rise to power and saw fascism as a form of capitalism and as a bourgeois attempt to contain the ‘proletarian revolution’. Their opponents criticized the non-critical praise of the Soviet Union and Moscow’s policy. Though all participants shared the intention of defending culture against fascism, their exchange of ideas did not result into a common conception of European culture, let alone a joint strategy to defend it. The internal dissent among antifascist intellectuals increased after the Parisian conference of 1935. The show trials in Moscow and the ethnic purges in 1935/1936 further troubled the relations between communists and liberal bourgeois intellectuals and prevented them from cooperation.

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Together with others, Leopold Schwarzschild distanced himself from the communists and, in 1937, he set up the ‘Bund Freie Presse und Literatur’ in Paris, which linked the efforts to suppress Nazism with those aimed against communism. They turned their backs on the left-wing and rightwing anti-democrats. The failure and eventual collapse of the united antifascist front can be attributed to a number of factors: the lack of unity between the workers’ parties, personal conflicts among its leading figures, for instance the altercations between Heinrich Mann and Walter Ulbricht, and the virtually non-existent support from the working classes. The most important rift was prompted by developments in the Soviet Union; the Hitler-Stalin pact of August 1939 in particular sounded the death knell. According to many émigrés who had embraced the ideals of the Popular Front, the pact signified a moral defeat and betrayed the just cause of the struggle against Nazism. The gap between communists who supported Stalin and the pact, such as Walter Ulbricht on the one hand, and the social democrats, democrats and others who had broken away from the Komintern on the other, therefore ruled out any possibility of reconciliation, as the latter lumped Nazism and communism together. German communist émigrés, whose names were passed on to the Gestapo by the Russian secret service, ended up in concentration camps. Wilhelm Pieck, the later President of the German Democratic Republic (GDR), at one point would speak of purging Moscow of the ‘pests’ that had migrated to the city (Zimmermann 2000, 37). Many disillusioned left-wing writers renounced communism, also because the party expected them to submit to a rigid discipline and restricted their freedom of speech, as is described, for example, in Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at noon (Stromberg 1990, 271273). Meanwhile, fascism found a strong appeal among those intellectuals who were fed up with parliamentary democracy and decadence and who longed for charismatic leadership and more forceful, authoritarian politics, in which law and order would prevail. In Nazi Germany, more intellectuals, artists and academics were prepared to support Hitler than they would later care to admit. Hitler’s and Stalin’s increasingly aggressive actions resulted in a conflict of loyalty among both communists and fascists. The French communists had to choose between their loyalty to the Komintern and loyalty to their own country, while the fascists, despite their sympathy for Nazi Germany, were ultimately reluctant to

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unleash a new European war, but Hitler had already set the wheels in motion. European intellectuals moved to the centre of the political stage as a result of the First World War, but gradually the transnational web of European left-wing and right-wing ideologies complicated their position greatly and resulted in internal conflicts and dilemmas. As the Parisian conference of 1935 illustrates, the political developments resulted in new transnational encounters and exchange of ideas in which intellectuals from across Europe were involved. Yet, such encounters often reflected severe ideological divisions which prevented the development of new, generally shared concepts of Europe and European culture.

References Benda, Julien. 1927. La trahison des clercs. Paris: Grasset. Bessel, Richard. 1993. Germany after the First World War. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Boterman, Frits. 1992. Oswald Spengler en Der Untergang des Abendlandes. Cultuurpessimist en politiek activist. Assen: Van Gorcum. Breuer, Stefan. 1993. Anatomie der Konservativen Revolution. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Conze, Vanessa. 2005. Das Europa der Deutschen. Ideeen von Europa in Deutschland zwischen Reichstradition und Westorientierung (1920-1970. München: Oldenbourg. Gay, Peter. 2001. Weimar Culture. The Outsider as Insider. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company. Griffin, Roger. 2007. Modernism and Fascism. The Sense of a Beginning under Mussolini and Hitler. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Herf, Jeffrey, 1984. Reactionary Modernism. Technology, Culture and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heumakers, Arnold. 2003. De schaduw van de vooruitgang. Essays. Amsterdam: Querido. Hitler, Adolf, 1931. Mein Kampf. Zwei Bände in einem Band. München: Verlag Franz Eher Nachfolger. Horne, John. 2004. ‘The European Moment Between the Two World Wars (1924-1933)’. Madelon de Keizer en Sophie Tates. eds. Moderniteit. Modernisme en massacultuur in Nederland 1914-1940. Vijftiende jaarboek van het Nederlands Instituut voor Oorlogsdocumentatie: 223-240. Zutphen: Walburg Pers. Kadt, Jacques de. 1980. Het fascisme en de nieuwe vrijheid. 3rd ed. Amsterdam: Van Oorschot. Klein, Wolfgang, 1982. Paris 1935. Erster Internationaler Schriftstellerkongress zur Verteidigung der Kultur. Reden und Dokumente. Berlijn: Akademie-Verlag.

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Knegt, Daniel, 2011. ‘Ni droite, ni gauche? Debatten over het Franse fascisme’. Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis. vol. 124, nr. 2, 206-220. Palmier, Jean-Michel. 2006. Weimar in Exile. The Antifascist Emigration in Europe and America. Londen and New York: Verso. Sternhell, Zeev. 1983. Ni droite, ni gauche. L’idéologie fasciste en France. Parijs: Editions du Seuil. Stromberg, Roland N.. 1990. European Intellectual History Since 1789. 5th ed. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall. Winkler, Heinrich August. 2000. Der lange Weg nach Westen. 2 Volumes. München: Beck Verlag. Zimmermann, Hans Dieter, 2000. Literaturbetrieb Ost/West. Die Spaltung der deutschen Literatur von 1948 bis 1998. Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 63-85

DIVIDED FRONTS: THE ANTI-COMMUNIST AND ANTI-FASCIST DEFENCE OF ‘DEMOCRACY’ AND ‘EUROPE’

Joris Gijsenbergh

Abstract The Entente Internationale Anti-Communiste (EIA) and the antifascist Comité Mondial contre la Guerre et le Fascisme (CMGF) used similar strategies in order to coordinate the fight against extremism. Nevertheless, their conferences and publications conveyed different messages about ‘democracy’ and ‘Europe’. The conservative EIA mainly defended Christian and bourgeois values, which it regarded as the core of European civilisation. The anticommunists rarely asked for the protection of democracy. If they did, they preferred a disciplined democracy with a strong executive and strict laws. The CMGF explicitly claimed to defend democracy. Its communist members associated proletarian democracy with equality, while the left-wing intellectuals based essential democracy on freedom. To them, liberty was the essence of European culture. These world views invoked debate within the EIA and the CMGF and distrust between both networks. As a result, there was no unified front of democrats against anti-democrats in the interwar years. Introduction In 1938, the German philosopher Karl Loewenstein presumed that the repression of political extremism throughout Europe was the result of transnational exchange and inspiration: ‘the striking similarity of defensive measures cannot but have resulted partly from the experiences as observed in other democracies’ (Loewenstein 1938, 595). This chapter corroborates his assumption by analysing the role of two international organisations in the interwar fight against extremism. The Entente Inter-

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nationale Anti-Communiste (EIA) and the anti-fascist Comité Mondial contre la Guerre et le Fascisme (CMGF) were founded to counter the European – or even global – dangers posed by communism and fascism respectively. Both networks linked anti-extremists across the world and disseminated advice on anti-extremist strategies. The analysis of their activities in the first paragraph sheds light on the transnational interaction between intellectuals, parliaments, governments, newspapers, religious groups and other organisations in interwar Europe. More importantly, these processes of transfer illustrate the multifaceted nature of anti-communism and anti-fascism. Although anti-communists and anti-fascists emphasised time and again that they opposed ‘communism’ or ‘fascism’, it is far from clear what exactly these ideologies meant to them. It was not entirely obvious who they were fighting against, because they used these two broad definitions to lump together different forms of extremism, such as communism, socialism and anarchism on the one hand and fascism and National Socialism on the other. It was even less obvious, however, what they were fighting for. Paragraphs two and three show that the EIA and the CMGF entertained widely divergent ideas about ‘democracy’ and ‘European civilisation’, two of the most important themes in the interwar European debate.1 In addition, the study of the transnational interaction makes clear that both networks struggled with internal differences. In their separate spheres, the EIA and the CMGF tried to reach a common language for their members in order to form a united front. The study of transfer can pinpoint the contrasting ideas on ‘democracy’ and ‘Europe’ of these networks.

1

The EIA was officially called the Entente Interrnationale contre la IIIième Internationale, but soon became known as the Entente Internationale Anti-Communiste. The CMGF was also known as the Amsterdam-Pleyel movement, because it was the result of a merger between the participants of two international anti-fascist conferences, held in Amsterdam and Paris’s Pleyel concert hall respectively. This chapter is based mainly on the sources in the digital archive of the Dutch secret service – the Centrale Inlichtingendienst (CI) – in the interwar years. The CI monitored anti-fascist movements, among others, and drew information from EIA publications. As a result, the archive contains information on and publications by international anti-communists and anti-fascists. All the CI reports that escaped destruction during the German occupation of the Netherlands in 1940-1945 can be examined at http://www. inghist.nl/Onderzoek/Projecten/RapportenCentraleInlichtingendienst1919-1940. The author has been unable to examine the archives of the EIA, which are located in Geneva, at the Bibliothèque Publique et Universitaire de Genève.

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The differences between and within the EIA and the CMGF revolved around three subjects of discussion. First of all, the anti-communists and anti-fascists failed to reach any common ground on the need to defend democracy. Both communism and fascism opposed the parliamentary system, but that did not mean that all anti-communists and anti-fascists worried above all about the anti-democratic attitude of their adversaries. Secondly, anti-communists and anti-fascists could not agree upon the essence of the democratic system. They joined the chorus of critics of ‘liberal’ or ‘parliamentary democracy’ (the dominant regime in postWorld-War-I Europe), but despite their joint complaints about the parliamentary system they pursued at least three different alternative forms of democracy: disciplined democracy, proletarian democracy and essential democracy (Berger 2002, 18-19; Gijsenbergh 2012, 241-242). As Tom Buchanan and Martin Conway have shown, the essentially contested nature of the concept of ‘democracy’ meant that ‘the politics of the 1930s became the arena for many contesting definitions of democracy’ (Buchanan and Conway 2002, 10). Lastly, the anti-communists and antifascists had different views on ‘Europe’. Their only point of similarity in this field was that they each associated ‘European civilisation’ with their own set of universal values, which according to them was essential to the welfare of the entire world. This chapter applies the recent historiographical perspective on the inherent diversity among antagonists of extremism to the activities and world views of the EIA and the CMGF. For decades, scholars have neglected the internal varieties displayed by opponents of extremism in the 1920s and 1930s. Ever since the apparent victory of democratic values in World War II, historians and political scientists have been fascinated by the struggle between democratic and dictatorial regimes in the interwar years. These ideological adversaries did not, of course, form two coherent blocs. Researchers of the varying left-wing and right-wing authoritarian ideologies recognised this long ago. They have debated whether fascism and communism can be grouped together under the common denominator of ‘totalitarianism’, whether fascism should be treated as a ‘generic’ concept and whether they should distinguish other forms of authoritarianism (Kallis 2003; van Meurs 2006). The divisions among the opponents of autocracy, on the other hand, have received scant attention, because most authors ignored these groups or assumed that they unconditionally rallied to the cause of democracy. For example, the political scientist Giovanni Capoccia equated all interwar opposition

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to extremism with the defence of democracy, reasoning that ‘from the point of view of the political actors involved, the distinction between the two fronts, democratic and anti-democratic (…) was certainly clearer than it is now’ (Capoccia 2005, 235). Loewenstein, writing almost seventy years earlier, would have disagreed, for he complained that most adherents of democracy did not realise the need for ‘a closer cooperation of democracies internationally’ against the ‘Fascist International’ (Loewenstein 1937, 430). When historians first turned their attention to the adversaries of authoritarianism, in the 1970s and 1980s, they acknowledged the lack of a unified democratic front, but they treated it merely as an explanation for the failure of antifascism in the years leading up to World War II (Droz 1985, 8-9; Ceplair 1987, 3-4, 7). Only recently have studies of anti-communism and antifascism begun to analyse the wide diversity of their supporters, motives, strategies and targets. By stressing the complex nature of both phenomena, these scholars have answered the call of Buchanan, who rightly implored his fellow historians to ‘start treating the democratic side with the complexity and seriousness which, quite rightly, they have brought to an understanding of the fascist side’ (Buchanan 2002, 54; Fayet 2008, 1316; Copsey 2010, xiv). International contacts and transnational inspiration The Swiss jurist Théodore Aubert established the EIA in 1924 because he feared that communist agitators across the world were trying to instigate revolutions under the guidance of the Comintern. With the help of acquaintances in his hometown Aubert established the Bureau Permanent in Geneva. This directorate was intended to serve as the hub in a network of national anti-communist organisations that had come into being after the Russian Revolution. Shortly before the EIA was created, Aubert claimed to have the support of ‘important personalities and patriotic groups’ in England, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Denmark, Finland, Norway, Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia.2 In the following years, royalist Russians and anti-communists in Germany, Luxembourg, Spain, Portugal, Sweden, Greece, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Romania joined the EIA. In 2

Letter from T. Aubert to guests at the first conference of the EIA (27 May 1924), cited in a report compiled by the Centrale Inlichtingendienst, 24 July 1924 (CI Archive, Doc. 11644).

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addition to these European branches, the EIA cooperated with likeminded institutions in Argentina, Brazil, the United States, Egypt, Shanghai and New Zealand. Furthermore, Aubert mobilised influential public figures who were not yet entirely convinced of the perils of communism. He incited the League of Nations, governments and parliaments to diplomatically isolate the Soviet Union and to suppress extreme-left movements in their own countries. The EIA also asked journalists, patriotic associations, businesses, youth clubs, women’s organisations, religious groups, clergymen and teachers to spread the anti-communist gospel, even during friendly get-togethers (Aubert 1927, 1, 197; Aubert 1929a, 9, 28-33; Caillat et al. 2004, 28).3 To convince the world that communism posed a dire threat that should be contained by an international effort, the members of the Bureau Permanent organised annual conferences. They discussed strategies in the fight against communism with delegates from the national branches of the EIA, politicians and other interested individuals. Although these conferences did not attract large crowds, they provided a venue for an intensive exchange of ideas among fanatic anti-communists. Moreover, the Bureau Permanent ensured that journalists and other public figures received the message by distributing conference resolutions, pamphlets and bulletins (Caillat et al. 2004, 28-29). The main goal of these publications was not to inform their readers, but to egg them on to fight communism. Therefore, the authors of the booklets took account of the fact that people around the world had different reasons to fear communism, and catered to the concerns of their audience. In 1931, the EIA bulletin advised anti-communist propagandists to adapt their message to their specific listeners and readers. After all, the bulletin argued, arguments that would convince a German merchant would fall on deaf ears among Dutch artisans. For the same reason, the EIA advised against mass meetings consisting of a mixed audience (Aubert 1929a, 13).4 It is difficult to measure how much influence the anti-communist network exerted. Neither the boasts of the Bureau Permanent that the EIA was responsible for anti-communist measures taken by European 3 La Revue anti-bolchévique, 1 July 1926, 2, and Documentation mensuelle, April 1931, A7A8, cited in a report compiled by the CI, 1 June 1931 (CI Archive, DocMens 31/04). 4 Documentation mensuelle, April 1931, A5, cited in a CI report (CI Archive, DocMens 31/04).

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governments nor Aubert’s plaintive publications about the lack of cooperation can be taken for granted. After all, both contrastive statements were meant to attract followers, either by depicting the EIA’s battle as a successful campaign or as a struggling cause in need of help (Aubert 1927, 7-8; Aubert 1929a, 5, 27; Caillat et al. 2004, 29). Still, it is likely that the efforts of the EIA bore fruit. The personal contacts allowed convinced anti-communists to learn from each other and to continue the crusade against the red menace at home. The torrent of EIA publications also ensured the transfer of anti-communist measures, by inspiring people all over the world who might never have met but who were willing to fight communism. The Dutch and Belgian secret services, for example, gladly used the information published by the Bureau Permanent, although they realised that the EIA might be prone to exaggerating the communist threat (Van Doorslaer and Verhoeyen 1985, 104).5 Like anti-communism, the international anti-fascist movement emerged shortly after World War I, but it did not become a truly European or even global phenomenon until the 1930s. When more and more democratic regimes succumbed to right-wing authoritarianism, hundreds of local, national and international anti-fascist organisations popped up across the world. These were joined together in transnational networks. Since August 1933, the uppermost umbrella organisation was the CMGF, located in Paris. The subdivisions of this network consisted of global youth, student and women’s movements against fascism and war, and smaller anti-fascist organisations in Europe (Austria, Belgium, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Iceland, Italy, Luxembourg, Norway, Poland, Romania, the Soviet Union, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, the United Kingdom), the Americas (Bolivia, Brazil, Canada, Chile, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Mexico, Nicaragua, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Puerto Rico, the United States of America, Uruguay, Venezuela), Asia (China, India, Indochina, Japan, Malaysia),

5 The CI Archive contains a number of documents that applaud the EIA, while at the same time warning various Dutch officials ‘that the leaders of this Entente intend mostly to produce anti-Bolshevik propaganda, instead of providing well-documented information about the communist movement in Europe’. Letter from the Chief of the CI to the Attorney General in The Hague, 7 August 1924 (CI Archive, Doc. 11661); letter from the Chief of the CI to the Minister of Justice, 25 August 1926 (CI Archive, Doc. 14723) and letter from the Chief of Police in Amsterdam to the Attorney General in Amsterdam, 10 September 1926 (CI Archive, Doc. 14802).

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Africa (South Africa), Australia and New Zealand (Droz 1985,15-21; Wilkinson 1981, 19-20; Ceplair 1987, 33-46, 80-81, 84-85). The membership of the CMGF caused considerable debate, both in the interwar period and among scholars. Conservative contemporaries, such as the EIA members, feared that anti-fascism was part of the Soviet plot to rule the world.6 During and after the Cold War, many historians took this allegation seriously, either by underlining the critique or by acquitting the anti-fascists of communist sympathies (Wiersma 1971, 144, 149-150; Weisglas 1991, 271, 263; Wald 2007, xiii, xvi-xviii). A more fruitful response, however, is to emphasise the diversity within the membership of the anti-fascist organisations. On the one hand, CMGF director Henri Barbusse and his Parisian companions were convinced communists, many workers’ organisations associated with the CMGF and the Comintern tried to control the anti-fascist struggle (Droz 1985, 17-18; Ceplair 1987, 82-86). However, in the second half of the 1930s Moscow downplayed its role in order to attract supporters who might be reluctant to join overtly communist organisations. Together with the Italian invasion of Abyssinia and the Spanish Civil War, this smokescreen caused an increase in CMGF membership.7 It attracted self-proclaimed ‘intellectuals’ – including academics, artists, doctors, jurists, engineers, teachers and students – to the anti-fascist cause. Many of them merely sympathised with the Soviet Union, ignored communism or even hoped – despite their aversion to the communist ideology – to use the Soviet Union against their common enemy. Even the distrustful Dutch secret service admitted that not all anti-fascists were communists, although its chief feared that these ‘passive human resources’ blindly assisted the destruction of the ‘future of Europe’ (Wiersma 1971, 144-150; Racine-Furlaud 1977, 87-88; Koffeman 2010, 145-150).8

6

Annual Report of the CI on leftist worker organisations, 63, 23 March 1937 (CI Archive Jaarbericht 1937/b). See also Documentation mensuelle, April 1929, C10, cited in a CI report (CI Archive DocMens 29/04), and Thurlow 2010, 166. 7 Report of the CI on Moscow’s peace policy and its influence on the West European pacifist movement, 9-11 June 1936 (CI Archive Overzicht 1936/02). 8 Report of the CI on Moscow’s peace policy and its influence on the West European pacifist movement, 2, 12, June 1936 (CI Archive Overzicht 1936/02); Report of the CI on ‘Le Rassemblent Universel pour la Paix’ and the forthcoming world conferences for peace, 4-5 August 1936 (CI Archive 35917a); Report of the CI on the establishment of a People’s Front in the Netherlands by the Comité Mondial contre la Guerre et le Fascisme, 2-3, April 1937 (CI Archive, Doc 44152a).

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The activities of the anti-fascists resembled those of the EIA, despite some marked differences. Radicals, including the International Socialist League against Fascism and War, proposed to send armed groups on to the streets in order to provoke fascist violence.9 Most anti-fascists, however, preferred a defensive strategy. Like the EIA, the CMGF distributed pamphlets and bulletins in order to gather support for its cause. In doing so, anti-fascists inspired one another to join or set up organisations (Ménager 2007, 890-895; Koffeman 2010, 150). The anti-fascists relied even more on face-to-face contact than the EIA. They experienced, in the words of the historian Enzo Traverso, ‘a culture of exile’, because victims of fascism travelled around the world. The Jewish Loewenstein, who had fled from Nazi Germany for the United States, is an excellent example. In addition, hundreds of anti-fascists met during international conferences. These relatively small gatherings were often preceded by the dissemination of propaganda among the mass public and by large popular meetings. On 9 August 1936, for example, no fewer than 400,000 people from all over Western Europe met in Paris for a Peace Festival, in preparation of the World Conference for Peace. That conference attracted 4,000 visitors, while 25,000 attended another Peace Festival. The CMGF tried by means of these activities to harness the masses, or, as one Dutch social democrat put it in 1933, to ‘knead the workers without party affiliations into the mould of anti-fascism and to make them militant’.10 Like the EIA, the CMGF realised that it had to cater to the needs of its audience in order to attract followers (Ceplair 1987, 84-85, 136137; Stone 2010, 183). Despite the impressive number of visitors to the anti-fascist conventions, the CMGF was unable to form a large, unified front that could successfully take a stand against fascism. Jacques Droz’s pioneer study on European anti-fascism has offered three explanations for its failure: anti-fascists did not grasp the true demonic nature of fascism, the workers’ organisations that could have stood up to fascism were internally divided and the legacy of World War I made the anti-fascists refrain 9

Letter from the Chief of the CI to a minister, 21 May 1935 (CI Archive 20872a). Report of the CI on the Conference against Fascism and War in Utrecht on 25 June 1933 (June/July 1933) 18 (CI Archive doc 03462a); Report of the CI on ‘Le Rassemblent Universel pour la Paix’ and the forthcoming world conferences for peace, 7-10 August 1936 (CI Archive 35917a); Report of the CI on the conference of ‘Le Rassemblent Universel pour la Paix’ on 3-6 September 1936 (CI Archive doc Overzicht 1936/05) 3-6. 10

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from violence (Droz 1985, 254-256). An even more important cause of the weakness of the anti-fascist front was its isolation, due to its ignoble reputation. When the EIA branded an international anti-fascist conference in Berlin as ‘clearly Bolshevist’, it articulated the widespread fear that anti-fascists were plotting to deliver the world into the clutches of communism.11 As a result, even many Europeans who shared a distaste of fascism – ‘passive anti-fascists’ as the historian Nigel Copsey has called them – refused to support the CMGF. Government officials in Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Germany, Great Britain, the Netherlands and Switzerland even actively hindered these anti-fascist organisations. They put them under police surveillance, excluded foreign visitors from anti-fascist conferences held in their territory or prohibited these conferences altogether unless the organisers promised to refrain from provocative slogans (Copsey 2010 xiv-xv; Olechnowicz 2010, 2-5; Thurlow 2010, 166).12 Defending and renewing ‘democracy’ and ‘Europe’ The aim of the EIA and the CMGF, to establish unified international fronts against communism and fascism respectively, forced both networks to constantly adapt their message to appeal to the divergent fears of their plurified public. They talked in generic terms about ‘communism’ and ‘fascism’ in order to attract sympathisers throughout Europe. This makes it difficult to determine what exactly the leaders of the anticommunist and anti-fascist organisations were opposing and what exactly they were pursuing. After all, the contents of their brochures and the themes of their conferences reflect how the inner circles of Aubert and Barbusse perceived the world view of their varied supporters, instead of the world view of the leadership of the EIA and CMGF itself. Neverthe11 Documentation mensuelle, April 1929, C10, cited in a CI report (CI Archive DocMens 29/04). See also Report of the CI on Moscow’s peace policy and its influence on the West European pacifist movement, 20-22 June 1936 (CI Archive Overzicht 1936/02). 12 Documentation mensuelle, April 1929, C7, cited in a CI report (CI Archive DocMens 29/04); Report of the CI on the People’s Conference against Unfair Wages and War, 1, 4 April 1932 (CI Archive 30437); Report of the CI on the Conference against Fascism and War in Utrecht on 25 June 1933 (June/July 1933) 29 (CI Archive doc 03462a); Annual Report of the CI on leftist worker organisations, 52, 1935 (CI Archive Jaarbericht 1935/b); Report of the CI on ‘Le Rassemblent Universel pour la Paix’ and the forthcoming world conferences for peace, 7 August 1936 (CI Archive 35917a); and monthly report of the CI, September 1936, 6 (CI Archive 1936/05).

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less, these sources provide useful insight into the diverse anti-communist and anti-fascist ideas on democracy and European civilisation, because the authors of the booklets and the speakers at the conferences took care to strike the right chord among their audience. The EIA presented itself above all as a bulwark in the battle ‘between the destructive forces of Soviet Bolshevism and the constructive forces of civilisation’. According to Aubert these ‘destructive forces’ included not only communists proper, but also other socialists, anti-fascists, antiimperialists and even liberals who – unwittingly or not – acted like lackeys of the Soviet Union. He accused them of endangering Christian virtues and the bourgeois social order, which revolved around ‘the principles of order, family, property and motherland’ (Aubert 1929a, 7). For example, the EIA warned that the Comintern was brainwashing the youth by encouraging women’s emancipation, divorce, abortion and disrespect for parental authority. Around 1930, when religious persecution in the Soviet Union increased, the focus of the EIA shifted to the defence of ‘Christian civilisation’ (Roulin 2008, 175; Aubert 1929b, 62; Caillat 2008, 156-157).13 The EIA also showed its outrage at the disruptive effect of communism on the international free market and at the class warfare, the bloodshed and the repression of civil liberties by the Soviet proletarian dictatorship (Aubert 1925, 3-6; Aubert 1928a, 6-11; Aubert 1929a, 17-20).14 Hence, the preface to every bulletin issued by the Bureau Permanent described communism as a ‘moral, social and economic threat’.15 The EIA emphasised the ethical dangers however: ‘The Comintern, an international organisation with international goals, wants to transform the face of the world, not only by attacking the system of government, not only by attacking the idea of the motherland and of 13 Documentation mensuelle, January 1930; February 1930, 2; March 1930, A1-A13; August 1930, A1-A2; November 1930; March 1931; April 1931; June 1931, A5-A6; September 1931; November 1931, A1-2. These documents can be found in the CI Archive (DocMens 30/01, 30/02, 30/03, 30/08, 30/11, 31/03, 31/04, 31/06, 31/09, 31/11). 14 Letter from T. Aubert to the guests at the first conference of the EIA (27 May 1924), cited in a CI report, 24th of July 1924 (CI Archive, Doc 11644); Documentation mensuelle, April 1931, A4, and September 1931, A1, cited in CI reports (DocMens 31/04 and 31/09); La Vague Rouge, March-June 1931, 112, cited in a CI report (DocMens 31/07-08); Bulletin de Presse EIA, 22 March 1933. Archive Wouter Lutkie, Katholiek Documentatiecentrum (KDC) (Nijmegen, the Netherlands), archive no. 117, inv. no. 503. 15 La Revue Antibolchevique, 1 July 1926, p. 2, cited in a CI report (Doc 14723).

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society, but above all by attacking the idea of Family, Religion, Morale’ (Aubert 1927, 73). The EIA did not express the same concerns about the anti-democratic ideas inherent in communism. The Bureau Permanent rarely mentioned the defence of democracy as a goal, except when it repeated the words of governments that invoked democratic values as a justification for anti-communist measures.16 Moreover, the EIA had no qualms about cooperating with (quasi-)fascist regimes that denounced democracy. The Italian Centro Studi Anticomunisti and the German Antikomintern were partners of the EIA, while the Bureau Permanent met with Mussolini, Hitler, Primo de Rivera and Franco. These anti-communist overtures to fascist regimes should be seen, above all, as a strategic alliance to combat the larger evil of communism. It would be going too far to accuse all anti-communists of ‘dubious sympathies’, as Michel Caillat has done, or to suggest that they embraced anti-democratic ideas themselves (Caillat et al. 2004, 28-31; Caillat 2008, 152-154). That may have been the case for some anti-communists, but according to the Dutch secret service ‘a sufficient number of delegates [at the EIA conference in 1937] are still not inclined to convert the fight against communism into support for National-Socialism (fascism)’.17 It can be deduced that the Bureau Permanent regarded left-wing extremism as a greater threat than right-wing extremism. That became apparent in 1933, when the EIA was alarmed not so much by Hitler’s rise to power as by the risk that German communists might be provoked to launch a bloody revolution.18 Both communism and fascism threatened parliamentary democracy, but communism also constituted a moral threat, while fascists at least seemed to replace the parliamentary regime with authority and order. In this sense, the anti-communists resembled their conservative contemporaries who worried more about their orderly society than about the fate of democracy (Gijsenbergh 2012, 247-248, 253). Nevertheless, the EIA stimulated the reform of European parliamentary democracies into what Loewenstein has called ‘disciplined democra16

Documentation mensuelle, April 1929, A5; and August 1930, A1, cited in CI reports (DocMens 29/04 and 30/08); and Bulletin d’Information Politique EIA, 17 November 1933, 1-2, Archive Wouter Lutkie (KDC, 117, inv. no. 503). 17 Report of the CI on the International Anti-Communist Action led by Germany, 25 July 1937, 6 (Doc 47877a). 18 Bulletin d’Information Politique EIA, 17 November 1933, 2-4, Archive Wouter Lutkie (KDC, 117, inv. no. 503).

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cies’. In 1938, Loewenstein rejoiced at this Europe-wide ‘transition from the liberal pattern of democracy, prevailing in post-war Europe, to the new type of “disciplined” or even authoritarian constitutionalism in which the balance of power definitely has shifted from the multiple party legislative to the government endowed with quasi-dictatorial powers’ (Loewenstein 1938, 622). Like Loewenstein, governments felt that they were stretching the familiar limits of democracy. For instance, when the Swiss Federal Council proposed a bill to protect public order in 1933 it admitted that one could disagree about the specific outlook of the democratic system, but emphasised that it should be common sense at least that there was no room in democratic politics for unlawful, violent behaviour. Therefore, the Federal Council implied that its repressive measure was an indispensable element of ‘the democratic idea’ (Capoccia 2005; Gijsenbergh 2012, 239-240, 256-257).19 The EIA played an important role in the transfer of anti-communist legislation across Europe. The Bureau Permanent repeatedly urged European governments and parliaments to take measures against communists within their borders, including discharging left-wing civil servants, prohibiting demonstrations, closing down newspapers, denying civil rights to communists, excluding communists from parliament and even banning communist parties. Countries that took similar repressive measures, including Switzerland, Greece, Finland and Czechoslovakia, were praised by the EIA as examples worthy of imitation (Aubert 1928a, 12; Aubert 1929b, 63).20 The Bureau Permanent also organised international conferences on anti-communist legislation. At a conference in The Hague in November 1927, the Dutch division of the EIA (the Nationale Bond tegen Revolutie) claimed ‘a lot has been heard by the participants which they can take back with them to their own countries’ (van Batenburg, 1927).21 Because the Bureau Permanent regarded the repression of com19

Bulletin d’Information Politique EIA, 17 November 1933, 1, Archive Wouter Lutkie (KDC, 117, inv. no.. 503). 20 Het Vaderland. Staat- en letterkundig nieuwsblad, 11 November 1927; Documentation mensuelle, March 1929, April 1929, July 1929, September 1929, November 1929, December 1929, March 1930, March 1931, all cited in CI reports (DocMens 29/03, 29/04, 29/07, 29/09, 29/11, 29/12, 30/03, 31/03); La Vague Rouge, revue antibolchévique, August-September 1929, 20-21, cited in a CI report (Doc 20710); Bulletin d’Information Politique EIA, 17 November 1933, 1-2, Archive Wouter Lutkie (KDC, 117, inv. no.. 503). 21 The resolutions of this conference can be found in Aubert 1928, 12. See also Documentation mensuelle, November 1929, A1, cited in a CI report (DocMens 1929/11).

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munism in every state as ‘one of the essential points of the EIA’s programme’, it helped disseminate disciplined democracy throughout Europe.22 The CMGF’s world view differed markedly from that of the EIA. First of all, its members were driven more by ‘a genuine passion for democracy’, as British scholars have recently noted (Buchanan 2002, 3942). Notably, the intellectual anti-fascists presented their fight in terms of the defence of democracy, while the members of the Communist Party followed their lead in the second half of the 1930s. Many anti-fascists feared that fascism threatened their self-interests, but argued that larger ideals were at risk. For most intellectuals, this ideal was freedom, which they regarded as a core democratic value. They were worried that fascism would endanger their academic freedom and their opportunity to act as independent, critical thinkers. Participants at a conference in 1934 of an international student association affiliated to the CMGF articulated their personal fears, when they complained about difficult exams and youth unemployment.23 Nevertheless, intellectual anti-fascists did not defend freedom exclusively for themselves, because they saw it as ‘essential cultural heritage’ that benefited society as a whole. Under the banner of ‘defence of culture’, their publications and their speeches linked the protection of their beloved liberty to the defence of democracy (RacineFurlaud 1977, 90-91; Ménager 2007, 895-905; Koffeman 2010, 147, 151; Copsey 2010 xviii-xx). At first, the anti-fascists more closely affiliated to communist parties did not perceive the defence of democracy as an important goal. On the contrary, during a conference against fascism and war in Utrecht in June 1933, the French communist Jervain sneered at the appeal to ‘the holy democracy’ made by prime ministers Édouard Daladier of France and Hendrik Colijn of the Netherlands.24 Anti-fascists like Jervain lived by the motto: ‘The battle against Fascism is the battle against Capital’.25 They even branded social democrats as ‘social fascists’, to reprimand

22 Documentation mensuelle, September 1929, A1, cited in a report of the Centrale Inlichtingendienst (DocMens 29/09). 23 Bulletin d’information, 1-3, Archive Rassemblement Mondial des Etudiants, International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam, inv. no.. 1. 24 Report of the CI on the Conference against Fascism and War, held in Utrecht on 25 June 1933, 6 (Doc 03462a). 25 Ibid., 27.

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them for their perceived ‘treason’ against the working class.26 But in the second half of the 1930s, especially after the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in the summer of 1936, these communists enthusiastically described their fight against fascism as a fight for democracy (Buchanan 2002, 48-51). In those years, ‘democracy’ became an important theme during international conferences hosted by the CMGF.27 This theme generated a lot of debate, because the anti-fascists had contrasting ideas on what constituted ‘true democracy’. This can be illustrated by the World Conference of Students for Peace, held in Paris in August 1939. When the participants discussed ‘What democracy signifies to us’, they broached a plethora of themes, ranging from the absence of religion in politics to student participation in the management of universities.28 The anti-fascists were united only by their dislike of parliamentary democracy and the conviction that this form of government needed to be reformed. The consensus ended there, because anti-fascists could not agree on what form the new democracy should take (Wilkinson 1981, 8; Buchanan 2002, 46). The anti-fascist sympathisers of communism denounced parliamentary democracy, or ‘bourgeois democracy’ as they called it, as a capitalist tool to maintain control of the social and economic order. The Belgian Jo de Haas, for example, refuted ‘the falsehood of democracy and parliamentarianism’ at a conference against fascism and terror in 1934.29 In the second half of the 1930s these anti-fascists toned down this criticism as part of their rapprochement with possible non-communist allies. Moreover, the rise of fascism made them appreciate that parliamentary democracy at least partly allowed them to pursue the interests of the working class. Nevertheless, they did not give up their ideal of ‘proletarian democracy’. Under this regime, which already existed in the Soviet 26 Report of the CI on the Conference against Fascism and War in Utrecht on 25 June 1933 (June/July 1933), 9 (CI Archive doc 03462a). 27 Some examples of these conferences on democracy are mentioned in Report of the CI on the Establishment of a People’s Front in the Netherlands by the Comité Mondial contre la Guerre et le Fascisme, 12-13, April 1937 (CI Archive, Doc 44152a); monthly report of the CI, June 1939, 27-28 (Doc Overzicht 1939/02); Report of the CI on a World Conference of Students for Peace, 1, 28 August 1939 (Doc 82700a); and monthly report of the CI, September 1939, 14, 29-31 (Doc 83844). 28 Report of the CI on a World Conference of Students for Peace, 4-6, 28 August 1939 (Doc 82700a). 29 Report of the CI on A Demonstrative Conference against Fascism and Terror, 14-15, 20-21, 26 January 1934 (Doc 07046a).

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Union and in the unoccupied parts of the Republic of Spain, the masses truly participated in political life and were not oppressed by capitalists. However, this proletarian democracy also required that ‘the orders of the leaders are obeyed quickly, completely and without discussion’ (Buchanan 2002, 45-46, 48-52; Copsey 2010, xix).30 Conservative contemporaries, such as the EIA, called this communist definition of democracy ‘ludicrous’.31 Cold War scholars who grew up with the ideal of parliamentary democracy were tempted to do the same. Nevertheless, as several historians have stated, many communist anti-fascists in the interwar period genuinely believed that a soviet state was the most desirable form of a democratic system. At the very least, it is interesting to see that the communists appropriated the term ‘democracy’ (Berger 2002, 24-27; Buchanan 2002, 52-53; Copsey 2010, xix). It would be going too far, however, to agree with the Dutch secret service that all organisations affiliated to the CMGF ‘gladly accept the suggestion from Moscow that the proletarian dictatorship is the only true democracy’.32 Many intellectuals within the CMGF also rejected parliamentary democracy, but mentioned reasons other than the communists and proposed alternatives. They complained more about the impotence of parliaments, where deliberating politicians seemed unable to solve urgent social, economic and political problems (Wilkinson 1981, 8; Buchanan 2002, 46). More importantly, intellectual anti-fascists regarded ‘democracy’ mainly as a moral principle instead of a system to involve citizens in politics. The Dutch writer Menno ter Braak articulated this feeling when he urged: ‘Let democracy be our conscience! Let us not identify it with parliamentarianism or other inferior functions, but let us be passionate democrats, by heavily criticising democracy as a system!’ (ter Braak 1937, 11). Therefore, the defence of democracy revolved around the revival and protection of democratic values, notably freedom. In order to protect this ideal from fascism, some intellectuals embraced ‘disciplined democracy’. Like Loewenstein, they hoped that a strong executive would govern efficiently and that repressive measures would prohibit fascist attacks 30 Circular of the League against Fascism (Strijdbond tegen fascisme, in Dutch), 5 December 1933, cited in a CI report (Doc 06341a). 31 La Vague Rouge, March-June 1931, 19, cited in a CI report (DocMens 31/07-08). 32 Report of the CI on the Establishment of a People’s Front in the Netherlands by the Comité Mondial contre la Guerre et le Fascisme, 2, April 1937 (CI Archives, Doc 44152a).

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on the virtues of democracy (Loewenstein 1937; Buchanan 2002, 46-47). Most intellectual anti-fascists, however, rejected the introduction of these despotic elements into the democratic system as ‘fascist’ and ‘undemocratic’.33 They worried that conservative European governments would undermine democracy by indiscriminately curtailing civil liberties. This fear stemmed partly from self-interest, because the establishment suspected anti-fascists of communist sympathies. But it also derived from their belief that the only ‘true democracy’ was ‘essential democracy’, a term coined by the Dutch editor and professor A.C. Josephus Jitta in 1938. In this cultural view of democracy, the indispensable freedom simply could not be curbed, unless repressive measures were specifically targeted against fascists (Josephus Jitta 1938; Wiersma 1971, 130; Gijsenbergh 2012, 258-259). Global defence of European civilisation Since the EIA and the CMGF tried to defend contrasting views of civilisation, the question arises as to what they thought about European culture and its oft-claimed crisis. The EIA presented itself as a global organisation, fighting ‘a new world war’. When Aubert appealed to governments all over the world to oppose communism, he stressed that ‘It is not a purely European problem, it is a global problem’ (Aubert 1927, 1, 184; Aubert 1929b). Despite these strategic attempts to organise a global front, the EIA and its national branches clearly felt connected with European civilisation. The Nationale Bond tegen Revolutie, for example, stated that ‘nearly all civilised countries of Europe’ were associated with the EIA (van Batenburg 1927, 98-99). Another good illustration was the Deutscher Bund zum Schutz der abendlandischen Kultur, a Christian conservative organisation of German anti-communists, inspired by Oswald Spengler’s famous Der Untergang des Abendlandes. The Bureau Permanent sometimes also mentioned the defence of ‘Europe and European civilisation’ as its aim.34 More often, the EIA talked about ‘the 33 Report of the CI on the Conference against Fascism and War in Utrecht on 25 June 1933 (June/July 1933) 3, 9, 20 (CI Archive doc 03462a); Report of the CI on An Ostentatious Conference against Fascism and Terror, 5-11, 26 January 1934 (Doc 07046a); Report of the CI on an Anti-Fascist Youth Conference, 3, 11 April 1934 (Doc 09493a); Annual Report of the CI on leftist worker organisations, 67-68, 23 March 1937 (CI Archive Jaarbericht 1937/b). 34 Accompanying note in Aubert 1925 and Het Vaderland, 4 July 1925, evening edition.

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civilised world’ or ‘modern civilisation’, but even then it alluded to the same values it included in its statements about European culture (Aubert 1928b, 3). Anti-communists did not experience a tension between their global fight and their defence of European civilisation, because they regarded these as one and the same. To them, ‘Europe’ represented universal values, such as Christianity, family values, a bourgeois social order, property, respect for authority, love of one’s motherland and public decency. These had to be defended on European soil, but also in other continents and in the colonies. In the spring of 1931, for instance, the director of the French branch of the EIA, Gustave Gautherot, incited ‘European nations’ to make the world safe for ‘civilisation’.35 Caillat has rightly stated that the EIA pursued ‘the supremacy of Christian and European civilisation in the world’ (Caillat 2008, 158; McClellan 2008, 319, 322). In that sense the anti-communists joined the ‘Eurocentrist universalism’ that – according to historians such as Jan Ifversen – was dominant in the interwar cultural debate (Ifversen 2002, 15-27; de Keizer 2004, 23; Horne 2004, 224). Remarkably, the Bureau Permanent did not exclude Russia from its sphere of activity, in contrast to other commentators who felt that the Soviet Union was too barbaric to fit into their newly invented concept of ‘Eastern Europe’, let alone ‘Western Europe’ (Loewenstein 1935, 783; Spiering and Wintle 2002, 11; Bugge 2002, 52-54; Horne 2004, 224, 237). The EIA emphasised the importance of ‘the liberation and renaissance of Russia’, because ‘the interests of the oppressed Russian people correspond with the interests of the entire world’.36 Aubert and his followers tried to attract supporters in the Soviet Union, but they were also convinced that civilisation had to be restored to Russia. They underlined the words of the Ukrainian Boris Brasol, who lived in the United States: ‘Modern civilization as a whole is imminently threatened with a social cataclysm of unprecedented violence, such as has already inflicted utter ruin and unspeakable sufferings upon several European countries, particularly Russia’ (Brasol 1920, xxiv; Aubert 1929a, 24-26; Aubert 1929c).

35

La Vague Rouge, March-June 1931, 115-116, cited in a CI report (DocMens 31/07-08). 36 Documentation mensuelle, April 1931, A4, cited in a report of the CI, 1 June 1931 (CI archive, DocMens 31/04). See also La Vague Rouge, March-June 1931, 112, cited in a CI report (DocMens 31/07-08).

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Ironically, the anti-communist defence of ‘modern civilisation’ was part of what historians have called the ‘anti-modernist response’. Many interwar cultural pessimists longed for the values that were extolled by the EIA and that seemed to have become the victim of degenerated modernity (Herman 1997, 228-231; Morgan 2002, 77-79; Bollenbeck 2007, 200). Unlike these contemporaries, however, the Bureau Permanent hardly touched on the subject of ‘the decline of European civilisation’. Sometimes Aubert and his fellows complained about the negative cultural consequences of World War I, such as ‘psychological confusion’ and ‘international rivalries’, but they did so only for pragmatic reasons. They used the popular idea of a degenerate society from time to time to emphasise that this cultural deterioration benefited the rise of communism (Aubert 1929b, 5-10). Devoting more attention to the perceived crisis of European civilisation would have been counterproductive, because the EIA wanted people to focus their energy on the defence of European civilisation against communism, instead of engaging in critical introspection. The anti-communist programme focused more on the protection and diffusion of traditional European culture than on a thorough renewal of the European ideal. The idea that European civilisation was in decline played a more important role in anti-fascist circles. The Dutch poet Henriëtte Roland Holst wrote in 1933: ‘we agree that this crisis threatens to be fatal to Western culture’ (Roland Holst 1933, 7). The ‘crisis of culture’ and the ‘defence of culture’ were important subjects of debate at many CMGF conferences.37 James D. Wilkinson has shown that the anti-fascist cause provided interwar intellectuals who were discontented by nineteenthcentury ‘beliefs and institutions of bourgeois Europe’ with a way ‘to integrate moral concerns and political action’ (Wilkinson 1981, vii, 7-11, 16-20). Paradoxically, in order to renew European culture these antifascists fell back on traditional liberal ideals. They reappraised liberty, equality, brotherhood and accused the middle class of neglecting these humanist values. The participants in the World Conference of Students for Peace in August 1939, for example, discussed how they valued the ideas of the French Revolution. There, the Chinese professor Sie approvingly described democratic culture as ‘a culture of harmony, free development for individuals and communities, culminating in universal 37 Bulletin d’information, 4, Archive Rassemblement Mondial des Etudiants, International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam, inv. no.. 1.

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harmony and peace’. Other speakers during that and other CMGF conferences embraced the ideal of freedom.38 Together, these ideals constituted the cultural conception of essential democracy (Wilkinson 1981, 21; de Keizer 2004, 15, 37, 41; Copsey 2010, xviii). The anti-fascists explicitly associated these values with European civilisation, which had to be defended against fascist barbarism. During an international conference on democracy, peace and humanity in May 1939 the CMGF urged all democratic countries to stop ‘the fascist colonisation of Europe’.39 However, like the EIA, the anti-fascists did not limit the defence of their cultural ideal to the European continent. They too believed that European civilisation should be adopted and upheld globally. For example, the ‘Paix et Democratie’ study centre, which had been founded by the CMGF in April 1937, aimed ‘to spread the ideas of freedom, democracy and peace, which are based on the principle of law, across the world’.40 Like the anti-communists, the anti-fascists regarded their defence of European civilisation as part of a global, universal project (Ifversen 2002, 26-27). Conclusion The battle against political extremism and the subsequent debates about the true meaning of ‘democracy’ and ‘Europe’ were a European or even a global phenomenon. Communists and fascists could be found everywhere, and they seemed successful in cooperating with their fellows in other countries. In response, their opponents felt the need to look beyond their national borders as well. To do so, they established international networks or looked abroad for inspiration. Historians who are interested in transnational encounters in the interwar years therefore need to study both personal contacts between historical actors and the transfer of ideas across borders through written media. Despite these frequent encounters between opponents of political extremism, the EIA and CMGF refused to establish a single united front against communism and fascism. Both anti-communists and anti-fascists fought extremism, but they were fixated on their own adversary. As a result, 38 Report of the CI on a World Conference of Students for Peace, 5, 28 August 1939 (Doc 82700a). 39 Report of the CI, June 1939, Overzicht 1939/02, p. 28. 40 Report of the CI on the Establishment of a People’s Front in the Netherlands by the Comité Mondial contre la Guerre et le Fascisme, 12-13, April 1937 (CI Archive, Doc 44152a).

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they misunderstood and distrusted each other. The EIA was convinced that anti-fascism was a communist conspiracy, while the CMGF lamented that anti-communists cooperated with fascist regimes, capitalist forces and repressive disciplined democracies. H.J. Pos, Chairman of the Dutch Comité van Waakzaamheid van Anti-Nationaal-Socialistische Intellectuelen, illustrated this during an academic conference in February 1939. Confronted with questions about the views of anti-fascists, he was forced to admit that: ‘our organisation has averted its face from fascism, but this has caused the features of that face to remain unknown’.41 Not only did the EIA and CMGF avert their faces from their own arch-enemy, they also turned their backs on one another. This refusal to look one another in the eye and to join forces was caused by the differences between their views on ‘democracy’ and ‘European civilisation’. At the same time, their fixation on communism and fascism, respectively, strengthened their own beliefs, because it prevented them from seeing the other point of view. The EIA and the CMGF struggled against different ideologies because they defended contrasting notions of European culture. According to the anti-communists, European civilisation consisted of universal Christian and bourgeois values. These had to be protected against communism by all ‘civilised countries of Europe’ and even the entire civilised world, including fascist states. Democracy did not play an important role in the anti-communist cultural ideal, although the EIA encouraged the dissemination of disciplined democracy. The intellectuals in the CMGF, on the other hand, claimed that European culture revolved around freedom and, related to that value, essential democracy. In this view, fascist countries did not belong to the civilised, free world. The Soviet Union, on the other hand, was not excluded from the anti-fascist cultural world. Communist anti-fascists were convinced that proletarian democracy was a utopia, while intellectual anti-fascists regarded fascist regimes as a greater danger to European culture. In other words, the anti-communists and anti-fascists attempted to defend contrasting ideas of European civilisation on a global scale. As a result, they did not hail one another as saviours of Europe. They strongly contested each other’s perspective on ‘democracy’ and ‘Europe’ and could not agree on the future of European politics. Clearly, the political climate of the interwar period was much more complex than a dichotomous struggle between democrats and antidemocrats.

41

Monthly report of the CI, 33, June 1939 (CI Archive Overzicht 1939/02).

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References Aubert, Théodore. 1925. Mémoire et Requête. Présentés aux gouvernements par L’Entente Internationale contre la IIIème Internationale en vertu de la décision prise à l’unanimité par son conseil, composé des représentants de 21 nations Européennes, en sa séance du samedi 26 mai 1925. Geneva: l’Entente internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Aubert, Théodore. 1927. Vade-mecum antibolchévique. Geneva: l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Aubert, Théodore. 1928a. La politique actuelle du gouvernement soviétique et de la IIIe Internationale. Mémoire adressé aux gouvernements et aux institutions internationales par le bureau permanent de l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Geneva: l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Aubert, Théodore. 1928b. Tableaux des organisations soviétiques travaillant à la révolution dans tous les pays (accompagnés de notes explicatives). Geneva: l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Aubert, Théodore. 1929a. L’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Publié à l’occasion du Ve anniversaire de sa fondation. Geneva: l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Aubert, Théodore. 1929b. Une nouvelle guerre mondiale. ‘La guerre bolchéviste’. Geneva: l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Aubert, Théodore. 1929c. Le Mouvement de Libération de la Russie. Chambéry: l’Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale. Batenburg, A. van. 1927. ‘Het vierde congres der Entente Internationale contre la IIIe Internationale’. Ik zal handhaven. Orgaan van den Nationalen Bond tegen Revolutie 7: 97. Berger, S. 2002. ‘Democracy and Social Democracy’. European History Quarterly 32: 1337. Bollenbeck, George. 2007. Eine Geschichte der Kulturkritik. Von Rousseau bis Günther Anders. Munich: Verlag C.H. Beck. Braak, Menno ter. 1937. Nationaalsocialisme als rancuneleer. Assen: Van Gorcum. Brasol, B.L. 1920. Socialism vs Civilization. New York: Scribner. Buchanan, Tom C. 2002. ‘Anti-Fascism and Democracy in the 1930s’. European History Quarterly 32: 39-57. Buchanan, Tom C. and Martin Conway. 2002. ‘The Politics of Democracy in Twentieth-Century Europe: Introduction’. European History Quarterly 32: 7-12. Bugge, Peter. 2002. “Shatter Zones”: The Creation and Re-creation of Europe’s East. In Ideas of Europe since 1914: The Legacy of the First World War, eds. Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle, 47-68. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Caillat, Michel. 2008. L’Entente internationale anticommuniste (EIA). L’impact sur la formation d’un anticommunisme helvétique de l’action internationale d’un groupe de bourgeois genevois. In Histoire(s) de l’anticommunisme en Suisse, eds. Michel Caillat, Mauro Cerutti, Jean-François Fayet and Stéphanie Roulin, 147-163. Zurich: Chronos Verlag. Caillat, Michel, Mauro Cerutti, Jean-François Fayet and Jorge Gajardo. 2004. ‘Une source inédite de l’histoire de l’anticommunisme. Les archives de l’Entente inter-

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nationale anticommuniste de Théodore Aubert (1924-1950)’. Matérieax pour l’histoire de notre temps 73, no. 1: 25-31. Capoccia, G. 2005. Defending Democracy: Reactions to Extremism in Interwar Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Ceplair, Larry. 1987. Under the Shadow of War: Fascism, Anti-Fascism, and Marxists, 19181939. New York: Columbia University Press. Copsey, Nigel. 2010. Preface: Towards a New Anti-Fascist “Minimum”?. In Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period, eds. Nigel Copsey and Andrzej Olechnowicz, xiv-xxi. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Doorslaer, Rudi Van and Etienne Verhoeyen. 1985. De moord op Lahaut: het communisme als binnenlandse vijand. Antwerp: Meulenhoff/Manteau. Droz, Jacques. 1985. Histoire de l’antifascisme en Europe, 1923-1939. Paris: Éditions la Découverte. Fayet, J.-F. 2008. L’anticommunisme est-il vraiment un sujet d’histoire? L’exemple suisse. In Histoire(s) de l’anticommunisme en Suisse, eds. Michel Caillat, Mauro Cerutti, Jean-François Fayet and Stéphanie Roulin, 11-22. Zurich: Chronos Verlag. Gijsenbergh, Joris. 2012. Creative Reform or Demise of Democracy? Dutch Debates on the Suppression of Political Parties in the 1930s. In Creative Crises of Democracy, eds. Joris Gijsenbergh, Saskia Hollander, Tim Houwen and Wim de Jong, 237268. Brussels: Peter Lang. Herman, Arthur. 1997. The Idea of Decline in Western History. New York: The Free Press. Horne, John. 2004. The European Moment Between the Two World Wars (19241944). In Moderniteit. Modernisme en massacultuur in Nederland, 1914-1940, eds. Madelon de Keizer and Sophie Tates, 223-240. Zutphen: Walburg Pers. Ifversen, Jan. 2002. The Crisis of European Civilization after 1918. In Ideas of Europe since 1914: The Legacy of the First World War, eds. Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle, 14-31. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Josephus Jitta, Abraham Carel. 1938. Het wezen der democratie. Leiden: Sijthoff. Kallis, Aristotle A. 2003. Introduction: Fascism in Historiography. In The Fascism Reader, ed. Aristotle A. Kallis, 1-41. London: Routledge. Keizer, Madelon de. 2004. Inleiding. In Moderniteit. Modernisme en massacultuur in Nederland, 1914-1940, eds. Madelon de Keizer and Sophie Tates, 9-44. Zutphen: Walburg Pers. Koffeman, Maaike. 2010. Het Comité de vigilance des intellectuels antifascistes. In In 1934. Nederlandse cultuur in internationale context, eds. Helleke van den Braber and Jan Gielkens, 145-153. Amsterdam: Querido. Loewenstein, Karl. 1935. ‘Autocracy versus Democracy in Contemporary Europe. Part II’. The American Political Science Review 29: 755-784. Loewenstein, Karl. 1937. ‘Militant Democracy and Fundamental Rights. I.’ The American Political Science Review 31: 417-432. Loewenstein, Karl. 1938. ‘Legislative Control of Political Extremism in European Democracies. I’. Columbia Law Review 38: 591-622.

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McClellan, Woodford. 2008. Anti-Communism and the Colonial Question. In Histoire(s) de l’anticommunisme en Suisse, eds. Michel Caillat, Mauro Cerutti, JeanFrançois Fayet and Stéphanie Roulin, 321-330. Zurich: Chronos Verlag. Ménager, Bernard. 2007. ‘Antifascisme et pacifisme, la section lilloise du Comité de Vigilance des intellectuels antifascistes’. Revue du Nord 89: 885-905. Meurs, Wim van. 2006. ‘Old Wounds and New Battles: The Pros and Cons of Comparative Histories of Stalinism and Nazism’. Ab Imperio 1: 385-403. Morgan, Philip. 2002. The First World War and the Challenge to Democracy in Europe. In Ideas of Europe since 1914: The Legacy of the First World War, eds. Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle, 69-88. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Olechnowicz, Andrzej. 2010. Introduction: Historians and the Study of Anti-Fascism in Britain. In Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period, eds. Nigel Copsey and Andrzej Olechnowicz, 1-27. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Racine-Furlaud, Nicole. 1977. ‘Le Comité de vigilance des intellectuels antifascistes (1934-1939). Antifascisme et pacifisme’. Le Mouvement social 101: 87-113. Roland Holst, Henriëtte. 1933. De Krisis der Westersche Kultuur. Arnhem: Loghum Slaterus. Roulin, Stéphanie. 2008. Les réseaux religieux de l’Entente Internationale Anticommuniste (1924–1933). In Histoire(s) de l’anticommunisme en Suisse, eds. Michel Caillat, Mauro Cerutti, Jean-François Fayet and Stéphanie Roulin, 165-182. Zurich: Chronos Verlag. Spiering, Menno and Michael Wintle. 2002. European Identity, Europeanness and the First World War: Reflections on the Twentieth Century – An Introduction. In Ideas of Europe since 1914: The Legacy of the First World War, eds. Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle, 3-13. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Stone, Dan. 2010. Anti-Fascist Europe comes to Britain: Theorising Fascism as a Contribution to Defeating it. In Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period, eds. Nigel Copsey and Andrzej Olechnowicz, 183-201. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Thurlow, Richard. 2010. Passive and Active Anti-Fascism: The State and National Security, 1923-45. In Varieties of Anti-Fascism: Britain in the Inter-War Period, eds. Nigel Copsey and Andrzej Olechnowicz, 162-180. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Wald, Alan M. 2007. Trinity of Passion: The Literary Left and the Antifascist Crusade. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Weisglas, Max. 1991. ‘De Sleutel: orgaan van het anti-fascistisch studenten comité, oktober 1935-april 1937’. De Gids: nieuwe vaderlandsche letteroefeningen 154: 269-282. Wiersma, L.R. 1971. ‘Het comité van waakzaamheid van anti-nationaal-socialistische intellectuelen (1936-1940)’, Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 86: 124-150. Wilkinson, J.D. 1981. The Intellectual Resistance in Europe. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 87-100

PROJECTOR OR PROJECTION SCREEN? THE PORTUGUESE ESTADO NOVO AND ‘RENEWAL’ IN THE NETHERLANDS (1933-1946)1

Robin de Bruin

Abstract In the 1930s and during the first year after the Nazi invasion of the Netherlands in May 1940, the basic principles of Salazar’s authoritarian Estado Novo were widely discussed and cheered in the Netherlands. Influential Dutch newspapers featured articles about the ‘lessons’ for Dutch politics and society that could be drawn from Portuguese corporatism. This chapter focuses on the idea that the enthusiasm in the Netherlands for Salazar’s system was largely based on the encounter between perceptions of Salazar, images of Portugal and self-images of the Netherlands. Introduction During the economic crisis of the 1930s, the ability to provide citizens with welfare provisions was one of the main arguments in the contestation for power of communism, fascism and nazism (Aly 2005, 49; Vincent and Carter 2008, 164). The apparent socio-economic successes of the Soviet experiment, Italian fascism and Hitler’s ‘New Order’ put pressure on policy-makers in liberal democracies like Britain to design ‘a New Order of their own’ (Mazower 1998, 186; Overy 2009, 265-313). In the Netherlands, many advocates of a new socio-economic order that strengthened national unity (the so-called ‘renewers’) saw the corporatist Portuguese Estado Novo as an acceptable alternative to liberal ‘parliament1 Special thanks to Alexandra den Hond, J. Lachlan Mackenzie, José Reis Santos and Jan Dirk Snel for their comments on earlier versions of this article.

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arism’, communism and fascist socio-economic policy. However, corporatism was not a Portuguese invention (Ribeiro de Meneses 2009, 88). It was an idea that travelled across Europe and beyond. What was the importance of exchange networks for the dissemination of this idea? To what extent was the Dutch analysis of Portuguese corporatism founded on personal contacts, personal experience and thorough knowledge of the system in operation? This chapter deals with the practices of exchange and adaptation of an idea. In this article, I shall stress the importance of images of Portugal in the Netherlands and Dutch national selfimages rather than transnational exchange across borders as a condition for the popularity of Portuguese corporatist ideology in the Netherlands. Striving for a national ‘renewal’ In the interwar years the Netherlands were a religiously segmented (‘pillarised’) and socially divided society. Dutch politics were dominated by the Catholic Party, two Protestant parties, and to a lesser degree by the two liberal parties, who collectively excluded the Social Democrats from governmental power until 1939. The segmentation of Dutch politics was considered an obstacle for an effective governmental crisis policy. Therefore, pillarised politics was rejected by the small Dutch National Socialist Movement and some of its democratic (mostly Social Democrat) opponents, who in 1935 formed the movement ‘Unity Through Democracy’. However, in left-wing Catholic, liberal and liberalProtestant politics, there were also advocates of national unification. All these renewers propagated social and socio-economic solidarity among the Dutch people (‘Volkseenheid’), the emancipation of the rural areas and the regulation and rationalisation of economic production (‘ordening’). What these movements eventually wanted was nothing less than a renewal in Dutch politics, Dutch economy and Dutch culture. The shaping of ideas for this renewal was inspired from across national borders. Many renewers were influenced by the ‘Personalist’ movement of Denis de Rougemont (the Swiss founding father of European Federalism) and French philosophers like Jacques Maritain and Emmanuel Mounier (Linthorst Homan 1946, 145) who turned against both capitalist individualism and totalitarian collectivism (Amzalak 2011, 136-139). Ideas of corporatism, in which both employers and employees of different groups of professions form government-licensed bodies (corporations) and represent different sectors of the economy in a cor-

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porative chamber that deliberates on governmental policy, were presented as a means to eliminate class conflict and industrial disputes. Although experiments in the Netherlands with corporative bodies had in fact failed (Luykx 1996, 234), corporatism was presented as a ‘third way’ between liberal capitalism and Marxism and as the only right path to social justice. A distinction was made between ‘narrow’ corporatism, in which corporations had an advisory role, and ‘broad’ corporatism, in which corporatism replaced parliamentary democracy (Hartmans 2012, 209-210). In the Netherlands, as in other West European countries, Salazar’s authoritarian Estado Novo was cheered, especially though not exclusively by progressive Catholics (Kaiser 2004, 268). They did not seem to be aware of the fact that employers gained much more from Salazarism than the workers whose wages were kept low (Ribeiro de Meneses 2009, 89). Some advocates of the Estado Novo in the Netherlands were democrats, while others were seduced by the idea of (temporary) authoritarianism as a condition for social justice and national solidarity (De Jonge 1968, 326). For instance, according to Pieter Jan Bouman, a former social democrat historian and sociologist, socialism had proved powerless in Western Europe. He flirted with fascism, national socialism and the Portuguese Salazar system, which he claimed were alternatives to the disruptions of capitalism and class struggle. Bouman regarded them as members of the ‘solidarist’ family, just like social Christianity. Thereby, like many of his contemporaries, he seemed to consider the aggressiveness of fascism and national socialism as a temporary side-effect (De Jonge 1968, 328; Van Berkel 1996, 183, 185). But overall, totalitarian fascism and national socialism were not very popular in the 1930s. In accordance with Mounier’s Catholic-social views, Catholic politicians in the Netherlands criticised Italian fascism for its totalitarian, statist character (McMillan 1996, 48). Protestant politicians were even more averse to fascism (Janse 1940, 1-17; De Jonge 1968, 333) and strongly rejected Hitler’s statist and racist national socialism. Subsequently, a strong division was made between totalitarian state corporatism and an organic corporatist society (De Jonge 1968, 313; Brongersma [1940]b, 21, 22; Bouman 1941, 84). According to the influential liberal newspaper Het Vaderland of 7 October 1940, some renewers regarded Portuguese corporatism as ‘le corporatisme sans larmes’: a corporatism without any drawbacks.

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The reactions to Salazar’s Estado Novo How was the Portuguese ‘Salazar system’ received and interpreted in the Netherlands and what was its attraction? In general, the few reactions to António de Oliveira Salazar’s Estado Novo in the 1930s in the Netherlands had been quite sympathetic. For instance, the well respected liberal journalist Marcus van Blankenstein claimed that the Portuguese dictatorship basically did not seek to be dictatorial and that it was reluctant to use violence. According to Van Blankenstein, this regime finally managed to get Portuguese government expenditure under control (this had been a problem for decades). In 1937 Van Blankenstein characterised Salazar as a ‘peaceful dictator’ (Van Blankenstein as cited in Krop 1939, 13). In 1939, Frederik Johan Krop, an anti-communist vicar in the Dutch Reformed Church who had been the initiator of protests against the nazi ‘persecution’ of Jews in 1933 (Van Roon 1973, 87, 88, 203), published a pamphlet on Portugal, entitled Portugal under Salazar, or: the recovery of a small but brave nation. Krop described the humble origins of Salazar, his thriftiness, his work ethic and his religious devotion. He emphasised that Salazar’s experiences as a member of parliament with ‘the excesses of Portuguese parliamentarism’ had turned him into a dictator, but a dictator with a strong dislike of totalitarianism and statism, which distinguished him from other European dictators (Krop 1939, 17-18). In nearly all the publications in the Netherlands on the Portuguese Estado Novo, these characteristics of its leader play a dominant role. They were fully in accordance with the official portrait of Salazar as depicted by the State’s National Propaganda Secretariat (Ribeiro de Meneses 2009, 177). Although Krop had made a comparison between the German propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels and the Portuguese propaganda leader António Ferro in his pamphlet, to the advantage of the latter, nobody really seemed to be aware of this (Krop 1939, 31). The Portuguese Estado Novo found its most influential advocate in the Netherlands in Edward Brongersma, a Catholic convert (Luykx 2007, 211) and a typical exponent of the ‘Catholic renewal’. In 1933, as a student, Brongersma formed the Catholic Corporatist Movement that he wanted to organise independently of the Catholic Party. His attempt failed, as it was strongly rejected by the Dutch bishops, who wanted to preserve unity in Catholic politics. Brongersma had access to the higher inner circles of Catholic politics, but, as can be found in his personal archives at the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam

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(IISH), after a sexual offence in 1934 of which he was convicted, Brongersma withdrew from public life and worked on a PhD dissertation in Law on the Portuguese corporatist constitution of 19 March 1933. During the 1930s Brongersma began to hold lectures on the Portuguese corporatist state, in which he emphasised its Catholic character, which in his view was constituted according to the principles of the Vatican encyclical Quadragesimo Anno of 15 May 1931. In the next few years, Brongersma was invited again and again by Catholic organisations to share his views on Portugal, Salazar and corporatism. He graduated on 24 September 1940, a few months after the German invasion of the Netherlands, from the Catholic University of Nijmegen. Brongersma’s PhD dissertation was first published in 1940 and was reprinted twice before the end of 1942 with a recommendation from the Portuguese Consul in the Netherlands. It was widely discussed and cheered in the Dutch press. An anthology of Salazar’s speeches in Dutch with an introduction by Brongersma sold over 2000 copies in the first year of the German occupation and was reprinted several times before 1943 as part of a series of ‘guides for a new age’. According to Brongersma, with God’s help Salazar would guide the way to a new Europe (Brongersma [1940]b, 26). Brongersma’s personal archives at the IISH show that this series attracted the suspicions of the German authorities. Publications were blocked several times. Brongersma’s propaganda for the Salazar system Brongersma’s PhD dissertation, which consisted of almost 600 pages, was meant as a juridical analysis of the Portuguese corporatist constitution, but it also provided information on the historical and sociological background of this constitution and the character of the Portuguese leader Salazar. Features attributed to Portugal in the book were the continuing discord in Portuguese history, the lack of ‘perseverance’ of the Portuguese population (what was meant was lack of work ethic), the clientelist, non-ideological politics and the irresponsible expenditures of the different national governments in Portuguese history. All these elements were in accordance with stereotypes of Spain and Portugal in the Netherlands. All this had caused a continuing decay in Portugal from the eighteenth century onwards, Brongersma argued. In his view, Salazar was not against democracy as such but he claimed that a liberal democracy in

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Portugal would initially lead to chaos and finally to communism. Therefore, a temporary enlightened Catholic dictatorship would be the best political solution to Portugal’s problems (Brongersma 1940a, 35). These views corresponded with those of some Catholic political leaders in the Netherlands, who at this stage did not reject autocracy principally; they rejected autocracy because no autocrat had ever been able to cope with excessive power (Bosmans 1991, 379). An important feature of Brongersma’s view on Portuguese corporatism was its lack of statism. Salazar was depicted as a modest, even shy technocratic scientist of simple descent, who was averse to politics and to power, but had managed to stabilise state finances within a few years. Brongersma emphasised strongly that Salazar had accepted his dictatorial powers à contre-cœur (Brongersma 1940a, 36). This corresponded with the regime’s apparent lack of universal pretentions: the Portuguese Estado Novo claimed to be very successful, but nevertheless Salazar stressed that the Portuguese system had offered the right solutions to Portuguese problems but could not easily be adapted to other European countries. Dutch catholic and liberal newspapers discussed and reviewed Brongersma’s books extensively. Critical remarks were made about the lack of influence of the Portuguese Câmara Corporativa (corporative chamber), for instance by the Catholic Party’s monthly of 30 September 1940. But it was above all the ‘character’ of Salazar, the ‘modest dictator’, that drew attention; his shyness as a quiet intellectual, and the fact that he apparently aimed to make himself superfluous as a dictator. This was regarded as a quality few great leaders had, especially in ‘Latin’ countries as the liberal newspaper Algemeen Handelsblad wrote on 9 October 1940. According to the periodical of the Catholic league for family life Het Gezin of 16 December 1940 democracy was often idealised, but ‘the great Salazar’ managed to restore the state budget balance, neutralised the class struggle and was a guardian of religion. The ambition to transform class society into a society of corporate groups also drew a lot of attention. In agreement with the views on Salazar’s Estado Novo in the 1930s and early 1940s, many of the current experts on fascism agree that the Estado Novo was a limited, non-totalitarian state, where social power remained in the hands of the Church, the army and the big landowners. They characterise the Estado Novo as Ersatz fascism or para-fascism and emphasise the suppression of authentic Portuguese fascism (the National Syndicalists) by the Estado Novo (Griffin 1996, 19; Paxton 2004, 150, 217).

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Contact and impact The image of the Estado Novo and the self-images of the Netherlands were important conditions for the enthusiasm in the Netherlands for Salazar and his corporatism. Personal encounters played a less important role in the Dutch adaptation of corporatist ideas. Brongersma’s personal archives at the IISH show no indication that he, the authority in the Netherlands on the Portuguese Estado Novo, had regular personal contact with Portuguese people (with the exception of the Portuguese National Propaganda Secretariat). His PhD dissertation was mainly based on the international literature on the Estado Novo. He also gained information about Portugal from the Vatican. Portugal, as a small, internally divided nation with a large colonial empire just like the Netherlands, served as a film screen for the projection of Dutch domestic political desires, such as those for a strong, but modest leader and neutralisation of the class struggle. The notion of a functioning Catholic political system no doubt appealed strongly to many Dutch Catholics, just as it did to social Catholics in (Vichy) France (McMillan 1996, 55). In the Netherlands, Catholic politics was associated with particularist and clientelist politics, due to lack of ideological foundations. The enthusiasm Brongersma generated was essentially based on the propaganda of the Estado Novo. In his recently published biography of Salazar, Ribeiro de Meneses stresses that the Portuguese leader was the subject of an intensive propaganda campaign and that the same applies to Portuguese corporatism as a whole. This corporatism was in fact theoretical tin-kettling, as the corporative bodies did not have any substantial influence (Ribeiro de Meneses 2009, 87-89, 115). Another explanation for the sudden outburst of enthusiasm in the Netherlands is the window of opportunity that many renewers saw after the German invasion of the Netherlands in May 1940 for the creation of a corporatist society in the Netherlands (Luykx 1996, 233). In the first months of the war, it was expected that Germany would be a dominant power on the European continent for years to come. Not all the Dutch were fully aware of the criminal and rapacious character of the nazi regime. Some renewers expected a quick deradicalisation of nazi Germany and saw an opportunity for the creation of a European economic Großraum under German leadership. They thought that this would be an important condition for a general economic rationalisation and a rise in general welfare .

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(Linthorst Homan 1974, 148; De Bruin 2010a, 70). Some of their French sources of inspiration cherished similar illusions about the New Order (Bruneteau 2003, 30, 31, 313). After the German invasion, the Dutch government had moved to London, while the Dutch civil servants were supposed to cooperate with the German Reichskommissariat led by Arthur Seyss-Inquart, in the interests of the Dutch population. The nazi New Order in the Netherlands had a strong hold on the democratic political parties and trade unions, before they were ultimately banned legally or effectively. The initial hopes in the Netherlands for a restoration of self-governance were dashed in 1941, when the nazi’s relatively mild occupation policy was transformed into a brutal regime. In the first phase of the occupation, many Dutch renewers (especially Catholics and Social Democrats) joined the national political mass movement The Netherlands’ Union, which had over 600,000 members (at that time the Dutch population consisted of 8.8 million people) (Ten Have 1999, 321), to counterbalance the occupying regime. In the first brochure of the Netherlands’ Union, Volkseenheid (‘Unity among the people’), the Catholic renewer Geert Ruygers called nazi Germany, fascist Italy and the Portuguese Estado Novo the forerunners of a new communitarian age in Europe, suggesting that they were some sort of model states (Ruygers [1940], 6; Van Oudheusden 1990, 242). Bouman, also a member of the Union, advocated pushing back the ‘parliamentarism’ and political discord in Dutch politics through the introduction of a corporative chamber, in agreement with the arguments put forward by Salazar (Bouman 1941, 83-88). He wanted to use the circumstances of nazi rule for a national social reconstruction that, according to him, should be based on a foundation of authentic Dutch corporatism; he understood perfectly well that such a national reconstruction would have been impossible before the German invasion (Bouman 1941, 35-36 and 46; Van Berkel 1996, 187). In the course of the German occupation, both renewers acknowledged their errors. After the liberation from German occupation, Ruygers became a Member of Parliament for the Labour Party and was one of the staunchest supporters of European integration in Dutch Parliament. The three leaders of the Union, Jan de Quay, Louis Einthoven and Hans Linthorst Homan, aimed at the adaptation of ‘the European revolution’ to the Netherlands ‘in a Dutch way’ (De Jong 1972, 830 s.e./772 p.e.). In the second half of 1940, Linthorst Homan (the Provincial Governor of Groningen) even expressed his hopes that the war between

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Britain and nazi Germany would end in a 2-3 victory for Germany, as if it were a football match. Linthorst Homan feared that Western Europe would fall prey to Soviet domination after a war of attrition between Britain and Germany. He was immediately strongly criticised for his statement, also from within the Union (De Bruin 2010a, 70). The Union was supported by different groups and factions; it was for instance strongly supported by the liberal newspaper Algemeen Handelsblad (Stollenga 2012, 28-37). Within the vague, ‘personalist’ ideology of the Union that was called ‘Dutch socialism’, no fundamental choice was made between democracy and corporatism (De Jong 1972, 831 s.e./773 p.e.). Corporatism was propagated as the middle ground between ‘planning’ and ‘freedom’. The class society had to be transformed into a society of corporate groups (Linthorst Homan 1974, 102). When on 12 November 1940 the Secretary-General for Economic Affairs, Hans Max Hirschfeld, announced the plan for a corporatist industrial organisation, he had the immediate support of the Netherlands’ Union (Ten Have 1999, 334). In the following years, a design for this organisation was drawn by the prominent Dutch banker Herman Louis Woltersom. During the occupation an organisation was established in which the rights of workers and trade unions were restricted. It would have the force of law until 1950. Some of the Union rank-and-file regarded these corporatist ideas as a smoke-screen to please the nazi authorities (Ten Have 1999, 333, 334). This applied neither to the Union leaders like Linthorst Homan and Jan de Quay nor to one of Linthorst Homan’s main sources of inspiration, Edward Brongersma (Linthorst Homan, 1974, 35-37). Although his personal archives at the IISH show that for personal reasons he was not a formal member of the Netherlands’ Union, Brongersma strongly sympathised with the political aims of the movement. At a congress of Catholic academics in 1941, he advocated reforming the Netherlands into a corporatist state ‘now that the opportunity arises’ (Rogier 1980, 276). However, soon the New Order would take away his vehicle for political influence by banning the Netherlands’ Union. Carl Romme, another Catholic advocate of a corporatist society, who would become the postwar leader of the Catholic Party, designed a blueprint for a new, rather authoritarian ‘organic, corporative democracy’ to be implemented after the liberation from German occupation. But he and the other Catholic leaders realised that the idea of corporatism was more and more considered to be fascist socio-economics (Bosmans 1991, 371, 382).

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Although the Netherlands’ Union was compliant with the nazi authorities, it refused to support the German invasion of the Soviet Union in June 1941. For that reason, the Union was banned in December 1941. By then, all political parties except the Dutch National Socialist Movement had been banned. The leaders of the Union were imprisoned for varying periods of time. By now, a relatively large number of renewers had joined the organised resistance to nazi rule (Verkade [1968], 6). Some of them became (Labour and Catholic) politicians after the liberation from German occupation. The image of the Salazar system after the Second World War After the German defeat in May 1945 until 1958 the Catholic Party dominated Dutch politics together with the Social Democrats. Initially, prewar pillarised party politics was restored, but there was a change in political culture. In the course of the German occupation, the attention of many Dutch renewers had been redirected from corporatism to democratic European federalism (Verkade [1968], 6). In order to create national welfare, domestic political compromise became the motto of Dutch Catholic and Labour politics, which in the eyes of the Dutch Labour Party served as an example for a future ‘truly democratic’ Europe. Setting the example of ideological restraint on behalf of Europeanisation was their self-imposed task (De Bruin 2010b, 210). In the first decades after the Second World War, ideological bigotry was increasingly discredited, partly because of the ideologically-driven horrors of the Second World War, and partly because of growing individual welfare – growing only slowly in the Netherlands until the late 1950s, due to the governmental policy of low wages for the purpose of the post-war economic reconstruction. For instance, post-war Catholic politics in the Netherlands abandoned political corporatism as an alternative to capitalist democracy, although ideas about ‘neocorporatism’ certainly have had a lasting effect on socio-economic relations in the Netherlands. ‘Neocorporatist’ consultation became a crucial and valued factor in post-war governmental socio-economic planning, but the heritage of 1940 and 1941 was rejected. As an example of a statist corporatist organisation directed from above, the Woltersom industrial organisation was rejected and replaced by a more democratic industrial organization in 1950.

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The leaders of the Netherlands’ Union were strongly criticised after the war, for instance in the Dutch Senate on 6 February 1947 (by the Orthodox Protestant Senator Hendrik Algra) but nevertheless they obtained high functions. After a disgraceful purge, Linthorst Homan eventually became a high official. He was the main Dutch representative in the negotiations on the Treaty of Rome and later became a member of the High Authority of the European Coal and Steel Community (De Bruin 2010a, 74-76). De Quay would even become the Dutch prime minister for the Catholic Party in 1959. Bouman became a well-known and well-respected historian. Brongersma joined the Labour Party, like many former members of the Netherlands’ Union, and became a Labour senator. As such, he continued his propaganda for the Salazar system – still believing that democracy was inappropriate for Portugal – and was made Comendador da Ordem Militar de Cristo in 1948. He converted to Humanism in the late 1960s (Luykx 2007, 215). From the 1980s until his death in the late 1990s Brongersma was highly controversial, not only for his former admiration for Salazar, but also because of the liberal views he expressed on paedophilia and euthanasia. Within Catholic politics in the Netherlands, Portugal lost its reputation as a prototypical ideal Catholic state. The Portuguese constitution served as a foreign example of the bad, statist implementation of a good idea. With regard to the Salazar regime, Catholic politics in the Netherlands slowly started to identify itself with the Christian democratic resistance to this regime, as was shown in 1968 by a report of the Catholic Party about Portugal. From the early 1960s onwards, there were many protests in the Netherlands against the NATO membership of ‘fascist’ Portugal. Conclusions After the German invasion in 1940, Dutch newspapers like the Nieuwe Tilburgsche Courant of 21 October 1940 spoke of ‘lessons’ from Portuguese corporatism. However, images and self-images foremost determined its reception and were more important conditions for the enthusiasm in the Netherlands for Salazar and his Estado Novo than personal encounters and experiences. The enthusiasm for corporatism was essentially based on the propaganda projected by the Estado Novo. Moreover, Portugal served as a film screen for the projection of Dutch domestic political desires, like the neutralisation of religious and socio-economic

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segmentation of society. As a result of this encounter, some Dutch renewers saw a window of opportunity for the creation of a corporatist society in the Netherlands after the German invasion of the Netherlands. In the course of the German occupation corporatism was brought into disrepute. European federalism breathed a new life into their notion of a ‘third way’.

References Aly, Götz. 2005. Hitlers Volksstaat. Raub, Rassenkrieg und nationaler Sozialismus. Frankfurt am Main: S Fischer. Amzalak, Nimrod. 2011. Fascists and Honourable Men. Contingency and Choice in French Politics, 1918-1945. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Berkel, Klaas van. 1996. Sterk en zwak cultuurpessimisme. P.J. Bouman en de crisis van de westerse cultuur. In De pijn van Prometheus. Essays over cultuurkritiek en cultuurpessimisme, eds. Remieg Aerts and Klaas van Berkel, 176-196. Groningen: Historische Uitgeverij. Bosmans, J. 1991. Romme. Biografie 1896-1946. Utrecht: Het Spectrum. Bouman, P.J. 1941. Sociale opbouw. Bouwstenen voor een nieuwe samenleving. Amsterdam: H.J. Paris. Brongersma, Edward 1940a. De opbouw van een corporatieven staat. Staatkundige en Maatschappelijke grondbeginselen der Portugeesche grondwet van 19 maart 1933. Utrecht: Het Spectrum. Brongersma, Edward. [1940]b. Dr. Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, Minister-President van Portugal. Corporatief Portugal. Een bloemlezing uit zijn redevoeringen. Verzameld, uit het Portugeesch vertaald en van een inleiding voorzien. Hilversum: Paul Brand’s Uitgeversbedrijf. Bruin, Robin de. 2010a. Het nieuwe Europa. Hans Linthorst Homan, lid van de Hoge Autoriteit (1962-1967). In De Nederlandse Eurocommissarissen, eds. Gerrit Voerman, Bert van den Braak and Carla van Baalen, 65-92. Amsterdam: Boom. Bruin, Robin de. 2010b. The ‘Elastic’ European Ideal in the Netherlands, 19481958. Images of a Future Integrated Europe and the Transformation of Dutch Politics. In Cultures nationales et identité communautaire: un défi pour l’europe? / National Cultures and Common Identity. A Challenge for Europe?, eds. Marloes Beers and Jenny Raflik, 207-216. Brussels: P.I.E. Peter Lang. Bruneteau, Bernard. 2003. ‘L’Europe nouvelle de Hitler.’ Une illusion des intellectuels de la France de Vichy. Monaco: Éditions du Rocher. Griffin, Roger. 1996. Staging the Nation’s Rebirth: The Politics and Aesthetics of Performance in the Context of Fascist Studies. In Fascism and Theatre. Compar-

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ative Studies on the Aesthetics and Politics of Performance in Europe, 1925-1945, ed. Günter Berghaus, 11-29. Providence/Oxford: Berghahn. Hartmans, Rob. 2012. Vijandige broeders? De Nederlandse sociaal-democratie en het nationaal-socialisme, 1922-1940. Amsterdam: AMBO. Have, Wichert ten. 1999. De Nederlandse Unie. Aanpassing, vernieuwing en confrontatie in bezettingstijd 1940-1941. Amsterdam: Prometheus. Janse, A. 1940. Mussolini’s Rede van 14 November 1933 over den Corporatieven Staat. In Antirevolutionaire staatkunde. Maandelijksch orgaan van de Dr Abraham Kuyperstichting ter bevordering van de studie der antirevolutionaire beginselen 16 (January 1940) 1-17. Jong, L. de. 1972. Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden in de Tweede Wereldoorlog, deel IV: mei ’40 - maart ’41. ’s-Gravenhage: Staatsuitgeverij (scholarly edition/popular edition). Jonge, A.A. de. 1968. Crisis en critiek der democratie. Anti-democratische stromingen en de daarin levende denkbeelden over de staat in Nederland tussen de Wereldoorlogen. Assen: Van Gorcum. Kaiser, Wolfram. 2004. Transnational Networks of Catholic Politicians in Exile. In Political Catholicism in Europe 1918-45, Volume 1, eds. Wolfram Kaiser and Helmut Wohnout, 265-285. London/New York: Routledge. Krop, F.J. 1939. Portugal onder Salazar of het herstel van een klein en dapper volk. Rotterdam: Stemerding & Co. Linthorst Homan, J. 1946. Tijdskentering. Herinnering aan vernieuwingswerk vóór en na 10 Mei 1940. Amsterdam/Brussel: Elsevier. Linthorst Homan, J. 1974. ‘Wat zijt ghij voor een vent’. Assen: Van Gorcum. Luykx, Paul. 1996. The Netherlands. In Political Catholicism in Europe, 1918-1965, eds. Tom Buchanan and Martin Conway, 219-247. Oxford/New York: Oxford. Luykx, Paul. 2007. ‘Daar is nog poëzie, nog kleur, nog warmte.’ Katholieke bekeerlingen en moderniteit in Nederland, 1880-1960. Hilversum: Verloren. Mazower, Mark. 1998. Dark Continent. Europe’s Twentieth Century. London: Allen Lane. McMillan, James F. 1996. France. In Political Catholicism in Europe, 1918-1965, eds. Tom Buchanan and Martin Conway, 34-68. Oxford/New York: Oxford. Oudheusden, J. L. G. van. 1990. Brabantia Nostra. Een gewestelijke beweging voor fierheid en ‘schoner’ leven 1935-1951. Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact. Overy, Richard. 2009. The Twilight Years. The Paradox of Britain Between the Wars. New York: Viking. Paxton, Robert O. 2004. The Anatomy of Fascism. New York: Knopf. Ribeiro de Meneses, Filipe. 2009. Salazar. A Political Biography. New York: Enigma. Rogier, Jan. 1980. Een zondagskind in de politiek en andere christenen. Politieke portretten 2. Nijmegen: Socialistiese Uitgeverij.

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Roon, Ger van. 1973. Protestants Nederland en Duitsland 1933-1941. Utrecht/Antwerpen: Het Spectrum. Ruygers, Geert. [1940]. Volkseenheid. Brochurenreeks van de Nederlandse Unie, No. 1. Meppel: De agrarische pers. Stollenga, H.J. 2012. De Crisisjaren bij Het Algemeen Handelsblad. De visie op de staat en ontwikkeling van de Nederlandse economie in de krant 1935-1950. Masterthesis University of Groningen. Verkade, W. [1968]. Het ‘Europa van het verzet’. In Europa in beweging, ed. H.J.M. Aben, 5-10. N.p./n.p. Vincent, Mary, and Erica Carter. 2008. Culture and Legitimacy. In The War for Legitimacy in Politics and Culture 1936-1946, eds. Martin Conway and Peter Romijn, 147-176. Oxford/New York: Berg.

Part 2 – Science and Humanities

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 103-121

THE INTELLECTUAL NETWORKS OF OTTO NEURATH: BETWEEN THE COFFEEHOUSE AND ACADEMIA

Erwin Dekker

You don’t know Otto Neurath, the wittiest man of Vienna? You simply must come with us. (Herbert Feigl, quoted in Neider, 1973)

Abstract The chapter ‘The Intellectual Networks of Otto Neurath’ examines the intellectual exchanges of Otto Neurath during the interwar period. Otto Neurath, leftist member of the Wiener Kreis, operated in the spaces between coffeehouse and academia. In Vienna these spaces were formal institutions occupied primarily by various informal intellectual circles, rather than institutions. Otto Neurath was an active member and sometimes the driving force behind a wide variety of such social projects, including a modern encyclopedia project, social museums across Europe, housing projects, the Bauhaus and international conferences. He was particularly occupied with the development of a language which would help such cooperation to flourish. To do so he developed the visual language ISOTYPE and was involved in a project to unify the language of science. Such institutions were however highly dependent on particular individuals and vulnerable to personal conflict as the analysis of Otto Neurath’s networks demonstrates.

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Introduction Otto Neurath was at the centre of various intellectual networks during the interwar period. He is perhaps most famous for being a member of the Wiener Kreis, but he was also active in architecture, the social housing movement in Vienna and the Unity of Science Movement, a project to establish a universal visual language. The most striking fact about all these activities was that Otto Neurath (1882-1945) never worked at a university for a substantial amount of time before he migrated to the United Kingdom during WWII, just a couple of years before his death. The intellectual networks in which he worked as a social scientist, philosopher and social reformer were often informal and ad hoc connections of intellectuals with similar goals. This paper aims to explain how Neurath could become central in such various and numerous intellectual projects and networks during the interwar period. To do so I will examine three aspects: Neurath’s intellectual as well as his political ideals, the intellectual environment (especially that of interwar Vienna), and the personality of Neurath. Neurath’s intellectual and political ideals often had international and collaborative content. Neurath’s attempts to formulate a universal visual language and a universal language in science were efforts to stimulate international dialogue and understanding. The second aspect I will examine in an attempt to explain the variety and amount of his projects is the intellectual environment in interwar Vienna and Europe in general. Particularly in Vienna, the intellectual conversation did not take place primarily within the university, but instead in the various circles (Kreisen) which gathered in private homes, seminar rooms and coffeehouses. The most famous of these, the Wiener Kreis, of which Neurath was a member, was just one among many of such circles which met regularly and which were a breeding ground for an enormous output of intellectual ideas and cross-fertilisation. Thirdly, I will examine Neurath’s personality, which according to his friends and colleagues contributed significantly to his involvement in a variety of projects, many of which he himself initiated. He was full of energy and persistence, and could easily adapt to changing circumstances. This helped him greatly in a time when the political circumstances led Neurath from Vienna to the Balkans, to Bavaria, back to Vienna and then via Moscow and The Hague to England. His outgoing and social nature helped him connect with people wherever he went, and allowed

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him to work with many of the leading intellectuals in these European cities. It also makes Neurath stand out amongst his contemporaries, who could not always adjust as easily as he did. Nonetheless I hope that by examining Neurath’s various intellectual exchanges in interwar Europe a broader lesson can be drawn about such exchanges: the particular interwar ideals and life in the intellectual realm of that period. The article ends with an outline of some of the limitations to Neurath’s various projects, with special focus on what caused him to be forgotten relatively quickly after WWII. The Vienna Circles Otto Neurath is most famous for his membership of the Wiener Kreis, which frequently met between 1920 and 1938. This circle around the philosophers Moritz Schlick, Rudolf Carnap and mathematician Hans Hahn tried to construct a non-metaphysical foundation for science and philosophy. They would lay the foundation for much of twentieth century philosophy (of science). Although attention usually goes to their philosophical contribution, one of the other remarkable features of the group of philosophers was that they formed a coherent circle. This circle was originally inspired by Einstein’s work in physics and especially by Wittgenstein’s early work. The philosophers met regularly in private seminars, although some of its members were also affiliated to the University of Vienna. Neurath, one of the most prominent members of the Circle, had even been part of its predecessor; a circle which had met around 1910 and in which Hans Hahn, Philipp Frank and he himself had started discussing matters of epistemology and philosophy of science. But it was during the Interwar Period that the group grew closer and that they founded the Ernst Mach Verein (1928). This association would also publish their more popular works, amongst it their manifesto. It was primarily this manifesto ‘Die Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung’ (The Scientific Conception of the World, 1929) which made clear to the outside world that the Wiener Kreis was more than a debating club, or a loose grouping of individual philosophers. In the pamphlet the authors made clear to the world that they had a coherent scientific philosophy and more broadly a scientific outlook on the modern world. Who the actual authors of the pamphlet were is still not precisely clear, but it is known for a fact that Neurath, Carnap and Hahn had a prominent role in drafting the document. In writing of the pamphlet, as in some other

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endeavours, they were probably inspired by cultural avant-garde movements. Such avant-garde movements had popularised the form of the pamphlet, starting with the Futurist Manifesto in 1911. The more conservative members responded reservedly to the pamphlet. Some were even completely taken aback when it was published. Schlick, who was visiting America at the time, said that he disliked the promotional tone and dogmatic nature of the manifesto (Mulder 2008, 390). Nevertheless the pamphlet was influential in making the circle known to the outside world, and attracting attention for their philosophical and socio-political program. And it would take long into the twentieth century before attention turned again to the individuals instead of to the circle as a whole. Neurath was the driving force behind both the pamphlet and the creation of coherence between the members of the circle. Both Neurath’s friend Heinrich Neider, and philosopher Karl Popper argue that without Neurath the Wiener Kreis would never have become a collective at all (Popper 1973 and Neider 1973). The manifesto however also caused tensions within the circle. Especially the parts that stressed the wider implications of the ‘wissenschaftliche weltauffassung’ were not to everyone’s liking. The pamphlet called among other things for education of the masses and the adoption of its philosophy not just in science, but in all of life. The tension was especially evident between Moritz Schlick, the politically conservative and most academic philosopher of the circle, and the camp around Neurath. In a sense it was only an extension to previous tensions between Schlick and Neurath. Schlick for example had always refused Neurath into his house. Neurath had grown up in a working-class environment and did little to hide this, to the irritation of Schlick: ‘I cannot invite this man; I cannot bear his loud voice’ (Schlick quoted in Neider 1973, 48). Neurath was probably somewhat offended by Schlick’s refusal to receive him at his house, at the same time Neurath consciously adopted the role of the working-class character within the Wiener Kreis. He often wore a working-man’s cap and was known for impersonating the ‘aristocratzic’ accents of Schlick. The two men were completely opposite characters. Neurath was outgoing, witty and energetic, while Schlick was reserved, formal and quiet. The different characters reflected two opposite poles of the Wiener Kreis: Neurath was head of what some people have labelled the left wing of the Circle. Schlick was leader of the more conservative and more strictly academic part of the circle. Others on the left-wing included at least Carnap, Waismann and Feigl, who shared their middle-class back-

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ground.1 The relations within the circle were not always those of equals discussing eye to eye. Feigl, later often considered an important member of the circle, had long been Schlick’s assistant. It was this left wing of the circle, which more prominently portrayed the Wiener Kreis as a movement. The Wiener Kreis was not the only active intellectual circle in Vienna. The many circles which met in private homes and cafés in the city provided the space par excellence for intellectual activity in Vienna. In his study of cultural Vienna in the interwar period Edward Timms finds at least twenty of such circles which were in regular contact with other circles, and which often partially overlapped (Timms 2009, 24). There was a fierce competition between these circles for status and attention, which undoubtedly stimulated their creativity and output. The overlapping nature of these circles furthermore stimulated cross-fertilisation between them (see Collins 1998). The question which Timms and other scholars who have written about these circles often neglect however, is why these circles were so prominent in Vienna? They seem to take for granted that intellectual work took place within these circles in Vienna. However, looking at the situation in Germany or England we find that most intellectual work was already taking place within universities. I believe that this at least partly can be explained by the fact that academic life in Vienna was not very advanced. There were few professors, and the scholars who were associated to the university as Privatdozent and were paid per student often had various other jobs. Moreover, the University of Vienna had become a static institution, which due to various restrictions was not open to many of the recent developments. New professors were often appointed by the retiring professors and Jews who played such an important role in Viennese intellectual life were not hired (Craver 1986, 7-8). Vienna had a long tradition in which science was, as Deborah Coen has recently shown, chiefly a private enterprise (Coen 2007). Especially during the interwar period, but from even earlier this system had started to open up. Private libraries, knowledge and wealth were now shared in intellectual circles which covered everything from art, to science and politics. This ‘system’ of overlapping circles shaped the Viennese intellectual environment. Often a wide range was praised at least as much as specialisation, and all intellectuals also had to be entrepreneurial; they had to 1

On Neurath: Neurath 1973; on Carnap: Schilpp 1963; on Feigl: Feigl 1981.

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find funds; they often set up periodicals or institutions such as the Ernst Mach Verein of the Wiener Kreis. And when they did not have such outlets yet, or when they wished to reach a larger audience they opted for daily newspapers such as ‘Die Neue Freie Presse’ or the ‘Arbeiter-Zeitung’. Neurath, unlike Schlick who would have preferred a more closed and private setting, felt naturally at home in this environment where attracting attention was key. He organised public lectures, set up various institutions, and to stimulate the spread of scientific knowledge he developed a new pictorial language will be discussed in the next section. Pictures unite, words divide Much of Neurath’s activity in the 1920s took place within various organisations which promoted the emancipation of the working class. In the early 1920s Neurath was involved in several initiatives to improve the living conditions of the working class. According to Neurath the best way to improve these was to become partially independent from the market, through self-help. This strategy had a long history in Vienna, dating back at least to the 1860s. Through savings and cooperation the working class could improve their own living conditions. Neurath’s primary focus lay on housing and gardens. The garden could provide at least some of the food families needed, making them less dependent on the market. Neurath drew up schemes through which workers could buy their own home at a reduced rate, since these homes were e.g. built by the community itself. Growing your own food was especially relevant in a city plagued by rampant inflation in the post-war years, which was not successfully curbed until 1922. This same inflation was a great difficulty for the improvement of housing, since many of the building materials were expensive. Nonetheless the work of Neurath was highly influential. In 1923, when Neurath had become general secretary of the Settlers and Gardeners League, which had stimulated much of the social housing projects, he presented a big exhibition on the square in front of the Viennese City Hall. At this exhibition he presented some actual size models of houses for the working class. At that moment only few of these houses had actually been built, but they were a great example for the social housing projects which the city of Vienna would undertake later. Another part of the exhibition proved even more successful for Neurath. This part of the exhibition was situated inside the City Hall and it consisted of pictorial statistics which showed the plans of the League

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and the progress so far. Next to the progress they also displayed a pictorial representation of the present living conditions and the changes in living conditions over the past years. The exhibition was attended by over 200,000 people (Vossoughian 2008, 38). The Settlers movement was put in a difficult position because of its own success. The city government decided to build some 25,000 houses for the working class, and the movement was divided over whether this was to be celebrated or not. It did in fact make much of the movement irrelevant, but Neurath however seemed to have found his calling. The success of his exhibition of visual information had inspired him to develop a pictorial language, which could educate and elevate the working class. Meanwhile he stayed in contact with other architects and urban planners in Europe, such as Walter Gropius and Hendrik Petrus Berlage. They had praised Neurath for his attempts to visualise the building programme of Vienna. And Neurath managed to set up a permanent exhibition in the People’s Hall of the City Hall. This exhibition would later evolve into the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Museum of Society and Economy). Neurath’s visualisations were again a big success when Vienna hosted the International Town Planning Congress in 1926.

Figure 1: Decline of infant mortality in Vienna, coffins indicate deaths per 100 childbirths. The red/white cross is labelled ‘expansion of preventive measures’.

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As head of the museum Neurath set up a team of people who would invent a kind of universal pictorial language. This language had to be both clear and simple. His sources of inspiration were modern advertisements and modern cinema: ‘If one seeks to disseminate socio-scientific education generally, one must use similar means of representation’ (Neurath, quoted in Vossoughian 2008, 49). This socio-scientific education was supposed to promote the understanding of the living conditions of the working class and how these conditions could be improved. Many of his early statistics show optimistic developments which illustrate progress in the modern world. Figure 1 for example shows the falling infant mortality rate in Vienna. Neurath’s ideal was that such pictures would be directly understandable, even to those who could not read or write. So the pictures showed in the most straight-forward manner the social relations and other social facts. From later versions text would disappear more and more. To standardise and simplify these pictures as much as possible Neurath collaborated with various visual artists, who were often themselves involved in modern artistic movements. The most important of these was initially Peter Alma, a Dutchman and later the German Gerd Arntz who joined Neurath at the museum in 1928. Both Neurath and Arntz had a great drive towards clarity and simplification and they started developing a universal pictorial language, which could as easily be used in New York as in Vienna. And gradually the language indeed came into use in various places. Neurath helped to set up exhibitions in Berlin, Moscow, Mexico City, Chicago and New York. At the same time he started publishing guidelines for the use of his ISOTYPE statistics. Neurath’s method of visual statistics was even adopted as a requirement in some institutions in the Soviet Union. The Council of People’s Commissars had issued a special decree that ‘Dr. Neurath’s method of graphic representation of statistics is to be applied in all schools, trade unions, public and cooperative organisations’ (Neurath 1933/1973, 222). In 1933 Neurath bragged that ‘the northern half of the world has been won for the method of pictorial statistics; let’s move on to the southern half’ (Neurath, 1933/1973, 223). And while that claim was certainly overstated, Neurath’s pictorial statistics had and still have a large influence on the presentation of various sorts of statistics. Neurath’s drive for a universal pictorial language, which could be used in various countries, brought him into contact with like-minded individuals all over the world. And his goals of clarity, simplicity and

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emancipation resonated well with various modernist artists who were pursuing similar aesthetic and social goals in art. These shared goals, intellectual as well as political, brought Neurath together with people from various disciplines. Neurath’s visual statistics started as an attempt to provide education for the working classes. He wanted to make scientific knowledge available to the working class and he believed that this would transform their consciousness. This utopian ideal of peaceful transformation of the working class through education did not work out as Neurath had hoped. And during the 1930s he put his visual statistics to other uses. A good example is one of the books Neurath published towards the end of his life, Modern Man in the Making (1939). In this book he shows how progress and civilisation make human beings ever more alike. In the past humans and nations may have differed greatly, but now they were getting ever closer. With such publications he hoped to further international understanding and ultimately international peace. For as Neurath put it regarding these ideals: ‘words divide, pictures unite’ (Neurath 1931/1973, 217). But before he employed his visual statistics for this goal, his project attracted the attention of city planners across Europe. City planning The Congrès International d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM) is an organisation of modernist architects and urban planners founded in 1928 by prominent architects from across Europe. They invited Neurath to present his method of pictorial statistics at their fourth Congress in Athens in 1933. In 1932 he had regularly met with some of the members during his work in Moscow. Most of these members were Central European architects who had moved to Moscow to further the communist cause there. Neurath himself also supported communism in the Soviet Union, and there were more similarities between his goals and those of many modern architects. In Vienna Neurath had already collaborated with prominent architects such as Adolf Loos, Grete Schütte-Lihotzky and Josef Frank (his brother Philipp was a member of the Wiener Kreis). He approved of their building style and he shared their goal of transforming the living conditions of the working class. The housing projects of these architects often stressed functionality and low costs so that they would

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be available to lower social classes (Cartwright et al. 1996, 62).2 On the basis of such similarities and contacts with architects Neurath had in 1928 been invited to the Bauhaus. Afterwards he and his fellow philosophers of the Wiener Kreis would regularly go to the Bauhaus for lecture series and inspiration. This connection between the Bauhaus and the Wiener Kreis has been extensively studied in the 1990s by Peter Galison, who argues that there are fundamental similarities between the philosophical project of the Wiener Kreis and the architectural project of the Bauhaus. We will not go into this issue here, but it should suffice to note that Neurath, according to fellow Wiener Kreis member Feigl, believed there to be such similarities: Neurath and Carnap felt that the Circle’s philosophy was an expression of the Neue Sachlichkeit which was part of the ideology of the Bauhaus (…). This was indeed the basic attitude of the Vienna Circle (Feigl 1968, 637).

The sober, matter-of-fact attitude of the Neue Sachlichkeit, appealed to the philosophers of the Wiener Kreis, who wanted to get rid of metaphysical superfluities in science. Neurath even wanted to go as far as to do away with philosophy altogether, he considered it to be an superfluous ornament to science. In a similar way the architects associated with Neue Sachlichkeit wanted to abandon all ornaments and superfluities in architecture. The new conception of pure science, devoid of all metaphysics, had close similarities to the pure architecture of functionalism. The Bauhaus and the Wiener Kreis, or at least some members of both groups, also shared the utopian ideals of rebuilding a better world and for both the place to start was the improvement of living conditions and education. Neurath was thus not at all out of place at the fourth Congress of the CIAM. The architects and city planners had invited him – among other things – to grant a kind of scientific legitimation to their city planning goals. The person who directly asked Neurath to join the CIAM Congress was Cornelius van Eesteren. Van Eesteren had just finished his plans for the expansion of Amsterdam. For these plans he had used a system of symbols and colours, which he had developed himself. He had requested Neurath to speak on his method for visual representation and its possible applications to city planning (Vossoughian 2008, 117-9). 2

The projects can be compared with city extensions in other cities such as Amsterdam, in which modern architects also collaborated to build cheap, good quality houses for the working classes, with emancipatory goals in mind.

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In the paper he delivered at the conference Neurath characteristically argued for the need for clarity and the application of a universal language. This time he paid special attention to the unity of the representation of architectural facts and statistical facts (Chapel 1996, 169). He presented his pictorial language, the ‘figurative Esperanto’, as a unified language with its own dictionary, grammar and style. Neurath argued that the adoption of such a language would not restrict the freedom of the architects; rather it would bring greater clarity and would do away with repetitions and superfluities, and thus create freedom. Another advantage of the adoption of this system would of course be that the language would be international and that it would stimulate co-operation between architects from different countries (Chapel 1996, 170). These suggestions were well received at the conference and Van Eesteren had stressed similar advantages for the system he had developed. Lurking beneath the surface however was a large conflict over what precisely this system was to be able to do. For Van Eesteren the main goal of his system was to foster collaboration between architects and town planners across Europe. Neurath’s primary objective however was to communicate the plans, and their impact to the public. Neurath also criticised Van Eesteren’s plans along these lines at the conference. But before the conference was over these differences of opinion were quickly smoothed out.3 Neurath was also warmly supported by some of the architects who stressed that CIAM had been established to foster not only the communication ties between experts but also those with other groups in society. And the architects appointed Neurath as expert at the CIAM commission for Statistics and Publications. This collaboration would prove hardly fruitful. It started of promising, especially when Neurath migrated to the Netherlands, where he opened the International Foundation for Visual Communication in The Hague. This meant that Neurath and Van Eesteren could physically work together (Vossoughian 2008, 130-132). But Van Eesteren had meanwhile made clear in a letter to fellow committee member Moholy-Nagy that he was reluctant to fully accept Neurath’s system: ‘I remember your active contribution to discussions with Neurath, in which you always emphasised what is right from the human and psychological viewpoint: otherwise we would certainly have fallen prey to Neurath’s system, which is 3 Although some reports state that Laszlo Moholy-Nagy and Neurath already had serious disagreements if not fights about their plans (Chapel, 1996: 172).

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somewhat limited’ (Van Eesteren, quoted in Chapel 1996, 173). The complaint that Neurath’s system was lacking in humanistic or psychological aspects is odd. Van Eesteren’s own system was much more abstract and technical than Neurath’s straightforward system of pictorial representation. Some of the members of the CIAM however had found Neurath’s system limiting because it did not allow for spatial representation. Further developments, especially on a personal level, increased the distance between Neurath and the members of the CIAM. Besides personal struggles, the most important reason was probably that Neurath’s language was intended for the general public, whereas the architects of the CIAM were ultimately primarily interested in communication among peers. They were thus looking for a specialised international (visual) language for town planning. For the architects it was of greater value to first construct a professional visual language than to construct a general one. This attitude touched a sore spot with Neurath, who in his later writings made quite disparaging remarks about city planning: ‘Much city planning is full of pomposity, with a totalitarian undercurrent, pressing forward some way of life (…) For a democratic society it is important to have a common language’ (Neurath 1945, 247). Vossoughian adds that political tensions were also growing. Neurath's attempts to educate the working class and his view on modern city planning taking it to mean planning for and with the working class – became politically more and more suspicious. The report by the new fascist authorities in Vienna was clear about Neurath’s Museum for Society and Economy: ‘In this museum there remain nothing but communists: a Swiss, a Dutchman, a German from Frankfurt am Main, two Russians, etc.’ (quoted in Vossoughian 2008, 130). Vossoughian also recounts an occurrence at the 'Functional City' exhibition at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam in 1935 which illustrates that political tension often came to the fore. At the exhibition a fierce discussion broke out between politically conservative and socialist architects. The cause of the tension was a collage on a table designed by Steiger and Hess, on which the historical development of the city was divided into five epochs and which showed how modern cities ‘dominate the world economy through organised finance capitalism’ (Steiger, quoted in Vossoughian 2008, 135). This openly political statement was too much for Gropius, Giedion and Dutch architect J.J.P. Oud who had the artwork removed from the wall. This political tension between older politically more conservative archi-

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tects and the radical avant-garde had been present for a longer time. Until then however they had co-existed well, but the political situation was changing, and as Gropius wrote in a letter; the political stance of Steiger, Hess and Neurath had become ‘politically dangerous’. The CIAM thus cut ties with collaborators who were too clearly associated with socialism or communism. Neurath thus failed in the end to set up a successful collaboration with like-minded people. His goals of a simple and democratic visual language proved difficult to implement for a group of specialists, mainly interested in communication among themselves. Practising the ideals of cooperation and openness became harder in a highly politicised world in which many intellectuals grew cautious about relationships and affiliations. His collaboration with the CIAM was not the only time Neurath ran into such problems. In his attempts to set up an Encyclopedia of the Unified Sciences he encountered similar problems. For Neurath it was important that the authors of this Encyclopedia would adopt a unified and non-metaphysical language. What qualified as metaphysics was however hard to establish. Neurath for example preferred the term ‘empirical argument’, where many other authors favoured the more common ‘explanation’. Neurath felt that the former was clearer and completely devoid of metaphysical connotations, but Feigl became very frustrated over what he called ‘senile terminophobic objections’ (Feigl quoted in Reisch 1996, 82). And while Neurath was aware that even the unified languages he promoted should be open to criticism, in practice this was very difficult. Neurath often decided, unilaterally, on the precise vocabulary and grammar of his universal languages. He therefore often met resistance when collaborating with other intellectuals and groups who had difficulty accepting his universal language en bloc. Politics and personality We have in no way exhausted Neurath’s many endeavours or intellectual exchanges, only some of them: his encyclopaedia project, the social housing projects and the visual language ISOTYPE. All of these projects were conducted in collaboration with other intellectuals from the fields of art, science and politics. They were also all undertaken with both intellectual as well as social goals in mind. In his work, attempts to get rid of ornaments or metaphysical language in both architecture, modern art

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and science could go hand in hand. And an underlying socialist current, which was often not very well articulated, further stimulated the cooperation between these intellectuals. They shared a feeling that their generation could change things through cooperation in science, politics and art. This was evident in Neurath’s attempt to construct a universal pictorial language. The constructors of such new languages as Esperanto or Ido, wanted to overcome nationalism and national differences. Neurath’s experiences during WWI when he had been engaged in wartime planning, had convinced him that the new world could be constructed on scientific principles. And many of his interwar projects were attempts to apply such scientific planning, or social engineering as he sometimes called it, to architecture, communication and the economy. As such he was part of a wider European intellectual movement, which believed that it would be possible to reconstruct the world based on science. Such ideals however often ran into practical difficulties; as we saw above neither cities nor languages can be changed overnight. And throughout the 1930s Neurath himself moved away from this revolutionary idea of the reconstruction of society, instead he wanted to start in the field which he knew best: science. If it were possible for scientists to formulate a universal language, and a formidable international republic of scholars, this could be an example for Europe and the world. This idea of the republic of scholars brought him into contact with the Belgian Paul Otlet, who shared Neurath’s ideals of international dialogue and pacifism. And many of the architects and designers at the Bauhaus, with whom Neurath had close relations, also believed that their work could fundamentally alter the modern world. However, political differences were never far away. Both in the Wiener Kreis as well as in his collaborations with CIAM Neurath worked with intellectuals who shared many goals but were reluctant to share in his socialism. They rather satisfied themselves with more modest goals within their disciplines, undoubtedly partly motivated by the political climate. Neurath himself had never had much of an antenna for such political sensitivity. Just after WWI Neurath’s political idealism had even gotten him into serious trouble. He had drawn up plans for the socialisation of Bavaria and was initially very successful in attracting support for them. However when the political tide changed he was accused and convicted for high treason. It took the intervention of Max Weber and Otto Bauer among others to get him out of jail. Interestingly enough, they had argued that since Neurath was a scientist, his plans to socialise

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the economy were of a purely objective nature. And when reminiscencing about Neurath, many of his friends reflect on his political naivety (see various contributions in Neurath, 1973). On the other hand, Neurath’s personality also contributed to his various collaborations. His vitality and energy were often irresistible to others and thus he was able to make them contribute to his projects. Many of his contemporaries testify to this. Ernst Niekisch, the political leader of the short-lived Bavarian Soviet Republic remembers him as such: Neurath’s vitality was almost irresistible. He visited everybody whom he wanted to support his goals. He was confident that he would be able to convince those who resisted (…). It was amazing how Neurath tyrannised the whole cabinet. He fought for every part of the socialisation bill, resisted every change, issued several ultimata, threatened to leave abruptly and so intimidated the ministers one by one (Niekisch, quoted in Cartwright et al. 1996, 47).

Neurath never slowed down, and was always working – especially during his younger years with a certain recklessness – on many projects simultaneously. Another good illustration of this perseverance is that Neurath was known to call out ‘metaphysics’ during seminar meetings, whenever a speaker ventured into metaphysical realms. When it was once suggested that Neurath perhaps should ‘hum’ instead when he disapproved, Neurath quipped that it would be easier if he would say ‘not-M’, whenever the discussion was not about metaphysics. This energetic, outgoing personality made Neurath many friends, and made him quickly at home in the various places he worked. At the same time people were often taken aback by his initiatives and directness. We have already seen how Schlick refused to have Neurath in his home, and how Schlick was completely surprised by the manifesto published by Neurath. In his collaboration with the architects and later in the Unity of Science project, we also saw that teamwork to Neurath often meant that other people helped realise his goals. Both the architects and the philosophers of science contributing to his project were reluctant to fully embrace Neurath’s ideas, even though they shared most of his goals. This made collaboration hard, since Neurath demanded his views be fully adopted. Exchange for him was often a one way affair, although over the course of his career he did show some signs of improvement concerning cooperation with others.

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Conclusion: between the coffeehouse and academia Otto Neurath held a prominent place in various intellectual networks in the interwar years. He was not only a renowned member of the Vienna Circle, he was also actively involved in projects of language development, architecture and city planning which aimed primarily at improving international understanding and emancipation of the working class. Interwar Europe made for a unique intellectual environment of which Neurath was an exponent. It was not academic life which was at the centre of this intellectual climate, but intellectual networks. This was true locally in Vienna in the Viennese circles, but also regionally in Europe, where intellectuals organised international conferences, exhibitions and set up ad-hoc institutions. While Neurath’s ideals were often universal in character, they were formulated against and shaped by the European context of the interwar period. Europe was of importance both as the intellectual context in which he developed his ideas and as the larger region in which he tried to realise them. The case of Neurath illustrates well that intellectual collaboration was often difficult. It was not just his personality that can explain this. Many of the projects Neurath had undertaken during the 1920s became politically more problematic during the 1930s. The social housing project had been very successful in the Red Vienna of the 1920s, but was extinguished in the fascist capital of the 1930s. And when many members of the Vienna Circle were forced to migrate to the United States or the United Kingdom it greatly harmed many of Neurath’s projects. He did find collaborators in the new world, amongst them Philip Morris who helped him with his Unity of Science project, but the political edge of Neurath’s work remained problematic in the Cold War world. As Reisch has shown in his study of the migration of the Vienna Circle, its social and political programme virtually disappeared and it became a purely philosophical project. The contributions of Neurath were thus often neglected at the expense of his more academically-minded and more purely philosophical friends, most notably Carnap and Frank. The philosophical project they had set in motion was continued and elaborated in the United States, but its social and political significance had been lost (Reisch 2005). When Neurath passed away in 1945 his wife Marie Neurath who had been involved in many of his projects did continue one of them with some success. Neurath’s ISOTYPE or visual language would continue to

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be influential in visualising various statistics in museums as well as in science. But in the ISOTYPE project as well as in the other projects mentioned above, the emancipatory goals for which Neurath had originally developed them were largely forgotten. But what contributed perhaps most to the dwindling of his legacy was the fact that Neurath had operated in that curious intellectual space between coffeehouse and university. He left behind no philosophical tract, and many of his publications had a more direct connection to the various museums, conferences and other projects under which umbrella he had operated. The activities in the Circle had of course been mostly verbal, not to mention that all his work of the 1920s and before had been in German. It would take until 1973 before a volume of his work was translated, and only recently scholars on the Vienna Circle such as Cartwright, Nemeth and Stadler have contributed to more interest in Neurath. What they point out, and what is most striking indeed when looking at Neurath’s bibliography is the sheer range of it. It represents the various conversations he has been part of in the interwar period. Unconstrained by academic specialisations or fields, he was able to develop his interests in their full breadth and scope: across social science, philosophy, politics and social reform. At the same time it makes it hard to nail him down, and reading the recent volumes on his work one sees commentators struggling with the many ambiguities and contradictions when considering his work as that of an academic philosopher (see especially Cartwright et al., 1996). Opportunism or a change in his projects shifted goals and ideals for Neurath. It can be said that he simply could not afford the luxury of the search for consistency in the way his academic colleagues could. Neurath thus benefited in a particular way from the circumstances in the interwar Period. He had the range and scope required for the intellectual conversations in Vienna. He had had a training which was not constrained by disciplinary boundaries and even his early academic work was about law, philosophy, sociology and economics. At the same time there was a need to organise knowledge in a modernising and expanding world. He set up institutions during the interwar period which would prove to be an inspiration to post-war institutions and would ultimately lead to the professionalisation and specialisation of knowledge. He could thus become the organiser when there was still a lack of organisation, and at the same time enjoy the freedom of the coffeehouse intellectual. This however did come at a price, much of his work was specific to the

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interwar Period: its ideals, conferences, projects, and political context, and that made it less easy for those in other times to continue his work or build on his legacy. And while Vienna scholar William Johnston (1972) includes Neurath among the ranks of Wittgenstein, Husserl and Freud, his post-war influence does not come close to theirs.

References Cartwright, Nancy, J. Cat, L. Fleck, and Thomas E. Uebel. 1996. Otto Neurath: Philosophy Between Science and Politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Chapel, Enrico. 1996. Otto Neurath and the CIAM – The International Pictorial Language as a Notational System for Town Planning. In Encyclopedia and Utopia: The Life and Work of Otto Neurath (1882-1945), eds. Elisabeth Nemeth, Friedrich Stadler, 167-182. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Coen, D.R. 2007. Vienna in the Age of Uncertainty: Science, Liberalism, and Private Life. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Collins, Randall. 1998. The Sociology of Philosophies: A Global Theory of Intellectual Change. Harvard: Harvard University Press. Feigl, Herbert. 1981. Inquiries and Provocations. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Company. Feigl, Herbert. 1968. The Wiener Kreis in America. In The Intellectual Migration: Europe and America, 1930-1960., eds. Donald Fleming, Bernard Bailyn, 630673. Cambridge, MA: Charles Warren Center. Galison, P. (1990). Aufbau / Bauhaus : Logical Positivism and Architectural Modernism. Critical Inquiry, 16(4), 709–752. Johnston, William M. 1972. The Austrian Mind: An Intellectual and Social History 1848-1938. California: University of California Press. Mulder, Henk L. 1968. ‘Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung – der Wiener Kreis’. Journal of the History of Philosophy 6: 386-90. Neider, Heinrich. 1973. Memories of Otto Neurath. In Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath, Robert S. Cohen, 45-49. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Company. Neurath, Otto. 1973. Empiricism and Sociology, eds. M. Neurath, R.S. Cohen. Dordrecht: Reidel Publishing Company. Neurath, Otto. 1931/1973. Visual Education and the Social and Economic Museum in Vienna. In Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath, Robert S. Cohen, 215218. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishers Company Neurath, Otto. 1933/1973. Museums of the Future. In Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath, Robert S. Cohen, 218-223. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishers Company. Neurath, Otto. 1939. Modern Man in the Making. New York: A. A. Knopf.

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Neurath, Paul. 1973. Memories of Otto Neurath. In Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath, Robert S. Cohen, 29-41. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Company. Popper, Karl R. 1973. Memories of Otto Neurath. In Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath, Robert S. Cohen, 51-56. Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Company. Reisch, George A. 2005. How the Cold War Transformed Philosophy of Science: To the Icy Slopes of Logic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reisch, George A. 1996. Terminology in Action: Neurath and the International Encyclopedia of Unified Science. In Encyclopedia and Utopia: The Life and Work of Otto Neurath (1882-1945), eds. E. Nemeth, F. Stadler, 79-86. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Schilpp, Paul Arthur. 1963. The Philosophy of Rudolf Carnap. La Salle, Illinois: Open Court. Timms, Edward. 2009. Cultural Parameters between the Wars: A Reassessment of the Vienna Circles. In Interwar Vienna: Culture between Tradition and Modernity, eds. Deborah Holmes, Lisa Silverman, 21-30. Rochester: Camden House. Vossoughian, Nader. 2008. Otto Neurath: The Language of the Global Polis. Rotterdam: NAi.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 123-137

UNIVERSALISM IN ACTION: IDEALS AND PRACTICES OF INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC COOPERATION

Geert Somsen

Abstract In 1934 and 1937 the International Council of Scientific Unions, the world’s over-arching organization of the natural sciences, issued a number of declarations speaking out against ‘a too exclusive nationalism’. The economic crisis and the rise of fascism had created a climate of chauvinism and belligerence that, it was claimed, ran counter what science stood for: peace, cooperation and internationalism. These statements are remarkably political coming from an official scientific body. They are also surprising in the light of recent experiences with international cooperation in science, which had been highly strained since Versailles. This chapter analyses the background of the statements. Rather than the reflection of timeless scientific values, they should be seen as the result of a particular movement of leftwing scientists who organised themselves transnationally and used the ICSU as a platform for a largely socialist voice, with the sound of science. Ideals of scientific peace In July 1934, the International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU) held its triennial General Assembly in Brussels. Delegates from all over the world and representatives of the entire spectrum of scientific disciplines gathered for five days in order to discuss scientific business: from the nomenclature of chemical compounds tostandardised methods of viscosity measurement and astronomical expeditions. But the assembly also adopted a political statement. It observed that everywhere nationalism was on the rise. Peoples and governments seemed to be more and more

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led by their own countries’ concerns, and increasingly prioritised national interests over the common good. The world of science had to speak out against this development. The ICSU resolution stated that scientists ‘will never lose sight of the international character’ inherent in their own work, and that their enterprise could thus be a model for international relations to the rest of the world: the ‘brotherhood of scientists’ can be an important factor towards the establishment of a desire for mutual understanding and helpfulness in order to overcome the dangers involved in a too exclusive nationalism (W.I.S.Commissie 1934).

Three years later, the ICSU met again, and this time the stakes were even higher. The Assembly discussed worries about the increasing influence of deceitful political propaganda, the rise of militarism in certain countries, the spread of ‘unsound creeds and prejudices’, and the ‘tendency towards war which seems to haunt us (…) as a most dangerous and contagious mental disease’. Again, it was felt that international science had to sound a protest. As guardians of truth, scientists could help ‘to analyze and to define what is misleading and false in certain forms of propaganda’. The ‘brotherhood of scientists’ (a term which, as previously, they invoked in quotation marks) could counter belligerence and promote international understanding. In these and other roles, science could advance a ‘moral force’ against ‘the dangers which at present menace the future of our civilization’ (Burgers and Kruyt 1937). These were no small words, especially considering that they came from people whose daily occupations were far removed from the world of politics. The two authors of the text were a theoretical physicist, working on fluid dynamics and air turbulence, and a professor of colloid chemistry, investigating the conditions of protein coagulation. As a matter of fact, many of the attendants at the 1937 General Assembly deemed the proposal too political to suit their occupations, and only accepted it in a toned-down version. At the same time, it was precisely the apolitical aura of science, closely guarded in public relations, that gave these statements their authority and weight. As one of the authors mentioned, ‘it is of great importance that a high international body like the International Council can publicly state: this and that has been brought forward in scientific circles’ (W.I.S.-Commissie 1934, author’s translation). Paradoxically, the political import of these interventions rested on the perception of them not being political at all, but the product of something unaf-

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fected by human relations (nature, logic, reality) and represented by spokespeople of science. This paradox had a long tradition, especially in statements concerning international relations. Since the early-modern period, the community of the learned had thought of itself as a Republic of Letters, whose members were dedicated to truth alone and transcended national and political difference. Precisely because this society was elevated above the world of dirty foreign politics, it could be an ideal model for it. During the nineteenth century, the notion of the Republic of Letters changed into ‘the international scientific community’, which was more professional, more conceived as a gathering of nations (rather than of cosmopolitan individuals), but no less exemplary in the peacefulness of its members’ cooperation. It was institutionalised in the numerous conferences, bureaus and disciplinary unions that proliferated in the decades around 1900, culminating into overarching bodies such as the ICSU (Somsen 2008). Little was unique about this kind of internationalism. It was quite comparable to many of the internationalist, federalist and pacifist ideas and movements appearing in other chapters of this volume. But what made scientific internationalism particularly compelling (at least in the eyes of its proponents) was the sense that it was based on an essential and inalienable quality: the universality of science. Put most simply, Newton’s laws were valid anywhere, and scientists all over the globe found themselves connected by that knowledge. Their internationalism was no choice or conviction – it was a fact of nature. In the words of the Belgian historian of science George Sarton, ‘La science est le patrimoine le plus précieux de l’humanité; (…) La science n’est pas seulement le lien le plus solide, mais c’est, entre les hommes infiniment divers, le seul lien vraiment solide, le seul lien incontestable’ (Sarton 1913, 43). But while this may have been true ideally, the picture did not always conform to reality. The actual experience of European encounters between scientists in the interwar period had shown little natural cooperation, let alone an inherent and exemplary peaceful character. During the First World War and in the decades that followed it, scientific international relations had become highly strained, and not only because of exceptional circumstances. If we want to understand the optimistic internationalism expressed in the ICSU statements, we must start by seeing it in relation to these contrary experiences.

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Realities of international relations A good starting point is the ICSU itself. It had its roots in 1919 when it had been set up as the International Research Council (IRC) in the spirit of the Treaty of Versailles. Its statutes had been deliberately designed to exclude German and Austrian scientists – for twelve years or whenever they seemed morally fit for international cooperation again (Kevles 1971; Schroeder-Gudehus 1978). The exclusion did not so much follow general League of Nations policies (which actually allowed for cultural and scientific cooperation with the former Central Powers) but was the result of the intensity with which scientists of both camps had aligned themselves with their countries’ military efforts during the Great War. This had started in October 1914, when 93 German intellectuals, including many science professors, had signed the manifesto An die Kulturwelt! supporting the German war cause, and denying (in a staccato of ‘Es ist nicht wahr’ statements) a whole series of war crimes and immoral behaviours on the part of their nation’s military and government (von UngernSternberg and von Ungern-Sternberg 1996). The statement was soon followed by even more dedicated and indignant Allied declarations, and in a few years an all-out pamphlet war developed that would poison scientists’ relations for years to come. Remarkably it was not participation in the war industry that was the biggest bone of contention – most scientists understood this as a matter of national duty, and more or less accepted their colleagues’ labours, also on the other side. It was the squandering of objectivity, impartiality and internationalism that each camp accused the others of, and which enhanced the notion of them being unfit for future intellectual interaction (Rasmussen 2004). After the armistice, many French and Belgian scientists objected to a revival of cooperation with their German colleagues. And hence a boycott against the former Central Powers was built into the IRC, and was accepted even by formerly neutral countries who all joined the organisation as soon as they were invited to (Lettevall, Somsen and Widmalm 2012). Division, not cooperation, characterised international relations in science. In the years that followed, hostility slowly diminished, and in 1926 the boycott was lifted. But by that time the German scientists refused to join the IRC. They felt they were now merely tolerated in international meetings, not cordially welcomed, let alone respected for their scientific stature. Much of the pamphlet war had consisted of deprecating remarks about the moral and scientific rank

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of the other side, and this low esteem had not clearly disappeared from Franco-German perceptions. As Fritz Haber, the famous chemist, complained, Germany had received exactly the same invitation that had been sent to a country like Siam, and this did not signal any great recognition of his country’s level of scientific achievement (Otterspeer and Schuller 1997, 162). The fact that the IRC could or would not acknowledge accomplishments in the very field it was supposed to administer made it unsuitable for its task. The Germans had another and perhaps more substantial reason for their ‘counter-boycott’, and this was their denial of the legitimacy of the IRC altogether. After all, the International Research Council was the continuation of the Inter-Allied Research Council, an organisation that had been set up during the war for the exchange of military research information within the Entente (Jones 1960). Such an integral part of the Allied war machine, according to the Germans, flew in the face of true scientific internationalism. It was as if the Republic of Letters had taken seat in the British Admiralty. Moreover, the IRC replaced the International Association of Academies, that had been established before the war and that appeared as a more neutral and suitable vehicle for maintaining peaceful intellectual relations. It looked as if the only reason why this organisation was not revived, was the fact that it had initially been set up by German academies – hardly a supranational argument. In the course of the 1920s, the urge to leave these animosities behind and resume international scientific cooperation came less from the scientists themselves than from politicians. After Gustav Stresemann and Aristide Briand had been able to achieve some relaxation of the tensions at Locarno, the former’s foreign ministry pressured the German professors to swallow their pride and also re-establish friendly European relations in science. They refused – but the whole move looked like scientific internationalism turned on its head. Instead of the scientific community showing the way to peaceful relations between countries, it was diplomats and political leaders who told scientists to cooperate. Politics looked more internationally minded than science (Schroeder-Gudehus 2012, 25). Of course, the scientists in question saw this differently. According to the German professors, true internationalism forbade them to join a body like the IRC. Nor did an imitation of political rapprochement, as exemplified by Locarno, necessarily correspond to scientific principles. German professors generally regarded themselves as Kulturträger and as

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much more legitimate representatives of their nation than Weimar politicians. And hence they were also much better placed to represent that nation internationally (McCormach 1974; Forman 1973). Neither was this attitude restricted to Germans. When the Dutch foreign minister J.Th. de Visser questioned the Netherlands Academy’s membership of a new international organisation (in this case the IRC’s equally exclusive counterpart in the humanities), secretary Pieter Zeeman told him not to interfere and claimed the Academy’s ‘complete freedom to determine our relations with other nations’. Sovereignty resided in science, not the state (Zeeman to De Visser 1920). In 1931 the IRC itself made another attempt to break the stalemate. During its fifth General Assembly it restructured itself into the ICSU, which was organised by discipline, not by nation (at least in its first division; the disciplinary unions that made up the ICSU did consist of national members). The hope that this would make German membership easier soon proved to be false, however, and only the German Chemical Society joined an international body. Perhaps other organisations were moving in the same direction, but this ended after 1934, when the new Nazi government founded the Deutsche Kongress-Zentrale to take control of all international relations in science. Even though this did not necessarily mean that German scientists were kept away from foreign conferences and international organisations, their participation was now tightly monitored and mainly used for intelligence purposes (Herren 2002). There were no German delegates at the ICSU meetings of 1934 and 1937. Experiences on the work floor And still, at those ICSU meetings, the ‘brotherhood of science’ was presented as a model of international cooperation. The question presents itself where this idealism came from. How could the authors of the two proposals, and the General Assemblies that adopted the resolutions, hold on to the notion of an exemplary scientific internationalism? It could be suggested (and has been suggested) that this positive picture was based on interpersonal experience – that the divisions at the formal and organisational level were compensated by good relationships between individual scientists of both camps. To some extent, this was certainly true. Exchanges of information, mutual visits and even small international meetings proceeded relatively unencumbered during the 1920s, despite the official boycott. In a sense, the IRC’s policies did not mean that

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much for science on the work floor, and so perhaps the experiences there led to the optimism of the 1934 and 1937 statements. On the other hand, there is also little reason to think that work floor practice was so exemplarily peaceful either. There was as much strife as sociability, as much competition as collaboration, in day-to-day scientific exchanges. Take the new science of atomic physics (Hughes forthcoming). Although a practitioner such as Ernest Rutherford repeatedly presented the field in public as a paragon of international cooperation and a truly collective effort in uncovering universal truths, behind the scenes it was rife with controversy and disagreement. His results were constantly disputed by a laboratory in Vienna, which used different techniques for analysing atomic radiation products, and kept raising doubts about the findings from Cambridge. Private correspondence reveals that there was much mutual mistrust between the two parties, while at the same time they also worked hard to keep the dirty laundry inside. It was one thing to disagree or think lowly of each other’s competence, it was quite another to bring such dissent out in the open – even under circumstances of boycott. In a sense, this need not surprise us this. The peaceful character of the scientific community had always been more of a public face than an inner nature – or at least more of an ideal norm than an actual behaviour. Even if scientists believed that they should behave according to high internationalist standards, this did not mean that they always did. The sorts of conflict that Rutherford ran into were not necessarily routine in scientific practice. But in their absence, universal agreement did not always come naturally to researchers either. On the contrary, divergence was the rule rather than the exception. Laboratory scientists often worked with locally procured materials, they usually (especially in frontline research) used instruments that were built by their own technicians, and they employed research skills that they had acquired in particular settings of training. These varying conditions led to varying findings that were not always easily harmonised. A good example can be found in the new field of nutrition science, which the American physiologist Francis Gano Benedict tried to organise internationally in the interwar period (Neswald forthcoming). To this end he undertook seven extended tours among European laboratories, only to find an impressive range of differences even between researchers on the same topic, for instance respiration measurement. They published in different languages, they used different kinds of apparatus, the metabolisms they studied differed because of the test subjects’ local diets, and the skills they developed – for

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example in measuring oxygen intake – were often not easily interchangeable. Benedict found that it took great effort to make such diverse cultures communicate, let alone reach a consensus on methods and findings. The universality of science was not a given – it needed hard work in standardisation, negotiation, and skills transfer. The natural state of science was not unity but cognitive fragmentation. Limited internationalism Given these various experiences, how can we account for the ICSU resolutions of 1934 and 1937? How was it possible for scientists to regularly encounter the difficulties of achieving international collaboration and still proclaim that their work was a paragon of cooperation and peacefulness? Were these statements merely window-dressing? Were they optimistic and naïve? I want to suggest that the proclamations in question are best understood as the products of a specific movement of scientists – the expression of a mostly left-leaning part of the scientific community, which held together transnationally and used the ICSU and other institutions as a platform. Rather than the reflection of regular international interaction in science, they were the product of particular European encounters of scientists with similar political agendas. In order to see this, it is firstly important to realise that the ICSU statements were not supported by all scientists – far from it. The 1934 resolution, which was quite general in tone, passed without much discussion (Van Iterson 1934). But the 1937 proposal, which came with an extended ‘memorandum’, discussing how scientists should respond to propaganda, militarism, and related isues, was highly controversial. It met with widespread reservations, and the authors even withdrew it before they presented it to the General Assembly in order to replace it with a much more neutrally stated text (Greenaway 1996, 63). This version merely proposed to install a committee to ‘prepare a survey’ of scientific results and scientific opinions before any position was taken in public, and as such it was adopted. The original documents had simply been too political for most ICSU attendants, and it was therefore explicitly added to the second proposal that ‘[t]he work of the Committee is strictly limited to scientific activity’ (Rapport 1937). At the same time, the work of this committee can be used to probe the actual extent of the adherence to scientific internationalism in the scientific community. As part of its task, it started to collect views on the

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social significance of science, first from whatever had been published on the subject, and later, in 1948, through a kind of opinion poll (Burgers and Florkin 1948). This poll received answers from 70 scientists from 19 countries, producing a nuanced and rather complicated picture. Almost all respondents stressed that international cooperation was crucial to natural science, and most (but not all) also believed that scientists were particularly internationally minded. However, opinions differed on the question whether the international character of science contributed to a general ‘international spirit’ and worked in favour of world peace. On this point, a number of scientists reflected the idealism of the ICSU proposals of the 1930s, or at least saw some kind of ‘trickle-down effect’ from science to general international relations. But there were also many who did not expect any such benefits at all. The American mathematician Solomon Lefschetz saw ‘as many positive as negative contributions and the total is zero.’ His compatriot, the chemist Harold Urey, perceived no relation whatsoever: Peace is the by-product of responsible government, and not a by-product of a discussion on the origin of the carbon and nitrogen atoms in uric acid, or a discussion of atomic rays.

According to the Swiss chemist Rudolph Signer, being a scientist did not even influence one’s own international orientation: ‘A top chemist or physicist can be a passionate pacifist as well as an advocate of war.’ If internationalism was intrinsic to science, views varied widely on what that actually meant. Of course we need to be cautious generalising these results, especially considering that the poll was far from professionally executed. Although the sample was called ‘representative’, it is unclear how the respondents were chosen or what percentage of them answered the questionnaire. Moreover, they were far from evenly distributed, with 24 out of 70 coming from the US and only one answer from Eastern Europe (Bulgaria). But while it is hard to say whether this worked in favour or against internationalism (and the same may be said about the emerging Cold War and the atomic bomb, looming in the background of most answers), there were two other sources of bias that had a clearer direction. First of all, the poll was not anonymous, and the answers would be published with names attached. And so the respondents, aware of their representational duty, tended to give a positive public picture of science – and peaceful cooperation fit that picture better than distrust and dissent. What is

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more, the survey was conducted by the Dutch physicist Jan Burgers, who had also been one of the authors of the 1934 and 1937 ICSU resolutions. When the second proposal had only passed in its watered-down form, he had become the secretary of the resulting committee in order to see if his original opinions could not be extracted from the scientific community in some other way. If he had any partiality in interpreting the poll results, it was probably his hope that they would reveal a widespread internationalism. And we only know the poll results through his rendition of them, in the 1948 ICSU Report. It therefore seems safe to say that the actual reservations about internationalism appearing in that report were not overrepresented, and hence that the lofty internationalism of the ICSU proposals reflected the opinions of only a segment of the scientific community. An international movement The question is: what segment of the community held internationalist views, and how did this segment become so prominent? One clue for this can be found in the literature review that Burgers conducted for the committee after it was first founded. The outbreak of the war prevented its publication, but in a Dutch lecture in early 1940, Burgers revealed what main sources he had found (Burgers 1940). Almost all of these were British. Burgers referred particularly to the editorials of the journal Nature, which discussed the political implications of science (or the scientific take on political issues) on a weekly basis. He mentioned the campaigns of author H.G. Wells to work toward international government based on a scientific worldview. And he pointed to books such as Scientific Research and Social Needs (1934) – by the biologist Julian Huxley, and The Frustration of Science (1935) – by an anonymous collective, which proclaimed how much more science could contribute to the solution of world problems, if only politicians gave it a chance. Similar views were expressed by the Division for the Social and International Relations of Science (DSIRS), established in 1938 as a branch of the British Association for the Advancement of Science – and Burgers mentioned these too. The country of origin was not the only connection between these publications. In fact their authors worked quite closely together in what has become known as the Social Relations of Science (SRS) movement (Werskey 1988, McGucken 1984). The SRS movement consisted of a group of leftwing scientists and science writers, some radical, some more

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moderate, who all sought to drastically increase the use of scientific methods and scientific expertise in handling society’s problems. Their diagnosis of the Great Depression, for example, was that it was the result of an irrationally operating economy, based on whimsical private initiative, which led to overproduction, unemployment, and a vast waste of resources. All these faults could be prevented if questions of production and social need were more scientifically analysed and planned. Authors such as the physicist J.D. Bernal saw a good example of this in the Soviet Union, while others leaned towards more moderate forms of plan socialism. The SRS movement proposed scientific alternatives in other policy domains as well. In fact it claimed that the entire parliamentary system was in need of rationalisation, since in it governments were elected on the basis of ‘waves of mass emotion’ (as the journal Nature called it) while politicians often lacked the technical expertise that was required for real solutions (Nature 1936, 899). According to H.G. Wells, democracy put the best ‘electioneers’ in power, and these were not necessarily the best problem-solvers. Moreover, since political elites were generally steeped in history and literature, they clung to romantic notions of nationhood while a scientific mindset would tackle problems on a global scale. For Wells, scientific solutions were necessarily universal, and hence the only possible science-based form of government would be a World State (Thomsen 2000, 30-32). In Wells’s vision and in the SRS movement more generally, internationalism was only one aspect of a larger political programme. And this programme sought to increase the social role of science in a kind of planned socialist welfare state. The reason why these views were so coherent is that their proponents made efforts to adjust their expressions to each other. Although the SRS movement comprised some strong characters with outspoken personal convictions, they spent a lot of time coordinating action. They set up dinner clubs where they exchanged and debated their ideas. They issued joint publications, often of a programmatic nature. And they organised conferences and seized important platforms, such as the Division for the Social International Relations of Science (DSIRS) of the British Association. In these ways they managed to create a stream of publicity that represented a consistent movement. And soon enough this movement would no longer be confined to Britain either.

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France counted some leftwing activist scientists too, including the physicist Paul Langevin and people connected to the new Palais des Découvertes. They got in touch with their British counterparts, and tried, among other things, to create a World Federation of Scientific Workers (Petitjean 1999). Similarly, in the United States, the New York Times science journalist Waldemar Kaempffert was very active, and it was on initiative of the American Association for the Advancement of Science that the DSIRS was created (Kuznick 1987). In the Netherlands, Burgers set up a study group, together with his fellow author of the ICSU proposals, the chemist Hugo Kruyt, and some other interested scientists. And they too were not only inspired by the British writings, but also contacted their authors – Burgers had even prepared the strategy of the 1937 proposal with Nature editor Richard Gregory (Somsen 2001). In fact that proposal was backed by a list of signatories from more than ten different countries, so Burgers had already created a network before the resolution was discussed. Afterwards, this network was formalised in a string of national subcommittees of the ICSU committee, in all the above-mentioned countries plus South Africa, Australia, India, New Zealand, China and Poland (Burgers 1940). This was the international movement that produced the internationalist statements. It was not the entire scientific community, but a subset that coordinated its work transnationally. Science and Europe A final question in the light of this volume is whether the scientific internationalists discussed here saw their project as European, or as contributing to the preservation or (re-)making of Europe. It is a pertinent question as modern science is often seen as the invention of Europe, and hence we might expect that self-proclaimed guardians of scientific values, such as the actors we have seen, would somehow have a European referent. Yet, references to Europe were rare in internationalist pronouncements – the dominant epithet was ‘international’, ‘world’, or ‘universal’, not ‘European’. One important exception to this rule was a manifesto of a similar tone as the ICSU resolutions, written somewhat earlier: the Aufruf an die Europäer, published in 1914 by a group of German scientists including Albert Einstein and the biologist Georg Friedrich Nicolai (its author) as a counterpart to An die Kulturwelt! (Nicolai, Einstein, and Förster [1914]). In it, they rejected the nationalism of their compatriot

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professors, and argued that scientific civilisation demanded European unity. Their call for internationalism therefore did associate science with Europe, but not as opposed to a more global conception but in contrast to a smaller, nationalist view. There was no real distinction between ‘European’ and ‘international’. The view that science was a product of Europe, and not the world at large, was developed later, and in the historiography of science. Around the Second World War, influential historians such as Herbert Butterfield, Alexandre Koyré and Charles Gillispie started to argue that although science might now be international, its initial conception had been a purely European affair. Gillispie even wondered whether non-Europeans could be trusted with the (atomic) products of modern science (Somsen 2008, 372-374; Mayer 2000; Mayer 2004). But this was a group of scholars who were far more conservative (and anti-communist) than the SRS internationalists described above. For the latter, science meant internationalism on a world scale, not just in Europe.

References Burgers, J.M., and H.R. Kruyt. 1937. ‘Proposal for a resolution to be submitted by the Royal Academy of Sciences of Amsterdam to the meeting of the International Council of Scientific Unions at London in April 1937’ and ‘Memorandum’. National Archives of North-Holland, Haarlem, files of the Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen (KAW files), 64, 455. Burgers, J.M. 1940. ‘De betekenis van de wetenschap voor de ontwikkeling der maatschappij’. Het Kouter 5: 91-101. Burgers, J.M. and M. Florkin. 1948. ‘Commission pour la Science et ses Relations Sociales (CSSR)’. Typescript for ICSU Report of the Executive Committee 1948, in Burgers Archives, Delft, box VI, folder ICSU/CSSR. Forman, Paul. 1973. ‘Scientific Internationalism and the Weimar Physicists: The Ideology and Its Manipulation after World War I’. Isis 64: 151-180. Greenaway, Frank. 1996. Science International. A history of the Unternational Council of Scientific Unions. Cambridge, New York, Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Herren, Madeleine. 2002. ‘“Outwardly … an Inocuous Conference Authority”: National Socialism and the Logistics of International Information management’. German History 20: 67-92. Hughes, Jeff. Forthcoming. Unity through experiment? Reductionism, rhetoric and the politics of nuclear science, 1918-40. In Pursuing the Unity of Science:

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Scientific Practice and Ideology between the Great War and the Cold War, eds. Harmke Kamminga and Geert Somsen. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing. Jones, H. Spencer. 1960. ‘The Early History of ICSU 1919–1946’. ICSU Review 2: 169-187. Kevles, Daniel. 1971. ‘“Into Hostile Political Camps”: the Reorganization of International Science in World War I’. Isis 62: 47-60. Kruyt, H.R. 1937. 19th meeting WIS committee KAW, 30 January 1937, Amsterdam. KAW files, 64, 455. Kuznick, Peter J. 1987. Beyond the Laboratory: Scientists as Political Activists in 1930s America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lettevall, Rebecka, Geert Somsen, and Sven Widmalm, eds. 2012. Neutrality in Twentieth-Century Europe. Intersections of Science, Culture, and Politics after the First World War. New York, etc.: Routledge. Mayer, Anna-K. 2000. ‘Setting Up a Discipline: Conflicting Agendas of the Cambridge History of Science Committee, 1936–1950’. Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science 31: 665-689. Mayer, Anna-K. 2004. ‘Setting Up a Discipline, II: British History of Science and “the End of Ideology”, 1931-1948’. Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science 35: 41-73. McCormach, Russell. 1974. ‘On Academic Scientists in Wilhelmian Germany’. Daedalus 103: 157-171. McGucken, William. 1984. Scientists, Society, and State: The Social Relations of Science Movement in Great Britain 1931–1945. Columbus: Ohio State University Press. Nature. 1936. ‘The Service of Unified Knowledge’. Nature 138: 899-900. Neswald, Elisabeth. Forthcoming. ‘Strategies of International Community Building in Early 20th-Century Metabolism Research: The Foreign Laboratory Visits of Francis Gano Benedict’. Historical Studies of the Natural Sciences. Nicolai, Georg Friedrich, Albert Einstein, and Wilhelm Förster. [1914] 1996. Aufruf an die Europäer. In The Collected Papers of Albert Einstein Vol. 6: the Berlin Years: Writings, 1914–1917, eds. Anne J. Kox, Martin Klein, and Robert Schulmann, 69-71. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Otterspeer, Willem and Joke Schuller tot Peursum-Meijer. 1997. Wetenschap en Wereldvrede: de Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen en het Herstel van de Internationale Wetenschap tijdens het Interbellum. Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen. Petitjean, Patrick. 1999. Needham, Anglo-French Civilities and Ecumenical Science. In Situating the History of Science. Dialogues with Joseph Needham, eds S. Irfan Habib and Dhruv Raina, 152-197. New Delhi et al.: Oxford University Press. Rapport van de delegatie naar de vergadering van de International Council of Scientific Unions te London van 26 April – 3 Mei 1937. KAW files, 64, 538. Rasmussen, Anne. 2004. ‘La Science française dans la guerre des manifestes’. Mots. Les Langages du Politique 76 : 9-23.

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Sarton, George. 1913. ‘L’Histoire de la Science’, Isis 1: 3-46 (reprinted in 1938, Isis 29: 311-325), oorspronkelijk cursief. Schroeder-Gudehus, Brigitte. 1978. Les Scientifiques et la Paix: la Communauté Scientifique Internationale au Cours des Années 20. Montréal: Les Presses de l’Université de Montréal. Schroeder-Gudehus, Brigitte. 2012. Probing the Master Narrative of Scientific Internationalism: Nationals and Neutrals in the 1920s. In Neutrality in Twentieth-Century Europe. Intersections of Science, Culture, and Politics after the First World War, eds. Rebecka Lettevall, Geert Somsen, and Sven Widmalm, 1942. New York, etc.: Routledge. Somsen, Geert J. 2001. Waardevolle Wetenschap. Bespiegelingen over Natuurwetenschap, Moraal en Samenleving in de Aanloop naar de Doorbraak-Beweging. In De Doorbraak van de Experts. Wetenschap en Maatschappelijke Vernieuwing Rond 1945, ed. Geert J. Somsen, 19-36. Rotterdam: Erasmus Publishing. Somsen, Geert J. 2008. ‘A History of Universalism: Conceptions of the Internationality of Science, 1750–1950’. Minerva 46: 361-379. Thomsen, Charlotte. 2000. H.G. Wells and the World State, unpublished masters thesis Universiteit Maastricht. van Iterson, G., to B. Brouwer, 12 July 1934. KAW files, 64, 455. von Ungern-Sternberg, Jürgen and Wolfgang von Ungern-Sternberg. 1996. Der Aufruf ‘An die Kulturwelt!’: das Manifest der 93 und die Anfänge der Kriegspropaganda im Ersten Weltkrieg. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Werskey, Gary. 1988. The Visible College: A Collective Biography of British Scientists and Socialists of the 1930s. London: Free Association Books, 2nd edn. W.I.S.-Commisie to Afdeeling Natuurkunde van de Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen te Amsterdam, 2 April 1934. KAW files, 64, 538. W.I.S.-Commissie, minutes meeting on 30 January 1937. KAW files, 64, 538. Zeeman, Pieter, to Minister J.Th. de Visser, 13 July 1920. KAW files, 64, 73a.

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PARIS 1933 A ‘SOCIÉTÉ DES ESPRITS’ CHAIRED BY PAUL VALÉRY

Annemarie van Heerikhuizen

Abstract In October 1933, not long after the coming to power of the Nazis in Germany, an interesting group of European intellectuals gathered in the French capital to discuss ‘the future of the European mind’. Writers and academics from all over Europe took part in the discussions that were organized by the League of Nations and chaired by the French poet and essayist Paul Valéry. Is it possible to see the discussions as successful examples of intellectual exchange, of sharing ideas concerning the problems of Europe? In this chapter special attention will be given to the contributions of Johan Huizinga, Hermann von Keyserling, Julien Benda, Pál Teleki, Jean Cantacuzène and Jules Romains. Did they succeed in becoming – as Valéry hoped – ‘a power of transformation’ that could rescue the world? Introduction Paris 1933. Some months after the coming to power of the Nazis a company of distinguished European intellectuals gathered in the French capital for a three-day conference (16-18 October) on the future of the European mind (L’avenir de l’esprit européen). These intellectuals, mostly writers and academics, came from all over Europe: many were from France, others from Spain, Portugal, Italy, Hungary, Romania, the Netherlands, Belgium, Great Britain, Germany, Denmark and Switzerland.1 1 The Paris conference was attended by, from France: Paul Valéry (chairman), Julien Benda, Léon Brunschvicg, Georges Duhamel, Henri Focillon, R.P. de la Brière, E. de Las-Cases, Anatole de Monzie, Denis Parodi, Gaston Rageot, Jules Rais and Jules Romains. From Portugal: Julio Dantas. From Spain: Salvador de Madariaga.

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The conference was organised by the International Institute for Intellectual Cooperation (IICI), a League of Nations organisation, which was located in the Palais-Royal, where the conference also took place. The reason for this conference and the sense of urgency of the event, are clearly expressed in the inauguration speeches of Emile Borel (organisation committee), Paul Valéry (chairman) and Anatole de Monzie (Minister of National Education). In the proceedings of the conference we read: Dans leurs discours d’inauguration, M.M. Emile Borel, Paul Valéry et Anatole de Monzie ont rappelé l’objet de l’Entretien. M. Borel (…) a montré que dans les circonstances actuelles, la meilleure méthode était de demander à quelques hommes d’élite de confronter leurs vues sur l’avenir de l’esprit européen. M. Valéry (…) a souligné les difficultés de l’entreprise en insistant sur ‘ce qu’on pourrait appeler la sensibilité ou l‘irritabilité de certaines questions’. M. De Monzie enfin (...) a mis en évidence la nécessité ‘de rétablir le contact entre les forces purement spirituelles et les forces naturelles [non spirituelles] qui, de temps en temps, réclament leur place et leur rôle dans la vie des sociétés’ (IICI 1934, 6).

The aim of this article is to discover whether the congress was successful, if its objectives were achieved and if the European elite was indeed able to formulate some clear answers regarding the actual threats to Europe. But it also aims to find out – as anticipated in Valéry’s words – if there were controversial points in the discussion, making the conference a more difficult undertaking. In the words of this volume: can the conference be seen as a successful example of ‘intellectual exchange’, of sharing ideas and re-thinking the problems of Europe? Surprisingly enough, until now, little research has been done on these Paris debates. Michael Renoliet summarized several League of Nations conferences in his study on intellectual cooperation after the First World War but provided no extensive analysis on the Paris conference (Renoliet 1999). In a recently published article Michel Jarrety discusses some of the leading ideas, without going into the details of the Paris debates (Jarrety 2011). The intention of this article is to describe, as precisely as possible, the opinions that were put forward in Paris at that time, as well as in the From Italy: Emilio Bodrero, Francesco Coppola and Federigo Enriquès. From Great Britain: Aldous Huxley. From Germany: Count Hermann von Keyserling. From Denmark: Viggo Broendal. From the Netherlands: Johan Huizinga and Josef Limburg. From Belgium: Jules Destrée. From Hungary: Count Pál Teleki. From Romania: Jean Cantacuzène. From Switzerland: William Martin.

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conferences that preceded Paris, in Frankfurt and Madrid, to clarify which ideas were shared by the intellectuals, and also which caused dissention among them. From Geneva to Paris To understand the Paris conference, the origins of the organisation that made Paris possible must first be considered, that is, the League of Nations, although in reality it was just one country that was responsible for the whole event; its organisation, venue and financing, as well as the publication of its proceedings: France, under the leadership of Éduard Herriot’s ‘Cartel des Gauches’. Remarkably, the League of Nations, when this international organisation was formed in 1919, gave no attention at all to intellectual activities. The promotion of international peace and security was a political, economic, and legal affair, not an intellectual one, is to be deduced from the Covenant. Nevertheless, according to many of the leading internationalists of the day, the League could never succeed in its aims without the inclusion of intellectual cooperation. Therefore, in 1921, after a League of Nations resolution on the subject had been passed, an International Commission for Intellectual Cooperation (CICI) was founded. The new organisation was backed by famous men and women from diverse countries and academic disciplines in Europe who became its first members (among them Henri Bergson, Marie Curie-Sklodowska, Jules Destrée and Gilbert Murray). The close connection of these individual members to the principles underlying the League of Nations is clear from the fact that they participated not as representatives of their nations, but as politically independent men and women. Due in a large part to the French politics of that period, the CICI became more than just a respectable club for academics and writers who were in support of the ideals of the League of Nations and met occasionally in Geneva. In 1926 the International Institute for Intellectual Cooperation (IICI) was founded in Paris, to prepare the meetings of the CICI, and to implement its decisions. This actually became the executive organ of the commission or, as the French Minister of Public Education called it in a letter to Henri Bergson, the president of the commission: the ‘instrument of action’ of the commission (Pham-Thi-Tu 1962, 87). The 1933 Paris meeting might never have happened without the establishment of this new institute that had been financed for the most

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part by the French government. The French interest in intellectual cooperation and their willingness to finance it each year with a substantial amount of money can be explained in several ways. As a consequence of the Ruhr occupation and the amelioration of international relations after the Locarno Treaty, the French wanted to raise their international prestige and to show the world their peace-loving intentions. Besides, an old tradition existed in France, dating back to the times of Louis XIV, that motivated the French government to finance intellectual cooperation. For centuries culture had been an integral part of French politics (Riemens 2005, 237). The IICI, which officially operated in complete independence of the French government, not only functioned as the executive organ of the commission in Geneva, but also initiated activities of its own: it published brochures and books, founded documentary centres, coordinated academic activities and developed several educational programmes. In 1932, with the help of the Permanent Commission of Letters and Arts of the League of Nations, the IICI began to organise intellectual conferences (‘entretiens’). Jules Destrée, a Walloon lawyer, cultural critic and politician presided over the first ‘entretiens’ in Frankfurt am Main (12-14 May 1932); Marie Curie chaired the second one in Madrid. However, the most important man behind the scenes was the French poet Paul Valéry, a passionate advocate of, as he called it, a ‘société des esprits’. He was the spiritual father of a frequently-quoted and influential formula of the time that said ‘la Société des Nations suppose la Société des Esprits’ (Jarrety 2011, 98). Frankfurt: Goethe The conference at Frankfurt in 1932 can be considered as a sort of test case: to what extent could these intellectuals be seen as a truly united community, a ‘Society of Minds’?2 The conference was organised on the occasion of the centennial anniversary of Goethe’s death and a better occasion could hardly be imagined. Goethe was seen by all the partici2

The Frankfurt conference was attended by, from France: Henri Focillon, Julien Luchaire and Paul Valéry. From Spain: Salvador de Madariaga. From Italy: Ugo Ojetti and Roberto Paribeni. From Great Britain: Gilbert Murray. From Germany: Thomas Mann and Wilhelm Waetzoldt, From Belgium: Jules Destrée (chairman). From Norway: Nini RollAnker. From Sweden: Ragnar Oestberg. From Romania: Georges Opresco and Hélène Vacaresco. From Austia: Josef Strzygowski. From Czechoslovakia: Karel Èapek. From Switzerland: Gonzague de Reynold From Bolivia: Adolfo Costa du Rels.

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pants at the conference as the perfect example of the intellectual they had in mind: a man connected to his own country but at the same time a universalist. Or, as Destrée said in his opening speech, comparing him to Dante and Shakespeare: Je n’ai pas à vous dire que Goethe est un de ces rares élus de la littérature et de l’art qui, comme Dante ou Shakespeare, tout en restant fortement de leur pays, sont, en même temps, des figures universelles. La célébration du Centenaire de Goethe était, pour nous, une occasion unique d’affirmer l’esprit qui nous anime (IICI 1932, 9).

But there was more, as becomes apparent in the debates which follow, that made Goethe such an interesting figure. Goethe, who had lived in the time of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, had been confronted with more or less the same kind of problems now facing the intellectuals: the reconstruction of a new world and the formulation of new morals to replace the old, ineffectual ones. The power of Goethe as an exemplary figure was that he had not succumbed to the revolution and turmoil around him but had survived, as an intellectual. No one expressed this feeling of intellectual kinship more beautifully than the Swiss writer and historian Gonzague de Reynold. To him Goethe was a man who, without secluding himself in an ivory tower, had succeeded in using all his intellectual capabilities to come to an understanding of his own time. And so, according to De Reynold, he fulfilled the definition of a hero: a man who is always focussed on his own intellectual ideas, in any situation. In De Reynold’s words: ‘un homme immuablement concentré’, with special gifts: posséder la sensibilité, la réceptivité nécessaire pour que votre temps se réflète en vous et que vous lui renvoyiez ce reflet en lumière. C’est ce que Goethe a su faire. II a su réagir, sortir du courant, se tenir debout sur le bord, deviner, pressentir où ce courant allait (IICI 1932, 70).

Thomas Mann also participated in these discussions. He was a great admirer of Goethe and even strongly identified with the famous German writer (Kurzke 2002). In Frankfurt Mann underlined Goethe’s duality, that is, his special German-European attitude: ‘vis-à-vis de l’Allemagne, il [Goethe] s’est montré européen; vis-à-vis de l’Europe, il s’est montré allemande’ (IICI 1932, 91-92). Mann hoped that through Goethe the German people, who were currently suffering so greatly, could regain their confidence. Our relations with the world are complicated, Mann

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stated. But Germany, as l’ Alemanité, could make itself loved again in the world (IICI 1932, 197). In his speech Paul Valéry characterised Goethe foremost as an ‘Homme d’Univers’, a man not limited nor affected by a special time, race or nationality. Goethe, with his superior spiritual powers, could have lived in any time or country. He was comparable only to other sovereign men such as Napoleon and Caesar (IICI 1932, 93-95). Nevertheless, during the conference other opinions were also voiced. The Austrian art historian Josef Strzygowski sketched Goethe not as a universal thinker, but as a man from the North, with clear Indo-Aryan roots. He illustrated this by analysing some largely-unknown landscapes painted by Goethe, which according to Strzygowski showed definite northern characteristics. Strzygowski was of the opinion that the Germans should honour Goethe, this northern hero, with a huge monument, as a manifestation of the German spirit: ‘Nous devrions donc élever un grand monument qui serait dédié à Goethe et, à travers lui, à tout l’art contemporain de Goethe, qui serait une véritable manifestation de l’esprit allemande’ (IICI 1932, 115). Madrid: ‘L’avenir de la culture’ Pour une Société des Esprits was the optimistic title of a booklet that was published directly after the Frankfurt conference and in which Valéry underlined the importance and necessity of the entretiens. A year later, in May 1933, the discussions continued in Madrid on the theme ‘The Future of the Culture’ (L’avenir de la culture) and Madam Curie-Sklodowska (Marie Curie) was chairing. A varied company of intellectuals took part in the discussions, many from the host country, Spain, and also several intellectuals who had been present in Frankfurt, including Josef Strzygowski. They all were senior intellectuals, prominent men in the academic world, but not engaged in politics’3

3 The Madrid conference was attended by, from France: Paul Langevin, Jules Romains and Paul Valéry. From Portugal: Julio Dantas. From Spain: Agustin Calvet, Salvador de Madariaga, G. Maranon, Manuel Garcia Morente and Miguel de Unamuno. From Italy: F. Orestano and F. Severi. From Great Britain: J.B.S. Haldane. From Germany: Otto Lehmann and H. Pinder. From Denmark: Viggo Broendal. From Romania: Georges Opresco and Hélène Vacaresco. From Austria: Josef Strzygowski. From Poland: Karol Szymanowski. From Mexico: G. Estrada. From the United States: Edwin M. Gay. The president, Madam Curie-Sklodowska, was born in Poland in 1867, but she lived and worked in France. She died one year after the conference, in 1934.

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The opening speech by the Spanish philosopher Manuel Garcia Morente, explicitly described the dangers threatening European culture. Its future was, he said, ‘une question de vie ou de mort’ (IICI 1933, 11). Morente, a specialist and translator of Spengler’s work (Untergang des Abendlandes) into Spanish, was of the opinion that the West was not, as Spengler predicted, going to die, but nevertheless was suffering a deep crisis. The symptoms of this crisis were a loss of universal knowledge, and a decline of civilisation among the masses (IICI 1933, 12-18). In his speech Morente also made clear that, concerning the question of nationalism and universalism, he was a supporter of the idea that both were relevant and, as a Spanish citizen, he had Don Quichotte as reference. His comment about Cervante’s book was: ‘Un ouvrage comme Don Quichotte de la Manche est très espagnol, et précisément à cause de cette qualité, il est très humain et universel’ (IICI 1933, 24). Not all intellectuals shared Morente’s ideas. The French writer Jules Romains was much more hopeful concerning Europe’s future. According to him the intelligentsia could, by spreading their ideas and intellectual work, create a stronger and safer culture. Of great importance, in his view, was the work of the League of Nations, which therefore had to become a less bureaucratic institute. In his opinion, what the world needed, was imagination. Romains’ words illustrate the enormous gap there was between the intellectuals discussing the problems of the world within their comfortable conference rooms, and the masses outside: Je reproche à la Société des Nations d’être une oeuvre trop purement administrative, raisonnale et tranquille, d’être trop exclusivement une oeuvre de sagesse bureaucratique. Je voudrais que l’on fît pour elle des manifestations populaires et passionnantes qui remuent les foules, que l’on fît pour elle des cortèges avec des costumes et de la musique, je voudrais que l’on remplît pour elle le ciel d’éclats de bombes et de feux d’artifice (IICI 1933, 41).

Other intellectuals, among them the Romanian cultural critic George Opresco, underlined the equivalence and mutual dependence of the intellectuals and the masses (IICI 1933, 116-117). Some even warned the intellectuals against becoming an esoteric club (IICI 1933, 162). The only woman participating in the Madrid discussions, the Romanian-French poet Hélène Vacaresco, was of the opinion that, to raise culture, more attention should be given to the complete human being, not only by promoting intellectual capabilities, but also those of the emotions: ‘La vraie culture est intérieure et touche à l’âme’ (IICI 1933, 134). Some participants, like the Spanish writer Salvador de

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Madariaga, argued that culture was not something of the sentiments but foremost rational and should be based on science (IICI 1933, 146). He supported the idea, put forward by the British biologist J.B.S. Haldane, of a ‘culture syndicale’, an association of universities and scientists to promote Western culture (IICI 1933, 237-239). Several speakers in Madrid, including the Italians F. Orestano and F. Severi, defended the principle of the national state and did not agree with universal ideals. Strzygowski again expressed his special love for the Indo-Aryan culture and rejected the idea of one universal culture (IICI 1933, 250-251). At the end of the conference, ‘la Présidente’ Madam Curie summarized all the highly individual points of view but made no secret of her own, personal ideas: Nous pouvons reconnaître que le rêve d’avenir exige la synthèse des cultures nationales, et la subordination des divergences qui sont principalement de nature politique, à un but universel qui est celui de la culture de la civilisation (IICI 1933, 217).

However, it was not Curie but Valéry who concluded the conference with some final words. Valéry compared the conference with an ensemble of brave but confused Don Quichottes and said: ‘J’oserai vous dire (...) que je vous présente un ensemble de Don Quichottes, de Don Quichottes de l’esprit qui se battent contre leurs moulins à vent’ (IICI 1933, 281). Valéry also referred to his own words, that a society of nations supposed a society of minds and that what the world needed most was a ‘politique de l’esprit’ (IICI 1933, 284-285). An intellectual elite of writers and academics outside the ‘official politics’, had to pave the way to Europe’s future. Paris: ‘L’avenir de l’Europe’ In Paris many of the themes discussed in Frankfurt and Madrid would re-emerge. Under the leadership of Paul Valéry, the debates would again reveal a great diversity in opinions. There were pessimists who believed that Europe was in a deep crisis and its future seriously threatened but also optimists who were of the opinion that there was no crisis at all. And there was still another category: outspoken principle men, among them the French writer Julien Benda. According to Benda European intellectuals should fight for ‘absolute values’ and not just wait and see what the future would bring. This appeal confronted the conference with right wing values too, which in Paris were principally defended by the

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Italian journalist Francesco Coppola. Finally, some intellectuals had found inspiration by simply observing changes in their immediate environment, such as a revival of academic life. As previously mentioned, Paul Valéry, who succeeded Curie as chairman in Paris, strongly believed in the power of a ‘société des esprits’. However, in La crise de l’esprit (1919) he had still sketched a Europe in which the military crisis was over, but the intellectual crisis wasn’t. The facts were clear and pitiless. He wrote that many young intellectuals had not survived the war; the dream of a European culture was over, the intellectuals were powerless. (Valéry 1989, 26). Some years later he became slightly more hopeful and, in La politique de l’esprit, published just a year before the Paris conference, he argued that the mind was able to cope with the post war chaos and could rescue Europe’s future. By the word ‘mind’ Valéry did not mean a metaphysical entity but a ‘power of transformation’ (Valéry 1989, 91, 94). All this formed the background to Valéry’s opening speech in Paris in which he stated: Nous sommes en présence d’un état de choses qui a forcé même ceux qui n’avaient pas consacré leur temps à réfléchir sur les destins de l’esprit (...) à se demander comment l’avenir se présente pour ce capital considérable qui avait été assemblé, et qui n’est pas seulement constitué par des connaissances (...) mais surtout par quelque chose que nous appelons “esprit”, c’est-à-dire une certaine manière de transformer ce qui se présente à nous (IICI 1934, 9).

From Valéry’s Paris speech it becomes clear that, although ‘esprit’ had the power to transform things, it was nevertheless still weak and under attack. Not long ago, he said, we believed that we could conquer the world, that our common values were safe. But today, these common values are in great danger. ‘Nous voici donc’, Valéry said en présence de ce problème, qui est notre problème, Messieurs, – celui que nous sommes réunis pour examiner: Que pouvons-nous prévoir, que devons-nous penser de la variation prochaine, probable de l’esprit européen? (IICI 1934, 12)

Pessimism and optimism seemed to go hand in hand with Valéry. He considered intellectuals as having the power to change things, to transform the world around them. But even they were sometimes infected by nationalism. Two different personalities existed within them: l’un qui précisément est cet Européen, l’un qui a une culture généralisée à l’Europe, qui a ce sentiment de l’universalité, de tout ce qu’il y a de plus beau (...). Mais, à côté de ce personnage, il y en a un autre qui parle sa langue, qui

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est enfermé dans ses traditions nationales. (...) Tantôt nous nous trouvons plus universaux, plus européens que nous ne sommes nationaux, et tantôt, à la moindre circonstance, qui affecte notre sensibilité, beaucoup plus nationaux qu’européens (IICI 1934, 13-14).

Obviously, Europe still was in great danger. Nevertheless, at the end of his speech Valéry again referred to a possible ‘variation prochaine’; intellectuals just had to study and think more deeply about Europe’s future. This was part of the politics of the mind. Intellectual Europe The Dutch historian Johan Huizinga, one of the first speakers at the conference, shared Valéry’s deep concerns, but his argumentation was slightly different. Europe, he said, was returning to ‘barbarie’. All sorts of national organisations were hostile to common European values. Huizinga, in his speech, which was clearly founded on his historical publications from the years preceding the conference – Herfsttij der Middeleeuwen (1919); Erasmus (1924) – described the way in which, from the time of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, an international community of intellectuals had arisen, a Republic of Lettered Men. In contrast to Valéry, Huizinga was of the opinion that the ideas of this republic had not completely disappeared after the Great War. According to him the intellectuals of the twentieth century, although now in the defence, could even be seen as the direct heirs of that republic. He asked them to be proud of this heritage: ‘Comme Européens de l’esprit, nous sommes surtout les héritiers directs du dix-huitième siècle et de l’humanisme. Soyons-en fiers’ (IICI 1934, 62). However, nationalism also played a part in Europe’s history. Huizinga argued that this had once been harmless, peaceful and primarily cultural. Therefore he saw nationalism as not necessarily a threat to intellectual Europe. In his words: ‘Il faudra mettre les éléments plus nobles d’un nationalisme fondé dans la vraie culture au service d’un européanisme apte à recueillir et à concilier les différences de civilisation nationales’ (IICI 1934, 63). The British writer Aldous Huxley expressed a far greater concern about the modern way of life but he also believed that Europe would eventually survive. As he had illustrated in his science fiction novel Brave New World, published in 1932, he saw modern life becoming characterised by consumerism, mass production and the advance of technological science. Human beings were losing control over their own lives. All this

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formed a threat to Europe too, he believed, as he clearly expressed in his Paris speech, which was not without a spark of humour. Technological inventions had made the production possible, at a very low cost, of thousands of poor quality books. Now vulgarity posed the greatest problem for modern Europe, the spread of bad literature (detectives) and bad music (jazz). The only way to save Europe was through the fine arts: ‘si l’art supérieur reste pur, tout n’est pas perdu’ (IICI 1934, 142). Non-Intellectual values During the conference it also became obvious that some intellectuals were not at all dissatisfied with ‘modern’ Europe. One of them was the German philosopher and writer Count Hermann von Keyserling. Keyserling was the author of Reisetagebuch eines Philosophen (1919) and Das Spektrum Europas (1928), bestsellers in interbellum Europe. Keyserling was of the opinion, based on his travels through Europe and other regions of the world, that a new era was approaching, a time characterised by a universal ‘esprit planétaire’: De nos jours, il est impossible de traiter de la question européenne sans prendre comme point de départ la totalité des humains; le contact immédiat entre tous les points du globe, créé par les moyens de communication modernes, a fait de tout le monde des voisins et l’esprit de l’époque est, par conséquent, un esprit planétaire (IICI 1934, 15).

This optimistic viewpoint would not have come as a surprise to his audience in Paris. His books also contained the suggestion that a universal world would soon come into being. In fact, so Keyserling reasoned, Europeanism did already exist as the result of a lively intellectual exchange between the elites of the European countries. Keyserling argued that this European elite should not turn their backs on society but instead, simply join it. In that age of mass culture, dominated by non-intellectual forces, intellectuals were needed more than ever before. It was essential to realise two things: firstly, that ‘des forces telluriques’ – the natural, non-intellectual forces – were ‘des choses bonnes en soi’ and life had always been a mixture of natural and spiritual elements. Secondly: the masses had become docile and passive but nevertheless, in order to provide them with a future, they needed spiritual leadership. What a great opportunity for the intellectuals! They could raise the world: Car si les mondes nouveaux naissent, comme naissent les enfants, des basfonds à travers des processus élémentaires souvent horribles et contraires à

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toute norme de l’Esprit, ce sont toujours les impulsions spirituelles qui jouent le rôle du père et donnent leur forme définitive et son sens définitif au monde nouveau-né (IICI 1934, 34).

Absolute values The French writer Julien Benda was one of the most outspoken opponents of this form of reasoning. First he attacked Huizinga, who had pleaded for humanism, as well as for nationalism, in his speech. This was completely wrong, according to Benda. The message to the European people had to be: Nous ne voulons pas détruire vos différences nationales; mais nous vous invitons à vous sentir dans une région de vous-même, qui nous appellerons humanisme, où vous pourrez vous reconnaître semblables, et qui est supérieure à celle dans laquelle vous vous sentez différents (IICI 1934, 66).

But Benda also disagreed principally with Keyserling. He queried the necessity of joining society, to come to the help of the masses in that way. According to Benda this would only be possible when intellectuals had the firm intention to fight what was wrong. In his words: ‘J’accorde que nous devions marcher avec notre temps (...) pour ne pas perdre son audience, mais avec la ferme intention par devers nous de le combattre dans ce qu’il a de mauvais...’ (IICI 1934, 67). Benda, who had already, in his La Trahison des clercs (1927), argued against intellectuals becoming apologists for nationalism and racism, instead of for humanism and shared intellectual values, was to clash with the Italian journalist and fascist Francesco Coppola, too. Coppola argued, contrary to Benda, that certain intellectual ideas, such as the ideas of the Enlightenment, simply had no meaning anymore in modern Europe. He argued that circumstances had changed, that these ideas were outdated (IICI 1934, 189, 206-210). Benda’s principal reaction was: not the circumstances determine the ideas, but ideas determine the circumstances. And so the ideas of the Enlightenment should never be surrendered. Some hopeful observations Many contributions were inspired by the speaker’s own country or academic discipline. For example, Count Pál Teleki, a professor of geography in Budapest, and an important former politician in Hungary (he had been Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs), presented his own

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unique view on Europe’s future. His speech was definitely influenced by his academic background and Hungary’s multinational environment. You know the map of Europe, he said, so you know that Europe, thanks to its geology, is a fragmented and diverse continent with highly interesting regional cultures. Hard facts underpinned his argument (‘cette diversité de l’Europe est un fait’) and also a deep love for Europe’s cultural wealth and refinement. But the most important phenomenon on Europe’s map was, according to Teleki, the so-called ‘région de transit’. These transnational border regions were the key to making Europe more peaceful and united. ‘Plus on accentue les régions de transit qui en Europe sont la majorité, plus on diminue l’importance des frontières’ (IICI 1934, 96-97). The way in which to succeed in making transnational border regions more important in Europe was, in his opinion, primarily the task of the intellectuals themselves. They should promote regional cultural life, through literature and education, for the future of Europe. The Romanian physician and bacteriologist Jean Cantacuzène distinguished himself by his lucid, pragmatic reasoning. Cantacuzène’s approach was that of an empiric scientist: therefore, as a more or less neutral observer, he reported exactly what he had observed directly around him. Just look around and what do we see? Is there any pessimism in the European academic world at all? No, there was not, so he believed. European academics would never give up their methods and notions (liberty of ideas), and their ultimate aim, finding ‘the truth’. Cantacuzène, as a lecturer, was also optimistic because his own students seemed to be less lamentable then just after the Great War. He thought that intellectuals should really not be too pessimistic: Il faut éviter un pessimisme excessif (...) Nous avons eu, après la guerre, des générations d’étudiants lamentables, emprisonnées dans un matérialisme effrayant (...). Vous ne pouvez imaginer le changement qui s’est accompli depuis peu; je le suis avec bonheur d’année en année et je vois cette transformation s’opérer (IICI 1934, 123-124).

And Cantacuzène observed something else that impressed him and gave him hope for the future: a real ‘invasion’ of academic books: Une autre observation me frappe. Je crois qu’à aucune époque le monde du livre n’a connu une telle invasion d’ouvrages de généralisation scientifique, touchant (...) les problèmes d’astronomie, les problèmes de physique générale, de haute biologie. Il faut bien que cela corresponde à un besoin nouveau dans les esprits (IICI 1934, 124).

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The fact that very nearby, in Germany, thousands of books were being burned and writers were having to flee into exile (Thomas Mann), was simply ignored by Cantacuzène. The end of the Paris conference: no politics One of the results of the conference was that a research committee was set up to continue the discussions, a ‘Societé d’Etudes Européennes’. With a unanimous vote the conference accepted the statutes in which Article One stipulated: La Société d’Etudes Européennes a pour objet l’étude des questions d’ordre intellectual qui intéressent l’avenir de la civilisation européenne. Elle s’efforcera notamment, par les relations personelles entre ses members, d’aider l’Europe à prendre conscience de l’unité de sa culture (IICI 1934, 242).

Notably, during the final debates, the French writer Jules Romains showed himself to be extremely critical about the conference in general. He expressed regret that politics had not been part of the discussions and wanted to continue them only when attendance was given to current political problems. Otherwise, he said, ‘esprit’ would lose authority and never be capable of reaching the attention of the masses (IICI 1934, 289293). Valéry nevertheless concluded the conference without giving up the non-political character of the conference and declared: ‘Je considère la politique, l’action politique, les formes politiques comme des valeurs inférieures et des activités inférieures de l’esprit’ (IICI 1934, 303). Paris would be followed by new ‘entretiens’ in Venice (1934), Nice (1935) and Budapest (1936). Therefore, despite the fact that the Paris conference had not been characterised by a high degree of intellectual exchange, it seemed that something like a ‘Republica Litteraria’ had come into existence once more; an apparently unified intellectual world, far away from politics. Conclusion A review of the history of the ‘entretiens’ could lead to agreeing with some commentators, that the discussions had not been very successful, due to the lack of consensus among the participants. Besides the principle of ‘no politics’ – Hitler was not mentioned once! – , combined with the fact that the intellectuals participated in the discussions, not as representatives of their own nations but – loyal to the idea of universalism –

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as independent individuals, resulted in nothing less than political impotence (Renoliet 1999). Further, from the start, intellectual cooperation was hampered by a deficient legitimacy: after all, cooperation did not form part of the Covenant of the League of Nations. In other words, it had no place in the ‘core’ activities of Geneva. Finally, the young generation who sympathized with new left wing political experiments, such as Soviet communism, was totally missing. Actually the conference presented the opinions of a senior intellectual elite. Nevertheless, it is important to realise that people living in the thirties, those actually confronted with the dangers of nationalism and racism, appreciated the discussions for the very reason that they represented some element of peaceful international collaboration still alive in Europe at that time. The Dutch commentator Menno ter Braak wrote in one of his essays (27 May 1934) that although European intellectuals had formed an international community for centuries, at that moment, when nationalism had become such an imminent threat to European culture, every European manifestation was welcome. He also found it regrettable, just like Romains, that politics had not been included in the discussions, but he considers that now ‘we could use some intellectuality’ (Ter Braak 1980, 196). Finally, the historian Michael Riemens is of the opinion that the participating intellectuals created a political culture that has remained with us till the present day (Riemens 2005). The characteristics of this culture are a ‘passion for peace’ and democratic values, a strong commitment to the ideals of the League of Nations (and later to the ideals of the United Nations). The intellectuals were, so Riemens argues, the ‘true believers’ of an idealistic and peaceful culture. In fact they did pioneering work. Seen from this perspective, Paul Valéry’s ‘société des esprits’, did indeed transform the world. On the base of this chapter we can conclude that the ‘entretiens’ did not result in a profound exchange of European ideas, but were definitely part of that new culture that cherished the League of Nations ideals of universal peace and reconciliation.

References Braak, Menno ter. 1980. ‘De Europese Geest. L’avenir de L’esprit européen’ (27 May 1934). In Menno Ter Braak, Verzameld Werk. Kronieken, 190-196. Amsterdam: G.A. van Oorschot.

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Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle (IICI). 1932. Sur Goethe. Paris: Société des Nations, Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle. Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle (IICI). 1933. L’avenir de la culture. Paris: Société des Nations, Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle. Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle (IICI). 1934. L’avenir de l’esprit européen. Paris: Société des Nations, Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle. Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle (IICI). 1934. L’esprit, l’éthique et la guerre: suite a pourquoi la guerre et pourquoi une société des esprits. Paris: Société des Nations, Institut International de Coopération Intellectuelle. Jarrety, Michel. 2011. Les ‘Entretiens’ de la Société des Nations. In La république des lettres dans la tourmente (1919-1939), ed. Antoine Compagnon, 97-105. Paris: CNRS/Alain Baudry et Cie. Keyserling, Hermann. 1928. Europe. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company. Kurzke, Hermann. 2002. Thomas Mann. Life as a Work. A Biography. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Pham-Thi-Tu. 1962. La coopération intellectuelle sous la SDN. Genève: Droz. Renoliet, Jean-Jacques. 1999. L’Unesco oubliée. La Société des Nations et la coopération intellectuelle (1919-1946). Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Renoliet, Jean-Jacques. 2011. La république des lettres et la Société des Nations. L’Organisation de coopération intellectuelle (1919-1939). In La république des lettres dans la tourmente (1919-1939), ed. Antoine Compagnon, 83-96. Paris: CNRS/Alain Baudry et Cie. Riemens, Michael. 2005. De passie voor vrede. De evolutie van de internationale politieke cultuur in de jaren 1880-1940 en het recipiëren door Nederland. Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw. Valéry, Paul. 1989. The Outlook for Intelligence. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Vegesack, Thomas van. 1989. De intellectuelen. Een geschiedenis van het literair engagement, 1898-1968. Amsterdam: Meulenhoff.

Part 3 – Literary Encounters

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 157-172

KRLEŽA’S AND KOSZTOLÁNYI’S ENCOUNTERS: A DIAGNOSIS OF ‘TYPICALLY DANUBIAN IDIOCY’?

Guido Snel

What does the Central European writer look like? Kafka? Broch? Musil? Krleža? Kosztolányi? (Danilo Kiš)

Abstract Miroslav Krleža and Deszõ Kosztolányi met each other twice during World War I. Both of them were outspoken adherents of internationalism: Krleža as a writer on the left and Kosztolányi as an advocate of Goetheian Weltliteratur. When they met in 1915 and 1916, they did so as citizens of the Habsburg empire. Krleža wrote much later about their two encounters, and even based a character in his novel Banket u Blitvi (A Banquet in Blitva, 1938 and 1963) on Kosztolányi. By then he was citizen of a different state. Kosztolányi, in turn, never wrote about the encounters, but in this chapter I will attempt to extract a possible response to Krleža’s allegations from his novel Edes Ana (Anna Edes, 1926). Their encounter can be considered a quintessential Central European encounter, particularly because of the – over time - growing mental distance between them. When, in 1987, Danilo Kiš listed Miroslav Krleža (1893-1981), who wrote in Croatian, and Deszõ Kosztolányi (1885-1936), who wrote in Hungarian, next to Germanophone writers such as Kafka, Broch and Musil, he defined Central Europe as a multinational and multilingual entity. His comments did not only refer to the days of the Habsburg Empire, but also to the period after its demise, as these writers continued to produce major works after the treaties of Versailles, Saint-Germainen-Laye and Trianon had redesigned the empire into a patchwork of new

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states. How did the new borders affect literary networks? When Krleža and Kosztolányi met during the war years of 1915 and 1916, they still belonged to Habsburg territory. Much later, Krleža wrote about their two (or three) encounters, and even based a character in his novel Banket u Blitvi (A Banquet in Blitva, 1938 and 1963) on the figure of Kosztolányi.1 By then, he was a citizen of a different state. Kosztolányi, in turn, never wrote about the encounters, but in this essay I will attempt to extract a possible response to Krleža’s allegations from his novel Edes Ana (Anna Edes, 1926). The encounter seems all the more salient in view of Kiš’s framing of the two writers as quintessentially Central European. If we are to believe Krleža, the argument between them centred on a major problem for two outspoken adherents of internationalism (Krleža as a writer on the left and Kosztolányi as an advocate of Goetheian Weltliteratur): how to avoid the logic of nationalism in a conflict in which only one side can emerge as victor. A typical Central European encounter While expressing his grief about Croatian soldiers marching off under Hungarian banners to the Eastern front in his 1942 diaries, the Croatian writer Miroslav Krleža also wrote about what he described as Horthy’s Hungarian nationalism. For him, Horthy’s regime was basically identical to the old ghost of compulsory Magyarization. Twenty years after the Trianon Treaty had detached Hungary from the bulk of its pre-1918 territory, Krleža’s critique of Horthy’s politics echoed the Croatian national pathos regarding the ‘Austro-Hungarian yoke’, as it had pervaded the rhetoric of Croatian political life from the mid-nineteenth century. In one and the same breath, he lamented manifestations of Croatian extreme nationalism, elevating the phenomenon of nationalism to a supranational, Danubian level: Together with Hungarian Angels, Croatian pilots have left for the Don, the Croatian Fliegereinsatz No 7, whereas my domobrans (honvéds), this time under their own Stockeraus banner, no longer are HID 42 (Königliche Ungarische Honvéd Infanteriedivision 42) but Wiking SS No X. […] Who has the courage to diagnose the disease of these idiotic Danubian nations? To what sort of temptation belongs this type of mythomania? (260, my transl.)

1 Krleža suggests that there was a third meeting (see below for the passage in his diaries), at some point during the 1920s, but no record exists of this meeting.

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The reference to the political situation in Zagreb is unusually direct for Krleža. Most parts of his World War Two diaries merely allude to the complicated situation that he found himself in. During the war, he ignored summons from the Croatian Ustaša, the Nazi puppet government under Ante Paveliæ, to join public life. He was arrested twice, first by the Gestapo in 1941. His books were banned and he went into hiding on several occasions. As a writer who had been an outspoken leftist in the 1920s and 1930s, he might have been expected to join Tito’s partisans. But apparently, his earlier vitriolic polemics with communist hardliners who propagated socialist realism had stirred up feelings to such a degree that membership of Tito’s partisans did not seem an option.2 As a writer on the left, rope-dancing on a thin line between a commitment to social themes and artistic autonomy, Krleža’s life and work offer no unambiguous answer to his question about ‘who has the courage to diagnose the disease of these idiotic Danubian nations’. For what was at stake for Krleža was not just a diagnosis of mythomania in politics, but also the role of the writer vis-à-vis politics. Ralph Bogart has characterised Krleža’s stance as more or less systematically opposed to any form of dogmatic thought, as a ‘naysayer’.3 However, a commitment to the Croatian national cause, however moderately phrased, proved on more than one occasion an obstacle to a complete detachment from chauvinist sentiments4. Therefore, a full ‘diagnosis of the disease of these idiotic Danubian nations’ seemed beyond his reach: although he surely was more surgeon than patient, the disease had certainly contaminated him to a considerable degree. A fuller diagnosis of the ‘Danubian disease’ may be found when exploring Krleža’s encounters with Dezsõ Kosztolányi (1885-1936), the Hungarian poet and novelist whose acquaintance Krleža recalled at about 2 In a letter to Stanko Lasiæ, Krleža sketched his wartime dilemma as being caught between two fires, ‘In between Dido (Kvaternik) [minister in the Ustaša administration] and Ðido [Milovan Ðilas] I’d prefer Dido to have me liquidated’ (226). 3 Bogert, Ralph, 1990. ‘Nay’ refers, of course, to the traditional answer members of parliament give as a token of their disagreement. Bogert gives no explicit definition but, referring to what he deems a quintessentially Central European tradition of satire in the line of Karl Kraus, seems to qualify Krleža as a writer and intellectual who, out of democratic conviction, was opposed to any kind of dogmatic or ideologically charged thought whatsoever. 4 Probably the most notorious, and most hotly debated instance, is Krleža’s signing of the Deklaracija o nazivu i položaju hrvatskoga knjževnog jezika in 1967, a petition demanding the full emancipation of the Croatian next to the Serbian language.

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the same time in his 1942 diaries. It makes sense to examine their encounters for a number of reasons. Both authors not just excelled in a number of genres, notably in poetry and novelistic prose, but were also outspoken figures in public debate. Both hardly qualify as chauvinist or even nationalist writers, yet as I will show, their encounters manoeuvred them into a more or less national stance. As multilingual writers, their encounters qualify as typically Central European: both were multilingual (Krleža spoke fluent Hungarian and German), and Kosztolányi – who was born in Szabadka/Subotica (also the place of birth of Danilo Kiš, who was bilingual Serbo-Croat-Hungarian) – must have had at least passive knowledge of Serbo-Croat (although as a literary translator he distinguished himself with renderings from English into Hungarian).5 For Krleža, military training in the Hungarian town of Pécs proved a formative experience. In short, however divergent their political views, literary affinities or national sentiment may have been, both were heirs to the specifically Danubian, Habsburg microculture of multilingualism, in which Hungarian and Serbo-Croat coexisted, with still a strong presence of German. Although Kosztolányi offers no record of the encounters,6 both the historical encounters and their transposition in Krleža’s fiction7 can serve as the basis for reconstructing a dialogue between two writers who attempted to come to terms with the writer or poet’s position in the thoroughly politicised societies of the Central European nation-states that had emerged from World War One. These were societies, moreover, that were still to a large extent multilingual but where encounters with fellow intellectuals from neighbouring states sometimes led to fierce disputes, as reflected in Krleža’s account of his meeting with Kosztolányi. I will formulate Kosztolányi’s (hypothetical) reply on the basis of two of his novels that raise the issue of the rapport between literature and politics. The first is the Nero novel The Bloody Poet, where the relations between 5

See Snel 2012 for a discussion of Danilo Kiš’s multilingualism after the disappearance of German and Hungarian as vehicles for transnational intellectual and artistic networks. 6 I wish to express my gratitude to Sandor Hites, who sought for traces of the encounter in Kosztolányi’s work. 7 Stanko Lasiæ (1982) quotes the 1942 diary fragment in his chronological survey of Krleža’s life, but does not signal the fact that Kosztolányi was to receive a fictional alter ego in the Blitva Novel. Krležijana, the encyclopedia devoted to persons and themes in Krleža’s works, contains no entry for Kosztolányi.

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Nero and Seneca and the latter’s involvement in imperial politics address the perils of writers and their political engagement. However, since the story is set in the Roman Empire, the setting is stripped of the specific Danubian-nationalist, post-Trianon context. Much sharper, and more ironical, is Kosztolányi’s strategy in Anna Édes (1926), a novel set in the years immediately following World War I, Béla Kun’s communist revolution and the Romanian occupation of Budapest. It opens with Béla Kun’s flight from Budapest and closes with the appearance of Kosztolányi as a character in the novel, a metafictional turn that triggers reflections about the role of the writer vis a vis politics. One may ask why scholars have failed to see the importance of the figure of Kosztolányi for the understanding of Krleža’s political views of the post-Habsburg realm. It seems that the peace settlement had not just redrawn state boundaries but also erased Hungarian literary life from the mental map of South-Slav culture. This is of course part of a much wider, East-Central European tendency, as analysed by Cornis-Pope and Neubauer when they write that ‘the political and ethnic divisions of the twentieth century undermined transregional tendencies, often marginalising them’, leading them to advocate ‘transnational publications […] providing the literary cultures of the area with the needed common ground’ (13). I would add that this dialogue – although at first sight a one-sided one – is not only important from a literary-historical point of view, as a reconstruction of an intensive yet problematic Croatian-Hungarian literary encounter. From a formal and generic point of view too, the dialogue is a fascinating event. Krleža writes in the manner of a roman à clef: names are transparent veils covering actual persons, while Kosztolányi’s Anna Édes, as an instance of metafiction – by urging its reader to take into account the figure of the author – poses questions about the relationship between historical and fictional reality. This reconstruction thus explores the imaginary space of novelistic fiction, where cross-national encounters continued to take place in post-Trianon Central Europe, and which probably led Danilo Kiš, in the motto of this essay, to speculate about both Krleža and Kosztolányi as archetypal models for the Central European writer. Krleža’s versions of the encounters with Kosztolányi In his 1942 diary, Krleža recalls his 1915 encounter with Kosztolányi, and a third encounter in Ljubljana in the following terms:

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I never wrote down my impressions of a journey to Pest (1915). Green lamps in the editorial office of Világ. Kosztolányi, many years later in Ljubljana. Complains about the pitiful state of Hungarian culture. ‘Nobody reads anything, nobody takes any interest in anything at all, except in operettas and vulgar comedies. Nothing! If we wouldn’t have Pest’s bel esprits (mostly of Israelite conviction), we wouldn’t have anything at all. The Hungarian Jews are the only guarantee for the survival of Hungarian literature. Who created the cult of Ady? Who reads Babits? Two or three prostitutes, that is what constitutes the Hungarian reading audience.’ 8

As Krleža recalls in the same passage, a second meeting took place in 1916: Thus spoke Kosztolányi in the year 1915, and one year later, on my way back from Galicia, a conversation in the poet’s flat in Buda, during which I told him how a war was being waged against our own citizens, the Ruthenians, as if they had committed high treason, turned into an agitated dialogue. To my ad hoc commentary about Galicia’s avenue of gallows, Kosztolányi responded agitatedly: ‘Ha valakinek ebben a háborúban gyõzni kell, akkor inkább gyõzzön a saját hazám!’ [If anyone should win this war, then it better be my own country!] He formulated this rudely. I responded in an equally rash manner that ‘not only he had a fatherland, but all of us, second rate Hungarian citizens, yet that I could never become engaged in a national cause if it was not just.’ He asked me what I meant by that. I tried to explain, but agitated he interrupted me, advising me not to enunciate my ideas too loudly. At our feet crawled his son Adam (258-59).

From what I have been able to reconstruct, the 1942 diary presents the first and only record of Krleža’s encounters with Kosztolányi. That Kosztolányi resurfaces as model for the character Oktavian Kronberg in the third part of the Banket u Blitvi (Banquet in Blitva, published in 1962) suggests that the three recorded encounters, the first at the offices of Világ in Pest 1915, the second at Kosztolányi’s home in Buda in 1916, and the last one after World War One, ‘many years later in Ljubljana’ (the year not specified), made a lasting impression on Krleža. He published parts I and II of Banket u Blitvi in 1938, when, after long and lingering polemics with both right and left-wing press, Krleža had become politically more and more isolated. When part III was published in 1962, containing the Kosztolányi/Kronberg chapter, Krleža enjoyed a rather comfortable position under the Tito regime. 8 This passage directly precedes the previously cited extract about Croatian and Hungarian pilots fighting on the Eastern front.

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The fact that Krleža has Kosztolányi resurface in Banquet in Blitva underscores the significance of their encounters as typical of Central Europe. Banquet in Blitva presents an impressively ambitious invented Central Europe. This Central Europe has elements of a dystopia, but it differs profoundly from pure dystopias such as Zamyatin’s We or Orwell’s 1984, as it is the opposite of a world without history. It is set in the immediate past of the 1920s. Its dystopian vision is essentially national, in the sense that it presents the cruel, bloody twentieth century, especially World War One, as an outcome of nineteenth-century national utopian ideas, whose mutual incompatibility inevitably led to bloody conflict. Topography and the names of invented states are transparent enough for the reader to recognise parallels with contemporary East-Central Europe. The imaginary state Blitva is situated on the ‘Karabaltic’, a word play of Baltic and Balkans, the ‘black Baltic’, ‘kara’ being a frequent Turkism for ‘black, dark’ in Balkanic languages. Thus, Central Europe is turned upside down: a reversal which Krleža grounds in the similarities between the Baltic countries and his Croatian-Hungarian, Danubian realm. Blitva, literally ‘chard’, a Mediterranean vegetable, echoes the Lithuanian currency lita, whereas Blatva, Blitva’s rival neighboring state, echoes the Latvian currency lat, and echoes ‘blato’, the mud or swamp that is often a pars pro toto for the Danubian plain in Krleža’s work, and which he also established as a common characteristic between the Danuba-Sava-Drava realm and the Baltics, while travelling there on his way to the Soviet Union in 1925. Krleža’s Soviet Union travelogue An Excursion to Russia (1926) thus anticipated this inversion of the Balkans and the Baltics. Also relevant for the geography of the novel is the reference to existing cities (Paris and Taormina), suggesting that Western Europe and the Mediterranean are immune to the dystopia of Central Europe in the novel. Names of places and states are invented only where the novel’s action is really concerned with the unstable patchwork of nation-states on the former territory of the Habsburg Empire. Furthermore – and this brings us to the Kronberg/Kosztolányi figure in the novel – the Central Europe in which the imaginary Blitva is situated, forecasts Krleža’s spatial framing of the region as ‘Scythian, Asian’, as he was to write for instance in 1942, in an essay about the Latinist poet Janus Pannonius (1434-1472), a prominent humanist both canonised in Hungarian and Croatian literary historiography. Blitva which, after World War One, gained independence for the first time in its history, had suffered for centuries under the ‘Hunyan’ yoke;

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until 1918, Hunya formed a monarchy with ‘Aragon’. The parallel with the northern regions of what then, in 1938, constituted the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, is obvious. The novel’s protagonist is Niels Nielsen, a Blitvian writer and oppositional politician who has fled from his country to neighbouring Blatva. There, he is hailed as a hero. The Blatvian national poet, ‘author of the “Blatvian dythirambes”’, Oktavian Deziderije Kronberg invites him to pay him his respects. The narrative, focalising Niels Nielsen, then introduces the career of Kronberg, this ‘pale imitation of Verhaeren’, suggesting that Kronberg’s work aesthetically qualifies as symbolist. Kronberg is said to be a Blatvian, born in one of the northern provinces of Blitva, (as Niels Nielsen turns out to be a Blitvian born from a Blatvian mother) who studied in Hunya and initially made his literary career in the Hunyan language. In the capacity of Hunya’s national poet, who has just published his ‘nationalist Hunyian Accords’, he meets Niels Nielsen for the first time, ‘in the early spring of 1913’ (III:16). On this occasion, Nielsen reproaches Kronberg for sympathising with the Hunyans while the Hunyans oppress the Blatvians, Kronberg’s own people. Kronberg responds by saying that ‘national feelings are outmoded […] the fundamental task of the poet is to reconcile, not to separate the nations’ (III:16). Nielsen and Kronberg meet again in 1916, in the midst of the war. Niels Nielsen is on his way home from the front where (from Nielsen’s perspective) ‘every day thousands of Hunyan, Blitvian and Blatvian soldiers are dying for the greater glory of Aragon’ (III:17). Kronberg is now the quintessential Hunyan bard, about to be accepted as a member of the Academy. Nielsen is outraged about the Hunyan language policy which suppresses the use of the Blitvian vernacular, as a result of which Blitvian soldiers end up at the gallows for insubordination. Again, the parallel historical reality is the position of Croatian domobrani (Hungarian ‘honvéd’, German ‘Heimwehr’) in the Habsburg service – and of other soldiers of Slavic origins. From now on, the meeting reflects the historical encounter as recorded by Krleža in his diary. Kronberg first takes an apolitical stance, although the narrator mentions Kronberg’s reserves about ‘some clever fellow citizens of the Israelite conviction’ (III:19). When Nielsen criticises Hunyan nationalism and claims the right to (linguistic) independence for small nations like Blitva and Blatva, Kronberg responds:

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We are at war, my dear doctor, unfortunately, as simple as that, and none of us is personally to blame, to be held responsible, we are at war and we wage war to our best ability, a vulgar and inhuman war, sure, often perhaps a stupid war too, and cruel, yes, unjust, perhaps even criminal as you say, ‘criminal’, okay, I admit to that, but when it comes to for whom the bell tolls, then I rather have it that the bell tolls for our enemies who wish us evil and who plot against our lives… ‘Right or wrong, my country’ (III:22).

The appearance of Kronberg’s young son Adam interrupts the discussion. Krleža uses the figure of the son, Adam, to expose in full Kronberg’s alleged hypocrisy ‘ten years later’, which in the time-space constellation of the novel is the second half of the 1920s. Kronberg is now no longer a Hunyan but a Blatvian poet. And it is Kronberg who claims to have been right ten years before, about the perils of nationalism. Then his son Adam, now ‘in the fifth grade of the gymnasium’, who has overheard Nielsen contradicting his father, confronts his father by saying that ‘I did not know you were in favour of the Aragon dynasty, father […] our schoolbooks claim that you were among the first champions who freed Blatva from the Aragon yoke’ (III:26). Kronberg replies: ‘These are all complicated and difficult matters, part of ancient history by now, you do not have the preconditions to understand what I mean, right?’ (III:26). The similarities between the historical Kosztolányi and the fictional Kronberg in Krleža’s rendering are obvious. The difference is not unimportant either. Kosztolányi is Hungarian and wrote only in Hungarian – in the distorted terms of the Blitva novel, he is a full ‘Hunyan’, whereas Kronberg is a Blatvian, a representative of one of the small and oppressed nations. His hypocrisy in Krleža’s novel is that he denies his past on the side of the historical oppressor Hunya. Thus Krleža complicates Kosztolányi’s more or less direct national Hungarian stance from their meeting in World War One by giving his fictional equivalent an ethnically mixed background. Kronberg, more than Kosztolányi, is ‘in contradiction with himself’, meaning that the fictive poet seems to rewrite his own biography at will, leaving out whole portions of his past. What is more, Krleža has made him the mirror image of Niels Nielsen: whereas both are from a mixed Blitvo-Blatvian background, their responses to ethnic impurity are the opposite of one another. This certainly stresses the need to distinguish life and literature in this case.

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Kosztolányi’s response Krleža’s allegations of hypocrisy date from the late 1950s, when he wrote the third part of Banquet in Blitva. Obviously, my reconstruction of Kosztolányi’s response can only be based on texts which antedate Krleža’s allegations. But it is so apt that it is tempting to think Kosztolányi wrote it with his discussion with Krleža in mind. More probable, of course, is that what Krleža wrote in the late 1950s related to Kosztolányi’s intention as a writer to stay away from politics and to be a homo aestheticus as opposed to a homo moralis – the latter perhaps being an apt qualification for Krleža. The distinction is from Kosztolányi himself and brought up by Péter Esterházy in his introduction to a recent English translation of Kosztolányi’s novel Skylark; in our context, it could very well serve to qualify the different stance of the two authors with respect to political reality. As we have seen, Krleža, in his novel, speculates about Kronberg’s motives. From Kosztolányi’s remarks to him, he builds the character Kronberg and then judges this character on ethical grounds, through the prism of Niels Nielsen’s moralism. In the last chapter of Kosztolányi’s novel Édes Anna (Anna Édes, 1926, quotations are my translation on the basis of the German edition),9 the story of a housemaid who murders her patrons, situated right after the end of Béla Kun’s republic, three men – among them Szilard Druma, a lawyer involved in Anna’s process – stroll past Kosztolányi’s house. This is what they see – and how they watch: Secretly curious and sincerely angry, they observed the garden and thought what everybody thinks when watching a house from the outside: happiness and peace live here. A blond boy in sailor suit sat at the table (256).

The master of the house appears, he spots the passers-by and their glances meet. The passers-by continue on their way. The following conversation unfolds: ‘That’s Kosztolányi,’ Druma said after a while, ‘Dezsõ Kosztolányi.’ ‘The journalist?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He wrote a poem once,’ stated the other electoral activist, ‘some poem of sorts, at least. About the death of a sick child or about an orphan, I am not sure. My daughter told me about it recently.’ 9 Many thanks to John Neubauer who, in an earlier version of this article, checked these indirect quotations on the basis of the Hungarian original.

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Druma said loftily: ‘He was a big communist.’ ‘He?’ the first electoral activist was surprised. ‘But now he is a big clericalist.’ ‘Yes,’ the other electoral activist confirmed. ‘I read in a Viennese newspaper that he is a White terrorist.’ ‘He used to be a great Bolshewik,’ Druma insisted. […] ‘I don’t understand. What does he want? For whom is he?’ ‘Simple,’ Druma concluded. ‘For everyone and for no-one. He swims with the tide. Earlier the Jews paid him, he used to be for them back then, nowadays the Christians pay him. He is a smart man,’ he said winking at the others, ‘he knows what he is doing.’ The three friends agreed on this (257).

The novel closes with the author’s white dog Swan, who watches over the house’s peace and whose barking drowns out the voices of the passers-by. In the novel, the figure of Kosztolányi is not the sole subject of dispute. There is the main character, the maid Anna, about whom everyone has an opinion but who herself hardly gets to speak. And there is Béla Kun, whose flight from Budapest in an airplane ‘his pockets stuffed with Gerbeaud cakes, with adornments and jewelry stolen from countesses and baronesses and other good-hearted, mild ladies, with altarpieces and similar precious objects’ – ‘Thus at least was the story in the city’ (7). In the way Ana Edes presents its protagonist’s inner life as impenetrable, emerges another difference between Krleža and Kosztolányi. Kosztolányi’s novel proposes a distinction between a person as defined by his or her public statements on the one hand, and on the other hand as defined by his or her life in the private family sphere, and ultimately by his or her own thoughts. In contrast, Krleža’s Banquet in Blitva stresses the inevitability of making political choices and of engaging oneself for social causes, even, or, precisely when one is a writer. His Niels Nielsen fails to distinguish between Kronberg’s public life and his role as a father who justifies his conduct to his son. To Niels Nielsen, Kronberg is a hypocrite in both cases. The novelist Kosztolányi does, however, distinguish between public and private life. His sublime novel Ana Edes complicates the matter by pointing at the instability of the political moment, the discrepancy between thought and action and, for that matter, between word and thought, literature and life: even if one speaks one’s mind, one is never certain how one’s words will be interpreted. Yet one cannot simplify Krleža’s call for political engagement. Nielsen is no onedimensional hero. He has to pay a high prize for his commitment: when

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he finally becomes president of Blitva, he is said to have a lot of blood on his hands. This difference is exemplified in the narrative form both authors apply in their novels. As a rule, fiction can provide insights into a character’s consciousness. Kosztolányi’s narration, by refraining from reading the mind of his central character Anna, addresses the impossibility to penetrate another person’s mind. The public speculates and the prosecutor tries in vain to establish a motive; meanwhile the narrator refrains from reading Anna’s mind. Her silence is a silence even within a private atmosphere: consider the chapter ‘A Wild Night’ where the son of her patrons, Jani, seduces her: Anna’s perception of the event is left out entirely. This is reflected in the metafictional turn by the end of the novel. Kosztolányi as a character in his own novel, referred to as ‘the journalist’, is scorned for his alleged hypocrisy. The reader senses the irony: there is an essential distinction between the writer as a public and as a private figure. The first one can condemn for his political stances; about the second, one can only speculate: at this point in the narrative, every reader would agree that things are certainly more complicated than the simple-minded Druma suggests. The fact that the author presents himself through the eyes of passers-by, one of whom is a character in the novel, creates a paradox: on the one hand, there is the suggestion that the author’s private life is relevant to public life and to the recent historical reality in which he situates his story of the housemaid Anna. But insight into his private life is limited to a mere glance. We learn nothing about the author Kosztolányi’s political opinions, nor do we find out about his past. So what is the diagnosis? Much more than a personal settling of scores, the clash with Kosztolányi in its fictionalised version represented for Krleža an archetypal encounter in the post-war reality of Central Europe, as it highlighted not just the illusionary nature of national identities, but also the inherent conflict between national causes and internationalist affiliations. Krleža’s Blitva novel not only transposes the historical encounter between the two writers; it takes sides and accuses by means of a rather one-sided focalisation, almost exclusively through Niels Nielsen. The only other figure whose thoughts are widely displayed through an inner monologue is Nielsen’s adversary, colonel Barutanski, dictator of Blitva. Like Nielsen,

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like Kronberg, his character also fails to offer a diagnosis of the ‘the disease of these idiotic Danubian nations’. Although cruel and merciless, he certainly represents no unambiguously evil, flat character. All in all, the imaginary realm of Banquet in Blitva does not resolve the political status quo of East-Central Europe where opposing nationalisms confront one another. One could even argue that Nielsen’s fate – he becomes the head of state of Blitva after a double revolution – accepts the political status quo of nations states in which one takes sides on the basis of one’s own national background, however complicated or mixed it may be. At this point I should mention one more reductive element in Krleža’s fictionalised rendering of his encounter with Kosztolányi. Kronberg is identified as an exponent of ‘l’art pour l’art-ism’; Krleža’s narrator exposes his apolitical, internationalist stance as enabled by his position as poet of a dominating nation-state. The underlying critique is that Kronberg’s literary output merely confirms his political hypocrisy: in a thoroughly politicised society, Nielsen suggests, writing and publishing apolitical l’art pour l’art poetry is a thoroughly political act. Anna Édes as well as Kosztolányi’s first novel The Bloody Poet, about Nero and Seneca, deny this: they are indeed thoroughly political works, only identifying politics at a different level from Krleža’s fiction. In Krleža’s realm, politics are located at the level of personal dilemmas and conscious choices, and are directly related to individuals. In Kosztolányi’s realm, politics take place in between individuals, and is largely a matter of how one’s words are (mis)intended and/or (mis)interpreted. The Krleža-Kosztolányi dialogue thus started off as a passionate argument about how a writer should respond to the rivalling nationalisms in the Danubian realm, and, from Krleža’s perspective, about the hypocrisy of Kosztolányi’s apolitical position. One can add perhaps one more dimension to Krleža’s call for a diagnosis. Until 1945, Krleža had always been on the margins of political life: first as a Croat in the Habsburg army, afterwards as a socialist in the first Yugoslavia, then, during the 1930s, as a dissident in the Yugoslav communist party. This changed after Tito seized power in 1945, and especially in 1952, when Krleža gave his famous lecture at a writers’ congress in Ljubljana – an event which is commonly regarded as the beginning of the relatively relaxed cultural climate in Tito’s communist Yugoslavia. The unexpected ending of the third part of Banquet in Blitva, when Niels Nielsen accepts the offer to become the head of state of Blitva, has thus its equivalent in

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Krleža’s career as a politically committed writer: he himself became a figure of power. History can be ironical: by the time Krleža published the third and final part of Banquet in Blitva, in January and February 1962, he accompanied Tito on a visit to Egypt, as part of the movement of nonallied countries. To confront the morally outraged Niels Nielsen, a character situated in the interwar period, with the author of the 1960s, could have been a metafictional trick not unlike the appearance of the author in Kosztolányi’s Anna Édes. This would not do justice, however, to the complexities of Krleža’s Banquet in Blitva. Let me illustrate this aspect by drawing attention to those citizens in the fictional realm of Blitva who have no national affiliations whatsoever – and to whom Kosztolányi, pace Krleža, referred to as persons ‘of Israelite conviction’. Whereas almost all characters, including Kronberg and Nielsen, ground their identity in their sense of nationality, whether they affirm, question or reject it, there is one character in the novel who serves as a spokesman of those excluded from the national communities, the Jews. Egon Blithauer, born Egon Samujloviè Blitwitz (the change of surname is again a variation on ‘blitva’, and points to the characters’ history of assimilation into at least two national cultures), is a ‘socialist’ and ‘internationalist’ who attacks Nielsen for his naïve belief in national identity. Their long dialogue is rendered in direct speech with no interference of the narrator. The reader moves back and forth between Nielsen’s words and Blithauer’s replies. When Nielsen says that the fate of his nation makes him feel ashamed, Blithauer replies: ‘But, my dear doctor, there is a huge gap between me and you. You feel ashamed in theory, whereas I, I feel the shame on my skin, like itch or like bugs!’ (III-142) And he then speaks about his whereabouts, how he was always, whether in Blitva or in Blatva or in Hunya, sooner or later, in spite of his attempts to assimilate, identified as ‘Egon Samujloviè’ […] ‘stigmatised as a Gypsy’ (III-142). We do not get Blithauer’s inner thoughts: after their dialogue, focalization again shifts to Niels Nielsen. The plot’s subsequent progress is crucial: Nielsen ( unintentionally) leads the Blatvian secret police to Blithauer. The latter is killed, leaving Nielsen with further blood on his hands. Banquet in Blitva thus diagnoses national homelessness by distinguishing it from that other sense of homelessness, that of the Jews in the Danube basin, who are made to feel outsiders within every nation. This particular form of interwar, non-territorial exile has been dubbed, by Zygmunt Bauman, as ‘assimilation into exile’:

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The agony and the splendor of assimilation was a relatively brief, and relatively localised, episode in the history of the modern world. It encompassed a few generations spanning the stormy, short period needed for modern states to entrench themselves in their historically indispensable, yet transitory, nationalist forms. It also encompassed just a few generations thrown into the cauldron of seething nationalist passions […] The empty, extraterritorial space in which these ‘men without qualities’ were suspended felt like an uncanny mixture of paradise and hell […] The agony and splendor of assimilation was confined to that brief flight through the world of nonidentity (571).

By sticking to Nielsen’s perspective, Krleža’s Blitva novel refrains from identifying with this experience – yet it does express it. It seems up to us then, as readers, to reconstruct the interwar mental map on the basis of real encounters, and equally as important, their fictional representations and transpositions. On this mental map, feeling ashamed ‘in theory’ or feeling the shame ‘on your skin’ proves much more than a theoretical distinction: it is a lasting boundary on a map that will be constantly rewritten.

References Babits, Mihály. 1978. “Itália és Pannónia”. Esszék, Tanulmányok. Budapest: Szépirodalmi Könyvkiadó. Bauman, Zygmunt. 1996. ‘Assimilation into Exile: The Jew as a Polish Writer’. Poetics Today 17 (4): 569-597. Bogart, Ralph. 1990. The Writer as Naysayer. Miroslav Krleža and the Aesthetic of Interwar Central Europe. Columbus, Ohio: Slavica Publishers. Cornis-Pope, Marcel & Neubauer, John. 2004. General Introduction. In History of the Literary Cultures of East-Central Europe. Vol I, 1-19. Amsterdam: Benjamins. Kiš, Danilo. 1995. Varijacije na Srednje-Evropske Teme (1987). Život, Literatura, 35-57. Beograd: BIGZ. Kosztolányi, Dezsõ. 1990. The Bloody Poet. (1922) Trans. (from the German) Clifton Fadiman, revised by George Szirtes. Afterword by George Cushing. Budapest: Corvina Kiadó. Kosztolányi, Dezsõ. 1963. Édes Anna. (1926) Budapest: Szépirodalmi könyvkiadó. Kosztolányi, Dezsõ. 1976. Anna Édes. Trans. Irene Kolbe. Budapest: Corvina Verlag. Kosztolányi, Dezsõ. 1996. Skylark. (1924) Trans. Richard Aczel. Foreword by Péter Esterházy. Ed. Timothy Garton Ash. Budapest: Central European University Press.

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Krleža, Miroslav. 1967. O pojavi Jana Panonija In Sabrana Djela, Eseji III. Ed. by A. Malinar, 165-177 Zagreb: Zora. Krleža, Miroslav. 1989. Banket u Blitvi I-III. (vol. I-II 1938; vol. III 1962) Ed. Enes Èengiæ. Sarajevo. Krleža, Miroslav. 1973. Izlet u Rusiju. (1926) Ed. by A. Malinar. Sarajevo: Osloboðenje. Krleža, Miroslav. 1977. Dnevnik 1933-1942. Ed. Enes Èengiæ. Sarajevo: Osloboðenje. Krleža, Miroslav. 1988. Pisma. Sabrana Djela. Ed. by Enes Èengiæ. Sarajevo: Osloboðenje. Lasiæ, Stanko. 1982. Krleža. Kronologija života i rada. Zagreb: Grafièki Zavod Hrvatske. Snel, Guido. 2006. The Return of Pannonia: Imaginary Topos and Space of Homelessness. In: History of the literary cultures in East-Central Europe. Ed. Marcel Cornis-Pope & John Neubauer, 333-344. Amsterdam: Benjamins. Snel, Guido. 2012. Lingua Franca in Central Europe after the Disappearance of German. In Multilingual Europe, Multilingual Europeans. Yearbook of European Studies 29. Ed. Mireille Rosello & Laszlo Maracz. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Viskoviæ, Velimir. 1993. Krležijana I. Zagreb: Leksikografski Zavod.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 173-188

EXEMPLARY EUROPEANS ROMAIN ROLLAND AND STEFAN ZWEIG

Marleen Rensen

Abstract The friendship between Romain Rolland (1866-1944) and Stefan Zweig (1881-1942) offers a prime example of intellectual encounter in interwar Europe. The two writers maintained intensive contact between the World Wars and exchanged ideas on the future of Europe and the role of literature in the revitalisation of European values. A particularly interesting aspect of their dialogue is the discussion of literary and biographical methods of writing Europe. A close look at the personal and literary relations of Rolland and Zweig will illustrate that cross-border encounters played a crucial role in the development of new intellectual approaches to the recovery of Europe after the First World War. A Franco-German dialogue For writers as Rolland and Zweig, who both recognized the powerful effect of words, it is not surprising that their first encounter came about through a book. In 1910, when Zweig was in his late twenties, he ran across a novel by Rolland, a French author of whom he had never heard until then. It was the first part of Jean-Christophe: the story of a German musician who comes to Paris around 1900. The book impressed him instantly. ‘Who was this Frenchman who knew Germany so well?’, Zweig wondered (Zweig 1945 [1942], 201). He was eager to get to know the author of this literary work he perceived as being so truly European in spirit. Zweig, who was an established writer and translator at the time, managed to contact the author and sent him one of his own books. Rolland responded quickly and wrote: ‘You are a European. I am one

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too’ (Briefwechsel Rolland-Zweig, 10 May 1910). Thus the two men of letters – one French, living in Paris, the other an Austrian Jew from Vienna – could both relate to each others' ideas about Europe. That Rolland and Zweig immediately felt the affinity of kindred spirits can be explained by the fact that their perceptions were rooted in the same humanist and cosmopolitan tradition: both were trained men of intellect, spoke foreign languages and had travelled extensively throughout Europe. In addition, they shared a common fascination for the relation between French and German cultures. While Zweig loved French literature and had studied Baudelaire, Verlaine, Stendhal and many others; Rolland, for his part, felt a close affiliation with German literature and even more with the music. In fact, he had been a scholar in music lecturing at the Sorbonne and had specifically written about Beethoven and other composers from the other side of the Rhine (f.e. Rolland 1903; Rolland 1932). Rolland and Zweig rank among the most prominent writers of the interwar years in Europe and can both be considered agents of cultural exchange. Rolland, whose participation in numerous international conferences gathered pacifist intellectuals from all over Europe, was a dominant voice in public debates of the time. The Declaration of the Independence of the Mind that he drew up in 1919 was signed by some very distinguished intellectuals, ranging from Benedetto Croce to Bertrand Russell and Albert Einstein. In the twenties he was involved in the founding of the literary magazine Europe; a transnational collaboration meant to promote the reconstruction of Europe on the basis of FrancoGerman reconciliation. Zweig, even more so than Rolland, was a mediator between cultures who actively involved himself in various literary circles. He contributed regularly to French and international journals, translated literary works from French into German and published German editions of, and essayistic studies on, authors from abroad. Zweig also arranged quite a few real-life encounters. His picturesque house on the Kapuzinerberg in Salzburg was transformed into a ‘European House’, a meeting-place where he received friends and acquaintances from all over Europe (Zweig 1945 [1942], 347). Among them were Joseph Roth, H.G. Wells, James Joyce, Thomas Mann and Romain Rolland. Rolland and Zweig, who met at a frequent basis after their first encounter in 1913, expansively shared their contacts and connections. Zweig introduced Rolland to German intellectuals such as Rainer Maria

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Rilke, Sigmund Freud, Arthur Schnitzler and, thanks to his French friend Rolland, he was accepted into the Parisian circles of Jules Romains and Henri Barbusse. One of their main ambitions was to overcome the division between France and Germany. As early as 1912, in a letter to Zweig, Rolland had formulated the mission they would continue to pursue throughout the thirties and forties: cooperate in order to reconcile the French and German peoples, ‘the two fraternal enemies’ (Briefwechsel RZ, 26 dec 1912). Although their exchange of ideas often took place when they met in person, it was mostly effected through their correspondence (HoockDemarle 2008, 447-456). This started in 1910 and lasted until 1942, when Zweig committed suicide. At times their relationship would appear troubled but the overall impression is one of an intense friendship throughout the years. Biographers have counted more than 500 letters written by Zweig and over 200 by Rolland (Niémetz 2000, 9; Charbit 2007, 44). The unequal quantities reflect a known aspect of their relationship: despite the fact that Rolland was very attached to Zweig, their bond was not as significant for him as it was for his Austrian friend. Zweig’s letters to Rolland reveal a typical trait of his character: Zweig, who was 15 years his junior, used to pose as a disciple, regarding his friend with a naive, childlike admiration. His ceaseless devotion often disturbed Rolland, who tried to refrain his friend from calling him ‘maître’ (f.e. Briefwechsel RZ, 1 Jan. 1918). Even in the late twenties and thirties, Zweig remained faithful to Rolland, who – to his disappointment – sympathized more and more with the communists and eventually became a fellow traveller. Europe and European civilization are discussed repeatedly in their exchange of letters. That a common European culture existed seems selfevident to Rolland and Zweig. The references to their shared ‘spiritual family’ of Goethe and Tolstoi reflect the – rather elitist – conception of Europe as an integral cultural and intellectual area, a homeland, based on a shared faith in universal, humanist values (f.e. Briefwechsel RZ, 29 March 1916). As an assimilated Jew, Zweig identified home more naturally with Europe than with Austria, as he seemed to suggest in his autobiography Die Welt von Gestern with the tellingly subtitle Erinnerungen eines Europäers (1942).

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The Heart of Europe in Wartime In relation to Europe and to the importance of Europe in terms of their friendship, there can be no doubt that the First World War had a profound impact. Zweig was briefly seduced by the patriotic mood in Austria that burst out in the early days of war (Matuschek 2006, 129-133). In the article ‘An die Freunde im Fremdland’ (Berliner Tageblatt, 19 Sept. 1914), he expressed his regret to have to ‘say farewell’ to his friends abroad. However, he would adjust his position quickly due to the intervention of Rolland, who had withdrawn to Switzerland where he devoted himself to the task of spreading the pacifist message of brotherhood. His manifesto Au-dessus de la mêlée, written in September 1914, was a fierce condemnation of the insanity of war and an appeal to the intellectual elite of Europe to stay ‘above’ the nationalist hysteria of the crowd. When Rolland took notice of Zweig’s publication, he send him a copy of his pamphlet and added the comment: ‘I am truer to our Europe than you, my dear Stefan Zweig, and say farewell to none of my friends’ (Briefwechsel RZ, 28 Sept. 1914). While some of Zweig’s other companions turned into fanatic nationalists, Rolland never gave up defending universal values, not even when he was banned from the literary press and accused of being a pro-German traitor in France (Fisher 1988, 43). Even if they still had a number of quarrels over military actions such as the bombardment of Reims, Zweig deeply admired his friend, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1915. It was Rolland who encouraged him to join forces to actively fight the war. In order to show the world that there was an alternative for aggressive nationalism, Rolland attempted to establish an intellectuals’ international organization in which all countries would be represented. His long cherished dream of a pan-European community of free minds soon became a joint project (Fisher 1986, 51). Via Rolland, Zweig became engaged in the circles of exiles in Switzerland. Following artists such as René Arcos, Hermann Hesse and Frans Masereel he committed himself to pacifist writing. Jeremias, a tragic play that was performed in Zürich in 1918, is perhaps his best known contribution to the campaign for peace. Two years earlier though, Zweig had already exemplified his position in an essay on the Tower of Babel, written for Le Carmel, an anti-war journal that was published in Geneva. To him, the tower, that had once been a monument of the fraternal community of the peoples of Europe, had fallen and changed into a symbol of a

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shattered Europe full of misunderstandings. The message, however, is optimistic: Perhaps we shall not see one another for years at the work, perhaps we shall rarely hear from one another. But if we toil away now, each at his post, with the old ardor, the tower will rise again, and on the summit the nations will be reunited (Zweig 1983 [1916], 68-73; Gelber 2011, 34-40).

The symbolism is significant since Zweig often emphasized that he wanted to take up the role of mediator between cultures, a Mittler, that could help overcome mistrust. An honorable role is thus reserved for the writer and translator. Zweig considered the enterprise of translation to be one of the main modes of cultural exchange, close to Goethe’s concept of world literature (D’haen 2012, 28, 96-97). Goethe may never have elaborated the concept at length but it seems to have been noted and interpreted by Zweig and other intellectuals in those days as a way of making works circulate in a broader world beyond their original culture, in order to promote cross cultural-understanding. Zweig suggests in his autobiography that he owed to Rolland the idea of an artist’s active engagement for the furthering of brotherhood in Europe. His personal encounter with him in wartime, in 1917, had been a decisive event in that respect. At that particular moment Zweig felt the true importance of Rolland who was saving the ideal of a common Europe. The article ‘Das Herz Europas’ (Neue Freie Presse 1917) gives an impression of his visit to the Musée Rath, that then served as the building of the International Red Cross in Geneva. Zweig said he found the ‘heart of Europe’ there, for Rolland worked as a volunteer in that building. As he recalls in Die Welt von Gestern, Zweig suddenly realized that this writer, the one who stood up for tolerance in time of war, was ‘the most important man of this crucial hour, that in him the moral conscience of Europe was speaking’ (Zweig 1945 [1942], 265). Zweig used similar words in the biography of Rolland he published in 1921. This book can best be understood as a product of the postwar condition dominated by disillusionment and despair about the alleged crisis of civilization. Zweig admired his friend as the living embodiment of cosmopolitan, European values that had been discredited by the catastrophe of war, but not entirely lost. In an effort to revitalise them and stimulate their recovery throughout Europe, he devoted himself to preserving the tradition of European humanism.

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Unlike Rolland, who elaborated his European project increasingly in political terms, Zweig refrained from politics. He was primarily an artist, not an activist. As one critic put it: ‘Zweig, too, called for European unity and a brotherhood of nations, but perceived it in a different frame of reference’ (Kastinger Riley 1983, 23). His frame of reference was literature. An ambitious part of Zweig’s literary programme was the edition of a Bibliotheca Mundi; a series of world classics at Insel Verlag, aimed to make the German-speaking world familiar with foreign cultures (Matuschek 2006, 190). Essentially, his biographical study of Rolland served the same purpose. It was part of Zweig’s extensive campaign to introduce the French writer to the widest possible audience in German speaking countries. In this way, he hoped to contribute to the re-consolidation of Europe’s moral basis and to develop a mutual understanding of French and German cultures. During the twenties, Zweig translated several books by Rolland, hailing the author in the press and, almost as his ambassador, organizing conferences and lecture tours throughout Germany and the Netherlands. Critics have remarked with irony that, thanks to Zweig’s efforts, Rolland became even more popular in German-speaking countries than in France itself (Prater 1974, 129; Dumont 1967, 239). His biographical account was particularly effective in that respect. The book must have appealed to many since it was re-edited several times and widely translated into French, English, Hungarian, Russian and various other languages. To a lesser extent, Rolland also played his part by introducing Zweig to the French reading public. He wrote prefaces to several of Zweig’s novellas that had been translated into French – Amok and Verwirrung der Gefühle – and drew attention to the works of his friend in his own publications and public performances. Rolland and Zweig both pre-eminently represent the ‘cultural internationalism’ that arose in the aftermath of the First World War (Iriye 1997, 51). Even though the intellectual response to war was extremely diverse, many writers and artists made efforts to foster cultural communication and understanding through intellectual exchange and cooperation. They often operated on a worldwide scale, but Europe was a specific theme in many of their undertakings. In a way, Rolland was right when he argued in a letter to Zweig’s wife Friderike that a growing awareness of Europe emerged from the war: ‘from this conflict of the nations of Europe will spring the conscience of Europe, like the rainbow of the Rheingold from the thunder-clouds’ (Rolland 2nd day of Easter 1915; in Briefwechsel

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Stefan and Friderike Zweig, 73). This observation could partially be applied to Zweig himself whose thinking advanced significantly during the war and in its immediate aftermath, at the time of writing Rolland’s biography. His conception of Europe, that was primarily cultural before the outbreak of war, developed towards an active pacifism because of his association with Rolland (Mcclain & Zohn 1953, 279; Müller 2011, 3233, 56-59). Zweig as biographer of Rolland Zweig is perhaps best known as the writer of short stories, but he was equally productive as a biographer. Though his first biographical account of the Belgian poet Emile Verhaeren (1910) already showed a tendency to identify with his subject, the very idea of a master and moral leader revealed itself more explicitly in his life story of Rolland. On the first page of the book Zweig openly proclaims that he wants to pay tribute to the author, who was for him personally and for many others ‘the most impressive moral phenomenon of our age’. That idealism is even more evident when he dedicates the book ‘to those few who, in the hour of fiery trial, remained faithful to Romain Rolland and to our beloved home of Europe’ (Zweig 1921). According to Zweig himself, he had intended to avoid a too obvious veneration (Zweig 1945 [1942], 266). And yet, despite the critical study of different sources, the book itself portrays a far from objective account of Rolland's life. Critics have characterized the book as a hagiography, full of uncritical admiration, if not hero-worship (f.e. Niémetz 2000, 7). At certain points, the work appears somewhat naïve or incorrect as, for instance, when Zweig would have us believe that Rolland led the life of an ascetic when in exile in Switzerland, fully committed to the pacifist cause, while in fact he had an affair with an American woman at the time (Dumont 1967, 124). It should be taken into account however that Zweig, who had never intended to write a scholarly biography, aimed first and foremost ‘to inspire his readers and arouse in them some of his own enthusiasm’ (Mcclain & Zohn 1953, 271). Zweig was very much into Freudian psychology and drew many psychological portraits of writers throughout his career and yet, this book is rather more of an intellectual biography that traces Rolland’s development as writer. As depicted in the book, Europe is a prominent theme in his life and work. This is most explicitly expressed in the part that is

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dedicated to the war years, where Rolland is presented as the embodiment of ‘the European conscience’ (Zweig 1921, 285). Other sections of the book further contribute to the display of a life and work dedicated to the European cause. From the very first pages, that depict Rolland's childhood and youth, Zweig puts great emphasis on the fact that his cultural interests reached far beyond his immediate, French, culture. He mentions that the works of Balzac and Flaubert captivated him, but focuses on the fact that Rolland related far more to Shakespeare and Tolstoi. Also, Zweig notes that, due to his musical education, he learned early in life to appreciate German composers like Wagner and Beethoven. As Rolland himself had often repeated, the universal language of music had made him feel belong to a human community that stretched across national borders. Zweig is right in his suggestion that Europe as conceived by Rolland, was an integral part of his notion of a unified world literature, in the tradition of Schiller and Goethe. He points out that Rolland explicitly refers to Goethe in the introduction to his early theatrical works entitled Le Théâtre de la Révolution (1911): ‘Rolland is fired by Goethe’s words “National literature now means very little; the epoch of world literature is at hand”. He utters the following appeal: ‘Let us make Goethe’s prophesy a living reality!’ (Zweig 1945, 97). Significant too, is the section in which Zweig focuses on Rolland’s correspondence with Tolstoi. As a 21year-old student, Rolland had written to the Russian writer who replied to all his questions on art and literature in a letter of 38 pages. Tolstoi argued that art is valuable only if it ‘binds men together’. Zweig recapitulates these words that, as he records, had a decisive influence on Rolland (Zweig 1921, 20). Rolland’s conception of literature as a universal or European form of art was further shaped by personal encounters with intellectuals from abroad. Of particular interest is his stay in Italy, around 1900, where he met the German Malwida von Meysenbug, who had been closely related to Nietzsche, Wagner, Mazzini, Kossuth and many other renowned intellectuals. She became an important friend and intellectual inspiration to Rolland. Zweig emphasizes that her companionship brought about the European consciousness that Rolland would later display in JeanChristophe: ‘Inestimable was the value of what he had learned from this encounter [..] Once and for all, Rolland had acquired the European spirit. Before he had written a line of Jean Christophe, that great epic was already living in his blood’ (Zweig 1921, 29).

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In the chapter on the novel itself Zweig highlights that this ‘work of European scope’ had been created in a symbolic way throughout Europe (Zweig 1945, 26). Indeed, Rolland had written the first part in Switzerland, a small part in England and the greater part in France and Italy. Furthermore, the biographer calls attention to the work itself. Even if one does not agree with everything Zweig writes, it is clear that JeanChristophe is a call for European unity. Rolland’s novel was published in ten parts between 1904 and 1912 and can be read as the biography of a fictive German composer (Duchatelet 2010, Rensen 2012). But however striking the resemblance of this personage is to Beethoven, there is an essential difference to the actual historical character: Rolland´s protagonist finds himself in Paris around 1900. By looking through the perspective of a foreigner and the play with national images and stereotypes, Rolland presents a critical picture of the rising nationalism and hatred towards Germany in France after the military defeat of 1870. Any reader will see that the growing friendship portrayed between the German Jean-Christophe and the French musician Olivier has symbolic value for the dreamed fraternization of the two countries. Development of mutual understanding and overcoming hatred by the two neighboring nations on the Rhine was the obvious message of the novel. Rolland, who often expressed his message rather explicitly, ends his novel with Jean-Christophe’s plans to write a symphony for all Europeans. The project is very much akin to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and the famous lyrics of ‘All Men (Will) Become Brothers’. Writing – whether it’s music or literature – is presented here as an act of communion. The following quotation sums up that ideal: Europe had no common book: no poem, no prayer, no act of faith which was the property of all. Oh! the shame that should overwhelm all the writers, artists, thinkers, of to-day! Not one of them has written, not one of them has thought, for all. Only Beethoven has left a few pages of a new Gospel of consolation and brotherhood (Rolland 1913 [1912] / Journey’s End, 91).

The novel clearly envisages the dream of a unified European community, founded on the arts that contain universal and humanist values (Duchatelet 2007; Lützeler 2007). To Rolland, art was like a secular religion, a unifying force or common bond uniting the nations. As his biographer, Zweig – although Jewish – uses Rolland’s christian-style language in his conclusion that Rolland was essentially a spiritual guide. To be precise, he writes: ‘it is his apostolate alone which has saved the gospel of

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crucified Europe; and furthermore he has rescued for us another faith, that of the imaginative writer as the spiritual leader, the moral spokesman of his own nation and of all nations’ (Zweig 1921, 355). The Europe Zweig imagined is foremost an ideal and less a pragmatic project of political union like the Pan-Europa movement of Count Coudenhove-Kalergi aimed to do in these years. He was certainly not ignorant of such political initiatives. Zweig even had exchanged letters with the Austrian Count and showed sympathy for his plans, but he never joined his movement. One of his objections was that England would be excluded from the European unification (Resch 2011, 68). Zweig was more inclined to conceive of Europe in cultural or literary terms, but he pointed out repeatedly that culture had its impact on politics. In his following remark on Jean-Christophe, it is evident that he assigned a central role to literature in the promotion of mutual understanding when he expressed the firm conviction that this book had done more to bring Germans closer to France ‘than all diplomats, banquets and associations’ (Briefwechsel RZ, 22 dec. 1912). The book was more than a mere novel to him. In his autobiography, Zweig referred to JeanChristophe as the ‘first consciously European novel [...] the first decisive appeal towards brotherhood’ (Zweig 1942, 201). Exemplary Europeans It is obvious that Zweig’s biography is an articulation of his own ideas about literature’s role as a constituent part of European culture. Following Rolland’s example, Zweig committed himself to the artistic mission of advocating the faith and fiction of a united Europe. This gives evidence to the conscious engagement with Europe that he acquired in his association with Rolland. But this is not all he learned from his French friend. The most interesting outcome of this intellectual encounter is perhaps the idea that an artist’s life-narrative might be a powerful vessel for spreading the ideal of a united Europe. Zweig had not only been inspired by Rolland’s Jean-Christophe, he was equally interested in the biographies that his friend had written at the beginning of his career. In the series Vies des hommes illustres, that appeared between 1903 and 1912, Rolland had published three biographical sketches: of Beethoven, Michelangelo and Tolstoi. As the title of the series already suggests, he inscribed himself in the classical tradition of Plutarch who wrote life-sketches of famous Greeks and Romans to set

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examples of moral force and virtue. Though his biographical subjects are not men of action but artists, Rolland followed this didactic and moralistic mode of biographical writing. As the ‘New Plutarch’ of modern times, he presented an account of the heroic lives of these artists that struggled to fulfill their artistic mission for the sake of mankind (Duchatelet 1975, 415). As he experienced his own age as lacking in moral values and optimistic ideals, he presented these heroes to the people, to console and encourage them and provide them with an example (Rolland 1903). Of the great artists described in his series, Rolland considered Beethoven undeniably the most heroic. Corresponding to the romantic image of the deaf German composer, he portrays a courageous man who suffered, struggling to overcome his illness in order to accomplish his famous Ode to Joy of the Ninth Symphony, to spread joy among the people and help establish the brotherhood of man. There is no doubt that this life-story, published in 1903, was the model for his later fictional character Jean-Christophe. In his biography of Beethoven, Rolland may not have stated explicitly that his life and work was typically ‘European’. Nevertheless, he deflates any alleged claims to the composer's German nationalism by pointing out that Beethoven was indeed a patriot, but one who also admired the universal ideals of the French Revolution. Also, Rolland reminds his readers of the fact that Beethoven had Flemish origins (Rolland 1907 [1903], 6). Zweig analyses these heroic biographies of Rolland in great detail. When he mentions that the writer always tended to turn to great artists as role-models, he was well aware of his own similar inclinations, for he did exactly the same thing: Zweig asserts in the opening page of his Rolland-biography that the work was ‘modelled upon his own biographies of classical figures’ and ‘conceived in this spirit’. In the same way as his subject does, he also portrays the writer as an exemplary European, serving as a role-model for postwar Europe. In the conclusion of his biography, Zweig sums this all up: Rolland is a ‘signal example’ from whom people can learn and draw consolation (Zweig 1921, 355). Like Rolland, he presents a romantic portrait of the artist as a prophet and moral guide. In their correspondence, the two writers reflected upon their practice of life-writing. In a letter of 26 September 1918 Zweig suggested that the ‘lively’ form of Jean-Christophe might serve as a model for the planned biography of his friend (Briefwechsel RZ 26 Sept. 1918). Apart from literary features, it is clear that Zweig has been inspired by two particular

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aspects of Rolland’s work that are strongly intertwined in Jean-Christophe: the approach to biography as a genre that can teach virtue and the lifenarrative of an outspoken European artist. In his biography of Rolland, where the two combine, Zweig had found a certain mode of European life-description that he would continue to use in the 1920s and 1930s. Whereas not all of his biographical portraits of historical figures contain an outspoken European ideal, some of them do, and very evidently, too. Conflicts and dilemmas in the 1930s Looking back on the early postwar years from the perspective of the late 1930s, Zweig observed how incredibly optimistic he had been about the role of literature and the power of words to transform the world. By that time, the Nazis had burned his books in public and silenced all Jewish and other ‘degenerated’ writers. It is under these circumstances that Zweig, who was driven into exile, wrote a biography on Erasmus of Rotterdam that was published in 1934. This is, again, a portrait of an exemplary man who used his talents to contribute to a European unity, based on shared humanist values of tolerance and peace. Zweig later admitted that Triumph und Tragik des Erasmus von Rotterdam was ‘his most personal, most intimate book’ (Zweig 1945, 254). Evidently, it was a self-investigation of his own position as a writer and intellectual. As Zweig argued in letters, he could perceive many parallels between the 1930s and the age of Erasmus (Briefwechsel RZ, 10 May 1933). Telling the life story of the 16th century humanist, who he calls ‘the first conscious European’, helped Zweig articulate his own position (Zweig 1979, 1). He depicts Erasmus as a free and independent man of letters and a world citizen who kept defending a tolerant humanism, even in those troubled times of religious conflict and extremism that resulted in a total break-up of the spiritual and intellectual unity of Europe. In fact, Zweig defined his own position when he argued that Erasmus, who also lived in times of great ideological conflict, ‘set himself the task of incorporating the spirit of unclouded reason to defend the unity of Europe (…) the unity of mankind, and the world-citizenship of humanity with the pen as his only weapon’ (Zweig 1979, 109). Triumph and Tragik des Erasmus von Rotterdam is an illustration of the dilemmas Zweig personally experienced in the thirties, when he was faced with the threat of fascism and war. He touches on his personal dilemma when he mentions that Erasmus became a tragic figure with a

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tendency to hesitate and avoid conflict. He failed to make clear decisions under the force of circumstance and remained noticeably silent when politics began to dominate the intellectual debates in the 1930s. It is known that Zweig, from 1933 onwards, increasingly diverged from friends who were actively engaged in antifascist politics, also from Rolland. As long as he could, Zweig tried to maintain an Erasmian position of a ‘mediator in the middle of the fray’ (Zweig 1979,11; cf. Golomb 2007, 11). He remained absent at the European Antifascist Congress in Paris in 1933, that was presided by Rolland. Of course, the differences in outlook between the two friends had manifested themselves much earlier. Rolland had the self-understanding of a ‘world citizen’ who was convinced that Europe should reach out to regenerative forces from outside. In the early 1920s he turned to the Orient and wrote, amongst others, a heroic biography on Gandhi in 1924. The increasing political tensions made him believe however that a radical and militant attitude was needed. Ultimately, he placed his hopes on the Soviet Union. Zweig seemed first and foremost interested in Europe. Although he was not entirely unresponsive to soviet communism, he soon kept a critical distance to it (Charbit 2007, 54). The fact that Zweig always tried to remain moderate and understanding, even towards the Nazis in their early phase , stirred a lot of debate and made him almost suspect in the eyes of certain colleague writers. Rolland pressed him numerous times to take a public stand and make a case for the Jewish intellectual community that suffered from the antisemitic policies of Hitler’s Third Reich. But for someone like Zweig, who was highly ambivalent towards his Jewish identity and had never presented himself as a Jew, it was rather estranging to be suddenly labeled as a spokesperson of the Jewish community. In the summer of 1933, when Rolland asked him in a letter why he did not raise his voice in order to publicly denounce nazism, Zweig answered him: ‘One day you will read it all in my Erasmus’ (Briefwechsel RZ, 3 Aug. 1933). In his biography on the Dutch humanist, Zweig gave a vivid impression of his own way of being an intellectual at a time that was dominated by the often difficult choice between art and action. Ultimately, his endeavors to defend tolerance and to restore a transnational cultural community in Europe met with little success. As early as 1933 he had had the anxious presentiment that Europe, and all that Erasmus symbolized, was lost. It was in despair over this loss that he wrote this biography and,

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later on, during the war, his autobiography Die Welt von Gestern. Zweig designed this intellectual testament to utilize the same procedure he had derived from Rolland's work: writing about the life experiences of an individual artist, capturing the essence of his engagement with European values in order to propagate an idea of Europe. Conclusion Rolland and Zweig were united by a similar concern for Franco-German reconciliation and a shared determination to strengthen the awareness of a common European culture. It was undoubtedly Rolland who influenced Zweig most, particularly with regard to his active literary engagement for Europe. The arguments and concepts they used were by no means identical and Rolland and Zweig eventually took very different positions with regard to communism and fascism. Despite such differences and disagreements, Zweig followed Rolland’s example in the writing of literary and biographical texts as community-making narratives. Highly significant is their practice of presenting exemplary Europeans through the form of biography, fictitious as well as non-fictitious. Zweig’s biography of Rolland is perhaps the most concrete outcome of their encounter. Even if much of this biography is hero-worship, it is all the more interesting as an attempt to rescue and preserve European values in the years between the wars.

References Bugge, Peter. 1995 [1993]. Europe 1914-1945: The Nation Supreme. In The History of the Idea of Europe, eds. Kevin Wilson and Jan van der Dussen, 83150. London and New York: Routledge. Charbit, Denis. 2007. Stefan Zweig et Romain Rolland. Naissance de l’intellectuel Européen. In Stefan Zweig Reconsidered. New Perspectives on his Biographical and Literary Writing, ed. Mark Gelber, 41-59. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag. Charle, Christophe and Jürgen Schriewer eds. 2004. Transnational intellectual networks: forms of academic knowledge and the search for cultural identities, Frankfurt am Main etc: Campus Verlag. Dethurens, Pascal eds. 1997. Écriture et culture: écrivains et philosophes face à l’Europe, 1918-1950, Paris: Champion.

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Duchatelet, Bernard. 1975. Les débuts de Jean-Christophe (1886-1906). Étude de genèse, Tome 1, Université de Lille: Service de production de thèse. Duchatelet, Bernard. 2002. Romain Rolland tel qu’en lui-même. Paris: Albin Michel. Duchatelet, Bernard. 2007. Jean-Christophe, Cathédrale de l’art européen. Europe. Revue littéraire mensuelle 85, nr. 942: pp.56-65. Dumont, Robert. 1967. Stefan Zweig et la France. Paris: Didier (PhD Thesis). Fisher, David James. 1986. Romain Rolland and the Politics of Intellectual Engagement. Berkeley: University of California Press. D’haen, Theo. 2012. The Routledge Concise History of World Literature. The Routledge Concise History of Literature Series . London and New York: Routledge. Golomb, Jacob. 2007. Erasmus: Stefan Zweig’s Alter-Ego. In Stefan Zweig Reconsidered. New Perspectives on his Biographical and Literary Writing, ed. Mark Gelber, 7-21. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag. Hoock-Demarle, Marie-Claire. 2008. L’Europe des lettres. Réseaux épistolaires et construction de l’espace européen. Paris: Albin Michel. Ifversen, Jan. 2002. The Crisis of European Civilization After 1918. In Ideas of Europe since 1914. The Legacy of the First World War, Menno Spiering and Michael Wintle eds, 14-32. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Iriye, Akira. 1997. Cultural Internationalism and World Order. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Kastinger Riley, Helene. 1983. The Quest for Reason. Stefan Zweig’s and Romain Rolland’s Struggle for Pan-European Unity. In Stefan Zweig. The World of Yesterday’s Humanist Today. Proceedings of the Stefan Zweig Symposium, Marion Sonnenfeld eds., 20-31. Albany New York: State University of New York Press. Lützeler, Paul Michael 2007. Europäischer Pazifismus um 1900: Romain Rollands Jean-Christope. In Kontinentalisierung: Europa und seine Schriftsteller, Paul Michael Lützeler ed., 162-186. Bielefeld: Aisthesis Verlag. Matuschek, Oliver .2006. Stefan Zweig. Drei leben – Eine Biographie. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. Mcclain, William and Harry Zohn. 1953. Zweig and Rolland; the Literary and Personal Relationship. Germanic Review 28: 262-281. Müller, Karl. 2011. Aspekte des europïschen Erbes und die ‘Vereinigten Staaten Europas”. In Stefan Zweig und Europa, eds. Mark H. Gelber and AnnaDorothea Ludewig, 30-55. Hideshiem, Zürich, New York: Georg Olms Verlag.

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Nedeljkoviæ, Dragoljub-Dragan. 1970. Romain Rolland et Stefan Zweig. Paris: Klinkcsieck. Niémetz, Serge. 2000. Préface. In Stefan Zweig, Romain Rolland, 7-35. Paris: Belfon Éditions Le Livre de Poche. Prater, Donald. 1972. European of Yesterday: A Biography of Stefan Zweig, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rensen, Marleen. 2012. Romain Rolland et son Beethoven. In Actes du Colloque international de Metz septembre-octobre 2010, Université de Lorraine. Centre de Recherche “Écritures”, 2012, ed. Jean-Michel Whittman, vol. 7, 281-301. Resch, Stephan. 2011. Differenz des Einklangs: Stefan Zweig und Richard Graf Coudenhoven-Kalergi. In Stefan Zweig und Europa, eds. Mark H. Gelber and Anna-Dorothea Ludewig, 55-84. Hideshiem, Zürich, New York: Georg Olms Verlag. Rolland, Romain. Vie de Beethoven, in: Cahiers de la Quinzaine 1903; published as a book by Hachette in Paris in 1907. Rolland, Romain. 1905-1912. Jean-Christophe, Paris: Éditions Ollendorff. Rolland, Romain. 1913. Journey’s End: Love and Friendship, The Burning Bush, The New Dawn, New York: Holt. English translation of part 3 of Jean-Christophe, 3 volumes (Paris: Ollendorff, 1910–1912) – comprises Les Amies, Le Buisson ardent, and La Nouvelle Journée. Rolland, Romain. 1914. Au-dessus de la mêlée. Journal de Génève supplement, 22 septembre 1914. Rolland, Romain. 1932. Beethoven: Les grandes époques créatrices. 7 vols. 1928-1945. Paris: Éditions du Sablier. Rolland, Romain and Stefan Zweig. 1987. Briefwechsel 1910-1940. Berlin: Rütten & Loening. Zweig, Stefan and Friderike Zweig. 1951. Briefwechsel 1912-1942. Bern: Alfred Scherz Verlag. Zweig, Stefan. 1921. Romain Rolland. The Man and his Work. New York: Thomas Seltzer. Zweig, Stefan, 1979 [1934; 1936]. Erasmus and The Right to Heresy. London: Souvenir Press. Zweig, Stefan. 1945 [1942]. The World of Yesterday. New York: The Viking Press. Zweig, Stefan. 1983. Die schlaflose Welt. Aufsätze und Vorträge aus den Jahren 19091941. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Verlag.

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 189-203

DOSTOEVSKY: A RUSSIAN PANACEA FOR EUROPE

Marjet Brolsma

Abstract According to many European intellectuals the Great War affirmed the bankruptcy of European civilization. Disappointed with western rationalism and materialism, many of them found solace in the East. In the early 1920s Russian culture was considered a source for the regeneration of western culture. Even among a non-communist audience, the Russian Revolution of 1917 had generated broad interest in Russian art, literature and ‘pure’ orthodox Christianity. In particular, Russia’s most famous writer Fyodor Dostoevsky was embraced as a harbinger for renewal. Many West European left- and right-wing intellectuals worshipped Dostoevsky as a prophet and a creator of new values. Consequently, Dostoevsky cults arose in Great-Britain, Germany, Austria and the Netherlands. This chapter elaborates on the Dutch Dostoevsky cult and its main protagonists (the religious socialists J. Jac. Thomson and Jan de Gruyter, and the literator Dirk Coster) and places the Dutch Dostoevsky mania in a transnational, European context. Introduction The bitter disillusion and sense of degeneration that spread through Europe in the aftermath of the First World War seems clearly reflected in T.S. Eliot’s famous modernist poem The Waste Land (1922). In his appended notes the poet referred to Herman Hesse’s Blick ins Chaos (1920), a collection of essays on Dostoevsky in which Hesse portrayed the Russian novelist and his unpredictable characters as prophetic figures, offering ‘a glimpse into Chaos’ and apparently predicting Europe’s

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future. Eliot, who read German fluently, had come across the book during a visit to Switzerland, where he was recovering from a nervous breakdown. He was particularly struck by the essay ‘The Brothers Karamazov or The Downfall of Europe’ and Hesse’s ominous message that: Already half of Europe, and at the least half of Eastern Europe, is on the way toward chaos, it is drunkenly driving forward in a holy frenzy toward the abyss, drunkenly singing as if singing hymns, the way Dmitri Karamozov sang. The offended bourgeois laughs over these songs; the holy seer hears them with tears (Rainey 2005, 118).

In expression of his admiration, Eliot wrote to Hesse inviting him to contribute to the new literary journal he was about to establish; The Criterion. A few months later, in May 1922, the two authors met in Montagnola near the lake of Lugano. When the first issue of The Criterion appeared in October 1922, it contained besides The Waste Land, an article by Hesse ‘On Recent German Poetry’ (Harding 2002, 202-203). In his letter, Eliot had assured the German-Swiss writer of his wish to enhance the reputation of Blick ins Chaos in England, and indeed he had been actively involved in getting it translated by his friend Sydney Schiff (Eliot 1988, 509-510). Hesse’s essays on The Brothers Karamazov and The Idiot were reprinted in English in several journals before the publication of the complete In Sight of Chaos in 1923 (Muchnic 1939, 20: 201). For at least two decades it would remain Hesse’s best-known work in Great Britain (White 1977, 191). Eliot and Hesse shared their fascination for Dostoevsky with many contemporaries. After the First World War the Russian novelist was welcomed as an eastern panacea for the assumed degeneration of western culture. Around 1920 ‘Dostoevsky cults’ arose in Germany, Austria, Great-Britain and the Netherlands. Although this ‘Dostoevsky fever’ did not affect the whole of Europe, it is fair to regard it – as illustrated by the example of Eliot and Hesse – as a transnational phenomenon. This chapter not only seeks to explore the reasons behind the enthusiasm in various European countries at that time for Dostoevsky’s work but also to focus in particular on the cultural transfer between his German and Dutch admirers. In addition, two key insights into the process of cultural transfer are to be derived from research presented in the 1980s by the French Germanists Michael Werner and Michel Espagne (Espagne and Werner 1985 and 1987). Firstly, there is the notion that the study of the interac-

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tion and transfer between different nations, or ‘cultural areas’, as Werner and Espagne prefer to describe them, often makes more sense than their comparison. This is particularly the case when there are huge differences, as between Germany and the Netherlands, the latter having, for example, remained neutral during the Great War. Indeed, it would be hard to identify common characteristics that make two or more entities comparable. Secondly, there is the observation that the transfer of cultural objects, ideas or thoughts is not a linear process but a transformative act; a process of acculturation in which the imported ‘strange’ cultural forms are often bequeathed a new meaning, function or place within the receiving ‘cultural area’. In this chapter, by focusing on the Dutch perception of Dostoevsky, it will become clear that national circumstances and peculiarities determined the cultural transfer and the appropriation of German interpretation of his works and were decisive for the way this Russian ‘Saviour of Europe’ was perceived. The mysterious magnetism of Russia To many intellectuals, the Great War had confirmed the bankruptcy of European civilization. Disillusioned with a Europe that had plunged itself into the horror of the trenches, as well as with western rationalism, positivism and materialism, many of them found solace in the East. This resulted in a revival of romantic Orientalism. However, it was not only the religious and philosophical traditions of India and China that aroused a new fascination; Russian culture too was regarded as a source for the regeneration of western culture. In a period when Europe was in need of reorientation and self-criticism, and American mass culture seemed to represent a distasteful scenario for the future, old stereotype images of Russians as a young, vital, malleable, unspoiled, truly Christian people who lived more intensely regained significance as an antidote. The revolution of 1917 seemed a confirmation of the otherness of Russia. That the Bolsheviks had transferred the capital from ‘European’ Petrograd – Peter the Great’s ‘window on the west’ – to the ‘Asian’ Moscow, appeared as ‘writing on the wall’. This perception of Russia as genuinely un-European, was attended by both negative and positive connotations: it instigated fear of the Red Russians as barbaric ‘Asian hordes’ but it also seemed to confirm Russia’s redemptive potential for the West. Indeed, the Slavophil national self-image which had arisen in the second half of the nineteenth century in the tsarist empire, had con-

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trasted the spiritual nature of the Russian nation with the western, ‘mechanical rationalist’, worldview and had merged with the idea that the nation had a unique and religious mission to fulfil. After 1917, this tradition was pursued and found resonance in Western Europe. NeoSlavophil writers and philosophers, such as the exile Nikolai Berdyaev, reconciled the Russian Ideal with Bolshevism, despite its western origins and atheism. Berdyaev for instance, appreciated Bolshevism as a force against liberalism. In his opinion the revolution had paved the way to ‘the new middle ages’ and after a time of suffering the Russians would eventually return to Christianity (Bugge 1993, 138-139). Anti-rationalist western intellectuals also envisaged the revolution as a ‘mystical rebirth’ or as an inevitable interim phase that preceded the new culture of which they dreamt. They were not so much attracted to communism as a political ideology, it was the Russian spirit, that seemed to have manifested itself most vigorously in 1917, that inspired them. In the last decades of the nineteenth century too, Russia had held an enchantment as a spiritual and vital Utopia. At the time, Western Europe, especially Germany and France, had witnessed a booming rise in enthusiasm for Russian literature, accompanied by the popular notion of Russia as a ‘mystery’, a concept embodied in the idea of an enigmatic ‘Russian soul’. The Russians were thought of as innocent barbarians, spiritually superior to Western Europeans. In the eyes of many western readers, Russian writers had the unique ability to directly reach into the deepest layers of the soul. The literary figures they had created seemed, like the Russians themselves, to embody a pure and elementary humanity, because they were purified by living under a harsh regime and in an extreme climate for centuries. In other words: Russian literature was considered an important source of knowledge about the hidden and unconscious ‘true nature’ of mankind (Naarden 1986, 24-26). The revolution of 1917 gave these existing notions a renewed urgency. After the Bolshevik take-over, Russia seemed more of a mystery than ever. It was hard to estimate what was going on in Red Russia and where the country was heading. The internal politics of Soviet Russia appeared to be characterised by improvisation and its role in the international arena was still unclear (Malia 1999, 294). Moreover, due to the civil war, contact with the outside world appeared difficult for the revolutionaries (Koenen 2005, 14). Although a vast majority in Western Europe rejected bolshevism as a horrifying, destructive danger, even the strongest opponents of communism had to admit there was something in-

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triguing about the ‘new’ Russia too. That the Bolshevist minority had been able to overthrow the mighty tsar and - in spite of all predictions – had managed to maintain power under heavy resistance and Allied intervention, was impressive (Koenen 2005, 302). Even more imposing were the social reforms the Bolsheviks had implemented and their efforts to end the disparity between the social classes and between men and women. Within a few years rich and poor appeared to have attained the same opportunities in education, employment and in court. Orthodox marriage had been abolished, divorce became much easier, and abortion was legalised in 1920. In the minds of many western observers it was as if by magic Russia had suddenly changed from a poor, despotic and backward nation into a front runner and a model of modernity (Dunk 2000, 287-288). The Soviet Union was especially appealing to many western artists and writers, since their Russian counterparts appeared to play a guiding role in society - Stalin had referred to the writers as ‘the engineers of the human soul’. Moreover: the marvellous modernist experiments that took place, ranging from the avant-garde cinema of Eisenstein, Vertov and Pudovkin, to Mayakovsky’s Agitprop poetry, from Meyerhold’s theatre experiments to the constructivist designs of Tatlin and El Lissitzky, all contributed to the charm of Soviet-Russia as an avant-garde paradise (Dunk 2000, 285-286). In the mid-1930s, a relatively large group of leftwing European intellectuals, disappointed in capitalism and hoping to find a safeguard against fascism, visited the Soviet-Union as fellow-travellers, although by then the initial artistic freedom had been replaced by a dictated Social Realism. The majority came from France, where the Bolsheviks were considered heirs of the French revolutionaries of 1789, who had also created a new culture in order to rejuvenate their country (Stern 2007, 2 and 15). In short, the disillusionment with Europe after the Great War, together with the Bolshevik Revolution, created a broad interest in Russian culture. In particular, the events of 1917 had enhanced the existing perception of Russia as an eastern, spiritual and mysterious remedy for the West. A European Dostoevsky cult More than any other form of art, Russian literature seemed to hold the key to this hailed therapeutic effect of the Russian soul. And no one could surmount Dostoevsky – according to the cliché the ‘most Russian

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of all Russian writers’ – in revealing this salutary mystery to the West. In the early 1920s Dostoevsky was embraced as a harbinger for renewal and exceeded Tolstoy (whose pacifistic ideas appeared to be outdated after 1914-18) in popularity. Dostoevsky cults arose in Germany, Austria, Great-Britain and the Netherlands. According to Edmund Gosse, in a letter to his friend André Gide, Dostoevsky was ‘the cocaine and morfia of modern literature’ (Muchnic 1939, 139). Thomas Mann wrote in 1921 about ‘the rule of Dostoevsky over the European youth of 1920' (Koenen 2005, 350) and the Dutch historian Jan Romein concluded in his dissertation about the Western critique on the Russian Writer that the Dostoevsky cult reflected most accurately ‘the needs of the intellectuals of our time’ (Romein 1924, 182). Before the First World War Dostoevsky had been mainly regarded as a literary phenomenon, but after 1918 he was worshipped as a prophet and as a mender of values that had been destroyed in the war. According to Romein, most admirers of the Novelist were intellectuals who had deserted the church, but still longed for a religious revival. They believed the Great War confirmed the failure of intellectualism; an inevitable tragedy their hero had already foreseen and, like Dostoevsky, they were convinced that only the irrational could bring salvation (Romein 1924, 171-173). So what exactly attracted these Western intellectuals to Dostoevsky? First of all he was praised for his fierce assault on modern rationalism. Dostoevsky was regarded as a brilliant psychologist able to expose a hidden, unconscious world, where primary instincts and intuition were in control. His novels also seemed to express a modernist or expressionist turbulence, extravagance and schizophrenia. The criminals, madmen and saints that played a role in his oeuvre and his divine-demonic message seemed to reflect the torn nature of modern man. ‘Chaos’ and ‘life’ were frequently-used slogans to explain his work. Dostoevsky’s novels appeared to herald a coming anarchy as well as a return to the irrational, primal source of life (Kampmann 1931, 137-138 and 151-152). That he had actually predicted Europe’s downfall and had described the continent as a powder keg, ‘just waiting for the first spark’, provided him with even more credibility as a prophet (Romein 1924, 171). In his Pushkin Speech (1880) Dostoevsky had also offered a solution by declaring that ‘the panhuman and all-unifying Russian soul’ was able to reconcile ‘Europe’s contradictions’ and to bring about a Christian brotherhood of man (Lantz 2004, 133). In his novels Dostoevksy seemed to have shown

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that the Russians had the radical and spontaneous emotional capacity to understand all peoples and to feel real compassion, a supposed capacity that could even attach man to criminals and other antisocial individuals and that seemed to differ widely from the obligatory Christian charity. It not only intrigued pacifists in post-war Europe, but nationalists and socialists also considered it an attractive remedy to bridge the gap between the intelligentsia and the people (Muchnic 1939, 20: 165). Finally, his ideas about religion and his supposed primitive, unspoiled Russian Christianity, appealed to many western readers. Dostoevsky had accused the official churches of deceit, but also had stressed that without religion everything would be permitted and mankind would be doomed. He considered that the Russians had a special talent for religion. However, the pure Christianity of which he dreamed was within the reach of only a few. Its essential element was freedom; it did not provide any guaranties or moral conventions in life on which to rely. Only the image of Christ could serve as a guideline (Stromberg 1968, 175). Dostoevsky shared with Nietzsche, to whom he was often compared, the ideal that man should create his own values and accept life with both its positive and its tragic elements. Some interpreters considered him a ‘nihilist in denial’, but it was above all his religious message that the loss of God caused modern man’s depravation that attracted the most attention in Europe after 1918. According to Romein, the most fruitful breeding ground for the Dostoevsky fever was to be found in Germany and Austria (Romein 1924, 169 and 176). The two countries had been both defeated and humiliated by the Paris peace treaties. After the war they both witnessed severe political, economic and cultural crises. Like Soviet Russia, they were international outcasts and held a fierce grudge against the Western Entente powers that seemed to threaten their political sovereignty and their national identity. In Germany, especially, intellectuals drew cultural parallels with Russia; both nations had strong anti-rationalist and antiliberal traditions and imagined they represented a true ‘culture’, ‘spirit’ or ‘innerlichkeit’ and a ‘youthful vitality’. To some opponents of the Weimar government the Bolshevist upheaval even represented some aspects of the vigorous national rebirth they desired for Germany (Malia 1999, 348350). The conservative-revolutionary Arthur Moeller van den Bruck, for example, hoped that the barbarian-vital spirit of Russia could save Germany from western modernity and advocated a German-Slavic alliance. Supported by his friend, the Russian philosopher Dmitri Merezhkovsky,

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he published the first full German translation of Dostoevsky at Piper Publishing House between 1906 and 1922. According to Gerd Koenen, who diagnosed Germany as having a Russland-Komplex, the Dostoevsky cult was just the centre of a strong German fascination with Russia after the Great War (Koenen 2005, 353). Thomas Mann spoke of the ‘holy Russian literature’ and Hesse valued the Russian people as ‘primal human matter, unformed soul material’ (Malia 1999, 212). At the height of the Dostoevsky mania, in 1921, when his birth centenary was celebrated, 203.000 copies of his novels were published (Koenen 2005, 351). Not only German and Austrian literary critics and writers, but also theologians and philosophers found in his work the ingredients for a new Weltanschauung and harnessed the great Russian novelist in support of their own convictions, whether these were Christian, general religious, nationalist, socialist or anti-socialist. In Great Britain a Dostoevsky cult also arose, although the ‘Oracle of the Russian Soul’ never became as popular there as in Germany and Austria. The cult had started during the war years and had already reached its peak before 1921. The conditions for his celebrity were established after 1912 when the first accurate English translations were published. According to Helen Muchnic, who studied the English critique, the enthusiasm was caused by the changing artistic conventions of the time, by a growing interest in mysticism and psychology, and by the Great War. Wartime propaganda had instigated a fascination and sympathy for the Russian ally in Great Britain (Muchnic 1939, 20: 5-6). After 1914 Dostoevsky was more often compared with German writers than with English ones, a comparison that of course turned out in favour of the Russian Novelist. Dostoevsky appeared particularly alluring as an alternative to or correction of Nietzsche – who was considered to be an ideologist of German militarism in the countries of the Entente. According to the historian Ralph Flenley, Dostoevsky embodied the ‘Russian ideals’, which were ‘more in consonance with English civilization than those of a German philosopher such as Nietzsche (Muchnic 1939, 20: 103).’ The Russian Revolution altered the British perception of the famous novelist only slightly; he was now regarded not only as the mouthpiece of the Russian spirit, but seen as the prophet of the revolution as well. According to Muchnic, not the fear and abhorrence the Bolshevik upheaval had caused, but a natural weariness with the uncritical glorification of the novelist and the changing demands of literary criticism were

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responsible for the rapid decline of Dostoevsky’s popularity in Great Britain after the war (Muchnic 1939, 20: 6 and 105-106). In Italy no exceptional admiration for Dostoevsky existed. This was also the case in Spain, Denmark, Norway and Sweden (Romein 1924, 168-169). In France an increasing number of intellectuals gradually became familiar with his works, although Dostoevsky still found relatively little response there as compared to Germany, Austria and Great Britain. It was his twisted characters that plainly recalled modern man’s despair that appealed most to his French readers. Dostoevsky’s modest increase in popularity was further helped by the general interest in Russia that was evoked by the events of 1917, the consequent settlement of Russian emigrés in Paris, the influence of German Dostoevsky mania and the publications of the well-known French writer André Gide, who was Dostoevsky’s most important French advocate. However, in contrast to Germany, in France in the 1920s Dostoevsky was mainly regarded solely as a literary figure. Only Gide en André Suarès utilised his ideas for their own philosophy (Minssen 1933, 109, 121 and 125). Dutch and German admirers: cultural transfer and criticism In the Netherlands the Russian writer evoked a relatively great enthusiasm during the last years of the war and especially in the early 1920s (Romein 1924, 168-169; Zeijden 1994, 22-25). In 1922, the priest and literary critic J. van Heugten wrote in the journal Studiën: ‘Within a couple of years, the Russian novelist Dostoevsky has gained a group of followers, admirers who turn eastwards and believe the future of mankind is decided in this holy region’ (Heugten 1922, 97). One year later J.A. van Leeuwen concluded in the protestant monthly Stemmen des Tijds: ‘In our country, ten years ago, Dostoevsky was still an unknown writer. This changed considerably in the last few years. Nowadays he is one of the most read authors (Leeuwen 1923, 311).’ This Dutch fascination for the Russian novelist must be regarded as part of a larger enthusiasm for the East, that also manifested itself in the popularity of the philosopher Count Hermann Keyserling and that of the Bengali poet and Nobel Prize winner Rabindranath Tagore, in the relatively large number of Theosophists and in a growing interest in Buddhism, Hinduism and Taoism. This Orientalism met with a lot of criticism, especially among orthodox Protestants and Catholics. Henri Massis’ famous complaint against the neoromantic fascination with the East of his age, Défense de l’Occident

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(1927), for example, was highly praised by young catholic authors in the Netherlands. Particularly in religious socialist circles, intellectuals seemed to be under the spell of Dostoevsky. The main protagonists of the Dutch cult were Jan Jacob Thomson, Jan de Gruyter and Dirk Coster and they all had ties with the Association of the Woodbrookers Workers Community in Barchem, the main centre of religious socialism in the Netherlands. Thomson was a left-wing vicar and poet, who welcomed the revolution as a sign of renewal; De Gruyter was a socialist who tried to harmonise Marx’ materialist doctrine with religion; and Coster’s journal De Stem (‘The Voice’) served as a platform for many religious socialists. All three Dutch admirers had turned to Dostoevsky because of World War One and the crisis in European culture. His ‘new gospel’ and his message to accept life under all circumstances appealed most to them. According to Thomson in De Russische ziel en de Westersche cultuur (‘The Russian soul and western culture’ – 1917) his own era appeared to be ‘the West’s final hour’ and ‘the absence of a religious thought’ was to blame (Thomson 1917, 34). Dostoevsky, who had shown in his novels that even after madness and barbarity, redemption was still possible, seemed in Thomson’s opinion to point the way to a purification of Christianity. De Gruyter called the Great War in his Dostojevski en het maatschappelijk leven (‘Dostoevsky and society’ – 1924) a ‘colossal conflict’ that had turned Europe into a ‘spiritual wilderness’. He was also worried about the consequences of the harsh Versailles treaty – he had translated Henry Brailsford’s After the Peace (1920) and John Maynard Keynes A Revision of the Treaty (1922) into Dutch. Socialism (in his opinion a kind of belief ) was ‘the only constructive and positive power that was able to overcome the contemporary chaos’ (Gruyter 1924, 240 and 206-207). De Gruyter was intrigued by Dostoevsky’s idea of the affirmation of life and presented his notion of socialism as the ultimate synthesis of reason and intuition, and as the fulfilment and correction of the novelist’s imperfect conceptions. De Gruyter had recognised in the Russian revolution the spiritual legacy of Tolstoj and Dostoevsky, as well as of Marx and Bakunin (Gruyter 1922, 6). It inspired him to write De Russische Revolutie. Een onderzoek naar haar wording en haar toekomst (‘The Russian Revolution. An examination of its origins and future’ – 1922) in which De Gruyter had reached the conclusion that the revolution was an unrivalled ‘heroic event’, rooted in the degeneration and massacre of the war, that offered an irresistible vision of a new mankind (Gruyter 1922, 157).

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Coster was a well-known man of letters in the Netherlands in the 1920s. Mainly thanks to his efforts, Dostoevsky came into fashion (Beaufort 1958, 34). Coster’s journal De Stem was the heart of the Dutch cult; in 1921 it published the results of an inquiry Coster had held among fifty prominent publicists’ to measure Dostoevsky’s influence on the intellectual life in the Netherlands and to enlighten the relationship between the Western and the Russian spirit (Coster 1921, 961-962). In his highlypraised essay Dostojevski (1920) Coster had claimed that ‘Europe’s spiritual need’ had culminated in the war but, confronted with this catastrophe, the ‘European consciousness was overwhelmed’ by the revitalising message of the Russian prophet (Coster 1920, 12). That Dostoevsky had finally been understood in Europe was an undeniable sign that a new culture was on its way (Coster 1920, 15). Coster revered the novelist for revealing the ‘tragic debt’ of the intellectualist and haughty nineteenth century and for providing ‘new hope for life in the twentieth century’ (Coster 1920, 28 and 73). He believed that in his novels Dostoevsky held a magnifying glass above modern man and depicted the ultimate possibilities of good and evil (Coster 1920, 35-36 and 39). According to Coster, he had therefore proved that the vital powers were constantly in motion and called upon modern man to live life realizing that ‘every minute a mysterious desertion or return to the Divine was possible’ (Coster 1920, 40). The Dutch enthusiasm for Dostoevsky – as the examples of Thomson, De Gruyter and Coster show – was a consequence of concern about Europe and modern culture after 1914. A second factor that contributed to the Dutch cult was cultural transfer. Germany, especially, played a role as a cultural mediator and catalyst of the Russian writer’s popularity in the Netherlands, as it did in other European countries. Theodor Kampmann was right when, in his Dostojewski in Deutschland (1931), he concluded that because the Russian author had become a permanent part of Germany’s intellectual life, ‘the world would only be able to reach the Russian Dostoevsky through the German one’ (Kampmann 1931, 217). The Dostoevsky interpretations by Gide, Suarès, the British literary critic John Middleton Murray or the American vicar G.W. Thorn were also read in the Netherlands, but Karl Nötzel’s, Paul Natorp’s or Hesse’s readings of the Russian prophet do seem to have reached a wider audience. However, the greatest influence was exerted by Russian Dostoevsky experts, who were very popular in Germany and whom the Dutch read in German translations. Thomson for instance,

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was inspired by Merezhkovsky’s diagnosis of Dostoevsky’s religious doubt and his comparison with Nietzsche. From the Russian philosopher Vladimir Solovyev he derived the concept of a unique Russian humility that could save Western Christianity. Lastly, his interpretation of Russian nihilism, Thomson based on Russland und Europa (1913) that had been written by the Czech intellectual and politician Tomáš Masaryk. Most influential in the Netherlands were the writings of A.L. Volynsky (who stressed the prophetic aspects in Dostoevky’s novels and the archetypal Russian ‘meekness’ and ‘pan-humanity’) and Merezhkovky. Merzhkovsky’s Tolstoy and Dostoevsky (1900-1901), which in the following years was translated, into English, French, German and Swedish (in 1918 it finally also appeared in Dutch) met with an unparalleled enthusiasm. Most Dutch intellectuals read not only Dostoevsky interpretations, but his literary works too, in German, because of the lack of good translations from Russian into Dutch. This motivated Thomson to learn Russian; in 1922 he translated The Idiot into Dutch (Banning 1962, 166). De Gruyter and Coster – and Thomson too – all read and valued the German Piper-translations. But Coster believed the introductions by Moeller van den Bruck were full of German self-conceit (Coster 1920, 81-83). And De Gruyter considered Moellers perception of Dostoevsky ‘too irrational’ (Gruyter 1924, 152-153). In particular Coster, in his Dostojevski, strongly rejected the ‘nationalistic’ way the great Russian novelist was perceived in Germany. During the war many Dutch intellectuals, like Coster, had become disappointed with the German Dichter und Denker who had blatantly tried to legitimise their country’s role in the war. After 1918, the revanchist nationalism of the Conservative Revolutionary movement conflicted deeply with their dreams of a peaceful and reconciled Europe. Therefore, in the 1920s, the Dutch attitude towards Germany was rather critical, though this neighbouring country always remained an important point of orientation. This ambivalence can by illustrated by the example of Dirk Coster, who was inspired by the German Dostoevsky cult, but at the same time reluctant. In his monthly De Stem, Coster published articles by Russian-German cultural mediators like Alexander Eliasberg and Helene Hoerschelmann and essays on Dostoevsky by the Marburg School-philosopher Natorp and the Austrian novelist Emil Lucka. However, Lucka’s complaints about the Russian writer were, according to Coster, significant not because they made any sense, but because they clearly displayed the contemporary ‘chaotic life’ in ‘the poor, dying city of Vienna’ that had once

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been ‘one of the shining centres of Europe’ (Coster 1921, 1119-1120). According to Coster, the Germans abused Dostoevsky for a GermanRussian antithesis in order to celebrate their own supposed superiority. They mistakenly held Russian mysticism for ‘the troubled preceding stage of the pure Germanic thinking’. Due to this German ‘perverted’ admiration, a disastrous ‘intellectualistic haughtiness’ had developed that had also caused a general decay in German literature. Therefore, Coster considered the German Dostoevsky fanatics even more degenerate than his French enthusiasts, whom he had accused of shallowness and an appetite for sensation (Coster 1920, 76-83). Coster’s ideas reveal the paradoxical character of cultural transfer between the Dutch and the German Dostoevsky cults. On the one hand, Dostoevsky’s popularity in Germany and the translations of his work and of his Russian expounders, contributed considerably to his fame in the Netherlands. On the other hand, the acculturation process met with reluctance; many German interpretations were rejected by Dutch admirers like Coster and used as a contrast for their individual ‘unspoiled’ views of the Russian novelist. Even Hesse, despite his good intentions, had, according to Coster interpreted Dostoevsky in a ‘new German and expressionist’ manner. Blick ins Chaos did not fill him with awe, as it had Eliot in his Swiss sanatorium, but was, in his opinion, characteristic of the distorted German perception of the Russian prophet which since 1914 had intensified the depravation of German cultural life (Coster 1922, 288). Although Coster presented De Stem as an international periodical devoted to the reconciliation of the European intellect – like Eliot’s Criterion – he combined openness towards ideas from abroad with a critical stance (Harding 2002, 205). Coster believed a nationalist and intellectualist perception could obstruct the ‘deepening awareness’ in Europe that Dostoevsky was able to heal the modern soul: his condemnation of the German admirers rooted essentially in a deep concern about European civilization (Coster 1920, 74-75). Hence Dutch intellectuals, as much as their German and French colleagues, cultivated their own Dostoevksy in order to re-think Europe between the wars.

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References Banning, Willem. 1962. Jan Jacob Thomson. In Jaarboek van de Maatschappij der Nederlandse Letterkunde te Leiden, 1962, 165-169. Leiden: E.J. Brill. www.dbnl. org/tekst/_jaa003196201_01/_jaa003196201_01_0027.php Beaufort, Henriette L.T. de. 1958. Dirk Coster. In Jaarboek van de Maatschappij der Nederlandsche Letterkunde, 1958, 33-41. Leiden: E.J. Brill. www.dbnl.org/ tekst/_jaa003195801_01/_jaa003195801_01_0004.php Bugge, Peter. 1993. Europe 1914-1945: The Nation Supreme. In The History of the Idea of Europe, eds. Jan van der Dussen and Kevin Wilson, 83-149. Milton Keynes: The Open University. Coster, Dirk. 1920. Dostojevski. Een essay. Arnhem: Van Loghum Slaterus. Coster, Dirk. 1921. ‘Bericht aan de lezers van “De Stem”’. De Stem: 961-962. Coster, Dirk. 1921. ‘Overzicht der antwoorden’. De Stem: 1108-1124. Coster, Dirk. 1922. ‘Voor en tegen Dostojevski’. De Stem: 259-288. Dunk, H.W. von der. 2000. De verdwijnende hemel. Over de cultuur van Europa in de twintigste eeuw. Vol 1. Amsterdam: Meulenhoff. Eliot, Valerie, ed. 1988. The Letters of T.S. Eliot. Vol. 1, 1898-1922. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Espagne, Michel, and Michael Werner. 1985. ‘Deutsch-französischer Kulturtransfer im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert. Zu einem neuen interdisziplinären Forschungsprogramm des C.N.R.S’. Francia. Forschungen zur westeuropäischen Geschichte 13: 502-510. Espagne, Michel, and Michael Werner. 1987. ‘La construction d’une référence culturelle allemande en France: genèse et histoire (1750-1914)’. Annales ESC 4: 969-992. Gruyter, Jan de. 1922. De Russische Revolutie. Een onderzoek naar haar wording en toekomst. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Gruyter, Jan de. 1924. Dostojevski en het maatschappelijk leven. Een biographie en kritiek door J. de Gruyter. Baarn: Hollandia-drukkerij. Harding, Jason. 2002. The Criterion. Cultural Politics and Periodical Networks in InterWar Britain. New York: Oxford University Press. Heugten, J. van. 1922. ‘Geestesoriënteering’. Studiën. Tijdschrift voor godsdienst, wetenschap en letteren: 97-106. Kampmann, Theoderich. 1931. Dostojewski in Deutschland. Münster: Helios. Koenen, Gerd. 2005. Der Russland-Komplex. Die Deutschen und der Osten 1900-1945. München: Verlag C.H Beck. Lantz, Kenneth. 2004. The Dostoevsky Encyclopedia. Westport: Greenwood Press. Leeuwen, J.A. van. 1923. ‘Dostojewski’. Stemmen des Tijds: 299-325. Malia, Martin. 1999. Russia under Western eyes. From the Bronze Horseman to the Lenin Mausoleum. Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Minssen, Hanns Friedrich. 1933. Hamburger Studien zu Volkstum und Kultur der Romanen. Vol. 13, Die fransösische Kritik und Dostojewski. Hamburg: Friedrichsen, de Gruyter & Co.

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Muchnic, Helen. 1939. Dostoevky’s English Reputation (1881-1936). Vol. 20, Smith College Studies in Modern Languages. Northampton: Departments of Modern Languages Smith College. Naarden, Bruno. 1986. De spiegel der barbaren. Socialistisch Europa en revolutionair Rusland (1848-1923) (Proefschrift Rijksuniversiteit Groningen). Rainey, Lawrence. 2005. The annotated Waste Land, with Eliot’s Contemporary Prose. New haven: Yale University Press. Romein, J.M. Dostojewskij in de Westersche kritiek. Een hoofdstuk uit de geschiedenis van den literairen roem. Haarlem: Tjeenk Willink. Stern, Ludmila. 2007. Western Intellectuals and the Soviet Union, 1920-1940. From Red Square to the Left Bank. Londen: Routledge. Stromberg, Ronald. 1968. European Intellectual History Since 1789. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts. Thomson, Jan Jacob. 1917. De Russische ziel en de Westersche cultuur. Zeist: J. Ploegsma. White, John J. 1977. Großbrittanien. In Hermann Hesses weltweite Wirkung .Internationale rezeptionsgeschichte, ed. Martin Pfeifer, 191-204. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Zeijden, Albert van der. 1994. ‘Rusland is en blijft voor ons een raadsel.’ De Dostojevski-cultus in het Nederland van de jaren twintig. Historisch Nieuwsblad 1: 22-25.

Part 4 – International Movements

EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 207-223

EXHIBITING, ENCOUNTERING AND STUDYING MUSIC IN INTERWAR EUROPE: BETWEEN NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY

Daniel Laqua

Abstract This chapter investigates the revival of cultural and scientific internationalism after the First World War. It does so by focusing on events in which music was the subject of transnational intellectual exchanges. Three cases illustrate the ways in which music was represented and used in such contexts: the international exhibition Musik im Leben der Völker, held in Frankfurt in 1927; the First International Congress of Popular Arts (1928), which took place in Prague with League of Nations backing; and, finally, several musical activities within the framework of the 1930 world’s fairs at Antwerp and Liège. These events highlight the ambiguity that was intrinsic to both interwar internationalism and the discourse about music: namely simultaneous references to universal values on the one side and ideas about ‘national culture’ on the other. Music is often described as a ‘universal language’. In the nineteenth century, the French author Jean François Sudre even launched an international auxiliary language, Solresol, based on the European diatonic scale (Henry 2008, 166-72). Yet in practice, music was subject to inherent limitations: some anthropologists, for instance, have questioned notions about ‘musical universals’ and stressed the significance of its specific cultural contexts (Merriam 1964, 10-11). Another boundary was formed by the national meanings with which music was invested. Nation-building in the nineteenth century involved the appraisal of folk music and the appropriation of particular styles or composers for national purposes

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(Samson 2002). This underlying tension was not unique to music. For example, references to national schools of art or national literary canons coexisted with internationalist counter-currents that promoted cultural exchange (Storm 20009; Facos and Hirsh 2003; Hohendahl 1989; Brockington 2009). Meanwhile, in the sciences, the existence of national academies and ideas about ‘national science’ did not preclude a great number of congresses and exhibitions at which knowledge was shared across national boundaries (Charle, Schriewer and Wagner 2004; Jessen and Vogel 2002; Geyer and Paulmann 2001; Rasmussen 1995; Fischer 1995). This chapter is concerned with the ambiguous relationship between internationalism and nationalism in science and the arts. It sheds light on the revival of cultural exchange after the First World War, which had also ruptured scholarly and artistic bonds. The main bulk of the discussion is organised around international musical events that were held in the cities of Frankfurt, Prague, Antwerp and Liège between 1927 and 1930. Somewhat counter-intuitively, the main emphasis here is not on concerts or compositions, but on congresses and exhibitions in interwar Europe – occasions on which music was represented and discussed. Such settings allowed politicians, intellectuals and artists to affirm a shared European heritage. At the same time, these events allow us to consider how visions of an international community beyond Europe were reiterated or rethought. As will be shown, the exhibitions and congresses in Frankfurt, Prague, Antwerp and Liège had national, international and transnational features. While music and musical knowledge were praised for their universal qualities, the celebration of an international (musical) community was premised on national units and frequently revealed an attachment to Eurocentric understandings of culture. Music, internationalism and the age of nationalism To obtain a sense of the ruptures and continuities that characterised cultural encounters, it is worthwhile to consider the period that preceded the First World War. The role of music in nineteenth-century nationbuilding is well known. For instance, in discussing the role of a ‘literary canon’ in the Italian Risorgimento, the historian Alberto Banti has stressed the significance of Giuseppe Verdi’s operas (Banti 2000; Körner 2009). In Germany, Johann Sebastian Bach’s works were claimed for a Prussian-Lutheran conception of the German nation, while in Denmark

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the work of the conductor and composer Carl Nielsen informed ideas about national culture (Applegate 2005; Hinrichsen 2007; Brincker 2008). Seen from this angle, the response to musical works – and sometimes their actual creation – interacted with national ideas and structures. Concert attendance was entwined with the formation of middle-class culture (Weber 1975), thus involving a social-cultural group that took a leading part in national movements (Hroch 1968). Yet it would be misleading to view music through a purely national prism. The reception of foreign composers – both by critics and audiences – was not necessarily framed in national terms, as illustrated by the Bach revival in nineteenth-century Britain (Parrat 2006). Music remained a subject and medium of cultural transfers: despite being an age of nationalism, the ‘long’ nineteenth century was also characterised by transnational circulations that covered artistic and intellectual endeavours (Sapiro 2009; Casanova 1999). National, international and transnational ideas converged on many occasions. One such instance was the International Theatre and Music Exhibition, held in Vienna in 1892. The event reflected the Habsburg Monarchy’s identity as a multinational empire. Czechs and Poles had their own sections within the exhibition, thus presenting themselves to an international public as cultural nations (Ther 2006, 238). By stressing the presence of different nationalities within Austria-Hungary, Vienna ‘celebrated itself as a multinational, i.e., European capital of modernity’ (Ther 2003, 62), or even as the ‘centre of the musical world’ (Nußbaumer 2007, 315). After 1919, this concept of the Musikstadt Wien was extended and sustained the construction of Austria as a ‘country of music’. As one of the most significant developments in nineteenth-century opera, Wagnerism further illustrates the complex relationship between nationalism and internationalism. Wagner’s cultural project had clear national features: this was inherent in his subject matter, his writings as well as his posthumous reception, including his appropriation by National Socialist Germany (Salmi 1999; Friedländer and Rüssen 2000). However, Wagnerism was an amorphous movement that attracted individuals from different political and cultural backgrounds (Large and Weber 1984). The example of the Teatro Communale in Bologna, ‘the Italian capital of Wagnerism’ (Körner 2008, 249), counters the focus on Giuseppe Verdi and La Scala that frequently features in narratives about Italian culture. In many years between 1870 and the First World War, the Teatro Communale featured not a single Verdi opera in its repertoire – and Verdi’s opera were not necessarily read in ‘patriotic’ terms. This example

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may even evoke ‘the image (...) of a nation which understood its cosmopolitan orientation as an integral part of its cultural value system, its intellectual ambition and its humanist legacy’ (Körner 2008, 221-2). Wagner’s operas also enjoyed significant appeal in the Baltic region (Salmi 2005). Meanwhile, in Belgium, Wagnerism allowed the Brussels opera house La Monnaie to emancipate itself from the shadow of Parisian opera, which was more reluctant to stage his works in the wake of the Franco-German war of 1870-1 (Couvreur 1998). Despite the composer’s association with German nationalism, Wagnerism was also a form of artistic internationalism: Wagnerians formed an international organisation after the composer’s death in 1883, and committees from different countries organised trips to Bayreuth. The outbreak of the First World War affected the reception of Wagner’s music, as evidenced by renewed French hostility to his operas (Schmid 2007). This, however, was merely one example of the way in which the war ruptured transnational cultural exchange. As early as September 1914, 93 prominent German intellectuals publicly backed their government’s war policy with the Aufruf an die Kulturwelt (Ungern-Sternberg 1996; Prochasson and Rasmussen 1996). Alongside many distinguished scholars, prominent signatories of this document also came from the fields of literature (for instance the authors Gerhard and Carl Hauptmann) and art (for instance the museum founder Justus Brinckmann, the sculptor Ludwig Manzel, the painters Max Klinger and Friedrich August von Kaulbach). Musicians were also involved, for instance the composer Engelbert Humperdinck, the Austrian conductor Felix Weingartner as well as Richard Wagner’s son Siegfried, who was a composer in his own right and director of the annual Wagner Festival at Bayreuth. Earlier involvement in cultural and intellectual exchanges did not preclude an adoption of nationalist stances in 1914. Indeed, Ludwig Fulda, the manifesto’s initiator, had translated French authors into German during the 1890s. After the First World War, transnational cultural relations met with severe challenges. Congresses continued to provide spaces for intellectual exchange, yet the constituency that was involved in these events became more limited: a continuation of pre-1914 transnational exchanges met with the challenge of reconciling intellectuals who had rallied to the cause of their respective nation. A scientific boycott against scholars from the former Central Powers affected international congresses in the early 1920s and covered institutions such as the International Union of Acade-

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mies and the International Research Council (Schroeder-Gudehus 1986). Nonetheless, between the Locarno Treaties and the Great Depression, a revival of scientific internationalism occurred. This development included international congresses and exhibitions dedicated to the representation, study and discussion of music, for instance in the field of music education (McCarthy 1993). Frankfurt, 1927: exhibiting music The international music exhibition Musik im Leben der Völker (‘Music in the Life of the Peoples’) was a notable instance in the reconstruction of cultural relations amongst former enemy nations. Described as a ‘musical Locarno’, the event took place in Frankfurt am Main from June to August 1927 as the musical equivalent of a world’s fair (Ziemer 2008). It featured exhibits from various countries, but also coincided with a local concert series, the ‘summer of music’. Journalists noted that this was the first major international exhibition on German soil since the end of the First World War (Frankfurter Zeitung [FZ], 12 June 1927) and praised the inauguration as a ‘stirring demonstration for peace and international understanding’ (FZ, 13 June 1927). On this occasion, the wider context of Franco-German rapprochement was reflected in the joint participation of Gustav Stresemann, the German Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Edouard Herriot, the French Minister of Public Education. Meanwhile, Belgium was sent the prominent politician and former secretary of the International Socialist Bureau, Camille Husymans. Speakers also came from Poland, Czechoslovakia and Austria, while Italy and Britain were represented by General Consuls. The focus on music allowed participants to evoke a wider international community. The Frankfurt mayor Ludwig Landmann referred back to longstanding notions when praising the ‘language of music’ as ‘the Esperanto of the world of sentiments’ (FZ, 12 June 1927). The affirmation of universal values did not imply a dismissal of national principles. Speaking in Frankfurt, Herriot stressed that an international spirit would not mean a loss of the ‘colour and expression’ of national spirits: ‘Whoever wants to have the right to call themselves international, should in the first instance be national’. In reporting Herriot’s comments, the Frankfurter Zeitung printed this statement in bold and noted the ‘frenetic applause’ with which they met (FZ, 12 June 1927). The compatibility of national and international ideas was reiter-

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ated by Stresemann when he received the Nobel Peace Prize together with his French counterpart Aristide Briand. In his Nobel Lecture – less than three weeks after his visit to Frankfurt – the German statesman rejected the juxtaposition of national and international cooperation as ‘fatuous’ (Haberman 1972, 10). According to Stresemann, the ‘highest culture’ was attained through the principle of nationality: the nation was a ‘bridge, rather than an obstacle, to mutual spiritual and intellectual understanding’. In this context, he referred back to the Frankfurt exhibition, approvingly citing Herriot’s comments on the relationship between national sentiment and international action. The image that thus emerges is one in which nationhood served as a building block for an international community. For German audiences, the Frankfurt exhibition reinforced a self-imagery about being a ‘people of music’ (Ziemer 2008, 120). It was held on the 100th anniversary of the death of Ludwig van Beethoven, who featured prominently in such imagery. Yet as Stresemann had argued in his Nobel Prize speech, the ‘great figures’ of one nation were also to the greater benefit of humanity. A similar duality was inherent in the exhibits at the Frankfurt exhibition: several sections were dedicated to ‘national’ composers, for instance Franz Liszt in the Hungarian and Frédéric Chopin in the Polish case (Bartsch 1927, 15-21). Meanwhile, the concert series that coincided with the exhibition also allowed for the staging of national culture: Hungary, for instance, sent over the Budapest Philharmonic Orchestro which, under the conductor Ernst von Dohnányi, performed two days of concerts dedicated to Hungarian music. The rapport between national and international culture was complicated further by another tension: namely the relationship between European and universal notions. Contemporary observers stressed that the ‘European character’ of the exhibition had become evident ‘more strongly than expected‘ (FZ, 12 June 1927). The event did not feature only European exhibits, but also a large section on non-Western music, as provided by German ethnographical museums and institutions such as the Congo Museum in Tervuren, Belgium. Yet the ‘new experience’ provided by these exhibits met with fascination but also betrayed a lack of understanding (Ziemer 2008, 119-20). The limits to universal notions became particularly evident in Stresemann’s opening speech in which he protested against the ‘levelling effects and prevalence of Negro and jazz rhythms’ (FZ, 12 June 1927). These comments caused a ‘scandal’ and ran counter to the ‘utopia of a universal understanding through music’

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(Ziemer 2008, 111). At the same time, they revealed the extent to which cultural exchange was delimited by assumptions about civilisation as well as nationhood. Another level needs to be added to the different dimensions of the exhibition: its local context. For several centuries, the city of Frankfurt had hosted trade fairs – a tradition that was institutionalised with the foundation of the Messe- und Ausstellungsgesellschaft in 1907 and the opening of the Frankfurt Festival Hall as a permanent space for performances and exhibitions in 1909. Drawing on these structures, the Messe authority under Otto Ernst Sutter took an active part in the planning of Musik im Leben der Völker (Lonitz 2005, 101-2). The local authorities hoped for positive economic effects, yet the event was also facilitated by intellectual currents in interwar Frankfurt. One major figure in this context was the architect and city planner Ernst May, a key figure in Frankfurt urbanism. May combined his administrative role with transnational activities, cofounding the Congrès internationaux d’architecture moderne (CIAM) in 1928 with the likes of Victor Bourgeois, Walter Gropius and Le Corbusier. Martin Elsaesser – head of the city’s planning department – and the graphic designer Hans Leistikow helped plan the exhibition. Another advisor, Alfons Paquet, had started to develop ideas about modern exhibitions before the First World War. He had previously favoured plans for an exhibition in 1918, aiming to demonstrate the ‘global significance of modern transport and economic life on a scientific basis’ (Brenner 2003, 35). The vibrancy of the environment in which the exhibition originated was evidenced by the periodical Das Neue Frankfurt, which dedicated one of its issues (no. 10, 1927) to the musical exhibition. Hence, while the 1892 music and theatre exhibition had bolstered Vienna’s image as a ‘city of music’, the 1927 exhibition also fulfilled a local purpose: it allowed planners to portray Frankfurt as a modern, outwardlooking city. Such examples illustrate the further-reaching motivations that fed into an international event that was ostensibly concerned with music: the representation of nationhood, the celebration of international rapprochement following Locarno, and the influence of local currents. This is not to say that musical scholars were mere bystanders. The organisers drew upon expert advice, for instance by collaborating with Kathi Meyer-Baer, ‘arguably the most significant, and surely the most productive, female musicologist of her generation’ (Josephson 2008, 228). She edited the exhibition catalogue; and later worked on exhibitions dedicated to the

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centenary of Goethe’s death and to Richard Wagner (Meyer-Baer 1927; Josephson 2008, 233). Being employed in the private music library of the industrialist Paul Hirsch, she also produced the Hirsch Library Catalogue, ‘one of the signal achievements of musical bibliography’ (Josephson 2008, 234; cf. Massar 2008, 125-36). Furthermore, the Frankfurt exhibition provided a framework for the organisation of international congresses, for instance of the International Society for Contemporary Music. Despite its political sub-texts, the exhibition thus exemplified the continuation of internationalist currents and mechanisms beyond the First World War. Prague, 1928: folklore and the League of Nations An ethnographical collection arguably provided the ‘most spectacular part of the exhibition’ in Frankfurt (Ziemer 2008, 119). The representation of music went beyond ‘high’ culture and recognised folk customs, for instance reflected in the exhibits of the Soviet Union (Bartsch 1927, 20). Little over a year after the Frankfurt exhibition, this strand became evident with the First International Congress of Popular Arts. Taking place from 7 to 14 October 1928, the event was held in Prague with support from the League of Nations. Although the League of Nations Covenant had not included provisions for a cultural organisation, the League developed mechanisms in the fields of science and culture through the foundation of the International Committee on Intellectual Cooperation in Geneva in 1922 and the inauguration of the International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation in Paris in 1926 (Renoliet 1999; Laqua 2011a). These bodies launched a variety of initiatives, from textbook reform and bibliography to work on museums and the arts. The conferences that they organised evoked an international community, yet also provided occasions on which intellectuals asserted their own country’s contributions to world culture (Laqua 2011b). As the historian Corinne Pernet has pointed out, folk scholars targeted the International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation as part of their strategy to create a ‘science of popular arts’ (Pernet 2007a, 99-100). The result of their efforts, the Prague congress of 1928, tackled a wide range of topics, from folk music to woodwork, ceramics and traditional architecture. Around 350 presentations were scheduled to take place during the congress. To the organisers, the event was to defend local customs but also foster the international collaboration of scholars (Prager

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Presse [PP], 8 October 1928). Yet between the local and the international, the congress theme had clear national connotations: the focus on folk culture resonated with the wider search for the ‘soul’ or essence of a nation, referring back to the theories of Johann Gottfried Herder. In introducing the proceedings of the Prague congress, the French art historian Henri Focillon claimed that the nation – while not being the sole category for popular art – was a reality: ‘[even] if the spirit of popular art is not determined by nationality, nationality is not a fiction’ (IICI 1931, xvi). At the same time, the event reflected an extension of cultural internationalism beyond Europe. In Latin America, intellectuals and artists saw the appraisal of folklore as part of a process of ‘cultural emancipation’ from Europe (Pernet 2007b, 135). This dimension was also reflected in a later event, the American Congress on Intellectual Cooperation of 1939. Even beyond its subject matter, the Prague congress was held within a specific national context: it took place in the month that the state of Czechoslovakia celebrated its tenth anniversary. The affirmation of Czech and Slovak folk traditions featured prominently in these festivities: ‘People from the countryside have gathered in force in their national costumes, and numerous processions, headed by bands, have contributed to the gaiety of the science’ (The Times, 29 October 1928). More generally, the event fitted in with Czechoslovak efforts in the field of cultural diplomacy, which stressed the country’s features as a major site in European culture (Orzoff 2009; Reijnen 2005). The specific national context was evident in the comments of the Czechoslovak Minister of Education (and later Prime Minister) Milan Hodža. On the occasion of the Prague congress, he drew attention to the way in which this international event coincided with the tenth anniversary of the ‘restoration and reintegration of our thousand-year-old state’ (PP, 8 October 1928). According to Hodža, the congress allowed for a consideration of national values in the context of ‘international competition’. Referring back to Herder and Goethe and their interest on Slavic culture, he claimed that the underlying melancholy of Slavic folk art and the ‘sadness’ of Czech and Slovak folk tunes were linked to past experiences of foreign oppression. Yet despite this evident national interpretation, Hodža praised the multipronged efforts of the League of Nations, asserting that its work for cultural, economic and social cooperation could also facilitate political rapprochement.

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Hodža’s article was published in the Prager Presse, a newspaper which covered the international congress over several days. In running a series of articles on folk traditions, the newspaper focused almost exclusively on Slavic arts – Czechoslovak folklore, Polish decorative arts, Russian tunes and Ukrainian customs (PP, 9, 10, 12 and 13 October 1928). A rare exception to this approach was an article on the English Folk Dance Society, which participated in the congress with over 40 members but also brought a dance group (PP, 12 October 1928). The focus on the riches of Slavic culture can be linked to the newspaper’s origins. Having been founded in 1921, this German-language publication was backed by the Czechoslovak foreign office to provide ‘a counter-weight to the antiCzech propaganda pouring out of the Reich German and Czech German papers’ (Orzoff 2009, 71). The German embassy noted the Prager Presse’s proximity to the government and the fact that its initial print run of 200,000 contained a large amount of free copies (report 5 April 1921, CC 1983, 418). The publication’s coverage in the Prague congress was in line with its wider interest in cultural internationalism. At its foundation it ‘appeared on the scene with an appeal for tolerance, unity, and energetic commitment to Czechoslovakia and the New Europe’ (Orzoff 2009, 72). Despite such national connotations, the event also lent expression to internationalist ambitions. The congress was organised by a group of people who, through this event, formally established a new international association, the Commission Internationale des Arts et Traditions Populaires (CIAP). CIAP maintained an association with the International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation and operated from within its Paris premises. After the Second World War, CIAP was transformed into the Société Internationale d’Ethnologie et de Folklore, cooperating with UNESCO in the late 1940s and the 1950s. However, while being conceived as an international body, CIAP worked through national committees, reflecting the idea that internationalism was premised on nationhood. Antwerp and Liège, 1930: Belgium as a site of internationalism Two years after the event in Prague, the city of Antwerp hosted the Second International Congress of Popular Arts. The event was facilitated by the involvement of Albert Marinus, one of CIAP’s Belgian members. His case illustrates that the championing of popular traditions could go together with internationalist convictions in the political realm. Before the First World War, he had been involved in peace activism and even

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published a treatise on pacifism and moral education (Marinus 1910). He had also collaborated with the Union of International Associations, a Brussels-based body that aspired to represent all international groups and was, in this respect, emblematic of the internationalist optimism before the First World War (Rayward 1975; Levie 2006). Similar to the Prague congress, the Antwerp congress coincided with a special national occasion: 1930 marked the centenary of Belgian independence. To celebrate this occasion, two world’s fairs were held in Belgium that year: one in Liège, the other in Antwerp, to reflect the country’s bilingual nature. World’s fairs were, of course, characterised by the interplay of local, national and international factors (Schroeder-Gudehus and Rasmussen 1992, Greenhalgh 1988). They also went together with a range of congresses – which is why the Second International Congress of Popular Arts was but one of many international events held in Belgium that year. While the CIAP congress took place in Antwerp, the city of Liège held its own musical events. Having previously met at Frankfurt in 1927, the International Society for Contemporary Music organised a festival during the world’s fair. In conjunction with the festival, the International Society for Musical Research organised its first congress upon the invitation of the organising committee of the world’s fair (SIM 1930). Similar to the Frankfurt exhibition of 1927, the Liège congress formed part of the re-establishment of transnational intellectual relations. The society’s predecessor – the International Musical Society – had been established with a congress held in Leipzig in 1904, followed by congresses in Berlin, Vienna, London and – a few weeks before the outbreak of the First World War, Paris. Having collapsed during the war, the society was only re-established during Vienna’s ‘Beethoven centenary’ festivities in 1927 (Angell 1944, 36-40). The Antwerp congress brought together scholars from various countries, including the French musicologist André Piro and his German colleague Johannes Wolf. The congress also illustrates the overlap between different ventures: the British academic Edward Joseph Dent, for instance, was involved both in the International Society for Musical Research and the International Society of Contemporary Music. From 1931, he held the presidency of both associations. The most striking aspect of the event’s internationalism, however, was a genuine act of border-crossing: on 5 September, delegates headed to the German city of Aachen to watch a staging of Alban Berg’s opera Wozzek. Musical scholars echoed the idea that the nation was a prerequisite for ‘international’ action. The opening speech at the Liège congress of 1930

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was a case in point. Held by the musicologist Peter Wagner, an expert in Gregorian music, it stressed the aim of bringing together scholars from the entire world who would work towards a union between ‘souls and spirits’ while retaining their scientific approach (SIM 1930, 16). Yet the speech clearly referenced nationhood, singling out the host country and its achievements: Through this international exhibition, the Belgian nation offers to the entire world proof of the vitality of its love for labour and progress; it is appropriate that musicology joins these efforts to mark, for its part, the merits of the Belgian people in the field of art. (SIM 1930, 15).

Wagner thus took up a prominent trope of Belgian nationalism, namely the idea of Belgium as a particularly industrious nation. The Belgian musicologist Charles Van den Borren echoed these points but related them to the notion of an international community: he maintained that nations could bask in their glory of great composers – but that they had to ‘be careful not to consider them as a sort of private property and jealously confine them within national barriers’ (SIM 1930, 31). In the face of the crises of the 1930s, musical internationalism proved remarkably resilient. The tradition of congresses by the International Society for Contemporary Music and the International Society for Musical Research continued, for instance with events in Cambridge (1933), Barcelona (1936) and London (1938). The London meeting showed how the political transformations in Europe had affected the nature of these congresses. Organised by the British section of the International Society for Contemporary Music, Edward Joseph Dent again took an active role (ISCM 1938). Émigrés who had fled political or anti-Semitic persecution in Nazi Germany played a significant part at the event. They included the composer Hanns Eisler, who spoke about the Twelve Tone system, and Franz Reizenstein, who lectured on Hindemith’s New Theory. The Hungarian composer Mátyás Seiber discussed swing, having taught jazz at Dr Hoch Conservatory in Frankfurt. Other contributors to the London congress also travelled from afar: the Romanian composer Mordecai Sandberg lived in Jerusalem and spoke on the microtonal music. One year later, the last international musical congress of the 1930s took place under the auspices of the American branch of the International Society for Musical Research. It was held from 11 to 18 September 1939, less than two weeks after the outbreak of the Second World War (Mendel, Ressse and Chase 1944). The effort to organise such a congress demon-

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strates the longevity of the networks established by international associations and conferences. Conclusion The international community of music scholars was not necessarily an ‘imagined’ one: it benefited from face-to-face interaction that was facilitated by these congresses. The conservation and transmission of knowledge often occurs within physical structures, such as museums and libraries. However, as has been shown, one must not neglect the more transient forums for the exchange of information: events such as congresses and exhibitions may not take a permanent and fixed guise, but nonetheless have long-lasting consequences. They help to shape scientific cultures and often trigger the establishment of voluntary associations and the professionalisation of intellectual networks. By the late 1920s, the revival of cultural internationalism in interwar Europe manifested itself in congresses, exhibitions and new organisations. In the sphere of music and musical scholarship, this development was highlighted by associations such as CIAP and the International Society for Musical Research, events such as the congresses at Prague, Antwerp and Liège, and exhibitions such as Musik im Leben der Völker. Some of these initiatives can be viewed as a revival of pre-war efforts – yet they operated in a different context. The opening of the Frankfurt exhibition stressed the desire to rebuild cultural ties in Europe and thus put an end to war-time antagonisms. Meanwhile, the League of Nations provided a new reference point for international efforts, as highlighted by CIAP’s attempts. Taken as a whole, the events at Frankfurt, Prague, Antwerp and Liège underline that particular forms of internationalism were compatible with the performance of local identity and of nationhood. In this respect, internationalism did not necessarily question other attachments or selfrepresentations. It could just as well be a way of putting a place – city or nation – on the map. Seen from this angle, international congresses or exhibitions exemplified the idea that transnational spaces could be constructed on the back of nationhood. Protagonists were at pains to stress the significance of nationhood, whilst clearly operating in contexts that were defined in musical and scholarly (rather than purely political) terms. It thus highlights how nationhood formed part of the conceptual reper-

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toire through which a European or international community was conceived and celebrated.

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EUROPEAN STUDIES 32 (2014): 225-245

‘WE MUST NO LONGER RESTRICT OUR HORIZON TO ONE COUNTRY’: NEO-CALVINISM AND INTERNATIONALISM IN THE INTERBELLUM ERA

George Harinck

Abstract When the neo-Calvinist movement in the Netherlands took off in the late nineteenth century it developed a weak concept of Europe, and viewed nation states as members of a Christian family. Groen van Prinsterer and Abraham Kuyper propagated international law as a means to regulate international relations. Kuyper added a cultural aspect, stressing the Calvinist character of the Dutch people. After the First World War the neo-Calvinists became strong supporters of the League of Nations and their politicians were active participants in this organization. Due to the tough reality of day-to-day international politics and the secular character of post-war culture, they abandoned all musing about Europe as an entity. International cooperation was satisfying, as long as it served the goal of preventing war and promoting economic relations. As to the cultural aspect, they established an international Calvinist league and positioned their university in Amsterdam as the international intellectual centre of Calvinism. Introduction John Calvin (1509-1564) and his work have been trivialised and somewhat forgotten in the eighteenth century, but in the nineteenth century his works were rediscovered, and a real Calvin research industry took off. The translation of Calvin’s main work Institutes in German (1909) facilitated a revival in Calvin research in the 1920s in Germany, ignited by Karl Barth and the dialectal theology. They liberated Calvin from the

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image of being just a French theologian. Though Calvin was a theologian in the first place, the impact of Calvinism on society and culture has been paid attention to as well since the mid-nineteenth century. The roots of the freedom and progress of some European countries and of the United States were related to Calvinism by historians like George Bancroft (A History of the United States (…), 1834) and John Lothrop Motley (The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1855-1856). The German theologian Ernst Troeltsch, exploring the social teachings of Christianity, considered medieval Catholicism and Calvinism ‘the most imaginative and satisfactory harmonization of Christianity and culture’1 (Kuyper 1916, 621-622). This new attention for Calvinism culminated in the multivolume biography (1899-1927) of Calvin by the French theologian Emile Doumergue, and physically in the unveiling of the huge Reformation Monument in Geneva in 1917. But Calvinism was not only a research topic, or a movement in history commemorated by publishing sources and histories, and creating sites and monuments. Calvinism and Calvinists may have been obscure after their international heyday in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, but they never disappeared in Europe. The renewed attention for Calvin inspired a next generation of Calvinists. In Germany the theologian Karl Barth in 1922 presented ‘the historic Calvin as the living Calvin’ (Freudenberg 2008, 550). In the Netherlands a neo-Calvinist movement led by Abraham Kuyper (1837-1920) and Herman Bavinck (1854-1921) was influential in church and politics in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. And in international politics, Calvinism was represented as well. President Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points were influenced by his abiding Calvinism. He wanted the League of Nations to be headquartered in Calvin’s Geneva and the league’s constitution to be called a ‘covenant’ – referring to a key concept in Calvin’s theology. Different from Calvinists in Germany or France, the Dutch neoCalvinists applied Calvin’s legacy not just to theology, religious and church life, but also to national and international politics – and more explicitly than Wilson did. They had a vague concept of Europe however, and it did not play a prominent role in their international outlook. In this chapter I will point out why these Dutch neo-Calvinists applied their worldview to internationalism in the Interbellum era without developing an explicit European agenda, explore the aims of their internation1

http://people.bu.edu/wwildman/bce/troeltsch.htm. Consulted 23 January 2011.

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alism, and evaluate the results of their internationalism. The thesis of this article is that neo-Calvinists never developed Europe as a political or cultural concept, and stuck to the nation as the basic entity in international affairs. After the First World War the neo-Calvinist politicians were religiously motivated realists in international affairs, supporting international cooperation but critical of ideals of international unity or of ideas on world peace. Groen and Kuyper and their weak European concept The political branch of the Dutch neo-Calvinist movement rooted in the ideas of Guillaume Groen van Prinsterer (1801-1876) and the anti-revolutionary politics he developed in the Netherlands from the 1830s on. He was part of an intellectual tradition of political thinkers and historians like Edmund Burke, Friedrich Julius Stahl, and Francois Guizot, who developed a conservative alternative to the French Revolution in England, Germany, and France, and elsewhere in Europe. In international politics, Groen stressed the need for a legal foundation of international affairs with reference to the Christian character of Europe and in opposition to the European impact of the French Revolution. At first this legal aspect was related closely to the divine order in history, resulting in a rather rigid view on international politics: change was often equated with revolution, and there was a preference for Protestant European nation states. In his metahistorical approach he defended both a spiritual European unity and national diversity. When revolutionary ideas were imported from France into Prussia in the 1870s his view on the future of Europe became gloomy (Bijl 2011). Abraham Kuyper, the Dutch political and intellectual leader of the neo-Calvinist movement, in the 1870s politicized this more or less religious view on Europe and international politics. He developed a political programme based on antirevolutionary principles. It is telling though, that there was no section on foreign affairs in this programme. The issue was dealt with in the section on national defence. More than Groen, he related his ideas to the legacy of Calvin. Kuyper distinguished between a legal and a cultural view on international relations. In his legal view on international relations his maxim was the principle of law – as founded in the creational ordinances of a sovereign God and implemented in Europe when the continent was Christianized. Embedded in this religious tradition, he stressed that the history of Europe showed a relationship

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between nations not based on power and threat, but on treaties and written law. When from the 1870s on international arbitrage was propagated as a means to deal with international tensions, Kuyper’s Antirevolutionary Party (ARP) supported this idea and stressed the positive meaning of international law as objective and binding law, but opposed views on international relations that might limit national sovereignty. Since the turn of the century Kuyper was worried about the declining influence of Europe, but offered no strategy to overcome this problem (Kuyper 1916, 180-181). Kuyper applied his neo-Calvinism to international politics when he visited the United States in 1898. In these days the rebelling Spanish colonies of Cuba and the Philippines were invaded by the United States and became part of the American sphere of influence. Kuyper defended the Spanish-American War of 1898 as an intervention for humanity’s sake, but criticised the invasions as a means to expand American influence (Harinck 2009, 185). He defended the rights of smaller nations over against the world powers, like the Boer Republics in South Africa over against England – even though it was a Protestant nation – stressed the moral responsibility of the Netherlands to lead its colonies to more independence (‘ethical policy’) and promoted The Hague as location for the Peace Palace. With these views Kuyper was in line with the general preference for international law in Dutch politics. All parties stressed that the international role of the Netherlands was defined not by power, but by a moral position and by neutrality. Kuyper only differed with fellow-politicians on the foundation of this law in a Christian worldview. This was the legal aspect of his view on international affairs. But there was also cultural one. For Kuyper Calvinism was the worldview that defined the course of civilisation since its rise in the sixteenth century. This worldview was cultural and historical in character and functioned independently of the politics of nation states. In this cultural view the Dutch people – or the ‘conscience of the people’, as Kuyper liked to put it – played a vital role as bearer of the Calvinistic world- and life view. They were a link in the life stream of civilisation, that had been running through this world, via Calvin’s Geneva to France, the Netherlands, Scotland in Europe and then in the seventeenth century crossed the Atlantic Ocean to America: ‘Calvinism as an independent general tendency, which from a mother-principle of its own, has developed an independent form both for our life and for our thought among the nations of Western Europe and North America, and at present even in South

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Africa.’ (Kuyper 1899, 9-10). This cultural view was as nationalistic (as Calvinists the Dutch were part of this life stream) as it was non-political. Kuyper’s nationalism was not determined by social Darwinism. The essence of his nationalism was not even language, but the Calvinistic faith. This faith was challenged by the ideas of the French Revolution. Kuyper stressed the antithesis between both and called for a cultural battle against the revolution. Calvinism would be accepted in an organic way, and would result in a change in politics through the conscience of politicians and diplomats, not by legal or political enforcement. This view was not shared by Kuyper’s fellow Dutch politicians and Kuyper mainly used this imagery when addressing his supporters. To them, the cultural aspect of the foreign policy stance of the ARP was essential. In theory this cultural view could have influenced the foreign policy and diplomacy of the Netherlands, but it never did. Dutch foreign policy was the domain of the gentry – most of whom were conservative or liberal – and Dutch politics did not leave much room for Kuyper to implement his cultural view (Kuiper 2001). The three Christian coalition governments that were in office before the First World War (1888-1891, 1901-1905, 1908-1913) did not deviate from the safe Dutch policy of neutrality and stress on international law. Europe never played an important role in Kuyper’s legal or cultural view on international affairs. To him it was a geographical entity in the first place, and not a political concept. Nevertheless, he was open to the growing popularity of the idea of an international community and therefore spoke of a European law community and of Europe as a Christian family of peoples (Kuiper 1992, 112-114). In his later years, at the time of World War I, his reflection on Europe as an entity was negatively influenced by the pacifist plea for a federation of European states to promote world peace. In his opinion this aim was not realistic: pacifism denied the power of sin and a federation underestimated the unique character of nations (Kuyper 1916, 387-398). Europe was a concept of those he opposed, and it played a smaller role in his political reflection than it had done in Groen’s. The concept of Calvinist internationalism The First World War ignited reflection on the international character of Calvinism. Although Europe as a concept was more or less absent in antirevolutionary circles, this did not mean there was no attention for

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international affairs or internationalism. The concept of internationalism that the neo-Calvinists used was different. This international aspect of Calvinism had been neglected by the Calvinists for a long time. During the rise of the nation states in the nineteenth century, Calvinism had not been a counterforce in this historical development like Catholicism in Italy or supportive like the Lutherans in Germany, but simply adapted to the context of nationalism without becoming nationalistic. The international aspect of Calvinism had been slumbering for ages, until it awakened at the time of the First World War (Koffyberg 1916). When internationalism dawned during the war, neo-Calvinists started developing this aspect in their worldview. They stressed the fact that Calvinism had always been an international movement: it was international by nature (Anema 1928b, 223). Three elements in the Calvinist concept of internationalism were considered as essential by the neo-Calvinists of the Interbellum era. Their starting point in the reflection on international Calvinism was the sovereignty of God. All sovereignty on earth was subjected to God’s sovereignty. This stress on God’s power and will coincided with the acknowledgement of creational differentiation and pluriformity. Adapted to international affairs this meant neo-Calvinists honoured the fact that there were strong nations and weak nations, as well as big and small ones, and good and bad nations. Acknowledgement of God’s sovereignty meant that if a nation’s power, size or wisdom exceeded that of others, such a nation had a ‘servitude honorable’ (Beyerhaus 1910, 95). Its superiority did not mean it could rely on its power alone. To the contrary, this superiority increased its moral duty to protect nations of inferior standing. This view is remote from Hugo de Groot’s view on the equality of nations. Not equality, but responsibility is the keyword in international affairs. Nations are responsible for each other and ultimately responsible to God. In the second place, this acknowledgement of differing characters of nations made room for a contextual Calvinism. Unlike Roman-Catholicism with its pope in Rome, Calvinism never knew a formal centre or central authority, and its teachings were adapted to the different national cultures (minority or majority positions) and conditions (state church, privileged or free church). As a consequence, Calvinism never had a transnational confession. There were national confessions only, like the French confession (1559), the Scottish Confession (1560), the Belgic Confession (1561), and the First and Second Helvetic Confessions (1536,

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1566). Some of these confessions, especially the Second Helvetic Confession and the Heidelberg Catechism (1563), were adopted by more than one national church, but always by the churches’ own decision, never by decision of an inter- or transnational body. This meant that the basic structure of Calvinist internationalism was not a supranational entity such as the world, Europe, or any other continent, but the plurality of nations. Thirdly, since national entities differ in character, national Calvinisms differ from each other. Calvinism cannot be confined to one type of nation. In Catholicism the nation as an entity and differences between nations were neglected, in Lutheranism the church was closely tied to a specific nation or Volk and its fate, and could hardly survive without state support, but in Calvinism the nation was of relative importance. It was respected, but the Kingdom of God superseded the nation. Thus, Calvinism was at the same time national and international (Bavinck 1920, 69), and depending on the circumstances sometimes the first aspect dominated, and at other times the second. Searching for a Calvinist international attitude In Dutch neo-Calvinist publications from the 1910s and 1920s the main reason given for developing the international aspects of Calvinism was the recent conflict between European nations, culminating in the Great War. Until then the predominant international view in the Dutch Calvinist tradition had been that of Europe as a community of values. There had been some debate about the issue if these values were Christian in general (with the inclusion of Catholicism and in opposition to the ideas of the French Revolution), or specifically Protestant – in this case the United States of America were the example (Bijl 2011, 540) – but the idea of Europe as a moral community was undisputed. It never developed any specific political content or meaning however. And neither did it materialise into international political cooperation of Calvinists or into an effective influence on Dutch international politics. This changed because of the outbreak of the First World War, but also because these were years of transition for the neo-Calvinist movement. Kuyper had become an old man, and his influence in politics and church was waning. He would die in 1920, Bavinck in 1921. A new generation of neo-Calvinists had to find its way in a wholly different world, both culturally and politically. About 9 % of the Dutch were neo-Calvin-

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ists, and their political party ARP had presided coalition governments, from 1901 till1905 and from 1908 till 1913. The party held a key position in Dutch politics. In 1917 general suffrage had been introduced and this influenced power relations in politics. The ARP became more dependent of other parties. Hendrikus Colijn (1869-1944), director of the Bataafsche Petroleum Maatschappij, the most important part of the Royal Dutch Oil/Shell company, assumed the ARP presidency in Kuyper’s place. He had lived in England during the Great War and was internationally oriented, unlike his voters. Under his leadership the party in 1918 for the first time joined a coalition government that was presided by a Catholic politician. Added to this national change, the end of the First World War and the Versailles treaty with its defence of national self-determination and charging Germany with reparation payments changed international politics. Old empires collapsed and new democracies were created, Bolshevism and Fascism seized power in Russia and Italy respectively. Reservations about the revolutionary character of nineteenth century democratic ideals now muted in neo-Calvinist circles. Some of them concluded that Calvinism would be the safeguard par excellence of a democratic Europe: (Koffyberg 1916, 11; Hepp 1929, 33; Harinck 2013) not in revolution, but ‘in total acceptance of the gospel lies the only medicine against all evils of all times’, as the Calvinist politician Colijn put it in the antirevolutionary daily De Standaard (The Standard) of 14 April 1920. In religious life, neo-Calvinists also experienced a change in leadership in their Gereformeerde Kerken, which had been separated from the Reformed Church in 1886 and moulded by Kuyper and Bavinck. Confronted with the demise of Christian civilization in the First World War and weary of the stress on the distinct Reformed character of their church, some new leaders wanted to realign with orthodox groups within the Reformed Church and reach out to a secularizing post-war culture. The ideal of overcoming the revolutionary tendencies and winning a Calvinist culture was exchanged for conservation of Christian values in a hostile world as a more realistic goal. Confronted with the reality of political and cultural reconstruction in Europe and with shifting political and religious relations at home, neoCalvinists realized they had entered a different world with different values. And they felt uncertain. One reaction to the new context was a reorientation on internationalism (Koffyberg 1916, 8; Hepp 1929, 5-6). The idea of a European democratic community was not attractive to the

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neo-Calvinists, for it would betray their view of the singularity of the Netherlands as a Calvinist nation. And they defended civic liberties, but democracy as such was more or less suspect as an ideal of the French Revolution. Therefore they did not ride the democratic ticket internationally, but stressed new ideological antagonisms. The new political leader Colijn posited the ‘beginselen’ or principles of Calvinism over against the principles of Bolshevism, Fascism and National-Socialism. Fascism for example was qualified by Colijn in 1926 as a ‘worldview which in its deeper grounds is hostile to the Christian view of the relation between Christianity and the world’. The issue was not if Fascism would confront Christianity, for ‘it was certain that such a moment will come’ (Colijn 1938, 51, 56). The nineteenth century notion of Groen and Kuyper that the conflict of principles was in essence a religious conflict affecting state, church and society, was now translated internationally into a conflict of principles that was political in the first place, but would also affect the religious liberties of Europe. Bolshevism, Fascism, and National Socialism did not just represent alternative political systems but were the ideas of the French Revolution in a new guise. Calvinism was therefore posited over against these present-day opponents (Hepp 1929, 11-12). The character of the new ideologies affected the character of neo-Calvinism. It was remodeled as a modern political ideology that, like its opponents, asked for a materialisation of its international aspects: ‘Calvinism must have an international character, way more than was the case in the nineteenth century. (…) While the powers we are confronted with, Roman-Catholicism on the one hand, Socialism and Communism on the other hand, all have an international character, Calvinism cannot stay behind, if it does not want to risk the danger of losing all meaning. (…) We must no longer restrict our horizon to one country, but we have to become cosmopolitans in the right meaning of the word. We have to unite all forces not only to keep, but also to strengthen and let flourish again what has flown from the source of Calvinism, in Scotland and England, in the United States, in the Netherlands, in Hungary and wherever’ (Goslinga 1928, 82-83). Aligning with internationalism and the League of Nations The neo-Calvinists positioned their ideology in their own way, religiously based and balancing nationalism and internationalism, and without any idealism about Europe as a cultural or political entity. They did not offer

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a European argument to oppose Bolshevism, Fascism, and National Socialism, nor did they only oppose certain aspects in their antagonists’ political programmes. They rejected their opponents all over on an ideologically based argument. According to neo-Calvinists, Christianity had an all-encompassing worldview, and they recognised the same all-encompassing ambition in these new ideologies. Bolshevism, Fascism, and National Socialism made use of the secular void in European culture to replace Christian religion. These ideologies were qualified by the Calvinists as revolutions against Christianity. As Jan Schouten (1883-1963), a Calvinist Member of Parliament, put it in 1937: ‘For the Christian who is not mistaken about the character of the struggle and the nature of the relations of our days, the conclusion is every time the same. He rejects the revolution for the sake of his principle, for the sake of God, and therefore rejects dictatorship. All dictatorship’ (Schouten 1951, 328). In the light of the dangers that threatened European democracies, Calvinism was considered by its adherents as a highly relevant political ideology in the international affairs of the Interbellum era, not by defending democracy per se, but by defending the religious liberties as the root of all civic liberties. Like John Calvin in his time had pleaded for a union of all Protestants in Europe, and preferring intervention over warfare, so his followers in the twentieth century actively favoured treaties, covenants and all kinds of relationships between the Christian European nations. In line with the religious views of Calvin and Kuyper they strongly accentuated the legal base of international relations (Koffyberg 1916, 27-28). They praised Calvin as a ‘father of European diplomacy’ (Koffyberg 1916, 15, 21) and in Kuyper’s footsteps they rejected pacifism (Bavinck 1920, 67), but left room for a just war of defence. War as such should be combated though (Stoop 2001, 222). The neo-Calvinists therefore welcomed the League of Nations in the first place as a means to prevent armed conflicts. The neo-Calvinists were realists in international affairs. Theologian and politician Herman Bavinck considered the intensifying international relationships as a positive development and in 1919 expressed his hope that the League of Nations might lead to a new moral order in which warfare would be diminished (Bavinck 1920, 65). Internationalism should respect nationalities at all times. Bavinck was positive on president Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points and welcomed the League of Nations as one of its results. At the same time he qualified the Versailles Treaty as a ‘painful disappointment’ (Bavinck 1920, 42), because it re-

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flected the fear for Germany instead of Wilson’s Christian premise of reconciliation. As a member of the Dutch Senate Bavinck voted for the Dutch membership of the League of Nations. He rejected the idea that national sovereignty was absolute, but he also objected to a League of Nations developing in a supranational or a denationalizing power. He stressed the function of internationalism in the first place as a way to combat war (Stoop 2001, 222). Professor of Law at the Vrije Universiteit, Anne Anema (1872-1966), who succeeded Bavinck as Senator in 1921, argued in the same line, when he rejected internationalism in the sense of aiming at the creation of a world state or promoting pacifism. He defended a restriction of the sovereignty of states taken in de actual meaning of international law. This implied that this restriction was nothing else but the subjection to international regulations and treaties. In the same line of reasoning he rejected the unlimited right to wage war, and promoted international arbitrage. Because these principles were foundational to the League of Nations, according to Anema ‘every Christian, who takes the application of his principles seriously, has the duty to support the League of Nations with all his power’ (Anema 1928a, 4). It is clear from Anema’s and several publications that the rank and file of the Dutch Calvinists was not ready yet to welcome internationalism (Stoop 2001, 220). During World War I positive feelings about a Christian Europe evaporated and instead apocalyptic views flourished among Dutch Protestants (Koops 2004). Rev. G. Wisse was a beloved speaker and writer on themes like the signs of the times or the actual relevance of the messages of the doom prophets of the Old Testament or of the Apocalypse (Wisse 1914, 1924). His pamphlets sold by the thousands. The popular evangelist Joh. De Heer published on the same themes (De Heer, 1918, 1924). In 1919 he started his journal Het Zoeklicht (The Searchlight), in which he dealt with the coming world hegemony of the Antichrist and the second coming of Jesus Christ. He related these themes to current topics like Palestine, the League of Nations, and Bolshevism. Within a few years Het Zoeklicht had about ten thousand subscribers (Elsman 1995, 66). These themes attracted some neo-Calvinists as well, but in general their publications on the Great War and international developments were on a different note. They also paid attention to the horrors of war, but the apocalyptic impulse was weak. Instead stronger international cooperation was promoted and welcomed. In a series of newspaper articles

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Valentijn Hepp (1879-1950), professor of theology at the VU University in Amsterdam, in 1924 discussed three types of objections to internationalism. The first one was of a religious character. God had divided humanity in different nations and internationalism was a violation of that division. In this objection internationalism was confused with cosmopolitism, Hepp argued. Cosmopolitism aimed at annexation, was imperialistic by nature and violated national rights. Internationalism respected nationalities. A second objection was that internationalism was a revolutionary idea of world hegemony, promoted by modern ideologies, especially by Bolshevism, that aimed at a despotic rule of the world from its seat in Moscow (Hepp 1929, 11; Anema 1928b, 227-229). According to Hepp the Bolshevists had also transformed internationalism into cosmopolitism. A third objection was utilitarian in character: internationalism had not prevented the First World War and would never be able to ban war out of this world. Hepp countered this argument by explaining that in many cases internationalism was taken to be utopian. He and also Bavinck stressed that down to earth international cooperation had produced ‘international miracles’ (Hepp 1929, 12) like trade and labour regulations (Bavinck 1920, 70). During the First World War and its aftermath neo-Calvinist leaders in the Netherlands started to defend international cooperation and they based their views on their neo-Calvinistic life- and worldview. The reasons they gave for internationalism were, negatively, the threat of Christianity by modern ideologies, and positively, the promotion of international political cooperation on a legal base as a means to prevent war. Their right out support of a standing international organisation like the League of Nations was in line with Kuyper’s plea for an international court of justice. In the light of the neo-Calvinist tradition their argument mirrored the legal aspect of their tradition. Again, their focus was the nation and the nation state, and not so much the European peoples or European culture. But they acknowledged that nationalism had become an international affair. As such this was a progressive stand within their own circles and they did their best to convince the rank and file of Dutch Calvinists that the apocalypse was not the right angle for reflection on the current international political situation, and that internationalism and joining the League of Nations was the future.

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International participation The ARP joined coalition governments from 1918 till 1939. Since neoCalvinist leaders were positive on internationalism, what did they contribute to international cooperation? Neo-Calvinist politicians and lawyers actively participated in the League of Nations and represented the Netherlands in Geneva and at conferences elsewhere. Like the neo-Calvinist theologians they had a mildly positive view on internationalism and invested their energy in the League of Nations as long as they could, that is, till the outbreak of the Second World War. After 1918 international law was focused on peace keeping and Anema was convinced, just like his theological colleagues, that international cooperation would turn international relationships into a more positive direction (Diepenhorst 1980, 116). Anema’s colleague in the department of law at the VU University Victor H. Rutgers (1877-1945) participated actively in committees and disarmament conferences of the League of Nations, and since 1938 in committees for Jewish refugees. Anema and Rutgers were mainly responsible for getting international politics on the agenda of the ARP. In a revision of the party’s political programme in 1934, a separate section on international relations was included for the first time (Stoop 2001, 268). In their academic work both law professors tried to provide a legal base for international relations, but especially neo-Calvinist politician Colijn, who from 1927 on was an active participant in international economic conferences, made a strong and positive impression on the international stage. At the Economic Conference of 1927 he was chairman of the second committee that dealt with international trade and tariffs. ‘In Geneva he showed an ideal combination of an almost religiously motivated faith in the necessity of ameliorating international relationships with a military discipline and a realistic taxation of the small margins with within which progress could be made’ (Bank and Vos 1987, 77). When this conference did not produce many results and in the face of the economic crisis national protectionism prevailed, his initial mild optimism on the League of Nations turned into a more gloomy perspective (Langeveld 1998, 330-336). As said, Europe as a concept was a problematic concept in the international mindset of these neo-Calvinistic politicians and lawyers, and their active participation in European political and economic affairs did not change this. To the contrary, while Groen and Kuyper had paid at

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least some attention to the concept of Europe as a community of Christian or Protestant values, they abandoned all musing about Europe as an entity, due to the tough reality of day-to-day international politics and the secular character of post-war culture. Moulded by the stalemates and disappointing results in the League of Nations, they viewed Europe rather down to earth as a set of competing and conflicting states. As Colijn put it: after the Great War Europe did not wait for miracles, but for understanding, especially for the confusion the Versailles Treaty created: the disintegration of the Habsburg Empire, and the reparation payments required from Germany. The creation of a European democratic order was presented as a panacea, but it failed (Colijn 1940, 7-11, 24-39). Another threat to Europe was its economic weakness compared to the United States. In order to be able to keep pace with the United States economically, European nations gave preference to their national priorities (Bank and Vos, 1985, 77-78). The relevance of the already weak concept of Europe vanished in the face of protectionist policies and the rise of strong nationalism in Europe. Compared to their attention for the Anglo-Saxon world the orientation of neo-Calvinists on the Continent, where there was no Calvinist nation, but only scattered groups of Calvinists living as minorities in different states, had never been strong. Neo-Calvinists did not present an alternative for the concept of Europe and concluded to the futility of the moral role of their small nation, a role that had been supported broadly in Kuyper’s days. Internationalism was outbalanced by nationalism, in Europe, but also within neo-Calvinist circles. In the Dutch political arena after 1917 the ARP dealt with disarmament as a hopeful aspect of internationalisation, but in the 1930s internationalisation became a waning aspect of the party’s military defence policy. National defence developed from a moral into a military issue and the hope to combat war made place for the sobering reality of warfare (Stoop 2001, 217-270). An international Calvinist organisation It was not in Europe, but in the United States that VU professor Valentijn Hepp in 1924 launched his idea of an international Calvinist league. He stressed the fact that Calvinism had always been international, but that this international character had been volatile, because it had lacked a concrete goal and had lacked an organisation to structure activities. In the political sphere the League of Nations had been created. For their

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support of this institution neo-Calvinists could rely on the legal aspects of their tradition of internationalism. But now Hepp appealed to the cultural aspect of this tradition to promote an international organisation, not of nations, but of Calvinists. Such an organisation was needed because of the bloodshed of the First World War. Calvinists believed that mankind is one, and that mankind is an organism, of which the different parts needed each other to become one body. According to Hepp this oneness had been the prerequisite for the spread of Christianity. In his opinion Calvinism was the spiritual power par excellence to overcome postwar antagonisms between peoples, and promote a spiritual unity (De Vries 1974, 7). Hepp’s drive was clear, but the way this ideal had to be realized was hazy. Now and then Calvinists in Europe did have informal contacts with each other, and met officially as delegates on synod meetings of each other’s national churches. Kuyper had never promoted an international organisation of Calvinists, and he had been critical of international Christian networks like the Evangelical Alliance and the Presbyterian Alliance. He objected to any overarching international religious organisation for reasons of blurring confessional and national peculiarities: he preferred pluriformity over uniformity. This was the general view among neo-Calvinists Hepp had to overcome when introducing his plan for an international organisation. The momentum to found an international Calvinist organisation had arrived in these post-war years, he presumed, with internationalism on the rise. Having intimate knowledge of possible objections to create such an organisation, Hepp did not make use of existing structures, like churches, religious organisations or political parties, but aimed at an organisation of Calvinist individuals, who initially would organise themselves nationally (Hepp 1929, 20-21, 38-41). These national organisations of individuals were needed, not only to respect the differing national characters of Calvinism, but also to unite national groups of Calvinists that were often divided ecclesiastically. These national organizations would then join a projected international Calvinistic Federation. Though Hepp explicitly mentioned the scattered Calvinist communities in Europe, he did not link them to a concept of Europe or to nation states, but only to the vaguely described international community of Calvinists. When this international organisation had come into being, he aimed at an international congress, a central office, a periodical and intellectual encounters. The periodical was provided for: in January 1929 The Evangelical Quarterly

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was issued in Great Britain, subtitled as a ‘theological review, international in scope and outlook, in defence of the historical Christian faith’. So much is clear from the last two paragraphs, that the Calvinistic kind of internationalism was down to earth on the one hand by participating in international organisations for the sake of peace keeping, promote free trade within Europe, and strengthening an international legal order, without high views of a European community. On the other hand this internationalism focused on a cultural aspect: the ideological brotherhood of Calvinists of all nations. The distinction between a legal and a cultural side of Calvinistic internationalism did not disappear. Both aspects were paid tribute to, when the need for international organisation was urgent after the Great War. The international role of the VU University The League of Nations was created by the nation states, but what vehicle would be needed to realize these cultural international aims? The natural starting point seemed academia, being internationally oriented by nature. The semi-centennial of the neo-Calvinistic VU University Amsterdam in 1930 seemed a feasible opportunity to launch Hepp’s international Calvinistic organisation. Calvinists from many countries travelled to Amsterdam to celebrate this jubilee. Within the national academic context of the Netherlands, the VU University was also the right place, for in the Interbellum era this was the Dutch university with the largest international student body: about 7 % of the enrolled students at the VU University in the years 1900-1940 were foreigners. This international character had been a desideratum since the opening of the university in 1880, and had been realised in the 1910s and 1920s. Jan Waterink (1890-1966), professor of Pedagogy at the VU University, stated in the Reformed weekly De Heraut (The Herald) of 24 February 1929 that this university was the first materialisation of the cultural idea of international Calvinism. On occasion of this semi-centennial, Calvinists from abroad also acknowledged the central role of this university in developing an international Calvinist movement, like Donald Maclean, professor at Free Church College in Edinburgh in The British Weekly of 16 October 1930, and professor Henri Monnier of the Faculté libre de théologie protestante in Paris in De Heraut of 14 May 1935. The VU University underlined its international outreach by conferring honorary degrees on the Hungarian theologian Jenö Sebestyén

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(1930) for his pivotal role in the introduction of neo-Calvinism in his country, and later, on the Swiss lawyer Max Huber (1950) for his academic contribution to an international legal order based on Christian principles, and for the implementation of this view as judge and chairman of the Permanent Court of International Justice in The Hague (1922-1939), and on the Austrian philosopher Josef Bohatec (1950) for his support of the Calvinist philosophy of law as developed at the VU University in the 1930s, and for his resistance against the German Anschluss of Austria in 1938 (Berkelaar 2007, 32-34, 42-47). In turn, in 1935 church historian Herman H. Kuyper (1864-1945) and Rutgers, both VUprofessors, received honorary degrees from the Faculté Libre de Theologie Protestante in Paris on occasion of the celebration of the fourth centennial of Calvin’s Institutes. The VU University promoted its international outreach by creating in 1924 the Calvin Foundation. The by-laws stipulated as its aim the promotion of contacts of the VU University with ‘Reformed academic life elsewhere, especially abroad.’ This foundation promoted and financed international lecture series and the VU University and lecture series abroad by VU-professors. Calvinist professors from the United States, Scotland, France, Germany, Hungary, and South Africa were invited to lecture at the university. The limits of this internationalism were reached in 1933, when the VU University revoked its invitation to the German theologian Otto Weber, after they were informed about his membership of Hitler’s National Socialist Party (Harinck 2011). Internationalisation had its limits in other respects as well: the dominant use of the Dutch language in the classrooms of the VU University would stay a stumble block for foreigners. Hepp’s International Calvinist Federation had a slow take off, because first national organizations had to be founded. This had happened in England already in 1875 (The Sovereign Grace Union), followed by France in 1926, South Africa in 1929, and the Netherlands in 1930, just in time for the semi-centennial of the VU University. The first international conference of Calvinists was held on initiative of the Sovereign Grace Union in 1932 in London. Here a provisional International Federation of Calvinists was founded by representatives from South Africa, the Netherlands, Germany, France, England, and Northern Ireland. Most speakers lectured on national or doctrinal essentials of Calvinism, and debate was absent. Conferences were subsequently held in Amsterdam (1934), Geneva (1936), and Edinburgh (1938). At these conferences

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theological and ecclesial differences surfaced, which dominated the debates, though not only theologians, but also lawyers, politicians, and philosophers lectured. Especially at the Edinburgh conference the political situation in Germany was an issue that divided the participants. Rutgers rejected in his lecture on ‘The ethical consequences of the Reformed faith in the state’ the pacifist movement as Anabaptist, while some in the audience defended the pacifist option for Christians, especially when living in a totalitarian state. After the Second World War had started, followed by the German attack on Western Europe, the 1940 conference in Emden had to be cancelled. At these conferences the cooperation of the European Calvinists turned out to be more limited than expected. Theological disagreements – especially between the adherents of the theology of Kuyper and the theology of the Swiss theologian Karl Barth - on doctrinal issues, as well as the avoidance of political choices in a political climate in Europe becoming more and more hostile, hindered the development of a profiled international Calvinistic community (De Vries 1974, 340, 354, 379, 396-7). For no other then practical reasons the organisation was limited to Europe, and delegates from Great Britain dominated the scene, while the Dutch influence diminished over the years. South-African and American delegates were hardly ever present. Conclusion It is clear that Calvinism had certain international aspects its adherents could use when the European political and cultural situation called for a stronger international activity. International political organisations based on international law and aiming at restricting warfare were supported actively by neo-Calvinists. They appealed to their tradition from Calvin to Kuyper, in which legally based international relations had been propagated. They needed this appeal in order to overcome popular resentment against internationalism, based on religious ideas concerning the apocalypse and a fearful attitude towards the new era they entered after World War I. In politics the ARP convinced its voters that internationalism was for the best of the Dutch nation and for Christianity in general. When in the same post-war context Valentijn Hepp tried to create a cultural international Calvinistic organisation he had fewer possibilities to invoke the tradition, for what he wanted was something new. He had difficulty to find support for his organisation, and scrupulous political attitudes and especially confessional differences prevented it from becoming widely

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accepted. The international organisation was paralyzed by theological and ecclesial differences. The Calvinist organisation that functioned best internationally was the VU University. This organisation was not burdened with Hepp’s idealism of the unity of mankind, but cooperated on a practical base of promoting scientific research and exchange. In all cases a European concept was absent in neo-Calvinist internationalism. This concept had already been weakly developed in the works of Groen and Kuyper. As far as they mentioned Europe as a unity, they referred to its Christian character. They never developed Europe as a political or cultural concept, stuck to the nation as the basic entity in international affairs, and did not leave room for any supranational musings. After the First World War the neo-Calvinist politicians were religiously motivated realists, critical of ideals of international unity or of ideas on world peace. To them international cooperation was satisfying, as long as it served the goal of preventing war and promoting economic relations. When the cooperation failed in the 1930s they had no alternative concept for international cooperation at hand and took their refuge in nationalism. Rutgers on-going international activity in saving refugees from totalitarian European countries until the Netherlands was invaded by Germany in May 1940 was a rarity. Nationalism outweighed internationalism, also among neo-Calvinists. In their circles the concept of Europe kept on slumbering after World War I. It would take another war and new defeats to open their minds for the need of stronger international organisations in order to tame nationalistic demands.

References Anema, A. 1928a. Volkenbond en christel­k beginsel. Den Haag: Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede. Anema, A. 1928b. ‘De Antirevolutionaire Partij en de internationale verhoudingen’. In Schrift en historie. Gedenkboek bij het vijftigjarig bestaan der georganiseerde Antirevolutionaire Partij 1878-1928, 223-240. Kampen: Kok. Bank, Jan, and Chris Vos. 1987. Hendrikus Col­n antirevolutionair. Houten: De Haan. Bavinck, H. 1920. Christendom, oorlog, volkenbond. Utrecht: G.J.A. Ruys Berkelaar, Wim. 2007. ‘Het is ons een eer en een genoegen.’ Eredoctoraten aan de Vrije Universiteit sinds 1930. Zoetermeer: Meinema. Beyerhaus, G. 1910. Studien zur Staatsanschauung Calvins. Mit besonderer Berücksichtiging seines Souveränitätsbegriff. Berlin: Trowitzch.

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Bijl, J.P. 2011. Een Europese antirevolutionair. Het Europabeeld van Groen van Prinsterer in tekst en context. Amsterdam: VU University Press. Colijn, H. 1938. Voor het gemeenebest. Keur uit de redevoeringen van dr. H. Colijn onder zijn medewerking en toezicht samengest. Utrecht: De Haan. Colijn, H. 1940. Op de grens van twee werelden. Amsterdam: De Standaard. Diepenhorst, I.A. 1980. De juridische faculteit (1880-1980). In Wetenschap en rekenschap, 1880-1980. Een eeuw wetenschapsbeoefening en wetenschapsbeschouwing aan de Vrije Universiteit, ed. M. van Os, 105-155. Kampen: Kok. Elsman, D.M. 1995. Johannes de Heer. Evangelist in het licht van de wederkomst. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum. Freudenberg, Matthias. 2009. Receptie van Calvijn in de twintigste eeuw. In Calvijn handboek, ed. Herman J. Selderhuis, 548-557. Kampen: Kok. Goslinga, A. 1928. Rede gehouden door prof. dr. A. Goslinga bij de overdracht van het rectoraat aan de Vrije Universiteit aan prof. dr. A.A. van Schelven, op woensdag 21 september 1927. In Jaarboek van de Vrije Universiteit 1928, 48e jaarverslag, 82-83. Amsterdam, Vrije Universiteit. Harinck, George. 2001. ‘The Early Reception of the Theology of Karl Barth in The Netherlands (1919-1926)’. Zeitschrift Für Dialektische Theologie 2: 170-187. Harinck, George. 2009. Mijn reis was geboden. Abraham Kuypers Amerikaanse tournee. Hilversum: Verloren. Harinck, George. 2011. ’n Zuivere probleemstelling is veel waard. Hoe D.H.Th. Vollenhoven in 1933 een nazi weerde van de Vrije Universiteit. In Het maatschappelijk engagement van christelijke filosofen, ed. George Harinck, 9-18. Amsterdam: Historisch Documentatiecentrum voor het Nederlands Protestantisme. Harinck, George. 2013. Neo-Calvinism and democracy. An overview from the mid-nineteenth century till the Second World War. In The Kuyper Center Review, Volume Four: Neo-Calvinism and Democracy, ed. John Bowlin. Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans. In print. Heer, Joh. De. 1918. De opening der zeven zegelen. Rotterdam: De Heer. Heer, Joh. De. 1924. De komende rechter en de eindcrisis der volken in Armageddon. Ermelo: Het Zoeklicht. Hepp, V. 1929. Internationaal calvinisme. Goes: Oosterbaan & Le Cointre. Koffyberg, H. 1916. De internationale strekking van het Calvinisme. Een historische schets. Amsterdam: Ten Have. Koops, Enne. 2004. Een conflict van strijdige levenswijzen. De gereformeerde prediking en de moderne cultuur (1911-1918). In Moderniteit. Modernisme en massacultuur in Nederland 1914-1940, Vijftiende jaarboek van het Nederlands Instituut voor Oorlogsdocumentatie, eds. Madelon de Keizer en Sophie Tates, 66-83. Zutphen: Walburg Pers. Kuiper, Roel. 1992. Zelfbeeld en wereldbeeld. Antirevolutionairen en het buitenland, 18481905. Kampen: Kok. Kuiper, Roel. 1992. De valse grondtoon. Het buitenlands beleid van het cabinetKuyper. In Het kabinet-Kuyper 1901-1905, Jaarboek voor de geschiedenis van

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het Nederlands protestantisme, jaargang 9, eds. D.Th. Kuiper en G.J. Schutte, 139-156. Zoetermeer: Meinema. Kuyper, A. 1899. Calvinism. Six Stone-lectures. Amsterdam-Pretoria: Höveker & Wormser Ltd.; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark; London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. Ltd.; New York-Chicago-Toronto: Fleming H. Revell Company. Kuyper, A. 1916. Antirevolutionaire staatkunde. Met nadere toelichting op ‘Ons program’ I. Kampen: J.H. Kok. Langeveld, Herman J. 1998. Dit leven van krachtig handelen. Hendrikus Colijn 18691949. Deel een 1869-1933. Amsterdam: Balans. Schouten J. 1951. Ons fundament en onze kracht [1937]. In Geen vergeefs woord. Verzamelde deputaten-redevoeringen. Kampen: Kok. Stoop, J.P. 2001. ‘Om het volvoeren van een christel­ke staatkunde’. De Anti-Revolutionaire Part­ in het interbellum. Hilversum: Verloren. Vries, W.G. de. 1974. Calvinisten op de tweesprong. De Internationale Federatie van Calvinisten en haar invloed op de onderlinge verhoudingen in de Gereformeerde Kerken in Nederland in de dertiger jaren van de twintigste eeuw. Groningen: De Vuurbaak. Wisse, G. 1914. De roepstem van de roede Gods Tijdpredikatie naar aanleiding van den Europeeschen oorlog in 1914 over Micha 6:9. Kampen: J.H. Bos. Wisse, G. 1924. De teekenen der tijden. Over hedendaagsche wereldgebeurtenissen. Dordrecht: Van Brummen.

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IN SEARCH OF A SUITABLE EUROPE: PANEUROPA IN THE NETHERLANDS IN THE INTERWAR PERIOD

Anne-Isabelle Richard

Abstract This chapter invites a rethinking of the Dutch relationship to European cooperation in the interwar period. In showing that a European movement existed in the Netherlands in this period, it analyses the development of the Dutch Paneuropa society. While of a Europewide reach, Paneuropa achieved mixed results in the Netherlands. This chapter argues that the reason for this lies in the fact that Paneuropa’s ideas and strategy were ill-suited to the Dutch context. Paneuropa hoped to attract the foreign policy elite, which succeeded to a certain extent. However, it resulted in a neglect of grassroots initiatives which could have been more successful since these were less wedded to the Dutch foreign policy tradition of global free trade and colonial ties ill at ease with the Paneuropean idea. It also resulted in the slow development of the Dutch Paneuropa society, which had its heyday in the years 1930-34, when the international situation was rapidly becoming less propitious to European cooperation. Introduction The Paneuropa Union, founded in Vienna in 1923, called for cooperation among the nations of Europe – first in the political, then in the economic field. In order to avoid future war and to prevent Europe’s demise, the idea of Europe had to be rethought. This meant above all that the European states had to cooperate. In order to achieve this goal, a transnational network, with branches across Europe was set up. Large conferences were held in various cities and European politicians, such as

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French foreign minister Aristide Briand and British colonial secretary Leopold Amery, supported the movement. In 1927 Dutch European activists were full of hope that a Dutch Paneuropa society would be founded in the near future. All that was needed was the commitment of ‘a few well-known personalities’. However, finding personalities willing to commit time and energy proved more difficult than anticipated. It was only as late as 1932 that a Dutch Paneuropa society was set up and even then it proved not very successful.1 Whilst the Netherlands were known for their internationalist outlook and the Dutch League of Nations Union gathered a substantial following, enthusiasm for European cooperation was not widespread. Internationalism and Europeanism did not necessarily reinforce each other. However, contrary to the assumptions in much of the literature on the interwar period, a European movement did exist in the Netherlands during this period. Paneuropa was one among several Europeanist organisations. Some of these were more grassroots and idealistic in character and aimed primarily at political cooperation, others drew on an elite membership. These activists were predominantly interested in the lowering of trade barriers and kept a keen eye on colonial and global developments. Paneuropa, which prioritised politics over economics, but which targeted an explicitly elitist membership, did not quite fit either category. Nonetheless, the encounter between Paneuropa and Dutch activists bore fruit and a significant number of people became involved in promoting the Paneuropean ideal in the Netherlands. This chapter seeks to explain this paradox. The Paneuropa Union and its founder Richard Coudenhove-Kalergi have been the subject of many books and articles. Despite Lubor Jilek’s call for national investigations into the transnational Paneuropean project in 1992, the influence of Paneuropa in the Netherlands has, however, not received much attention (Jilek 1992, 410; Blanken 2002, 234). However, both to add to the scholarship on the transnational Paneuropa Union and to come to a better understanding of Dutch interwar internationalism, a study of Paneuropa in the Netherlands is necessary.

1 ‘Paneuropa’ is used as an abbreviation of Paneuropa Union. ‘Paneuropa’ is used to refer to the title of the book by Richard Coudenhove-Kalergi or the journal by the same name. ‘Paneurope’ is used to describe the idea of a united Europe that the Paneuropa Union aspired to.

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This chapter invites a rethinking of the Dutch relationship to European cooperation. It sketches the development of the Dutch Paneuropa society for the first time. The reasons for the mixed results of both Dutch and transnational Paneuropean efforts will be analysed. The influence and attractions of Paneuropa as an internationally well-known organisation will be weighed up against the situation in the Netherlands, which was not particularly well-suited to the Paneuropean efforts. First, the workings of the Paneuropa Union across Europe and Coudenhove’s ideas, will be sketched. The next sections outline the Dutch foreign policy climate as well as the interest in European cooperation in the Netherlands in the interwar period. The final section explores the connections between Dutch activists and the Paneuropa Union. The Paneuropa Union The interwar period saw a great upswing in the number of organisations that lobbied for some form of international cooperation and understanding (League of Nations 1929; 1931; White 1933). Besides organisations in the cultural and scientific fields, these included League of Nations societies, as well as organisations that worked for European cooperation. Given that the main aim of many of these organisations was greater international understanding and (world) peace, these forms of international activism often overlapped: in aims, in activists involved and in sources of funding. However, this overlap did not preclude important differences. As will become clear in the case of the Netherlands, universal and regional cooperation could be highly incompatible. Moreover, Paneuropa’s relations with other Europeanist organisations show the competition between organisations active in the same (regional) field. Among the Europeanist organisations active in the interwar period, Paneuropa was the organisation that was best known and that probably had the most elaborate organisation of all Europeanist societies. Given this status, it is worth briefly examining what this organisation consisted of and how it managed to influence the thinking about Europe. The Paneuropa Union was founded in 1923 in Vienna by Count Richard Coudenhove-Kalergi. Coudenhove played a pivotal role in the movement. The cosmopolitan count, whose father was Austro-Hungarian and whose mother was Japanese, became a Czechoslovak citizen after World War I. His programmatic book, Paneuropa, published in 1923, marked the start of a sustained propaganda-effort for a united Europe (Coudenhove

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1923). This effort included a monthly journal, Paneuropa and a publishing house, the Paneuropa Verlag (Ziegerhofer 2004). With this publishing network, the Paneuropean conferences and above all his elaborate correspondence, Coudenhove managed to set up an effective transnational network of activists to work for a united Europe. A considerable number of influential European personalities from across the political spectrum, as well as from the worlds of finance, industry, journalism and academia, engaged with and supported the Paneuropean idea in its various guises. The significance of Paneuropa was further reinforced by the fact that Coudenhove managed to secure very substantial sums – from individuals, banks and states – to finance the Paneuropean effort. While some of them supported Paneuropa financially, the relationship with the various European foreign ministries was often ambiguous and Coudenhove’s personality and methods received a mixed response. In the French foreign ministry, some were fairly open to Coudenhove’s initiative, whilst others distrusted him profoundly, finding him too germanophile (Badel 1999, 163-167).2 The German foreign ministry also advised caution with regard to Coudenhove, ironically, one of the reasons being his francophilia (Théry 1998, 110-112). Also within Paneuropa, opinion on Coudenhove’s position was mixed. Coudenhove had an authoritarian leadership style, which led to conflict in the Paneuropa Union Deutschland (Ziegerhofer 2004, 180194; Théry 1998, 37-40). Moreover, Coudenhove was unwilling to cooperate with other Europeanist organisations. He argued that others should join Paneuropa so as to create the strongest possible organisation and have a maximum effect on both policy makers and public opinion. At times, Coudenhove strengthened the effort to reach the masses, as for example when he tried to found a political Paneuropean Party in 1932 (Orluc 2002). In general, however, he was more focused on convincing the elite. This emphasis on the elite was inspired by his neo-aristocratic tendencies. While he preferred rule by a neo-aristocracy consisting of the ‘intellectual and moral elite’ over parliamentary democracy, he was not a straightforward conservative (Gusejnova 2008; Breuer 1999; 2001). Nationalism was only of very secondary importance to Coudenhove personally, which given his mixed Austro-Hungarian/European-Asian 2 Ministère des Affaires Etrangères (MAE), PA AP 261 Jacques Seydoux, 42, Letter Ph. Berthelot - J. Seydoux, 5 April 1928.

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background is unsurprising. Coudenhove argued that the dogma of European nationalism that understood nations as communities of blood was a myth. After the mass migrations across Europe over the ages, racial purity was impossible (Coudenhove 1923, 135). Rather than blood communities, the European nations were spiritual communities, formed by school, literature and the press (Coudenhove 1923, 139). In a world that was becoming organised on a larger scale than the nation, Paneurope was the culmination of the national idea: Europe’s strength derived from its national specificities – within a common ‘White-European’ civilisational and racial identity. As many thinkers at the time, Coudenhove conceived of the world as organised in large blocs. He was openly critical of the League of Nations, which, he argued, was incapable of safeguarding the peace. An organisation such as the League could only be successful after the regions of the world had organised themselves (Coudenhove 1924). In Coudenhove’s mind, these ‘force fields’, as he called them, would be Paneurope and its colonies, Panamerica, the British Empire, the Soviet Union and East Asia. Inspired by ideas about the decline of European culture (Spengler 1918; Valéry 1919), Coudenhove argued that in order to prevent Europe’s demise between these force fields, the European states should cooperate (Coudenhove 1923, 22). Coudenhove’s worldview resulted in the exclusion of Britain and the Soviet Union from Paneurope. However, the colonies of the continental European powers – particularly those in Africa – would form an important component of Paneurope (Coudenhove 1929). Unlike a number of other Europeanist organisations, such as for example the Union Douanière Européenne which explicitly focused on economic projects, Coudenhove (initially) prioritised political cooperation over economic cooperation. Franco-German reconciliation was of pivotal importance to European peace. A European arbitration and guarantee pact, which would facilitate this rapprochement, was his first priority (Coudenhove 1923, 153). Once this process had started and the nations of Europe were ready to cooperate politically, the economic programme could be embarked upon. This included the lowering of tariffs, a free trade zone and a common European market (Ziegerhofer 2004, 274-275). The primary focus of Paneuropa was on France and Germany as the two great continental powers which in many ways decided war and peace on the continent. Given the potential for conflict in Central and Eastern

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Europe and his personal affinities there, these countries figured quite prominently on Coudenhove’s priority list. Britain and the United States were significant outsiders and competitors of – at least – European origin, and as such received sustained attention; a Paneuropean committee was even set in the United States in 1925. Coudenhove saw the communist Soviet Union also as an outsider, and more particularly as a great threat to Europe. He considered that by rejecting the European democratic system the Soviet Union had left Europe politically and turned to Asia. While the Netherlands were not unimportant to Coudenhove, neither did they play a major role in his thinking. They were neither likely to cause war, nor to become the cause of war. The Dutch East Indies, the ‘Achilles’ heel’ of the Dutch empire, might be more problematic because of Japanese expansionism, however, these colonies were not part of the contiguous Eurafrican ‘forcefield’ (Coudenhove 1923; 1934). The idea that the Netherlands were ‘the smallest of the great European powers’ had apparently not reached Coudenhove. While, for example, the Dutch foreign ministry was amongst the foreign offices Coudenhove habitually wrote to, the Netherlands remained on the periphery of his Paneuropean efforts. Given how turbulent the 1920s and 1930s were, it is unsurprising that Coudenhove’s ideas evolved over time. However, Coudenhove was not averse to a substantial amount of opportunism. He frequently changed his ideas about Paneurope. While his conception of the world as divided into force fields and the position of Paneurope within this world remained more or less stable, Coudenhove frequently adapted the specific parts of his argument to the situation when world events necessitated it. He became more positive towards the League of Nations, included Britain in Paneurope and gave greater importance to economic rapprochement. However, economics were never his forte and therefore an underlying preference for political arrangements remained with him throughout the interwar period. Within a few years, Coudenhove had managed to set up a powerful (propaganda) apparatus to spread his message across Europe and beyond. The question of whether this apparatus was effective in convincing the elite and the general public to actively support Paneuropa is another matter. The debates about European cooperation – about ‘Pan-Europa’ or the ‘United States of Europe’ in contemporary parlance – were strongly influenced by Paneuropa. The idea ‘Paneurope’ became a wellknown concept and Paneuropa sensitised the public across Europe to

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the possibility of European cooperation. As such Paneuropa had a significant influence. However, familiarity with the idea did not automatically translate into membership of Paneuropa or of any of the other Europeanist organisations. While Coudenhove’s activities were essential in raising awareness for European cooperation before Briand explained his plan for European Union to the League in 1929 (Bariéty 2007), and his ideas were a great source of inspiration to many activists, they antagonised many others – with regard to Paneuropa specifically, but also with regard to the idea of European cooperation in general (Schöberl 2008). The Netherlands Internationalism has long been one of the pillars of the image the Dutch projected abroad. However, Dutch interwar internationalism did not necessarily entail European cooperation. Instead, the government and a large part of the population saw the League of Nations as the proper platform for international consultation, with international law, free trade, the gold standard and colonial ties as the basis of Dutch foreign policy and even national identity (Bloembergen 2006, 21). In the literature about Dutch foreign policy, reference is still made to the three foreign policy traditions captured by Voorhoeve as Peace, Profits and Principles (1979; Malcontent&Baudet 2004). Although these policy traditions in the interwar period did not automatically point to European cooperation, groups interested in European cooperation nonetheless carried important aspects of these traditions with them. Having followed a policy of strict neutrality since the 19th century, the Netherlands counted on its strategic importance to the great powers as a means of defence. Because of its geographical situation and the significance of its trade, none of the great powers would allow another power to attack the Netherlands. In the last resort, however, the Dutch relied on the British to protect them in case of an emergency, particularly in Asia. Therefore Van Diepen (1999) describes this neutrality as a pseudoneutrality, premised on Britain. As a result, policies that might antagonise Britain, such as European cooperation, were regarded sceptically in the Netherlands. The second determining factor for Dutch foreign policy was (maritime) trade. From 1862 onwards the Netherlands had been a free trade nation with an open door policy in the Dutch East Indies. The Dutch open economy had thrived. The gold standard and free trade became

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dogmas. Especially the protestant defenders of the gold standard argued that its maintenance was a matter of good faith (Griffiths 1987, 23). This dogma prevented the Dutch from devaluating alongside the British or Belgians and thus easing the consequences of the crisis (Van Zanden 1988). Free trade was equally sacrosanct. Hendrik Colijn, the pragmatic protestant leader and future prime minister, commented in 1917 that ‘for the Dutchmen […] free trade is not a question of sound logic, it is a holy dogma.’3 Where Trentmann sees the British Free Trade Nation ‘unravelling’ from the end of World War I, the Dutch Free Trade Nation was still very much alive at that point in time (Trentmann 2008; Bloemen 1994; Griffiths 1988). Despite the rise in tariffs across Europe, the belief in the salutary effects of free trade remained unshaken. It was hoped that the multilateralism of the League of Nations, where Colijn presided over several committees of the World Economic Conferences in Geneva (1927) and London (1933), would yield result in this field. Despite earlier patchwork measures, the unravelling of the Dutch Free Trade Nation began only when Dutch agriculture, which World War I had shown to be a vital sector of the economy, became threatened in its existence (Bos 1979; Klemann 1990). This move away from free trade, however, did not mean that an exclusively European alternative, often associated with protectionism, was turned to. A fear of cartelisation and tariff walls around Europe, aimed against the United States, was one of the reasons why Dutch official circles were less than enthusiastic when French foreign minister Briand made his proposal for a European Union to the League Assembly in 1929. Proposals that furthered free trade, without necessarily an explicitly European dimension, such as the Tariff Truce Conference of 1930 and cooperation with Belgium as tried at Ouchy and the Scandinavian countries in the socalled Oslo-group, met with much more enthusiasm (Van Roon 1989). Voorhoeve’s last characterisation of Dutch foreign policy was principles. Drawing on Grotius, the Dutch presented themselves as the great propagators of international law. This was, however, a very pragmatic choice. It was in the interest of this small country which did not have the means to defend itself and which thrived on trade to promote international law as a dispute-solving mechanism. The League of Nations played an important role in this third tradition. After initial hesitations over the 3 Historisch Documentatiecentrum Nederlands Protestantisme (HDNP), Amsterdam, Archief Colijn, nr. 54 doos 4, letter H. Colijn - H. Deterding 15 July 1917.

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unpopular Treaty of Versailles and over how to reconcile neutrality with League membership, the enthusiasm for the League grew in the Netherlands, both in the official and the popular sphere, as the membership of the Dutch League of Nations Union showed. Despite the provision in the League Covenant for regional cooperation (article 21), initiatives for European cooperation were easily accused of compromising the League. Instead of leading to more understanding between nations, European cooperation would tear the League apart by leading to bloc formation and pitting groups of states against each other. Moreover, what would a European organisation add to the work of the League dominated as it was by Europe? Dutch interwar Europeanism While the foreign policy climate in the Netherlands was thus more international and global than European, a significant number of people was interested in European cooperation and joined a Europeanist organisation. One of the activists claimed that there were 31 organisations working for various forms of European cooperation, a number which is not at all inconceivable.4 These people had a predominantly (upper) middle class background. While including prominent names, there was also a pool of regular activists, many of whom were also active in the (radical) peace movement. Politically speaking, the Dutch activists, like the activists elsewhere in Europe, came from across the political spectrum. In order to situate the Paneuropean efforts in the Netherlands, a brief description of the Dutch Europeanist field is useful. The following section introduces three influential groups/organisations. The Dutch League of Nations Union, the Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede (VeV), was a focal point for interwar internationalism. It had both close contacts in government, economic and academic circles, as well as branches across the country. Given this prominent position, it was often asked to cooperate with other internationalist organisations.5 The VeV generally declined these invitations. While initially both the Dutch foreign ministry as well as the International Federation of League

4 International Institute for Social History (IISH), Amsterdam, Melchers, 79, 1921I, Letter T.D. Heidstra - G.W. Melchers, 12 February 1931. 5 IISH, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, 12, Jaarverslag 1925-1926, 19261927, 1927-1928.

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of Nations Societies (IFLNS) had ordered ‘hands off’ Paneuropa6, from 1929/1930, the time of Briand’s proposal for European federation, the IFLNS became more positive about European cooperation. This changing attitude, however, did not mean that the VeV became more open to the European project of Paneuropa. The ‘Pan-Europa’ committee of the VeV was positive about ‘general European cooperation by or in the framework of the League’ – as long as ‘such a ‘European Union’ [refrained] from matters that also related to the (…) colonies [of the European states]’.7 The committee continued its work until at least December 1936.8 While the membership of the VeV was Coudenhove’s ideal targetaudience, Paneuropa’s critique of the League, which was only tempered in 1936, and its emphasis on cooperation in the colonial sphere meant that its Paneuropean project did not meet the VeV’s conditions. In 1929 a Dutch committee of the Union Douanière Européenne (UDE) was founded, the Entente Douanière Européenne (EDE). The driving force was Auguste Plate, prominent member of the Rotterdam shipping elite and convinced free trader. He persuaded around twenty other businessmen, politicians and academics to form a Dutch committee.9 The difference in name between the Dutch branch and the international organisation came from the fact that ‘Union Douanière’ sounded too much like a customs union for Dutch taste. ‘Entente Douanière’ emphasised that they were free traders aiming to lower trade barriers.10 The committee was relatively active until about 1933. After that date, when the possibilities for free trade in Europe had diminished tremendously,11 Plate mentioned that he would dissolve the committee, but for fear of 6

Philips Company Archive (PCA), Eindhoven, 919.2 Paneuropa Correspondentie, Eerste Rapport over de werkzaamheden van het secretariaat ter voorbereiding van een Hollandsche afdeling der Pan-Europa Unie. IISH, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, 12, Jaarverslag 1926-1927 and IISH, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, 4, Vergadering Hoofdbestuur VvVeV, 1 September 1927. 7 IISH, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, 28-83-84, Advies van de PanEuropa commissie aan het hoofdbestuur der vereniging voor volkenbond en vrede, 1932/1933? 8 IISH, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, 7, Vergadering Dagelijksch Bestuur, 3 December 1936. 9 Gemeentearchief Rotterdam (GAR), Plate, 422, 17, Rapport sommaire sur le travail du Comité National néerlandais de l’EDE, 22 June 1930. 10 GAR, Plate, 422, 17, Rapport sommaire sur le travail du Comité National néerlandais de l’EDE, 22-6-1930. 11 Ibid., 53, letter A. Plate - Union Douanière Européenne, 28 December 1934.

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hurting the feelings of his French friends. Because the UDE was closely linked to the French foreign ministry, it would be useful not to severe the ties. This way, one could at least retain some influence.12 The EDE thus represented a very pragmatic Europeanism. The members of the committee welcomed any initiative that could stimulate trade in Europe. The traditional Dutch free trade policy combined with overseas interests favoured global instead of European initiatives. The lack of progress in this field however, led to the investigation of regional (European) arrangements around 1929-1932. However, when the UDE turned more to other goals besides the lowering of trade barriers, alternatives were explored. Some of those involved in the EDE, such as Plate himself, joined Paneuropa Nederland. The Vereeniging ter Bevordering van de oprichting der Vereenigde Staaten van Europa (Society for the Promotion of the Establishment of the United States of Europe, VSE) did not have any of the high profile members of the VeV or EDE. Instead, it had close ties to the more radical wing of the peace movement. The VSE, founded in 1925, was the first Dutch ‘Europe’ society of the interwar period (Richard 2012). The VSE was the only organisation to advocate federalism and as such, represented the idealistic strand of the Dutch European movement. They were quite sceptical with regard to the League and its respect for state sovereignty. Instead, they argued for a Central European Government.13 Politics had priority over economics, where they followed received Dutch opinion and supported free trade and the gold standard.14 Between 1927 and 1932 there was a downturn in activity. However, in 1932 the level of activity soared and within a few months, the organisation gathered around 800 members across the Netherlands and continued to grow.15 The VSE were also active on the international level, cooperating 12

Ibid., 44, letter A. Plate - Ch. Stork, 18 February 1933. ‘Genève’, Europa! 1, 1, July 1932; J.A. van Sijn, ‘Opgang of ondergang. Europeesche aaneensluiting of ontbinding van Europa’, Europa! 1, 3, September 1932; ‘Letter to the Secretary-General of the League of Nations’, Europa!, 1, 4, October 1932; T. Mulder, ‘De Vereenigde Staten van Europa’, Europa! 1, 5, November 1932; T. Mulder, ‘De Vereenigde Staten van Europa’, Europa! 1, 6, December 1932. 14 IISH, Müller, 16.63, ‘Korte uiteenzetting van het beginsel der vereeniging ter bevordering der oprichting van de Vereenigde Staten van Europa’. See also: T. Mulder, ‘De plaats van de Vereenigde Staten van Europa in de Samenleving’, Europa! 1, 1 July 1932. 15 ‘Jaarverslag van de secretaris’, Europa! 1, 10 April 1933. To compare, the Bloc d’Action Européenne in Belgium claimed 1000 members in February 1933. 13

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with the Bloc d’Action Européenne and the Union Jeune Europe (Duchenne 2008; Dehan 1995; Jilek 1990).16 While the VSE was successful in engaging popular support, discord led to a schism. The secretary founded his own organisation, the Liga voor de Vereenigde Staten van Europa, which existed until at least 1936.17 Lacking financial means, the remainder of the original society overcame its disagreements with Paneuropa and joined Paneuropa Nederland. Concerned about events in Germany, the Liga had a strong pacifist tendency.18 By 1936, it was clear that political cooperation in Europe was unfeasible in the near future. This did not lead these activists to give up on their ideas, rather, for the time being they (re)turned to the peace movement. This was the Europeanist field that the Paneuropean idea encountered in the Netherlands. The next section examines the negotiation of this field by Dutch Paneuropean activists and the Paneuropa Union. Paneuropa Nederland The Dutch Paneuropa society, founded in 1932, had been a long time in the making. From the mid-1920s onward the Paneuropa Union in Vienna had had Dutch members, around sixty in 1931.19 Some of these, such as the industrialist Anton Philips, were primarily in contact with Coudenhove directly, whereas others actively attempted to spread the Paneuropean idea in the Netherlands. Inspired by Paneuropa België, which had been set up in 1926, the possibilities of a Dutch committee were first explored in 1927. Coudenhove’s book, Paneuropa, was translated in 1928 by the Dutch publisher Carolus Verhulst. The young Verhulst also acted as correspondent for Paneuropa in the Netherlands. With a few others he set up the Propaganda Association for the establishment of the United States of Europe.20 They kept in regular contact with Coudenhove, 16 De Nieuwe Koers 15, 3 March 1932. ‘Vereenigingsnieuws’, Europa! 1, 3, September 1932 and J.H. Schultz van Haegen, ‘Jaarverslag van de secretaris’, Europa! 1, 10, April 1933. 17 Initially this new organisation was called Jong Europa. IISH, Melchers, 16.83 81 33-2, C.H. Hagendorn - G.W. Melchers, 31 January 1933; Nieuw Europa 1,1 July 1933. Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Voennyi Arkhiv (RGVA), Moscow, Paneuropa, 554, I, 44, Letter L.J van der Valk - Paneuropa Union, 18 November 1933. 18 De Nieuwe Koers, 16, 10 October 1933. 19 IISH, Melchers, 79, 1931-2, Letter Paneuropa Union - G.W. Melchers, 27 August 1931. 20 Historical Archives of the European Union (HAEU), Florence, PAN-EU 30, Association de propagande pour l’établissement des Etats-Unis d’Europe, 1928.

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asking him for support.21 A campaign in the newspaper the Avondpost from The Hague in 1928 led to 400 reactions within one week. Nonetheless, a lull in Paneuropean activity followed. As mentioned in the introduction, there was enough enthusiasm, the only thing that was needed was the commitment of ‘a few well-known personalities’ to lead the movement.22 The active involvement of the high profile personalities associated with Paneuropa turned out to be a recurring problem in the late 1920s/early 1930s. These personalities were too busy (B.C.J. Loder),23 withdrew their candidacy (Ch.J.I.M. Welter),24 or died shortly after accepting the presidency (J.Th. de Visser).25 The activists hoped that direct involvement by Coudenhove would reinvigorate the Paneuropean effort in the Netherlands and above all, result in more direct involvement of Dutch ‘well-known personalities’. However, they were disappointed in the amount of encouragement they received from Coudenhove. As a result, they developed an ambivalent relationship with him and his movement. On the one hand, as members of the Paneuropa Union in Vienna, they felt that in setting up a Dutch society they should coordinate with Coudenhove, whose leadership and expertise they acknowledged. On the other hand, they felt that with his ‘impenetrable half-Japanese appearance and his impeccable dinner jac-

21

HAEU, PAN-EU 30, Letter H. Cochius - R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 20 April

1928. 22

PCA, 919.2 Paneuropa Correspondentie, Letter C. Verhulst - A.F. Philips, 31 August 1927, IISH Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, 4, Vergadering Hoofdbestuur VvVeV, 1 September 1927, RGVA, Paneuropa, 554, I, 44, Letter H. Cochius - R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 1 March 1927. 23 The former president of the Permanent Court of International Justice, B.C.J. Loder, was interested but did not have enough time in the end. He became a member of the International Committee of Intellectual Cooperation in 1932. IISH, Melchers, 16.82, 80, 1932-2, Letter J. Bierens de Haan - G.W. Melchers, 15 September 1932. 24 The catholic conservative former Minister of Colonies Ch.J.I.M. Welter withdrew himself because of Coudenhove’s plans for a Paneuropean party. RGVA, Paneuropa, 554, I, 44, Letter D. Crena de Iongh - R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 17 January 1933. However, it was also thought among several Paneuropa correspondents that his name was too unpopular after he had headed a committee of state that proposed drastic cutbacks in public spending (staatscommissie tot verlaging van de rijksuitgaven). IISH, Melchers, 16.82, 80, 1932-2, Letter G.W. Melchers - J. Bierens de Haan, 13 September 1932. 25 The former Minister of Education of the Christelijk Historische Unie J.Th. de Visser (9 February 1857–14 April 1932) died just after he had agreed to be preside over Paneuropa Nederland. RGVA, Paneuropa, 554, I, 44, Letter L.J. van der Valk R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 12 January 1933.

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ket’, he was too much of a diplomat and did not have enough contact and charisma with the people.26 This touched on the dilemma on whether to continue to aim for elite involvement or, lacking this, to build up a more grassroots organisation first. Moreover, there was the impression that Coudenhove was more interested in his own aggrandisement than in furthering Paneuropa Nederland.27 This feeling strengthened after 1930, when Coudenhove had given speeches in Rotterdam and The Hague. Asking fl.600 per speech, a considerable sum, he suggested to postpone the setting up of a Dutch organisation until April 1931, when he would return to the Netherlands.28 As he only came back in 1932, some drew the conclusion that Coudenhove was more interested in money and personal glory than in the cause of European cooperation.29 Despite these ambiguous feelings the propaganda continued. The protestant minister, erstwhile socialist member of parliament and freemason G.W. Melchers, is one example of a middle-class activist who kept pushing for the establishment of a Dutch committee (see also: Borrie 2000, 132-136). Melchers toured the country incessantly to promote the Paneuropean idea and was in daily contact with numerous correspondents across the country, some of them ‘well-known personalities’ such as the president of the Nederlandsche Handelmaatschappij Daniel Crena de Iongh or Plate, who knew Melchers well and described him ‘as a very pleasant man’.30 Melchers was also very successful in propagating Paneuropa in Masonic circles and was, for example, invited to speak about Paneurope at the Conference of the International League of Freemasons in Geneva in 1930.31 Despite his doubts about Coudenhove, Melchers had committed himself to Paneuropa. From his correspondence emerges a wide range of activities by small groups across the country. The lack of a Paneuropa society in the Netherlands, however, resulted in fragmentation and competition between the various grass-roots groups. It was only when Paneuropa Nederland was set up that this dispersion was somewhat attenuated. 26

IISH, Melchers, 79, 1930, Letter M.D. Dijt - G.W. Melchers, 30 Noveber 1930. Ibid., 1931-1, Letter W.A. Ruysch - G.W. Melchers, 7 January 1931. 28 Ibid., Letter M.D. Dijt - G.W. Melchers, 4 January 1931. 29 Ibid., Letter G.W. Melchers - M.J.F. Ehrbecker, 16 February 1931. 30 GAR, Plate, 422, 7, Letter A. Plate - D. Crena de Iongh, 15 December 1931. 31 IISH, Melchers, 79, 1931-1932, Letter Melchers - Plate, 17 December 1931. 27

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The activists were not the only ones with an ambivalent attitude to Paneuropa. The Dutch foreign policy elite was also cautious in its approach of Coudenhove, although for slightly different reasons. Where both the foreign ministry and the activists objected to aspects of Coudenhove’s character, and the foreign ministry also rejected his ideas, the ‘wellknown personalities’ who became involved with Paneuropa were generally quite positive about Coudenhove as a person, but questioned the feasibility of his plans and their suitability to the Netherlands. In the extended lead up to the formation of a Dutch section of Paneuropa several public figures determined their position vis-à-vis Coudenhove and his programme. One of the earliest Dutch members of Paneuropa was Anton Philips. As the leader of a large multinational based in a country with a relatively small market, he was directly interested in everything that might lower trade barriers. Philips’ point of view was, however, different from that of the traditional economic foreign policy elite from the finance and shipping sectors that was represented in the EDE. Like Shell’s Henry Deterding, who also supported Paneuropa, Philips was involved in cartels and thus did not share the traditional elite’s fear of cartelisation (De Hen 1980). Philips was interested in any initiative that might contribute to a freer movement of goods and capital (Blanken 2002, 234). While he sponsored Paneuropa with at least 1000RM a year,32 his personal involvement in the propaganda work remained limited. Another public figure who Coudenhove encountered in the Netherlands was the influential shipping magnate and president of the Amsterdam Chamber of Commerce, Ernst Heldring. In his diary, Heldring was quite positive about Coudenhove, whom he described as a ‘young, very intelligent and well-educated man’. When Coudenhove asked Heldring to set up a Dutch Paneuropa committee, Heldring replied that while Paneurope was highly desirable, especially against Russia, he questioned its feasibility. Instead of Franco-German conciliation leading to European cooperation, he foresaw a continuation along the road of political opposition and economic battle. For the Dutch, British participation in a European project would be imperative. This was however unlikely. Nonetheless, if ‘Britain retreated (God forbid)’, his attitude might change. Heldring pointed out to Coudenhove that the relationship with the In32 PCA, 919.2 Paneuropa correspondentie, Letter A.F. Philips - R.N. CoudenhoveKalergi, 25 October 1930.

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dies played an all-important role in Dutch politics and conveyed his fear that ‘Europe for the Europeans’ might lead to ‘Asia for the Asians’ (Heldring 1970, 902-903). Despite these apprehensions, Heldring was inspired by Coudenhove’s visit. He devoted the always highly publicised New Year’s speech to the Amsterdam Chamber of Commerce to the topic of European cooperation in 1931. In this speech he acknowledged that Paneurope had a logical and natural basis because Europe had to unite to prevent its demise. However, he reiterated his reservations, following from the Dutch position ‘as a free trade nation, colonial power’ and its ‘ties with Britain’.33 In light of these considerations Heldring decided not to join Paneuropa Nederland. He was, however, a member of the EDE.34 Auguste Plate’s opinion was quite similar to Heldring’s, but whereas Heldring decided not to join, Plate in the end became a member of Paneuropa Nederland. His attitude to Paneuropa and Coudenhove was similar to his relationship with his French friends of the UDE. He appreciated Coudenhove and his activities, but argued that Coudenhove was not someone ‘who could be followed easily in the Netherlands.’ Plate pointed out that ‘Our questions are different from those faced in Central and Eastern Europe.’35 His interest in Europe was hence a more general concern for European cooperation, than a particular interest in the Paneuropa Union. His membership in Paneuropa Nederland can be attributed to his belief that the association would not have to follow Coudenhove in everything – an approach that was also attempted by Paneuropa België (Duchenne 2008). Furthermore, his involvement in Paneuropa was also inspired by the idea of keeping a watchful eye on the activities and preventing any excessive initiatives. The opinions of these public figures show that unconditional enthusiasm for Paneuropa was limited among Dutch public figures because of the questions of feasibility and the Dutch position vis-à-vis Britain and the Indies. Their interest in stimulating trade led some of them to join Paneuropa nonetheless, resulting in the establishment of Paneuropa Nederland in 1932. The president of the newly founded organisation was J. van Stolk, director of the Lijm- en Gelatinefabriek (glue and gelatine factory) in 33 GAR, Plate 422, 6, New year’s speech E. Heldring, president of the Amsterdam Chamber of Commerce, 1931. 34 Ibid., 17, Rapport sommaire sur le travail du Comité National néerlandais de l’EDE, 22-6-1930. 35 Ibid., 6, Letter A. Plate - D. Crena de Iongh, 9 June 1931.

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Delft. Even the sceptical French embassy had to acknowledge that some very influential names joined the organisation, with its supervisory board and honorary committee featuring politicians and representatives of Dutch industry, banking and academia.36 In addition to Plate, Philips and Crena de Iongh, they included for example Colijn, national bank president L.J.A. Trip, Frits Fentener van Vlissingen of the Steenkolen Handelsvereeniging and the International Chamber of Commerce, shipping magnate D.G. van Beuningen and Willem Drees, alderman of The Hague and future Prime Minister. Influential names were crucial in setting up the organisation and in giving it credibility. Some of these individuals, such as Crena or the shipping magnate D.A. Delprat, were actively engaged. However, people such as Melchers, who joined the supervisory board alongside the ‘well-known personalities’, or L.J. van der Valk, the laywer who was the secretary of Paneuropa Nederland, were essential in the running of the organisation. They organised meetings, gave talks and for a time in effect managed to set up branches across the country. This activity, together with the remnants of the VSE that joined Paneuropa, resulted in a membership of about 500 members in January 1934.37 By comparison, Paneuropa België never counted more than 200 members (Duchenne 2008, 277). The questions that had been raised about the feasibility of Coudenhove’s plans, meant that Paneuropa Nederland adopted a somewhat independent line. Like Paneuropa België, the Dutch were much more positive about the League than Coudenhove. Another particularity was that the Dutch branch singled out regional arrangements, i.e. rapprochement with the Scandinavian states and Belgium, as a point of specific interest.38 Dutch prosperity was dependent on trade and therefore Paneuropa Nederland urged ‘everyone to support a movement which promotes international cooperation and aims to create a large economic unity

36 PCA, 919.2 PanEuropa Correspondentie, Letter L.J. van der Valk - A.F. Philips, 21 March 1932, MAE, SDN, UE, 2495, Ministre de France au Pays-Bas - Ministre des Affaires Etrangères, 21 March 1933. 37 Stadsarchief Amsterdam (SA), Delprat, Letter J. van Stolk - D. Crena de Iongh, 22 January 1934. 38 De Nederlansche Bank (DNB), Amsterdam, Trip, 17441; Brabant Historisch Informatie Centrum (BHIC), Den Bosch, Stulemeijer 108, Letter Paneuropa Nederland, May 1933, GAR, Plate, 422, 43, Letter L.J. van der Valk - A. Plate, 14 March 1933. G.W. Melchers. 1930. Pan-Europa internationale solidariteit in ethisch en economisch opzicht. Den Haag: N.V. Drukkerij Albani.

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which will guarantee a large market for Dutch industry and agriculture.’39 Developments at the Ottawa Conference in 1932 – seen as leading to protectionism – were held up as a warning to Europe.40 Coudenhove’s plans for sharing the development and exploitation of the European colonies were not strongly engaged with. Firstly, Coudenhove’s plans focused on Africa and not on Asia, thereby lowering the urgency to address the issue in the Netherlands. The interest was lowered further by the estimation that preferential access for Europeans was unfeasible. It was felt that by adopting an Open-Door policy in the Indies, Europeans already had access. An exclusively European project in the colonies would exclude the United States, Britain and Japan, the three forces the Netherlands simultaneously depended on and feared in Southeast Asia.41 The fact that these divergences from the Paneuropean agenda did not lead to an active intervention by Coudenhove, reinforces the argument that the Netherlands were on the Paneuropean periphery. The activities of Paneuropa Nederland tapered off after 1935. By then, some of the ‘well-known personalities’ such as Plate and Van Beuningen had given up their membership.42 The president, Th. Ligthart (former director of the Javaasche Bank in Batavia), who had succeeded Van Stolk in 1934, commented that the general situation was not inviting. However, the cause of international cooperation still needed support. Events in Germany and Austria played an important role in this downturn in activity. In January 1934, Drees answered Coudenhove that ‘as a social-democrat he could not travel to Vienna to attend the Paneuropean conference in the present circumstances.’ Circumstances in Germany and Austria diminished the scope for a non-partisan organisation of the European movement considerably.43 In June 1934 the secretary, Van der Valk, sent a letter to the supervisory committee inviting them to discuss what the task of the society should be under the present conditions.44 Trip, who had already mentioned in May 1934 that under the ‘present circumstan39 PCA, 919.2 Paneuropa Correspondentie, Circular letter Paneuropa Nederland May 1933. 40 Ibid. 41 BHIC, Stulemeijer 108, Letter L.J. van der Valk - J. van Stolk, 22 March 1932. 42 RGVA, Paneuropa, 544, 1, 44, Letter D.G. van Beuningen - R.N. CoudenhoveKalergi, 25 September 1933. 43 Nationaal Archief (NA), The Hague, 2.21.286, W. Drees 1192, Letter W. Drees R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 20 January 1934. 44 DNB, Trip, 17441, Letter L.J. van der Valk - Raad van Toezicht, 13 June 1934.

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ces he did not feel the urge to speak of European cooperation with any enthusiasm’,45 responded that ‘it was hard to point to a specific task.’ It would be ‘indeed completely pointless to expect any results from action undertaken in the Netherlands when there were no signs of encouragement by the great European powers.’46 His only advice was ‘wait and see!’.47 Nonetheless, Trip continued to correspond with Coudenhove throughout 1934.48 Conclusion In general terms, Europeanism was not an obvious approach in the Netherlands in the interwar period. Colonial ties across the world determined that a ‘universalist’ project like the League was the policy of choice and that Britain was depended upon. European cooperation was however part of Dutch interwar internationalism, even if it was ‘second best’ after more global projects and if it occurred relatively late. While Chabot (2005, 14) identifies the years 1924-1931 as the apogee of Europeanism, the heyday of Dutch interwar Europeanism came in the years 1930-1934, the years in which Briand launched his plan, the League found itself in an increasingly complicated position and the Depression made its mark on the Netherlands. These were also the years in which Britain turned away from its liberal trading position and progressively focused its attention on the Empire. When the particular encounter between Paneuropa and the Netherlands is analysed, there are several reasons why a Dutch branch of Paneuropa took five years to organise and was not very successful when founded. Firstly, despite its international appeal, the predominant Paneuropean image did not sit comfortably with Dutch ideas about Europe (an cooperation). Paneurope was embedded in geopolitical continental thinking. This suggested that merely the level of competition had been shifted from the nation state to continents. Moreover, initially Britain, prominent partner in the fields of trade and security, had been excluded from 45

Ibid., Letter L.J.A. Trip - L.J. van der Valk, 5 May 1933. Ibid., 20 June 1933. 47 Ibid. 48 Ibid., Letter R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi - L.J.A. Trip, 26 April 1934, Letter L.J.A Trip - R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 2 May 1934, Letter R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi L.J.A. Trip, 4 June 1934, Letter L.J.A Trip - R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi, 15 June 1934, Letter R.N. Coudenhove-Kalergi - L.J.A Trip, 16 July 1934, Letter R.N. CoudenhoveKalergi - L.J.A. Trip, 11 October 1934. 46

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Paneurope. Instead of free trade, Paneurope implied cartels, or at least a tariff wall around Europe. While the Netherlands operated an OpenDoor policy in the Dutch East Indies, with which they claimed close historical and cultural ties, Paneuropa proposed the joint exploitation of all European colonies. Paneuropa Nederland then never became the true representation of the foreign policy establishment that Coudenhove would have liked. The fact that some very influential people nonetheless – albeit hesitantly – joined the organisation and took the time to respond to Coudenhove’s letters, shows Coudenhove’s standing in Europe at the time, and the concern with which solutions to international problems were sought. This concern led to a pragmatic approach in which the Dutch branch followed a slightly independent line. This resulted in an attempt to rethink and adapt the Paneuropean project to the Dutch situation. Secondly, by the time that Paneuropa Nederland was set up, the international situation was rapidly becoming less propitious to European cooperation. This compounded the already difficult Dutch terrain. Furthermore, the Netherlands were on the periphery of Coudenhove’s project. The Netherlands were never of major concern for Coudenhove, and as a result, he did not pay a lot of attention to setting up a Dutch branch. From his geostrategic perspective the Netherlands in Europe were unimportant, both in terms of weight in international affairs and in terms of potential for causing a European crisis. The Dutch East Indies were important, but for Coudenhove the days of the Asian colonies were numbered: Japan would form an East Asian union and in colonial matters the focus was on developing Africa (Coudenhove 1929). These issues of compatibility between Paneuropa and the Netherlands were exacerbated by Coudenhove’s reluctance to set up a grassroots branch. In step with his neo-aristocratic philosophy, he preferred an organisation led by members of the Dutch elite and as long as that was out of reach, it would be better to wait. Despite the importance of elite commitment, as Melchers put it: ‘It is not enough that the members are exceptional people from trade and industry, finance and politics. Work has to be done. Speeches have to be given and articles written.’49 The international experience of the elite members made them well suited to support European cooperation projects. However, their global 49 IISH, Melchers, 16.82, 80, 1932-2, Letter G.W. Melchers - R.N. CoudenhoveKalergi, 24 June 1932.

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perspective led them to adopt quite nationalist positions in their support for European cooperation. Moreover, their position in society left them less leeway in the type of project they could support. It was left to the grassroots activists to support more ambitious schemes for European cooperation. A more grassroots organisation could have perhaps been set up more easily and might have been fairly successful. Such an organisation would have probably put less weight on the issues mentioned above and instead would have been more interested in the unifying aspects of the idea of European cooperation. However, while Dutch activists attempted to set up a less elitist organisation, that was not the type of society Coudenhove envisaged or supported. In these circumstances, it was Paneuropa’s international standing that explains the fact that a society was set up at all. As is pointed out in the introduction to this volume, ‘National and European encounters need to keep pace with each other in order to be successful’. In the case of Paneuropa and the Netherlands, Paneuropean ideas were not in step with the national context.

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