Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War 9781350046351, 9781350046382, 9781350046368

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Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

New Approaches to International History Series Editor: Thomas Zeiler, Professor of American Diplomatic History, University of Colorado Boulder, USA Series Editorial Board: Anthony Adamthwaite, University of California at Berkeley (USA) Kathleen Burk, University College London (UK) Louis Clerc, University of Turku (Finland) Petra Goedde, Temple University (USA) Francine McKenzie, University of Western Ontario (Canada) Lien-Hang Nguyen, University of Kentucky (USA) Jason Parker, Texas A&M University (USA) Glenda Sluga, University of Sydney (Australia) New Approaches to International History covers international history during the modern period and across the globe. The series incorporates new developments in the field, such as the cultural turn and transnationalism, as well as the classical high politics of state-centric policy making and diplomatic relations. Written with upper-level undergraduate and postgraduate students in mind, texts in the series provide an accessible overview of international diplomatic and transnational issues, events and actors. Published: Decolonization and the Cold War, edited by Leslie James and Elisabeth Leake (2015) Cold War Summits, Chris Tudda (2015) The United Nations in International History, Amy Sayward (2017) Latin American Nationalism, James F. Siekmeier (2017) The History of United States Cultural Diplomacy, Michael L. Krenn (2017) International Cooperation in the Early Twentieth Century, Daniel Gorman (2017) Women and Gender in International History, Karen Garner (2018) International Development, Corinna Unger (2018) The Environment and International History, Scott Kaufman (2018) Forthcoming: The International LGBT Rights Movement, Laura Belmonte Canada and the World since 1867, Asa McKercher Reconstructing the Postwar World, Francine McKenzie The History of Oil Diplomacy, Christopher R. W. Dietrich The Nineteenth Century World, Maartje Abbenhuis and Gordon Morrell Global War, Global Catastrophe, Maartje Abbenhuis and Ismee Tames

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War Michael Jonas

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Paperback edition first published 2020 Copyright © Michael Jonas, 2019 Michael Jonas has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. x constitute an extension of this copyright page. Series design by Catherine Wood Cover image: Ils fl ottent dans tous les sens, postcard by Emil Dupuis, 1916 © Chronicle / Alamy Stock Photo All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-4635-1 PB: 978-1-3501-7825-0 ePDF: 978-1-3500-4636-8 eBook: 978-1-3500-4637-5 Series: New Approaches to International History Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Saara Tuomaalan muistoksi In bleibender Erinnerung an Fré dé ric du Roi

Contents Series Editor Preface Acknowledgements 1

Introduction

2

Comparing Neutralities

viii x 1

Neutral Allies, Immoral Pariahs? Scandinavian Neutrality and Great Power Politics

3

19

Royal Diplomacy Three Kings Posturing? Royal Diplomacy and Scandinavian Neutrality in the First World War

4

35

Activism and Politics Activism, Diplomacy, and Swedish-German Relations during the First World War

5

Intellectuals and War in Scandinavia and Beyond ‘The Whole World is Ruled by Schadenfreude’: Georg Brandes’s War

6

55

67

State, Empire, and Revolution Russia and Finland in the First World War: Thoughts on the Vanishing of a Grand Duchy in History and Memory

7

87

Arguing (Over) Territory and Sovereignty The Å land Question in Great Power Politics and International Law, 1917–21

Notes Select Bibliography Index

111 131 192 223

Series Editor Preface New Approaches to International History takes the entire world as its stage for exploring the history of diplomacy, broadly conceived theoretically and thematically, and writ large across the span of the globe, during the modern period. This series goes beyond the single goal of explaining encounters in the world. Our aspiration is that these books provide both an introduction for researchers new to a topic and supplemental and essential reading in classrooms. Thus, New Approaches serves a dual purpose that is unique from other largescale treatments of international history; it applies to scholarly agendas and pedagogy. In addition, it does so against the backdrop of a century of enormous change, conflict and progress that informed global history but also continues to reflect on our own times. The series offers the old and new diplomatic history to address a range of topics that shaped the twentieth century. Engaging in international history (including but not especially focusing on global or world history), these books will appeal to a range of scholars and teachers situated in the humanities and social sciences, including those in history, international relations, cultural studies, politics and economics. We have in mind scholars, both novice and veteran, who require an entré e into a topic, trend or technique that can benefit their own research or education into a new field of study by crossing boundaries in a variety of ways. By its broad and inclusive coverage, New Approaches to International History is also unique because it makes accessible to students current research, methodology and themes. Incorporating cutting-edge scholarship that reflects trends in international history, as well as addressing the classical high politics of state-centric policy making and diplomatic relations, these books are designed to bring alive the myriad of approaches for digestion by advanced undergraduates and graduate students. In preparation for the New Approaches series, Bloomsbury surveyed courses and faculty around the world to gauge interest and reveal core themes of relevance for their classroom use. The polling yielded a host of topics, from war and peace to the environment; from empire to economic integration; and from migration to nuclear arms. The effort proved that there is a muchneeded place for studies that connect scholars and students alike to international

Series Editor Preface

ix

history, and books that are especially relevant to the teaching missions of faculty around the world. We hope readers find this series to be appealing, challenging and thoughtprovoking. Whether the history is viewed through older or newer lenses, New Approaches to International History allows students to peer into the modern period’s complex relations among nations, people and events to draw their own conclusions about the tumultuous, interconnected past. Thomas Zeiler, University of Colorado Boulder, USA

Acknowledgements This book is to a large extent based on my habilitation thesis ‘Groß e Politik, kleine Staaten: Studien zu den internationalen Beziehungen im Zeitalter der Weltkriege’, submitted to the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences of Helmut-SchmidtUniversity, the University of the Federal Armed Forces, Hamburg, in the spring of 2016. The first research feelers and tentative project drafts, however, date back to my time at the University of Helsinki almost a decade ago. In between, I have incurred a colossal debt of gratitude to many people and institutions. The first among them would naturally have to be Bernd Wegner, who brought me to Hamburg to the Chair of Modern History at Helmut-Schmidt-University in 2009 and has unfailingly encouraged and supported me throughout. He is solely responsible (or to be blamed) for my rather successful reintegration, it is being hoped, into the German academic environment, which I had left sometime in the late 1990s. Without Bernd as an intellectual orientation, as an enormously generous and charming colleague, as an infamous wit and – most of all – as a good friend, neither this book nor my remaining in the academia would have been imaginable. The void he has left on departing from the chair almost two years ago is still keenly felt. That my life has nonetheless gone on is due to a number of colleagues and friends at Helmut-Schmidt-University. As I am unable to mention all of them, I would simply like to wholeheartedly thank the ‘Kommunikationsverein Jenfelder Historiker n. e. V.’, represented by the association’s splendid board, Sabine Todt (now, sadly, Osnabrü ck), Gerrit Deutschlä nder, Sebastian Pranghofer, Christine Eckel, and Sven Fritz, for all the other colleagues that have made this extraordinary small state of a university at the margins of Hamburg my intellectual sanctuary. A special thanks would have to go to Kirsten Neumann, the good soul of the Chair of Modern History, and Natalia Rajtikova for their work with the book’s bibliography and the sources. I owe quite a lot of gratitude as well to my impeccable student assistants over the years. In Helsinki, where the idea for this book originated, I would like to wholeheartedly thank my professors, Henrik Meinander and Matti Klinge, who have generously put up with my incessant interest in diplomats and the history of international politics and supported me whenever needed. I would also like to

Acknowledgements

xi

thank the examiners of my habilitation thesis for their generous assessments of the merits and deficiencies of the manuscript at hand: Eckart Conze (Marburg), Patrick Salmon (London), Bernd Wegner and Ulrich Lappenkü per (both Hamburg), and – for the docentship at the University of Helsinki – Klas Å mark (Stockholm) and Seppo Hentilä (Helsinki). Among the many other colleagues from whose comments, criticism, or intellectual presence in my life I have benefitted are Louis Clerc, Karen Gram-Skjoldager, Paddy Cohrs, Peter Stadius, Henrika Tandefelt, Bjö rn Forsé n, Oula Silvennoinen, Antti Ruotsala, Gunnar Å selius, Tom Kristiansen, Bjarne Sø ndergaard Bendtsen, Jun Nakata, ClaudiuLucian Topor, Florian Kü hn, Hans-Jü rgen Dö scher, and Hew Strachan. It is as well thanks to Hew that I was able to spend an extremely rewarding Michaelmas term in 2010 at the Changing Character of War Programme of the University of Oxford. I have equally profited from having been a member of the Scandinavian research network for the History of the First World War in Northern Europe, put together by Claes Ahlund, whose main fruit is the fine collection of essays published in 2012 under the header ‘Scandinavia in the First World War: Studies in the War Experience of the Northern Neutrals’. The same can be said for the numerous occasions that I have had the privilege to participate in the neutrality conferences and workshops of the last decade, often brought together by Samuë l Kruizinga and his colleagues in Amsterdam. In the last two years, participating in the DFG-research network ‘Juristen in der internationalen Politik’, superbly arranged for by Marcus Payk, keeps introducing me to many fascinating facets of the history of international law. It has furthermore conveniently connected my interest in the politics of neutrality during the First World War with broader questions about the evolution of modern international law. I am also profoundly grateful to the many institutions that have enabled my research over the previous years, first among them our splendid university library at Helmut-Schmidt-University. The Ostfriesische Landschaftsbibliothek in Aurich, East Frisia, and Helsinki University Library provided me with access to books, historical newspaper collections, and other material during several prolonged stays outside Hamburg. I undertook most of the archival research relatively early on, adding here and there along the way, mostly in the Politisches Archiv of the Auswä rtiges Amt in Berlin, the National Archives in Kew, London, and the Finnish National Archives in Helsinki. Conducting my research, indeed writing this book, would have been impossible without the financial (and organizational) support of a number of institutions and foundations: the ‘Freunde und Fö rderer der Helmut-Schmidt-Universitä t/Universitä t der Bundeswehr Hamburg e. V.’, Helmut-Schmidt-University’s Faculty of Humanities and Social

xii

Acknowledgements

Sciences and the university’s administration, The Ella and Georg Ehrnrooth Foundation, The Society of Swedish Literature in Finland (SLS), and The Kaarlo Koskimies and Irma Koskimies Scholarship Fund of the University of Helsinki. I am deeply grateful to all of them. That this book has actually seen daylight is as well due to the ease with which my Bloomsbury editors, Emma Goode and Dan Hutchins, have guided me through the editing process. I owe as much a debt of gratitude to them as to Tom Zeiler, who has kindly agreed to include my book in his series ‘New Approaches to International History’, and to the anonymous reviewers of the manuscript for their constructive and highly stimulating comments. I owe everything to my long-suffering family, my wife, Julia, and our children, Paul, Oskar, Sofia, and Max. Since I last wrote something similar way back in 2009, nothing has changed, only that with Max we have obtained our first proper Hamburger in the family. With profound gratitude and affection, I would like to as well acknowledge my parents in East Frisia simply for being there and for providing us with what has become our second home. In the course of my research, two colleagues and friends have died, Saara Tuomaala (1964–2015) and Fré dé ric du Roi (1983–2014). This book is dedicated to their memory. Michael Jonas Hamburg and Aurich, East Frisia, 12 July 2018

1

Introduction

Scope, approach and content Émile Dupuis was apparently indignant. In the midst of the First World War, the French painter had begun to create several series of postcards as contributions to his home country’s war propaganda. While the first and the second series – released in 1915 – portrayed Entente soldiers at the front and the ‘heroic women’ of France and its allies respectively, he now turned his pen to the neutral states, this mass of countries that had abstained (and continued to abstain) from the war on widely differing grounds. Scandinavia in particular got into his focus. In one of the paintings, Norway and Denmark are depicted as raftsmen in traditional Nordic costume transporting driftwood towards the sea, the caption bitterly stating ‘Ils flottent dans tous les sens’ (They float in every direction). Driftwood is actually an obvious and established metaphor with regard to the north of Europe, partly derived from the widespread timber industry in Norway, Sweden, and Finland.1 Dupuis, however, turns the driftwood into something distinctly negative, with the raftsmen appearing as an almost allegoric concretion of small-state opportunism and spinelessness. In Dupuis’s variations on the neutrals of Europe, Sweden – the largest of the Nordic countries – is even hit harder. A bizarre-looking, smallish figure, clearly a shopkeeper dressed in the Swedish national colours blue and yellow, counts and registers barrels at a beach. The barrels are filled with, as it says, grasse neutre (neutral fat) and huile neutre (neutral oil), both elementary goods for the war effort of any belligerent. From some of the barrels, most of the content is leaking as a constant stream into the nearby sea. The metaphoric language here appears more complex, referring to the water – the Baltic Sea – as the regularly frequented waterway through which Sweden would allegedly supply the German Empire with essential goods, even war contraband, for its war effort against the Entente. Il y a bien quelques fuites (There are certainly some leakages), the caption reads with caustic sarcasm.2

2

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

Dupuis’s postcards, one example out of many more, lead directly to the very subject of this book. It revisits a classic problem in the history of international politics – the relationship between great powers and small states in times of war. Its primary interest rests with the small neutral countries of Scandinavia – or to be precise: of Northern Europe – in the context of the First World War, and their complex, ambivalent, often difficult relations with the war’s major belligerents. The title of the book is reminiscent of Patrick Salmon’s much more comprehensive and still unsurpassed study Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 1890-1940, published in 1997.3 Salmon’s pioneering work, the first full-scale and truly international history of the region in the first half of the twentieth century, has visibly had a bearing on my own approach. As Salmon’s broader scope, this book’s intention is to situate the Scandinavian war experience in a larger historical setting, somewhat de-nationalizing the history of Northern Europe by re-internationalizing it.4 That this is even today called for is due to the peculiar re-nationalization of the Nordic research landscape in the course of the twentieth century. Just as the broader colonial past of, for instance, Denmark or Sweden was successfully ‘de-globalized’ and hence virtually disappeared from the dominant historical narrative, the historical relationships of the region to the surrounding powers are often and almost pathologically read through the prism of national historiography.5 In the field of international history, the analysis of Scandinavia’s situation and position in European politics and the international system hence lacks both comparison and context. Despite being indebted to Salmon’s approach, this book differs in more than just its chronological dimension. It is not – and does not strive to be – a broad historical synthesis, a comprehensive overview of Scandinavian history in the ‘Age of the World Wars’.6 Rather, the book collects explorative essays on a variety of problems related to or representing the Scandinavian experience of the First World War. This entails the obvious disadvantages every incomplete story has, above all the absence of an integrated narrative and hence of an overarching dramaturgical development. However, the format chosen here also allows for more flexibility and a more pointed approach in dealing with episodes that, taken together, characterize Northern Europe’s position in as well as on the war. The individual, though strongly linked, essays thereby probe into particular themes, problems, and developments in the region’s relationships to the great powers with greater depth than an overarching narrative would be able to do so. In various ways, these explorations as well deal with what might be termed as lost causes of Nordic history, aspects of Scandinavian and Finnish history as

Introduction

3

well as the history of the First World War that were publicly ‘unremembered’ or, in particular cases, swallowed by the predominant historiographical tides of the century in-between.7 From its onset, two levels of relations determined the Scandinavian experience of the First World War: firstly, there were the complex, often differing relations the Scandinavian countries had to the great powers of Europe, particularly to those who made their imperial presence felt in the region, Britain, Germany, and Russia. Secondly, the external dimension went along with the relations of the Scandinavian states to one another and to organizational and political questions within the region. If one had looked at Northern Europe a century ago, one would have not found the largely integrated, highly developed, and smoothly connected space of ‘Norden’, the progressive realm of the post-Second World War Nordic countries, but rather a region of relative political turmoil, drastic economic change, and social upheaval. The First World War changed this, or at least led to the gradual transformation of Northern Europe. One of its most prominent results was that the states of Scandinavia learned how to speak to one another again while learning to speak to the outside world with one voice – and if not with one voice, then at least as a comparatively harmonious choir. This principally historical approach as well explains the basic terminology employed here, beginning with conceptions of the area as a historical region (or space), a ‘Geschichtsregion’. The history of areas/regions and especially that of Scandinavia precedes the celebrated spatial turn in the humanities and the social and cultural sciences. The need for paying greater analytical attention to the spatial dimension of history, however, has not only highlighted, but also altered our approach to historical regions, not least to Scandinavia or rather the European North among a host of alternative concepts for the area.8 The actual function of a topologically broader concept of the region is heuristic and less fixed than allegedly objective geographical parameters might indicate.9 Instead, approaching Northern Europe both as a whole and with a view of its particular entities and their relations to the major belligerents of the First World War allows for a broader analytical scope than individual studies of the particular bilateralisms, foreign policies, and strategies would. The latter, in any case, have a rather natural function in a study conceived from an international historian’s vantage point. They, however, only make for half of the substance dealt with here. Approaching Northern Europe, as well as a historical region, expands the range and perspective of the subsequent studies, all the more as the conception of what it meant to be ‘Scandinavian’ or ‘Nordic’ drastically changed in the subsequent decades.

4

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

Despite the fact that Scandinavia and Northern Europe are often used interchangeably, the difference between the two spatial concepts is marked and has, as with most regional conceptions, traditionally been fluid. Scandinavia as a term, at least after Norway’s separation from Sweden in 1905, has conventionally been limited to the three Scandinavian kingdoms Sweden (before 1809 as well including Finland), Norway, and Denmark (and – occasionally – Denmark’s imperial overseas territories Iceland and the Faroe Islands, less Greenland).10 In contrast, Northern Europe has always had a less defined use as a spatial and political term. In almost all cases, it forms the broader, non-territorialized, and meso-regional conceptual alternative to Scandinavia, additionally including at least Finland, partly as well the Baltic region as a whole.11 Considering its variability, the adequate term for the region covered in this book would apparently be rather Northern Europe, or the actual Scandinavian term ‘Norden’.12 Against this backdrop, I have opted for a pragmatic approach, largely in line with the priorities and emphases of this book. Its overall scope, in any case, does not encompass the whole region and not each of its components in the way in which it would have most certainly been appropriate, if the book would have aimed at an integrated narrative of the Scandinavian war experience. There are, for instance, no systematic studies discussing the war experiences of Norway and Iceland, although Norway at least is prominently reflected in both the introductory essay and the comparative historical studies. Rather pragmatically therefore, I use the term ‘Scandinavia’ – with the apparent exception of the book’s title – for Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. If including Finland and the imperial borderlands of the Russian Empire, the broader concept Northern Europe is employed. Nordic – as in Nordic countries – is a later term, which only gradually emerged after the First World War against the backdrop of the closer integration of the region. It is hence only used where analytically relevant. Dealing with an entire historical region such as Northern Europe unavoidably and often fruitfully forces one into comparison. A considerable number of the studies brought together in this book are therefore based on historical comparison as a method, sometimes explicitly, more frequently implicitly. The aim here is a comparative history of international relations, which – for all intents and purposes – forms a rather established methodological approach in this sub-discipline. In general, my approach to comparative history is based neither in generalizing comparisons nor in the comparison of European societies called for by Marc Bloch.13 Instead, the studies employ a combination of what Charles Tilly describes as ‘individualizing’ and ‘encompassing’ comparisons.14

Introduction

5

Bloch attempts to identify the special characteristics of two or fewer cases, while Tilly is interested in parts of a larger whole such as the colonies of an empire or, as with the case studies developed here, in hegemonial zones of influence and behaviour within more comprehensive inter-state constellations. Taken together, the studies collected in this book revolve around the subsequent topics and perspectives: ●

●

●

The foreign policy strategies and concrete diplomatic practice of the great power belligerents of the First World War – especially Britain, Germany, and Russia – with regard to Northern Europe. The handling of various practices of neutrality in relations between the belligerent great powers and the neutral small states of the region. This also involves comparatively dealing with existing perceptions and interpretations of international law, in particular the laws regulating neutrality. The perception of and the responses to the war in Northern Europe, both in terms of political behaviour and potential alliance formation. Here, it will become obvious that the question of whether primacy rests with foreign or domestic policy is only adequately resolved by means of an integrated approach that sees foreign policy-making as closely linked to the domestic conditions of politics.15 This approach is not limited to the elites in government and politics, but also encompasses intellectuals and the twin questions of intellectual mobilization and (war) propaganda in Scandinavia and beyond.

The book is built around five analytical chapters, intellectually framed by an introductory, contextualizing, and largely comparative essay, which attempts to map the place of the Scandinavian states and the region as a whole in the great power politics and war strategy of the First World War. The book’s individual chapters mostly form separate entities, each exploring a different subject and often as well advancing a different thesis. Despite their intellectual autonomy, the chapters have a number of overarching issues in common, lending the book as a whole a consistent conceptual framework, it is to be hoped. As indicated above, the book’s main structuring element is derived from dealing with the intricate web of relationships between the European major powers – in particular Germany, Britain, and Russia – and the countries of Northern Europe in the first decades of the twentieth century, mostly concentrated on the years of and around the First World War. Consequently, the bulk of the studies deals with aspects of foreign policy and strategy, with decision-making processes and diplomacy

6

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

against the backdrop of a volatile, effectively collapsed international system. In line with that, a second focus touches on systemic aspects and specific forms of expansionist, hegemonic, and imperial policy during the First World War and is closely linked to issues of international law and, not least, small-state neutrality and security policy.16 Beyond the system-specific aspects of international history, the present studies also focus on analysing diplomacy and diplomats (in the broadest sense), not only in their core function as representatives of foreign policy but also with regard to social backgrounds and ‘personality networks’, self-images, and professional identities, related to the emergent research field of a new diplomatic history.17 Through the analysis of activities, behaviour, and patterns of perception in diplomacy and international relations, politics, and culture, some of the chapters can also be read as explorations in cultural and transnational history, indebted to a culturally sensitized history of international relations and to what has been labelled as ‘new political history’.18 This emphasis brings with it a number of patent deficiencies, most prominently the at best sporadic engagement with the economic dimension of neutrality, with economic diplomacy as a whole, only too well reflected in both the archives and the existing literature.19 I will return to this at the end of the Introduction. Concretely, the book’s chapters follow differing paths and approaches to one or more of the problems developed above: The second chapter – Comparing neutralities – provides both an overview and a discussion of the different neutral policies and practices of the Scandinavian states during the First World War. In broad strokes, this introduction attempts to outline the situation Norway, Denmark, and Sweden found themselves in at the onset of the war. It examines their responses to the great power politics and pressure in the course of the conflict, their traditions, and changing conceptions of neutrality and security politics in an increasingly insecure international environment. In turn, the Scandinavian responses are related to the politics of the great powers in the region, especially those of Britain and Germany. What emerges, it is to be hoped, is a comparative historical panorama of Northern Europe’s complex situation within the international arena. The third chapter – Royal diplomacy – builds on its predecessor insofar as the scope is shifted from the position of the region in international politics to the region itself. The role of monarchical relations and the mechanisms of royal diplomacy among the Scandinavian states are used in order to illustrate the profound changes the pressures of war brought about, both in terms of the formulation

Introduction

7

and practice(s) of Scandinavia’s neutrality and with regard to self-conceptions and policy initiatives of the region’s political elites. Here, the royal diplomats and the rather minute reconstruction of their diplomatic engagements function as an exploratory probe into shifting senses of belonging, into the foundational layer out of which a broader collective narrative was formed in the course of the subsequent century. While economic diplomacy undoubtedly structured the everyday practice of neutrality, it is the cultural and symbol-political umbrella that attempts to instil a mundane practice with meaning. The fourth chapter – Activism – examines a different type of activism that one would expect in the twentieth century’s retrospect of the region. It engages not with the origins of humanitarian and internationalist activism typical for the Nordic states in the subsequent decades, but with residue of the nineteenth century and its potent consequences thereafter. Effectively, the chapter forms a case study of a rather unfashionable subject, the Swedish nationalist conservative forces and their agitation for war and imperial expansion in an increasingly postimperial political landscape. Similar mobilizations are to be found in the Danish case, primarily over the Schleswig problem post-1864 and then – reawakened – in the period from 1918 to 1920. For Sweden, the more complex case, however, is the one of Finnish nationalist activism, which at one point – and especially with regard to Åland – directly collided with the expansionist agenda of the Swedish right around the royal court and in the country’s political life. While the Danish mobilization around the Schleswig issue is touched upon in the chapter on Georg Brandes’s war, I have opted to link the case of Swedish Activism with the Stockholm- and Berlin-based Finnish nationalist agitation – a subject later on revisited in the chapter on Finnish nation- and state-building efforts in and around the First World War. The subsequent fifth chapter – Intellectuals and war in Scandinavia and beyond – bears as well the character of a seemingly specific case study, a biographical exploration of one of Scandinavia’s most prominent public intellectual since the late nineteenth century, the cosmopolitan and internationally renowned Dane Georg Brandes. Despite highlighting Brandes’s singularity and unique position within the continent’s modernist intelligentsia, an examination of his war experience and behaviour as well bears more general, indeed representative features.20 In equal measure, his predicament mirrors the predicament of the intellectual in war generally and, even more, of the neutral in a conflict driven by moral recrimination and nationalist mobilization. Just as the book’s central

8

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

approach re-situates the small states of Northern Europe in the broader arena of the international system, Brandes is contextually connected to his milieu, the pre-war international entente of critical modernist intellectuals that for long fatally assumed that art – and especially their art – transcended national divisions and war. The sixth chapter – State and revolution in Finland, empire and revolution in Russia – broadens the book’s scope significantly by engaging with the emergence of the fourth member of the evolving Nordic context, Finland. Contrary to the protracted and – most importantly – negotiated Norwegian independence process, the emerging Finnish nation-state capitalized on the gradual implosion and eventual demise of the Russian Empire. While this outcome is usually regarded as an almost natural consequence of a long evolutionary drive towards Finnish independence, this chapter’s intellectual premise inverts the core argument. Counter-intuitively, I ask what actually bound the Finns and even those in moderate nationalist circles for such a long time to the tsar’s empire. The chapter therefore deliberately avoids reading a nation-building process from its end, but rather attempts to historicize and contextualize the process against the backdrop of Russian imperial developments in the First World War. Finland is thereby seen as what it actually was until 1917, a component of a much larger imperial framework. The final seventh chapter – Arguing Åland – refers back to the overarching theme of the book, the dynamic of relations between hegemonial great powers and small states within a given international system. What then, I inquire, happens if (and indeed when) a system of hegemonial rule implodes and is replaced by a new international order resting on decidedly anti-imperialist principles? My primary interest in this context relates to the question of the practice and transformation of international politics and law in the final stages of the First World War and its immediate aftermath. This process is illustrated by tracking the basic developments of the Åland problem from about 1917 to its lasting resolution by the League of Nations in 1921. Through the example of the Åland Islands dispute, one can vividly reconstruct the shifting dynamic in the international system: from, firstly, a great power dominated international system with rather fixed legalist conceptions and practices through, secondly, the existential negation of law against the backdrop of the First World War and its immediate aftermath to, finally, the progressivist attempt to establish an internationalist world order, whose model case the settlement of the Åland

Introduction

9

problem became. Historicizing the Åland dispute furthermore allows for a few necessary relativizations, most pointedly the observation that small states, even those of today’s pacified Nordic region, have historically been just as capable of belligerence and conflict as great powers. They have usually only lacked the capacities to ventilate that disposition in a comparably explicit fashion.21 Secondly, the chapter corroborates the argument of a continuity of great power influence, even within a programmatically internationalist framework such as the League of Nations. In keeping with the book’s structuring theme, the analysis of the Åland problem in a radically changing international environment links a seemingly bilateral issue to a far broader historical dynamic, thereby situating the conflictious origins of the common Nordic space in their equally conflictious international context.

Problem and key terms: What makes a certain power great and a particular state small? And what actually is neutrality? The core problem, of course, is the question of how great and potentially hegemonic powers relate to small states and their conceptions and practices of neutrality. For that, one would have to trace both the problem and the debate on the key analytical terms of this book, great power and small state. Though strongly influenced by the relevant discussions in politics and particularly in the field of international relations, my own approach is primarily both pragmatic and historical. What then makes, in a historicizing perspective, a great power great and a small state small? Often quoted and one of the earlier succinct contributions on the question, the problem was taken up by Thucydides in the Melian Dialogue of his History of the Peloponnesian War. Thucydides’s dramatization discusses the siege and ruthless conquest of Melos by Athens, which at that time emerged as a great power in the Aegean Sea. The dialogue itself revolves around the negotiations in 416 BC between Athenian emissaries and the Melians, who refuse to voluntarily surrender their island and their sovereignty as a neutral small state in the great hegemonic war between Athens and Sparta. In the form of a dialogue, Thucydides presents the core arguments of each position: justice as well as rights, including the right of a neutral state to integrity and the right of the strong to enforce their interests; concepts of ethical action, epitomized by the opposing notions of  honour and shame; the feasibility and consequences of certain decisions

10

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

and – in conjunction with this – their advantages or disadvantages for the parties concerned. The position of steadfast refusal adopted by the Melians, which results in the end of negotiations and the siege of Melos, causes consternation among the Athenian emissaries. Above all, the Athenians cannot understand such lack of pragmatism, such unrealistic and thus unreasonable behaviour that carelessly disregards the circumstances at hand. The refusal of the Melians to bow to Athens results in the siege and eventual defeat of the island by the much superior Athenian forces, the fall of Melos, and, on orders from Athens, its total destruction: the Athenians ‘put to death all they found within the place able to bear arms, and made the women and children slaves. The town they afterwards re-peopled by sending thither a colony of five hundred.’22 The key question about the interpretation and historical reception of this passage, that is whether Thucydides really was, as Jacob Burckhardt wrote, concerned with ‘the philosophy that might makes right’ or – as opponents of the realistic school have argued – with an implicit disassociation from imperial hegemonic ambitions, can be disregarded here.23 It is only important to note that important research parameters for the reception of Thucydides have shifted drastically in recent decades in analyses of international politics. With regard to the neutral powers in the First World War, Johan den Hertog and Samuël Kruizinga have rightly concluded that the originally dominant classical realism – and with it the distorted image of small states in the international system – has become outdated.24 In recent interpretations, the behaviour of mostly neutral small states appears far less passive and, on the whole, much more complex in comparison with the way it has been reflected in realistic presentations of the international system.25 The analysis of levels above and below the state in the international and transnational network of influences and conditions has contributed to this development, as has the successive decline in the state as a category of analysis in the history of international relations.26 The state and the relations it maintains nevertheless remain a key point of reference in the present studies. As regards Thucydides, his key function in the history of international relations is relevant only to a certain extent here. Of much greater relevance is the fact that his description of the conflict between Melos and Athens, which was written as early as around 400 BC, encompasses the entire set of relations between great, frequently hegemonic, or potentially hegemonic powers and smaller states, the alleged ‘weak states’ in the international system.27 In light of this, Thucydides’s Melian Dialogue forms the obvious basis for a further examination of the relations between great powers and small states as reflected in the general approach of this book.

Introduction

11

In the wake of Thucydides, more systematic attempts at defining the two categories have been made for in the field of international relations, often based on allegedly objective categories. These usually fail, however, because ‘historical reality’ turns out to be too complex to lend itself to easy abstract categorization.28 Stalin’s mocking question to the French foreign minister Pierre Laval in May 1935, ‘Oho! … The Pope? How many divisions does he have?’, shows not only the political instincts of a totalitarian dictator.29 In its polemic oversimplification, the question in fact disqualifies itself, as the influence of the Vatican in the international system has always been impossible to effectively measure and has only declined in the twentieth century. The definition of a small state is thus for historians based only to a limited extent on quantifiable parameters and criteria such as population, geography, and gross domestic product. It is also based on categories that Churchill, in the same context, described as those legions that were not always visible on parade.30 The same undoubtedly applies to the great powers in international politics. These are characterized not only in terms of allegedly hard factors such as demography, geography, resources, armaments, and industry but also with regard to questions of system structures, traditions, ideology, and mentality. This is not meant to suggest that international history, in particular with regard to the position of small states in the international network of relations, is conceivable without the ‘material foundations of foreign policy’. In light of these requirements, Magnus Brechtken has developed a convincing analytical grid, by means of which the above-mentioned factors and parameters can be interpreted as indications of the ‘power projection ability’ of great powers around 1900.31 In ‘Scandinavia and the Great Powers’, Salmon examined for the same period the constraints and opportunities in Nordic politics primarily on the basis of economic developments that illustrate not least the actual and potential dependency of Scandinavian markets on European great powers. Like Brechtken, he connects this part of his analysis with sociological aspects and aspects of the history of mentalities, above all in relation to the special character and the behaviour of elites in small northern European societies since the late nineteenth century.32 A working definition of small states and great powers from a historical perspective can be based on the extensive body of literature that is available on the subject. For the most part, the definitions of small state and great power refer to one another. In some cases, the term ‘middle power’ is also used. In the tradition of Ranke, it was for a long time assumed that great powers are able to assert themselves in the international system, primarily by military terms, without relying on coalitions or alliances. If, as Ranke himself postulated in ‘The Great Powers’ with regard to the establishment of Prussia as a great power, ‘one

12

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

could establish as a definition of a great power that it must be able to maintain itself against all others, even when they are united, then Frederick has raised Prussia to that position. For the first time since the days of the Saxon emperors and Henry the Lion, a self-sufficient power was found in northern Germany, needing no alliance, dependent only on itself.’33 That ‘degree of independence’ which, as Ranke puts it elsewhere, ‘gives a state its position in the world’ was for a long time the true criterion for defining a great power.34 While Ranke’s conceptual amalgamation of power and state, in fact an ‘idealization of the state on the basis of a spiritualization of power’, appears to have been broken apart since the later period of historicism in the 1950s – in particular since Ludwig Dehio and Gerhard Ritter – his definition of the term ‘great power’, which is based exclusively on the military resources of a state, continues to influence historical research on international relationships even today.35 A. J. P. Taylor’s typically trenchant view may illustrate this point: ‘The test of a great power … is the test of strength for war.’36 Ranke’s prominent albeit not very specific criterion of self-assertion is still present – quite justifiably – in the second half of the last century, for example in the work of Jean-Baptiste Duroselle.37 Military capacity, however, represents only one – albeit undoubtedly the key – criterion that determines the location and often the existence of power in the international system. In his ‘The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers’, Paul Kennedy convincingly linked this idea with an analysis of the economic and political development of great powers.38 In addition, even older literature has pointed out that, besides security, an ability to project power at least at the continental if not at the global level must be guaranteed if a state is to qualify as a great power. The extent of this ability to project power obviously also depends on the different historical constellations of international politics. Once again, this phenomenon is aptly described by Taylor in his ‘The Struggle for Mastery in Europe’ when he writes about Austria-Hungary: ‘Only the Austrian Empire had no concerns outside Europe: this was a sign of weakness, not a source of strength.’39 For a long time, the military potential of a state was also considered a vehicle of this outward projection of power. In more recent research on international relations, however, the emphasis has shifted to more abstract ideas, at the core of which – as suggested by Robert O. Keohane and Michael Handel – lies the influence of a state on the international system. In this connection, Keohane has spoken of ‘system-determining’ states, a term that is by no means limited to military implications.40 Instead, he uses an approach established in international congress

Introduction

13

diplomacy of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, that is a comparatively rigid subdivision into great powers on the one hand and medium and small states on the other. This differentiation in the international system is reflected in the order established by the Congress of Vienna and can also be seen in the context of the Treaty of Versailles. With the term ‘Principal Allied and Associated Powers’, the victorious powers of the First World War, more commonly referred to as the ‘Big Four’ (or ‘Big Three’), transferred one of the core mechanisms of the old Concert of Europe to the new world order created at Versailles.41 The Council of Four, made up of the Entente Powers, essentially anticipated the permanent membership of the great powers in the Security Council of the United Nations.42 Although it cannot be reduced to the veto power of the permanent members, we can discern a component of the term ‘great power’ which goes beyond the criterion of military power and has persisted since the Congress of Vienna.43 Iver B. Neumann and Sieglinde Gstöhl have pointed out that this process involved the institutionalization – also in terms of international law – of the previously de facto category of ‘great power’: From this activity, documents with legal force evolved, and since they were underwritten by these five powers and not by others, the category of ‘great power’ became a legal category. It has ever since cohabited uneasily with the principle of the sovereign equality of states. From a legal point of view, all sovereign states, great or small, are equal before the law. From a political stance, however, they are far from being equal.44

E. H. Carr expressed this more bluntly decades earlier when, in his classic work ‘The Twenty Years’ Crisis’, he spoke of the ‘alleged dictatorship of the Great Powers’ as a ‘law of nature in international politics’.45 All in all, the term ‘great power’ thus entails more than the hard factors of power, population, and space, which are purported to be objectively identifiable. Without these ‘material foundations of the ability to project power’, however, a great power is obviously inconceivable.46 The contemporary observer understood this in a similar fashion – and at the same time with greater intensity, almost with an obsession. After all, discourse on great powers before 1914 (and ever since) was conducted by an increasingly global public and revolved around questions concerning the economic, industrial, technical, and, not least, demographic potency of aspiring powers.47 It is the geopolitically based, almost excessive discourse on world empire of the late imperialist period, though, that forces us to appreciate factors such as tradition and ideology, self-attribution and

14

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

attribution by others, culture and practice, perceptual patterns, and mentality, if we would like to arrive at a balanced understanding of the international system and politics of the period.48 This applies to great powers and small states alike. As regards the latter concept, however, a fundamental question arises which the term ‘great power’ does not really pose: the question of the heuristic value of this term. Both terms involve the problem of differentiating what is described from what comes above and below it, that is the issue of distinguishing a great power from a medium power or a regional power on the one hand and a super power – a term from the Cold War – on the other.49 Despite its chequered conceptual history, the term ‘great power’ has, in any case, essentially held its ground in political reality and in research – and this justifiably so because it appears, particularly in the ‘Concert’ diplomacy of the nineteenth century, both constitutive and programmatic to the international system. After 1918, its definition and conceptual application becomes somewhat frayed at the edges but it does not seem to have lost its analytical strength. Without a doubt, small states can easily be (and in fact long have been) defined by what they are not: states which in certain historical constellations of the international system were not great powers would thus have to be subsumed under the term ‘small state’, or something similar.50 In this context, a central criterion in this classification – at least for realist thinkers of the Morgenthau school – would be the apparent lack of resources, most notably in military terms but also with reference to demographic and economic/industrial resources.51 This, however, appears to be a rather conventional attempt at defining something by what it is not, which is somewhat unsatisfactory particularly for historians of small states. There is also the fact that in a number of historical cases and constellations, the nature of small states – in contrast to the frequently more comprehensive nature of great powers – is not an absolute quality but instead can have many different aspects.52 As suggested above, this can be illustrated most emphatically by the example of the Vatican. Measured on the basis of hard factors, its status in the history of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries must have been that of an obviously weak and small state, or rather a mini- or micro-state. In the field of international politics and diplomacy, however, the Vatican’s status remained, even in the era of the two world wars and beyond, that of a relative great power.53 The same could be said in the Northern European context about Sweden, above all, and subsequently about Norway as well. After the 1905 dissolution of the union, Sweden lost all its residual claims to great power status and, after the First World War, successfully

Introduction

15

reinvented itself as a kind of ‘humanitarian super power’, particularly in terms of its own identity.54 Against this background, the realist notion of quantifying the power of a small state exclusively by structural determinants seems questionable, all the more for historians of the international system. ‘Small states’, this is evident, ‘are not just “mini versions” of great powers but may pursue different goals and policies worth studying’.55 Instead of insisting, in a traditionally realistic manner, on their admittedly minimal abilities to project power, Neumann and Gstöhl propose – in contrast to most historians before them – that small states should be analysed far more and in greater depth from the perspective of institutions and relationships. The resulting shift in emphasis suggests a departure from the discourse on small states in the international system, a tendency away from an older emphasis on the alleged deficits and insufficiency of the small state. Instead, the small state would have to be seen in its own right and through its own criteria and characteristics, not through the established great power lens.56 At its heart, this book attempts to translate such an historicizing approach into the concrete realm of small state relations to great powers. Such an approach clearly does not deny the structural conditions of small-state existence. It rather helps us understand small states as players in the international system whose scope of action is limited but not exclusively determined by the generally greater and often existential threats they face. In this context, the security – or insecurity – felt by a small state depends on the immediate set of conditions in which it finds itself and varies from case to case, as is, for instance, distinctly illustrated by the differing security political orientations of the Northern European states in both world wars.57 The studies included here also illustrate that the freedom of action of small states could be extended by means of skilful diplomacy and coalition building policies among each other and even vis-à-vis great and hegemonial powers. In this context, the capacity to mobilize support in the system in order to secure one’s own existence continues to be one of the cardinal virtues of the small state.58 Usually, however, this virtue does not make the small state more reactive or defensive, in general not even more peaceful than the allegedly expansionist great power. As Robert Purnell argues, ‘small states, in short, are great powers writ small. They behave as much like great powers as they can. … Any distinctiveness in small state behaviour arises not from any qualitative difference between small states and others but from the limitations their smallness places upon their capacity to implement significant decisions in foreign policy.’59 Earlier and in a much more pointed manner, this

16

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

thought is also found in William E. Rappard, who wrote the following as early as 1934: ‘If Small States are on the whole internationally less sinful than Great Powers, it is not because they are more saintly but because they are less apt to be successful sinners.’60 Paraphrasing Rappard, this book’s actual interest and its overarching intellectual framework is to explore, contextualize, and compare those real and potential ‘sinners’ in international politics and diplomacy in the First World War. Besides the problem of defining power in international relations and deriving from that what smallness actually means, there is another underlying theme around which some of the subsequent chapters are built: neutrality and the neutral small state in international politics. In the last decade or two, neutrality as a subject of historiography has become rather topical again, not least due to the efforts of international legal historians like Stephen C. Neff or Martti Koskenniemi and of historians of international relations such as Maartje Abbenhuis, Johan den Hertog, or Samuël Kruizinga.61 The historiography on neutrality and neutrals has been significantly furthered by the rehabilitation of the neutral as an actor. Instead of the older assumption of neutrality declining – in the words of Nils Ørvik – in the Age of the World Wars, more recent research has reinstated the non-belligerent absentee in international politics, all the more with regard to the belligerent twentieth century.62 Abbenhuis, the chief proponent of the ‘neutral as agent’ thesis, even goes as far as to suppose that the First World War would have to be redefined with respect to the function neutrality had in influencing, indeed even in argumentatively structuring the conflict. The traditional narrative, centred on the idea of the First World War as a great power struggle for hegemony, would fail to acknowledge that. Her interpretation of the twentieth century as the heyday of neutrality – an ‘Age of Neutrals’ – thereby expands beyond the Hague Peace Conferences to the First World War.63 One does not necessarily have to follow Abbenhuis to the more pointed ends of her otherwise convincing interpretation. Kruizinga, for a start and with a stronger foreign policy emphasis, has recently accentuated the enormous dependence of the small neutral on great power decisions in the First World War. Essentially therefore, the studies included here are explorations in foreign policy research in a historical perspective that do not deny their connection to a tentatively modernizing history of diplomacy and international politics. What holds true for Paul Schroeder’s remarks about the expected benefit of a genuine history of international relations can, without a doubt, precede the various studies of this book: at heart, it is imperative to understand and practise

Introduction

17

international history as international history and not as a side or a by-product of something else. The targeted study of the history of the international system and its constituents should not have an exclusively auxiliary function; it should instead be practised for its own sake. There is no doubt that such a perspective has its limitations, but it also has a function and an epistemological value, which other methodological approaches do not have in this form or to this degree. Schroeder uses metaphor to make light of a common – and often justified – criticism of the diplomatic historian and supplements it by pointing ironically to the limitations of other schools and traditions: I do not doubt that traditional diplomatic history often misses the forest for the trees. I am also convinced, however, that Marxists usually miss the forest for the roots; that Annalistes, if they pay any attention to international politics at all, miss the forest for the total global landscape; and that the Gesellschaftsgeschichtler miss the forest for the lumber industry.64

As Schroeder’s statement dates to the mid-1990s and thereby predates the allencompassing presence of cultural history even in the field of international history, one could also add the cultural historian missing the forest for the bark beetle.

2

Comparing Neutralities Neutral Allies, Immoral Pariahs? Scandinavian Neutrality and Great Power Politics

Neutrality, its domestic and international negotiation and perception,1 is a fluid phenomenon. It evolves over time, largely within nation-state boundaries and less so within regions as a whole. The Nordic space of the early twentieth century was no exception in that respect. Despite attempts to somewhat coordinate one’s foreign – and neutrality – policies towards the great powers in the years prior to 1914, the three Scandinavian kingdoms had less in common than one would suppose, considering the century of an ever closer regional cooperation unfolding after the First and even more forcefully after the Second World War. A lot of divergence in policy terms relates to certain geographic and – with it – geostrategic parameters. Neutrality – as indeed any relation to a conflict – cannot be divorced from geography. Exactly as ‘geographical circumstances form a significant deterrent against attack’, they obviously contribute in other cases as well to the preservation of neutrality and the integrity of a neutral state.2 This is especially palpable in the preconditions defining the differing positions and political behaviour of the three Scandinavian states. In 1914, Denmark was just emerging from the most existential crisis it had lived and actually barely scraped through. In geographic and strategic terms, there could hardly be, probably with the exception of the Netherlands and internationally guaranteed Belgium, a more vulnerably situated country in Europe. After the Second Schleswig War of 1864, the kingdom’s southern border had been moved significantly into southern Jutland, making a significant proportion of the Danish population of the area into a minority within the enlarged Prussian state and – after 1871 – the German Empire. With it, the existing fortifications of the former border region and not least the geostrategic buffer of the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein had disappeared. Denmark had

20

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

been relegated from a unitary monarchy with imperial residua to a sensitively exposed small state at the fringes of Europe.3 These fringes, however, were defined by strategically sensitive coastlines along the North and the Baltic Seas, which made the small country almost automatically a target for operations in the great battle on the seas that strategists anticipated both in London and Berlin.4 Norway’s position, by comparison, seemed better, but undoubtedly not ideal. Its long border with Sweden exposed it to an invasion from the East, which had become much less probable by 1914, but had been acute only about a decade earlier in the struggle for Norwegian independence. That struggle, only de-escalated by a diplomatic intervention of the great powers and a protracted process of settlement, saw Norwegian and Swedish troops pitched against one another along the common border for several weeks.5 While Sweden seemed to be reconciling gradually, a process accelerated by the First World War, Norway furthermore possessed a significant border with Russia in the utter north of the country (largely through the grand duchy of Finland). Most importantly, however, there was the long coastline, effectively the entire north-western shore of the North Sea that exposed Norway to potential great power intervention. Virtually from its inception, the emerging Norwegian state can hence justifiably be regarded as situated in the British hegemonic sphere. London’s strategic premise in that respect remained negative throughout, however. It was aimed at securing the ports of the Norwegian west coast against any other conceivable great power influence or occupation – a policy primarily intended to frustrate German expansionist interests in the North Sea.6 The maritime dimension amounted to less of a problem to Sweden, but had nonetheless substantial repercussions on the country’s strategic imagination and ‘belief system’, as Gunnar Åselius has characterized it.7 Through the Russian possession of the grand duchy of Finland, Sweden obviously neighboured imperial Russia in the north and was otherwise only separated from the Russian Empire through the Gulf of Bothnia and the Gulf of Finland. The eastern and south-eastern coastline of the Baltic was as well controlled by St Petersburg, while the demilitarized, but still Russian-held, Åland Islands extended almost until to Swedish territorial waters, less than forty kilometres from the Baltic entrance to the capital Stockholm. In the south, the country shared a maritime border not only with Denmark, but also with the German Empire. Despite the predominant presence of the Russian Empire in the post-Napoleonic era, Sweden’s geographic preconditions were by any standards extremely advantageous, even after – or especially because of – its loss of the Finnish buffer in 1808/09 and the

Comparing Neutralities

21

dissolution of the union with Norway in 1905.8 The vast, infrastructurally often underdeveloped country, sheltered by the Baltic and partly even the North Sea, made an invasion and occupation by any of the great powers – even by the region’s effective hegemon Russia – a virtual impossibility. After the détente between Russia and Britain, Sweden furthermore benefitted from the fact that its sensitive geostrategic location gave it effective control not only of the heart of the Baltic Sea, but also of any potential land route from and to the Russian Empire.9 Besides geography and geopolitics, neutrality and its different appearances and practices as well related to political traditions and self-conceptions: while Denmark had been involved twice in wars for Schleswig and Holstein, Sweden in 1914 looked back at a substantial tradition of neutrality in the international system. The country’s roots as a neutral are to be found in the early modern period and translate into a more marked framework in the late Napoleonic period. Swedish neutrality thereby largely originated from the country’s volatile geostrategic position between 1812 and 1815. It is hence almost mythically referred to as ‘the politics of 1812’.10 Since then, the United Kingdoms of Sweden and Norway had either avoided or shown itself incapable of joining any of the conflicts in their immediate geographic vicinity. Throughout the nineteenth century, Swedish neutrality policy was a product of radically changing domestic political conditions, on the one hand, and a foreign and security-political environment in a state of flux, on the other. Twice, in both Schleswig Wars, Stockholm came close to sacrificing its neutrality on behalf of Denmark. Twice, the momentum in favour of military intervention, driven by a fervently Scandinavianist public and two successive kings, Oscar I and the latter’s son Charles XV, was successfully contained within the domestic arena. Before the mid-nineteenth century, however, conceptions of Swedish neutrality were not – or at least not primarily – principled in character. Only thereafter, neutrality grew into an institutionalized foreign political orientation of the Swedish state on a somewhat permanent basis, in line with the gradual recognition of the country’s limited room for manoeuvre as a small state.11 At the onset of the First World War, Sweden therefore could draw on an impressive, if partly accidental tradition of abstention from international conflict that had kept the country outside the intricate and increasingly unstable alliance politics of the pre-war years. Continuing to abstain from conflict and even attempting to coordinate one’s neutrality policy was therefore both plausible and in keeping with the country’s, indeed, with the region’s, neutral tradition. The latter aspect is insofar central, as the question of neutralizing the whole of Scandinavia was persistently

22

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

addressed in the period around 1905, after the union between Sweden and Norway collapsed and a new, internationally guaranteed equilibrium for Europe’s north had to be found. For the great powers, however, the permanent neutralization of Scandinavia, as ventilated by Stockholm, even if less forcefully than by Copenhagen and Kristiania ‘was … not a priority’.12 When reviewing the attitudes, perceptions, and approaches of the great powers vis-à-vis the differing practices of neutrality in Scandinavia, it probably serves the argument well to start at the end, in the final stages of the First World War. It was in late June 1918 when a lowly ranked official with the British legation in Stockholm, vice consul Robert Marshall, put down a five-page memorandum seemingly on the ‘Public Opinion in Sweden with Regard to the War’. Already the opening sentences betray the author’s intention and psychological state: The Swede is by nature psychologically fitted to take the same point of view on things in general as the German. There is a very common impression in England that the Swede is the most honest and straight-forward person on earth. This is not so. I have been resident in this country for over eight years, most of the time under circumstances which have given me a very good opportunity to form a reliable opinion with regard to the average Swede and I have found that the Swedes as a whole have no regard whatever for the truth as such. They will tell a most bare-faced lie on the slightest provocation if they think that they will not be found out. In business, one should always insist on a written contract. I have had a large experience of cases which would in England be called sharp practices or dishonesty. In Sweden they are accounted ‘good business’.13

A tangibly frustrated Marshall goes on to portray Swedish politics and foreign policy, society, and the military against the backdrop of the country’s increasingly intimate association with Britain’s main adversary in the war, the German Empire. While at the same time rich in substance, analytically rather crude, and highly opinionated, Marshall’s memorandum provides a fine entrée to the scope of perception and expectation that British diplomats and British politics harboured towards Sweden and the Scandinavian neutrals in general. British impressions and opinions on Sweden’s position in the war are mirrored by German diplomatic reporting and media opinion. Marshall’s counterpart, one of the more extreme voices in Germany’s relations towards Sweden, was the German minister to Stockholm in 1914, Franz von Reichenau, a nationalconservative Wilhelmine monarchist with strong reservations vis-à-vis parliamentary government.14 Reichenau celebrated the Swedish position in the

Comparing Neutralities

23

wake of the July Crisis, which he misconstrued as almost unconditionally proGerman, and repeatedly encouraged Berlin to think of Sweden as a likely ally in an increasingly probable war. For the minister, Sweden’s future unequivocally rested with the German Empire. All the undecided country needed was a push towards its allegedly natural political evolution, brought about by Sweden’s desired involvement in the war. Ultimately, the minister even imagined the country as a federal province under Germany’s imperial umbrella, just like the kingdoms of Baden and Württemberg.15 None of his projections obviously ever materialized. When it became clear by the autumn of 1914 that Stockholm was settling for neutrality and abstention from the conflict, Reichenau found himself at a dead end and resorted to rather undiplomatic forms of bullying, not least in his dealings with government ministers. This eventually forced the otherwise vehemently pro-German king of Sweden, Gustav V, to request the minister’s removal from Stockholm. At the turn of the year 1914/15, the tactless diplomat was replaced with a much more astute observer of Swedish realities, the liberal and habitually upper-class career diplomat Hellmuth Lucius von Stoedten.16 With Marshall and Reichenau as certainly more peculiar points of departure, this study explores central notions, perceptions, and expectations in British and German policy-making and diplomacy vis-à-vis Scandinavian neutrality during the First World War from a comparative historical angle. For reasons of brevity and argument, Britain’s and Germany’s geo- and military strategic notions, their foreign political conceptions, and diplomatic practice towards Sweden, Norway, and Denmark are only touched upon. At its heart, the subsequent comparison is instead focused on the great powers’ conflicting perceptions and political assessments of Scandinavian neutrality during the First World War. The highly complex Swedish case forms the centre of the analysis, while Denmark and Norway are – for purely pragmatic reasons – less systematically dealt with. My approach is premised on the observation that much in the same way as the conflict forced the Scandinavian countries to negotiate neutrality in a generally hostile environment, major belligerent powers like Germany and Britain saw themselves compelled to deal with neutrality and its often sharply differing practices in Northern Europe. Against that backdrop, international law, whose interpretation and implementation remained controversial throughout, was continually tested to its limit and often perverted. At no time, however, did it become irrelevant, as research on the First World War suggested until quite recently.17 This is particularly palpable in the relations of big belligerent powers

24

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

to the smaller states in their immediate geographic vicinity and the wider environs of their geo- and military strategic reach. Scandinavia and its political and economic relations to the great powers during the First World War provide an ample background against which the complexity and practice of neutrality and international law can be explored. This is largely due to the strongly differing approaches and orientations adopted by the Scandinavian states. In that context, Sweden is the one most difficult to fathom. The dominant retrospective view, preformed by the premises of the country’s protracted ‘age of social democracy’, prefers to see it as a small-state harbinger of peace and internationalism largely unaffected by the wars of the last century.18 This interpretation tends to disregard the fact that Sweden in and about 1914 was a country in transition – and, especially in terms of domestic politics and self-conception, not necessarily at peace. It is only symptomatic that the most controversial question in the domestic arena in 1914 was the liberal government’s attempt to reduce defence spending, which triggered the mass mobilization of the country’s right and led to a crisis that left Swedish society and politics divided. Its culmination point was the so-called Farmers’ March in February, a highly agitated demonstration of some 32,000 peasants brought in to Stockholm. The crisis is usually – and already contemporarily – referred to as the Courtyard Crisis (Swedish: borggårdskrisen) after the courtyard of the Royal Palace in Stockholm, where King Gustav V held a speech to the amassed participants of the march. The brief, but carefully crafted and well-enacted speech had been co-drafted by the famed Swedish explorer and fervent rightwing activist Sven Hedin. Despite the monarch’s central role, albeit as a vehicle of right-wing forces, the staging of the event bore remarkably modern features.19 The king’s speech symbolically unified the monarch as the country’s supposedly natural leader with the mobilized peasants, the mythologized national ur-image of the Swede. This aspect was particularly reinforced by the appearance of most participants in folkloristic national costume. In line with that, both ceremony and speech portrayed Gustav V as the last resort of national conscience, an embodiment of resistance against an allegedly unpatriotic, careless, and negligent government. As intended, the king’s ochlocratic intervention into Swedish politics, his ‘unorthodox assault on his own ministers’, caused a constitutional crisis that eventually led to the downfall of the liberal government of Prime Minister Karl Staaff.20 Despite forcing Staaff ’s government into resignation, however, the success of the right’s imposition of mob rule was extremely limited; only two days after the king’s gathering of some 32,000 peasants in the courtyard

Comparing Neutralities

25

of his Stockholm palace, the liberal and socialist forces – the government’s electoral base – mobilized about 50,000 workers for a counter-protest labelled the ‘workers’ march’.21 Societal divisions that had been latent since the late nineteenth century had moved to the fore and apparently threatened the domestic equilibrium of the country. On pragmatic grounds, the outbreak of the war mended these divisions for a time, forcing a caretaker cabinet, headed by the conservative prime minister Hjalmar Hammarskjöld, to remain in office. In the domestic arena and in its foreign policy, Sweden appeared ill-prepared for a general war in Europe. Declaring its neutrality, as Sweden did on 3 August and then again five days later jointly with Norway, was therefore not only a matter of choice and tradition, but also one of necessity.22 In the international arena of the war, however, that neutrality course appeared at least curious. While bearing a host of typical features, it was primarily Sweden’s unusually intense orientation towards Berlin that set the country apart from the majority of the neutrals, not least in Northern Europe. Berlin’s case for war and conduct in war was, for rather obvious reasons, not necessarily popular among the neutral powers and especially the neutral publics.23 Right from the start of the war, the German Empire’s violation of Belgium’s territorial sovereignty and neutral status had profoundly undermined its credibility.24 With it went an escalating moralization of the conflict, largely through the war propaganda machinery of the Entente Powers. This and further violations of international law left the German cause for war among neutrals in effective disgrace. In Sweden, however, a rather influential and vocal segment of society sympathized with the German war effort and agitated in favour of a Swedish entry into the war on the side of the Central Powers, the activists. As a political movement, activism was certainly suited to subvert the official neutrality course of the government and therefore to expose the country to considerable foreign-political risks. While historiography tends to agree that the influence of the activist movement on Swedish government policy remained relatively weak, during its heyday of 1914/15 and then again in the wake of the Russian collapse in 1917/18, the movement’s semi-official counterdiplomacy certainly threatened the procedures and overall stability of Swedish policy-making and implementation, as a subsequent chapter will illustrate more systematically.25 This as well as the centrality of Sweden to especially the German war effort exposed the country time and again to forceful political interventions by both Germany and Britain. In contrast to Sweden and its effectively pro-German leanings, Norway was assumed to be – in Olav Riste’s classic phrase – Britain’s ‘neutral ally’.26

26

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

Here, aggressively enforced British interests, derived from the geostrategically sensitive situation of Norway in relation to the British naval blockade, were opposed by incessant German political manoeuvring in order to preserve at least a semblance of Norwegian neutrality. Norway’s structural trade dependence on Britain, especially on British imports of coal and oil, left the country virtually no choice but to effectively forego its neutrality and become an element of the Western Powers’ war effort and not least of the British naval blockade. Its foreign and trade policy as well as defensive strategy were ‘overwhelmingly pro-Entente’ and further gravitated towards Britain in the course of the war.27 Norway’s situation was further complicated by Berlin’s controversial decision to resume its campaign of unrestricted submarine warfare from early 1917 onwards. The country possessed the fourth largest merchant fleet on earth and suffered dramatically increasing losses due to German submarine activity, eventually loosing half of its pre-war tonnage – in total 889 ships – and up to 2,000 sailors.28 When Britain forced Norway into effectively handing over control of its merchant fleet to the Royal Navy through a carefully camouflaged requisitioning scheme, Kristiania had de facto abandoned its neutrality policy in the conflict. In tandem with these developments, the German Naval Warfare Command (Seekriegsleitung) developed concrete plans for the eventuality of a war with Norway, condensed in an operational study of early 1917 entitled ‘Kriegsfall Norwegen’.29 This operation, however, never materialized, also because British pressure and protection, on the one hand, and the German potential for retaliation, on the other, balanced one another throughout the war. Furthermore, both London and Berlin considered keeping Norway – and indeed the Scandinavian countries in general – out of the war more beneficial than extending the battlefield into an area that ‘proved marginal to the military and naval strategies of the belligerents to an extent unforeseen by pre-war planners’, as Patrick Salmon has rightly emphasized.30 Despite these considerations, however, Kristiania’s relations to Germany were strained ever more and at times – in particular towards the end of the war – at the brim of collapse. This as well related to a number of thoroughly embarrassing revelations about the German conduct in neutral Norway. These involved a terrorist and sabotage affair that in retrospect appears eerily prescient for types of warfare used almost a century later. In January 1917, Norwegian police arrested in the utter north of the country a Swedish Baron, Otto von Rosen, who had brought substantial amounts of explosives (declared as ‘Svea Kött’), typhus bacteria in a bottle of soup, and anthrax bacteria absorbed in sugar bits. Before

Comparing Neutralities

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being released and disappearing back to Sweden, von Rosen had indicated that his intended sabotage had been meant to further the liberation of Finland and was paid for by Germany.31 In fact, von Rosen was the head of a terrorist circle of Swedish and Finnish nationals employed by German intelligence in order to destabilize the Russian hold on Finland and erode the British influence over the northern neutrals. His operation in Northern Norway had apparently been aimed at contaminating local reindeer contingents that were used to transport British ammunition deliveries through Norwegian ports to the Russian northern front. These operations were only part of a much larger network of early terrorist activity, centred on the ‘Sektion Politik’ of the German army’s general staff, which more or less amounted to the imperial army’s sabotage department. In the first years of the war and before moving on to insurrectionist activities in Persia in 1916, the section’s head was the diplomat Rudolf Nadolny, who in his memoirs realistically described himself as Germany’s ‘chief of irregular warfare’.32 Under Nadolny and his successor Hans Marguerre, ‘Sektion Politik’ experimented not only with explosives, but also – and most energetically – with early forms of biological warfare. By then, however, the different types of biohazards developed under the department’s auspices were not intended to be used against humans, but preferably against animals, as Nadolny outlined in a telegram in June 1915.33 Considering the contaminating range of anthrax bacteria, however, this was obviously a clinical and rather ideal-typical distinction with little bearing on reality.34 In the North, Berlin’s planning was executed largely by exile-Finns, as in the follow-up operation aimed at British ships in Norwegian ports and probably as well at Norway as a potential belligerent. In mid-June 1917 at a hint from British intelligence, the Norwegian counter-intelligence squad arrested the purportedly Baltic-German aristocrat Friedrich Walter von Rautenfels in Kristiania, who turned out to be a former Finnish civil servant by the name of Walter von Gerich. Von Rautenfels (or rather von Gerich) had evacuated himself from the Russian grand duchy of Finland in 1916 to Germany and been hired by the German naval intelligence agency, along with a group of exiled Finns who had been militarily trained as army volunteers at Hohenlockstedt north of Hamburg, the so-called Jäger.35 Rautenfels’s terrorist group had shipped explosives through Sweden into Norway and amassed them largely in the capital, enough ‘in order to detonate the whole of Kristiania’.36 The ensuing scandal eroded the bilateral relations between Norway and Germany even further, up to the point where even traditional Germanophiles and sympathizers of the German cause were

28

Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

left alienated.37 The increasingly desperate minister to Kristiania, Gustav Michahelles, was consequently recalled and replaced by one of the German foreign office’s more gifted diplomats, Paul von Hintze. Von Hintze’s constant advocacy of a policy of ‘magnanimity and reconciliation’ in Kristiania and not least Berlin de-escalated the bilateral climate to an extent that allowed both countries to return to a ‘modus vivendi in war’ and preserve their relations.38 Despite its de facto involvement in the British war effort and repeated German violations of the country’s status and integrity as a neutral, Norway’s government failed to declare war on Germany, even if public opinion in 1917/18 would have certainly preferred such a move. Despite formally retaining its neutrality, Norway did not come through the war unscathed. Among the neutrals of Northern Europe, it was the state and society by far hardest hit by the consequences of the war, especially in the coastal regions of the country, which traditionally supplied the Norwegian merchant fleet. In memory of Norway’s war dead, a hall of remembrance (‘minnehallen’) was erected in the mid-1920s in Stavern in the Larvik municipality, right at the mouth of the Kristianiafjord. Local granite stone cut into gigantic blocks form a pyramid, modelled on the classical premises of eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury (war) monuments.39 Initially, the hall was meant to commemorate only the lost merchant seamen of the First World War, all in all 1,892 individuals. After 1945, however, the lost and disappeared of the Second World War were also included, so that today a total of 7,562 names is documented on copper tablets in the pyramid’s crypt. The building was ceremonially inaugurated by King Haakon VII on 1 August 1926 in the presence of representatives of parliament and government, shipping industry, and the Norwegian ministry of defence, as well as the families of the victims. Comparing the Norwegian case with the casualties endured by, for instance, Sweden (684 sailors) points to the collective trauma associated with the loss of these neutral merchant sailors in a nation explicitly not at war, but nevertheless victimized almost like a belligerent.40 At the onset of the war, Denmark’s position appeared even more complex than Norway’s. The country was subject to an overarching influence from Germany while hanging on to its ‘natural’ political preference for Britain and the Entente, following the Second Schleswig War of 1864 and its deeply humiliating results for the small country.41 Just as Norway ultimately compromised its neutrality by giving in to Britain’s various demands, Denmark saw itself incapable of resisting German diplomatic pressure for long. In response to increasingly vehement German interventions, Copenhagen took up mining the Danish straits, that is

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the areas between Jutland and the island of Funen, the strait between Funen and the island of Sealand, and the sound between Sealand and Sweden, which had been international waterways since the Copenhagen Convention of 1857.42 Denmark’s enforced concessions towards Berlin were symptomatic for the country’s neutrality policy as a whole, which Einar Cohn once described justifiably as ‘an act of balancing on a knife’s edge’. Denmark in many ways inverted the Norwegian case. Copenhagen’s neutrality, however, appears to have been generally more stable than Kristiania’s, which was largely due to the geopolitically exposed situation of Norway, but as well related to Denmark’s frantic and often rather successful diplomatic efforts led by the country’s foreign minister Erik Scavenius and supported by Berlin’s chief envoy, Ulrich von Brockdorff-Rantzau.43 As diverging as their neutralities appear their different policies vis-à-vis the great powers ‘did not leave them at odds with one another in any real sense’.44 On the contrary, it was their common, partly coordinated neutrality policy in the face of a global conflict that tended to bring the three Scandinavian kingdoms together. The – albeit limited – degree to which the war effected the coordination of Scandinavian foreign policy and diplomacy is probably best reflected in the so-called Three Kings’ Meeting in Malmö on 18–19 December 1914, followed by a second meeting in November 1917 in Kristiania. The Malmö conference, as discussed in detail in a subsequent chapter, brought together the summit’s host and initiator Gustav V of Sweden with his counterparts Haakon VII of Norway and Christian X of Denmark, accompanied by political talks among the foreign ministers Knut Wallenberg, Nils Claus Ihlen, and Erik Scavenius. It could build upon previous efforts at collaborating on neutrality policy, like the negotiations prior to releasing neutrality regulations in late 1912. Considering the almost violent breakaway of Norway from its previous union with Sweden just nine years earlier, the momentous symbolic effect the conference had upon both the Scandinavian and international public is evident.45 Royal diplomacy within Scandinavia apart, Stockholm’s overall sympathy with the German cause swiftly attracted acute responses both on the side of Entente and the Central Powers. In diplomatic reporting, Marshall’s lengthy and aggressively worded memorandum and Reichenau’s early private policy in favour of the activist movement would have to be seen as extreme examples, only surpassed by reactions in press and propaganda, particularly in Britain.46 These extremes should, however, be balanced against the measured reporting of the two most influential diplomats in Stockholm: Britain’s chief envoy in Stockholm,

30

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the seasoned Foreign Office diplomat Esme Howard, and Reichenau’s successor as German minister, Lucius von Stoedten. As unusually gifted exponents of their respective diplomatic services, both Howard and Lucius became constant fixtures of Stockholm’s relations to the great powers throughout the whole First World War. While Howard moved on to the Paris Peace Conference and then later as ambassador to Madrid and Washington, Lucius was – albeit briefly – considered as a potential foreign minister in the early years of Weimar, eventually ending up as minister to the Netherlands.47 Howard did everything within his power to mediate between the delicate pro-German orientation of most of Stockholm’s ruling circles and the often too robust reaction of his superiors in London. The premise of British policy towards Sweden had to be a pragmatically negative one: ‘to prevent the Scandinavian neutral states becoming a regular channel of supply for Germany and Austria, and, at the same time, not to create a feeling of serious hostility or irritation to ourselves’.48 Considering Sweden’s pro-German leanings and the country’s ambivalent behaviour during the war, this was one of the more sensitive diplomatic tasks the conflict had to offer, certainly no ‘child’s play’, as the Foreign Office observed.49 To the Foreign Office, Howard’s work in Stockholm appeared much more demanding and valuable than the task of the British minister to Kristiania, Howard’s old Harrow schoolfellow and long-standing colleague Mansfeldt Findlay.50 Rooted in the conditions of their deployment, Findlay and Howard had differing, almost incompatible ideas about British relations towards Northern Europe. Repeatedly, the two men therefore cordially conflicted over London’s policy-making towards Norway respectively Sweden and the region as a whole. While Howard promoted the further integration of Scandinavia, envisioning a neutral bloc as the most likely and beneficial outcome for Britain, Findlay attempted to prevent the emergence of an entente among the Scandinavian states. Howard assumed that the emergence of an alliance of self-reliant Nordic neutrals would inevitably extract Sweden from its close ties to imperial Germany. Contrary to that, Findlay’s assessment viewed a neutral Scandinavian bloc as opposed to British core interests. Such a construction, Findlay insisted, would lead to nothing but Sweden’s increased meddling in Norwegian affairs, which could only undermine the generally advantageous British position in Western Scandinavia.51 The Foreign Office tended to side with Findlay’s assessment of the situation. Due to the strategic centrality of the Royal Navy’s naval blockade against Germany, Norway remained at the heart of British war-planning and diplomatic activity. London accordingly ballooned the size of the British ministry in Kristiania until the legation eventually possessed

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‘the largest staff of any Legation or Embassy during the war’, and this from being ‘in peace time a diplomatic backwater’, as the British diplomat and agent R. H. Bruce Lockhart stated in his infamous memoirs.52 Even a seasoned diplomat like Esme Howard, however, was not able to swallow his disdain in the face of the Swedish government’s pro-German position and a society agitated by activist lobbying for Germany and its war effort. Stockholm’s conduct was only suited to reinforce his underlying prejudice towards what he regarded as unabashed neutral profiteering in war, with Sweden as the prime example of that species of tertius gaudens, a rejoicing third party.53 The government’s blatant hypocrisy and not least Prime Minister Hammarskjöld’s disingenuousness, as Howard perceived it, left him increasingly bewildered. Hammarskjöld was one of Sweden’s most prominent legal scholars, a renowned expert in international law, who had earlier been a member of the Permanent Court of Arbitration in The Hague and Sweden’s most prominent delegate at the Second Hague Peace Conference of 1907.54 For Howard, though, the conservative and habitually condescending Swedish prime minister was an almost ideal representative of that ‘true blue legalism’.55 In his perception, proGerman Swedes among the country’s elites – like Hammarskjöld – concealed their true political outlook behind spurious legal arguments and a deeply hypocritical application of international law. They, on the one hand, dishonestly raged against the British naval blockade of the North Sea, while, on the other hand, willingly excusing far greater abuses of international law when committed by Germany. Against that backdrop, Howard gleefully observed the emergence of a vocal liberal and social democratic opposition in parliament against the prime minister and his government. ‘The campaign against Hammarskjöld’, he reported in autumn 1916, ‘has developed greatly’.56 About half a year later, amidst a food crisis and mounting hostility between Hammarskjöld and his liberal and more pragmatic foreign minister Wallenberg, the prime minister and his discredited government eventually resigned. What seems to have alienated Howard and the Foreign Office from the chief policy-makers in Stockholm had far less been the generally legitimate Swedish abstention from the conflict, but much rather the country’s endemic refusal to condemn what the British viewed as the excesses of an allegedly German way of war.57 To the hardliners among British policy-makers and propagandists – and even to a highly nuanced observer like Howard, Sweden’s purely legalistic interpretation of its neutrality discredited the country morally. In this view, a mature Scandinavian polity built on Western liberal principles,

32

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or so it was assumed, and the alleged Teutonic propensity to atavistic barbarity and militarism were simply irreconcilable. The consequence of Sweden’s ‘unnatural’ affinity with the German Empire was that the country was held morally accountable for a war it did not fight.58 It was therefore not only in purely economic terms that neutrals were portrayed as war profiteers and hence morally discredited. In the politics and propaganda of moral recrimination, the self-reliant, probably slightly overconfident neutral state had effectively become an immoral pariah.59 On the German side, perceptions were significantly broader and less fixed, which obviously relates to the fact that Sweden and Swedish neutrality worked by and large in Berlin’s favour. Reichenau’s activist sympathies and lobbying for a Swedish entry into the war echoed the line of the military leadership around Ludendorff and the Supreme Army Command (Oberste Heeresleitung, OHL). To Ludendorff, the OHL and the more radical diplomats both in Berlin and Stockholm, it was obvious that Sweden had to be gradually pulled out of its neutral corner. To that overall strategic end, one needed to create objectives of military engagement that eased the Swedish path to war. The most suitable and easily communicable of these aims seemed a Swedish or preferably joint German-Swedish occupation of the Russian-held Åland Islands – an operation that became increasingly likely in the face of Russia’s internationally unlawful fortification of the archipelago.60 The second, more ambitious objective consisted of a possible joint military campaign in order to ‘liberate’, as it is contemporarily portrayed, Finland from Tsarist rule. This remained a possibility throughout the war, especially as Germany systematically trained nationalist activists from Finland, the so-called Jäger troops (i.e. light infantry) which became the core of the Finnish army after 1917.61 Both short-term objectives did eventually come about, albeit rather late in the war, and therefore under profoundly changed circumstances. Even if Stockholm’s neutrality was perpetually pushed to its limits, an all-out involvement in the war or the projected military alliance between Sweden and the Central Powers remained a figment of activist imagination. This as well related to the profound power shift within Swedish politics and society, which had left the once influential right-wing forces of activism marginalized. By 1917, the place that had been vacated was occupied by the country’s social democratic movement, thereby foreshadowing the socialist hegemony of the decades to come.62 Few foreign observers saw this clearer than Lucius, the German minister to Stockholm, whose liberal convictions and realistic assessments of the Swedish political landscape often countered the impression proponents of activism communicated to Berlin.63 Contrary to

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the activist self-portrayal as an increasingly popular government in waiting, Lucius’s perceptive reporting pointed to quite the most significant phenomenon in Swedish society and politics, which activism and its German sponsors tended to neglect: the increasing backing for the government’s neutrality policy by the public, corresponding with the general strategic weakness of the pro-German right-wing forces in Swedish politics’. Lucius saw the limited prospects of the Swedish activist movement much more clearly than most of the activists themselves and some of his colleagues in the German foreign office, let alone the German military leadership. He viewed the well-connected efforts as political residue of a previous age that still somewhat exercised undue influence, but could not command real political power in Stockholm or beyond. Through his frequent interventions, the German minister attempted to keep Berlin on track in supporting Hammarskjöld’s and Wallenberg’s neutrality policy. In his assessment, not only Sweden would benefit from the preservation of its neutrality but also the German Empire, first of all and rather obviously on economic grounds. Preserving Stockholm’s neutrality made sense from a diplomatic angle as well, especially if one considered a possible separate peace with the Entente and here mostly with Russia – or if one worked towards the disintegration and collapse of Tsarist Russia. Both strategic views were held by Lucius at different stages of the war, mostly in line with the more alert members of the German diplomatic corps.64 With the advent of social democratic and liberal politics in Sweden in the last years of the war a new conception of neutrality emerged both in the country’s public discourse and – at about the same time – among the neutral states in general. This change was linked to both the moral pressure neutrals had been exposed to and to the horrors of war, as they had been vividly reported in the press.65 Against that backdrop, the traditional framework of neutrality, as established during the heyday of legal internationalism in the late nineteenth century and codified in the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907, gradually fell apart. It was not necessarily the supposed ‘decline of neutrality’ Nils Ørvik identified in his classic study of 1953, but much rather a replacement of an older legal umbrella with something more dynamic – a transition from The Hague’s ‘Empire of Law’ to the new age of Wilsonian liberal internationalism.66 At the onset of the war, notions of neutrality were based on an existing and internationally accepted legal code, last enshrined in the ‘Rights and Duties of a Neutral Power’ of the Hague Convention of 1907; by the end of the war, neutrality as a purely legal conception had fallen into disrepute and was being reinvented along explicitly ideological, anti-legalist, and distinctly internationalist lines

34

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within the much larger umbrella of inter-, partly supranational cooperation and collective security.67 In effect, neutrality had been reframed not in terms of legal privilege and obligation, but much rather as a virtue in itself. From a position of necessity born out of weakness, associated with lack of principle and opportunism, the neutral transformed into a moral superior, no more so than in post-war Sweden. Versailles and the League of Nations were therefore much rather – as Steven Wertheim and Mark Mazower have argued – an endpoint to the accustomed practices of international law, not its harbinger or sponsor.68

3

Royal Diplomacy Three Kings Posturing? Royal Diplomacy and Scandinavian Neutrality in the First World War

Introduction One of the major events for the neutral powers of Northern Europe in the initial stages of the First World War was a meeting at Malmö in Southern Sweden on the 18th and 19th of December 1914. This gathering, promptly known – and even contemporarily staged – as the Three Kings’ Meeting (Swed. Trekungamötet), brought the Swedish king, Gustav V, together with his counterparts Haakon VII of Norway and Christian X of Denmark. The meeting was accompanied by political talks among the foreign ministers of the three Scandinavian states, Knut Wallenberg for Sweden, Nils Ihlen for Norway, and Erik Scavenius for Denmark. The summit was widely reported, almost amounting to a minor sensation in both the national, the Scandinavian, and the international press. It had a twofold aim, legitimizing the governments’ neutral policies in the war in their respective domestic arenas and coordinating Scandinavia’s widely differing neutrality policies and political orientations vis-à-vis the major belligerent powers. Malmö built upon previous efforts at collaborating on neutrality policy – like the negotiations prior to releasing neutrality regulations in late 1912 – and was followed by a second meeting of the monarchs in November 1917 in Kristiania and regular consultations at ministerial level. All this suggests an importance that contemporaries clearly sensed. In the course of the twentieth century, however, historiography relegated the meeting more or less to the sidelines, along with the more general indifference towards the Scandinavian experience of the First World War in both research and the public. Recently, though, interest in the First World War has been fuelled

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Scandinavia and the Great Powers in the First World War

by a host of recent publications, largely in line with the more general trend to recasting the Great War as the defining source of the twentieth century’s desolation and destruction. Opposed to that, the study of Scandinavian diplomacy and politics – let alone of the royal diplomacy of the conflict – has not necessarily benefitted from this development. A generally excellent overview of Scandinavia during the War, written by the few leading specialists on the subject in Northern Europe, symptomatically dismisses the Three Kings’ Meeting at Malmö just before Christmas 1914 as ‘posturing’ against the much more dominant backdrop of disintegration and lack of coordination within the region.1 There are good grounds for this view, especially if one considers the diverse policies and practices of neutrality throughout Scandinavia during the War from an angle of political history. It is undoubted that neither the diplomatic initiatives of the Scandinavian states nor the always rather elusive ‘altruistic’ and ‘idealistic Scandinavianism’ that had shaped public discourse since the nineteenth century translated into anything even remotely resembling a coordinated neutrality policy, let alone the building of a coherent neutral bloc in Europe’s north.2 But then, would it necessarily have to be in order to become worth considering? Differing from the premises of traditional political and diplomatic history, the role of Scandinavian royals in the conflict and in particular the Three Kings’ Meeting offer an ideal field for testing the significance of a cultural historical approach to the study of war, as explored by Peter Stadius in a recent article.3 This chapter intends to revisit both Three Kings’ Meetings not – or at least not primarily – by judging them according to their concrete political impact on Scandinavian neutrality or on future regional policy in terms of Nordic cooperation. Instead, it broadens the scope and views Malmö and – albeit to a much lesser extent – Kristiania as an object for a culturally orientated history of international politics, both in terms of their contemporary perception in the Scandinavian countries and among the major belligerent powers.4 Practically, this orientation applies on several levels: firstly and primarily, the royal conferences are explored as examples of the ‘mechanics of monarchical relations’, reinforced by the events’ symbolic character.5 My analysis is largely centred on this aspect, not least because it differs most markedly from the few existing interpretations in Nordic (and international) historiography. With few recent exceptions, earlier research tends to view the royal meetings from a traditional diplomatic and political historical angle, thereby judging it according to its allegedly negligible impact on practical policy. With newer

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tendencies in the history of diplomacy interpreting political actions and structures as symbolically reinforced and even produced phenomena, this line of distinction has blurred.6 A number of recent studies have illustrated that the symbolic and ritualized framework, in which the political is based, is a constitutive element of politics – and not its largely trivial accessory.7 Allegedly proper politics in the traditional sense cannot be divorced from its symbolic and ritual representations. Against such a backdrop, the role and representation of the nationalized monarchies of the late nineteenth century both within nation-states and in the international system have been reassessed, early on by David Cannadine and most systematically by Johannes Paulmann in his ground-breaking study Pomp und Politik of 2000.8 For Paulmann, the ‘time-specific theatricality in European politics at the turn of the 20th century’ refashioned the monarch in nationalideological terms, as the personification of the ‘abstract units of nation and state on the international stage’. Global processes deemed unavoidable, supraindividual, and often intimidating were, according to Paulmann, translated into the concrete shape of personal meetings among monarchs and hence rendered the complex understandable and tangible.9 With the evolution of nation-states and increasingly nationalized publics, the traditional function of European monarchs, linking state and dynastical rule, had faded into the background. Residua of the old dynastic ‘internationalism’, that ‘Royal International’ of the Vienna order, can still be found in and about 1914.10 In effect, however, monarchical relations had been privatized. The monarchs function – and indeed role – became that of a hinge between abstract politics on the one hand, and nationally mobilized publics. In this, the monarch did not only act domestically, as long assumed in historiography, but also and most powerfully within the international system. As participants, even as representations of that ‘global play’, as Paulmann describes it, the ‘royal actors’ reinforced existing constellations and developments in the international arena.11 At the heart of this symbolic enactment were state visits and monarchical meetings, as demonstrated here through the gathering of the three Scandinavian kings just before Christmas 1914. Paulmann’s observation about the contemporary use of the metaphor theatre (or any of its derivatives) to describe, characterize, or even criticize and dismiss royal gatherings at the turn of the twentieth century leads him to employ the concept ‘theatricality’ as a value-neutral analytical tool.12 Indebted to Paulmann’s approach, I intend to explicitly employ the metaphorical constituents of a theatre, the theatre’s stage, and its ‘inhabitants’ – actors and spectators – as ordering principles for

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the subsequent analysis.13 Through that, it is hoped, the performative, theatrical character of the event will be communicated more immediately. My second line of interpretation examines the meetings as one of a number of tentative steps towards greater policy integration in Northern Europe, rhetorically foreshadowing what was to emerge as Nordic cooperation. Such an approach has been at the centre of earlier – though unfortunately unpublished – research by Jan Ahtola Nielsen and of more recent contributions by Ruth Hemstad and Peter Stadius, who see the meeting as an ‘important event in the history of Nordic cooperation’.14 As evident as this interpretation seems, all the more against the backdrop of Nordic cooperation since then, its explanatory power is limited. By accentuating the Nordic component of the meeting and placing it at the effective beginning of future integration efforts in the region, Malmö becomes part of the Nordic project that the rather Whiggish and often self-congratulatory historiography of Nordic integration has been celebrating for decades.15 It is obvious that such a practice can easily turn into a retrospective projection of subsequent sensibilities, rendering the assessment – at least by tendency – teleological and thus ahistorical.16 While acknowledging its implications and apparent place in the evolution of a coordinated Scandinavian foreign policy, the main argument of this chapter illustrates the function of symbolic politics in the societies of Northern Europe. In this view, the two summits and their careful enactments appear less anachronistic, but much rather as constitutive and indeed productive elements of Scandinavian neutral discourse, targeting both the ‘home front’ – that is three rather diverging publics – and the international arena. The cultural historical analysis of neutral discourse furthermore allows for emphasizing the transnational aspects of Scandinavian societies in and around the outbreak of the First World War, here exemplified through the common monarchical framework Sweden, Norway, and Denmark shared. By adopting key analytical concepts from, among others, Paulmann’s comprehensive study on monarchical state visits and meetings in the long nineteenth century, my analysis reads monarchical relations, state politics, and self-assertiveness fundamentally as transnational phenomena. It thereby attempts to move beyond previous interpretations of the event as mere royal ‘posturing’ – a view that comfortably ignores the unceasing prominence of symbolic action in modern politics and diplomacy.17 Combining international, transnational, and comparative aspects, Scandinavia’s monarchical relations in the First World War make for an ideal, albeit regrettably unexplored element of international politics in line with recent research tendencies in First World War studies.18

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Setting stages: Malmö in December 1914 As developed earlier, at the outbreak of the war in 1914, the three Scandinavian countries diverged in quite a number of fields: different neutrality policies and traditions, foreign political and strategic orientations, as well as domestic conditions rather kept the region apart. Furthermore, the reverberations of the 1905 crisis lingered on, without gathering actual political relevance, but still well suited to hamper a Swedish-Norwegian rapprochement. Symptomatically, this inhibition was first overcome in the realm of foreign and especially neutrality policy. It was the spectre and increasingly realistic expectation of a global conflict, which tended to bring the Scandinavian kingdoms together. The Three Kings’ Meeting in Malmö can be considered as the fullest and certainly most popular expression of that tendency. It would, however, have to be seen against a much larger backdrop of intensified trilateral diplomacy and policy coordination, framed by pre-war efforts to collaborate on neutrality policy, like the negotiations prior to releasing neutrality regulations in late 1912, and the subsequent royal summit in November 1917 in Kristiania. Considering the almost violent breakaway of Norway from its previous union with Sweden just nine years earlier, the momentous symbolic effect the conference had upon both the Scandinavian and international public is indicative for the prominence the meeting possessed in the contemporary imagination – ‘an event of more than momentary importance’, The Spectator, for instance, expected.19 The initiative for the meeting rested with Stockholm. The actual impulse originated with foreign minister Wallenberg – and not, as contemporarily spread, with the king, who was rumoured to have been sceptical in the beginning. For Wallenberg, employing royal diplomacy in a generally volatile situation catered two elementary interests of Swedish or at least the government’s foreign policy in the early stages of the war: the consolidation of the country’s neutrality course both at home and in the larger diplomatic and security-political environment on the one hand, and the improvement – or much rather: the recovery – of the Swedish-Norwegian relations after the bilateral hostility of 1905.20 Wallenberg and the neutrality proponents in the government assumed that linking Stockholm’s political interest to the differing approaches to neutrality in Denmark and especially Norway would somewhat rub off on Sweden and defuse the country’s highly volatile domestic situation, thereby, as Howard observed, ‘greatly strengthen[ing] [the] position of [the] Minister for Foreign Affairs and the neutral party here’.21 Trying to facilitate such a development, the British minister

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even recommended to discipline the British press prior to the meeting ‘so that they may refrain from comments likely to irritate Scandinavian susceptibilities’, which was promptly arranged for.22 Howard himself was a passionate advocate not only of Wallenberg’s efforts at creating a neutral bloc in Northern Europe, but also and more generally of further integration in the region. Through cooperation with Copenhagen and Kristiania, Howard – and others – believed, Stockholm’s long-standing affinity to Germany could be balanced and anti-Entente elements in the country’s foreign policy contained. As indicated earlier, Howard’s pendant in Kristiania, Mansfeldt Findlay, opposed such a rapprochement and the idea of an entente of neutral Scandinavian states on reverse grounds. Bringing Norway to close to Sweden would actually, Findlay argued with the Foreign Office, undermine the autonomy and – implicitly – the pro-British character of Norwegian foreign policy.23 The war’s great power politics and the question of Scandinavian neutrality were evidently never very far apart. The king’s initial misgivings about meeting his Danish and especially his Norwegian counterparts (and cousins), certainly reinforced by an unabashedly activist court environment, was in any case swiftly overcome. His letter of 6 December 1914 to Christian X, the king of Denmark and older of his two cousins, is a clear statement of intent, sounding cautiously out how best to arrange for a rapprochement with Norway: My beloved Christian. I send you these lines through landshövding [i.e. regional governor Eric af] Trolle whom you have known for a very long time. My keen wish is that as soon as possible a meeting with you and your brother Carl [i.e. Haakon VII, King of Norway] is arranged in and for matters related to our common interests as neutral states. It is my firm belief that under the recent general circumstances in Europe we must stay together. Through such a meeting a friendlier relationship should also emerge. The timing for such a move towards Norway seems right now the most fitting. … With many greetings to the whole family and to you Yours always sincere old friend and uncle Gustaf.24

The Norwegian king Haakon, Christian’s younger brother, was generally affirmative, but indicated himself certain misgivings rather typical for the Norwegian position in 1914. Unclear about the exact content and motive for the meeting, Haakon informed the British minister Findlay on 13 December that he and – by implication – his government considered dealing with Denmark

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and Sweden separately as preferable, as official consultations among three governments would in any case be prone to ‘much more friction’ than private bilateral discussions.25 Haakon’s reservations are symptomatic for both the distinctly sceptical Norwegian position on a rapprochement with Sweden and the emotional gulf that continued to separate the royal houses of Norway and Sweden as a result of the crisis of 1905.26 This friction as well translated into the concrete preparations, with Haakon rejecting the idea of convening in Stockholm, the capital of the dissolved union, which carried with it too much symbolic-political connotation of the Swedish imperial past for Kristiania to accept. Haakon himself preferred Gothenburg close to the Norwegian border as an alternative, while the king of Denmark had apparently suggested Malmö in the expectation that one could continue ones gathering at his own summer residence Fredensborg Palace, right opposite Malmö at the Danish side of the Oresund. Eventually, once Stockholm had been vetoed by Haakon, royal diplomacy settled for Malmö, without the projected Fredensborg addition, though.27 The question of where, when, and under what circumstances to arrange a state visit was – and always has been – an intricate issue, all the more in royal diplomacy. Malmö is only representative for the observation ‘that difficulties of detail’ could easily wreck proposed demonstrations of unity and solidarity.28 This is largely due to the symbolic dimension of the act that is being exercised. Paulmann has explored the complexity of the process of ‘arriving’ in the monarchical context. The moment a monarch crossed the border into another monarch’s territory, he maintains, the actual act of crossing had to be ritually defused. The entire ceremonial framework, traditionally held at the physical border and further extended by the highly ritualized travel of the received monarch through the receiving state territory, thereby amounted to a ‘ritual of mitigation’. This ritualized and recurrent violation of both physical borders and imaginary limits transformed the visiting monarch from a potential intruder into a welcomed ‘guest’, an at least symbolic threat to the integrity and sovereignty of the state became a friendship-inducing collective act.29 In the second half of the nineteenth century, however, the ritualized reception of a foreign monarch had been moved away from the state border and to places more in line with the new conditions of mobility. Paulmann describes the railway station in its contemporary shape as the perfectly purpose-built place in order to arrange for the reception of a monarchical visitor.30 In the case of Malmö, the harbour would have to be added as a site of reception, which permitted for the strongly symbolic arrival of Christian X on the Danish cruiser Heimdal (not the royal

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yacht Dannebrog). The remaining film footage of Christian’s arrival in the harbour adds a modern dynamic to the event, reinforced by the royal motor vehicle employed in order to chauffeur the three monarchs through the centre of the city.31 The Danish king’s preference for a battle ship obviously related to the conditions of war, which had begun to severely affect the Baltic and not least the German-Danish relations. Symbolically, however, it could as well be read as a reference to the traditional status of Denmark as a maritime great power, as – albeit for the last time – in evidence in both Schleswig Wars decades earlier.32 Both harbour and railway station share similar features and facilitate the transformation explored above. The train station, Malmö Central, rebuilt as a terminus in 1872 and equipped with a representative clock tower of the midnineteenth century, was by then still connected to the city’s inner harbour, so that both modes of arrival could be ceremonially catered for.33 Malmö was therefore well suited for the purposes of enacting a symbolically powerful event. Its geographical location and easy accessibility both by train and sea made it close to ideal for a gathering of Scandinavian monarchs. In that, the decision in favour of Malmö followed a regular pattern in the choice of venues for monarchical gatherings. According to Paulmann’s detailed reconstruction, if meetings did not take place in the typically much better-equipped capitals, monarchs prior to 1914 preferred to gather in three alternative environments: residences of related dynasties, resorts, and – Malmö following the pattern – harbour cities (or even anchoring berths off the coast).34 Even if the actual decision in favour of Malmö in December 1914 was mostly pragmatically motivated, it could – and indeed was – as well be interpreted as a generous Swedish concession to Danish and Norwegian sensibilities on the one hand, and to public discourse on the other. It was a compromise not only in geographic, but also in symbol-political terms.35 As the central city – even the principal residential place – of the traditionally Danish region of Skåne, the meeting was held in an historical environment not only physically close to the Danish border, but also strongly Danish in its regional character. Since medieval times, Malmö had been a cultural, economic, and political centre for the Danish crown and not least the birthplace of the Danish reformation. Only in 1658 – as a result of the Treaty of Roskilde – Denmark was forced to cede its large territorial possessions in Southern Sweden, among them Skåne with Malmö.36 During the heyday of Scandinavianism in the mid-nineteenth century, Malmö gathered increasing importance as a centre of Scandinavianist lobbying and a meeting place for royal diplomacy. Against the backdrop of the First and Second Schleswig

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Wars, Malmö functioned as the site of occasional meetings of the Danish and Swedish monarchs, Fredrik VII and Karl XV Johan (respectively the latter’s father, Oscar I), among them a prolonged period of international negotiations in 1848, hosted by Oscar I, which resulted in the – eventually ineffectual – DanishPrussian Treaty of Malmö.37 Another significant series of meetings in and around Malmö, this time between Fredrik and Karl Johan, took place just ahead of the Second Schleswig War, when the crisis necessitated discussions about a probable Scandinavian defence union. Reigning in personal union over Sweden-Norway, both Oscar I and Karl Johan were rather eagerly in favour of Scandinavianism, but repeatedly failed to enforce concrete commitments in favour of Denmark onto their respective governments or parliament, the Swedish Riksdag.38 With the public both in Denmark and Sweden frantic over the Schleswig Question, Malmö in 1863–64 transformed into a hub of Scandinavianist agitation whose memory remained strong even until after the turn of the century.39 Even if the Danish defeat of 1864 had effectively done away with union rhetoric and political Scandinavianism for a while, a new, less political and at the same time pragmatic variety emerged around 1900, the so-called neo-Scandinavianism (Swedish: nyskandinavism), which sought alternatives to political integration, first and foremost in the cultural arena, but also in areas like currency politics and law, at the level of a common civil society much rather than through dynastical relation and hegemonial integration.40 This recent offshoot is manifest throughout the meeting, reflected in both the actual staging of the event and the public response. Malmö, in any case, functioned as one of the foremost lieux de mémoire of Scandinavianism and hence well suited for the purposes of the meeting arranged in December 1914.41 Besides historicity and tradition, there was another aspect that recommended Malmö: the city had just enjoyed quite a degree of international attention, hosting the Baltic Exhibition of 1914, a joint exhibition platform for Sweden, Denmark, Germany, and Russia displaying diverse aspects of the modern era from the arts and culture to – typical for the period – industry and technology. At the outbreak of war in early August 1914, Berlin and St Petersburg withdrew their participation; the exhibition continued nonetheless even beyond its official closing date on 30 September until 4 October. Malmö had greatly benefitted from hosting the exhibition. The centre of the city had been rearranged and modernized in line with the urban planning premises of the period. After that, the cityscape of modernized Malmö was somewhat able to cope with a brief royal gathering and the public response to such an event.42 However, especially

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by comparison to capital cities at the onset of the twentieth century, Malmö clearly had palpable deficiencies: despite the expansion and modernization in the lead-up to the Baltic Exhibition, the city’s resources were limited; for a start, it did not possess any major representative building that would allow hosting an official royal visit, let alone the convergence of three monarchs and their accompanying court at the same time. The only building of suitable proportions that could in principle compensate for the absence of a proper royal residence was the eighteenth-century regional governor’s residence (Swedish: länsresidenset), ideally situated at the city’s main square, Stortorget.43 Despite its deficiencies particularly in terms of size and capacity, the residence had already hosted numerous royal meetings in the past, among them the lengthy negotiations preceding the 1848 Treaty of Malmö. Furthermore, Gustav’s grandfather, Karl Johan, had died in the Malmö residence in the summer of 1872, returning from medical treatment in Germany. During the summit in December 1914, Gustav occupied the residence of regional governor Robert de la Gardie, while the visiting monarchs had to be accommodated in two of the more representative buildings of the city’s centre: Christian in the home of the bank director and newspaper editor, later turned local and national politician, Carl Herslow; Haakon in the house of Louise Kockum, the widow of a local industrialist and shipyard owner. The royal presence in the town was marked by Swedish soldiers from the crown prince’s hussars regiment guarding the different properties with drawn sabres.44

Actors: Three kings, no queens With the arrival of the kings of Norway, Denmark, and – as well – Sweden on Friday, 18 December 1914, the stage was set. Already the process of convergence on Malmö was indicative for established royal practices of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The meeting can certainly be regarded as a rather typical expression of ‘peripatetic rule’, the increasing habit of monarchs to represent and rule by constantly and ritually moving about their territories or – on state visits – abroad.45 The monarchy thereby intended to consolidate its public profile in an age of nationalism and mass mobilization that had effectively obliterated the modalities, structures, and certainties of early-nineteenthcentury dynastical politics. Wilhelm II of Germany appears as an admittedly extreme, nonetheless representative example for a political practice aimed at the

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popular adjustment of the monarchy to the requirements of bourgeois-industrial modernity. The ceaseless, almost breathless representation mirrors ‘the desire on the part of a charismatic monarchy … to transform the monarchy into the institution monopolizing the idea of the empire’ or, as in this case, the idea of both nation and region, ‘through its public omnipresence, the multiplication of speeches, parades, inaugurations and commemorative ceremonies’.46 John Röhl’s analysis of the domestic function of Wilhelm’s vagrant rule could equally apply to Christian X, Gustav V, or Haakon VII. The constellation at Malmö, however, was even more complex than with regular state visits, as the three Scandinavian kings addressed a number of audiences at the same time: an obviously local and the wider national context, especially in terms of popularizing a nationalized vision of monarchy, as well as a nordic (not necessarily Nordic) and international environment, both equally volatile. Just as the audiences both differed and overlapped, the intentions, expectations, and policies attached to the meeting varied among the participants, both among kings and governments as well as between kings and their respective governments. Despite the metamorphosis of monarchical rule in the nineteenth century, the tension between the outmoded and the modern appears no more drastic than in the continuum of dynastical relations. In Malmö, this was obvious in the relationship of the three kings to one another. Christian X of Denmark (1870–1947) and Haakon VII of Norway (1872–1957) were brothers of the reigning house of Glücksburg, with Haakon known as Prince Carl of Denmark until his ascension to the throne of Norway in 1905. Through their mother they were related to the Swedish royal family. Gustav V (1858–1950) was actually their great uncle. Both Gustav and Carl came to the throne in the midst of the Scandinavian crisis, triggered by the collapse of the union of Sweden and Norway, with Carl ascending to the throne of Norway in November 1905 and Gustav to the Swedish two years later. (Christian followed slightly later, after the death of his father, Fredrik VIII, in Hamburg on 14 May 1912.) The crisis, further deepened by the great powers formally guaranteeing Norway’s sovereignty and territorial integrity in November 1907, which Stockholm perceived as distinctly anti-Swedish, had left not only the Scandinavian publics at odds, but also the royal houses of Sweden and Norway, though less so in their relations with Denmark.47 From 1905 onwards, there had not been any regular gatherings among the royal families, apart from their common attendance of the funeral of Fredrik VIII in 1912, who was Christian’s and Haakon’s father and effectively the ‘father-in-law of Europe’, as he was commonly known.48 Six years

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earlier, after the death of Fredrik’s father, Christian IX, Haakon had been forced to travel incognito through Sweden, thereby avoiding unwanted complications and the heated conflict with the Swedish court and government, while Oscar II of Sweden had deliberately avoided the funeral and sent his sons instead, among them crown prince Gustav. Even though the Three Kings’ Meetings at both Malmö and Kristiania in 1917 did much to mitigate the antagonism as well on the personal level, the collective psychological residua of the crisis were not fully overcome until the late 1920s.49 In his press historical analysis of the Three Kings’ Meeting, Stadius hints at the degree to which the public media observed the rapprochement especially between Gustav and Haakon, while Gustav’s relationship to Christian was apparently deemed intact. Dagens Nyheter even went as far as scrutinizing the minutiae of the royal embrace, when Gustav received his counterparts in the morning of 18 December. It was noted that the Swedish king had greeted Christian with a kiss on each cheek and only extended a single kiss of welcome to Haakon. The conservative Svenska Dagbladet considered the first meeting as having been of ‘cordial warmth, probably with a bit of nervousness at the first moment’.50 In general, however, the presence of the Norwegian king in Malmö appears to have been appreciated throughout, with the press in all three Scandinavian countries highlighting his enthusiastic reception in the city, accompanied by his regal counterparts. Three years later, at the second kings’ meeting in Kristiania in late November 1917, Gustav V received a comparable welcome. He had seen the city last as crown prince of Sweden-Norway sometime before the break-up of the union in 1905. On his insistence, the follow-up meeting of the three kings had been moved to Kristiania. And the Swedish king arrived with an agenda of peace and reconciliation. In a broadly received speech at the gala dinner at the Royal Palace on 29 November, he acknowledged the traumatic intensity of the rift of 1905 and the historicity of the Swedish-Norwegian union. Beyond that, however, the Swedish king emphasized the urgent need to overcome past grievances. With the days of the political union gone, Gustav pointed to a common Nordic future explicitly ‘not along the old lines’, but as a ‘union of reason and hearts’, whose durability would exceed its predecessor, so he hoped. Especially in times of crisis, he continued, solidarity among the three Nordic kingdoms would be paramount in guarding and sustaining the ‘strict and impartial neutrality’ the countries adopted for themselves.51 In Gustav’s densely symbolic visit and the accompanying enthusiasm of a largely Norwegian public, the ghosts of 1905

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were seen to be laid to rest.52 Beyond mending the differences that the union’s break-up had created, he, however, also overcame his own dynastical reserve vis-à-vis Norway, the Norwegian royal family, and – most prominently – his Norwegian counterpart, Haakon VII. This was not an easy process, all the more as Haakon and Gustav were both habitually and politically almost opposite poles. In his ideological disposition, the Swedish king appeared much more aligned with his Danish pendant. What united him with Christian X was, above all, a fervent monarchical conservatism, reinforced by a general suspicion of modern politics, expressly of the twin forces of democratization and parliamentarization. Gustav had shown his disdain for the left and the basic rules of the separation of powers earlier that year by effectively conspiring in the removal of the liberal cabinet Staaff, making the most of the peculiarly modern benefits of mass politics for the right.53 Christian shared this scepticism, even hostility to parliamentary rule, as markedly evident in his political behaviour during the so-called Easter Crisis of 1920. In late March that year, the king effectively brought down the social-liberal (radical left) government of Prime Minister Carl Theodor Zahle over the issue of the Schleswig plebiscites. While Christian – and with him the Danish right – argued vehemently in favour of the further expansion of post-war Denmark well into central Schleswig, including Flensburg, Zahle and his government limited their position vis-à-vis the League of Nations and Germany to the northern and majority Danish-inhabited part of the region.54 Neither Gustav V nor Christian X were, however, able to contain the future electoral hegemony of social democratic and liberal parties in Northern Europe. Opposed to his pendants, Haakon of Norway had embraced this evolutionary process early on. Before his ascension to the Norwegian throne he had supported calls for a referendum on the future political system of the country, which resulted in an almost 80 per cent majority in favour of the establishment of a constitutional monarchy.55 Only after that he accepted the throne, which led Wilhelm II to describe the comparatively liberal Haakon VII acerbically as ‘king by the grace of the people, not much better than the president of a republic’. Part of that reservation was due to Berlin’s own frustrations of not having been able to prevent an ‘English son-in-law’ from ascending to the Norwegian throne.56 In 1896, the then Prince Carl had married at Buckingham Palace his first cousin Princess Maud of Wales, youngest daughter of the future King Edward VII and his wife, Princess Alexandra of Denmark, the first-born daughter of King Christian IX of Denmark. As queen of Norway, Maud had an intense influence on her husband and their immediate

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court environment, closely aligning the Norwegian royal family with their British counterparts and thereby feeding Berlin’s heightened sense of rivalry during the period.57 From Malmö, however, Queen Maud, always reserved when it came to her representative duties, stayed away. On the originally opposing side of the Norwegian-Swedish antagonism, Queen Victoria, herself a princess of the House of Baden and cousin of the German emperor, aptly compensated for the Anglophile orientation of the Norwegian royal family. With virtually the same frequency as Maud in Great Britain before and during the First World War, the Swedish queen travelled to Germany. Her notable absence in Malmö – at least until her arrival on Saturday – was actually due to such a voyage, which she used for political talks in Berlin on 17 and 18 December with the entire elite of German foreign policy-making, among them the emperor, Prime Minister Theobald von Bethmann Hollweg, State Secretary Gottlieb von Jagow and undersecretary Arthur Zimmermann.58 Equipped with a personal message of Wilhelm to Gustav, urging the latter to intervene in the war as soon as possible, she returned to Sweden on 19 December, crossing over from Sassnitz to Malmö and from there together with her husband back to Stockholm.59

Audience: The drama unfolding The nineteenth century had seen the probably most dramatic change in representation and court life. Since the last third of the century, court life as established some fifty years earlier had been almost completely superseded. Instead, monarchical representation involved, as argued above, close to permanent movement, largely by domestic travel, but as well in the context of the growing number of summits abroad. Had court life been shut away from the public and therefore much less structured, the peripatetic and highly theatricalized representation of monarchical power around 1900 required detailed planning. Nothing was left to coincidence, as the consequences of a publically compromised monarch could be potentially lethal for monarchies increasingly tied to public opinion. Risk avoidance and continued control over the interpretation of the event, as termed by Paulmann, dominated the planning procedure.60 Malmö was not altogether different, though more swiftly arranged than comparable meetings of the period. The programme for the 18 and 19 December appeared in any case closely knit and involved the whole repertoire

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of royal representation against the backdrop of a nationalized public, ‘dynastical past and national present’ elegantly and effectively merging.61 The city had been systematically prepared for the meeting both by the local authorities and private initiative. The main streets and square, the harbour and central railway station, the local shops and department stores had all been decorated with an abundance of flags and other decorations, partly reused from the Baltic Exhibition. The more ambitious of those decorations, especially the arrangements in the shopping windows, interpreted the meeting of the three Scandinavian kings as a strongly regional manifestation of peace, ‘Norden as a region of peace detached from a continent consumed by war’.62 Simultaneously, an audience had been brought in, systematically mobilized by the city authorities. In the centre of the enactment were the local dignitaries, among them the regional governor, Robert De la Gardie, and the bishop of Lund, Gottfrid Billing, receiving first Gustav V and foreign minister Wallenberg. The preserved film extracts then illustrate the arrival of Christian X in the harbour area, where the Danish king is expected by Gustav, Wallenberg, and the riksmarskalk, Ludvig Douglas. The same procedure then played out at the railway station, where Haakon VII arrived from Kristiania. Both receptions were marked by a carefully crafted musical programme, to which even the military band of the Danish cruiser contributed when playing the Swedish Kungssången (the king’s song) on arrival. As a gesture of politeness, Gustav even went as far as to first board the Heimdal, before disembarking again with Christian at his side.63 The remarkable use of the royal motor car is equally well reflected in the remaining film extracts. This, however, would have to be rather seen as an unconventional feature for a royal summit of the given proportions. It can certainly be read as an indication of the period’s rapid modernization. In the decade leading up to 1914, the use of cars was increasingly common at European courts. In the context of a carefully crafted ceremony, though, a motorized vehicle was usually deemed ‘unsuitable’.64 ‘The more ordinary motor-driven vehicles became in that time, the more prominent the use of a horse-drawn carriage became to emphasise the ceremoniousness of the event.’65 Contrary to that, and most likely as well due to the evident restrictions of time, in Malmö the royal car was used throughout. In Kristiania three years later, one again had fallen back onto the older premises of the ceremonial arrangement of transportation: the arrival of the foreign monarchs, Gustav V and Christian X, was scheduled for the late morning respectively lunchtime. Both travelled by train to Kristiania’s main station, Østbanestasjonen, built in the mid-nineteenth century and further

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expanded in 1882, and were then transported by royal carriage. Besides that, the protocol closely resembled the one set up for the first of the kings’ meetings. There were the obligatory visits to the respective legations and a special performance at the national theatre. The visit furthermore entailed public engagements of the three monarchs, along with their entourage, especially around Kristiania’s main street, Karl Johans gate, and – on 29 November 1917 – a widely reported gala dinner at the Royal Palace.66 Back to Malmö again: just as Kristiania three years later, Malmö’s programme was tightly scheduled and did not leave a lot of room for manoeuvre or improvisation. The actual negotiations were taken up at the regional governor’s residence on Friday from 11.30 am onwards until lunch time at about one o’clock. After lunch, the monarchs stepped out into the comparatively modest steel balcony in order to receive the ovations of the amassed spectators on Stortorget, several thousand, as contemporarily estimated.67 In the meantime, ca. 400–500 students in their student uniforms, including the typically white caps, had arrived from Lund by train, led by senior academics. Grouped in front of the residence, they intoned traditional songs like Gunnar Wennerberg’s Hör oss, Svea! (Hear us, Sweden!) and – with the monarch’s arrival on the balcony – Johan Ludvig Runeberg’s Vårt land, one of the most canonical patriotic songs of the period in Sweden and Finland.68 After that, the president of the student corps addressed a greeting to the monarchs, Nordens konungar, culminating in the statement: ‘Whilst war welters through Europe, we are fortunate to witness the personified will for consent and trust among the people of the North.’ In essence, the address commits the students of the whole North to work towards the unity of the Scandinavian people, ‘in full awareness of their country’s national tradition and particularity’.69 Stadius builds most of his dense analysis of the actual enactment around the event’s two central pillars, the mobilization of students and the presence of the Swedish church. The students had traditionally been among the forefront of Scandinavianism and were centrally responsible for resuscitating the movement around 1900 again.70 The afternoon of 18 December was spent with a common visit to Malmö’s local city museum. In the evening, a somewhat limited dinner for thirty-two persons was held at the residence, this time with the three foreign ministers in attendance. A concert had been arranged for the evening at the town hall, with the building itself illuminated by a staggering 8,000 electrical lamps. While the three regents walked over the square to reach the town hall, surrounded by the  amassed spectators, a neon sign attached further above and spreading

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over the main square declared: ‘Hell Nordens 3 konungar [Hail to Norden’s three kings]!’ The concert amounted to a ‘Nordic balancing act’, providing an amalgam of patriotic song and lieder by composers from all three Scandinavian countries, performed by a combined male choir from Malmö and Lund.71 The second day of the meeting, Saturday, 19 December 1914, was opened with a church service at St Petri Church in the centre of the city, in which the local vicar, Albert Lysander, evoked the essence of the summit by describing the scene as follows: ‘Norden’s three kings, gathered at the same altar, united in the same thoughts and praying for Norden’s peace and peace on earth.’72 Stadius connects to Lysander’s comprehensive sermon and the liturgy as a whole a discussion of the churches’ role in the wider Nordic context, as it evolved during and especially after the First World War. The double moral authority of the Lutheran churches of Northern Europe, representing both god and the state, would not only have to be seen as enforcing social discipline and obedience in relatively homogenous societies, but also as having contributed fundamentally to the creation of the modern Nordic welfare state.73 Legitimate as this connection certainly is, the primary intention of Lysander’s and the church’s rhetoric in the context of the Three Kings’ Meeting appears to rest with supporting what is at hand: the coordination and harmonization of the divergent policies and orientations of the three Scandinavian states vis-à-vis an escalating war. It is peace or – more precisely – the principled abstention from war that is being celebrated, reinforced by the constant reference to the tradition and rhetoric of a  – with Hemstad – pragmatic neo-Scandinavianism, whose intellectual residua in turn foster the early discourse on Nordism.74 Neutrality, even if it remains largely unnamed in the public utterances, is thereby carefully reinvented as a keystone of the political culture and society of the North. This relates strongly to the tidal change in notions of neutrality and Nordic identity during and in the aftermath of the First World War. At the onset of the war, neutrality in law and political practice was based on an internationally accepted legal code, as enshrined in the ‘Rights and Duties of a Neutral Power’ of the Hague Convention of 1907. One can still see this tendency reflected in the Malmö conference, especially in the actual political deliberations of the foreign ministers. The latter ushered in five more meetings among the three Scandinavian governments, known as the Nordic ministers meetings, in March 1916 in Copenhagen and in September that year in Kristiania, in May 1917 in Stockholm and in November 1917 again in Kristiania (the latter along with the three kings again), and, finally, in late June 1918 in Copenhagen.75 The foreign ministers arranged for the day-to-day affairs

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of policy coordination. Their agenda as well seemed to broaden in the course of their gatherings, moving beyond the immediate challenges of Scandinavian neutrality and even beginning to take up potential post-war questions of common interest to the region.76 In the pragmatism of the ministers’ meetings, one can see the nucleus of Nordic cooperation far more clearly than in the symbolic framework of their royal pendant. Both the rhetoric and the theatricality of the Three Kings’ Meetings in the winters of 1914 and 1917 hint at a popular moral metamorphosis of what it means to be a neutral. This process, however, still largely follows the premises of nineteenth-century royal visits and diplomacy, while the political concretization remained with government ministers and their staff.

Conclusions: Royal diplomacy in Scandinavia as part of the European ‘world-theatre’ When the kings left Malmö in the afternoon of 19 December 1914, again surrounded by celebrating masses, the communique their foreign ministers had drafted echoed the summits diplomatic complexity.77 The meeting’s results were – in concrete terms – rather limited. Collectively, one asserted the ‘Nordic realms peaceful and neutral determination’ and furthermore assured each other and the interested public of the continuation of governmental consultations on the questions addressed.78 In practice, however, the Three Kings’ Meeting had a number of rather significant implications: in the Swedish domestic arena, it certainly consolidated both King Gustav’s and foreign minister Wallenberg’s position. ‘It is now accepted as a fact in Court Circles’, Howard, who knew better, reported from Stockholm on New Year’s Eve that year, ‘that the idea of it [i.e. the meeting] originated entirely with His Majesty, and it is therefore felt that he should have the credit of it. The result has been that it has distinctly strengthened the King’s position, not only in the country generally but also with the advanced Left.’ All apart from this, King Gustav’s own commitment to neutrality had been somewhat reinforced, thereby influencing the court environment and the forces on the right of the political landscape.79 Wallenberg, on the other hand, saw his own and the Hammarskjöld government’s neutrality course reinforced, in particular against the constant pro-war agitation by the activist movement. In practical terms, the meeting had furthermore de-escalated the strained Swedish-Norwegian relationships atmospherically.

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Despite their neutrality- and non-aggression treaty early on in the war, both countries’ geostrategic and military orientations were profoundly divergent, with Norway heavily dependent on British trade and protection and Sweden traditionally Germanophile and intensely linked to Berlin. There were patent limits to the envisioned rapprochement, at least as long as the war lasted, but the most basic of all options had been successfully contained: the possibility of a war between the two states, potentially triggered by the alliance politics and secret diplomacy of the great powers.80 On the southern edge of the region, the meeting itself was as well suited to consolidate the neutral position of Denmark against Germany (or a possible invasion by the British). Forming what was commonly referred to as a ‘neutral bloc’ or a ‘Scandinavian entente’ would ‘no doubt make the Scandinavian Governments rather stiffer as regards issues concerning the rights of neutrals, in matters respecting contraband and maritime trade, than they might otherwise have been’.81 In any case, the most immediate result of the gathering was the institutionalization of consultations among the three Scandinavian governments, which had already been foreshadowed in the 1912 talks on neutrality regulations, but gathered shape, force, and frequency only after Malmö. Regular ministerial consultations eventually led to Malmö’s follow-up, the second Three Kings’ Meeting in the Norwegian capital Kristiania in late November 1917.82 By then, however, crisis had struck, both domestically and in terms of foreign policy and strategy. While in 1914 the Scandinavian kings and their foreign ministers deliberated rather self-confidently on strategies of abstaining from the war and minimizing its consequences, three years later, not a lot of that was left: Norway’s neutrality policy was in tatters and Sweden increasingly involved in a conflict with the newly emerging Republic of Finland. Against the backdrop of growing state interventionism, the actual focus had shifted from coordinating one’s neutrality policies to combatting the socialpolitical and economic reverberations of the war in all Scandinavian societies. With the radicalization of warfare, not least the German unrestricted submarine campaign in early 1917, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden alike suffered from the enormous decline in imports from the much better-equipped Western Powers. Crises in food provisions and other utilities were prone to usher into socialpolitical upheaval and had to be contained by progressively interventionist state apparatus throughout the entire region.83 Against such a backdrop, the premises of the Kristiania meeting of 1917 profoundly differed from Malmö in 1914. The rhetoric and theatrical staging remained almost indistinguishable; the content, however, differed. While Kristiania pointed to a post-war world of fundamental

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change, Malmö still breathed the soft power remnants of the royal international network of the nineteenth century.84 Apart from these more or less practical consequences, the gatherings of the three Scandinavian kings (and their foreign ministers) in Malmö and Kristiania should as well be read as characteristic for that new type of monarchical interaction and self-conceptions. As symbolically exercised in both cities at the beginning and towards the end of the war, monarchical and state visits were festivities that went beyond the manifestation of nation and state. Their choreography rested on the inclusion of civil – primarily bourgeois – society with its own institutions, practices, and expectations. The kings actually catered to that in their itinerary and even in their dress code, preferring to display – in the course of the conference – rather typically bourgeois clothing, matching long black coats and top hats instead of uniforms and the accompanying royal attire. Along with them and their part, the participation of the nationalized masses was constitutive for the theatrical enactment altogether. In that, the mobilized public appeared both as an audience and an actor. This is especially evident in the much more pronounced rhetoric the public – whether students, singing and marching masses, or church – cultivated, which naturally contrasts to the diplomats’ rather sober declaration of intent. The staging and theatrical arrangement of Malmö and Kristiania, imbued with dense national and supranational symbolism, seems to have affected the public to a far greater extent than the professionals, that is the kings and their ministers. The public’s sensibilities and projections, in short: their emotions, were constitutive to the procedure. ‘Theatrical state visits’, Paulmann concludes, ‘provided the imagined nation with a concrete face, or better: they provided it with many real faces in different costumes. Community and society did not exclude, but rather complement each other in the ritual event.’85 Both Malmö and Kristiania certainly appear as epitomes of that peculiar amalgamation of past and present.

4

Activism and Politics Activism, Diplomacy, and Swedish‐German Relations during the First World War

Activism is a phenomenon of nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Europe that lends itself to comparative study, especially with regard to the aspiring national movements in Central and Eastern Europe. Their ambition, generally speaking, was the break-up of the existing multinational empires – the Russian, the Austrian, and the Ottoman – and the establishment of ethno-nationally homogenous nation-states. The former became the region’s new political reality after 1918, if not necessarily caused, then at least greatly precipitated by the First World War. The overarching collapse of the Romanov, Habsburg, and Ottoman empires in Central, Eastern, and South-Eastern Europe was accompanied by the emergence of smaller- and medium-sized nation-states all over the region. The problem of ethno-national homogeneity, however, remained unsolved. It was practically only translated from an imperial level accustomed to deal with difference and divergence to the level of often newly created nation-states whose essentialist foundation myths propagated the elimination of difference. Finland and Finnish nationalist activism as well as the early history of the Finnish state – the period after 1917/18 – does not substantially differ from that trajectory. Here too, activism follows a common pattern constitutive for the region as a whole. As will be argued in a subsequent chapter, however, what sets Finland apart is the longevity of adherence to the Russian imperial umbrella, primarily in terms of the genesis of modern Finnish statehood and indeed even national self-conception. Finland’s is the seeming paradox of both a state and a nation created and developed as an imperial entity. It was an autonomous state within an empire first, gradually adding an ethno-national (and indeed strongly linguistic) dimension to its societal conditions and collective sensibilities, tolerated, even encouraged by the imperial authorities.1

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Crude, by any given standards of the time, is the example of Swedish Activism. Sweden before 1914 was a rather strange hybrid, neither an empire and great power – anymore – nor an aspiring nation-state trying to capitalize upon the demise of imperial rule in Europe. It was, as will be seen, a country in transition, with a fluctuating, unstable political landscape at home and a society not really at ease with its gradually modernizing self. Activism under such conditions differed structurally from comparable cases in Central and Eastern Europe, both in its intellectual origins and goals. This chapter re-explores Swedish Activism in the international arena of the First World War’s politics and diplomacy, not least in its ambivalent relationship to its alleged protégé, the Finnish activist movement. Its purpose is a straightforward one: I contend that unofficial, informal, private, or alternative variants of diplomacy, however one would like to label them, are by no means a recent phenomenon, but much rather belong to the key, indeed constitutive elements of traditional aristocracy- and courtbased diplomacy. Instead of waning or disappearing in the face of diplomacy’s gradual professionalization from the nineteenth century onwards, these features remained influential, even against the backdrop of eroding or often rapidly transforming political systems and inter-state relations in the early twentieth century.2 Especially against the backdrop of the culturalist turn in the study of the history of international relations, Alan James’s definition of diplomacy as ‘personal activity in the international field of official representatives, and … the use of those representatives to conduct relations between states’ would have to be carefully reassessed.3 My example for illustrating the continued effect of unofficial or semi-official diplomatic networks on the perception and making of policy is situated within the larger context of the First World War, on what might be considered a relative sideshow of the conflict: the relations between neutral Sweden and the German Empire. It is here, enabled by the neutral abstention of Sweden from the conflict, that politics and diplomacy most effectively preserved their function and even enhanced their significance, while increasingly obscuring the delineation between the official and the unofficial, almost to the point of rendering such distinctions useless. While Sweden’s neutrality certainly bears a host of typical features, it is the rather untypically vehement orientation towards Berlin that makes the country such an unorthodox case among the neutrals of the First World War.4 Germany’s case for war and conduct in war was after all not necessarily popular among the neutral powers and especially the neutral publics. While Berlin’s disregard for Belgian neutrality and territorial sovereignty had already severely damaged

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its credibility, the increasing propagandistic moralization of the conflict and further, at times blatant violations of international law left the German cause for war deeply discredited.5 In Sweden, however, a significant and vocal segment of society sympathized with the German war effort and agitated in favour of a Swedish entry into the war on the side of the Central Powers. Activism, as this political movement was known, was suited to compromise the government’s neutrality course and therefore to expose the country to considerable foreignpolitical risks, no more so than during the crucial years 1914 and 1915.6 In a nutshell, the movement can be described as a still potent rearguard battle of the old elites. It comprised quite a large chunk of the culturally Germanophile, ideologically monarchist and national-conservative forces in Swedish politics, culture, especially the academia and – most forcefully – in the military as well as the wider environment of the Swedish court. In the domestic arena, this broad coalition of right-wing forces had just produced the last major crisis of Swedish politics, the so-called Courtyard Crisis of early 1914 (borggårdskrisen), in whose wake the liberal government Staaff was forced to resign.7 Their political views and aims, indeed their belief system as a whole, harked back to the heyday of Swedish imperial might in Northern Europe, with the ultimately existential struggle against a projected ‘Russian menace’ at its heart.8 This was a residual imperialist agenda of a small and increasingly insignificant state that had lost an empire, but had not yet found a role.9 Against that backdrop, an alliance with Germany was supposed to eliminate the greatly exaggerated danger from the East, return the Åland Islands to Sweden, and liberate a supposedly subjugated Finland from the Russian clutch. As such, Sweden would be restored as the halfhegemon of Northern Europe, albeit at Germany’s benevolent mercy.10 A minority within this network of pro-German proponents, however, was decidedly non-conservative by political affiliation and related to Swedish social democratic traditions. Based on common Russophobic sensibilities, socialist youth politicians like Yngve Larsson and Otto Järte responded to the broad appeal of the politically complex and swiftly modernizing German nation-state, not least to Germany’s influential and exemplarily organized labour movement and Social Democratic Party.11 The more prominent cast among the Activists were nonetheless evident nationalist conservatives like Sven Hedin, the by then world-famous explorer, geographer, and ardent monarchist, or the violently proGerman minister for Culture and Church Affairs Karl Gustaf Westman, Rudolf Kjellén, one of the country’s foremost academics and the effective founder of modern geopolitics.12 At court, it was principally King Gustav’s wife, Victoria,

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Queen of Sweden, princess of the House of Baden and through her mother a cousin of Wilhelm II, who lobbied the activist cause, seconded by the immediate court environment, among them the chamberlain to the royal family Robert Douglas and his aged, though still influential father Ludvig, the imperial marshal (in Swedish riksmarskalk) and former foreign minister.13 Already the British minister to Stockholm before the war, Cecil Spring Rice, had struggled with the unabashedly pro-German attitude of the court. He warned his successor, Esme Howard, in no uncertain terms: ‘I think the Court officials are the very devil: Berlin and putty. You will loathe them.’14 Gustav himself was to an extent an object of different influences, often explicitly sympathetic to the activist and – by implication – the German cause. Occasionally, however, the king wavered and showed himself receptive towards the more moderate position of the government, as especially reflected in his dealings with the liberal foreign minister Knut Wallenberg, whom the activists – not least the queen – considered Francophile by disposition and an impediment for the more conservative and allegedly proGerman views of Sweden’s prime minister Hjalmar Hammarskjöld.15 Another central streak within Swedish Activism was the presence of Finnish nationalist Activists in both Sweden and Germany, largely Swedish-speaking Finns of the cultural and especially academic elites of fin-de-siècle Helsinki. In their political programme, Finnish and Swedish Activists agreed upon most, especially the geostrategic expulsion of Tsarist Russia from Northern Europe and the resulting establishment of some sort of sovereign Finnish state. Differences on Åland, which Finnish nationalists claimed with equal vigour as their Swedish counterparts, were only superficially contained and erupted time and again, especially against the backdrop of the Russian collapse in 1917.16 It might – prima facie – seem peculiar that, on the German side, Swedish and Finnish Activism was not unequivocally positively received. Opinion on a Swedish entry into the war was divided along rather typical lines, with the military leadership around Ludendorff and the Supreme Army Command (OHL) largely in favour, the German foreign office (Auswärtiges Amt) opposed or at least sceptical, and Wilhelm II uncertain, though intensely interested and even more easily influenced.17 On closer inspection, however, this division does not really hold true, especially with regard to the foreign office. State Secretary Gottlieb von Jagow, a subdued, introspective, often sickly, and hardly visible diplomat with a preference for containment and de-escalation, considered the Activists as politically largely negligible and as quite a nuisance.18 The state secretary’s view of Swedish politics and especially the probability of a Swedish military engagement

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were in turn influenced by the reporting of the German minister to Stockholm, the liberal and habitually rather upper-bourgeois Hellmuth Lucius von Stoedten, who had – in early 1915 – taken over from Franz von Reichenau.19 Reichenau had been almost Lucius’s exact opposite, a war-mongering nationalist conservative and confidant of Queen Victoria, an ‘energetic and modern diplomatist’, as the Swedish press portrayed him on arrival in 1911.20 With the escalation of the crisis in July, he had effectively functioned as an agent of the Activist movement, agitating in favour of a swift Swedish entry into the war on the part of the Central Powers. It was the German minister’s curious and wholly undiplomatic lack of self-restraint, his ‘somewhat nervous temperament’, and the impulsive, at times unauthorized diplomatic initiatives he entertained that eventually forced the Swedish king to request his removal from Stockholm.21 At that point, in early January 1915, the Auswärtiges Amt and the German government were already fully prepared to have the increasingly counter-productive minister replaced.22 Just like the more aggressive Reichenau, Jagow’s Under Secretary of State and in November 1916 his eventual successor, Arthur Zimmermann, eagerly adopted the Activist cause. A bourgeois-conservative Prussian with strong links to the OHL, Zimmermann lobbied both within the Auswärtiges Amt and in Berlin for the Activist agenda of a close Swedish alliance with the German Empire.23 As most of the Activists Zimmermann was aware that in order to attain the primary strategic goal, one needed to create objectives of military engagement that eased the Swedish path to war: the most suitable and easily communicable of these objectives seemed a Swedish or preferably joint German-Swedish occupation of the Russian-held Åland Islands – an operation that became increasingly likely in the face of Russia’s internationally unlawful fortification of the archipelago; the second, more ambitious objective consisted of a possible joint military campaign in order to ‘liberate’, as it is contemporarily portrayed, Finland from Tsarist rule. This remained a possibility throughout the war, especially as Germany systematically trained nationalist Activists from Finland, the so-called Jäger troops (i.e. light infantry) that became the core of the Finnish army after 1917.24 Both objectives, however, only became virulent in early 1918 with the first Swedish, then German occupation of Åland, and the German intervention in the Finnish Civil War. While German hegemony over the Baltic, an intimidating, but short-lived dominium maris baltici, was by then fully established, Sweden had been internationally and regionally relegated to second rank, while the Finnish nationalists’ cause grew in force and popularity, not least in Berlin. With Zimmermann’s promotion to Secretary of State in November 1916, that policy

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agenda gained further ground. The cause of Swedish and especially Finnish Activism possessed now an inroad into German policy-making that went beyond the military channels. Partly against his own ministry, Zimmermann seconded the views of the German army’s supreme command, especially Ludendorff ’s, who was throughout the war a supporter of Finnish nationalist demands, even when those began to collide with Swedish interests.25 Both issues, Swedish and Finnish Activist agitation, had originally been perceived as parts of the same phenomenon, ‘Swedish affairs’, but from about 1917 onwards, aggravated by the Russian collapse, Finland and therefore Finnish Activism became a German strategic target in itself.26 These domestic developments coincided with the emergence of a widening rift between Swedish and Finnish Activists, primarily triggered by competing territorial claims over Åland.27 In general, however, the Activists’ Baltic agenda, no matter whether Swedish or Finnish, remained rather unified, with the weakening or even expulsion of the Tsarist Empire and – after 1917 – of any future Russian state from the region as its overarching strategic premise. In the diplomatic realm of the Swedish-German relations, there were two figures that the Activist movement loathed and – as persistently as unsuccessfully – tried to remove: the first – and foremost – was the liberal Swedish foreign minister Knut Wallenberg, whom Activists considered too Francophile by disposition and an impediment for the more conservative and pro-German views of Sweden’s prime minister Hjalmar Hammarskjöld.28 The other distinct opponent of Activism and therefore another of the movement’s red rags was the German minister to Stockholm, the already mentioned Lucius von Stoedten, whose liberal convictions and realistic assessments of the Swedish political landscape often countered the impression the proponents of Activism attempted to communicate to Berlin.29 Contrary to the Activist self-portrayal as an increasingly popular government in waiting, Lucius’s reporting made repeatedly clear how unrealistic the idea of an Activist take-over and a subsequent entry into the war actually was, as it ignored – in Lucius’s perceptive observation – quite the most significant phenomenon in Swedish society and politics: the increasing backing for the government’s neutrality policy by the public and the general strategic weakness of the pro-German right-wing forces in Swedish politics: ‘I do certainly not ignore’, Lucius exemplarily reports on 9 October 1915, the strong German sympathies here in Sweden, but they will never define the politics and political decision-making of this country. That is because Sweden has more and more evolved as a commercial people at ease with its

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wealth. Everyone wants to ‘live well’, and people like Mr. Sven Hedin and some temperamental professors and members of parliament, who moan about that profane mercantilism and simultaneously think of Charles XII and other heroes [of the Swedish past], are exceptions from the rule and are considered by the overwhelming mass of people as dreamers and cranks.30

This divergent, rather sceptical assessment of Activist prospects to bring Sweden into the war intended to encourage the stabilization of the status quo, both in Berlin and in Stockholm. Lucius’s incessant reporting and his frequent travels to Berlin were thereby ambitiously aimed at exerting influence on two levels: as much as – rather naturally – wanting to affect the decision-making in the Auswärtiges Amt and the government as a whole, the minister’s interventions were as well suited to carefully consolidate the Swedish political situation and not least Stockholm’s neutrality policy. The motives for this on Lucius’s part were, suffice it to say, by no means altruistic. The German war economy heavily depended upon the import of Swedish raw materials and, once the food situation had worsened, upon the import of food deliveries too. From a diplomatic angle, preserving Stockholm’s neutrality additionally made sense, especially if one considered a possible separate peace with the Entente and here mostly with Russia or worked towards the disintegration and collapse of Tsarist Russia, both views that Lucius held at different stages of the war.31 In turn, the Activists, not least those in or close to the Hammarskjöld government, portrayed Lucius as corrupted by foreign minister Wallenberg’s allegedly passive and dishonourable neutrality course, while trying to discredit his character by spreading – not wholly unsubstantiated – rumours about his allegedly excessive, indeed frivolous lifestyle. In order to contain Wallenberg’s and Lucius’s influence upon the Swedish-German relations and to bring about their removal, a number of rather sophisticated propaganda and semi-official, private-diplomatic initiatives was set up, whose anatomy I will try to outline through a few brief examples.32 The frequency of visits to Berlin throughout the war, but especially in the first two years, was simply enormous. The Auswärtiges Amt was hardly capable of registering the manifold un- or semi-official emissaries from Sweden and Finland, lobbying forcefully for German attention and protection. While Jagow, as indicated, remained passively disinterested, his Under Secretary of State and eventual successor Zimmermann gladly received and encouraged the host of Activists, some of whom remained in Berlin for longer stints or were, like the local coordinator of Finnish Activism and the Jäger movement, Fritz Wetterhoff,

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permanently stationed there.33 Among the more frequent emissaries employed by the Swedish Activist movement were the Douglases, Counts Ludvig and Robert, father and son, the former conservative monarchist, previously Swedish foreign minister and marshal of the realm, the latter similarly disposed and chamberlain for the royal family. Both were closely related to the Swedish queen and – in their political mentality – as uncompromisingly pro-German as antiRussian. Their visits to Berlin in 1914 and 1915, during which both conferred with Zimmermann, were accompanied by what can only be described as a form of missionary tourism, with the Under Secretary of State in the Auswärtiges Amt as a frequent and obliging host.34 Especially in the summer of 1915, there was an endless coming and going of Activist representatives, among them the right-wing politician and publisher Adrian Molin, the social democrats Otto Järte and Gustaf Steffen, soon to be expelled from their party. Especially Steffen, a renowned sociologist and Max Weber disciple, seems to fully embody the Germanophile leanings and political affinities of the Swedish academia. During his stay over several weeks, in which he had repeatedly conferred with Zimmermann and the higher echelons of the Auswärtiges Amt, Steffen was eventually received by Reich Chancellor Bethmann Hollweg. Symptomatically for the situation, their talk lasted considerably longer than the meeting between Bethmann Hollweg and his Swedish counterpart Hammarskjöld during the latter’s visit to Berlin two months earlier.35 Just like Douglas, however, Steffen’s influence over Swedish politics and in particular public opinion seemed to have been rather limited. Both were perceived as far too ‘German’, with Douglas senior allegedly not even able to speak proper Swedish, as one of Lucius’s informers ‘slightly mischievously’ noted.36 The central coordinating figure of those visits was the Swedish minister to Berlin, the conservative aristocrat Arvid Taube, himself a former Swedish foreign minister, who had in the pre-war years initiated joint sessions of the SwedishGerman general staffs.37 Taube considered himself superior to Wallenberg and the latter’s careful manoeuvring on the international stage insufferable and sponsored actively moves for the removal of his unwanted boss. Taube’s private diplomacy culminated in mid-July 1915, when the minister forwarded an exhaustive memorandum to Zimmermann and later to Bethmann Hollweg, significantly not by the Swedish government, but instead an outline of his own Activist convictions. Later that month, Taube – along with Douglas senior – attempted to convert the Swedish king to a more aggressive policy for war on the German side and even succeeded in committing Gustav V to the Activist cause.38 The Swedish minister formed as well the backbone of quite a number of intelligently orchestrated campaigns against his German counterpart in

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Stockholm. Not only to him, but to the Activists in general, Lucius’s allegedly ‘un-German’ pussyfooting and his close affinity to Wallenberg disqualified him from holding such a central position for the German-Swedish relations.39 In a barrage of statements and leaks against Lucius, the Activists were doing their utmost in order to discredit the despised minister and have him recalled. The point of culmination among many unsuccessful attempts, particularly in 1915 and 1916, seems to have been a twenty-two-page memorandum of a Finnish Activist politician, Jonas Castrén, which reads like an indictment of both the politics and the character of the German minister.40 The campaign for Lucius’s removal as well included the Swedish queen, who hinted in a letter to Wilhelm II at Lucius’s allegedly intolerable demeanour only suited to ‘violate our interests’. She furthermore indicated her ‘distrust’ of Lucius and her unwillingness to even see the minister, which – considering protocol implications – made the reception of German visitors generally difficult, if not impossible.41 Besides conservative reservations about Lucius’s supposedly ill-suited character, the primary difference between him and the queen was political. In one of his repeated, often exhaustive responses to the criticism heaped on him, the minister made sure that his superiors in Berlin understood that it was not him who had misread the Swedish situation, but the aggressively pro-German queen: If her Majesty the Queen had from the beginning of her certainly well-intentioned participation in the Activist movement not put her much too obvious mark on the latter, but would have tried to gain influence over Mr. Wallenberg instead of openly feuding with that avowed confidant and long-term personal friend and advisor of her consort and King Oskar’s, then she would have been much more useful for the cause in hand.42

Lucius’s already weakened position was further undermined by the lack of faith that Zimmermann and the military, especially Ludendorff, had in him. As State Secretary Zimmermann tried to have him removed almost immediately, but changing tides in the German-Swedish relations as well as in Swedish domestic politics and hence foreign policy-making had consolidated Lucius’s position.43 Central to that was certainly the electoral collapse of the previously hegemonial conservative establishment in the 1917 parliamentary elections and the evolution of a social democratic and liberal majority left of the centre in both the Swedish parliament and gradually Swedish society at large. Despite Lucius still falsely expecting a conservative recovery, Sweden was experiencing a seismic domestic shift towards a close to absolute social democratic transformation that left the conservative agents of Activism increasingly marginalized.44 What seems

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to additionally have saved him from certain dismissal was his extraordinarily broad network of contacts and friendships among the more liberal sections of the bourgeois-aristocratic elites of the late Wilhelmine Empire. As an able, if outspoken diplomat he furthermore earned himself the protection of some of his superiors in Berlin, first Jagow’s and, most importantly, Bethmann Hollweg’s, later the support of Zimmermann’s successor as State Secretary, Richard von Kühlmann.45 Instead of removing the far too acquiescent, allegedly indulgent, and proSwedish Lucius, the Auswärtiges Amt therefore resorted to arranging for special Sweden missions itself. Prince Max von Baden, a cousin of the Swedish queen, liaised twice during visits to Stockholm in 1915 and 1916 with the government and not least King Gustav, both times bringing instructions for Lucius to adopt a more forceful and critical approach vis-à-vis Swedish neutrality. His reporting turned out to be rather hostile of Lucius, stopping short of encouraging the latter’s removal.46 Additionally, the Hamburg merchant and banker Max Warburg, a close confidant of the Kaiser and Lucius himself as well as a long-term business acquaintance of Wallenberg, was sent, but without being able to commit the Swedish government to a more hard-line pro-German course. As opposed to Max von Baden’s mission, which the German minister dismissed as ‘wholly futile’, even counter-productive, the presence of Warburg in Stockholm seems to have as well been suited to consolidate his fragile position.47 Warburg’s beneficial function for his own political agenda notwithstanding, it is obvious that Lucius perceived both outgoing Activists and incoming German emissaries as ‘private politici’, whose presence could – in his view – only be destructive for a SwedishGerman equilibrium from which both sides greatly benefitted.48 Even the deployment of an energetic and equally enigmatic press attaché in late 1915, Friedrich Stieve, whose function as well consisted in observing and – if necessary – checking Lucius’s activities, did not lead to the minister’s dismissal. For Lucius’s legation, Stieve, a Munich historian and diplomat married to the sister of Yngve Larsson, was instrumental in liaising with Activist circles, without compromising the official line of diplomacy or, as had happened before, the minister’s integrity.49 Despite Stieve’s close connections to Zimmermann and his regular autonomous reporting, Lucius’s recollections of his chief propagandist – written down in 1927 – are surprisingly generous: What I had to cope with in Sweden contra Zimmermann, who wanted to practise an insane policy in line with the completely nervously collapsed, neurasthenic Queen of Sweden, a policy of dragging Sweden into the war, all that Stieve can

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document to you. To work against that, victoriously and until the end, was my merit, in which I was only supported by Stieve, a very strong political brain, in the most dedicated fashion. We both risked our head! – All other staff members failed.50

As indicated by this retrospective view, Lucius himself had been fully aware that the conflicts and frictions during the war were the result of a systemic power struggle. This struggle took place on two playing fields: firstly and most obviously, in his own central area of responsibility, Germany’s diplomacy and policy-making towards Sweden, which remained, as argued above, fluid and complex throughout the entire war; secondly, the relations between Berlin and Stockholm were constitutively conditioned by Swedish domestic politics, an overall rather unstable, crisis-ridden body politic in the midst of an elementary, indeed existential transformation. Dealing with Swedish affairs therefore meant as well directly intervening in Swedish domestic discourse – and this certainly to a greater extent than in other, more stable contexts. Against this backdrop and further enhanced by its structural capacities and potential impact, the Activist movement of the First World War acquired a dynamic of its own that from the start questioned the premises of the diplomatic relations between Sweden and Germany. Short-lived but forceful as it was, Activism should be viewed as a rather extreme manifestation of the largely typical competition between institutional bodies and individuals in the making of foreign policy and its decisions – an epitome of the polycratic character constitutive to most authoritarian and totalitarian regimes.51 The interplay, often the rivalry between the official diplomatic level of the Swedish-German relations and that broad private and politically more radical substructure produced systemic imbalances and ultimately skewed perceptions on both the Swedish and the German side. For the most part, official diplomacy and Activist politics seem virtually indistinguishable, primarily because of a remarkable overlap in the actual cast. Taube, Sweden’s minister to Berlin, lobbied the Activist cause with equal vehemence as Queen Victoria and the immediate – and internationally well connected – court environment, while Gustav V protected diplomatic initiatives, often unsanctioned or only half-heartedly endorsed by the Hammarskjöld government, with his declining monarchical authority at home and, albeit more effectively, abroad. It is only with the benefit of hindsight that the Activist movement appears as a mostly negligible atavism in a domestic arena headed for a modern and progressive ‘age of social democracy’.52 In the perception and imagination of

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contemporaries, however, the Activists gained significance far beyond their formal political influence. The fact that Sweden eventually stayed out of the war should not obscure the existing pro-war momentum among substantial segments of the country’s elites. Within the larger diplomatic context of the First World War, there certainly are examples of even less likely cases of war involvement, illustrated by the highly ambivalent, volatile, and protracted decision-making processes that eventually brought neutrals like Italy, Romania, or Bulgaria into the war. In all these cases, less structure, but much rather individual agency and contingency were as pivotal as during the July Crisis of 1914 and the subsequent – rather ‘improbable’ – war.53 It is therefore the balanced historicization of both the phenomenon and its perception that should primarily matter when revisiting Swedish diplomacy and politics during the First World War – not the current preference in parts of Swedish historiography for writing history backwards and adopting a ‘big battalion’ view, mostly sanitized by the premises of the Scandinavian welfare state.54

5

Intellectuals and War in Scandinavia and Beyond ‘The Whole World is Ruled by Schadenfreude’: Georg Brandes’s War

For decades, there has been a general awareness that not only soldiers and politicians waged war in the First World War. Entire societies were systematically mobilized to join this war. Hence also, or indeed especially, the intellectual community, which often became involved at an earlier stage and which showed greater determination than other social groups. Right after the onset of the war, the phrase ‘war of minds’ surfaced within the increasingly nationalized academic and intellectual cultures of Europe, first – as Krieg der Geister – in Germany.1 Despite its antagonistic character, this battle of intellectuals effectively formed a dialogue, a deeply divisive, polemical conversation, but nonetheless one in which the intellectuals of both warring sides reacted to one another.2 Their loyalties somewhat oscillated between the internationalist character of most of their intellectual, often scientific endeavours of the pre-war years and the nationalist allegiances of their home societies.3 With regard to the humanities, especially philosophy, in Germany and Britain, Peter Hoeres went so far as to refer to a ‘war of philosophers’, in which military issues and the debate on own academic traditions and perspectives were mingled.4 When reference was made to the neutral states in the context of this alleged war of cultures, in which a principally universal good like academia was made the object, indeed the pawn of national interests, the focus was usually on their suspected corruption by the warring states and empires. The Swedish geographer and explorer Sven Hedin, an avid supporter of German war propaganda in the First World War, and the American journalist H. L. Mencken, who likewise made no secret of his pro-German stance, are probably the best known examples of the

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enlistment of intellectuals from the cultural circles of neutral states.5 The part of intellectuals, however, who were – in the literal sense of the word – neutral in the First World War has only been sporadically addressed. Subsequently, I would like to explore this role of the people in-between, intellectual neutrals who, just as their counterparts in Britain, France, or Germany, had been part of an extensive cultural landscape on the continent, a broad transnational and thoroughly modernist network of adherents of Europe as an idea and a reality. What was the place of the intellectual non-belligerent, and particularly that from the smaller, neutral countries whose position was generally highly precarious? How did these intellectuals relate to a war, one of whose first fatalities was the international solidarity of the modernist milieu? My approach to these questions is based on the intellectual biography of Georg Brandes, the exemplarily cosmopolitan philosopher and aesthete from Copenhagen, whose stance on the First World War reflects the pathology of the war just as clearly as that of modernity as a whole.6 Brandes’s biography, his intellectual, cultural, and political work, and, one might add, certainly also his predictable failure are a symptom, almost a paradigm of the dilemmas associated with the traditionalist, largely realistic policy of neutrality adopted by smaller states in the wake of the First World War, not least by Brandes’s home country. Exaggerating somewhat, it could be said that Brandes hence also embodied Denmark. As Brandes is largely unknown outside Denmark these days, a closer look at this great forgotten figure in Danish, Scandinavian, and – far beyond this – European cultural history and criticism at the turn of the twentieth century is called for. Who therefore was Georg Brandes? Who was this man who in Denmark was elevated to mythical status, who was held in equally high esteem, indeed often revered, by the intellectual circles of Germany, France, and Britain? Who was this supposed ‘ugly duckling’ whose Shakespeare lecture in New York in June 1914 required a major police intervention to disperse the masses of disappointed Brandes admirers who had failed to find a seat in the already overcrowded auditorium?7 As far as his own self-image and the public perception of him were concerned, Brandes was one thing in particular, namely the embodiment of that what today is, in more differentiated, complex and ambivalent terms, but unfailingly, described as modernity. Born in Copenhagen in 1842, into an assimilated Jewish merchant family that was part of the liberal middle class, Brandes was considered brilliant even at an early age.8 He completed his studies in history of art, philosophy, and aesthetics at the University of Copenhagen in 1870 after

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submitting a highly regarded doctoral thesis on contemporary French aesthetics. By that time, he not only had travelled Europe extensively, particularly France and Britain, but also had published a series of influential writings on modern Danish literature.9 The series of lectures entitled ‘Main Currents in 19th Century Literature’ (Hovedstrømninger i det 19de Aarhundredes Litteratur) he delivered at his alma mater and, shortly thereafter, their publication from 1871 onwards resulted in Brandes ultimately becoming the actual figurehead and confrontational icebreaker of the modernist movement in Danish and indeed Scandinavian cultural debates of the second half of the nineteenth century.10 The beginning of the so-called breakthrough of modernity (det moderne gjennembrud in Danish) in Northern Europe is often associated with his lectures at the University of Copenhagen, whose extensive impact spread fairly quickly to the rest of the continent.11 In Germany and Russia in particular, but later also in France and the English-speaking countries, Brandes’s literary criticism essays met with a tremendous response and thus contributed in no small way to literary criticism being recognized as a genre of literary studies that is worthy of being taken seriously.12 The features that characterize literary criticism in general, a hybrid entity falling between two stools, Brandes saw most markedly reflected in himself. In his correspondence with Nietzsche, taken up on Brandes’s initiative in 1887, he repeatedly referred to the limits of his intellectual existence as he perceived them.13 It was, however, Brandes who supplied Nietzsche with what seemed to him the key term to encapsulate his own philosophy, ‘aristocratic radicalism’. Brandes had used the term in his lectures on Nietzsche and later published an analytical essay on Nietzsche’s philosophy intellectually organized around the conception.14 This prompted Nietzsche to comment at the end of 1887, ‘with respect, that is the shrewdest remark I have ever read about myself ’.15 As Nietzsche himself had admitted, his reception would have been inconceivable had it not been for Brandes’s astute, indeed congenial Essay on Aristocratic Radicalism of 1888. Although no vir obscurissimus anymore, as Nietzsche called himself coquettishly, the five Copenhagen lectures Brandes held in April and May 1888 certainly contributed to the international reception of his works and came with an impressive interpretative verve.16 Here, the critic was in his element as an international explorer, as a receptor and interpreter of literature and contemporary thought. Since the 1860s, he had systematically ‘imported’ intellectuals other than Nietzsche from the European continent to Northern Europe, intellectuals whom he respected and with many of whom he was friends.

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About two decades before Nietzsche, Brandes’s work focused in particular on the French naturalist, literary critic, and historian Hippolyte Taine and on the British liberal philosopher and economist John Stuart Mill. In addition to numerous classical writings, he translated the works of both these intellectuals into Danish, thus making a sustainable contribution to Denmark’s and – by implication  – Scandinavia’s highly vibrant modernist debates.17 The predominance of naturalist-realist premises in Scandinavian literature, aesthetics, and society in the last third of the nineteenth century owed much to Brandes’s tireless cultural adaptations from the continent. Often in the face of opposition from conservatives in his own country and Scandinavia at large, these interventions fuelled a literary and cultural Scandinavianism that brought Brandes in close association with the leading modernist writers in Northern Europe, among them Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson and August Strindberg. With Bjørnson, Brandes shared an ideal of Scandinavianism whose telos was not rooted in a somewhat unified region, but in a cosmopolitan, profoundly European identity based in ‘a utopian society of world peace’.18 Brandes’s perception of the World War, his multiple interventions and peacemaking efforts would have to be viewed in the context of this Europeanized ideal of Scandinavianism. Conversely, he played a similar role in the dissemination and popularization of Scandinavian modernity in the cultural life of Paris and Berlin. In his efforts to ensure the further dissemination of the mainly Danish and Norwegian modernizers, Brandes, needless to say, proceeded with ruthless selectivity. In Berlin, for example, he tried to obstruct Henrik Ibsen, whose work he misjudged and misrepresented. He furthermore impeded the reception of Kierkegaard's work, which was gradually taking shape, absurdly enough even in Denmark.19 Nevertheless, Brandes can, with some justification, be regarded as the outstanding and in many ways also the most peculiar, intermediary between the supposedly irreconcilable and mutually disinterested intellectual circles and national cultures. This was also the way he saw himself. In his autobiographical account ‘Reminiscences of My Childhood and Youth’, he describes his surprise when his intellectual mentor, the aforementioned John Stuart Mill, confessed to him that he had not read a single line of Hegel’s work, neither in the original nor in the translated version, and that he considered Hegel’s entire philosophy to be sterile, petty hair-splitting devoid of any substance. Brandes also observed a similar arrogance on the part of his former academic mentor, the philosopher Hans Brøchner, who had no interest whatsoever in contemporary English or French philosophy. ‘I, however’, Brandes stated ‘have become convinced that

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there is a task for someone capable of understanding philosophers from different schools of thought who do not understand each other’.20 The encyclopaedias of the time impressively demonstrate the significance of Brandes’s work from the last third of the nineteenth century until well into the 1920s. In the articles on Brandes contained in the 1903 Meyer’s Encyclopaedia and the 1911 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, for example, he was portrayed as a revolutionary and the main standard-bearer of a new cultural radicalism, as endowed with sharp judgement, a ‘shining stylist’, and as an intellectual ‘epochmaking’ force, whose ‘influence on Denmark's culture was greater than that of any other critic’. As Meyer's Großes Konversationslexikon summed up: ‘The fact that Scandinavian literature is flourishing today, having again developed into a freer, creative poetry on the basis of the Brandes school’s relentlessly destructive and cleansing realism, can in part be attributed to Brandes’ work.’21 Reflecting his characteristic vehemence, Brandes’s efforts to confront and eliminate seemingly old and antiquated, unfounded, and unjustified ideas and to replace these with a new, practically relevant, modernist conception of humanity were not confined to literature and philosophy. They were also present in all aspects of his everyday life. Incidentally, although a Jew whose socialization had been largely secular, Brandes became a religious critic and atheist in the footsteps of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche. He was also strongly influenced by Mill, whose early emancipatory polemic essay ‘The Subjection of Women’ he translated into Danish as early as 1869.22 In line with Mill’s early intervention, Brandes argued strongly for equal rights of men and women and, in this context, also advocated the cultural conquest of the Victorian sexual morals he detested. His only reaction to the quite literally misogynist attitude of his Swedish counterpart, August Strindberg, and to Nietzsche’s at best ambivalent view of women, was one of mild scorn.23 Brandes acted uncompromisingly where another central issue of modernity was concerned, the question surrounding the place of the Jews and Judaism in Europe’s increasingly nationalist societies. As an outspoken political commentator, he witnessed the development of modern anti-Semitism with growing concern. While Denmark’s Jewish population had been granted full citizens’ rights by the country's first post-absolutist constitution of 1849, it seemed to Brandes that the status and treatment of Jews in Eastern Central Europe and the Russian Empire, but also in France and Germany, remained largely unchanged or even tended to worsen. The so-called Berlin Anti-Semitism Dispute from 1879 to 1881 certainly formed the focal point of Brandes’s observations on this matter, not least because the dispute’s public outgrowth affected him personally when

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in 1880, the Berlin Senior Court Chaplain Adolf Stoecker made him the subject of anti-Semitic insults.24 Brandes, who lived and worked in Berlin at the time as a correspondent for a number of Scandinavian newspapers, used Stoecker’s invective as an opportunity to air his personal opinion in several essays. In his article entitled ‘The Anti-Jewish Movement in Germany’, which was published in a Swedish journal in mid-January 1881, he used the medical jargon of the time, describing the anti-Semitic movement as an epidemic, as uncontrollable mass hysteria. ‘Once reaction and chauvinism have aroused the envy and barbarism of the common and the genteel mob, a phenomenon emerges, which in many ways manifests itself in other spheres and is best described as a mental plague. Mental illnesses,’ he continued, ‘are evidently just as infectious as cholera and the plague’.25 Brandes’s criticism – one of the constant factors in his journalistic work – focused on the ‘hatred towards this particular tribe’, as he put it, in all its facets: in the form of anti-Judaism, for instance, veiled by Christian-Orthodox culture and traditions and frequently leading to pogroms as they occurred in the Russian Empire.26 Early on, however, he clearly saw the paradoxical reaction to the often unbearable complexity of modernity, that ‘ogre of modernity’, as illustrated by incidents such as the Dreyfus Affair in France or the anti-Semitic movement of the Wilhelmine Empire.27 Brandes’s criticism was furthermore rooted in his conception of the true double pathology of his time, nationalism and militarism, which he persistently attacked especially in the context of the First World War. The way Brandes approached this problem was, on the one hand, a reflection of the intellectual heritage of a lastingly assimilated Northern European Jewry. On the other hand, it also pointed to the self-consciousness of a small nation and one of its foremost representatives abroad. Denmark, barely left over after the disaster of the Second Schleswig War, was by no means a stranger to excessive nationalism, as rather typical for the time, and especially in the event of defeat.28 Its smallness, however, greatly limited its capacity for national selfconfidence and precluded the country from heightened forms of great power nationalism that even its neighbour Sweden residually experienced. In contrast to the mass societies of the great powers, small states, according to Brandes, have a civilizational task, a mission to ‘help humanity to attain ever greater enlightenment’, as Annie Bourguignon has aptly stated.29 A remarkable feature of Brandes’s explicit criticism of contemporary nationalism is its unabashed paradoxical nature. One the one hand, he developed and propagated the notion of modernity as the consolidation of advanced European culture. On the other hand, in his conception of modernity in the arts, he consciously faded

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out the truly modern mass phenomenon of nationalism, which he dismissed as an anachronistic, conservative, and explicitly anti-modernist reaction. His coquettishly cosmopolitan demeanour, largely modelled on the French style, was far more reminiscent of the Enlightenment than of the mass societies and cultural discourse of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Opposed to the contempt in which many intellectuals held the allegedly common masses, however, Brandes’s brand of modernism possessed – in most cases – compassion and emancipatory force.30 Brandes’s inner distance to nationalism and mob rule became particularly apparent in his sharp rejection of German nationalism's illiberal development following the unification of the Reich. As early as mid-1881, Brandes – with unerring instinct – anticipated the tidal change occurring in German politics. Bitterly, he foresaw a Germany ultimately deprived of its ‘political liberalism’, of the great liberal tradition of the first half of the century, and ‘lonely, isolated and hated by its neighbours’. Such a state ‘will become a bulwark of conservatism at the centre of Europe’, he predicted. All around, in Italy, France, Russia and Scandinavia, a generation with cosmopolitan ideals will grow up, a generation that will work intensively to implement these ideals. Germany, however, will lie there, old and withered, armed to the teeth, armoured and equipped with every state of the art weapon of murder and defence. Major conflicts and wars will follow. If Germany wins, Europe compared to America will – in political terms – become what Asia compared to Europe is today. If Germany were to be defeated, however, ... But it is not appropriate for me to play the prophet.31

Leaving aside the shrewdness of this prophesy, Brandes’s perception of the German Empire’s political culture could be described as controversial, especially in view of recent tendencies in political and cultural history. From a transnational perspective in particular, this assessment of the pre-war German Empire today appears significantly relativized, the ‘Sonderweg’ (special path) theory having been largely refuted in historiography.32 This broader, essentially comparative perspective, however, can as well – and with remarkable clarity – be found in Brandes’s contemporary assessments of Europe’s situation prior to the First World War. To his mind, the unadorned diagnosis of the German Empire's condition and that of its militarized society also applied to France and Britain to a very similar extent. The French and the British militarisms were, in his perception, only tenuously contained by the liberal political cultures that prevailed in these countries. In the reactionary and deeply anachronistic Tsarist Empire, however,

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the outlined pathologies appeared practically unbound. Altogether, Russia, with its virulent anti-Semitism and, so Brandes thought, systematic oppression of other nations, formed the actual negative image to Brandes’s idealized conception of modernity. Far more generally, however, it is in the pan-European phenomena that the quasi apocalyptic nature of his times most vehemently surfaces. In this respect, enforced by the outbreak of the war, Brandes’s remarks were increasingly characterized by an apparently boundless cultural pessimism, which was in no small measure due to Nietzsche’s influence.33 Against the backdrop of his rich pre-war writings, Brandes’s verdict on the causes of the First World War’s outbreak in the summer of 1914 is hardly surprising. The contempt of the staunchly anti-militarist and pacifist Brandes was above all directed at the excessive emphasis on the ‘military systems of the major nations’, which were increasingly spiralling out of control. In its intrinsic logic, Brandes thought, this great power militarism was consistently aimed at war.34 In August 1913, Brandes wrote: ‘An officer who hasn’t smelled powder is a man who hasn’t shown his mettle, and who, as the years pass, may be compared to the sailor who has never been to Sea – an absurdity.’35 At this point, the unintended prognostic power of Brandes’s analysis once again becomes apparent, especially when it is read in the context of the sensibilities and experiences of the German imperial navy’s officer corps in the First World War. The final mobilization of the Imperial High Sea Fleet, eventually prevented by the sailors’ mutiny in autumn 1918, was largely due to the need felt by the naval command to ensure that they would not be made the subject of ‘ridicule’ after a comparatively uneventful naval war. The naval command’s war diary is explicit about this motive, referring to a ‘question of the honour and existence of the Navy to have done its utmost in the last battle’.36 The militarism of the European great powers and the way in which they systematically ‘stirred up hatred between the nations’, as Brandes wrote in February 1915, had turned ‘Europe into a madhouse, a house of mourning, a hospital, a cemetery, and a bankrupt estate’.37 Striving to take both an anti-bellicist and a neutral stance, at first glance, this diagnosis does not seem surprising. The extensive mobilization of European societies for the war, which also indirectly affected the neutral states in Northern and North-western Europe, made Georg Brandes’s remarks all the more noteworthy, though. Escalating in terms of war propaganda, the ‘battle for the souls of the neutral states’, as Kurt Riezler put it, made Brandes’s situation more difficult, and not only because of his status as a European intellectual.38 The dilemmas

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surrounding Denmark’s policy of neutrality also affected his everyday life. In the immediate pre-war period of Danish politics, his younger brother, Edvard Brandes, a distinguished cultural critic, author, and politician in the socialliberal party Radikale Venstre, had risen to the position of minister of finance, an office he continued to hold throughout the entire war.39 Although Brandes strongly refuted the allegation that he consciously acted with restraint out of consideration for his high-profile brother, he repeatedly mentioned the given dilemma in his extensive correspondence.40 However, his consistently neutral stance, which seemed like an almost natural derivation of his role as a cultural intermediary, was already in evidence long before the First World War and, indeed, the constant factor in the way he saw himself and in the way he acted. His 1916 collection of war-related essays, ‘Verdenskrigen’ (shortly thereafter released in an English translation as ‘The World at War’), carefully gathers the multiple angles through which Brandes attempted to interpret the war and its origins, once castigating, as he insisted, the aggressive militarism and war-mongering of segments of German society, then again thoroughly analysing the – as well nonGerman – preconditions that made war in 1914 possible.41 His intellectual involvement, however, targeted both an international and a domestic audience. Apart from his brother being a member of the government, Danish society – and not least the intellectuals – appeared increasingly polarized. Even among the nation’s intelligentsia, Brandes’s firmly neutral position remained marginal throughout, with his opponents ridiculing him mercilessly in the press. One of the few more sceptical intellectuals of the younger generation was the Germanophile author and later Nobel prize winner Johannes V. Jensen, who, in an early article published in December 1914, described the idea of being in any way able to take sides ‘where blood and iron shake up the balance of power between nations’ as laughable.42 Jensen’s position, however, was not Brandes’s, as the former readily admitted his explicit sympathies for the German war effort and felt much more closely linked to the German cultural sphere, while Brandes imagined and staged himself as a cosmopolitan creation of Europe. Most members of the Danish intelligentsia, in any case, took sides, the demarcation line generally being the generational boundaries, as Bjarne Søndergaard Bendtsen has thoroughly expounded.43 The older generation of Danish intellectuals, on whom the traumatic experience of 1864 had had a profound impact, somewhat naturally gravitated towards the Entente camp, albeit with varying degrees of intensity. Against that, younger intellectuals – like the vehemently pro-German writer Karl Larsen – adopted a more relaxed

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attitude to the German Empire and in particular to Berlin which, in the decades before the First World War, had begun to take Paris’ place as the obvious refuge for Nordic intellectuals and artists. This new generation, usually born in the last third of the nineteenth century, was more indifferent towards the trauma of 1864, their orientation in many cases even pro-German, and regarded Brandes as the true icon of the modernist movement in Scandinavia.44 The war resulted in Brandes being forced to reconcile different perspectives and expectations without compromising the integrity of his work and his activities. Domestic and foreign policy and personal loyalties and expectations at the national and European level were the determining factors of his complex actions. The most impressive example of this is his correspondence with Georges Clemenceau, the former (and indeed later) French prime minister, with whom he had been friends since the 1890s and for whom he also had a certain admiration.45 His relationship with Clemenceau, however, was fundamentally shattered by the escalating war. Since the beginning of the war, Clemenceau, like many intellectuals in France and Britain, had assumed that Brandes would declare his support for the Entente’s cause sooner rather than later. The Dane was rightly considered not only a prime example of an intellectual modelled on the French tradition, but had in the past also stood out as an uncompromising and shrewd detractor of Wilhelminism and influential critic of Berlin’s treatment of the Danish minority in North Schleswig.46 Moreover, Brandes had even publicly chastised William II for his so-called Hun Speech and been similarly critical of Berlin’s association with the Ottoman Empire in the face of the Turkish massacres of the empire’s own Armenian population.47 For him, the, as he phrased it, ‘real German spirit’ rested with the Germany that, in Brandes’s view, was not to be: an empire liberally transformed by the ‘noble generosity, manly warm-heartedness, liberal intelligence and genuine culture’ of the prematurely deceased Frederick III.48 To Wilhelm II and the empire that eventually was, he related with difficulty and hesitation throughout. Against such a backdrop, Clemenceau assumed that his friend Brandes would at one point come around, further enforced, even necessitated by the German behaviour in Belgium. In his private correspondence with Clemenceau, however, Brandes repeatedly strove to convey a multifaceted and differentiated assessment of the war, balancing perspectives in a broader analytical framework.49 Clemenceau, in contrast, regarded Brandes’s careful stance as symptomatic for Denmark’s policy of neutrality as a whole and became increasingly frustrated with what he considered an attitude rather than a reasoned and complex

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position. The same perception of Danish hypocrisy is reflected in another of Émile Dupuis caricatures. This time, Dupuis takes on Denmark’s neutral stance and the country’s allegedly too lenient attitude towards Germany. In his series of postcards on the neutrals, released in 1916, Dupuis depicts a clichéd elderly Danish academic systematically analysing (German) ‘Kultur’ through various natural scientific means, even storing distilled ‘Kultur’ in beakers on the shelves. The scientist himself appears too small to reach the table and therefore stands on an oversized volume of an encyclopaedia on ‘Kultur’, whose other volumes are spread around the table. Prominently placed on the table, there is a ‘Pickelhaube’, the stereotypically German spiked helmet, and in the experimental beaker in front of the scientist a nude sample of – presumably – a miniature model of a German wearing a spiked helmet too is contained. Underneath a wall map illustrating Denmark’s diminishing size, as it says (with ‘Schleswig 1863’ explicitly noted), one can see a chemical flask brewing a so-called Bouillon de Kultur. Equally bitterly as in most other illustrations, Dupuis entitled the cartoon ‘Recherches de civilisation dans la Kultur’ (‘Looking for civilisation in Kultur’), thereby castigating both the Danish intellectual and cultural tradition as excessively Germanophile and the Danish government’s attempt to maintain a strict and balanced neutrality policy throughout.50 Clemenceau shared the popular sentiment depicted by Dupuis and decided to force the alleged hypocrite Brandes out into the open. For that purpose (as for many other), he used his own newspaper, the recently censored and then renamed L'Homme enchaîné, publicly expressing his criticism of the Dane and – in extension – of the Copenhagen government.51 In his leader, he described Brandes as symbolizing the morally bankrupt opportunism of what was ‘a nation without pride’. To Clemenceau, neutrality in a conflict polarized between good and evil could only be morally perverted. The Danish case appeared even worse, as the country, if siding with the Entente against Germany, would actually have a lot to gain. Instead of stating its legitimate claim to the lost duchies of Schleswig and Holstein and joining the Entente, though, Copenhagen – and Brandes in particular – sacrificed universal moral ideals in favour of the profane and transient interests of the time.52 Brandes’s answer came in the shape of two prominent essays published in the Politiken newspaper at the end of February and the beginning of March 1915. Taken together, these interventions count among the clearest and most selfconfident journalistic statements of neutrality in print during the First World War.53 At the same time, Brandes pinpointed in exemplary fashion the place

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and responsibilities of the intellectual in times of war and crisis. Drawing on his earlier remarks, Brandes describes patriotism and war as the actual gravedigger of the ‘love of truth’ in an era corrupted by a vulgar, mob-infested ‘hatred of truth’.54 To Clemenceau, he directly addressed the words: To you the whole problem seems simple and clear. Right, truth, liberty on one side; injustice, oppression, barbarism on the other. If I have disappointed you so keenly, it is, perhaps, because unlike the schoolmaster in Kenan’s Caliban, my name is not Simplicon. The appalling part of a war like this is that it kills all love of truth. France and England are obliged to gloss over the Russian Government’s ignominious dealings in Finland, its treatment of Poland, which it promised to reunite, and where it begins by announcing that Galicia is not Polish but old Russian territory, while it tears down Ruthenian signs in Lemberg and puts Russian ones in their place. In the same way Germany explains away the atrocities committed by German troops. Bedier's pamphlet on the atrocities [in Belgium, MJ] is treated as a philological essay; the inaccuracies of the translation are discussed while the accusations regarding the atrocities are ignored. … As far as I am concerned, I consider the foaming nationalist hatred which now divides Europe as an immeasurable tragedy and a symptom of an enormous retrogression.

In his conclusion, Brandes reinforces what he sees as the intellectual’s prime duty, ‘the writer’s calling’: If he is not truth’s ordained priest he is only fit to be thrown on the scrap heap. … He must remain silent where silence is golden. And if he speaks, he must look truth in the face, – that same truth which is smothered by stupidity in times of peace, and drowned by the thunder of cannon in times of war.55

Clemenceau, for his part, answered immediately in the form of a comparatively scant lead article bearing the programmatic title ‘Adieu Brandes’.56 Its publication also signified the purposefully choreographed farewell to an old friend and intellectual companion, to which Brandes did not reply. The Danish neutral, however, had already commented more than enough on these matters and began compiling the articles he had written during the First World War, and those concerning this war, with a view to publishing them as a volume of essays. Published in 1916 under the title ‘Verdenskrigen’, this volume of essays was accompanied by a call for peace in the Politiken newspaper issued in midMay.57 Brandes’s initiative was immediately translated into English, French, and German and had distribution figures totalling several ten million copies, the level of interest shown being particularly high in English-speaking countries.

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The enormous distribution of appeal was due to it being part of an ambitious and well-financed effort by the American industrialist Henry Ford, who had engaged in a high-profile peace mission by crossing the Atlantic on a hired ocean liner – the ‘Peace Ship’ – filled with renowned pacifists and potential mediators. With his customary cultural pessimism, Brandes, in any case, did not pin much hope either on his own intervention or on Ford’s eccentric initiative, which anyway collapsed before it was even able to gather momentum.58 In essence, Brandes’s aforementioned appeal for peace merely consisted of the theory that all the great powers engaged in the war had one thing in common: the claim that ‘each of the Great Powers declares the war it is waging is a war of defence. They have all been attacked; they are all fighting for their existence. For all of them murder and lies are necessary means of defence. But since none of the Powers, by their own showing, wanted war, let them make peace!’ Postulating the obvious, Brandes stated that ‘the cry for peace that will soon rise from belligerent countries is called cowardly. But if mankind remains silent, the stones will cry. The ruins everywhere call for peace, not revenge. And where stones are silent, fields and meadows cry, watered with blood, fertilised with the dead. The whole world is in the throes of malicious joy’, ‘Skadefrydens Herredømme’, in the Danish original, a term that Brandes intended to be understood quite literally, as the ‘only satisfaction is to hurt others, in self-defence’.59 His forcefully worded intervention climaxed in the apocalyptic idea of the European civilization having knowingly robbed itself of its best people. To the ‘aristocratic radical’ Brandes, this idea was unbearable.60 His own conception of mankind and history remained deeply indebted to an almost Nietzschean cult of the genius. In line with the biographical mode of the period, history – and especially the history of civilization – was to be understood through its great, intellectually aristocratic thinkers, ‘Geistesaristokraten’ in the nineteenth-century term.61 ‘Each human life represents a value. Mankind is not alike,’ Brandes insists. There is slight consolation in the fact that our losses were one thousand, and the enemy's ten. Who knows if among those one thousand, there was not a man who would have been the honour of his country, the benefactor of humanity throughout the centuries? There may have been a Shakespeare or a Newton, a Kant or a Goethe, a Moliere or a Pasteur, a Copernicus, a Rubens, a Tolstoi among the hundreds of thousands of twenty-year-old English, French, German, Polish, Belgian, or Russian soldiers who have fallen. What does a slight change in the boundary line mean in comparison to the loss of such a personality? The gain is temporary; the loss is irretrievable. The gain is that of one country; the loss is humanity’s.

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With a dark sense of foreboding, Brandes concludes his impassioned appeal by reasoning that the banal hatred caused by the war – and by the war propaganda in particular – would long outlive the war and, even worse, perpetuate war in the future.62 It is undoubted and among the more impressive feature of Brandes’s intellectual activities before and during the war that most of his general prognoses proved eventually accurate. As much as that is the case, there remains something bizarre about his constant interventions. Apart from his in essence Eurocentric, occasionally Russophobic, at times rather typically racist views, it is above all his inflated self-image that astonishes – and did so as well in the eyes of his contemporaries. As a critic and public intellectual from a small country like Denmark, the aim of restoring world peace seems at best out of touch with reality. It was hence not without reason that his repeated interventions were caricatured again and again. This neatly corresponded with his wellknown tendency towards self-aggrandizement, which had been the object of public ridicule in Scandinavia long before the First World War. The sharpest expression of this took the form of a persiflage on Brandes’s appeal of May 1916 devised by the Danish caricaturist Axel Thiess. The caricature, published on 22 May 1916 in the conservative-nationalist and Entente-friendly newspaper Vort Land, depicts Brandes as an old maid venting her annoyance while trying to discipline the powers involved in the wars, which were in turn portrayed as boys dressed in different uniforms scrapping in the playground. Under the caption ‘Ogsaa en Fredsmaegler’ (‘Also a Peacemaker’), Thiess ironically noted: ‘In the Politiken newspaper, Georg Brandes demands in a quarrelsome and intemperate tone that the warring powers cease firing immediately.’63 Brandes had already fallen foul of Thiess’s sharp pen earlier, when Thiess implicitly denounced his alleged pro-German sympathies. Under the caption ‘Hvad store Bro’r mener’ (‘What Big Brother Thinks’), a caricature published in the Norwegian student paper ‘Under Dusken’ in March 1916, Brandes is depicted as an annoying schoolboy in a sailor’s uniform who, in front of his younger brothers, Danish prime minister Zahle, foreign minister Erik Scavenius, and his real younger brother Edvard, sticks his tongue out (from behind) at the statesmen of the Entente Powers, who are strolling along in a dignified manner. The picture carries the comment, ascribed to Brandes’s schoolboy alter ego: ‘At his moment, Europe is being led by weakly gifted political amateurs. And there is no reason to be impressed by this sort of statesmanship.’64 Leaving out the German and Austrian counterparts of Poincaré and Briand in France and

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Asquith and Grey in Britain made it clear that both Thiess and many Ententefriendly intellectuals assumed that Brandes harboured pro-German sympathies and effectively played into Berlin’s strategic and war propagandistic hands. Earlier still, Thiess had ridiculed Brandes for his position in the argument with Clemenceau, depicting him – in mid-March 1916 – on the front page of Vort Land ‘as a scared old woman, hiding behind his brother, and a sternly looking Clemenceau looking down on him’.65 Clemenceau appears furthermore as the self-composed dignified counter image to Brandes’s highly embarrassing posture and ugly as well as ignoble appearance. Thiess’s caricatures mirror the main, almost pathological suspicion even among his sympathizers: the assumption that Brandes, probably unwittingly, aided the war cause of especially Germany and thereby undermined the righteous and justified position of the Entente in a war that morally required a stand. This applies in particular to the Scottish critic and author William Archer, Brandes’s English language translator and long-standing friend. A little later than the ill-tempered Clemenceau, Archer felt himself compelled to intervene publicly, particularly in the wake of his Danish friend’s aforementioned call for peace. The ensuing debate between the two literary critics and friends is undoubtedly one of the more cultivated in the wider picture of this ‘war of minds’, which increasingly involved the intelligentsia of the smaller neutral states of Northern Europe. As opponents in this dispute, Archer and Brandes made a determined effort to maintain a civil tone and took great care to ensure that the mutual good relations were not stretched beyond endurance. In terms of argument, however, Archer was not prepared to support, or even to empathize with, Brandes’s analysis of the situation, not least with the analogy of the existing war blocs that Brandes had made the basis of his reasoning. Having joined the British propaganda office, Wellington House, by the beginning of the war, Archer seemed naturally opposed the core argument put forward by his friend from Copenhagen that each great power involved bore an equal share of the blame for the apocalypse, or as Brandes put it, ‘Europe’s hara-kiri’, from which Japan and Asia’s future people would only benefit.66 In his fifty-three-page open letter ‘Colour-blind Neutrality’ of mid-1916, Archer voices his objections to Brandes’s position systematically: at heart, his criticism targets Brandes’s moral equivocation of the Entente’s war effort with Germany’s. After all, so the extensively developed core argument, the German Empire ‘willed’ the war and methodically prepared for it, while the Entente Powers would have only reacted to an unwarranted German aggression.67 Furthermore,

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in view of the accumulation of German war crimes, including those in Belgium – a neutral state – and those committed as part of the submarine war, the moral equivalence suggested appeared intolerable to Archer and, as he maintained, the admirers and friends of Brandes abroad. Brandes’s alleged ‘colour-blind neutrality’ made him effectively a ‘Mr. Facing Both Ways’, who moved between the poles of ‘truth and lies’, ‘humanity and inhumantity’, and ‘right and wrong’ in a self-satisfied and indifferent manner.68 Archer’s attempted demolition of his friend’s neutrality stance culminates in him directly taking on the conception and practice of neutrality as well as the moral consequences for a neutral in a just war. Declaring and, even worse, morally arguing one’s neutrality in such a conflict would amount to a shirking of a clear responsibility that rests upon every intelligent human being. The neutrality which declines to distinguish black from white is simply a disease of the moral vision. … And to you, my dear Master, I may say in conclusion that, with all my profound esteem for you, with all my admiration and envy for your talent, your achievements and your fame, there is one respect in which I would not for the world change places with you. Whatever sorrow the war has brought upon or may bring me, I would not for the world be a neutral.69

Writing in Politiken again, although this time in a series of articles published between June and July 1916, Brandes responded to Archer. Just as systematically as his Scottish friend had done and with indeed plausible arguments, he intended to erode the simplistic dichotomy Archer had created and to instead present a more balanced, complex picture of the war. In doing so, Brandes drew upon the anti-bellicist essence of his convictions, as outlined already in his earlier controversy with Clemenceau. These did under no circumstances allow him to take sides in a politically corrupted, by nature and character unjust World War, even as – or indeed especially as – a neutral from a precariously situated neutral country dependent upon the mercy of ruthless and hypocritical – in short: amoral – great powers.70 Later on, with Archer adding another rejoinder to Brandes’s four responses, Brandes expanded the essays even further.71 The reworked and enlarged fourth edition of the Danish version of ‘Verdenskrigen’ is symptomatic for his ‘tendencies for misanthropic pessimism’, not causally triggered but certainly enhanced by the war, as Søndergaard Bendtsen has aptly described it. War, especially the World War, appears as anything other than a ‘great war’, but rather as a ‘petty war, a miserable leftover of the Middle Ages, a relic of the past, stupid and vicious and detestable’.72 In Litteraturen, the Copenhagen-based literature magazine, right after the armistice, Brandes postulated once more and

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almost programmatically that the war would have thrown back humanity by at least a century, reinforcing his earlier warnings and council. It has exterminated in their hundred thousands the young people which could have been expected to renew the intellectual and spiritual life [of our times]. It has drained Europe’s economic resources and thrown the peoples into enormous debt. Through its violence, it has outrageously brutalised the minds; through the partly bought, partly fanatical press, reinforcing one another mutually, it has systematically made Europe stupid; through the hatred that violence and slander caused, it has poisoned the inner life of the masses; through the abysmal hypocrisy in the service of self-righteousness, it has diminished the pool on which the love of truth feeds – love of truth that mankind had painstakingly acquired in the past. In short, through its daily mass murder and the nonsensical waste of money for useless and unproductive purposes, it has impoverished, brutalised, stultified and poisoned.73

All that the war had apparently done on a general scale, Brandes had experienced and suffered in his private life. His network of broad contacts among Europe’s intellectual elites had been impoverished and diminished, the pre-war discourse among the modernist forces stultified, poisoned, and reduced to the degree of dissolution. While his relationship to Archer was never irreparably breached, the duel with Clemenceau had left scars on both sides that refused to heal. This condition was reinforced by Clemenceau’s re-entry into active French politics, leading – from mid-November 1917 – a crisis and war cabinet largely built around himself.74 In the wake of the armistice, Clemenceau’s seemingly inflexible, anti-German approach to the peace process and especially in the context of the Versailles negotiations frustrated Brandes even further. Once, he even allowed himself to refer to his estranged friend as ‘stupid’ in his diaries. ‘The stupid Clemenceau’, he noted against the backdrop of Versailles, only to later remove this invective on editing the diaries for publication.75 Appalled by the World War anyhow, Brandes also deplored its consequences. To him, the Treaty of Versailles was not the Wilsonian attempt to establish a new, lasting, and, if possible, global peace order; it represented much rather the perversion of Wilsonian ideals and hence a ‘tragical farce’, ‘tragediens anden del’ (The Tragedy Part II), as he developed in an intervention published in autumn 1919.76 In Brandes’s reading, the treaty amounted to an act borne out of ‘thirst for revenge’ and the ‘flush of victory’ on the part of Britain and France. It was merely aimed at ensuring the containment and further decline of Germany and Austria, which would result in them becoming part of the – in his view – impending ‘horde of

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socialist republics’.77 His era was thus only a tremendous and terrible prelude to the real drama that was now beginning, namely the proletarianization of Europe, culminating, he predicted with certainty, in yet another war. Against such a darkened, pessimistic backdrop, Versailles unavoidably appeared as ‘the most stupid document known to modern history’.78 For the ageing intellectual, even the few encouraging aspects of the new peace order of Versailles were spoiled. First of all, there was the re-integration of North Schleswig in the Danish nation-state in 1920, following a highly sophisticated plebiscite in the affected territories and creating a stable, politically legitimate border for years to come.79 This was essentially in keeping with the premises of Brandes’s own journalistic commitment since the 1880s. For a long time, he had been the main and most vehement advocate for the Danish minority in the German Empire and, at the same time, the sharpest available critic of the Prussian-German nationalities policy.80 His sharp and principled pen, however, could equally well apply to deficiencies in Danish politics and society, as he illustrated when critically scrutinizing the imminent return of the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein to Denmark. Brandes was particularly disgusted by the anti-German jingoism and expansionist nationalism that shaped segments of Danish politics during the period. The absorption of the border region (and probably beyond), accompanied by the marginalization of the German-speaking inhabitants, was not only unwise, but ‘tragic-comic’, all the more for those who had for years protested in favour of the minority rights of Schleswig’s Danish population.81 Rather consequently, but also to his own deep disappointment, he was not invited to the actual celebrations of the North Schleswig’s return to Denmark on 11 July 1920. These were held at the highly mythicized battle field of Düppel (Dybbøl) and saw the Danish King Christian X ceremonially reclaim the territory by receiving the Dannebrog – the Danish flag – out of the hands of four white-clad maiden. There could hardly be more political symbolism on a day afterwards known as reunification day.82 Brandes, however, the fearless promoter of the rights of Northern Schleswig’s Danes, was absent and unwanted. In this somewhat tragic constellation, two things become apparent: his growing insignificance, especially in the political domain, and the way in which his positioning as an intellectual remained misunderstood, even in his homeland. Resuming Brandes’s political behaviour, his outlook and activities during the First World War, it would be appropriate to emphasize his intellectual autonomy and sovereignty, as argued by Jørgen Knudsen, Harald Wolbersen, and Bjarne Søndergaard Bendtsen. His determination to tenaciously assert his politically and

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ideologically independent point of view in the face of unfavourable circumstances distinguishes him from the intellectual circles of the warring societies, but also – by and large – from those of the smaller neutral states in Northern and Northwestern Europe. Beyond that, Brandes’s momentous biography also reflects a general dilemma: the predicament of the principled, determined neutral in both private and public life, resolutely asserting his position. In it, the cardinal problem not only of the disinterested neutral individual surfaces as if in a nutshell, but also of neutrality as a state practice in the international system. It was – again – with the First World War that neutrality came under escalating pressure to be morally legitimized. While the nineteenth century undoubtedly formed an ‘age of neutrals’, not least based in an ever growing body of international law guiding neutrality, the First World War made these tendencies increasingly redundant.83 As a catalyst of ideological and cultural polarization, the war made any dissociation from the conflict impossible, not only for the government of neutral states, but also for individuals trying to abstain from the conflict. In this context, the drive towards moral enlistment, particularly with regard to the neutral states, was most forcefully practised by the Entente Powers, often with uncompromising determination. As far as German war propaganda was concerned, it seemed that most of the neutral states of Europe amounted quickly to lost territory, not least because of Berlin’s decision to violate the neutrality and sovereignty of one of the continent’s traditional neutrals. German diplomacy and politics were therefore content to curb tendencies by small- or mediumsized neutral states to join the war. In view of the legitimizing pressure and the expectations held by the belligerent societies of France and Britain and their intellectual elites, Brandes’s stance was always prone to be misinterpreted as pro-German or, at the very least, hostile towards the Entente. To the malevolent observer, his firm, in part Russophobic condemnation of the alliance between the Western European powers and the Russian Empire, made his alleged proGerman bias even more apparent. Brandes’s opponents as well mistook his omnipresent cultural pessimism, schooled through Nietzsche and Kierkegaard and at times almost apocalyptic, as an attempt to evade the specific challenges of the war, as – in short – a well-cloaked form of moral cowardice. Such an approach, equally practised by Clemenceau and Archer, reduces Brandes’s complex criticism of Europe’s condition and of the war’s implications for the European peoples to mere lamentation. Contrary to that, his realistic prognoses about the continent’s development were based on specific observations, often also on systematic research, to a far greater degree than his opponents

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cared to admit. The Dane’s predictions cannot be simply dismissed as prophesy dressed up as pathos, but much rather consist of anti-deterministic probability interpretations, to use Annie Bourguignon’s phrase, which Brandes arrived at by drawing on his profound knowledge of different European societies.84 Hence, beneath their often polemical exterior, his essays feature an analytic and critical realism that was rooted in his own perspective as an outsider on multiple levels. As a Dane – and a neutral – in an international system dominated by – belligerent – great powers, as a Jew in a world in which ‘anti-Semitism was increasing everywhere’, as he himself observed in 1925, as a radical liberal in a society characterized by the ‘structural deficiencies of the old European order’, all in all: as someone belonging to several minorities at the same time, he was throughout his life acutely conscious of allegedly marginal phenomena.85 These phenomena, though, also had inherent representative power and thus permitted and continue to permit an adequate and, above all, critical understanding of supposedly more significant processes and events. For this reason alone, Georg Brandes seems to have been unjustly forgotten as a commentator and critic of his times. One of the few intellectuals to have understood Brandes’s position on the First World War was Stefan Zweig. Around Easter 1915, the Austrian Zweig wrote to congratulate his Danish colleague on his ‘resolute championing [of Polish interests, MJ] in Poland’s martyrium’. Unfortunately, Zweig continues, ‘you have now yourself become a victim of the intellectual viciousness between the nations, but a coming age will recognise those who dared to stand unarmed against the brunt of hostile opinion as the true heroes’.86

6

State, Empire, and Revolution Russia and Finland in the First World War: Thoughts on the Vanishing of a Grand Duchy in History and Memory

Myth, memory, and history Finland’s history during the First World War has for long been seen and written about through the prism of two key events: on the one hand, the 6th of December 1917, the day of Finnish independence, viewed and even today ritually celebrated as the natural culmination point of a self-confident nation’s historical fulfilment; on the other hand, the Civil War of early 1918, the great cataclysmic experience of the newly emerging nation-state – an experience whose impact shook the foundations of Finnish society and whose memory remained divisive for generations to come. What both events, however, have in common is their conviction that there was no or only little proper history of Finland during the First World War prior to the watershed of 1917/18.1 In that, the public and historiographical consensus echoes patterns found throughout the entire region of Central, Central Eastern, and South-Eastern Europe that imperial buffer zone between the German and Russian empires occasionally referred to as ‘Zwischeneuropa’, most literally the Europe-in-Between. If at all, Finland’s highly complex position before 1917 – a period amounting to more than two-thirds of the actual history of the war – is seen as a necessary precursor to independence, not as a historical condition in its own right. Being both nationalist habit and politics of memory, this has been practised most forcefully by the victorious, anti-revolutionary side of the Civil War, the so-called Whites, later then by their mostly conservative successors. In this narrative, both Finnish independence and the successful stabilization and ultimate survival of

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the Finnish state in the aftermath of the Civil War largely rest with a group of young nationalist activists, the ‘Jäger’, who were members of the mythicized Royal Prussian 27th Jäger Battalion. From 1915 onwards, almost 1,900 Finnish volunteers were educated in the German army camp Lockstedt and deployed – in mid-1916 – to active service at the German north-eastern front around Riga. In the context of Finland’s early independence, the heroized ‘Jäger’ became the epitome of the nationalist movement, allegedly propelling a self-confident cultural nation of the nineteenth century towards modern national statehood. As a founding myth, this certainly fitted the political and societal climate of the interwar period well, all the more against the backdrop of a deeply divided society traumatized by one of the bloodiest civil wars of the century. As with all historical myths, however, the ‘Jäger’ – or rather nationalist – myth of the coming of the modern Finnish nation-state provides only a coarsened, politically, and culturally adjusted version of history. It amounts to what Michael Oakeshott once described as ‘abbreviated history’, long before deconstructivism became a fashion. In order to avoid the long road of reflecting ever evasive – and only allegedly – collective identities, one goes for numerous shortcuts, thereby making highly complex matters into simple, easily absorbed portions of belonging. This practice is not unknown to the historian. In fact, historians use these shortcuts themselves, at times deliberately, more often, however, unwittingly. They are, in any case, well advised to adopt Lord Acton’s attitude to sinking ships and thereby walk the road less travelled in order to recover forgotten or rather ‘unremembered’ history.2 This is not the first time that the almost clichéd idea of ‘forgotten history’ has been applied to the subject. The actual phrase is borrowed from the doctoral thesis of the Finnish historian Tuomas Hoppu (in Finnish: ‘Historian unohtamat’). Contrary to expectation, Hoppu’s study – published in 2005 – deals with a different group of Finnish volunteers during the First World War – those Finns who, in sizeable numbers, served from 1914 onwards in the imperial Russian Army.3 Hoppu’s unearthing of the at first suppressed, then conveniently forgotten aspects of Finnish history would have to be taken seriously. It adds nuance to a complex process and challenges the existing national-historiographical narrative. The latter assumes 1917 to be the vanishing point of the modern history of the country. Everything before that is seen as a quasi-natural progression towards the telos of national independence, no more so than in the context of the RussoFinnish relationships since the nineteenth century: from, firstly, the creation of a model autonomous grand duchy within the Russian Empire through, secondly,

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the resistance against Russian imperial intervention in Finnish affairs from the February Manifesto of 1899 and the establishment of an own unicameral parliament, the Eduskunta, in 1906/07 onwards to, finally, the activist national movement embodied by the ‘Jäger’ and – later on – the victorious white faction in the Civil War. In this narrative, the tsar’s empire functions – at least during its more liberal periods – as a kind of benevolent midwife in the emergence of Finnish statehood and national culture. This image, however, changes drastically when it comes to the upheaval the empire and not least Finland experienced from the 1890s onwards. What is commonly termed ‘Russification’ surfaced in Finland in two periods, a first from the February Manifesto in 1899, ending with the 1905 revolution in Russia, and a second supposed campaign, which – from 1908/09 onwards – reintroduced more direct rule from St Petersburg and lasted until the First World War, some claim well into the war. The Finnish term for the alleged Russification policies sortokaudet (or sortovuodet) – times respectively years of oppression – is a result of contemporary anti-Russian activism and hence much more pointed. As with Russification as an analytical term in general, it only captures part of the multifaceted array of nationality policies the empire practised since the end of the nineteenth century. For the period after 1899, Russia – both in contemporary Finnish perception and in retrospect – appears therefore alien, despotic, outdated, and doomed, much closer, in fact, to Lenin’s influential anti-imperialist label of the empire as a ‘prison of nations’ than to conceptions of the tsar’s benevolent rule and of Russia as the grand duchy’s comparatively generous protector, as readily applied to the earlier period.4 In this extension of a contemporary and rather typically Russophobic prejudice, the empire forms the negative folio against which Finland’s national independence appears as the inevitable result of a deeply natural process of historical evolution. Russia becomes the alien, the other, from which one’s own and the self can be easily separated and indeed altogether defined, even more so in an increasingly divided society and a newly emerged, still unconsolidated nation-state. Finland’s emergence as an independent nation-state, however, was conditional and not the inevitable process as which it is preferably seen in national historiography. Without the destabilization of the Russian Empire in the course of the First World War, the independent Finnish state of 1917/18 remains unthinkable. As so many of the nation-states of Eastern and Central Eastern Europe, independent Finland too is primarily a product of the war and first and foremost the result of the collapse of empire. Among the empires of continental Europe around 1914, with the exception of Ottoman Turkey, Russia was certainly

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the least stable, as the revolution of 1905 and its repercussions had illustrated to contemporaries inside the tsar’s realm and abroad alike. Yet, to assume that the Russian Empire before the First World War was somewhat anachronistic and moribund appears to be more of an ahistorical back projection than a balanced, historically contextualized analysis. The almost universal narrative of Russian imperial demise prior to 1914 and inevitable collapse in the course of the war is apparently well suited to explain and legitimize the outcome of the war: a zone of small- and middle-sized nation-states in Eastern Europe whose territorial and ideological foundations were being created on the ruins of imperial rule. As especially the example of the grand duchy of Finland illustrates, however, there was little in the situation before or even after 1914 that made the revolutions of 1917, the collapse of the Russian Empire, and the emergence of an independent Finnish state inevitable or even probable.5 On the contrary, even under the pre-war distress in Finnish-Russian relations, Russian imperial rule over Finland as an autonomous grand duchy was at no point directly challenged. What the opponents of the so-called Russification programmes advocated throughout was the restoration and protection of the allegedly agreed legal status and modi operandi in the bilateral relationship between Helsinki and St Petersburg. The status of Finnish autonomy had indeed been consolidated in the wake of the 1905 revolution. The new constitution of 1906, which effectively transformed Russia into a constitutional monarchy, redefined Finland’s position within the empire along the lines of an enhanced autonomy. If not formally, then at least in effect, this reform retracted the restrictions of the February Manifesto of 1899 as the emblematic embodiment of St Petersburg’s so-called Russification policies. It primarily resulted in the establishment of an unicameral parliament in 1907, the Eduskunta, based on universal suffrage and eligibility, which made Finland into one of the most progressively governed states in Europe, certainly more in line with the British imperial decentralization towards the dominions around the same period than with any other comparable example of imperial rule in the borderlands between the Russian, Ottoman, and German empires. In the years before the war, the Russian regime in Finland did certainly not amount to a perpetual state of emergency, as retrospective depictions occasionally indicate. The actual disturbances in the bilateral relations were largely limited to the area of constitutional politics and dealt with by the general governor (from 1909 the widely detested Franz Albert Seyn) and the Finnish Senate, that is, the government of the grand duchy, respectively the newly instituted Finnish

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parliament (Eduskunta).6 This is not to say that the confrontation did not reach a certain vehemence, as most aptly reflected in the public mobilization of the so-called great petition (suuri adressi) against the February Manifesto or the assassination of Nikolai I. Bobrikov in June 1904 at the hands of the Finnish nationalist Eugen Schauman.7 Furthermore, the international mobilization in favour of Finland gathered momentum, culminating in a formal address – ‘Pro Finlandia’ – of more than a thousand leading European intellectuals and figures of public life to the Russian tsar Nicholas II in the context of the first Hague Peace Conference in 1899. Finland had become the cause célèbre of European politics around 1900.8 With it, a new elite of Finnish politicians and decisionmakers, often lawyers by profession, emerged that continued to shape the affairs of Finnish politics for the next half a century, among them the first president of the Finnish parliament, the constitutional lawyer and chief proponent of the legalist struggle Pehr Evind Svinhufvud, or the economist and fiscal expert Juho Kusti Paasikivi. Both went on to become Finnish presidents, from 1931 to 1937 (Svinhufvud) and 1946 to 1956 (Paasikivi) respectively.9 St Petersburg’s more controlling approach to Finland would have to be seen in both an imperial Russian and an international perspective. For Russia, Finland was crucial especially in security-political terms. The defence of the realm in the North, in particular the security of the capital St Petersburg at the end of the Gulf of Finland, heavily depended upon the grand duchy and the corresponding Baltic provinces south of the Gulf. In line with innerimperial and international developments prior to the war, Russia systematically enhanced its control of these areas, militarily developing both Finland, the Baltic provinces and the Kingdom of Poland. In tandem, the empire as well enhanced its military control over its other borderlands further south, from Poland to the Governorate of Bessarabia. Not least the deep-seated shock of its defeat against Japan in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904/05 stimulated and – in the contemporary perception of the Russian government – necessitated such a development.10

The grand duchy in Russian imperial policy St Petersburg’s more assertive approach to its imperial borderlands as well affected Finland. In the years leading up to the war, the Russian government permanently stationed several ten thousand troops in the grand duchy and

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enhanced this number even further to beyond 100,000 troops in late 1914 – an indeed substantial dimension for a country of only 3.3 million people. Furthermore, the Russian military considered the fortification of the Åland archipelago, which were formally part of the grand duchy, and – from 1915 – began to enhance the defence installations of the islands. In itself, this amounted to a blatant violation of the Åland Convention, as enshrined in the Treaty of Paris of 1856. This, in turn, greatly worried neutral Sweden and certainly biased Swedish neutrality further in favour of the German war effort.11 Before and after 1914, Russia’s main strategic opponent in the Baltic area was the Wilhelmine Empire. Especially Finland and the Baltic provinces were well suited for a potential German offensive, threatening the Russian capital and – beyond that – most of the empire’s structurally most developed Northwest. In that respect, the security concerns of the Russian political and military leadership only mirror the sensibilities of the other great powers, be it Constantinople’s attempts to fortify the Ottoman Balkans against probable Austrian or Russian invasions, or Austro-Hungarian largely unsuccessful efforts to stabilize its own borderlands in the years prior to 1914. In the Baltic, however, the only other great power of importance, the British Empire, exercised indirect control through its naval superiority.12 Potential hegemonic powers of the region, particularly Sweden, had been relegated to second rank in the course of the nineteenth century. While a segment of Stockholm’s elites continued to cultivate older hegemonic ambitions as to the Baltic area and not least Finland, its resources and capacities as a potentially imperialist power remained limited, even in the context of the unprecedented international crisis of 1917 and the subsequent years. The First World War and the ascendency of the social democratic dominance in Swedish politics put an end to these residual imperialist impulses and reconciled the Swedish polity with its newly found role as a small state in international relations. Besides the rather typical great power ambition to gain strategic control over one’s borderlands, Russia’s policies towards Finland were part of a common imperialist pattern in other ways too. Since the last third of the nineteenth century, all territorial empires in Europe suffered existential crises in the face of a number of modern challenges. First among them was the rise and toxic threat of nationalism among the differing nations subsumed under the imperial – and largely dynastic – umbrella. The imperial centres responded to this challenge by furthering the emergence of an own, quasi-imperial nationalism, mostly rooted in the collective identities of the titular nations of an empire. This phenomenon applied not only to Russia, but also to most empires in Europe, if they had not

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already been based on nationalist principles like the French post-revolutionary state. It is reflected on manifold political and intellectual battlefields of the period around 1900, for instance in the nationality policies of the German Austrians or the Hungarians in the Habsburg Empire or of Berlin towards its minorities such as the Poles and the Danes. The heavily nationalist Young Turks adopted an own, rather distinct form of ‘nationalizing empire’, which ultimately paved the way for the ethnic cleansing the Ottomans practised in the First World War against most of the empire’s traditional minority populations, the Orthodox Christians of largely Greek origin and the Armenians, to name the two most prominent cases.13 By any standard of the period and especially by inner-Russian and international comparison, the catalogue of measures heaved upon Finland first from 1899, then from 1908/09 onwards, amounting to what is usually described as Russification, appears distinctly lenient on the part of the imperial centre. The appointment of F. A. Seyn in November 1909 was therefore symptomatic for a larger development in Russia’s domestic and imperial structure, bureaucratic centralism as an ideal of imperial modernization. It was, as Pertti Luntinen has rightly stated, ‘an indication of the centralisation, unification and bureaucratization of the Russian administration under a unified Council of Ministers’.14 This correlates with the position Finland held in the Russian Empire. In and around 1914, the country was clearly one of the most stable factors of the Romanov realm, ‘an island of relative peace and relative security’ in a world out of joint, as the British historian of Finland Anthony Upton once described it.15 Apart from the constitutional and political upheaval, this applied to virtually all sectors of public life in the grand duchy, especially to the Finnish-Russian economic relations. The period of forceful industrialization in Finland in the last two decades prior to the First World War would have been, in any case, unimaginable without the country’s integration into the much bigger – and equally expanding – Russian market. The Finnish-Russian balance of trade, amounting some decades earlier only to a few million (Finnish) marks, increased drastically to more than 100 million marks for both import and export in the final years before the war. Finnish industrialists and companies profited so heavily from their trade relations to Russia and their unlimited access to the imperial market that their Russian competitors again and again complained about the fact that a people actually colonized by the Russians could exploit the mother country so successfully. The war did actually not end this period of relative boom, but complicated the Finnish situation considerably. The country’s

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dependence on the volatile Russian economy, in particular in terms of food supply and other utilities, increasingly affected Finnish society. The consumption statistics, to name but one example, sharply illustrate the progressive shortage in basic foodstuffs. While the average Finn in 1915 still consumed 45.9 kg of wheat, 174.6 kg of rye, and 127.3 kg of potatoes, this dropped to 8.6 kg of wheat, 61 kg of rye, and 113 kg of potatoes two years later.16 Just as in Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire and even in Scandinavia, the drastic shortage of food supplies gradually destabilized the social and political situation in the grand duchy. The outbreak of the war left Finland in an ambivalent, even peculiar situation. As part of the Russian Empire, the grand duchy was formally a participant in a major global conflict. Petrograd, as the Russian capital had been renamed at the onset of the hostilities, considered Finland as a potential springboard for a German invasion of the Baltic and Northern Russia.17 In terms of military planning, this was undoubtedly not without justification and further heightened by the difficult general situation of the country and especially in the FinnishRussian relations before 1914. Like the Empire as a whole, Finland too was placed on war footing, accompanied by the introduction of special regulations for a possible state of emergency. These regulations remained in place until 1917 and primarily applied to the trade and the economy of the grand duchy, to its pricing policy and industrial production, but as well to the press landscape and legal issues governing the public space, such as the right to assembly. The actual implementation of these measures was, however, readily – and loyally – ensured by the local Finnish bureaucracy. This can be easily generalized: there were hardly any indications of disloyalty towards the empire’s war effort and authority within Finnish society in the early period of the war, if one disregards the highly unorthodox example of the activist movement of Finnish nationalism, especially the – by then – largely négligeable Jäger mobilization. The war and Finland’s exposed strategic situation brought with it a drastically enhanced deployment of Russian troops stationed in the country. At its peak, it is estimated that at least about 80,000 to 125,000 troops were stationed on Finnish territory. Helsinki became the central basis for operation of the imperial Baltic Fleet. Along with Åland, the coastal defences in the South and the West of the country were developed further.18 In effect, though, Finland’s participation in the war bore sporadic features. Before early 1918, the country was at no point a theatre of war. The original Finnish conscription army, which had been instituted by law by the Finnish

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Diet of Finland and Tsar Alexander II in 1881, was disbanded in 1901. Further schemes on the part of St Petersburg to force Finns into Russian military service collapsed. Even the most traditional fighting force from Finland, the Finnish Guards’ Rifle Battalion, an elite contingent of the imperial Russian guard established in Helsinki in 1829, was discontinued in August 1905 against the backdrop of the political upheaval in the country. Since then, the grand duchy did not possess any organized military force and was not subject to imperial conscription. Instead, the Finnish Senate paid a substantial tax for military purposes to the imperial treasury.19 While conscription and eventually distinct Finnish forces had to be abandoned, career officers from Finland continued to serve actively – and self-sacrificially – in the Russian army. This largely Swedishspeaking and aristocratic segment of Finnish society had joined the Russian military – and, in turn, St Petersburg’s high society – early one in the imperial period and adopted the empire as a source of both career opportunity and collective identity. Forty-five of these officers lost their lives in Russian service in the course of the First World War. The by far most prominent example for this milieu behaviour remains C. G. E. Mannerheim, whose loyalty to Nicholas II and the tsar’s family long outlived the Romanovs’ execution in mid-1918. Not only his private letters of the interwar betray an unbroken sense of loss after the demise of the monarchy, even years later. Also in his residence, Mannerheim – in this a rather typical product of empire – sustained the grievance inflicted upon him. The sitting room of his manor house in the Ullanlinna quarters of Helsinki displays this in spectacular fashion: in the centre of the room, on a little pedestal and surrounded by pictures of his actual family, the later Marshal of Finland, emerging from the imperial ashes as a figure of national salvation, had purposefully placed portrait photos of the tsar and the Russian royal family.20 In this respect, Mannerheim and the Finnish career officers in Russian service would have to be viewed as rather typical examples for the way in which the Romanov Empire ruled, keeping together a diverse imperial population, of which only 44 per cent – around 1900 – were Russian in the narrower sense. Non-Russian populations such as the Finns were integrated ‘by co-opting local aristocracies into the imperial ruling elite’.21 This only failed in the Polish case – and was nowhere more pronounced and successful than in the smooth and – by and large – extremely flexible incorporation of the grand duchy and its society into the wider imperial framework. Besides the imperial elites of Petrograd and despite the absence of conscription in the grand duchy, a considerable amount of young Finnish men joined the

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Russian imperial forces during the First World War. Russia’s pendant to the German Augusterlebnis, the at least partly government-sponsored and certainly not universal ‘euphoria as well as fury and joy of war’ in the late summer and early autumn of 1914, swept through Finland with equal intensity as through other parts of the empire.22 This is especially obvious in the masses of people that came together to farewell the troops, especially in Helsinki, but also in smaller Finnish towns where Russian military contingents were stationed. Other, more profane motives underpinned the decision to volunteer for the imperial army. In social and economic terms, service in the Russian armed forces promised employment and probable career prospects. The first of the two certainly applied primarily to recruits from working-class quarters, the latter to the bourgeois middle classes. Furthermore, the collective psychology of a generation without any experience of war disposed many youth throughout the whole of Europe to volunteer, especially in the initial weeks and months of the war. Finland was no different in that respect. Even before the outbreak of the war, the inherent radicalism of male youth had moulded an entire generation. Though no phenomenon exclusive to youth, bellicism was widespread, as blatantly captured by the twenty-two-year-old German poet Georg Heym, an ardent proponent of expressionism and radically modernist visions in literature. Heym noted in his diaries on 6 July 1910: It always is the same, so boring, boring, boring. Nothing is happening, nothing, nothing, nothing. If something were for once to happen that would not leave this insipid taste of banality. … What would I give for barricades to be built again. I would be the first to be on them, I would want to feel the frenzy, the excitement, even with a bullet in my heart. Or, even a war would do, it can even be an unjust one. This peace is so idle, so greasy and smeary like glue polishing on old furniture.23

Similar features can be found throughout the whole of warring Europe, culturally less pronounced in Britain and France, however, and all the more – besides Germany – in Russia and Italy, as evidenced by the Italian Futurist Filippo Tommaso Marinetti’s ‘Futurist Manifesto’, published in Le Figaro in 1909: ‘We will glorify war – the world’s only hygiene – militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn of woman. We will destroy the museums, libraries, academies of every kind, will fight moralism, feminism.’24 Aware of the potential for mobilization, the imperial authorities began as early as August 1914 to systematically recruit in Finland, mobilizing more than

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700 Finnish soldiers – as volunteers – for the Russian army. Around 600 of them actively fought on the Russian side for substantial periods of the war; 160 lost their life.25 The potential for recruitment in Finland, however, was much greater than indicated by this figure, if the Russian military authorities had watered down the recruitment standards. Recruitment generally was hampered by the serious lack of military training on the part of possible Finnish volunteers and by the fact that – at least in 1914/15 – integrating substantial proportions of non-Russian-speaking recruits into the imperial military apparatus formed an organizational problem. On the other hand, especially as the war progressed, recruitment waned and eventually evaporated altogether, leaving Russian expectations disappointed.26 Historically contextualized, the decision of these Finnish volunteers to join the Russian military machinery appears far less questionable than in retrospect. None of the major European empires – and not even an overseas empire like Britain – had difficulties in mobilizing its manifold population for the war effort in 1914. In fact, the war effort of the major players was substantially rooted in the effective mobilization of their imperial resources. In turn, it is much more likely that it was actually empire that sustained the war for the British and the French to a far greater extent than this was possible for continental realms with limited or – due to the naval blockade – virtually no overseas resources like the Central Powers.27 Even there, however, as the imperial mobilization of the Habsburg monarchy and even the Ottoman Empire strikingly illustrate, war was inconceivable without the involvement of the imperial peoples.28

A royal visit: 10 March 1915 – Nicholas II in Helsinki The Russian Empire mirrored this logic. What primarily bound the differing peoples to imperial rule was a sense of collective belonging, as generated primarily through the dynastic component of loyalty. As grand duke of Finland, the emperor had been an overarching presence in Finnish public life for more than a century. Finland in the long nineteenth century, David Kirby has rightly insisted, firmly belonged into the category of national movements with a strong conservative streak in political, social, and economic terms, affirming the existing system rather than revolutionarily challenging it. ‘Thus, loyalty towards the ruling dynasty, belief in the established social and political order, fear and distrust of the “revolutionary” model – the Mazzinian vision – all tended to direct this “awakening” away from confrontation with state power, and did little to

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create or foster the political ideal of a nation free and independent.’29 Matti Klinge, Osmo Jussila, and – albeit on different grounds – Risto Alapuro have interpreted this peculiarity of Finnish history less as a deficiency, but as a prerequisite of the steady and astonishingly calm character of Finnish nation-building. ‘Internal national consolidation in Finland’, Klinge – by then provocatively indeed – stated already in 1975, ‘occurred calmly and steadily during the nineteenth century. By international standards, the changes were accompanied by relatively little conflict. Chauvinism and bragging about own race, language, and past – which played a conspicuous role in several other countries – remained minor here, particularly because of the non-sovereign position of the country and the linguistic division within the educated class.’30 Despite the legal restrictions imposed upon Finland in the lead-up to the war, the grand duchy’s fundamental sense of loyalty to the tsar was rarely in doubt. As grand duke, Nicholas II, while certainly lacking the popularity of some of his predecessors, remained the ultimate point of reference, even during the fundamental constitutional and political crises of the pre-war period.31 As in any monarchical order, this applied to the elites in particular, but also to the larger public. During the First World War, imperial solidarity and mobilization for the empire seemed only natural to a population that had actually largely benefitted from imperial rule. Before 1914, indeed even in the initial stages of the war, the more radical and separatist nationalists, advocating the breakaway from the Russian Empire and the establishment of an own Finnish nation-state, remained at the fringes of the Finnish political landscape. Instead, throughout the first years of the war, Finnish society supported the imperial war effort – and, at least initially, economically benefitted from it. Besides the increased financial burden on the grand duchy and in the absence of active military support, other measures were sought to express loyalty and solidarity. Among them was the establishment of military hospitals in the country, especially in Helsinki, in order to provide for the injured of the Russian imperial army.32 Considering the political upheaval of the pre-war years, the local Russian authorities were even perplexed by the extent to which Finnish society displayed signs of loyalty to the empire and its sovereign.33 The widespread sense of loyalty to the imperial crown obviously suffered the longer the war lasted. It was, however, still vividly obvious half a year into the conflict in the only visit Nicholas II ever paid to Helsinki. Anatomizing the visit and its organizational and ceremonial make-up furthermore unveils a few of the manifold layers that defined the grand duchy’s existence under the Russian

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imperial umbrella. Despite having spent most of his summers on board his royal yacht in the Gulf of Finland and at the southern shores of the grand duchy, Nicholas had only once visited the Finnish capital – and that before his coronation in 1894. His second and only visit as tsar and grand duke of Finland on 10 March 1915 was a carefully managed one-day affair, primarily intended as an inspection trip of the Baltic Fleet battle ships stationed in the Helsinki harbour. Nicholas’s inspection travel coincided with the rather encouraging news from the Russian Western front. The siege of the Austrian fortress of Przemyśl was apparently nearing its end. By early March, the Austrian army had been effectively expelled from Galicia. This enormous Russian military operation, more or less from the autumn of 1914 until the surrender of the Austrian troops within the fortress on 22 March 1915, formed the longest continuous siege – 194 days – in the short history of the war (and indeed, as it turned out, of the war altogether). The final Austrian attempts to relieve the fortress were failing in early March, eventually leaving the local garrison and reinforcements – about 117,000 troops and 700 heavy guns – with no choice but to surrender to superior Russian forces.34 Nicholas rightly considered the conquest of Przemyśl ‘enormous in both moral & military importance’.35 After the effective loss of Galicia, this defeat resulted in yet another Austrian military crisis and the gradual take-over of Vienna’s war efforts in the East by the German Supreme Army Command (OHL). Just before that particular climax, but already increasingly optimistic about the more recent course of the war, a cheerful emperor arrived in the Finnish capital.36 The newspapers of the following day, from Helsingin Sanomat and the Swedishspeaking Hufvudstadbladet to the working-class press, reported virtually every detail of the emperor’s visit and also dealt with the situation at Przemyśl.37 The press reporting generally, but also in this peculiar case, followed strict censorship guidelines, enforced by Petrograd. This applied especially to the filmed material of the tsar’s visit. Remarkably, however, an almost an hour-long recording of the visit escaped censorship and has survived. It was created by the film-maker Oscar Lindelöf and – in a shortened censored version – shown in Helsinki’s three major cinemas in the subsequent weeks. In order to escape censorship by the Russian authorities, which intended to confiscate the material, Lindelöf spent – according to the film’s introduction – four days in effective hiding.38 At 8.40 in the morning, Nicholas and his staff – among them the grand marshal of the court, general lieutenant Paul von Benckendorff – arrived by train from Petrograd. In the heavily decorated railway station of Helsinki, the tsar was received by the grand duchy’s general governor, F. A. Seyn, and the

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governor of the province of Uusimaa, general major Bernhard Otto Widnäs, as well as the locally based imperial forces, among them units of the Helsinki garrison and the commander of the Russian naval forces in the Baltic, admiral Nikolai von Essen, the rising star within the imperial navy until his premature death two months later. The Russian naval minister Ivan Grigorovich and his closest staff accompanied Nicholas, heightening the importance of Helsinki as the headquarter of the Imperial Baltic Fleet. The obligatory welcoming parade was held at the station, arranged for by the garrison and its military band. Still within the building, representatives of the grand duchy’s public life and politics had gathered in order to receive the emperor. Heads of different departments of the Finnish Senate, the general governor’s and local administrative staff, the highest representatives of the city’s administrative, political, and educational life, among them the vice chancellor and rector of the Imperial Alexander University in Finland, and the remaining consular corps formally welcomed the monarch.39 In their presence, the tsar received a number of delegations, first the Helsinki City Council, represented by its head, bank director Alfred Norrmén, and a number of distinguished members. Furthermore, the local peasant organization as well as the Jewish and Orthodox communities had sent delegations, with the latter handing the traditional Slavic welcoming gift, bread and salt, to the emperor. Ovations were given, expressing gratitude – on the part of the city – for the ‘gracious’ and ‘significant visit’ of the emperor to Finland’s capital, made all the more important, as several newspapers noted, as it was the first visit of Nicholas as emperor to the city.40 The Jewish community even donated 10,000 Finnish markka in order to support the care for the wounded in Russian military hospitals, of which some were situated in the grand duchy.41 This was undoubtedly a substantial gesture with political overtones. Helsinki was one of a few places in Finland where Jews, who only received citizenship through parliamentary act at the turn of the year 1917/18, were by then allowed to settle. The Lutheran majority population of Finland – as Finnish nationalism in general – had traditionally been hostile to the alleged influx of Russian Jews to Finland, albeit a marginal phenomenon. Before the passing of numerous restrictions on Jewish settlement in the grand duchy in 1889, it had been the imperial authorities that enforced the right of – at least – Jewish veterans of the Russian army stationed in Finland to be able to remain in the country.42 This is less bewildering than it might appear, especially against the backdrop of the frequent pogroms in the empire, which time and again heightened the virulence of Russian Orthodox anti-Judaism

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and – from the early 1880s onwards – modern anti-Semitism. What the bureaucracy imposed upon its self-governing entities was a typical imperial agenda. This agenda rewarded services to the empire independently from the national, ethnic, or religious background of an individual. Russian nationalism, however, which effected the politics of the empire increasingly, excluded Jews from its own nation-building project just as much and vehemently as the nationalisms of imperial sub-groups like the Finns, Poles, or Romanians (in Bessarabia).43 By contributing substantially and by being seen to do so publicly, the Helsinki Jewish community seized upon the grand duke’s visit to symbolically demonstrate the loyalty of the Finnish Jews to the imperial war effort and the empire in general. While most of the ovations closely followed protocol, there were other parties – besides the local Jewish community – that used the emperor’s visit for a thinly veiled political intervention. The spokesman of the Finnish workers’ association (Suomalainen työväenliitto), the journalist Emil Forsgren, used his ovation to effectively celebrate the virtues of Finland’s autonomous status in the empire, which had been badly rattled by the so-called Russification schemes of the Russian imperial government. For that, he had composed a poem, closely resembling a prayer: ‘Fear God’, Forsgren is reported to have exclaimed in Finnish, ‘our faithful monarch and the empire, the majesty of our faithful law and our own nationality’. As emperor, he insists, Nicholas should promote these virtues to ‘awaken this and the coming generations’ love and blessing’.44 In his piece of deft rhetoric, Forsgren skilfully combines the obligatory ovation in honour of the emperor with the main tenets of the resistance to the imperial policies of the previous decade: legality and nationality politics, that is the return to the rule of law and the grand duchy’s autonomy privileges, especially with regard to self-government. It is unlikely, however, that Nicholas, who was forced to rely upon the interpretation of Uusima’s local governor Widnäs, decoded Forsgren’s Finnish poem in the manner in which it seemed intended. In front of the station, the Helsinki garrison with its infantry, artillery, and cavalry forces formed a guard of honour, while the military band intoned the emperor’s hymn. From there, the tsar travelled in an open car through the city centre, along Mikonkatu and the boulevard Pohjoisesplanadi, to the Orthodox cathedral, Uspenski, the largest Orthodox church in Finland. The cathedral had been built in the 1860s in order to enhance the presence of the Eastern church in the grand duchy. According to the local press, the response of the public was favourable, with hundreds of people lining the streets and enthusiastically

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cheering the emperor and his entourage, among them many children, who had received three days off school marking the grand duke’s visit.45 Outside the cathedral, the pupils of the Russian-speaking Alexander gymnasium, inaugurated in 1913 as one of the most modern school buildings of the empire, greeted the grand duke with a chorus, joined by the cheers of bystanders. On the steps of the church, Nicholas was received by the archbishop Sergius, the highest representative of the Orthodox church in Finland, and guided through the church interior. This clearly was the natural environment for the Russian emperor. Since 1809, the Finnish archdiocese had been a part of the Russian Orthodox Church. In effect, however, the Orthodox everyday before the turn of the century was largely finnicized. In the years before the First World War, however, that situation changed drastically. Despite its autonomy in church organizational terms, the archdiocese outside Orthodox Karelia and even more Uspenski in Helsinki were directed from Moscow and, at least from 1905, Russianspeaking. In Helsinki, the church’s primary function was the pastoral care of the large Russian diaspora population, further increased by the war-related troop deployments to the coastal areas of the grand duchy.46 In the building, the devout Orthodox Christian Nicholas prayed alongside the archbishop and the amassed priesthood of Uspenski. Considering his faith and the public signal emanating from such a gesture, placing Uspenski at the top of the emperor’s itinerary seems to have been meant as both a symbolic and a personal act.47 From Uspenski, Nicholas moved on to the ceremonially more complicated visit of Finland’s heart of governance and public life, the Senate Square with the University’s main building, the Senate, and – most prominently – the Lutheran Cathedral of the city, St Nicholas’ Church. The latter had been built in tribute of the tsar’s great grandfather, Nicholas I. It was in the classicist Senate building where the general governor of Finland, Nikolai Bobrikov, had been assassinated by a Finnish nationalist activist, Eugen Schauman. A minor clerk of the Finnish Senate, Schauman came from a Swedish-speaking aristocratic family with an impressive record of service in the Russian army. In that respect, Bobrikov’s assassin was – rather ironically – a symptomatic product of the tsar’s empire.48 For the tsar, the other building right opposite the Senate, the Imperial Alexander University, was an equally difficult place to deal with. It had been, after all, the nucleus of opposition to Nicholas’s tightened rule in Finland in the pre-war period. The war, however, had apparently muted the resistance in the grand duchy and brought the political elites and the country’s public life into line. In the city centre of Helsinki, Nicholas was therefore met with the prerequisites of the

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official protocol. Navy soldiers in full dress uniform occupied the Senate Square in front of the cathedral and the surrounding streets, through which the emperor passed on his way from Uspenski. On the main stairs of the university, the rector, staff, and a number of students of both the Imperial Alexander University and Helsinki’s Technical University had gathered to greet the emperor. Within the cathedral, the Lutheran church hierarchy received the grand duke, led by the head of the Finnish Lutheran Church, the long-serving archbishop of Turku, Gustaf Johansson, and the archbishop of Borgå (Porvoo), Herman Råbergh, for the Swedish-speaking church of Finland. In his welcoming words, Johansson drew upon the heritage of survival in war, referring to Alexander I. in the ‘grave days of 1812’, throughout which the Russian tsar had been strengthened by Psalm 91’s faith in god: ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’49 After that, a prayer was said and Fredrik Pacius’s ‘Suomen laulu’ intoned by the church’s male chorus. The main ovation was given – first in Finnish, then in Swedish – by Råbergh, who prayed for the well-being and preservation of the emperor and the royal family as well as for the restoration of peace and general salvation.50 The rather modest ceremony ended with the first verse of the so-called lantdagspsalm.51 The choice of the songs and prayers, most obviously Pacius’s ‘Suomen laulu’, manifestly intended to highlight the Finnish character of the occasion and – by symbolic implication – addressed the emperor as the grand duke of a country that felt alienated from its original rights and privileges. After the stop at Senate Square, Nicholas and his entourage crossed the city via Unionin- and Alexanterinkatu towards the northern harbour for the actual purpose of his visit, the inspection of the local battle ships, and the fortress of Viapori (Sveaborg).52 On board, the emperor handed out decorations, especially Crosses of Saint George, a relatively common occurrence during the war, considering that at least 2.5 million imperial subjects received crosses in all four classes (first to fourth) in the course of the war.53 While on Viapori, Nicholas inspected the local garrison and visited the second major Orthodox church in Helsinki and environs, the Alexander-Nevsky-Church, the most impressive of the newer Orthodox sacral building in the grand duchy, established in the 1850s for the Russian garrison. Viapori fortress – like the southern coast of Finland in general – formed an integral part of the imperial defence system of Petrograd, the mythicized Peter the Great’s Naval Fortress along the TallinnPorkkala line. As an island fortress, it corresponded strongly with the Porkkala and Hanko peninsulas, both heavily fortified with coastal artillery. Massive pendants to the Finnish fortifications had been erected and further developed

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at the opposite side of the Gulf of Finland, in and around Tallinn.54 Because of its defensive function, Viapori did formally not belong to the state territory of the grand duchy of Finland, but remained – until 1917 – a Russian military exclave. Considering the strategic importance of the fortress and the increasing amount of troops stationed there, the emperor’s inspection visit amounted to a necessity. Its function was not only for the tsar to confer with the local military hierarchy, but also to bolster the troops’ morale, which in early 1915 – despite the exorbitant losses of the first months – was still largely intact and even further reinforced by the conquest of Galicia.55 Having returned to the mainland, Nicholas visited the local military hospitals, first among them a major establishment housed in the Imperial Palace, then the city’s general hospital and further facilities for the war wounded at the railway station.56 His inspection of the care of the war wounded was even more important, as his mother, the dowager empress Maria Feodorovna, was the president of the Russian branch of the International Red Cross, while his wife, the empress Alexandra, and their two daughters – Olga and Tatiana – both worked as trainee nurses in the active care for the wounded.57 In Helsinki, the care for the wounded of the war was instituted by the Finnish Senate and represented by the wife of the general governor, alongside whom Nicholas visited the hospital at the Imperial Palace. After that, the emperor returned to his train, where dinner had been arranged for a larger group of military and civilian dignitaries. Nicholas eventually left Helsinki in the late evening around 10, continuing directly to the imperial family’s residence at Tsarskoye Selo, where the empress and their children already eagerly awaited him.58 The tsar’s visit to his grand duchy’s capital left mixed impressions. Nicholas II seemed greatly pleased with what he considered an extremely successful inspection travel. To his wife, he briefly telegraphed in the midst of the actual inspections on 10 March 1915: ‘Travelled most comfortably. Much warmer [in Helsinki] −3 degrees. Saw all the ships, lots of friends, in very high spirits. Excellent impression. Fondest love. Niki.’59 Considering the existing fears and rather limited expectations, the grand duke’s visit would have to be seen as an accomplishment for the imperial administration. In a society strongly alienated from Russian rule, the carefully staged presence and ambitious public itinerary of the emperor, accompanied by celebrations, parades, and receptions, contributed to the mobilization of Finnish society for a war effort, in which it otherwise only peripherally participated. Negative expectations of the tsar’s arrival, as, for instance, voiced by Jean Sibelius in his diary, only partly applied. ‘The Emperor

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in the offing’, Sibelius noted. ‘H.M. is forced to travel incognito and strongly guarded. What [an] irony of fate. Criticism of the current.’60 Notwithstanding such scepticism and the all-encompassing military character of the emperor’s visit, Nicholas II had been seen and celebrated by his Finnish subjects, albeit with a certain degree of indifference. Further imperial mobilization could have – at least in principle – built on that, if the war, the ensuing crisis and the empire’s eventual collapse would not have rendered such a process obsolete. In one respect, however, Sibelius was right: the entire position Finland and its grand duke found themselves in amounted to a slightly perverted irony of fate. The immediate pre-war years had undermined a relationship whose legal preconditions, politics, and everyday practices had grown over a century and turned the populace of the grand duchy into a model of imperial arrangement and loyalty to the crown. By the time of Nicholas’s accession to the throne in 1894, hopes for a continuation and even further expansion of Finland’s status in the empire had been high. Almost exactly two decades later, the grand duchy’s almost unrivalled loyalty had been effectively eroded. For Sibelius, this had particularly bitter overtones, as he had himself written a coronation cantata for mixed chorus and orchestra (Kruunajaiskantaatti, 1896) on the occasion of Nicholas’s accession to the throne. The cantata had been commissioned by the University and consisted of two movements entitled: ‘Terve nuori ruhtinas’ (Finnish for: Hail the Young Prince) and ‘Oikeuden varmasa turvassa’ (In the Sure Security of Justice).61 The latter movement’s title almost amounts to a statement on the Russo-Finnish relations in the late nineteenth century. In that, it certainly was symptomatic for both contemporary sensibilities and the heightened expectations in the grand duchy. As the tsar’s visit illustrated, however, the dynastical and imperial bond between Finland and its grand duke remained largely intact. To paraphrase Ernst Kantorowicz’s dichotomy of the king’s two bodies: while Nicholas II was certainly contaminated by his rigid, at times oppressive policies towards Finland, ‘the king’s other body’ transcended the earthly and continued to serve ‘as a symbol of his office as majesty with the divine right to rule’.62 In the modern Finnish case, it is obviously less the divine right to rule, but an institutionalized body of quasi-constitutional arrangements that invested the grand duchy’s status in the empire and hence the grand duke’s rule with legitimacy.63 If the emperor’s visit in March 1915 is indicative of anything, it is rather this preserved collective sense of an institutionalized loyalty than the demise of an allegedly doomed empire.

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Disintegration: The Russian revolutions and Finland This phenomenon becomes particularly apparent once it unravels. When the tsar was removed from power and arrested in the wake of the February Revolution of 1917, the residual imperial umbrella that had kept the empire together collapsed irretrievably. On the local level, this became most obvious in the arrest of the top imperial administrators that had governed Finland in the previous years, especially the general governor Seyn and the vice-chairman of the Finnish Senate’s economic division Mikhail Borovitinov, who had been effectively second in rank within the government. Both were arrested by the commander of the Baltic Fleet stationed in and around Helsinki, admiral Andrian Nepenin, the last figure of some imperial authority left in the Finnish capital.64 Despite rumours spreading through Tallinn, the political elites in Helsinki were left in the dark about the revolutionary developments in Petrograd. On 16 March 1917, right after the arrest of Seyn and Borovitinov and their transport to imprisonment in Petrograd, Nepenin invited representatives of the major Finnish parties aboard his flagship – the Krechet – and briefed them about the revolution in Petrograd, the abdication of Nicholas II, and the establishment of the Provisional Government. A brief anti-Russian uprising ensued, killing almost one hundred Russian soldiers and – most prominently – Nepenin himself. Within a few days, however, the rioting was contained and the remaining Finnish authorities went about re-establishing control over the city. Without a legitimate government in Finland, the main parties of the country agreed to push for the reinstatement of the old legal privileges of the grand duchy’s autonomy, including the reinstatement of the Eduskunta, but symptomatically not for independence from Russia. Their demands were swiftly met by the Provisional Government. Along with the Act of Confirmation of the Constitution of the Grand Duchy of Finland and Its Full Implementation, decreed on 20 March 1917, the government commissioned a new governor general for Finland, Mikhail A. Stakhovich, a former member of the State Council, who had been one of the most influential opponents of the so-called Russification policies of the previous years and hence enjoyed a degree of creditability. His governorship was shrewdly seconded by appointing the Helsinki politician and businessman Carl Enckell, a fluent speaker of Russian with an aborted career in the imperial military, as minister state secretary with the Petrograd government. Enckell replaced a hardliner among Russian Finland politicians, Vladimir A. Markov, who had been Borovitinov’s predecessor prior to the war before being moved to the Russian capital again. It is only symptomatic

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for the bloodletting of the revolutionary period in Russia, especially among the imperial elites, that the three highest-ranking government officials of the grand duchy, Seyn as governor as well as Markov and Borovitinov, lost their lives in the troubles of the revolution, Seyn and Borovitinov presumably in 1917 or 1918, Markov in 1919.65 Tuomo Polvinen, followed by Irina Novikova on the basis of Russian sources, has illustrated the difficulties the Provisional Government had in containing a probable Finnish gravitation towards independent statehood.66 The political parties in Finland, however, were confronted with a situation they had not necessarily anticipated. Even throughout the periods of enhanced Russian control and the war, demands for all-out independence had never been more than a fringe phenomenon. In the turbulent revolutionary situation of early 1917, this changed, even if not immediately. There were strong, if not entirely convincing constitutional and international legal grounds on which the grand duchy – without its grand duke – could consider itself a sovereign entity, sovereignty having passed from the grand duke to the Finnish parliament. This was the argument of the more radical majority of socialists and nationalist activists in Finnish political circles. Opposed to that, the largely bourgeoisconservative milieu of politics advocated what Juho K. Paasikivi labelled a ‘policy of conciliation’ (myöntymyksen politiikka). Constitutionally, the more moderate jurists – like Rafael Erich – considered government authority to have passed on to the Provisional Government, not a social democratically dominated Finnish parliament.67 Their evaluation of the legal situation as well reflected their preference for a somewhat slower, more evolutionary resolution of the RussianFinnish dilemma. Evolution, equally preferred by the Provisional Government, was not to be had, though. The so-called July Days experienced by the Petrograd government seemed to foreshadow the radicalization of the revolution in favour of the government’s opponents on the left – the Bolsheviks – and the right – Russian anti-revolutionary circles in both politics and the military.68 With an end to the Provisional Government seemingly in sight, the Finnish socialists attempted to push further than Finnish politics ever had. On 8 June 1917 the Finnish Senate tabled a compromise proposal within parliament, intended to reconcile Finnish national aspirations with Petrograd’s interests in keeping together an empire still at war. In the two previous terms, the Eduskunta had been dominated by the Finnish Social Democratic Party, which at the last election in 1916 had gained more than 47 per cent of the vote and an absolute majority – 103 – of the 200

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parliamentary seats. On the basis of the Senate’s more moderate proposal, the social democratic leadership around the Eduskunta’s spokesman Kullervo Manner and the party’s absolute majority in parliament established a much more radical law on supreme power – valtalaki in Finnish – that effectively parliamentarized the grand duchy. According to the ratified constitutional law, supreme governmental authority was supposed to rest not with Petrograd or the Finnish Senate, but with parliament, which as well received the right to convene and dissolve itself. Only foreign representation and military affairs were retained in Petrograd, but even that obviously provisionally.69 Simultaneously, the socialists in Finland increasingly gravitated to the Bolshevist faction of the Russian Civil War, primarily because Lenin was prepared to grant Finland independence unconditionally and immediately – and Kerensky and the Provisional Government not.70 Against Finnish expectations, the Petrograd government, however, recovered from the unrest of the July uprising and further challenges to its authority, with Kerensky as the new prime minister at least temporarily stabilizing the situation. In the Finnish question, Kerensky’s first move – in late July 1917 – was the dissolution of the Finnish parliament and the imposition of new elections for October.71 Kerensky’s decision was not only intended to recover the government’s authority in Finland, but also due to the acute context of the war, in which revolutionary Russia faced mounting German operations to destabilize the (former) imperial borderlands. Berlin’s Randstaatenpolitik began eating away at the borders of the imploding empire, first in the South, then increasingly in the North, especially in the Baltic area. In that conception, Finland could – and eventually did – easily function as a springboard, its geostrategic location vis-à-vis Petrograd central for any German offensive in the imperial North-East.72 Containing the Finnish independence process and securing the country militarily therefore remained central to Kerensky’s and the Provisional Government’s strategic and security-political premises.73 By the time of the new elections in October 1917, however, both the Finnish and the Russian situation had changed drastically. The conservative-bourgeoisagrarian coalition managed to obtain a majority in the Eduskunta against an increased vote for the Social Democrats. The swiftly arranged new proposals, though, envisaged to normalize and consolidate Finland’s relations to Russia, became obsolete while still under deliberation.74 Ironically, the newly appointed governor general in Finland, Nikolai V. Nekrasov, and minister state secretary Enckell were literally overtaken by developments, while travelling to Petrograd

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with the new parliament’s proposals in hand. On their arrival on 7 November, the revolution had already swept away the Provisional Government, leaving Finland – more by accident than design – effectively master of its own fate. A week later, the Bolshevik government’s anti-imperialism resulted in the public declaration of the right of self-determination, allowing for the secession not only for Finland, but ‘for the Peoples of Russia’ in general. Against such a backdrop, the Eduskunta on 15 November, this time united, assumed the powers of the sovereign, whose status had remained contested since the abdication of the tsar. On 6 December 1917, parliament eventually ratified a proposal set up by the country’s new Senate (led by Svinhufvud) and declared Finland’s independence.75 As David Kirby has early on observed, the idea and, in fact, the entire process of independence originated less with genuine Finnish nationalism, but would rather have to be seen as ‘an exploitation of the opportunities which war and revolution had suddenly opened up’.76 It effectively amounted to filling the very vacuum in terms of power and legal authority that the disappearance of imperial rule had left. While Petrograd increasingly descended into all-out revolutionary war between the differing parties, Finnish society as well experienced an hitherto unknown polarization. The period of relative limbo was nearing an end, both in terms of the country’s relations to revolutionary Russia and in the increasingly escalating domestic conditions that, in many ways, prefigured the Civil War of the turn of the year 1917/18. The escalation within Finnish society of early 1918, the – by any given standards – exceedingly bloody Finnish Civil War, should thereby not be seen as without its own rather specific context. Against the backdrop of both mid- and short-term developments in society, the conflict appears if not unavoidable, than at least historically explicable. Both Risto Alapuro and Pertti Haapala have, albeit with apparently different emphases, forcefully pointed to the socio-economic implications of the situation in Finland, preconditioning social conflict in a society affected by war, mass mobilization, and mounting class disparities.77 In a dense, psycho-historically informed reconstruction of the escalation since especially the summer and autumn of 1917, Juha Siltala has impressively recreated the dynamic of mutual suspicion, hatred, and retribution in the Finnish Civil War.78 Russian imperial authority had somewhat contained this dynamic until the end. It was only against the backdrop of the sudden vanishing of empire that antagonistic preconditions and divergent interests within Finnish society surfaced and battled one another on the seemingly existential question of the country’s post-imperial future. Despite

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manifold differences in character and concrete make-up, in that respect, Finland closely resembles comparable cases of societal conflict in the wider region. Just as the Baltic area in general, it would have to be regarded as part of an almost allencompassing war and conflict zone in Central and Eastern Europe that Robert Gerwarth has rightly identified rather as an element of the First World War, not – or at least not necessarily – as its aftermath.79

7

Arguing (Over) Territory and Sovereignty The Åland Question in Great Power Politics and International Law, 1917–21

When on 30 January 1918 the liberal Dagens Nyheter attempted to give an outline of the highly complex Åland question, the territorial-political certainties of the Baltic area were in the process of being turned upside down. In a Baltic world completely out of joint in the wake of the Russian Revolution many questions had to be asked anew, among them a dormant one that was now being vehemently forced back onto the agenda: the question, as reflected in the article’s title, of the ‘right of ownership’ to the Åland Islands. About six alternative, often mutually exclusive legal viewpoints on Åland and its territorial belonging were identified by the author: 1. Åland belongs to the Republic of Finland; 2. The archipelago remains de facto and de jure Russian; 3. It belongs to the Ålanders; 4. At the moment, Åland has become abandoned property; 5. The islands are again Swedish, as they had been before the Treaty of Fredrikshamn; 6. The question of possession is so closely intertwined with the servitude defining the (non-) fortification of the archipelago that any decision on ownership can only be based on an international treaty.1

In the face of these conflicting approaches to the Åland problem it does not seem overly surprising that contemporaries thought it far too intricate to comprehend – a possible, even probable second Schleswig-Holstein Question for the north of Europe.2 Åland was undoubtedly among the crucial questions of international relations and international legal discourse in the early twentieth century. The archipelago’s significance rested exclusively on geostrategic logic: it was patent to everyone that Åland and its possession formed the key to controlling the virtual centre of the Baltic Sea, especially the entry to the Gulf of Bothnia and the

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approach towards Stockholm, indirectly as well the Finnish west coast around Turku and the opening of the Gulf of Finland. The islands’ sensitive situation therefore traditionally necessitated efforts on the part of the international system to neutralize them, most forcefully in the post-Crimean constellation of 1856. In the wake of the First World War, the policy-makers in London, Berlin, Stockholm, and Helsinki were equally much aware that the remaking of the Baltic order fundamentally hinged on resolving the Åland question. It was with the collapse of the Russian Empire and the ensuing establishment of Finland as an independent nation-state in December 1917 that the question of the Åland Islands’ territorial belonging and their status in international law had resurfaced. The territorial claim forwarded by Finland – based in the traditional premises of international law – contrasted sharply with the separatist aspirations of the islands’ Swedish-speaking population and its protector Sweden, whose own legal position rested on nationality political principles and the argument of historical precedence. After years of protracted negotiations and occasional diplomatic escalation in the international arena, the League of Nations’ ruling of June 1921 eventually pacified the conflict on a permanent basis. In its verdict, accepted by both parties, the League awarded the territorial sovereignty over Åland to an only half-consolidated Finnish state, albeit with legally binding provisions for a far-reaching autonomy as well as the continued, even expanded demilitarization and neutralization of the archipelago. Today, the issue of Åland seems to have lost almost all of its immediate political significance. Instead, the Åland settlement of 1921 and its subsequent legal evolution have become one of the most quoted examples of conflict resolution in international politics – ‘a precedent for successful international disputes settlement’, as a recent exhibition at the United Nations’ headquarters in New York claimed.3 As a model of conflict resolution in international politics, the Åland regime certainly ‘punches well above its weight’.4 As an object of historical study, however, the protracted and complex resolution of the Åland problem has remained strangely unexplored for years, contrasting lamentably with the archipelago’s importance in contemporaneous debates around the First World War and in the relevant historiography until about the publication of James Barros’s classic study ‘The Aland Islands Question: Its Settlement by the League of Nations’ in 1968.5 Related research, among others by Manfred Menger, Olavi Hovi, Kalervo Hovi as well as – more recently – Patrick Salmon, Esa Sundbäck, and Louis Clerc, has principally viewed the issue through the prism of great power politics and the territorial reorganization of the Baltic Sea area

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after the First World War.6 As an object of political deliberation and diplomacy, however, the question of the archipelago’s ownership and international administration possessed a number of distinguishing features that place it apart from developments such as, in the first place, the emergence of sovereign small- and middle-sized states in the Southern and Eastern Baltic at the end or right after the war. While the older Scandinavian and the newly emerged states around the Baltic were readily accommodated – or even actively created – in larger conceptions like Berlin’s Randstaatenpolitik or various British designs for a newly equilibrated post-war Northern Europe, the Åland problem appears less clear-cut, less fixed and premeditated and therefore often more makeshift, muddled, and improvised. For Berlin’s Baltic aspirations in 1917/18 just as much as for London’s equally ambitious plans a little later, Åland was a latent menace, not easily understood and even less easily contained. Against this backdrop, this article reassesses the Åland question in international politics from the final stages of the First World War to the League of Nations’ decision in mid-1921. Its underlying intention is to illustrate how this intricate issue effectively undermined the rigid and otherwise almost impermeable blocs of hegemonic and alliance politics during the war and thereafter. Probing comparatively into the varying perceptions, policy, and international legal implications of the issue primarily in Berlin and London, the subsequent analysis captures the unorthodox, often peculiar overlaps and frictions created by the struggle about the status and possession of Åland. Furthermore, and on a more general level, the article links the question to the larger process of transition from traditional great power politics to the premises and practices of an allegedly radically new type of international system. Conventionally, the League’s resolution of the Åland question is viewed as one of the key examples for the fundamental changes in international law and politics associated with Geneva’s emerging supranational role.7 As indicated earlier, in recent decades it has almost grown into some sort of universally applicable ideal of internationally mediated justice. Against this, the article examines the more ambiguous aspects of the Åland settlement, highlighting its legal contradictions and political hypocrisies as well as the palpable residua of the seemingly old and superseded in the process. It was, in this view, not only the legal content and its new institutional framework that created literally good – that is first and foremost durable – law, but also, probably even primarily, process and procedure, legal and socio-economic evolution as well as the contingencies of domestic and international politics. To adapt and concretize Martti Koskenniemi’s persuasive

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relativist view of international law: a fundamentally revised world order based on the rule of law, as it was envisioned by the League, depended just as much on political interpretation and practice as the older, supposedly discredited framework of international law and politics, the Vienna System. Despite its rhetoric framing and its subsequently emblematic status, the League’s decision, it is argued, cannot be seen apart from the profoundly altered hegemonic preconditions of the period, as indeed no system of international law ever can.8 Åland had been essential to the equilibrium of the Baltic for quite some time. Its international administration, however, began in the mid-nineteenth century as a consequence of the Crimean War. Catering especially to Swedish fears, the victorious powers Britain and France placed the Åland issue at the centre of the elaborate multilateral and international legal regime, which evolved in the wake of the Third Paris Peace of 1856. The Åland Convention, signed on 30 March 1856, forced Russia into the total demilitarization of the archipelago and thereby created what is legally known as the Åland Servitude, the binding obligation of any given possessor not to fortify the islands.9 Revisiting the period leading up to the First World War, it appears remarkable how intensely existing international law governed the behaviour of the great powers. Especially Russia had an obvious geopolitical interest in removing or at least watering down the servitude and seized upon the drastically changing circumstances in Scandinavia after 1905. With the Scandinavian union – the kingdom of Sweden-Norway – broken up and Northern Europe in crisis, St Petersburg made attempts to renegotiate the Baltic equilibrium. These diplomatic overtures would have to be placed in the much larger context of the incessant Russo-British rivalry about controlling geostrategically sensitive straits. In essence, the dispute about accessing and controlling the Baltic echoed the much larger problem of the Turkish Straits and the Eastern question that had kept both empires at loggerheads for about a century.10 Despite differing in their grander strategic frameworks, Russia and Germany had common ground in their preferences for the future shape of Northern Europe. St Petersburg and Berlin agreed that – in the West – Norway’s increasing orientation towards London had to be contained, while – in the East – an exclusion of Britain from the Baltic seemed paramount. The meeting at Björkö between the emperors Nicholas II and Wilhelm II and its subsequent and swiftly ineffectual treaty of 24 July 1905 formed only one of the more visible parts of the German-Russian talks in 1904/05. The British observed these developments closely. London’s fears were certainly not ungrounded. Had Russia and Germany’s Baltic diplomacy during the great

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Scandinavian crisis succeeded, Britain would have been effectively shut out of the Baltic Sea. With demonstrations of maritime strength, countering German and Russian moves of a similar sort, and comprehensive diplomatic efforts in Stockholm, Kristiania, and Copenhagen, Britain (and France) eventually managed to frustrate the Russo-German schemes. In consequence, both the Baltic and North Sea Agreements of April 1908 left the international legal status quo effectively untouched and thereby preserved Britain’s central role in Scandinavian and Baltic affairs.11 There is, however, another aspect to this: with equal justification, the agreements on the North and Baltic Seas can as well be seen as expressions of pre-war détente rather than stepping stones towards the Great War. Enshrining existing legal regimes was both a result and a stabilizing determinant of the legal internationalism of the period, as manifest in the Hague Peace Conferences and here especially the Second Conference of 1907. Among its most successful attempts was the establishment of legal norms de-escalating the traditionally fractious relationship between small-state neutrality and great power politics, a ‘juridification of international relations’ in the immediate interest of the smaller elements of the international system.12 For the small states of Northern and North-western Europe, this remained a constant framework of reference not only in the lead-up to the war, but also once war had broken out. The international law codified by the conventions was at virtually no point, as it is often casually assumed, the first victim of the escalating conflict – an unviable, moribund anachronism run over by war. It much rather formed an essential component of the Great War’s political discourse and its aftermath.13 This is neatly illustrated by the largely non-military and primarily diplomatic, legal, and public conflict around Åland in the later stages of the War and the immediate post-war period. Against this backdrop, the Åland crisis can as well be seen as a nutshell of differing strands of development in international law and politics in the concluding stages of the war and thereafter. For largely pragmatic reasons, the subsequent analysis of the perception, interpretation, and application of international law is roughly built around two chronological hubs in which developments appear to be especially condensed: a first period around 1917/18 framed by the Russian Revolution, Finnish statehood and the rise and then sudden collapse of German hegemony in the Baltic in November 1918; and a second period right after that, encompassing the failed Åland mediation in the context of the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 and the Baltic Commission of the Supreme Council, proceeding to the settlement of the Åland question

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through the League of Nations, which – after lengthy deliberations – arrived at the Åland arbitrament on 24 June 1921. In relation to one another, both periods are clearly asynchronous and each defined by a different setting of hegemonic politics regionally as well as globally. As intensely as the first phase is shaped by the overarching presence of the German Empire at its height in the final stages of the First World War, the second phase is characterized by the post-war order, the so-called Versailles system conceived, implemented, and supervised by the Western Powers, with Britain and France at its heart. The actual process of policy- and decision-making in Berlin and London as well as in Paris and Geneva was subject to intense outside pressures and influences, mostly created and sustained by networks and lobbying ‘industries’ in Sweden, Finland, and – not the least – among the archipelago’s politicized inhabitants. In Sweden, debates about Åland were at heart a reflection of domestic politics. The liberal-social democratic government of Prime Minister Nils Edén and the dominant figure of Swedish social democracy, Hjalmar Branting, strove intensely to keep the Åland question out of political discourse, seeing it as a potential embarrassment of Swedish neutrality in the First World War and therefore as a risk to the country’s security. In that position, both Edén and Branting and the cabinet’s foreign minister Johannes Hellner found themselves in line with their conservative-liberal predecessors of 1914 to 1917, former prime minister Hammarskjöld and foreign minister Wallenberg.14 All attempts by successive Swedish governments to quiet and contain the sensitive issue of Åland had, however, been unsuccessful, owing largely to its capacity for mobilization, especially among Sweden’s influential right-wing forces in the country’s military, politics, education, and not least the press, the activist movement of 1914/15, which had brought Sweden more than once to the brim of entering the War. That pro-German activist segment of Swedish politics naturally seized upon Åland as a means to discredit the government’s neutrality policy, first from 1915 onwards in order to force Hammarskjöld and especially the liberal Wallenberg closer to an association with Germany; then – all the more after the Leftist turn in the 1917 elections – to bring down or at least destabilize an unwanted government of suspicious liberals and potentially unreliable, even revolutionary socialists.15 At the centre of the political and from early 1918 onwards even military decision-making on Åland was, strangely enough, the Swedish king, Gustav V. Until then, the King had been largely passive or at least not able to follow up on activist and German attempts to involve Sweden more closely in the War. Effectively contained by the constraints of his government’s neutrality policy, he

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had been forced to repeatedly act against his own preferences and the explicit wishes and activist lobbying of his wife Victoria, a German princess and cousin to the German Emperor Wilhelm II, and of most of his immediate political allies, among them central pro-German figures like the former right-wing prime minister Arvid Lindman, the Swedish ambassador to Berlin, Arvid Taube, or father and son Douglas, both in almost dynastical succession chamberlains to the royal couple and in that position excellent go-betweens in Gustav’s and Victoria’s communications with Berlin.16 On Åland, however, Gustav pushed ahead, not least by receiving a delegation of Ålanders on 2 February 1918, and brought along an ambivalent centre-left government, especially in the short window between the Bolshevik Revolution in October 1917 and the German take-over of the archipelago in early March 1918.17 The Swedish intervention and occupation of the Åland Islands in mid-February, publicly camouflaged as an expedition, can be seen as the slightly bizarre culmination of a development in which Swedish politics and foreign policy briefly turned more assertive, even more expansionist – and then failed to turn, or much rather was forced to turn back to the old certainties of neutrality and introspection. The King’s and the Swedish activists’ relative success in militarily mobilizing first the Swedish public and in turn a government committed to a principled and comparatively strict policy of neutrality is only explicable against the backdrop of a number of essential factors: Finnish independence on 6 December 1917, the emergence of Finland as the ‘new fourth shareholder of the Nordic enterprise’, and especially the Finnish Civil War from late January 1918 onwards on the one hand;18 and the formation of an increasingly vocal national movement among the Ålanders, the so-called Ålandsrörelsen, since the autumn of 1917 on the other hand. The latter unequivocally expressed the almost collective preference to break away from the remnants of the collapsed Russian Empire, including the newly founded Finnish state. The self-determination of the Ålanders, documented in plebiscitary polls around the turn of the year, overwhelmingly favoured attaching the archipelago to Sweden once again.19 With the spread of the Finnish Civil War onto the Åland Islands, public pressure on the government in Stockholm was heightened by often exaggerated reports of atrocities committed by revolutionary Russian soldiers, originally the only seriously armed presence on the archipelago. The situation escalated further when a significant force of so-called White Guards, an anti-revolutionary militia of ca. 600 troops from Nystad at the Finnish west coast (and therefore Nystadskåren), landed on the archipelago in early February and engaged in

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bitter fighting with the effectively revolutionary Russian contingent.20 Despite potential domestic reverberations, Stockholm’s intervention in Åland’s muddled situation became therefore easily justifiable as a humanitarian intervention designed to protect the civilian population of the islands from looting and lawlessness exercised by both parties. The centre-left government Edén-Branting certainly believed in such a premise and saw itself in the tradition of previous forms of humanitarian interventionism, as established by the imperial powers in the course of the nineteenth century, greatly stimulated by John Stuart Mill’s polemic ‘A Few Words on Non-Intervention’ of 1859.21 While Edén, Branting, and most of the liberal left saw Sweden’s intervention on Åland as purely humanitarian in its motivation and – apparently limited – scope, the King and with him the activist forces of the right conceived the archipelago’s take-over and occupation as the beginning of the territorial recovery of Åland for the Swedish Crown, in some cases even as the overture to a full-blown Swedish intervention in the Finnish Civil War, with the distant prospect of even regaining Finland.22 It is in the inconsistency of the Swedish position that the failure of the Åland expedition is already foreshadowed. On a greater and more ambitious scale, the intervention could, in any case, not be communicated domestically, but also in terms of foreign policy it was ill-prepared for the overall international climate of 1917/18. For months, Stockholm had refused to act on Berlin’s advice to opportunistically seize Åland from a collapsing Russian Empire.23 Now that the international gossip factory was brimming with rumours that Sweden was increasingly influenced by the Western Powers and that Britain had secretly encouraged the Stockholm government to acquire the Åland Islands, the OHL, the German Supreme Army Command, was deeply suspicious of Stockholm’s motives and any potential consequences of a Swedish take-over of the archipelago. This suspicion related to preparations in Berlin for an ambitious German occupation of Åland to secure the islands as a springboard for an intervention in the Finnish Civil War. For Berlin, being ultimately asked by Stockholm – and not least the King and his intermediary Douglas – to abandon its rather advanced plans for the take-over of Åland, after King, Queen, the activists, and Douglas himself had encouraged, even demanded a German occupation of the archipelago in the preceding months, seemed close to bizarre. Germany, pressed forward by Ludendorff and the Navy, went ahead notwithstanding and occupied Åland in early March 1918, leaving Sweden with a humiliating withdrawal of its troops to the island of Eckerö and prone to being misunderstood in London and

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Paris.24 The internal reverberations of the German occupation in Sweden were enormous; its consequences certainly polluted the bilateral relations for a while. While the government unequivocally condemned ‘German plans and claims’, even Queen Victoria felt compelled to plead with Wilhelm II, pointing to the embarrassment and humiliation that went with the (by then announced, but not implemented) occupation.25 Despite rather swiftly agreeing upon modalities that – at least temporarily – allowed for the dual occupation of the archipelago, Berlin’s intervention had left Swedish foreign policy in tatters and alienated even the most loyal pro-German forces at the right of the country’s political landscape.26 Even if Sweden had – albeit tacitly – militarily intervened in the war, the most vehement proponents of such a course, the Swedish activists, were clearly on the losing end of the ensuing diplomatic conflict around Åland. The actual beneficiaries were their Finnish counterparts, nationalist activists, who had intensely lobbied for Finnish independence in both Stockholm and Berlin. Politically and ideologically these largely centre-right, often decidedly conservative activists had been the most natural allies of Swedish Activism since about 1915.27 Over Åland, however, the erstwhile coalition collapsed. While Sweden’s Åland lobbying was clearly rooted in the institutionalized conservativeactivist right of the country’s political landscape, mixing aspects of official, semiofficial, and unofficial diplomacy in a nonetheless rather traditional framework of established statehood and public discourse, the Finnish independence movement, strongly influenced by its central protector Germany, drew the majority of its personnel from the academia and journalism, which in small societies often amounts to virtually the same. People like Hermann Gummerus, Fritz Wetterhoff, or Edvard Hjelt were of that hybrid and highly typical brand of politicizing academics, which later formed – as in most of the emerging nationstates of Central and Eastern Europe – the backbone of the country’s diplomatic service.28 Finland’s rather fortunate starting position, saturated with a deeply imbued form of proto-, even early statehood since the nineteenth century, allowed the country’s independence movement to conduct acts of quasi diplomacy through at least politically rather legitimate interlocutors. Political legitimacy was awarded to them largely due to the German and Swedish willingness to take the movement and therefore its representatives seriously. Besides certain sympathies rooted in a presumed cultural affinity, the motives for that were primarily strategic: the breakaway of Finland from the Russian Empire and the creation of an independent Finnish nation-state seemed strategically pertinent

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from both Berlin’s and Stockholm’s point of view, not least as a pro-German buffer towards the East – Randstaatenpolitik at its most effective and, albeit by accident, rather benevolent.29 It is here that features of a distinctly Finnish variant of public diplomacy emerge: while Finnish Activism follows structurally rather conventional patterns of diplomatic or quasi diplomatic exchange, the way in which Finnish representatives in 1917/18 lobbied their cause could draw upon a rich international discourse about the country’s status within the Russian Empire, which is usually associated with the two periods of supposed Russification and the Pro-Finlandia-Movement of 1899 and the subsequent decade. Here, a concerted, internationally based effort at producing and managing the national image abroad provided the key notions that defined Finland in the perception of others: constitutionalism and legalism, advanced statehood and distinct – that is distinctly non-Russian and partly non-Swedish – nationality. It is the former, the legal dimension of the discourse, to which we would have to turn briefly. Observing the dispute over Åland, it is its legal component that seems to be the defining aspect. Not that legal argument resonated particularly well with either German or British perceptions of the issue, at least not in 1917/18. Berlin’s and London’s views on the Åland question were rather similarly influenced by military strategic and political considerations while the war was on. After the end of the First World War, however, the case of Åland had to be read differently: not any more, or at least not primarily, through the lens of great power antagonism, but as an example for the peaceful settlement of a bilateral international legal dispute through the newly created institutions, in other words: as a litmus test for the new international order Versailles had brought or was bringing about. The little that united British and German perceptions of Åland was the unfixed, opportunistic, and therefore plural character of viewpoints in both London and Berlin. The heads of the respective missions in Stockholm, the highly influential Esme Howard on the part of the Foreign Office and his equally gifted counterpart Hellmuth Lucius von Stoedten for the Auswärtiges Amt, advocated solidarity with Sweden largely on diplomatic-strategic grounds and often brought along their ministries. The military was in both cases generally prone to sympathizing with the Finnish cause, no more so than in the German and here especially in Ludendorff ’s case.30 In any case, however, in both London and Berlin legal norms and argument vis-à-vis Åland had only limited weight. Contrary to that, for Sweden and especially Finland the legal implications of Åland had always been central. From 1917 onwards, Finnish activists, often in exile or on proto-diplomatic missions in Berlin and Stockholm, had consistently

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argued Finland’s continued territorial claim to the Åland Islands, derived from an assumption of the naturally preserved territorial integrity of Finland as an entity even after the Russian imperial collapse. In this reading, Åland had continuously formed a constitutive part of the Swedish province of Finland, after 1809 then of the Grand Duchy of Finland, and therefore naturally belonged to Finland. Issues arising from the different character of the archipelago’s population would thus have to be considered of domestic origin. The same would apply to the sensitive question of jurisdiction, which Finland categorically refused to give up until the League of Nations considered itself entitled to seize the jurisdiction over Åland from Finland, even against Finnish protest. This line of argument was most effectively put forward in a complex legal memorandum in February 1918 by Finland’s foremost expert on international law, Rafael Erich.31 While Finland’s position was obviously based in the traditional premises of international law, Sweden forcefully argued with the fashionable principles of an increasingly post-imperial age. Stockholm’s reasoning was furthermore aligned with the strongly emotive line of argument adopted by the formal representatives of the Ålanders. Apart from employing the argument of historical precedence and thereby attacking the Finnish position in its own field, Stockholm had grown into the – initially unwanted – role of a protector for the islands’ culturally Swedish inhabitants and their separatist aspirations. It was therefore only too logical that, once legal arguments were being exchanged, the Swedish position quickly adopted the Western Powers’ revolutionary paradigm of the right of nations to self-determination.32 With a strong streak of cynicism, even Berlin had encouraged Stockholm to develop its case along the lines of nationality political principles, coherent with both the Western Powers’ premises for the future order of Europe and Lenin’s anti-imperialist programme, as even the Kaiser in late 1917 wryly observed.33 The Kaiser’s sympathy with Lenin’s and, in effect, Wilsonian ideas is not as illogical as it certainly appears in retrospect, though. In the context of the Brest-Litovsk negotiations, the Central Powers and especially Germany used the vehicle of national self-determination repeatedly and rather effectively against revolutionary Russia. On that basis, Berlin not only helped to bring about the desired buffer states of Central Eastern Europe and the Baltic, but also attempted to assume care of Swedish interests, not least in the Åland archipelago.34 With the demise of German hegemony in the area and the emergence of a post-war European order, the Åland conflict swiftly moved into a different international arena, explicitly excluding the defeated German Empire.

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Confronted with its own international isolation, Berlin – and particularly Lucius in Stockholm – desperately tried to retain a degree of influence over the issue. With direct involvement in the emerging international mechanisms of decisionmaking highly unlikely, the Auswärtiges Amt proceeded to preferring a bilateral settlement of the conflict between Sweden and Finland, thereby excluding the Entente and, indeed, the signatory powers of the 1856 Åland Convention. This, however, had become an all too obvious illusion in the face of an almost unqualified defeat.35 Despite all this, Lucius continued to harbour hopes and expectations even in defeat, all the more against the background of the peace process at Versailles. Shortly before his recall from Stockholm in early 1920, he took up his old strategic premise and – again – pleaded with his Berlin superiors to pay more attention to the Åland question, by then an object of discussion within the Allied Supreme Council. Berlin, or much rather the Auswärtiges Amt, he insisted, would have always argued for a solution of the issue in the Swedish interest, even against fierce domestic opposition on the part of the German military, especially the navy. Highlighting that position again, probably by initiating a press campaign, would not only serve the Swedish position in Paris, but much rather improve Germany’s own in any given post-war Baltic order, ‘all the more as Finland – as I have anticipated and reported for years – has moved to the Entente and receives its instructions from London’.36 Lucius’s diplomatic interventions in favour of Sweden were negligible and not much more than an unsatisfying rearguard battle. For early Weimar’s own relation to the problem, it is only symptomatic that the Auswärtiges Amt decided to replace him with one of Berlin’s most vehement supporters of the Finnish cause, the senior diplomat and former head of the ‘Randstaaten’ department Rudolf Nadolny.37 Half a year later, a memorandum forwarded to Nadolny outlined the development of the Åland question within the League of Nations in great detail before concluding that ‘Germany’s favour does not at all matter’ in the process, as opposed to French patronage, which Sweden would be trying to secure, or British, the key target for Finnish Åland lobbying. This reflected Berlin’s official governmental position, the maintenance of an ‘absolutely neutral policy’ vis-à-vis Sweden and Finland.38 A sizeable question mark in the margins of the memorandum exposes the farcicality of this statement, as Germany had effectively become a quantité négligeable, forced to observing the rearrangement of European and indeed global politics from the sidelines. Reviewing the Åland negotiations in Geneva in October 1921, which resulted in the Convention relating to the Non-Fortification and Neutralisation of the Åland Islands on

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20 October, the German representative at Geneva, Oskar Trautmann, could only sarcastically note that since the war ‘we have only been an observer and have behaved silently at the conference’.39 While Berlin became politically negligible, the German legal discourse on the Åland question remained intense. Already during the war, jurists of different schools and inclinations had commented on the archipelago’s position in international law and continued to do so throughout the interwar period. Opinion and legal interpretation remained divided, from Max Fleischmann’s searching dismissal of the Swedish claim to Friedrich Vortisch’s comprehensive dissertation of 1933.40 As opposed to the distinctly hostile legal assessment of Versailles, the German academic discourse on the Åland problem in Germany did not profoundly differ from its counterparts in Europe. In terms of international law the actual argument remained almost unaffected, only its addressee and overall framework changed. The Swedish and Finnish positions in the conflict about Åland aptly represented opposite poles of legal evolution: the collision of the traditional premises of international law, as codified by the Hague Conventions, with a new – and indeed revolutionary – legal internationalism that, albeit incompletely, formed around the League of Nations and its institutions. The protracted decision-making process of Versailles and the League of Nations between 1919 and 1921 mirrors this ambivalence, producing results of an – at best – inconsistent, even paradoxical quality, at least in international legal terms. This process involved the Paris Peace Conference and the Baltic Commission of the Allied Supreme Council and eventually ushered in the decision of the League to assume legal responsibility, thereby moving the Åland issue out of Finnish and into international jurisdiction. The latter was made possible by the League’s International Committee of Jurists, a body headed by the eminent French legal scholar Fernand Larnaude, which considered that the dispute between Sweden and Finland does not refer to a definitive established political situation, depending exclusively upon the territorial sovereignty of a State. On the contrary, the dispute arose from a de facto situation caused by the political transformation of the Aaland Islands, which transformation was caused by and originated in the separatist movement among the inhabitants, who quoted the principle of national self-determination, and certain military events which accompanied and followed the separation of Finland from the Russian Empire at a time when Finland had not yet acquired the character of a definitively constituted State.

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With Finnish statehood deemed unconsolidated on certainly justifiable grounds, the League’s jurists – and with it the Council of the League – concluded that ‘the dispute does not refer to a question which is left by International Law to the domestic jurisdiction of Finland. The Council of the League of Nations, therefore, is competent, under paragraph 4 of Article 15, to make any recommendations which it deems just and proper in the case.’41 Having made the issue an object of international jurisdiction, the subsequent report by a group of so-called rapporteurs, instituted by the League’s Council, followed the jurists’ general assessment, but in sum arrived at the ambivalent conclusion that eventually defined the League’s official decision. This was all the more surprising, as the overall tendency – and indeed the preference in London – had been in favour of the Swedish claim and the Ålanders’ repeatedly stated determination. As late as the autumn of 1920 Robert Cecil, Britain’s tireless advocate for the League, advised H. A. L. Fisher – and through him the government – that ‘it may be necessary to take a firm line with Finland. These new states must be taught their proper place!’42 Cursorily, the rapporteurs’ report considered possibilities for a potential secession of Åland from Finland, the archipelago’s independence, or its union with Sweden, even if only in the case Finland that would not honour its obligations towards the Ålanders as a minority and autonomous entity within the Finnish state.43 This careful qualification was lost on the Ålanders, whose local parliament, the Landsting, interpreted the decision as effectively granting them the right to self-determination – a perception the British government swiftly tried to counter.44 International law, however, ‘does not grant sub-state entities a general right to secede from their parent states, nor does it prohibit secession’. It actually attempts, often unsuccessfully, to balance ‘the international legal principles of territorial integrity and self-determination’.45 In their differing historical and conceptual traditions both concepts – territorial integrity and self-determination – are not only politically ambivalent, but especially legally ambiguous. What is eventually created as law or legal decision-making is largely a product of the context and circumstances that define a particular situation of conflict. In the concrete case of Åland the paramount intention of the League rested with the pacification of existing tensions and, more importantly, the prevention of probable hostilities in the near future. A young, unconsolidated, in some respects, vehemently nationalist Finnish state, just emerging from an intensely traumatic civil war, had made it unequivocally clear that it was prepared to oppose any future takeover of the archipelago by Sweden, if need be even by military force. Even if the

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German and Swedish occupation(s) of the islands had effectively pacified Åland, a much larger, probably even militarily escalated conflict between Sweden and Finland remained a possibility. The assumption of jurisdiction over the Åland question would therefore have to be seen not necessarily as a stringently legal move, but much rather ‘in the light of the interests of a state system, organised in the League of Nations, whose main purpose was the international maintenance of peace’ – or, one is tempted to add in the circumstances, the actual enforcement of peace.46 The League’s final decision on 24 June 1921, would have to be understood from exactly that perspective. It was ‘an essentially political decision’, which formally awarded the territorial sovereignty over Åland to Finland, but simultaneously reinforced the servitude – the non-fortification and demilitarization of the islands – and furthermore instituted the archipelago’s neutralization.47 ‘The interests of the world, the future of cordial relations between Finland and Sweden, the prosperity and happiness of the Islands themselves’, as the decision of the Council read, required the establishment of a far-reaching autonomy regime as a decidedly international legal obligation on the part of Finland.48 To all involved parties, the governments of Finland and Sweden as well as to the Ålanders, the decision truly amounted to ‘carrot and stick’ in rather equal measure.49 What remains remarkable about the Åland decision of the League is therefore less its certainly impressive durability, its ‘very notable success’, but much rather its ambivalent character.50 It, firstly, collided head on with the core norm of the Versailles system, the principle of national self-determination, just as the case of Austria between 1918 and 1921 and Upper Silesia. While the latter were clearly power-politically motivated to avoid benefitting the post-war German state, Åland – at least after the First World War – grew into a primarily bilateral issue between Sweden and Finland (and the inhabitants of the archipelago). Sweden had remained at the neutral fringes of the previous conflict; Finland only came into existence in the final stages of the war. Withholding the core principle of the post-war regime from the Ålanders and implicitly the population’s reluctant protector, Sweden, created an inconsistency not easily explained. Besides legal argument and the League’s fundamental interest in systemic de-escalation and pacification, the formal award of the archipelago to Finland appears to point to other motives as well. Entente scepticism of Sweden’s ambivalent, often effectively pro-German position as a neutral during the First World War is likely to have informed decision-making just as much as the objective of creating an equilibrium in the Baltic area, which carefully balanced the potentially

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hegemonic ambitions of a former regional power like Sweden with the stability and security policies of the newly emerged small states of the region: Finland, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania (not to mention Poland).51 Potentially expanding Sweden’s weight in a geostrategically sensitive area further was neither in the British nor in the French interest, all the more if this expansion took place at the expense of the anti-Bolshevist buffer zone the Western Powers were in the process of creating. Just as with other inconsistencies in the early Versailles system, ‘there is no way around concluding that … the victors’ power-political considerations outweighed Wilsonian notions of self-determination when both came into conflict’.52 The other fundamental inconsistency of the decision is purely legal in character: revoking Finnish sovereignty over the archipelago in 1920 does in turn not easily allow for the core legal statement of the League’s decision of 1921, that is that ‘the sovereignty of the Åland Islands is recognised to belong to Finland’. It either was Finnish and had been throughout or it, as decided by assuming jurisdiction, is international and would therefore have to be dealt with in an international framework. Tore Modeen and Finn Seyerstedt have pointed to this deficiency, lately as well argued by Urs Saxer, albeit from a slightly different analytical angle.53 Seyerstedt, one of Norway’s most renowned international legal scholars, goes even a step further by spelling out the underlying political character of the recommendations of the rapporteurs’ commission and thus the League’s final decision, as illustrated above. ‘If the Council’, Seyerstedt maintains, ‘was free to make a political decision, it should have adopted the principle of self-determination of peoples, which had been applied to a great extent in the then recent peace treaties after World War I, and that consequently it should have given the Islands to Sweden, as the islanders themselves wanted’.54 In that distinctly critical assessment, the Åland decision’s longevity is not – or at least not primarily – a product of its inherent perfection as a legal regime. It is much rather procedure that mattered. By creating institutions of international credibility, installing broadly based expert commissions, communicating closely with the involved parties, and – eventually – arriving at a conclusion that left everyone mildly unsatisfied without being alienated, the League’s treatment of the Åland issue can be seen as a paragon of Niklas Luhmann’s theory of legitimacy gained through procedure (Legitimität durch Verfahren).55 Structurally, it not only outlasted the six months of happiness that Lord R. Cecil was expected to derive from the League’s involvement in the question, as cynically predicted by British foreign secretary Curzon in May 1920.56 The resolution furthermore

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surpassed almost all analogous decisions of the League in terms of its longevity and durability in future crises. The procedural implications apart, though, the Åland question was certainly less contentious than comparable international issues resting with the League, such as the essential problems of Germany and the recreated Polish state in Central and Central Eastern Europe. Both Weimar and re-emerged Poland had profoundly disputed borders at virtually all ends of their respective state territories, from the Corridor and the minority problems in the North to Upper Silesia in the South, from Poland’s border conflicts with Lithuania and Czechoslovakia to Weimar’s highly charged relations to France in the West.57 Europe’s and the League’s agenda – before London and Locarno – was certainly not primarily set by a largely pacified Baltic Sea. As opposed to the successful settlement of the German-Danish border, however, which was arranged on the basis of the Versailles Treaty in February and March 1920, Åland possessed a natural significance: firstly, in terms of the Baltic Sea’s geostrategic make-up and, secondly, because the issue was intensely charged with an uncertain potential for political and even military escalation, as evident in the highly charged atmosphere of 1918.58 As long as Finland remained domestically unconsolidated and generally unsure of its external borders, there was a risk that the newly emerged nation-state would act aggressively against international impositions in favour of Sweden. The country, after all, unofficially fought wars of expansion in the East, especially on Soviet Russian territory, and only settled for the borders of a slightly enlarged Finland in the Peace of Tartu in October 1920.59 A further escalation in the Finnish-Swedish relations over Åland would have certainly destabilized the post-imperial equilibrium in the Baltic area that the demise of the two central empires in the region – Germany and Russia – had just brought about. The settlement of the issue is hence not – or at least not primarily – explained by the relative insignificance of the question in the much larger context of the post-war order. In other words: Åland should not be regarded as yet another instance for the capacity of the League to be successful at pacifying the periphery while failing the centre.60 Much rather, the Åland solution’s impressive and almost uncontested survival – amidst the eventual failure of many of the League’s decisions – has to be attributed to an unlikely patron: Sweden, whose constitutional and political landscape had been profoundly altered by the government take-over of Edén’s and Branting’s Liberal-Socialist coalition after the 1917 September elections. At the end and in the immediate aftermath of the

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First World War, the coalition had pushed through large-scale electoral reforms, first – in 1918 – democratizing the still upper chamber (första kammaren) of the Swedish Riksdag, then – on 24 May 1919 – instituting universal suffrage.61 Furthermore, ‘in Sweden there was a positive correlation between the breakthrough of parliamentarism and social democracy at the end of the war and the pursuit of an “enlightened” foreign policy’.62 A member of the League since 1920 (having joined alongside Finland), Sweden’s social democratic-liberal government – shaped largely by Branting as the central figure – strongly associated with the League of Nations, with the latter actually receiving the Nobel Peace Prize for his involvement in the League in 1921.63 Simultaneously, the position of Branting’s natural opponents, the illiberal right-wing forces of activism and the Swedish conservative party, collapsed, making way for a reformed, liberalized, and increasingly social-democratized country with no residual territorial or expansionist ambitions left. This tidal change in Swedish domestic politics and society is already foreshadowed in Branting’s official response to the League’s Åland decision. Firm in his rhetoric, the Swedish representative and former (as well as future) prime and foreign minister questioned the lawfulness, coherence, and the potential consequences of the decision and pointed forcefully to the probable cost of a resolution that so blatantly violated the principle of selfdetermination, ‘which, although not recognised as a part of international law, has received so wide an application in the formation of the New Europe’. In turn, the League’s credibility would be eroded especially among those peoples and nations – like Sweden – that had worked consistently for an institutionalization of international law. Sweden, however, Branting continued, is ready loyally to recognise that the decision of the Council has the force given to it by the Covenant. But Sweden will not abandon the hope that the day will come when the idea of justice shall have so permeated the conscience of the peoples, that the claims inspired by such noble motives and a national feeling as deep as that of the population of the Aaland Isles will be triumphally vindicated. Thus it will make its voice heard, and will at last have justice done to it.64

The dignified posture of Branting and the Swedish government in what appeared to Sweden and the Ålanders first and foremost as a ‘profound disappointment’ cloaks the fact that Branting as well addressed a domestic audience and not least the Åland proponents at the right and centre of the Swedish political landscape. A political recovery of those forces, instigated by an unresolved conflict over the archipelago, would have certainly left the issue much more virulent in years of relative turbulence. Prospectively, however, the collective sensibilities of

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Swedish society moved away from the traditional ‘belief system’ that had defined the country and especially its elites until well into the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.65 By adopting the premises and – in the contemporary perception – virtues of liberal politics in the international arena, Sweden and successive Swedish governments contributed much more elementarily to the consolidation and longevity of the Åland regime than is usually acknowledged. Despite the residua of great power politics reflected in both the League and the League’s decision on Åland, it would be mistaken to view the League’s decision as a return to the traditional premises of international law and legalist discourse at the turn of the century. As outlined further above, the resolution of the Åland question was at heart a political matter, driven forward by what Andreas Fahrmeir has aptly described as a new or at least expanding ‘Fachöffentlichkeit’, a technically informed and ‘not entirely public’ inter- and transnational stratum of diplomats, politicians, and legal experts.66 As with the bulk of decisions taken by the League in its early period, the arbitrament of Åland should therefore be understood as a somewhat ambivalent example for that new dynamic – and decidedly anti-legalist – interpretation and application of international law. What emerged was not or at least not primarily a continuation of the Hague tradition of 1899 and 1907, but much rather –as Stephen Wertheim has recently argued – the supersession of its core principles and its replacement by a global anti-formalist ethos.67 Linking the subject to the larger process of transition from traditional great power politics to the premises and practices of an emerging international system, the case of Åland illustrates the intricate overlap and interplay of the residua of the seemingly archaic on the one hand and the elements of an allegedly new order on the other hand.

Notes Chapter 1 1 For a different variant of what is known as the ‘driftwood theory’ in Finland; cf. Ilkka Herlin: Suomi-neidon menetetty kunnia – ajopuuteorian historia, in: Päiviö Tommila (ed.): Historiantutkijan muotokuva, Helsinki: Suomen Historiallinen Seura, 1998, 199–238. 2 While the first postcard ‘Ils flottent dans tous les sens’ (Émile Dupuis, 1916) is reproduced on the front cover, the entire series can be found at the digital services of Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon, section: Humour allié, URL: http://numelyo. bm-lyon.fr/f_view/BML:BML_0401400101Res454732_002_0033 [17 October 2017]. 3 Patrick Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 1890-1914, Cambridge: CUP, 1997. 4 Cf. the historiographic impulse given recently by, for example Simon Larsson/Marja Jalava/Pertti Haapala: Introduction: Nordic Historiography: From Methodological Nationalism to Empirical Transnationalism, in: idem (eds.): Making Nordic Historiography: Connections, Tensions and Methodology, 1850-1970, New York: Berghahn, 2017, 1–24. For a useful recent collection of essays and analyses, albeit within persistently national-historiographical parameters, see Claes Ahlund (ed.): Scandinavia in the First World War. Studies in the War Experiences of the Northern Neutrals, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2012, 9–56, especially the excellent, truly inter-Scandinavian introduction by Rolf Hobson, Tom Kristiansen, Nils Arne Sørensen and Gunnar Åselius. 5 Karen Fog Olwig: Narrating deglobalization: Danish perceptions of a lost empire, Global Networks 3 (2003), 207–22, with reference to the basic arguments of the urban anthropologist Ulf Hannerz: Transnational Connections: Culture, People, Places, London: Routledge, 1996. See as well the excellent introduction of Magdalena Naum and Jonas M. Nordin: Situating Scandinavian Colonialism, in: idem (eds.): Scandinavian Colonialism and the Rise of Modernity: Small Time Agents in a Global Arena, New York: Springer, 2013, 3–16. 6 For want of a better term, ‘Age of the World Wars’ has its shortcomings, in any case. Like the related conception ‘interwar period’, it robs the two decades between the end of the First World War and the beginning of the Second of their qualitative independence and thus teleologically reduces the whole period to a cluster of

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Notes wars, crises, and violence; Cf. Bruno Thoß: Die Zeit der Weltkriege – Epochen als Erfahrungseinheit? in: Bruno Thoß and Hans-Erich Volkmann (eds.): Erster Weltkrieg – Zweiter Weltkrieg. Ein Vergleich, Paderborn, 2002, 7–30; Belinda Davis: Experience, Identity, and Memory: The Legacy of World War I, Journal of Modern History 75 (2003), 111–31. Alternatives to these interpretations are suggested in Patrick Cohrs: The Unfinished Peace after World War I: America, Britain and the Stabilisation of Europe, 1919-1932, Cambridge, 2006, 1–19; see also Adam Tooze: The Deluge: The Great War and the Remaking of Global Order, 19161931, London, 2014, 19–30. ‘Unremembered history’, a conception by Bacon and Renaissance historiography, strongly criticized by R. G. Collingwood: The Idea of History, ed. with an introduction by Jan van der Dussen, (Oxford: OUP, 1994, rev. ed.), 58, who assumed that the historian’s task only extended to the reconstruction of history. Stefan Troebst: What’s in a Historical Region? A Teutonic Perspective, European Review of History 10 (2003), 173–88; Riccardo Bavaj: Was bringt der ‘Spatial Turn’ der Regionalgeschichte? Ein Beitrag zur Methodendiskussion. Westfälische Forschungen 56 (2006), 457–84; cf. as well the global historical perspectives developed in: Johannes Paulmann: Regionen und Welten: Arenen und Akteure regionaler Weltbeziehungen seit dem 19. Jahrhundert, Historische Zeitschrift 296 (2013), 660–99. They clearly are not objective, in any case, as indicated in the almost classical reflections of Jürgen Osterhammel and Karl Schlögel; Cf. Jürgen Osterhammel: Die Wiederkehr des Raums: Geographie, Geohistorie und historische Geographie, Neue Politische Literatur 43 (1998), 374–95; idem: Raumbeziehungen: Internationale Geschichte, Geopolitik und historische Geographie, in: Wilfried Loth et. al. (eds.): Internationale Geschichte: Themen, Ergebnisse, Ansichten, München, 2000, 287–308; Karl Schlögel: Im Raume lesen wir die Zeit: Über Zivilisationsgeschichte und Geopolitik, München: Hanser, 2003; idem: Kartenlesen, Augenarbeit: Über die Fälligkeit des spatial turn in den Geschichts- und Kulturwissenschaften, in: Heinz Dieter Kittsteiner (ed.): Was sind Kulturwissenschaften? 13 Antworten, München: Fink, 2004, 261–83. This is not the place to probe comprehensively into the conceptual history of ideas and notions of the region. For a dense overview, built around the German concept of ‘Geschichtsregion’, see Mary Hilson: The Nordic Model: Scandinavia since 1945, London: Reaktion, 2008, 11–24. Stefan Troebst: ‘Historical Meso-Region’: A Concept in Cultural Studies and Historiography, in: European History Online (EGO), published by the Leibniz Institute of European History (IEG), URL: http://www.ieg-ego.eu/troebsts-2010-en [12 December 2017] (cit.).

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12 On the conceptual and historiographical constitution of the region; cf. furthermore Larsson et al., Nordic Historiography, 10–19; Marja Jalava/Bo Stråth: Scandinavia / Norden, in: Diana Mishkova/Balázs Trencsényi (eds.): European Regions and Boundaries : A Conceptual History, New York: Berghahn, 2017, 36–56; Norbert Goetz: Norden: Structures That Do Not Make a Region, European Review of History 10 (2003), 323–41; Norbert Goetz: Gibt es den Norden als Einheit? Über die Differenz von mentalen Landkarten und politischem Willen, in: idem/ Jörg Hackmann/Jan Hecker-Stampehl (eds.): Die Ordnung des Raums. Mentale Landkarten in der Ostseeregion, Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2006, 111–49. 13 Marc Bloch: Für eine vergleichende Geschichtsbetrachtung der europäischen Gesellschaften, in: Matthias Middell et al. (eds.): Alles Gewordene hat Geschichte: Die Schule der Annales in ihren Texten 1929–1992, Leipzig: Reclam, 1994, 121–67. For further developments in the broad methodological field of transnational comparative history; cf. Arno Strohmeyer: Historische Komparatistik und die Konstruktion von Geschichtsregionen: der Vergleich als Methode der historischen Europaforschung, Jahrbücher für Geschichte und Kultur Südosteuropas 1 (1999), 39–55; Hannes Siegrist: Perspektiven der vergleichenden Geschichtswissenschaft: Gesellschaft, Kultur und Raum, in: Hartmut Kaelble et al. (eds.): Vergleich und Transfer: Komparatistik in den Sozial-, Geschichts- und Kulturwissenschaften, Frankfurt a. M.: Campus, 2003, 304–38; Johannes Paulmann: Internationaler Vergleich und interkultureller Transfer: Zwei Forschungsansätze zur europäischen Geschichte des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts, Historische Zeitschrift 267 (1998), 649–85. 14 Charles Tilly: Big Structures, Large Processes, Huge Comparisons, New York: Russell Sage, 1989, 87–96, 125–43. 15 While effectively laid to rest in Germany, this question has recently been highlighted in the British context; see William Mulligan/Brendan Simms (eds.): The Primacy of Foreign Policy in British History, 1660-2000: How Strategic Concerns Shaped Modern Britain, London: Palgrave, 2010, especially the introduction of the editors, 1–14. 16 On hegemony, see the classic study by Ludwig Dehio: Gleichgewicht oder Hegemonie. Betrachtungen über ein Grundproblem der neueren Staatengeschichte, Krefeld, 1948, whose analytical topicality has recently been illustrated by Wolfram Pyta: Hegemonie und Gleichgewicht, in: Jost Dülffer and Wilfried Loth (eds.): Dimensionen internationaler Geschichte, Munich, 2012, 373–88. See also Mischa Hansel: Keine neue Weltordnung mehr? Ludwig Dehios ‘Gleichgewicht oder Hegemonie’ als Beitrag zur Theoriebildung in den Internationalen Beziehungen, Leviathan 38 (2010), 533–58; Miriam Prys: Hegemonie in der internationalen Politik: Analyse eines umstrittenen Konzepts, Saarbrücken, 2008. For neutrality as a concept and practice in recent research see, among others, Samuël Kruizinga

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Notes in: Neutrality, in: The Cambridge History of the First World War, Vol. 2: The State, ed. by Jay Winter, Cambridge: CUP, 2013, 542–75; Johan den Hertog/Samuël Kruizinga (eds.): Caught in the Middle. Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War, Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011, 1–14. The classic study in the realist tradition is Nils Ørvik: The Decline of Neutrality, 1914-1941: With Special Reference to the United States and the Northern Neutrals [1953], London ²1977. The concept of personality networks is borrowed from Magnus Brechtken: Scharnierzeit 1895–1907. Persönlichkeitsnetze und internationale Politik in den deutsch-britisch-amerikanischen Beziehungen vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg, Mainz: Zabern, 2006; see also Brechtken: Personality, Image and Perception: Patterns and Problems of Anglo-German Relations in the 19th and 20th Centuries, in: Adolf M. Birke, Magnus Brechtken and Alaric Searle (eds.): An Anglo-German Dialogue: The Munich Lectures on the History of International Relations, Munich: De Gruyter, 2000, 13–40. On recent developments in the cultural and social history of diplomacy, see Ursula Lehmkuhl: Diplomatiegeschichte als internationale Kulturgeschichte: Ansätze, Methoden und Forschungsergebnisse zwischen Historischer Kulturwissenschaft und soziologischem Institutionalismus, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 37 (2001), 394–423; Markus Mösslang and Torsten Riotte (eds.): The Diplomats’ World: A Cultural History of Diplomacy, 1815-1914, Oxford: OUP, 2008, in particular the editors’ introduction; Jessica Gienow-Hecht/Frank Schumacher (eds.): Culture and International History, New York: Berghahn, 2003. On the methodological and theoretical reorientation in international history, see Friedrich Kießling: Der ‘Dialog der Taubstummen’ ist vorbei. Neue Ansätze in der Geschichte der internationalen Beziehungen des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, Historische Zeitschrift 275 (2002), 651– 80; Wilfried Loth/Jürgen Osterhammel (eds.): Internationale Geschichte. Themen – Ergebnisse – Aussichten, Munich: Oldenbourg, 2000; Eckart Conze/Ulrich Lappenküper/Guido Müller (eds.): Geschichte der internationalen Beziehungen. Erneuerung und Erweiterung einer historischen Disziplin, Cologne, Böhlau, 2004. Besides the literature on Scandinavia cited subsequently, see Samuël Kruizinga’s excellent economic historical study of Dutch neutrality during the war: Overlegeconomie in oorlogstijd: de Nederlandsche Overzee Trustmaatschappij en de Eerste Wereldoorlog, Zutphen: Walburg Pers, 2012. As always, it is the ambivalence between the individual and the representative force – the ‘mirror function’, as Reinhard Wittram called it – of any given life that makes the biographical approach particularly rewarding. Wittram himself describes biography ‘as a carefully sanded mirror that captures the changing of an age reliably because of the concentration of the historical process in the individual’. Cf. Reinhard Wittram, Anspruch und Fragwürdigkeit der Geschichte, Göttingen 1969, IV: Der historische Prozeß und die Biograhie, 57–71, here 62–3.

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21 A detailed discussion of the character of small states in the international system is to be found subsequently. 22 Thucydides: History of the Peloponnesian War, translated by William Smith, London, 1831, 215. 23 Jacob Burckhardt: Griechische Kulturgeschichte, Berlin, no year [approx. 1910, 5th edition], Vol. 1, 301. On reception history, see also Christine Lee and Neville Morley (eds.): A Handbook to the Reception of Thucydides, Hoboken, NJ, 2014, in particular Edward Keene and Timothy J. Ruback; Katherine Harloe and Neville Morley (eds.): Thucydides and the Modern World: Reception, Reinterpretation and Influence from the Renaissance to the Present, Cambridge, 2012, in particular Steven Forde and Richard Ned Lebow; Nicolas Stockhammer: Die Dialektik politischer Macht. Internationale Zeitschrift für Philosophie 15 (2006), 23–43. 24 Johan den Hertog and Samuël Kruizinga (eds.): Caught in the Middle: Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War, Amsterdam, 2011, 5 f. 25 To a certain extent, and against the harsher judgement of den Hertog and Kruizinga – this can already be found in Michael Handel: Weak States in the International System, London, 1990, 3–8, 257–8; on the nevertheless mild criticism of Handel’s realistic arguments, see Patrick Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 1890–1940, Cambridge, 1997, 13–15. 26 Den Hertog/Kruizinga, Caught in the Middle, 6; see also Dülffer/Loth, Dimensionen, editors’ introduction, 4–7, and other articles. 27 ‘Weak states’ according to Handel, Weak States, 30–47, at the beginning of which he also refers to the Melian Dialogue. 28 Developed in Paul W. Schroeder: Historical Reality vs. Neo-Realist Theory, International Security 19 (1994), 108-148, and in Schroeder’s other contributions: History vs. Neo-realism: A Second Look, International Security 20 (1995), 182–95; History and International Relations Theory: Not Use or Abuse, but Fit or Misfit, International Security 22 (1997), 64–74. 29 Laval had suggested in Moscow that it would be in the interest of the entire European left, if Stalin would allow for more tolerance of Catholicism in the USSR. Stalin’s words appear to be attested only by Churchill. See Winston Churchill: The Second World War, 6 vols., London: Houghton, 1948–54, Volume 1: The Gathering Storm, 121. 30 ‘a number of legions not always visible on parade’. Ibid. 31 Brechtken, Scharnierzeit, 38–127. 32 Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 4–16. 33 Leopold von Ranke: Die großen Mächte [1833], Sämtliche Werke [SW], Leipzig, 1872, Volume 24, 1–51, here: 25. Here, Ranke closely follows the strongly powerpolitical idea of state sovereignty developed as far back as 1677 by Leibniz in ‘De jure suprematus‘, which, in addition to territorial sovereignty, is also based

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36 37

38 39 40

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Notes on the available military resources of a state and its right to warfare. See most recently Heinhard Steiger: Supremat – Außenpolitik und Völkerrecht bei Leibniz, in: Friedrich Beiderbeck, Irene Dingel and Wenchao Li (eds.): Umwelt und Weltgestaltung: Leibniz‘ politisches Denken in seiner Zeit, Göttingen, 2015, 135–206; Martin Wight: Power Politics [1946], edited by Hedley Bull and Carsten Holbraad, Leicester, 1995, 301. Ranke: Politisches Gespräch [1836], SW, Volume 49/50, Leipzig, 1887, 328. Thomas Nipperdey: Deutsche Geschichte 1800-1866, Volume 1: Bürgerwelt und starker Staat, Munich, 1983, 518 (quot.). Late historicism in a historiographical sense is borrowed from Hans-Ulrich Wehler: Introduction, in Eckart Kehr: Der Primat der Innenpolitik: gesammelte Aufsätze zur preußisch-deutschen Sozialgeschichte im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, edited and introduced by Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Berlin, 1970, 1–29, here: 24. For criticism of Ranke’s definition of power and its effect on the German historiography of international relations, see also Gerhard Th. Mollin: Internationale Beziehungen als Gegenstand der deutschen Neuzeit-Historiographie, in: Loth/Osterhammel, Internationale Geschichte, 3–30. Alan J. P. Taylor: The Struggle for Mastery in Europe 1848–1918, Oxford, 1954, xxiv. See Jean-Baptiste Duroselle: French Diplomacy in the Postwar World, in: Stephen D. Kertesz and M. A. Fitzsimons (eds.): Diplomacy in a Changing World, Notre Dame, IN, 1959, 204–48, here: 204. Paul Kennedy: The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers: Economic Change and Military Conflict from 1500-2000. New York: Random House, 1987, Introduction, 438–9. Taylor, Struggle for Mastery, xxii, also in Handel, Weak States, 58, note 35. See also Jack S. Levy: War in the Modern Great Power System, 1495-1975, Lexington, 1983, 10–19. Robert O. Keohane: Lilliputians’ Dilemmas: Small States in International Politics, International Organization, 23 (1969), 291–310, here: 295 f.; also in Handel, Weak States, 21. See also Alan Sharp: The Versailles Settlement: Peacemaking after the First World War, 1919-1923, London, ²2008, 29–41; Margaret MacMillan: Paris 1919: Six Months that Changed the World, New York, 2002, 273–8; Zara Steiner: The Lights That Failed: European International History, 1919-1933, Oxford, 2005, 15–79. Much more critical is Cohrs, Unfinished Peace, 46–75. See contributions by Edward C. Luck: A Council for All Seasons: The Creation of the Security Council and Its Relevance Today, and Niko Krisch: The Security Council and the Great Powers, in: Vaughan Lowe, Adam Roberts and Jennifer Welsh (eds.): The Security Council and War, Oxford, 2008, 61–85 and 133–53. With regard to the Concert of Europe, Matthias Schulz speaks explicitly of a security council for establishing and preserving a continental ‘peace culture’: Normen und Praxis. Das Europäische Konzert der Großmächte als Sicherheitsrat, 1815-1860, Munich, 2009, 5 (quot.).

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44 Iver Neumann and Sieglinde Gstöhl: Lilliputians in Gulliver’s World: Small States in International Relations (= Centre for Small State Studies Working Paper 1-2004, Reykjavik, 2004, 3; also in an extended version as: Introduction: Lilliputians in Gulliver’s World, in: Christine Ingebritsen, Iver Neumann, Sieglinde Gstöhl and Jessica Beyer (eds): Small States in International Relations, Washington, 2006, 3–36. 45 E. H. Carr: The Twenty Years’ Crisis, 1919-1939: An Introduction to the Study of International Relations, London, 1939, 104–5. On the reception of Carr as an archetypal realist, see Michael Cox: E. H. Carr: A Critical Appraisal, Basingstoke, 2000, particularly the contributions of Peter Wilson, Paul Rich and Tim Dunne, and Peter Wilson: Power, Morality and the Remaking of International Order: E.H. Carr’s The Twenty Years’ Crisis, 1919-1939, in: Henrik Bliddal, Casper Sylvest and Peter Wilson (eds.): Classics of International Relations: Essays in Criticism and Appreciation, Abingdon, 2013, 48–58. 46 Brechtken, Scharnierzeit, 38. 47 Ibid., 38–127, who convincingly illustrates this aspect, above all on the basis of the work of the Swedish political scientist and early geopolitician Rudolf Kjellén, here above all: Samtidens stormakter Stockholm, 1914. On the context, see Ola Tunander: Swedish-German Geopolitics for a New Century – Rudolf Kjellén’s ‘The State as a Living Organism, Review of International Studies 27 (2001), 451–63. See also the contributions in: Sönke Neitzel (ed.): 1900: Zukunftsvisionen der Großmächte, Paderborn, 2002; Neitzel: Weltmacht oder Untergang. Die Weltreichslehre im Zeitalter des Imperialismus, Paderborn, 2000; Theodor Schieder: Staatensystem als Vormacht der Welt: 1848-1918, Berlin, ²1992 [1977], 260–71; Kennedy, Rise and Fall, xxii–xxiv, 194–255. 48 In this context, the term international system, like the term culture, is explicitly not based on the way it is defined in political science, which is often regarded by historians as too mechanical. Instead, it is based on the work of Schroeder, who – on the basis of Michael Oakeshott – describes the term as follows: ‘The understandings, assumptions, learned skills and responses, rules, norms, procedures, etc. which agents acquire and use in pursuing their individual divergent aims within the framework of a shared practice.’ See Paul W. Schroeder: The Transformation of European Politics, 1763-1848, Oxford, 1994, xii; also Schroeder: ‘System’ and Systemic Thinking in International History, The International History Review 15 (1993), 116–34. On the discourse on world empire, see – in addition to Neitzel – the excellent comparative historical study by Peter Hoeres: Krieg der Philosophen. Die deutsche und britische Philosophie im Ersten Weltkrieg, Paderborn, 2004, here: 479–86. 49 On the nebulous terms medium power or regional power (or regional great power and similar terms), see Carsten Holbraad: Middle Powers in International Politics, London, 1984; Handel, Weak States, 23–30; Øyvind Østerud: Regional Great Powers, in: Iver

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50 51

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55 56 57

Notes B. Neumann (ed.): Regional Great Powers in International Politics, Basingstoke, 1992, 1–15; the discussion of this term is summarized in: Miriam Prys: Redefining Regional Power in International Relations: Indian and South Africa, London, 2012, 3–35. Neumann/Gstöhl, Lilliputians, 3–7. Morgenthau’s relation to the small states in the international system was at best ambivalent anyway. See Hans J. Morgenthau: Politics among Nations: The Struggle for Power and Peace, New York, 1948, 13; Nicolas Guilhot: Politics Between and Beyond Nations: Hans Morgenthau‘s Politics Among Nations, in: Bliddal/Sylvest/ Wilson, Classics of International Relations, 69–79. For what is probably the most differentiated albeit not very convincing quantitative definition of small states (here: weak states), see David Vital: The Inequality of States: A Study of the Small Power in International Relations, Oxford, 1967, 8 ff. Within international relations, it would be possible with Robert O. Keohane’s and Joseh S. Nye’s complex interdependence theory to talk of ‘issues’ or ‘issue areas’, see Robert O. Keohane and Joseph S. Nye: Power and Interdependence: World Politics in Transition [1977], New York, ³2000; Thomas C. Walker: A Circumspect Revival of Liberalism: Robert O. Keohane and Joseph S. Nye’s Power and Interdependence, in: Bliddal/Sylvest/Wilson, Classics of International Relations, 148–56; Neumann/ Gstöhl, Lilliputians, 5. Andreas Sommeregger: Soft Power und Religion. Der Heilige Stuhl in den internationalen Beziehungen, Wiesbaden, 2011; Tobias Mörschel (ed.): Papsttum und Politik: Eine Institution zwischen geistlicher Gewalt und politischer Macht, Freiburg i. Br. 2007; Jodok Troy: Die Soft Power des Heiligen Stuhls. Unsichtbare Legionen zwischen internationaler Gesellschaft und Weltgesellschaft, Zeitschrift für Außen- und Sicherheitspolitik 3 (2010), 489–511. A characterization that was also imitated relatively quickly in Norway. See Benjamin de Carvalho and Iver B. Neumann: A Great Power Performance: Norway, Status and the Policy of Involvement, in: de Carvalho and Neumann (eds.): Small State Status Seeking: Norway’s Quest for International Standing, Abingdon, 2015, 56–72, here: 70; for the context, see Christine Agius: The Social Construction of Swedish Neutrality: Challenges to Swedish Sovereignty and Identity, Manchester, 2006; Mikael af Malmborg: Neutrality and State-Building in Sweden, London, 2001; Norbert Götz: Deliberative Diplomacy: The Nordic Approach to Global Governance and Societal Representation at the United Nations, Dordrecht, 2011. Neumann/Gstöhl, Lilliputians, 13. Ibid., 16–17. Michael Handel’s ideal concept of the small state as a ‘weak state’, largely derived from Max Weber, appears undifferentiated and hence insufficient, particularly in this area; see Handel, Weak States, 52–4, and – for context – Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 317–70.

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58 Handel, Weak States, 48–54, 257–8; Robert L. Rothstein: Alliances and the Small States, New York, 1968, 194–5. 59 Robert Purnell: The Society of States: An Introduction to International Politics, London, 1973, 98–9. 60 William E. Rappard: Small States in the League of Nations, Political Science Quarterly 49 (1934), 544–75, 574; both and further examples also in, Weak States, 38–9. 61 For excellent historiographical and, in some cases, theoretical overviews; cf. Stephen C. Neff: The Rights and Duties of Neutrals: A General History, Manchester: Manchester UP, 2000; Johan den Hertog/Samuël Kruizinga (eds.): Caught in the Middle. Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War, Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011, especially 1–14; Maartje Abbenhuis: A Most Useful Tool for Diplomacy and Statecraft: Neutrality and Europe in the ‘Long’ Nineteenth Century, 18151914, International History Review 35 (2013), 1–22; Maartje Abbenhuis: An Age of Neutrals: Great Power Politics 1815-1914, Cambridge: CUP, 2014, 1–21. For the general evolution of modern international law; cf. Martti Koskenniemi: The Gentle Civilizer of Nations. The Rise and Fall of International Law, 1870-1960, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002; Marcus Payk: Institutionalisierung und Verrechtlichung: Die Geschichte des Völkerrechts im späten 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert, Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 52 (2012), 861–83; see recently as well the impressive first chapters of Marcus Payk: Frieden durch Recht? Der Aufstieg des modernen Völkerrechts und der Friedensschluss nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg, München: Oldenbourg, 2018, 1–148. 62 Nils Ørvik: The Decline of Neutrality 1914-1941: With Special Reference to the United States and the Northern Neutrals, Oslo: Tanum, 1953 (repr. 1971). 63 Abbenhuis, Age of Neutrals, 178–237. The argument will be more markedly developed in her (and Ismee Tames’) forthcoming: Global war, global catastrophe: Neutrals, belligerents and the transformation of the First World War (projected for 2020). 64 Schroeder, Transformation, x.

Chapter 2 1 This is a reworked and expanded version of Michael Jonas: Neutral Allies, Immoral Pariahs? Scandinavian Neutrality, International Law, and the Great Power Politics in the First World War, in: Small Nations and Colonial Peripheries at War (eds.); Gearóid Barry, Enrico Dal Lago and Róisín Healy, Leiden: Brill, 2016, 92–106. 2 Samuël Kruizinga: Neutrality, in: Jay Winter (ed.): The Cambridge History of the First World War, vol. II: The State, Cambridge: CUP, 2014, 542–75, here 557–8, 574 (cit.) has highlighted this relation recently again.

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3 Among a host of literature, cf. recently Nina Jebsen/Martin Klatt: The Negotiation of National and Regional Identity during the Schleswig Plebiscite following the First World War, First World War Studies 5 (2014), 181–211. 4 Rolf Hobson: Imperialism at Sea: Naval Strategic Thought, the Ideology of Sea Power, and the Tirpitz Plan, 1875-1914, Leiden: Brill, 2002, 11–83, 260–72; Shawn T. Grimes: Strategy and War Planning in the British Navy, Woodbridge: Boydell, 2012, 75–106; Patrick Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 1890-1914, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997, 53–117. 5 Försvarsstabens krigshistoriska avdelning (ed.): Militärt kring 1905. Militära förberedelser och åtgärder i samband med unionskrisen, Stockholm: Hörsta förlag, 1958; Rolf Hobson/Tom Kristiansen: Total krig, nøytralitet og politisk splittelse: 1905-1940 (= Norsk forsvarshistorie, 3), Bergen: Eide, 2001; Øystein Sørensen: Vad kunde ha hänt?, in: Torbjörn Nilsson/Øystein Sørensen (eds.): 1905 – unionsupplösningens år. Nya perspektiv på ett svensk-norsk drama, Stockholm: Carlsson, 2005, 25–30. 6 Besides Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 71–82, see as well idem: En ærlig megler? Diplomati og maktbalanse i britisk Skandinaviapolitikk 1905–07’, in: Rolf Hobson, Tom Kristiansen and Sven Holtsmark (eds.): Stormaktene, Sverige og Norge 1905-1907, Oslo: Cappelen, 2006, 49–79. 7 This always remained a phenomenon limited to the country’s elites, despite the increasing importance of public opinion on foreign and security policy-making; cf. Gunnar Åselius: The ‘Russian Menace’ to Sweden: The Belief System of a Small Power Security Elite in the Age of Imperialism, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1994, 32–3; see as well idem: Sverige: Motvillig småstat I imperialismens tidsålder, in: Holtsmark et al., Stormaktene, 22–48. 8 Ceding Finland allowed for far less friction with imperial Russia, as the common and strategically indefensible border in the East was gone. It is obvious that many contemporaries perceived this in different terms, that is as a loss; cf. Alf W. Johansson/Torbjörn Norman: Den svenska neutralitetspolitiken i historiskt perspektiv, in: Bo Hugemark (ed.): Neutralitetet och försvar – perspektiv på svensk säkerhetspolitik 1809–1985, Stockholm: Militärhistoriska förlaget, 1986, 11–43, 12; on the context see the older study of Allan Jansson: Försvarsfrågan i svensk politik från 1809 till Krimkriget, Uppsala: Lundequistska Bokhandeln, 1935, 8–9; Åselius, ‘Russian Menace’, 66; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 29–30. 9 Cf. Åselius, ‘Russian Menace’, 66–76. On the context, cf. Rolf Hobson, Tom Kristiansen, Nils Arne Sørensen and Gunnar Åselius: Introduction. Scandinavia in the First World War, in: Claes Ahlund (ed.): Scandinavia in the First World War. Studies in the War Experiences of the Northern Neutrals, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2012, 9–56; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 1–19, 118–68; see as well Sofi Qvarnström, Sweden, in: 1914–18 online. International Encyclopedia

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11

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of the First World War, eds. Ute Daniel et al., URL: http://dx.doi.org/10.15463/ ie1418.10150 [acc. 15 October 2016]. Thomas Munch-Petersen: The Policy of 1812: Swedish Foreign Policy from the Congress of Vienna to the Outbreak of the Crimean War, Northern Studies 31 (1996), 37–56. Malmborg, Neutrality and State-Building, 14–47, 69–87; Ann-Sophie Dahl: The Myth of Swedish Neutrality, in: Cyril Buffet/Beatrice Heuser (eds.): Haunted by History. Myth in International Relations, Oxford: Berghahn, 1998, 28–40. Johansson/Norman, Neutralitetspolitiken, 13; Torbjörn Norman: Stages in Swedish Neutrality, in: Nevakivi, Neutrality, 303–12; Ole Elgström: Images and Strategies for Autonomy: Explaining Swedish Security Policy Strategies in the 19th century, Dordrecht: Springer, 2000, 48–50; idem: Do Images Matter? The Making of Swedish neutrality 1834 and 1853, Co-operation and Conflict 35 (2000), 243–67. Abbenhuis, Hopes for Neutrality, 51 (cit.); cf. as well Pertti Luntinen: The Baltic Question, 1903-1908, Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975; idem: Neutrality in Northern Europe Before the First World War, in: Nevakivi, Neutrality, 107–14; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 27–9, 71–84; idem: ‘Between the Sea Power and The Land Power’: Scandinavia and the Coming of the First World War, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 3 (1993), 23–49. National Archives, Kew (NA): Foreign Office (FO) 748/4: Memorandum by Vice Consul Robert Marshall on Public Opinion in Sweden with Regard to the War, 28 June 1918. On Reichenau, cf. Sönke Neitzel: Diplomatie der Generationen? Kollektivbiographische Perspektiven auf die Internationalen Beziehungen 18711914, Historische Zeitschrift 296 (2013), 84–113, here 98–101. Wilhelm M. Carlgren: Neutralität oder Allianz: Deutschlands Beziehungen zu Schweden in den Anfangsjahren des ersten Weltkrieges, Stockholm: Almqvist&Wiksell, 1962, 22, 36–8; Inger Schuberth: Schweden und das Deutsche Reich im Ersten Weltkrieg: Die Aktivistenbewegung 1914-1918, Bonn: Röhrscheid, 1981, 21–7. Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 72–5; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 24–30. The centrality of international law to the conflict has been recently demonstrated by a number of studies, among them Isabel V. Hull: A Scrap of Paper: Breaking and Making International Law in the First World War, Ithaca: Cornell UP, 2014; Johan den Hertog/Samuël Kruizinga (eds.): Caught in the Middle. Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War, Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011, especially Johan den Hertog: Dutch Neutrality and the Value of Legal Argument, 15–34. Francis Sejersted: The Age of Social Democracy. Norway and Sweden in the Twentieth Century, Princeton, Princeton UP, 2011; Magnus Jerneck: Modernitet och småstatsidentitet – mönsterlandet Sverige som fredlighetens land, in: idem (ed.): Fred i realpolitikens skugga, Lund: Studentlitteratur 2009, 77–93.

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19 Axel Odelberg: Med kungen som verktyg: historien om försvarsstriden, borggårdskrisen och Sven Hedin [With the king as an instrument: the story of the defence struggle, the Courtyard Crisis and Sven Hedin], Stockhom, 2014. For the speech see Sven Hedin: Försvarsstriden 1912-14, Stockholm, 1951, 304–6. 20 Brian J. C. McKercher: Esme Howard: A Diplomatic Biography, Cambridge, 1989 [2006], 139. 21 Cf. Olle Nyman: Högern och kungamakten 1911-1914: ur borggårdskrisens förhistoria [The Right and monarchical power 1911-1914: on the prehistory of the Courtyard Crisis], Stockholm, 1957; Wilhelm M. Carlgren: Ministären Hammarskjöld: Tillkomst – Söndring – Fall. Studier i svensk politik 1914-1917 [The ministry Hammarskjöld: rise – disruption – downfall] (Stockholm, 1967), 9–42; Jarl Torbacke: ‘Försvaret främst’: Tre studier till belysning av borggårdskrisens problematik [‘Defence first’: three studies on problems of the Courtyard Crisis], Stockholm, 1983; Kent Zetterberg: Borggårdskrisen i ny belysning : en studie i försvarsberedningarna 1911-1914 [The Courtyard Crisis in a new light: a study of armaments preparations 1911-1914], in: Mats Bergquist, Alf W. Johansson and Krister Wahlbäck (eds.): Utrikespolitik och historia [Foreign policy and history], Stockholm, 1987, 347–59; Erik Lindorm: Gustaf V och hans tid 1907-1918 [Gustav V and his times], Stockholm, 1979, 290–7. 22 The best overviews for the three Scandinavian states are Rolf Hobson, Tom Kristiansen, Nils Arne Sørensen and Gunnar Åselius: Introduction. Scandinavia in the First World War, in: Claes Ahlund (ed.): Scandinavia in the First World War. Studies in the War Experiences of the Northern Neutrals, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2012, 9–56, and Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 118–68; see as well Sofi Qvarnström: Sweden, in: 1914-1918 online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, ed. by Ute Daniel et al. [acc. 19 February 2015]. 23 Sverker Oredsson: Svensk rädsla: Offentlig fruktan i Sverige under 1900-talets första hälft, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2001, 88; see also Lina Sturfelt: From Parasite to Angel: Narratives of Neutrality in the Swedish Popular Press during the First World War, in: Hertog/Kruizinga, Caught in the Middle, 105–20, here 108; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 118–68. 24 John Horne/Alan Kramer: German Atrocities, 1914: A History of Denial, New Haven: Yale UP, 2001; Isabel V. Hull: ‘Military Necessity’ and the Laws of War in Imperial Germany, in: Stathis Kalyvas, Ian Shapiro and Tarek Masoud (eds.): Order, Conflict, Violence, Cambridge: CUP, 2008, 352–77; idem, Scrap of Paper, 16–50. 25 See chap. E: ‘Activism: Small-state Activism and Diplomacy during the First World War: Sweden, Finland, and the question of war and its outcomes’. 26 Olav Riste: The Neutral Ally: Norway’s Relations with Belligerent Powers in the First World War, Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1965. 27 Riste, Neutral Ally, 180–90, 226 (cit.).

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28 Hobson et al., Introduction, 38–9; Riste, Neutral Ally, 170–90; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 129–45; Bjarne Søndergaard Bendtsen: Neutral Merchant Seamen at War. The Experiences of Scandinavian Seamen During the First World War, in: Ahlund, Scandinavia in the First World War, 327–54. Johan Schreiner: Norsk skipsfart under krig og høykonjunktur 1914-1920, Oslo: Cappelen, 1963, 268–99; Karl Erik Haug: Norway, in: 1914-1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, ed. by Ute Daniel et al., URL: https://encyclopedia.19141918-online.net/article/norway [16 June 2017]. 29 Cf. Karl Erik Haug: Tyske krigsplaner og Norge under den første verdenskrig, Historisk Tidsskrift [Norway] 74 (1995), 423–40. 30 Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 118. 31 The absurd-seeming episode is recorded in detail by the country’s criminal investigation department’s counter-intelligence head, Johan Søhr: Baron von Rosens mystiske ekspedisjon, in: idem: Spioner og bomber. Fra opdagelsespolitiets arbeide under verdenskrigen, Oslo: Tanum, 35–46. Cf. as well Roald Berg: Norsk utenrikspolitikks historie, vol. II: Norge pa egen hand 1905–1920, Oslo: Cappelen, 1995, 209–15. 32 Rudolf Nadolny: Mein Beitrag. Erinnerungen eines Botschafters des Deutschen Reiches, ed. Günter Wollstein, Köln: dme-Verlag, 299 (cit.), on the context, cf. 85–9; see as well Michael Jonas/Jan Zinke: ‘Wir standen mit der Zukunft im Bunde’. Rudolf Nadolny, das Auswärtige Amt und die deutsche Persienpolitik im Ersten Weltkrieg, in: Erster Weltkrieg und Dschihad: Die Deutschen und die Revolutionierung des Orients, eds. Wilfried Loth and Marc Hanisch, München: Oldenbourg, 2014, 61–90. 33 Erhard Geissler: ‘Anwendung von Seuchenmitteln gegen Menschen nicht erwünscht’: Dokumente zum Einsatz Biologischer Kampfmittel im Ersten Weltkrieg, Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 56 (1997), 107–55. 34 Both baccili harvested by ‘Sektion Politik’, glanders (Burkholderia mallei) and anthrax (bacillus anthracis), are potentially lethal for human beings and easily transferred from animal to human. On the context, cf. Erhard Geissler: Biologische Waffen – nicht in Hitlers Arsenalen. Biologische und Toxin-Kampfmittel in Deutschland von 1915 bis 1945, Münster: LIT, 1999, 51–122; idem: Anthrax und das Versagen der Geheimdienste, Berlin: Homilius, 2003, 27–38; Geissler, Anwendung von Seuchemitteln, 108. 35 Johan Søhr: Den Rautenfelske bombesak, in: idem, Spioner og bomber, 72–98; Thomas Boghardt: Spies of the Kaiser: German Covert Operations in Great Britain During the First World War Era, Houndmills: Palgrave, 2005, 129–31; Riste, Neutral ally, 186–7. 36 Cit. in Matthias Hannemann: Die Freunde im Norden: Norwegen und Schweden im Kalkül der deutschen Revisionspolitik 1918-1939, Münster: LIT, 2001, 44.

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37 Hannemann, Freunde im Norden, 43–4; Boghardt, Spies, 130. 38 Hintze’s approach to Norway is best captured in a report to Reich Chancellor Hertling of 19 February 1918, in which he states that Germany should ‘adopt the gesture of leniency and magnanimity, the conduct of the big in dealing with the small, even when the latter is naughty’. Cf. Johannes Hürter (ed.): Paul von Hintze. Marineoffizier, Diplomat, Staatssekretär. Dokumente einer Karriere zwischen Militär und Politik, 1903-1918, München: Oldenbourg, 1998, 68–9, 392–6, 419–23. 39 Andreas Hesselberg Bjercke and Georg Christen Eliassen, two architects from Kristiania, were responsible for the design. For the monument see Søndergaard Bendtsen, Neutral Merchant Seamen, 346–8; on war monuments, particularly the more abstract design of pyramids after 1918; cf. Nicholas Martin et al. (eds.): Aftermath: Legacies and Memories of War in Europe, 1918–1945–1989, especially John Paul Newman: Times of Death: The Great War and Serbia’s Twentieth Century, 24–40, here 31–2 (with regard to Serbia’s national war monument, but also with general implications); Jean-Marcel Humbert: The Egyptianizing pyramid from the 18th to the 20th century, in: Jean-Marcel Humbert and Clifford Price (eds.): Imhotep Today: Egyptianizing Architecture, London: UCL Press, 2003, 25–39. 40 Søndergaard Bendtsen, Neutral Merchant Seamen, 346–8. 41 Cf. recently Stehn Bo Frandsen: Klein und national: Dänemark und der Wiener Frieden 1864, in: Ulrich Lappenküper/Oliver Auge (eds.): Der Wiener Frieden als deutsches, europäisches und globales Ereignis, Paderborn: Schöningh, 2015, 225–38. 42 This had been reinforced by Denmark’s proclamation of neutrality in 1912; cf. Hobson et al., Introduction, 23–4, 27; Salmon, Scandinavia, 126–7; Nils Arne Sørensen: Denmark, in: 1914-1918 online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, ed. by Ute Daniel et al. [acc. 19 Feb 2015]; Michael Epkenhans/ Gerhard P. Groß (eds.): The Danish Straits and German Naval Power 1905-1915, Potsdam: Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt, 2010, especially the contributions by Alexander Rindfleisch and Hans Branner; Bent Bludnikow, ‘Denmark during the First World War’, Journal of Contemporary History 24 (1989), 683–703. 43 Einar D. Cohn: Danmark under den store krig: en økonomisk oversight, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1928), 49 (cit.); Gerhard P. Groß: German Plans to Occupy Denmark: ‘Case J’, 1916-1918, in: Epkenhans/Groß, Danish Straits, 155–66, here 156. 44 ‘Diverging neutralities’ as cit. in Hobson et al., Introduction, 37. 45 Cf. recently Peter Stadius: Trekungamötet i Malmö 1914. Mot en ny nordisk retorik i skuggan av världskriget, Historisk tidsskrift för Finland 99 (2014), 369–94. 46 Culminating in a number of pamphlets published in the initial stages of the war, i.a. Edwin Bjorkman: Scandinavia and the War, Oxford, 1914 (=Oxford Pamphlets XIII, 1914, No. 56), 21 pp.; cf. as well ibid., No. 57, The War through Danish Eyes: by a Dane [i.e. Edvard J. C. Rambusch], 19 pp., and the pamphlet by the Oxford

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48 49 50 51

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classicist Gilbert Murray: Impressions of Scandinavia in War Time (reprinted from the Westminster Gazette), London, 1916, 32 pp. On Lucius see, in detail, Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 27–30; on Howard’s Swedish period; cf. B. J. C. McKercher, Esme Howard: A Diplomatic Biography, Cambridge: CUP, 1989 (repr. 2006), 132–96, more generally 197–351. As cited in McKercher, Esme Howard, 147. Ibid., 153. Esme Howard: Theatre of Life, 1905-1936, London: Little&Brown, 1936, 239. Cf. NA, FO 371/2097: Howard to FO, 10 December 2014; FO 371/2458: Howard to FO, 31 December 2014; FO 371/2459: Findlay to FO, 18, 22, 21 October 1915 (including private letter of Findlay to foreign minister Edward Grey), 4 and 5 November 1915; ibid., Howard to FO, 20 October and 1 November 1915 (including a confidential letter of Howard to Grey); FO 371/2753: Findlay to FO, 31 December 1915; FO 371/2755: Findlay to FO, 13 November 1915; McKercher, Howard, 148; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 129. R. H. Bruce Lockhart: Memoirs of a British Agent, London: Putnam, 1932, 212. Howard, Theatre of Life, 229–30. Hammarskjöld’s influence at The Hague is touched upon in: Michael Jonas: Romanian Neutrality in Context: Comparative Remarks on Romania and Sweden during the First World War, in: Claudiu-Lucian Topor et al. (eds.): ‘The Unknown War’ from Eastern Europe: Romania between Allies and Enemies (1916-1918), Iaşi: Editura Universităţii ‘Alexandru Ioan Cuza’, 2016, 17–50, here 34–6; for Hammarskjöld’s biography see Mats Svegfors: Sveriges statsministrar under 100 år, vol. 3: Hjalmar Hammarskjöld, Stockholm: Bonnier, 2010. Howard, Theatre of Life, 239. FO 371/2754: Howard to FO, 3 and 4 October 1916. On Hammarskjöld’s resignation in the spring of 1917; cf. Carlgren, Ministären Hammarskjöld, 194–253. Robert M. Citino: The German Way of War. From the Thirty Years War to the Third Reich, Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 2005, emphasizes different strains of continuity. The argument has nonetheless not lost its appeal; cf. Horne/Kramer, German Atrocities, 161–74; Isabel V. Hull: Absolute Destruction: Military Culture and the Practices of War in Imperial Germany, Ithaca: Cornell UP, 2005. Most pointed the episode recounted in Howard, Theatre of Life, 240–1. This pattern has recently been discussed by Abbenhuis, Age of Neutrals, 10–12. Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 162–8; James Barros: The Aaland Islands Question: Its Settlement by the League of Nations, New Haven, CN: Yale UP, 1968; Göran Rystad: Die deutsche Monroedoktrin der Ostsee: die Alandsfrage und die Entstehung des deutsch-schwedischen Geheimabkommens vom Mai 1918, in: idem et al. (eds.): Probleme deutscher Zeitgeschichte, Lund: Läromedelsförlagen, 1971, 1–75; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 144–71.

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61 The literature on what Rudolf Nadolny, one of German foreign office foremost Eastern specialists, has labelled the German Patenschaft (Ger. godparenthood resp. sponsorship) of Finnish independence is vast: see, for an overview, Osmo Apunen: Deutschland und die finnische Freiheitsbewegung 1914-1915, in: Ernst Schulin (ed.): Gedenkschrift für Martin Göhring: Studien zur europäischen Geschichte, Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1968, 301–16; idem: Suomi keisarillisen Saksan politikassa 1914-1915, Helsinki: Tammi, 1968; Manfred Menger, Die Finnlandpolitik des deutschen Imperialismus 1917-1918, Berlin: Militärverlag der DDR, 1974, 17–63; Agilolf Kesselring: Des Kaisers ;finnische Legion’. Die finnische Jägerbewegung im Ersten Weltkrieg im Kontext der deutschen Finnlandpolitik, Berlin: Berliner Wissenschaftsverlag, 2005; Ludwig Biewer: Rudolf Nadolny und Ernst von Hülsen und die deutsche Patenschaft bei der Geburt des souveränen Finnland 1917/18, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 42 (1994), 562–72; Markku Kuisma: Sodasta syntynyt. Itsenäisen Suomen synty Sarajevon laukauksista Tarton rauhaan 19141920, Helsinki: Siltala, 2010, 83–144. 62 Steven Koblik: Sweden, 1917: Between Reform and Revolution, in: Hans A. Schmitt (ed.): Neutral Europe between War and Revolution, 1917-1923, Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1988, 111–32; idem: Sweden: The Neutral Victor. Sweden and the Western Powers, 1917–1918: A Study of Anglo-American-Swedish Relations, Lund: Läromedelsförlagen, 1972. 63 Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 49–58, 92–106, who describes multiple activist campaigns against both Lucius and foreign minister Wallenberg in depth. 64 Cf. i.a. Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes (PA, AA): R 11298: Lucius to AA, 8 March 1915, 9 April 1915; ibid., R 2172: Lucius to AA, 5 October 1917; ibid., Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm: Ges. Stockholm S II 14: Ålandinseln (Geheim), Vol. 1 (Box 132): Lucius to AA, 19 February 1918. See as well Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 59–69, 91, 109–18; Kurt Riezler: Tagebücher – Aufsätze – Dokumente, ed. Karl Dietrich Erdmann, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, 1972, 14 January 1918, 454–5, as well 93; Gerd Koenen: Der Russland-Komplex. Die Deutschen und der Osten 1900-1945, München: Beck, 2005, 80–1, 98–110. 65 Sturfelt, Parasite, 105–20; idem: Eldens återsken: första världskriget i svensk föreställningsvärld, Lund: Sekel, 2008. 66 Nils Ørvik, The Decline of Neutrality 1914-1941: With Special Reference to the United States and the Northern Neutrals, Oslo: Tanum, 1953 (repr. 1971); Mark Mazower: Governing the World: The History of an Idea, London: Penguin, 2012, 65 (cit.), situates this ‘empire of law’ in the last third of the long nineteenth century, with the Hague Peace Conferences as the movement’s culmination point. 67 Similar in argument, though with differing assessments of the neutrals’ discourse: Rebecka Lettevall, Geert Somsen and Sven Widmalm (eds.): Neutrality in

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Twentieth-Century Europe: Intersections of Science, Culture, and Politics after the First World War, London: Routledge, 2012; cf. as well Abbenhuis, Age of Neutrals, 10–11. 68 Stephen Wertheim, The League of Nations: A Retreat from International Law?, Journal of Global History 7 (2012), 210–32; Mazower, Governing the World, 65–93, 116–53.

Chapter 3 1 Rolf Hobson, Tom Kristiansen, Nils Arne Sørensen and Gunnar Åselius: Introduction. Scandinavia in the First World War, in: Claes Ahlund (ed.): Scandinavia in the First World War. Studies in the War Experiences of the Northern Neutrals, Lund, 2012, 9–56, here 1–2, 20–1 (cit.). Patrick Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 1890-1940, Cambridge, 1997, 128–9, interprets the meeting as a largely symbolic ‘expression of Scandinavian solidarity’. 2 Ibid., 20–1. 3 Peter Stadius: Trekungamötet i Malmö 1914. Mot en ny nordisk retorik i skuggan av världskriget [The Three Kings’ Meeting in Malmö 1914: Towards a new Nordic rhetoric in the shadow of the world war], Historisk tidsskrift för Finland 99 (2014), 369–94. 4 The term is indebted to the German field of the cultural history of politics (Ger. Kulturgeschichte des Politischen), which in turn is to be seen against the backdrop of a significantly broadened new political history (Ger. Neue Politikgeschichte). Cf., among many recent studies, Thomas Mergel: Überlegungen zu einer Kulturgeschichte der Politik, in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28 (2002), 574–606; Ute Frevert and Heinz-Gerhard Haupt (eds.): Neue Politikgeschichte. Perspektiven einer historischen Politikforschung, Frankfurt a. M., 2005; Thomas Nicklas and Hans-Christof Kraus (eds.): Geschichte der Politik. Alte und neue Wege, München, 2007; Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger (ed.): Was heißt Kulturgeschichte des Politischen?, Berlin, 2005; Susan Pedersen: What is Political History Now?, in: David Cannadine (ed.): What is History Now?, New York, 2002, 36–56. 5 Johannes Paulmann: Searching for a ‘Royal International’: The Mechanics of Monarchical Relations in Nineteenth-Century Europe, in: Martin H. Geyer and Johannes Paulmann (eds.): The Mechanics of Internationalism: Culture, Society and Politics from the 1840s to the First World War, Oxford, 2001, 145–76; cf. Paulmann’s much larger study: Pomp und Politik: Monarchenbegegnungen in Europa zwischen Ancien Régime und Erstem Weltkrieg, Paderborn, 2000. Cf. as well the instructive review by Karina Urbach: Diplomatic History Since the Cultural Turn, Historical Journal 46 (2003), 991–7, and her own work on the subject: Royal Kinship, in: idem

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7

8 9

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Notes (ed.): Royal Kinship. British-German Family Networks 1815-1914, Munich, 2008, 13–23. On the so-called New Diplomatic History, cf. Ursula Lehmkuhl: Diplomatiegeschichte als internationale Kulturgeschichte: Ansätze, Methoden und Forschungsergebnisse zwischen Historischer Kulturwissenschaft und soziologischem Institutionalismus, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 37 (2001), 394–423; Markus Mösslang and Torsten Riotte (eds.): The Diplomats’ World: The Cultural History of Diplomacy, 1815-1914, Oxford, 2008, especially the introduction of the editors; Johannes Paulmann: Diplomatie, in: Jost Dülffer and Winfried Loth (eds.): Dimensionen internationaler Geschichte, München, 2012, 47–64; idem: Grenzüberschreitungen und Grenzräume: Überlegungen zur Geschichte transnationaler Beziehungen von der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts bis in die Zeitgeschichte, in: Eckart Conze, Ulrich Lappenküper and Guido Müller (eds.): Geschichte der internationalen Beziehungen: Erneuerung und Erweiterung einer historischenDisziplin, Köln, 2004, 169–96. Jennifer Mori: The Culture of Diplomacy. Britain in Europe, c. 1750–1839, Manchester, 2010; Verena Steller: Diplomatie von Angesicht zu Angesicht. Diplomatische Handlungsformen in den deutsch-französischen Beziehungen 18701919, Paderborn, 2011; Thomas Mergel: Parlamentarische Kultur in der Weimarer Republik. Politische Kommunikation, symbolische Politik und Öffentlichkeit im Reichstag, Düsseldorf, ³2012; Jakob Hort: Architektur der Diplomatie. Repräsentation in europäischen Botschaftsbauten, 1800–1920: Konstantinopel – Rom – Wien – St. Petersburg, Göttingen, 2014. David Cannadine: The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy, New Haven: Yale UP, 1990; Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, here 170–9, 295–400. Ibid., 178; cf. as well Johannes Paulmann: Peripatetische Herrschaft, Deutungskontrolle und Konsum: Zur Theatralität in der europäischen Politik vor 1914, Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 53 (2002), 444–61, here 445, 455. Paulmann, “Royal International”, 145–76; cf. Roderick McLean: Royalty and Diplomacy in Europe, 1890-1914, Cambridge, 2001, 1–3, whose line of argument appears too much indebted to the traditional approach of political history, in line with John Röhl’s not entirely convincing attempt to reinterpret Wilhelm II’s rule as an effectively authoritarian “personal monarchy [or – as earlier – regime respectively rule]”. Cf. John Röhl: Germany without Bismarck: The crisis of government in the 2. Reich, 1890–1900, London, 1967, as the classical reference; furthermore Röhl’s impressively detailed, but also highly opinionated three-volume biography of Wilhelm II, Munich, 1993–2008: vol. 1: Die Jugend des Kaisers, 18591888, 1993; vol. 2: Der Aufbau der Persönlichen Monarchie, 1888-1900, 2001; vol. 3: Der Weg in den Abgrund, 1900-1941, 2008. Cf. now as well Frank-Lothar Kroll: Modernity of the outmoded? European monarchies in the 19th and 20th centuries, in: idem and Dieter J. Weiß (eds.): Inszenierung oder Legitimation?/Monarchy and

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16 17 18 19 20 21 22

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the Art of Representation Die Monarchie in Europa im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Ein deutsch-englischer Vergleich, Göttingen, 2015, 11–22, unfortunately limited to the Anglo-German comparison. Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 178. Ibid., 337–42. Besides Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 337–44, see the explorative article of David Blackbourn: Politics as Theatre. Metaphors of the Stage in German History, 18481933, in: idem: Populists and Patricians. Essays in Modern German History, London, 1987, 246–64. Stadius, Trekungamötet, 370, 393–4, follows the excellent and highly differentiated PhD of Ruth Hemstad: Fra Indian Summer til nordisk vinter. Skandinavisk samarbeid, skandinavisme og unionsoppløsningen [From the Indian Summer to the Nordic Winter: Scandinavian cooperation, Scandinavianism and the dissolution of the Union], Oslo, 2008, 397–8. Cf. recently as well Mari Løkken’s impressive MA thesis on the Nordic ministerial meetings during the war, which adopts Hemstad’s careful terminology and explores the ministerial level of intergovernmental negotiation: I skyggen av første verdenskrig: De nordiske ministermøtene 19141918, Mastergradsoppgave i historie (May 2015), Univ. of Tromsø, URL: https:// munin.uit.no/handle/10037/8098 [16 June 2017]. The ambivalence is palpable in a number of recent collections on the subject; cf. the instructive contributions in Jóhann Páll Árnason and Björn Wittrock (eds.): Nordic Paths to Modernity, Oxford, 2012, especially the editors’ introduction, 1–23, and Bo Stråth: Nordic Modernity: Origins, Trajectories, Perspectives, 24–48. Especially Hemstad’s highly complex analysis is free from that tendency. Hobson et al., Introduction, 21; rather similar Roald Berg: Norsk utenrikspolitikks historie, vol. II: Norge pa egen hand 1905-1920, Oslo: Cappelen, 1995, 188. As evident in the unfortunately rather Anglocentric conference “Monarchies at War” in May 2014 (King’s College, London, 27 May 2014). The Spectator, 19 December 1914, 7. Carlgren, Neutralität, 70–1; Carlgren, Hammarskjöld, 65–6; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 128–9; Løkken, I skyggen av første verdenskrig, 39–43. NA, FO 371/2097: Political: Scandinavia (War): 1914: Howard to Grey, 10 December 1914. NA, FO 371/2097: Political: Scandinavia (War): 1914: Howard to Grey, 10 December 1914, and draft by the director of the Press Bureau to newspaper editors, 14 December 1914. Cf. NA, FO 371/2097: Howard to FO, 10 December 2014; FO 371/2458: Howard to FO, 31 December 2014; FO 371/2459: Findlay to FO, 18, 22, 21 October 1915 (including private letter of Findlay to foreign minister Edward Grey), 4 and 5 November 1915; ibid., Howard to FO, 20 October and 1 November 1915 (including

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25 26

27 28 29 30

31

32

33

34

Notes a confidential letter of Howard to Grey); FO 371/2753: Findlay to FO, 31 December 1915; FO 371/2755: Findlay to FO, 13 November 1915; cf. Howard, Theatre of Life, 1905-1936, 239 (cit.); McKercher, Esme Howard, 148; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 129. „Min käre Christian. Dessa rader sänder jag till dig med landshövding Trolle, som du känner sedan gammalt. Min livliga önskan är att med det snaraste få till stånd ett personligt sammanträffande med dig och din bror Carl i och för överläggningar rörande våra gemensamma intressen som neutrala stater. Det är min bestämda åsikt, att vi under det nuvarande allvarsamma läget i Europa måste hålla tillsammans. Genom ett sådant möte skulle också ett mera vänskapligt förhållande kunna uppnås. Tidpunkten för ett sådant närmande till Norge synes just nu vara den mest lämpliga. … Med många hälsningar till hela familjen är jag Din alltid tillgivne gamle vän och onkel.“ Cit. in: Gustaf von Platen: Bakom den gyllne fasaden: Gustaf V och Victoria : ett äktenskap och en epok, Stockholm, 2002, 289; cf. as well Stig Hadenius: Gustaf V: en biografi, Stockholm, 2005, 151. NA, FO 371/2097: Findlay to FO, 13 December 2014. Dag Hoelseth: “En svensk-norsk union av det rätta slaget”. Forholdet mellom kongehusene i Norge og Sverige 1905-1929, in: Øystein Sørensen and Torbjörn Nilsson (eds.): Norsk-svenske relasjoner i 200 år, Oslo, 2005, 41–56, here 47 f.; cf. as well Stadius, Trekungamötet, 373. NA, FO 371/2097: Howard respectively Findlay to FO, 13 December 2014. NA, FO 371/2097: Howard to FO, 13 December 2014. Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 219. Ibid., 227, based on Wolfgang Schivelbusch: Geschichte der Eisenbahnreise. Zur Industrialisierung von Raum und Zeit, München, 1977 [PB 1989], 154, who ascribes a ‘lock- and transformer-function’ to the railway station, aptly fitting monarchical reception at these sites as well. Filmarkivet: Oidentifierad dokumentärfilm Trekungamötet i Malmö (1914):URL: http://www.filmarkivet.se/sv/Film/?movieid=71 [3 November 2015], here from ca. 3:33 min. onwards. Haakon’s arrival by train and reception at the railway station slightly precedes the mentioned scene. Michael H. Clemmesen: The Danish Navy: Expectations, realities and adjustments, 1909-1918, in: Epkenhans/Groß, Danish Straits, 107–27, who speaks of the ‘marginal importance’ of the navy after 1864 (cit. 107). For the pending crisis, cf. Hans Branner: The August 1914 mine-laying crisis, in: ibid., 97–105. Statens järnvägar 1856-1906: historisk-teknisk-ekonomisk beskrifning i anledning af statens järnvägars femtioåriga tillvaro, ed. Kungl. Maj:ts nådiga befallning af Järnvägsstyrelsen, vol. 2, Stockholm, 1906, 338. Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 344 ff.; see as well table 5 detailing the venues from 1855 to 1914, 426.

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35 Stadius, Trekungamötet, 372 f.; Løkken, I skyggen av første verdenskrig, 41–3. 36 Paul D. Lockhart: Denmark, 1513-1660: The Rise and Decline of a Renaissance Monarchy, Oxford, 2007, 226–47. As to the complex heritage of Skåne as a border region, levelled out by an increasingly streamlined Swedish heritage narrative since the nineteenth century, cf. Tomas Germundsson: Regional Cultural Heritage versus National Heritage in Scania’s Disputed National Landscape, International Journal of Heritage Studies 11 (2005), 21–37; idem: The South of the North: Images of an (Un)Swedish Landscape, in: Michael Jones and Kenneth R. Olwig (eds.): Nordic Landscapes. Region and Belonging on the Northern Edge of Europe, Minneapolis, 2008, 157–91; Anders Linde-Laursen: The Borders between Denmark and Sweden and the Question of Skåne. In: Michael P. Barnes (ed.): Borders and Communities, London, 2001, 95–111. 37 Carl Fredrik Akrell, Samuel Gustaf von Troil and Per Sahlström: Minnen från Carl XIV:s, Oscar I:s och Carl XV:s dagar, Stockholm, 1884-1885, here: Minnen af landshöfding von Troil, 177–9. 38 Åke Holmberg: Skandinavismens kris. Alliansfrågan våren och sommaren 1863, Scandia 17 (1946), 137–211; David Kirby: The Baltic World 1772-1993: Europe’s Northern Periphery in an Age of Change, London 1995 [2013], 116–19. 39 Minnen af landshöfding von Troil, 177, hints at the longevity of the memory of 1848; Stadius, Trekungamötet, 372, quotes a pertinent anti-German article in the liberal Göteborgs Handels- och Sjöfartstidning, 19 December 1914, placing the Three Kings ‘Meeting in the immediate context of 1864. 40 Hemstad, Indian Summer, 89 ff., who identifies an abundance of different variants of later Scandinavianism; Jan Hecker-Stampehl: Vereinigte Staaten des Nordens. Integrationsideen in Nordeuropa im Zweiten Weltkrieg, München, 2011, 55–7, who – with Hemstad and others – describes the new movement(s) as ‘practical Scandinavianism’. 41 Cf. Pierre Nora: Entre mémoire et histoire. La problématique des lieux, in: idem (ed.): Les lieux de mémoire, 3 vls., Paris, 1997 [reprint; original publication in 7 vols., 1984-1992], here: vol. 1, 23–43; on the Nordic context, cf. Peter Aronsson: National Cultural Heritage – Nordic Cultural Memory: Negotiating Politics, Identity and Knowledge, in: Bernd Henningsen, Hendriette KliemannGeisinger and Stefan Troebst (eds.): Transnationale Erinnerungsorte: Nord- und südeuropäische Perspektiven, Berlin, 2009, 71–90. 42 Göran Christenson, Anne-Marie Ericsson, Per-Jan Pehrsson: Baltiska utställningen 1914, Lund, 1989; Göran Larsson: Baltiska utställningen och Trekungamötet i Malmö 1914, in: Ale: Historisk tidskrift för Skåne, Halland och Blekinge 13 (2014), 1–13. On the context, cf. Roger Johansson and Göran Larsson (eds.): Malmö 1914 – En stad inför språnget till det moderna, Malmö, 2013, especially Göran Larsson: Trekungamötet i Malmö, 64–75; Eva Eriksson: Den moderna stadens födelse: svensk arkitektur 1890-1920, Stockholm, 1990.

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43 The building of 1729–30 was the result of a merger of two previous houses with origins in the late sixteenth century. Its outward appearance in 1914 (and even today) dates to the mid-nineteenth century, with the interior largely redecorated in neo-Renaissance style in 1877. Cf. Staffan Nilsson: Residens vid Sundet, in: Tidskriften Kulturvärden 1996:2, 18–21; Åke Jönsson: Historien om ett residens, Malmö, 1993, especially 93–102. 44 The three foreign ministers, Wallenberg, Ihlen, and Scavenius, were accommodated in Malmö’s most prominent hotel, the Kramer right at Stortorget. Cf. Larsson, Trekungamötet, 64 ff.; Jönsson, Historien, 93 ff.; Stadius, Trekungamötet, 372. 45 Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 344–63; idem, Peripatetische Herrschaft, 444–61, 449. 46 John Röhl: Kaiser, Hof und Staat, Munich, 1988, 112. 47 Patrick Salmon: Foreign Policy and National Identity: The Norwegian Integrity Treaty, 1907-1924, Oslo, 1993, 9–15. 48 Hemstad, Indian Summer, 398; Stadius, Trekungamötet, 377; Stefan Gammelien: Wilhelm II. und Schweden-Norwegen 1888-1905: Spielräume und Grenzen eines Persönlichen Regiments, Berlin, 2012, 459. 49 Only in March 1929, the royal wedding between Crown Prince Olav of Norway and Gustav’s niece (the daughter of his brother Carl) Märtha normalized relations. It is both remarkable and characteristic that a royal wedding, the central vehicle for monarchical mass mobilization in the modern age, should have symbolically brought the Swedish-Norwegian antagonism to an end. Even more remarkable is the fact that Märtha’s father Prince Carl has been the moderates’ favourite for the Norwegian throne in the union crisis of 1905. Cf. Hemstad, Indian Summer, 364 ff. 50 ‘af hjärtligt värme, kanske en smula nervositet I första ögonblicket’. Dagens Nyheter, 19 December 1914, 1, and Svenska Dagbladet, 1, both cited in: Stadius, Trekungamötet, 376 f. 51 Aftenposten, 29 November 1917 (cit.); cf. as well Dagens Nyheter, 29 November 1917. 52 Cf. Aftenposten, 28, 29, and 30 November 1917, even with a summary of the Swedish reception of the king’s speech; for that see, among others, Dagens Nyheter, 29 and 30 November 1917. 53 Oredsson, Stormaktsdrömmar, 257–8, describes the attitude of king and queen towards Staaff and his partly social democratic cabinet as one of “intense hatred”. 54 Tage Kaarsted: Påskekrisen 1920, Aarhus, 1968; Knud Jespersen: Rytterkongen: et portræt af Christian 10, Copenhagen, 2007, 276–322. 55 On the intricacies of the constitutional debate in Norway, cf. Roald Berg: Norge på egen hand 1905-1920, Oslo, 1995, 43–51. 56 Cited in: Gammelien: Wilhelm II. und Schweden-Norwegen, 516. 57 Ibid., 459. Urbach, Diplomatic History, 993, justifiably points to the deficient recognition of these marriages, which “offered transnational networks in an age of

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65

66 67 68 69

70

71 72 73

74 75 76

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nationalism”. Cf. as well Kristin M. Haugevik: Status, Small States, and Significant Others: Re-reading Norway’s Attraction to Britain in the Twentieth Century, in: Benjamin de Carvalho and Iver B. Neumann (eds.): Small State Status Seeking: Norway’s Quest for International Standing, London and New York, 2015, 42–54, especially 48–51. Carlgren, Neutralität, 62–3. Stadius, Trekungamötet, 387; Larsson, Trekungamötet, 64 ff. Ger. Risikovermeidung and Deutungskontrolle; cf. Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 295–308. Ibid., 308. This and part of the following is based on Stadius, Trekungamötet, 373–5 (cit. 374). Filmarkivet: Oidentifierad dokumentärfilm Trekungamötet i Malmö (1914):URL: http://www.filmarkivet.se/sv/Film/?movieid=71 [3 November 2015]. ‘Quite unsuitable for the occasion’, the British ambassador to Paris, Sir Francis Bertie, commented when having to consider whether or not to have the English king transported in a car. Cited in: Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 372. Ibid., 373, differing from David Cannadine: The Context, Performance and Meaning of Ritual: The British Monarchy and the ‘Invention of Tradition’, c. 18201977, in: Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.): The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge, 1983, 101–64. Details, among a host of newspapers, in: Aftenposten, 28 November 1917; Løkken, I skyggen av første verdenskrig, 81 f. Larsson, Trekungamötet, 64 ff. Stadius, Trekungamötet, 378 f. ‘Under de tatt kriget välver sig över Europa ha vi liyckan att skåda de personifierade viljan till samförstånd och förtroende mellan Nordens folk. … med fullt hävdande av vartdera landets nationella tradition och egenart’. Göteborgs Handels- och Sjöfartstidning, 18 December 1914, cit. in Stadius, Trekungamötet, 380. Stadius, Trekungamötet, 380 f. Cf. as well Hemstad, Indian Summer, 130 ff.; Bo Stråth: The Idea of a Scandinavian Nation, in: Lars-Folke Landgren and Pirkko Hautamäki (eds.): People, Citizen, Nation, Helsinki, 2005, 208–23. Stadius, Trekungamötet, 382 (cit.). ‘Nordens tre konungar, samlade vid samma altare, förenade i samma tankar och böner om Nordens fred och världsfreden’. Cit. in: Larsson, Baltiska utställningen, 10. Stadius, Trekungamötet, 383. This interpretation is derived from Henrik Stenius: The Good Life is a life of Conformity: The Impact of Lutheran Tradition on Nordic Political Culture, in: Øystein Sørensen and Bo Stråth (eds.): The Cultural Construction of Norden, Oslo, 1997, 161–71. Hemstad, Indian Summer, 417. Løkken, I skyggen av første verdenskrig, 44 (table 1), 52–92. Løkken, I skyggen av første verdenskrig, 95–100, especially 96.

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77 Cit. ‘world-theatre’ acc. to Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 337–400. 78 ‘nordiska rikenas endräktiga neutralitetsvilja’ cit. in: Stadius, Trekungamötet, 384. 79 NA, FO 371/2097: Political: Scandinavia (War): 1914: Howard to Grey, 31 December 1914 (as well cit.). 80 Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 127; Stadius, Trekungamötet, 387. 81 NA, FO 371/2097: Political: Scandinavia (War): 1914: Howard to Grey, 31 December 1914. 82 Løkken, I skyggen av første verdenskrig, 81–5. 83 Hobson et al., Introduction, 9–56. 84 Besides Paulmann’s works see recently as well Frank Lorenz Müller/Heidi Mehrkens (eds.): Royal Heirs and the Uses of Soft Power in Nineteenth-Century Europe, London: Palgrave, 2016, especially the contributions by Frank Lorenz Müller, Kristina Widestedt, Trond Norén Isaksen, and Heide Mehrkens. 85 Paulmann, Pomp und Politik, 384.

Chapter 4 1 The classic reference for the comparative study of the nationalist movements in Europe in the nineteenth century is Miroslav Hroch: Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A Comparative Analysis of the Social Composition of Patriotic Groups among the Smaller European Nations, Cambridge: CUP, 1985. On the basis of his strongly sociological approach, Hroch speaks of Finnish ‘integration without revolution’, 62–75. The literature in Hroch’s wake is legion, as apparent in Alexander Maxwell (ed.): Twenty-five years of A-B-C: Miroslav Hroch's Impact on Nationalism Studies, Nationalities Papers 38 (2010), 773–6; idem: Typologies and Phases in Nationalism Studies: Hroch's A-B-C Schema as a Basis for Comparative Terminology, ibid., 865–80. For the Finnish case see primarily Osmo Jussila’s and Matti Klinge’s works, among others, Nationalismi ja vallankumous venäläissuomalaisissa suhteissa 1899-1914, Helsinki: SHS, Helsinki 1979; idem: Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta, 1809-1917, Helsinki: WSOY, 2004; idem: Nationalism and Revolution: Political Dividing Lines in the Grand Duchy of Finland during the Last Years of Russian Rule, Scandinavian Journal of History 2 (1977), 289–309; Matti Klinge: Bernadotten ja Leninin välissä: tutkielma kansallisista aiheista, Helsinki: WSOY, 1975; idem: Kejsartiden, Espoo; Schildt’s, 1996 (= Finlands historia, 3). Against older research (and an occasional Russophobic streak in Finnish historiography), both Klinge and Jussila forcefully stress the loyalty of the Finnish elites and populace to the Tsar and imperial authority, further developed in another chapter.

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2 The argument is certainly not new, but has been reinforced by recent developments in the study of international relations and their history. For an excellent overview see Markus Mösslang and Torsten Riotte, eds., The Diplomats’ World: A Cultural History of Diplomacy, 1815-1914, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008, especially T. G. Otte: ‘“Outdoor Relief for the Aristocracy”? European Nobility and Diplomacy, 1850-1914’, in Mösslang and Riotte, Diplomats’ World, 23–57; on the context see, among others, Keith A. Hamilton and Richard Langhorne” The Practice of Diplomacy: Its Evolution, Theory and Administration, London: Routledge, 2010, 2nd ed., 91–140; M. S. Anderson: The Rise of Modern Diplomacy, 1450-1919, New York: Longman, 1993, 103–48. 3 James’ definition was recently taken as a point of departure for a generally splendid collection of essays on the cultural history of 19th-century diplomacy. See Mösslang and Riotte, The Diplomats’ World, 1; Alan James: ‘Diplomacy and International Society’, International Relations 6 (1980), 931–48, here 937 (emphasis mine); for a stimulating recent attempt to re-read international relations through diplomacy and diplomatic activity; cf. Paul Sharp: Diplomatic Theory of International Relations, Cambridge: CUP, 2009. 4 Sverker Oredsson, Svensk rädsla: Offentlig fruktan i Sverige under 1900-talets första hälft, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2001, 88; see also Lina Sturfelt: “From Parasite to Angel: Narratives of Neutrality in the Swedish Popular Press during the First World War”, in: Johan den Hertog and Samuël Kruizinga (eds.): Caught in the Middle: Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War, Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011, 105–20, here 108; On neutrality and especially Scandinavian neutrality during the First World War see Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 118–68; Samuël Kruizinga: “Neutrality,” in: Jay Winter (ed.): The Cambridge History of the First World War, Vol. 2: The State, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013, 542–75. 5 John Horne and Alan Kramer: German Atrocities, 1914: A History of Denial, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001; Isabel V. Hull: ‘“Military Necessity” and the Laws of War in Imperial Germany’, in: Stathis Kalyvas, Ian Shapiro and Tarek Masoud (eds.): Order, Conflict, Violence, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008, 352–77. Hull is preparing a comprehensive study on the subject entitled ‘The Struggle for International Law in the First World War’, which considers the German case and its perception in depth. On Scandinavian perceptions see Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 118–29, 146–59; Matthias Hannemann: Die Freunde im Norden: Norwegen und Schweden im Kalkül der deutschen Revisionspolitik 1918-1939, Berlin/Münster: LIT 2011, 40–9; Claes Ahlund, ed.: Scandinavia in the First World War: Studies in the War Experience of the Northern Neutrals, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2012. 6 Even the Swedish government’s declaration of neutrality on 4 August 1914 was accompanied by contradictory indications, further aggravated by the agitated

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Notes reporting of the German minister to Stockholm, Franz von Reichenau. See the classic work of Wilhelm M. Carlgren: Neutralität oder Allianz: Deutschlands Beziehungen zu Schweden in den Anfangsjahren des ersten Weltkrieges, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1962, 33–47, especially 39–40. Olle Nyman: Högern och kungamakten 1911-1914: ur borggårdskrisens förhistoria, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1957; Wilhelm M. Carlgren: ‘“Borggårdsministärens” tillkomst’, in idem, Ministären Hammarskjöld: Tillkomst – Söndring – Fall. Studier i svensk politik 1914-1917, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1967, 9–42; Jarl Torbacke: ‘Försvaret främst’: Tre studier till belysning av borggårdskrisens problematik, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1983; Kent Zetterberg, ‘Borggårdskrisen i ny belysning : en studie i försvarsberedningarna 1911-1914’, in Mats Bergquist, Alf W- Johansson and Krister Wahlbäck (eds.): Utrikespolitik och historia, Stockholm: Militärhistoriska förlaget, 1987, 347–59. Gunnar Åselius: The ‘Russian Menace’ to Sweden: The Belief System of a Small Power Security Elite in the Age of Imperialism, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1994, 398–405. Dean Ascheson’s description of Britain’s disorientation in the post-war period, delivered in a speech at West Point, 5 December 1962, captures the sentiments among the Swedish elites rather aptly. Besides Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, the definite account of the Activist movement is Inger Schuberth: Schweden und das Deutsche Reich im Ersten Weltkrieg: Die Aktivistenbewegung 1914-1918, Bonn: Ludwig Röhrscheid Verlag, 1981, 31–9. Part of my argument is derived from Schuberth’s expert diplomatic historical narrative. On the persistence of Swedish great power delusions see Sverker Oredsson: ‘Stormaktsdrömmar och stridsiver: Ett tema i svensk opinionsbildning och politik 1910-1942’, Scandia 59 (1993), 257–96, 335–6. On the insistence of Hjalmar Branting, the pro-Entente leader of the Swedish Social Democrats, both were expelled from the party in the wake of their involvement with the Activists’ programmatic pamphlet Sveriges utrikespolitik i världskrigets belysning, Stockholm: Nordiska bokhandeln, 1915, the so-called aktivistboken, became apparent. Järte’s fascination with German social democracy is evident in, among others, his August Bebel som socialpolitiker, Malmö: Framtiden, 1914. Larsson, one of Sweden’s foremost urban planners, had studied in Germany, among others with Hugo Preuß, whose ideas of localized government and city planning influenced his later schemes significantly. See Ivar Anderson: Otto Järte – en man för sig, Stockholm: Bonnier, 1965, 167–8; Yngve Larsson: Mitt liv i stadshuset. Första delen: Från fåvälde till demokratisk ordning, 1900-1954, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1977, 60–1, 74–7 (with an impressive description of a social democrat’s conception of pro-German Activism); Nils-Olof Franzén: Undan stormen: Sverige under första världskriget, Stockholm: Bonniers, 1986, 138–52. The changing historiographical assessments of the German Empire are well reflected

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in Frank-Lothar Kroll, Geburt der Moderne: Politik, Kultur und Gesellschaft im deutschen Kaiserreich 1900-1914, Berlin: bebra, 2013. Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 33–58; Wilhelm M. Carlgren: ‘Gustav V och utrikespolitiken’, in Studier i modern historia: tillägnade Jarl Torbacke den 18. augusti 1990, Stockholm: Militarhistoriska forlaget, 1990, 41–57. The riksmarskalk was – institutionally from the early seventeenth century onwards – the head of the court’s administration in Sweden (still referred to as Swed. Kungliga Hovstaterna). Cited in: McKercher, Esme Howard, 134. Cf. National Archives [NA], Foreign Office [FO] 371/2754: Political: Scandinavia (War) Files 7907-212676: 1916: Howard to Grey, 11 September 1916. On the wider context see Wilhelm M. Carlgren: Neutralität oder Allianz: Deutschlands Beziehungen zu Schweden in den Anfangsjahren des ersten Weltkrieges. Stockholm, 1962, 34–47, 112–22, and especially Inger Schuberth: Schweden und das Deutsche Reich im Ersten Weltkrieg: Die Aktivistenbewegung 1914-1918, Bonn, 1981, 49–58, 92–106, who describes multiple Activist campaigns against Wallenberg in depth. Cf. as well Nils-Olof Franzén: Undan stormen: Sverige under första världskriget [Aside the storm: Sweden during the First World War], Stockholm, 1986, 138–52; Michael Jonas: Activism, Diplomacy and SwedishGerman Relations during the First World War, New Global Studies 8 (2014), 31–48; Mart Kuldkepp: Sweden’s Historical Mission and World War I: A Regionalist Theory of Swedish Activism, Scandinavian Journal of History 39 (2014), 126–46; specifically on Gustav’s foreign political attitudes see Wilhelm M. Carlgren: Gustav V och utrikespolitiken, in: Studier i modern historia: tillägnade Jarl Torbacke den 18. augusti 1990, Stockholm, 1990, 41–57. Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 127–34, 144–71; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 162–8; Göran Rystad: ‘Die deutsche Monroedoktrin der Ostsee: Die Ålandsfrage und die Entstehung des deutschschwedischen Geheimabkommens vom Mai 1918,’ in Göran Rystad and Sven Tägil (eds.): Probleme deutscher Zeitgeschichte, Stockholm: Läromedelsförlagen, 1971, 1–75; James Barros: The Aland Islands Question: Its Settlement by the League of Nations, London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968. See generally Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 47–53, who defines Germany’s prewar Nordic policy as based on the principle of ‘quieta non movere’, aptly capturing Berlin’s strategic interests in preserving the status quo in Scandinavia, which allowed for, firstly, the concentration of the war effort at the Western front and, secondly, the continued import of essential goods from overseas, largely unchecked by the British blockade. In his memoirs, the pre-war Reich Chancellor, Bernhard von Bülow, depicts the State Secretary as ‘physically and intellectually equally small’; cf. Bernhard von Bülow: Denkwürdigkeiten, vol. 1: Vom Staatssekretariat zur Marokko-Krise, ed.

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Notes Franz von Stockhammern, Berlin: Ullstein, 1930/31, 13. Frederic von Rosenberg, German foreign minister in the early 1920s, remembers him as a ‘subtle political thinker’ without the necessary robustness for the office; see ‘Erinnerungen des Botschafters Frederic von Rosenberg’, in Winfried Becker: Frederic von Rosenberg (1874-1937): Diplomat vom späten Kaiserreich bis zum Dritten Reich, Außenminister der Weimarer Republik, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011, 237–309, here 266. On Jagow see as well Johannes Hürter: ‘Die Staatssekretäre des Auswärtigen Amtes im Ersten Weltkrieg,’ in Wolfgang Michalka (ed.): Der Erste Weltkrieg. Wirklichkeit, Wahrnehmung, wissenschaftliche Analyse, München: Piper, 1994, 216–51, here 222–5; Karl-Alexander Hampe: Das Auswärtige Amt in Wilhelminischer Zeit, Münster: Scriptorium, 2001, 89. On Lucius see, in detail, Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 27–30. National Archives (Kew), Foreign Office (henceforth NA, FO) 371/1225: Political: Sweden Files 147-24927: 1911: Spring Rice to Grey, 23 January 1911. NA, FO 371/1225: Political: Sweden Files 147-24927: 1911: Minute, 4 February 1911. Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes (henceforth PA, AA): R 11179: Schweden 42: Allgemeine Angelegenheiten Schwedens: Jagow to Reichenau, 13 March 1914; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 21–6; Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 73–5. With some justification, Carlgren hints at the possibility that Reichenau’s removal and subsequent dismissal seem to have somewhat domesticated his successor Lucius and the ministry’s staff. On Reichenau’s background and political mentality see recently Sönke Neitzel: ‘Diplomatie der Generationen? Kollektivbiographische Perspektiven auf die Internationalen Beziehungen 1871-1914’, Historische Zeitschrift 296 (2013), 84–113. With a blatant lack of foreign political vision, Zimmermann seems to have been as ill-suited to the post as his predecessor. Kurt Riezler, Bethmann Hollweg’s chief foreign political adviser, describes the new State Secretary as ‘much weaker’ than Jagow, despite Zimmermann’s alleged ‘briskness’. Cf. Kurt Riezler: Tagebücher – Audfsätze – Dokumente, ed. Karl Dietrich Erdmann, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972, 22 November 1916, 383; Hürter, ‘Die Staatssekretäre’, 225. On Zimmermann’s sympathy for the Activist cause see Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 107–34. Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 109–10. Osmo Apunen: ‘Deutschland und die finnische Freiheitsbewegung 1914 – 1915’ in Ernst Schulin (ed.): Gedenkschrift für Martin Göhring: Studien zur europäischen Geschichte, Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1968, 301–16; idem, Suomi keisarillisen Saksan politikassa 1914-1915, Helsinki: Tammi, 1968; Manfred Menger: Die Finnlandpolitik des deutschen Imperialismus 1917 – 1918, Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1974, 17–63; Agilolf Kesselring: Des Kaisers ‘finnische Legion’. Die finnische Jägerbewegung im Ersten Weltkrieg im Kontext der deutschen Finnlandpolitik,

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Berlin: Berliner Wissenschaftsverlag, 2005; Ludwig Biewer: ‘Rudolf Nadolny und Ernst von Hülsen und die deutsche Patenschaft bei der Geburt des souveränen Finnland 1917/18’ Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 42 (1994), 562–72; Markku Kuisma: Sodasta syntynyt. Itsenäisen Suomen synty Sarajevon laukauksista Tarton rauhaan 1914-1920, Helsinki: WSOY, 2010. PA, AA: R 2173: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 2/2: Großes Hauptquartier to AA, 30 December 1917 and 11 January 1918; ibid., R 10168: Rußland 63 Nr. 1 secr.: Die Ålandinseln, vol. 8: Großes Hauptquartier to AA, 5 March 1918; symptomatic Ludendorff ’s alleged remark that the emergence of an independent Finland would have to be considered as the ‘only fully satisfying result of the World War’. Cited in Michael Jonas: NS-Diplomatie und Bündnispolitik 1935-1944: Wipert von Blücher, das Dritte Reich und Finnland, Paderborn et al.: Schöningh, 2011, 176. Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 105, 168–9. Menger, Finnlandpolitik, 75–7; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 148– 9, 161; Walther Hubatsch: ‘Finnland in der deutschen Ostseepolitik 1917/18’ in id., Unruhe des Nordens: Studien zur deutsch-skandinavischen Geschichte, Göttingen: Musterschmidt, 1956, 106–49; Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 168–76. In the face with Wallenberg’s difficulties vis-à-vis Activist agitation the British minister to Stockholm, Esme Howard, only observed wryly: ‘Unfortunately all Swedes are not as intelligent as M. Wallenberg.’ Cf. NA, FO 371/2754: Political: Scandinavia (War) Files 7907-212676: 1916: Howard to Grey, 11 September 1916. On the wider context see Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 34-47, 112–22. Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 49–58, 92–106, who describes multiple Activist campaigns against both Lucius and Wallenberg in depth. Cited in Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 62, on the context, cf. 172–4. Further examples in, among others, PA, AA: R 11298: Schweden 56 secr: Die Stellung Schwedens im Falle eines Krieges. Neutralitätsfrage: Lucius to AA, 8 March 1915, 9 April 1915; ibid., R 2172: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 1/2: Lucius to AA, 5 October 1917; ibid., Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm: Ges. Stockholm S II 14: Ålandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1 (Box 132): Lucius to AA, 19 February 1918. See as well Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 59–69, 91, 109–18; Riezler, Tagebücher, 14 January 1918, 454–5, as well 93; Gerd Koenen: Der Russland-Komplex. Die Deutschen und der Osten 1900–1945, München: Beck, 2005, 80–1, 98–110. The subsequent remarks are strongly indebted to Schuberth’s minute reconstruction of the Activists’ travelling diplomacy in Berlin; cf. Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 39–48, 89–91. On Wetterhoff, a controversial character even among Finnish Activists, not least for his homosexuality and politics, see Menger, Finnlandpolitik, 44, who interprets Wetterhoff ’s manifold contacts to Berlin’s decision-making elites as an indication of the ‘interest leading political, military and business circles had in revolutionising

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36 37 38

39

40

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42 43

Notes Finland’. Cf. as well Apunen, Suomi keisarillisen Saksan politikassa, 120–1; Kesselring, Kaisers ‘finnische Legion’, 45–112; Mustola, Kati & Pakkanen, Johanna (toim.): Kati Mustola: ‘Fritz Wetterhoff ’, in: Kati Mustola and Johanna Pakkanen (eds.): Sateenkaari-Suomi : seksuaali- ja sukupuolivähemmistöjen historiaa, Helsinki: Like, 2007, 232–6. Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 102–5, speaks of ‘pilgrimages’, 141; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 40–1. Steffen’s assessment of the situation, however, seems to have been more complex than the regular Activist agitation in Berlin; cf. Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 41–8; Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 122–3, 139–40. PA, AA: R 10167: Rußland 63 Nr. 1 secr.: Die Ålandinseln, vol. 4: Lucius to AA, 12 May 1916. Franzén, Undan stormen, 81–2; Oredsson, Svensk rädsla, 81–3. PA, AA: R 11299: Schweden 56 secr: Die Stellung Schwedens im Falle eines Krieges: Neutralitätsfrage, vol. 1: notes by Bethmann Hollweg’s, 20 July 1915 respectively 3 August 1915 (Taube’s memorandum attached); Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 143–58. PA, AA: R 2172: Deutschland 135 Nr.18: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 1/2: note on remarks by Swedish military attaché Adlercreutz, 17 September 1915, in which Adlercreutz states Lucius would not ‘feel with the seriousness of purpose of a German’. Cf. as well Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 52, who cites Molin’s damning verdict of Lucius as ‘personally debased, uneducated and ignorant, with his main interests related to affairs of the stomach and sexualia’. PA, AA: R 2172: Deutschland 135 Nr.18: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 1/2: memorandum Castrén’s to Zimmermann, 17 November 1917; ibid., note (i.e. summary of allegations against Lucius), 23 January 1917. PA, AA: R 2172: Deutschland 135 Nr.18: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 1/2: Grünau to AA, 18 November 1916 (cit. ‘violate our interests’); ibid., R 2173: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, 1 December 1917–September 1919, vol. 2/2: Royal Prussian Minister to Württemberg, Eisendecher, to Hertling, 10 December 1917 (cit. ‘distrust”); cf. as well Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 249–50; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 55–8, 105–6, 154. PA, AA: R 10167: Rußland 63 Nr. 1 secr.: Die Ålandinseln, vol. 4: Lucius to AA, 12 May 1916. The increasing probability of Lucius’s removal, especially in early 1917, can be easily glanced from the amassed complaints and rather advanced plans for his replacement: PA, AA: R 2172: Deutschland 135 Nr.18: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 1/2: among others, notes by Zimmermann and AA, 21 respectively 23 January 1917, Matthias Erzberger an AA, 13 March 1917, who suggests Grand Admiral Tirpitz for Lucius’s succession, Eisendecher to AA, 30 June 1917, who prefers

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46 47

48

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Admiral Hintze; cf. Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 99–106, 114–17, 122–5. PA, AA, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm: Ges. Stockholm S II 14: Ålandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1 (Box 132): Lucius to AA, 11 January 1918. See as well the instruction of Under Secretary of State Hilmar von dem BusscheHaddenhausen to Lucius to not use his reporting to politicize, but instead concentrate on the most essential information of the central office in Berlin; cf. PA, AA: R 2173: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 2/2: Bussche to Lucius, 14 March 1918. For an in depth analysis see Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 99–106, 114–17, 122–5. Both missions are covered by Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 131–7, 213–29; Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 44–5, 65–9. Even after the War, the influential Warburg continued to protect Lucius. See PA, AA: R 2173: Gesandtschaft Stockholm, vol. 2/2: Warburg to AA, 11 February 1919; ibid., Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm: Ges. Stockholm S II 14: Ålandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1 (Box 132): Lucius to AA, 19 February 1918 (cit. ‘futile’). The phrase is taken from a private letter, dated 26 June 1915, by the Swedish diplomat in Berlin, Hans Henrik von Essen, to the head of the Swedish foreign ministry’s press department, Torvald Höjer, in which Essen complains about the counter-productive effect of the Activists’ private-diplomatic initiatives; see Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 141; as well Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 47. The primary result of this was Stieve’s translation and edition of the ‘aktivistbok’: Schwedische Stimmen zum Weltkrieg: Übersetzt und mit einem Vorwort versehen von Friedrich Stieve, Leipzig: Teubner, 1915. Cited in Schuberth, Schweden und das Deutsche Reich, 73, on Stieve 70–85. Stieve’s biography continued to gravitate between the poles of historiography and diplomacy. After a four-year stint as German minister to Riga, he became in 1932 the head of the newly established Cultural Department (Department IV) of the AA and chief archivist of the Politisches Archiv. Throughout the interwar period, Stieve published a number of largely völkisch works on German history and propaganda pamphlets, not least for Swedish consumption. Cf. Biographisches Handbuch des deutschen Auswärtigen Dienstes 1871-1945, vol. 4, ed. Auswärtiges Amt, Historischer Dienst: Bernd Isphording, Gerhard Keiper and Martin Kröger, Paderborn et al.: Schöningh, 2012, 359–61. The term ‘polycracy’ is derived from interpretations of the nature and structure of the Third Reich. Structuralist historians such as Wolfgang Mommsen and Hans-Ulrich Wehler have, however, applied this approach rather fruitfully to the analysis of the Wilhelmine Empire. Cf., among others, Peter Hüttenberger, ‘Nationalsozialistische Polykratie’ Geschichte und Gesellschaft 2 (1976), 417–42; on National Socialist foreign policy decision-making see Rainer F. Schmidt: Die

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Außenpolitik des Dritten Reiches, 1933-1939, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 2002, 121–7; for the Wilhelmine Empire, cf. Hans-Ulrich Wehler: Das Deutsche Kaiserreich 1871–1918, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1973, 69–77; Alexander König: Wie mächtig war der Kaiser? Kaiser Wilhelm II. zwischen Königsmechanismus und Polykratie von 1908 bis 1914, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2009. 52 Francis Sejersted: The Age of Social Democracy. Norway and Sweden in the Twentieth Century, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011 [Norwegian original, 2005]. 53 Cf., among others, Richard Bosworth: Italy and the Approach of the First World War, London: Macmillan, 1983; Glenn E. Torrey: ‘Rumania and the Belligerents, 1914-1916’ Journal of Contemporary History, 1 (1966), 171–91; idem, ‘Rumania's Decision to Intervene: Brătianu and the Entente, June–July 1916,’ in Keith Hitchens (ed.): Romanian Studies, vol. 2: 1971-72, Leiden: Brill, 1973, 3–29; Richard C. Hall: Bulgaria's Road to the First World War, Boulder: East European Monographs, 1996; for more recent interpretations of the outbreak of war in 1914 see Holger Afflerbach and David Stevenson, eds.: An Improbable War? The Outbreak of World War I and European Political Culture before 1914, New York: Berghahn, 2007; as well the much-debated contribution by Christopher Clark: The Sleepwalkers: How Europe Went to War in 1914, London: Allen Lane, 2012. 54 Isaiah Berlin: ‘Mr Carr’s Big Battalions’ review of E. H. Carr, What is History? London: Macmillan, 1961 New Statesman 63 (January–June 1962), 15–16. Rather similar Michael Oakeshott’s criticism, who spoke in response to Carr’s 1961 Trevelyan Lectures of history as a success story as ‘abbreviated history’. Cf. Michael Oakeshott, ‘Mr. Carr’s First Volume’ Cambridge Journal 4 (1950–1), 345–6.

Chapter 5 1 The term emerges right at the beginning and forms the title of Hermann Kellermann's voluminous collection of interventions by intellectuals in the first months of the war: Der Krieg der Geister: eine Auslese deutscher und ausländischer Stimmen zum Weltkriege 1914, Dresden: Heimat und Welt, 1915. The alternate term Kulturkrieg (war of culture) was simultaneously coined by Ernst Troeltsch: Der Kulturkrieg: Rede am 1. Juli 1915, Berlin: Heymann, 1915. On the context and eventual suspension of the idea cf. Jörn Leonhard: ‘Über Nacht sind wir zur radikalsten Demokratie Europas geworden’: Ernst Troeltsch und die geschichtspolitische Überwindung der Ideen von 1914, in: Friedrich Wilhelm Graf (ed.): ‘Geschichte durch Geschichte überwinden’: Ernst Troeltsch in Berlin, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2006, 205–30. 2 Jürgen von Ungern-Sternberg: Wie gibt man dem Sinnlosen einen Sinn? Zum Gebrauch der Begriffe ‘deutsche Kultur’ und ‘Militarismus’ im Herbst 1914, in:

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Wolfgang J. Mommsen (ed.): Kultur und Krieg. Die Rolle der Intellektuellen, Künstler und Schriftsteller im Ersten Weltkrieg, München: Oldenbourg, 1996, 77–96, who describes the dialogical character of the polemical exchange (90). See furthermore Barbara Beßlich: Wege in den ,Kulturkrieg'. Zivilisationskritik in Deutschland 1890-1914, Darmstadt: WBG, 2000; Steffen Bruendel: Volksgemeinschaft oder Volksstaat. Die ‘Ideen von 1914’ und die Neuordnung Deutschlands im Ersten Weltkrieg, Berlin: Akademie, 2003; Trude Maurer (ed.): Kollegen – Kommilitonen – Kämpfer. Europäische Universitäten im Ersten Weltkrieg, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2006; Jörn Leonhard: Vom ‘Nationalkrieg’ zum ‘Kriegsnationalismus’ – Projektion und Grenze nationaler Integrationsvorstellungen in Deutschland, Großbritannien und den Vereinigten Staaten im Ersten Weltkrieg, in: Ulrike von Hirschhausen et al. (eds.): Nationalismen in Europa. West- und Osteuropa im Vergleich, Göttingen: Wallstein, 2001, 204–40; Christophe Prochasson and Anne Rasmussen: Au nom de la patrie: les intellectuels et la Première Guerre mondiale 1910-1919, Paris: La Découverte, 1996); for excellent comparative analyses of the mobilization of the intellectuals cf. Alan Kramer: Dynamic of Destruction: Culture And Mass Killing In The First World War, Oxford: OUP, 2009, 159–210; Anne Rasmussen: Mobilising Minds, in Jay Winter (ed.): The Cambridge History of the First World War, Cambridge: CUP, 2014, vol. III: Civil Society, 390–417. Elisabeth Crawford: Nationalism and Internationalism in Science, 1880-1939, Cambridge: CUP, 1992. Peter Hoeres: Krieg der Philosophen. Die deutsche und britische Philosophie im Ersten Weltkrieg, Paderborn: Schöningh, 2004. Hedin’s contemporary pamphlets, based on travels to the German western and eastern fronts, are: Ein Volk in Waffen, Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1915, and Nach Osten!, Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1916. Cf. Sarah K. Danielsson: The Explorer's Roadmap to National-Socialism: Sven Hedin, Geography and the Path to Genocide, London: Routledge, 2012, 77–102; Astrid Mehmel: Sven Hedin und nationalsozialistische Expansionspolitik, in: Geopolitik. Grenzgänge im Zeitgeist, vol. 1, 1890- 1945, ed. Irene Diekmann, Peter Krüger and Julius H. Schoeps, Potsdam: Verlag für BerlinBrandenburg, 2000, 189–238. Marion Elizabeth Rodgers: Mencken: The American Iconoclast, Oxford: OUP, 2007, 162–76; Terry Teachout: The Skeptic: A Life of H. L. Mencken, New York: Harper, 2002, 123–45; Moseley, Merritt W., Jr.: H. L. Mencken and the First World War, Menckeniana 58 (1976), 8–15. There are two previous studies on the subject of Brandes and his relationship to the war, Harald Wolbersen’s rich Georg Brandes und der Erste Weltkrieg. Zur Positionierung eines europäischen Intellektuellen im ‘Krieg der Geister’, Tönning: Der Andere Verlag, 2009, and Bjarne Søndergaard Bendtsen: Colour-blind or clear-sighted neutrality? Georg Brandes and the First World War, in: Johan den

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Notes Hertog/Samuël Kruizinga (eds.): Caught in the Middle. Neutrals, Neutrality, and the First World War, Amsterdam: Aksant, 2011, 121–38. For the context see the latter’s PhD: Mellem fronterne. Studier i Første Verdenskrigs virkning på og udtryk i dansk kultur med særligt fokus på litterære skildringer 1914-1939, Odense: Syddansk Universitet, 2011, and idem: Making Sense of the War (Denmark), in: 1914-1918-online. International Encyclopedia of the First World War, ed. by Ute Daniel et al., URL: https://encyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net/article/making_ sense_of_the_war_denmark [1 October 2017]. Julie K. Allen: Denmark's Ugly Ducklings: Georg Brandes and Asta Nielsen's Metacultural Contributions to Constructions of Danish National Identity, Scandinavian Studies 83 (2011), 63–90. René Wellek: Geschichte der Literaturkritik 1750-1950: Das späte 19. Jahrhundert, Berlin : De Gruyter, 1978, 334. The authoritative Brandes biography is Jørgen Knudsen: Georg Brandes, 8 vols., Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1985-2004, for his background, youth and education see Frigørelsens vej 1842-77; for the First World War and its aftermath: Uovervindelig taber: 1914-1927, vols. I and II. Doris R. Asmundsson: Georg Brandes. Aristocratic Radical, New York: New York UP, 1981, offers a searching psychological account of Brandes. Older, much briefer but still competent the biographical overview of Bertil Nolin: Georg Brandes, Boston: Twayne, 1976. Dualismen i vor nyeste filosofi (1866) was followed by his first ambitious contribution to the emerging field of aesthetics Æstetiske Studier (1868) and the doctoral dissertation Den franske Æsthetik i vore Dage(1870). On Brandes’s early oeuvre see Knudsen, Frigørelsens vej. Hovedstrømninger i det 19de Aarhundredes Litteratur, 6 vls., Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1872-1890; a German translation appeared more or less simultaneously (1872–96), a complete English translation between 1901 and 1906, French extract (vol. 5 on France) in 1902, based on the German translation. Georg Brandes: Det moderne gjennembruds mænd: en række portræter, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1883, a collection of portraits of modernism’s central representatives in Scandinavia, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, Edvard Brandes, Brandes’s own brother, Holger Drachmann, Henrik Ibsen, J.P. Jacobsen, Sophus Schandorph, and Erik Skram. Wolbersen, Brandes, 20–4, Jørgen Knudsen: Georg Brandes: I modsigelsernes tegn 1877-83, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1988. For example Brandes to Nietzsche, 26 November 1887, in: Friedrich Nietzsche: Briefwechsel, Kritische Gesamtausgabe [KGB], eds. Giorgio Colli/Mazzino Montinari, Berlin/New York 1975-2004, 3.6, 120-121, Nr. 500. First published in the August 1889 issue of the Danish literary magazine Tilskueren, founded by Brandes and his brother Edvard. Cf. Søndergaard Bendtsen, Colourblind, 122. The German translation appeared as: Friedrich Nietzsche. Eine

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18

19

20

21 22

23 24

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Abhandlung über aristokratischen Radicalismus, in: Deutsche Rundschau, April 1890, 52–89, later revised and expanded, idem: Menschen und Werke. Essays, Frankfurt a. M.: Rütten&Loening, 1894, 137–224. A new edition of the essay with Berenberg, Berlin (2004), includes an excellent introduction by Klaus Bohnen. Nietzsche to Brandes, 2 December 1887, KGB 3.5, 205–7, Nr. 960. Brandes to Nietzsche, 3 April 1888, KGB 3.6, 184–6, Nr. 533; Nietzsche to Brandes, 10 April 1888, KGB 3.5, 286–90, Nr. 1014. Particularly central Brandes’s translations of Mill’s Utilitarianism (1861) and The Subjection of Women (1869), besides his consequent promotion of the French aesthetic and literary debates. On the Scandinavianist momentum cf. Kari Haarder Ekman: ‘Mitt hems gränser vidgades’. En studie i den kulturella skandinavismen under 1800-talet, Göteborg: Makadam, 2010. Stephan Michael Schröder: Review of the Above-mentioned Work, Nordeuropaforum 21 (2011), 100–3, 102 (cit.). Justifiably pointed on this Erik M. Christensen: Ein Europäer in Berlin, in: idem: Zurückbleiben. Tryk 1943-2001, Berlin: Nordeuropa-Institut, 2001, 239–55, here 241–2; idem: Why should Brandes sabotage Ibsen in Germany, in: Contemporary Approaches to Ibsen, vol. V: Reports from the Fifth International Ibsen Seminar, ed. Daniel Haakonsen, Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1985, 81–98. Georg Brandes: Reminiscences of my Childhood and Youth, New York: Duffield, 1906, 276–7. On that, cf. as well the various contributions in: Annie Bourguignon et al. (eds.): Grands courants d’échanges intellectuels: Georg Brandes et la France, l’Allemagne, l’Angleterre. Actes de la Deuxième Conférence Internationale Georg Brandes (Nancy, 13–15 novembre 2008), Bern: Peter Lang, 2009. The classic study of Brandes’s international network is Bertil Nolin: Den gode europén. Studier i Georg Brandes idéutveckling 1871-1893 med speciell hänsyn till hans förhållande till tysk, engelsk, slavisk och fransk litteratur, Stockholm: Svenska bokförlaget, 1965. Meyers Großes Konversations-Lexikon, 6th ed., vol. III (1903), 319; Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11th ed. (1911), vol. IV, 427. John Stuart Mill: The Subjection of Women, London: Longmans, 1869; Danish translation as Kvindernes Underkuelse, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1869 [2nd ed. 1885]. E.g. Brandes to Nietzsche, 26 November 1887 and 3 April 1888, KGB 3.6, 120–1 and 184-186, Nr. 500 and 533. The dispute (in German Berliner Antisemitismusstreit, contemporarily known as Treitschkiade) revolved around the place and alleged influence of the Jews in German society. It was instigated by an anti-Semitic polemic of the PrussianGerman nationalist historian Heinrich von Treitschke published in 1879, which was in turn countered by a response by the liberal classicist Theodor Mommsen. The dispute proceeded for about two years and contributed to the emergence of

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29

Notes Germany’s modern anti-Semitic movement. On the dispute see, besides a host of literature on Stöcker and his anti-Semitic movement, Marcel Stoetzler: The State, the Nation, and the Jews: Liberalism and the Antisemitism Dispute in Bismarck's Germany, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2009; Moshe Zimmermann/ Nicolas Berg: Berliner Antisemitismusstreit, in: Dan Diner (ed.): Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur (EJGK), vol. 1, Stuttgart/Weimar: Metzler, 2011, 277–82; Martin Greschat: Protestantischer Antisemitismus in wilhelminischer Zeit. Das Beispiel des Hofpredigers Adolf Stoecker; in: Günter Brakelmann/ Martin Rosowski (eds.): Antisemitismus. Von religiöser Judenfeindschaft zur Rassenideologie, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck, 1989, 27–51. Georg Brandes: Bevægelsen mod jøderne i Tyskland (17. Januar 1881), idem: Samlede Skrifter, 18 vls., Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1899-1910, Fjortende Bind (Andet Supplementbind, 1904), 278–85, 280–1 (cit.). A German translation – along with other essays – has been published by Hanns Grössel (ed.): Georg Brandes: Der Wahrheitshass: Über Deutschland und Europa, 1880-1925, Berlin: Berenberg, 2007, 21–9. As one of many examples: Georg Brandes: Paa den Schlesiske Baarnegard (12. Juni 1882), in: Samlede Skrifter, XIV, 353–60, written against the backdrop of the anti-Jewish pogroms in the Russian Empire; Brandes, Bevægelsen, 280 (cit.). On the context see John Klier: Russians, Jews, and the Pogroms of 1881-1882, Cambridge: CUP, 2011. On the relation of modern state- and nation-building and the rise of antiSemitism, cf. Samuel Salzborn: Antisemitismus als negative Leitidee der Moderne. Sozialwissenschaftliche Theorien im Vergleich, Frankfurt a. M.: Campus, 2010; Shulamit Volkov: Kontinuität und Diskontinuität im deutschen Antisemitismus 1878-1945, Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 33 (1985), 221–43; see as well the essays in Peter Alter (ed.): Die Konstruktion der Nation gegen die Juden, München: Fink, 1999. For the Dreyfus Affair a similar argument can be made, cf. Frederick Brown: For the Soul of France: Culture Wars in the Age of Dreyfus, New York: Knopf, 2010, 124–54 (cit. ‘ogre of modernity’); Michael Burns: Rural Society and French Politics, Boulangism and the Dreyfus Affair, 18861900, Princeton: Princeton UP. Schivelbusch’s conception ‘culture of defeat’ could certainly be fruitfully applied to post-1864 Denmark. Cf. Wolfgang Schivelbusch: Culture of Defeat: On National Trauma, Mourning, and Recovery, New York: Picador, 2003 [German 2001], 1–35; for first probings on the Baltic region see Jan Hecker-Stampehl et al. (eds.): Perceptions of Loss, Decline and Doom in the Baltic Sea Region, Berlin: BWV, 2004. Annie Bourguignon: Georg Brandes’ Auseinandersetzung mit dem ersten Weltkrieg, in: Akten des XI. Internationalen Germanistenkongresses Paris 2005, ed. Jean Marie Valentin, vol. 2, Bern: Peter Lang, 2007, 245–54, 249 (cit.), who

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31 32

33

34

35

36

37 38

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draws upon Brandes’ Verdenskrigen, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1916, dealt with subsequently. John Carey has argued that this contempt forms one of the constitutive features of the modernist movement in literature, cf. The Intellectuals and the Masses: Pride and Prejudice among the Literary Intelligentsia, 1880-1939, London: Faber, 1992. Georg Brandes: Konservatisme (11. Juli 1881), in: Samlede Skrifter, XIV, 320–7, 325 (cit.). The classic reference of anti-Sonderweg historiography remains David Blackbourn/ Geoff Eley: The Peculiarities of German History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Germany, Oxford: OUP, 1984. Cf. as well Helga Grebing: Der ‘deutsche Sonderweg’ in Europa 1806-1945. Eine Kritik, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1986; Helmut Walser Smith: When the Sonderweg Debate Left Us, German Studies Review 31 (2008), 225–40; Margaret Lavinia Anderson: Demokratie auf schwierigem Pflaster. Wie das deutsche Kaiserreich demokratisch wurde, in: Anna Briskina-Müller et al. (eds.): Logos im Dialogos. Auf der Suche nach der Orthodoxie. Gedenkschrift für Hermann Goltz (1946-2010), Berlin: LIT, 2011, 247–64. Annie Bourguignon: Les analyses de Georg Brandes de la ‘patrioterie‘ en France et en Allemagne à la veille de la Première Guerre mondiale, in: Philippe Alexandre et al. (eds.): L’Allemagne en 1913: culture mémorielle et culture d’avant-guerre / Deutschland im Jahre 1913: Erinnerungs- und Vorkriegskultur, Nancy: Presses Universitaires de Nancy, 2013, 271–85. On the intricate relation between Brandes’s anti-militarism and pacifism as a movement and ideology, cf. Philippe Alexandre: Georg Brandes est-il pacifiste?, in: Bourguignon, Grands courants, 327–46. German Patriotism, 1913: The Glorification of War, in: The World At War, New York: Macmillan, 1917 [Danish original Verdenskrigen, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1916]. Where possible, I quote from the existing English translation of Brandes’s contemporary writing. Wilhelm Deist: Militär, Staat und Gesellschaft, München: Oldenbourg, 1991, 198 (cit.); idem: Die Politik der Seekriegsleitung und die Rebellion der Flotte Ende Oktober 1918, Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 14 (1966), 341–68; Gerhard P. Groß: Eine Frage der Ehre? Die Marineführung und der letzte Flottenvorstoß 1918, in: Hansjörg Duppler/Gerhard P. Groß (eds.): Kriegsende 1918: Ereignis, Wirkung, Nachwirkung, München: Oldenbourg, 1999, 349–66. Brandes, World at War, 115, here with reference to anti-Jewish pogroms in Russian Poland, 115–17, but in line with Brandes’s earlier (and subsequent) argument. Riezler evidently alludes to the fact that the neutral Scandinavian countries and not least Denmark were increasingly becoming important targets of war propaganda emanating from both alliance blocs. Cf. Kurt Rietzler: Tagebücher, Aufsätze, Dokumente, ed. Karl Dietrich Erdmann, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck, 1972, 518 (cit.).

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39 Edvard Brandes was finance minister in both cabinets of C. Th. Zahle (I and II, 1909/10 and 1913-1920) and effectively became the grand old man of Danish liberal politics. Along with Zahle, Munch Rode and Scavenius, he formed the core of the cabinet. Cf. Kristian Hvidt: Edvard Brandes: portræt af en radikal blæksprutte, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1987, 379–451; Wilhelm E. Winterhager: Mission für den Frieden: Europäische Mächtepolitik und dänische Friedensvermittlung im Ersten Weltkrieg (vom August 1914 bis zum italienischen Kriegseintritt Mai 1915), Stuttgart: Steiner, 1984, 516–22. 40 Brandes, World at War, 22–31 (‘German Patriotism’, 1913), furthermore the dense analyses ‘The Fundamental Causes of the World War’ (August 1914), 32–54, and ‘Different Points of View on the War’ (November 1914), 55–92; Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 67–8, 127–34, 157–75; Søndergaard Bendtsen, Coulour-blind, 129–30. 41 Brandes, Verdenskrigen, 37–171. On the genesis of the volume see Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 242–4. 42 Johannes V. Jensen: Det nordiske Forspring. Evropa før og efter Krigen, Tilskueren, December 1914, 536–554, cit. in Søndergaard Bendtsen, Coulour-blind, 126. 43 Søndergaard Bendtsen, Coulour-blind, 126–8; cf. as well idem: Scandinavian interpretations of the First World War as a European civil war, in: José-Leonardo Ruiz Sánchez et al. (eds.): Shaping Neutrality throughout the First World War, Seville: Editorial Universidad de Sevilla, 2015, 361–77. See as well Wolbersen, Georg Brandes, 43–50. 44 Larsen is, as both Søndergaard Bendtsen and Jesper D. Jørgensen point out, the most radical of pro-Germans and heavily involved in the German war propaganda, for which he was comfortably renumerated. Cf. Jesper Düring Jørgensen: Den smilende kamæleon. Karl Larsen – digter, journalist, militarist, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag, 2013, 369–81; Wolbersen, Georg Brandes, 45–6. 45 Brandes published a number of admiring reviews of Clemenceau, both biographical approaches and essays on his presence in French pre-war politics, cf. Samlede Skrifter, XVI, 110–32 (‘George Clemenceau’, 1903), XVIII, 209–30. He called himself a long-standing admirer of the Frenchman and especially the latter’s will power, see Knudsen: Brandes and Clemenceau – a friendship with a bitter end, in: Bourguignon et al., Grands Courants, 317–26, here 325. 46 As examples of his manifold interventions in support of the Danish minority in North Schleswig, the majority population of the area, cf. Brandes, Danskheden i Sønderjylland, Samlede Skrifter, XII, 205–19, immediately translated and reprinted by the liberal German journalist Maximilian Harden in his: Die Zukunft, VII, Nr. 27 (1 April 1899). 47 Brandes, Hunnertalen resp. Armenien og Evropa (Foredrag holdt i Berlin den 2. Februar 1903), Samlede Skrifter, XVII resp. XI, 74–7 resp. 11–20; Brandes, World

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51

52

53 54

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at War, 158, misdates his Berlin speech on Armenia to 1913. In his reference to the Berlin speech, he as well takes up Clemenceau’s early involvement in favour of the Armenians, cf. Georges Clemenceau: Les massacres d'Arménie: Témoingnages des victims, Paris: Édition du Mercure de France, 1896. On the context of the first wave of massacres see Robert Melson: A Theoretical Enquiry into the Armenian Massacres of 1894-1896, Comparative Studies in Society and History 24 (1982), 481–509; on Wilhelm II’s ‘Hun Speech’ cf. Bernd Sösemann: Die sog. Hunnenrede Wilhelms II. Textkritische und interpretatorische Bemerkungen zur Ansprache des Kaisers vom 27. Juli 1900 in Bremerhaven, Historische Zeitschrift 222 (1976), 342–58. Brandes, World at War, 4, for the entire piece, an obituary of Frederick III, see 4–7. In print, the almost unbearably differentiated assessments of the differing great power interpretations of the war, cf. Brandes, World at War, 55–92. The postcard and the series in which it was published is digitally reproduced at: Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon, section: Humour allié, URL: http://num elyo.bm-lyon.fr/f_view/BML:BML_0401400101Res454732_002_0033 [17 Oct. 2017]. The dichotomy was developed by Thomas Mann as early as sixty days into the war, cf. Thomas Mann: Gedanken im Kriege (1914), in: idem: Essays, vol. 1: Frühlingssturm 1893-1918, eds. Hermann Kurzke and Stephan Stachorski, Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer, 1993, 188–205; Eckart Koester: ‘Kultur’ versus ‘Zivilisation’. Thomas Manns Kriegspublizistik als weltanschaulich-ästhetische Standortsuche. in: Mommsen, Kultur und Krieg, 249–58. Clemenceau’s uncompromisingly belligerent stance and criticism of the government had led to an intervention of the French censorship authorities. As a consequence, he cleverly renamed the newspaper (into ‘The Chained Man’) in the autumn of 1914 and only reverted to its original title (L'Homme libre, ‘The Free Man’) by the end of the war. Cf. Søndergaard Bendtsen, Colour-blind 128 (note 21); Jean-Baptiste Duroselle: Clemenceau, Paris: Fayard, 1988, chap. XVIII. Paul Krüger (ed.): Correspondance de Georg Brandes, 4 vls., Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1952-1966, here IV: Notes et Références, among them the initial article ‘Réflexions sur Neutres’ by Clemenceau, 103–26 (for the entire Clemenceau-Brandes argument). On Brandes and the Schleswig Question see Wolbersen, Georg Brandes, 43–6; Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 157–65. Brandes, Brandes, World at War, 153–66 (both responses to Clemenceau). Samlede Skrifter, XV, 77–82 (‘Sandhedshadet’), furthermore his already cited ‘Different Points of View on the War’ (November 1914), World at War, 55–92. Brandes would have to be seen as effectively referring to the dictum ‘In war, truth is the first casualty’, often falsely attributed to Aeschylus, which he might have well derived from Samuel Johnson: ‘Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the love of truth, by the falsehoods which

170

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56 57 58

59 60 61

62 63 64 65 66

Notes interest dictates and credulity encourages.’ Cf. Corruption of News-Writers, The Idler 30, in: The Works of Samuel Johnson VII, ed. Arthur Murphy, London 1801, 117–21, here 120. The dictum was popularized at about the time of Brandes’s writing by Philip Snowden in his introduction to E. D. Morel: Truth and the War, London: National Labour Press, 1916, VII, taken up by Arthur Ponsonby’s early discussion of wartime propaganda: Falsehood in War-Time: Containing an Assortment of Lies Circulated Throughout the Nations During the Great War, London: Garland, 1928. Brandes, World at War, 162–3, 166. The Danish original is, however, at times more pointed so that I have partly integrated it into the English translation, cf. Verdenskrigen, 193–4, 198. Besides the cited works see as well Knudsen: Brandes and Clemenceau, 317–26. Brandes, World at War, 211–19 (‘An Appeal’). On the context see Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 201–8. Steven Watts: The People's Tycoon: Henry Ford and the American Century, New York: Knopf, 2005, 228–35; David Traxel: Crusader Nation: The United States in Peace and the Great War 1898-1920, New York: Vintage, 193–211. Brandes, World at War, 211, 215; for the Danish original see Verdenskrigen, 257. Asmundsson, Brandes. Ulrich Sieg: Nietzsche als Stifter des Aristokratismus-Diskurses, in: Eckart Conze et al. (eds.): Aristokratismus und Moderne (1890–1945), Wien et al.: Böhlau, 2013, 61–76. A little of the foundational impetus, however, can certainly be ascribed to Brandes’ coinage, Abhandlung über aristokratischen Radicalismus (see note 14). See as well Klaus Bohnen: ‘Persönlichkeit’ bei Georg Brandes. Zu einer Kategorie der Kritik und ihrer Rezeption in Deutschland, in: Hans Christian Hertel et al. (eds.): The Activist Critic: A Symposium on the Political Ideas, Literary Methods, and International Reception of Georg Brandes, Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1980, 237–51; Wolbersen, Brandes, 57–61. Brandes, World at War, 218–19. Vort Land, 22 May 1916, reprinted in Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 207. Under Dusken, 13 March 1916, reprinted in Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 109. Vort Land, 15 March 1915, reprinted in Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 159; Søndergaard Bendtsen, Coulour-blind, 130 (cit.). Brandes, World at War, 219 (cit.). On Archer and his war career, cf. his brother’s early biography: Charles Archer: William Archer: Life, Works and Friendships, London: Allen&Unwin, 1931, which Søndergaard Bendtsen, Colour-blind, 131–2, puts to good use. See furthermore Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 208–13. Archer has been active in propagating and popularizing an anti-neutral view, as well in neutral countries like Switzerland. For that, cf. his pamphlet: To Neutral PeaceLovers: A Plea for Patience, London: Causton&Sons, 1916, translated into German and distributed in Switzerland as: An die Neutralen! Aufruf zur Geduld, Zürich:

Notes

67 68 69

70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77 78 79

80

81 82

83

84

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Orell Füßli, 1917. The German historian Paul Herre, in the early 1920s, head of the Reichsarchiv, responded subsequently by emulating Archer’s title and releasing his critique through the same Swiss publisher (1918). William Archer: Colour-blind Neutrality: An Open Letter to Dr. Georg Brandes, London: Hodder&Stoughton, 1916, 6 and 29–31. ‘Mr Facing Both Ways’ is an allusion to John Bunyan’s ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ (1678), cit. in Søndergaard Bendtsen, Colour-blind, 132. Archer, Colour-blind, 52–3, mostly as well cit. by Søndergaard Bendtsen, Colour-blind, 137, whose general discussion, 131–7, of the public conflict between Brandes and Archer is excellent. Brandes, World at War, 220–72. William Archer: Shirking the Issue, London: Hodder&Stoughton, 1917. Søndergaard Bendtsen, Colour-blind, 138 (Bendtsen’s translation). See as well Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 242–4. Georg Brandes, Folgen des Weltkriegs (1918), in: idem, Wahrheitshass, 135 (my translation). The original appeared in ‘Litteraturen’, Copenhagen, 1 (1918–19). Michel Winock: Clemenceau, Paris: Perrin, 2007, chap. XXVIII, 432–8; Jean-Jacques Becker: Clemenceau, chef de guerre, Paris : Colin, 2012, chap. III, 87–143. Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 171. Georg Brandes: Tragediens anden del: fredsslutningen, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1919, 117–35 (‘Tidens tegn’), 135 (cit.). The book was swiftly translated into German as: Der Tragödie zweiter Teil: Der Friedensschluß, Gotha: Perthes, 1920. On the genesis and reception, see Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 309–18. Brandes, Tragediens anden del, 29. Cit. in Knudsen, Uovervindelig taber I, 313. Nina Jebsen/Martin Klatt: The Negotiation of National and Regional Identity during the Schleswig Plebiscite following the First World War, First World War Studies 5 (2014), 181–211. Besides Danskheden i Sønderjylland (1899), see Dansk og Tysk (1902), Sønderjyllands Betydning for dansk Kultur (1909), both in: Samlede Skrifter III, 459–62 resp. 510–23. See as well Wolbersen, Brandes, 47–50. Brandes, Tragediens anden del, 34–6, 35 (cit.). The term reunification day (Genforeningsdag in Danish) is insofar misleading as Northern Schleswig had earlier never belonged to Denmark proper, but only – in personal union – to the Danish unitary monarchy (Helstaten resp. Gesamtstaat in German). Maartje Abbenhuis: A Most Useful Tool for Diplomacy and Statecraft: Neutrality and Europe in the ‘long’ nineteenth century, 1815-1914, International History Review, 35 (2013), 1–22; Maartje Abbenhuis: An Age of Neutrals: Great Power Politics 1815-1914, Cambridge: CUP, 2014. Bourguignon, Georg Brandes’ Auseinandersetzung, 245–54, here 252–3.

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85 Georg Brandes: Europa nu, Tilskueren, February 1925, 88–91, 90 (cit.); Wolfgang J. Mommsen: Der Erste Weltkrieg und die Krise Europas, in: Gerhard Hirschfeld et al. (eds.): Keiner fühlt sich hier mehr als Mensch: Erlebnis und Wirkung des Ersten Weltkriegs, Essen: Klartext, 1993, 25–42, 26 (cit.). 86 Cit. in Wolbersen, Brandes, 38–9. Others were pacifist like Brandes, the French writer Romain Rolland, being forced out of France in 1915, or the British journalist and Leftist activist E. D. Morel, who was arrested for his pacifist politics in 1917 and sentenced to six-month imprisonment.

Chapter 6 1 Maurice Carrez: Première Guerre mondiale et identité nationale en Finlande, in: François Bouloc, Rémy Cazals and André Loez (eds.): Identités troublées 19141918: Les appartenances sociales et nationales à l’épreuve de la guerre, Toulouse: Privat, 2011, 299–312. 2 Acton once quipped that it was his ‘Austricism’, his anti-nationalist sympathy for the Austrian Empire, which made him conscious of being ‘a partisan of sinking ships’. Cf. Roland Hill: Lord Acton, New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 2000, 412. For ‘unremembered history’ and its critique see R. G. Collingwood: The Idea of History, ed. with an introduction by Jan van der Dussen, Oxford: OUP, 1994, rev. ed., 58. 3 Tuomas Hoppu: Historian unohtamat: suomalaiset vapaaehtoiset Venäjän armeijassa 1. maailmansodassa 1914-1918, Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2005. 4 Boris Meissner: Lenin und das Selbstbestimmungsrecht der Völker, Osteuropa 20 (1970), 245–61 (cit.). For the analytical shortcomings of the term ‘Russification’ for imperial Russian nationality policies, cf. Gert von Pistohlkors: ‘Russifizierung’ in den baltischen Provinzen und in Finnland im 19. und beginnenden 20. Jahrhundert, Zeitschrift für Ostforschung 33 (1984), 592–606; Edward C. Thaden (ed.): Russification in the Baltic Provinces and Finland, 1855-1914, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981, especially the introduction, 1-12; idem: Russification in Tsarist Russia, in: idem: Interpreting History: Collective Essays on Russia’s Relations with Europe, New York: Boulder, 1990, 211–20, who suggests a model of three categories of Russification: spontaneous, administrative, and enforced cultural Russification. Cf. Theodore R. Weeks: Nation and State in Late Imperial Russia: Nationalism and Russification on the Western Frontier, 1863-1914, DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2008, 3–18, 110–30; idem: Defining us and them: Poles and Russians in the Western Provinces, 1863-1914, Slavic Review 53 (1991), 26–40; an excellent recent discussion is Alexei Miller: Russification or Russifications?, in: idem: The Romanov Empire and Nationalism: Essays in the Methodology of Historical Research, Budapest: CEU Press, 2008, 45–68; see as well

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8 9

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Zaur Gasimov (ed.): Kampf um Wort und Schrift. Russifizierung in Osteuropa im 19.-20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck, 2012, especially the introduction by the ed. and Karsten Brüggemann: Als Land und Leute ‘russisch’ werden sollten. Zum Verständnis des Phänomens der ‘Russifizierung’ am Beispiel der Ostseeprovinzen des Zarenreichs, 27–49. The nexus between imperial collapse and the war and, in turn, the imperial potential of Russia prior to 1914 becomes pointedly obvious in the two more recent studies on the collapse of the Russian Empire. Cf. Joshua A. Sanborn: Imperial Apocalypse: The Great War and the Destruction of the Russian Empire, Oxford: OUP, 2014, and – most forcefully – Dominic Lieven: Towards the Flame: Empire, War and the End of Tsarist Russia, London: Allen Lane, 2015. On Seyn, the so-called second period of Russification and Seyn’s distinctly negative reputation in Finland (and even in Russian governmental circles), cf. Pertti Luntinen: F. A. Seyn: A Political Biography of a Tsarist Imperialist as Administrator of Finland, Helsinki: SHS, 1985. Päiviö Tommila: Suuri adressi 1899, Helsinki: WSOY, 1999; Tuomo Polvinen: Imperial Borderland: Bobrikov and the Attempted Russification of Finland, 18981904, Durham, NC: Duke Univ. Press, 1995 [Finnish original, 1984], 254–67. Juhani Paasivirta: Finland and Europe: International Crises in the Period of Autonomy 1808-1914, London: Hurst, 1981 [Finnish original, 1978], 172–85. For Paasikivi and Svinhufvud’s early political biographies see Tuomo Polvinen et al.: J. K. Paasikivi: valtiomiehen elämäntyö, vol. 1: 1870-1918, Helsinki: WSOY, 1989; Martti Häikiö: Suomen leijona – Svinhufvud itsenäisyysmiehenä, Helsinki: Docendo, 2017. On the context, cf. Karsten Brüggemann: The Baltic Provinces and Russian Perceptions in Late Imperial Rus- sia, in: idem/Bradley D. Woodworth (eds.): Russland an der Ostsee: Imperiale Strategien der Macht und kulturelle Wahrnehmungsmuster (16. bis 20. Jahrhundert), Vienna: Böhlau, 111-142; Natalia S. Andreeva: Die ‘baltische Frage’ und die Reformpolitik der Regierung in den Ostseeprovinzen zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts, in: ibid., 243-285; Paasivirta, Finland and Europe, 186-202; see as well Jarosław Suchoples: In the Peripheries of Europe, on the Outskirts of Petrograd: World War I and Finland, 1914-1919, in: idem/Stephanie James (eds.): Re-Visiting World War I: Interpretations and Perspectives of the Great Conflict, Bern: Peter Lang, 2016, 353–83, here 357–8; Frank Jacob: The Russo-Japanese War and its Shaping of the Twentieth Century, Abingdon: Routledge, 2017. Cf. Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes (PA, AA): R 10166: Rußland 63 Nr. 1 secr.: Die Ålandinseln, Bd. 3 (März 1907-Dezember 1915): Lucius’ to AA, August and September 1915 (multiple reports, among them 13, 17, 19 August 1915, 14 and 20 September 1915); ibid.: R 10167: Rußland 63 Nr. 1 secr.: Die Ålandinseln,

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13

14 15 16

17

Notes Bd. 4 (Januar-Mai 1916): Lucius to AA, 16 and 17 March 1916, 3–5 May 1916); James Barros: The Aland Islands Question: Its Settlement by the League of Nations, New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1968, 3–27; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 162–3; further references in the final chapter on Åland in international politics. Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 63–117; on Ottoman imperial conditions and pre-war policies see Sean McMeekin: The Ottoman Endgame: War, Revolution and the Making of the Modern Middle East, London: Penguin, 2015, 9–91; cf. for the Habsburg Empire, cf. Günther Kronenbitter: ‘Krieg im Frieden’: Die Führung der k.u.k. Armee und die Großmachtpolitik Österreich-Ungarns 1906-1914, München: Oldenbourg, 2003, 317–68; Graydon A. Tunstall: Planning for War against Russia and Serbia: Austro-Hungarian and German Military Strategies, 1871-1914, New York: Columbia UP, 1993; Holger Afflerbach: Der Dreibund. Europäische Großmacht- und Allianzpolitik vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg, Wien: Böhlau, 2002, 609–66; Cit. ‘Nationalizing Empire’ based on the conceptual remarks by Stefan Berger and Alexei Miller: Nationalizing Empires, Budapest: Central European University Press, 2015, 1–30; cf. as well Alexei Miller: Introduction, in: idem, Romanov Empire and Nationalism, 1–8. For the comparative dimension of nationality policies, cf. the different contributions in: Omer Bartov and Eric D. Weitz (eds.): Shatterzone of Empires. Coexistence and violence in the German, Habsburg, Russian, and Ottoman borderlands, Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2013; McMeekin, Ottoman Endgame, 33–57, 223–45. Luntinen, Seyn, 114. Anthony F. Upton: The Finnish Revolution 1917-1918, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1980, 14. The example is insofar a little misleading, as the Finnish consumer market was in no area as dependent on Russia as in the field of grain deliveries. The pattern, however, can be found throughout the entire economy during the First World War. Cf. Pertti Haapala: The expected and non-expected roots of chaos: preconditions of the Finnish Civil War, in: Aapo Roselius and Tuomas Tepora (eds.): The Finnish Civil War: History, Memory, Legacy, Leiden: Brill, 2014, 22–5; idem: Kun yhteiskunta hajosi, Helsinki: Painatuskeskus, 1995, 50–8; Erkki Pihkala: Suomen Venäjän-kauppa vuosina 1860-1917, Helsinki: Tiedeseura, 1970; Yrjö Kaukiainen: Foreign Trade and Transport, in: Jari Ojala et al. (eds.): The Road to Prosperity: An Economic History of Finland, Helsinki: SKS, 2006, 127–63, here 138–48. Petrograd (literally Peter’s city), the city’s name from 1914 to 1924 (from then until 1991 Leningrad), is the russified version of St Petersburg that appeared too German in character for a mobilized Russian society at war. On the renaming of the city, cf. Solomon Volkov: St Petersburg: A Cultural History, New York: Free Press, 1997,

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21 22

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195–6, 336–40; Karl Schlögel: Petersburg: Das Laboratorium der Moderne 19091921, Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer, 2009. Suchoples, Peripheries of Europe, 357–8; David G. Kirby: Finland in the Twentieth Century: A History and an Interpretation, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1979, 39. The conscript army amounted at full strength, that is from 1883 onwards, to 5,600 troops, including the seasoned Guards’ Rifle Battalion and a cavalry regiment stationed in Lappeenranta. Cf. J. E. O. Screen: The Finnish Army, 1881-1901: training the rifle battalions, Helsinki: SHS, 1996; Torsten Ekman: Finska gardet, 1812-1905, Helsinki: Schildts, 2006. Cf. the contributions of Rainer Knapas and Laura Kolbe, in: Märtha Norrback (ed.): A Gentleman’s Home: The Museum of Gustaf Mannerheim, Marshal of Finland, Helsinki: Otava, 2001, 17–30, 80–9. Lieven, Towards the Flame, 51. On the context, cf. Hans Rogger: Russia in the Age of Modernisation and Revolution 1881-1917, London: Routledge, ²2014, 182–207. The term and phenomenon have been controversially debated in the last two decades. In his excellent comparative historical study of German and British philosophy in the First World War, Peter Hoeres has justifiably identified a historiographical tendency to ‘excessively correct the August experience’, cf. Der Krieg der Philosophen. Die deutsche und britische Philosophie im Ersten Weltkrieg, Paderborn: Schöningh, 2004, 115–16. Against this see the relativizing interpretation of, among others, Wolfgang Kruse: Krieg und nationale Integration. Eine Neuinterpretation des sozialdemokratischen Burgfriedensschlusses 1914/15, Essen: Transkript, 1994; idem: Die Kriegsbegeisterung im Deutschen Reich zu Beginn des Ersten Weltkriegs. Entstehungszusammenhänge, Grenzen und ideologische Strukturen, in: Marcel van der Linden and Gottfried Mergner (eds.): Kriegsbegeisterung und mentale Kriegsvorbereitung. Interdisziplinäre Studien, Berlin 1991, 73–87. For the context see Jeffrey Verhey: Der Geist von 1914 und die Erfindung der Volksgemeinschaft, Hamburg: HIS Hamburger Edition, 2000. Most of the necessary relativization in international historiography is intellectually indebted to Jean-Jacques Becker: 1914: comment les Français sont entrés dans la guerre, Paris: Presses de Sciences Po, 1977. For Russia see, among others, Raymond Pearson: The Russian Moderates and the Crisis of Tsarism 1914-1917, Basingstoke:Macmillan, 1977, 10–38; Sarah Badcock: Autocracy in Crisis. Nicholas the Last, in: Ian Thatcher (ed.): Late Imperial Russia: Problems and Prospects, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005, 9–27, here 22–3; Rogger, Russia, 256–7. Georg Heym: Zweites Tagebuch: 23. Mai 1907 bis 5. Mai 1910, in: Dichtungen und Schriften. Tagebücher, Träume, Briefe, ed. Karl Ludwig Schneider, vol. 3, Hamburg: Ellermann, 1960, 138–9.

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24 Filippo Tommaso Marinetti: Manifesto of Futurism, in: Le Figaro, 20 February 1909, cit. in: Alan Kramer: Dynamic and Destruction: Culture and Mass Killing in the First World War, Oxford: OUP, 2007, 168, on the comparative context see ibid., Culture and War, 159–210, who convincingly challenges George L. Mosse’s oversimplified interpretation of a common ‘Myth of the War Experience’. George L. Mosse: Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars, Oxford: OUP, 1994, 10 (cit.), 33. Tuomas Tepora has applied this fruitfully to the Finnish case, cf. Tuomas Tepora: Sinun puolestas elää ja kuolla: Suomen liput, nationalismi ja veriuhri, 1917-1945, Helsinki: WSOY, 2011; idem: The Mystified War: Regeneration and Sacrifice, in: Tepora/Roselius, Finnish Civil War, 159–200. The gender aspect, that is the explicit exclusion of women from a largely masculine communitybuilding process, is well documented for Finland, cf. the references in Tepora, Mystified War, 193–7; Anders Ahlbäck: Masculinities and the Ideal Warrior: Images of the Jäger Movement, in: Tepora/Roselius, Finnish Civil War, 254–96. 25 Hoppu, Historian unohtamat, 48–107; Pertti Haapala: The expected and nonexpected roots of chaos: preconditions of the Finnish Civil War, in: Tepora/ Roselius, Finnish Civil War, 21–50, 36–7. 26 The figures indicate almost a collapse in the recruitment of volunteers in 1915–16, with only a handful of enlistments in 1916. Cf. Irina Novikova: The Provisional Government and Finland: Russian Democracy and Finnish Nationalism in Search for a Peaceful Coexistence, in: Jane Burbank, Mark von Hagen, and Anatolyi Remnev (eds.): Russian Empire: Space, People, Power, 1700-1930, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007, 398–421, 402 (note 13). Novikova’s figures have been further differentiated and partly revised by Hoppu’s convincing study, cf. Hoppu, Historian unohtamat, 66–75. 27 On the role of imperial mobilization see, among a wealth of recent research, Robert Gerwarth and Erez Manela (eds.): Empires at War, 1911-1923, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014; Richard Fogarty and Andrew Jarboe (eds.): Empires in World War I: Shifting Frontiers and Imperial Dynamics in a Global Conflict, London: I. B. Tauris, 2014; John Morrow: The Great War : An Imperial History, London: Routledge, 2013; Ashley Jackson (ed.): The British Empire and the First World War, London: Routledge, 2015. 28 Besides the contributions by Peter Haslinger: Austria-Hungary, in: Gerwarth/ Manela, Empires, 73–90, and Mustafa Aksakal: The Ottoman Empire, in: Gerwarth/ Manela, Empires, 17–33, see Holger Herwig: The First World War: Germany and Austria-Hungary, 1914-1918, London: Bloomsbury, 2014, and Mehmet Beşikçi: The Ottoman Mobilization of Manpower in the First World War: Between Voluntarism and Resistance, Leiden: Brill, 2012. 29 David Kirby: ‘En munsbit, hvilken af Ryssen utslukades’: Independence as ideal and reality in Finland, in: Jan Hecker-Stampehl et al. (eds.): 1809 und die Folgen:

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31 32

33

34

35

36

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Finnland zwischen Schweden, Russland und Deutschland, Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag, 2011, 143–54, 144. Matti Klinge: Bernadotten ja Leninin välissä: tutkielma kansallisista aiheista, Helsinki: WSOY, 1975, 54, Engl. transl. by Risto Alapuro: Nineteenth Century Nationalism in Finland: A Comparative Perspective, Scandinavian Political Studies 2 (1979), 19–29, here 19. Matti Klinge’s and Osmo Jussila’s revisionist interpretations since the 1970s form the new consensus in Finnish historiography. See, among a host of works, Osmo Jussila: Nationalismi ja vallankumous venäläissuomalaisissa suhteissa 1899-1914, Helsinki: SHS, Helsinki 1979; idem: Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta, 1809-1917, Helsinki: WSOY, 2004; Matti Klinge: Kejsartiden, Espoo; Schildt’s, 1996 (= Finlands historia, 3); Robert Schweitzer: Autonomie und Autokratie: Die Stellung des Großfürstentums Finnland im russischen Reich in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts 1863-1899, Gießen: Schmitz, 1978. Alapuro’s aforementioned article points to the latter’s socio-historical standard work: State and Revolution in Finland, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988. For a still useful, stimulating discussion of Finnish historiography on state and nationalism in nineteenth-century Finland, cf. Edgar Hösch: Die kleinen Völker und ihre Geschichte. Zur Diskussion über Nationwerdung und Staat in Finnland, in: Kleine Völker in der Geschichte Osteuropas. Festschrift für Günther Stökl zum 75. Geburtstag, eds. Manfred Alexander et al., Stuttgart: Steiner, 1992, 22–32. Hoppu, Historian unohtamat, 34–41. The Union of Finnish Industrialists even went as far as to donate mobile field hospital to the front. Cf. Tuomas Hoppu: Les débuts de la premiere Guerre mondiale en Finlande: loyauté et séparatisme, in: Revue d’Histoire Nordique 15 (2012), 153–74; Haapala, Expected and Non-expected Roots, 38. Hoppu, Historian unohtamat, 48–53; Luntinen, Seyn, 235–9, 257–8, illustrating the consternation of Seyn and his administration at the various signs of loyalty displayed by the Finnish public. According to Gunther Rothenburg: The Army of Francis Joseph, West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 1976, 185, there were nine generals, ninety-three senior staff officers, and 2,500 other officers among the captured. Cf., recently, Graydon A. Tunstall, Jr.: Written in Blood: The Battles for Fortress Przemyl in WWI, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2016, 268–94; Prit Buttar: Germany Ascendant: The Eastern Front 1915, Oxford: Osprey, 2015, 142–6. Joseph T. Fuhrmann: The Complete Wartime Correspondence of Tsar Nicholas II and the Empress Alexandra: April 1914 – March 1917, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1999, letters respectively telegrams No. 213-217 (9/10 March 1915). ‘Forgot to thank you yesterday for dear letter, as was so excited about happy news. Amount of prisoners there colossal.’ Wartime Correspondence, No. 216, Nicholas to Alexandra (10 March 1915).

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37 See the following sample of representative Finnish- and Swedish-language newspapers, mostly dated 11 March 1915: Helsingin Sanomat [HS], No. 68; Hufvudstadsbladet [Hbl], No. 69/70, 11/12 March 1915; Sosialidemokraatti, No. 28; Sosialisti, No. 58; Työ, No. 58; Dagens Press, No. 67, 10 March 1915 (evening issue); Aamulehti, 59, 12 March 1915. The most exhaustive account is – naturally – given by the official newspapers: Finlands Allmänna Tidning, Suomen Wirallinen lehti and the Russian version Finljandskaja Gazeta, No. 58, 11 March 1915; on the history of official reporting in Finland during the Russian period, cf. Osmo Apunen: Virallinen lehti 1819-1969. (Helsinki: Valtion Painatuskeskus, 1970); Jukka-Pekka Pietiäinen: Kansakunnan peili. Virallinen lehti – Officiella tidningen 1819-1994 (Helsinki: Valtion Painatuskeskus, 1994). 38 Hänen Majesteettinsa Keisarin käynti Helsingissä (1915), film by Oscar Lindelöf. For extracts, cf. The Finnish film database: http://www.elonet.fi/fi/elokuva/1189267 [11 August 2017]. Announcements of the showings as well in the local press. 39 The University of Helsinki had been renamed Imperial Alexander University in 1828 in honour of both the university and the city’s main benefactor, Tsar Alexander I. The unrivalled account of the university’s history is Matti Klinge (with Rainer Knapas, Anto Leikola and John Strömberg): Helsingfors Universitetets historia 16401990, vol. II: Kejserliga Alexanders Universitetet 1808-1917 (Helsinki: Otava, 1989). 40 Norrmén’s welcoming address in French [my translation] as cit. in Hbl, No. 69, 11 March 1915, HS, No. 68, 11 March 1915. 41 Finlands Allmänna Tidning, No. 58, 11 March 1915. 42 For the history of the Jews in Finland and Finnish anti-Semitism, cf. Tapani Harviainen: Suomen juutalaiset, in: Markku Löytönen, Laura Kolbe (eds.): Suomi – Maa, kansa, kulttuurit, Helsinki: SKS, 1999, 333–43; Jari Hanski: Juutalaisviha Suomessa 1918-1944, Jyväskylä: Ajatus, 2006; Vesa Vares: Antisemitismus am Rande – Zur Debatte über Staatsbürgerrechte für Juden in Finnland, 1909/1917, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts 4 (2005), 151–74, who analyses the intense debate about the legal emancipation of Finland’s Jewish population in and around the First World War. 43 The main authority on the pogroms of 1881–2 and their larger context remains John Klier: Russians, Jews, and the Pogroms of 1881-1882, Cambridge: CUP, 2011; idem.: Christians and Jews and the ‘dialogue of violence’ in late Imperial Russia, in: Anna Sapir Abulafia (ed.): Religious Violence between Christians and Jews, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002, 157–70; cf. as well multiple contributions in: John Klier and Shlomo Lambroza (eds.): Pogroms: Anti-Jewish Violence in Modern Russian History, Cambridge: CUP, 1992. On the context see as well Alexei Miller: The Romanov Empire and the Jews, in: Miller, Romanov Empire and Nationalism, 93–137; Theodore R. Meeks: From Assimilation to Antisemitism: The ‘Jewish Question’ in Poland, 1850-1914, DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2006.

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44 Finlands Allmänna Tidning, No. 58, 11 March 1915, 1, identifying Forsgren and the association falsely; HS, No. 68, 11 March 1915, with the Finnish original [my translation]. 45 The official newspaper Finlands Allmänna Tidning, No. 58, 11 March 1915, 1, speaks of ‘boisterous cheers’ from the crowds. These must have certainly applied less to the second car, which contained the general governor Seyn and the local police chief. Cf. Hbl, No. 69 and 70, 11 respectively 12 March 1915, including the information on school leave. See furthermore, equally officially censored, HS, No. 68, 11 March 1915. The surviving film material – albeit mute – corroborates the newspaper reporting as to the amount and behaviour of the people. Cheers and ovations are occasionally to be seen. Cf. Hänen Majesteettinsa Keisarin käynti Helsingissä (1915), Oscar Lindelöf, The Finnish film database: http://www.elonet.fi/ fi/elokuva/1189267 [11 August 2017], 3:38-4:40 mins. 46 On the history of Orthodoxy in Finland see Veikko Purmonen: Orthodoxy in Finland: past and present, Kuopio: Orthodox Clergy Association, ²1984; Petri Piiroinen (ed.): Ortodoksisuutta eilen ja tänään: Helsingin Ortodoksinen seurakunta 1827-2002, Helsinki: Helsingin ortodoksinen seurakunta, 2002; Father Ambrosius and Markku Haapio (eds.): Ortodoksinen kirkko Suomessa, Heinävesi: Valamon luostari, ³1982; Heikki Kirkinen and Viktor Railas: Ortodoksisen kirkon historia, Joensuu: Ortodoksisen kirjallisuuden julkaisuneuvosto, 1987; Luntinen, Seyn, 206–9, describes this tendency as the ‘russification of the Orthodox’, 206. 47 Even today, the tsar’s visit to the cathedral – documented by one of the few surviving photographies – is memorialized in the crypt of the church. 48 Schauman’s father had been a general lieutenant in the imperial army. He himself was born during one of his father’s imperial deployments in Kharkov in the historical region of the Sloboda Ukraine. Cf. Seppo Zetterberg: Viisi laukausta senaatissa: Eugen Schaumanin elämä ja teko, Helsinki: Otava, 1986; Jussi Niinistö: Schauman, Eugen (1875-1904), in: Suomen kansallisbiografia, Helsinki: SKS, 2006, vol. 8, 736–7; on the assassination and Bobrikov’s tenure in Finland see Polvinen, Imperial Borderland, 254–67. 49 Finlands Allmänna Tidning, No. 58, 11 March 1915, 2. 50 Hbl, No. 69, 11 March 1915; Finlands Allmänna Tidning, No. 58, 11 March 1915, 2. 51 Ibid. 52 In rather typical nationalist terms, today’s name – Suomenlinna – only emerged with Finnish independence in 1918. The old Swedish name Sveaborg was retained by the Russian administration and further expanded into ‘Krepost Sveaborg’ (Russian for Sveaborg fortress). Viapori is the contemporary Finnish reference derived from the Swedish name. For the history of the fortress see Pekka Kärki et al. (eds.): Suomenlinnan rakennusten historia (Jyväskylä: Museoviraston rakennushistorian osasto, 1997); Olof af Hällström: Sveaborg/Viapori/Suomenlinna:

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54

55

56

57

58

59 60 61

Notes The Island Fortress Off Helsinki – An Architectural History, Rungsted Kyst: A. Nyborg, 1986. Melissa Kirschke Stockdale: Mobilizing the Russian Nation: Patriotism and Citizenship in the First World War, Cambridge: CUP, 2016, 150–1. Kirschke Stockdale’s general figure seems the most reliable of a host of divergent information. On the defensive planning and infrastructure, cf. John Lagerstedt: First World War Fortifications in and around Helsinki. Guide to the Landward Defence Zone of the Sveaborg Fortress, Helsinki: Helsingin kaupunginmuseo, 2015; Lasse Laaksonen (ed.): Ensimmäisen maailmansodan aikaiset linnoitukset Helsingissä, Suojeluluettelo, Helsinki: Museovirasto, 1980; Markus Manninen: Viapori. Merilinnoitus ensimmäisessä maailmansodassa 1914-1918, Helsinki: Sotamuseo, 2000; Paavo Talvio: Viaporin linnoitus ja sen tykistö vuosisadan vaihteesta vallankumoukseen, in: Sotahistoriallinen aikakausikirja 2 (1982), 155–204. In general see Leonid I. Amirchanov: Morskaja krepost’ Imperatora Petra Velikogo, St. Petersburg: Morskoi Regionalnyi Tsentr, Izdatelstvo ‘Ivanov i Leštšinski’, 1995; Jacob W. Kipp: The Imperial Russian Navy, 1696-1900: The ambigious legacy of Peter’s ‘Second Arm’, in: Frederick W. Kagan and Robert Higham (eds.): The Military History of Tsarist Russia, New York: Palgrave, 151–82; William C. Fuller: Strategy and Power in Russia 1600-1914, New York: Free Press, 1992, 394–451. Peter Gatrell: Russia’s First World War: A Social and Economic History, London: Routledge, ²2014, [?]; David R. Stone: The Russian Army in the Great War: The Eastern Front, 1914-1917, Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2015, 54–125. Bertel von Bonsdorff and Tor Smedslund: Ryska militärhospitalet i Helsingfors, Helsinki: Medica, 1969; in general on Russian nursing and military hospitals, cf. Christine E. Hallett: Veiled Warriors: Allied Nurses of the First World War, Oxford: OUP, 2014, 104–26; Gatrell, Russia’s First World War, 54–5. Hagiographic in character, but still rather detailed: Sophie Buxhoeveden: The Life and Tragedy of Alexandra Feodorovna, Empress of Russia: A Biography, London: Longmans, 1928, 102. On the tsar’s itinerary, as previously referred to, cf., among others, HS, No. 68, 11 March 1915; Hbl, No. 69, 11 March 1915; Finlands Allmänna Tidning, No. 58, 11 March 1915, 2. Wartime Correspondence, No. 178, Nicholas to Alexandra (28 February 1915). Wartime Correspondence, No. 175, Nicholas to Alexandra (25 February 1915 / 10 March 1915, 1:47pm). Jean Sibelius: Dagbok 1909-1944, ed. Fabian Dahlström (Helsinki: SLS, 2005), 9 March 1915, 221 [my translation]. Fabian Dahlström: Jean Sibelius: Thematisch-bibliographisches Verzeichnis seiner Werke, Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 2003.

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62 Ernst H. Kantorowicz: The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theology, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957, 9. 63 The grand duchy is, in any case, a fascinating example of a hybrid, whose legitimacy seems to have been derived from two of Max Weber’s sources of legitimacy, the traditional and the rational-legal, the latter being the most common form of legitimacy today, as Weber stated, ‘the belief in legality [Ger. Legalitätsglaube]: submission to rules that have emerged in a formally correct and conventional manner’. [My translation], cf. Max Weber: Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriß der verstehenden Soziologie, Tübingen: Mohr, 1972, 5th ed., 19–20 (cit.), 122–76. 64 Tuomo Polvinen: Venäjän vallankumous ja Suomi I (helmikuu 1917 – toukokuu 1918), Helsinki: WSOY, 1967, 16; Seyn, Luntinen, 281. 65 Both Seyn and Borovitinov’s fate in the revolution is strangely but symptomatically unknown, even though Seyn is rumoured to have been among the ‘great number of officers … downed in the sea between Petrograd and Kronstadt’. Cf. Luntinen, Seyn, 282–4, 284 (cit.); Pertti Luntinen: Seyn, Franz Albert, in: Kansallisbiografiaverkkojulkaisu. Studia Biographica 4. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1997- [16 August 2017]; Matti Klinge and Arto Luukkanen: Markoff, Vladimir Ivanovitsh, ibid. [16 August 2017]; Pertti Luntinen: Borovitinov, Mihail Mihailovitsh, ibid. [16 Aug 2017]. 66 Polvinen: Venäjän vallankumous ja Suomi, vols. I and II, Helsinki: WSOY, 1967; Novikova, Provisional Government and Finland, 398–421. 67 Kimmo Ikonen: J.K. Paasikiven poliittinen toiminta Suomen itsenäistymisen murrosvaiheessa, Helsinki et al.: Suomen Historiallinen Seura, 1991, 354 (cit.). 68 Alexander Rabinowitch: Prelude to Revolution: The Petrograd Bolsheviks and the July 1917 Uprising, Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1991, 177–205; Richard Pipes: The Russian Revolution, New York: Vintage, 1991, 419–31. 69 David Kirby (ed.): Finland and Russia, 1808-1920: From Autonomy to Independence. A Selection of Documents, London: Macmillan, 1975, 175–8. Besides Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous I, cf. Vesa Vares: Demokratian haasteet 1907-1919, in: Kansanvalta koetuksella. Suomen Eduskunta 100 vuotta, vol. 3, Helsinki: Edita, 2006, 9–148, especially 59–70; Aki Rasilainen: Eduskunnan hajotus 1917 historiallisen henkilötodistelun valossa, in: Klaus Lindgren (ed.): Ajankohta: Poliittisen historian vuosikirja 2007, Helsinki et al.: Helsingin yliopisto ja Turun yliopisto, 2007, 74–97. For a recent biography of Manner, see Matti Lackman: Kullervo Manner – kumouksellisen muotokuva, Somero: Amanita, 2017. 70 David Kirby, Finland and Russia, 172, 179; David Kirby: The Finnish Social Democratic Party and the Bolsheviks, Journal of Contemporary History 11 (1976), 99–113, especially 102–3. 71 Kirby, Finland and Russia, 178.

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72 Manfred Menger: Die Finnlandspolitik des deutschen Imperialismus, 1917-1918, Berlin: Militärverlag, 1974. 73 Polvinen, Venäjän vallankumous I, 96–100; Novikova, Provisional Government and Finland, 416–17. 74 For the proposals, cf. Kirby, Finland and Russia, 185–6. 75 Kirby, Finland and Russia, 200–2. 76 Kirby, Finland in the Twentieth Century, 44. 77 Haapala, Kun yhteiskunta hajosi; Alapuro, State and Revolution; see as well Pertti Haapala and Marko Tikka: Revolution, Civil War, and Terror in Finland in 1918, in: Robert Gerwarth and John Horne (eds.): War in Peace: Paramilitary Violence in Europe after the Great War, Oxford: OUP, 2012, 72–84; on the historiography, cf. Tepora/Roselius, Finnish Civil War, 1–18. 78 Juha Siltala: Sisällissodan psykohistoria, Helsinki: Otava, 2009; for a dense English summary, cf. idem: Being Absorbed into an unintended War, in: Tepora/Roselius, Finnish Civil War, 51–89. 79 Robert Gerwarth: The Vanquished: Why the First World War Failed to End, 19171923, London: Penguin, 2016.

Chapter 7 1 Dagens Nyheter, 30 January 1918; cf. Lucius to Auswärtiges Amt (hereafter AA), 31 January 1918, Gesandtschaft Stockholm 200: Aalandsfrage (Geheim), vol. 1, Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes (hereafter PA, AA), Berlin. 2 Complaining about the complexity of the Schleswig-Holstein Question, the British prime minister, Lord Palmerston, is widely accredited to have commented: ‘Only three people have ever really understood the Schleswig-Holstein business – the Prince Consort, who is dead – a German professor, who has gone mad – and I, who have forgotten all about it’. Cf. Lytton Strachey: Queen Victoria, New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co, 1921, chapter VII, paragraph 2 (without a source). 3 The Åland Islands Solution: A precedent for successful international disputes settlement, opening remarks by Patricia O’Brien, Under-Secretary-General for Legal Affairs, The Legal Council, United Nations, 17 January 2012, available at: http: //legal.un.org/ola/media/info_from_lc/POB%20Aalands%20Islands%20 Exhibition%20opening.pdf (last visited 20 July 2015). 4 Rhodri C. Williams: Book Review: The Åland Example and Its Components – Relevance for International Conflict Resolution, edited by Sia Spiliopoulou Åkermark, Nordic Journal of International Law 83, 4 (2014), 509–30, 509 (cit.). 5 James Barros: The Aland Islands Question: Its Settlement by the League of Nations, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1968.

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6 Manfred Menger: Die Finnlandpolitik des deutschen Imperialismus 1917-1918, East Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1974; Olavi Hovi: The Baltic Area in British Policy, 1918-1921, vol. 1: From the Compiègne Armistice to the Implementation of the Versailles Treaty, Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 1980; Kalervo Hovi, Cordon sanitaire or barriére de l’est?: The Emergence of the New French Eastern European Alliance Policy, 1917–1919, Turku: Turun yliopisto, 1975; Salmon: Scandinavia and the Great Powers; Esa Sundbäck: Finland in British Baltic Policy. British Political and Economic Interests Regarding Finland in the Aftermath of the First World War, 1918-1925, Helsinki: Finnish Society of Sciences and Letters, 2001; Louis Clerc: ‘Juge et partie: la France et la question de l’archipel d’Åland, 1917-1921’, in Matthieu Chillaud, ed., Les îles Åland en mer Baltique, héritage et actualité d’un régime original, Paris: L’Harmattan, 2010, 53–70; Louis Clerc: La Finlande et l’Europe du Nord dans la diplomatie française. Relations bilatérales et intérêt national dans les considérations finlandaises et nordiques des diplomates et militaires français, 1917–1940, Brussels: Peter Lang, 2011. 7 For a poignant view of this new supranational institution and its function in international law see Edwin D. Dickinson’s early intervention, anticipating the League’s constitution and self-conception by some months: ‘A League of Nations and International Law’, The American Political Science Review 12 (1918), 304–11. Alfred Zimmern, The League of Nations and the Rule of Law, 1918-1935, London: Macmillan, 1936, 277–85. For a recent assessment of international law during the war see Isabel V. Hull, A Scrap of Paper: Breaking and Making International Law during the Great War, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2014, 325–31; for a sceptical view see Stephen Wertheim: ‘The League of Nations: A Retreat from International Law?’, Journal of Global History 7, 2 (2012), 210–32. The larger context is developed in, among others, Martti Koskenniemi: The Gentle Civilizer of Nations. The Rise and Fall of International Law, 1870-1960, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002; Marcus Payk: ‘Institutionalisierung und Verrechtlichung: Die Geschichte des Völkerrechts im späten 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert’, Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 52 (2012), 861–83. 8 Martti Koskenniemi: From Apology to Utopia. The Structure of International Legal Argument, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005; Martti Koskenniemi: ‘The Politics of International Law’, European Journal of International Law 1, 1 (1990), 4–32; Martti Koskenniemi: ‘International Law and Hegemony: A Reconfiguration’, Cambridge Review of International Affairs 17, 2 (2004), 197–218; ‘Ruling the World by Law(s): The View from around 1850’, in: Martti Koskenniemi and Bo Strath (eds.): Europe 1815–1914: Creating Community and Ordering the World: The European Shadow of the Past and Future of the Present, Helsinki: University of Helsinki, 2014, 16–32. 9 Barros, Aland Islands, 3–12; Johan O. Söderhjelm: Demilitarisation et neutralisation des îles d’Aland en 1856 et 1921, Helsingfors: Mercatorstryck, 1928, 85–117; on the

184

10 11

12

13

14

Notes Treaty of Paris the relevant work still is Winfried Baumgart, Der Friede von Paris 1856, Munich: Oldenbourg, 1970; Winfried Baumgart: Europäisches Konzert und nationale Bewegung 1830-1878 (= Handbuch der Geschichte der internationalen Beziehungen, 6), Paderborn: Schöningh, 1999, 348–51. Matthew S. Anderson: The Eastern Question, 1774–1923: A Study in International Relations, London: Macmillan, 1966. Pertti Luntinen: The Baltic Question, 1903-1908, Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 71–84; David W. Sweet: ‘The Baltic in British Diplomacy before the First World War’, Historical Journal 13, 3 (1970), 451–90. Of central importance for the small neutral states are the Hague Conventions V and XIII: Convention relative to the Rights and Duties of Neutral Powers and Persons in case of War on Land resp. Convention concerning the Rights and Duties of Neutral Powers in Naval War (both 18 October 1907). The standard in this respect still is Jost Dülffer, Regeln gegen den Krieg? Die Haager Friedenskonferenzen 1899 und 1907 in der internationalen Politik, Berlin: Ullstein, 1981, 184–202, cit. 187, based on the Belgian international law expert Ernest Nys’s phrasing; see as well Maartje Abbenhuis: An Age of Neutrals. Great Power Politics 1815-1914, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014, 178–218, who makes the argument for seeing the Hague Conferences in this light more forcefully than Dülffer. Against the realist school in the tradition of Nils Ørvik see the recent position of research, as reflected in Johan den Hertog and Samuël Kruizinga, eds.: Caught in the Middle: Neutrals, Neutrality and the First World War, Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2011, 1–14; Nils Ørvik: The Decline of Neutrality 1914-1941: With Special Reference to the United States and the Northern Neutrals, London: F. Cass, 1971. On the general context see Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 162–7; Barros, Aland Islands, 60–5; Steven Koblik: ‘Sweden, 1917: Between Reform and Revolution’, in: Hans A. Schmitt (ed.): Neutral Europe between War and Revolution, 1917-1923, Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1988, 111–32; Steven Koblik: Sweden: The Neutral Victor. Sweden and the Western Powers 1917-1918, Lund: Läromedelsförlagen, 1972; Torsten Gihl: Den svenska utrikespolitikens historia IV, 1914–1919, Stockholm: Norstedts, 1951, 193–221, 392–434; Göran Rystad; ‘The Åland Question and the Balance of Power in the Baltic during the First World War’, in: Klaus-Richard Böhme, Wilhelm M. Carlgren and Göran Rystad (eds.): In Quest of Trade and Security: The Baltic in Power Politics, 1500-1990, vol. II: 1890-1990, Stockholm: Lund University Press, 1995, 51–105; Rolf Hobson: Tom Kristiansen, Nils Arne Sørensen and Gunnar Åselius, ‘Introduction. Scandinavia in the First World War’, in: Claes Ahlund (ed.): Scandinavia in the First World War. Studies in the War Experiences of the Northern Neutrals, Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2012, 9–56, here 38–9.

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15 Wilhelm M. Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz: Deutschlands Beziehungen zu Schweden in den Anfangsjahren des ersten Weltkrieges, Stockholm: Almqvist och Wiksell, 1962, 252–63; Inger Schuberth: Schweden und das Deutsche Reich im Ersten Weltkrieg: Die Aktivistenbewegung 1914-1918, Bonn: Röhrscheid, 1981, 77–84, 127–71; Mart Kuldkepp: ‘Sweden’s Historical Mission and World War I: A Regionalist Theory of Swedish Activism’, Scandinavian Journal of History 39, 1 (2014), 126–46; Göran Rystad: ‘Die deutsche Monroedoktrin der Ostsee. Die Alandsfrage und die Entstehung des deutsch-schwedischen Geheimabkommens vom Mai 1918’, in: Göran Rystad and Sven Tägil (eds.): Probleme deutscher Zeitgeschichte, Lund: Läromedelsförlagen, 1960, 1–66. 16 Carlgren, Neutralität oder Allianz, 102–22; Schuberth, Aktivistenbewegung, 39–49. Michael Jonas: ‘Activism, Diplomacy and Swedish-German Relations during the First World War’, New Global Studies 8, 1 (2014), 31–48. 17 See the detailed account in Schuberth, Aktivistenbewegung, 152–6, 159; Ghil, Den svenska utrikespolitikens historia, IV, 356–7. 18 Dagens Nyheter, 30 January 1918 (cit.); Lucius to AA, 31 January 1918, Gesandtschaft Stockholm 200: Aalandsfrage (Geheim), vol. 1, PA, AA. 19 Göran Rystad, ‘Återföreningen med moderlandet’. ‘Ålandsrörelsens uppkomst’, Scandia 38, 2 (1972), 192–217; Christer Kuvaja, Martin Hårdstedt and Pertti Hakala: Det åländska folkets historia, vol. 4: Från finska kriget till Ålandsrörelsen 1808-1920, Mariehamn: Ålands kulturstiftelse, 2008. 20 Rystad, ‘Monroesdoktrin’, 21–2; Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 164–5. 21 John Stuart Mill, ‘A Few Words on Non-Intervention’ (1859), in: John Stuart (ed.): Mill, Dissertations and Discussions: Political, Philosophical, and Historical, vol. 3, London : Longmans Green, 1875, 153–78; succinctly in foreign minister Hellner’s Memorandum on the government’s policies vis-à-vis Finland and not least Åland: Johannes Hellner, Memorandum rörande Sveriges politik i förhållande till Finland under tiden från Finlands självständighetsförklaring till det finska inbördeskrigets slut, Stockholm: Nortsedts, 1936, here 8–10, 27–37; see as well the Swedish blue book justifying the Swedish government’s actions in early 1918: Ålandsuppgörelsen, Stockholm: Norstedts, 1918; Barros, Aland Islands, 75–84. 22 Chief proponent of such a strategy was the Swedish minister of marine, the social democrat Erik Palmstierna, who has left a dense journal for the period: Orostid. Politiska dagboksanteckningar, 2 vols., Stockholm: Tidens, 1952–3, here vol. 2, 127–54; Barros, Aland Islands, 76–84; Schuberth, Aktivistenbewegung, 162–5; Rystad, ‘Monroedoktrin’, 23–8. 23 Representative examples include Lucius to AA, 8 January 1918, Lucius’s press release, 7 February 1918, or – for royal diplomacy – the correspondence of the Swedish queen Viktoria with Wilhelm II, 11 and 30 December 1917, 22 and 25 February 1918, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA.

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24 Menger, Finnlandpolitik, 128–35; Barros, Aland Islands, 84–9. 25 Victoria to Wilhelm II, 22 February 1918, and the latter’s evasive response, 25 February 1918, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA; Menger, Finnlandpolitik, 135–6. 26 The German-Swedish Eckerö Agreement of 6 March 1918 provided for a diplomatic de-escalation between Stockholm and Berlin. For the agreement see Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt, ed., Der Krieg zur See 1914-1918, part 2: Der Krieg in der Ostsee, vol. 3: Von Anfang 1916 bis zum Ende, Berlin: Mittler, 1964, 359–63; Schuberth, Aktivistenbewegung, 166–7; for the decision-making in Berlin see – in detail – Winfried Baumgart, Deutsche Ostpolitik 1918, Munich: Oldenbourg, 1966, 94–8. 27 Schuberth, Aktivistenbewegung, 41–4. 28 On Finnish Activism, largely the Jäger movement, see Agilolf Kesselring, Des Kaisers “finnische Legion”: die finnische Jägerbewegung im Ersten Weltkrieg im Kontext der deutschen Finnlandpolitik, Berlin: Berliner Wissenschaftsverlag, 2005; Matti Lackman: Suomen vai Saksan puolesta?: jääkäreiden tuntematon historia, Keuruu: Otava, 2000; Markku Kuisma: Sodasta syntynyt. Itsenäisen Suomen synty Sarajevon laukauksista Tarton rauhaan 1914-1920, Helsinki: Siltala, 2010, 83–144. Gummerus published his own account of the Åland crisis, primarily as a counterstatement to Hellner’s Memorandum: Sverige och Finland 1917/18, Stockholm: Schildts, 1936. 29 The literature on what Rudolf Nadolny, one of the AA’s foremost Eastern specialists, labelled the German Patenschaft (godparenthood resp. sponsorship) of Finnish independence is vast: see Osmo Apunen, ‘Deutschland und die finnische Freiheitsbewegung 1914-1915’, in: Ernst Schulin (ed.): Gedenkschrift für Martin Göhring: Studien zur europäischen Geschichte, Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1968, 301–16; Menger, Finnlandpolitik, 17–63; Baumgart, Ostpolitik, 93–9; Ludwig Biewer, ‘Rudolf Nadolny und Ernst von Hülsen und die deutsche Patenschaft bei der Geburt des souveränen Finnland 1917/18’, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 42, 4 (1994), 562–72; on the international context see Juhani Paasivirta, The Victors in World War I and Finland : Finland’s Relations with the British, French and United States Governments in 1918-1919, Helsinki: Suomen Historiallinen Seura, 1965; Kalervo Hovi: ‘The Winning of Finnish Independence as an Issue of International Relations’, Scandinavian Journal of History 3, 1 (1978), 47–73. 30 For Lucius’s position against, among others, the OHL see Lucius to AA, 8 January 1918, 19 February 1918, 7 March 1918, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA; Note Under Secretary of State Hilmar von dem Bussche-Haddenhausen, 7 March 1918, R 10168: Rußland 63 Nr. 1 secr.: Die Ålandinseln, vol. 8, PA, AA; Schuberth, Aktivistenbewegung, 144–71; Menger, Finnlandpolitik, 112–69; for Howard see

Notes

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32

33

34

187

Sundbäck, Finland in British Baltic Policy, 112; B. J. C. McKercher: Esme Howard: A Diplomatic Biography, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989, 132–96, especially 190–4; Michael Jonas: ‘Neutral Allies, Immoral Pariahs? Scandinavian Neutrality, International Law, and the Great Power Politics in the First World War’, in: Gearóid Barry, Róisín Healy and Enrico Dal Lago (eds.): Small Nations and Colonial Peripheries in World War I: Europe and the Wider World, Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2016, 92–106. Rafael Erich’s memorandum on the Åland question, Langwerth to Lucius, 17 February 1918, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA; see as well Rafael Erich, Die finnische Frage vor und nach der russischen Revolution, Berlin: Rütten & Loening, 1918. On Erich see Vesa Vares, ‘Rafael Erich’, in: Suomen kansallisbiografia (ed.): by Matti Klinge, Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2002, vol. 2, 617–19; Jan Hecker-Stampehl: Vereinigte Staaten des Nordens. Integrationsideen in Nordeuropa im Zweiten Weltkrieg, Munich: Oldenbourg 2011, 263–8. The official Finnish position is reflected in: La question des Îles d’Aland (octobre 1920): Documents diplomatiques publiés par le Ministère des affaires étrangères, Helsingfors: Impr. du gouvernement, 1920; on the context see Barros, Aland Islands, 116–20; Sia Spiliopoulou Åkermark: ‘The Åland Islands Question in the League of Nations: The Ideal Minority Case?’, Redescriptions: Yearbook of Political Thought, Conceptual History and Feminist Theory 13 (2009), 195–205, 200. Well reflected in the official documentation of the Swedish foreign ministry: Aktstycken utgivna av Kungl. Utrikesdepartementet: Ålandsfrågan inför Nationernas förbund, Stockholm: Norstedts, 1920–1; Barros, Aland Islands, 99–145; Spiliopoulou Åkermark, ‘Åland Islands Question’, 199. Wilhelm to Victoria, 30 December 1917, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 1, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA. Although departing from a wholly different angle, Woodrow Wilson arrived at rather compatible conclusions with Lenin’s The Rights of Nations to Self-Determination (1914). Wilson’s Fourteen Points, accompanied by Lloyd George’s earlier and differently accentuated intervention outlining Allied War Aims, are well discussed in Patrick O. Cohrs: The Unfinished Peace after World War I: America, Britain and the Stabilisation of Europe, 1919-1932, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006, 30–45; see as well Allen Lynch: ‘Woodrow Wilson and the Principle of “National Self-Determination”: A Reconsideration’, Review of International Studies 28, 2 (2002), 419–36; on the wider implications and tradition see Jörg Fisch: Das Selbstbestimmungsrecht der Völker: die Domestizierung einer Illusion, Munich: Beck, 2010, 144–57. Press release of Lucius, 7 February 1918, including protocol Kühlmann/Trotzki, Brest-Litovsk (without date), Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln

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35 36 37

38 39 40

Notes (Geheim), vol. 1, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA. Kreuz-Zeitung, 72, 9 February 1918. On Brest-Litovsk see the classic studies of Winfried Baumgart: Deutsche Ostpolitik 1918 – Von Brest-Litowsk bis zum Ende des Ersten Weltkrieges, Munich: Oldenbourg, 1966; Winfried Baumgart: ‘Brest-Litovsk und Versailles. Ein Vergleich zweier Friedensschlüsse’, Historische Zeitschrift 210, 3 (1970), 583–619; for the Finnish case see Kalervo Hovi: ‘Das Nationalitätsprinzip und die Entstehung der finnischen Selbstständigkeit’, in: Theodor Schieder and Peter Alter (eds.): Staatsgründungen und Nationalitätsprinzip, Munich: Oldenbourg, 1974, 57–64; Tuomo Polvinen: ‘Lenin’s Nationality Policy and Finland’, Yearbook of Finnish Foreign Policy 5 (1978), 3–8; partly opposed by Eino Ketola: ‘Die Anerkennung der finnischen Unabhängigkeit durch Sowjet-Rußland im Jahre 1917. Revolutionäre Ziele und Nationalitätenpolitik in der Praxis’, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 37 (1989), 45–64. AA to Lucius, 13 January 1919, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 3, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA. Lucius to AA, 2 October 1919, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 3, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA. Nadolny to AA, 2 June 1920, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 3, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA; State Secretary Haniel to Nadolny, 9 Jun. 1920, ibid., with the explicit instruction to refrain from pursuing any initiative with regard to Åland, unless requested by both Sweden and Finland. AA to Nadolny, 2 December 1920, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 3, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA. Trautmann to AA, 18 October 1921, Gesandtschaft Stockholm S II 14: Aalandinseln (Geheim), vol. 3, Gesandtschaftsakten Stockholm, PA, AA. Max Fleischmann: Die Alandfrage: Eine Denkschrift, Berlin: Springer, 1918; Friedrich Vortisch: Die Ålandfrage, ihre Entwicklung aus Natur und Geschichte Nordosteuropas: juristische Würdigung der um sie erwachsenen Völkerrechtsakte, Berlin: Carl Heymanns, 1933; see as well the numerous university theses published in the 1920s and early 1930s, among them the works of Wilhelm Neuhäuser, Maximilian Boeck, Hans Steinmayr, Josef Russ, Edmund Sinn, Philipp Remsperger, and the early Kiel school of international law, primarily Theodor Niemeyer: ‘Die völkerrechtliche Lage der Aalandsinseln’, Deutsche Politik 1 (1916), 1049–54; Emil Dieckmann: Das Völkerrecht der Ålandinselfrage und die Lehre von den Staatsservituten (diss. jur.: Kiel University, 1924). I owe the references to the Kiel Institut für Internationales Recht (today’s Walther Schücking Institute of International Law) to Andreas von Arnauld, the institute’s current director; further references can be found in Fritz Meyen: Die nordeuropäischen Länder im Spiegel der deutschen Universitätsschriften 1885-1957: Eine Bibliographie, Bonn: Bouvier, 1958, 56.

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41 Report by the International Committee of Jurists entrusted by the Council of the League of Nations with the task of giving an advisory opinion upon the legal aspects of the Aaland island question, League of Nations, Official Journal, Special Supplement No. 3, October 1920; for the contemporary British reporting see Report by Mr. Balfour presented to and adopted by the Council of the League of Nations Meeting in Brussels on October 20th, 1920, 2 November 1920, National Archives [NA]: CAB/24/114. For a detailed legal discussion see Urs Saxer, Die internationale Steuerung der Selbstbestimmung und der Staatsentstehung: Selbstbestimmung, Konfliktmanagement, Anerkennung und Staatennachfolge in der neueren Völkerrechtspraxis, Heidelberg: Springer, 2010, 93–7; Barros, Aland Islands, 281–8. 42 Cit. in Peter J. Yearwood: Guarantee of Peace: The League of Nations in British Policy, 1914-1925, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009, 181. 43 Summary of the Report of the League of Nations Commission, 24 May 1921, NA: CAB/24/123. 44 Report by Mr Balfour presented to and adopted by the Council of the League of Nations Meeting in Brussels on 20 October 1920, 2 November 1920, NA: CAB/24/114. 45 Peter Roethke: ‘The Right to Secede Under International Law: The Case of Somaliland’, Journal of International Service 20, 2 (2011), 35–48 (cit.); on the context see Christian Tomuschat: ‘Secession and Self-Determination’, in: Marcelo Kohen (ed.): Secession: International Law Perspectives, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006, 23–45. The most comprehensive discussion is found in Saxer, Selbstbestimmung, 13–38, 79–86, 201–6, and Fisch, Selbstbestimmungsrecht, 51–5. 46 Saxer, Selbstbestimmung, 100. 47 Yearwood, Guarantee of Peace, 182. 48 Decision of the Council of the League of Nations on the Åland Islands including Sweden’s Protest (both 24 June 1921), League of Nations, Official Journal, Sep. 1921, 697; for the so-called Åland Agreement in the Council of the League of Nations of 27 June 1921, ibid., 701. The 1856 servitude was renewed and further expanded shortly thereafter in the Convention relating to the Non-Fortification and Neutralisation of the Aaland Islands, Geneva, 20 October 1921, ratified even by Germany on 6 April 1922; Treaty Series: League of Nations, vol. 9, 211; reprinted in the annex of Frank Horn and Lauri Hannikainen, eds.: Autonomy and Demilitarisation in International Law: The Aland Islands in a Changing Europe, Leiden: Brill, 1997, 297–9; Barros, Aland Islands, 304–18. 49 Spiliopoulou Åkermark, ‘Åland Islands Question’, 202. 50 Yearwood, Guarantee of Peace, 182, who cites British foreign secretary George Curzon at the 21 Imperial Conference. 51 On the occasionally distinctly hostile British perception of Swedish neutrality see Jonas, ‘Neutral Allies, Immoral Pariahs?’, 92–106.

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52 Cohrs, The Unfinished Peace, 60. 53 Tore Modeen: De folkrättsliga garantierna för bevarandet av Ålandsöarnas nationella karaktär, Mariehamn Ålands kulturstiftelse, 1973, 36–7; Finn Seyerstedt: ‘The Åland Autonomy and International Law’, Nordic Journal of International Law 51, 1 (1982), 23–8; Saxer, Selbstbestimmung, 97–101. 54 Seyerstedt, ‘Åland Autonomy’, 24. 55 Niklas Luhmann: Legitimation durch Verfahren, Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2001, 6th ed., originally 1969. 56 Curzon cited in Barros, Aland Islands, 229. 57 F. Gregory Campbell: ‘The Struggle for Upper Silesia, 1919-1922’, Journal of Modern History 42, 3 (1970), 361–85; T. Hunt Tooley, National Identity and Weimar Germany: Upper Silesia and the Eastern Border, 1918-1922, Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1997; for the general discourse on the borders of Germany see Vanessa Conze: ‘“Unverheilte Brandwunden in der Außenhaut des Volkskörpers”. Der deutsche Grenz-Diskurs der Zwischenkriegszeit (1919-1930)’, in: Wolfgang Hardtwig (ed.): Ordnungen in der Krise. Zur politischen Kulturgeschichte Deutschlands 1900-1933, Munich: Oldenbourg, 2007, 21’48. 58 On the Schleswig plebiscites see recently Nina Jebsen and Martin Klatt: ‘The Negotiation of National and Regional Identity during the Schleswig Plebiscite following the First World War’, First World War Studies 5, 2 (2014), 181–211. 59 Jussi Niinistö: Heimosotien historia 1918-1922, Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2005; for the Tartu Peace see League of Nations Treaty Series, vol. 3 (1921), 5–79; Richard K. Debo, Survival and Consolidation: The Foreign Policy of Soviet Russia, 1918-1921, Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992, 119–46. 60 A similar argument, though largely focused on the post-imperial periphery outside Europe, has recently been made by the themed issue The League of Nations and the Construction of the Periphery of the Leiden, Journal of International Law 24, 4 (2011), eds. Fleur Johns, Thomas Skouteris and Wouter Werner; see Introduction, 797–8; Derek H. Aldcroft: Europe’s Third World: the European Periphery in the Interwar Years, Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006, 39–67. 61 Douglas V. Verney, Parliamentary Reform in Sweden, 1866-1921, Oxford: Clarendon, 1957, 202–14; Dankwart A. Rustow, The Politics of Compromise: A Study of Parties and Cabinet Government in Sweden, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1955, 43–89. 62 Salmon, Scandinavia and the Great Powers, 174–9, 174 (cit.). 63 S. Shepard Jones: The Scandinavian States and the League of Nations, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1939 [1969]; Karen Gram-Skjoldager and Øyvind Tønnesson: ‘Unity and Divergence: Scandinavian Internationalism 1914–1921’, Contemporary European History 17, 3 (2008), 301–24.

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64 Decision of the Council of the League of Nations on the Åland Islands including Sweden’s Protest (both 24 June 1921), League of Nations, Official Journal, September 1921, 697. 65 The already changing patterns of perception and politics among the Swedish elites are neatly analysed in: Gunnar Åselius, The “Russian Menace” to Sweden. The Belief System of a Small Power Security Elite in the Age of Imperialism, Stockholm: Almqvist&Wiksell, 1994. 66 ‘Außenpolitik und Öffentlichkeit seit dem 19. Jahrhundert’ (conference report), 2–4 February 2012, Gießen, H-Soz-Kult, 22 March 2012, available at www.hsozkult. de/conferencereport/id/tagungsberichte-4164 (last visited on 12 June 2016). On the public as an analytical category in international history see Friedrich Kießling: ‘(Welt-) Öffentlichkeit’, in: Wilfried Loth and Jost Dülffer (eds.): Dimensionen internationaler Geschichte, Munich: Oldenbourg, 2012, 85–105. 67 Wertheim, ‘League of Nations’, 210–32.

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Index Abbenhuis, Maartje 16 activism 7, 55–6 Finland 55, 58–61, 88–9, 94, 102, 107, 119–20 Sweden 24–5, 29, 31–3, 40, 52, 56–66, 116–19, 128, 146 n.63, 156 n.11 Acton, John Emerich Edward (Lord) 88, 172 n.2 Aegean Sea 9 Aeschylus 169 n.54 Ahtola Nielsen, Jan 38 aktivistboken 156 n.11, 161 n.49 Åland Convention (League of Nations, 1921) 8–9, 112–13, 115–16, 122–9 Åland Convention (Treaty of Paris, 1856) 92, 114, 122 Åland Islands 7–9, 20, 32, 57–60, 92, 94, 111–29 Ålandsrörelsen 117, 121, 124 Alapuro, Risto 98, 109 Alexander I (Russia) 103 Alexander II (Russia) 95 Alexander-Nevsky-Church 103 Alexandra, princess (Denmark) 47 Alexandra Feodorovna, empress (Russia) 104 America (including United States) 73, 79 Anglophilia 48 Annales 17 anti-Semitism 71–2, 74, 86, 100–1, 166 nn.24, 26, 27, 167 n.37, 178 n.42, 178 n.43 Arbetartåg (Workers’ March) 25 Archer, William 81–3, 85, 170 n.66 aristocracy 56, 64, 69, 95, 102 ‘aristocratic radicalism’ 69, 79 Armenians 93, 169 n.47 Åselius, Gunnar 20, 191 n.65 Asia 73, 81 Asquith, H. H. 81

Athens 9–10 Augusterlebnis 96 Austro-Hungarian Empire 12, 30, 55, 80, 83, 86, 92–4, 97, 99, 125, 172 n.2 Bacon, Francis 132 n.7 Baden, House of 48, 58 Baden, kingdom of 23 Baden, Max von 64 balance of power (including equilibrium) 22, 75, 113–14, 125–7 Balkans. See South-Eastern Europe Baltic Agreement (1908) 115 Baltic Commission (Allied Supreme Council) 123 Baltic Exhibition (Malmö 1914) 43–4, 49 Baltic Fleet (Imperial Russia) 94, 99–100, 106 Baltic-German 27 Baltic provinces (Imperial Russian governorates Livland, Estland, Courland) 91–2 Baltic Sea (including region) 1, 4, 20–1, 42, 59–60, 92, 94, 108, 110–15, 121–2, 125, 127, 166 n.28 bark beetle 17 Barros, James 112 Becker, Jean-Jacques 175 n.22 Bédier, Joseph 78 Belgium 19, 25, 56, 76, 78–9, 82 Benckendorff, Paul von 99 Berlin ix, 7, 20, 23, 25–9, 32–3, 43, 47–8, 53, 56, 58–65, 70–2, 76, 81, 85, 93, 108, 112–14, 116–23 Bessarabia 91, 101 Bethmann Hollweg, Theobald 48, 62, 64 Billing, Gottfrid 49 biological warfare (Germany) 26–8 Björkö, Treaty of (1905) 114 Bjørnson, Bjørnstjerne 70, 164 n.11 Bloch, Marc 4–5

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Bobrikov, Nikolai I. 91, 102 Bolsheviks 107–9, 117 Bondetåget (peasant armament support march) 24 Borggårdskrisen (courtyard crisis) 24, 57 Borovitinov, Mikhail 106 Bourguignon, Annie 72, 86 Brandes, Edvard 75, 80, 164 n.11, 164 n.14 Brandes, Georg 7–8, 67–86, 163 n.6, 167 n.34, 169 n.54 Branting, Hjalmar 116, 118, 127–8, 156 n.11 Brechtken, Magnus 11, 134 n.17 Brest-Litovsk, Peace of 121 Briand, Aristide 80 Brøchner, Hans 70 Brockdorff-Rantzau, Ulrich von 29 Bruce Lockhart, R. H. 31 buffer zone (general) 19–20, 87, 120–1, 126 Bulgaria 66 Bülow, Bernhard von 157 n.18 Burckhardt, Jacob 10 Caliban 78 Cannadine, David 37 Carlgren, Wilhelm 157 n.17, 158 n.22 Carr, E. H. 13, 137 n.45 Castrén, Jonas 63 Cecil, Robert 124, 126 Central and Eastern Europe (including Central Eastern Europe) 55–6, 87, 89–90, 110, 119, 121, 127 Central Powers 25, 29, 32, 57, 59, 97, 121 Charles XII (Sweden) 61 Charles XV (Sweden) 21 Christen Eliassen, Georg 144 n.39 Christian IX (Denmark) 46–7 Christian X (Denmark) 29, 35, 40–2, 44–7, 49, 84, 150 n.24 Churchill, Winston 11, 135 n.29 Clemenceau, Georges 76–8, 81–3, 85, 168 n.45, 169 nn.47, 51 Clerc, Louis ix, 112 Cohn, Einar 29 Cold War 14 collective security 34 Collingwood, R. G. 132 n.7

Congress of Vienna 13 conservatism 7, 47, 57, 63, 70, 73, 87, 97, 107–8, 119, 128 Constantinople 92 constitution Denmark 71 Finland 90, 93, 105–8, 120 Norway 47 Russia 90, 98 Sweden 24, 127 constitutional monarchy 47, 90, 98 Copenhagen 22, 28–9, 40, 51, 68–9, 77, 81–2, 122 Copenhagen Convention (1857) 29 Copernicus, Nicolaus 79 Council (League of Nations) 124–6, 128 Council of Four (also ‘Big Four’) 13, 115 Council of Ministers (Russia) 93 Covenant (League of Nations) 128 Crimean War 112, 114 Curzon, George 126 Czechoslovakia 127 Dagens Nyheter 46, 111 Danish straits 28 Dannebrog (royal Danish yacht) 41–2 Dehoi, Ludwig 12, 133 n.16 Denmark 1, 2, 4, 6–7, 19–21, 23, 28–9, 35, 38–45, 47, 49, 53, 68–72, 75–82, 84, 86, 93, 127, 144 n.42, 165 n.14, 167 nn.38, 39, 168 n.46, 172 n.82 Det moderne gjennembrud (Brandes) 69 diplomacy 5–6, 14–16, 20, 22–3, 28–31, 33, 36–56, 59–62, 64–6, 85, 112–14, 119, 134 n.18, 155 n.3 congress (including ‘Concert’) diplomacy 12–14, 136 n.43 counter-diplomacy 25, 56 economic diplomacy 6–7, 11, 24 League of Nations 112, 115–16, 122 public diplomacy 120 royal diplomacy 6, 29, 35–54 Douglas, Ludvig 49, 58, 62, 117–18 Douglas, Robert 59, 62 Dreyfus Affair 72 driftwood (metaphor) 1, 131 n.1 Düppel (Dybbøl) 84 Dupuis, Emile 1, 2, 77, 131 n.2 Duroselle, Jean Baptiste 12

Index Easter Crisis (Denmark) 47 Eckerö (including Eckerö Agreement) 118, 186 n.26 Edén, Nils 116, 118, 127 Eduskunta (Finnish parliament) 89–91, 106–9 Edward VII (United Kingdom) 47 Enckell, Carl 106, 108 Entente 1, 13, 25–6, 28–9, 33, 40, 61, 75–7, 80–1, 85, 122, 125, 156 n.11 Erich, Rafael 107, 121 Essay on Aristocratic Radicalism (Brandes) 69 Essen, Nikolai von 100 Estonia 126 Europe 1–6, 11–13, 19–21, 25, 37, 40, 45, 49–50, 52, 55–6, 67–81, 83, 85, 92, 96–7, 121–3, 127–8, 135 n.29, 136 n.43, 154 n.1, 190 n.60 Europe-in-Between (Ger. Zwischeneuropa) 87 Fahrmeir, Andreas 129 Faroe Islands 4 February Manifesto (1899) 89–91, 93 A Few Words on Non-Intervention (Mill) 118 Findlay, Mansfeldt 30, 40 Finland (including Grand Duchy of Finland) 1, 2, 4, 7–8, 20, 27, 32, 50, 53, 55, 57–61, 78, 87–112, 116–28, 131 n.1, 140 n.8, 146 n.61, 154 n.1, 159 n.25, 160 n.33, 173 n.6, 176 n.24, 177 n.30, 178 n.37, 179 nn.46, 48, 179 n.52, 185 n.21, 188 n.37 Finnish army 32, 59 Finnish civil war 59, 87–9, 109, 117–18, 124 Finnish Guards’ Rifle Battalion 95 Finnish Workers’ Association (Suomalainen työväenliitto) 101 Fisher, H. A. L. 124 Fleischmann, Max 123 Ford, Henry 79 foreign office (Germany, Auswärtiges Amt) 28, 33, 58–62, 64, 120, 122, 146 n.61, 158 n.22 Foreign Office (United Kingdom) 30–1, 40, 120

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foreign trade (Northern Europe) 26, 53, 93–4 Forsgren, Emil 101 France 1, 11, 68–73, 76, 78–80, 83, 85, 93, 96–7, 114–16, 122–3, 126–7, 165 n.17, 168 n.45, 169 n.51, 172 n.86, 178 n.40 Francophilia 58, 60 Fredensborg 41 Frederick II (Prussia) 12 Frederick III (Germany) 76 Fredrik VII (Denmark) 43 Fredrik VIII (Denmark) 44 Funen 29 Futurist Manifesto 96 Galicia 78, 99, 104 Gardie, Robert de la 44, 49 geopolitics (including geostrategy) 13, 19, 21, 26, 29, 53, 57–8, 108, 111, 114, 126–7 Gerich, Walter von (alias Friedrich Walter von Rautenfels) 27 German atrocities in Belgium 76, 78, 82 Germanophilia 27, 53, 57, 62, 75, 77 German terrorist and sabotage operations 26–8 Germany (including Wilhelmine Empire) 1, 3, 5–6, 12, 19–20, 22–3, 25–33, 40, 42–4, 47–8, 53, 55–65, 67–9, 71–3, 75–85, 87–8, 90, 92–4, 96, 108, 114–23, 125, 127, 132 n.10, 133 n.15, 136 n.35, 144 n.38, 147 n.4, 149 n.10, 155 n.5, 156 n.11, 157 n.17, 158 n.24, 160 n.39, 161 n.50, 163 n.5, 166 n.24, 168 n.44, 170 n.66, 175 n.22, 186 n.29 Gerwarth, Robert 110 Gesellschaftsgeschichte 17 Glücksburg, House of 45 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 79 Gothenburg 41 great power 2–3, 5–6, 8–16, 19–24, 29–30, 40, 42, 45, 53, 56, 72, 74, 79, 81, 86, 92, 111–15, 120, 129, 156 n.10, 169 n.49 The Great Powers (Ranke) 11–12 Greenland 4 Grey, Edward 81 Grigorovich, Ivan 100

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Gstöhl, Sieglinde 13, 15 Gulf of Bothnia 20, 111 Gulf of Finland 20, 91, 99, 104, 112 Gummerus, Hermann 119, 186 n.28 Gustav V (Sweden) 23–4, 28–9, 35, 44–9, 52, 57–8, 62, 64–5, 116–17, 152 n.49 Haakon VII (Norway) 28, 35, 40–1, 44–7, 49, 150 n.31 Haapala, Pertti 109 Habsburg. See Austro-Hungarian Empire Hague Conventions (1899/1907) 33, 51, 123, 129, 184 n.12 Hague Peace Conferences (1899/1907) 16, 31, 91, 115, 129, 145 n.54, 146 n.66, 184 n.12 Hammarskjöld, Hjalmar 25, 31, 52, 58, 60–2, 65, 116 Handel, Michael 12, 135 n.25, 138 n.57 Hanko 103 Harrow School 30 Hedin, Sven 24, 57, 61, 67, 163 n.5 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 70 Heimdal (Danish cruiser) 41–2 Hellner, Johannes 116 Helsingin sanomat 99 Helsinki viii, ix, 58, 90, 94–104, 106, 112 Helsinki City Council 100 Helsinki Technical University 103 Hemstad, Ruth 38, 51, 149 n.14, 151 n.40 Henry the Lion, duke of Saxony and Bavaria 12 Herslow, Carl 44 Hertog, Johan den 10, 16, 135 n.25 Hesselberg Bjercke, Andreas 144 n.39 Heym, Georg 96 Hintze, Paul von 28, 144 n.38 historiography (Nordic) 2–3, 35–6, 38, 66, 87–9, 112 Hjelt, Edvard 119 Hoeres, Peter 67, 175 n.22 Hohenlockstedt 27, 88 Hoppu, Tuomas 88 Hör oss, Svea! 50 Hovedstrømninger i det 19de Aarhundredes Litteratur (Brandes) 69 Hovi, Kalervo 112

Howard, Esme 30–1, 39–40, 52, 58, 120, 157 n.15 Hufvudstadsbladet 99 ‘Hun Speech’ (Hunnenrede) 76 Ibsen, Henrik 70 Iceland 4 Ihlen, Nils Claus 29, 35, 152 n.44 Imperial Alexander University (including University of Helsinki) viii, ix, 100, 102–3, 178 n.39 Imperial Finnish Senate (Keisarillinen Suomen senaatti, Finland) 90, 95, 100, 102, 104, 106–9 Imperial German Army (including Supreme Army Command, Oberste Heeresleitung) 27, 32, 58, 60, 88, 99 Imperial German Navy (including Supreme Naval Command, Seekriegsleitung) 26, 74, 118, 122 Imperial Palace (Helsinki) 104 Imperial Russian Army 88, 95, 97, 100, 102 Imperial Russian Navy 100, 103 independence (Finland) 8, 87–9, 106–9, 117, 119, 146 n.61; (Norway) 8, 20 internationalism 24, 33, 37, 115, 123 international law 5–6, 8, 13, 23–5, 31–2, 34, 51, 57, 59, 85, 111–15, 118, 121, 123–4, 128–9, 139 n.61, 141 n.17, 146 n.67, 183 n.7, 184 n.12, 188 n.40 international system 2, 6, 8, 10–15, 17, 21, 37, 85–6, 112–13, 115, 120, 129, 135 n.21, 137 n.48, 138 n.51 Italy 66, 73, 96 Jäger movement (including KöniglichPreußisches Jäger-Bataillon Nr. 27) 27, 32, 59, 61, 88–9, 94 Jagow, Gottlieb von 48, 58, 59, 61, 64, 158 n.18 James, Alan 56 Japan 81, 91 Järte, Otto 57, 62, 156 n.11 Jensen, Johannes V. 75 Johansson, Gustaf 103 Johnson, Samuel 170 n.54

Index Judaism 68, 71–2, 86, 166 n.24; (Jews in Finland) 100–1, 178 n.42 July Crisis 23, 59, 66 Jussila, Osmo 98, 154 n.1, 177 n.30 Jutland 19, 29 Kant, Immanuel 79 Kantorowicz, Ernst 105 Karelia 102 Karl XIV Johan (Sweden) 43–4 Kenan, Ernest 78 Kennedy, Paul 12 Keohane, Robert O. 12 Kerensky, Alexander 108 Kharkov 179 n.48 Kierkegaard, Søren 70–1, 85 The King's Two Bodies 105 Kirby, David 97, 109 Kjellén, Rudolf 57, 137 n.47 Klinge, Matti viii, 98, 154 n.1, 177 n.30 Knudsen, Jørgen 84 Kockum, Louise 44 Koskenniemi, Martti 16, 113 Krechet (flagship, Russian Baltic Fleet) 106 ‘Krieg der Geister’ 67, 81, 162 n.1 ‘Kriegsfall Norwegen’ 26 Kristiania (Oslo) 22, 26–30, 35–6, 39–41, 46, 49–51, 53–4, 115, 144 n.39 Kristianiafjord 28 Kruizinga, Samuël ix, 10, 16, 135 n.25 Kruunajaiskantaatti (Sibelius) 105 Kühlmann, Richard von 64 Kungssången 49 Landsting (Åland) 124 Larnaude, Fernand 123 Larsen, Karl 75, 168 n.44 Larsson, Yngve 57, 64 Larvik (municipality) 28 Latvia 126 Laval, Pierre 11, 135 n.29 League of Nations 8–9, 34, 47, 112–14, 116, 121–9, 183 n.7 Le Figaro 96 ‘Legalitätsglaube’ (Weber) 181 n.63 Legitimität durch Verfahren 126 Lemberg 78

227

Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich 89, 108, 121, 187 n.33 L'Homme enchaîné 77, 169 n.51 liberalism 68, 73, 76, 86, 129 Sweden (including Liberala samlingspartiet) 24–5, 31, 33, 47, 57–8, 60, 63, 116, 118, 127–9 Lindelöf, Oscar 99 Lithuania 126–7 Litteraturen 82 Locarno, Treaty of 127 London ix, 20, 26, 30, 112–14, 116, 118, 120, 122, 124, 127 Lucius von Stoedten, Hellmuth 23, 30, 32–3, 59–65, 120, 122, 146 n.63, 158 n.22, 159 n.29, 160 n.39, 160 n.43 Ludendorff, Erich 32, 58, 60, 63, 118, 120, 159 n.25 Luhmann, Niklas 126 Lund 49–51 Luntinen, Pertti 93 Lutheranism (including Lutheran Church) 51, 100, 102–3 Lysander, Albert 51 Madrid 30 Malmö 29, 35–6, 38–9, 41–6, 48–54, 152 n.44 Mannerheim, Carl Gustav Emil 95 Marguerre, Hans 27 Maria Feodorovna, dowager empress 104 Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso 96 Markov, Vladimir A. 106–7 Marshall, Robert 22–3, 29 Märtha, crown princess, later queen (Norway) 152 n.49 Marxism 17 Maud, Queen of Norway 47–8 Mazower, Mark 34 Mazzini, Giuseppe 97 Melian Dialogue (History of the Peloponnesian War) 9–11, 135 n.27 Melos, siege of 9–10 Mencken, H. L. 67 Menger, Manfred 112 merchant fleet (Norway) 26, 28

228

Index

Michahelles, Gustav 28 militarism 32, 72–5, 96 Mill, John Stuart 70–1, 165 n.17 Minnehallen (Norway) 28 Modeen, Tore 126 modernism 7–8, 68–71, 73, 76, 83, 96, 164 n.11, 167 n.30 Molière 79 Molin, Adrian 62, 160 n.39 Mommsen, Wolfgang 65 Morgenthau, Hans 14, 138 n.51 Moscow 102, 135 n.29 Nadolny, Rudolf 27, 122, 146 n.61 Napoleonic era 20–1 nationalism 7, 37, 44–5, 49, 54, 67, 71–3, 78, 84, 92–3, 101 Finland 7–8, 32, 55, 58–60, 87–8, 94, 98, 100, 109, 119, 124 Sweden 7, 57 nationalities policies 93 Prussia/Germany 84 Russia, (including ‘Russification’ in Finland) 89–90, 93, 101, 106, 112, 120, 172 n.4, 174 n.13 ‘nationalizing empire’ 93, 174 n.13 naval blockade (Britain) 26, 30–1, 97, 157 n.17 Neff, Stephen C. 16 Nekrasov, Nikolai V. 108 Nepenin, Andrian 106 Netherlands 19, 30, 134 n.19 Neumann, Iver B. 13, 15 neutrality ix, 5–7, 9, 16, 19, 21–6, 28–9, 31–6, 39–40, 46, 51–3, 56–7, 60–1, 64, 68, 75–7, 81–2, 85, 92, 115–17, 133 n.16 Newton, Isaac 79 New York 68, 112 Nicholas I (Russia) 102 Nicholas II (Russia) 95, 97–106, 114 Nietzsche, Friedrich 69–71, 74, 79, 85 Nobel Prize 75, 128 Nordic cooperation 3–4, 36, 38, 52, 117 Nordic ministerial meetings 35, 53, 149 n.14 Norrmén, Alfred 100

North Schleswig 76, 84, 169 n.48, 172 n.82. See also Schleswig-Holstein question North Sea 20–1, 31, 115 North Sea Agreement (1908) 115 Norway 1, 4, 6, 8, 14, 20–3, 25–30, 35, 38–48, 52–3, 70, 80, 114, 126, 138 n.54, 144 n.38, 152 nn.49, 55. See also Sweden-Norway Novikova, Irina 107, 176 n.26 Nystadskåren 117 Oakeshott, Michael 88, 137 n.48 Olav, crown prince, later king (Norway) 152 n.49 Olga Nikolaevna, grand duchess (Russia) 104 Oredsson, Sverker 152 n.53 orthodoxy (Christian) 72, 93, 100–3 Ørvik, Nils 16, 33, 184 n.13 Oscar I (Sweden) 21, 43 Oscar II (Sweden) 46 Osterhammel, Jürgen 132 n.9 Ottoman Empire 55, 76, 89–90, 92–3, 97, 174 n.12 Paasikivi, Juho Kusti 91, 107 pacifism (including anti-militarism) 74, 79, 167 n.34, 172 n.86 Pacius, Fredrik 103 Palmstierna, Erik 185 n.22 Paris Peace Conference 30, 115, 123 Pasteur, Louis 79 Paulmann, Johannes 37–8, 41–2, 48, 54 ‘Peace Ship’ 79 ‘peripatetic rule’ 44, 48 Permanent Court of Arbitration (Hague) 31 Persia 27 Peter I (Russia) 103 Peter the Great’s Naval Fortress 103 Poincaré, Raymond 80 Poland 78–9, 86, 91, 95, 126–7, 167 n.37 ‘politics of 1812’ (Sweden) 21 Politiken 77–8, 80, 82 Polvinen, Tuomo 107 ‘polycracy’ (Wilhelmine Empire) 65 Ponsonby, Arthur 170 n.54 Porkkala 103

Index Pro Finlandia 91, 120 propaganda 1, 5, 25, 29, 32, 61, 67, 73, 80–1, 85, 161 n.50, 167 nn.38, 44, 170 n.54 Provisional Government (Russia) 106–9 Prussia 12, 19, 43, 59, 84 Przemyśl 99 Purnell, Robert 15 Råbergh, Herman 103 Radikale Venstre (Denmark) 75 ‘Randstaatenpolitik’ 108, 113, 120, 122 Ranke, Leopold von 11–12, 135 n.33, 136 n.36 Rappard, William E. 16 rapporteurs’ commission (League of Nations) 124, 126 Reichenau, Franz von 22–3, 29–30, 32, 59, 156 n.6 Reminiscences of my Childhood and Youth (Brandes) 70 Riezler, Kurt 74, 167 n.38 ‘Rights and Duties of a Neutral Power’ (Hague Conventions V and XIII) 33, 51 Riksdag (Swedish parliament) 43, 128 Riste, Olav 25 Ritter, Gerhard 12 Romania 66, 101 Romanov (dynasty) 95 Rosen, Otto von 26–7 Rosenberg, Frederic von 158 n.18 royal court 48–9 Norway 48 Russia 99 Sweden 7, 40, 44, 46, 52, 57–8, 65 Royal Navy (United Kingdom) 26, 30 Rubens, Peter Paul 79 Runeberg, Johan Ludvig 50 Russia 3–5, 8, 20–1, 25, 27, 32–3, 43, 55, 57–62, 69, 71–3, 78–9, 85, 87–109, 111–15, 117–21, 123, 127, 140 n.8, 166 n.26, 167 n.37, 172 n.4, 173 n.5, 174 n.16, 174 n.17 Russian Civil War 108 Russian revolution (1905) 89–90, 95 Russian revolutions (March/November 1918) 25, 90, 106–9, 111, 115, 117, 121

229

Russo-Japanese War 91 Russophobia 57, 80, 85, 89, 154 n.1 Ruthenia 78 St Nicholas Church 102 St Petersburg (including Petrograd) 20, 43, 89–91, 93–5, 99, 103, 106–9, 114, 175 n.17 Salmon, Patrick ix, 2, 11, 26, 112, 147 n.1 Sassnitz 48 Saxer, Urs 126 Saxony 12 Scandinavianism 21, 36, 42–3, 50, 70, 151 n.40; (neo-) 43, 51 Scavenius, Erik 29, 35, 80, 152 n.44, 168 n.39 Schauman, Eugen 91, 102, 179 n.48 Schleswig-Holstein question (including First/Second Schleswig War) 7, 19, 21, 28, 42–3, 47, 72, 76–7, 84, 171 n.82, 182 n.2, 190 n.58 Schlögel, Karl 132 n.9 Schroeder, Paul W. 16–17, 137 n.48 Schulz, Matthias 136 n.42 Sealand 29 Second World War 19, 28 Security Council (United Nations) 13 security policy 6, 12, 15, 21, 39, 91–2, 108, 116, 126, 140 n.7 ‘Sektion Politik’ (German army general staff ) 27, 143 n.34 Seyerstedt, Finn 126 Seyn, Franz Albert 90, 93, 99, 106–7, 177 n.33, 179 n.45, 181 n.65 Shakespeare, William 68, 79 Sibelius, Jean 104–5 Siltala, Juha 109 Skåne (Scania) 42, 151 n.36 small state viii, 1–2, 5–6, 8–16, 20–1, 24, 72, 92, 115, 126, 135 n.21, 138 nn.51, 57 Snowden, Philip 170 n.54 social democracy Finland (including Suomen Sosialidemokraattinen Puolue) 107–8 Germany (including Sozialdemokratische Arbeiterpartei Deutschlands) 57

230

Index

Northern Europe 47 Sweden (including Sveriges socialdemokratiska arbetareparti) 24, 31–3, 57, 62–3, 65, 92, 116, 128, 152 n.53, 156 n.11 Søndergaard Bendtsen, Bjarne 75, 82, 84, 168 n.44, 170 n.66 ‘Sonderweg’ theory 73 South-Eastern Europe 55, 87, 92 Sparta 9 The Spectator 39 Spring Rice, Cecil 58 Staaff, Karl 24, 47, 57, 152 n.53 Stadius, Peter ix, 36, 38, 46, 50–1 Stakhovich, Mikhail A. 106 Stalin, Joseph 11, 135 n.29 State Council 106 Stavern 28 Steffen, Gustav 62, 160 n.35 Stieve, Friedrich 64–5, 161 nn.49, 50 Stockholm ix, 7, 20–5, 29–33, 39–41, 45, 48, 51–2, 58–61, 63–5, 92, 112, 115, 117–22 Stoecker, Adolf 72 Strindberg, August 70–1 The Subjection of Women (Mill) 71 Sundbäck, Esa 112 Suomen laulu 103 suuri adressi (Great Petition) 91 Svenska Dagbladet 46 Svinhufvud, Pehr Evind 91, 109 Sweden 1, 2, 4, 6–7, 14, 20–35, 38–50, 52–3, 55–66, 71–2, 92, 111–12, 114, 116–29, 137 n.47, 151 n.36, 152 n.49, 156 nn.6, 9, 10, 157 n.13, 161 n.50, 179 n.52, 185 n.21, 188 n.37, 189 n.51, 191 n.65 Sweden-Norway, United Kingdoms of 43, 46, 114 dissolution of union 4, 14, 21–2, 39, 41, 45–6, 114 Taine, Hippolite 70 Tallinn 103–4, 106 Tallinn-Porkkala line 103 Tartu, Peace of 127 Tatiana Nikolaevna, grand duchess (Russia) 104 Taube, Arvid 62, 65, 117 Taylor, A. J. P. 12

Temple, Henry (Lord Palmerston) 182 n.2 Thiess, Axel 80–1 Three Kings’ Meeting, First (Malmö) 29, 35–56 Three Kings’ Meeting, Second (Kristiania) 29, 35–6, 39, 46, 49–51, 53–4 Thucydides 9–11 Tilly, Charles 4–5 Tilskueren 164 n.14 Tolstoy, Leo 79 Trautmann, Oskar 123 Treaty of Malmö (1848) 43–4 Treaty of Roskilde (1658) 42 Troil, Samuel von 151 n.39 Tsarskoye Selo 104 Turkish massacres of Armenians 76 Turkish straits 114 Turku 103, 112 The Twenty Years Crisis (Carr) 13 Union of Finnish Industrialists 177 n.32 unitary monarchy (Denmark) 20, 171 n.82 United Nations 13, 112 unrestricted submarine warfare (Germany) 26, 53 Upper Silesia 125, 127 Upton, Anthony 93 Uspenski Cathedral 101–3 Uusima 100 valtalaki (law on supreme power) 108 Vårt Land 50 Vatican 11, 14 Verdenskrigen (Brandes) 75, 78, 82 Versailles Treaty (including Versailles system) 13, 34, 83–4, 116, 120, 122–3, 125–7 Viapori (also Sveaborg, Suomenlinna) 103–4, 179 n.52 Victoria, Queen (Sweden) 48, 57, 59, 65, 71, 117, 119 Vienna 99 Vienna system 37, 114. See also international system Vortisch, Friedrich 123 Vort Land 80–1

Index Wallenberg, Knut 29, 31, 35, 39–40, 49, 52, 58, 60–4, 116, 146 n.63, 152 n.44, 157 n.15 Warburg, Max 64, 161 n.47 war economy Germany 61 Russia 93–4 war losses at sea Norway 26, 28 Sweden 28 Washington 30 Weber, Max 62, 138 n.57, 181 n.63 Wehler, Hans-Ulrich 65 Weimar Republic 30, 122, 127 Wennerberg, Gunnar 50 Wertheim, Steven 34, 129

231

Westman, Karl Gustav 57 Wetterhoff, Fritz 61, 119, 159 n.33 Widnäs, Bernhard Otto 100 Wilhelm II (Germany) 45, 47–8, 58, 63, 76, 114, 117, 119 Wilsonianism 33, 83, 121, 126 Wittram, Reinhard 134 n.20 Wolbersen, Harald 84, 163 n.6 Württemberg, kingdom of 23 Young Turks 93 Zahle, Carl Theodor 47, 80, 168 n.39 Zimmermann, Arthur 48, 59–64 Zweig, Stefan 86