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A H I S T O RY O F T H E U N I V E R S I T Y I N E U R O P E

general editor
WA LT E R R Ü E G G

This is the third volume of a four-part History of the University in


Europe, written by an international team of authors under the chair-
manship of Professor Walter Rüegg. The series has been sponsored by
the Standing Conference of Rectors, Presidents and Vice-Chancellors of
the European Universities (CRE), now European University Association
(EUA), and is intended for the general reader as well as the specialist. It
covers the development of the university in Europe (east and west) from
its origins to the present day, focusing not on the history of individual
institutions, nor on the universities in any individual country, but on a
number of major themes viewed from a European perspective.
The originality of the work lies in its comparative, interdisciplinary,
collaborative and transnational nature. It is not a history of ideas, even
though each volume has a ‘Learning’ section dealing with the content of
what was taught at universities during this time, but rather an appreci-
ation of the role of the universities seen against a backdrop of changing
conditions, ideas and values.
Volume III, ‘Universities in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth
Centuries’, attempts to situate the universities in their social and politi-
cal context throughout the one and a half centuries spanning the period
from 1800 to 1945.
A H I S T O RY O F T H E U N I V E R S I T Y I N E U R O P E

General Editor and Chairman of the Editorial Board: Walter Rüegg (Switzerland)

Asa Briggs (United Kingdom)


Alison Browning (United Kingdom)
Aleksander Gieysztor† (Poland)
Notker Hammerstein (Germany)
Olaf Pedersen† (Denmark)
Hilde de Ridder-Symoens (Belgium)
John Roberts† (United Kingdom)
Edward Shils† (United States of America)
Jacques Verger (France)

This four-volume series, prepared under the guidance of an editorial board,


has been directed by the Standing Conference of Rectors, Presidents and Vice-
Chancellors of the European Universities (CRE), now European University
Association (EUA). The EUA, which is a non-governmental organization
based in Brussels and Geneva, has over 650 member universities in both
eastern and western Europe. Its Brussels and Geneva secretariat oversees the
administration of the project.
The university is the only European institution to have preserved its funda-
mental patterns and basic social role and function over the course of the last
millennium. This History shows how and why the university grew to encom-
pass the whole of knowledge and most of the world, how it developed an
intellectual tradition common to all Europeans, and how it trained academic
and professional elites whose ethos transcends national boundaries.

Volumes in the series


I Universities in the Middle Ages
Editor: Hilde de Ridder-Symoens
II Universities in Early Modern Europe (1500–1800)
Editor: Hilde de Ridder-Symoens
III Universities in the Nineteenth and Early
Twentieth Centuries (1800–1945)
Editor: Walter Rüegg
IV Universities from 1945 to 1992
Editor: Walter Rüegg
A H I S T O RY O F T H E
UNIVERSITY IN EUROPE
general editor
walter r üegg

VOLUME III
U N I V E RS I T I E S I N T H E N I N E T E E N T H A N D
E A R LY T W E N T I E T H C E N T U R I E S
(1800–1945)

EDITOR
WA LT E R R Ü E G G
  
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo

Cambridge University Press


The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge  , UK
Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York
www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521361071

© Cambridge University Press 2004

This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of


relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place
without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.

First published in print format 2004

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- --- eBook (EBL)

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- --- hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of s
for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not
guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
To the memory of our dear colleagues
John Roberts and Edward Shils
In grateful recognition of their human and scholarly qualities
CONTENTS

Contributors and editors page xiii


Reader’s guide xvii
Bibliographical abbreviations used in notes xviii
Foreword xxi
w a l t e r r ü e g g ( g e n e r a l e d i t o r )
Acknowledgements xxv

PA R T I : T H E M E S A N D PAT T E R N S

CHAPTER 1: THEMES 3
w a l t e r r ü e g g
Introduction 3
The French and German university models 4
Secularization, bureaucratization, specialization 6
The European adoption of the two models 9
The new scientific spirit 13
From the age of philosophy to the age of science 16
‘The freedom that I believe in is what fills my heart’ 20
David vs. Goliath 25

C H A P T E R 2 : PAT T E R N S 33
christophe charle
Introduction 33
University revolutions in Germany, France and Russia 33
Slow development in north-west and southern Europe 36
The growth of nation states and universities in central and
eastern Europe 40

vii
Contents

The Napoleonic university model 44


The Prussian university model 47
The European university model: Great Britain 53
French partial reform 1868–1904 55
The crisis of the German model 57
Changes and attempts at harmonization within the
British systems 61
Changes in the influence of the German model 64
The difficult process of renewal for the southern
European universities 70
Concluding remarks 73
Select bibliography for chapters 1–4 75

PA RT I I : S T R U C T U R E S

C H A P T E R 3 : R E L AT I O N S W I T H
AUTHORITY 83
paul gerbod
Financial dependence 84
Creation of Ministries of Public Education 88
Educational dependence 90
Legal guaranty and actual repression of academic freedom 94
University resistance 98

CHAPTER 4: RESOURCES AND


MANAGEMENT 101
paul gerbod
Introduction 101
Facilities reconsidered 102
Increasingly heavy and diverse expenditure outlays 107
Sources of finance 111
Increasingly diverse and complex administrative tasks 115
University governance 117

CHAPTER 5: TEACHERS 123


matti klinge
General situation 123
The development of new chairs 128
Access to an academic career 130
Appointment procedures 134
Income and lifestyle 140

viii
Contents

Public image 147


Political role 151
Social status 156
Select bibliography 160

CHAPTER 6: THE DIFFUSION OF


EUROPEAN MODELS OUTSIDE EUROPE 163
e dwa r d s h i l s a n d jo h n ro b e rt s
General remarks 163
North America 164
Latin America 177
Middle East 186
Africa 191
South Asia: India and Ceylon 198
South-East Asia 208
Australasia 213
East Asia 216
Concluding observations 227
Select bibliography 229

PA RT I I I : S T U D E N T S

CHAPTER 7: ADMISSION 233


fritz ringer
The quantitative approach 233
The inclusiveness of university studies 235
Preparation and distribution of students 246
Costs of university studies 250
The development of university access 254
The social origins of university students 257
Select bibliography 266

CHAPTER 8: STUDENT MOVEMENTS 269


lieve gevers and louis vos
Students fighting for freedom (1800–1830) 271
Revolution and Restoration (1830–1845) 281
Students in revolt (1845–1850) 288
Integration or insurrection (1850–1870) 296
Consolidation and anti-liberalism (1870–1885) 307
Social and national emancipation (1885–1900) 315
World politics and corporatism (1900–1914) 325
A world safe for democracy? (1919–1939) 337

ix
Contents

Völkischer Nationalism (1919–1939) 345


The charm of Fascism (1919–1939) 351
Student movements without borders (1919–1939) 356
Select bibliography 359

C H A P T E R 9 : G R A D U AT I O N A N D C A R E E R S 363
konrad h. jarausch
Introduction 363
The role of knowledge in the rise of the professions 365
The process of professionalization 369
The numerical expansion of the professions 374
National variations 380
Concluding remarks 384
Select bibliography 388

P A R T I V: L E A R N I N G

CHAPTER 10: THEOLOGY AND THE ARTS 393


w a l t e r r ü e g g
Introduction 393
Catholic theology and the influence of ultramontanism 395
The papacy’s pyrrhic victories over modernism 401
Protestant theology as a subject of university research 405
Positive and liberal wings in the study of theology
and religion 410
Philology as a Geisteswissenschaft 415
The breakthrough of classical philology 420
The origin of modern philologies 429
The European diffusion of modern philology 438
Oriental studies and comparative linguistics 442
Philosophy 453
Select bibliography 457

C H A P T E R 1 1 : H I S T O RY A N D T H E
SOCIAL SCIENCES 459
asa briggs
The rise of critical history 459
The search for authenticity 463
French historiography from Michelet to the ‘Annales’ 476
The rise of the social sciences 479
Select bibliography 489

x
Contents

C H A P T E R 1 2 : T H E M AT H E M AT I C A L A N D
THE EXACT SCIENCES 493
paul bockstaele
Mathematics and the exact sciences in France after 1800 495
The exact sciences at German universities 499
The exact sciences at British universities 506
Higher education in the exact sciences in Russia 508
Professionalization and scientific research 1870–1939 511
Select bibliography 517

CHAPTER 13: BIOLOGY AND THE


EARTH SCIENCES 519
anto leikola
The birth of biology 519
Different patterns: France and Germany 521
A new physiology 523
The cell theory 525
Claude Bernard and Louis Pasteur 528
Charles Darwin and Darwinism 530
New fields for the new century 536
Select bibliography 542

CHAPTER 14: MEDICINE 543


antonie m. luyendijk-elshout
Introduction 543
The Romantic era (1790–1830): the influence of
Enlightenment 544
The Romantic era: organization of medical education 553
The new learning (1830–1870) 563
The expanding medical faculties 570
The growth of medical specialization (1870–1940) 575
The ‘modernization’ of medical education 579
The inter-war period 585
Concluding remarks 588
Select bibliography 590

CHAPTER 15: TECHNOLOGY 593


anna guagnini
Introduction 593
Technical education for public servants 594
The influence of the French model 600
The emergence of industrial engineering, 1830–1850 606
The ferment of initiatives, 1850–1890 611

xi
Contents

The quest for status 617


Research and diversification 623
The development of research institutions 626
Higher technical education in the inter-war period 629
Select bibliography 631

E P I L O G U E : U N I V E R S I T I E S A N D WA R I N
T H E T W E N T I E T H C E N T U RY 637
notker hammerstein
Introduction 637
Background: the learned world of the nineteenth century 639
The First World War and its consequences 641
Great Britain from the First to the Second World War 645
The countries occupied by the German army 651
Neutral countries and states aligned with Germany 659
Germany 659
The Soviet Union 666
The United States of America 667
Postscript 668
Select bibliography 671

EUROPEAN UNIVERSITIES AND SIMILAR


INSTITUTIONS IN EXISTENCE BETWEEN
1812 A N D T H E E N D O F 1944:
A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST 673
w a l t e r r ü e g g
Alphabetical list of towns with important institutions of
higher learning 702

Name index 707


Subject index 729

xii
CONTRIBUTORS AND EDITORS

p a u l b o c k s t a e l e (Belgium), born in Melle near Ghent in 1920,


is emeritus professor of mathematics and the history of mathematics at
the Catholic University of Leuven. He is a member of the Royal Flemish
Academy of Belgium for the Sciences and of the International Academy
of the History of Science.
a s a b r i g g s (United Kingdom), from 1976 Lord Briggs of Lewes, was
born in Yorkshire in 1921. He is former provost of Worcester College,
Oxford (1976–92), former vice-chancellor of the University of Sussex
(1967–92), former chancellor of the Open University (1978–94), former
chairman (1974–80) of the European Institute of Education and Social
Policy in Paris, and former president of the British Social History Society
(1966–71). His writings span economic, social and cultural history and
the history of broadcasting. He is a Fellow of the British Academy and of
the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.
a l i s o n b r o w n i n g (United Kingdom/USA) was born in Bucking-
hamshire in 1951. In her role as Deputy Secretary General of the CRE,
the Association of European Universities (1986–94), she had responsibil-
ity for a number of the organization’s international and interdisciplinary
projects, including the preparation of this History of the University in
Europe. She now divides her time between the USA and Europe.
c h r i s t o p h e c h a r l e (France) was born in Paris in 1951. He is
professor of contemporary history at the University of Paris I Panthéon
(Sorbonne) and director of the Institut d’Histoire moderne et contem-
poraine (CNRS/École normale supérieure). He has published several
books, some of them translated into several languages, on the history

xiii
Contributors and editors

of intellectuals and the comparative history of cultures and societies in


nineteenth- and twentieth-century Europe.
p a u l g e r b o d (France) was born in Paris in 1925. Emeritus professor
of contemporary history at several French universities, president of the
Association des historiens contemporanéistes des universités françaises
and of the Comité français des sciences historiques, he has published a
dozen books and more than a hundred review articles on themes related
to the history of education and culture.
l i e v e g e v e r s (Belgium), born in Turnhout in 1947, is professor of
church history in the Faculty of Theology at the Catholic University of
Leuven, where she teaches on the history of the church and religion in
modern times. A former visiting fellow at the University of Pennsylva-
nia, Philadelphia, she has published several books and articles on the
European and Belgian history of the Catholic Church, secondary and
higher education, religion and nationalism, student movements and youth
associations.
a n n a g u a g n i n i (Italy), born in Milan in 1952, is a researcher in the
department of philosophy at the University of Bologna. Her interests lie in
the history of technology in Europe in the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries; she is the author of several publications on the organization of
technological education and research in Britain and Italy.
n o t k e r h a m m e r s t e i n (Germany) was born in Offenbach-am-
Main in 1930. Emeritus professor of early modern history at the University
of Frankfurt-am-Main, he has published several works on the history of
German universities and the history of learning. He is a member of the
editorial board of History of Universities.
k o n r a d j a r a u s c h (Germany/USA), born in Magdeburg, Germany,
in 1941, is Lurcy Professor of European Civilization at the University of
North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and co-director of the Zentrum für zeit-
historische Forschung at the University of Potsdam in Germany. He is
the author or editor of more than twenty books on modern German his-
tory, and co-authored recently with Michael Geyer The Shattered Past:
Reconstructing German History (Princeton, 2003).
m a t t i k l i n g e (Finland), born in Helsinki in 1936, was professeur
associé at the University of Paris-Sorbonne (1970–72) and professor of
history at the University of Helsinki (1975–2001), where he directed its
monumental history. He has taught and published extensively on the polit-
ical and cultural history of the Nordic countries and their relationship to
other parts of Europe. Former president of the Société d’étude du XVIIe
siècle in Finland and President of the Societas Scientiarum Fennica, he has

xiv
Contributors and editors

an honorary doctorate from the University of Uppsala and is a member


of the Royal Academy of History and Literature in Stockholm.
a n t o l e i k o l a (Finland), born in Helsinki in 1937, was professor
of history of science at the University of Helsinki from 1988 until his
retirement in 1997. He was also a docent in history of science at the
University of Oulu from 1980 until 2002 and at the University of Helsinki
from 1998 until 2002. He chaired the Finnish Society of the History of
Science and Ideas from 1976 to 1997, and is a member of the International
Academy of the History of Sciences, of the Finnish Society of Sciences,
and of the Latvian Academy of Sciences.
a n t o n i e m . l u y e n d i j k - e l s h o u t (The Netherlands), born in
Gorinchem in 1921, is emeritus professor of the history of medicine at
the University of Leiden. She was actively involved in the work of the
Boerhaave Museum in Leiden, and has published on the history of
universities in relation to the history of medicine.
h i l d e d e r i d d e r - s y m o e n s (Belgium), born in Sint-Jans-
Molenbeek (Brussels) in 1943, is professor of early modern history at the
University of Ghent (Belgium) and president of the International Com-
mission for the History of Universities. She has published on European
university history and education in the Middle Ages and the early modern
period.
f r i t z r i n g e r (Germany/USA), born in Ludwigshafen (Germany)
in 1934, is visiting adjunct professor of history at the BMW Center for
German and European Studies at Georgetown University in Washington,
DC, and Mellon Professor of History emeritus at the University of Pitts-
burgh. He has taught and published extensively on modern European
intellectual history, the history of higher education, and the history and
philosophy of the cultural and social sciences.
j o h n r o b e r t s (United Kingdom) was born in Bath in 1928 and died
in the county of Somerset in 2003. Warden of Merton College, Oxford
(1984–94), where he was previously fellow and tutor in modern history,
he was also vice-chancellor of the University of Southampton (1979–
83). From 1967 to 1976 he was joint editor of the English Historical
Review.
w a l t e r r ü e g g (Switzerland), born in Zurich in 1918, was
professor of sociology at the universities of Berne (1973–86) and
Frankfurt-am-Main (1961–73), he also served as rector of the latter
(1965–70). He was president of the Westdeutschen Rektorenkonferenz
(1967–68) and a president of the International Federation of Social
Science Associations (1976–78). He is a member of the Academia

xv
Contributors and editors

scientiarum et artium europea. His numerous publications focus on


humanism, historical sociology, and the history of higher education.
e d w a r d s h i l s (USA) was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, in
1910, and died in Chicago in 1995. He was professor of social thought
and sociology at the University of Chicago, a fellow of Peterhouse,
Cambridge, and of the London School of Economics. Founder and editor
of the journal Minerva, he was the author of many works on sociology,
with special reference to the role of science and scholarship in contempo-
rary societies.
j a c q u e s v e r g e r (France) was born in Talence near Bordeaux in
1943. He is professor of medieval history at the University of Paris IV-
Sorbonne and Directeur d’études at the École pratique des Hautes Études,
IVe Section (Paris). He is a leading medievalist whose publications on the
intellectual and cultural world, especially on the universities of the Middle
Ages, have been translated into several foreign languages.
l o u i s v o s (Belgium), born in Mol in 1945, is professor of history
in the Faculty of Arts at the Catholic University of Leuven. A former
visiting professor at the universities of Pennsylvania and Nijmegen, he
teaches on contemporary European history and the history of Poland.
He has published several books and articles on the history of student
movements, youth associations and nationalism in Belgium.

xvi
R E A D E R ’S G U I D E

This series, although compiled by specialists, is destined for the general


reader. The notes and bibliographies accompanying the different chap-
ters have therefore been kept to a minimum. The notes are either bib-
liographical references to specify sources, generally the most important
or recent works relating to the subject, or they have been introduced to
justify quantitative data or to explain any significant differences between
two interpretations of a particular point. Select bibliographies follow the
chapters, designed to stimulate further reading and are not exhaustive.
The reader will find more complete bibliographical references in the works
indicated. As a number of well-known works for the period are quoted
in several chapters, abbreviations of the titles of these works have been
used in the notes. A list of bibliographical abbreviations follows this page.
Furthermore, the reader will find a more general bibliography at the end
of chapter 2 (‘Patterns’), as this chapter locates the presence and nature
of universities during the period covered by this volume. In order to avoid
unnecessary overlaps between the various chapters, the editors have made
cross-references to other chapters in the text as well as in the notes, thereby
informing the reader that more ample information on the subject can be
found elsewhere in the volume (see also the subject index). The standard
English version of proper names has been used throughout; when neces-
sary, a form more commonly used in continental Europe is indicated by
means of a cross-reference in the name index.

xvii
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL
A B B R E V I AT I O N S U S E D
IN THE NOTES

Bildungsbürgertum
W. Conze and J. Kocka (eds.), Bildungsbürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert,
vol. I: Bildungssystem und Professionalisierung in internationalen Vergle-
ichen (Stuttgart, 1985).
Charle, République des universitaires
C. Charle, La République des universitaires (1870–1940) (Paris, 1994).
Forschung im Spannungsfeld
R. Vierhaus and B. vom Brocke (eds.), Forschung im Spannungsfeld von
Politik und Gesellschaft. Geschichte und Struktur der Kaiser-Wilhelm-/Max-
Planck-Gesellschaft (Stuttgart, 1990).
Gerbod, Condition universitaire
P. Gerbod, La Condition universitaire en France au XIXe siècle (Paris, 1965).
Hammerstein, Universität Frankfurt am Main
N. Hammerstein, Die Johann Wolfgang Goethe Universität Frankfurt am
Main, vol. I: 1914 bis 1950 (Neuwied and Frankfurt-am-Main, 1989).
History of Oxford VI
M. G. Brock and M. Curthoys (eds.), The History of the University of Oxford,
vol. VI: The Nineteenth Century (general editor: T. H. Aston) (Oxford, 1997).
History of Oxford VII
M. G. Brock and M. Curthoys (eds.), The History of the University of Oxford,
vol. VII: Nineteenth-Century Oxford (Oxford, 2000).
History of Oxford VIII
B. Harrison (ed.), The History of the University of Oxford, vol. VIII: The
Twentieth Century (general editor: T. H. Aston) (Oxford, 1994).
Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany
K. H. Jarausch, Students, Society and Politics in Imperial Germany: The Rise
of Academic Illiberalism (Princeton, NJ, 1982).
Jı́lek, Historical Compendium
L. Jı́lek (ed.), Historical Compendium of European Universities/Répertoire
historique des universités européennes (Geneva, 1984).

xviii
Bibliographical abbreviations used in notes

Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia


S. D. Kassow, Students, Professors and the State in Tsarist Russia, V. E.
Bonnell and L. Hunt (eds.), Studies on the History of Society and Culture 5
(Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1989).
Klinge, Universität Helsinki
M. Klinge, Eine nordische Universität. Die Universität Helsinki 1640–1990
(Helsinki and Göttingen, 1992).
Nipperdey, Bürgerwelt
T. Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1800–1866. Bürgerwelt und starker Staat
(Munich, 1983).
Paul, Knowledge
H. W. Paul, From Knowledge to Power: The Rise of the Science Empire in
France 1860–1939 (Cambridge, 1985).
Peset, Universidad Española
M. Peset and J. L. Peset, La Universidad Española (siglos XVIII y XIX).
Despotismo ilustrado y revolución liberal (Madrid, 1974).
Ringer, Education and Society
F. K. Ringer, Education and Society in Modern Europe (Bloomington and
Londen, 1979).
Schwabe, Deutsche Hochschullehrer
K. Schwabe (ed.), Deutsche Hochschullehrer als Elite 1815–1945 (Boppard,
1988).
Shinn, Savoir scientifique
T. Shinn, Savoir scientifique & pouvoir social: L’Ecole polytechnique, 1794–
1914 (Paris, 1980).
University of Cambridge IV
C. N. L. Brooke, A History of the University of Cambridge, vol. IV: 1870–
1990 (Cambridge, 1993).
Verger, Universités en France
J. Verger (ed.), Histoire des universités en France (Toulouse, 1986).
Weisz, Emergence
G. Weisz, The Emergence of Modern Universities in France (1863–1914)
(Princeton, NJ, 1983).

xix
FOREWORD

WA LT E R R Ü E G G

Nonumque prematur in annum: ‘let it be kept quiet till the ninth year.’
This famous advice given by Horace in his Ars poetica applied to poetry.
When the same time-span occurs in the publication of a history book that
was planned and carefully prepared for 1994, the reader may ask for an
explanation.
As outlined at some length in the Foreword to the first volume, in 1982
the Standing Conference of Rectors, Presidents and Vice-Chancellors of
the European Universities (CRE), now the European Association of Uni-
versities (EUA), which meets regularly to discuss the contemporary prob-
lems and the future requirements of its more than 650 member universities,
decided that it needed a better knowledge of the history of universities.
Since a modern work of this kind was lacking, it undertook a feasibility
study with the help of university historians and sociologists. In March
1983 a conference was held in Berne, Switzerland, which gave a positive
evaluation for such an undertaking. In September of the same year the
CRE appointed an editorial board entrusted with the task of publishing
a History of the University in Europe in four volumes, on the basis of the
current state of the art – paying all due attention to a comparative and
comprehensive thematic analysis of historical changes and regional dif-
ferences. The first volume was published in English in 1991, in German in
1992, and the second in 1996 in both languages. Spanish and Portuguese
translations followed from 1994 on, while a Russian edition is currently
being prepared in Moscow, and a Chinese one in Hebei.
The planning for volume III began in July 1985 at the University of
Salamanca. In view of the complex development of the history of universi-
ties in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a ‘brain-storming’ ses-
sion with specialists was organized in March 1986 at Bad Homburg, near
Frankfurt-am-Main. As a result of this meeting, guidelines were drawn

xxi
Foreword

up by the editorial board in September 1986 at the São Marcos Palace


in Portugal, an historic building belonging to the University of Coimbra.
Potential authors met with the board for a first workshop in June 1988 at
the University of Oxford and then presented their drafts for discussion in
May 1990 at the University of Bochum. When, in September 1992 at the
University of Ghent, the editorial board examined the draft contributions
for volume III, three chapters were still lacking. Owing to previous unfor-
tunate experiences with an author of volume II who, after many delays,
delivered an unsatisfactory draft, the editorial board decided to replace
the renegade authors by others who promised to finish their chapters by
the end of 1993. This solution succeeded only partially. In the case of one
chapter, the delivery was postponed from one year to the next. Twice the
volume editor travelled hundreds of miles in order to urge the delivery of
the text. Eventually, in September 2002, he received the last part of the
missing chapter.
Even had we received this chapter in 1994, the fatal illness of our col-
league Edward Shils, which led to his death in 1995, would have post-
poned the publication by a few years. With his sociological knowledge of
the world-wide expansion and social impact of the modern university and
its scientific discoveries, with his acute judgement and friendly and reli-
able advice, he was not only a most active member of the editorial board;
he had also written the first draft of three chapters in volume III. The
draft of chapter 1 (Themes) served as a kind of map for the whole volume
and would have needed to be adjusted according to the conclusions of the
other authors. With his passing this introductory chapter became obso-
lete, and it was duly rewritten by the volume editor. His preliminary sketch
of chapter 6 (‘The Diffusion of European Models outside Europe’) was an
impressive testimony of his first-hand knowledge of universities on other
continents, but his death interrupted his work on this topic. Our co-editor
John Roberts – with the help of specialists for each region – duly revised
the whole chapter and supplemented it with references and recent infor-
mation. The opposite occurred in the case of the sub-chapter on the social
sciences. Edward Shils had expanded the draft of this topic – so familiar
to him – to the size of a monograph, and his illness prevented him from
shortening it. Eventually our co-editor Asa Briggs decided to add to the
sub-chapter on history in chapter 11 the most significant developments
in the social sciences before World War II. In fact, with the exception
of law and the new economics, most social sciences such as sociology,
social anthropology and political science were not generally included in
university curricula in Europe before the 1950s.
These circumstances may explain, although not excuse, the fact that vol-
ume III only went to press some nine years later than originally planned.
It is parallel in its structure to the first two volumes, but this structure has

xxii
Foreword

been adapted to reflect three important changes in the history of the uni-
versities. First, the traditional university model, common to all European
universities until the end of the eighteenth century, was replaced by dif-
ferent models of higher education; second, the modern university focused
increasingly on specialized scientific research; and third, student move-
ments began to play an important role in both national and international
struggles for individual, social and political freedom.
For this reason, the former chapter 8 of the previous two volumes (‘Stu-
dent Education, Student Life’) concentrates in this volume on ‘Student
Movements’. It presents the first comparative survey of the political power
that emerged from universities and illustrates it with numerous exam-
ples from different European countries. The other facets of student life
in colleges, fraternities or private circles remained essentially unchanged
throughout this period, with the exception of the two world wars that are
treated in the Epilogue. Student mobility, described in a separate chap-
ter in previous volumes, lost its educational and cultural importance for
whole generations of students. The most important changes in student
education related to innovations in the humanities, sciences, medicine
and technology, as these gradually became recognized as parts of the cur-
riculum. These innovations are treated in Part IV (Learning).
The huge expansion and specialization of research-orientated studies
was related to the replacement of the traditional university, consisting of
four faculties, by three different institutional models of higher education,
leading to new faculties, schools and departments. These are analyzed in
Parts I (Themes and Patterns) and II (Structures). The ‘List of European
Universities’ that figured in the first two volumes at the end of the second
chapter has been enlarged to a list of ‘European Universities and Similar
Institutions of Higher learning in Existence Between 1812 and the End
of 1944’ and placed at the end; besides the universities it includes similar
institutions of higher education which, from the eighteenth century, were
founded in the fields of technology, commerce and teacher training. To
comply with multiple requests, the list indicates as far as possible the
introduction of new faculties and departments.
Following the death of Edward Shils in 1995 the editorial board lost
further members: in 1997 the Danish historian of science, Olaf Pedersen,
and in 1999 the Polish Historian, Aleksander Gieysztor. With their
particular expertise and broad European horizons they were not only
instrumental in assuring the success of the first two volumes, but they
also enriched them as authors: Gieysztor wrote in the first, Pedersen
in the second volume. On 30 May 2003 the editorial board lost one of
its most active members, John Roberts. Professor Roberts was distin-
guished by an unusual combination of talents and accomplishments. A
wide-ranging historian, he wrote well-regarded volumes on vast subjects;

xxiii
Foreword

one of his books has been praised as the ‘best modern presentation of
the history of the world’. A practised academic administrator, he served
as vice-chancellor of the University of Southampton and as Warden of
Merton College, Oxford. A true and always helpful friend, he contributed
substantially to the planning and critical review of our project. He edited
the chapter in our second and third volumes on the world-wide effects
of the European university models. His intention of writing the introduc-
tory chapter to the fourth volume was frustrated by his debilitating illness,
which he bore with admirable fortitude.
In 1995, a new member, Alison Browning, joined the editorial board;
as deputy secretary general of the CRE, she had played a major role in
bringing about this History, promoting with tireless devotion and alert-
ness the harmonious – indeed friendly – co-operation between so many
European scholars, and participating actively in the English edition of the
volumes.

xxiv
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The preparatory work for A History of the University in Europe has


been generously supported by Dutch, German, Portuguese, Swedish,
Spanish and Swiss foundations and sponsors, the European Cultural
Foundation in Amsterdam, the Fritz-Thyssen-Stiftung in Cologne, the
Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung in Sankt Augustin, the Robert Bosch Stiftung
in Stuttgart, the Stifterverband für die deutsche Wissenschaft in Essen,
the Stiftungsfonds Deutsche Bank in Essen, the Volkswagen-Stiftung
in Hanover, the Portuguese Secretary of State for Higher Education,
the National Institute for Scientific Research as well as the Calouste
Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon, the Fondación Ramón Areces in
Madrid, the Antonio de Almeida Foundation in Oporto, the Bank of
Sweden Tercentenary Fund in Stockholm, the Crédit Suisse in Zurich,
Hoffmann-La Roche & Co. in Basle, the Jubiläumsstiftung der Ver-
sicherungsgesellschaften Zürich/Vita/Alpina in Zurich, the Max und Elsa
Beer-Brawand-Fonds of the University of Berne, the Nestlé Corporation
in Vevey, and the Schweizerische Nationalfonds zur Förderung der wis-
senschaftlichen Forschung in Berne.
Among the national correspondents mentioned in volume II, Walter
Höflechner (Graz), Mariano Peset Reig (Valencia), Ilaria Porciani
(Bologna) and Griigori A. Tishkin (St Petersburg), helped especially in
giving the volume a ‘European’ dimension. The assistance of other col-
leagues is recognized in the chapters concerned.
We are very grateful for all the financial and scholarly support of the
project. We thank the universities at which our conferences and discus-
sions have taken place, notably the universities of Berne, Salamanca,
Coimbra, Eichstätt, Oxford, Bochum, Bologna and Ghent. Above all we
thank the CRE and its successor, the EUA, their long-standing Secretary

xxv
Acknowledgements

General, Dr Andris Barblan, and their Geneva office for their invaluable
help. Last but not least we wish to thank the authors, sponsors and pub-
lishers for their patience and understanding during the long delay of this
publication.

xxvi
PA RT I

T H E M E S A N D PAT T E R N S
CHAPTER 1

THEMES

WA LT E R R Ü E G G

introduction
The political upheavals of the French Revolution and Napoleon’s con-
quests devastated the university landscape in Europe. In 1789 it was filled
with 143 universities. In 1815 there were only 83. The 24 French uni-
versities had been abolished and in twelve towns these were replaced by
special schools and isolated faculties. In Germany, eighteen of the 34 uni-
versities had disappeared, and in Spain only ten of the previous 25 had
any life in them. After fifteen new foundations, Europe had 98 univer-
sities by the middle of the nineteenth century. On the eve of the Second
World War, this figure had doubled. In around 200 universities, 600,000
students were taught by 32,000 professors, while during the 1840s when
university statistics began to be compiled, there numbered around 80,000
students and 5,000 professors; this means an increase over one hundred
years of 500 per cent for professors and 700 per cent for students.1
This extraordinary expansion in number and strength is all the more
astonishing because the replacement of the universities by specialized and
professional institutions coincided with the dominant trend in the Age of
Enlightenment to orientate higher education towards practical knowledge
and useful careers for the public good. Indeed, the 200 universities existing
in the 1930s were surrounded by some 300 institutions of higher education
in the military, technical, polytechnic, commercial, medical, veterinary,
agricultural, educational, political and musical fields. But they had not
replaced the universities and were attended by a relatively small minority
of students.
In France, the universities were restored in 1895, and the new nation
states in Eastern Europe were eager to set up their own universities, thus
1 See chapters 2 and 4, ‘List of European Universities and Similar Institutions’.

3
Walter Rüegg

allowing the concept of ‘the university as the European institution par


excellence’2 to take on its full meaning. With the exception of France,
where the grandes écoles were placed at the apex of higher education
thanks to their rigorous systems of selection and training, the special col-
leges struggled to obtain university privileges and certification – which
they succeeded in doing in Germany and Austria – or to be assimi-
lated into the universities – as was the case in Great Britain and Italy.
Most of the special institutions of higher education are today among
the 670 members of the European Universities Association. Universities
spread beyond Europe, too, where, at the beginning of the nineteenth
century, except for Latin America, there were only colleges, academies,
seminaries, madrasahs or other schools for the training of the intellec-
tual, political or spiritual elite. How can the upturn in the fortunes of
the modern university be explained? This is the basic question asked
in the third volume of our History of the University in Europe. I will
try to summarize some of the results by starting with the competi-
tion between the university models that opened the way to the modern
university.
Until the French Revolution, European universities, although divided
by their dependence on Catholic or Protestant sovereigns, were organized
in the same way and taught more or less the same branches of knowledge
in four or five classical faculties. The structure and content of higher
education converged to such a point that Rousseau complained in 1772:
‘Today there are no longer any French, Germans, Spanish or even English,
in spite of what they say: there are only Europeans. They all have the
same tastes, the same passions, the same morals, because none of them
has received a national moulding from a particular institution.’3

the french and german university models


At the beginning of the nineteenth century two new university models
appeared which opened the way to a fundamental reform of the traditional
university. The first was the French model of special colleges subjected to
severe, often military, discipline, strictly organized and controlled by an
enlightened despotism that governed to the last detail the curriculum,

2 See the Foreword to volume I of this series, p. xix.


3 J.-J. Rousseau, Considérations sur le gouvernement de Pologne et sur sa réformation pro-
jetée, ed. Jean Fabre, Œuvres complètes, ed. B. Gagnebin and M. Raymond (Paris, 1964),
vol. III, 620. The incorrect attribution to Voltaire, e.g. in O. Dann and J. Dinwiddy (eds.),
Nationalism in the Age of the French Revolution (London and Ronceverte, 1988), 14, has
been corrected thanks to the insight of Charles Wirz, curator of the Voltaire Institute and
Museum in Geneva.

4
Themes

the awarding of degrees, the conformity of views held concerning official


doctrines, and even personal habits such as the ban on the wearing of
beards in 1852.
This model was implemented thanks to the tabula rasa of the Revolution
and completed by Napoleon, but some essential traits, such as a central-
izing state control, the isolation of the faculties and the establishment of
special colleges, had already been evident in the Age of Enlightenment.
The French model remained in force under successive regimes, and it was
only in the last third of the nineteenth century that it was eroded under
the influence of the German model. Some French historians believe that
it was not abandoned until 1968 by Edgar Faure’s loi sur l’orientation
de l’enseignement supérieur,4 which was inspired by the reform pro-
gramme drawn up on 6 January 1968 by the Rectors of the West German
universities.
The German model bears the name of the Humboldt University.
The credit must indeed go to the scholar and statesman Wilhelm von
Humboldt, brother of the great naturalist Alexander, for persuading the
King of Prussia, who favoured the French model, to found a university
in Berlin in 1810 built on the liberal ideas of the theologian and philoso-
pher Friedrich Schleiermacher. According to the latter, the function of the
university was not to pass on recognized and directly usable knowledge
such as the schools and colleges did, but rather to demonstrate how this
knowledge is discovered, ‘to stimulate the idea of science in the minds of
the students, to encourage them to take account of the fundamental laws
of science in all their thinking’.5
The manner of study, the content of the teaching, and the relations of
the university with the authorities were to be characterized by ‘freedom’.
According to Humboldt, the state only had two tasks to fulfil with regard
to the universities: to protect their freedom and to appoint professors.
This idealistic model did not lend itself to implementation as easily as
Napoleon’s interventionist model. Humboldt’s plan to provide the new
university with a large amount of land in order to ensure its financial
independence was abandoned by his successor; freedom of opinion was
hampered in 1819 by control and censure measures, following student
demonstrations, and was not restored until after 1848.

4 Cf. chapter 4, 120; J. G. Passeron, ‘L’explosion institutionnelle de 1968: légendes noires


et dorées’, in Verger (ed.), Universités en France, 378–89.
5 F. Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken über Universitäten im deutschen Sinn. Nebst
einem Anhang über eine neu zu errichtende (Berlin, 1808), 32–3, see W. Rüegg, ‘Der
Mythos der Humboldtschen Universität’, in M. Krieg and M. Rose (eds.), Universitas
in theologia – theologia in universitate, Festschrift für Hans Heinrich Schmid zum 60.
Geburtstag (Zurich, 1997), 162–6; cf. chapter 2, 48.

5
Walter Rüegg

Similarly, the introduction of students to scientific research through


seminars and laboratories only came about slowly.6 However, liberal
reform bore fruit. While, at the beginning of the century, Paris had been a
Mecca for scholars and scientists from all over the world, from the 1830s
the French Government sent representatives to Germany to enquire about
progress in higher education. In the same way, young French people, as
well as Americans later on, trained at German universities in the new
scientific methods. From the end of the nineteenth century, the German
model represented the modern university not only in Europe, but also in
the United States and Japan.

secularization, bureaucratization,
specialization
This could not have occurred without the secularization and bureaucrati-
zation of nation states. The charts in the second volume of our ‘History of
the University in Europe’, which stops at the end of the eighteenth century,
distinguish between Catholic and Protestant universities. Although some
countries had begun to be secularized during the Enlightenment, most uni-
versities remained essentially ecclesiastical institutions, to the extent that
they were either directly supervised by the respective churches or strongly
connected to them through the importance of religious profession for
the appointment of teachers, the admission of students, and the ideolog-
ical orientation of academic studies and careers. During the nineteenth
century, public universities were transformed into lay institutions every-
where. The few faculties of Catholic theology reintroduced into France
and Spain could not survive and disappeared from public education.
‘Theology had taken refuge in the seminaries, while the state university
continued for a decade with the studies which, for several centuries, had
dominated and filled the auditoria.’7
At the same time, the universities became increasingly subjected to state
bureaucracy, which managed university affairs as part of a national edu-
cation policy. At the beginning of the century, the sovereign continued to
be directly involved with the help of a trustworthy person and a rudi-
mentary administration. When in 1806 Napoleon set up ‘under the name
of the Imperial University, a body exclusively responsible for teaching

6 See B. vom Brocke, ‘Die Entstehung der deutschen Forschungsuniversität, ihre Blüte
und Krise um 1900’, in R. C. Schwinges (ed.), Humboldt International, Der Export
des deutschen Universitätsmodells im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Veröffentlichungen der
Gesellschaft für Universitäts- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte 3 (Basle, 2001), 367–401.
7 Peset, Universidad Española, 717. (Translation of quotations, if not otherwise attributed,
by the author of this chapter.)

6
Themes

and public education throughout the Empire’,8 the official who ran it
reported directly to the emperor and enjoyed great independence. Two
years later he was the head of a central administration, and this was
maintained, or even expanded, by later political regimes, to become the
Ministry of Education in 1828.9 After sixteen months of successful activ-
ity, Wilhelm von Humboldt resigned his position as Director of the Section
for Ecclesiastical Affairs and Education at the Ministry of the Interior in
1810, just before the opening of the University of Berlin, because the King
did not want to upgrade the Division into a Ministry of Education, which
would have given it the necessary political clout.
Seven years later the upgrade took place. During the nineteenth cen-
tury, all over the Continent, similar ministries were set up to cope with
the growing importance that public education on every scale had assumed
in the general policy and budgets of nation states. The ministerial admin-
istration decided on the type and composition of the whole higher edu-
cation of the country, as was the case in Spain or Italy after unification;
it governed access to the universities, and controlled their curricula and
exams. It provided the universities with modern buildings and laborato-
ries, as the French Government did after the defeat of 1871 – which a large
section of public opinion attributed to the superiority of higher education
in Germany.
In the end, however, the most important consequence of this process
was the professionalization of university careers. On the European Conti-
nent the professor became a civil servant of the lay and bureaucratic state.
The most significant example is the institution intended to train the elite of
higher education teachers in France, the École Normale (Supérieure). Its
students, ‘at least seventeen years of age’, selected ‘from secondary schools
by examination and competition’, agreed to serve in public education for
at least ten years after graduation.10 Public education was therefore run
as a branch of state administration. The academic degrees and the means
of selection by competition and examination, which had been established
under the old regime, were integrated into a hierarchy: the baccalaureate
was essential to obtaining a post in a college, the license allowed for pro-
motion to college chairs and higher offices, the agrégation, a competitive
examination, gave ‘access to careers in administration . . . and chairs in
higher education’.11 The proof that this system of merit was linked to
8 Loi du 10 mai 1806, Art. 1; V. Karady, ‘De Napoléon à Duruy: origines et naissance de
l’Université contemporaine’, in Verger (ed.), Universités en France, 269. Cf. G. Schubring,
‘The Impact of the Napoleonic Reforms on the Educational System in Europe’, in
L. Blanco and L. Pepe (eds.), Stato e pubblica istruzione. Giovanni Scopoli e il suo
viaggio in Germania (1812), Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico in Trento 1995,
21 (Bologna, 1996), 435–43.
9 Karady, ‘Napoléon’ (note 8), 284. 10 Ibid., 277.
11 Gerbod, Condition universitaire, 57–64; quotation 64.

7
Walter Rüegg

bureaucratization and secularization is provided by the reactionary ele-


ments that regained power in France between 1822 and 1830: they closed
the École Normale and entrusted ‘numerous posts . . . to members of the
clergy, often without degrees’.12
From the inception of the universities, the doctorate attested that the
holder had mastered his academic discipline to such a point that he was
qualified to teach it at university level. At the end of the eighteenth century,
the examination consisted of the presentation and discussion of a thesis
that developed a subject without scientific originality and value over sev-
eral printed pages. After 1830, the theses defended before the faculties of
letters and sciences in Paris began to give way to more extensive research
and were often distinguished by having real scientific value.13 The man
chiefly responsible for this change of direction was Victor Cousin who,
after losing his chair in philosophy because of his liberal ideas inspired by
Kant and Fichte, became the head of the re-established École Normale fol-
lowing the revolution of July 1830. He undertook a journey to Germany
to study the state of public education there and published a report on his
findings.14 Although the reforms which resulted met the combined oppo-
sition of the clerics and the leftists, Cousin, because of his key position in
the training of professors, was able to introduce scientific criteria into doc-
toral theses15 as they were applied in Prussia. There scientific education,
which had been the founding idea behind the University of Berlin, needed
to be reflected in a ‘masterpiece’16 that inaugurated a career characterized
by the scientific spirit.
The German university professor was also a state functionary. But there
were several German states, and he was free to accept the best position
offered to him. His career did not unfold, as in France, among a hierar-
chical body of functionaries who remained subordinate to their superiors.
In general, the German professor began his university career as a Privat-
dozent who, after demonstrating to the faculty his ability to teach his
discipline, was entitled to do so at will, but also at his own expense.
He thus learned and earned with great difficulty to practise the libertas
docendi and, if lucky, persisted in it when he became a professor.
The French model, based on scientific merit in the framework of a
closed and centralized body, gave as much power and prestige to the
professor as the German model, based on competition and freedom.
He was entrusted by the state with a public office, the importance of
which for the common good continued to grow, and he won increasing

12 Ibid., 57. 13 Ibid., 65.


14 V. Cousin, De l’instruction publique dans quelques pays de l’Allemagne, et partic-
ulièrement en Prusse (Paris, 1832), 2 vols.
15 Cf. Gerbod, Condition universitaire, 74–5.
16 U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Reden und Vortrage, 3rd edn (Berlin, 1913), 107.

8
Themes

power through the monopoly for awarding diplomas and degrees that
allowed access to the professions. On the other hand, his personal pres-
tige depended increasingly on the collective prestige of his professional or
scientific specialization.
In France, the polytechnicien, the normalien and graduates of other
grandes écoles referred to themselves by their school, taking advantage
of its reputation. In the university systems of the German model it was
the specialization of the scientific disciplines that introduced new forms
of communication, identification and reputation for the professors. The
sancta quaedam communitas eruditorum, set up in the Middle Ages under
the protection of the papacy and preserved throughout the denomina-
tional scission by the humanist dialogue in the exchange of letters as
well as in scholarly academies and their journals of general interest, was
increasingly divided in the nineteenth century into a number of scientific
disciplines. The professors began to exchange their ideas and their work
in specialized journals, to meet at national conferences (even international
conferences after the end of the century) and to organize societies by disci-
pline.17 Consequently, it was no longer only individual performance and
glory, but also belonging to a recognized discipline that first and foremost
endowed the professor with his social prestige. The specialization of sci-
entific disciplines, accompanied by the modification of their rank in the
academic and social hierarchy, characterizes the modern university.

the european adoption of the two models


In the states annexed by Napoleon, the universities that had not been abol-
ished but rather replaced by faculties were re-established after 1815, but
they kept the division between the faculties of letters and sciences. Special
colleges, écoles normales, écoles supérieures, and professional colleges,
which spread throughout these countries, did not reach the level and rank
of the French grandes écoles or the German Hochschulen and were only

17 L. Daston, ‘Die Akademien und die Einheit der Wissenschaften. Die Disziplinierung der
Wissenschaften’, in J. Kocka et al. (eds.), Die Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wis-
senschaften zu Berlin im Kaiserreich (Berlin, 1999), 73–4. (Comparative table of German,
French and British scientific journals; quotation of a work by Hermann Diels, who in
1906 regretted ‘the huge number of excessively specialized scientific associations’ and
counted 892 scholarly societies in Germany in 1887, and 1,278 journals in the math-
ematical and natural sciences in 1900.) According to C. Grau, ‘Profildifferenzen und
Profildifferenzierung der Preussischen Akademie und anderer deutscher Wissenschaftler-
Gemeinschaften im 19. Jahrhundert’, in Kocka et al. (eds.), Preussische Akademie, 48,
the Gesellschaft deutscher Naturforscher und Ärzte, which was divided into seven sec-
tions in 1828, numbered 41 in 1894. The Societas pro Fauna et Flora Fennica, founded
in 1821, was one of the first specialized societies in the field of the natural sciences; cf.
A. Leikola, ‘The Importance of Scientific Societies for Biological Research in Finland’,
Memoranda Soc. Fauna Flora Fennica, 72 (1996), 99–102.

9
Walter Rüegg

integrated into the universities in Italy, and not until 1933–37. The French
model, which Napoleon imposed on the annexed countries, did not leave
deep traces; the centralizing tendencies characteristic of this model were
the inheritance of an enlightened absolutism which had affected higher
education in the eighteenth century in France, Spain and Austria. Out-
side Napoleon’s ephemeral empire, only Romania, a small country with
a Latin language, adopted the French model in its organization of studies
and the route from university office to public office. The main univer-
sity in the capital of the new state, founded in 1861, trained the ruling
class.
One of the jewels of the French model, the Ecole Polytechnique, which
was set up to train engineers and officers of the artillery, had a widespread
and significant influence through its theoretical orientation. The mining
and civil engineering colleges, founded in the eighteenth century by the
German, Austrian, Hungarian and Russian governments, and intended
for the practical training of civil servants, were transformed in the nine-
teenth century into Higher Polytechnical Schools by introducing advanced
theoretical teaching in mathematics and the physical sciences. But they did
not adhere to the other aspect of the French model, the military and metic-
ulous control by the state. On the contrary, they aspired to the basic rights
of the universities. First they received the corporate autonomy of internal
organization, then the right to accredit Privatdozenten, and, by the end
of the century, the right to confer the title of doctor, which put them in
the ranks of the universities.
Quite another form of influence arising from the French model char-
acterized the development of the Russian universities. They rejected the
French college model and adopted the German university model, a choice
reinforced by the appointment of German lecturers or Russian lecturers
trained in Germany. But at the same time, the state assigned these universi-
ties, which were dedicated in principle to science and enjoyed at least the-
oretical autonomy, the function of training its bureaucracy, as the French
grandes écoles did. This antagonism between the two models marked
the alternating phases of liberalism on the one hand and repression and
militarization on the other. After the revolutionary events of 1830, the
authorities made the students wear uniform, thus integrating them into
the administrative hierarchy. After 1848 they reacted with the ministerial
appointment of rectors, purged the teaching body, suppressed danger-
ous disciplines such as constitutional law and philosophy, and introduced
strict educational control of studies and students, measures that typified
the Tsarist university model throughout the liberal periods. It was to be
taken up again and perfected by the Soviet regime, which in 1930/31 tried
to dissolve the universities into specialized institutes. Two years later they

10
Themes

re-established the universities with the task of offering the more theo-
retical disciplines alongside numerous professional training institutes, all
higher education and research being governed and strictly controlled by
the state.
In the British Isles, the seven universities that existed in 1800 enjoyed
much greater freedoms than their continental counterparts. They had
kept the structure of the autonomous corporations of medieval univer-
sitates. Oxford, Cambridge and Trinity College, Dublin, represented the
clerical type, based on residential colleges and provided with extensive
financial backing and dispensing a humanist culture with the aid of inter-
nal tutors. The main function of the university was to award academic
degrees. The almost total autonomy that the state granted new universi-
ties created an opening for initiative and flexibility that was unknown on
the Continent. Between 1832 and 1905, thirteen local foundations with-
out any real overall plan had been recognized by royal charter, most in
large towns. Founded and financed by wealthy individuals, groups and
municipal authorities, they included medical, polytechnic and commercial
disciplines in university teaching. The four Scottish universities depended
more on the state for their finances, but they were otherwise indepen-
dent of government, imposed neither residence nor tutorials, and made
much greater use of the lecture, through which modern ideas, like those of
Adam Smith, were disseminated. They were largely open to the humbler
classes and to professional training, especially medicine, the clinical teach-
ing of which began in the eighteenth century as a university discipline in
the British Isles. Their openness and flexibility allowed for the introduc-
tion of new disciplines like shipbuilding in Glasgow, for example, thanks
to a chair founded by a shipowner’s widow. All four universities set up
science faculties towards the end of the century, and Edinburgh another
for music. With the exception of the science faculties, which were the result
of reforms proposed by Parliament, all these innovations originated from
local initiatives and owed nothing to a foreign model.
This was not the case at Oxford and Cambridge. ‘Oxford became
German after the defeat of the Oxford movement’ according to Arnaldo
Momigliano.18 Indeed, in 1834 the Quarterly Review had already ascer-
tained that in studies of antiquity – which were at the centre of elitist
teaching at Oxford – the Germans had reached a level difficult to emu-
late and their historical criticism had transformed biblical and classical
studies.19 Specialist journals appeared in England in 1831 and 1845 but

18 A. Momigliano, Quinto Contributo alla Storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico
(Rome, 1975), vol. I, 128.
19 Quarterly Review, 51 (1834), 144–5.

11
Walter Rüegg

disappeared after a few years.20 From 1880 such journals kept going until
the present.21 Scholars returning from their trips to Germany had begun
to introduce the scientific spirit into the colleges by trying to guide tutors
towards research. By the turn of the century, Oxford and Cambridge had
adhered to the German model to the extent that the importance of research
in the teaching of a modern university was accepted.
In the volume on the nineteenth century of the History of the University
of Oxford, Laurence Brockliss states that the idea of the modern research
university advocated by Humboldt was implemented more authentically
in the universities of Oxford and Cambridge than in the institutions of
Germany, since Oxbridge retained corporate and collegiate autonomy,
as well as their primary mission of non-professional education. On the
other hand, the continental universities subjected to state authority served
first and foremost to train doctors, teachers of law and other academic
professions, and only the most gifted students benefited from a scien-
tific education through research undertaken in co-operation with their
professor.22
This assertion is worth taking seriously when one remembers that
Humboldt wanted to provide the University of Berlin with financial inde-
pendence through endowment from the public domain, and when one
takes into account the fact that the famous American research univer-
sities refer to Humboldt, whereas in Germany Humboldt’s university is
presumed to be dead, stifled by the mass of students. In fact, the higher
education systems of continental Europe have never been able to combine
the general education of undergraduate students with scientific teaching
à la Humboldt, as they do in the best Anglo-American universities.
Yet the scientific spirit also conquered the French model of universities,
though not without resistance. When, from 1866, Romance philology
became established in France with chairs, journals and a scientific asso-
ciation, a professor of French Literature in Paris spoke of ‘this rubbish,
this German invention’,23 and in 1892 the Revue des Deux Mondes com-
plained that ‘they want to make Germans out of us’. In fact, in 1868
the Minister of Education, Duruy, had set up in Paris the Ecole Pratique

20 The Philological Museum 1831–33; The Classical Museum 1845–50. See History of
Oxford, VI, Part 1, 528–9.
21 Journal of Hellenic Studies 1880– , Classical Review 1887– , Classical Quarterly 1907– .
22 L. W. B. Brockliss, ‘The European University 1789–1850’, in University of Oxford, VI,
Part 1, 131–3.
23 ‘Ces cochonneries, cette invention des Germains’, see W. Hirdt (ed.), Romanistik, Eine
Bonner Erfindung (Bonn, 1994), 1012. Cf. chapter 10, 416, and W. Rüegg, ‘Humboldt in
Frankreich’, in R. C. Schwinges (ed.), Humboldt International. Der Export des deutschen
Universitätsmodells im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Veröffentlichungen der Gesellschaft für
Universitäts- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte 3 (Basle, 2001), 247–61.

12
Themes

des Hautes Etudes to allow interested students to become familiar with


scientific research as they could in Germany in university seminars and
laboratories. Louis Pasteur performed most of his experiments on fermen-
tation in two attic rooms and complained to the Emperor in 1868 that in
Germany, England, America and Austria there were some great university
laboratories, but not in France.24
In Italy, too, the German model that had influenced the university policy
of the Kingdom of Piedmont from the beginning of the century, became –
after the unification of Italy and especially after the Franco-Prussian war –
the university ideal.25 Towards the end of the century, doctoral theses
began to present serious research instead of mere compilations;26 spe-
cialist chairs were created, and scientific journals achieved a continuous
existence.

the new scientific spirit


Perhaps this account may help to provide a tentative answer to the ques-
tion raised at the beginning of the chapter: how can the strengthening of
the modern university in the nineteenth century be explained? We have
seen that it was the scientific spirit, developed in Germany and above all
at the new University of Berlin, which transformed universities beginning
in the 1830s in German-speaking countries and also in a few French and
English precursors, and that this had worked its way into most European
countries by the end of the century. Evidence for this claim lies in the intro-
duction of students to research in university or para-university seminars,
laboratories and institutes, the scientific content of doctoral theses, the
foundation of specialized scientific journals and societies, as well as the
organization of national and international conferences by discipline, and
the reaction of colleagues and the public to these novelties. The various
chapters of our History of the University in Europe give many examples,
but there is still much work to be done in order to arrive at a com-
plete picture. It will also be necessary to study more closely the role that
the various actors played in this process: the ministries, often guided or
advised by academics, the university institutions themselves, the student
and teaching organizations, individual pioneers, the pressures and initia-
tives of different social groups, etc.

24 R. Vallery-Rabot, La Vie de Pasteur, 2nd edn (Paris, 1905), 216; see chapter 13, 529.
25 M. Moretti, ‘La commissione reale e la relazione Ceci’, in I. Porciani (ed.), L’Università
tra Otto e Novecento: i modelli europei e il caso italiano (Naples, 1994), 277ff.
26 M. Isnenghi, ‘Per una storia delle tesi di laurea. Tracce e campioni a Padova fra Ottocento
e Novecento’, in F. De Vivo and G. Genovesi (eds.), Cento anni di università. L’istruzione
superiore in Italia dall’ Unità ai nostri giorni (Naples, 1986), 102–5.

13
Walter Rüegg

What were the reasons for the success of this scientific spirit? Compar-
ison between the French, German and British models leads to a surpris-
ing conclusion: the success of the scientific spirit increased insofar as a
model adapted the corporate autonomy of the traditional university to
the freedom of its members in teaching, study and research. The greatest
achievement of Humboldt and his advisor, Schleiermacher, was the rejec-
tion of the French model of professional colleges and the modernization
of the medieval structure of the university; in the long term, this permitted
the removal of the obstacle of the state to academic freedom. The example
of the Anglo-American universities demonstrates the fundamental impor-
tance of academic freedom and corporate autonomy.
But still more impressive is the role of this scientific spirit in the inter-
action between the growing autonomy of the universities and the public
authorities, on which all higher education, even in Great Britain and the
United States, came to depend. Our book shows the negative as well as
the positive aspects of this interaction in the control and repression that
supervisory authorities exercised over universities in the most authoritar-
ian and repressive regimes of modern history: Communism, Fascism and
National Socialism.
The march of the universities towards corporate autonomy and the
freedom of their members cannot be explained only by extrinsic reasons.
The true cause of this success must be sought in the scientific spirit itself.
This is a task that our book could not undertake in depth, since the
rudimentary state of detailed studies on the history of the university in
the nineteenth century obliged us first to establish the facts before looking
for the reasons. But in re-reading the manuscript, I had the impression
that the solution may be found in the following direction.
The spiritual fathers of the University of Berlin distanced themselves
from the humanist university, which according to them was content with
exploring the external phenomena of things and did not penetrate to their
essence. The theologian and philosopher Schleiermacher provided in his
plan for the University of Berlin for seminars in which ‘the scientific spirit,
awakened by philosophical teaching, would penetrate more deeply into
the particular, to research, combine, and create something of its own, and
to confirm by the correctness of its judgement the insight it has gained
into nature and the coherence of all knowledge’.27
Savigny, the great historian of Roman law, gave an example of this
‘scientific spirit’ in the prologue to his masterpiece, ‘The History of Roman
Law in the Middle Ages’. It distanced itself from the superficial separation
of the history of law and the history of legal literature. To go beyond the
descriptive writing of earlier studies, Savigny had to seek a centre, ‘a

27 F. Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken (note 5), 39.

14
Themes

specific point, in order to explain how the most recent law results from
development pure and simple and from the continuous transformation of
Roman law as determined by the circumstances of the Western Empire’.28
Niebuhr, the pioneer of critical history, in his prologue to ‘Roman
History’, spoke of the ‘decisive point’ revealed during a conversation with
Savigny that allowed him to undertake a critical treatment of history.
Earlier works had dealt with Roman history as ‘geographical charts or
painted landscapes and had not even tried to bring to light from these
rudimentary resources the image of the objects in their minds’.29
Wilhelm von Humboldt, as a philosopher of language, sought the spe-
cific point in the ‘faculty of the mind in which depth and abundance
influence the course of global events, and which is the founding principle
in the hidden and in some way mysterious development of humankind’.30
This recourse of the scientific spirit to the ‘centre’, the ‘specific point’,
‘decisive point’, or ‘founding principle’ could be extended by other exam-
ples. It led in the natural sciences to philosophical speculations that only
slowly gave way to empirical research. But no one defined this scientific
spirit better than the person who, after Schleiermacher, most influenced
the development of the University of Berlin, the philologist and histo-
rian of classical Greece, August Böckh. According to the latter the only
appropriate scientific approach is the ‘cyclical method, which consists of
linking all phenomena to their centre and of advancing from there step
by step to all points on the circumference’. According to Böckh, this cen-
tre is to be found ‘in the innermost nucleus of its coherent whole’ (im
innersten Kern seines Gesamtzusammenhanges).31 The new method is
therefore worthy of the name ‘nuclear’ because it targets the nucleus, the
philosophical essence and the historical or physical origin of natural and
spiritual phenomena.
This new scientific spirit, whose ‘enthusiasm and joy’ (Begeisterung und
Seligkeit) according to Niebuhr, enlivened the first years of the University
of Berlin;32 this nuclear method pushed research to the innermost core of
all things and opened the way to the surge of the modern university.

28 F. C. von Savigny, Geschichte des römischen Rechts im Mittelalter, vol. I: Vorrede zur
ersten Ausgabe (Darmstadt, 1956, reprint), vii.
29 B. G. Niebuhr, Römische Geschichte, Berichtigte Ausgabe in einem Bande, 5th edn (Berlin,
1853), vol. I, xv–xvi.
30 W. von Humboldt, ‘Über die Verschiedenheit des menschlichen Sprachbaus und ihren
Einfluss auf die geistige Entwicklung des Menschengeschlechts (1830–1835)’, in Werke in
fünf Bänden, ed. A. Flitner and K. Giel, vol. III, Schriften zur Sprachphilosophie (Darm-
stadt, 1965), 392. The new edition (2002) includes an epilogue (Nachwort) describing
the research on Humboldt made since 1981 and adding a bibliography 1981–2001.
31 A. Boeckh, Encyclopädie und Methodologie der philologischen Wissenschaft, ed.
E. Bratuschek (Leipzig, 1877), 47, 56.
32 Niebuhr, Römische Geschichte (note 29), xvi.

15
Walter Rüegg

from the age of philosophy to the age


of science
The ‘enthusiasm and joy’ that filled the University of Berlin with its
36 professors and eleven Privatdozenten in its first year33 is very surpris-
ing, and all the more so if one compares it with the uneasiness that a stay
in Berlin had caused Wilhelm von Humboldt ten years earlier. He com-
plained: ‘I’ve been in Berlin for a few months now, and I’m not pleased. If
one must pick a city to stay in, all others except Paris are and will always
be awful.’34 In fact, Berlin was a wasteland, scientifically speaking, at
the beginning of the nineteenth century. Of course, the royal cabinet had
firmed up a plan in 1801 to create a ‘Higher institute of learning in con-
junction with the Academy of Sciences’ (Allgemeine Lehranstalt in Berlin
in Verbindung mit der Akademie der Wissenschaften). So when the King
returned to this plan after the loss of Halle in 1806, authoritative experts –
among them the physician Hufeland (a regular member of the Academy
since 1800) – were very negative about the scientific level of the Academy
of Sciences. They stated that it was only a kind of Légion d’honneur
that satisfied the vanity of its members, a meeting-place for learned vet-
erans, a corpus mysticum et mortuum. To a higher institute of learn-
ing, the Academy could contribute hardly anything. However, it would
derive something scientifically stimulating from the new foundation.35
In 1809–10, this led Wilhelm von Humboldt to base the foundation
of the University of Berlin on the only non-government commissioned
paper written by Schleiermacher, and to charge him with its implementa-
tion, thereby introducing scientific knowledge as the true mission of the
university.
Wilhelm von Humboldt visited Paris at the beginning of August 1789,
a few weeks after the storming of the Bastille, and settled there with
his family in 1797 in order to pursue his anthropological and linguis-
tic studies as a private scholar, as ‘citizen Humboldt’. He was disap-
pointed with the intellectual condition of the French capital, where he
observed a certain ‘exhaustion and weakness’(Mattigkeit und Schwäche).
But he was favourably impressed by the level of the representatives of the

33 See ‘Übersicht über die Zahl der Lehrer’, in M. Lenz, Geschichte der königlichen Friedrich-
Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin (Halle, 1910), vol. III, 490.
34 ‘Ich bin also auf einige Monate in Berlin, was mir nicht lieb ist; da, wenn man einmal eine
Stadt zum Aufenthalt nehmen muss, alle anderen, ausser Paris, doch rein unangenehm
sind und bleiben.’ W. von Humboldt, letter to J. G. Schweighäuser, Berlin, 22 October
1801, in R. Freese (ed.), Wilhelm von Humboldt. Sein Leben und Wirken, dargestellt in
Briefen, Tagebüchern und Dokumenten seiner Zeit (Darmstadt, 1986), 339ff. 247.
35 W. Rüegg, ‘Ortsbestimmung. Die Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften
und der Aufstieg der Universitäten in den ersten zwei Dritteln des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in
Kocka et al. (eds.), Preussische Akademie (note 17), 24.

16
Themes

mathematical and natural sciences,36 whom he had come to know partly


through meetings of the organization that succeeded the Académie des
sciences, the first class of the Institut national des sciences et des arts, and
partly through his frequent visits to the Jardin des Plantes, which in 1795
became part of the newly created Muséum national d’histoire naturelle.37
Thus, in the summer of 1798, he was able to arrange the introduction
of his younger brother Alexander to the mathematician Pierre Simon
Marquis de Laplace (1749–1827) from the Institut, and to Louis comte
de Lagrange (1736–1813) from the Ecole Polytechnique, as well as to
two naturalists active at the Muséum, Georges baron Cuvier (1769–1832)
and Etienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (1772–1844). In Paris, Alexander von
Humboldt (1769–1859) was inspired to make his natural science research
trips to Latin America. On his return, he found no better place than Paris
to analyze the research he had been engaged in for twenty years.
This changed after 1830. Germany became more important for the
development of medical and scientific research than Paris. By the mid-
dle of the century Germany had surpassed France in the natural sciences.
This triumphal march cannot be explained by German researchers’ sin-
gular genius. Important discoveries in the natural sciences and medicine
were also being made in other countries. But the German university sys-
tem allowed scientific research to be a professional, bureaucratically regu-
lated activity. By the mid-century, practically all researchers in the natural
sciences and medicine in Germany were active either as heads or collab-
orators of institutes or university laboratories, while in Great Britain and
France research in these fields remained the preserve of the private ini-
tiative of amateurs or individual scholars or of institutions outside the
university.38
In Germany, research contributions were an important condition for
the academic career of its scientifically gifted sons – and in the twentieth
century, daughters, too – on all social levels. After 1840, of three famous
Berlin professors who reformed the study of medicine through their dis-
coveries or innovations as well as through their numerous distinguished
pupils all over Germany, the physiologist Johannes Müller (1801–58) was
the son of a shoe-maker, the pathologist and teacher of clinical medicine
Johann Lukas Schönlein (1793–1864) was the son of a rope-maker, and

36 W. von Humboldt, letter to F. H. Jacobi, Paris, 26 October 1798, in Freese (ed.), Wilhelm
von Humboldt (note 34), 268–9.
37 Idem, Tagebuch, 1 April 1798, ibid., 254; cf. Brief an Goethe aus dem Frühjahr 1798,
ibid., 252.
38 J. Ben-David, The Scientist’s Role in Society: A Comparative Study (Englewood Cliffs,
N. J., 1971), 108–38; L. K. Nyhart, ‘Civic and Economic Zoology in Nineteenth-Century
Germany: The “Living Communities” of Karl Möbius’, Isis 4, 85 (1998), 605–7; the
introduction to his case study provides an overview of the state of research for the whole
topic.

17
Walter Rüegg

the surgeon Johann Friedrich Dieffenbach (1795–1847) was born to a


high-school teacher.
At barely 25 years of age, Johannes Müller was professor in Bonn. Eight
years later he succeeded his teacher, the famous anatomist Carl Rudolphi
(1771–1832), in Berlin. In his application to the Prussian Minister of Edu-
cation for the post, Müller pointed to his internationally recognized abil-
ities to direct a large scientific institute, a class that Bonn did not possess.
Thus, he wrote, his appointment would ‘determine the spirit that for many
years may emanate from the splendid institutions of Berlin and that might
reasonably be expected from them, given the great activity in the other
natural sciences there’.39
This letter is interesting for the self-confidence with which the young
professor presented himself to his superior – an attitude that would later
prove to be justified, since, thanks to Müller, Berlin became a European
centre for comparative anatomy. Even more interesting is his repeated
reference to the importance of a great university institute for the ‘spirit’ in
which medical problems could be systematically and collectively investi-
gated in connection with the natural sciences. To obtain funds for such an
institute it was necessary to gain the support of the authorities in Berlin –
the King, his Ministers, and his private councillors, among whom was
Alexander von Humboldt, who had moved back to Berlin from Paris in
1827. In his capacity as ‘the daily table companion, constant travel com-
panion and trusted friend of the unforgettable Lord his Majesty, he was
the protective genius of the developing science in the time of Friedrich
Wilhelm III and beyond’, who impartially used his influence to promote
research and to further the careers of young researchers in the natural
sciences.40
In Paris, on the contrary, Claude Bernard (1813–78) had to make his
very important physiological discoveries in a cellar. Louis Pasteur (1822–
95) also carried out most of his experiments on fermentation in two
attic rooms. Only after the Franco-Prussian war did he obtain a labo-
ratory. Earlier he had unsuccessfully pleaded with the King: ‘It is time to
free the experimental sciences from the state of poverty they have been
exiled to. 30 years ago in Germany, there were already great laborato-
ries fully equipped with all the necessary tools for research, and each
year new ones are emerging; England, America, Austria and Bavaria have

39 See chapter 13, 523–4.


40 ‘[Alexander von Humboldt] der tägliche Tischgenosse, der stete Begleiter auf Reisen, der
vertraute Freund des unvergesslichen Königlichen Herrn, Schutzgeist der fortschreitenden
Wissenschaft in der Zeit Friedrich Wilhelms III. und noch darüber hinaus’. R. Virchow,
‘Die Gründung der Berliner Universität und der Übergang aus dem philosophischen in
das naturwissenschaftliche Zeitalter’, Rektoratsrede 3 August 1893 (Berlin, 1893), 20–
29; here 20, 22.

18
Themes

allocated considerable sums for this aim. Even Italy has made strides in this
direction.’41
Like his colleagues, Müller was fascinated by the study of natural phi-
losophy and throughout his life he admired Aristotle. Thus in the same
way that the ‘nuclear’ method led the Berlin professor of the sciences of
antiquity, Böckh, to undermine the new humanistic ideal of Greek clas-
sicism through his historical and philological investigations, but without
abandoning it as a pedagogical model, it also allowed natural scientists
to make revolutionary discoveries through their experimental investiga-
tions, like Johannes Müller and his school for developing cell theories,
without having to repudiate the philosophical impetus that had sparked
interest in their research.
Before World War I, mathematics and the natural sciences had their
own departments in Germany only in Tübingen (1869), Strasburg (1872),
Heidelberg (1890), and Frankfurt-am-Main (1914). The conviction that
philosophy would guarantee – on an institutional level – the intellectual
unity of the humanities, natural sciences and social sciences was so strong
that Kiel, Cologne and Marburg maintained an undivided philosophy
department until the 1960s, as did Graz and Vienna until 1975.42
Rudolf Virchow (1821–1902), who developed the cell theory of his
teacher Müller through the knowledge that cells are generated when divid-
ing, gave the annual speech for 1893 in memory of the royal founder of
the University of Berlin. As his topic, he developed a thesis proposed
by the founder of electrical engineering, Werner von Siemens (1816–92),
who had stated that mankind had entered the age of science in which
the natural sciences were orientated towards practical use, thus making
good Francis Bacon’s (1561–1626) postulate that nature can be dominated
through science.
As Rector of the University and as a researcher, Helmholtz extolled
the progress in the natural sciences since the time of the founding of
the University of Berlin. But as an active liberal politician and committed
social physician he warned of the power of ‘the mystical impulses instilled
by a few adventurers into the soul of the people’ and referred to anti-
Semitism as a current example; ‘no-one actually knows its [anti-Semitism]
purpose in these times of equal rights, and despite or perhaps because of
this fact, it fascinates even educated youth’.43

41 See chapter 13, 529 (as already mentioned on p. 13).


42 See chapter 10, 415–16. For details see European Universities and Similar Institutions in
Existence Between 1812 and the End of 1944.
43 ‘Stärke der mystischen Regungen, welche von einzelnen Abenteurern in die Volksseele
getragen werden . . . [Antisemitismus], von dem niemand weiss, was er eigentlich in dieser
Zeit der Rechtsgleichheit will, und der trotzdem, vielleicht auch deshalb, fascinirend selbst
auf die gebildete Jugend wirkt.’ See Virchow, ‘Gründung’ (note 40), 27.

19
Walter Rüegg

Virchow spoke on ‘The Passage from the Age of Philosophy to the Age
of Natural Sciences’. In 1895 his colleague, the philosopher and histo-
rian of education Friedrich Paulsen, characterized this passage even more
clearly: ‘A period of absolute lack of philosophy in Germany follows a
period of absolute philosophy.’44 Philosophy in Germany was something
different from what it was in France or Great Britain, because it had lost
something of the sense of intellectual life in general; this was no small mat-
ter, since the German elite had not built up enough intellectual antibodies
to combat pseudo-scientific ideologies.

‘the freedom that i believe in is what fills


m y h e a r t ’ 45
Unlike Paulsen who – uselessly – wanted once again to make philoso-
phy as a secondary school discipline the foundation in the literal sense
of the academic elite, Virchow thought philosophy had played its role in
education at the end of the nineteenth century. At the end of his speech,
he recalled that at Berlin University, the ‘academic education of students
[offered] a great deal of freedom’, ‘which assigned and conceded respon-
sibility without restriction, in order that each become independent in his
own way’. What was expected and demanded was the ‘free formation of
a balanced, honest and beautiful personality’.46
This ideal met with some restrictions owing to state exam regulations,
applications to seminars, and the social pressure exerted on students’
daily lives in the German university. In comparison with other countries,
however, student freedom turned out to be the essential conquest of the
German university in the nineteenth century.
Already at the turn of the thirteenth century, students in Bologna who
were not citizens of this town, as well as both masters and students in
Paris, had coalesced into corporations called universitates. Their tasks
were essentially to defend personal freedom against the arbitrariness of
local power groups, to protect students from the political and ecclesiasti-
cal authorities in lawsuits, to combat home and business owners regard-
ing the cost of living, and – in Bologna – to hold the ‘masters’ to their
teaching obligations. The universitates consisted of ‘colleges’ in which
students lived together, as well as ‘nations’ based on the region of origin.
When these communities visibly lost power in the early modern era, they

44 ‘Es folgte in Deutschland auf das Zeitalter der absoluten Philosophie ein Zeitalter der
absoluten Unphilosophie.’ See chapter 10.
45 ‘Freiheit, die ich meine, die mein Herz erfüllt.’ Beginning of the first and last verses of
a well-known student song that Max von Schenkendorf (1783–1817) wrote along with
other patriotic songs of student life during the war for liberation.
46 Virchow, ‘Gründung’ (note 40), 29.

20
Themes

formed associations and clubs of students coming from the same region,
whose ‘freedoms’ often subjected the personal freedom of their members
to humiliating initiation and drinking rites.
In contrast to the student liberties of the medieval and early modern uni-
versity, personal freedom, which offered students an academic education
according to the Berlin University model, referred to study as the core of
its activity, and assigned it its own responsibility. Wilhelm von Humboldt
took this as the basis of his idea of a university: ‘The university’s domain is
what man can only find through and within himself – insight into science.
Freedom is necessary and solitude helpful to this self-act in its own under-
standing, and the entire outer organization of the university flows from
these two points. Attending lectures is only secondary; what is essential
is that for a series of years one lives in close connection with like-minded
people of the same age, who are aware that in this same place there are
many thoroughly learned people, dedicated solely to the elevation and
diffusion of science.’47
As a university professor, Schleiermacher gave a new meaning to the
delivery of and attendance at lectures, in order to apply the liberal idea
of the student’s own responsibility for his studies more concretely than
did the private man of learning and statesman, Humboldt: ‘The teacher
must produce everything he says before his listeners: he must not narrate
what he knows, but rather reproduce his own way to knowledge, the
action itself. The listeners should not only collect knowledge. They should
directly observe the activity of intelligence producing knowledge and, by
observing it, learn how to do it themselves.’48
Both Schleiermacher and Humboldt – and consequently the followers
of the so-called Humboldt university model – no longer saw the professor
as a teacher who lectured on the current state of the art in an orderly,
textbook fashion, but rather as a model that the student should follow so
that he might scientifically grasp an object in order to arrive at new, ratio-
nally scrutinized, knowledge. At the very least, study should aim for the
47 ‘Der Universität ist vorbehalten, was nur der Mensch durch und in sich selbst finden
kann, die Einsicht in die Wissenschaft. Zu diesem Selbst Actus im eigentlichsten Verstand
ist nothwendig Freiheit und hülfreich Einsamkeit, und aus diesen beiden Punkten fliesst
zugleich die ganze äussere Organisation der Universitäten. Das Kollegienhören ist nur
Nebensache, das Wesentliche, dass man in enger Gemeinschaft mit Gleichgesinnten und
Gleichaltrigen und dem Bewusstseyn, dass es am gleichen Ort eine Zahl schon vollendet
Gebildeter gebe, die sich nur der Erhöhung und Verbreitung der Wissenschaft widmen,
eine Reihe von Jahren sich und der Wissenschaft lebe.’ W. von Humboldt, ‘Unmass-
gebliche Gedanken über den Plan der Errichtung eines Litthauischen Stadtschulwesens
(27 September 1809)’, Werke (note 30), 191.
48 ‘Der Lehrer muss alles, was er sagt, vor den Zuhörern entstehen lassen; er muss nicht
erzählen , was er weiss, sondern sein eignes Erkennen, die Tat selbst, reproduzieren, damit
sie nicht etwa nur Kenntnisse sammeln, sondern die Tätigkeit der Vernunft im Hervor-
bringen der Erkenntnis unmittelbar anschauen und anschauend nachbilden.’ Schleierma-
cher, Gelegentliche Gedanken (note 5), 63.

21
Walter Rüegg

acquisition of specialized knowledge, as with the capacity to solve prob-


lems, which result in scientifically disciplined analyses of this specialized
knowledge.
Thus, during the period discussed in this volume and at the universities
based on the German university model, with the exception of medicine
there were no compulsory lessons with monitored attendance or check-up
exams. Only at the end of the course of study was the candidate tested
through academic or state exams in his chosen field. However, the way
in which the individual acquired this knowledge was left entirely up to
him. The student could put a plan of study together as he liked, and this
is exactly what scientifically successful candidates for the diploma did, as
their autobiographical information shows. They often had lectures and
seminars outside their own fields, or certain Privatdozenten might show
them the way to new knowledge based on their own research. Freedom
to learn and responsibility for oneself were thus not utopian ideals for the
founding fathers of Berlin University. Rather, at universities that followed
the German university model, the freedom of study bore its imprint until
the middle of the twentieth century.
Freedom and responsibility for oneself were not just limited to the
reform of the university. This was only part of the programme of reforms
with which Baron Karl vom und zum Stein (1757–1831) in 1807, and
Count Karl August von Hardenberg (1750–1822) in 1810, tackled the
problem of modernizing the Prussian authoritarian state. Both recom-
mended independent government administration, the liberation of the
peasants, the liberalization of science, and universal military service. From
subjects, the Prussians should become free citizens responsible for their
own lives and mutually responsible for the common good.
The reform of state and society in the spirit of personal freedom and
responsibility, as Kant’s followers in Berlin, Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–
1814) and Friedrich Schleiermacher, proclaimed, called for an extensive
reform of education. During his short period in office as Director of the
Section for Ecclesiastical Affairs and Education in the Prussian Ministry of
the Interior from March 1809 to June 1810, Wilhelm von Humboldt did
not just lay the groundwork for the University of Berlin. He also reformed
the Prussian primary school along the lines of the scholastic experimen-
tation of the Swiss pedagogue, Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746–1827),
who united instruction and education. His pupils took responsibility for
one another, and did not mechanically repeat prescribed skills but rather
thought independently and learned how to act responsibly. ‘Such a clear,
definite and spontaneous method of instruction also necessarily had reper-
cussions on clearly known, definite and conclusive business.’ Humboldt
did not only want to consolidate the liberation of the peasants through
Pestalozzi’s method of elementary education, orientated towards the unity

22
Themes

of ‘head, heart and hand’. Above all, he wanted to shape and bind the
nation in the spirit of freedom and responsibility from the primary school
to the university, and thus implement the idea of scholastic instruction
as a general cultural education as a counter-model to the French-inspired
concept of professional higher schools.49
This was also the case for the higher, so-called ‘learned’ schools, or
Gymnasien. They aimed, as Humboldt said at ‘an overall education’ (all-
gemeine Menschenbildung) and ‘formation of a well-rounded personality’
(allseitige Bildung der Persönlichkeit), based on the model of an idealized
concept of the ancient Greeks, and this found its greatest expression in the
shining star of Greek teaching.50 In 1806 and 1807 in Rome, Humboldt
had already firmed up his ideas on an inner spiritual relationship between
the ancient Greeks and the Germans of his time through his studies on the
philosophy of language, and, like Goethe, had given vent to concern with
the spirit of the ancient Greeks in the concept of the cosmopolitan citizen.
In Germany, however, the ancient Greek wars for independence against
superior powers were presented to academic youth as the glaring exam-
ple of the fight against Napoleon’s conquests, and pedagogues compared
the return to the Greek spirit viewed as the clean, immaculate morning
of the world to the spiritual liberation of youthful Germany from the
hegemony of the old-fashioned Latin-Roman culture that had sullied the
pure German spirit over the course of the centuries. Greek, which through
humanism had integrated and made the prevalent Latin linguistic culture
more profound as the foundation for educating the European elite, often
became the basis of a chauvinistic nationalist education in the German
Gymnasium.51
Freedom from the arbitrary use of power as well as responsibility for
their common causes had united students since the founding of the uni-
versitates. Thus their concerns focused on their own freedom and the
responsibility that was directly connected with their studies. Around
1800, students began to feel they were also responsible for the free-
dom of other social layers or for the whole nation. In 1794 Polish stu-
dents formed their own military units to take part in the unsuccessful

49 Humboldt, Werke IV (note 30), delegation of young pedagogues to Pestalozzi’s Schu-


lanstalt in Yverdon: 65, 135; ‘planmässige Verbreitung einer besseren <Pestalozzischen>
Unterrichts- Methode über das ganze Land’, 221, here 225, Landschulwesen, 225–8.
For an overall discussion on education see K.-E. Jeismann, ‘Schulpolitik, Schulverwal-
tung, Schulgesetzgebung’, in K.-E. Jeismann and P. Lundgreen (eds.), Handbuch der
deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. III: 1800–1870. Von der Neuordnung Deutschlands
bis zur Gründung des Deutschen Reiches (Munich, 1987), 106–9.
50 Jeismann and Lundgreen (eds.), Handbuch, 108.
51 W. Rüegg, ‘Die Antike als Begründung des deutschen Nationalbewusstseins’, in
W. Schuller (ed.), Antike in der Moderne, Xenia Konstanzer Althistorische Vorträge und
Forschungen 15 (Konstanz, 1985), 267–87.

23
Walter Rüegg

uprising under the leadership of Tadeusz Kos’ciuszko (1746–1817). A


similar uprising occurred – successfully – in the German struggle for lib-
eration under Napoleon. After the devastating Prussian defeat in 1806,
a true patriotic awakening campaign was promoted by university profes-
sors like Fichte with his ‘Reden an die deutsche Nation’, Schleiermacher
with his sermons, and Ernst Moritz Arndt (1769–1860) with his poetry;
this campaign spread through student groups after 1810, above all, the
Burschenschaften founded in Jena in 1813. Student volunteers thus took
part in the war in their own formations.52
Student engagement in political freedom and personal responsibility for
the country became the model of student movements, when, after 1815,
student war veterans tried to implement a liberal democratic constitution
for a united Germany, and through this, provoked the reaction of the
governments who had defeated Napoleon. In 1819, the Allied Powers
approved in Carlsbad measures proposed by the Austrian statesman,
Klemens von Metternich (1773–1859), to suppress student gatherings
and freedom of opinion. He thus promoted the spread of student move-
ments all across Europe. In the beginning phases, the following essential
aspects of this new phenomenon, which was so important in terms of the
history of the university, emerge and can be examined through further
developments.
Student movements cannot be explained by the students’ commitment
to greater freedom and more responsibility for their studies and university
organization. The highly regulated curricula in the French écoles and fac-
ultés did not inspire any sort of student protest. The students of the école
polytechnique ostentatiously took part in their uniforms, which symbol-
ized their military education, in the July Revolution of 1830. At the Finnish
University of Åbo in 1816, the example of the German Burschenschaft was
imitated, but only in order to ask for greater ‘academic freedom’. When
this passed in 1817, the protest was over. An historically effective student
movement only came about in Finland when political dependence on the
Russian authorities and cultural dependence on the Swedish language
challenged Finnish national awareness.
Student movements mark student life to the extent that students are
concerned about the lack of political or social freedom in their social
environment and use their privileged position to fight for it. This was
often connected with internal academic demands. Thus Flemish students
struggled for years to obtain the right to have lessons in their own lan-
guage. But these were only avant-garde confrontations in the fight for the
cultural and political emancipation of Flanders as a whole. The student
movement was not limited to equal language rights in the realm of study, it

52 See chapter 8, also for the following, in as much as it is not referred to elsewhere.

24
Themes

also waged a battle to make Flemish the only official language of Flanders
and thus bring about political liberation from French Walloon domina-
tion. This was also true for the common representation of student interests
in education in terms of self-help organizations and federations, especially
their more active application towards a general social goal. The Russian
agitation of the 1860s for the abolition of serfdom, which set off an emo-
tional reaction in student groups and unions that kept the movement alive,
is but one example.
The political or social engagement of student groups was thus a nec-
essary, but insufficient, condition for the birth of student movements.
Neither the successful student initiatives aiming at the intellectual and
material promotion of the rural population (especially in Great Britain
and Scandinavia), nor the spread of socialist student groups, led to student
movements. Only through responsibility for the political or social liber-
ation of an entire people or a single social class did student commitment
become endowed with the dynamics of a movement.

d a v i d vs. g o l i a t h
This takes us back to the origin of the student movement in the German
war for liberation against Napoleon and to the battle for the civil liberties
of the people initiated by the French Revolution and the constitution of
the United States of America. Until the twentieth century student move-
ments mainly fought for the political freedom of a whole nation from
foreign domination; after the German war for liberation, they were active
in defeated Poland, then in other nations in northern and southern Europe
under foreign domination, as well as in European colonies in Africa and
Asia. On the other hand, often in combination with national liberation,
they were committed to civil liberties in their own regimes, as in Germany,
France, Italy and Russia.
In both cases, students had to contend with very powerful adversaries.
They felt a strong sense of solidarity with students at other universities in
their language area, and later, with foreign students, too. They supported
each other physically and psychologically, and so increased their own self-
assertion. They formed national federations, followed by international
student unions. Above all, they overcame their weaknesses through ideo-
logies that justified and idealized their goals. Student movements were
thus from the beginning continually given impetus by spiritual fathers,
often by professors, who, like Fichte in his speeches, or Schleiermacher in
his sermons, gave student movements the legitimation they needed either
in oral and printed form or through their names alone. Older students
frequently took leading roles in the movement, roles not only organiza-
tional but also programmatic. If they had to pay with their lives, they died

25
Walter Rüegg

as martyrs, and the name of the spiritual father – reduced to a battle cry –
had a symbolic effect that was just as important for the emotional power
of the student movement as the ideological basis was for its legitimation.
Concrete objects or people as symbols for common affairs evidently
remind human groups of their solidarity and strengthen these emotionally,
while separating individual groups from others and challenging adver-
saries with means that only become contestable if the object, for example
the peculiar colour combination in a medal or cloth, can be understood
as a sign of identification with a group, or the use of a person’s name
as a provocative reminder of its programme. Thus symbolic forms are
abundant in situations of collective disorientation.53 This also happens
with student movements, which have been marked by an imaginative use
of symbolic forms since their origins, to an extent which can only be
observed in modern collective sports like football or hockey.
The foundation of a pan-German student movement had been planned
down to the last detail at the Wartburg in Eisenach in 1817, and it gave rise
to repeated commemoration ceremonies. It was full of symbolic, cultural
and political forms, beginning with a meeting place recalling the religious
liberation of Germany through Luther, and degenerating into the cere-
monial burning of reactionary writings.54 The symbolic meaning of the
black, red and gold insignia worn by war veterans was national-political
and had an unforeseen effect.55 It recalled the widespread Lützow student
free corps, and it spread in the German student movement as a symbol
of the struggle for the freedom and unity of the country. The Weimar
Republic replaced the black, white and red flag of the Empire with the
black, red and gold that represents Germany today.
The theme of ideological and symbolic solidarity in overcoming inse-
curity in the struggle for freedom and self-responsibility against the
all-powerful state is one that runs through the history of the student
movement, from its beginning with autonomous freedom fighters to its
degeneration into the totalitarian student organizations of Communism,
Fascism and Nazism.
Three essential tendencies of student movements are very clearly illus-
trated by the struggle of Italian students for national unity and individual
freedom against the Austrian powers, the Papal States, and the small

53 W. Rüegg, ‘Symbole als politische Ausdrucksformen’, in A. Zweig (ed.), Symbolforschung


mit politischen, religiösen und ästhetischen Ausdrucksformen. Akten des 4. und 5. Sym-
posions der Gesellschaft für Symbolforschung Bern 1986, 1987, Schriften zur Symbol-
forschung 5 (Bern, Frankfurt-am-Main, New York and Paris, 1988), 9–32.
54 For details on the ceremony at the Wartburg and for a bibliography, see J. Bauer, ‘Zur
Geschichte einer Festlegende 1817–1848–1867’, in H.-W. Hahn and W. Greilling (eds.),
Die Revolution von 1848/49 in Thüringen (Rudolstadt, 1998), 535–61.
55 W. Klose, Freiheit schreibt auf eure Fahnen. 800 Jahre deutsche Studenten (Oldenburg
and Hamburg, 1967), 136–41.

26
Themes

principalities they protected. Ever since the Renaissance, universities in


smaller cities were preferred because student associations could be more
easily watched over in them than in larger places. Thus Lorenzo de’ Medici
(1449–92) moved the University of Florence to Pisa. The Milanese had
their university in Pavia, the Venetians theirs in Padua. On 12 September
1831 the authorities in charge of the remaining universities of the Papal
States took away the institutional status of the ‘mother of universities’,
Bologna, and allowed it to continue only as an examining institution for
academic titles. The departments were spread out over different locations,
where the professors taught and supervised resident students under the
surveillance of the Church.
Thus the Curia hoped to undermine student solidarity, which had put
a massive revolutionary movement into action in a large part of Europe
since the 1830 July Revolution in Paris. On 4 February 1831 the state offi-
cials of Bologna were replaced peacefully by a provisional regime. Only
two days later a ‘militant student song’ was in circulation; its first and
last verses praised the struggle for freedom. Two documents also show
that, in Bologna, the student movements needed a spiritual father. One
is the proposal for university reform that the students read to the rev-
olutionary government. Its Minister of Public Education was the math-
ematics and philosophy professor, Francesco Orioli (1785–1856), who
undoubtedly had helped the students in formulating their proposal: it
was accepted almost verbatim by the government. The second document,
a solidarity address to the Parisian students, published on 9 March, men-
tioned openly the intellectual assistance of their professor. The Bolognese
students recalled the July Revolution, and, when underlining the impor-
tance of the French philosophers in the fight for freedom, referred to the
shining Italian example by mentioning their teacher by name. This address
praised the international solidarity of students fighting for freedom and
closed with a diplomatically formulated plea for military help. Two weeks
later, Bologna was occupied by Austrian troops. The university was closed
by order of Metternich.56
The decree that regulated the dissolution of the university by separat-
ing the departments explicitly stated that only youths with irreproach-
able Christian lifestyles were allowed to study and sit for academic
exams. What this meant in practice is shown by new investigations into
student life in the medium-sized state university of Austrian-occupied
Lombardy in Pavia and in the tiny university of the dukes of Austria-Este

56 A. Sorbelli, ‘L’Università di Bologna e la rivoluzione del 1831’, Studi e memorie per


la storia dell’Università di Bologna IX (Biblioteca de ‘l’Archiginnasio’, Serie I, vol. IX)
(Bologna, 1926), 147–86: Dissolution of the University 167; decree of the Sagra Con-
gregazione degli Studj 167–70; Student song 152, proposal for university reform 159;
solidarity address to Parisian students 157–8; Intervention by Metternich 164.

27
Walter Rüegg

in Modena.57 In 1814 the University of Modena had 28 professors in four


departments and 200 students. By 1859 this number had tripled, while the
body of professors had barely doubled. Its task was to educate graduates
needed by the duchy. Foreigners were not allowed; natives had to study
in Modena. Half of the applicants were rejected, but nine-tenths of the
candidates passed the examinations for their degrees. The strictly regu-
lated daily schedule of the students started with Mass at 7.00 and ended
with lights out at 22.30. After morning lectures, precise rules reserved
the afternoon and evening for private study. Students had to have per-
mission to leave the college before evening prayers, and then only for a –
theoretically – supervised purpose.
Government ordinances forbidding student gambling in cafés in 1815
and restricting attendance at theatrical performances in 1821 show that
students exploited their free time more freely than was foreseen by the reg-
ulations. The political significance of cafés as places for leisure time, read-
ing newspapers, and for free, open exchange among students and with the
public is being investigated for Italy.58 Where otherwise could students in
Modena make contact with the secret societies of the Carbonari? Strolling
in the streets enabled imaginative students to bond with politically impor-
tant symbolic forms. This led the authorities to prohibit – under threat of
imprisonment – students from wearing berets or smoking pipes and long
cigars in the streets and squares: the latter was reserved for the military
and was imitated by students as anti-Austrian provocation, while the for-
mer symbolized their solidarity with popular insurrection.59 In fact, the
extreme discipline of student life makes it understandable that students in
Modena in particular were deeply involved in the popular insurrections
and thus had to pay the price. In 1821, 19 per cent of the student body
was expelled, and in 1831, 32 per cent.
That a leading role in a student movement in a provincial university
like Modena could also be good training for an important public career is
illustrated by Nicola Fabrizi (1804–85) and Manfredo Fanti (1806–65),

57 In 1995 Gian Paolo Brizzi complained that student movements – especially in Italy –
had not yet received the attention of modern research focusing on external influences
and consequences (G. P. Brizzi, ‘Studenti: una storia ancora da scrivere’, in Gaudeamus
igitur. Studenti e goliardia 1885–1923 (Bologna, 1995), 10–11). And so I have gratefully
used the following sources: S. Polenghi, ‘Studenti e politici nell’Università di Pavia durante
il Risorgimento (1814–1860)’, Università e studenti nell’Italia dell’Ottocento, Storia in
Lombardia, 21, 3 (2001), 5–38. A. Magnani, ‘Gli studenti pavesi fra contestazione e
impegno politico (1885–1894)’, ibid., 39–58. R. Gambiglioni Zoccoli, ‘Gli studenti nel’
Università estense della Restaurazione. Un caso di studio’, ibid., 59–74; on p. 70, note 42,
Brizzi’s above-mentioned state of the art).
58 M. Agulhon, Il salotto, il circolo e il caffé (Rome, 1993). E. François, ‘Il caffé’, in H. G.
Haupt (ed.), Luoghi quotidiani nella storia d’Europa (Rome and Bari, 1993).
59 Zoccoli, ‘Studenti’ (note 57): attendance 59–61; exams 68–9; daily schedule 67; cafés 71;
theatre 72; cigars, berets 71; discipline 66ff.; expulsion 73.

28
Themes

who, as ringleaders, had to flee the country after 1831. They then joined
the banned secret society ‘Young Italy’ founded by Giuseppe Mazzini
(1805–72) in Marseille in 1832, and finally arrived by different routes to
become successful generals and ministers of war in the national union of
1859–60. Fanti, who graduated from the military academy in Modena
and obtained his doctoral degree from the university in mathematics in
1830, pursued a military career in Spain, took part as major-general in a
Lombard Brigade in the battle for the liberation of Milan in 1848, was an
army general in the war against Austria and the Pope in 1859–60, and was
appointed by Cavour (1810–61) in 1860 as minister of war and charged
with reorganizing the armed forces. From his posts in exile, the jurist
Fabrizi organized secret society actions together with Mazzini, and then
with his own ‘Italian Legion’, and took part in battles for the liberation
of Sicily with his own troops in 1860. He was promoted by Garibaldi to
army general, and as minister of war embarked on a vacillating political
career in the new nation state.60
Modena illustrates the hidden development of the student movement
in those closed institutions of higher education that, in the first half of the
nineteenth century, were still quite frequent in Europe. They were gov-
erned either by foreign or absolutist local rulers and had as their only task
to train, under strict discipline, the professionals needed for their territory.
Another, more open, university type is to be found in Pavia. Its univer-
sity had not only the task of training professionals for the economically
developing Lombardy, it was also sought out by foreign students from
time immemorial. Pavia bordered on the more liberal Piedmont governed
by the King of Sardinia, and Lombardy had a close relationship with
France in ages past.
Stendhal noted in 1816 that the anger of students in Pavia against the
Germans (that is, German Austrians) was so great, that a person could
make himself better liked by frightening off young people of German
origin with wooden clubs in dark alleys. Students recited from memory
Petrarch’s lines on the hope of a unified Italy. Yet actual models for their
hopes were only presented in 1821 by their own teachers, French examples
and, above all, by Mazzini after 1831, with his appeals and his secretive,
conspiratorial aura.
In 1821, 84 of the 893 students in Pavia ran over the nearby border
with Piedmont to help rebel fellow students there. However, half of them
opportunely turned back, in order to justify their absences as sick leave
and thus escape punishment. The ‘rebels’ who were caught were – with
the exception of a few who had fled into exile – soon pardoned, while the

60 See G. Monsagrati, ‘Nicola Fabrizi’, Dizionario biografico degli italiani, 43 (Rome, 1993),
803–12; V. Caciulli, ‘Manfredo Fanti’, ibid., 44 (Rome, 1994), 635–8.

29
Walter Rüegg

teachers who took part in the revolt received severe sanctions. In 1825,
the government sharpened its restrictions on student freedom. Foreign stu-
dents, who mainly came from Piedmont or from the infamous political
asylum for exiled freedom fighters in Switzerland, were no longer admit-
ted. The native born were subject to the strict norms of behaviour of the
so-called Christian way of life, and the professors had to act as supervi-
sors. Many students tried, sometimes with the help of professors, to break
free of the straitjacket of the Church. But it was more difficult for law
students than for medical students, who could excuse their absence from
obligatory attendance at Mass with the early morning anatomy courses.
Above all, students tried to be provocative through their often excessively
symbolic appearance. They let their beards grow, despite repeated pro-
hibitions (beards were reserved for the military), but beards were finally
allowed by the academic authorities. Or they showed their solidarity with
the common people through their clothing, and wore head coverings of
different kinds – already by 1821 a beret ‘à la Sand’ was a message of
revolt. In 1848 the wearing of politically suspect Calabrian hats was for-
bidden by the military authorities; in 1849 students sported straw hats,
decorated with red, white and green rosettes. Theatrical events – especially
the opera, with Verdi or Bellini’s Norma – gave rise to patriotic manifes-
tations. In short, student movements always found politically harmless
objectives that they could use as symbolic manifestations of their desire
for personal and political freedom.
In 1832 the young priest Tommaso Bianchi (1804–34) began to lec-
ture to his students on Mazzini’s writings at the liberal Collegio Ghislieri.
In 1834 he was reported by an assistant, arrested, and died in prison
shortly thereafter. But Mazzini’s appeals spread, handwritten, throughout
the entire university, and not only through the ‘martyrdom’ of Mazzini’s
followers. Somewhat perversely, Mazzini’s lack of success brought him
followers from all over Italy throughout the entire century. The more
often the conspiracies and popular uprisings he instigated from exile in
France, Switzerland or London failed, the stronger the effect on student
movements of the message inspired by his radical desire for freedom. This
lasted until national unity was achieved – and even beyond. Certainly stu-
dents in Pavia read other forbidden authors considered subversive before
and after 1848, such as Hegel, David Friedrich Strauss (1808–74), and
above all, famous French writers, from Saint Simon (1760–1825) and
Benjamin Constant (1767–1830) to Jules Michelet (1798–1874) and Louis
Auguste Blanqui (1805–81).61 One can hardly find an Italian study on the

61 Polenghi, ‘Studenti e politici’ (note 57), Stendhal 11–12; Revolution of 1821 and measures
of 1825, 12–15; clothing, hats, beards as political symbols 16–18, 26, 29–30; work 17;
cigars 35; Mazzini 20, 31; subversive readings 21.

30
Themes

history of the university during the Risorgimento in which Mazzini is not


mentioned, often only with a word, reminding the Italian reader of an
almost mythically present example of an intellectually radical fight for
freedom that continually braved failures.
∗∗∗
This chapter has attempted to point out the new problems that are the
main focus of this volume and to question the outcome of their treatment.
In this volume, even more than in the preceding ones, the current state of
the art gives rise to a series of preliminary theses rather than conclusive
results. There is a real need for more in-depth treatment of the salient
themes through systematic research into the complex field of the modern
history of the university in Europe, despite many recent and promising
endeavours.
The point of departure of this chapter is the thesis that the Germans
opened the way to the modern research university by focusing the idea of
the university on the freedom of scientific research, teaching and study.
Competing with the Napoleonic model of specialized schools directed
by government, it opened the way for the victorious drive of the natu-
ral sciences, which led to the second epochal renewal of its institutional
structures. The chapter closes with a third, equally important, innovation:
student movements, thanks to which the university was cast in the role of
an arsenal of political struggle in the fight for freedom. The example of the
Italian student movement shows that ‘the freedom that I want’ had soon
lost its original ties to the Prussian war for liberation and expanded to
encompass a European-wide struggle for liberation, with its model based
in Paris in 1820, 1831 and again in 1848. The struggle for liberty dif-
fered from country to country. But the underlying idea of freedom was
everywhere, represented by those professors and other university grad-
uates who desired to make the university a place in which this freedom
could be exercised.

31
CHAPTER 2

PAT T E R N S

CHRISTOPHE CHARLE

introduction
Over the long period from 1800 to 1945, beginning with the French Rev-
olution and the Napoleonic Empire, the European university landscape
changed in a number of different ways, sometimes gradually, sometimes
in revolutionary fashion. Some of the university structures of the early
modern period, indeed in many parts of Europe those of the Middle Ages
continued to survive into the nineteenth century, particularly in the British
Isles and in the peninsulas of the south and north of Europe, while at the
same time very different, new models of university organization were
emerging in France and Germany. These determined in the medium term
a range of reforms in those countries with old universities and the founda-
tion of universities in newly formed nation states. The German, so-called
Humboldtian model prevailed across the whole of continental Europe at
the end of the nineteenth century and influenced the other two models, the
French and the English. Eventually, however, it too found itself in crisis,
increasingly unable to adjust to the social and intellectual development
of industrial society and the claims that this made on universities as insti-
tutions. The establishment of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society in 1910, one
hundred years after the foundation of the University of Berlin, opening
up an era of large-scale research and the gradual separation of research
from teaching, was a sign of continuing change.

u n i v e r s i t y r e v o l u t i o n s i n g e r m a n y,
france and russia
In 1789, of the 143 universities still functioning in Europe1 35 were
in g e r m a n y with 7,900 students, of whom 40 per cent were in the
1 J. Verger, ‘Universités, pouvoir et société à l’époque moderne (XVIe–XVIIIe siècle)’, in
C. Charle and J. Verger (eds.), Histoire des universités (Paris, 1994), 35.

33
Christophe Charle

four biggest, Halle, Göttingen, Jena and Leipzig. Eighteen old univer-
sities and a new one in Stuttgart disappeared during the period of the
Revolution; sixteen survived in Erlangen, Freiburg, Giessen, Göttingen,
Greifswald, Halle, Heidelberg, Jena, Kiel, Königsberg, Landshut (trans-
ferred to Munich in 1825), Leipzig, Marburg, Rostock, Tübingen and
Würzburg. In Prussia three new universities were created, the most influ-
ential of them, the Friedrich-Wilhelm University in Berlin, founded in
1810 in order to compensate for the loss of Halle, which fell to West-
phalia after the Peace of Tilsit. The reconstitution both of Breslau in 1811
and Bonn in 1818 was designed to strengthen Prussian rule, which after
1815 had been restored in widely differing areas ranging from parts of
conquered Poland to the Catholic and French-influenced Rhineland. In
the second half of the nineteenth century the three Prussian foundations
were among the most important German universities, incorporating, as
they did, the Humboldt model which will be discussed in more detail
later.2
In f r a n c e the changes were even more marked. Here the collèges and
the faculties of theology, medicine, arts and law disappeared during the
Revolution in a welter of laws and decrees issued between 22 December
1789 (linking universities to the newly established Départements) and the
7th ventôse of the Year III (27 February 1794), when the collèges were
abolished.3 After a relatively creative phase under the National Conven-
tion, following the fall of Robespierre (1758–94) and under the Directory
(1795–99), the Napoleonic Consulate and the Empire imposed a strait-
jacket of bureaucratic administration, which allowed no room for uni-
versity autonomy. The universities were replaced by professional schools:
three for medicine in Paris, Strasburg and Montpellier from 1794; twelve
for law in the whole of the Empire around 1804; and academic faculties of
arts and sciences, two of them in every school area – such académies were
mere appendages of the lycées and of the central administration, founded

2 For statistical and historical data: H. Titze, with H.-G. Herrlitz, V. Müller-Benedikt and
A. Nash, Wachstum und Differenzierung der deutschen Universitäten 1830–1945, Daten-
handbuch zur deutschen Bildungsgeschichte 1, Hochschulen 2 (Göttingen, 1995), 71–
3, 122–3. About the three Prussian universities: M. Lenz, Geschichte der Königlichen
Friedrich-Wilhelms Universität zu Berlin, 1810–1910, 5 vols. (Halle, 1910–18); M.
Braubach, Kleine Geschichte der Universität Bonn 1818–1968 (Bonn, 1968); F. Andreae
and A. Grisebach (eds.), Die Universität Breslau (Berlin, 1928). For a comparison between
the French and the Prussian trends in higher education cf. G. Schubring, ‘Spezialschulmod-
ell versus Universitätsmodell. Die Institutionalisierung von Forschung’, in G. Schubring
(ed.), Einsamkeit und Freiheit neu besichtigt. Universitätsreformen und Disziplinenbil-
dung in Preussen als Modell für Wissenschaftspolitik im Europa des 19. Jahrhunderts.
Proceedings of the Symposium of the XVIIIth International Congress of History of
Science at Hamburg-Munich, 1–9 August 1989 (Stuttgart, 1991), 276–326.
3 L. Liard, L’Enseignement supérieur en France (Paris, 1888), vol. I, 119–20; J. Schriewer,
Die französischen Universitäten 1945–1968 (Bad Heilbronn, 1972), 24–5.

34
Patterns

in order to award the baccalaureate, formally the lowest academic grade,


the leaving certificate from the lycée. Fortunately Napoleon spared the
actual centres of academic innovation, the great state institutions of edu-
cation, which in part dated from the ancien régime, such as the Collège de
France and the Jardin du Roi (Botanical and Zoological Garden), which
had become the Muséum. Others had been founded during the Revolu-
tion, among them the Conservatoire des arts et métiers (Art and Trades
Museum), the Institut de France (Central Institute of the five Academies),
the École des langues orientales (School of Oriental Languages), and a
number of specialist schools, the École polytechnique for military engi-
neers and artillery officers, Saint Cyr for other types of officers, and the
École Normale for university professors.4
Such extraordinary fragmentation and specialization explains the rich
variety of the French university landscape in contrast particularly with the
scene in Germany. Indeed, it remained subject to political and intellectual
changes throughout the whole of the nineteenth century. Whereas the
Restoration of 1816, reacting to losses of territory and finance, abolished
at a stroke the seventeen faculties of arts and the three of sciences, the July
Monarchy and the Second Empire created new ones, though with varying
degrees of success. The Third Republic was so much under pressure from
regional forces that it did not dare to concentrate on a few large university
centres, as was the case in Germany. In 1896 sixteen universities were
restored, although the reformers had only thought ten necessary in order
to counterbalance what seemed to be the stifling predominance of the
Paris institutions.5
In RUSSIA change took place in a similarly rapid and dirigiste fashion.
In addition to the University of Moscow founded in 1755, a further five
appeared in the first decades of the nineteenth century. In 1802 Alexander
I (1777–1825) reopened the German-speaking University of Tartu (Dor-
pat) which had been closed in 1710, before founding new universities
in 1803 at Vilnius (Vilna), in 1804 at Charkov and Kazan, and in 1819
he elevated the teaching section of the Academy of Sciences in St Peters-
burg to the position of Imperial University. The University of Vilnius was

4 See the bicentenary publications of the École polytechnique et l’École Normale supérieure:
B. Belhoste et al. (eds.), La formation polytechnicienne (Paris, 1994); B. Belhoste et al.
(eds.), La France des X, deux siècles d’histoire (Paris, 1995); J.-F. Sirinelli (ed.), École
normale supérieure. Le livre du bicentenaire (Paris, 1994); and their predecessors: Shinn,
Savoir scientifique; École normale supérieure 1795–1895, le livre du centenaire (Paris,
1895), reprint with a historical study by J. Verger (Paris, 1994). About St Cyr: S. W.
Serman, Le Corps des officiers français sous la Deuxième République et le Second Empire,
3 vols. (Lille, 1978). About the Muséum: C. Blanckaert, C. Cohen, P. Corsi and J.-L. Fischer
(co-ord.), Le Muséum au premier siècle de son histoire (Paris, 1997).
5 V. Karady, ‘De Napoléon à Duruy: origines et naissance de l’Université contemporaine’,
in Verger (ed.), Universités en France, 282–8; Weisz, Émergence, 134–61.

35
Christophe Charle

closed in 1832, the theological and medical faculties being moved to Kiev
as independent academies.6 In the second half of the century universities
in Odessa (1865), Tomsk (1888) and Saratov (1909) were added together
with technical institutes, particularly in the capital city.7 In the rest of
Europe the university scene changed much more slowly and consistently.

s l ow d e v e l o p m e n t i n n o rt h - w e s t
and southern europe
Nowhere did people hold fast to traditions more determinedly than in
g r e a t b r i t a i n . The university scene in 1800 reveals a single univer-
sity in Ireland (Trinity College, Dublin), four in Scotland (Aberdeen, Edin-
burgh, Glasgow, St Andrews); two in England (Oxford and Cambridge),
and none in Wales. The University of London followed in 1828–36. With-
out there being any particular national plan these were joined by a few
provincial foundations: Durham (1832), Manchester (1851), Aberystwyth
(1872), Leeds and Birmingham (1875), Bristol (1876), Sheffield (1879),
Liverpool and Nottingham (1881), Cardiff and Bangor (1884), Read-
ing (1902), and Southampton (1902). Following the reforms of Scottish
universities in 1858, and those of Oxford and Cambridge after 1870, a
national university system began to emerge before the First World War.8
Questioning traditions and adapting them to socio-economic change
proved just as difficult on the Italian and Iberian peninsulas as it had
in the small countries north of the Alps and in the Scandinavian coun-
tries. Governments rarely closed existing institutions and preferred to
meet social and political demands with new institutions designed for par-
ticular functions. The result of this was an unequal, arbitrary distribution
of universities.
In i t a l y before unification there were 21 universities varying greatly
in size, and corresponding in no way to actual needs. For historical
reasons they were concentrated in north and central Italy, whilst the
south consisted of a huge educational desert surrounding the one giant

6 D. Beauvois, Lumières et société en Europe de l’Est: l’Université de Vilna et les écoles


polonaises de l’Empire russe (1803–1832) (Lille, 1977).
7 A. Besançon, Education et société en Russie dans le second tiers du XIXe siècle (Paris and
The Hague, 1974).
8 R. D. Anderson, Universities and Elites in Britain since 1800, Studies in Social and Eco-
nomic History (Basingstoke and London 1992), 12–23; W. H. G. Armytage, Civic Uni-
versities: Aspects of a British Tradition (London, 1990); A. H. Halsey and M. A. Trow,
The British Academics (London, 1971); R. Lowe, ‘The Expansion of Higher Education
in Britain’, in K. H. Jarausch (ed.), The Transformation of Higher Learning, Expansion,
Diversification, Social Opening and Professionalization in England, Germany, Russia and
the United States (Stuttgart, 1983), 37–56; G. Sutherland, ‘Education’, in F. M. L. Thomp-
son (ed.), The Cambridge Social History of Britain (Cambridge, 1990), vol. III, 137–40,
154–8.

36
Patterns

University of Naples. Matteucci’s (1811–68) attempt in 1861 to rational-


ize the university scene by closing some of the mini institutions ended
in failure. Only with Mussolini’s (1883–1945) Riforma Gentile in 1923
did a reorganization take place, which introduced a distinction between
efficient, state funded, full universities on the one hand, and on the other
hand smaller institutions, only partly supported by the state, and free
universities financed by the Catholic Church.9 Meanwhile university-like
institutions of higher learning were introduced in large cities, such as Bari,
Florence and Milan, which were then converted into universities in 1923.
At the beginning of the 1930s, when Italy had 27 universities, not count-
ing the Technical and Commercial Colleges, which for the most part, like
the Business University, L. Bocconi in Milan, were financed privately,10
only fifteen of them, that is just a little more than half, had more than
1,000 students.11 Reforms from above on the Jacobin model of France
had not proved possible because of local interests in the parliamentary
system of the Italian nation state.
In s p a i n , by contrast, thanks to a centralizing tradition, the Iberian
university scene could be simplified throughout the nineteenth century
by the gradual closing of old universities in 1807, 1824 and 1845,
with ten universities remaining at the head of school regions, which
had been formed on the model of the French académies. These were
in Barcelona, Granada, Madrid, Oviedo, Salamanca, Santiago de Com-
postela, Zaragoza, Seville, Valencia and Valladolid.12 After the University
of Alcalá was moved to Madrid in 1836, the Spanish university scene, like
that of France, suffered from the overwhelming influence of the capital city
and the privileges of the ‘Central University’ as it was officially known.
Together with Barcelona, it was the only university, which could contain
all the faculties. It was also the only one which could award doctorates. In
addition, following the French model, the specialized technical colleges
for the education of state engineers were also located in the capital.
9 I. Porciani, ‘Lo stato unitario di fronte alla questione dell’università’, in I. Porciani (ed.),
L’Università tra Otto e Novecento: i modelli europei e il caso italiano (Naples, 1994),
135–84; T. Tomasi and L. Bellatalla, L’Università italiana nell’età liberale (1861–1923)
(Naples, 1988), 22–3, 100–103, 116–18; S. Polenghi, La politica universitaria italiana
nell’età della Destra storica (1848–1876) (Brescia, 1993) with multiple tables.
10 D. Musiedlak, Université privée et formation de la classe dirigeante. L’exemple de
l’Université L. Bocconi de Milan (Rome, 1990).
11 Statistiche sul Mezzogiorno d’Italia 1861–1953 (Rome, 1953), quoted by V. Karady,
Relations interuniversitaires et rapports culturels en Europe (1871–1945), rapport de fin
d’étude, décembre 1992, 177–8.
12 P. Melon, L’enseignement supérieur en Espagne (Paris, 1898); Peset, Universidad
Española; J.-L. Guereña, ‘L’université espagnole vers 1900’, in J. Schriewer, E. Kleiner
and C. Charle (eds.), Sozialer Raum und akademische Kulturen. Studien zur europäischen
Hochschullandschaft im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert / A la recherche de l’espace universitaire
européen. Etudes sur l’enseignement supérieur aux XIXe et XXe siècles (Frankfurt-am-
Main, 1993), 113–331.

37
Christophe Charle

Holland, Belgium, Switzerland and the Scandinavian countries also had


difficulty in organizing their university systems in a rational way. As in the
early modern period, confessional traditions and national, or cantonal,
rivalries led to the existence of a disproportionately large number of uni-
versities in relation to actual needs. Indirectly, however, they contributed
to social dynamism and openness, for they were reliant on foreign stu-
dents, whose fees made up an important part of the university budgets
that could hardly have been supported by local or national funding.
The most characteristic example is s w i t z e r l a n d with seven uni-
versities for 3.75 million inhabitants in 1910, of which four were for the
800,000 French-speaking Swiss. Together they had somewhat more than
8,000 students. For the most part they consisted of older high schools
which had been transformed into universities: Geneva in 1872/3 (for-
merly an académie founded in 1559), Lausanne 1890 (académie 1537),
Freiburg 1889 (a legal academy founded in 1763 and then a legal faculty
in 1882), and Neuchâtel 1909 (académie 1838). In the German-speaking
part of Switzerland the conversion into universities took place half a cen-
tury earlier under German influence: Zurich in 1833 (formerly a theology
school founded in 1525), and Bern 1834 (a theology school founded in
1528). In addition there was the University of Basel which had been in
existence since 1459, the Federal Polytechnic in Zurich founded in 1855
and which received the title ‘Federal Technical High School’ in 1911, as
well as the Business High School of St Gallen which was formed from a
business academy in 1911 (finally becoming a university in 1996).13

13 The numbers of students were taken from the Schweizer Hochschulstatistik 1890–1935
(Bern, 1935) by Karady, Relations interuniversitaires (note 11), 23. About the Swiss
universities: E. Bonjour, Die Universität Basel von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart
1460–1960 (Basle, 1960); R. Feller, Die Universität Bern 1834–1934 (Bern and Leipzig,
1935); U. Im Hof et al., Hochschulgeschichte Berns 1528–1984. Zur 150–Jahr Feier
der Universität Bern 1984. Ergänzungsband: Die Dozenten der bernischen Hochschule
(Bern, 1984); R. Ruffieux et al. (eds.), Histoire de l’Université de Fribourg 1889–1989 –
Institutions, enseignement, recherche = Geschichte der Universität Freiburg 1889–1989.
Institutionen, Lehre und Forschung, 3 vols. (Fribourg, 1989–91); M. Marcacci, His-
toire de l’Université de Genève 1559–1986 (Geneva, 1987); A. Delessert, L’Université
au déft. Une histoire sociale de l’Université de Lausanne (Lausanne, 1991); R. Lorusso,
D. Nilles, with E. Golay, Histoire de l’Université de Lausanne. Aspects économiques
et financiers (Lausanne, 1996); L. Tissot, Politique, société et enseignement supérieur
dans le canton de Vaud: l’Université de Lausanne 1890–1916 (Lausanne, 1996); Histoire
de l’Université de Neuchâtel, vol. I: La première Académie (Hauterive, 1988); vol. II:
La seconde Académie 1866–1909 (Hauterive, 1994); G. Thürer, Hochschule St Gallen
für Wirtschafts- und Sozialwissenschaften 1899–1974 (St Gallen, 1974); G. Guggenbühl
et al., Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule 1855–1955 (Zurich, 1955); J.-F. Berbier and
H. W. Tobler (eds.), Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule Zürich 1955–1980 (Zurich,
1980); E. Gagliardi, H. Nabholz and J. Strohl, Die Universität Zürich 1833 bis 1933
und ihre Vorläufer (Zurich, 1938); P. Stadler, Die Universität Zürich 1933–1983 (Zurich,
1983).

38
Patterns

In h o l l a n d , which like the Belgian Departments was part of the


French Empire, Napoleon’s brutal policy had an impact on the universi-
ties. By 1815 only Leiden, Utrecht and Groningen remained. There was
not time for full absorption into the French university system, but the old
splendour of Leiden almost vanished completely – in 1814/15 there were
only 328 students.14 King William I (1772–1843) reformed the university
system nationally in 1815 when he limited the status of full state univer-
sity to Leiden, Utrecht and Groningen, permitted the re-establishment of
universities without the right to award doctorates (Athenaea) in those
provinces without universities, and arranged for financial support for
Franeker and Harderwijk, until the latter closed in 1818 and the former
in 1843, because of a lack of students. The reform of the constitution in
1848 permitted the foundation of private universities under state super-
vision, and a law of 1905 granted state recognition (effectus civilis) to
the academic qualifications awarded by them. In 1876 the Athenaea were
closed and the institutions recognized as universities. The decisive factor
in this was no longer the right to award doctorates but possession of
the full range of faculties. Thus, the municipal Athenaeum in Amsterdam
became the city’s university in 1877. Three years later orthodox Calvin-
ists founded a ‘Free’ University, independent of state and church, which in
turn was recognized by the state, as also was the University of Nijmegen
founded by Catholics in 1923, and the Catholic School of Commerce
in Tilburg, which dated back to 1919 and received university status in
1939, but which, like other part-universities, was called a Hoogeschool.
In 1937 after state recognition of its Business Sciences the Business School
in Rotterdam, a private foundation from 1913, was also recognized as a
Hoogeschool with one faculty to be developed in 1973 into the Erasmus
University.15
In the new Kingdom of b e l g i u m there was an oversupply of univer-
sities, less because of linguistic considerations – the recognition of Flem-
ish only took place in the north after the First World War – than for
political and confessional reasons. In 1816 William I had ordered the
foundation of three universities in the southern part of the still United
Netherlands, in order to provide a counterweight to the three Dutch uni-
versities already referred to. In this way Ghent and Liège were refounded,
and the University of Louvain, which the French had closed in 1797, was
reopened. In the independent Belgian state two private universities were
set up in 1834, the Catholic University of Malines and the ‘Free University’

14 W. Frijhoff, La Société néerlandaise et ses gradués 1575–1814 (Amsterdam, 1981), 23.


15 W. Frijhoff, ‘Netherlands’, in B. R. Clark and G. Neave (eds.), The Encyclopaedia of
Higher Education, vol. I (Oxford, 1992), 491–504; W. Frijhoff, ‘Netherlands’, in Jı́lek,
Historical Compendium, 43–6; M. Groen, University Education in the Netherlands,
1815–1980 (Eindhoven, 1988).

39
Christophe Charle

in Brussels, funded by Free Thinkers and Freemasons. The reorganization


of 1835 reduced the numbers to two state universities in Ghent and Liège,
a Catholic university in Louvain, and the Free University in Brussels.
In s c a n d i n a v i a the university scene shows similar changes which
can be traced back to political events with ensuing scholarly reforms.
Autonomous rights and finally full independence allowed Norway and
Finland to develop their own university system in relation to Denmark
and Russia respectively. There were old university foundations in Copen-
hagen (1475), in Uppsala (1477) and in Lund (1668). There then followed
in 1811 the University of Oslo (Christiania) in n o r w a y , which, until the
achievement of independence in 1905, was a centre of Norwegian nation-
alism. In f i n l a n d , too, the formation of an independent Grand Duchy
within the Russian Empire in 1828 led to the transfer of the University of
Åbo (Turku) to the new capital city of Helsingfors (Helsinki).16 In Sweden
the Stockholms Högskola was founded in 1877 as a private high school
enjoying state support, and offering different fare from that of Uppsala
and Lund – for those who desired a more modern university education it
was orientated towards practical needs. A similar private university was
founded in Gothenburg in 1891.17 The rivalry between the two types of
university focused on the award of university corporate privileges, which
went back to the Middle Ages. The Liberals demanded the concentration
of Swedish universities in the capital city in order that links with hos-
pitals and other research institutes would strengthen concentration on
practical research. A compromise was found by allowing the Karolinska
Institute in 1873 the right to award the Medical Bachelor without under-
mining the position of the traditional universities. Although Gothenburg
from 1893 and Stockholm from 1904 were both allowed to use state-
recognized examinations, they were not recognized as universities until
after the Second World War.18

t h e g row t h o f n at i o n s tat e s a n d u n i v e rs i t i e s
in central and eastern europe
In the early modern period the university scene in Central and Eastern
Europe was thinly populated. The Thirty Years War, and the Turkish
invasions, which had in part led to long periods of occupation, hindered
the progress of scholarship. It was only religious and ethnic rivalries, the

16 M. Klinge et al., Kejserliga Alexanders Universitetet 1808–1917 (Helsinki, 1989); Klinge,


Universität Helsinki, 198–671.
17 E. Crawford, The Beginning of the Nobel Institution: The Science Prizes 1901–1915
(Paris and Cambridge, 1984).
18 S. Lindroth, A History of Uppsala University, 1477–1977 (Stockholm, 1976), 150. On
Gothenburg and Stockholm: Jı́lek, Historical Compendium, 158–9, 286.

40
Patterns

emergence of national and of liberal movements, the education of local


elites in the universities of Western Europe, the creation of new states,
and the struggle to overcome Western Europe’s lead that gradually filled
the blank spaces of the university map.
a u s t r i a was best provided with universities. There were six, listed
here in order of their foundation: Prague (1348), Cracow (1364), Vienna
(1365), Graz (1586), Lemberg (Lwów) (1661) and Innsbruck (1668). The
University of Salzburg, which was opened in 1622, became a Lyceum
for the study of theology and philosophy in 1810. The picture changed
little in the course of the century. In 1875 a university was founded in
Cernowitz and in 1882 Prague University was split into separate German
and Czech universities.19 In addition there were almost as many techni-
cal universities. In Prague the engineering professorships at the univer-
sity were transferred to a Polytechnic Institute in 1806, which was then
divided into German and Czech institutes in 1868. These in turn were
converted in 1879 into corresponding Technical Universities. Engineer-
ing institutes were founded in Graz (1811), Vienna (1815), Brno (1846)
and Lemberg (Lwów) (1873), mining academies in Leoben (1840) and
Pribram (1843), and art schools in the most important towns. In Vienna
an ‘Export Academy’ was established in 1898, becoming the ‘Institute for
World Trade’ in 1919.20
In the Kingdom of h u n g a r y at the beginning of the nineteenth cen-
tury there was only one university with power to award doctorates. It had
originally been founded in 1777 in Nagyszombat (Trnava), then moved
to Buda and finally to Pest in 1784. Studia generalia had been founded in
Buda (1395), Pécs (1367) and Bratislava (Poszony) (1465) but had not sur-
vived for long. Only towards the end of the Danube Monarchy were there
new university foundations: Kolozsvar (Cluj) in 1872, Agram (Zagreb)
in 1874, Poszony (Bratislava) in 1912, and Debrecen in 1914 (opened in
1922). After the Treaty of Trianon the new universities with the exception
of Debrecen found themselves in the territories of the states formed after
the collapse of the Danube monarchy. In Hungary Pécs and Szeged were
founded in 1921 to replace Bratislava (Poszony) and Kolozsvar. But the
impoverishment and isolation of Hungary in the inter-war period made
the survival of what was an excessively large university system difficult,
especially as some of the Jewish students were forced by a numerus clausus
to study abroad.21

19 T. Vetter, ‘Die Entwicklung des Universitätswesens in der Habsburgermonarchie 1815–


1918’, Etudes danubiennes, 3, 2 (1987), 97–115.
20 H. Engelbrecht, Geschichte des österreichischen Bildungswesens, 5 vols. (Vienna, 1982–
88).
21 Z. Magyari, Die Entstehung einer internationalen Wissenschaftspolitik (Leipzig, 1932),
444–50; V. Karady, ‘Une nation de juristes. Des usages sociaux de la formation juridique

41
Christophe Charle

In p o l a n d , the development of the university system between 1795,


when it was divided up among the neighbouring Empires, and 1919, when
it regained its independence, was quite different. The elites of the repressed
Polish nation were dependent on the universities in their particular region.
In German Silesia they went to Berlin and Breslau, excluded as they were
from administrative posts, and turned in particular to Catholic theology.
In Austrian Galicia there were two university towns with a predominantly
Polish population: Cracow and Lemberg (Lwów). The more ambitious
Polish students went to Vienna and were able to become state civil servants
even in the capital itself. The most severe repression of the universities
was to be found in the Russian ruled ‘Kingdom of Poland’. After the
revolt of 1830 the University of Warsaw remained closed from 1831 to
1862. During this period those Poles who wished to study had to resort
to Kiev or to St Petersburg. After 1864 the University of Warsaw was
Russified, while a view of a free university, financed with private means,
had difficulty surviving and in 1869 lost its independence. Towards the
end of the nineteenth century Polish elites either studied abroad or in secret
teaching establishments, or in the Polish-speaking, relatively autonomous
universities of Galicia. Those who suffered the most severe repression
were Jews who wished to study, because they had to face both Polish and
Russian anti-Semitism. Thanks to the variety of more or less legitimate
ways of gaining an education both within the divided state of Poland and
outside, the Polish university system rose like a phoenix from the ashes
in 1920 with thirteen institutions of higher learning and 690 professors,
most of them returning from abroad.22
On the fringes of Europe, Romania, Greece and Bulgaria afford exam-
ples of the simultaneous emergence of universities and nation states under
powerful foreign influences, in the first case French and in the others
German. In these small, rural states the foundation of a university in the
capital was an important symbol of an independence which had been won
little by little over centuries of foreign dominance.
In r o m a n i a Iasi University was created in 1860 from an academy
which had existed since 1835. In Bucharest faculties of science, law,

dans la Hongrie d’ancien régime’, Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales, 86/87 (1991),
106–24; V. Karady and I. Keményi, ‘Antisémitisme universitaire et concurrence de classe:
la loi du numerus clausus en Hongrie entre les deux guerres’, Actes de la recherche en
sciences sociales, 34 (1980), 67–96; V. Karady and I. Keményi, ‘A l’ombre du “numerus
clausus”. La restratification du système universitaire hongrois dans l’entre-deux-guerres’,
in Schriewer, Kleiner and Charle (eds.), Sozialer Raum (note 12), 345–51.
22 N. Koestler, ‘Intelligenzschicht und höhere Bildung im geteilten Polen’, in Bil-
dungsbürgertum, vol. I, 186–206; The University of Warsaw (Warsaw, 1967); J. B.
Neveux, ‘Les universités de Galicie dans les conflits de nationalités 1851–1914’, Etudes
danubiennes, 4, 1 (1988), 1–20; J. Buszko, ‘L’Université Jagellonne de Cracovie (1869–
1914)’, ibid., 21–8; S. Grodziski, ‘Le rôle de l’université de Lemberg dans la vie scientifique
de la monarchie des Habsbourg’, ibid., 29–38.

42
Patterns

politics, philosophy and a higher school of literature and languages, which


had all been founded separately, were amalgamated into a university in
1860 and then augmented in 1869 by a medical faculty and again in
1884 by a faculty of Orthodox theology. The two universities reflected
the struggle of the Moldavian and Walachian elites for independence from
the neighbouring Austro-Hungarian educational centres. The political sig-
nificance of the Romanian university system is shown in the very close
connection between university study and political office. Nevertheless,
Romania as a small country with a Romance language remained orien-
tated towards France. Most of the professors and a considerable percent-
age of the students, especially those in law and medicine, finished their
education in Paris.23
In g r e e c e the new kingdom under King Otto I (1815–67), the son
of the King of Bavaria, was from the beginning equally determined to
strengthen national consciousness by having its own university. On 3 May
1837 the University of Athens was opened, serving as a bridge during the
nineteenth century to the Greek diaspora in the Ottoman Empire. More
than 40 per cent of the students were born outside the boundaries of
Greece. After returning to their place of birth under Turkish rule they were
to keep alive the spirit of Greece until unification with the motherland
was finally achieved. The University of Athens was organized on Prussian
lines with four faculties of theology, medicine, law and philosophy. The
latter was not divided into arts and sciences until 1904. The technical and
scientific disciplines developed further with the foundation of the School
of Pharmacy in 1840 and the Polytechneion in 1860.24
In b u l g a r i a the University of Sofia was created in 1904. Its ori-
gins were in a special advanced pedagogical course in philosophy, didac-
tics, languages and cultural studies introduced in the Lyceum in 1888,
which led to the creation of an independent high school in 1889 with the
addition of the natural sciences. After the First World War the univer-
sity was granted medical, theological, agricultural and veterinary facul-
ties. It was joined in 1920 by the Svoboden Universitet, a private college
preparing students for diplomatic and administrative service and mod-
elled on the Ecole libre de sciences politiques in Paris. It was taken over
by the state as the University of Finance and Administration in 1940.

23 O. Bozgan, ‘Din istoria Universitatii din Bucuresti in perioada 1864–1940 (I)’, Revista
Istorica, serie noua, 2 (1991), 155–70 (with French summary); O. Bozgan, ‘L’Université
de Bucarest et la France de 1864 aux années 1940’, Cahiers d’histoire, 37, 2 (1992), 151–
71; C. Durandin, Révolution à la française ou à la russe (Paris, 1989); J. Sadlak, Higher
Education in Romania 1860–1990: Between Academic Mission, Economic Demands and
Political Control, Special Studies in Comparative Education 27 (Buffalo, NY, 1990).
24 K. Zormbala, ‘Die Gründung der athener Universität 1837 durch die Bayern – nach
welchem “deutschen” Modell?’, in Schubring, Einsamkeit und Freiheit (note 2),
268–73.

43
Christophe Charle

Apart from this institution together with specialist schools such as the Art
School (1896), the Music School (1904), and the Business School in Varna
(1920), the University of Sofia remained the only scholarly institution in
Bulgaria.25
In t u r k e y higher education up to the First World War was based
on the Osmanic Medressas founded in the Middle Ages. The relations
between Islam and the European universities and their importance to the
history of scholarship was examined in the first volume.26 In the nine-
teenth century the original enthusiasm for discovery had long since given
way to a traditionalism which blocked every attempt at modernization.
However, the foundation of an Imperial School for Marine Engineers
(Mühendischan-i Bahri-i Humayun) in Istanbul in 1771 encountered no
resistance, and it was joined in 1883 by a High School for Civil Engi-
neers (Hendese-i Mülkye), which was reorganized in 1909 and 1928 and
then extended until, in 1944, it gained the status of university under the
name of Istanbul Tekni Universitesi. It proved more difficult to found
a university in Istanbul on the European model. The ‘House of Schol-
arship’ (Darülfünun-i), which was opened in 1863 after a seventeen-year
period of preparation, was closed and reopened twice until it finally began
to function as a university college in 1900 with departments in Islamic
theology, philosophy, mathematics, science and philology, and in 1912
it took steps to raise its academic standing by engaging twenty German
professors. It was not until 1931 that a European university system was
introduced into Turkey by the Genevan Professor and Education Minister
Albert Malche (1876–1956) on the initiative of the government. In 1933
the University of Istanbul was reorganized on the German model and
opened with a majority of German professors and all the faculties except
theology. Ankara, the capital, followed suit in 1946.27

the napoleonic university model


The French university system in the first half of the nineteenth century was
quite different from all other European countries. It had been built up for
the most part on a tabula rasa, while in the rest of Europe structures from
the medieval period or the ancien régime remained in place despite partial
reforms. Napoleonic university policy both retained certain innovations
from the eighteenth century, such as specialist colleges, and reversed the

25 Jı́lek, Historical Compendium, 20–1, 284; M. M. Chambers (ed.), Universities of the


World outside USA (Washington, 1950), 163–6.
26 See vol. I, subject index: ‘Arabic world’.
27 A. Kuran, ‘Turkey’, in Jı́lek, Historical Compendium, 59–60, 174–5.

44
Patterns

opening up of the university system to all, a feature of the radical revo-


lutionary period. There were three primary goals: first, to secure for the
post-revolutionary state and its society the officials necessary for politi-
cal and social stabilization; second, to make sure that their education was
carried out in harmony with the new social order and to prevent the emer-
gence of new professional classes; and third, to impose limits on freedom
of the intellect if it seemed likely to prove dangerous to the state. Despite
a few concessions enlightened despotism made itself felt in a variety of
ways: in the predominant model of the school – even in those cases where
it was called a faculty; in the tyranny of the state diploma, which opened
up access to a narrowly defined career as a civil servant or a particular
profession; in the classification of candidates, and competition (concours)
between them, even for careers which did not demand it; in detailed regu-
lations for unified plans of study; in the state’s monopoly in the awarding
of academic degrees. The Université was the only corporation which was
refounded after the Revolution, but it had nothing in common with the
university of the ancien régime. It took in the teaching bodies of both the
lycée and the collège and was a corporation controlled by the state and
incorporated into the hierarchy of the civil service.
The system encompassed a rigid division of labour between the facul-
ties, and a specialization in career paths. In short it represented a struc-
ture of higher education, which, as we shall later see, was the opposite
of Humboldt’s vision of the university. The academic faculties of lettres
and sciences (arts and sciences), which in the form of the philosophical
faculty acted as the stimulus for innovation in the German university, in
no way fulfilled this role in France. With the exception of Paris they were
restricted to holding examinations for the baccalaureate and putting on
lectures for amateur enthusiasts. Research and innovation were limited to
the great teaching institutions, to a few lectures in the Sorbonne and the
Collège de France, to the Institut de France and to the learned societies.
Until 1860 outside Paris the French university landscape comprised schol-
arly desert; and despite contemporary criticisms and repeated attempts by
various governments to change the scene the ultimate goal of the profes-
sors themselves was to return to the capital city, where the vast majority
of them had studied in one or other of the grandes écoles. As a result, until
the reforms of the turn of the century, it proved impossible to develop any
real scholarly activity alongside the provision of literary lectures for the
general public.
The education of the higher professions was carried out by the cen-
tralist state as though it were a business venture. University fees covered
a large part of the costs. Indeed, during the Second Empire the arts and
law faculties achieved surpluses. Academic investment in libraries, lecture

45
Christophe Charle

rooms and laboratories, and also in scholarly ancillary staff, was strictly
limited, as research was for the most part going on outside the faculties.
The result was that German universities increased their lead in scholarship
over their French counterparts.
Mutual alienation between faculties and schools deepened as the sta-
tus of the hierarchical teaching body varied according to the institutes
they taught in, and the educational paths of students diverged. In the
case of law the examination for the licence required three years of study
and fees of 570 francs. For the arts the equivalent was one year and 150
francs. A doctorate in medicine cost 1,300 francs, one in the sciences 140
francs.28 The study of arts and science subjects led to a teaching post in
provincial France, which was badly paid – especially in the provinces –
whilst from the Second Empire onwards the professions, in Paris in partic-
ular, received large fees. The social origins of the students mirrored these
gradations ranging from law through medicine, arts and sciences down
to pharmacy.29
The same anti-egalitarian logic shaped the careers of the hierarchies of
university teachers. As their income was partly derived from ‘l’éventuel’,
the extra monies from examination fees, the professors in the professional
faculties with their numerous students received particularly favourable
treatment, and especially those in Paris. The addition of professional earn-
ings, in particular by the lawyers and the doctors, further increased the
differences in income. The arts and science professors in Paris especially
strove to supplement their income through extra academic and adminis-
trative posts. This led to the irregular appointment of deputies or represen-
tatives with a hope of succeeding eventually to the post, and it encouraged
neglect of research. In Germany, on the other hand a move to another uni-
versity enhanced an academic’s reputation as a scholar.
Meanwhile, the Napoleonic model had indirect effects on southern
Europe: in Italy through the longing for a lost political unity; in s p a i n in
the form of a reaction against Napoleon’s attempts at cultural coloniza-
tion. In the revolt against the French the students took a leading role, with
the result that lectures were suspended in 1811. In the ensuing Restoration
anti-liberal, anti-French policies prevailed, but the government’s attitude
to the universities differed little from Napoleon’s étatisme. Legislation in
1857 strengthened absolute control over the universities by the govern-
ment in Madrid. Just as Paris ruled over the French system, so Madrid
28 Karady, ‘De Napoléon à Duruy’ (note 5), 298.
29 On the social origin of French students only partial studies have been made: J. Burney,
Toulouse et son université (Toulouse and Paris, 1988), 165 (statistics of the years 1841–
44); J.-C. Caron, Générations romantiques. Les étudiants de Paris et le Quartier latin
(1814–1851) (Paris, 1991), 96 (pharmacy); V. Karady, ‘Scientists and Class Structure:
Social Recruitment of Students at the Parisian École Normale supérieure in the Nineteenth
Century’, History of Education, 8, 2 (1979), 105 (arts and sciences 1830–49).

46
Patterns

dominated the Spanish universities during the whole of the nineteenth


century, and the same system of a central university was introduced into
the South American colonies.30
In ITALY too, the Napoleonic university system was the model, though
attempts to copy it met with varying degrees of success depending on the
region.31 After the Restoration there was a return to earlier conditions. In
Lombardy the universities were under the strict control of the government
in Vienna; in the ecclesiastical states the bishops were in authority. In
both cases this led to numerous student disturbances in pursuit of liberal
and anti-clerical aims.32 Following unrest in 1821 the King of Piedmont
handed over part of the teaching to the Jesuits, but after his conversion to
liberalism he reformed the university system from 1840 onwards, creating
new professorial chairs, extending the study of medicine and introducing
pedagogy. On the other hand doctoral dissertations retained their purely
formal character, and the catchment area of the students remained very
local. To counter the flood of lawyers he introduced additional barriers.33
It was not until the following period that the two Mediterranean states
made serious efforts to modernize their university systems.

the prussian university model


The Prussian university system, which was inaugurated by Wilhelm von
Humboldt (1767–1835) in the foundation of the University of Berlin in
1810, was expressly directed against the Napoleonic system.34 Individual
elements had been developed in the reformed universities of the nine-
teenth century, Göttingen and Halle. These included the importance of
research for the teaching of the professor and, as a consequence, the

30 S. d’Irsay, Histoire des universités françaises et étrangères des origines à nos jours (Paris,
1935), vol. II, 253–6; Peset, Universidad española, 401–29.
31 R. Boudard, Expériences françaises de l’Italie napoléonienne (Rome, 1988).
32 La città del sapere. I laboratori storici e i musei dell’Università di Bologna (Bologna
1987), 94–6; G. Forni, ‘L’università di Bologna dalla Restaurazione all’Unità nazionale’,
Convegno di studi sul Risorgimento a Bologna e nell’Emilia (27–29 febbraio 1960), Parte
seconda: Comunicazioni (Bologna, 1960), 490–509; F. Gasnault, ‘La réglementation des
universités pontificales au XIXème siècle: 1. Réforme et restaurations: les avatars du
grand projet zelante (1815–1834); 2. Pie IX et le monopole universitaire’, Mélanges de
l’École française de Rome, Moyen Age Temps Modernes, 96 (1984), 177–237, 1105–68;
F. Gasnault, La cattedra, l’altare, la nazione. Carriere universitarie nell’Ateneo di Bologna
1803–1859 (Bologna, 2001).
33 F. Traniello (ed.), L’Università di Torino (Turin, 1993), 36–44.
34 G. Schubring, ‘Spezialschulmodell versus Universitätsmodell. Die Institutionalisierung
von Forschung’, in Schubring (ed.), Einsamkeit und Freiheit (note 2), 276–326; K. Stierle,
‘Zwei Hauptstädte des Wissens: Paris und Berlin’, in O. Pöggeler and A. Gethmann-Siefert
(eds.), Kunsterfahrung und Kulturpolitik im Berlin Hegels, Hegel-Studien (Bonn, 1983),
83–111; R. vom Bruch, ‘Il modelle tedesco’, in Porciani (ed.), L’Università tra Otto e
Novecento (note 9), 35–59.

47
Christophe Charle

supplementation of lectures with seminars encouraging research-based


study for students preparing to enter the professions.35 The equal sta-
tus, indeed superiority, of the philosophical faculty vis-à-vis other facul-
ties, which was an essential element in the Berlin University model, had
become an increasingly prominent theme in the writings of Immanuel
Kant (1724–1804), Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814) and Friedrich
E. D. Schleiermacher (1768–1834). The last of these saw the university as
a place offering a philosophically founded scholarly education through
the ‘togetherness’ of the ‘masters with the journeymen’, an ideal located
between the ‘togetherness of the masters with the apprentices’, which was
to be found in the school, and the ‘academy as the meeting of the masters
with each other’.36 He described the task of the university in the following
terms:
to awaken the idea of scholarship in noble-minded youths already equipped
with knowledge of many kinds, to help them to a mastery of it in the par-
ticular field of knowledge to which they wish to devote themselves, so that
it becomes second nature for them to view everything from the perspective
of scholarship, and to see every individual thing not in isolation, but in its
closest scholarly connections, relating it constantly to the unity and entirety
of knowledge, so that in all their thought they learn to become aware of the
principles of scholarship, and thus themselves acquire the ability to carry
out research, to make discoveries, and to present these, gradually working
things out in themselves. This is the business of a university.37

Such an ambitious ideal of a scholarly education explains the conscious


rejection of the French specialist schools, which failed to fulfil the actual
purposes of a university, that is to awaken of a spirit of scholarship,
to instil a sense of the connections between the various areas of study
and to offer a free choice as to subjects studied. The plans for the Uni-
versity of Berlin were formed by the ideas of German Idealism, but the
plans as executed were only an imperfect embodiment of what came to
be attributed to the myth of the Humboldtian university. In particular,
although the link between teaching and research was at the heart of the
Prussian model, initially, at least, research was limited to a subordinate

35 R. S. Turner, ‘University Reforms and Professorial Scholarship in Germany 1760–1806’,


in L. Stone (ed.), The University in Society (Princeton, 1974), vol. II, 495–532.
36 F. Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken über die Universitäten im deutschen Sinn.
Nebst einem Anhang über eine neu zu errichtende (Berlin 1808), 22–3. (In general, later
editions reproduce the original pagination.) On Schleiermacher’s importance for the idea,
the execution and the implementation of the Berlin University model: W. Rüegg, ‘Der
Mythos der Humboldtschen Universität’, in M. Krieg and M. Rose (eds.), Universitas in
theologia – theologia in universitate, Festgabe für Hans Heinrich Schmid (Zurich, 1997),
155–74.
37 Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken (note 36), 33.

48
Patterns

role and only gradually permeated the seminars and the later institutes of
the various faculties.38
That other feature of German universities – which was much admired
by foreign observers because it promoted the renewal of scholarship – the
institution of the Privatdozenten (private lecturers), from whom the pro-
fessors were recruited, did not exist in Catholic countries in the first half
of the nineteenth century. Except within the medical and scientific facul-
ties, the innovative potential of this institution was limited by the fact that
the governments decided on appointments and could reject unwelcome
candidates. This happened in a number of famous cases.39
What gave the Berlin model its peculiar dynamism was probably the
fact that it was not shaped according to the idealistic rigour of a Fichte, but
by the liberalism of Schleiermacher and Humboldt,40 and thus remained
more open to the various intellectual and social developments of the nine-
teenth century than other systems. Political decentralization also favoured
the emergence of local variants in the way that the system was adopted or
in part, at least, copied. Moreover, the mobility of the student body, which
hardly existed in France, played a part in reducing the inertia which is a
part of every educational system. It was the impetus to advance scholar-
ship alone which gave the professors a material interest in supplementing
the amount of teaching which was usual at other universities with new lec-
tures, in order to attract particularly demanding and motivated students.
The competition between the various states gave the professors a measure
of freedom and allowed them to negotiate more favourable conditions,
in particular with regard to the provision of equipment and assistants.
Individual states could increase their prestige by recruiting famous pro-
fessors, something which was never a possibility in centralized states such
as France. These and other factors too are not attributable to a certain
ideal of the university, but to the particular nature of German history.
The sharp increase in the number of students at university improved
the incomes of the professors in the first half of the nineteenth cen-
tury since they had a share in the fees paid. Whilst the professors in
Leipzig at the end of the eighteenth century earned only 225 Taler
there is evidence of incomes ranging from 400 to 1,400 Taler at Berlin,
Tübingen, Marburg and Rostock between 1820 and 1830.41 Such material
38 M. Lenz, Geschichte der königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin, vol. III:
Wissenschaftliche Anstalten, Spruchkollegium, Statistik (Halle, 1910), 3–446.
39 A. Busch, Die Geschichte der Privatdozenten. Eine soziologische Studie zur grossbe-
trieblichen Entwicklung der deutschen Universitäten (Stuttgart, 1959). On the origin and
development of the Privatdozentur: chapter 5.
40 Rüegg, ‘Humboldt’sche Universität’ (note 36), 169–70.
41 C. E. McClelland, ‘Die deutschen Hochchullehrer als Elite 1815–1850’, in Schwabe (ed.),
Deutsche Hochschullehrer, 37.

49
Christophe Charle

improvements increasingly allowed professors to dispense with the addi-


tional jobs, which were usual under the ancien régime, and to spend more
time on their research. The social role of the universities changed with
shifts in the relative weight of the faculties. Law and theology declined,
whereas in the 1880s medicine and philosophy showed increasing num-
bers, making up 21.5 per cent and 40.3 per cent of all students, respec-
tively. The philosophical faculty, which had not yet been divided into
arts and science, had become the educational base for teachers in higher
education, and as they were disseminated throughout the system compe-
tition and imitation grew apace. Even the forms of teaching changed. In
addition to lectures, seminars were gradually introduced in theology, in
classical and modern philology, history and economics.42 Seminars, insti-
tutes and laboratories, such as those of the chemist Liebig (1803–73) in
Giessen, and also clinics were concerned increasingly with the education
of future scholars, professors or researchers. Developments of this sort
contributed to an increasing approximation of the reality of university life
to the ideal, which the reformers had envisaged at the beginning of the
century.
Of course old ways of doing things survived. In Catholic states such as
Bavaria there was still, for instance, confessional bias together with the
subordination of the philosophical faculty, and the German princes con-
tinued with their old custom of keeping up political surveillance over
‘their’ university. In 1819 the Carlsbad conference of German states,
called at the urging of Metternich (1773–1859), decided to appoint a
state commissar at every university. After 1848 he was replaced in Prus-
sia with a curator whose responsibilities were limited to matters which
directly concerned the state. Theoretically free competition in a system
which had a number of participants unparalleled in Europe, was under-
mined by the potential for inertia arising from nepotism in the filling of
professorial posts in the smaller universities in particular, such as Kiel,
Giessen and Marburg.43 Attempts by the states to provide a considerable
part of the teaching by badly paid or indeed unpaid non-professorial
or private lecturers stimulated competition among the younger aca-
demics, but it also limited the monopoly of the professors over posts
and tempted them into preferring their own pupils over outside competi-
tors. Competition could also be undermined on non-scholarly grounds:

42 B. vom Brocke, ‘Verschenkte Optionen. Die Herausforderung der Preussischen Akademie


durch neue Organisationsformen der Forschung um 1900, Tabelle 2: Gründungswellen
geisteswissenschaftlicher Seminare an den 21 Universitäten des Deutschen Reiches im 19.
Jahrhundert’, in J. Kocka, R. Hohlfeld and P. T. Walther (eds.), Die Königlich Preussische
Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin im Kaiserreich (Berlin, 1999), 129.
43 P. Moraw, ‘Humboldt in Giessen. Zur Professorenberufung an einer deutschen Universität
des 19. Jahrhunderts’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 10 (1984), 47–71.

50
Patterns

Catholics were discriminated against in the predominantly Protestant


states and Jews were excluded from professorial posts until the First World
War.44
AUSTRIA, no doubt because of the common German language, fol-
lowed the Prussian model, while adopting a much more traditional and
authoritarian form than the German universities. After the expulsion
of the Jesuits in 1773 the whole educational system, even in the non-
German-speaking parts of the Empire, was put under the control of the
government in Vienna by the law Ratio educationis in 1777, and between
1815 and 1848 the persistence of absolutism made it difficult to introduce
the German reformed model. The university system had the purely func-
tional task of training the necessary cadres, priests, civil servants, teach-
ers, for a very varied empire. Teaching was thus prescribed from on high
in every detail, in contrast to the freedom of teaching which prevailed
in Germany. With the exception of the medical faculty in Vienna, the
Austrian universities were obsolescent in their scholarship, and medieval
traditions such as the student nations and the doctoral colleges survived.
The Revolution of 1848, in which students in Vienna and Hungary
played a leading role, forced the government gradually to adopt the Prus-
sian model. As Minister of Education from 1849 to 1860, Count Leo
von Thun und Hohenstein (1811–88) organized Gymnasien and colleges
on the German model and invited numerous excellently qualified teach-
ers from Germany to come to the Austrian universities. Teaching in the
Gymnasien was extended by two years, so that the universities were freed
from having to teach beginners, as had been the case in the old arts facul-
ties, and it now became necessary to pass a school leaving examination in
order to gain access to university. By these means the philosophical faculty
achieved equal status with other faculties, as in Germany. The government
abolished the student nations and gave the professors a financial share in
the number of matriculations. The opening up of the market in profes-
sorial chairs by the increase in the number of Privatdozenten and the
introduction of German professors strengthened competition and gradu-
ally lifted the level of scholarship. Yet the Austro-Hungarian university
system was different from the German in that, until the First World War,
the faculties which trained students for the professions, and in particular
the law faculty, were significantly larger than the arts faculty. In Vienna in
1860, 45.7 per cent of all students were registered in the law faculty and
in 1909, it was 53.8 per cent. In Hungary the proportion was around

44 N. Hammerstein, ‘Bildungsdefizit und Bildungschancen der Katholiken im 19. Jahrhun-


dert: Universitäten und Wissenschaften’, Rottenburger Jahrbuch für Kirchengeschichte,
14 (1995), 131–52; N. Hammerstein, Antisemitismus und deutsche Universitäten (Frank-
furt, 1995).

51
Christophe Charle

60 per cent.45 This was a legacy of the bureaucratic tradition of


‘Josephism’, which reached its apogee in the Napoleonic system.
In Tsarist RUSSIA, the Prussian model underwent even greater changes.
The reform of higher education at the beginning of the nineteenth cen-
tury rejected the French model of specialist high schools and adopted the
German model. The first professors were either Germans or Russians edu-
cated in Germany, especially in Göttingen. The inner contradiction of the
new system, which remained in place throughout the whole of the Tsarist
period, was to be found in the education of civil servants in a manner very
similar to that offered by the French grandes écoles, at universities which
were committed to the German model of research and, in theory at least,
were autonomous. This tension led to a repeated alternation between lib-
eral periods during which Western ideas and political engagement were
manifest in student attitudes and behaviour, and phases of repression and
militarization whenever the state felt it had allowed the reins to slacken
too much.
The first of these changes in the 1830s was a reaction to the revolu-
tionary events in Western Europe and Poland during 1830–32. From 1835
onwards the students were obliged to wear a uniform, which made it clear
to all that they belonged to the state administration. At the same time rigid
curricula were prescribed and professors were obliged to profess support
for orthodoxy, autocratic rule and Russian authority. The confused events
in Europe in 1848 provoked a renewed militarization of Russian univer-
sities. Rectors appointed by the government ruled over the teaching body,
dissidents were removed and the content of lectures had to be submitted
for preliminary censorship. Matriculation fees were increased in order
to reduce the number of students, and they in turn were compelled to
enter military service and were subjected to strict surveillance. Politically
dangerous subjects like constitutional law and philosophy disappeared
from the teaching programme. But after 1860 a new and stronger liber-
alism again prevailed: discipline became slacker, and lectures were open
to outsiders.
In accordance with the original purpose, which was to integrate the aris-
tocracy into the service of the state, the universities only took a minority
of students from non-aristocratic classes. In Moscow 65.9 per cent of stu-
dents in 1831 were either aristocrats or sons of higher officials, and in Kiev,
Kazan and St Petersburg the percentage was equally high.46 The teaching
system was very strict, with more than twenty hours per week of obliga-
tory classes, yearly examinations which had to be passed before students
45 Engelbrecht, Bildungswesens (note 20), vol. iv, 237; Karady, ‘Nation de juristes’ (note
21), 196.
46 Calculated on the basis of statistics given by Besançon, Éducation et société en Russie
(note 7), 82. Other information is taken from this work.

52
Patterns

could proceed, and a norm of four years of study with automatic expul-
sion after six years. Yet more than two-thirds of the candidates passed the
final examination. Because of their elitist structure and the social advan-
tages which were associated with an academic qualification, universities
enjoyed high esteem in Russian society, even if they by no means lived up
to their educational ideals.

the european university model: great britain


To speak of British universities as a ‘model’ is only possible in a metaphor-
ical sense. For most of the characteristics of both the English and Scottish
universities were less the result of state policy than a compromise between
centuries of tradition and long-overdue partial reforms. In addition, as the
survey of British universities showed, there were new institutions which
tried to make up for the deficiencies of the traditional universities through
private or municipal initiatives. As a result there was a variety of types
of higher educational institutes, which in contrast to the French and Ger-
man models had few internal connections. It is only possible to speak
of a ‘model’ during the period covered at the end of this volume, when
a degree of national coherence was imposed on the originally heteroge-
neous British university system. Various factors played a part in this: the
success of the new universities, the influence of the German model, efforts
to restructure the old universities, the creation of an academic career path,
which, because of the way that the professors in the newer universities
looked to Oxbridge, meant that the various universities had a good deal
in common.47
At the beginning of the nineteenth century the Scottish universities stood
alone with the two ancient English universities.48 They were more like
their continental counterparts, but were largely financed by the state and
were frequented by more modest social classes. They did not require stu-
dents to live in or to have tutors, and for their teaching they relied much
more than the English colleges on lectures by the professors. There was in
addition a generous system of grants, flexible programmes of study and
admissions procedures which made it possible even for those in employ-
ment to study. In 1828 and 1876 two royal commissions and in 1858 and
1889 two parliamentary bills introduced reforms earlier than in England,
bringing in new areas of academic study. From 1820 onwards the num-
ber of students, 4,250, was relatively high, especially in comparison with
the fewer than 1,000 in England,49 and critics of the reforms complained

47 Sutherland, ‘Education’ (note 8), 138.


48 R. D. Anderson, Education and Opportunity in Victorian Scotland (Oxford, 1983).
49 Ibid., 347.

53
Christophe Charle

that they were checking the power of the ‘democratic intellect’.50 Whilst
at Oxford and Cambridge the emphasis was on the provision of a human-
ist education, with professional training taking place largely outside the
university, the Scottish universities, like most of those on the Continent,
offered both. They were the first British universities which offered a clini-
cal teaching of medicine, and this attracted students from northern Europe
and indeed from England.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century Oxford and Cambridge pre-
sented a quite different picture in every respect. They were slowly recov-
ering from a stagnation that had characterized the larger part of the eigh-
teenth century. With 840 student registrations each year, around 1829
they eventually reached the sort of numbers common in the seventeenth
century.51 Compulsory residence in the colleges, the high cost of study,
the lack of any preparation for a profession, except that of the Church,
and the obligation to be a member of the Anglican Church limited the
number of would-be students. The introduction of formal examinations,
such as the Tripos in Cambridge, gradually improved the quality of study
and of the students. The total autonomy enjoyed by the two universities
with regard to the state stemmed from their wealth in property and land
and their close links to the Anglican Church. Their educational ideal was
still that of the generally educated gentleman, to whom morality was as
important as scholarly knowledge. Thus the number of students in relation
to the academic staff was low, especially in comparison with the Conti-
nent. In Oxford there were nineteen students to each teacher in 1814, and
sixteen in 1900.52 The examinations leading to the honours degree did
indeed introduce a certain amount of meritocratic competition, like that
of the French concours. They too provided an important qualification for
a future career, but they gained their value, as the name suggests, from
the challenge they represented to the individual student’s own intellectual
ability.
Before the confessional restrictions at Oxford and Cambridge were
removed by legislation in 1870, they were circumvented in 1828 by the
foundation in London of the first non-Anglican college, later to be known
as University College. The Anglicans responded in 1831 by founding
King’s College. The liberal Whig government brought the two together in
1836 as the University of London, and gave it the right to award degrees

50 G. Davie, The Democratic Intellect: Scotland and Her Universities in the 19th Century,
Edinburgh University Publications: History, Philosophy and Economics 12 (Edinburgh,
1961).
51 L. Stone, ‘The Size and Composition of the Oxford Student Body, 1580–1910’, in Stone
(ed.), University (note 35), 3–109.
52 A. J. Engel, From Clergyman to Don: The Rise of Academic Profession in 19th-century
Oxford (Oxford and New York, 1983), 288.

54
Patterns

to the graduates of the London colleges. The new university thus intro-
duced a further variant into the British university system, for it did not
require its students to be in residence and in contrast to the Scottish uni-
versities it did not form an inner unity.53 It awarded external degrees and
encouraged the creation of university colleges in the provinces such as at
Southampton and Leicester.
The third stage in the development of the British university scene con-
sisted in the foundation of the civic universities, some of them formed in
this way, others, like Birmingham, the products of local enterprise and
with a practical focus. Alongside these there was a range of what was
considered sub-university institutions, primarily for education in techni-
cal subjects and art.

f r e n c h p a r t i a l r e f o r m 1868–190454
The period from 1860 to 1940 has been characterized in educational
and social histories as the epoch of the diversification, expansion and
professionalization of the university system.55 These three phenomena go
hand in hand with the increasing influence of the German model; yet they
differ according to national factors and features particular to the various
systems.
From 1830 onwards the failings of the Napoleonic system of faculties
became increasingly evident and it was publicly criticized by professors
and politicians alike.56 The double task of developing research in the fac-
ulties on German lines and of bringing the over-centralized organization
of the education system into some sort of harmony reached its highpoint
in the intensive investigation into the reasons for the defeat in war of 1871,
which gave new impetus to reformist tendencies. The foundation of the
first four sections of the École pratique des Hautes Études, which was
pushed through by Victor Duruy (1811–94) in 1868, fulfilled the first of
these tasks. Research institutes which also carried out teaching and where
knowledge was transmitted though specialized seminars, came into being.
There was thus a break with the traditional approach in the faculties of
offering general lectures aimed at a broad public. The second task could
not be realized so quickly. For this, effective local support was needed, and
this came with republican liberalization and the involvement of elected

53 S. Rothblatt, ‘London: A Metropolitan University?’, in T. Bender (ed.), The University


and the City: From Medieval Origins to the Present (Oxford, 1991), 119–49.
54 See especially the contributions by Karady and Weisz, quoted in note 5.
55 Cf. the subheading of Jarausch (ed.), ‘Transformation’ (note 8). Titze et al., Wachstum
und Differenzierung (note 2).
56 Cf. V. Cousin, Rapport sur l’état de l’instruction publique dans quelques pays
d’Allemagne et particulièrement en Prusse (Paris, 1832).

55
Christophe Charle

magistrates, usually of liberal persuasion, in the university towns. There


was also a need for the teaching staff to be strengthened and for finan-
cial investment. In fact, the number of lecturers tripled between 1865 and
1919, as did expenditure on the faculties between 1875 and 1913. Most
of the universities received new or larger buildings. The academic facul-
ties also joined the professional ones and thus came closer to the German
norm. Reform of the administrative structure proved the greatest hurdle.
As result of a law of 1896, the faculties were once more brought together
in universities, which as in Germany were now bodies in law with elected
committees who could control part of their budgets, create or abolish
professorial chairs and accept donations – in short, could initiate changes
themselves.
In comparison with the German model this was only a partial reform.
Decentralization did indeed take place, but it left overall power still with
Paris. In 1876, 55 per cent of all French students were registered in Paris.
In 1914 the figure was 43 per cent, and in 1934/5 it had risen again to 54.9
per cent. Furthermore, groups of faculties had been combined everywhere
into universities of equal status, whereas in Italy and Spain a distinction
was made between first- and second-rank universities. This prevented the
formation of regional centres of excellence, which might have competed
with Paris. Some steps which were taken after 1900 further strengthened
centralization, such as, for example, the decision to integrate the École
normale supérieure into the University of Paris in 1903. Last but not least
the accumulation of wealth in the capital meant that, with the exception
of the applied sciences, private donations to provincial universities did
not bear comparison with those to the University of Paris. These private
funds allowed the creation of new chairs and research institutes and thus
increased Paris’s lead over the provincial universities.57
Reform led to a diversification of the subjects taught. The creation of
new professorships rejuvenated the teaching body. The latter consisted of
various categories: the professeurs titulaires corresponded to the German
Ordinarien; the chargés de cours and professeurs adjoints to the Extraor-
dinarien; and an entry level of maı̂tres de conférences was introduced on
the model of the Privatdozenten – but they had the status of civil servants
and were usually promoted within a short period to regular lecturers.
University reform had a particular effect on the arts and science faculties.
Those of law, medicine and pharmacy retained the system of concours
d’agrégation despite fierce criticism. As a result, various forms of admis-
sion to a university career became established. Arts lecturers came mainly
57 R. Fox and G. Weisz (eds.), The Organization of Science and Technology in France
(1808–1914) (Paris and Cambridge, 1980); M.-J. Nye, Science in the Provinces: Scientific
Communities and Provincial Leadership in France 1860–1930 (Berkeley, 1985); Paul,
Knowledge.

56
Patterns

from the higher schools, whereas scientists also had the possibility of
achieving promotion through their prowess in the laboratory. These vari-
ations, together with the other differences between the faculties, hindered
the formation of that sense of solidarity between the various elements of
the university which was possible in Germany.58
State supervision remained oppressive, for the actual heads of the uni-
versities were the recteurs appointed by the state, and they were responsi-
ble for the whole education system in their particular administrative area
or académie. The concours restricted intellectual innovation. In particu-
lar, reform was hindered by the grandes écoles, which controlled access
to technical and administrative careers.59 Despite all attempts at reform
by the Republicans these elite schools not only maintained their domi-
nant position, they extended it and retained most of their privileges. To
the older ones – École des mines, École des ponts et chaussées, École
normale supérieure, École centrale (engineering) – were added in 1881
business schools, the HEC, hautes études commerciales, new technical
schools such as in 1894 the École supérieur d’électricité, and in 1909 the
École supérieure d’aéronautique, schools of administration like the Ecole
coloniale, École supérieure des PTT, and in 1871 the private preparatory
school for the entrance examinations to higher administrative posts in the
civil service, the École libre des sciences politiques. The Catholic faculties,
which were founded after 1875, also prepared students for professional
careers. The graduates from all these schools came from a much broader
range of social classes than is generally assumed, but because of their
acceptance through the concours they were distinguished mainly by tech-
nical and professional knowledge, by a competitive spirit and by the sense
of belonging to a particular elite or corps, qualities which contradicted
the university ideal of education.

the crisis of the german model


At the end of the nineteenth century and in the inter-war period, when
the German model was being copied throughout the whole of Europe
and beyond, it entered into a crisis in Germany, which brought to light
some of the problems neglected by those who framed the original concept.
These related to the difficulty of integrating modern technology into the
university and the tendency of the teaching body to form a hierarchy. The
crisis affected not only the growth but also the aims of the universities.
Student numbers, which had scarcely changed between 1830 and 1865,
had quintupled by 1914 to a total of 61,000. This growth benefited the

58 Charle, République des universitaires.


59 Cf. Belhoste et al. (eds.), Formation polytechnicienne (note 4).

57
Christophe Charle

small universities and the arts faculties in particular. For the first time for
centuries there were more students in the arts faculties than in law, and reg-
istrations in the theology faculties had dropped by a half over the period
1830 to 1914. These developments mirrored the change in orientation of
university study towards modern careers. In addition to the established
universities, technical universities had developed from the former state
or private specialist colleges: Aachen in 1879–80 (founded in 1865 as a
polytechnic), Berlin in 1879 (1799, a royal building academy), Brunswick
in 1877 (1745, Collegium Carolinum), Danzig in 1904, Darmstadt in
1868 (1812, a school for building), Dresden in 1890 (1742, an engineer-
ing academy), Hanover in 1879 (1831, a higher school of commerce),
Karlsruhe in 1865 (1800, Weinbrenner’s school for building), Munich in
1868 (1827, a polytechnical central school), Stuttgart in 1876 (1829, a
united art, science and commerce school).60 The student populations of
these schools grew even faster than those of the universities: from 5,000
in the winter term of 1871/2 they had increased to 17,000 by 1903, that is
more than threefold, whilst the number of university students in the same
period doubled. Yet the technical schools were looked down upon by the
universities as second rate. It was only after a fierce struggle that, in 1865,
they finally received the right to administer themselves, and in 1899 they
received the right to award doctorates, thereby achieving the same status
as the universities.
The new students, who were less likely to come from the educated mid-
dle classes than before, took a pragmatic view. Studying in order even-
tually to earn their living (Brotstudenten), they had little sympathy for
Humboldt’s educational ideals and sought instead a training for a partic-
ular career. This often led to misunderstandings with the professors, who
were becoming ever more specialized in their particular fields and more
remote from existing society, some of them taking refuge in a profound
yearning for a lost Germany.61 The growth in student numbers and the
multiplicity of possible fields of study awakened conservative fears of ‘an
academic proletariat’. Indeed, there was a lack in the German university
system of a regulatory mechanism like the French concours. Furthermore,
the liberalization of access to the professions meant that the number of
students of law, medicine, arts and sciences at a certain point on the
growth curve started to exceed the likely need. At the turn of the cen-
tury the flexibility of the German system made it possible to cope with

60 See ‘European Universities and Similar Institutions in Existence Between 1812 and the
End of 1944’, 673–709.
61 Cf. Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany; J. Craig, Scholarship and Nation Building:
The Universities of Strasbourg and Alsatian Society, 1870–1939 (Chicago and London,
1984).

58
Patterns

the overproduction of graduates without resorting to compulsion, but the


crisis re-emerged in a more acute form in the Weimar Republic.62
Even more severe in its effects than the numbers crisis was the crisis in
ideas for the German model, for it led to internal divisions in the universi-
ties. The Humboldtian university was set up to educate elites in scholarly
methods, particularly those from the educated middle class and the aris-
tocracy. This changed when the universities started to attract a majority of
students – and after 1900 there were also female students – who wanted to
capitalize on their education. Only some of them had attended a humanist
Gymnasium, and in consequence they were less attached to humanist val-
ues; their studies focused entirely on practice, on vocational usefulness,
and on specialization. The governments of the individual states, which
still remained responsible for the universities after the founding of the
Empire, encouraged these tendencies by creating, in existing institutions
and universities, courses which corresponded to the needs of an industrial
society. They also supported the links between research and business and,
in order to spread German influence, made it easier for foreign students to
attend German universities. These new tasks inevitably raised a question
mark over the old ideal of the university.
The crisis also affected those who sustained this ideal, the professors, as
can be seen in the structural, social and ideological changes in the teach-
ing body. The first change led to a rapid growth in non-professorial staff,
who in certain disciplines, such as the sciences and medicine, formed the
majority without having any say in the decisions of their faculty. The dis-
parity between the numbers of professors and those of readers or private
tutors slowed down and made career advancement more difficult. All of
this encouraged a dissatisfaction, which found expression before 1914 in
a movement founded by the non-professorial staff.63 The rapid growth
of non-professorial staff can only be explained in part by the financial
policies of the state, which benefited from teachers with lower salaries or
indeed with none at all. It was also a consequence of the greater social
status of the professorship, which attracted ever more candidates. A fur-
ther factor was the growing specialization of scholarship, which usually
meant that the emergent fields of study were delegated to non-professorial
colleagues, at least initially. This had a positive effect on their innovatory
powers, but at the same time it produced frustration, for it was not pos-
sible to promote all of them. The difference in status was reflected in the
levels of income. Candidates for a professorship either had to have their

62 H. Titze, Der Akademikerzyklus. Historische Untersuchungen über die Wiederkehr von


Überfüllung und Mangel in akademischen Karrieren (Göttingen, 1990), 389–422.
63 R. vom Bruch, ‘Universitätsreform als soziale Bewegung. Zur Nicht-Ordinarienfrage im
späten deutschen Kaiserreich’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 10 (1984), 72–91.

59
Christophe Charle

own income until they were appointed, or had to make do with a second-
class position. Shortly after the First World War, Max Weber (1864–1920)
declared that: ‘In essence a career in academic life in Germany is based on
a plutocracy’.64 The result was a social closing up of the teaching body
just as the student population was opening up socially. After 1918 many
of the ‘mandarins’ remained loyal to the Kaiser, and for the most part had
reservations about democracy or indeed were hostile to it, and were more
and more alienated from German society in general.65
In addition, the autonomy of the universities was increasingly circum-
scribed by the interventions of the state in appointments to professor-
ships66 – as indeed was the case in the whole of Europe – and by an
increasing dependency on the state for the financing of research institutes
in the sciences, of medicine, of research expeditions, and for the funding
of expanding library expansion in the arts. In Berlin the salaries of the
main professorships formed the major part of the university budget in
1860. From 1870 onwards it was the seminars and institutes, and their
costs were growing faster than those of the personnel, so that in 1910 half
of the university budget was taken up by the running costs of the insti-
tutes and seminars, to which must also be added the costs of buildings and
equipment. In the Prussian universities over the period 1882 to 1907 there
were nine new law seminars, four in theology, 77 arts and science semi-
nars or institutes, and 86 medical institutes, laboratories or clinics.67 The
foundation of the Imperial Physical-Technical Institute in Berlin in 1887,
and of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society in 1911, which brought together state,
industry and research in institutes outside the universities, represented a
major step in the division of labour between research and teaching.68 On
the one hand the removal of ‘large-scale research’ (Grossforschung), as
64 M. Weber, Wissenschaft als Beruf (1917/19), ed. W. J. Mommsen and W. Schluchter
(Tübingen, 1992), 71–2.
65 Cf. F. K. Ringer, The Decline of the German Mandarins: The German Academic Com-
munity, 1890–1933 (Cambridge, Mass., 1969); F. K. Ringer, ‘A Sociography of German
Academics, 1863–1938’, Central European History, 25, 3 (1993), 251–80.
66 B. vom Brocke, ‘Hochschul- und Wissenschaftspolitik in Preussen und im Deutschen
Kaiserreich 1882–1907: Das System Althoff’, in P. Baumgart (ed.), Preussen in der
Geschichte, vol. I: Bildungspolitik in Preussen zur Zeit des Kaiserreiches (Stuttgart, 1980),
9–118.
67 McClelland, ‘Die deutschen Hochschullehrer’ (note 41), 280–1.
68 R. Riese, Die Hochschule auf dem Wege zum wissenschaftlichen Grossbetrieb. Die Uni-
versität Heidelberg und das badische Hochschulwesen 1860–1914 (Stuttgart, 1977);
Forschung im Spannungsfeld; D. Lee Cahan, An Institute for the Empire: The
Physikalisch-Technische Reichsanstalt (Cambridge, 1988); B. vom Brocke, ‘Forschung
und industrieller Fortschritt: Berlin als Wissenschaftszentrum’, in W. Ribbe and J.
Schmädeke (eds.), Berlin im Europa der Neuzeit (Berlin, 1990), 165–97; B. vom Brocke,
‘Im Grossbetrieb der Wissenschaft. Adolf von Harnack als Wissenschaftsorganisator
und Wissenschaftspolitiker – zwischen Preussischer Akademie und Kaiser-Wilhelm-
Gesellschaft. Auch ein Beitrag zur vergeblichen Reform der deutschen Akademien seit
1900’, Sitzungsberichte der Leibniz-Sozietät, 45, 2 (2001), 59–144.

60
Patterns

demanded by Theodor Mommsen (1817–1903) in 1890, was supposed to


prevent the university from turning into ‘a huge factory’ (Grossbetrieb),
a phrase used by the founding president of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society,
the theologian Adolf von Harnack (1851–1930), and the link between
research and teaching was in fact maintained in the universities. On the
other hand, however, the German university and academic system as a
whole, if one ignored the concours-system and the elite universities in the
form of the grandes écoles, was getting perilously close to the Napoleonic
model which in its origins it had rejected totally.
The foundations between 1900 and 1945 of a business university in
Mannheim (1908) and the three city universities of Frankfurt-am-Main
(1914), Cologne and Hamburg (1919) with new social studies and eco-
nomics faculties and, in the case of Hamburg, a teacher-training section,
shows that there was an awareness of the inadequacies of the classical
universities. But such hesitant changes were not enough to meet the social
crisis which confronted graduates in the inter-war period. In any case the
reforms were blocked by the hostile policy of the Nazi regime towards
the universities. The purges which fell most heavily on innovative and lib-
eral professors, strengthened the reactionary elements within the teaching
body, whilst state cutbacks in the numbers of students, although reducing
the problem of graduate unemployment, still left the question of structural
change in the universities unresolved.69

changes and attempts at harmonization within


t h e b r i t i s h s y s t e m s 70
At the end of the nineteenth century the British universities underwent
their most significant reforms since their beginnings in the early part of
the thirteenth century. In the 1870s Oxford and Cambridge were forced by
acts of parliament to open themselves to the modern world and admit non-
Anglican and women students. The fellows in the colleges were gradually
given permission to marry.71 There now existed a real university career,
whereas previously, teaching at university was usually only a transitional
stage on the way to a career in the Church, a professional post or public
service. After a long period of stagnation the numbers of students rose
perceptibly.72 The curriculum, which around the middle of the century
69 H. Titze, ‘Hochschulen’, in D. Langewiesche and H. E. Tenorth (eds.), Handbuch der
deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. V: 1918–1945. Die Weimarer Republik und die
nationalsozialistische Diktatur (Munich, 1989), 209–40.
70 Anderson, Universities and Elites (note 8); C. Brooke and R. Highfield, Oxford and
Cambridge (Cambridge, 1988); History of Oxford, VIII; N. Boyd Harte, The University
of London, 1836–1986 (London, 1986).
71 Engel, From Clergyman to Don (note 52), 288.
72 Lowe, ‘Expansion’ (note 8), 45, table 1.

61
Christophe Charle

had been mainly limited to classics and mathematics, now expanded to


admit the natural sciences, history, law and foreign languages. Research
finally started to develop, especially in Cambridge thanks to a bequest
from Spencer Compton Cavendish, 8th Duke of Devonshire (1833–1908),
which made possible the foundation of the Cavendish Laboratory in
1871 from which a majority of the scientific elite of Britain was later to
emerge.
The most important changes in the British university landscape took
place, however, outside Oxbridge as the civic universities in the large
provincial cities multiplied in order to provide an education for the new
leaders in an industrial urban society. Before they were fully recognized
by the award of a royal charter their graduates received a diploma from
the University of London, which underwent a rapid expansion through a,
for the most part, formal merger of numerous special institutions, such as
the medical schools of the various hospitals, the Royal School of Mines,
the Royal College of Science, and the Central Technical College, which
came together in 1907 to form the Imperial College of Science and Tech-
nology, the London School of Economics, founded in 1898, and a number
of women’s colleges. In 1898 the mammoth university received its own
statutes.73
The second innovation which broke with medieval tradition was the
increasing level of state funding of even those universities such as Oxford
and Cambridge, which had been able to sustain themselves through
income from their investments or – as in the case of the provincial univer-
sities – through private and city foundations. State funding was agreed in
1889 and by 1906 had reached a level of £100,000, a not inconsiderable
sum, though considerably smaller than the contributions to universities
on the Continent. In 1890 for instance France spent four times as much on
its fifteen faculty groups. The Scottish universities were even more reliant
than their English counterparts on state funding. From 1892 onwards
they received £72,000 annually. In addition there were contributions to
the costs of buildings, grants from local business people to establish chairs
in the more obviously practical disciplines, and from 1901 there was a
provision of £100,000 per year from the foundation established by the
American billionaire Andrew Carnegie (1835–1919).74
The social origins of those studying at Oxbridge remained for the most
part elitist. In the new universities and especially in the Scottish ones, it
corresponded to the situation on the Continent. In 1910, 24 per cent

73 Boyd Harte, University of London (note 70), 166–7.


74 In 1913 the colleges in Cambridge totalled £451,500 in income and £437,600 in expendi-
ture, those in Oxford £565,200 in income and £560,900 in expenditure: J. P. D. Dunbabin,
‘Oxford and Cambridge College Finances’, Economic History Review (1975), 640. On
finances of the Scottish universities: Anderson, Education (note 48), 285.

62
Patterns

of the students in Glasgow came from a working-class background,


20 per cent from shopkeepers, small traders and clerks, although these two
categories represented 10 per cent of the student population of Oxford
and 90 per cent of the active population of Great Britain.75 The differ-
ences in social composition were for the most part conditioned by financial
circumstances. In Scotland, the student had to pay quite small fees and
could hope to gain one of many scholarships. What is more, the school
system was well developed. In England, students at Oxbridge, where there
were college scholarships, were overwhelmingly from the expensive pub-
lic schools and had to pay £200 a year for their studies, which at that
time corresponded to the average yearly income of a middle-class family.
In 1910 only 7 per cent of the students at English universities received
grants, and these were mainly for technical training, which was encour-
aged by the municipalities.
The social role of the British university system began to change during
this period. Before the new universities established their reputations in par-
ticular fields, Oxford and Cambridge educated almost all of the English
elite. Since their colleges could select the best pupils from the public and
grammar schools and reformed their curricula in line with contempo-
rary needs it was they who determined academic standards.76 Meanwhile,
some students from the provincial universities concluded their studies in
Oxbridge, and, conversely, some fellows became professors in the new uni-
versities. There was further talk too of an ‘Anglicization’ of the Scottish
universities.77 In fact, a new commission led to changes after 1889, which
weakened the distinctive nature of the Scottish university model by intro-
ducing entrance examinations, creating new chairs, augmenting profes-
sorial posts with assistants and lecturers, setting up faculties of science,
creating research arrangements linked to the doctorate, broadening the
curriculum and organizing honours courses.78 But the fundamental struc-
tures of the English model remained unchanged: the hierarchy of disci-
plines, which made it difficult to introduce sociology or business studies
at university, the overwhelming importance attached to a general literary
education, personal supervision of the students and, as far as possible, the
retention of the college structure.79

75 Anderson, Education, 310–11; Stone, ‘Size and Composition’ (note 51), 103, Table 11. On
Cambridge: University of Cambridge, IV, 602: between 1752 and 1886 3.2 per cent were
‘Plebeians’. On Oxford: History of Oxford, VIII, 56, Table 3.3 (1900–1913, 1920–1939,
1946–1967).
76 See the contribution by B. Simon, H. Steedman, J. Honey and R. Lowe, in D. K. Müller,
F. Ringer and B. Simon (eds.), The Rise of the Modern Educational System, Structural
Change and Social Reproduction 1870–1920, 3rd edn (Cambridge and Paris, 1989).
77 Anderson, Universities and Elites (note 8), 17; Anderson, Education (note 48), 16–24.
78 Anderson, Education (note 48), 268–75.
79 Halsey and Trow, British Academics (note 8).

63
Christophe Charle

In the inter-war period there were no fundamental changes in British


universities, but increasing financial difficulties led to a larger participa-
tion by the state. After 1920 state scholarships for students (male and
female) were introduced. By 1936 there were 360. In 1919 the University
Grants Committee was established as an autonomous university body to
distribute the contribution of the state to the university sector among
the various universities and it soon became an indispensable source of
finance.80 Even Oxford and Cambridge, whose wealth had suffered badly
as a result of war-induced inflation, were forced to rely on contributions
from the state. In the period 1936–37 these amounted to £2,311,978, or
36.06 per cent of the income of the British universities.81 The relatively
low proportion of these contributions shows that the British universities,
in contrast to those on the Continent, had managed for the most part to
remain self-financing bodies.

changes in the influence of the german model


In the second half of the nineteenth century a u s t r i a - h u n g a r y and
the newly formed Balkan nations came under the influence of the German
model. The universities were thus pulled backwards and forwards
between two different worlds. On the one hand they modernized and
had close links with Germany by remaining open to German-speaking
professors and students in Austria and as far afield as Budapest. On the
other hand, however, they were shaped by the under-development of their
largely peasant hinterlands, so that career prospects for academics – as in
the Western universities during the first half of the century – were more
likely to be found in the state administration, the Church, or the legal
and health authorities than in the sciences or the arts. One legacy of the
Josephine era was the large number of technical colleges. A further dis-
tinctive feature of this university scene was to be found in the numerous
tensions arising from frictions between different nationalities and confes-
sions. The further east a student came from, the stronger was the impulse
to get to the West, to Vienna, or to the German or Swiss universities, and
in the later years to Paris. As a consequence, the most recently founded
universities failed to attract the most motivated students.
The Austro-Hungarian universities gradually received the right to teach
in the language of their surrounding area, that is, Hungarian first in
Budapest and then in Koloszvar (Klausenburg, Cluj), Debrecen and
Bratislava (Poszony), Polish in Lemberg (Lwów) and Cracow, Czech at
80 E. Hutchinson, ‘The Origins of the University Grants Committee’, Minerva. A Review of
Science, Learning and Policy, 13, 4 (1975), 583–620.
81 Ibid., 612, Table IV; cf. Sutherland, ‘Education’ (note 8), 157; Halsey and Trow, British
Academics (note 8), 63.

64
Patterns

the technical university in Prague, Croatian in Zagreb (Agram). In this


way they became centres of nationalist movements, which alienated them
both from the German university model and from international cultural
life.
The Hungarian universities were characterized by an emphasis on law,
which was so much favoured by the leading classes that Hungary was
known as ‘the nation of lawyers’.82 This preponderance can be explained
by the development of Hungarian bureaucracy after the compromise of
1867 and by the importance of legal training for a liberal economy. The
lower and middle nobility whose income from ground rents was dimin-
ishing studied law in order to qualify for posts as civil servants. Around
the turn of the century they encountered competition from the middle
class and especially from the Jews, who made use of the vast range of
subjects offered in order to combine an easily mastered period of study
with related activities. Access to the legal world was further eased by the
assimilation of those of German and Slavonic origins into the dominant
Hungarian culture.
In the inter-war period Hungary’s function as a melting pot brought
disadvantages to the Hungarian minorities. The mutilation of the country
by the Treaty of Trianon left behind an excess of academics and officials
in a nation shaken by crises, which despite impoverishment had been
forced to repatriate both universities and elites from the lost territories.
The controlling class reacted to this situation with a law introducing an
anti-Semitic numerus clausus, and this in turn led to many Hungarian
Jews leaving the country to study, often to settle permanently abroad.83
The numerus clausus was also directed against those young women who
before the war had tried with some success to gain higher teaching posts.
As a result of this two changes took place. On the one hand scientific,
technical and medical studies began to catch up on legal studies, on the
other hand the numbers of students in Hungary began to decline, whilst
the numbers studying abroad grew.
In b e l g i u m a n d t h e n e t h e r l a n d s access to university
until the 1880s was very open as a result of the denseness of the university
network mentioned earlier. As examinations took place until 1876 outside
the universities, the number of foreign students was high. In 1876 there
were 1,800 students of whom 450 were foreigners. Around the turn of
the century French linguistic imperialism led to the outbreak of the lan-
guage struggle. In 1920 the universities of Flanders finally received the
right to teach in their native language, though Ghent did not follow suit
82 Karady, ‘Nation de juristes’ (note 21), 106–24; V. Karady, ‘Jewish Over-schooling:
Its Sociological Dimensions’, in V. Karady and W. Mitter (eds.), Sozialstruktur und
Bildungswesen in Mitteleuropa (Vienna and Cologne, 1990), 209.
83 Karady and Keményi, ‘Antisémitisme’ (note 21), 67–96.

65
Christophe Charle

until 1932. The originality of the Belgian system lay in its openness to for-
eigners, which was not limited to taking the best students from France,
Germany or England. The Belgians took not only organizational struc-
tures for their universities from France and Germany, but also numerous
professors, so that the Belgian universities formed an interface between
cultures.84
Much the same applied to the Dutch universities. A law of 1815
divided the arts faculty into a faculty for philosophy and literature,
and one for mathematics and physics. Admittedly these continued to
serve as a preparatory stage for the higher faculties, but they could
award the diploma of candidaat and the doctorate and thus had the
same status.85 Individual elements, such as the linking of teaching and
research and the introduction of seminars, together with the use of lec-
turers (Privatdozenten) were taken over from the German model. But in
the use of governing bodies to run the universities and in the existence
of a centralized university legislation which also acknowledged the use of
private universities the Dutch went their own way.
In s c a n d i n a v i a the Prussian model played a decisive part in the
foundations of new universities such as Oslo (Christiania) in 181186 and
in the modernization of old ones in Copenhagen, Lund, Uppsala and Åbo
(Turku).87 In the course of the nineteenth century German influence on
academic work and research grew steadily, not only in Lutheran theology,
law and the arts, but also in chemistry and physics. Between 1909 and
1914 about half of the dissertations at the University of Helsinki were
written in the German language and as late as 1916 the majority of the
books used in teaching were German.88
In the higher education sector in r u s s i a the contradictions mentioned
earlier grew more marked.89 On the one hand the state, in line with its
tradition of enlightened despotism, saw the universities as the bearers of
modernization and westernization. On the other hand reactionary forces
which regularly gained the upper hand after periodic outbreaks of endemic
revolutionary agitation were quick to curb the universities as breeding
grounds for subversive ideas and conspiracies against the social order. The
growth in the student population was all the more spectacular as it started

84 E. Lamberts and J. Roegiers (eds.), Leuven University 1425–1985 (Louvain, 1990);


cf. Chapter 10, p. 427.
85 W. Frijhoff, ‘Netherlands’ (note 15), 492.
86 S. Langholm, ‘Norway’, in Jı́lek, Historical Compendium, 42.
87 Klinge et al., Kejserliga Universitetet (note 16), 48; Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 240.
88 Klinge et al., Kejserliga Universitetet (note 16), 906–10; Klinge, Universität Helsinki,
565–7.
89 Cf. D. R. Brower, ‘Social Stratification in Russian Higher Education’, in Jarausch (ed.),
‘Transformation’ (note 8), 247–8; J. C. McClelland, Autocrats and Academics: Educa-
tion, Culture and Society in Tsarist Russia (Chicago and London, 1979), 39, 64.

66
Patterns

from a very low figure. In 1860 there were 5,000 students registered in
the nine Russian universities, most of them in Moscow and St Petersburg.
Fifty years later the numbers had grown to 37,000, despite the restrictions
introduced after the assassination of Alexander II (1818–81) in 1881,
which included quotas for Jewish and poor students. This rapid surge in
numbers is explained by the prestige accorded to university study in a
society in which government service led to the highest social esteem. In
addition to law, which afforded a direct path to such service, medicine was
attractive, since there was a huge demand for health services throughout
the whole country and it had proved itself to be a very effective weapon
in the struggle against poverty and ignorance.
The social advancement of the middle classes and the lower orders was
reflected in the reduction in the proportion of aristocratic students both
in the universities and in the technical schools. Between 1865 and 1914
it fell from 67 to 35 per cent in the former and from 55 to 25 per cent in
the latter. When the state made it more difficult for those from the petty
bourgeoisie, the middle class and Jewish communities to study, their sons
and daughters went abroad in droves in order to obtain their university
diplomas. Paris, Berlin and the Swiss universities had such large colonies
of Russian students that their numbers had to be added to the official
statistics of Tsarist Russia. Women, too, sought access to study and got
round the official restrictions by private initiatives or by studying abroad.
In the decade before the First World War the obstacles were gradually
removed, and by 1914/15 the proportion of women students had reached
30 per cent.
Political agitation continued after the turn of the century and was an
indication that the Tsarist university was not adapting to a society which
was in the process of change. For the revolts were triggered by the insensi-
tivity of the authorities towards student organizations, and by attempts to
force through authoritarian measures. Agitation reached its highpoint in
the Revolution of 1905. The mobilization which led to the general strike
in October, had its origins in the universities.
That the Russian university model was no longer adequate to its social
role is clearly revealed by the fact that liberal ideas and reforms were
supported by the professors who came largely from the upper classes
and indeed the aristocracy (in 1904 it was 39 per cent). Their university
ideal was that of Humboldt, whilst the Tsarist forces were opposed to the
freedom of study which was essential for research.90 The ‘general statute’
of 1884, which strengthened state control over the universities after the
assassination of Alexander II, gave preference to a practical training over
academic education, but was unable to make any headway. Lecturers on

90 McClelland, Autocrats, 78ff.

67
Christophe Charle

the German model failed to bring the hoped-for success because of a lack
of qualified staff to recruit from. Mediocre salaries and difficult working
conditions reduced the attractiveness of an academic career.91 From 1900
to 1914 the situation at the universities deteriorated because of the poor
financial situation. The state provided 60 per cent of the university budget
and the rest had to be raised from fees. Despite the increase in student
numbers no new chairs were created. Growing internal tensions between
professors and non-professors, and external tensions between professors
and students and the power of the state, all contributed to the collapse of
the system, which a commission appointed in 1902 could do nothing to
remedy. It recommended the adoption of German university statutes. But
the proposals remained a dead letter.
The Revolution of 1917 changed the Russian system totally: it acceler-
ated the changes in the student body and created entirely new university
structures. The opening up of higher education by the Bolsheviks increased
the student numbers from 127,000 in 1914 to 216,000 in 1922, created
ten new universities and more than a hundred new specialist technical
schools, especially outside Russia. The numbers attending decreased dur-
ing the 1920s when there was a social numerus clausus in favour of the
working class. Afterwards the higher education sector became a part of
economic planning, and preference was given to engineering and other
applied sciences over subjects which were viewed with suspicion by those
in power, and these were consequently closely controlled. The academic
elite was supposed to stem from the people, be technically orientated and
politically reliable. With 4.3 per cent of the age group in university educa-
tion, the Soviet Union reached a level comparable to the West by means of
a total reversal of social elites.92 Despite variations in the political regimes
Russian university policy was characterized by an authoritarian system
of rules and regulations extending from top to bottom, which allowed no
autonomy at all to those in the system.
An example of the trouble-free modification and adaptation of the
German model is provided by s w i t z e r l a n d . Its university system
is characterized in this period by three particular features. First, it was
not a unified system, since, with the exception of the Federal Polytech-
nic in Zurich, the universities were institutions of the university cantons.
Second, their authorities intervened directly in the running of the univer-
sities, so that these were affected directly by political changes. Third, the
university towns were so close together that they could easily be attended
by students from outside the canton from the same linguistic area or
from one of the two others in Switzerland. This provided an important
91 Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 31ff.
92 P. L. Alston, ‘The Dynamics of Educational Expansion in Russia’, in Jarausch (ed.),
‘Transformation’ (note 8), 107.

68
Patterns

stimulus to competition and was comparable to the situation in Germany.


In order to raise the necessary funds to transform the old academies into
research-orientated universities the recruitment of foreign students was
almost inevitable, but the opening up of the universities to women, a
move which was impossible elsewhere at the time, was a further original
solution to the problem. Before 1914 the number of women students at
Swiss universities, comprising a fifth of the total population, represented
twice the proportion reached by their counterparts in France. The share
of foreign students was equally high. In Geneva in 1880 it was 44 per
cent, in 1910 it was 80 per cent and in the whole of Switzerland in 1900
it was 47 per cent and in 1910 57 per cent. As a result of the development
of universities in Central and Eastern Europe the numbers of foreign-
ers in the inter-war period fell to 25 per cent, in Geneva in 1940 it was
25 per cent.93
All of these features allowed the small Swiss universities to remain inno-
vative despite adopting the German model. In Geneva, for example, there
was founded in 1912 the École des sciences de l’éducation, which then
merged with the university in 1929; in 1915 an economics and social stud-
ies faculty was opened, and in 1927 the Institut universitaire des hautes
études internationales was founded, which was linked to the university. In
1941 as part of the university the École de traduction et d’interprétation
came into being.
In the same period the teaching body, which had mainly been recruited
from the patrician families of the university towns, started to employ
foreigners, some of whom had been driven out by authoritarian govern-
ments elsewhere.94 Paul Armand Challemel-Lacour (1827–96), a victim
of Napoleon III’s (1808–73) coup in 1851, and, after the failed revolutions
of 1848, the Neapolitan Francesco de Sanctis (1817–83) and the German
Theodor Mommsen were among those who found refuge, at least tem-
porarily, in the higher education institutions of Zurich. In Geneva Karl
Vogt (1817–95), the son of a Bernese professor, member of the Frankfurt
National Assembly and a professor in Giessen, was awarded a chair in
geology, where, with the help of a number of other colleagues educated
in Germany, he brought about a reorganization of the Genevan Academy
into a university along German lines.95 Over the period 1834 to 1855,
40 per cent of the professors in Bern came from Germany, as many as
from the canton Bern itself.96 All the Swiss universities had lecturers by
the beginning of the twentieth century. To these were added, in the medi-
cal and scientific faculties, assistants and demonstrators, appointed, as in
93 Marcacci, Université de Genève (note 13), 164–5.
94 Beginning in 1822 with the German theologians: see chapter 10, 429.
95 Marcacci, Université de Genève (note 13), 145.
96 Im Hof, et al., Dozenten der bernischen Hochschule (note 13), 226.

69
Christophe Charle

Germany, by the professors to ensure that there was no lack of qualified


staff to succeed them. But an academic career was by no means secure and
geographic mobility remained the best way to gain promotion. In all the
cantons the power to appoint professors was in the hands of the govern-
ment, though this was often done in consultation with the faculties. The
spread of the sciences and the construction of modern university build-
ings underlined the importance which research had assumed. In Geneva
in 1878 an École de chimie97 on German lines was built, and Lausanne
was able to house the university in the Palais de Rumine, built in 1888 as
a result of a donation.98

t h e d i f f i c u lt p ro c e s s o f r e n e wa l f o r t h e
southern european universities
In ITALY the restructuring of the university system was one of the main
tasks of the new national state. It was all the more difficult, as the medieval
and modern legacy of the universities was strong and the particular role of
the Church in Italian society made every attempt at modernization appear
to be an attack on ecclesiastical privileges. The Legge Casati of 1859 tried
to centralize the higher education system on French lines. The Church was
excluded from university teaching, but it proved impossible to abolish the
small but ancient civic universities.99 At the end of the nineteenth century
Italy, with seventeen state and four ‘free’ universities and a smaller popu-
lation and surface area, was over-supplied with universities in comparison
with France (fifteen universities) and Germany (twenty universities). What
is more, they were very unequally distributed. Eight universities were in
the Emilia-Romagna (Bologna, Camerino, Ferrara, Macerata, Modena,
Padua, Parma, Urbino), three each were in Tuscany/Umbria (Pisa, Siena,
Perugia) and Sicily (Catania, Messina, Palermo), two in Sardinia (Cagliari,
Sassari), and one each in Liguria (Genoa), Lombardy (Pavia), Piedmont
(Turin), and only one in the whole of southern Italy (Naples). In 1892
ten universities had less than 500 students, of which three had fewer than
100. Naples on the other hand had 4,592.100 Despite numerous projects to
simplify the university map, the education ministers and parliamentarians,
many of whom were university professors,101 were unable to overcome
the resistance of local interest groups. The only notable change was the
abolition of the faculties of theology in 1873.
97 Marcacci, Université de Genève (note 13), 149–53.
98 Delessert, L’Université au défi (note 13), 207.
99 Porciani, L’Università tra Otto e Novecento (note 9).
100 Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt, 2 (1892–3) (Strasburg, 1893), 736.
101 Ten university professors out of seventeen ministers of public education 1859–
1876; 159 professors members of parliament 1848–74: Polenghi, Politica universitaria
(note 9), Table 4, 509–16.

70
Patterns

Despite the influence of German scholarship, which increased after


1870, the defects of the old system survived: the dominance of the study of
law; the smaller universities’ lack of autonomy; and the obsolete methods
of teaching and curricula. It was the last two factors in particular which
explained the huge surplus of academics and the orientation towards pub-
lic service at the expense of modern disciplines directed towards business
and commerce.102
That these nevertheless underwent a considerable expansion was due
in particular to private initiatives. Public schools of commerce were cre-
ated in Genoa (1874), Bari (1886) and Rome (1906). In 1902 a private
business university was founded in Milan, the Università commerciale,
‘Luigi Bocconi’.103 Engineering schools came into being in Turin (1859),
Milan (1862) and Naples (1863) in order to educate the workforce for
the industries of the newly emerging Italy. The small city universities, such
as those in Siena, Ferrara, and Perugia, survived owing to the financial
support of the local banks. The university lecturers were so badly paid
that they had to secure second jobs, and often used the legal faculty as
a springboard for a career in politics. The French model continued to be
influential, together with the German one. Professorships were awarded
by a concours system and the university system was under the control of
the Ministry of Public Education, which allowed the universities only a
limited degree of autonomy.104 Before the First World War Italy was thus
a country in which elements of the various European university models
could be found existing together: that is, the predominance of the pro-
fessional faculties of law and medicine as in Central Europe, centralized
control as in France, an orientation towards research as in Germany, and
corporate organization at a local level as in England.
It was only in the inter-war period, and in particular under Fascism,
that some essential reforms were made. The crisis of the immediate post-
war period led to an untenable situation. Because of inflation, professors
were so dependent on secondary earnings that teaching began to suffer.
Many of the students, whose numbers had almost doubled, were forced
to take a job in order to survive and stayed away from lectures. In 1920
the Education Minister, the philosopher Benedetto Croce (1866–1952),
introduced academic exercises similar to the German seminar as a pre-
requisite for the doctorate. It was his philosopher colleague Giovanni
Gentile (1875–1944), Education Minister from 1922 to 1925, who in his

102 M. Barbagli, Disoccupazione intellettuale e sistemo scolastico in Italia (Bologna, 1974).


103 Musiedlak, Université (note 10); L. Lenti, Gli ottant’anni della Bocconi (Crassina/
Firenze, 1984).
104 A. Santoni Rugiu, Chiarissimi e Magnifici. Il professore nell’università italiana (dal 1700
al 2000) (Scandicci and Florence, 1991); Tomasi and Bellatella, L’Università italiana
(note 9).

71
Christophe Charle

university reforms of 1923 had recourse especially to the Humboldt uni-


versity ideal. However, he did this in such an authoritarian way that his
initial liberal idealism paved the way for the increasingly Fascist control of
the universities. The reforms divided the universities into three categories
according to their importance, size and number of faculties, which in turn
controlled the level of state funding. A tightening of the conditions for the
professorial concours reduced the number of applicants. The number of
students dropped from 50,000 to 40,000 between 1919 and 1929 and the
students were firmly incorporated into the corresponding Fascist organi-
zations. Professors opposed to these developments had either to remain
silent or emigrate.105
In SPAIN the university system, in common with those of the other
Mediterranean countries in the second half of the nineteenth century,
was a long way behind its counterparts in northern Europe. It was only
the shock of defeat by the United States in 1898 which led to reforms.
Until then the Spanish universities had suffered from the legacy of the
Napoleonic model: an excessive centralization, which also found expres-
sion in the Central University of Madrid mentioned earlier. In addition
the numbers of students had declined, the administration was exceed-
ingly bureaucratic, and the professors with their civil-servant mentality
lacked dynamism. Most of the students were registered in the law facul-
ties. Technical schools only existed in Barcelona and Madrid; schools for
veterinary surgeons in Córdoba, León, Madrid, Santiago de Compostela
and Zaragoza; business schools in Barcelona, Madrid, and Palma; and an
agricultural school in Madrid.106
In 1900, out of 17,000 registered students 8,000 attended lectures,
2,000 concluded their studies with the licentiate and 166 with the doc-
torate. Of 466 professors, 99 were teaching in Madrid, that is somewhat
more than a fifth. In comparison with the professional faculties, the arts
and science faculties with their modern disciplines led a Cinderella exis-
tence. Two-thirds of the professors received inadequate salaries of 5,000
pesetas or less and were forced to take second jobs or tried to obtain a
post in Madrid. The movement for reform began with a small group of
younger university teachers in Oviedo, the smallest of the universities.
Their proposals were taken up by the new Education Minister and put
into practice from 1900 onwards. New subjects were introduced in the
arts and sciences, social studies was incorporated into the law faculty and
a scholarship fund created. A chronic lack of funds did, however, limit
the reforms. A solution was first introduced in Zaragoza and then taken
105 On Croce: Santoni Rugiu, Chiarissimi (note 104), 160–2; on Gentile, ibid., 162–97,
and Tomasi and Bellatella, L’Università italiana (note 9), 116–28. On Fascist university
policy: M. Ostenc, L’éducation en Italie pendant le fascisme (Paris, 1980), 65ff.
106 Minerva (note 100), 23 (1913–14), lxi–lxii.

72
Patterns

over by other universities: the courses were given by a combination of


university professors and outside lecturers, and some were even held out-
side the university cities.107 After 1917,108 the Spanish universities expe-
rienced a sharp growth in student numbers and a division of students and
professors into conservatives and reformers, which was closely linked to
the political struggles of this period. Under the dictatorship (1923–30) of
Primo de Rivera (1870–1930) the universities received autonomous rights
as independent legal entities and corporations according to the prevail-
ing corporatist ideology. But the preferential treatment accorded to the
Church’s educational institutions provoked fierce student agitation, which
the regime countered by closing the University of Madrid. In 1931 the
Second Republic gave the universities genuine autonomy especially in the
regions. For a few years, in Catalonia lectures could be given in Catalan.
After the seizure of power by General Franco (1892–1975), however,
the teaching body experienced a harsh purge in which those professors
who had supported the defeated Republic were exiled. In 1943 a law
brought a compromise between the Phalangists and the supporters of the
traditional Catholic university. The new university was supposed to hold
in high esteem Catholic teaching on morality and dogma together with
Hispanism, authority and hierarchical order. This cementing of traditional
values buried all the earlier reforms and only began to break apart in the
1960s.

concluding remarks
If one compares the university map at the beginning and end of the period
covered in this volume, it is noticeable that over the period 1790 to the
1930s the number of universities, if one includes the European section
of the Soviet Union, has more than doubled from 143 to 308. With-
out the Soviet Union, whose university structure was completely changed
by the huge increase in numbers of specialized universities, the number
of universities at 156 has hardly grown. But this number does not take
account of the approximately 240 academic colleges, part or private uni-
versities also under the influence of the Prussian model, which had spread
everywhere in addition to the universities. Altogether the number of aca-
demic university-like bodies had grown threefold.
107 Guereña, ‘L’université espagnole’ (note 12), 113–31.
108 P. Sosa Alonso, ‘Reforma y cambio social de la universidad española de principios
de siglo’, in Higher Education and Society: Historical Perspectives (Salamanca, 1985),
vol. II, 642–51; R. López Martin, ‘Análisis Legislativo de la polı́tica universitaria pri-
moriverista’, ibid., 416–26; S. Marquès i Sureda, ‘La universidad en Catalunya de la II
República al actual estado de las autonomı́a’, ibid., 444–53; J. M. Fernández Soria and
A. Mayordomo Pérez, ‘En torno a la idea de universidad en la España de la post-guerra
(1939–1943)’, ibid., 249–61.

73
Christophe Charle

By 1939 the university had become a widely distributed educational


institution in Europe, whilst at the beginning of the nineteenth century,
as a relic of a medieval and early modern tradition, it had been restricted
to just one part of the Continent, mainly in the west and the south. The
vitality of the university was also proved in the many and diverse polit-
ical, economic, cultural and social crises of the nineteenth and the first
half of the twentieth centuries. As symbols of the new nations, almost
all the new universities, especially those of Central Europe, adopted the
German model with four or five faculties, and the division of the teach-
ing body into three ranks: full professorships, readers and lecturers. The
Napoleonic model with specialist institutes, which was dominant around
1800, gradually lost ground in the course of the nineteenth century. Yet
it prevailed in those areas of modern research and teaching which were
neglected by the universities, even in the heartland of the German model,
where research was beginning to be separated from teaching.
This double movement is reflected in the huge increase in student num-
bers from 80,000 around 1800 to more than 800,000 – or without the
Soviet Union 600,000 – in the 1930s, as well as in the expansion of the
tasks which were being entrusted to the universities. Whilst in the nine-
teenth century the classical university had been adaptable enough to meet
the new demands, in the inter-war period it began to crack under the bur-
den of its major tasks. Organization moved more and more into the lower
units according to the function, financing, prestige, location or extent of
the particular university activity. The state had become responsible for
university finances and it was increasingly successful in harmonizing uni-
versity structures with those of other bodies. All of this favoured the set-
ting up of institutes and a tendency to turn universities into giant schools.
The authoritarian regimes in Italy, Germany, Spain and Russia took this
to extremes. But the same development continued later in the period of
the mass university.
Yet despite these tendencies one should not ignore a third aspect of
the history of universities in the period dealt with by this volume, that
is, the emergence of an ‘invisible university’ which transcended national
frontiers. It rested on the mobility of professors and students, which
began to overcome the political and institutional obstacles inherent in
the university policies of the individual nation states.109 In the case of
the professors there was a scholarly interchange by means of confer-
ences and international academic organizations.110 Research into the
bridging function played by such institutions in Europe has only just
begun and as a first step has drawn up an inventory of the ‘invisible

109 Karady, Relations interuniversitaires (note 11).


110 Charle, République des universitaires.

74
Patterns

university’.111 Even more than the ‘real’ universities it conformed to the


Humboldian idea in that it was based on ‘open’ co-operation of all people
interested in scholarly knowledge and, transcending as it did all geograph-
ical and institutional barriers, it presupposed a freedom to teach which
is not limited by any curriculum. The decision of the students regarding
where to study was determined by free competition and thus the degree
of innovative or successful work in the various disciplines. The mobility
of professors on the other hand was an indication both of the intensity of
scholarly links between various linguistic areas and cultures, and also of
the attractions of particular scholarly specialities in one or other country.
Thus this period of university history, which ended with the most horren-
dous perversions of nationalism, can be seen to open up possible paths
to a restoration of that Europe of Universities universities which was the
basis of their medieval origins.

s e l e c t b i b l i o g r a p h y f o r c h a p t e r s 1–4
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Christophe Charle

‘Nochmals Universitätsgeschichtsschreibung’, Zeitschrift für historische


Forschung, 7 (1980), 321–36.
Lubenow, W. C. ‘University History and the History of Universities in the Nine-
teenth Century’, Journal of British Studies, 39 (2000), 247–62.
Parker, L. (ed.) Institutions of Higher Education: An International Bibliography,
New York and Westport, 1990.
Pester, T. Geschichte der Universitäten und Hochschulen im deutschsprachigen
Raum von den Anfängen bis 1945. Auswahlbibliographie der Literatur der
Jahre 1945–1968, Jena, 1990.
Petry, L. ‘Deutsche Forschungen nach dem zweiten Weltkrieg zur Geschichte der
Universitäten’, Vierteljahrsschrift für Sozial und Wirtschaftsgeschichte, 46
(1969), 145–203.
Porciani, I. (ed.) L’Università italiana. Repertorio di atti e provvedimenti ufficiali
1859–1914, Biblioteca di bibliografia italiana, CLXVI, Florence, 2001.
Porciani, I. and Moretti, M. (eds.) L’Università italiana. Bibliografia 1848–1914,
Biblioteca di bibliografia italiana, CLXXII, Florence, 2002.
Stark, E. Bibliographie zur Universitätsgeschichte, Verzeichnis der im Gebiet der
Bundesrepublik Deutschland 1945–1971 veröffentlichten Literatur, ed. E.
Hassinger, Freiburg and Munich, 1974.
Steiger, G. and Straube, M. ‘Forschungen und Publikationen seit 1945 zur
Geschichte der deutschen Universitäten und Hochschulen auf dem Terri-
torium der DDR’, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft, 7 (special issue)
(1960), 563–99.
Straube, M. and Fläschendräger, W. ‘Forschungen zur Geschichte der
Universitäten, Hochschulen und Akademien der DDR’, in Historische
Forschungen in der DDR 1960–1970. Analysen und Berichte. Zum XIII.
Internat. Historikerkongreβ in Moskau 1970, Berlin, 1970, 187–209 (= ZfG,
Sonderbd. 18. Jg.).
Straube, M., Fläschendräger, W., Grau, C., Klaus, W., Köhler, R., and Kraus, A.
Forschungen zur Geschichte des Hochschulwesens, der Akademien der DDR
sowie der Wissenschaften in den 70er Jahren, Institut für Hochschulbildung
Berlin, 1981.
Vico Monteoliva, M. ‘Bibliografı́a sobre la historia de las universidades españolas’,
Historia de la Educación, 3 (1984), 281–90.
Zanella, G. ‘Bibliografia per la storia dell’università di Bologna dalle origini al
1945, aggiornata al 1985’, Studi e memorie per la storia dell’ Università di
Bologna, new series, 5 (1985).

General works
Boehm, L. and Müller, R. A. (eds.) Universitäten und Hochschulen in Deutschland,
Österreich und der Schweiz. Eine Universitätsgeschichte in Einzeldarstellun-
gen, Düsseldorf, 1983.
Charle, C. and Verger, J. Histoire des universités, Paris, 1994.
Conze, W. and Kocka, J. (eds.), Bildungsbürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert. Bildungs-
system und Professionalisierung in internationalen Vergleichen, Stuttgart,
1985.

76
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d’Irsay, S. Histoire des universités françaises et étrangères des origines à nos jours,
2 vols., Paris, 1933–35.
Frijhoff, W. ‘Universities: 1500–1900’, in B. R. Clark and G. R. Neave (eds.), The
Encyclopaedia of Higher Education, vol. II, Oxford, New York, Seoul and
Tokyo, 1992, 1251–59.
Higher Education and Society: Historical Perspectives. 7th International Standing
Conference for the History of Education, 2 vols., Salamanca, 1985.
Karady, V. ‘La migration internationale d’étudiants en Europe, 1890–1940’, Actes
de la recherche en sciences sociales, 145 (December 2002), 47–60.
Jı́lek, L. (ed.) Historical Compendium of European Universities/Répertoire his-
torique des universités européennes, Geneva, 1984.
Minerva, Handbuch der gelehrten Welt I, Die Universitäten und Hochschulen
usw., ihre Geschichte und Organisation, Strasburg, 1911.
Minerva. Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt, 1 (Strasburg, 1891/2)–33 (Berlin, 1938),
Abt. Universitäten und Fachhochschulen, I. Band: Europe.
Müller, D. K., Ringer, F. and Simon, B. (eds.) The Rise of the Modern Educational
System: Structural Change and Social Reproduction, 1879–1920, Cambridge
and Paris, 1987; 3rd edn, 1989.
Ringer, F. K. Education and Society in Modern Europe, Bloomington and London,
1979.
Romano, A. (ed.) Università in Europa. Le istituzioni universitarie dal Medio Evo
ai nostri giorni. Strutture, organizzazione, funzionamento, Atti del Convegno
Internazionale di Studi, Milazzo 28 Settembre–2 Ottobre 1993, Messina,
1995.
Romano, A. and Verger, J. (eds.) I poteri politici e il mondo universitario (XIII–
XX secolo), Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Madrid 28–30 Agosto 1990,
Messina, 1994.
Rothblatt, S. and Wittrock, B. (eds.) The European and American University Since
1800: Historical and Sociological Essays, Cambridge, 1993.
Schriewer, J., Keiner, E. and Charle, C. (eds.) Sozialer Raum und akademische
Kulturen. Studien zur europäischen Hochschul- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte
im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert / A la recherche de l’espace universitaire européen.
Étude sur l’enseignement supérieur aux XIXe et XXe siècles, Frankfurt-am-
Main, 1993.
Schubring, G. (ed.) ‘Einsamkeit und Freiheit’ neu besichtigt. Universitätsreformen
und Disziplinenbildung in Preussen als Modell für Wissenschaftspolitik im
Europa des 19. Jahrhunderts. Proceedings of the Symposium of the XVIIIth
International Congress of History of Science at Hamburg-Munich, 1–9
August 1989, Stuttgart, 1991.

Individual countries
BELGIUM
Demoulin, R. ‘L’université en Belgique’, in M. Gresset and F. Lassus (eds.), Institu-
tions et vie universitaire dans l’Europe d’hier et d’aujourd’hui. Actes du Col-
loque de l’Association interuniversitaire de l’Est, Besançon, 27–28 septembre
1991, Besançon and Paris, 1992, 243–61.

77
Christophe Charle

Woitrin, M. ‘Belgium’, in B. R. Clark and G. R. Neave (eds.), The Encyclopedia


of Higher Education, vol. i, Oxford, New York, Seoul and Tokyo, 1992,
61–70.

FRANCE
Charle, C. La république des universitaires (1870–1940), Paris, 1994.
Condette, J.-F. La Faculté des lettres de Lille de 1887 à 1945. Une Faculté dans
l’histoire, Lille, 1999.
Gerbod, P. La Condition universitaire en France au XIXe siècle, Paris, 1965.
Neveu, B. Les facultés de théologie catholique de l’Université de France (1808–
1885), Paris, 1998.
Verger, J. (ed.) Histoire des universités en France, Toulouse, 1986.
Weisz, G. The Emergence of Modern Universities in France (1863–1914), Prince-
ton, 1983.

GERMANY
Espagne, M. Le creuset allemand, histoire interculturelle de la Saxe XVIIIe–XIXe
siècles, Paris, 2000.
Handbuch der deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. III: 1800–1870. Von der
Neuordnung Deutschlands bis zur Gründung des Deutschen Reiches, ed.
K. E. Jeismann and P. Lundgreen, Munich, 1982; vol. IV: 1870–1918. Von
der Reichgründung bis zum Ende des Ersten Weltkriegs, ed. C. Berg, Munich,
1991; vol. V: 1918–1945. Die Weimarer Republik und die nationalsozialis-
tische Diktatur, ed. D. Langewiesche and H. E. Tenorth, Munich, 1987.
Jarausch, K. H. Students, Society and Politics in Imperial Germany: The Rise of
Academic Illiberalism, Princeton, 1982.
McClelland, C. E. State, Society and University in Germany, 1700–1914, Cam-
bridge and New York, 1980.
Müller, R. A. Geschichte der Universität. Von der mittelalterlichen Universität zur
deutschen Hochschule, Munich, 1990.
Paulsen, F. Geschichte des gelehrten Unterrichts auf den deutschen Schulen und
Universitäten: vom Ausgang des Mittelalters bis zur Gegenwart mit beson-
derer Rücksicht auf den klassischen Unterricht, 2 vols., 3rd edn, Leipzig and
Berlin, 1919–21; rpt. 1985.
Ringer, F. K. The Decline of the German Mandarins: The German Academic
Community, 1890–1933, Cambridge, Mass., 1969.
Titze, H. ‘Die Evaluierung des Bildungswesens in historischer Sicht’, Zeitschrift
für Erziehungswissenschaft, 5 (2002), 552–69.
Titze, H., with Herrlitz, H.-G., Müller-Benedict, V. and North, A. Hochschul-
studium in Preussen und Deutschland, 1820–1944, Göttingen, 1982.

ITALY
Fioravanti, G., Moretti, M. and Porciani, I. (eds.) L’Istruzione universitaria
(1859–1915) (Pubblicazioni degli Archivi di Stato, Fonti XXXVIII; Archivio
Centrale dello Stato, Fonti per la storia della scuola V), Rome, 2000.

78
Patterns

Gasnault, F. La cattedra, l’altare, la nazione. Carriere universitarie nell’Ateneo di


Bologna 1803–1859, Bologna, 2001.
Malatesta, M. (ed.) Society and the Professions in Italy, 1860–1914, Cambridge,
1995.
Palma, B. L’Università fra accentramento ed autonomia, Urbino, 1983.
Polenghi, S. La politica universitaria italiana nell’età della Destra storica (1848–
1876) (Brescia, 1993)
Porciani, I. (ed.) L’Università tra Otto e Novecento: i modelli europei e il caso
italiano, Naples, 1994.
Università e scienza nazionale, Naples, 2001.
Tomasi, T. and Bellatalla, L. L’università italiana nell’età liberale (1861–1923),
Naples, 1988.

THE NETHERLANDS
Frijhoff, W. ‘The Netherlands’, in B. R. Clark and G. R. Neave (eds.), The Ency-
clopaedia of Higher Education, vol. I, Oxford, New York, Seoul and Tokyo,
1992, 491–504.
Groen, M. University Education in the Netherlands, 1815–1980, Eindhoven,
1988.

SPAIN
Ajo Gonzáles de Rapariegos y Sáinz de Zúñiga, C. M. Historia de las universidades
hispánicas. Origenes y desarollo desde su aparición a nuestras dias, 11 vols.,
Madrid, 1957–77.
Aulas y Saberes. VI Congreso Internacional de Historia de las Universidades
Hispánicas (Valencia, December 1999), 2 vols. Valencia, 2003.
Claustros y estudiantes. Congreso internacional de historia de las universidades
americanas y españolas en la edad moderna, Valencia, noviembre de 1987,
2 vols. Valencia, 1989.
Guereña, J.-L., Fell, E.-M. and Aymes, J.-R. L’université en Espagne et en
Amérique latine du Moyen Age à nos jours, vol. I: Structure et acteurs, Tours,
1991; vol. II: Enjeu, conditions, images, Tours, 1998.
Peset, M. and J. L. La universidad española (siglos XVIII y XIX). Despotismo
ilustrado y revolución liberal, Madrid, 1974.
Rodrı́guez-San Pedro Bezares, L. E. (ed.) Las Universidades Hispánicas de la
monarquı́a de los Austrias al centralismo liberal. V Congreso Internacional
sobre Historia de las Universidades Hispánicas, Salamanca, 1998, 2 vols.,
vol. II: Siglos XVIII y XIX, Salamanca, 2000.
Torres, P. R. (ed.) Doctores y Escolares. II Congreso Internacional de Historia de
las Universidades Hispánicas, Valencia, 1995, 2 vols., Valencia, 1998.

UNITED KINGDOM
Anderson, R. D. Education and Opportunity in Victorian Scotland, Oxford, 1983.
Armytage, W. H. G. Civic Universities: Aspects of a British Tradition, London,
1990.

79
Christophe Charle

Brock, M. G. and Curthoys, M. C. (eds.) The History of the University of Oxford,


vol. VI: Nineteenth-Century Oxford, part 1, Oxford, 1997; Nineteenth-
Century Oxford, part 2, Oxford, 2000.
Brooke, C. N. L. A History of the University of Cambridge, vol. IV: 1870–1990,
Cambridge, 1995.
Dahrendorf, R., LSE: A History of the London School of Economics and Political
Sciences, 1895–1995, Oxford, 1995.
Searby, P. A History of the University of Cambridge, vol. III: 1750–1870, Cam-
bridge, 1997.

80
PA RT I I

STRUCTURES
CHAPTER 3

R E L AT I O N S W I T H A U T H O R I T Y

PA U L G E R B O D

Since the creation of higher education establishments, relations between


them and their supervisory authorities, be these religious, political or con-
stituted by economic interests, have always posed complex questions,
some of them circumstantial and others structural. They raise the impor-
tant, age-old debate on the educational, scientific and administrative inde-
pendence of university teachers and students. Suffice it to recall, in this
respect, the numerous, sometimes tragic, conflicts which broke out in the
thirteenth century in the European universities faced with the hegemonic
ambitions of episcopal or royal authority.1
Before 1800, though even more so in the nineteenth and twentieth cen-
turies, these frequently conflictive relations posed a very different problem
than they had done in previous centuries, for European political sys-
tems were secularized and tended to become independent of the estab-
lished churches (Catholic, Protestant or Orthodox). Governments often
endeavoured to play the role of a ‘teacher-state’, imposing on teaching
establishments a uniform educational system in line with their political
or ‘philosophical’ aims. France after 1806 saw the establishment of uni-
versity monopoly, exclusive to the establishment of the Imperial Univer-
sity.2 The universities had to adapt to new pedagogical and scientific

1 See vol. I, pp. 12–13, 48–52, 83–4, 101–5. The study of relations between the universities
and their supervisory authorities in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries has not been
the subject of special research and publication. We have, then, to turn to the general works
mentioned in the ‘Select bibliography’ at the end of chapter 2 as well as to the numerous
monographs of individual universities and to the articles on higher education, published
in journals like the Revue Britannique (since 1826) and the Revue des Deux-Mondes
(since 1839) in France, the Quarterly Review (since 1809) in England, and the Preussische
Jahrbücher (since 1858) in Germany.
2 See chapter 2, 44–6; A. Aulard, Napoléon Ier, et le Monopole universitaire (Paris, 1911);
J. Godehot, Les institutions de la Révolution et de l’Empire (Paris, 1951).

83
Paul Gerbod

tasks, provide courses unknown until then and admit an increasing


number of teachers and students. The old independence–subordination
dilemma reappeared throughout Europe from the Atlantic to the Urals
in a partly new and markedly unstable context, varying geographically
and chronologically according to political, economic, social and cultural
change.
Any definition of the nature of relations between the universities and
their supervisory authority must, first of all, include an analysis of the vari-
ous forms of dependence to which university establishments were subject
after 1800, then a description of the types of pressure applied by the
external authorities and, finally, the kind of resistance employed by the
university bodies against this threat from ‘the outside’.

financial dependence
First of the possible forms of dependence involving the European univer-
sities after 1800 was financial. In less than a century and a half, from the
end of the French Revolution to the beginning of the Second World War
in 1939, almost all university establishments, some earlier and some more
radically than others, reached the stage where they lost their financial
independence. On their foundation, the medieval universities had been
endowed with assets (land, farm rents, buildings and various benefices)
intended to ensure that in the future they would enjoy as complete a mate-
rial independence as possible. Clear examples of this are the colleges of the
universities of Oxford and Cambridge. The University of Uppsala founded
in 1477, was endowed by King Gustavus Adolphus II (1594–1632) with
generous income from smallholdings, from ecclesiastical prebends and
various properties which were to ensure its total independence.3 On the
eve of the Second World War, however, the state had to meet the great-
est part of the university’s expenditures. This was also the case with the
University of Lund, which on its foundation in 1668 was granted most of
the property and revenues of the Catholic chapter and clergy of the town
(including 30 prebends and 900 plots of land). In Denmark, the University
of Copenhagen, founded in 1479, had been given the possessions of the
Catholic clergy (tithes and real estate) in 1539. In Hungary, the revenue
at the disposal of the University of Budapest since 1773 ensured its finan-
cial independence up to 1869.4 These were not exceptions, and up to the
end of the eighteenth century the universities with their endowments and
private and municipal donations remained, on the whole, at least partly

3 See vol. II, 187.


4 Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt, 1–23 (Strasburg, 1891/2–1914), 24–32 (Berlin and
Leipzig, 1920–36), 33/1: Europa (Berlin, 1938).

84
Relations with authority

self-sufficient; the result was that some of them were the ghosts of their
former selves, reduced to a few teachers and very unpretentious premises,
particularly in the Kingdom of France.
This tradition was still prevalent several centuries later in Napoleonic
France, rather paradoxically it would seem, when the Emperor founded
the Imperial University and granted it the monopoly of teaching. He
endowed it with the property of the pre-1789 universities (or at least
what was left of it after the sale of the national assets decided by the Con-
stituent National Assembly) and with the ‘university fees’ paid by sec-
ondary school pupils, by students in the faculties and by private secular
educational establishments. All of this revenue was managed by the uni-
versity bursar without any state control. So the faculties of law, medicine,
theology, sciences and arts, which in France took the place of universities
up to 1896, or even up to the Edgar Faure Law of 1968,5 were from the
outset materially autonomous.6
This ‘Golden Age’ was for most universities a more or less mythical
memory. It was followed by an ‘Iron Age’ which saw the supervisory
authorities, and more particularly governments, rule the establishments’
finances with a rod of iron. But these constraints varied in degree and
timing from the British Isles to the Empire of Russia, from Scandinavia
to the Mediterranean states.
The universities of Oxford and Cambridge, for example, managed to
retain their financial independence. Most of the Oxford colleges in par-
ticular had large revenues, which ensured substantial salaries for their
principals and their teachers. Moreover, up to the mid-nineteenth cen-
tury, Parliament was morally and legally unable to exercise the slightest
control over the management of these university revenues or even to be
informed as to their precise nature and origins. Even in cases as extreme
as these, state control tightened in the 1930s, and British universities on
the whole only survived through subsidies from the University Grants
Committee, which in 1934–35 totalled some 34 per cent of university
income.7 Before the 1930s, British universities founded in the nineteenth
century (the ‘redbrick’ universities) such as Birmingham or Manchester
had largely benefited from the financial support of the municipal author-
ities. In Ireland, the Belfast Presbyterian College and the Royal Catholic
College of Maynooth benefited from public subsidies from the beginning
of the nineteenth century. In the case of the Scottish universities, too, the
state started to meet expenditure even before 1900.

5 See chapter 4, 120.


6 C. Jourdain, Le Budget de l’Instruction Publique de 1802 à 1856 (Paris, 1857); P. Gerbod,
‘Le financement de l’enseignement supérieur et de la recherche en France au XIXe siècle’,
Revue administrative, 35 (1983).
7 See chapter 2, 55, 62.

85
Paul Gerbod

In France, where at their foundation in 1806–08 the faculties had


enjoyed material independence, state financial control was gradually
introduced. From the 1820s, under the Restoration, the Revenue Court
was given the task of casting light on the management of the university’s
finances, which up until then had been managed exclusively by the univer-
sity bursar. In 1834, the university budget became a part of the Ministry
of Public Education budget and hence part of the general state budget
subject each year to debate and vote in the Parliamentary Assemblies.8 It
is true that at this date the increasing insufficiency of their own income
(especially the part that came from registration and matriculation fees)
obliged the faculties to accept the financial support of the state. From
then onwards, the material tutelage of the state became heavier from year
to year. Its extent can be seen from the successive finance laws which, up
to July 1939, gave details of the annual running and investment funds
allocated to university establishments.9
At the same time, the teacher-state ensured the total financing of a cer-
tain number of grandes écoles, such as the Ecole Polytechnique (through
the Ministry of War), the Ecole navale, the Ecole centrale des arts et
manufactures, which originally in 1829 was a private school, and the
teacher-training Ecoles normales supérieures (in the rue d’Ulm, Sèvres,
Saint-Cloud and Fontenay-aux-Roses). It should also be noted that the
major literary and scientific establishments (the Musée d’histoire naturelle,
the Collège de France and the Conservatoire des arts et métiers) have been
financed exclusively by the state since the Revolution.
The German case is also exemplary. Founded by the generosity of the
local sovereigns of municipalities or the established churches, the univer-
sities more often than not had sufficient funds to ensure their financial
independence. In the nineteenth century, this was already a thing of the
past; the state governments of the former Holy Roman Empire, which
in 1815 had become the German Confederation, intervened to balance
the budget of their universities. In 1894–95 state grants reached in Berlin
84 per cent, in Heidelberg 86 per cent. Even in the universities with the
largest revenues from endowments, financial intervention from the state
increased considerably from 1853 to 1894–1905, in Greifswald from 2 to
50 per cent, in Leipzig from 39 to 78 per cent.10 In the Austrian Empire

8 The Parliamentary Archives collection and the records of the Assembly debates, also
published in the Journal Officiel, record the annual discussions on the state (and since
1835, the higher education) budget.
9 See chapter 4; the breakdown of the total amounts of grants to and expenditures of the
faculties is to be found in the records of the definitive expenditures of the Ministry of
Public Education and in the text of the finance acts voted by the assemblies.
10 R. S. Turner, ‘Universitäten’, in K.-E. Jeismann and P. Lundgreen (eds.), Handbuch der
deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, III: 1800–1879. Von der Neuordnung Deutschlands bis
zur Gründung des Deutschen Reiches (Munich, 1987), 234.

86
Relations with authority

the financial weight of the state was apparently lighter: in 1895, the state
contributed some 49 per cent towards the expenditure of the University
of Vienna, 53 per cent to that of the University of Prague and 60 per cent
to that of the University of Budapest.11 The practice was then firmly
entrenched; after the First World War, whether in the Weimar Repub-
lic (then in the National Socialist state) or in the Republic of Austria, the
universities’ financial dependency on the ruling political regimes became
irreversible and ever greater.
In the Russian Empire, the central power, which at the beginning, to
greater or lesser extent, had ensured the material independence of its uni-
versities, also had to meet their material needs. In 1900, the share of
university income provided by the state (some 6,500,000 roubles) was
56 per cent. But for certain establishments the percentage was much
higher: it was over 70 per cent for the universities of St Petersburg and
Charkov. After the 1917 Revolution and the setting-up of the Communist
regime, the historical structures of Russian higher education were radi-
cally reorganized by the new political power, which was wholly respon-
sible for financing.
This age-old process, which ended in the financial and material depen-
dence of universities on political systems, was the rule throughout Europe,
unlike the situation in the United States, and the only exception (increas-
ingly partial, moreover) was still that of the universities of Cambridge
and Oxford. In 1935, the two Swedish universities of Uppsala and Lund
depended on the government for almost 92 per cent of their funding.
In the Kingdom of Italy, the state paid almost all the expenditure of the
universities save for those which had retained their religious or private
status. The same applies to Spain and Portugal where the kings founded
and financed the universities from the Middle Ages on, and also for Greece
and its first university, founded in 1837 in Athens.
The financial and material independence granted to the universities on
the initiative of the ecclesiastical, princely, municipal or private author-
ities which had founded and protected these establishments was meant
to ensure them the full pedagogical and scientific independence neces-
sary for the freedom of thought of both teachers and students. This, at
least, is what most often appears in the original statutes of the European
universities. In fact, from the nineteenth to the twentieth centuries, the
freedom of higher education was the victim of various restrictions entail-
ing the establishments’ increased dependence on the external authorities,
whether secular or religious. This involved dependence in four specific

11 If not mentioned otherwise, statistical information on university budgets is taken from


Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt (note 4).

87
Paul Gerbod

areas via the creation of a state-controlled administration governing edu-


cation, teacher recruitment, study regulations and control over research.

creation of ministries of public education


A first sign was the creation in most countries of Ministries of Public
Education which, among their administrative tasks, were given responsi-
bility for higher education affairs. Wilhelm von Humboldt was director
of the section for public worship and education in the Prussian Ministry
for Home Affairs when he succeeded in founding the University of Berlin
in spite of the difficulties and the distrust encountered by his patriotic
and scientific initiative.12 But he resigned in 1810 after sixteen months of
successful work, because he did not succeed in elevating his section into
a Ministry. Such a Ministry for Worship, Public Education and Medical
Affairs was established in Prussia in 1817.13 In France, the foundation of
the Imperial University in 1806 was accompanied two years later by the
organization of a central administration directed by the Grand Master of
the University in the person of Louis de Fontanes (1757–1821), poet and
politician. The administration of the state faculties was thus entrusted to
an external authority dependent on the political authorities. Subsequently,
this administrative structure was maintained by later political regimes
under other names: Commission of Public Education, Secretary of State
for Worship and Public Instruction, Ministry of Public Instruction and
Worship, Ministry of National Education (from 1932).14 In other states,
such as Denmark, Italy, Spain and Russia, similar structures were found,
sometimes even earlier. If up to the advent of the National Socialist Third
Reich the administration of public education had remained a privilege of
the German states, then of the Länder, 1 May 1934 saw the creation of a
Ministry of Public Education of the Reich.15 In the USSR, the university
establishment depended on the administrations of the federated republics,
12 See chapter 2, 1, 22; chapter 2, 47–9.
13 W. Vogel, ‘Karl Sigmund Franz von Altenstein’, in W. Treue and K. Gründer (eds.),
Berlinische Lebensbilder, Wissenschaftspolitik in Berlin, Minister, Beamte, Ratgeber,
Einzelveröffentlichungen der Historischen Kommission zu Berlin 60 (Berlin, 1987),
98. M. vom Broche, ‘Kultusministerien und Wissenschaftsverwaltungen in Deutschland
und Österreich’, in Wissenschaften und Wissenschaftspolitik, ed. R. vom Bruch and
B. Kaderas (Stuttgart, 2002), 192–214.
14 Gerbod, ‘Le financement’ (note 6); P. Bousquet et al., Histoire de l’Administration de
l’enseignement en France (1789–1981), Publications de l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes, IVe
Section: Histoire et philologie V. Hautes Etudes Médiévales et Modernes 49 (Geneva,
1983), 19–56.
15 The decree of 1 May 1934 created the Reichsministerium für Wissenschaften, Erziehung
und Volksbildung (Reich Ministry of Sciences, Education and Public Instruction) in which
the division called Amt Wissenschaft (Office of Sciences) was responsible for higher
education; see H. Huber, Der Aufbau des deutschen Hochschulwesens (Berlin, 1939),
16–22.

88
Relations with authority

but for the USSR as a whole there was a Minister of Public Instruction,
who as a member of the USSR Council of Ministers had control over
higher education. This administrative hierarchy was further strengthened
by the decree of 19 September 1932. In the case of the religious, municipal
or private universities which were founded in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries,16 we can note the setting-up of external supervisory bodies. The
British universities represented a marked exception to the quasi-general
rule.
It was through these central administrations that the external authori-
ties could influence education and research. The recruitment of teachers,
for example, tended to elude the universities themselves. Their deliber-
ative bodies (academic senate, faculty council) or the national qualifica-
tions boards as in Spain or in France (Higher Education Consultative
Committee) could undoubtedly make appointment proposals, but in the
end the final choice was a royal privilege. This was fully exercised in auto-
cratic or totalitarian states. Nor was its use totally absent from democratic
states. In England, for example, a few teaching chairs could be filled by
the sovereign; in Germany in the nineteenth century, the appointment of
tenured professors depended on the princely or royal authorities. In Spain,
alongside recruitment by national competition entrusted to boards of five
members, themselves professors (oposición procedure), there was another
procedure, called concurso, which allowed the minister to appoint a can-
didate of his choice.17 If in France, from the outset, the faculty councils
retained the right to put forward candidates for a vacant chair, the Min-
ister of Public Education could always reverse the preferential order or
even favour an outsider. Throughout the last century we come across
ministerial choices which showed little respect for faculty wishes. This
dependence lasted beyond the nineteenth century; it apparently tended to
become attenuated in democracies such as France. In 1924, the Minister
of Public Instruction, against the proposals presented by the council of
the faculty of law of Paris, appointed Georges Scelle (1878–1961), then
principal private secretary of the Ministry of Labour in the government
of Edouard Herriot (1872–1957) after the election victory of the Cartel
des Gauches. This appointment, considered to be a political favour and
contrary to university tradition, elicited a violent reaction of the Action
Française students and created a climate of riots in the Latin Quarter.18
The state intervention intensified in Hitler’s Germany, in Mussolini’s Italy
and Soviet Russia. It should be noted that, in the case of religious or
private universities, the supervisory authorities’ right to inspect was far

16 See chapter 2, 37, 39, 40, 57. 17 See chapter 5, 134–40.


18 J. F. Sirinelli, Génération intellectuelle (Paris, 1994).

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Paul Gerbod

from negligible. In Europe as a whole, this was a real form of academic


dependence, which intensified rather than diminished over the years.

educational dependence
Educational dependence stricto sensu in terms of study regulations was
also very great in that governments sought to establish national standards,
particularly for pre-professional training in medicine19 and law,20 but also
for the future arts or science teachers.21 Moreover, the modernization of
higher education establishments required the teaching of new subjects and
the disappearance of obsolete disciplines. In the various teaching sectors,
state intervention from the nineteenth to the twentieth centuries became
invasive and even imperative.
In Spain, after 1845, the state took the place of the former university
corporations, which until then had been pedagogically independent but
ossified by age-old opposition to change. It then imposed new study cur-
ricula and laid down examination regulations.22 This was also the case
in Hungary after the creation of the Austro-Hungarian state, through the
1867 compromise. It was the Minister of Public Education who was to
define henceforth the number of teaching chairs, the content of the courses
and the order of examinations, and to approve the appointment of lec-
turers. This interventionism was found in most states in Germany and
in the Kingdom of Belgium after 1830. In France, after the creation of
state faculties in 1808, study and examination regulations were no longer
within the jurisdiction of the establishments, but became the object of
laws, decrees, orders, edicts and circulars issued by the central adminis-
tration, which laid down the framework for teaching in all faculties and
for each discipline. This enabled the central administration of successive
governments to amend the regulations. Between 1852 and 1856, Minis-
ter Hippolyte Fortoul (1811–56) even demanded that the teaching body
should cover the entire speciality in three years and each year communi-
cate to the Minister the content of their courses.23
After the First World War, the educational relations between states and
universities hardly seemed to change. Only a few old universities such as
Oxford and Cambridge retained full pedagogical independence. The same
was true in certain respects for the redbrick universities which were better

19 See chapter 14, 553–63. In Switzerland, where the universities depend on the Cantons,
the Federal authorities regulate curricula and examinations in medicine and veterinary
medicine.
20 In Germany since 1877.
21 In Prussia by W. von Humboldt (decree 12 July 1810), see W. Lexis (ed.), Die Reform
des hoheren Schulwesen in Preussen (Halle, 1902), 373.
22 Peset, Universidad Española. 23 Gerbod, Condition universitaire.

90
Relations with authority

adapted to the needs of the nation. On the Continent, however, we can


speak of an increase in state intervention. This could be seen in the fate of
the Russian universities subjected to the ideological direction of the Com-
munist Party. The Soviet state imposed the content of the courses, the order
of studies, examination regulations, the conditions of access to higher edu-
cation (with a sociological numerus clausus excluding the children of the
bourgeoisie to the advantage of students from the working class).24 In
Hitler’s Germany, the state wielded real academic dictatorship over the
universities. It should also be noted that in the 1930s, in the Poland of the
colonels, in states like Hungary or Antonio de Oliveira Salazar’s (1889–
1970) Portugal, autocratic governments found the temptation to establish
a more rigorous control over higher education irresistible.
In the course of the nineteenth century, state intervention also left
a more insidious, indirect pedagogical mark by the creation of non-
university higher education establishments over which state control could
be exclusive. After 1800, we see a multiplication of special schools offering
advanced technical training for the most varied of professional careers –
military, commercial and industrial. These schools may have depended
on different ministries but they all had in common the fact that they
were state-run.25 The educational dependence was also typical of the reli-
gious or private higher education establishments. The Catholic universi-
ties in Rome, Belgium, Spain or Poland all depended directly or indirectly
(through the local episcopal authority) on the Roman Holy See. This was
particularly true in France of the Catholic theology faculties and, from
1875, of the Catholic Institutes in Paris, Lille, Angers, Lyon and Toulouse;
the same applied to Strasburg, which had the only Catholic theology fac-
ulty dependent on the state since the return of Alsace Lorraine in 1919.26
In a totally different field, scientific research does not seem to have
been spared external dependence. In university establishments, the teach-
ing staff’s obligation to contribute to the advancement of knowledge was
an ancient tradition in Europe. Alongside an undeniable, positive, sci-
entific amateurism in all the disciplines that they taught, the universi-
ties played a major role in advancing the human and natural sciences
as well as theology and medicine.27 In the nineteenth century this tradi-
tion persisted, but it fell victim to a certain number of restrictions. These
were primarily material handicaps: in France and elsewhere, universities
24 On several occasions in the nineteenth century, the Russian Government introduced
clauses restricting the registration of students in the universities (see chapter 2). After
1917, workers’ faculties (rabfak) were favoured and they increased in number from 177
in 1928 to 694 in 1932. At that date they had almost 300,000 students. In the same
period, the percentage of students of ‘proletarian’ origin rose from 30 to 55 per cent.
25 See ‘European Universities and Similar Institutions in Existence Between 1812 and the
End of 1944’, 692–702.
26 See chapter 10, 397. 27 See vol. II, chapters 11–14.

91
Paul Gerbod

complained increasingly about the scarcity of the financial and material


resources placed at the disposal of their researchers. There were com-
plaints about the insufficiency of the funds allocated to the creation and
the modernization of laboratories and to the enrichment of libraries. In
France, Louis Pasteur (1822–95), who had become famous because of
his scientific discoveries, was indignant at the miserliness and thought-
lessness of the state; at the beginning of the twentieth century, Ferdinand
Lot (1866–1952) in the Cahiers de la Quinzaine protested against the
paltry funding granted to the state faculties (in comparison to the gen-
erosity bestowed on the German universities). But perhaps this was not
the really important factor. State intervention was also felt in the nature
and orientation of research. This had to fit into an ideological framework
in conformity with the official philosophy of the prevailing government
or dominant religion. All deviance was reprehensible and reprehended.
Under the ancien régime in France, the Sorbonne, qua faculty of theol-
ogy, was the judge of the orthodoxy of theological research and publicly
punished many breaches of it. After the Revolution, the state, depending
on the political swings which marked the history of France, in its turn
punished ‘errors’ in historical (cf. the difficulties of the ‘liberal’ historians
under the Restoration) or philosophical research. In theological research,
the Churches were always very punctilious, as can be seen from the tri-
als of several exegetes during the modernism crisis at the beginning of
the twentieth century.28 In Soviet Russia, Marxism-Leninism was estab-
lished as the official philosophy and the entire teaching staff and student
body had to respect its dogmas, particularly in so far as research was
concerned, whether in philosophy, history or even the natural sciences,
where Trofim Lysenko’s (1898–1976) theories of inheritance of acquired
characteristics were promoted to state orthodoxy under Stalin. So peda-
gogical and scientific dependence was both potentially and historically a
source of tension between the universities and their supervisory authori-
ties. The tensions, in the event intermittent and minor in the democracies,
proved much more serious and restrictive in the absolute monarchies and
the totalitarian states which replaced them in the twentieth century.
This form of dependence, no matter how insidious and widespread, was
only one of the implications of a third form of dependence, which was
political and ideological. Since the Middle Ages, the established Churches
had exemplified ideological discrimination. This discrimination still pre-
vailed in the nineteenth century in the Catholic universities and faculties.29
In Great Britain, membership of the Anglican Church was a sine qua
non for study at the universities of Oxford and Cambridge until 1871.30

28 See chapter 10, 401–5 (The Papacy’s Pyrrhic Victory over Modernism).
29 See chapter 10, 395–400. 30 University of Cambridge, IV, 99–102.

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Relations with authority

In 1833 Oxford saw the outbreak of the Movement ‘scandal’, involving


several scholars such as John Henry Newman (1801–90). The religious
authorities reacted vigorously and the leaders of the Oxford Movement
had to submit to or break with the established Church.31 A punctilious
defence of the dominant or exclusive religious ideology was to be found
also outside the strictly denominational universities. In France, in the
course of the fierce struggles for the abolition of university monopoly
between 1831 and 1857, the arts faculties were virulently criticized by a
part of the episcopate because of what they considered to be the irreli-
gious teaching of the professors of philosophy.32 A few years later, the
philologist Ernest Renan (1823–92), author of a Life of Jesus, was the
victim of an opinion campaign against his teaching and had to abandon
his chair at the Collège de France.33
Strictly political dependence, for its part, never ceased to restrict (when
it did not abolish) the freedom of higher education, because very soon, and
in the nineteenth century in particular, universities appeared to be capable
even of overthrowing the ruling governments. In France, from the founda-
tion of the Imperial University, the Grand Master of the University himself
had to take an oath of loyalty to the Emperor, and the members of the uni-
versity – teachers, students and pupils alike – were invited imperatively to
denounce to their hierarchical heads all subversive measures endangering
the Napoleonic regime. This obligation laid down in the Imperial Decree
of 17 March 1808, the constituent charter of the University of France,
was apparently not abolished after 1815 by later regimes. The outcome
was that governments were able to use the disciplinary code of the univer-
sity, made more specific in 1811, to take legal action against any political
deviance. Hence the legality of the successive purges of the teaching bodies
of the faculties following the political fluctuations of 1815, 1830, 1848,
1851 and 1871.34 Sanctions were also taken against student ‘agitation’ in
1820–22 and 1832 and between the two wars when the Camelots du Roi
(the young people belonging to Action Française) dominated the Latin
Quarter and organized violent demonstrations against the government of
the Republic.
In the Russian Empire there was already under the Tsars a strict system
of control over the universities.35 In other European countries constraints
were doubtlessly less visible or rather less blatant, but they still existed.

31 P. B. Nockles ‘“Lost Causes and . . . Impossible Loyalties”: The Oxford Movement and
the University’, in History of Oxford, VI, Part 1, 191–267.
32 Gerbod, Condition universitaire, 141–85. 33 See chapter 10, 400.
34 P. Gerbod, ‘Les Epurations administratives (XIXe et XXe siècles)’, Actes du Colloque,
Publications de l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes, IVe Section: Histoire et Philologie V: Hautes
Etudes Médiévales et Modernes 29 (Geneva, 1977), 81–98.
35 See chapter 2, 52; chapter 8, 303–8.

93
Paul Gerbod

When in 1819–20 revolutionary agitation developed among the students


in the German states, the Congress of Carlsbad meeting within the frame-
work of the Holy Alliance of 1815 invited the governments concerned to
take repressive measures. In 1837, when the King of Hanover revoked
the liberal constitution seven professors of the University of Göttingen
protested publicly against this coup d’état and had to abandon their
chairs.36 In Austrian Italy, up to the middle of the nineteenth century,
the Vienna Government exercised a painstaking supervision over the uni-
versities in the peninsula. Subsequently in the Fascist Italy of the 1920s,
as in Hitler’s Germany of the 1930s, the political supervision of profes-
sors and students became one of the major concerns of the new political
regimes and was marked by previously unknown purges and sanctions.
When all is said and done, these three main forms of dependence were
closely linked and intended to prevent higher education establishments
from contributing to political and ideological destabilization or even the
overthrow of the ruling political regimes. Their denominational or ideo-
logical ‘orthodoxy’ had to be maintained at the price of certain restric-
tions on the freedom of thought, even though this had always been one of
the privileges of higher education. Yet governments still needed the legal
means to impose this denominational or ideological ‘orthodoxy’.

legal guaranty and actual repression of


academic freedom
To legitimize prevention and repression, the supervisory authorities, espe-
cially governments, first increased legislation, frequently contravening
the content of the universities’ founding charters and the traditions of
higher education since the Middle Ages. Many a national constitution
proclaimed loud and clear the intangible and sacrosanct respect to be
granted to freedom of thought and, in particular, to the liberties that
higher education should enjoy. This was the case with the 1924 Soviet
Constitution, and that of the Weimar Republic in Article 142 (‘art, sci-
ence and their teaching are free – the State affords them protection and
encouragement . . .’);37 the same was stated in the 1933 law which gov-
erned relations between the Polish state and the universities (law of
15 March 1933, amended in March and July 1937). This statement on
the freedom of teaching was also found in the Hungarian constitution of
1848. In Romania the Jorga Law of 1931 granted total independence to

36 See chapter 5, 152.


37 R. A. Müller, ‘Vom Ideal der “libertas philosophandi” zum Dogma der “Freiheit der
Wissenschaft” (1848–1918/19)’, in C. Friedrich, Die Friedrich-Alexander-Universität
Erlangen-Nürnberg 1743–1993. Geschichte einer deutschen Hochschule (Erlangen and
Nürnberg, 1993), 65–95, quotation p. 71.

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Relations with authority

higher education; in 1937 its liberal scope was restricted by the Angelesco
law. In 1933 with the advent of the republic in Spain a liberal univer-
sity bill was drafted but never voted. In France, the 1806 law which
founded the Imperial University granted the state a de facto monopoly of
education called the ‘university monopoly’. The recognition of the free-
dom of higher education only dated from 1875, after the voting by the
National Assembly, dominated by the monarchist, liberal right wing, of
the 12 July 1875 law, which put an end to the battle waged since 1830
by the Catholic Church for the freedom of education already won in 1850
thanks to the Falloux (1811–86) Law on primary and secondary educa-
tion. With the arrival in 1877 of a ‘Republican’ majority in the Chamber of
Deputies, the law of 1875 was amended; mixed juries (public higher edu-
cation and private higher education) for the granting of university degrees
were abolished and from 1880 private higher education establishments
could no longer call themselves universities.
Moreover, governments, by the decision of the prince or by the vote
of parliamentary assemblies, had always been in a position to restrict
and even at times to abolish any liberties that the universities might have
enjoyed. Europe therefore stockpiled an ‘exuberant wealth’ of complex
legal and legislative weapons: laws, decrees, orders, edicts and circulars.
Examples of legislation and regulations were numerous, not to say innu-
merable.38 In Spain, the privileges of medieval origin which the univer-
sities enjoyed were abolished by the laws of 1845 and 1857.39 In Great
Britain, where the privileges of old universities such as Oxford and Cam-
bridge had appeared to be untouchable in 1850, the ‘Royal Commission
for the purpose of holding an inquiry into the state of discipline, studies
and revenues of the university and colleges of Oxford’ was set up. Two
years later an identical commission was set up for Cambridge. Following
the work of the two commissions, two acts of parliament were voted, the
first in 1854, the more important in 1877, and an executive commission
was entrusted with the task of ensuring the application of this parliamen-
tary legislation. The Scottish universities were for their part not spared
state intervention. The British Parliament in 1858 removed de facto the
Edinburgh town council from the management of ‘its’ university.
In Russia, on its own initiative, the Tsarist power defined the successive
constitutions for the universities between 1755 (for the newly founded
University of Moscow) and 1912, before the Communist power imposed
its ideological and administrative monopoly by new legislation after 1917.

38 As examples: A. de Beauchamps, Recueil des lois et règlements sur l’enseignement


supérieur de 1798 à 1880 (Paris, 1886); E. R. Huber, Dokumente zur deutschen Ver-
fassungsgeschichte, 4 vols. (3rd edn, Stuttgart, 1978–91); I. Porciani (ed.), L’Università
Italiana. Repertorio di atti e proffedimenti ufficiali 1859–1914 (Florence, 2001).
39 Peset, Universidad Española, 430ff., 461ff.

95
Paul Gerbod

In the Kingdom of Romania, the laws of 1864, 1898, 1907 and 1912
wrapped the university in a legislation straitjacket.40 In Germany, after
the coming to power of the National Socialist party, the decree of 1 April
1935 strengthened state control over education.41 In the Kingdom of Italy,
the Casati Law of 13 November 1859 imposed a uniform system and
increased the universities’ dependence on the state. This law, amended on
a certain number of points of detail, became partly outdated by the imple-
mentation of two decrees, one promulgated in 1923 (Decreto Gentile) and
the other in 1935 (Decreto-Lesse De Vecchi), within the framework of the
new Fascist state.42
In the case of the Catholic universities, authority was in the hands of
the Holy See, exercised by the local episcopate or by those responsible for
the teaching orders.
The extent to which this legislation, which had become complex and
luxuriant over the years, was ever really applied within the establishments
themselves was another matter. Governments had at their disposal civil
servants or intermediaries inside or outside the universities to ensure the
application of all this legislation. At the peak of the inquisitorial hierar-
chy sat the Ministers of Public Education, members of the government
in office playing the role of middlemen between the political power (the
sovereign or the legislative assemblies) and the teaching establishment. In
a state like France, since the foundation of the university (in fact since
the Floréal Law of the year X (15 May 1802), they had senior civil ser-
vants called inspectors general whose mission was to make annual vis-
its to the various establishments (their ‘round’) and inform the ministry
about how they were run. Under the Second Empire a general inspec-
torate of higher education was set up alongside the general inspections of
primary and secondary education: this special inspectorate was to survive
until 1887.43 Furthermore, within the academic districts (grouping several
departments; seventeen in number after 1856 including Algeria, then six-
teen after the annexation of Alsace Lorraine in 1871 by Germany), posts of
rectors responsible for the supervision of all the scholastic establishments
(including the state faculties) in their geographical area were created.
Outside of France it seems difficult to find an equivalent for this insti-
tution, though to a certain extent the members of the University Grants

40 J. Sadlak, Higher Education in Romania: Between Academic Mission, Economic


Demands, and Political Control, Special Studies in Comparative Education 27 (Buffalo,
NY, 1990).
41 Huber, Aufbau des deutschen Hochschulwesens (note 15), 17
42 T. Tomasi and L. Bellatella, L’Università italiana nell’età liberale (1861–1923) (Naples,
1988), 94–128. A. Santoni Rugiu, Chiarissimi e Magnifici. Il professore nell’università
italiana (dal 1700 al 2000) (Scandicci and Florence, 1991), 201ff.
43 P. Gerbod, ‘Inspection générale et inspecteurs généraux de l’instruction publique de 1802
à 1880’, Revue historique, 217 (1966), 79–105.

96
Relations with authority

Committee in Great Britain since 1919 constituted a permanent body


controlling the activities of universities which applied for grants. The
role of administrative middlemen between the universities and the polit-
ical authorities was entrusted to persons whose title differed according
to the country concerned. It could be a purely honorary post such as
that of the sovereign’s ‘visitor’ in Great Britain, or chancellor for Oxford
and Cambridge and the Scottish universities (usually a member of the
higher nobility, allied or not to the royal family), when it was not the
local bishop (for the University of Durham or that of Uppsala). In some
Germanic countries and beyond in Russia, the most current title was that
of ‘curator’. He could have extensive internal police and financial powers;
appointed by the political authority, he was the obligatory intermediary
between the latter and the university establishment. In the absence of these
intermediaries, who would sometimes play the role of intercessors and
defend the interests of the institutions for which they were responsible,
the authorities could impose teachers in whom they had full confidence as
managers of the establishment and as rectors. At the Catholic University of
Louvain, the rector magnificus was designated by the Belgian episcopate.
Faced with opposition from within the universities, the supervisory
authorities could take various repressive measures against opponents or
alleged opponents (teachers and students). So the teaching body was not
immune to disciplinary sanctions. In France, since the foundation of the
Imperial University and particularly since the 1811 decree, the university
code, which was a compilation of the laws, decrees, edicts and circulars
governing the university, provided details of the penalties which could
be applied to the members of the university: blame, automatic transfer,
striking-off, forced retirement and removal from office.44 Through these
legal provisions it was possible, when necessary, to ‘purge’ the teach-
ing corps of opponents to the government in office. A decision on sanc-
tions could be the subject of a prior enquiry by the academic and the
university council according to a legal-type procedure, but the political
power could always override it in case of crisis or change of regime. So
it was that in nineteenth-century France purges were frequent in 1814–
15 against Bonapartist teachers, in 1819–22 against liberal teachers, sus-
pending François Guizot’s (1787–1874) and Victor Cousin’s (1792–1867)
classes at the Sorbonne, in 1830 against Carlist university teachers and
again in 1848–51. Subsequently during political crises such as the Com-
mune in 1871, Boulangism in 1889, the Dreyfus Affair at the end of the
century or in the conflict which opposed Republic and Catholic Church
between 1880 and 1909, new, mainly individual, sanctions were imposed.
44 A. Rendu, Code universitaire (Paris 1811, 1827, 1836, 1846, successive editions pub-
lished); see de Beauchamp, Recueil des lois (note 38), passim, and Bulletin administratif
du Ministère de l’Instruction Publique (1850–1932), 20.

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Paul Gerbod

France is not a unique case. Purges also took place throughout Europe.
In Russia in 1820–22, the government took radical measures against the
universities and placed them under strict supervision. It removed the rec-
tors from the universities of St Petersburg and Kazan and replaced them
with directly appointed directors, deciding, moreover, to expel all foreign
teachers. Throughout the century, the persecution of liberal teachers, and
in the years from 1890 to 1905, of those who were (more or less) active in
political opposition, continued unabated. Virtually everywhere, more or
less visibly, governments protected themselves against the ‘bad teachers’
who propagated ‘unhealthy’ and ‘revolutionary’ ideas. This witch hunt
became systematic in the totalitarian regimes set up after the First World
War. In Italy, the Mussolini government struck at reputedly anti-Fascist
professors and removed them from their chairs; in Germany, after 1933,
the persecutions extended to teachers hostile to the Hitler dictatorship and
to those of Jewish origin. In the Soviet Union, from the 1920s, the Bolshe-
vik regime proceeded to as complete a purge as possible of the university
teaching body. This kind of purge was to be extended to other states such
as Portugal, to the Spain under Franco’s control before 1939, to Hungary
and to Romania, and eventually to France where the Vichy Government
joined in and purged Jewish, Freemason and Communist teachers between
1940 and 1944.45 At the same time, persecution extended to students who
in various ways had shown their hostility to the established regime.46
The political (and the religious, in the case of Catholic establishment)
authorities were not unarmed in imposing their point of view on the uni-
versities. They had laws which, generally speaking, they were in a position
to adapt to the situation. There were various intermediaries responsible
for ensuring the application of these laws and a broad range of sanctions
against students and teachers. Moreover, the political authorities could
always call on the police and the army, should public order be disturbed.
Were their opponents (students and teachers) capable of resisting these
various forms of coercion?

university resistance
The universities seemed to have limited means at their disposal to com-
bat the threats and pressure from the supervisory authorities, but they
were not negligible. Among them figured the legal means represented by
the councils which, under names varying from country to country, were
responsible for the academic administration of university institutions.47
The British universities, in principle, had three councils which organized

45 C. Singer, Vichy, l’université et les juifs. Les silences et la mémoire (Paris, 1992).
46 See chapter 8. 47 See chapter 4, 117–21.

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Relations with authority

studies, granted academic degrees, could receive legacies, acquire and


manage real estate, or present people for ecclesiastical benefices. So, but-
tressed by privileges of medieval origin, the old universities of England
and Scotland were able to resist Parliament’s pressure and attempts at
interference for a long time.
On the Continent, too, the universities were usually run by councils
with different names. Their statutes authorised them to organize their pro-
grammes, to define curricula, to grant academic degrees, and to maintain
internal order and discipline. But this independence, which in some cases
extended to the material and financial sphere, was limited. For impor-
tant problems (appointments, course curricula, creation or suppression of
chairs, finances and equipment) the councils could only make suggestions.
Even the right of proposal developed slowly in the nineteenth century. It
was the political power represented by the minister responsible for higher
education which decided on these matters. It usually followed the opinion
of the councils, but in case of conflict the authorities triumphed over the
resistance of the councils. In authoritarian regimes, this resistance was
purely formal.
If university resistance wanted to manifest itself and make itself heard
by the political authorities, it had to take ‘illegal’ or rather ‘extra-legal’
paths and arouse more or less violent reactions from the governments in
office. The least ‘illegal’ form of opposition was an appeal to public opin-
ion. Thus in Germany, the dismissal of De Wette (1780–1849) from his
theological chair in Berlin 1819 for political reasons,48 as well as the dis-
missal in 1837 of the seven professors from the University of Göttingen,
aroused a widespread public protest-movement. In England, in the 1830s,
the Dissenters campaigned for the admission of non-Anglicans to the
universities of Oxford and Cambridge and exhorted public opinion to
take their side by way of petitions, but they obtained satisfaction only in
1854. Episodically and, usually, fruitlessly, the opponents looked for out-
side support in the press and in political assemblies in opposition circles.
This was particularly the case in France in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries.
University resistance could also take the form of a teacher’s resigna-
tion or even exile. In 1852, following the 2 December 1851 coup d’état,
Jules Simon (1814–96), replacing Victor Cousin as philosophy professor
at the Sorbonne, preferred to give up his professorship rather than swear
an oath of allegiance to the new regime resulting from the coup d’état.
Jules Michelet (1799–1874) and Edgar Quinet (1803–75), professors at
the Collège de France, preferred to go into exile rather than continue
their classes after 1852. These are but a few examples among others.

48 See chapter 10, 404.

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Paul Gerbod

In the twentieth century, resignation and exile were the indirect forms
of resistance for many an opponent of the totalitarian regimes installed
throughout Europe. So the advent of the Communist regime in Russia
after 1917 was accompanied by the exodus of many Russian university
teachers to Western Europe or the United States. This was also true of
Mussolini’s Italy after 1925 and – although only in a few cases (e.g. the
classical scholar Kurt von Fritz (1900–80) who refused the oath on Hitler)
on a strictly voluntary basis – in Germany after 1933.
Student resistance could no more seek to evade the pressure of the
political power by transferring the whole university to another town as
it happened in the Middle Ages. In Germany, some students followed
their discharged or resigning teachers to other universities where they
had found asylum. More frequently, student resistance was demonstrated
in much more active, often illegal ways.45 Between the two wars, the
agitation of the Maurras Right (that of the Camelots du Roi, in the Latin
Quarter) became permanent, deteriorating into veritable riots during the
Scelle Affair in 1925, mentioned above, and in 1936 against the professor
of law Gaston Jèze (1869–1953) who in his capacity as French legal advisor
to the Société des Nations had sustained the economic sanctions against
Italy after its conquest of Ethiopia.
Thus, for almost a century and a half, relations between the univer-
sities and their supervisory authorities were conflictive more often than
not. Far from being simply confined to technical and professional matters
(curricula, budgets, examinations and teaching appointments), they were
often politically and ideologically exacerbated. They continually raised
the sempiternal problem of freedom of thought in teaching and scientific
research. No political system, no matter how democratic, could really
accept the total autonomy of the universities. Though they did retain a
certain independence because of traditions often going back to the Mid-
dle Ages – that is to an age when universities were organically linked
to the Western Christian Church – the universities were compelled to
accept under duress more or less severe restrictions on their material and
intellectual independence. Furthermore, any compromises that had been
negotiated with the political power were always liable to be called into
question according to political, ideological and social fluctuations from
one state to another throughout the Europe of the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries.

100
CHAPTER 4

RESOURCES AND MANAGEMENT

PA U L G E R B O D

introduction
From 1800 to 1939, institutions of higher education and universities in
particular had to face the unprecedented, often extremely difficult, prob-
lems posed by new and increasingly diverse pedagogical and scientific
objectives, by the development of science and technology, and by ever-
growing numbers of students (both male and, increasingly, female). In
1789 there were about 12,500 students enrolled in France, twice the num-
ber of the 6,000 four hundred years earlier.1 In 1937 the University of Paris
alone had 32,144 students, the University of Rome 14,203, more than all
the Italian universities together in 1800.2
Rising numbers of students brought new and more acute material and
financial problems. Old infrastructures were generally insufficient and
inadequate; at the end of the nineteenth century the restoration of old
and the construction of new university premises was widespread through-
out Europe. Increased student populations accompanied larger teaching
staffs which had to be paid, housed and administered, while the diversifi-
cation of disciplines (above all the unprecedented importance of the exact
sciences) required new accommodations better adapted to teaching and
research (laboratories, science materials and equipment, libraries).
Only the specialized schools of higher education (the grandes écoles
in France, the Technische Hochschulen in Germany, institutes of agri-
culture and fine arts academies), to the extent that they maintained their
administrative autonomy, generally escaped the problems facing the over-
grown universities. Many establishments used competitive admission tests

1 C. Charle and J. Verger, Histoire des Universités (Paris, 1994), 46.


2 Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt, 1 (Strasburg, 1891/2), 33, Abt. Universitäten und
Fachhochschulen I: Europa (Berlin, 1938), on Paris 33, 754, Rome 870.

101
Paul Gerbod

to limit intake, but their student bodies represented only a fraction of the
total European student population. The subject of this chapter, which
deals successively with property structures, financing, student grants, and
financial, pedagogical and administrative management is the extent to
which universities succeeded in solving these problems in a Europe unset-
tled by a series of wars and revolutions.

facilities reconsidered
At the beginning of the nineteenth century most universities still occupied
buildings dating from well before 1800. Still in their medieval setting, the
colleges of Oxford and Cambridge had housed successive generations of
fellows, students, bursars or paying lodgers. The University of Coimbra
and that of Salamanca continued to use their ornate premises. In France,
the faculties of letters and sciences and theology lodged their teachers
and students in the gloomy, uncomfortable rooms of the ‘Old Sorbonne’
around the chapel built on the initiative of Cardinal Richelieu (1585–
1642) in the mid-seventeenth century.3 Elsewhere, though (and through-
out the nineteenth century) cities also used buildings originally built for
other purposes, such as convents, private houses and mansions, to house
their universities. The law faculty of Aix-en-Provence was located in a
fifteenth-century hospice; the Besançon faculty of letters lurked in an old
Benedictine convent. The University of Moscow did not move out of the
Repnin princes’ palace until after the 1812 fire. In 1884, the University of
Vienna still occupied the buildings built in the early sixteenth century, ‘a
vast construction with a portico preceded by a flight of stairs and adorned
with sculptures’.4 In a number of university towns in Italy, medieval or
modern palaces were used for university teaching; they were dilapidated
and inadequate, though their surroundings were impressive.
Most historic buildings and edifices drew complaint and indignation
from their users. In 1938, the colleges of Oxford were more or less alone
in arousing the admiration of the visitor, ‘genuine palaces, both austere
and splendid, magnificently designed and constructed’.5 Their interior
decoration, some of which had hardly changed over the centuries, was also
grandiose and stirring. But in most places the situation was quite different;
the buildings, too often inherited from the past, acquired without great
discernment, were not suitable for teaching and research. In France, this

3 K. Rückbrod, Universität und Kollegium. Baugeschichte und Bautyp (Darmstadt, 1977),


121–3.
4 A. Wurtz, Les hautes études pratiques dans les universités allemandes et d’Autriche-
Hongrie (Paris, 1879), gives accurate descriptions of laboratories, institutes and libraries.
Travel guides often mention university buildings in their description of university towns.
5 P. Gerbod, Voyageurs français à la découverte des Iles britanniques (Paris, 1996).

102
Resources and management

criticism was increasingly virulent in the reports of the general inspectors


prior to 1865. In 1868, the first ministerial statistics presented a negative
and alarming picture of the material conditions of most faculties.6
In the second half of the nineteenth century, the need for new university
premises became apparent and urgent throughout Europe. If, in France,
the construction of the ‘New Sorbonne’ begun in 1855 was only com-
pleted in 1901, elsewhere the restoration and construction of premises
took place at a much more rapid pace. It was a question of building
new ‘cathedrals of knowledge’ in the centre of towns or in their imme-
diate outskirts. In Sweden, the universities of Uppsala and Lund were
rebuilt in the 1880s.7 In Great Britain, the old universities acquired many
new buildings and wholly new universities were built in industrial towns
such as Leeds, Birmingham, Manchester or Liverpool. In the German
Empire, after 1870, states and municipalities made a major financial effort
to endow universities with ‘grandiose buildings’ such as those at Halle,
Heidelberg, Göttingen, Leipzig, Munich and Karlsruhe. The results of this
construction were admired in France,8 but very few ‘university palaces’
were built outside Paris. Lyon was an exception. At the beginning of the
twentieth century too many faculties of letters, law and sciences were still
housed in excessively cramped, insalubrious and uncomfortable premises,
as was the case in Grenoble, Caen and Rennes.
After the First World War, while the number of students and universi-
ties increased, university building started up again, particularly in the new
states created by the 1919 treaties. In Hungary, three out of its four uni-
versities were built after 1920 with the financial support of the state. This
was also the case in Czechoslovakia (the new University of Bratislava), in
the Baltic states and in Yugoslavia. Also, there was further construction in
Great Britain, France, the Netherlands and Italy. In Spain, only during the
period 1920–39 did new construction begin at Madrid’s University City,
including new laboratories, libraries and student residences. The Soviet
Union’s policy after 1920 was to multiply centres of higher education,
particularly in the central Asian and eastern Siberian republics.
Between 1800 and 1939, higher education institutions other than uni-
versities also benefited from the building boom. If the Ecole Normale
6 The first ministerial statistics on higher education were drawn up in 1865, when Victor
Duruy was minister, and published in 1868; the statistical enquiries in 1878, 1889 and
1900 described the material conditions (buildings, collections, laboratories) obtaining in
the state faculties. For the period prior to 1865, see the files in the Archives de France,
rapports d’inspection générale des facultés, F17/ 13068 ff.; bâtiments F17/ 13255ff.
7 C. Hippeau, L’Instruction Publique en Scandinavie (Paris, 1879); P. Ponnelle, Les univer-
sités scandinaves (Paris, 1882).
8 R. Blanchard, A propos des universités allemandes (Paris, 1884); F. Minssen, A propos de
l’enseignement supérieur en Allemagne (Paris, 1866); Wurtz, Hautes études (note 4). See
also P. Gerbod, ‘L’enseignement à l’étranger vu par les pédagogues français (1800–1914).
Approche bibliographique’, Histoire de l’éducation, 5 (1979), 19–29.

103
Paul Gerbod

Supérieure de Jeunes Filles (founded in 1882) occupied the old


seventeenth-century buildings of the former Sèvres factory, most of them
were installed in purpose-built buildings. The Ecole Normale Supérieure
de Jeunes Gens, for example, which had remained in its makeshift
premises in the Rue de Postes until 1845, was then transferred to newly
completed buildings in the Rue d’Ulm. One could find many examples
of this kind throughout Europe, especially as technical and commercial
schools developed into university-like institutions.
Many nineteenth-century university buildings were given a neo-classical
or new-renaissance style,9 for example, in France the ‘New Sorbonne’; in
Finland the University of Helsinki with its main building, library, observa-
tory, clinics;10 in Austria and in the German states Greco-Roman temple
pediments and colonnades were adorned with innumerable sculptures.
In Marburg and Freiburg though, a neo-Gothic style was adopted, as in
Great Britain where architects found it difficult to free themselves from
neo-Gothic styles. In the ‘redbrick universities’, however, use was occa-
sionally made of new materials such as iron and glass.
Leading architects became interested in the construction of what were
called ‘Cathedrals of Science’: Gottfried Semper (1803–79) in Zurich,
Heinrich Freiherr von Ferstel (1828–82) in Vienna, Alfred Waterhouse
(1830–1905) and Sir Thomas Graham Jackson (1835–1924) in Oxford,
Henri-Paul Nénot (1845–1934) in Paris. On the whole, the neo-classical or
neo-Gothic styles retained ecclesiastical affinities with halls and cloistered
quadrangles. In the twentieth century, however, between the First and
the Second World Wars, we can see a glimmering, at the new University
of Madrid, for instance, of the idea of the university campus composed
of dispersed buildings. Similarly, after 1920, Paris University’s halls of
residence opened on the southern borders of the capital were composed of
buildings more or less distant from each other within an area sown with
lawns, planted with trees and crossed by picturesque pedestrian walk-
ways. There also were redbrick residence halls in the suburbs of British
cities.
As time passed, university construction emphasized the acquisition of
scientific apparatus and collections. The increasing importance of the
exact sciences among university disciplines demanded in particular the
creation of laboratories for teaching and for research. In the first half of
the nineteenth century, physics and chemistry laboratories, and mineralog-
ical or zoological collections were of only marginal importance and often

9 Cf. Rückbrod, Universität und Kollegium (note 3), 155; H.-D. Nägele, Hochschulbau
im Kaiserreich. Historische Architektur im Prozess burgerlicher Konsensbildung (Kiel,
2000).
10 R. Knapas, ‘Universitetets Byggnader’, in M. Klinge (ed.), Keyserliga Alexanders Univer-
sitetet 1808–1917 (Helsinki, 1989), 216–76; Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 291–2, 304ff.

104
Resources and management

relegated to the cellars or attics of university buildings. All this changed


in the second half of the century.11 But the results of scientific equip-
ment investment policies were very unequal from one state to another.
Once again, Germany set the example. On a mission to the universities
across the Rhine, the French professor Adolphe Wurtz (1817–84), in his
reports (in 1871 and in 1878), stressed the extent of the work which had
made it possible to build ‘grandiose’ modern and well-equipped chemistry,
physics, physiology and anatomy institutes such as those at the universi-
ties of Berlin and Leipzig. The German model was also found in Austro-
Hungary in Vienna and in Graz, where the buildings were located on vast
grounds outside the ramparts, ‘where air and light flooded in’.12
In France there were major delays. At the beginning of the 1880s, a min-
isterial enquiry revealed the often lamentable state of many science faculty
laboratories: aged and uncomfortable premises, obsolete and unusable sci-
entific equipment, extremely primitive and precarious hygiene and safety
conditions.13 Yet, thanks to state funds, the devotion of the teaching staff
and the help of the municipalities, these shortcomings were partly over-
come by 1914. During the inter-war period, the prestige of science was
well established and laboratories were installed in university establish-
ments even if, in the 1930s, they were still often cramped and inadequately
equipped. Experimentation and research were carried out in the face of
difficulties even in major centres of science, like the Cavendish Laboratory
in Cambridge.
For centuries, the very nature of higher education had also demanded
that scholarly works – rightly considered as indispensable tools – be made
available to students and teachers. Since their foundation, most univer-
sities had continued to enrich their library collections.14 From the nine-
teenth century, these collections were an essential element of university
life. At first often housed in some odd corner of the main buildings,
libraries came increasingly to occupy more appropriate premises often
separate from the teaching buildings. Some occupied historical buildings,
former princely palaces, convents, private mansions. But, after 1850, they
were placed mainly in new buildings. In Paris, the Sainte Geneviève library
was built during the Second Empire, while the university library was trans-
ferred to the New Sorbonne in 1901. Beside the university libraries stricto
sensu the great public libraries of the European capitals founded and sup-
ported by kings, governments or municipalities also contributed to the
development of university activity.

11 P. Gerbod, ‘Le financement de l’enseignement supérieur et de la recherche en France au


XIXe siècle’, Revue administrative, 35 (1983).
12 Wurtz, Hautes études (note 4).
13 Enquêtes et documents sur l’enseignement supérieur, 9 (1883).
14 See subject index: ‘Library’ in vols. I and II.

105
Paul Gerbod

Table 4.1 Books available in some university and public librariesa

Foundation c. 1830b 1890c 1910d 1938e

Athens 1837 160 314 400


Belgrade 1926 30 63 200
Berlin 1831 140 558 987
kgl./pr. Staatsb. 1659 875 1,480 2,698
Brussels 1887 80 100
B. royale 1837 375 600 900
Budapest 1635 190 480 700
Coimbra 1591 95 160 500
Copenhagen 1482 300 350 430
Royal Library 1665 500 750 920
Cracow 1517 205 403 620
Ghent 1797 300 350 600
Göttingen 1735 300 450 600 960
Helsinki 1640, 1827 170 230 800
Leiden 1587 310 520 1,200
London f 1838 85 310
British Museum 1753 1,600 4,450
Lund 1671 150 200 500
Madrid 1822 52 289 295
Nacional 1711 450 1,650 1,400
Moscow 1756 180 414 990
Oslo 1811 307 450 872
Oxford 1602 400 550 800 1,500
Paris Sorbonne 1765 142 902 1,000
Sainte-Geneviève 1624 112 120 400 520
du Roi/Nationale 1518 430 2,016 3,500 4,000
Rome 1661 90 240 516
Nazionale 1815 491 818 1,129
Vaticana 1450 (c.) 220 445 650
St Petersburg
Academy 1728 160 500 4,520
Imp./Statet L. 1814 1,000 1,807 6,520
Vienna 1775 417 856 1,226
Hof/National 1526 500 1,000 1,313

a Often including brochures and dissertations, but not incunabula. Figures in 000s.
b J.-L.-A. Bailly, ‘Aperçu statistique sur les bibliothèques anciennes et modernes’, Journal des
Travaux de la société française de statistique (1831); J. Laude, Les bibliothèques universitaires
allemandes et leur organisation (Paris, 1900).
c Minerva (note 2), 2 (1892–93).
d Ibid., 23 (1913–14).
e Ibid., 32 (1937), Abt. Forschungsinstitute. Observatorien, Bibliotheken usw.
f Without college libraries.

The investments rendered necessary by the development of higher edu-


cation institutions included those for the construction of university halls
of residence. Their origins date back to the Middle Ages when sovereigns,
princes, bishops or wealthy individuals would take the initiative of financ-
ing the construction of colleges to board and feed poor students, like

106
Resources and management

the college founded by Robert de Sorbon (1201–74) in the Latin Quar-


ter in 1253.15 After 1800 the only ones still existing were the colleges
of Oxford and Cambridge, which housed fellows, paying lodgers and
scholarship students. However, in many higher education institutions,
the boarding tradition remained as, for example, in France, in the Écoles
Normales Supérieures or the École polytechnique. Generally speaking,
students lodged off the university premises. The idea of ‘student houses’
reappeared at the end of the nineteenth century, apparently within the
framework of student associations.16
But it was not until the end of the First World War that the idea of
university-sponsored residence halls began to take shape. In the 1920s the
Paris Cité universitaire was established to the south of the capital with
the 350-room Deutsch de la Meurthe Hall. In 1935, nineteen other halls
of residence built by foreign states or financed by French communities
provided accommodation for 2,500 male and female students. Following
this Parisian model, halls of residence were built in the 1930s in a cer-
tain number of provincial towns. It was also in the 1930s that we have
the broad outlines of the Madrid ciudad universitaria built on the out-
skirts of the capital and comprising teaching and research buildings as
well as student accommodation for Spaniards and Latin Americans. Stu-
dent residences multiplied between the two wars in other countries like
Romania and Czechoslovakia, often managed by Catholic or Protestant
bodies. Discussions also started on a projected students’ residence under
the auspices of the University of Rome.
Finally, among the annexes to the university there were new or enlarged
botanical gardens, zoological parks, astronomical observatories as well as
natural history and archaeological collections essential for the teaching of
natural sciences and history. There were also sports grounds, particularly
in Britain. University sport became more important in other countries,
too, during the inter-war period.

i n c r e as i n g ly h e av y a n d d i v e rs e
expenditure outlays
The building of premises and the acquisition of scientific works and
materials implied long-term strategies to increase financial resources. The
‘extraordinary’ budget of the universities became heavier year after year.
There was an annual burden of maintenance also, including heating and
lighting, calling for the recruitment of a wide range of staff. The adminis-
tration of ‘ordinary’ expenditure, some of it very specialized, became an
increasing burden on institutions.

15 See vol. I, pp. 213–22. 16 See chapter 8.

107
Paul Gerbod

Keeping the accounts for these various types of expenditure also became
ever more complex. The various categories and statuses of teaching and
research staff grew in number. At the beginning of the century, the ser-
vice employees were simply a few porters, secretaries and bursars, perhaps
also one or two librarians.17 The extension of the scientific disciplines, the
introduction of laboratory work for the students, the increase in adminis-
trative tasks, required a larger and more diversified service staff, all with
different statuses; laboratory assistants, assistant librarians, prosectors,
accounting clerks in the secretariats.18
Teaching staffs, too, with the growing specialization of university dis-
ciplines and the increase in the number of students in higher education,
became more numerous and differentiated. In the 1830s, the French facul-
ties comprised altogether some 200 teachers; the corresponding numbers
in 1860 and 1940 were 360 and 1,500. In the Netherlands, the Univer-
sity of Utrecht had nineteen teachers in 1840 and 150 in 1937. Over the
same period of time, the University of Edinburgh saw its teaching staff
quintuple if assistants and assistant professors are included. In Spain, the
number of full professors (catedráticos) rose from 276 in 1847 to 540 in
1935 to cope with increasing student numbers.19 In general, in the space of
a century and a half, teaching staff had at least tripled in most institutions
and in some cases increased tenfold.20
Salaries differed greatly from country to country and establishment to
establishment, especially in Great Britain and Germany. In states influ-
enced by the Napoleon model the central political authorities intervened
very early on to define the salary scales according to qualifications, func-
tion and seniority. In France this was the case after 1809, in Spain and Italy,
in the second half of the nineteenth century. Regulating salaries was much
more precise and restrictive in all European countries after World War I.
But wide variations still remained between one state and another.21 In
several countries ordinary salaries paid from the university budgets or
by the state were supplemented by fees for lectures and examinations,
by allowances for holding an office, etc., all of which made up a sort of
variable ‘bonus’.22 In Oxford and Cambridge, the self-governing colleges
paid for the teaching of their own fellows.
A second heading of expenditure, assistance to students, comprised
essentially the provision of scholarships. The establishment of this form

17 See vol. II, Subject index: ‘university officials’.


18 The draft budgets of the Ministry of Public Instruction since 1835 contain the detailed
list of the teaching and service staff posts for each establishment with an indication of
the respective salaries.
19 Minerva (note 2). 20 See also, for the salaries, chapter 5, 140–7.
21 Annuaire international d’éducation (1934–36).
22 See chapter 2, 46–7, and chapter 5, 140–7.

108
Resources and management

of assistance dates back to the Middle Ages when, from the thirteenth
century in most European universities, colleges were founded to lodge and
board poor, deserving students. Though in France the colleges, and with
them the scholarships, were abolished during the Revolution, elsewhere
scholarships were usually maintained. There were 463 in the four Scottish
universities up to 1858, and 458 in the second half of the century.23 At
Oxford and Cambridge the fellows had in fact taken the place of the
original scholars, but each college continued to provide funds at entrance
or later for some needy students.24 In France, study grants reappeared
in the 1880s for candidates of the agrégation. In the German, Austrian
and Belgian universities financial assistance for students seemed relatively
generous (50,000 francs in Liège and Ghent in 1868 and 100,000 francs
in Göttingen). In 1876, the University of Kazan in Russia offered 195
scholarships and that of Kharkov, 170. In the twentieth century, especially
in the inter-war period, scholarships multiplied even though the sums
spent on them were still relatively small. France, in 1937, granted only
2,911 scholarships. Spain spent a million pesetas on them. This did not
amount to much in terms of support. In Great Britain, Germany and
Soviet Russia, however, financial assistance was much greater.
To the scholarships, stricto sensu, were added other forms of assistance
which came from the budgets of the Ministries of Education or Public
Instruction. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, some students
were exempt from university fees and, in France, over 7,000 students
received prêts d’honneur (honour loans) between 1925 and 1934. In cer-
tain higher education establishments the students could be the material
responsibility of the establishments themselves. In France, this was the
case with the École polytechnique and the Écoles Normales Supérieures,
and similar examples could be found in many other European nations.
Among the expenditure on student assistance figured, very early in the
nineteenth century, subsidies for student residences, travel grants and,
subsequently, subsidised university cafeterias. Student associations, which
increased in number at the end of the nineteenth century,25 were also given
financial support.
Thirdly, establishments had to worry even more about material expen-
diture. This was not just a matter of the maintenance of university build-
ings, heating and lighting bills, or of administrative expenses (office sup-
plies, mailing costs, the printing of posters for courses and lectures),
but also of the acquisition of scientific equipment or library books (for

23 Minerva (note 2).


24 Statutes of the University of Cambridge (Cambridge, 1985), Index, s.v. ‘Exhibitions,
Funds, Studentships, Prizes,’ etc.; Statutes and Regulations of the University of Oxford
(Oxford, 1969), Index, s.v. ‘Scholarships and Studentships’.
25 See chapter 8, 315–24.

109
Paul Gerbod

instance, the renewal of physics and chemistry apparatus for experiments


and laboratory work, and also for its constant up-dating). Expenditure
varied from one year to the next but it almost always increased.
There remained the so-called ‘extraordinary’ expenses. These mainly
concerned university buildings. As we mentioned before, it proved neces-
sary during the second half of last century to start replacing dilapidated,
impractical and inadequate premises. It was also necessary to think about
building annexes for laboratories and libraries. So national university
building policies became more important and a heavier burden on the
higher education budgets managed by the institutions. The German states
devoted, especially after 1871, large funds to new teaching premises and
above all to modern, well-equipped laboratories which French observers
noted with envy.26 For the University of Rome in the 1930s, the sums
involved totalled 70 million lire. The contribution of municipalities in the
form of building land grants were essential for the construction of the
new ‘university palaces’ in Germany, Italy, France, for example, in Lyon,
Bordeaux and Toulouse. The City of Paris contributed to the costs of the
New Sorbonne, which in 1881 totalled 25 million francs.27
Private patronage also contributed to the new buildings and their run-
ning costs. Such was the case in many British universities, and in Spain
with the Amo foundation for the Ciudad universitaria in Madrid; in
France the Deutsch-de-la Meurthe student house and the Ecole libre
des Sciences politiques (1872) were privately financed. The same was
true for the Stockholms (1977) and the Göteborg Högskola (1891), the
Akademie für Sozial- und Handelswissenschaften in Frankfurt-am-Main
(1901) which was enlarged to a university in 1914, and the private uni-
versities of Turku in Finland (1917) and Aarhus in Denmark (1928).
The diversification and the global increase in forms of institutional
expenditure often increased university budgets tenfold in constant cur-
rency between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries. In France,
higher education expenditure, estimated at almost three million francs
in the 1830s and 1840s, rose to over 45 million francs on the eve of World
War II. In Italy, between 1870 and 1937, the growth in expenditure was
in the region of one to five (from five and a half million lire in 1860
to 146 million lire in 1937). In half a century (from 1850 to 1900), the
expenditure of the University of Berlin tripled.28

26 F. Lot, ‘De la situation faite à l’enseignement supérieur en France’, in Les Cahiers de la


Quinzaine (11 Febrary and 14 June 1906); Wurtz, Hautes études (note 4).
27 O. Gréard, Education et Instruction, Vol. IV: Enseignement supérieur (Paris, 1885). The
amount in francs is calculated on the basis of 1914 gold francs, passim.
28 Information on establishments’ budgets is sparse for the period before 1890. After this
date, Minerva (note 2) and the Index Generalis mention in general the annual total

110
Resources and management

sources of finance
From the nineteenth century onwards, the financial needs of the univer-
sities tended to be covered more and more exclusively by the state. In
France, after 1800 the Imperial (Royal, after 1815) University had an
endowment of 400,000 francs and the right to collect various university
fees. It managed its income and its expenditure without interference from
the state until 1834, at which time the budgets of school and university
establishments were included in the general budget of the state. Thanks
to the fees paid by their students, the faculties succeeded in covering their
current expenses with the occasional help of the University Fund. The
incomes of the faculties of law and medicine even exceeded expenditure.
From 1809 to 1819, the accumulated profit of the law faculties rose to
630,454 francs. But during the July Monarchy (1830–48) the balance was
upset and the state had to intervene.29 In 1840 the faculties had to accept
a subsidy of 516,000 francs from the Ministry of Public Education to bal-
ance their respective budgets. At first modest, this state subsidy gradually
increased over the years; in 1860 it was 807,000 francs, 1880 4,100,000
francs, in 1898 10,200,000 francs. This annual funding, which figured in
the general state budget, represented an ever-higher percentage of the fac-
ulties’ income throughout the century. In 1898, it stood at 74 per cent for
all of the seventeen French universities. If the University of Paris, which
received the university fees paid by its students, obtained a grant of only
57 per cent of its income from the state. the provincial universities received
much more. The University of Besançon was granted 93.5 per cent of its
income, Dijon, 86 per cent and Aix-en-Provence, 85.5 per cent.
Similarly, in Germany, the universities’ own income gradually decreased
proportionately against the general increase in current and extraordinary
expenditure. By the 1860s, student fees at the University of Berlin repre-
sented barely 4 per cent of income. During the same period, the resources
of the seven Prussian universities (university fees, gifts and endowment
income) constituted only 23 per cent of total receipts. After 1880, the
German states took over responsibility for all expenditure on higher edu-
cation.30 In Hungary, the University of Budapest covered all of its expenses
with its own resources up to 1869, when the state intervened, and similarly
in Italy, Spain, Russia and the Scandinavian states insufficient incomes
to meet growing university expenses had to be supplemented by public
means.

expenditure (scholarships, libraries, in particular) and income (role of the state, own
resources, university fees).
29 C. Jourdain, Le Budget de l’Instruction Publique de 1802 à 1854 (Paris, 1857).
30 Blanchard, Universités allemandes (note 8).

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Paul Gerbod

The two exceptions were the universities of Oxford and Cambridge,


at least in the nineteenth century. Some of the colleges in these two
establishments had been richly endowed and their income was consid-
erable. It was estimated in 1860 that the resources of the Oxford col-
leges were around 200,000 pounds sterling (some six million 1914 gold
francs). In 1900 they totalled some 341,360 pounds, enough to pay the
heads, more than 400 fellows and 770 scholarships, but at the beginning
of the 1930s, Oxford’s income totalled only eight million francs, includ-
ing state assistance provided through the University Grants Committee,
as was the case in other universities. The situation of Cambridge was
similar. In the 1860s, the income of its colleges totalled six million francs
and the wealthiest of its colleges had almost a million francs. In 1933,
Cambridge’s income was around eleven and a half million francs.
Taking Europe as a whole, only those universities which were very well
endowed and which had lived through the centuries without any major
upheaval retained real financial autonomy. In fact, since university fees
generally remained relatively low from the nineteenth to the twentieth
centuries, the gap between resources and real expenditure continued to
widen. Moreover, after 1800, gifts and legacies became increasingly rare
and smaller, with only a few exceptions. The state and occasionally local
communities, together with the Catholic or Protestant Churches, therefore
intervened.
Financial intervention by the state before 1800 had consisted of royal
or princely endowments. In the nineteenth century, the role of the state
became increasingly important and methodical. Not only the universities,
but also specialized military or scientific, literary and pedagogical teach-
ing institutions were founded or reorganized at the expense of the state.31
The local or regional communities’ share in financing the universities is
much more difficult to specify. They were closely involved, even obliged
to be so by the state, when it was a question of property transactions such
as the acquisition or restoration of buildings. The generosity of these com-
munities also extended to financing new or special courses, the granting of
scholarships and the purchase of library materials. This form of patronage
tended to slacken off virtually everywhere in the nineteenth and twenti-
eth centuries. But there were substitutes. These could be public or private
bodies such as chambers of commerce and industry, employers’ associ-
ations and even trades-union organizations. In Great Britain during the
1890s, and in Germany after the First World War, the trades unions took
part in the setting-up of university extension courses and the foundation

31 For reasons of comparison the figures are given in gold francs.

112
Resources and management

of workers’ colleges.32 Closer relations also began to develop between the


university and industry. Especially in Germany, companies encouraged
research in university laboratories through grants of money or by donat-
ing scientific material. Even in France, the science faculties incorporated
applied science institutes in close relation with local industry (for exam-
ple, industrial and hydraulic electricity and electro-chemistry in the case
of the Grenoble faculty of sciences).
Nor should the financial role of the European churches be neglected.
To the extent that a large number of universities founded in the Mid-
dle Ages lived on the income from ecclesiastical benefices, the churches
retained a right to oversee the financial aspects of their administration.
With the emergence of non-denominational states in the nineteenth cen-
tury, the links became weaker or ceased to exist.33 Even the faculties of
theology escaped the financial control of the ecclesiastical authorities.
Under these conditions, the financial input of the churches was marginal.
Nevertheless, the reconquest of higher education by the churches (above
all the Catholic Church) produced partial though not negligible results.
The Church developed a network of great seminaries depending on the
papal authority, which contributed in France to the neutralizing of the
Catholic faculties of theology. In Rome pontifical institutes were founded
or reopened, the most prestigious being the Gregorian University given
back to the Jesuits in 1824; Catholic universities were founded in Dublin,
Fribourg (Switzerland), Paris, Angers, Lyon, and reopened in Louvain,
Camerino and Urbino.34
In the end, the generalization of financial recourse to the state allowed
institutions to manage gradual increases in their annual current and
extraordinary expenditure. By 1938, state participation in European uni-
versity finance, depending on the university, ranged from 25 to 100 per
cent. To the extent that these contributions came within the Public Instruc-
tion budgets and the general budgets of the state, they were subject to the
vicissitudes of the political (and economic) situation and to the will of
governments and their legislative assemblies. So began a process of bud-
getary ups-and-downs linked to political and economic variations. The
universities’ financial stability was consequently called into question, and
the control of the state, justified by arguments of financial rationality,
was often extended to both teaching and research such as the abolition or

32 In Frankfurt-am-Main, the Akademie der Arbeit, affiliated to the university, was founded
in 1921 in order to train functionaries for the trades unions: Hammerstein, Universität
Frankfurt am Main, 50–6.
33 See chapter 10, 315–17.
34 See chapter 2 and ‘European Universities and Similar Institutions in Existence Between
1812 and the End of 1944’, see names of the universities concerned.

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Paul Gerbod

Table 4.2 Number of inhabitants per student

Great The
Europe Germany France Russia Britain Italy Greece Spain Netherlands

1800 8,200
1815 6,000
1840 3,375a
1850 17,500
1870 1,578 3,958 8,242
1900 1,410 818 1,384 4,200
1913 1,470 1,270 1,438 1,022 1,074
1934 604 480 1,340 887 808 760 655 522
1938 950

a 80,000 students per 270 million inhabitants.

creation of courses, fixing staff salaries, controlling expenditure, incurring


extraordinary expenditure.
Nevertheless, from the end of the nineteenth century until World War II,
a relatively large overall increase in the financial participation of the states
in the development of higher education can be noted, even if the criticism,
the claims and the indignation were voiced as strongly and continuously
as ever. The comparison that can be established between the amount of
state funding in 1900 and that in 1936–37 in a certain number of states and
universities (basing our analysis on funds in constant 1914 gold francs)
leads to the conclusion that political regimes became more generous. More
globally, a comparison between the costs of higher education at the begin-
ning of the twentieth century and those at the end of the 1930s (reduced, as
usual, to 1914 gold francs) reveals the increasing and undeniable interest
of political regimes, local and regional communities, national associa-
tions, the churches and individuals, especially bearing in mind national
demographic trends (Tables 4.2 and 4.3).
These examples show large variations from one country to another,
although not such extreme ones as between the average cost in 1900 of
some 3,000 francs for a student at Oxford and less than 200 francs for
a Spanish student. From an overall European viewpoint, however, the
growth in annual income available to the university was indisputable.
It speeded up between 1900 and 1937, corresponding to a better image
of higher education in national public opinion. The extension and spe-
cialization of higher education were closely linked to the raising of its
average level throughout Europe and, externally, to the unemployment of
its graduates during the economic crisis of the early 1930s.35

35 A. Rosier, Du Chômage intellectuel: De l’encombrement des professions intellectuelles


(Paris, 1934); P. Allard, Que faire de nos fils et de nos filles (Paris, 1934).

114
Resources and management

Table 4.3 Annual cost, (t) total in million francs, (s) of a student,
(i) per inhabitant

Europe France Germany Great Britain


(t) (s) (i) (t) (s) (i) (t) (i) (t) (s) (i)

1840/50 65 810a 0.25 3


1900 270 900 0.60 17 833 0.40 41 0.70 43 2,150 1.10
1934/35 33 0.70
1937 1,000 1,700b 2.50 47

a Average of German, French, Italian, British universities.


b Average of 32 universities.

i n c r e as i n g ly d i v e rs e a n d c o m p l e x
administrative tasks
Until the beginning of the nineteenth century, the administrative manage-
ment of universities did not cope with problems, for student and teacher
numbers were small. In France, during much of the nineteenth century,
the administration was often reduced to a faculty secretary, assisted by an
accounts secretary, porters and service employees.36 Material cares were
reduced to the heating and possibly the lighting of teaching premises. The
odd cellar or attic served as a laboratory and the book collections did
not require the employment of a large staff. Much of that changed in the
course of the century, as the administration was faced with more onerous,
delicate and numerous tasks.
In the first place, it had to ensure the day-to-day management of the
teaching and service staffs, whose numbers increased in the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries. Some universities employed several hundred per-
sons, and some, several thousands prior to the Second World War. These
were employees of very different status: teachers, part-time lecturers, assis-
tants, laboratory assistants, office workers, etc. Their recruitment had to
be assured by collegial co-option, public competitive examination or a
simple verbal agreement. The procedures for the proposal, selection and
promotion of teachers suffered from an excessively legalistic approach.
The teaching function, moreover, corresponded to a career, the various
stages of which had to be managed by the administration. There was also
considerable variation in salaries, which varied from one person to the
next, and a wide range of ‘extras’ (participation in examinations, student
fees), at least in the nineteenth century in most European universities.
The vigilance of the administrative bodies extended to pedagogy. Teach-
ers were obliged to give a certain number of classes and to supervise
36 See Almanach de l’Université (1810–40), passim.

115
Paul Gerbod

laboratory work or seminars. Regulations varied in time and space. The


increasing use of substitute teachers associated with many professorial
chairs, particularly in France and Germany, infringed the regulations
which, however, remained in force. Teachers had to indicate the subject of
their courses at the beginning of the year, and this figured on the notices
put up by the administration. In some places – nineteenth-century France
and Russia are examples – the political authorities, through the Minister
of Education, demanded to know the content of the courses as well.37
The liberties enjoyed by the teaching staff, particularly from the scien-
tific and ideological point of view, implied neither disorder nor licence.
As civil servants, they were answerable to university discipline should
they commit an offence in the exercise of their functions (or even in their
private lives). This was particularly true of France, where the rules of
disciplinary procedure for all the members of the university and the juris-
dictions and procedures of the various legal bodies (faculty councils, aca-
demic councils, the University council, then the higher council of Public
Instruction) were established under the First Empire.38 These restraints
became very meaningful and extremely important in periods of political
tension in Russia and in France. After World War I totalitarian regimes
used disciplinary procedures to quash opposition in the university.
The management of student bodies was the second task of the adminis-
tration. This gradually extended to a whole range of areas. Taking respon-
sibility for the students might be preceded by a competitive entrance exam-
ination. In most countries, a secondary education diploma was a sine qua
non for admission to university education. In France, the baccalaureate
was considered to be the first university degree and placed under the
responsibility of the arts or science faculties. In the scientific, literary or
technical higher schools the number of places was, in general, restricted,
and the establishments organized an entrance examination that could be
on a very high level, as in France for admission to the Ecole Polytech-
nique or the Ecoles Normales Supérieures. In Great Britain, the Oxford
and Cambridge colleges subjected their potential students to entrance
examinations. A totalitarian state could also take into account criteria
such as ethnic origin, social class or ideological affiliation.
Every admitted student had to matriculate and register for examina-
tions. This implied the payment of fees for which the administration was
accountable (stamp duty, diploma, and examination fees, for example).
These procedures were renewable, in part, each year of studies. From the
pedagogical point of view, the administration’s supervision could extend
to the control of attendance at lectures and in laboratories, the holding

37 See chapter 3, 97–8. 38 A. Rendu, Code Universitaire (Paris, 1846).

116
Resources and management

of examinations, and the opening of libraries and lecture rooms. Other


service staff, such as porters or librarians, were also involved.
Problems of everyday student life – for example offences commit-
ted within the university, duels, board and lodging, study grants, loans,
national and international student bodies – only partially increased the
responsibilities of the university administrations. Besides their patron-
age of associations, they set up local and national structures to facili-
tate the reception of foreign students and encourage student and teacher
exchanges. This was the role of the national university offices created
between the two World Wars. In the 1930s, when the economic crisis
worsened in Europe and unemployment rose among university graduates,
the problem of jobs for students became acute. In some states, the univer-
sity authorities tried to help by setting up organizations which, though
they could not accept responsibility for the situation, at least tried to find
a solution for it. In France, there was the Bureau Universitaire de Statis-
tique (BUS), created in Paris in 1932, and whose role in the preparation
of relief measures for individuals was not negligible even before 1939.
As administrative tasks concerning persons (teachers, service staff and
students) increased, so did those dealing with property, laboratory equip-
ment and libraries. In the second half of the nineteenth century these mate-
rial problems became more numerous and more difficult to solve. It was
not just a question of managing property that had deteriorated over the
years, or of parsimoniously enriching the book collections which, in some
cases, were centuries old. New premises had to be built, effective labora-
tories created, libraries extended and modernized. Administrations faced
day-to-day emergencies (repairing premises, renewing scientific equip-
ment) and the definition of policies for holding property, which implied
negotiations with the state, local communities, and the users themselves.
The financial management was made additionally burdensome by the
requirements of clear, accurate and objective annual accounts, as occurred
in France after 1835. Only autonomous universities like Oxford and
Cambridge could content themselves with a certain ‘approximation’ in
their accounts, at least up to the end of the nineteenth century.39 Finally,
among the proliferation of administrative tasks, the maintenance of an
ever-increasing correspondence should be stressed.

u n i v e rs i t y g ov e r n a n c e
Strong in their medieval traditions, defined at a time when the univer-
sities were communities of masters and pupils self-governing under the

39 See chapter 2, 54–64.

117
Paul Gerbod

often theoretical tutelage of the local bishop or the sovereign pontiff,40


the European universities succeeded in retaining their essential forms of
management beyond the eighteenth century. This was especially the case in
Great Britain. The British Parliament, through the Privy Council, limited
itself to granting universities a charter and perhaps partially to amend-
ing its terms, and to ordering enquiries into the system of studies or the
financial management of the establishments. In addition to the fees paid
by their students, the Scottish universities were financed from 1705 on by
the Crown, from 1858 and 1889 on by the government, and the English
city universities of the nineteenth century by local government and private
sponsors. It was only in 1919 that central government subsidies became
general. But they were distributed and their application controlled by
a body composed of representatives of the universities, the University
Grants Committee. Therefore neither the grant nor the supervision was
resented as infringing the autonomy of the universities.41
The same applied in the Netherlands and in Scandinavia, in the German
states up to the advent of Nazism, and in the Austro-Hungarian Empire,
even if the universities were largely financially dependent on national
governments. Up to the middle of the nineteenth century, the Spanish and
Italian universities remained autonomous bodies, narrow in their routine,
unaware of cultural and social change, and resistant to any attempts at
reform. Through the reforms introduced in Spain by the Minister Antonio
Gil de Zárata (1793–1861) in 1845 and realized between 1857 and 1868 by
Claudio Moyano Samaniego (1809–90) and the corresponding decrees,42
and those carried out in Italy by several ministers of education, by Casati
in 1857, Matteucci in 1861, and Giovanni Gentile (1875–1944) in 1923,
the state partially succeeded in imposing its administrative supervision,
but traditions of self-management remained strong.43 This was even the
case in France and Russia, where the control of university government by
the state was very tight, as is shown in chapters 2 and 3. Nevertheless the
Russian universities (as well as the single, national French one which up to
1887 was dissolved into Facultés and Ecoles) kept to some corporate self-
government, unlike other institutions of higher education that multiplied
during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and which were
totally administered by the state.
It might appear that the autonomy of university administration in many
states was seriously restricted by a series of external constraints of which
the state was but one. However, universities everywhere continued to

40 See chapter 4 in vols. I and II.


41 F. Hutchinson, ‘The Origins of the University Grants Committee’, Minerva, A Review of
Science, Learning and Policy, 13,4 (1975), 583–620.
42 Peset, Universidad Española, 406–7, 461–91.
43 See chapter 2, 70–3, with the corresponding bibliography.

118
Resources and management

incarnate to some degree their historical tradition of self-government. This


autonomy was founded on the corporate principle. Its mode of application
varied according to the state and the university. We can, nevertheless,
define a series of characteristics common to European universities.
At the base were councils in which the members of the corporation
elected the officials and decided on all academic matters. Oxford and
Cambridge maintained the medieval tradition of a corporation self gov-
erned by their Masters of Arts. The supreme body, called Convocation in
Oxford, Senate in Cambridge, was composed of all registered graduates
who in the Middle Ages were allowed and even obliged to teach.44 Its
membership in Oxford, ‘during the 1920s averaged at 7,691 but few of
its members ever turned up, its powers had long been waning, and it met
rarely’.45 Its most important task was the election (for life) of the chancel-
lor. The legislative body of the university which also conferred degrees and
decided on important executive matters – the Congregation in Oxford,
the House of Residents, later on Regent House in Cambridge – consisted
of all resident, mostly teaching members of the Convocation/Senate. It
counted still several hundred members and had, besides the submission
of statutes and the election of the vice-chancellor and other officials, the
function of a referendum body which decided on resolutions, published
in the Oxford University Gazette or the Cambridge University Reporter
and opposed by a non placet of a small quorum of its members. Both
supreme bodies, the main executive body for the day-to-day business –
called the Hebdomadal Council in Oxford, the Council of the Senate in
Cambridge – as well as the faculty councils and the special boards – for
example, for student grants, the University Library, the University Press –
were dominated by the colleges, whose particular interests only reluctantly
accommodated the general interest of the university.46
Elsewhere, university governance by councils usually excluded in the
nineteenth century all categories of teachers other than chair holders. In
the twentieth century some countries allowed associate professors and
lecturers to send representatives to the councils as members.47 Until the
1970s students and service staff were always excluded. The legislative
body of the university, which consisted of all full professors – called
Konzil, Konsistorium, Senat in universities following the German model,
Assemblea Generale dei professori (1875), Collegio Generale dei profes-
sori (1923), Corpo accademico (1944) in Italy48 – dealt with matters

44 See vol. I, 147. 45 History of Oxford, VIII, 678.


46 Ibid., 39–43, 683–719; University of Cambridge, IV, 341–69. Statutes, Decrees and Reg-
ulation of the University of Oxford. Statutes and Ordinances of the Universitiy of Cam-
bridge. Cf. J. Rose and J. Ziman, Camford Observed (London, 1964), 195–216.
47 See chapter 5, 138.
48 B. Palma, L’Università fra accentramento ed autonomia (Urbino, 1983), 90, 141, 168.

119
Paul Gerbod

of general interest for the whole university, especially statutes, and at


some places also nominated professors and elected the rector, if he was
not chosen by the state, which was the case in the Napoleonic univer-
sity model. The executive body, Senatsausschuss, Kleiner Senat, Conseil
de l’Université, Consiglio accademico (1875), consisted of the represen-
tatives of the faculties. The faculty councils elected their deans (where
they were not imposed by the state), as well as their representatives for
other bodies, dealt with all matters concerning curricula and examina-
tions, and prepared the proposals for the nomination of professors. In
Italy from 1875 all teachers took part in the faculty councils with the
exception of the nomination procedures.
Although their dilatoriness and lethargy, in short, their routine and
conservatism, were often criticized, the councils played an essential role
in defending the idea of autonomy and self-government. Through them
the teaching staff participated in management and accepted a share of
responsibility, which helped to promote after the Second World War and
the end of the authoritarian political systems in Europe a renaissance of
real autonomy in university governance.
Other higher educational institutions also asked for more autonomy.
Usually their presidents, rectors, directors as well as their governing
boards were imposed by ministries, municipal governments or private
donors. In Germany the Technische Hochschulen, after a century of
opposing during the corporate rights of the universities, eventually won
the right to elect deans and rectors, and to confer the Habilitation, the
advanced doctoral degree (1899). In France it was only in 1968 that legal,
administrative, financial and educational autonomy was granted to the
universities by the Loi d’orientation of Edgar Faure;49 only in 1984 were
the other institutions of higher education, controlled by the Ministry of
Education, granted the right to confer academic degrees by the Loi Savary.
The administrative officials, chosen from among the professorial body,
was in principle only the executive agents of the different councils. In
fact, in all universities, from the Atlantic to the Urals, their function
were anything but a sinecure. They were the persons who represented
the university or its members before outside political agencies, munic-
ipal councils, and religious, civilian or military dignitaries. They also
embodied authority inside the establishments for the teachers, the stu-
dents and the service staff. They prepared the deliberations of the councils
and directed and ensured the application of the latter’s decisions. They
were in charge of the offices responsible for implementing the measures
decreed by the councils. In general, their functions were temporary; they
might last one or two, seldom several years. Permanence was exceptional,

49 C. Fourrier, Les institutions universitaires (Paris, 1971), 42–56.

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Resources and management

except for the heads of the Catholic universities in Belgium, Italy and
France.50 This also applied to the chancellors of the British universities
who, belonging in general to high society and being relieved by their
vice-chancellors of all day-to-day business, were able to represent and
defend the interests of the university to outside political agencies. Gen-
erally speaking, the management of the universities was for much of this
time the business of the full professors who, in principle, could be called
upon in their turn to exercise the functions of authority. Here the medieval
tradition of corporate self-management remained healthy.
With respect to their administrative structures, the European universi-
ties displayed an almost filial attachment to their centuries-old inheritance.
They were proud of their long history, rooted in tradition, and sometimes
opposed reforms with an obstinate, even a blind, resistance. But the rising
tide of students submerged their ideas of autonomy and self-governance.
It was necessary to build ‘university palaces’ or ‘cathedrals of knowledge’,
which often proved too small after a few decades. The financial manage-
ment of the individual institutions became more burdensome and com-
plex, and financial exigency drove them to seek ever more money from the
state. State interference in the functioning of the universities and schools
thus intensified. As a result, university autonomy diminished during the
nineteenth century. But an important vestige remained, reaffirmed after
World War II, in the traditional principle of self-governance by councils.

50 For Belgium, see the example of Louvain University’s rector de Ram, cf. chapter 10,
401; for Italy, those of the Free University of Urbino, cf. F. Marra and L. Scirollo (eds.),
Relazioni dei rettori. Discorsi inaugurali dei docenti nella Libera università degli studi di
Urbino, 1864–1946, 3 vols. (Urbino, 1997). Carlo Bo (1911–2001) was its rector for 54
years from 1947 up to his death.

121
CHAPTER 5

TEACHERS

M AT T I K L I N G E

general situation
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, university teachers, espe-
cially professors, despite enlightenment and general secularization,1 were
regarded as members of long-established orders, mostly ecclesiastical, but
including the legal and medical orders; the use of the traditional gown in
many European countries distinguished them from the nobility and the
bourgeoisie. The universities as such were mostly part of the ecclesiastical
world. At the end of our period, approaching the mid-twentieth century,
only the teachers at the faculties of theology remained members of the
clergy. They were also priests, ordinati, whereas in the early nineteenth
century, the membership of professors of arts and science faculties in the
clergy did not automatically mean that they were also ordained as priests.
In the mid-eighteenth century, new foundations such as Göttingen were
already modern in the sense that they were no longer linked to the eccle-
siastical orders, and Göttingen itself was neither an old nor an important
Episcopal See.2 Nor was the University of Moscow part of the Church
from 1755; the university system was of Western origin, and was never
part of an ecclesiastical order in Russia. In the new and modern Uni-
versity of Dorpat (Tartu) in Livonia, which was founded by Alexander I
Emperor of all Russias, in 1802 (a Swedish university had existed in the
same city in the seventeenth century), there certainly was a faculty of
Lutheran theology, but the university was not placed under the control of
the local bishop, but rather a special Kurator, or chancellor, a high state

1 See vol. II, Epilogue.


2 N. Hammerstein, ‘Göttingen. Eine deutsche Universität im Zeitalter der Aufklärung’, in
A. Patschovsky and H. Rabe (eds.), Die Universitäten Alteuropas (Constance, 1994); A.
Schindling, Bildung und Wissenschaft in der frühen Neuzeit 1650–1800 (Munich, 1994).

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Matti Klinge

official. The university marked its ‘modern’ approach by establishing its


library in the magnificent ruins of the old Gothic cathedral: science and
knowledge had assumed the mantle of the Truth.3
In France, where the ancien régime university system had close contacts
with the ecclesiastical system, the Revolution abolished the universities,
and the new, Napoleonic Imperial University was secular.4 In Germany,
the Napoleonic period produced the same effect in another way. Many
of the old small universities with more or less intimate contacts with the
ecclesiastical world were obliged to cease their activities during the war,
and were maintained no longer; instead, new universities were founded.
These, especially that of Berlin, founded in 1810, had no more ecclesi-
astical contact, with the exception of professional contacts through the
faculties of theology.5
Belonging to an ecclesiastical order meant that the universities pre-
served their corporate and autonomous character in relation to the state.
This relation had certainly changed in many parts of Europe during the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but the university was generally still
regarded as a corporation, mainly of professors, with their students. The
relation to the Church was generally close. The clergy and the army were
the main instruments of public service, and the universities and their teach-
ers clearly belonged to the first. The case of the legal and medical faculties
was more complex because the teachers in those faculties belonged to
their professional orders also.
The general tendencies of the early nineteenth century were towards
universities in capitals and larger cities, abandoning the ties to the Church
and sometimes the Episcopal cities, going over from old foundation-type
land and privilege revenues to the state budget, and moving generally
from the Church and training of church officials to the state and training
of government officials. All these trends were reflected in the position, self-
awareness and status of the professors and other teachers all over Europe,
but the process was of course rather different in various parts of the Conti-
nent. There was much similarity throughout the pre-revolutionary Europe
of the late eighteenth century,6 and perhaps also in post-Second World War
Europe. Between these periods the differences were greater owing to the

3 For university foundations in Russia, see vol. II, subject index, s.v. ‘Russia’, ‘Moscow’,
‘St Petersburg’; for Dorpat, see G. von Pistohlkors et al. (eds.), Die Universität en
Dorpat/Tartu, Riga und Wilna/Vilnius 1579–1979 (Cologne and Vienna, 1987).
4 See chapter 1, 6–7; V. Karady, ‘De Napoléon à Duruy: origines et naissance de l’université
contemporaine’, in Verger (ed.), Universités en France, 261ff.
5 See chapter 10, 395–400; R. S. Turner, ‘Universitäten’, in K.-F. Jeismann and P. Lund-
green (eds.), Handbuch der deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. III: 1800–1879. Von der
Neuordnung Deutschlands bis zur Gründung des Deutschen Reiches (Munich, 1987),
221ff.
6 N. Hammerstein (ed.), Universitäten und Aufklärung (Göttingen, 1996).

124
Teachers

different political, economic and cultural development in various parts of


the Continent.
A good example of the changes typical for the beginning of the nine-
teenth century was the university in Finland. When the eastern parts of the
old Kingdom of Sweden were transformed in 1809 into an autonomous
Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire, the university’s revenues were almost
doubled in 1811 to produce a good administrative staff for the new
state. The economic system was successively moved from land income
to budgetary income, the university was transferred in 1828 from the old
bishops’ city of Åbo/Turku to the new administrative capital of Helsinki,
and the university received or had imposed on it from 1817 onwards
an exclusive privilege to confirm aptitude for state service in all sectors,
from administration and jurisprudence to a church career; no civil ser-
vant or priest could be appointed without having studied in the country’s
only university. The ecclesiastical pro-chancellor’s post was withdrawn
in 1817 and a state official, usually a general, was appointed instead as
vice-chancellor. This development was largely favoured by the Russian
minister Count Speransky (1772–1839), who wished to steer Russia itself
into the same system of making the bureaucracy efficient. Finland was
indeed the model for modernization, realized under the strong influence
of a lively German discussion on the subject of the ideal university.7
In the period 1800–1940, considerable differences can be seen in dif-
ferent countries and different universities. The more old-fashioned, cor-
porate type of university survived in many areas, normally situated in
a smaller city with an old Episcopal See in the Catholic and Lutheran
spheres. The professors’ and the students’ lives in these cities began to
acquire a semi-romantic Arcadian aura outside the hard life of the capi-
tals. Alt-Heidelberg became a concept; the famous duet cycle by Gunnar
Wennerberg (1817–1901), Gluntarne, idealizing student life in Uppsala in
the 1840s, became well known all over the Nordic countries, and chapters
entitled ‘my years’ in, for instance, Oxford, Tartu or Tübingen, appeared
in many memoirs. Towards the end of the nineteenth century and espe-
cially during the twentieth, many of those universities in the smaller cities
such as Jena, Cambridge, Lund and so on became famous again, but
now because of their scientific results. For the professors and other teach-
ers and their families, the older university provided a special identity,
combining devotion to research with a somewhat provincial outlook or
behaviour. These universities probably also maintained more of the old
corporate feelings, which manifested themselves in kinship patterns, aca-
demic parties and quarrels, rivalry and fraternity.

7 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 198–302.

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Matti Klinge

The opposite pattern of the period was the university in the capital
which had no further contact with the ecclesiastical world, but closer con-
tact with the central state organs: public life with its institutions, parlia-
ments, parties, clubs and newspapers. This created a new type of professor
and academic teacher, more busy with his extra-mural contacts, perhaps
neglecting his students and no longer having a corporate identification.
In some cases, the transfer of the universities combined these patterns –
Munich and Helsinki are examples of this – but in many countries a
conflicting relationship emerged between the old and the new universi-
ties. Ideas of transferring the University of Oxford to London or from
Uppsala to Stockholm were not successful, and so the University of
London and its teachers and students assumed a different identity in the
1820s and 1830s. The University of Stockholm, founded in 1878, was as
different as possible to the Uppsala–Lund state university tradition, since
in the beginning there was no examination, the professors represented
only the natural sciences with one exception, and the famous writer and
liberal journalist Viktor Rydberg (1828–95) was given a chair in His-
tory of Culture (later History and Theory of Art). The institution did
not like being called a university, but was named Stockholms Högskola.
From 1904, the Högskola gained the right to set examinations and, with
a new faculty of law and social sciences and semi-municipal status from
1907, became de facto a university, finally attaining the status of a state
university in 1960, at which time its name changed to Stockholms Univer-
sitet. The number of professors of Jewish origin was remarkably higher in
Stockholms Högskola than in the state universities, and one of the world’s
first female professors taught there.
Another example from Sweden, the Göteborgs Högskola, was from
the beginning a highly municipal institution. Many industrial and com-
mercial cities and their bourgeois elites from the 1890s onwards liked to
have their own university, both for practical and for status reasons. The
Swedish example influenced Åbo in Finland and Århus in Denmark, as rel-
atively wealthy cities, to establish their own private universities around
1920. The teachers at these universities had to find a middle position
between the busy and committed capital city teacher and the teaching
and research-orientated learned professor of an older classical university.
The same applied to teachers at the many universities that were founded,
for practical and for status reasons, in industrial and commercial cities
during the late nineteenth century (these are discussed in chapter 2). These
universities were characterized by greater openness in their procedures for
professorial appointments. One prime example was the city university of
Frankfurt, established in 1914 by mainly private funds, which distanced
itself from the traditions followed by ecclesiastical and state universities
and established a faculty of economics and social sciences, rather than a

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Teachers

faculty of theology, and employed practitioners in these fields as teachers.


Here, again, the spirit of the university was marked by a higher percentage
of Jewish professors, and a general orientation towards commercial and
free professions.8
Generally speaking, the role and function of the professors and other
teachers during the period 1800–1945 must be examined partly from the
standpoint of bureaucratization of society (in Max Weber’s sense) and
partly from the standpoint of a new politicization of society. Bureaucra-
tization means introducing or strengthening ‘functional’ competencies,
competence hierarchies, professional training, professional discipline and
legalistic identification in contrast to a feudal and hereditary organization
in the public service. This tendency is seen in the role of the universities
and professors in their relation to the state as a whole as well as in the
internal organization of the universities. The second main point is partly
in contrast to the first, because the period 1800–1945 is also, besides one
of bureaucratic professionalization, the great period of civic participation,
in which the universities, students and especially the professors, played a
considerable role.
The first aspect of civic participation by the professors was linked to
the shaping of the modern bureaucratic system. The essence of that sys-
tem was the rejection of birth and patronage as the way to public office
and the introduction of new career possibilities, whereby different tradi-
tions were created. In England, the old system retained its position most
notably. Education in the classical universities of Oxford and Cambridge
maintained its tradition of general humanistic and civic education, where
civic participation, argumentation, manners and contacts with one’s own
generation were central; this tradition favoured students of higher social
origin, even if the British boarding-school tradition in itself stressed equal-
ity and other Roman virtues of fairness and being a gentleman. Character-
training, whether expressed in rhetoric and Latin or in sports and military
values, was central.9 In England, the modern trends did not produce major
changes in the classical system, but the new ideals revealed themselves in
new foundations, especially in the University of London and in the univer-
sities which were grouped under the somewhat patronizing sobriquet of
‘redbrick universities’, which stigmatized the new universities as provin-
cial and parvenu.10
In France and other revolution-inspired countries such as Italy, the
concours method gained ground. The public offices were, in principle,
open to everybody, but the way of examining the candidates naturally
8 Hammerstein, Universität Frankfurt am Main.
9 G. McCulloch, Philosophers and Kings: Education for Leadership in Modern England
(Cambridge, 1991).
10 D. R. Jones, The Origin of Civic Universities (London, 1988).

127
Matti Klinge

favoured academic studies. This was essentially a modern application


of the old Church–university relation, whereby university training was
almost obligatory for higher church offices but where the university had
no part in the actual nominations.11 On the other hand, the tradition of
the cadet schools, the important pedagogical invention of the eighteenth
century, was also visible in the organization of the grandes écoles, for
example, the École polytechnique and École Normale Supérieure. The
most important change was the new type and new ideal of the civil ser-
vant produced in Prussia and Russia at the beginning of the nineteenth
century.

the development of new chairs


The period 1800–1940 saw the largest expansion of the European univer-
sity system, relatively speaking. Even the expansion of the 1960s and later
exceeded it only in absolute numbers. New universities were founded, but
the older ones were greatly enlarged with new buildings, laboratories and
libraries, emerging masses of students and, what certainly is the most
important aspect of this expansion, new chairs. At the beginning of the
period, many universities consisted of some fifteen professors with a few
other teachers. By 1939, a good university with four or more faculties had
some 60 professors, those in capitals had up to 150, and the number of
assistant teachers and other personnel had grown even more. Thus, the
number of chairs at all the German universities rose from 886 in 1840 to
1,140 (1870), 1,650 (1892) and 1,850 (1938). The Privatdozenten with
and without a professorial title increased in number from 324 (1840) to
643 (1892) and 2,117 (1938).12 Nevertheless, this increase in the num-
ber of teachers lagged behind the rise in student numbers. The author of
chapter 4, Paul Gerbod, has estimated that, in 1840 (the date from which
statistical information is available for all the European universities) there
were around 5,000 university teachers for approximately 80,000 students,
which averaged out at sixteen students per teacher. Compare this to 1937
when, in Europe as a whole, there were some 32,000 teachers and roughly
560,000 students, or one teacher for seventeen students. If we consider
the German universities in the nineteenth century, which are generally

11 Verger, Universités en France; I. Porciani (ed.), L’università fra Otto e Novecento: i modelli
europei e il caso italiano (Naples, 1994).
12 For 1840, 1870, 1892: F. Paulsen, Die deutschen Universitäten und das Univer-
sitätsstudium (Berlin, 1902), 229; the numbers for 1938 are based on the indications
about individual universities in: Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt, 33 (1938), Abt.
Universitäten und Fachhochschulen 1. Bd.: Europa (Berlin 1938), and on Empfehlungen
des Wissenschaftsrates zum Ausbau der wissenschaftlichen Einrichtungen, vol. I: Wis-
senschaftliche Hochschulen (Tübingen, 1960), Table 10, p. 487.

128
Teachers

Table 5.1 Number of students per university teacher or professor in


German facultiesa

Theology Law Medicine Philosophy


Faculty Teacher Professor Teacher Professor Teacher Professor Teacher Professor

1840 18 26 16 30 8 17 5 10
1870 17 23 15 24 7 17 6 12
1892 23 33 31 47 12 41 6 14

a N. Hammerstein, ‘Bildungsdefizit und Bildungschancen der Katholiken im 19. Jahrhun-


dert: Universitäten und Wissenschaften’, Rottenburger Jahrbuch für Kirchengeschichte,
14 (1995), 131–152; idem, Antisemitismus und deutsche Universitäten 1870–1933
(Frankfurt-am-Main, 1995).

held up as the ideal at that time, we can see a similar trend, although the
figures are slightly different (Table 5.1).
However, these average figures for each faculty do not show that the
increase in the number of teaching posts was also attributable to the estab-
lishment of new chairs and subjects, particularly in the fields of medicine,
the humanities and natural sciences. In general terms, the new chairs
meant a profound change in the fields of knowledge towards systemati-
zation and specialization of all kinds of science, and in most cases, a
growing research-orientated concept of the role of the university teacher,
particularly of the professor. This evolution did not weaken the role of
the professor as Ordinarius, or chair-holder, but rather strengthened his
position as the leading expert in his field and as a sovereign judge of
the scientific orientation and study curriculum in his sector of knowl-
edge. This was particularly so for the professors of the faculties of letters
and sciences, whereas in the theological, legal and medical faculties the
curriculum was determined more by the collegium of the professors as
a faculty council with input from the extra-academic authorities in the
field. The authority of the professor only grew if his chair emerged at
the head of a special institute or laboratory. The period 1800–1945 must
be regarded as the era of the real ‘professors’ universities’, with state or
ecclesiastical control diminishing from the Napoleonic period onwards.
The professors’ role profited from the emergence of the university as a
whole, their competence in training civil servants, and in all kinds of
research and specialization of knowledge; state control diminished, with
beneficial consequences for the universities, as no significant demands
were made by groups inside or outside the universities to participate in
the governance of these institutions.
This description best covers the German university type, also present
in the north of Europe, but it is in its essential elements valid for the
Continent as a whole. It must also be said that the German university

129
Matti Klinge

type was the leading role-model in Europe,13 and that this also favoured
the expansion of the German concept of the professor as an authority.
The effects on the individual subjects are discussed in chapters 10–15,
but as the level of specialization grew, the subjects no longer tended to be
embodied by individual professors. Greater emphasis was placed on com-
munication and co-operation between colleagues, as typified by meetings
of the faculty councils, often held on a weekly basis, to discuss promotions,
Habilitationen and recommendations for appointments. These contacts
were also cultivated in informal gatherings, academic coffee circles, or
in institutions closely associated with the university, such as academies
and learned societies. In many countries, although not in France where
the faculties were directly dependent on the state up to 1896, the highest
university bodies, such as the senate or consistory, looked after the inter-
ests of all the professors. Nevertheless, towards the end of the nineteenth
century, there was still very little cross-subject contact between colleagues
belonging to different faculties at the major universities and in the large
cities.
A new phenomenon of the nineteenth century was the inter-university
and international congress, mainly in the field of the natural sciences and,
by the turn of the century, in the most central fields of knowledge. At
the outset the congresses had, as in the German or Scandinavian cases,
both scientific and political purposes, stressing the national or supra-
national unity of knowledge and its representatives. Before the unification
of Germany and Italy these meetings had a clear political meaning, as they
did later in the pan-Slavic, pan-Nordic and other congresses of various
sciences or groupings of sciences.
Quite paradoxically, the phenomenon of congresses emerged alongside
the enormous progress made in scientific publication and mail. The rapid
evolution of scientific publishing created a desire to establish personal
contacts. But the academic community was nevertheless still rather small,
and younger scientists from foreign countries could even present them-
selves to celebrities like Hegel and ask him impertinent questions such as
‘When did he aim to publish the part of his System dealing with nature?’

access to an academic career


In England, access to the old universities, Oxford and Cambridge, was
reserved for members of the official Anglican Church, as were state offices.
This reflects a pattern common to all countries with a state church. As the
monarch and Crown appointed individuals to public office, and there was
an official religion, it was quite natural that only adherents to the state
confession could serve as the Crown’s officials. In so far as the universities
13 Paulsen, Deutschen universitäten, 230.

130
Teachers

could be regarded as institutions for training officers for state and church
affairs, there was no problem at this point. But as the universities increas-
ingly came to be regarded as places of scientific education and research,
the idea of confessional uniformity became controversial.
Nonconformity in confession could also mean nonconformity in other
aspects, such as ethnic or racial background or social origin. In the British
Isles, Catholics and Jews were two such groups. In Prussia, and also in
other Protestant states of Germany, Catholics were not formally excluded
from an academic career, but they were in practice seldom appointed to
academic office. Before 1918, university teachers of the Jewish faith could
generally not be appointed as full professors.14
In the period 1919–20, some Communists and their sympathizers were
purged from the universities in the countries where there had been a civil
war or an attempt at revolution, as in Poland and Hungary; right-wingers
and many others were expelled, forced to emigrate or, in Russia, mur-
dered. During the National Socialist regime in Germany about one-third
of all university teachers, 11,500 professors, lost their chairs: some died
in concentration camps; most emigrated.15
The social origin of professors and other university teachers during
the period 1800–1940 has not been systematically examined. The great
expansion in the number of civil servants and the bureaucratization of
society, obliged society in general and the universities in particular to fol-
low the century’s slogan of the carrière ouverte aux talents! This resulted
in a decline in hereditary privileges. But the abolition of formal barriers
to office did not always, in reality, result in a great change.16 It is obvious
that many careers, such as in the legal and medical professions, preserved
much hereditary professional allegiance. Although sometimes nepotism
did exist, the general trend was more that a professor’s sons (and later,
daughters) were often from an early age both orientated towards and pre-
pared for the academic profession and therefore successful in competition.
Marriages between young talents and the professor’s daughters still took
place during this period. It is also obvious that many newcomer families
rapidly created kinship ties to the old academic families.
If a nucleus of academic families is often to be seen in the univer-
sity teaching corps, one could also examine which other circles furnished
members: in Germany at the turn of the century, where the profession had

14 N. Hammerstein, ‘Bildungsdefizit und Bildungschancen der Katholiken im 19. Jahrhun-


dert, Universitäten und Wissenschaften’, Rottenburger Jahrbuch für Kirchengeschichte 14
(1995), 131–52; N. Hammersein, Antisemitismus und deutsche Universitäten 1870–1933
(Frankfurt am Main, 1995).
15 H. Möller, ‘Wissenschaft in der Emigration-Quantitative und geographische Aspekte’,
Berichte zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte, 7 (1964), 1–9.
16 Charle, République des universitaires.

131
Matti Klinge

been open for a long time, the largest group, about 20 per cent, was made
up of those belonging to the academic community. A university career
was seen as fashionable by the aristocracy and the higher bourgeoisie,
but only in certain faculties and certain universities. The law faculty had
a good reputation; a law professorship often led to higher administrative
or court offices, politics or, in some cases, banking. In Lutheran countries,
a professorship in theology could often result in a promotion to bishop.17
Two patterns, already present in the eighteenth century, can be dis-
cerned. There was a corporate sense of belonging to the academic world
in many families, and new professors in different fields emanated from
those familiar networks. In the cases of legal and medical professional
bodies, as well as the Protestant clergy, the affiliation could be corporate
in a double sense. The academic position could serve as a step from a lower
social position to a higher one: the peasant’s or Kleinbürger’s son could
become professor of theology, and his son a bishop; or a Kleinbürger’s son
could become a professor of law and his son a banker or diplomat. The
son of the famous professor of medicine in Anton Pavlovich Chekhov’s
(1860–1904) A Dreary Story is an officer who constantly needs money in
his new social position, where the other young officers mostly come from
noble and wealthy backgrounds.18
The faculty of philosophy, which outside German-speaking coun-
tries became divided into a faculty of letters and a faculty of sciences,
was increasingly the nucleus of all universities.19 From having been
the preparatory and youthful faculty it became the scientific, research-
orientated and publishing faculty par excellence, first in Germany, and
later elsewhere. This also was reflected in the status of the professors of
those faculties, who were first merely teachers and in close contact with
the high school teachers, wearing a gown not only in England but also
in France, but who became, especially in the great cities, celebrated and
elegant ‘princes of knowledge’, teaching in magnificent amphitheatres,
living comfortably in houses with large libraries, fine paintings, fashion-
able dinners and servants. This influenced the aristocratic families and
opened the academic career to their sons.
The technical universities of the late 1800s created social bridges
between industry, banking and applied sciences, especially chemistry and

17 M. Schmeiser, Akademischer Hasard. Das Berufsschicksal des Professors und das Schick-
sal der deutschen Universität 1870–1920 (Stuttgart, 1994); H. Titze with H.-G. Herrlitz,
V. Müller-Benedikt and A. Nash, Wachstum und Differenzierung der deutschen Univer-
sitäten 1830–1945, Datenhandbuch zur deutschen Bildungsgeschichte 1, Hochschulen
2 (Göttingen, 1995); P. Moraw, ‘Vom Lebensweg des deutschen Professors’, Beilage zu:
Forschung, Mitteilungen der DFG, 4 (1988), 5.
18 See p. 157.
19 See chapter 10, and ‘European Universities and Similar Institutions in Existence Between
1812 and ‘the End of 1944’.

132
Teachers

electrophysics. Between 1880 and 1914 both the professors of the natural
sciences and technology grew together socially with the world of indus-
try and colonialism. Professors of humanities merged with the political
world – the journalists and writers and the great and glorified artists and
composers – all of which assisted in making an academic career more
attractive.
A very large number of the future professors, however, still came from
the lower classes of society. The learned career was, after all, the best
way to upward social mobility for gifted young men without personal
fortune or favourable family networks, but it demanded much work and
dedication. As in other sections of society, access was facilitated if a rel-
ative or someone from one’s native village was in a position of authority
in the university. Social networks played an important role in provid-
ing support during personal difficulties, but nevertheless many of these
ambitious newcomers succumbed to disease, alcohol or mental disorders
before attaining their goal.
Women rarely became university professors during the period 1800–
1945. Their appointment was seldom explicitly prohibited, and indeed
there had already been female professors in eighteenth-century Bologna.20
But the breakthrough of women as scientists and subsequently as profes-
sors was made at the turn of the century. The main subjects for women
were mathematics, physics and medicine. Sonia Kowalewsky (1850–91)
became professor of mathematics in the Stockholm Free University in
1884. Giuseppina Cattani (1859–1914), from a poor background, grad-
uated in 1884 from the University of Bologna as the first female doctor
in medicine and surgery, and in 1886 applied for the chair in general
pathology at the University of Parma, was judged suitable for a full pro-
fessorship but was not appointed; instead she received a lectureship in
Turin in 1887, and in 1889 at Bologna. Marie Curie (1867–1934), the
first female chair-holder at the Sorbonne, was appointed professor of
physics in 1909. During the twentieth century, female professors became
more common. They were often of a high social status, with many of
them being daughters of professors or, later, women who had married an
ambitious researcher in their youth, both spouses pursuing their academic
careers and both then becoming academic teachers.21

20 See vol. II, 296–7. M. Cavazza, ‘“Dottrici” e lettrici dell’Università di Bologna nel Sette-
cento’, Annali di storia delle università italiane, 1 (1997), 109–26. M. Zannetti, ‘Giusep-
pina Cattani e la ricerca batteriologica sul tetano’, in Alma Mater Studiorum. La presenza
femminile dal XVII a XX secolo, Ricerche sul rapporto Donna/Cultura Universitaria
nell’Ateneo Bolognese (Bologna, 1988), 175ff.; Cf. ‘Cattani, Giuseppina’, in Dizionario
biografico degli Italiani, 22 (Rome, 1979), 503ff.
21 I. Costas, ‘Der Kampf um das Frauenstudium im internationalen Vergleich’, in A. Schlüter
(ed.), Pionierinnen, Feministinnen, Karrierefrauen? (Pfaffenweiler, 1992), 115–44.

133
Matti Klinge

In the 1920s, the famous historian of literature Antoine Thibaudet


(1874–1936) depicted the University of Paris as representative of the
rural element in the capital, where the entire nation’s most promising
youth went in an egalitarian manner to be educated. He compared this to
England, where the aristocracy sent its children to small cities in the coun-
tryside for the same purpose. This also characterized the teaching body
for the most part. Although it was not easy to become a professor, it
was still possible despite an individual’s modest origins, whereas reaching
the highest ranks in the army or in diplomatic service was more difficult
without the appropriate family background.
Despite all these factors and others, like the increasing importance of
national language and citizenship influencing the nominations of pro-
fessors, the general tendency of the period 1800–1940 was to improve
the scholarly standing of university teachers and proceed towards pro-
cesses objectifying the selection of professors and other teachers. This
resulted, in different ways in different countries, in a conflict between the
traditional academic co-option principle and the interests of the central
state administration. The general trend was away from a system where
personal knowledge and recommendations played an important role. The
early process, even if not always practised, derived from the clerical world:
applicants had to give special lectures and take part in disputations pro
loco. In the first half of the nineteenth century, this seemed an appropri-
ate means of attaining a more objective and open appointment process.
However, this failed to take into account the earlier accomplishments of a
candidate and there was a growing demand to consider these more schol-
arly achievements. Pedagogical skill, ancienneté and general excellence
in society declined in importance in comparison with ‘pure’ scholarly
attainment. This evolution can be seen in linguistics: chairs in rhetoric
and poetry increasingly became chairs of Latin and Greek philology, even
if the older appellations were preserved,22 and thus prowess as a poet,
translator, orator or literary critic became less important than scholarly
merits: publications in scientific societies’ proceedings and references to
the theoretical authors of the time.

appointment procedures
In most countries, the right to appoint professors remained in the hands
of the monarch and his government. This provided an opportunity to
create uniformity and to consider the merits of the applicants objectively.
In countries where the ministers of education often changed, as in France

22 See chapter 10.

134
Teachers

during the Third Republic, various pressures and party opinions influ-
enced the process. The opposite was true for Prussia; as in other coun-
tries, the faculties had no right to put forward their own candidates for
appointment. They could act on their own account only in assessing aca-
demic qualifications for promotions and, after the University of Berlin
was established, for Habilitationen as well. The minister remained free
to make his own decision on appointments and often undertook to make
his own enquiries about possible candidates.23 Nevertheless, he generally
invited the faculties’ opinions when he put forward his own candidates
and asked them for proposals as chairs became vacant. This developed
into an established practice, although it could be restricted by the state
at any time. The Ministerialdirektor and later His Excellency Friedrich
Althoff (1839–1908), a former professor of law in Strasburg, directed
the nomination policy of all Prussian universities over a period of 25
years from 1882 to 1907. Althoff’s policy, still called System Althoff in
Germany, evoked much admiration for its consistency and results, but
also much criticism from both liberals and conservatives. Althoff was
a strong character and he succeeded in imposing a policy under which
the universities received more resources but had to maximize results. His
impact was felt on the great new material resources and the general emer-
gence of Prussian university life, including the foundation in 1911 of the
Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society, the forerunner to the Max-Planck-Gesellschaft
zur Förderung der wissenschaftlichen Forschung, and had great signifi-
cance for the other states adopting the German university model: Austria,
Switzerland, Russia and the Nordic countries.24
The success of the System Althoff must be seen in the context of the rise
of Germany in general. Not for the first or last time, academic teaching
and research, universities and professors, were seen as tools in the general
economic and production process. This epoch recognized the demand for

23 See the nomination procedures of the newly founded University of Berlin described in
M. Lenz, Geschichte der königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelm-Universität zu Berlin, vol. I:
Gründung und Ausbau (Halle, 1910), 200–76, and concerning the enquiries made by min-
istries see R. Fester (ed.), ‘Der “Universitätsbereiser” Friedrich Gedike und sein Bericht an
Friedrich Wilhelm II’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, Ergänzungsheft 1 (Berlin 1905), partly
reprinted in H. Bookmann (ed.), Mehr als irgend eine andere in Deutschland bekannt.
Die Göttinger Universität im Bericht des ‘Universitätsbereisers’ Friedrich Gedike aus dem
Jahre 1789 (Göttingen, 1996).
24 B. vom Brocke, ‘Hochschul- und Wissenschaftspolitik in Preussen und im Deutschen
Kaiserreich 1882–1907: Das System Althoff’, in P. Baumgart (ed.), Preussen in der
Geschichte, vol. I: Bildungspolitik in Preussen zur Zeit des Kaiserreich (Stuttgart, 1980),
9–118; B. vom Brocke (ed.), Wissenschaftsgeschichte und Wissenschaftspolitik im Indus-
triezeitalter. Das ‘System Althoff’ in historischer Perspektive (Hildesheim 1991); B. vom
Brocke, ‘Friedrich Althoff: A Great Figure in Higher Education Policy in Germany’, Min-
erva, 29 (1991), 269–93.

135
Matti Klinge

specialization, contacts with industry, the student explosion and questions


of national prestige in the Konkurrenzkampf der Völker.25 Althoff dis-
covered, promoted and nominated – if necessary against the advice of
faculties – brilliant men, who in various ways gave stimuli and glory to
German academic life. He had nothing against academic rites and tradi-
tions as a means of self-respect, but all this had little to do with academic
freedom and institutional independence. By means of economic expan-
sion the universities and their teachers were increasingly seen as parts of
a national education system.
Althoff created a national structure of universities and their teachers in
Germany. In order to avoid the common mistrust of Prussian hegemony,
he asked his colleague in the Saxon Ministry of Education, Karl Heinrich
Waentig (1843–1917), to convene a ‘Conference of Representatives of
German Governments in Charge of Higher Education’, which in the long
term was intended to lead to a common system of higher education but, at
the same time, allow regular consultations on appointments. Until 1933,
it met often several times a year, all together 47 times; later, in 1937 and
1941, in Berlin and Strasburg.26
Opposition to the System Althoff and the ‘Cartel of German university-
administrations’ led in 1903 to the first ‘informal’ Conference of
University-Rectors in Leipzig27 and in September 1907, the same month
as Althoff resigned, to the first German Hochschullehrertag. The meeting
was held in Salzburg, not in Prussia, and there was only one Prussian
among the organizers, the Königlich Preussische Professor der Staats-
und Wirtschaftswissenschaften Wilhelm Sombart (1863–1941), who had
long-standing notoriety as a left-winger.28 Famous non-Prussian profes-
sors, such as the economists Lujo Brentano (1844–1931) and Max Weber

25 T. Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918, vol. I: Arbeitswelt und Bürgergeist


(Munich, 1990), 588ff. D. Langewiesche, ‘Die Universität als Vordenker? Universität
und Gesellschaft im 19.Jahrhundert’, Saeculum, 45 (1994), 316–31.
26 B. vom Brocke and P. Krüger (eds.), Hochschulpolitik im Föderalismus. Die Protokolle der
Hochschulkonferenzen der deutschen Bundesstaaten und Österreichs 1898–1918 (Berlin,
1994). Includes Althoff’s (p. 395) and Waentig’s (p. 409) biographies. B. vom Brocke (ed.),
Hochschulpolitik im Föderalismus und Diktatur. Die Protokolle der Hochschulkonferen-
zen der deutschen Länder, Österreichs und des Reiches, vol. II: 1919 bis 1941 (Berlin,
2004).
27 Konferenz der Universitätsrektoren des Deutschen Reiches im Sitzungssaale des
akademischen Senats der Universität Leipzig, den 29 November 1903. Abschrift des
Protokolls, 20 S. masch., in: A.B.R: Strasburg, A. L. 103 Paq 39 No 130, Rektorat, betr.
Rektorenkonferenz. B. vom Brocke is editing the minutes of the 80 official and informal
Prussian and German Conferences of University Rectors 1898–1944.
28 Verhandlungen des ersten deutschen Hochschullehrer-Tages zu Salzburg im September
1907. Hrsg. von dem engeren Ausschuss für 1907/08 (Strasburg, 1908). On Sombart:
B. vom Brocke, ‘Werner Sombart 1863–1941. Eine Einführung in Leben, Werk und
Wirkung’, in B. vom Brocke (ed.), Sombarts ‘Moderner Kapitalismus’. Materialien zur
Kritik und Rezeption (Munich, 1987), 11–65.

136
Teachers

(1864–1920), accused the System Althoff of ‘making autocratic decisions


in university matters’ and ‘treating the university administrations outside
Prussia like vassals’.29 In general, many professors increasingly identified
themselves as civil servants, with rather few brilliant Gelehrte as symbols
for the academic tradition of independence and genius. The only response
by the faculties against the incursion of state officials was to strengthen
the role of scientific competence.
This principle was based on an institution regarded by other countries
as a peculiarity:30 the Privatdozent or private lecturer, i.e. an unsalaried
member of the university staff. According to the university tradition the
doctorate qualified an individual for university teaching, symbolized by
the disputatio pro loco. From 1799, some governments set special rules
for the admission of academic teachers. A master or doctor could become
Privatdozent when his thesis had been recognized by the scientific commu-
nity and when his lectures had proved his ability to teach.31 The University
of Berlin introduced a second examination, the Habilitation. This took
the form ‘of a public lecture on a subject chosen by the faculty or selected
by the aspirant with the faculty’s agreement, after the faculty had satis-
fied itself as to the aspirant’s proficiency in the manner laid down in the
regulations’.32 A scientific study, which was separate from the doctoral
dissertation and often qualitatively less demanding, was prescribed by
statute in Göttingen in 1831, Bonn in 1834, Berlin in 1838, Breslau in 1840,
Bavaria in 1842, in Tübingen in 1883, and in Austria and the German-
speaking part of Switzerland in 1888. By the end of the nineteenth cen-
tury, it had been adopted by almost every faculty at German-speaking

29 L. Brentano, ‘Eine Professorengewerkschaft’, in Berliner Tageblatt, No. 283, 7 June 1907,


Morgenausgabe; M. Weber, Verhandlungen des 4. Deutschen Hochschullehrertages 1911
(Leipzig, 1912), 71.
30 See chapter 2, 49; chapter 6, 172–3.
31 Verordnung der Hochschule zu Ingolstadt vom 25 November 1799; vgl. Heidelberg
1803; Halle 1804, Landshut 1804, in T. Nauck, Die Privatdozenten der Universität
Freiburg i. Br. 1818–1955 (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1956), 18–19. For the history and pre-
history of the Habilitation procedure, including its effects in practice see E. Schubert,
‘Die Geschichte der Habilitation’, in H. Kössler (ed.), 250 Jahre Friedrich-Alexander-
Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg (Erlangen, 1993), 115–51; S. Paletschek, ‘Geschichte der
Habilitation an der Universität Tübingen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Das Beispiel der
Wirtschaftswissenschaftlichen (ehemals Staatswirtschaftlichen/ Staatswissenschaftlichen)
Fakultät’, in H. Strecker et al. (eds.), Tübinger Professoren der Wirtschaftswissenschaften
(1817–1991) – Leben und Werk (Stuttgart, 2002). M. Huttner, ‘Humboldt in Leipzig?
Die “Alma Mater Lipsiensis” und das Modell der preussischen Reformuniversität im
frühen 19. Jahrhundert’, in M. Hettling, U. Schirmer and S. Schötz (eds.), Figuren und
Strukturen. Historische Essays für Hartmut Zwahr zum 65. Geburtstag (Munich, 2002),
552–3 (‘Habilitationsdisputation’ in Leipzig, 18. Jh.).
32 Statuten der Universität zu Berlin v. 31. October 1816, Abschnitt VIII. Von den Vor-
lesungen der Universität §4, 42. For the new spirit of the regulations, which was largely
inspired by Schleiermacher, see Schubert, ‘Geschichte der Habilitation’ (note 31), 125–9.

137
Matti Klinge

universities.33 The increasing number of doctorate holders – many in


medicine – and the general trend in certain professions towards the
prestige of academic titles, had tightened up the rules for the Habilita-
tion.34 The position of Privatdozent was the starting-point for a university
career35 which then normally moved from an extraordinary professorship,
where the teaching was limited to a particular field, to a full professor-
ship or chair, with responsibility for the entire field of study. Professors
were frequently appointed from other universities; this was regarded as a
distinction and was rewarded with a higher salary.
The professor gave the main lectures and marked the content of exam-
inations, which greatly supplemented his income. On the whole, only
professors could be appointed to the position of dean or rector and, until
1848, membership of the highest collegiate body at the university – the
senate or council – was restricted to ordinary professors. Very slowly, and
then only in limited numbers, were seats given to extraordinary profes-
sors, who were subsequently also given voting rights within the faculties.
Private lecturers, on the other hand, took no part in the administration
of the universities. They were entitled only to give lectures in the field
of their venia legendi, the content of which was not prescribed, and the
only remuneration they received was the attendance fee. Towards the
end of the century in Prussia, they were brought under the umbrella
of the state disciplinary authorities, which had some benefits for them
since their work as dozents then counted towards their pensions.36 Over-
all, the system created considerable tensions between and within universi-
ties. These tensions developed into a movement to protect the interests of
those who were not professors. The year 1909 saw the establishment
of the Vereinigung ausserordentlicher Professoren Preussens (Prussian
Union of Extraordinary Professors), followed in 1910 by the Verband
Deutscher Privatdozenten (German Association of Private Lecturers). In
1912 these two associations merged with the organizations established

33 P. Daude, Die Rechtsverhältnisse der Privatdozenten. Zusammenstellung der an den Uni-


versitäten Deutschlands und Österreichs, sowie an den deutschsprachigen Universitäten
der Schweiz über die rechtliche Stellung der Privatdozenten erlassenen Bestimmungen
(Berlin, 1896), 20ff.: Berlin; 36: Bonn; 75ff.: Göttingen. Thanks to the help of Martin
Schmeiser (Berne), Heinz-Elmar Tenorth (Berlin), Harmut Boockmann and Ulrich Hunger
(Göttingen), Walter Höflechner (Graz), and G. A. Nogler (Zurich), the editor was able to
corroborate and supplement Daude’s summary information with source materials. Cf. S.
Paletschek, ‘Verbreitete sich ein “Humboldt’sche Modell” an den deutschen Universitäten
im 18. Jahrhundert?’, in R. C. Schwinges (ed.), Humboldt International. Der Export des
deutschen Universitätsmodells im 19. und 20.Jahrhundert (Basel, 2001), 914–2.
34 A. Kluge, Die Universitäts-Selbstverwaltung (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1958), 186ff.
35 A. Busch, Die Geschichte der Privatdozenten. Eine soziologische Studie zur grossbe-
trieblichen Entwicklung der deutschen Universitäten (Stuttgart, 1959).
36 R. Fick, Auf Deutschlands hohen Schulen (Berlin and Leipzig, 1900; rpt. 1997), 146.

138
Teachers

in other German states to form the Kartell deutscher Nichtordinarien


(German Non-Professors’ Cartel).37
The situation at Oxford and Cambridge was quite different.
Even though a number of new universities had been established since the
1830s, these remained the leading universities in England. Here, as well,
the teaching staff had its own hierarchy. The colleges formed the core
of all teaching and research, whereas the university’s main task was to
run the examinations required for graduation. Consequently there were
relatively few university professors. At the colleges, particularly gifted
graduates (holding the Bachelor’s or Master’s degree) were permitted to
teach and were appointed to hold tutorials and supervise the undergradu-
ates for a period of apprenticeship. When they became fellows of colleges
they were granted tenure and could then rise to become lecturers, senior
lecturers, readers and professors in the universities (although this did not
change their status as college fellows, where they all enjoyed equal rights).
They were not civil servants and did not have to qualify for an academic
career by carrying out research or taking examinations.
It was not until the mid-nineteenth century that academic or technical
qualifications were required for certain professions. At some universities,
such as London and Manchester, this led to the development of regu-
lations and arrangements for examinations for those intending to enter
such professions. For the rising generation of university teachers, how-
ever, the traditional, undefined and flexible selection criteria continued
to be applied, although application procedures and selection commit-
tees remained the norm for professorial appointments. Higher university
degrees and publications started to play just as much of a role in selection
as recommendations, relationships and semi-official government favour,
although there were no fixed rules. This method of recruiting teaching
staff, which was applied in a similar fashion at the four Scottish univer-
sities and at Trinity College, Dublin, did not exclude previous research,
although the combination of research and teaching, as used in the theory
of the German university model, was neither required nor even set down
in words.
France, as well, distanced itself from these ideals for a long time. The
centralized education system that developed during the monarchy was
totally dismantled by the Revolution and Napoleon.38 There were cer-
tain conditions that aspiring university teachers had to fulfil. After 1820,

37 F. Paulsen, Geschichte des gelehrten Unterrichts auf den deutschen Schulen und
Hochschulen vom Ausgang des Mittelalters bis zur Gegenwart, 3rd edn (Berlin and
Leipzig, 1921), vol. II, 708–9. R. vom Bruch, ‘Universitätsreform als soziale Bewe-
gung. Zur Nicht-Ordinarienfrage im späten Deutschen Kaiserreich’, Geschichte und
Gesellschaft, 10 (1984), 72–91.
38 See chapter 2, 56–7.

139
Matti Klinge

the doctorate – graduation after a period of research – was required in


order to apply for a chair. The licence and agrégation (the latter being
generally awarded only in Paris) were adequate qualifications for other
teaching posts, particularly within the loosely structured higher education
system, which was partly provided at the faculties. Despite, or perhaps
even because of, centralization, the methods used at different universi-
ties were not comparable. The only common feature was the vocationally
based academic training inherited from the Enlightenment which met with
great success at the Grandes Ecoles, Musées and Facultés. It was not until
the late nineteenth century that the idea of a universitas litterarum was
established. With the defeat of 1871, which was partly attributed to the
superiority of the German education system, the German model of the
university became more influential.39 The faculties gained more rights to
self-determination and were encouraged to promote research, which was
given greater emphasis in the concours, although this examination was
still organized centrally.40
Following the unification of Italy, the university teacher’s career was
a hybrid formed from parts of the French and German systems. These
included concorsi for new posts and professorships and the requirement
to demonstrate independent, but nationally recognized scientific achieve-
ment. After the doctorate, a form of Habilitation and a period as a pri-
vate lecturer were the precondition for participation in a concorso for a
university chair.41

income and lifestyle


The professors and assistant professors (in northern countries called
adjuncti) received a salary, and, in most older universities during the nine-
teenth century, this changed from payment in natura – as grain, wood,
wine, or other rental payments of a feudal type – to cash. In the new uni-
versities, a salary from the state budget was customary. At the beginning
of the twentieth century, professors in Uppsala still received part of their
income from the university’s land income, and the professors of theology
were still prebendaries, i.e. nominal or real vicars of parishes close to the
city, besides carrying out their purely academic duties.

39 See chapter 1, 7, chapter 2, 5–7, and chapter 15, 616; V. Karady, ‘Les universités de la
Troisième République’, in Verger (ed.), Universités en France, 325–6; Weisz, Emergence.
40 Charle, République des universitaires.
41 B. Brunello, L’Università fra accentramento ed autonomia (Urbino, 1983), 43–4. F. De
Vivo and G. Genovesi (eds.), Cento anni di università. L’istruzione superiore in Italia
dall’unità ai nostri giorni (Naples, 1986), 42, 127, 250. S. Polenghi, La politica universi-
taria italiana nell’età della Destra storica (1848–1876) (Brescia, 1993), 59; summing up:
M. Moretti and I. Porciani, ‘Il reclutamento accademico in Italia. Uno sguardo retrospet-
tivo’, Annali di storia delle università italiane, 1 (1997), 11–39.

140
Teachers

In earlier times, all teachers received some economic recompense from


the students, especially by giving more personal tuition than public lec-
tures. This could, for instance, consist of explaining the public lecture,
given originally in Latin, in the vernacular, or interpreting difficult or cen-
tral parts of the curriculum, parts of the Bible, some classical author, or
experiments in chemistry. The general tendency towards efficiency meant
more and better public lectures and less need for private collegia. But in
the German universities, in particular, paying for lectures continued and
was formalized into a Kolleggeld for all teaching – the estimated amount
of the Kolleggeld played a role in the economic comparison of different
teaching posts.42 In a great city university like Berlin, the Kolleggeld was
much more important than in a small academic ‘arcadia’ like Tübingen.
On his appointment, a German professor negotiated a salary, and in the
German system, professors quite frequently moved from one university to
another, always negotiating a higher salary. But the Kolleggeld and other
forms of Sporteln (special fees) – such as the medical practitioner’s fee
paid to the professors as hospital chiefs – seem often to have been higher
than the salary. The great disadvantage of the Sporteln system was its
unpredictability and the rivalry it created between the professor and his
colleagues, the extraordinarii and the Privatdozenten.
This system of payment, in which wage differentials could be further
emphasized by extra payments made out of ministerial funds, encouraged
competition both between individual teachers and between universities.43
The system became more unpredictable, and the power of the ministry
and the monopolistic position of the professors compared to other uni-
versity teachers became more pronounced. In 1899, the basic salary of
an ordinary professor was 4,000–6,000 marks. In contrast, the salary
scale for extraordinary professors started at 2,100 marks, although they
could expect supplements for length of service from the system intro-
duced for professors. In 1897 the Prussian Ministry of Education estab-
lished a special fund for granting extra-high salaries as well as subsidiz-
ing unsalaried teachers, by keeping back half of high Kolleggeld sums.44
Non-ordinary professors were even disadvantaged in their pension
provision.
In 1919, the then Secretary of State and later head of the Prussian Edu-
cation Ministry, Carl Heinrich Becker (1876–1933), who was professor
of oriental studies in Bonn up to 1916, described this status as ‘totally
unacceptable’. ‘For the government, an extraordinary professorship . . .
is an excellent business. In return for a miserly salary (in Prussia it is

42 See I. Jastrow, ‘Kollegiengelder und Gebühren’, in Das Akademische Deutschland, vol.


III (Berlin, 1930), 219ff.; reprinted in Wirtschaft und Wissenschaft, 5, 1 (1997), 2–9.
43 See chapter 2, 49–50. 44 Fick, Deutschlands hohen Schulen (note 36), 147.

141
Matti Klinge

just 2,600 marks, rising to 4,800 marks after twenty years), it receives
a full academic teacher. These days you couldn’t get a schoolmaster for
that sort of salary, or a railway guard, in fact you could barely get a
day-labourer.’45 Despite considerable resistance from the universities, par-
ticularly in Berlin, Becker succeeded in converting the position of extraor-
dinary professor into a personal ordinary professorship, even if he did not
manage to have all professors with permanent civil service status placed
on an equal footing.46
The French university system was based on free teaching, but the stu-
dents had to pay rather large sums for examinations. A degree in jurispru-
dence consisted of twelve examinations, each one costing 40 gold francs
at the turn of the century. The income and personal fortune of university
teachers, and professors in particular, varied enormously. The salaries
already differed, with older faculty members or deans and other func-
tionaries earning more. Housing was provided for certain chairs, whether
as special foundations in the old universities, or modern organizations.
Professorial families could live in the observatory, because the profes-
sor was looking at stars at night; many new clinics were built so that
the professorial families could live there, as professors of surgery and
obstetrics were often asked to attend at unusual times of the day. The
same model spread to new institutional buildings – of physics, physiol-
ogy, chemistry, botany and so on – in the great era of institute-building
spanning almost the whole of Europe between about 1890 and 1914.
Professors of medicine had always received income from their practice,
and this was often also the case for lawyers and even theologians. Extrap-
olating Bourdieu’s analysis of the Paris professors before 1968, it seems
that professors of jurisprudence and medicine had already belonged to
the wealthy bourgeois class for several decades before then, at least in the
larger and capital cities. This was a result of their bourgeois background
and their extra-salary earnings.47
The picture is more complicated for professors of humanities and the
natural sciences. With the new world of printing from around 1830–50 –
with new inventions, especially wood-based paper – and the impetus pro-
vided by the greater opportunities to purchase books and newspapers, the
capacity and need to study and be informed created an expanding market

45 B. vom Brocke, ‘Hochschule und Wissenschaftspolitik’ (note 24), 63–4.


46 Ibid., 69; W. W. Wittwer, ‘Carl Heinrich Becker’, in W. Treue and Kf. Gründer,
Berlinische Lebensbilder. Wissenschaftspolitik in Berlin, Minister, Beamte, Ratgeber,
Einzelveröffentlichungen der Historischen Kommission zu Berlin 60 (Berlin, 1987), 261.
47 P. Bourdieu, Homo academicus (Paris, 1984); P. Bourdieu and J.-C. Passeron,
La reproduction: éléments pour une théorie du système d’enseignement (Paris,
1972). On nineteenth-century French professors in international comparison, see Bil-
dungsbürgertum, 109–46, 458–94; C. Charle, Intellectuels et élites en France (1880–
1900), Thèse d’état, Université Paris I (Paris, 1985).

142
Teachers

for the knowledge possessed by the learned. Professional writers, essayists


and journalists continued to be influential in the manner of les philosophes
of the eighteenth century, but the university teachers with their more solid
knowledge gained terrain from amateurs. This became especially clear in
late nineteenth-century Germany and all German-orientated countries.
The Brockhaus encyclopaedia, Justus Perthes’ (1747–1818) cartographic
tradition, and the Almanach de Gotha’s genealogical and statistical exacti-
tude, are all examples of works created to satisfy the aspirations of society.
This provided professors with many economic opportunities, especially
after the Bern convention began to guarantee the authors’ economic bene-
fits from translations and new editions: the great Brockhaus encyclopaedia
was translated (and completed) into Russian. Ernst Haeckel’s (1834–1919)
Welträthsel and Karl Lamprecht’s (1856–1915) Deutsche Geschichte were
bestsellers, and the editorial world invented various forms of scientific
popularization, including serialization. The success of this activity was
closely bound to the generally rising standard of learning and school-
ing, and to the writers’ personal presence in the media of the changing
times: as teachers and public orators; as lecturers to the general public,
in the countryside, to the workers and so on; and, from the 1920s on, in
broadcasting.
For all people with a state salary, the period after the First World War
was difficult – and even disastrous in countries such as Germany and
Russia. The previous period having been a time of rising income and
growing esteem for academic staff, the now-abrupt cuts in salary and other
income-earning possibilities led to a quasi-proletarianization of university
teachers and their families. Their position began to be restored slowly in
the 1920s and more rapidly in the 1930s, but generally only reached three-
quarters of pre-war levels.
During the long period in question the issues of pensions and subsi-
dies for widows and orphans were also discussed and reforms under-
taken. Here again, the tendency was towards general rationalization in
the state bureaucracy, but in many parts of Europe the older forms of
administration survived, where the universities had special foundations
for such purposes; for example, they might own their own fields where
academic families could practise farming for their own benefit, and there
were mutual funds for the social demands of the academic community.
Nevertheless, the premature death of a father in most cases resulted in
economic disaster for the family. In many academic families, life was a
difficult life-long economic struggle in which paying the often heavy loans
of the early years took a long time and shortened the period for accumu-
lating funds for the children’s education and the years of retirement.
Academic teachers’ work bifurcated, roughly speaking, over the period
of 1800–1945 into two main streams according to the main place of

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Matti Klinge

activity. The laboratorium concentrated the work to a special location –


an institute. The first chemical laboratories, botanical gardens and obser-
vatories in the older universities date from the previous period,48 but the
real expansion came in the nineteenth century. Being at first separate and
often somewhat obscure and dirty annexes to the university itself, the
laboratories and institutes of natural sciences became, in the latter half
of the century, more respected and, in the new buildings of the turn-of-
the-century, achieved an almost sacral status. The same evolution, even if
more modest and less disruptive to the traditions, took place in libraries
and museums. University museums and libraries became public, some-
times national or central, institutions. They employed special personnel
who were in more or less close administrative and institutional contact
with the universities.49
The evolution of scientific institutes and laboratories, as well as libraries
and museums, produced a great many new academic posts of lower rank
than those of professors or assistant professors. In the former category
were the demonstrator of botany, the dissector of anatomy, the labora-
tory assistant of chemistry, the astronomical observer. But a far larger
category now included assistants and amanuenses, as well as the ‘tech-
nical’ personnel taking care of instruments and buildings. All this also
required more input from the university’s central administration which,
as a result, expanded accordingly.
Most assistants and amanuenses were appointed only for a short period
(for triennia), and they were supposed to work on their own dissertations
or other scientific work. This resulted in a rise in the number of younger
(and then older) doctors without tenure, seeking the relatively few profes-
sorial vacancies. The situation of the ‘hungry dozents’ became a problem
for the first time at the beginning of the twentieth century. Some found
careers outside the university, in industry and administration, secondary
education and so on. Many stayed in the academic sphere awaiting oppor-
tunities for advancement. The rivalries could become rather bloody, as has
sometimes been described in literature and even in detective stories. This,
on the other hand, concentrated public interest on university conditions
and gave even more kudos to the successful applicant in the professorial
competitions.
The increased status of professors contributed to a partial marginaliza-
tion of those holding the lower academic positions, and especially those
without tenure. Researchers outside the universities, the ‘private learned’,
were even more marginalized. Real knowledge became the domain of

48 Chemical laboratory: 1654 Duisburg (see vol. II, 195); Botanical gardens: 1544 Padua,
Pisa (see vol. II, 192); Observatory: Ingolstadt 1637 (see vol. II, 473).
49 See chapter 4, 104–6.

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Teachers

the university teachers and their pupils aiming to devote their lives to an
academic career.
The pattern of clinics, laboratories and institutes influenced the human-
ities, law and theological faculties to a far lesser degree. Here the academic
teacher – usually professor or dozent, since the assistant and amanuensis
category virtually did not exist – worked at home and gave his lectures
in an auditorium, normally in the main building of the university. He
received his students and his colleagues mostly at home, where he had his
own studio or library. This familiar atmosphere was a heritage from the
classical vicar’s house of the bourgeois tradition, and the professor’s wife
and daughters played a significant role in a student’s life. In the largest
cities, the pattern began to change when academic teachers’ families began
to settle in suburban areas far from the university, though reception at
home seems to have continued during the whole of the period up to the
1940s, and even after that.
In the faculty of medicine, another kind of familiar pattern was main-
tained as a result of the private practices of the academic teachers: having
worked and taught in the clinic during the early part of the day, the profes-
sors received private patients in the afternoon or in the evening at home,
and were often assisted by family members. As for the bourgeois business
man, or expert in a field, working and living at home and in the family
sphere was for a long time a pattern imitated by academic teachers, and,
as we have seen, it was in some cases continued when the head of the
institute was provided with a family apartment in the new building for
medicine or natural sciences. The rector of the Academy of Paris still has
a personal flat in the Sorbonne, as does the provost, warden or presi-
dent of a college in Oxford or Cambridge. This general social evolution
introduced bourgeois family ideology into the academic world. Differ-
ences between a small city in 1810 and a great capital in 1930 might often
have been significant, but music at home was characteristic of both –
the professor’s daughters playing the piano, the professor himself having
his violon d’Ingres or personal hobby, and the sons of the family with their
fellow students singing or playing chamber music. The famous professor
Erik Gustaf Geijer (1783–1847) in Uppsala was a rather important com-
poser and poet himself. Music was combined with the academic world in
aspects such as choral traditions and in the fact that many of the big lec-
ture halls of the new university buildings built both at the beginning of the
nineteenth century (Copenhagen, Oslo (Christiania), Helsinki, Göttingen)
and towards the end of the century (Vienna, Uppsala, Paris) also served
as concert halls.
If the family was integral to the academic teacher’s life, in the tradi-
tion of handicraft masters in the previous period, this diminished with
time. With the growing standards of women’s education and with their

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Matti Klinge

diminishing role in the administration of large households, the professor’s


wife – in this period nearly all professors were men – could often emerge
as a valuable companion in scientific and literary work: reading proofs,
translating and helping with correspondence. Study and research trips
abroad became more common and by the first part of the twentieth
century were often an important part of an academic teacher’s family
history and identity. Before the nineteenth century, the grand tour was
undertaken before marriage.50 The more intimate working pattern only
slowly replaced the idea that the father’s work was not the business of
the whole family. The children of the great Russian historian Nikolai
Mikhailovich Karamzin (1766–1826) in 1836 discussed the sayings of a
French admirer of their father, who always had Karamzin’s works with
him: ‘Alors Nicholas s’écria: “Et vous voudriez vraiment qu’il emporte
toujours 40 volumes dans sa voiture?” – “Oh, l’histoire de Papa n’a pas
40 volumes; voyons, combien?” – “Pourquoi le saurais-je? je ne l’ai pas
ouverte et j’espère ne l’ouvrir jamais.” ’
Philanthropy was an important field of female civic activity, particularly
in the nineteenth century, and even later. One case-study examines the role
of the university world in philanthropy in Helsinki. The 1840s were sig-
nificant for new kinds of civic participation by professors, students and
women of the upper and middle classes. The Helsinki women’s associ-
ations for philanthropy (two rival associations dating from 1848) were
partly inspired by a slightly earlier activity in another academic town,
Uppsala, but acquired a different character because of Helsinki’s status
as a small capital and owing to the influence St Petersburg. Professors’
spouses and daughters played a central role in these associations. A rising
historian, journalist and student leader, soon to be Professor Zacharias
Topelius (1818–98), was secretary of the principal association, and stu-
dents participated in the activities, thereby gaining access to the families
and the company of young unmarried women – philanthropy consist-
ing mainly of organizing balls and concerts with lotteries. Around 1900,
some leading professors’ wives planned an academic association or club
for mutual knowledge and social life among the families of the university
teachers, but general political tension in the country hindered the project.
Around 1950, an association of professors’ wives was founded, combin-
ing, as it still does, social life with philanthropic causes in the university,
such as poor or handicapped students.
Professor Topelius was a kind of a modern philosophe: journalist, nov-
elist, dramatic author and lyric poet, and especially well known in the
Nordic countries as a second, academic Andersen or writer of fairy-tales.
This did not prevent him being a professor, being elected rector, gaining

50 See vol. II, chapter 10, Mobility, pp. 431–6.

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Teachers

the title of Staatsrat, and being honoured during his lifetime and after his
death by several public statues, postage stamps, etc. Female and children’s
activity and general bourgeois and civic evolution could be combined,
and this combination could be rather profitable to professors who joined
civic activity with abilities in writing, whether in encyclopaedic works or
morality in the form of fairy-tales.

public image
In his Traité de la vie élégante, Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850) summa-
rized the ideas of Beau Brummel in saying, among other things: ‘Sont en
dehors de la vie élégante . . . et les professeurs d’humanités’. Balzac dealt
with professors in particular in his Entre savants. The general idea is that
something in the life-style of the learned is ridiculous and distant from
the real, practical or elegant life. Even more than Balzac, Honoré Dau-
mier (1808–79) and Sulpice-Guillaume Chevalier, dit Gavarni (1804–66),
created professorial types. This was true of the philosophical faculties, the
faculties of letters and sciences, whereas the professors of jurisprudence
and medicine belonged to their respective professional societies. Here,
of course, old traditions of ridiculing the learned, deriving not least from
Rabelais (1494–1553) and other Renaissance critics of the Sorbonne, coin-
cided with the actual observations of the teaching corps in France. The
learned no longer benefited from the authority of the Church, having been
removed from the ecclesiastical world, and the Church itself, in any case,
had lost much of its position in society. Particularly from the 1830s the
rising bourgeois classes and their emerging self-esteem considered wealth
more important than ever.
Professors as comic types occur in literature and operettas, where the
German Herr Professor is represented as a more or less ridiculous but posi-
tive figure, both inside and outside the German world. In the Anglo-Saxon
world this happened in Gilbert (Sir William Schwenck (1836–1911)) and
Sullivan (Sir Arthur Seymour (1841–1900)) operettas. Carl Zeller’s Der
Vogelhändler has a fairly well-known duet between two professors, ‘Herr
Kollege’, where the Kolleg- or Prüfungsgeld is also mentioned. Films con-
tinued along this line, stressing the Besserwisser tradition of German pro-
fessors, who used to write multi-volume works, with the title of ‘A Short
Introduction.’ Professors and scientists, mostly of physics or medicine,
are presented as heroes in science-fiction literature, where they imagine
and create machines, aerovehicles and even monsters, as in the case of
the Swiss scientist and Ingolstadt Professor ‘Frankenstein or the modern
Prometheus’, created by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797–1851). Pro-
fessor Moriarty in the Sherlock Holmes stories was the world’s ‘most intel-
ligent criminal’. Professor Mortimer in Jacob’s cartoons from the 1930s is

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Matti Klinge

represented as an effective and, in his own way, heroic agent in his social
world. But, in general, the professor is portrayed as an absentminded per-
son, mostly a professor of humanities, but of other disciplines also, such
as the geographer Professeur Tournesol in the Tintin of Hergé (Georges
Rémi, 1908–75) of the 1930s and 1940s. The notion of the absent-minded
professor might be due to the juxtaposition of everyday-life and the ivory
tower.
In the eighteenth-century tradition, university teachers were érudits,
whereas the moral, political and discursive principles of society were
held up by the philosophes, mainly free littérateurs, pamphleteers and
writers. This distinction was clear in France and in England. The suc-
cessive triumphs of vernacular languages over Latin, and especially the
esprit provincial of more peripheral parts of Europe in the eighteenth
century, allowed the roles of professor and philosophe to be combined.
Major examples include Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) in Königsberg,
Adam Smith (1723–90) in Glasgow, August Ludwig von Schlözer (1735–
1809) in Göttingen, but others could be mentioned – from Bordeaux,
Turku and elsewhere. In the nineteenth century, writers who taught at
a university include Friedrich von Schiller (1759–1805; history in Jena),
the famous Swedish twin luminaries, both poets, writers and politicians,
Esaias Tegnér (1782–1846; Greek at Lund (later he became bishop)),
and Erik Gustaf Geijer (history at Uppsala), and the three founders of
Finnish national identity, Johan Vilhelm Runeberg (1804–81; rhetoric)
Elias Lönnrot (1802–84; Finnish language and literature), and Johan
Vilhelm Snellman (philosophy, later Minister of Finance).
It seems obvious that the academic teacher’s role as philosophe was
more important in German, northern and eastern Europe than in western
or southern Europe, where free-lance writers and journalists were more
prevalent, though there are instances where the role of university teacher
was also sometimes very dominant, as in Paris. In the northern coun-
tries, economic support for journalism and the liberal professions was
less developed, and thus the academic profession supplied the public’s
need for opinion-makers. This created divided loyalty among the profes-
sors and dozents, being, on the one hand, state officials, and, on the other,
opinion-makers and potential critics of their times and of the establish-
ment. For many professors, this did not create problems because they had
a responsibility for state affairs, for example as members of parliament,
or were able to approve of the political line taken by their governments;
but sometimes they found themselves in silent or open opposition.
This was often the case at the Sorbonne from the 1820s onwards: there
had been many political student demonstrations in 1821 and 1822, and
as a result of the unrest, some professors were dismissed, while others
were suspended from holding their lectures. In 1824, one of the dismissed

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professors, Paul-François Dubois (1793–1874), founded the philosophi-


cal journal Le Globe in collaboration with famous colleagues, such as the
historian Pierre Guillaume Guizot (1787–1874). When, from 1827 and
1828, it was permitted to give public lectures again, the courses of Guizot
in history, of Abel-François Villemain (1790–1870) in literature, and Vic-
tor Cousin (1792–1867) in philosophy became fashionable: they spoke
to 2,000 listeners, their lectures were written up by stenographers, and
newspapers devoted regular columns to their weekly courses. Attending
these lectures and meeting others there was ‘a must’. The university had
become a medium: a mixture of a newspaper and a literary salon. This
tradition was maintained from the 1830s by scholars like the historian
Jules Michelet (1798–1874) and the professor of literature Edgar Quinet
(1803–75). All were engaged in politics: Guizot, Villemain and Cousin as
ministers; Quinet as a member of parliament; while Michelet’s lectures
were instrumental in the intellectual preparation for the February Revo-
lution of 1848. The suspension from his chair and his subsequent reap-
pointment were significant events in 1848, as was his dismissal, together
with Quinet and Mickiewicz, from the Collège de France in 1852. In other
countries, too, professors were dismissed and emigrated to countries like
Switzerland.51
Public courses in natural sciences did not have the same impact as
those in the humanities. Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon (1707–
88), made his revolutionary discoveries as director of the Jardin des
Plantes; he was never a university teacher. Neither was Alexander von
Humboldt (1767–1859), whose famous lectures on the Cosmos were given
in 1827/28 as a member of the Royal Academy of Sciences in Berlin. But
the phenomenon of public lectures in itself was important. During the
nineteenth century, it became more closely connected with the idea of the
university. Giving lectures to a large public came to be expected of univer-
sity professors. At the same time, academic buildings were increasingly
constructed with this public function in mind.
In most parts of Europe, the period 1800–1945 witnessed magnificent
new university buildings – the new churches of a secular society. For
Berlin, the university was also a symbol of a national renaissance after
the Napoleonic defeats, while Athens and Helsinki provide examples from
the 1830s incorporating the idea of new nationhood. Ghent was also a
symbol of the United Netherlands and then of the new Belgium. Mag-
nificent buildings were constructed from the 1870s to 1914 in a period
glorifying secular science, celebrating medieval foundations and meeting
the practical need for new types of laboratories. Many examples could be
given, but suffice it to point to the New Sorbonne in Paris and the new

51 See chapter 2, 69.

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Matti Klinge

university complex at the Ring in Vienna.52 As ‘owners’ of these secular


churches, and by giving public lectures in their magnificent amphitheatres,
decorated with boiseries, portraits and sometimes with allegorical pan-
neaux or frescoes, the professors’ public status was certainly enhanced. As
the French examples showed, the academic teacher’s role often developed
into a political one.
Joachim Lelewel (1786–1861), professor of history at the University of
Vilnius, played a central role in the intellectual preparation of the Polish
rebellion in 1831; students accused the other teachers of only teaching
them ‘church fathers, Roman verse and triangles’. Later, the opposition
of moral engagement to pure science became a general phenomenon in the
criticism directed against the universities and their teachers, as is shown by
a poem in which Victor Hugo (1802–85) railed against famous scientists
and mathematicians:53
Quoi! c’est zéro ce coeur qui bat dans ma poitrine.
Quoi! la chimie est tout! Quand j’ai mon résidu,
Un peu de cendre, un peu d’ombre, rien ne m’est dû!
La statique prouvant, non le droit, mais la force,
Le droit n’est pas! John Brown, Spartacus, Wilberforce,54
Demeurent interdits si Biot ne les secourt!55
Quoi! Devant Gay-Lussac Mazzini reste court!56
Garibaldi ne sait que dire à Lamettrie!57
Quoi! tout hormis l’algèbre et géométrie,
Tout, excepté Poinsot, tout, excepté Bezout,58
Excepté deux et deux font quatre, se dissout!
From another point of view, the young August Strindberg (1849–
1912) criticized Uppsala and its professors, claiming they did not know
Henry Thomas Buckle (1821–62), the leading English theorist of cultural
development; Buckle himself had not been an academic teacher. Many
intelligent young people asked the universities and the professors to be
‘modern’ and to explain current intellectual ideas to them. However, many

52 Weisz, Emergence.
53 Victor Hugo, La Légende des Siècles (avec ‘La fin de Satan-Dieu’, dans l’Edition de la
Pléiade) (Paris, 1950), 688.
54 John Brown (1800–1859), champion of the American abolition of slavery; Spartacus,
died 71 BC, leader in a Roman slave revolt; William Wilberforce (1759–1833), British
champion of the emancipation of slaves.
55 Jean-Baptist Biot (1774–1862), Professor of Physics at the Collège de France and of
Astronomy at the Sorbonne.
56 Joseph-Louis Gay-Lussac (1778–1850), Professor of Physics and Chemistry at the
Sorbonne; Giuseppe Mazzini (1805–1872), Italian freedom-fighter.
57 Giuseppe Garibaldi (1807–1882), champion of the Italian Unity; Julien Offay de La
Mettrie (1709–1751), herald of a materialistic philosophy of nature.
58 Louis Poinsot (1777–1859), mathematician; Etienne Bezout (1730–1783), mathemati-
cian.

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Teachers

other students, and their parents, expected the professors to concentrate


on transmitting traditional knowledge and argued for conservative val-
ues. Thus, universities were criticized from opposing sides, preparing the
ground for many programmes and proposals for reform, on the one hand,
and for proposals and measures for cutting down their influence or dis-
missing their teachers, on the other.
In France, great writers were always the most glorified intellectual fig-
ures, but after Victor Hugo’s activities the learned type of intellectual
became predominant. Their admission to the Académie Française, as well
as the public celebrations of their birthdays, consecrated them, while the
ceremonial of their funerals presented the idealized figure of the researcher
and teacher – the professor – as the new type of the Grand Homme.
The physiologist Claude Bernard (1813–78), the biologist Louis Pasteur
(1822–95), the chemist Marcellin Berthelot (1827–1907), the religious
historian Ernest Renan (1823–92), and the literary critic Hippolyte Taine
(1828–93) became symbols of the nation in the 1880s and 1890s. This
idealization of the savant was clearly influenced by the reform of univer-
sity organization on the German model.59 In centralized France with its
Grands Hommes tradition, this exaltation of the pinnacles of learning
became a tradition with long-lasting effects, not least when a large sec-
tion of the academic teaching corps was engaged in political and moral
opinion-making in the Dreyfus affair.60
The idea of academics as intellectuals in the political sense also became
important in Italy, and a special form of it was embodied the Oxford aca-
demic intellectualism of the 1920s and 1930s. In Oxford (and Cambridge)
left-wing, pacifist and pro-Soviet intellectualism played a significant role
in that period.

political role
An important theme of the period 1800–1945 is the tension between two,
sometimes opposing, principles. The first was the general bureaucratiza-
tion of society. This made the universities important training grounds for
civil servants, most particularly in the German world, but also generally in
the rest of Europe. This meant a construction of the future from above, by
planning and rational reforms. But the other main principle, the establish-
ment of a secular society with free opinion, was another important force,
and often meant more or less outspoken opposition to state authority.

59 See chapter 10, 400; C. Charle, ‘Paris/Berlin – Essai de comparaison des professeurs
des deux universités centrales’, in C. Charle (ed.), Les universités germaniques XIX–XX
siècles (Paris, 1994), 75–103.
60 J. Reinach, Histoire de l’affaire Dreyfus, 7 vols. (Paris, 1901–11).

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Matti Klinge

Even here, the university, its teachers and students were crucial during the
period under consideration.
This opposition was a source of conflict even during the Restoration.
Prince Klemens von Metternich (1773–1859), the creator and spokesman
of European Restoration policy, viewed this as ‘the vanguard of a revo-
lutionary movement’.61 His attempt, backed by the Russian emperor, to
replace the universities with state-controlled institutions for the training
of civil servants, failed at the Congress of Europe in Aachen in 1818.
This was due to resistance from the Prussian representatives, including
Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835), who had successfully fought against
this model of a university in Berlin and replaced it with one founded on
the liberal ideas of Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768–1834).62 Nevertheless,
after student attacks on representatives of the ruling order, Metternich
persuaded the German princes at the Carlsbad conference of 1819 to
ban the duelling societies, to subject both the press and the professors to
strict censorship and control, and to place government representatives in
charge of the universities.63 In 1825, just before a university was founded
in London, he warned ‘You have my authority to tell His Majesty of
my absolute conviction that the implementation of this plan would bring
about England’s ruin’.
The decisions taken in Carlsbad remained in force until 1848. Few
universities in Europe were definitively closed; some experienced turbu-
lent times for short periods, and the overwhelming majority of professors
retained their posts, despite their often provocative behaviour. In 1822,
four professors were removed from the University of St Petersburg, and
two from the University of Åbo/Helsinki; in 1823 several professors were
removed from Vilnius University. In Göttingen, seven professors were dis-
missed in 1837 as a result of their protest against the new, more absolutist
Constitution of the Kingdom. Their actions were criticized by some of
their colleagues; nevertheless, their dismissal caused a great sensation,
which made it easier for most of them to pursue their careers at other
universities.64 During the same period, as mentioned before, some pro-
fessors, who were regarded as too left-wing, were suspended in Paris. In
France, it was much more usual for both the right, at the beginning of the
1820s, and the left, after 1830, to dismiss secondary school teachers than

61 See chapter 8, 272–6; Nipperdey, Bürgerwelt, 281ff.


62 See chapter 1, 5–6, and chapter 2, 47–9.
63 See chapter 1, 24 and chapter 8, 276.
64 Nipperdey, Bürgerwelt, 376; W. Sellert, ‘Die Aufhebung des Staatsgrundgesetzes und die
Entlassung der Göttinger Sieben’, in E. Blanke, N. Kamp, A. Schöne, W. Sellert, R. von
Thadden and H. Wellenreuther, Die Göttinger Sieben. Ansprachen und Reden anlässlich
der 150. Wiederkehr ihrer Protestaktion, Göttinger Universitätsreden 85 (Göttingen,
1988), 23–45. K. von See, Die Göttinger Sieben. Kritik einer Legende, Beiträge zur
neueren Literaturgeschichte 155, 2nd edn (Heidelberg, 1997).

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university lecturers. This is true also for the turbulent period 1848–52,
which the Second Empire brought to a close by dismissing professors and
burdening secondary school and university teachers with many new rules
and regulations.65
In the unrest of 1830–31 and 1848–49, students of many universities,
mainly those of the capitals, played an active and perhaps decisive part
in riots and rebellions. The professors were divided between conservative
and revolutionary groups, some arguing for the state and for order, oth-
ers on behalf of radical youth. From the state authority’s point of view,
though, the professors were responsible for the students’ opinions. After
the crushing of the Hungarian rebellion, Prince Aleksander Sergeievich
Menshikov (1787–1869), the closest adviser to Emperor Nicholas, wrote
in a letter: ‘Voilà de quoi faire enrager les coquins de professeurs et les
gueux d’étudiants de toutes les universités y compris grandement celle de
Helsingfors!’66
German professors played another major (although temporary) politi-
cal role during this period. The German National Assembly, which drafted
a new constitution in 1848 at St Paul’s Church in Frankfurt, drew nearly
three-quarters of its membership from university graduates, mainly in
law. The 49 professors, just 6 per cent of the 830 members, dominated
the discussions to such an extent that people subsequently called it the
‘Parliament of professors’. Although in 1849 it failed to create a unified,
but constitutionally restricted German Empire in its draft constitution for
‘Freedom and order, democracy, will of the people and authority’, it did
succeed in ending Metternich’s Restoration period and creating a national
public consciousness.67 Subsequent parliaments were not so dominated
by professors. Professors represented around 5 per cent of the Reichtstag
membership, a figure which dropped to 0.7 per cent at the turn of the
century. Their numbers rose again to almost 4 per cent in the Weimar
Republic.68 There were also many professors in the parliaments of the
various German states.
In other countries as well, professors played a leading role in the 1848
movements. The second French Republic in 1848 had some academic
teachers among its most renowned leaders, including the extreme left-
wing professor of physics, Dominique François Arago (1786–1853), who
became Minister of War and the Navy in the temporary government.
In Sardinia-Piedmont, Vincenzo Gioberti (1801–52), professor of the
65 Karady, ‘Napoléon à Duruy’ (note 4), 287.
66 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 386; M. Klinge, Kejserliga Alexanders Universitetet 1808–
1917 (Helsinki 1989), 184.
67 Nipperdey, Bürgerwelt, 594–670; H. Thielberg, Universität und Politik in der Deutschen
Revolution 1848 (Bonn, 1983).
68 B. vom Brocke, ‘Professoren als Parlamentarier’, in Schwabe, Deutsche Hochschullehrer,
55–92.

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Matti Klinge

University of Turin and a zealot of Italian unity, was Prime Minister in


1848–49. The case of Denmark is interesting: the Kingdom, including the
duchies of Holstein and Schleswig, was ruled by an absolute monarch
until 1848. The last Prime Minister from 1842 was a professor of law,
Anders Ørsted, brother of the professor of physics, Hans Christian Ørsted
(1777–1852), who became famous for his studies on electromagnetism.
When in 1848 the new king decided to adopt constitutionalism, the change
was prepared by a collegium of many professors, and the liberal wing was
characterized as a ‘Professors’ party’. After the change, many professors
became deputies and ministers, but Anders Ørsted continued as Prime
Minister and, for a while, as Minister of the Interior and of Culture. Even
though he was not popular among liberal circles, he also became pres-
ident of the Academy of Letters and Sciences. Professors could be both
conservative and liberal, and their co-operation depended on the partic-
ular situation in each country.
The 1860s witnessed a liberal breakthrough in large parts of Europe, a
period when press, parliament and industry gained social territory from
the centralist and military parts of society; it was also a period of inter-
nationalization and the Exposition universelle. Many opposition figures
from the academic circles of the 1840s Vormärz period, now older and
wiser of course, were given various public offices. The general trend
stressed free enterprise, and this went hand-in-hand with the great expan-
sion of education. The importance of primary education including reli-
gion was generally accepted, and this favoured the higher stages of the
education system, with academic teachers at the top. Professors became
Ministers of Education not only in France, as mentioned before, but in
even greater numbers in Italy.69
An interesting example of professorial co-operation in international
political affairs was the great address Pro Finlandia in 1899, one impor-
tant circumstance being that The Hague Peace Court was, to a great
extent, created on the initiative of the Emperor Nicholas II (1868–1918),
and now large parts of the learned world argued that the emperor’s
new policy in Finland was contrary to The Hague principles. The idea
was promoted by the Professor of Philosophy in Jena, Rudolf Eucken
(1846–1926), who in 1908 received the Nobel Prize for Literature. Many
professors and other prominent representatives of cultural life signed a
petition which he had prepared, and a prominent deputation travelled
to St Petersburg with it, but was not received by the emperor. Neither
the anti-dreyfusard professors in France, nor the British with their own
nationalist problems in India and South Africa, signed the petition. Here,

69 Polenghi, Politica universitaria (note 41), 516; cf. chapter 10, 455.

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Teachers

as in every political issue of the century, the academic world formed no


political unity; it was more an arena for discussion than a party itself.
Traditionally, universities in some parts of Europe had the right to
occupy one or more seats in parliament. Oxford, Cambridge and Trinity
College, Dublin, were represented in the House of Commons. In Swe-
den, professors were often members of parliament: in the quadri-cameral
system (i.e. until 1866) as members of the clergy estate, and later, in the
bi-cameral system (i.e. until 1974), professors often became parliamen-
tary representatives and party leaders. This was true for most parties,
including the Social Democratic party which was in power from 1932.
In Finland, the reinstitution of the quadri-cameral parliament in 1863
resulted in professors and teachers not only in the House of Clergy (for
which the university had to choose its representatives and where many
professors were seated as representatives of teachers or clergy of more
distant parts of the country), but also, by birth or elevation to the peer-
age, as members of the House of Nobility; sometimes they represented a
minor city in the House of Burgesses or were advisers and delegates to the
House of Peasants. Lorenz Lindelöf (1827–1908), a famous professor of
mathematics, at first represented the university in the Clergy; later he was
elected as representative of the city of Helsinki to the House of Burgesses;
then he was elevated to the peerage and continued in the next Landtagen
in the Nobility. As the nomination of the Speaker was the prerogative of
the monarch, Lindelöf was appointed Deputy Speaker or Speaker in all
three Houses. Leopold von Mechelin (1839–1914), a well-known profes-
sor of law and long-time head of the Helsinki City Council, was seated in
the Burgesses and was also made a peer. He then became the first semi-
parliamentary-elected Prime Minister in 1905. When the four-chamber
system was radically changed to universal suffrage and a uni-cameral sys-
tem, the tenfold-increased electorate voted in 1907 and almost all the
same professors continued in the new parliament.
In the first national parliament (duma) of Russia (constituted in 1906),
the representatives of one of the great parties, the ‘cadets’, were quite
academic. The Russian liberal tradition had its strongest base in the aca-
demic world, with many famous names, such as the historian Pavel Niko-
laievich Miljukov (1859–1943). The rector of the University of Moscow
from 1900 to 1905, Prince Sergei Nikolaievich Trubetskoi (1802–1905),
was one of the leading figures of the liberal opposition, and his funeral in
1905 became a great political symbol during a turbulent time.
After 1910, increasing numbers of professors reached the highest levels
of public office. In the United States a professor of law and economics
and President of Princeton University, Woodrow Wilson (1856–1924),
became (the 28th ) President; the first president of the Republic of Finland
was the law professor Kaarlo Ståhlberg (1862–1952); the first president

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Matti Klinge

of Czechoslovakia (1918, 1920, 1927 and 1934) was the former phi-
losophy professor Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk (1850–1937); the Swedish
history professor, Nils Edén (1871–1945), was Prime Minister from 1917
to 1920; the professor of mathematics Paul Painlevé (1863–1933) became
French Prime Minister in 1917 and 1925; the professor of political econ-
omy at the University of Coimbra, António de Oliveira Salazar (1889–
1970), established his position in Portugal, initially as Finance Minister in
1926, and, in 1932, as Prime Minister and Minister for War and Foreign
Affairs.
Professors apparently played an important role in politics during the
period in question, especially in the changeover from absolutist to bureau-
cratic and then from bureaucratic to parliamentary systems. Later, their
roles often proceeded from the bureaucratic level of civic participation –
forming new cadres of administration, contributing to administrative
affairs as specialists and so on – to the parliamentary level.

social status
In Britain, university teachers did not have a high social position, whereas
the old universities as institutions had, and to have studied at Oxford or
Cambridge conferred such status upon individuals. The rise in the sci-
entific level of the British universities at the turn of the century and the
relative demise of the aristocratic elite after the First World War strength-
ened the role of the academic world. In Britain, the ideal of the free,
non-university scientist and author continued longer than in other parts
of Europe.
In Britain and the colonies, the academic ideal was sustained more by
former students of the well-known universities than by the universities and
the teachers themselves. For the sociology of the British academic world,
the membership lists of the Royal Societies’ Club (founded in 1894) are
of particular interest. Organization and mutual recognition within the
learned world was primarily the domain of the learned societies. Mem-
bership was limited ‘to Fellows and Members of the principal Royal and
Learned Societies, Academicians and Associates of the Royal Academies,
Fellows and Graduates of the Universities, Presidents, Members of Coun-
cil, Professors, Fellows and Members of Literary, Scientific and Art Insti-
tutions of the United Kingdom, India and the Colonies; Commissioned
Officers in His Majesty’s Army and Navy, and Higher Officers of the Civil
Service’. In 1914, the list included some 7,000 individuals, and the club
could boast such names as that of Lord Horatio Herbert Kitchener of
Khartoum and of Broome (1850–1915) from the British Imperial Annals
as well as names of scientific renown, such as Lord William Thomson
Kelvin of Largs (1824–1907); very few foreigners were members.

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In France, the status of professors reached its peak during the July
Revolution (1830–48) and then under the long Third Republic (1870–
1940), whereas the First Empire and the Restoration Monarchy (1814–30)
and the Second Empire (1851–70) were dominated more by the military
and wealthy aristocracy and bourgeoisie. As mentioned earlier, university
teachers were closely involved in opinion-making, politics, the press and
with book publication in general. The strong tradition from the Enlight-
enment stressed education and a broad-based knowledge. However, being
a professor was certainly no goal for sons of the aristocracy. The main-
stream from the aristocracy entered the bourgeois world in France, as
in England, through administration of wealth. A military career and the
foreign service continued to be attractive, and the esprit de corps of those
services favoured individuals from an aristocratic or high bourgeois back-
ground.
In France, as perhaps elsewhere, the university was somewhat provin-
cial in its outlook. This was true for the universities in the regions, which
often stressed provincial specialities in their research and teaching, whilst
in the capital, the background of a large part of the professoriate and stu-
dent body was provincial. As shown earlier, the famous professor of litera-
ture, Thibaudet, argued in the 1920s that the Left Bank and Latin Quarter
was the province in Paris. French professorial types, depicted by Marcel
Proust (1871–1922) in the figures of Crottard and Brichot, frequent good,
but not the best, salons; during this period the academic teacher had
already gained in status. This was due to several factors: the Republican
state itself promoted several learned men to leading positions, forming
la république des professeurs; the general tendency of the time favoured
all kinds of secular knowledge; and in France, as in Britain, the collapse
of the old aristocracy after the First World War contributed, if not im-
mediately, to the rise in the status of academic teachers and the learned.
In Russia, the military and administrative bureaucracy – which largely
coincided with the nobility – dominated. In 1899, Chekhov depicted the
self-absorbed emeritus professor of literature Serebrjakov in Uncle Vanja.
A Dreary Story, published in 1889, illustrated the narrow world of the
famous professor of medicine, his assistant professor and his son, who
prefers a military career despite its financial constraints.
The situation in Germany is most interesting and is also relatively well
known: the transition from the older, more established, clerical group with
strong family ties, to a Leistungselite with mostly scientific competence,
is very clear. The world of learning in general, professors included, played
an important role in the national unification and shaping of semantic and
moral unity, which developed before, and persisted after, political unifi-
cation. In that sense, many professors were important as members of the
Wertelite. But in Germany as elsewhere, much of the prestige originated

157
Matti Klinge

in the professors’ social background and social ties; the question remains
whether a university career enhanced or diminished the social position
conferred by a noble or high bourgeois birth. It might generally be said that
professors were bound to the social group from which the majority came –
the clergy and middle bourgeoisie – but emerged in the late nineteenth
century with both the rise of the universities and their new contacts with
industry and with the rise of the German Empire.70 Certainly there was a
difference between the status of professors in Berlin, Munich and Leipzig,
and that of those in minor cities. Of course, Göttingen, Heidelberg, Jena,
Tübingen and other smaller universities had some very famous teachers,
but overall they did not have much impact on the profession becoming a
national elite.
Status also varied between faculties and disciplines: professors of
Lutheran theology gained in prestige within the ecclesiastical world, but
lost outside as a result of the general decline in the prestige of religion.
The medical faculty gained in prestige with the general success of the
health-care system and ideology. The technical sciences gained by asso-
ciation with the rise of industry, as evidenced by the improved status of
technical high schools. The national economy and social sciences became
interesting at the beginning of the twentieth century and took over some-
thing of the prophetic role played by the philosophers and historians of
the nineteenth century.
Let us again take an example from Finland, which is also relevant for
other small countries. The Imperial Alexander University in Helsinki and
its professors became instrumental in the making of the modern Finnish
nation for many reasons; however, of central interest was a lack of oppo-
sition. With a very small aristocracy and a wealthy bourgeoisie of limited
numbers, with the emperor residing in St Petersburg and the archbishop in
Åbo, the university and bureaucracy could dominate, tied as they were to
each other by common ideals and family relations. In such conditions, the
academic staff was omnipresent: in the press, in Parliament, in civic orga-
nizations, in publishing, assurance companies, banks, and so on. After the
First World War, with the country gaining full sovereignty with a Presi-
dent of the Republic, a new army with generals and admirals, a diplomatic
corps, and so on, the prestige of the university slowly diminished. How-
ever, in the 1930s and 1940s, popular films still portrayed professors as
distinguished, duty-conscious gentlemen at the head of society.
Everywhere in Europe, academia established an all-embracing sys-
tem of honouring both its colleagues and others by awarding honorary
doctorates, by celebrating the universities’ magnificent centenary jubilees
70 C. E. McClelland, ‘Die deutschen Hochschullehrer als Elite, 1815–1850’, in Schwabe,
Deutsche Hochschullehrer, 27–57; F. Ringer, ‘Das gesellschaftliche Profil der deutschen
Hochschullehrerschaft 1871–1933’s’, ibid., 93–104.

158
Teachers

(which became highly fashionable in the 1870s and 1880s), and by com-
missioning and distributing Festschriften, portraits, medals, and so on.
The professors mostly controlled the scientific societies and academies
and had thereby a means of distributing academic honour in the form
of memberships and prizes. Some of those prizes became well known,
especially the Nobel prizes from 1903 onwards.
Academic self-esteem could sometimes come near the point of being
ridiculous to some observers: whereas the medievalism of the jubilees had
great ceremony and drama, it was sometimes thought to be anti-modern
or too theatrical. At the beginning of the period, academic gowns were
rejected in some parts of the Continent – the famous poet and then bishop
Tegnér, professor in Lund, described the rector’s gown as a ‘harlequin’
dress and refused to wear it; on the other hand, he always wore his doctor’s
cylinder top hat, even when riding. In general, academic dress kept its
status in the British Isles, whereas its use in capital cities such as Berlin
and Paris was more restricted, and it was not used at all in Russia or
Scandinavia, with the exception of the rector magnificus in Finland.
When Ernst Haeckel in Jena, one of the most famous professors of
modern times and a symbol of his time with his Welträthsel, turned 80 in
1914, he published enormous notices in the world press requesting money
for an ‘Ernst-Haeckel-Stiftung’ instead of the other honours his long life
and work had entitled him to; this provoked some snide smiles.
Besides the honours given by the academic community itself, heads
of states honoured academic teachers by awarding honorary titles and
orders. In Germany, Austria and Russia especially, but also in other coun-
tries such as Denmark and Finland, honorary titles (Geheimer Rat, Staats-
rat) were highly esteemed. In Finland, the rectors of the university were
ennobled if they had maintained their office for two or more triennia
(because of the fact that nobility was one of the four estates composing
the Finnish parliament until 1906). In Germany and Austria also, enno-
blement was practised, but not in France.
While becoming Geheimer Rat or Staatsrat was customary for pro-
fessors, ‘Professor’ on the other hand, was given as an honorary title to
persons who were not university professors. This had occurred in the
eighteenth century, but it became more common later on, especially in the
German and Nordic world. State decorations were awarded to professors
and other teachers. In France, Napoleon I established a special order for
the teaching corps, the Palmes académiques. In 1800, decorating profes-
sors was very rare, but by 1940, professors in most European countries
were decorated sooner or later, and other academic teachers sometimes
as well.
The status of the academic world and of the people within it, both
students and especially teachers, is reflected in a most spectacular way

159
Matti Klinge

in the university buildings which were mentioned in the context of the


public role of professors.
The well-known Danish literary critic, Georg Morris Cohen Brandes
(1842–1927), once overlooked for a chair in Copenhagen University and
twenty years later recompensed with an honorary chair, wrote in 1889
about the new main building of Uppsala: ‘The whole is as a great temple
of Minerva, where the best rooms are built for the cult of the Muses
of Music and Dance, for the Authority of the State, for the righteously
punishing authority and the Consistorium, but where only small rooms
and corners are left for that Goddess for whom the Temple was built. The
whole is suited to propose to youth a spirit of progress. Everything here
says to the young: Grow and go higher and become a Professor! – Then
you will have comfortable chairs, and beautiful pictures by great masters
on the wall.’71
But seen from the standpoint of academic freedom, both the exter-
nal pomp of buildings, festivities, processions, poetry and Latin, and the
demand for intellectual debate and participation, were conservative trends
against the bureaucratization of the university.72 They represented differ-
ent voices of an academic ethos. This ethos was in various circumstances
represented by different categories and types of academic teachers and stu-
dents. It is nevertheless clear that the professors were the most important
pillar of academic autonomy in teaching, research and morality.

select bibliography
Autio, V.-M. Yliopiston virkanimitykset 1809–1952, Helsinki, 1981.
Baumgart, P. (ed.) Preussen in der Geschichte, vol. I: Bildungspolitik in Preussen
zur Zeit des Kaiserreichs, Stuttgart, 1980.
Baumgarten, M. Professoren und Universitäten im 19. Jahrhundert, Zur
Sozialgeschichte deutscher Geistes- und Naturwissenschaftler, Göttingen,
1997.
Berg, C. (ed.) Handbuch der deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. IV: 1870–1918.
Von der Reichsgründung bis zum Ende Ersten Weltkriegs, Munich, 1991.
Charle, C. Naissance des intellectuels, Paris, 1990.
Ferber, Chr. von Die Entwicklung des Lehrkörpers der Deutschen Universitäten
und Hochschulen 1864–1954, Untersuchungen zur Lage der deutschen
Hochschullehrer 3, Göttingen, 1956.

71 G. Brandes, ‘’Tale i Upsala (1889)’, in Brandes, Samlede Skriften xv (Copenhague, 1905),


419.
72 On archaic elements in academic ceremonial as a ‘contemporaneity of the non-
contemporaneous’ (Mannheim) and the ‘ferment of humanity’ (Horkheimer): W. Rüegg,
‘Die Bildungsgesellschaft. Antrittsrede als Ordinarius für Soziologie an der Johann Wolf-
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Vorträge zur dialogischen Lebensform (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1973), 264ff.

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Gerbod, P. La Condition universitaire en France au XIXe siècle, Paris, 1965.


Gerbod, P. ‘Les Epurations administratives (XIXe et XXe siècles)’, Actes du
Colloque, Publications de l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes, IVe Section: Histoire
et Philologie V: Hautes Etudes Médiévales et Modernes 29, Geneva, 1977,
81–98.
Hammerstein, N. Antisemitismus und deutsche Universitäten 1870–1933,
Frankfurt-am-Main, 1995.
Hammerstein, N. (ed.) Universitäten und Aufklärung, Göttingen, 1996.
Jeismann, K. E. and Lundgreen, P. (eds.) Handbuch der deutschen Bildungs-
geschichte, vol. III: 1800–1870. Von der Neuordnung Deutschlands bis zur
Gründung des Deutschen Reiches, Munich, 1982.
Jı́lek, L. (ed.) Historical compendium of European Universities/Répertoire his-
torique des universités européennes, Geneva, 1984.
Klinge, M. Eine Nordische Universität. Die Universität Helsinki 1640–1990,
Helsinki and Göttingen, 1992.
Košenina, A. Der gelehrte Narr. Gelehrtensatire seit der Aufklärung, Göttingen,
2003.
Maurer, T. Hochschullehrer im Zarenreich, Ein Beitrag zur russischen Sozial- und
Bildungsgeschichte, Cologne, Weimar and Vienna, 1998.
McCulloch, G. Philosophers and Kings: Education for Leadership in Modern
England, Cambridge, 1991.
Paletschek, S. ‘Geschichte der Habilitation der Universität Tübingen im 19. und
20. Jahrhundert. Das Beispiel der Wirtschaftswissenschaftlichen (ehemals
Staatswirtschaftlichen/Staatswissenschaftlichen) Fakultät’, in Tübinger Pro-
fessoren der Wirtschaftswissenschaften (1817–1991) – Leben und Werk, ed.
H. von Strecker et al., Stuttgart, 2004.
Pedersen, O. Lovers of Learning: A History of the Royal Danish Academy of
Sciences and Letters 1742– 1992, Copenhagen, 1992.
Schmeiser, M. Akademischer Hasard. Das Berufsschicksal des Professors und das
Schicksal der deutschen Universität 1870–1920, Stuttgart, 1994.
Schubert, E. ‘Die Geschichte der Habilitation’, in H. Kössler (ed.), 250 Jahre
Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg, Erlangen 1993, 115–
51.
Schwabe K. (ed.) Deutsche Hochschullehrer als Elite 1845–1945, Deutsche
Führungsgeschichten in der Neuzeit 17, Boppard am Rhein, 1988.
Verger, J. (ed.) Histoire des universités en France, Toulouse, 1986.

161
CHAPTER 6

THE DIFFUSION OF EUROPEAN


MODELS OUTSIDE EUROPE

E D WA R D S H I L S A N D J O H N R O B E R T S

g e n e r a l r e m a r k s1
The establishment of new universities and colleges outside Europe in the
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries continued the pattern of earlier
foundations, when new universities in Western and Central Europe repro-
duced existing models under new circumstances. By 1800, too, Central
and South America had already taken their models of universities from
Spain and the North Americans theirs from Great Britain. In the nine-
teenth century, the German universities, markedly affected by the ideas
of Friedrich Schleiermacher and Wilhelm von Humboldt and their real-
ization in the University of Berlin,2 were to become the sources of yet
another – but still European – model that was implanted in the United
States, in Japan, and elsewhere. Concurrently, too, an amalgam of fea-
tures of the old and the modern English and Scottish universities did
much to shape new North American colleges and universities as well as
those of Canada, India, Australia and South Africa. Finally, though the
university patterns of France were more limited in their diffusion, North
Africa, French West Africa, Syria and Indo-China all showed the impact
of French higher education in the last half century of our period.

1 Edward Shils’ untimely death left the draft of this chapter unfinished. It had to be thor-
oughly revised and edited by John Roberts and the editor with the generous expertise and
help of Jurgen Herbst, Madison (USA); Steven Turner, Fredericton (Canada); Orlando
Albornoz, Caracas, and Hans-Albert Steger, Erlangen (Middle and Southern America);
H. Gerber, Jerusalem (Middle East); Jacques Verger, Paris (French colonies); Philip V.
Tobias, Johannesburg (South Africa); Judith M. Brown, Oxford (South Asia); M. C. Rick-
leffs, Canberra (Philippines, Thailand); Patricia Herbert, London (Burma); Annabel Teh
Gallop, London (Malaya); Andries Teeuw, Leiden (Indonesia); Don Garden, Melbourne
(Australasia); Herbert Franke, Munich, and Hongjie Chen, Beijing (China); Ann Waswo,
Oxford (Japan).
2 See chapter 2, 47–9.

163
Edward Shils and John Roberts

The world’s idea of the university as it was shaped in the nineteenth cen-
tury is therefore a European one. Centres for advanced scholarly research
and instruction regarding religious texts, academies for philosophical dis-
cussion and instruction and specialized schools for training in military
science, administration, law and theology had been known in antiquity
and in ancient India, parts of the Islamic world and Imperial China. Yet
only one of these institutions still survives, the al Azhar University in
Cairo.
All universities outside Europe were formed in accordance with an
image of the European university in the minds of their founders, at first
or second remove. The very belief in the need for and the desirability of
a university was a part of the image of what a modern society should be
and of the proper place of a university within it. It was part of a larger
conviction that society needs formally established, officially legitimated
institutions in which advanced knowledge would be sought and taught
and in which individuals would be trained for these practical professions
which require differentiated intellectual knowledge and skill, such as can-
not be acquired solely through apprenticeship and experience. From the
belief that universities were needed for the well-being of society, there
was derived the additional belief that the possession of such knowledge
must be authoritatively certified by diplomas and degrees awarded by an
appropriately qualified institution. In some countries, it was also believed
that the majesty of a state and the dignity of a society required the exis-
tence of a university within its territory, quite apart from the utility of the
knowledge it conveyed for the conduct of the affairs of state, Church and
society. Universities became part of the symbolic apparatus of progressive
civilization, of modernity.

north america
The first colleges founded by the British North American colonists had
been seen by them as appropriate adaptations in a new environment of
patterns of already tried and tested English institutions.3 Like them, they
had close connections with religious bodies. They adhered to the curricu-
lum of Latin, Greek and mathematics of the colleges of the ancient univer-
sities; they were residential, primarily teaching institutions, and original
scholarship was not high among their aims. Though, as time passed, the
Scottish universities also came to exercise a broadening influence on the
American colleges, these institutions, like the few North American univer-
sities which existed in 1800, trained students usually only to the level of
the baccalaureate. Professional education, insofar as it was not provided

3 See vol. II, chapter 6.

164
The diffusion of European models

through apprenticeship, was conducted by other institutions and in other


ways, most of them independent of colleges and universities and many of
them private and proprietary.
The later state universities in North Carolina (1776) and Georgia
(1785) broke with their antecedents in having no religious affiliation, and
widened the range of subjects taught, under the influence of the Scottish
universities and, later, of University College, London. Despite these devel-
opments, though, the state universities continued to resemble in charac-
ter the colleges which had preceded them. Notably, they were established
and supported with little encouragement or aid from government; the
traditional course of studies pursued at Oxford and Cambridge also long
remained fairly intact, though with an admixture of moral philosophy,
political economy and sciences from Scotland; courses were strictly pre-
scribed, attendance at classes was compulsory and the morals of students
were kept under surveillance. The British model was observed as faithfully
as the very different circumstances allowed. Like their antecedents, new
nineteenth-century colleges and even the state universities at first showed
little sense of obligation to enrich the stock of knowledge or to encour-
age their students to do so. There was little sense of a calling to a life
of learning among their teachers or that the pursuit of knowledge might
itself be an appropriate career. This approach and atmosphere continued
to prevail in many colleges for most of the nineteenth century and in some
even into the next.
Organization also long followed British patterns. Higher educational
institutions had to be chartered by political authority. Once a charter was
received, a private college was autonomous. Statutes and by-laws govern-
ing their internal working and structure were drawn up by the institutions
themselves, that is, by their boards of trustees; neither the state – as in
Germany – nor the teaching staff – as in the ancient English universities –
had a hand in their promulgation. North American collegiate govern-
ment bore, instead, a close resemblance to that of the eighteenth-century
dissenting academies in England; there was usually a strong board of non-
academic governors, a principal or president with much executive power,
and no effective voice for the teaching staff. There was no question of
even the most senior and experienced teachers having a part, for instance,
in the appointment of the president, which was entirely in the hands of
the non-academic board of trustees. Deans were chosen by the president
and served at his pleasure. As colleges grew in size, staff and numbers
of students, departments were formed along disciplinary lines, they were
then given chairmen by the dean and the president. Smaller colleges, with
only a few hundred students, did not reach even this stage of differentia-
tion and delegation. American colleges’ tendency to follow the pattern of
the dissenting academy, not that of Oxford or Cambridge colleges, may in

165
Edward Shils and John Roberts

part be explained by sectarian and denominational tradition; the Church


of England and its reputedly luxurious and self-indulgent colleges were
often regarded with stern disapproval.
Small residential institutions brought teachers and students together,
and sometimes favoured pastoral and personal relations between them.
Concentration on teaching brought forward those who loved teaching
and who aroused and held the esteem of many students and over many
years. In this regard, there was some selective assimilation of the model
of the Oxford and Cambridge colleges (and it was to be followed more
deliberately in the twentieth century in the ‘house system’ introduced in
Harvard in the 1920s and 1930s, and the ‘residential colleges’ of Yale).
Even in the universities which were to show the greatest readiness to
accept the German model – such as the University of Chicago – the pro-
vision of residential accommodation was associated with traces of the
collegiate pattern – and often what was believed to be the characteristic
architecture – of Oxford and Cambridge.
In the twentieth century the model of the North American liberal arts
and medical colleges was itself to spread, notably in the Middle East
and in China. This, too, was a diffusion of European models, but at one
remove: the United States exported an American modification of British
models which imprinted itself on the liberal arts colleges of those regions
and continued to inspire the organization of undergraduate instruction in
them well into the twentieth century.
The staff of a North American college was usually too small to allow
specialization of teaching or separate administration in all but the most
clearly disjunct disciplines. With few resources for research for most of the
nineteenth century, those faculty members who wanted to pursue research
used the books and laboratory equipment provided for teaching. Students
were not trained for research; recipients of the doctorate were very few and
most of them, in any case, were doctors of divinity. Even senior teaching
staff had no permanent tenure. In the earlier nineteenth century, there
could still scarcely be said to be an academic profession. Many teachers
might well spend their entire working life in a college or even a university –
as in Oxford or Cambridge colleges – with no intention of making a career
of teaching, but holding their places while awaiting appointment to a
suitable ecclesiastical living; in the English dissenting academies, too, the
teachers had not been more than ‘assistant’ masters.
Students were admitted to American colleges and universities at an
early age and graduated young. There were no courses of preparation for
professional careers on offer; graduates might enter such careers later – the
clergy for example. To provide a fundamental education was the goal: this,
it was believed, would discipline the mind, form and strengthen character
and provide the cultural requisites for a life of responsible leadership in

166
The diffusion of European models

society. Once again, this was an adaptation of a British ideal. The often
promulgated goal was defined as the formation of character; it lives on
in American undergraduate life today, in the dreams of self-discovery, or
the discovery of one’s true identity.
A major change began from the 1850s or thereabouts, as German uni-
versities began to be increasingly influential as models for major American
universities, old and new. The leading universities, public and private,
embraced the German model most obviously in their development of
graduate schools. The tradition formed from the British models contin-
ued alongside this, but in the 1830s and 1840s, increasing numbers of
graduates of American colleges and universities had already been going
to German universities and fewer to British universities in spite of their
prestige in the American academic world. The use of British models con-
tinued to be influential where it was reinforced by Anglophilia or respect
for the antiquity and achievements of British institutions, particularly
among those whose ancestors had come from the British Isles to America.
Until the end of the nineteenth century these still supplied a large frac-
tion of American college and university teachers. But German influences
became far more powerful as postgraduate studies gained large numbers
of students and as more provision was made for teaching them to do
research.4
The German university had to be deliberately and actively propagated
as a model. There was opposition to it when, as early as 1828, the faculty
of Yale College declared that, since the German universities were chiefly
occupied with professional studies while the American colleges sought to
lay the foundations of a liberal education, they doubted that German uni-
versities could serve as a model for American colleges.5 Nevertheless, the
German model made its way. There was powerful opinion in support of
it, not least from those who had studied in German universities and who
were firmly persuaded that it was imperative for the well-being of Ameri-
can society and for the dignity of the United States in the world. Younger
teachers and a handful of university presidents strenuously advocated it,
notwithstanding its critics, and returning young scientists and scholars
wanted the German mode of training advanced students which they had
experienced to be introduced into the American universities.
The State of Michigan, soon after its admission to the Union in 1837,
granted a charter to permit the establishment of a University of Michigan
which was to follow the German university model, though without a
theological faculty. So clearly was the German model held in esteem by its

4 On German scholarship in religious and human studies see chapter 10.


5 ‘Original Papers in Relation to a Course of Liberal Education’, American Journal of Science
and Arts, 15 (January 1829), 297–351.

167
Edward Shils and John Roberts

founders that even before the university opened, a number of Gymnasia


on German lines were established in the state to prepare students for
studies at it.6 Another outcome was the propaganda by young Americans
who had observed in Germany the functioning of the agricultural, mining
and engineering academies. It led to the rapid spread of the American idea
of agricultural and mechanical colleges which began to flourish after the
Civil War and the Morrill Act of 1862 which introduced the granting of
public land for educational institutions.7 These colleges were to become
the model for higher education in many countries in Asia and Africa.
By the end of the century 9,000–10,000 American students had
attended German universities.8 On their return, those who sought posts as
university and college teachers wanted to do research and to have others
do it. It was not possible simply to replace the colleges which had been
formed on British models and which had become firmly implanted and
adapted in the United States with a different kind of institution approxi-
mating more closely to the German university. Thus the idea of a graduate
school appeared a possible compromise. This was an American innova-
tion. The British had nothing like it and had indeed resisted the efforts of
reformers like Mark Pattison (1813–84) who admired German practice.9
The Germans had not needed it since their universities were already grad-
uate schools, though they now provided the model of much of what came
to be embodied in the American graduate school.
The presidents of three new American universities which instituted the
great innovation had all either studied in Germany or had turned to
Germany when they became the heads of their new institutions. Daniel
Coit Gilman (1813–1908) was first president of the Johns Hopkins
University in Baltimore, opened in 1876,10 Granville Stanley Hall

6 On the University of Michigan and early German influences: J. Turner and P. Bernard, ‘The
“German Model” and the Graduate School: The University of Michigan and the Origin
Myth of the American University’, History of Higher Education Annual, 13 (1993),
69–83; H. H. Peckham, The Making of the University of Michigan, 1817–1967 (Ann
Arbor, 1967); A. Creutz, ‘The Prussian System of Practical Training: The Educational
Philosophies of the University of Michigan’s First Two Presidents’, Michigan History, 65
(Jan.–Feb. 1981), 37–9. For the Michigan preparatory academies: J. Herbst, The One and
Future School: 350 Years of American Secondary Education (New York, 1996), 58–60.
7 E. D. Ross, Democracy’s College: The Land Grant Movement in the Formative Stage
(Ames, 1942).
8 J. Herbst, The German Historical School in American Scholarship (Ithaca, 1965), 1ff.;
K. H. Jarausch, ‘American Students in Germany, 1815–1914: The Structure of German
and U.S. Matriculants at Göttingen University’, in H. Geitz, J. Heideking and J. Herbst
(eds.), German Influences on Education in the United States to 1917 (Cambridge, 1995),
195ff.
9 See chapter 10, 427.
10 H. Hawkins, Pioneer: A History of the Johns Hopkins University, 1874–1889 (Ithaca,
1960); F. Cordasco, Daniel Coit Gilman and the Protean Ph.D. (Leiden, 1960); A. Flexner,
Daniel Coit Gilman: Creator of the American Type of University (New York, 1946).

168
The diffusion of European models

(1844–1924), first president of Clark University in Worcester (Mass.),


chartered in 1887,11 and William Rainey Harper (1856–1906), first pres-
ident of the University of Chicago, opened in 1892.12 The fourth major
figure in the introduction of the German pattern, Charles William Eliot
(1834–1926), President of Harvard, had studied chemistry in Germany
and acquainted himself at first hand with German universities.13 The first
three wanted to establish in the United States universities which would
do what the German universities had done as sites of research and of
the training which was required to do research. Eliot shared this view,
though less enthusiastically, and with greater concern for undergraduate
education.
Not all features of the German university were imported into the United
States. They did not import the pattern of akademische Selbstverwaltung.
The principle of presidential rule was too firmly established to gain accep-
tance. Academic self-government nonetheless made significant progress in
the first four decades of the twentieth century.
The idea of academic freedom, scarcely mentioned before the appear-
ance of the German university model with its principle of Lehr- und
Lernfreiheit, slowly advanced from a condition of nullity to widespread
affirmation by the profession of university teachers and to a greater respect
for it from university administrators, boards of trustees and publicists.
The preoccupation with academic freedom and the formation in 1916
of the American Association of University Professors14 which had as its
main aim the protection of academic freedom did not occur just because
academic freedom was so often infringed in the United States. It had also
required the emergence of a conception of the dignity of the academic pro-
fession and of the value of the university as an estate of the realm before
academics began to seek protection for the right to express opinions or
investigate beliefs and institutions vested with sacredness. Without an idea

11 D. Ross, G. Stanley Hall: The Psychologist as Prophet (Chicago, 1972); L. Pruette,


G. Stanley Hall: A Biography of a Mind (New York, 1926); W. A. Koelsch, Clark Uni-
versity, 1887–1987: A Narrative History (Hanover, NH, 1987).
12 T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, First President of the University of Chicago
(Chicago, 1928); J. P. Wind, The Bible and the University: The Messianic Vision of
William Rainey Harper (Decatur, GA, 1987); R. J. Storr, Harper’s University: The Begin-
nings (Chicago, 1966).
13 H. Hawkins, Between Harvard and America: The Educational Leadership of Charles
W. Eliot (New York, 1972); H. James, Charles W. Eliot, President of Harvard Univer-
sity, 1869–1909, 2 vols. (Boston, 1930); C. W. Eliot, Educational Reform: Essays and
Addresses (New York, 1898).
14 W. P. Metzger, ‘The German Contribution to the American Theory of Academic
Freedom’, Bulletin of the American Association of University Professors, 41 (1955),
214–230; R. Hofstaedter and W. P. Metzger, The Development of Academic Freedom
in the United States (New York, 1955); H. Mumford Jones, ‘The American Concept of
Academic Freedom’, Bulletin of the American Association of University Professors, 46
(1960), 66–72.

169
Edward Shils and John Roberts

of academic freedom, there would not have been the principled reaction
against infringements on it, and this idea, too, American academics had
imbibed in Germany.
The principle of the Einheit von Forschung und Lehre was the main aim
of the Germanizing movement, and it was a great success in the major pri-
vate and state universities of the country. Yet the extent of its acceptance
varied greatly over the American academic landscape. Even in the uni-
versities in which it was most successful it was not uniformly so; islands
of the ancien régime continued to exist even in the most Germanized
American universities. Lernfreiheit was not always what the returnees
from Germany very much wanted. The first stirrings of the freedom of
learning for the students occurred through the ‘elective’ system which was
introduced in the 1870s by President Eliot in Harvard for undergradu-
ates.15 There is no evidence that the German model was in Eliot’s mind,
but the previously prevailing syllabuses were so confining and so narrow
that the German model was really indispensable for a person seeking to
broaden the range of intellectual opportunities for students. Yet, para-
doxically, at the postgraduate level, where German influence was most
pronounced, freedom of study and freedom in the choice of courses and
of attendance at classes, did not establish themselves. German students
were free to choose the courses and the subjects they would study, but
American graduate students who were their coevals were subjected to
course requirements, written examinations and course marks unknown
in Germany. On the other hand, the American graduate students were
exempted from the discipline of the principle of in loco parentis, which
was strictly applied to undergraduates.
The idea of the unity of research and teaching was central to such new
universities as the University of Chicago, the Johns Hopkins University
and Clark University. Their teachers were appointed on the understanding
that research was as important as teaching, and it was equally understood
by university administrators that they were to make available the space
and equipment needed for scientific research and the libraries needed for
research in the humanistic and social science disciplines. New universities
found this easier because they did not have to overcome the resistance
of teachers attached to the traditional model. Clark University, though,
became a victim of a conflict of models; the founder and financial patron,
Jonas Gilman Clark (1815–1900), wished that his university be a tra-
ditional undergraduate institution, while Hall, passionately devoted to
the Germanic idea, more or less surreptitiously made it into a graduate

15 H. C. Carpenter, ‘Emerson, Eliot, and the Elective System’, New England Quarterly, 24
(1951), 13–334; S. E. Morison (ed.), The Development of Harvard University since the
Inauguration of President Eliot, 1869–1929 (Cambridge, Mass., 1930). See also note 13.

170
The diffusion of European models

institution, and Clark had to add his residuary estate for the establishment
of Clark College as the undergraduate school.16
The recruitment of teachers by new institutions often deliberately drew
on young men who had studied in Germany. Before Johns Hopkins
opened, its president made a European tour to recruit teachers. Ira Remsen
(1846–1927) who held a doctorate from Göttingen, was one of his best
discoveries. The first teachers of history and political economy at Johns
Hopkins, Herbert Baxter Adams (1850–1901) and Richard Theodore
Ely (1854–1943) had both studied in Heidelberg. Harper had studied in
Germany and gone back there as soon as he was appointed to the pres-
idency in order to study the functioning of the Berlin model, to look for
teachers and to buy the entire stock of a great Berlin academic bookseller
as the foundation of the University of Chicago library. He urged James
Henry Breasted (1865–1935), to go to Berlin to be properly trained in
Egyptology. An 1894 Ph.D. of the University of Berlin, Breasted became
the foremost Egyptologist in the United States. Albion Woodbury Small
(1854–1926), who became the first head of the sociology department at
Chicago, had studied history and economics in Germany, Robert Park
(1864–1944) had studied in Berlin and taken his degree under Windelband
at Strasburg, well before beginning his academic career in Chicago. At
Clark, not only was Hall a product of the German universities but some
of its most important teachers like the anthropologist Franz Boas (1858–
1942) and Albert Abraham Michelson (1852–1931) who got the 1907
Nobel Prize in Physics came from Germany. Young teachers were some-
times given leave in order to go to Germany.
The mode of teaching in the graduate schools in one very impor-
tant respect was much affected by what Americans who had studied in
Germany recalled as standard German academic procedures. What stood
out in their memory, in addition to the personal attention they had received
from the professor, was the seminar, which became the dominant and dis-
tinctive feature of graduate schools in the United States. It was intended
to be the place where graduate students could present the results of their
research and have them critically discussed by their teachers and fellow-
graduate students. The close supervision of the student research by his
teacher in the laboratory or in the teacher’s office became another fixture;
this was also imported from Germany. Many graduate departments had
journal clubs, which were a variant of the seminar in the sense that they
were devoted to the critical analysis of research; the research in ques-
tion was that already published in scientific or scholarly journals, many
of them German, or citing German literature. Ability to read German
fluently was required; without it a large part of the most important

16 Koelsch, Clark University (note 11).

171
Edward Shils and John Roberts

literature would have been inaccessible. Another feature of the German


model which was adopted in the United States was the publication of
research in journals and in series of monographs. The institution of the
university press which also established itself in the United States came
apparently not from Germany but from Great Britain.
The academic institute – usually attached to a professorial chair – did
not come into American universities at the same time as the idea of the
seminar. It is difficult to account for this. One reason may have been the
early development of the departmental arrangement of disciplines within
the university rather than the faculty, together with the flexibility of the
policy of appointment to professorships. For a very long time, German
universities had only one professor for each major discipline, whereas in
many American universities it was possible at an early date to appoint
more than one professor within a particular disciplinary department. The
German system was monocratic; a single professor was responsible for his
whole subject, no one shared in his authority in the distribution of teach-
ing or in the allocation of resources or in the appointment of his juniors,
except for the Privatdozenten. The institute – which in German-speaking
universities was called Seminar for religious and human studies17 – was
the exclusive domain of the professor in which he allocated space, equip-
ment and funds in accordance with his own conception of what was
important in his discipline. In an American university, though the chair-
man of a department was sometimes autocratic, he was not always the
most important scientist or scholar in it, far less the only one, whereas in
Germany, the professor was generally presumed as such. It would have
created difficulties to have an institute which was directed by a person
who was not the leading intellectual figure in his subject within the par-
ticular university. The Americans did not wish to create that difficulty for
themselves. When, from time to time, ‘institutes’ were created in a few
American universities – for example, the Oriental Institute at the Univer-
sity of Chicago, the Harvard-Yenching Institute at Harvard, the Institute
of Human Relations at Yale – they tended to be interdisciplinary and inter-
departmental. Thus they were not the domain of a single professor. They
permitted a wide range of research to be done; they had funds outside
the regular university budget and so could have special equipment, spe-
cial library collections. They gave their members considerable freedom.
American institutes therefore bore little relationship to the German Insti-
tut. Most research continued to be done in departmental laboratories or
in the university libraries.
Another feature of the German university which did not travel across
the ocean was the Habilitation, the production of a specialized monograph

17 On the introduction of the monocratic seminar directors see chapter 10, 408, 425–6.

172
The diffusion of European models

on a particular subject beyond the doctoral dissertation, the delivery of a


public lecture on the subject and submission to an oral interrogation on
the lecture.18 This was towards the end of the nineteenth century in all
German-speaking countries the precondition for the award of the venia
legendi, the right to teach and the title of Privatdozent. The Privatdozen-
tur entitled its incumbent to attend and teach without a salary, without
the civil servant’s tenure or status, as enjoyed by a professor, and to be
paid only through capitation fees from the auditors of his lectures. Habil-
itation and the status of Privatdozent were the necessary conditions for
election to a professorship. Why did this rigorously grinding process of
selection for candidates for professorships not find a home in American
universities? It is difficult to explain why something did not happen but
one distinguishing circumstance was no doubt financial. The status of
Privatdozent depended on having either private means, a wealthy wife or
a profession or business occupation allowing some free time for teaching
and research. Most wealthy Americans – except a few in the north-east –
hardly thought of entering the academic profession. To be a connoisseur,
or a collector or a private scholar was one thing, but to be under the
dominion of a professor – often likely to be an imperious one – did not
appeal to a man of taste and spirit. American academics to a greater extent
than German academics came from the lower middle class; they were often
the offspring of farmers and small businessmen and it was against their
grain to work without payment. It would have been practically impossible
to find enough competent young teachers to teach without salary, how-
ever small. Hence, although American universities which aspired to be
like German universities had a rank with the title of docent, it had no life
in it. The docent disappeared in favour of the ‘instructor’. The Germans
had no equivalent to the instructor.
American universities also departed from the German pattern in their
library provision. In Europe the universities relied on the rich imperial,
royal and other kinds of state libraries.19 In Germany towards the end
of the nineteenth century university institutes or seminars were able to
build and develop their own libraries in accordance with the scientific
or scholarly interests of their directors. In the United States, the leading
private universities and some of the state universities built great, well-
rounded collections of books; this probably owed something to the emer-
gence of academic librarianship as a profession in the United States. It
might be noted that in a number of cases American university libraries

18 On the slow introduction of the ‘Habilitationsschrift’, see chapter 5, 37. Cf. N. Rhein-
gold, ‘Graduate School and Doctoral Degree: European Models and American Realities’,
in N. Rheingold and M. Rothenberg (eds.), Scientific Colonialism: A Cross-Cultural
Comparison (Washington, DC, 1986), 129–49.
19 See chapter 4, 106.

173
Edward Shils and John Roberts

purchased the entire personal libraries of eminent deceased German schol-


ars. The University of Michigan purchased August Böckh’s library, the
University of Syracuse Leopold von Ranke’s.
By 1914, the attendance of American students for study in Germany had
waned. Graduate studies were by then well established in the leading pri-
vate and state universities and there was no longer such a widespread and
shared belief among American university teachers and graduate students
that German universities had much to offer which could not be obtained
in the United States. American scientists and scholars were still used to
reading German; German universities and their science and scholarship
were still very highly regarded by them. The profound and distinctive
imprint of the German university model on graduate studies in American
universities did not fade, but after the First World War, American uni-
versities drew their inspiration almost wholly from traditions already
assimilated. Germanic influences had become so much a part of American
tradition that they had ceased to be German and had become American,
and the driving forces were now the intellectual aspirations and motives of
American scientists and scholars. Nonetheless, direct influence of German
universities on American universities by no means disappeared. Teachers
who had studied in Germany were still in post in the 1920s and early
1930s; their pupils continued to draw on their intellectual dispositions and
beliefs. They were somewhat reinforced, too, in the 1920s when American
physicists began to travel to Europe in large numbers to be trained in the
most advanced physics of the time. Germany had never lost its eminence in
physics and, as American academic physics became more sophisticated,
it was widely realized that the German universities still offered much
from which they could learn. Thus it happened that many of the leading
American physicists of the 1920s and 1930s spent extended periods at
German universities with scientists like Max Born (1882–1970), Walther
Hermann Nernst (1864–1941), Max von Laue (1879–1960), Werner
Heisenberg (1903–76), and Erwin Schrödinger (1887–1961). They were
often assisted by the Rockefeller Foundation which initiated a programme
of fellowships for travel to Germany. The Foundation also supported sum-
mer seminars in theoretical physics at the University of Michigan in the
1920s which were very important for the subsequent development of
American physics, and leading German physicists were guests and teach-
ers at these seminars.20 Americans also went to Germany to study with
mathematicians such as Christian Felix Klein (1849–1925). But the Amer-
icans were now interested in specific things; like their predecessors they
were inspired by German science, but they no longer sought, or were

20 D. J. Kevles, The Physicists: The History of a Scientific Community in Modern America


(New York, 1978).

174
The diffusion of European models

interested in, new general views of what a university ought to be. They
had already got that from their studies in American universities.
The intellectual current flowing from German to American universi-
ties became more animated with the coming to power of Hitler, when
numerous scientists and scholars of the first eminence were forced to
leave Germany.21 The racial laws in Italy also drove out some of the best
Italian scientists and scholars. They also had been trained according to the
German model, and many of them – Enrico Fermi (1901–54) was the most
outstanding – found places in American universities. Earlier, the same had
been the case with Russian scientists and scholars who after the Russian
Revolution of October 1917 left their universities and sought a livelihood
and the continuation of their intellectual work in American universities.22
Refugee scientists and scholars improved the quality of American scien-
tific and scholarly teaching and research, but they did not bring with them
new ideas of how a university should be organized or how it should func-
tion. Nor did the Americans seek their guidance regarding the idea of a
university.
CANADIAN universities also showed a diversity of influences, but
within a predominantly British tradition. The oldest Canadian university,
the University of King’s College in Windsor, incorporated in 1809, origi-
nated as a grammar school, the King’s College of Nova Scotia, which had
been founded in 1789 by Anglican clergymen who had remained loyal to
the crown and had emigrated from the United States. The first state insti-
tution of higher learning in Canada, the University of New Brunswick in
Fredericton, began in 1785 as a grammar school, the Provincial Academy
of Arts and Sciences, and was incorporated as King’s College in 1828 and
as the University of New Brunswick in 1859. Both institutions were ini-
tially modelled upon the Oxford college and reflected the determination
of provincial Anglican elites to re-create British social patterns in British
North America. In Nova Scotia and New Brunswick as in other provinces,
these efforts were strongly resisted by Protestants of other denominations.
They lobbied the provincial legislatures to force the colleges to aban-
don compulsory Anglicanism or to adopt a less-exclusively classical cur-
riculum, and they founded rival colleges less committed to the Oxbridge
model.
The University of Edinburgh provided the institutional model for
McGill College and University in Montreal, and for Dalhousie College
21 D. Fleming and B. Bailyn (eds.), The Intellectual Migration: Europe and America, 1930–
1960 (Cambridge, Mass., 1969); L. A. Coser, Refugee Scholars in America: Their Impact
and Their Experiences (New Haven, 1984); H. Lehmann and J. Sheehan (eds.), An
Interrupted Past: German-Speaking Refugee Historians in the United States After 1933
(Washington, DC, and Cambridge, 1991).
22 The influence of the German model on the Italian and Russian universities is dealt with
in chapter 2, 66–8, 70–2.

175
Edward Shils and John Roberts

at Halifax, Nova Scotia, which was founded in 1818 and became Dal-
housie University in 1841. Both institutions had troubled early histories.
McGill had been created by royal charter, the usual British legal device in
1821, but with its initial endowment tied up in court battles, it did not
accept students until 1843, except in the medical school, which had been
loosely affiliated with the university since 1829. With the support of Mon-
treal’s merchant elite, McGill went on to become one of the larger and
wealthier institutions in Canada, growing partly by developing affiliations
with other institutions in Montreal and across Canada. These included
four Protestant colleges in Montreal, their arts students obtaining degrees
by sitting McGill examinations; Macdonald College in St Anne de Belle-
vue; McGill University College of British Columbia; and Victoria Col-
lege in Victoria, BC. King’s College, Toronto, received its royal charter in
1827. An Anglican college on the Oxford model, King’s drew the oppo-
sition of rival denominations and their own colleges in Upper Canada
(Ontario). In 1853 King’s was relieved of its denominational affiliation,
renamed University College, and reconstituted as the teaching-arm of the
newly created University of Toronto. The University of Toronto quickly
went on to become the largest institution of higher learning in Canada.
It grew partly by federating itself with other colleges and professional
schools in the Toronto area as an examining and degree-granting body.
This institutional pattern, much more common in Canada than in the
United States, reflected the influence of the University of London. How-
ever, some of its patterns of government continued to reflect Oxford influ-
ence. Toronto borrowed the Oxford practice of electing the chancellor by
vote of the convocation which included all graduates. The jurisdiction of
the Senate was extended to all branches of the study of literature, science
and the arts, and to the granting of the privilege of affiliation. The Uni-
versity of Toronto also led Canadian institutions in developing research.
Mathematician James Loudon (1841–1916), President of the University of
Toronto from 1892 to 1906, admired the German system of higher educa-
tion and in 1898 introduced a research-orientated Ph.D. programme. His
successor, theologian and classicist Robert Falconer (1867–1943), Presi-
dent from 1907 to 1932, further developed graduate studies, mostly on
the American institutional model, in part to limit the brain drain towards
US graduate schools.23 McGill closely followed Toronto in developing
research and graduate studies and became Canada’s leading centre for
research in the natural sciences and medicine.
Higher education in Canada’s francophone community followed
French continental models. In 1852 the French-speaking Grand séminaire,

23 P. N. Ross, ‘The Origins and Development of the Ph.D. Degree at the University of
Toronto, 1871–1932’, Ph.D. diss. University of Toronto, 1975.

176
The diffusion of European models

founded in the city of Quebec in 1663 by Bishop Laval, became the Univer-
sité Laval, whose curricula, degrees and structure were influenced by the
models of European Catholic institutions of higher learning and French
universities. The Province of Quebec already possessed thirteen classical
colleges, the upper forms of which educated students of early univer-
sity age, and the new university quickly developed an agreement with
five of the colleges to accept their graduates. In 1876 Laval founded a
branch-campus in Montreal, although students had to sit for exams at
the Laval University in Quebec. Laval also became affiliated in 1887 with
the École polytechnique, founded in 1874, and later with schools of vet-
erinary medicine (founded 1886), dentistry (founded 1894), pharmacy
(1906), and the Institute of Agriculture (1908).24

latin america
Although little practical or immediately visible difference was made to the
universities of Latin America at the end of the eighteenth and beginning
of the nineteenth centuries by the upheaval of wars of independence, they
underwent a great change in principle. In varying ways, and at varying
speeds, new states came into being to replace the Spanish and Portuguese
Empires. The universities of the southern continent, though, had been
organically and intimately linked to the ancien régime; they were all foun-
dations emanating from Church or state, existing by virtue of those agen-
cies’ decisions. Revolution and independence implied the dismissal of the
founding state from the scene. The authority of the Church survived over
its own universities, but was significantly modified in its freedom to act by
the consequences of decolonization. There came to an end a long tradition
of mutual interdependence and co-operation between lay and ecclesias-
tical authority (though one somewhat weakened in the last half of the
eighteenth century, as the influence of absolutist modernizing and secular
policies began to operate in Spain itself), and there were some important
institutional and ecclesiastical changes. Some of these (the dissolution
of the Society of Jesus, for example) had come about even before inde-
pendence, thanks to the operations of absolute monarchy; some arose
directly or indirectly from the French Revolution (the ultimate regulat-
ing power of the ecclesiastical universities, for example, disappeared with
the abolition of the Spanish Inquisition in 1808). More significantly still,
and in the longer run, the legal position of the Church would change

24 P. Axelrod, ‘Higher Education in Canada and the United States. Exploring the Roots of
Difference’, Historical Studies in Education, 7, 2 (1995), 141–75; R. S. Harris, A History
of Higher Education in Canada 1663–1960 (Toronto, 1976); A. B. McKillop, Matters of
Mind: The University in Ontario 1791–1951 (Toronto, 1994).

177
Edward Shils and John Roberts

further as the new national states took up more anti-clerical attitudes and
policies.25
Interestingly, though, this development itself displayed much continu-
ity with the past. Many Latin American politicians and administrators
were unwilling to abandon the old regalian principles, which had never
been more clearly expressed than in the patchy but nonetheless effec-
tive imposition of ‘enlightened’ ideas on the universities in the last pre-
revolutionary decades and the foundations of new royal universities at
that time. Government had never counted for more in the Latin Amer-
ican universities than at the end of the ancien régime. The innovations
then made – notably the adoption (even in ecclesiastical universities) of
Spanish as the language of instruction and changes in curricula which
reflected the ‘enlightened’ and ilustrado thinking of the ministers of Carlos
III who looked to France for intellectual leadership – made it clear that the
universities were regarded as institutions to be regulated to serve public
ends, and not to serve autonomous purposes of their own.26 The impact
of European models in Latin America was, therefore, very visible in its
latest form in the universities at the time of independence. Not only did
their curricula and personnel constitute a substantial and material legacy
to the new order, but the last secularizing and ‘enlightened’ phase of the
ancien régime had already somewhat prefigured some aspects of what was
to be more strongly marked in the future; the republics had no intention
of giving up the old patronato of the monarchy.
At first sight, indigenous Latin American thinking about universities
in the nineteenth century, and even down to the Great War of 1914,
was exiguous. In so far as broad concepts and general ideas were con-
cerned, university development still tended to take its inspiration from
Europe. As under the ancien régime, there was a continuing assumption
that higher educational institutions should before all else provide soci-
ety with an adequate supply of professionally trained specialists; this,
though, was now to be expressed in administrative forms derived from
the Napoleonic models of France and the establishment of specialized
schools for this task. Another influence, less closely defined, was that of
Positivism. It tended to stress the general educational role of the univer-
sity in the shaping of personal outlook and character, and therefore of
national identity and culture, in an anti-religious, materialistic sense. The
French cultural ascendancy which stood in the background of both of

25 These generalizations, like most of what follows, apply for the most part to universities
in the former Spanish territories. The special case of Brazil is dealt with as a separate
topic.
26 Mario Gongora, ‘Origins and Philosophy of the Spanish American University’, in J. Maier
and R. W. Weatherhead (eds.), The Latin American University (Albuquerque, 1979), 43–5
and passim.

178
The diffusion of European models

these trends again recalls the concerns of eighteenth-century afrancesados


in Madrid; the revolutionary years brought only a brief interruption of
French influence in Latin American culture. The specific French impress on
Latin American universities was to remain strong and very visible until
well into the twentieth century; British and North American influences
had much less impact, and less still had the German model of the research
university. That the special local conditions in which the French assump-
tions would operate might imply a need for more sensitive awareness of
the Latin American context and circumstances was not grasped until the
end of the nineteenth century.
French ideas played in the first instance on the institutions left behind
by the colonial era and later on new facts and circumstances thrown up
by the politics and social developments of individual countries. In this
context, though, and, some would say, even today, the roots of what
became the uniquely politicized university world of Latin America can be
seen to lie in attitudes and assumptions of the ‘enlightened’ phase of the
ancien régime. Setting aside ideology, though, the practical and material
legacy of the colonial period was unpromising. There were indeed some
25 universities in Spanish America at the beginning of the nineteenth cen-
tury, mainly in Mexico (eight) and Peru (four), with three in Colombia
and three in Argentina, but no single institution among them could be
regarded as distinguished, except, perhaps, by antiquity.27 The scene con-
trasted strongly with the blossoming variety and comparative wealth of
the North American world of colleges and universities. University staffing
had been badly weakened by the closure of Jesuit institutions and the
expulsion of Jesuit teachers. Other ecclesiastical institutions had by no
means fully repaired this damage before the Society was reconstituted in
1814 and able to resume its efforts in South America.
In so far as a general political or administrative tendency in higher
education can be discerned across the new American nations in the nine-
teenth century, it was one which undermined or neglected (and some-
times even abolished) existing universities. Instead, new academies and
institutes were created for the study of specific aspects of the humanities
and science (and predominantly these reflected the traditional prestige
of literary and philological study rather than the natural sciences). Oth-
ers provided professional training.28 Also important were the escuelas
normales which were set up in some countries, the teacher-training insti-
tutions which, notably in Mexico and Argentina, came in fact to serve in
a measure as general post-secondary schools for the talented poor, and
27 See vol. II, chapter 6, pp. 262–6.
28 The vigour with which these were encouraged should not be exaggerated: the School of
Mines in Ouro Prete ‘founded’ in 1832 which later became the Scuola Nacional de Minas
e Metallurgia da Universidade do Brasil, did not open its doors until 1876.

179
Edward Shils and John Roberts

so fulfilled a small part of the university role. Attempts were made to


ensure that these heterogeneous bodies were at least in theory and form
co-ordinated and centralized so as to express something of the Napoleonic
idea of the university. Another outcome was the confining of research to
non-university bodies. The new arrangements were the creatures of public
authority, possessing little or no autonomy. In the process, the old univer-
sities, where they survived, were sometimes reduced to mere degree-giving
bodies. They were almost always identified, though, with the new goals
of creating national identity and culture, and marched under the ban-
ners of anti-clericalism and positivism. In the twentieth century, the state
became more positively interested in them, and by no means always as a
benevolent patron.
The pervasive influence of positivism, while often confirming existing
anti-religious attitudes, did little in Latin America to promote change
of a truly innovatory or radical kind. Indeed, by antithesis it may even
have helped to provoke a counter-current which was itself to prove the
bearer of innovation, the appearance of the private university. Most of the
constitutions of the republics professed liberalism and religious liberty;
this could be taken advantage of by the Church, some saw, to found
new universities of its own. The first of them was set up at Santiago de
Chile in 1888. The private universities’ heyday, it is true, was not to come
until the second half of the next century; only then would a vigorous
growth of private universities begin. Nevertheless those few that came
into existence before 1939 represented a significant alternative principle
in higher education. They also reflected, of course, yet other influences
from Europe, this time from Catholic universities there which had taken
in the nineteenth century a more ultramontane and defensive stance vis-
à-vis government than in the past.29
The introduction of change into national higher education systems was
driven by different circumstances and with different degrees of urgency in
different republics. Chile was notably early in getting under way. In 1842
the University of Chile at Santiago was set up by a lawyer and statesman,
born in Venezuela, Andrés Bello (1791–1865), on the basis of a former
university of the colonial era; structurally reflecting Napoleonic institu-
tions, his ambitions were nonetheless to create an institution capable of
contributing significantly through research to the well-being of the new
nation. Later the Chilean Istituto Nacional was set up as a national centre
of education, overseeing all kinds of teaching institutions in a fusion of
colleges with other organizations, including a seminary and a mission-
ary school of Indians. Uruguay had a national university from 1849;

29 See chapter 10, 397.

180
The diffusion of European models

this, too, was a co-ordinating structure on Napoleonic lines. Mexico


was a very special case, particularly characterized by a struggle for the
domination of education by lay and clerical contenders which began as
early as 1830. At one time, the ancient colonial university was abolished,
but quickly revived under conservatives. The new National University of
Mexico which was founded in 1910, a year of revolution, was a deliber-
ate ideological evocation of the centenary of another revolutionary act,
that of the grito de Dolores which had begun the war of independence
itself. The university was to become in the 1920s a notable and conscious
embodiment of the idea of the university as a creator of nationalist self-
consciousness and perhaps the most successful of many experiments in this
respect.30
Brazil was a special case. She had never had a colonial university and
followed a very individual course towards independence. The removal of
the Portuguese court to Brazil in 1808 and the survival after its return to
Portugal of a monarchy there provided ties which lingered later than in the
new republics; Brazil had an emperor of the royal house of Braganza until
1889. Traditional cultural ties with Europe also remained strong, and for
most Brazilians who sought university education during the nineteenth
century, the Portuguese university of Coimbra continued as in colonial
times to suffice until the draw of Paris became stronger later in the cen-
tury. Such new higher education institutes as appeared in Brazil before
the monarchy gave way to the federal republic in 1889 were either basi-
cally schools of secondary education (of which the most celebrated and

30 See volume II of this History for the colonial period. From 1800 on new universities were
founded in Argentina: Buenos Aires 1821, Cuyo 1939, Litoral 1919, La Plata 1897,
Mendoza 1939, Santa Fé 1889, Tucumán 1912; Bolivia: Cochabamba 1832, La Paz
1832, Oruro 1892, Potosı́ 1894, René Moreno 1879, San Andrés 1830, San Simón 1832,
Santa Cruz 1890, Tomás Frias 1892; Chile: Católica de Chile 1898, Católica de Val-
paraı́so 1928, Chile 1842, Concepción 1920; Colombia: Antioquia 1801, Bogotá 1867,
Cartagena 1827, Cauca 1827, Medellin 1886, Pontificia Medellin 1936, Popayán 1827;
Ecuador: Central 1826, Cuenca 1867, Guyaquil 1867, Loja 1869; El Salvador: San Sal-
vador 1841; Haiti: Port au Prince 1944; Honduras: Tegucigalpa 1882, Mexico: Chiapas
1826, Coahuila 1867, Culiacan 1918, Durango 1860, Guerrero 1869, Guadalajara 1925,
Hermosillo 1938, Hidalgo 1869, Mérida 1848, Monterrey 1933, Morelos 1872, Nayarit
1925, Nuevo León 1933, San Luis Potosı́ 1826, Sinaloa 1874, Sonora 1928, Tabasco 1903,
Yucatán 1922, Zacatecas 1832; Nicaragua: León 1812, Managua 1812; Panama: Panama
1935; Paraguay: Asunción 1890; Peru: Agraria de la Molina 1902, Arequipa 1828, Inge-
nieria 1875, La Libertad 1824, San Agustin 1825, Trujillo 1824, Católica del Perú, Lima
1917; Uruguay: Montevideo 1849; Venezuela: Carabobo 1892, Los Andes 1810, Mara-
caibo 1891, Mérida 1805. See H.-A. Steger, Die Universitäten in der gesellschaftlichen
Entwicklung Lateinamerikas (Bielefeld, 1967); T. Halperin Donghi, Historia de la Uni-
versidad de Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires, 1962); M. Pacheco Gómez, La Universidad de
Chile (Santiago de Chile, 1953); G. I. Sánchez, The Development of Higher Education
in Mexico (New York, 1944); I. Leal, Historia de la Universidad Central de Venezuela
(Caracas, 1961).

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Edward Shils and John Roberts

probably the best was the Colegio Imperial de Pedro II, founded in Rio
in 1803) or academies and schools of particular disciplines. But proposals
for something more exalted were frequently aired, and in the course of
the nineteenth century parliament received and debated (though it did not
pass into law) many bills proposing various steps towards the creating of
a university. In his last speech from the throne even Dom Pedro II himself
acknowledged the need for a university in Brazil – and preferably two,
one north and one south.
Meanwhile, French cultural influence predominated in Brazilian society,
literary and academic life. Many private institutions appeared to provide
higher education. At last, in 1920 a University of Rio de Janeiro was set
up by the merging of existing academic institutions (a polytechnic, the
Rio School of Medicine and a private law school). To it was added the
first Brazilian faculty of philosophy, sciences and letters in 1930. By then
another university had been founded in 1927 at Minas Gerais. When dis-
cussion began of a third, in São Paolo, a delegation was sent, significantly,
to France, and in due course a group of distinguished French social sci-
entists came to Brazil and helped to prepare the university which opened
in 1934. Yet these often vigorous institutions still showed notable defi-
ciencies on the eve of the Second World War. Not until 1930 had any
course of higher studies in history or geography been available in Brazil
and graduate schools were not to appear there until the 1960s. Research
was still mainly confined to a few prestigious non-university centres and
private foundations.
Indigenous cultural thinking began to bear upon the Latin American
university more towards the end of the nineteenth century, when intel-
lectuals began to be concerned with the wakening of public opinion to
the question of Latin American identity as something distinct from a
compilation of European transplants. The Uruguayan José Enrique Rodó
published an essay, Ariel, which did not directly address questions of uni-
versity reform, but which raised two threatening images which have res-
onated ever since in Latin American academic life and debate: the threat
to the Ariel of Latin American culture and independence by Caliban, rep-
resented by the United States, and the danger of oligarchic capitalism.
These themes are still the stock-in-trade of university radicalism in Latin
America though, ironically, the majority of Latin American graduate stu-
dents who go abroad to take higher degrees now go to universities in the
United States.
There had been rumblings of discontent among Argentinean students
in the first years of the twentieth century and in 1918 these broke out
in the so-called ‘Reform’ movement; it began with a student rebellion
and the publication at the University of Córdoba of a famous Manifiesto
containing many of the ideas which had been circulating for years already

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among the students of Buenos Aires.31 There was a quick and sympathetic
response to this initiative, even at the highest level of government, which
suggests, perhaps (as does the rapid spread of interest in the Manifiesto
to Uruguay), that the location was significant; the river Plate region was
at that time where the most prosperous and stable societies were to be
found south of the Rio Grande, containing the nearest thing to a middle
class resembling those of Europe.32 Substantial urbanization had followed
the flourishing growth of an economy based on the export of primary
agricultural products, and Argentina and Uruguay both had better records
of governmental stability than many other parts of the continent. It was
hardly surprising that the University of Buenos Aires should soon adopt
some of the specific proposals set out in the Manifiesto. From this area
the Reform ideas spread, winning student adherence first in neighbouring
countries – Chile, Bolivia and Peru – and then further afield. In 1921 an
International Student Congress held in Mexico City brought them a little
notice even outside the continent.
The movement was to have protracted significance – it would be only
a venial exaggeration to say that most of the internal politics of the Latin
American universities since 1918 have been a long series of footnotes to
the Manifiesto – though its origins were particular and local. What hap-
pened at Córdoba owed little to outside influences. That city had a small,
traditional university whose professoriate was dominated by cliques and
an oligarchy of academic families. The result was inadequate teaching
and resentment of those who should have provided better. A few months
before the outbreak, too, there had been much feeling among the stu-
dents about an arbitrary closure of a student dormitory by the university.
In March 1918 medical students began to agitate for change and attracted
sympathetic notice by the national government in Buenos Aires. The pres-
ident himself accepted the Committee’s invitation to intervene. Only when
the university authorities then further bungled their own response did the
situation burst out of control.
The main characteristics of the Reform were a call for the promotion
of national identity and independence through the university (a demand

31 O. Albornoz, ‘The Latin American University at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century:
The Córdoban Movement and the Emergence of the Latin American Model of University’,
in O. Albornoz (ed.), The Latin American University Facing the 21st Century (New Delhi,
1994), 11–15; for further information see E. Garzon Valdes, ‘Die Universitätsreform
von Cordoba/Argentinien’, in H.-A. Steger (ed.), Grundzüge des Lateinamerikanischen
Hochschulwesens (Baden-Baden, 1965), 163–208, and Anhang I: Das Manifest von Cor-
doba (12.5.1918) Manifiesto de la Juventud Argentina de Cordoba a los Hombres Libres
de Sud-America.
32 At the turn of the century several local or provincial institutions of higher learning were
founded which became national universities in La Plata (1906), Tucumán (1914), Santa
Fé (1919).

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Edward Shils and John Roberts

not in itself new) and for resistance to imperialism – which meant the
influence of the United States and the threat it presented to Latin Ameri-
can culture. Thus far, it was an expression of the continuing indigenous
search for identity, both national and continental, pursued by many intel-
lectuals. As such it was by no means unwelcome to governments which
had been confronted with what looked often like aggression from the
United States in the years (1904–16) of the ‘Roosevelt Corollary’ to the
Monroe Doctrine and President Wilson’s vigorous promotion of democ-
racy and political morality in Central America. The Manifiesto was in
part also a reversion to old assumptions about the priority in education
of the character-forming process. Reformers showed strong anti-clerical
bias (expressing particular suspicion of the Jesuits) and argued that the
liberalizing of the university itself, the realization of its autonomy, and
the opening of its doors to greater numbers drawn from a wider spectrum
of the populace were all urgent requirements. Significantly, the part-time
professors who traditionally provided most of the teaching in Latin Amer-
ican universities (as they still do, because part-timers are cheap to hire)
were to give way to full-time staff promoted by merit, while students
were to be given a real part in the governance of the university. Such
reforms achieved, it was hoped that the university would truly become
the conscience of the nation. What is more, if that were achieved, then the
authors of the Manifiesto envisaged that each reformed university would
take its part in a network of liberal institutions spread throughout Latin
America, transcending national barriers. On the one hand, the students’
assertion of the importance of the autonomy of the university suggests
at first a return to ideas lying at its European roots. Yet in so far as this
expressed specific and positive discontent with things as they were, it was
also a rejection of what a specific set of European ideas had led to in the
Latin American universities. The ideas which had been taken for granted
in the nineteenth century had been taken for granted for too long, and,
the way their theoretical implications actually worked had produced the
inadequacies of the typical universities of the early twentieth century. It is
difficult not to believe that the true significance of Reform lay less in a pro-
gramme, than in its announcement of a new fact, the beginning of the era
of student politics in Latin America, and a new intensity of politicization
of the universities.
The Reform movement has never lost its fascination for Latin American
academic radicals. In this way too, though, it marks a new and indige-
nous departure in thinking about Latin American universities and not
just another borrowing of ideas from abroad. Its own ideas and slogans,
rather than influence from Europe and North America, were to provide
the background to the enlargement of old and the foundation of new uni-
versities in the 1920s and 1930s, in which greater sensitivity began to be

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The diffusion of European models

shown to local conditions and special needs than ever before, even if still
not enough. With this went a swing among political authorities towards
distrust of the new level of politicization in the universities, as expressed
in the student body, and even towards repression.
The balance sheet of achievement of the Latin American universities
may well not have seemed a very impressive one in 1939. The best scien-
tific research work in the continent was at that time still not being done in
them, but in the specialized institutions which contributed little to their
teaching; this was a reflection still of the original French influence. The
universities were, at their best, large-scale schools of higher education and
professional training, producing such specialists as the somewhat conser-
vative societies of Latin America required to fill the ranks of law (some
have characterized the old style of Latin American higher education as
the Universidad de Abogados), politics, medicine and other professions.
This they did in ways demanded by a narrow elite among often still pre-
dominantly rural and illiterate populations. Though much enlarged, the
majority had not broken through to democratic recruitment as envisaged
by the reformers (Peru’s seven universities had less than 4,000 students
enrolled in them in 1940 even if the University of Mexico was already
on its own way to its later huge expansion and the elaboration of its
connections with research institutes33 ).
The continent’s universities thus continued to contribute to the pro-
longed and exaggerated cult of the intellectual which pervaded Latin
American urban life, and they reflected the demographic weakness of the
urban middle classes. They displayed none of the pluralism of goals and
inspirations so vigorously expressed among North American universities,
nor could they tap major economic resources for their maintenance. The
Latin American university has been called ‘a plaything for an elite alien-
ated on its own continent’34 and if this is too harsh to be the last word
on it as the first half of the twentieth century began to draw to its close,
there is enough truth in it to be borne in mind as one turns to what should
have been a golden age of expansion in the second half of the twentieth
century, when demographic pressure, technological ambition, changing
views of what sort of elite society was required, and the stabilization of
politics all encouraged increases in numbers which transformed the scale
and the quality of what was provided.
33 H.-A. Steger, ‘Die Entstehung von “El Colegio de México”’, in Wirkungen von Migratio-
nen auf aufnehmende Gesellschaften, Schriften des Zentralinstituts für fränkische Lan-
deskunde und allgemeine Regionalforschung an der Universität Erlangen (Nürnberg,
1996), 119–32.
34 H.-A. Steger, ‘Universitätsgeschichte und Industriegesellschaft in Lateinamerika’, in Die
Universität in der Welt. Die Welt in der Universität, Schriften (Nürnberg, 1994), 45–
61; H. A. Steger, ‘The European Background’, in Maier and Weatherhead (eds.), Latin
American University (note 26), 89.

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Edward Shils and John Roberts

middle east
In 1939, the roster of modern universities – as distinguished from Islamic
seminaries – in the Middle East consisted of a number of separate faculties
in Iraq and Syria; two missionary universities and a number of separate
faculties in Lebanon; and one fully fledged university in Palestine.
The separate faculties in the Arabic-speaking lands were usually facul-
ties of medicine – often combined with pharmacy – law and humanities.
They had uncertain lives; sometimes their operations were suspended for
extended periods. Their essence as separate institutions, unconnected with
any other faculty, was a French idea, a product of the revolutionary and
Napoleonic reforms of higher education which abolished the universities
of the ancien régime. No other country in Europe possessed such institu-
tions. They were treated in France as step-children of the higher educa-
tional system. Their status stood in public esteem well behind the prized
creations of the state, the grandes écoles.35 But none of the countries of the
Middle East which provided higher education through separate faculties
had such a cluster of superior institutions in comparison with which the
faculties were, at best, second best. In Syria and Iraq, there were nothing
but faculties introduced by the Ottoman rulers.
IRAQ: In 1908, the Ottoman rulers of Iraq established a law fac-
ulty in Baghdad. This was the first secular educational establishment in
Mesopotamia. In 1919, the law faculty was placed under the control of the
Ministry of Justice; in 1926, it was transferred to the control of the Min-
istry of Education. It offered a four-year course. A teacher-training college
was founded in Baghdad in 1923, closed in 1931, but soon reopened. This
provided a two-year course for prospective teachers which was taught in
the evenings. In 1939 it was made into a four-year course. A medical school
was founded next, in 1927 in Baghdad. It provided a six-year course. A
school of chemistry and pharmacy followed in 1933. During the Second
World War, an École polytechnique opened in 1944 which was attached
first to the Ministry of Works and Communications and then to the Min-
istry of Education. Each of these schools awarded diplomas and degrees,
beginning with the Bachelor of Arts degree, and going up to doctorates
in philosophy and medicine.36 The government of Iraq was clearly not
content with the set of higher educational arrangements inherited from
the Ottoman Empire and commissioned various reports on the subject.
But nothing came of them. By 1945 there was still no university in Iraq.

35 See chapter 2, 34–5, 44–5.


36 Encyclopaedia of Islam, vol. II, 3rd edn (Leiden, 1965), s.v. ‘Djami’a’; R. D. Matthews
and M. Akrawi (eds.), Education in Arab Countries of the Near East (Washington, DC,
1949), 199–209; J.-J. Waardenburg, Les universités dans le monde Arabe actuel, vol. I
(Paris, 1966), 152–57.

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The diffusion of European models

SYRIA: Like Iraq, higher education in Syria began under Ottoman rule
with the foundation on Turkish initiative, in the case of a medical institute
in Damascus in 1901. By 1909, there were 40 students enrolled for its six-
year course. Turkish was the medium of instruction; the staff was made
up of professors recruited in Istanbul. In 1905 the Sultan had the name
of the Institute changed to the Imperial faculty of medicine. During the
First World War, this faculty was transferred to Beirut, to be installed in
the quarters of French Jesuits, who had departed. It ceased to exist in
1918, but by the time of its closing, it had trained 110 physicians and 152
pharmacists. In 1912 a school of law was created in Beirut, also taught
in Turkish by Turkish professors, with a five-year course. In 1914 it was
transferred to Damascus where it occupied the premises of the former
Anglo-Dutch School. In 1918 it went back to Beirut but shortly thereafter
ceased to exist. In 1913 an Arabic School of Law with a three-year course
of study had appeared in Damascus; in 1931, it acquired a four-year course
conforming to the German pattern of legal education.
In 1919 the formerly Turkish Imperial medical faculty was restored to
and complemented by a school of pharmacy, a dental school, a nursing
school and a school of midwifery. The medical school itself was renamed
the Arab School of Medicine and Arabic became the language of instruc-
tion although French professors in the school taught in French. In 1919,
the law school was reopened in Damascus. In 1923, the University of Syria
was established by a decree of the president of the Confederation of Syrian
States through the joining together of these two previously separate facul-
ties. Most of the teachers were Syrians, with a small admixture of French.
In 1929 an École supérieure des hautes études littéraires was established
by governmental decree. In 1929, it became part of the university, only to
be closed in 1933.37
LEBANON: Lebanese higher education underwent influences quite dif-
ferent from those exercised by Turkish ideas in Iraq and Syria. In Lebanon,
the inspiring ideas came from the United States and France, and were
in both instances religious. The first higher educational institution in
Lebanon, founded in 1789, was Ayn Warak, intended primarily for the
training of the higher Maronite clergy. It taught a wide variety of human-
istic subjects as well as theology and admitted lay students as well as
aspirants to ecclesiastical careers. French influence predominated. A Pres-
byterian seminary opened at Abrih in 1849.
In 1863, the Syrian Protestant College, supported by American and
British Protestants, received a charter from the State of New York. The
College opened three years later. It began as a college of arts and sciences in

37 Matthews and Akrawi (eds.), Education (note 36), 379–88; Waardenburg, Universités
(note 36), vol. I, 274–77.

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Edward Shils and John Roberts

the style of an American liberal arts college of the time. In 1867, it added
a medical school; in 1871, a school of pharmacy; in 1900, a school of
commerce; in 1905, a school for nurses; in 1910, it opened a dental school.
In 1901, the Syrian Protestant College had already a student body of more
than 600 and was by far the largest modern higher educational institution
in the region; its students came from all the main religious communities
of the Middle East, Muslims and Jews as well as the diverse Christian
communities. In 1910, it changed its name to The American University
of Beirut and became a secular institution. Women were admitted from
1924. It continued to be supported financially by American and British
Protestant bodies, and in 1929, founded an Institute of Rural Life on
lines shaped by the pattern of an American agricultural and mechanical
college.
Most teachers at the American University of Beirut came to be recruited
from the Middle East as Europeans and Americans who had been pre-
ponderant at the outset became a minority. The presidency was for a
long time held by Americans; the first president had been a missionary
but with time religious requirements for appointment, particularly for
teaching posts, were abolished. In internal government, as well as admis-
sion policy and religious requirement, the Syrian Palestine College and
the American University of Beirut paralleled closely the course of devel-
opment of American private liberal arts colleges. An independent board
of trustees appointed the president who was responsible to it. Academic
appointments were ultimately at the disposition of the board of trustees,
but they were usually made by the president and confirmed by the board.
Down to the Second World War there was no effective self-government
by the staff. Except for the greater emphasis in its teaching on Arabic and
Islamic subjects than would have been found in a liberal arts college in the
United States, the American University of Beirut was an American college
set down in the Middle East. As such it was a significant force for the pro-
motion and acceptance of liberal ideals in the region. At the time, both
Muslim and Christian students appreciated it greatly. Publicists did the
same. Nevertheless, there was a sense of anomaly. Much as the American
University of Beirut was admired, its foreign medium of instruction
and its exogenous origin and support caused uneasiness even among its
grateful graduates.38
The other main higher educational institution in Lebanon was the Uni-
versité Saint Joseph, another foreign creation. Its origins lay in a Roman
Catholic seminary at Ghazir founded by Jesuits in 1850. A college was
added to the seminary, which became a pontifical university in 1881, when

38 Matthews and Akrawi (eds.), Education (note 36), 487–99; Waardenburg, Universités
(note 36), vol. I, 186–94.

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The diffusion of European models

doctorates in theology and philosophy were to be recognized by Pope Leo


XIII as possessing the same validity as those of the Gregorian University.
Although the Université Saint-Joseph was an ecclesiastical foundation,
the French Government, laic and anti-clerical at home, created in 1883
a school of medicine in agreement with the Jesuits who governed the
university. The legal relationship between the medical school and the uni-
versity is unclear; the French Ministry of Public Instruction granted it
the status of a faculty of medicine. In 1889, a faculty of pharmacy was
added and it was henceforth called the French faculty of medicine and
pharmacy. Its diplomas were certified by the ministry and in 1898 were
declared by the ministry to possess the same validity as French diplômes
d’état. Institutes of chemistry and bacteriology, of physiotherapy, cancer
research and treatment, schools of dentistry, midwifery and nursing were
added in the half decade following the end of the First World War. By then,
too, the Université Saint-Joseph had also inaugurated an observatory. In
1902 a Faculté orientale, in 1908 the Ecole supérieure de Commerce were
added.
In 1913, an Ecole française de droit and an École française des
ingénieurs were established as a part of the Université Saint-Joseph by
agreement between the Beirut Jesuits and a group from Lyon formed by
their city’s chamber of commerce and a number of professors at its uni-
versity. This Association Lyonnaise pour le développement à l’étranger de
l’enseignement supérieur et technique had taken the initiative in 1911 and
again in 1912 to visit Lebanon and to investigate the possibility of provid-
ing higher education there under its auspices. 1913 brought an agreement
with the Jesuits. They organized and administered the French faculties, the
Association and the French Government took the financial responsibility.
Teachers were appointed by joint decision.39
The faculty of law extended its scope; it taught private law at first,
then it added public law and political economy. When France became
the mandatory power, the French Government considered the possible
foundation of a new university. By 1925, it came to the conclusion that
it should not proceed but should instead continue to collaborate with
the Université Saint-Joseph, supporting it financially. Apparently some of
the financial support for the faculties was paid directly to them and not
through the university, but whatever the channel of payment, the funds
came ultimately from the French Government. It is interesting that the
French Government used the nineteenth-century French model of separate
faculties, perhaps in order to avoid any interference by the Jesuit university
government, although it had renounced this model, at least in principle,
in 1891 as far as France was concerned.40

39 Waardenburg, Universités (note 36), vol. I, 471ff. 40 See chapter 2, 56.

189
Edward Shils and John Roberts

PALESTINE: The Hebrew University of Jerusalem which was estab-


lished in 1924 adhered to no single national model although British
provincial and German influences predominated, while its first president
was an American rabbi. It was devoted to the proposition that both teach-
ing and research should flourish within it, and its founders believed no
less unswervingly in academic self-government and freedom of teaching.
Its early appointments of academic staff brought Germans and Britons to
senior positions. When the National Socialists came to power in Germany,
other distinguished German scholars were appointed there, accentuating
the tone of the German university at its best.41
The constitutional form of the Hebrew University, though, remained
British. There was no dependency on any ministry to confirm its appoint-
ments. Great Britain, the mandatory power in Palestine, abstained from
any intrusion into the affairs of the university, although it looked upon
it benevolently and gave it its patronage. The pattern of a lay govern-
ing body alongside an academic body was like that of provincial British
universities. The names of degrees which it conferred were taken from a
British list but the MA degree was, like the same degree in the American
universities of the time, awarded on the acceptance of a dissertation based
on research.
In substance, the university took as its proper field of action the full
range of disciplines of any German or British university of the 1920s,
though giving less prominence to technology than the British universities
and in this respect coming closer to the German pattern. In addition to
the fundamental scientific subjects of the European humanistic tradition,
it gave special attention to the religious and intellectual history of the
Jews and made substantial provision for Islamic and Middle Eastern stud-
ies. The medium of instruction was Hebrew. The result of the researches
conducted by its teachers in the fundamental sciences were published
in English for the most part, although until 1933 some were published
in German. In the subjects of local interest and for those interested in
Jewish studies (broadly conceived) Hebrew was the main language of
publication.
The Hebrew University of Jerusalem is probably the most successful
instance of the implantation of the Western European university model in
Asia in the period up to the Second World War. While it retained essential
fidelity to its model or models, it did not merely emulate them. It used
them as points of departure for its own distinctive course. It was sustained
by a firm academic ethic which was at first brought from abroad by its
teachers, and which they reaffirmed and reproduced in the activities of
teaching and research. Its financial support came from abroad, and the

41 Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. VIII (Jerusalem, 1971), s.v. ‘Hebrew University of Jerusalem’.

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The diffusion of European models

teaching staff in its first two decades had few Jews of Palestinian origin,
no Arab teachers and practically no Arab pupils. Judah Leon Magnes
(1877–1948), its first president, had hoped that the university would be
an institution through which Jews and Arabs could be brought together
through the common pursuit of scientific and scholarly truth, but this
hope was not to be realized.
In Haifa the Hilfsverein der deutschen Juden in Berlin, aided by gifts
from Moscow and New York, initiated in 1912 a technical high school,
the Technikum; but a struggle over the language of instruction – German
or Hebrew – delayed its opening. After the war, the Zionist Organization
acquired the property and from 1924 on the school developed as a tech-
nological university modelled on similar Central and Eastern European
institutions and taking the name of Technion.42

africa
EGYPT: The al Azhar university, the oldest in the world, dates from 970.
It was entirely an Islamic theological university until the present century.
Advanced secular education was provided in Egypt only in the nineteenth
century. In the first three decades of the nineteenth century, Mohammed
Ali (1769?–1849) sent more than 300 Egyptians to study in Europe, par-
ticularly France. The government and the military academies were then
responsible for the creation in 1827 of a medical school – to which schools
of pharmacy and midwifery were added in 1838, and a school of veteri-
nary medicine, of an École polytechnique in 1834, of a school of civil and
commercial administration and a school of language and translation in
1837, a school of technology (École des arts et métiers) in 1839. A law
school, granting degrees in law was founded in 1886. A school for train-
ing teachers of Arabic was established in 1871, a teacher-training college
(École normale) in 1880, a school of commerce in 1911, which became
part of the Egyptian university in 1925. Despite the presence of the British
in Egypt, the higher educational system was similar to the French model.
There was little thought of amalgamating these numerous schools into
a university until 1894, when a publication by Yacoub Artin Pasha (1842–
1919) in Paris put forward the idea of an Egyptian university. After much
public discussion, efforts were made to collect funds and in 1908 the
private Egyptian university came into existence. At first concentrating
mainly on humanities, history and classical literature and thought, and
social sciences, it acquired in 1914 a department of law. It awarded degrees
up to the level of the doctorate but they were not recognized by the state.
Instruction was in Arabic but it was given mainly by Europeans.

42 Ibid., vol. XV, s.v. ‘Technion, Israel Institute of Technology’.

191
Edward Shils and John Roberts

Governmentally supported and controlled schools and faculties


remained separate. Only in 1917 did the Ministry of Education form
a committee to examine the problem of organizing a public or state uni-
versity. It recommended that the existing écoles supérieures should be
brought together under a single administration. In 1923, the ministry and
the administrative council of the Egyptian University agreed that the lat-
ter should be incorporated into the new state university; this came into
existence in 1925 under the name of Fuad the First University. It had
four faculties; the faculty of arts was constituted by bringing together the
departments of letters of the Egyptian University and the parallel section
of the Higher Training College which had emerged in 1922 from the École
normale of 1880. The French influence prevailed in the faculties of law
and arts. British influence was dominant in the faculties of science and
medicine and later in the Polytechnique, which was incorporated in 1935.
In the same year, the schools of agriculture, commerce and veterinary
medicine were also taken into the university.43 A second state university
was established in Alexandria in 1942 as Faruk the First University. It
was made up of the faculties of arts, law and the polytechnic which, as
branches in Alexandria of the Fuad the First University, were already in
existence. To these were added by a decision of the ministry, faculties of
medicine, science, commerce and agriculture. However, not only French
and British traditions were at work in Egyptian higher education. The
American model of the liberal arts college appeared in Egypt with the
formation of the American University of Cairo. Planning for it had begun
in 1914; it was incorporated in the District of Columbia in the United
States in 1920. It had a board of trustees resident in the United States and
financial support coming mostly from the United States. In these respects
and in others, it strongly resembled the American University in Beirut.
It was almost entirely an undergraduate college but undertook advanced
work in a few fields. Its system of government was much like that of the
American University of Beirut or a private American liberal arts college of
the turn of the last century and its degrees were not recognized by the gov-
ernment of Egypt, although they were very well esteemed in Egypt and did
not disqualify those who held them from holding public appointments.44
SUDAN: The Gordon Memorial College opened in 1902 in Khartoum
was created by private initiative; it was supported financially by public
subscription of a fund of £100,000 in response to an appeal to form
a college in memory of General Charles George Gordon (1833–85), but
from the beginning it was jointly supported by private philanthropy and
the government of Sudan, the latter bearing most of the costs. It had a
board of trustees and an executive committee, with Queen Victoria as

43 Waardenburg, Universités (note 36), vol. I, 226. 44 Ibid., vol. I, 256–61.

192
The diffusion of European models

patroness. The principal was director of education for the Sudan, which
placed the college under the control of a government official. Its teachers
were civil servants. In 1934, the authority of its board of trustees was
transferred to the governor general. It was, in fact, scarcely a higher edu-
cational institution. At first it had attached to it a vocational school,
a school for training teachers and a technical or industrial school. It
had also a primary school but that was eliminated in 1924, when it
was decided by the government to turn the college into a secondary
school.
In 1924, the Kitchener School of Medicine was established in Khar-
toum. It had a governing authority similar to that of the Gordon College
but it was not amalgamated with it. Its principal was the director of the
Sudan medical services. At first the medical school granted only diplo-
mas. Beginning in 1940, graduates of the medical school sat for final
examinations for the diploma under the supervision of the two Royal
Colleges – of Physicians and Surgeons – in London. The possessor of
this diploma was then admitted to the formal examinations of the Royal
Colleges.
In 1936, a law school was created; it was attached to the legal depart-
ment of the government of the Sudan. The de la Warr Commission on
Higher Education in East Africa affirmed the intention of the Colonial
Office to create more professional schools. It also recommended that
Gordon Memorial College should become a ‘university type’ of institu-
tion and sooner or later, a full university. In 1938, a school of agriculture
and veterinary medicine was established; in 1939, a school of science and
technology; and in 1940, a school of arts. These schools were also sep-
arate from each other and from the Gordon Memorial College, but in
1942 they were linked together under a higher school’s advisory commit-
tee. In 1943, all these separate schools were amalgamated into the Gordon
Memorial College which thereupon became Gordon College. Its diplomas
were awarded by the University of London, which set the examinations,
appointed the examiners, and made arrangements for their assessment.
These specialized schools and their heir and later overlord, Gordon
College, were wholly British creations, teaching in English. They were to
a greater extent than in other parts of the British Empire, adjuncts of colo-
nial government. They were derived from British models by their subject
matter and the medium of instruction and became peripheral parts of the
British higher educational system in that the University of London exam-
ined their pupils and awarded its diplomas to those who were successful.
But with respect to their constitution and internal government, they were
remote from any British university model.45

45 Ibid., vol. I, 267–8.

193
Edward Shils and John Roberts

FRENCH COLONIES IN AFRICA: The policy of the French Third


Republic concerning school and university education in its colonies was
very timid, especially if compared to its brilliant and successful achieve-
ments in metropolitan France.46 Partly due to colonist pressure, the repub-
lican ideals about education as a way towards liberty and democracy were
left aside in the overseas territories: to enable the native populations to get
access to them was always presented as much too expensive and politically
dangerous. Even for the European families, it is true, the realizations were
modest. A decent network of primary and secondary schools, belonging
either to the state or to religious orders, was created only in the oldest
colonies (Algeria, Senegal) where the population of metropolitan origin
was numerous enough. But if they wanted to go to university, the sons of
colonial families had usually to come back to France, either to Paris or to
towns which had traditional overseas connections like Aix-en-Provence
or Bordeaux.
For the natives themselves, the educational opportunities were much
weaker. Where they already existed, traditional schools, like Koranic
schools and madrasas in North Africa, were preserved. Some primary
or ‘upper primary’ (primaire supérieure) schools, with French or native
teachers, were founded but their total number largely varied according to
the country. For secondary education, natives could just go to a few old
renowned colleges (like Moulay Idriss College in Rabat or Sadiki College
in Tunis) and to some lycées, where the sons of some worthy local fami-
lies were admitted alongside those of metropolitan descent. As regards the
opportunities for university education for native people, they were even
more reduced. A very limited number came to France to study mainly law
and medicine. In 1932, there were in metropolitan France less than 200
students from North Africa (mostly from Tunisia) and about twenty from
Black Africa and Madagascar. Yet, these figures were growing steadily and
in 1938 they had probably already doubled. The Association des étudiants
musulmans nord-africains, founded in 1927, became very quickly a centre
for anti-colonialist politics and a breeding-ground for future nationalist
leaders.
Overseas, the French university policy achieved but a very few con-
crete realizations. They were usually due to the personal energy of some
local government official. These colonial upper schools and universities
were more or less intended to give at the same time to young European
students the possibility to do (or at least to start) their university stud-
ies at home and to native students, belonging to a very restricted local
elite, to make their career in an upper position, generally connected with

46 Unless otherwise indicated, the following data and statistics are taken from J. Thobie
et al., Histoire de la France coloniale, 1914–1990 (Paris, 1990).

194
The diffusion of European models

some precise professional and technical expertise; finally, there could also
be the intention of supporting some specific fields of research, like local
archaeology, history or linguistics, anthropology or colonial medicine.
All the professors, with a very few exceptions, came from metropolitan
France.
In ALGERIA, the first institution for higher education was the ‘Prepara-
tory School of Medicine and Pharmacy’ (École préparatoire de médecine
et de pharmacie), founded in 1857.47 The 20 December 1879 law added
a faculty of law and ‘higher schools’ for humanities and sciences (Écoles
supérieures des lettres et des sciences). The first years of these schools
were not very successful: in 1889, there were fewer than 300 students
who had plenty of room in the huge ‘palais universitaire’ built in 1887
according to the pattern of the new French metropolitan universities. The
main point was that these ‘Écoles supérieures’ were not allowed to grant
university degrees (in particular, doctorates), so that their students had to
go to France to complete their studies; medical students, for example, usu-
ally went to Montpellier. In 1909 the Écoles supérieures were turned into
the four faculties (law; medicine and pharmacology; humanities (lettres);
sciences) of the newly constituted University of Algiers. It was shaped on
the metropolitan model, with just a few distinctive features. The faculties
did not have their own budget; there was just one budget for the whole
university and this budget was itself but a part of the general budget of
Algeria, except that the professors’ salaries were directly paid from Paris
by the Ministry of Education. In the same way, it was the Ministry too
which imposed upon the University of Algiers, as regards the curricula,
the examination system and the appointment of teachers, exactly the same
rules as in the metropolitan universities.
Between 1918 and 1939, several research institutes were created within
the University of Algiers. Some of them attained a good scientific reputa-
tion in various fields (Islamic law, Arabic and Berber languages, Roman
African archaeology), the Algiers Observatory, Institut d’hygiène et de
médecine coloniales, Institut de physique du globe, Institut de géographie,
Institut de recherches sahariennes, Institut d’urbanisme.
The numbers of students rose from 751 in 1910 to 1,870 in 1929
and 2,246 in 1939, the largest faculties being law (44 per cent of the
students in 1929) and medicine (29 per cent), far ahead of humanities
(16 per cent) and sciences (11 per cent). But one must also stress the fact
that it remained an essentially European university; still in 1939, there
were only 94 Muslim students (4.2 per cent).

47 On Algiers University: C. Taillart, ‘L’Université d’Alger’, in Histoire et historiens de


l’Algérie (Paris, 1931), 363–80; E. Guernier (ed.), Algérie et Sahara, L’Encyclopédie colo-
niale et maritime (Paris, 1946), 183–4.

195
Edward Shils and John Roberts

TUNISIA AND MOROCCO were just French protectorates; but the


French Government kept alive the old Islamic ‘universities’ of Tunis,
al-Zaytuna and Fez (al-Qarawiyyna). Both were connected with the great
mosques of the city; Islamic theology and law were taught there under
the supervision of the Tunisian and Moroccan authorities. Aside from
that, the French Government just founded some ‘Upper Schools’ (Ecoles
supérieures), not allowed to grant academic degrees which had to be taken
in Algiers or in France. In Tunisia were thus founded upper schools for
agriculture (1898) and Arabic language and literature (1911) and a centre
for legal studies (1922). In Morocco, an Institut des hautes Etudes maro-
caines was instituted in Rabat in 1912, devoted to the study of Arabic and
Berber languages, history, civilization and law;48 after 1914, this institute
was given the right to grant some kinds of ‘certificates’, ‘brevets’ and
‘diplomas’ of Arabic and Berber, which nevertheless were not recognized
as true academic degrees; during the year 1939, 198 such ‘certificates’,
‘brevets’ and ‘diplomas’ were conferred. In 1920, two schools of law
were established in Rabat and Casablanca, which got the authorization
to confer certificates of Moroccan legal and administrative studies and
even degrees in law which were considered equivalent to those granted
by the universities of Algiers or Bordeaux; in 1939, 63 such degrees were
conferred at Rabat, mostly to French students. Finally, in 1940, a centre
for upper scientific studies was created at Rabat too.
In Black Africa, France did almost nothing as far as university educa-
tion is concerned. We can just mention the schools of medicine founded in
Dakar and Tananarive after the First World War to train indigenous aux-
iliary physicians and pharmacists, alongside nurses and midwives. But
they just received a basic training and could not, of course, obtain the
title of doctor in medicine. From 1918 to 1931, the school of medicine
of Dakar seems to have produced 97 auxiliary physicians, 15 auxiliary
pharmacists, 150 midwives and 12 qualified nurses.49
SOUTH AFRICA: The first modern educational institution was The
South African College at Cape Town founded in 1829, initially a private
and proprietary primary and secondary school with a small university
section attached of modest quality. In 1857, it ceased to be a proprietary
institution and began to raise its academic standards. It was to become
the nucleus of the future University of South Africa and the next step in
this direction was the creation in 1858 of a Board of Public Examiners in
literature and science. This institution granted certificates which were of
degree level. In 1873 the Board of Examiners was abolished and a new
University of the Cape of Good Hope was constituted, which received

48 E. Guernier (ed.), Le Maroc, L’Encyclopédie coloniale et maritime (Paris, 1940), 159–60.


49 G. Peter, L’effort français au Sénégal (Paris, 1933), 298–300.

196
The diffusion of European models

its royal charter in 1873 and was closely modelled on the University of
London.50 The Huguenot University College in Wellington, founded orig-
inally as a seminary for girls in 1874, prepared women for examinations
set and assessed by the examining body at the University of the Cape of
Good Hope. In 1904 the Rhodes University College with laboratories for
physics, chemistry, zoology and botany was founded in Grahamstown.
Dutch-speaking citizens founded in 1866 the Stellenbosch Gymnasium to
which in 1874 was added a higher educational section which in 1881 was
recognized as Stellenbosch College. This was renamed Victoria College
on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s golden jubilee in 1887. It was the
forerunner of the University of Stellenbosch. In Johannesburg, the Uni-
versity of the Witwatersrand grew out of the South African School of
Mines which had come into being as the School of Mines in the diamond
city of Kimberley in 1896. It became in 1906 the Transvaal University
College and in 1910 The South African School of Mines and Technology,
ultimately attaining full university status in 1922.
As a result of Acts of Parliament passed in 1916 and 1921 South Africa
was provided with four universities: (1) The University of South Africa
(UNISA) in Pretoria which replaced in 1918 the University of the Cape
of Good Hope and had a federal structure embracing the University Col-
lege of the Orange Free State, which had grown out of Grey College
at Bloemfontein, founded in 1855; the Huguenot College for women at
Wellington; the Natal University College at Pietermaritzburg, founded in
1909; the Rhodes University College at Grahamstown, founded in 1904,
which had developed from St Andrew’s College that was started in 1855;
and the Potchefstroom University College formed in 1919 from the arts
division of the Dutch Reformed Church theological school which had
been founded in 1869.51 (2) The University of the Witwatersrand was
established in 1922 having grown through several guises out of the South
African School of Mines and Technology at Johannesburg.52 (3) The Uni-
versity of Stellenbosch replaced the Victoria College.53 (4) The University
of Cape Town, incorporated in 1916, was a unitary university from the
beginning.54 In 1930 the Transvaal University College in Pretoria which

50 A. P. Newton, The Universities and Educational Systems of the British Empire (London,
1924), 36.
51 Ibid., 73; University of Cape Town and University of the Witwatersrand: The Open
Universities in South Africa (Johannesburg, 1957).
52 B. K. Murray, Wits the Early Years: A History of the University of the Witwatersrand,
Johannesburg and its Precursors, 1896–1939 (Johannesburg, 1982).
53 H. M. Thom et al., Stellenbosh 1866–1966. Honderd Jaar Hoër Onderwys (Cape Town,
1966).
54 J. H. Louw, In the Shadow of Table Mountain: A History of the University of Cape Town
Medical School and its Associated Teaching Hospitals up to 1950, with Glimpses into
the Future (Cape Town, 1969).

197
Edward Shils and John Roberts

had been formed in 1908 from the departments of arts and sciences of the
Transvaal University College in Johannesburg, became the University of
Pretoria. All of the South African universities, except for the University
of South Africa, being a federal university, modelled on the University
of London, followed the model of the modern provincial English univer-
sities like Manchester.55 To these higher educational institutions should
be added the South African Native College, which had come into being
in 1916 as part of a Methodist educational complex and seminary close
to the town of Alice, and in 1951 became the University College of Fort
Hare.
By the end of the period under review, the universities of South Africa
were divided linguistically and sociologically into English-medium uni-
versities (Cape Town, Witwatersrand, Natal, Rhodes and Fort Hare) and
Afrikaans-medium universities (Stellenbosch, Pretoria, Orange Free State
and Potchefstroom). At eight of these institutions the student bodies were
predominantly white or of European extraction, with small numbers of
black African, ‘coloured’ and Asian students at the English-medium uni-
versities, while the students at Fort Hare were almost exclusively black
(Xhosa).56

south asia: india and ceylon


INDIA: In 1800 there were no universities in India, in 1939 there were
seventeen. India presents an instance of a diffusion of the model of the
European university into a society in which there was no indigenous tra-
dition of such a type of institution. There had once been in the remote past
a large and elaborate institution at Taksashila for advanced religious and
philosophical studies: by 1900 it had long ceased to exist, as had similar
far lesser institutions at Nalanda. During Moghul rule over India there
were many Muslim schools or madrasas, some of which were places of
advanced Koranic studies; none of them, though, could be regarded as
equivalent to a university.
The first institution in India offering higher education in European sub-
jects – as well as Indian subjects – was the Hindu College in Calcutta,
founded in 1817 by the initiative of David Hare (1775–1842), a British
craftsman settled in India, and a number of Bengalis, mainly religious
reformers and advocates, who desired that India should benefit from the

55 Newton, Universities (note 50), 105–6.


56 P. V. Tobias, The African in the Universities (Johannesburg, 1951). On the problems of
Apartheid in South African university education: Apartheid Medicine: Health and Human
Rights in South Africa (Washington, DC, 1990); M. Horrell, Bantu Education to 1968
(Johannesburg, 1968); H. W. van der Merwe and D. Welsh (eds.), Student Perspectives
on South Africa (Cape Town, 1972); P. V. Tobias, The Sixth Freedom, Edgar Brookes
Academic and Human Freedom Lecture (Pietermaritzburg, 1977).

198
The diffusion of European models

cultivation of Western science. The government, on the other hand, wished


to found a ‘Sanskrit college’ to teach traditional Indian subjects. Rammo-
hun Roy (1772–1833), the leading spirit of the reformist religious society,
the Brahmo Samaj, wanted a college which would teach ‘Mathematical,
Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Anatomy and other useful sciences’,57 the
teaching to be done by persons educated in Europe. The Hindu College
languished for about six years, until saved by the tenacity of Hare and a
few Indian associates who sought the financial support of the East India
Company. It responded favourably to their application. This was the first
official participation of the British in providing English-style higher edu-
cation in India. By 1828 the Hindu College had 436 students. The syllabus
included ‘natural and experimental philosophy, chemistry, mathematics,
algebra, Tytler’s Elements of General History, Russell’s Modern Europe,
with Milton and Shakespeare’.58 There followed after this the creation
of a number of new colleges teaching basic modern subjects, namely the
physical and biological sciences, mathematics, geography, history, and
European literature and languages – mostly English. In 1830 the Elphin-
stone Institution was founded in Bombay, the funds being raised by Indian
public subscription, and supplemented by a grant from the East India
Company. Neither Hindu College nor Elphinstone offered degrees. The
two colleges were financed mainly by Indian philanthropy and student
fees.
There were about 25 such colleges in India at mid-century. This reflected
a vigorous and continuing demand for higher education in modern scien-
tific and European subjects from the Indian mercantile and professional
classes, who were beginning to form a distinctive ‘modern sector’ in Indian
society. What sort of teaching the government of India and the provincial
governments should support had been much discussed in the British Par-
liament and governmental circles in India. Indian public opinion in the
‘modern sector’ was warmly in favour of instruction in modern European
subjects. Among the British, those known as ‘Orientalists’ were opposed
to British official promotion of higher education of Indians in modern
subjects, and wished to promote the cultivation of Hindu and Islamic
subjects by providing instruction in them in Sanskrit and Persian. Their
ideas were challenged by the ‘Anglicists’, most clearly in the crucial edu-
cational minute of 1835 by Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800–59), Law
Member of the Governor General’s council and President of the General
Committee of Public Instruction. Macaulay wrote disparagingly of ‘Ori-
ental learning’ – of which he said that the whole ‘native literature’ of India
57 Memorial to Governor-General, 11 December 1823, W. H. Sharp, Selections from Edu-
cational Records, vol. I (Calcutta, 1920), 101.
58 M. Sayeed, A History of English Education in India 1781–1893 (Aligarh MAO College,
1895), 26.

199
Edward Shils and John Roberts

was inferior to a ‘single shelf of a good European library’; but what he


said had enduring resonance and thereafter government policy in India
became the promotion of European science and literature through the
medium of the English language.59 Shortly afterwards it was decided
that the language of government business would be English instead of
Persian; and once this decision had been made, the demand of an edu-
cated Indian public for the provision of Western higher education became
even stronger. In 1854, Sir Charles Wood (1800–1885), President of the
Board of Control of the East India Company, issued a despatch on educa-
tional policy. It included provision for modern universities in India. Three
were opened in 1857, the year of the Mutiny, in Calcutta, Bombay and
Madras, with public funding, and were constituted along the lines of the
University of London.60
Their most fundamental feature was the use of the English language
as the medium of instruction. This created a very strong bond of affin-
ity between the new Indian universities and their later affiliated colleges
on the one hand, and certain British models on the other. The similari-
ties of the syllabuses in India and some British universities were greatly
facilitated by the identity of language. The new universities were ‘affil-
iating universities’, and were to teach no students; all teaching was to
be done in affiliated colleges. The model was the University of London,
to which University College London and King’s College were affiliated.
London University was the examining, degree-awarding authority, teach-
ing was done in the constituent colleges. There was also some resemblance
to the pattern of Oxford and Cambridge, where most teaching was car-
ried out in the colleges, while the universities conducted examinations
and awarded degrees. Through its administration of examinations and
its consequent influence on the syllabus, the university was to assure the
maintenance of uniform and presumably high standards of teaching and
learning.
Calcutta University had affiliated to it colleges dispersed throughout
Bengal, Bihar, Orissa, the United Provinces and as far westward as the Pun-
jab. Bombay University had affiliated to itself the colleges in the Bombay
Presidency; Madras University had its colleges in the Madras Presidency.
In 1882, in response to strong urging by eminent Indians, the University
of the Punjab was founded in Lahore, and in 1888 a fifth in Allahabad,
organized on the same pattern as the first three. The pattern was varied

59 Minute of 2 February 1835. See H. Woodrow (ed.), Macaulay’s Minutes on Education in


India (Calcutta, 1862).
60 B. T. McCully, English Education and the Origins of Indian Nationalism (Gloucester,
Mass., 1940; rpt. 1966), 131ff. A classic account of education during British rule in
India: S. Nurullah and J. P. Naik, A History of Education in India (Bombay, 1951).

200
The diffusion of European models

to some degree in the twentieth century, when unitary, teaching univer-


sities emerged, but they did not change the dominance of the affiliating
university model.
That this model was imposed on and persisted in India was not the
choice of Indians, who though anxious for ‘modern knowledge’ did not
specify the institutional form in which it should be presented. The imperial
government chose the form of an affiliating university partly on grounds
of cost. There were already three colleges in the three Presidencies of
Calcutta, Bombay and Madras, maintained at what was considered to be
high cost by the provincial governments. The central government saw no
need and no financial practicability to create three teaching universities at
its own expense. However it did not seem feasible to give the existing Pres-
idency colleges the status of universities; and there were already in exis-
tence a considerable number (c. 50) of non-governmental colleges which
the government recognized were satisfying a growing demand for edu-
cation. Sceptical about their teaching standards, the government thought
it desirable to maintain some control over them. Officialdom was very
sensitive to costs, partly because many British officials were utilitarian in
varying degrees. A utilitarian disposition may also have helped to turn
thinking to the London model, as University College London was to a
large extent a creation of utilitarians. Oxford and Cambridge were not
thought suitable as models, though many Indians were in due course to
attend them. At that time, they were in relatively poor repute: their syl-
labuses were old-fashioned by comparison with new British and Scottish
universities, and they had religious requirements for election to fellow-
ships and for admission to degrees whose imposition would have disqual-
ified non-Christian Indians. They were also very costly, although they
received no public funding. However, the colleges of Oxford and Cam-
bridge were to some extent models for some of the British missionary
colleges in India. Scottish universities might have appeared to have been
more suitable models for India because they were not so narrowly concen-
trated on classics, were open to all classes in society and had no religious
requirements, but they were teaching universities. They might have been
good models if it had been thought feasible to turn the Presidency col-
leges into universities, allowing them to grant degrees. But this would have
left the private colleges uncontrolled and the government did not favour
this.
In the ensuing 80 years, the number of private colleges also increased
vastly, founded by Indian and European educationalists and philan-
thropists. For example, between 1881–2 and 1901–2 the number of
English arts colleges rose from 63 to 140, and their pupils from nearly
5,500 to over 17,000. By the turn of the century a substantial majority of

201
Edward Shils and John Roberts

these colleges were private institutions.61 Some were of a good intellectual


standard. Among them were those founded by British missionary societies,
some of which, like Wilson College in Bombay and Scottish Church Col-
lege in Calcutta, were Presbyterian, and like St Stephen’s College in Delhi
were Anglican; Madras Christian College was also founded by missionar-
ies. Roman Catholic missionary colleges multiplied too; several of them,
such as St Xavier’s College in Bombay and others of the same name, were
Jesuit colleges. Despite their diverse Christian inspirations, these colleges
all taught the full range of Western subjects according to the syllabus
approved by the universities to which they were affiliated. Many of their
European teachers were clergymen, some members of religious orders,
generally well educated and committed to high teaching standards. Unlike
University College London and, to a lesser extent, King’s College London,
which were sites of important scientific and scholarly research, Indian col-
leges and universities did not usually expect their teachers to do research,
and few did. The colleges, except for the main Presidency or government
colleges, depended largely on student fees; missionary colleges obtained
some support from their parent missionary societies. The provincial gov-
ernments provided meagre sums for the support of the universities but
did not, with the exceptions referred to above, give any support to the
colleges. To qualify their students for degrees, all colleges had to conform
to the requirements of the university in their syllabuses.
The University of London had two distinctive and separate layers of
university government, a lay governing body and an academic govern-
ing body. The lay governing body was self-recruiting, its members were
not chosen by the government. The Indian lay governing body, called the
senate, in contrast, was also the academic governing body. It was consti-
tuted partly through election by graduates but mainly by governmental
appointment, with only a small number of academic representatives. The
Indian government was always fearful of undesirable political influence
in the conduct of the affairs of the universities; no body of teachers was
provided in them to hold its own against senate and vice-chancellor over
academic matters.
Both government colleges and missionary colleges, but especially the
former, had strict criteria for the admission of students and appointment
of teachers. Teachers in government colleges had the status and tenure
of civil servants. Protestant missionary college teachers did not have this
security; those in the Roman Catholic colleges had, if they were members
of the religious order. The laymen who taught in the Protestant and Roman
Catholic colleges had no assurance of indefinite reappointments. In most

61 A. Seal, The Emergence of Indian Nationalism: Competition and Collaboration in the


Later Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1968), 22.

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The diffusion of European models

private colleges, teachers were very insecure and served at the pleasure of
the principal. The private colleges also had lay governing bodies who often
had little respect for a necessary difference between their own jurisdiction
and the academic sphere in the colleges for which they had responsibility.
Teachers in the private colleges were of varying quality, as there was no
clear method of appointment or prescribed qualification. Usually, they
were appointed by principals with the agreement of the board of man-
agement. Unless they also taught in ‘university courses’ for the degree of
Master of Arts, their appointments were not ‘university appointments’
and the affiliating university had no control over their appointment. The
Indian colleges, unlike the colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, were for
the most part autocracies; there was no institutional provision for the
voice of the teachers in the affairs of the college. Formally, no protection
for freedom of teaching and freedom of learning existed. Some teachers,
both in government colleges and, less frequently, in the missionary col-
leges, were distinguished scholars and scientists. But teaching was their
primary task; and certain administrative tasks were also expected of them.
Indian realization of the model of the University of London thus fell
short of the original. The University of London worked because it covered
colleges which did not need to be pressed to observe intellectual standards.
Their teachers already did so and to this extent the University of London
was superfluous. In India, even if some of the colleges might have wanted
to become independent of the university to which they were affiliated, the
pupils wished to have degrees; and the power to award degrees could not
be delegated, it was believed, without a marked failing off of standards.
If the degrees were to be worthy of acknowledgement, they had to be
awarded by responsible institutions. In India, outside the Presidency and
the best missionary colleges, the appropriate institutions, the private col-
leges, were weak and the university could not undo the injurious influence
of boards of management little concerned with the quality of teaching and
learning. It could however determine the syllabus and set and assess the
examinations. These three activities, which determined whether a candi-
date was awarded a degree, were performed by teachers from the colleges
and outsiders selected by university administrators of whom the registrar
was the most powerful.
The university imposed on its affiliated colleges courses of study leading
to degrees similar to those of London. The subjects were mainly the same
subjects as those taught and studied in the London colleges except that
there was a small admixture of ‘oriental’ subjects, notably the Sanskrit and
Persian languages and some texts. The variety of subjects which students
could study for a degree was none the less wider than those formally avail-
able in Oxford or Cambridge in the 1850s. The college taught, through
lectures and classroom recitation, the methods practised in the University

203
Edward Shils and John Roberts

of London and in the Scottish universities. There were occasional efforts


at tutorial instruction like that of the ancient English universities, but this
model was seldom realized because teachers had heavy burdens of routine
classroom instruction.
Low degrees awarded were of the level of the English Bachelor degree.
Some colleges also came to offer instruction, in accordance with the reg-
ulations of their respective universities, leading to the Master’s degree.
No provisions were made for degrees to be awarded following submis-
sion of dissertations based on research. The first major step to introduce
postgraduate studies and research in the universities was only taken in the
second decade of the twentieth century by Sir Ashutosh Mookerjee (1864–
1924), a distinguished mathematician, judge of the high court in Calcutta,
and vice-chancellor of the University of Calcutta (1906–14, 1920–23).
Although India had already produced a handful of distinguished scientists
and scholars, they were largely self-taught. There was no provision to train
them in methods of research or to provide supervision by teachers who
had themselves done research. Sir Ashutosh was able to bring about at
Calcutta a revision of statutes to permit advanced training along the lines,
long established in Germany and at the time being realized in the post-
graduate departments at the modern British universities or in the United
States. Though it is likely that such developments were well known to
him, it is uncertain where Mookerjee discerned the model for his reforms.
He once referred to his desire to emulate the Johns Hopkins University.
After the reforms in Calcutta, other Indian universities began to provide
teaching at the postgraduate level. The members of staff for such teaching
were appointed directly to the university; a few were recruited from the
colleges’ teaching staffs.
In the twentieth century, some of the new Indian universities were
founded from their very beginning as ‘unitary universities’, teaching as
well as examining and degree-awarding institutions. Some of them possi-
bly encouraged members of their teaching staff to do research but time and
facilities for research remained extremely scanty. The continuing concen-
tration on teaching with little or no research was a consequence of poverty
but occasionally was justified as being similar to the pattern in Oxford
and Cambridge colleges.
Before research became normal in Indian universities, there were a num-
ber of governmental research institutions such as the Archaeological Sur-
vey of India, and private research institutions such as the Royal Asiatic
Society of Bengal62 and the Bandharkar Research Institute in Poona. These
institutions published reports, journals and monographs. The develop-
ment of postgraduate departments in the universities created a demand

62 See chapter 12.

204
The diffusion of European models

for Indian scientific journals. The University of Calcutta established the


Calcutta University Press to bring before a wider public the scientific and
scholarly work of Indian academics as well as translations of works on
Indian subjects. Within India all scientific journals and nearly all schol-
arly journals were published in English. Nevertheless, Indian scientists
and scholars continued to look abroad, not only for the directions in
which to focus their research but also for places of publication. Publica-
tion by a European publisher or in a European journal was highly prized.
So was attendance at European – above all, British – universities, whose
administration, teaching and research were regarded as superior to what
was locally available in the subcontinent.
Though the teachers in Indian colleges and universities were from the
very beginning mainly Indians, even in the missionary colleges and the
Presidency colleges, there were also numerous expatriate teachers, usually
European and mostly British, many of them making permanent careers in
India. Expatriates were common as professors in the universities and as
principals of the missionary and the Presidency colleges. Some continental
Europeans such as Aurel Stein (1862–1943) and Julius E. Jolly (1849–
1932) joined the Indian Educational Service as teachers in government
colleges in order to do Indological research in India.
Indians began to go abroad for studies from the 1870s onwards, almost
exclusively to England. Those who went to Oxford and Cambridge
were accorded high prestige on their return to India, even if they only
took another undergraduate degree there. After Oxford and Cambridge,
London drew most Indians. M. K. Gandhi, for example, studied at the Inns
of Court, while J. Nehru, India’s first Prime Minister, was an undergrad-
uate at Cambridge. The London School of Economics in the 1920s and
1930s was especially attractive to them, a few of them remaining in Eng-
land and never returning to India, while there was also a continuing flow
of Indians who sought legal careers by entering the Inns of Court, but few
of these had any connection with universities. In the last three decades
of the nineteenth century, young Indians who went to Great Britain to
study often did so with intention of preparing themselves for entry into
the Indian Civil Service. Later, and especially after the First World War, an
increasing number of Indian graduates of European universities, almost
exclusively British, entered the academic profession in India. Their par-
ticipation tended to reinforce features of the British university model in
Indian higher education.
Small numbers of Indian students, though, went to Germany because
they had political objections to placing themselves under the instruction
of Englishmen. A very few went to France. Not many went to the United
States, but among them, a small number stayed to make academic careers
in universities and colleges, usually of second rank. Before the Second

205
Edward Shils and John Roberts

World War, the United States and its universities had only just begun to
feature on the Indian intellectual horizon.
When the Americans who had studied in German universities in the
nineteenth century returned to the United States, they were usually deter-
mined to carry on and to advance from where they had left off in Ger-
many. The Indians returning from Britain had to deal with a situation
which was more difficult to relate to their own aspirations. They con-
fronted the tenacity of a pattern in which the university was remote from
its teaching staff; the teachers were scattered among numerous colleges
and were not effective in creating a national academic ethos. They had to
teach a syllabus over which they had very little influence because of the
constitution of the affiliating university. There was a further problem in
that the model of the implanted university was foreign to India, not only in
constitution and structure but also in much of the substance of what was
taught. Although the mathematical and physical sciences and a large part
of the biological sciences had a universal validity and relevance – though
they were not outgrowths of indigenous scientific traditions – other sec-
tions of the syllabus like history and literature were likely to appear
Euro-centric. The returning Indian scholars might appreciate its European
components, but also felt its anomalous character, especially when in the
twentieth century a nationalist movement gathered strength, claiming not
just political independence but a more truly ‘national’ system of education,
making use of the vernacular languages rather than that of the imperial
ruler.
Not all of the criticism of higher education in India came from nation-
alist politicians and journalists; it had its British critics, too. It was widely
argued that the university ought to be better adapted to Indian circum-
stances. It was difficult however to make desirable adaptations deliber-
ately and effectively. It was repeatedly contended that there were too many
young persons being graduated for a peasant society in which there were
not enough occupational opportunities for university graduates. Yet any
suggestion or implication of reduced opportunities produced a loud and
angry outcry of protest. A change in the medium of instruction towards
a wider use of Indian languages in university study seemed to be the most
feasible measure of adaptation. Many important reports on Indian higher
education between 1882 and 1917 invariably referred to the difficulties
of effective education of young persons in an alien language. The use
of English was often criticized, but even those who criticized it, except
for extreme nationalists, ended by accepting it because the alternatives
seemed to be impracticable.
In short, no one was satisfied with the state of the imported univer-
sity model, but constructive, imaginative and practical ideas about the
adaptation of universities to Indian circumstances were in short supply.

206
The diffusion of European models

British and Indian educationalists alike seemed unable to find a solution.


Among several efforts in the twentieth century to create ‘genuinely Indian’
universities was the Bengal National College, created during the period of
the Swadeshi agitation in 1907. It was short-lived, and a more substantial
and enduring achievement was the university created by the great liter-
ary figure Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941) at Shatiniketan in Bengal
in 1917. Even this notable experiment was an isolated exception to the
persisting norm. Indian universities thus continued to adhere to the mod-
els drawn from the British universities. But given the anomaly of an alien
curricular substance taught in an alien language, and the combination
of ultimate power with the intangibility and remoteness of the affiliating
university, it was difficult for the academic ethic to become implanted
in India. However, there were outstanding exceptions in the Presidency
colleges, leading missionary institutions and some Indian-run establish-
ments such as Fergusson College in Poona. But the provision of Indian
higher education had long-term and profound results beyond the purely
academic. Indian graduates were the creators of a new type of public
sphere, and a new public identity, which found political fruition at inde-
pendence in 1947. Further, as higher education was gradually opened up
to girls as well as boys in the twentieth century, gender roles were refash-
ioned and Indian women increasingly played an important role in many
more spheres of public life and the professions. The modern Indian polity
and India’s greatly changed society would have been impossible without
the experience, however anomalous and disputed, of higher education as
implanted by the British.
CEYLON: The first higher educational institution in Ceylon was
Queen’s College. This had developed from a secondary school, the
Colombo Academy, which had in 1859 become affiliated to Calcutta
University. Under a new name, the Royal College, it offered post-
matriculation instruction which in part prepared its pupils for the exter-
nal examination of the University of London. Medical education was
offered by Ceylon Medical College, founded in 1870. The college was
housed in buildings paid for by local benefactors. It was recognized as a
medical school by the Medical Act of 1886. A law college was founded
shortly after this. Other than in law and medicine, though, nineteenth-
century British and wealthy Ceylonese families who wished their children
to receive university education had to send them to Great Britain. The
professional and more prosperous mercantile classes made known their
desires for university education in Ceylon later than in India, and a Ceylon
University Association was only formed in 1906. Leading intellectual fig-
ures demanded the establishment of a university which would combine
the teaching of modern Western knowledge with traditional knowledge.
It was assumed that government must be the agent of such a foundation.

207
Edward Shils and John Roberts

The government for its part was neither obstructive nor enthusiastic. In
1912 it was proposed by a committee of the legislative council that a
university be established in a building of the Royal College. The First
World War intervened and nothing was done. After the war, the Ceylon
University College was established in 1921, affiliated to the University
of London which administered external examinations to the students of
Ceylon University College. Meanwhile, the demand for a full university
went on and the government accepted the proposal in principle. A draft
constitution was prepared in 1930. The University of Ceylon was finally
established in 1942. Like its predecessor, the University College, it was
entirely dependent on the government for its financial support.
An eminent British constitutional lawyer, Ivor Jennings (1903–65), had
become principal of the University College in 1940, and in 1942 became
the vice-chancellor of the university. He insisted that the new university
be both autonomous and unitary. In its arrangement for the exercise of
authority within the university, it resembled closely a modern British uni-
versity of the period between the two great wars. In its new quarters in
Peredeniya, it was said by one observer to be like ‘a Cambridge in the
Mahaveli’.63 But this was again a university on the British model. The
model, though, had undergone much development since the first Indian
universities were founded. There had been enough experience of affilia-
tion in India to provide convincing evidence that it ought to be avoided for
the future. Meanwhile the modern British universities had developed very
fruitfully and they provided both ideas and a new standard for aspiration
such as had not attended the birth of the Indian universities.

south-east asia
BURMA: The University of Rangoon opened in 1920 with six professors
and 829 students. It had two constituent colleges, the former Rangoon
College (renamed Government College in 1904 and University College in
1920) which began as a college department of the Rangoon High School
and became affiliated in Arts to the University of Calcutta in 1885; and
Judson College (known until 1918 as Baptist College) which was a foun-
dation of the American Baptist Mission and affiliated to the University
of Calcutta for ‘First Arts’ in 1895 and for the Bachelor of Arts degree
in 1909. Like the Indian universities, the colleges were created largely to
satisfy the demands of the small Burmese professional and commercial
classes for higher education, an additional impulse being the British colo-
nial government’s recognition of its duty to provide higher education for

63 K. De Silva, ‘The Universities and the Government in Sri Lanka’, Minerva, 15, 2 (Summer
1978), 251ff., quotation p. 254.

208
The diffusion of European models

its subjects. The medium of instruction was English, the majority of the
teachers of the university were European; there were a few Chinese, Indi-
ans and Burmese, and teaching methods and courses of study followed
the Oxford and Cambridge model (the University of Calcutta precedent
which was set up upon the model of the old London University when it
was an examining body only having been expressly avoided).64 The uni-
versity expanded, with a Teacher’s Training College of the University in
1930, while the Agricultural College and Research Institute of Mandalay
gained its status in 1938 and the affiliated Mandalay Intermediate College
(established 1925) was raised to degree status in 1948 (only becoming a
separate university in 1958).
The University of Rangoon was from the start regarded by its stu-
dents as imperialist and restrictive, and indeed the university’s opening on
1 December 1920 was boycotted in a protest which spread to schools
nation wide. As Burmese nationalists’ demands grew, there were in 1936
and 1938 two further strikes at the University of Rangoon whose highly
politicized Students’ Union leaders became architects of Burma’s indepen-
dence.65
MALAYA: In 1905 the Straits Settlement and Federated Malay States
Government Medical School was founded in Singapore. It was created on
the demand of the local Chinese population and was intended to train only
medical auxiliaries, but was the first modern higher educational institution
in what was then Malaya. Its name was changed to the King Edward VII
Medical School in 1912 and in 1926 its medical degree was certified by
the General Medical Council in London. In 1921 its name was again
changed to the King Edward VII College of Medicine. In 1928, Raffles
College came into existence, also in Singapore. It, too, was a response
to a demand by the Chinese educated class and became conjoined with
the College of Medicine. Both were British institutions. Raffles College
could not award its own degrees or diplomas; its students had to sit for
an examination set and marked by an examining body in the United
Kingdom. Their teachers were mostly British with a small percentage of
Chinese and the senior administrators British. The medium of instruction
was English, the subjects and the degrees and diplomas for which the
students were prepared were those of modern British universities, as were
the methods of teaching.66

64 H. Tinker, The Union of Burma, 4th edn (Oxford, 1967), 193.


65 Nyi Nyi, ‘The Development of University Education in Burma’, Journal of the Burma
Research Society, 47, 1 (June 1964), 11–57.
66 Chai Hon-Chan, Education and Nation-building in Plural Societies: The West Malaysian
Experience (Canberra, 1977); P. Loh Fook-seng, Seeds of Separation, Educational Policy
in Malaya, 1874–1940 (Kuala Lumpur, London and Oxford, 1975); R. Stevenson, Culti-
vators and Administrators, British Educational Policy Towards the Malays, 1875–1906

209
Edward Shils and John Roberts

THAILAND: King Chulalongkorn (1853–1910) had intended from the


late nineteenth century to create a university in Thailand for the training of
civil servants. He did not succeed in this but the Royal Pages’ School which
he founded in 1906 was converted to the Civil Service College in 1911.
This in turn served as the nucleus of the Chulalongkorn University which
was founded in 1917, on the pattern provided by British universities.
There were already in existence separate medical and engineering colleges
which were incorporated into the university. The new university included
a law school and a department of moral and political science. At first
the teachers were mainly foreigners, most of them British. Much of the
teaching was in English since there were in most subjects few textbooks
available in Thai, whether original texts or translations.
In 1933, a second university was founded, the Thammasarat Univer-
sity; it incorporated a previously separate law school dating from the
time of King Chulalongkorn. It had faculties of law, political science,
public administration, social work and arts but not of natural sciences or
technology. Despite the desire of the founders to avoid excessive attach-
ment to any single European country and to its university model, the
Thammasarat University bore a closer resemblance to the pattern of the
London School of Economics than it did to any of the continental institu-
tions specialized in the social sciences. Like the University of London, it
admitted external students to its examinations and degrees. It also drew
some inspiration from the École libre des Sciences politiques in Paris; its
aim was the education of a modern ruling class.
The third university, the Kasetsart Agricultural University, formed at
Bang Kaen during the Japanese occupation in the early 1940s, was
an amalgamation of various departmental training schools for officials
working in fisheries, agriculture and forestry and was modelled upon the
American agricultural and mechanical college. It was less dependent on
governmental financial support than the other universities since it received
the revenue produced by its forestry concession as well as by the sale of
its agricultural products.67
INDO-CHINA (CAMBODIA AND VIETNAM): Indo-China, where
a strong local tradition of school education existed, was decently pro-
vided with schools: in 1932, 92 per cent of the townships of Cochinchina
(South Vietnam) got a school. In 1932, there were 21 lycées (among which
three for girls), with 4,800 pupils. Some went to France to study mainly
law and medicine. The first association for colonial students in Paris

(Kuala Lumpur, London and Oxford, 1975); S. Kanagasabai et al., Studies in Malaysian
Education, An Annotated Bibliography (Kuala Lumpur, 1980).
67 B. A. Batson, The End of the Absolute Monarchy in Siam (Singapore, 1984), 78; D. K.
Wyatt, Thailand: A Short History (New Haven, 1984), 228; J. A. Stowe, Siam Becomes
Thailand: A Story of Intrigues (Honolulu, 1991), 76, 85.

210
The diffusion of European models

was the Association mutuelle des Indochinois, founded in 1926 and an


Indo-China House was opened within the Cité universitaire of Paris for
Indo-Chinese students in 1931.
The only innovative university foundation in the French colonies was
the University of Hanoi in Tonkin (1917), mainly because it was the only
one really open to the indigenous population.68 A first attempt had taken
place in 1907, in order to counterbalance the attraction of Indo-Chinese
students towards Japanese universities, but it had to be closed as early
as 1908 because of students’ nationalist unrest. The true founder of the
University of Hanoi was governor general Albert Sarraut (1872–1962).
While abolishing the old system of mandarin examinations, he expended
great energy in developing and modernizing the whole educational system
of Indo-China. The University of Hanoi received native as well as French
students. Students’ halls of residence were built as soon as 1920. Eight
faculties or institutes were planned (law, medicine, veterinary school, engi-
neering, agriculture, etc.) within which Indo-Chinese fine arts and oriental
medicine would be taught alongside European sciences; but in 1931, due
to lack of money, only law, medicine and fine arts were actually taught.
In 1934, the University of Hanoi became a complete French university
and its upper schools or faculties were granted the right to confer degrees
in sciences and even doctorates in law or medicine. Lectures were given
both in French and Vietnamese. The standard of teaching and examina-
tion seems to have been rather good, as it was also in the lycées of the
same colony.
For the colonial bourgeoisie, the University of Hanoi was a dangerous
innovation, even if it remained unsatisfactory in the eyes of the nationalist
movements. It was nevertheless the most original achievement of the Third
Republic university policy overseas, for it was the only one to take some
account of the local cultural and educational traditions and to try at the
same time to support the advancement and integration of the indigenous
elites.
INDONESIA: The Netherlands East Indies fell behind most of the
British and French colonial areas of South and South-East Asia in higher
education. Although Dutch universities had very important centres of
Indological and Sinological research – which included the study of all
aspects of life in Indonesia – and although a considerable amount of
research by Dutch officials, residents and visiting scholars was carried
out in Indonesia, there was no university in the Netherlands East Indies
until the very end of our period. There had been a movement to create
68 One must notice that in Indo-China as well as in North Africa, Senegal or Madagascar,
the first real attempts to promote some kind of higher education were closely linked with
the First World War during which indigenous troops were engaged in large numbers
on the European battlefields; it was a kind of compensation offered to these populations.

211
Edward Shils and John Roberts

a law school in 1909 but it was frustrated by the opposition of Dutch


lawyers in the colony. A faculty of law was nevertheless created in Batavia
in 1924, and faculties of medicine in Djakarta and Surabaja were estab-
lished in 1926 to replace the Netherlands Indonesian physicians’ school
of 1913 which had been opposed by Dutch physicians. An engineering
school at Bandung was established in 1920. Stimulated by the interrup-
tion of communication caused by the First World War, Dutch businessmen
as well as Indonesian had pressed for such an institution. It was at first
private but in 1924, the colonial government assumed responsibility for it.
An advanced teacher-training school had been established in Purworjedjo
(Java) in 1914 and the beginnings of a faculty of agriculture at Bogor.
Indonesians who wished to study physical and biological science, history,
social sciences, etc. had to go abroad, and, when they did, went mainly
to Dutch universities. Their numbers were small.69
It was only before World War II that plans had been made to set up a
university in Batavia, mainly on the basis of the three professional schools.
However, due to the outbreak of the Pacific War, in December 1941, these
plans did not materialize. The only new development was the foundation
of a Faculteit der Letteren en Wijsbegeerte (faculty of letters and philos-
ophy) which was officially opened in Batavia on 4 December 1940. The
plan to set up a university was again taken up after the capitulation of the
Japanese army, when the Dutch were making an – abortive – effort to re-
establish themselves in Indonesia, and it was effectuated by the foundation
of the so-called ‘Nood-Universiteit van Indonesia’ (Provisional University
of Indonesia) which comprised the pre-war colleges of law and of medicine
together with the faculty of letters. It was opened on 21 January 1946,
and a new faculty of social sciences was soon added. After the Dutch in
December 1949 transferred the sovereignty to the Republic of Indonesia
the Provisional University was transformed into the Universitas Indone-
sia. The Provisional University followed the German model introduced
and adapted by expatriates from the Netherlands who brought to the
East Indies their own ideas of what teaching at a university ought to be.
THE PHILIPPINES was the first Asian country to have European insti-
tutions of higher education. In 1611 the College of Santo Tomás was
founded in Manila. It received – from the Spanish crown – the royal
authorization to award degrees and, in 1645, a papal charter. For nearly a
century after these auspicious beginnings it was given over to the advanced
training of Roman Catholic priests. It was a Dominican foundation and
for a long time, its teachers were members of the Dominican order. It
followed the Spanish pattern of colleges conducted by religious orders.
It introduced the teaching of civil law in 1734 and it was permitted to

69 B. A. Knoppers, ‘Het hoger onderwijs in Indonesia’, Indonesia, 3 (1949), 36–60.

212
The diffusion of European models

confer degrees in civil and canon law in the same year. Until the middle
of the eighteenth century most of its students were aspirants to the priest-
hood. In 1871, it opened a medical school. The reforms introduced at this
time were inspired by the idea of Spanish liberal reformers who regarded
the German university as the appropriate model. It was now called the
Manila University of Santo Tomás and was a private university, largely
dependent on student fees for its support. Its teaching staff were either
part-time or poorly remunerated Roman Catholic priests. In 1896, it orga-
nized a faculty of philosophy and letters and, in 1907 established a faculty
of engineering.
In 1901, the Philippines came under American rule. In 1909, the Uni-
versity of the Philippines, also in Manila, was founded. In many respects,
it resembled the pattern of the American land-grant colleges. Its funds
came mostly from government. It taught practical subjects like veterinary
medicine, commerce, nursing and journalism. It also taught courses in
humanistic subjects.
In addition to these two universities there were missionary universities,
like the Ateneo de Manila University, founded 1859 as a primary school. In
1865 the Jesuits introduced a five-year programme leading to the Bachelor
of Arts. In 1959 the Ateneo obtained its university charter. The Protestant
counterpart was the Union Theological Seminary, founded in 1907. The
Philippines also had proprietary colleges and universities, conducted as a
business for the private profit of its owners. The leading such institution –
the Far Eastern University – acquired the status of university in 1934,
having previously been a privately owned commercial evening college.
Some of the privately owned universities were specialized. For example,
the Araneta University specialized in agriculture. Because it was an Amer-
ican colony, the Philippines came closer to mass higher education at an
earlier date than any other country, apart from the United States.

australasia
AUSTRALIA: It appears incongruous that in the second half of the nine-
teenth century when Britain had only a handful of universities, most dat-
ing back for several centuries, four of the raw, young Australian colonial
communities, and the colony of New Zealand, should devote a significant
part of their limited resources to establishing universities. They did so in
order to cloak themselves with manifestations of the culture and sophisti-
cation of the mother country, to assert that though distant from the centre
of the Empire, British culture and learning survived on the periphery. The
universities were to be an agency of civilization, to improve the moral
character of the colonies. Distance and colonial rivalry dictated that they
each wanted their own seat of learning.

213
Edward Shils and John Roberts

The Australian colonial universities were founded by legislation in


Sydney (1850),70 Melbourne (1853),71 Adelaide (1874)72 and Tasmania
(1890).73 After nationhood in 1901, new institutions followed in Queens-
land in 1909 and Western Australia in 1911.74 The diversity of the back-
grounds and university experiences of the Australian colonists meant
that there were many models from which to choose. Oxford and Cam-
bridge were the unobtainable ideal, while Trinity College, Dublin, and the
Scottish universities were often favoured because they had many gradu-
ates in Australia. However, the colonial universities were also a product of
contemporary liberal thought, and therefore more generally reflected the
models provided by Britain’s newest institutions, London University and
the University of Ireland, in that they were non-sectarian. In other respects
the colonial universities were unlike any British model as they were essen-
tially state facilities rather than private or church enterprises, more sec-
ular than their British counterparts and with limitations imposed upon
church influence. They also challenged tradition in that teaching was to
be the responsibility of their own faculties, rather than being undertaken
by colleges whose students would be examined by university authorities.
Church-based colleges were to be allowed, or even encouraged, but they
were to be largely residential institutions, more supplementary and periph-
eral than in Britain. The first colleges in Sydney were St Paul’s (1854) and
St John’s (1857), and in Melbourne Trinity (1872), Ormond (1882) and
Queen’s (1888).
The Australian universities were small and elite bodies, their few stu-
dents mainly drawn from the comfortable socio-economic classes. Until
the 1880s the students were male. Partly for pedagogical reasons and
partly because of issues of viability, there was frequent debate over the
range and content of courses, with tension between traditionalists who
supported a classically orientated education, and those who for liberal and
pragmatic reasons promoted utilitarian courses ranging from medicine to
engineering to education. Eventually, the latter approach had to triumph if
the universities were to survive. Until well into the twentieth century, most
professors were recruited from Britain, and the most successful students
were sent there for postgraduate study, which perpetuated the influence
of the British system.

70 H. E. Barff, A Short Historical Account of the University of Sydney (Sydney, 1902).


71 G. Blainey, A Centenary History of the University of Melbourne (Melbourne, 1957).
72 W. G. K. Duncan and R. A. Leonard, The University of Adelaide 1874–1974 (Adelaide,
1973).
73 R. Davis, Open to Talent: The Centenary History of the University of Tasmania (Hobart,
1990).
74 F. Alexander, Campus at Crawley: A Narrative and Critical Interpretation of the First
Fifty Years of the University of Western Australia (Melbourne, 1963).

214
The diffusion of European models

NEW ZEALAND universities were also a hybrid combination of British


tradition and local variation. While the motives for founding universi-
ties were similar to Australia, including significant local rivalries between
cities and provinces, student numbers and resources, as well perhaps as
inclination, operated against the establishment of full teaching univer-
sities. The system became one of a central degree-conferring body with
teaching conducted in regional colleges.
Scottish Presbyterian interests were largely responsible for the founda-
tion in 1869 by the Provincial Council of Otago of the University of Otago
at Dunedin, a full teaching university. However, there were competing
pressures for a national university which resulted a year later (confirmed
by revised legislation in 1874) in the colonial government legislating to
establish the University of New Zealand. It would be based in Wellington,
the capital, its government somewhat modelled on the University of
London. It was not to be a teaching university, its role confined to exam-
ination of candidates for admission, scholarships and degrees. Affiliated
colleges were to be responsible for teaching.75
Initially there were no affiliated colleges. Otago was reluctant to
give up its independence and negotiations were inconclusive. Eventu-
ally Canterbury College was founded by Anglicans at Christchurch
in 1873, and in 1874 Otago finally gave up its power of conferring
degrees and became affiliated, though still with the title University of
Otago. After financial and other delays, the secular Auckland Univer-
sity College was founded in 1882 and Victoria University College at
Wellington in 1897.
Like the Australian universities, the four colleges depended almost
entirely upon British academics for their staff. Like Australian govern-
ments, New Zealand struggled for several decades in a sparsely pop-
ulated country to support the several small tertiary institutions with a
broad range of courses, though an unusually high proportion of the New
Zealand population undertook a university education. In most ways the
colleges operated independently of the University of New Zealand at
Wellington, but there was dissatisfaction with the continuance of the fed-
eral system. Rivalries and stretched resources meant that none of the
colleges could grow as it wished, nor assert its independence.76
In both Australia and New Zealand, growth, transformation and chal-
lenge to the dominance of British influence in the tertiary sector did not
commence until the prosperity, population growth and expanding demand
for tertiary education in the decades after World War II.

75 H. Parton, The University of New Zealand (Auckland, 1979).


76 S. Keith and T. McNaughton, A History of the University of Auckland, 1883–1983
(Auckland, 1983).

215
Edward Shils and John Roberts

east asia
HONG KONG: The University of Hong Kong, founded in 1911, was
from the start intended to be like a modern British provincial university.
It had four faculties – of arts, engineering and architecture, medicine and
science – and an institute of oriental studies. The medium of instruction
was English in all subjects except Chinese literature, language and his-
tory. It was almost wholly dependent on the government of Hong Kong
for its financial support with respect to capital expenditures and more
than half of its budget for current expenditures also came from govern-
ment. This inevitably exercised constraint on the university, but otherwise
the Government did not intrude into the affairs of the university. Its pat-
tern of internal government was much like that of the modern British
university.77
CHINA: Probably there was no civilization except that of the mod-
ern West in which academic certification was more closely articulated
with appointments to high governmental office than it was in the Chinese
Empire throughout most of its long history. This no doubt helps to explain
why China has the longest continuous history of institutional provision
for the cultivation of learning of any civilization. Sages and schools of
their disciples, academies of scholars and pupils have existed in China for
more than 2,000 years. Yet, these learned institutions were very different
from Western universities in what they taught, and so were the degrees,
diplomas, certificates awarded on the basis of competitive examination
which were so prominent a feature of Chinese history.
Desperation about the weakness of China in the face of the great powers
in the nineteenth century slowly and jerkily pushed the Chinese towards
radical solutions in many aspects of their society. Yet there was much
reluctance to jettison traditional arrangements and Confucian learning
and to replace or supplement them with ‘Western learning’. A number
of Chinese had studied in universities in Europe and North America or
travelled in those parts of the world; something of the institutional forms
and substantive knowledge of the modern university was therefore already
known in China by the end of the nineteenth century. The issue debated in
China had not been whether it was desirable to establish universities in the
Western model but the prior, more fundamental, more pressing question
as to whether it was desirable or necessary to learn Western science and
technology and, if so, whether it was possible to learn them without the
matrix of Chinese society, polity and culture.78

77 See Yearbook of the University of Hong Kong.


78 E-tu Zen Sun, ‘The Growth of the Academic Community 1912–1949’, in J. K.Fairbank
and A. Feuerwerker (eds.), Cambridge History of China, vol. XIII: Republican China
1912–1949 (Cambridge, 1986), 361–420.

216
The diffusion of European models

A first answer to these questions was the establishment in 1861 of a


school of foreign languages, especially English, French and Russian. It
was located in the government arsenal in Peking and administered by the
equivalent of the Foreign Office. In 1863, additional schools of foreign
languages were founded in Canton and Shanghai and in 1866 astronomy,
mathematics and other natural sciences were added to the syllabus of the
foreign language institutes. In the 1880s, schools of military technology
and telegraphy were set up. These institutions were the first attempt to
deal with the challenge from the West by acquiring only what was seen
as absolutely necessary, namely, the technology which had made the West
strong enough to threaten China.
The University of Beijing, which came into existence in 1898, was not
a wholly convincing answer to this question. It was suspended in 1902, to
reopen the following year, when it absorbed the old language institute and
an institute of medical research. The university taught Chinese classics,
politics and law, medicine, natural history, agriculture, engineering and
commerce. Extramurally it taught administration and provided teacher
training. The administrative organization of the University of Beijing,
the subjects taught there, its intention to promote scientific and modern
scholarly research, the organization of syllabuses and the degrees awarded
were all, in a blurred way, European in inspiration. In addition to the wide
range of European subjects which it taught, it also made large provision
for the study of classical Chinese philosophy, religion and literature. For
much of this early period the University of Beijing was under the control
of the government. As the syllabus was constantly being changed, courses
of study were ill-defined, students lax. Its presidents were for the most part
without academic experience, especially European academic experience.
Nonetheless, there was always a vague conviction that it should be a
university in the European style.
The foundation of the Imperial University was followed in 1905 by the
abolition of the imperial examination system, and in 1910 by the decree
requiring that an imperial university be established in every province of
the Chinese Empire. In 1911 China became a republic, and in 1912, the
Ministry of Education issued an ‘Ordinance on Colleges and Universities’
which declared, ‘The objectives of colleges and universities are to instruct
[students] in advanced learning, to train knowledgeable experts and to
meet the needs of the nation’.79 The University of Beijing made little
progress. For a short time, 1911–12, the president was Yen Fu (1853–
1921), who had lived for several years in England where he had been
sent by the imperial government to study naval technology and naval
techniques. While in England, he became an admirer of British political

79 Ibid., 379.

217
Edward Shils and John Roberts

institutions and a liberal in political convictions. On his return to China,


he translated into Chinese, works by Herbert Spencer (1820–1903),
Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–95), John Stuart Mill (1806–73) and Mon-
tesquieu’s Esprit des lois, though he was not familiar with British universi-
ties. In 1917, Ts’ai Yuan-P’ei (Cai Yuanpei 1867–1940), who had studied
in Leipzig from 1908 to 1911 and on his return had been placed in charge
of the Ministry of Education, took up the chancellorship. He was a fer-
vent admirer of German universities, where the training of teachers and
governmentally supported scientific research in the universities had an
evident connection with Germany’s emergence as a powerful country. He
raised the standard of the teaching staff through strict attention to intel-
lectual merit as the chief criterion of academic appointment. He created
research institutes attached to university departments; he created faculty
councils and a university senate with considerable powers in academic
matters. He provided money for the students to publish their own news-
paper. He introduced the elective system for students and allowed women
to become students. There was also a conflict between his views as a par-
tisan of the German idea of the university and those of Li Shu-hua (Li
Shuhua, 1889–1979) who was trained in France and who favoured the
French pattern of placing research primarily in separate institutes outside
the universities. In 1918 T’sai Yuan-P’ei drew up plans for graduate stud-
ies in humanities, natural sciences, social sciences and law. In his ideas
about graduate studies, he regarded the University of Berlin as an ideal.80
When the government violently suppressed the 4 May movements in 1919,
he resigned in protest, but he was persuaded to return and remained
until 1927.
The Chinese academic liberals of the 1920s and 1930s desired to attain
for China a standard of achievement which would permit China’s univer-
sities to be ranked with Harvard, the Sorbonne, Oxford and Cambridge,
its national libraries to be ranked with the Library of Congress, the Bib-
liothèque nationale and the British Museum. Lou Chia-lun (Lou Jialun,
1896–1969) said that when he was in charge of the Central Political Insti-
tute, he wanted it to be a school with a four-year course on the level of the
London School of Economics and l’École libre des sciences politiques.81
By 1922 there were five national universities, two provincial univer-
sities and seventeen Christian colleges. In 1936, nearly one-half of the
78 universities and colleges in China were private, and probably more than
half of these private institutions were originally missionary colleges sup-
ported in considerable measure from foreign sources. Nearly one-quarter
of the 42 universities open in that year were national universities and

80 Ibid., 372. 81 Ibid., 408ff.

218
The diffusion of European models

one-quarter provincial universities. Other important institutions in the


early 1920s were – in Beijing alone – the National Normal University
(Kuo-li Shih-fan hsüeh-yüan), founded in 1898; Yenching University,
founded in 1919 by American and British Protestant missionaries, with
arts, science and law; the Peking Union Medical College (Hsieh-ho I-hsüeh
yüan), founded in 1906, since 1915 funded by the Rockefeller Founda-
tion; and the National Tsinghua University (Kuo li Ch’ing-hua tahsüeh),
a college intended to prepare young men to go abroad as scholars sup-
ported by American grants from the Boxer Indemnity Fund – English was
its language of instruction. In all, there were 40 institutions of modern
higher education in Beijing alone in 1922. Their Western ancestry was
very heterogeneous: British, American and French models were drawn
on and freely intermixed. The efforts of Christian missionaries of vari-
ous national origins brought many Christian denominational influences
to bear. In the missionary colleges, there was a clear tendency towards the
mode of the American liberal arts college.
One of the main private higher educational institutions, the Nankai
University in Tientsin, was the achievement of Chang Po-ling (Zhang
Boling, 1876–1951), a former naval officer who had left the force in protest
against Chinese concessions to the British and who turned to education as
the means of national redemption. In 1917–18 he spent a year at Teachers
College, Columbia University. In 1919 he founded the Nankai University
with the financial support of wealthy friends. The new university began
with three divisions: letters, sciences and business. The founder travelled
several times to the United States to observe universities and to raise
funds. In 1928–29 he reorganized Nankai University into three colleges:
a college of letters including political science, history and economics; a
college of science including mathematics, physics, chemistry and biology;
and a college of business, including financial administration, banking,
statistics and business.
The most interesting private Zhendan (Chen-tan) University in Shang-
hai was founded in 1903 by a wealthy landowner who was also a distin-
guished scholar and diplomat, Ma Hsiang-po (Ma Xiangbo, 1840–1939).
He was a Roman Catholic who was educated by the Jesuits at St Ignatius
College, Shanghai, and had become its principal in 1872. Its students had
to follow intensive courses of study first in the Chinese classics and then
in Western subjects. He was also a mathematician and astronomer who
wrote on Chinese and Western mathematics. He left the Society of Jesus
in 1876. His brother, Ma Chien-chiung (Ma Jianzhong, 1844–1900), had
taken a Bachelor degree in Paris and studied at the École libre des sciences
politiques. After extensive experience in business and travels in Europe
and America, he came to the idea of creating ‘a new style university that

219
Edward Shils and John Roberts

would keep pace with Western universities’.82 The outcome was the foun-
dation of Zhendan (Chen-tan) in 1903. Zhendan had a small number of
students – about 100 by 1905 – and a carefully organized curriculum in
which Chinese classical and Western learning and science were brought
together rather than merely juxtaposed as in the Imperial Beijing Univer-
sity. Ma employed Jesuits because of their pedagogical skills.
In 1905, the Jesuits, in Ma’s absence, introduced changes in the direc-
tion of conformity with the pattern of Jesuit colleges in France, and the
standard of French higher education. It was a success. By 1908, there
were 241 students following two main courses of study, one leading to
the licence-ès-sciences, the other to the licence-ès-lettres. In 1914, Zhen-
dan established three faculties of lettres, science and médecine. Between
1909 and 1924 about 1,500 students followed these courses. In the 4 May
movement of 1919, the 200 students supported a general strike and most
of them left the college.
Ma had left Zhendan after the crisis of 1905 and formed the new Fudan
College. It was intended to be more Chinese than Western in its orienta-
tion. Zhendan, which had always attempted to be a ‘French university in
China’,83 retained the endowment which Ma had established with his own
fortune, and Fudan College had a much more exiguous existence, though
it had gained some governmental aid. The students served as administra-
tors and some of them also taught. The College was fortunate in attracting
the services of Li Teng-hui (Li Denghui, 1873–1947), as dean of studies
from 1905 and then as principal from 1913 to 1915. He had been educated
at Yale and was one of the first professional academics educated abroad
to pursue a career as an academic administrator in China. The curriculum
in the first two years was divided into French and English sections. French
was discontinued after a short time and English became the language of
instruction. The main subjects were Chinese classics, politics, law, com-
merce, natural science, engineering and agriculture. In 1907, 200 students
were enrolled there, and by 1911, there were 57 graduates. Fudan College
did not achieve as high an intellectual standard as did Zhendan. At the
same time, both teachers who followed other occupations, and profes-
sors and students were more closely attuned to Chinese society as it then
existed.
Christian missionary colleges had usually laid stress on scientific
education and foreign cultures and languages. Some of them became
outstanding, above all the Peking Union Medical College founded in
1906 by British Protestant missionaries. In 1934, there were 26 medical

82 R. Hayhoe, ‘Towards the Forging of a Chinese University Ethos: Zhendan and Fudan,
1903–1919’, The Chinese Quarterly 94 (June 1983), 341.
83 Ibid., 333.

220
The diffusion of European models

colleges in China; fourteen of them were missionary institutions supported


by the Rockefeller Foundation. Yenching University in Beijing, founded
in 1919, was perhaps the most prominent, thanks to the quality of some
of its teachers and its location in the capital. Others were the Nanking
(Ginling) University (1915), Lingnan University, Canton, and the Yale-in-
China Medical College, established in Ch’angsha in 1907.84 In the same
year in Shanghai, German sponsors founded a medical college, the Tung-
chi (Tongji) University, which in 1919 by the treaty of Versailles (art. 135)
became French, but which resumed teaching only in 1924 with the help
of private grants.85
The missionary colleges had, in varying degrees, diminished their efforts
to proselytize to their students and had turned themselves into the equiva-
lent of liberal arts colleges more or less on the American pattern. St John’s
University in Shanghai, founded in 1879 and incorporated in Washington
DC, was composed of schools of arts and sciences, civil engineering,
theology, medicine and a graduate school, which was run by American
Episcopalian missionaries and had a sufficiently high intellectual standard
for its graduates to be accepted for advanced degrees in the United States.
The majority of teachers were Chinese; only a minority were expatri-
ates, mostly American and British. English was the language of instruc-
tion. Among the Roman Catholic universities, special attention should be
given to the Fu-Jen University, founded in Beijing in 1925. The teachers
did notable work in the subjects of meteorology, geology and archaeol-
ogy and left a mark in Chinese work in those fields. It counted among
their number great scholars like Leon Wieger (1856–1933) and Teilhard de
Chardin (1881–1955). The missionary colleges had introduced the study
of modern science and medicine to China, had been the first to institute
co-education and had favourable ratios of students to teachers. They had
better libraries and laboratories than the Chinese private universities and
standards higher than all but the best Chinese national universities. Yet
their graduates were discriminated against by the Chinese government
and they stood apart from the nationalist movement which dominated
Chinese politics. They were burdened with their foreign and Christian
origins.
The prestige of science and the belief that mastering it could restore
China to a central position in the world had led Chinese educational
reformers to assert that colleges and universities should make provision

84 J. Chen, China and the West (London, 1979), 133.


85 R. Bieg-Brentzel, Die Tongji-Universität: Zur Geschichte deutscher Kulturarbeit in Shang-
hai (Heidelberg, 1984); Kuo-li T’ung-chi ta-hsüeh ch’uang-chiao pa-shih chou-nien chi-
nien t’e-k’an (Shanghai, 1987); cf. R. Reinbothe, Kulturexport und Wirtschaftsmacht.
Deutsche Schulen in China vor dem Ersten Weltkreig (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1992),
141–230.

221
Edward Shils and John Roberts

for the conduct of research, instead of confining themselves to teaching.


This was a new idea in China. It is not unreasonable to infer that the model
of the unity of teaching and research, represented most dramatically in
the German university of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and
then assimilated into American and the provincial British universities,
was the source of the new Chinese expectation that university teachers
must do scientific research.86 The universities of Nankai and Chao-t’ung
appointed young scientists recently returned from Europe and the United
States to teach scientific subjects. A group of Chinese students at Cornell
University started a Science Society in 1914. It was called, more formally,
the Chinese Association for the Advancement of Science, and from 1918
conducted a very active programme in popular scientific education and in
propaganda for science.
A further channel for the flow of influence of the American model
resulted from the decision of the United States government to set aside the
sum in the ‘Boxer Indemnity’ which was calculated in excess of the ostensi-
ble damage done by the rebels to American interests. This came to nearly
$12,000,000 and it was to be used for scholarships for young Chinese
to study at American universities. Between 1909 and 1929, 1,268 such
scholarships had been awarded. Between 1926 and 1929 what remained
of the Boxer Indemnities was used for grants made to thirteen Chinese uni-
versities and colleges and three research institutes.87 In order to prepare
young persons for advanced study and particularly for study at American
universities, the National Tsing-hua University in Beijing was founded
in 1909. Stressing the teaching of subjects like English, French, German,
history, geography, physiology, physics and chemistry, it developed into
one of the leading universities in China. Of 732 scientists and scholars
who received fellowships for research and study from the Boxer Indem-
nity funds between 1928 to 1945, 327 remained in China, 208 went to
the United States, 64 went to France, 56 to Germany and 39 to Great
Britain.88
This was all happening, unfortunately, amid extreme political disor-
der which disrupted the universities and discouraged those who wanted
to redeem China through modernizing scientific research and the scien-
tific outlook. In addition to this obstacle to the realization of the ideas
of leading Chinese intellectuals, there had also long been resistance to
borrowing from foreign models on the part of educated and scholarly

86 A list of the secretaries-general and directors of institutes of the Academia Sinica from
1928 to 1940 embraces nineteen persons. Nine had studied at American universities, six
at British, two at German and one in Belgium.
87 Later, part of the Boxer Indemnities paid to Great Britain, France and Italy were returned
for similar purposes.
88 E-tu Zen Sun, ‘Academic Community’ (note 78), 405.

222
The diffusion of European models

Chinese deeply attached to the Confucian tradition. From 1928, the


government took a xenophobic hand in this resistance to foreign influ-
ences and required that all colleges and universities of foreign origin reg-
ister with the Ministry of Education. Courses on religious subjects had to
be made entirely voluntary, and the ruling party – the Kuo Min-Tang –
demanded that Sun Yat-sen’s (1888–1926) ‘Three People’s Principles’ –
nationalism, democracy and the people’s livelihood – be the subject of
required courses. Other demands were that the colleges and universities
should have Chinese presidents and predominantly Chinese boards of
trustees.
Yet though the republican government was distrustful of universities,
it could not dispense with them. Whilst willing, within limits, to allow an
imported institution, the university, to function in China, it intended to
keep its hand on its working in practice as firmly as possible. It therefore
decided to strengthen the national universities at the cost of the private
and missionary colleges and universities. It was, nevertheless, very difficult
for the government to make the universities into instruments for bringing
about national unity for promoting economic progress, since it could not
provide sufficient financial support for them. The national universities
were dependent to the extent of 90 per cent of their budget on the central
government, and this necessary support was in many cases simply not
forthcoming. Try as it might by any other means, the government could
not extirpate the frequently stricken and ill-treated plant of alien origin
which had taken root in China. The Chinese universities, broken and
frail though they were, testified by their very existence to the tenacity of
their reception, often at second remove, of the model of the European
University.
JAPAN: Unlike China, Japan was a willing beneficiary of the diffusion
of the models of the European and North American university systems.89
Their reception thus was decisive and the process of implantation rela-
tively brief. It followed a similarly brief period of uncertainty and con-
flict between proponents of Shinto traditionalism who wished to relegate
Western and Confucian studies to the study of ‘the national language,
history and religion.’90 Unlike China, though, the decision to seek foreign
guidance was made by a government of unquestioned authority and once
made, it was carried out with every appearance of firm conviction. After
the relatively brief consideration of alternatives, the model of the German
university as that was understood at the time was adopted. Like China,

89 Ikuo Amano, ‘Universities and Colleges’, in Kodansha Encyclopaedia of Japan, vol. VIII
(Tokyo and New York, 1983), 170.
90 G. B. Samson, The Western World and Japan (New York, 1950), 478. On the influence
of the Dutch military medical schoolmodel, see chapter 14, 557.

223
Edward Shils and John Roberts

Japan had a long history of advanced education for the training of higher
governmental officers, for the resolution of calendrical problems, astrol-
ogy and divination. There were local institutions along the same lines
and for the same purpose, noblemen’s schools which taught traditional
Japanese cultural subjects and private colleges teaching a traditional Con-
fucian curriculum. Western subjects such as geography, foreign languages
and elementary natural science began to be introduced into these schools
late in the Tokugawa regime (1603–1867); such subjects were sometimes
known as ‘Dutch Studies’, because the Dutch were for more than two
centuries the only Europeans regularly admitted in Japan – and on a very
restricted basis. An office for the study of Western writings – the Bansho
Shirabesho – was created in 1856; these writings were originally mainly
in Dutch but later the range was extended to include works in English,
French, German and Russian and some chemistry. This school also, after
1862, sent some students to study in the West.
Yukichi Fukuzawa (1835–1901), the great proponent of Western sci-
ence, founded a school – the Keiogijuku – in 1858 for the study of Dutch.
In time, it became the leading centre for teaching English, economics, law
and other subjects needed for commerce and industry. From the 1840s,
Western surgery and medicine were taught at a private medical school
in Yedo; about 3,000 students were trained at this school in its first two
decades. After the Meiji Restoration it became the medical faculty of the
University of Tokyo. A centre of vaccination – the vaccine was derived
from a scab sent from Batavia to a German doctor in Japan in 1849 –
became a centre for Western medicine in 1861. Other private medical
schools existed which taught Western surgical subjects, and beginnings
were made in the teaching of chemistry and pharmacology. The former
medical college of the Bakufu was revived with instruction in medicine
and surgery, given by German teachers.
The Kaiseijo, an institution to replace the Bansho Shirabesho, was
founded in 1863 to study ‘barbarian writing’; it served later as part of
the University of Tokyo. In 1869, the Shohei Gakko, a former Confu-
cian college, was revived and converted into a university in Tokyo which
brought together the Kaiseijo and the medical schools. This university
was short-lived. Quarrels between the dominating professors of Japanese
and Chinese classics and of both of these against the teachers of Western
subjects led to its closure. In 1877, it was reopened as the University of
Tokyo, concentrating on Western studies; the schools of Japanese and
Chinese classics had no place in it.
From 1871 to 1873 the Iwakura mission toured the main Western
countries to examine their universities and overall education systems to
recommend a pattern which Japan should accept. One of its members,
Tanaka Fujimaro (1845–1909), became the top official of the Ministry of

224
The diffusion of European models

Education and paved the way for the enactment of the Education Order
of 1879 which was based on the more decentralized American System
but which was severely criticized as inviting confusion and decadence in
education.91
The Imperial University Ordinance of 1 March 1886 stipulated: ‘The
aim of the Imperial Universities is to teach those arts and sciences essen-
tial in the nation and to conduct research into unknown areas’. The
ordinance followed the North American pattern of a strong supervision
on the lower level by ‘college’ directors and on the top by a president,
appointed by government, and assisted by a university council, com-
posed of the directors and professorial delegates from the ‘colleges’. The
universities were divided according to the first aim of teaching essen-
tial arts and sciences into ‘colleges’ of law, medicine, engineering, arts,
sciences and agriculture, and they had according to the second aim to
conduct research, a graduate school, the ‘University Hall’.92 In fact lit-
tle provision was made for research and it had to be done, when it was
done at all, with the equipment and materials which were allocated to
teaching.
As a result, the name of the University of Tokyo changed to the Imperial
University of Japan in Tokyo, and in 1897 the Imperial University in Kyoto
was added. The Kaisei Gakko was the first form of the Imperial Univer-
sity in Tokyo. Numerous German scientists and scholars were invited to
become professors in the two imperial universities. They were permitted to
teach in German at first but after two years of service, they were required
to lecture in Japanese. The imperial universities were regarded primarily
as a means of bringing Western knowledge to Japan. But the disregard
of Japanese and Chinese literature did not last long and Japanese legal
history and Chinese philosophy were soon provided with departments of
their own.93 Nevertheless, traditional religious subjects never gained the
importance which they had in European universities or even in China in
the early decades of the National University of Beijing.
Between 1900 and the Second World War other imperial universities
were founded: 1907 in Sendai the Tohoku Imperial University with the
university hall and faculties of sciences, medicine, engineering, law and
literature; 1910 in Fukuoka the Kyushu Imperial University with faculties
of medicine, engineering, law and letters; 1918 in Sapporo the Hokkaido
Teikoku Daigaku with the university hall and faculties of agriculture,
medicine, engineering and science; 1924 in Keijo-Seoul (Korea) with facul-
ties of medicine, law and literature; 1928 in Taiwan the Taihoku Imperial

91 Hideo Satô, ‘Tanaka Fujimaro’, in Kodansha Encyclopaedia (note 89), vol. VII, 336.
92 Minerva, Handbuch der gelehrten Welt, 1 (Strasburg, 1911), 547–9.
93 Samson, Western World (note 90), 487.

225
Edward Shils and John Roberts

University with faculties of literature and politics, science and agricul-


ture and medicine. In 1929 the Hiroshima Bunrika Daigaku with eight
departments for pedagogy, philosophy, history, literature, mathematics,
physics, chemistry and biology; 1931 the Osaka Teikoku Daigaku with
the university hall and faculties of medicine, sciences, engineering, and in
1939 the medical school in Nagoya (Nagoya Ikwa-Daigaku) developed
into an Imperial University.94
Japan also had a long tradition of private universities. In Tokyo these
included the Keiogijuku University, founded in 1858 and comprising the
colleges of literature, economics, law and medicine with their gradu-
ate courses. The Waseda University, founded in 1882 by the Marquis
Shigenobu Okuma, Azusa Ono and Sanai Takata, had only a univer-
sity department with graduate course, and a professional department.
The Chûô University (1885) consisted of faculties of law, commerce
and economics, as did the Meiji Law School, founded in 1881, when
it developed in 1918 into the Meiji University; it also had a women’s
college.
Universities and university institutes with one faculty developed in sev-
eral towns: in Kanazawa, a medical school and another for pharmacy;
in Kobe, the University of Commerce (Kôbe Shôgyô Daigaku, 1903); in
Kumamoto, a medical school (1931); in Osaka the University of Com-
merce (1928), founded in 1880 as Osaka Institute of Commerce; in
Taihoku, the College of Commerce (1910); in Tokyo, the University of
Commerce (1920), founded in 1875 as Tokyo Higher Commercial School.
In towns without imperial universities to teach engineering, imperial,
and other, colleges of technology were founded: in Fukuoka in 1907, in
Hamamatsu, Hiroshima, Kanazawa; in Kagoshima an Imperial College
of Agriculture and Forestry was founded in 1908.95
In the period under consideration, the Japanese universities and their
administrators achieved institutional autonomy at the expense of aca-
demic freedom.96 In 1891, Professor Kume of the University of Tokyo
was deprived of his professorship for having said that Shinto was orig-
inally a primitive form of worship. The reception of the Western aca-
demic ethic and the academic freedom which is so integral to it was to
have a hard passage in Japan’s reception of the model of the European
universities.

94 Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten Welt, 33 (1938), Abteilung Universitäten und


Fachhochschulen, II: Die aussereuropäischen Hochschulen (Berlin, 1938); Ikuo Amano,
‘Imperial Universities’, in Kodansha Encyclopaedia (note 89), vol. III, 281.
95 Minerva (note 94).
96 B. K. Marshall, Academic Freedom and the Japanese Imperial University, 1868–1939
(Berkeley, and Los Angeles and Oxford, 1992).

226
The diffusion of European models

concluding observations
The ways in which models of European universities spread, and the rea-
sons for their spread in other parts of the world, are evidently very com-
plex. However the recipient societies were organized politically, in no case
was the implantation of universities simply a function of the initiative of
the expanding European centre. There was always – in varying degrees –
a stirring of initiative among the prospective, indigenous, recipients. This
was as true of the reception of European models in Japan as it was in
the United States and India. In the case of Japan, the firmly established
indigenous government took the initiative, although there also existed
some demand in the society. In the case of the United States, the central
government played no part at all; in India it played a major role. The
indigenous laity in both societies was the real source of decision. In the
United States young academics, returning from foreign countries where
they had studied, played the main role in the expansion and implantation
of the model of German universities; in India, it was the indigenous pro-
fessional, commercial and cultivated land-owning classes who pressed the
alien ruler to implant the foreign model of the university.
India exemplified in an acute form one major problem of the implan-
tation of foreign university models by colonial governments. It occurred
in situations in which movements for political independence were taking
shape in a setting of distrust of and resentment against the ruling power.
In consequence, universities were urgently demanded in colonial societies
but were also often severely criticized by indigenous adult public opin-
ion and by the politically agitated students. In most of the countries into
which European universities expanded in the nineteenth and especially in
the first half of the twentieth century, except in the United States, students
have often disrupted the working of the universities. Indeed, it may be said
that the disruptive actions of students, justified by their political beliefs,
have been a very frequent concomitant of the expansion of the university
model.
On the whole, over the century and a half of our period, colonial offi-
cials and the metropolitan ministries did not try very hard to establish
universities in the territories which they governed. In self-governed soci-
eties the central government took little interest in the establishment of
universities; it was usually a vigorous individual official or a group of
officials who took the initiative. Local and state governments played a
considerable part in the creation of new universities in accordance with
an alien model directly or indirectly perceived in an indigenous institution
embodying the foreign model.
This has frequently been a governing impulse helping to spread the
European university model both within and outside Europe. When a

227
Edward Shils and John Roberts

subjugated periphery wished to vie with the ruling centre, and to obtain
for itself a dignity equal to the dignity of that alien entity, it sometimes
saw universities as the means of improving its power and status. There has
usually been a consensus between the alien centre and the active indige-
nous periphery about the importance of universities for the society in
question. When colonial administrators wished to improve the societies
they ruled, they increasingly thought in terms of universities, although
almost always with some impulses from the citizenry, including persons
who had studied in universities which were taken into the formation of
the major model of the university to be emulated.
The relationship between sovereign societies has been little different.
Many of the educated classes of the United States believed that method-
ically acquired and ordered knowledge enhanced the dignity of the indi-
viduals and societies which possessed it and was an instrument for more
effective exercise of power. Among them were some who focused atten-
tion on the German universities. But it was neither German manipula-
tive power nor German propaganda which drew American attention in
that direction. The expansion of the European university model has been
a consequence mainly of the desires of the recipient rather than of the
professors and administrators of the institutions which, in the course of
time came to be the model sought at the periphery. Administrators of
the University of London did not press the East India Company in Lon-
don or the Governor General’s Council in India to accept it as the model
for the universities of Bombay, Madras and Calcutta. The professors of
the universities of Leipzig and Berlin did not press any American mag-
nates or newly appointed presidents of still non-existent universities –
for example, William Rainey Harper – to take themselves or the entire
German system as the model for the new University of Chicago. Nor did
the German governments of the princely states or the imperial govern-
ment ever initiate a campaign to persuade Americans that they should
adopt the German universities as the model for the expansion and reform
of American universities towards the end of the nineteenth century. It is
possible that when the Japanese commissioner, Tanaka Fujimaro, trav-
elled to Europe and America in 1872 to canvass the alternative patterns
which Japan might adopt, some officials and professors whom he met
did attempt to persuade him that theirs was the best model. There were,
however, plenty of reasons for Japan to adopt the German university as
their model: the main one being that the German universities were at
that time acknowledged, more or less universally, to be the best in the
world.
Universities were vessels which floated on a stream of desire to acquire
the kind of knowledge which they transmitted and created. The belief
that the dignity of a nation requires not only sovereignty but a university

228
The diffusion of European models

shows how important knowledge was thought to be, both intrinsically


and instrumentally. The expansion of universities from Europe was the
outcome of an emerging world-wide consensus – not universally shared
within any society or equally spread over all the societies of the earth –
that the pursuit and the transmission of knowledge of a particular type,
knowledge methodically pursued and based on rigorously gathered evi-
dence and careful critical study of the best sources, knowledge that was
tested by theories and which tested the theories, was of the highest impor-
tance. This kind of knowledge was the knowledge presented by univer-
sities. That was the main reason for the expansion of the model of the
European university.
The phenomenon of implantation has, then, many facets. The model is
seldom completely and clearly visible. It is a loose and vague compound
formed by the imagination from first-hand experience and hearsay. Also
it is not a single thing, just as a university is not a single, indivisible thing.
There is nothing about any model of a university which makes it a rigid
indivisible construction which must be entirely adopted or which must be
totally rejected. The model is often a transfiguration of the reality from
which it is formed. That being the case, it is not susceptible to complete
implantation, and even if that were the desire, it could never be completely
realized. Indigenous traditions are usually too strong to be obliterated,
although certain regimes in the twentieth century have deceived them-
selves into believing otherwise. The persistence of indigenous traditions
means that no model can be implanted and can flourish as an exact replica
of the university on which it is based. The model furthermore never cov-
ers satisfactorily all the desires and aspirations – and ineptitudes – of its
recipients.
Yet, all this being said, the model of the European university – het-
erogeneous and vague though it has been – and however awkward and
deforming its implantation has been – has been a major facet of world
cultural history. It has changed the intellectual physiognomy of all the
countries which have been its recipients and it has given birth to an inter-
national community of knowledge.

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Chai Hon-Chan Education and Nation-building in Plural Societies: The West
Malaysian Experience, Canberra, 1977.
Coser, L. A. Refugee Scholars in America: Their Impact and Their Experiences,
New Haven, 1984.
E-tu Zen Sun ‘The Growth of the Academic Community 1912–1949’, in J. K.
Fairbank and A. Feuerwerker (eds.), Cambridge History of China, vol. XIII:
Republican China 1912–1949, Cambridge, 1986, 361–420.

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Geitz, H., Heideking, J. and Herbst, J. (eds.) German Influences on Education in


the United States to 1917, Cambridge, 1995.
Harris, H. S. A History of Higher Education in Canada, 1663–1960, Toronto and
Buffalo, 1976.
Herbst, J. The German Historical School in American Scholarship, Ithaca, 1965.
Horrell, M. Bantu Education to 1968, Johannesburg, 1968.
Kanagasabai, S. et al. Studies in Malaysian Education: An Annotated Bibliogra-
phy, Kuala Lumpur, 1980.
Kevles, D. J. The Physicists: The History of a Scientific Community in Modern
America, New York, 1978.
Kreissler, F. L’action culturelle allemande en Chine. De la fin du XIXe siècle à la
Seconde Guerre Mondiale, Paris, 1989.
Loh Fook-seng, Ph. Seeds of Separation, Educational Policy in Malaya, 1874–
1940, Kuala Lumpur, London and Oxford, 1975.
Maier, J. and Weatherhead, R. W. (eds.) The Latin American University, Albu-
querque, 1979.
Marshall, B. K. Academic Freedom and the Japanese Imperial University, 1868–
1939, Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford, 1992.
Matthews, R. D. and Akrawi, M. (eds.) Education in Arab Countries of the Near
East, Washington, DC, 1949.
Newton, A. P. The Universities and Educational Systems of the British Empire,
London, 1924.
Nurullah, S. and Naik, J. P. A History of Education in India, Bombay, 1951.
Parton, H. The University of New Zealand, Auckland, 1979.
Reinbothe, R. Kulturexport und Wirtschaftsmacht. Deutsche Schulen in China
vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg, Frankfurt-am-Main, 1992.
Rheingold, N. and Rothenberg, M. (eds.) Scientific Colonialism: A Cross-Cultural
Comparison, Washington, DC, 1986.
Ross, E. D. Democracy’s College: The Land Grant Movement in the Formative
Stage, Ames, 1942.
Steger, H.-A. (ed.) Grundzüge des Lateinamerikanischen Hochschulwesens. Eine
Einführung in seine Probleme, Baden-Baden, 1965.
Tobias, P. V. The Sixth Freedom, Edgar Brookes Academic and Human Freedom
Lecture, Pietermaritzburg, 1977.
Waardenburg, J. J. Les universités dans le monde Arabe actuel, Paris, 1966.

230
PA RT I I I

STUDENTS
CHAPTER 7

ADMISSION*

FRITZ RINGER

the quantitative approach


A relatively recent initiative in the history of higher education has been the
attempt to measure the flow of students into the universities and related
institutions in a systematic and internationally comparable way. One of
the important statistical properties of a system of higher education is its
inclusiveness, an inclusive system being one that is reached by a relatively
large fraction of the population. Total university-level enrolments per pop-
ulation may serve as reasonable measures of inclusiveness. They may not
be internationally comparable, however, since the average duration of uni-
versity study may vary from country to country. One way to get around
this difficulty is to focus upon first-year enrolments, and to relate the num-
ber of entering students to the size of the most pertinent age-year within
the population. Another method is to estimate the average duration of uni-
versity attendance, and then to relate overall enrolments to the appropri-
ate cluster of age-years. In either case, one arrives at a relative access rate
or access percentage for the pertinent age cohort. Obviously, everything
depends upon the quality of the available data. Since statistical sources
are particularly rich for the Prussian/German system, the indicators for
that system will serve as points of departure in the rest of this chapter.
To approach systems of higher education in this quantitative way is to
move away from the perspective of narrative history. The fate of indi-
vidual institutions becomes marginal, and even system-wide legislative
reforms and administrative innovations often recede into the background,
proving less significant in their quantitative effects than they looked in

∗ Though initially written years ago, this chapter must now be considered as an abbreviation
of chapter 3 in F. K. Ringer, Toward a Social History of Knowledge: Collected Essays (New
York, 2000).

233
Fritz Ringer

conventional accounts of political and institutional developments. On


the other hand, patterns emerge that demand new lines of analysis and
raise new questions of their own. What are the major epochs and turn-
ing points in the evolution of university-level enrolments? Can short-term
fluctuations in admissions be distinguished from long-term trends? What
are the underlying causes of short-term variation, of relative stability, and
of long-term growth in inclusiveness? How are quantitative changes in
higher education related to other aspects of the social process? What sim-
ilarities and differences emerge from cross-national comparisons of major
quantitative indicators, and how can they be accounted for? While con-
clusive answers to these questions are not yet available, certainly not for
all European university systems, I can briefly report some initial findings
and hypotheses for selected countries.1
Of special interest for the history of higher education are recurrent
periods of crisis in which contemporaries noted an ‘overproduction’ or
‘excess’ of university graduates in relation to suitable employment oppor-
tunities for them. This happened in several European countries, and pos-
sibly in all of them, during the 1830s and 1840s, during the 1880s and
1890s, and again during the inter-war period, especially around 1930.
There is some evidence that it also happened in some countries during the
late eighteenth century, and even earlier. Contemporaries who observed
this imbalance between the supply and the demand for graduates typi-
cally saw it as socially dysfunctional and dangerous. The term ‘academic
proletariat’ was coined in Germany and much used in France around the
end of the nineteenth century; but the phenomenon itself was older, and
so was the fear that overeducated young people, typically from humble
backgrounds, would make up an unproductive, alienated and potentially
subversive element in the population.2 Anxieties of this kind usually led
to public warnings about long probationary periods and potential unem-
ployment in the learned professions. At least in Germany, it also provoked
bureaucratic initiatives to stiffen qualifying examinations and require-
ments, to channel secondary students away from the universities, and
even (during the late nineteenth century) to reduce financial aid to needy
students. The Prussian Abitur, the famous secondary leaving examination
and certificate, was initially introduced in 1788 to control a supposed
excess of unqualified university entrants. In 1834, again during a period
of academic ‘overproduction’, it was supplemented by a regulation that

1 Unless otherwise specified, the analysis will be based on Ringer, Education and Society;
with respect to system-wide quantitative data on German universities, however, Education
and Society has been superseded by H. Titze (ed.), ‘Das Hochschulstudium in Preussen
und Deutschland 1820–1944’, in Datenhandbuch zur deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol.
I: Hochschulen, Teil 1 (Göttingen, 1987). See also Weisz, Emergence.
2 See vol. II, pp. 56, 301–2, 393–7.

234
Admission

largely restricted university access to successful secondary graduates or


Abiturienten. Such restrictive policies had the effects that were intended,
at least in the short run. Moreover, even public discussions of overcrowd-
ing in the professions tended disproportionately to affect students from
less favourable backgrounds, who were more easily dissuaded from risk-
ing academic unemployment than their wealthier colleagues. Recurrent
crises of academic ‘overproduction’ thus tended at least temporarily to
reduce the share of university entrants from the lower portions of the
social scale.3

the inclusiveness of university studies


Excellent German data suggest a cyclical model of admission rates, in
which phases of growth are regularly followed by phases of ‘overpro-
duction’. Growth stems from a reported demand for graduates in certain
subject areas and professions. Since students need time to complete their
studies, the demand seems to persist even after it has called forth increased
rates of university entry, and these in turn accordingly produce higher
rates of graduation even after the initial demand has been filled. Partly as
a result of these fluctuations, moreover, the age structures of professions
tend to become uneven, which can further aggravate the oscillation from
opportunity to closure. The cyclical pattern is internally produced by the
educational system itself; but one can also conceive additional impulses
coming from such external sources as rapid changes in the size of age
cohorts. Educational planners are almost certainly wrong to assume that
such demographic changes are fully translated into fluctuations in admis-
sions; for parents and teachers may unconsciously compensate for the
reduced size of an age group, for example, by finding almost as many
potential university entrants in it as in the larger cohort that preceded it.
Despite such dampening ‘compromises’, however, ‘baby booms’ must cer-
tainly be counted among the triggers of fluctuations in university access
rates that will tend to perpetuate themselves in a cyclical way. If one fur-
ther considers that enrolment increases will raise the demand for trained
3 L. O’Boyle, ‘The Problem of an Excess of Educated Men in Western Europe, 1800–1850’,
Journal of Modern History, 42 (1970), 471–95; H.-G. Herrlitz and H. Titze, ‘Überfüllung
als Bildungspolitische Strategie’, Die deutsche Schule, 63 (1976), 348–69; D. K. Müller,
‘Qualifikationskrise und Schulreform’, in U. Herrmann (ed.), Historische Pädagogik, Stu-
dien zur historischen Bildungsökonomie und zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte der Pädagogik,
Beiträge zur Bildungstheorie und zur Analyse pädagogischer Klassiker, Literaturberichte
und Rezensionen, Zeitschrift für Pädagogik, Beiheft 14 (Weinheim, 1977), 13–35; D. K.
Müller et al., ‘Modellentwicklung zur Analyse von Krisenphasen im Verhältnis von Schul-
system und staatlichem Beschäftigungssystem’, ibid., 37–77; D. K. Müller, Sozialstruktur
und Schulsystem: Aspekte zur Theorie und Praxis der Schulorganisation im 19. Jahrhun-
dert; W. Rüegg and O. Neuloh (eds.), Studien zum Wandel von Gesellschaft und Bildung
9 (Göttingen, 1977), esp. 274–80.

235
Fritz Ringer

teachers, one begins to appreciate the purely indigenous sources of quan-


titative variation within a system of higher education.4
The cyclical waves in German admissions lasted for some twelve to
fourteen years; but they varied from subject area to subject area, depend-
ing at least partly upon the normal duration of university study in that
area. The quality of the German data in fact permits researchers to specify
the relationships between the supply of graduates, the number of openings
and the lengths of waiting periods in the major academic and professional
fields. Exact and convincing as their demonstrations are, however, they
cannot fully resolve two sorts of questions. First, their model cannot, apart
from direct observation, predict whether or not cyclical phases of ‘over-
production’ in different fields will coincide to produce more general crises
of academic unemployment. One also has to ask to what extent students
may be able and willing to change their fields in the light of professional
prospects. Second, the cyclical approach is fully applicable only to sys-
tems in which a given course of study invariably prepares for a specific
profession, or a narrow cluster of professions (the juridical civil service
and the private practice of law); it was in fact applied to such systems by
the educational planners of the nineteenth century.5 It would not be appli-
cable to a system in which a general university education could serve as a
preparation for an unlimited variety of occupations. On the other hand,
an ‘excess’ of graduates might be perceived by contemporaries even in
such an environment, and not without reason. For quite apart from the
kind of calculations offered by this model, any rapid increase in the output
of graduates per age group may be expected to lead to a relative scarcity
in the positions traditionally regarded as appropriate for them.
Historically, the cyclical model is most appropriate for the early and
mid-nineteenth century, and for such university systems as those of France
and Germany – not England – in which access to the traditionally learned
professions was linked to precise academic prerequisites, state exami-
nations and standardized professional credentials. Even in France and
Germany, however, the enrolment increases of the late nineteenth cen-
tury, and more markedly those of the inter-war period, tended to loosen
the links between particular qualifications and specific professions. The
narrow circle of occupations taken up by university graduates began at
that time to expand very slowly. Indeed, these relatively recent crises of

4 H. Titze, ‘Die zyklische Überproduktion von Akademikern im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert’,
Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 10 (1984), 92–121. See also Ringer, Education and Society,
49–50, 141–2, 327–8.
5 In addition to German examples cited by Müller (note 3) and by Titze (note 1), the
French Minister of Education Villemain’s report of 1843 is a good example. See Min-
istère de l’Instruction Publique, Rapport au Roi sur l’instruction secondaire (Paris, 1843),
esp. 61–3.

236
Admission

academic ‘overproduction’ probably helped to destabilize the inherited


social conventions about what positions were appropriate for the highly
educated. There is some evidence that the ‘academic proletariat’ of the
Weimar period for the first time included substantial numbers of univer-
sity graduates who took jobs as ordinary business employees.6 In any case,
the analysis of short-term fluctuations in university admissions must be
supplemented by the study of long-term changes in levels of inclusiveness,
to which we now turn.
Table 7.1 brings together the most pertinent indicators for the German
system from the eighteenth century to the inter-war period. The figures
through to 1800 take account of high rates of academic mobility among
students of that era, which led to many multiple matriculations.7 The
calculations of new matriculations per age group suggest more moderate
rates of inclusiveness than had previously been supposed. Yet the rates of
university access in all of Germany around 1800 were not equalled again
until 1870 (and the indicators for Prussia alone around 1800 may have
been up to 60 per cent larger). Indeed, the German ratios for 1650 are
even higher (2.8 per cent) than those for 1800 (0.9 per cent).8 A long-term
decline in university entries per age group persisted through subordinate
short-term fluctuations that became particularly rapid after 1740.9 The
recurrent complaints about a perceived excess of graduates mentioned
above became most insistent during the late eighteenth century, and that
led to such deliberately restrictive policies as the Prussian Abitur regula-
tion of 1788. We will return to possible interpretations of this striking
phenomenon a little later.
Not visible in detail in Table 7.1 is a recovery in German university
enrolments that led to a new high in access rates per population in 1830–
31, as shown in the table, and that accounts for renewed anxieties about
an ‘overproduction’ of educated men during the 1830s and 1840s. After
declining markedly during the 1830s, both absolutely and in relation to
the population, enrolments reached a low plateau between 0.3 and 0.4
students per thousand population from about 1840 to 1870. Laments
about academic overcrowding ebbed away during these years, which sug-
gests the hypothesis of an equilibrium between the supply and the demand
for university leavers during the decades around the middle of the century.
From 1870 on, however, university enrolments per population and per
age group increased once again until the First World War and beyond. The
6 Ringer, Education and Society, 98–100.
7 W. Frijhoff, ‘Grandeur des nombres et misères des réalités. La courbe de Franz Eulenburg
et le débat sur le nombre d’intellectuels en Allemagne, 1576–1815’, in D. Julia, J. Revel
and R. Chartier (eds.), Les universités européennes du XVIe au XVIII siècle. Histoire
sociale des populations étudiantes (Paris, 1986), vol. I, 23–7. See vol. II, pp. 298, 303–4
(M. R. di Simone, ‘Admission’).
8 Ibid., 311. 9 Ibid.

237
Fritz Ringer

Table 7.1 Access to German universities, 1700–1930a

Secondary Beginning
graduates as students as Total Students per Students as %
% of age % of age enrolments thousand of of 5-year
Date cohort cohort (× 1000) population age cohort

1700 1.1
1740 0.8
1800 0.4
1820–21 0.3
1830–31 15.7 0.5
1840–41 11.5 0.4
1850–51 12.4 0.4
1860–61 12.4 0.3
1870–71 0.6 0.5 12.7 0.3 0.4
1880–81 0.8 21.9 0.5 0.6
1890–91 0.8 0.6 28.2 0.6 0.6
1900–01 0.9 34.3 0.6 0.7/1.0
1910–11 1.1 0.9 54.5 0.8 0.9
1920–21 1.3 86.9 1.4 1.2
1930–31 3.3 99.9 1.5 1.6/2.1

a Figures to 1800 are from W. Frijhoff, ‘Surplus ou déficit? Hypothèses sur le nombre
réel des étudiants en Allemagne à l’époque moderne (1576–1815)’, Francia: Forschungen
zur westeuropäischen Geschichte, 7 (1979), 173–218. Figures for Secondary Graduates
(Abiturienten) per nineteen-year-olds in 1921 and for beginning students per age cohort in
1870 and 1931 are from Ringer, Education and Society, Appendix Tables I, V. All other data
are taken or calculated from H. Titze (ed.), ‘Hochschulstudium’ (note 1). Only universities
are considered, and age cohorts are for both genders. Figures for 1830–31 etc. are almost
always averages for winter term 1830–31 and summer term 1831, etc. (and for population
1830 and 1831, etc.). Enrolments per population in 1820–21 and secondary graduates per
age group to 1910–11 are for Prussia only. Beginning students per cohort for 1870–71 are
in fact total enrolments per four-year age group 20–23; for 1890–91 and 1910–11, first-year
students are related to one-fifth of the five-year age group 1923. The results suggest that
from 1890 on the university access rate was close to the ratio of enrolments to the five-year
age group 19–23 used by Titze and in the last column of the table. The figures added after
the slash in that column for 1900–01 and 1930–31 include students at technical institutes
and other non-university institutions of higher education (with duration of study probably
closer to four than to five years). Foreigners among German university students (included
in the table) were some 7–8 per cent from the 1890s to the First World War and again in
the mid-1920s, after which the proportion declined to around 4 per cent during the early
1930s.

last two columns in the table adequately describe this renewed expansion;
but they have two weaknesses. First, the average duration of university
study apparently increased after 1870, from about four to around five
years. The ratio of students to the five-year age group 19–23, which stems
from very good Prussian and German data, therefore tends to understate
rates of university entry per age group until after 1870. Second, the table
deals with the German universities alone. It thus neglects growing enrol-
ments at the technical institutes (Technische Hochschulen), which became

238
Admission

quantitatively significant after 1870, and which gained nominal equiva-


lence of standing with the universities in 1899. Also unlisted are a number
of academies and other institutions, some of them considered of univer-
sity level, which grew up from the late nineteenth century on. Around
1900–01, the universities alone accounted for roughly 68 per cent of all
university-level enrolments, and the technical institutes added around 22
per cent, which left 10 per cent for other institutions. As of 1930–31, the
universities enrolled about 74–75 per cent of all students, and the technical
institutes added another 17–18 per cent. Since average duration of study
was almost certainly shorter at the non-university institutions of higher
education than at the universities themselves, the indicators in the last col-
umn of Table 7.1 would have to be increased to around 1.0 in 1900–01
and 2.1 in 1930–31 to reflect first-year access to all university-level insti-
tutions.
In any case, the German university system really experienced at least one
and possibly two distinctive upward movements in enrolments after the
plateau of 1840–70. The first of these was a phase of moderate growth that
extended from 1870 to the First World War and into the inter-war period.
During the 1880s and 1890s renewed concerns arose about an ‘academic
proletariat’, so named during this period. Public debates about the accred-
itation of competing forms of secondary and higher education became
extraordinarily heated. Efforts to restrict university access, while success-
ful in the short run, ultimately failed to prevent further increases in levels
of inclusiveness during the twentieth century. Indeed, the reflux of former
soldiers into the German universities after the First World War, the great
inflation of 1923 and the depression of the early 1930s led to unprece-
dented highs in enrolments that were only briefly interrupted after the
currency stabilization of 1924. Beginning in 1933, the National Socialists
responded with draconian measures to reduce access to the universities,
which particularly affected women. These controls promptly produced
shortages of educated specialists and ultimately had to be abandoned.
They thus only temporarily checked the very rapid growth in enrolments
per population that began during the inter-war period and that in other
countries continued into the post-war era.
It should be noted in Table 7.1 that Prussian secondary graduates (Abi-
turienten) from 1870 on were generally more numerous, in relation to
the age cohort, than German university entrants; but the differences were
not great. The relevant figures include graduates of incompletely classical
secondary schools (later named Realgymnasien) from 1860 on and of the
non-classical Oberrealschulen from 1880 on. The fully classical Gym-
nasium accounted for almost 90 per cent of secondary graduates around
1870, and still just over 80 per cent around 1900. Thereafter, as graduates
of all secondary school types were admitted to the universities on nearly

239
Fritz Ringer

equal terms, the proportion of Abitur certificates held from a Gymnasium


rapidly fell to two-thirds by 1911 and continued to decline thereafter. But
even before the turn of the century, many graduates of the Realgymnasien
and Oberrealschulen went to the technical institutes, which are not cov-
ered in the table. The share of secondary graduates who continued on to
some form of university-level study after 1870 was therefore even higher
than the figures in Table 7.1 suggest.
While the flow of students into the German universities during the nine-
teenth century can be charted with a fair degree of precision, there are few
fully reliable and comparable data for France before the 1870s. The uni-
versities (really loose associations of faculties) that existed in France on the
eve of the Revolution encompassed arts faculties that in theory prepared
their students for the ‘higher’ faculties of theology, law and medicine.
But much of the actual teaching of the arts faculties had devolved upon
the collèges, only a fraction of which were actually affiliated with the
arts faculties. The complete (full programme) collèges offered a classical
secondary curriculum, along with a two-year terminal course in ‘philos-
ophy’ that could be considered of university level. According to the best
available estimates, students entering the ‘higher’ French faculties in 1789
were about 0.6 per cent of eighteen year-olds (or 1.2 per cent of eighteen-
year-old males).10 Even without the philosophy students, this represents
a fairly high level of inclusiveness as compared with the 0.4 per cent of
the age group in column 2 of Table 7.1 (or 0.8 per cent of the male age
cohort) at all German universities, though it comes very close to the access
rate estimated for Prussia alone.
Of course the Revolution swept away the French universities of the old
regime, along with parts of the secondary system – and a rich network
of endowed scholarships.11 In place of the old collèges, Napoleon cre-
ated a system of public secondary schools (centrally financed lycées called
collèges royaux under the monarchy, plus municipal collèges), which com-
peted with private or confessional secondary schools (also called collèges).
In the baccalaureate examination and certificate (baccalauréat) of 1808,
he created a French equivalent of the German Abitur, which became a
near-prerequisite for access to higher education and to the learned pro-
fessions. The old French universities became institutionally separated fac-
ulties or ‘schools’. Among them, the professional faculties of law, medicine
and pharmacy long remained much larger and more important than the

10 R. Chartier, D. Julia and M.-M. Compère, L’Education en France du XVIe au XVIIIe


Siècle (Paris, 1976), 249–97 (written by Compère), esp. 273–6, 292; see also 294, note 7;
R. Chartier and J. Revel, ‘Université et société dans l’Europe moderne: position des
problèmes’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, 25 (1978), 353–74, esp. 366–8.
11 R. R. Palmer, ‘Free Secondary Education in France Before and After the Revolution’,
History of Education Quarterly (1974), 437–52.

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Admission

faculties of letters and of sciences, heirs of the old arts faculties. The lat-
ter had virtually no students until late in the nineteenth century. They
administered the baccalaureate examination; they certified future sec-
ondary teachers, testing them essentially on the secondary curriculum,
and they provided popular lectures for amateur audiences. It was not until
the later 1870s and 1880s that the non-professional university faculties
acquired regular students and demanded serious post-secondary studies,
and it was not until 1896 that the various existing faculties were drawn
together to form regional ‘universities’. The training of the Catholic clergy
took place essentially in higher seminaries (grands séminaires).12 But far
and away the most serious rivals of the French university faculties during
the nineteenth century and thereafter were the famous grandes écoles.13
The limited numbers of students they took in annually on the basis of
competitive entrance examinations, usually after a year or more in spe-
cial post-secondary ‘preparatory courses’, were boarded and educated at
the expense of the state, generally during a three-year course. From the
late nineteenth century on, additional non-university institutions of higher
education were created, many of them in technical specialities, that are
now also sometimes called grandes écoles. This background must be con-
sidered in any quantitative account of French university access during our
period.
In a convincing critique of statistics initially put forward by the French
Ministry of Education in 1843, it has been suggested that the French
public and private secondary schools enrolled roughly as many pupils in
1842 as the full-programme collèges did in 1789.14 There was a shrinkage
between 1789 and 1809; but it was largely compensated thereafter. Bac-
calaureate awards fell to just below 3,000 in 1842, after having slightly
surpassed that figure in 1820 and 1831. This suggests that complaints
about an excess of educated men during the 1830s and 1840s had weaker
quantitative foundations in France than in Germany. In the absence of
meaningful data on university enrolments between 1789 and 1870, the
rate of baccalaureate awards is particularly important.
Given a relatively stable number of baccalaureates between 1820 and
1842, along with an established university access rate of 0.6 for 1789, we
can sustain the hypothesis of roughly constant levels of inclusiveness in
French secondary and higher education during the early nineteenth cen-
tury. Until the end of that century, it should be noted, French baccalaureate
awards were generally more frequent, in relation to the age group, than
university entries. Unlike the Abitur, clearly, the baccalaureate was fairly

12 See chapter 4, 113 and chapter 10, 396, 399–400. 13 See chapter 2, 57.
14 D. Julia and P. Pressly, ‘La population scolaire en 1789; les extravagances du Ministère
Villemain’, Annales: Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations (1975), 1510–61.

241
Fritz Ringer

Table 7.2 Access to French and German universities, 1840–1930a

France Germany
Students as Beginning Students as
Sec. grad as % of Sec. grad. as students as % of
% of 4-year % of age % of age 5-year
Dates age cohort age cohort cohort cohort age cohort

1842 0.5
1854 0.7
1865 0.9
1870–71 0.6 0.5 0.4
1876 0.8 0.5
1880–81 0.5 0.8 0.6
1886–87 1.0 0.6
1890–91 0.8 0.8 0.6 0.6
1898–1901 1.2 1.2 0.9 0.7/1.0
1910–11 1.1 1.7 1.1 0.9 0.9
1920–21 1.4 2.1 1.3 1.2
1930–31 2.3 2.1 3.3 1.6/2.1

a The data are taken or calculated from Table 7.1 and from Ringer, Education and Society,
app. tables IX, XI, which are based on published government statistics. Baccalaureate
figures are percentages of seventeen-year-olds of both genders. French university enrolments
are related to the four-year age cohort 19–22 (both genders), which may slightly understate
university access through 1880, while slightly overstating it for the inter-war period.
French non-university institutions of higher education (grandes écoles, higher seminaries
and certain higher technical schools) are not covered in the table, but may be roughly
estimated to have enrolled 10–15 per cent as many students as the university faculties.
Foreigners among students at French universities increased from 6 per cent in 1901 to 13
per cent in 1911 and (again) in 1921, and 22 per cent in 1931. The apparent excess of
university access over the baccalaureate rate from 1900 on is due to increased duration of
study, to foreign students, and to students reaching some faculties (as non-degree or special
students) without the baccalaureate.

often held as a terminal degree during the nineteenth century. Apart from
occasional highs and lows, the French baccalaureate rate grew steadily but
slowly until the inter-war period, when a rather rapid increase occurred.
Much the same can be said of university access, especially if the grandes
écoles, the higher seminaries and certain other technical schools of the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries are counted as well.
In France as in Germany, non-classical and semi-classical secondary
schooling played a role, at least from the 1860s on. A ‘special’ or
(later) ‘modern’ curricular stream developed within the existing lycées
and collèges. From the late 1880s on, there were sharp debates about
whether modern secondary graduates ought to be admitted to higher edu-
cation. Though they were in fact placed on a nominally equal footing in
1902, the rate of baccalaureate awards remained relatively steady until the
inter-war period and even decreased a little in 1910–11. Nevertheless, an

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Admission

‘academic proletariat’ was much decried in France as in Germany during


the 1890s.15 Perhaps our data for France are simply not precise enough to
reflect short-term enrolment fluctuations that may have helped to trigger
these anxieties.
Comparison between the French and German figures indicates that
throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, rates of secondary
graduation were somewhat higher in France than in Germany. A French
advantage in university enrolments per age cohort too can be reliably
observed from 1890 on, especially if non-university institutions of higher
education are considered as well. The German technical institutes were
not considered of university level before the turn of the century, and they
were not quantitatively as significant as has sometimes been assumed. In
France, the leading grandes écoles outranked the university faculties in
academic and social prestige, and they were joined by less highly accred-
ited technical schools from the late nineteenth century on. The traditional
assumption that higher education did more in Germany than in France
to stimulate industrial development is in urgent need of re-examination.
Indeed, the most important conclusion to be drawn from Table 7.2, espe-
cially in view of unavoidable imprecisions in the data, is that rates of access
to higher education in France and Germany during our period were really
very similar, and even developed in roughly comparable stages, at least
until the inter-war years.
Secondary schooling in nineteenth-century England took place entirely
at private or ‘independent’ secondary schools offering a classical curricu-
lum, including the chartered ‘public’ schools, which typically boarded
their students. The growth of ‘maintained’ grammar schools after the
Education Act of 1902 affected a larger fraction of the age group. Yet
‘public’ and other independent boarding schools, while declining in num-
bers, continued to control access to the two ancient universities of Oxford
and Cambridge. These were the only English universities until the foun-
dation of the University of London as an examining and degree-granting
institution in 1836. Beginning in 1851 and especially after 1870, a second
tier of university-level institutions developed.16
The second column of Table 7.3 deals with entrants to Oxford and
Cambridge. It may be considered a full measure of university access in
England and Wales until the 1840s, and still a reasonably complete one
around 1870. Thereafter, the rapid growth of the University of London
network and of the ‘redbrick’ universities quickly doubled English uni-
versity enrolments per age group. A degree of caution is indicated, since
15 The controversies over modern secondary education and over the ‘academic proletariat’
in France are analyzed in F. K. Ringer, Fields of Knowledge: French Academic Culture in
Comparative Perspective, 1890–1920 (Cambridge, 1992), 52, 127–40.
16 See chapter 2, 53–5.

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Fritz Ringer

Table 7.3 Access to English and French universities, 1700–1930


(in percentages of relevant age cohorts of both sexes)a

Oxford and English French French


Dates Cambridge universities Baccalaureate universities

1700s 0.5
1800s 0.2
1810s–40s 0.3
1850s–60s 0.2 0.2 0.8
1870s 0.3 0.3 0.8 0.5
1880s 0.3 0.6 1.0 0.6
1890s 0.3 0.8 1.2 0.9
1901 0.7 1.2
1911 1.0 1.1 1.7
1921 1.4 1.4 2.0
1931 1.3 2.3 2.9

a Decennial average freshman entries per age group (both genders) at Oxford and
Cambridge are calculated from estimates in L. Stone (ed.), The University in Society, vol. I:
Oxford and Cambridge from the 14th to the Early 19th Century (Princeton, 1974), 91–2,
103, and from B. R. Mitchell (ed.), Abstract of British Historical Statistics (Cambridge,
1962); the age-group figures used were for England and Wales. Stone’s figures for the
early seventeenth century suggest rates of entry to Oxford and Cambridge near 1 per
cent of the age group. Enrolments at universities in England and Wales, including some
part-time students, for the years 1861, 1871, etc. are taken from R. Lowe, ‘The Expansion
of Higher Education in England’, in K. Jarausch (ed.), The Transformation of Higher
Learning, 1860–1930: Expansion, Diversification, Social Opening, and Professionalization
in England, Germany, Russia and the United States, Historisch – sozialwissenschaftliche
Forschungen 13 (Stuttgart, 1983), 37–56, esp. 52; but Lowe’s figures have been adjusted
(increased) to reflect an assumed four-year (not five-year) duration of study, which also
makes for greater comparability with the French data. As late as 1961, 54 per cent of
students from the UK entering Oxford and Cambridge came from ‘independent’ schools.
See also Ringer, Education and Society, 220–30. For French figures, see note 16.

the tabulated ratios encompass a substantial share of part-time students,


especially before 1900. Nonetheless, it is worth noting that total English
university access came fairly close to French (and German) levels during
the late nineteenth century. The further growth of the English univer-
sity system after 1900 was apparently slower than the expansion of the
French university faculties during the same period. If one includes teacher-
training colleges and other (especially technical) institutions of further
education, however, the indicators of inclusiveness for all of higher edu-
cation in Great Britain come to 1.2 per cent of the age cohort in 1901
and 2.7 per cent in 1924–25.17 What primarily distinguished the English
university system from its counterparts on the Continent, therefore, was

17 More on this in Ringer, Education and Society, 228–30, which draws on Great Britain,
Committee on Higher Education, Higher Education: Report of the Committee . . . under
the Chairmanship of Lord Robbins (‘Robbins Report’, London, 1961–3).

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Admission

Table 7.4 University enrolments per age cohort in European countries


(in percentages of the five-year age group 20–24)a

Country 1840 1870 1880 1890 1900 1910

Austria 0.9 0.7 1.0 0.9 1.1 3.8


Belgium 0.5 0.7 1.0 1.0 0.9 1.3
England 0.4 0.6 0.7 0.8 1.3
Finland 0.3 0.4 0.4 1.1 1.2 1.2
Italy 0.5 0.5 0.8 1.0 1.1
Netherlands 0.6 0.4 0.5 0.7 0.7 1.1
Norway 0.7 0.5 1.0 0.7 0.8
Portugal 0.2 0.2 0.3 0.3 0.2
Scotland 1.4 1.9 1.8 1.4 1.9
Spain 0.9 1.0 1.2
Sweden 0.6 0.5 0.6 0.9 0.7 0.9
Switzerland 0.7 0.9 1.4 2.2

a H. Kaelble, Soziale Mobilität und Chancengleichheit im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert


(Göttingen, 1983), 200–2. Definitions of university-level education vary somewhat from
country to country, and some figures listed pertain to years somewhat earlier or later than
the headings. Austrian figures to 1900 are for the Empire, thereafter for the territory of the
future Republic. England includes Wales.

the low rate of entry to the two older universities before 1850. With a joint
access rate of 0.2–0.3 per cent of the age group, Oxford and Cambridge
lagged far behind the French and German systems. Much of the difference
may have been due to the fact that in England, professional training for
future lawyers and doctors took place, respectively, at the Inns of Court
and at the teaching hospitals. Studies at the two ancient universities dur-
ing the nineteenth century were predominantly classical and literary, with
the addition of mathematics at Cambridge. One has to remember that the
French faculties of letters and of sciences also had very few real students
before 1870.
For most European countries other than France and Germany during
the nineteenth century, finally, total enrolments in universities and, in some
case, university-level institutions are related in Table 7.4 to the five-year
age group 20–24 (both genders), which may or may not be realistic in the
light of average duration of study.
Since average duration of study probably came closer to four than to
five years, the figures tabulated presumably understate university access
rates by roughly 25 per cent. Probably no one knows enough about all of
these educational systems to make the data in Table 7.4 fully meaningful.
Nevertheless, two general conclusions do suggest themselves. First, with
a few deviations that may or may not reflect peculiarities of classification,
the measures cluster around certain typical values, which are not far from
the more reliably estimated figures for Germany in Table 7.1. With rare

245
Fritz Ringer

exceptions, one could say, university access rates in the European countries
around 1870 stood at about 0.4–0.7 per cent of the five-year age group
20–24. Second, while there is no consistent evidence of growth between
1840 and 1870, levels of inclusiveness generally increased from 1870 on,
reaching some 0.7–1.2 per cent of the five-year age group at the turn of
the century, with further moderate growth following up to the First World
War. Considering the complexities involved, these are remarkably well-
defined and consistent patterns. Only the Portuguese figures fall far below
these norms, and the English percentages through 1870 would of course
look low as well. In compensation, the indicators for Scotland before 1900
document a remarkably precocious development of university access that
clearly deserves further attention.

preparation and distribution of students


We will have to be content with a sense of overall patterns, too, as we
turn to the secondary preparation of entering students, the number of
foreigners and of women among them, and their choice of faculty or
subject area within the university, though we have already encountered
a few specifics. While ‘realistic’ or ‘modern’ forms of secondary school-
ing developed in France and Germany from the 1860s on, the graduates
of these programmes and institutions were not generally admitted to the
universities until the turn of the century. Until then, over 80 per cent of
German university entrants held the Abitur from a classical Gymnasium.
At Oxford during the 1890s, around 60 per cent of students entering from
the United Kingdom came from the classical secondary institutions which
by that time had been recognized as ‘public’ schools. The other endowed
and/or fee-supported grammar schools of that period also offered a classi-
cal curriculum, as did the ‘maintained’ grammar schools after 1902. Thus
curricular differences at the secondary level never became as crucial and
divisive in England as in France and Germany. On the other hand, the elite
independent secondary schools supplied almost two-third of entrants to
Oxford and Cambridge in 1902–04, and as we noted, they still accounted
for a majority of matriculates at these universities in the 1930s.18 In their
own way, therefore, the independent boarding schools were the English
counterparts of the German Gymnasium and the French lycées, especially
those in Paris. Foreign students were quite numerous in England, France
and Germany during the late nineteenth century, and again during the
inter-war period. They made up the following percentages of all students
(Table 7.5).

18 History of Oxford, VIII, 53, Table 3.2.

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Admission

Table 7.5 Foreign students in Germany, France


and England (in percentages of all students)

c. 1900 c. 1920 c. 1930

Germany 7 4
France 6 13 22
Oxford 6 12

The Swiss universities also attracted high proportions of foreign stu-


dents, including talented women, who around the turn of the century
found this one of the few ways to reach higher education.19
The crucial developments in secondary and university education for
women in France, Germany and England took place between 1890 and
1920. In France, girls’ lycées and collèges replaced the older ‘secondary
courses for girls’ during the 1890s, and as early as 1901, women com-
prised 3 per cent of students at French university faculties. In Germany,
the ‘higher girls’ schools’ of earlier decades were supplemented during the
1890s by courses preparing for the Abitur, even while a few women began
to reach the universities, usually as auditors or special students. The estab-
lishment of fully accredited girls’ secondary schools (Lyzeen) and unqual-
ified university admission for women followed in the first decade of the
twentieth century (in 1908 for Prussia). In England, change at least began
somewhat earlier. Eight women’s colleges were founded at Cambridge and
Oxford between 1869 and 1893.20 At Oxford, women were admitted to
university examinations in 1884, which encouraged the development of
women’s colleges; but admission to Oxford and Cambridge degrees did
not follow until after the First World War.
The percentages of women among university students in some of the
European countries between 1900 and 1930 are charted in Table 7.6.
The very high figures for Switzerland before the First World War reflect
the early importance of the Swiss universities for well-to-do women from
a variety of European countries, especially from Russia. Thus women
made up some 35 per cent of the student body at the University of Bern
in 1903–04; but only about one in ten of these women were natives of
Switzerland. The percentages for the British universities are more consis-
tently remarkable, especially given the slow rate of change at Oxford and
Cambridge. The French figures look strong as well, whereas significant
progress for women in Germany did not come until around 1930, only
to be retarded by the National Socialists shortly thereafter. The decline in

19 See chapter 2, 69 and chapter 14, 585.


20 University of Cambridge, IV, 301–30.

247
Fritz Ringer

Table 7.6 Women among university students, 1900–1930 in selected


European countries (in percentages of all students)a

Countries c. 1900 c. 1910 c. 1920 c. 1930

Austria 8 14 17
France 3 9 13 26
Germany 4 9 18
Great Britain 17 19 27 26
Italy 17 20 15
Netherlands 7 14 15 18
Spain 4 7
Sweden 3 8 10 15
Switzerland 20 22 12 12

a From Kaelble, Soziale Mobilität (note to Table 7.4), 222–4; but figures for Great Britain
c. 1900–1910 in fact pertain to England and Wales and are taken from J. Howarth and M.
Curthoys, ‘The Political Economy of Women’s Higher Education in Late Nineteenth and
Early Twentieth-Century Britain’, Historical Research, 60 (1987), 208–31, esp. 210–11.
German and French figures are virtually identical with data in Titze, ‘Hochschulstudium’
(note 1), and Ringer, Education and Society. A few dates vary up to two years around
those listed. Some non-university institutions of higher education are included for Austria
and for the Netherlands, in both cases from 1910 on.

the proportion of women among Italian students between 1920 and 1930,
too, was presumably a consequence of Fascist policies. Beyond that, the
indicators for Spain are particularly abnormal on the low side.21
The long-term trends in the distribution of students over the major
faculties and subject areas in France and Germany are summarized in
Table 7.7. For Germany, the most important developments were the rel-
ative decline of both Catholic and Protestant theology, and the rise of the
humanities and natural sciences, or more simply of the faculty of ‘philos-
ophy’. Both trends were almost certainly characteristic of other university
systems as well. For France, one should note the absence of students in
the state faculties of Catholic theology which led to their dissolution in
1885,22 the replacement of the arts faculty by faculties of letters and of
sciences and especially the dominant position held by the faculties of law
throughout the nineteenth and into the twentieth century. In the absence
21 See J. C. Albisetti, Schooling German Girls and Women: Secondary and Higher Education
in the Nineteenth Century (Princeton, 1988), 204–305, esp. 297–301; S. Ulivieri, ‘Women
and the University Studies in Italy’, in Higher Education and Society in Historical Perspec-
tives [7th International Standing Conference for the History of Education] (Salamanca,
1985), vol. I, 658–67; Alma Mater Studiorum. La presenza femminile dal XVII al XX Sec-
olo. Ricerche sul rapporto Donne/Cultura Universitaria nell’Ateneo Bolognese (Bologna,
1988); M. Raicich, ‘Liceo, università, professioni: un percorso difficile’, in S. Soldani
and F. Angeli (eds.), L’educazione delle donne (Milan, 1989), 147–81; J. Stephenson,
‘Girls’ Higher Education in Germany in the 1930s’, Journal of Contemporary History,
10 (1975), 41–69.
22 See chapter 10, 396.

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Admission

Table 7.7 The distribution of French and German university


students over the faculties and subject areas, 1830–1914 (in rounded
percentages by column)a

German universities 1830–60 1860–90 c. 1911

Theology 30 20 10
Law, Government 30 25 20
Medicine 15 20 20
Humanities 15 15 25
Sciences 5 10 15
Minor fields 5 10 10

French Univ. Fac. 1850–70 1870–90 c. 1911

Law, Government 50 40 40
Medicine 25 35 25
Letters 5 10 15
Sciences 5 5 15
Minor fields 15 10 5

a From Ringer, Education and Society, 60, 149, based on app. tables V, XI. All percentages
are approximate, intended to represent long-term trends only. For Germany, no distinction
is made between Catholic and Protestant theological faculties; Law and Government
encompasses the cameral sciences or Staatswissenschaften; Humanities refers to the
Geisteswissenschaften, which were typically grouped with the natural sciences in the
faculties of philosophy; Minor fields includes pharmacy and agriculture. For France,
the faculties of law in fact offered some of the specialties called Staatswissenschaften in
Germany; Minor fields really means pharmacy; the figures for 1850–70 are based on degree
awards, not on student enrolments.

of strong faculties of arts and sciences, the French law faculties apparently
took on a generalist function as well. Perhaps the traditions of the old judi-
cial nobility contributed to this pattern. As late as the 1860s, only about
half of French law students intended to pursue legal careers.23 From the
late nineteenth century on, the French law faculties also offered courses
in economic, political and social studies, trying to broaden the training of
future civil servants.
In any case, no greater contrast can be imagined than that between the
strength of the professional faculties in the French university of the nine-
teenth century and the curricular emphasis characteristic of Oxford and
Cambridge at that time. Despite the emergence of new degree subjects,
especially after 1870, the Oxford curriculum long remained predomi-
nantly classical, literary and philosophical. Mathematics and the sciences
were stronger at Cambridge, and the London system offered a variety of

23 G. Weisz, ‘The Politics of Medical Professionalization in France 1845–1848’, Journal of


Social History, 12 (1978–9), 3–30, esp. 28. See also Weisz, Emergence, 188–9, for what
follows.

249
Fritz Ringer

specialization in science, technology and medicine. Yet it was at Oxford


and Cambridge, not at the German universities, that something like the
Humboldtian preference for generalist studies survived into the twentieth
century. That surely helps to explain why levels of inclusiveness in English
higher education during the early nineteenth century lagged so far behind
their French and German counterparts.

costs of university studies


Having thus roughly charted the inflow of students and their distribution
over the fields of study, at least in a few European systems, we must come
back to some of the questions asked at the beginning of this chapter:
what were the main causes of short-term and long-term changes in the
pattern of university enrolments; what factors played a role in channelling
students towards higher education or in keeping them away?
Catholics and religious dissenters were not admitted to matriculation
at Oxford and Cambridge until the 1850s, and they could not take the
higher degrees until 1871. But this is the only absolute exclusion known
to me.
Of course the European universities generally charged tuition or fees,
at least until the inter-war period; but one has the impression that the
amounts were generally moderate, except where residential arrangements
were involved, as in the colleges of Oxford and Cambridge. The direct
costs of university study were reduced for many students from modest
circumstances through ‘free tables’ and/or fee remission, through schol-
arships provided by religious and charitable endowments (especially in
England), by individual patrons, or by the state (more likely on the Con-
tinent and after 1800). Patronage and aid to deserving poor students, espe-
cially candidates in theology, was an important social feature of European
higher education during the early modern period and into the nineteenth
century.24 As of 1899–1900, some 16 per cent of Prussian students at
Prussian universities were on scholarships, 6 per cent had access to free
tables, and 17 per cent had some sort of relief from fees; but the percent-
ages should not be added up, since an indeterminate number of students
received several forms of aid.25

24 For a vivid portrait of the circumstances and ethos of poor theology students in eighteenth-
century Germany, see A. J. LaVopa, Grace, Talent and Merit: Poor Students, Clerical
Careers, and Professional Ideology in Eighteenth-Century Germany (Cambridge, 1988).
25 Titze, ‘Hochschulstudium’ (note 1), 282; unfortunately, these detailed data are available
only for the Prussian universities between 1886–87 and 1911–12. Therefore, it is not
easy to assess either the costs or the opportunities for aid in a systematic way even
for individual countries, not to mention cross-national comparisons. See also chapter 4,
108–9.

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Probably more important than university fees in their social effects


were the direct costs of secondary schooling, which again were highest
for such boarding institutions as the English ‘public’ schools and certain
lycées and private or religious collèges in France. The expenses of sec-
ondary schooling for rural and small-town families was of course much
affected by the distance to the nearest full-programme or lower secondary
institution. The state scholarships established by Napoleon collectively
provided less student support than the foundations and endowments of
the pre-revolutionary period, even apart from the fact that nineteenth-
century French state scholarships often went to the offspring of deserving
minor officials.26 The special courses offered at the great Parisian lycées
to prepare candidates for the entrance examinations to the grandes écoles
probably functioned as serious economic barriers, especially for young-
sters from the provinces with less than outstanding academic records.
Again, I know of no systematic or comparative studies of secondary costs
and opportunities. Yet it is my impression that the average direct cost of
secondary schooling was somewhat higher in England and France than
in Germany, where a relatively dense network of non-residential schools,
including lower secondary schools, probably made access comparatively
inexpensive.
At the same time, the direct costs of higher education and of secondary
schooling may not have been the decisive factors in determining access
to the universities. The indirect costs of withholding young people from
the labour market for extended periods were probably more important.
After completing their university studies, candidates for the academic
professions, especially law and medicine, typically faced years of unpaid
internship, even if a scarcity of openings did not further extend proba-
tionary periods. In Prussia and more generally in countries with strong
meritocratic and state traditions from the eighteenth century on, efforts
to control standards in the bureaucracy and in the learned professions
gave rise to a complex system of formal qualifications that were generally
more demanding in the juridical civil service and in the liberal profes-
sions than in theology and in secondary teaching.27 The indirect costs of
obtaining these qualifications inevitably affected family strategies, and of
course reports of overcrowding in the professions had to be taken seri-
ously as well. In relation to the overall pattern of indirect costs, therefore,
tuition and fees were probably not decisive. We know that the aboli-
tion of fees in French secondary education between 1928 and 1933, for

26 Palmer, ‘Free Secondary Education’ (note 14).


27 See, for example, P. Lundgreen, ‘Zur Konstituierung des “Bildungsbürgertums”: Berufs-
und Bildungsauslese der Akademiker in Preussen’, in Bildungsbürgertum, esp. vol. I,
79–89.

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Fritz Ringer

example, did not occasion an immediate increase in first-year secondary


enrolments.28
Very significant, on the other hand, were the institutional and curricu-
lar barriers that separated primary and post-primary schooling from fully
accredited secondary education, and from such crucial qualifying exam-
inations as the German Abitur and the French baccalaureate. More than
anything else, it was the structure and curriculum of the secondary sys-
tems that truly regulated access to the universities. I have repeatedly called
attention to the social importance of segmentation in late nineteenth-
century European secondary education. It can be empirically observed
and even exactly measured where divergent ‘streams’ or ‘tracks’ within
the secondary system catered to different social groups. The differences of
accreditation between the fully classical Gymnasium and the less presti-
gious branches of German secondary schooling may serve as an example
of segmentation, and so may the comparable divergences between the clas-
sical and ‘modern’ secondary streams in France after 1860. It seems that
in England, such non-curricular differences among schools as distinctive
modes of socialization played a similar role. Educational segmentation,
especially at the secondary level, tended to perpetuate socio-cultural or
status distances within the population. The status order they fostered
and sustained was not necessarily congruent with the existing hierarchy
of wealth and economic power, as Max Weber pointed out. In Pierre
Bourdieu’s terminology, the distribution of ‘cultural capital’ was not sim-
ply identical with the distribution of ‘economic capital’. Nevertheless, the
cumulative effect of educational segmentation was to legitimate and to
enhance class differences.29
Without further developing this subject, I want here simply to indicate
how the segmentation of secondary systems could affect family strategies
with respect to higher education. As French educational reformers of the
late nineteenth century liked to point out, an independent artisan, shop-
keeper or small businessman might hesitate to risk the indirect costs of
classical secondary schooling for his son, since what the youngster learned
in a classical school would be of use to him only if he earned good grades
and completed the course. If he fell short of that, he would bring back
little that could help him in the family business. It was therefore eco-
nomically rational to opt for a non-classical and practically orientated
secondary programme, if it was available, especially if the focus upon the
ancient languages in the classical stream was early and exclusive. At the

28 Ringer, Education and Society, 141–2, 327–8.


29 Along with Ringer, Education and Society, esp. 12–22, 28–30; D. K. Müller, F. Ringer
and B. Simon (eds.), Rise of the Modern Educational System: Structural Change and
Social Reproduction 1870–1920 (Cambridge, 1987), esp. the Introduction (F. Ringer),
chapter 2 (F. Ringer), and chapter 4 (H. Steedman).

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same time, more purely emotional barriers also tended to keep pupils from
modest backgrounds out of the most highly accredited secondary schools.
The esoteric culture they represented might seem vaguely forbidding; to
enter them was to risk the psychic costs of moving upward into a partly
alien world. To some degree, at least, the less favoured social groups thus
tended ‘voluntarily’ to exclude themselves from the surest paths to the
universities.
On the other hand, once pupils actually reached the secondary system,
for whatever reasons, a new set of forces could begin to act upon them.
Thus teachers might encourage promising students from modest back-
grounds to imagine possibilities not initially envisaged by their parents.
With every year that pupils spent in school, moreover, it made more sense
for them to stay until graduation. The result was a gradual but recurrent
upward extension of initially lower secondary courses and a consequent
increase in the share of secondary graduates. In such curricular streams
as the French ‘special’ or (later) ‘modern’ secondary programme, more-
over, an originally ‘practical’ orientation tended progressively to give way
to a more ‘generalist’ and academic emphasis (‘generalist shift’). Against
the explicit intentions of educational planners, the programme took on
many of the characteristics of the most prestigious secondary stream. In
the meantime, teachers and parents ever more urgently demanded fully
equal accreditation and access to the universities, which the clients of the
more established schools or programmes of course opposed. Thus it is
possible to identify both exclusionary and inclusionary pressures within
the segmented European secondary systems of the nineteenth century, and
hence also to understand the educational conflicts that took place, at least
in France and Germany, during the decades after 1870.
The other main influence upon the flow of secondary students into the
universities that has to be considered is the social ‘demand’ for university
graduates. The concept of demand itself is problematic in some respects.
We usually know only the ‘supply’ of university students, and our sense of
the ‘demand’ tends to be indirect and even speculative. It would obviously
be circular to infer the demand from the supply, and then cite the demand
to ‘explain’ the supply. Yet we have already discussed instances in which
a short-term, cyclical deficit in the demand for graduates can be either
documented or reasonably assumed, if only because a sudden increase
in enrolments presumably confronted a relatively stable demand for edu-
cated professionals. When the ‘special’ secondary programme was created
in France during the 1860s, moreover, the response in increased secondary
enrolments was so immediate and pronounced that the prior existence of
a social demand can fairly be posited. But the analytical problems become
much more difficult where long-term secular changes in university access
are at issue. Can our understanding of short-term imbalances between

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Fritz Ringer

the supply and the demand for university education be extended to these
cases? We have come back in fact to some of the questions that were
posed at the beginning of this chapter, and that also have to do with
the major phases in the development of access to the European universi-
ties. Are we now in a position to address these questions in a conclusive
way?

the development of university access


The development of university access between 1800 and 1870 needs only
a brief review. In Germany, enrolments first climbed to a peak in 1830–31,
then declined for a decade, to reach a low plateau of constant inclusive-
ness, in relation to the age group, that lasted until 1870. The high point
in 1830–31 coincided with complaints about an ‘excess’ of educated men
that was heard in several other countries as well. It perfectly fits the pat-
tern of a short-term deficit in demand, particularly in light of the modest
and stable access rates that followed. As Table 7.4 indicates, relatively
stable indicators of inclusiveness, ranging from 0.4 to 0.7 per cent of a
five-year age group, actually obtained in most European countries during
the decades around the mid-century. An interesting recent study of inscrip-
tions (not enrolments) at Belgian universities by Jan Art also points to a
short peak in 1828–31, a setback thereafter, and a period of very modest
increases until about 1870.30 I have proposed the hypothesis of an early
industrial equilibrium in the supply and the demand for graduates, which
reflected stable access to the traditionally learned professions, rather than
to positions directly associated with the developing economies. I have
also noted that during the nineteenth century, university access rates seem
to have varied inversely with economic cycles.31 The Belgian study has
seconded this tentative observation, which suggests that university study
served to some degree as an alternative to business careers. One really
has to imagine two distinctive arenas of middle-class opportunity. One of
them was linked to industrialization and to the accumulation of economic
capital, which often took place without benefit of university education.
The other was associated with the minor and major educated profes-
sions, including the civil service in Prussia and elsewhere on the Conti-
nent, and thus with the pursuit of educational qualifications or of ‘cultural
capital’.
After 1870, the situation became very much more complicated. On
the one hand, a further short-term cycle of academic ‘overproduction’
30 J. Art, ‘Les Rapports triennaux sur l’état de l’enseignement supérieur: un arrière-fond
pour des recherches ultérieures sur l’histoire des élites belges entre 1814 et 1914’, Revue
belge d’histoire contemporaine, 17 (1986), 187–224.
31 Ringer, Education and Society, 50–51.

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has been most concretely documented for Germany by Titze, but it


apparently occurred in France as well. Perhaps it was aggravated by the
‘great depression’. On the other hand, more long-term structural changes
were taking place as well. Focusing particularly upon German secondary
education, Detlef Müller has characterized these changes as a process of
‘systematization’. In early nineteenth-century Prussia, he argues, the Gym-
nasium enrolled a good many pupils who were not preparing for university
entry, but left school early to pursue a variety of non-graduate occupa-
tions. This brought pupils from modest backgrounds into the secondary
schools, where some of them were ultimately encouraged to complete
their studies and continue on to the universities. The potentially progres-
sive effects of this pattern were undercut, however, as various curricular
options were more sharply defined and separated from each other. From
the 1860s on and especially late in the century, in fact, the boundaries
between different types of secondary schools were ever more rigorously
defined; curricula and graduate qualifications were meticulously specified,
and the functional relationships among the different parts of the total sys-
tem were fully articulated. Systematization was partly a form of bureau-
cratic rationalization, but it was also a conflict-ridden exercise in social
demarcation. The former early leavers were in effect channelled away
from the Gymnasium, into the Realgymnasium and the Oberrealschule,
which long remained incompletely accredited. In France and England too,
a process of systematization can be detected, as an essentially binary pat-
tern of elite secondary and popular primary schooling was replaced by a
more complex hierarchical structure of elite university-preparatory, non-
elite secondary and higher primary schooling.32
In my terms, the segmentation of French and German secondary edu-
cation became particularly marked after 1870, not before then. During
fierce debates over the accreditation of classical and ‘modern’ curricu-
lar streams, educational conservatives became quite explicit about their
socially exclusionary intentions. Yet along with an exclusionary dynamic,
inclusionary pressures were at work as well. Most visibly in France,
the emergence and growth of a non-classical secondary curriculum also
brought new social groups into the secondary system. As the non-classical
option underwent a generalist shift and took on a more academic charac-
ter, its sponsors sought university access for its graduates, and they could
not be put off for ever. Around the turn of the century, the graduates of
all full-length secondary programmes were admitted to university study
on largely equal terms, not only in republican France, but in monarchical
Germany as well. Rates of secondary graduation and of university entry,

32 Müller, Ringer and Simon, Rise (note 29), esp. chapters 1 (Müller) and 3 (Simon).

255
Fritz Ringer

though temporarily checked, eventually increased until the First World


War and beyond.
In higher education after 1870, while access rates increased at the uni-
versities themselves, newly created universities (in England) were joined
by certain non-university institutions of higher education, many of them
technical and professional schools, that gradually achieved equality of
accreditation with the universities. One way to describe the expansionary
developments of this period is to point out that they brought secondary
and higher education into closer interaction with the occupational system
of the high industrial era. Primarily involved on the side of the occu-
pational system were certain younger professions, especially in science
and technology, that came to be more educated than their early indus-
trial precursors, yet arguably more relevant to commerce and industry
than the older liberal and learned professions. The changes taking place
should not simply be regarded as educational adjustments to the ‘needs’
of the economy. Social and political issues were at least as important as
economic considerations in the education debates of the time. Moreover,
the elaborate hierarchy of educational qualifications that defined civil ser-
vice ranks in late nineteenth-century Prussia almost certainly did more
to shape the wider occupational system than the reverse. Thus the sec-
toral convergence between the educational and occupational systems was
a genuinely interactive one. With little exaggeration, one could speak of
an educationalization of the economy, rather than an industrialization of
education. In any case, there can be no question that short-term disequi-
libria were accompanied during this period by structural changes that led
to long-term increases in the demand for university graduates. There is
no other way to account for the increases in inclusiveness that actually
took place, and that in most European countries brought university access
rates to around 0.7–1.2 per cent of a five-year age group before 1914.
At some point, one has to recognize, a continuing increase in rates
of graduation, and even an ‘oversupply’ of graduates, will tend to cre-
ate an expanded ‘demand’ for them, in that new occupations will seem
to ‘require’ university-level education. Something like that has certainly
happened in most European systems since the Second World War. Increas-
ingly, higher education has become a necessary but not necessarily suffi-
cient condition of employment in the higher regions of the late industrial
white-collar hierarchy. There has been an ‘inflationary’ devaluation of
academic credentials as social assets. But it is possible that this new phase
in the history of university access, this further convergence between the
educational and the occupational systems, really began during the inter-
war period, as women entered the secondary schools and universities
in significant numbers, as middle-class reformists and moderate socialist
parties gradually reduced the barriers between primary and secondary

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schooling, and as short-term enrolment booms helped to undermine the


established expectations about the educational levels appropriate for var-
ious occupations.
Hartmut Kaelble has suggested a long-term and not precisely datable
evolution of European educational opportunities between the late eigh-
teenth and early twentieth centuries from a ‘charitable’ to a ‘competitive’
period, and from there to the epoch of the ‘welfare state’.33 There is a
rough parallel between his three stages and what I have called the ‘early
industrial’, the ‘high industrial’ and the ‘late industrial’ phases in the his-
tory of higher education, especially with respect to the changing rela-
tionship between the educational system and the economy. But Kaelble
also points to something else, and something very important. During the
late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, a pervasive expectation of
status persistence was nevertheless accompanied by an acceptance, even
an active sponsorship, of individual mobility through education for tal-
ented poor students seeking to enter the clerical and teaching professions.
Somehow, during the course of the nineteenth century, this pattern was
replaced not only by sharp competition for education places, but also by a
popular pursuit of educational opportunities on the one hand, and a con-
servative determination to limit university access, on the other. Vaguely
to sense so broad a shift is of course not to explain it; but then we are
still some distance away from fully understanding the main stages and
dynamics involved in the evolution of access to nineteenth-century Euro-
pean higher education.

the social origins of university students


We still have much to learn, too, about the social origins of university
students and about the whole issue of progressiveness. A system of higher
education may be considered progressive if it recruits a high proportion
of its students from the lower middle and lower classes. Progressiveness
in education is a necessary but not a sufficient condition of social mobility
through education. Measures of progressiveness are relative in principle.
For example, if 10 per cent of students in a university system and 20 per
cent of the total population were from the working class, then the relative
access chance or access ratio for working-class students in the system
would be 1:2, which would be very progressive indeed. The same ratio
could be reached if 5 per cent of working-class youths and 10 per cent of
a total age cohort were known to have reached universities. In practice,
because of limitations in the available data, I shall here focus mainly upon
percentages of students from various occupational groups.

33 Kaelble, Soziale Mobilität (note to Table 7.4), 172–6.

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Fritz Ringer

Table 7.8 Social origins of German university students, 1820–1930


(percentages of fathers in various social groups)a

Halle/
Halle, from Leipzig, from Prussian Prussian German
Father’s social Württemberg Five Univ. Württemb. Univ. Univ. Univ.
group 1821–37 1777–1867 1874–76 1887–91 1911–12 1931

Nobility 3 12 4 2 5 1
Learned Professions 44 44 38 25 21 25
Econ. up.-mid. class 33 15 9 16 12 11
Small Independents 23 14 19 19 23 18
Lesser Employees 3 3 6
Lower Officials 20 8 16 20 27 32
Farmers 7 10 12 6 4
Lower/working 1 1 5 1 2 3

a Data other than that for five universities 1777–1867 are from Ringer, Education and
Society, app. tables VI–VIII, though the last three columns could now be drawn from
Titze, ‘Hochschulstudium’ (note 1). The early columns are recalculated from absolute
numbers for (a) the University of Halle in 1821 and in 1834, plus students from the state
of Württemberg at German universities in 1837, and (b) the University of Halle in 1874,
students from Württemberg at German universities in 1875, and the University of Leipzig
in 1876. The ‘learned professions’ encompass high officials (defined narrowly as those
with university education for 1887–91 and 1911–12), including university professors and
secondary teachers (or university-educated teachers), plus clergymen, plus lawyers, physi-
cians and other members of the ‘liberal’ or ‘academic’ (university-educated) professions,
plus a few military officers. The ‘economic upper middle class’ encompasses ‘industrialists’
(Halle, Leipzig), with the addition of other ‘large-scale businessmen’ (Württemberg) or
of ‘independents in insurance’ (Prussia 1887–91); they are more consistently defined as
owners, managers and executive-level employees of large business firms in the last two
columns of the table. Before that point, the ‘smaller independents’ are largely merchants
and shopkeepers of all levels. ‘Lower officials’ includes substantial contingents of
lower-level teachers (or teachers without university education). The ‘lower/working class’
exceptionally includes a group of artisans for 1874–76. On the five universities, see note 43.

Table 7.8 is designed to provide a simplified sketch of social recruitment


into the German universities from about 1820 to 1930. From 1886 on,
unusually precise data are available for Prussia and, from 1928 to 1941,
for all of Germany as well. For the earlier period, I have added composite
figures calculated from published studies of selected universities around
1821–37 and 1874–76.
If one ignores column 2 for the moment, one can arrive at a rough
sketch of long-term changes that could be further supported from more
detailed breakdowns and annotations.34 It is clear, above all, that the Ger-
man universities of the early nineteenth century were dominated neither
by the landed nobility nor by an entrepreneurial bourgeoisie, but by an
educated upper middle class that encompassed all the university-educated

34 Ringer, Education and Society, esp. 81–5, 89–94, 97.

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or ‘academic’ professions. Particularly important were the higher officials,


including the university professors, and the ‘liberal professions’, especially
doctors and lawyers; but clergymen and secondary teachers made up sig-
nificant contingents as well. This educated elite accounted for about 45
per cent of German university students during the early decades of the
century; it reached a representation in excess of 50 per cent for some insti-
tutions and periods. Its decline from this dominant position began before
the 1870s, but it became more rapid thereafter until the First World War.
Despite a modest recovery during the Weimar period, the group fell to
roughly half of its original size, or to some 20–25 per cent of univer-
sity enrolments. Much of the space thus ‘left open’ was taken up by an
almost equally important social group, namely the lower officials, includ-
ing many primary teachers. In any cross-national comparison, this group
stands out as a further hallmark of the modern German university system.
It was quantitatively significant even during the early nineteenth century,
at some 15–20 per cent of enrolments, and it reached a representation in
excess of 30 per cent by about 1930. That much is safely established.
Unfortunately, the situation is less clear with respect to the industrial
and commercial occupations, or the economic upper and lower middle
classes. The sources do not, before 1911, consistently distinguish the eco-
nomic bourgeoisie of large-scale owners, managers and executive-level
employees from the old ‘burgher stratum’ (Mittelstand) of small-scale
independent producers and tradesmen on the one hand, and from the
‘new lower middle class’ (neuer Mittelstand) of lower-level employees
and clerks. The percentages listed in the table for the ‘economic upper
middle class’ in 1821–37, 1874–76 and 1887–91 encompass ‘industri-
alists’, along with a few large-scale businessmen and insurance agents.
The ‘smaller independents’ listed for these periods consist primarily of
merchants, shopkeepers and innkeepers. The lesser employees apparently
did not become quantitatively significant until late in the century; the
farmers made up a modest and declining contingent, and the working
classes remained virtually excluded from the universities, except when
grouped with artisans in 1874–76. The economic middle classes of early
nineteenth-century Germany consisted predominantly of early industrial
‘burghers’, of small merchants, small producers and independent artisans.
Therefore the increased representation of the economic occupations at the
German universities after 1870 was not necessarily progressive. While
workers and petty employees made up significantly increased portions of
the work force, their offspring rarely reached the universities. The very
small entrepreneurial upper middle class, by contrast, achieved a repre-
sentation in excess of 10 per cent by the early twentieth century, adding
a ‘plutocratic’ element to the reduced presence of the old educated elite.
This is not to deny that German university recruitment became somewhat

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Fritz Ringer

Table 7.9 Social origins of students at selected German universities,


1800–1910 (estimated percentages of fathers in various
occupational groups)a

Fathers’ occupations 1797 1817 1837 1857 1870s 1890s 1910s

Nobility 18 13 10 10
Learned professions 40 42 47 43 34 32 30
Econ. up.-mid. class 7 12 15 21 31 35 36
Lower middle class 21 23 21 18
Lower/working 1 1 1 1 34 32 35
Unknown 13 9 6 7

a From K. H. Jarausch, ‘Die neuhumanistische Universität und die bürgerliche Gesellschaft


1800–1870’, in C. Probst (ed.), Darstellungen und Quellen zur Geschichte der deutschen
Einheitsbewegung, 11 (Heidelberg, 1981), 11–58, esp. 14–15, 32, 39, and Jarausch, Students
Imperial Germany, 122–8. Jarausch drew on published matriculation records for the
universities of Tübingen (1776–1817), Göttingen (1779–1837), Erlangen (1798–1843), Kiel
(1827–64) and Heidelberg (1807–70). His numerical results for this whole sample, in the
summary occupational categories he used, are reproduced under ‘5 Universities 1777–1867’
in Table 7.8, except for 8 per cent Unknowns. The first percentage in that column is for
the nobility (use of von); ‘economic upper middle class’ encompasses landowners as well
as businessmen. In Students (note 42), Jarausch presented a similar sample in a similar
graph for the University of Bonn between 1840 and 1910. Finally, Jarausch combined his
Bonn data with published surveys for the universities of Berlin and of Leipzig, and for
students from Württemberg, from the 1860s to the 1910s, drawing upon the very rough
occupational categories used by the author of the Berlin survey. The last three columns of
Table 7.9 reproduce this portion of Jarausch’s numerical results for three selected decades;
‘economic upper middle class’ here encompasses industrialists and merchants of all sizes,
while the ‘lower middle class’ covers lower officials (including teachers), artisans and
farmers.

more progressive during the century after 1820, and especially between
1870 and 1930. It is to say only that the progressive shift was more modest
than has been widely realized, and perhaps also that the German univer-
sities of the early nineteenth century were already more progressive than
is commonly thought.35
In any case, there is nothing to suggest a more dramatic shift in a
progressive direction at the German universities between 1800 and 1914.
I have tried to show this in Table 7.9. Broken down into distributions for
selected sample years, the results for five universities indicate no steady
decrease in the representation of the educated upper middle class between
1797 and 1857, and they do document a steady increase in the percentages
for the economic upper middle class. Thus, even if the declining share of
the nobility is taken into account as well, the joint indicators for the upper
and upper middle classes actually rose gradually from 65 in 1797 to 74
35 On p. 80 of Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, K. Jarausch reports my conclusions in
a condensed but generally accurate way; his own formulations on pp. 122–6 are consistent
with mine.

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Table 7.10 Social origins of German university students by field of study,


1874–1931 (percentages of fathers in indicative occupational groups)a

Leipzig, 1874–78 Prussia, 1900 Germany, 1931


Faculties or Learned prof./ Learned prof./ Learned prof./
fields of study Lower officials Lower officials Lower officials

Law 39/9 27/17 26/27


Medicine 40/10 25/20 31/25
Protestant theology 50/19 38/33
Catholic theology 4/22
Humanities 30/20 20/28 19/37
Sciences 27/13 19/22 16/38
Technology 17/28
All Fields 37/13 23/21 22/32

a From Ringer, Education and Society, 88, 101. ‘Humanities’ and ‘Sciences’ jointly
cover students in the faculties of arts and sciences. ‘Lower officials’ includes lower
teachers, as in Table 7.8. Some 26 per cent of students in Catholic theology at Prussian
universities in 1900 had fathers who were farmers, whereas the corresponding figure for
all fields was eleven. Some 18 per cent of students at the German technical institutes
(‘Technology’) in 1931 had fathers who were owners, managers or executive-level
employees of large firms, whereas the corresponding figure for all fields was eleven. Fields
other than ‘Technology’ in 1931 cover only students at universities (not technical institutes).

in 1857. To be sure, the very summary percentages for the 1870s, 1890s
and 1910s appear inconsistent with the pattern in evidence through 1857;
but they too suggest a stable representation of the lower middle classes,
rather than an increasing one.
Table 7.10 deals with the social composition of the major faculties and
fields at German universities between 1874 and 1931 by focusing upon the
two most consistently significant and well-delimited occupational groups
among students’ fathers. To read the table, one must compare the percent-
ages for specific faculties or fields with those for all fields. Thus one can
see fairly quickly that the faculty of Protestant theology and especially
the humanities wing of the faculty of arts and sciences (‘philosophy’),
which trained secondary teachers, served as channels of upward social
mobility through education for the sons of lower officials and pri-
mary teachers. Protestant theology also recruited disproportionately from
the learned professions; presumably it attracted many pastors’ sons. In
Catholic theology, as the note to the table indicates, the offspring of
farmers were unusually numerous. In the sciences division of ‘philoso-
phy’, the learned professions were consistently underrepresented; but the
lower officials and teachers were not markedly over-represented until after
1900, when the sciences came to occupy a secure place in the secondary
curriculum. By 1931, in any case, the recruitment of science students was
even more progressive than that of the humanists.

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Fritz Ringer

As we have already noted, the quantitative significance of civil servants


and teachers among students’ fathers was a salient characteristic of the
German universities during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Table 7.10 shows that this trait was associated particularly with the facul-
ties of philosophy and theology, and with the training of future secondary
teachers and clerics. The professional faculties, by contrast, attracted dis-
proportionate shares of students from upper middle-class backgrounds.
Around 1900, law clearly outstripped medicine in this respect; but the
roles had been reversed by 1931. The direct and indirect costs of access
to the medical and legal professions, including the legally trained por-
tion of the high civil service, tended to discourage aspirants from modest
circumstances. At the technical institutes in 1931, finally, the economic
upper and lower middle classes must have been more strongly repre-
sented than either of the groups treated in the table. Indeed, as the note
indicates, the entrepreneurial elite was particularly interested in this sec-
tor of German higher education. One could speak of a mild form of
segmentation.
The French distributions charted in Table 7.11 provide a sharp contrast
with German patterns. To be sure, the available data do not pertain to the
French system of higher education as a whole, but only to selected portions
of it. To focus upon three provincial law faculties before the French Revo-
lution is to neglect their academically and socially more distinguished rival
in Paris. The columns for the 1860s really reflect the educational plans of
secondary graduates, not all of whom ultimately realized their academic
ambitions. Moreover, these data pertain to the two main professional fac-
ulties during an era when the faculties of letters and of sciences were of
only marginal importance. The particularly prestigious faculties of law at
that time attracted significant numbers of students who did not to intend
to enter the legal professions. The figures on the two most famous grandes
écoles, by contrast, stem from a period when the expansion and stepwise
accreditation of non-classical secondary schooling produced a progressive
shift in the social origins of students even at these elite institutions. This is
documented more fully by the authors whose findings are summarized in
these columns. There is no information, unfortunately, for the reformed
faculties of letters and of sciences, which were undoubtedly more progres-
sive in their recruitment than any of the major grandes écoles. Thus the
most obvious case of segmentation in French higher education, the divide
between the grandes écoles and the university faculties, particularly those
of letters and of sciences, is not visible in Table 7.11.
Even so, the table leaves no doubt at all that the French professional
faculties from the late eighteenth century to around 1880 and the Ecole
Polytechnique even thereafter were overwhelmingly dominated by the
upper middle class. Thoroughly disproportionate over-representations

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Table 7.11 Social origins of French university-level students, 1773–1914


(percentages of fathers in various occupational groups)a

Fathers’ 4 Provincial Prospective Ecole Ecole


occupational Law Fac. students 1864 Polytechnique Normale
groups 1773–89 Law, Medicine 1880–1914 1880–1909

Landed nobility 3–4


Learned professions 65–77 37 37 20 38
and officers
Econ. upper middle 2–9 39 33 38 20
Lower middle class 10–25 30 36
Lower working class 1–5 24 30 11 6

a The data on the provincial law faculties of Douai 1773–75, Nancy 1782–89 and
Dijon 1785–89 are from Chartier, Julia and Compère, L’Education (note 10), 277–8.
‘Learned professions’ here comprises two groups of about equal size; (1) the ‘higher liberal
professions’ and ‘holders/owners of major offices’ (grands officiers), and (2) the ‘lower
liberal professions’ and ‘minor officiers’; the ‘Economic upper middle class’ consists of
‘bourgeois’, and the rubric ‘Lower middle class’ is somewhat arbitrarily assigned to ‘mer-
chants’ (marchands). Data on secondary school leavers planning to study law or medicine
as of 1864 are from P. Harrigan and V. Negila, Lycéens et collégiens sous le Second Empire:
Etude statistique sur les fonctions sociales de l’enseignement secondaire publique d’après
l’enquête de Victor Duruy (1864–65) (Paris, 1979), table 15. The ‘Economic upper middle
class’ here also includes 29 per cent and 22 per cent ‘property-owners’ (propriétaires),
respectively, under law and medicine. The figures on the Ecole Polytechnique and the Ecole
Normale Supérieure are, respectively, from T. Shinn, Savoir scientifique et pouvoir social:
L’Ecole polytechnique, 1794–1914 (Paris, 1980), and R. J. Smith, The Ecole Normale
Supérieure and the Third Republic (Albany, 1982); but are here taken directly from Ringer,
Education and Society, 175–8. At Polytechnique, the ‘Economic upper middle class’ also
includes 13 per cent propriétaires and rentiers; the ‘Lower middle class’ encompasses 10 per
cent shopkeepers, 10 per cent middle and 10 per cent lower officials; the ‘Lower/working
class’ is broadly defined as classes populaires. At Normale, the ‘Learned professions’
include 18 per cent secondary and university teachers; ‘Economic upper middle class’
includes 8 per cent propriétaires and large farmers; ‘Lower middle class’ encompasses 14
per cent middle and lower officials, 10 per cent lower teachers, and 13 per cent shopkeepers,
artisans and lower white-collar employees; the ‘Lower/working class’ is made up of skilled
workers.

were achieved not only by the liberal and learned professions, as in


Germany, but also by the rich and powerful office-holders of the old
regime, by the propriétaires, the only occasionally aristocratic owners of
land and other forms of capital during the nineteenth century, and by the
entrepreneurial elite that did not enter German higher education in force
until the late nineteenth century. If one uses the term bourgeoisie as it has
come to be used in France, to designate all sectors of a propertied and
educated upper middle class, then some 75–80 per cent of French law stu-
dents through 1864, along with nearly 60 per cent of students at the Ecole
Polytechnique between 1880 and 1914 came from bourgeois families.
The corresponding figure for the Prussian universities in 1911–12 (from
Table 7.8) was less than 40 per cent for landowners, the learned

263
Fritz Ringer

professions, and the economic upper middle class of large commercial


and industrial owners, managers and executive employees.36
If we had data on the French faculties of letters and of sciences after
1880, they would certainly resemble their German equivalents more
closely. More generally, the reforms in the French universities during the
late nineteenth century must have brought the French and German uni-
versities closer together in their social make-up. As it is, one must look
at the Ecole Normale Supérieure to find anything like German patterns
of recruitment in nineteenth-century French higher education. For this
distinctive institution drew principally upon the educated, rather than
the propertied, portion of the French middle-class spectrum. As of 1880–
1909, among fathers of students at this meritocratic training ground for
the elite of secondary and university teachers, well over a third were in
lower middle-class occupations, including 24 per cent (as against 32 per
cent in Prussia as of 1911–12) who were middle and lower officials and
teachers. If one adds the figure for university faculty and secondary teach-
ers to that for primary teachers, one arrives at a remarkable 28 per cent
for fathers in education. Within the French system, at any rate, the Ecole
Normale stood out as a relatively progressive and emphatically academic
institution.
For nineteenth-century English higher education, we only have the
figures for the two ancient universities of Oxford and Cambridge in
Table 7.12. The social categories are a little vague; but they are used
consistently enough to permit a look at changes over time. A greater
proportion of unknowns probably accounts for the apparently smaller
percentages for the major groups at Oxford during the early nineteenth
century. If the unknowns were distributed roughly like the knowns, then
the landed gentry and the Anglican clergy each could be seen to have
accounted for roughly a third of enrolments at the two English universities
of the early nineteenth century. The lay professions at that time reached a
representation of around 20 per cent, with the middle-class business occu-
pations ranking in fourth place, and the artisan classes scarcely present
at all. Thus the secular middle classes were undoubtedly much weaker
in the English than in the French and German universities at that time.
Change away from this pattern was slow and possibly unsteady until the
mid-century; but then the professions and, to a lesser extent, the business
groups expanded their portion of enrolments to some 50–60 per cent by
the end of the century. We cannot be sure, but even by that time, neither
the lower middle classes in general nor the lower civil servants and teach-
ers in particular appear to have been as well represented at Oxford and
Cambridge as at the continental universities, and especially in Germany.

36 See also Ringer, Education and Society, 170–80.

264
Admission

Table 7.12 Social origins of English university students 1800–1900


(percentages of fathers in various occupational groups)a

Fathers’
occupation Cambridge Oxford

1800–49 1850–99 1818/19 1848/9 1878/9 1897/8


Landowners 31 19 23 23 18 12
Clergy 32 31 25 23 25 16
Professions 21 26 15 27 29 37
Business 6 15 12 9 18 27
Tradesmen, clerks, 1 2 4 5
working class
Unknown 10 9 24 16 6 3
Total 100 100 100 100 100 100
N 378 444 740 795

a Data on Cambridge University are from H. Jenkins and D. Caradog Jones, ‘Social Class
of Cambridge University Alumni of the 18th and 19th Centuries’, British Journal of
Sociology, 1 (1950), 93–116, esp. 99 (based on J. and J. Venn, Alumni Cantabrigienses.
A Biographical List of All Known Students, Graduates and Holders of Office at the
University of Cambridge, From the Earliest Times to 1900. Part II: From 1752 to 1900,
10 vols. (Cambridge, 1940–54)). Data on Oxford are from History of Oxford, VII, Part 2,
578, Table 24.1. ‘Landowners no Professions’. ‘Professions’ encompass law, medicine,
teaching, and public service (civil, colonial and diplomatic). ‘Unknown’ for Cambridge
includes only ‘miscellaneous’.

Thus this sector of English higher education was almost certainly the least
progressive in Europe until the present century.
In Table 7.13, finally, we get a glimpse of the Swedish and Danish
universities on the eve of the First World War. The Swedish system by that
time rather closely approximated German levels of progressiveness, with
slightly higher representations for the learned professions, but also for
farmers and workers. Students at the University of Copenhagen, however,
came a good deal more often than their German colleagues from upper
middle-class backgrounds. All sectors of the lower middle class were
notably more poorly represented at Copenhagen than at German institu-
tions, although a strong contingent of farmers at Copenhagen partly com-
pensated for this shortfall. In any case, the divergences of social recruit-
ment were no longer as great by around 1911 as the differences between
the English, French and German universities had been during the early
nineteenth century.
We spoke earlier of a convergence between the educational and the
occupational systems in Germany from the late nineteenth century on; but
perhaps we should have referred to a double convergence. For it seems
increasingly clear that during the late industrial phase in their history,
the European university systems shed some of the special characteristics
that had distinguished them from each other a century earlier. Levels of

265
Fritz Ringer

Table 7.13 Social origins of German, Danish and Swedish university


students about 1910 (percentages of fathers in various
occupational groups)a

Fathers’ occupations Prussia 1911–12 Sweden 1910 Denmark 1913

Landowners 5 2 2
Learned professions 21 24 33
Econ. upper-middle class 12 10 14
Smaller independents 23 19 12
Lesser employees 3 7
Lower officials 27 29 13
Farmers 6 9 12
Working class 2 5 4
Other, unknown 2 3

a From Kaelble, Soziale Mobilität (note 21), 204–5, based on F. T. B. Friis, ‘De studerende
ved Kobenhavns universitet’, Nationalokonomisk Tidsskrift, 57 (1919); S. Moberg, Verm
blev Student och vad blev Studenten? (Malmö, 1951), except for the Prussian data, which
is from Table 7.8. The absolute totals of samples are 2,692 for Denmark (the University of
Copenhagen), and 1,285 for Sweden. A few teachers at private and municipal schools are
included among ‘Lower officials’, which generally includes teachers in state schools.

progressiveness probably increased everywhere, perhaps less rapidly in


Germany than in systems that began less auspiciously. It is hard to say
whether higher levels of progressiveness also engendered increased social
mobility through education; but on the whole I doubt it. For as higher
education became even a little more generally available, it lost some of
the ‘market’ advantages of rarity. As the entrepreneurial middle classes
began to patronize higher education, moreover, upward mobility through
education to some extent replaced earlier patterns of social ascent without
or around the universities. But we are far from understanding all the
complexities involved. My aim here has been only to sketch the flow of
students into the European universities of the nineteenth century in a
preliminary way.

select bibliography
Albisetti, J. C. Schooling German Girls and Women: Secondary and Higher Edu-
cation in the Nineteenth Century, Princeton, 1988.
Conze, W. and Kocka, J. Bildungsbürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert. Bildungs-
system und Professionalisierung in internationalen Vergleichen, Stuttgart,
1985.
Jarausch, K. H. Students, Society, and Politics in Imperial Germany: The Rise of
Academic Illiberalism, Princeton, 1982.
Jarausch, K. H. (ed.) The Transformation of Higher Learning, 1860–1930: Expan-
sion, Diversification, Social Opening, and Professionalization in England,

266
Admission

Germany, Russia and the United States, Historisch-sozialwissenschaftliche


Forschungen 13, Stuttgart, 1983.
Kaelble, H. Soziale Mobilität und Chancengleichheit im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert,
Göttingen, 1983.
Müller, D. K. Sozialstruktur und Schulsystem: Aspekte zur Theorie und Praxis
der Schulorganisation im 19. Jahrhundert, W. Rüegg and O. Neuloh (eds.),
Studien zum Wandel von Gesellschaft und Bildung 9, Göttingen, 1977.
Müller, D. K., Ringer, F. and Simon, B. (eds.) The Rise of the Modern Educational
System: Structural Change and Social Reproduction 1870–1920, Cambridge,
1987.
Ringer, F. K. Education and Society in Modern Europe, Bloomington and London,
1979.
Fields of Knowledge: French Academic Culture in Comparative Perspective,
1890–1920, Cambridge, 1992.
Toward a Social History of Knowledge, New York, 2000, esp. Ch. 3.
Titze, H. (ed.) Das Hochschulstudium in Preussen und Deutschland 1820–1944,
Datenhandbuch zur deutschen Bildungsgeschichte I: Hochschulen, Teil 1,
Göttingen, 1987.
Weisz, G. The Emergence of Modern Universities in France (1863–1914), Prince-
ton, 1983.

267
CHAPTER 8

STUDENT MOVEMENTS

LIEVE GEVERS AND LOUIS VOS

In the previous volumes of this History of the University in Europe, under


the title ‘Student education, student life’, a picture of the student’s social
life was sketched out, focusing on the material and educational aspects of
daily life. An approach of this kind is in agreement with the first two core
topics of the history of student life.1 The third core topic, that of political
engagement, is entirely different in character. Political engagement does
not take place exclusively in the small world of the university but views
this world as an extension of broader society.
For the history of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the topic of
student movements is more significant than the history of everyday stu-
dent life alternating between student rooms, pubs and lecture theatres.
Although the apolitical spending of free time, the mores (student tradi-
tions) and the gulf between ‘town and gown’ continued to exist in the
nineteenth century to a far greater extent than hitherto, at the same time
students felt they heard a call from the broader society. They sensed this
calling both in their direct political engagement and in their preparation
for later life. The effort made to attain that great goal even became the
principal task and reason to exist at a given moment in time and for
particular students. Analyzing and describing these developments means
paying attention to the chronological interaction of events and ideologies,
the formation and alternation of generations, the effects of student action
in broader history, and the evolving self-image of the movement.
In its ‘classical’ manifestation, i.e. from its origins at the beginning of
the nineteenth century to the ‘new’ student movement of 1968, the stu-
dent movement had the following characteristics.2 It was a – more or
1 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 9–12.
2 L. Vos, ‘Rebelse generaties. Het studentenprotest van de jaren zestig’, in L. Vos, M.
Derez, I. Depraeterre and W. Van der Steen, Studentenprotest in de jaren zestig. De stoute

269
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

less organized – collective action by students under their own leadership


to influence society. It generally tied in with a broader political current
or emancipation movement, in which it often played a radical spearhead
role, and for which it also served as a mobilizing channel. While the
student movement adopted the ideals and motives for fighting from the
broader movement, it also influenced the broader movement. On the one
hand it affected society at large, and on the other it trained and prepared
its members for a later task. This training always had an action compo-
nent: through action the conviction and idealism of future leaders were
strengthened.
A precondition for any movement is the existence of communication
and mobilization channels, such as meetings, periodicals and publications.
Particular associations may struggle with each other for dominance, or
form the core of the movement. But membership of this association does
not, in fact, mark the boundary of the movement.3 Activists in student
movements develop an image of themselves and their movement, as a
result of which they acquire a role of their own in history and society
at large.4 This ‘narrative of consciousness’ changes over the course of
time, yet each period brings new generations and individuals to commit
themselves to the movement.5
In modern – urban – society, as it has been emerging since the nineteenth
century, the student had three specific characteristics that made him sus-
ceptible to a cause. First, the student enjoyed an atypical social position
in which he almost exclusively came into contact with fellow students in
his daily life, thereby escaping the multiplicity of roles typical of modern
society. Being a student was playing (or living) a total role,6 so that role

jaren (Tielt, 1978), 43–52; L. Vos, ‘Student Movements: Some Theoretical Aspects’, in
B. Henkens et al. (eds.), Student Protest in Contemporary Europe. ISHA Journal, 3
(Louvain, 1995), 3–18; L. Vos, ‘Nationalism and Student Movements: Conceptual Frame-
work and a Flemish Case-Study’, in M. Norrback and K. Ranki (eds.), University and
Nation: The University and the Making of the Nation in Northern Europe in the 19th
and 20th Centuries (Helsinki, 1996), 77–87.
3 G. Langguth, Die Protestbewegung in der Bundesrepublik Deutschlands, 1968–1976
(Cologne, 1976), 23–4; K. R. Allerbeck, Soziologie radikaler Studentenbewegungen. Eine
vergleichende Untersuchung in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland und den Vereinigten
Staaten (Munich and Vienna, 1973), 37.
4 S. K. Morrissey, Heralds of the Revolution: Russian Students and the Mythology of Radi-
calism (Oxford, 1998), 5. Allerbeck, Soziologie (note 3), 40–4. See also J. R. Gillis, Youth
and History: Tradition and Change in European Age Relations. 1770 to the Present (New
York, 1974).
5 Morrissey, Heralds (note 4), who analyzed the ‘narrative of consciousness’ of the Russian
student movement, regards the student movement as ‘a phenomenon analogous both to
class and nation’, because, like ‘those two other categories of identity’, it principally exists
‘through the consciousness of its members’.
6 K. R. Allerbeck, ‘Eine strukturelle Erklärung von Studentenbewegungen in entwick-
elten Industriegesellschaften’, Kölner Zeitschrift für Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie,
23 (1971), 482–90.

270
Student movements

conflicts no longer occurred; an insider feeling easily arose with respect to


non-student outsiders; and a rebellious attitude could be adopted without
having to pay a high social price. This is why students, more readily than
workers or young working people, opt for the pure principle that they
defend in an expressive or ‘testifying’ way, rather than the half-hearted
compromise called for by an instrumental and pragmatic approach.7 Sec-
ond, there was the student’s intellectual habit, by which he could easily
observe and analyze problems in society, examine the current values and
truths in a critical manner, and handle ideological concepts with no diffi-
culty. Third, a student movement is sustained by a particular generation.
A layering effect ensues from generation-forming events experienced by
adjacent years or age cohorts during their period of socialization.8 Each
generation meets the culture handed over to it with new eyes, and from
this fresh contact there arises a style that differs from the one expressed
by previous generations. Consequently, a student movement cannot be
studied as a category in its own right, but rather as an historical moment
of reproduction and transformation in society.9
Student movements, viewed as the organized participation of students
under their own leadership in a broader emancipation current, emerged
in some European countries and at particular times more than others, sus-
tained by specific generations of students. An additional problem dating
from the nineteenth century was the growing importance of national con-
text. This led to different developments in different European countries,
making a genuine synthesis all the more difficult. This chapter therefore
focuses on certain countries rather than others.10

s t u d e n t s f i g h t i n g f o r f r e e d o m (1800–1830)
The first modern student movements developed against the backdrop of
Enlightenment and Romanticism at the end of the eighteenth century.
7 C. Verhoeven, ‘Dubieus idealisme’, Jeugd en samenleving, 3 (1973), 307–15.
8 K. Mannheim, ‘Das Problem der Generationen’, Kölner Viertelsjahresheft für Soziologie,
7 (1928), 157–85, 309–30; E. Pfeil, ‘Der Kohortansatz in der Soziologie. Ein Zugang
zur Generationsproblem?’, Kölner Zeitschrift für Soziologie und Sozialpsychologie, 19,
4 (1967), 645–57; A. B. Spitzer, ‘The Historical Problem of Generations’, American
Historical Review, 57, 5 (1973), 1353–85; R. G. Braungart, ‘The Sociology of Generations
and Student Politics: A Comparison of the Functionalist and Generational Unit Models’,
Journal of Social Issues, 30, 2 (1974), 31–54.
9 L. Rosenmayr, ‘Jugend’, in R. König (ed.), Handbuch der empirischen Sozialforschung
(Stuttgart, 1976), vol. VI; see also K. R. Allerbeck and L. Rosenmayr (eds.), Aufstand der
Jugend? Neue Aspekte der Jugendsoziologie (Munich, 1971).
10 We have dealt more or less systematically with movements in Germany, France, Russia,
England, Scotland, Sweden, Finland, Belgium, the Netherlands and the Danube Monar-
chy, with its Polish, Czech, Slovak, Slovenian, Croatian and Serbian student movements.
We have also given some attention to Romania, Greece, Italy and Spain. For the latter
Prof. Maria Fernanda Mancebo sent us a paper, entitled ‘Estudiantes’.

271
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

New ideals of freedom and fraternity appealed to students throughout


Europe in such a way that they felt called, both literally and figuratively,
to man the barricades in order to point the way to a new future for their
own community, thereby appearing as a fighting vanguard and as ide-
alistic prophets. A little-known early example of a student movement –
which did not survive – was the revolt that arose in Cambridge in the
1780s. Inspired by the radical liberalism of the English Enlightenment,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834) and his friends committed them-
selves to ‘Liberty and Equality’ and succeeded in building up a broad base
within the student community. But when the French Revolution broke
out, the established intellectuals almost as a matter of principle became
anti-revolutionary. And yet England afterwards became the motherland of
European Romanticism, with figures such as William Blake (1757–1827),
William Wordsworth (1770–1850), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822),
John Keats (1795–1821) as well as Coleridge. They looked to the Revo-
lution with admiration and gathered on the side of ‘the people’ against
the forces of reaction which, following the fall of Napoleon, had come to
power again. But the English student generations of the early nineteenth
century were little moved by this.11
Poland in 1793, after the second Polish partition, provided the first
example of students as a group putting themselves at the service of the
national community, and whose calling was adopted by following genera-
tions.12 A wave of Polish nationalism culminated in the 1794 uprising led
by Tadeusz Košciusko (1746–1817). Students enthusiastically supported
the uprising, in which they fought in their own military units. Of the
387 students who had been enrolled at the University of Cracow in 1791,
around 200 had entered service. But the revolution misfired. Poland disap-
peared from the map, and it was not until the Polish legion, commanded
by Jan Hendrik Da̧browski (1755–1818), joined up with Napoleon’s army
that independence was, to some extent, restored in the Grand Duchy of
Warsaw created by the French emperor.
While the Polish students pinned all their hopes on Napoleon, German
students regarded him as someone who threatened the very existence of
the German nation. The defeat of Prussia in 1806 was an event that gave

11 B. Simon, ‘The Student Movement in England and Wales During the 1930s’, History of
Education, 16, 3 (1987), 189–203. The following generations forgot about the student
movement of 1780, so that it did not become part of the collective memory. It was not
‘discovered’ again until 150 years later through historical research: p. 203, based on
B. R. Schneider, Wordsworth’s Cambridge Education (Cambridge, 1957) and F. Knight,
University Rebel: The life of William Frend. 1757–1841 (London, 1971).
12 L. Révész, Jugendbewegungen im Ostblock (Vienna, 1985), 63, which is mainly based
on M. Francic, ‘Cztery pokolenia studentów krakowskich (Od Oswiecenia do powstania
1848 r.)’, in C. Bobińska (ed.), Studia z dziejów mlodzieży Uniwersytetu Krakowskiego
od oświecenia do polowy XX wieku, vol. I (Cracow, 1964), 19–106.

272
Student movements

direction and had a generation-forming effect for the student youth of


the time. It had the effect that, in the resistance to French suppression,
the striving for freedom and emancipation of the citizens finally shifted
from the individual level to one of the German people as a community.
The dream arose that the liberation of the fatherland would result in a
spiritual revival and territorial unification of the German people. Johann
Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814) provided the intellectual legitimacy for this
cultural nationalism with political consequences in the winter of 1807–8,
in his Reden an die Deutsche Nation (Speeches to the German Nation).
And Ernst Moritz Arndt (1769–1860) continued the emotional tone in
1813 in the song he composed with the question ‘Where is my German
Fatherland?’, with the reply ‘as far as the German tongue rings’. His article
Über den deutschen Studentenstaat, in which he pinned great hopes on
the student generation of that time, also found great resonance in the
academic world.13
Under the influence of this new spirit, student movements emerged in
many cities. In Berlin, Friedrich Ludwig Jahn (1778–1852) – the founder
of the gymnastics movement – together with his friend, the philosophy
professor much admired in student circles, Jakob Friedrich Fries (1773–
1843), started in 1811 the secret student association Deutscher Bund
which would prepare them for the coming war of liberation. Two years
later, students from Jena with the support of some professors founded
a first Urburschenschaft under the motto ‘Ehre, Freiheit, Vaterland’. It
was a fighting German national association, which aimed to promote the
establishment of a liberal constitutional state for the whole of the father-
land. Those who took the initiative wanted to displace the existing apo-
litical Landsmannschaften which were supported by regional recruitment
and breathed a particularistic spirit. They also opposed academic privi-
leges and aristocratic student clothing, and prompted a ‘moral regenera-
tion of student life’ that would emancipate ‘schoolboys’, thereby allowing
them to become ‘citizens of the academic community’.14 They nevertheless
adopted certain rituals and functions from the existing student customs,
as well as a certain Teutonic and anti-Semitic Romanticism.
Many German students were prepared to fight as volunteers for the
liberation of the fatherland. They joined the student Freischar of Major
Ludwig Adolf Wilhelm von Lützow (1782–1834), which at one time num-
bered 2,800 members,15 and the colours of which – blackened civil cloth
13 M. Wawrykowa, ‘Für eure und unsere Freiheit.’ Studentenschaft und junge Intelligenz in
Ost-und Mitteleuropa in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart, 1985), 42, 49.
14 K. H. Jarausch, ‘The Sources of German Student Unrest. 1815–1848’, in L. Stone (ed.),
The University in Society, vol II: Europe, Scotland and the United States from the 16th
to the 20th Century (London, 1975), 533–67, here 536–8.
15 R. A. Müller, Geschichte der Universität. Von der mittelalterlichen Universitas zur
deutschen Hochschule (Hamburg, 1996), 74ff.

273
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

as uniform, red cuffs and brassy buttons – were the origin of the German
national colours of black, red and gold. The volunteers hoped that after
the war the unity and freedom of the nation would be attained through a
constitution based on the sovereignty of the people. The war experience
caused the prestige and self-confidence of the students to increase, and
when they returned from the battlefields former volunteers formed the
backbone of new student associations.16
Jena belonged to the state of Sachsen-Weimar, where in 1816 a con-
stitution was introduced ensuring a climate of relative freedom. It was
located in the geographical heartland of Germany and drew students from
almost every German state. Jena was therefore a suitable operating base
for spreading new initiatives. The students of Jena took the lead again.17
The Burschenschaft now began working at full strength and became a
framework for student democracy, in which each student acquired the
right to contribute to any decision on important matters facing the stu-
dent community. The group of 143 initial members grew in the winter
term of 1815–16 to 500 out of a total of 650 students.
The example proved infectious and ushered in the first phase of the
movement, that of the Schwärmer (visionary enthusiasts).18 Burschen-
schaften soon also came into being in Heidelberg, Freiburg, Tübingen
and Giessen. In Halle, students founded the Teutonia association, with
the aim of strengthening the German language, culture and love of the
fatherland. At the northern German universities of Kiel and Göttingen,
and at the smaller Greifswald and Rostock universities, it took a while
before the students were won over to these Burschenschaften. In the newly
founded University of Berlin, the Landsmannschaften continued to dom-
inate until the end of the 1810s.
On 18 October 1817, the 300th anniversary of the start of the Ref-
ormation, the students of Jena organized in Eisenach a Wartburgfest,
which became the first highpoint in the new student movement. Some
450 to 500 students demonstrated for a liberal German national unity,
ritually burnt reactionary books and symbols, and chose the black,
red and gold tricolour as the symbol of the ‘equality and freedom’ of
the German people. Half of them came from Jena, the others from
Berlin, Erlangen, Giessen, Göttingen, Halle, Heidelberg, Kiel and Leipzig.
One year later an Allgemeine Deutsche Burschenschaft was set up in
Jena. It was a federation, uniting departments from fourteen German

16 G. Bartol, Ideologie und studentischer Protest. Untersuchungen zur Entstehung deutscher


Studentenbewegungen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Munich, 1978), 56–8, 60–1;
Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 52.
17 Bartol, Ideologie (note 16), 82; W. Klose, Freiheit schreibt auf eure Fahnen. 800 Jahre
Deutsche Studenten (Oldenburg and Hamburg, 1967), 142.
18 Bartol, Ideologie (note 16), 63; Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 42–4.

274
Student movements

universities. They already represented about 30 per cent of all students at


that time.19
The ideological orientation of the German student movement was
strongly influenced by a book published in 1819 by Jahn entitled
Deutsches Volkstum, a book with strong Messianic elements that was
read almost like a gospel. Henceforth the words volkstümlich and
Volkstümlichkeit became established in the vocabulary of Romanticism.
This quickly led to Volkstümelei of an extremely xenophobic and anti-
Semitic nature. Against this backdrop, Jewish students in 1819 were
excluded from the Burschenschaften, a measure that was reversed at
the Burschentage in Nuremberg in 1830 and Frankfurt in 1831 (but one
that would be reintroduced in the mid-1890s).20 Varying political strate-
gies nevertheless continued to exist above the common denominator of
Romantic nationalism.21
Within the liberal-national wing of the student movement, quite quickly
the Giessener Schwarzen or Unbedingten stood out as a radical group.
Their society was set up by the charismatic lecturer Karl Follen (1795–
1840), who developed an original ideology in which he reconciled
impulses from the French Revolution with Romantic ideas. The radi-
cal ‘Blacks’, more than the main current in the movement, championed
the welfare and uplifting of the popular masses and wanted to do away
with the oppression by the ruling class, through a popular uprising led
by the intelligentsia. They were therefore strongly committed to waging
systematic propaganda among ordinary people.22
The authorities naturally viewed this with some disquiet. The assas-
sination of the German-born Russian diplomat and writer August
von Kotzebue (1761–1819) by the Heidelberg theology student Karl
Ludwig Sand (1795–1820), who belonged to the circle of the Giessener
Schwarzen,23 was the opportunity Metternich (1773–1859) had dreamt

19 J. Bauer, ‘Die Wartburg und die Studenten – Festerlebnisse’, Aurora, 59 (1999), 225–36;
Müller, Geschichte (note 15), 75; D. Düding, ‘The Nineteenth-Century German National-
ist Movement as a Movement of Societies’, in H. Schulze (ed.), Nation-Building in Central
Europe (Leamington Spa, 1987), 19–49, 28; R. Müth, ‘Bekenntnis zu Schwarz-Rot-Gold.
Die freiheitlich nationale Idee in der Tübinger Studentenschaft von 1813 bis 1848’, in
H. M. Decker, H. G. Richter and K. Schreiner (eds.), 500 Jahre Eberhard Karls Univer-
sität Tübingen. Beiträge zur Geschichte des Universität Tübingen, 1477–1977 (Tübingen,
1977), 251–84.
20 D. Grieswelle, ‘Antisemitismus in deutschen Studentenverbindungen des 19. Jahrhun-
derts’, in O. Neuloh and W. Rüegg (eds.), Student und Hochschule im 19. Jahrhundert.
Studien und Materialien, Studien zum Wandel von Gesellschaft und Bildung im Neun-
zehnten Jahrhundert 12 (Göttingen, 1975), 366–79, here 367.
21 Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 49–50; D. F. Burg, Encyclopedia of Student and Youth
Movements (New York, 1998), 36.
22 Bartol, Ideologie (note 16), 70; Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 45–6.
23 Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 46–8. The first ‘foreign’ poem devoted to him was writ-
ten by the Russian poet Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin (1799–1837), see J.-C. Caron,

275
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

of for dealing with the student movement. He organized a meeting of


representatives of German states in Carlsbad in Bohemia, and persuaded
them to agree to a series of decrees that were approved by the Bundestag
of the German Federation on 1 September 1819. They placed the univer-
sities under the supervision of government commissioners. The Burschen-
schaften were prohibited and student associations were only allowed to
exist if special permission was obtained. Throughout Europe, the auton-
omy and influence of the universities were restricted.24 These repressive
measures remained in force in the German Confederation for the next
thirty years, and they partly paralysed the liberal movement, at least the
legal one.25 Prosecution drove the Burschenschaften into hiding, with
inevitable resulting radicalization.
The German student movement also affected Finland, a region that
had been governed by the Russian Tsar as a grand duchy since 1809.
At the University of Åbo (Turku), students founded in the autumn of
1816 an independent student fraternity along the lines of the Burschen-
schaft model. However, the academic authorities could not keep pace
with it, preferring a general academic association. But the deeper basis
of the difference of opinion was the rapturous devotion of the students
to Romanticism on the one hand and the adherence of the academics to
Classicism on the other. The tense relationship reached a climax in April
1817 with a petition and demonstrations by the students for more aca-
demic freedom. The students’ demands were largely met, so that co-
operation was restored.26 In 1826–27, incidents between students and
Russian soldiers in Åbo (Turku), as well as a three-day fire in the same
year that reduced a large part of the city to ashes, prompted the authorities
to move the university to Helsingfors (Helsinki), the new de facto capital
of the Grand Duchy of Finland. In 1828 there came new statutes providing
for stricter control of student life. The Landsmannschaften were allowed
to continue to exist, but only if they were more closely supervised by the
professors.27
In Spain, law students in particular opted predominantly for the liberal
camp, as is apparent from the part they played in the revolution of 1820,

Générations romantiques. Les étudiants de Paris et le Quartier Latin (Paris, 1991), 245.
On Sand see also chapter 10.
24 R. Dudkowa, ‘Les études des jeunes Polonais dans les universités étrangères au XIXe
siècle. Une esquisse de problème’, in M. Kulczykowski (ed.), Pérégrinations Académiques.
IVième session scientifique internationale. Cracovie 19–21 mai 1983. Prace Historyczne,
Zeszyt 88 (Cracow, 1989), 131–60.
25 L. W. Cowie and R. Wolfson, Years of Nationalism: European History 1815–1890
(London, 1985), 48–9; Nipperdey, Bürgerwelt, 281–5. See also chapters 2 and 3.
26 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 239, 246–51, 253, 263–4.
27 Ibid., 279, 283, 295, 298, 301.

276
Student movements

which aimed to reintroduce the abolished constitution of 1812.28 When,


in Greece, the revolution for national independence erupted in March
1821, almost all Greek students and academics studying abroad returned
to their homeland to take part.29 They brought enlightened European
notions with them and developed a plan in 1824 for the establishment of
a Greek university in Athens. This came into being in 1837, following the
country’s independence.
In Poland, unlike in Germany where most of the students and the intel-
ligentsia came from the urban bourgeoisie (the Bildungsbürgertum), stu-
dents largely came from the very numerous szlachta or gentry. This section
of society had regarded itself until the end of the eighteenth century as the
sole carrier of the nation, but then, under the influence of the Enlight-
enment, it had transformed itself into a more open ‘intelligentsia’.30
Polish academic activity was sustained by the conviction that the uni-
versity had its own mission in the continued existence of the nation, at
the very moment of losing its independence. Polish students in Warsaw,
Vilnius, Cracow and Lemberg (Lwów), and also at other universities in
the partitioning countries, consequently became spokesmen for the lib-
eral and patriotic current that was focused on reviving the nation, a term
gradually referring to the whole Polish people.31
Representative of this current was the Vilnius circle Towarzystwo Filo-
matów or ‘Fellowship of Philomaths’ (from the Greek: ‘friends of sci-
ence’), founded in 1817 by six students, including Adam Mickiewicz
(1798–1855), along the lines of German student associations.32 From
1819 it displayed political conspiratorial activity, and even became the
most widely branched Polish organization of its type, although at that
time it was a strictly secret and closed circle.33
As in Finland, the Polish Philomaths rejected the rigidity of Classicism
and opted for Romanticism as the spirit and ideal of the young genera-
tion. As Mickiewicz put it in his Oda dlo mlodości (‘Ode to Youth’) and
Romantyczność,34 which made a great impression on both students and

28 Mancebo, ‘Estudiantes’ (note 10); see also E. Hernández Sandoica, ‘De la Universidad
complutense a la universidad central’, in J. L. Peset (ed.), Historia y actualidad de la
universidad española, 6 vols. (Madrid, 1985), vol. II, 466–502.
29 A. N. Tsirpanles, ‘Die Ausbildung der Griechen an europäischen Universitäten und
deren Rolle im Universitätsleben des modernen Griechenland’, in R. G. Plaschka and
K. Mack (eds.), Wegenetz Europäischen Geistes, vol. II: Universitäten und Studenten.
Die Bedeutung studentischer Migrationen in Mittel- und Südosteuropa vom 18. Bis zum
20. Jahrhundert (Vienna, 1987), 250–72.
30 Wawrykowka, Freiheit (note 13), 13.
31 B. Klimaszewski (ed.), An Outline History of Polish Culture (Warsaw, 1984), 163.
32 J. Tazbir (ed.), Zarys Historii Polski (Warsaw, 1980), 401.
33 Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 84.
34 The poem ‘Ode to Youth’ was written between 1818 and 1824. It was not published
(because of censorship?) until 1827 in (Austrian) Lwów. A first translation into French

277
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

other young people, faith and love were more important than research and
study.35 Between 1817 and 1823, on former Polish territory and in other
places where Poles were studying, some 50 student associations came into
being. A number of them were small and only existed for a short time,
but a few others comprised several hundred members and had an active
existence for several years.
The secret societies built up European networks. In 1820 former stu-
dents set up a revolutionary committee in Switzerland, which was the most
important centre of political migrants at the time, where all the paths of
European conspiracy crossed. The committee founded a society made up
of cells known as the Männerbund, which hoped to turn Germany into
a free republic through Volksaufstand und Volksrevolution.36 One of the
exiled activists was Follen, the former leader of the ‘Blacks’ from Giessen,
who had also fled to Switzerland, whence he maintained contact with the
conspiratorial network until it was rounded up in 1823. He then moved
permanently to the United States.
The most important role model for the conspiratorial student radicals
was the secret society of the Carbonari, which first appeared in 1807
in Calabria and was very active again in 1820–21 in the Kingdom of the
Two Sicilies, especially in Naples and Salerno. It was a secret military soci-
ety with legions, cohorts, centuries and maniples. Each carbonaro knew
hardly any other carbonari, but all followed the leadership in blind obe-
dience. Its leader, Filippo Buonarotti (1761–1837), was by then living in
Switzerland and had built up a network of like-minded people throughout
Europe. German, Polish and French students in exile joined his movement.
In all European countries, therefore, the police were shadowing foreign
students, and everywhere some of them were arrested for alleged conspir-
acy. This pointed to both the internationalization of the liberal network
and the cross-border co-operation of the police services.37 The police also
tried to infiltrate these networks through secret agents pretending to be
revolutionaries. The most sensational figure in this context was Johann
Wit-von Dörring (1800–63). He was a former member of the Giessener
Schwarzen, who afterwards became an agent provocateur in the service
of the Prussian, Austrian, French and Polish police. In 1824 the majority
of the members of the Jünglingsbund and Männerbund were arrested.

was published in 1841, Z. Makowiecka, Mickiewicz w Collège de France. Październik


1840-maj 1844 (Warsaw, 1968), 213. Both texts in A. Mickiewicz, Dziela – Tom 1 Wiersze
(Warsaw, 1949), 9–11, 102–4, 436–7. With thanks for this information to Dr Idesbald
Goddeeris, Catholic University of Louvain.
35 Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 58–65; L. Vos, with assistance of I. Goddeeris, De
strijd van de witte adelaar. Geschiedenis van Polen (Louvain, 2000), 152–3. See also
Klimaszewski (ed.), History (note 31), 169–70.
36 Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 75–8.
37 Caron, Générations (note 23), 271–2; Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 77–8.

278
Student movements

In France – both Paris and Montpellier – there were strikes and demon-
strations in the spring of 1819 against book censorship in the libraries,
compulsory religious worship, and the sanctioning of a professor who
had dared to express criticism of the existing situation.38 In November
1819, the French Government came up with a plan to amend the existing
electoral system in a conservative direction. This again caused student
protests directly after the reopening of the 1819–20 academic year, by
coincidence also just after the Carlsbad decrees. Students launched a peti-
tion in Paris, Tours and Rennes. Les Amis de la Vérité secretly began
forming an armed student company to prepare an uprising. When the
heir to the throne was murdered in February 1820, this led to stronger
repression by the government as well as to new student protests. In April
1820, the protest movement spread, first to the Sorbonne and then also
to Aix-en-Provence, Rennes, Toulouse, Dijon, Strasburg and Grenoble.
On 3 June 1820 the demonstrating crowd in Paris was attacked by
plain-clothes police and, among the fleeing demonstrators, the law student
Nicolas Lallemand was shot dead. His ‘martyrdom’ caused the unrest to
spread to the working-class districts, as a result of which socio-economic
grievances became more prominent. There were demonstrations of soli-
darity by students in Grenoble, Caen, Toulouse, Strasburg, Rennes, and
soon also by workers and the bourgeoisie in Brest, Nantes, Lorient,
Vitré, or by students and the population together in Poitiers, Lyon and
Dijon. The ‘martyrdom’ also had a long-term impact: it gave rise to an
‘awareness of mission’ among French students, which marked the begin-
ning of a genuine student movement. A minority of Royalist students
who had opted for the side of the established order also demonstrated
repeatedly.
The government acted forcefully. At the beginning of July 1820 it
imposed a strict disciplinary regime and brought the student popula-
tion – both inside and outside the institution – entirely under control,
which passed all the more easily because examinations were approach-
ing. Sometimes, as in Grenoble, whole faculties were abolished. A last
vestige of the June movement was the failed coup d’état of 19 August
1820. It was mainly prepared by Bonapartist army officers, but the armed
branch of Les Amis de la Vérité, at that time around 600 men strong,
also took part under the command of Saint-Amand Bazard (1791–1832)
and the professor of philosophy, Victor Cousin (1792–1867). As was to
be expected, the vast majority of the students remained outside this con-
spiratorial movement, but they gave vent to their mood of opposition
through anti-clericalism, manifested increasingly from 1821–22. This was

38 Caron, Générations (note 23), 239–69.

279
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

expressed, for example, by disrupting services and by treating religious


worship as absurd.
In May 1821, the first French Carbonari branch was established in
Paris by two students who had fought alongside the Neapolitan liberals
and who had learnt the principles of the movement there.39 The move-
ment spread rapidly across the Parisian faculties and out to the provinces.
Among its supporters, servicemen formed the largest group with around
40 per cent, while the students, especially former members of the Amis de
la Vérité lodge, came far behind with 11.5 per cent. The emphasis was on
patriotism and national sovereignty, now that the Bourbons, who were
involved in the Metternich system, had converted France into a third-rate
power. The political orientation of the Carbonari movement was liberal,
yet Bonapartist rather than republican. Its activities consisted of setting
up conspiracies, all of which failed.40
King Charles X (1757–1836), who came to the throne in 1824, system-
atically continued the policy of control and to this end specially set up the
Ministère des Affaires Ecclésiastiques et de l’Instruction Publique, a sig-
nificant combination. The ever stronger presence of the Church through
the proliferation of processions, the increase in monastic orders, and the
wayside shrines built all over the countryside strengthened the anticleri-
calism of the opposition. It appeared that the Church wanted to sweep
away la société laı̈que (lay society).
However, despite the censorship, the press in France remained predom-
inantly liberal in orientation during the 1820s.41 A periodical such as Le
Globe – which from 1824 was edited by young people, including stu-
dents – exercised considerable influence, while publishing political poetry
and exalting the Greek struggle for freedom in the context of the philhel-
lenism that was appealing to young people throughout Europe. At the end
of the 1820s new historical studies were published on the French Revolu-
tion, written and taught by figures such as Adolphe Thiers (1797–1877),
Auguste Mignet (1796–1884), and Paul Matthieu Laurent de l’Ardèche
(1799–1877). As a result, a younger generation was able to learn about
the political culture of the revolutionary years of 1778–99. The ideals of
the French Revolution received attention again, and the contrast with the
existing situation was felt poignantly. Perhaps all this caused the students
to protest again in May 1827. At that time the appointment of a ‘clerical’
professor was the final straw, leading to open demonstrations of protest.
The subsequent court trial, in which the students were convicted, helped
bring about a revival of political interest among a younger generation of
students. It ensured that in 1830 they were ready for revolution.

39 Ibid., 258. 40 Wawrykowa, Freiheit (note 13), 84.


41 Caron, Générations (note 23), 270–3, 296.

280
Student movements

r e v o l u t i o n a n d r e s t o r a t i o n (1830–1845)
In the liberal and national revolutionary wave of 1830, the Revolution
occurred at various places owing to the initiative of the students.42 In the
French July Revolution – the renowned ‘three glorious days’ (27, 28 and
29 July) – the students of the École polytechnique were most noticeably
present because they fought in uniform. They were quite quickly regarded
by public opinion as ‘the July heroes’. But students of law, medicine and
commerce also stood on the barricades, although they were less visible
because they did not fight school-by-school and did not wear uniform.
Students played a decisive role in launching the uprising and were numer-
ically just as heavily involved as other social groups. Medical students
provided care and assistance to the wounded of both camps.43
There were various opinions on the nature of the new regime to be estab-
lished. A large proportion of students, like the majority of French public
opinion, had been won over for a constitutional monarchy à l’anglaise,
for which Louis Philippe of Orléans (1773–1850) was the pretender. The
latter hastened to ally himself with the students by collectively awarding
a number of badges of honour of the Légion d’Honneur to the schools
of medicine and law on 6 August, and by receiving student delegates on
10 August. But the Republicans were also active in all kinds of clubs as
well as in the violent demonstrations of 17–20 October prompted by the
trial of ministers of the former regime. They received support from some
units of the Garde Nationale and from a number of students, but they
remained in the minority.
On the reopening of the academic year in November 1830, the students
came to the political fore again in Paris with their demand for the right
to freedom of association. The new student leader promoting this was
Jules Théophile Sambuc (1804–34). He had studied at several German
universities, was affected by the German student movement, continued
his education in Lausanne, and returned to Paris where he enrolled as a
law student in September 1830. He was the driving force in the creation
of a separate student organization with a democratically elected adminis-
tration, and of an independent journal. He also promoted the creation of
a student international in which the European student movements would
meet and bring about a young Europe of the intelligentsia through a net-
work of correspondents.
Revolution had meanwhile erupted elsewhere in Europe as well. Firstly
in the southern part of the (united) Kingdom of the Netherlands, where
early on there were liberal opposition voices to be heard among the
42 L. S. Feuer, The Conflict of Generations: The Character and Significance of Student
Movements (New York, 1969), 264.
43 Caron, Générations (note 23), 299, 310–19.

281
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

students, encouraged in their views by some young German professors.


In Louvain, a first political student association was set up in 1821 on
the model of the German Burschenschaft, which idolized philhellenism.44
From 1827, when the union of Catholic and liberal opposition had come
about, rapid politicization was noticeable in the university context. It was
striking that opposition occurred principally in the Liège and Louvain stu-
dent milieu, while Ghent remained relatively calm.45 In the Belgian Rev-
olution which erupted in the summer of 1830, the students accounted for
a large proportion of the protesters, for which they later gained reward
in new positions which were to be filled in the independent Belgium – de
facto from November 1830. After 1830, the growing differences between
the Catholic Church and the liberal Freemasons led to the abolition of the
state university in Louvain and to the establishment – alongside the exist-
ing state universities of Ghent and Liège – of two ideologically coloured
universities: a Free(-thinking) one in Brussels in 1834, and a Catholic one
in Louvain in 1835.46
In the north of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, student life resumed
the old traditions whereby students consciously put themselves outside
social reality by cherishing companionship and friendship in their own
circles, with ragging senates and debating societies. There was a single
upsurge of social unrest in 1823, when in Leiden the city administration
tried to suspend the traditional distribution of ‘herring and white bread’
to the poor, and the students then – and in subsequent years – organized
it themselves. There also was a great deal of interest in Romantic writers
such as Byron, Scott, Hugo and Heine. A first student corps was set up in
1815 in Groningen. Other places soon followed.47 The Belgian uprising
sent a wave of patriotism and Orange sentiment through the universities
of the (northern) Netherlands.48 Separate corps of volunteer riflemen were
formed in Amsterdam, Groningen, Leiden and Utrecht. However, the first
few months brought great disappointment to the student volunteers: mil-
itary drill, keeping guard and boredom were their lot. It was not until
the ‘ten-day campaign’ began in August 1831 that ‘heroic deeds’ could
be performed. But the student volunteers did not have more than a few
44 E. Lamberts and J. Roegiers, De universiteit te Leuven. 1425–1985 (Louvain, 1988), 182.
45 R. L. Plancke (ed.), Rijksuniversiteit Gent. 1817–1967 (Ghent, 1967), 15.
46 See chapter 2, 40, chapter 10, 347; Chronological List 684.
47 See an extensive depiction of this on the basis of literary sources: G. Brom, De omkeer
in’t studentenleven (Delft, 1923), particularly Part I: ‘Het geslacht van Klikspaan’, 5–80.
L. D. Frank and H. B. Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis van het Leidsche Studentencorps
(Leiden, 1927), 12, 22; A. C. J. de Vrankrijker, Vier eeuwen Nederlandsch studentenleven
([Voorburg], 1939).
48 F. Santegoets, ‘Togae cedant armis: een generatie getekend door de Belgische opstand’, in
W. van den Broeke and P. van Hees (eds.), Studenten en nationaal gevoel in Nederland.
Utrechtse Historische Cahiers, 19, 3 (1988), 21–33; R. Hagendijk. Het studentenleven.
Opkomst en verval van de traditionele studentencultuur (Amsterdam, 1980), 44–6.

282
Student movements

skirmishes to put on their roll of honour. When the French Army came to
the assistance of the Belgians, the campaign was called off. The student
volunteers were nevertheless welcomed as heroes on their return: the start
of the new academic year was deferred for them, and they received aca-
demic recognition through a bronze badge of honour. The celebrations
were completed on 22 June 1832 with the presentation of a metal cross
cast from two canons captured from the Belgians. By taking part in the
campaign – albeit on the side of the established order – the Dutch students
had become full members of the nation.49
When the Russian Tsar prepared to come to the assistance of the Dutch
prince against the Belgian rebels, an uprising against Russia broke out
in Warsaw in November 1830. The cadets of the military school under
the command of Piotr Wysocki (1797–1874) took the initiative, but they
were assisted by a broad group of rebels, in which the students of the
University of Warsaw were particularly prominent. They received support
from Cracow, whence, in the first few days of 1831, 210 volunteers, more
than half the Cracow student community, came to reinforce the ranks.
The fighting lasted for ten months. Several students ended up in Russian
prisons, where some were held until 1834.50 Others became part of the
wielka emigracja (the great emigration) and went into exile abroad, chiefly
to France (around half the students from Warsaw and most of the stu-
dents from Vilnius, where almost the entire student population joined the
uprising).51 After the Polish defeat the universities of Warsaw and Vilnius
were closed.
The Polish uprising strengthened enthusiasm for the Polish cause and
aversion to Russia throughout Europe. This was especially the case in
France, where the economic crisis in the winter of 1830 had hit the com-
mon people above all. Riots broke out in Paris on 20 December 1830. Rad-
ical republican students such as Jules Sambuc, Auguste Blanqui (1805–81)
and the later Communard Charles Delescluzes (1809–71) joined in. After
Christmas the authorities easily restored order, but the republican stu-
dents continued the action and persisted in arguing for freedom of asso-
ciation. The government refused to make any concessions to the right of
association, and the academic authorities took measures against the radi-
cal students. They gave the consilium abeundi (exclusion from university
studies) to Sambuc and Blanqui among others. A violent protest against
this on 22 January 1831 led to radical student leaders being arrested, and
this signified the end of the movement for the right of association. When,

49 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 12–13.


50 Révész, Jugendbewegungen (note 12), 63.
51 B. Konarska, ‘Les étudiants d’universités polonaises dans les universités de France
après l’Insurrection de novembre (1832–1848)’, in Kulczykowski (ed.), Pérégrinations
(note 24), 161–80, here 163.

283
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

on 15 September 1831, the news of the capitulation of Warsaw became


known, there were displays of solidarity in Paris, and again in Decem-
ber, towards the Polish generals in exile, who had previously also been
welcomed by the students of Strasburg.52
In December 1831 the social unrest in Paris increased once again as
a result of the economic crisis and a threatening cholera epidemic. The
government immediately acted vigorously against the press, thought to
be too critical, and against radical republicans by putting them on trial.53
This led to abrupt radicalization among the younger generation, who now
opted for a social republic, with Robespierre’s Déclaration des droits de
l’homme et du citoyen of 1793 as a source of inspiration, while seek-
ing contact with the workers. The cholera epidemic actually broke out
in March 1832, and hundreds of students volunteered to give first-aid
assistance. The pent-up tension was released on 5 June 1832, when the
interment of a general two years earlier became the signal for an uprising
aimed at establishing a republic. The uprising consisted mainly of work-
ers, although students accompanied them on the barricades, and it was
put down in two days. Its failure pushed the republicans even further into
clandestine activity. Workers and students met in the secret society enti-
tled La Société des Droits de l’Homme, and membership increased as the
third anniversary of the 1830 Revolution approached. When, on 13–14
April 1834, the republican uprising feared by the authorities erupted in
Paris, it was nipped in the bud almost the same day by the arrest of sus-
pects and successful house-searches for weapons in the Latin Quarter. The
disillusionment that followed ensured a lull in French political life that
persisted for almost ten years. Student activity in those years was largely
restricted to the defence of ‘corporatist’ interests, in so far as the interest
of student youth was not completely taken up by fashion, dancing and
women. The legitimacy of Louis Philippe was no longer questioned.
The change of regime in Paris, the independence gained in Brussels
and Athens, and the defeat in Warsaw, naturally ensured radicalization
of the students elsewhere. In Spain, King Ferdinand VII (1784–1833),
fearing student unrest, decided to close the universities in 1830, and they
were not reopened until two years later.54 In Finland, the Polish uprising
tested the tie with Russia. Small incidents like a toast in honour of Poland
by a student in a Helsingfors café, or the disruption in April 1831 of
52 A considerable number of Polish student rebels continued their studies in France, although
only after they had received permission to do so from the authorities after 1832. Once
this permission had been granted, a great many Polish students continued their studies
in France: between 1832 and 1848 there were 89 in Paris, 31 in Poitiers, nineteen in
Toulouse and about ten in Aix-en-Provence, Dijon and Strasburg. Caron, Générations
(note 23), 333, 337–8, 340.
53 Also for what follows on France: see Caron, Générations (note 23), 338–57.
54 Mancebo, ‘Estudiantes’ (note 10).

284
Student movements

the Orthodox Easter Saturday night service by drunken Finnish students,


were interpreted as anti-Russian deeds. The government threatened to
close the university. The cholera epidemic, which affected Finland in the
summer of 1831, provided a welcome excuse for closing the university dur-
ing the autumn term of 1831–32. In the spring of 1832 the government
decided to introduce a student uniform. Somewhat surprisingly this met
with the approval of the students. Tacit understanding between students
and government appeared to have been restored. Then the Tsar decided
to make concessions to the Finns. In February 1833 he founded a centre
for the study of Finnish language, literature and history, and the promo-
tion of Finnish culture. The visit by the Tsar to Helsingfors in the summer
of 1833 was one display of student loyalty.55 In 1840 the Russian Gov-
ernment appointed a first professor of Finnish language and literature.
The arrival in 1842 of the new rector, the Russian Grand Duke Alexan-
der Nikolayevich, was greeted with enthusiasm on the part of the aca-
demic community in Helsingfors. This prompted bitter comments among
Finnish emigrants in Sweden on the servility which, to them, had taken
on grotesque forms in Helsingfors.56
In Germany, from about 1827, a second phase began for the Burschen-
schaften, that of the ‘Demagogues’.57 On the initiative of a particularly
active group of the ‘Teutons,’ illegal student days took place in 1830
and 1831. The foreign revolutionaries were revered as champions of the
ideal of freedom and plans were forged for the formation of ‘academic
legions’ to come to the aid of the Greeks and the Poles in their struggle
and to stand by in readiness for a possible German revolution. In 1831,
Göttingen and Heidelberg were declared ‘liberated territory’ by the local
students.58 On the Burschentag of 1832 in Stuttgart, it was proclaimed
that the freedom and unification of Germany should be realized through
revolution.59 Propagating the idea of unification was also the goal of the
Hambachfest of 27 May 1832, which brought together 25,000 partici-
pants, mostly adults but also a large number of students, mainly from
the ‘Teutons’. The Hambachfest led to repressive measures against the
‘Presse- und Vaterlandsverein’, which had organized the meeting. As a
result, the opposition gradually began to adopt a different strategy, that
of underground conspiracy and preparation for uprising.60 On 3 April
1833, around 50 radical students responded positively to the call of the
Vaterlandsverein to storm the police headquarters in Frankfurt together

55 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 305–20. 56 Ibid., 326, 340.


57 Jarausch, ‘Sources’ (note 14), 540.
58 M. E. Boren, Student Resistance: A History of the Unruly Subject (New York, 2001), 32.
59 The aim was: ‘die Erregung einer Revolution, um durch diese die Freiheit und Einheit
Deutschlands zu erreichen’, Bartol, Ideologie (note 16), 73–4.
60 Düding, ‘Nineteenth-Century’ (note 19), 35.

285
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

with intellectuals and artisans, in an attempt to instigate a popular upris-


ing. This Wachensturm – the first armed revolt in Germany – failed and
led to even stronger repression of the Burschenschäftler, known as the
Zweite Demagogenverfolgung. From 1832 to 1838, legal proceedings were
instigated in 23 German federal states against more than 1,800 people,
including at least 1,200 students and academics.61
In 1837, King Ernst Georg August of Hanover (1771–1851) dismissed
seven professors in Göttingen because they had criticized his decision
to abolish the constitution. This immediately unleashed student protests,
which were put down with the deployment of troops.62 Both the ‘Teutons’
and the ‘Armins’, who were mostly focused on self-education, conse-
quently had to stop their activities almost completely. The Burschen-
schaften thus ceased to play a central role in German unification.63 The
repression of the Burschenschaften gave the traditional apolitical Lands-
mannschaften more scope. The most exclusive of these now developed
into a ‘corps’, which codified a number of old customs from student sub-
culture. The ‘corps’ were farbentragend (distinguished by the wearing of
colours) because they wore cap, ribbon and dress in specific colours; they
were also schlagend because they retained the ritual of duelling with the
sword, the Mensur, in which the body was protected but the face was not.
Scars on the face sustained in duels were regarded as proof of bravery.
Each ‘corps’, directed by a Seniorenconvent, included Füxe (foxes, first-
year members) and Burschen (lads, older years), but it could also count on
the support of the Alte Herren (former students). They gained a dominant
position in the student world, not least because they were considered to
be folkloristic and politically less dangerous. From the 1840s they were
tacitly tolerated by the civil and academic authorities, and from 1848 they
were even officially recognized.64
In 1844 the Wingolfbund, the first Protestant Christian Burschenschaft,
was founded in Erlangen. Under the motto Sittlichkeit, Wissenschaft-
lichkeit und Geselligkeit auf religiöser Basis (Morality, scholarship and
good company on a religious basis), similar Protestant Burschenschaften
also arose elsewhere, for example in Halle (1843), Berlin (1845–46),
Bonn (1846) and Göttingen (1851). After 1848 Catholic students associ-
ations were only formed as a result of the freedom of association, mostly
emerging from Lesevereine (reading clubs), in Munich (Aenania, 1851),
Bonn (Bavaria, 1853), Berlin (Katholischer Leseverein, 1853), and Breslau

61 L. Elm, ‘Von der Urburschenschaft zur bürgerlichen Revolution’, in L. Elm, D. Heither


and G. Schäfer (eds.), Füxe, Burschen, Alte Herren. Studentische Korporationen vom
Wartburg bis Heute (Cologne, 1992/1993), 38.
62 Boren, Resistance (note 58), 33. See also chapter 5, 152.
63 Jarausch, ‘Sources’ (note 14), 542; Bartol, Ideologie (note 16), 74.
64 Müller, Geschichte (note 15), 77–80.

286
Student movements

(Winfridia, 1856). More devout was the Catholic student association Uni-
tas, set up in 1853 and (until 1887) limited to students of theology.65
The competing radical democratic line in the student world was given
a fresh start at the beginning of the forties with the Progressbewegung
(progress movement). It was the third phase of the Burschenschaften
in which the emphasis was on social equality.66 It began in 1839–40 in
Göttingen and rapidly gained support both among the Burschenschaften
and among the non-incorporated students (the Finken or Wilden). Its
goal was to eliminate what difference there remained between students
and the citizens. They therefore opposed the ‘corps’ with its student tra-
ditions and rituals, especially the Mensur. They founded reading clubs,
which became centres for political debate. Over the period 1844–46
they published the Zeitschrift für Deutschlands Hochschulen, the first
significant student journal in Germany. They reproached the univer-
sity for being an instrument of government and for not fostering the
Humboldtian fertile tension between Bildung and Wissenschaft. They
were supported in this criticism by a number of young critical lectur-
ers, but it encountered opposition from both the authorities and the
‘corps’.
In the Habsburg Empire, particularly among the Polish, Czech, Slovak
and Slav students at the University of Vienna, 1830 led to an increase
in conspiratorial activities. Secret societies such as Nowa Polska (New
Poland), which in 1837 joined up with the Mloda Sarmacja (Young Sarma-
tia) and its propaganda association Synowie Oczyny (Sons of the Home-
land), maintained contacts with the political exiles from the wielka emi-
gracja in Paris. They also made contact with the Slovak students around
Vrchovský and Štúr, originating from the Evangelical Lyceum of Poszonyi
(Bratislava) and gave them organizational and ideological guidelines
on how to expand their movement ‘Young Slovakia’. After reading
the publications given to them by the left democratic Polish political
exile Joachim Lelewel, the Slovak young nationalists came to the con-
clusion that they had to turn against feudalism and open up to the
broader popular masses.67 In August 1834, this Czech–Slovak–Polish co-
operation was formalized with the establishment in Brünn (Brno) of a
secret association on the initiative of the medical student František Cyril

65 F. Schulze and P. Ssymank, Das deutsche Studententum von den ältesten Zeiten bis zur
Gegenwart (Munich, 1931), 305–6; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 203. ‘Unitas’ was the
last Catholic student association able to hold its own under the Nazi regime, until July
1938.
66 Jarausch, ‘Sources’ (note 14), 542.
67 V. Matula, ‘Die politische Kreise Slawischer Studenten in Wien. Ihre Bedeutung für die
Weltanschaulich politische Heranbildung junger Ideologen der Slowakischen Nationalen
Befreiungsbewegung in den dreissiger Jahren des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Plaschka and Mach
(eds.), Wegenetz II (note 29), 155–61.

287
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

Kampelı́k, who subsequently turned out to be the pivotal figure in the


Slavic circle in Vienna. When the authorities banned all student asso-
ciations in Poszonyi (Bratislava) in 1837, the Slovak student Alexan-
der Boleslavı́n Vrchovský (1812–43), founded the secret organization
Vzájomnost (Mutuality), which remained at the heart of the Slovak
national revival until it was discovered in 1840 and its members were
arrested. In the 1840s, a more moderate political line emerged under the
leadership of L’udovı́t Štúr (1812–56), which laid the principal emphasis
on Slovak national revival, and less on social emancipation.

s t u d e n t s i n r e v o l t (1845–1850)
In the mid-forties, a wave of social criticism swept through Europe that
was not directed solely against the Metternich system but also against
interior relationships of power and ownership. It appeared to the author-
ities to be an international plot, principally because the critical groups
such as ‘Young Italy’, ‘Young Germany’, ‘Young Poland’ and also ‘Young
Finland’ found each other despite political opposition.68 They discovered
‘the social issue’, not just by reading and discussing left-wing publica-
tions, but above all because they saw with their own eyes the conse-
quences of the economic crisis with failed harvests, winters of starvation
and endemic cholera. Some then set up associations to provide social
assistance to those in need, while others expressed radical criticism of the
capitalist system. Most radicals dreamt of a national and socialist revolu-
tion, which would bring freedom and justice. In fact, the views of the stu-
dents became more differentiated, and varying political tendencies became
apparent, from left to right, reflecting the contrasts existing in society at
large.
In France, this change in student mentality was revealed during a ‘rev-
olutionary funeral’.69 On 30 May 1844, Jacques Lafitte (1767–1844), the
leader of the democratic movement in the 1830 Revolution, was interred.
In the great crowd of the funeral procession there marched around
1,000 students and at the graveside – together with a spokesman for the
workers – a student made a speech pleading for more democracy. It was
the first time since the 1830s that workers and students had taken part in
a demonstration together, and this happened again on 7 May 1845 at the
funeral of Godefroy Cavaignac (1801–45), one of the republican leaders of
the 1830 Revolution. On 8 June the first issue of the short-lived periodical
Les Écoles was published, which adopted a distinct republican tone and
dreamt of reorganizing the students ‘who had lost all influence’. Momen-
tum increased as a result of the authorities’ attack on three professors

68 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 357–77. 69 Caron, Générations (note 23), 369–73.

288
Student movements

of the Collège de France highly regarded in student circles, Mickiewicz,


Edgar Quinet (1803–75) and Jules Michelet (1798–1874). A first demon-
stration of support by the students for the threatened professors came in
August 1845. Quinet’s dismissal, prompted by a new Minister of Educa-
tion in December 1845, led to a show of solidarity in which at least 3,000
students participated, and which culminated in a brutal confrontation
with the Paris police and the arrest of eleven students. Michelet observed
with satisfaction what he called la jeune démocratie (young democracy)
stir again and expressed the hope that this would change everything.
The demand for modernization was also evident in Finland in the mid-
1840s. In Helsinki, the 1844 graduation ceremony was the last one to
take place in the traditional way in Latin. The ceremonial poem that
was declaimed pleaded for a future which must above all be national. It
referred both to the Scandinavianism that had arisen the previous year
and to Greater Finnish solidarity. At the same time it was inspired by the
revolutionary ideal of liberty, which urged action. The rejection of Latin as
an academic language ensued from national and social stirrings. Greater
love of one’s own language was also apparent from the growing literary
activity of the students and the increase in publications in Finnish. Many
students became convinced that both Russian and Swedish culture held
Finland in shameful slavery, and that they had to work on the liberation
of ‘People, Language and Country’. In the spring of 1846, there followed
a movement for the reform of student associations. If it was to turn to
the people as a whole, the student community had to form a general
student federation and an academic reading society, which implied the
establishment of a student house with a restaurant and reading room.
This would give students and intellectuals the opportunity of educating
themselves by reading foreign newspapers and periodicals. These plans
were put into effect both in Helsinki and in Uppsala, in Sweden.
In the 1840s a new ‘student identity’ also arose in Sweden (which at
that time still included Norway) and in Denmark, with an ‘external’ and
an ‘internal’ face. On the ‘external’ level the influence of Scandinavianism
grew. It became ‘the great vision’ of a generation of radical students. This
vision contained the striving for ‘a united Scandinavia with a “modern”
liberal constitution’.70 As a result, the differences of opinion between
students in the Scandinavian countries that had existed up to that time
disappeared and a certain mutual understanding emerged. The new vision
was dubbed student radicalism and opposed by the Danish and Swedish
governments. When a student congress was arranged in Uppsala in 1843,
it was stopped through the arrest of the Danish participants. The second

70 C. Skoglund, Vita Mössor under Röda Fanor. Vänsterstudenter kulturradikalism och


bildningsideal i Sverige 1880–1940 (Stockholm, 1991), 263.

289
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

congress in Copenhagen in 1845 gave rise to opposition from the Russian


authorities as well as the Danish and Swedish ones. Two decades later, the
opposite tendency would receive support from the Swedish King Oscar
(1799–1859) and from his Danish counterpart, Frederik VII (1808–63).
The latter offered a banquet to the Scandinavian students’ congress of
1862 because he wanted to evoke sympathy among the students now that
a conflict with the German Confederation was looming over Schleswig-
Holstein (which would nonetheless be lost to Denmark in 1864). The
Scandinavian students’ congresses of 1869 and 1875 were offshoots of
this. The Scandinavianism movement then appeared to come to a halt.71
On the ‘internal’ level students rejected their position as passive recipients
of knowledge dispensed by the professors and the authorities. Nor did they
want to be enclosed any longer in a social life of their own and be kept
entirely outside society. In the new Swedish university statutes of 1852,
a compromise was reached between the older vision of higher education
as the transfer of knowledge and the new vision as a process of Bildung,
where more space was given to scientific research at the university.72 But
that was after the year 1848, which brought revolution almost everywhere
in Europe.
In the Free City of Cracow this revolution erupted already by 1846.
In the uprising ‘red’ Polish students opposed both the state and the uni-
versity authorities.73 Its failure led to Cracow being incorporated into
Austria, but it also caused an upsurge of enthusiasm for the Polish cause
in other European countries, and a strengthening of the left-orientated,
anti-Russian and anti-Austrian attitude. The first anniversary of the Cra-
covian uprising, in March 1847, brought 1,200 students on to the streets
of Paris in a show of solidarity. Their social involvement was heightened
by the economic crisis, which had struck in the winter of 1846–47.74
When, in January 1848, Michelet was prohibited from lecturing, this
prompted student demonstrations which made a great impression, with
between 1,000 and 3,000 participants. A wave of protest came in the
student publications La Lanterne du Quartier Latin, which had first
appeared in May 1847, and L’Avant-garde, Journal des Écoles, which was
launched in January 1848. The ‘reformists’, who pressed for revolution,
dominated the demonstration of 22 February 1848; when the students
marched to the Place de la Madeleine singing le chant des Girondins,

71 H. D. Baars, Scandinavië. Verwant cultuurgebied (Meppel, 1951), 170–2.


72 Skoglund, Vita Mössor (note 70), 264.
73 C. Bobińska, ‘Les générations d’étudiants en tant que groupes sociaux’, in M. Kul-
czykowski, Les étudiants – liens sociaux, culture, moeurs du moyen-âge jusqu’au XIXe
siècle. Vème session scientifique internationale. Cracovie 28–30 mai 1987. Prace Histo-
ryczne, Zeszyt 93 (Warsaw, 1991), 134–45, 143.
74 Caron, Générations (note 23), 368–70.

290
Student movements

they were spontaneously followed by a mass of workers and citizens who


had been waiting for them.75 The demonstration swept on to the Palais
Bourbon and entered the Parliament. Further demonstrations the follow-
ing day ended in the evening with the demonstrators being fired upon in
the Boulevard des Capucines. On 24 February, barricades were set up.
Students – fewer in number than in 1830 – were the organizers and medi-
ators between workers, citizens and the National Guard; it was to them
that the king had to tender his abdication. A provisional government pro-
claimed the republic, made an appeal for public order and prevented the
change of regime from resulting in social upheaval.76 The enthusiasm over
the revolution, which spread across the whole of Europe in March, had
a contagious effect in the student world.77
Belgium already enjoyed a regime which, in principle, had been lib-
eral since independence, but the right to vote was limited to a very small
minority of the population. In 1847, a purely liberal government took over
the leadership of the country for the first time with a liberal programme
in which expansion of the right to vote – constituting a doubling of the
electorate – was particularly spectacular. Partly for this reason, no rev-
olutionary outburst was forthcoming in Belgium in 1848. Furthermore,
anxiety over social upheaval and fear of annexation by France caused
the Flemish movement to reject revolution. The Louvain student society
‘Met Tijd en Vlijt’ (With Time and Devotion) condemned the February
upheaval in France, and in response to the brief rattling of weapons by
French revolutionaries on the Belgian border, it sent a patriotic declaration
of devotion to the Belgian prince.78 But the Belgian universities did not
remain insensitive to the revolutionary atmosphere. This was most clearly
noticeable in the spring of 1848 in Louvain, where out of solidarity with
students elsewhere – in Vienna, Jena and Berlin – a revolt broke out for
more freedom and social justice inspired by Saint-Simonism. Action to
prevent this by the Louvain rector led to a petition movement opposed to
the rigid authoritarian structure of the university. When this had no effect,
a number of student leaders left Louvain, which they depicted as a bastion

75 This is how Gustave Flaubert in a ‘récit sobre’ described what happened, summarized in
Caron, Générations (note 23), 375–6.
76 Caron, Générations (note 23), 381–3.
77 As was illustrated by the ‘Chant des Etudiants’ published by Pierre Dupont in 1849,
quoted in Caron, Générations (note 23), 385; Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 265. On the
students and the ateliers nationaux: E. Thomas, Histoire des ateliers nationaux (Paris,
1848) summarized in H. P. G. Quack, De socialisten. Personen en stelsels (Amsterdam,
1911), vol. III, 400–1; A. Prost, Histoire de l’enseignement en France. 1800–1967 (Paris,
1968), 80–2.
78 The moderate position of ‘Time and Devotion’ was due to its president from 1841 till
1866, Professor J. B. David. On his political views see his address to the society c. 1840 in
T. Hermans, L. Vos and L.Wils (eds.), The Flemish Movement: A Documentary History.
1780–1990 (London, 1992), 96–7.

291
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

of conservatism, and continued their studies elsewhere. In their view, this


meant the more openly anti-clerical Brussels or Ghent, where there was
a circle gathered around the progressive Professor François Huet (1804–
69) that organized solidarity actions to assist the victims of the workers’
uprising in France.79
In the Netherlands, the European wave of revolution brought about
a hasty liberalization of the regime imposed from above, in an attempt
to take the wind out of the sails of a grassroots movement. When some
unrest nevertheless arose here and there under the influence of develop-
ments abroad, students gathered behind the established order and formed
militias to help maintain order; in Leiden this even occurred at the behest
of the rector magnificus.80 Brief opposition to the tradition of ragging
the first-year students and the setting up in other university towns of an
umbrella ‘corps’ with a democratic action programme – in most cases rec-
ognized in subsequent years by the academic authorities – were the most
significant expressions of a liberal spirit in the student world.81
The revolutionary wave reached Germany and the Habsburg Empire
in March 1848. At various German universities such as Munich, Berlin,
Heidelberg and Bonn, progressive students joined in working on the pro-
paganda for the parliaments in Berlin and Frankfurt, sought to establish
contact between the intelligentsia and the masses, and tried to increase
democratic awareness, particularly in the universities themselves. The
news of the uprising in Vienna also turned Berlin into a hotbed of unrest.
On 18 March, demonstrations for freedom and a constitution turned into
street battles, with workers and students mounting the barricades. Around
300 people died. After one day, the Prussian King Frederik Wilhelm
IV (1795–1861) withdrew all his troops and promised to implement the
reforms demanded.82
In the circle of politically active, democratic and liberal intellectuals,
who from March had taken over the flame of revolution, there were many
former members of the student movement. The Vorparlement, which met
in March and April in Frankfurt comprised 118 professors, of whom
more than a third had a Burschenschaft past. In May 1848 the parlia-
ment in Frankfurt proclaimed the fundamental principle of the modern
university, that die Wissenschaft und ihre Lehre ist frei (‘scientific and
scholarly research as well as teaching are free’),83 a formula that was

79 L. Gevers, Bewogen Jeugd.Ontstaan en ontwikkeling van de katholieke Vlaamse studen-


tenbeweging. 1830–1894 (Louvain, 1987), 26–8.
80 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 210; Brom, Omkeer (note 47), 57.
81 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 35–47; Hagendijk, Studentenleven
(note 48), 46–50.
82 Cowie and Wolfson, Nationalism (note 25), 171–2; Boren, Resistance (note 58), 38–41.
83 Müller, Geschichte (note 15), 80.

292
Student movements

adopted in the Prussian Constitution of 1850 and the Austrian Consti-


tution of 1867. At Whitsun 1848 (11–14 June), 1,200 to 1,500 students
gathered in Eisenach on the second Wartburgfest, where resolutions were
passed demanding self-governing universities with student participation,
the freedom of teaching and research, and the abolition of the Carlsbad
decrees.84 This orientation was confirmed at a student parliament held on
the Wartburg from 25 September to 3 October, when a democratic general
association of German students was also set up and soon given the name
of Allgemeine Studentenschaft.85 The liberal-democratic dominant tone
of the ‘Progress Movement’ soon gave rise to a response by right-wing
and denominational students. In May 1848, corps students came together
in Jena and formed a type of federation. In July the Protestant Wingolf
called its own student convention at a Zweites Schwarzburger Konzil,
which distanced itself from the resolutions of the second Wartburgfest.
Within the Habsburg Empire, the first response to the French February
Revolution came from Hungary.86 Immediately following the plea made
by Lajos Kossuth (1802–94) on 3 March for liberal-democratic and
national reforms, students marched on the street in Budapest. Farmers
who happened to be in town to visit the traditional annual market spon-
taneously joined them. Hungary, Transylvania and Croatia (‘the country
of the crown of St Stephen’) were transformed into an independent uni-
fied state, which was recognized as such by the Emperor in mid-March.
The energetic attitude of the Hungarian modernizers also brought the stu-
dents and progressive citizens of Vienna into action. On 12 March they
demanded from the Emperor a new government, democratic elections,
the lifting of press censorship and the formation of a National Guard.
On 13 March a student demonstration against Metternich was forced out
by rifle fire, after which the unrest spread to the working-class districts.
From 15 March there were joint demonstrations by students and workers
and the Emperor conceded: Metternich was dismissed, press censorship
was lifted, a new constitution was promised and a National Guard was
formed. The revolutionary phase made way for the liberal tendency, and
modernizations had to be consolidated. But the students wanted more.
They formed a students’ committee as a political body and an ‘Academic
Legion’ as its armed element. They received support from the 600-strong
student legion of Brünn (Brno), and also from a 250-strong student mili-
tia in Olmütz (Olomouc). From the Prague student world there came

84 Jarausch, ‘Sources’ (note 14), 559–60; for the resolutions’ texts: Müller, Geschichte
(note 15), 78.
85 Elm, ‘Urburschenschaft’ (note 61), 42–3; D. Grieswelle, ‘Zur Soziologie der Kösener
Corps 1870–1914’, in Neuloh and Rüegg (eds.), Student (note 20), 346–7.
86 Cowie and Wolfson, Nationalism (note 25), 154–7.

293
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

a delegation which summoned the Slav students in Vienna to join the


uprising.87
Power in Vienna was taken over by a ‘Revolutionary Committee’ con-
sisting of students and members of the ‘National Guard’, and in the
suburbs workers formed socialist committees. The radicalization of the
‘Academic Legion’ increased, in April reform proposals by the new gov-
ernment were rejected as too moderate, and between May and August the
Emperor and government established themselves in Innsbruck and then
in Olomouc (Olmütz) in October. Vienna was recaptured on 31 October
after three days of bombardment. Imperial power was restored, at least
in Austria. In the summer of 1849 Austrian, Croatian and Russian troops
finally defeated the Hungarian nationalists, and returned Hungary to the
Habsburg Empire.88
The events in Budapest and Vienna also led to agitation in Prague,
where liberal and national aspirations went hand in hand.89 On 15 March
1848, German and Czech students together formulated democratization
demands for education and society, and on the Viennese model set up an
‘Academic Legion’ which, by the end of the month, already had 2,360
men (out of a total of 3,500 students). However, it remained under the
leadership of professors, who were able to limit the radicalism of the
students.90 The differences of opinion drove the German students largely
into the Alldeutsch anti-Semitic camp, while Czech students opted for
a revolution together with the workers, with the intention of bringing
about a Czech republic. At Whitsun 1848, barricades were erected in
Prague and there were demonstrations and riots in front of the palace
of the Austrian Commanding General, Prince Alfred zu Windischgrätz
(1787–1862), during which his wife was shot dead at the window by a
stray bullet.91 The governor left the city and bombarded it from the hills
around without interruption for twelve hours. Then came the assault.
In the fighting that ensued, the barricades were defended by fewer than
1,200 rebels (out of a total population of 100,000), and 800 of these, or
two-thirds, were students. The leaders of the uprising were arrested, and
the university resumed its usual activities.
The ‘Academic Legion’ remained in existence for the time being under
the leadership of professors, but when its Viennese counterpart was abol-
ished on 1 November, the Prague students emphasized its student char-
acter. In order to strengthen the authority of student committees at the
87 Révész, Jugendbewegungen (note 12), 39.
88 G. Stimmer, ‘Die Mythologisierung der Revolution von 1848 als Modell einer Studen-
tenrevolution’, in Neuloh and Rüegg (eds.), Student (note 20), 243–302.
89 J. Koči, ‘Die Zusammenarbeit der Prager und Wiener Studenten während der Revolution
von 1848’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz II (note 29), 214–24.
90 Révész, Jugendbewegungen (note 12).
91 Cowie and Wolfson, Nationalism (note 25), 158.

294
Student movements

university they held elections for student representatives.92 The results


showed the growing influence of the radical-democratic wing. In Jan-
uary 1849, the government therefore abolished the ‘Academic Legion’
and decided to call up all students for military service. When a petition,
presented by a student delegation of three Czech and two German stu-
dents, evoked no response, a newly established bilingual Brotherhood
prepared an uprising that was to break out simultaneously in Saxony and
in Prague in June 1849. But the conspiracy was discovered. In 1850 four-
teen German and in 1851 fifteen Czech students were convicted, but a few
years later they were released.93
In Vienna and Graz, Slovene student associations under the name of
‘Slovenia’ came into being in the mid-1840s and demanded the establish-
ment in Laibach (Ljubljana) of a Slovene university. Even by the revo-
lutionary wave of 1848 this demand could not be fulfilled,94 but in the
1850s and particularly the 1860s the thread was picked up once again by
new generations of students.95
Finland did not learn about the news of the French February Revolution
until 10 March, and it barely stirred the students. Some interest only arose
when students at Uppsala in Sweden strongly opposed Russia at their
Scandinavian banquet on 6 April 1848 in their glorification of the new
French revolution. One week later the Russian authorities forbade foreign
travel by Finnish professors and students.96 Nevertheless, at the May
festival of 13 May 1848, in which the academic authorities, professors
and students all took part, a Finnish flag was inaugurated and a new
Finnish national anthem entitled Vårt Land (‘Our Country’) was sung.
At the same time, however, the students paid homage to the Russian Tsar
as the head of state, to the government, the rector and the professors,
something that did not occur in any other country in 1848. At least in the
first round, because in the spring of 1849 the students increasingly turned
away from the philosophical idealism of the previous generations and
opted for a democratic left-wing ideology based on materialistic social
analysis. This was also coupled with a change in their daily lifestyle and
with all kinds of irregularities, when the authorities noted with concern
increasing alcohol consumption and visits to brothels. In the autumn of
1849, the question arose about the formation of a joint student federation,

92 Koči, ‘Zusammenarbeit’ (note 89), 220–4.


93 Révész, Jugendbewegungen (note 12), 40.
94 V. Melik and P. Vodopivec, ‘Die slowenische Intelligenz und die österreichischen
Hochschulen. 1848–1918’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz II (note 29),
134–54.
95 H. Haselsteiner, ‘Die Bedeutung Wiens als Universitätsstadt in der zweiten Hälfte des
19. Jahrhunderts am Modell der Slovenischen Studenten’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.),
Wegenetz II (note 29), 294–302.
96 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 390–408.

295
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

which would act independently of the academic authority. This did not
materialize because of the opposition of several Landsmannschaften.
As the reaction in Europe gained ground, the differences of opinion
between French student supporters and opponents of the republic grew.
This republic was stifled when President Louis Bonaparte carried out a
coup d’état and proclaimed himself Emperor Napoleon III. After two
days, student protests with demonstrations and barricades were once
more suppressed. In the following months and years, the majority of
students turned away from politics and resumed their traditional stu-
dent activities. Despite the dominant de-politicization, small groups of
students nevertheless continued to keep the revolutionary fire burning in
secret cells. It was the time of ‘myth’: the role played by students in the rev-
olutionary wave of 1848 was so significant that it stayed in the collective
memory as a Modell einer Studentenrevolution.97

i n t e g r a t i o n o r i n s u r r e c t i o n (1850–1870)
The Restoration of 1850 did not affect the right of freedom of associ-
ation in Germany, and in the two decades that followed, the student
world was characterized by the appearance of umbrella associations and
federations and the codification of rules. The orientation was provided
by the ‘Corps’, which in 1855 set up the Kösener-Senioren-Convents-
Verband (KSCV), which the other ‘corps’ and many Landsmannschaften
soon joined. They approved membership rules, agreed to keep each other
informed about activities, and held a conference annually at Whitsun, the
Kösener Congress. If several ‘corps’ existed at a single university, they
would also have a local umbrella or Senioren-Konvent. The Mensur was
made obligatory for all ‘corps’ members in 1859, by order of the KSCV.
Although most Landsmannschaften adopted these customs and codifi-
cation, some progressive groups – centred on Göttingen – rejected this
tradition and formed nichtfarbentragende or what were known as ‘black’
associations. Groups that did not join the corps also formed a number
of short-lived umbrella associations until finally, in 1868, the Allgemeine
Landsmannschaft proved to be viable. It occupied an intermediate posi-
tion between the ‘corps’ and the Burschenschaften.98
The Burschenschaften found it more difficult to bring their branches
together in a general federation because of internal factional struggle. In
1850, some progressives succeeded in forming their own umbrella fed-
eration, but this only lasted for two years. In 1855, it was followed by

97 Stimmer, ‘Mythologisierung’ (note 88), 243–302.


98 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 301–2; Grieswelle, ‘Soziologie’ (note 85),
346–7.

296
Student movements

the progressive Norddeutsches Kartell, which in 1862 was joined by the


related Rotes Kartell. Conservative Burschenschaften in 1861 formed the
Süddeutsches Kartell, and the political centre then founded the Grün-
weiss-rotes Kartell.
In 1852 the Christian Protestant Burschenschaften formed the
Schwarzburger Verein, which only lasted for a year, but it was succeeded in
1858 by a more viable Schwarzburgbund. This was less distinctly denom-
inational than the Wingolfbund from Erlangen, which fundamentally dis-
carded everything considered to be in conflict with religious worship,
and which from 1860 formed a federation with others of like mind. The
Catholic student associations also expanded, and formed two umbrella
bodies: the Cartell Verband (CV) and the Kartell Verband (KV). The par-
ticipation of the three Catholic student associations from Munich, Breslau
and Berlin in the General Catholic Day in 1863 signified recognition of
those associations in the world of the German Catholics, but also pointed
to their great integration into the Catholic network. Catholic student asso-
ciations were also founded in Bonn, Münster, Tübingen and Würzburg.
From 1867, ‘Bonifatius associations’ for Catholic students were set up
in a number of university towns. From about that time the threat from
the Italian nationalists against the Papal State also led to the successful
establishment of ‘Pius associations’.
At the same time a new phenomenon appeared: a great many stu-
dents decided to remain outside such associations. These were the Finken.
Throughout these decades they made little use of the power granted by
their sheer numbers, except in the Schiller year of 1859, when a true
Finkenschaftsbewegung arose – especially in Göttingen, Jena and Leipzig –
in which ‘black’ associations took part as well as genuine non-organized
students. An attempt in 1863 to form an umbrella organization failed
because of differences of opinion between the ‘black’ and ‘wild’ ones. Pro-
gressive students formed the Studentische Reformpartei, which opposed
the ‘corps’, the duel and other ‘medieval’ institutions, and appeared first in
Freiburg (1860–64), then in Halle (1865), Greifswald (1865), Heidelberg
(1867) and Königsberg (1867). A first attempt to give the non-organized
students a voice was the establishment in 1868 of a ‘Permanent Student
Committee’, first in Leipzig and later also in Berlin. This began to publish
an Akademische Zeitschrift, but it did not survive 1870.99
The wave of national enthusiasm which swept through Germany in
the Schiller Centenary Year, and which was boosted by the wars with
Denmark (1864) and Austria (1866), fanned the commitment of students
in a nationalistic direction. They put fresh wind into the sails of the
Freikorps or Wehrschaften at universities.100 The face of German

99 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 303. 100 Ibid., 301–2.

297
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

nationalism became more right wing, with the democratic progressive


current steadily fading. As for students who spoke other languages –
specifically Polish students – the atmosphere at German universities was
more tolerant in Saxony and southern and western Germany, but more
restrained in Prussia and northern Germany. They were permitted a social
and associative life here but only under strict control, and their activities
were often restricted.101
Under the Habsburg Empire in 1849 all student associations were
explicitly forbidden. When in 1857 German-speaking Austrian students
organized a petition to be allowed to form a Leseverein again, the authori-
ties refused. Although an Akademischer Sangverein (academic choral soci-
ety) was founded in 1858, it was not even allowed to sing the Gaudeamus
because this was regarded as politically too dangerous. In Cracow, which
in the meantime had been swallowed up by Austria, a new secret politi-
cal student association emerged in 1858, and this also occurred at other
Polish universities.
From 1859, the centennial of Schiller’s birth, student activities were
tolerated to some degree. This was coupled with a revival of criticism.
Students complained about the lack of consistency between formal prohi-
bition and the actual policy of tolerance, and they criticized the traditional
and closed atmosphere of Vienna University under the considerable influ-
ence of the Catholic Church. On this point they obtained the support of
liberal professors. The students now demanded recognition of their civil
rights, the right to petition, and a new law on association.102
In 1863, patriotism and politicization increased sharply owing to the
commemoration of the Battle of the Nations at Leipzig, 50 years earlier,
as well as the Schleswig-Holstein question. Viennese students urged the
formation of a student Freikorps and sent a message to the students at
Kiel, in which they proposed the national unification of Germany as the
great ideal, albeit a Greater Germany under Austrian leadership. Antipa-
thy towards the imperialistic and militaristic Prussia under the author-
itarian Bismarck even brought the students to express loyalty towards
the Habsburg dynasty. Thus in 1863 Viennese students acclaimed the
Austrian Emperor Franz-Joseph (1848–1916) when he returned from the
Fürstentage in Frankfurt. Yet the authorities did not dare to allow the cel-
ebration of 500 years of the university to be held on the anniversary date
of 12 March, a date which also referred to 1848. The students nonetheless
celebrated on 12 March and boycotted the later official ceremony. In 1867
a number of students sent an address to the Reichsrat, which at that time
had just been re-established, in which they protested against the concordat

101 Révész, Jugendbewegungen (note 12), 64.


102 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 313.

298
Student movements

between the state and the Catholic Church. They regarded protest against
the excessive influence of the Church as a continuation of the struggle of
1848, as well as their criticism of individual conservative – Catholic –
professors. They in turn received the support of the Catholic student
associations, which in the meantime had already expanded strongly in
Germany.103
As a result of the ban on associations which was upheld until the
1860s, a consensus persisted longer in the German-speaking Austrian stu-
dent world – unlike in Germany itself– over Greater Germany, and the
differences between Landsmannschaften, Burschenschaften, and ‘corps’
remained minimal.104 Perhaps this consensus was also due to the emer-
gence in the 1860s of a network of vacation groups throughout Austria
that brought together during lecture-free periods students from different
universities and high schools. It was not until the sixties that differences of
opinion arose, firstly on the Mensur. Discussion on this began in Prague
and Graz, and in 1863 also broke out in Vienna. The conservative stu-
dents defended this tradition, while the progressives were against it. In
1864 a first farbentragend association – located in Innsbruck – explicitly
issued a ban on the Mensur.105
In the 1860s the differences between the German-speaking students
and those who spoke another language came even more clearly into the
open.106 In Prague scuffles broke out for the first time between Czech
and German-speaking students. The Czech students left the German fed-
erations from 1861, formed their own Czech student associations, and
explicitly opposed German cultural hegemony in their periodicals. The
tensions between German-speaking Hungarians and Austrians follow-
ing the Austrian defeat by Prussia led to the ‘Ausgleich’ (Compromise) of
1867, which transformed the Habsburg Empire into an Austro-Hungarian
dual monarchy. In the Austrian part a university reform completely legal-
ized student associations.
From this time on, there also emerged more differentiation with respect
to the political orientation of student associations. In Vienna, the fed-
eration ‘Markomannia’ explicitly renounced the name Burschenschaft.
The Viennese ‘Saxonia’ and two associations in Graz opted for an
Austrian ‘corps’, which also accepted non-German-speaking students.
Opposition to this came from those who aspired to the national unity

103 Heither, ‘Zwischen bürgerlicher Revolution und Erstem Weltkrieg’ in Elm, Heither and
Schäfer (eds.), Füxe (note 61), 66–92; Müller, Geschichte (note 15), 80; Schulze and
Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 309–12.
104 Stimmer, ‘Mythologisierung’ (note 88), 271–7.
105 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 314–15.
106 S. Brzozowski, ‘Le problème d’études polonaises en Allemagne (1860–1918)’, in
Kulczykowski (ed.), Pérégrinations (note 24), 215–28.

299
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

of all ethnic Germans, and these included the conservative Burschen-


schaften and the Akademische Lesevereine. Some of the Burschenschaften
in Graz and Vienna cut themselves off from the majority, opted for the
line of Bismarck, and regarded themselves – like the Viennese ‘Silesia’ –
as vorgeschobene Posten der nationalliberalen Partei (vanguards of the
national liberal party). On the other hand, there was also opposition
from the left, from a group of Progressburschenschaften, which empha-
sized social-democratic reforms.107 From the time of the Austro-Prussian
War of 1866, the good understanding between Austrian and German stu-
dent associations also became a thing of the past. In 1867 the Kösener
Corps explicitly rejected the admission of the Austrian corps, and the
German Burschenschaften later did likewise. However, the Franco-
Prussian War prompted some Austrian students to vow support for their
German brothers, and some even to make a – failed – attempt to join the
Prussian Army as volunteers.
In the mid-nineteenth century there were still around 5.5 million Ital-
ian speakers living in the Habsburg Empire, mainly in Lombardy and
the Veneto, but these regions were ceded by Austria to the newly formed
Italy in 1859 and 1866, respectively, including the universities of Padua
and Pavia. From then on, the approximately 530,000 Italian speakers who
had remained in the Habsburg Empire no longer had the option of receiv-
ing academic education in their own language within the borders of the
Empire. The government tried to resolve la questione dell’università ital-
iana in Austria from 1864, in Innsbruck, by having a number of classes
taught in Italian and by providing a state examination in that language
before a central examination committee. But against the backdrop of
Italian nationalism, the Italian-speaking students found these facilities
unsatisfactory and demanded a separate Italian university, because of
its symbolic value. Conversely, in 1859, German students in Innsbruck
formed a Freikorps (volunteer corps), which set itself the task of acting
as a Schutzwache (guard) of German culture.
In France, the university system during the Second Empire remained
largely the way it had been since Napoleon I: a collection of separate
schools and faculties that were no longer linked to each other and focused
mainly on vocational training.108 The authoritarian regime of Napoleon
III was fatal to intellectual freedom. There was a last and only upsurge
of student protest at the Sorbonne in 1855–56, when some classes were
disrupted. The authorities took stringent measures, and two professors
and around ten students were sent to prison.109 Although a more liberal
107 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 314–15.
108 R. D. Anderson, Education in France, 1848–1870 (Oxford, 1975), 225–39.
109 R. H. Guerrand, Lycéens révoltés, étudiants révolutionnaires au 19e siècle (Paris, 1969),
80–1.

300
Student movements

phase followed in the sixties, in which plans were made for the reform
of higher education,110 the repressive line towards student dissidence was
maintained. In 1865 the French representative at the international stu-
dent congress in Liège used black flags to complain that freedom had
been lost in her fatherland.111 The students involved paid for the protest
with the consilium abeundi.112 The 1870–71 Commune saw very few stu-
dents on the barricades, unless they were there on an individual basis.
The Second Empire had succeeded in breaking the revolutionary student
tradition.
In Belgium, a connection was made in the 1850s and 1860s between
progressivism and pro-Flemish sentiment. The student association ‘t Zal
wel Gaan’ was set up at the University of Ghent in 1854, and it was influ-
enced by the radical liberal ideas of the Société Huet and by pro-Flemish
sentiment combined with fervent anti-Catholicism.113 In the 1860s, by
which time the liberals had gained political power, a powerful progres-
sive student movement was again visible at Belgian universities. Socialism
was the catalyst in Brussels, Ghent and Liège. At the Catholic University of
Louvain the driving force was pro-Flemish commitment, which aimed at
co-operation with non-Catholics and was associated with the emancipa-
tion of the Dutch-speaking middle and working classes. At international
student congresses (Liège, 1865; Brussels, 1867; Ghent, 1868) students
from Brussels, Ghent and Liège joined their French counterparts in setting
up a socialist student international, which at that time eventually proved
unsuccessful.114 The open-mindedness that had existed in the 1860s both
on the Catholic and the liberal side towards co-operating on the defence
of the Flemish language position barely survived the decade.
In the Netherlands, the tenor in the third quarter of the nineteenth
century remained one of pro-Orange sentiment, coupled with minimal
social interest, at least among the majority of students. A typical com-
ment was made by the minute-taker of the student corps in Leiden that
the student congress in Liège in 1865 could be summed up as ‘a motion
against the existence of God and the throwing of furniture’.115 There was
nevertheless sympathy for socially aware writers such as Eduard Douwes
Dekker (1820–87), who under the pseudonym Multatuli criticized in 1860
Dutch colonial policy in the novel Max Havelaar, and Jacob Jan Cremer

110 J. Minot, Histoire des universités françaises (Paris, 1991), 42–4.


111 Anderson, Education (note 108), 236; Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 266.
112 Prost, Histoire (note 77), 80–2. 113 Gevers, Bewogen jeugd (note 79), 40–9.
114 J. Bartier ‘Etudiants et mouvement révolutionnaire au temps de la première interna-
tionale. Les congrès de Liège, Bruxelles et Gand’, in Mélanges offerts à G. Jacquemijns
(Brussels, 1968), 35–60.
115 Minutes of ‘Leidsch Studenten Corps’ 1874 quoted by Frank and Wiardi Beckman,
Geschiedenis (note 47), 96.

301
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

(1827–80), who stood up for the workers.116 Multatuli found a ready


audience from 1862 in the debating society Vrije Studie in Delft, and in
1867 in Utrecht. This led occasionally to radical stirrings, as when the
Utrecht student corps paid tribute to Zola. The Delft corps did the same
with Multatuli and banished the Wilhelmus, the Dutch National Anthem;
around 1870 there was enthusiasm for liberal principles in Leiden. This
indicated evolution, even in Leiden. Whereas in 1856 honorary member-
ship of the corps was offered to Prince Willem as a matter of course, the
question of whether this should be repeated in 1870 on the arrival of his
younger brother, Prince Alexander, led to heated discussion.117 This did
not prevent the threatening international situation at the end of the sixties
(as in 1830) from prompting the formation of military student-volunteer
corps, first in Leiden in 1866 under the name ‘Pro Patria’, and afterwards
also at other universities.118
In Spain, a thorough reform of the universities took place between 1845
and 1857, when the Minister for Education, Claudio Moyano (1809–
90), introduced new legislation including the discipline and control of
students.119 In 1857, the rector, Julián Sanz del Rı́o (1814–69), in his
opening address at the Central University in Madrid, explicitly urged the
students to commit themselves politically, now that the traditional obsta-
cles to doing so had been removed. Sanz del Rı́o had become acquainted
with the German university system in Heidelberg in the 1840s, as well
as with the philosophy of Karl Christian Friedrich Kraus (1781–1832),
which he brought back to Spain and where a chair was established to
teach it. In 1865, Professor Emilio Castelar (1832–99), a republican politi-
cian who strongly emphasized ‘Krausism’ in his lectures, was dismissed
from this post after having expressed sharp criticism of Queen Isabel II
(1830–1904). Demonstrations of solidarity by a few other professors and
students culminated in clashes with the police, ultimately leading to the
exclusion of a number of protesting students and professors, among them
Sanz del Rı́o and Fernando de Castro (1814–74). In September 1868 a
revolution broke out that sent Queen Isabel II into exile and brought
the proclamation of the (First) Republic. The dismissed professors were
restored to their posts and Fernando de Castro was installed as rector of
the university. In 1873 Emilio Castelar became President of the Republic.

116 A lecture by Cremer in a student circle in the University of Leiden (see Brom, De omkeer
[note 47], 89), was published as a booklet entitled Fabriekskinderen een bede, doch
niet om geld (Schoorl, 2nd edn, 1988). He also wrote Betuwsche Novellen en een
reisgezelschap (Leiden s.d., several reprints) and Distels in’t weiland: Over-Betuwsche
Novellen (Leiden, 1865).
117 Brom, Omkeer (note 47), 92.
118 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 95.
119 Mancebo, ‘Estudiantes’ (note 10); cf. Peset, Universidad Española, ch. xviii: 1857, la ley
Moyano 461–90; ch. xviii: El Estudiante burgués 525–50.

302
Student movements

These were the golden years of ‘Krausism’, in which students and pro-
fessors became politically aware and drew up plans for a reform of the
university, which came to nothing. The monarchy was restored in 1875.
In Russia, the discovery in 1849 of a secret socialist circle in St Peters-
burg gave rise to a stricter disciplining of students.120 In Helsinki, as a
result of a change in the terms of admission, the generation of students
who had undergone the change from ‘idealistic’ to ‘materialistic’ was
purged.121 The students would henceforth have to wear a uniform daily
and were prohibited from growing a beard. A student-inspector, equated
to the level of professor, had to supervise the behaviour of the students
with the assistance of six beadles. Specifically for Finland, students from
the law faculty who were to enter public service were obliged to follow
Russian throughout their training. The new statutes came into effect in
January 1853, and from that year the Landsmannschaften were prohib-
ited as hotbeds of rebellion. However, they continued to exist de facto
underground, and as a result they became more radical and developed
illegally into groupings with a specific political hue.
The death of Tsar Nicholas I and the accession to the throne of his
successor Alexander II in 1855 signified the beginning of a decade of
liberal transformation in all spheres of life in Russia. It made it possible
for a genuine student movement to exist. Until that time only the Polish
students at the Russian universities were politicized on the basis of their
national stirrings, but they avoided any fraternization with their Russian
fellow students and their associations remained almost completely illegal
until the 1870s.122 The new Tsar lifted the restriction on the number of
students, and in principle opened the universities in Russia to students
from all social classes, resulting in an increase in the number of students
from 5,000 in 1859 to 8,045 in 1880. He also made it possible to go
abroad to study again and relaxed the censorship on the purchase of
foreign books. Military discipline and the obligation for students to wear
a uniform were abolished.123
At the same time, student association life expanded. The lowest struc-
tural framework for this was offered by the Zemliachestva, associations
which brought together students of the same regional origin and which
aimed at mutual material and moral support; to some extent these were
comparable to the German Landsmannschaften. In addition, students of
the same ideological inspiration found one another in krushki, circles
with ten to twenty members. Unique to St Petersburg among these was

120 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 155.


121 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 399–404, 414, 423–5, 537.
122 Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 3; Brzozowski, ‘Problème d’études’ (note 106); figures
on the nineteenth century in Dudkowa, ‘Etudes’ (note 24), 229–46, 242.
123 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 113; Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 16.

303
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

the Kassa Vzaimopomoshchi, an association for self-help and mutual sup-


port that aimed to supply cheap meals and accommodation, eventually
growing into a central umbrella organization with representatives from
all kinds of circles. A formal and informal student infrastructure also grew
at other universities, with libraries, reading clubs, institutions for finan-
cial assistance, co-operatives and labour offices, and all kinds of self-help
associations.124 Polish students formed comparable Bratniaki or Bratnie
Pomocy (officially: Towarzystwa Bratniej Pomocy Studentów (‘Student
Societies of Brotherly Assistance’)), which devoted themselves to student
interests but which, after the revival of academic life in Poland, adopted
a political stance as time went on.125
A new tradition was the skhodka, a general student meeting where
common questions and interests were discussed and the style of which
appeared to refer to the egalitarianism of the free peasant communities.
The skhodki became the starting point for a whole network of representa-
tive umbrella bodies, discussion groups and student periodicals, in which
the atmosphere of direct democracy prevailed. The notion of a specific
mission for the studentchestvo or student community grew, together with
the rejection of self-centred ‘philistinism’ and a bourgeois-mentality.126
This new student self-image and awareness of a student mission was
enhanced by a new literary intelligentsia. It was called raznochinnia (lit-
erally ‘people of different classes’), and it believed in rational research
by the natural sciences, in simple and sincere human relations, and in a
society based on reason instead of exploitation and oppression.127
At the end of the 1850s, in Kazan, students demanded the dismissal of
incompetent professors and, in Moscow in 1857, the punishment of police
officers who had beaten up some students.128 Students also took part in
the discussion on the abolition of serfdom, which had in fact been lifted in
1861. In this area they maintained a good understanding with Polish and
Finnish students. After the secret police had murdered a Polish student
in Warsaw on 15 February 1861, students from St Petersburg, Moscow
and Kiev organized mourning for the murdered student in March 1861,
followed by demonstrations.129
The alarmed Russian Government tried to get a grip on the univer-
sity again. New university statutes provoked student protests, first in
St Petersburg in September and October 1861, leading to hundreds of
arrests and to the closure of the university. When it reopened two years

124 Morrissey, Heralds (note 4), 30; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 232; Kassow, Students
Tsarist Russia, 77–87.
125 C. Wankel, Anti-Communist Student Organizations and the Polish Renewal (Hound-
mills, 1992), 7.
126 Morrissey, Heralds (note 4), 20–3. 127 Ibid., 22.
128 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 127–9. 129 Révész, Jugendbewegungen (note 12), 14–16.

304
Student movements

later, it numbered 265 students instead of the 1,442 it had in 1861.130


Also in September and October 1861, Moscow was in turmoil with a
petition signed by 500 students, arrests and even a clash with the police,
whereby several students were killed, 340 arrested and 29 received prison
sentences. The same pattern applied in Kazan and Kharkov.131 To remove
the dissatisfaction prevailing at the universities, the government issued
new university statutes on 30 June 1863, thereby restoring the autonomy
that the universities had enjoyed between 1804 and 1861.132 The profes-
sors received more power again and were allowed to choose the rector,
nominate colleagues, and supervise the students, who continued to be pro-
hibited from forming skhodki or organizing themselves. However, these
measures did not bring back the hope for calm in the student world.
Also in the part of Poland controlled by Russia, the accession of the new
Tsar Alexander II in 1855 meant a change in climate.133 From 1857 Poles
were allowed to become civil servants again, in 1858 secondary education
could use Polish as the language of instruction, and a Polish medical
academy was opened in Warsaw. In this new climate there was a revival of
secret Polish circles at the Russian universities, which established contacts
with the émigrés. In Kiev Polish students made up four-fifths of the total
student population; they tried to introduce the Polish language into the
university, but this met with opposition from the Ukrainian students.134
In Warsaw, in March 1861, demonstrations against the insufficiently far-
reaching regulations on the abolition of serfdom were broken up by the
use of firearms, leaving five dead. This led to a united Polish front of
soldiers, peasants, workers, aristocrats and clerics against the Russian
authorities. It met with further repression until, in the spring of 1862, the
Tsar relaxed his position again and reopened Warsaw university under the
name of Szkola Glówna (Main School). But new suppression afterwards
resulted in further radicalization. The government’s decision to call up all
young men for army service by conscription was the proverbial last straw.
The uprising broke out in Warsaw on 22 January 1863. Students of the
new medical academy and of the academy of fine arts were among the
first conspirators. Their leader was the student Stefan Bobrowski (1841–3)
and his committee initially also acted as a provisional government.135 The
revolution, the largest Polish uprising in the nineteenth century in terms of
the number of people involved and its duration, spread to Lithuania and
the Ukraine. Cracovian left-wing students formed the breeding ground

130 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 128; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 169–70.
131 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 128–9. 132 Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 27–8.
133 Vos, Strijd (note 35), 145–52; P. S. Wandycz, The Lands of Partitioned Poland. 1795–
1918 (Seattle, 1974), 155–79.
134 Dudkowa, ‘Etudes’ (note 24), 236; Wandycz, Lands (note 133), 159–60.
135 Wandycz, Lands (note 133), 171–3.

305
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

for the elaboration of a programme which was adopted in the last phase
of the revolution, when the ‘red’ Romuald Traugutt (1826–64) became its
leader from October 1863 until his arrest and execution in April 1864.136
Russian policy following the uprising was highly repressive against the
Polish clergy and intelligentsia.137 At least 400 people were executed after
being put on trial, thousands were deported to Siberia, and several thou-
sand estates of Polish aristocrats were confiscated. All separately exist-
ing Polish institutions were eliminated, the name ‘Congress Poland’ was
replaced by ‘Vistulaland’, and the province, divided into districts, was
governed entirely in Russian by a Russian governor-general. Education
was also Russified. The Polish Szkola Glówna was abolished in 1869 and
replaced by the Russian Imperial University of Warsaw. At all Russian
universities the number of Polish students fell sharply. The failure marked
the end of the Romantic Polish tradition of uprisings.
The United Kingdom paved the way for the modernization that went
hand in hand with the industrial revolution, while remaining a bulwark of
traditionalism owing to the continuing existence of many medieval insti-
tutions, despite their gradual transformation. In the period covered so far,
there was no student movement such as the one that took place on the
Continent. This was primarily due to the university system of Oxford and
Cambridge, which neither served as places for the education of a profes-
sional elite, nor as centres of scientific research. Until the 1870s ‘Oxbridge’
held on to a classical and purely scientific ‘liberal education’. This spared
Great Britain ‘the overproduction of an underpaid and underemployed
university graduate class which helped to fuel Continental revolutionary
movements’.138 ‘Extra-curricular’ student life in the two old universities
was strongly governed by the college system, around which a pattern of
competitive sporting events (boat races and cricket matches) developed
in the first half of the nineteenth century as an expression of the ‘college
spirit’. There was little room in this milieu for social problems outside the
university.
The French attack on Prussia provoked by Bismarck in 1870 caused the
German students to close ranks in a spirit of national enthusiasm. In all
the university towns, students of the ‘corps’, the Burschenschaften, Lands-
mannschaften, ‘Wingolf’ or other denominational associations demon-
strated together until deep into the night. In many places they volunteered,
sometimes collectively, as in Halle where they reported to the local bar-
racks, marching behind the banner, or in Braunschweig, where all the poly-
technic students of the machine department served in the Kriegsmarine.
136 R. F. Leslie (ed.), The History of Poland since 1863 (Oxford, 1980), 11; Bobińska,
‘Générations’ (note 73), 143.
137 Tazbir, Zaris Historii Polski (note 32), 491–2; Wandycz, Lands (note 133), 193–6.
138 M. Sanderson, The Universities in the Nineteenth Century (London, 1975), 4.

306
Student movements

In Heidelberg, the students asked Heinrich von Treitschke (1834–96) for


a farewell message before marching on France. He obliged and ended
his message with the sentence that Fichte had spoken in Berlin in 1813:
‘Nicht siegen oder sterben, sondern siegen schlechtweg!’ (‘Not victory or
death, but only victory!’). In Leipzig the anti-Prussian feelings of pub-
lic opinion were strongest and the newspapers asked scornfully whether
the Saxons would now have to give their lives for the Prussian King. In
reaction, the students marched in massive numbers through the streets
and everywhere seized the critical newspapers from cafés and kiosks and
burned them. They then sent an address signed by 800 students to the King
of Prussia to prove their loyal devotion and dedication to the German
fatherland. They also sent a call to the Austrian students to lend their
support to the fight against France in the name of German culture.139
The war had a great impact on German student life. A remarkably high
number of students fought, though not in separate ‘Freikorps’ as during
the war of liberation against Napoleon. Of the 13,765 students regis-
tered for the summer term of 1870–71 in Germany, 4,510 or one-third
were soldiers, of whom 248 perished. In a number of places close co-
operation developed between the student-soldiers at the front and students
on the ‘home front’. This was the case, for example, in the Berlin student
association Motiv, which brought together students from the architecture
academy, and in Leipzig, where in the winter of 1870–71 a new student
association sent newspapers and periodicals to the 60 or 70 fellow stu-
dents in the field.140

c o n s o l i d a t i o n a n d a n t i - l i b e r a l i s m (1870–1885)
With the demise of the Paris Commune, the liberal tide abated in Europe
and old and new nation states alike looked to install more rigid inter-
nal coherence. In the bourgeois democracies of Western Europe and in
Germany, a calm period generally ensued from a political point of view
with respect to the student movement. Students seemed to exhibit little
social commitment, although a political option lay at the root of this atti-
tude: they had gathered behind their nation and wanted to strengthen
and secure the institutions and existence of their fatherland. This unity
was nevertheless threatened by ideological and national differences in
some countries. Conflict between nations occurred among students in the
Danube Monarchy, while Russian students tried with difficulty to escape
from the grip of autocracy.
The university landscape perhaps underwent more thorough changes
in France than in any other Western European country. The establishment

139 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 317–19. 140 Ibid., 320–1.

307
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

of the Third Republic in 1875 did not just create a new political situation
but also a new policy in relation to higher education. France at the end
of the nineteenth century witnessed ‘the birth of the student in Arts and
Sciences’ and the rebirth of the universities.141 The reform also contained
an approach to the German university model, with its focus on Bildung
and scientific research in seminaries and laboratories.142 The condition
d’étudiant changed as a result of these reforms and the substantial rise in
student numbers: university students now enjoyed a separate social status,
alongside the jeunesse des écoles, and for the first time a specific student
associative life in France developed. As a result, France caught up with
countries such as Germany to some extent. After the consolidation of the
Third Republic, the government considered it important to promote social
integration and to bridge social differences through higher education.
Student associations were now regarded as instruments of socialization.
A first student association was set up in Nancy in 1876, and in 1888 there
already existed fifteen such associations in France. The best known was
the Association générale des étudiants, set up in Paris in 1884 and soon
known simply as the ‘A’. One year later it already had 400 members.
The association was patronized and in the longer term also financially
supported by the academic and political authorities. The ‘A’ seemed to
them to be the ideal place where links could be forged between members
of the elite who would govern the country in the future and who would be
capable ‘d’achever dans la démocratie républicaine la patrie française’ (‘of
completing the French fatherland through Republican democracy’).143
The association adopted a neutral stance: it carefully avoided discussions
on politics and religion. It did, however, make an effort to look after
the interests of the students by establishing a students’ house, and by
organizing services and recreational activities. While students in previous
decades had stood on the barricades, a period of unusual calm existed in
the years following the establishment of the Third Republic.144
In England the rapidly expanding civic colleges and the emerging Welsh
colleges became instruments of social change and upward mobility for the
middle classes. At the same time, Oxford and Cambridge underwent sig-
nificant reforms so that they acquired modern characteristics and could
respond better to competition from the civic colleges. They were never-
theless characterized by a distinct aristocratic spirit, and the Oxbridge

141 F. Mayeur, ‘Naissance de l’étudiant en sciences et lettres à la fin du XIXe siècle en France’,
in Kulczykowski, Etudiants (note 73), 134–45; cf. chapter 2, 55–7.
142 Weisz, Emergence, passim; Ringer, Education and Society, 113–31.
143 Y. Cohen, ‘Avoir vingt ans en 1900: à la recherche d’un nouveau socialisme’, Le mou-
vement social, 120 (July–September 1982), 11.
144 G. Weisz, ‘Associations et manifestations: les étudiants français de la Belle Epoque’, Le
mouvement social, 120 (July–September 1982), 31–8; Weisz, Emergence, 302–6.

308
Student movements

model set the norm for the civic colleges.145 A significant process of trans-
formation also took place in student life from around 1870 due to far
greater organization of the students’ leisure time.146 An extensive net-
work of clubs and societies grew up. The ‘sporting revolution’ was par-
ticularly striking. The students had always practised sport, but it was not
until around 1860 that organized sports began, following the example of
the British public schools. Sport was now valued by schoolmasters and
university authorities alike as a means to character building, discipline,
morality, healthy competition and group solidarity. Clubs were estab-
lished at the colleges for rugby, tennis, cricket, boating and other sporting
activities, and from the last decades of the nineteenth century significant
efforts were made to expand this sports infrastructure, which represented
a further asset in attracting students.147
From the social point of view, students often still reflected the notions
of the traditional prevailing elite. They invariably supported the policy
of the Tories and condemned trades-union action, social measures for
workers, and democratic access to the universities. They were distinctly
patriotic and subscribed to the ambitions of the British nation.148 On
the other hand, the universities and colleges displayed a stronger social
awareness from the 1870s and 1880s. Cambridge and Oxford responded
positively with the ‘University Extension’ programme, set up to cater for
the demand for higher education of less privileged groups in society.149
At the Dutch universities, the corps continued to set the basic pattern
for student life. They were still characterized by: ‘exclusivity, freshman
years, a superior class consciousness, and a flamboyantly avowed nation-
alistic faith in Orange and legal authority’. Internally there was ‘a solid
life of debating and young men’s clubs, in which “mores”, wanton mirth,
rivalry between debating societies, and competition in the fields of sport,
culture and consumption kept the group spirit alive’.150 Membership of
the corps nevertheless began to crumble in the last few decades of the
nineteenth century.151 This trend can be explained by a greater influx

145 Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 19, 75–84, 142–7; R. D. Anderson, Universities and
Elites in Britain since 1800 (London, 1992), 17, 21.
146 J. Twigg, A History of Queens’ College, Cambridge 1448–1986 (Woodbridge, 1987),
265.
147 Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 19–22; Twigg, Queen’s (note 146), 252–61.
148 Twigg, Queens’ (note 146), 242–52.
149 B. Simon, Education and the Labour Movement 1870–1920 (Southampton, 1974), 86–
92; Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 146.
150 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 51; see also Vrankrijker, Vier eeuwen (note 47);
Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47).
151 See also P. A. J. Caljé, ‘De omkeer in ‘t studentenleven. de pogingen tot hervorming
van het studentenleven rond 1920’, in Groniek. Historisch Tijdschrift. Studentenleven
(Groningen, 1992), 75–82.

309
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

of young people from the middle classes, religious groups discriminated


against until that time such as Catholics and members of the Reformed
Church, and also women. The high financial burdens prevented these
students from joining the corps. In addition, many of them opposed the
aristocratic mentality prevalent among the corps members and the com-
pulsory ragging procedure. They therefore began to set up associations
for non-corps members. The corps haughtily dubbed these newcomers
‘nihilists’, ‘outsiders’ or ‘pigs’, and forced up the costs of corps member-
ship in order to raise even further the barrier to entry for shabby ‘provin-
cials’. Nor were the academic authorities prepared until the mid-nineties
to recognize the non-corps organizations, because this would foster dis-
cord in the student ranks.152
In Belgian universities, too, student life in the 1870s and 1880s became
better organized with the establishment of student circles, regional social
clubs, religious groupings, faculty societies and general organizations that
represented the students and looked after their interests; this was the case
of the Société Générale des Étudiants, set up in both Ghent and Louvain
in 1872 and 1878, respectively. Particularly in the Catholic University of
Louvain, the Flemish student movement was also powerful, and new pro-
Flemish clubs were created. They reflected the Restoration-minded, anti-
liberal spirit of the rising student generations of the 1870s. They argued
for the unity of language and Catholic belief and saw in preserving the for-
mer a means to preserving the latter. These ideas also spread throughout
the Catholic colleges and led to the emergence of the ‘Catholic Flemish
student movement’, in which Catholic pupils, seminarists and Catholic
university students co-operated.153 Liberal students of pro-Flemish lean-
ings at Ghent University adopted a more aggressive anti-clerical stance
during this period.154
In Spain, following the return of the Bourbons in 1875, both the conser-
vative government and the Church tried to subject education, including
the universities, to ‘Crown and religion’. Liberal students and professors

152 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 54; G. Jensma and H. De Vries, Veranderingen
in het hoger onderwijs in Nederland tussen 1815 en 1940 (Hilversum, 1997), 129–51;
J. Kingma, W. R. H. Koops and F. R. H. Smit, Universitair leven in Groningen 1614–
1989. Professoren en studenten. Boek en uitgeverij (Groningen, 1989), 55ff.; W. Otter-
speer, De wiekslag van hun geest. De Leidse universiteit in de negentiende eeuw (The
Hague and Leiden, 1992), 477ff.; Studenten van Haver tot gort (Delft, 1957), 11–63.
153 L. Gevers, ‘De Vlaamse studentenbeweging te Leuven (1836–1914)’, Onze Alma Mater,
29 (1975), 113–15; Gevers, Bewogen Jeugd (note 79), 65–126; L. Gevers and L. Vos,
‘Studentenbeweging (Universitair onderwijs) Leuven’, in Nieuwe Encyclopedie van
de Vlaamse beweging (Tielt, 1998), 2902–3; L. Gevers and L. Vos, ‘Le mouvement
estudiantin Flamand et Wallon à Louvain’, in J. Roegiers and I. Vandevivere (eds.),
Leuven/Louvain-la-Neuve. Aller Retour (Louvain, 2001), 161–2.
154 Gevers, Bewogen Jeugd (note 79), 49–50; K. Palinckx, ‘Studentenbeweging (Universitair
Onderwijs) Gent’, in Nieuwe Encyclopedie (note 153), 2891–2.

310
Student movements

were strongly opposed to this and provoked protest demonstrations. The


unrest spread from the University of Madrid to other Spanish universi-
ties and persisted from October to December 1884. It was coupled with
dismissals and the resignation of deans and rectors. Afterwards emotions
calmed down but the tension remained.155
In Germany, after the unification and the establishment of the Empire
in 1870, nationalism and anti-liberalism became the two most important
pillars propping up the German student movement. At the same time,
student corporations reached their zenith and served more than ever as a
model for other countries. The Burschenschaften had to cede leadership in
the hierarchy of students’ associations to the ‘corps’ (Kösener-Senioren-
Convents-Verband). The latter did not pursue specific political or social
aims, but rather stated that it gave students an opportunity to develop
their personalities, thereby supplementing the scientific and professional
education received at the university. The ‘corps’ training comprised three
main components: imparting respect for order and authority through a
hierarchical structure (Fuchsen, Burschen, Alte Herren) and admission
rituals; the training of courage and self-discipline through the obligatory
duel; and becoming accustomed to the consumption of alcohol through
an obligation to drink. The ‘corps’ introduced into the academic world the
officer’s ideal of unconditional atonement. Its action was characterized by
distinct ritualism and formalism with external signs of recognition such as
the cap and ribbon, uniform and sabre. Corporatism was also marked by a
strong feudalism, which romanticized medieval feudal forms; its goal here
was to give the appearance of an historical worthiness of respect through
the student practices it propagated. A corps student went through life as a
peculiar being who fought for his honour with weapons and bore the scar
as a sign of his privileged position. He looked down with disdain on the
‘masses’ and rejected the equality of women. Such corporative ‘training’
produced students who willingly fitted into the authoritarian state and
usually went on to belong to the right-wing elite. All this, combined with
his apolitical and conservative patriotic character, made the corps student
the ‘ideal image of the Wilhelmine period’.156
Many other student associations went on to imitate the model of the
corps. They evolved over this period from farbentragende (colour-bearing)
to schlagende Verbindung (fighting association) through the introduction
of ‘unconditional atonement’ and the duel. This was the case for the old
rival, the Burschenschaften, which joined together in 1881 as the Allge-
meine Deputierten-Convent (ADC), as well as for the Landsmannschaften

155 Mancebo, ‘Estudiantes’ (note 10).


156 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 239–50; Heither, ‘Revolution’ (note 103), 66–8;
Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 327ff.

311
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

(reunited in 1882 in the Koburger Landsmannschafter-Convent, LC). The


Protestant students’ association ‘Wingolf’ opposed the duel on the basis
of its Christian principles and continued to bear colours. In 1895, how-
ever, it would accept the duel in exceptional circumstances in order to
prevent a division in its own ranks. Corporative pressure led to a split
between a duelling and non-duelling wing in the Turnerschaft and in the
Sängerschaft. On the other hand, the Reformburschenschaft, the Catholic
Cartell-Verband (CV), the smaller Protestant Schwarzburgbund, as well
as the Jewish associations remained purely farbentragend.157 Even in the
numerous informal associations which did not carry colours, such as
the Catholic Kartell-Verband (KV), the likewise Catholic Unitasverband
and the Protestant counterpart DCSV (Deutsch-Christliche Studenten-
Vereinigung), scientific associations, gymnastics and singing associations,
corporative tendencies generally penetrated; this led to the introduction
of rituals, banners and uniforms, so that it was sometimes difficult to
distinguish these groups from the formalized colour-bearing associations.
More than 50 per cent of all students were attached to an association.
From a political point of view, a change of allegiance took place in
the German student movement from around 1880: nationally inspired
liberalism gave way to anti-liberal nationalism, with the students standing
faithfully behind the new state. The apolitical impression that the student
movement aroused ensued from a general consensus, nurtured during the
Empire, that the student should not be involved in active politics but
must prepare instead for the leading role he would play later in life. He
was not to identify for the time being with one of the parties, but as
an academic should stand above politics. However, this requirement of
political neutrality was linked to the assumption that students should be
inspired by a loyal and ardent love of their fatherland. An exquisite form
of patriotic socialization was considered to be a year of voluntary army
service, which many students fulfilled.158
This growing nationalism in the first few decades of the Empire was
chiefly aimed at enemies who were said to threaten German singularity.
The Jews were targeted primarily, and in second place came Socialists,
Catholics and other ethnic minorities such as the Poles. Nationalistic fer-
vour was reflected in the establishment in Berlin on 9 December 1880 of
the Verein Deutscher Studenten (VDSt), an association which soon spread
to other universities. The local branches joined together in August 1881 in
the Kyffhäuser-Verband. By organizing all ‘truly German students’, they
intended to bring together the powers needed to rejuvenate the national

157 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 250–8; Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum
(note 65), 355–67, 404–21.
158 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 234–5, 258–62, 333–45.

312
Student movements

spirit at the university. Jews were excluded from the organization. The
many Vereine Deutscher Studenten were able to enlist the support of the
majority of the students.159
In the Austrian part of the Habsburg Empire, the Slavic peoples gradu-
ally acquired more rights after 1867, including the organization of higher
education.160 In Hungary, on the contrary, a strong magyarization ten-
dency occurred at the universities. Non-Hungarian nationalist aspirations
were given little opportunity to develop.161
The gradual relinquishing of their position of hegemony engendered a
sense of threat among the German-speaking students in Austria and an
aspiration for a stronger affirmation of their own identity. At the same
time, the German unification of 1870 incited Austrian students to develop
an extreme German national sentiment, characterized by anti-liberalism,
and an aspiration to establish closer collaboration with the German Reich.
These ideas were to be found in the Leseverein der Deutschen Studenten
Wiens set up in 1871 at the University of Vienna. They gradually became
prevalent in German-speaking student associations at other Austrian uni-
versities such as Graz, Prague, Innsbruck and Leoben.162
The first manifestations of racial anti-Semitism appeared earlier in
Austrian student circles than in Germany. As early as 1867, the Viennese
Burschenschaft ‘Olympia’ shed doubt on the German character of the
Jews, and in 1878 the Viennese Burschenschaft ‘Libertas’ for the first
time actually excluded Jewish students from the association, includ-
ing those who had been baptized. From 1883 this practice spread to
many other student associations: Landsmannschaften, Burschenschaften,
weapon and social clubs – except for the corps in Vienna, Graz and Prague,
which resisted this policy of exclusion until 1900.163
Stronger national awareness gradually developed at the Austrian uni-
versities among the Slavic students, understandably combined among the
suppressed population groups with a liberal aspiration for reform. ‘Young
Slovenians’ studying in Vienna and Graz called panslovenian student

159 Ibid., 348–53; Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 342–54.
160 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 368; G. Otruba, ‘Die Universitäten
in der Hochschulorganisation der Donau-Monarchie. Nationale Erziehungsstätten im
Viervölkerreich 1850 bis 1914’, in Neuloh and Rüegg (eds.), Student (note 20), 93–104.
161 Otruba, ‘Universitäten’ (note 160), 78, 82, 104; P. Hanák, ‘Wandlungen der
Österreichisch-Ungarischen wissenschaftlichen Beziehungen im Laufe des 19. Jahrhun-
derts’, in R. G. Plaschka and K. Mack, Wegenetz. Europäischen Geistes, vol. I: Wis-
senschaftszentren und geistige Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Mittel-und Südosteuropa
vom Ende des 18. Jahhunderts bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg (Munich, 1983), 343–55.
162 W. J. McGrath, ‘Student Radicalism in Vienna’, Journal of Contemporary History,
2, 3 (July 1967), 183–201; A. J. P. Taylor, The Habsburg Monarchy 1809–1918
(Harmondsworth, 1981), 169ff.; Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 370.
163 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 371.

313
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

meetings in 1868 and 1869 in Ljubljana (Laibach), where the demands for
a united Slovenia and a Slovene university in Laibach were put forward.164
The Slovak students also joined forces with the establishment of Tatran
(end of the 1860s, Vienna) and Detvan (1882, Prague). From the outset,
the Slovak students in Prague met with a friendlier reception among their
Czech fellow students than came the way of their counterparts in Tatran.
They were also more open to Czecho-Slovak co-operation than the sister
association in Vienna, which adhered more firmly to the affirmation of a
separate identity.165
Poland, divided up between Russia, Prussia and Austria, on the other
hand, had the best opportunities for the development of a university sys-
tem of its own in the Austrian region. At the Galician universities of
Cracow and Lemberg (Lwów), which in 1870 and 1871, respectively,
became completely Polish institutions, the students no longer sought sal-
vation in a romantic struggle for freedom but rather in a programme of
‘organic work’, aimed at the scientific, cultural and economic develop-
ment of Poland. At the Russian Imperial University of Warsaw, a wave
of protest and resistance developed among the Polish student popula-
tion against the terror, the police system and the espionage that prevailed
everywhere. Many young people in Congress Poland went instead to the
Polish universities of Galicia and boosted both the student numbers and
the radical progressive mood there.166 The protest was channelled into
the ‘Zwiazek Mlodzieży Polskiej’ (Federation of Polish Youth, known
by the name of ‘Zet’), a secret organization at university level which was
set up in 1886 by Zygmunt Balicki (1858–1916).167
The student movement existing at the other Russian universities was
likewise confronted with government repression. Committed students
started devoting themselves to organic work, the cultural and material
elevation and political awareness-raising of the peasants. From 1872 on,
hundreds of students moved to the countryside as social workers, teachers
and doctors. The government regarded the action as a threat and arrested
almost 1,600 narodniki (populists), 525 of them were brought before the
courts, and 79 condemned to exile.168 The total lack of response from
the peasants to this populist crusade, however, pushed the students in the
second half of the 1870s in a revolutionary direction.

164 Melik and Vodopivec, ‘Intelligenz’ (note 94), 145–7; Haselsteiner, ‘Bedeutung’ (note 95),
298–300.
165 E. Bosák, ‘Slowakische Studentenorganisationen in Wien, Prag und Budapest und ihre
Zusammenarbeit’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz II (note 29), 164, 173–8.
166 J. Buszko, ‘Organisatorische und geistig-politische Umwandlungen der Universitäten auf
Polnischem Boden in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Plaschka and Mack
(eds.), Wegenetz I (note 161), 132–45; Klimaszewski (ed.), History (note 31), 195.
167 Vos, Strijd (note 35), 172–3. 168 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 135.

314
Student movements

The secret association ‘Land and Freedom’ formed in 1876 in St Peters-


burg, broke up in two directions three years later: the ‘Black Partition’ or
‘Total Land Repartition’, which opted for gradual reforms, and the rev-
olutionary Narodnaya Volya (‘People’s Will’), which launched a terrorist
offensive against the government, with the Tsar as the main target.169
After a failed assassination attempt on the police chief in St Petersburg, in
1879, the government appointed inspectors for the universities, who were
given almost complete jurisdiction over the students.170 But the attempts
on the life of the Tsar continued. Just when Alexander II declared him-
self willing to consider reform proposals, he became the victim of the
umpteenth assassination attempt by members of Narodnaya Volya. The
assassination brought student unrest to all the universities, which lasted
until 1882.

s o c i a l a n d n a t i o n a l e m a n c i p a t i o n (1885–1900)
The Scottish universities, characterized by a strong democratic tradi-
tion among the British universities, set up between 1884 (Edinburgh,
Aberdeen) and 1886 (Glasgow) ‘Student Representative Councils’ (SRCs),
which aimed to represent the interests of the students and foster contact
between the students and the academic authorities. In 1888, they came
together in a consortium of Scottish SRCs (renamed the ‘Scottish National
Union of Students’ in 1935), and in 1890 they organized a first Scottish
Inter-Universities Conference. A couple of English civic colleges followed
hesitantly: Leeds in 1891 and Liverpool in 1892.171
A new phenomenon observable at the Dutch universities was the cre-
ation of religiously inspired student associations. In Leiden the Protes-
tant student organizations, Societas Studiosorum Reformatorum (SSR,
1886) and the Nederlandsche Christen Studenten Vereeniging (NCSV,
1896), were set up. Catholic student organizations also emerged around
the same time: Teneamus Confessionem (Leiden, 1874), Veritas (Utrecht,
1890), Sanctus Augustinus (Leiden, 1893), Sanctus Thomas Aquinas
(Amsterdam, 1896), Albertus Magnus (Groningen, 1896), and R. K.
Studenten-Vereeniging (Delft, 1898, renamed Sanctus Virgilius in 1903).
Prior to 1900, these associations principally had an apologetic purpose:

169 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 131; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 68–9, 121; Boren, Student
Resistance (note 58), 50–2; N. V. Riasanovsky, A History of Russia (New York and
Oxford, 1984), 382–4.
170 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 131–2; Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 28.
171 Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 187, 193; A. Marwick, ‘Youth in Britain, 1920–1960:
Detachment and Commitment’, in Generations in Conflict, Journal of Contemporary
History, 5, 1 (1970), 41.

315
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

the deepening of faith and the defence of Christian principles that the
rationalistic and agnostic university world regarded as hostile.172
In Belgium, the pro-Flemish struggle for emancipation remained a gov-
erning factor in the emergence of new student associations. Students from
the University of Louvain, assisted by scholars and students from the uni-
versities of Ghent, Brussels and Liège, set in train a powerful and militant
Flemish agitation throughout the country. This led in the short term to a
series of language measures and laws that contributed to making public
life in Flanders bilingual. The students during those years endowed the
Flemish movement with democratic inspiration, with the aim of breaking
the political power of the aristocracy and emancipating the middle classes
and the people.173
In Sweden, a new wave of student radicalism occurred at the start of the
1880s, which would persist until around 1910. First it reacted against the
ambivalent educational tenor of the university statutes of 1852, which still
did not grant the students complete freedom in their independent search
for knowledge. But it also attributed to students and intellectuals a new
role: they should act in the community as independent critics, only heed-
ing their own conscience. In particular, they turned against the idealistic
philosophy that had dominated the academic world for more than five
decades. They had been inspired in their fundamental anti-metaphysical
and anti-clerical attitude by the empirical scientific model of the natu-
ral sciences. Following Herbert Spencer, they had a strong evolutionist
vision of the world and society and believed no less in the fundamental
goodness of human nature and the ability through independent study and
reflection to develop into a higher being. These ideas were expounded by
new student circles like the Verdandi (1882) in Uppsala and the DUG
in Lund (1885, from the periodical Den Unge Gubben, The Young Old
Man), resumed in 1896 by the DYG (Den Yngre Gubben, The Younger
Old Man). This radical student movement linked up with the emerg-
ing workers’ movement and the Social Democratic Party set up in 1889,
because of the joint fight they were waging against the conservative, ideal-
istic and paternalistic establishment.174 In Uppsala, in 1891, conservative
students – as a counter to Verdandi – set up the Heimdal association,

172 J. Janssen and P. Voestermans, Studenten in beweging. Politiek, Universiteit en stu-


dent (Nijmegen and Baarn, 1984), 43–6. For a survey on the Catholic students associa-
tion in the Netherlands: T. Reul, ‘Het ontstaan der katholieke studentenverenigingen in
Nederland, ca. 1870-ca. 1900’, Archief voor de geschiedenis van de Katholieke Kerk
in Nederland, 17, 1 (1975), 10–42. For a view on a Protestant student association: De
eeuwigheid nabij. Lustrumalmanak 1996 SSR Leiden (Leiden, 1996).
173 Gevers, ‘Vlaamse studentenbeweging’ (note 153), 115–20; Gevers, Bewogen Jeugd
(note 79), 136–68; Gevers and Vos, ‘Studentenbeweging’ (note 153), 2903–6; Gevers
and Vos, ‘Mouvement’ (note 153), 162–3.
174 Skoglund, Vita Mössor (note 70), 62, 80, 83, 265–7.

316
Student movements

with the aim of defending traditional Swedish values and the role of the
established church.175
In France, social problems stirred a number of students out of the gen-
eral political passivity that prevailed in university circles. From 1891 the
Étudiants Socialistes Révoulutionnaires Internationalistes (ESRI) came
into being in Paris; they initially tended towards anarchism, but over the
following years they evolved more towards the Marxist Parti Ouvrier
of Jules Guesde (1845–1922). They found a voice in the Paris periodical
L’Ère nouvelle (1893–95), and afterwards in the Jeunesse socialiste (1895)
set up by students in Toulouse. For the time being, views on the precise
place and role of students and intellectuals in the workers’ movement
remained unclear. At the international student congress of Zurich held
in August 1894, the concept of the ‘intellectual proletariat’ was retained,
in agreement with orthodox Marxism.176 In 1896 there arose within the
newly formed Parisian Groupe des Étudiants Collectivistes a third direc-
tion, separate from anarchism and Guesdism, aimed at the modernization
of socialism in a social democratic and humanitarian sense. It also desig-
nated a separate role for students and intellectuals in the education of the
proletariat, especially in the context of the socialist, popular universities.
It played a stimulating role in the renewal of French socialism, which in
1901 would be put into effect in the reformist Parti Socialiste Français of
Jean Jaurès (1859–1914).177
About the same time there arose a socially minded left-wing Catholic
movement around the journal Le Sillon (1894), with Marc Sangnier as
its figurehead. Although it was not a student movement in the strict sense
of the word, it found strong support among young people who were
studying. Their goal was co-operation between intellectuals and workers.
To this end, study circles were set up in which intellectuals and workers
discussed with each other on an equal footing. The movement wanted
to compete with the socialist popular universities by setting up a num-
ber of instituts populaires. Le Sillon also encouraged the establishment
of co-operatives and trades unions. From 1906 it entered politics as a
pluralistically orientated left-wing Catholic formation with a progressive
social programme. It consequently clashed with the ecclesiastical authori-
ties: in 1910 it was condemned by Pope (1903–14) Pius X (1835–1914).178
Apart from this, a number of professors and students around 1900 also
175 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 93.
176 Cohen, Vingt ans (note 143), 13–23; J. Maitron, ‘Le groupe des étudiants E.S.R.I. (1892–
1902). Contribution à la connaissance des origines du syndicalisme révolutionnaire’, Le
mouvement social, 46 (January–March 1946), 3–26.
177 J. Verstraelen, Geschiedenis van de Westeuropese Arbeidersbeweging 1789–1914
(Brussels, 1954), 216; Cohen, Vingt ans (note 143), 23–6.
178 Cohen, Vingt ans (note 143), 22; R. Aubert, ‘Die modernistische Krise’, in H. Jedin
(ed.), Handbuch der Kirchengeschichte, vol. VI/2: Die Kirche der Gegenwart, 2nd edn

317
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

developed universités populaires based on the British model of ‘University


Extension’ and the ‘settlement movement’, but support for this from the
university world remained relatively limited.179
In England, alongside ‘University Extension’, a second movement devel-
oped in the 1880s that aimed to bridge the social gulf between academia
and the working class, known as the ‘settlement movement’: members
of the Church and university, including a good many students, went to
live in impoverished districts of the towns and cities in order to develop
social and cultural activities there. ‘Toynbee Hall’, set up in 1884 in the
East End of London through an Oxford initiative, was the most striking
initiative. The movement was not inspired by socialism: on the contrary,
the members hoped through their input to promote social harmony and
thus accomplish their dream of an organic society.180
The English model had an inspirational effect for other countries like
the Netherlands. There a Studenten Toynbee Vereniging was set up in
Amsterdam, Delft and Leiden around 1890. At the same time student
magazines with a left-wing leaning began to appear, and socialist associ-
ations or study circles came into being at a number of universities. These
initiatives usually lasted only a short time, however, and attracted a fairly
limited number of student adherents.181
In Belgium professors and students of Louvain University set up social
Catholic study circles (Conférence d’économie sociale, 1886, Sociale
Studiekring en Sprekersbond der Leuvensche studenten, 1901) and played
an important role in launching a Christian democratic current.182 Lib-
eral professors and students from Ghent in 1892 began an expansion
of high-school education under the name of Hooger onderwijs voor
het volk (‘Higher education for the people’). The idea found support
among the pro-Flemish students of the Université libre de Bruxelles
and among the Catholic students in Louvain and Antwerp. Flemish
and popular sentiment became even more closely entwined during that
period: it was said that bridging the language gap between the rich and
the poor in Flanders constituted an essential element in plugging the
social gap. In addition, the students wanted to show through their own

(Freiburg, Basle and Vienna, 1985), 494–6; G. Cholvy and Y. M. Hilaire, Histoire
religieuse de la France contemporaine, vol. II: 1880/1930 (Toulouse, 1986), 166–7; Marc
Sangnier et les débuts du Sillon, 1894 (Paris, 1995).
179 Weisz, Emergence, 308–14.
180 Simon, Education (note 149), 78–85; Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 147.
181 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 62–8; Janssen and Voestermans, Studenten
(note 172), 32–4.
182 L. Gevers, ‘Studenten en sociale kwestie. De “Sociale Studiekring en Sprekersbond der
Leuvensche Studenten” ten tijde van Leo XIII’, Onze Alma Mater, 30 (1976), 222–
4; Gevers, ‘Vlaamse studentenbeweging’ (note 153), 121–3; Gevers, Bewogen Jeugd
(note 79), 201–7; Gevers and Vos, ‘Mouvement’ (note 153), 163.

318
Student movements

initiative that Dutch was suitable as a language of instruction for higher


education.183
French-speaking professors also set up an Extension universitaire at
the Free University of Brussels in 1893. In 1890, a Cercle des Étudiants
Socialistes was founded there, and in December 1891 these young people
organized an international socialist students’ congress. They also ques-
tioned their training at Brussels University and, in 1894, decided to set
up what was known as the Université nouvelle. In this new institution the
principles of free research, as well as their positivist, anarchist and atheist
conviction had to be guaranteed and given more of a chance than was
the case at the Université libre. The institution had a strong international
character and attracted many foreign professors and students. It desired
primarily to be a research institution and strongly emphasized personal
research and the social calling of students and academics. A technical high
school was also attached to this institution to offer workers opportunities
in higher education.184
Nor did German students remain insensitive to social problems, but the
conservative mentality left little prospect for the development of socialist
radicalism. Initiatives in the 1870s in Berlin (Mohrenclub) and Leipzig
(Birnbaum) succumbed to the right-wing mood in the 1880s or were
relentlessly suppressed. After the rescinding of the anti-socialist laws in
1890, police persecution dwindled but it remained very difficult for stu-
dents with socialist leanings to organize themselves openly or to join pro-
letarian organizations, owing to the persistent opposition of the academic
authorities. Around 1895, some socialist student initiatives took place in
Berlin, however, with the holding of lectures and the publication of the
periodical Der sozialistische Akademiker. But they found very little res-
onance. Corporations and nationalist student associations successfully
countered these socialist influences among the student population.185
Student interest in social questions was therefore channelled in a ‘harm-
less’, antisocialist direction. Both Protestant and Catholic students set
up groups to study the social issues on the basis of a Christian-inspired

183 Gevers, ‘Vlaamse studentenbeweging’ (note 153), 125–6; Gevers and Vos, ‘Studenten-
beweging’ (note 153), 2906–7; M. de Vroede, ‘Hogeschooluitbreidingen en volksuni-
versiteiten’, Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Nieuwste Geschiedenis, 10, 1–2 (1979), 255–78;
D. van Damme, ‘Hooger Onderwijs voor het volk’, in Nieuwe Encyclopedie (note 153),
1463; F. Scheelings, ‘Studentenbeweging (Universitair onderwijs) Brussel’, in Nieuwe
Encyclopedie (note 153), 2885.
184 W. Van Rooy, ‘L’agitation étudiante et la fondation de l’Université Nouvelle en 1894’,
Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine – Belgisch tijdschrift voor Nieuwste Geschiedenis,
7, 1–2 (1976), 197–241; E. Goblet d’Alviella, L’Université de Bruxelles pendant son
troisième quart de siècle. 1884–1909 (Brussels, 1909).
185 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 353–62; Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum
(note 65), 333–7, 375ff., also for the following paragraphs on Germany.

319
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

model of harmony. Examples of such circles were the Evangelische Sozial-


wissenschaftliche Studentenvereinigung (Berlin, 1893) and the Catholic
Sekretariat Sozialer Studentenarbeit in Mönchen-Gladbach, led by Carl
Sonnenschein (1876–1929). Courses were also set up for workers on the
initiative of the Freistudenten. These formed a counterpart to the profes-
sional Volkshochschulkurse, the German version of ‘University Extension’
courses, which were also created during those years.
The social and democratic response of German students was most suc-
cessfully embodied in the Freistudentenschaft or Finkenschaft. In 1896 a
Finkenschaft came into existence in Leipzig, an example that was quickly
followed at other German universities. A general Deutsche Finkenschaft
was set up to give a slightly more solid form to the action. The association
regarded itself as representative of the totality of non-organized students
and opened its ranks to everyone who wanted to join, irrespective of
their political or religious convictions. The movement was organized on a
democratic basis, with the general meeting as the decision-making body,
and its goals were to organize educational and leisure activities and to
provide social services for their largely petit-bourgeois supporters. The
Finkenschaft thus joined battle with the dominant tendencies existing in
the student world, namely, rigidly organized anti-democratic corporatism
and anti-Semitic nationalism.
All this could not prevent anti-Semitism from rapidly spreading still fur-
ther among the organized student community of the German universities.
A shift took place from cultural to racist anti-Semitism, so that baptized
Jews were also excluded. Berlin took the lead in this process. The ‘corps’
accepted hardly any more Jews from 1880 on. In the Burschenschaft the
process of exclusion took place between 1892 and 1896, against the oppo-
sition of a minority of members and former members, who regarded this as
a betrayal of the liberal heritage of the movement. This conflict led to the
establishment of the Reformburschenschaft in 1896. Landsmannschaften,
Turnerschaft, Wissenschaftlicher Verband, Protestant and Catholic asso-
ciations also became jüdenrein (free from Jews) during the course of the
1890s. The few associations that remained friendly to Jews were too weak
to reverse the general trend. Self-confident Jews consequently withdrew
into their own newly founded corporations or associations, and a number
of them were driven to Zionism.186
In Austria around 1890, a critical generation – grouped around a liter-
ary circle of young Viennese, mainly Jewish authors – launched a wave of
opposition against bourgeois liberalism. They withdrew from society and
sought their salvation in aestheticism and individual artistic expression.

186 See also Grieswelle, ‘Antisemitismus’ (note 20); N. Hammerstein, Antisemitismus und
deutsche Universitäten. 1871–1933 (Frankfurt, 1995).

320
Student movements

They made Vienna the European capital of a fin-de-siècle culture with an


international allure and aura.187 It was notable, however, that the centre
of this rebellious movement was not to be found at the universities, but
in literary and artistic circles.188
Meanwhile, university life in the Austro-Hungarian Empire became
even more gripped by nationalism and anti-Semitism. In Prague and
Vienna an umbrella Lese- und Redeverein ‘Germania’ came into being in
1892 and 1893, respectively, access to which was denied to Jews. In 1890,
22 weapons associations had additionally joined together in the Maid-
hofener Verband, which displayed extreme nationalism and cherished the
völkisch anti-Semitic principle. The issue was clinched at a large student
meeting on 11 March 1896 in Vienna, at which the honour of ‘obtaining
satisfaction by duel’ was denied to Jews. Burschenschaften from Vienna
and Graz concurred with this view.
Already by 1882 Jewish students had gradually started to organize
themselves separately, first in Vienna, where Kadimah was set up;189 and
in 1893 the Lese- und Redehalle jüdischer Studenten was founded as a
meeting point for other newly created Jewish student associations. Jews
also represented the driving force in the social democratic student asso-
ciations, which came into being at Austrian universities in the 1880s and
1890s. Their number was restricted, and they were sometimes destined
quickly to disappear again owing to the repressive action of the gov-
ernment, but they nevertheless had better chances of survival than in
Germany. The Sozialwissenschaftliche Bildungsverein, set up in 1895,
proved durable.190
German nationalism was whipped up further in the 1890s by Slav
awareness, which was now being strongly expressed. The centre of this
moved to Prague. From 1889, Czech-speaking students from Moravia and
Silesia, who came together in the Moravská beseda circle, demanded the
establishment of a second Czech university in Brno (Brünn). This found
strong resonance among Czech public opinion and other southern Slav
fellow students, Croats, Serbs, Ukrainians and Slovenes. But the govern-
ment in Vienna deferred a decision referring to the counter-demand of the

187 A. Janik and S.Toulmin, Wittgenstein’s Vienna (New York, 1973); Vienne, Début d’un
siècle, Seize études, par des écrivains d’aujourd’hui, sur quelques-uns des grands hommes
qui ont vécu à Vienne vers 1900, Critique 31 (1975), Nos. 339–340; W. Wucherpfen-
nig, ‘The “Young Viennese” and Their Fathers: Decadence and the Generation Con-
flict Around 1900’, Journal of Contemporary History, 17 (1982), 21–49; J. W. Mason,
The Dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire 1867–1918 (London and New York,
1985), 44–7.
188 R. A. Kann, ‘Wien im Blickfeld von Mittel- und Südosteuropa unter dem geistes-
geschichtlichen Aspekt des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz I
(note 161), 377–9.
189 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 371–2. 190 Ibid., 372–3, 426.

321
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

German-speaking community in Moravia that a new German-speaking


university should be set up as well. The Slovenes also made increased
claims from 1898 for the establishment of a university of their own in
Ljubljana.191
A new phase in Czech–southern Slav co-operation was ushered in by
the Young Czechs, a generation of students who, in the 1890s, entered
the University of Prague and who brought into being the progressive
Fortschrittsbewegung/pokrokové hnutı́, characterized by radical nation-
alistic and democratic ideas. Their activities found resonance among the
southern Slav students, and their periodical Časopis českého studentsva
(Journal of the Czech Students) was read at the universities of Vienna,
Graz and Agnam (Zagreb). They called Slav conventions in Prague (1891)
and Vienna (1892) where, as well as Czechs and Poles, Croats and Serbs
were the most strongly represented, and where a wish was expressed for a
federalization of the monarchy, a better understanding between Serbs and
Croats, and the dissemination of progressive ideas among young southern
Slavs.192 A new convention followed in 1894.
Under the influence of Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk (1850–1937), a pro-
fessor in the faculty of law who had sat for some time on the Vienna
Reichsrat as representative of the Young Czechs, the southern Slav stu-
dents in Prague joined forces. The idea of joint Serbo-Croat opposition
to Magyar dominion, to the benefit of the social and economic develop-
ment of Croatia at the start of the 1890s, was expressed in the student
organization ‘Progressive Youth’ (Napredna Omladin) and in the ‘United
Croatian and Serbian Academic Youth’ (1896). The latter association,
in co-operation with students from the Prague group, issued the almanac
entitled Narodna misao (National Thought, 1897), jointly edited by Serbs
and Croats.193
Masaryk also exerted strong influence on the Slovak student commu-
nity in Prague, brought together in Detvan, especially during the period
1890–92. At the same time evolution occurred in the Vienna sister asso-
ciation Tatran in the direction of a popularly based and progressive
Slovak nationalism, in line with the ideas of Masaryk. Slovak students
who studied in Budapest were so strongly under Magyar influence that
they knew very little about Masaryk. A Slovak club, ‘Slovenský spolok’,

191 F. Hejl, ‘Die Bestrebungen um die Erneuerung der aufgelösten Universität und um die
Gründung einer zweiten Universität in Mähren in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. und am
Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz II (note 29),
128–31; Melik and Vodopivec, ‘Intelligenz’ (note 94), 136–7.
192 A. Suppan, ‘Bildungspolitische Emanzipation und gesellschaftliche Modernisierung’, in
Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz I (note 161), 311.
193 Ibid., 312–25.

322
Student movements

was principally directed towards literary and leisure activities, but for a
short time around 1897 the notable personality of Milan Hodža (1878–
1944) gave it a political orientation based on democratic principles such
as universal suffrage and the fair distribution of agricultural land. Hodža
also felt that the Slovaks would only be able to enforce their rights if they
co-operated with non-Hungarian nationalities in Hungary. He played an
important role in organizing a student congress of non-Magyar students
on 16 November 1897.194
This strong expression of national grievances among Slav and other
non-German peoples in Austria was watched closely by the German-
speaking students. They were stubbornly opposed to a further under-
mining of their linguistic hegemony. In January 1897, at a convention
of the German national students of Austria, a declaration was drawn
up in which the preservation of the German character of the universi-
ties and similar institutions in Austria was demanded.195 That same year,
these problems gave rise to violent student unrest in Graz and Vienna
and to bloody clashes between Czech and German-speaking students in
Prague.196
At the same time, the German national student associations accentu-
ated their aggressive policy against Catholic students. Catholic associative
life among Austrian students developed slowly. It only found favourable
ground in which to grow at the University of Innsbruck, with Tirolia and
Rhenania. In Vienna, where anti-clerical students in 1867 had demon-
strated against what they called the oppressive concordat between their
government and Rome, a Catholic student association (Austria) did not
come into being until 1876. From 1883 there was further modest growth in
the number of Catholic associations in Vienna (Norica), Prague (Ferdinan-
dea), Graz (Carolina) and Czernowitz (Unitas). Incidents soon occurred
between members of these associations and German national students
belonging to the weapons associations, because the latter denied their
Catholic fellow students the right to bear arms. The fact that Catholic stu-
dents refused to take part in the student protest against the government’s
language measures because they were based on a dynastic Austrian point
of view pushed these tensions to a climax in 1897. At a meeting in Vienna
the German nationals declared that they would not rest until they had
freed the people from their Roman chains and had converted them to the
more noble, free and national German Christian Protestant Church.197

194 Bosák, ‘Studentenorganisationen’ (note 165), 164–81.


195 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65).
196 Taylor, Habsburg (note 162), 196–7; Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65),
423.
197 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 372, 424.

323
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

In Russia, in 1884, the new Tsar Alexander III (1845–94) issued univer-
sity statutes that introduced strict state supervision of the universities. The
professors lost their administrative rights, while the rector was appointed
by the minister and also placed under the authority of a governor for
each university designated by the minister.198 Student uniforms were once
again made compulsory to make police supervision easier, and student
activities were curtailed and prohibited. In 1887, a numerus clausus of
10 per cent was additionally imposed on Jewish students. All this led
to a series of protest demonstrations, which reached a climax in 1887
with violent clashes between students, the academic authorities and the
police in Moscow and Kazan, followed by demonstrations of solidarity
at other universities. It was in Kazan that Vladimir Iljisch Ulyanov, who
later became known as Lenin (1870–1924), actively took part in the stu-
dent movement in 1887. In the same year his elder brother, Alexander
Ulyanov, together with four other members of a terrorist student circle
in St Petersburg, made a failed assassination attempt on the Tsar, leading
to their execution. The new wave of student protest led to the temporary
closure of five universities and to severe repression with sentencing rang-
ing from penal battalions, imprisonment, exile or the exclusion of many
students.199
Many students, on the other hand, abhorred terrorist attacks and
violent demonstrations and held firmly to the idea of social reform and
constructive work among the people. This attitude was present in the
zemliachestva, councils that aimed to bring together students of differing
political and social views and to represent their interests. In the early 1890s
an umbrella General Council came into being in Moscow, consisting of
one delegate per zemliachestvo at the various universities.
In the 1890s student protests at the Russian universities became a con-
tinuous rather than occasional phenomenon. Between 1887 and 1893,
on average 2.5 per cent of the students were thrown out of university or
sent into exile. In 1899 the protest movement reached a climax when, for
the first time, a joint successful student strike was organized throughout
Russia against the brutal actions of the police at a student demonstra-
tion in St Petersburg. Clashes with the enforcers of law and order led
once more to arrests and to the exclusion of many hundreds of students
throughout Russia, but the national strike movement nevertheless rein-
forced the awareness of young people of their power as well as the feeling
of mutual solidarity. It was the beginning of a new important phase in the
Russian student movement, culminating in the 1905 revolution.200
198 Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 28; Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 133.
199 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 134.
200 Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 81–2, 87; Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 135; Burg, Ency-
clopedia (note 21), 6–7; Boren, Resistance (note 58), 54–5.

324
Student movements

w o r l d p o l i t i c s a n d c o r p o r a t i s m (1900–1914)
After 1900, world politics inevitably came to the fore in the European stu-
dent movement. The European alliances and the impending threat of war
generally fostered a lurch to the right in Western and Central Europe,
in the direction of imperialism and integral nationalism. The emphasis
on the individuality of peoples and racial characteristics strengthened
nation-transcending movements such as pan-Slavism and pan-Germanism
and quite commonly gave the social action of students the character of
solidarity with a people rather than with democratic aspirations. The
more strongly internationally organized socialism nevertheless continued
to influence the student movement. In the Danube Monarchy, the national-
ity struggle reached a climax while the Russian student movement clashed
head-on with Tsarism.201 Also notable during this period was the greatly
increased self-confidence of the students, which was reflected in the fur-
ther proliferation of associations and umbrella federations but also in
increasing conflicts with the academic authorities on corporatism and
study interests. This self-confidence also corresponded with a new youth
feeling that pushed young people towards building their own culture and
life patterns, thereby creating a profile for themselves in relation to the
adult world. It was not by chance that it was during this period that the
first known youth movements arose, such as the German Wandervogel or
the English ‘Boy Scouts’.202
The British student world, in line with tradition, continued to be char-
acterized by a relatively low degree of organization and a weak ideolog-
ical profile. This phase in the development of the British universities has
been characterized by the terms ‘vocationalism’ and ‘efficiency’, focusing
on the delivery of competent staff for the British Empire.203 The train-
ing of elite sportsmen was regarded to be just as important by the uni-
versity authorities as study and learning, notwithstanding the criticism
expressed by some of what they viewed as ‘excessive sports mania’.204
The ‘Student Unions’ became firmly established at most English univer-
sities, including Oxford and Cambridge, but attempts to group them
together nationally remained weak until 1914.205 Typical of the grow-
ing urge for emancipation among young students in the last few pre-
war years were conflicts which arose, for example, at Queens’ College
Cambridge because of protests by the students against the drinks served in
201 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 135; Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia, 29, 83, 85–7.
202 Boren, Resistance (note 58), 58–9; W. Rüegg (ed.), Kulturkritik und Jugendkult
(‘Neunzehnes Jahrhundert’, Forschungsunternehmen der Fritz Thyssen-Stiftung, Jahr-
hudertwende) (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1974).
203 Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 207.
204 Ibid., 21–2; Twigg, Queens’ (note 146), 259.
205 Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 187; Marwick, ‘Youth’ (note 171), 41.

325
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

the refectory or the excessively early hour at which their college gates were
closed.206
Students, certainly at the top universities, often continued to defend the
conservative, imperialist view of the leading elite. The Boer War of 1902
rekindled the patriotic fire among the students at both Scottish and English
universities.207 On the other hand, there were also signs of a growing left-
wing and anti-militarist tendency. Cambridge cleared the way with the
establishment of the ‘University Socialist Federation’ in 1912.208 Another
initiative was launched from Oxford in 1903 to strengthen the tie between
the universities and the lower classes through the establishment of the
‘Workers’ Educational Association’.209
In Sweden a new form of co-operation between students and work-
ers emerged after 1900.210 The student association Laboremus, founded
in Uppsala in 1902, explicitly allied itself with the Social Democratic
Party. At first its members supported trades-union work, but they soon
began to organize courses for the workers. Where the majority of con-
servative students regarded popular development as a way of bridging
the differences between the classes and preventing revolution, radical stu-
dents approached Bildung as an emancipating means for the suppressed
groups in society. A reactionary and anti-democratic counter-wave came
to dominate the student world until 1914, and this had an impact on the
student movement in Finland.
In the Netherlands inter-university action between socialist students
came about with the establishment of the Algemeene Nederlandsche
Vereeniging van Socialistische studenten in 1909.211 At various univer-
sities general student associations were founded, which promoted both
study interests and the social life of non-corps members. The new asso-
ciations gradually adopted the customs and mentality of the corps and
continued to keep the students removed from the social world. Female stu-
dent associations also emerged (e.g., the Amsterdamsche Vrouwelijke Stu-
denten Vereeniging, 1902),212 while denominational student associations
competed with the corps.213 Apart from activity having a religious slant
the Christian students were committed to social action, usually based on

206 Twigg, Queens’ (note 146), 245–6.


207 R. D. Anderson, The Student Community at Aberdeen: 1860–1939 (Aberdeen, 1988).
208 Marwick, ‘Youth’ (note 171), 39. 209 Sanderson, Universities (note 138), 213.
210 For what follows on Sweden: Skoglund, Vita Mössor (note 70), 267–9.
211 Janssen and Voestermans, Studenten (note 172), 34–5; Hagendijk, Studentenleven
(note 48), 75.
212 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 68–73; Caljé, ‘Studentenleven’ (note 151), 81–2.
213 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 74.

326
Student movements

an anti-revolutionary and conservative mentality.214 Temperance and the


movement for complete abstinence also found significant support among
them. A nationalistic Greater Netherlands attitude, expressed since 1895
in the approach to Flanders, and fostered by the South African Boer War,
led to the establishment in 1910 of an Algemeen Nederlandsch Studen-
tenverbond (ANSV) to promote cultural contacts between Dutch, Flemish
and South African students. Only in 1914 did these cultural contacts come
to have any political significance.215
At the same time in Belgium, the student associations split into Flemish-
and French-speaking communities.216 Only in some respects, like the fight
of the Catholic Church against modernism, did students of the two lan-
guage groups work together.217 The Flemish students did not lose sight
of the language struggle, which aimed primarily to ‘dutchify’ the state
university of Ghent.218 Louvain students also took action to attain par-
tial dutchification of their own Catholic university. This led in 1909 to
clashes with Cardinal-Archbishop Mercier and with the academic author-
ities. The radicalization of these Flemish national sentiments would make
some students ripe for collaboration with the German occupation during
the war.
From around 1908, Louvain students maintained contact with the
German Sekretariat Sozialer Studentenarbeit. This gave fresh impetus to
their Catholic social action. In the remaining pre-war years they also came
under the influence of the clean-living movement. It was now said that
students had to prepare for their future task as leaders of their people
through self-study, character building, temperance and apologetics. This
current was given shape in 1911–12 through the establishment of the
Amicitia circle, which wanted to tie the struggle to joining battle with
the ‘ideal-killing current of apathy and half-heartedness’ and against the
clubs. But Flemish- and French-speaking students found each other in
a common revolt, which they unleashed in March 1914 against what
they termed the unreasonably strict disciplinary policy of the academic

214 Janssen and Voestermans, Studenten (note 172), 45, 49–51; Hagendijk, Studentenleven
(note 48), 78–80.
215 L. Vos, ‘De Dietse studentenbeweging 1919–1940’, in Acta Colloquium over de
Geschiedenis van de Belgisch-Nederlandse betrekkingen tussen 1815 en 1945, Brussel
10–12/12/1980 (Ghent, 1982), 451–5; P. van Hees, ‘De Groot-Nederlandse studenten-
beweging’, in Broeke and Hees (eds.), Studenten (note 48), 42–6.
216 F. Scheelings, ‘Studentenbeweging (Universitair onderwijs) Brussel’, in Nieuwe Encyclo-
pedie (note 153), 2886.
217 Gevers, ‘Vlaamse studentenbeweging’ (note 153), 125–9; Gevers and Vos, ‘Studentenbe-
weging’ (note 153), 2906–7; Gevers and Vos, ‘Mouvement’ (note 153), 163–4. On the
papal anti-modernism offensive see chapter 10, 395–404.
218 K. de Clerck, Kroniek van de strijd voor de vernederlandsing van de Gentse universiteit,
2nd edn (Ghent, 1985), 37ff.; Palinckx, ‘Studentenbeweging’ (note 154), 2893.

327
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

authorities. Demonstrations and meetings took place to demand the rec-


tor’s dismissal and to gain a voice on the academic council, but without
success.219
In France, the growing self-confidence of the students reached its pinna-
cle in 1907 through the establishment of the national umbrella organiza-
tion, the Union Nationale des Étudiants de France (UNEF).220 There was
also a sharp increase in student agitation, partly due to dissatisfaction over
problems and abuses in university education. Medical students in partic-
ular responded in 1902 and 1903 to the crisis situation in their training,
such as the evident over-population of the facilities and the lack of prac-
tical training. But the student protest was also an expression of a deeper
malaise among the French bourgeoisie towards the radical policy of the
republic. It formed a favourable breeding-ground for the emergence of the
extreme-right political movement of the Action Française and its student
organization, the Fédération des Étudiants (1905), which found support
among university students, as well as the movement of the Camelots du
Roi (1908), which recruited more from the technical schools.221 The roy-
alist movement never found great support among the students, but it was
able to exploit student unrest for its own ends and to steer demonstra-
tions in a violent direction. Their protest actions reacted, for example,
to a study trip by the socialist-minded professor and Germanist Charles
Andler (1866–1933) to Germany, to the transfer of the mortal remains of
Emile Zola to the Panthéon, and to the nomination of François Amédée
Thalamas (1867–1953) as temporary lecturer at the Sorbonne, because he
had cast doubt on the sanctity of Joan of Arc.222
Spanish students at the beginning of the twentieth century finally began
to defend their university interests. While up to that time they had only
combined their forces in particular crises or conflicts, they now started
to organize through permanent unions. In 1901 an Unión escolar came
into being, while from 1909 to 1911 the Federación Nacional Escolar
predominated. These associations advocated improvements and reforms
in university education, including medical studies and registration fees.
This led to regular disturbances of academic life through uprisings, strikes
and confrontations with the police.223
In Germany, the nationalist student associations aimed for a ‘spiritual
rebirth’ of academic youth in the direction of pan-German activism and

219 Gevers, ‘Vlaamse studentenbeweging’ (note 153), 127–42; Gevers and Vos, ‘Studenten-
beweging’ (note 153), 2908–10; Gevers and Vos, ‘Mouvement’ (note 153), 166.
220 Cohen, ‘Vingt ans’ (note 143), 26–9; Weisz, ‘Associations’ (note 144), 36.
221 E. Weber, L’Action française (Stanford, 1962; French translation Paris, 1985), 84.
222 Weisz, Emergence, 304–7; Weisz, ‘Associations’ (note 144), 35–44; Mayeur, ‘Naissance’
(note 141), 162–3.
223 Mancebo, ‘Estudiantes’ (note 10).

328
Student movements

‘national pride’. The Burschenschaften in 1897 joined the Alldeutscher


Verband and related associations such as the Ostmarkverein and resolved
to act even more vigorously against the internal enemies of the German
people. The corporations competed with each other in expressions of this
aggressive and intolerant nationalism and were able to drive most German
students in this direction.
The witch-hunt against ‘un-German elements’ was directed not just at
Jews, socialists and foreigners but also against Catholics, to whom an
ultramontane, anti-national spirit was ascribed. This led to the Akademi-
scher Kulturkampf, in which a remarkable combination of nationalist
intolerance towards Catholic students and a demand for greater auto-
nomy and freedom for the students occurred. The struggle began in
1903 when Catholic associations in Jena were excluded from the gen-
eral student council and prohibited from forming corporations. When the
Prussian Government and academic authorities annulled these measures
the anti-Catholic movement spread to other universities under the guise
of a struggle for academic freedom and the right of self-determination
for student councils. The movement failed owing to the constant objec-
tions of the authorities and the opposition of the Jews and the Frei-
studenten, leading to a sharp increase in the number of Catholic student
associations.
In the last few years before the war, the democratic self-administration
of students by ‘general student councils’ was introduced by liberally
minded students in Leipzig (1911), Breslau (1912) and Berlin (1913/14),
among other places. The Akademische Freischar, established in 1907,
aimed to attach the Wandervogel principles of an anti-bourgeois youth
culture spirit to the ideal of self-training pursued by the Freistudenten.
The influence of the youth movement was also noticeable in the estab-
lishment of Lebensreform federations promoting sexual abstinence and
temperance.224 The Socialist Youth International was founded at a con-
ference in Stuttgart in 1907. It already had 50,000 members in that year,
mainly from German-speaking countries.225 Nevertheless, the majority of
students on the eve of the First World War had a ‘monarchist, anti-Semitic,
anti-socialist and imperialistic’ attitude.226 The Deutsch-Völkische
Studentenverband, established in 1909 under Austrian influence, even
surpassed the other nationalist associations in their right-wing nation-
alistic tendency. The large duelling clubs (‘corps’, Burschenschaften,
Turnerschaften and Landsmannschaften) also successfully suppressed the

224 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 363–84, 391.


225 P. G. Altbach, ‘The International Student Movement’, Journal of Contemporary History,
5, 1 (1970), 159.
226 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 388.

329
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

emergence of new currents by forming an umbrella federation in Marburg


in 1913.227
In Austria the ever louder call of non-German nationalities for uni-
versity education in their own language met with stubborn resistance
on the part of the German national students, as was made clear once
more at a student conference in Vienna in March 1905. Bloody clashes
between Czech- and German-speaking students persisted in Prague. Vio-
lent skirmishes between Italian- and German-speaking students took place
in Innsbruck in 1904 (fatti di Innsbruck) and in Vienna in 1907 and 1908,
prompted by government plans to set up an independent Italian faculty
of law. Obstruction by German speakers also successfully continued to
prevent the establishment of a southern Slav university in Ljubljana.228
The German sentiment of the students after 1900 was more than ever
coupled with a rejection of Austrian dynastic thinking. For this reason,
the Landsmannschaften disappeared from the stage almost completely,
while the Dürnsteiner Senioren Convents-Verband, the Burschenschaften
and the Kyffhäuser-Verband der wehrhaften Vereine deutscher Studenten
in der Ostmark adopted a pure German position and made overtures to
the German student associations. Jewish students, for their part, in the
pervasive atmosphere of anti-Semitism, now turned their attention rather
to the Zionist movement. This movement at least found support at the
universities of Vienna, Czernowitz and Prague, while it was barely present
in Graz and Innsbruck.229 In Czernowitz, in particular, which attracted
many Jewish students because they regarded the Bukowina most as their
own nation, Jewish associations flourished.230
The German-speaking Catholic associations concurred with the anti-
Semitism of the German national students, but continued to adhere
to Austrian dynastic thinking. The relationship between the Catholic
associations and the schlagende associations became very tense, because
Catholic students joined together in the Wiener Akademische anti-Duell-
Liga (Viennese Academic League against Duelling, 1905) and started
a fight to ‘reconquer the universities for Catholicism’. In 1908, the
conflict reached a climax in what was known as the Österreichischer
Hochschulkampf (Austrian higher education struggle), in which politi-
cians and public opinion were also involved.231

227 Ibid., 384–92.


228 S. Malfer, ‘Italienische Studenten in Wien, Graz und Innsbruck 1848–1918’, in Plaschka
and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz II (note 29), 183–5; Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum
(note 65), 423–4; Otruba, ‘Universitäten’ (note 160), 101–4.
229 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 424, 426.
230 Otruba, ‘Universitäten’ (note 160), 102; G. Stourzh, ‘Die Frans-Josephs-Universität in
Czernowitz, 1875–1918’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz I (note 161), 54–9.
231 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 424–5.

330
Student movements

In Slovenian student life, a stronger ideological differentiation also


became apparent between Catholic and nationalist factions. Catholic
students set up their own associations in Vienna (Danica, 1893), Graz
(Zarja, 1901), and Prague (Dan, 1910). In 1905 the ‘Slovene Catholic stu-
dent federation’ was set up as an umbrella federation for Catholic youth
associations which met during the holidays with university students and
seminarists.232
Meanwhile, the new generations of Slovene students embraced radical
nationalist ideas. They distanced themselves from the traditional parties,
wanting to become a leading elite working for the cultural and intellec-
tual improvement of their nation. Their movement set up educational
courses for the people, agitated for the establishment of primary and sec-
ondary schools, and tackled the social and economic problems of Slovenia.
Shortly after 1900 the radical nationalists gained the upper hand in the
Vienna Slovenija and founded student associations in Graz (Tabor, 1904)
and in Prague (Adrija, 1906). To enable their action to continue during the
vacations, radical nationalist student holiday federations came into being
from 1904 on. On several occasions they additionally organized general
Slovenian student meetings (Trieste 1905, Celje (Cilli) 1907, Ljubljana
1909).233 Likewise they facilitated contacts between Slovenian students
and Czech, Croat, Serbian and perhaps also Bulgarian students. On their
initiative, a first southern Slav student meeting was called in Budapest in
1905. However, Slovenian students and politicians did not display any
solidarity towards the non-Slav peoples who were also fighting for their
national rights in the Habsburg Empire. To safeguard their claim for a
Slovenian university, they therefore vigorously opposed the similar aspi-
rations of their Italian fellow-students.
In Russia, most students in 1901 were still convinced that university
reform was possible without broader political reforms. However, they
soon became disillusioned by the ambivalent reform proposals of the gov-
ernment, which satisfied no one. On some points these new rules even sig-
nified a backward step in the prevailing situation, such as the prohibition
of general student meetings (skhodki) and the obligation they imposed
for all student meetings to be held under the supervision of a professor.234
From 1902 the new doctrine of ‘student radicalism’ began to make
an entrance, as developed in the Kassa Radikalov (new organization of
radical students) of St Petersburg. While upholding the students’ own cor-
porate identity and interests, they also wanted to ally the student protest
to the struggle of other social groups for broader political reforms, such

232 Melik and Vodopivec, ‘Intelligenz’ (note 94), 147–8. 233 Ibid., 149–51.
234 This and following paragraphs on Russia are based on Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia,
141–51.

331
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

as freedom of speech, freedom of the press and of association, the right


to strike, the introduction of the eight-hour working day, and the holding
of a constitutional meeting. It was an attempt to synthesize the academic
and political points of view prevailing in the student movement. A wave
of strikes and demonstrations against the reform proposals of the gov-
ernment broke out in the first few months of 1902. A heavily attended
banned student meeting at the University of Moscow in February 1902
passed a resolution in favour of the political reform demands referred
to above. The political authorities saw in this a signal that the student
movement had become more dangerous than ever and acted accordingly.
Many students ended up in prison and were sent into exile in Siberia, but
they were given an amnesty after a few months when the government also
relaxed the university regulations.
But the students, partly influenced by their contacts in Siberia with
left-wing dissidents, were nonetheless propelled in the direction of politi-
cization. At a national student meeting in Odessa in November 1903,
which was attended by delegates from St Petersburg, Kharkov, Moscow,
Odessa, Riga and Kiev, social democratic and social revolutionary stu-
dents once more marked out new lines for the Russian student movement
of the future: it had to consist of political factions serving the objectives
of the major revolutionary parties, as well as acting as the young people’s
organization of those parties. This idea found support at the universities:
the general student councils were replaced by what were known as student
coalition councils, on which the various party political student groupings
were represented. Many students were nevertheless not willing to com-
ply with these plans. A joint demonstration of workers and students in
November 1904 failed dismally.
The Russo-Japanese War (February 1904–September 1905) and
‘Bloody Sunday’ (22 January 1905, the massacre by troops in St Peters-
burg of hundreds of unarmed workers wanting to present a petition to
the Tsar) brought new challenges for the student movement. After the
war broke out, the initially moderately patriotic mood among the stu-
dents rapidly changed to one of opposition to the government and the
war. The response to ‘Bloody Sunday’ was vehement and bitter. In Febru-
ary 1905, a decision was taken in the institutions of higher education to
hold a student strike lasting until 1 September, when the situation would
be reassessed. Unlike the large demonstrations of 1899, 1901 and 1902,
this strike was not just aimed at reforming university policy but was now
also closely related to fundamental political reforms and the establish-
ment of a constitutional assembly. The professors also began to express
their dissatisfaction over autocracy. They were able to obtain temporary
measures from the government which were issued on 27 August 1905 and
granted greater autonomy to the universities. The government appeared

332
Student movements

to be bringing the situation back under control in that same month by


concluding a peace treaty with Japan and announcing the election of a
duma with an advisory character.
The universities nevertheless played a crucial role in unleashing the rev-
olutionary wave of October 1905. On 1 September 1905, it was decided at
an all-Russian student congress to end the strike and to make the reopened
universities the basis for the fight against the government, using the lec-
ture halls for political education. By the end of September, the universities
had grown into places for political meetings, to which workers streamed
in increasing numbers. Older professors tried to call a halt to the meetings
under the threat of closing the university altogether. But a greater threat
came from outside: universities and students became the target of attacks
by counter-revolutionary gangs. The country was further paralyzed by the
strike of railway workers that broke out on 13 October 1905. The gov-
ernment then decided to close the universities and on 17 October issued
a manifesto in which the prospect of more freedom and the formation of
a constitutional monarchy was held out. This failed to bring the unrest in
the country to an end: instead there followed an orgy of violence, with left-
wing demonstrations for further reforms and right-wing pogroms against
intellectuals, students and especially Jews.
The universities would remain closed until September 1906. When they
reopened, they were found to have undergone significant transformation
as a result of the revolution. The curriculum became more flexible, the
number of registrations almost doubled, and the obstacles to the admis-
sion of Jews and women were practically eliminated. The character of
the student movement changed during the period from 1906 to 1908. It
continued verbally to profess its alliance with the revolutionary move-
ment, but it focused its attention again on action favouring its own cor-
porative interests. Student associations such as the regional zemliachestva
made efforts to obtain study grants, control over student restaurants, and
employment for students. In addition, numerous consumer and credit
co-operatives for students were created. Despite this apolitical turn in
the student movement, the universities were hard pressed during those
years of the counter-revolutionary crusade, which the government now
launched. In 1907, general student organizations were prohibited and
student meetings were put under police supervision. When the students
submitted to this decision without major protest, the government went
further in a systematic policy to subjugate the universities: in 1908, the rel-
ative autonomy provided for in the rules of August 1905 was terminated
and the repressive statutes of 1884 reinstated.
The catalyst for a renewal of student unrest was the death on
7 October 1910 of the writer Leo Tolstoy, for whom students throughout
the country organized spontaneous commemorative ceremonies, holding

333
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

demonstrations in honour of the deceased author and approving resolu-


tions for the abolition of the death penalty. Although these student demon-
strations were not targeted at revolutionary objectives, the government
saw them as presaging a new revolutionary wave. It reacted in an unnec-
essarily tough manner, with severe punishment for those who had taken
part in the demonstrations, and with a circular, dated 11 January 1911,
according to which student meetings were only permitted outside the uni-
versity campuses, thereby facing the constant threat of police action. A
wave of strikes spread throughout the universities, which helped to further
sour the relationship between the government and the universities. Many
professors resigned or were transferred by the government. The student
unrest persisted until the war. Ideologically, student professionalism and a
focus on economic and material student interests nevertheless continued
to be decisive in the student movement. With the great increase in stu-
dent numbers (there were more than 100,000 university students in 1914)
and over-populated universities (particularly in Moscow and St Peters-
burg), competition for accommodation and study grants became ever
greater.
The events taking place in Russia influenced both Vistulaland, the part
of Poland controlled by Russia, and Galicia, the Polish region in Austria-
Hungary. When the Russian Revolution of 1905 broke out, workers in
Vistulaland started a general strike movement, which was joined by the
intelligentsia, teachers, university students and secondary school pupils.
The principal aim of this boycott of education, which spread over the
whole of Congress Poland, was the reintroduction of Polish as a lan-
guage of instruction, the reappointment of the dismissed Polish teachers,
and the abolition of the police system in the schools. The repressive gov-
ernment measures that followed led to the closure of the University of
Warsaw as well as many secondary schools, and to the exclusion and
arrest of many young students. Higher education had to be continued
temporarily in secret in the clandestine ‘flying university’, transformed
from 1906 into the ‘Society of Scientific Courses’, which would play a sig-
nificant role in the reopening of a Polish university after the occupation of
Warsaw by the Germans in 1915. At the same time a massive emigration
of young people took place from Congress Poland to other universities,
especially Cracow and Lemberg (Lwów), which consequently developed
even more into centres of Polish intellectual life during this period.
Cracow and Lemberg in 1905 were held in thrall by a radical, social and
freedom-minded movement. Workers, teachers and students organized
demonstrations and strikes to support their suppressed fellow nationals
in Russian Poland, together with the expansion of suffrage, social reforms
and changes in the Galician school system towards democratization, lai-
cization and equality for women. In Prussian Poland there was no Polish

334
Student movements

university, and the development of a separate Polish scientific life had to


battle against the heavy pressure of Germanization.235
Finland, as a Grand Duchy, enjoyed a different position within the
Russian Empire. From the reign of Alexander II it had developed more
clearly into a separate state. The Alexander University in Helsingfors the
only university in the country, played a key role in this ‘Finnish Question’.
The presence of Swedish and Finnish language communities in Finland
made the situation even more complex. With the appointment of Nikolai
Ivanovich Bobrikoff (1839–1904) as Governor-General of Finland in
1898, a more repressive policy towards Finland was ushered in, aimed at
binding the Grand Duchy ever more tightly to the Russian ‘fatherland’.236
The students combined their forces against this new Finland policy. In
February 1899, they drew up a ‘great address’, in which they wished to
communicate to the Tsar the nationalist aspirations of the Finnish peo-
ple. They went into the countryside with this manifesto and were able to
collect more than 500,000 signatures. At the same time, an offensive to
develop the people began with renewed vigour. Courses were held in the
villages to teach the population to read and write, and social assistance
was organized. This social action bore a somewhat conservative stamp,
because there was also a wish to warn the population against Communist
and anarchist ‘aberrations’. It was nevertheless a constant source of fric-
tion between the university authorities and the Russian governor-general,
to the extent that the university was forced to prohibit these student meet-
ings. On 16 June 1904, Bobrikoff became the victim of a terrorist attack
by Finnish dissidents from Stockholm.
The end of the ‘repressive’ Bobrikoff policy brought new differences
of opinion to light in Finnish society. The ‘Swedish Party’, which had
representatives in the Finnish convention among the aristocrats and the
bourgeoisie, now hoped – in line with the constitutionalists – for a return
of the ‘lawful relations’ of before 1899 and hence for a restoration of
its class privileges and Finnish autonomy. Old and Young Finns, in con-
trast, aspired to the democratic and social reforms of Finnish society,
both for the impoverished peasant population and for the industrial pro-
letariat. This democratic turn was evident from the start of 1905 in the
Finnish student movement and focused on agitation against the class sys-
tem and the introduction of universal suffrage. When Finnish workers
joined the Russian wave of strikes in October 1905, the students decided

235 W. Bienkowski, ‘Die Polnischen wissenschaftlichen Institutionen zwischen der Revolu-


tion von 1905 und dem Ersten Weltkrieg. Organisation, grundlegende wissenschaftliche
und ideologisch-politische Problematik’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz I
(note 161), 157–77; Vos, Strijd (note 35), 178.
236 These and the following paragraphs are based upon Klinge, Universität Helsinki,
497–573.

335
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

almost unanimously to join the strike movement. The students broke


this united front, however, when on 4 November the Tsar responded to
the complaints of the constitutionalists by holding out the prospect of a
parliament.
Between 1906 and 1908, the Finnish student world was divided
between two factions. The constitutionalists, represented particularly in
the Landsmannschaften dominated by Swedish-speaking students from
Nyland and Uusimaa, reproached the Old Finns for their willingness
to compromise with the Russians during the years of repression under
Bobrikoff. They provided a reminder of their opposition during that time
by paying homage at the grave of Eugen Schaumann, who had assassi-
nated Bobrikoff. The Old Finns, who had a majority in the Landsman-
nschaften dominated by Finnish-speaking students, Häme, Satakunta and
Eastern Bothnia, for their part accused the constitutionalists of class ego-
ism and contrasted this with their social and national inclination. They
paid tribute to the ideas of J. V. Snellman (1806–81) that the university
had to be a living centre of national life and that the intellectuals had
to show more solidarity with the people. They asked for rapid and com-
plete ‘Finnization’ of the university, where 60 per cent of the lectures were
still given in Swedish, while the majority of the students in the meantime
had become Finnish-speaking. At a general student meeting, the principle
of the bilingualism of student organizations was confirmed by a narrow
majority. Swedish-speaking students felt threatened by this development
and started to set up separate Swedish-speaking associations.
The resumption of a more aggressive policy towards Finland by Russia
from the summer of 1908 brought an end to the years of conflict between
constitutionalists and Old Finns and also to the Old Finnish policy of
opposition on the language issue. Students tended to turn away from
direct political action and focus their attention on cultural, philosophical
and artistic topics. The student press, which only now blossomed – in both
Finnish and Swedish – was primarily cultural and educational in nature,
and the new spirit of the time was also reflected in associations such
as the ‘Student Cultural Association’. The Finnish students consequently
followed the example of Swedish and Danish student publications with
which they kept in contact through correspondents. There was great admi-
ration among professors and students for the Danish Nietzsche-inspired
philosopher Georg Brandes (1842–1929) and Harald Høffding (1843–
1931), both of whom were welcomed as guest professors in Helsingfors.
From around 1908 the student movement focused more strongly on the
students’ own interests. A visible and lasting result of this was the con-
struction of an imposing house for the Landsmannschaften, which was
inaugurated in 1910. Associations were also created to provide accom-
modation and work for the students.

336
Student movements

In the remaining pre-war years, Finland, like the other Scandinavian


countries, came under the thrall of German cultural imperialism with
its race and power ideology, in which the struggle between ‘Slavs’ and
‘Teutons’ was central. Out of opposition to the exaggerated Russification
policy, it was also directed more firmly towards Sweden. Swedish-speaking
students from around 1912 took a Swedish-German line and compared
the inferior racial characteristics of the ‘Finnish-speaking masses’ with the
superior racial features of the Swedes. But Finnish student associations
were also aiming for better contacts with Swedish students with a pan-
Germanic orientation and found the ideals of readiness for action and
personal sacrifice appealing in light of the impending war.
The war commenced with the assassination of the pretender to the
Austrian throne in June 1914 by the Bosnian Serb student Gavrilo Princip
(1895–1918). Bosnian Slav nationalism had grown strongly after 1900
and took on aggressive forms particularly after the annexation of Bosnia-
Herzegovina by Austria in 1908. The new generations spawned the Mlada
Bosna movement (‘Young Bosnia’), which distanced itself from parlia-
mentary and legal forms of opposition to Austro-Hungarian dominance.
In contrast, Bosnian students at the universities of Belgrade, Zagreb and
Vienna, together with secondary school pupils, were inspired by Russian
revolutionary ideas and the terrorism of the Russian student movement.
They organized themselves into the ‘Serbo-Croat Nationalist-Radical
Youth’ and established protest publications in various cities. They also
formed terrorist groups or left school or university to join distinctly mili-
tary revolutionary organizations such as the ‘Black Hand’ (actual name:
Ujedinjenje Ili Smr, ‘Unity or Death’), which was set up in 1911. Follow-
ing the lead of Russian students, Bosnian students carried out attacks on
Austrian administrators. The repressive response of the Austrian author-
ities provided the nationalist movement with martyrs and spurred on the
terrorist campaign even further. In 1912, several bloody clashes took place
between young people and police at the University of Agram (Zagreb) and
in Sarajevo, followed by a general strike in Bosnian schools. The assassina-
tion of Archduke Franz Ferdinand on 28 June 1914 was the culmination
of this spiral of Bosnian nationalist youth violence.237

a w o r l d s a f e f o r d e m o c r a c y ? (1919–1939)
After the war, there was a revival of student organizations and student
movements at all universities in Western and Central Europe. They offered
an answer to the challenges posed by post-war social problems, for which

237 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 78–87; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 25, 158; Boren, Resis-
tance (note 58), 62–4.

337
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

diverse blueprints were drafted, characterized on the one hand by democ-


racy and socialism and on the other by nationalism and Fascism.
In France, the national umbrella organization for students, the Union
Nationale des Étudiants Français (UNEF), tried to stay out of politics
and restrict itself to internal co-ordination and international representa-
tion:238 the apolitical position of the UNEF was partly dictated by the
sharp political differences of opinion in the student world. The ultra-
nationalist and radically right-wing Action française of Charles Maurras
(1868–1952)239 gained considerable support and organized military train-
ing aimed at violent provocation, which would lead to ‘le dernier assaut
contre la République’.240 They systematically disrupted the lectures of
professors regarded as ‘republican’, and organized beatings of ‘red’ stu-
dents. The condemnation of Action française by Pope Pius XI in 1926 did
not lead to subjugation of the student branch but prompted determined
protests.241
The emphasis then shifted from radical right-wing agitation to a new
group: the Phalange universitaire, which from 1927–28 began its tri-
umphal procession throughout France. This was a right-wing, author-
itarian, anti-Communist and paramilitary organization, which by 1933
already had around 10,000 members in 22 branches. It was thus able
to gain the upper hand in the student world. When the Left came to
power in 1936 following the election victory of the Popular Front led by
Léon Blum (1872–1950), the Government made the Phalange and Action
française with its student branches illegal. The attempts of these forma-
tions to survive as an organization failed, but all kinds of small Fascist
and ultra-nationalistic student groups carried on the radical right-wing
tradition.
Left-wing student associations were, for a long time, powerless in the
face of this right-wing violence, owing to their disparity. In the twenties,
the Clarté movement in particular proved attractive. This was an inter-
national peace organization founded in 1919 by the Communist writer
and pacifist Henri Barbusse (1873–1935), in which political action and
cultural avant-gardism went hand in hand. In the journal Clarté which
was published from 1924 on, both socialist ideas and modern literature
were discussed, in a remarkable mixture of scientific contributions, criti-
cal reviews, visionary social blueprints and modernist poems. An attempt
238 J.-P. Worms, ‘The French Student Movement’, in S. M. Lipset (ed.), Student Poli-
tics (New York, 1967), 267–79; on the inter-war period: 268–71; Burg, Encyclopedia
(note 21), 202.
239 Weber, Action française (note 221).
240 P. Gerbod, ‘Le monde étudiant français depuis un siècle: attitudes confessionnelles,
idéologiques et politiques’, in Sciences de l’Homme et de son environnement. Cahiers
de Clio (Brussels and Liège, 1980), 29.
241 Weber, Action française (note 221), 264.

338
Student movements

by Communist students in France to establish a left-wing front around


Clarté failed, and the Union fédérale des étudiants which was then set
up, had very little autonomy of its own in relation to Moscow.242 Until
the mid-thirties, the Communists avoided all collaboration with the non-
Communist left-wing camp of the socialist Ligue d’action universitaire
républicaine et sociale. This did not happen until the idea of a left-wing
front against Fascism became dominant both in Moscow and among the
students and a Front universitaire antifasciste was created.
In Great Britain,243 the National Union of Students was established in
1922,244 like the UNEF adopting an apolitical stance, and in the twen-
ties it did not succeed in creating a ‘corporate social conscience’ among
the students.245 However, international pacifism provided the basis for
a more left-wing stance on the part of a number of active students. The
movement experienced an upsurge in the first half of the twenties, de-
politicization in the second half of the twenties and radicalization from
around 1933, when pacifism revived. This was then not restricted to the
university world, and linked the problems of ‘peace, freedom and social
justice’ to anti-Fascism. From the concerns of pacifism there emerged a
great interest in the League of Nations in the twenties, manifested in all
kinds of new student associations and clubs, and enthusiastic involve-
ment in the international umbrella organization, the Confédération Inter-
nationale des Étudiants (CIE).246
This pacifism was combined for a number of students with sympathy for
Communism,247 and the right-wing suspected a Communist conspiracy
behind every action. The universities where students adopted the most
radical stance, and where the emphasis was on the new left-wing student
movement, were surprisingly Cambridge, Oxford, the London School of
Economics and, at the end of the thirties, also University College and
Bedford College in London.
All this formed the background to the noted ‘Oxford Pledge’, a reso-
lution passed by the students in the Oxford Union on 9 February 1933
by 275 votes to 153, with the statement that came as a complete surprise
to public opinion that ‘this house will under no circumstances fight for
242 J. Kotek, La jeune Garde. La jeunesse entre KGB et CIA. 1917–1989 (Paris, 1996).
243 R. D. Anderson, ‘Universities and Elites in Modern Britain’, History of Universities,
10 (1991), 225–50; Anderson, Universities (note 145), 22–3.
244 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 141–2.
245 E. Ashby and M. Anderson, The Rise of the Student Estate in Britain (London, 1970),
69–72, quoted by Simon, ‘Student Movement’ (note 11), 189–204, esp. 196; Marwick,
‘Youth’ (note 171).
246 Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 43–4. On the pre-history of the CIE see note
323.
247 Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 45–6. Whether all these activities are to be regarded
as Communist ‘submariners’ as this author suggests on the basis of his research in the
Komintern archives, remains open to question.

339
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

King and country’.248 This position was confirmed in a second vote and
was applauded at other universities, including in the United States. There
were clashes on the streets in the years that followed between left-wing
and right-wing students, for example in connection with meetings held by
the British Fascist leader Oswald Mosley (1896–1980). Further radical-
ization was caused by the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936. A
number of idealistic students joined the international brigades on the side
of the Spanish Republicans, for which most student associations started
organizing large collections of medicine, food, clothing and money. Young
conservatives and those who did not clearly opt for the left or for paci-
fism also opposed Fascism and from 1937 supported the ‘Next Five Years
Group’, which called on ‘all progressive opinion to unite, to restore peace
and to defend civil liberties in Europe’.249
The result was a change of course for the NUS. The annual general
conference in 1937 abandoned its apolitical stance when considering the
question of academic unemployment. This naturally led to the questioning
of the social function of the university ‘in relation to the needs of modern
society’. In the light of the experience of the German universities, which
had not succeeded in effectively opposing Fascism, an examination was
made in 1939 of how the universities in Great Britain could be transformed
into ‘fortresses of democracy’. This necessitated internal democracy, with
a say for students and freedom of speech.
This development culminated in the ‘British Student Congress’ held in
Leeds in March 1940, which approved the ‘Charter of Student Rights
and Responsibilities’, in which not just political freedom but also social
equality was demanded. This implied a thorough reform of the educa-
tional system, opting for a planned economy and a rejection of capital-
ism, imperialism and colonialism. The Congress demanded independence
for India, the release of 100 student activists arrested in India, and dis-
continuation of the war.250 The social section of the final resolution laid
the foundation for the current of student syndicalism that would inspire
student movements throughout Europe immediately after the war.251
In Belgium, the universities reopened their doors in January 1919. All
four of them were French-speaking, not just in Brussels and Liège but in
Ghent too, where the Dutch university established by the Germans had
been abolished, and in Louvain where, as in Ghent, a large proportion
of the students were nonetheless Dutch speakers. As a result, the chasm
between French-speaking Belgian nationalism strengthened by the war

248 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 153.


249 The Democratic Front, October 1937, 2, quoted by Marwick, ‘Youth’ (note 171), 49.
250 The demand was made before British troops became involved in war activities.
251 E.g., the Charter of Grenoble, Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 42.

340
Student movements

and a Flemish nationalism that was gradually becoming more radical,


soon led to paroxysm.
The Algemeen Vlaams Hoogstudentenverbond (General Flemish Uni-
versity Students’ Union), which was an umbrella organization for Flemish
students and in which Louvain students set the tone in the twenties, aimed
at the monolingualism of Flanders through language legislation. Dissatis-
faction with the disfavour of the Flemish in Belgium eventually became so
great – including in broader circles of the population – that from 1930 the
government itself set up a programme to bring about the monolingual-
ism of Flemish territory. The State University of Ghent that year became
exclusively Dutch-speaking, while that of Louvain evolved into an institu-
tion with a monolingual Dutch division alongside a monolingual French
one. This did not prevent the emergence, especially from the circles of
Catholic Flemish students, of the young cadre of the Flemish nationalist
party, which in the thirties would evolve in the direction of Fascism.252
The majority of French-speaking students opposed the Flemish
demands and were swayed by Action française, admiration for Mussolini
and the Portuguese regime of Salazar, combined with Belgian national-
ism, which for the Catholics among them was subordinate to integral
Catholicism. The umbrella organization Fédération Belge des Étudiants
Catholiques that was set up in Louvain in 1921 also played a role in this.
French-speaking liberal and left-wing student groupings, who formed a
front against Fascism, had backing particularly in Liège and Brussels. In
Brussels, the umbrella student movement – but also the liberal, social-
ist and Communist students – supported a Comité de Vigilance Antifas-
ciste.253 In Dutch-speaking Ghent, the old liberal student association ’t Zal
wel gaan from 1933 led the opposition to the rise of Fascism. During the
Spanish Civil War it supplied volunteers for the international brigades,254
which also happened at other universities, such as Brussels.
In the Netherlands, the failed attempt at revolution by the socialist
leader Pieter Jelles Troelstra (1860–1930) in 1918 caused the ‘old-style’
student corps to form ‘student banners’, but they otherwise largely stayed

252 On Louvain: Gevers, ‘Mouvement’ (note 153), 161–73. On Ghent: K. Palinckx, ‘Nu naar
Gent’ Vlaams-nationale en katholieke studentenbeweging te Gent. 1928–1940 (Ghent,
1995). Also: under the heading of ‘studentenbeweging’ (‘student movement’) in Nieuwe
Encyclopedie (note 153), 2881–2918, ‘Brussels’ (F. Scheelings), ‘Ghent’ (K. Palinckx),
‘Leuven’ (L. Gevers and L. Vos ), ‘Liège’ (L. Gevers and H. Balthazar). See there also
under the heading of ’t Zal wel Gaan’ (R. Willemyns, G. Declercq and B. de Ruyver),
and ‘jeugdbeweging’ (‘youth movement’) (L. Vos). On the Catholic school pupils in this
period: L. Vos, Bloei en ondergang.
253 A. Despy-Meyer, A. Dierkens and F. Scheelings (eds.), 5 novembre 1941. L’ Université
Libre de Bruxelles ferme ses portes (Brussels, 1991).
254 H. Balthazar, Het taalminnend studentengenootschap ’t Zal wel Gaan. 1852–1977
(Ghent, 1977), 18.

341
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

outside politics in the twenties.255 Depoliticization and individualism


were the dominant themes for the average student in the twenties.256
Among the majority of the younger generation of students there emerged
after the Great War a pacifist sense of mission, which was manifested in
the emergence of new associations and interest in the League of Nations,
the élan for which disappeared around 1925, as in England.257 There was
also a demand for international student contacts within a broader circle,
leading to the establishment of an apolitical umbrella organization, the
Nederlandsche Studenten Organisatie (NSO), in which the corps set the
tone, but this disappeared as early as 1923 as a result of internal divi-
sions.258 Although its place in the CIE was taken by an Algemeene Se-
natenvergadering, there no longer existed a genuine umbrella organiza-
tion of students in the Netherlands thereafter until 1940.259
The denominational – Reformed and Catholic – student associations
had taken over the practices of the corps, but on the basis of their reli-
gious conviction they were more socially orientated. A Catholic variant
of post-war idealism was the Heemvaart movement, aimed particularly
at giving greater depth to personal life. The left-wing student associations
did not succeed in gaining a significant following.260 Social interest in the
existing student associations did, however, increase in the thirties.261 A
minority of the students found Dutch nationalism appealing and showed
an interest in the Greater Netherlands, in other words the endeavour to
merge the Netherlands and Flanders. They formed the Dietsch Studenten-
verbond, which at most universities was able to attract around 10 per cent
of the students.262 In collaboration with DSV-Vlaanderen, they organized
the Grootnederlandse Studentencongressen (Greater Netherlands Student
Congresses), which were attended by a few hundred Dutch students at the
end of the twenties.263 The association disintegrated after 1933 as a result

255 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 209–11. Vrankrijker, Vier eeuwen
(note 47), 344–5.
256 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 75; P. J. Knegtmans, Een kwetsbaar centrum van
de geest. De universiteit van Amsterdam tussen 1935 en 1950 (Amsterdam, 1998), 33.
257 P. A. J. Caljé, ‘Continuı̈teit en discontinuı̈teit in de studentencultuur van de twintigste
eeuw. Studentencultuur als jeugdcultuur’, in K. van Berkel and F. R. H. Smit (eds.),
Een universiteit in de twintigste eeuw. Opstellen over de Rijsksuniversiteit Groningen.
1914–1999 (Groningen, 1999), 11–66, esp. 20–1. Vrankrijker, Vier eeuwen (note 47),
356–8.
258 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 217–18.
259 A. Droeve, ‘Studentenraad’, in Studenten (note 152), 119.
260 Hagendijk, Studentenleven (note 48), 76–7; Caljé, ‘Continuı̈teit’ (note 257), 23–4.
261 Vrankrijker, Vier eeuwen (note 47), 359–61.
262 Vos, ‘Dietse studentenbeweging’ (note 215), table 2, 468: 1930 figures for Utrecht: only
Utrecht, Groningen and Leiden brought together less than 10 per cent of the students.
See also, Van Hees, ‘Studentenbeweging’ (note 215), 34–52, figures 48–9.
263 Vos, ‘Dietse studentenbeweging’ (note 215), table 1, 467; Van Hees, ‘Studentenbeweging’
(note 215), 34–52.

342
Student movements

of the discussion on Fascism and new order and the attraction of radical
right-wing groupings.
In 1921, an apolitical national union of students also came into being
in Sweden, the SFS (Sveriges Förenade Studentkårer – National Swedish
Union of Students).264 The left-wing student movement experienced an
upsurge in the twenties under the influence of the Clarté movement. It
rejected both Fascism and Marxism-Leninism and adhered to democ-
racy, in which it saw a role set aside for intellectuals as ‘social engineers’,
who had to borrow their ‘tools’ from the emerging social sciences and
eugenics, which was principally developed by the state institute for racial
biology established in 1921 at the University of Uppsala.265 Conservative
and radical right-wing student associations peppered with anti-Semitism
gained a following. A shift from conservatism to Fascism proved par-
ticularly successful among students who were preparing for a career in
the civil service. This alarmed the social-democrat politicians of the time,
who from 1932 were in power in coalition with the Agrarian Party, and
who would remain in power for 44 more years. They therefore tried
to conceal their socialist signature as much as possible, and to portray
themselves as a left-of-centre party. The social-democratic student asso-
ciations also dropped Marxism and tried to make themselves acceptable
to future civil servants. The followers of Clarté, including a good num-
ber of Communists, naturally regarded this as a betrayal of the socialist
ideal. Some older student associations joined the Swedish student branch
of the social-democratic Second International.266 The government then
attracted many former students from radical circles into government ser-
vice, a process which continued in the forties and which, in the fifties,
led to many of them ending up in top positions and helping to shape the
post-war Swedish welfare state.267
In the newly independent Finland, Finnish and Swedish were in princi-
ple put on an equal footing as official languages in the 1919 Constitution,
so that the bilingualism of the university in existence before the war was
continued.268 This led to a language battle in the student world, which
remained the most significant point of dispute in the inter-war period,
all the more so because, as a result of the Fennicization of secondary
education since the start of the twentieth century, increasing numbers of
Finnish-speaking students were enrolling.269 The dispute focused not just

264 Caljé, ‘Continuı̈teit’ (note 257), 22; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 190.
265 G. Broberg, Statlig rasforkning. En historik Over rasbiologiska institutet (Lund, 1995),
cited by V. Delporte, ‘Raciale beeldvorming rond de Valloner in Zweden. Het insti-
tuut voor rassenbiologie te Uppsala in het begin van de twintigste eeuw’ (unpublished
licenciate dissertation, Catholic University of Louvain, 1999).
266 Baars, Scandinavië (note 71), 179. 267 Skoglund, Vita Mössor (note 70), 275.
268 Klinge, Universität Helsinki, 614–16, 620–1, 623. 269 Ibid., 625.

343
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

on the language of education but also on the relationship between those


who were university-educated and the ‘Finnish people’, with whom they
nevertheless had to be able to speak in the national language, and on the
question of whether bilingualism should remain a constituent element of
Finnish identity.
A radical Finnish movement favoured a ‘Finnish imperium’,270 and the
catalyst for this was the AKS (Akateeminen Karjala-Seura – Academic
Karelia Association), set up in 1922. It was initially intended as an asso-
ciation of Finnish volunteers who had taken part in the battles in East-
ern Karelia, but it quickly evolved into a paramilitary, National Socialist,
fighting organization. The core element of its ideology was virulent hatred
of Russia linked to the dream of a Greater Finland. From 1923 the most
important student journal, Ylioppilastlehti, which was supported by the
Landsmannschaften, favoured the AKS ideology, which attracted a great
following among students.271 In 1924, AKS launched a campaign against
Russian monuments and memorials at the university, which it combined
with propaganda in the provinces, where it tried to convince the ‘people’ of
the need to build up a new, purely Finnish, National Socialist Finland.272
In 1924–25, the umbrella bilingual student association in effect broke up
into Finnish and Swedish general student federations. From 1925, AKS
began a campaign for a review of the university decree of 1923, which
had provided for academic bilingualism and hence ‘the Finnish popular
element tied to the apron strings of the Swedish upper stratum’. AKS
proclaimed 1928 as the year of the Fennicization of higher education, as
completion of the Finnish struggle for freedom that would sweep away
‘880 years of injustice’. They organized a petition signed by 3,014 stu-
dents, which indicated the great following acquired by the AKS.
But the academic authorities and the older Swedish-speaking genera-
tion at the university, as well as the conservative politicians, rejected this
proposal as extremist and destructive. The AKS was also rebuffed by the
radical right-wing, anti-liberal and anti-Communist Lapua Movement,
which came into being in 1929 in response to the outbreak of the eco-
nomic crisis, and which regarded the language struggle as less significant
than the struggle against Communism in Finland supported by the Soviet
Union.
From the struggle between younger students who wanted to continue
the Greater Finnish movement, and others who primarily wanted to bring
about an anti-Communist and anti-Soviet alliance with the support of the
Swedish-speaking upper stratum, politicians emerged at the end of the
thirties who would establish an anti-Communist front at the national
level, including the later President Urho Kekkonen (1900–1986).

270 Ibid., 627, 629, 631. 271 Ibid., 642–3. 272 Ibid., 644–6.

344
Student movements

The language battle was waged with particular fanaticism between 1933
and 1935. The demand for a monolingual Finnish university became dom-
inant in student circles. Swedish-speakers wanted to retain Swedish as a
language of education or demanded, in turn, the creation of a completely
independent Swedish university. In 1935, clashes occurred in the streets
between uniformed Fascist Finnish nationalist groups and the forces of
law and order. The university legislation subsequently approved was a
compromise, which provided, on the one hand, for some bilingualism
and, on the other, for the students to have the option of attending lectures
either in Finnish or in Swedish. In this way the language conflict was paci-
fied to some extent, with the result that the Finnish nationalist movement
underwent something of a decline at the end of the 1930s.

v ö l k i s c h e r n a t i o n a l i s m (1919–1939)
In Germany, the student movement bore all the marks of the after-effects
of the First World War.273 After November 1918, the 22 German univer-
sities received a real influx of students and consequently faced a structural
crisis, with the characteristic features of massification of the institution,274
proletarization of the students, and unemployment.275 The student move-
ment responded with the Studentenhilfe initiative for student jobs and
student accommodation, and organized a say in student matters by form-
ing Allgemeine Studentenausschüsse (ASta) through elections; these, like
their umbrella organization, the Deutsche Studentenschaft (DSt) estab-
lished in June 1919,276 were recognized by the civil authorities as being
representative.277 Unlike in France or England, the student umbrella orga-
nizations did not restrict themselves to ‘representation’ but also called
upon the students to serve the German nation.278 The DSt adopted an
273 In contrast to other countries, the literature on the German student movement – including
the inter-war period – is very extensive, and it is almost impossible to give an overview.
The ‘bibliographical essay’ by M. S. Steinberg, Sabers and Brown Shirts: The German
Students’ Path to National-Socialism (Chicago, 1973), 225–32, can serve as a pointer.
The most important publications are listed in the Select Bibliography at the end of this
chapter and/or will be used in the references quoted below.
274 See Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 131–2.
275 Evidence from the diplomat Rudolf Frahn, a Berlin student in 1920, that he had to
attend some lectures with audiences of 1,000 to 1,500: Steinberg, Sabers (note 273), 24.
276 On the living conditions of working students: Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany,
144; also Steinberg, Sabers (note 273), 35–6. In 1920, 10 per cent of students belonged
to ‘das Werkstudententum’, in 1922 almost every student, in 1923 53 per cent; in the
holidays 90 per cent of students worked.
277 W. Zorn, ‘Student Politics in the Weimar Republic’, Journal of Contemporary History,
5 (1970), 298; A. Leisen, ‘Die Ausbreitung des völkischen Gedankens in der Studen-
tenschaft der Weimarer Republik’ (Diss. Heidelberg, 1964), 41–2; Burg, Encyclopedia
(note 21), 61–2.
278 A. Faust, Der Nationalsozialistische Studentenbund. Studenten und Nationalsozialismus
in der Weimarer Republik (Düsseldorf, 1973), 19.

345
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

‘Alldeutsche’ stance, with the intention of representing not just the stu-
dents of the Weimar Republic but all German-speakers, including those
in other countries.
From the outset there were differences of opinion on the political direc-
tion the nation should take. A small minority of students in 1918 opted for
the left, particularly in Munich, where they gathered around the pacifist
student veteran Ernst Toller (1893–1939), who in April 1919 supported
the revolution which briefly turned Bavaria into a soviet republic. Most
students, on the other hand, opted for right-wing nationalism, feeling that
the chaos in Germany was caused by Jews and reds,279 and believing in the
‘stab in the back’ legend as the cause of the ‘humiliation’ of Versailles.280
When the revolution was quashed, this was done by the ‘Freikorps’, which
also included right-wing students,281 and the right-wing Bavarian Govern-
ment which then came to power continued to use students in paramilitary
formations until 1923.282
In March 1920, a large number of Berlin students lent their support
to the Kapp Putsch, an attempt to overthrow the republic through a
coup d’état and to restore the Kaiserreich.283 But when, in response to
this, left-wing revolutionary uprisings broke out in Thuringia and the
Ruhrgebiet, many students on the basis of a nationalist anti-left reflex
re-examined the question of government and army command to help put
them down.284 When Marburg students on 25 March 1920 shot four-
teen captured workers in Bad Thal, the Prussian Government banned the
students from undertaking any more military action, although they did
continue to exist illegally. Many students were attached to the radically
anti-Semitic Schutz- und Trutzbund, which – until it was closed down
by the government because of terrorist activities – had around 200,000
members. ‘A philosophical leaning to militarism seems to have predis-
posed many student veterans to paramilitary activities.’285
More significant than the paramilitary predisposition was the ideolog-
ical shift to a right-wing nationalism which called itself völkisch.286 This
term referred to a body of thought in which race and being united by blood

279 ‘Nur einem von Juden und Sozialisten verhetzten Volke konnte eine derartige Katastro-
phe zustossen’ declared Professor for German Literature in Berlin Roethe in May 1919.
See Klose, Freiheit (note 17), 213.
280 Faust, Studentenbund (note 278), 20–1.
281 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 195; Klose, Freiheit (note 17), 211–13.
282 Steinberg, Sabers (note 273), 50.
283 Ibid., 49–50; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 113. Burg’s claim that 50,000 students took
part in the ‘Kapp Putsch’ appears unlikely to be true.
284 Klose, Freiheit (note 17), 213. 285 Steinberg, Sabers (note 273), 50–1.
286 The subsequent content of that concept is the one developed by the students, as explained
in Leisen, ‘Ausbreitung’ (note 277), II: ‘Völkisches Gedankengut’, 193–256.

346
Student movements

were regarded as the basis of the German identity, and which was linked to
anti-Semitism. The völkisch current dreamt of a revolution which would
genuinely make the Volksgemeinschaft the bearer of the nation, rejected
the previous empire that was blamed for the German defeat and aimed to
bring about the Third Reich – after the title of a book, published in 1923
by Arthur Moeller van den Bruck (1876–1925).287 This Reich, held aloft
by a people which had become a nation, would be a true völkische Staat,
in which the Führerprinzip would replace parliamentary government.
The impetus for this völkisch nationalist movement among the stu-
dents was provided by the Hochschulring Deutscher Art (later Deutscher
Hochschulring), founded in Berlin in June 1919 by student veterans,
which was joined by most of the pre-war student associations.288 As
a ‘movement’ it spread rapidly throughout Germany, with the vague-
ness of the programme leading to internal rivalry between three political
groupings; around 1922, these could be described as the Young Conser-
vatives, who were distinctly völkisch and who were strongest in Berlin,
the Conservatives, who were based on the old corps and set the tone in
many local student communities, and finally the paramilitary, extreme
völkisch group centred in Bavaria, which was associated with the ‘Frei-
korps’ tradition and in which National Socialists also played a role. This
third tendency set the tone of the Ring journal, Deutsche Akademische
Stimmen.289
The most significant forum at which the Hochschulring and others tried
to push the student movement in a particular direction was the annual
Deutsche Studententag (German Student Day). Since the first one con-
vened in Würzburg in 1919, there had been heated discussion as to who
could be counted as belonging to the Deutsche Studentenschaft (DSt). It
was unanimously agreed that foreign non-German-speaking students did
not belong, but discussion centred on the question of whether – as the
Austrian students demanded – the Jews should be excluded. The differ-
ences between the liberal republicans and the völkisch racist nationalists
were dealt with in a compromise solution in Göttingen in 1920, but from
1921 this led to a struggle for predominance in the DSt which the völkisch
racist nationalists achieved in 1924.290 The national umbrella organiza-
tions of Poland and Czechoslovakia did not recognize the claims of the
287 J. Schwarz, Studenten in der Weimarer Republik. Die deutsche Studentenschaft in der
Zeit von 1918 bis 1923 und ihre Stellung zur Politik (Berlin, 1971), 379.
288 Zorn, ‘Politics’ (note 277), 299; Leisen, ‘Ausbreitung’ (note 277), 57; Schwarz, Studen-
ten (note 287), 168–74; Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 96.
289 Steinberg, Sabers (note 273), 49–60.
290 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 145–6. Report on the growing differences of
opinion during the student days in Schwarz, Studenten (note 287), 223–76; Leisen,
‘Ausbreitung’ (note 277), 38–65.

347
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

Deutsche Studentenschaft outside the borders of the Weimar Republic,


and there was heated debate on this at some CIE congresses.291
With the arrival of the first completely post-war generation of stu-
dent leaders, the völkisch current set the tone, as was apparent from the
resounding victory scored by the Hochschulring at the Dst elections in
the summer of 1924.292 Around this time, the first National Socialist
student formation was set up in Munich by Rudolf Hess (1894–1987)
during the Hitler putsch of 8–9 November 1923 as a company of the
local SA regiment.293 In the days following the failure of the putsch, stu-
dents sympathizing with Hitler provoked anti-Semitic and anti-Catholic
disturbances, with some fatalities occurring in the clashes with the police.
From the mid-twenties it is possible to speak of a völkisch revolutionary
period, in which the ‘Weimar State’ was increasingly dubbed the enemy
of the German people.
Criticism of the Weimar Republic became a trial of strength between
the student movement and the government when, in 1925, the former
demanded the dismissal of Theodor Lessing, a Jewish lecturer at the Tech-
nische Hochschule (TH) Hanover, because he had published a critical
article on Field Marshal von Hindenburg as a candidate for the office of
President of the Republic. The Prussian Minister of Education, Carl Hein-
rich Becker (1876–1933), did not assent to this demand, and 1,200 of the
1,500 students left the TH Hanover in protest and continued their studies
at the nearby TH Braunschweig.294 A second conflict between the same
minister and right-wing students began in 1926, when he tried to keep
access to the student associations open to all German citizens, including

291 Batowski, ‘Die Studentenvereine für internationale Freundschaft nach dem Ersten
Weltkrieg am Beispiel Polens und der Tschechoslowakei’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.),
Wegenetz II (note 29), 55. Around 1929 a new – more democratic – umbrella organiza-
tion was created, the ‘Deutsche Studentenverein’, with which Czech and Polish students
were able to reach a compromise; however, this association became marginal in the
German student world, and it disappeared in 1933.
292 See various case studies, including for the first ‘brown’ university, Erlangen: M.
Franze, Die Erlanger Studentenschaft, 1918–1945 (Wurzburg, 1972); W. Kreutzberger,
Studenten und Politik 1918–1933. Der Fall Freiburg im Breisgau (Göttingen, 1972);
G. Mergner, ‘La mobilisation national-socialiste parmi les étudiants allemands’, Le mou-
vement social 120 (1982), 109–21.
293 D. Heither and M. Lemling, ‘Die studentischen Verbindungen in der Weimarer Republik
und ihr Verhältnis zum Faschismus’, in Elm, Heither and Schäfer (eds.), Füxe (note 61),
99–110.
294 M. H. Kater, Studentenschaft und Rechtsradikalismus in Deutschland. 1918–1933.
Eine sozialgeschichtliche Studie zur Bildungskrise in der Weimarer Republik (Hamburg,
1976), 159–62. The anti-Lessing campaign was the first in a series of actions by right-
wing students against democratic – often also Jewish – professors, such as E. Cohn
(Breslau), E. J. Gumbel (Heidelberg), G. Kessler (Leipzig), B. E. Maurenbrecher and
H. Nawiasky (both Munich). On anti-Semitism, Jewish professors and students: Kater,
Studentenschaft, 154–62; Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 146–50; Heither and
Lemling, ‘Verbindungen’ (note 293), 115–19.

348
Student movements

Jews. At the end of 1927, the minister allowed the students themselves
to vote for or against the draft law. The result of this referendum was a
defeat for the democratization policy of the Prussian Government, because
77 per cent of the total of 12,315 students rejected the constitutional
equality of all citizens.295 This right-wing ‘victory’ pushed the minority of
student groups with a democratic, republican, Jewish or socialist leaning
even further into isolation.296
In October 1928 the Hochschulring began military training, and from
1929 it started setting up ‘war sport’ camps together with Stahlhelm. But
in the following years it lost its popularity to the uniformed sections –
brown shirts, swastika armbands and boots – of the Nationalsozialistis-
che Deutsche Studentenbund (NSDStB) set up in 1926, which in 1928
came under the leadership of Baldur von Schirach (1907–74).297 The
NSDStB opposed what it called ‘the infiltration of the universities by
Jews’ and advocated the introduction of a numerus clausus (restriction
on numbers) for Jewish students, which in due course also had an impact
on the appointment of members of staff and professors.298 It had the
wind in its sails, and in 1931 at the national student day in Graz it was
able to gain control of the DSt.299 Under Nazi leadership, the DSt on
12 April 1933 published its ‘12 theses against the un-German Spirit’, with
the result that Jewish and liberal publications became the target of ritual
book-burning. Following the seizure of power by Hitler, this occurred
at all German universities between 26 April and 10 May 1933.300 The
integration of organized student life into the NS-Staat was completed by
the subsequent establishment of a Reichsstudentenführung (Reich student
leadership) led by Gustav Adolf Scheel, which controlled both the DSt and
the NSDStB.301
In 1935 and 1936 there followed the demise of the old student corps,
with their absorption into the NSDStB, and the disbanding of all denom-
inational student associations followed in 1938.302 During the National

295 Figures per university: in Steinberg, Sabers (note 273), 69, based on a source from 1927
and Leisen, ‘Ausbreitung’ (note 277), 146.
296 A. Götz von Olenhusen, ‘Die “nichtarischen” Studenten an den Deutschen Hochschulen.
Zur nationalsozialistischen Rassenpolitik. 1933–1945’, Vierteljahresheft für Zeitges-
chichte, 14 (1966), 175–206.
297 Heither and Lemling, ‘Verbindungen’ (note 293), figures pp. 120–1, see also Mergner,
‘Mobilisation’ (note 292), who studied the archives of two Christian student corpora-
tions in Erlangen (Uttenruthia and Bubenruthia) and cites many quotations in support
of this statement.
298 Hammerstein, Antisemitismus (note 186), 86–7, 95–6.
299 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 62. Heither and Lemling, ‘Verbindungen’ (note 293),
121–33.
300 H.-W. Strätz, ‘Die studentische “Aktion wider den undeutschen Geist” im Frühjahr
1933’, Vierteljahrsheft für Zeitgeschichte, 16 (1968), 347–72.
301 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 62. 302 Ibid., 203.

349
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

Socialist period all kinds of duties were imposed on the students (‘Arbeits-
dienst’, ‘Wehrdienst’, ‘Dienst im Kameradschaftshaus’). They also had to
take part in physical training (fencing), and they were repeatedly deployed
in a group, with the result that the university rectors complained to the
government that too little time was left for study.303 Protest and dissidence
had no place in the academic world, as elsewhere in the Third Reich. Even
academic freedom had ceased to exist in 1933.
The Austro-Hungarian dual monarchy broke up in November 1918,
with the German-speaking part becoming the new Austria. It had three
important universities, Vienna, Graz and Innsbruck, where the mood in
the student communities had already been distinctly German nationalis-
tic and anti-Semitic since the nineteenth century.304 In the twenties, they
were pleased to welcome students from the Weimar Republic to spend a
summer term in Austria, when they dubbed Graz the ‘Austrian Heidel-
berg’. This influx of students came to an abrupt end in 1933, because of
the strict Austrian control and restrictions.305
The aversion to the influence of the ‘Jewish International’ was far
stronger among the German-speaking Austrian students than in Germany
itself.306 This was coupled with a great aversion to non-German-speaking
students from Russia and Poland in particular, who were depicted in
the press as ‘Bolsheviks’.307 The ideological distinction among the corps
students between Catholics and German nationals weakened slightly in
the twenties, when anti-Semitism and anti-Marxism were shared by both
groups, but it increased again as the National Socialism rejected by the
Catholics came to dominate in the German national camp.308
At the University of Graz, around 1930, about 550–700 of the approx-
imately 2,000 students there were politically active: some 300 to 400 in
a German national völkisch sense, around 200 in Catholic associations,

303 Klose, Freiheit (note 17), 241–2. W. Benz ‘Vom freiwilligen Arbeitsdienst zur Arbeitsdi-
enstpflicht’, Vierteljahresheft für Zeitgeschichte, 16 (1968), 317–46.
304 In 1929 there were 11,337 students in Vienna, 2,421 in Graz and 1,915 in Innsbruck.
With thanks to Walter Höflechner for providing these figures. See also W. Höflechner,
Die Baumeister des künftigen Glücks. Fragment einer Geschichte des Hochschulwesens
in Österreich vom Ausgang des 19. Jahrhunderts bis in das Jahr 1938 (Graz, 1989).
305 M. Gehler, ‘Korporationsstudenten und Nationalsozialismus in Österreich. Eine quan-
tifizierende Untersuchung’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 20 (1994), 28.
306 M. Gehler, ‘Vom Rassenwahn zum Judenmord am Beispiel des studentischen Anti-
semitismus an der Universität Innsbruck von den Anfängen bis ins “Anschluss”-Jahr
1938’, Zeitgeschichte, 16 (1989), 263–88, cited in Gehler, ‘Korporationsstudenten’
(note 305), 9.
307 On the organization of the foreign students at Graz: W. Höflechner, ‘Ausländische
Studierende an der Universität Graz. 1918–1938’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.), Wegenetz
II (note 29), 269–89.
308 M. Gehler, Studenten und Politik. Der Kampf um die Vorherrschaft an der Univer-
sität Innsbruck. 1918–1938 (Innsbruck, 1990). See also Gehler, ‘Korporationsstudenten’
(note 305), 1–28.

350
Student movements

and only 25 to 50 on the left. The 40 or so Jewish students – some left-


wing, some orthodox – increasingly turned to Zionism and, as elsewhere
in Austria, they formed an organization for self-defence. Nazi student
formations were founded as early as 1919 in Vienna, 1923 in Graz, and
1929 in Innsbruck. They quickly gained ground from 1931. In Vienna they
gained 37 per cent of the votes at the university in 1931/32, and at the
Technische Hochschule they won 49.5 per cent. In 1930 the Technische
Hochschule of Graz became the first institution in the German language
area where Nazis won all the seats.309
Tension between the völkisch-national and National Socialist students
on the one hand and the Catholic students on the other increased from
1932–33.310 The latter explicitly rejected Nazism, although they also
opposed Marxism. The Nazi students for their part linked up with
the nationalist pre-war ‘Freedom from Rome’ movement. Following the
Anschluss of March 1938, they took over completely. They were able to
have the University of Graz renamed Adolf-Hitler-Universität, and they
started a campaign to ‘purify’ the student community of Jews and political
opponents. Backing for the NSDStB grew to 55.6 per cent of the student
population and, at the Technische Hochschule in the same city, to as much
as 70.3 per cent.311

t h e c h a r m o f f a s c i s m (1919–1939)
The disappearance of Austria-Hungary was coupled in Central Europe
with the formation of new nation states, where the students felt called
to serve a national revival movement. This was also the case in the
re-created Poland.312 The students in Cracow began forming a Student
Legion on 3 November 1918, before the actual armistice. Afterwards,
several hundred students took part in the fighting in three Silesian upris-
ings, in the hope of gaining the whole of Silesia for Poland. The stu-
dent umbrella organization Zwia̧zek Narodowy Polskiej Mlodzieży Aka-
demickiej (ZNPMA) (National Association of the Polish Academic Youth)
was dominated by the nationalist and anti-Semitic313 student association
Mlodzież Wsechpolska (Pan-Polish Youth). The Catholic student circle
Odrodzenie (Renaissance), which was re-established in 1918, initially

309 D. Binder, ‘Der Weg der Studentenschaft in den Nationalsozialismus’, in C. Brünner and
H. Konrad (eds.), Die Universität und 1938 (Vienna and Cologne, 1989), 75–7, 82–6.
310 Ibid., 79–86, 88–9. 311 Ibid., 93.
312 Révész, Jugendbewegungem (note 12), 64–5.
313 The Jewish community in Poland formed 9–10 per cent of the population, and at the
most important universities a quarter to a third of all students in the early 1920s were
Jewish (Cracow 24 per cent, Lwów 31 per cent, Vilnius 33 per cent and Warsaw 23 per
cent). A. Pilch, Studencki ruch polityczny w Polsce w latach 1932–1939 (The political
student movement in Poland 1932–1939) (Cracow, 1972), 144–71.

351
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

supported it but in 1923 came into conflict with it, because they placed
Catholicism above nationalism. A younger generation, centred in Vilnius,
opted in 1929 for the Christian personalism of Jacques Maritain (1882–
1973),314 and wanted to form a common front of all students who rejected
integral nationalism. But this progressive trend was reined back at the
(Catholic) Social Week of 1932 by the established Catholic organizations,
resulting in a split in the Catholic student association.
A middle position was taken by the populist ‘Association of Polish
Democratic Youth’, which had been set up in 1927 to bring together
those young people whom Marshal Pilsudski (1867–1935) – the strong
man of Poland since 1926 – wanted to help in attaining the Sanacja, an
authoritarian programme for moral revival, political clean-up and social
solidarity. But in the early thirties the Sanacja regime supported a more
radical student association that was on the rise at the time, the ‘Legion
of the Young Academic Association of Working for the People’, which
agitated for social reform in a corporative sense. The regime disbanded
all other national student associations in 1933, so that Mlodzież Wsech-
polska, Odrodzenie and the small socialist and Communist student asso-
ciations were all affected.
In the left-wing camp, some tried to form a popular front against
Fascism, the focal-point of which were the Communists, particularly in
Cracow and Warsaw. In the winter of 1935–36, the front organized strikes
to protest the rise in the cost of higher education, but it was rebuffed by
right-wing and traditional student formations, which created gangs of
thugs to disrupt the lectures of Jewish and left-wing professors and to
brutalize Jewish and left-wing students. In addition, in 1937 and 1938,
there were police and government actions targeted at left-wingers.315
Prague was the seat of the ‘Czechoslovak’ central student umbrella
organization, with a Slovak branch located in Brno (Brünn), while a purely
Slovak student umbrella organization existed alongside this in Bratislava
(Pressburg).316 Prague also housed a Russian University partly financed
by the Czechoslovak Government and a Ukrainian University with their

314 On Maritain: chapter 10, 403. In 1934, Maritain visited Poland, when he attended
the international Thomist Congress in Poznań. His ideas were disseminated in Poland
in particular through the monthly magazine Pax (Vilnius), and from the end of the
thirties through the quarterly Verbum (Warsaw). Four of his works appeared in Polish
translation before the Second World War. J. Babiuch-Luxmoore, ‘Het personalisme en
de oppositie in Polen’, in L. Bouckaert and G. Bouckaert, Metafysiek en Engagement.
Een personalistische visie op gemeenschap en economie (Louvain, 1992), 25.
315 Wankel, Organizations (note 125), 8.
316 ‘Ústředni svaz československého studentstva’ (ÚSČS: Central Association of the
Czechoslovakian Student Body), ‘Sväz československého studentstva’ (Association of
Czechoslovakian Students) ‘Sväz slovenského studentstva’ (Association of Slovakian
Students).

352
Student movements

corresponding immigrant student associations.317 The two associations


had a tense relationship with each other, but both sent representatives to
the Conféderation Internationale des Étudiants (CIE). Despite the official
Czechoslovak hospitality towards foreigners, there were conflicts, partic-
ularly with the German-speaking students, because they adopted a radical
German nationalist stance throughout the inter-war period. In 1920 a law
was passed stipulating that the insignia of the Charles University would
be transferred to the Czech university. But this provision was not put into
effect. In 1934, this led to violent nationalist demonstrations by Czech stu-
dents demanding its implementation. The riots lasted three days. Czech
Fascists exploited them in an attempt to bring the student movement
under their influence, but they failed in this attempt. German-speaking
students, on the other hand, then openly opted for National Socialism.
They formed what were known as Volkssport groups, which perpetrated
anti-Czech and anti-Semitic actions, and whose leaders, arrested by the
Czech authorities, continued to attract support as martyrs of the move-
ment.318
The occupation of Bohemia and Moravia by Germany in March 1939
fostered a spirit of resistance among many Czech students, the most impor-
tant resultant actions being large demonstrations on 28 October and
15 November 1939, but which were broken up. There were fatalities,
many demonstrators were incarcerated, and all the Czech universities
and technical colleges closed. Of the arrested students, 1,200 Czechs aged
twenty and more were sent to the Oranienburg camp. This fitted in with
the Nazi plan to destroy the Czech nation, either by assimilation or – as
far as the intelligentsia was concerned – by deportation and extermina-
tion.319 In Slovakia, the situation was different because a satellite state
dependent on Nazi Germany was set up there under Monsignor Jozef
Tiso (1887–1947).
In Romania, the expansion of the country’s territory after the First
World War resulted in a doubling of the population and an increase in
ethnic minorities. Against this background, students belonging to the ‘gen-
eration of 1922’ launched a protest movement under the leadership of a
law student, Corneliu Codreanu (1899–1938), against overcrowding in

317 ‘Obedinenie russkich emigrantskich studentčeskich organizacji’ (Association of Student


Organizations of Russian Emigrants); ‘Central’nyj emigrantskij sojuz ukraı̈ns’kych stu-
dentiv’ (Central Association of Ukrainian Students in Emigration).
318 J. Havranek, ‘Fascism in Czechoslovakia’, in P. F. Sugar (ed.), Native Fascism in the
Successor States (Santa Barbara, 1971), 47–55.
319 J. F. Zacek, ‘Nationalism in Czechoslovakia’, in P. F. Sugar and J. Lederer, Nationalism
in Eastern Europe (Seattle and London, 1969), 166–207; ‘The Czech intellectual elite
and middle class were singled out by the Nazi program of terror and supplied a dispro-
portionate number of some 200,000 persons who passed through concentration camps
and the 250,000 reported to have died during the occupation’, Ibid., 196–7.

353
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

the universities, making the ‘aliens’ and especially the Jews responsible
for the ‘Bolshevik threat’. When the exclusion of the Jews did not imme-
diately succeed, students opted for a conspiracy, with the aim of assassi-
nating liberal politicians and Jewish bankers. The plotters were rounded
up in 1923 and put on trial, but they turned the trial into an indictment
of the established order. In 1924, Codreanu murdered a police officer, but
his trial was repeatedly postponed by the authorities under pressure from
violent rioting in the streets by students, and he was finally acquitted by
a jury, all the members of which had swastika buttons in their lapels. In
1927, he founded the ‘Legion of the Archangel Michael’, later known as
the ‘Iron Guard’. The student leaders of the ‘generation of 1922’ became
the leaders of the Romanian Fascist movement, the largest in any country
outside Italy and Germany.320
In Spain, General Miguel Primo de Rivera established a dictatorship
in 1922. He abolished the statute granting university autonomy and –
without much success – pressured the students to become members of the
Juventudes Patrióticas of his unity party. From 1926 on, student associ-
ations turned ever more clearly against the dictatorship. In 1927, they
joined the Federación universitaria escolar (FUE) in Madrid, which was
led by Antonio Maria Sbert (1901–80). The FUE officially had no right
to exist, but it was supported by some professors and by the writer José
Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955), who dedicated his book Misión de la uni-
versidad to it in 1930. The FUE met with opposition, however, from
the Confederación de estudiantes católicos, which supported the regime,
because the regime for its part favoured the Catholic universities. These
were the universities of Deusto, Navarra and El Escorial.
In 1928, these Catholic universities received from the government the
right to grant academic degrees. This prompted a protest movement
encouraged by the FUE that was nonetheless suppressed, after which
Sbert was banished to Mallorca in 1930.321 This led to further student
protest. Students pelted the house of Primo de Rivera with stones. The
University of Madrid was closed. On 22 December 1930, a student strike
began, leading to the fall of the dictator, after which Sbert returned in tri-
umph. The FUE was now declared legal, and it became more influential
during the first few years of the Republic. It opposed the old-fashioned
curriculum, favouring academic freedom and the liberalization of the
universities.
From 1931–32, left-wing student associations promoting a true ‘back-
to-the-people-spirit’ urged the setting-up of folk high schools; they
320 I. Livezeanu, ‘Fascists and Conservatives in Romania: Two Generations of Nationalists’,
in M. Blinkhorn (ed.), Fascists and Conservatives: The Radical Right and the Establish-
ment in Twentieth-century Europe (London, 1990), 218–39.
321 Feuer, Conflict (note 42), 294–5.

354
Student movements

toured the country in educational campaigns with a popular theatre (‘La


Barraca’), and with puppet shows and a ‘cinema for the people’.
When the Civil War broke out in 1936, many students became involved
in the fighting on various fronts, in various formations, both left wing
and right wing. A considerable number of students perished. The dicta-
torship, established by General Francisco Franco (1892–1975), led to the
‘gagging’ of the democratic and left-wing student movement. The FUE
was dismantled and the opposition driven into clandestine activity. In the
student world, power went to the Falangist ‘Spanish Student Union’ that
was tied to the apron strings of the regime.
In Italy the Duce Benito Mussolini (1883–1945) liked to present him-
self as the spokesman for a new generation and contrasted the ‘young’
Fascist Italy with the senility of the ‘old Europe’. The highest level of
the Fascist youth movement (Opera Nazionale Balilla) was the Gruppo
Universitaro Fascista (GUF), open to students aged 26 or less. In 1935, it
had 68,659 members. As well as providing training in Fascist doctrine, it
fostered sporting, recreational and para-military development, which also
included compulsory weekly pre-military exercises under the leadership
of officers from the militia. The main attraction of the GUF was that it
was responsible for student accommodation, medical student services and
student grants.322 From 1932, the GUF organized each year the Littoriali
della Cultura e dell’Arte. These were a kind of oratory contest, where
discussion took place on society and Fascist ideals in the framework of
the official ideology. National prizes were awarded to anyone who, on the
basis of science, could make practical proposals for daily life in the mod-
ern age. The Littoriali were the most free forum for discussion in Fascist
Italy, and a place where criticism of various aspects of the regime could
be expressed. The students were very interested in debates on Fascism as
a ‘social revolution’ and the way in which corporatism had to be applied
as a new social order. The GUF also sponsored inter-university Littoriali
in sport and athletics.
Although no independent student movement existed, there was some
scope for discussion in Italy, and the GUF even faced competition from
Catholic student associations affiliated to the Vatican-supported Feder-
azione Universitaria Cattolica Italiana (FUCI), in which an anti-Fascist
trend was also manifested. The tension between the two groups increased
when, in 1931, the regime wanted to liquidate the Azione Cattolica and
the groups of the FUCI, but this tension was defused when Mussolini

322 M. Ostenc, L’Education en Italie pendant le fascisme (Paris, 1980). M. Ostenc, ‘Les
étudiants fascistes italiens des années 1930’, Le Mouvement Social (July–September
1982), 95–106; R. J. Wolff, ‘Fascisizing Italian Youth: The Limits of Mussolini’s Edu-
cational System’, History of Education, 13 (1984), 287–298; M. A. Ledeen, ‘Italian
Fascism and Youth’, Journal of Contemporary History, 4 (1969), 137–54.

355
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

and Pius XI were able to reach a compromise. Dissatisfaction with the


rapprochement with Nazi Germany and its racial legislation nevertheless
grew among a large number of students in the late thirties.

s t u d e n t m o v e m e n t s w i t h o u t b o r d e r s (1919–1939)
After the First World War, a new dawn seemed to emerge for international
understanding. In 1919, in response to a French initiative, delegates from
seventeen countries met at a first international student congress, which
decided to create a permanent international association as an umbrella
for the national student organizations. The initial name, Réunion des Etu-
diants Alliés, referred to the fact that the Central Powers at first were not
invited.323 The English students, with support from the Dutch, opposed
this exclusion. They succeeded in having students from the Central Pow-
ers admitted to the association in 1924, resulting in a change of name to
the Conféderation Internationale des Étudiants (CIE).
The CIE promoted the exchange of students, international student facil-
ities, and studies relating to higher education and student life. The head-
quarters in Brussels offered affiliated student organizations all kinds of
services such as travel assistance, information on jobs, and sponsorship of
sports events such as the World University Games.324 The most tangible
results of the CIE included the creation of a ‘University Book Centre’,
which was able to provide students with cheap books, and aid actions to
benefit impoverished students in Central and Eastern Europe.325 In 1937,
the League of Nations – which the previous year had set up a World Youth
Congress – officially recognized the CIE as a world-wide representative
student organization. It ceased to operate when the Germans invaded
Belgium in May 1940.
Despite its strict adherence to an apolitical stance, the CIE did not
escape the influence of political division. Firstly there was the initial ani-
mosity towards the defeated enemy, but secondly and above all there
was the principle that the association was only willing to recognize one
national umbrella organization for each country, so that the association
itself stirred up nationalist antagonism. In Czechoslovakia, the Deutsche
Studentenschaft, which adopted a völkisch position and claimed to repre-
sent all German-speaking students, was not recognized by the CIE. When
323 Altbach, ‘International Student Movement’ (note 225), 156–74; Burg, Encyclopedia
(note 21), 55. In 1919 only France, Luxembourg, Spain, Poland, Czechoslovakia and
Romania were considered to have a national student umbrella organization, and to be
among the Allies. They were therefore membres titulaires. Other Western countries for
the time being became membres libres. However, the number of full members gradually
expanded.
324 Frank and Wiardi Beckman, Geschiedenis (note 47), 217–18.
325 Droeve, ‘Studentenraad’ (note 259), 115–32, esp. 119.

356
Student movements

a new, democratically orientated, umbrella organization was set up in


1929, the Deutscher Studentenverein, the CIE found a partner for dis-
cussion.326 After Hitler seized power in 1933, it was abolished, and the
Germans no longer co-operated with the CIE.
Belgium was represented in the CIE by the exclusively French-speaking
Union Nationale des Étudiants Belges (UNEB), and the Flemish students
formed an umbrella organization of their own, the Algemeen Vlaams
Hoogstudentenverbond (AVHV), which, as a result of the mediation of
Dutch and Scandinavian students, was able to attend the second CIE
Congress in Brussels in September 1920, but which did not succeed in
being recognized as a full member then or in the ensuing years.327
The ideal of understanding across national borders was also pursued by
other student associations in many countries. In both Central and Western
Europe, specific student associations developed in favour of the League
of Nations and world peace,328 and they sought contact with each other
at the international congresses of the Friends of the League of Nations.
Congresses of this kind – in Rome (1927), Paris (1928), Budapest (1929),
Brussels (1930) and Riga (1931) – created ties between the student leaders
and promoted the expansion of bilateral contacts. Following on from
this, associations aiming to promote bilateral understanding between
two nations came into being. Associations were set up in Poland and
Czechoslovakia, for example, with names such as the ‘Academic Circle
of Friends of France’.329
Distinctly ideological umbrella organizations were also formed. The
Catholic student umbrella organization Pax Romana (now the ‘Interna-
tional Movement of Catholic Students’ – IMCS) was set up in 1921 at
a congress in Fribourg, with representatives from seventeen European
countries, and it was officially recognized by the Vatican.330 It organized
international student congresses on substantive Catholic issues, but it also
offered student services such as direct assistance and student exchange,
while acting as a representative body for the Catholic student community
in the international forum. A permanent secretariat was set up in Warsaw
in 1929 for Catholic student associations in the Slav countries, which,
as a division of Pax Romana, was given the name Slavica Catholica. A
World Assembly was held in Washington in 1939. This was a sign that
expansion into other continents was being promoted. From 1941, Pax
Romana began operating in Latin America.
326 Cf. pp. 347–8.
327 J. Vermeulen. Geschiedkundig overzicht van de werking van het Algemeen Vlaamsch
Hoogstudentenverbond sinds zijn ontstaan 1919 tot de viering van het IIe lustrum 1929
(Louvain, 1929).
328 Batowski, ‘Studentenvereine’ (note 291), 49–56. 329 Ibid., 51–3.
330 B. Pelegri, IMCS-IYCS: Their Option, Their Pedagogy (Kowloon, Hong Kong, 1979),
3–10.

357
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos

The Communist international student and youth organizations, which


started operating shortly after the October Revolution, were an attempt
by students with a Soviet leaning to bring the international student forum
under control, as they had previously done with the Russian student move-
ment.331 At the first post-war international congress in November 1919,
Willy Münzenberg (1889–1940) did not invite the ‘right-wing’ or ‘centrist’
social democracy, and the existing organization became the Communist
International of Youth (known by its Russian abbreviation KIM). At the
second congress held in Jena in 1921, it was found that the organization
had become an instrument of the Komintern. Between 1921 and 1924,
the KIM followed an ultra-left line, regarding social-democratic or other
left-wing associations as enemies. The students from the Soviet Union in
the twenties were not affiliated to the CIE.
At the end of the twenties, the Soviet Union took the lead in all kinds of
initiatives for international disarmament and also set up ‘front organiza-
tions’ under ‘neutral’ names to bring non-Communists into a movement
that was actually led by Communists.332 One of these was the ‘League
against Imperialism’, which was founded in 1927 with an anti-colonialist
programme at a conference in Brussels;333 another was the ‘League against
War and Fascism’ launched by Münzenberg, which started with a World
Congress Against War in Amsterdam in 1932 boycotted by the social-
ist international,334 and which from 1937 was known as the ‘League for
Peace and Democracy’.
The anti-Fascist peace movement received a significant boost after
Hitler seized power in January 1933, as shown by the ‘World Youth
Congress for Peace’ held in Paris in that year, in which more than 100,000
young people took part, making it the largest youth manifestation of the
inter-war period. It was followed in 1934 by a ‘World Student Congress
Against War and Fascism’ in Brussels.335 In the meantime the Commu-
nists also controlled de facto the ‘World Student Association’, the ‘Amer-
ican Youth Congress’ and the ‘American National Student League’.336
Communist infiltration did not alter the fact that this protest movement
against Fascism and war was a genuine social movement, led by stu-
dents who believed in their cause but who in their actions were drawn
331 Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 20–9.
332 G. van Maanen, The International Student Movement. History and Backgound (The
Hague, 1966), 13–22.
333 Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 31.
334 Burg, Encyclopedia (note 21), 9, ‘Among the leaders of the Congress were US author
Sherwood Anderson and the French novelist Henri Barbusse’; the American National
Student League had sent a delegate and in December 1932, organized a Student Congress
Against War in Chicago.
335 Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 52.
336 D. Caute, The Fellow-Travellers: A Postscript to the Enlightenment (New York, 1973),
132–40.

358
Student movements

by the radical appeal of Communism. From 1934, a new international


line was adopted by Moscow, aimed at the formation of ‘popular fronts’
against Fascism. Henceforth, the KIM opted for co-operation with other
left-wingers, thereby strengthening its leading role in the anti-war move-
ment.337 They helped to organize the World Youth Congress held for the
first time in September 1936 in Geneva, and two years later in Vassar, in the
United States. These meetings influenced left-wing student leaders from
every European country and had an impact particularly in England – the
only country where a left-wing student movement became dominant in
the thirties. Around 1937 a ‘World Student Association’/Rassemblement
mondial des Etudiants (WSA/RME) came into being, with the ‘indepen-
dent’ but Communist sympathizer James Klugmann (1912–77) as gen-
eral secretary. The WSA/RME brought together student associations from
Western countries as well as the colonies, where the students were often
involved in anti-imperialist actions.
The Nazi-Soviet Pact of August 1939 and the subsequent Soviet attack
on Poland as a partner of Nazi Germany in September 1939 and on Fin-
land in November 1939 dealt a severe blow to the ‘front organizations’,
resulting in a drain on numbers and a split, so that these ‘front organi-
zations’ disappeared from the national and international stage one after
the other.338 In a Europe dominated by the new order, a new interna-
tional student umbrella organization – Jung Europa – began operating
under German leadership, with an international student congress held in
Dresden in 1941, attended by some pre-war national student umbrella
organizations such as the Flemish VVS.339
When the Second World War broke out in September 1939, the Nazi
regime in Germany was less inclined than ever to give up its grip on the
student world. There was no place for academic protest against Hitler’s
policies.

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Anderson, R. D. Universities and Elites in Britain since 1800, London, 1992.
Bleuel, H. P. and Klinnnert, E. Der deutsche Student auf dem Weg ins Dritte Reich.
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2001.
337 Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 50–8.
338 Caute, Fellow-Travellers (note 336), 189–99; Kotek, Jeune Garde (note 242), 60–82.
339 D. Martin, De Rijksuniversiteit Gent tijdens de bezetting 1940–1944: leven met de
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Faust, A. Der Nationalsozialistische Studentenbund. Studenten und National-
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Feuer, L. S. The Conflict of Generations: The Character and Significance of Student
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Gerbod, P. ‘Le monde étudiant français depuis un siècle: attitudes confessionnelles,
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Cahiers de Clio, Brussels and Liège, 1980.
Gevers, L. Bewogen Jeugd. Ontstaan en ontwikkeling van de katholieke Vlaamse
studentenbeweging. 1830–1894, Louvain, 1987.
Grüttner, M. Studenten im Dritten Reich. Geschichte der deutschen Studenten-
schaft. 1933–1945, Paderborn, 1995.
Hagendijk, R. Het studentenleven. Opkomst en verval van de traditionele studen-
tencultuur, Amsterdam, 1980.
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Kassow, S. D. Students, Professors, and the State in Tsarist Russia, Berkeley and
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Kater, M. H. Studentenschaft und Rechtsradikalismus in Deutschland. 1918–
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Klinge, M. Eine nordische Universität. Die Universität Helsinki. 1640–1990,
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Klose, W. Freiheit schreibt auf eure Fahnen. 800 Jahre Deutsche Studenten, Old-
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Kotek, J. La jeune Garde. La jeunesse entre KGB et CIA. 1917–1989, Paris, 1996.
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in der Zeit von 1918 bis 1923 und ihre Stellung zur Politik, Berlin, 1971.
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361
CHAPTER 9

G R A D U AT I O N A N D C A R E E R S

KONRAD H. JARAUSCH

introduction
In educational practice, the maxim non scholae, sed vitae discimus is more
often violated than observed. Following this mind-set, university histori-
ans have written volumes on what goes into institutions of higher learn-
ing and what happens within them. But they have all too often ignored
their output, namely the consequences of such training for culture, society
and polity. The topic of ‘graduation and careers’ surfaces only occasion-
ally in university historiography, usually in the guise of ‘alumni history’.
Anniversary Festschriften abound with references to famous sons of an
alma mater, with the institution taking full credit for illustrious individual
achievement. One extreme specimen relating to the nineteenth century is
an East German coffee table book on Karl Marx’s years at the University
of Berlin.1
In countries with strong student associations such as Germany, a second
variant of the genre is fraternity history. Sometimes coupled with lists of
Old Boys, these amateurish accounts chronicle the development of a par-
ticular student corporation. Reflecting nostalgia, career listings are used
as a recruiting tool to impress newcomers with the graduates’ success.2
In cultures with less academic migration and more general institutional
loyalty such as Great Britain, universities sometimes edit biographical
registers of their famous alumni. Based upon address lists used largely

1 G. Steiger, R. Lange, E.-G. Schmidt and I. Taubert (eds.), Die Promotion von Karl Marx –
Jena 1843 (Berlin, 1983).
2 M. Dreßler (ed.), Festschrift zur Feier des fünfzigjährigen Bestehens der Verbindung
Thuringia an der Universität Halle-Wittenberg (Halle, 1910). Cf. also the printed Corpslis-
ten and Burschenschaftslisten as well as K. H. Jarausch, Deutsche Studenten, 1800–1970,
Edition Suhrkamp, n.s. 258 (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1984). Fraternity lists are inadequate
sources for career data, since they only cover a small and atypical part of the student body.

363
Konrad H. Jarausch

for the purpose of soliciting donations, these dictionaries are a poten-


tially important source for investigating the subsequent role of graduates
prosopographically. If they are linked with matriculation records, such
alumni directories allow the comparison of inputs with outputs of higher
education, thereby revealing patterns of social hierarchy and mobility.3
Such sources are preferable to declarations of intent of high-school leavers,
since they deal with actual outcomes rather than anticipated hopes.4 Yet
in spite of their interesting material, such volumes of alumni history lack
a theoretical thrust which would make their conclusions generally inter-
esting. Current studies of higher education and occupation in the late
twentieth and early twenty-first centuries are also of little help, since they
are preoccupied with labour market control.5
If it were linked more closely to higher education, professionalization
theory might provide a conceptual focus, since it systematically addresses
the role of academic careers. Without help from university history, this
approach was developed by social historians interested in the emergence
of the learned professions and by social scientists intent on generaliz-
ing about their increasing importance in society.6 While the radical per-
spective on the intellectuals or intelligentsia captures only a minority of
politically committed literati, a professions’ focus can address the prob-
lems of all higher education graduates.7 Since most definitions include
references to tertiary training and the acquisition of credentials by exam-
ination, this approach poses systematic questions about the relationship
between higher learning and subsequent careers.8 Although there has
been some discussion of the professionalization of professorial pursuits,
most accounts of lawyers, doctors and the like are practitioner centred
and remote from the academy. In order to become fruitful for university

3 P. Harrigan, Mobility, Elites and Education in French Society of the Second Empire (Water-
loo, Ont., 1980), 32; D. K. Müller and B. Zymek (eds.), Sozialgeschichte und Statistik des
Schulsystems in den Staaten des Deutschen Reiches, 1800–1945, Datenhandbuch zur
deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. II: Höhere und mittlere Schulen 1 (Göttingen, 1987).
4 History of Oxford, VI. There has also been considerable work on the graduates of the
French grandes écoles, such as J. Weiss, The Making of Technological Man: The Social Ori-
gins of French Engineering Education (Cambridge, Mass., 1982). However, these studies
only give information on a single institution so that the wider national pattern still remains
to be explored.
5 U. Teichler, ‘Forschung über Hochschule und Beruf’, in D. Goldschmidt et al. (eds.),
Forschungsgegenstand Hochschule: Überblick und Trendbericht (Frankfurt-am-Main,
1984), 193ff.
6 M. Burrage and R. Thorstendahl (eds.), The Professions in Theory and History, 2 vols.
(London 1990). See vol. II, 398ff. and notes 132–5 (W. Frijhoff, ‘Graduation and Careers’).
7 C. Charle, Les intellectuels en Europe au XIXe siècle. Essai d’histoire comparée (Paris,
1996); J. Kuczynski, Die Intelligenz. Zur Soziologie und Geschichte ihrer Grossen
(Cologne, 1987).
8 C. E. McClelland, ‘Zur Professionalisierung der akademischen Berufe in Deutschland’, in
Bildungsbürgertum, 233ff.

364
Graduation and careers

history, research on professions therefore has to engage in questions of


training and certification more systematically.9 Recent shifts in profession-
alization theory from an a priori knowledge-based conception to a critical
debunking of professional egotism have made such a rapprochement diffi-
cult.10 But greater attention to continental experiences has not only drawn
attention to the crucial role of the state but also increased appreciation
of the importance of formal education as opposed to the apprenticeship
training of the British system.11 It might therefore be useful to explore
such academic issues as training, organization, labour market and insti-
tutional tradition from a professionalization perspective, although in the
absence of systematic information about the subsequent careers of Euro-
pean university graduates between 1800 and 1939, the following remarks
can only provide a preliminary sketch of developments which still needs
to be completed with further national and occupational detail.12

t h e ro l e o f k n ow l e d g e i n t h e r i s e o f
the professions
The role of knowledge in the rise of the professions has become some-
what disputed. While functionalists assume that professionals are its liv-
ing embodiment, critics concede only a rhetorical utility for justifying
professional claims. Such differences persist, since the structure of that
expertise is rarely discussed in detail. The distinctions of the German
philosopher Max Scheler between religious, meritocratic and political
knowledge (Heils-, Leistungs- und Herrschaftswissen) are not particu-
larly helpful.13 A comparative look at nineteenth-century universities and
professions suggests a different typology.
A prerequisite of higher learning and of academic occupations was some
form of general cultivation. Known variously as liberal education, Allge-
meinbildung or culture générale, this generalized cultural capital func-
tioned both as common ground for the educated and as a social divide

9 See the chapters by A. Engel, C. E. McClelland and C. E. Timberlake in K. H. Jarausch


(ed.), The Transformation of Higher Learning, 1860–1930: Expansion, Diversification,
Social Opening, and Professionalization in England, Germany, Russia and the United
States, Historisch-sozialwissenschaftliche Forschungen 13 (Stuttgart, 1983), 293ff.; E. J.
Engstrom, ‘The Birth of Clinical Psychiatry: Power, Knowledge and Professionalization
in Germany, 1867–1914’ (Ph.D. diss., University of North Carolina, 1997).
10 T. Parsons, ‘Professions’, in International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences (New York,
1968), vol. XII, 536ff. vs. R. Collins, The Credential Society: A Historical Sociology of
Education and Stratification (New York, 1979).
11 M. Burrage, K. H. Jarausch and H. Siegrist, ‘An Actor-Oriented Framework for the
Study of the Professions: Prerequisites for a Theory’, in Burrage and Thorstendahl (eds.),
Professions (note 6), 203–25.
12 Cf. the chapters ‘Graduation and careers’ in vols. I and II.
13 J. Kocka, ‘Einleitung’, in Bildungsbürgertum, 17ff.

365
Konrad H. Jarausch

to those below. More peculiar to tertiary institutions and professions was


specialized scientific knowledge, involving a mastery of the dynamic prin-
ciples of a scholarly discipline. Such Fachwissen was the specific prop-
erty of its initiates, providing insights beyond the grasp of the layman
and thereby justifying professional prerogatives. Though usually under-
estimated in academic rhetoric, there was, finally, practical competence,
applied in professional work. Consisting of a set of experiential rules and
codes of behaviour, such Berufswissen was the foundation of practice,
often considerably more important than claimed scholarly expertise.14
During the course of the nineteenth century emphasis shifted from liberal
education to scientific instruction while practical training grew ever more
elaborate.
Not surprisingly, these different aspects of knowledge have resulted in
distinctive arrangements for professional training. Liberal education was
generally located in classical secondary institutions such as the Gymna-
sium, lycée or public school, concluded by a recognized examination such
as the Abitur or the baccalaureate. However, some remnants of medieval
tradition survived on the post-secondary level in the arts faculty of British
colleges with the Bachelor degree. Actual scientific instruction largely took
place in tertiary institutions such as the universities or grandes écoles,
usually concentrated during the middle or later years of study. Hence
the MA or first state examination (Erstes Staatsexamen) emerged as the
degrees ratifying its achievement. The pursuit of the doctorate was usu-
ally reserved for academic careers although in medicine and law it became
also a professional badge around the turn of the last century.
While some practical training was included in university or technical
institute courses, the bulk of professional socialization tended to take
place in apprenticeship systems of learning on the job, usually follow-
ing the completion of scholarly education. Hence certification of this
third stage generally involved a larger practitioner influence, whether
as corporate self-government in qualifying associations or in mixed aca-
demic, government and practical commissions for a second state exam-
ination (zweites Staatsexamen). While secondary schooling prerequisites
increased everywhere, the course of scientific study became more extensive
and informal apprenticeship was integrated into a formal higher educa-
tion sequence.15

14 P. Lundgreen, ‘Wissen und Bürgertum. Skizze eines historischen Vergleichs zwischen


Preußen/Deutschland, Frankreich, England und den USA, 18.–20. Jahrhundert’, in H.
Siegrist (ed.), Bürgerliche Berufe: Zur Sozialgeschichte der freien und akademischen
Berufe im internationalen Vergleich. Acht Beiträge, Kritische Studien zur Geschichtswis-
senschaft 80 (Göttingen, 1988), 106ff.
15 K. H. Jarausch, ‘Higher Education and Social Change: Some Comparative Perspectives’,
in Jarausch (ed.), Transformation (note 9), 9ff.

366
Graduation and careers

During the nineteenth century, the examination system gradually


evolved into the crucial link between training and practice. For profes-
sional careers, it was not expertise as such, but its certification, which
created cultural capital. The shingle on the wall and the title on the call-
ing card symbolically represented a licence which permitted the holder
to practise and at the same time assured the public of a minimum stan-
dard of competence. In bureaucratized countries, the importance of state
approved credentials gave rise to a veritable entitlement system, known
by its German term as Berechtigungswesen. Despite considerable public
criticism of its rigidity, this set of government decrees and informal prac-
tices regulated the relationship between training and occupation through
a series of increasing thresholds, requiring a certain degree for a specific
level of employment. At its pinnacle stood the licensing of highly trained
professionals who were thereby guaranteed a market monopoly.16
In more openly capitalistic societies, the qualifying associations of prac-
titioners themselves assumed similar functions of creating professional
examinations. Controlling career access, tests such as the bar exam, med-
ical boards, etc., did not necessarily guarantee a monopoly, but at least
they conveyed powerful competitive advantages. Not only testing aca-
demic achievement or practical experience, such examinations also reg-
ulated entry into a profession. Hence their standards and passing rates
tended to vary with the state of the job market.17 Though the relation-
ship is complex, the social constitution of the professions came to rest on
the superior performance of abstract knowledge and the market control
guaranteed by licensed expertise.
Owing to the bourgeois belief that ‘knowledge is power’, the control of
expertise sparked incessant struggles between professionals and profes-
sors, mediated by bureaucrats and clients. Usually preliminary liberal edu-
cation was relatively uncontroversial, even if aspiring occupations, such
as dentists, veterinarians or engineers, tried to use increases in their career
prerequisites as a strategy for gaining professional status. Conflicts have
focused rather on the amount and kind of scientific instruction, with prac-
titioners more sceptical than professors about its work value. Often clients
resisted the academization of expertise and agitated for lay jurisprudence,
folk healing and the like. The practical stage provoked constant quar-
rels between academics, insisting on its location within universities, and
16 D. K. Müller, Sozialstruktur und Schulsystem. Aspekte zum Strukturwandel des Schul-
wesens im 19. Jahrhundert, W. Rüegg and O. Neuloh (eds.), Studien zum Wandel von
Gesellschaft und Bild, 9 (Göttingen, 1977).
17 M. Ramsey, ‘The Politics of Professional Monopoly in the 19th Century Medicine:
The French Model and its Rivals’, in R. Geison (ed.), Professions and the French
State (Philadelphia, 1984), 225ff. Cf. H. Titze et al., ‘Prüfungsauslese und Berufszu-
gang der Akademiker 1880–40’, in P. Lösche (ed.), Göttinger Sozialwissenschaften heute,
Fragestellungen, Methoden, Inhalte (Göttingen, 1990), 181–233.

367
Konrad H. Jarausch

practitioners, demanding a greater share of training relevant to actual job


situations.18 During the late nineteenth century the state increasingly inter-
vened with its own interests for legally trained civil servants or govern-
ment technicians, thereby bureaucratizing the final phase of apprentice-
ship. While the interests of university and profession somewhat coincided
in relation to the amount of scientific expertise demanded, they clashed
about its character and the location of its instruction. In the course of these
struggles, the once-dominant clients slowly lost their power of patronage
and became passive consumers of professional services. Though accept-
ing the increase of competence standards as salutary, many users began
to resent ‘medicalization’ or ‘legalization’ which left them at the tender
mercies of the experts.19
The growth of knowledge increased during the nineteenth century the
importance of formal training for the professions. The much-debated tran-
sition from classical to modern liberal education somewhat facilitated this
development. However, the shift from reproduction to the discovery of
knowledge after 1800 was the crucial breakthrough in reshaping tradi-
tional scholarship into modern science. Though in practice a more gradual
transition from citing the classics to empirical investigation, this change
transferred academic priority from teaching to research. With the grad-
ual breakdown of the philosophical unity of knowledge, scholarship was
organized increasingly along disciplinary lines around different central
questions and distinctive methods. Reflected in the university chair system,
journals and scientific organizations,20 such communities of discourse
began to fragment the traditional faculties and dominate academic life.21
This explosion of science also forced a redirection of practical training.
In bureaucratic regimes on the Continent, the final phase of occupational
initiation was more strongly integrated into academic procedures and
examination. Even in countries with apprenticeship traditions, profes-
sional instruction gradually returned to formal institutions of higher learn-
ing. Moreover, a whole new hybrid sector of applied research emerged
in technical or commercial colleges.22 By 1900 the different corporate

18 M. Burrage, ‘Practitioners, Professors and the State in France, the USA and England’, in
S. Goodland (ed.), Educating for the Professions (London, 1986).
19 H. Siegrist, ‘Bürgerliche Berufe. Professionen und das Bürgertum’, in Siegrist (ed.),
Bürgerliche Berufe (note 14), 28ff. For medicalization cf. also R. Spree, Soziale Ungleich-
heit vor Krankheit und Tod: Zur Sozialgeschichte des Gesundheitsbereichs im deutschen
Kaiserreich, Kleine Vandenhoeck-Reihe 1471 (Göttingen, 1981), 138ff.
20 Cf. part IV, e.g. chapter 11.
21 R. S. Turner, ‘The Growth of Professorial Research in Prussia, 1818 to 1848’, Historical
Studies in the Physical Sciences, 3 (1971), 137ff.; J. Ben-David, The Scientist’s Role in
Society: A Comparative Study (Englewood Cliffs, 1971).
22 R. Locke, The End of the Practical Man: Entrepreneurship and Higher Education in
Germany, France, and Great Britain, 1880–1940, Industrial development and the social
fabric 7 (Greenwich, Conn., 1984).

368
Graduation and careers

and bureaucratic systems began to converge. Recapturing the ground lost


by its corporate predecessor, the research university became, in Harold
Perkin’s phrase, the central powerhouse of modern society.23

the process of professionalization


Though closely related to this transformation of higher learning, the pro-
cess of professionalization during the nineteenth century also derived from
other powerful impulses. In contrast to the functionalist interpretation,
professionalization was not an automatic result of scientification, but a
complex product of practitioner desires, state policies and client wishes,
interacting with a renewed university system. In an increasingly open mar-
ket for professional services in capitalist countries, university graduates
needed some proof of their meritocratic superiority. What would be more
convincing than an impressive educational diploma or professional certifi-
cate? At the same time, governments intent on upgrading public welfare
were interested in raising the standards of professional practice in such
areas as law, health or teaching, not to mention the emerging industrial
pursuits. Hence continental bureaucracies instituted a complicated system
of state examinations, with ever higher demands on scientific instruction
and practical skill.24 Finally clients also clamoured for protection against
charlatanism and, in an increasingly impersonal society, some generalized
standards, since professional performance was essentially based on trust.
Once again, improved training and credentialing proved the most attrac-
tive answer. From a professionalization perspective, the debate about the
actual contribution of scientific knowledge to the improvement of health
is therefore largely irrelevant. The success of the profession project derived
less from a demonstrated superiority of scientific performance than from
practitioner, government and public belief in its greater potential for solv-
ing problems.25
The promoters of the new professional ideal were to be found both
inside and outside of academe. A key group in the process of ‘pro-
fessionalization’ was the academic profession which served not only
as knowledge producer but also as role model for practical pursuits.
During the nineteenth century, university teaching gradually became a
full-time career, not just a stepping stone for dons to higher clerical office.
23 H. Perkin, ‘The Pattern of Social Transformation in England’, in Jarausch (ed.), Trans-
formation (note 9), 207ff.
24 Titze et al., ‘Prüfungsauslese’ (note 17).
25 T. McKeown, ‘A Sociological Approach to the History of Medicine’, in T. McKeown and
G. McLachlan (eds.), Medical History and Medical Care: A Symposium of Perspectives,
Arranged by the Nuffield Provincial Hospitals Trust and the Josiah Macy Jr. Foundation
(London, 1971), 6ff.; T. McKeown, Die Bedeutung der Medizin. Traum, Trugbild oder
Nemesis? (Princeton, 1979).

369
Konrad H. Jarausch

Instead of being passed on in the family (academic nepotism), profes-


sorial appointment gradually came to rest on free competition of aca-
demic excellence.26 In accordance with more stringent scientific training,
the examination requirements for admission to a university career also
increased from a sometimes perfunctory dissertation to a second, exten-
sive piece of original research, called thèse d’état in France, Habilita-
tionsschrift in Germany. Practice shifted from laborious teaching and
recitation to primary research and publication, providing more objectifi-
able standards of performance than lecturing popularity. The new research
ethos also endowed professors with a higher mission than before and
demanded a different kind of inner-worldly asceticism, no longer based
on religion but on secular enlightenment. Finally, a dense network of
mostly scholarly associations promoted the new gospel of scientific discov-
ery within a bewildering and ever-increasing variety of new disciplinary
specialities.27
In the long run this professional conception of scholarship proved irre-
sistible because of its enormous success in promoting empirical discovery
and a secular scientific world-view. Hence it was passed on to students
who entered the bureaucracy, academic occupations or the general pub-
lic. Outside of academe, graduates paralleled the professorial example
by reorganizing their traditional callings such as the Church, law or
medicine into modern professions. Across all national differences in insti-
tutional arrangements, higher training was lengthened beyond the clas-
sic triennium. The content of teaching shifted from an introduction into
the received authorities to an initiation into scientific methods. More-
over, practical instruction gradually became more academic. Certifying
examinations grew more elaborate and rigorous, testing became an ever-
expanding field of specialized scholarship and of occupational skill.28
Though much corporate custom and rhetoric survived, the self-image of
practitioners gradually evolved from a learned craft consciousness to a
spirit of science-based service to mankind.29 Even remote country doc-
tors slowly moved away from tried herbal nostrums to the new chemical

26 See chapter 5, 130–40. 27 See chapter 1, 9.


28 R. S. Turner, ‘University Reformers and Professional Scholarship in Germany, 1760–
1806’, in L. Stone (ed.), The University in Society (London, 1974), vol. II, 495–532;
V. Karady, ‘Teachers and Academics in 19th Century France: A Socio-Political Overview’,
in Bildungsbürgertum, 458ff.; S. Rothblatt, The Revolution of the Dons: Cambridge and
Society in Victorian England (New York, 1968); A. J. Engel, From Clergyman to Don:
The Rise of the Academic Profession in 19th Century Oxford (Oxford and New York,
1983).
29 See the essays by S. Rothblatt, ‘The Diversification of Higher Education in England’,
P. Lundgreen, ‘Differentiation in German Higher Education’ and J. McClelland, ‘Diver-
sification in Russian-Soviet Education’, in Jarausch (ed.), Transformation (note 9), 131ff.

370
Graduation and careers

remedies derived from the scholarly investigation of bacteriology and bio-


chemistry.30
Spurred by the reform of academic institutions, this transformation of
callings was not at all foreordained but the result of prolonged strug-
gles between traditionalists and reformers.31 In countless meetings and
speeches the new breed of professionals championed a novel ideal of
learning and service. For the sake of improving performance, bureau-
crats disenfranchized untrained competitors such as surgeons, while
clients supported innovative movements based on promises and some-
times even proof of improved competence. The majority of practitioners
was eventually won over to the cause of science-based professionalism,
since the new practice also yielded rising incomes and improved social
status.32
This attractive recipe for success was soon imitated by new callings,
aspiring to professional prestige. Previously marginal graduates of the
propaedeutic philosophical faculty began to clamour for a profession-
alized teaching career.33 Graduates of freshly created post-secondary
institutions like technical colleges also agitated for turning the emerg-
ing engineering occupation into a full-fledged profession.34 Such rising
groups insisted on academizing their training, either by establishing their
speciality within the university canon or by demanding the creation of
equivalent institutions such as the Technische Hochschulen. After a long
struggle, they also achieved the recognition of examinations that car-
ried with them credentials, be they state-sanctioned (such as the teach-
ing Staatsexamen), academic (such as the engineering diploma) or private
(such as the Verbandsexamen of chemists).35 In order to achieve their
end, reformers developed a new professional self-image of their calling
30 C. Huerkamp, Der Aufstieg der Ärzte im 19. Jahrhundert. Vom gelehrten Stand zum
professionellen Experten. Das Beispiel Preussens, Kritische Studien zur Geschichtswis-
senschaft 68 (Göttingen, 1985). For law see D. Rüschemyer, Lawyers and their Society: A
Comparative Study of the Legal Profession in Germany and the US (Cambridge, 1973).
31 Cf. K. H. Jarausch, The Unfree Professions: Lawyers, Teachers and Engineers, 1900–
1950 (New York 1990), 8ff.
32 For a fictionalized account of these struggles cf. A. J. Cronin, The Citadel (London, 1937).
33 H.-E. Tenorth, ‘Professionen und Professionalisierung. Ein Bezugsrahmen zur his-
torischen Analyse des “Lehrers und seiner Organisationen”’, in M. Heinemann (ed.),
Der Lehrer und seine Organisation, Veröffentlichungen der historischen Kommission
der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Erziehungswissenschaft 2 (Stuttgart, 1977), 457ff. The
rise of the teaching profession has yet to be analyzed comparatively.
34 P. Lundgreen, ‘Engineering Education in Europe and the USA, 1750–1930: The Rise to
Dominance of School Culture and the Engineering Professions’, Annals of Science, 47
(1990), 33–75.
35 K. Gispen, New Profession, Old Order: Engineers and German Society, 1815–1914
(Cambridge, 1989); K. Gispen, ‘Engineers in Wilhelmian Germany: Professionalization,
Deprofessionalization and the Development of Non-Academic Technical Education’, in
G. Cocks and K. H. Jarausch (eds.), German Professions 1800–1950 (New York, 1990),
104ff.

371
Konrad H. Jarausch

and founded countless pressure groups such as teachers’ associations,


for example the deutsche Philologenverein, founded 1837 which became
the Verein deutscher Philologen, Schulmänner und Orientalisten36 in
1844 or engineering organizations, for example the Verein Deutscher
Ingenieure.37
Established professions often tried to resist the claims of the newcomers,
fearing that their own superior standing would be damaged if the benefits
of professionalism were conceded to fresh groups. Hence reformers had
to fight on two fronts, against traditional practitioners within and rival
competitors without. In this conflict, recourse to scientific advances was
a powerful rhetorical weapon, since demands for material improvement
and greater prestige were more persuasive, if based on public benefit.
Innovative scholars and reform practitioners therefore often worked hand
in hand.38
By no means all claimants to professional status were successful in their
endeavour. Primary school-teachers, pharmacists and veterinarians long
remained ‘semi-professions’, while nurses or social workers also failed to
reach their goal.39 Their lack of success partly stemmed from deficiencies
in knowledge and partly from other socio-political constraints. Though
requiring post-primary education, such semi-professions were not able
to lift their seminar training to recognized tertiary status. Sometimes, as
in pedagogy or social work, the cognitive content of the discipline was
also considered weak and confusing. Often fiscal limitations or insufficient
revenue for lifting an entire occupation on to a new level of the civil service
scale played an important role.40 The questionable composition of the
occupation also proved to be a handicap if it were known as a woman’s
field like nursing or a pursuit attracting religious minorities (Jews) such
as psychotherapy.41

36 See. K. A. Schmid (ed.), Encyclopädie des gesammten Erziehungs- und Unterrichtswesens


(Gotha, 1865), vol. IV, 260ff., s.v. ‘Lehrerversammlungen’.
37 K.-H. Ludwig and W. König (eds.), Technik, Ingenieure und Gesellschaft, Geschichte
des Vereins Deutscher Ingenieure 1856–1981 (Düsseldorf, 1981). Cf. C. E. McClelland,
The German Experience of Professionalization: Modern Learned Professions and their
Organization from the Early 19th Century (Cambridge, 1991).
38 J. Johnson, ‘“Academic, Proletarian, . . . Professional”: Shaping Professionalization for
German Industrial Chemists, 1887–1920’, in Cocks and Jarausch (eds.), German Pro-
fessions (note 35), 123ff.
39 D. Skopp, ‘Auf der untersten Sprosse. Der Volksschullehrer als “Semi-Professional” im
Deutschland des 19. Jahrhunderts’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 6 (1980), 383ff.; C.
Florin, Kampen om Katedern. Feminiserings- och professionalisieringsprocessen inom
den svenska folkskolans lärarkår 1860–1906 (Umea, 1987); M. Lamberti, The Politics
of Education (New York, 2003).
40 A. J. LaVopa, Prussian School-Teachers: Profession and Office, 1763–1848 (Chapel Hill,
1980).
41 J. Schneider, ‘Volksschullehrerinnen: Women Defining Themselves and their Profes-
sion’, Young Sun Hong, ‘Femininity as Vocation: Gender and Class Conflict in the

372
Graduation and careers

Such failures illustrate the fact that the advancement of knowledge


alone did not create the modern professions but only provided a pow-
erful stimulus and a compelling argument for practitioners to orga-
nize themselves in pursuit of a new professional ideal. Professors as
generators of scientific progress often played an important role as
mid-wife in this process, but success depended ultimately upon the
vigour and commitment of the practising reformers themselves. In the
end, the state had to sanction the new dispensation and the clients
had to accept the innovations by actually preferring them to older
customs.
The professional ideal proved so attractive that it radiated beyond the
actual or would-be professions into other sectors of society. The meri-
tocratic transformation of bureaucracies from noble courtiers to bour-
geois experts made the recruitment and practice of the civil service more
‘professional’. While their political dependency and hierarchical organi-
zation differed from those of free practitioners, bureaucrats increasingly
derived their authority from expertise in problem solving rather than feu-
dal loyalty or state power. With the exception of British generalists, civil
servants successively claimed legal, technological or social service creden-
tials. In the commercial and industrial sector the emergence of white-collar
employees formed an analogue to bureaucratization, thereby also profes-
sionalizing the large corporation. Though dependence on profits limited
the autonomy of businessmen, professional skills such as managerial, tech-
nical or scientific know-how began to loom ever larger around the turn
of the century.
This broader diffusion of professionalization shifted training patterns
so that administrative courses were added to legal curricula, service spe-
cialities like social work gained university recognition, and managerial or
accounting subjects complemented technological instruction. As a result, a
new set of entrance examinations to the bureaucracy, such as the concours
in France and the Civil Service Examination in Great Britain (analogous to
the second Staatsexamen in Germany), were added after the completion of
university study. Eventually, the growth of government bureaucracy and
white-collar employees in industry slowly began to shift the careers of
university graduates away from the classical liberal professions to public
service and business.42

Professionalization of German Social Work’, and G. Cocks, ‘The Professionalization


of Psychotherapy in Germany, 1928–1949’, in Cocks and Jarausch (eds.), German Pro-
fessions (note 35), 85ff., 232ff., 308ff.
42 R. Torstendahl, Bureaucratisation in Northwestern Europe 1880–1985: Domination and
Governance (London, 1991), especially 18ff and 199–249. Cf. also J. Caplan, ‘Profession
as Vocation: The German Civil Service’, in Cocks and Jarausch (eds.), German Professions
(note 35), 163–82.

373
Konrad H. Jarausch

the numerical expansion of the professions


Statistics on graduates are notoriously incomplete, since universities were
more concerned with the input of matriculations than the output of
leavers. While the professions themselves often kept figures on members,
the double slippage between student numbers and graduation rates as well
as between university leavers and careers entrants complicates the linkage
to prior enrolment figures.43
The rudimentary numbers that are available suggest an impressive
expansion: in England the size of eight professions rose by half, from
127,354 to 191,384 between 1880 and 1911; in France the number of
liberal professionals and intellectuals similarly swelled from 83,359 to
121,257 between 1876 and 1906; in Germany the number of those edu-
cated multiplied from about 63,000 (31,418 in Prussia) in 1852 to 335,252
in 1933; finally, in Russia higher education leavers increased from 133,600
to roughly 233,000 between 1897 and 1926.44
Though the absolute growth of the professions was considerable, the
relative share of professionals in the workforce hardly exceeded 5 per
cent by 1930, depending on whether one includes the higher bureaucracy.
Hence, the growing importance of the professions derived less from their
absolute weight in the labour force than from their influential position
in the work process. It was the authority, autonomy and gentlemanly life
style of the professional that made this role so attractive not only to their
subordinates but also to rivals in business and government.45
Where figures do exist (as at Oxbridge, see Table 9.1), the careers of
graduates suggest several interrelated developments: first, owing to the
fixed number of estates the occupation of landed proprietor declined in
relative terms throughout the nineteenth century. Second, with seculariza-
tion the clergy decreased in importance, since teaching gradually emerged
as an independent pursuit. Third, the share of the liberal professions in law
and medicine among graduates rose considerably, but eventually reached
a plateau because of strong competition among practitioners. Fourth, with
the institutional growth of tertiary and secondary education, more and
more university trained men entered academic life or the teaching profes-
sion, so that educational expansion propelled itself to some degree. Fifth,

43 For some imaginative tabulations of the aspirations of secondary school graduates,


cf. Ringer, Education and Society, 165, 280–1.
44 Figures from H. Perkin, The Rise of Professional Society: England since 1880 (London,
1989), 80; C. Charle, ‘Professionen und Intellektuelle’, in Siegrist (ed.), Bürgerliche Berufe
(note 14), 132; K. H. Jarausch, ‘Die neuhumanistische Universität und die bürgerliche
Gesellschaft, 1800–1870’, in C. Probst (ed.), Darstellungen und Quellen zur Geschichte
der deutschen Einheitsbewegung, 11 (Heidelberg, 1981), 11–58; Jarausch, Unfree Pro-
fessions (note 31); Jarausch, ‘Higher Education’ (note 15), 33.
45 Jarausch, ‘Higher Education’ (note 15), 33.

374
Graduation and careers

Table 9.1 Careers of Oxbridge men in the nineteenth centurya

Year of admission

1818/19 1848/49 1878/79 1897/98 Total


Career N % N % N % N % N %

(1) Landed 123 15.5 105 11.8 145 9.8 82 4.8 455 9.3
(2) Church 410 51.7 438 49.2 453 30.6 298 17.3 1599 32.7
(3) Professions 56 7.1 71 8.0 279 20.0 357 20.7 763 15.6
(4) Teaching 16 2.0 65 7.3 167 11.3 275 16.0 523 10.7
(5) Government 18 2.3 45 5.1 87 5.9 283 16.4 433 8.9
(6) Business 6 0.8 13 1.5 54 3.6 153 7.8 208 4.3
(7) Unknown 164 20.7 154 16.3 297 20.0 293 17.0 908 18.6
Total 793 16.2 891 18.2 1482 30.3 1723 35.2 4889

a The figures are recomputed from M. Curthoys, ‘Oxford and the Nation: The Careers of
Oxford Men, 1800–1914’, in History of Oxford, VI, tables 1 and 2. Cambridge figures
are in Ringer, Education and Society, 236. Landed = landed and independent means;
Church = clergy and other religious work; Teaching = higher education, school teaching;
Government = armed forces, government service; Business = commerce, finance, industry,
engineering; Unknown = died young, unknown.

the establishment of national, state or local bureaucracies drew ever more


graduates to the civil service beyond a traditional military career. Sixth,
the professionalization of business also gradually broke down the pro-
nounced aversion of educated men against going into commerce and/or
industry, slowly creating a regular path between academe and practical
affairs.
Fragmentary career data from other countries seem to point into a
similar direction of increasing professionalization. In France the rich
information of the Duruy enquiry of 1864 suggests the importance of
professional careers as well as the persistence of petit bourgeois occupa-
tions for secondary-school graduates (see Table 9.2).
Occupational data for the individual grandes écoles show their orien-
tation towards one specific career such as tertiary and secondary teaching
for the normaliens (4/5), the military for the polytechniciens (4/5), and
industry for the graduates of the arts et métiers (2/3). But aside from some
broadening into government service and leading positions in business, it
is difficult to discern any overriding trends in the absence of compara-
ble information on university leavers.46 Similarly limited information on

46 Weisz, Emergence, 236, has numbers of degrees. Cf. R. J. Smith, The Ecole Normale
Supérieure and the Third Republic (Albany, 1982), 51–2; Shinn, Savoir scientifique, 185;
C. R. Day, ‘The Making of Mechanical Engineers in France’, French Historical Studies
(1978), 439–60.

375
Konrad H. Jarausch

Table 9.2 Careers of French secondary school leavers in 1864a

Career Lycées % Collèges %

(1) Landed/farm 7.8 15.3


(2) Professional 48.4 30.8
(3) Teaching (high) 1.8 1.2
(4) Government 8.2 9.8
(5) Business 4.4 9.8
(6) Lower occupation 29.6 38.7
Total Number 6,974 9,048

a The figures are recomputed from Harrigan, Mobility (note 3), table 18.
The category Landed also includes farming (4.4 per cent and 11.4 per cent
respectively). Professional includes both major and minor professions, but
Teaching comprises only secondary education and above. Lycées were more
secular and elitist institutions in contrast to the more Catholic collèges.

Table 9.3 Career plans of German students in 1928–1931a

Careers High schools % Universities % Technical colleges %

(1) Church 13.9 8.7


(2) Profession 40.4 36.5 9.6
(3) Teaching 14.2 31.3 15.5
(4) Government 7.1 11.9 18.0
(5) Business 17.1 7.9 51.8
(6) Unknown 7.0 2.8 5.0
Total Number 5,843 99,432 20,280

a The figures are recomputed from Müller and Zymek (eds.), Datenhandbuch (note
3), Ii 213, tables 78.1 and 79 as well as from Ringer, Education and Society, 315,
table VIII.3. The high school percentages pertain to Prussia for 1928 while the univer-
sity and technical colleges percentages pertain to 1931. For the categories see Table 9.1.

German student preferences also reveals the importance of the professions


and the rising attraction of bureaucracy and business (see Table 9.3).
Despite some commonality in trends, the importance of specific careers
varied with national context. In France the legal professions became the
most influential (45,512); in Germany doctors expanded most rapidly
(from 13,728 in 1876 to 30,558 in 1909); in Britain school teachers formed
the largest occupation (68,651); and in Russia engineers became the most
frequented pursuit.47 Hence the degree of professionalization differed
between countries, with England leading the way, followed by France
and Germany; Russia followed way behind, owing to its later start.

47 Huerkamp, Aufstieg (note 30), 151; P. L. Alston, ‘The Dynamics of Educational Expansion
in Russia’, in Jarausch (ed.), Transformation (note 9), 89ff.

376
Graduation and careers

The rise of the professions was accompanied by periodic labour market


crises. In economic terms, the increase in the number of graduates could
be supply driven through an expansion of higher learning or demand
induced through a growth in the need for expertise.48 In fact, manpower
supply and demand were only rarely in balance. While lack of trained
graduates could be met by lowering standards, an excess of educated men
repeatedly raised the spectre of an ‘academic proletariat’ and contributed
to political unrest.49
Since academic overproduction has been studied only for Germany (and
Austria), this particular case raises the question whether the growth of the
professions was accompanied by similar problems elsewhere. The post-
Humboldtian expansion of the universities ran out of steam in the 1830s,
creating an oversupply that fed directly into the Revolution of 1848. Stag-
nating enrolments eventually created a new demand in the 1860s which
fuelled another expansion leading to renewed overcrowding by the 1880s,
the famous Qualifikationskrise that prompted students and graduates to
turn to illiberalism. Resumed in the last decade before the war, the enrol-
ment explosion peaked in the 1920s, provoking yet another, politically
more disastrous oversupply, since it provided grist for the Nazi mill.50
Individual careers therefore displayed regular cycles, teetering from excess
to deficit and back. In an entitlement system in which government hiring
was crucial for academic employment, this seemingly inevitable succes-
sion of crises created considerable political resentment.51 Time and again,
professionals called for a closure of their career through a numerus clausus
while professors favoured continued growth.
The recurrent job market difficulties proved remarkably impervious to
control. During the overcrowding of the 1830s, the Central European
bureaucracies raised entry requirements to the university (making the

48 R. Torstendahl, ‘Engineers in Industry, 1850–1910: Professional Men and New Bureau-


crats’, in C. G. Bernhard et al. (eds.), Science, Technology and Society in the Time of
Alfred Nobel: Nobel Symposium 52 held at Björborn, Karlskoga, 17–22 August 1981
(Oxford, New York and Frankfurt-am-Main, 1981), 253ff.
49 L. O’Boyle, ‘The Problem of an Excess of Educated Men in Western Europe, 1800–1850’,
Journal of Modern History, 42 (1970), 471–95; K. H. Jarausch, ‘The Sources of German
Student Unrest’, in Stone (ed.), University in Society (note 28), vol. II, 533ff.; D. Brower,
Training the Nihilists: Education and Radicalism in Tsarist Russia (Ithaca, 1975). Cf.
chapter 7, 238 and chapter 8, 339.
50 D. K. Müller, ‘Quantifikationskrise und Schulreform’, in U. Herrmann (ed.), Historische
Pädagogik, Studien zur historischen Bildungsökonomie und zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte
der Pädagogik, Beiträge zur Bildungstheorie und zur Analyse pädagogischer Klassiker,
Literaturberichte und Rezensionen, Zeitschrift für Pädagogik Beiheft 14 (Weinheim,
1977), 13–35; D. K. Müller et al., ‘Modellentwicklung zur Analyse von Krisenphasen
im Verhältnis von Schulsystem und staatlichem Beschäftigungssystem’, ibid., 37–77. Cf.
P. Windolf, Expansion and Structural Change: Higher Education in Germany, the United
States and Japan, 1870–1990 (Boulder, 1997).
51 Jarausch, Deutsche Studenten (note 2), 71ff., 129ff.

377
Konrad H. Jarausch

Abitur mandatory), issued repeated warnings and ceased hiring gradu-


ates. These drastic measures did deter new enrolment for one generation
at the price of blocking careers for the excess of educated men.52 During
the oversupply of the 1880s, the government sought a firmer information
basis by charging the Göttingen economist Wilhelm Lexis with compil-
ing exact labour market statistics – an impossible task, since the demand
for graduates could not be measured exactly. Due to the contraction of
scholarship support, bureaucratic countermeasures only served to aggra-
vate the crisis, leading officials to abandon all attempts to steer academic
manpower after 1900.53
During the excess of graduates of the 1920s, resumption of government
hiring as well as the partial closure of entry into the teaching career initially
succeeded in reducing the post-war overhang. But the normalization of
the mid-twenties proved to be fleeting when the Great Depression dried
up public or private employment opportunities. Liberal measures such as
official warnings, more rigorous selection during training and increased
competition proved unattractive to those who lost out in the struggle for
academic survival.54 While placement bureaux, labour service schemes
or fraternity contacts could help individuals, they failed to alleviate the
collective plight. In the short run, universities could shift some students
from teaching into theology or from law into medicine. But in the long
run overcrowding engulfed all careers until the forced drop in enrolments
created a new demand, thus starting the cycle all over again.
The continued structural expansion of numbers in higher education
overwhelmed all organized efforts to limit the number of graduates.
Though in the long run, the demand for qualified labour generally
increased, the opening of access of higher education in the short run
produced more educated men than government hiring, free professional
practice or industrial employment could absorb. First, in all European
countries the output of secondary institutions grew rapidly during the
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This expansion was fuelled
through the growth of traditional types of schools such as the Gymnasium,

52 See H. Titze, Der Akademikerzyklus. Historische Untersuchungen über die Wiederkehr


von Überfüllung und Mangel in akademischen Karrieren (Göttingen, 1990), 485ff. H.
Titze, ‘Der historische Siegeszug der Bildungsselektion: The Victorious Process of Educa-
tional Selection’, Zeitschrift für Soziologie der Erziehung und Sozialisation, 18 (1998),
66–81; H. Titze, ‘Wie wächst das Bildungssystem?’ Zeitschrift für Pädagogik, 1/45 (1999),
103–120, presents a summary of the research accomplished since 1980; H. Titze, ‘Die
Tiefenstruktur des Bildungswachstums von 1800 bis 2000’, Die deutsche Schule, 2/95
(2003), 180–196.
53 Jarausch, Students Imperial Germany, 23–77; K. H. Jarausch, ‘Universität und
Hochschule’, in C. Berg (ed.), Handbuch der deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, vol. IV:
1870–1918, Von der Reichsgründung bis zum Ende des Zweiten Weltkriegs (Munich,
1991), 314–19.
54 Jarausch, Unfree Profesions (note 31), 27–111.

378
Graduation and careers

as well as through the creation of or granting of university access to


modern branches such as the Realgymnasium or the Oberrealschule.55
Second, structural analyses of the composition of student bodies have
shown that new social groups began to participate in higher education
in significant numbers. In Germany and Austria, for instance, academic
self-recruitment in the first half of the nineteenth century gave way to an
influx of the old and eventually the new middle class, making the petite
bourgeoisie the dominant parental stratum.56 Third, religious and cultural
minorities began to gain access to advanced training. Hence the Catholic
educational deficit declined in the first decades of the twentieth century
while the Jewish minority showed an enormous desire for cultivation.57
Finally, the limited opening of higher learning eventually also led to the
reluctant admission of women into universities and other tertiary insti-
tutions.58 Motivated by a desire for social advancement and equity, this
massive incursion of new groups changed both the composition of the
universities and increased competition among the emerging professions.
Though creating recurrent crises, the expansion of student numbers
advanced professionalization by facilitating institutional differentiation
and practitioner organization. Universities adapted to the growing influx
not only by expanding existing programmes, but by following specializa-
tion in opening up new research fields. Pushed on by professorial self-
interest and student demands, these novel programmes such as chemistry
eventually clamoured for their own examinations as a basis for careers.59
But when traditional universities were too slow to take up the challenges
of economic advance in areas like technology, entire new tertiary institu-
tions arose such as the Technische Hochschulen.60
Although many professors resisted and practitioners remained sceptical
of further academization, even newer forms of higher learning crystallized

55 J. C. Albisetti, Secondary School Reform in Imperial Germany (Princeton, 1983) and the
comparative literature listed on 292ff.
56 H. Kaelble, ‘Educational Opportunities and Government Policies in Europe in the Period
of Industrialization’, in P. Flora and A. Heidenheimer (eds.), The Development of Welfare
States in Europe and America (New Brunswick, 1981), 239ff. Cf. G. B. Cohen, Education
and Middle Class Society in Imperial Austria, 1848–1918 (West Lafayette, Ind., 1996).
57 N. Kampe, Studenten und ‘Judenfrage’ im deutschen Kaiserreich. Die Entstehung einer
akademischen Trägerschicht des Antisemitismus, Kritische Studien zur Geschichtswis-
senschaft 76 (Göttingen, 1988). Cf. also Jarausch, Deutsche Studenten (note 2), 90.
58 J. C. Albisetti, Schooling German Girls and Women: Secondary and Higher Education in
the Nineteenth Century (Princeton, 1988); P. Mazon, Gender and the Modern Research
University (Stanford, 2003).
59 See J. A. Johnson, The Kaiser’s Chemists: Science and Modernization in Imperial Germany
(Chapel Hill, 1990).
60 K.-H. Manegold, Universität, Technische Hochschule und Industrie, Schriften zur
Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 16 (Berlin, 1970); K.-H. Ludwig and W. König (eds.),
Technik, Ingenieure und Gesellschaft (note 37).

379
Konrad H. Jarausch

such as the commercial colleges (Handelshochschulen).61 Professionals


responded to the rising output of graduates by more vigorous collective
action. Increasing demand for expert services made it possible to raise
their status and influence. Yet even an excess of academically trained
men spurred greater co-operation. During phases of relative overcrowd-
ing, free professionals like doctors and lawyers organized themselves to
restrain competition and persuade the public to resort to their services.
During periods of absolute oversupply, bureaucratically employed pro-
fessionals such as teachers closed ranks in order to push the government
into further hiring. During moments of economic depression, practition-
ers working in industry or trade banded together to seek job security by
controlling professional entry.62 Though it blocked some advances, over-
supply also demonstrated the need for more rigorous training and entry
requirements.

national variations
While the secular process of professionalization was universal in char-
acter, its institutional pattern varied considerably according to national
context. Ironically, the British experience, often taken as the classic case,
is quite peculiar when viewed in comparative perspective, differing even
from the Scottish arrangements. Except for the clergy which remained
linked to Oxford and Cambridge, professional training had moved away
from the universities during the early modern period. While most British
practitioners went through public or grammar schools and many attended
colleges for general cultivation, they were essentially apprenticed by fellow
professionals at the Inns of Court or the Royal Colleges of Physicians. The
famous ‘qualifying associations’ controlled the professional examinations
and licensing was a matter of corporate self-government, independent of
any bureaucracy.63 Only after the middle of the nineteenth century did the
reform of the British universities gradually begin to pull training back into
higher education. Though the influence of continental German examples
as well as the rapid progress of science led to the return of instruction in the
universities, testing and validation remained the prerogative of the profes-
sional associations. Even the expansion of higher education through the
teaching-orientated redbricks and polytechnics did not break this mould,
61 A. Hayashima, ‘Die Absolventen der Leipziger Handelshochschule, 1900–1920’, Kwan-
sei Gakuin University Annual Studies, 36 (1987), 113ff.; A. Hayashima, ‘Die Absolven-
ten der Preußischen Handelshochschulen’, Kwansei Gakuin University Annual Studies,
37 (1988), 23ff. See also, ‘European Universities and Similar Institutions in Existence
Between 1812 and the End of 1944’.
62 Jarausch, Unfree Professions (note 31), passim.
63 G. Millerson, The Qualifying Associations: A Study in Professionalization (London,
1964); Burrage, ‘Practitioners’ (note 18), 26ff.

380
Graduation and careers

as the new organizations emulated the legal and medical pattern.64 As a


result the professions were smaller and displayed more solidarity than
elsewhere. While popularizing the aspiration for autonomy regulated
by ethics and self-government, the freedom of the British model from
university and bureaucracy proved surprisingly unique.
The French case of bureaucratic control is more typical of the conti-
nental pattern, albeit with a peculiar competitive twist. During the ancien
régime the professions were organized into proud, self-governing corpora-
tions which controlled access and practice with semi-public authority. In
the enthusiasm of the Revolution, reform professionals abolished all such
restrictions on les carrières ouvertes aux talents, introducing unregulated
competition and destroying solidarity. During the Consulate, Napoleon
gradually re-established the professions under tight government supervi-
sion, conceding collective representation only to the advocates, but leaving
competition between fragmented practitioners free.
The establishment of the grandes écoles also created privileged sectors
of professionals, especially in technology (higher engineers) and teaching,
while the more traditional pursuits such as law and medicine continued
to be taught at the dilapidated universities. Before 1848 the result was
a considerable excess of educated men, feeding into the radicalism of
the Revolution.65 Only in the second half of the nineteenth century did
professionals manage to restore some of their associations and regain a
sense of collective identity. At the same time, the reform of the universi-
ties also revitalized their training institutions. More favourable legislation
restricted competition and improved the professional standard of living
as well. Lawyers in particular became so prominent in the political pro-
cess that critics talked about a République des avoués. Less successful in
gaining corporate privileges was the rapidly growing group of intellectu-
als with some academic training, in the arts, literature and journalism,
thereby splitting the capacités into two rivalling groups.66
The German variant of professionalization also displays strong state
power, but adds an important university role as well. Since the corporatism
of the akademische Berufsstände was static, modernization came through
government involvement as ‘professionalization from above’. From the
early eighteenth century on the establishment of a series of rigorous

64 R. Lowe, ‘English Elite Education in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries’,
in Bildungsbürgertum, 147ff.; A. Engel, ‘The English Universities and Professional Edu-
cation’, in Jarausch (ed.), Transformation (note 9), 293ff.
65 F. K. Ringer, ‘Education and the Middle Classes in Modern France’, in Bildungs-
bürgertum, 109ff.; M. Ramsey, ‘Review Essay: History of a Profession, Annales Style’,
Journal of Social History, 17 (1983), 319ff.; Burrage, ‘Practitioners’ (note 18), 26ff.
66 Charle, ‘Professionen und Intellektuelle’ (note 44), 127ff. Cf. Geison (ed.), Professions
(note 17), passim. While Charle’s book on Les Elites (note 7) presents much elite material,
it does not address the question from the perspective of the hautes écoles or universities.

381
Konrad H. Jarausch

state examinations for lawyers, doctors, clergymen and eventually also


for teachers created bureaucratically controlled academic occupations.
Upgrading the theoretical and practical training of practitioners, the gov-
ernment also supervised licensing, fees and ethics, leaving only the eco-
nomic risk private. It is all the more astounding that in the middle of the
nineteenth century liberal professional reformers succeeded in disestab-
lishing the medical (1869) and legal (1879) professions. The creation of
a freie Advokatur and of the free practice of medicine allowed powerful
professional associations to emerge that managed to emulate the Western
pattern of autonomy to a considerable extent.67
In the wake of the overcrowding crisis of the 1880s, professionals gravi-
tated to a kind of neo-corporatism, characterized by self-governing cham-
bers (Anwaltskammern) with public authority that tried to use the state
to regulate competition without being dominated by it. In contrast to
Britain, the universities played a much greater role in the emergence of the
German professions, since academic recognition of a field brought with
it the legal and social acceptance of a new career. The Central European
pattern therefore did not consist of complete bureaucratic dependence
but was characterized by practitioner self-assertion within a framework
established by bureaucratic fiat and professorial influence.68
Although state power was strongest in Russia, a kind of profession-
alism nevertheless emerged there in the second half of the nineteenth
century. The Tsarist educational system was top heavy, with a roof of
respectable universities resting upon the shaky columns of secondary insti-
tutions (similar to their German namesakes), standing in turn on a severely
underdeveloped primary foundation. The structure of estate society with
its elaborate table of ranks left little room for the emergence of knowledge-
based middle class pursuits, since it ennobled all higher officials. The
few academic practitioners began to band together after the Alexandrine
reforms of the 1860s created some public space for their activities, such
as the foundation of a college of advocates. Professionals played a leading
role in the liberal zemstvo movement that tried to reform Russian society
by providing modern services in health care, legal advice, schooling and

67 H. Siegrist, ‘Gebremste Professionalisierung – Das Beispiel Schweizer Rechtsanwaltschaft


im Vergleich zu Frankreich und Deutschland im 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert’, in
Bildungsbürgertum, 301ff.; C. Huerkamp, ‘Ärzte und Professionalisierung in Deutsch-
land. Überlegungen zum Wandel des Arztberufs im 19. Jahrhundert’, Geschichte und
Gesellschaft, 6, 3 (1980), 349ff. Cf. also the essays in Cocks and Jarausch (eds.), German
Professions (note 35), 27–160.
68 K. H. Jarausch, ‘The German Professions in History and Theory’, in Cocks and Jarausch
(eds.), German Professions (note 35), 9–24. Cf. C. E. McClelland, ‘Professionalization
and Higher Education in Germany’, in Jarausch (ed.), Transformation (note 9), 306ff. and
C. E. McClelland, S. Merl and H. Siegrist (eds.), Professionen im modernen Osteuropa
(Berlin, 1995).

382
Graduation and careers

the like. Frustrated by the slow pace of change and often unemployed,
many higher education graduates also joined the radical intelligentsia in
its effort to overthrow the repressive system.69
Nonetheless, in the early twentieth century an associational life grad-
ually emerged that clustered around scholarly rather than practical
pursuits. During the revolution many idealist professionals joined the
Bolshevik onslaught on bourgeois privileges, unaware that they might
eventually endanger their own prerogatives. When the Party realized that
professionals wanted to retain their autonomy, it ruthlessly disbanded
all associations and only permitted lawyers to continue in government
controlled collegia. Ironically enough, both the Tsarist and Bolshevik
regimes preferred docile technological cadres to liberal self-governing
professionals.70
In the smaller European countries, professionalization tended to reflect
the pattern of one of the larger states, albeit with a special accent gov-
erned by local tradition. Resemblances were usually produced either by
direct political control, indirect cultural influence or similar structural
conditions. The ancient version of learned professional self-government
survived longest in societies with strong corporate traditions, such as
Italy.71 In contrast, similarities to the British practitioner-control model
seem to be rare outside of the unbureaucratic grass-roots democracy of
Switzerland.72 The French mixture of state control and market freedom,
characterized by government qualification but open competition, is some-
what reflected in the arrangements in Belgium.73 The German manner of
‘professionalization from above’ closely linked to higher learning proved
influential in Austria, the Netherlands, Scandinavia and Greece.74 Finally,
the Russian experience of late professionalization coupled with a radical
69 D. Geyer, ‘Zwischen Bildungsbürgertum und Intelligentzija: Staatsdienst und akademi-
sche Professionalisierung im vorrevolutionären Russland’, in Bildungsbürgertum, 207ff.
Cf. Brower, Training the Nihilists (note 49), passim.
70 C. E. Timberlake, ‘Higher Learning, the State and the Professions in Russia’, in Jarausch
(ed.), Transformation (note 9), 321ff. Cf. also Kassow, Students Tsarist Russia.
71 M. Barbagli, Education for Unemployment: Politics, Labor Markets and the School
System – Italy, 1859–1973 (New York, 1982); cf. also M. Malatesta (ed.), Society and
the Professions in Italy, 1860–1914 (Cambridge, 1995).
72 Siegrist (ed.), Bürgerliche Berufe (note 14), 20ff.; H. Siegrist, ‘Die Genfer Advokaten im
19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert’, in S. Brändli et al. (eds.), Schweiz im Wandel. Studien
zur neueren Gesellschaftsgeschichte (Basle, 1990), 229–57.
73 J. Art, ‘Les Rapports triennaux sur l’état de l’enseignement supérieur: un arrière-fond
pour des recherches ultérieures sur l’histoire des élites Belges entre 1814 et 1914’, Revue
belge d’histoire contemporaine, 17 (1986), 187–224.
74 Cohen, Education and Middle Class Society (note 56); M. M. Kovacs, Liberal Profes-
sions and Illiberal Politics: Hungary from the Habsburgs to the Holocaust (Washington,
1994); W. J. Frijhoff, ‘The Netherlands’, in B. R. Clark and G. R. Neave, The Encyclo-
pedia of Higher Education vol. I: National Systems of Higher Education (Oxford, New
York, Seoul and Tokyo, 1992), 491–505, and the Swedish contributions to Burrage and
Thorstendahl (eds.), Professions (note 6).

383
Konrad H. Jarausch

intelligentsia seems to have been somewhat paralleled in emerging Eastern


European and Balkan countries. Instead of revealing one master pattern
of professionalization, cross-national comparison shows a bewildering
variety of sequences and arrangements. Much more detailed information
on the relationship between higher learning and the emergence of the pro-
fessions in individual countries such as Spain is necessary, before the con-
fusing mosaic will yield an intelligible picture. Nonetheless, scientifically
trained, publicly validated, prosperous and highly regarded, competently
practising, ethically orientated and tightly organized professions emerged
by the early twentieth century in all European countries.

concluding remarks
The transformation of higher learning made a crucial contribution to the
process of professionalization. The shift from traditional liberal education
to scientific training created a dynamic knowledge base which transcended
mere occupational know-how. Thus older callings such as medicine were
reinvigorated and new pursuits such as psychotherapy multiplied thanks
to continued scholarly specialization. Even practical apprenticeship was
formalized and reattached to higher education in a more systematic form.
The increasing professionalization of academic careers also served as an
influential role model for the reform of practitioner pursuits along sci-
entific lines; expanding knowledge provided not only superior solutions
for some practical problems (such as public hygiene or building bridges)
but also appealed to the popular scientism of the age for arguments in
favour of occupational prerogatives. The growing and diversifying ter-
tiary institutions produced increasing numbers of graduates, clamouring
for certification for professional careers. Professorial interest in training
ever larger numbers of students clashed with practitioner desires for pro-
tection from excessive competition. The uneven capability of the careers
to absorb newcomers created a cyclical pattern of excess or deficit of
skilled manpower that raised the unsettling spectre of an academic pro-
letariat. While the institutionalization of knowledge, the organization of
the professions and the structure of the labour market differed from coun-
try to country, the ties between the university and the professions grew
stronger everywhere during the nineteenth century. Since professionals
increasingly influenced academic instruction and practical training, the
transformation of higher learning and the emergence of modern profes-
sions depended upon each other.75

75 See the introductions to Burrage and Thorstendahl (eds.), Professions (note 6) as well
as R. Thorstendahl, ‘Knowledge and Power: Constraints and Expansion of Professional
Influence in Western Capitalist Society’, in M. Trow and T. Nybom (eds.), University and

384
Graduation and careers

The rise of the modern professions profoundly altered the careers of


university graduates. While in 1800 many still went into the Church or
worked the land, by 1900 most higher education leavers entered law
and medicine or completely new callings such as teaching or engineering.
Beyond the liberal professions beckoned government service and increas-
ingly also business opportunities. Not only was their scientific training
superior but it also conveyed certified credentials that often provided
market monopoly or at least offered great competitive advantages. No
wonder that professional incomes improved across the board and that
the social status of professionals rose sharply, putting many practitioners
into the upper and middle strata of society. Only when demand did not
grow quickly enough, leading to overcrowding, were some professionals
proletarianized. Practice also changed drastically from a craft, governed
by custom and experience, to a more intellectual pursuit in which schol-
arly knowledge and practical skills combined.
This trained competence served as the basis for continuing claims for
professional autonomy from government or client control. Simultane-
ously, the self-image of professionals evolved from that of a self-centred
dispenser of traditional nostrums to a scientific reformer, improving the
lives of fellow men. The concept of ethics changed its meaning, there-
fore, from regulating competition to defining an ethos of public service.
Finally, the formerly convivial and corporate organizations transformed
themselves into knowledge-based advocacy groups for professional inter-
est and social change. Professional associations therefore curiously com-
bined egotistical demands with altruistic rhetoric. Produced by academic
leaders and progressive practitioners, this professional ideal proved so
powerful that it became the new lode-star of the non-economic middle
class.
To some observers ‘the massive expansion of size and influence’ had
carried the professional class ‘to domination in the twentieth century’.
Building on the sociological cult of the expert, they claim with some
hyperbole that ‘professionalism permeates society from top to bottom’.
In contrast to industrialism, ‘professional hierarchies . . . reach much
further down the social pyramid than ever landlordship or even busi-
ness capital did’. Moreover ‘a professional society is one permeated by
the professional social ideal’, transcending the narrow confines of the
professions themselves.76 In purely quantitative terms, the assertion of
professional dominance is misleading since university graduates hardly

Society: Essays on the Social Role of Research and Higher Education (London, 1991),
35ff.
76 Perkin, Professional Society (note 44), xiiff., 3ff., echoing D. Bell, The Coming of Post-
Industrial Society: A Venture in Social Forecasting (New York, 1976), cf. D. Bell, The
Third Revolution: Professional Elites in the Modern World (New York, 1996).

385
Konrad H. Jarausch

exceeded 5 per cent of the labour-force by 1933. Even if one adds sec-
ondary school pupils and students as proto-professionals and white-collar
occupations such as elementary school teachers or non-academic engi-
neers as semi-professionals, their share would at best triple to one-sixth
of the gainfully employed. The qualitative argument is harder to assess,
since the entitlement system, stratifying society on the basis of education
and merit rather than inherited title or accumulated capital, has become
quite pervasive. Because of its disdain for monetary gain, professional-
ism only marginally invaded the business world before 1945 and hardly
touched the working classes. Nonetheless there is no need to exagger-
ate professionalization into the leading social principle in order to rec-
ognize that it provided a much envied organizational model of modern
work.
More modestly and accurately put, professionalism came to dominate
the life of the educated middle class in the first third of the twentieth cen-
tury. National differences and ideological preconceptions have made it
exceedingly difficult to define precisely who belongs to this group, set off
from the nobility and working class by distinctive values and life-styles.77
In Western European countries the ascendancy of commerce and industry
created a bourgeoisie strong enough to overshadow the educated pursuits.
In Central Europe, lagging economic development and an even stronger
state presence facilitated the emergence of a peculiar Bildungsbürgertum,
marked by classical cultivation, public employment and an aversion to
material gain. In Eastern European societies, even slower industrializa-
tion, the foreign character of many middle-class occupations and political
oppression led to the emergence of a petite bourgeois intelligentsia of edu-
cated radicals.78 During the last decades of the nineteenth century, these
diverse educated middle-class groups not only rapidly increased in size
but also fundamentally changed their outlook towards the professional
ideal, owing to the professionalization of their component academic occu-
pations. In England the free professions became the dominant form of the
non-economic middle class; in France professionalized officials vied with
literati; in the German-speaking countries, the akademische Berufsstände
reorganized themselves along professional lines; in the Slavic societies
national and liberal professionals began to emerge as alternatives to radi-
cal intellectuals. Across lingering national differences, one very important

77 J. Kocka, ‘Bürgertum und bürgerliche Gesellschaft im 19. Jahrhundert. Europäische


Entwicklungen und deutsche Eigenarten’, in Bildungsbürgertum, 11ff.
78 See e.g. the essays by E. Hobsbawm, ‘Die englische middle-class, 1780–1920’, H. Kaelble,
‘Französisches und deutsches Bürgertum im Vergleich’, B. Strath, ‘Die bürgerliche
Gesellschaft Schwedens im 19. Jahrhundert’ and W. Dlugoborski, ‘Das polnische
Bürgertum vor 1918 in vergleichender Perspektive’, all in Bildungsbürgertum, 79ff.

386
Graduation and careers

result of the transformation of higher learning was therefore the emer-


gence of the modern professions.79
Since educational scholars tend to stop at the university doors while
social historians are preoccupied with the bourgeoisie, the impact of pro-
fessionalization has yet to be fully understood. This process was criti-
cally important for institutions of higher learning, because the rise of
the academic profession provided a powerful impetus for the continued
expansion, differentiation and scientific advancement of higher learning.
Moreover, the reformation of academic practitioner careers not only guar-
anteed an intermittently growing market for university graduates, but also
produced powerful pressure on the elaboration of applied training. Some
of the emerging professionals such as chemists or physicists contributed
enormously to the economic growth of the second or third phase of
industrialization. For many, the professional ideal was attractive because
it represented a meritocratic compromise between unrestricted compe-
tition and financial security, offering the opportunities of les carrières
ouvertes aux talents coupled with some assurance of a decent livelihood.
After the development of a scientific base, professionals also succeeded in
addressing social problems more convincingly than laymen or untrained
competitors.80
Frequent abuses of professional knowledge notwithstanding, university
graduates made important contributions to human welfare in general.
No doubt, the involvement of well-trained specialists in the crimes of the
Holocaust and the Gulag was a moral scandal on which members of the
professions too often tend to draw the curtain.81 Nevertheless, in more
liberal settings they were instrumental in promoting societal rationaliza-
tion, whether in law, health, education or technology. While usually not in
direct political control themselves, leading professionals such as lawyers
were a crucial group of elites, controlling over one-third of the posts of
representative government in countries such as France and Belgium by
1900.82 For the conduct of research, the growth of economies, the solu-
tion of social problems and the government of states, competent experts
were becoming indispensable.
79 Jarausch, ‘Higher Education’ (note 15), 28ff.
80 In 1896 the Jewish industrialist Wilhelm Merton established an Institut für Gemeinwohl
(Institute for the public weal) in Frankfurt-am-Main in order to apply scientific methods
to his important philanthropic activities. In 1901 he founded the Akademie für Sozial-
und Handelswissenschaften which became the University of Frankfurt-am-Main in 1914.
81 See e.g. M. Kater, Doctors Under Hitler (Chapel Hill, 1989).
82 Charle, ‘Professionen und Intellektuelle’ (note 44), 127ff.; Art, ‘Rapports’ (note 73),
204–5. Cf. W. Best, ‘Abweichungen vom Sonderweg? Politische Modernisierung und Par-
lamentarische Führungsgruppen in Deutschland, 1867–1918’, Historical Social Research,
13 (1988), 5–74; P. Lundgreen, ‘Akademisierung – Professionalisierung – Verwis-
senschaftlichung’, Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, 53 (2002), 678–87.

387
Konrad H. Jarausch

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389
PA RT I V

LEARNING
CHAPTER 10

THEOLOGY AND THE ARTS

WA LT E R R Ü E G G

introduction*
Theology and the arts have been closely linked since late antiquity.
Both are principally based on works of language; the former on Holy
Writ, the Bible, to biblion, the book of books, the latter on the secu-
lar use of language and its objective manifestations, letters, writings and
books. The artes liberales with the three sciences of language, grammar,
rhetoric, dialectics, and the four mathematical sciences, arithmetic, geom-
etry, astronomy, music, as well as the three forms of philosophy based on
them, physics, ethics and metaphysics, were known in the Middle Ages as
the ancillae theologia, the ‘handmaids of Theology’. This scarcely changed
with the advent of humanism, when a philological and historical method-
ology was added to that of scholasticism and dialectics in the field of the-
ology. The newly founded chairs of Greek, Hebrew, and later Arabic and
other oriental languages both inside and outside the theological faculties
were concerned in particular with biblical and other religious writings.
The appearance of patristic in the seventeenth century meant that the
humanist concern with the Fathers of the Church was raised to a sys-
tematic discipline within the theological faculty. Similarly, the interest in
profane history on the part of the humaniora led in the seventeenth century
to the establishment of ecclesiastical history as a theological discipline.

∗ Besides the National Correspondents mentioned in the Preface, the following colleagues
helped me by providing information or revising the relevant parts of my text: Carlo
Bo, Urbinoe (†); Peter Brang, Zurich; Rüdiger von Bruch, Berlin; Carl Joachim Classen,
Göttingen; Jean-Baptiste Duroselle (†), Paris; Thomas Finkenstaedt, Augsburg; Herbert
Franke, Munich; Friedrich Wilhelm Graf, Munich; Willy Hirdt, Bonn; Axel Horstmann,
Hamburg; Rudolf Sellheim, Frankfurt-am-Main; Stig Strömholm, Uppsala; Michael
Werner, Paris.

393
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The arts faculty was on the one hand limited to a propaedeutic func-
tion, as for example within the Protestant universities of Germany, where
until the nineteenth century students could only complete their studies
within one of the higher faculties, usually theology or law. When Friedrich
August Wolf (1759–1824), who was to become famous later as a scholar
of antiquity, began his studies at the University of Göttingen in 1777, he
was said to have insisted on being registered as a student of philology
and not, as was usual until then, of theology. On the other hand, to have
completed studies in the faculty of arts in the early part of the modern
era in France and England was a satisfactory academic qualification for
the lower offices in the Church. Practical theological training came later
in the college or the seminary.1
From the thirteenth century onwards, when the faculties of arts were
forbidden to occupy themselves with theologically relevant questions, dis-
putes arose repeatedly because of the close links with respect to content
between them and philosophy, and metaphysics and theology in partic-
ular, which Aristotle called the prima philosophia (first philosophy).2 In
1798 Kant, after he had been reprimanded by the king in 1794 for his
philosophical writings on religion, produced his ‘Conflict of the Faculties’
in which he defended the independence, indeed the scholarly superiority of
the arts faculty over the higher faculties, where the content of the courses
was controlled by the government and whose needs they were meant to
serve.3
In the nineteenth century the arts faculty no longer needed to eman-
cipate itself from the role of handmaid of Theology. On the contrary
advances in the arts and sciences were forcing Catholic theology on to
the defensive, whilst Protestant theology went on the offensive and took
the lead in the philosophically and historically orientated arts subjects.
In all these developments the mutual connection is clearly evident, so
that it makes sense to take theology together with those disciplines of the
arts faculty which as arts, humanities, lettres, letras, lettere e filosofia,
Geisteswissenschaften are concerned with language products. History,
whose emergence as an independent subject within the arts faculty was
an achievement of humanism, is in this volume treated together with the
social sciences according to the UNESCO classification.
The close connection between the two ‘book sciences’ is not only shown
in the important contributions of classical philologians to New Testament
1 On France: Verger, Universités en France, 191. In England it was only at the beginning
of the nineteenth century that giving a theological lecture became a requisite for the
priesthood (History of Oxford, V, 401–11).
2 B. Uhde, ‘Katholische Theologie und neuere Philosophie’, in G. Stephenson, Der Religion-
swandel unserer Zeit im Spiegel der Religionswissenschaft (Darmstadt, 1976), 248ff.
3 I. Kant, Der Streit der Facultäten in drey Abschnitten (Königsberg, 1798); quotation in
I. Kant, Studienausgabe, vol. VI (Darmstadt, 1964), 263–393, esp. 300.

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Theology and the arts

studies, such as the critical edition of the text by Karl Lachmann (1793–
1851) or the establishment of the Hellenistic context of St Paul’s writings
by Richard Reitzenstein (1861–1931). It is also reflected in the biographies
of important theologians. The classical translation of Plato’s writings into
German, which is still in print today, is the work of a theology professor,
Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768–1834). Some theologians moved more or
less willingly into the philosophical faculty, such as Eduard Zeller (1814–
1908) and Julius Wellhausen (1844–1918). Through their biblical crit-
icism both had provoked a rabies theologica among their colleagues –
Zeller, in fact, provoking even a riot in Bern in 1847. Wellhausen con-
tinued his pioneering researches into the Old Testament as professor of
semitic languages, whereas it was as a professor of philosophy that Zeller
became famous far beyond Germany, especially because of his monu-
mental work on Greek philosophy. In 1914 Ernst Troeltsch (1865–1923),
professor of systematic theology at Heidelberg and one of the leading
representatives of religious liberalism, accepted a chair in philosophy at
the University of Berlin. Until well into the second half of the nineteenth
century Catholic theology owed crucial impulses to the work of both
philologists and hommes de lettres, as will be shown in the next section.

catholic theology and the inf luence


of ultramontanism
The French Revolution, shaking Europe like a mighty earthquake, pro-
duced those deep fault lines in the university landscape which were
described in chapter 2. The most profound effect was on Catholic edu-
cation. Secularization brought about two important changes: with the
confiscation of Church lands, the financial basis of the papacy was under-
mined, and, with the victory of the Enlightenment, its role as the intel-
lectual and spiritual guardian of the Church was challenged. As a result,
during the period covered in this volume the papacy, with few exceptions,
barricaded itself and confronted the new movements not so much with
theological arguments as with repressive measures.
In 1863 the famous Munich ecclesiastical historian, Ignaz von Döllinger
(1799–1890), declared that German theologians were defending Catholi-
cism with ‘guns’ whilst the Romans were using ‘bows and arrow’.4 His

4 H. Jedin (ed.), Handbuch der Kirchengeschichte (HKG), vol. VI: Die Kirche in der
Gegenwart, Erster Halbband: Die Kirche zwischen Revolution und Restauration, 2nd
edn (Freiburg, Basle and Vienna, 1985), 673. If not otherwise indicated, the following
information on the history of the Catholic Church is taken from this work, including
the second part ‘Die Kirche zwischen Anpassung und Widerstand (1878–1914)’, 2nd edn
(Freiburg, Basle and Vienna, 1985). The chapters on theology are written in the first part
by R. Aubert, Louvain, in the second by O. Köhler, Freiburg im Breisgau.

395
Walter Rüegg

strictures were aimed primarily at ultramontanism, that is, the Curia’s


anti-Enlightenment traditionalism and centralist view of Church politics,
which had begun with the restoration of the authority of Rome after
the fall of Napoleon, and which reached its apogee in the pontificate of
Pius IX with the dogmatization of papal infallibility at the First Vatican
Council (1870).
In the universities, ultramontanism first showed itself in the condemna-
tion of those professors who were opposed to it. Döllinger, who fiercely
attacked the infallibility of papal teaching, was excommunicated in 1871
and gave up his theological teaching at the university, whereupon King
Ludwig II promptly appointed him President of the Bavarian Academy of
Sciences for life. Other professors had either to recant their teachings or
renounce their posts. Following the pontificate of Leo XIII (1878–1903),
who had been more receptive to the modern spirit, Pius X (pontiff from
1903 to 1914) condemned modernism as the ‘source of all heresies’ in the
encyclical Pascendi dominici gregis of 1907, and in 1910 demanded that
all priests active in pastoral care and teaching should take the so-called
anti-modernist oath. It was ‘designed to flush out those theologians who
were guilty of secret modernist thinking and to lead to their removal from
teaching and pastoral service and thus to prevent an internal erosion of
the faith and life of the church’.5 The oath was not officially abolished
until the Second Vatican Council; but in the German universities it met
with such strong opposition that it was not applied.
A further institutional consequence of ultramontanism was the
widespread retreat of theology into the seminaries run by bishops and
the religious orders. Here orthodoxy could be better guaranteed than in
the university faculties, for there the professors of theology were allowed
a greater freedom of teaching, despite the Church’s right to exercise super-
vision. The popes refused to recognize the theological faculties in Paris,
Bordeaux, Lyon and Rouen, which were reopened between 1806 and
1808, with the result that their degrees had no practical value and they
initially produced fewer than ten graduates a year, rising to a mere twenty
by the middle of the century. When these faculties were closed in 1885
they could hardly muster 50 students between them.6 A more fruitful
alternative source of scholarship appeared in 1886 with the introduction
of the Ve Section des sciences religieuses in the Ecole Pratique des Hautes
Etudes in Paris.7
In Spain the theological faculties survived the liberal and anti-clerical
reforms. In 1854 they were reintroduced into the universities of Madrid,
5 W. Reinhard, ‘Modernismus’, Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche (LThK), 2nd edn
(Freiburg im Breisgau, 1934), vol. VII, 253.
6 Verger, Universités en France, 274–5.
7 E. Durkheim (ed.), La vie universitaire à Paris (Paris, 1918), 188–91.

396
Theology and the arts

Santiago, Zaragoza and Seville in order to educate the higher ranks of the
clergy. Yet they were so ossified that their abolition in 1868 merely served
to put them out of their misery. In the previous decade only one single
professor had published books. ‘Theological studies had taken refuge in
the seminaries; for a decade the state university made possible studies
which had remained in the first rank for centuries, filling the lecture halls.’8
In Italy, too, theological teaching was concentrated in the priests’ sem-
inaries. Before unification the theological faculties remained in existence
in the various mini-states, such as the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.9 In
the Vatican state itself it was suspended by the decrees of the Sacra con-
gregazione degli studi of 1831 and 1833, and teaching was moved to the
bishops’ seminaries and to the schools of the various Orders.10 After 1861
the Kingdom of Italy abolished all theological faculties at the state uni-
versities.11
In special circumstances the Curia approved the founding of Catholic
universities with theological faculties. One of these came into being in
1834/35 in Louvain as a result of an initiative on the part of the Belgian
bishops. In 1875 the French bishops used the new law on the freedom
of teaching in order to found Catholic universities or theological fac-
ulties modelled on Louvain in Angers, Lille, Lyon, Paris and Toulouse.
In Switzerland the Catholic university of Freiburg, which was founded in
1889, was given permission by the pope to introduce a theological faculty
run by the Dominicans.12
In Germany and Austria-Hungary, Rome could only partly enforce
ultramontane control over theology. In 1805 a bishop’s seminary was
founded in Mainz to take the place of the university which had dis-
appeared in the course of secularization. The seminary became and
remained, even after temporary closure, a leading proponent of strict
church theology. Until the end of the nineteenth century the training of
priests took place for the most part in seminaries. But in contrast to
8 Peset, Universidad Española, 712–28: for the reintroduction of faculties see 723ff.; for
publications 514ff., quotation 717.
9 G. Libertini, ‘La Università di Catania dal 1805 al 1865’, in M. Catalano et al., Storia
della Università di Catania dalle origini ai giorni nostri (Catania, 1934), 314–17.
10 A. Sorbelli, ‘L’Università di Bologna e la rivoluzione del 1831’, Studi e Memorie per la
storia dell’Università di Bologna, 9 (1926), 166–87; for the text of the decree dating from
12 September 1831 see 167ff.
11 P. Nardi, ‘Italie’, in Jı́lek (ed.), Historical Compendium, 84.
12 From 1880 on, in France the title Université only applied to the state universities, and
the Catholic universities were called Faculté libre or Institut catholique. See Appendix:
‘European Universities and Similar Institutions in Existence Between 1812 and the End of
1944’. Concerning the influence of ultramontanism on the foundation of the University of
Fribourg: M. Zürcher, ‘G. Ruhlands “Wirtschaftspolitik des Vaterunsers”. Genese, Logik
und Wirkung’, in N. Graetz and A. Mattioli (eds), Krisenwahrnehmungen im Fin de siècle.
Jüdische und katholische Bildungseliten in Deutschland und der Schweiz (Zurich, 1997),
211–29.

397
Walter Rüegg

the Latin countries, the German faculties of Catholic theology found


themselves engaged in an intensive and – in some universities – direct
intellectual discussion with the equivalent Protestant faculties, which were
thought to be much more scholarly in their approach, being able not only
to maintain their position but also to build on it, as the following numbers
of students studying Catholic theology show:

1891/92 1912/13 1937/38

Cracow 66 90
Tübingen 172 160 230
Münster 264 308 592
Innsbruck 275 429 453

They offered professorships in Old and New Testament exegesis, in


apologetics and in general and sometimes also special dogmatics, together
with church history, church law, practical, moral and pastoral theology,
and at times also general religious studies, Christian archaeology, and
missionary studies.13
The sixteen Catholic theological faculties in Germany and Austria-
Hungary did not merely train priests. They were also responsible for
key theological initiatives. They offered ‘the advantage of closer contacts
between Catholic scholars and non-Catholic studies, which had a fruitful
effect on their work’, but which of course also made possible – because of
the greater autonomy they afforded – ‘real deviations from correct doc-
trine’.14 The school of the dogmatist Georg Hermes (1775–1831), who
taught in Bonn from 1819 to 1831, found so many important devotees
both at German and foreign universities that his teaching was condemned
for decades, first of all in 1835/36 by breves and decrees from Gregory XVI,
then in 1846 through the encyclical Qui pluribus from Pius IX, and finally
by the first Vatican Council of 1870. Hermesians were forced either to
recant their teachings or to lose their professorships. Hermes founded his
theology on the evidence of reason and considered faith to be the product
of the autonomous human being as a moral, rational entity.15
In contrast the Tübingen school, combining as it did Schelling’s tran-
scendental idealism and his high regard for mystical knowledge with
Hegel’s concept of the living spirit and its progressive realization through
history, remained rooted in the Catholic theology of the Romantics. Its

13 See the information for the universities concerned in: Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten
Welt, 22 (1912/13) (Strasburg, 1913); 33 (1938), Abteilung Universitäten und Fach-
hochschulen, 1. Bd: Europa (Berlin, 1938).
14 HKG VI, 1 (note 4), 290.
15 C. Andresen and G. Denzler, dtv Wörterbuch der Kirchengeschichte (Munich, 1982),
258ff.

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Theology and the arts

influence extended to Münster, Freiburg in Breisgau, and in particular


to Giessen, where between 1830 and 1851 the Mainz seminary had been
replaced by a Catholic faculty of theology. The Tübingen school intro-
duced an historical dimension into dogmatics. It found its characteristic
expression in the monumental ‘Conciliengeschichte’ (Conciliar History)
in seven volumes by the Tübingen historian Karl Hefele (1809–83).
The University of Munich which replaced Landshut in 1825 exerted an
influence on European Catholicism which extended beyond theology. It
was here that the Protestant philosopher Schelling (1775–1854) developed
a synthesis of Christianity which came close to Catholicism. The historian
Döllinger mentioned earlier gave new life to Catholic Church history, and
the theosophist and philosopher Franz Xaver von Baader (1765–1841) did
the same for speculative dogmatics. Joseph von Görres (1776–1848), in
his twin roles as cultural historian and ‘political prophet’,16 found an aca-
demic sounding board here for his manifold and wide-ranging publishing
ventures.
Germany was later instrumental in the development of a ‘Reformed
Catholicism’, which strove for a dialogue with modern science and lib-
eral ideas. In attempting this it provoked strong opposition from the
ultramontanists, who, after 1879, found a new dogmatic basis in New
Scholasticism. This movement was given an historical dimension through
the research into medieval scholastics of the Munich professors Klemens
Bäumer (1853–1924) and Martin Grabmann (1875–1949), the Louvain
professor Maurice de Wulf (1867–1947), the head of the Vatican Libraries
and Archives Cardinal Ehrle (1845–1934), together with the Tirolean
Dominican and for a time professor at the University of Graz Heinrich
Denifle (1844–1905), who also wrote the first history of medieval uni-
versities to be based on full source materials.17 In 1911 Joseph Schmidlin
(1878–1944) introduced Catholic missionary studies in Münster as a uni-
versity subject. As a result, in the period between the two world wars,
professorships in this new subject were founded in a variety of countries.
Indeed, in 1932 faculties in missionary studies were established both in
the Gregoriana and in the Propaganda College in Rome.18
In France, as we have already noted, the training of priests was until
1875 entirely in the hands of the seminaries. In his Souvenirs d’Enfance et
de Jeunesse Ernest Renan (1823–92), with considerable reverence for his
former teachers, described it as being based theologically on traditional
dogmatics and the corresponding textbooks,19 yet in the Saint Sulpice
seminary in Paris the learning of semitic languages as a basis for study of
16 Achim von Arnim, quoted by H. Raab, ‘Görres’, in Staatslexikon, 7th edn (Freiburg,
Basle and Vienna, 1986), vol. II, 1081ff.
17 See vol. I, p. xxiii. 18 HKG VI, 2 (note 4), 593–7.
19 See especially the chapter entitled ‘Le séminaire d’Issy’.

399
Walter Rüegg

the Bible was encouraged. As for the seminary in Strasburg and its asso-
ciated École des Hautes Études in Molsheim, they were influenced even
more strongly by developments at German universities. The remaining 80
schools for priests did not pursue a scientific approach to theology. Any
theological initiatives came therefore – at first with apologetic intent –
from writers such as Chateaubriand (1789–1848), Bonald (1754–1810),
and from the Dane Ferdinand von Eckstein (1790–1861), who had been
influenced by Görres, and above all from the private scholar Félicité de
Lamennais (1782–1861). His works were written in a passionate inspi-
ratory style, and in particular his Essai sur l’indifférence en matière de
religion (Treatise on Religious Indifference), published in four volumes
between 1817 and 1823, not only had a huge influence on Catholic philos-
ophy and theology over half a century in France, Belgium, Italy and Eng-
land but also provoked the development of Hermesianism in Germany. He
based theological knowledge on the original revelation of God in the sens
commun, that is in the general rationality of the human race, and devel-
oped ideas about the separation of Church and state, which bore fruit in
the foundation of Catholic universities in Louvain, Dublin and France.
Initially hailed as a confederate of the ultramontanists, he attracted papal
condemnation especially for his revolutionary social teachings, which
were published in 1834 and were a huge success with the public. He
nevertheless remained true throughout to his religious socialism.20
The life and works of Ernest Renan were just as exceptional and influen-
tial. He had learned Hebrew at the seminary of Saint Sulpice, but, having
become disaffected with Catholic dogma through his philological studies
of the Bible, decided to leave the seminary. After a pioneering work on
Averroes, the Arab commentator on Aristotle, and following excavations
in Palestine, he was elected in 1862 to a professorship in Hebrew at the
Collège de France. His inaugural lecture and his Vie de Jésus of 1863,
which developed in an original way German research on the life of Jesus,
depicting Him not as the Son of God but as a man of genius who changed
the course of history, both provoked so much controversy that, after the
intervention of the French episcopacy in 1864, he was deprived of his
post and only regained it in 1871 after the fall of the Empire. He was
less influential with his specialist works on semitic languages than with
his splendidly written volumes on the history of religion and his philo-
sophical, cultural and political writings, in which he not only defended
the freedom of research and teaching, but also religious and political
liberalism.21

20 J.-B. Duroselle, Les débuts du catholicisme social en France 1822–1870 (Paris, 1951).
21 I. Goldziher, Ernest Renan als Orientalist (Zurich, 2000) (German translation of
Renan Mint Orientalista, commemorative address, delivered in 1894 at the Hungarian

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t h e pa pacy ’ s py r r h i c v i c to r i e s ov e r m o d e r n i s m
In 1864 Pope Pius IX published the Syllabus errorum in Europa vigentium
and condemned as the latest of the 80 ‘heresies current in Europe’ the rec-
onciliation of the Church with progress, liberalism and modern civiliza-
tion. The main representative of modernism, Alfred Loisy (1857–1940),
who had provoked Pius X into the condemnations of 1907 and 1910 men-
tioned above, had been professor of Hebrew at the Institut Catholique in
Paris since 1881 and professor of Exegesis from 1889. In 1893 he lost his
professorship, but he was able to continue teaching in 1900 in the Section
des sciences religieuses at the state École pratique des Hautes Etudes, and
later from 1909 at the Collège de France. He supported the autonomy of
biblical criticism vis-à-vis theological doctrine and attempted to produce
an apologetics based on the New Testament, which relativized the dogmas
of the church. The results of his work brought the pope’s condemnation
and in 1908 excommunication, but at the same time found widespread
resonance both within France and beyond. The application of historical
methods to the Old Testament by the Dominican Albert Lagrange (1855–
1938) was just as critical in terms of its scholarly approach, but its impact
remained limited to specialists. In 1890 Lagrange, at the instigation of
his Order, founded the École pratique des études bibliques in Jerusalem,
but in 1912 he was removed from his post following the condemnation
of several of his writings.22
At the Catholic University of Louvain, founded in 1834, prominent
followers of Lamennais were in leading positions. Xavier de Ram (1804–
65), who had been the first to produce a history of the national church
using original source material, led the university as rector for 31 years
until his death. In the field of religious studies the new foundation had
an outstanding reputation for its prowess in oriental studies. Thanks to
De Ram’s initiative the Jesuits were allowed to continue the monumental
Bolland edition of the Acta Sanctorum after a gap of fifty years. The
head of the ‘Louvain School’, the professor of philosophy Gerhard
Ubaghs (1800–75), attempted with some success to produce a metaphysics
founded on Platonic and Augustinian traditions. His ontological equation
of all intellectually perceivable truth with the unlimited Being of God was a
continuation of the ideas of Lamennais. Out of consideration for the newly
founded Catholic institution, Ubaghs’ teachings were at first not publicly
criticized in Rome, but after the death of De Ram, they were in 1869

Academy), Introduction by F. Niewöhner; O. Chadwick, The Secularisation of the


European Mind in the Nineteenth Century, The Gifford Lectures in the University of
Edinburgh for 1973–4 (Cambridge, London, New York and Melbourne, 1975), 212–24.
22 C. Theobald, ‘L’exégèse catholique au moment de la crise moderniste’, in C. Savart and
J.-N. Aletti (eds.), Le monde contemporain et la Bible (Paris, 1985), 387–459.

401
Walter Rüegg

condemned, with the result that Ubaghs was forced into submission and
had to resign his post.
In Italy, as a consequence of the Risorgimento, attacks on the Papal
States, and, finally, their abolition, the Church faced stronger political and
theological challenges than in other countries. Count Antonio Rosmini
(1797–1855), who had had a philosophical education and in 1826
had founded the Congregation Institutum Charitatis, combined in his
metaphysics the supernatural nature of the Church with its task of sub-
stantiating the inner freedom of individual human beings and of social
institutions. He attacked the involvement of the Church with the state,
its alienation from the people and all forms of intellectual and political
absolutism, and developed a philosophically coherent system for the inner
renewal of the Church in dialogue with civil society. Pius IX’s desire to
appoint him to the post of Cardinal State Secretary at the beginning of his
pontificate was thwarted by the opposition of the ultramontanists. Indeed,
in 1849 they succeeded in having Rosmini’s writings on church politics
condemned, and in 1887 had some 40 sentences censored, after his ideas
had not only spread in numerous Rosmini circles but had also ‘conquered
the professorial chairs of universities and numerous seminaries in North-
ern Italy’.23 Despite all the sanctions introduced by the ultramontanists,
which Rosmini had already castigated as counterproductive, modernism
could not be prevented even in Rome itself. Its most prominent represen-
tative, Ernesto Buonaiuti (1881–1946), a church historian at a Roman
seminary for priests, had a stimulating effect on the Italian reform move-
ment with his teachings on the purely spiritual, community orientated,
role of the Church and a radically evangelical ethic. He was removed
from office in 1906, and in 1915 he was granted a chair in the history of
Christianity at the state university in Rome. During the period 1924–26
he was excommunicated. As an internationally esteemed authority on the
history of the Church and its dogmatics he refused to take the Fascist oath
of loyalty in 1932, lost his chair and did not regain it in 1944 because of
his previous excommunication.
Another renewal movement within Catholic theology, the revival of the
original teachings of St Thomas Aquinas culminating eventually in the
victory of neo-Scholasticism, met with unqualified papal support. From
Piacenza, where Vincenzo Buzzetti (1777–1824) taught Thomism, Jesuits
brought it to the attention of the man who was to become Leo XIII. Once
installed as pope in an encyclical Aeterni Patris of 1879, Leo declared it to
be the official teaching of the Church ‘in order to respond adequately to
the problems of the modern world’.24 As a result neo-Scholasticism, which
also caught up other thinkers of medieval scholasticism, began to spread,

23 HKG VI, 1 (note 4), 307. 24 HKG VI, 2 (note 4), 316–27, quotation 317.

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Theology and the arts

partly through the papal university the Gregoriana, and partly through a
range of institutes, editions and conferences supported by the pope. On
the one hand it led to a number of sterile polemics, such as the one referred
to earlier against Rosmini’s 40 sentences, but to a widespread renewal of
Catholic dogmatics on the other. The main protagonist between the two
world wars was the philosopher Jacques Maritain (1882–1973), who had
converted from Protestantism in 1906 and had taught from 1914 at the
Catholic Institute in Paris and then in Canada and America. Following
influential works on the theory of knowledge and on moral and social
philosophy, his Humanisme intégral of 1936 provided the philosophical
basis for the increasingly important confrontation between Catholicism
and Marxism. It was also in France during the twentieth century that a
moderate form of anti-scholastic Modernism flourished, largely thanks
to the Jesuit Teilhard de Chardin (1881–1955), who sought a renewal
of theology through the scientific theories of evolution. There was also
Henri de Lubac (1896–1991) whose Nouvelle Théologie was condemned
as recently as 1950 in the encyclical Humani generis by Pope Pius XII and
who was then rehabilitated in 1983 by John Paul II and made a cardinal.
In general the papacy found itself theologically in a beleaguered city.
The image was in fact used by Leo XIII. In an encyclical letter to the
French bishops in 1899 he accused the modernists of breaching the walls
of the city they were supposed to be defending.25 Significantly the only
pioneering work of scholarship that Pius IX had supported was an archae-
ological investigation into the early Church in Rome, which had a crucial
bearing on the question of the primacy of the pope. In the course of this
Giovanni de Rossi (1822–94) managed to put the Catholic investigation
of Christian archaeology and epigraphy on a scientific footing.
If Döllinger, as already stated, had been able to accuse Rome in 1869
of mounting an inadequate ‘bows and arrows’ theological defence of
Catholicism, this was no longer completely true later on. Even Leo XIII
engaged in, to use his image, theological raids through the defensive walls
of ultramontanism in order to ward off modernism, opening up the urbs
for developments which in the end led to the Second Vatican Council.
For outside the Vatican the tension between ultramontanism and mod-
ernism had given way to mutually stimulating discussion and research.
It found expression in numerous scholarly journals and handbooks,26 in

25 Theobald, Exégèse (note 22), 400; cf. H. Gazelles, ‘L’exégèse scientifique au XXe siècle:
l’Ancient Testament’, in Savart and Aletti (eds.), Monde contemporain (note 22), 454:
‘En fait, comme on l’a dit, l’Eglise catholique se mettait “en état de siège”.’
26 The bibliographical abbreviations in HKG VI, 1 and 2 (note 4) include 85 journals
published between 1838 and 1939, as well as for the same period more than twenty
handbooks on Catholic theology; cf. Savart and Aletti (eds.), Monde contemporain
(note 22), 454.

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Walter Rüegg

lexica,27 in discussion fora involving lay and professional researchers28 as


well as in a series of international congresses of scholars. The first of these
was organized in 1888 by the founding rector of the Catholic Institute in
Paris, Maurice d’Hulst (1841–96), and the last, which took place in 1891
in Swiss Freiburg, involved some 3,000 participants.29
No one played a more prominent and progressive role between mod-
ernism and ultramontanism than John Henry Newman (1801–90), whom
Döllinger characterized as Roman Catholicism’s most important intellec-
tual gain in the modern era.30 The Oxford university preacher had con-
verted to Catholicism after an intensive study of the Church Fathers and
after vain attempts to introduce reforms into the Anglican Church. Dis-
qualified by the ultramontanists as a ‘liberal’, he was even denounced
in 1859 by an English spokesman for the pope as ‘the most dangerous
man in England’, although he often opposed modernist tendencies and
accepted the infallibility of papal teaching. In short, both his thinking
and his actions testified to an independent theological intellect, which,
though deeply anchored in a dogmatically secure faith, took contempo-
rary scientific discoveries seriously and attempted to take account of them
in theological works. In doing so Newman isolated himself from his ear-
lier comrades both to the left and the right. He disappointed his liberal
ally Lord Acton (1834–1902), who remained true to his teacher Döllinger
both as a historian and a reformed Catholic. Until he was made a cardi-
nal by Leo XIII in 1879 Newman was also viewed with suspicion by his
fellow convert in Oxford, the ultramontanist Archbishop of Westminster,
Cardinal Manning (1808–92).31 Appointed the first Rector of the Catholic
University in Dublin, founded in 1851, he found himself unable to realize
his ideas for an ideal university set out in his Discourses on the Idea of a
University of 1852, and he resigned in 1858. Whilst this particular work

27 H. J. Wetze and B. Welte (eds.), Kirchenlexikon oder Encyclopädie der kath. Theolo-
gie und ihrer Hilfswissenchaften, 13 vols. (Freiburg, 1847–56) (predecessor of the HLK
(note 4)); J. Gillow (ed.), A Literary and Bibliographical History, or Bibliographical Dic-
tionary of the English Catholics from the Breach with Rome in 1534 to the Present
Time, 5 vols. (London and New York, no date [1885– ]; rpt. New York, 1968; Tokyo and
Bristol, 1999); F. Vigouroux (ed.), Dictionnaire de la Bible, 5 vols. (Paris, 1895–1912);
C. Herbermann et al. (eds.), The Catholic Encyclopedia, 17 vols. (New York, 1907–22);
A. d’Alès (ed.), Dictionnaire apologétique de la foi catholique, 4 vols. (Paris, 1911–28);
A. Baudrillart et al. (eds.), Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastique (Paris,
1912–); A. Vacant, E. Mangenot and E. Amann (eds.), Dictionnaire de théologie
catholique, 15 vols. (Paris, 1930–50).
28 In 1876, on the 100th anniversary of Görres’ birth, the ‘Görres – Gesellschaft’ was
founded, in 1891 the ‘Leo-Gesellschaft’, which took its name from Pope Leo XIII.
29 HKG VI, 2 (note 4), 263–4.
30 Quoted by V. Conzemius, ‘Kirchenvater der Neuzeit. Zum 100. Todestag von John Henry
Newman’, Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 178 (4–5 August 1990), 49.
31 E. Norman, The English Catholic Church in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1984),
287–344 (ch. 7: ‘Catholic learning’).

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Theology and the arts

remained rooted in the ideas of the nineteenth century his theological


thinking which revolved around the sanctity of conscience had an endur-
ing influence on the renewal of Catholic theology right up to the Second
Vatican Council.32

protestant theology as a subject of


university research
Barely 100 European universities survived the French Revolution and
its consequences up to 1850 and of these two-thirds were in Catholic
countries.33 The remaining third consisted of the four orthodox univer-
sities in Russia, the ten reformed universities in Scotland, Holland and
Switzerland, the Anglican universities of Oxford and Cambridge together
with the seventeen Lutheran universities in Scandinavia and Germany.
This minority, and in particular the German faculties, turned theology
into an academically respectable university subject in the nineteenth cen-
tury. The reason for this is not primarily to be found in the fact that
Protestant pastors as state officials received their education in the univer-
sities. In 1893 out of 4,870 students at the University of Berlin 620 were
studying evangelical theology, in Halle it was 585 out of 1,472: in 1891/92
in Leipzig 451 out of 3,307, in Uppsala 347 out of 1,476, in Tübingen 306
out of 1,185 as against 172 students of Catholic theology.34
A more important reason for this predominance was the lack of uni-
versally binding dogmas and the variety of church regulations, which
allowed the faculties from an early stage to reflect a diversity of opin-
ion in their teaching and for professors, who had been dismissed for their
teaching in one state, to be re-engaged in another. Thus a dogmatic plural-
ism developed, not so much within as between the universities, which did
not merely exhaust itself in absolutist squabbles but led to academically
fruitful debates and encouraged tolerant princes to offer and guarantee
freedom of teaching. In the course of the nineteenth century academic
freedom generally prevailed, though not without suffering reverses such

32 J. Roberts, ‘The Idea of a University Revisited’, in I. Ker and A. G. Hill (eds.), Newman
after a Hundred Years (Oxford, 1990).
33 See the maps in vol. II, pp. 102ff.
34 See the information on the universities concerned in: Minerva, Jahrbuch (note 13),
2 (1892/93). After 1918 the relations were reversed. In 1928/29 the German univer-
sities trained 2,166 students in Catholic theology and 1,895 in Protestant theology;
in 1938/9 2,971 were studying Catholic and 878 Protestant theology (Empfehlungen
des Wissenschaftsrates zum Ausbau der wissenschaftlichen Einrichtungen, vol. I: Wis-
senschaftliche Hochschulen (Tübingen, 1960), 462). For figures relating to the develop-
ment of the teaching body and the students in German Protestant faculties until 1914:
F. W. Graf, ‘Rettung und Persönlichkeit, Protestantische Theologie als Kulturwissenschaft
des Christentums’, in R. vom Bruch, F. W. Graf and G. Hübinger (eds.), Kultur und
Wissenschaften um 1900, Krise und Glaube an die Wissenschaft (Stuttgart, 1989), 104ff.

405
Walter Rüegg

as the Carlsbad Decrees of 1819, together with later reactions on the


part of orthodoxy in the populace or in the faculties,35 and this gradual
development is also reflected in Protestant theology.
The development was introduced and shaped over a long period by
Friedrich Ernst Daniel Schleiermacher, of whom his theological counter-
part in the twentieth century, Karl Barth (1886–1968), said that he was
rightly called the father of the nineteenth-century Church. He not only
founded a school but also an age.36 This is also true of his role in the
foundation of the University of Berlin. It is thus quite possible to trace
the development of theology into an academic university subject on the
basis of the new foundation in Berlin. In 1808 Schleiermacher produced
a detailed account of a modern university.37 Wilhelm von Humboldt, in
the course of the sixteen months when he was in control of the Prussian
Education system, brought it to the brink of realization with a series of
pregnant and practical memoranda in 1810, before handing over respon-
sibility for carrying it out to a ‘start-up commission’ under the leader-
ship of Schleiermacher. The model role of Berlin as a modern university
linking teaching and research, and which is associated with the name of
Humboldt, is dealt with in chapter 2.
Here we are concerned with the effects on the theological faculty.
Schleiermacher composed the essential report for the establishment of the
latter on 24 May 1810, and at the same time initiated the appointment of
his – in the first instance two – colleagues.38 One of his favourite ideas,
the introduction of a special form of worship at the university, could not
be realized, but it illustrates his understanding of theology as an academic
discipline and the way it should be converted into practice: ‘If we are able
here to unite the spirit of scholarship with a sense of religion and turn it
into an objective reality, then we will have laid the best possible founda-
tion for the removal of the apparent division between the world of reli-
gion and that of science and commerce, indeed we will also have brought
about an inner improvement in those who have devoted themselves to this
task.’ On the one hand theological practice had the goal of giving science

35 On the history of academic freedom in Germany: R. A. Müller, ‘Vom Ideal der “liber-
tas philosophandi” zum Dogma der “Freiheit der Wissenschaft” (1848/9–1918/9)’, in
C. Friedrich (ed.), Die Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg 1743–1993,
Geschichte einer deutschen Hochschule, Ausstellungskatalog (Erlangen and Nuremberg,
1993), 65–76.
36 K. Barth, Die protestantische Theologie im 19. Jahrhundert. Ihre Vorgeschichte und
Geschichte (Zurich, 1947; 6th edn 1994), 379.
37 F. Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken über Universitäten im deutschen Sinn. Nebst
einem Anhang über eine neu zu errichtende (Berlin, 1808).
38 M. Lenz, Geschichte der königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin, vol. I:
Gründung und Ausbau (Halle, 1910); on the ‘start-up-commission’ see p. 220; for the
quotations from the report, 221–3; on the nomination of his colleagues Marheineke and
De Wette see 224–7.

406
Theology and the arts

and practical life a religious sense. Thus even more important than the
education in school for the implantation of religion as a centre of moral
education are ‘the academic years, for what the young persons absorb
then is acquired in freedom, and it enters fully into their characters’.39
On the other hand the ‘combination of scientific spirit with a sense
of religion’ forms the basis of a theology grounded in the principle of
freedom, as understood and given institutional form by Schleiermacher.
This is evident from the first in the appointments to professorial chairs:
‘the more opposing views and approaches prevail in theology, the greater
the number of young people for whom study is something merely voca-
tional and the more necessary it is to use a range of teaching modes so as
to stimulate the students in a variety of ways and, by introducing com-
petition, to maintain a stimulating spirit of rivalry among the teaching
staff.’ To achieve this he felt it was not necessary to have a particular
subject area represented by various approaches – as became the case later
in many faculties. It was better to choose professors who, as exegetes,
could teach dogmatics, for dogmatists could teach history just as histori-
ans could also teach exegesis, so that Berlin initially could manage with
three professors of theology; Schleiermacher himself was obliged to teach
dogmatics, which then became one of his major areas of achievement
in theology. The difference between Reformed and Lutheran theology
was not acknowledged by Schleiermacher, who came from the reformed
church, and in 1817 he achieved the union of the two churches, something
which had also been desired by the king. The professors who, in addition
to Schleiermacher, were the speculative dogmatist and ecclesiastical histo-
rian Philipp Marheineke (1780–1846), the Bible exegist Wilhelm de Wette
(1780–1849) and from 1813 the ecclesiastical historian August Neander
(1789–1850) lectured on the various branches of theology, partly supple-
menting each other and partly in parallel. The traditional components
of theology – Bible study, ecclesiastical history, systematic theology with
dogmatics, ethics and apologetics – were augmented by Schleiermacher
with practical theology, homiletics and catechetios.
The increase in student numbers, the introduction of double professor-
ships in order to represent conservative theology, and the specialization
of branches of teaching led in the course of the century to an increase
in theology chairs throughout the whole of Germany. At the University
of Berlin in 1892, Old Testament exegesis and ecclesiastical history were
each represented by three chairs, New Testament exegesis, dogmatics and
the philosophy of religion by two chairs, practical theology and Christian
archaeology by one. At the same time individual professors also covered

39 Ibid., 222. On Schleiermacher’s pedagogics see Friedrich Schleiermacher, Pädagogische


Schriften, ed. E. Weniger (Düsseldorf and Munich, 1957; 2nd edn, Berlin, 1983).

407
Walter Rüegg

neighbouring subjects. For instance, the Old Testament specialists took


care of the semitic languages, a New Testament specialist looked after
religious pedagogics, the philosophers of religion were responsible for
apologetics or systematic theology, while a Privatdozent read on mission-
ary studies. By 1938 the number of professors had not increased, but in
addition there were now seven lecturers to cover the core subjects and
five teaching staff for subsidiary subjects such as church architecture and
church music.40
The opening of a theological seminar in the summer term of 1812 was to
have an enduring influence on theological studies in the whole of Europe.
The Gelegentliche Gedanken had viewed academic seminars of the sort
that already existed in classical philology as the institutional heart of the
link between teaching and research at the university, and for this reason
had opposed – successfully – the transfer of research to the Academy of
Sciences, of which Schleiermacher was a member.41 The ‘activities’ of the
theological seminar should thus be directed ‘mainly’ to matters ‘of theo-
logical scholarship’.42 The seminar consisted of two sections, the philo-
logical, with subsections for Old and New Testament studies, and the
historical, which was limited to ecclesiastical history.
The seminar was under the control of the Dean. The directorship of the
sections and sub-sections was also supposed to rotate among the members
of the teaching body, but, in practice, was soon held – often for decades –
by the incumbents of the various professorial chairs. The 20–30 students
who were accepted as full members were eligible to receive grants and
prizes. In the philological department they had to produce oral inter-
pretations of difficult texts, which, until the middle of the century, was
done in Latin. In the ecclesiastical history department they were required
to write essays which, under the first Dirigent (‘Conductor’) Neander,
covered a particular area of study and, between 1888 and 1910 under
Adolf von Harnack (1851–1930), were based on source material relat-
ing to ecclesiastical history. Until 1884 prizes and awards were offered
for treatises composed in Latin. Their quality varied over the years, but
under a strict ‘Conductor’ they were often of publishable quality. With
the removal of the prizes the seminar lost its function as an institution
providing scholarships, but in 1887 it received the means to build up its
own library and thus to become in every sense a place for serious academic
work, where not only the student members of the seminar could learn to

40 Minerva Jahrbuch (note 13), 33 (1938), 54.


41 Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken (note 37), 87–91.
42 M. Lenz, Geschichte der königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin, vol. III:
Wissenschaftliche Anstalten, Spruchkollegium, Statistik (Halle, 1910), 3. The next para-
graphs are based on the descriptions of the theological seminaries and collections given
on pp. 4–24.

408
Theology and the arts

contribute independently to the common solution of problems, but also


where the professors could be stimulated in their research by collabo-
rative work with future scholars. Through the Berlin University model
the theological seminar found its way into the modern, research-based
university.
A practical seminar was added to the theological one in 1876, in order to
train students in homiletics and catechetics. Until then Schleiermacher’s
view had prevailed, according to which ‘exercises’ that ‘were not con-
ducive to the deepening of scholarly research and knowledge, but which
merely practised certain skills and abilities’ should be performed outside
the university. There was a different attitude to the ‘Christian Archaeo-
logical and Epigraphic Collection’. A report in 1810 introduced lectures
on church antiquities but limited them for the most part to literary source
materials, until in 1843 Ferdinand Piper (1811–89) set the monuments
themselves in the foreground and in 1848 received permission to estab-
lish a ‘Collection of Church Monuments’ to serve the teaching of theology.
In this way the study of Christian archaeology and epigraphy was founded
as a scholarly discipline.
The principle of freedom not only formed the basis of the daily routine
of lectures and teaching on theology. Schleiermacher consistently argued
for the freedom of theological teaching and research from interference by
the state or Church authorities. His colleague De Wette was dismissed
in September 1819 because, in a consolatory letter to the mother of the
recently executed student Sand, the murderer of Kotzebue, he had praised
‘the firmness and purity of her son’s convictions’ and had excused his deed.
The theological faculty appealed to the government in a letter drafted by
Schleiermacher. It not only intervened on behalf of the colleague, but
gave a very full justification for the need for that ‘unlimited freedom
to teach in theology’ which had been removed by Metternich’s decrees.
Schleiermacher also insisted that De Wette should publish the documents
concerning his dismissal, in order to achieve his academic rehabilitation.
This both opened the way for him to go to the University of Basle and
exposed the reactionary stance of the Prussian state.
Schleiermacher also played a leading role in the resistance of the univer-
sity Senate and the Academy of Sciences to the Carlsbad Decrees. Reac-
tionary circles in both the church and state bureaucracy tried for years to
silence him through denunciations, police summonses and other attacks.
The witch-hunt continued until 1823 when a motion was drafted by the
government to remove Schleiermacher from the university and the pulpit
but was not carried out.43

43 M. Lenz, Geschichte der königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin, vol. IV:


Urkunden, Akten und Briefe (Halle, 1910). On De Wette’s dismissal see pp. 358–72; for

409
Walter Rüegg

p o s i t i v e a n d l i b e r a l w i n g s i n t h e s t u dy o f
theology and religion
Schleiermacher’s reputation as the founder of a new age stemmed not only
from his contribution to the foundation and development of the Univer-
sity of Berlin. On the contrary, this has largely been forgotten, overshad-
owed by the philosophical splendour of Fichte’s ingenious but unrealized
plan and above all by the – for the most part justified – fame of Hum-
boldt. Schleiermacher was known as the ‘Father of the nineteenth-century
Protestant Church’ because of his concept of religion and theology, which
developed over stages. It took from those movements which determined
theological discussion at the end of the eighteenth century, that is, the
Enlightenment, Rationalism, Supranaturalism, and Pietism the elements
of a theology, which, as we have already noted, combined a sense of reli-
gion with a scholarly intellect founded on the principle of freedom.
Schleiermacher was indebted to Rationalism to the extent that he sub-
mitted Christian tradition to the criticism of methodical thought and was
not afraid to interpret sections of the Bible, such as the story of Creation,
in a mythological way, as ‘a pious legend’. But he rejected the rational jus-
tification of religion and enclosed reason in a deeper religious experience,
which he called the ‘feeling of total dependence’. He owed this experience,
and the ethics of responsibility and love derived from it, to Pietism, but
distanced himself from its forms of fundamentalist, often ecstatic, piety.
Indeed, in his very first published work which initially appeared anony-
mously, he made this feeling the basis of a concept of religion, which as
a result has been called romantic, but which now, however, seems very
modern. For him the essence of religion was ‘neither thought, nor action,
but contemplation and feeling’. On the one hand there was contempla-
tion of the natural universe, of history, of the individual, symbolized in
the cosmos, and its ‘infinite chaos, whose every point represents a world’.
The cosmos is indeed the ‘highest symbol of religion’, for in both only
‘the individual is true and necessary’. On the other hand there was feeling
arising from the inner sense of awe before the revelation of the infinite in
the finite, a feeling which does not determine human action but accom-
panies it; ‘the human being should do everything with a sense of religion
not because of religion’.44

the letter of the theological faculty see pp. 366–70; on the university’s and the academy’s
protest against restrictions on academic freedom see pp. 372–80; on the witch-hunt
against Schleiermacher see pp. 380–444.
44 [F. Schleiermacher], Über die Religion. Reden an die Gebildeten unter ihren Verächtern
(Berlin, 1799), 50, 60, 69; cf. K. Novak, Schleiermacher und die Frühromantik. Eine
literaturgeschichtliche Studie zum romantischen Religionsverständnis und Menschenbild
am Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts (Weimar and Göttingen, 1986), 119–229.

410
Theology and the arts

Religion as a fundamental manifestation of human intellectual life


comes before any systematization of it, be it sacral, mythological or ratio-
nal. In this sense the Christian religion is not the only true one. To show
that it is in fact the highest among many, each of them being also ‘true and
necessary’, is theology’s task, though, like any scholarly system subject to
human limitations and a propensity to error, it can never lay claim to
absolute certainty. Theology as an all-embracing system and at the same
time as a positive scientific study of the Christian Church was founded
by Schleiermacher on ethics as a science of the principles of history, on a
philosophy of religion derived from this, and, finally, on a philosophical
theology incorporating the general doctrine of the Church.45
There was a very clear distinction between this doctrine of faith and
the theological systems of the Enlightenment, but it inherited the princi-
ple of the central ground, already present in Johann Gottfried von Herder
(1744–1893) and the idea of reconciliation between theological divisions,
in particular between the rationalist party in Halle and the orthodox-
pietistic party led from 1826 onwards in Berlin by Ernst Wilhelm Heng-
stenberg (1802–69), both in his role as a faculty member and as editor of
the newspaper of the Evangelical Church. The pietistic faction remained,
to borrow a term from Schleiermacher,46 a ‘positive direction’ in faculties
and churches until the Second World War. Theological and political efforts
towards reconciliation and union between the evangelical churches led to
a situation where one ecclesiastical historian could write in 1908 that ‘to
describe fully the effects of Schleiermacher’s doctrine of faith, would be
to write a history of Protestant theology since Schleiermacher’.47
It was in the ‘theology of mediation’, represented by colleagues, succes-
sors, and students from Kiel to Basle and Zurich, that Schleiermacher’s
most potent influence was to be found. Individual initiatives, radicalized,
had an effect that he could never have dreamed of. Beginning with his
concept of the pious individual and the rejection of theological rational-
ism which this implied, the Erlangen School developed the most fruitful
departure for confessional theology. The Tübingen School with Ferdinand
Christian Baur (1792–1860) and his student David Friedrich Strauss

45 Barth, Protestantische Theologie (note 36), 396; cf. Th. Lehnerer, ‘Religiöse Individualität,
Friedrich Daniel Schleiermacher (1768–1834)’, in F. W. Graf (ed.), Profile des neuzeitlichen
Protestantismus (Gütersloh, 1990), vol. I, 195–202, with extended bibliography.
46 Schleiermacher, Religion (note 44), 242–5.
47 Quoted by H. Peiter, ‘Friedrich Schleiermacher’, in H. Fries and G. Kretschmann (eds.),
Klassiker der Theologie (Munich, 1983), vol. II, 87. For the state of the art in this
field see F. W. Graf, ‘Die Spaltung des Protestantismus. Zum Verhältnis von evange-
lischer Kirche, Staat und “Gesellschaft” im frühen 19. Jahrhundert’, in W. Schieder (ed.),
Religion und Gesellschaft im 19. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart, 1973), 157–90; K. Nowak,
Geschichte des Christentums in Deutschland. Religion, Politik und Gesellschaft vom
Ende der Aufklärung bis zur Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich, 1995).

411
Walter Rüegg

(1808–74) in particular used Hegelian categories to found a biblical crit-


icism based on the de-mythologization of New Testament writing.48 His
first work ‘The Life of Jesus’ of 1835/36, in which over 1,500 pages he
reduced the biblical image of Christ to the idea of divine World Spirit, pro-
voked a revolt from the conservative populace when he was appointed to
a chair at the University of Zurich in 183949 and turned its author into a
premature pensioner, freelance teacher and a most successful writer, whose
works attained extremely high publication figures. In Paris too, translated
by Littré, he caused a furore and provoked Renan into an intensive debate.
Ludwig Feuerbach (1804–72) in his Wesen des Christenthums (‘Essence
of Christianity’), published in 1841, took the non-objectivity of God in
Schleiermacher and Hegel as the starting point of his anti-theological
anthropology and in so doing influenced the young Marx.
Religious liberalism was able to count Schleiermacher as one of its
founders, because it developed his ideas in various directions. In oppo-
sition to a combination of the critical analysis of historical sources
with speculation based on the philosophy of history as practised by the
Tübingen School, the Göttingen School under Albrecht Ritschl (1822–
89) stressed the ethical and cultural basis of theology to the exclusion of
metaphysics. For Adolf von Harnack, both a professor at the university
and member of the Berlin Academy from 1888 to 1930, the Gospel as the
‘sole basis of all moral culture’ formed the driving force and criterion of
his important theological research and teaching as a historian of dogma
and initiator of the patristic collection. It also lay behind his initiatives
in the area of religion and society and his interest in the furtherance of
research by the state, which culminated in the foundation of the Kaiser-
Wilhelm-Society for the Promotion of Science in 1911.50
In the twentieth century the History of Religion School, comprising
the Old Testament scholar Hermann Gunkel (1862–1932) and the New
Testament specialist Wilhelm Bousset (1865–1920) in Giessen, together
with the Heidelberg theologian Troeltsch, mentioned in the introduc-
tion to this chapter, examined Christianity as one of many religions
from the perspective of a comparative science of religion. In the crisis

48 F. W. Graf, Kritik und Pseudo-Spekulation, David Friedrich Strauss als Dogmatiker im


Kontext der positionellen Theologie seiner Zeit (Munich, 1982); U. Köpf (ed.), Historisch-
kritische Geschichtsschreibung. Ferdinand Baur und seine Schüler, 8. Blaubeurer Kollo-
quium (Contubernium 40) (Tübingen, 1984).
49 H. H. Schmid, Universität, Öffentlichkeit und Staat. 150 Jahre Zürcher Wirren um David
Friedrich Strauss (Zurich, 1989); H. J. Loibl (ed.), Annahme der Endlichkeit (Zurich,
1993), 301–417.
50 Quoted by W. Schneemelcher, ‘Harnack’, in Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart,
Handwörterbuch für Theologie und Religionswissenschaft (RGG), 3rd edn (Tübingen,
1959), vol. III, 79.

412
Theology and the arts

situation after the First World War liberal Protestantism provoked a


reaction in the form of dialectical theology, which had as its starting
point the dichotomy between the absolute rule of God and the human
world, and sought a radically new understanding of theology in the bib-
lical belief in revelation. For Karl Barth the acceptance of the world as
God’s creation qua thesis, and the questioning of the world as a new cre-
ation in Christ qua antithesis led to the freedom of the Gospel and to a
theology based entirely on the interpretation of the scriptures, whereas
Rudolf Bultmann (1884–1976) with his focus on the historical situa-
tion and his de-mythologization of the Christian message harked back to
Schleiermacher.
The German Schools of Theology were models throughout the whole
of Europe (and North America), and often seedbeds for the academic
development of theology. In England there was the Cambridge school,
where the leading scholars were Brooke Foss Westcott (1825–1901), James
Barber Lightfoot (1829–89), and Fenton John Anthony Hort (1828–92),
‘of whom it has been said that they raised English theology, and particu-
larly English New Testament scholarship, from a condition of intellectual
nullity up to the best German work, whilst infusing it with a characteristic
English spirit of caution and sobriety’.51 This standard was kept up in the
twentieth century in the person of the New Testament scholar and ori-
entalist F. C. Burkitt (1864–1935), and later especially thanks to Charles
Harold Dodd (1884–1973), who had studied in Berlin with Harnack and
Wilamowitz.52 Oxford too could boast theologians of international
stature. Yet ‘their work did not influence Christian theology or the Church
of England’.53 The same could be said for the Scottish, Dutch and Scandi-
navian universities, which certainly valued a serious theological training,
but which made no particular contributions to the scholarly development
of theology.
This was not so with the scientific study of religion. In the introduction
to this chapter it was noted that, from the period of Humanism onwards,
semitic languages had entered the universities in conjunction with Bible
interpretation. Later they were joined by other oriental languages, again
as sources of religious literature, and they were particularly studied at
Leiden, Oxford and Cambridge, where colonial ties increased interest

51 H. Rashdall, Principles and Precepts, ed. H. D. A. Major and F. L. Cross (Oxford, 1927),
quoted by B. M. G. Reardon, Religious Thought in the Victorian Age: A Survey from
Coleridge to Gore (London and New York, 1971; 2nd edn, 1980), 346.
52 W. G. Kümmel, Das Neue Testament, Geschichte der Erforschung seiner Probleme
(Freiburg and Munich, 1958), 493ff.; Brooke, University of Cambridge, IV, 124–46,
409–17.
53 P. M. Turner, ‘Religion’, in History of Oxford, VIII, 309.

413
Walter Rüegg

and made it easier to build up libraries. And yet it was the linguist and
Sanskrit specialist Max Müller (1823–1900) who gave the scientific study
of religion a particular boost. Born in Dessau and educated in Leipzig he
moved to Oxford in 1850 and, whilst teaching at the university, produced
works on the ethnology of religion and his 51-volume collection of the
Sacred Books of the East – the result of international co-operation.
Since the period 1810–1812 when the founder of the philological semi-
nar at the University of Heidelberg, Georg Friedrich Creuzer (1771–1858),
stimulated a heated discussion with his four-volume work Symbolik und
Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der Griechen (‘The Symbolism
and Mythology of Ancient Peoples, in Particular the Greeks’), research
into pagan religions had become a matter for departments of archaeology
and philology. That this development was not restricted to Germany is
evidenced by the names of the Belgian Franz Cumont (1868–1947), the
Dane Vilhelm Peter Gronbech (1873–1918), and the Swede Martin Pers-
son Nilsson (1874–1967). Stimuli also came from anthropologists like
Sir Edward Burnett Tyler (1832–1917) in Oxford and Sir James George
Frazer (1854–1941) in Cambridge, as well as from sociologists, like Emile
Durkheim (1858–1917) at the Sorbonne and his student Marcel Mauss
(1882–1950) at the Section des Sciences Religieuses of the École pratique
des Hautes Etudes. With its twenty Directeurs d’études in the most var-
ied areas of religious studies, this institution made possible specialized
scientific studies of the type found in the German seminars.54
The study of other religions was – as already noted – a concern of liberal
theologians, and certain of them like the Berlin Professor of Systematic
Theology, Otto Pfleiderer (1839–1908), carried out important research
into the history of religion. Nathan Söderblom (1866–1931), who was
the vicar of a Swedish community in Paris before he became a professor
first at Uppsala in 1901 and later also at Leipzig in 1912 established the
study of comparative religious history as a university subject. Joachim
Wach (1898–1955) taught religious studies at Leipzig from 1924 onwards,
until he had to emigrate in 1935 to the United States. Söderblom’s student,
the Reform-Catholic Friedrich Heiler (1892–1967) introduced the subject
in 1920 as a Lutheran professor to the University of Marburg. He had
been preceded there by the systematic theologians Martin Rade (1857–
1940) and Rudolf Otto (1869–1937) whose epoch-making Das Heilige
(‘The Sense of the Holy’), published in 1917, had attempted to develop
Schleiermacher’s concept of religion in a scientific way.

54 See Durkheim, Vie universitaire (note 7); on the development of religious studies see W.
den Boer, ‘Les historiens des religions et leur dogmes’, in W. den Boer (ed.), Les études
classiques aux XIXe et XXe siècles et leur place dans l’histoire des idées, Entretiens sur
l’antiquité classique 26 (Vandoeuvres-Genève, 1979), 1–53; on Otto 30ff.

414
Theology and the arts

philology as a geisteswissenschaft
It was not only in theology that the German faculties during the nineteenth
century became the measure, Mecca, model or monstrosity of academic
teaching and research. Renan gave up his calling as a priest because of
philology. Its fundamental importance as a life-long task dedicated to the
application of scholarly criticism had been revealed to him after reading
German publications.55 In his Vie de Jésus the starting point was German
research into the life of Jesus. He was also influenced by the German
cult of classical Greece and in alliance with the historian Victor Duruy
(1811–94), he rejected the prevailing rhetorical tradition in the Facultés
des Lettres of elegant, ingenious, and sympathetic textual interpretation
in favour of philological criticism.56 As Minister of Education Duruy had
founded the previously mentioned École pratique des Hautes Etudes as
a legally independent institution which was nevertheless linked to the
Sorbonne through shared staff and rooms and was dedicated purely to the
training of researchers on the model established by the German university
seminars.
In Italy, too, there was a decisive move from rhetoric to literary stud-
ies under the influence of German philology and philosophy.57 German
scholarship was not only valued by English researchers (‘the inestimable
aid of German erudition’),58 but was also accepted as a model in the
universities.59 ‘Germany was the bona patria of nearly all intellectuals’
was how George Saintsbury (1845–1933) began with delicate irony his
description of the failure of attempts to introduce philological seminars
into Oxford.60 As Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature at the Uni-
versity of Edinburgh he was not convinced of the usefulness of philology
for his subject area: ‘German opinion of English poetry has never been of
55 G. Pflug, ‘Ernest Renan und die deutsche Philologie’, in M. Bollak and H. Wismann (eds.),
Philologie und Hermeneutik im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 1983), vol. II, 156–85, esp.
164.
56 M. Jacob, ‘Etude comparative des systèmes universitaires et la place des études classiques
au 19ème siècle en Allemagne, en Belgique et en France’, in Bollak and Wismann (eds.),
Philologie (note 55), 112; cf. J. Seznek,‘Renan et la philologie classique’, in R. R. Bol-
gar (ed.), Classical Influence on Western Thought A.D. 1650–1870 (Cambridge, 1979),
349–62. For an excellent comparison between the French rhetorical tradition and Ger-
man philology: M. Werner, ‘(Romanische) Philologie in Frankreich? Zu Geschichte und
Problematik eines deutsch-französischen Wissenschaftstransfers im 19. Jahrhundert’, in
G. Martens and W. Woesler (eds.), Edition als Wissenschaft, Festschrift für Hans Zeller
(Tübingen, 1991), 31–43.
57 F. Schalk, Introduction to F. De Sanctis, Geschichte der italienischen Literatur (Stuttgart,
1941), vol. I, xviii–xxvi.
58 U. Muhlack, ‘Die deutschen Einwirkungen auf die englische Altertumswissenschaft am
Beispiel George Grotes’, in Bollak and Wismann (eds.), Philologie (note 55), 376–93,
quotation 379.
59 University of Cambridge, IV, 25, 84ff., 240, 428.
60 G. Saintsbury, A Scrap Book (London, 1922), 289–93.

415
Walter Rüegg

much real value. . . . On the points in Hamlet’s soul, or the origin of the
Tempest, the Germans may be useful; but these things have nothing to do
with poetry’. And again in more general terms: ‘As a matter of fact, I do
not think analysis at all a suitable word for literary research. It is good
for science, but not for art.’61
In France German philology also met with criticism: ‘on veut faire de
nous des Allemands’, stated an article in 1892 in the Revue des Deux
Mondes, and Proust in his A la recherche du temps perdu said of a
character in the novel: ‘D’ailleurs, il avait peu de sympathie pour la
nouvelle Sorbonne où les idées d’exactitude scientifique à l’allemande
commençaient à l’emporter sur l’humanisme’ (‘moreover he had little sym-
pathy for the new Sorbonne, where German ideas of scientific precision
were beginning to gain ground over humanism’).62 In the introduction to
his Histoire de la Littérature française, which remained the authoritative
textbook for decades, Gustave Lanson (1857–1914), wrote: ‘la littérature
n’est pas objet de savoir: elle est exercice, goût, plaisir. On ne la sait pas,
on ne l’apprend pas: on la pratique, on la cultive, on l’aime. Le mot le plus
vrai qu’on ait dit sur elle, est celui de Descartes: “la lecture de bons livres
est comme une conversation qu’on aurait avec les plus honnêtes gens de
siècles passés et une conversation où ils ne nous livrent que le meilleur
de leurs pensées ”’ (‘literature is not an object of knowledge: it is a mat-
ter of practice, taste, pleasure. One cannot “know” it or “learn” it, one
creates it, cultivates it, one loves it. Nothing characterizes it better than
Descartes’ sentence: “the reading of good books is like a conversation
with the noblest personalities of past ages, a conversation in the course
of which they only transmit to us the best of their thoughts”’).63
This sentence repeats almost word for word the educational idea of
dialogic humanism, whose importance for the reform of the arts fac-
ulties and higher education in general was dealt with in the first and
second volumes of this series. In the nineteenth century the humanist
tradition remained dominant in the faculties of arts, lettres, lettere, letra-
dos, and in the colleges of the Latin and Anglo-Saxon countries, and was
only supplanted or replaced towards the turn of the century by German
philology.
The transition to the scientific method was called a ‘conversion’
by Lanson on taking up the chair of Éloquence française at the new
Sorbonne.64 In 1902 he attacked ‘la rhétorique et les mauvaises humanités’

61 G. Saintsbury, A Last Scrap Book (London, 1924), 50, 78.


62 Jacob, ‘Etude comparative’ (note 56), 131, note 26.
63 G. Lanson, Histoire de la Littérature française, 12th edn (Paris, 1912), viii.
64 Lanson, ibid. In his Avertissement to the eleventh edition (1909) he announced some
notes de repentir ou de conversion when important changes in his judgement had taken
place; but this did not occur in the judgement quoted in note 63.

416
Theology and the arts

and developed the concept of goût historique, which by using the historical
method would make it possible to ‘distinguish, evaluate, check, and limit’
the subjective response to the beauty of a literary work,65 thus enabling
the students to see Greek tragedy for example as the product and mirror
of a certain culture.66 This sentence – as will be shown in what follows –
picks up a fundamental principle of the German study of the humanities.
It made such a successful impact on the Facultés des lettres, that as late
as 1938 German was still being recommended as the key language for
such study.67 Thus an attempt will be made in what follows to sketch in
the causes, basic characteristics and effects of the German study of the
humanities.
The notion of Geisteswissenschaften has no exact counterpart in other
languages. In England and America it is translated as humanities, in
French by sciences humaines or sciences de l’homme. It arose in 1849
as a translation of moral science,68 but it only began to spread after 1883
thanks to Wilhelm Dilthey, who understood it in the sense of ‘all of the
sciences, whose subject is historical and social reality’.69 In the twentieth
century the social sciences or Sozialwissenschaften gradually became inde-
pendent so that the Geisteswissenschaften were limited to the philological
disciplines and to the associated philosophical and historical studies.70
Philology, however, was understood as a Geisteswissenschaft long
before it was actually labelled as such. In an essay of 1848 on the ‘Assem-
bly of German Philologists and Schoolmen’ (founded in 1837) Renan
stressed the strictly scientific nature of philology as an exact science, com-
parable with the natural sciences, for the matters of the spirit. ‘La philolo-
gie est la science exacte des choses de l’esprit. Elle est aux sciences de

65 R. Ponton, ‘Durkheim et Lanson’, in M. Espagne and M. Werner (eds.), Philologiques,


vol. I: Contribution d’histoire des disciplines littéraires en France et en Allemagne au
XIXe siècle (Paris, 1990), 252–67, quotation 261.
66 G. Gengembre, ‘L’esthétique des idéologues et le statut de la littérature’, ibid., 89–104,
quotation 103.
67 In the philosophy lectures at the Sorbonne and in the philological seminars at the Ecole
Pratique des Hautes Etudes which I attended in 1938/39, MM. Bréhier and Rivaud,
Ernout and Marouzeau made similar recommendations.
68 ‘In the last chapter of J. S. Mill, System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive, I–II (Lon-
don, 1843), translated into German by J. Schiel, System der deductiven und inductiven
Logic, I–II (Braunschweig 1839)’, by M. Riedel, ‘Geisteswissenschaften’, in J. Mittel-
strass (ed.), Enzyklopädie Philosophie und Wissenschaftstheorie (Mannheim, Vienna and
Zurich, 1980), vol. I, 725.
69 W. Dilthey, Einleitung in die Geisteswissenschaften, Versuch einer Grundlegung für das
Studium der Gesellschaft und der Geschichte (Leipzig, 1883). Reprinted in his Gesam-
melte Schriften (Leipzig and Berlin, 1923), vol. I, 4.
70 W. Prinz and P. Weingart (eds.), Die sog. Geisteswissenschaften: Innenansichten
(Frankfurt-am-Main, 1990); W. Frühwald, H. R. Jauss, R. Koselleck, I. Mittelstrass and
B. Steinwachs, Geisteswissenschaften heute. Eine Denkschrift (Frankfurt-am-Main,
1991); H. Ritter (ed.), Werksbesichtigung Geisteswissenschaften, Fünfundzwanzig
Bücher, von ihren Autoren gelesen (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1990).

417
Walter Rüegg

l’humanité ce que la physique et la chimie sont à la science philosophique


des corps’.71 By philology as la science de l’humanité Renan understood
the exact study of the historical development of the spirit72 and so, with
an understanding sharpened by his crisis of faith, changed the German
idea of philology into the – somewhat positivistically coloured – notion
of a philosophically based study of the humanities.
Already by 1725 the Neapolitan professor of Rhetoric, Giambattisto
Vico (1668–1744), had developed this idea.73 Under the heading of ‘philol-
ogy’ he grouped together all those areas of study later called Geisteswis-
senschaften, which together with philosophy form such a unity ‘that every
single event/fact can be derived from a general law and every general law
from a single event’.74 He linked this with the unifying notion of the ‘spirit
of the people’, which had originally come from poetry. Vico’s importance
was only recognized after 1820, when the same ideas developed indepen-
dently in the classical philology of Friedrich August Wolf, in the language
and literature studies of the Romantics and in the idealist philosophy of
history.75 This development was strongly influenced by the cult of the
Greeks, which during the second half of the eighteenth century had arisen
in Germany as a reaction to the Latin rhetorical tradition in France. As a
means to German national education, Neo-Hellenism took on a political
dynamism during the Prussian wars of liberation.76
The leading philologist and for many years director of the philolog-
ical seminar at the University of Berlin, August Böckh (1785–1867),
in his lectures on methodology repeated over 26 terms, reproached
the humanities with a lack of philosophical and historical stringency
(Wissenschaftlichkeit). With their ‘linear approach’, the great Dutch
philologists, he argued, had journeyed as it were on a main road through
antiquity and in the process had collected only surface things. ‘Such an

71 E. Renan, L’Avenir de la science: Pensées de 1848, 4th edn (Paris, 1890), 148, quoted
by Pflug, ‘Renan’ (note 55), 161–4, who also mentions the article on Les congrès
philologiques en Allemagne written by Renan in 1848 (Œuvres complètes d’Ernest Renan,
ed. H. Psichari (Paris, 1948), vol. II, 620–31). Renan himself displayed science exacte by
means of italics. Cf. E. W. Said, ‘Renan’s Philological Laboratory’, in Bollak and Wismann
(eds.), Philologie (note 55), esp. 195.
72 Pflug, ‘Renan’ (note 55), 172.
73 G. Vico, Principj d’una scienza nuova d’intorno alla natura delle nazioni. (In later editions
Vico changed the title to Principj di una scienza nuova d’intorno alla comune natura delle
nazioni.)
74 E. Auerbach, ‘Vorrede des Übersetzers’, in Giambattista Vico, Die Neue Wissenschaft
über die gemeinschaftliche Natur der Völker (Munich, 1924), 29.
75 E. Auerbach, ‘Vico und der Volksgeist’, in G. Eisermann (ed.), Wirtschaft und Kultursys-
tem (Erlenbach-Zurich and Stuttgart, 1955), 46–60.
76 W. Rüegg, ‘Rhetoric and Anti-Rhetoric in the Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Human
Sciences in Germany’, in R. H. Roberts and J. M. M. Good (eds.), The Recovery of
Rhetoric: Persuasive Discourse and Disciplinarity in the Human Sciences (London, 1993),
87–100.

418
Theology and the arts

approach does not lead one to the heart of things. The only real method
is the cyclical one, where one brings everything back to a point and from
this point then goes out on all sides to the periphery.’ Böckh located this
centre in the ‘principle of a people or an age’ that is, in the ‘innermost
nucleus of its total being’ .77
Whilst he was the head of a Nuremberg Gymnasium in 1809, Georg
Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) made the idea of relating everything
to such a central point the basis of his philosophical theory of education
and culture. He argued that the ‘soul’s centrifugal instinct’ alienates man
from his natural being and explains the need to ‘introduce a distant strange
world into the youthful intellect’ . This world is to be found in the language
and world of the ancients: ‘their world, which divides us from ourselves,
contains at one and the same time all the starting points and threads for
a return to ourselves, for a friendly intimacy with it, and the rediscovery
of ourselves, but ourselves in the true general being of the spirit’.78 For
Hegel, however, ‘the friendly intimacy’ with the ‘language and world of
the ancients’ meant something quite different from that humanist friend-
ship between educated human beings which was envisaged in Descartes’
conversation with the noblest personalities of earlier ages.79 Hegel com-
pared the study of the ancients to enjoying an intellectual bath, a baptism,
‘which gives the soul its first and permanent tone and tincture for a sense
of taste and scientific investigation’. Moreover we must share ‘with them
both food and dwelling in order to absorb their air, their ideas, their cus-
toms, even if you will, their errors and their prejudices and to become
at home in their world, the most beautiful that has ever existed . . . If
the first paradise was that of human nature, this is the second, a higher
one, the paradise of the human spirit, which in its more beautiful natu-
ralness, freedom, depth and joyfulness steps forth like a bride from her
chamber.’80 According to Hegel it was the Greeks amongst all the ancient
peoples who were closest to the Germans as a philosophical nation and
with whom ‘we at once feel at home’. ‘Greece offers us a joyous vision of
the youthful freshness of intellectual life. This is where the maturing spirit
receives itself as the content of its desire and its knowledge, but in such

77 A. Boeckh [‘oe’ according to his numerous Latin writings], Encyclopädie und Method-
ologie der philologischen Wissenschaften, ed. E. Bratuscheck (Leipzig, 1877), 47, 56.
78 G. W. F. Hegel, Werke, Vollständige Ausgabe durch einen Verein von Freunden des
Verewigten, Ph. Marheineke u.a., vol. xvi: Vermischte Schriften, ed. Friedrich Förster
and Ludwig Boumann (Berlin, 1834), 159, 144.
79 Concerning the humanistic notion of friendship see W. Rüegg, ‘Christliche Brüderlichkeit
und humanistische Freundschaft’, in W. Rüegg, Bedrohte Lebensordnung, Studien zur
humanistischen Soziologie (Zurich and Munich, 1978), 107; written for R. Schmitz (ed.),
Ethik im humanismus, Beiträge zur Humanismusforschung 5 (Boppard am Rhein, 1979),
9–30.
80 Hegel, ‘Gymnasialrede’, in Werke (note 78), vol. xvi, 39.

419
Walter Rüegg

a way that state, family, law, and religion are at one and the same time
the goals of individuality, and individuality itself is only realized through
these goals.’81
‘The language and world of the ancients’ were thus no longer studied
and imitated as they had been in Humanism – as products of the desires
and knowledge of human subjects,82 but as manifestations of the objec-
tive spirit. Thus philology in practice if not in name came into being as
a ‘Geisteswissenschaft’. The study of ancient languages played a leading
role in this and was a characteristic feature of many German theologians,
historians and scholars of language and literature in the nineteenth cen-
tury, but no longer in the propaedeutic way of the arts faculties, liberal art
colleges or the highest levels of the collèges, of rhétorique and philoso-
phie, but as the philosophical study of the spirit which had first been
made objectively manifest in the world of the Greeks. For this reason it is
not surprising that classical philology as the philosophically and histori-
cally based study of the ancient world became the decisive model of the
Geisteswissenchaften.

the breakthrough of classical philology


The 26-year-old Heidelberg professor Böckh was called to Berlin to be
professor Eloquentiae et Poeseos in 1811, where ‘according to a long-
standing tradition he was considered by virtue of his title the leading
philologist’.83 In Uppsala the same name for a professorial chair remained
in existence until 1861, and it survived in Lund – limited to Latin – until
1972, but was understood in the 1870s by Einar Löfstedt, Sr. (1831–84)
as a historical and philological discipline of the German kind. ‘In 1890
there occurred in Sweden a breakthrough in the modernization of clas-
sical philology.’ At the end of the period considered in this volume it
reached the highest European standards in the pioneering works of Einar

81 G. W. F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, Werkausgabe


(Frankfurt-am-Main, 1970), vol. xii, 225. I dealt with this change of paradigm in ‘Die
Antike als Begründung des deutschen Nationalbewusstseins’, in W. Schuller (ed.), Antike
in der Moderne, Xenia, Konstanzer Althistorische Vorträge und Forschungen 15 (Con-
stance, 1985), 267–87, as well as in the article quoted in note 76.
82 See J. Ziehen, Aus der Studienzeit. Ein Quellenbuch zur Geschichte des deutschen Uni-
versitäts-Unterrichts in der neueren Zeit aus autobiographischen Zeugnissen (Berlin,
1912); K. F. Werner, ‘Historisches Seminar-Ecole des Annales, Zu den Grundlagen einer
europäischen Geschichtsforschung’, in J. Miethke (ed.), Geschichte in Heidelberg, 100
Jahre historisches Seminar (Berlin and Heidelberg, 1992), 11–15.
83 Lenz, Geschichte (note 38), vol. I, 269. Friedrich August Wolf – who had been tranferred
as Professor Litt<erarum> Ant<iquarum> with a high salary from the disbanded Uni-
versity of Halle to Berlin before the foundation of its university – was so offended by the
higher academic status of his former pupil Böckh that he resigned from his membership
in the faculty, but continued to teach as a member of the Academy.

420
Theology and the arts

Löfstedt, Jr. (1880–1955) on late Latin as well as the previously mentioned


research on religion carried out by Martin Persson Nilsson, who accepted
a professorship in Lund and Uppsala in ‘the Study of Classical Antiquity
and Ancient History’, although there had been no shortage of criticism in
Sweden at the move to German research methods.84
In the German-speaking countries the term ‘classical philology’ pre-
vailed as the title of a professorial chair.85 Until the First World War one
of the chairs in classical philology in Marburg was given special promi-
nence by being combined with rhetoric; but this had no effect on the
content of teaching, simply indicating that the bearer of the title was
the university’s official orator. In France the Sorbonne kept the human-
ist terms éloquence, or poésie for the main chairs in Latin, Greek and
French.86 In 1938 half of these relics of humanism had been changed into
professorships in the ‘Language and Literature’ of the various cultures,
which had become the norm outside the German-speaking countries. Yet
the professor of poésie latine, Alfred Ernout, was no less influenced by
German philology than his colleague for Langue et littérature latines,
Jules Marouzeau. Both of them were responsible for philologie latine at
the École pratique des Hautes Études, and in these subtle distinctions of
terminology the distinction between the teaching and the research func-
tion was also made clear. Glasgow retained the term humanity for the
professorship in Latin, whilst in Oxford the litterae humaniores was at
first a section of the faculty of arts and then, after the First World War, it
became an independent faculty of the literatures and languages of classical
antiquity together with philosophy. A number of leading internationally
respected classical philologists such as Gilbert Murray (1866–1957), Eric

84 The titles of the chairs are taken from Minerva, Jahrbuch (note 13); Bo Lindberg, Gothen-
burg, gave me valuable information on Sweden, not only through the German summary
Humanismus und Wissenschaft, Die klassische Philologie in Schweden vom Anfang des
19. Jahrhunderts bis zum Zweiten Weltkrieg of his book entitled Humanism och veten-
skap. Den klassiska filologin i Sverige fran 1800 – taleb borjan till andra världskriget
(Stockholm, 1987), 339–44.
85 The term klassische Philologie was used – perhaps for the first time – for a lecture course
in a ‘Guide-book to university study in all faculties’, published in 1792 by a pupil of
F.-A. Wolf, Julius Koch (1764–1834). The announcements of the University of Dorpat
for the second term 1803, listed an other pupil of Wolf, Karl Morgenstern (1720–1852),
as Ordentl. Professor der Beredsamkeit und altclassischen Philologie, der Ästhetik und
der Geschichte der Literatur und Kunst (full professor in eloquence and old classical
philology, aesthetics, art and literary history’), see C. J. Classen, ‘Über das Alter der
“Klassischen Philologie” ’, Hermes, Zeitschrift für Klassische Philologie 130 (2002), 490–
7. On the history of the notion ‘Philology’ see A. Horstmann, ‘Philologie’, in J. Ritter
and K. Gründer (eds.), Historischers Wörterbuch der Philosophie (Basle, 1989), vol. VII,
552–72.
86 On the humanistic notions see vol. I, p. 452, vol. II, p. 36, and W. Rüegg, ‘Der Human-
ismus und seine gesellschaftliche Bedeutung’, in R. C. Schwinges (ed.), Wissenschafts-
und Wirkungsgeschichte der artistischen/philosophischen Fakultäten (13–19. Jht.) (Basle,
1999), 150ff.

421
Walter Rüegg

Robertson Dodds (1884–1973) and the German exile Eduard Fraenkel


(1881–1970) taught within the faculty.
Thus the titles of the professorial chairs only permit limited conclusions
about the content of teaching and the methods used. A better insight is
afforded by programmatic treatises, in which the new direction of philol-
ogy is justified at length.87 Wolf understood it to be ‘the study of antiq-
uity’ and the ‘quintessence of historical and philosophical knowledge, by
means of which we learn about all possible aspects of the nations of the
ancient world by means of the works they have left behind’, and listed in
24 sections the very varied disciplines which were important in this study,
ranging from the philosophy of language, hermeneutics and criticism to
geography, history, chronology, numismatics and archaeology.88
Böckh at Halle was a pupil not only of Wolf, but also of Schleiermacher
and had published works on the philosophy of Plato. Just as Schleierma-
cher had derived Christian theology from an all-encompassing concept of
religion, the starting point for Böckh’s thought was an all-encompassing –
platonically founded – concept of science. Science as a totality was phi-
losophy, the science of ideas, and its task was to produce knowledge
of the mind, whilst that of philology was ‘to know the products of the
human mind, that is, what is already known’. In its preoccupation with
the ‘knowledge of what is known’ philology was at one with history: ‘That
which is produced historically is a product of the mind which has been
translated into action’ and which although communicated in ‘a multiplic-
ity of signs and symbols’ is still in terms of knowledge expressed most
fully through language. Proceeding from this theoretical and hermeneu-
tical starting point, he expressly acknowledged the various cultures as
being of equal value; but, just as Schleiermacher accorded to Christianity
in comparison with other religions a privileged position, so Böckh gave a
particular status to classical antiquity ‘because it is especially valuable to
know the classical world, and the culture of the Greeks and the Romans
is the foundation of our whole education’.89
The same dichotomy characterized most of the classical philologists in
the German tradition until well into the twentieth century. On the one

87 T. Finkenstaedt, Kleine Geschichte der Anglistik in Deutschland, Eine Einführung


(Darmstadt, 1983), 4, is right in stating that the designation of a discipline gives a hint
of its self-understanding.
88 See A. Horstmann, ‘Die Forschung in der Klassischen Philologie im 19. Jahrhundert’,
in A. Diemer (ed.), Konzeption und Begriff der Forschung in den Wissenschaften des
19. Jahrhunderts (Meisenheim am Glan, 1978), 32–9; on pp. 35ff. Horstmann describes
Wolf’s lectures on ‘Encyclopädie der Alterthumswissenschaften’ which he read regularly
from 1785 to 1823 and which include a systematic classification of the disciplines.
89 Boeckh, Enzyklopädie (note 77), 9–21; cf. A. Horstmann, ‘August Boeckh und die Antike-
Rezeption im 19. Jahrhundert’, in K. Christ and A. Momigliano (eds.), Die Antike im
19. Jahrhundert in Italien und Deutschland (Berlin, 1988), 39–75.

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Theology and the arts

hand they clung to the exemplary nature, or at least the profound cul-
tural importance of classical antiquity, and especially that of the Greeks.
Indeed, many of them found a substitute here for a lost Christian faith. On
the other hand they made great efforts to produce scholarly and critical
reconstructions of classical texts and other manifestations of life in antiq-
uity as expressions of the historically representative spirit of the people. In
the process it became inevitable that the ideal image of a fresh and youth-
ful Hellas had to give way to a more objective analysis. Thus as early as
1817, in his masterpiece entitled Die Staatshaushaltung der Athener (‘The
Budget of the Athenian State’), Böckh examined all the concrete relation-
ships of Athenian society both in their positive and negative aspects and
concludes: ‘The Hellenes were unhappier in the midst of the splendour
of their art and at the height of their freedom than most people imag-
ine. They bore the seed of their decline within themselves and, when it
became rotten, the tree had to be felled.’90 This, however, did not prevent
him from attempting to realize his dream of a comprehensive historically
and philosophically based philology for the whole of classical antiquity
through numerous individual investigations ranging from meteorology
to a study of the tragic dramatists, and above all through the project he
initiated at the Berlin Academy of Sciences of a Corpus Inscriptionum
Graecarum.
With differing degrees of emphasis on the constituent parts, which
ranged from the production of editions through textual criticism to the
history of philosophy and economics, this idea was realized so successfully
in the succeeding years that, by 1834, The Quarterly Review in London
could write: ‘In the study of the dead languages in general, but more par-
ticularly of the Greek and Latin, the Germans have taken the lead, not
only of us, but of all the rest of Europe, and have gained such a decided
ascendancy, that their neighbours appear to have given up all hope of
rivalling them, and are satisfied to follow as mere servile imitators of
their triumphant career.’91
If, however, one looks more closely at the individual works of
German classical philologists, there are fewer innovations than dependen-
cies and similarities.92 How then is this German triumph to be explained?
90 A. Boeckh, Die Staatshaushaltung der Athener, 3rd edn (Berlin, 1886), vol. I, 711. On
Böckh initiating research projects in the Royal Academy of Sciences see W. Rüegg, ‘Orts-
bestimmung. Die Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Aufstieg
der Universitäten in den ersten zwei Dritteln des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in J. Kocka, R.
Hohlfeld and P. T. Walther (eds.), Die Königlich Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften
zu Berlin im Kaiserreich (Berlin, 1999), 23–40.
91 The Quarterly Review, 51 (1834), 144ff., quoted by P. Petitmengin, ‘Deux têtes de pont
de la philologie allemande en France: Le Thesaurus linguae Graecae et la “Bibliothèque
des auteurs grecs” (1830–1869)’, in Bollak and Wismann (eds.), Philologie (note 55), 76.
92 A. Grafton, ‘Polyhistor into Philolog: Notes on the Transformation of German Clas-
sical Scholarship, 1780–1850’, History of Universities, 3 (1983), 161, 178ff.; Grafton,

423
Walter Rüegg

There is no doubt that it rests on a philosophically based reconstruction


of the mind of the classical world in the totality of its historical mani-
festations. But for the change in perspective from the traditional study
of the humanities to classical philology to be successful, it needed to be
institutionally anchored, which is precisely what the new concept of the
Berlin University was in a position to do.
As it fell to the university to ‘awaken the idea of scholarship in a young
people that had a certain nobility of mind and already possessed a wide
range of knowledge’,93 research became a part of teaching. Institution-
ally this had an effect above all in seminars and in the preparation of
doctorates. The seminars were no longer just devoted to the practical
need to prepare students for a career as teachers; they allowed particu-
larly interested and gifted students to practise with a professor scholarly
research into textual or factual problems.94 Conversely, the doctoral the-
sis became the Meisterstück of first original research,95 and also doctoral
students who did not become university teachers generally continued to
do scholarly work in the form of contributions to annual school reports
and in reviews and articles for encyclopedias.
Thus the activity of the classical philologists reached the status of a pro-
fession in itself, whereas until the eighteenth century it had been merely an
intermediary stage on the way to higher office. In 1837 the professional
organization of the ‘Assembly of German Philologists and Schoolmen’,
which was reviewed by Renan, was founded.96 In 1827 there had appeared
the first classical and philological specialized journal to be anything other

pp. 176ff., following R. Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship 1300–1850 (Oxford,


1976), 182, minimizes the opposition between the Sachphilologie of the Altertumswis-
senschaften, promoted by Wolf and Böckh, and the more traditional Wortphilologie
represented by Gottfried Hermann, Professor in Leipzig. A. Grafton, Defenders of the
Text: The Tradition of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cambridge, Mass.,
and London, 1991; 2nd edn, 1994), 213–43, presents a thoughtful analysis of Wolf’s
dependences and partly unknown novelties.
93 Schleiermacher, Gelegentliche Gedanken (note 37), 33; cf. similar ideas expressed by
Wilhelm von Humboldt in his ‘Litauische Schulplan’ (1809) and in his memorandum
‘Über die innere und äussere Organisation der höheren wissenschaftlichen Anstalten zu
Berlin’, drafted 1810, published 1900, W. von Humboldt, Werke in fünf Bänden, ed.
A. Flitner and K. Giel, vol. IV: Schriften zur Politik und zum Bildungswesen, 2nd edn
(Darmstadt, 1969), 191ff., 255ff.
94 Schleiermacher, ibid., 87–91.
95 U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, ‘Philologie und Schulreform’ (1892), in U. von
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Reden und Vorträge, 3rd edn (Berlin, 1913), 107, quoted
by A. Horstmann, ‘Forschung’ (note 88), 52.
96 Grafton, ‘Polyhistor’ (note 92), 174–6, sketches a stimulating picture of the proceedings.
The Association had been founded in 1837 in Göttingen, when the university was cele-
brating its 100th anniversary. In 1844 it was enlarged and became the Verein deutscher
Philologen, Schulmänner und Orientalisten: C. G. Firnhaber, ‘Lehrerversammlungen’, in
A. Schmid (ed.), Encyklopädie des gesammten Erziehungs-und Unterrichtswesens, vol. iv
(Gotha, 1864), 264–8.

424
Theology and the arts

than a short-lived initiative. In 1881 there were enough authors and read-
ers for a philological weekly to be added to the three national philological
journals. It continued in existence until 1944.97 Before the Second World
War philology had thus come to occupy a similar position in the academic
world and with a broader public to that which is held today by scientific
periodicals such as Nature or Science.
The Berlin University reformers expected the combination of research
and teaching to lead above all to a more modern education for the social
and political elite. But it also had the effect of producing a consider-
able increase in the number of classical philologists. From 1812 to his
retirement in Berlin in 1867 Böckh counted 1,602 members of his sem-
inar, of whom many became well-known scholars.98 As every German
university introduced philological seminars, the result was a hitherto
unprecedented rise in the quantity and quality of critical editions of texts,
monographs, and essays on antiquity. In addition there were collections
of philosophical, historical and literary fragments, major projects such as
the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, and the Thesaurus Linguae Lati-
nae, collections of the Church Fathers, of the medical authors of antiq-
uity and of Byzantine historians, as well as authoritative encyclopaedic
overviews.99 The highpoint was reached in the decades before and after
the turn of the century. In 1902 it was given highly influential shape in
Berlin in the persons of the classical historian and Nobel prize-winner
for Literature Theodor Mommsen (1817–1903), the Hellenist Ulrich von
Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1848–1931), and Eduard Norden (1868–1941)
who was honoured by the University of Harvard in 1936 as the ‘world’s
most famous Latinist’. The famous Bonn school epitomized the dialectic
between philological criticism, as practised in masterly fashion by Franz
Bücheler (1837–1908), and the comprehensive historicization of classical
scholarship, which was represented with considerable originality by his
colleague Hermann Usener previously mentioned in connection with the
study of religion.100

97 Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, 1827– ; Philologus, 1846– ; Hermes 1866– ; Philol-
ogische Wochenschrift, 1881–83, 1921–44; between these dates, Berliner philologische
Wochenschrift.
98 M. Hoffmann, August Böckh, Lebensbeschreibung und Auswahl aus seinem wis-
senschaftlichen Briefwechsel (Leipzig, 1901), 470, quoted by Horstmann, ‘Boeckh’ (note
89), 44.
99 Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft. New edition, begun by
G. Wissowa (Stuttgart and Zurich, 1894–1980), 84 vols.; I. von Müller (ed.), Handbuch
der klassischen Altertums-Wissenschaft (Munich, 1886– ), 86 vols.
100 The history of classical scholarship is well documented. Besides Pfeiffer’s History
(note 92), the most complete reference book is still J. E. Sandys, History of Classical
Scholarship (Cambridge 1908), vol. III, as well as, for Germany, C. Bursian, Geschichte
der classischen Philologie in Deutschland von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart
(Munich and Leipzig, 1883), vol. II. Shorter overviews can be found in U. von

425
Walter Rüegg

No less important was the export not only of knowledge and methods
through original writings and translations, and study visits on the part of
foreigners to Germany, but also of German philologists themselves. At the
beginning of the nineteenth century Paris was still the Mecca for foreign-
ers with cultural and scholarly interests. Of course personalities such as
Savigny, Jacob Grimm, Alexander and Wilhelm von Humboldt, Bopp and
Hegel visited not the Sorbonne, but the Collège de France, the École des
Langues Orientales, the Cabinet des Médailles and the scholars active in
these institutions.101 After 1830 numerous German philologists worked
in Paris, not only as professors, such as Karl Benedikt Hase (1780–1864),
a Byzantinist and linguist, on whom honours were heaped, but also for
the publishing firm Firmin Didot as collaborators on the Thesaurus Lin-
guae Graecae and the Bibliothèque des auteurs grecs.102 At the same time
there appeared institutions of philological research, based on the Ger-
man model. In 1868 there was created the Section des sciences historiques
et philologiques of the previously mentioned École pratique des Hautes
Études; in 1869 the University of Montpellier introduced a seminar, and
after 1880 the Faculté des lettres began to ‘germanicize’.103 In 1877 a jour-
nal on classical scholarship which had folded in 1847 after two decades
of existence, was able to reappear and indeed have progeny, the last of
these in 1923 devoted to Latin – an external sign that this was now an
object of scholarly study and no longer of general culture. The shift was
underlined by the simultaneous founding of a society for the defence of
classical education.104

Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, ‘Geschichte der Philologie’, in A. Gercke and E. Norden


(eds.), Einleitung in die Altertumswissenschaft (Leipzig and Berlin, 1909), 1–80; separate
and complemented reprint (Stuttgart, 1998); A. Hentschke and U. Muhlack, Einführung
in die Geschichte der klassischen Philologie (Darmstadt, 1972); R. R. Bolgar, ‘Latin Lit-
erature: A Century of Interpretation’, in Boer (ed.), Les études classiques (note 54),
91–120. On Berlin: B. Kytzler, ‘Klassische Philologie’, in T. Buddenstieg, K. Düwell
and K.-J. Sembach (eds.), Wissenschaften in Berlin, Disziplinen (Berlin, 1987), 97–
101, quotation on Norden 100; cf. the satirical description of classical studies in Berlin
before 1914 by L. Hatvany, Die Wissenschaft des Nicht-Wissenswerten, Ein Kollegien-
heft (Berlin, 1908); Rpt. with a Preface by J. Lloyd–Jones (Oxford and New York, 1986).
On the Bonn school: W. Schmid (ed.), Wesen und Rang der Philologie. Zum Gedenken
an Hermann Usener und Franz Bücheler (Stuttgart, 1969); on Göttingen: C. J. Classen,
‘Die Klassische Altertumswissenschaft an der Georgia Augusta 1837–1987’, in H.-G.
Schlotter (ed.), Die Geschichte der Verfassung und der Fachbereiche der Georg-August-
Universität zu Göttingen (Göttingen, 1994), 92–7.
101 Jacob, ‘Etude comparative’ (note 56), 111.
102 Petitmengin, ‘Têtes de pont’ (note 91), 77–107. More names are given by Werner,
‘Philologie’ (note 56), 34.
103 Jacob, ‘Etude comparative’ (note 56), 125.
104 Revue de philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes, 1877– , Revue des études
grecques, 1888–, Revue des études anciennes, 1899– , Revue des études latines, 1923– ,
Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé, 1923– .

426
Theology and the arts

After 1850 ‘Oxford went German, when the Oxford Movement was
defeated’: Mark Pattison (1813–84) came back from his travels in
Germany with a ‘strong bias on German Wissenschaft’ and in his capacity
from 1859 onwards as Inspector by the Education Committee of the Privy
Council, and from 1861 to 1884 as Rector of Lincoln College in Oxford,
he made every effort to stem the scholarly deficit in the litterae human-
iores, which were supposed to produce the social elite. He attempted to do
this through training college tutors to become researchers in the German
sense.105 Despite considerable opposition Pattison’s views gradually won
support. In 1880 the first specialist journal for classical philology began to
appear.106 German researchers, such as the Sanskrit scholar Max Müller
referred to earlier, taught at the University of Oxford in the second part
of the nineteenth century. After 1933 many excellent classical philologists
were driven out of Germany. Together with the previously mentioned
Eduard Fraenkel, who was active as a university professor, other famous
emigrants such as Felix Jacoby (1876–1959), Paul Maas (1880–1964),
Rudolf Pfeiffer (1889–1979) and Richard Walzer (1900–1975) were able
to carry out scholarly work in Oxford, in part for the editions of the clas-
sics produced by Oxford University Press, until they eventually gained an
academic post.107
In the Netherlands the traditional form of classical philology was suc-
cessfully defended against the new German scholarship by the outstand-
ing classical philologist Carl Gabriel Cobet (1819–89) in particular. In the
newly independent Belgium, however, the universities of Ghent, Louvain
and Liège – all three reorganized around 1834 – were initially dependent
on foreign teaching staff. In the case of the ancient languages the teach-
ers were Germans, and the philological seminar gained entry, though not
under this name. ‘Scholarship’ became the official goal of education for
Belgian universities, too; but this only made their backwardness vis-à-
vis the German universities even more apparent. Journals reflecting this
change only appeared after the First World War.108
In Italy, after unity had been achieved and especially following the
Franco-German war, German scholarship became the ideal for university

105 ‘Oxford went German when the Oxford Movement was defeated’: A. Momigliano,
‘Jacob Bernays’, in A. Momigliano, Quinto Contributo alla Storia degli studi classici e
del mondo antico, part I (Rome, 1975), 128; cf. University of Cambridge, 212; P. Slee,
‘The Oxford Idea of Liberal Education 1800–1860: The Invention of Tradition and the
Manufacture of Practice’, History of Universities, 5 (1988), 69–87.
106 Journal of Hellenic Studies, 1880– , Classical Review, 1887– , Classical Quarterly,
1907– .
107 History of Oxford, VIII, 461.
108 Jacob, ‘Etude comparative’ (note 56), 113–17; Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire,
1922– , Philologische studien, 1929– , Antiquité classique, 1932– , Etudes de philologie,
d’archéologie et d’histoire anciennes, 1934– , Latomus, 1937– .

427
Walter Rüegg

education.109 The same was also true of classical philology. In 1878 Cobet
noted that 40 years previously, when carrying out studies into manuscripts
in Italian libraries, he had come across no Italian who was interested in
such research, but that this was now beginning to change. Around the turn
of the century il risveglio degli studi dell’antichità classica (the awaken-
ing of classical studies) became a reality. In 1873 the German publisher
Hermann Loescher (1831–92) founded the first philological journal in
Italy110 and began the translation of German standard works. Soon Flo-
rence and other university towns followed suit. Leading professors inter-
ested themselves in the methods and achievements of German classical
philology or, as in the case of Giorgio Pasquali (1885–1952) one of the
most important Italian philologists in the first half of the twentieth cen-
tury, were actually educated in Germany.
In general terms, and taking into account the other European countries
as well, it is true to say that the German model of scholarly philology only
became dominant towards the end of the nineteenth century. And even
then one could say, as was said of English theology: ‘they infused into it
a characteristic . . . spirit of caution and sobriety’. Whereas in Germany
it was not until the twentieth century that Latin literature and culture
was recognized as having its own value, in other countries it had never
been downgraded to a mere pale imitation of the Greeks. Cicero, whose
central significance for the humanist aims of the universities has been
demonstrated in the previous volumes of this History, had fallen victim
to condemnation by Mommsen. On the other hand his complex private
life and controversial political activity received a sympathetic and bal-
anced treatment from the French Latinist Gaston Boissier (1823–1908),
professor at the Collège de France, at the École Normale and at the École
pratique des Hautes Études, and the extraordinary, enduring influence
of Cicero received an appropriate appreciation from the internationally
famous philologist Tadeus Zielinski (1859–1944), who taught from 1887
to 1922 in St Petersburg and afterwards in Warsaw.111

109 Here I follow mostly A. Penna, ‘L’influenza della filologia classica tedeca sulla filologia
classica italiana dell’unificazione d’Italia alla prima guerra mondiale’, in Bollak and
Wismann (eds.), Philologie (note 55), 232–74; cf. B. Bravo, ‘Giorgio Pasquali e l’eredità
del XIX secolo’, ibid., 333–56; A. Momigliano, ‘Capitano de Sanctis e Augusto Rostagni’,
in Quinto contributo (note 105), 187–201.
110 Rivista di filologia e d’istruzione classica, 1873– , Studi italiani di filologia clas-
sica, 1893– , Atene e Roma. Bolletino della società italiana per la diffusione e
l’incorraggiamento degli studi classici, 1898–1943, Athenaeum, Studi periodici di letter-
atura e storia dell’ antichità, 1913– , Aevum, Rassegna di scienze storiche, linguistiche
e filologiche, 1927– .
111 Cf. my essay, quoted in note 81, and W. Rüegg, ‘Cicero – Person und Wirkung in der
abendländischen Geschichtete’, in B. Schefold (ed.), Vademecum zu einem Klassiker des
römischen Denkens über Staat und Wirtschaft (Düsseldorf, 2001), 57–74. G. Boissier,
Cicéron et ses amis. Etude sur la société romaine du temps de César (Paris, 1866);

428
Theology and the arts

the origin of modern philologies


The philosophically and historically based philology in Böckh’s sense also
became the pattern for scholarship in modern philology.112 First of all in
Germany and then from the beginning of the twentieth century in the rest
of Europe it supplanted the rhetorical and humanist tradition of belles
lettres and this sequence will therefore determine our treatment of it.
The litterae humaniores had as their goal the general education of mem-
bers of the social elites, of the gentleman, the honnête homme, the culti-
vated man of the world. It was for this reason that the reformed University
of Göttingen was so attractive to members of the aristocracy in the eigh-
teenth century. It not only educated them academically, particularly in
law, but also in the aristocratic skills of fencing, dancing and the knowl-
edge of modern languages. Towards the end of the century, however,
the university began to change from the polyhistorical ‘Literary History’
(Literärgeschichte) to literary history as the history of the human intellect
and something that could be taught in philosophy and aesthetics. In 1806
the classical philologist Georg Friedrich Benecke, an associate and, after
1814, a full professor of philosophy, gave the first academic lectures on
German literature of the Middle Ages.113

T. Zielinski, Cicero im Wandel der Jahrhunderte (Leipzig and Berlin, 1897; 4th edn,
1926); on his booklet Driewnij mir i my (Antiquity and us) which was translated into
six languages, see my article ‘Antike als Epochenbegriff’, Museum Helveticum, 16, 4
(1959), 309–18, reprinted in W. Rüegg, Anstösse, Aufsätze und Vorträge zur dialogis-
chen Lebensform (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1973), 216–25; G. Walther, ‘Der Restaurierte
Klassiker, Barthold Georg Niebuhrs wissenschaftliche Revolution am Beispiel seiner
Cicero-Rezeption’, Philologus, 137 (1993), 308–19, analyzes the differentiated image of
Cicero given by the pioneer of critical studies on Roman history at the University of
Berlin. On the position of Latin literature: Bolgar, ‘Latin Literature’ (note 100), with
Momigliano’s remark (p. 120) that four of the five German scholars (Friedländer, Traube,
Leo, Norden, Heinze) who re-evaluated Latin literature, were Jews. On classical studies
in Russia: W. I. Kuenschin (ed.), Istoriografija antischnoi istorii (Moscow, 1980).
112 K. Stackmann, ‘Die Klassische Philologie und die Anfänge der Germanistik’, in H.
Flashar, K. Gründer and A. Horstmann (eds.), Philologie und Hermeneutik im 19.
Jahrhundert. Zur Geschichte und Methodologie der Geisteswissenschaften (Göttingen,
1979), 240–9, refers on p. 242 to the unsatisfactory state of the art in this whole field.
This judgement no longer holds after the publication of valuable congress proceedings
like F. Fürbert et al. (eds.), Zur Geschichte und Problematik der Nationalphilologien in
Europa. 150 Jahre Erste Germanistenversammlung in Frankfurt am Main (1846–1996)
(Tübingen, 1999) and the initiatives of the Marbacher Arbeitskreis zur Geschichte der
Germanistik which prepared an ‘Internationales Germanistenlexikonn 1800–1950’ in
3 vols., ed. by C. König (Berlin and New York, 2003). The first use of the term moderne
philologie (modern philology) was found in Carl Mager, Drei Hefte moderner Humani-
tätsstudien, Heft 1: Die moderne Philologie und die deutschen Schulen (Zurich, 1840).
113 K. Stackmann, ‘Die Germanistik an der Georgia Augusta – ein historischer Rückblick’,
in Schlotter, Verfassung (note 100) 98; A. P. Frank, ‘Die Entwicklung der Neueren
Fremdsprachen in Göttingen’, ibid., 107; cf. E. Marsch (ed.), Über Literaturgeschichts-
schreibung. Die historisierende Methode des 19. Jahrhunderts in Programm und Kritik
(Darmstadt, 1975), 17ff.

429
Walter Rüegg

For the Berlin reformers professorial chairs were all premissed on edu-
cation through scholarship. Foreign languages could be acquired through
‘language teachers’, who appeared in the prospectus under the same rubric
as teachers of riding, physical exercise, and fencing.114 An exception was
made for the oriental languages, since they were important for theol-
ogy, and also for German literature. The latter, and in particular the
medieval period, had already been a subject for the German humanists,
and it became of major interest for German Romantics such as Görres in
Heidelberg in 1808, Friedrich von Schlegel (1772–1829) in Vienna in
1812, and his brother August Wilhelm (1767–1845), who as early as
1803/04 had made it a factor in the assertion of national identity in his
Berlin private lectures. In addition to this there was the philosophical and
scholarly confrontation with the phenomenon of language inaugurated
by Wilhelm von Humboldt and Franz Bopp (1791–1867).
In 1810 the lawyer Friedrich von der Hagen (1780–1856), who was
more noteworthy for his patriotically motivated editions of medieval lit-
erature than for his scholarship, was awarded an associate professorship
in German language and literature at the University of Berlin. The broth-
ers Grimm, Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859), were also edu-
cated as lawyers, but, as pupils of Savigny they were familiar with the
historical critical method, and thus, both before and after their removal
from office in 1837 as two of the ‘Göttingen Seven’ (professors) protesting
against the suspension of the constitution, they became the founders of
research into German language and popular literature. In 1840 they were
given modest pensions and called to Berlin as members of the Prussian
Academy, where they also taught at the university. Here German stud-
ies were systematically and methodologically developed into a university
subject, because the classicist Karl Lachmann (1793–1851) taught Ger-
man language and literature from 1825 onwards in addition to classical
philology. He also produced critical editions of the most important Middle
High German texts, such as the Nibelungenlied, Walter von der Vogel-
weide, Parsifal, and an edition of the complete works of Lessing, using
throughout the same critical methods as for his editions of the works of
antiquity, works which included, as has been already noted, his edition of
the New Testament. He managed to combine his philological textual criti-
cism with the conviction (later outdated), that great epics, such as Homer’s
Iliad or the Nibelungenlied had emerged through ‘common poetic com-
position . . . out of the spirit of the whole’, that is from the spirit of the
people at a particular time. 115

114 Lenz, Geschichte (note 38), vol. I, 272.


115 Quoted by Stackmann, ‘Klassische Philologie’ (note 112), 249.

430
Theology and the arts

This combination of German and classical philology continued with


Lachmann’s successor Moritz Haupt (1808–74), who, as a pupil of the
famous Leipzig classicist Gottfried Hermann, edited classical texts and as
late as 1846 still viewed German philology as merely an ‘ancillary science
for classics’. Nevertheless, in 1841 he founded the earliest of the German
journals still in existence today and edited numerous Middle High German
texts.116 ‘The philologization of German studies proved a decisive step on
the way to the recognition and establishment of the subject as a univer-
sity discipline’.117 How painfully slow and long the way to recognition
was, is revealed in the accounts of important Germanists such as Konrad
Burdach (1859–1936), who was advised against German studies as, from a
career point of view, it was a dead-end.118 In 1861 the ‘Assembly of Philol-
ogists, Schoolmen and Orientalists’ admitted a German section. Soon the
corresponding journals began to multiply.119 However it was not until the
period 1872–94 that university seminars in German studies – on the model
of the one set up in Rostock in 1858 – began to be generally accepted.120
In the decades after the foundation of the Reich, modern German literary
studies gained its own professorships, in Munich in 1874 and in Berlin in
1877.121
In the past, literature, as an expression of the national spirit in interac-
tion with other European literatures, had been presented ‘for the nation’.
Georg Gottfried Gervinus (1806–71), who as the third of the ‘Göttingen
Seven’ was deprived of his chair in history and literature, used this phrase
in the introduction to his Geschichte der Poetischen Nationalliteratur der
Deutschen (‘History of the poetical national literature of the Germans’) in
1835. As a contribution to the ‘Science of Literary History’ he maintained
that the work was also intended to show how the ‘idea’ of poetry perme-
ates all world history. Poetry had found its culmination in ancient Hellas
and the ensuing history was ‘a single great pathway leading back to the
source of all true poetry, on which all the nations of Europe accompany

116 I. Denneler and N. Miller, ‘Germanistik’, in Buddenstieg, Düwell and Sembach (eds.),
Wissenschaften (note 100), 90; Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum und deutsche Liter-
atur, 1841– .
117 J. Jahota (ed.), Texte zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte der Germanistik, vol. III: Eine
Wissenschaft etabliert sich (Tübingen, 1960), 36.
118 Ibid., 2.
119 Ibid., 9. Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 1869– , Anzeiger für deutsches Altertum und
deutsche Literatur, 1876– , Germanistische Abhandlungen, 1881–1934.
120 Jahota (ed.), Texte, 51ff.; cf. U. Tewes, ‘Die Gründung germanistischer Seminare an
den preussischen Universitäten (1875–1896)’, in J. Fohrmann and W. Vosskamp (eds.),
‘Von der gelehrten zur disziplinären Gemeinschaft’, Deutsche Viertelsjahresschrift für
Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte, 61 (1967), Sonderheft, 69#–122#.
121 Jahota (ed.), Texte (note 117), 10.

431
Walter Rüegg

the Germans, often overtaking them, but in the end dropping behind one
after the other’.122
There was a similarly historical and philosophical, though less chau-
vinistic view of literary history in 1856 expressed by Hermann Hettner
(1821–82). Originally qualified as a professor in aesthetics, art and liter-
ary history he became director of the Museum and professor of art history
in Dresden. He described the literary history of the eighteenth century as
the ‘history of ideas and their scientific and artistic forms’, ranging from
the flourishing of the natural sciences, of the philosophy of experience,
and of Deism in seventeenth-century English literature, by way of the
French Enlightenment to the heyday of German Classicism. ‘First come
the periods of highly important political and religious developments, to
be followed by the reaction and reflection of these in the sciences, in art
and poetry’.123 It was in this way that German studies as a particular
subject in the Geisteswissenschaften was inaugurated, and, as a result,
despite all the philologization, it never lost an underlying national or
even nationalist conception of itself. During the Second World War the
Zurich Germanist Emil Staiger (1908–87) gave German literary studies a
new direction through his application of work immanent interpretation
to literary productions.124
r o m a n c e s t u d i e s at first developed for scholarly reasons and
then later as a result of pressure from the modern philologists among
the grammar (Gymnasium) teachers, who wanted to have an equal status
to the classical philologists, and thus demanded an education that was
held in the same scholarly esteem. For decades the dispute with classi-
cal philology continued, and often those fighting the romanist cause were
the same people as the ones teaching Germanic philology and the German
language. The holder of the chair in ‘the History of Medieval and Modern

122 G. G. Gervinus, Geschichte der poetischen Nationallitteratur der Deutschen, 5 vols.


(Leipzig, 1835–42), introduction, reprinted in Jahota (ed.), Texte (note 117), quotations
184, 179–81.
123 H. Hettner, Literaturgeschichte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, 3 parts (6 vols.) (Braun-
schweig, 1856–70), quotations from part I, Die englische Literatur von 1660 bis 1770
and from the cover-sheet to part II, Die französische Literatur im achtzehnten Jahrhun-
dert, 4th edn (1881).
124 W. Flitner, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. XI: Erinnerungen 1889–1945 (Paderborn, 1986),
102, provides a significant example for the philologization of German studies: ‘When
the famous Hermann Paul developed the problem of the Nibelungen manuscripts, we
kept away. Coming back two weeks later, we heard him differentiate between Hagen
von Troje and Hagen von Tronje and continue to discuss the genealogy of the different
manuscripts. We burst out laughing, provoked general displeasure and scuffling, and
left. We had come to the university filled with enthusiasm for poetry, but we had no idea
about philology, especially in German studies.’ On the Zurich school: S. Sonderegger,
‘Germanistik’, in P. Stadler, Die Universität Zürich 1833–1983 (Zurich, 1983), 518ff.,
and W. Rüegg, ‘Europa in Trümmern, Die Neuorientierung der Geisteswissenschaften
nach 1945’, Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Literatur und Kunst, 125 (25–26 May 1996), 65ff.

432
Theology and the arts

Literature’ in Bonn from 1823 and ‘inventor of Romance studies’,


Friedrich Diez (1794–1875), taught Old High German, French, Italian,
Spanish and Portuguese language and literature.125 Adalbert von Keller
(1812–83) concluded his inaugural lecture as professor of German litera-
ture in Tübingen in 1842 with the programmatic declaration that ‘modern
philology as a scholarly grammar of the germanic and romance languages
and as the history of the poetry of the Middle Ages and of the modern
period should take its place as the third and fully equal sister next to ori-
ental and classical philology’. In accordance with these views, he himself,
as a German specialist, taught English and Romance literature.126
There were two reasons for these links with German philology. On
the one hand there were the attempts to trace back the history of the
‘two most important linguistic groups in modern Europe’, such as those
produced first by Jacob Grimm from 1819 onwards with his ‘German
grammar’, and then by Diez, following on from Grimm, with his own
‘Grammar of the Romance Languages’ (1836–44). On the other hand,
the interest in Germania and the German national spirit inspired a simi-
lar interest in the spirit of Romania, as a neighbouring culture sharing a
common Roman inheritance. Romance studies were pursued as a schol-
arly exercise. Throughout the 55 years of his teaching career, Diez had
fewer than half a dozen doctoral students and, always had fewer students
in his lectures than the Lektors or colleagues who were giving practical
language classes or lectures on aesthetics. His impact both as a researcher
and as a model for important university lecturers was all the more pro-
found. Until the Second World War Romance studies were directed more
towards philological research than to the cultivation of foreign languages
and contemporary literatures. The language of teaching, and indeed of
publications, remained German, for ‘not to speak French was held to be
a sign of distinction among respectable Romanists’.127
In order for Romance philology to share the same status as Classical
philology it was necessary for it to have not only its own professorial
chairs but also its own seminars and journals. In Rostock Karl Bartsch

125 H. Christmann, ‘Romanistik und Anglistik an der deutschen Universität im 19. Jahrhun-
dert. Ihre Herausbildung als Fächer und ihr Verhältnis zu Germanistik und klassischer
Philologie’, in Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften und Literatur in Mainz,
Geistes- und sozialwissenchaftliche Klasse (Stuttgart, 1985): I, 1–28, gives an excel-
lent survey of the foundation and the differentiation of the discipline. W. Hirdt (ed.),
Romanistik, Eine Bonner Erfindung, 2 vols. (Bonn, 1994), Part I: Darstellung, Part II:
Dokumentation, includes not only rich documentation on the Bonn school, but describes
in the Preface the development of the whole discipline from the beginning to the present
time.
126 Keller’s inaugural lecture ‘Über die Aufgabe der modernen Philologie’ is reprinted in
Jahota (ed.), Texte (note 117), 263–77, quotation 277.
127 Quotations from Hirdt (ed.), Romanistik (note 125), 8; catalogue of Romance lectures
and Ph.D. thesis at the University of Bonn 1818–1916, ibid., 323–456.

433
Walter Rüegg

(1832–88) when appointed professor in 1858 was given the title ‘Professor
of German and Romance Philology’ and was able to pursue both with his
students in the previously mentioned ‘Seminar for German Philology’.
In 1872 Adalbert von Keller was granted a ‘Seminar for Modern Lan-
guages’ in Tübingen; in 1873 Bartsch introduced one with the same name
in Heidelberg, but changed the name in 1877 to ‘Seminar for German and
Romance studies’. Independent seminars for Romance studies appeared
in 1877 in Halle and Bonn, and in Berlin in 1896 by the splitting of the
seminar for Romance and English studies created in 1877.128 This par-
ticular combination was more common in the second half of the century
both in the case of newly qualifying professors and in established chairs of
modern language and literature. With the exception of Halle, where from
1822 there was a professorship in Romance studies, chairs in Romance
philology first appeared as a result of the division of what were previously
double professorships, first in Berlin in 1867 for Diez’s student Adolf
Tobler (1835–1910) and then from 1872 to 1911 at the other German
universities.129 At the same time journals of Romance studies began to
spread, often independently of German and English philology.130
Until the First World War Romance studies were limited to philological
and language studies, which examined not just great poets like Dante and
Petrarch but also earlier periods in a manner that was similar to the one
used by the Classical philologists to approach works of antiquity, that is, to
study them as manifestations of a certain national and historical spirit. As
a result, Renaissance and Humanism studies in Germany led the way until
1933.131 Contemporary Romance cultures, on the other hand, no longer
met with anything like the interest which aesthetics and philosophy had
stimulated. This situation changed in 1917. Bonn as the chief centre of
German Romance studies was charged with responsibility for ‘The Study
of the Romance Countries’ by the Ministry of Education on the initiative
of the head of the university section, the former Bonn orientalist, Carl
Heinrich Becker (1876–1933). The emphasis was placed on research into

128 Christmann, ‘Romanistik und Anglistik’ (note 125), 29–39.


129 Ibid., 28.
130 Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Sprache und Literatur, 1859–76, Zeitschrift
für romanische Philologie, 1877– , Zeitschrift für neufranzösische Sprache und Liter-
atur, 1877–88, continued without ‘neu’ until 1944, Romanische Forschungen, 1883– ,
Neuphilologisches Zentralblatt, 1887–1906, Romanische Bibliothek, 1888–1926, Liter-
aturblatt für germanische und romanische Philologie, 1888–1944, Romanische Studien,
1897– , Germanistisch-romanische Monatsschrift, 1909– .
131 Beginning with G. Voigt, Die Wiederbelebung des classischen Alterthums oder das
erste Jahrhundert des Humanismus, 2 vols. (Berlin, 1859) and J. Burckhardt, Die Cul-
tur der Renaissance, Ein Versuch (Leipzig, 1860), and culminating in the Kulturwis-
senschaftliche Bibliothek Warburg, which was transferred from Hamburg to London in
1933; see E. H. Gombrich, Aby Warburg: An Intellectual Biography, with a Memoir on
the History of the Library by F. Saxl (London, 1970).

434
Theology and the arts

French culture in a general sense, which included politics, education, art


and sociology. Ernst Robert Curtius (1886–1956) played a leading role in
this, at first as a Privatdozent in Bonn and a friend of Becker, and then from
1929 as a professor in Bonn. He also made the medieval Latin origins of
European literature the subject of epoch-making studies, especially during
his period of inner emigration after 1933.132
e n g l i s h was held to be a Germanic language. Germanists researched
and edited the older English classical texts and dominated the scholarly
study of English language and literature. Not until England became a
world power, and the philological study of modern languages began to
offer a professional career to teachers in high schools, did English studies
emancipate themselves from German studies, but they remained tied to
Romance studies.133 From 1852 to 1881 there were a dozen double profes-
sorships, in which Romance studies usually played the leading role. The
first chair in English studies alone was created in 1852 at the University of
Zurich, the first professorships for the study of the English language were
established in Bonn in 1867 and in Vienna in 1872, and the first for English
philology in 1872 in Strasburg. But it was still important to the holders
of these chairs to remain active as Romanists.134 Shortly afterwards the
modern languages periodicals, which had appeared earlier, were joined
by new ones dedicated to the study of English philology.135 In 1892 –
with the exception of Bavaria – there were separate professorships for
German, French and English philology at German universities, but not
always independent departments. ‘What little English we need can be
learned through private tuition’ was the opinion of the founders of Berlin
University and this was reiterated some 100 years later by Wilamowitz to
his English-language colleague.136 Yet the establishment of 32 professor-
ships in English philology from 1872 to 1914 was ‘an expression of the
growing importance of the Anglo-Saxon countries’; although the subject

132 Hirdt (ed.), Romanistik (note 125), 24ff., 31–8; M. Werner, ‘Le prisme franco-allemand:
à propos d’une histoire croisée des disciplines littéraires’, in H. M. Bock et al. (eds.),
Entre Locarno et Vichy, Les relations culturelles franco-allemandes dans les années 1930
(Paris, 1993), vol. I, 307–10.
133 Finkenstaedt, Anglistik (note 87) analyzes in the sagacious main part the institutional
and personal development of the discipline in the twentieth century, including its entan-
glements with National Socialism; see also G. Haenicke and T. Finkenstaedt, Anglis-
tenlexikon 1825–1990, Biographien und bibliographische Angaben zu 318 Anglisten
(Augsburg, 1992).
134 Christmann, ‘Romanistik und Anglistik’ (note 125), 23–8.
135 Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, 1846– , Englische
Studien, 1877–1944, Anglia, 1878– , Die neueren Sprachen, 1893–1943, Zeitschrift
für französischen und englischen Unterricht, 1902–34, continued as Zeitschrift für
neusprachlichen Unterricht until 1943.
136 A. Brandl, Zwischen Inn und Themse. Lebensbeobachtungen eines Anglisten (Berlin,
1936), 56, quoted by Christmann, ‘Romanistik and Anglistik’ (note 125), 19.

435
Walter Rüegg

remained for the most part limited to England with respect to the con-
tent.137 American studies – apart from isolated predecessors – was only
introduced in the Weimar period, initially in Berlin through the building
up of an ‘American section’ within the English department, then becom-
ing institutionally anchored in other universities; ‘there is hardly, in the
early history of American studies in Europe, a more hopeful development
than these efforts under the First German Republic’.138
s l a v o n i c l a n g u a g e s a n d l i t e r a t u r e s 139 were taught
in individual instances as early as the eighteenth century, and increasingly
in the first half of the nineteenth century, by specialists in literature and
language studies and by Germanists and Orientalists. Slavonic studies as
a separate discipline owes its origin to the Böckhian concept of philology,
and to the development of comparative language studies, which will be
examined later. In 1849 the founder of modern Slavonic studies, Franz
von Miklosich (1813–91), having attracted attention and established his
reputation as a Slavist with a review of Franz Bopp’s (1791–1867) ‘Com-
parative Grammar of the Indogermanic Languages’, was called to the
newly created chair of Slavonic philology at the University of Vienna.
Here, between 1852 and 1875, he published a ‘Comparative Grammar
of the Slavonic Languages’, tracing their historical development modelled
on the works by Grimm and Diez. Vratoslav Jagić (1838–1923), the first
holder of the chair in Slavonic studies at the University of Berlin from 1874
to 1880, before moving to similar posts at St Petersburg in 1886 and finally
Vienna to succeed his teacher Miklosich, brought a Böckhian breadth of
scholarship to the first Journal of Slavonic Studies, which he founded, and
to the ‘Encyclopaedia of Slavonic Philology’ which he introduced for the
Russian Academy of Sciences. In 1887 he founded the Slavonic Seminar
in Vienna.

137 Finkenstaedt, Anglistik (note 87), 123.


138 S. Skard, American Studies in Europe: Their History and Present Organization (Philadel-
phia, 1958), vol. I, 276, quoted by Finkenstaedt, Anglistik (note 87), 150.
139 Peter Brang, Zurich, informed me about the beginnings of Slavonic philology and its
relevant bibliography, including K. Krumbacher, ‘Der Kulturwert des Slawischen und
die slawische Philologie in Deutschland’, in K. Krumbacher, Populäre Aufsätze (Leipzig,
1909), 337–72, 386–8; J. Hamm and G. Wytrzens (eds.), Beiträge zur Geschichte der
Slawistik in nichtslawischen Ländern, Schriften der Balkankommission der Oesterr.
Akademie der Wissenschaften, Linguist. Abt. XXX (Vienna, 1985); Slawistik in Deutsch-
land von den Anfängen bis 1945. Ein Biographisches Lexikon (Bautzen, 1993); P.
Brang, ‘Slawistik’, Schweizer Lexikon, vol. V (Lucerne, 1993), 325–6. The indications
on chairs and seminars existing in 1892, 1914, 1938 are taken from Minerva, Jahrbuch
(note 13). The following journals in non-Slavonic languages show the – limited – inter-
est for Slavonic studies in other European countries: Archiv für slawische Philologie,
1876– , Slavia occidentalis (Poznań), 1921– , Revue des études slaves, 1921– , Slavonic
(and East European, 1928– ) Review, 1922– , Slavia (Prague), Zeitschrift für slavische
Philologie, 1925– .

436
Theology and the arts

The first chair in Slavonic languages and literature outside Russia was
created in Breslau in 1841. Similar chairs followed in Pest, Prague and
Vienna in 1849 and, after a break of twenty years, in 1867 in Graz, 1870
in Leipzig, 1874 in Berlin, and 1889 in Swiss Freiburg. Professorships
were created in 1892 in Agram (Zagreb), Czernowitz, Cracow, and Lem-
berg (Lwów). Munich followed suit in 1911. This shows that the estab-
lishment of chairs despite being favoured in Germany because of political
alliances, and in the Danube monarchy because of their impact on increas-
ingly restive minorities, went ahead rather hesitantly. There were semi-
nars of Slavonic philology before 1914 in Breslau, Graz, Cracow, Lemberg
(Lwów), Lund, Prague and Vienna. They only made their appearance in
Berlin and Leipzig after the First World War. Until the outbreak of the Sec-
ond World War the only additional foundations in the German–speaking
world were an associate professorship (1915) and a full professorship
(1921) in Königsberg, and a honorary professorship in Greifswald. On
the other hand the associate professorship in Swiss Freiburg was ended in
1921. Only after Russia became a world power after the Second World
War was it possible for Slavonic studies to achieve the same status as other
modern languages.
It was not only in Germany, Austria-Hungary and German-speaking
Switzerland that Slavonic studies was condemned to a Cinderella role. In
the rest of non-Russian Europe, Slavonic philology or Russian language
and literature was taught by associate professors in Helsinki, Copenhagen,
Oxford (Reader), Sofia and Uppsala, as well as through full professors in
Lille, at the Collège de France (from 1840) and at the École des langues
orientales vivantes in Paris. In 1914 there was an associate professor-
ship (Professeur adjoint) at the Sorbonne and full professorships in Bel-
grade, Bucharest, Christiania (Oslo), Jassy and Liverpool. Between the
two world wars the newly independent Slavonic states extended the chairs
in Slavonic studies and set up institutes, for example in Belgrade, and
in Czernowitz/Cernauti (Romania). In 1915 a School of Slavonic Stud-
ies was opened by King’s College, London. In Copenhagen and Uppsala
associate professorships were upgraded and new professorships estab-
lished in Louvain, Lund, Lyon, Manchester, Nottingham and Strasburg,
whereas in Rome there was a full professorship for the study of the Polish
language and literature, but only an associate professorship for Slavonic
philology. This was also the case at the Sorbonne (Professeur sans chaire)
whilst, for example, the Scandinavian languages and literatures had a reg-
ular post. Special posts were also introduced in Cambridge (lecturer), Cluj
(Klausenburg) and Genoa.
The number of fewer than 30 professors at the non-Slavonic universities
in Europe who taught Slavonic philology or one of its languages and
literatures before the Second World War appears all the more pitiful when

437
Walter Rüegg

compared with the number of other modern philologies and the number
of highly specialized professorships in Oriental studies in the twentieth
century. This is matched by the smaller number of dedicated specialist
journals which appeared before 1945 and which remained in existence.
Of course, this is no indication of the range and quality of teaching and
research carried out by the relatively few western Slavists. Not only had
they to deal with more languages and literatures within their own subject
area than the Germanists, Romanists and Anglicists, but they also had
to take into account the political, religious and cultural history of the
whole of Europe and the languages and literatures of the neighbouring
countries in order to distinguish foreign influences on the Slavonic world,
while identifying its special features. Last but not least, Slavonic studies
lacked support in terms of personnel and influence with the education
authorities that is automatically there when a subject is taught in school.

the european diffusion of modern philology


The German model of modern philology became important in non-
German-speaking countries after 1870. In addition to a professorship
which had existed in Pisa since 1861, the modern Latin languages and
literatures rapidly gained new chairs in Milan (1871), Florence (1874),
Bologna and Turin (1875), Naples, Rome and Padua (1876).140 In 1892
romance philology was represented by teaching posts in Helsinki and
Toulouse, by associate professorships in Genoa, Groningen and Liège,
and by two full professorships in Christiania (Oslo), where one was com-
bined with German and the other with English philology. Copenhagen
and Uppsala had full chairs in Romance languages, and Lund an asso-
ciate chair, whereas Turin had a teaching post in French philology. Pro-
fessors were responsible for teaching the French and Italian language in
London and Liverpool, and Spanish language and literature in Toulouse.
Elsewhere they were usually taught by Lektors.
There were chairs in German philology in 1892 in Birmingham, for
Germanic languages in Lund and Uppsala, for German language and/or
literature in Groningen, Lille, London and Milan. In addition there were
teaching posts in Glasgow, Liège, Lyon, Palermo, and Rome. English
philology had been established in Birmingham, London and Oxford
by professorial posts, but on the Continent there were only teaching
posts in Liège, Rome and Turin. Outside Great Britain, professorships
in English language and/or literature only existed in Dublin, Copenhagen

140 G. Gröber, Grundriss der romanischen Philologie (Strasburg, 1888), vol. I, 104. Unfor-
tunately its ‘Geschichte der romanischen Philologie’, ibid., 1–140, a comparative history
of romance philology in Europe, did not find successors.

438
Theology and the arts

and Toulouse, with teaching posts in Lille and Paris. In Leiden the Anglo-
Saxon language was combined with Gothic and Middle High German.
The French universities all had a chair in ‘foreign literatures’ and the
Russian ones had one for ‘Western literatures’. Until the First World War
there was a steady growth in professorships in Romance philology or
languages, at times under the rubric ‘Modern Latin Languages and Liter-
atures’, and also in French language and literature. The same was true of
German language and literature, which at Italian universities, however,
was usually treated as the poor relation, except in Milan and Turin, where
there were full chairs and in Padua and Rome, which had associate ones.
English philology, and English language and literature studies too, had
become established in the form of professorships in the French, Belgian,
Dutch and Scandinavian universities. In Italy, however, these existed only
in Milan, Rome and Florence. On the Iberian peninsula there were only
professorships for the three modern philologies in Lisbon.
After 1918 such professorships began to prevail everywhere and to take
specialized forms. I will limit myself to one example of this from the south-
east and northern periphery of Europe. In Hungary, at the University of
Agram (Zagreb), there was a full professorship in 1892/93 for each of
the following philologies: Greek, Croatian and Slavonic, as well as an
associate professorship and a senior teaching post for Latin philology.
To these were added in 1913/14 full chairs in German and Hungarian
languages and literatures and in classical philology. Croatian philology
was divided into Croatian and Serbian literature and Croatian language.
In 1938 at the University of Zagreb, which was then in Yugoslavia, full
professors taught the following subjects: Comparative Slavonic grammar,
Serbo-Croat language, Serbo-Croat literature, Slovenian language and lit-
erature, Romance philology, German language and literature, and classi-
cal philology. Associate professors taught classical philology, the history
of modern south-Slavonic literature, and Italian language and literature.
Lecturers were responsible for Latin grammar, and Czech, German, and
Turkish languages. In addition French, Russian, German and English were
taught by Lektors.
In Lund the modern literatures were the responsibility of the chair
in aesthetics established in 1801, to which was added in 1858 the his-
tory of literature and history of art. In 1811 the professor of Oriental
studies endowed for his nephew a professorship in French, German and
English.141 But only the chairs created in 1858 for Modern European
linguistics and in 1865 for Nordic languages had a genuine philological
141 A. Zetersten, ‘The Pre-history of English Studies at Swedish Universities’, in T. Finken-
staedt and G. Scholtes (eds.), Toward a History of English Studies in Europe: Proceedings
of the Wildsteig Symposium, April 30– May 2, 1982, Augsburger I-and I. Schriften 21
(Augsburg, 1983), 292.

439
Walter Rüegg

character. In 1877 a full professorship in Germanic languages was cre-


ated, and in 1887 an associate professorship in Romance languages, later
converted to a full post. This was followed by a similar one in English
in 1904, and in German in 1905. In 1919/20 the chair in aesthetics, lit-
erature and art history was divided into the history and theory of art
and the history of literature and poetics. In 1921 there followed a chair
in Slavonic languages, and by 1938 Lund had senior teaching posts in
Turkish studies, in the study of literature in a historical and cultural con-
text, Nordic dialect studies, and Icelandic philology.142
University research centres in the form of seminars arose before the First
World War at only a few universities, which were subject to the direct
or indirect influence of the German model. By 1892 Lund already had
seminars for Nordic, Germanic, and Romance languages, and by 1914
there were others for Semitic and Slavonic languages and for the history
of literature. Uppsala and Gothenburg then followed suit. In 1914 there
were separate institutes for English, Germanic and Romance studies in
Groningen. In the same year there were seminars for German language and
literature and for comparative literary history in Belgrade. In Bucharest
there were seminars for the Romanian, Romance and German languages
and literatures, and at the Bohemian University of Prague seminars existed
for Slavonic and Romance philology and for English and German studies.
After 1918 the German model continued to be influential in both the
restored and newly created states. Cracow, Lemberg (Lwów), and Posen
(Pozńan) were given seminars for all the modern philologies, and Warsaw
received both a literary and a philological one. In Cluj (Klausenburg)
and Zagreb (Agram) the seminars from the imperial era were extended,
and in the newly created universities of Brunn and Bratislava, ones on the
Prague model were introduced. In the West, modern language seminars or
institutes were established in Amsterdam, Brussels and Coimbra. In Italy
Benedetto Croce, as Minister for Education, encouraged the formation
of scholarly university seminars in 1920.143 By 1939 they had been intro-
duced for modern languages in Milan (Sacro Cuore), Padua and Rome. In
France it is significant that Strasburg was the first university to have them,
though at the Sorbonne the École pratique des Hautes Études fulfilled the
same role.
This spread of German philological methods, so clearly evident from
the bare annual statistics listing the foundations of chairs and seminars,
has only been examined in some detail in the case of France. In Italy,
apart from the slow appearance of professorial chairs, one can only point
142 Bo Lindberg, Gothenburg, provided me with the dates for Swedish chairs; the others are
taken from Minerva, Jahrbuch (note 13).
143 A. Satoni Rugiu, Chiarissimi e Magnifici: il professore nell’ università italiana (dal 1700
al 2000) (Scandici and Florence, 1991), 152, 160–5.

440
Theology and the arts

to circumstantial evidence such as dissertations and specialist journals to


show that a more scientific approach to the study of modern philologies
did not really gain ground until the latter part of the nineteenth century. In
Padua dissertations in 1885 consisted of compilations of between 40 and
100 pages. By 1899 many of them contained investigations that were of
serious scientific merit.144 Journals founded in the seventies soon collapsed
and could only be sustained after 1883.145
In 1886 Cambridge, with its examination in medieval and modern lan-
guages, the MML Tripos, was the first English university to give institu-
tional weight to modern languages and literatures, and in 1905 the first
specialist journal was published there. In 1910 Karl Breul, a Germanist
who had been teaching at the university since the 1880s, was given a
professorship, and in 1918 the Modern Humanities Research Association
was founded.146 In 1914 there were also professors of English, German
and Romance philology in London (King’s College) and Oxford.
In France the previously mentioned chairs in éloquence française and
poésie française were devoted to the interpretation of belles lettres. Within
the Faculté des lettres they were directed more at the general public than at
students. Even today the Littéraires are still contrasted with the true natu-
ral and social scientists, though at the same time they, for their part, look
down on the philologians, who are concerned with the scholarly exami-
nation of texts.147 Classical philologists, as we have shown in the preced-
ing sub-section, had already spread the reputation of German scholarly
methods in France early in the nineteenth century. Educational reform-
ers investigated the methods used in German schools and universities,
and the French state drew the necessary conclusions for the areas which
it directly administered. The École Normale Supérieure, which educated
the elite of French secondary school and university teachers, received the
most important German specialist journals, and in the years before the
First World War spent over half of its book budget on the provision of
German publications. In 1839 it introduced a teaching post for German,
144 M. Isnenghi, ‘Per una storia delle tesi di laurea. Tracce e campioni a Padova fra Ottocento
e Novecento’, in F. De Vivo and G. Genovesi (eds.), Cento anni di università, L’istruzione
superiore in Italia dall’ Unità ai nostri giorni (Naples, 1986), 102–5.
145 Rivista di filologia romanza, 1872–5, Giornale di filologia romanza, 1878–83, Gior-
nale storico della letteratura italiana, 1883– , Studi di filologia romanza, 1884–1902,
continued as Studi romanzi, 1903– , Studi di letteratura italiana, 1899–1922, Rivista di
letteratura tedesca, 1907–11, Studi di filologia moderna, 1908–14.
146 University of Cambridge, 431–6; cf. K. Breul, ‘Das wissenschaftliche Studium der
neueren Sprachen in Cambridge’, Englische Studien, 12 (1888), 244–70. Modern Lan-
guage Review, 1905– , Modern Language Teaching (London), 1905–15. In Groningen
there appeared the Neophilologus, 1916– , in Amsterdam, English Studies, 1919– .
147 Werner, ‘Philologie’ (note 56), 33. The following description is also based on this excel-
lent summary of the research carried out in the Institut des textes et manuscrits modernes
by the CNRS in Paris under his direction and that of his colleague Espagne, see Espagne
and Werner (eds.), Philologiques I (note 65).

441
Walter Rüegg

and in 1841 a professorial chair.148 At the Collège de France chairs in


Slavonic, southern European and German languages and literatures as
well as one in medieval French language and literature were created in
1840 and 1841. The occupant of this chair, Paulin Paris, sent his son
Gaston to German universities for two years in order to study not only
the German language but also German research methods, particularly as
applied to classical philology and German studies.
Gaston Paris (1839–1903) and his friend from student days, the Alsatian
Paul Meyer (1840–1917), occupied leading posts respectively in the École
pratique des Hautes Études and the École des Chartes, and they founded
not only specialist journals in 1866 and 1872,149 but also a society for the
editing of Old French texts in 1876. Through their input into the univer-
sity reforms initiated by Duruy in 1863, they played a major role in the
creation of chairs in Romance studies. These were introduced in Lyon in
1876, at the Sorbonne in 1877, in Montpellier in 1880 and in Bordeaux
in 1892. They were, however, mainly directed towards medieval French
and Provençal studies and only began to have an effect on more mod-
ern French literature in the Nouvelle Sorbonne at the beginning of the
twentieth century, for example through the agency of Lanson as we saw
earlier. After his ‘conversion’ to German scholarly methods, the profes-
sor of ‘French eloquence’ strove to produce critical editions of the more
modern literature, and tried to produce a scientific basis for making goût,
or taste, the main criterion for literary interpretation.150

oriental studies and comparative linguistics


In the early modern period the study of semitic languages was concerned
with exegesis of the Bible and apologetics vis-à-vis Islam. In addition there
was a demand for a practical knowledge of oriental languages and cultures
from missionaries, colonizers and various economic and political interests.
In Rome future missionaries were trained in these areas at the Collegium
Maroniticum from 1584 and from 1627 at the Collegium De Propagande
Fide. In 1669 Colbert founded a school for translators in Constantinople
in order to promote French trade with the East. Called Jeunes de Langues
it was transferred to Paris in 1700. In Vienna, with the Turks on the
doorstep as it were, there was a chair in oriental languages from 1674
onwards, and in 1754 an Oriental Academy was founded. Oxford and

148 M. Espagne, F. Lagier and M. Werner (eds.), Philologiques, vol. II: Le maı̂tre de langues.
Les premiers enseignants d’allemand en France (1830–1850) (Paris, 1991), 1162ff.
149 Revue critique d’histoire et de littérature, 1866–1935, Revue des langues romanes,
1870– , Romania, 1872– , Revue de philologie française et provençale, 1887–96, con-
tinued as Revue de philologie française et de littérature until 1927.
150 See above, pp. 410–17.

442
Theology and the arts

Cambridge each had two endowed chairs for Arabic in the eighteenth
century. Leiden in particular had a leading role in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries not only in classical philology but also in oriental
philology.151 In the colonies too people were beginning to take a scientific
interest in the indigenous cultures and languages. In 1779 the Bataviaasch
genootschap van kunsten en wetenschappen was founded and from the
beginning produced a journal, Verhandelingen. In 1787 there followed
in Calcutta the Asiatic Society of Bengal, which also had its own organ,
Asiatic Researches, appearing between 1788 and 1832 in twenty volumes,
parts of which were translated into French and German, and which was
continued as the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1832–1936.
The founder of this Society, Sir William Jones (1746–94), whilst a fellow
of University College Oxford, had described the beauty of Islamic poetry
in 1774 using categories drawn from classical poetry.152 As Judge of the
High Court at Calcutta he extended this interest to Sanskrit and stimulated
the development of comparative philology by recognizing the structural
similarities between Sanskrit and Greek, Latin, Celtic, Gothic and Ancient
Persian, and postulating a common source for these languages.153
o r i e n t a l s t u d i e s . The different, though often closely linked
predecessors in this field (biblical and religious studies, missionary, trade,
and colonial interests, research into indigenous cultures, studies in both
the history and philosophy of language) not only led to the institutional-
ization and specialization of Oriental studies as well as to its extension
beyond the Middle East, but also to the founding of comparative language
studies, which began a historical investigation into the various language
families as intellectual organisms.
The growth of research into the semitic languages as well as some of
the leaders in this field, Renan in Paris, Wellhausen in Halle, Marburg
and Göttingen, Burkitt in Cambridge, have already been mentioned in
connection with religious studies.154 The institutional basis for the inde-
pendent development of Oriental studies was created in Paris, where in
1795 the École Nationale des Langues Orientales was founded for the
teaching of modern Arabic, Turkish and Persian, and soon afterwards
corresponding chairs were created at the Collège de France. The founder
of modern Arabic studies, Antoine Isaac Silvestre de Sacy (1758–1835),
taught at the former from 1795 and at both from 1806 onwards and,
151 J. Fück, Die arabischen Studien in Europa bis in den Anfängen des 20. Jahrhunderts
(Leipzig, 1955), 59.
152 J. Fück, ‘Geschichte der Arabistik’, in B. Spuler (ed.), Handbuch der Orientalistik,
vol. III: Semitistik (Leiden, 1954), 345.
153 W. Jones, Asiatic Researches, 1 (1788), 422, quoted by H. Arens, Sprachwissenschaft,
Ein Gang ihrer Entwicklung von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Freiburg and Munich,
1955), 128; cf. History of Oxford, V, 562 ff.
154 See above, p. 414.

443
Walter Rüegg

thanks to his pioneering work had pupils throughout Europe. In 1814 the
Collège de France was granted chairs in Sanskrit as well as in the Chinese,
Manchurian and Tartar languages and literatures. Egyptology, which had
been given a firm foundation as a result of Napoleon’s Egyptian expedi-
tion, and had already seen its first scholarly publications, was introduced
at the Collège de France by Jean-François Champollion (1790–1832),
and despite his premature death developed remarkably.155 It reached a
highpoint thanks to Gaston Maspero (1846–1916), who taught at the
newly founded Ecole pratique des Hautes études from 1868, and then
after 1873, at the Collège de France as well. He also founded the Mission
archéologique française au Caire. In France especially, but not only in
that country, Egyptology was linked with the care of collections, and
one particularly distinguished example in this field among others is
Auguste Edouard Mariette (1821–81), Curator of the Egyptian Museum
at the Louvre, director of important excavations in Memphis, founder
of the monumental museum at Cairo, and author of the corresponding
archaeological reports.
In England the development of Oriental studies was closely linked
to education for the colonial service. In 1878 Cambridge introduced a
Tripos for Semitic languages and in 1879 one for Indian languages. At
the same time the university library was strengthened in these areas. Few
students entered for these examinations, however, and so in 1895 they
were combined into a Tripos for Oriental studies. At Oxford an Indian
Institute was created in 1884,156 and in London in 1917 the School of
Modern Oriental Languages, consisting of a section in University College
and one in King’s College. In Russia political interest in Asiatic cultures
led to the founding in 1814 of the Lazarev Institute in Moscow, which
was granted professorial chairs in the languages of the Middle East, and
also the Asiatic Museum in St Petersburg in 1818. The former was made
into a research institute in Oriental studies in 1921 and the latter in 1930.
In Spain the historical background favoured research into Islamic culture
and this was carried out in particular by the Islamists Miguel Ası́n y Pala-
cios (1871–1944) and Julián Ribera y Tarrago (1858–1934), whilst in Italy
there were particularly close links with Egyptian and Ethiopian culture.
In the German Empire a ‘Seminar for Oriental languages’ was opened
at Bismarck’s instigation at the University of Berlin in 1887.157 Here lan-
guages important for the East African Protectorates were taught, together
with those held to be significant in terms of German foreign policy, that
is: English, French, Modern Greek and Spanish. In 1936 the seminar was

155 Durkheim (ed.), Vie universitaire (note 7), 147ff., 194ff.


156 History of Oxford, VIII, 609. 157 Lenz, Geschichte (note 38), vol. III, 239–47.

444
Theology and the arts

merged with other subjects into the Auslandswissenschaftliche Fakultät


(faculty of foreign studies) and finally abolished in 1945.
The extent to which activity in the colonial service could prove fruit-
ful for the scholarly pursuit of Oriental studies had already been demon-
strated by the example of Sir William Jones. The important Dutch Islamist
Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje (1879–1936) had been an adviser to the
colonial administration of the Dutch East Indies before he became a pro-
fessor in Leiden. But, in contrast to earlier centuries in which Oriental
studies had been the handmaid or – to extend the simile – courtesan of the-
ology, commerce and politics, as a fully equal daughter of the alma mater
she now had need of some scholarly training, which was often based
on classical philology. Snouck Hurgronje had learned the philological
method from his teacher in Oriental studies, M. J. de Goeje (1836–1909),
who himself had been a pupil of the famous Dutch classical philologist
Cobet, mentioned earlier.
In contrast to the other philologies the German universities did not form
the model and first stage of training of Arab Studies. The most influential
German Arabist of the nineteenth century, Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer
(1801–88), after studying theology and the associated semitic languages,
continued his education from 1824 to 1828 as a pupil of de Sacy by work-
ing on the manuscript treasures of Paris, and published his first work in
1827 in the Paris Journal Asiatique, before becoming Professor of Oriental
languages in Leipzig in 1835, where he not only educated a generation of
Arabists but also played a leading role in the foundation of the ‘German
Oriental Society’ (Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft) in 1844 and
its journal. That the historical and critical approach initiated by Theodor
Nöldeke (1832–1930) in Strasburg in his studies on the Koran became the
norm internationally was largely thanks to Snouck Hurgronje, Becker,
already mentioned as an orientalist and as the Prussian official in charge
of universities, and the Budapest Islamist Ignaz Goldziher (1850–1921),
a pupil of Fleischer. From the field of Arab studies there emerged impor-
tant specialists in Islam: Leone Caetani (1869–1935), Duke of Sermon-
eta, and Francesco Gabrieli (1904–96) in Italy, Frants Buhl (1850–1932)
in Copenhagen, Tor Andrae (1885–1947) in Uppsala, W. Montgomery
Watt (1909– ) in Edinburgh, Sir Hamilton Gibb (1895–1971) in Oxford,
Régis Blachère (1900–73) and Louis Massignon (1883–1962) in Paris.
In addition, journals and encyclopaedias devoted to Islamic studies were
produced.158
Paris was also the centre for the development of e g y p t o l o g y ,
as mentioned above. The holder of the first chair of Egyptology in the

158 Fück, Arabistik (note 152), 348; B. Spuler, ‘Islamforschung’, in RGG (note 50),
vol. III, 926ff.

445
Walter Rüegg

German-speaking area, Richard Lepsius (1810–84), after initial studies


in philology and languages in Leipzig, Göttingen and Berlin, moved into
Egyptology from 1833 onwards by means of a number of periods of study,
each lasting several years in Paris and in the museums and institutes of
Italy and England. From his appointment in 1842 to an associate chair
in Berlin to his appointment in 1846 as a full professor, he directed the
Prussian King’s Egyptian expedition and introduced the, by now tradi-
tional, German philological method into the subject. The second chair
in Egyptology was created in Göttingen in 1867 for Heinrich Brugsch
(1827–94), who completed his Habilitation under Lepsius in 1854 after
research in the museums of Paris, London, Turin and Leiden and a period
of work with Mariette in Memphis. In 1864 he founded the Zeitschrift für
ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde (‘Journal for Egyptian Language
and Antiquities’), and worked as an assistant at the Egyptian museum
in Berlin, as a diplomat in Persia and as consul in Cairo. Leo Reinisch
(1832–1919) qualified in Vienna in 1860 in Egyptology and the history
of the Orient, and worked from 1865 to 1867 in Egypt, before becoming
Personal Secretary to the Kaiser in Mexico. In 1868 he received an asso-
ciate chair in Vienna and in 1872 became the full professor for his subject.
Later, through both expeditions and publications, he devoted himself to
the study of the languages of East Africa. When chairs in Egyptology were
created in Leipzig in 1870 and Strasburg in 1872 it was already possible
to select scholars who had studied with Lepsius and Brugsch, and whose
travels abroad had been restricted to excavations and other researches in
Egypt itself.159 Between 1892 and 1914 Egyptology came to be taught at
University College, London, at Oxford, Uppsala and Turin.
The third of the oriental disciplines, s i n o l o g y , owes its institu-
tionalization as an academic subject also to Paris, where at the Collège de
France in 1814, the chair referred to earlier was filled with the 26-year-old
Jean-Pierre Abel-Rémusat (1788–1832).160 He was followed by a series of
highly distinguished scholars, each one his equal in reputation. The last of
these within the time-scale of this volume, Henri Maspero (1882–1945),
the son of the Egyptologist Gaston Maspero, died in Buchenwald con-
centration camp, before he had the opportunity to develop to the full his
somewhat unconventional ideas.161 At the École Nationale des Langues

159 The biographical data of the German and French orientalists are mostly taken from
Brockhaus’ Konversationslexikon in 16 Bänden, 14th edn (Leipzig, Berlin and Vienna,
1894).
160 The following is based on H. Franke, ‘In Search of China: Some General Remarks on
the History of European Sinology’, in Europe Studies China, Papers from an Interna-
tional Conference on The History of European Sinology (London, 1995), 11–25, with
bibliography.
161 H. Franke, ‘Orientalistik, 1. Teil Sinologie’, in K. Hoenn (ed.), Wissenschaftliche
Forschungsberichte. Geistswissenschaftliche Reihe 19 (Berne, 1953), 21.

446
Theology and the arts

Orientales Vivantes Chinese was introduced after the Opium War in 1843.
In England it was diplomatic, commercial and missionary pressures which
led to the teaching of Chinese in the second half of the nineteenth century
by former diplomats, Sir Thomas Wade (1818–95) in Cambridge, and
Herbert Allen Giles (1845–1935) in Oxford, together with a former mis-
sionary, James Legge (1815–97). In Holland the colonial interests men-
tioned earlier had led to a scholarly preoccupation with the Far East,
which had developed from the seventeenth century onwards, so that in
the later part of the nineteenth century the chair of ethnology in Leiden
was filled with excellent Sinologists in the persons of Gustav Schlegel
(1840–1903) and J. J. M. de Groot (1854–1921). In Louvain the Sanskrit
specialist Charles de Herlez (1832–99) was also responsible for Chinese
and Manchurian. After the conquest of Siberia in the seventeenth century
Russia had become China’s neighbour and the two had signed treaties
in 1689 and 1727. Not surprisingly the Russians took an interest in the
Chinese language, especially at the Russian Spiritual Mission in Peking,
which produced such interesting works on ‘China, its People, its Religion,
its Institutions, and its Social Circumstances’, that they were translated
into German in 1858.162 In the Oriental faculty in St Petersburg profes-
sorships in the Chinese and Manchurian languages were created. In Spain
and Portugal, however, despite their connections with East Asia, there
were no chairs in Sinology. In Florence and Rome in 1892 there were pro-
fessorships for the languages and literatures of the Far East. Chinese and
Japanese were on the teaching syllabus of the Berlin Institute for Oriental
Studies from its origins in 1887. At the university a lecturer in the Eth-
nological Institute taught Chinese and Manchurian grammar as a special
professor. The first chair in Sinology in Germany was created in 1909
at the newly founded ‘Hamburg Colonial Institute’, with the title ‘Lan-
guages and History of East Asia’, and was transferred to the university
when it was founded in 1919. At the same time a Sinological Seminar was
founded, with others opening at the same time in Berlin and Göttingen.
The development of Oriental studies shows the importance of ama-
teurs, that is, of graduates and university teachers who came from another
subject.163 Professionalization was encouraged by the institutes already
mentioned, by European foundations in the Orient,164 and by learned

162 Franke, ‘In Search of China’ (note 160), 15, 25.


163 Franke, ibid., 16ff., gives examples in the field of Sinology.
164 Institut d’Egypte, Cairo, with Bulletin, 1857– , British School of Archeology in Egypt,
with Publications, 1895– , Institut d’archéologie russe à Constantinople, with Bul-
letin, 1896–1912, Ecole française d’Extrème Orient, Hanoi, with Bulletin, 1901– ,
Institut français d’archéologie orientale, Cairo, with Bulletin, 1901– , Deutsches evan-
gelisches Institut für Altertumswissenschaft des Heiligen Landes zu Jerusalem, with
Palästinajahrbuch, 1905–41, Deutsches Institut für ägyyptische Altertumskunde in

447
Walter Rüegg

societies,165 which in the beginning were often composed of scholars and


dilettantes, but who eventually through their conferences and journals
turned into specialist societies. They made possible a degree of equilib-
rium between the growing specialization of the individual disciplines, on
the one hand and interdisciplinary co-operation on the other. At the same
time they allowed a broad degree of support from amateurs. In addi-
tion there were a number of independent journals.166 In no other area of
philology has international co-operation been stronger than in Oriental
studies. International conferences have taken place since 1873.
a f r i c a n s t u d i e s also owes its origins to the missionary activity
and colonial politics of the European powers and to the systematic sup-
port in the nineteenth century for expeditions to explore Central Africa.
As early as 1788 the African Society was founded in London for this
purpose. In 1873 there followed in Berlin the German Society for the
Exploration of Equatorial Africa (Deutsche Gesellschaft zur Erforschung
Aequatorial-Afrikas). In 1876 the King of the Belgians took the initiative
in setting up a Commission internationale d’exploration et de civilisa-
tion de l’Afrique centrale. In 1890 the Comité de l’Afrique centrale was
founded, which, like the Società africana d’Italia, established in 1892,
also published its own journal.167 That African studies developed into an
academic discipline after the First World War was to a large extent due

Kairo, with Mitteilungen, 1930–43, Institut français d’archéologie de Stamboul, with


Mémoires, 1933– .
165 Société Asiatique, with Journal asiatique, 1823– , Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain
and Ireland, with Transactions, 1824–34, continued as Journal, 1834– , Société Orientale
de France, with Revue de l’Orient, 1842–65, Deutsche morgenländische Gesellschaft,
with Zeitschrift, 1847– , Koninklijk Instituut voor de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde van
Nederlandsch Indië, with Bijdragen, 1853– , Deutscher Palästinaverein, with Zeitschrift,
1878– , Società italiana, with Giornale, 1887–1935, Deutsch-asiatische Gesellschaft,
with ‘Asien’, 1901–19, continued as Ostasiatische Rundschau, 1919–44, Deutsche
Orient–Gesellschaft, with Mitteilungen, 1898– , School of Oriental (and African,
1940– ) Studies (London), with Bulletin, 1917– , Societas orientalis Fennica, with Studia
Orientalia, 1925– .
166 Other selected European journals (besides those mentioned before): Revue
égyptologique, 1880–1924, continued as Revue d’Egypte ancienne, 1924–32, Revue
d’égyptologie, 1932–38, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 1887– ,
Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, 1889–1915, continued as Keilschrifturkunden aus Bog-
hazköi, 1921– , Mitteilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen (Berlin), 1898–
1936, Orientalische Literatur-Zeitung, 1898– , Rivista degli studi orientali, 1907– ,
Der Islam, 1910– , Journal of Egyptian Archeology, 1914– , Resznik Orientalistyczny,
1914– , Ostasiatische Zeitschrift, 1912–43, Aegyptus, Rivista italiana di egittologia e di
papirologia, 1920– , Artibus Asiae (Leipzig), 1925– , Archiv Orientalni, 1929– , Bul-
letin of the Museum for Far Eastern Antiquities (Stockholm), 1929– , Orientalia (Vatican
City), 1932– , Al-Andalus (Madrid), 1933– .
167 Bulletin du Comité de l’Afrique centrale, 1891–1908, continued as L’Afrique française,
1909– , Africa, 1892–96, continued as Bolletino della Società africana d’Italia, 1896–
1912, Africana italiana, 1912–37, Africa, International Institute for African Languages
and Cultures (London), 1928– , Africa 1938– .

448
Theology and the arts

to Dietrich H. Westermann (1875–1956), who worked as a missionary


in Togoland. In 1921 he received a professorship in Berlin and in 1936
was invited to take over the directorship of the International Institute for
African Languages and Cultures in London. Other oriental languages and
cultures, which like Sumerian and Akkadian had been studied by orien-
talists since the nineteenth century, also gained their own chairs after the
First World War.
COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY also found in Paris a rich intellectual
climate, in which seeds from the most disparate directions were able to
grow together into fruitful silvae or woods (to borrow an image for
learned collections which was common in the Baroque period and still
used by the brothers Grimm).
It was certainly true that, already by the medieval period, comparisons
had been made between various languages, but the differences between
them had been explained as a consequence of the Biblical Tower of Babel.
With the advent of humanism, which paid particular attention to language
as the expression of individual communication, there appeared a polyglot
edition of the Bible168 and a variety of translations of Aristotle’s Ethics
in one volume.169 The Zurich professor Conrad Gessner (1516–65) pub-
lished the Lord’s Prayer in 22 languages in 1555, and by 1806 Christoph
Adelung (1732–1806) had collected it in almost 500 languages and dialects
as a case study in his Allgemeine Sprachkunde (‘General Study of Lan-
guage’).170 As a result of his comparative studies, Joseph Justus Scaliger
(1540–1609), one of the leading philologists of the sixteenth century and
professor in Geneva and Leiden, was led to produce a classification of the
European languages that was free from biblical or classical prejudice. The
effect was twofold: belief in the primacy of the language of the Bible was
undermined at a very early stage, and at the same time the notion that
Latin was derived from Greek was refuted.171

168 See vol. II, pp. 36, 460.


169 Decem librorum Moralium Aristotelis tres conversiones: Prima Argyropoli Byzantinij,
secunda Leonardi Aretini, tertia vero Antiqua, 2nd edn (Paris, 1505).
170 C. Gessner, Mithridates, de differentiis linguarum tum veterum tum quae hodie apud
diversas nationes in toto orbe terrarum in usu sunt (Mithridates oder über die Unter-
schiede der alten und der heute bei den verschiedenen Völkern des ganzen Erdkreises
gebräuchlichen Sprachen) (Zurich, 1555); J. C. Adelung, Mithridates oder Allgemeine
Sprachenkunde mit dem Vater Unser als Sprachprobe in beinahe fünfhundert Sprachen
und Mundarten, 4 vols. (Berlin, 1806–17), quoted by Arens, Sprachwissenschaft (note
153), 56ff., 129ff.; H. M. Hoenigswald, ‘Linguistics’ in P. P. Wiener (ed.), Dictionary
of the History of Ideas: Studies of Selected Pivotal Ideas, vol. III (New York, 1973),
73. I have used both works for the following text. For a detailed story of the topic
see the monumental work written by A. Borst, Der Turmbau von Babel, Geschichte
der Meinungen über Ursprung und Vielfalt der Sprachen und Völker, 4 vols. (Stuttgart,
1957–63).
171 Hoenigswald, ‘Linguistics’ (note 170); Arens, Sprachwissenschaft (note 153), 59.

449
Walter Rüegg

Sir William Jones, who was mentioned above, has been called the
founder of comparative philology.172 In fact his reference to the structural
affinities between Sanskrit and other European languages stimulated the
study of languages from a historical comparative perspective. Sanskrit
owes the fact that it was already present as a subject in universities in
the early nineteenth century, and, after 1850, was as likely to be found
as Hebrew and other Semitic languages, less to the importance of Indian
texts for religious studies than to its key position in language studies. For
such a situation to come about it was necessary for Jones’ discovery to
be systematized and applied. This was the achievement of a number of
German scholars, who had been inspired to carry out the task in Paris at
the beginning of the nineteenth century.
Friedrich von Schlegel, who has already been mentioned as one of the
Romantic discoverers of medieval literature, not only learned Persian
and Sanskrit in Paris, but was stimulated to a new understanding of
language studies by the palaeontologist Georges Cuvier’s (1769–1832)
Leçons d’anatomie comparée published between the years 1801 and 1805.
In his book on the Indians published in 1808 Schlegel sums up this new
advance in the following words: ‘That decisive point, however, which
will illuminate everything in this area, is an inner structure of languages
or comparative grammar, which will give us quite new insights into the
genealogy of languages in the way that comparative anatomy sheds light
on the higher history of Nature.’ Thus comparative language studies was
given the task of considering ‘language and its origins in a scholarly and
historical way’ – something which Schlegel himself admitted would be
very difficult to do.173 Jacob Grimm, who had worked as an assistant to
Savigny in Paris in 1805, carried out this task in his pioneering works
on German grammar, in part continuing the studies of the Dane Rasmus
Back (1787–1832), who, just as Schlegel had been influenced by Cuvier,
was himself inspired by the Swedish botanist Linnaeus and his typology.
Full of admiration for Schlegel’s book on India, the 21-year-old student
Franz Bopp travelled to Paris in 1812, with the aim of learning Arabic
and Syrian with de Sacy, and of teaching himself Sanskrit by studying
the superb collection of manuscripts in the imperial library. In 1816 there
appeared the results of this study in the form of an epoch-making compar-
ative structural analysis of the Indo-Germanic systems of conjugation. In
the course of a period of study in London and of a professorship from 1821
onwards in ‘Oriental literature and general language studies’ in Berlin, he

172 Sandys, Classical Scholarship (note 100), vol. II, 438ff.


173 F. Schlegel, Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Inder. Ein Beitrag zur Begründung
der Altertumskunde (Heidelberg, 1808), chapter 3, text reprinted in Arens, Sprach-
wissenschaft (note 153), 140–2.

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developed this into a comparative grammar of the Indo-Germanic lan-


guages.174 The famous Paris linguist, Antoine Meillet (1866–1936), com-
pared Bopp’s achievement with that of Columbus, in that, whilst pursuing
the search for the origin of language, which after all dates back to Plato,
he had discovered the science of comparative linguistics in its modern
sense.175
Bopp’s resolution in 1812 ‘to treat the study of languages . . . as an
historical and philosophical task’176 which led him to the discovery of his
‘America’, was in no small way influenced by a fourth German, who from
1797 to 1799 had carried out language research in Paris and afterwards in
Spain, but who, because of his entry into the service of the state in 1804,
had only been able to publish the results in 1811. Wilhelm von Hum-
boldt was interested in language as the basic element of his philosophical
anthropology, and tried to approach what he described as the true object
of ‘general language studies’ through a study initially of Basque and then,
after his withdrawal from state office, of the major Oriental languages
and of American and Javanese oral tribal languages. What Humboldt
sought was an ‘organic structure of languages’ that would represent ‘the
most intellectual of those influences, which throughout the whole of his-
tory contemporaneous nations and different generations have exerted on
each other.’177 As the following quotation makes clear, comparative lin-
guistics was viewed by Humboldt as a Geisteswissenschaft in the sense
previously defined in relation to Vico, Böckh, Hegel, Hettner and Dilthey:
‘the power of the mind engaging itself with all its depth and fullness in the
course of world events is the truly creative principle in the hidden and as it
were mysterious development of humanity’.178 In this process language,
he feels, has a particular role to play: ‘Language is so to speak the external
manifestation of the spirit of the nations; their language is their spirit and
their spirit is their language, it is impossible to over-exaggerate the degree
of identity between the two.’179
Within language studies this philosophical, history of ideas, aspect
has constantly been influential, though usually indirectly. Humboldt was
never a university teacher, but even after his retirement as head of the

174 F. Bopp, Über das Konjugationssystem der Sanskritsprache in Vergleichung mit jenem
der griechischen, lateinischen, persischen und germanischen Sprache (Frankfurt, 1816);
F. Bopp, Vergleichende Grammatik des Sanskrit, Send, Armenischen, Griechischen,
Litauischen, Altslawischen, Gotischen und Deutschen, 6 parts (Berlin, 1833–52).
175 A. Meillet, La méthode comparative en linguistique historique (Paris, 1924), quoted by
Hoenigswald, ‘Linguistics’ (note 170), 68.
176 Quoted by Arens, Sprachwissenschaft (note 153), 155.
177 W. von Humboldt, Über die Verschiedenheit en des menschlichen Spachbaus (1827–
1829), Werke (note 93), vol. III: Schriften zur Sprachphilosophie (Darmstadt, 1965),
155ff.
178 Ibid., 392. 179 Ibid., 414–15.

451
Walter Rüegg

Prussian Schools and Universities Authority he exercised great influence


on appointments. It was to him that Bopp owed his chair in Berlin. In
1818 an older friend of Humboldt, August Wilhelm von Schlegel, who
had already achieved distinction as an authority on world literature and
as a translator of Shakespeare was made professor of literature and arts
at the University of Bonn, founded in the same year. In 1820, at his own
request, he was charged with ‘establishing the study of Sanskrit and of
Indian literature in Germany,’ and at the same time, received funds to
develop an Indian printing house. He had learned the language during
his time spent with Madame de Staël in Paris, and between 1820 and
1830 he published an ‘Indian Library’ in Bonn with his own editions and
translations.180
For the most part Sanskrit was taught as a component of Indo-Germanic
language studies, but occasionally also within the framework of classical
and oriental languages as, for example in the cases of Félix Nève (1816–93)
in Louvain from 1841 onwards, or Edward Cowell (1826–1903), who,
after playing a leading role in both Calcutta’s university and Sanskrit Col-
lege, was awarded a chair in Sanskrit at Cambridge in 1867. He was also
the same time responsible for other oriental languages and had important
pupils in both classical and oriental philology.181 As we have already seen
with Jacob Grimm, comparative language studies had an impact also on
the modern philologies. Diez’s ‘Grammar of Romance Languages’ was
in no small measure indebted to Humboldt and Grimm. The ‘Compar-
ative Grammar of the Slavonic Languages’ by Miklosich was similarly
based on historical and comparative language studies, as was the Gram-
matica celtica with which Johann Kaspar Zeuss (1806–56), a teacher at a
Franconian girls’ school, founded Celtic philology in 1853.
Conversely, language studies were repeatedly stimulated by develop-
ments in other disciplines. In Dorpat the Slavist Jan Baudoin (1846–1929)
had established the foundations of phonology, the study of the phonetic
structure of language, which in the Cercle linguistique de Prague, founded
in 1926 with Prince Trubetzkoy (1890–1938) at its centre, and the Cercle
de linguistique de Copenhague, together with the Geneva School founded
by Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913), inaugurated modern linguistics.
Psychology was so important for Hajim Steinthal (1823–99), from 1849
onwards Reader in general linguistics in Berlin, that in 1859 he founded

180 Schlegel was not, as it was often stated, the first incumbent of a German chair for
Indology, but in 1920 when he presented his resignation as a result of the Carlsbad
decrees, the government granted an extension of his broad teaching on the history of
literature, arts and culture into the study of Sanskrit and Indian literature; see W. F.
Schirmer, ‘August Wilhelm von Schlegel’, in Bonner Gelehrte, Beiträge zur Geschichte
der Wissenschaften in Bonn, Sprachwissenschaften (Bonn, 1950), 15ff.
181 University of Cambridge, 428.

452
Theology and the arts

with the philosopher and psychologist Moritz Lazarus (1824–1903) a


‘Journal of Ethnopsychology and Linguistics’. Wilhelm Wundt (1832–
1920), professor of philosophy in Leipzig, produced a series of profound
studies of language as expressive movement in the context of Ethnopsy-
chology. Emile Durkheim at the Sorbonne and the Ecole pratique des
Hautes Etudes applied his empirical sociology to language. Philosophers
treated language as an aesthetic phenomenon (Benedetto Croce), in con-
junction with logic and phenomenology (Edmund Husserl, 1859–1939),
and as symbolic form (Ernst Cassirer, 1874–1945). All of this had an effect
on scholarship, but it was not until after the Second World War that it
led to a widespread creation of chairs in linguistics in addition to the
traditional – indo-germanically centred – professorships in comparative
philology. The changes are, however, apparent in the titles of journals.182

philosophy
Philosophy, with its three components of physics, ethics and metaphysics,
has been since the very origins of universities the crown of the propaedeu-
tic faculty of artes, which in the early modern period became also known
as the ‘philosophical faculty’. In 1798 Immanuel Kant in his Streit der
Fakultäten (‘The Conflict of the Faculties’) argued for its superiority over
the ‘higher’ faculties of theology, law and medicine on the grounds that
the latter, as places in which the future servants of the Church and the
state were educated, were not free, whereas the former, by the nature
of their subject, the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, should take
the highest rank in terms of academic self-determination and freedom.
At the University of Berlin a philosophically orientated search for knowl-
edge was the basis of education in all the faculties, and the philosophical
faculty advanced from being the maid to the mistress of the Universi-
tas litterarum. The effects on theology have been outlined in the case of
Schleiermacher. He, like other theologians, also taught philosophy.183 In
Germany an examination in philosophy, a tentamen philosophicum, was
a prerequisite for would-be lawyers and theologians and its influence was
often apparent in their publications. Yet in 1895 the philosopher and

182 Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiet des Deutschen, Griechis-
chen und Lateinischen, 1852–74, continued with the modification ‘auf dem Gebiet der
indogermanischen Sprachen’, 1876– , Bulletin de la Société de linguistique de Paris,
1868– , Archivio glossologico italiano, 1873– , Indogermanische Forschungen, 1891– ,
Glotta, Zeitschrift für griechische und lateinische Sprache, 1909– , Indogermanisches
Jahrbuch, 1913– , Norsk tidsskrift for sprogvidenskap, 1928– , Bulletin du Cercle lin-
guistique de Copenhague, 1934– , Acta linguistica, Revue internationale de linguistique
structurale, 1939– , Cahiers Ferdinand de Saussure, 1941– .
183 See above, p. 395.

453
Walter Rüegg

pedagogue, Friedrich Paulsen, noted that ‘In Germany an age of absolute


philosophy has been followed by an age of absolute unphilosophy.’184
In the arts faculty the four mathematical and the three philological
artes were combined with the study of physics, morality and history –
themselves derived from philosophy. The British faculty of arts contin-
ued this tradition up to the end of the nineteenth century. The natural
sciences first broke free from the arts in the Scottish universities,185 but
then only partially and at the same time as the technical sciences in some
of the civic universities in the north of England, which themselves had
developed from technical colleges. In France the lettres and sciences had
been allocated to different faculties since the Napoleonic reorganization
of higher education. The newly founded Belgian state did the same for
philosophie et lettres and sciences in 1835. In Spain a distinction was
made in 1845 in the facultad de filosofı́a between courses in Ciencias and
Letras and in 1857 the facultad de filosofı́a y letras was separated from
that of the ciencias. In Italy, too, after unification in 1861 separate fac-
ulties for Filosofia e Lettere and Scienze fisiche, matematiche e naturali
were instituted. In the Netherlands in 1876 the Fakulteit de letteren en
wijsbegeerte was distinguished from that of wis- en natuurkunde. The
constitution of the Russian universities of 1884 also separated the his-
tory and philology faculty from the physics and mathematics faculty. In
1892 Christiania (Oslo) had both a historisk-filosofiske and mathematisk-
naturwidenskabelige Fakultet, whilst in Copenhagen the first of these was
called Det filosofiske fakultet.
Until the twentieth century the unity of the philosophical faculty
remained intact in Germany, Austria-Hungary, Sweden and in the
German-speaking part of Switzerland. In the latter, as well as in Sweden
and in Bavaria, however, there were separate departments for philological
and historical subjects (often including social and business related sub-
jects) on the one hand, and for mathematical and scientific subjects on the
other. The basic idea, that it was the task of philosophy to secure not only
the intellectual unity of the arts and the natural and social sciences but
also their institutional unity, was defended so persistently in Germany
that independent mathematical and science faculties only appeared in

184 F. Paulsen, Geschichte des gelehrten Unterrichts auf den deutschen Schulen und Univer-
sitäten vom Ausgang des Mittelalters bis zur Gegenwart. Mit besonderer Rücksicht auf
den klassischen Unterricht, 2nd edn (Berlin and Leipzig, 1921), vol. II, 671.
185 The University Scotland Act (1889) introduced separate faculties for science, but in 1892
they had not been realized. In 1913/14 the Calendar of the University of Glasgow listed
‘Sciences’ as a faculty as well as one of the four departments of the faculty of arts, and
the same applied in 1939 for studies leading to the M.Sc. or to the MA. In London the
disciplines were differentiated according to the different colleges. In 1914 the sciences
became separate faculties in the arts colleges. In Oxford, the sciences belonged in 1892
to the arts faculty; in 1912 they were separated.

454
Theology and the arts

Germany after the First World War with the exception of Tübingen (1869),
Strasburg (1872), Heidelberg (1890), Freiburg (1910) and Frankfurt-am-
Main (1914). Cologne, Kiel and Marburg kept to the undivided philo-
sophical faculty until the 1960s, Vienna and Graz until 1975.186
Philosophy was represented in the larger universities by at least two
chairs in the philosophical faculty and often by a further chair in another
faculty. Its representatives determined the teaching of philosophy in the
secondary schools (Gymnasien) and influenced the intellectual life of
the age. From Humboldt and Schleiermacher in Berlin through Victor
Cousin (1792–1867) in Paris to Benedetto Croce and Giovanni Gentile
(1875–1944) in Rome, philosophers were active too as university reform-
ers. If, however, one were to ask which philosophers had had an influ-
ence beyond the limits of their subject, their language area and/or their
age then there would be a significant difference. In Germany they were
all either university professors – from the great figures of Idealism
Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, through an evolutionary Monism influenced by
Darwin and Ernst Haeckel (1834–1919), as well as the representative
of Lebensphilosophie and hermeneutics Wilhelm Dilthey, to the Phe-
nomenologist Edmund Husserl, the philosopher of existentialism Martin
Heidegger (1889–1976) and the philosopher of culture Ernst Cassirer –
or they were academics who had abandoned a university career, either of
their own free will, like Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860), or because
their teaching had been held to be ideologically unsound, like the left-
wing Hegelian Arnold Ruge (1802–80) and the representative of radical
Materialism Ludwig Büchner (1824–99), or else because of illness like
Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900), or indeed like Karl Marx (1818–83)
they had been prevented on political grounds from entering a university
career.
On the other hand Auguste Comte (1798–1857), whose influence
extended as far as South America, spread his Positivism outside the uni-
versity through publications, private lectures, and his church-like Religion
de l’humanité. John Stuart Mill (1806–73) developed his epoch-making
principles of the empirical sciences and his radical liberalism and utilitar-
ianism as an academic outsider. The same was true for Herbert Spencer
(1820–1903) and Charles Darwin (1809–82),187 and it was not at the
Sorbonne but at the Collège de France that Henri Bergson (1859–1941)
first presented his concept of élan vital as the basis of évolution créatrice,

186 See the ‘Chronological List of European Universities’. In Sweden the division of the arts
faculty into a section of liberal arts and a section of science occurred in 1876, see ‘Fac-
ulty of Science at Uppsala University. Mathematics and Physics’, in Acta Universitatis
Upsaliensis. Uppsala University 500 years, vol. VIII (Uppsala, 1976), 1.
187 See chapter 11, 461.

455
Walter Rüegg

an idea which was highly influential in the spheres of biology, psychology


and aesthetics.
This basic difference takes us back to the beginning of the chapter. In
those countries which only took over the German development of the
arts subjects quite late, philosophy was part of the traditional humanist
education. In France it was clearly there in the final class of the lycée or
collège which was devoted to philosophie. In other countries it appeared
as part of education in the humanities and was supposed to provide the
logical rules and moral principles necessary for a general education. As
a subject in the lower faculty where students were being prepared for
church or state careers philosophy was to a considerable extent exposed
to the prevailing state ideology or church dogmatics.
In the so-called Humboldt university philosophy was held to be a
science. Significantly the prospectuses of the University of Berlin at the
beginning of the twentieth century listed the theological, legal and medi-
cal lectures under the headings Gottesgelahrtheit, Rechtsgelahrtheit and
Heilkunde, but those of the philosophical faculty – with the exception of
‘history and geography, art and art history’ – were listed as the ‘sciences of
philosophy, mathematics, nature, state, philology, cameralism and trade’.
Philosophy as a specialist subject embraced systematic philosophy as well
as the philosophy of religion, history and society, the history of philoso-
phy, the theory of knowledge and logic, psychology and pedagogics. In
1847 the first – German – congress of philosophers took place. Whilst the
very first scholarly journal, the one founded in 1665 by the Royal Society
of London, could be called philosophical in the all-inclusive encyclopaedic
sense of humanism, and in a similar way other scholarly journals also had
the word ‘philosophical’ in their title, the first real specialized scholarly
journal for philosophy appeared in Germany in 1837.188 In the 1870s
there followed seminars for philosophy in Jena, Leipzig, Strasburg and
Tübingen, to be followed in the twentieth century by ones at the other
German universities as well as at Austrian, Swiss-German, Polish, Swedish
and Hungarian universities, some combined with, and others independent
of, the pedagogical and/or psychological institutes.189

188 Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, 1665– , Philosophical Mag-
azine, 1798– , Zeitschrift für Philosophie und philosophische Kritik, 1852– , Philosoph-
ische Monatshefte, 1868–94, continued as Archiv für systematische Philosophie, 1895–
1924, . . . und Soziologie, 1925/26–30, Revue philosophique de la France et de l’étranger,
1876–, Vierteljahrsschrift für wissenschaftliche Philosophie, 1877–1902, . . . und Sozi-
ologie, 1902–16, Kantstudien, 1897–1944, Rivista filosofica, 1899–1908, continued
as Rivista di filosofia, 1909– , Filosofiske meddelelser, 1909– , Logos, Internationale
Zeitschrift für Philosophie der Kultur, 1910–33, continued as Zeitschrift für deutsche
Kulturphilosophie, 1933–40.
189 K. C. Kohnke, ‘Philosophie, Institutionelle Formen, 19. und 20. Jh. Deutschland’, in
Ritter and Gründer (eds.), Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie (note 85), 832–9.

456
Theology and the arts

With the increasingly scientific nature of chairs in philosophy, the degree


of specialization also grew. At the same time the importance of philoso-
phy for intellectual life in general was diminishing. In France and Great
Britain the intellectual world had been sufficiently educated in philoso-
phy for fundamental new lines of thought to appear outside the university,
whereas that ‘total unphilosophy’ among the German elites bemoaned by
Paulsen was unable to produce the necessary intellectual antibodies to
counteract the pseudo-scientific ideologies that had become so detrimen-
tal to the Geisteswissenschaften, to the humanities and, last but not least,
to humanity itself.

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Barth, K. Die protestantische Theologie im 19. Jahrhundert. Ihre Vorgeschichte
und Geschichte, 6th edn, Zurich, 1994.
Bollak, M. and Wismann H. (eds.) Philologie und Hermeneutik im 19. Jahrhun-
dert, 2 vols., Göttingen, 1983.
Borst, A. Der Turmbau von Babel. Geschichte der Meinungen über Ursprung
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Munich, 1995.
Bruch, R., vom Graf, F. W. and Hübinger, G. (eds.) Kultur und Wissenschaften
um 1900, Krise und Glaube an die Wissenschaft, Stuttgart, 1989.
Chadwick, O. The Secularisation of the European Mind in the Nineteenth Cen-
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Christ, K. and Momigliano, A. (eds.) Die Antike im 19. Jahrhundert in Italien
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Durkheim, E. (ed.) La vie universitaire à Paris, Paris, 1918.
Duroselle, J.-B. Les débuts du catholicisme social en France 1822–1870, Paris,
1951.
Espagne, M. and Werner, M. (eds.) Philologiques, vol. I: Contribution à l’histoire
des disciplines littéraires en France et en Allemagne au XIXe siècle, Paris,
1990.
Finkenstaedt, T. Kleine Geschichte der Anglistik in Deutschland, Eine Einführung,
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Flashar, H., Gründer, K. and Horstmann, A. (eds.) Philologie und Hermeneu-
tik im 19. Jahrhundert, Zur Geschichte und Methodologie der Geisteswis-
senschaften, Göttingen, 1979.
Franke, H. ‘In Search of China: Some General Remarks on the History of
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Fück, J. Die arabischen Studien in Europa bis in den Anfängen des 20. Jahrhun-
derts, Leipzig, 1955.

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in Europa. 150 Jahre Erste Germanistenversammlung in Frankfurt am Main
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slawischen Ländern. Schriften der Balkankommission der Österreichischen
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Hirdt, W. Romanistik, Eine Bonner Erfindung, 2 vols., Bonn, 1994.
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458
CHAPTER 11

H I S T O RY A N D T H E S O C I A L
SCIENCES

ASA BRIGGS

t h e r i s e o f c r i t i c a l h i s to ry
A powerful historical thrust in nineteenth-century thought influenced both
teaching and research in European universities. It also influenced public
opinion and policy-making outside universities. At the beginning of the
century revolution and the fear of it quickened interest in the past as
well as in the future. So too did industrialization, which at the same time
stimulated interest in and concern for ‘society’, its relationships and prob-
lems. Meanwhile geology and biological theories of evolution before and
after Charles Darwin (1809–82) lengthened time perspectives, with social
as well as biological ramifications. The ‘interconnectedness’ of structures
and sequences was now taken for granted. So were development processes.
There was an enhanced historical consciousness. In the twentieth century
there was to be a reaction against aspects of evolutionism and against the
idea of progress. By then, however, specialization had changed the map of
university studies. The social sciences, not always so described, acquired
current relevance in war, further revolution and depression. Economics,
in particular, became a recognized academic discipline, directly related to
policy-making. In the forefront rather than in the background were more
powerful state structures.
Within and between universities the carving out of history as a sepa-
rate academic discipline, ultimately (but seldom exclusively) controlled by
professionals, is best seen as one expression of the historical thrust which
affected other disciplines also. For the most knowledgeable of English his-
torians, Lord Acton (1834–1902), who like many of his contemporaries
pondered long and deeply on the nature of history and historiography,
history was not only ‘a particular branch of knowledge, but a particular

459
Asa Briggs

mode and method of knowledge in other branches’.1 With both aristo-


cratic and intellectual connections with continental Europe – he was born
in Naples and died in Bavaria – Acton surveyed the centuries and the
contemporary scene.
One of the first disciplines to be affected by the rise of critical history
was the oldest, theology.2 Philosophy was equally influenced as ‘change’
became a central theme in thinking about the world. For G. W. F. Hegel,
professor at Berlin from 1818 to 1831, the cosmos was history. All truth
was historical truth. Jurisprudence under the influence of Gustav Hugo
(1764–1844) at Göttingen, his pupil Karl F. von Eichhorn (1781–1854),
professor at Berlin, and Friedrich K. von Savigny (1779–1861), also sum-
moned to Berlin, turned from universal and timeless natural law to the
particular German laws of the past, relating them to life and to spirit,
Volkgeist.
During the twentieth century academic history as an accepted discipline
was to be drawn into new and diverse associations with law, literature, art
and developing specialized social sciences, including economics, geogra-
phy, sociology, psychology, demography and anthropology, with an active
minority of professional historians in the universities looking more to the
social sciences than to the humanities.3 By the middle years of the nine-
teenth century, however, positivist historians, like Henry Thomas Buckle
(1821–62) in Britain, had placed history within a broad context, and Karl
Marx, concerned with thought in action, had set out, with the Reading
Room in the British Museum as his base, to discover and to explain the
‘laws of motion of capitalist society’. He drew on the politics of ‘class
struggle’, derived largely from France – the politician-historian Augustin
Thierry (1795–1856) was one of his sources – on Hegelian philosophy,
derived from Germany, and on ‘classical’ political economy, derived from
Britain, from David Ricardo (1772–1823) in particular. Dialectical mate-
rialism was an explanatory amalgam. It had links with Darwin also. For
Marx’s friend and collaborator, Friedrich Engels (1820–95), Marx was
doing for society what Darwin’s theories did for biology.4

1 Cambridge University Library, Add. 50111, 390, quoted in H. Butterfield, Man on His
Past: The Study of Historical Scholarship (Cambridge, 1955), 97.
2 See the Part IV ‘learning’ in the previous volumes of this History; on the development
of new academic discipline in Germany: Nipperdey, Bürgerwelt, 484–531 (ch. ‘Wis-
senschaft’); on the German renewal of law history: J. Rückert, Idealismus, Jurisprudenz
und Politik bei Friedrich Carl von Savigny (Ebelsbach, 1984).
3 D. S. Landes and C. Tilly (eds.), History as Social Science (Englewood Cliffs, 1971).
4 See Engels’s Preface to the Communist Manifesto of 1848 in K. Marx and F. Engels,
Collected Works, vol. I (1911), 24, n. 1. For Marx’s approach to history and its aca-
demic impact, which, except in the Soviet Union after 1917, became manifest mainly after
1945: L. Kolakowski, Marxism and Beyond: On Historical Understanding and Individ-
ual Responsibility (London, 1969), and G. A. Cohen, Karl Marx’s Theory of History: A
Defence (Oxford, 1978).

460
History and the social sciences

Neither Darwin nor Marx was a university teacher. Nor was Buckle.
Auguste Comte (1798–1857), who coined the word ‘sociology’, never
acquired a higher university position than that of an ‘ambulatory pro-
fessor’, an external examiner for the Ecole Polytechnique in Paris.5 Yet
academic history and the ‘academic ethos’ that shaped it, whatever its
underlying philosophy, positivist or idealist, acquired both a critical and
an inspirational dimension throughout the nineteenth century. For Acton,
for example, as he put it in his inaugural lecture as Regius Professor of
Modern History at Cambridge in 1895, it covered ‘a domain that reaches
further than affairs of State. It is our function to keep in view and com-
mand the movement of ideas, which are not the effect but the cause of
public events.’ Acton was a Roman Catholic, closely in touch with Ignaz
von Döllinger (1799–1890) in Munich. He believed that the first of human
concerns was religion, the second liberty; and that the history of the two
was interconnected. The historian, teacher or learner, had a moral obliga-
tion. ‘If we lower our standard in history, we cannot uphold it in Church
and State.’6
How the subject matter of history was related to other academic disci-
plines, old and new – theology, philosophy, law, geography and the social
sciences – had implications not only for intellectual and popular debate –
historical understanding developed through ‘controversies’ – but for inter-
nal university organization, and in this context there were as many squab-
bles as controversies.7 Where was history placed as a subject of study?
Its fragmentation by period (ancient, medieval, modern, pre-industrial,
industrial), by spatial range (local, regional, national, European, impe-
rial, universal) or by preoccupation (military, ecclesiastical, constitu-
tional, political, diplomatic, economic, social and cultural) had similar
implications also.
For the most part articles and books produced in universities or in use
there were written in common language, although technical terms were
incorporated, some of them legal, and a number of -isms were introduced
in the nineteenth century. By 1914, however, this was no longer true of the
social sciences, where there were competing specialist vocabularies, even
in economics. What was necessary for the historian, although many his-
tory students did not appreciate it, was a working knowledge of languages

5 P. E. de Berrêdo Carneiro and Pierre Arnaud (eds.), Auguste Comte: Correspondance


générale et confessions, vol. I (Paris, 1973), 151.
6 The lecture is quoted in G. P. Gooch, History and Historians of the Nineteenth Century
(London, 1913), 386–7. Compare K. Dockhorn, Der deutsche Historismus in England:
ein Beitrag zur englischen Geistesgeschichte des 19 Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 1950).
7 For ‘academic ethos’: E. Shils, Tradition (London and Boston, 1981), 182. For critical
academic history, at first and for long treated with suspicion in Oxford: R. W. Southern,
‘The Shape and Substance of Academic History’, in F. Stern (ed.), The Varieties of History
(London, 1970), 403–23.

461
Asa Briggs

other than their own, and for medievalists Latin was essential. There were
also historical skills required in the actual reading of old texts.
The ‘sub-histories’, which continued to multiply in the twentieth cen-
tury, often had blurred boundaries. Their status and prospects varied from
time to time and from place to place, with political and constitutional
history long in the lead and with economic history, sometimes bracketed
with social history, coming next. Ancient and medieval history, which had
pointed the way to the evolution of a more critical history in the late eigh-
teenth and nineteenth centuries, lost some ground in the twentieth century
to the study of late modern, or what in France was described as contempo-
rary studies, but medieval history remained prominent in the curriculum.
The decline of the classics in schools – Greek went first – and the rise
of the media influenced preferences. Yet the practitioners of each sub-
history, old and new, ancient, medieval, modern or contemporary, con-
tinued to make special claims for their own particular sphere of concern,
with Acton placing the history of history at the centre of the picture.
Already by 1900 one sub-history, the history of education, was assum-
ing increasing importance. Although it had few practitioners, it dealt with
a human activity which was transformed both institutionally and socially
during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Compulsory schooling
affected far more than the years of childhood. It extended literacy. Prussia
led the way in forming a section of public worship and instruction in 1808,
and by the end of the nineteenth century a two-tier system of elementary
and secondary schools had become compulsory and free. The implica-
tions of literacy were not examined in depth until the 1950s, by then in
global perspective, but historians and anthropologists had already drawn
distinctions between pre-industrial and industrial societies and between
literate and pre-literate societies.8
The history of universities as centres of learning, linking the Middle
Ages with the changing present was slower to develop, but Hastings
Rashdall (1858–1924) published three volumes on medieval European
universities in 1895. Indeed, as early as 1820, Johann Ludwig Friedrich
Wachler (1767–1838) had observed in a two-volume work on historical
literature, written in Göttingen University, an early centre of reformed
historical studies before 1800, that historical writing could not be prop-
erly charted without taking into the reckoning the history of universities –
along with the history of academies, books and periodicals and archives.9

8 J. Goody (ed.), Literacy in Traditional Societies (Cambridge, 1968); P. Gordon and


R. Szreter (eds.), History of Education: The Making of a Discipline (London, 1989).
9 H. Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1895). F. L.
Wachler, Geschichte der historischen Forschung und Kunst, seit der Wiederherstellung
der litterarischen Cultur in Europa, 2 vols. (Göttingen, 1812–20). Cf. K. Hammer (ed.),
Historische Forschung im 18. Jahrhundert (Bonn, 1976).

462
History and the social sciences

The number of periodicals was to multiply in the nineteenth century,


becoming increasingly professional in content and approach, although in
Britain, in particular, many detailed articles on history and, indeed, on
the teaching of history in universities, continued until 1914 to appear in
general periodicals. In Germany Heinrich von Sybel (1817–95), professor
at Munich (and founder of the German Historical Institute in Rome), cre-
ated the Historische Zeitschrift in 1859, the first journal to communicate
the conclusions of critical historiography, while in France Gabriel Monod
(1844–1912) founded the Revue Historique in 1876. The first number of
the English Historical Review, edited by a clergyman, Mandell Creighton
(1843–1901), later to become Bishop of London, appeared in 1886: it
included an important article by Acton on ‘German Schools of History’
which began with the remarkable sentence – ‘Macaulay (1800–59) once
lamented that there were no German historians in his time worthy of
the name’; ‘and now M. Darmesteter (1846–88) tells us “they are ahead
of other nations by twenty years” ’.10 In fact, Macaulay, who wrote his-
tory for a public, not a university, audience, acknowledged the claim of
Leopold von Ranke (1795–1886) ‘known and esteemed wherever Ger-
man literature is studied’. His ‘original work’ was that ‘of a mind well
fitted for minute researches and for large speculations’. It was written ‘in
an admirable spirit, equally remote from levity and bigotry, serious and
earnest, yet tolerant and impartial’.11

the search for authenticity


Ranke, long before Acton, welcomed the opening up of archives, private
and public, ecclesiastical and constitutional, during the nineteenth cen-
tury. The Ecole des Chartes in Paris was a creation of the 1820s, founded
in 1821 by royal ordinance, the British Public Records Office the recom-
mendation of a Parliamentary Select Committee of 1836.12 The former
offered three-year training courses, vocational in character. The latter did

10 ‘German Schools of History’, reprinted in Acton’s Historical Essays and Studies (Cam-
bridge, 1919).
11 See T. B. Macaulay, Critical and Historical Essays, vol. II (London, 1907), 38. Cf. W.
Weber, Priester der Klio. Historisch – sozialwissenschaftliche Studien zur Herkunft und
Karriere deutscher Historiker und zur Geschichte der Geschichtswissenschaft 1800–
1970, 2nd edn (Frankfurt, 1987); T. Schieder (ed.), Hundert Jahre Historische Zeitschrift
1859–1959 (Munich, 1959).
12 Livret de l’Ecole des Chartes, 1821–91 (Paris, 1891); J. Favier, Les Archives (Paris, 1959);
V. H. Galbraith, The Public Records (Oxford, 1934). For detailed studies, cf. C.-O.
Carbonell, Histoire et historiens, une mutation idéologique des historiens français, 1865–
1885 (Toulouse, 1976); J. Voss, Das Mittelalter im historischen Denken Frankreichs
(Munich, 1972); P. Levine, ‘History in the Archives: The Public Record Office and its
Staff, 1838–1886’, English Historical Review, 101 (1986), 20–41; H. Bresslau, Geschichte
der Monumenta Germaniae Historica (Hanover, 1921).

463
Asa Briggs

not, even for most of its own staff. All concentrated on medieval history, as
was the case in Germany, where the first volumes of Monumenta Germa-
niae Historica appeared in 1826. Such source materials assumed central
importance for historians, making it essential for universities to extend
the collection, range, publication and classification of manuscripts, books
and periodicals in their own libraries, if only to meet increased research
demands.
The importance of oral and visual as distinct from documentary
archives was to be fully appreciated only in the twentieth century, when
new technologies of recording and communication, with their origins in
the nineteenth century, were developed, reinforcing the sense that his-
torians were ‘custodians of the collective memory’,13 but already by
the second half of the nineteenth century cultural historians, notably
Jacob Burckhardt (1818–97), who held a chair in history and art his-
tory at Basle University, had explored art galleries as zealously as Ranke,
23 years older than he was, explored documentary archives. Burckhardt
had heard Ranke lecture in Berlin, but it was after visits to Italy, one
of them lasting a year, that in 1855 he wrote his Cicerone, a guide to
Italian art treasures with sections on architecture, sculpture and paint-
ing. For all his zeal – and imagination – Burckhardt’s classic work, The
Civilisation of the Renaissance in Italy (1860), was nonetheless criticized
for its limited use of official documents and for its reliance on literary
sources.14
A distinction between ‘primary sources’ and ‘secondary materials’ in all
branches of history was firmly drawn in the nineteenth century. The search
for ‘authenticity’ as well as of documentary ‘authority’ started at that
point. The identification by Ranke and his pupils of the basic principles of
historical methodology transformed the academic subject. In an obituary
describing the work of one of his critics, Georg Gottfried Gervinus, a
liberal who wrote a History of the Nineteenth Century which did not
follow such rules, Ranke, who wrote little on his own century, noted how
Gervinus had often declared that ‘science must establish relations with
life’. ‘Very true’, he went on, ‘but it must be real science. If we first choose
a standpoint and transport it into science, then life operates on science,
not science on life.’15

13 Landes and Tilly (eds.), History (note 3), 5.


14 P. Burke, Culture and Society in Renaissance Italy (London, 1972); W. Hardtwig,
Geschichtsschreibung zwischen Alteuropa und moderner Welt. Jacob Burckhardt in
seiner Zeit (Göttingen, 1974); E. Schulin, ‘Rankes Erstlingswerk’, in Schulin, Traditions-
kritik und Rekonstruktionsversuch (Göttingen, 1974), 44–64.
15 Gooch, History and Historians (note 6), 101–2. On Gervinus: G. Hübinger, Georg
Gottfried Gervinus. Historisches Urteil und politische Kritik (Göttingen, 1984); cf.
chapter 10.

464
History and the social sciences

One German historian who was uneasy about Ranke’s approach and,
indeed, his reputation, was Karl Lamprecht (1856–1915), who from
his university base in Leipzig, described history as ‘primarily a socio-
psychological science’. His own approach and reputation were ques-
tioned, however, while his twelve-volume History of Germany was
appearing between 1891 and 1909 and even more after he founded in
that year an Institute for Universal History and the History of Civiliza-
tion at Leipzig. There was a touch of intellectual and political violence
under the surface in ‘the Lamprecht controversy’. For the conservative
Otto Hintze (1861–1940), however, a scholarly administrative historian,
an admirer of Prussian institutions, who ventured into comparative but
not into universal history, it was the manifest violence of the First World
War, its outcome, and the rise of National Socialism that undermined both
Lamprecht’s approach and his conclusions. Hintze’s wife was a Jew, and
in 1938 he resigned from the Prussian Academy of Science.16
German universities were at the heart of the nineteenth-century story,
and remained there until 1914, with Wilhelm Dilthey (1833–1911), pro-
fessor of philosophy in Berlin, raising old and new questions concerning
the scope and methodology of history (and its relations with the social
sciences) in the 1880s. It was he – and he had his own disciples in several
countries – who drew a sharp distinction, not accepted by many social sci-
entists and not by all historians, between history as a Geisteswissenshaft
(the concept was not new) and the sciences, including the social sciences.
It was the task of the latter, Dilthey maintained, to explain from outside
(erklären) and of the former to understand from within (verstehen).
There was ample scope for the generation and continuation of contro-
versy in such propositions, as there was in the proposition that history
was an ‘ideographic’ subject, concerned with the unique, and the sciences,
including the social sciences, ‘nomothetic’, concerned with the general.
Max Weber (1864–1920), the most historically minded of sociologists
(he did not call himself one nor did he ever hold a chair in the subject),
refused to accept either distinction.17
This was relatively late in the story. At its beginning, Acton focused not
on Ranke but on Barthold Georg Niebuhr (1776–1831), born in Copen-
hagen, the historian of ancient Rome, financier and diplomat as well as
university professor, who lectured at the newly founded University of

16 N. Hammerstein (ed.), Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft um 1900 (Stuttgart, 1988),


including L. Schorn–Schütte, ‘Karl Lamprecht’, 153–92; W. Schulze, ‘Otto Hintze’,
323–46.
17 W. Dilthey, Einleitung in die Geisteswissenschaften (Leipzig, 1883). On the distinc-
tion between ‘ideographic’ and ‘nomothetic’: W. Windelband, Geschichte und Natur-
wissenschaft (Berlin, 1894). Cf. C. Antoni, Dallo Storicismo alla Sociologia (Bari,
1938).

465
Asa Briggs

Berlin and later at Bonn. For one of the most famous of his successors,
Theodor Mommsen (1817–1903), who recommended Max Weber as his
most able successor, all historians worthy of the name, were Niebuhr’s
pupils, not least those who were not of his school. Mommsen, politician
as well as professor, and philologist and authority on jurisprudence as
well as historian, had begun his career as a student of law at Kiel in 1835,
as Niebuhr had done. Savigny had claimed that Niebuhr’s three-volume
Römische Geschichte (1811–32; English translation, 1828–42) had given
him the inspiration to write the history of Roman law in the Middle
Ages.18 Mommsen moved from the University of Leipzig, where he was
dismissed for his liberal opinions in 1850, to Zurich in 1852 and to Breslau
in 1854, where he published his own three-volume Römische Geschichte
(1854–56) which made him in 1902 a Nobel prize-winner for Literature,
and in 1858 from Breslau to Berlin.
In the late eighteenth century there had been significant developments
in the study of history in German universities which were in existence
before Berlin, particularly in Göttingen, where in 1764 a history seminar
had been organized by Johann Christoph Gatterer (1727–99), who ranged
widely over the historical field and promoted the study of subjects related
to history, and in Halle, where Friedrich August Wolf (1759–1824), who
had enrolled at Göttingen as a student in 1777 at the age of eighteen,
obtained a chair of classical philology at the age of 24, which he was to
occupy for 23 years until the university was closed on Napoleon’s orders
in 1806. (Goethe travelled from Weimar to Halle to hear him lecture.)
He then went to Berlin and lectured at the newly founded university as
a member of the Academy of Sciences. In Halle he had been the teacher
of August Böckh, who became in 1811 the main professor of classical
philology in Berlin, where he stayed in the chair for 56 years. One of
Böckh’s first pupils was Karl Otfried Müller (1797–1840), who, attracted
by Niebuhr, arrived in Berlin in 1815, and who moved as professor to
Göttingen in 1819, where he taught archaeology as well as mythology
and ancient history.
This was a dazzling galaxy of names, and at first Ranke did not seem to
be outstanding amongst them. Yet his long-term contribution to the study
of history in universities was to count for more than that of any other
historian outside as well as inside Germany. Demanding that the authen-
ticity of all historical sources should be carefully checked, and claiming
in print, as he put it in his best-known phrase, that he wished not to pass
judgement on the past but to report what had actually happened – ‘wie
18 Gooch, History and Historians (note 6), 24. On Mommsen: A. Heuss, Theodor Momm-
sen und das 19. Jahrhundert, 2nd edn (Stuttgart, 1996); S. Rebenich, Theodor Mommsen,
Eine Biographie (Munich, 2002); on Niebuhr: G. Walther, Niebuhrs Forschung (Stuttgart,
1993).

466
History and the social sciences

es eigentlich gewesen’ – he was the founder of what came to be called


Historismus. Ranke, for whom modern European states were manifes-
tations of the divine will, was neither an Hegelian nor a positivist. He
believed that historical understanding required more than the accumula-
tion of facts and spoke of ‘ahnen’, an intuitive cognition, a grouping of
the ideas which shaped events. He ‘wandered about the broad landscape
of world history’, but concluded that universal history would degenerate
into ‘mere theory and speculation’ if it were to be separated from the
history of states.19
Ranke was not deemed to be a brilliant lecturer, and depended for
his immense influence on his seminar, organized for the benefit of highly
talented students who were despatched to the archives, and his books,
including published versions of his lectures which were widely read across
Europe by an unseen audience. Some of his work was recommended text
in Oxford where his methods were not copied by history tutors. When he
died in 1886 at the age of 91, having faithfully observed his own rules,
he was the doyen of Europe’s historians, with no fewer than 54 volumes
listed under his name. In old age when surrounded by his children and
grandchildren he was wont to say ‘I have another and older family, my
pupils and their pupils’.20
In the nineteenth century the lecture was a main instrument of inspira-
tion as well as of instruction, and there are many accounts of the impact
of professorial lectures and lecturers on the seen audience. Johann Gus-
tav Droysen (1808–84), who wrote a much studied Encyclopaedia and
Methodology of History, was said by a Belgian pupil, Paul Fredéricq
(1850–1920), later a professor at Ghent, ‘to have begun his lectures low,
like a great preacher, to obtain complete silence. . . . You could hear a
pin drop. . . . Every moment there came a biting jest. There was great
originality and much verve. The lecture ended with Homeric laughter at
some anecdote told with irresistible humour.’21

19 See T. H. Laue, L. von Ranke: The Formative Years (Princeton, 1950); W. J. Mommsen
(ed.), Leopold von Ranke und die moderne Geschichtswissenschaft (Stuttgart, 1988);
E. Breisach, Historiography: Ancient, Medieval and Modern (Chicago, 1983), 132–4;
F. Meinecke, Die Entstehung des Historismus, 2 vols. (Munich and Berlin, 1936–37);
U. Muhlack, ‘Leopold von Ranke’, in Hammerstein (ed.), Geschichtswissenschaft
(note 16), 11–36. For Ranke’s principle ‘wie es eigentlich gewesen’: L. Ranke, Geschichten
der germanischen und romanischen und germanischen Völker von 1494 bis 1535 (Berlin,
1824; 3rd edn, Leipzig, 1885), vii.
20 Quoted by Gooch, History and Historians (note 6), 117. On Ranke’s influence in Oxford:
P. R. H. Slee, Learning and a Liberal Education: The Study of Modern History in the
Universities of Oxford, Cambridge and Manchester, 1800–1914 (Manchester, 1986), 43.
21 J. Rüsen, Begriffene Geschichte. Genesis und Begründung der Geschichtstheorie J. G.
Droysens (Paderborn, 1969). Gooch, History and Historians (note 6), 139. In 1884
Fredéricq visited Britain and wrote an account of The Study of History in England and
Scotland (Baltimore, 1887).

467
Asa Briggs

Burckhardt, who refused an invitation to leave Basle and follow Ranke


to Berlin, was described by one of his pupils, Carl Spitteler (1854–1924) –
who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1919 – as ‘masterly’
in delivery, ‘bearing – diffident, but without affectation because wholly
absorbed in the gravity of his theme. . . . Never sought for words, never
hesitated, never corrected himself. Simple and masterly. The whole lecture
one religious exercise, a prayer to history.’ Burckhardt, who catches much
of the spirit of his own time and who foresaw some of the most important
historical changes of the future, did not wish his lectures to be published.
He described his aim (in a letter to Nietzsche, written in 1874) as that of
doing all that he could to enable his students ‘to take personal possession
of the past – in any shape or form’, adding modestly, ‘or at any rate not
to sicken them of it’.22
That was seldom the aim of the outstanding university professors of his-
tory in Germany, divided or unified, where it was never easy to separate
history and politics. Movements from professorial posts in one university
to another were often determined by political considerations. For many
professors of history the revolutions of 1848 and 1849 were a turning
point, as they were for the liberal historian Georg Gottfried Gervinus
(1805–71), Ranke’s critic, who had been one of the famous ‘Göttingen
seven’ who protested against the unilateral abrogation of the Staats-
grundgesetz by the new King of Hanover, Queen Victoria’s uncle, and
consequentially lost their positions.
Droysen, who as a student of classical philology sat also at Hegel’s feet,
provides another example, contrasting in its outcome. Born two years
after the Battle of Jena, the son of a military chaplain in Blucher’s army,
he was one of the many professors, several of them professors of history,
who were members of the Frankfurt Parliament in 1848/49, and as part
of that experience became a resolute supporter of Prussia’s mission to
unify Germany. There was no more forceful spokesman of that mission
than Heinrich von Treitschke (1834–96), a Saxon of Czech descent, whose
first treatise, subsequently described by him as ‘unfortunate’, was on soci-
ology. He was concerned thereafter primarily with power, not opinions,
consistently urging Prussia to unify Germany by force; and after mov-
ing from Leipzig to Freiburg, Kiel and Heidelberg, moved on to Berlin
in 1874, where he delivered lectures to enthusiastic student audiences.23
In these, using language very different from Droysen’s, he attacked

22 Carl Spitteler, quoted in the Introductory Note (8–9) to J. Burckhardt, Reflections on


History (London, 1943), a collection of lectures delivered between 1870 and 1871 and
translated into English from Weltgeschichtlische Betrachtungen, published after Burck-
hardt’s death by his nephew Jakob Oeri.
23 U. Langer, Heinrich von Treitschke, politische Biographie eines deutschen Nationalisten
(Düsseldorf, 1998).

468
History and the social sciences

France and Britain, parliamentary government, socialism, and, not least,


Jews.
Treitschke’s Deutsche Geschichte, which only reached the year 1848 in
his narrative, has often been compared with Macaulay’s History of Eng-
land, the first two volumes of which appeared in 1848 and the remaining
two in 1855 four years before his death. They too stopped far short of
his own time. Both men, while appealing to a wide reading public, were
admired for their parliamentary oratory. Yet, Macaulay, unlike Treitschke,
had no university connections. Nor did he dwell on foreign policy. Delib-
erately insular in approach, he stressed the continuities of British political
and constitutional history, pivoting it on the ‘glorious revolution’ of 1688
and on the country’s subsequent economic and social progress. The history
of the two countries helps to explain, if incompletely, the history of their
historians. Ranke, five years older than Macaulay and outliving him by 27
years, confronted with German divisions, pivoted his history of Germany
on the Reformation. He sought and identified the unity of German history
in a Volksseele, a German spirit that operated from within. Macaulay, like
other ‘Whig’ historians, belongs to a line of ‘liberal descent’.24
University-taught history in Britain, late in developing, was not without
its own declamatory element. The Regius Professor of History in Oxford
in Treitschke’s last years in Berlin was James Anthony Froude (1818–94),
as gripping a lecturer as Treitschke, whose History of England (1856–70)
pivoted not on 1688 but on the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. For
the romantic Froude, bitterly attacked by his predecessor Edward Augus-
tus Freeman (1823–92), who wished history to be treated as a ‘science’,
history was rather an art, a ‘great drama’ with ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’. And
so it had been in a different context for Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881) and
for Charles Kingsley (1819–75), the novelist, who between 1860 and 1869
was Regius Professor of History at Cambridge and who roused his audi-
ence to moral enthusiasm.25 Kingsley’s successor, Sir John Robert Seeley
(1834–95), Regius Professor from 1869 to 1895, was in a very different
mould. For him Cambridge was a ‘seminary of politicians’, and while pol-
itics needed to be liberalized by history, when history was not informed
by politics history faded into literature. Seeley’s most influential book,
The Expansion of England (1873), reacted strongly against Macaulay’s
insularity. It had a broad sweep. Seeley was ‘much more at home with a
century than a decade’, one of his pupils wrote, ‘He swept the whole of

24 J. W. Burrow, A Liberal Descent: Victorian Historians and the English Past (Cambridge,
1981). For connections and comparisons: C. E. McClelland, The German Historians and
England: A Study in Nineteenth-Century Views (Cambridge, 1971), and J. Joll, ‘National
Histories and National Historians: Some German and English Views of the Past’, Annual
Lecture, German Historical Institute, London (London, 1984).
25 O. Chadwick, ‘Charles Kingsley at Cambridge’, Historical Journal, 17 (1975), 303–25.

469
Asa Briggs

heaven with his telescope’. His background, like that of many German
professors of history, had been in the classics, but in his inaugural lecture,
delivered in 1870, he recognized that in Britain the claims of history as
a subject taught in universities had to be stated clearly and explicitly in
distinctive terms.26
The need was urgent, for in Cambridge, as in Oxford, both collegiate
universities, there was no separate degree in history until 1873, and, who-
ever the Regius Professor might be, the subject was still vulnerable. In
Cambridge it had been incorporated from 1850 to 1867 in a new Moral
Sciences Tripos, which included five subjects – modern history, law (‘the
Laws of England’), jurisprudence, political economy and moral philoso-
phy. Each was taught by university professors, and from the beginnings
of the new Tripos the direction of history was in the hands of the recently
appointed Sir James Stephen (1789–1859), a former administrator, who
would have preferred to have been appointed Downing Professor of the
Laws of England. (Perversely, although he claimed rightly that it was the
only history that he knew, he lectured not on Britain but on France.)
There was no curricular coherence in the new Tripos, and not surpris-
ingly in 1860 there were no student candidates to take degrees in it.
In that year a new Board of Moral Sciences was created, the Laws of
England were excluded from the syllabus, and philosophy, logic and polit-
ical philosophy were added (with scope for individual choice on the part
of the student). Nevertheless, in 1867 the professor of moral philosophy
proposed successfully that history itself should now be excluded.
The reason he gave – that the subject was ‘too extensive to be prop-
erly dealt with as a subordinate branch of the Moral Sciences Tripos’27 –
pointed the way, in fact, to the creation of a new combination – a Law
and History Tripos – and before long, as Seeley came to believe was nec-
essary, to an independent History Tripos. The Law Tripos was itself a
recent innovation, and there were influential Cambridge lawyers, proud
of their own subject, who disapproved from the start of the new combina-
tion. This explains the seriousness of Seeley’s inaugural lecture in which
he recognized that it was desirable to create a Tripos for law alone, with
modern history removed, subject to the proviso that the latter should be
taught in a new and separate Tripos of its own. It should still be associ-
ated, however, with what were described as ‘cognate sciences’, ‘theoret-
ical studies which find their illustration in history’ – constitutional law,
jurisprudence, international law, political economy, economic history and
Seeley’s favourite subject, political science, which was to survive as a main
26 J. R. Seeley, Lectures and Essays (London, 1870), 290–317; D. Wormell, Sir John Seeley
and the Uses of History (Cambridge, 1980). For a German view: A. Rein, Seeley, Eine
Studie über den Historiker (Langensalza, 1912).
27 Slee, Learning (note 20), 36.

470
History and the social sciences

component throughout the period covered in this volume. Fellows of col-


leges should be appointed concerned primarily with the teaching of history
and the academic organization of the syllabus.
George Walter Prothero (1848–1922) of King’s College, a college which
played a strategic role in the process of establishing history as a subject
taught to students, had been a pupil of Sybel after graduating in Cam-
bridge in classics in 1876 when he was elected to his fellowship, and he
was one of the college fellows who took the lead in establishing an inter-
collegiate lecture scheme which, along with college supervision, prepared
history students for university examinations. He himself moved from lec-
turing on international law to lecturing on the Middle Ages and produced
a volume of Select Statutes and other (Constitutional) Documents in 1894
which was to be used in Cambridge throughout the period covered in
this volume. He and four other college fellows were offered university
lectureships in history in 1884, a sign of the increasing commitment of
the university as a whole, and in 1885 as members of the Tripos Board
they agreed, with the support of Mansell Creighton, who had just before
become Dixie Professor of Ecclesiastical History in that year, to intro-
duce significant reforms to the syllabus and to the patterns of examining
which were to last.28 More attention was to be paid to the study of ‘origi-
nal authorities’, which were placed at the core of a ‘special subject’ paper;
economic history, taught by William Cunningham (1849–1919), was to be
separated from political economy; a paper on political science remained
compulsory; and alternative options became possible in other ‘cognate
sciences’.
Until 1897, however, when further reforms in the Tripos were carried,
there was still no essential course on European history, and the number of
students, while growing, remained small, much smaller than the numbers
in classics, natural science or mathematics. By 1914, as in Oxford, history
had become the biggest single Tripos, due not so much to a succession of
distinguished but very different professors or to its more secure research
base, but to changes in demand and supply of students in schools and in
colleges. In the words of Prothero, who moved to Edinburgh University
as professor in 1894, its success had proved that ‘every great subject, if
seriously and methodically taught, affords good training for the mind’.
He added that history as a university subject ‘was especially fitted for
certain minds’.29

28 M. Creighton, ‘The Teaching of Ecclesiastical History’, Historical Lectures and Addresses


(London, 1903); G. W. Prothero, ‘The Historical Tripos’, Cambridge Review, VI, 28
January 1885; J. R. Seeley, ‘The Historical Tripos’, ibid., VI, 11 February 1885; and
G. W. Prothero, ‘The Historical Tripos, a Reply’, ibid., 18 February 1885.
29 G. W. Prothero, ‘Why We Should Learn History’, An Inaugural Lecture, Edinburgh
University, 6 October 1894, 4.

471
Asa Briggs

The Cambridge line of Regius Professors of History ran through Acton,


who left the project for a multi-volume Cambridge Modern History,
which he did not live to see published, to John Bagnell Bury (1861–
1927), author of The Idea of Progress (1920), who co-edited it with
Prothero, who was by then editor of the Quarterly Review. Bury’s insis-
tence on the ‘scientific’ nature of history encouraged his successor, George
Macaulay Trevelyan (1876–1962), Macaulay’s great-nephew, appointed
in 1927, to emphasize the poetry of history: Clio was a Muse. Trevelyan
carried forward the Whig interpretation of history into the twentieth
century,30 in his turn provoking Herbert Butterfield (1900–79), a later
Cambridge professor of history, not the Regius Professor, to write an influ-
ential critical essay, The Whig Interpretation of History (1931) which did
not mention Trevelyan by name. Neither Bury nor Trevelyan was willing
to embark on further large-scale ‘reforms’ of the Cambridge syllabus or
of the examining system.
In Oxford, as in Cambridge – and for similar reasons – the study of
‘modern history’ (which meant post-ancient history) as an examination
subject for students did not begin until half way through the nineteenth
century: for reasons which had nothing to do with the development of
critical history on German lines, a new school of law and modern history
was created in 1850. Given the strength of the classics in Oxford and the
centrality of the faculty of Literae Humaniores, the emphasis was on set
texts which provided the substance of the examined curriculum. A ‘thor-
ough knowledge of books’ was the student requirement.31 The subject
established itself more quickly than in Cambridge – there were no threats
of its expulsion – but it was not until 1870 that separate schools of history
and law came into existence, long after Freeman had observed in 1859
that an examination in law and modern history was ‘about as much an
harmonious whole as would be an examination in law and hydrostatics’.32
Freeman’s Norman Conquest was one of the books recommended as
core texts in political history, carefully separated from constitutional his-
tory, as was his friend John Richard Green’s (1837–83) popular Short
History of the English People, first conceived of in 1869, a history con-
cerned explicitly more with knives and forks than with drums and trum-
pets. Designed to appeal to a broad public, it revealed that despite the rise

30 See G. M. Trevelyan, An Autobiography and Other Essays (London, 1949), and D.


Cannadine, G. M. Trevelyan (Cambridge, 1994). See also P. B. M. Blaas, Continuity and
Anachronism: Parliamentary and Constitutional Development in Whig Historiography
and the Anti-Whig Reaction between 1890 and 1930 (The Hague, 1978).
31 Slee, Learning (note 20), ch. 4. Cf. R. Soffer, ‘Nation, Duty, Character and Confidence:
History at Oxford, 1850–1914’, The Historical Journal, 30 (1987), 77–104, and ‘The
Development of Disciplines in the Modern English University’, ibid., 31 (1988), 933–48;
P. R. H. Slee, ‘Professor Soffer’s History of Oxford’, ibid., 30 (1987), 105–9.
32 E. A. Freeman, ‘Historical Study at Oxford’, Bentley’s Quarterly Review, 1 (1859), 292.

472
History and the social sciences

of historical professionalism there remained into the twentieth century a


strong amateur interest in history which was to influence adult education
and inspire the economic and social historian Richard Henry Tawney
(1880–1962), whose Religion and the Rise of Capitalism appeared in
1926, and who retained his early commitment to the recently founded
Workers’ Educational Association long after he became a professor at the
London School of Economics.
The greatest of the nineteenth-century Regius Professors of History
at Oxford, William Stubbs (1825–1901), later Bishop of Chester, was
appointed in 1866, where he lectured for twenty years, publishing in 1870
his Select Charters which became a textbook for history students both in
Oxford and in Cambridge. ‘The study of modern history’, he declared
in his inaugural lecture, ‘is, next to theology itself the most thoroughly
religious training the mind can conceive.’ Yet, while aware of the ‘liv-
ing, working, thinking, growing world of today’, Stubbs concentrated on
medieval constitutional history. He was convinced that the whole of his-
tory had meaning – ‘a purposeful movement to some good’33 – but his
lectures in Oxford were not well attended. In the story of the development
of history as an academic study the main attention in Oxford, even more
than Cambridge, has to be paid not to professors but to college tutors,
on whom undergraduate history students depended for their information
and guidance. They were little influenced by Robin George Collingwood
(1889–1943), philosopher and historian, who was Waynflete Professor
of Metaphysical Philosophy from 1935 until 1941 and who established a
European reputation. His idealistic philosophy of history, first set out in
his Speculum Mentis (1924) and summed up in his Idea of History, pub-
lished posthumously in 1946, has been compared with Benedetto Croce’s
in Italy.
Born in 1866 Croce had a profound influence on philosophical and his-
torical thought in his own country. He began as a Marxist, and Marxism
thereafter in pre-Fascist and Fascist Italy provided him with an ‘intellec-
tual whetstone’ to sharpen his idealist philosophy.34 Yet, unlike Hegel,
with whom he was also compared, he never held a university post. Nor
did most Marxist historians, except in the Soviet Union, and even there
Georgi Valentinovitch Plekhanov (1856–1918), who had set out a Marxist
philosophy of history in a number of short essays before the Bolshevik

33 W. Stubbs, ‘On the Purposes and Methods of Historical Study’, in Seventeen Lectures
on the Study of Medieval and Modern History and Kindred Subjects (Oxford, 1900),
86. Stubbs’s Constitutional History of England (Oxford 1874–75) was quickly and often
republished.
34 D. Thompson, ‘Social and Political Thought’, Cambridge Modern History, vol. XI
(Cambridge, 1962), 116. See also Benedetto Croce: An Autobiography, trans. R. G.
Collingwood (Oxford, 1927).

473
Asa Briggs

Revolution, fled to exile in Finland in 1918 soon after the Revolution


took place. Soviet historical research focused on more distant periods of
history than the nineteenth century, like English medieval economic and
social history; and the main influence of Marxist history on universities
outside the Soviet Union came after the period covered in this volume.
One of the Oxford undergraduates who attended Stubbs’s lectures,
Charles Harding Firth (1857–1936), was a later Regius Professor,
appointed in 1904 and staying in the chair until 1925. An established
professional historian and a known supporter inside Oxford of research-
based history, Firth favoured ‘the principle of leaving to the [college] tutors
the education of the men reading for the [modern history] school, and
reserving for the professors and university teachers, with any help they
can get from the tutors, the training of those who wish to carry their
studies further’.35 Yet the broad-ranging scheme of ‘advanced historical
training’ which he advocated and developed did not attract large numbers
of doctoral students, whereas undergraduate history did. The control of
the latter rested firmly with a Modern History Association, developed
during the 1860s, responding to and, indeed, playing a major part in the
formulation of, the history curriculum. Although a University History
Board was formally set up in 1872 the influence of the Association, some
members of which had an anti-professorial bias, continued to grow.
How history was actually taught by college tutors in Oxford ‘tutori-
als’ or what at Cambridge were called ‘supervisions’ is more difficult to
ascertain than what was taught in lectures or in Germany and in France
seminars. Yet the development of the ‘special subject’ in both universi-
ties – and copied in other British universities – was a distinctive feature
of the British system. The study in depth of a short period, with identi-
fied required sources, was a bridge to later study, not only for doctorates,
which were not requirements even for history tutors, but for further indi-
vidual research. A B.Litt. was introduced in Oxford in 1895. In general,
research still came second after undergraduate teaching and examining,
and in Balliol College, which played a similar part in Oxford in 1904 as
King’s College in Cambridge, one outstanding tutor, Arthur Lionel Smith
(1850–1924), won the admiration of all his pupils not only by the way
that he drew them out in tutorials but by the meticulous notes which he
presented to them to help them pass their examinations. His ‘Steps to
Stubbs’ was more in demand than Stubbs’s book itself.
By 1914 Oxford and Cambridge had clearly lost their duopoly, qualified
from the 1820s by the existence of London University. Although history
did not figure as a separate university department in the nineteenth cen-
tury, in the twentieth century A. F. Pollard (1860–1948) created what came

35 C. H. Firth, A Plea for the Historical Teaching of History (Oxford, 1904).

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History and the social sciences

to be considered ‘a London School of History’. An Institute of Historical


Research was founded in 1903 as a centre of postgraduate study, and sem-
inars held there became a feature of organized postgraduate study. In the
provinces Thomas Frederick Tout (1855–1929), appointed to the chair
of history at Owen’s College, Manchester, in 1890 after his predecessor,
Adolphus William Ward (1837–1924), who continued to teach, became
principal, developed along with his colleague James Tait (1863–1944) a
‘Manchester School’, highly professional in its approach to research and
concentrating on medieval administrative history.
In contrast to students in Oxford, Tout’s students were ‘formed into
little groups not exceeding a dozen’, and each group was ‘put under the
direction of a teacher who has already made the subject his own’. In 1905
Owen’s College became a university in its own right and between then
and 1914 80 students passed through Tout’s hands, six of whom became
professional historians. By-passing what was often heated argument in
Oxford and Cambridge, Tout, secure in his professorial authority, believed
that his ‘system’ would not sacrifice the many to the few. ‘It would be as
good for the statesman, the lawyer, the clergyman, the journalist, the civil
servant, and the man of business, as for the would-be historian.’36
Manchester retained its reputation as a centre of historical studies dur-
ing the years between the two world wars, when one of its leading figures
was the Polish-born historian of European diplomacy and of eighteenth-
century English politics, Lewis Namier (1888–1960), although he would
greatly have preferred to have been a fellow of Balliol and bitterly regret-
ted his exclusion. There were other historians from provincial universities
who found Oxford posts, however, among them the medievalist Frederick
Maurice Powicke (1879–1963) who left Manchester for Oxford as Regius
Professor in 1929.37
Before 1914 there was significant movement from Oxford to Scot-
land, where in Glasgow Robert Sangster Rait (1874–1936), not a Scot
by birth but educated at King’s College, Aberdeen, before Oxford, moved
north in 1911, to become the first professor of Scottish history and liter-
ature. He went on to become principal of the university in 1929. Mean-
while, Richard Lodge (1855–1936), a Balliol College tutor, who, like A. L.
Smith, prepared meticulous notes for his students, moved from Oxford
to Glasgow in 1895, the same year as Prothero moved from Cambridge
to Edinburgh, and in 1899 he succeeded Prothero in the Edinburgh chair,
remaining its occupant until he retired in 1925. The study of Scottish
history was not at the heart of the university history curriculum even

36 Quoted in Slee, Learning (note 20), 157.


37 For Powicke’s views on history see his Modern Historians and the Study of History
(Oxford, 1955).

475
Asa Briggs

in St Andrews and Aberdeen, and while Rait made significant contribu-


tions to it and served as Historiographer-Royal for Scotland from 1919 to
1929, Lodge’s researches were concerned only with England and continen-
tal Europe. Like Herbert Albert Laurens Fisher (1845–1940) in Oxford,
politician as well as academic who published a widely read three-volume
History of Europe in 1935, he was one of the authors of a volume to
a Longman History of England, a series much in use in colleges and
universities.

french historiography from michelet


t o t h e ‘a n n a l e s ’
The contrast between the development of university history in German
and in British universities was paralleled by an equally strong contrast
between the development of history inside and outside universities in
Britain and France. There were, of course, important links. Gabriel
Monod (1844–1912), a great admirer of the Romantic historian Jules
Michelet (1798–1874), whose biography he wrote, translated J. R. Green
into French. Elie Halévy (1870–1937), who lectured at the Ecole libre des
Sciences Politiques, where he gave his first course in 1902 (three years
later, he refused a chair at the Sorbonne), approached English history
through studies of utilitarianism and Methodism. The fact that England
had not undergone a revolution comparable to that in France fascinated
him as much as the French Revolution fascinated (or horrified) most of
his contemporaries, who pivoted French history on it.38
Michelet’s own voluminous writings, which began with an Introduction
à l’histoire universelle, published in 1831 and which included a history
of the Renaissance – he invented the word – culminated in a seven-
volume history of the Revolution, vivid, poetic, romantic, which François
Alphonse Aulard (1849–1928), one of the first professional historians of
the Revolution, described as the truest, though not most exact, history of
the Revolution, a history which had only one hero, the People, the title
of another of Michelet’s books, published in 1846. In 1887 Aulard was
promoted from Poitiers to a chair founded for him at the Sorbonne by
the Municipality of Paris which he held until 1922. He became president
of the Société de l’Histoire de la Révolution Française in 1904.
The Revolution began to be studied in universities in almost every
aspect and from almost every angle in the twentieth century, with Georges
Lefebvre (1874–1959) opening up new horizons. He founded the Institut
d’histoire de la révolution française in Paris and produced La révolution

38 H. Guy-Loé, Elie Halévy Correspondance, 1891–1937 (Paris, 1996). Cf. P. Stadler,


Geschichtsschreibung und historisches Denken in Frankreich 1789–1871 (Zurich, 1958).

476
History and the social sciences

française in 1930 as part of a great French academic series Peuples et


Civilisations under the general direction of Louis Halphen (1880–1950)
and Philippe Sagnac (1868–1954). His doctoral thesis at the Sorbonne on
Les Paysans du Nord had made him aware of a ‘level of popular mentality
that had previously resisted historical illustration’, and some of his critics
claimed was ‘not history at all’,39 but his later monograph La Grande
Peur was a full justification of his approach.
In any interpretation of the Revolution and the revolutionary wars the
problem of how to interpret Napoleon could not be avoided, as Pieter
Geyl (1887–1966), a Dutch historian with strong historiographical inter-
ests, a professor at the University of Utrecht, explained in his important
study Napoleon, For and Against, not published in English until 1949.
Geyl, more critical of Napoleon than any French historian, treated him
(with Hitler then in mind) as a ‘dictator’, while confessing at the same time
how he had ‘almost continuously . . . enjoyed the spectacle provided by
French historiography. What life and energy, what creative power, what
injustice, imagination and daring, what sharply contrasted minds and per-
sonalities.’40 Geyl, whose own first work, itself controversial, particularly
in his own country, concerned the revolt of the Netherlands, also wrote
Debates with Historians (The Hague, 1955), which included a critical
study of Ranke.
It was the French, not the Germans or the British, who established a new
relationship between history and the developing social sciences between
the two world wars, in the process encouraging interdisciplinarity and
integration in the name of ‘total history’ rather than further fragmenta-
tion. A key figure was Lucien Febvre (1878–1956), the son of a teacher in
Nancy, who had studied at the Ecole Normale Supérieure, where he took
part in seminars given by Monod, whom he described as ‘my old mas-
ter’. He also attended lectures from visiting professors in addition to those
delivered at the Sorbonne by, amongst others, Henri Bergson (1859–1941)
on philosophy, Paul Vidal de la Blache (1845–1918) on geography and
Emile Mâle (1852–1964) on the history of art. His early research focused
both on history and geography within a regional setting, an approach sug-
gested by Vidal de la Blache in his powerful inaugural lecture at the Sor-
bonne in 1899. Febvre was planning a book on the relationship between
the two subjects when the First World War began. After the war he became
a Professor at Strasburg, a university almost completely reconstituted fol-
lowing the end of the First World War after the return of Alsace Lorraine
to France.

39 R. Cobb, ‘Lefebvre the Historian’, in People and Places (Oxford, 1985), 43.
40 P. Geyl, preface to Napoleon: For and Against (London, 1949).

477
Asa Briggs

It was ‘to the University of Strasburg in the days before the war’ that
Friedrich Meinecke (1862–1954), most erudite of German historians, who
in 1896 had succeeded Treitschke as editor of Historische Zeitschift, ded-
icated his Die Enstehung des Historismus 22 years after the First World
War in 1936. This was the climax of his own history. But Meinecke lived
long enough to see modern German history in perspective in his Die
deutsche Katastrophe (1946), an urgent plea to restore the religion and
culture of the German people as it had been before ‘nationalist excesses’.
As long ago as 1905, when he was 43 years old, he had given a seminar
at Strasburg to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the death of Schiller
which led up to the publication of his Weltbürgertum und Nationalstaat
three years later, not translated into English until 1972. The English title
of Die Entstehung des Historismus was Historism: The Rise of a New
Historical Outlook, and not without an element of irony this was a simi-
lar title to that given by Peter Burke to the first English edition of Febvre’s
essays, A New Kind of History, in 1973, the first of them written in 1928,
‘Frontière, the Word and the Concept’.41
It was at Strasburg in 1920 that Febvre met the medievalist Marc Bloch
(1866–1944), a great scholar, who shared all his interdisciplinary inter-
ests. Eight years later, Febvre and Bloch were joint founders of Annales:
économies, sociétés, a periodical, soon highly influential, which was
devoted exclusively to problem-orientated history, ‘total history’ as they
conceived of it. For both men history was a science humaine, a broader
description than ‘social science’. Bloch’s brilliant unfinished essay, Apolo-
gie pour l’Histoire, ou Métier d’Historien, dedicated to Febvre, was writ-
ten in defeated France in 1941, without books, when he left academic
life to join the French resistance. Bloch was to be tortured and shot in a
German prison camp in June 1944, when the Nazi hold on France was
beginning to weaken.
Among the subjects of Febvre’s essays the tracing of the history of histor-
ical concepts, like ‘civilization’, was prominent: ‘historism’ or ‘historicism’
might have been another. On this topic Karl Popper (1902–94) whose Jew-
ish origin had prevented him from becoming a lecturer at the University
of Vienna, first expressed ideas in 1936 on his way into exile, which in
1957 he published in The Poverty of Historicism. This was dedicated ‘In
memory of the countless men, women and children of all countries, all
origins, all creeds who fell victims to the nationalist and Communist belief

41 Revue de synthèse historique, 45 (1928), reprinted in Febvre’s Pour une histoire à part
entière (1962) and translated into English in P. Burke (ed.), A New Kind of History from
the Writings of Lucien Febvre (London, 1973).

478
History and the social sciences

in “Inexorable Laws of Historical Destiny”’. Meinecke had never put his


trust in those.42

the rise of the social sciences


Within the context of this chapter what Febvre said about ‘cognate’ sci-
ences humaines is strictly relevant, although these were slow to develop
as university subjects of study. The first of them was psychology, a subject
prominent in pre-Anschluss Vienna, where Sigmund Freud (1856–1939)
established a world-wide reputation, the second geography, which in the
1930s often took the form of geopolitics, and the third sociology, which,
according to Febvre, took over in imperialistic fashion ‘anything that
seemed open to rational analysis in the field of historical studies’.43
Febvre, who was interested in all three of these disciplines, had less
to say about economics, which was more generally studied in twentieth-
century European universities than any other ‘social science’, a term with
a different history from science humaine. ‘Economies’ came first, how-
ever, in the first title of Annales, and 100 years earlier, the relationships
between economics, sociology and politics had been examined by the
English scholar, John Stuart Mill (1806–73), who, like most early ‘social
scientists’, never held a paid university post. His first book A System of
Logic (1843), in which he used the term ‘contemporary history’, included
interesting and still-pertinent sections on the social sciences, and he fol-
lowed this up ten years later with his Principles of Political Economy.
In A System of Logic Mill, brought up as a Benthamite Utilitarian,
was careful to relate what came to be called the policy-making aspect
of the ‘social sciences’ to their context. ‘If, for instance, we would apply
our speciality in political economy to the prediction or guidance of the
phenomena of any country, we must be able to explain all the mercantile
or industrial facts of a general character appertaining to the present state
of that country: to point out causes sufficient to account for all of them,
and prove or show good ground for supposing, that these causes have
really existed.’44
In explaining when and why ‘social sciences’ were introduced into the
nineteenth- and twentieth-century university syllabus it is always equally
42 English translation of Bloch’s essay: The Historian’s Craft (Manchester, 1954); Popper’s
hopeless professional situation in Vienna which encouraged him to emigrate before
the ‘Anschluss’, and his two days stay in Brussels is analyzed by M. H. Hacohen,
Karl Popper – The Formative Years, 1902–1945: Politics and Philosophy in Interwar
Vienna (Cambridge, 2000), 309–11.
43 Burke, A New Kind of History (note 41), 29.
44 J. S. Mill, A System of Logic (1843), Ch. IX, ‘Of the Physical, or Concrete Deductive
Method’.

479
Asa Briggs

important to examine context. ‘The circumstances varied from country


to country and from university to university in accordance with their tra-
ditions.’45 Only in Germany were there courses in what later came to
be called ‘social science’. Before the nineteenth century what was called
Statistik covered quantitative descriptions of states, population, wealth
and resources. There was also a close relationship with law not only
in Germany, but in Italy, Sweden and other countries which persisted
through into the twentieth century, and importance was attached to the
social context in the development of jurisprudence.46 Staatswissenschaft
included constitutional and public law, political economy, administra-
tion – and fiscal science.
Special chairs in economics (Nationalökonomie) were created at
the universities of Zurich in 1851 and Berne in 1864, but in other
German-speaking universities ‘political economy’, after 1850 also called
‘Nationalökonomik’ or ‘Volkswirtschaftslehre’, was still taught by the
professor of ‘Staatswissenschaft’ or ‘Staatswirtschaft’.
As the study of economics developed as a university subject in Ger-
man universities in the nineteenth century, it retained a strong historical
orientation, represented by Wilhelm Roscher (1817–94), ‘the incarna-
tion of professorial learning’,47 who taught in the University of Leipzig
for 46 years, and by Karl Knies (1821–98), who made Heidelberg into a
renowned centre of research. Roscher’s Grundriss zu Vorlesungen über die
Staatswirtschaft nach geschichtlicher Methode (1843) set the pattern. A
‘younger historical school’ was led by Gustav von Schmoller (1838–1912),
who was at the centre of a number of fierce methodological controver-
sies, some based on misunderstanding, and was continued by what the
outstanding Austrian economist Joseph Alois Schumpeter (1853–1950)
called a ‘youngest school’, represented by Werner Sombart (1863–1941)
and Max Weber (1864–1920), ‘one of the most powerful personalities’
that ever entered ‘the scene of academic science’.48 The range of influence
of both older and younger and youngest schools was European, through
Italy, Scandinavia and Belgium, and it reached the United States.
Britain was not entirely immune from historicism, as the successive
chairman’s lectures delivered to Section F of the British Association for
the Advancement of Science, created in 1860, show.49 Yet in Britain, as
for different reasons in France, the legacy of ‘classical political economy’
45 E. Shils, ‘The Universities, the Social Sciences and Liberal Democracy’, Interchange, 23
(1992), 184.
46 F. Wieacker, A History of Private Law in Europe with Special Reference to Germany
(Oxford, 1995); M. Rassem (ed.), Statistik und Staatsbeschreibung in der frühen Neuzeit
(Paderborn, Munich, Vienna and Zurich, 1980); K. W. Nörr, Geisteswissenschaften zwis-
chen Kaiserreich und Republik (Stuttgart, 1994).
47 J. A. Schumpeter, History of Economic Analysis (New York, 1954), 809.
48 Ibid., 817. 49 R. L. Smyth (ed.), Essays on Economic Method (London, 1962).

480
History and the social sciences

was so strong that in public, if not always in universities, it constituted


an orthodoxy. It was possible, therefore, for John Elliot Cairnes (1823–
75), professor of economics at Dublin from 1857 to 1862, and later at
University College, London, from 1867 to 1872, to claim confidently that
‘Great Britain, if not the birthplace of Political Economy, has been at least
its early home. Every great step in the progress of economic science . . . has
been won by English thinkers.’50 Cairnes obviously treated ‘English’ in
the broadest terms, to include the Scots and Irish as well. Three years
earlier he had claimed equally confidently that the task of economists was
‘pretty well fulfilled’. This proved to be false.
Most of the lectures delivered to the British Association, which rotated
its meetings from city to city, were not by academic economists – Dublin
was prominent in providing these – but by civil servants, and while Oxford
had a Drummond Professor of Political Economy, a privately endowed
chair, since 1827, and Cambridge since 1863, there was no separate Eco-
nomics Tripos at Cambridge until 1903 and no Oxford degree in eco-
nomics – and then part of a shared syllabus, PPE or ‘Modern Greats’ –
until 1921. The first holder of the Cambridge chair, however, was a dis-
tinguished economist, Alfred Marshall (1842–1924), who was largely
responsible for the conversion of what came to be called ‘classical politi-
cal economy’ into ‘neo-classical economics’. His Principles of Economics
(1890) was devised very differently from Ricardo’s Principles of Political
Economy and Taxation (1817) which claimed to expound ‘the laws which
regulate the distribution of the produce of the earth’. Marshall continued
in his chair until 1908 when he was succeeded by Arthur Cecil Pigou
(1877–1959), who followed in the same tradition.
A ‘Cambridge School’ of economics did not come to be identified until
later in the twentieth century, and even then there was no complete agree-
ment among always contentious Cambridge economists. The leading fig-
ure from the 1930s onwards was John Maynard Keynes (1883–1946),
whose General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money appeared in
1936, but he had critics inside as well as outside the university. There were
obvious differences in orientation between Cambridge and Oxford and
between Cambridge and the London School of Economics (LSE), founded
in 1895, from the start an alternative centre of ideas and interest. Yet Mar-
shall wrote to William Albert Samuel Hewins (1865–1931), first Director
of the LSE and 23 years younger than himself, that ‘London and Cam-
bridge have in many respects a closer kinship with one another than with
any other economic schools on this side of the Atlantic’.51

50 J. E. Cairnes, Essays in Political Economy (1873), 232; Smyth, Essays (note 49), 42.
51 Letter of 19 February 1901, quoted in R. Dahrendorf, A History of the London School
of Economics, 1895–1995 (London, 1995), 211.

481
Asa Briggs

The LSE put economics first in its title, but it set out to follow the
example of the Ecole libre des Sciences Politiques in Paris and cover a
wide range of social sciences, including geography, and its B.Sc. (Econ.)
degree included among its options economic history, politics, political
and social administration and jurisprudence. A year after its foundation,
the group of people who had inspired it, including the Fabian socialists,
Sidney (1859–1947) and Beatrice (1858–1943) Webb, also founded an
associated British Library of Political Science which was conceived of as
‘a new laboratory of sociological research’. By 1901 it could claim to be
‘one of the largest centres in the kingdom for postgraduate study’.52
The LSE became well known throughout the world because of a num-
ber of internationally famous professors and because it attracted a large
number of students from overseas, as Oxford did, with significant intakes
from the United States and India. One of its best-known professors was
Harold Laski (1893–1950), born in Manchester, who was appointed to
his chair of politics in 1926 and held it until his death. A brilliant lecturer
rather than an original or profound scholar, he played, as Tawney also
did, a large and controversial part in British Labour Party politics.
Although political science was not carved out as a separate ‘social sci-
ence’ in nineteenth-century universities, it figured prominently both in
legal studies and in history. Thus, in Cambridge, where no chair in politi-
cal science was created until 1927, Seeley had maintained condescendingly
half a century earlier that ‘History without Politics descends to mere Lit-
erature’, a judgement that had been half anticipated a century earlier still
by a Göttingen Professor that ‘History without Politics is mere monkish
chronicles’.53
Some of the most interesting nineteenth- and twentieth-century writing
on political science was Italian. Gaetano Mosca (1858–1941) was more of
a politician and a journalist than a university professor, but he gave yearly
lectures at the University of Rome before and after the rise of Mussolini
in which he dealt with issues that were little discussed in British or Ger-
man universities, like the relationship between the civil and the military.
In Germany Treitschke, who fully understood that relationship, was as
renowned for his speeches in Parliament as for his university lectures, but
what he had to say was treated as propaganda in Britain. It was not until
1916, during the First World War that his lectures on politics, Politik,

52 A. H. John, The British Library of Political and Economic Science: A Brief History
(London, 1971), 4, 6. The name of the library was to be changed in 1925 to the British
Library of Political and Economic Science.
53 Quoted in Butterfield, Man on His Past (note 1), 41. On the origins of a specialized
political science: W. Bleek, Geschichte der Politikwissenschaft in Deutschland (Munich,
2001).

482
History and the social sciences

in two volumes, published in Germany in 1897–98, appeared in English


translation.
The German geographer Friedrich Ratzel (1844–1904), who invented
the term Lebensraum, became a university professor at Leipzig in 1886,
having lectured previously at the Technische Hochschule in Munich.54 The
kind of political geography he taught was converted in the 1930s into
geopolitics (Geopolitik) by Karl Haushofer (1869–1946), who treated
the quest for Lebensraum as a great political mission and geography
as a whole as a ‘perpetual struggle for life’. Geopolitics had been con-
ceived of earlier as an amalgam of geography and political science by
the Swede Rudolph Kjellén (1864–1922), and the LSE Professor Halford
John Mackinder (1861–1947), who coined the term ‘heartland’. Sweden
remained a major centre of university studies in geography in the twenti-
eth century as it did in economics.
Knut Wicksell (1851–1926), who studied science and mathematics at
Uppsala and economics in London, Strasburg and Vienna, did not obtain
a university doctorate in economics until 1895 when he was told authori-
tatively that there was ‘little hope’ that the [University Board] at Uppsala
would take any steps to appoint a professor or docent in economics’.55
He went on to take a full law degree, therefore, which he obtained in
1899, by which time his writings on price theory and money supply were
well known outside Sweden. He moved to a provisional associate profes-
sorial chair in economics and taxation law at Lund in 1899, but in face of
academic resistance it required a royal decree of 1901 to make the chair
permanent.
Wicksell’s controversial ideas and behaviour always attracted attention,
but despite his economic textbooks he had no more than three licentiate
students while he was at Lund. He was the first president of an economists’
club founded in Stockholm in 1917, but he was not on good terms with
an equally well-known Swedish economist, Gustav Cassell (1866–1945),
fifteen years younger than himself, who was professor of economics at
Stockholm from 1904 to 1933. As a young scholar Cassell, who became
renowned for his monetary studies, rejected marginal utility theory, which
had been pioneered by Carl Menger (1840–1921) who after a brief civil
service career held one of the two chairs of political economy in the faculty
of law at the University of Vienna from 1872 to 1903 by Léon Walras
(1834–1910), first holder of a chair in economics in the faculty of law
at the University of Lausanne in 1870; and by William Stanley Jevons
(1835–82), born in Liverpool, who worked for a time on socio-economic
54 G. H. Müller, Friedrich Ratzel (1844–1904), Naturwissnschaftler, Geograph, Gelehrter
(Stuttgart, 1996).
55 Letter of 1896 from Professor C. Y. Sahlin, quoted in T. Gardlund, The Life of Knut
Wicksell (Stockholm, 1958), 168.

483
Asa Briggs

studies in Australia before being appointed to a professorship of logic and


moral philosophy at Owen’s College, Manchester, in 1866, moving from
there to a chair of economics in University College, London, ten years
later. Schumpeter who coined the term ‘Walrasian system’, praised Jevons
as ‘one of the most original economists who ever lived’, while noting that
he left behind him no pupils.56
It is impossible to write about the history of economic thought – or
of how it was taught – without referring to the work of Schumpeter,
who himself made a highly original contribution to economics, but had
relatively little to say about the university context of economic studies and
much about Zeitgeist in his massive history of economic analysis, packed
with detailed references, published unfinished after his death in 1950. One
of his sections on clubs, the oldest of which was the Political Economy
Club of London, founded in 1801, on textbooks and on lectures is called
‘paraphernalia’.57 Nonetheless, Schumpeter himself should not be taken
out of context. He lectured in the United States at Columbia as early as
1913 and returned to Harvard in 1932 as professor of economics after
eight years at Bonn.
He was as interested in the history of concepts as Febvre, noting, for
example, that it was a Scandinavian professor, Ragnar Frisch (1895–
1973), who coined the term ‘econometrics’, a term with a future, in the
1930s. He also briefly mentioned another Swede, Gunnar Myrdal (1898–
1987), who made his mark with his Monetary Equilibrium (1931, English
translation 1939), who became renowned for his studies of economic
development, particularly in Asia, after the Second World War. He was
to win the Nobel Prize for Economics in 1974 along with the Austrian
economist, Friedrich August von Hayek (1899–1992), born one year after
Myrdal. Hayek had left Vienna in 1931 to join the LSE, and after play-
ing a controversial role in British politics with his The Road to Serfdom
(1945), quoted by Churchill in his 1945 election campaign, he established
himself as an outstanding philosopher as well as economic theorist. Both
he and Myrdal drew on philosophy more than history, and Schumpeter
himself, with strong political interests, rightly included in his survey of
economic analysis brief but revealing sections on social sciences other
than economics, including psychology and sociology.
In France sociology had a special place both in the academic and the
general history of the social sciences during the nineteenth century. Yet it
was before Comte and in parallel to Henri de Saint Simon (1760–1825),
prophet of industrialism, that Jean Baptiste Say (1767–1832), deeply influ-
enced by Adam Smith, produced his Traité d’Economie Politique, which

56 Schumpeter, History (note 47), 998, 826. 57 Ibid., 380–3.

484
History and the social sciences

became a highly successful textbook, in 1803. After the fall of Napoleon


he was appointed to the first academic post devoted to political econ-
omy (renamed ‘industrial economy’) at the Conservatoire des Arts et des
Métiers in 1819, moving to a chair at the Collège de France in 1827 ‘which
remained in the hands of his followers until the end of the century’.58 Its
lectures, open to the public, were supplemented by articles in the Journal
des Economistes, founded in 1842, along with a Société d’Economie Poli-
tique. Say’s followers, particularly Michel Chevalier (1806–79) and the
journalist apostle of free trade, Frédéric Bastiat (1801–50), asserted the
hegemony of economic laws over politics. Proud of their orthodoxy, they
had nothing to do with sociology, Comtian or Marxist.
Comte’s career went through distinct phases and his ideas at every stage
in it – they became doctrines – always attracted disciples, some of them
in universities. The first volume of his Système de politique positive et
traité de sociologie, instituant la religion de l’humanité appeared in 1851.
Comte had an international influence and his disciples were known as
Comtists or more simply as Positivists. In France itself, however, it was an
academic sociologist, Emile Durkheim (1858–1917), who in establishing
sociology also influenced anthropology and psychology, and whose statue
stands in Paris outside the ‘Nouvelle Sorbonne’, a university reformed
on ideological as well as practical grounds during the late nineteenth
century. Durkheim, son of a Rabbi, born at Epinal in Lorraine, not far
from Strasburg, in 1858, began, like Comte, by accepting positivism as the
basis for sociological education, but while treating society as a ‘system’,
he explicitly rejected Comte, and in 1895 he set out his own Rules of
Sociological Method, an English title of a book not translated into English
until 1982. After the French defeat by the Germans in 1870 and the loss of
Lorraine, Durkheim had moved from the Ecole Normale, which he had
entered as a student in 1879, to teach in a number of lycées, and having
spent a year in Germany in 1885/86, became the first professor of social
sciences and education at Bordeaux in 1887, a combined professorship
specially created for him. He then moved to the University of Paris where
he became a full professor of sociology and education in 1906.
The combination of sociology and education was crucial to him. He
was a key figure in peace and war in the days of the Third Republic both
as an educator himself – he had many distinguished pupils – and as a
propagandist. He had his French critics, however, including several on
the right, and on the academic front Gabriel de Tarde (1843–1904), who
wrote a number of sociological monographs after serving as the head of

58 D. Winch, ‘The Emergence of Economics as a Science’ in C. M. Cipolla (ed.), The Fontana


Economic History of Europe, vol. III (London, 1971), 41.

485
Asa Briggs

the department of legal statistics at the Ministry of Justice and who was
appointed to the chair of modern philosophy at the Collège de France in
1900. Tarde did not succeed in having the title of his chair changed to that
of psychologie sociologique. Durkheim died in 1917 having lost his son
in combat, but by then a Durkheimian ‘tradition’ had been established in
France, partly through L’Année sociologique, which he had founded in
1896. It appeared one year before the Rivista Italiana di sociologia and
one year after the American Journal of Sociology.
In Britain, where sociology emerged outside a university setting, inde-
pendent businessmen, like the member of a shipping family Charles Booth
(1840–1916) and the chairman of the family chocolate firm Benjamin
Seebohm Rowntree (1871–1954), actively involved in business manage-
ment, pioneered empirical investigation by social survey. The LSE did not
appoint its first professor of sociology, the Liberal journalist, Leonard
Trelawney Hobhouse (1864–1929), writing in a social evolutionary tra-
dition, until 1907. This was the first chair of sociology in Britain. Three
years earlier, the Sociological Society of London had been founded. When
in 1923 the Booth family business created a chair of social science at
Liverpool University in Charles Booth’s memory, its first occupant was
Alexander Carr-Saunders (1886–1966), demographer as well as sociolo-
gist, who, completing a small circle, went on in 1937 to become direc-
tor of the LSE. From far outside this ‘virtuous circle’ Karl (1893–1947)
and Herman (1889–1969) Mannheim who arrived in London as refugees
from Germany, made significant contributions to sociology. The former
lost his chair of sociology at the University of Frankfurt-am-Main in 1934,
became lecturer at the LSE, and moved on to become professor (in 1942)
and director (in 1945) of the University of London’s Institute of Edu-
cation. The latter, a professor of criminal law in Berlin, remained inside
LSE, where he taught criminology for twenty years, alongside other distin-
guished exiled German professors of law, among them Otto Kahn-Freund
(1900–1979).
British academic sociology with its empirical emphasis had little in
common with continental European sociology, although in both cases
academic institutionalization was slow. One great attempt to synthesize it
was made by the Italian Vilfredo Pareto (1848–1923), set out in his two-
volume Trattato di Sociologia Generale in 1916: it was not translated into
English (in four volumes) until 1935 under the very different title Mind
and Society. Pareto did not hold a chair in sociology, however: instead, he
succeeded Walras in the chair of economics at Lausanne, making his own
contribution to marginal utility theory. Likewise, in Germany, where there
were nineteenth-century sociologists who established their personal rep-
utations, the chairs that they held were not in sociology. Thus Ferdinand
Tönnies (1855–1936) was for much of his life professor in economics at

486
History and the social sciences

the University of Kiel. His Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft (1887) which


he had presented as his Habilitation thesis as Privatdozent for philosophy
in 1881, was an extremely influential study not only in Germany but
abroad. Together with Sombart, Weber and Georg Simmel (1858–1918),
he founded the ‘Deutsche Gesellschaft für Sociologie’ in 1909.59
During the Weimar Republic chairs in sociology were at last cre-
ated in Cologne (Staatswissenschaften und Soziologie 1919), Frankfurt-
am-Main (Soziologie und Wirtschaftstheorie 1919), Leipzig (Soziologie
1925), Berlin (Associated Professorship 1921). Sociology was also taught
in Technische Hochschulen, and in teacher-training colleges and police
academies.60 Some of those teaching it survived the arrival of National
Socialism, which attacked sociology as a Jewish and Marxist invention.
One which obviously did not was the Institut für Sozialforschung at
Frankfurt, which gave its name to the Frankfurt School, which was con-
cerned inter alia (through Theodor Wiesengrand Adorno (1903–69)) with
what came to be called communications studies. Marxist in theory, with
an input too from Freudian psychology, the blend was called by its shrewd
director, Max Horkheimer (1895–1973), ‘critical philosophy’. Two years
before Hitler came into power Horkheimer had transferred the endow-
ment of the Institute to the Netherlands and a sub-division of the Insti-
tute to Geneva which allowed it in 1933 to move from Frankfurt to Paris
and in 1934 to Columbia University in New York. In 1941 it moved
again, to California, where its influence after the Second World War was
considerable.61
Even more so was the influence on American sociology of Weber, who
had never held a chair in the subject. He was appointed professor of polit-
ical economy at the University of Freiburg in 1894, of Heidelberg in 1897
and finally of Munich 1919. He was deeply interested and involved in poli-
tics, which he treated, like Wissenschaft, as a ‘vocation’ or ‘calling’, as well

59 W. Lepenies (ed.), Geschichte der Soziologie. Studien zur kognitiven, sozialen und his-
torischen Identität einer Disziplin, 4 vols. (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1981); D. Käsler, Die
frühe Soziologie 1909–1934 und ihre Entstehungsmilieus (Opladen, 1984).
60 G. Lüschen (ed.), Soziologie in Deutschland und Österreich 1918–1945 (Opladen, 1981);
Hammerstein, Universität Frankfurt am Main; B. Heimbüchel, Die neue Universität,
Kölner Universitätsgeschichte II (Cologne and Vienna, 1988); J. Habermas, ‘Soziologie
in der Weimarer Republik’, in H. Coing et al., Wissenschaftsgeschichte seit 1900. 75
Jahre Universität Frankfurt (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1992), 29–53. R. König, ‘Soziologie’,
in T. Buddensieg, K. Düwell and K.-J. Sembach (eds.), Wissenschaften in Berlin (Berlin,
1987), 149–53.
61 M. Jay, The Dialectical Imagination: A History of the Frankfurt School and the Institute of
Social Research 1923–1950 (Boston and Toronto, 1973); R. Wiggerhaus, Die Frankfurter
Schule (Munich and Vienna, 1986). On the impact of marxian socialism on German
sociology in general: O. Rammstedt, Deutsche Soziologie 1933–1945. Die Normalität
einer Anpassung (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1986). K. Wittebur, Die deutsche Soziologie im
Exil 1933–1945. Eine biographische Kartographie (Münster, 1991).

487
Asa Briggs

as in economics, psychology and, above all, history.62 He set out to seek


links between different kinds of social activity, and his span included India
and China. He died in 1920. Again there was a time-lag in English trans-
lations of his works. Die protestantische Ethik und der Geist des Kapital-
ismus (1904) did not appear in English until 1930 by which time Tawney’s
Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (1926) had appeared. Weber’s unfin-
ished Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft, which was published in 1922 did not
appear in English until 1968. In that decade sociology was a booming
academic subject in all parts of the world, and the study of history, in
particular, was being strongly influenced by it.
History was being influenced by anthropology too. Indeed, there were
international links between all the emerging disciplines, not all social sci-
entists choosing to describe themselves as such: for example, at the LSE
the professor of anthropology from 1927 to 1942, Branislaw Malinowski
(1882–1942) had studied with Wilhelm Wundt (1832–1920) at Leipzig, a
scholar whose first degree was in medicine. He had offered the first course
ever taught in scientific psychology in Europe in 1862 in the University of
Heidelberg and in 1879 had established the first psychology laboratory at
Leipzig, where there was no department of psychology. Before studying
with Wundt, Malinowski had taken a doctorate in physics and mathe-
matics at Cracow, where, bored with his doctoral studies, he had read
with excitement The Golden Bough (1890) by the British anthropologist
James George Frazer (1854–1944).
Much of the most interesting and important writing on anthropology,
which explored magic, science and religion, was carried on outside uni-
versities, although in Oxford Edward Burnet Tyler (1832–1917), author
of Primitive Culture (1871), had been appointed reader in anthropology
in 1884, having lectured in the University Museum, where he became
Keeper of the Pitt Rivers ethnographic collection. His attempt to intro-
duce a degree course in anthropology failed in 1895, facing opposition
from both classicists and natural scientists, but a year later he was offered
a personal chair. In faculty terms, anthropology was handled as a diploma
subject supervised by a Board which also included archaeology and
geography.
There was a parallel association with museums in Germany where Adolf
Bastian (1826–1905), after travelling around the world as a ship’s doc-
tor, in 1866 was appointed in Berlin as Curator of the Royal Collec-
tions and given at the University of Berlin the title of reader in ethnology

62 M.Weber, ‘Politik als Beruf’ (1918), and ‘Wissenschaft als Beruf’ (1918), translated into
English with an introduction by H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, From Max Weber:
Essays in Sociology (London, 1947), 77–156; R. Bendix, Max Weber: An Intellectual
Portrait (New York, 1960).

488
History and the social sciences

(described by Max Müller as ‘Mr Tyler’s Science’63 ). Bastian founded


both the Königliche Museum für Völkerkunde (1873) and, together with
Rudolf Virchow (1821–1902), the Berlin Society for Anthropology, Eth-
nology and Pre-history (1869), one of a number of such societies on both
sides of the Atlantic. There were cross-links with linguistics, archaeology
and evolutionist biology, Darwinian and non-Darwinian.
Following fieldwork in the Pacific, Malinowski wrote books which
became ‘classics among anthropologists of every persuasion’, including
so-called ‘applied anthropologists’ working in an imperial context. British
anthropologists, given the opportunity of doing ‘fieldwork’ in various
parts of the Empire, developed ‘social anthropology’ during the inter-war
years in a different way from American ‘cultural anthropologists’. (The
distinction was to be sharpened after 1945.) Meanwhile, in Germany ver-
sions of ‘physical anthropology’, with earlier roots, could become tools
of National Socialist racist propaganda.
The twentieth-century map of learning, therefore, like the nineteenth-
century map or, indeed, the Baconian map of the sixteenth century, cannot
be studied apart from its political context. Nor can modes of transmitting
and communicating knowledge. And round the corner there were bigger
changes to come.

select bibliography
Bendix, R. Max Weber: An Intellectual Portrait, New York, 1960.
Berger, St., Lambert, P. and Schmann, P. (eds.) Historikerdialoge. Geschichte,
Mythos und Gedächtnis im deutsch – britischen kulturellen Austausch 1750–
2000, Göttingen, 2002.
Blaas, P. B. M. Continuity and Anachronism: Parliamentary and Constitutional
Development in Whig Historiography and the Anti-Whig Reaction between
1890 and 1930, The Hague, 1978.
Bleek, W. Geschichte der Politikwissenschaft in Deutschland, Munich, 2001.
Breisach, E. Historiography: Ancient, Medieval and Modern, Chicago, 1983.
Burrow, J. W. A Liberal Descent: Victorian Historians and the English Past,
Cambridge, 1981.
Butterfield, H. Man on His Past: The Study of Historical Scholarship, Cambridge,
1955.
Carbonell, C.-O. Histoire et historiens, une mutation idéologique des historiens
français, 1865–1885, Toulouse, 1976.
Dahrendorf, R. A History of the London School of Economics, 1895–1995,
London, 1995.

63 Quoted in History of Oxford, VII, Part 2, 468; on Adolf Bastian: Buddensieg, Düwell and
Sembach (eds.), Wissenschaften (note 60), 136; on Virchow: C. Andres, Rudolf Virchow
als Prähistoriker (Cologne, 1973).

489
Asa Briggs

Dilthey, W. Einleitung in die Geisteswissenschaften, Leipzig, 1883.


Dockhorn, K. Der deutsche Historismus in England: ein Beitrag zur englischen
Geistesgeschichte des 19 Jahrhundert, Göttingen, 1950.
Duncan Mitchell, G. A Hundred Years of Sociology, London, 1968.
Firth, C. H. A Plea for the Historical Teaching of History, Oxford, 1904.
Gooch, G. P. History and Historians of the Nineteenth Century, London, 1913.
Gordon, P. and Szreter, R. (eds.) History of Education: The Making of a Discipline,
London, 1989.
Hammerstein, N. (ed.) Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft um 1900, Stuttgart,
1988.
Jay, M. The Dialectical Imagination: A History of the Frankfurt School and the
Institute of Social Research 1923–1950, Boston and Toronto, 1973.
John, A. H. The British Library of Political and Economic Science: A Brief History,
London, 1971.
Joll, J. ‘National Histories and National Historians: Some German and English
Views of the Past’, Annual Lecture, German Historical Institute, London,
1984.
Klingemann, C. Soziologie im Dritten Reich, Baden-Baden, 1996.
Landes, D. S. and Tilly, C. (eds.) History as Social Science, Englewood Cliffs,
1971.
Laue, T. H. L. von Ranke: The Formative Years, Princeton, 1950.
Lüschen, G. (ed.) Deutsche Soziologie nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, Opladen,
1979.
Soziologie in Deutschland und Österreich 1918–1945, Opladen, 1981.
McClelland, C. E. The German Historians and England: A Study in Nineteenth-
Century Views, Cambridge, 1971.
Meinecke, F. Die Entstehung des Historismus, 2 vols., Munich and Berlin, 1936–
37.
Mommsen, W. J. Max Weber und die deutsche Politik 1890–1920, Tübingen, 2nd
edn, 1974.
Powicke, F. M. Modern Historians and the Study of History, Oxford, 1955.
Rammstedt, O. Deutsche Soziologie 1933–1945. Die Normalität einer Anpas-
sung, Frankfurt-am-Main, 1986.
Rebenich, S. Theodor Mommsen, Eine Biographie, Munich, 2002.
Schumpeter, J. A. History of Economic Analysis, New York, 1954.
Shils, E. Tradition, London and Boston, 1981.
‘The Universities, the Social Sciences and Liberal Democracy’, Interchange, 23
(1992).
Slee, P. R. H. Learning and a Liberal Education: The Study of Modern History in
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Smyth, R. L. (ed.) Essays on Economic Method, London, 1962.
Stern, F. (ed.) The Varieties of History, London, 1970.
Stolleis, M. Public Law in Germany, 1800–1914, New York, 2001.
The Law under the Swastika: Studies on Legal History in Nazi Germany,
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Weber, W. Priester der Klio. Historisch – sozialwissenschaftliche Studien zur


Herkunft und Karriere deutscher Historiker und zur Geschichte der
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Wittebur, K. Die deutsche Soziologie im Exil 1933–1945. Eine biographische
Kartographie, Münster, 1991.

491
CHAPTER 12

T H E M AT H E M AT I C A L A N D T H E
EXACT SCIENCES

PA U L B O C K S TA E L E

In the course of the last years of the eighteenth century and the first
decades of the nineteenth century, the teaching of mathematics and the
exact sciences at the European universities underwent a slow but pro-
found change. From auxiliary sciences or elements of general education,
mathematics, physics, astronomy and chemistry developed into indepen-
dent disciplines. The hierarchy of faculties handed down from previous
centuries assigned only a preparatory role to the arts faculty. As a result
of the evolution of the natural sciences in the eighteenth century and their
ever-increasing importance for the economy, industry, mining, agriculture
and military science, physics and chemistry developed outside the univer-
sities from purely auxiliary sciences to independent fundamental sciences.
Their further differentiation during the nineteenth century brought about
the creation of new professions, which also influenced the universities.
The philosophical faculties gradually outgrew their preparatory role and
began to develop autonomously.
Alongside the traditional speculative approach to nature, there
developed in the eighteenth century a new method for teaching natural
philosophy based on experimental demonstrations using machines and
instruments. As the Newtonian ideas spread, the mathematical approach
to natural phenomena also obtained a place, albeit modest, in university
education. Inhibiting here was the inadequate mathematical knowledge of
the students and, not rarely, also of the professors. Around 1800 Physica,
Naturlehre, physical or natural philosophy, was not yet a clearly delin-
eated scientific discipline. In addition to physics in the present meaning,
it included also elements of astronomy, geology, mineralogy, physiology
and anatomy. A clear differentiation of these various disciplines only came
about in the nineteenth century.

493
Paul Bockstaele

The mathematical sciences also had a place in the faculty of philosophy.


At the beginning of the eighteenth century, the teaching of mathematics
was still at a rather low level at most of the universities. In the last decades
of the eighteenth century, the teaching of mathematics in the German uni-
versities was strongly influenced by the Anfangsgründe der Mathematik of
Abraham Gotthelf Kästner (1719–1800). The several volumes of a French
textbook by Etienne Bezout (1730–83) were widely translated and used
into the nineteenth century, also outside of France.1 In Spain, Benito Bails
(1730–97), inspired by the courses of Wolff and Bezout, wrote the most
important encyclopaedic work on mathematics in Spanish of the eigh-
teenth century.2 Noteworthy, too, is the book, Elementos de Aritmética,
Algebra y Geometrı́a (Madrid, 1782) by Juan Justo Garcia (1752–1830),
in which a number of pages are devoted to differential and integral cal-
culus. This work continued to be used as a textbook until after 1800 in
the universities of Santiago, Oviedo, Seville, Valladolid and Zaragoza.
Obviously, these works contained much more than what was actually
treated in the courses. An idea of what the students were offered in the
best cases, perhaps, is given by the courses of Nicolas Louis de la Caille
(1713–62). Appointed professor of mathematics at the Collège Mazarin
of the University of Paris in 1740, by the next year he had published his
courses.3 In this short book, he treated arithmetic, algebra, logarithms,
the summation of series, geometry with a chapter on plane trigonometry,
the analytic treatment of conic sections, and the principles of infinitesimal
calculus. La Caille’s Leçons were reprinted several times and translated
into Latin, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, English and Greek. La Caille’s
successor, Joseph François Marie (1738–1801), published a new, extended
edition that served until far into the nineteenth century as a handbook
in various European universities. In general, at the end of the eighteenth
century, instruction in mathematics at most universities remained lim-
ited to arithmetic, the elements of algebra with the solution of linear and
quadratic equations, logarithms, and geometry with plane and spheri-
cal trigonometry. In applied mathematics, one taught the mechanics of
solid and liquid substances, optics with perspective, astronomy, geogra-
phy, gnomonics and chronology. Conic sections, analytic geometry and
calculus were still rare at the end of the eighteenth century.
Unlike the mathematical and physical sciences, the initial institutional
context in which chemistry developed into an academic discipline was
not the faculty of philosophy but of medicine. There, its teaching was

1 E. Bezout, Cours de mathématiques à l’usage des Gardes du Pavillon et de la Marine,


6 vols. (Paris, 1764–69).
2 B. Bails, Elementos de matemática, 10 vols. (Madrid, 1772–76).
3 N. L. de la Caille, Leçons élémentaires de mathématiques, ou éléments d’algèbre et de
géométrie (Paris, 1741).

494
The mathematical and the exact sciences

entrusted to one of the younger professors, as a temporary assignment.


This situation prevailed until the end of the eighteenth century. From
the second half of the eighteenth century, primarily non-medical applica-
tions of chemistry in agriculture and industry played the main role in the
emancipation of chemistry from an auxiliary science to a fundamental
science. In Sweden, so rich in mineral resources, the tradition of chemi-
cal research grew out of mineralogy and mining. When the University of
Uppsala established a chair for chemistry in 1749, it was decided not to
place it in the faculty of medicine but in the faculty of philosophy, where
the students of administration, economics and mining were also trained.4
The Swedish organization, followed also at Coimbra and a few other uni-
versities, was ahead of its time. Chemistry remained largely in the medical
faculties well into the nineteenth century. As the demand by industry for
technicians increased in the course of the eighteenth century, new schools
were created, some with university rank, where ample space was provided
for the teaching of chemistry. A prominent example was the academy of
mining at Schemnitz in Slovakia, where chairs for mineralogy, chemistry
and metallurgy were established in 1764. The laboratory method intro-
duced at Schemnitz had a great effect on the teaching of chemistry far
beyond the Habsburg Empire.5
Of critical significance for the emancipation of the mathematical and
physical sciences that enabled them to form independent academic disci-
plines were the educational reforms in revolutionary France at the end of
the eighteenth century, and also, after the fall of Napoleon in 1815, the
renewal of the faculties of philosophy in the so-called spirit of Wilhelm
von Humboldt in the German universities.

mathematics and the exact sciences in


f r a n c e a f t e r 1800
In France, the Revolution eliminated the universities.6 As centres of higher
education, there remained only the Jardin du Roi, which was converted
by the decree of 10 June 1793 into the Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle,
and the Collège royal, which was reopened on 21 November 1794 as
the Collège de France. In the Muséum, public courses were organized on
such subjects as geology, mineralogy and chemistry. Among the lectur-
ers were Antoine François de Fourcroy (1755–1809) and Louis Nicolas

4 C. Meinel, ‘Artibus Academics Inserenda: Chemistry’s Place in Eighteenth and Early Nine-
teenth Century Universities’, History of Universities, 7 (1988), 89–115.
5 J. Vlachovic, ‘L’enseignement technique supérieur des mines en Slovaquie au XVIIIe siècle’,
Acta historiae rerum naturalium necnon technicorum, special issue, 1 (1965), 65–84, esp.
75–82.
6 See chapter 2, 34.

495
Paul Bockstaele

Vauquelin (1763–1829) for general and technical chemistry, and René


Just Haüy (1743–1822) for mineralogy. Separate courses in physics in the
modern sense were not given. Joseph Jérôme de Lalande (1732–1807)
taught mathematics and astronomy at the Collège de France. He was suc-
ceeded in 1807 by Jean-Baptiste Delambre (1749–1822). There had been a
chair in general physics since 1769, and a chair for experimental physics
was also established in 1786. The two courses were combined in 1824
under the title of general and experimental physics, the first holder of the
chair being André Marie Ampère (1775–1836). The chair for chemistry
and natural history, established in 1774, was split in 1800, and chemistry
assigned to Vauquelin. By 1804, Louis Jacques Thénard (1777–1857), his
student, took over the task. He taught with great success until 1845.
The Ecoles Centrales established throughout the entire country by the
Convention did not provide higher education, but were an attempt to
introduce mathematics, physics and chemistry on a reasonably high level.
However, they did not exist long enough to exercise any lasting influence.
Above the Écoles Centrales, but without any relationship to them, were
the écoles spéciales, which generally were strictly professional, like the
École de Médecine or the École des Arts et Métiers. Far and away the
most important was the École polytechnique, founded in 1794. Initially
called École des Travaux publics, it was undoubtedly the greatest achieve-
ment in the French revolutionary period in the area of technical education
and, more generally, in the area of the exact sciences. The École polytech-
nique was initially intended to replace all the higher technical schools
for military and civil engineers. This original plan was, however, soon
abandoned. By the law of 22 October 1795, the École polytechnique was
assigned the task of providing the basic knowledge needed for further
studies in one of the more specialized écoles d’application, like the Ecole
d’Artillerie, the École du Génie militaire in Metz, the École des ponts
et Chaussées, or the École des Ingénieurs de Vaissaux. The earliest cur-
riculum mentions for mathematics analysis with applications to geometry
and mechanics in addition to descriptive geometry, subdivided into stereo-
metry, architecture and fortification. Physics was divided into general and
special physics or chemistry. General physics dealt with the general char-
acteristics of bodies, caloric, light, electricity and magnetism. In special
physics or chemistry, the saline substances, the organic substances and the
minerals were studied in turn.
The professors of the École polytechnique were selected from among
the best French scholars: Joseph Louis Lagrange (1736–1813) for mathe-
matical analysis, Gaspard Monge (1746–1818) for descriptive geometry,
and Fourcroy, Vauquelin, Claude Louis Berthollet (1748–1822) and Jean
Antoine Chaptal (1756–1832) for chemistry. Although founded as a school
for applied sciences, most of the attention from the outset was given to the

496
The mathematical and the exact sciences

teaching of pure sciences. In the first decades of its existence, this gave rise
to frequent criticism. In a short time, the Ecole Polytechnique developed
into the best scientific faculty in the world.
Between 1806 and 1808, the French educational system was once again
changed. The law of 17 March 1808, which introduced the Université
Impériale, divided higher education into five independent faculties: the-
ology, law, medicine, sciences and letters. The non-professional faculties,
letters and sciences, were attached to lycées. Their task remained largely
limited to the administration of examinations and the granting of degrees.
Scientific research did not belong to their official mission.
Each faculty of sciences had to have at least four professors: one for
differential and integral calculus, one for mechanics and astronomy, one
for physics and chemistry, and one for natural history. Their impact on the
teaching of mathematics, physics, astronomy and chemistry was not great.
An exception to this was the faculty of sciences at Paris, which could call
upon professors of the Collège de France, the Muséum, and the École poly-
technique. Teaching was begun there on 22 April 1811. The courses were
divided into two series: one for mathematics and one for physics. In the
mathematics series, Sylvestre François Lacroix (1765–1843) taught dif-
ferential and integral calculus, Siméon Denis Poisson (1781–1840) taught
mechanics, Jean-Baptiste Biot (1774–1862) taught astronomy, and Louis
Benjamin Francoeur (1773–1849) taught advanced algebra. Common to
the two series was the course in physics given by Louis Joseph Gay-Lussac
(1778–1850). Chemistry, together with natural history, belonged to the
physics series and was taught by Thénard.
The influence of French educational policy was also felt in the areas
occupied or annexed by France. The Italian universities retained their
unity and organization, although they were compelled to make more room
for the sciences and to establish an independent physics and mathematics
faculty from which the philosophy of the old arts faculty had virtually
disappeared. At the University of Geneva, new chairs were established in
1802 to strengthen the sciences, including chemistry and mineralogy. After
the annexation of the Kingdom of Holland by France, the universities of
Leiden and Groningen were incorporated as academies including facul-
ties of sciences into the Université Impériale by a decree of 22 October
1811. The independent faculties of science with more opportunities for
mathematics and physics survived the fall of Napoleon. The universities of
Ghent, Louvain and Liège, founded by William I in the southern provinces
of his kingdom received their Facultas matheseos et philosophiae natu-
ralis, with professors for mathematics, physics, astronomy and chemistry.
Until around 1830, Paris was the predominant centre for education and
for research in mathematical analysis, mathematical physics and chem-
istry. The handbooks published by the professors and their great fame as

497
Paul Bockstaele

scholars, which attracted students from all over Europe, maintained the
hegemony. Fourcroy’s Philosophie chimique (first published in 1792) went
through three Parisian editions and several editions outside of France.
The sixth edition of Thénard’s Traité de chimie élémentaire, théorique et
pratique (4 vols., Paris, 1813–16) appeared in five volumes in 1834–6,
and a German translation by Gustav Fechner (1801–87) was published
in Leipzig in 1825–30. Poisson’s Traité de mécanique of 1811 remained
in use until after 1830 by the universities of Leipzig and Coimbra and
reappeared, reworked, as William Whewell’s An Elementary Treatise of
Mechanics (Cambridge, 1819). Lacroix, who succeeded Lagrange in 1799
as professor of mathematical analysis at the École polytechnique, spread
French methods all over Europe, and even in England. Monge’s Leçons
de géométrie descriptive (Paris, 1799) were reprinted several times and
widely translated.
Foreigners who had studied in Paris helped to start to reform educa-
tion, especially that of mathematics, mathematical physics and chemistry
in their own countries. A strikingly large number of Poles and Russians
attended courses at the Ecole Polytechnique. Among the Poles, we find
Jozef Markowski (1758–1829), professor of chemistry and mineralogy
in Cracow from 1810 to 1829; Franciszek Sapalski (1791–1838), who
introduced descriptive geometry in Cracow, and also J. K. Skrodzki and
Adrian Krzyzanowski (1788–1852), professors of, respectively, physics
and astronomy at the University of Warsaw. Zachariasz Niemczewski
(1766–1820) stayed in Paris from 1802 to 1807 and was then appointed
professor at the University of Wilna, where he taught mathematical
analysis according to Lacroix. Among the Russians were Mikhail Ostro-
gradskii (1801–62) and Viktor Buniakovskii (1804–89), both of whom
had great influence on the teaching of mathematics in Russia. In Spain,
the French methods of teaching science were propagated by José Mariano
Vallejo (1779–1846), who stayed in Paris for a few years and was a friend
of Pierre Simon de Laplace (1749–1827).
From Germany, too, people came to Paris to do further studies in sci-
ence. Because he saw no opportunity to learn modern mathematics at
any of the German universities, Peter Gustav Lejeune Dirichlet (1805–
59) went to Paris in 1822 and studied at the Collège de France and the
Paris Faculté des Sciences. He would later succeed Gauss in Göttingen.
Among the German chemists who worked for a time in Paris were Leopold
Gmelin (1788–1853), who is known for his Handbuch der theoreti-
schen Chemie (Frankfurt, 1817–19), and Justus von Liebig, the founder
of the famous Giessen chemical school. Another foreign chemist trained
in Paris was Jean Servais Stas (1813–91). He studied and worked there
with Jean-Baptiste Dumas (1800–84) until 1840 and later taught chem-
istry at the Military School in Brussels. The influence of Paris was

498
The mathematical and the exact sciences

particularly great on the Romanian universities and technical institutes:


well into the twentieth century most of the professors of mathematics,
physics and chemistry had studied at the Sorbonne. Their courses were
generally revisions or adaptations of French university handbooks.
Outside of Paris, the level of education was roughly that of popularized
lectures on scientific discoveries for a varied public. The faculties for the
sciences were primarily offices for issuing diplomas. The new concepts
that typified the German universities, after 1830 gradually gained dom-
inance, particularly in physics and chemistry. In the last quarter of the
nineteenth century, however, the desire to keep up with Germany helped
refashion French educational policy. The science faculties obtained ever
more material and scientific resources for the reorganization of education
on a more modern and experimental basis. The re-establishment of the
universities in 1896 also had a favourable effect. In co-operation with
regional industries, technical institutes were founded7 in which applied
physics and mechanics were taught alongside applied and industrial chem-
istry. This commitment, made to applied research and to the training of
engineers and highly qualified technicians, was the most important motor
in the reform and re-evaluation of the faculties for sciences outside Paris.
At the Sorbonne, however, to which the École Normale Supérieure was
associated in 1905, as well as at the Collège de France, the teaching of
theoretical sciences continued to predominate.

the exact sciences at german universities


With the development of the gymnasia, the better organization of sec-
ondary education, and the introduction of the Abitur examination, better-
prepared students came to the university, making superfluous the more
elementary courses in the faculty of philosophy. Classical studies were
affected first, and then mathematics and the sciences. A good example
of the transition is the teaching of mathematics. During the first quarter
of the nineteenth century, it continued the eighteenth-century tradition.
The impulse for renewal was first institutionalized at the small provincial
University of Königsberg in East Prussia.8
Friedrich Wilhelm Bessel (1784–1846) had already made Königsberg
a centre for astronomical research, when, in 1826, Karl Gustav Jacob
Jacobi (1804–51) was appointed professor in mathematics. By introduc-
ing the students to the latest developments, he vastly exceeded the nor-
mal level of instruction in Germany. In the same year as Jacobi, Franz
Neumann (1798–1895) came to Königsberg as Privatdozent. In 1829, he

7 See chapter 15, 616.


8 W. Lorey, Das Studium der Mathematik an den Deutschen Universitäten seit Anfang des
19. Jahrhunderts (Leipzig and Berlin, 1916).

499
Paul Bockstaele

was appointed professor of mineralogy and physics. Influenced by Bessel


and Jacobi, he concentrated primarily on mathematical physics. Together
with Jacobi, he founded a mathematics and physics seminar in November
1834. It consisted of two divisions, one for mathematical physics under his
direction, and one for pure and applied mathematics under the direction
of Jacobi. From the work and commitment of the trio of Bessel, Jacobi
and Neumann grew the Königsberg School, one of the most striking indi-
cations of the rising interest in Germany in educational questions about
mathematics and physics.
Königsberg’s influence was felt earliest at the universities of Heidelberg
and Giessen. Ludwig Otto Hesse (1811–74), who took his doctoral degree
in Königsberg in 1840, went via Halle to Heidelberg in 1857, where the
physicist Gustav Robert Kirchhoff (1824–87), also a Königsberg alumnus,
had been teaching mathematical and experimental physics since 1854. The
Königsberg spirit and method came to Giessen largely through the agency
of Alfred Clebsch (1833–72). He founded a mathematics seminar there
modelled on Königsberg’s. Clebsch had the same influence in Göttingen,
where he arrived in 1868. The mathematics seminar founded in 1850
with the primary objective of training mathematics and physics teachers
for gymnasia, finally flourished under his leadership. After his untimely
death in 1872, Felix Klein (1849–1925) built Göttingen into one of the
leading centres in the world for mathematical research. He was helped
by David Hilbert (1862–1943), who came to Göttingen in 1895, and
by Hermann Minkowski (1864–1909), who was appointed in 1902 to
a newly established third full professorship in mathematics. Even Berlin,
for many years the most important centre for mathematics in Germany,
was surpassed by Göttingen around 1900.
In the first years of its existence, the young University of Berlin, founded
in 1810, had little more to offer than its older sisters. In the winter
term of 1825/26, Jacobi gave a series of lectures on differential geom-
etry that were on the level of the science of the time. He then went off
to Königsberg. When he returned to Berlin in 1845 as a member of the
Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften, much had changed. August
Leopold Crelle (1780–1855) had begun (in 1826) the publication of the
Journal fur die reine und angewandte Mathematik. Dirichlet had begun
his teaching there in 1831. Like Jacobi in Königsberg, Dirichlet discussed
his own research areas in his courses, and he introduced his students to
the latest advances. The high point of Berlin as a centre for mathemat-
ics came in the second half of the nineteenth century when Ernst Eduard
Kummer (1810–93), Leopold Kronecker (1823–91) and Karl Weierstrass
(1815–97) were full professors there. The first purely mathematics sem-
inar was created officially in 1864 on the recommendation of Kummer
and Weierstrass. In 1920, the University of Berlin received its first full

500
The mathematical and the exact sciences

professor for applied mathematics, Richard von Mises (1883–1953), who


founded and directed the Institute for Applied Mathematics. Following
the example of Berlin and Göttingen, other German universities raised the
level of instruction in mathematical sciences. The great mobility of the lec-
turers and the Lehrfreiheit of the professors played an important role in
this homogenization. As in Berlin, mathematics seminars were founded
in Bonn (1866), Tübingen (1869), Greifswald (1872), Würzburg (1875)
and elsewhere. In other universities the Königsberg model of a combined
mathematics and physics seminar prevailed, as in Munich (1856).
At the German universities in the first decades of the nineteenth cen-
tury, the teaching of Naturlehre or physics was frequently combined
with that of mathematics or chemistry. The combination of mathemat-
ics and physics is encountered in Giessen, Berlin, Bonn, Breslau, Leipzig,
Tübingen and Jena. There were full professorships in physics and chem-
istry, for example, in Heidelberg, Erlangen, Halle and Würzburg, where
this combination was maintained even until 1870. At the University of
Rostock, the philosophical faculty assigned physics, chemistry and botany
to the same lecturer, while in Königsberg, until the 1820s, the same full
professor taught botany, zoology, mineralogy, chemistry and physics.
At most of the universities, the collections of instruments for experimen-
tal physics were insufficient or even non-existent. Equipment had to be
acquired by the professors at their own expense. In Göttingen, experimen-
tal physics developed through the efforts of Georg Christoph Lichtenberg
(1742–99), who, with his own funds, purchased all kinds of apparatus
for his teaching. They were taken over by the university, which therefore
already had a physikalisches Kabinett at the beginning of the nineteenth
century.9 In Giessen, Georg Gottlieb Schmidt (1768–1837) established a
physics cabinet on his own. Only in 1825 did he succeed in acquiring appa-
ratus at the cost of the university. His successor, Heinrich Buff (1805–78),
set up in 1838 a classroom and a laboratory in an outbuilding of his
residence. In 1844, the state began to pay him an annual rent and the
expenses of the furniture.10 In Leipzig, too, the first university collection
of physics apparatus came from the private collection of professors. On
the basis of these collections, in 1835, one of the first, if not the first,
staatlich physikalisches Institut in Germany was founded.11
German Idealism influenced the natural sciences throughout the first
third of the nineteenth century. Schelling’s idealistic and romantic
9 G. von Minnigerode, ‘250 Jahre Demonstrationsversuche in der Physik’, in H. H.
Voigt (ed.), Naturwissenschaften in Göttingen. Eine Vortragsreihe, Göttinger Univer-
sitätsschriften. Serie A: Schriften, 13 (Göttingen, 1988), 37.
10 375 Jahre Universität Giessen 1607–1982. Geschichte und Gegenwart (Giessen, 1982),
166.
11 Festschrift zur Feier des 500jährigen Bestehens der Universität Leipzig (Leipzig, 1909),
vol. IV:2, 30ff.

501
Paul Bockstaele

Naturphilosophie rejected empirical research as the basis for the practice


of natural science. The bitter methodological and philosophical conflict
between the proponents and opponents of this notion also had a great
influence on the teaching of chemistry and physics in the German uni-
versities. To the active opponents of the romantic philosophy of nature
belonged Ludwig Wilhelm Gilbert (1769–1824), professor of physics and
chemistry in Halle and later in Leipzig. He is known primarily as the pub-
lisher, for 25 years from 1799 to 1824, of the Annalen der Physik, often
called Gilbert’s Annalen, the forerunner of Johann Christian Poggendorf’s
(1796–1877) Annalen der Physik und Chemie. Liebig, who once admired
Schelling’s idealistic and romantic doctrine, also issued a scathing criticism
of ‘the philosophy of nature’. An anonymous brochure, Von der Stellung
der Naturwissenschaften, besonders der physikalischen, an unseren Uni-
versitäten, which appeared in 1849, argued that more attention should
be given to the empirically orientated natural sciences, and particularly
to physics. The author, Gustav Karsten (1820–1900), full professor of
physics at the University of Kiel, demanded the formation of faculties of
mathematics and natural sciences and the establishment of a physics insti-
tute at every university in Germany. Each institute was to have physics
collections, an auditorium, three rooms for physics research, laboratories
for practitioners, and a library. That the teaching of physics, chemistry
and mathematics had to be entrusted to professionals specially trained
for these disciplines was by then already accepted virtually everywhere,
although it had yet to be done by most universities.12 Karsten’s demands
would be fully met only later, during the last third of the nineteenth cen-
tury. It is striking that the technical institutes were the first to set up physics
exercises for the students. The first practical laboratory exercises were set
up in 1853 at the Polytechnikum in Karlsruhe.
As was the case for mathematics, the impulse for a renewal of the teach-
ing of physics in Germany came from Königsberg, primarily from Franz
Neumann. In 1834, he took over the direction of mathematical physics
in the Mathematics and Physics Seminar. He built Königsberg into the
leading centre for mathematical physics in Germany. For years, Neumann
argued for the construction of a physics laboratory in Königsberg. It finally
was built in 1885, more than ten years after he retired.
Neumann’s student Kirchhoff became professor of physics in Heidel-
berg in 1854. He taught in the Königsberg manner and introduced exer-
cises requiring exact measurements. In 1875, when poor health forced him
to stop doing experimental work, he accepted the first chair of theoretical
physics at the University of Berlin. Hermann von Helmholtz (1821–94)

12 A. Hermann and A. Wankmüller, Physik, Physiologische Chemie und Pharmazie an der


Universität Tübingen (Tübingen, 1980), 13.

502
The mathematical and the exact sciences

had been working there since 1871. The largest physics institute of the
new German Empire was built for Helmholtz (completed in 1878). It was
a brilliant time for physics in Berlin, where Max Planck (1858–1947), who
succeeded Kirchhoff in 1889, had several other winners of the Nobel Prize
for Physics as colleagues. Almost all German universities built an institute
for physics during the last quarter of the nineteenth century or the first
few years of the twentieth century: Würzburg in 1879, Tübingen in 1888,
Leipzig in 1905, and so on.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, almost all the universities in
Central Europe had a salaried post in chemistry, which was still situated,
with few exceptions, in the medical faculty. Jena was the first place where
the separation between chemistry and medicine lasted. In 1789, Goethe
succeeded in getting Carl August, the Duke of Weimar, to finance courses
in chemistry and pharmacy in the faculty of philosophy. Johann Wolfgang
Döbereiner (1780–1849) brought the teaching of chemistry into its own.
He equipped one of the earliest teaching laboratories and, beginning in
1820, before Liebig in Giessen, introduced student chemistry exercises,
which served as the example for all of Germany.13
At the University of Erlangen, the anatomist Georg Friedrich Hilde-
brandt (1764–1816), who lectured on chemistry at the faculty of medicine,
brought about the transfer of chemistry to the faculty of philosophy in
1796. In 1799, he received a new laboratory.14 In Halle, chemistry went
definitively to the faculty of philosophy in 1799.15 The remaining uni-
versities slowly followed suit. Chemistry received its own independent
chair within a medical faculty in 1817 with the appointment of Leopold
Gmelin (1788–1853) as full professor in Heidelberg. Only in 1852, with
the appointment of Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811–99) as his successor,
was the chair transferred to the faculty of philosophy.16
In addition to Heidelberg with Bunsen, three centres led the devel-
opment of teaching and research in chemistry in Germany in the nine-
teenth century: Giessen with Justus von Liebig (1803–73), Göttingen with
Friedrich Wöhler (1800–82), and Berlin with August Wilhelm von Hof-
mann (1818–92).
In May 1824, the Grand Duke Ludwig I of Hessen, on the recom-
mendation of Alexander von Humboldt and without consulting the fac-
ulty, appointed the 21-year-old Justus von Liebig to associate professor
13 Geschichte der Universität Jena 1548/58–1958 (Jena, 1958), vol. I, 294, 414–16; S.
Schmidt (ed.), Alma mater Jenensis. Geschichte der Universität Jena (Weimar, 1983),
141ff.
14 K. Hufbauer, The Formation of the German Chemical Community (1720–1795)
(Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1982), 240.
15 Ibid., 247.
16 M. Becke-Goehring, E. Fluck et al., ‘Betrachtungen zur Chemie in Heidelberg’, in Semper
apertus, Sechshundert Jahre Ruprecht-Karls-Universität (Berlin, 1985), vol. II, 332–47.

503
Paul Bockstaele

in chemistry at the University of Giessen.17 This marks the definitive


beginning in Germany of laboratory instruction in chemistry, which had
already reached a high level in France and also, with Jöns Jakob Berzelius
(1779–1848), in Sweden. Liebig’s special educational methods empha-
sized courses and exercises intended to bring the students as quickly as
possible to full participation in experimental work. From Liebig’s school
came many famous chemists, who influenced the academic teaching of
chemistry in Germany and elsewhere.
The University of Göttingen had a chemistry laboratory in 1783. It was
initially orientated primarily to the pharmaceutical and chemical needs of
the medical faculty. Friedrich Stromeyer (1776–1835) established a teach-
ing laboratory there. His successor, Friedrich Wöhler, was, like Liebig,
one of the great teachers of chemistry of the century. The presence of the
chair of chemistry in the medical, and not in the philosophical faculty bur-
dened him with many utilitarian activities, but, alongside his unremitting
activity as a researcher, he did an astonishing amount of teaching.
At the University of Berlin, the full professorship for chemistry was
linked to membership in the Academy for the first few years of its exis-
tence. The first chair holder was Martin Heinrich Klaproth (1743–1817).
After his death, Eilhard Mitscherlich (1794–1863) came to teach in 1822,
after a period of study with Berzelius in Stockholm. The second chair
in chemistry was given to Heinrich Rose (1795–1864). After the almost
simultaneous deaths of these two scholars, a new epoch dawned for chem-
istry in Berlin by the appointment of August Wilhelm von Hofmann,
a student of Liebig. As a condition for the acceptance of the appoint-
ment, he demanded that an institute be built with modern teaching and
research laboratories. It was dedicated in 1869. Meanwhile, chemical
institutes were founded in Heidelberg in 1855, Würzburg in 1866, Bonn
in 1868, and so on. By the end of the nineteenth century, chemistry in the
German universities had become a separate study area with specializa-
tion in inorganic and organic chemistry, physical chemistry and analytical
chemistry.
The universities in the neighbouring German-speaking countries, espe-
cially in Switzerland, benefited directly from developments in Germany
owing to the high mobility of the professors. At the University of Zurich,
which was founded in 1833 after the model of Berlin, almost all the pro-
fessors of mathematics were German until well into the twentieth century.
The teaching of chemistry was also in German hands for many years. The
establishment in 1855 of the Eidgenössische Polytechnikum, later renamed
Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule (ETH), in Zurich, gave new
opportunities to the university with the founding of joint professorships

17 Universität Giessen (note 10), 157.

504
The mathematical and the exact sciences

in both institutions. Among the professors who taught at both the uni-
versity and the ETH, were Rudolf Clausius (1822–88), Albert Einstein
(1879–1955), Peter Debye (1884–1966) and Max von Laue (1879–1960).
Already at the foundation of the ETH, the intention was to teach the full
breadth of both mathematics and the natural sciences at the highest level.
Consideration was also given to the training of teachers in these fields,
and, in 1866, an Abteilung zur Bildung von Fachlehrern in mathematis-
cher und naturwissenschaftlicher Richtung was founded with two subdi-
visions, one for natural sciences and one for physics and mathematics.
The organizer of the latter division was the mathematician Erwin Bruno
Christoffel (1829–1900), who had studied in Berlin. At the ETH, too,
most of the professors of mathematics were of German origin until 1940.
The University of Basle had been a leading centre of mathematical sci-
ences during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries thanks to three
generations of the famous Bernoulli family with six professors of mathe-
matics and their student Leonhard Euler (1707–83). But in the first half
of the nineteenth century interest in mathematics was meagre. In 1862,
Carl Neumann (1832–1925) of Königsberg, a son of Franz Neumann, was
appointed associate professor. Discouraged by the insufficient mathemat-
ical knowledge of the students, he accepted an appointment in Tübingen
in 1865, where he introduced Königsberg methods. After 1912 and until
the 1950s, one of the two posts of full professor of mathematics remained
in German hands. The full professorships of physics and chemistry were
also mostly occupied by Germans.
The universities of Vienna, Graz and Prague also participated in the
exchange of professors in German-speaking areas. In 1867, Ernst Mach
(1838–1916) went from Graz to Prague as professor of experimental
physics. He worked there for almost 30 years until 1895, when he trans-
ferred to Vienna. Between 1868 and 1883, almost all Czech physics stu-
dents were educated by him, and many prominent professors of physics,
mathematics or astronomy at that time started their professional careers
as Mach’s assistants. Among his students were Cenek Dvořák (1848–
1922), later professor at Agram (Zagreb) University, and Cenek Strouhal
(1850–1922), the first professor of experimental physics at the Czech Uni-
versity of Prague, founded in 1882. In 1911, Albert Einstein who had been
associate professor of theoretical physics at the University of Zurich, was
appointed full professor at the German University of Prague, but one
year later he returned to the ETH Zurich, before going in 1914 to Berlin
as Director of the Kaiser Wilhelm Physical Institute. From Vienna came
Ludwig Boltzmann (1844–1906), successively professor at Graz, Vienna
and Munich, Erwin Schrödinger (1887–1961), professor at Stuttgart,
Breslau, Zurich, Berlin, Graz, Dublin and Vienna, and Wolfgang Pauli
(1900–58), professor at Hamburg and Zurich.

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Paul Bockstaele

the exact sciences at british universities


At both Oxford and Cambridge as well as at the Scottish universities, there
had been chairs in mathematics since the seventeenth or the eighteenth
centuries. What was taught at the beginning of the nineteenth century,
however, was very much out of date. Mathematics was not practised in the
universities for its intrinsic value nor, as in France, as a professionally, eco-
nomically or militarily useful science. Appreciated as an intellectual exer-
cise to help students to develop their ‘logical thinking’, it was accepted as
a useful instrument for the education of young men to become gentlemen.
At Oxford, the mathematical sciences were long refused a fair place in the
curriculum, and they counted for nothing in the examinations. In addition
to the study of the classics, the teaching in the colleges concentrated on the
study of Euclid, algebra, conic sections, plane and spherical trigonometry,
static, dynamics, hydrostatics, optics, fluxions and fluents, and Book I of
Newton’s Principia. Students were often dissatisfied with this science and
supplemented their knowledge by private instruction or self-study. They
often used the works of French mathematicians or astronomers, particu-
larly those of Lacroix, Laplace and Lagrange. In Cambridge they made the
extra effort because the Mathematical Tripos was the only examination
leading there to an honours degree until 1850. The candidates placed in the
first class were called wranglers, and to finish as the first or senior wran-
gler was considered a great success. In this way, the honours examinations
at Cambridge had become an institutionalized stimulus for the study of
mathematics. Important for the teaching of mathematics at Cambridge
was the foundation in 1812 by some undergraduates of the noteworthy
but short-lived Analytical Society.18 The objective of the founders was
‘to reform British mathematics generally, starting with notation’. They
encountered resistance. To reduce the university to a research centre for
mathematics did not fit into the then prevailing ideas of education. Defen-
sive reactions, manifested in the emphasis on geometry and elementary
mathematics, can be found even after 1840. Mathematics began to flour-
ish at Cambridge with the appointment of George Gabriel Stokes (1819–
1903) in 1849 as Lucasian Professor of Mathematics, a post he held until
his death in 1903. He promoted the study of higher mathematics and of
mathematical physics.
At the Scottish universities, the teaching of mathematics remained
unquestionably conservative and elementary until far into the nineteenth
century. Many professors were competent mathematicians, but their stu-
dents were insufficiently prepared for the study of higher mathematics.
18 J. M. Dubbey, The Mathematical Work of Charles Babbage (Cambridge, 1978), 31–
50; N. Guicciardini, The Development of Newtonian Calculus in Britain 1700–1800
(Cambridge, 1989), 135–8.

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The mathematical and the exact sciences

The average age at matriculation was fourteen to fifteen. Teaching often


took place in large groups, so that the individual student could expect little
personal attention. At the University of Dublin, the influence of the French
mathematicians and astronomers, especially Lacroix, Laplace, Monge and
Poisson was evident from the beginning of the century. The experimen-
tal sciences were long undervalued as degree programmes at the English
and Scottish universities. Even after the founding of the Natural Sciences
Tripos in 1848, there was strong opposition at Cambridge to attempts
to introduce examination questions on subjects like heat or electricity on
the ground that they were still immature sciences. However, the demand
for more science could not be ignored by the middle of the century.
A Royal Commission to enquire into the State, Discipline, Studies, and
Revenues of Cambridge University submitted its report in 1852. It rec-
ommended establishing a second chair for chemistry and increasing the
salary of the professors of sciences and mathematics. It pointed to the
need for courses illustrated by experiments. It also recommended cre-
ation of a ‘complete and thoroughly equipped laboratory’ for chemistry,
in which the professor and every member of the university who wished
to study chemistry could work freely. However, the Commission could
not surmount the resistance to the introduction of examinations on heat
and electricity. It proposed that ‘certain mathematico-physical theories,
which had obtained a temporary and questionable footing in the Exam-
ination, and which were felt to be in a considerable state of obscurity,
involving great mathematical difficulties, and rather marking the frontier
of science, than coming as yet fully within its ascertained range (those,
namely, of Electricity, Magnetism and Heat), should not be admitted as
subjects of examination.’19 The university began to construct new labo-
ratories in 1863. Over the next two years, accommodation was com-
pleted in turn for zoology, chemistry, mineralogy and botany. After many
years of agitation and consultation, the university began to take concrete
steps to set up a programme for the systematic teaching and study of
experimental physics. A committee to investigate the possibilities sub-
mitted its report in 1869. It proposed establishment of a professorship in
experimental physics associated with a well-equipped laboratory. William
Cavendish (1808–91), 7th Duke of Devonshire, made ample funds avail-
able for its construction and equipment. James Clerk Maxwell (1831–
79) was appointed the first Cavendish Professor at Cambridge. During
Maxwell’s professorship, the number of students who studied experi-
mental physics remained small. After his death in 1879, John William
Strutt (1841–1919), later Lord Rayleigh, took over the task. Following

19 Quoted in J. G. Crowther, The Cavendish Laboratory 1874–1974 (New York, 1974),


9–10.

507
Paul Bockstaele

the example of Helmholtz in Berlin and Kirchhoff in Heidelberg, he pro-


moted the systematic teaching of elementary practical physics for larger
numbers of students. He was succeeded in 1884 by Joseph John Thomson
(1856–1940), under whose leadership the Cavendish Laboratory grew in
less than twenty years to a world-renowned research centre for physics.
One of the first physics laboratories at a British university was estab-
lished by William Thomson, Lord Kelvin (1824–1907), professor of natu-
ral philosophy in Glasgow from 1846 to 1899. It may have been the very
first in which students could conduct experiments under the direction of
the professor. However, it was unsuitable for the practical instruction of
large groups of students. At Oxford, experimental philosophy was incor-
porated into the university in 1810 by the establishment of a readership,
paid for by a grant from the crown. Practical work in physics commenced
in 1867. The Clarendon Laboratory was begun the next year, and began
to offer courses in 1870. London did not do so well. As late as 1865,
only one room was available in University College, London, for classes
in experimental physics. The situation was the same for King’s College in
London, where systematic instruction in practical physics began in 1877.
The new system of chemical education introduced by Liebig illuminated
great flaws in the English educational system. In order to improve and
stimulate the teaching of chemistry, a College of Chemistry was founded in
London and entrusted to Liebig’s student, August Wilhelm von Hofmann
(1818–92). The College began in 1845 in rented rooms; later it acquired its
own building, with laboratories and an auditorium. As a private institu-
tion, the College ran into financial difficulties that slowed its development.
The government took it over in 1853, and made it the chemical depart-
ment of the Royal School of Mines. The twenty years Hofmann worked
there were of vital importance for the teaching of chemistry in Great
Britain. At the Victoria University of Manchester, a new, well-equipped
physics laboratory, replacing an existing one, was dedicated in 1900. In
1907, Ernest Rutherford (1871–1937) accepted the Langworthy Chair of
Physics there, together with the direction of the laboratory. Under his lead-
ership, the department soon became a school for research in radioactivity
that attracted researchers from throughout the world. In 1919, Rutherford
succeeded Thomson as the head of the Cavendish Laboratory.

higher education in the exact sciences


in russia
In the beginning of the nineteenth century, the government of the young
Tsar Alexander I began a thoroughgoing reform of education in Russia. In
1802 a Ministry of National Education was established, which worked out
an entire programme of reforms with the assistance of eminent scholars,

508
The mathematical and the exact sciences

including the mathematicians Nicolaus Fuss (1755–1826) and Stepan


Rumovskii (1734–1812). New universities were founded according to the
German model, but all received a faculty of mathematical and exact sci-
ences whose curriculum was unusually finely divided into pure and applied
mathematics, theoretical and experimental physics, chemistry, mineral-
ogy, astronomy, agriculture and botany. The number of educational per-
sonnel available in Russia did not allow the universities to fulfil the plan
from the outset. The first to do so was the German-language University
of Tartu (Dorpat). Its rector, Georg Parrot (1767–1852), a professor of
physics, had founded the necessary lecturers by 1805. He himself laid the
basis for the proper teaching of physics and provided a well-equipped
physics laboratory. At the University of Vilnius, the faculty of physics
and mathematics was subdivided into ten departments, each with a pro-
fessorship: physics, chemistry, natural history, botany, agriculture, higher
mathematics, applied mathematics, astronomy, practical astronomy and
civil architecture. Again, lack of professors prevented filling all the vacan-
cies. The teaching that was done used the books of Lacroix, Legendre,
Biot and Delambre. However, the university was closed in 1832 by Tsar
Nicholas I before it reached completion.
At the University of Moscow, physics, mechanics, chemistry, astronomy
and other courses were taught by foreigners. The University of Kazan had
the good fortune of being able to appoint four eminent German scien-
tists between 1808 and 1810: Johann Bartels (1769–1836) for pure math-
ematics, Kaspar Renner (1780–1816) for applied mathematics, Joseph
Littrow (1781–1840) for astronomy, and Franz Xaver Bronner (1758–
1850) for physics. Bartels had been the teacher of Gauss in Göttingen, and
in Kazan he had Nikolai Lobachevskii (1792–1856) among his students.
In Kharkov, mathematics was taught by Timofei Osipovskii (1765–1832),
one of the best mathematicians in Russia at the beginning of the nine-
teenth century. He wrote a handbook in three parts that introduced an
entire generation of Russians to mathematics and he translated Laplace’s
Mécanique céleste into Russian.
New problems arose around 1820 that disrupted the already difficult
beginnings of science teaching in Russia. The universities became the
scene of a sometimes bitter struggle between the Russian Government
and the foreign professors. Control of the national educational systems
had come into the hands of conservative bureaucrats, who encouraged
a mixture of piety and mysticism in the universities. Science had to be
saturated with Christian morality. The universities received instructions
about teaching from the religious point of view. Theoretical and experi-
mental physics could be used to demonstrate God’s omniscience and the
limits of human capabilities. Censorship was applied even to handbooks
of physics and chemistry. With the exception of Dorpat (Tartu), the effect

509
Paul Bockstaele

on the universities was catastrophic. Some professors were officially dis-


missed or voluntarily resigned, and most of the foreigners left Russia.
Many positions remained unoccupied, and the universities degenerated
into a scientific wasteland. It took them almost a quarter of a century to
recover completely from this disaster.
The first step to recovery was taken when, in 1827, it was decided to
send a few of the most promising students from Moscow, Kazan and
Kharkov for three years to the University of Tartu (Dorpat) and then for
two years abroad for further studies. The first group returned in 1834
from Western Europe, most having studied in Berlin. In the meantime,
a number of young scholars who had worked in Paris had returned to
Russia. Among them was P. A. Zateplinskiy (1794–1834), the first Russian
to be promoted to doctor at the Paris faculty of sciences, who taught
astronomy at the University of Kharkov from 1824 to 1834. There was
also Mikhail Ostrogradskii (1801–62), who studied in Paris from 1822 to
1827. After his return to Russia. he taught mathematics, analytic mechan-
ics and mathematical physics at several institutions in St Petersburg.
The Russian universities could not satisfy the enormous demand for
highly competent mathematicians, physicists or chemists in Russia, but
they did train a large number of students who could start as postgradu-
ate students under eminent scholars in the West. Thanks to the univer-
sities, Russia could begin to satisfy its needs in the 1860s with its own
people, and imported scholars became rare. From then on, mathematics,
mechanics and chemistry, in particular, experienced a striking emancipa-
tion at the universities and other educational institutions in Russia. An
important role in the revival of the study and the teaching of mathemat-
ical sciences in Russia was played by Viktor Buniakovskii (1804–89). In
1825, he obtained his doctorate in analytical mechanics and mathematical
physics at the faculty of sciences in Paris. In 1846, he was appointed pro-
fessor of pure and applied mathematics at the University of St Petersburg.
A year later, Pafnuty Lvovich Chebyshev (1821–94) came to St Petersburg
from Moscow as assistant professor and began teaching courses in higher
algebra and number theory. In 1850, he was appointed extraordinary pro-
fessor and, in 1860, ordinary professor. Together with Buniakovskii, he
laid the foundations for what became known as the St Petersburg school
of mathematics. Chebyshev’s work was continued by Andrey Andreevich
Markov (1856–1922). For more than 25 years, from 1878 to 1905, he
combined intensive research with teaching in higher algebra, number
theory, integral calculus, elliptic functions, the calculus of finite differ-
ences, probability theory and applied mechanics.
For physics, the University of St Petersburg could call upon aca-
demician Heinrich F. E. Lenz (1804–65), who had studied in Tartu
(Dorpat) under Parrot. From 1836 to 1865, he taught general physics,

510
The mathematical and the exact sciences

the theory of electricity and magnetism, and physical geography. In


chemistry, Aleksandr A. Voskresenskii (1809–80), who had studied with
Mitscherlich in Berlin and with Liebig in Giessen, regularly informed the
students about the new discoveries and ideas in chemistry. He also taught
at the St Petersburg Pedagogical Institute. His student Dmitrii Ivanovich
Mendeleev (1834–1907) was appointed professor of general chemistry
at the university in 1868. Through his agency, Aleksandr Mikhailovich
Butlerov (1828–86) came from Kazan to St Petersburg in 1868, where he
developed a school for organic chemistry. In Kazan, Butlerov had been
a student of Nikolai Nikolaevich Zinin (1812–80), who had worked in
Giessen with Liebig, and he was appointed there to extraordinary profes-
sor in chemistry in 1854 and to ordinary professor in 1857.
With the appointment in 1834 of Nikolai Dmitrievich Brashman (1796–
1866) to professor of applied mathematics at the University of Moscow,
the foundation was laid for the teaching of both theoretical and applied
mechanics. Pure mathematics flourished in the first third of the twentieth
century with the school of function theory of Dmitrii Fedorovich Egorov
(1869–1931) and Nikolai Nikolaevich Luzin (1883–1950).20 Egorov was
director of the Institute for Mathematics and Mechanics of the Univer-
sity of Moscow from 1921 to 1929. Luzin trained a pleiad of ‘Soviet
mathematicians’.

professionalization and scientific


r e s e a r c h 1870–1939
Three kinds of academic approaches to the exact sciences may be distin-
guished: the French or Latin, which was primarily professionally orien-
tated; the German, which gave precedence to scientific research; and the
English, which saw mathematics and natural sciences as elements of an all-
round education. Over the nineteenth century, these differences blurred,
and, by 1900, it was accepted everywhere that the universities were both
training schools and institutes for scientific research.
New social and economic needs and the increasing differentiation of the
natural sciences in particular led, by the first half of the nineteenth century,
to the disappearance of the encyclopaedic curriculum of the philosophy
faculty. The strong growth of the mathematical and the physical and chem-
ical sciences after 1870 brought ever-increasing specialization. Various
branches of mathematics, physics, astronomy and chemistry developed
into almost autonomous sub-disciplines, each with its own terminology
and method. At most universities, this development led to the introduction

20 E. R. Philips, ‘Nicolai Nicolaevich Luzin and the Moscow School of the Theory of Func-
tions’, Historia Mathematica, 5 (1978), 275–305.

511
Paul Bockstaele

of separate scientific degrees in mathematics, physics, chemistry and the


other natural sciences. The natural sciences, and chemistry and physics
in particular, had reached a degree of development that enabled them to
assist technology, the economy and industry. New areas of research arose,
such as electro-technology, agricultural chemistry and technical thermo-
dynamics. This meant that polytechnical schools, agricultural institutes
and medical faculties took on an ever-greater share of education and
research.
The increasing specialization and the great difference in the organiza-
tion of education make it difficult to form a coherent picture of scientific
research at the European universities around 1900. Nevertheless, some
general characteristics may be indicated. First of all, there is the unmis-
takable professionalization of the researchers. Previously, the professors
were primarily lecturers. Although research was welcome, it remained a
private activity. But by 1900, research was considered an integral part
of the professor’s task. Second, by the end of the century, students and
assistants were involved in research.
Around 1870, Berlin was the centre of the mathematical world. Simul-
taneous with the further expansion of classic areas, set theory was devel-
oped by Georg Cantor (1845–1918). Around the turn of the century, the
centre of gravity of mathematical research moved to Göttingen. French
mathematicians were interested primarily in the theory of functions. They
introduced set theory into analysis and, making use of measure theory,
generalized the concept of the integral. Together with Italian mathemati-
cians, they laid the foundations for a new branch of mathematics: func-
tional analysis. At the Italian universities, pronounced progress in math-
ematical research occurred after 1860. Links were again sought with the
most advanced currents in European research. Important centres were the
universities of Rome, Turin and Pisa and the Scuola Normale Superiore of
Pisa. There, the foundations were laid for the Italian school of algebraic
geometry.
Important work, particularly in classic analysis and functional analysis,
was done at Hungarian universities in between the two world wars. At
the University of Szeged, Frigyes Riesz (1880–1956), together with Alfred
Haar (1885–1933), founded the internationally renowned Janos Bolyai
Institute with its journal Acta Scientiarum mathematicarum. Lipót Fejér
(1880–1959), a professor at the University of Budapest, became the leader
of the successful Hungarian school of analysis.21
After the re-establishment of the Polish state at the end of World
War I, the University of Warsaw developed into a first-rank centre for

21 R. Hersch and V. John-Steiner, ‘A Visit to Hungarian Mathematics’, The Mathematical


Intelligencer, 15, 2 (1993), 13–26.

512
The mathematical and the exact sciences

mathematics, particularly owing to the work of Zygmunt Janiszewski


(1888–1920), Waclaw Sierpinski (1882–1969) and Stefan Mazurkiewicz
(1888–1945). Their interest was primarily in set theory, topology, the
foundations of mathematics, and logic. Together, they founded in 1920 the
journal Fundamenta Mathematica. Another traditional branch of math-
ematics, probability, achieved a new phase in its development thanks to
Pafnuty Lvovich Chebyshev (1821–94) and to the St Petersburg school of
mathematics he founded. Modern probability arose in the first decades
of the twentieth century with the work of A. N. Lyapunov (1857–1918)
and Markov, and was further developed between the wars by Aleksandr
Khinchin (1894–1959) and Andrey Nikolayevich Kolmogorov (1903–87)
in Moscow.
The founder of the modern science of statistics was Karl Pearson (1857–
1936), professor of applied mathematics and mechanics at University
College, London, from 1884 to 1911. Together with eugenicists and math-
ematicians, he formed the first department for applied statistics, whereby
London became the leading international centre for teaching and research
into statistical methods. Extensive opportunities for the introduction of
new subjects in education were also present in Scandinavian and Dutch
universities. At the Municipal University of Amsterdam, Luitzen Egbertus
Jan Brouwer (1881–1966) attempted to broaden and improve the mathe-
matics programme and to increase the number of professors. By 1923,
there were four professors in mathematics, including Brouwer who,
besides function theory, gave the then unusual courses of set theory and
the foundations of mathematics.
The rise of Nazism was disastrous for mathematics and mathematical
physics. Between April and November 1933, the Mathematics Institute
in Göttingen was virtually destroyed. Many of its staff emigrated to the
United States, England and elsewhere. Richard von Mises went to Istan-
bul, where he, at the request of the Turkish Government, established an
institute for pure and applied mathematics. As was the case for math-
ematics, the period between 1933 and 1939 had a decisive influence on
the development of physics and chemistry in Europe. Many scholars from
the countries ruled by Hitler and Mussolini were dismissed or expelled, or
conditions were made impossible for them to work in. Among them were
physicists like Einstein, Debye, Born, Fermi and Schrödinger. The same
occurred in Soviet Russia; accused of participation in ‘antirevolutionary’
and ‘reactionary’ organizations, Egorov was arrested in 1931 and ban-
ished to Kazan, where he died. Luzin was accused of having ‘anti-Soviet’
feelings, and resigned from the university.22 Although important work
22 A. Shields, ‘Years Ago’, The Mathematical Intelligencer, 9, 4 (1987), 24–7, and 11, 2
(1989), 5–8; C. E. Ford, ‘Dimitrii Egorov: Mathematics and Religion in Moscow’, The
Mathematical Intelligencer, 13, 2 (1991), 24–30.

513
Paul Bockstaele

went on in Europe until 1939, preparations for war and war itself dealt
a blow to science such that Europe has never recovered its pre-war dom-
inance.
Paris’s importance in chemistry was maintained by Berthollet, Dumas,
Gay-Lussac and Michel-Eugène Chevreuil (1786–1889). They combined
industrial and academic work in a stimulating way, but they did not
succeed in preventing Germany from assuming leadership in chemistry.
In Great Britain, chemical research was never centralized as in France.
Although it had strong centres in Edinburgh and Manchester it could not
stem the German advance.
The increasing complexity of chemistry, which resulted in its divi-
sion into new, more or less autonomous branches, also brought in
more mathematics, in the discipline of physical chemistry. Its founders
were Jacobus van’t Hoff (1852–1911), Svante Arrhenius (1859–1927)
and Wilhelm Ostwald (1853–1932); its journal, the Zeitschrift für
physikalische Chemie, was founded in 1887.
Another novel chemical sub-discipline was biochemistry. By the mid-
dle of the century, a few chemists, including Liebig, began to integrate
their work with that of biological researchers. Physiologists at first made
major, though incoherent, contributions to biochemistry. Only at the end
of the nineteenth century did the pieces begin to fall together, and modern
biochemistry arose as an inter-discipline between the animal and plant
chemistry of the chemists and the physiological chemistry of the biolo-
gists and medical researchers. The definitive flourishing of biochemistry,
however, only commenced after 1920. Biochemistry as an independent
sub-discipline received a place in university curricula only after World
War II.
The harvest of scientific discoveries was the result of research concen-
trated in universities and polytechnic institutes. Between 1890 and 1914,
well-organized academic laboratories were the sites of original, system-
atic research. Among the great research centres, alongside the Institute
for Physics in Berlin and the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge, the
Laboratoire de Recherche Physique of the Sorbonne has a place. It was
built and equipped as directed by Gabriel Lippmann (1845–1921), who
became its director in 1886. Important original research also came out
of the physics laboratory of the University of Manchester, particularly
under Rutherford. In the Netherlands, primarily the physics laboratory
of the University of Leiden with Heike Kamerling Onnes (1853–1926) and
Hendrik Antoon Lorentz (1853–1928) and the laboratory of Amsterdam
with Johannes Diderik van der Waals (1837–1923) and Pieter Zeeman
(1865–1943), were busy international centres.
In 1891, Arrhenius was appointed professor of physics at the Technical
University of Stockholm, a chair that he held until 1905, when he became

514
The mathematical and the exact sciences

head of the section of physical chemistry of the Nobel Institute of the


Academy of Sciences. During the years of his professorship, a stream of
students came from Sweden and abroad to work with him in Stockholm.
In 1912, Niels Bohr (1885–1962), after his studies at the University of
Copenhagen, went to Manchester where he collaborated with Rutherford.
In 1918, he became the first director of the Institute for Theoretical Physics
at the University of Copenhagen. In a few years, his Institute became a
Mecca for theoretical physicists the world over.
Research into the physical sciences in Italy remained largely limited to
theoretical physics. Important research centres developed only after 1927
at the universities of Rome and Florence and, after 1930, in Turin. The ori-
gins of theoretical physics should be sought in the mathematical physics
taught in France and at Italian and Belgian universities from early in the
nineteenth century. Its substance was the mechanics of fluids, elasticity,
sound and optics. During the nineteenth century, it picked up thermody-
namics, aerodynamics and potential theory. The parts of mathematical
physics closest to ongoing experimental work developed into theoretical
physics, which came into its own around the turn of the century with
William Thomson (later Lord Kelvin) and Franz Neumann. Initially, edu-
cation in theoretical physics was generally seen as a supplement to that
in experimental physics; consequently German universities introduced it
through an extraordinary professorship junior to the ordinary profes-
sorship for experimental physics. By the turn of the century, almost all
German universities had an extraordinary professorship for theoretical
physics. By 1914, nine of them had been converted to ordinary professor-
ships. By 1900, however, Germany was leading the field.
Physics education at British universities was dominated for most of the
nineteenth century by graduates of the Cambridge Mathematical Tripos.23
The candidates were required to present skills in the solution of problems
in mechanics, hydrostatics, hydrodynamics, and later on after 1860 also
in optics and electromagnetism. As late as 1914 in England and Scotland,
almost half of the chairs in physics were occupied by men trained in the
Mathematical Tripos. They propagated that confidence in worked out
mechanical models that characterized British physics until World War I.
After 1910, the influence of the Cambridge School waned as a result of
the growing prestige of the Natural Sciences Tripos, which was founded
in 1848, the foundation of research schools at municipal universities,
particularly in London and Manchester, and the rise of physical theo-
ries irreducible to mechanics. Because physics had become a requirement

23 P. Forman, J. L. Heilbron and S. Weart, ‘Physics circa 1900: Personnel, Funding and
Productivity of the Academic Establishments’, Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences,
5 (1975), 32.

515
Paul Bockstaele

also in agronomy, medicine and engineering, the teaching staff expanded


considerably everywhere around 1900. Moreover, there came, in addi-
tion to the lectures on experimental physics, analytical mechanics and
theoretical physics, specialized courses in industrial physics, hydraulics,
electricity, electro-technology and astrophysics.
Already by the nineteenth century, a distinction was made between
mathematical and physical astronomy. Physical astronomy described the
various heavenly bodies separately and the changes observed on the sur-
face of the sun, the planets or other heavenly bodies. Applied to the earth,
this study was called meteorology and geophysics. Mathematical astron-
omy was concerned with computing the motions of the planets, satellites,
and so on. The theoretical basis for the study of the movement of the heav-
enly bodies and the calculation of the orbits of planets is celestial mechan-
ics. Its flourishing at the end of the century is reflected in works like Felix
Tisserand’s (1845–96) Traité de mécanique céleste (4 vols., 1889–96) and
Henri Poincaré’s (1854–1912) Les méthodes nouvelles de la mécanique
céleste (3 vols., 1905–10). Few universities had a good observatory, the
essential basis for most of nineteenth century astronomy. Among excep-
tions were Leiden (founded in 1633, new building in 1861), Copenhagen
(originally built in 1650), Uppsala (1730), Glasgow (1760), Tartu (Dorpat)
(1809), Cambridge (1820), Bonn (1836) and Strasburg (1881). Other uni-
versities with attached observatories are Cracow, Vienna, Leipzig, Kazan,
Breslau, Budapest, Basle and Bordeaux.
The introduction of photography meant a revolution in astronomical
research. By the end of the nineteenth century, photography had almost
completely replaced visual observation. An important consequence was
that every university and institute could participate in scientific research
in stellar astronomy by studying photographs taken elsewhere. A leading
example is Jacobus Cornelius Kapteyn’s (1851–1922) Astronomical Lab-
oratory, launched at the University of Groningen in 1896, which took up
the processing of photographic plates taken elsewhere. Kapteyn became
one of the pioneers of stellar statistics. New opportunities were offered to
stellar astronomy by spectroscopy. By 1817, Joseph Fraunhofer (1787–
1826) had connected a spectroscope to a telescope, but it was primarily
Kirchhoff and Bunsen who, between 1859 and 1861, set the spectral anal-
ysis of the light from the stars on a solid foundation. From this developed
astrophysics, the science that is concerned with the physics and the chem-
istry of the heavenly bodies. Rapidly after its discovery, spectral anal-
ysis was applied to stars by William Huggins (1824–1910) in England,
Angelo Secchi (1818–78) in Rome, and Hermann Karl Vogel (1841–1907)
in Germany. Notwithstanding these initial successes, it took a long time
before astronomers accepted the new concepts, methods and instruments,
which were alien to the routine work of the observatory. Although its

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origin was in Europe, astrophysics underwent its greatest growth at the


end of the nineteenth century in America. Around 1910, it grew together
with the traditional positional astronomy into a joint enterprise.
From 1900 on, astronomers devoted a large part of their time and atten-
tion to the structure of the Milky Way and of individual stars themselves.
In this context the new branch of astronomy, stellar statistics, developed
thanks to Hugo von Seeliger (1849–1924), professor in Munich, and Karl
Schwarzschild (1873–1948), professor in Göttingen and later director of
the Astrophysics Observatory of Potsdam. The theoretical development
was provided by the Swedish astronomer Carl Charlier (1862–1934), pro-
fessor in Lund, who founded there a school for stellar statistics.

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Ausejo, E. and Hormigón, M. (eds.) Messengers of Mathematics: European Math-
ematical Journals (1800–1946), Madrid, 1993.
Beckert, H. and Schumann, H. (eds.) 100 Jahre mathematisches Seminar der
Karl-Marx-Universität Leipzig, Berlin, 1981.
Biermann, K. R. Die Mathematik und ihre Dozenten an der Berliner Universität
1810–1933. Stationen auf dem Wege eines mathematischen Zentrums von
Weltgeltung, Berlin, 1988.
Breidbach, O. et al. (eds.) Lorenz Oken, Weimar, 2001.
Caneva, K. L. ‘From Galvanism to Electrodynamics: The Transformation of
German Physics and its Social Context’, Historical Studies in the Physical
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de Castro Freire, F. Memoria historica da Faculdade de mathematica nos cem
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Coimbra, 1872.
Crosland, M. and Smith, C. ‘The Transmission of Physics from France to Britain:
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Fiocca, A. and Pepe, L. ‘L’Insegnamento della matematica nell’ Università di Fer-
rara dal 1771 al 1942’, in Università e cultura a Ferrara e Bologna, Pubbli-
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Gericke, H. Zur Geschichte der Mathematik an der Universität Freiburg i. Br.,
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Golab, S. Studia z dziejów katedr Wydzialu matematyki, fizyki, chemii Uniwer-
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Grattan-Guinness, I. ‘Grandes Ecoles, Petite Université: Some Puzzled Remarks
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CHAPTER 13

BIOLOGY AND THE EARTH


SCIENCES

ANTO LEIKOLA

the birth of biology


The year 1802 was, in a sense, a turning point in the history of biology.
In that year, the science of biology was formally born, simultaneously on
both sides of the Rhine. In France, Jean-Baptiste Lamarck (1744–1829),
professor of the Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle of Paris, defined biology
as follows: ‘All that is generally common to plants and animals, as all
those features which are, without exceptions, proper to all of these crea-
tures, should be the sole and wide subject of a particular science which
has not yet been founded, which has even yet no name and which I shall
call Biology.’1 In his famous Philosophie zoologique, in 1809, Lamarck
returned to this new discipline, mentioning that he had collected a great
amount of material for a book with the title Biologie. But, as he some-
what sadly put it, ‘this work will now remain, as far as I am concerned,
unwritten’.2
Lamarck was a controversial figure, and his work was soon nearly
forgotten. In Germany, Gottfried Reinhold Treviranus (1776–1864) was
more fortunate. In 1802, when he was only 26 years old, he began pub-
lishing his major work on Biologie. The word ‘biology’ had been used
occasionally, but in Treviranus’s work, which became quite popular in
the German-speaking world, the concept was well defined:

1 J.-B. Lamarck, ‘Discours d’ouverture de l’An X’, in J.-B. Lamarck, Recherches sur
l’organisation des corps vivants (Paris, 1802).
2 J.-B. Lamarck, Philosophie zoologique (Paris, 1809; 1907 edn), Avertissement, p. xxii:
‘. . . j’ai fait usage des principaux matériaux que je rassemblais pour un ouvrage projeté
sur les corps vivants, sous le titre de Biologie, ouvrage qui, de ma part, restera sans
exécution’; cf. J.-B. Lamarck, Zoological Philosophy. An Exposition With Regard to the
Natural History of Animals (translated by Hugh Elliott) (Chicago and London, 1984), 6.

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The object of our study will be the different forms and phenomena of life,
those conditions and laws, under which this state will occur, and those
causes through which it is influenced. The science which works on these
subjects will be called biology, or the science of life. We shall thus begin to
work with material, which has so far been dispersed among many different
disciplines, especially in natural history and theoretical medicine.3

Many other events in biological – and geological – sciences could be


picked up from the years around 1800. There was the histology of Xavier
Bichat (1771–1802), which was announced in 1800 in his Traité des mem-
branes and in 1801 in Anatomie générale. There was the new compara-
tive anatomy of Georges Cuvier (1769–1832), which, of course, had its
roots in the Renaissance but which became manifest in a new sense in
Cuvier’s Leçons d’anatomie comparée in the year VIII of the Revolution,
i.e. 1800. The two Italian experimental physiologists and physicists, Luigi
Galvani (1737–98) and Alessandro Volta (1745–1827), continued their
dispute about the nature of electricity, especially ‘animal electricity’, until
Galvani’s death; they paved the way for the rise of modern neurophysiol-
ogy in the 1840s.
As to geology, James Hutton (1726–97) had announced his uniformi-
tarian theory in 1785 and in an enlarged form in 1795 in his book Theory
of the Earth, but his ideas became more generally known only during the
early years of the nineteenth century, when the ‘Neptunists’, headed by the
influential German geologist and mineralogist Abraham Gottlob Werner
(1750–1817), were in a long and sometimes bitter controversy with the
‘Vulcanists’ about the principal factor responsible for the formation of
the earth’s crust; according to the Neptunists it was water, according to
the Vulcanists it was fire.
The beginning of the century was also the beginning of the era of
Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859), who returned with his friend
Aimé Bonpland (1773–1858) from their great voyage to South America
in 1804. Humboldt is nowadays mainly known as an explorer and as
the founding father of plant geography, but during the first half of the
nineteenth century he exercised great influence on all scientific thinking.
Especially with his lectures in Berlin in the 1820s he raised among the pub-
lic a new interest in the sciences, which soon led to a German hegemony
in many fields, and not least in the biological ones. In his older days –
he lived to be 90 – Humboldt became a symbol of science for the whole
of Europe, comparable to Albert Einstein (1879–1955) a century later.

3 G. Treviranus, Biologie, oder Philosophie der lebenden Natur für Naturforscher und Ärzte,
6 vols. (Göttingen, 1802–22), vol. I, 444.

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Biology and the earth sciences

In his mighty work Kosmos (1845–62) Humboldt described the world


as a great whole governed by laws of universal harmony, an idea he had
in common with the German Naturphilosophie, although in his scien-
tific work he relied on observation and empirical facts. For the Natur-
philosoph, empiricism appeared too limited and restricting, and they gave
free rein to their imagination in the search for the ultimate secrets of
Nature. The most influential of them all was Lorenz Oken (1779–1851),
to whom we owe the word ‘infusoria’ as a designation of the most prim-
itive living creatures. Oken’s philosophy was fantastic and obscure – it
has been said that his prose has become virtually impenetrable to the
modern reader unfamiliar with the enthusiastic outpourings of Romantic
philosophy – but it appealed to the Romantic mind of the time, and his
Allgemeine Naturgeschichte für alle Stände4 became very popular among
the public, although at the time of its publication the Romantic movement
was practically over in the natural sciences. The tide was changing from
Naturphilosophie towards Naturwissenschaft, characterized by Matthias
Schleiden’s (1804–81) and Theodor Schwann’s (1810–82) cell theory and
Schleiden’s textbook, which in further editions was given a still more
revealing name, Die Botanik als inductive Wissenschaft.5
Oken published his first memoir on Naturphilosophie in 1803, when he
was only 24 years old and still an undergraduate. In France, the Romantic
ideas culminated in Etienne Geoffroy St Hilaire’s (1772–1844) writings,
especially as he grew older in the 1830s; his great controversy with Cuvier
in 1830 on the unity of the structure of animals has become particularly
famous because it attracted the attention of Goethe, who, as a holist, was
determinedly on Geoffroy’s side. But the Romantic attitude had already
become manifest earlier in Xavier Bichat’s vitalism, which was aphoris-
tically expressed by the famous sentence ‘La vie est l’ensemble des fonc-
tions qui résistent à la mort’.6 Bichat, who died quite young in 1802, was
widely read and highly respected during the whole first half of the century,
even by researchers like Auguste Comte and Claude Bernard (1813–78),
who strongly opposed his metaphysical vitalism, and a new edition of his
Recherches was published in 1852, half a century after his death.

different patterns: france and germany


France and Germany were the countries which dominated biological
research during the first part of the nineteenth century. In France, research
was organized on a professional basis during and after the Revolution.
4 L. Oken, Allgemeine Naturgeschichte für alle Stände, 13 parts (Stuttgart, 1833–45).
5 M. Schleiden, Grundzüge der wissenschaftlichen Botanik, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1842–43).
6 X. Bichat, Recherches physiologiques sur la vie et la mort (1800; new edn, Paris,
1852), 1.

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Anto Leikola

The Jardin du Roy in Paris had been a focal research institution before the
revolution, thanks to Buffon (1707–88), the Juissieux – Antoine (1686–
1758), Antoine Laurent (1748–1836) – and others, and its importance was
certainly not diminished with the establishment, in 1793, of the Muséum
d’Histoire Naturelle at the former Royal Garden, now Jardin des Plantes.
The following year important institutions of learning were added, espe-
cially the Ecole Normale Supérieure and the Ecole Polytechnique; 1795
saw the founding of the Institut de France, in which the old Académie des
Sciences was incorporated, together with four other academies.
France had since the seventeenth century been a centralized country, and
if the Revolution brought any changes in this, it was towards still more
centralization. The scientific traditions lived in the Academy, the Muséum
and the grandes écoles but not in the faculties, where these traditions had
always been poor. Because of this centralization, it became possible for a
leading figure like Cuvier to become a ‘dictator of biology’; he was, besides
being professor at the Muséum, the perpetual secretary of the Académie
des Sciences, and he was on good terms with all successive administra-
tions, from Napoleon to the Bourbons and finally to Louis-Philippe. At the
restoration of the Bourbons in 1814, Cuvier became the director of Protes-
tant universities – including those parts of Germany which were under
French control – and as a Councillor of State, he held a position equiva-
lent to the Minister of Education. After Cuvier’s death in 1832, nothing in
French biology remained as before, and in spite of much good work done
by men like Etienne Geoffroy St Hilaire, his son Isidore (1805–61), who
is remembered especially for his embryological experiments, the zoolo-
gists Achille Valenciennes (1791–1864) and Henri Ducrotay de Blainville
(1778–1850), and the Brongniart family – father Alexandre the geologist
(1770–1847), and son Adolphe the botanist (1801–76) – the leadership
in biological sciences was taken by German university teachers.
In Germany, with no central political power, a centralized system of
higher education would have been impossible, and although there were
several learned societies in the German countries, none of them – not
even the Leopoldina Academy, founded originally as Academia Natu-
rae Curiosorum in 1652 at Schweinfurt, nor the Academy of Berlin,
founded by Leibniz in 1700 – could claim a leading position in scien-
tific life. Science, when it was exercised, belonged to the universities,
and these belonged usually to the states, whether kingdoms, duchies
or city republics. What is more, medical instruction, and correspond-
ingly, medical research, also belonged to the universities, unlike in France,
where much instruction was given and research done in medical schools
(Facultés) or hospitals independent from universities (even when the uni-
versities were in existence). Lamarck and Cuvier worked at the Jardin
des Plantes and Bichat at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital (at that time called the

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Biology and the earth sciences

Grand Hospice d’Humanité) in Paris, but Treviranus was a professor at


the Bremen Lyceum, and Oken held several teaching posts in the universi-
ties of Göttingen, Jena, Munich and Erlangen, before finally settling down
at the University of Zurich. The fact that there were several universities
and university-type colleges in the German-speaking world (including part
of Switzerland, Austria, Bohemia, and even the Baltic provinces, notably
the University of Dorpat (Turku)) provided a certain mobility for scien-
tists: they could aspire to a better position in a better university, or, as in
the case of Oken, change places when radical scientific or political ideas
had made life and work difficult in the previous institution.
A great move towards the ‘scientification’ of the German universities
was effected by the founding of the University of Berlin in 1810, because its
ideology included free scientific research as a necessary part of university
life.7 Together with the mobility of the professors and other teachers it
meant better possibilities for spreading new scientific ideas in receptive
environments. And for the states, scientific achievements in the universities
could become objects of national pride in a new way, when the value of
the university was no longer counted in the bulk of learning but in the
quantity of scientific innovations.

a new physiology
A famous example of the new German spirit was the case of Johannes
Müller (1801–58). He studied at the University of Bonn in the spirit of
the Naturphilosophie and received his medical degree in 1822. After some
further studies in Berlin under the celebrated anatomist Karl Rudolphi
(1771–1832) – one of the first to detach himself from Romantic idealism –
he returned to Bonn and became a professor there, not yet 24 years old.
After the death of Rudolphi, in 1832, Müller, who already had made
himself a name in the field of physiology, wrote in a letter to Mr Altenstein,
the Prussian Minister of Education:
My friends in this country and abroad – as well as I myself – feel that I am
destined to head a great institution. Here I will never find any opportunity
to use all my capacities. When I now, in the full force of my young age,
can sense what I could get done, I feel myself obliged and forced to turn to
Your Excellency and recommend myself when this most important step will
be taken, which for many years will determine the spirit which emanates
from the splendid institutions of Berlin and which can with good reason be
expected from them, judging from the most active life in other sciences. . . .8

7 See chapter 2, 47–52, and chapter 6, 169–75.


8 ‘Brief, 7.1.1833’, in E. Du Bois-Reymond, Gedächtnisrede auf Johannes Müller (Berlin,
1860), 62.

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Anto Leikola

He wanted to make Berlin as central in anatomy and physiology as Paris


had been in zoological anatomy during Cuvier’s time, which had recently
ended. Although the style of this boastful letter was rather unusual, Müller
got the professorship, and he did what he had promised: Berlin became
a European centre for physiology and comparative anatomy. Müller’s
Handbuch der Physiologie des Menschen,9 of which he had finished the
first volume slightly before moving to Berlin, has been described as a
milestone in European physiology, and its import to this science has
been compared to that of Albrecht von Haller’s (1708–77) monumen-
tal Elementa physiologiae corporis humani in the previous century. And
although Müller in the 1840s and 1850s moved away from physiology
and concentrated on the comparative anatomy of lower animals, he had a
number of students who adopted the experimental method, which Müller
himself did not practise, and created the flourishing school of German
physiology, rivalled only by Claude Bernard in France. Müller remained
a vitalist in his theoretical views, but times were changing, and most of
the students expressed a tendency towards a materialist interpretation of
life processes.
Among Müller’s students were Emil Du Bois-Reymond (1818–96), the
pioneer of electrophysiology and Müller’s successor in Berlin; Carl Ludwig
(1816–92), the inventor of the kymograph and other physiological instru-
ments and the first professor of physiology in Leipzig, where he founded
the first modern physiological institute; Ernst von Brücke (1819–92), who
taught physiology in Königsberg and then in Vienna – Sigmund Freud
was one of his students – and who became especially noted for his studies
of physiological phonetics, but who also worked on many other fields
of physiology; and Hermann von Helmholtz (1821–94), whose name
remains famous in energetics, physiological acoustics and optics, nerve
physiology, and many branches of physics, such as energetics and hydro-
dynamics, and who taught physiology first at Königsberg, then at Bonn
and Heidelberg, and finally physics in Berlin. All these brilliant physi-
ologists had many students, not only from German-speaking countries
but also from Scandinavia, where the new methods and attitudes were
spread by such men as the Swede Frithiof Holmgren (1831–97) and the
Finn Robert Tigerstedt (1853–1923). When the generation of Müller’s
students passed away in the 1880s and 1890s, most of European physi-
ology had been moulded by the German school, a fact that was to a great
extent due to the fruitful combination of teaching and research in several
universities.

9 J. Müller, Handbuch der Physiologie, vol. I (Koblenz, 1833); vol. II (Koblenz, 1837–40).

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Biology and the earth sciences

t h e c e l l t h e o ry
One of the most gifted students of Müller was Theodor Schwann (1810–
82), the father of the general cell theory. He received his decisive stimulus
from Matthias Schleiden (1804–81), who first studied law in Heidelberg
and thereafter medicine and botany in Göttingen and Berlin. Being aware
of Robert Brown’s (1773–1858) discovery of the plant cell nucleus, Schlei-
den published in 1838 a paper entitled Beiträge zur Phytogenesis, where
he formulated plant cell theory, i.e. that all plants are composed of cells,
that each cell has an individual life, and that the life of the plant is actually
a result of the life of its cells. Even before publication he could describe
the cells to his younger friend Schwann, who had assisted Müller in Bonn
and then, after some years of study at Würzburg, followed his teacher to
Berlin. There he invented the ‘muscular balance’ for measuring muscular
force – a bold attempt to treat a ‘vital’ phenomenon simply as a phys-
ical one – discovered pepsin as the first physiological catalyst, and pro-
pounded the view, later confirmed by Pasteur, that alcoholic fermentation
is the result of the activity of yeast, which he conceived as an organism,
and that putrefaction is the result of microbial activity and not vice versa.
After having learned from Schleiden about the plant cells, Schwann began
working with histological preparations of animal tissues and found cells
everywhere. Thus he could extend Schleiden’s theory to all living matter,
and general cell theory has ever since remained one of the most funda-
mental paradigms of the biological sciences. But even before Schwann
had published his epoch-making Mikroskopische Untersuchungen,10 he
was severely criticized and even ridiculed by the leading chemists Friedrich
Wöhler (1800–82) and Justus von Liebig (1802–73), who held an opposite
view about alcoholic fermentation, and his university career in Germany
was at an end. He accepted an invitation to a professorship of anatomy
in Louvain, Belgium, from where he later moved to Liège, but his creative
genius was emptied and his mind turned to spiritual meditations; during
his 40 years as professor in Belgium he achieved nothing that could even
distantly be likened to the brilliant achievements of his youth in Berlin.
It was Müller, however, who picked the new cell theory for the second
volume of his Handbuch, and this lent the theory an authority which it
might not otherwise have attained, at least not so rapidly. It was soon
accepted practically everywhere, and new applications of it were found
in embryology and reproduction and other fields of biology; it is strange
how little controversy this fundamental breaking of the ‘unity of the living

10 T. Schwann, Mikroskopische Untersuchungen über die Übereinstimmung in der Struktur


und dem Wachstum der Tiere und der Pflanzen (Berlin, 1839).

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Anto Leikola

organism’ actually caused, especially if it is compared with the tremendous


controversies occasioned by the other great change of paradigm in biology,
the evolutionary theory, launched twenty years later.
Amongst those who developed cell theory at the German universities
are Albert von Kölliker (1817–1905), who explained that the egg and the
‘spermatozoon’, or ‘sperm animalcule’, are actually cells (in the case of
the egg he followed Schwann’s opinion); Karl von Siebold (1804–85), who
stated that protozoans are independent organisms consisting of one single
cell; Jakob Henle (1809–85), who created modern histology by treating
all animal tissues in the light of the cell theory; Franz von Leydig (1821–
1908), whose textbook11 compared, on the basis of the cell theory, verte-
brate and invertebrate tissues; Karl von Nägeli (1817–91), who was the
first to discover chromosomes (‘cytoblasts’) in cell division; Robert Remak
(1815–65), a student of Müller, who described the cleavage of the fertil-
ized amphibian and bird egg as a division of cells; and Rudolf Virchow
(1821–1902), another student of Müller, who founded cellular pathology
and carried to a triumph the opinion that all cells are born from previous
cells by division (‘omnis cellula e cellula’), contrary to what Schleiden
and Schwann had thought. Their careers reflect, once again, the mobility
of the German university professor. Henle, for instance, studied both at
Bonn and at Heidelberg, then followed Müller to Berlin and became his
assistant and close collaborator, obtained a professorship at Zurich and
then at Heidelberg, and settled down finally in 1852 at the University of
Göttingen. Kölliker, who was Swiss, studied first in Berlin under the guid-
ance of Müller, Henle and Remak, became Henle’s follower at Zurich,
and taught then for 50 years, from 1847 to 1897, at Würzburg. Leydig
studied at Würzburg and Munich, became in 1857 professor at Tübingen
and taught at Bonn from 1875 to 1887. Virchow received his medical
degree in Berlin, occupied the first German professorship in pathology at
Würzburg from 1849 to 1856 and was invited to a similar post in Berlin,
where he worked until his death in 1902, increasing interest in anthropol-
ogy and archaeology. Anthropology was a field that attracted Schleiden,
too: in the early 1860s he even worked for a couple of years as a professor
of this field at the University of Dorpat (Tartu).
These careers, and many others, show that in most cases there were
good opportunities for scientific talent in the German-speaking world,
and in the students, assistants and Privatdozenten the professors often
had a circle from which new scientists were recruited. Difficulties arose
sometimes from having too radical opinions, or too powerful adversaries –
as in the case of Schwann – or an unsuitable birth – as in the case of
Remak, who was a Polish Jew and therefore could not be appointed to a

11 F. von Leydig, Histologie des Menschen und der Tiere (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1857).

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Biology and the earth sciences

permanent teaching post in Prussia until 1859, when his scientific work
was nearly over. Remak’s first lectures twelve years earlier had been a real
sensation, because he was the first Jew ever to lecture at the University of
Berlin. But by and large the system worked well along the Humboldtian
principles: research and teaching were intimately interwoven and they
both enhanced each other. The result was a great rise in general scientific
education, and a rapid progress of science in most fields.
The Scandinavian countries followed very much the same pattern,
although the mobility was necessarily more restricted: Denmark, Norway
and Finland had each only one university (in Denmark Copenhagen, in
Norway Christiania (Oslo), and in Finland Helsingfors (Helsinki)), and
Sweden had two (Uppsala and Lund), whereas in the German-speaking
world the number was already around twenty by the middle of the cen-
tury. In Russia, several universities were founded in the early years of
the nineteenth century, but practically all scientific work was done at the
St Petersburg Academy of Sciences by academicians and professors with
more or less German backgrounds and a German-type university educa-
tion. Thus, for instance, Karl Ernst von Baer (1792–1876), who became
perhaps the most famous of the St Petersburg academicians in the bio-
logical sciences, made his medical studies at Tartu (Dorpat), pursued his
studies in Berlin, Würzburg and Vienna, taught anatomy, zoology and
anthropology at Königsberg from 1817 to 1834, and spent the rest of his
working life in St Petersburg, from 1846, as an academician. During his
Königsberg years he discovered the mammalian egg and laid the founda-
tions of modern embryology, whereas in St Petersburg he turned towards
geography, ethnography, anthropology and pisciculture; after retirement
he returned to his old university town of Tartu (Dorpat) and participated
actively in the work of the Estonian Naturalists’ Society.
In Mediterranean Europe, research on a high international level was rel-
atively rare. Scientific development did, of course, occur, although some-
times with considerable delay. Thus, for instance, Baer’s embryology and
Schwann’s cell theory became established in Spain only during the 1850s
through the influence of Mariano López Mateos (1800–63), professor at
the University of Granada; a previous textbook, compulsory in all medi-
cal faculties in Spain, was notably retrograde and hostile to all new ideas.
Only during the last decades of the century did new important contri-
butions to histology and cytology begin to spring from Mediterranean
Europe: in the 1870s and 1880s Camillo Golgi (1843–1926), working at
the University of Pavia, established the modern concept of the neurone
as a nerve cell with all its outgrowths, and in the 1890s and 1900s Santi-
ago Ramón y Cajal (1852–1934), professor in Barcelona and thereafter in
Madrid, continued Golgi’s work, for which they both received the Nobel
Prize in 1906.

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Anto Leikola

claude bernard and louis pasteur


As has been mentioned earlier, the situation in France was very differ-
ent, at least until the revitalization of the universities in 1896. Most of the
work in the biological sciences was concentrated in Paris, at the Académie
des Sciences, Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle and the Collège de France. For
biological and biomedical research, the medical schools must also be taken
into account. Claude Bernard, the great master of French physiology, came
to Paris in order to make a career as a playwright but was counselled to
study medicine instead. He took his degree at the Faculté de Médecine
and was working at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital, where François Magendie
(1783–1855), the leading physiologist of the country, and soon professor
at the Collège de France, ‘found’ him, and this encounter resulted in a
collaboration of fifteen years. Magendie was above all an experimenter,
but Claude Bernard, whose skill in experimentation was at least as good,
was, in addition, interested in physiological theory. After the death of
Magendie, Claude Bernard succeeded him at the Collège de France. In
1865, during a period of illness, he wrote his Introduction à l’étude de
la médecine expérimentale, which Henri Bergson (1859–1941) later com-
pared to Descartes’ Discours de la Méthode, and which Emile Zola used
as a ‘guidebook’ in his ‘experimental novel’.12 From 1854 to 1868 Claude
Bernard held a chair at the Faculté des Sciences, thus giving courses in
two separate institutions. Paul Bert (1833–86) took over his chair at the
Faculté, but then Claude Bernard received a professorship at the Muséum,
where Pierre Flourens (1794–1867) – an influential neurophysiologist and
Claude Bernard’s predecessor in the Académie Française – had earlier
taught comparative physiology. The eminent physiologist thus floated
between several institutions, which, however, were all in Paris, and of
which none was a proper university. A career based on the German model
was not possible in France.
Another substitute for the university in Paris was the Ecole Normale
Supérieure, which became the stronghold of Louis Pasteur, the other giant
in nineteenth-century French biology. Claude Bernard initiated a new
phase in physiology, leading from his celebrated concept of the milieu
intérieur towards the study of physiological regulation and the rapidly
enlarging field of endocrinology, whereas Pasteur created the foundations
of both microbiology and immunology. After initial studies at the Collège
Royal of Besançon he came to Paris and entered into the Ecole Normale,
where he studied chemistry under Jean-Baptiste Biot (1774–1862). After
having become an agrégé in 1846 he was ordered to Dijon, soon thereafter
12 H. Bergson, ‘Discours au Collège de France, le 30 décembre 1913’, in R. Clarke, Claude
Bernard et la médecine expérimentale (Paris, 1961), 197; E. Zola, Le roman expérimental
(Paris, 1929), 11.

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Biology and the earth sciences

to Strasburg and after five years to the new Faculté at Lille. In 1854 he
was called to the Ecole Normale, where he advanced to the Faculté at the
Sorbonne, although he remained there only one year and then retired, on
a full salary, at the age of only 46. The time at the Ecole Normale was his
most productive as a scientist, although the facilities for research were, at
least in the beginning, rather poor. Claude Bernard made his most impor-
tant physiological discoveries, including the role of gastric and intestinal
juices in digestion, the mechanism of the absorption of fatty substances,
the glycogenic function of the liver, and the regulation of blood pressure
by vasomotor nerves, in a modest basement room, and Pasteur had at
his disposal two attic rooms, where he performed most of his fermenta-
tion experiments. French society and the government of the time were not
very interested in supporting scientific work, although later the situation,
in great part through Claude Bernard’s and Pasteur’s activities, and the
pride which France could take in their fame and achievements, improved
considerably. To obtain proper facilities for his work, Pasteur appealed
directly to the Emperor Napoleon III, condensing his request into the
phrase: ‘It is time to free the experimental sciences from the misery into
which they have been forced’.13
Although the Emperor was positive, in principle, a new appeal was
needed. It contains a passage which illustrates the situation of scientific
expenditure in Europe in 1868: ‘Already for thirty years great laboratories,
provided with ample resources, have been founded in Germany, and every
year new ones are founded. . . . England, America, Austria and Bavaria
have spent much for the same purposes. And Italy has taken steps on the
same road.’14
Pasteur got his new laboratory, but some years later, after the Franco-
Prussian war, he had occasion to remind his countrymen that a revival of
science was needed in France. Towards the end of Pasteur’s career, another
new institution was created. Inspired by Pasteur’s spectacular success in
treating rabies, the Académie des Sciences decided that money should
be raised for an institute for the preparation of rabies vaccine, and in
1888 the Pasteur Institute was inaugurated, with Pasteur himself as its
first director. Soon it was enlarged to treat diphtheria as well, and the
amount of theoretical study grew as well under the guidance of Pasteur’s
students like Emile Roux (1853–1933), Alexandre Yersin (1863–1943),
Albert Calmette (1863–1933) and others. Pasteur Institutes were founded
in other countries, too, either privately or on a governmental basis, and
in many cases they developed into important centres of microbiological
and immunological research, sometimes only loosely connected to their
original medical functions.

13 R. Vallery-Radot, La Vie de Pasteur, 2nd edn (Paris, 1905), 206. 14 Ibid., 216.

529
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charles darwin and darwinism


In Great Britain, the universities had long been in a state of stagnation,
at least as far as scientific pursuits were concerned. University education
was aimed more at the ideal of a gentleman than at scientific excellence,
and mathematics and related fields, like astronomy, were the only sciences
in which regular teaching occurred during the eighteenth century. Aptly
enough, an exhibition about the scientific past of Cambridge, opened in
the early 1980s, was named ‘Science as a minority interest’. In 1819,
the Cambridge Philosophical Society was founded by Adam Sedgwick
(1785–1873) and John Henslow (1796–1861), in order to promote the
study of natural sciences at the University of Cambridge. There had been,
in fact, the Woodward Professorship in geology since 1695, but Sedgwick
was practically the first of its holders of any scientific importance, and
even he, when appointed to the office in 1818, had not yet made any
geological excursion and claimed himself completely ignorant of his field.
Henslow, who had studied mathematics, chemistry and mineralogy, was
appointed in 1822 to the chair of mineralogy, and three years later to the
new chair of botany, whereafter he became known as a devoted botanist.
The Botanical Gardens in Cambridge still carry his name.
These two men were instrumental in Charles Darwin’s (1809–82) edu-
cation in science, Henslow as his mentor in the botanical garden and
fieldwork, and Sedgwick by taking the young student on a geological
tour in north Wales in August 1831, some months before Darwin began
his grand tour around the world. Neither geology nor botany belonged
to the regular curriculum at Cambridge, and the situation was no differ-
ent at Oxford. It is characteristic that when Darwin returned in 1836, he
did not aspire to a Ph.D. or to a university chair but became instead a
member and later the secretary of the Geological Society of London. This
became his scientific milieu, and although he abandoned the secretary’s
post before moving in 1842 to Down House for the rest of his life, he did
not resign from membership; at that time he was also a fellow of the Royal
Geographical Society and even of the Royal Society, later also of the Lin-
nean Society, where his epoch-making papers were read in 1858, together
with Alfred Russel Wallace’s (1823–1913) similar paper on evolution and
natural selection.
Although Darwin never taught at any university, he was often referred
to as ‘Professor Darwin’ in the German and Scandinavian press, evidently
because living and working as a Privatgelehrter outside the university
was rather uncommon in those countries, where the professor’s title gave
a scientist much greater social prestige than in Britain or France. Darwin
and Wallace were both ‘private men’. So had been James Hutton, the great
eighteenth-century geologist, and Sir Charles Lyell (1797–1875), who laid

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Biology and the earth sciences

the foundations of modern geology with his Principles of Geology.15 His


work was a triumph of actualism – the principle that geological changes of
the past can and must be explained through forces that act in the present
time – and it was indispensable for the development of the young Darwin’s
thought. Although Lyell’s teaching career was restricted to three years as
professor at King’s College, he acquired an important position in science
politics, and largely through his influence science curricula were enhanced
at both Oxford and Cambridge. In 1827, less than 30 years old and still
a practising lawyer, he had in public blamed the universities for their lack
of interest in anything but classical scholarship.
Although the British scientific culture was not as centralized as the
French one and although France had no equivalent to Oxford and
Cambridge, there was one important feature which both countries shared:
the great public museums and gardens, which gave plenty of opportunities
for descriptive and comparative research, or even, as in the Muséum of
Paris, for experimental work. Darwin’s friend and supporter Sir Joseph
Hooker (1817–1911), a first-rate botanist, became the director of Kew
Gardens, like his father Sir William Hooker (1785–1865) – formerly pro-
fessor of botany at Glasgow – before him. One of Darwin’s most impor-
tant antagonists, Sir Richard Owen (1804–92), who has been described
as the most distinguished vertebrate zoologist and palaeontologist in
Victorian England, was for twenty years the Hunterian Professor at the
Royal College of Surgeons of England and became in his old age the first
director of the British Museum (Natural History), after having served as
superintendent of the natural history collections of the British Museum
since 1856. He was a well-known and popular lecturer, but regular uni-
versity teaching was a field which he never entered.
These examples show that the bitter scientific and ideological battles
which followed the publication of Darwin’s Origin of Species in 1859 did
not very much affect the British university world but took place in meet-
ings of learned societies and other bodies, like the famous duel between
Bishop Wilberforce (1805–73) and Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–95),
‘Darwin’s bulldog’, at the meeting of the British Association for the
Advancement of Science in June 1860 at Oxford; even Huxley himself
was no university man but a naval surgeon and then professor of natural
history at the London School of Mines. But when the new doctrines
reached German soil – and it happened very quickly – it became a mat-
ter for university teachers. Even the translator of the Origin,16 Heinrich
Bronn (1800–62), a distinguished palaeontologist, was professor of

15 C. Lyell, Principles of Geology, 3 vols. (London, 1830–33; German trans. K. Hartmann,


3 vols., Weimar 1841–42).
16 C. Darwin, Über die Entstehung der Arten durch natürliche Zuchtwahl (Stuttgart, 1860).

531
Anto Leikola

natural history at Heidelberg. He did not accept the whole theory but
was, of course, not hostile towards it.
Bronn died soon afterwards, and Ernst Haeckel (1834–1919), who had
studied medicine in Berlin under Johannes Müller and listened to Vir-
chow’s lectures at Würzburg, became the main proponent of Darwinism
in Germany. He became converted to this new doctrine in 1860, as soon
as he had read Bronn’s translation. In his monograph on Radiolarians
in 1862 he professed his support for Darwinism, and four years later he
published his well-known book Generelle Morphologie der Organismen,
soon to be followed by the popular work on ‘The History of Creation’,
which became a great success but also a focus of bitter strifes. In these
books Haeckel tried to develop a whole Weltanschauung on the basis of
the theory of evolution; he later popularized it further in the best-selling
book The Riddle of the Universe, where he adopted the role of a philoso-
pher rather than that of a biologist.17
Unlike many other German academics, Haeckel remained faithful to the
University of Jena, where he became Privatdozent in 1861 and worked as
full professor and director of the Zoological Institute from 1865 to 1909.
His influence spread more through his popular writings than through
his immediate teaching, and much of what was said and written about
Darwinism in the German-speaking – and German-influenced – world
was actually about Haeckelism (a term that never came into use) and
Haeckel’s ‘monism’.18 On a more scientific basis, the evolutionary theory
was propagated by Carl Gegenbaur (1826–1903), the leading German
anatomist of the latter half of the century. He had studied at Würzburg and
was called to an extraordinary professorship at Jena in 1856, whereafter
in 1873 he settled down at Heidelberg. Although he developed a close
friendship with Haeckel, he did not philosophize over ultimate causes
or even more immediate causes of evolution, being content to reform
comparative anatomy into a science based on the evolutionary theory. He
was also active in the separation of anatomy and physiology, just as the
physiologists were on their side; this separation of chairs was effected in
the most important universities during the 1860s and 1870s.
Throughout the whole latter part of the nineteenth century, Darwin-
ism was given support – but not unequivocally – by the development
of geology. The foundations laid by Lyell in his Principles of Geology
and Elements of Geology, which both underwent several changes and
amendments in subsequent editions during the 1840s, 1850s and 1860s,

17 E. Haeckel, Die Radiolarien (Berlin, 1862); Generelle Morphologie der Organismen,


2 vols. (Berlin, 1866); Natürliche Schöpfungsgeschichte (Berlin, 1868; 8th edn, 1889),
translated into twelve languages, in English: The History of Creation (1906); Die
Welträtsel (Bonn, 1899), in 1903 100,000 copies were sold.
18 E. Haeckel, Der Monismus als Band zwischen Religion und Wissenschaft (Bonn, 1892).

532
Biology and the earth sciences

were not shaken, but the number of details in geology grew steadily, and
new geological maps were published in various countries. More often
than not these maps were produced by national geological surveys rather
than by university people. Geology was, of course, connected with min-
ing, and mining was connected with national wealth, so that there were
several reasons for whole nations to undertake geological surveys.
Geologists, however, could be Darwinist as well as anti-Darwinist. Lyell
himself announced publicly his conversion to Darwinism only in 1864,
and in consequence, he adjusted the tenth edition of his Principles to fit
the Darwinian doctrines. Another geologist who was initially hostile to
Darwinism but remained so during the rest of his life was Jean-Louis
Agassiz (1807–73). Born in Switzerland, he studied at the universities of
Zurich, Heidelberg and Munich, where he earned a doctorate both in
philosophy and medicine. In 1832 he was appointed to a professorship
at the College of Neuchâtel, but in 1846 he went to the United States
and taught at Harvard University until his death in 1873. Agassiz made
important contributions to the study of fossil fish, but his great feat in
geology was the creation of the concept of the Ice Age. Based on his
studies of glacial formations not only in Switzerland but in the rest of
the European Continent and Great Britain, he concluded that there had
been a great glaciation covering most of Europe; later he found that the
same was applicable to North America, too. Lyell and Darwin, among
others, accepted Agassiz’s theory without difficulty, but Agassiz himself
could never abandon the idea of fixity of species, partly because of his
generally conservative religious views.
In Germany, more than elsewhere, the debate on Darwinism was mixed
with not only religious but also political issues. Darwinism, as it was
understood by the Haeckelians, meant development and progress, also
on a national scale, whereas the opposite party, headed by Virchow,
claimed that it was not possible to draw such conclusions from a bio-
logical theory. Treating society as a kind of evolving organism would
open the way to still more dangerous doctrines, like socialism, Virchow
wrote, and although Haeckel denied this possibility, it is true that the
socialists did cherish Darwinism as their ally. Darwinism was seen as
an anti-religious doctrine promising progress and happiness for mankind
like socialism. Later on, the emerging socialist countries, especially Soviet
Russia, laid great emphasis on the theory of evolution, which however
was conceived more in a Lamarckian-Haeckelian than in a true Darwinian
sense. On the other hand, Darwin’s selection theory, in the form of so-
called Social Darwinism, seemed to give legitimacy to the rudest forms of
laissez-faire capitalism, as well as to national chauvinism, if the – origi-
nally Spencerian – slogan ‘survival of the fittest’ was applied to nations
instead of individuals.

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In 1872, the German zoologist Johann Wilhelm Spengel (1852–1921)


tried to compile a bibliography of books and articles on Darwinism in
different European countries. Although it consisted of 34 pages with 315
names of authors, it was far from complete.19 In the Scandinavian coun-
tries, for instance, Spengel had found only three items, although the debate
was in full swing there, especially in Sweden, but elsewhere in Scandinavia
too. In Sweden, Professor Sven Lovén (1809–95), a leading zoologist and
department head at the Naturhistoriska Riksmuseet, pioneered in March
1860 a lecture on Darwinism at the annual meeting of the Royal Swedish
Academy of Sciences, in a very favourable tone, and somewhat later Tycho
Tullberg (1842–1920), the professor of zoology at the University of Upp-
sala, became a devoted supporter of the new doctrine. In Finland, the
professor of zoology, Fredrik Vilhelm Mäklin (1821–83), spoke on the
subject in 1864 at the Finnish Society of Sciences with several critical
remarks, but at the same time a young and unknown schoolteacher on
the Finnish West Coast, Otto Alcenius (1838–1913), published at his own
expense a booklet on the importance of Darwin’s theory to a natural plant
system,20 and he even tried to construct a new plant system on an evo-
lutionary basis. There were later some junior university biologists who
became enthusiastic about Darwinism, and when one of them, Johan
Axel Palmén (1845–1919), who had published a doctoral thesis on the
migration of birds,21 applying evolutionary theory to it, was appointed
as Mäklin’s successor in 1883, not even the theologians at the University
of Helsingfors opposed his nomination. The Scandinavian universities in
general tried to avoid mixing ideological questions with the recruitment
of academic staff.
It is well known that in France Darwinism gained practically no
foothold for a long time. There had been and still was some debate on
transformism in general – Lamarck had not been completely forgotten –
but it was seldom associated with Darwin, although the Origin of Species
was available in French in 1862. There was no enthusiast to propagate
Darwinism in France, such as Huxley in England, or Haeckel in Germany,
and as for the idea of general progress associated with Darwinism in Ger-
many and elsewhere, it was an old French idea that required no English-
men to teach it. The great names in French biology, Claude Bernard and
Louis Pasteur, avoided the subject – Pasteur, if anything, was hostile to it –
and Pierre Flourens, the long-term perpetual secretary of the Académie

19 J. W. Spengel, Die Darwinsche Theorie: Verzeichnis über dieselbe in Deutschland, Eng-


land, Amerika, Frankreich, Italien, Holland, Belgien und den Skandinavischen Reichen
erschienenen Schriften und Aufsätze (Berlin, 1872).
20 O. Alcenius, Betydelsen af Darwins theori för det naturliga vextsystemet (Vasa, 1864).
21 J. A. Palmén, Om foglarnes flyttningsvägar (Helsinki, 1874), German translation: Über
die Zugstrassen der Vögel (Leipzig, 1876).

534
Biology and the earth sciences

des Sciences, wrote a whole book against Darwin. And when in 1909 a
full-size statue of Lamarck was raised in Paris near the main gate of the
Jardin des Plantes, it was given the inscription Au fondateur de la doc-
trine de l’évolution. Although ‘transformism’ had by then and even earlier
made its breakthrough in Lamarck’s homeland, Lamarckian explanations
still had for a long time, practically until our own time, their stronghold
in France, where modern genetics, remarkably enough, was introduced
considerably later than in most European countries.
In Italy, Darwinism was first introduced in 1864 by Filippo De Filippi
(1814–67), a professor of zoology at Turin, through his lecture ‘L’uomo e
le scimmie’, ‘Man and the Apes’, and an ardent dispute arose immediately.
In the same year, the Origin of Species was translated into Italian by two
biologists, Giovanni Canestrini (1835–1900), who worked as professor of
zoology at the University of Padua, and Leonardo Salimbeni (1830–89),
who taught natural history at the Collegio San Carlo at Modena. Espe-
cially Canestrini, who in addition to his teaching edited the first and then
only zoological journal in Italy, remained a faithful follower of Darwin
throughout his life and did much to propagate Darwin’s ideas, together
with Michele Lessona (1823–94), another biologist and translator of the
Descent of Man. In Italy, the cultural diversification within local universi-
ties and local academies was perhaps still more marked than in Germany,
and thus the acceptance of the evolutionary theory happened more readily
in some places than in others. It may be noted that Darwin was elected
a foreign member of the highly respected Accademia dei Lincei in 1875,
and four years later, the Academy of Sciences of Turin awarded Darwin
a prize, which he subsequently donated to Anton Dohrn (1840–1909),
founder of the Naples Zoological Station. In France, Darwin’s success
was less honourable: from 1870 on, he was six times proposed for mem-
bership of the zoological section of the Académie des Sciences, until finally
in 1878 he was elected a member of the botanical section!
It is self-evident that much of the criticism against evolution came from
the Catholic direction, and evidently Darwinism did worse in the Catholic-
dominated universities, although the Church, as an institution, never took
a clear and unequivocal stand on the matter. Its interest in furthering the
natural sciences, albeit on its own terms, arose only later; in the nine-
teenth century it was, if not openly hostile, at least reluctant to promote
the progress of science. In rigorously Catholic countries, like Spain, this
meant a general stagnation of the sciences. As for Darwinism, it was
hardly mentioned in public in Spain before the revolution of 1868. Then
the censorship was abolished, new courses of science were introduced to
the universities and new departments were created. Much of this was lost
in the reactionary Restoration of 1874, but the discussion nevertheless
continued, and the Descent of Man was translated into Spanish in 1876,

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Anto Leikola

one year before the Origin of Species and two years before Haeckel’s
Schöpfungsgeschichte. As in several other countries, much of the Dar-
winist controversy centred around the ideas of Haeckel, with Peregrı́n
Casanova Ciurana (1849–1919), professor of anatomy at the University
of Valencia, as the chief agent. In his letters to Haeckel he praised his
German colleague for the ‘truth of his judgements and the loftiness of his
thoughts’,22 and in 1877 he published a work on general biology in a true
Haeckelian spirit.23
Both in the north and in the south of Europe, the evolutionary theory
as a biological doctrine was accepted at most universities, i.e. by most
university biologists, during Darwin’s lifetime, although the plausibility
of the selection theory was still much argued during the 1880s and 1890s.
August Weismann’s (1834–1914) attempts to show the non-inheritance of
acquired characteristics did not convince everybody. Evidently, something
was still lacking in the evolutionary theory before it could become the
‘modern synthesis’, to use Julian Huxley’s expression of the year 1940.24
That something was genetics, the science of inheritance.

n e w f i e l d s f o r t h e n e w c e n t u ry
Genetics is usually, and rightly so, considered as a science which belongs
completely to the twentieth century, and if the birth of the concept of
‘biology’ can be regarded as the landmark between the 1700s and the
1800s, the rediscovery of Mendel’s laws, which was in fact the birth of
Mendelism, can well be used to distinguish the 1900s from the 1800s.
The road to genetics was, however, prepared during the last decades of
the nineteenth century, especially through the cytological work done at
German universities.
Many histologists contributed in the 1870s and 1880s to the under-
standing of cell division and particularly to the role and behaviour of
the chromosomes therein. Evidence accumulated that chromosomes may
be the true carriers of heredity, although it was for a long time ques-
tionable whether they were permanent structures or constructed anew at
each mitosis. Weismann, who worked for a long time as a professor at
the University of Freiburg, developed a theory, according to which inher-
itance belonged only to the cell line leading from the fertilized egg to the
germ cells, the Keimplasma, whereas the rest of the cells – practically the
whole cellular mass of an individual – formed the ‘useless’ Soma, which
disappeared with the individual.
22 P. Casanova, ‘Letter to Ernst Haeckel from January 2, 1876’, in T. F. Glick, Darwin in
España (Barcelona, 1982), 83.
23 P. Casanova, Estudios biológicos, vol. I: La biologı́a (Valencia, 1877).
24 J. Huxley, Evolution: The Modern Synthesis (London, 1940).

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Biology and the earth sciences

Gregor Mendel’s (1822–84) discovery of the laws of heredity, which he


published in the journal of the Brno Naturalists’ Society in 1866, remained
unnoticed for several decades. The idea that heredity could be carried by
small unchanging ‘elements’, as Mendel called them, was strange and
seemed also to be contrary to the flow of evolution. Mendel had studied
mathematics and sciences at the University of Vienna and taught these
subjects in the Brno secondary school, but in his monastery he worked
practically alone. We do not know to how many university scientists he
sent his paper; at least Karl von Nägeli (1817–91), who was professor of
botany at Munich, and Anton Kerner (1831–1908), who held a similar
chair at Innsbruck, did indeed receive it from Mendel. The journal itself
had a relatively wide distribution but was evidently seldom read outside
Moravia. Why Mendel did not send one of his 40 reprints to Darwin, in
whose theory he was interested, can only be guessed. Anyhow, when Hugo
de Vries (1848–1935), Carl Correns (1864–1933) – a student of Nägeli –
and Erich von Tschermak (1871–1962) in 1900 discovered ‘Mendelism
without Mendel’, there was already a cytological explanation for the dis-
tribution of the hereditary units at hand.
After 1900, the new science of genetics, as William Bateson (1861–
1926) baptized it in 1902, advanced at a very rapid pace. In 1901 De Vries
developed his mutation theory, which seemed to reconcile Mendelism
with Darwinism; in 1902 Correns, Walter A. Cannon (1871–1945) and
Walter Stanborough Sutton (1877–1916) brought evidence that the genes
are, in fact, located in the chromosomes, which, according to Theodor
Boveri’s (1862–1915) experiments, could be functionally different from
each other; in 1906 Bateson spoke about the gene linkage and created the
concepts ‘allele’, ‘homozygote’ and ‘heterozygote’, and in 1907 Thomas
Hunt Morgan (1866–1945) in the United States adopted the fruit fly,
Drosophila, as the model animal of genetic study. Genetics was, right
from the beginning, a truly international science, where different national
schools were difficult to distinguish. Biological research in North America
was matching that in Europe, as it had already begun to do in the field
of general natural history, and more specifically, palaeontology, ecol-
ogy and marine biology. Scandinavian contributions to this international
exchange of experiences and ideas were brought by the Dane Wilhelm
Johannsen (1857–1927), who discovered the constancy of variation in
pure lines of descent and created the words ‘gene’, ‘genotype’ and ‘phe-
notype’; by the Swede Herman Nilsson-Ehle (1873–1949), who gave a
Mendelian explanation to quantitative traits of organisms in the sugges-
tion of ‘polygenes’; and by the Finn Harry Federley (1879–1951), who
provided evidence of the individuality of chromosomes in moths at the
same time that Morgan and his school were working on gene maps of the
Drosophila.

537
Anto Leikola

The study of experimental developmental biology, which as Entwick-


lungsmechanik tried to find causal explanations for phenomena of embry-
onic growth and differentiation, was initiated at the end of the nineteenth
century by the pioneering experiments of Wilhelm Roux (1850–1924),
Hans Driesch (1867–1941) and Hans Spemann (1869–1941), but only
during the first decades of the twentieth century did it develop into a
branch of biological science in its own right. Spemann’s influence in par-
ticular was considerable, and many students both from Germany and
abroad poured into his laboratory at the University of Freiburg to learn
the necessary operation techniques – and to teach them, in turn, to their
own students. Spemann was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1936, but even
his achievements, especially the discovery of the inductive phenomena in
vertebrate embryology, would mark only a beginning in the most difficult
task of elucidating the nature of the cellular interactions in a developing
organism.
If the beginnings of developmental biology can be traced to the end
of the nineteenth century, the same would apply to a completely differ-
ent branch of biological science, to which Haeckel in 1866 had given
the name ‘ecology’. He defined it as the study of organisms’ relations to
their environment, and somewhat later he paralleled it to the ‘economy
of nature’, which, in fact, was a term used already by Linnaeus. Haeckel,
however, hardly made any further contribution to ecology, but the same
term appeared some 30 years later in Eugen Warming’s (1841–1924) text-
book.25 Warming, who worked as professor of botany at the University of
Copenhagen, noted that ‘ecological plant geography – in contrast to floral
plant geography – teaches us how the forms and behaviour of plants and
plant communities are adjusted to effective factors of their environment,
such as the available amounts of heat, light, nutritives and water’.26 The
other cornerstone in plant ecology was Andreas Franz Wilhelm Schimper’s
(1856–1901) Pflanzengeographie auf physiologischer Grundlage (1898),
which was translated into English in 1903, after the author’s untimely
death. Schimper was the son of a geology and palaeontology professor at
the University of Strasbourg. He studied there, was a fellow at The Johns
Hopkins University in Baltimore, and made his career in Bonn and Basle.
The influential botanist in Bonn, Eduard Strasburger (1844–1912), con-
sidered him as one of his most outstanding colleagues. He did not try to
create a theory of ecology but made some remarkable discoveries, such as
the similarity of physical and physiological dryness, and the distinction of
edaphic and climatic factors in the growth of plants. Until World War II,

25 E. Warming, Lehrbuch der Oekologischen Pflanzengeographie, übersetzt aus dem


Dänischen (Berlin, 1896); English translation: Oecology of Plants (Oxford, 1909).
26 Warming, Oecology (note 25), 2.

538
Biology and the earth sciences

plant ecology adhered to the foundations laid partly by Warming and


Schimper, and partly by the American botanists Conway McMillan
(1867–1929) and Frederic Edward Clements (1874–1945), who created
at the turn of the century what Clements referred to as ‘dynamic ecology’.
In 1927, most of what was known about the ecological relations of
animal populations was condensed in Charles Elton’s (1900–91) Ani-
mal Ecology, which was, in new editions, used as a textbook in many
universities until the 1950s. In the 1920s, however, more interest in
whole populations was directed both in ecology and genetics, and their
mathematical treatment became a necessity. In ecology, the pioneering
work was done by Alfred James Lotka (1880–1949) and Vito Volterra
(1860–1940), who were originally mathematicians and not biologists, and
later by Georgyi Frantsevitch Gause (1910–86); and in 1935, Arthur G.
Tansley (1871–1955), professor at Oxford, created the concept of ecosys-
tem, an integrated whole of both living biocenosis and its abiotic envi-
ronment, which was to characterize much subsequent work in ecology.
In genetics Godfrey Harold Hardy (1877–1947) and Wilhelm Weinberg
(1861–1937) formulated the conditions of equilibria for Mendelian popu-
lations in 1908, but it was only in the 1920s and 1930s that the geneticist
John Burdon Sanderson Haldane (1892–1964) and the statistician Ronald
Aylmer Fisher (1890–1962), the geneticists Sewall Wright (1889–1988) in
Chicago, Sergei S. Chetverikov (1880–1959) in Moscow and Theodosius
Dobzhansky (1900–75) in Pasadena made population genetics, with a
mathematical analysis of gene frequencies in both experimental and nat-
ural populations, a central part of the science of genetics, thus paving the
way for a new understanding of the evolutionary processes.
Another science which contributed substantially to the confirmation
and understanding of the theory of evolution was geology. Beginning with
the discovery of Archaeopteryx soon after the publication of Darwin’s
Origin of Species, ever more fossil material was accumulated in great
museums, and while fossil evidence had, during Darwin’s time, been one
of the weakest links of the theory, it now became the foremost proof of
the fact of evolution. In the general public, greatest interest was directed
to new findings on the evolution of man, from the Javan ‘Pithecan-
thropus’ to the South African ‘Australopithecus’, but for evolutionary
palaeontology questions of gradual fossil series and possible laws of phy-
logenetic change were more important; their culmination was George
Gaylord Simpson’s (1902–84) Tempo and Mode in Evolution (1944).
Research in geology received a new impetus from oil drilling. The first
oil well was drilled by 1859 in Titusville, Pennsylvania, but systematic
prospecting of possible underground oil deposits did not begin before
the 1920s, when the demand for oil grew rapidly and new geological
and geophysical techniques were developed both in Europe and in North

539
Anto Leikola

America. This, of course, led to different theories of the origin of oil and
gas deposits, questions which could be combined with more fundamen-
tal problems of scientific geology: the origin of rocks, the formation of
the mountain chains and the origin of continents. The origin of basalts
and granites was subject to controversies between the Neptunists and the
Vulcanists in the early nineteenth century. The invention of polarization
microscopy in the 1860s by Henry Clifton Sorby (1826–1908) opened
whole new worlds to mineralogists, and Karl Harry Ferdinand Rosen-
busch’s (1836–1914) great monographs27 became an indispensable tool
for every researcher in geology and mineralogy. Although most practical
geology was done by the national geological surveys, Rosenbusch was typ-
ically a university man: he worked from 1869 until 1873 as Privatdozent in
Freiburg, then as professor extraordinarius in Strasbourg, and from 1878
until 1908 as professor of mineralogy and geology in Heidelberg. But in
spite of the great progress in descriptive mineralogy and petrology, widely
different opinions were held as to the origin of granites. Rosenbusch him-
self, Eduard Suess (1831–1914) in Vienna, Auguste Michel-Lévy (1844–
1911) in Paris, Jakob Johannes Sederholm (1863–1934) in Helsinki, and
Per Johan Holmquist (1886–1946) in Stockholm published around the
turn of the century different theories on metamorphic rock, but the ‘gran-
ite controversy’ was far from settled during the first half of the twentieth
century.
Another great controversy which lasted nearly the whole century was
the question of continental drift. The idea of the horizontal movement
of whole continents was not very new – not to speak of the fabulous
‘lost continents’ in the style of Atlantis – and in the 1910s several Alpine
geologists accepted the idea that the Alps had been born in a horizontal
pressure from the African land mass. In his book Das Antlitz der Erde
(1885–1909) Eduard Suess formulated a theory according to which all
continents had once formed a single mass, the ‘Gondwanaland’, from
which different parts – i.e. the present continents, notably the Americas,
Australia and Antarctica – had been separated because of vertical sinking
of those parts which nowadays form the Indian Ocean and South Atlantic.
It was, however, Alfred Wegener (1880–1930) who took the possibility of
drift into serious geological consideration. He, as many before him, had
noticed how easily the east coast of South America and the west coast
of Africa would fit together, and he was bold enough to find in geologi-
cal, palaeontological, climatological, zoogeographical and other literature
several facts that would support the idea that these continents had drifted

27 K. H. F. Rosenbusch, Mikroskopische Physiographie der petrographisch wichtigen Min-


eralien (Stuttgart, 1873); idem, Mikroskopische Physiographie der massigen Gesteine
(Stuttgart, 1877).

540
Biology and the earth sciences

apart. He even believed that geodetical measurements in Greenland had


shown that the drift is continuing, and arrived at the estimate that the
movement is some 10 to 30 metres per year – a figure which, in the light
of modern measurements, would be a thousand times too high. After hav-
ing collected material for five years he published in 1915 Die Entstehung
der Kontinente und Ozeane, which nowadays, when the drift has been
shown to be a reality, is considered a true classic in the field, despite its
errors. Wegener, having grown up in Berlin, made a university career, first
as lecturer at the Physical Institute at Marburg, from 1919 as professor
of meteorology at the newly founded University of Hamburg, and from
1924 until his untimely death as professor at the University of Graz, where
a special chair in meteorology and geophysics had been created for him.
Before World War I, Wegener had already participated in two expedi-
tions to Greenland, and in 1929 and 1930 he again led two Greenland
expeditions and died there; his 50th birthday was the last time when he
was seen by his companions. The controversy, which had been raging
in the 1920s, nearly ceased in the 1930s, and Wegener’s theory was all
but buried; but after World War II, when palaeomagnetism was added
to the geologists’ tools and modern block tectonics was developed, new
evidence began to show that Wegener had not been entirely wrong, after
all. One of the most eminent supporters of the drift theory was Arthur
Holmes (1890–1965), who worked as professor of geology at the Univer-
sity of Durham and later at the University of Edinburgh; with the help
of radiochemical analysis Holmes established the most modern time scale
for geological periods, arriving at an age of 4.5 billion years for the earth.
During the twenty years between the two world wars, research was
expanding in all fields, and the university patterns, with teaching inti-
mately connected with research, became more similar in most parts of
Europe. But even in Germany, where universities had traditionally been
the bastion of research, science was no longer confined to the universities:
the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society – nowadays the Max-Planck-Gesellschaft –
supported research in its own institutes which usually had no direct con-
nection with the university system, except, of course, that the researchers
had received their basic training in universities and that the directors
usually were allowed to teach at neighbouring universities. In Russia,
scientific power that had grown rapidly during the latter half of the nine-
teenth century, both in the St Petersburg Academy of Sciences and in the
universities, and the Soviet revolution seemed at first to enhance this devel-
opment. Later on, however, Stalinist pressure destroyed a large part of the
country’s best science, especially in genetics, where the Lysenkoist pseu-
doscience was, on ideological grounds declared the only valid doctrine,
with the result that some of the best geneticists left the country others,
like Nikolai Ivanovich Vavilov (1887–1943), were expelled to Siberia.

541
Anto Leikola

Similarly, the National Socialist regime in Germany forced many of the


most creative scientists to abandon their work or to emigrate to America,
where research received new vigour from these immigrants.

select bibliography
Albarracı́n Teulón, A. La teorı́a celular, Historia de un paradigma, Madrid, 1983.
Aréchaga, J., Olagüe, G. and Garcı́a Ballester, L. La introducción de la teorı́a
celular en España, Granada, 1976.
Botting, D. Humboldt and the Cosmos, London, 1973.
Bowler, P. J. The Fontana History of the Environmental Sciences, London, 1992.
Burkhardt, R. W. The Spirit of System: Lamarck and Evolutionary Biology, Cam-
bridge, Mass., 1977.
Clarke, R. Claude Bernard et la médecine expérimentale, Paris, 1961.
Coleman, W. Biology in the Nineteenth Century: Problems of Form, Function and
Transformation, Cambridge, 1971.
Danielsson, U. ‘Darwinismens inträngande i Sverige’, Lychnos, 1963–1964
(1965), 157–210; 1965–1966 (1967), 261–333. Summary: ‘The Penetration of
Darwinism into Sweden’.
Delaunay, A. (ed.) Présence de Pasteur, Paris, 1973.
Florkin, M. Naissance et déviation de la théorie cellulaire dans l’œuvre de
Théodore Schwann, Paris, 1960.
Glick, T. F. Darwin en España, Barcelona, 1982.
Glick, T. F. (ed.) The Comparative Reception of Darwinism, Austin, Tex., 1974.
Hughes, A. A History of Cytology, London, 1950.
Kohn, D. (ed.) The Darwinian Heritage, Princeton, 1985.
Koller, J. Johannes Müller – das Leben eines Biologen, Stuttgart, 1958.
Leikola, A. ‘From Descriptive to Experimental Science: Some Trends and Changes
in Finnish Zoology’, Eidema, 1 (1982), 190–205.
‘J. A. Palmén, the Darwinist Reformer of Zoology in Finland’, Eidema, 1 (1982),
206–20.
Montalenti, G. ‘Il darwinismo in Italia’, Belfagor, 38 (1983), 65–78.
Morton, A. G. History of Botanical Science, London, 1981
Orel, V. and Armogathe, J.-R. Mendel un inconnu célèbre, Paris, 1985.
Raikov, B. E. Karl Ernst von Baer 1792–1876. Sein Leben und sein Werk, Leipzig,
1968.
Sturtevant, A. H. A History of Genetics, New York, 1965.
Szyfman, L. Lamarck et son époque, Paris, 1982.
Vallery-Radot, R. La Vie de Pasteur, 2nd edn, Paris, 1905.
Worster, D. Nature’s Economy: A History of Ecological Ideas, 2nd edn, Cam-
bridge, 1994.

542
CHAPTER 14

MEDICINE

ANTONIE M. LUYENDIJK-ELSHOUT∗

introduction
The training of medical practitioners became a crucial question in Europe
after 1800. Medical education was no longer exclusively the domain of
the universities. It became the centre of an intriguing triangle, which influ-
enced its development from all three corners. At the top of the triangle, the
governmental authorities became increasingly involved in the organiza-
tion of medical education, both financially and professionally. At the right-
hand corner, the rapidly developing sciences exerted their influence: new
drugs, new methods for the better care and cure of patients were to come
and the student should be well prepared to handle them. At the left-hand
corner, the social demands of the new society required controlled hygiene
and the prevention of epidemics, licensed practice by safe practitioners and
protection against quackery. The process of interaction along the sides
of the triangle shaped the cultural pattern in which medical education
was able to develop during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
In this study, a choice was made to present medical education as a cul-
tural process against the background of this triangular model. The whole
period has been divided into: (1) the Romantic Era (1790–1830); (2) the
New Learning (1830–70); and (3) the Growth of Medical Specialization
(1870–1945), which includes the so-called Belle Epoque (1870–1914),
the First World War and the inter-war period. Each period had its own
‘triangle’, with the top-most corner representing the political and eco-
nomical situation which determined the waning or flourishing of medical
education. The right-hand corner, the philosophy and state of the art of

∗ The author is indebted to Sir John Ellis for his encouragement and criticism. She also
wishes to thank Professor Grigory A. Tishkin for his valuable comments on the passages
dealing with Russia and the Baltic States.

543
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

science, contributed to the fame of the schools in the different countries.


At the left-hand corner, the involvement of teachers and students in the
condition of their patients, both inside and outside the hospital, became
a mainspring for social reform.
The leading countries in Europe were France, Great Britain, the Austro-
Hungarian monarchy and Germany. They would contribute to the evolu-
tion of medical education into the model curriculum which was basically
common to all European countries around 1940. This curriculum cov-
ered the basic sciences, theoretical medicine and clinical practice. After
approximately six years, the student graduated and finished his training
through a State Board Examination, which licensed him to enter general
practice. In most countries specialized training for surgeons and other
specialities took place after this examination.
The costs of medical education rose rapidly from 1870 onwards. Invest-
ments had to be made in laboratory and hospital equipment. Most coun-
tries had state-controlled medical training courses by that time, some
within the universities, others related to hospitals or medical institutes.
Academic freedom of teaching and learning was an important issue, as
were facilities for doing research. These goods were endangered by polit-
ical circumstances, such as the Revolution of 1848 and the outcomes of
the Russian Revolution in 1917. The impact of Nazism upon medical edu-
cation in particular affected teachers, students and patients in a terrifying
way.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, medical education was
dominated by the effects of Enlightenment in a poor Europe, ravaged
by Napoleonic wars. In 1945, medical educationalists were confronted
with high quality techniques ‘for better or worse’ in a Europe ravaged by
World War II. In between, the ‘intriguing triangle’ played its part.

t h e r o m a n t i c e r a (1790–1830): t h e i n f l u e n c e
of enlightenment
By 1790, Enlightenment had brought new movements into the medical
world. Physicians and surgeons had become more involved in the mis-
erable conditions of the people; the care of the sick in the hospitals, the
treatment of the insane in the asylums, the care of the wounded on the
battlefields and the fight against epidemics, both in man and in cattle.
The spirit of Enlightenment called for the improvement of man’s condi-
tion, both materially and spiritually. Not Christian Charity, but Reason
should be the basis of help. Man’s world being no longer separated from
nature, both nature and society should be studied in similar fashions. Man
should get a better understanding of nature’s laws and their impact upon
human institutions. Medicine should be reformed into a simple useful

544
Medicine

system, based on the laws of nature, as far as these could be studied by


observation.
A French group, the so-called Idéologues, followed the sensualist phi-
losophy of Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1715–80). They were guided by
three great principles: freedom of conscience, tolerance and social reform.
They advanced a philosophie laborieuse et bienfaisante, an industrious
and beneficent philosophy.1 The Idéologues were deeply impressed by
Jacques Tenon’s (1724–1816) Mémoires sur les Hôpitaux de Paris (1788),
which revealed the appalling condition of the Paris hospitals, the Hôtel-
Dieu and the Hôpital Général. They symbolized death and pollution, and
the failure of medical care and nursing. Together with the detention houses
and asylums for the insane, the Bicêtre, la Salpêtrière and la Pitié, where
unwanted persons were sent and disappeared, they were one of the main
evils leading to the French Revolution in 1789.2 Two Idéologues were
to contribute to the reform of medical education in France and abroad:
Pierre Jean George Cabanis (1757–1808) and Philippe Pinel (1745–1826).
As physicians they were particularly attracted to a philosophy that empha-
sized the observation of man, using ‘le Regard’, the gaze, as the princi-
pal instrument for the acquisition of medical knowledge. Free from the
burden of doctrinal systems the physician should observe his patients,
thus creating a new medicine with new certainties.3 To realize this new
medicine, clinical schools were indispensable, where progress in chemistry
and biology could be combined with the results of clinical observation,
in the search for analogies.4 With Cabanis and Pinel, philosophy was to
play an active and often determining role in medical reform and in social
restructuring. Their writings introduced new fundamental concepts into
European medical education.5 They led to two main changes: the hospital

1 S. Moravia, ‘Les Idéologues et l’Age du Lumières. Un problème de periodisation et de


réhabilitation historique’, Tijdschrift voor Studie van de Verlichting, 1 (1973), 344–96.
2 M. Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic: An Archeology of Medical Perception, World of
Men Series (New York, 1973) (translated from the French by A. M. Sheridan Smith); L. S.
Greenbaum, ‘Measures of Civilisation: The Hospital Thought of Jacques Tenon on the
Eve of the French Revolution’, Bulletin of the History of Medicine, 40 (1975), 43–56;
T. Gelfand, ‘Gestation of the Clinic’, Medical History, 25 (1981), 169–80.
3 Foucault, Birth (note 2), 100; E. Lesky, ‘Cabanis und die Gewiszheit der Heilkunde’,
Gesnerus, 11 (1954), 152–82.
4 A. M. Luyendijk-Elshout, ‘Die Revolution und Reformation der Heilkunde. Arbeitsame
und wohltätige Philosophie von Pierre Jean George Cabanis (1757–1808)’, in K. E. Roth-
schuh and R. Toellner (eds.), Münstersche Beiträge zur Geschichte und Theorie der Medi-
zin (Münster, 1978), 49–59.
5 D. B. Weiner (ed.), P. Pinel, The Clinical Training of Doctors: An Essay of 1793, L. G.
Stevenson (ed.), The Henry E. Sigerist Supplements to the Bulletin of the History of
Medicine n.s. 3 (Baltimore and London, 1980); P. J. G. Cabanis, ‘Rapport fait au Conseil
des Cinqo-Cents sur l’organisation des Ecoles de Médecine. Séance du 29 Brumaire An
VII’, in Œuvres complètes de Cabanis, accompagnées d’une notice sur sa vie et ses ouvrages
(Paris, 1823), vol. I, 361–402.

545
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

as a centre for medical teaching and the decision to give the medical pro-
fession a protected and liberal status.
While in revolutionary France progressive social aspirations motivated
medical reformers, Germany and Central Europe underwent a differ-
ent process. In 1779, the first volume of Johann Peter Frank’s (1745–
1821) System einer vollständigen medizinischen Polizey was published
in Mannheim. Eight volumes would follow, the last in 1827. Although
Frank discussed the main issues of health care, such as nutrition, com-
municable disease control, environmental sanitation and the provision of
medical care for the indigent, his conclusion differed substantially from
conditions prevailing in Great Britain and France.6 Frank was influenced
by Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712–78) as far as the relationship of man to
nature was concerned. He also agreed with the popular concept of cities
as hotbeds of diseases.7 But his ‘system of a Comprehensive Medical
Police’ was based upon the doctrines of Johann Heinrich Gottlob Justi
(1717–71) who lectured on cameralistic subjects at the Collegium There-
sianum in Vienna from 1750 to 1753 and later in Göttingen.8 Justi advo-
cated Enlightened Despotism. Cameralism considered the ruler responsi-
ble for the people, it justified centralized administration and state control.
Furthermore, it supported the growth of the population. For medical
care this meant that the monarch should do all he could to diminish
sickness among his subjects and prevent the outbreak of contagious
diseases. In furtherance of this aim, medicine in all its aspects must be
improved and encouraged by government.9 During the late eighteenth
century the concept of ‘medical police’ inspired administrators and uni-
versity teachers, mainly in Central Europe, Germany and Italy. But by
the middle of the nineteenth century the concept of ‘medical police’ was
backward looking, as Absolutism gave way to a liberal, industrialized
society.10

6 G. Rosen, ‘The Fate of the Concept of Medical Police 1780–1890’, Centaurus, 5 (1959),
97–113. Also published in From Medical Police to Social Medicine: Essays on the History
of Health Care (New York, 1974), 142–56. Cf. W. Rüegg, ‘Der Kranke in der Sicht der
bürgerlichen Gesellschaft an der Schwelle des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in W. Arlt and W. Rüegg
(eds.), Der Arzt und der Kranke in der Gesellschaft des 19. Jahrhunderts, Studien zur
Medizingeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts 1 (Stuttgart, 1967), 35–49, on Frank’s
notion of ‘medizinische Polizey’, 43.
7 E. Lesky, Johann Peter Frank, Akademische Rede vom Volkselend als der Mutter der
Krankheiten (Pavia 1790), Sudhoffs Klassiker der Medizin 34 (Leipzig, 1960).
8 G. Rosen, ‘Cameralism and the Concept of Medical Police’, Bulletin of the History of
Medicine, 27 (1952), 21–42.
9 J. H. G. von Justi, Staatswirthschaft, oder systematische Abhandlung aller oekonomischen
und Cameral-Wissenschaften, die zur Regierung eines Landes erfordert werden (Leipzig,
1758), vol. I, 173–6. After Rosen, ‘Cameralism’ (note 8), 133.
10 Rosen, ‘Medical Police’ (note 6), 143.

546
Medicine

In France, the term ‘medical police’ was never popular and was soon
replaced by hygiène publique.11 This concept spread all over Europe, pri-
marily through the journal Annales d’hygiène publique et médecine légale,
founded in 1829. Furthermore, local councils for health care were founded
in the cities. In the Low Countries, they were called ‘Committees for
medical supervision’. They were charged with the inspection of medical
practitioners and pharmacists and the regulations for the prevention of
epidemics. In Great Britain the Industrial Revolution was the major cause
of the problems linked to ‘public health’. This term soon replaced ‘medical
police’, although Frank’s work was introduced by Andrew Duncan (1744–
1828), professor at Edinburgh in 1798, and a book was published there
in 1800 which relied heavily on Frank’s concepts.12 But new social the-
ories, such as those presented by the utilitarian Jeremy Bentham (1748–
1832), played an important role in the installation of new regulations
in England.13 The most crucial method applied was the use of sanitary
statistics, introduced by E. Chadwick (1800–90) in 1836. His reports
demonstrated clearly the correlation between the sanitary conditions of
the different social classes and their life expectancy. Statistics became one
of the main instruments in medical and social reform.14
In some European countries numerous small intellectual and cultural
societies, attracting the elite of the bourgeoisie, promoted health care
and public hygiene. For instance they inoculated against smallpox and
translated books on the subject into the vernacular of the country.
Edward Jenner’s (1749–1823) ‘An Inquiry into Causes and Effects of
the Variolae Vaccinae’, published in 1798, was almost instantaneously
translated into French, German, Italian and Dutch.15 Besides promot-
ing what we should call today ‘preventive medicine’, they monitored the
training of pharmacists and midwives and advanced research, such as
microscopy.
In the second half of the century, when the universities obtained
laboratories and better facilities for research, they lost their influence.
Moreover, professionalization of the sciences and medicine brought new

11 R. H. Shryock, ‘Medicine and Society in the Nineteenth Century’, Cahiers d’histoire


mondiale, 5 (1959), 116–45.
12 J. Roberton, Medical Police: or, the Causes of Disease with the Means of Prevention: . . .
Adapted Particularly to the Cities of London and Edinburgh, and Generally to all Large
Towns, 2nd edn (Edinburgh, 1812). After Rosen, ‘Medical Police’ (note 6), 153.
13 H. J. ten Have, Geneeskunde en filosofie, De invloed van Jeremy Bentham op het medisch
denken en handelen (Leiden, 1983) with an English summary: Medicine and Philosophy:
Jeremy Bentham’s Influence upon Medical Thought and Medical Practice.
14 Ibid., 180–210.
15 F. H. Garrison, An Introduction to the History of Medicine, 4th edn (Philadelphia and
London, 1963), 374–5.

547
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

associations, uniting the members in order to safeguard their professional


and financial interests.16
Since France during the Revolution and the countries under French
influence had dissolved the old guilds of surgeons and apothecaries, a new
supervision of the medical profession was necessary, to prevent quackery
and unqualified practice. Cabanis’ demand for one highly qualified edu-
cational training programme for all professional groups was not realized,
but medical education underwent some drastic reform.17 The old Faculté
de Médecine in Paris was closed in 1792. The new Ecole de santé opened in
1795 with a new curriculum, far better adapted to the acquisition of prac-
tical knowledge. It represented the new philosophy of medical education:
‘peu lire, beaucoup voir, beaucoup faire’, as stated by Antoine François de
Fourcroy (1755–1809), the actual reorganizer of French higher education
in November 1794 before the Convention.18 The most important inno-
vation was the revived interest in clinical teaching in hospitals. ‘Beaucoup
voir’ meant the observation of many patients and the two large infirmaries
of Paris, the Hôtel-Dieu and the Hôpital Général, became the training
centres for the young medical world throughout the century. The term
Ancien interne des hôpitaux de Paris had such an effect that it was explic-
itly mentioned on French doctors’ name plates when they opened their
practice.19
In this new situation two important branches of medicine devel-
oped rapidly: pathological anatomy and surgery. Autopsy rooms already
existed in hospitals where clinical teaching was carried out, for instance
in Vienna and Edinburgh, but a new interest arose with the new concept
of pathology. This was stimulated by Giovanni Battista Morgagni (1682–
1771) in his famous work De sedibus et causis morborum per anatomen
indigatis libri quinque, published in Venice in 1761. Morgagni’s work was
the start of the search for the site of disease in the solid parts of the body,
and no longer in the old humours of blood.20
The excellent opportunity for observation, which the Paris school
offered, led to considerable innovations in pathology. It led to a clas-
sification of the membranes according to their properties and specific
16 M. J. van Lieburg, ‘Geneeskunde en medische professie in het genootschapswezen van
Nederland in de eerste helft van de negentiende eeuw’, De Negentiende Eeuw, 7 (1983),
123–46.
17 Cabanis, ‘Rapport’ (note 5), vol. I, 395.
18 E. H. Ackerknecht, Medicine at the Paris Hospital 1794–1848 (Baltimore, 1967), 32;
C. Coury, ‘The Teaching of Medicine in France from the Beginning of the Seventeenth
Century’, in C. D. O’Malley (ed.), The History of Medical Education: An International
Symposium Held February 5–9, 1968, UCLA Forum in Medical Sciences 12 (Los Angeles,
Berkeley and London, 1970), 121–30.
19 Ackerknecht, Medicine (note 18), 38.
20 S. Jarcho, ‘G. B. Morgagni, his Interests, Ideas and Achievements’, Bulletin of the History
of Medicine, 11 (1948), 503–27.

548
Medicine

reactions towards stimuli, such as inflammation. Xavier Bichat (1771–


1802), whose guideline was dissections, experiment and post-mortems,
became the founder of the doctrine of the specificity of the tissues, which
offered an entirely new understanding of pathological processes.21
Also Jean-Nicolas Corvisart (1755–1821) much improved the clinical
diagnosis of pathological processes by giving new importance to physical
examination of the patient. In 1808, he drew the attention of the students
to percussion, which Leopold von Auenbrugger (1722–1809) from Vienna
had demonstrated as early as 1765.22 Pathology and physical examination
became even more closely connected, through the invention of ausculta-
tion by means of a stethoscope by René Théophile Laennec (1781–1826)
in 1819. The diseases of the thoracic organs could now be diagnosed by a
new range of signs and internal medicine developed a new dimension.23
Surgical pathology, based on the local pathology of the internal organs,
contributed to new techniques and better results in surgery.24 Here again,
Paris was the guiding star. Surgeons, physicians and medical students from
all countries flocked to Paris, especially to the Hôtel-Dieu. Here Guillaume
Dupuytren (1777–1835) demonstrated his skills. He symbolized the great
progress of surgery in France after 1815. Surgery was transformed from a
skilful handicraft into a technique inspired by scientific knowledge, origi-
nating in anatomy, pathology and the new field of histology.25 In none of
the European countries were the developments in surgery and pathology
so spectacular as in Paris. The main rise of German Austrian surgery only
occurred in the 1870s.
Europe already had a tradition of clinical teaching before the great
reform in Paris took place. Pinel mentioned the schools of Leiden, Vienna,
Edinburgh and Pavia in his essay of 1793. He praised Boerhaave for having
inspired his disciples in Vienna and Edinburgh to create teaching hospitals,

21 X. Bichat, Recherches physiologiques sur la vie et la mort (Paris, 1800) and idem, Traité
des membranes (Paris, 1800). See E. Haigh, ‘Xavier Bichat and the Medical Theory of
the Eighteenth Century’, Medical History, suppl. no. 4 (1984).
22 Inventum novum ex percussione thoracis humani ut signo abstrusos interni pectoris mor-
bos detegendi (Vienna, 1761). See C. Coury, ‘Les Débuts de la percussion thoracique, de
son inventeur Autrichien et son promoteur Français’, in E. Lesky (ed.), Wien und die
Weltmedizin: 4. Symposium der Internationalen Akademie für Geschichte der Medi-
zin veranstaltet im Institut für Geschichte der Medizin der Universität Wien 17. –19.
September 1973, Studien zur Geschichte der Universität Wien 9 (Vienna, Cologne and
Graz, 1974), 64–73.
23 R. Kervran, Laennec: His Life and Times (Oxford, London, New York and Paris, 1960)
(translated from the French by D. C. Abraham Curiel).
24 D. de Moulin, A History of Surgery: With Emphasis on the Netherlands (Dordrecht,
Boston and Lancaster, 1988), 262.
25 A. Richerand, Histoire de progrès récent de la chirurgie (Brussels, 1825). The term ‘histol-
ogy’ was introduced by Carl Mayer in 1819, and immediately used by Johannes Müller.
See B. Lohff, ‘Johannes Müllers Rezeption der Zellenlehre in seinem Handbuch der Phys-
iologie der Menschen’, Medizinhistorisches Journal, 13 (1978), 246–58.

549
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

and Simon André Tissot (1728–97) for his concept of the construction of
such a hospital at Pavia.26 Moreover, Pinel urged the grouping of selected
patients into teaching wards, as had been done at Leiden, Vienna and
Pavia.27 Pinel founded his nosology upon a Hippocratic system and his
guidelines for his lessons were definitely based on Coan lines.28 Pinel’s
therapy was fully in accord with his policy of waiting: materia medica
should be of extreme simplicity, derived from ordinary plants and uncom-
plicated chemical substances – ‘all these have the very great advantage of
reducing therapy to its simplest elements and showing clearly how nature
proceeds when man does not interfere’.29 The vis medicatrix naturae was
Pinel’s first principle. His ‘soft law in therapy’ was not only accepted in
France, but also in Vienna.30 Actually, it was directed against the physi-
ological medicine of François Joseph Victor Broussais (1772–1838) with
its aggressive therapy and denial of a nosological system.31 The contro-
versy between Pinel and Broussais was impressive, becoming one of the
most fanatic medical polemics of the century, not least from the point of
view of Broussais’ unlimited aggressiveness. This fight contributed to the
acceptance of Pinel’s hippocratism in Vienna by Joseph Dietl (1804–78)
and even led to therapeutic nihilism, not as a total rejection of the materia
medica, but as the search for a rational pharmacology.32 The French never
went as far as nihilism, but their famous physiologist, François Magendie
(1783–1855), opened up a new era in drug therapy by testing through
experiment the value of certain newly found chemically pure drugs (e.g.
strychnine, emetine, quinine, iodine, bromine) and thereby contributing
to the founding of experimental pharmacology.33
The concern of the Idéologues was not only for hospitals in gen-
eral, but also for insane asylums. Although Pinel’s book Traité médico-
philosophique sur l’aliénation mentale ou la manie (1801) was trans-
lated in 1806 into English and in 1801 into German, the most impressive

26 S. A. Tissot, Essais sur les moyens de perfectionner les études de médecine (Lausanne,
1785). See Weiner (ed.), Pinel (note 5), 68.
27 Weiner (ed.), Pinel (note 5), 68.
28 W. Riese, ‘Les Sources hippocratiques de l’œuvre de Philippe Pinel’, Annales
Thérapeutiques de l’œuvre de Philippe Pinel, 4 (1969), 130–48.
29 Weiner (ed.), Pinel (note 5), 83.
30 E. Lesky, ‘Von dem Ursprüngen des therapeutischen Nihilismus’, Sudhoffs Archiv für
Geschichte der Medizin, 44 (1960), 1–39.
31 E. H. Ackerknecht, ‘Broussais or a Forgotten Revolution’, Bulletin for the History of
Medicine, 27 (1953), 320–43.
32 Ackerknecht, ‘Broussais’ (note 31); C. Wiesemann, Joseph Dietl und der therapeutische
Nihilismus: zum historischen und politischen Hintergrund einer medizinischen These,
Marburger Schriften zur Medizingeschichte 28 (Frankfurt-am-Main and Bern, 1991).
33 E. H. Ackerknecht, ‘Aspects of the History of Therapeutics’, Bulletin of the History
of Medicine, 36 (1962), 389–419. On Magendie: J. M. D. Olmstedt, François Magendie:
Pioneer in Experimental Physiology and Scientific Medicine in XIX Century France (New
York, 1944).

550
Medicine

concept of treatment of the insane came from the layman William Tuke
(1732–1822), founder of ‘The Retreat’ at York. In this institution, med-
ical treatment was subordinated to moral treatment on both a psycho-
logical and ethical basis. The general comfort of the patient, the limit of
restraint, the encouragement of self-restraint were the instruments which
the Quaker philanthropist Samuel Tuke (1784–1857) advocated in his
‘Description of the Retreat’ in 1813.34
Moral treatment was to become one of the most important issues in
psychiatry during the first decades of the nineteenth century. It would lead
to a new concept, moral insanity, some diseases of the psyche beginning
in vice – in a deterioration of the moral sentiments.35 Although these
disputes were academic, teaching of psychiatry as a medical discipline
was an exception at the universities. Moral treatment, as described by
Tuke and also by Pinel in a different context, would stimulate social and
humanitarian reform of the care of the insane, but would not influence
university teaching, as psychiatry was seldom taught at the universities.
The content of medical learning changed considerably in the Euro-
pean universities during the Romantic era, not only through the patient-
directed teaching in the hospitals but also by the new concepts of
medicine. Various theories were based upon an incorporeal agent, act-
ing in both health and disease. Vitalism originated in Montpellier, started
by the médecin-philosophe Théophile de Bordeu (1722–76).36 His the-
ories, which attributed a specific force to the organs of the body, were
accepted by the French medical faculties. The rest of Europe stayed with
the mechanical concept of the body introduced by Herman Boerhaave
in the early eighteenth century. But around 1800 the theories of the
Edinburgh doctor John Brown (1735–88) became popular in Europe,
mainly in German and Italian medical faculties.
The so-called ‘Brownianism’ (or ‘Brunonianism’) became one of the
most powerful movements in the medical world. It simplified medi-
cal practice and it broke with the strict rules of therapy imposed by
the eighteenth-century medical schools. Instead of rigorous bloodletting,
purging and a complicated system of therapeutics, known as ‘antiphlogis-
tic’, it offered the patient wine, camphor, musk and, above all, opium. The

34 R. Hunter and I. MacAlpine, Three Hundred Years of Psychiatry (1535–1860): A History


Presented in Selected English Texts (London, New York and Toronto, 1963), 684–90;
A. Digby, Madness, Morality and Medicine: A Study of the York Retreat 1796–1914
(Cambridge and New York, 1985).
35 J. C. A. Heinroth (1773–1843) and James Cowles Prichard (1786–1848). See Hunter and
MacAlpine, Three Hundred Years (note 34), 837.
36 E. L. Haigh, ‘Vitalism, the Soul and Sensibility: The Physiology of Théophile Bordeu’,
Journal of the History of Medicine, 31 (1976), 30–41; J. Roger, Les Sciences de la vie
dans la pensée française du XVIIIe siècle: La Génération des animaux de Descartes à
l’Encyclopédie (Paris, 1963), 618–30.

551
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

doctrine of sthenic and asthenic diseases, the delicate balance between


excitement and excitability of the body were easily understood by stu-
dents.37 Also, the prescribed regimen was attractive: fresh air, a daily glass
of Madeira, well-seasoned meat and broth. Those prescriptions would be
incorporated in textbooks for general practitioners, such as the Encheirid-
ion Medicum, published by Christoph Wilhelm Hufeland (1762–1836) in
1836.38 Brownianism as such was moderated, but notions of stimulus,
excitability and incitantia would dominate in various medical schools
throughout the first decades of the nineteenth century.
Furthermore, vital force was also the main principle in homeopathy,
introduced by Samuel Hahnemann (1755–1893) in 1833. Also, the famous
‘doctrine physiologique’ of François Joseph Victor Broussais was based
upon a bio-dynamic concept.39 His system would be remembered for
his rigorous bleeding by leeches: it was said that Europe lost more blood
through his therapy than through the Napoleonic wars.40 Medicine based
on the immaterial principle of a vital force became engulfed in the philo-
sophical speculations of Naturphilosophie in Germany. Friedrich W. J. von
Schelling (1755–1854) believed in the capacity of physicians and scientists
to discover the main principles on which the entire natural world had
been fashioned, merely by philosophical reflection.41
The system of John Brown was most appropriate for such a philo-
sophical approach. The challenge was taken up by Andreas Röschlaub
(1768–1835), who created a Brunonian curriculum at the medical faculty
of the University of Bamberg in Germany, under the banner of Schelling’s
Naturphilosophie.42 These ‘philosophical’ doctors, pupils of Schelling,
truly believed in a new system of medicine, based on the new discoveries
in the natural sciences, especially phenomena such as magnetism, elec-
tricity and chemistry. They believed in their connection with incorporeal
agents such as vital forces in one system, uniting all natural powers.
A complicated, vitalistic physiology was the result of these speculations,
with often ingenious concepts of organic matter and the manifestation of
vital phenomena. The work of Johannes Müller (1801–58) was especially

37 G. B. Risse, ‘The Brownian System of Medicine: Its Theoretical and Practical Implication’,
Clio Medica, 5 (1970), 45–51.
38 Ibid.
39 K. E. Rothschuh, Konzepte der Medizin in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart (Stuttgart,
1978).
40 Ackerknecht, ‘Broussais’ (note 31).
41 G. B. Risse, ‘Kant, Schelling and a Science of Medicine’, Journal of the History of Medicine
and Allied Sciences, 27 (1972), 145–58.
42 Rothschuh, Konzepte (note 39), 386; N. Tsouyopoulos, ‘Die neue Auffassung der Medizin
als Wissenschaft unter den Einflusz der Philosophie vom frühen 19. Jahrhundert’, Berichte
der Wissenschaftsgeschichte, 1 (1978), 87–100.

552
Medicine

widely read.43 Müller combined a ‘realistic’ vitalism with active labo-


ratory research when he became professor of anatomy and physiology
in 1833 at the Anatomisch-Zoologisches Museum in Berlin. Under his
guidance students were encouraged to use the new experimental and con-
ceptual tools of chemistry and physics, with vitalistic explanation being
used only as a last resort.44

the romantic era: organization of


medical education
The reform of medical education in France raised two main issues:
(1) should medicine be taught in the great hospitals of central cities only,
or should it be spread over the provincial faculties? (2) To what extent
should the education of all workers in health care be elevated to university
level? The second question had important political and financial impli-
cations and would not be answered for a long time. In most European
countries, the university training of pharmacists and dentists would not
be realized before the last decades of the century. But during and after
the Napoleonic wars, the need for practitioners and army surgeons was
urgent. Unqualified practice increased after the dissolution of the guilds
in France and in the countries under its influence. The law of 10 May
1806 set up the Imperial University of France, which included the medi-
cal schools of Paris, Montpellier and Strasburg. In other cities, national
secondary schools were founded. From 1803, French medical practition-
ers were divided into two categories, the Doctors in Medicine and Surgery
and the ‘officiers de santé’, simple health officers.45 This situation contin-
ued until 1892.
The basic principles of this system were adopted by the countries which
had been under French rule during the Napoleonic expansion, especially
the Low Countries, which were incorporated into the French Empire
in 1810. Medical faculties, which could not affiliate with a municipal
hospital, were closed.46 Others became secondary schools, such as the
University of Utrecht. After 1813, when the Low Countries were united
in a kingdom, several medical faculties were reactivated, but like most
European countries they were still unable to raise the medical profession
and health care to a higher rank. An attempt was made to found medical
schools in provinces where a general hospital offered facilities for clinical

43 E. Benton, ‘Vitalism in Nineteenth Century Scientific Thought: A Typology and Reassess-


ment’, Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science, 5 (1974), 17–48.
44 Ibid., 29. 45 Coury, ‘Teaching’ (note 18).
46 G. Legée, Cuvier et la réorganisation de l’enseignement sous le Consulat et l’Empire
(Paris, 1974).

553
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

teaching, and where the municipality was willing to provide funding.47


Between 1824 and 1828, six clinical schools were opened in the north,
including the Military Medical School at Utrecht. In the south, the school
of Antwerp was reactivated in 1824, though several other cours pratique
could not be continued, because the municipal authorities lacked funds.48
The programmes offered by these were more practically orientated than
the university training. The admission fee was low, students who were
sixteen, could write and read, and had an irreproachable personal record
could matriculate.49 They could follow training courses in surgery, phar-
macy and obstetrics. They had a limited admittance to practice in certain
areas in the country. Most of them settled in agricultural districts or small
provincial towns where they set up a combined practice of surgery, obstet-
rics and a pharmacy. This so-called second medical rank was common in
the Netherlands during the period 1818–65.50
In Belgium, following the independence of 1830, the second rank was
gradually replaced by university trained doctors. In 1835, Belgium was the
first European country to raise the training of physicians, surgeons, obste-
tricians and pharmacists to a university level.51 The Netherlands unified
medical education by the law of 1865, Prussia in 1852.52 In Great Britain
it was not until 1886 that students were required to show competence
in medicine, surgery and obstetrics before being licensed to practice. A
General Council of medical education and registration had been estab-
lished in 1858,53 but the pre-existing Colleges of Physicians, Surgeons and
the Societies of Apothecaries continued to hold examinations for entry to
their respective orders of the medical profession. The General Council rec-
ognized them as licensing bodies along with the universities of Oxford,
Cambridge and London, the four Scottish universities of Glasgow,
Aberdeen, St Andrews and Edinburgh and Trinity College, Dublin.

47 M. J. van Lieburg, ‘Municipal Hospitals and Clinical Teaching in the Netherlands During
the 19th Century’, Clio Medica, 21 (1987–88), 125–52.
48 R. Schepers, De opkomst van het Belgisch Medisch Beroep: de evolutie van de wetgev-
ing en de beroepsorganisatie in de 19de eeuw, Nieuwe Nederlandse bijdragen tot de
geschiedenis der geneeskunde en der natuurwetenschappen 32 (Amsterdam and Atlanta,
1989).
49 M. J. van Lieburg, Het medisch onderwijs te Rotterdam (1467–1967): een kort his-
torisch overzicht, Nieuwe Nederlandse bijdragen tot de geschiedenis der geneeskunde 3
(Amsterdam, 1978), 63.
50 M. J. van Lieburg, ‘De tweede geneeskundige stand (1818–1865)’, Tijdschrift voor
Geschiedenis, 96 (1983), 433–53.
51 Schepers, Opkomst (note 48), 106.
52 C. Huerkamp, ‘Ärzte und Professionalisierung in Deutschland. Überlegungen zum Wan-
del des Arztberufs im 19. Jahrhundert’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 6, 3 (1980), 349.
53 C. F. Varlaam, ‘The Origins and Development of the General Medical Council as a
Socio-legal Institution’, Ph.D., London (Economics), 1978, ch. I: 7–46. After Schepers,
Opkomst (note 48), 107.

554
Medicine

In Scotland and Ireland the universities provided clinical teaching in


charity hospitals with an emphasis on lectures from university appointed
teachers. Oxford and Cambridge had no clinical schools and their gradu-
ates obtained practical experience in London or elsewhere before taking
the examination of one of the Royal Colleges of Physicians, in London,
Edinburgh or Dublin, which conferred a licence to practise as a physi-
cian. London University was founded in 1836 but functioned only as an
imperial examining body till the end of the nineteenth century. Medical
education in London and the major provincial cities took place in medical
schools, based on the Charity Hospitals founded in the eighteenth cen-
tury. The first complete medical school was founded in 1785 alongside the
London Hospital. It remained a private school for nearly a century, dur-
ing which the governors of many other charity hospitals recognized the
value of medical students as cost-free providers of medical care. So medical
schools developed in which students received lectures and demonstrations
but learned mainly by participating in the care of the sick as interns and
clinical assistants.54
The requirements for entry to licensing examinations were very lax
until 1815 when the Apothecaries Act specified a wide range of subjects
to be studied and required hospital experience as well as apprenticeship
to an apothecary. The College of Physicians and Surgeons then demanded
fuller courses of training before entry to their examinations.55 Increasing
numbers of students obtained their licence from both a Society of Apothe-
caries and a College of Surgeons, and as surgeon-apothecaries became the
country’s first general practitioners, though with little training in obstet-
rics. Although new university colleges were founded in London and else-
where in the nineteenth century,56 the connection between university and
medical schools remained tenuous up until World War II.57 The total
number of medical schools, metropolitan, university and provincial was
considerable, but they offered no single portal of entrance to the medical
profession through the kind of state examination that became common
elsewhere in Europe.58 But it was different from the continental French
system, which comprised medical workers of a second rank, as we have
seen.

54 F. N. L. Poynter, ‘Medical Education in England since 1600’, in O’Malley (ed.), Medical


Education (note 18), 235–45.
55 J. Ellis, ‘Medical Education in the U.K. and Europe’, in J. Walton, P. B. Bason and
R. Bodley Scott (eds.), The Oxford Companion to Medicine (Oxford and New York,
1986), 714–32.
56 Poynter, ‘Medical Education’ (note 54), 243.
57 Ellis, ‘Medical Education’ (note 55), 723ff.
58 C. Newman, The Evolution of Medical Education in the Nineteenth Century (London,
1957), 227.

555
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

Another form of medical education, which flourished in this period,


was the training of military surgeons. The first school of this type was
founded in Vienna by Joseph II in 1782. The ‘ancient medical school’ of
Vienna, founded by Gerard van Swieten (1700–72), already paid attention
to diseases which afflicted the armies on campaign.59 The best-known
European Military Training Centre for Medical Surgeons was opened
in 1896 in Val-de-Grâce, a former monastery in Paris. Broussais was its
chief between 1820 and 1837.60 In Berlin, Johannes Goercke (1750–1822)
founded the Pépinière. In Spain and Russia, in the Low Countries and
Italy, similar institutions also came into existence.61
From 1798 on, a special role was played by the St Petersburg Mili-
tary Medical Academy (now the Naval Academy in St Petersburg) in the
growth of military medical training in Russia. Since St Petersburg did not
have its own faculty of medicine in the nineteenth century, all the leading
experts in anatomy, surgery and to some extent in physiology worked in
the Academy. This institution trained most of the surgeons for the Russian
army and navy.62 The Moscow Medical Surgical Academy which func-
tioned as a department of the St Petersburg Military Medical Academy,
was combined in 1844 with the faculty of medicine of Moscow University.
From 1832 till 1844 the Vilnius Medical Surgical Academy also became
an important training centre.63
These military medical training centres had the advantage of hospitals
which were under their direct control and were not charity institutions.64
Furthermore, the training of medical officers included both medicine and
surgery. They could apply military strategy to their campaigns against the
spread of epidemics. They had a well-organized administration and even
interns, who were obliged to report every day. The élèves (pupils) had
daily exercises and regulations for study-hours. Graduation took place
by means of a concours, a competitive examination. Many pioneers in
medicine were trained in these schools. Graduates could be shipped to
the colonies for medical service. The military medical training centre at
Utrecht trained several medical officers who were sent to Japan. One of
them, Johan Lidius Catharinus Pompe van Meerdervoort (1829–1908),
59 G. van Swieten, Kurze Beschreibung der Heilungsart der Krankheiten, welche am
Öfftesten in den Feldlagern beobachtet werden (Vienna, 1758). This book was trans-
lated into several languages.
60 A. Monery, Le Val de Grâce (Paris, 1951).
61 D. de Moulin (ed.), ’s-Rijkskweekschool voor Militaire Geneeskundigen te Utrecht
(1822–1865), Nieuwe Nederlandse bijdragen tot de geschiedenis der geneeskunde en
der natuurwetenschappen 26 (Amsterdam, 1988), Introduction.
62 M. M. Levit, ‘Russia in the Period of the Decay of Feudalism During the First Half of
the 19th Century’, The History of Medicine (Istoria meditsinij) (1981), 121.
63 V. P. Grizkevitch, With Hypocrat’s Torch: From the History of Medicine in Byelorussia
(Minsk, 1987), 175–88.
64 Moulin, ’s-Rijkskweekschool (note 61), 3–14.

556
Medicine

founded a medical school at Nagasaki, based on the model of the Utrecht


medical training centre in 1857.65 During the nineteenth century numer-
ous medical schools were founded in European colonies in Africa and
Asia. For instance, the New Medical College at Calcutta was established
for the instruction of Indian youths in 1835. The content of this learn-
ing was Western learning, including science, and the language of instruc-
tion was English. In 1843, the Royal College of Surgeons recognized
three medical colleges, in Calcutta, Madras and Bombay. These schools
were modelled on the British mode, introducing British authors on every
subject.66
The reorganization of medical education in Europe after 1795 not only
led to the abolition of several old medical faculties, it also created new cur-
ricula. The old-style medical faculties generally had five chairs: anatomy,
botany and materia medica, chemistry and pharmacy, theoretical medicine
(Institutiones) and practical medicine. The students graduated by passing
a theoretical examination and by presenting a thesis pro gradu. Theoreti-
cal medicine was still the main issue, though in France, control over pro-
fessional training was centralized by the government and practical training
was promoted in all medical schools. Basic changes in all medical faculties
in Europe were the creation of special chairs, for surgery and obstetrics,
and the teaching assignments for medical police or hygiène publique and
forensic medicine. Moreover, nearly all medical faculties cherished their
anatomical collections and enlarged them with pathological specimens.
The musea anatomica kept these specimens, but also skulls and skeletons,
collected by physical anthropologists. The biologists brought classifica-
tion and system into their collections on natural history. The museums
were the workshops of the students, as the laboratories would be during
the second half of the century. In Germany, which consisted of many small
independent states, there was ‘federal’ licensing or control of medical
education and medical faculties varied, according to the philosophy and
scholarly aspirations of their leaders. In general, German science was pen-
etrated by a philosophy of questioning, which, as Carl August Wunderlich
(1815–77) remarked, should not be identified with Naturphilosophie.67
This encouraged medical faculties to do research within the structure of
the university, and influenced other European centres to do the same.
This was also expressed in their teaching programmes, which sometimes
comprised such subjects as historische Pathologie, physical anthropology

65 J. Z. Bowers, ‘The History of Medical Education in Japan: The Rise of Western Medical
Education’, in O’Malley (ed.), Medical Education (note 18), 391–416; chapter 6, 224.
66 N. Kumar and H. Keswani, ‘Medical Education in India since Ancient Times’, in O’Malley
(ed.), Medical Education (note 18), 329–66.
67 O. Temkin, ‘Wunderlich, Schelling and the History of Medicine’, Gesnerus, 23 (1966),
188–95.

557
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

and history of medicine. Two important events took place which influ-
enced medical education: Wilhelm von Humboldt’s (1767–1835) memo-
randum on medical teaching and the founding of the Friedrich-Wilhelms-
Universität in 1810 in Berlin.
Humboldt believed implicitly in the unity of research and teaching in
the universities for both the professors and students and was vehemently
opposed to medical schools separated from the universities, with a great
contempt for Fachhochschulen, including the Pépinière, the army medical
training centre. This is one of the reasons why clinical schools in the French
style did not come into existence in Germany, and why the University of
Berlin became exemplary for other German universities. It offered both
laboratory and clinical research throughout the century. It was to become
the new centre of medical education in Europe.68
In Sweden, the two small universities, Uppsala and Lund, had been
under attack by the liberal politicians, who wanted to close the universi-
ties and to centralize higher education in Stockholm. The newly founded
Karolinska Institutet had a brilliant spokesman in Jöns Jacob Berzelius
(1779–1848), the great chemist. It had been planned as a purely practi-
cal school of applied medicine, after the French model. Stockholm had
the large hospitals, and in Berzelius’ view, medical education should be
concentrated there and abolish humanistic culture, which blocked the
study of the modern natural sciences. But the Educational Committee
decided in 1828 to keep the universities in the provinces. The great uni-
versity controversy continued until 1873, when the Karolinska Institute
received the right to award the Bachelor of Medicine degree, along with
Uppsala and Lund.69 In Norway and Denmark, the universities of Oslo
and Copenhagen maintained the old structure of their medical faculties
until c. 1850. In 1826, the National Hospital of Oslo was opened, offering
100 beds for practical training. Copenhagen and Sweden were primarily
influenced by Germany and France.70
Russia expanded at the beginning of the nineteenth century during
the reign of Alexander I, which lasted from 1801 to 1825. Alexander
re-established the old Swedish University in Estonia, Dorpat (Tartu), in
1802.71 The medical faculty was very modest at the beginning, but a man

68 H. H. Simmers, ‘Principles and Problems of Medical Undergraduate Education in


Germany during the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries’, in O’Malley (ed.),
Medical Education (note 18), 133–200.
69 X. Almquist and X. Winsell, ‘Uppsala in the Age of Romanticism’, in S. Lindroth (ed.),
A History of Uppsala University 1477–1977 (Uppsala, 1976), 146–57 (chapter V).
70 W. Kock, ‘Scandinavia since 1600’, in O’Malley (ed.), Medical Education (note 18),
263–97.
71 A. Buchholz, Ernst von Bergmann. Mit Bergmann’s Kriegsbriefen von 1866, 1870/71
und 1877, 2nd edn (Leipzig, 1911), 84.

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like Karl Friedrich Burdach (1776–1847), who taught anatomy and phys-
iology from 1810 to 1814, was one of their first prominent teachers.
The ancient school of Wilna in Lithuania became a university in 1803.72
In 1804, after becoming ‘persona non grata’ in Vienna, Johann Peter Frank
was called to St Petersburg, where he organized the Military Surgical
Academy. Afterwards, he was called to Wilna to organize clinical teaching,
which was continued by his son Joseph Frank (1771–1842), after Frank
left again for St Petersburg.73 The Military Medical-Surgical Academy
there had more to offer to prominent physicians than the small Baltic uni-
versities, in spite of their progressive attitudes, inspired by the liberation
movements. The Russian physician Matvej Jakovlevic Mudrov (1776–
1831) studied in Germany, Vienna and Paris and became a prominent
hygienist and one of the leading clinical professors in Moscow. From 1809
until 1917, the Russians governed the School of Medicine of Helsinki.74
In Central Europe, the State Administration of the Austro-Hungarian
monarchy had an important impact upon the universities in Prague and
Pest since the great reform by the Empress Maria Theresia of the Uni-
versity of Vienna was carried out, for the medical university, by Gerard
van Swieten in 1749. Medical students from Hungary, especially those
from German or Jewish origin, went to Vienna for their medical training.
Modernization of the medical faculty of the University of Budapest started
after 1867, in relation to the enlargement of the hospitals and the founding
of research institutes and laboratories.75 The interaction between Vienna
and Prague was of the same type, but the transformation of Prague into a
state university, according to the Theresian reform, was more successful
than in Hungary, where the Jesuits opposed the modernization for fear of
the Protestants and the Jews.
In Poland, intellectual life and medical care suffered severely from the
partitions and suppression in the late eighteenth and the whole of the
nineteenth century. In the so-called ‘Congress Kingdom’, which was cre-
ated in 1815 after the Congress of Vienna and ruled by the Russian Tzar,
the medical faculty of the Alexandrian University, founded in 1817, was

72 V. G. Mitselmacheris, Essays on the History of Medicine in Lithuania (Leningrad, 1967),


46–124; J. Kubilius, A Short History of Vilnius University (Vilnius, 1979), 51–3, 61–3,
75–9.
73 V. Kalnin, The History of Tartu University, 1632–1982 (Tallin, 1982), 58 [chapter 3 on
medicine]; V. Kalnin, ‘The Role of Tartu University in the Development of Science in the
19th Century’, ibid., 116–24 [ch. 5].
74 M. Grmek, ‘The History of Medical Education in Russia’, in O’Malley (ed.), Medical
Education (note 18), 303–27.
75 P. Hának, ‘Wandlungen der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Wissenschaftlichen Beziehun-
gen im Laufe des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in R. G. Plaschka and K. Mack (eds.), Wegenetz
Europäischen Geistes, vol. I: Wissenschaftszentren und geistige Wechselbeziehungen
zwischen Mittel- und Südosteuropa vom Ende der 18. Jahrhunderts bis zum ersten
Weltkrieg (Vienna, 1983), 343–56.

559
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

organized in Warsaw. Napoleon had founded Départements for medicine


in 1809, but after 1817 the courses were incorporated in the universi-
ties.76 Most of the professors were Polish, in contrast to the surrounding
universities in the Baltic countries, which attracted foreign scholars to
their chairs. The medical faculty of Cracow, whose university was under
Austrian rule until 1815, was given a new status after the Congress of
Vienna, from an exclusive Austrian to a more international, particularly
French, model.
Cracow became a free city with a flourishing university until 1846,
when it was annexed to Austria and became Germanized. In spite of
these annexation problems, the medical faculty developed along with the
other European centres, not least with the help of Joseph Dietl (1804–78),
a representative of the younger, innovative Viennese Medical School.77
Warsaw University was suppressed by the Russians after several uprisings;
actually there was not much medical education left on Polish territory
until 1857, and the number of physicians decreased drastically.78 Illiteracy
became a great problem.
The same held true for Romania, where no proper school system was
present, let alone a higher education of some standard. Drastic reorga-
nization would only take place after 1850, beginning with the primary
schools. In 1860, the first modern university was established at Iasi. Its
founder, Mihail Kogálniceanu (1817–91) who was educated at French
and German universities, and who at the time was prime minister in the
country’s liberal government, intended to create a university which would
embrace the full range of disciplines. He attracted foreign scholars, like
the German scientist Jacob Czihak from Heidelberg to set up the faculty
of natural sciences.79 However, because of limited resources the university
only could afford three faculties: theology and law besides the natural sci-
ences. The fourth faculty, the medical one, had to wait until 1879. In 1864,
the second Romanian university was founded at Bucharest. It comprised
a medical faculty after 1869.
Greece had problems of a similar character. Italy was closely connected
with Greece, and 50 students graduated from the universities of Padua,
Bologna and especially from Pisa. After 1821, when Greece became inde-
pendent, graduates from this university would return to their country and

76 J. Topolskiego (ed.), Dziejc Polski (Warsaw, 1977), 443.


77 L. Tochowicz et al., Outline of the History and the Structural Organisation of the Medical
Academy in Cracow (Cracow, 1981), 16–20.
78 R. Sikorski and L. Kowieski, ‘Reception and Assimilation of Innovative Medical Ideas in
Poland in the 19th and Early 20th Centuries’, Clio Medica, 21 (1987–88), 95–103.
79 J. Livescu, ‘Die Entstehung der rumänischen Universitäten’, in Plaschka and Mack (eds.),
Wegenetz (note 75), 21–35; J. Sadlak, ‘The Use and Abuse of the University Higher
Education in Romania 1860–1900’, Minerva. A Review of Science, Learning and Policy,
29 (1991), 195–225.

560
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become prominent politicians, authors, legal advisors and professors at


the University of Athens, which was founded in 1834. The medical faculty
became a clear example of the German teaching system. Throughout the
nineteenth century the foreign-trained doctors, the ‘Hesperia’ (trained in
the West), were held in high esteem.80
The other countries of south-east Europe were still under Ottoman
rule. The first medical school was founded in a military hospital in Istan-
bul in 1827. The teachers were Hungarian and Turkish. They instructed
physicians and surgeons along the lines of the French military medical
training centres. The surgeons were instructed in French, the physicians
in Italian. In 1839, a medical faculty was founded in Galatasaray (Istanbul)
by combining the two schools. This time the teaching programme was set
up according to the model of the Vienna school. As professors, Austrian
physicians were recommended by Metternich to the Ottoman ruler Sultan
Mohammed II. In 1842, this school had a library with 1,300 books, writ-
ten in French. It had a botanical garden with an Austrian curator and a
museum with anatomical specimens, prepared by Joseph Hyrtl (1811–94),
and many instruments for physics and also a dispensary. Clinical teach-
ing, instruction in surgery and obstetrics, the last with a special course
for midwives, were given in five wards at Galatasaray. Compared with
the poor facilities present in the Balkan medical schools, Galatasaray was
the best-equipped medical school in the south-east Mediterranean basin
at the time.81
In the western part of the Mediterranean basin, Spain underwent the
same reforms as Italy during the Napoleonic campaign. Various old uni-
versities, like Salamanca, lost their medical faculties or were totally closed
down. The main centres for medical training were located in Madrid,
Valencia and Barcelona. These three locations had practical medical train-
ing, installed in 1795, 1787 and 1797. In Madrid, the school was orien-
tated towards France. The leading surgeon, José Severo López (1754–
1807), had close connections with Cabanis and other French scholars.
Barcelona, and especially Valencia, traditionally looked to Vienna. These
schools adopted the same teaching programmes, used translated Vien-
nese textbooks, and adhered to the therapeutic and clinical concepts of
Maximilian Stoll (1742–88) and his school. After 1817, new ordinances
had to be passed for the reorganization of medical education in Spain.
In 1822, the practical medical school of Madrid joined the transferred

80 Z. N. Tsirpanles, ‘Die Ausbildung der Griechen an Europäischen Universitäten und deren


Rolle im Universitätsleben des modernen Griechenland (1800–1850)’, in Plaschka and
Mack (eds.), Wegenetz (note 75), 250–72.
81 A. Terzioglu, ‘Die Verdienste der österreichischen Ärzte bei der Gründung der modernen
medizinischen Fakultät in der Osmanischen Reichshauptstadt Istanbul am Anfang der
19. Jahrhunderts’, in Lesky (ed.), Wien (note 22), 136–46.

561
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

school of Alcalá to become the University of Madrid.82 It would last until


1857, when a new regulation, the Moyana Law, guaranteed the seat of
medical faculties at Barcelona, Valladolid, Granada and Madrid. Sevilla
and Valencia were already safeguarded in 1847. In Portugal, surgeons
had been trained at the school of surgery in Lisbon since 1825 and also in
Oporto. In 1836, the University of Coimbra modernized its curriculum,
looking especially to the Lisbon school. The surgical schools of Lisbon
and Oporto would be incorporated into the newly established universities
in these cities in 1911.83
Italy, which also underwent military and political turmoil during the
period 1795–1830, had to close down the main part of the medical fac-
ulties, with the exception of Genoa, which was granted a separate school
for medicine by Napoleon in 1805, mainly for the training of surgeons.
Pavia was Johann Peter Frank’s first attempt at innovation in medical
education. He designed an entirely new teaching programme for the med-
ical faculty in 1785/86, including the basic sciences and physiological
anatomy, inspired by Brunonian concepts.84 The faculty expanded after
the fall of Napoleon; it obtained the twelve chairs proposed by Frank and
his successors in 1817. Two chairs were quite special, one for ophthal-
mology and one for veterinary medicine. Being close to Milan, where a
practical veterinary school already existed, this led to a unification of the
school with the University of Pavia until 1859, when the law of education
(the Casati law) reorganized medical education yet again.85 The famous
medical faculties of Bologna and Padua were in decline, several of their
facilities being limited. Still, there was a lot of reverberation of the glory of
Italian science around 1800. Paolo Mascagni (1755–1815) was working
in Florence on his famous anatomical atlas, after his previous studies and
contributions to the fabrication of wax-models. The co-operation between
Felice Fontana (1720–1805) and the skilful artist Clemente Michelangelo
F. Susini (1754–1814) in this field led to the world-famous Italian collec-
tion of wax-models.86
Clinical teaching was continued and percussion and auscultation were
introduced from Vienna, where Joseph Skoda (1805–81) combined these
techniques to come to a more accurate diagnosis. This method found much

82 J. M. Lopez Piñero, ‘The Relation between the “alte Wiener Schule” and the Spanish
Medicine of the Enlightenment’, in Lesky (ed.), Wien (note 22), 11–26.
83 F. Guerra, ‘Medical Education in Iberoamerica’, in O’Malley (ed.), Medical Education
(note 18), 419–62.
84 E. Lesky, ‘Johan Peter Frank als Organisator des medizinischen Unterrichtes’, Sudhoff’s
Archiv für Geschichte der Medizin, 39 (1955), 1–29.
85 L. Belloni, ‘Italian Medical Education after 1600’, in O’Malley (ed.), Medical Education
(note 18), 113.
86 B. Lanza and M. L. Azzaroli Pucetti et al., Le Cere Anatomiche della Specola (Florence,
1979).

562
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approval in the universities, where Morgagni’s pathological anatomy was


founded.87 Brownianism was not accepted in the traditional Italian fac-
ulties. The quest for certainty in medicine became urgent in all European
countries. And this certainty could not be attained without a new scientific
method, which would develop in the next period.

t h e n e w l e a r n i n g (1830–1870)
The ‘new physiology’, practised in the school of Johannes Müller in Berlin,
initiated a modern scientific spirit in Germany. His pupils were coming
to feel that vitalism was useless, even as a last resort. He had inspired
them to study vital phenomena in terms of purpose, but that purpose
itself could be best defined in an objective and even mathematical man-
ner.88 Müller did not object to mechanistic explanations; the differences
between vitalists and mechanists became ever more related to philosophi-
cal interpretations, rather than to programmes or methods of research.89
This can also be studied in his Handbuch der Physiologie des Menschen
(1834–40), in which he emphasized that progress in research is based on
observation and experiment and does not rely on any of the established
systems. Müller’s philosophy was holistic, in fact he occupied five chairs
at the university, which had to be given to five successors! His broad view
of the vital phenomena inspired various famous pupils, some rebellious,
some obedient to the master.
The spectacular development of the natural sciences contributed to a
firm belief in progress. According to Ludwig Feuerbach (1804–72), the
real revolutionary forces of history came from the truth of the natural sci-
ences and not from politics.90 Therefore, opposition to groundless author-
ity was the task of young, progressive researchers and natural science was
its justification. Feuerbach’s philosophy inspired many young intellectu-
als, who wanted to protest against the a priori use of illusive and artifi-
cial idealism in science, political and clerical institutions.91 Among them
were the so-called ‘scientific materialists’, Karl Vogt (1817–95), Jacob
Moleschott (1822–93) and Ludwig Büchner (1824–99). In their work we
find a far more radical criticism of Naturphilosophie and the ‘immaterial

87 L. Premuda, ‘Die anatomisch-klinische Methode: Padua–Paris–Wien–Padua’, Gesnerus,


44 (1987), 15–32.
88 R. Shryock, The Development of Modern Medicine: An Interpretation of the Social and
Scientific Factors Involved (New York, 1947), 200.
89 T. Lenoir, The Strategy of Life: Teleology and Mechanics in Nineteenth-Century German
Biology, Studies in the History of Modern Science 13 (Dordrecht, 1982), 276–80.
90 F. Gregory, Scientific Materialism in 19th-Century Germany, Studies in the History of
Modern Science 1 (Dordrecht and Boston, 1977), 9.
91 F. Gregory, ‘Science versus Dialectic Materialism: A Clash of Ideologies in 19th-Century
German Radicalism’, Isis, 68 (1977), 206–23.

563
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

forces’ than the reductionalist’s programme of Johannes Müller could


accomplish. Büchner’s book Kraft und Stoff became the bible of materi-
alism, and it was translated into seventeen languages.92 Moleschott’s Die
Lehre der Nährungsmittel, Für das Volk (1850) and Der Kreislauf des
Lebens (1852) were likewise received. Karl Vogt’s Physiologische Briefe
für Gebildete aller Stände, a series of letters first published as articles for
the Allgemeine Zeitung between 1845 and 1847, were soon collected in
a book which also went through many reprints and translations. These
books were intended to popularize physiology, to educate and to gain sup-
port for the new ‘anti-idealistic’ materialism, directed against the belief
in the existence of any realities outside force and matter, including the
human soul.
Radicalism was not well received by the reactionary German authori-
ties. During the so-called Biedermeier period (1830–50), the German bour-
geoisie showed their disappointment at the delay of social and political
reform by political resistance. Young intellectuals and labourers united in
protest against the authorities and revolt, exile and imprisonment would
be their lot during the years to come. They took part in the beginnings
of Communism and socialism and many students and professors were
persecuted. In 1842, five professors at the Würzburg medical faculty were
removed from office because of their interest in democratic and liberal
reforms.93 Vogt, professor at Giessen since 1847, had to escape for the
second time to Bern in 1849, after the uprising of 1848. Moleschott, who
had taught physiology at the University of Heidelberg since 1847, resigned
from his post in 1854, after a warning to infect no longer the mind of youth
with his immoral and frivolous doctrines.94 Feuerbach’s over-enthusiastic
reviews of Moleschott’s work, in which he carried Moleschott’s material-
istic emphasis to the extreme, like ‘ohne Phosphor keine Gedanken’, may
also have contributed to this criticism.95
For many scholars, the reform of science fused with the reform of soci-
ety. This became particularly clear during the uprising of 1848 in Berlin. In
that year, the young Rudolf Virchow (1821–1902) reported to the Prussian
Government on the typhus epidemic in Upper Silesia, which devastated the
famine-ridden Polish minority. This report is a model protest against the
authorities for allowing such a catastrophe. Virchow’s recommendations

92 W. Bölsche (ed.), Ludwig Büchner’s Kraft und Stoff (Leipzig, 1932), xxv (Vorwort).
93 J. Bleker, ‘Biedermeiermedizin, Medizin der Biedermeier? Tendenzen, Probleme, Wider-
sprüche 1830–1850’, Medizinhistorisches Journal, 23 (1988), 5–22.
94 Gregory, Scientific Materialism (note 90), 97; O. Temkin, ‘Materialism in French and
German Physiology of the Early 19th Century’, Bulletin of the History of Medicine, 20
(1946), 322–7.
95 Gregory, Scientific Materialism (note 90), 91. In fact, Moleschott wrote: ‘without calcium
and phosphor no bones, without fat no brain’. Die Lehre der Nährungsmittel (Erlangen,
1850), 80.

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were not drugs, articles or food but ‘plainly full and unlimited democracy’,
or, ‘education, freedom and prosperity’.96 For Virchow and his generation
medicine became a social science. The doctor should become the ‘natural
attorney of the poor’97 and oblige the state to provide medical super-
vision of working conditions, prisons and the like. The medical reform
movement of 1848 arose from the Industrial Revolution in Germany. It
also affected the social status of doctors. They had become materially
very insecure, since the old middle class, to which they belonged, rapidly
became proletarianized. Ackerknecht emphasized the humiliation of the
German doctors, not only by poverty and ruthless competition, but by the
continual incompetent interference of the bureaucracy of the absolutist
state.98
So the doctors joined the revolution and the Medical Reform Move-
ment with the cry for ‘freedom’, not only for their poor patients, but also
for themselves. Through publishing the weekly Die medizinische Reform,
Virchow, the gifted hygienist Salomon Neumann (1819–1908), the psy-
chiatrist Rudolf Leubuscher (1821–61) and the physician Ludwig Traube
(1818–76), all became influential medical statesmen, who met with a con-
siderable amount of support for their ideas. But medical reform was
slow. France had been their leader in this respect with the concept of
hygiène publique. But in all European countries and also in America doc-
tors, civil engineers and teachers came together to discuss sanitary con-
ditions with the authorities. The epidemics of smallpox, cholera, typhus,
typhoid and yellow fever galvanized the authorities into action, and the
so-called hygienists became involved in statistics, mortality rates and cen-
sus reports to the governments. Moreover, the problems of public health
received increasing attention at the meetings of medical societies and in
their publications.99 The Sanitary Conferences, which started in Paris
in 1851, were meeting-points for the hygienists.100 The Sanitary Reform
Movement would be joined by many prominent men, it would influence
university teaching and motivate students to become active in the field
of epidemics and health care. At the same time, the Medical Reform,
proclaimed by Virchow and other radical doctors, contributed to social

96 E. H. Ackerknecht, Rudolf Virchow: Doctor, Statesman, Anthropologist (Madison,


Wisc., 1953), 15; E. H. Ackerknecht, ‘Beiträge zur Geschichte der Medizinal Reform
von 1848’, Sudhoffs Archiv für Geschichte der Medizin, 25 (1932), 61–129.
97 Anwalt der Armen, Virchow’s contributions to the ‘Medizinische Reform’, were partly
published by himself in his Gesammelte Abhandlungen aus dem Gebiet der oeffentlichen
Medizin und der Seuchenlehre in 1879.
98 Ackerknecht, Virchow (note 96), 139.
99 Shryock, Development (note 88), 211–47 (chapter on Medicine and the Public Health
Movement 1800–1880).
100 E. H. Ackerknecht, ‘Anticontagionism between 1821 and 1867’, Bulletin of the History
of Medicine, 22 (1948), 562–93.

565
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

reform, albeit slowly. Virchow’s proclamation: ‘It is the constitutional


right of the individual citizen to live a healthful existence’,101 expounded
in his Medizinische Reform of 1848, was not realized for many years.
The chemical approach to physiological studies increased in impor-
tance with the development of organic chemistry by Justus von Liebig
(1803–73), Friedrich Wöhler (1800–82) and other prominent European
chemists. During the Romantic era the chemists considered the produc-
tion of organic substances to be a process under the influence of the ‘vital
force’, which could not be repeated in a laboratory. But in 1828 Wöhler
wrote a letter to Jöns Jakob Berzelius (1779–1848), the highly respected
Swedish chemist: ‘I must tell you that I can prepare urea, without the help
of kidneys, or even the use of an animal, dog or man!’102
Soon other organic substances would be synthesized in laboratories,
but Wöhler’s first discovery became a symbol of the ‘philosophical revo-
lution of mankind’, according to Auguste Comte (1798–1857), the French
philosopher who founded positivism and sociology as a science per se. For
Comte, Wöhler’s result proved that vital transformations were subordi-
nated, like all other transformations, to universal laws of chemical pro-
cesses.103 His theory of the three stages of philosophy – the theological,
the metaphysical and finally the positive stage on the solid base of the nat-
ural sciences – was warmly welcomed by the physiologists. Comte’s Cours
de philosophie positive (1830–42) became widely known. An important
part of this work deals with ‘philosophie biologique’, lectures on biology,
its relations with other sciences. Above all, he discussed the way bio-
logy should be studied and the interpretation of the observations. Comte
considered the purpose of positive biology to connect the ‘static and the
dynamic state’ of the studied object, in other words the relation between
form and function. He attached great value to the environment of the
studied organism, which he wanted to consider in direct relation with
the organism as a whole. Furthermore, he wanted to relate the physio-
logical actions of different organs to each other by way of a consensus
vital.104 Environment in direct relation with the organism also drew the
attention of Claude Bernard (1813–78). Bernard understood environment
(milieu) not only as the outside environment, air and water in its different
compositions, but also as the milieu intérieur. This included blood and
tissue fluids, which surrounded the cells. The interaction between the two

101 Ackerknecht, Virchow (note 96), 131.


102 Letter from Wöhler to Berzelius, 22 February–1828: O. Wallach, Briefwechsel zwischen
J. Berzelius und F. Wöhler (Göttingen, 1901; Wiesbaden, 1966), vol. I, 206.
103 R. Morgue, La Philosophie biologique d’Auguste Comte (Lyon, 1909), 35.
104 Morgue, Philosophie (note 103), 20–6; G. Canguilhem, ‘La Philosophie d’Auguste
Comte et son influence en France au XIXe siècle’, in G. Canguilhem, Etudes d’Histoire
et de Philosophie des Sciences (Paris, 1968), 76–98.

566
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milieux became the centre of his physiological research. Bernard founded


experimental medicine in his famous study Introduction à l’étude de la
médecine expérimentale (1865). In this work, he formulated the theoret-
ical base for medicine which respected the unique character of organic
phenomena, with acknowledgement to determinism in medicine.105 His
definition of experimental science, its methodology, the necessary quality
of its instruments, remain valid today. Bernard lectured at the Collège de
France from 1852 and from 1854 at the Sorbonne with a new chair of gen-
eral physiology. The facilities at the Collège de France were much better
for research and instruction. At the Sorbonne, he could not give demon-
strations and he had to wait ten years before he obtained a laboratory.106
So his main research was done outside the university.
Bernard became the outstanding leader in physiology. He analyzed the
digestive processes, he discovered the storage of glycogen in the liver and
did basic research on the metabolism of sugar. He employed extensive
animal experimentation for a study of various poisons: especially curare
and carbon-monoxide. By applying his scientific method to this field he
made pharmacology an experimental science, discovering specific actions
of drugs upon particular parts of the organism. These studies revealed
when a drug was operating upon diseased tissue and how.107 It opened
another new field of research: experimental pathology. Bernard distin-
guished the ‘empirical physician’ from the experimenting one. He was by
no means opposed to the healing art, supported by Hippocratic expecta-
tion, but he opposed blind empiricism, the use of empirical medication at
random and passive expectancy.108 Bernard founded Western medicine on
a scientific basis, the best guarantee for certainty, just as Cabanis would
have wished.
The chemical approach to morphological studies also became an impor-
tant issue, since various organic phenomena could be observed through
the microscope and scientists were inclined to explain the structures in
analogy to chemical processes. Such a structure was the ‘blastema’, intro-
duced by Theodor Schwann (1810–82) in 1837, together with his new
theory of the significance of the cell.109 Schwann compared the genesis
of cells with a chemical process of crystallization. His ‘blastema’ was an
amorphous substance which had plastic qualities and could coagulate into

105 J. Olmsted and E. Harris Olmsted, Claude Bernard and the Experimental Method in
Medicine, Life of Science Library 23 (New York, 1952), ch. 11; F. Grande and M. B.
Visscher (eds.), Claude Bernard and Experimental Medicine (Cambridge, Mass., 1967).
106 Olmsted and Harris (eds.), Bernard (note 105), 85; cf. chapter 13, 528–9.
107 Shryock, Development (note 88), 208, 210.
108 C. Bernard, Introduction à l’étude de la médecine expérimentale (Geneva, 1945), 389
(ed. by C. Bourquin).
109 Ackerknecht, Virchow (note 96), 70–85 (‘On the Road to Cellular Pathology’).

567
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

a nucleus around which the cell was formed.110 Like protein, the blastema
could be analyzed.
Protein and fibrin had become important organic substances; much
research had been done by von Liebig in Giessen and Gerardus Johannes
Mulder (1802–80) in Utrecht. Mulder was the first to use elementary
analyses from 1837 onwards.111 Schwann’s theory of the ‘blastema’ as an
organic substance drew the attention of Carl Rokitansky (1804–78), the
Viennese pathologist who had one impressive work in the tradition of the
French school. In his Handbuch der pathologischen Anatomie, published
1842–46, he offered his students a wide panorama of the pathological
changes of organs, describing and classifying various lesions in combina-
tion with specific diseases.112
Rokitansky realized that various diseases could not be localized,
because the observed lesions were so insignificant that the fatal course of
the disease could not be explained. For these diseases, Rokitansky pointed
to the blood as the ever-present organic substance, holding protein and
other material which could deteriorate into a dyskrasia, the ancient con-
cept in humoral pathology. He compared the blood serum with Schwann’s
‘blastema’, and he tried to classify the diseases in the third volume of his
Handbuch with this hypothesis in mind. A new field of research seemed to
come alive, the study of exsudat pathologie.113 This became very popular
among the Viennese clinicians, but the chemists could not make head or
tail of this concept. Still, Rokitansky’s Krasenlehre dominated the Central
European schools during the mid-century. Even Virchow, who criticized
sharply the exsudat pathologie was impressed by Rokitansky’s contribu-
tions to macro-morphological pathology, which he compared with the
classifications of Linnaeus.114
Virchow was more fortunate with his pathological studies. He con-
sidered the blastema of secondary importance and paid full attention
to the cell. Virchow’s greatest medical achievement is known in history
as the foundation of ‘cellular pathology’. For this theory, he rejected
the blastema and replaced it by the formation of cells by division in
1852, stating that there was no life but through direct succession. In
Volume 8 of the Archives in 1855 he gave the famous aphorism Omnis
cellula e cellula and proclaimed cells to be the ultimate units of life and

110 Ibid., 73.


111 H. A. M. Snelders, ‘The Mulder–Liebig Controversy Elucidated by Their Correspon-
dence’, Janus, 69 (1982), 199–221.
112 E. Lesky, Die Wiener medizinische Schule im neunzehnten Jahrhundert, Studien zur
Geschichte der Universität Wien 6 (Graz and Cologne, 1965), 129–41.
113 Ibid., 135.
114 In the Wiener Medizinische Wochenschrift from 1855, after Lesky, Wiener Schule
(note 112), 132.

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disease.115 So medicine was dominated by pathology, albeit three different


kinds: French pathology, the search for analogies by many autopsies and
Claude Bernard’s patho-physiology, Viennese exsudat pathologie, com-
bined with the methodology of the French school and German ‘cellular
pathology’.
National characteristics kept the three apart, but new diseases were
described in Great Britain, France and the German-speaking nations by
excellent scientists, often simultaneously. In fact, the impact of patho-
logy involved varied fields in medicine. For instance, dermatology was
looked upon as a group of pathological phenomena, manifesting itself on
the skin, which could be classified according to the quality of the erup-
tions. On this point, various schools had different insights, which were
highly confusing for the students. Although various classifications would
be overruled by Virchow’s ‘cellular’ pathology, founded on better insights
into the pathological changes of cells, pathology and morbid anatomy in
particular kept their central place in all special fields, such as neurology,
ophthalmology, children’s diseases and gynaecology.116
The interest in pathological changes of the brain also dominated psy-
chiatry. The main cause of psychiatric disease was now believed to be
localized in the brain substance, which could be analyzed with the help of
the new tools: microscopic study with the help of chemicals, which stained
the brain tissue. A remarkable representative of this school was Theodor
Meynert (1833–92), whose studies on the architecture of the brain and
the spinal cord would become fundamental in the further developments
of neuroanatomy.117
Pathology also played a role in the concepts of Semmelweis on the origin
of puerperal fever during his stay as an assistant in the Viennese maternity
wards in 1847. The heavy reliance of the Viennese school on autopsies fur-
thered the contacts of the students between the autopsy room and the bed-
ridden women in the maternity wards. Semmelweis attributed the high
percentage of childbed fever in the ward to a poison, brought to the ward
by the students from the autopsy room. Moreover, he warned, in the style
of his teacher Rokitansky, against the danger of exudations of the liv-
ing organism, which could transport the cause of childbed fever from
one woman to another.118 The discipline of hand-washing with a solu-
tion of chloride of lime was gradually accepted all over Europe. Drastic
antiseptics were used in the maternity wards long before the pathogenic

115 Ackerknecht, Virchow (note 96), 82–3.


116 Lesky’s chapters in Wiener Schule (note 112) on the separate specialisms; H.-H. Eulner,
Die Entwicklung der medizinischen Spezialfächer an den Universitäten des deutschen
Sprachgebietes, W. Artelt and W. Rüegg (eds.), Studien zur Medizingeschichte des neun-
zehnten Jahrhunderts 4 (Stuttgart, 1970), 95–112.
117 Lesky, Wiener Schule (note 112), 377. 118 Ibid., 215.

569
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

action of streptococci and other bacteria were known.119 In 1867, Joseph


Lister (1827–1912) published his antiseptic method of wound-dressing
which, during the years to come, would come into use in most hospitals.120
Operations and difficult labour were relieved by the introduction of anaes-
thesia, from America to England in 1846. The first inhaler was used in
London, a year later anaesthesia was used all over Europe.121 Moreover,
as surgery and surgical obstetrics were challenged to try out more inva-
sive surgery, the area of heroism in medicine was in view. New techniques
and sophisticated instruments came into use during the Belle Epoque; the
twentieth century would start with the beginnings of technology, which
would become a blessing and a burden for the generations to come.

the expanding medical faculties


By 1870, the aim of medical education in nearly all European countries
was the production of general practitioners. It was carried out in universi-
ties, usually under government supervision. The new concepts of medical
education, based on the natural sciences as the true and only foundation
of medicine, required well-equipped laboratories and the modernization
of ancient hospitals for the purpose of clinical teaching. As the costs for
expansion had to be paid by government, the decisions had a political
and often nationalistic character.
New buildings had to be constructed, for physiology, morbid anatomy
and chemistry, apart from the modernization of the old anatomical insti-
tutes. In the universities associated with the hospital, maternity wards
and accommodation for contagious and venereal diseases were of urgent
need. In 1876, the Viennese surgeon Theodor Billroth (1829–94) pub-
lished his famous report on the situation of medical education in the
German-speaking countries.122 He made a rough estimate for moderniz-
ing a medical faculty. He estimated a capital cost of 1.5 million Austrian
florins and 300,000 Austrian florins yearly expenditure.123 Needless to

119 H. Beukers, ‘De opkomst van het universitair onderwijs in de verloskunde en gynae-
cologie in Nederland’, in F. J. J. van Assen (ed.), Een eeuw vrouwenarts (Amsterdam,
1987), 241–58.
120 J. Shepherd, ‘Lister and the Development of Abdominal Surgery’, in F. L. N. Poynter
(ed.), Medicine and Science in the 1860s, Publication of the Wellcome Institute, n.s. 16
(London, 1968), 105–15.
121 Moulin, History of Surgery (note 24), 280. See also J. Ruprecht and J. J. de Lange’s
survey of the introduction of ether narcosis on the European continent, in J. J. de Lange
et al., Van aether naar beter. Veertig jaar Nederlandse vereniging voor anaesthesiologie,
1948–1988 (Utrecht, 1988), 5–12.
122 T. Billroth, Über das Lehren und Lernen der Medicinischen Wissenschaften an den
Universitäten der Deutschen Nation, nebst allgemeine Bemerkungen über Universitäten
(Vienna, 1876).
123 Ibid., 405.

570
Medicine

say most European countries were slow in raising money for the new
demands of their medical faculties.
Basic sciences, such as chemistry and physics, were scarcely taught at
the humanistic Gymnasia or other European high schools. So the univer-
sities had to start teaching programmes in the basic sciences, before the
medical students could receive instruction in applied chemistry relevant
to pharmacy, toxicology, forensic medicine and hygiene.124 Physics was
important because of advances in hydrodynamics, electricity, optics and
the new field of sound.125 Latin was abolished in most European uni-
versities after 1850. The students, especially the more radical ones, were
eager to replace the traditional humanistic learning by the advances of
the natural sciences. The more contemplative disciplines, such as logic,
the social aspects and history of medicine were repressed. In spite of this,
most universities could not offer practical training in chemistry for their
medical students, nor were these youngsters welcome in the ‘Physical
Cabinets’.126 New laboratories had to be built with facilities for prac-
tical exercises. These would only be realized in the later decades of the
nineteenth century, or at the beginning of the twentieth.
Anatomy was a basic part of medical education. But from 1840
onwards, this discipline had to give way to physiology and morbid
anatomy. From the early nineteenth century, most universities had dis-
section rooms used by students and by surgeons practising operations on
the cadaver. The same building housed physiology and morbid anatomy,
and museums of anatomical specimens, both normal and pathological.
These collections grew larger and conservation became a problem. The
anatomist, whose main interest was the new physiology, was not eager
to act as a keeper of an anatomical museum, with the new experimen-
tal research as his primary interest. They looked forward to the separa-
tion of the disciplines. New buildings were promised to newly appointed
professors, but not always realized within a reasonable length of time.
Claude Bernard had to wait ten years for an appropriate laboratory at
the Sorbonne. The German universities and those in the Low Countries
had laboratories for physiology constructed mainly during the decades
1870–1900.127
Between 1850 and 1890, morbid anatomy left the autopsy building,
adjacent to the hospital, to be transferred to a more appropriate build-
ing, where the pathological collections could be housed properly. The
pathologist in particular relied upon a varied collection of specimens,

124 Ibid., 69.


125 H. von Helmholtz, Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen als physiologische Grundlage
für die Theorie der Musik (Heidelberg, 1862).
126 Billroth, Lehren und Lernen (note 122), 73, 80.
127 Ibid., 508; Eulner, Spezialfächer (note 116), 63.

571
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

to demonstrate pathological changes caused by specific diseases to his


students. Various universities bought artificial specimens, fabricated
for teaching purposes, such as the famous specimens from the Musée
d’anatomie pathologique, by Félix Thibert.128 They were made of plaster
and brought out in relief. Especially interesting were the presentations
of skin diseases, since the reliefs were painted and the disease was rep-
resented as a true copy of reality.129 Also Louis Thomas Jérôme Auzoux
(1797–1880) fabricated models for the teaching of anatomy, even com-
plete artificial bodies, which could be taken apart. They were made of
papier maché, and painted in accordance with the colour of the parts of
the human body.130 Auzoux’s specimens were likewise exported all over
the world, and military medical training centres were especially interested
in his models.131
By 1870, most European medical faculties had added established chairs
for pathology, including morbid anatomy, and physiology to the tradi-
tional chair of anatomy.132 In Germany, Giessen was the last medical
faculty to separate the chairs of anatomy and physiology in 1891.133
The new branch of histology, so important in relation to embryology
and cellular pathology, became an apple of discord between the three
disciplines: anatomy, physiology and pathology. Before 1850, histology
was the responsibility of the anatomist, but soon histology was claimed
by the physiologist for the study of living tissue and chemical physiology.
The pathologist claimed histology in relation to cellular pathology; the
students should observe abnormal cells such as cancer cells. An excellent
model of co-operation was provided in Würzburg, where Albert Koelliker
(1817–1905) gave regular courses in histology from 1848 on.134 After the
appointment of Rudolf Virchow in 1849 at Würzburg, they attracted a
group of young prominent assistants and radically modernized together
the teaching of anatomy and physiology in the old ‘caves of the Julius
Spital’.135 In much of Europe, other countries followed the German pat-
tern. The British applied the new sciences both to the practice and teaching
of medicine, but the necessary new facilities for teaching and learning in
either hospital or medical school had to be provided by appeal to the
128 G. T. Haneveld, Bijdragen tot de geschiedenis der pathologische anatomie: Utrecht in de
eerste helft van de negentiende eeuw (Pathologische Anatomie in Utrecht, circa 1800–
1850/Pathological anatomy in Utrecht circa 1800–1850) (Amsterdam, 1978), 283. The
first series of specimens was described in 1839.
129 These can be still admired today in the Musée Baretta in the Hôpital Saint Louis in Paris.
130 Haneveld, Bijdragen (note 128), 281–3.
131 Such an artificial body was ordered by Pompe van Meerdervoort for the Nagasaki
Medical School in Japan, see Catalogue of the Historical Writings and Materials in
Early Stage of the Development of Modern Medicine in Japan (Kyoto, 1959), 39.
132 See the diagrams in Eulner, Spezialfächer (note 116), 495–538.
133 Ibid., 61. 134 A. Koelliker, Erinnerungen aus meinem Leben (Leipzig, 1899), 181.
135 Ibid., 39.

572
Medicine

public. This development was lacking in Russia, where the traditional


emphasis upon clinical teaching and demonstrations was maintained and
given priority over basic disciplines and experimental research.136 But in
1863, Nikolai Pirogov (1810–81) published a progressive report on the
reform of the universities. New university statutes were promulgated,
giving the universities more freedom and the deans of medical faculties
the right to establish a curriculum and to decide many matters concern-
ing the professors and the students.137 Flynn states that from the middle
of the century to the First World War, Russia was profoundly influenced by
the example of Germany, especially the University of Göttingen.138 Rus-
sian students visited the German universities to become acquainted with
the ‘new physiology’. They had read the books of Büchner and Moleschott
secretly. After 1848, materialistic ideas were strictly forbidden by Tzar
Nicholas, ‘new physiology’ was not admitted at the universities and any
innovations in this field were regarded with suspicion.139 Only St Peters-
burg offered new possibilities, in particular through the work of Ivan M.
Sechenov (1839–1905), creator of the Russian school of neurophysiology.
The physio-pathological orientation of research and teaching character-
ized a whole period of the Academy of St Petersburg and found its best
expression in the work of Ivan P. Pavlov (1849–1936).140
In most European countries clinical teaching did not make spectacular
progress between 1830 and 1870. It was mainly performed by demon-
strations. The senior students were not encouraged to go beyond a phys-
ical check-up of the patient and the writing of a case-report. The tech-
nical equipment at the hospitals was modest. Clinical thermometry was
introduced by Karl Reinhold August Wunderlich (1815–77) in the late
1860s.141 Microscopes were mostly owned privately by professors, suc-
cessful practitioners and rich students. The laryngoscope, introduced in
1858 by Ludwig Türck (1810–68) and Johann N. Czermak (1828–73),
became popular at once and gave the strongest impulse to the emancipa-
tion of the special domain after 1870. Also the perforated hollow mirror,
a familiar attribute of the cartoonist’s physician, was easily adopted.142
These instruments were easy to handle and relatively inexpensive. The

136 J. T. Flynn, ‘Russia’s University Question: Origins to Great Reforms 1802/1863’, History
of Universities, 7 (1989), 1–37.
137 Grmek, ‘Medical Education’ (note 74). On Sechenov: K. S. Koshtoëiı̀anëtı̀s, I. M.
Sechenov (1829–1905) (Moscow, 1950), 140.
138 Flynn, ‘Russia’s University’ (note 136) mentions Göttingen, perhaps because of its close
relation with the St Petersburg Academy.
139 A. Gaı̈ssinovitch, Elie Metchnikov Souvenirs. Recueil d’articles autobiographiques
(Moscow, 1959), 26.
140 Grmek, ‘Medical Education’ (note 74), 319.
141 C. R. A. Wunderlich, Das Verhalten der Eigenwärme in Krankheiten (Leipzig, 1868).
142 Eulner, Spezialfächer (note 116), 340–86 (chapter on otorhinolaryngology).

573
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

light from a gas or paraffin lamp was sufficient for proper observation.
Chemical analysis of urine became routine from 1855 on; the refinement
of urine testing enabled the private physician to discover the presence of
abnormal constituents with simple, new methods of analysis.143 But we
have no indication that the handling of instruments or chemical analysis
of body fluids was an institutionalized part of the teaching programme of
the universities before 1870.144
In France, the system of externs and interns provided the students
with a certain practical experience. In Britain, especially in London, the
curriculum for all students provided a wide range of clinical appoint-
ments enabling them to learn mainly by caring for the sick. Billroth com-
plained in 1876 about the lack of diagnostic training of the students and
the total absence of internships in the German-speaking universities.145
But most European university hospitals were not properly equipped to
house assistants and interns. In the smaller universities, the hospitals
were closed during the summer holidays and the patients were sent
home.146 Billroth insisted upon a holistic training for the medical students.
He strongly opposed the advance of specialization. Clinical medicine,
surgery and obstetrics should remain the basic disciplines for clinical
training.
The students saw most of the daily cases in outpatient clinics, some-
times connected with the university hospitals, sometimes in dispensaries
for the poor in the cities. In this respect, students could learn more in the
smaller universities, where such a dispensary provided more surgical cases
than the hospitalized patients in the university hospital. We should not
forget that most patients, who came for treatment, came with local infec-
tions, such as paronychia and ulcers, or traumatic lesions and burns. Also
many children came to the outpatient clinics, the parents being unwilling
to send their children to a hospital with high risks for infection, poor
accommodation for children and poor nursing. Vienna had a special pri-
vate hospital for children from 1837. Before that time, students could

143 W. D. Forster, ‘The Rise of Chemical Pathology’, in F. L. N. Poynter, Chemistry in the


Service of Medicine (London, 1963), 89–104.
144 J. Bleker, ‘Medical Students – to the Bed-side or to the Laboratory? The Emergence
of Laboratory-training in German Medical Education 1870–1900’, Clio Medica, 21
(1987–88), 35–46.
145 Billroth, Über Lehren und Lernen (note 122), 99–106. He refers to the programme, made
up by H. von Ziemssen, ‘Ueber den klinischen Unterricht in Deutschland’, Deutsches
Archiv für Klinische Medizin (1875), 13.
146 This happened in Leiden in the Caecilia Hospital and in the Nosocomium Academicum,
which was in use until 1875. H. Beukers, ‘De Leidse Medische Faculteit in het derde
kwart der negentiende eeuw’, in W. Otterspeer, Een universiteit herleeft: wetenschaps-
beoefening aan de Leidse Universiteit vanaf de tweede helft van de negentiende eeuw,
Studies over de geschiedenis van de Leidse Universiteit 2 (Leiden, 1984), 76–103.

574
Medicine

study children’s diseases in the orphanages, which certainly housed many


diseased children.147

t h e g r o w t h o f m e d i c a l s p e c i a l i z a t i o n (1870–1940)
Industrialization affected medicine in the most impressive way. New prod-
ucts were warmly welcomed by scientists who wanted to apply chemistry,
physics and engineering to biological research and health care, and there
was a rapidly growing market for new instruments and new drugs. Diag-
nosis could be improved with the help of new technical devices such as the
electrocardiogram, sphygmomanometer and X-rays. Surgery was greatly
advanced by the fabrication of stainless-steel instruments, which could
be sterilized and the introduction of anaesthesia with better anaesthetics.
Edison’s lamp of 1880 opened up a new field of exploration: the inspection
of the body cavities.
Optics were of crucial importance for the study of micro-structures
in the tissues and in microbiology. The pharmaceutical industry became
essential to the application of new, well-tested and standardized drugs.
The plagues of the nineteenth century – cholera, tuberculosis, syphilis and
many of the tropical diseases threatening the European colonies – could
be identified by the demonstration of the causal organisms and steps taken
to limit them. Diseases such as diabetes mellitus and pernicious anaemia
were analyzed and effectively treated. The ‘firm belief in progress’, so
commonly expressed in the mid-nineteenth century, was actually bearing
fruit!
Alfred Nobel (1833–96) was one of the influential European industri-
alists who recognized the importance of the new advances for mankind.
The list of the Nobel-laureates between 1901 and 1940 with their achieve-
ments marks the main points in medical research during the first decades
of the twentieth century.148
There may have been a firm belief in progress in the 1930s, but there
were also drawbacks. Occupational diseases, due to the daily handling
of poisonous material and insufficient safeguarding of industrial machin-
ery, opened up a new area of problems. Furthermore, aggressive surgical
intervention and accidents with X-ray treatment were reported, and med-
ical ethics had to be adapted to the new situation and the new dangers.
Nineteenth-century medical ethics, the moral excellency of the physician,
as postulated by John Thomas Percival (1803–76), were not enough for

147 Eulner, Spezialfächer (note 116), 202–21 (chapter on children’s diseases).


148 W. B. Huddleton Slater in his Introduction to Daniel Kellner’s A Nobel Dijas Orvosk,
életées munkassaga. This book was translated from the Hungarian into German, and in
1940 into Dutch. It deals with the Nobel-laureates from 1901 to 1940.

575
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

the twentieth-century ‘nobile officium’.149 The new drugs and the new
instruments invited the young doctors to experiment on human beings,
sometimes with fatal results.150
Vivisection was openly criticized, especially in Great Britain, where a
longstanding tradition of anti-vivisection sentiment blocked the develop-
ment of English physiology between 1840 and 1870. Newly formed anti-
vivisection societies led to legislation in 1876. This Vivisection Act may
have done British experimental physiology more good than harm.151 The
growing incidence of abortion as a consequence of the industrial society
attracted the attention of laymen and doctors and led the Neo-Malthusian
movement to argue for contraception and birth-control.152 Urbanization
and prostitution increased the incidence of venereal diseases, and a better
understanding of sexual life became a crucial necessity.153 Prudery was
an important aspect of the bourgeois-morality, it was one of the safe-
guards against the danger of unwanted pregnancy. The rise of sexology
as a new discipline promoted by pioneers like Richard von Krafft-Ebing
(1840–1902), August Forel (1848–1931) and Havelock Ellis (1859–1939)
inspired many others to pave the way to a better guidance of sexual life.154
Their works became very popular among young married couples and stu-
dents. The Weltliga für Sexualreform was founded in 1927, by Forel, Ellis
and Magnus Hirschfeld (1867–1935). Many intellectuals were active in
this league, especially from the left wing. Prominent authors, like Bernard
Shaw and Thomas Mann, were early members. But the transformation
of birth-control advocacy from a radical cause to a middle-class reform
movement had a long way to go. Last but not least, Sigmund Freud (1856–
1939) developed his psychoanalytic theories, in which unconscious sex-
ual urges were indicated as the mainsprings for human behaviour. Freud’s
influence upon diagnosis and treatment in psychiatry was considerable;
it would switch the interest from the diseased human brain to the many-
sided disturbances of the human psyche.

149 I. Waddington, ‘The Development of Modern Ethics: A Sociological Analysis’, Medical


History, 19 (1978), 36–51.
150 J. F. Rang, ‘Medisch experiment op de mens en strafrecht’, in A. G. M. van Melsen et al.
(eds.), Recent medisch-ethisch denken II, Nederlandse Bibliotheek der Geneeskunde 60
(Leiden, 1970), 33–87.
151 G. L. Geison, ‘Social and Institutional Factors in the Stagnancy of English Physiology,
1840–1870’, Bulletin for the History of Medicine, 46 (1972), 30–58; R. D. French,
Antivivisection and Medical Science in Victorian Society (Princeton, 1975).
152 M. Borell, ‘Biologists and the Promotion of Birthcontrol Research (1918–1938)’, Journal
of the History of Biology, 20 (1987), 51–87; N. E. Himes, Medical History of Contra-
ception (New York, 1963), esp. chapter XIII.
153 J. M. W. van Ussel, Geschiedenis van het sexuele probleem (Meppel, 1968).
154 J. de Bruijn, Geschiedenis van de abortus in Nederland. Een analyse van opvattingen en
discussies 1600–1979 (Amsterdam, 1979), 144.

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Medicine

Another type of reaction to ‘industrialized medicine’ was the revival


of homeopathy, since anti-materialistic influences in medicine were gain-
ing territory, inspired by the results of immunotherapy such as Pasteur’s
vaccine or Koch’s tuberculin.155 The changing society wanted new spe-
cific medicines against various diseases and prevention against discomfort
caused by the infirmity of old age. The leading men of the Belle Epoque
were fascinated by the new theories of the bacteriologists and the endocri-
nologists on the possibilities of rejuvenation. The most spectacular results
were obtained by the Russian surgeon Serge Voronoff (1866–1959), who
transplanted the gonads of monkeys in man. The pictures of the revitalized
old gentlemen in his book have impressed many a surgeon.156
Industrialization changed the trade of apothecaries and instrument-
makers. Small shops were replaced by industrial enterprises which would
develop into multi-national concerns within a century, affecting the whole
medical world, from the basic sciences to daily routine in the hospital.
Their technical staff often co-operated with the universities. In fact this
was one of the most necessary arrangements. In 1896 Carl Zeiss (1816–88)
pleaded for the settlement of the factory near a university: ‘die unmittel-
bare Verbindung mit den Männern der Wissenschaft bietet die sicherste
Gelegenheit: so erscheint mir in unserm Groszherzogstum die Univer-
sitätsstadt Jena für die von mir beabsichtigte Einrichtung als der günstigste
Ort’.157 In Germany, the Zeiss Company at Jena became the leading
industry from 1884 on to provide the medical market with optical instru-
ments.158 One of their technical advisors was Ernst Abbe (1840–1905),
who solved the problem of the condensation of light in the microscope
together with Carl Zeiss. Abbe was a university professor at Göttingen
in physics and mathematics, with a great affinity for medical problems.
The microscope was fast becoming the indispensable instrument for the
‘microbe-hunters’, as was the use of electric light for the inspection of
the body cavities. The advantages of the Edison-lamp (1880) were soon
recognized by ‘inspectors of the body-cavities’, such as urologists, laryn-
gologists and ophthalmologists. Also in this field doctors co-operated with
instrument-makers. In Europe, several outstanding companies took to the
fabrication of the newly developed instruments, like Down Bros. Ltd. in

155 R. Tischner, Die Homöopathie seit 1850 (Leipzig, 1939); F. von Hueppe, Naturwis-
senschaftliche Einführung in die Bakteriologie (Wiesbaden, 1896). After A. van ’t Riet,
August Bier en de homeopathie (Eindhoven, 1978).
156 G. Greeman, ‘An Introduction to Literature on the History of Gerontology’, Bulletin of
Medical History, 31 (1957), 78–83; S. Voronoff, Etudes sur la vieillesse et le rajeunisse-
ment par la greffe (Paris, 1925–6).
157 A. Schomerus, ‘Vor 120 Jahren und vor 90 Jahren. Carl Zeiss zum Gedächtnis’, Zeiss
Notizen, 32 (1936), 3–5.
158 H. Hovestadt, Jena Glass and its Scientific and Industrial Applications (London, 1902)
(translated by J. D. and Alice Everett).

577
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

London, Alb. Stille in Stockholm, the Maisons Luer and Mathieu in Paris,
and Fischer and Co in Freiburg, Germany. For the USA, S. White became
an important supplier of medical instruments. They also specialized in
furniture for the operating room and protheses.159 In 1869, Maison Luer
produced injection syringes, as the pharmaceutical industry had marketed
new drugs for which new ways of application had to be found.160
Aids to laboratory diagnosis, primarily chemical, became a very impor-
tant issue in the universities.161 The rapidly developing chemical industry
provided physicians with simple diagnostic agents for urine-analysis and
blood-tests. After 1870, new chemical stains, used in the textile industry,
could be applied to both organic tissues and bacteria. Under the micro-
scope, new structures hitherto undiscovered were observed.162 A number
of alkaloids were isolated during the first decades of the nineteenth cen-
tury, such as morphine in 1806, by Friedrich Wilhelm Sertuerner (1783–
1841), but they had to be produced by extraction, isolation and purifi-
cation and their chemical structure was as yet unknown. Well-known
pharmaceutical industries, like Ciba in Basle and Bayer in Elberfeld, did
not contemplate the production of medicines before synthetic produc-
tion of widely used therapeutics like quinine and aspirin had become
possible.163
Uniformity in measurement became an absolute necessity in industri-
alized society. In 1887, Germany founded the Physikalische Technische
Reichsanstalt in Charlottenburg, where standards for precision instru-
ments were established. With reliable equipment, physicians could prac-
tise a more reliable medicine.164 Before the twentieth century, Austria,
Russia and England also installed instrument-testing centres modelled on
the Reichsanstalt. The USA followed in 1901.165 Life Insurance Com-
panies sought the standardization of instruments, to predict the life
expectancy of their customers,166 and standardized instruments were
needed for the medical examination of employees or applicants for spe-
cial jobs. At the International Medical Congress in 1881 criteria were laid

159 A. B. Davis and M. S. Dreyfuss, The Finest Instruments Ever Made: A Bibliography of
Medical, Dental, Optical and Pharmaceutical Company Trade Literature; 1700–1939
(Arlington, Mass., 1986) (ed. by Medical Historical Publications Associate).
160 A. B. Davis, Medicine and its Technology: An Introduction to the History of Medical
Instrumentation, Contributions in Medical History 7 (Westport, Conn., and London,
1981).
161 S. J. Reiser, Medicine and the Reign of Technology (Cambridge, 1978), chapter 6, on
the birth of the diagnostic laboratory.
162 W. Vershofen, Die Anfänge der Chemisch-Pharmazeutischen Industrie. Eine Wirtschaft-
historische Studie (Berlin and Stuttgart, 1949), 72.
163 Vijftig jaar Bayer Geneesmiddelen (1888–1938) (Leverkusen, 1938); Vershofen, Anfänge
(note 162), 91.
164 Davis, Medicine (note 160), 187. 165 Ibid., 187.
166 Ibid., 188–210 (chapter 8 on Life Insurance Medicine).

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down for visual standards for drivers, requested by the Railroad Compa-
nies in the USA.167 The eye-test type, introduced in 1862 by the Dutch
ophthalmologist Herman Snellen (1834–1908), became a standard crite-
rion.168
The pharmacists were among the first in the medical community to seek
a uniform system that applied to the measurement, naming and dispensing
of prescribed drugs.169 They pleaded for the metric system, applied in
Germany since 1858, and the use of Latin names of drugs in prescriptions.
Uniformity of measurements was urged in the sectional meetings of the
new disciplines – otology, ophthalmology, pharmacology – and also by
pathologists and internists. They wanted uniformity in clinical reports, as
stated at the International Medical Congress in Geneva in 1877.170 After
1880, there was an overall quest for precision in medicine: precision in
instruments, precision in diagnosis and precision in drug administration.

the ‘modernization’ of medical education


In spite of the great achievements of men like Johannes Müller, Virchow,
Pasteur and Koch, whose researches led to the great discoveries of the
Belle Epoque, medical education adapted slowly to the new demands of
society. A quest for certainty had been the key-note to reform of medical
education at the beginning of the century. In the early twentieth century,
the quest was for safety, by requiring a guarantee of the adequacy of
the doctor’s knowledge. Most countries demanded a licence to practise,
approved by a state board, around 1900.
Medical education was not exclusively a matter for the universities,
though they were obliged to accept disciplines, such as pharmacy, den-
tistry and veterinary medicine, which previously had been taught in most
countries in schools outside the universities. The registration of the medi-
cal profession would end unqualified practice and give the new society the
safe general practitioners it required.171 It also wanted well-trained phar-
macists, familiar with the new standards called for by the industrial pro-
duction of drugs, new regulations and new laws. Finally, dentistry would
obtain a higher standard and become ‘a more honourable profession’.172

167 Ibid., 215.


168 H. Snellen, Optotypi ad visum determinandum, Reports from the Dutch Ophthalmic
Hospital (Utrecht, 1862). Translated in many languages, eighteen editions until 1902.
169 Davis, Medicine (note 160), 221.
170 E. Seguin, ‘Uniformity in the Practice of Physic’, Medical Record, 13 (1876), 556; Davis,
Medicine (note 160), 224.
171 Newman, Evolution (note 58), 135.
172 G. J. van Wiggen, In meer eerbare banen. De ontwikkeling van het tandheelkundig
beroep in Nederland van 1865–1940, Nieuwe Nederlandse bijdragen tot de geschiede-
nis der geneeskunde en der natuurwetenschappen 23 (Amsterdam, 1987). This book

579
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

These reforms were made all over Europe, but each country had dif-
ferent problems to face, resulting in different laws and different models
for the training of medical students and others. The modernization of
medical education called for the introduction of new specialities in the
medical faculties. Around 1850, most medical faculties could still manage
with five chairs: anatomy, materia medica, surgery, obstetrics and inter-
nal medicine. At the beginning of the twentieth century, there could be
fifteen chairs: anatomy, physiology, biochemistry, pathology, pharmaco-
logy, bacteriology as basic medical sciences and internal medicine, pae-
diatrics, obstetrics, surgery, ophthalmology, otorhinolaryngology, derma-
tology, psychiatry and neurology as clinical disciplines. In addition, there
could be special chairs, such as one for the history of medicine. The
German-speaking countries and northern Europe would be the first to
install a departmental structure of this kind in their medical faculties,
albeit with different facilities for the disciplines involved, and certainly
not with a full professorship for each chair.
Abraham Flexner (1866–1959), whose reports have recently been
reviewed by historians interested in medical education, saw in Europe
two models of medical education; the logical model, which developed
within the universities, and the natural model, which developed mainly
in the hospitals.173 To him as a teacher, the logical model was far superior
to the natural. Flexner greatly admired leading German reformers who
designed this model. This educationalist (he was originally a schoolmas-
ter from Kentucky) had been hired to report on the situation of medi-
cal education in the USA and had paid whirlwind visits to all kinds of
medical schools, using a system which enabled him to come to a quick
judgement of the quality of each school.174 Flexner made this inspection
between 1909 and 1910, ‘the sorry state of America’s medical schools was
no secret before 1910’.175 He considered pre-medical education, entrance
requirements and their enforcement in addition to the curriculum. He
considered the quality of teachers, the laboratories and the hospital facil-
ities. When he visited Europe to compare the different systems in France,
Great Britain and Germany, he followed the same line in his enquiries. He
developed gradually an ‘Idea of a Modern University’ in which he stated
what he thought a university should be inside the general social fabric
of a given era. In this introductory lecture, given at Oxford in 1928, he

discusses the problems of emancipation of dentistry as a qualified profession in the


Netherlands.
173 A. Flexner, Medical Education: A Comparative Study (New York, 1925), 18, 118.
174 G. H. Brieger, ‘The Flexner Report: Revised or Revisited?’, Medical Heritage, 1 (1985),
1–25.
175 R. P. Hudson, ‘Abraham Flexner in Perspective: American Medical Education 1865–
1910’, Bulletin for the History of Medicine, 46 (1972), 545–61.

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described a professor of medicine as primarily a student of problems, and


a trainer of men, capable of finding their own way. To Flexner, the uni-
versity was primarily a place for research and teaching. In his opinion,
clinical practice, however important, was not sufficient justification for
academic recognition, but rather a reason for exclusion from it.176 He saw
the appointment of full-time clinical professors as the only effective way to
create clinics in America comparable to those in Germany. Flexner praised
abundantly Friedrich Althoff (1839–1908), the fertile administrator of the
Prussian Kultus-Ministerium from 1882 to 1907, who forwarded research
in the universities or in related institutes. In Flexner’s opinion, the Johns
Hopkins medical school, modelled on German and English medical edu-
cation in 1876, had been influential in promoting medical research by
founding and developing the Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research
in 1901. He much admired Theodor Billroth (1829–94), who had outlined
in 1876 what a modernized medical faculty, based on the natural sciences,
should accomplish in the field of research and teaching. He heavily crit-
icized the French system, the clinical type of medical education, where
practising surgeons and physicians appointed by non-university hospitals
walked the wards, demonstrating to students, and where the basic sciences
were taught by clinicians: anatomy by surgeons, physiology by agrégés of
internal medicine.
The French tradition of centralizing medical education, especially in the
Paris hospitals, prevented the growth of the basic sciences indispensable
to the new laboratory medicine. During the period 1830–65, when France
was tied to the splendour of the clinic, determined to remain general and
refusing medical specialization, a kind of private teaching developed out-
side the faculties. ‘Free’ professors, not attached to the hospitals or the
faculty, lectured on selected subjects such as the use of the microscope
and histology at the Collège de France or the Ecole Pratique.177 What did
not seem to have come to Flexner’s attention were the profound changes
in French medical teaching, induced by the defeat in the war of 1870.
The professors of the faculty of medicine in Paris went abroad to study
medical education in other countries. After much deliberation, new chairs
were created for the specialized branches of medicine, and the basic disci-
plines, especially anatomy, were given their proper place in the curriculum,
albeit an under-organized curriculum. These changes were put into effect
by the law of 1892, which once and for all abolished the health officer and

176 A. Flexner, Universities: American, English, German (New York, London and Toronto,
1930); T. Neville Bonner, ‘Abraham Flexner and the Historians’, Journal of the History
of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 45 (1990), 3–10.
177 M. J. Imbault-Huart, ‘The Teaching of Medicine in France and More Particularly in Paris
During the Nineteenth Century (1794–1892)’, in T. Ogawa (ed.), History of Medical
Education (Tokyo, 1983), 55–83.

581
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

reorganized medical studies to the advantage of the basic sciences indis-


pensable to the new laboratory medicine, which originated in Germany
before the middle of the century.178
In Great Britain, the General Medical Council was empowered in 1886
to license only those who demonstrated at final examination ‘the posses-
sion of knowledge and skill requisite for the efficient practice of medicine,
surgery and midwifery’, thus ensuring the production of safe general prac-
titioners.179 Oxford and Cambridge universities still offered no clinical
teaching but, as impartial arbiters, examined in medicine, surgery and
obstetrics those of their graduates in basic medical sciences who had
attended clinical courses in medical schools elsewhere. Those who passed
received the degrees of Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery and a licence
to practise as general practitioners. The Societies of Apothecaries broad-
ened their examinations to provide diplomas which conferred a licence
to engage in general practice. The Royal College of Physicians and Sur-
geons combined (in London, Edinburgh, Glasgow and Dublin) to offer
‘conjunct’ diplomas which remained the commonest route to a general
licence until after World War II. In 1990 London University was recon-
stituted as a teaching and research university and university colleges in
the main provincial cities were upgraded to universities conferring their
own degrees of Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery and their own higher
degrees of Doctor of Medicine and Master of Surgery. Medical educa-
tion everywhere, however, remained very much a practical and vocational
training. In 1913 a Royal Commission on University Education (the Hal-
dane Commission) advocated the German-type of professorial medical
university. It was the famous Canadian professor, Sir William Osler (1849–
1919), who had come from Johns Hopkins to Oxford, who urged on the
Haldane Commission that, just as a professor of chemistry needed a labo-
ratory and assistants, so a professor of medicine needed the organization
of the ‘clinical unit’ to enable him to treat, to teach and to research.180
This German-Hopkins model, championed by Flexner and Osler, was not
immediately adopted by the traditional British universities and was not
fully implemented in London for many decades.181 But gradually, research
became a greater feature in England. Michael Foster’s (1836–1907) school
of physiology contributed greatly to the fame of Cambridge as a centre
for advanced studies of modern physiology, by studies on the heartbeat
and the reflex-actions in the nervous system.182
178 Newman, Evolution (note 58), 241. 179 Ibid., 271. 180 Ibid., 269.
181 T. Neville Bonner, ‘Abraham Flexner as Critic of British and Continental Medical Edu-
cation’, Medical History, 33 (1989), 472–9; J. Ellis, L.H.M.C. 1785–1985: The Story
of the London Hospital Medical College, England’s First Medical School (Loughton,
Essex, 1986).
182 G. L. Geison, Michael Foster and the Cambridge School of Physiology (Cambridge,
1978).

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Flexner’s work and influence on medical education were nearly as well


known in Europe as in America. In the 1920s and 1930s, his books were
widely read in medical centres and elsewhere.183 As Brieger has stated,
Flexner represented the heart of the progressive era; all-conquering science
had made the union between science and medicine both inevitable and
irreversible.184 It is no wonder that he played a powerful role in changing
ideas and institutions in and outside Europe.
During the first decades of the twentieth century the students who
entered the universities to study medicine were in many respects differ-
ent from their predecessors. The entrance requirements of the universities
permitted only those well versed in the natural sciences and mathematics
to matriculate in the medical faculties. Furthermore, they could expect
practical courses in anatomy, physiology, bacteriology and clinical labo-
ratory work. The student should not merely watch, listen and memorize,
but practise, both in the laboratory and in the clinic. The first things he
had to buy when he started his course were a microscope and a set of
dissection knives. He had to dissect a fish or a rat to begin with, and later,
in groups, the whole human body. He decerebrated a frog to study the
reflexes in a practical course of physiology, handling rather complicated
laboratory instruments, such as the kymograph, where muscle movements
were registered along the lines of Carl Ludwig’s discoveries in physiology.
He had to cut hardened tissue, stain the sections and study the cells, both
normal and pathological. After 1900, he had to assist during operations,
wearing a white coat and rubber gloves. He was expected to administer
ether or chloroform on a mask for narcosis and to give injections. He
would learn to read an electrocardiogram and to interpret X-rays. With
each step in his curriculum, he would be confronted with technology.
After finishing his training, he might decide to become a specialist. The
training and registration of medical specialists became a new chapter in
the history of medical education, but it would take some time before
the powerful professors of the German and Central European countries
would yield any of their generalized practice to specialized colleagues. The
status of these professors was one of undisputed authority and they were
careful to keep it this way. Prague was the first to accept a new special
field, otology, in 1867.185
It was easier for the military-medical students, who in several countries
joined the university training courses or had access to special facilities
there after the abolition of the military-medical training-schools, like the

183 Ibid., 476. The University of Leiden has about ten copies registered, also German trans-
lations, in several departments.
184 Brieger, ‘Flexner Report’ (note 174), 22; Neville Bonner, ‘Flexner as Critic’ (note 181),
476.
185 Eulner, Spezialfächer (note 116), 29 (‘Introduction’ (Allgemeines)).

583
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

famous Josephinum in Austria in 1870.186 For the military authorities,


the correct diagnosis of diseases of the external senses, like the eye and
the ear, was important in detecting simulation by those wishing to avoid
service.187 For students registering for the colonies to be sent as civil ser-
vant physicians, or physicians in military service, courses in bacteriology
and tropical hygiene were of primary interest. After 1890, when besides
European health the health of the indigenous population in the colonies
received more attention, the new knowledge of tropical fevers was inte-
grated with that of the public health service which shifted from general
sanitary measures to the targeting of specific diseases, with specific mea-
sures.188 Qualified doctors were indispensable for this purpose. A distinct
special discipline of tropical medicine was created, and institutes within
or outside the universities were created to provide special training courses,
such as in Liverpool, Hamburg, Marseille, Bordeaux, Brussels and
Amsterdam.189
Last but not least, the female student entered the curriculum. The first
university to admit female students was Zurich in Switzerland. The Swiss
universities accepted foreign women without entrance examinations or
Gymnasium certificates.190 This was of importance for Russian women,
who were excluded from most university-level studies in Russia in 1863,
after a short period of liberalism when they were admitted as auditors to
the lecture halls in St Petersburg’s university. Many Russian young men
were sent abroad to the German and Swiss universities between 1850
and 1870. They joined together in a movement of intellectual idealism,
looking towards the natural sciences as the new source of progress and
prosperity for the masses of ordinary people in Russia. Science pushed
back the barriers of religion and superstition and ‘proved’ through the
theory of evolution that (peaceful) social revolutions were the way of
nature.191 Women shared these ideals, which brought them to the Swiss
universities to join their male colleagues. This intellectual movement was
distrusted by the Tsarist Government, since revolutionaries considered
medicine and the sciences as weapons for social activism.192 Women were

186 Lesky, Wiener Schule (note 112), 594.


187 E. Zaufal, ‘Zur Geschichte der k. k. Deutschen oto-rhinologischen Klinik in Prag’, Archiv
für Ohrenheilkunde, 82 (1910), 110–31. After Eulner.
188 M. Worboys, ‘British Tropical Medicine and Tropical Imperialism: A Comparative
Study’, in Medicine in the Dutch East Indies, 1816–1942 (Amsterdam, 1989), 149–
63 (ed. in Dutch and in English).
189 Worboys, ‘British Tropical Medicine’ (note 188); M. C. Treille, ‘De l’Enseignement de
la pathologie tropicale dans les Universités de l’Europe’, Janus, 7 (1903), 238–44 and
281–7.
190 A. Hibner Koblitz, ‘Science, Women, and the Russian Intelligentsia’, Isis, 79 (1988),
208–26.
191 Ibid., 209. See also Gaı̈ssinovitch. Elie Metchnikof Souvenirs (note 139).
192 Hibner Koblitz, ‘Science’ (note 190), 219.

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ordered back to Russia in 1873. However, they had been by far the largest
group in Switzerland, and later they pioneered in other universities, like
the Sorbonne in Paris and the German universities.193 It must be said that
the USA already had its first woman doctor, Elisabeth Blackwell, who
graduated in 1849 from a small rural university in the state of New York.
The first European woman doctor with a licence to practise was a Russian,
Nadezhda Suslova (1843–1918), who took her Zurich degree in 1867.194
Other countries followed, but not a single country opened its medical
schools as widely as Switzerland. Bonner states that, as late as 1907,
more than 1,000 women were studying medicine in Swiss universities, a
number greater than the rest of Europe combined and equal to the total
enrolment of women in the 150 medical schools of all kinds, including
women’s schools, in the United States.195

t h e i n t e r - wa r p e r i o d
During the inter-war period, two main changes in political environ-
ment influenced higher education: Marxism in Russia after the October
Revolution of 1917, and National Socialism (Fascism) in Germany in
1934. The First World War (1914–18) had disastrous consequences for
the economic situation of Germany, which lost its leading position in
Europe in both research and higher education. The October Revolution
in Russia opened new perspectives of a great future for the vast terri-
tory of the Soviet Union. The universities were changed; the government
stressed a doctrinaire and accelerated training of Marxist professors as a
revolutionary means of renewing teaching staff.196 The students should
be proletarianized; admission standards were lowered for the children of
the working classes. Furthermore, the authorities reserved much of the
research for highly specialized research institutes, such as the Institute of
Experimental Medicine (founded 1890) where Ivan Pavlov (1854–1929)
was working, and the Institute of Experimental Biology (founded 1917)
where N. K. Koltsov (1870–1940) became one of the famous scientists in
the field of genetics.197

193 T. Neville Bonner, ‘Pioneering in Women’s Medical Education in the Swiss Universities
1864–1914’, Gesnerus, 45 (1988), 461–74.
194 T. Neville Bonner, ‘Rendez-vous in Zurich: Seven who Made a Revolution in Women’s
Medical Education’, Journal of the History of Medicine, 44 (1989), 7–27.
195 Neville Bonner, ‘Rendez-vous’ (note 194), 25. In 1887 Giuseppina Cattani received a
lectureship in general pathology at the University of Turin, see chapter 5, 133.
196 A. Vucinich, The Empire of Knowledge: The Academy of Sciences of the USSR (1917–
1970) (Berkeley and London, 1984), 73.
197 Z. A. Medvedev, The Rise and Fall of T. D. Lysenko (New York and London, 1969),
83–5 (translated by M. Lerner, with the editorial assistance of L. G. Lawrence).

585
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

Until 1928, Marxist ideology had only a limited influence upon


research. The Russian Academy of Sciences of the USSR wanted to com-
municate with foreign scholars, considering science to be an interna-
tional discipline. But the authorities wanted a Soviet science, an inter-
action between science and ideology, as a strategic component of national
unity.198 They were suspicious of individual scientists who tried to con-
tact foreign colleagues, especially after Joseph Stalin came to power in
1930. Many scientists were dismissed or sent to prison. Stalin’s political
strategy went much further, as is well known from the political debates
around the Lysenko affair between 1937 and 1962. During this period,
scientists were attacked because their scientific ideas were deemed to be
incompatible with dialectical materialism. More scientists were executed
or sent to prison when Stalin came to power, more sciences were abolished
or distorted during his later career.199
Medical education had been modelled on the German system, which
was dominant in Europe as we have seen. The Soviet administration did
not change this structure. Their first decisions were inspired by three fac-
tors: the desire for a Marxist-Leninist ideological alignment, the fear of
epidemics, and finally the urgent need for a greater number of practition-
ers.200 New medical schools were created in regions hitherto deprived:
such as Tiblisi in Georgia (1918), Tashkent in Uzbekistan (1919) and
various others. After 1934 more medical schools came into existence,
separated from the universities after the radical reforms of the early
1930s. Most were founded in distant regions of the USSR, such as Irkutsk
in Siberia and Samarkand in Kazakhstan. These so-called Institutes of
Medicine were organized in three faculties: medical prophylaxis and gen-
eral medicine, sanitary hygiene, paediatrics.201 The programmes of study
were no longer copied from a Western model, but the basic disciplines
were taught along the same lines. The principles of Marxism-Leninism
were incorporated, more attention was given to hygiene and public health,
especially in the training of epidemiologists and health inspectors. On
the whole, medical education did not undergo profound changes, though
attempts to organize some form of postgraduate training for all young
doctors were made earlier than in most parts of the world. The authori-
ties left the teaching-body undisturbed, as long as they collaborated with
the regime. Only during the Stalinist period were various medical schools
under attack, especially in the field of human genetics as a branch of the
intensifying aggravation of the controversy in the Lysenko affair. During
the 1936 discussion, human genetics were erroneously identified with
198 G. D. Komkov, B. V. Levsin and L. K. Semenov, Geschichte der Akademie der Wis-
senschaften der UdSSR (Berlin, 1981), 376 (translated by Conrad Grau et al.).
199 Vucinich, Empire (note 196), 358.
200 Grmek, ‘Medical Education’ (note 74), part II, note 57. 201 Ibid., 322–3.

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racism and Fascism. Particularly sharp attacks were made on Koltsov,


the foremost specialist in this area.202
Not only the USSR, but also the other European countries were wor-
ried about the growing power of the Nazi ideology in Germany. Medical
education in Germany between 1932 and 1945 was even more radically
afflicted by Nazi ideology than the Russian medical education by Marx-
ism. The reform of the medical curriculum was initiated by the National
Socialist physicians, with the state leaving the medical faculties more or
less undisturbed.203 The Nazi physicians wanted a new German medical
care, based on biological principles: fortification of the health and defence
power of the German population and care of healthy procreation of the
eminent German race. The concept of ‘health’ in relation to economic
and social factors was considered to be liberal or Marxist. For the Nazis
‘health’ meant political power. They attached more value to constitution,
heredity (genetics!) and racial hygiene. The so-called hereditary biologi-
cal elements, which had already played a role in German science from the
early decades of the century, were now put forward as essential. Highly
valued ‘blood’ should be protected, low-grade life should be destroyed.
In 1933, Jewish and Communist students were excluded from the uni-
versities. The Nazis were more careful with the Jewish professors; those
who were heroes of the First World War were left undisturbed at the begin-
ning.204 Several changes in the curriculum were made, especially in favour
of racial hygiene, eugenics and military medicine including the effects of
gas warfare and protection against air raids. Furthermore, physical activ-
ities were advanced, and the students had to work in factories, hospitals
and in special units in the army.
Although an important part of the medical students was enthusiastic
about the new life in the ‘Third Reich’, there were also protests and resis-
tance among the populations of the German universities. In Berlin, where
120 Jewish teachers and co-workers at the medical faculty of the univer-
sity were dismissed and persecuted, much protest arose among students
and teachers.205 The reception of Nazi regulations for the destruction
of low-grade life were received by the medical faculties with uneasiness,
since it meant the extinction of chronic and mentally deficient patients in
the psychiatric wards of the university hospital and a stringent screening
of new-born babies in the maternity clinics for congenital malformations

202 Medvedev, Rise (note 197), 78–85 (chapter 4, Medical Genetics in 1937–1940).
203 H. van den Bussche, ‘Im Dienste der Volksgemeinschaft’. Studienreform im National-
sozialismus am Beispiel der ärztlichen Ausbildung (Berlin and Hamburg, 1989), 193.
204 E. Seidler, Die Medizinische Fakultät der Albert Ludwigs Universität Freiburg im Breis-
gau. Grundlagen und Entwicklungen (Berlin, 1991), 305ff. (chapter 3).
205 G. Krüger (ed.), Die Humboldt Universität. Gestern-Heute-Morgen (Berlin, 1960),
110–18.

587
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

or racial impurities. But both physicians and students accepted the law of
14 July 1933, which foresaw the enforced sterilization of carriers of
diseases considered to be hereditary.206 This so-called racial hygienist
euthanasia programme, even as it was based on a long tradition of
Biologismus und Sozial Darwinismus, has made a deep impression upon
mankind. It certainly influenced the ethical committees of the medical
faculties, which came into existence after World War II.

concluding remarks
The sides and the corners of the intriguing triangle surrounding medical
education in Europe between 1790 and 1945 changed considerably during
this period, affecting medical education in a most impressive way. At the
top, a direct influence of political developments can be observed, mainly
due to the consequences of the French Revolution, the Napoleonic wars
and the First World War. At the right-hand corner, the spectacular scientific
revolutionary ideas around 1850, the Industrial Revolution and the newly
developing markets for medical drugs and instruments contributed to
important changes in the curricula of medical students. At the left-hand
corner, the Revolution of 1848 contributed to social and medical reform,
supported by a firm belief in progress in both science and social justice.
The mid-century saw a transition from Romanticism to anti-Romantic
positivism, based on the pillars of capitalism and a liberal approach to
science. It also saw the belief in utilitarianism, actions determined by the
goodness and badness of their consequences, as postulated by John Stuart
Mill in 1861.
The professionalization of medical practitioners, surgeons and other
workers in health care was still disorganized. England kept its colleges and
guilds. But during the century, new regulations and laws were enacted,
standardizing the training and examinations of doctors at the requested
level for licence. Training in clinical and military medical schools with
lower entrance requirements continued in most European countries until
the last decades of the century, especially in those under French rule. These
schools followed a programme of united medicine and surgery, with the
aim of training general medical practitioners for the country, the army or
the colonies.
Around 1830, the leading medical faculties – Paris, Vienna and
Edinburgh – promoted clinical teaching in surgery and internal medicine
with a tendency towards Hippocratism. Pathology became an important

206 Seidler, Medizinische Fakultät (note 204), 360; H. F. Späte and A. Thom, ‘Psychiatrie
im Faschismus – Bilanz der historischen Analyse’, Zeitschrift für die Gesamte Hygiene,
26, 6 (1980), 553–60.

588
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issue in medical training. In most countries, the concept of ‘medical police’


was incorporated into the teaching programme. But there was still a long
way to go before a better training of students in public health, such as
hygiene, maternal and paediatric care, was requested.
After 1830, the Humboldtian concept of education, not only for the
university, but also for primary and secondary schools, would be the
start of an upsurge of German higher education and lead to the unifi-
cation of learning and research in the German universities. Berlin became
a leading centre for medical education besides Würzburg, Heidelberg and
Göttingen. In France, research stayed outside the universities until the end
of the century, but Claude Bernard founded experimental medicine a long
time before he finally obtained a laboratory at the Sorbonne. His work
was the great stimulus for new fields to be explored in pathology, physiol-
ogy and pharmacology. Clinical medicine was refined by these new trends,
new specialities would arise and medical education would require more
investment to be provided by the authorities all over Europe. More stu-
dents matriculated in the medical faculties and more accommodation was
needed for both teaching and research. Not all European countries could
afford these demands. The same holds true for those university hospi-
tals which had no facilities for clinical research or could not deal with the
new demands of surgery. Antiseptics were introduced into most European
hospitals after they were recommended by Semmelweis and Lister, but the
students were more familiar with the smell of carbolic acid than with the
essence of its action. But England could be proud of Guy’s Hospital in
London with outstanding teachers such as Thomas Addison (1793–1860)
and Thomas Hodgkin (1798–1866). In Ireland, the Medical School of
Dublin attracted many American students. France maintained its shining
attraction in clinical teaching with Armand Trousseau (1801–67), who
taught at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital.
After 1870, an international medicine flooded the world, affecting all
continents. Great discoveries, especially in the field of microbiology and
the surgical disciplines, gave medicine in this period an aura of heroism,
which inspired many students to devote themselves to these disciplines.
They moved from being passive listeners to lectures to being more active,
both in the laboratories and in the wards. The new technology brought
its dangers: society asked for safety in the course of medical treatment
of patients and for precision in the preparation of drugs. Standardization
of drugs and instruments became indispensable, as did a tight control of
the administration of drugs and X-rays. An expanding Europe trained
its young doctors in tropical medicine to be of service in the colonies, for
both the European colonists and the indigenous population. Also, women
were admitted to the curricula, but they had a long way to go before they
found the recognition they deserved.

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Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout

The famous Flexner Report made a deep impression upon the edu-
cational staff of the European universities. Before 1940, many profes-
sors stood for research, connected with advanced teaching, as Flexner
had presented in his work. During the Interbellum, new and unexpected
changes would enter the curriculum from the top of the triangle, this time
closely connected with ideological changes in different countries. Impres-
sive ideological changes affected medical education in Russia after 1917
and Germany after the installation of the ‘Third Reich’. Medical edu-
cation in the USSR was gradually reformed, the study programme was
not radically changed, in spite of the Marxist effects on science. In Nazi
Germany, a frightening programme of destruction of so-called low-grade
life was executed in both the university hospitals and private institutions.
Racial hygiene and a Nazi outlook upon hereditary biology were obliga-
tory in the medical training programme.
It was a long way from the ‘industrious and beneficent philosophy’
expressed by the French ideologists, but Europe would find its balance
again after World War II, facing new problems and new demands by
society for medical education.

select bibliography
Ackerknecht, E. H. Rudolf Virchow: Doctor, Statesman, Anthropologist, Madi-
son, Wisc., 1953.
Medicine at the Paris Hospital 1794–1848, Baltimore, 1967.
Arlt, W. and Rüegg W. (eds.) Der Arzt und der Kranke in der Gesellschaft des 19.
Jahrhunderts, W. Arlt and W. Rüegg (eds.), Studien zur Medizingeschichte
des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts 1, Stuttgart, 1967.
Davis, A. B. Medicine and its Technology: An Introduction to the History of Med-
ical Instrumentation, Contributions in Medical History 7, Westport, Conn.,
and London, 1981.
Ellis, J. L.H.M.C. 1785–1985: The Story of the London Hospital Medical College,
England’s First Medical School, Loughton, Essex, 1986.
Eulner, H.-H. Die Entwicklung der medizinischen Spezialfächer an den Univer-
sitäten des deutschen Sprachgebietes, W. Arlt and W. Rüegg (eds.), Studien
zur Medizingeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts 4, Stuttgart, 1970.
Flexner, A. Medical Education: A Comparative Study, New York, 1925.
Foucault, M., Die Geburt der Klinik: eine Archäologie des ärztlichen Blicks,
Munich, 1973.
Garrison, F. H. An Introduction to the History of Medicine, Philadelphia and
London, 4th edn, 1963, 374–5.
Geison, G. L. Michael Foster and the Cambridge School of Physiology, Cambridge,
1978.
Grande, F. and Vischer, M. B. (eds.) Claude Bernard and Experimental Medicine,
Cambridge, Mass., 1967.

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Gregory, F. Scientific Materialism in 19th Century Germany, Studies in the History


of Modern Science 1, Dordrecht and Boston, 1977.
Legée, G. Cuvier et la réorganisation de l’enseignement sous le Consulat et
l’Empire, Paris, 1974.
Lesky, E. Die Wiener medizinische Schule im neunzehnten Jahrhundert, Studien
zur Geschichte der Universität Wien 6, Graz and Cologne, 1965.
Lesky, E. (ed.) Wien und die Weltmedizin: 4. Symposium der Internationalen
Akademie für Geschichte der Medizin, veranstaltet im Institut für Geschichte
der Medizin der Universität Wien 17.–19. September 1973, Studien zur
Geschichte der Universität Wien 9, Vienna, Cologne and Graz, 1974.
Medvedev, Z. A. The Rise and Fall of T. D. Lysenko, New York and London,
1969.
Moulin, D. de A History of Surgery: With Emphasis on the Netherlands,
Dordrecht, Boston and Lancaster, 1988.
Newman, C. The Evolution of Medical Education in the Nineteenth Century,
London, 1957.
Ogawa, T. (ed.) History of Medical Education, Tokyo, 1983.
O’Malley, C. D. (ed.) The History of Medical Education: An International Sym-
posium Held February 5–9, 1968, UCLA Forum in Medical Sciences 12, Los
Angeles, Berkeley and London, 1970.
Poynter, F. L. N. (ed.) Medicine and Science in the 1860s, Publication of the
Wellcome Institute n.s. 16 (1968).
Rosen, G. From Medical Police to Social Medicine: Essays on the History of Health
Care, New York, 1974.
Rothschuh, K. E. Konzepte der Medizin in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart,
Stuttgart, 1978.
Seidler, E. Die Medizinische Fakultät der Albert Ludwigs Universität Freiburg im
Breisgau. Grundlagen und Entwicklungen, Berlin, 1991.
Shryock, R. The Development of Modern Medicine: An Interpretation of the
Social and Scientific Factors Involved, New York, 1947.
ten Have, H. J. Medicine and Philosophy: Jeremy Bentham’s Influence upon Med-
ical Thought and Medical Practice, London, 1983.
van den Bussche, H., ‘Im Dienste der Volksgemeinschaft’. Studienreform im
Nationalsozialismus am Beispiel der ärztlichen Ausbildung, Berlin and
Hamburg, 1989.
Walton, J., Bason, P. B., and Bodley Scott, R. (eds.) The Oxford Companion to
Medicine, Oxford and New York, 1986.
Worboys, M. ‘British Tropical Medicine and Tropical Imperialism: A Comparative
Study’, in Medicine in the Dutch East Indies, 1816–1942, Amsterdam, 1989.

591
CHAPTER 15

TECHNOLOGY

ANNA GUAGNINI∗

introduction
At the turn of the nineteenth century, the forms of instruction that were
available for the training of engineers in Europe were a combination of
apprenticeship and of basic scientific knowledge of a kind that was not
necessarily related to practical ends. In general, technical subjects were
regarded as inappropriate fields of activity for institutions of higher educa-
tion. Advanced schools that did provide instruction in the applied sciences
were few, and their main objective was to prepare state officials for the
military or the civil service. By the end of the nineteenth century, this old
nucleus of military and administrative schools had been swamped by the
growth of new institutions, and, in the process, the emphasis had shifted
from public service towards training for the industrial professions. The
pattern of growth of these new forms of technical education was uneven:
the number of institutions offering instruction for industrial careers and
the number of students enrolled in them differed markedly from one coun-
try to another. The quality of the facilities, too, was very variable. The fact
remains, however, that in the aftermath of the First World War, technical
courses and degrees at university level were available in all the industri-
alized countries of Europe. Virtually everywhere, in fact, they constituted
one of the most rapidly growing sectors of higher education.
The process that led to the extraordinary proliferation of higher tech-
nical schools and courses was not a linear one. One of the most peculiar
features of the sector was the diversity of the origins of its constituent

∗ This survey is largely based on the volume edited by R. Fox and A. Guagnini (eds.),
Education, Technology and Industrial Performance in Europe, 1850–1939 (Cambridge
and Paris, 1993). The chapter draws heavily on the essays of the contributors to this book
and on discussions with them.

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Anna Guagnini

institutions. The majority of the new schools were created outside the
university system, in a variety of quite distinct institutional contexts, and
they were admitted to the highest levels of the educational hierarchy only
slowly. The upgrading of those schools was generally brought about by
a gradual redefinition of their aims and by a reorganization of their pro-
grammes. In the course of this transformation, more uniform standards
were adopted. Nevertheless, higher technical schools often retained char-
acteristic marks of their heterogeneous background. In this survey spe-
cial emphasis is placed precisely on this aspect, namely on the variety
of the backgrounds from which higher education developed, not only in
different national contexts, but also within the boundaries of individual
nations.
Without exception, the growth in the number and size of the institu-
tions of higher technical education during the nineteenth century caused
significant tension in the upper levels of the educational system. In all
European countries, resistance to change was a deeply entrenched feature
of higher education, and there is no doubt that the ‘utilitarian’ character
of the new curricula continued to fuel hostility towards technological edu-
cation long after engineering schools were accepted as a recognized part
of the university system. Attitudes to those schools were also hardened
by the rapidity with which they proliferated and by the heavy demands
they made on financial resources.
It was inevitable that the growth in enrolments and the ever-increasing
sophistication of the programmes would cause internal problems and
heighten the difficulty of preserving exacting standards in teaching and a
serious commitment to research, while coping with the inexorable pres-
sure towards specialization and the fragmentation of curricula. These
were dominant themes in the history of higher technical education
between the First and Second World Wars, and, in many respects, they
remained unresolved after 1945.

technical education for public servants


Science has always drawn ideas from the world of practice, though it
has done so with aims that have been predominantly theoretical. The
second half of the eighteenth century was no exception to this trend;
however, in this period, there were also new attempts to point the arrow
in the other direction, by using theoretical knowledge to illuminate the
problems of manufacture. In the process, experimental and mathemati-
cal research, stimulated by an interest in the scientific principles under-
lying machines and processes, yielded a considerable amount of knowl-
edge that was relevant to practical questions, especially in mechanics and

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hydrodynamics.1 The interaction was assisted by institutional develop-


ments. Throughout Europe, this was a period in which natural philoso-
phers became increasingly involved in practical matters. Members of
academies and scientific societies and the professoriate of institutions of
higher education acted as consultants and advisors, and occasionally as
the directors of public works and state-owned industries.2 The case of
the chemist Claude-Louis Berthollet (1748–1822), who in the 1780s was
director of dyeing at the royal tapestry works in Paris, the Gobelins,
is only one of the many examples of the active role played by natural
philosophers.3
The institutional seats of knowledge had other important links with
sites of practice. Models of machines were, albeit on a small scale, an
essential component of the natural philosopher’s world, as instruments for
demonstration and experimental research. They acted as a focus for the
bond between scholars and instrument-makers, and hence as a channel for
the cross-fertilization between science and technology.4 The importance
of this channel in the development of technology is perhaps best exempli-
fied by the association between James Watt (1735–1848), the instrument-
maker who invented the separate condenser and other improvements in
the steam engine, and the scientific community centred on the University
of Glasgow.5
The conviction that science was the necessary foundation for the
improvement and development of the useful arts had much support among
natural philosophers. However, the aim of institutions devoted to the
teaching of science was not to train practitioners in any of the useful arts;
their main concern was theoretical, and the abstract notions that were
formulated did little to guide the work of men who were engaged in the
design and production of manufacts. It is true that some members of the
scientific community did make contributions to technology. But these con-
tributions were the fruit of personal research interests. The fact remains
that there was little in the scientific curricula offered by the traditional
centres of learning in the late eighteenth century that could help practising
engineers and mechanics in the solution of their problems.
The involvement of individual scientists in technical matters, at a
private as well as a public level, continued throughout the nineteenth
1 On these themes see various chapters in C. Singer, C. E. J. Holmyard, A. R. Hall and T. I.
Williams, A History of Technology, vol. IV: The Industrial Revolution (Oxford, 1958).
2 C. Gillispie, Science and Polity in France at the End of the Old Regime (Princeton, 1980).
3 Gillispie, Science (note 2), chapter VI.
4 L. Stewart, The Rise of Public Science: Rhetoric, Technology and Natural Philosophy in
Newtonian Britain (Cambridge, 1992).
5 On Watt and the Glasgow scientific circle: D. S. L. Cardwell, The Rise of Thermodynamics
in the Early Industrial Age (London, 1971).

595
Anna Guagnini

century. However, already by the second half of the eighteenth century,


the scale and complexity of some sectors of government-controlled activ-
ities had grown to such an extent that technical responsibilities began
to be entrusted to specially appointed civil servants. In most European
countries, corps of technical experts were established in the army and
in those sectors of the public administration, such as mining and high-
ways, in which governments had a direct interest and could exercise their
authority. It was precisely with a view to preparing candidates for these
sectors that new schools were created with a special focus on the applied
sciences. Their aim was at once to provide what were regarded at the time
as the scientific foundations of the useful arts, and to confer the neces-
sary qualifications for public appointments, in either the army or the civil
service.
The academic standards of the new institutions varied significantly
between countries, depending on the status of the positions to which
they gave access. But even schools that functioned initially at a rather ele-
mentary level tended quite soon to upgrade their syllabuses and to adopt
more demanding criteria for the admission of candidates. In this respect,
the schools for the training of civil and military officers clearly belonged
to the more elevated levels of higher education, where they emerged as a
main foundation for the subsequent development of university-level tech-
nical education in the nineteenth century. However, none of these schools
belonged to the university system. In fact, one of their distinctive features
was precisely that they were neither created nor controlled by educational
agencies, but rather by ministries of war, public works or commerce.
Almost invariably, the first technical schools were organized in response
to the needs of the army. In addition to the military academies, special
schools of military architecture and artillery were opened to prepare offi-
cers for the tasks of the technical corps, such as the construction and main-
tenance of fortifications, and the production, supply, and use of munitions
and weapons.
It was in France that these schools were best organized. In 1748, the
Ministry of War officially opened the École (from 1775, the École Royale)
du Génie Militaire at Mézières. Students, many of them from aristocratic
or military families, were admitted at the age of fifteen, following an
entrance examination. The courses, which lasted two and, subsequently,
three years, were based on a syllabus that included mathematics, natural
philosophy, machine design, fortification, architecture, and, towards the
end of the century, chemistry. The presence among the teachers of distin-
guished men of science, and the brilliant scientific achievements of some
of the students, gave the institution great academic distinction: Charles
Bossut (1752–68) and Gaspard Monge (1746–1818) were just two of
the eminent names associated with the school in the eighteenth century.

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The lineage of the French artillery schools was rather less distinguished.
Originally they were attached to various battalions, and it was only in
1802 that the sector was reorganized, when the École du Génie Militaire
was expanded to include an artillery section and renamed the École de
l’Artillerie et du Génie Militaire.6
At the turn of the century, schools for the preparation of technically
trained military officers existed in most European countries. However,
in the unsettled political climate of the period, the life of some of these
institutions was ephemeral. Their organization improved in the aftermath
of the Napoleonic wars, when the growing recognition of the impact of
new technologies on military techniques and an awareness of the impor-
tant contributions made by the French military schools in the field of
science and technology combined to induce other governments to pay
more attention to the provision for specialized military instruction. In
1816, the Prussian Ministry of War set up the Vereinigte Artillerie- und
Ingenieurschule in Berlin, and the Högre Artilleriläroverket och Artilleri-
och Ing. Högskolan was founded at Marieberg in Sweden in 1818. In
Russia, Spain, Belgium, and the Italian states, too, existing schools of
military architecture and artillery were reorganized from 1820, as part of
the same movement.
Clearly, the amount of technical instruction that these schools offered
was limited, since time also had to be found for purely military subjects
and drill. Also, the enrolments were low, for the military could only absorb
a fixed number of recruits every year. Nevertheless, in the early decades of
the nineteenth century, when few other institutions offered instruction of
a kind that was relevant to technical matters, the schools played an impor-
tant role in fashioning a new generation of educated technical experts. In
fact, their influence far transcended the military sphere: engineers who
had been trained for the army were often employed in the design and
construction of public works. In Sweden, for example, the civil engineer-
ing sector remained under the supervision of military engineers until the
mid-nineteenth century.
Also quite separate from the university system were the mining schools,
most of them founded in the later eighteenth century. At a time when,
in most European countries, natural underground resources were the
property of the state, the primary aim of these schools was to train the
small number of civil servants who were employed as managers in state-
owned mining enterprises. One of the earliest and most famous schools of
this kind was the Bergakademie of Schemnitz (Banska Štiavnica), estab-
lished in 1763, and situated at the centre of one of the most prosperous

6 R. Taton, ‘L’Ecole Royale du Génie de Mézières’, in R. Taton (ed.), Enseignment et diffu-


sion des sciences en France au dix-huitième siècle (Paris, 1964), 559–615.

597
Anna Guagnini

mining districts of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.7 Two years later, Prince


Xaver of Saxony (1730–1806) opened a similar institution at Freiberg,8
and in 1770 the Prussian Government set up the Bergakademie in Berlin.
The courses at all these schools lasted three years, and in all of them the
teaching of geometry, hydraulics, mining techniques and chemistry was
complemented by practical laboratory exercises and visits to mines. In the
early nineteenth century, Freiberg was the most renowned centre for min-
ing instruction in Europe. It attracted foreign students and supplied min-
ing managers for several neighbouring countries, notably Poland, and the
northern European states. However, the number of students who enrolled
in the mining schools remained small: Schemnitz, with a total of about
40 students per year, was in the 1770s the best attended of this class of
institution.
The creation of mining schools in Eastern Europe was a sign of the
importance that governments in the region attributed to the exploitation
of mineral resources. Their example, in turn, stimulated similar initiatives
in France. Here, too, mines were the property of the state, and it was
therefore a governmental agency, the Ministry of Public Works, which in
1783 created a special school for mining engineers, the École des Mines.
The main purpose of the school was to supply men for the Corps des
Ingénieurs des Mines, and it was part and parcel of this objective that the
school was located not in the mining districts but in Paris, close to the main
seats of administrative power. In 1802, the Convention closed the École
des Mines, replacing it with two schools situated in the mining areas. But
in 1816 the École des Mines was reopened in the prestigious quarters of
the Hotel Vendôme.9 Among the subjects covered in the three-year course
were mineralogy, assaying, and the general principles of mine working
and management. However, the main thrust was theoretical, while the
practical aspects of instruction were treated largely in the long vacations,
when students were expected to work in mines under the supervision of
senior engineers.
In the first half of the nineteenth century, military and mining instruc-
tion remained an important sector of higher technical education through-
out Europe, and it continued to stimulate institutional initiatives. Further
expansion and the increasing specialization of military training led to
the opening of new schools of artillery and naval architecture. Mining

7 Gedenkbuch der hundertjährigen Gründung der Bergakademie Schemnitz (Schemnitz,


1871).
8 Bergakademie Freiberg. Festschrift zu ihrer Zweihundertjahrfeier am 13. Nov. 1965.
2 vols. (Leipzig, 1965); F. Wächtler and F. Radzei, Tradition und Zukunft. Bergakademie
Freiberg 1765–1965 (Freiberg, 1965).
9 E. Grateau, L’École des Mines de Paris. Histoire – organisation – enseignement. Élèves-
ingénieurs et élèves externes (Paris, 1865).

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schools were established in Spain, France, Belgium, Sweden and in the


Austro-Hungarian Empire; private enterprise also made its contribution,
with the opening of the École des Mines at Mons in Belgium (1836) and of
the Royal School of Mines in London (1851). But the most notable devel-
opments took place in civil engineering. This was largely the result of the
expansion of schools for the training of recruits for the corps responsible
for public works. The first initiative in this direction had already been
launched in France in 1748, when special courses were set up in Paris
for the employees of the Corps des Ponts et Chaussées. The courses were
later transformed into the École des Ponts et Chaussées, and, like the
corps to which they were attached, were administered by the Ministry of
Commerce.10
It was one of the distinctive features of the École des Ponts et Chaussées
that, until the end of the eighteenth century, the professorship was not
made up of professional teachers. In fact, most of the teaching was done
by officers from the corps and by the best students of the school. The first
year of the three-year course was spent on general scientific subjects; in the
second year, mechanics, hydraulics, geometry, surveying, strength of mate-
rials, and stereotomy were taught; and the final year was devoted mainly
to instruction in practical projects. As in the case of military and min-
ing schools, the limited number of career opportunities for highly quali-
fied public officers imposed constraints on the enrolments. In fact, pupils
were recruited, in small numbers, from among the younger members
of the Corps des Ponts et Chaussées. In the first decades, the total number
of the students in attendance was no more than twenty, about ten of whom
graduated each year. By 1806 the number had risen to about 53, and in
1850 it was 78. The character of the École des Ponts et Chaussées was
modified when, in 1794, the École polytechnique (founded in that year
as the École Centrale des Travaux Publics), was established. According
to the original plan, drawn up by Monge and subsequently endorsed by
Napoleon, this institution was to replace the École des Ponts et Chaussées
as a source of candidates for the highest ranks of the military and civil ser-
vice. In the event, the whole system for the training of state officers was
reorganized. As a result, the École polytechnique became the common
preparatory school for students who sought admission to what now began
to be known collectively as écoles d’application: the École de l’Artillerie
et du Génie Militaire, the École des Ponts et Chaussées, and the École des
Mines. In this way, the École polytechnique became the cornerstone of
the interlocking system of advanced technical schools that firmly estab-
lished themselves at the top of France’s educational hierarchy, well ahead

10 A. Picon, L’invention de l’ingénieur moderne. L’École des Ponts et Chaussées, 1747–1851


(Paris, 1994).

599
Anna Guagnini

of the faculties of the Napoleonic Université de France in both prestige


and influence.11
The École polytechnique was administered by the Ministry of War, and
from 1804, when the Emperor Napoleon I reorganized the school, stu-
dents were subject to military discipline. Admission was strictly controlled
by a highly competitive system of national examinations, the concours,
in which advanced mathematics was the core discipline. Candidates were
required to hold the baccalaureate (the qualification awarded to pupils
emerging from the lycées), but in the nineteenth century additional spe-
cial classes, offered by the most important lycées, were indispensable in
order to prepare students for the entrance examinations. Once they had
entered the École polytechnique, students underwent an intensive two-
year course in higher mathematics, rational mechanics and geometry; vir-
tually no technical instruction was provided. The fact is that, despite the
technical bias suggested by the name, the aim of the École polytechnique
was to teach the general scientific principles on which engineering was
deemed to be based. It was one of the distinctive features of the school
that, from the start, the courses were given by some of the most dis-
tinguished mathematicians and physicists of the day, including Monge,
Lagrange and Fourcroy.
The students who passed the final examination had access to the fur-
ther education that was provided by the écoles d’application: the École des
Ponts et Chaussées and the École des Mines, for pupils aspiring to civilian
careers, and the École de l’Artillerie et du Génie Militaire and the École du
Génie Maritime for those going on into the army or navy. Here the teach-
ing was more specialized, and applied subjects featured more prominently
in the syllabus, but their treatment was academic and abstract rather than
practical. There is no doubt that, in the early nineteenth century, the École
polytechnique and the écoles d’application were leading centres in the
development of scientific knowledge as well as engineering science. But
the schools, with their strong emphasis on mathematics and intellectual
skills, turned out to be more important as centres for the preparation of
high-powered administrators than practising engineers.

the influence of the french model


In the first decades of the nineteenth century, France offered a formidable
example of a state-led move towards scientific education as the basis for
the training of technical civil servants. The École polytechnique and the
écoles d’application became objects of admiration among the advocates of

11 École polytechnique. Livre du centenaire 1794–1894, 3 vols. (Paris, 1894–7); T. Shinn,


Savoir scientifique et pouvoir social. L’École polytechnique, 1794–1914 (Paris, 1980);
B. Belhoste et al. (eds.), La Formation polytechnicienne 1794–1994 (Paris, 1994).

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modernization who campaigned for social reform and economic progress,


and they prompted similar initiatives in other countries. However, it was
not an example that other countries were able or willing to follow in detail.
The fact is that the success of the higher technical schools in France was
closely wedded to the particular structure of French bureaucracy, and to
the presence in Paris of the most distinguished scientific community of the
time. These conditions did not exist elsewhere, and although advanced
schools for the training of technical civil servants began to appear in
other European countries, none of them achieved the same commanding
position at the national level. And none of them approached the academic
reputation of their French counterparts, at least until the second half of
the nineteenth century.
Even where deliberate attempts to emulate the pattern of the French
schools were made, the results differed significantly. In Spain, for exam-
ple, the monarchy created in 1802 an Escuela de Caminos y Canales
in Madrid whose plan was prepared by a former pupil of the French
École des Ponts et Chaussées, Augustı́n de Betancourt (1758–1824).12
In other countries too, former pupils of the French écoles d’application
played a vital role in the organization of broadly comparable schools. This
was the case of the Institute of Engineers of Ways of Communication in
St Petersburg, founded in 1809.13 On the strength of the experience he
had gained in organizing the Spanish school, the man who was called in
by the Russian authorities to plan the institution was once again Betan-
court, who was also appointed the first director. Former students of the
École des Ponts et Chaussées were also attracted to the St Petersburg
school: both Gabriel Lamé (1795–1870) and Emile Clapeyron (1799–
1864) taught applied mathematics and physics there in the 1820s.
In Spain as in Russia, the influence of the French model was clear in
several respects: these included the close bond of the schools with the
corps d’état, their quasi-military regime, and the strong emphasis on sci-
ence as the foundation of engineering. However, in both countries, the
absence of a well-organized civil service, and the consequent lack of a
sustained demand for technical experts, did not allow the new institu-
tions to thrive. In fact, the Escuela of Madrid had a rather ephemeral
12 A. Rumeu de Armas, Ciencia y tecnologı́a en la España Ilustrada. La Escuela de Caminos
y Canales (Madrid, 1980).
13 I. Gouzévitch and D. Gouzévitch, ‘Les contacts franco-russes dans le domaine de
l’enseignement supérieur technique et l’art de l’ingénieur’, Cahiers du monde russe et
soviétique, 34 (1993), 345–68. I. Gouzévitch, ‘Technical Higher Education in Nineteenth-
century Russia and France: Some Thoughts on a Historical Choice’, in A. Karvar and B.
Schroeder-Gudehus, Techniques, Frontiers, Mediation. Transnational Diffusion of Mod-
els for the Education of Engineers, special issue of History and Technology 12 (1995),
109–17. For an account of the early history of this institution: A. M. Larionov, Istoriia
Instituta Inzhenerov Putej soobshcheniia Imperatora Aleksandra I za pervoe stoletie
sushchestvovaniia 1810–1910 (St Petersburg, 1910).

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Anna Guagnini

life until 1835. But it was not only in the academic quality of the results
that the emulation departed from the original. While it is beyond question
that the École polytechnique and the écoles d’application provided a stim-
ulus for emulation in other European countries, their role as a blueprint
is not straightforward. While they certainly inspired broadly similar ini-
tiatives, the organization and educational approach of the schools had
to be adjusted to very different economic and political contexts, to local
professional traditions, and to the structures of pre-existing systems of
schooling. Not surprisingly, the results departed significantly from the
original.
Like Spain, the Italian states had a long and deeply rooted associa-
tion with French culture – an association that was further consolidated
in the period of the Napoleonic occupation. It is not surprising, there-
fore, that the Italian intellectuals who campaigned in the 1830s for the
modernization of culture and society looked admiringly to the French sys-
tem of higher technical instruction. However, political instability and the
prevailing conservatism of the ruling classes stifled any attempt to intro-
duce significant reforms in the educational system. Moreover, and more
specifically, the creation of higher technical schools was bound to come
into conflict with the Italian universities’ firm control of higher education.
Their chief aim was to provide the necessary qualification for admission
to the liberal professions, mainly medicine and law. But it was also a pecu-
liarity of some of the Italian universities, namely those of Turin, Pavia,
Padua and Rome, that, already in the second half of the eighteenth century,
their faculties of arts and natural philosophy offered special courses for
young men seeking to enter the engineering profession – whether as civil
servants or in private practice. In fact, in Piedmont and in Lombardy, a
university degree was required in order to be admitted to the corporations
that controlled the engineering profession.14
In the 1840s and 1850s, plans were discussed for the opening of special
engineering schools, but political insecurity and the long established liai-
son between the engineering profession and the universities prevented fur-
ther developments. In the event, after the unification, engineering schools
were established as special sections within the university system. The
scuole di applicazione per ingegneri, as these sections were called, admit-
ted students after they had completed the second year of the courses
leading to degrees in mathematics or physics; moreover, their teachers
were members of the science faculties. As a result of this institutional
14 G. Bozza and J. Bassi, ‘La formazione e la posizione dell’ingegnere e dell’architetto nelle
varie epoche storiche’, in Il centenario del Politecnico di Milano, 1863–1963 (Milan,
1964); C. Brayda, L. Coli and D. Sesia, Ingegneri e architetti del Sei e Settecento in
Piemonte (Turin, 1963).

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link, coupled with the strong influence of the French engineering schools,
the thrust of the courses was essentially theoretical. Until the end of the
nineteenth century, in fact, practical instruction was virtually absent from
the syllabuses of the Italian engineering schools.15
The approach in Prussia was very different. Here, the Bauakademie
was established in Berlin in 1799, as part of a general reorganization of
all sectors of the educational system which culminated in the opening of
the University of Berlin in 1810. The cultural context of the reform was
fashioned by a dominant humanistic ideal and, in the sphere of higher
education, by a total commitment to the cultivation and the advancement
of knowledge, unsullied by utilitarian concerns. Science as an intellectual
pursuit was compatible with such an approach, but its applications were
regarded as alien to the realm of education. The reformers were clearly
aware both of the importance of scientific and technical instruction as
a factor in economic progress, and of the scientific achievements of the
French engineering schools. But they dealt with the problem of technical
training by developing a separate, less academic level of schools. Thus,
in planning the Bauakademie, their aim was to some extent similar to
that of the French schools, namely to prepare competent recruits for the
civil service, who would be employed in major public works, in partic-
ular in road and canal construction and surveying. However, these were
conceived as strictly technical careers, not stepping stones to the highest
ranks of the civil administration. Hence the Bauakademie’s level and style
of education was quite distinct from that of the university. The cultivation
of science belonged to the university, whereas the instruction offered by
the Bauakademie, as a technical institute, was essentially professional in
character. And, crucially, the Bauakademie was not only independent of
the university system; it also ranked below it.16
Respect for the academic prestige of the French École polytechnique
was also evident among the promoters of higher technical education in
the Austro-Hungarian Empire. However, the approach that the govern-
ment adopted there was novel, differing even from the solution favoured
in Prussia. The main features were two-fold. First, in 1815 the Bohemian

15 G. C. Lacaita, Istruzione e sviluppo industriale in Italia, 1859–1914 (Florence, 1973);


A. Guagnini, ‘Higher Education and the Engineering Profession in Italy: The Scuole of
Milan and Turin, 1859–1914’, Minerva, 26 (1988), 512–48.
16 W. Lexis, Die Technischen Hochschulen im Deutschen Reich (Berlin, 1904); K.-H. Mane-
gold, Universität, Technische Hochschule und Industrie. Ein Beitrag zur Emanzipation
der Technik im 19. Jahrhundert unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Bestrebungen
Felix Kleins, Schriften zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 16 (Berlin, 1970). On the
creation and development of the Bauakademie in Berlin: R. Rürup (ed.), Wissenschaft
und Gesellschaft. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Technischen Universität Berlin 1879–1979,
2 vols. (Berlin, Heidelberg and New York, 1979).

603
Anna Guagnini

Polytechnisches Landesinstitut of Prague and the Polytechnisches Insti-


tut of Vienna (opened respectively in 1806 and 1815), were recognized
as institutions of higher education, though separate from the university
system. Scientific disciplines loomed large in the syllabuses, in so far as
they were regarded a necessary component of an engineer’s preparation.
But equal prominence was given to the subjects that were more relevant
to the professional activities of the students. Thus technical subjects were
treated as extensively and systematically as possible, and were given the
same dignity as the scientific disciplines.17 Secondly, and very charac-
teristically, attention was paid to the instruction of students in subjects
that were relevant to manufacturing practice, especially applied chem-
istry and mechanical engineering. This reflects the fact that the technical
schools of Vienna and Prague also departed from the French model in the
range of posts for which their students were trained: their objective was to
prepare not only technical officers for the state corps, but also young men
going on to careers in the private sector, whether in construction or in
manufacturing.
A similar solution was adopted two decades later in Belgium, a coun-
try that had deeply rooted cultural links with France but whose response
shows clearly how models were adjusted to different circumstances. The
influence of the French model was as deeply rooted here as it was in Spain
and Italy; like the latter, Belgium was occupied by France in the first decade
of the nineteenth century, and during that period the French administra-
tion set up technical corps that mirrored those already existing in France.
But at the same time, Belgium was beginning to emerge as Europe’s second
most industrialized region. The concern with the preparation of techni-
cally trained administrators, borrowed from the French tradition, was
counterbalanced by an equal concern with the instruction of young men
going on to industrial careers. A Corps des Ponts et Chaussées, first created
in 1804 during the French occupation, was reorganized in 1831, when the
country became independent. Four years later, plans were submitted to
the government for the creation of two new schools, the École des Ponts
et Chaussées at Ghent and the École des Mines at Liège.
Originally, the aim of the new schools was to train technical officers
for the civil service as well as employees for industry. However, by the
time they were opened in 1838, each of them was subdivided into two
separate institutions: the École Spéciale du Génie Civil and the École
des Arts et Manufactures in Ghent; the École Spéciale des Mines and
the École des Arts et Manufactures in Liège. The écoles spéciales were
17 H. Gollob, Geschichte der Technischen Hochschule in Wien (Vienna, 1964); H. Sequenz
(ed.), 150 Jahre Technische Hochschule in Wien 1815–1965, 2 vols. (Vienna and New
York, 1965); C. Hautschek (ed.), Johann Joseph Prechtl. Sichtweisen und Aktualität seines
Werkes (Vienna and Cologne, 1990).

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similar to the French écoles d’application, both in the privileged access


which their students enjoyed with regard to entry to the civil service, and
in the theoretical bias of their courses. The syllabuses of the two écoles
des arts et manufactures, on the other hand, had a more practical bent,
characterized by a less sophisticated programme of mathematics and by
extensive studies of manufacturing practices. Inevitably, the écoles des
arts et manufactures had a lower status than the écoles spéciales; but the
fact remains that in Belgium state-supported institutions for the training of
technical officers and for industrial engineers were created simultaneously
and as part of the same educational structure. By 1840, therefore, Belgium
had a two-tier system of higher technical schools.18
The country in which the continental drive towards the creation of
schools for state-employed technical officers was least effective was
Britain. Her industrial successes had gone hand in glove with the dra-
matic development of her means of communication – canals, turnpikes,
bridges, docks, and, from the 1820s, the railway network. However, the
control of these initiatives remained largely in private hands. In keep-
ing with its generally laissez-faire policy, the government did not regard
itself as responsible for assessing the qualifications of the technical men in
charge of these works, nor for providing relevant instruction. Regardless
of whether any such form of education was available before the mid-
century, the training of technical experts was controlled by strict and
well-established rules that had their roots within the engineering commu-
nity. Experience and practical knowledge were by far the most important
qualifications for young men who aspired to the highest ranks of the
engineering profession, whether in private practice, or as employees in
industrial concerns. The lengthy process of apprenticeship (usually seven
years), or, for those who could afford it, premium pupilage (shorter but
expensive) with some well-established firms or freelance engineers, were
the only recognized routes to positions of real technical responsibility.19
These professional values and norms were codified in the statutes of the
professional associations that began to represent the elite of the engineer-
ing community, from as early as 1771, when the Institution of Civil Engi-
neers was established. The Institution of Mechanical Engineers, founded
in 1847, adopted a similar attitude towards professional qualifications.20
In both cases, admission was based on experience and the candidate’s
professional success; by comparison, scientific education and academic
degrees carried virtually no weight. This does not necessarily mean that the

18 J. C. Baudet, ‘The Training of Engineers in Belgium, 1830–1940’, in Fox and Guagnini


(eds.) Education (note *), 93–114.
19 C. More, Skill and the English Working Class, 1870–1914 (London, 1980).
20 R. A. Buchanan, The Engineers: A History of the Engineering Profession in Britain 1750–
1914 (London, 1989).

605
Anna Guagnini

institutions under-estimated the importance of fostering the advance-


ment and diffusion of technical knowledge. In fact, they were actively
engaged in supporting research, organizing meetings, and promoting self-
education and the exchange of information between members. What was
conspicuously absent was any attempt to replace experience with higher
education.
Clearly, this attitude left little scope for the development of engineer-
ing schools. It is not surprising, therefore, that the few early attempts to
establish special higher courses for engineers in the late 1820s and 1830s
did not prove successful. The University of Durham and the newly estab-
lished London colleges (University College and King’s College) created
engineering chairs and set up special programmes for engineers. How-
ever, enrolments were low; it was only in the last decade of the century
that formal education, as a partial alternative to apprenticeship, began to
be recognized as a relevant qualification for admission to the engineering
association.21

the emergence of industrial engineering,


1830–1850
All the state-controlled schools mentioned so far offered at least some
instruction in subjects, such as chemistry and applied mechanics, that
were relevant to manufacturing practices. And occasionally students from
those schools found their way into industry. However, most European
governments were reluctant to become involved in schemes for the train-
ing of technical experts for industry. For its part, industry did not subject
the various central authorities to the pressure that might have led them
to take more account of industrial developments. In the first decades of
the nineteenth century, in fact, hardly any manufacturers put the case for
higher technical instruction with an industrial orientation.
Such exceptions as there were tended to be found in the chemical indus-
try, where by the 1840s a few manufacturers, most notably though not
only in Germany, were already beginning to engage young men edu-
cated in the universities.22 The training in analytical methods and lab-
oratory techniques which these men had received made them particularly
suitable for the supervision of assaying and testing operations. How-
ever, such demand as there was, was largely satisfied by the universi-
ties. Here, the University of Giessen, where Justus von Liebig opened his

21 H. Hale Bellott, University College London, 1826–1906 (London, 1929); F. J. Hearn-


shaw, The Centenary History of King’s College 1828–1926 (London, 1929).
22 L. F. Haber, The Chemical Industry During the Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1958).

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teaching and research laboratory in 1825, was a particularly successful


example.23
Despite these early developments, it cannot be stressed too strongly that,
before 1850, a close link between academic science and industrial practice
was unusual. In manufacturing sectors other than chemistry, such as met-
allurgy, textiles and mechanical engineering, theory and practice were even
further apart, although from time to time scientists and university profes-
sors were consulted by manufacturers on specific problems. These inter-
mittent contacts were sufficient to ensure that, throughout the first half of
the century, a considerable amount of research was carried out by scien-
tists (many of them French), who applied rigorous experimental methods
to the study of technical problems. The problems included the efficiency
and safety of steam engines and other machinery, the strength and elas-
ticity of materials, and the classification of kinematics, subjects that
were treated in such pioneering works as Jean Nicole Pierre Hachette’s
(1769–1834) Traité élémentaire des machines (1811) and Gérard Joseph
Christian’s (1776–1832) Traité de la méchanique industrielle, 3 vols.
(Paris, 1822–5). The fact remains, however, that although these books
made a significant contribution to the assessment of contemporary prac-
tices in the rapidly advancing sphere of manufacturing techniques, in the
design of machines, mills and engines, and in metallurgy, the pace was
still set by men of experience rather than by men of science.24
It is not surprising that, in the light of the dominant emphasis on experi-
ence, apprenticeship was still regarded by manufacturers (in Britain even
more than on the Continent) as the best form of training for industrial
careers. This was true not only with respect to skilled workers, but also
for young men aspiring to more senior positions – as foremen, draughts-
men and, from the mid-century, as technical supervisors in large industrial
concerns. At best, a formal education in science and its applications (but
also in other subjects such as mechanical drawing and foreign languages)
was regarded as complementary to apprenticeship. This was the spirit
that guided the Mechanics’ Institutes, large numbers of which provided
popular lecture courses and libraries for working people in the main man-
ufacturing centres of Britain in the 1830s and 1840s. Elsewhere, in less
industrialized countries, efforts were made to set up networks of trade
schools with the aim of preparing skilled workers. Pupils were taught the
rudiments of mathematics and mechanics, and drawing, and they received
basic manual instruction in a variety of crafts and trades. None of these
23 J. J. Beer, The Emergence of the German Dye Industry (Urbana, Ill., 1959); J. B. Morrell,
‘The Chemist-Breeders: The Research Schools of Liebig and Thomas Thomson’, Ambix,
19 (1972), 1–46.
24 Singer, Holmyard, Hall and Williams, Technology (note 1).

607
Anna Guagnini

schools was remotely associated with higher education; they were also
far inferior in status to the schools that trained technical experts for the
public sector.
Among the schools that belonged firmly in the elementary sector of edu-
cation were the écoles d’arts et métiers that were privately established in
France before the Revolution by the Duc de La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt
(1747–1827). The first of these schools was opened in 1780 at Liancourt
and transferred to Compiègne in 1799. It was followed five years later
by the school at Beaupreau (replaced, in 1815, by the school at Angers),
and in 1843 by a third one, at Aix. In 1845, the total number of students
enrolled in these schools was 400 and thereafter, in the last quarter of the
century, it rose significantly to between 850 and 900. Initially, the écoles
offered little more than basic craft training. It was only in 1832, when
they were transferred to the Ministry of Commerce, that algebra, elemen-
tary descriptive geometry, mechanics and drawing were included in the
programme and admission standards were raised. However, workshop
instruction was retained as a distinctive element in their programme. And
even when, from the mid-nineteenth century, their syllabus became grad-
ually more sophisticated, the écoles d’arts et métiers remained loyal to
their original practical bias and proudly aloof from higher education.25
The middle-level technical schools, the Gewerbeschulen, that were
opened by the governments of the German states in the 1820s and 1830s
were also of an unequivocally vocational character. Their purpose was
explicitly to foster economic development, and the schools were adminis-
tered by the ministries of commerce of the various states. Prussia took the
lead in 1821 with the establishment in Berlin of a Gewerbeinstitut.26 As
indicated above, the capital of Prussia already had a school for technical
officers but the aim of the new two-year course (extended to three years in
1830) was specifically to train technical staff for industry. Students were
recruited at an average age of fourteen from provincial trade schools, and
were offered basic instruction in mathematics and science. In a manner
reminiscent of the écoles d’arts et métiers in France, workshop training
was a prominent feature of the syllabus, and a good deal of time was
devoted to drawing.
In other German states, where schools for civil servants did not exist,
the objectives of the Gewerbeschule were initially less specialized.27 They
were intended to prepare low-level civil servants and merchants, as well
as technical employees for private industry. In fact, the majority of the

25 C. Rodney Day, Education for the Industrial World: The écoles d’arts et métiers and the
Rise of French Industrial Engineering (Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1987).
26 Rürup (ed.), Wissenschaft und Gesellschaft (note 16).
27 Manegold, Technische Hochschule (note 16); K. Gispen, New Profession, Old Order:
Engineers and German Society, 1815–1914 (Cambridge, 1989).

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students who attended the Gewerbeschule in the first half of the century
went on to positions in the public services, and it was only from the 1840s
that the number of students who found positions in the private sector
began to grow. It was very characteristic of these schools that, in order to
adapt the preparation to a variety of different occupations, most of them
introduced specialized sections of mechanical and chemical engineering,
forestry and architecture.
Concern with the training of skilled workers was also the primary rea-
son that led the Swedish Government to create a technical institute in
Stockholm in 1826. Here scientific teaching was limited in scope, and
much time was devoted to practical instruction. Although mathematics
and scientific subjects had acquired a more prominent place in the syllabus
by 1850, the self-image remained strongly coloured by a commitment to
technical training. It was only 50 years after the institute’s foundation that
a new denomination, Kungl. Tekniska Högskola (KTH), officially sanc-
tioned the school’s move into the sphere of higher education. In sharp
contrast with this state-supported school, it was private initiative that
led, in 1829, to the opening of Sweden’s other major technical school,
Chalmers Institution (in Gothenburg). The programme of this school was
deeply marked by the belief that scientifically based education was a pre-
requisite for the understanding of technology. In this respect, it started on
a path very different from that of the KTH.28
The circumstances that led to the opening of the École Centrale des
Arts et Manufactures in Paris in 1829 were similar to those that paved
the way for the foundation of Chalmers Institution. But in the case of the
École Centrale, the consequences of the development of high-level tech-
nical schools for industrial engineers were more far-reaching. The school
was established by a wealthy businessman, in association with a chemist
and a former pupil of the École polytechnique. Right from the start, the
school set for itself ambitious objectives: its aim was to form a new gen-
eration of industrial leaders who would have a thorough understanding
of the scientific foundation of manufacturing practices. Despite its high
fees, the school proved highly successful: by 1840, it had more than 125
students, and between 1845 and 1855 the figure exceeded 200. More-
over, the school’s reputation and the novelty of its aims attracted foreign
students in large numbers: in the period up to 1864, about a quarter of
the total enrolments came from abroad. The courses extended over three
years, and, for the students who attended on a full-time basis, the pro-
gramme was intensive. The first year was devoted to general scientific
28 T. Althin, KTH 1912–62. Kungl. Högskolan i Stockholm under 50 är (Stockholm, 1970);
G. Ahlström, ‘Technical Education, Engineering, and Industrial Growth: Sweden in
the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries’, in Fox and Guagnini (eds.), Education
(note *), 115–40.

609
Anna Guagnini

subjects, with a strong emphasis on geometry; in the second and third


years, the syllabus was focused on applied subjects such as mechanical
engineering, building construction, highway engineering, analytical and
industrial chemistry, and steam engines, along with detailed descriptive
accounts of a variety of manufacturing practices – among them textile,
pottery, and paper-making. In sharp contrast with the programme of the
écoles d’arts et métiers, however, the surveys of technical subjects were
not supported by any significant practical instruction.29
The absence of workshop training, and the deliberately unspecialized
character of the syllabus, remained distinctive features of the École Cen-
trale for many years. Where significant changes did occur was rather in
the school’s academic standards. In 1856 it ceased to be privately owned
and was placed under the responsibility of the French Ministry of Agricul-
ture and Commerce. It was as a result of this move that stricter admission
procedures (including a competitive entrance examination, in the man-
ner of the École polytechnique) were adopted. The examinations were
directed at candidates who had prepared for admission to the École poly-
technique, but failed the final test. The programme of study also became
more demanding, with a view to achieving the standards of the older
engineering schools. This strategy was eventually successful. By the end
of the century, the École Centrale was recognized, for official purposes,
as a school comparable in status with the École polytechnique and the
écoles d’application.
Like these other schools, the École Centrale soon acquired a consid-
erable international reputation, and its example was used to advance
the case for advanced industrially orientated technical education in other
European countries. Whether they were inspired by the model of the tech-
nical schools of Vienna and Prague, or by the Parisian École Centrale, one
of the main arguments of the campaigners – especially in those countries
that ranked below the industrial pace-makers – was that the availability
of well-trained technical employees was bound to stimulate development.
But in reality the mechanism of interaction between education and indus-
try was far more complex.
The case of Spain highlights the obstacles that were encountered in
the attempt to implement this mechanism. In 1850 a Royal Decree estab-
lished a three-level system of higher education, comprising elementary,
secondary and higher technical schools. Initially only Madrid had a higher
technical school, but between 1855 and 1857 five similar institutions,
called Escuelas Superiores de Ingenieros Industriales, were opened in

29 H. Weiss, The Making of Technological Man: The Social Origin of French Engineering
Education (Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1982).

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Technology

Valencia, Gijón, Barcelona, Seville and Vergara. Admission criteria were


high. Students were enrolled on completion of a three-year course in the
science faculty of a university; alternatively, they had to prove, in an exam-
ination, that they had a comparable level of scientific education. The
plan was ambitious, but it failed: by 1867, all the escuelas except that
in Barcelona had closed. It was only in the relatively advanced economic
environment of the Catalan capital that this kind of institution managed
to find a favourable niche. The founding of the next higher technical
school in Spain – in Bilbao, the capital of the Basque Country and a well-
established mining and metallurgical centre – did not occur until the end
of the century.30
By contrast, a combination of public support and of thriving economic
circumstances paved the way to the success of the Swiss Eidgenössische
Technische Hochschule (ETH). When, in 1855, the Swiss Federal parlia-
ment decided to found a Polytechnic School in Zurich, the organizers
opted for a solution similar in many ways to the Austrian and German
polytechnics, but on a grander scale. In order to adjust the courses to a
range of career options, different sections were established as schools of
civil, construction and mechanical engineering, applied chemistry (includ-
ing pharmacy) and forestry, with a sixth section for general education. On
entry, the candidates, who were at least seventeen years old, were expected
to have a general background in mathematics, algebra, descriptive geome-
try and physics. The courses were fairly advanced, especially those of three
years in the sections of mechanical, construction and civil engineering;
they included calculus, geometry, experimental physics, and chemistry, as
well as a substantial dose of technical subjects, including practical exer-
cises. Soon, high teaching standards, the variety of the courses, and the
low fees made the ETH a magnet for foreign students. In 1862, the total
number of regular pupils was 225, plus more than 200 free auditors.31

t h e f e r m e n t o f i n i t i a t i v e s , 1850–1890
In setting a high level for its new school, the Swiss parliament opted for
a trend that was beginning to win support in other countries. Since the

30 J. M. Alonso Viguera, La ingenierı́a industrial española en el siglo XIX (Madrid, 1944);


R. Garrabou, Enginyers industrials, modernització económica i burgesia a Catalunya
(1850-inicis del segle XX) (Barcelona, 1982); S. Riera i Tuèbols, ‘Industrialization and
Technical Education in Spain, 1850–1914’, in Fox and Guagnini (eds.), Education
(note *), 141–70.
31 Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule, 1855–1955. École polytechnique Fédérale
(Zurich, 1955); ‘Zur Entwicklung der ETH 1855–1960’, in Eidgenössische Technische
Hochschule Zürich 1955–1980, Festschrift zum 125 jährigen Bestehen (Zurich 1980),
17–83, 577–674.

611
Anna Guagnini

mid-century, other technical schools that were originally set up to train


skilled workers such as, for example, the French écoles d’arts et métiers,
had already upgraded their syllabuses. But the process was especially
marked in the German states. Here, in the 1860s, the Gewerbeschulen
were transformed into polytechnische Schulen; then, in the late 1870s,
following a new phase of reorganization, they became Technische
Hochschulen, whereupon they were transferred from the Ministry of
Commerce to the Ministry of Education and granted the same academic
autonomy as the universities.32 In the course of this process, workshop-
training gradually lost its original prominent role in the syllabus, more
attention was paid to the teaching of scientific disciplines, and higher
standards of proficiency in the sciences were required on entry. At the
same time, efforts were made to appoint teachers with good scientific
credentials, and to create for them an environment similar to the science
faculties of the universities. In particular, teachers were given the possi-
bility of adjusting their courses, to a certain extent, to their own interests;
at the same time, students were allowed some flexibility in the choice of
their programme.
The period from 1850 to 1880 was also characterized by a considerable
expansion in the number of students attending German technical schools.
The transformation and expansion of technical instruction, coming as
they did at a time when the departments of chemistry in the German
universities were acquiring an ever-growing reputation as a source of
industrial expertise, were observed abroad with a mixture of interest and
concern. From the mid-nineteenth century, Germany’s economy entered
a period of remarkable growth, characterized by the vigorous expansion
of her industries, especially in metallurgy, mechanical engineering and
chemistry. The government’s commitment to education in general, and
particularly to technical education, was perceived by contemporaries as
the mark of a determination to foster further progress, and as one of the
decisive factors of Germany’s industrial leap forward. In the countries
where this development was perceived as a threat, as well as in those
where it provided an example for emulation, the advocates of technical
education harped constantly on Germany’s success in their approaches to
public authorities and entrepreneurs.
With the benefit of hindsight, it may be argued that the impact of edu-
cation on industry was often overestimated by the advocates of technical
education, as were the merits of the German model. But it is beyond
question that the arguments and the intense lobbying were effective in
turning the attention of a growing number of manufacturers and of local
authorities, especially those in the industrial areas, towards the state of

32 Manegold, Technische Hochschule (note 16).

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the provision for technical instruction in their own countries. As a result,


the last quarter of the nineteenth century saw a spurt of new initiatives in
other European countries.
This was the case in Britain, where very little had been done in the
mid-nineteenth century. Royal support prompted the creation of engi-
neering chairs in Scotland, at the University of Glasgow (1840), and at
Queen’s University, in Ireland (1851). However, in England the provision
for higher technical education made virtually no progress in this period.
The only significant exception were two institutions, namely the Royal
College of Chemistry and the Royal School of Mines, that were opened
in London in 1845 and 1851 respectively. Both of these schools played an
important role in the development of a scientific community in England,
but their contribution as a source of technical employees for industry was
less satisfactory than the promoters had expected.33
It was only in the 1870s, following a series of parliamentary enquiries in
which the link between education and industrial progress in Germany was
almost obsessively highlighted, that the campaign promoted by the advo-
cates of technical education began to pay dividends. The result of their
efforts did not consist in the opening of specialized technical schools, but
rather followed the lines adopted in London by King’s College and Uni-
versity College. Thus, new chairs of engineering were established in the
university colleges that had been recently established in the main provin-
cial towns.
These colleges were created in the second half of the nineteenth century
with a view to providing locally institutions of higher education.34 Their
status was inferior to the ancient Oxbridge institutions, and most of them
were formally chartered as independent universities only in the twentieth
century. In fact, originally they were not even entitled to award degrees;
instead, they prepared students for the degrees offered by the Univer-
sity of London. But in their attempt to steer a middle course between the
ancient universities’ traditional liberal style of education on the one hand,
and a more modern approach on the other, they yielded to the growth of
new branches of professional education, above all medicine and the sci-
ences, pure and applied. Chemistry departments, often with a marked
emphasis on technical applications, began to develop in the 1860s. They
were followed soon after by engineering courses. Owen’s College (later
33 G. K. Roberts, ‘The Establishment of the Royal College of Chemistry: An Investigation
of the Social Context of Early-Victorian Chemistry’, Historical Studies in the Physical
Sciences, 7 (1976), 437–75; R. F. Bud and G. K. Roberts, Science Versus Practice: Chem-
istry in Victorian Britain (Manchester, 1984); J. F. Donnelly, ‘Chemical Engineering in
England, 1880–1922’, Annals of Science, 45 (1988), 555–90.
34 D. S. L. Cardwell, The Organisation of Science in England (1957; 2nd edn, London,
1972); M. Argles, South Kensington to Robbins: An Account of English Technical and
Scientific Education since 1851 (London, 1964).

613
Anna Guagnini

to become the University of Manchester) created a professorship of engi-


neering in 1868.35 In the two decades that followed, a dozen other chairs
were established in England and Scotland. Even in Cambridge a professor-
ship of mechanism was transformed in 1891 into a chair of engineering,
while Oxford followed the example by creating a new chair of engineering
science in 1907.36
Initially, both civil and mechanical engineering were taught by the same
professor. But gradually, separate chairs were established, other technical
courses were inaugurated, new and more specialized courses were added,
and departments were formed. These departments were not self-contained
engineering sections, in so far as they depended on the science depart-
ments for the teaching of such subjects as mathematics, physics and chem-
istry. However, engineering certificates were offered to those students who
went through a complete programme, lasting for two or three years. The
colleges tried hard to encourage students to opt for a systematic course
of instruction, but the number of certificates that were awarded indicates
how difficult it was to persuade them. The fact is that the certificates
were not academically as prestigious as the normal university degrees,
and did not carry any professional qualification. Students preferred to
attend individual classes, and prepare for the examination held on a vari-
ety of individual subjects by such examining boards as the City and Guilds
of London Institute and the Science and Arts Department.
However, two significant exceptions to the pattern of the engineering
departments described above, both planned from the beginning as self-
contained institutions, were launched in London. In 1871, as a result of
a growing demand for technical personnel to be employed in the colonial
service, and especially in the Indian Public Works Department, the Royal
Engineering College was opened. The school admitted a limited num-
ber of students to its three year-course (until its closure in 1906, 1,623
pupils were admitted), but had good facilities and a competent teaching
staff.37 The other major initiative was the opening in South Kensington of
two schools, which in 1907 merged into the Imperial College of Science
and Technology. In 1878 eleven Livery Companies and the London City
Corporation founded the City and Guilds of London Institute for the
Advancement of Technical Education. Three years later their joint efforts
resulted in the opening of a lower-level technical school, Finsbury Tech-
nical School, followed in 1884 by a more advanced one, the Central
35 R. H. Kargon, Science in Victorian Manchester: Enterprise and Expertise (Manchester,
1977); A. Guagnini, ‘The Fashioning of Higher Technical Education in Britain: The Case
of Manchester, 1851–1914’, in H. F. Gospel (ed.), Industrial Training and Technological
Innovation: A Comparative and Historical Study (London, 1991), 69–92.
36 T. J. N. Hilken, Engineering at Cambridge University 1783–1965 (Cambridge, 1967).
37 J. G. P. Cameron, A Short History of the Royal Indian Engineering College, Coopers Hill
(London, 1960).

614
Technology

Institution (Central Technical College from 1893). Divided into three


sections (civil, mechanical and electrical), the latter was destined for
the instruction of advanced but eminently ‘practical’ technical experts.
Although the school admitted occasional students, the main focus was
on the instruction of full-time students. Considerable attention was paid
to the teaching facilities and, by contemporary standards, its workshops
and laboratories were particularly well equipped.38
Self-contained were also a number of lower vocational schools that were
established in the 1880s in the main industrial towns, and that gradually
rose in intellectual standing, just as the German Gewerbeschulen had
done in the mid-nineteenth century. The Manchester Technical School,
for example, from its humble origins as an evening school, became the
faculty of technology of the University of Manchester in 1904.
France was another country in which the initiatives in the area of higher
technical education were less vigorous than those in Germany. This is
not to say, however, that attempts to promote the diffusion of techni-
cal knowledge were not carried out. In the main centres of industrial and
agricultural activity throughout France, in fact, numerous initiatives were
launched with a view to faster instruction relevant to the local economy.
From the beginning of the century, the larger municipalities sponsored
instruction in applied subjects. Academies and other independent soci-
eties also played their part. In 1857, for example, the Société des Sciences,
de l’Agriculture et des Arts in Lille inaugurated a successful École des
Chauffeurs to instruct operatives of steam engines, and in Bordeaux the
town’s Société Philomatique steadily expanded its programme of public
lectures to embrace not only instruction in basic literacy and arithmetic
but also more advanced subjects, such as the chemistry of wine manu-
facture, foreign languages and economics.39 But no example could match
that of the Société Industrielle de Mulhouse, which, from its foundation
in 1826, emerged as a main focus both for the intellectual interests of
the region’s industrial elite and, in collaboration with the town council,
for the education of artisans in specialized schools of design, spinning,
weaving and commerce.40
Despite the importance of this pattern of expansion for the regional
economies of France, the fact remains that what was done was constrained
by indifference. The courses did not lead to formal qualifications, and
they certainly did not elicit either formal recognition or offers of material

38 J. Lang, City and Guilds of London Institute. Centenary 1878–1978 (London, 1978).
39 R. Fox, ‘Learning, Politics, and Polite Culture in Provincial France’, Historical Reflec-
tions/ Réflexions historiques, 7 (1980), 543–64; also printed in R. Fox, The Culture of
Science in France, 1700–1900 (Aldershot, 1993).
40 R. Fox, ‘Science, Industry, and the Social Order in Mulhouse, 1798–1871’, British Journal
for the History of Science, 17 (1984), 127–68.

615
Anna Guagnini

support from the national administration, still less any attempt to inte-
grate the private initiatives with the national system of education. The per-
sistently fragmented pattern of the courses on technical subjects through-
out the 1850s and 1860s suggests that the economic, social and political
conditions that might have favoured decisive state intervention were not
yet in place.
It was only after 1870 that a new pressure for improved facilities and
for an educational system that would better serve France’s interests began
to effect real change. A main stimulus was the country’s humiliating defeat
in the Franco-Prussian war. In the soul-searching mood that followed the
war, the lack of adequate scientific and technical education was com-
monly cited as one of the main causes of the country’s military weakness.
Although the extent of the alleged atrophy may have been exaggerated,
the debacle of Sedan had the effect of stimulating a debate in which the
more liberal, modernizing forces in French society eventually overcame
conservative suspicion of the increasingly sophisticated industrial age that
was dawning and of the new social order that was following in its wake. At
first, the reforms were modest. But the new Institut Industriel du Nord in
Lille (opened in 1872), and the École Municipale (later École Supérieure)
de Physique et de Chimie Industrielles, which was created in Paris in 1882,
were early signs of the new momentum. In the later 1880s and through-
out the 1890s, the pace quickened appreciably; now, at last, the French
educational system began to respond with vigour.
The initiatives of this later period bore some of their most notable fruit
in the national network of faculties that existed (until the fundamental
reorganization of 1896) under the administrative umbrella of the Univer-
sité de France. Here, a policy of controlled decentralization on the part of
the Ministry of Public Instruction encouraged a greater reliance on local
authorities and private support, and favoured the development of courses
and specialized institutes devoted to subjects of local economic interest,
such as mechanical and electrical engineering, chemistry and agricultural
science. In 1890 an Institut Chimique was attached to the science faculty
of Nancy; Bordeaux and Lille followed the example in 1891 and 1894
respectively.41 In electrical engineering, the faculties of Lille, Nancy and
Grenoble all fostered important developments by founding Instituts Elec-
trotechniques about the turn of the century – an initiative that was copied
very successfully at Toulouse in 1908. These institutes offered systematic
courses of instruction, embracing both theoretical and practical subjects,
and awarded specialized certificates and diplomas.

41 Weisz, Emergence; R. Fox, ‘Science, University, and the State in Nineteenth-Century


France’, in G. L. Geison (ed.), Professions and the French State, 1700–1900 (Philadelphia,
1984), 66–145; Paul, Knowledge.

616
Technology

Both in France and in Britain, the importance of the contribution made


by local public and private interests in fostering expansion in higher tech-
nical education in the late nineteenth century, and especially in the new
industry-orientated curricula, can hardly be overestimated. The impact of
the local connections was noticeable not only in the most industrialized
countries, but also in the second comers. In Italy, for example, a degree
in industrial engineering was offered by the Istituto Tecnico Superiore in
Milan as early as 1862, and in 1879 a section leading to a similar degree
was grafted on to the Scuola di applicazione per ingegneri of Turin. These
cities were the main centres of the economically more advanced north-
ern regions, where concern with the state of manufacturing was felt most
strongly. What prompted the initiatives was not an immediate need for
advanced technical expertise, but rather the belief that a new generation
of technical experts was necessary in order to support the development of
industry.42 Initially, enrolments in the new sections were sluggish, but in
the late 1880s attendance began to grow fast and in the following decade
they overtook those in civil engineering.
The local communities had a prominent role in Spain, too. Here in 1899,
30 years after the failure of the first attempt to launch industrial engineer-
ing schools, a new Escuela de Ingenieros Industriales was opened in the
thriving industrial town of Bilbao. At the same time, the Escuela de Inge-
nieros Industriales of Barcelona, which had existed since 1859, entered a
new phase of rapid development with the support of the local industrial
community and of the municipality.43 In Germany too, where the state
governments continued to support the well-established network of Tech-
nische Hochschulen, regional and municipal authorities were generous in
supporting the improvement of the schools’ facilities and financing the
much needed extension of their premises.

the quest for status


The last quarter of the century was a period of notable advance in the
theoretical and experimental foundations of technology. In a variety of
fields, ranging from the design of heat engines to the study of the physi-
cal properties of materials, the attempt to find a balance between rigor-
ous methods of analysis, systematic experiments, and the often conflict-
ing requirements of practical engineering, began to bear fruit. Important
contributions were offered by a new generation of teachers who mus-
tered a thorough understanding of the discipline and a direct experience

42 A. Guagnini, ‘Higher Education and the Engineering Profession in Italy: The Scuole of
Milan and Turin, 1859–1914’, Minerva, 26 (1988), 512–48.
43 R. Garrabou, Enginyers (note 30); Tuèbols, ‘Industrialization’ (note 30), 141–70.

617
Anna Guagnini

of engineering practice, and combined both sides in the production of


new technical textbooks. These texts were theoretically more demanding
than those available in the mid-nineteenth century, but at the same time
they were conceived with the particular interests and objectives of engi-
neering students in mind. Among the manuals that paved the way to this
new style of writing were William John Macquorn Rankine’s (1820–72)
Manual of Applied Mechanics (1856) and The Steam Engine (1859), and
Franz Reuleaux’ (1829–1905) The Kinematics of Machinery (1876).44
Familiarity with the kind of knowledge that was conveyed by these
texts began to be appreciated in the world of practice, not only in the
relatively more receptive world of civil engineering, but also in the much
more reluctant world of manufacturing. A good illustration of this trend
is the fact that strength of materials and kinematics began to be applied
more extensively in machine design. Also a better understanding of ther-
modynamics and of the theory of fluids played a vital role in the further
improvement of heat engines and in the development of a new genera-
tion of gas and oil engines. A sound theoretical preparation was essential
also in the assessment of the performance and efficiency of the increasingly
sophisticated machines that were coming into general use across the whole
spectrum of manufacturing. Admittedly, ingenious inventors with little
educational background continued to play an important role, as in the case
of Thomas A. Edison (1847–1931). But the development and improve-
ment of new technologies – the gradual and laborious process by which
inventions were transformed into commercially valuable solutions –
were largely the result of the work carried out by technical personnel
with a good theoretical preparation.
The close relations between science and technology were highlighted by
the dramatic developments of the electricity supply industry. Following on
the heels of the extraordinary success of telegraphy in the mid-nineteenth
century, the electrical industry represented in the 1880s and 1890s the
most exciting new technological frontier. Here both electrical engineers
and experimental physicists worked at the very sharp end of experimental
research. Their approaches were different, but both relied heavily on the
results of each other’s enquiries for stimulus and information.45

44 For a study of the evolution of a particular field of mechanical engineering: S. Timoshenko,


History of Strength of Materials (New York, 1953).
45 W. König, Elektrotechnik – Entstehung einer Industriewissenschaft (Berlin, 1993); A.
Grelon, ‘Les enseignements de l’électricité’ and ‘La formation des hommes: du tournant
du siècle à la première guerre mondiale’, in F. Caron and F. Cardot (eds.), Histoire générale
de l’électricité en France, vol. I: Espoirs et conquêtes, 1881–1918 (Paris, 1991), 254–92
and 802–49; A. Guagnini, ‘The Formation of Italian Electrical Engineers: The Teaching
Laboratories of the Politecnici of Turin and Milan, 1887–1914’, in F. Cardot (ed.), Un
siècle d’électricité dans le monde. 1880–1980. Actes du Premier Colloque International
sur l’Histoire de l’Electricité (Paris, 1987), 283–99.

618
Technology

Inevitably, these developments left a profound mark on the teaching in


technical schools, accelerating still further the process of sophistication
of the syllabuses. More time came to be devoted to the theoretical foun-
dations of technology and to providing the special mathematical skills
that were required to master them. Graphical methods were extensively
adopted with a view to reducing wherever possible the use of cumbersome
and unnecessarily complex calculus. The upgrading of the syllabuses was
encouraged by teachers in the schools, who were keen to highlight the
changing nature of their disciplines and to bridge the academic gap that
separated them from their scientific peers. At the same time, however,
they were keen to point out that the academic credentials of technology
no longer rested on its dependence on science. Technology’s aims differed
from those of science in that they were essentially practical, but its theo-
retical foundations were equally demanding and intellectually dignified.
A sign of the changing character of the technical syllabuses was the
prominent role that laboratory teaching began to play from the 1880s.
Laboratory facilities were already available in some technical schools, but
they were used almost exclusively by the professoriate for demonstrations
or for their own personal research: students did not take an active part
in these activities. Chemistry was the only sector of higher scientific edu-
cation in which a more practical, laboratory-based approach to teaching
was already well established in the mid-nineteenth century. Here, training
in qualitative and quantitative analysis was an essential component of the
students’ instruction; this training was equally important for students who
pursued pure research and for those who prepared for industrial careers.
However, it was only in the 1880s that laboratory teaching began to be
adopted in other branches of technical instruction.
Teaching laboratories in mechanical engineering were first set up in
American schools in the early 1870s. In Europe they were pioneered by
Carl von Linde (1842–1934) at the Technische Hochschule of Munich
(1876), and Alexander Blackie William Kennedy (1847–1928) at Uni-
versity College, London (1878).46 Then, in the 1880s, they began to be
adopted extensively by the German Technische Hochschulen; indeed, the
introduction of these facilities was one of the most prominent features
of the reorganization of these institutions that occurred in the last two
decades of the century. The availability of laboratories of mechanical
engineering, materials testing (for civil and mechanical engineering), tech-
nical chemistry, and, from the mid-1880s, electrical technology became
the mark of a modern, high-quality school. Particularly lavish were the
facilities of the Technische Hochschule of Berlin (Charlottenburg), and

46 V. Dwelshauvers-Dery and J. Weiler, Referendum des Ingénieurs. Enquête sur


l’Enseignement de la Mécanique (Liège, 1893).

619
Anna Guagnini

the laboratories that were set up in 1890, as part of the plans for the
expansion and renewal of the Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule of
Zurich.47
Unlike workshop-training, whose aim was to provide students with
manual skills and to show them how to operate machines and engines,
laboratory-based instruction was meant to complement the theoretical
preparation of the students. One of the main objectives was to familiar-
ize students with the methods of accurate quantitative measurement that
were more and more an essential component of an engineer’s practice.
The procedures and, to some extent, the instruments that were used were
similar to those of the physical and chemical laboratories. However, the
aim was not the pursuit of new scientific knowledge, but rather to provide
the means for controlling and improving technologies that were already
available. To this end, students of mechanical engineering were taught
how to conduct tests of the elasticity and strength of different materials,
to assess the performance of machines and engines, and to record and
compare the results of the trials. Electrical engineers, for their part, learned
how to measure electric currents and resistances, calibrate instruments
and carry out efficiency tests on dynamos and motors. In all these activities
the emphasis was not on originality but on precision and thoroughness.
Inevitably, the upgrading of the syllabuses and the development of
laboratory-based teaching represented a strong case for the reassessment
of the academic standing of higher technical schools. The issue at stake
was not so much the status of military schools or of institutions such as the
French École polytechnique, with its associated écoles d’application, and
the écoles speciales of Ghent and Liège, that prepared technical experts
for military or civil service careers. As indicated above, the academic cre-
dentials of these schools were already high, albeit they often stood – and
remained – apart from the university system. The problem was rather the
place of the technical schools that prepared civil, mechanical, chemical,
metallurgical or electrical engineers for employment in the private sector.
These were the schools which, when they were opened, were regarded
as primarily vocational and therefore least qualified for admission to the
sphere of higher education. In reality, some of the schools that were orig-
inally established for the training of foremen and skilled workers gradu-
ally handed over this function to a new range of lower institutions and
by 1880 were already devoting themselves primarily to more advanced
levels of technological instruction.
Among the staunchest campaigners for a parity of esteem between
technical education and traditional academic curricula were the schools’
teachers. By highlighting the progress made by technological disciplines,

47 Rürup (ed.), Wissenschaft (note 16); Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule (note 31).

620
Technology

and the social importance of technical progress, they sought to demon-


strate that their institutions and the universities should enjoy equal recog-
nition and status. Clearly, in doing so they also aspired to enhance their
own academic position. The benefits that they sought were not only finan-
cial and social: they also hoped to obtain more time and better facilities
for their research and to attract better students.
In their attempt to raise the status of higher technical education, the
teachers found allies in the associations of former pupils of technical
schools and, in some cases, also in the professional engineering associ-
ations. From their modest origins, often as societies for the former pupils
of individual technical schools, these associations had developed by the
end of the nineteenth century into powerful nation-wide agencies. Their
aim was primarily to protect the corporate interests of the communities
that they represented, and to enact strict controls over the use of profes-
sional titles. Another aim was to associate their members’ rising economic
power with some sort of social recognition. Hence they were particularly
concerned with the status of the academic qualification that gave access
to the title.
In Germany the cause of the technical schools was greatly supported
by the Verein Deutscher Ingenieure (VDI). Established in 1865, the VDI
played a vital role in the development of the Technische Hochschulen
and of their educational policy.48 The association’s strategy in support
of its members and of the profession changed significantly over the three
decades that followed: although in the 1870s the VDI took an active
part in supporting the ‘scientification’ of the syllabuses, in subsequent
decades it turned against this approach and campaigned vigorously in
favour of a more practical orientation. But even in this later phase, the VDI
strenuously backed the schools in their attempts to be fully admitted to
the sphere of higher education. In the event, the Technische Hochschulen
achieved their objective: in 1899 they obtained university status. This
entailed the right of conferring the doctorate and therefore gave access
to academic careers. It entailed also the passage of the schools’ teaching
staff to the same ranks as the university professoriate.
In Belgium too the engineering associations were among the promot-
ers of the decree that in 1890 granted the technical schools of Brussels,
Louvain, Ghent and Liège the right to bestow diplomas of ingénieur civil
des mines and ingénieur des constructiones civiles, qualifications compa-
rable to those offered by the traditionally more prestigious écoles spéciales
of Ghent and Liège. As a result of the same decree, the diplomas awarded

48 K.-H. Ludwig and W. König (eds.), Technik, Ingenieure und Gesellschaft. Geschichte des
Vereins Deutscher Ingenieure 1856–1981 (Dusseldorf, 1981); Gispen, New Profession
(note 27).

621
Anna Guagnini

by these higher technical schools were also upgraded to the level of


university degrees.49
The academic value of the diplomas caused concern also among those
institutions, such as the English engineering departments and the French
technical institutes that were grafted on to faculties. For despite being
already part of the university system, their diplomas and certificates did
not carry the same distinction as the scientific degrees and did not give
access to academic careers. Hence, it was not uncommon for British stu-
dents of engineering, who aspired to teach their subjects at university
level, to complete their studies by taking a degree of Bachelor of Science.
It was only in the 1890s that Bachelor degrees in engineering science
were created. These degrees were undoubtedly regarded with a certain
unmistakable contempt by the traditional academic elites, but formally
their value was no different from the other qualifications awarded by the
university colleges. And yet, until higher education was recognized as a
necessary qualification for a professional career, it remained difficult to
persuade students to engage in the longer and more advanced programme
that led to an engineering degree. The situation was even more complex
in France where the value of a degree or a diploma depended essentially
on the reputation of the institution that awarded it. In 1897, a ministerial
decree allowed the university-based technical institutes to create engineer-
ing diplomas. Clearly, these diplomas did not carry any of the privileges
offered by the École polytechnique and the écoles d’application. However,
the institutes endeavoured to win the confidence of local employers, and
by the turn of the century their former pupils were eagerly sought after
by industry, especially in the technologically more advanced sectors of
chemistry and electrical engineering.50
Another complex problem that weighed particularly heavily with the
engineering schools which were annexed to university faculties, or which
depended on them for the teaching of the scientific disciplines, was the
unsatisfactory state of their relations with their parent institutions. For
it was clear that the attempt to achieve academic parity with the sci-
entific faculties was the first step towards becoming autonomous, self-
contained technical faculties. Even in Italy, where the engineering schools
had enjoyed from their reorganization in the early 1860s a status compa-
rable with that of the science faculties, the quest for independence gained
momentum towards the end of the century. The point at issue was that
students who sought admission to the scuole di applicazione had to com-
plete the first two years of the programme of the faculties of mathematics

49 J. C. Baudet, ‘Pour une histoire de la profession d’ingénieur en Belgique’, Technologia, 7


(1984), 35–62.
50 See texts in note 41.

622
Technology

and physics before being admitted to the engineering course. As the scuole
expanded, attempts were made to overcome this state of dependence by
setting up internal preparatory courses, specifically tailored to suit the
needs of engineering students.51 In Milan the objective was achieved as
early as 1862, but similar efforts by other Italian engineering schools
remained unsuccessful until the end of the century.
Clearly, the timing and characteristics of the process that led to the
upgrading of higher technical schools varied considerably in different
European countries. But one feature was common to virtually all those
cases. The transformation of the schools into university-level institutions,
from the 1880s onwards, encountered tenacious opposition from the aca-
demic elites, not only the professors of the traditional liberal disciplines
but also those in the pure sciences. Despite the changes in the syllabuses,
the close association with utilitarian pursuits was still regarded as hard
to reconcile with the ideals of higher learning. The hostility was as strong
in the industrialized countries as it was in the late comers.
Even in France, where the top of the educational system was occu-
pied by the École polytechnique, ostensibly an engineering school, higher
technical education did not enjoy the respect its spokesmen felt was its
due. The abstract, theoretical orientation that characterized the syllabus
of that school, with its strong emphasis on mathematics, proved at least
as impermeable to the development of industrially orientated curricula
as those based on the humanities. As for Germany, although the devel-
opment of her technical schools won the admiration of contemporary
commentators throughout Europe, this should not be taken to indicate
a more favourable attitude on the part of that country’s traditional edu-
cational elite towards modern curricula. On the contrary, the resistance
to the upgrading of the Technische Hochschulen in the 1890s was only
surmounted thanks to the personal intervention of the Kaiser himself, as
part of his more general engagement in support of scientific and technical
education.

research and diversif ication


Despite the opposition of the traditional academic elites, in most Euro-
pean countries engineering schools had achieved by the turn of the century
a standing comparable to the universities. The success was not, however,
a definitive or complete one. On the contrary, in the two decades before
the First World War, the higher technical schools had to toil hard to sus-
tain their academic reputation. One of the main challenges was posed,
51 Lacaita, Istruzione (note 15); A. Guagnini, ‘Academic Qualification and Professional
Functions in the Development of the Italian Engineering Schools, 1859–1914’, in Fox
and Guagnini (eds.), Education (note *), 171–95.

623
Anna Guagnini

paradoxically, by their very success. For in virtually all European coun-


tries, the number of students in technical subjects grew dramatically in the
last decade of the century, and continued to do so until 1914. Students
tended to flock, in particular to the sections of mechanical engineering
and the new courses of electrical technology. As a result, in all but the
best-endowed schools the teaching laboratories became seriously over-
crowded, and the ratio between teachers and students fell. Where this
phenomenon was most acute, as for example in the Italian engineering
schools, the efforts made in the 1890s to improve facilities and raise stan-
dards were thereby seriously undermined.
The academic prestige of higher technical schools and engineering fac-
ulties was also challenged by the growing segmentation and specializa-
tion of the syllabuses. The fact is that in the attempt to keep pace with
the growth of technical knowledge and with the remarkable expansion
of industrial applications, the coverage of the courses had been steadily
increased, and a variety of new, often very narrowly focused courses had
been added. But there was a limit to the number of new fields that could
be incorporated into the syllabuses and that students could assimilate in
the three or four years that were required for most degrees. Thus, in order
to avoid cramming, new sections were added to the programme. At the
end of the 1880s, only the largest schools had specialized programmes of
electrical and chemical technology, mining and metallurgy in addition to
the basic curricula for civil and mechanical engineering; but by the turn
of the century many technical schools had expanded their programmes to
include at least some of the new specialities.
Fields were chosen in such a way as to suit the local economic and
industrial context. Specialized programmes in shipbuilding, agricultural
technology, forestry, and hydraulic engineering, for example, were set
up where these branches of technology were most likely to answer a
local demand. And often the launching of courses on new technical sub-
jects was encouraged and thereafter sustained by public or private initia-
tives emanating from the town or region.52 In this respect, specialization
was both a measure for controlling the excessive cramming of the syl-
labuses, and a way of fostering closer relations with the school’s clientele.
However, there is no doubt that this move had to be carefully weighed
against the persistent hostility of the traditional academic circles. For the
close connection with practical application that characterized many of the
new courses underpinned the higher technical schools’ original vocational
thrust. In fact, the danger of excessive specialization and fragmentation of
52 This is an issue that looms large in works such as Paul, Knowledge; M. Anderson, The
Universities and British Industry, 1859–1970 (London, 1972); C. Divall, ‘A Measure of
Success: Employers and Engineering Studies in the Universities of England and Wales,
1897–1939’, Social Studies of Science, 20 (1990), 65–112.

624
Technology

the syllabuses was denounced also by some of the teachers of engineering


subjects, who argued that the aim of higher technical education was to
provide a general background in the foundations of technology. Indeed,
the tension between the supporters of specialization and the advocates of
a broad scientific approach to engineering remained a topic for intense
discussion in the inter-war period.
At the same time as the growth in student numbers and the advance
of specialization were emerging as potential threats to the academic
reputation of technical and engineering schools, another new trend began
to emerge before 1914, marking a further stage in the development of
this branch of higher education. It was in fact in the first decade of the
twentieth century that some of the technical institutions began to create
opportunities for research. As indicated above, a considerable number of
original enquiries had been carried out by teachers in technical schools
in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. However, research needed
not only adequate funding, but also some formal recognition in order to
flourish. A notable milestone in this process came about in 1900, when the
German Technische Hochschulen, as a result of being raised to university
level, were granted the right to award doctoral degrees in engineering.
The new regulation had the effect of officially recognizing those institu-
tions as a suitable environment for the pursuit of original investigations.
In 1909 the Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule of Zurich introduced
advanced degrees, and the same was done by the Higher Technical School
of Prague in 1901. However, before the First World War few students took
advantage of this possibility, and even after 1918 the programmes leading
to research degrees remained marginal to the activity of even the better-
endowed schools. In the period between 1904 and 1921, the technical
school of Aachen awarded only 37 doctorates in mechanical engineering,
and no more than two or three in electrical engineering.53 The situation
was similar elsewhere and it is clear that only a minute segment of the
graduates decided to engage in advanced studies.
In Britain, degrees of Doctor of Science were first established in 1878.
These degrees were awarded on the basis of examinations until 1885,
when they began to be based on research. However, no special research
degree in engineering was created until 1912, when the University of
London first introduced examinations for Doctors of Science with the spe-
cial qualification in engineering. Even then, only a small minority of stu-
dents took advantage of this opportunity. It was only after the First World
War that the training of research students began to play a more significant
role in the agenda of the British engineering faculties. It was a very slow

53 H. Albrecht, Technische Bildung zwischen Wissenschaft und Praxis. Die Technische


Hochschule Braunschweig 1862–1914 (Hildesheim, 1987), 347.

625
Anna Guagnini

process, though: in the period from 1912 to 1926, the University of


London awarded only twenty research degrees to internal students, and
seventeen such degrees to external students.54
France was even tardier in establishing an institutionally recognized
track for research degrees in engineering. In 1923 the title of Ingénieur-
docteur was established by the Ministry. Significantly, the title was
awarded by the university, not by the engineering schools. Access was
restricted to students accredited with the Ministry; it entailed a stay of
four terms in a university laboratory and the preparation of a thesis. The
courses were open to students from the Écoles d’Arts et Métiers as well
as from the Grandes Écoles. However, until 1930 the universities did not
have the necessary staff and facilities to support the plan.
Undoubtedly, the involvement in research eased the recognition of the
higher technical schools’ academic respectability. Nevertheless, research
degrees – in those countries where they were available – remained a rather
limited phenomenon. It could hardly have been otherwise, for the career
opportunities for graduate students, in the first decades of the twentieth
century, were scarce and often not particularly rewarding, either in intel-
lectual or in financial terms. The career opportunities offered by pub-
lic agencies were by no means numerous. And only a limited number of
research graduates were recruited in the testing laboratories that, since the
turn of the century, were beginning to be established in the most innova-
tive branches of industry. In fact, even the most far-sighted manufacturers
remained on the whole rather sceptical of the value of research training
carried out in an academic context. Not surprisingly, advanced degrees
were pursued mainly by those students who aspired to a teaching career in
institutions of higher education. For this reason, even engineering students
often preferred to obtain advanced degrees in science faculties, although
the titles of their theses (allegedly in chemistry, experimental physics or
mathematics) clearly indicate that they treated technological themes. The
fact is that the degrees awarded by science faculties were still regarded as
academically more prestigious.

the development of research institutions


Even in the most advanced institutions, a great deal of the so-called
research that was carried out in the technical schools before 1914 con-
sisted not of original investigations, but of routine testing for public as
well as private clients. This activity was one that paid handsome dividends
in terms of fees and in fostering good public relations. On the other hand,

54 University of London: The Historical Record 1836–1926 (London, 1926), 261–2.

626
Technology

it had obvious counter-effects in so far as it consumed teachers’ time and


material resources.
At the turn of the twentieth century, the lack of adequate resources for
the development of scientific and technological research was repeatedly
denounced by academics and, to some extent, by industrialists throughout
Europe. It has already been pointed out above that, to a large extent,
the funds for the organization of laboratories, both for teaching and for
research, came from private sources or local authorities. The launching
of new laboratories for electrical technology in the 1890s, for example,
was largely the result of private donations. Central authorities, on the
other hand, proved rather reluctant to get involved in supporting research
based in institutions of higher education, whether in science faculties or
technical schools. In some cases, as for example in Britain, substantial
grants were already devolved to research initiatives of public interest.
What was generally inadequate, in the period before 1914, was the co-
ordination of these initiatives; in Britain and elsewhere, a major problem
was the absence of comprehensive plans for the support of research on a
national scale.
Even the Physikalisch-Technische Reichsanstalt, the German institution
that remained for years the model of a modern research establishment,
owes its foundation to the initiative and the incentives provided by a pri-
vate individual, namely Werner von Siemens (1816–92). It was Siemens
who led the campaign for the establishment in 1887 of an institution,
based in Berlin and entirely devoted to research, and offered a munificent
grant to set it up. The German industrialist insisted that a main objec-
tive of the institute was to develop original, fundamental research, and
arranged for the appointment of the most distinguished of the German
physicists, Hermann von Helmholtz (1821–94), to the directorship of the
new institution. The government, on the other hand, agreed to share in the
responsibility of financing this expensive initiative because of the immedi-
ately useful services that it was expected to provide to industry and to the
state itself, in areas such as standardization, assaying and testing of instru-
ments that were of vital importance to industry. In fact, this kind of routine
activity became the staple activity of the Physikalisch-Technische Reichs-
anstalt, although the pursuit of new knowledge led to some Nobel prizes
for work carried out in the Reichsanstalt on thermal radiation by Wilhelm
Wien (1864–1928), and on the quantum theory by Max Planck (1858–
1947).55
The promotion of both pure and applied research was also the
main feature of another major government-funded initiative, the

55 D. Cahan, An Institute for an Empire: The Physikalisch-Technische Reichsanstalt 1871–


1918 (Cambridge, 1988).

627
Anna Guagnini

Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society. Founded in 1911, and known since 1946 as the


Max Planck Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Wissenschaft,56 this institu-
tion was to play a central role in the development of German research in
the inter-war period. In Britain it was primarily the pressure of experimen-
tal physicists that led to the opening of the National Physical Laboratory
in 1902. The early history of the National Physical Laboratory is coloured
by persistent recalcitrance on the part of government to sustain its activity.
Before 1914, funds for the equipment of the laboratories remained, far
below the expectations that were held at the time of its foundation. Once
again it was private donations that made it possible to purchase instru-
ments as in the case of the electrical instruments offered by the Drapers’
Company, and the tank for testing of ship models offered by Alfred F.
Yarrow (1842–1932).57
The importance of technology for defence as well as for a country’s eco-
nomic welfare was an argument that was repeatedly used in order to pro-
mote the cause of research. In the event, it was the argument that proved
most effective, for it was the First World War that brought technology
most dramatically to the fore. The loathsome impact of gas on warfare
was perhaps the most visible sign of the role played by technology. But
in a variety of other sectors, such as aviation, radio-communications and
pharmaceuticals, technology won field honours. In all these fields, the
stringency of military needs accelerated the advancement of new tech-
nologies.
The war brought about the recognition of the importance of more com-
prehensive plans for the organization of technology, and of the public
responsibility for the promotion of its development. Already during the
conflict, most European countries began to lay plans for the co-ordination
of initiatives in industry, education and the military. The war had the
effect of giving the appearance of purpose and vision to these efforts, the
result of which was the organization of national research councils. How-
ever, the initial ferment of initiatives tended to subside when the drudgeries
of tackling the problems of such a complex system as research emerged,
and especially when the high costs of this enterprise became apparent.
Once again, the scale of the intervention and of the results varied remark-
ably throughout Europe, but the pattern was similar.
In Britain, the Committee for Scientific and Industrial Research (later
to become the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research) was

56 Forschung im Spannungsfeld. From its ‘Prehistory’, written by B. vom Brocke (p. 91), are
taken the comments on the fundamental research, leading to Nobel prizes and carried
out in the PTR, mentioned before.
57 R. Moseley, ‘The Origins and Early Years of the National Physical Laboratory: A Chap-
ter in the Pre-History of British Science Policy’, Minerva, 16 (1978), 222–50; E. Pyatt,
The National Physical Laboratory: A History (Bristol, 1983).

628
Technology

established in 1915. Its purpose was to promote and co-ordinate the devel-
opment of research activity both in industry and in the public sector, and
to liaise between industry and university. As a result, the emphasis fell
squarely on applied research.58
In France a special cabinet for the development of military technolo-
gies was already in place: the Commission d’Examen des Inventions
intéressant les Armées de Terre et de Mer was founded as early as 1887,
and reorganized in 1894, but it was largely obsolete. In the war years
an attempt was made to create a more effective structure. Under the
leadership of the mathematician Paul Painlevé (1863–1933) this techni-
cal service was transformed into the Commission d’étude in 1914 and
the Direction Technique in 1915 (from 1916 to 1917 it was called the
Sous-Secrétariat d’État des Inventions, des Études et des Expériences). At
the end of the war, in 1919, it was decided to transform this office into
a permanent centre for the development of research, inside and outside
university establishments, and for the promotion of the industrial appli-
cations of science. The decree that sanctioned the institution of the Office
National des Recherches Scientifiques et Industrielles et des Inventions
was issued in 1922. This office was linked to the Caisse de Recherche
founded in 1902.59
In other countries as well similar structures were set up involving the
professoriate of both science faculties and the higher technical schools. In
Italy, immediately after the war a Comitato Nazionale Scientifico Tecnico
per lo Sviluppo e l’Incremento dell’Industria Italiana was set up as a
result of the initiative of industrialists and teachers of the engineering
schools. This essentially private initiative gave way to a new government-
controlled organization, the Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, founded
in 1923. Here, too, pride of place was given to the encouragement of
applied research; the advent of the Fascist regime, if anything, added
more strength to the technological bias of this body.60

higher technical education in the


i n t e r - wa r p e r i o d
The war-time recognition of the importance of technology seemed to do
justice to the claims of teachers, and gave them hope that the appreciation
58 H. Melville, The Department of Scientific and Industrial Research (London, 1962).
59 T. Shinn, ‘The Genesis of French Industrial Research 1880–1940’, Social Science Infor-
mation/Information sur les sciences sociales, 19 (1980), 607–40; Paul, Knowledge.
60 R. Maiocchi, ‘Il ruolo delle scienze nello sviluppo industriale italiano’, in Storia d’Italia.
Annali, vol. III: G. Micheli (ed.), Scienza e tecnica nella cultura e nella società dal Rinasci-
mento ad oggi (Turin, 1980), 863–999; A. Russo, ‘Science and Industry in Italy Between
the Two World Wars’, Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences, 16
(1986), 281–320.

629
Anna Guagnini

would continue into the post-war years. In reality, both the winners
and the losers emerged from the conflict with little money to spare for
improving the state of higher technical schools. This said, in the early
1920s efforts were made to improve the facilities that already existed,
and to set up new courses in those fields that had gained prominence
during the war, such as aviation, radio-communications and technical
optics.61
To some extent, the expansion in the provision of higher education took
place, as it did before the war, as the result of the upgrading of institu-
tions that had been originally set up as lower industry-orientated technical
schools. This was the pattern that prevailed in France: here a variety of
schools, often of a rather specialized character, established before 1914
as self-contained schools, sometimes privately funded, became after the
war institutes annexed to the universities. For example, the Institut de
Chimie et de Technologie Industrielle, set up by the Chamber of Com-
merce of Puy-de-Dôme in 1911, was attached in 1920 to the University
of Clermont-Ferrand. By 1938 France had as many as 88 programmes
leading to the diplôme, 36 of them offered by universities. In 1930, ten of
the seventeen French universities had one or more such institution.
As for Britain, government aid to technical education had consider-
ably increased in the aftermath of the war, and the engineering faculties
were able to improve significantly their contribution. The programmes
were well organized, and the facilities improved as compared to the pre-
war period. And yet the expansion in the number of students that was
expected did not take place. Admittedly, after the war there was at first
a sudden increase in the number of entrants, owing to the service per-
sonnel who returned to higher education. In 1912–13 there were 1,487
full-time students of engineering in England and Wales; by 1922 their
number was 3,882. However, in the second half of the 1920s the num-
ber in England alone declined to 2,959, coinciding with the economic
depression of the late 1920s. In striking contrast with this trend, the most
remarkable phenomenon of the inter-war period was the expansion of
lower-level forms of technical training leading to the newly established
scheme set up by the Board of Education. This consisted of the Higher
National Certificates and Diplomas. These were qualifications of a more
vocational kind, awarded by the Board of Education and by the profes-
sional bodies. Candidates were prepared by a variety of lower-level tech-
nical schools and the majority were part-time students. These certificates
gave access to membership of the main professional institutions, such
61 A very detailed survey of the state of engineering education in Europe is W. E. Wickenden,
‘A Comparative Study of Engineering Education in the United States and in Europe’, in
Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education (ed.), Report of the Investigation of
Engineering Education 1923–1929 (Pittsburgh, 1930), 748–1015.

630
Technology

as the Institute of Mechanical Engineers and the Institute of Electrical


Engineers. In fact, by the late 1920s there were more Higher National
Certificates and Diplomas in mechanical engineering than graduates: their
number rose from 663 ordinary awards and 168 higher awards in 1923,
to 2,043 and 749 respectively in 1931.
The growth of enrolments after the war, followed by a sudden drop
at the end of the 1920s was a feature common to all university-level
institutions throughout Europe, but it was particularly noticeable in the
case of higher technical schools. Here the sudden surge of enrolments
was not only the result of the return to school of the young men whose
studies had been interrupted by the war. The massive destruction caused
by the conflict and the need for urgent reconstruction seemed to provide
good career opportunities for graduates with a technical qualification. The
expansion was most dramatic in the German Technische Hochschulen,
where enrolments grew from 11,168 in 1913–14 to 23,280 in 1927.
However, the general economic crisis of the late 1920s and 1930s
brought to an end the illusion of a rapid recovery and of a safe way
to employment. On the contrary, the 1930s were characterized by the
loss of jobs and growing uncertainty as to the future of industrial con-
cerns. One of the effects of these new circumstances was the attempt of
the upper technical schools to protect the status and professional value
of their degrees against the pressure of the new technical schools with a
stronger industry orientated slant. This was a phenomenon that occurred
in most industrialized countries, from Belgium to Germany and France,
and led to considerable tension within the professional engineering com-
munities.62
It was the looming danger of a new phase of military confrontation, and
the need to prepare defence plans in which technology was bound to play
a decisive role, that provided a temporary end to the crisis. Dramatically,
it was another war that was to confirm the importance of both technical
education and research.

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framväxt framförda av riksdagsman och utbildningsadministratöre 1810–
1870, Uppsala, 1975.
Weiss, J. H. The Making of Technological Man: The Social Origin of French
Engineering Education, Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1982.

635
EPILOGUE
U N I V E R S I T I E S A N D WA R I N
T H E T W E N T I E T H C E N T U RY

NOTKER HAMMERSTEIN

introduction
When we see the word epilogue, we expect a single pithy conclusion. The
subject of this volume does not allow such a tightly drawn summary, how-
ever. The situation at individual European universities, the developments
in the different disciplines and the expansion of the higher education
system described in previous chapters lasted too long and were too dis-
parate to allow a smooth transition to a new period and context, as will
be discussed in the fourth volume. Although National Socialism and its
twelve-year reign of terror were of immense significance for the interna-
tional learned world and its development, it would be wrong to suggest
that ‘seizure of power’ by the Nazis was the decisive stage in the change
of direction taken by universities and the world of learning, the effects of
which are still being felt. Of course, it was a not unimportant contributory
factor in the events and changes described in this chapter, but in many
respects the subsequent outbreak and course of the Second World War
was far more significant. However, even this period, this historical date,
is too narrow to describe the conditions that brought about a transition
in the university and scientific world in the immediate post-war period.
It could be argued that it was general political trends dating back much
earlier that culminated in this extreme response.
This epilogue attempts to sketch out the reasons for the historical transi-
tion from the successful, research-friendly nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries, with their faith in learning and awareness of their own val-
ues, to the post-war world. Very few specific events, intentional actions
and precise data can be cited. In the same way, few historical turning
points are genuinely new beginnings or end on a specific date. Such transi-
tions remain blurred, retaining a mixture of old and new, and this applies

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equally to knowledge and its institutions. Innovations generally take a


long time to catch on – they reveal themselves slowly and only gradu-
ally gain general acceptance. There is also a need for a specific conjunc-
tion of events and people, as described by Thomas Kuhn, notwithstand-
ing the possible and actual objections to such systematizing attempts at
modelling. The previous chapters have shown how universities, colleges,
technical colleges, academies, i.e. institutions of the tertiary education
sector, developed at a leisurely pace, with the exception of individual
scientific results and chance inventions and discoveries. Finally all these
institutions base their conceptions of themselves in tradition. They derive
their certainty from standardized, tried and trusted knowledge, and such
knowledge is worth passing on. Only then is it possible to turn to the
new. Universities and learning do not generally change in a revolutionary
manner – they feel their way slowly forward from the proven to the novel,
only then allowing it to shock, provoke, drive ahead and change.
Nevertheless, to return to the question of the transition or turning point
of our epilogue, the editors have agreed that the period around the end of
the Second World War marks the conclusion of the developments which
started at the beginning of the nineteenth century and are described in
this volume. This was more marked, deeply felt and more of a source
of change than even the First World War, although in itself a traumatic
event, and is certainly more applicable than the period around 1900. Vic-
tory over Hitler’s Germany and the subsequent defeat of Japan brought
a period spanning and a half centuries in the history of European univer-
sities and learning to a close. Previously a few details here and there had
been changed. Now a new broom swept through the system. Of course,
this does not mean that a deep caesura occurred between 1944 and 1946.
It had been clear for some time that certain aspects would have to be
redesigned and rearranged to suit the new world, in the attempt to create
a new world order and a new system of world government, and that other
aspects of proven tradition would have to be retained. In this respect, the
data presented in this chapter may appear rather arbitrary. The argu-
ments set out below in favour of the editors’ chosen cut-off point may
demonstrate the extent to which this idea holds.
The main difficulty in this plan is a problem that has applied to all the
previous chapters of the volume: our knowledge of events is still inad-
equate and requires considerable improvement. There is little broadly
based prior work, much lies gathering dust in the archives, and there are
still many gaps despite an abundance of important and useful work. This
shortfall cannot be made up by specialist investigations, however good
they might be, since such studies, particularly those concerning the history
of the natural sciences and medicine, do not always allow the general his-
torian to pursue the line of argument. A major problem when writing the

638
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

history of modern learning is that practically no one can have an accurate


overview of the plethora of disciplines, let alone understand their subject
matter. This is due to the way in which the subjects have developed, as
illustrated in this volume. Not even Immanuel Kant who, at the start of
the period under consideration, appeared to read and publish about the
whole universe of knowledge in his times, was really able to grasp all the
disciplines adequately and correctly, as we can see with hindsight. And
this problem is even more marked for today’s author.

background: the learned world of


t h e n i n e t e e n t h c e n t u ry
This volume illustrates the origins and development of the modern sci-
ences, their institutions and their representatives. Although by external
appearances they were still very much tied to the old European model
of the university, the modern concept of research really started to gain
ground within both the applied and the theoretical sciences. We can see
the beginnings of methods and ideas that are still fundamental and of
continuing influence today. The idea of the University of Berlin devel-
oped by Schleiermacher and implemented by Humboldt marked a new
beginning, indeed a break from the old learning; we can see a clear differ-
ence between the modern researcher and the scholar of the Middle Ages
and early modern period. This idea was highly influential over the course
of the century. Nevertheless, the ideals of the old res publica litteraria
survived to become a Europe-wide or even world-wide universitas
litterarum that extends beyond national boundaries. Learned debate is
and always has been international, and not just at the theoretical level.
International exchanges, friendships between academics and discussions
are characteristic of the learned world, although resistance, exclusion and
lack of respect are not unknown.
This ideal increasingly found itself in conflict with the opinions and
mindset of the political authorities. Scientific discoveries, scholarly inter-
ests and technical achievements were intentionally linked to national
characteristics and peculiarities, particularly from the 1860s and 1870s
onwards. The sciences and scientists competed against one another. Great
scientific achievements were all too easily viewed as a sign of national pres-
tige. A much less benign form of nationalism than the one that emerged
as early as the late eighteenth century spread to this field of human
endeavour, which had always been regarded as objective and impartial.
For example, after the 1870/71 war, many Frenchmen believed that the
German victory had demonstrated the superiority of the German univer-
sity system. The modern world was shaped by knowledge. By the time
of the Industrial Revolution, scientific methods and disciplines formed

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an essential mainstay of modern administrations, diplomacy and eco-


nomics, and helped to establish a world view. Consequently, the sciences
and national education systems played a central role in the life of the state
and their standing grew. Naturally, the situation, particularly with respect
to state provision and financing, differed greatly from one country to the
next. But it became increasingly clear in Europe and the United States that
knowledge, the universities, scientific education and training had become
extraordinarily important for many occupations, for national prosperity
and for a country’s international reputation.
When the Nobel prizes were introduced in 1901, it soon became clear,
even at the international level, where the modern centres of research were
located. It was possible to derive a league table of countries, as it were. As
has long been the case with international sporting competitions, the Nobel
prizes started to be viewed as less spectacular but equally highly esteemed
honours and as indicators of particularly good, forward-looking and,
in this case, scientifically successful state systems.1 Nevertheless the old
ideal which states that science is supranational, scientists are committed
to work that is of relevance, and universities and the sciences are largely
free of politics continued to hold sway. Open-mindedness, and thus as far
as possible freedom from interference by the Church, a particular world
view or national ties, was internationally regarded as the prerequisite for
scholarly discovery and the identification of scientific truths.
The Second German Empire unquestionably assumed a leading position
in this international contest. The universities and scholarly institutions
enjoyed extraordinary freedom, even though the German state had few
modern ideas and was neither liberal nor open, and its policy for learn-
ing was to a certain extent absolutist and bureaucratic (this can be seen
with hindsight and was not experienced at the time).2 Its glittering success
in the field of research and science was noted abroad. Many foreigners
came to Germany to complete their education, which generally enhanced
their employment prospects when they returned home. Another conse-
quence was the development of private and personal contacts and the
sealing of friendships. Such graduates came to admire the academic free-
dom they discovered and attempted to reap benefits that would help them
to advance back in France, the United States,3 Russia and even England.

1 M. Norrback and K. Ranki (eds.), University and Nation: The University and the Making
of the Nations in Northern Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Helsinki, 1996). C.
Charle (ed.), Les universités germaniques, XIXe–XXe siècles (Paris, 1994).
2 F. K. Ringer, The Decline of the German Mandarins: The German Academic Community,
1890–1933 (Cambridge, Mass., 1969); T. Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866–1918,
vol. I: Arbeitswelt und Bürgergeist (Munich, 1990), 568ff.
3 B. vom Brocke, ‘Der deutsch-amerikanische Professorenaustausch’, Zeitschrift für Kultur-
austausch, 31 (1981), 128–82; L. Jordan and B. Kortländer (eds.), Nationale Grenzen und
internationaler Austausch (Tübingen, 1995).

640
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

Proximity to the scientific communities in Austria, Belgium, the Nether-


lands and Switzerland, and close ties with the northern European coun-
tries enabled old scientific connections to be maintained and even strength-
ened. German was one of the most important languages of learning and
the leading scientific journals were published in this language, without that
being viewed as a serious problem or even as an undesirable phenomenon.
Well-directed competition is and always has been an important part of
scientific debate. The learned world was used to receiving and adapting
new ideas from Germany, even if they were written up in the German lan-
guage. Of course, none of this prevented German scholars from travelling
to France, England or even the United States to study under famous sci-
entists, where they could improve their own skills, refine their knowledge
and forge stimulating scholarly friendships in those countries.

t h e f i rs t wo r l d wa r a n d i t s c o n s e q u e n c e s
Into this world which, to all appearances, was peaceful, ordered and civi-
lized came the First World War. Almost instantaneously, the international
res publica litteraria collapsed. Nearly every scholar on practically every
side became caught up in the overwhelming tide of nationalism. Few peo-
ple even considered that this went against and distorted their previous
ideals – particularly the commitment to scientific objectivity. As early as
October 1914, the German side issued a ‘declaration by university teach-
ers of the German Empire’ who railed against the ‘enemies of Germany,
with England at their head’ who ‘supposedly to our benefit wanted
to differentiate between the spirit of German science and what they
called Prussian militarism’. They proudly declaimed that ‘the spirit of the
German army is no different from the spirit of the German people since
they are one and the same, and we belong to it as well . . .’.
Almost at the same time there was an appeal to the civilized world,
an Appel au monde civilisé, which set out even more categorically the
right, if not the obligation, to prosecute this war: it could not be true,
it asserted, that the fight against Germany’s so-called militarism is not a
fight against Germany’s culture, as its enemies would hypocritically have
Germans believe. Without German militarism, the Appel said, German
culture would long ago have been wiped from the face of the earth.
The declaration that the German army and the German people are one4
was signed not by unworldly scholars, but by men who not long before

4 B. vom Brocke, ‘Wissenschaft und Militarismus’, in W. M. Calder III (ed.), Wilamowitz


nach 50 Jahren (Darmstadt, 1985), 649–719, quotations 651; 657; Idem, ‘La guerra degli
intellettuali tedeschi’, in V. Calı̀, G. Corni and G. Ferrandi (eds.), Gli intellettuali e la
Grande guerra (Bologna, 2000), 373, 408 (with recent bibliography).

641
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had proudly claimed their impartial and supranational scientific rigour.


Naturally, the response from the other side was equally loud and vehe-
ment. The tables were turned and similar overblown, nationalistic accu-
sations were directed at colleagues, who until this incident, had been
honoured as role models. Looking back upon them now, these attitudes
are difficult to understand. In February 1915, the Académie des Inscrip-
tions et des Belles Lettres and, Académie des Sciences in Paris closed their
doors to the signatories of the appeal and, in England, the Chemical Soci-
ety expelled nine German scholars from its ranks. The Royal Society and
British Academy did not take such a step, however, and similar restraint
was shown on the German side by the Berlin Academy, mainly due to
the insistence of Max Planck. In Paris, the expelled scientists included
men such as Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, Harnack, Baeyer, Emil Fischer
and Felix Klein.
Unsurprisingly, the invasion of Belgium brought odium for Germany,
since it was the aggressor and had broken treaties. In the West, people
were generally of the opinion that such uncivilized behaviour should not
go unpunished. Suddenly, all the Western nations and enemies of Germany
were united in their goal, and German scientists and artists helped to
strengthen their zeal through their nationalistic behaviour. Once Belgian
neutrality had been breached and it became known that Germany’s con-
duct of the war had little regard for cultural heritage, the co-operation
between English professors and their German colleagues sworn shortly
before the outbreak of war was soon forgotten. In the words of a decla-
ration by English writers and scholars, ‘we cannot admit that any nation
has the right by brute force to impose its culture upon other nations, nor
that the iron military bureaucracy of Prussia represents a higher form of
human society than the free constitutions of Western Europe’.5
As one perspicacious analyst remarked, it proved that the international-
ism of the scientific world pre-1914 was not really altruistic or tolerant and
without boundaries at all. In reality, it was exceptionally closely bound
up with nationalistic fervour or, less harshly, patriotic convictions. It is
not necessary to portray this for individuals. The decisive factor, and one
much more important for further development, was that the outcome and
the entire post-war experience of both German and non-German schol-
ars in Europe and the USA represented a far-reaching turning point. The
perfect world had suffered immense harm, leaving behind resentment,
malicious prejudices and apparently irreconcilable differences. This had
consequences inevitable for the scientific community, professors and their
universities.

5 Cited by B. vom Brocke, ‘Wissenschaft’ (note 4), 670; see S. Wallace, War and the Image
of Germany: British Academics 1914–1918 (Edinburgh, 1988).

642
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

On the other hand, the modern war demonstrated the importance of


many of the more recent scientific disciplines. In the fields of medical
care, armaments and new technologies, particularly aviation, chemistry,
physics and engineering, scientific achievements helped to steer the way
war was fought in a new direction and opened up many new possibilities.
Just one example is the work of the future Nobel prize-winner, director
of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for chemistry, Jew and ardent patriot,
Fritz Haber. He discovered how to produce ammonia from nitrogen and
air, which allowed the Germans to get round the saltpetre shortages and
boycott and find new ways of producing explosives. Haber also made
an important contribution to the development of chemical warfare and
poison gas, which did not exactly bring him honour and recognition,
despite his international reputation.6
Deep despondency descended upon the Germans at the end of the war,
after their defeat. They could not grasp or even believe that such a highly
scientific people – the German nation with its cultural background – could
not have claimed success.7 In addition, during the war and in the post-war
period, many scholars were disappointed by the attitude of their former
foreign pupils and accused them of ingratitude and lack of understanding.
On the other hand, the end of a war, the like of which had never before
been experienced, was universally welcomed. Many Germans and Anglo-
Saxons appeared willing to hold out their hands in hesitant understanding.
This rapprochement was swept away by the Treaty of Versailles, which
the Germans regarded as deeply humiliating and unjust. This placed a
heavy mental burden on the universities and professors. From the very
start, their students were vehemently opposed to the new state system.
For many professors, too, the loss of their ever more idealized condi-
tions achieved during the Imperial period, the Golden Age of German
science and academic freedom, was a trauma that turned them increas-
ingly towards the Weimar Republic and its parties. They also overcame
few of their reservations and resentment against the Western nations, even
in their own academic disciplines.
The conference of the International Academy of Science held in Octo-
ber 1918 in London resolved to exclude all Germans from international
conferences for twenty years. This was viewed in much the same way
as Versailles within the academic republic since it gave Germans no way
of overcoming their international stigmatization, or at least not in this
field.8 The Academy’s resolution, which need not be described in detail

6 M. Szöllösi-Janze, Fritz Haber 1868–1934. Eine Biographie (Munich, 1998).


7 E. Kolb, Die Weimarer Republik (Munich, 1993).
8 B. Schroeder-Gudehus, Deutsche Wissenschaft und internationale Zusammenarbeit 1914–
1928. Ein Beitrag zum Studium kultureller Beziehungen in politischen Krisenzeiten
(Geneva, 1966).

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here, did not leave German scholars cut off from all international contacts
for too long. Nevertheless, they were deeply offended by this collective
condemnation. Although previous relationships were often resumed at
the individual level, for a long time it appeared that much of official sci-
ence policy in Europe was dominated by the idea of leaving Germany
on the sidelines and meting out severe punishment to one of the lead-
ing scientific nations. In this respect, science policy remained nationalistic
and opposed to real international co-operation for much longer than the
policies of individual states.
There was also the painful realization that the previously respected
and often leading position of German universities and learning no longer
applied across the board as it did in the period around 1900. It took
many years before foreign students and professors started returning to
Germany in order to improve their scientific knowledge and develop their
skills, as they had so often done in the past. Nevertheless, German journals
maintained their leading role in many disciplines, and, up until 1938, even
students at the Sorbonne were advised to learn German since, otherwise,
they would be unable to read the important scientific literature.9
The war had demonstrated to most European countries, and not least
to the United States, the importance of providing well-organized (in
many cases better organized) science systems and university environments.
Despite the standardizing approach taken during the mid-1920s, the many
and diverse problems left over from the war meant that education and
training had to remain on the back-burner while other political needs
were tackled. Thus, everything carried on as before in almost every coun-
try, apart from a few attempts at reorganization and reform. The universi-
ties, in particular, were left to return to normal in their own special way, as
described in this volume. In Europe, at least, they were still accessible only
to a small proportion of the population and largely retained their class
status. In contrast to the late nineteenth century, the institutions saw only
minimal growth, and the ‘glut of academics’ was still felt as a threat and
prevented access from being opened up further. The universities therefore
felt justified in returning to their old ways and, indeed, this was expected
by many scholars from the mid-1920s onwards.
The world-wide economic crisis in the late 1920s was an extraordinar-
ily stressful period for the universities and the professors, not to mention
the students. It was understandable that governments had to concentrate
most of their efforts on social and international problems, and there-
fore neglected the universities and education in general. The considerable
strain and often great hardship tended to harden the attitudes of those
who held extreme positions, and intensified nationalistic and xenophobic

9 See chapter 10, 417.

644
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

tendencies at the universities. This would have the most evident and ter-
rible consequences in Germany. When the National Socialists came to
power in early 1933, this marked the early stages of the final act in a
gradual transition from the old scientific world of the nineteenth century
to that of the late twentieth which, at the international level, took place
over a longer time-scale. We thus find ourselves in the epicentre of this
transition which peaked during the Second World War. The international
nature of the learned community retreated still further and the scientific
scene in different countries developed in its own characteristic way accord-
ing to proximity to or distance from the Nazi regime and the events of
the war. Examination does reveal some comparable changes and similar
phenomena, but it is more useful to discuss the further course of these
developments on the basis of the research situation in selected countries.

great britain from the first to


t h e s e c o n d wo r l d wa r
In the nineteenth and even in the twentieth century, England continued
to hold fast to the ideal that its universities should provide a liberal edu-
cation.10 Although the new redbrick universities offered practically ori-
entated courses and higher education to new social strata, particularly
the middle classes, the leading institutions, Oxford and Cambridge, did
not stray from their non-utilitarian course. Of course, England had been
extraordinarily successful since the Industrial Revolution, with numerous
discoveries and much technical brilliance. Such successes were generally
developed within industry itself, however, and were not necessarily the
fruit of early academic training. English scholars had, of course, carried
out much important research during the nineteenth century, particularly
in the natural sciences and medicine. England was also one of the leading
European countries in physics, although at the applied rather than theo-
retical level. Nevertheless, these successes were marginal phenomena that
did little to change the structure of the universities.
The situation was different in Scotland. There the universities already
offered and promoted utilitarian, moral and practical studies. This was a
poor country, however, whose resources came mainly from ship-building
and medicine, although the scientific and technical disciplines could also
claim some notable successes.11 The educational opportunities available

10 G. McCulloch, Philosophers and Kings: Education for Leadership in Modern England


(Cambridge, 1991); R. N. Soffer, Discipline and Power: The University, History and the
Making of an English Elite, 1870–1930 (Stanford, 1994); R. D. Anderson, ‘Universities
and Elites in Modern Britain’, History of Universities, 10 (1991), 225–50.
11 N. Phillipson (ed.), Universities, Society and the Future (Edinburgh, 1983).

645
Notker Hammerstein

at Scottish universities attracted students from all over the world, and
particularly from its neighbour to the south.
During the First World War, the British Government identified serious
deficits in many important disciplines. These concerned the country’s lack
of scientific skills in general, and not simply in the areas of production
technology and alternatives for raw materials. Consequently, considera-
tion was given to establishing a permanent organization for the promo-
tion of scientific and industrial research.12 The creation of an appropriate
institution was recommended in July 1915 and, in December of 1916,
this was set up as the Committee of the Privy Council for Scientific and
Industrial Research under the aegis of the Lord President. The same year
saw the National Physical Laboratory split away from the Royal Soci-
ety to form the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research (DSIR).
This supplemented other scientific committees, particularly the Medical
Research Committee, established in 1911, and the Agricultural Research
Committee. By 1936, these had been joined by some 24 further industrial
research associations. Nevertheless, the plethora of bodies did not result
in a systematic and efficient industrial and research policy.13 Many of
these associations were working in the same field, with no co-ordination
whatsoever, with the result that a new effort under state control appeared
essential. Its goal was to stimulate important research. And, indeed, sig-
nificant knowledge and results were obtained in the fields of medicine and
technology.
In the inter-war period, the country quickly slipped back into the old
form of higher education. Other concerns pushed the question of offering
university and college education to a broader cross-section of the pop-
ulation into the background. Even outside Oxford and Cambridge the
universities remained largely a class-specific phenomenon. Student num-
bers also differed greatly from those in other countries. In the mid-1920s,
there were fewer than 30,000, around 8,000 of whom were women. This
means that no more than eight people out of every 10,000 received a
university education. In Scotland, the figure reached 21 out of 10,000,
demonstrating the Scots’ traditional leanings towards higher education.14
Immediately after the war, the government planned to improve the facil-
ities of and successfully promote the universities, and so established the
University Grants Committee in 1919.15 This had no decisive or lasting
effect on the conditions at universities, however. It was certainly not a
body that could centrally organize, shape and direct university studies

12 A. Marwick, Britain in the Century of Total War (London, Sydney and Toronto, 1968),
79.
13 P. J. Gummett and G. L. Price, ‘An Approach to Central Planning of British Science: The
Formation of the Advisory Council on Scientific Policy’, Minerva, 15, 2 (1977), 119–43.
14 Marwick, Britain (note 12), 180. 15 See chapter 2, 64.

646
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

and training throughout the country. Other traditions and customs, and
the classical ideal of a liberal education, continued to determine the the-
oretical and practical training received. Thus, at the outbreak of war in
1939, the British Government was horrified when it realized the parlous
state of technical education in particular. The basic disciplines of science,
medicine and many of the humanities also left much to be desired. When
the war started – and for some time after that – many companies offered
high salaries to engineers because of the considerable shortage of such
personnel. It took time to train a new elite that leaned more towards
engineering and science, and this required the government to establish a
training policy that would gain broad acceptance among the population.16
At the start of the Second World War, two questions occupied both
government and parliament: first, would it be possible to make adequate
use of the scientific knowledge that did exist and, second, would there
be enough people in the country to be able to mobilize and use this sci-
entific and technical knowledge in the longer term? It soon became clear
that neither the Natural Research Council (NRC) nor the Department of
Scientific and Industrial Research (DSIR) was capable of coming up with
fundamental solutions to these problems and, at best, could only offer
quick answers to practical questions, as they arose. A report on the subject
added: ‘This type of ad hoc investigation, however, can be based only on
information and methods already available, and more complete answers
often have to await the acquisition of greater fundamental knowledge’.17
Consequently, the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research was
revived and, in 1940, a Scientific Advisory Committee for the War Cabinet
(SAC) was also created. This consisted of the President and two Secretaries
of the Royal Society, the Secretaries of the DSIR and the NRC and the
Chairman of the Agricultural Research Council, and it was given access to
the War Cabinet via the Lord President from 1942 onwards. The purpose
of this committee was to advise the government in all scientific matters,
including questions of organization and best practice. Nevertheless, many
science-related tasks remained within the purview of individual ministries.
The responsibilities of the SAC for research and university education and
the extent of its remit were still not entirely clear.
Understandably, some important branches of industry in the country,
i.e. those associated with war production and other necessities, bene-
fited greatly from this new mobilization. The most striking cases were the
motor and aircraft industries, with their many and diverse programmes
and numerous suppliers. There was a whole range of new discoveries and
inventions, and not only in England. This was a general by-product of the

16 P. H. J. H. Gosden, Education in the Second World War (London, 1976).


17 Marwick, Britain (note 12), 11, 283.

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war and, as had been the case during the First World War, it was again felt
that it would bring ‘much benefit to mankind under conditions of peace,
to which many of the results obtained have also a valid application’.18 The
benefits were not only felt by industry, parliament and the government.
The importance of modern research, a broad education and scientific elites
for a country and its continued survival became increasingly clear to large
sections of the population. Scientists and engineers were treated with a
respect they had never before experienced; reports of success concerning
operations and the machinery of war, victories over the enemy or attacks
warded off created great respect for the efforts of the scientists. Thus,
after the reluctance and refusals of earlier years, it finally became possible
to centralize the co-ordination of scientific work under the Lord President
in the War Cabinet, who was given responsibility for all the sciences, and
this position received general acceptance.
For their part, the universities tried hard to support the war effort and
other needs, and put all their knowledge and resources into serving the
country. They created a central register, particularly for technical disci-
plines and the natural sciences, but also for other people working in the
social sciences and humanities, since these were also felt to be important
for successful conduct of the war. Alternative locations were set up for
institutions threatened by the Blitz, particularly those in London. Many
scientists, particularly those organized in the Scientific Worker group,
fondly imagined that England would develop along the same lines as the
Soviet Union, which was regarded as an exemplary model in this respect,
i.e. that politics and development of the entire country would become
more ‘scientific’ and scientists would thus receive the respect due to them.
There was also much to do in the field of documentation and the use
of foreign scientific literature. The system for scientific documentation –
Aslib – built up during the nineteenth century, and which had led to the
creation of a similar body in the United States in 1937, had to be adapted to
take account of the new situation.19 The German occupation of broad sec-
tions of Europe put an end to the book trade; German literature had been
sold via the Netherlands and Switzerland, in particular. Consequently, dur-
ing the war, a new, separate channel of information had to be established.
From November 1941 onwards, a War-Time Guide reported on enemy
publications. The British press attachés in Sweden and Lisbon, in partic-
ular, collected details of covert companies, books and other important
scientific information and sent this intelligence back to England. Their
work in Portugal was helped because the Portuguese dictator, António
18 W. McGucken, ‘The Control and Organisation of Scientific and Technical Advice in the
United Kingdom during the Second World War’, Minerva, 17 (1979), 33–69.
19 P. Speace Richards, ‘Great Britain and Allied Scientific Information, 1933–1945’, Minerva,
26 (1988), 177–98.

648
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

de Oliveira Salazar, whose Fascist government had taken power in 1932,


received an honorary doctorate from Oxford during the war.
The scientists, and many politicians as well, were in no doubt that the
outcome of the war would be largely dependent on scientific success. As
the journal Nature explained, none of the scientists loved the war, but
there was no doubt that ‘Now science is fighting this War’. The same
article went on to say: ‘In fact, it is a War of science whether we like
it or not’.20 Accordingly, scientists not only received considerable sup-
port and encouragement, but they were all regarded with equal respect,
regardless of whether they were technicians, engineers, natural scientists
or representatives of the humanities.
In the same year, Nature also pointed out that the English universities
were among the last ‘safeguards of freedom of thought’ and should there-
fore ‘revitalize’ ‘the ideas which should animate mankind’. Character-
building was just as important as scientific training. Austin H. Clark
argued under the heading of Science and War that ‘The present struggle is
no more a contest in the military field than in the field of science. It is quite
possible to win the war in the battle front but to lose it in the laboratory.’21
Naturally, many English scientists were mobilized for war service in
combat. As time went on, it became evident that they were all too absent
in teaching and research. In addition, many were employed in industry, the
civil service or military administration. This was a problem both for the
laboratories and for other centres of scientific education. The measures
taken to guarantee total secrecy – which was essential in every country
involved in the war – also held back scientific debate. A suitable solution
had to be found to this problem in order to avoid creating a research
deficit. It could not be solved with a few catch-all regulatory arrangements,
and the SAC could only help to a limited extent, particularly because
the committee had little influence over the government since Churchill
preferred to listen to his personal advisers, such as Lindemann – or so it
appeared.22
This complex situation was addressed by one of the most important
government ministers, Sir Stafford Cripps (1889–1952), in a speech given
in January 1943 to the conference of the Association of Scientific Workers,
on the subject of ‘Planning of Science: In War and in Peace’. He stated
that,
In the War Cabinet, the Lord President of the Council is responsible for
the Scientific Advisory Committee, which has wide terms of reference upon
all scientific matters; and through that Committee, the Cabinet is in touch
with the Royal Society and with all the principal learned societies of Great

20 Nature, 150 (September 1942), 301. 21 Nature, 150 (July 1942).


22 Gummett and Price, ‘Central Planning’ (note 13).

649
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Britain. . . . The Lord President is also responsible for the Engineering


Advisory Committee, which carries out similar functions in the field of
engineering.

Cripps implied that it would be essential to co-ordinate closely and


integrate those sciences and their institutions that were of importance
for the war and survival. ‘I think that our main difficulty with regard to
the proper utilization of the scientists in this war has been our failure
to realize, at a sufficiently early stage, that this was going to be a truly
scientific war, and that the battle would not be won merely by the physical
ascendancy of our race but rather by the ingenuity of those who have been
trained in our secondary schools, technical colleges’. Although this was
all determined by the situation in which Britain found itself, i.e. subject to
the needs of the war, he still felt that ‘There is in reality no difference in the
principles that should be applied in time of war and in time of peace’.23
This was a frequently recurring idea and described the conviction, which
was increasingly shared without reservation, that science and research –
and therefore the universities and research institutions – would be the
decisive factor in the future and would determine whether the modern
world survived.
Thus, the danger of scientific stagnation remained in the foreground and
led to consideration of and promising measures to overcome this prob-
lem. The inherently limited and none too open structure of the English
universities, which was bound up with tradition, had made it impossible
to keep in the country many of those scientists who had left Germany
to escape the Nazis for political or racial reasons. Their potential could
only be used to a limited extent for scientific innovation, or to broaden
and enhance research capacity. Many such scientists therefore emigrated
to the United States, where they enriched and extended scientific research
in every field.
This volume is not the place to list the successful research carried out in
the various scientific disciplines. The war at sea and in the air, the deploy-
ment of troops in regions with different climates, the news and propa-
ganda efforts and much more led to a wealth of significant achievements
that were of immense benefit to the post-war period. The importance of
promoting science and ensuring that up-and-coming talent was utilized
as widely as possible was recognized during a period of absolute self-
reliance, and science’s enhanced reputation was not just a temporary phe-
nomenon. The effects continued in the post-war years with the result that,
since then, efforts have been made to promote or even guarantee a broader
and more open talent base. In 1944, the state education system was reor-
ganized by the Education Act, which remained in force for many years.24
23 Nature, 151 (6 February 1943), 152–3. 24 Gosden, Education (note 16).

650
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

The plan developed in government circles in 1945, which provided for


state-controlled expansion of the universities, failed however due to resis-
tance from the Committee of Vice-Chancellors and Principals and the
University Grants Committee, who stood in the way of any restriction
by government of the universities’ autonomy. Nevertheless, the universi-
ties did declare that they were prepared, within the scope of their own
autonomy, to double the number of graduates.25 This would gradually
establish a broader education system and allow less class-specific train-
ing. Without totally giving up the ideal of liberal education, increasing
efforts would be devoted to generally improving living standards and
education, broadening the knowledge base and promoting better social
and medical conditions. For its part, the University Grants Committee
felt that ‘A heightened sense of social justice generated by the war has
opened the door more widely than ever before’.26 This phenomenon was
not peculiar to Great Britain: similar ideas and measures could be seen all
across the Continent.27
At the end of the Second World War, the majority of British people had
a clearer idea than ever before of what it was they expected of a modern
civilized industrial society – decent living standards, income and health
security, a taste of the modest luxuries of life: once the idea was defined
it became in itself an agent of further change. In addition to this the
war hastened the scientific, technological and economic processes which
in themselves were transforming society. The ‘wireless’ had become a
national property during the war in a way in which it had never been in
the 1930s; television for the masses was on the way. After a few years, the
National Health Service with new drugs at its disposal would be twice
as effective in stamping out the diseases that had been a special affliction
of the lower classes. The rapid expansion of light industry provided the
economic base for a working class rather different from that which had
worked and suffered in the traditional heavy industries.28

the countries occupied by the german army


In f r a n c e the Langevin-Wallon committee commissioned by the provi-
sional government to consider reform of the higher education system came
up in 1944 with a similar model for the democratization and direction
of higher education in France.29 Nevertheless, the system of education
25 G. L. Price, ‘The Expansion of British Universities and Their Struggle to Maintain Auton-
omy: 1943–46’, Minerva, 16, 3 (1978), 357–81.
26 M. Maden, England and Wales, quoted in B. R. Clark (ed.), The School and the University
(Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 1985), 81.
27 See vol. IV, chapter 3.
28 Quoted from Marwick, Britain in the Century of Total War (note 12), 322.
29 G. Neave, ‘France’, in Clark (ed.), School and University (note 26).

651
Notker Hammerstein

continued to differ greatly, both from the English system and from most
of France’s continental neighbours.
After the post-revolutionary reforms of the late Enlightenment period,
particularly the Napoleonic Code, the French system of higher education
had largely retained its idiosyncratic nature, despite repeated attempts
to reform and improve it.30 Although the provincial universities were
upgraded several times after 1905, Paris continued to be the main educa-
tional centre. The system also retained its centralized structure, standard-
ized administration and dirigiste approach. The elites were educated in
the faculties of law and medicine and in the prestigious, state-controlled
grandes écoles with their rigid selection procedures. All higher education
continued to have the function of training experts in particular fields, and
it was considered sufficient simply to pass on the latest knowledge. The
specialist écoles were just as good, or even better, at this task than the
faculties.
After the shock of losing the 1870/71 war, France endeavoured to
make up its deficit in science compared to Germany.31 Student numbers
were increased, although the traditional selection process which excluded
broad sections of the population remained in place. Training for clearly
delineated occupations and the education of the highest social strata were
intended to ensure political stabilization and remained inherent in the
system. With respect to both financial expenditure and student numbers
per head of population, France continued to lag behind Germany.32
Victory in the First World War appeared to confirm the success of the
reforms attempted during the 1880s and 1890s. France believed that it
had caught up with, if not overtaken, Germany in science and engineer-
ing. However, although the French recognized the importance of modern
science, they did not consider the innovation or far-reaching reforms that
were still needed to be a political priority. Political polarization and the
economic crises that started in the 1920s prevented any further efforts
in this direction. Even in 1936, France’s investment in research was just
one-fifth of the amount provided in Germany. Of course, this was because
the value of research was generally underestimated in France. Vocational
training and the passing on of knowledge were regarded as important,
and the emphasis was placed on training specialists and engineers for the
common good. Even in industry, France continued to eschew research,
since it was felt to be cheaper and just as effective to adopt foreign
patents, inventions and discoveries. Even the fact that many French schol-
ars had experienced a different, more modern research and industrial

30 See, here and below, chapter 2.


31 Charle, République des universitaires, 20ff. 32 Weisz, Emergence, 21ff.

652
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

environment while training in the United States did nothing to change this
situation.
When the National Socialists came to power in Germany, the French
suddenly saw the need, particularly in the interests of national defence, to
make up for the obvious lack of scientific research in many different fields.
At the universities, however, such ideas were greeted with scepticism, even
outright opposition. Many science faculties, where technical and applied
sciences had managed to find a place, feared that they would become
simply another arm of industry, particularly of the armaments industry.33
Freedom to carry out research, which was a very recent phenomenon in
France, appeared to be in jeopardy. Thus, despite clear regulation and
the predominance of Paris University, the country was surprisingly ill-
prepared to meet the scientific needs of the war.
The Centre national de la recherche scientifique appliquée was estab-
lished in May 1938 as the central government steering body for all applied
sciences. This was supplemented in October 1939 by another institution
that was intended to collect data of all research of importance for the well-
being and defence of the country’s future, and to include the various insti-
tutions for the promotion of fundamental research. This was known as the
Centre national de la recherche scientifique. However, important biomed-
ical, biological and bacteriological research continued to be monopolized
by a private institute which, although it made a considerable contribu-
tion in these fields, was based outside the universities.34 Of course, this
situation was not the cause of defeat by Hitler’s Germany, but it made
many people aware of the urgent need for new approaches and reforms.
In the past there had been much discussion, but no action. Naturally, the
German invasion, the collapse of the French state and the occupation of
Paris meant that any such plans failed in the first instance, although they
could be tried out in the unoccupied part of France. Without clear direc-
tion from Paris, however, it was difficult to develop and even harder to
implement such plans.35 Consequently, much remained at the discussion
stage. The plans, which had been extensively discussed by the Résistance,
could not be put into action until France had been liberated. The result
was relatively drastic reforms, not least of which was that the importance
of research was recognized by the universities, grandes écoles and industry,
and attempts were made to establish research facilities.

33 Paul, Knowledge, 309ff.


34 H. W. Paul and K. W. Schinn, ‘The Structure and State of Science in France’, Contempo-
rary French Civilisation, 6 (1981/82), 153–92.
35 J.-P. Rioux et al. (eds.), La vie culturelle dans Vichy (Brussels, 1990); L. Raphael, ‘Die
Pariser Universität unter deutscher Besatzung 1940–1944’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft,
23 (1997), 507–34.

653
Notker Hammerstein

In b e l g i u m a n d t h e n e t h e r l a n d s the situation was


totally different.36 A Reichskommissar in the Netherlands and a military
commander in Belgium were responsible for most internal matters, includ-
ing the universities. As in France, the German occupation caused a rap-
prochement between the old conflicting ideas about education, with reli-
gious and secular educationalists on opposing sides. Initially, the Germans
attempted to win the people of the Netherlands, the Dutch-speaking part
of Belgium and Denmark, and later Norway as well, over to the German
side by referring to their supposed common Germanic roots and through
the false expectations raised by local collaborators.37 This proved to be an
entirely incorrect assessment of the underlying opinion in those countries,
and the universities, in particular, generally distanced themselves totally
or remained completely hostile to the occupying power.
Even the first measures targeted at removing all the Jews and ‘racially
imperfect people’ from the civil service, and thus from the universities as
well, met with determined opposition. Protest notes, student strikes and
debates during lectures provoked the astonished Germans. The new mas-
ters attempted to exert their power with arrests, deportations and other
oppressive measures. The Dutch universities, where there were very few
adherents of National Socialism among the staff and students, remained
for the most part negative or even openly anti-German. They did not
resort to spectacular resistance in order to prevent closure of the univer-
sities, as occurred in Eastern and Central Europe. Occasional actions by
the occupiers (in Leiden, Amsterdam and Tilburg) provoked largely covert
operations and led to the creation of underground resistance groups.38
When, in 1941, Seyss-Inquart (1892–1946) introduced the leadership
principle to replace the old city or provincial Boards of Directors, there
was understandably no change in the negative attitude and certainly
no attempt to move closer to the way German universities were orga-
nized. From 1942 onwards, many students were conscripted to work in
Germany, which caused a further upsurge in opposition and resistance.
Increasing numbers of Dutch scholars and students decided to join the
‘half-hidden’ resistance against the occupying power, which was naturally
also directed against those of their compatriots who appeared friendly
towards the Germans. 1943 saw a failed attempt to force the rebellious
students on to the Germans’ side with a ‘declaration of loyalty’. With
36 G. Neave, ‘War and Educational Reconstruction in Belgium, France and the Netherlands’,
in R. Lowe (ed.), Education and the Second World War (London and Washington, 1992),
84–127.
37 G. Simon, ‘“Ihr Mann ist tot und lässt sie grüssen”. Hans Ernst Schneider alias Schwerte
im Dritten Reich’, Sprache und Literatur in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, 77 (1996),
82–114.
38 E. G. Groeneveld, The Dutch Universities Between 1940 and 1945: Teachers and Students
under German Occupation (Cracow 1979).

654
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

the exception of the Delft Technical College, where 25.6 per cent signed
the declaration, the Dutch universities caused a spectacular failure of any
policy of Germanization and were closed.
The situation in Belgium was very similar. The University of Brussels
was closed in 1942 because it refused to be used as a ‘Germanic stronghold
against Latin Western Europe’. Louvain was originally allowed to remain
an extraterritorial university, as it were, since it was run by the Catholic
Church, although in later years its teaching was largely limited to theolo-
gians. Ghent, on the other hand, which was regarded by some Germans
as the premier centre of Flemish science (as early as March 1941, Flemish
was prescribed as the sole language of science!), proved to be as unenthu-
siastic about the planned Germanization as the Dutch institutions. Those
who believed in a state education system and the adherents of an ecclesi-
astical system, although traditionally sworn enemies, declared a truce in
the interests of an anti-German policy that would also ensure the future of
the rising generation of academics and which would provide important
experience for the post-war period.39 As in France with its Résistance,
Belgium also had its resistance groups, some of which were associated
with the government in exile, which appeared to promote less antago-
nistic reconstruction in the post-war period. The forced mobilization of
Belgian students from November 1942 on (in the Service du Travail Obli-
gatoire) led to the formation of active underground resistance groups, as
in the Netherlands. Again mirroring events in the Netherlands, Belgium
also saw the establishment of underground universities which attempted
to increase student numbers, which the Nazis had intentionally kept low,
in order to impart an independent, liberal education.40
In 1943 and increasingly in 1944, the continuing war and the lack of
trained specialists and academics led to attempts to use Dutch scientists in
the armaments industry and for research. The results were modest, and it
was hard to find suitable people, not least because most Dutch academics
were hostile to the Germans.41 This did mean, however, that the country
gained some insight into the importance of academic training.

39 Neave, ‘War’ (note 36). See G. Hirschfeld, ‘Die nationalsozialistische Neuordnung


Europas und die “Germanisierung” der westeuropäischen Universitäten’, in H. König
et al. (eds.), Vertuschte Vergangenheit. Der Fall Schwerte und die NS-Vergangenheit der
deutschen Hochschulen (Munich, 1997), 79–102.
40 G. K. Panham, Contribution à l’Histoire de la Résistance belge 1940–1944 (Brussels,
1971); A. Despy-Meyer, A. Dierkens and F. Scheelings (eds.), 5 novembre 1941.
L’Université Libre de Bruxelles ferme ses portes (Brussels, 1991); W. Warmbrunn, The
German Occupation of Belgium 1940–1944 (Frankfurt and New York, 1993).
41 G. Hirschfeld, ‘Die Universität Leiden unter dem Nationalsozialismus’, Geschichte und
Gesellschaft, 23 (1997), 560–91; N. Hammerstein, Die Deutsche Forschungsgemein-
schaft in der Weimarer Republik und im Dritten Reich 1920–1945 (Munich, 1999),
64–81.

655
Notker Hammerstein

The pro-German scientists in both the Netherlands and Belgium were


not only a tiny minority, they also reinforced the general anti-German
attitude. It is likely that they only occasionally denounced anti-German
views and persons to the German police authorities. Over time, this caused
the centres of higher education to become centres of political resistance,
although generally covert, which were not afraid to carry out attacks of
their own. As already described for France and England, the discovery that
internal conflicts must and could be overcome when fighting an external
enemy continued beyond 1945. This is easy to understand given that,
under German occupation, the universities were unable to carry out their
own, far-reaching research. At the end of the war, there was a lot of
catching up to do.
In e a s t e r n a n d c e n t r a l e u r o p e the Germans’ action
against academics and universities was even more drastic. In October
1938, Hitler issued a secret command ordering that the rest of Czechoslo-
vakia be ‘finished off’. As a result, attempts were made to force education
to go over to ‘Germanic’ principles to ensure the country’s permanent
absorption into the German Reich.42 Preference was to be given to pro-
Germans and those of German origins, and Czechs were to be permanently
excluded from academic training. The German University in Prague was
converted into a ‘National Socialist University’ as early as the winter
term of 1938/39 (it would subsequently be incorporated into the group
of Reichs-Universitäten) and was open above all to Germans from the
Sudetenland and the Reich.
In March 1939, a meeting attended by representatives of the German
Science Ministry was held in Berlin to discuss the status of the ‘Protec-
torate’. There it was stated that all Czech institutions of higher education
should be run as ‘German establishments’, i.e. subject to the rules of the
Third Reich. At the start of the winter term in the same year, there was a
series of arbitrary arrests of allegedly rebellious Czech students in Prague
and Brno.43 The National Socialists thus started their systematic strat-
egy to exterminate the country’s intelligentsia. All Czech universities and
academies were closed (ten in all). The veterinary college in Brno, the agri-
cultural institute and mining academy were allowed to train the necessary
professionals to a limited extent. However, Czech applicants either had to
support National Socialism or give up any hope of academic training and
careers. The rest of Czechoslovakia was to be permanently Germanized,
especially in its intellectual life according to the model of the Sudetenland.

42 D. Brandes, Die Tschechen unter deutschem Protektorat (Munich and Vienna, 1969),
vol. I, 83ff.
43 K. Litsch, ‘Die “Aktion vom 17. November” 1939 in Prag’, in B. Brentjes (ed.), Wis-
senschaft unter dem NS-Regime (Berlin, Bern, Frankfurt-am-Main and New York, 1992),
64–81.

656
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

The action against the Poles was even more cruel. On 6 November
1939, a wave of arrests taking in leading Polish academics took place
at the Jagiellonian University of Cracow, causing consternation through-
out the country.44 The aim of this Sonderaktion, which was organized
and carried out by the SS and the Gestapo, was to eliminate the so-called
Slavic intelligentsia. 183 Polish academics were sent to the Sachsenhausen
concentration camp and it was only due to international solidarity that a
few were rescued over the years. On the same day, academics and students
were taken away and shot at the Catholic University of Lublin. The oper-
ation was repeated in September, and similar operations affected nearly
every institution of higher education in the country. The German civil
authorities also systematically destroyed a large number of laboratories
and the lecture theatres in Cracow and other universities. In the meantime,
the ‘alte Kämpfer’, Hans Frank (1900–46; Hitler’s legal representative
during the Weimar Republic and technical head of Nazi jurisprudence),
took over as leader of the general government for the occupied Polish ter-
ritories. Valuable instruments and materials were frequently stolen. The
Polish Academy of Sciences was also required to close down. In April
1940, an ‘Institute for German Ostarbeit’ was established in Cracow,
with offices at other locations. This was designed to place scientific
training under German control throughout Central and Eastern Europe.45
In Cracow and other university towns in Eastern Europe, an under-
ground university grew up, but not until 1942, since the Germans viewed
any gathering of Poles as a potential threat. Contrary to the occupying
power’s intention of restricting use of the Jagiellonian library to Germans,
it became a lively, underground centre for learning and education which
did not stop until the library was closed entirely and all the books were
transferred to Germany in the summer of 1944.
Characteristically, the areas of Poland occupied by the Soviets did
not fare much better. The Soviet Union pursued similar plans to the
Nazi government and instituted measures in Lemberg (Lwów) and Vil-
nius to prevent academic teaching altogether. Although the teaching staff
remained in post, the universities were converted to the Soviet model
and downgraded to academies of lower rank beneath the Soviet academy.

44 J. Hano, ‘Über die “Sonderaktion Krakau” 1939’, in Brentjes (ed.), Wissenschaft


(note 43), 38–63; M. Rössler, ‘Wissenschaft und Lebensraum’. Geographische
Ostforschung im Nationalsozialismus (Berlin and Hamburg, 1990); J. August (ed.),
Sonderaktion Krakau (Hamburg, 1997).
45 S. Gaweda, Uniwersytet Jagiello ński w okresie okupacji hitlerowskiej 1939–1945
(Warsaw and Cracow, 1979); C. Klessmann, Die Selbstbehauptung einer Nation.
Nationalsozialistische Kulturpolitik und Polnische Widerstandsbewegung im General-
gouvernement 1939–1945 (Düsseldorf, 1971); Brentjes (ed.), Wissenschaft (note 43),
34; T. Wróblewska, Uniwersytety Rzeszy w Poznaniu, Pradze i Strassburgu jako model
hitlerowskiej szkol y wy ższej na terytoriach okupowanych (Torun, 1984).

657
Notker Hammerstein

When the Germans conquered this area in 1941, they were initially wel-
comed as liberators. The Poles soon saw, however, that the Polish intel-
ligentsia had an even worse enemy in Hans Frank. As he wrote in his
diary, ‘No Pole should rise any further than a master craftsman and no
Pole will have the opportunity of reaching higher education in a general
government-run institute’.46 Thus, it was only in the underground that
a few academics could attempt to gather students around them and give
them a half-way adequate education. This worked to a certain extent,
but could not replace a normal education. Nevertheless, it symbolized the
unbroken will of the Polish intelligentsia to resist and assert the nation’s
intellect, despite severe trials and considerable sacrifice.
As the Germans advanced into the b a l k a n s and then into the
s o v i e t u n i o n , they pursued a similar and sometimes even more
radical occupation policy, and left desolation in their wake.
d e n m a r k a n d n o r w a y were occupied as early as 1940 and
had only limited freedom to pursue their own research and education
policies. Professors and researchers, who had come of age in the German
university tradition, and had adapted it with characteristic, but insignifi-
cant modifications, attempted to maintain Humboldt’s ideals even while
their countries were being marched over by the German victors. As in
the Netherlands and Belgium, the occupying forces initially attempted
to play their trump card of common German ancestry and interests, but
once again very few academics fell in with their views. Most kept their
distance or expressed tacit resistance towards the occupiers. In December
1943, the University of Oslo was forcibly closed. 65 professors and 1,500
students were arrested, some only temporarily, and many were deported
to Germany. Large numbers were sent to the Buchenwald concentration
camp, whereas others, particularly the medical students, went to the SS
training camp at Sennheim. The ‘Ahnenerbe’ (‘Ancestral Heritage’), the SS
institute for scientific and scholarly studies, attempted to make up for the
acute lack of up-and-coming scientists in Germany in this way and soon
started to transfer numbers of Norwegian students from Buchenwald. 36
of these were even allowed to study in Freiburg. The training they received
at Sennheim was given by lecturers from Strasburg and Freiburg and was,
as Heinrich Himmler (1900–45) put it, intended to proceed ‘in a strictly
scientific manner and without political tendencies’ in order to ‘illuminate
our common German features’.47
46 Brentjes (ed.), Wissenschaft (note 43), 34; Wróblewska, Uniwersytet (note 45); C.
Kleissmann and W. Diugoborski, ‘Nationalsozialistische Bildungspolitik und polnische
Hochschulen 1939–1945’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 23 (1997), 535–59.
47 S. Zimmermann, ‘Berührungspunkte zwischen dem KZ-Buchenwald und der Medizinis-
chen Fakultät der Üniversität Jena’, in C. Meinel and O. Voswinckel (eds.), Medizin,
Naturwissenschaft, Technik und Nationalsozialismus. Kontinuitäten und Diskonti-
nuitäten (Stuttgart, 1994), 54–61, here 59.

658
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

The main features of Nazi policy for universities in the occupied territo-
ries appeared relatively uniform and logically consistent. In neighbouring
countries to the east, it followed the contemptuous doctrine described
above of either bringing the intellectual elites to extinction or actively
exterminating them. The universities were consequently treated badly.
Areas to be assimilated into Germany, on the other hand, were to be Ger-
manized in the long term with the aid of Reichs-Üniversitäten. They were
established, first in Prague, and later in Poland and Strasburg, and staffed
by professors with pronounced National Socialist views and run according
to the local situation by the SS, the Gestapo, party officials, Alfred Rosen-
berg’s office or the military. In this respect, it would be wrong to speak of
a uniform policy for universities during the Nazi dominance over Europe.

neutral countries and states aligned


with germany
s p a i n a n d p o r t u g a l stood on the sidelines, relatively strong in
themselves. They were not directly caught up in the war and retained
their old policies for training and higher education with the support of
authoritarian regimes. i t a l y , which was involved in the war, first as
an ally and then as an enemy of the Third Reich, saw no need to change
its higher education structures. The Fascist regime attempted to maintain
its educational system, which was mainly orientated towards law and
rhetoric. Although high-profile research received considerable support, it
was not felt that it required institutional reform, particularly since the
technical specialists were supported by industry.
Other countries had been much more influenced by the German uni-
versity tradition. These included fi n l a n d , which had first resisted and
subsequently allied itself with Germany to fight the Soviet Union, and
the neutral countries of s w e d e n and s w i t z e r l a n d . None of these
states saw any reason to make changes to their systems of higher educa-
tion and were pleased to see that Humboldt’s ideal of the university fared
much better in the struggle for survival and in retaining independence
from the state in their countries than was the case in Germany.

germany
During the Weimar Republic many German academics and universities
emerged from international isolation. The situation appeared to return to
normal, and scientific success, international exchanges, reciprocal study
programmes and joint projects all pointed in this direction. The uni-
versities still generally regarded themselves as being at the forefront of
international research and learning, particularly in the leading science of

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theoretical physics, in archaeology, many medical disciplines and in math-


ematics. They barely noticed that the United States had in the meantime
more than made up for its previous deficits. Although the world economic
crisis caused considerable upheavals, German professors imagined that,
in their apolitical, specialist work, they could ignore such things since
they had nothing to do with science. At most, the problems and insecu-
rity reinforced the opinion of the majority of professors that a stronger
state with capable leaders would be needed to overcome the uncertainties,
chaos and lack of direction of that period.48
This mostly conservative and nationalistic consensus that reigned
among the universities and their professors (the students were generally
very radical) meant that when the National Socialists came to power, it
was not regarded as a crucial event that would affect the course of aca-
demic research and teaching. When a series of dubious laws were passed
in 1933 to force all ‘non-Aryans’ and many political opponents of the
regime out of their jobs, even this was not viewed as reason for a gen-
eral protest in the name of Mankind or Truth. Apart from a few hon-
ourable exceptions, the vast majority of German professors regarded it as
an administrative measure that the state was entitled to take and which
did not affect academic freedom or the existence of the universities.49
Then came the institutional changes: dissolution of the Senate, intro-
duction of the ‘leadership principle’ by the government, appointment of
rectors and deans with management remits, and political indoctrination
by the Associations of National Socialist Lecturers or Students and other
party organizations. Most found clever ways of getting around these mea-
sures and tried their best to ignore them as minor matters that did not
really affect academic work. This was made much easier by the fact that
scientific and scholarly learning and teaching were not affected by the
authoritarian changes.
The Nazi science policy was very limited in scope.50 Hitler and his
henchmen had a profound mistrust of what they called ‘liberalistic’ schol-
ars, the bourgeoisie and toffee-nosed academics who thought themselves
superior. The Third Reich would not sweep to victory by the efforts of pale

48 D. Langewiesche and H.-E. Tenorth (eds.), Handbuch der deutschen Bildungsgeschichte,


vol. V: 1918–1945. Die Weimarer Republik und die nationalsozialistische Diktatur
(Munich, 1989), particularly 209ff.; K. Sontheimer, ‘Die deutschen Hochschullehrer in
der Zeit der Weimarer Republik’, in Schwabe, Deutsche Hochschullehrer, 215–24.
49 H. Seier, ‘Die Hochschullehrerschaft im Dritten Reich’, in Schwabe, Deutsche
Hochschullehrer, 247–96; H. Mommsen, Beamtentum im Dritten Reich (Stuttgart,
1966).
50 Hammerstein, Universität Frankfurt am Main, vol. I, 171ff.; H. Seier, ‘Universitäts- und
Hochschulpolitik im nationalsozialistischen Staat’, in K. Malettke (ed.), Der National-
sozialismus an der Macht (Göttingen, 1984); M. Grüttner, ‘Wissenschaft’, in W. Benz
et al. (eds.), Enzyklopädie des Nationalsozialismus (Munich, 1998), 135–53.

660
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

thinkers. It would take health and physical strength. This attitude made
it possible to drive out internationally renowned and leading scholars
on racial grounds. This loss of scientific expertise (human considerations
no longer counted) appeared to be of no consequence. Without naming
the innumerable emigrants – they numbered almost one-third of all the
teaching staff at German universities – it is obvious that this was a massive
misjudgement simply with respect to the practical benefits of theoretical
knowledge and Germany’s standing and ability to survive. To replace
these people by promoting German Physics or German Mathematics, as
was the official party policy until the outbreak of the war, speaks volumes
about this lack of understanding and the ideologically blinkered attitude
of the new masters. It was not until the war that the party bosses and a
few military leaders realized that they could not continue to neglect the
sciences and its talented experts. Their eyes were opened far too late to
help them, however.51
So-called National Socialist sciences, such as military studies, race stud-
ies, prehistory and ancient history, specific ethnology and, of course, a
whole range of other disciplines of which the party approved because of
the people teaching them (which were generally concerned with questions
of public order, history, government and politics), repeatedly sprang up
over the course of these twelve years. Where such subjects survived and
proved viable, it was not because they were related to the crude National
Socialist viewpoint, but because they fulfilled general scientific or schol-
arly requirements.52 In contrast to Marxism, which still claimed to be
based on concrete scientific evidence and theory, Nazi ideology had never
made such a claim. The hotchpotch of supposedly scientific, but hack-
neyed ideas was put together randomly and never resulted in a consistent
and well-founded theory or world view.
Since research could be carried out as usual (the restriction of student
numbers and the slight tendency to promote new disciplines were no real
obstacle), and since there were also some remarkable scientific successes,
many professors were able to believe that the world of the university had
remained largely untouched. When the Four-Year Plan was announced in
1936, it became clear to many leaders in government and the armed forces
that it would be essential to support scientific projects and to extend and
promote specialist areas that were of importance for conduct of the war
and survival of the population during the war. Chemistry, in particular,
benefited greatly from public support, since during the First World War it

51 Hammerstein, Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (note 41).


52 P. Lundgreen (ed.), Wissenschaft im Dritten Reich (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1985); M.
Stolleis and D. Simon (eds.), Rechtsgeschichte im Nationalsozialismus (Tübingen, 1989);
Meinel and Voswinckel (eds.), Medizin (note 47); F. R. Hausmann, ‘Deutsche Geisteswis-
senschaft’ im Zweiten Weltkrieg. Die ‘Aktion Ritterbusch’ (1940–1945) (Dresden, 1998).

661
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had performed the tasks of keeping Germany as independent as possible


of foreign supplies and developing alternatives for essential materials.
Consequently, chemistry was the only discipline to maintain its leading
role (even in comparison to other countries) during the Third Reich.53
In addition to chemistry, various branches of metallurgy, food science
and agronomy were actively promoted, as was aeronautical engineering,
under the aegis of Hermann Göring (1893–1946). This did not just involve
the universities and Technische Hochschulen. Many of the research insti-
tutions that grew up during the late Empire period, including the Kaiser-
Wilhelm-Society,54 research projects carried out outside the universi-
ties and subsidised by the Notgemeinschaft der deutschen Wissenschaft
(‘Emergency Organization for German Science’), which tended to call
itself the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (German Research Society)
from 1928 onwards, research institutes run by the Helmholtz Society
and many industrial laboratories also participated. Scientific development
continued along the traditional lines once much imitated abroad. Expert
advisers were consulted and brought into new research projects, and a sort
of democratic research consensus attempted to ensure quality, despite the
strictures of Hitler’s dictatorship. The emphasis in many such projects
was not merely placed on the necessities of war. In a traditional sense,
scientists applied for funding for pure research to make the most of the
political sources of finance in order to further their own research interests,
rather than to develop inventions that would benefit and could be used
by the military.
To prevent German research developing along disparate lines, a Reichs-
Forschungs-Rat was established in 1937 as part of the 1936 Four-Year
Plan. It was designed to help the Science Ministry, which had been estab-
lished in 1934, control centrally pure research on the basis of expert tech-
nical assessment and co-ordinate research in the applied sciences.55 That
was the intention, at least. However, the many and conflicting interests of
various branches of the military and the party concerning research pol-
icy prevented any clear picture emerging of the direction that should be
taken. For example, all three armed services insisted on retaining their
own research centres, even though most high-ranking officers held to the
old tradition, according to which the military spirit is more important
than material considerations. Officer cadets had to be educated in this
spirit and that gave them a higher status than engineers and civilians.
53 L. Stern (ed.), Die Berliner Akademie der Wissenschaften in der Zeit des Imperialismus,
vol. III: Die Jahre der faschistischen Diktatur 1933 bis 1945 (Berlin <East>, 1979);
M. Renneberg and M. Walker (eds.), Science, Technology and National-Socialism
(Cambridge, 1994).
54 K. Macrakis, Surviving the Swastika: Scientific Research in Nazi Germany (New York
and Oxford, 1993); Forschung im Spannungsfeld.
55 Hammerstein, Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (note 41).

662
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

The many and diverse industrial research bodies also made it more dif-
ficult to co-ordinate research at the national level. The research carried
out by industries associated with the IG-Farben-Industrie, the Vereinigte
Stahlwerke (‘United Steel-processing Companies’), construction compa-
nies associated with Nazi housing policy, agricultural institutions and
similar institutes was just as uncoordinated as that of the major scien-
tific institutions. Since they were all required to maintain absolute secrecy
about their work, they were unable to exchange information, a situation
which not only affected the actual research: the same problem could be
investigated twice or three times over at different research centres.56
One striking example of this confusion is the discovery of nuclear fis-
sion made by Otto Hahn and colleagues in December 1938. They reported
on their discovery as early as January 1939. However, there was nobody
who recognized its military potential and could co-ordinate its implemen-
tation and attempt to push ahead with the work. The considerable debate
amongst pro-Nazi adherents of ‘German physics’, who rejected this dis-
covery made by ‘Jew-tainted theoreticians’, stood in its way, as did the
lack of interest from the leaders of the Reichs-Forschungs-Rat. Since the
prominent physicists themselves were only interested in pure research,
even they made no attempt to establish any kind of systematic German
nuclear policy. With hindsight we find the increasing numbers of new civil
servants, new offices and redistributed responsibilities quite astonishing,
particularly since it totally fragmented research as a whole and made it
ineffective for war purposes.57
This chaos characterized the working of the Reichs-Forschungs-Rat
itself. Its inability to co-ordinate research led to the suicide in 1940 of its
chairman, the artillery general and military scientist Karl Becker. He was
unceremoniously replaced by Hermann Göring, who did not bother to
apply the council’s control to the generously funded Luftwaffe research,
for which he also had responsibility. Once again, the external appearance
masked a lack of clear lines of responsibility and order. After the first
Russian winter, it became all too obvious that the hopes of defeating the
enemy with a single blitzkrieg were totally unrealistic and that Germany
had a great deal of catching up to do in the fields of engineering and
research. As a result, the important research bodies underwent yet another
reorganization: priorities were established for the allocation of materials
to industry, research institutes and universities and an office for wartime
economy was established to co-ordinate this allocation and to guarantee

56 K.-H. Ludwig, Technik und Ingenieure im Dritten Reich (Düsseldorf, 1974); Renneberg
and Walker (eds.), Science (note 53); P. Speace Richards, ‘The Movement of Scientific
Knowledge from and to Germany under NS’, Minerva, 28, 4 (1990), 401–25; M. Walker,
Die Uran-Maschine. Mythos und Wirklichkeit der deutschen Atombombe (Berlin, 1990).
57 Walker, Die Uran-Maschine.

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success. Nevertheless, there was still insufficient consultation, so the high


hopes for this office came to nothing. This was greeted with astonishment
by one of the British and American investigating officers who reported
on the German academic scientists and the war in August 1945: ‘In these
last years all researches had to be approved, many of them were helped
by special grants and those adjudged highest priority could get special
apparatus and material quickly. Many marked highest priority had not
the slightest war application.’ The same report characterized the general
situation in German research as follows: ‘The average German scientist
was indifferent to politics, a phenomenon not unknown in more civilized
countries. What is, however, more difficult for us to understand is their
almost fanatical zeal for pure research which put them in a world quite
apart.’58
Thus the Reichs-Forschungs-Rat, after further reorganization in 1942,
did not succeed in achieving its objective. The obvious deficits in the scien-
tific and technical fields gave it no other choice but to continuously pump
in money in an attempt to nurture the highly ineffective research system.
In 1943, Werner Osenberg (1900–72), a teacher at the Hanover Technical
College who was close to the government, established a planning office
which collated information in card files in the hope of deploying scien-
tists and engineers more systematically and effectively. In the course of
these efforts, the Führer issued a decree releasing the 15,000 engineers,
laboratory technicians and academics involved from military service, not
without considerable resistance from the generals and other officers. How-
ever, even this measure could not make up for the lack of trained scientists
which had developed in the meantime, so in 1944 a recruitment office was
established to rapidly train and deploy new scientists and engineers. The
measures taken in this context included the use of foreign academics (even
taken from the concentration camps) to make up for the deficits in certain
disciplines. This was just tinkering at the edges of the problem, however,
not least because the party, government and military leaders ultimately
assumed that brilliant discoveries and inventions could be thought up by
individual brilliant researchers. American research, on the other hand,
which was carried out in groups of scientists who worked together in
departments and shared their results in a constant exchange of informa-
tion, continued to be viewed as unscientific, un-German and not least as
not particularly promising. Thus the leaders of the Third Reich placed
all their hopes on the imaginary brilliant inventors who had started to
develop the Wunderwaffen, the wonder-weapons that would determine

58 Major E. W. B. Gill, ‘German Academic Scientists and the War’, Paper, Control Com-
mission for Germany, 28 August 1945. Irving Papers. Archive of the Institut für Zeit-
geschichte Munich.

664
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

the outcome of the war. Soon even the very word seemed to highlight
the illusory nature of this hope. However, it was followed up by another
decree which stated that, after 1944, only a few important scientific devel-
opments would be supported. At the head of the list was the tank industry,
although the new models could not even be used owing to lack of fuel, let
alone see their development completed. The leading military officers and
the Nazi party as a whole who, for many years, had underestimated the
importance of systematic support for research and functioning universi-
ties, had no time to correct their mistake.
This situation can be highlighted by comparing developments in
Germany with work carried out at the same time in the United States
of America. In 1944, the Reichs-Forschungs-Rat handed out 3.6 million
marks in grants, the USA 400 million dollars. In the field of radio fre-
quency engineering, American funding was ten times the German level,
and in refrigeration – the freezing of foods – Germany achieved just
4 per cent of American capacity. The situation was similar in many other
fields.59
The enemies of Hitler’s Germany were convinced that the seemingly
monolithic system of the Nazi state had developed a well-organized
research policy. The internal obligation to secrecy described above made it
very difficult to gain an overview of German research efforts through espi-
onage. Given Germany’s earlier position in the scientific world, which was
confirmed when Hahn split the atom, the Allies expected that preparations
for building the atom bomb would be well advanced. The same applied to
biological warfare, since no one could know that Hitler (due to his own
experiences in the First World War) permitted practically no research into
the field of gas warfare and had no intention of using it.60 Characteris-
tically, Himmler went behind Hitler’s back in an attempt to push such
research forward. Himmler and his SS, which had its own science depart-
ment in the ‘Ahnenerbe’, attempted in 1944 to assume responsibility for
the sciences and engineering so as to be able better to tackle the difficul-
ties that were increasingly coming to light. Nothing came of the initial
attempts and on their own they remained insignificant, not least because
the SS would release imprisoned scientists – generally mathematicians and
chemists – for war research only with extreme reluctance, and certainly
had no intention of improving their living conditions. Equally unsuc-
cessful were the efforts, which also started in 1944, of the all-powerful
German War and Economic Minister, Albert Speer, to promote scientific

59 Figures taken from Ludwig, Technik (note 56), 258–9; K. Zierold, Forschungsförderung
in drei Epochen (Wiesbaden, 1968), 263.
60 G. W. Gellermann, Der Krieg, der nicht stattfand (Koblenz, 1986), 208ff.; B. J. Bernstein,
‘America’s Biological Warfare Program in the Second World War’, The Journal of Strategic
Studies, 11 (1988), 292–317.

665
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research for war applications. The intensifying bombing raids and the
Allies’ advance prevented German scientists from finding the hoped-for
miraculous discovery that would decide the outcome of the war.
The intellectual position of the universities was even more seriously
damaged because the academic elite lost sight of its own objectives – the
search for truth, personal integrity and promotion of humanity. After
1945, one-third of all researchers and teachers had to be laid off because
of their involvement in the work of the Third Reich. There were very few
old, untainted scholars left from the Weimar Republic: one-third had been
expelled or killed and a further third was discounted on age grounds. Thus
it was left to a comparatively young and untrained team of academics to
lead the way during the period of reconstruction after 1946/47. Germany,
German science and German as the language of science had all lost their
leading position in the scientific community.

t h e s ov i e t u n i o n
Conditions in the Soviet Union were quite different. The reorganization
of the universities and research which took place shortly after the Revo-
lution had appointed the Soviet Academy of Sciences to administer and
co-ordinate these functions. Universities were used more to provide a gen-
eral academic training, rather than carrying out research in competition
with one another. Central planning as required by Marxism and, as it was
thought, scientifically applied standardizing procedures would guarantee
relative uniformity, even at the outbreak of war, which would stretch
the country’s resources to the limit. Of course, this also led to situations
in which the party sanctioned outlandish theories and thus acted as an
obstacle to meaningful experiments and discoveries.
The Germans’ invasion of Russia provided the Western Allies with a
new partner which, at least at the start, they supported with their sci-
entific and technical achievements. Particularly in Great Britain, people
were happy to make recent scientific discoveries accessible to the Soviet
Academy of Science. It was not until the later stages of the war that the
passing on of new research results was officially forbidden, although it
could not be prevented altogether. Given its strictly centralized planning,
the Soviet Union also developed its own systematic and precisely tailored
research strategy, which allowed extraordinary concentration and target-
ing in the use of all research and material resources. The emphasis of
Soviet research (apart from the social sciences) lay in the fields of bio-
logy, physics, mathematics and chemistry. The need to apply the results
of research in defending the state against Nazi Germany not only raised
the social standing of the scientists, but also guaranteed the Soviet Union
a link to developments in the more advanced countries of the capitalist

666
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

West in many fields. Since technical and social progress were placed on an
even footing, it was also possible to establish closer links between theory
and practice. Indeed, scientific Marxism had the aim of securing better
material living standards for people and building (future) humanity on
solid foundations through the application of technology and planning.

the united states of america


At the time war broke out, the higher education system, which had been
built to the specification of the Prussian model linking research and teach-
ing, determined the intellectual education and research carried out in the
USA.61 In 1940, war in Europe led to the establishment of a National
Committee on Education. Its task was, as a precautionary measure, to
consider the possible effects of entry into the war on the education sys-
tem, such as the consequences of drafting students and professors on
the teaching and financial resources of the largely private colleges and
universities.62
In general, education and research at the universities continued along
customary lines, and in many disciplines they were on an equal footing
with or even ahead of the European universities. As in Great Britain and
Italy, but in contrast to Germany or France, the American universities
also taught technical disciplines. The Americans had no problems pur-
suing and promoting the practical applications of the connections and
possibilities identified in pure research, which reaped considerable bene-
fits, particularly in the field of atomic research. Since their faculties were
made up of broadly based departments, rather than institutes associated
with a particular chair, researchers could easily be brought together to
work on common tasks. The co-operation between the universities and
the army in the field of war research was again much more efficient than in
Germany.
In July 1941, the American Government, on the advice of key scholars
and science organizers, established the Office of Scientific Research and
Development (OSRD), giving it responsibility for all research in the nat-
ural sciences and any other disciplines that might be of importance for
the war. The individual disciplines were run by sub-committees. The most
important sub-committee was the National Defense Research Committee
(NDRC) chaired by the President of Harvard University, James B. Conant
(1893–1978). This maintained close contacts with the army, industry
and with all the university research centres in the country. The Medical
61 See chapter 6; E. Shils, ‘The Order of Learning in the United States from 1865 to 1920:
The Ascendancy of the Universities’, Minerva, 16, 2 (1978), 159–95.
62 D. D. Henry, Challenges Past, Challenges Present: An Analysis of American Higher
Education since 1930 (San Francisco, Washington and London, 1975), 38ff.

667
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Research Committee (CMR) and the Joint Committee on New Weapons


and Equipment (JNW) supplemented the comparatively quick and effi-
cient organization of research in colleges, industry and the military for
the war effort.63
One striking example of this organization was the successful, but soon
after 1945 controversial, development of atomic weapons. In early 1942,
after further examination by the Heereswaffenamt (Armed forces arms
office), Germany abandoned the atomic project (which had never been
run officially), deeming it to be of no relevance for the outcome of the war,
and left the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society to carry out pure research on the sub-
ject.64 In August of the same year, Roosevelt transferred the ‘Manhattan
Project’ to the responsibility of the American army. Under the leadership
of General Groves, atomic research at the University of Chicago and the
University of California at Berkeley was co-ordinated with the develop-
ment of uranium and plutonium in Oak Ridge and Hanford so efficiently,
that atom bombs were produced at Los Alamos and were successfully
tested at Alamogordo on 16 July 1945.
Even in more esoteric fields, this disciplined and targeted organization
resulted in considerable progress. The need to carry out quality control
in the natural sciences and engineering and to solve production problems
even gave an additional boost to statistics. The same applied to mathe-
matics which, together with cybernetics, gave impetus to the technological
and social revolution of the information society. The intensely fought war
in far-flung corners of the globe led to increased study of the European
and Asian mentality and history and, as a result, the American universi-
ties also rose to lead the world in the cultural and social sciences and the
humanities.

postscript
Describing the situation in various countries highlights the immense sig-
nificance of scientific research at, and in association with, the universities
during the Second World War. As no war before it, this war was total and
spared no field of human activity, not even research and science. It was
‘the war of science’ and, in this respect, the European university system
that had grown up since the High Middle Ages experienced a triumphant
victory over all other forms of scientific activity attempted outside the
universities during the Second World War. As a result, increasing con-
sideration was given to the significance of education for the good of the

63 K. T. Kompton, ‘Organisation of American Scientists for the War’, Nature, 151 (29 May
1943), 601–6.
64 M. Walker, ‘Legenden um die deutsche Atombombe’, Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte,
38 (1990), 45–74.

668
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

state and, even during the war, the British Government was inspired to
reorganize the education system with its Education Act of 1944. It also
caused the French Government in exile in Algiers, at university confer-
ences with students and teachers held in other countries, to consider the
measures and reforms that would enable the universities to rise to new
challenges at the end of the war. Only official Nazi policy went another
way under the delusion that it would be able either to force the intelli-
gentsia of the ‘New Europe’ over to the German side or, quite simply, to
put an end to higher education for the local people, particularly in Central
and Eastern Europe.
Total war had caught up every group of the population in many coun-
tries, and its effects were much deeper and more far-reaching than those
of the First World War. Both soldiers at the front and civilians at home
experienced a new sense of community. It was only because they were
willing to go to one another’s aid and provide dependable support that
the risks associated with Nazi rule were overcome at all. These experi-
ences, which went far beyond those of the First World War, created a
mental willingness to cross or bypass the old social barriers or to dis-
mantle them altogether. Anyone who was prepared to lay down his life in
defence of a free and better world, would be entitled to claim that world
for himself after the war. More precisely, it should be possible to create
a new education system, of comparable quality to the one enjoyed by
the upper classes. The experience of war positively forced a new debate
about the education systems in individual countries and gave convincing
arguments to those in favour of a general and broadly based system. In
contrast to the discussions that took place during the nineteenth century,
it would also require consideration to be given to political responsibil-
ity for research. The relevance of research was considered to promote the
dignity and self-importance of every human being, and was not to be kept
in an ivory tower.
The extraordinary success of the applied sciences gradually overcame
the old prejudice of the supposed superiority of theoretical science over
applied research. Even during the First World War, it was seen that a too
sharp division and assessment of scientific disciplines and procedures did
not do justice to reality or morality. The crucial new inventions and many
alternative materials, improved transportation, and the mighty poten-
tial for destruction that culminated in the atom bomb and even space
travel, taught people during and after the Second World War just what
far-reaching and lasting effects scientific research could have on modern
life. Mass production combined with planning would henceforth be the
guarantee of a better and more humane world.
In some respects, this appears to be the culmination of the triumphant
progress of the natural sciences, which had started in the mid-nineteenth

669
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century. Although initially viewed with distrust and regarded as peripheral


by the other sciences, the natural sciences and many medical disciplines
earned increasingly high esteem. Thus mathematics, physics, biology,
chemistry and other such fields were recognized as the new leading
sciences and gradually drove the sciences of antiquity – history and
philosophy – to the sidelines. And some of the humanities, which promised
through planning and scientific methods to be able to analyze and shape
both the present and the future, such as sociology, psychology and cer-
tain forms of economics, were also recognized as sciences to a certain
degree.
Nationalism, which also started in the nineteenth century and experi-
enced its first, dreadful upsurge during the First World War, culminated
in the Nazi reign of terror during the Second. Its horrifying excesses,
which went many times beyond the imagination of civilized Europe in the
twentieth century, encouraged examination of the need for a new world
order which would enable people to live together in a world less marked
by national differences. Many different forms of world order were dis-
cussed, but the basic conviction harked back to the classical ideal of a
res publica litteraria, this time open to as many people as possible – if
not all. It also reflected the experience of a new commonality, which was
regarded as self-evident by those who had taken part in the war. Just as
understandably and characteristically, intellectuals and academics often
demonstrated this unity of purpose with reference to the model of the
Soviet Union, i.e. a state system that was supposedly founded on scien-
tific leadership and planning. Even during the war, the Western side often
discussed whether the USSR, which usually kept its scientific discover-
ies to itself, would reinforce this behaviour in the conviction that it was
excluded, and would thus have to prepare and arm itself for a new and
final world war.
Experience of the excesses of nationalism did not give rise to demands
to iron out national differences concerning education and the universities,
or even eliminate them altogether. However, the conviction that increas-
ing numbers of people should be able to participate in academic training
and research created a modified type of university teacher and student.
The distinguished, bourgeois professor gradually gave way to an older
and more experienced partner, who was confident in both laboratory and
seminar. In their clothing and habits, both teachers and students started to
imitate their American role models. Even during the war, increasing num-
bers of women were allowed into higher education, largely out of need.
And the general experience that intelligence was not the sole province of
a specific class or nationality meant that social differences became less
important in the universities and research institutions after 1945. Thus

670
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century

the way was opened up for the university of the masses, a path that would
be travelled by almost every country.
To conclude, experiences during the war showed that the survival of
any country could only be guaranteed through co-ordination and reliable
planning. This encouraged the conviction that already existed within the
natural sciences that scientific planning was the magic ingredient. This
appeared irrefutable, and not just for large-scale research. It was felt that
planning should be applied across the board in education and research to
the benefit of mankind. Good planning could and would create a frame-
work enabling as many people as possible – if not all – to experience for
themselves and understand the blessings of modern science. It was many
years before people realized that the planning of science and research,
which had been essential and successful during the war, in peacetime
could prevent the development of free ideas and could stifle freedom and
creativity. But this is a subject for the next and final volume.

select bibliography
Brentjes, B. (ed.) Wissenschaft unter dem NS-Regime, Berlin, Bern, Frankfurt-am-
Main and New York, 1992.
Charle, C. La République des universitaires (1870–1940), Paris, 1994.
Charle, C. (ed.) Les Universités germaniques, XIXe–XXe siècles, Paris, 1994.
Clark, B. R. (ed.) The School and the University, Berkeley, Los Angeles and
London, 1985.
Grüttner, M. Studenten im Dritten Reich, Paderborn, Munich, Vienna and Zurich,
1995.
Hammerstein, N. Die Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft in der Weimarer Repub-
lik und im Dritten Reich 1920–1945, Munich, 1999.
Heilbron, John L. The Dilemma of an Upright Man: Max Planck as Spokesman
for German Science, Berkeley, 1986.
Henry, D. D. Challenges Past, Challenges Present: An Analysis of American Higher
Education since 1930, San Francisco, Washington and London, 1975.
Langewiesche, D. and Tenorth, H.-E. (eds.) Handbuch der deutschen Bildungs-
geschichte, vol. V: 1918–1945. Die Weimarer Republik und die national-
sozialistische Diktatur, Munich, 1989.
Lowe, R. (ed.) Education and the Second World War, London and Washington,
1992.
Lundgreen, P. (ed.) Wissenschaft im Dritten Reich, Frankfurt-am-Main, 1985.
Marwick, A. Britain in the Century of Total War, London, Sydney and Toronto,
1968.
McCulloch, G. Philosophers and Kings: Education for Leadership in Modern
England, Cambridge, 1991.
Nipperdey, T. Deutsche Geschichte, vol. I: Arbeitswelt und Bürgergeist, Munich,
1983.

671
Notker Hammerstein

Deutsche Geschichte, vol. II: Machtstaat vor der Demokratie, 3rd edn, Munich,
1995.
Norrback, M. and Ranki, K. (eds.) University and Nation: The University and the
Making of the Nations in Northern Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries,
Helsinki, 1996.
Panham, G. K. Contribution à l’Histoire de la Résistance belge 1940–1944,
Brussels, 1971.
Renneberg, M. and Walker, M. (eds.) Science, Technology and National-Socialism,
Cambridge, 1994.
Ringer, F. K. The Decline of the German Mandarins: The German Academic
Community, 1890–1933, Cambridge, Mass., 1969.
Schwabe, K. (ed.) Deutsche Hochschullehrer als Elite, 1815–1945, Deutsche
Führungsgeschichten in der Neuzeit 17, Boppard am Rhein, 1988.
Wallace, S. War and the Image of Germany: British Academics 1914–1918,
Edinburgh, 1988.
Warmbrunn, W. The German Occupation of Belgium 1940–1944, Frankfurt and
New York, 1993.
Weisz, G. The Emergence of Modern Universities in France, 1863–1940,
Princeton, 1983.

672
EUROPEAN UNIVERSITIES AND
SIMILAR INSTITUTIONS IN
E X I S T E N C E B E T W E E N 1812
A N D T H E E N D O F 1944: A
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST

WA LT E R R Ü E G G

The following list1 shows in chronological order of their foundation:


(1) All universities in existence (even briefly) between 1812 and the end
of 1944; universities are regarded as comprising all institutions of
higher education founded or recognized as universities by the pub-
lic authorities of their territory and authorized to confer academic
degrees in more than one discipline. For this reason British colleges
which prepared students for academic degrees granted by the Uni-
versity of London are not included. For universities founded before
1800, see volume II for their institutional development before the
nineteenth century. In as much as information is available, changes
after 1800 in the organization of the traditional four faculties are
listed.
(2) Other important institutions of higher learning, such as technical,
commercial, ecclesiastical and other specialized academies, which

1 List prepared by Ulrich Herrmann, Bochum and the editor, on the basis of Jı́lek, Historical
Compendium, initiated by the Editorial Board as a preparatory handbook for the History
of the University in Europe and published by the CRE; Minerva, Jahrbuch der gelehrten
Welt, 1 (1891–92)–33 (1938). For the history and constitution of individual universi-
ties before 1892 see also vol. II (1892–93), until 1910 Minerva, Handbuch der gelehrten
Welt, vol. I. Strasbourg, 1911. Information on some countries or universities was gra-
ciously checked and completed by Rüdiger vom Bruch (Berlin), M. Köhler (Cologne), Eva-
Maria Felschow (Giessen), Ulrich Hunger (Göttingen), Anna Guagnini (Bologna), Daniela
Novarese (Messina), Gian Paolo Brizzi (Perugia), Giuliana Limiti (Rome), Agostino Sottili
(Milan), Carlo Bo (Urbino), Wladimir Wladimirowitsch Zacharaow (Russia), José Luis
Peset and Mariano Peset (Spain).

673
Walter Rüegg

were in existence during this period and which did not become part
of a university. The right to confer academic degrees applies only
partially to this category, with some institutions conferring no aca-
demic degrees at all, such as the French grandes écoles, and others
obtaining this right later on in their existence. They are included
in this list if they were recognized by the public authorities of their
territory as scientific institutions of higher learning open only to sec-
ondary graduates (with the exception of priest academies). In some
countries they received the title of universities; but they appear in
the list of universities only if they include besides their specialities at
least one other classical faculty. Soviet institutions of higher learn-
ing other than universities are only listed in the context of partial or
complete dissolution of universities.
The foundation date is taken from the date on which the public authorities
recognized the status of a university or of another institution of higher
learning. The alphabetical list helps to identify quickly all institutions of
higher learning in the chronological list.
The following abbreviations will be used for common academic and
other items:
agr.: agriculture; c.: century; cat.: category; Cath.: Catholic; chem.: chem-
istry; éc.: école <de>; eco.: economics (and commerce); eng.: engi-
neering; ev.: evangelical; f.: founded; fac.: faculty <of>, facoltà <di>,
faculté <de(s)>; Hon.: Honours; inst.: institute <of>; math.: mathe-
matics; med.: medicine; min.: mining; orth.: orthodox; pharm.: phar-
macy; phil.: arts and sciences; philos.: philosophy; pol.: political sci-
ences; prép.: préparatoire; Prot.: Protestant; sc.: sciences; sch.: school
<of>; tech.: technology, engineering; theol.: theology, théologie; Univ.:
University <of>, Universidad, Universidade, Universitä, Universität,
Université, Universiteit; vet.: veterinary medicine

universities
BOLOGNA (end 12 c.). Univ. <ersità> Nazionale 1802. Regia 1805.
th 2

Pontificia 1815. Closed 1831/32, 1849–53, remaining board of exam-


inations. Univ. <di> prim’ordine 1859/60 (cat. A 19233 ). Fac. phi-
los. and philology (lettere e filosofia 1868), law, math. (scienze fisiche,
matematiche et naturali 1868), med. and surgery, 1859, incorporating

2 Abbreviations will be used for common academic and other terms.


3 All università di prim’ordine/cat. A had four basic faculties: philosophy and philology
(lettere e filosofia from 1868 on), law, medicine and surgery, mathematics (scienze fisiche,
matematiche e naturali from 1868 on).

674
A chronological list

as fac. sch. pharm. (f. 1824), vet. (f. 1851) 1933,4 eng. (f. 1877), agri.
(f. 1903), industrial chem. (f. 1921) 1935, inst. eco. and commerce
(f. 1929), 1937.5
PARIS (beginning 13th c.). Suppressed (like all French univ.) 1793. Éc.
santé 1795. Fac. lettres, sciences, droit, méd., théol. Cath., théol. Prot.
1806 (both theol. fac. suppressed 1885). Loi Liard, re-establishing univ.
as corps des fac. (like all French univ.) 1896.
OXFORD (beginning 13th c.). Reforms promoted by recommendations
of Royal Commissions and Acts of Parliament 1852–54, 1877, 1919.
Establishment or re-establishment of six colleges (four for women),
1871–93. Ruskin College for working men f. 1899, granting Univ.
diploma in eco. and pol. First mixed college (Nuffield) f. 1937. Hon.
Sch. of natural sc., 1850.
MONTPELLIER (beginning 13th c.). Éc. santé 1795, pharm. 1803, droit
1804. Fac. méd., lettres 1808 (closed 1815, reopened 1838), sc. 1808.
CAMBRIDGE (1209–25). Reforms, promoted by Royal Commissions
and Acts of Parliament 1850/52, 1919. Establishment of four colleges
(two for women), 1800–1923. Natural sc. Tripos 1848.
SALAMANCA (1218/1219). Reformed by Ley Moyano. Fac. filosofı́a y
letras, law, 1857, sc., med. 1903.6
PADUA (1222). Univ. prim’ordine 1866 (cat. A 1923). Fac. pol. sc. 1924,
pharm. 1933, eng. (inst. f. 1875) 1935.
NAPLES (1224). Reorganized 1806–12. Univ prim’ordine 1861 (cat. A
1923), incorporating as fac. sch. pharm., vet. (f. 1795), eng. (f. 1868),
inst. architecture (f. 1923), agr. (f. 1872 in Portici), eco. and commerce
1935.
TOULOUSE (1233). Éc. droit 1804, méd. 1808 (éc. prép. méd. et pharm.
1849, fac. 1891). Fac. théol. (suppressed 1885), lettres, sciences 1808.
Éc. vet. 1826.
ORLEANS (around 1235). Fac. lettres 1808. Suppressed 1815.
SIENA (1246). Suppressed 1808. Reopened 1814. Merged with Univ. Pisa
as Univ. di Granducato di Toscana 1851–59. Univ. second’ordine 1862
(cat. B 1923). Fac. law, med. and surgery, sch. pharm. (fac. 1933).
VALLADOLID (end 13th c.). Fac. law, med., letras y filosofı́a (prep. studies
for law) 1857, sc. (prep. studies for med.) 1857.

4 R. Decreto 21 August 1933 n. 1592, transforming into fac. all sch. pharm. and vet.
5 R. Decreti 20 June 1935 n. 1071, 28 November 1935 n. 2044, 7 May 1936 n. 882, trans-
forming into fac. the other sch. and inst.
6 Peset, Universidad Española, 461–90. For the distribution of faculties among the ten
Spanish universities in existence after 1845 see J.-L. Guereña, ‘L’Université espagnole à la
fin du XIXe siècle. Approche sociologique du corps professoral’, in J.-L. Guereña, E.-M.
Fell, J.-R. Aymes (eds.), L’Université en Espagne et en Amérique latine du Moyen-Age à
nos jours, vol. I: Structures et acteurs, Actes du colloque de Tours 12–14 janvier 1990
(Tours, 1991), 227–9.

675
Walter Rüegg

LISBON (1290). Sch. surgery 1825, med. and surgery, pharm. 1836. Poly-
technic 1837, liberal arts studies 1858. Univ. Clássica de Lisboa, fac.
med., arts, sciences (including polytechnic), sch. pharm. 1911, fac. law,
sch. teacher training 1913 (transformed into dep. education of arts fac.
1930).
ROME, studium urbis (1303). Closed 1799. Reopened 1801. Univ.
prim’ordine 1872, incorporating as fac. sch. pol. sc. (f. 1924) 1925,
pharm. 1933, statistics, demography, inst. architecture (f. 1919), teacher
training (f. 1873), eng. (f. 1817). Divided into fac. of civil and industrial
eng., mining, aeronautics 1935.
COIMBRA (1308). Fac. theol. suppressed, med. reorganized, arts, sci-
ences, sch. pharm. 1911.
PERUGIA (1308). Univ. Pontificia 1824. Libera Univ., fac. law, med. and
surgery, physical, natural and math. sciences 1863 (suppressed 1885),
sch. pharm., vet. 18957 (both fac. 1933), inst. agr. 1896 (fac. 1935).
State univ. (cat. B). Fascist fac. pol. sc. 1928.8
GRENOBLE (1339). Éc. droit 1804. Fac. lettres 1808, sc. 1811, méd.
1820.
PISA (1343). Accademia within Univ. impériale 1808. Univ. 1814. Merged
with univ. Siena as Univ. di Granducato di Toscana 1851. State univ.
1859. Prim’ordine 1862 (cat. A 1923). Incorporating as fac. sch. pharm.
vet. med. 1933, inst. agr. (f. 1840), eng. 1935.
PRAGUE (1348). Divided 1882 into German Karl-Ferdinand-Univ.
(Deutsche Univ. 1920, Reichsuniv. 1939, suppressed 1945), and Ceská
univ. Karlo-Ferdinandova (Karlova 1920), closed 1939–45.
FLORENCE (1349). Transferred to Pisa 1472. Regio Istituto di studi
superiori pratici e di perfezionamento, dep. philosophy, physical sc.,
med. and surgery, sch. pharm. 1859. Univ. (cat. A 1923/24). Integrating
as fac. sch. pharm. 1933, eco. and commerce, inst. teacher training (f.
1862), agr. (f. 1913), architecture (f. 1926) 1935, social and pol. sc.
1938.
HUESCA (1354). Closed 1808–14. Suppressed definitively 1845.
PAVIA (1361). Suppressed 1791–96. Re-established without theol. fac.
1802/03. Inst. surveyors, engineers and architects incorporated 1840.
Fac. sc. 1847. Univ. suppressed 1848–51. State univ. prim’ordine 1859.
Sch. pharm. (fac. 1933). Fac. pol. sc. 1926.
CRACOW (1364/1400). Closed 1795. Reopened 1802/09. Uniwersytet
Jagiellonski 1815. Philos. fac undivided until 1939, including dep. edu-
cation, pharm. 1920, Slavonic studies 1923, physical education and
nursing in med. fac. 1923, fac. agr. 1923. Univ. suppressed, deportation
7 G. Ermini, Storia della Università di Perugia (Bologna, 1947), 610–22.
8 P. Orano, ‘La Facoltà Fascista di Scienze Politiche’, in Regia Università degli studi di
Perugia (Rome, 1937), XV, 24–5.

676
A chronological list

of 183 professors in concentration camps 1939. Five underground fac.


attended by c. 800 students 1942–44.
VIENNA (1365). Fac. Prot. theol. 1819. Univ. reorganized according to
Prussian univ. model 1848–51. Philos. fac. undivided until 1975.
ERFURT (1379). Studium generale 1379. Closure of the univ. 1816.
HEIDELBERG (1385). Ruperto-Carola 1803. Fac. Cath. theol. trans-
ferred to Freiburg 1807, fac. sciences and math. 1890.
COLOGNE (1388). Suppressed 1798. Handelshochschule (Trade
academy) 1901. Academy for practical med. 1904. Hochschule für
kommunale und soziale Verwaltung (College for local administration
and social work) 1912. Municipal univ. recognized by the state 1919.
Fac. eco. and soc. sc., med., law, philos., the latter undivided until 1955.
FERRARA (1391). Suppressed 1804. Univ. Pontificia 1812. Libera Univ.
1860. Fac. law, med. and surgery (closed 1923, first two-year courses
reopened 1937), mathematical, physical, natural sc., sch. pharm. 1860
(fac. 1933). State univ. 1942.
BUDAPEST (1395). Pázmány Péter univ. 1920. Transfer of fac. eco. to
Technical Univ. 1934.
WÜRZBURG (1402). Julius-Maximilian-Universität 1802. Fac. law and
med. transferred from Bamberg 1803, philos. fac. divided into sections
of philol. and hist., sciences and math. 1873 (fac. philos., fac. sciences
1937).
TURIN (1404). Suppressed 1792. Re-established 1800. Closed 1821–23
and 1830–48. Univ. prim’ordine 1862 (cat. A 1923). Incorporating as
fac. sch. pharm., vet. med. (f. 1860) 1933, inst. eco. and commerce
(f. 1906), agr., teacher training 1935.
AIX-EN-PROVENCE (1409). Éc. med. in Marseille. Fac. théol. in Aix
1808 (suppressed 1885), lettres, droit in Aix 1846, sc. in Marseille
1854. Univ. d’Aix-Marseille 1896.
LEIPZIG (1409). Reorganized 1830. Vet. academy Dresden incorporated
as fac. 1923, philos. fac. divided into dep. philology and history, math.
and sc. 1925.
SAINT ANDREWS (1411). Incorporation of Univ. College Dundee
(f. 1881) 1897.
PARMA (1414). Suppressed 1831–54. Univ. second’ordine 1860.
Prim’ordine, fac. law, med. and surgery, math. and sc. (suppressed
1923), 1887 (cat. B 1923). Incorporating sch. pharm., vet. as fac. 1933.
ROSTOCK (1419). Fac. law and eco. 1923. Undivided philos. fac. until
1945.
LOUVAIN/LEUVEN (1425). Suppressed 1797. State univ. 1816. Sup-
pressed 1835. Cath. univ. in Malines 1834. Transferred to Louvain 1835.
POITIERS (1431). Éc. droit 1804, méd 1806. Fac. lettres 1808 (sup-
pressed 1815, re-established 1854), sc. 1854.

677
Walter Rüegg

CAEN (1432). Ec. droit 1804 (fac. 1808). Fac. méd., sc., lettres 1808.
BORDEAUX (1441). Ec. méd. 1807. Fac. théol 1808 (suppressed 1885),
sc., lettres 1838, droit 1870, méd. et pharm. 1874.
CATANIA (1444). Univ. second’ordine 1862. Prim’ordine 1877 (cat.
B 1923). Incorporating as fac. sch. pharm., inst. eco. and commerce
(f. 1919) 1935.
BARCELONA (1450). Re-established 1837. Fac. letras y filosofı́a, law,
math. and sc., med., pharm. 1857.
GLASGOW (1451). Reformed by The Univ. (Scotland) Acts 1858 and
1889, degree of Bachelor of Sc. 1872. Queen Margaret College for the
Higher Education of Women 1883. Chair in naval architecture 1885, in
German language and literature 1887. Fac. sc. 1889. Chairs in modern
history, pathology 1893, political eco. 1896, Scottish hist. and lit. 1913.
GREIFSWALD (1456). Under Swedish administration 1637–1815. Prus-
sian univ., philos. fac. undivided until 1945.
FREIBURG IM BREISGAU (1457). Cath. theol. fac. transferred from
Heidelberg 1807. Alberto-Ludoviciana 1818. Fac. sc. and math. 1910.
BASLE (1459). Philos. fac. divided into philos.–historical and philos.–
scientific sections 1866 (both fac. 1937).
POSZONY/PRESSBURG/BRATISLAVA (1465). Queen Elizabeth Univ.
1912. Fac. law 1914, med. 1917, philos. 1918. Transferred to Budapest
and Pécs, in Bratislava Komenski (Comenius) Univ. 1919. Fac. med.
1919, law, philos. 1921. Slovak Univ. 1939 incorporating fac. Prot.
theol. (f. as Lyzeum 1606, theol. Acad. 1881, autonomous state fac.
1934), fac. Cath. theol (f. 1936), sc. 1940.
GENOA (1471). Closed 1821–23, 1830–35. Univ. second’ordine 1862.
Prim’ordine 1885 (cat. A 1923). Incorporating as fac. sch. pharm. 1933,
inst. eng. (f. 1871), eco. and commerce (f. 1884) 1935.
SARAGOSSA (1474). Fac. med. suppressed 1843. Re-established 1876.
Theol. 1854, suppressed 1868, letras y filosofı́a, law 1857, sc. 1887.
COPENHAGEN (1475). Fac. sc. 1850.
TÜBINGEN (1476). Incorporation of Cath. Univ. Ellwangen (f. 1812)
as Cath. theol. fac. 1817. First establishment in Germany of fac. sc.
(1863), and eco. (1882).
UPPSALA (1477). Fac. arts divided into sections of liberal arts and sc.
1876.
SIGÜENZA (1489). Closed 1807. Definitively suppressed 1824.
ABERDEEN (1495). King’s College (f. 1505), Marischal College
(f. 1593). United as Univ. of Aberdeen 1860. Fac. arts, divinity, law,
med. 1889, sc. 1894.
ALCALÁ DE HENARES (1499). Transferred to Madrid 1836/37.
VALENCIA (1500). Closed 1810–12. Fac. letras y filosofı́a (prep. studies
for law), sc., law, med. 1857.

678
A chronological list

WITTENBERG (1502). Transferred to Halle 1817.


SEVILLA (1505). Fac. theol. 1854 (suppressed 1868), law, med. (in Cadix),
letras y filosofı́a 1857.
TOLEDO (1521). Suppressed 1807, last fac. suppressed 1857.
SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA (1526). Fac. theol. 1854, suppressed
1868, law, med. and pharm., letras y filosofı́a (prep. studies for law),
sc. (idem for med.) 1857.
MARBURG (1527). Philipps-Universität 1920. Philos. fac. undivided
until 1964.
GRANADA (1531). Fac. law, pharm., med., letras y filosofı́a (including
science section 1857), associating sch. Arabic studies 1932.
MACERATA (1540), Univ. Pontificia. Second’ ordine 1824 (cat. B 1923).
Fac. theol. 1860, sc., vet. 1862, all fac. except law suppressed 1880.
OÑATE (1540). Suppressed 1807. Re-established 1815. Definitively sup-
pressed 1842.
KÖNIGSBERG (1544). Albertus Universität (Albertina) 1860. Fac. sc.
1938. Univ. suppressed 1944.
MESSINA (1548). Suppressed 1679. Collegio Carolino (for nobles)
granted right to confer doctoral degrees in philos. and theol. 1789.
Univ. status 1838. Second’ordine 1862. Prima classe 1885 (cat. B). Fac.
philos. suppressed 1923. Incorporating as fac. inst. pharm. 1933, vet.,
teacher training (f. 1920), 1936.
OSUNA (1548). Suppressed 1807. Re-established 1814. Ceased to exist
1820.
ORIHUELA (1552). Suppressed 1807. Re-established 1815. Ceased to
exist 1824.
BURGO DE OSMA (1555). Suppressed 1807. Definitively suppressed
1841.
ROME Gregoriana (1556). Suppressed 1773. Re-established 1824. Fac.
canon law. 1876. Schola Superior Litterarum Latinarum 1924, asso-
ciating Inst. Biblicum (f. 1909), Inst. Orientale (f. 1917) 1928, fac.
missiologia, church history 1932.
MILANO (1556). Accademia scientifico-letteraria 1859. Univ. (cat. A
1924), incorporating as fac. sch. vet. (f. 1891), agr. (f. 1880) 1935.
JENA (1558). Sächsische Gesamtuniv. 1815. Thüringische Landesuniv.
1920. Fac. math. and sc. 1924. Friedrich-Schiller Univ. 1934.
DOUAI (1559). Fac. lettres 1808 (suppressed 1815, re-established 1854),
droit 1865. Both transferred to Lille 1887.
OLOMOUC (1570). Lyzeum 1782. Univ. 1827. Gradual closure. Theol.
fac. turned into independent institution 1851/60, ‘fac. Cyril and
Methodius’ (Cyrilometodejká fakulta) 1921.
OVIEDO (1574). Fac. law, letras y filosofı́a (prep. studies) 1857, sc. and
math. sch. pol., soc. sc. 1895, letras y filosofı́a (autonomous fac.) 1899.

679
Walter Rüegg

LEIDEN (1575). Incorporated into the Univ. impériale (fac. math. and
sc.) 1811. Rijks Hoogeschool 1815. Rijks Univ. 1876.
PALERMO (1578). Univ prim’ordine 1862 (cat. A 1923). Integrating as
fac. sch. pharm. 1933, inst. eng. (f. 1860) eco. and commerce 1935.
WILNA/VILNIUS (1578). Cesarski uniwersitet imine Aleksandra I 1803.
Suppressed 1832 (fac. theol., med. continuing to exist as academies,
transferred to Kiev 1840). Polish Stephan Batorego Univ. fac. humani-
ties, theol., law, social sc., med., art 1919. Suppressed 1939.
EDINBURGH (1582/83). Fac. divinity, law, med., arts, science, music
1896, amalgamation fac. divinity and New College (f. 1848 by the
Free Church of Scotland) 1929, Heriot-Watt College (f. as Edinburgh
School of Arts and Mechanics Institute 1821, renamed Watt Institution
and Sch. Arts 1854, amalgamated with the George Heriot’s Hospital and
renamed Heriot-Watt College 1885, granted rank of ‘central institution’
with classes in art, trade, technical subjects, mining, printing, mycology
1902), affiliated as associated college 1933.
FERMO (1585). In decline in the 2nd part of 18th c. Re-established
as Univ. Pontificia 1804/1816. Univ. second’ordine 1824. Suppressed
1826. Chairs in civil, criminal and canon law in existence until 1860.
FRANEKER (1585). Suppressed 1811. Rijks Athenaeum 1815. Closed
1843.
GRAZ (1585/86). Lyzeum 1782. Univ. 1827. Fac. med. 1863, theol. fac.
suppressed 1939, philos. fac. undivided until 1975.
ESCORIAL (1587). Suppressed 1837. Colegio de Estudios Superiores
Maria Cristina 1892. Closed 1931–44.
DUBLIN Trinity College (1592). Associating the Church of Ireland Train-
ing College 1921/22.
CAGLIARI (1606). Univ. second’ordine 1862. Fac. law., med. and surgery,
math. and sc., sch. pharm. (fac. 1933). Prim’ordine 1902 (cat. A). Fac.
filos. e lettere 1923.
GIESSEN (1607). Fac. Cath. theol. 1830–59, philos. fac. divided into
two sections (Abteilungen) 1: philos., philology, history, art history, 2:
math., sc., eco., each section chaired by a dean, but holding common
fac. meetings 1922.
GRONINGEN (1612). Incorporated into Univ. impériale (fac. math. and
science) 1811. Suppressed 1813. Rijks Hoogeschool 1815. Rijksuniver-
siteit 1876.
PADERBORN (1614/16). Suppressed 1818.
SASSARI (1617). Univ. second’ordine. Fac. law, med. and surgery, sch.
pharm. (fac. 1933) 1877. Prim’ordine 1901 (cat. B 1923). Fac. vet.
1934.
SALZBURG (1619). Fac. med. 1804. Lyzeum 1810. Fac. theol. 1850.
Closed 1938.

680
A chronological list

STRASBOURG (1621). Éc. santé 1795. Protestant seminary 1801. Éc.


pharm. 1803, droit 1804, fac. droit, lettres, sc., théol. protestante
1808. Kaiser-Wilhelms-Univ. 1871/2. Fac. math. and sc., Cath. theol.
1903. Univ. de Strasbourg 1919. Fac. pharm. 1921. Univ. transferred
to Clermont-Ferrand. Replaced by German univ. 1940–44.
MÜNSTER (1629). Theol. -philos. Academy for teacher training 1818.
Univ. rights 1827. Univ., fac. law and eco. 1902. Westfälische Wilhelms-
Univ. 1907. Fac. ev.-theol. 1914, med. 1925, philos. fac. remaining
undivided until 1948.
DORPAT/TARTU (1632). Suppressed 1710. Only German-speaking
univ. in Russia 1802. Inst. education 1820–59. Philos. fac divided into
Hist. -philol. and Physico-math. Fak. 1850. ‘Russification’ of the univ.
1893. Evacuation to Voronez 1918. Estonian univ., fac. theol., med.,
law, math. and sc., agr., vet. 1919.
UTRECHT (1636). Éc. secondaire within Univ. impériale 1811. Rijks
Hoogeschool, fac. math. and sc. 1815. Rijksuniv. 1876, fac. vet. (sch.
f. 1820, univ. status 1917) 1925.
HELSINGFORS/HELSINKI (1640). Swedish Academia Åboensis 1640.
Imperial univ. 1811. Transferred to the new capital Helsingfors 1828.
Philos. fac. divided into sections of humanities and of sc. and math.,
each section chaired by a dean 1852, section of eco. and agr. 1896 (fac.
agr. and forestry 1924), fac. soc. and pol. sc. 1944.
KIEL (1665). Prussian Christian-Alberts-Univ. 1867. Staatswissen-
schaftliches Seminar (seminary of eco.) 1899. Transformed into Inst.
für Weltwirtschaft (Inst. world economy) 1914. Inst. maritime studies
1937. Both associated with univ. Philos. fac. undivided until 1963.
LEMBERG/LWÓW (1661). Suppressed 1805. (Austrian) Universitas
Francisci 1817. Fac. med. 1894. (Polish) John Casimir Univ. 1919.
(Soviet) Univ. J. Franko 1944.
INNSBRUCK (1668). Fac. med. 1869, science 1938.
LUND (1668). Philos. fac. divided into sections of humanities, math. and
sc. 1876.
URBINO (1671). Univ. Pontificia second’ordine 1824. Libera Univ.
Provinciale 1862. Fac. law, physics and math. (suppressed 1894), sch.
pharm. (fac. 1934), midwifery 1892 (dissolved 1923). Univ. libera 1923.
Fac. teacher training 1937.
BESANÇON (1691). Éc. méd. 1806. Fac. théol. (suppressed 1885), sc.,
lettres 1808. Éc. prép. méd. et pharm. 1843.
HALLE (1693). Closed 1806–08. Univ. Halle-Wittenberg 1817. Fac. sc.
(including agr. and pharm.) 1924.
BRESLAU/WROCLAW (1702). Incorporating Univ. Frankfurt an der
Oder 1811. Schlesische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität 1910. Fac. sc.
1937.

681
Walter Rüegg

DIJON (1722). Ec. droit 1806 (fac. 1808). Fac. lettres, sc. 1808, fac. prép.
méd. et pharm. 1843.
ST PETERSBURG/PETROGRAD/LENINGRAD Academic Univ.
(1724). Imperial Univ. Fac. history and philology, physics and math.,
law 1819, oriental languages 1854. Main teacher-training college
incorporated 1859. Univ. closed 1861–62. Petrograd Univ. 1914.
State Univ. 1919/20. Fac. soc. sc. (including dep. archaeology and
art history, linguistics and literature, social education, law, eco.) and
physico-mathematics (including dep. math. and astronomy, physics and
astrophysics, chem., biology), workers fac. (Rabfac.) 1920. Temporary
dissolution of univ. into disciplinary institutes 1930–32. Restoration of
univ., fac. math. and mechanics, physics, chem., biology, geology and
geography, history 1934.9 Univ. evacuated to Saratov 1944.
CAMERINO (1727). Suppressed 1808. Univ. Pontifical State 1816. Di
second’ordine 1824. Libera Univ. 1861. Fac. law, med. and surgery
(suppressed 1923). Incorporating sch. pharm. as fac. chem. and pharm.,
sch. vet. as fac. 1933.
GÖTTINGEN (1737). Incorporating Univ. Helmstedt 1809. Georg-
August-Univ. 1866. Fac. math. and sc. 1922.
ERLANGEN (1743). Friedrich Alexander Univ. 1900. Fac. sc. 1927.
MOSCOW (1755). Imperial Univ., fac. history and philology, physics
and math., law, med. 1804. Inst. education 1804–59. Moscow First
State Univ. fac. med., physics and math., social sc., Rabfac. (the first
in Soviet Russia, integrating Schanjawskij People’s Univ., f. 1908)
1919/20. Fac. med. converted into Inst. Med. I. M. Secenova 1930.
Univ. re-established. Fac. like St Petersburg 1934.
NANCY (1768). Fac. lettres 1802 (closed 1815, reopened 1854). Éc. méd.
1809 (fac. 1872), Éc. nationale des eaux et forêts 1824. Fac. sc. 1854.
Inst. colonial 1862. Fac. droit 1864.
MODENA (1772/73). Suppressed 1796. Re-established 1814. Univ. sec-
ond’ordine, fac. law, med. and surgery, physical, math. natural sc. 1862,
sch. pharm., 1876 (fac. 1933), vet. 1878–1924 (cat. B 1923).10
RENNES (1803). Éc. méd. 1803, droit 1806. Fac. lettres 1808 (closed
1815–38), sc. 1840.
KASAN (1804). Imperial Univ. Fac. like Moscow 1804. Inst. education
1812–59. Kazanskij (later State) Univ. Fac. like Moscow 1918. W. I.
Lenin Univ. 1930. Univ. dissolved. into Inst. med., chem. -techn. 1930,
eco., law 1931, airplane construction 1932. Univ. re-established, fac.
biology, geology, physics and math., chem. 1934.
9 In 1919–20 Rabfac. (workers fac. ) were introduced in all univ.; in 1930–31 all univ. were
dissolved into separate disciplinary inst., but in 1932–33 restored (without med. fac.).
10 C. G. Mor and P. di Pietro, Storia dell’Università di Modena (Florence, 1975), vol. I,
169–75.

682
A chronological list

CHARKOV (1804). Imperial Univ. Fac. like Moscow 1805. Inst. educa-
tion 1811–59. State Univ. 1918. Univ. dissolved into inst. education,
med., pharm. 1932/33. Re-established, fac. physics and math., chem.,
geology, geography, biology, eco. 1934. State Univ. A. M. Gorkogo
1944.
CLERMONT-FERRAND (1805). Éc. méd. 1805. Fac. lettres 1808 (closed
1815–53), sc. 1854. Éc. droit 1913. Inst. chimie et technologie indus-
trielle (f. 1911 at Puy de Dôme) 1920 (incorporated into fac. sc. 1930).
LYON (1808). Fac. théol. 1808 (suppressed 1885), lettres, sc. 1808 (both
closed 1815–33). Éc. méd. 1808 (fac 1874). Fac. droit 1875.
ROUEN (1808). Fac. lettres 1808 (closed 1815), théol. 1808 (suppressed
1885). Éc. méd. 1821, éc. prépar. sc. et lettres 1854.
BERLIN (1810). Friedrich-Wilhelms-Univ. 1810. Sch. agr. (f. 1806,
Hochschule 1881) and sch. vet. (f. 1790, Hochschule 1887). Incor-
porated as fac. agr. and vet. 1934. Divided into two fac., math. and sc.
fac. 1936.
LJUBLJANA (1810) Univ. de Laibach within Univ. Impériale 1810. Sup-
pressed 1813. Univ. Kingdom Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia 1919.
CHRISTIANIA/OSLO (1811). Fac. history and philos., math. and sc.
1860.
WARSAW (1816). Main school, renamed Royal Univ. Fac. theol., law
and public administration, med., philos., fine arts 1817. Closed 1831.
Warsaw Main School 1862. Imperial Univ., fac. like Moscow 1869.
Closed 1905–08. (Polish) Univ. 1915. Fac. Cath. theol. 1918, Prot.
theol. Dep. Orth. theol. 1922, Fac. humanities, math. and physical sc.,
pharm., vet. 1926 (dep. 1920). Univ. closed 1939, c. 300 underground
lectures for c. 4,000 students.
LIÈGE (1816). F. by the Dutch king. Fac. philos. and lettres, law, med.,
sc. 1816. (Belgian) Univ. 1835.
GHENT (1816/17). Until 1835 like Liège. Éc. génie civil et d’arts et manu-
factures 1835, teacher training 1847. Univ. suppressed 1914–19. Flem-
ish Van Bissig Univ. 1916–18. Flemish inst. agr. 1920. Univ. teaching
bilingual 1923, Flemish 1930.
LILLE (1817). Éc. méd. 1817. Fac. sc. 1854, Fac. mixte méd. et pharm.
1875. Fac. droit et lettres transferred from Douai to Lille 1887.
BONN (1818). Maxische Akademie 1777. Closed 1798. Rheinische
Friedrich-Wilhelms-Univ. 1818. Landwirtschaftliche Hochschule Pop-
pelsdorf (teacher-training college 1847, academy of agr. 1861) incorpo-
rated as fac. agr. 1934. Fac. math. and sc. 1936.
CORFU (1823). Ionian Academy. Fac. theol., med. 1823 (closed 1828–
43). Sch. education of priests 1828. Fac. civil eng. 1837 (closed 1857),
pharm. 1841. Academy suppressed following the incorporation of
Corfu into Greece 1864.

683
Walter Rüegg

MUNICH (1826). Univ. Ingolstadt transferred to Landshut 1800, to


Munich 1826. Philos. fac. divided into sections of philos., philology and
history, of math. and sc. 1865 (fac. philos. sc. 1937), fac. vet. (academy
f. 1790) 1914.
DURHAM (1832). Univ. College. Chairs theol., math. Greek opened 1833.
College med. and surgery in Newcastle-upon-Tyne (f. 1832) incorpo-
rated as Medical Sch. 1852. Durham College physical sc. 1871, known
since 1904 as Armstrong College (both affiliated to become King’s
College 1937). Fac. commerce 1913. Ph.D. degree 1918.
ZURICH (1833). Reformed theol. academy 1525. Chairs in ethics and sc.
1558, in Swiss history and politics 1715. Inst. med. and surgery 1802.
Political inst. 1806. Univ. 1833. Philos. fac. divided into sections of
philos., philol. and hist., of math. and sc. 1859 (fac. philos. I and II
1902), fac. vet. med. 1902.
BERN (1834). Reformed theol. academy 1528. Political inst. 1787, inst.
med. 1797. Academy 1805. Univ. 1834. Philos. fac. divided into sections
of philol. and hist., math. and sc. (fac. 1921), fac. (old) Cath. theol.
(following the declaration of papal infallibility) 1874, fac. vet. 1900.
BRUSSELS Free University (1834). Univ. libre de Bruxelles f. by Free-
thinkers and Freemasons reacting against the re-establishment of the
Cath. univ. in Louvain. Fac. philos. et lettres, droit, sc., méd. 1834. Éc.
pharm. 1842. Fac. sc. appliquées 1873. Éc. sc. politiques 1889. Inst.
physiologie 1894, sociologie 1901.
KIEV (1834). Theol. academy 1632. Gymnasium in Kremenec 1805.
Lyzeum 1818. Transferred to Kiev 1832. Imperial Univ. St Vladimir.
Fac. hist. and philos., law, chairs in Greek and Roman Cath. theol.
1834. Inst. education 1834–59. Univ. closed 1839–40. Academy med.
and surgery Vilna incorporated as fac. 1842. Univ. replaced by Inst.
med., law, Inst. for People’s Education with fac. for workers providing
professional instruction, social education (separate inst. 1930), 1920.
Ukrainian state univ. 1934.
LONDON (1836). Univ. College 1826. King’s College 1828. Univ.
London, f. 1836 by Royal charter as examining institution conferring
degrees in art, law and med. 1836, enlarged by many colleges, schools
and institutes according to the University of London Act 1898.
MADRID (1836). Univ. Alcalá de Henares. Transferred to Madrid as Univ.
central de España 1836. Fac. theol. 1854 (suppressed 1868), letras y
filosofı́a, law, sc., med., pharm. 1857. Monopolizing (until 1970) right
to confer doctoral degrees.
ATHENS (1837). Sch. pharm., philological seminar 1841/42. Fac. math.
and physical sc. (including pharm.) 1904.
BELFAST (1845). Belfast Academical Institution 1814. Med. fac. 1835.
Queen’s College chartered 1845, opened 1849, associated with colleges

684
A chronological list

at Cork and Galway in the Queen’s Univ. of Ireland 1850. Constituent


college of Royal Univ. of Ireland (RUI), a purely examining body in
1879. Replacing Queen’s Univ. 1882. RUI replaced by National Univ. of
Ireland, Queen’s College constituent member of re-established Queen’s
Univ. 1908/09. Fac. sc. 1909, commerce, applied science and technology
1921, agr. 1924, theol. 1926. Sch. dentistry 1920.
MANCHESTER (1851). Owens College 1851, incorporating Manchester
Sch. of Med. 1872. Constituent college (1880) together with colleges
in Liverpool (1884) and Leeds (1887) of Victoria Univ. Chair in educa-
tion (the first in any English univ.). College 1899 (fac. 1914). Victoria
Univ. of Manchester without associated colleges 1903, but incorporat-
ing Owens College 1904. Fac. arts, science, law, med., music, theol.,
commerce.
DUBLIN (1854). Royal College of St Patrick in Maynooth (theol. sem-
inary) 1795. Cath. Univ. of Ireland, f. in Dublin, with John Henry
Newman as Rector 1854, as Univ. College Dublin constituent college
of RUI 1882 (see Belfast).
IASI (1860). Academy 1640. Academia Mihaileana 1835. Univ., fac. law,
Orth. theol. (suppressed 1864), philos. and lettres, sc. 1860, med.
1879, agr. 1932 (the latter transferred to the École polytechnique
1937).
BUCHAREST (1864). Academy in St Sava 1694. Collège national de
Saint-Sava 1818. Univ., fac. droit, philos. et lettres 1864, med. 1869,
Orth. theol. 1884, vet. 1921, pharm. 1923.
ODESSA (1864). Lycée Richelieu, f. by Tsar Alexander I (also Duc de
Richelieu) 1817. Imperial Univ. of New Russia, fac. history and philos.,
math. and sc. 1864, med. 1897 (autonomous inst. 1920). Univ. replaced
by Inst. People’s Education, Fac. professional instruction, social educa-
tion 1920. Dissolved in inst. 1930. State Univ. reopened, Fac. biology,
chem., physics and math. 1933, geology and geography, history and
philology 1940.
AGRAM/ZAGREB (1869). Jesuit Academy 1669. Regia Scientiarum
Academia 1776. Franz-Joseph I-Univ. 1869. Fac. law and eco., Cath.
theol., philos. 1874. Univ. Kingdom of Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia,
fac. med., agr. and forestry, vet., technol., philos., the latter divided
into a section of philos. and history and a section of math. and sc.
1919.
GENEVA (1872). Académie de Genève 1559, divided into fac. théol.,
lettres, droit, sc. with graduation rights 1809. Univ. 1872. Fac. med.,
1874, eco. and soc. sc. 1914. Institut universitaire des hautes études
internationales 1927. Éc. de traduction et d’ interprétation 1942.
KOLOSVAR/CLUJ (1872). Unitary college 1556. Jesuit college 1581.
Interdenominational college 1776. (Hungarian) Franz Joseph-Univ.,

685
Walter Rüegg

fac. law and eco., philos., math. and sc., med. (sch. 1775) 1872. Trans-
ferred to Szeged. (Romanian) Univ. Victor Babes 1919.
CZERNOWITZ (1875). Franz-Josefs-Univ., fac. theol., law and eco., phi-
los., math and sc. 1875. Univ. suppressed 1918. (Romanian) Univ.
1919–40.
ANGERS (1875). Fac. libres, droit 1875, lettres 1876, sc. 1877, theol.
1879. Univ. cathol. de l’Ouest 1896.
LILLE (1875). Fac. libres, lettres, sc., med., law 1875. Univ. cathol., fac.
theol., pharm. 1877, fac. catholiques 1880.
LYON (1875). Fac. libres, law 1875, théol. cathol., lettres, sc. 1876, théol.
1878, canon law 1933, philos. 1935.
PARIS (1875). Fac. libres (Institut cathol. 1880), law, lettres, sc. 1876,
theol. 1878, philos. canon law 1895.
TOULOUSE (1877). Institut cathol. 1877. Fac. libre, lettres 1878. Fac.
canoniques, théol., philos. et droit 1879. Éc. sc. 1882.
AMSTERDAM (1877). Athenaeum illustre amstelodamense 1632. Éc.
secondaire de l’ Univ. impériale 1811. Municipal Academy with univ.
status, without graduation rights. Fac. math. and sc. 1815. Full univ.
status 1877. Fac. commercial sc. 1922 (eco. 1935).
STOCKHOLM (1877). Public lectures 1863. Private Stockholms
hoegskola, chairs math., sc. 1877. Examination rights 1904. Fac. math.
and sc., law and eco. 1906, humanities 1919.
TOMSK (1878). Opened, fac. med. 1888, law 1898, history and philol-
ogy, physics and math. 1917. History and philology suppressed, law
separated as inst. and transferred to Irkutsk 1921. Divided into inst.
med. 1930, education 1931. Univ. re-established, fac. physics and math.,
biology, chem., geology and geography 1934.
AMSTERDAM Free University (1880). Fac. arts, theol., law 1880.
Degrees legally recognized 1905. Fac. math. and sc. 1930.
LlVERPOOL (1881). Private foundation of Univ. College, integrating as
fac. Liverpool Sch. Med. and incorporated by royal charter 1881. Con-
stituent college of Victoria Univ. (Manchester) 1884. dep. law, fish-
eries laboratory 1892, sch. architecture 1895, dep. secondary educa-
tion 1899. Univ. awarding degrees in arts, sc., med., law, eng., surgery,
architecture incorporated 1903.
FRIBOURG (1889). Chair in civil law 1763. Académie de droit 1818.
Fac. de droit 1882. Univ. 1889. Fac. law, philos. 1889, Cath. theol.
(controlled by Dominicans) 1890. sc. 1896.
LAUSANNE (1890). Reformed theol. Academy 1537. Fac. lettres, sc.,
law, theol. 1837. Sch. eng. (f. 1853) incorporated as technol. fac. 1869.
Univ., fac. med. 1890. Éc. sc. sociales et politiques 1901, Inst. police
scientifique, 1909, Éc. de hautes études supérieures commerciales 1911,

686
A chronological list

all sch. and inst. associated to fac. law, the first becoming independent
1930.
CARDIFF (1893). Univ. of Wales, an organization located in Cardiff,
consisting of Colleges of Wales in Aberystwyth (f. 1872), North Wales in
Bangor (f. 1884), South Wales and Monmouthshire in Cardiff (f. 1884).
Univ. College Swansea 1920. Welsh National Sch. Med. (Cardiff) 1931.
BIRMINGHAM (1900). Birmingham Royal Sch. Med. and Surgery 1828,
incorporated as Queens College 1842, integrating Sydenham College
1886, united with Mason Science College (f. by Sir Joseph Mason 1875),
incorporated as Mason Univ. College 1898. Univ. Birmingham 1900.
Ph.D. degree 1917.
ISTANBUL (1900). Madrassa 14xx, Darülfünun-i Osmani (House of Sci-
ence), 1863. Suppressed 1871. Imperial Univ. (Darülfünun-i Sultani)
1874 lectures in law, given in French. Closed 1881. Imperial Univ.
(Darülfünun-i Shahane), dep. theol., arts, math., sc., philology 1900.
Istanbul Univ. (Istanbul Darülfünunu), fac. law, med., arts, sc. 1924,
Islamic theol. 1925. Reorganized without the latter 1933.
NOTTINGHAM (1903). Cambridge Univ. extension lectures introduced
1873 into the People’s College (f. 1798). Anonymous grant for a build-
ing donated 1875. Univ. College Nottingham f. 1881, incorporated
1903.
LEEDS (1904). Yorkshire College of Science 1874. Yorkshire College
(including chairs in arts) 1878, merged 1884 with Leeds Sch. Med.
(f. 1831). Constituent college of Victoria Univ. in Manchester 1887.
Univ. dep. fuel and metallurgy 1906. Hon. sch. law 1920.
SANTANDER (1904). Seminar (SJ) donated by Marqués de Comillas
for training of Latin-American priests 1890. Univ. pontificia Comillas
1904. Reorganized 1935. Fac. philos., theol. and canon law.
SOFIA (1904). Higher School, dep. history and philology, math. and
physics 1889, law 1892 (fac. 1894). Univ. status 1904. Fac. med. 1918,
agr. 1921, theol., vet. 1923.
SHEFFIELD (1905). Merger of Sheffield Sch. Med. 1828, Firth College
1879, Sheffield Technical Sch. 1884 into Univ. College 1897. Incorpo-
rated as Univ., fac. arts, pure science, med., applied science, architecture,
education 1905.
BELGRADE (1905). Sch. of teacher training 1808. Lyzeum 1838. Col-
lege level, chairs in philos., law, technical sc. 1863. Univ. status 1905.
Univ. Kingdom of Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia, fac. philos., law, Serbo-
Orthodox theol., agr., med. 1919.
ROME Institutum Pontificum Internationale ‘Angelicum’ (1908). Colle-
gio di San Tommaso 1580. Fac. theol. with graduation rights for exter-
nal students 1727, fac. philos. 1892, canon law 1896. Univ. status 1908.

687
Walter Rüegg

BRISTOL (1909). Merger of Bristol Medical Sch. (f. 1833) and Univ.
College (f. 1876), 1893. Univ., fac. arts, science, eng., med. 1909, law
1933.
NEUCHÂTEL (1909). Academy, f. by Frederick William III, King of Prus-
sia and Prince of Neuchâtel 1838. Suppressed 1848. Re-established by
the canton, fac. law, lettres, sc. 1866, reformed theol. 1873, medical
prep. studies 1896. Univ. 1909.
SARATOW (1909). Imperial Nikolai-Univ., med. fac. 1909. Saratow
State Univ., fac. med., edu., soc. sc., law (suppressed 1924), eco. (sup-
pressed 1926) 1920. Univ. divided into inst. med., law, education, eco.
and finance, soviet development, planning, technol. 1930/31. Univ. re-
established, fac. biology, chem., physics and math., geology 1934.
REYKJAVIK (1911). Theol. seminary 1847, med. sch. 1876. Univ. Iceland,
fac. theol., law, med., philos. 1911.
PORTO (1911). Sch. navigation 1762, Royal sch. eng. and navigation
1779, Royal navy and commercial academy 1805, sch. surgery 1825,
pharm., med. 1836. Academia Politecnica 1837. Universidade do Porto
1911. Philos. 1918 (suppressed 1925).
DEBRECZEN (1912). Calvinist College 1538. Stefan Tisza Univ., fac.
theol., law, philos. 1912.
FRANKFURT AM MAIN (1914). Academy of soc. and commercial sc.,
f. by Wilhelm Merton 1901. Merged with Senckenberg med. and sci-
ence insts. (f. 18th c.), into autonomous Univ., recognized by the Prus-
sian State, fac. law, med., philos., sc., eco. and soc. sc. 1914. Johann-
Wolfgang-Goethe-Univ. 1932.
MURCIA (1915). Ineffective suppression 1929.
ROSTOV ON THE DON (1915). Don University for students and teach-
ers evacuated from Warsaw 1915. Don State Univ., fac. edu. (including
physics and math.), soc. sc. (including law and eco.), med. 1920. Univ.
divided into inst. med., eco. and finance, edu. 1930/31. Re-established,
fac. geology, physics and math., chem., biology, evacuated to Osch
(Khirgizia) 1942. Returned to Rostov 1944.
Å BO (TURKU) (1917). Åbo Academy, f. by Swedish-speaking donors,
fac. sc., humanities, pol. sc. 1917, opened 1919, chemical technol.
1920, theol. 1924, associating higher commercial school 1927.
PERM (1917). Dep. of Univ. St Petersburg 1916. Autonomous 1917. State
Univ., fac. med., agr., edu. 1920. Divided in inst. according to fac. 1930.
Reopened, fac. biology, chem., physics and math., geology 1932.
TIFLIS (1918). Georgian Univ. (private) 1918. State Univ, fac. education
(former fac. philos., sc.), med., soc. sc. 1920. Univ. divided into inst.
edu., med., agr., 1930. Univ. re-established, fac. math, biology, geog-
raphy, geology, 1933, Georgian linguistics, literature and history 1934,
physics 1935.

688
A chronological list

JEKATERINOSLAW/DNJEPROPETROWSK (1918). Higher med. sch.


for women 1916. Univ., fac. history and philology, physics and math.,
law 1918. Univ. divided into inst. social edu., professional edu., physi-
cal, chem. math. sc. 1930. Univ re-established, fac. physics and math.,
chem., geology, biology, eco. 1933. Univ. suppressed 1941–44.
NISNIJ-NOWGOROD/GORKIJ (1918). State univ., fac. med., mechan-
ics, chem. 1920. Univ. divided into inst. med., mechanics, 1930. Re-
established, fac. biology, chem., physics and math. 1932.
SMOLENSK (1918). State univ., fac. med., edu. (both autonomous inst.
1930) 1918. Communist univ. 1930.
PETROGRAD/LENINGRAD (1918). Communist Zinov’ev University
1921. I. V. Stalin University 1926.
MOSCOW II (1918). Higher studies for women 1872 (suspended 1886–
1900). Second State Univ., fac. med., chem. and pharm., edu. 1918.
Univ. disbanded, fac. transformed into inst. 1930.
IRKUTSK (1918). State univ., fac. med., soc. sc., edu. 1918. Univ.
disbanded, fac. transformed into inst. soviet development 1930/31.
Reopened as East Siberian State Univ., fac. biology, geology and geog-
raphy, physics and math. 1931.
TASCHKENT (1918). Turkestan People’s Univ. 1918 (first Middle-Asiatic
univ.). Fac. med., agr., irrigation eng., physics and math., soc. sc.
1923. Univ. disbanded into inst. med., industry, edu., agr., eco. and
finance, irrigation eng., 1930/31. Univ. reopened, fac. biology, physics
and math., chem. 1932.
WORONESH (1918). Univ. transferred from Tartu (Dorpat) to
Woronesh. Fac. med., history and philology, physics and math., law
(soc. sc. 1919) 1918. Univ. divided into inst. med., edu., eco. 1930/31.
Univ. reopened, fac. biology, chem., physics and math., geology and
geography 1932.
WARSAW Free Polish Univ. (1919). Private College 1906. Fac. math.
and sc., humanities, political and soc. sc., pedagogy 1919, administra-
tion 1921, social and educational work 1925, municipal administration
1927. 4 facs. in Lódz 1928. Free Univ. of Poland 1933. Univ. closed
1939–45, underground lectures.
BAKU (1919). State University (teaching in Russian and Turkish), fac.
med., history and philology (both autonomous inst. 1930), physics and
math. 1919. S. M. Kirow Univ., fac. soc. sc., chem., biology, physics
and math. 1934.
BRNO (1919). Masaryk-Univ., fac. law, med. 1919, sc. 1920, philos.
1921. Suppressed 1939–45.
HAMBURG (1919). Colonial Inst. 1895. Univ. (Hansische Univ. 1933–
45), fac. law and eco., med., philos., sc. 1919. Inst. environmental
research 1926.

689
Walter Rüegg

POZNAN (1919). Fac. eco. and law, philos. 1919, med. 1920, agr. and
forestry 1922, Fac. philos. divided into humanist fac. and fac. math.
and sc. 1924. Univ. closed, underground lectures 1939–44. Reichsuniv.
Posen, open to Germans only, 1941–44.
RIGA (1919). Polytechnic 1862. Univ. of Latvia, fac. agr. and forestry,
chem., civil and mechanical eng., architecture, philology and phi-
los., theol., med. and dentistry, vet., math. and sc., law, eco.
1919.
MOSCOW (1919). Communist M. Sverdlov-Univ.
LUBLIN Cath. Univ. (1920). F. by Warsaw episcopate 1918, confirmed
by papal brief, fac. theol., canon law, law and eco. and soc. sc., human-
ities 1920. Authorized by government to award degrees 1938. Closed,
underground lectures 1939–44.
TURKU (1920). Private Finnish Univ. 1920. Fac. sc., humanities 1922,
med. (financed by the state) 1943.
MILAN Univ. Cattolica del Sacro Cuore (1920). Libera Università 1924,
associating inst. teacher training 1925. Fac. law, lettere e filosofia 1926,
pol., eco. and commercial sc. (sch. 1926) 1932, statistics (sch. 1932)
1944.
SAMARA/KUJBYSHEW (1920). Municipal univ., fac. med. 1920. Trans-
formed into inst. 1930.
JEKATERINOSLAW/SWERDLOWSK (1920). Min. inst. 1916. State
Univ., fac. med. (inst. 1925), chem. and metallurgy, mining and geol-
ogy 1920. Transformed into Ural Polytechnic 1925. Univ. reopened,
fac. physics and math., chem., geology 1931. Renamed A. M. Gorkij
Univ. 1936.
EREWAN (1920). Fac. med., agr., eng., soc. sc. (all transformed into inst.
1930) 1920. Univ. reopened, fac. history and philology, eco., chem.,
physics and math., biology, geology and geography, law 1933.
MINSK (1921). Belarus State Univ., fac. med., edu., soc. sc. 1921. Divided
into inst. med. 1930, law, eco., edu., polytechnics 1931. Univ. reopened,
fac. biology, chem., physics and math. 1934.
MOSCOW (1921). Communist Univ. for Western national minorities.
MOSCOW (1921). Communist Univ. for Eastern populations.
VALLETTA (1921). Jesuit College 1592. Sch. of anatomy 1674. Univ. sta-
tus 1769. Univ. of Malta 1921. Fac. literature, sc., eng. and architecture,
law, theol., med.
PECS (1921). Studium generale 1367. Ceased to exist c. 1400. Academy
of phil. and law in Györ (Raab) 1777. Transferred to Pécs 1785/1802.
Univ. of Poszony/Bratislava transferred to Pécs 1921, fac. Prot. theol.,
law and pol. sc., med., philos. (suppressed 1940) 1923.
SZEGED (1921). Univ. Kolosvar/Cluj transferred to Szeged, fac. law and
pol. sc., med., philos. 1921.

690
A chronological list

KAUNAS/KOWNO (1922). Private inst. with higher studies 1920.


Lithuanian State Univ., fac. theol. and philos., humanities, law, sc.,
med., technol. 1922. Suppressed 1939. (Soviet) State university 1940.
WLADIWOSTOK (1923). Univ. of the Far East, fac. oriental languages
(inst. f. 1899), edu., eng., agr. 1923. Univ. disbanded, fac. eng., agr.
transformed into inst. 1930. Univ. reopened, fac. oriental languages,
physics, chem. 1932. Univ. closed 1939, students transferred to Tomsk,
Swerdlowsk, Woronesh.
NIJMEGEN (1923). Cath. Univ., fac. philos., theol., law 1923.
BARI (1923). Jesuit college 1580 (dissolved 1767). Royal college 1770.
Lyceum granting lower degrees 1816. Univ. (Cat. B 1923), fac. med. and
surgery 1923, law 1925, pharm. (sch. f. 1923) 1933, eco. and commerce
(inst. f. 1886) 1935.
MILAN (1924). Accademia scientifico-letteraria 1859. Univ., fac. law, let-
tere e filosofia, med., sc. 1924, vet. (sch. f. 1891) 1933, agr. (inst. f. 1870)
1935.
TRIESTE (1924). Higher commercial sch., f. by Baron Pasquale
Revoltella 1877. Inst. eco. and business admin. 1920. Univ. degli studi
economici e commerciali (cat. B 1924). Univ. degli Studi, fac. law and
pol. sc. 1938, naval. eng. 1942, lettere e filosofia 1943.
THESSALONIKI (1925). Law sch. 1907–12. Greek univ. 1925. Fac. phi-
los. 1926, law and eco. 1927/29, math. and sc. 1928, agr. and forestry
1937, theol., med. 1941/42.
READING (1926). Univ. Extension College, set up to provide Oxford
extension lectures in science and arts 1892. Reading College 1898.
Univ. College 1902. Univ., fac. letters, science, agr. and horticulture
1926.
SAMARKAND (1933). State Univ. of Uzbekistan, fac. med., eco., physics
and math., chem., sc. and biology, humanities 1933.
AARHUS (1934). Private Univ., subsidized by city and state 1928. Univ.
status, fac. humanities, med., law and eco. 1934.
ALMA-ATA (1934). Cossack State S. M. Kirow Univ., fac. chem., physics,
biology 1934.
SALAMANCA Univ. Pontificia (1940). Fac. theol., canon law.

other important institutions of


higher learning
BRAUNSCHWEIG, Tech. (1745), Collegium Carolinum for the study of
technics and science 1745 (military academy during the French wars),
restored 1814; dep. eng., trade and humanities, Herzogliche Polytech-
nische Hochschule 1862, Technische Hochschule Carolo-Wilhelmina
1877, graduation rights 1900, dep. aeronautics 1936.

691
Walter Rüegg

SCHEMNIZ/SELMECBÁNYA BANSKÁ ŠTIAVNICA, Min. (1763),


Sch. of min. at Schemnitz/Selmecbánya 1735, Academy of min. 1770,
Academy of min. and forestry 1836, Royal Hungarian college of
min. and forestry, dep. min., non-ferrous metallurgy, iron and steel
eng., mechanical eng., architecture, forestry; disbandment of the
College, min., metallurgy and forestry transferred to Sopron and then
to Miskolc, while non-Hungarian elements remained as a professional
school 1919/20.
FREIBERG, Min. (1765), Saxonian Academy of Min. 1765, Technische
Hochschule 1899, doctoral degrees 1905.
ST PETERSBURG, Min. (1773), Mining sch. 1773, Mining Inst. 1834,
reorganized 1866.
VIENNA, Vet. (1777), Pferdekuren- und Operationsschule (sch. of equine
med. and surgery) 1765, (teaching) vet. hospital 1777, univ. dep. of
vet. 1812; autonomous 1852, K. K. Militär-Tierarznei-Institut und
Tierärztliche Hochschule (military vet. inst. and vet. Hochschule) 1897,
graduation rights 1908, Tierärztliche Hochschule 1919.
COPENHAGEN, Vet./agr. (1777), Private vet. college 1773, royal char-
ter in 1777, Kongelige Veterinaer- og Landbohøjskole 1858, fac. basic
science, dairy and food science 1921.
KASSA/KASCHAU/KOSICE, Law (1777); Studium generale 1657, Uni-
versitas Cassoviensis 1660, Academie regia, chairs in law and philoso-
phy 1777, Royal Law Academy 1850, closed 1919.
HANOVER, Vet. (1778), Tier-Arzneischule 1778, Tierärztliche Hoch-
schule 1887, doctoral degree 1910.
PARIS, Tech. (1794), École Centrale des Travaux Publics 1794.
PARIS, Tech. (1795), Bureau des dessinateurs 1747, École des ponts et
chaussées 1775, École nationale des ponts et chaussées 1794/95.
PARIS, Tech. (1795), École polytechnique.
PARIS, Phil. (1794), École normale (School for higher teacher training)
1794, closed after four months of tumultuous activities 1794, replaced
by a Pensionnat normal (housing candidates for professorships study-
ing at the Collège de France, the École polytechnique, the Muséum
d’histoire naturelle) 1808, closed and replaced by regional ecoles nor-
males 1822, École préparatoire 1826, École Normale 1830 (École Nor-
male Supérieure 1845), associated with the university for academic
examinations 1903; Ecole normale supérieure de jeunes filles in Sévres
1881.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1797), Orthodox Seminary.
KASAN, Theol. (1798). Orthodox Seminary.
MOSCOW, Med. (1798); schools in military hospitals 1708, 1733,
Academy med. and surgery 1798, dep. med., pharm., vet. 1808.

692
A chronological list

BERLIN, Tech. (1799). Bauakademie 1799. Technische Schule 1821,


Gewerbeinstitut 1827, – akademie 1866, Technische Hochschule 1879;
Habilitation rights conferred 1884, doctoral degrees 1899; incorpo-
rating min. academy (f. 1770) 1913/16; organized along fac. lines
1922, fac. general sc. (including math., physics, eco.), civil, mechan-
ical (including electrotech., naval aerotech.) eng.
KALINKIN, Med. (1802), med. -surgery sch. 1783, Imp. medico-surgical
Inst. 1802.
ST PETERSBURG, Agr. (1803), Imperial Inst. of Forestry 1803.
BAMBERG, Theol. (1803), theol. Academy with univ. rights 1648, Hochs-
chule für Philosophie. u. Theologie 1803, with sch. med. -surgery 1809;
Philos. -Theol. Hochschule f. trainee priests 1923, closed 1939–45.
ST PETERSBURG, Med. (1808), two med. sch. in military hospitals 1733,
Academy med. and surgery 1798, opened 1800, Imperial Academy
1808, dep. med., pharm., vet.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1809), Inst. road and water eng. Emperor
Alexander I 1809, reorganized 1842, special Inst. 1866.
PISA, Phil. (1810), Scuola Normale (Superiore) adopting the Paris model
1810, suppressed 1813, re-established 1846, reorganized 1928/33.
MOSCOW, Eco. (1810), Academy of commercial sc., f. by Society of
Moscow wholesale traders and merchants.
GRAZ, Tech. (1811), Joanneum f. by Archduke Johann for edu. in nat-
ural and technical sc. 1811, Technische Hochschule 1864, sch. civil,
mechanical eng., chem., agr. 1871/2, K. u. K. Technische Hochschule
1874, graduation rights 1901.
EPERJES/PREŠOV, Theol. (1811), Studium generale 1665, Law academy
of the reformed church 1811, Academy of ref. theol., associating fac.
law and public administration, teacher-training college 1873, Academy
suppressed 1919.
MOSCOW, Theol. (1814), Hellenic-Slavonic theol. sch. 1685, Slavonic-
Greek-Latin Academy 1701, Orthodox Seminary 1814.
PRAGUE, Tech. (1815), Professorships in military and civil eng., associ-
ated with a chair of eng. at the univ. 1717, Polytechnic at the univ. along
the lines of the Éc. polytechnique 1806, independent 1815, reorganized
1829–32, divided into sections 1836; German and Czech Polytechnics
1868; Deutsche Technische Hochschule 1879 (suppressed 1945) and
Ceská vysoká škola technická 1879; Czech Polytechnic 1920, closed
1939–45.
MOSCOW, Phil. (1815), Lazarow Inst. Oriental languages 1815.
VIENNA, Tech. (1815), Polytechnisches. Inst. 1815, Technische
Hochschule 1872, dep. civil, mechanical eng., architecture, chem.,
math. and physics (fac. 1928), graduation rights 1901.

693
Walter Rüegg

WARSAW, Agr. (1816), Inst. at Marimont near Warsaw 1816, transferred


to Nowaja Alexandrija 1861.
STOCKHOLM, Med. (1816), Collegium medicorum, right to examine
medical practitioners (later also to teach) 1663, Kongliga Karolinska
Medico-Chirurgiska Institutet 1810, Karolinska Institutet 1816.
PARIS, Min. (1816), Éc. des mines, 1783, closed 1790, re-established
1794, sch. for iron and coal in Geiserlautern (Saarland), for copper
and salt in Pesey (Savoy) 1802–1814/5; Éc. des mines in Paris 1816.
HOHENHEIM, Agr. (1818), Royal College of agr. edu. and research
1818, Academy 1847, Landwirtschaftliche Hochschule 1904.
KIEV, Theol. (1819), Sch. of Slavonic, Latin and Polish Writ f. 16th c.,
Orthodox seminary 1819.
KARLSRUHE, Tech. (1825), Weinbrenner’s Bauschule (Sch. of architec-
ture 1800), Tulla’s Ingenieurschule (Sch. of eng. 1808), Polytechnic
along the lines of the Ecole polytechnique 1825, Polytechnische
Hochschule 1865, Technische Hochschule, dep. architecture, civil,
mechanical, electrical eng., chemistry (incl. pharm.), general edu. 1885,
graduation rights 1889.
BREDA, Mil. (1826), Military school 1826, closed 1830–36, transferred
temporarily to Bandoeng (Dutch East Indies) 1940.
STOCKHOLM, Tech. (1827), Modeellkammaren and Mekaniska skolan
(vocational schools) 1798, Academy 1813, Kungliga Teknologiska
Institutet 1827, Kungliga Tekniska Högskolan 1876, graduation rights
1927.
DRESDEN, Tech. (1828), Eng. academy 1742, Artillery sch. 1766, Mili-
tary academy 1816, Technical college 1828, Polytechnische Schule 1851,
Polytechnikum 1871, Technische Hochschule, dep. architecture, civil,
mechanical, chemical eng., general sc. 1890, graduation rights 1900,
incorporating teacher-training college 1924, college forestry (f. 1786)
incorporated as faculty 1941.
DEN HELDER, Mil. (1829), Royal Naval Inst. at Medemblik 1829,
attached to Military Academy at Breda 1850–54, transferred to Willem-
soord near Den Helder 1854, closed 1940–45.
STUTTGART, Tech. (1829), Military academy 1773, Hohe Karls-Schule
1775, univ. status 1781; suppressed 1794, United grammar, modern and
vocational school 1829, Polytechnic 1840, Technische Hochschule, dep.
architecture, civil, mechanical, chemical eng., math. and sc., general
edu. 1876, inst. electrical eng., physics and chemistry 1895, X-rays
1922.
COPENHAGEN, Tech. (1829), Danmarks Tekniske Højskole 1829.
HANOVER, Tech. (1831), Gewerbeschule (secondary level vocational
school) 1828, Höhere Gewerbeschule 1831, Polytechnische Schule

694
A chronological list

1847, Technische Hochschule 1879, doctoral degrees 1899, fac. general


sc., civil, mechanical eng. 1922.
NAMUR, Phil. (1831), Collège (1831) and Fac. univ. Notre Dame de la
Paix (SJ), fac. philos. et lettres, sc. 1833, candidature degree 1929.
MOSCOW, Tech. (1832), Polytechnic, dep. mechanics, technology 1832,
Moskovskoje Techniceskoje ucilisce 1912, Moskovskoje vysscheje
techni ceskoje ucilisce 1920.
MADRID, Tech. (1835), Escuela de ingenieros de caminos, canales y puer-
tos.
MADRID, Min. (1835), Escuela de ingenieros de minas.
CHEMNITZ, Tech. (1836), Sch. technical drawing 1796, Kgl. Gewer-
beschule (Royal crafts school) 1836, Gewerbeakademie 1900, Staatliche
Akademie für Technik 1929.
LEOBEN, Min. (1840), Mining academy at Vordernberg 1840, at Leoben
1849, Bergakademie 1861, Montanistische Hochschule, graduation
rights 1904, affiliated to Technische Hochschule Graz 1935–37.
WARSAW, Vet. (1840), Vet. Inst. 1840, transferred to Nowtscherkassk
1915.
DELFT, Tech. (1842), Royal academy for civil eng. 1842, Royal polytech-
nic, dep. technology, civil, structural, naval, mechanical and min. eng.
1864, Technische Hogeschool 1905.
ST PETERSBURG, Theol. (1842), Roman Catholic Seminary transferred
from Wilna to St Petersburg.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1842), sch. architecture 1842, Inst. civil eng.,
dep. architecture, civil eng. 1882.
MADRID, Tech. (1844), Escuela de Arquitectura.
LEMBERG/LWÓW, Tech. (1844), Realschule (Modern sch.), the first in
Galicia 1817, divided into technical and commercial disciplines 1835,
Academy 1844, Technische Hochschule 1872, suppressed 1939.
MOSCOW, Agr. (1845), Academy of agr. at Petrovskoje Razumowskoje
1845, agr. inst., dep. agr., hydrotechnics 1891, fisheries 1913.
VILLAVICIOSA DE ODÓN, Min. (1846), Escuela de ingenieros de
montes 1846, transferred to El Escorial 1870.
DORPAT/TARTU, Vet. (1848), Inst. vet. 1848.
BRNO, Tech. (1849), (German) Polytechnic 1849, Technisches lnstitut
1867/70, K. u. K. Deutsche Technische Hochschule, sch. civil, mechan-
ical, chemical eng., general studies 1873, suppressed 1945, Czech Poly-
technic 1899, suppressed 1939–45.
CHARKOW, Vet. (1850), Inst. vet 1850.
MADRID, Tech. (1850), Escuela de ingenieros industriales.
SALZBURG, Tech. (1850), Univ. 1620/5, Lyzeum 1810, sections of philos.
(suppressed 1850), Tech., turned into fac. 1850, closed 1938–45.

695
Walter Rüegg

VIENNA, Theol. (1850), Protestant theol. college 1819/20, fac. 1850,


graduation rights 1861.
BUDAPEST, Vet. (1851), chair in vet. at med. univ. fac. 1786; autonomous
status 1851, Hungarian vet. academy 1890, integrated into Polytechnic
Univ. 1934.
ANTWERP, Eco. (1852), Institut supérieur de commerce de l’Etat.
KAMPEN, Theol. (1854), Reformiert-theol. Hochschule (Reformed the-
ological college) 1854.
ZURICH, Tech. (1855), Eidgenössische Polytechnische Schule (Eidgen-
össiche Technische Hochschule 1911), dep. (Abteilungen) architecture,
civil, mechanical, chem. eng., forestry general education 1855, dep.
physics and mathematics 1866, agr. 1871, military sc. 1899, pharmacy
1908, electrical eng. 1935 (all dep. excepting ‘general education’ since
doctoral degrees 1908/9).
ARANJUEZ, Agr. (1855), Escuela general de agricultura 1855, transferred
to Madrid 1869.
BUDAPEST, Tech. (1856), Institutum geometrico-hydrotechnicum, 1782,
vocational sch. 1846, Joseph Polytechnicum 1856, Polytechnic Joseph
Univ. 1871, Polytechnic and economic Univ. József Palatin 1934, sup-
pressed 1945.
MILAN, Tech. (1862), Reale Istituto tecnico superiore, incorporating
Scuola di applicazione per ingegneri cvili 1862, section of architecture
1865 (fac. 1933), sch. electrical eng. 1897, research laboratory on paper
1897, on textiles, on fuel 1908, R. Politecnico di Milano 1923.
RIGA, Tech. (1862), Polytechnic Inst. Emperor Alexander II along the
lines of German Technische Hochschule, dep. agr., chem., civil mechan-
ical eng., architecture, trade 1862, teaching in German, from 1870 in
Russian until 1917, incorporated into Latvian univ. 1919, suppressed
1939, Riga Polytechnic 1944/45.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1862), technical sch. 1828, Technological Inst.
Emperor Nicholas I, dep. mechanics, chem. 1862.
CLAUSTHAL, Min. (1864), Sch. for higher officials supervising the
Oberharz mines 1775, reorganized as min. school 1810, divided into
Bergschule and Bergakademie 1864, the latter granted graduation
rights 1897, university status 1912, suppressed 1939–45.
ST PETERSBURG, Agr. (1864), agr. inst. ‘Gory Gorezklije’ at Gorki 1843,
transferred to St Petersburg 1864.
ST PETERSBURG, Phil. (1867), Imperial Inst. History and Philosophy
(college for teacher training) 1867.
VENICE, Eco. (1868), Studium generale 1470 remaining ineffective
because of Padua, Istituto universitario di economia e comercio e di lin-
gue e letterature straniere 1868, Istituto superiore di architectura 1926.

696
A chronological list

PARIS, Phil. (1868), Ecole pratique des Hautes Études, sections in history
and philology, math., physics and chem., natural sc. (the latter three
only nominal) 1868, religion 1886.
MUNICH, Tech. (1868), Central polytechnic 1827, Polytechnische Schule
1868, dep. general science, architecture, civil, mechanical eng., chem.,
agr. 1872, Bayerische Technische Hochschule 1877, graduation rights
1901, incorporating Handelshochschule (Trade academy, f. 1910), as
dep. ec. 1922, Brewing and agr. school (f. 1803 in Weihenstephan) as
dep. brewing 1928.
AACHEN, Tech. (1870), Polytechnic, f. thanks to David Hansemann
1865, opened 1870, Technische Hochschule, dep. (Abteilungen) archi-
tecture, civil, mechanical eng., chem., min. and metallurgy, math., natu-
ral and general sc. 1879/80, graduation rights 1899, lectures suspended
1939/40.
PARIS, Pol. (1872), Private f. Éc. libre des sc. politiques.
VIENNA, Agr. (1872), Sch. forestry in Mariabrunn 1813, Hochschule
für Bodenkultur (culture of the soil) in Vienna 1872, incorporating
agr. section of Mariabrunn sch. as department 1878, graduation rights
1906.
VIENNA, Phil. (1873), Oriental Academy 1867, Inst. of oriental lan-
guages (Arabic, Persian, Turkish, Serbian, Russian, Bulgarian) 1873,
Public Inst. of oriental languages (including Modern Greek, Albanian,
Romanian, Spanish) 1920.
KASAN, Vet. (1873), Vet. inst. 1873.
NESHIN (Ukraine), Phil. (1875), Gymnasium, f. by Prince Bezborodko
1805, Lyzeum 1832, Historical-philosophical Inst. (status of univ. fac.)
1875.
DARMSTADT, Tech. (1877), Building sch. 1812, merged with Modern
sch. 1821, Higher vocational sch. 1836, Polytechnic 1868, Hessische
Technische Hochschule 1877, graduation rights 1899.
WAGENINGEN, Agr. (1877), Rijkslandbouwschool (State agr. sch.)
1877, dep. agr., colonial agr. 1880, forestry 1885, colonial forestry
1890, State college agr. and forestry 1896. State college of agr., hor-
ticulture and forestry 1904, Rijkslandbouwhogeschool (agr. Univ.)
1918.
CHARKOW, Tech. (1885), Inst. technology Emperor Alexander III, dep.
mechanics, chem., 1885.
ATHENS, Tech. (1887), Sunday-school for technical education of fore-
men in building construction 1836, section of Fine Arts college 1843,
Sch. industrial arts, fac. civil eng., mechanics, geometry 1887, reorga-
nized, fac. architecture, chem., topography, mechanical, electrical, civil
eng. 1915, Techn. Univ. 1929.

697
Walter Rüegg

NAPLES, Phil. (1888), Collegio dei Cinesi, f. by Matteo Ripa, former


missionary in China, 1708–23, recognized by papal bull 1732. Istituto
universitario orientale 1888.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1891), technical sch. of Post and Telegramme
Office 1868, Electrotech. Inst., dep. electrotechnics, electromechanics,
telegraph and telephone technology 1891.
LONDON, Tech. (1893), City and Guilds of London Institute for the
Advancement of Technical Education 1878, Finsbury Technical School
1884, Central Technical College 1893.
PRIBRAM, Min. (1894), Min. sch. 1849, univ. status as Bergakademie
1894, Montanistische Hochsch. 1904, Vysoká skola bánska v Prı́brami
1919, suppressed 1939–45.
MOSCOW, Tech. (1896), Imp. Sch. of Eng. (civil eng.) 1896.
SALFORD, Tech. (1896), Working Men’s College 1858, Royal Salford
Technical Institute 1896.
TOMSK, Tech. (1896), Inst. Technology Emp. Nicholas II, opened 1900,
dep. mechanics, chem. 1900, min. 1901, road construction 1902.
ST GALLEN, Eco. (1896), Academy of commerce, transports and admin-
istration 1896, Handelshochschule 1911, graduation rights 1938.
ST PETERSBURG, Med. (1897), med. training for women 1872, closed
because of political unrest 1887, Semi-state Med. Inst. for Women 1897,
State Inst., med. fac. rights 1904.
KIEV, Tech. (1898), Polytechnical Inst. Emperor. Alexander II, dep. eng.,
mechanics, chem., agr. 1898.
BRUSSELS, Phil. (1898), the Catholic institute for philosophy (1858)
becomes Fac. univ. Saint-Louis 1898.
LEIPZIG, Eco. (1898), Handels-Hochschule, f. by Chamber of commerce
1898, incorporated 1920.
VIENNA, Eco. (1898), Handelshochschule 1872, suppressed 1877, K. u.
K. Exportakademie 1898, Hochschule für Welthandel (World Trade
College) 1919, graduation rights 1930.
VIENNA, Pol. (1898), Akademie der morgenländischen Sprachen
(Academy of Near Eastern languages) for Foreign Office staff 1754,
Konsularakademie 1898, Internationale Lehranstalt für Politik und
Volkswirtschaft (International Inst. of pol. sc. and eco.) 1920.
WARSAW, Tech. (1898), Polytechnical prep. Sch. 1826, suppressed by
Russian authorities like all other sch. in Warsaw 1832, Polytechnic
1898, Politechnika Warszwska, dep. agr., chem., civil, mechanical eng.
1915, electrotechnical eng. 1920, geodesy 1921, construction eng. 1933,
Polytechnic closed 1939, gradually opened as State College of Technol-
ogy, dep. construction-, machine-, electrical- eng., chemistry 1941/42,
closed, then destroyed 1944/45.

698
A chronological list

JEKATERINOSLAW/ SWERDLOWSK, Min. (1899), Wysscheje gornoje


Ucilisce (College of mining and foundry) 1899.
MONS, Eco. (1899), Institut supérieur de commerce et de sc. consulaires
1896; becomes Fac. univ. 1899; univ. statute 1921.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1902), Polytechnic Inst. Emperor Peter the
Great, dep. metallurgy, naval eng., electromechanics, eco. 1902, civil
eng., mechanics 1907.
MANCHESTER, Tech. (1902), Manchester Mechanics’ Institution 1824,
Technical sch. 1883, Manchester Municipal Sch. (College 1918) of
Technology 1902.
MILAN, Eco. (1902), Università Commerciale Luigi Bocconi, private uni-
versity, f. by Ferdinando Bocconi 1902, graduation rights 1906.
POZNAN, Phil. (1903), Royal Academy for further scientific education.
DANZIG, Tech. (1904), Technische Hochschule 1904, closed 1944–45.
BERLIN, Eco. (1906), Handelshochschule, f. by Berlin corporation of
merchants 1906, incorporated as Wirtschaftshochschule 1926.
MOSCOW, Eco. (1906), Commercial Academy of the Society for the Pro-
motion of Commercial Knowledge, dep. trade, technology, eco. 1906.
TURIN, Tech. (1906), Scuola di applicazione per gli ingegneri 1859,
Museo industriale for the promotion of technical education 1862, Isti-
tuto di cultura tecnica superiore 1906, sch. eng. 1923 (fac. 1935), R.
Politecnico 1935, incorporating inst. architecture as 2nd faculty 1935.
MONTAUBAN, Theol. (1907), Reformed theol. Academy 1598, closed
1685, theol. fac. of Univ. Toulouse 1808, Fac. libre de théol. protestante
1907.
MANNHEIM, Eco. (1907), Höhere Handelsakademie 1757, closed 1817,
Städtische Handelshochschule 1907, approved 1908 by the Grand
Duke, graduation rights 1929, incorporated into Heidelberg Univ.
1933–34.
NOWOTCHERKASAK, Tech. (1907), Don Polytechnical Inst. Alexej,
dep. mechanics, chem., min., agr.
HELSINKI, Tech. (1908), Technical sch. 1847, polytechnical sch. 1872,
Polytekniska Institutet 1879, Tekniska Högskolan 1908.
STOCKHOLM, Eco. (1909), Private Handelshögskolan i Stockholm
1909.
ISTANBUL, Tech. (1909), Imperial naval college eng. 1773, Civilian Tech-
nical Sch. 1883, Higher Sch. eng., dep. construction, highway and rail-
way eng., hydraulics, architecture 1909, electrical eng. 1934, mechan-
ical eng. 1940, Istanbul Teknik Üniversitesi, fac. architecture, civil,
mechanical, electrical eng. 1944.
MOSCOW, Med. (1909), Moscow Medical Sch. for Women, private, but
recognized by the state.

699
Walter Rüegg

CHARCOW, Med. (1909), Charkow Medical Sch. for Women (state insti-
tution).
BRESLAU, Tech. (1910), dep. mechanical and electrotechnical eng.,
chem. and min., general sc.
TRONDHEIM, Tech. (1910), Norges tekniske högskole.
WOLOGDA, Agr. (1911), Inst. of dairy industry for women.
HELSINKI, Eco. (1911), Private commercial sch. 1898, teaching in
Finnish, Helsinki sch. eco., in part financed by the state 1911.
ISTANBUL, Tech. (1912), Private Robert College, chartered by State of
New York for liberal arts studies 1863, Sch. eng., dep. civil, mechanical
and electrical eng. 1912.
KESZTHELY, Agr. (1912), Agr. sch. 1797, suppressed 1848, National
sch. forestry 1865, Academy 1906, univ. status 1912.
ROTTERDAM, Eco. (1913), Nederlandsche Handelshoogeschool, f. by
Rotterdam Association of Higher Business Studies 1913, recognized by
law as Nederlandsche Economische Hoogeschool, fac. eco. 1937, univ.
status 1939.
WORONESH, Agr. (1914).
MURCIA, Law (1915), Univ. conferring baccalaureate 1783, ceased to
exist c. 1804; univ. with fac. law and prep. classes 1915.
ISTANBUL, Eco. (1915), Higher trade school in Babiali 1883, then in
Beyazit, reorganized 1915 on the lines of an Ecole de hautes études
commerciales.
ST PETERSBURG, Tech. (1915), Higher technological studies for women
1906, Polytechnic, dep. architecture, construction, electromechanics,
chem. 1915.
CHARCOW, Eco. (1916), Commercial Academy, f. by the Society of
Charcow Merchants for higher commercial training 1912, Public inst.,
dep. trade, ec. 1916.
JEKATERINOSLAW/DNJEPROPETROWSK, Tech. (1916), Private
Polytechnic, f. by A. A. Press and. G. Rabinovitsch for the Jewish pop-
ulation, dep. mechanics, electrotechnics 1916.
MOSCOW, Tech. (1916), Moscow polytechnic for women (private, but
state controlled) civil eng.
ROSTOW, Med. (1916), med. training for women 1906, Med. Sch. 1916.
KIEW, Med. (1916), med. training for women 1906, Med. Sch. 1916.
UTRECHT, Vet. (1917), State Vet. Sch. (Rijksveeartsenijschool) 1820,
Univ. status 1917.
PRAGUE, Theol. (1919), Autonomous Hus Fac. Prot. theol. 1919, closed
1939–45.
BUCHAREST, Tech. (1920), Sch. eng. 1851, private sch. civil eng. 1861,
State sch. 1881, Polytechnic 1920, incorporating Sch. architecture
(f. 1897) as fac. 1938.

700
A chronological list

JAROSLAWL, Law (1920), Private Jaroslawl Sch. Higher Learning 1803,


Demidov Lyzeum 1833, Demidov Lyzeum with fac. rights 1874, Univ.
1920.
COLOGNE, Sport (1920), Deutsche Hochschule für Leibesübungen
(gymnastics) 1920, suppressed 1934.
MONS, Min. (1920), Min. sch. of the Hainaut 1837, Fac. polytechnique
1920.
NAPLES, Eco. (1920), Istituto superiore navale, f. by Chamber of Trade,
Industry and Agr. 1920, Istituto universitario navale 1931.
SOFIA, Eco. (1920), Private Svoboden Univ. along the lines of the Éc. libre
des sc. po. in Paris, linked to Inst. balkanique du Proche Orient, fac.
diplomatic and consular affairs, financial administration, commerce
1920; higher state sch. for financial and administrative science 1940.
ANTWERP, Eco. (1921), Éc. de commerce Saint-Ignace (Jesuits) 1852;
right to grant degrees 1901; extended to licence en sc. commerciales,
consulaires et maritimes, university statute 1921.
BUCHAREST, Agr. (1921), Sch. agr. 1854, univ. status 1921.
BAMBERG, Theol. (1923), Theol. academy with univ. status 1648, Col-
lege, dep. philos., theol. 1803, sch. med. and surgery 1809, Philos.
-Theol. Hochschule for trainee priests 1923, closed 1939–45.
DILLINGEN, Theol. (1923), Diocesan Collegium literarum 1549,
studium generale 1553, first Jesuit univ. in Germany 1564, Lyzeum 1803,
Philos. Theol. Hochschule 1923.
DÜSSELDORF, Med. (1923), Med. sch. 1708, Collegium anatomicum
chirurgicum 1747, fac. med. within Academy of Sc., created by the
French 1807, suppressed 1815, Academy of practical med. 1907, univ.
status 1923, graduation rights 1935.
EICHSTÄTT, Theol. (1924), Episcopal seminary Collegium Willibald-
inum 1563, suppressed 1602, Jesuit seminary 1619, suppressed 1807,
episcopal seminary 1837, Lyzeum 1843, Bischöfliche Philos. -Theol.
Hochschule 1924.
PERUGIA, Phil. (1926), Univ. italiana per gli stranieri.
BIRMINGHAM, Tech. (1927), The Birmingham and Midland Inst. 1854,
Municipal Technical Inst. 1895, Central Technical College 1927.
ATHENS, Agr. (1929), Higher school of agr. 1910, university status
1929.
LISBON, Tech. (1930), Sch. vet. 1830, Higher inst. agr. 1852, Higher inst.
eco. and finance 1913, Higher inst. eng., Inst. agr. 1911, Universidade
Técnica de Lisboa 1930.
ROME, Theol. (1931), Theol. and philos. fac. of the Gregoriana devoted
to the training of Roman priests 1773, fac. civil and canon law
1853; transferred to the Lateran 1913, Ateneo del Pontificio Seminario
Romano Maggiore 1931.

701
Walter Rüegg

POSZONY/PRESSBURG/BRATISLAVA, Theol. (1934), Lutheran


Lyceum 1606, Ev. and theol. academy 1881, State fac. Prot. theol.
1934, incorporated into the Slovak univ. at Bratislava 1940.
MAASTRICHT, Theol. (1934), Jesuit sch. theol. at Culemborg 1850,
transferred to Maastricht 1852, pontifical graduation rights 1932, Jesuit
fac. theol. Collegium Canisium 1934, co-operating with the philos. fac.
in Nijmegen.
NIJMEGEN, Phil. (1934), Lectures in philos. (S. J) 1845, philos. fac. at
Velp 1866, at Nijmegen 1929, pontifical graduation rights 1932, Col-
legium Berchmanianum 1934.
ATHENS, Pol. (1936), Private Éc. libre des sc. pol., éco. et soc. 1930,
State sch. pol. sc., univ. status, sections of pol. and historical sc., eco.
and soc. sc. 1936/37.
SVISTOV, Eco. (1936), Higher sch. commerce Dimiter Apostolov Cenov,
based on the model of the Berlin Handelshochschule, dep. financial
administration and banking, co-operatives and insurance.
TRNAVA, Theol. (1936), Cath. theol. fac. 1936, incorporated into Slovak
(=Comenius) univ. at Bratislava 1940.
IASI Tech. (1937), dep. chem. and electricity 1912, Institutul Politechnic
‘Gheorghe Asachi’ 1937.
BRATISLAVA, Tech. (1939), Slovak technical univ. in Kosice 1937, not
opened, transferred to Bratislava 1939.
TILBURG, Eco. (1939), Private Cath. teacher-training college in
Amsterdam 1912, transferred to s’Hertogenbosch 1913, associated with
local Higher commercial sch. 1916, both transferred to Tilburg 1918,
Cath. College eco. 1938, univ. status 1939.
FULDA, Theol. (1939), Pontifical seminary succeeding the monastic sch.,
f. in the 8th c., 1548, academic Lyzeum 1803, episcopal seminary
with fac. philos. 1814, closed 1874–86, Philos.–Theol. Hochschule
1939.
SAROM, Theol. (1940), Theol. Inst. in Turin 1904, Pontificio Ateneo
Salesiano 1940.
PARIS, Pol. (1944/45), Éc d’administration at the Collège de France 1848,
Éc. nationale d’administration 1944/45.

a l p h a b e t i c a l l i s t o f tow n s w i t h i m p o rta n t
institutions of higher learning
Aachen, Tech. (1870) Aix-En-Provence (1409)
Aarhus (1934) Alcalá De Henares (1499)
Aberdeen (1495) Alma-Ata (1934)
Åbo/Turku (1917) Amsterdam (1877); Free Univ.
Agram/Zagreb (1869) (1880)

702
Alphabetical list

Angers (1875) Charkow (1804); Vet. (1850);


Antwerp, Eco. (1921) Tech. (1885); Med. (1909);
Aranjuez, Agr. (1855) Eco. (1916)
Athens (1837); Tech. (1887); Chemnitz, Tech. (1836)
Agr. (1929); Pol. (1936) Christiania/Oslo (1811)
Baku (1919) Clausthal, Min. (1864)
Bamberg, Theol. (1803); Theol. Clermont-Ferrand (1805)
(1923) Cluj see Kolosvar
Banská Štiavnica, see Schemnitz Coimbra (1308)
Barcelona (1450) Cologne (1388); Cologne, Sport
Bari (1923) (1920)
Basle (1459) Copenhagen (1475); Vet./Agr.
Belfast (1845) (1777); Tech. (1829)
Belgrade (1905) Corfu (1823)
Berlin, Tech. (1799); (1810); Cracow (1364/1400)
Eco. (1906) Czernowitz (1875)
Berne (1834) Danzig, Tech. (1904)
Besançon (1691) Darmstadt, Tech. (1877)
Birmingham (1900); Tech. (1927) Debreczen (1912)
Bologna (end 12th c.) Delft, Tech. (1842)
Bonn (1818) Den Helder, Mil. (1829)
Bordeaux (1441) Dijon (1722)
Bratislava/Poszony/Pressburg Dillingen, Theol. (1923)
(1465); Theol. (1934); Dorpat/Tartu (1632); Vet. (1848)
Tech. (1939) Douai (1559)
Braunschweig, Tech. (1745) Dresden, Tech. (1828)
Breda, Military (1826) Dublin, Trinity College (1592);
Breslau/Wroclaw (1702); Univ. of Ireland (1854)
Tech. (1910) Durham (1832)
Bristol (1909) Düsseldorf, Med. (1923)
Brno (1919); Tech. (1849) Edinburgh (1582/83)
Brussels (1834); Phil. (1898). Eichstätt, Theol. (1924)
Bucharest (1864); Tech. (1920); Eperjes/Prešov, Theol. (1811)
Agr. (1921) Erewan (1920)
Budapest (1395); Vet. (1851); Erfurt (1379)
Tech. (1856) Erlangen (1743)
Burgo de Osma (1555) Escorial, El (1587)
Caen (1432) Fermo (1585)
Cagliari (1606) Ferrara (1391)
Cambridge (1209–25) Florence (1349)
Camerino (1727) Franeker (1585)
Cardiff (1893) Frankfurt am Main (1914)
Catania (1444) Freiberg, Min. (1765)

703
Walter Rüegg

Freiburg im Breisgau (1457) Kiel (1665)


Fribourg (1889) Kiev (1834); Tech. (1898); Theol.
Fulda, Theol. (1939) (1819); Med. (1916)
Geneva (1872) Kolosvar/Klansenburg/Cluj
Genoa (1471) (1892)
Ghent (1816/17) Königsberg (1544)
Giessen (1607) Lausanne (1890)
Glasgow (1451) Leeds (1904)
Göttingen (1737) Leiden (1575)
Granada (1531) Leipzig (1409); Eco. (1898)
Graz (1585/86); Tech. (1811) Lemberg/Lwów (1661); Tech.
Greifswald (1456) (1844)
Grenoble (1339) Leningrad, see St Petersburg
Groningen (1612) Leoben, Min. (1840)
Halle (1693) Liège (1816)
Hamburg (1919) Lille (1817); Lyon (1875)
Hanover, Vet. (1778); Lisbon (1290); Tech. (1930)
Tech. (1831) Liverpool (1881)
Heidelberg (1385) Ljubljana (1810)
Helsingfors/Helsinki (1640); London (1836); Tech. (1893)
Tech. (1908); Eco. (1911) Louvain (1425)
Hohenheim, Agr. (1818) Lublin. Cath. Univ. (1920)
Huesca (1354) Lund (1668)
Iasi (1860); Tech. (1937) Lyon (1808); (1875)
Innsbruck (1668) Maastricht, Theol. (1934)
Irkutsk (1918) Macerata (1540)
Istanbul (1900); Eco. (1915); Madrid (1836); Min. (1835); Tech.
Tech. (1909); Tech. (1912) (1835); Tech. (1844); Tech.
Jaroslawl, Law (1920) (1850)
Jekaterinoslaw/Swerdlowsk Manchester (1851); Tech. (1902)
(1920); Min. (1899) Mannheim, Eco. (1907)
Jekaterinoslaw/Dnjepropetrowsk Marburg (1527)
(1918); Tech. (1916) Messina (1548)
Jena (1558) Milan (1556); (1920); Tech.
Kalinkin, Med. (1802) (1862); Eco. (1902)
Kampen, Theol. (1854) Minsk (1921)
Karlsruhe, Tech. (1825) Modena (1772/73)
Kasan (1804); Theol. (1798); Mons, Eco. (1899); Min.
Vet. (1873) (1920)
Kassa/Kaschau/Kosice, Law Montauban, Theol. (1907)
(1777) Montpellier (early 13th c.)
Kaunas/Kowno (1922) Moscow (1755); (1918); (1919);
Keszthely, Agr. (1912) (1921); (1921); Med. (1798);

704
Alphabetical list

Eco. (1810); Theol. (1814); Poitiers (1431)


Phil. (1815); Tech. (1832); Porto (1911)
Agr. (1845); Tech. (1896); Poszony/Pressburg/Bratislava
Econ. (1906); Med. (1909); (1465); Theol. (1934); Tech.
Tech. (1916) (1939)
Munich (1826); Tech. (1868) Poznan (1919), Phil. (1903)
Münster (1629) Prague (1348); Tech. (1815);
Murcia (1915); Law (1915) Theol. (1919)
Namur, Phil. (1831) Prešov, see Eperjes
Nancy (1768) Pribram, Min. (1894)
Naples (1224); Phil. (1888); Reading (1926)
Eco. (1920) Rennes (1803)
Neshin (Ukraine), Phil. (1875) Reykjavik (1911)
Neuchâtel (1909) Riga (1919); Tech. (1862)
Nijmegen (1923), Phil. (1934) Rome (1303); Gregoriana (1556);
Nisnij-Nowgorod/Gorkij Angelicum (1908); Theol.
(1918) (1931)
Nottingham (1903) Rostock (1419)
Nowotcherkasak, Tech. (1907) Rostov On The Don (1915); Med.
Odessa (1864) (1916)
Olomouc (1570) Rotterdam, Eco. (1913)
Oñate (1540) Rouen (1808)
Orihuela (1552) Saint Andrews (1411)
Orléans (c. 1235) Salamanca (1218/19); (1940)
Oslo, see Christiania Salford, Tech. (1896)
Osuna (1548) Salzburg (1619); Theol. (1850)
Oviedo (1574) Samara/Kujbyshew (1920)
Oxford (early 13th c.) Samarkand (1933)
Paderborn (1614/16) Santander (1904)
Padua (1222) Santiago de Compostela (1526)
Palermo (1578) Saragossa (1474)
Paris (beginning 13th c.); (1875); Saratow (1909)
Phil. (1794); Tech. (1794); Sarom, Theol. (1940)
Tech. (1795); Min. (1816); Sassari (1617)
Phil. (1868); Pol. (1872); Schemnitz/Selmecbánya/Banská
Pol. (1944/45) Štiavnica, Min. (1763)
Parma (1414) Sevilla (1505)
Pavia (1361) Sheffield (1905)
Pécs (1921) Siena (1246)
Perm (1917) Sigüenza (1489)
Perugia (1308); Phil. (1926) Smolensk (1918)
Petrograd, see St Petersburg Sofia (1904); Eco. (1920)
Pisa (1343); Phil. (1810) St Gallen, Eco. (1896)

705
Walter Rüegg

St Petersburg/Petrograd/Leningrad Turku (1920)


(1724); (1918); (1773); Theol. Uppsala (1477)
(1797); Agr. (1803); Med. Urbino (1671)
(1808); Tech. (1809); Tech. Utrecht (1636); Vet. (1917)
(1842); Tech. (1862); Agr. Valencia (1500)
(1864); Phil. (1867); Tech. Valladolid (end 13th c.)
(1891); Med. (1897); Tech. Valletta (1921)
(1902); Tech. (1915) Venice, Eco. (1868)
Stockholm (1878); Med. (1816); Vienna (1365); Vet. (1777); Tech.
Tech. (1827); Eco. (1909) (1815); Theol. (1850); Agr.
Strasbourg (1621) (1872); Phil. (1873); Pol. (1898);
Stuttgart, Tech. (1829) Eco. (1898)
Svistov, Eco. (1936) Villaviciosa De Odón, Min.
Szeged (1921) (1846)
Taschkent (1918) Vilnius (1578)
Thessaloniki (1925) Wageningen, Agr. (1877)
Tiflis (1918) Warsaw (1816); Agr. (1816); Vet.
Tilburg, Eco. (1939) (1840); Tech. (1898); Free Polish
Toledo (1521) Univ. (1919); Free Univ. of
Tomsk (1878); Tech. (1896) Poland (1933)
Toulouse (1233); (1877) Wittenberg (1502)
Trieste (1924) Wladiwostok (1923)
Trnava, Theol. (1936) Wologda, Agr. (1911)
Trondheim, Tech. (1910) Woronesh (1918); Agr. (1914)
Tübingen (1476) Würzburg (1402)
Turin (1404); Tech. (1906) Zurich (1833); Tech. (1855)

706
NAME INDEX

Abbe, Ernst (1840–1905), German Ampère, André Marie (1775–1836), French


physicist and entrepreneur 577 physicist 496
Abel-Rémusat, Jean-Pierre (1788–1832), Andersen, Hans Christian (1805–75),
French Sinologist 446 Danish poet 146
Acton, John Emerich Edward Dalberg Andler, Charles (1866–1933), French
(Baron Acton, 1834–1902), Germanist 328
Italian-German-British historian 404, Andrae, Tor (1885–1947), Swedish ev.
459–62, 463, 465, 472 theologian 445
Adams, Herbert Baxter (1850–1901), Angelesco, Constantin I (1869–1948),
American historian 171 Romanian Minister of Education 95
Addison, Thomas (1793–1860), British Arago, Dominique François (1786–1853),
physician 589 French astronomer and politician 153
Adelung, Johann Christoph (1732–1806), Ardèche, Paul Matthieu Laurent de l’
German philologist 449 (1799–1877), French historian 280
Adorno, Theodor Wiesengrund Aristotle (384–322 BC), Greek philosopher
(1903–69), German philosopher 487 19, 394, 400, 449
Agassiz, Louis (1807–73), Swiss-born Arndt, Ernst Moritz (1769–1860), German
American naturalist and geologist 533 prose writer and poet 24, 273
Alcenius, Otto (1838–1913), Finnish Arrhenius, Svante (1859–1927), Swedish
scientist 534 physical chemist 514
Alexander I (1777–1825), Russian Tsar 35, Artin Pasha, Yacoub (1842–1919),
123, 508, 558 Egyptian politician and writer 191
Alexander Nikolayevich (1818–81), Ası́n y Palacios, Miguel (1871–1944),
Russian grand duke 285 Spanish scholar of Islam 444
Alexander II (1818–81), Russian Tsar 67, Auenbrugger, Leopold von (1722–1809),
303, 305, 315, 335 Austrian physician 549
Alexander III (1845–94), Russian Tsar Aulard, François Alphonse (1849–1928),
324 French historian 476
Alexander of Oranje-Nassau (1851–1884), Auzoux, Louis Thomas Jérôme
prince of the Netherlands 302 (1797–1880), French anatomist 572
Ali, Mohammed (1769–1849), viceroy of Averroës (Ibn Ruschd, 1126–98), Muslim
Egypt 191 philosopher and scientist 400
Altenstein, Karl Freiherr vom Stein zum
(1770–1840), Prussian Minister of Baader, Franz Xaver von (1765–1841),
Education 523 Catholic philosopher 399
Althoff, Friedrich (1839–1908), Prussian Back, Rasmus (1787–1832), Danish
civil servant 135–7, 581 philologist 450

707
Name index

Bacon, Francis (1561–1626), British Bert, Paul (1833–86), French physiologist


philosopher, scientist and statesman 19, and politician 528
489 Berthelot, Marcellin (1827–1907), French
Baer, Karl Ernst von chemist 151
(1792–1876), Prussian-Estonian Berthollet, Claude Louis (1748–1822),
embryologist 527 French chemist 496, 514, 595
Baeumer, Klemens (1853–1924), German Berzelius, Jöns Jacob (1779–1848), French
philosopher 399 chemist 504, 558, 566
Baeyer, Adolf von (1835–1917), German Bessel, Friedrich Wilhelm (1784–1846),
chemist 642 German astronomer 499–500
Bails, Benito (1730–97), Catalonian Betancourt y Molina, Augustı́n de
mathematician and architect 494 (1758–1824), Spanish engineer 601–602
Balicki, Zygmunt (1858–1916), Polish Bezout, Etienne (1730–83), French
politician and writer 314 mathematician 150, 494
Balzac, Honoré de (1799–1850), French Bianchi, Tommaso (1804–34), Italian priest
poet 147 30
Barbusse, Henri (1873–1935), French Bichat, Xavier (1771–1802), French
writer 338 physician 520, 521, 522, 549
Bartels, Johann (1769–1836), German Billroth, Theodor (1829–94), German
mathematician 509 surgeon 570, 574, 581
Barth, Karl (1886–1968), Swiss ref. Biot, Jean-Baptiste (1774–1862), French
theologian 406, 413 physicist and astronomer 150, 497, 509,
Bartsch, Karl (1832–88), German 528
philologist 433–4 Bismarck, Otto von (1815–98), German
Bastian, Adolf (1826–1905), German statesman 298, 300, 306, 444
ethnologist 488–9 Blachère, Régis (1900–73), French Arabist
Bastiat, Frédéric (1801–50), French 445
economist 485 Blackwell, Elisabeth (1821–1910),
Bateson, William (1861–1926), British Anglo-American physician 585
biologist 537 Blainville, Henri Ducrotay de (1778–1850),
Baudoin de Courtenay, Jan French zoologist 522
(1846–1929), Polish Slavist 452 Blake, William (1757–1827), British poet,
Baur, Ferdinand Christian artist, engraver and publisher 272
(1792–1860), German ev. theologian Blanqui, Louis Auguste (1805–81), French
411–12 revolutionary socialist 30, 283
Becker, Carl Heinrich (1876–1933), Bloch, Marc (1866–1944), French historian
German Orientalist and minister 141–2, 478
348, 434–5, 445 Blucher von Wahlstatt, Gebhard Leberecht
Becker, Karl (1879–1940), German general Fürst (1742–1819), Prussian field
663 marshal 468
Bellini, Vincenzo (1801–35), Italian Blum, Léon (1872–1950), French statesman
composer 30 338
Bello, Andrés (1791–1865), Venezuelan Boas, Franz (1858–1942), German-born
scholar 180 American anthropologist 171
Benecke, Georg Friedrich (1762–1844), Bobrikoff, Nikolai Ivanovich (1839–1904),
German Germanist 429 Russian general 335–6
Bentham, Jeremy (1748–1832), British Bobrowski, Stefan (1841–63), Polish
philosopher, economist and jurist 479, student leader 305
547 Böckh, Philipp August (1785–1867),
Bergson, Henri (1859–1941), French German Classicist 15, 19, 174, 418–19,
philosopher 455, 477, 528 420, 422–5, 429, 436, 451, 466
Bernard, Claude (1813–78), French Boerhaave, Herman (1668–1738), Dutch
physiologist 13, 18, 151, 521, 524, physician 549, 551
528–9, 534, 566–7, 569, 571, 589 Bohr, Niels (1885–1962), Danish physicist
Bernoulli family, Swiss merchant 515
family with several mathematicians Boissier, Gaston (1823–1908), French
and physicians (17th–18th c.) 505 Latinist 428

708
Name index

Boltzmann, Ludwig (1844–1906), Austrian Brown, Robert (1773–1858), British


physicist 505 botanist 525
Bonald, Louis Gabriel Ambroise, Vicomte Brücke, Ernst von (1819–92), Austrian
de (1754–1810), French political physiologist 524
philosopher and statesman 400 Brugsch, Heinrich (1827–94), German
Bonpland, Aimé (1773–1858), French Egyptologist 446
botanist 520 Bücheler, Franz (1837–1908), German
Booth, Charles (1840–1916), British Classicist 425
sociologist and businessman 486 Büchner, Ludwig (1824–99), German
Bopp, Franz (1791–1867), German physician and philosopher 455, 563–4,
philologist 426, 430, 436, 450–2 573
Bordeu, Théophile de (1722–76), French Buckle, Henry Thomas (1821–62), British
physician and philosopher 551 historian 150, 460–1
Born, Max (1882–1970), German physicist Buff, Heinrich (1805–78), German
174, 513 physicist 501
Bossut, Charles (1752–68), French Buffon, Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de
mathematician 596 (1707–88), French mathematician and
Bothe, Walther (1891–1957), German naturalist 149, 522
physicist 627 Buhl, Frants (1850–1932), Danish
Boulanger, Georges (1837–91), French theologian and Semitist 445
general and politician 97 Bultmann, Rudolf (1884–1976), German
Bourdieu, Pierre (1930–2002), French ev. theologian 413
sociologist 142, 252 Buniakovskii, Viktor (1804–89), Russian
Bousset, Wilhelm (1865–1920), German ev. mathematician 498, 510
theologian 412 Bunsen, Robert Wilhelm (1811–99),
Boveri, Theodor (1862–1915), German German chemist 503, 516
zoologist 537 Buonaiuti, Ernesto (1881–1946), Italian
Brandes, Georg (1842–1929), Danish church historian 402
philosopher 160, 336 Buonarotti, Filippo (1761–1837),
Brashman, Nikolai Dmitrievich Italian-born French revolutionary
(1796–1866), Russian mathematician 278
511 Burckhardt, Jacob Christoph (1818–97),
Breasted, James Henry (1865–1935), Swiss historian of art and culture 464,
American Egyptologist 171 468
Brentano, Lujo (1844–1931), German Burdach, Karl Friedrich (1776–1847),
economist 136 German physiologist 559
Breul, Karl (1860–1932), German Burdach, Konrad (1859–1936), German
Germanist 441 Germanist 431
Brockliss, Laurence (b. 1950), British Burkitt, Francis Crawford (1864–1935),
historian 12 British Orientalist 413, 443
Brongniart, Adolphe (1801–76), French Bury, John Bagnell (1861–1927), Irish
botanist 522 historian 472
Brongniart, Alexandre (1770–1847), Butlerov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich
French mineralogist and geologist 522 (1828–86), Russian chemist 511
Bronn, Heinrich (1800–62), German Butterfield, Herbert (1900–79), British
palaeontologist 531–2 historian 472
Bronner, Franz Xaver (1758–1850), Buzzetti, Vincenzo (1777–1824), Italian
German-Swiss writer and professor 509 theologian 402
Broussais, François Joseph Victor Byron, George Gordon Noel, Lord (Lord
(1772–1838), French physician 550, 552, Byron, 1788–1824), British poet 282
556
Brouwer, Luitzen Egbertus Jan Cabanis, Pierre Jean Georges (1757–1808),
(1881–1966), Dutch mathematician 513 French physician 545, 548, 561, 567
Brown, John (1735–88), British physician Caetani, Leone (1869–1935), Italian
551, 552 scholar of Islam 445
Brown, John (1800–59), American Cairnes, John Elliot (1823–75), Irish
abolitionist 150 economist 481

709
Name index

Calmette, Albert (1863–1933), French Chebyshev, Pafnuty Lvovich (1821–94),


bacteriologist 529 Russian mathematician 510, 513
Canestrini, Giovanni (1835–1900), Italian Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich (1860–1904),
zoologist 535 Russian poet 132, 157
Cannon, Walter A. (1871–1945), Chetverikov, Sergei S. (1880–1959),
American neurologist and physiologist Russian geneticist 539
537 Chevalier, Michel (1806–79), French
Cantor, Georg (1845–1918), German economist 485
mathematician 512 Chevalier, Hippolyte Guillaume-Sulpice see
Carlos III (1716–88), king of Spain 178 Gavarni, Paul
Carlyle, Thomas (1795–1881), British Chevreuil, Michel-Eugène (1786–1889),
historian and philosopher 469 French chemist 514
Carnegie, Andrew (1835–1919), American Christian, Gérard Joseph (1776–1832),
industrialist and philanthropist 62 French engineer 607
Carr-Saunders, Alexander Morris Christoffel, Erwin Bruno (1829–1900),
(1886–1966), British sociologist and German mathematician 505
demographer 486 Chulalongkorn, Rama V. (1853–1910),
Casanova Ciurana, Peregrı́n (1849–1919), king of Siam 210
Spanish anatomist 536 Churchill, Winston (1874–1965), British
Casati, Gabrio (1798–1893), Italian statesman 484, 649
Minister of Education 96, 118, 562 Cicero, Marcus Tullius (106–43 BC),
Cassell, Gustav (1866–1945), Swedish Roman writer and politician 428
economist 483 Clapeyron, Emile (1799–1864), French
Cassirer, Ernst (1874–1945), German engineer 601–602
philosopher 453, 455 Clark, Austin H. (1880–1954), American
Castelar y Ripoll, Emilio (1832–99), zoologist 649
Spanish writer and politician 302 Clark, Jonas Gilman (1815–1900),
Castro y Pajares, Fernando de (1814–74), American university founder 170–1
Spanish philosopher 302 Clausius, Rudolf (1822–88), German
Cattani, Giuseppina (1859–1914), Italian physicist 505
professor of medicine 133 Clebsch, Rudolf Friedrich Alfred
Cavaignac, Godefroy (1801–45), French (1833–72), German mathematician
revolutionary 288 500
Cavendish, Spencer Compton, 8th Duke of Clements, Frederic Edward (1874–1945),
Devonshire (1833–1908), British American botanist 539
politician 62 Cobet, Carolus Gabriel (1819–89), Dutch
Cavendish, William, 7th Duke of Hellenist 427–8, 445
Devonshire (1808–91), British university Codreanu, Corneliu (1899–1938),
Maecenas 507 Romanian politician 353–4
Cavour, Camillo Benso, conte di Coit Gilman, Daniel (1813–1908),
(1810–61), Italian statesman 29 American educator and university
Chadwick, Edwin (1800–90), British president 168
physician and social reformer 547 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste (1619–83), French
Challemel-Lacour, Paul Armand (1827–96), statesman 442
French politician and writer 69 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772–1834),
Champollion, Jean-François (1790–1832), British writer 272
French Egyptologist 444 Collingwood, Robin George (1889–1943),
Chang Po-lin (Zhang Boling, 1876–1951), British philosopher 473
Chinese university founder 219 Comte, Auguste (1798–1857), French
Chaptal, Jean Antoine (1756–1832), French philosopher 455, 461, 484–5, 521, 566
chemist 496 Conant, James B. (1893–1978), American
Charles X (1757–1836), French King educator and scientist, university
280 president 667
Charlier, Carl (1862–1934), Swedish Condillac, Etienne Bonnot de (1715–80),
astronomer 517 French philosopher 545
Chateaubriand, François René Viscount de Constant, Benjamin (1767–1830), Swiss
(1789–1848), French poet 400 writer 30

710
Name index

Correns, Carl (1864–1933), German Delescluze, Charles or Louis Charles


botanist 537 (1809–71), French journalist and radical
Corvisart, Jean-Nicolas (1755–1821), republican 283
French physician 549 Denifle, Heinrich (1844–1905),
Cousin, Victor (1792–1867), French Austrian-German church historian 399
philosopher and politician 8, 98, 99, De Ram, Xavier (1804–65), rector of
149, 279, 455 Louvain University 121, 401
Cowell, Edward (1826–1903), British Descartes, René (1596–1650), French
Sanskritist 452 philosopher and scientist 416, 419, 528
Creighton, Mandell (1843–1901), British Dieffenbach, Johann Friedrich
angl. theologian 463, 471 (1795–1847), German surgeon 18
Crelle, August Leopold (1780–1855), Dietl, Joseph (1804–78), German-Austrian
German mathematician and engineer physician 550, 560
500 Diez, Friedrich (1794–1875), German
Cremer, Jacob Jan (1827–80), Dutch writer Romanist 433–4, 436, 452
301–2 Dilthey, Wilhelm (1833–1911), German
Creuzer, Georg Friedrich (1771–1858), philosopher 417, 451, 455, 465
German Classicist 414 Dirichlet, Gustav Lejeune (1805–59),
Cripps, Stafford (1889–1952), British French-German mathematician 498, 500
politician 649–50 Döbereiner, Johann Wolfgang
Croce, Benedetto (1866–1952), Italian (1780–1849), German chemist 503
philosopher 71–2, 440, 453, 455, 473 Dobzhansky, Theodosius (1900–75),
Cumont, Franz (1868–1947), Belgian Russian-American biologist 539
archaeologist and philologist 414 Dodd, Charles Harold (1884–1973),
Cunningham, William (1849–1919), British British theologian 413
economist 471 Dodds, Eric Robertson (1884–1973),
Curie, Marie (1867–1934), Polish-born British Classicist 422
French physicist 133 Dohrn, Anton (1840–1909), German
Curtius, Ernst Robert (1886–1956), zoologist 535
German Romanist 435 Döllinger, Ignaz von (1799–1890), German
Cuvier, Georges Baron (1769–1832), church historian 395–6, 399, 403–4,
French zoologist and statesman 17, 450, 461
520, 522–4 Dreyfus, Alfred (1859–1935), French army
Czermak, Johann Nepomuk (1828–73), officer 97, 151
Austrian physician 573 Driesch, Hans (1867–1941), German
Czihak, Jacob, German scientist 560 biologist 538
Droysen, Johann Gustav (1808–84),
d’Hulst, Maurice (1841–96), French Cath. German historian 467–98
theologian, bishop, university founder Dubois, Paul-François (1793–1874),
and president 404 French philosopher 149
Da̧browski, Jan Henryk (1755–1818), Du Bois-Reymond, Emil (1818–96),
Polish general 272 German physiologist 524
Dante Alighieri (1265–1321), Italian poet Dumas, Jean-Baptiste (1800–84), French
434 chemist 498, 514
Darmesteter, Arsène (1846–88), French Duncan, Andrew (1744–1828), British
philologist 463 medical reformer 547
Darwin, Charles (1809–82), British Dupuytren, Guillaume (1777–1835),
naturalist 455, 459, 460–1, 530–2, French surgeon and pathologist 549
533–5, 536, 537, 539 Durkheim, Emile (1858–1917), French
Daumier, Honoré (1808–79), French sociologist 414, 453, 485–6
caricaturist, painter and sculptor 147 Duruy, Victor (1811–94), French historian
Debye, Peter (1884–1966), and politician 12, 55, 103, 375, 415, 442
Dutch-American physical chemist 505, Dvořák, Cenek (1848–1922), Czech
513 physicist 505
Dekker, Eduard Douwes, see Multatuli
Delambre, Jean Baptiste (1749–1822), Eckstein, Ferdinand von (1790–1861),
French astronomer 509 Danish writer 400

711
Name index

Edén, Nils (1871–1945), Swedish historian Ferstel, Heinrich Freiherr von (1828–82),
and politician 156 Austrian architect 104
Edison, Thomas A. (1847–1931), American Feuerbach, Ludwig (1804–72), German
inventor 575, 577, 618 philosopher 412, 563–4
Egorov, Dmitrii Fedorovich (1869–1931), Fichte, Johann Gottlieb (1762–1814),
Russian mathematician 511, 513 German philosopher 8, 22, 24, 25, 48,
Ehrle, Franz (1845–1934), German Jesuit, 49, 273, 307, 410, 455
cardinal, prefect of Vatican library and Filippi, Filippo De (1814–67), Italian
medievalist 399 zoologist 535
Eichhorn, Karl Friedrich von (1781–1854), Firth, Charles Harding (1857–1936),
German jurist 460 British historian 474
Einstein, Albert (1879–1955), Fischer, Emil (1852–1919), German chemist
Swiss-German-American physicist 505, 642
513, 520 Fisher, Herbert Albert Laurens
Eliot, Charles William (1834–1926), (1845–1940), British historian 476
American educator 169, 170 Fisher, Ronald Aylmer (1890–1962), British
Ellis, Havelock (1859–1939), British statistician and geneticist 539
psychologist 576 Fleischer, Heinrich Leberecht (1801–88),
Elton, Charles (1900–91), British biologist German Orientalist 445
539 Flexner, Abraham (1866–1959), American
Ely, Richard Theodore (1854–1943), university reformer 580–1, 582–3, 590
American political scientist 171 Flourens, Pierre (1794–1867), French
Engels, Friedrich (1820–95), German physiologist 528, 534
philosopher 460 Follen, Karl (1795–1840), German
Ernout, Alfred (1879–1973), French revolutionary 275, 278
Latinist 421 Fontana, Felice (1720–1805), Italian
Ernst Georg August (1771–1851), king of scientist 562
Hanover 286 Fontanes, Louis de (1757–1821), French
Eucken, Rudolf (1846–1926), German writer and politician 88
philosopher 154 Forel, August (1848–1931), Swiss
Euclid (c. 365–c. 300 BC), Greek neuroanatomist, psychiatrist and
mathematician 506 entomologist 576
Euler, Leonhard (1707–83), Swiss Fortoul, Hippolyte (1811–56), French
mathematician 505 Minister 90
Foster, Michael (1836–1907), British
Fabrizi, Nicola (1804–85), Italian jurist physiologist and educator 582
and leader of the Risorgimento 28 Fourcroy, Antoine-François de
Falconer, Robert Alexander (1867–1943), (1755–1809), French chemist and
Canadian theologian and Classicist 176 politician 495–8, 548, 600
Falloux, Frédéric, comte de (1811–86), Fraenkel, Eduard (1881–1970), German
French Minister of Education 95 Classicist 422, 427
Fanti, Manfredo (1806–65), Italian general Franco, Francisco (1892–1975), Spanish
and patriot 28 general and statesman 72–3, 98, 355
Faure, Edgar (1908–88), French jurist and Francoeur, Louis Benjamin (1773–1849),
politician 85, 120 French mathematician 497
Febvre, Lucien (1878–1956), French Frank, Hans (1900–46), German jurist
historian 477–9, 484 657–8
Fechner, Gustav (1801–87), German Frank, Johann Peter (1745–1821), German
physicist and philosopher 498 physician 546–7, 559, 562
Federley, Harry (1879–1951), Finnish Frank, Joseph (1771–1842), German
zoologist 537 physician 559
Fejér, Lipót (1880–1959), Hungarian Franz Ferdinand (1863–1914), archduke of
mathematician 512 Austria 337
Ferdinand VII (1784–1833), Spanish king Franz-Joseph I (1830–1916), emperor of
284 Austria and king of Hungary 298
Fermi, Enrico (1901–54), Italian-born US Fraunhofer, Joseph (1787–1826), German
physicist 175, 513 physicist 516

712
Name index

Frazer, James George (1854–1941), British Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, Isidore (1805–61),


anthropologist, folklorist and Classicist French zoologist 522
414, 488 Gervinus, Georg Gottfried (1805–71),
Fredéricq, Paul (1850–1920), Belgian German literary historian 431, 464, 468
historian and politician 467 Gessner, Conrad (1516–65), Swiss
Frederick VII (1808–63), king of Denmark physician and naturalist 449
290 Geyl, Pieter (1887–1966), Dutch historian
Frederick William III (1770–1840), king of 477
Prussia 18 Gibb, Hamilton (1895–1971), British
Frederik Wilhelm IV (1795–1861), king of Orientalist 445
Prussia 292 Gilbert, Ludwig Wilhelm (1769–1824),
Freeman, Edward Augustus (1823–92), German physicist and chemist 502
British historian 469, 472 Gilbert, William Schwenck (1836–1911),
Freud, Sigmund (1856–1939), Austrian British playwright 147
psychiatrist 479, 487, 524, 576 Giles, Herbert Allen (1845–1935), British
Fries, Jakob Friedrich (1773–1843), Sinologist 447
German philosopher 273 Gioberti, Vincenzo (1801–52), Italian
Frisch, Ragnar (1895–1973), Norwegian philosopher and politician 153
economist 484 Gmelin, Leopold (1788–1853), German
Fritz, Kurt von (1900–80), German chemist 498, 503
Classicist 100 Goeje, Michaël Jan de (1836–1909), Dutch
Froude, James Anthony (1818–94), British Orientalist 445
historian 469 Goercke, Johannes (1750–1822), German
Fukuzawa, Yukichi (1835–1901), Japanese military physician 556
writer, educator and publisher 224 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (1749–
Fuss, Nicolaus (1755–1826), German 1832), German poet 23, 466, 503, 521
mathematician 509 Goldziher, Ignaz (1850–1921), Hungarian
Orientalist 445
Gabrieli, Francesco (1904–96), Italian Golgi, Camillo (1843–1926), Italian
Orientalist 445 physician and cytologist 527
Galvani, Luigi (1737–98), Italian physician Gordon, Charles George (1833–85), British
and physicist 520 general 192–3
Gandhi, Mahatma (1869–1948), Hindu Göring, Hermann (1893–1946), German
statesman 205 politician 662, 663
Garcı́a, Juan Justo (1752–1830), Spanish Görres, Joseph von (1776–1848),
mathematician 494 German historian 399–400, 404, 430
Garibaldi, Giuseppe (1807–82), Italian Grabmann, Martin (1875–1949), German
patriot and politician 29, 150 Cath. theologian 399
Gatterer, Johann Christoph (1727–99), Green, John Richard (1837–83), British
German historian 466 historian 472, 476
Gause, Georgyi Frantsevitch (1910–86), Gregory XVI (1765–1846), pope 398
Russian mathematician 539 Grimm, Jacob (1785–1863), German
Gavarni, Paul, pseudonym of Hippolyte Germanist 426, 430, 433, 436, 449, 450,
Guillaume-Sulpice Chevalier (1804–66), 452
French lithographer and painter 147 Grimm, Wilhelm (1786–1859), German
Gay-Lussac, Joseph-Louis (1778–1850), Germanist 430, 433, 436, 449, 452
French physicist and chemist 150, 497, Gronbech, Vilhelm Peter (1873–1918),
514 Danish historian 414
Gegenbaur, Carl (1826–1903), German Groot, Jan Jacob Maria de (1854–1921),
anatomist 532 German Sinologist 447
Geijer, Erik Gustaf (1783–1847), Swedish Groves, Leslie (1896–1970), American
historian 145, 148 general 668
Gentile, Giovanni (1875–1944), Italian Guesde, Jules (1845–1922), French
philosopher and politician 71, 118, 455 politician 317
Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, Etienne Guizot, François Pierre Guillaume
(1772–1844), French naturalist 17, 521, (1787–1874), French historian and
522 politician 97, 149

713
Name index

Gunkel, Hermann (1862–1932), German Hefele, Karl Joseph von (1809–83),


ev. theologian 412 German Cath. theologian 399
Gustavus II Adolphus (1594–1632), king of Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich
Sweden 84 (1770–1831), German philosopher 30,
130, 398, 412, 419, 426, 451, 455, 462,
Haar, Alfred (1885–1933), Hungarian 468, 473
mathematician 512 Heidegger, Martin (1889–1976), German
Haber, Fritz (1868–1934), German chemist philosopher 455
643 Heiler, Friedrich (1892–1967), German
Hachette, Jean Nicole Pierre (1769–1834), scholar of religious studies 414
French engineer 607 Heine, Heinrich (1797–1856), German
Haeckel, Ernst (1834–1919), German writer 282
zoologist and philosopher 143, 159, 455, Heinroth, Johann Christian August
532–6, 538 (1773–1843), German physician 551
Hagen, Friedrich von der (1780–1856), Heisenberg, Werner (1903–76), German
German Germanist 430 physicist 174
Hahn, Otto (1879–1968), German chemist Helmholtz, Hermann von (1821–94),
663, 665 German physicist and physiologist 19,
Hahnemann, Samuel (1755–1893), German 503, 508, 524, 627
physician 552 Hengstenberg, Ernst Wilhelm (1802–69),
Haldane, John Burdon Sanderson German ev. theologian 411
(1892–1964), British-American geneticist Henle, Jakob (1809–85), German
and physiologist 539, 582 pathologist 526
Halévy, Elie (1870–1937), French Henslow, John (1796–1861), British
philosopher and historian 476 botanist 530
Hall, Granville Stanley (1844–1924), Herder, Johann Gottfried von (1744–1893),
American university president 168–9, German theologian and philosopher 411
170–1 Hergé, pseudonym of Georges Rémi
Haller, Albrecht von (1708–77), Swiss (1908–75), Belgian comic-strip artist 148
biologist 524 Herlez, Charles de (1832–99), Belgian
Halphen, Louis (1880–1950), French Sanskritist 447
historian 477 Hermann, Gottfried (1772–1848), German
Hardenberg, Karl August, Fürst von Classicist 424, 431
(1750–1822), Prussian statesman and Hermes, Georg (1775–1831),
administrator 22 German Cath. theologian and
Hardy, Godfrey Harold (1877–1947), philosopher 398
British mathematician 539 Herriot, Edouard (1872–1957), French
Hare, David (1775–1842), British-born statesman 89
Hindu watch-maker and silversmith, Hess, Rudolf (1894–1987), German
founder of colleges in India 198, 199 politician 348
Harnack, Adolf von (1851–1930), Hesse, Ludwig Otto (1811–74), German
German ev. theologian 61, 408, 412, mathematician 500
413, 642 Hettner, Hermann (1821–82), German
Harper, William Rainey (1856–1906), historian of literature and art 432, 451
American university president 169, 171, Hewins, William Albert Samuel
228 (1865–1931), British mathematician and
Hase, Karl Benedikt (1780–1864), German politician, director of the London School
Classicist 426 of Economics 481
Haupt, Moritz (1808–74), German Hilbert, David (1862–1943), German
Classicist and Germanist 431 mathematician 500
Haushofer, Karl (1869–1946), German Hildebrandt, Georg Friedrich (1764–1816),
army officer and political geographer German physician 503
483 Himmler, Heinrich (1900–45), German
Haüy, René Just (1743–1822), French politician 658, 665
mineralogist 496 Hindenburg, Paul von (1847–1934),
Hayek, Friedrich August von (1899–1992), German field marshal and president of
Austrian-born British economist 484 the Weimar Republic 348

714
Name index

Hintze, Otto (1861–1940), German Husserl, Edmund (1859–1939), German


historian 465 philosopher 453, 455
Hippocrates (c. 460–c. 370 BC), Greek Hutton, James (1726–97), British geologist
physician 550, 567 520, 530
Hirschfeld, Magnus (1867–1935), German Huxley, Julian (1887–1975), British
sexologist 576 biologist 536
Hitler, Adolf (1889–1945), German Huxley, Thomas Henry (1825–95), British
politician 89–91, 94, 98, 100, 175, 348, zoologist 218, 531, 534
349, 357, 358, 359, 477, 487, 513, 656, Hyrtl, Joseph (1811–94), Austrian
657, 660, 662, 665 anatomist 561
Hobhouse, Leonard Trelawney
(1864–1929), British sociologist and Isabel II (1830–1904), queen of Spain
philosopher 486 302
Hodgkin, Thomas (1798–1866), British
physician 589 Jackson, Thomas Graham (1835–1924),
Hodža, Milan (1878–1944), Czech British architect 104
politician 323 Jacob, Edgar Pierre (1904–87), Belgian
Hoff, Jacobus van ’t (1852–1911), Dutch comic-strip artist 147
physical chemist 514 Jacobi, Karl Gustav Jacob (1804–51),
Høffding, Harald (1843–1931), Danish German mathematician 499–500
philosopher 336 Jacoby, Felix (1876–1959), German
Hofmann, August Wilhelm von (1818–92), Classicist 427
German chemist 503–4, 508 Jagić, Vratoslav (1838–1923), Croat Slavist
Holmes, Arthur (1890–1965), British 436
geologist 541 Jahn, Friedrich Ludwig (1778–1852),
Holmgren, Frithiof (1831–97), Swedish German pedagogue 273, 275
physiologist 524 Janiszewski, Zygmunt (1888–1920), Polish
Holmquist, Per Johan (1886–1946), mathematician 513
Swedish mineralogist 540 Jaurès, Jean (1859–1914), French
Homer (fl. 850 BC), Greek poet 430 philosopher and politician 317
Hooker, Joseph Dalton (1817–1911), Jenner, Edward (1749–1823), British
British botanist 531 physician 547
Hooker, William Jackson (1785–1865), Jennings, Ivor (1903–65), British jurist
British botanist 531 208
Horkheimer, Max (1895–1973), German Jevons, William Stanley (1835–82), British
philosopher and sociologist 487 economist 483–4
Hort, Fenton John Anthony (1828–92), Jèze, Gaston (1869–1953), French jurist
British angl. theologian 413 100
Huet, François (1814–69), French-born Joan of Arc (c.1412–31), French national
Belgian jurist 292 heroine 328
Hufeland, Christoph Wilhelm (1762–1836), Johannsen, Wilhelm (1857–1927), Danish
German physician 16, 552 botanist 537
Huggins, William (1824–1910), British John Paul II (b. 1920), pope 403
astronomer 516 Jolly, Julius E. (1849–1932), German
Hugo, Gustav (1764–1844), German jurist Indologist 205
460 Jones, William (1746–94), British
Hugo, Victor (1802–85), French writer Orientalist and jurist 443, 445, 450
150–1, 282 Jorga, Nicolae (1870–1940), Romanian
Humboldt, Alexander von (1769–1859), politician 94
German scientist and explorer 5, 17, 18, Joseph II (1741–90), emperor of Austria
149, 426, 503, 520–1 556
Humboldt, Wilhelm von Jussieu, Antoine (1686–1758), French
(1767–1835), German philologist, botanist 522
philosopher, politician and educational Jussieu, Antoine Laurent de (1748–1836),
reformer 45, 67, 72, 75, 88, 152, 163, French botanist 522
250, 287, 410, 424, 426, 430, 455, 456, Justi, Johann Heinrich Gottlob (1717–71),
495, 527, 558, 589, 639, 658, 659 German cameralist 546

715
Name index

Kaelble, Hartmut (b. 1940), German Kos’ciuszko, Tadeusz (1746–1817), Polish


historian 257 army officer and statesman 24, 272
Kahn-Freund, Otto (1900–79), German Kossuth, Lajos (1802–94), Hungarian
jurist 486 politician 293
Kamerling Onnes, Heike (1853–1926), Kotzebue, August von (1761–1819),
Dutch physicist 514 German writer 275, 409
Kant, Immanuel (1724–1804), German Kowalewsky, Sonia (1850–91), Russian
philosopher 8, 22, 48, 148, 394, 453, 639 mathematician 133
Kapteyn, Jacobus Cornelius (1851–1922), Krafft-Ebing, Richard Freiherr von
Dutch astronomer 516 (1840–1902), German neuropsychiatrist
Karamzin, Nikolai Mikhailovich 576
(1766–1826), Russian historian 146 Kraus, Karl Christian Friedrich
Carl August (1757–1828), duke of Weimar (1781–1832), German philosopher
503 302
Karsten, Gustav (1820–1900), German Kronecker, Leopold (1823–91), German
physicist 502 mathematician 500
Kästner, Abraham Gotthelf (1719–1800), Krzyzanowski, Adrian (1788–1852),
German mathematician and writer 494 Russian astronomer 498
Keats, John (1795–1821), British poet 272 Kuhn, Thomas S. (1922–96), American
Kekkonen, Urho (1900–86), Finnish historian of science 638
politician 344 Kume, Kunitake (1839–1931), Japanese
Keller, Adalbert von (1812–83), German historian 226
philologist 433, 434 Kummer, Ernst Eduard (1810–93), German
Kennedy, Alexander Blackie William mathematician 500
(1847–1928), British engineer 619
Kerner, Anton, Ritter von Marilaun La Caille, Nicolas Louis de (1713–62),
(1831–1908), Austrian botanist 537 French mathematician 494
Keynes, John Maynard (1883–1946), Lachmann, Karl (1793–1851), German
British economist 481 Classicist 394, 421, 430
Khinchin, Aleksandr Jakowlewitsch Lacroix, Sylvestre François (1765–1843),
(1894–1959), Russian mathematician French mathematician 497–8, 506–7,
513 509
Kingsley, Charles (1819–75), British writer Laennec, René Théophile (1781–1826),
and historian 469 French physician 549
Kirchhoff, Gustav Robert (1824–87), Lafitte, Jacques (1767–1844), French
German physicist 499, 502–3, 508, 516 revolutionary 288
Kjellén, Rudolph (1864–1922), Swedish Lagrange, Albert (1855–1938), French
political scientist and politician 483 Cath. theologian 401
Klaproth, Martin Heinrich (1743–1817), Lagrange, Joseph Louis (1736–1813),
German chemist 504 French mathematician 17, 496–8, 506,
Klein, Felix (Christian Felix, 1849–1925), 600
German mathematician 174, 500, 642 Lalande, Joseph Jérôme de (1732–1807),
Klugmann, James (Norman John, French astronomer 496
1912–77), British Communist politician Lallemand, Nicolas (d. 1820), French
and writer 358 revolutionary 279
Knies, Karl (1821–98), German economist Lamarck, Jean-Baptiste (1744–1829),
480 French biologist 519, 522, 534–5
Kogálniceanu, Mikael (1817–91), Lamé, Gabriel (1795–1870), French
Romanian politician and historian 560 mathematician and physicist 601–602
Kölliker, Albert (1817–1905), Lamennais, Félicité Robert de
Swiss-German embryologist 526, 572 (1782–1861), French Cath. theologian
Kolmogorov, Andrey Nikolayevich and writer 400, 401
(1903–87), Russian mathematician 285, La Mettrie, Julien Offray de (Lamettrie,
513 1709–51), French physician and
Koltsov, Nikolai Konstantinovich philosopher 150
(1872–1940), Russian biologist and Lamprecht, Karl (1856–1915), German
geneticist 585, 587 historian 143, 464

716
Name index

Lanson, Gustave (1857–1934), French Linde, Carl von (1842–1934), German


historian of literature 416, 442 engineer 619
Laplace, Pierre Simon Marquis de Lindelöf, Lorenz (1827–1908), Finnish
(1749–1827), French mathematician and mathematician 155
astronomer 17, 498, 506–7, 509 Lindemann, Cherwell Frederick Alexander
La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, François Lindemann, 1st Viscount (1886–1957),
Alexandre Frédéric Duc de (1747–1827), German-British physicist 649
French educator and social reformer Linnaeus, Carolus (Carl von Linné,
608 1707–78), Swedish botanist and explorer
Laski, Harold (1893–1950), British 450, 538, 568
political scientist, educator and politician Lippmann, Gabriel (1845–1921), French
482 physicist 514
Laue, Max von (1879–1960), German Li Shu-hua (Li Shuhua, 1889–1979),
physicist 174, 505 Chinese politician 218
Laval de Montmorency, François Xavier de Lister, Joseph (1827–1912), British surgeon
(1623–1708), Canadian bishop 177 570, 589
Lazarus, Moritz (1824–1903), German Li Teng-hui (Li Denghui, 1873–1947),
philosopher and psychologist 453 Chinese university president 220
Leclerc, Georges-Louis see Buffon, comte Littré, Emile (1801–81), French
de lexicographer and philosopher 412
Lefebvre, Georges (1874–1959), French Littrow, Joseph (1781–1840), Russian
historian 476 astronomer 509
Legendre, Adrien Marie (1752–1833), Lobachevskii, Nikolai (1792–1856),
French mathematician 509 Russian mathematician 509
Legge, James (1815–97), British missionary Lodge, Richard (1855–1936), British
and Sinologist 447 historian 475–6
Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm (1646–1716), Loescher, Hermann (1831–92),
German philosopher and mathematician German-Italian publisher 428
522 Löfstedt jr., Einar (1880–1955), Swedish
Lejeune-Dirichlet, see Dirichlet Latinist 421
Lelewel, Joachim (1786–1861), Polish Löfstedt sr., Einar (1831–84), Swedish
historian 150, 287 historian 420
Lenz, Heinrich Friedrich Emil (1804–65), Loisy, Alfred (1857–1940), French Cath.
Baltic physicist 510 theologian 401
Leo XIII (1810–1903), pope 189, 396, Lönnrot, Elias (1802–84), Finnish writer,
402–4 folklorist and philologist 148
Lepsius, Richard (1810–84), German López, José Severo (1754–1807), Spanish
Egyptologist 446 surgeon 561
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim (1729–81), Lorentz, Hendrik Antoon (1853–1928),
German poet and critic 430 Dutch physicist 514
Lessing, Theodor (1872–1933), German Lot, Ferdinand (1866–1952), French
writer and philosopher 348 historian 92
Lessona, Michele (1823–94), Italian Lotka, Alfred James (1880–1949),
biologist 535 Austrian-American mathematician
Leubuscher, Rudolf (1821–61), German 539
psychologist 565 Lou Chia-lun (Lou Jialun, 1896–1969),
Lexis, Wilhelm (1837–1914), German Chinese university president 218
economist and social scientist 378 Loudon, James (1841–1916), Canadian
Leydig, Franz von (1821–1908), German university president 176
physiologist 526 Louis Philippe of Orléans (1773–1850),
Lichtenberg, Georg Christoph (1742–99), French king 281, 284, 522
German physicist and writer 501 Lovén, Sven (1809–95), Swedish zoologist
Liebig, Justus von (1802–73), German 534
chemist 50, 498, 502–4, 508, 511, 514, Lubac, Henri de (1896–1991), French
525, 566, 568, 606 Cath. theologian 403
Lightfoot, James Barber (1829–89), British Ludwig I of Hessen (1753–30), Grand
Angl. theologian 413 Duke of Hessen-Darmstadt 503

717
Name index

Ludwig II of Bayern (1845–86), King of Mariette, Auguste Edouard (1821–81),


Bayern 396 French Egyptologist 444, 446
Ludwig, Karl (1816–92), German Maritain, Jacques (1882–1973), French
physiologist 524, 583 philosopher 352, 403
Luther, Martin (1483–1546), German Markov, Andrey Andreevich
theologian and reformer 26, 66 (1856–1922), Russian mathematician
Lützow, Ludwig Adolf Wilhelm von 510, 513
(1782–1834), Prussian major general 273 Markowski, Jozef (1758–1829), Polish
Luzin, Nikolai Nikolaevich (1883–1950), chemist 498
Russian mathematician 511, 513 Marouzeau, Jules (1878–1964), French
Lyapunov, Aleksandr Mikhailovich Latinist 421
(1857–1918), Russian mathematician Marshall, Alfred (1842–1924), British
513 economist 481
Lyell, Charles (1797–1875), British Marx, Karl (1818–83), German
geologist 530–1, 532–3 philosopher and politician 363, 412, 455,
Lysenko, Trofim (1898–1976), Russian 460–1
biologist and agronomist 92, 541, 586 Masaryk, Tomáš Garrigue (1850–1937),
Czech philosopher and first President of
Ma Chien-chiung (Ma Jianzhong, Czechoslovakia 155, 322
1844–1900), Chinese university founder Mascagni, Paolo (1755–1815), Italian
219 anatomist 562
Ma Hsiang-po (Ma Xiangbo, Maspero, Gaston (1846–1916), French
1840–1939), Chinese university founder Egyptologist 444, 446
219 Maspero, Henri (1882–1945), French
Maas, Paul (1880–1964), German Sinologist 446
Classicist 427 Massignon, Louis (1883–1962), French
Macaulay, Thomas Babington (1800–59), Orientalist 445
British historian 199, 463, 469, 472 Mateos, Mariano López (1800–63),
Mach, Ernst (1838–1916), Austrian Spanish physician 527
physicist 505 Matteucci, Carlo (1811–68), Italian
Mackinder, Halford John (1861–1947), Minister of Education 37, 118
British political geographer 483 Maurras, Charles (1868–1952), French
Mäklin, Fredrik Vilhelm (1821–83), writer 100, 338
Finnish zoologist 534 Mauss, Marcel (1882–1950), French
Magendie, François (1783–1855), French sociologist and anthropologist 414
physiologist 528, 550 Maxwell, James Clerk (1831–79), British
Magnes, Judah Leon (1877–1948), Israeli physicist 507
statesman and rabbi 191 Mazurkiewicz, Stefan (1888–1945), Polish
Mâle, Emile (1852–1964), French art mathematician 513
historian 477 Mazzini, Giuseppe (1805–72), Italian
Malinowski, Branislaw (1882–1942), propagandist and revolutionary 29–31,
British anthropologist 488–9 150
Mann, Thomas (1875–1955), German McMillan, Conway (1867–1929),
writer 576 American botanist 539
Mannheim, Herman (1889–1969), German Mechelin, Leopold von (1839–1914),
jurist 486 Finnish jurist 155
Mannheim, Karl (1893–1947), German Medici, Lorenzo de’ (1449–92), Florentine
sociologist 486 statesman 27
Manning, Henry Edward (1808–92), Meillet, Antoine (1866–1936), French
British Cath. theologian 404 linguist 451
Marheineke, Philipp (1780–1846), German Meinecke, Friedrich (1862–1954), German
ev. theologian 407 historian 479
Maria Theresia (1717–80), empress of Mendel, Gregor (1822–84), Austrian
Austria 559 botanist 536–7
Marie, Joseph François (1738–1801), Mendeleev, Dmitrii Ivanovich (1834–1907),
French mathematician 494 Russian chemist 511

718
Name index

Menger, Carl (1840–1921), Austrian Morgagni, Giovanni Battista (1682–1771),


economist 483 Italian anatomist and pathologist 548,
Menshikov, Aleksander Sergeievich 563
(1787–1869), commander of the Russian Morgan, Thomas Hunt (1866–1945),
forces 153 American zoologist and geneticist 537
Mercier, Désiré (1851–1926), Belgian Cath. Mosca, Gaetano (1858–1941), Italian jurist
theologian 327 and political theorist 482
Metternich, Klemens Wenzel Fürst von Mosley, Oswald (1896–1980), British
(1773–1859), Austrian statesman 24, 27, politician 340
50, 152, 153, 275, 280, 288, 293, 409, Moyano Samaniego, Claudio
561 (1809–90), Spanish Minister of
Meyer, Paul (1840–1917), French Education 118, 302
Romanist 442 Mudrov, Matvej Jakovlevic (1772–1831),
Meynert, Theodor (1833–92), German Russian physician 559
psychiatrist 569 Mulder, Gerardus Johannes (1802–80),
Michelet, Jules (1798–1874), French Dutch chemist 568
historian 30, 99, 149, 289, 290, 476 Müller, Detlef K. (b. 1942), German
Michel-Lévy, Auguste (1844–1911), French historian of education 255
geologist 540 Müller, Johannes (1801–58), German
Michelson, Albert Abraham (1852–1931), physiologist 17–19, 523–6, 532, 549,
American physicist 171 552–3, 563–4, 579
Mickiewicz, Adam (1798–1855), Polish Müller, Karl Otfried (1797–1840), German
writer 149, 277, 289 classical historian 466
Mignet, Auguste (1796–1884), French Müller, Max (1823–1900), German linguist
historian 280 414, 427, 489
Miklosich, Franz von (1813–91), Slovenian Multatuli, pseudonym of Dekker, Eduard
Slavist 436, 452 Douwes (1820–87), Dutch writer 301–2
Miljukov, Pavel Nikolaievich (1859–1943), Münzenberg, Willi (1889–1940), German
Russian historian and politician 155 politician and publicist 358
Mill, John Stuart (1806–73), British Murray, Gilbert (1866–1957), British
economist 218, 455, 479, 588 Classicist 422
Minkowski, Hermann (1864–1909), Mussolini, Benito (1883–1945), Italian
German mathematician 500 statesman 37, 89, 98, 100, 341, 355, 482,
Mises, Richard von (1883–1953), Austrian 513
mathematician and engineer 501, 513 Myrdal, Gunnar (1898–1987), Swedish
Mitscherlich, Eilhard (1794–1863), economist and politician 484
German chemist 504, 511
Moeller van den Bruck, Arthur Nägeli, Karl von (1817–91), Swiss-German
(1876–1925), German writer 347 botanist 526, 537
Moleschott, Jacob (1822–93), Dutch Namier, Lewis (1888–1960), British
physiologist 563–4, 573 historian 475
Mommsen, Theodor (1817–1903), Napoleon I (Napoleon Bonaparte
German historian 61, 69, 425, 428, 466 1769–1821), French emperor 25, 149,
Monge, Gaspard (1746–1818), French 240, 272, 300, 307, 381, 396, 444, 466,
mathematician 496–8, 507, 596, 599, 477, 485, 495, 497, 522, 544, 588, 597,
600 602, 652 – on education and universities
Monod, Gabriel (1844–1912), French 3, 31, 39, 44–5, 52, 55, 61, 72, 74, 93,
historian 463, 476, 477 97, 108, 120, 124, 129, 139, 159, 178,
Montesquieu, Charles de Secondat, Baron 186, 251, 454, 560
de La Brède et de (1689–1755), French Napoleon III (Charles Louis Napoléon
political philosopher 218 Bonaparte 1808–73), French emperor
Montgomery Watt, William (b. 1909), 69, 296, 300, 529
British scholar of Islam 445 Neander, August (1789–1850), German ev.
Mookerjee, Ashutosh (1864–1924), Hindu theologian 407
lawyer, mathematician, educator and Nehru, Jawaharlal (1889–1964), Hindu
author 204 statesman 205

719
Name index

Nénot, Henri-Paul (1845–1934), French Osenberg, Werner (1900–72), German


architect 104 engineer 664
Nernst, Walther Hermann (1864–1941), Osipovskii, Timofei (1765–1832), Russian
German physicist 174 mathematician 509
Neumann, Carl (1832–1925), German Osler, William (1849–1919), Canadian
mathematician 505 physician 582
Neumann, Franz (1798–1895), German Ostrogradskii, Mikhail Vasilevich
physicist and mineralogist 499–500, 502, (1801–62), Ukrainian mathematician
505, 515 498, 510
Neumann, Salomon (1819–1908), Ostwald, Wilhelm (1853–1932), German
German physician and politician 565 chemist 514
Nève, Félix (1816–93), French Orientalist Otto I (1815–67), king of Greece 43
452 Otto, Rudolf (1869–1937), German ev.
Newman, John Henry (1801–90), British theologian, philosopher and historian
Angl., later Cath. theologian 93, 414
404 Owen, Richard (1804–92), British
Newton, Isaac (1643–1727), British anatomist and palaeontologist 531
mathematician, physicist and astronomer
493, 506 Painlevé, Paul (1863–1933), French
Nicholas I (1796–1855), Russian emperor mathematician and statesman 156, 629
152, 303, 509, 573 Palmén, Johan Axel (1845–1919), Finnish
Nicholas II (1868–1918), Russian emperor zoologist 534
154 Pareto, Vilfredo (1848–1923), Italian
Niebuhr, Barthold Georg (1776–1831), economist and sociologist 486
German historian 15, 465, 466 Paris, Alexis Paulin (1800–81), French
Niemczewski, Zachariasz (1766–1820), literary historian 442
Polish mathematician 498 Paris, Gaston (1839–1903), French
Nietzsche, Friedrich (1844–1900), Romanist 442
German philosopher and Classicist 455, Park, Robert (1864–1944), American
468 sociologist 171
Nilsson, Martin Persson (1874–1967), Parrot, Georg Friedrich (1767–1852),
Swedish Classicist and historian 414, Estonian physicist 509, 510
420–1 Pasha Artini, Yacoub, see Artin Pasha
Nilsson-Ehle, Herman (1873–1949), Yacoub
Swedish botanist 537 Pasquali, Giorgio (1885–1952), Italian
Nobel, Alfred (1833–96), Swedish chemist, philologist 428
engineer and industrialist 575 Pasteur, Louis (1822–95), French chemist
Nöldeke, Theodor (1832–1930), German and microbiologist 13, 18, 92, 151, 525,
Orientalist 445 528–9, 534, 577, 579
Norden, Eduard (1868–1941), German Pattison, Mark (1813–1884), British
Classicist 425, 429 educational reformer 168, 427
Pauli, Wolfgang (1900–58),
Oken, Lorenz (1779–1851), German Swiss-American physicist 505
scientist 521, 523 Paulsen, Friedrich (1846–1908), German
Ono, Azusa (1852–86), Japanese statesman philosopher 20, 454, 457
and university founder 226 Pavlov, Ivan Petrovič (1849–1936), Russian
Orioli, Francesco (1785–1856), Italian physiologist 573, 585
philosopher 27 Pearson, Karl (1857–1936), British
Ørsted, Anders Sandøe (1778–1860), mathematician 513
Danish jurist and politician 154 Pedro II (1825–91), emperor of Brazil
Ørsted, Hans Christian (1777–1852), 182
Danish physicist 154 Percival, John Thomas (1803–76), British
Ortega y Gasset, José (1883–1955), Spanish physician 575
philosopher of culture 354 Perkin, Harold, British historian 369
Oscar I (1799–1859), king of Sweden and Pestalozzi, Johann Heinrich (1746–1827),
Norway 290 Swiss educational reformer 22

720
Name index

Petrarca, Francesco (1304–74), Italian poet Puschkin (Pushkin), Aleksandr Sergeevich


29, 434 (1799–1837), Russian poet 275
Pfeiffer, Rudolf (1889–1979), German
Classicist 427 Quinet, Edgar (1803–75), French historian
Pfleiderer, Otto (1839–1908), German ev. 99, 149, 289
theologian 414
Pigou, Arthur Cecil (1877–1959), British Rabelais, François (1494–1553), French
economist 481 writer 147
Pilsudski, Jósef Klemens (1867–1935), Rade, Martin (1857–1940), German ev.
Polish statesman 352 theologian 414
Pinel, Philippe (1745–1826), French Rait, Robert Sangster (1874–1936), British
physician 545, 549–51 historian 475–6
Piper, Ferdinand (1811–89), German ev. Ram, (Pierre François) Xavier de
theologian and archaeologist 409 (1804–65), Belgian historian and
Pirogov, Nikolai (1810–81), Russian university rector 401
surgeon and anatomist 573 Ramón y Cajal, Santiago (1852–1934),
Pius IX (1792–1878), pope 396, 398, 401, Spanish histologist 527
402, 403 Ranke, Leopold von (1795–1886),
Pius X (1835–1914), pope 317, 396, 401 German historian 174, 463–5, 466–9,
Pius XI (1857–1939), pope 338, 356 477
Pius XII (1876–1958), pope 403 Rankine, William John Macquorn
Planck, Max (1858–1947), German (1820–72), British engineer 618
physicist 503, 627–8, 642 Rashdall, Hastings (1858–1924), British
Plato (c. 427–c. 347 BC), Greek historian 462
philosopher 395, 422, 451 Ratzel, Friedrich (1844–1904), German
Plekhanov, Georgiy Valentinovitch geographer and ethnographer 483
(1856–1918), Russian historian 473 Rayleigh, John William Strutt, third
Poggendorf, Johann Christian baron (1841–1919), British physicist
(1796–1877), German physicist 502 507
Poincaré, Henri (1854–1912), French Reinisch, Leo (1832–1919), Austrian
mathematician 516 Egyptologist and Africanist 446
Poinsot, Louis (1777–1859), French Reitzenstein, Richard (1861–1931),
mathematician 150 German Classicist 395
Poisson, Siméon Denis (1781–1840), Remak, Robert (1815–65), German
French mathematician and physicist physician 526–7
497–8, 507 Remsen, Ira (1846–1927), American
Pollard, Albert Frederick (1860–1948), chemist 171
British historian 474 Renan, Ernest (1823–92), French historian
Pompe van Meerdervoort, Johan Lidius 93, 151, 399–400, 412, 415, 417–18,
Catharinus (1829–1908), Dutch naval 424, 443
surgeon in Japan 556, 572 Renner, Kaspar-Fridrich Fedorovic
Popper, Karl (1902–94), Austrian-born (1780–1816), Russian mathematician
British philosopher 478 509
Powicke, Frederick Maurice (1879–1963), Reuleaux, Franz (1829–1905), German
British historian 475 engineer 618
Prichard, James Cowles (1786–1848), Ribera y Tarrago, Julián (1858–1934),
British physician and ethnologist 551 Spanish scholar of Islam 444
Primo de Rivera y Orbaneja, Miguel Ricardo, David (1772–1823), British
(1870–1930), Spanish general and economist and banker 460, 481
statesman 72–3, 354 Richelieu, Armand Jean du Plessis, duc de
Princip, Gavrilo (1895–1918), Serbian (1585–1642), French statesman and
nationalist 293 cardinal 102
Prothero, George Walter (1848–1922), Riesz, Frigyes (1880–1956), Hungarian
British historian 471–2, 475 mathematician 512
Proust, Marcel (1871–1922), French writer Ritschl, Albrecht (1822–89), German ev.
157, 416 theologian 412

721
Name index

Robert de Sorbon (1201–74), French Sagnac, Philippe (1868–1954), French


theologian 107 historian 477
Robespierre, Maximilien de (1758–94), Saint-Amand Bazard (1791–1832), French
French revolutionary and statesman 34, revolutionary 279
284 Saint-Simon, Claude Henri de Rouvroy,
Rodó, José Enrique (1871–1917), comte de (1760–1825), French
Uruguayan philosopher, educator and philosopher and social theorist 30, 484
essayist 182 Saintsbury, George (1845–1933), British
Rokitansky, Carl Freiherr von (1804–78), literary historian 415
Austrian physician 568, 569 Salazar, António de Oliveira (1889–1970),
Roosevelt, Franklin Delano (1882–1945), Portuguese politician 91, 156, 341, 648–9
president of the USA 668 Salimbeni, Leonardo (1830–89), Italian
Roscher, Wilhelm (1817–94), German teacher of natural history 535
economist 480 Sambuc, Jules Théophile (1804–34), French
Röschlaub, Andreas (1768–1835), German revolutionary 281, 283
physician 552 Sanctis, Francesco De (1817–83), Italian
Rose, Heinrich (1795–1864), German literary critic 69
chemist 504 Sand, Karl Ludwig (1795–1820), German
Rosenberg, Alfred (1893–1946), German theology student 275, 409
politician 659 Sangnier, Marc (1873–1950), French writer
Rosenbusch, Karl Harry Ferdinand 317
(1836–1914), German geologist Sanz del Rı́o, Julián (1814–69), Spanish
540 scholar of law 302
Rosmini-Servati, Antonio (1797–1855), Sapalski, Franciszek (1791–1838), Polish
Italian Cath. theologian 402–3 mathematician 498
Rossi, Giovanni Battista de (1822–94), Sarraut, Albert (1872–1962), French
Italian art historian 403 politician 211
Rousseau, Jean Jacques (1712–78), Saussure, Ferdinand de (1857–1913), Swiss
Swiss-French philosopher 4, 546 linguist 452
Roux, Emile (1853–1933), French Savigny, Friedrich Karl von (1779–1861),
bacteriologist 529 German jurist 14–15, 426, 430, 450,
Roux, Wilhelm (1850–1924), German 460, 466
zoologist 538 Say, Jean Baptiste (1767–1832), French
Rowntree, Benjamin Seebohm economist 484–5
(1871–1954), British sociologist and Sbert, Antonio Maria (1901–80), Spanish
philanthropist 486 student leader 354
Roy, Rammohun (1772–1833), Hindu Scaliger, Joseph Justus (1540–1609),
religious, social and educational French-Dutch Classicist 449
reformer 199 Scelle, Georges Auguste Jean Joseph
Rudolphi, Carl Asmund (1771–1832), (1878–1961), French university
German anatomist 18, 523 professor 89, 100
Ruge, Arnold (1802–80), German Schaumann, Eugen (1875–1904), Finnish
philosopher 455 nationalist 336
Rumovskii, Stepan (1734–1812), Russian Scheler, Max (1874–1928), German
mathematician 509 philosopher 365
Runeberg, Johan Vilhelm (1804–81), Schelling, Friedrich W. J. von (1755–1854),
Finnish professor of rhetoric 148 German philosopher 398–9, 455, 501–2,
Russell, William (1741–93), British 552
historian 199 Schiller, Friedrich von (1795–1805),
Rutherford, Ernest (1871–1937), British German writer 148, 297–8, 477–8
physicist 508, 514–15 Schimper, Andreas Franz Wilhelm
Rydberg, Viktor (1828–95), Swedish writer (1856–1901), German botanist 538–9
and journalist 126 Schirach, Baldur von (1907–74), German
politician 349
Sacy, Antoine Isaac Silvestre de Schlegel, August Wilhelm von
(1758–1835), French Orientalist 443, (1767–1845), German literary historian
445, 450 430, 452

722
Name index

Schlegel, Friedrich von (1772–1829), Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (1797–1851),


German writer and critic 430, 450 British writer 147
Schlegel, Gustav (1840–1903), Dutch Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792–1822), British
Sinologist 447 writer 272
Schleiden, Matthias (1804–81), German Siebold, Karl von (1804–85), German
botanist 521, 525, 526 physician and zoologist 526
Schleiermacher, Friedrich Ernst Daniel Siemens, Werner von (1816–92), German
(1768–1834), German ev. theologian and engineer 19, 627
philosopher 24, 25, 395, 414, 422, 453, Sierpiński, Waclaw Franciszek
455 – reformer of the University of Berlin (1882–1969), Polish mathematician 513
5, 48, 49, 152, 163, 406, 639 Simmel, Georg (1858–1918), German
Schlözer, August Ludwig von (1735–1809), sociologist and philosopher 487
German historian and philologist 148 Simon, Jules (1814–96), French politician
Schmidlin, Joseph (1878–1944), German and philosopher 99
Cath. theologian 399 Simpson, George Gaylord (1902–84),
Schmidt, Georg Gottlieb (1768–1837), American palaeontologist 539
German mathematician 501 Skoda, Joseph (1805–81), Austrian
Schmoller, Gustav von (1838–1912), physician 562
German economist 480 Skrodzki, Karol (Jürgen Karl, 1787–1832),
Schönlein, Johann Lukas (1793–1864), Polish physicist and university
German physician 17 rector 498
Schopenhauer, Arthur (1788–1860), Small, Albion Woodbury (1854–1926),
German philosopher 455 American sociologist 171
Schrödinger, Erwin (1887–1961), Austrian Smith, Adam (1723–90), British economist
physicist 174, 505, 513 11, 148, 484
Schumpeter, Joseph Alois (1853–1950), Smith, Arthur Lionel (1850–1924), British
Austrian social scientist 480, 484 historian 474, 475
Schwann, Theodor (1810–82), German Snellen, Herman (1834–1908), Dutch
physiologist 521, 567–8 ophthalmologist 579
Schwarzschild, Karl (1873–1948), German Snellman, Johan Vilhelm (1806–81),
astronomer 517 Finnish philosopher and statesman 148,
Scott, Walter (1771–1832), British writer 336
282 Snouck Hurgronje, Christiaan
Secchi, Angelo (1818–78), Italian physicist (1879–1936), Dutch scholar of Islam
516 445
Sechenov, Ivan M. (1839–1905), Russian Söderblom, Nathan (1866–1931), Swedish
physiologist 573 ev. theologian and historian 414
Sederholm, Jakob Johannes (1863–1934), Sombart, Werner (1863–1941), German
Finnish geologist 540 sociologist 136, 480, 487
Sedgwick, Adam (1785–1873), British Sonnenschein, Carl (1876–1929), German
geologist 530 Cath. theologian 320
Seeley, John Robert (1834–95), British Sorby, Henry Clifton (1826–1908), British
historian 469–70, 482 geologist 540
Seeliger, Hugo von (1849–1924), German Spartacus (d. 71 BC), Roman slave and
astronomer 517 revolutionary 150
Semmelweis, Ignaz (1818–1865), Speer, Albert (1905–81), German politician
German-Hungarian physician 569, 589 and architect 665
Semper, Gottfried (1803–79), German Spemann, Hans (1869–1941), German
architect 104 zoologist 538
Sertürner, Friedrich Wilhelm (1783–1841), Spencer, Herbert (1820–1903), British
German pharmacist 578 philosopher 218, 316, 456
Seyss-Inquart, Arthur (1892–1946), Spengel, Johann Wilhelm (1852–1921),
Austrian politician 654 German zoologist 534
Shakespeare, William (1564–1616), British Speransky, Mihail Mihajlovič count
playwright 199, 452 (1772–1839), Russian statesman 125
Shaw, George Bernard (1856–1950), Irish Stael, Madame de (1766–1817), French
writer 576 writer 452

723
Name index

Ståhlberg, Kaarlo (1862–1952), Finnish Tagore, Rabindranath (1861–1941), Hindu


jurist and statesman 155 writer and philosopher 207
Staiger, Emil (1908–87), Swiss Germanist Taine, Hippolyte (1828–93), French
432 philosopher and historian 151
Stalin, Joseph (1878–1953), Soviet dictator Tait, James (1863–1944), British historian
92, 586 475
Stas, Jean Servais (1813–91), Belgian Takata, Sanai (1860–1938), Japanese
chemist 498 political scientist and university founder
Stein, (Heinrich Friedrich) Karl, 226
Reichsfreiherr vom und zum Tanaka Fujimaro (1845–1909), Japanese
(1757–1831), German statesman 22 politician 224, 228
Stein, Mark Aurel (1862–1943), British Tansley, Arthur G. (1871–1955), British
archaeologist and geographer 205 botanist 539
Steinthal, Hajim (1823–99), German Tarde, Gabriel de (1843–1904), French
linguist 452 sociologist 485–6
Stendhal (pseudonym of Marie Henri Tawney, Richard Henry (1880–1962),
Beyle) (1783–1842), French writer 29 British economic historian 473, 482,
Stephen, James (1789–1859), British 488
colonial administrator; historian Tegnér, Esaias (1782–1846), Swedish
470 bishop 148, 159
Stokes, George Gabriel (1819–1903), Teilhard de Chardin, Pierre (1881–1955),
British mathematician 506 French theologian and palaeontologist
Stoll, Maximilian (1742–88), German 221, 403
physician 561 Tenon, Jacques (1724–1816), French
Strasburger, Eduard (1844–1912), German physician 545
plant cytologist 538 Thalamas, François (1867–1953), French
Strauss, David Friedrich historian 328
(1808–74), German ev. theologian 30, Thénard, Louis Jacques (1777–1857),
411–12 French chemist 496, 497–8
Strindberg, August (1849–1912), Swedish Thibaudet, Antoine (1874–1936), French
writer 150 literary historian 134, 157
Stromeyer, Friedrich (1776–1835), German Thibert, Félix, French producer of artificial
chemist 504 medical models 572
Strouhal, Čeněk (1850–1922), Czech Thierry, Augustin (1795–1856), French
physicist 505 historian 460
Strutt, John William see Rayleigh Thiers, Adolphe (1797–1877), French
Stubbs, William (1825–1901), British historian 280
historian 473–4 Thomas Aquinas (1224/1225–74),
Štúr, Ludovı́t (L’udovı́t, 1812–56), Slovak Italian-French theologian and
student leader, linguist, politician and philosopher 402
writer 288 Thomson, Joseph John (1856–1940),
Suess, Eduard (1831–1914), Austrian British physicist 508
geologist and palaeontologist 540 Thomson, William, Lord Kelvin of Largs
Sullivan, Arthur Seymour (1841–1900), (1824–1907), British physicist 156, 508,
British composer 147 515
Sun Yat-sen (1866–1925), Chinese Thun und Hohenstein, Count Leo von
statesman 223 (1811–88), Austrian statesman 51
Susini, Clemente Michelangelo F. Tigerstedt, Robert (1853–1923), Finnish
(1754–1814), Italian sculptor 562 physiologist 524
Suslova, Nadezhda (1843–1918), Russian Tiso, Jozef (1887–1947), Slovakian
physician 585 politician 353
Sutton, Walter Stanborough (1877–1916), Tisserand, François Felix (1845–96),
American biologist 537 French astronomer 516
Swieten, Gerard van (1700–72), Tissot, Simon André (1728–97), Swiss
Dutch-Austrian 556, 559 physician 550
Sybel, Heinrich von (1817–95), German Tobler, Adolf (1835–1910), Swiss Romanist
historian 463, 471 434

724
Name index

Toller, Ernst (1893–1939), German writer Valenciennes, Achille (1791–1864), French


346 zoologist 522
Tolstoy, Leo (1828–1910), Russian writer Vallejo, Jose Mariano (1779–1846),
333 Spanish mathematician 498
Tönnies, Ferdinand (1848–1923), German Vauquelin, Louis Nicolas (1763–1829),
sociologist 486 French chemist 495–6
Topelius, Zacharias (1818–98), Vavilov, Nikolai Ivanovich (1887–1943),
Finnish-Swedish historian 146 Russian plant geneticist 541
Tout, Thomas Frederick (1855–1929), Verdi, Giuseppe (1813–1901), Italian
British historian 475 composer 30
Traube, Ludwig (1818–76), German Vico, Giambattisto (1668–1744), Italian
physician 429, 565 philosopher and jurist 418, 451
Traugutt, Romuald (1826–64), Polish Victoria (1819–1901), queen of Great
revolutionary 306 Britain and Ireland 192, 197
Treitschke, Heinrich von (1834–96), Vidal de la Blache, Paul (1845–1918),
German historian 307, 468–9, 478, French geographer 477
482 Villemain, Abel-François (1790–1870),
Trevelyan, George Macaulay (1876–1962), French literary historian 149, 236
British historian 472 Virchow, Rudolf (1821–1902), German
Treviranus, Gottfried Reinhold physician 19–20, 489, 526, 532, 533,
(1776–1864), German physician 519, 564–6, 568–9, 572, 579
523 Vogel, Hermann Karl (1841–1907),
Troelstraa, Pieter Jelles (1860–1930), German astronomer 516
Dutch writer 341 Vogt, Karl (1817–95), German geologist
Troeltsch, Ernst (1865–1923), German ev. 69, 563–4
theologian 395, 412 Volta, Alessandro (1745–1827), Italian
Trousseau, Armand (1801–67), French physicist 520
physician 589 Volterra, Vito (1860–1940), Italian
Trubetskoi, Sergei Nikolaievich mathematician and physicist 539
(1802–1905), Russian university rector Voronoff, Serge (1866–1959),
155 Russian-French physiologist 577
Trubetzkoy, Nikolai Sergejewich Voskresenskii, Aleksandr A. (1809–80),
(1890–1938), Russian linguist 452 Russian chemist 511
Ts’ai, Yuan-P’ei (1867–1940) 218 Vrchovský, Alexander Boleslavı́n
Tschermak, Erich, Edler von Seysenegg (1812–43), Slovak student 287–8
von (1871–1962), Austrian botanist 537 Vries, Hugo de (1848–1935), Dutch
Tuke, Samuel (1784–1857), British botanist and geneticist 537
psychiatrist 551
Tuke, William (1732–1822), British Waals, Johannes Diderik van der
psychiatrist 551 (1837–1923), Dutch physicist 514
Tullberg, Tycho (1842–1920), Swedish Wach, Joachim (1898–1955),
zoologist 534 German-American theologian
Türck, Ludwig (1810–68), Austrian 414
physician 573 Wachler, Johann Ludwig Friedrich
Tyler, Edward Burnett (1832–1917), British (1767–1838), German historian 462
anthropologist 414 Wade, Thomas (1818–95), British
Tytler, Alexander Fraser (1747–1813), Sinologist 447
British historian 199 Waentig, Karl Heinrich (1843–1917),
German university officer 136
Ubaghs, Gerhard (1800–75), Belgian Wallace, Alfred Russel (1823–1913), British
philosopher and theologian 401 zoologist 530
Ulyanov, Alexander (1866–1887), Walras, Marie Esprit Léon (1834–1910),
Russian revolutionary and brother of French economist 483–4, 486
Lenin 324 Walter von der Vogelweide
Ulyanov, Vladimir Iljisch see Lenin (c. 1170–c. 1230), German poet 430
Usener, Hermann (1834–1905), German Walzer, Richard (1900–75), German
Classicist 425 Hellenist and Arabist 427

725
Name index

Ward, Adolphus William (1837–1924), William I (1772–1843), king of the


British historian, linguist 475 Netherlands 39, 497
Warming, Eugen (1841–1924), Danish Wilson, Woodrow (1856–1924), American
botanist 538–9 statesman, president of the USA 155,
Waterhouse, Alfred (1830–1905), British 184
architect 104 Windelband, Wilhelm (1848–1915),
Watt, James (1735–1848), British engineer German philosopher 171
and inventor 595 Windischgrätz, Alfred Prince zu
Webb, Beatrice (1858–1943), British (1787–1862), Austrian field marshal
historian and social reformer 294
482 Wit-Dörring, Johann von (1800–63),
Webb, Sidney (1859–1947), British German student leader 278
politician 482 Wöhler, Friedrich (1800–82), German
Weber, Max (1864–1920), German chemist 503–4, 525, 566
sociologist and economist 60, Wolf, Friedrich August (1759–1824),
127, 136–7, 252, 465, 466, 480, German Classicist 394, 418, 420, 422,
487–8 424, 466
Wegener, Alfred (1880–1930), German Wolff, Christian (1679–1754), German
meteorologist and geophysicist 540–1 philosopher 494
Weierstrass, Karl (1815–97), German Wood, Charles (1800–85), British
mathematician 500 statesman and entrepreneur 200
Weinberg, Wilhelm (1861–1937), German Wordsworth, William (1770–1850), British
geneticist 539 writer 272
Weismann, August (1834–1914), German Wright, Sewall (1889–1988), American
zoologist 536 geneticist 539
Wellhausen, Julius (1844–1918), German Wulf, Maurice de (1867–1947), Belgian
ev. theologian 395, 443 philosopher and historian 399
Wennerberg, Gunnar (1817–1901), Wunderlich, Carl Reinhold August
Swedish writer 125 (1815–77), German internist 557, 573
Werner, Abraham Gottlob (1750–1817), Wundt, Wilhelm (1832–1920), German
German geologist 520 physiologist and psychologist 453,
Westcott, Brooke Foss (1825–1901), British 488
theologian 413 Wurtz, Adolphe (1817–84), French chemist
Westermann, Dietrich H. (1875–1956), 105
German Africanist 448–9 Wysocki, Piotr (1797–1874), Polish
Wette, Wilhelm Martin Leberecht, De revolutionary 283
(1780–1849), German ev. theologian 99,
407, 409 Xaver of Saxony, Prince (1730–1806),
Whewell, William (1794–1866), British German university founder 598
philosopher 498
Wicksell, Knut (1851–1926), Swedish Yarrow, Alfred F. (1842–1932), British ship
economist 483 engineer 628
Wieger, Leon (1856–1933), French Yen, Fu (1853–1921), Chinese university
Sinologist 221 president 217
Wien, Wilhelm (1864–1928), German Yersin, Alexandre (1863–1943), Swiss-born
physicist 627 French bacteriologist 529
Wiesengrund, see Adorno
Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, Ulrich von Zárata, Antonio Gil de
(1848–1931), German Classicist 413, (1793–1861), Spanish university
425, 435, 642 reformer 118
Wilberforce, Samuel (1805–73), British Zateplinskiy, P. A. (1794–1834), Russian
bishop 531 astronomer 510
Wilberforce, William (1759–1833), Zeeman, Pieter (1865–1943), Dutch
British politician and philanthropist physicist 514
150 Zeiss, Carl (1816–88), German
Willem of Oranje-Nassau (1840–79), mathematician, physicist and
prince of the Netherlands 302 entrepreneur 577

726
Name index

Zeller, Carl (1842–98), Austrian opera Zielinski, Tadeus (1859–1944), Polish


composer 147 Classicist 428
Zeller, Eduard (1814–1908), German ev. Zinin, Nikolai Nikolaevich (1812–80),
theologian and philosopher 395 Russian chemist 511
Zeuss, Johann Kaspar (1806–56), German Zola, Emile (1840–1902), French writer
Celticist 452 302, 328, 528

727
SUBJECT INDEX

Aachen (Germany), technical school, 625, 116–17, 377–8, university access, 130–1,
u n i v e rs i t y , 58 238, 242, 244, 254–7
Aarhus (Denmark), u n i v e rs i t y , aesthetics, 439
110–26 Africa, French colonies, 193–6,
Aberdeen (United Kingdom), u n i v e rs i t i e s , 191–8
u n i v e rs i t y , 36 African Studies, 448–9
Aberystwyth (United Kingdom), Agram (Zagreb) (Croatia), student
u n i v e rs i t y , 36 movements, 337, u n i v e rs i t y , 41,
Åbo, see Turku languages, 64–5
academic freedom, 94–8, 169–70 agriculture, 72, 188, 512, Agricultural
Academies, Académie des Inscriptions et Research Committee, 646
des Belles Lettres, 642, Académie des Aix-en-Provence (France), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Sciences in Paris, 17, 522, 529, 642, buildings, 102, finance, 111
Academy of Mining in Slovakia, 495, Alcalá (Spain), 37
Academy of Sciences in Berlin, 16, Alexandria (Egypt), u n i v e rs i t y (Faruk
Academy of Sciences in Poland, 657, the First University), 192
Academy of Sciences in St Petersburg, algebra, see mathematics
541, 586, Bergakademie of Schemnitz, Algeria, 195
597, Berlin Academy, 642, British Algiers (Algeria), u n i v e rs i t y , 195
Academy, 642, Export Academy in Allahabad University, 200
Vienna, 41, International Academy of American, 436
Science, 643, Leopoldina, 522, Medical Amsterdam (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Academy in Moscow, 556, Medical 38, mathematics, 513, physics, 514
Academy in St Petersburg, 556, 559, 573, anatomy, 18, 493, 520, 581, anatomical
Medical Academy in Vilnius, 556, collections, 557, 571–2, chairs, 557, 572,
Oriental Academy in Vienna, 442, Soviet morbid anatomy, 571, neuroanatomy,
Academy of Sciences, 666 569, textbooks, 568
academies and learned societies, 16–17, Angers (France), Catholic Institute, 91, 397
156, 447, 594–5, see also specialized Anglican colleges, 54, 202, 215
schools Ankara (Turkey), u n i v e rs i t y , 44
accommodation: board and lodging, 102, anthropology, 460, 488–9, 526
halls of residence, 104, 105–7, student antiquity, 11, 419–20, 421, 422–5
houses, 107, 110 Antwerp (Belgium), medicine, 554
Adelaide (Australia), u n i v e rs i t y , apprenticeships, 607
214 Arabic Studies, 186–91, 443
admission of students, admission rates, Arabic world, 443
235–7, requirements for admission, archaeology, 414, 526

729
Subject index

archaeology, Christian, 409 Beirut (Lebanon), 187, u n i v e rs i t y


Argentina, 183, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 179 (American University of Beirut), 187–8
arts, 17, 34, 66, 93, 366, 454, artes Belfast (United Kingdom), Presbyterian
liberales, 393, theology and, 393–5 College, 85, u n i v e rs i t y (Queen’s
Aslib, 648 University), engineering, 613
assistants and amanuenses, 144 Belgium, careers, 383, Catholicism, 310,
astronomy, 107, 493, 498, 499, 510 327, 341, CIE, 357, First World War,
astrophysics, 516 642, languages, 24–5, 39, 65, 301, 316,
Athens (Greece), u n i v e rs i t y , 43, 561, 318, 319, 327, 340–1, mining school,
finance, 87 599, revolution, 282, Second World War,
atomic weapons, 668 653, social emancipation, 318–19,
Auckland (New Zealand), u n i v e rs i t y , specialized schools, 604–5, student
215 associations, 316, 341, student
Austro-Prussian War (1866), 300 movements, 291–2, 301, 310, 327–8,
Australia, u n i v e rs i t i e s , models, 163 655, students, 310, technical schools,
Austria, careers, 383, Catholicism, 299, 604–5, 621, u n i v e rs i t i e s , admission,
323, 330–1, 350, gymnasien and colleges, 254, arts, 454, Catholic universities, 91,
51, human rights, 313, Jews, 313, 320–1, enrolments, 245, medicine, 553–4,
350, languages, 330, nationalism, 313, mobility, 65–6, models, 65–6, officials,
322–3, 350–1, students, 51, 121, reforms, 39–40, 65–6, research,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , autonomy, 51, 656, theology, 397
buildings, 104, engineering, 41, Belgrade (Serbia), student movements,
enrolments, 245, finance, 86–7, 337
foundations, 41, mining, 41, models, Bengal (India), colleges, 207
51–2, philosophy, 19, 51, women, 248 Berkeley (United States), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Austria-Hungary, 287–8, 292–5, 350, 668
languages, 64–5, mining schools, 598, Berlin (Germany), 16, 411, Bergakademie,
student movements, 298–9, 598, Institute for Oriental Studies, 447,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 118, faculties, 454, Institute for Physics, 514, Kapp Putsch,
finance, 86–7, medicine, 559, models, 346, seminars and institutes, 60, 408–9,
64–5, theology, 397–9 505, student associations, 297, 329,
Ayn Warak, first college in the Lebanon, student movements, 273, 274, 292, 307,
187 319, 320, technical institute, 505,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , medicine, 556,
Baghdad (Iraq) institutions of higher u n i v e rs i t y , 7, 12, 14, 16, 20, 34, 58,
learning, 186–7 124, 149, chemistry, 503, 504, finance,
Balkan countries, careers, 384 60, 86, 111, German studies, 430,
Baltic states, u n i v e rs i t i e s , buildings, history, 465, humanities, 418, languages,
103 435, 436, 444, mathematics, 500–1,
Baltimore (United States), 580–1, medicine, 558, 564, 587, mobility, 67,
u n i v e rs i t y (The Johns Hopkins models, 21, 33, 47–53, 57–61, 74, 171,
University), 168, 170, 171 philology, 420, 425, philosophy, 453,
Bamberg (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , physics, 501, 502, 505, physiology,
medicine, 552 523–4, professors, 49, 137, research,
Bangor (United Kingdom), u n i v e rs i t y , 523, state control, 99, theology, 405,
36 406–8, see also Helmholtz, Hermann
Banska Ŝtiavinca (Schemnitz) (Slovakia), von; Humboldt, August von; Humboldt,
Bergakademie, 597–8 Wilhelm von; Müller, Johannes;
Barcelona (Spain), 610, engineering, 617, Schleiermacher, Friedrich; Schwann,
specialist schools, 72, u n i v e rs i t y , 37 Theodor; Virchow, Rudolf
Bari (Italy), specialist schools, 71, Bern (Berne) (Switzerland), 395,
u n i v e rs i t y , 37 u n i v e rs i t y , 38, 247, professors, 69
Basle (Switzerland), u n i v e rs i t y , 38, Besançon (France), u n i v e rs i t y ,
astronomy, 516, mathematics, 505 buildings, 102, finance, 111
Bavaria, u n i v e rs i t i e s , faculties, 454 Bilbao (Spain), 611, 617
Beijing (China), 220–1, institutions, biology, 343, 519–20, 528–9, cell theory,
218–19, u n i v e rs i t y , 217–18, 222 19, 525–7, genetics, 536–8, 539, positive

730
Subject index

biology, 566, research, 521–3, 585, Bulgaria, specialist schools, 43–4,


see also botany u n i v e rs i t i e s , foundations, 42,
Birmingham (United Kingdom), 43–4
u n i v e rs i t y , 36, finance, 85 bureaucratization, 6–9
Bohemia (Czech Republic), 353 Burma, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 208–9
Bolivia, 183 business schools, see specialized schools
Bologna (Italy), u n i v e rs i t y , 133,
dissolution of, 27, freedom, 20–1, status, Caen (France), u n i v e rs i t y , buildings,
27, student movements, 27 103
Bombay (India), 199, 202, medical school, Cairo (Egypt), museums, 444,
557, u n i v e rs i t y , 200–1 u n i v e rs i t i e s , Al Azhar University,
Bonn (Germany), student associations, 164, 191, American University of Cairo,
297, u n i v e rs i t y , astronomy, 516, 192
chemistry, 504, languages, 433, Calcutta (India), 202, 443, colleges, 198–9,
mathematics, 501, philology, 425, medical schools, 557, u n i v e rs i t y ,
see also Strasburger, Eduard 200–1, 204, 205
books, 142–3, availability, 106, see also California, University of, see Berkeley
libraries; textbooks Calvinism, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 39
Bordeaux (France, Gironde), Société Cambodia, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 210–11
Philomatique, 615, u n i v e rs i t y , Cambridge (United Kingdom), 127,
astronomy, 516, theology, 396 Cavendish Laboratory, 507, 508, student
Bosnia, nationalism, 337 movements, 272, 325, 326, 339,
botany, botanical gardens, 17, 35, 107, u n i v e rs i t y , 11, 125, access, 244,
522, chair of, 557 admission, 92, 116, 243–5, 247, 250,
Bratislava (Poszony) (Slovakia), 287, 288, 264–5, astronomy, 516, buildings, 102,
student movements, 352, u n i v e rs i t y , colleges, 139, degrees, 247, engineering,
41, buildings, 103, languages, 64 614, examinations, 54, Extension
Braunschweig, see Brunswick Programme, 309, finance, 62, 64, 84,
Brazil, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 181–2 111–12, 117, foreign students, 205,
Breslau (Wroclaw) (Poland), student history, 469–74, humanism, 54, income,
associations, 329, u n i v e rs i t y , 108, languages, 443, 444, 447,
astronomy, 516, languages, 437, mathematics, 506, medicine, 582, MML,
mathematics, 501, physics, 505 441, natural sciences, 507, 515, 530,
Bristol (United Kingdom), u n i v e rs i t y , officials, 97, 118–19, physics, 514,
36 515–16, physiology, 582, privileges, 95,
Brno (Czech Republic), 287, 656, professors, 139, 151, 155, reforms,
student movements, 293, 321, 352, 61–4, 308, research, 11–12, 62, sciences,
u n i v e rs i t y , 41 531, social sciences, 481, 482, state
Brunswick (Braunschweig) (Germany), 58, control, 95, students, 264–5, theology,
student movements, 306 413
Brussels (Belgium), social emancipation, Cambridge (United States), u n i v e rs i t y
318, 319, student movements, 301, 341, (Harvard University), 166, 169, 172
u n i v e rs i t y , 40, 282, 655 cameralism, 546
Bucharest (Romania), u n i v e rs i t y , 42, Canada, colleges, 176–7, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
560 175–7, models, 163
Buda, see Budapest Cape of Good Hope (South Africa),
Budapest (Hungary), 293, student u n i v e rs i t y , 196, 197
movements, 322, u n i v e rs i t y , 41, Cape Town (South Africa), u n i v e rs i t y ,
astronomy, 516, finance, 84, 87, 111, 196, 197
languages, 64, mathematics, 512, Cardiff (United Kingdom), u n i v e rs i t y ,
medicine, 559 36
Buenos Aires (Argentina), Carlsbad conference (1819), 152
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 183 Casablanca (Morocco), 196
buildings and other properties, 102–5, Catholic associations, 315, 319, 323,
149–50, ‘Cathedrals of Science’, 104, student associations, 297, 330–1,
finance, 110, 117, medical, 570, see also 357
laboratories Catholic countries and states, 50–1

731
Subject index

Catholic universities, 39, 91, 92, 113, 121, Christiania, see Oslo
299, 310–11, 379, 397, 403, colleges, Christianity, 410–11, 412–13
202, Darwinism, 535–6, institutes, 91, civil engineering, 599–600
397, 404 Clark University, see Worcester
Catholicism, 131, 299, 323, 330–1, 350, Clarté movement, 338, 343
modernism and, 401–5, Reformed Classicism, 276
Catholicism, 399, student associations, Clermont-Ferrand (France), u n i v e rs i t y ,
297, 330–1, 357, theology, 395–400 630
Central America, u n i v e rs i t i e s , models, clinical schools, 554
163 Cluj, see Kolozsvar
Cernowitz, see Czernowitz Coimbra (Portugal), u n i v e rs i t y , 181,
Ceylon, 207–8 buildings, 102, medicine, 562
chair of, aesthetics, 439, anatomy, 557, 572, colleges, 3–4, 7–8, 9, 10, 11, 20, 36, 43, 51,
Arabic, 393, botany, 557, chemistry, 495, 54, 62, 63, 85, 139, 155, 164–77, 192–3,
496, 497, 503, 504, 557, economics, 480, 197, 198–9, 200, 201–3, 207, 215, 218,
Egyptology, 445, 446, engineering, 613, 247, 308, 315, 380, 505, 507, 508, 513,
English studies, 435, Greek, 134, 393, 531, 614
Hebrew, 393, Latin, 134, 421, linguistics, colleges, national, 99
453, materia medica, 557, mathematics, Cologne (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , 19,
506, medicine, 579–80, metallurgy, 495, 61
mineralogy, 495, 497, obstetrics, 557, Colombia, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 179
ophthalmology, 562, oriental languages, communications studies, 487
393, 443, 444, oriental studies, 442, Communism, 87, 98, 100, 131, 338–9, 352,
pathology, 572, pharmacy, 557, 357–8
philology, 421, 422, 433, 438–40, Congress of Europe (1818), 152
philosophy, 420, 457, physics, 496, 502, congresses, 130
515, poetry, 134, practical medicine, Copenhagen (Denmark), u n i v e rs i t y ,
557, rhetoric, 134, Romance Studies, 433, 40, 66, 265, astronomy, 516, finance, 84,
Sanskrit, 452, Sinology, 447, Slavonic medicine, 558, see also Warming,
Studies, 436–7, sociology, 486, surgery, Eugen
557, theoretical medicine (Institutiones), Córdoba (Argentina), u n i v e rs i t y , 182
557, veterinary medicine, 562 Córdoba (Spain), specialist schools, 72
chairs or professorships, 71, 89–90, 119, corporatism, 325–37
128–30, 172, see also professors councils, academic, 119–20, 129, 130,
chancellor, 97, 119 647
Charkov (Ukraine), u n i v e rs i t y , 35, Cracow (Poland), 657, student movements,
finance, 87 283, 290, 298, 305, 334, 351, students,
chemistry, 379, 494–5, 497–8, 499, 501, 314, u n i v e rs i t y , 41, 42, 657,
502, 503–4, 510, 514, 571, 578, astronomy, 516, languages, 64,
agricultural chemistry, 512, mathematics, 498, medicine, 560,
bio-chemistry, 514, chair of, 495, 496, theology, 398
497, 503, 504, 557, industrial, 606–7, Croatia, 293, languages, 64–5, student
Kaiser-Wilhelm-Institute, 643, movements, 322, 337, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
laboratories, 504, 507, organic 41
chemistry, 566, physical chemistry, Czech Republic, Catholicism, 331, Fascism,
514, Royal College of Chemistry, 508, 352–3, Jews, 321, languages, 299, 330,
613 nationalism, 313, 322–3, 331, student
Chicago (United States), u n i v e rs i t y , movements, 293, 294–5, 321, 352,
166, 169, 170, 171, 172, 668 technical schools, 41, 603–4, 625,
Chile, 183, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 180 u n i v e rs i t i e s , 41, 287, 352, 656,
China, ‘Boxer Indemnity’, 222, colleges, finance, 87, languages, 65, medicine,
218, foreign languages, 216–17, Fudan 559, physics, 505
College, 220, languages, 221, missionary Czechoslovakia, CIE, 357, nationalism,
colleges, 220–1, private institutions, 356, parliament, 156, Second World War,
219–20, research, 221–2, 656, u n i v e rs i t i e s , buildings, 103
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 216–23, autonomy, Czernowitz (Bukowina), u n i v e rs i t y ,
222–3 41, 330

732
Subject index

Dakar (Senegal), 196 242–3, 246, 247–8, 255–6, 650, 669,


Damascus (Syria), 186–7 progressiveness, 257, public education
Danzig, see Gdansk ministries, 88–90, 96, 109
Darmstadt (Germany), technical university, Egypt, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 191–2,
58 Egyptian University (Fuad the First),
Darwinism, 530–6 191–2
Debrecen (Hungary), u n i v e rs i t y , 41, Egyptology, 444
languages, 64 electro-technology, 512
degrees, 38–9, 46, 95, 120, 241–2 engineering, 41, 71, 602, 606, 613, 614,
degrees: bachelor (baccalaureate), 7–8, 615, 617, 623, 625–6, chair of, 613, civil
190, 241, 366, doctor, doctorate, 8, engineering, 599–600, electrical
137–8, 366, 625–6, engineering science, engineering, 618, Engineering Advisory
622, honorary degrees, 158, master of Committee, 650, engineering science,
arts, 366, Master of Surgery, 582, 622, industrial engineering, 611, marine,
medical degrees, 582 44, textbooks, 607
Delft (Netherlands), student movements, England, careers, 374, Church of England,
302, 655 166, education, 243, 255, 256, costs, 251,
demography, 460 students, 264–5, theology, 413,
Denmark, constitutionalism, 154, public u n i v e rs i t i e s , 127, access, 244,
education ministries, 88, Second admission, 243, chairs, 89, Dissenters,
World War, 658, students, 266, 99, 166, dress, 132, enrolments, 245,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 40, 66, 265, finance, 118, foreign students, 205,
admission, 265, astronomy, 516, finance, languages, 447, oriental studies, 444,
84, medicine, 558 professors, 130–1
dialectical materialism, 460 English studies, 435
dialectics, 393 Enlightenment, 411, 544
Dijon (France), u n i v e rs i t y , finance, enrolments, 245
111 Erasmus University, see Rotterdam
dissertations or theses, 8, 13, 370, 424, Erlangen (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , 34,
441 chemistry, 503, natural sciences, 501,
documentation, 648 theology, 411
Dominican institutions, 212 ethnopsychology, 453
Dorpat, see Tartu European models, 4–15, 53–5, 163–4,
Dresden (Germany), technical university, see also Humboldtian model;
58 Napoleonic model
dress, 132, 159, 281, 285, 286, evolutionism, 459, see also Darwinism
324 examinations, 22, 54, 140, 142, 366–7,
Dublin (Ireland), Medical School, 589, 370, 373
Royal College of Physicians, 555,
u n i v e rs i t y (Trinity College), 11, 36, faculties, faculty of arts, 123, 248,
mathematics, 507, physics, 505, 393–4, 454, 493, faculty of humanities,
professors, 155 145, faculty of law, 50, 124, 129, 132,
Durham (United Kingdom), u n i v e rs i t y , 145, 248, 262, letters, 129, mathematics,
36, engineering, 606 133, 454, medicine, 50, 124, 129, 145,
158, 262, 494, 557–8, 570–5, 579–80,
ecology, 538–9 missionary studies, 399, philosophy, 48,
econometrics, 484 50, 51, 132, 248, 262, 453, 493, 511,
economics, 459, 460, 479, 480–2, chair of, physics, 133, science, 123, 129, 454,
480, specialized schools, 62, 205, 339, 497, theology, 50, 113, 123, 129, 145,
481–2, 486 158, 248, 262, 393, 396, 405–9
Edinburgh (United Kingdom), Royal Fascism, 94, 341, 343, 351–2,
College of Physicians, 555, 358–9
u n i v e rs i t y , 36, chemistry, 514, finance, 11, 46, 56, 62, 64, 115, education
medicine, 549, models, 175, philology, costs, 250–4, expenditure, 107–10, fees,
415, reforms, 11, state control, 95 45, 52, 68, 116, 118, financial
education, costs of, 250–4, history of, 462, dependence, 84–8, gifts, 56, 112, sources
phases of, 257, pre-university, 239–40, of, 111–14, 117–18, state and, 74

733
Subject index

Finland, Darwinism, 534, languages, 335, 498–9, models, 4–6, 44–7, natural
336, 337, 343–5, nobility, 159, sciences, 16–17, officials, 57, 85, 121,
parliament, 155, Second World War, 659, philology, 416–17, 421, 425–6, political
student associations, 344, student dependence, 93, professors, 7–8, 46,
movements, 276, 289, 295–6, 335–7, 56–7, 116, 139–40, 142, 153, 156–7, 288,
344–5, students, 24, u n i v e rs i t i e s , reforms, 34–5, 55–7, 307–8, 669,
40, 123, 284, buildings, 104, enrolments, religious discrimination, 93,
245, law, 303, officials, 159, professors, replacements, 3, research, 12, 91–2, 522,
154, 155, 158 resistance, 99, Romance philology, 12,
First World War (1914–18), 337, 638, scholarships, 109, sciences, 57, 113, 249,
641–5, 652, 669, research institutions, social sciences, 484–6, state control, 95,
628–9 97, statutes and decrees, 93, 97, student
Florence (Italy), u n i v e rs i t y , 27, 37, movements, 24, 93, 100, student
physics, 515 numbers, 101, students, 56, teachers,
Fort Hare (South Africa), u n i v e rs i t y , 108, theology, 6, 396, women, 248,
198 women, 247
France, academies and specialized schools, Franco-Prussian War (1870), 300, 306–7,
34–5, 57, 159, 240, 596–7, 598, 616, 652
599–600, 615–16, 623, 630, aristocracy, Franeker (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y ,
157, arts, 34, baccalaureate, 240, 244, 39
buildings, 103–4, careers, 45, 127, 374, Frankfurt-am-Main (Germany), 285, 292,
375–6, 381, Catholicism, 95, 401, u n i v e rs i t y , 61, Jews, mathematics,
Collège de France, 99, 288, 455, 496, 19, natural sciences, 19
567, collèges, 34–5, 240, colonies, 179, Fredericton, see New Brunswick
193–6, 211, Communism, 338–9, Freiberg (Germany), mining school,
Darwinism, 534–5, écoles des arts et 597–8
métiers, 496, Edgar Faure Act (1968), 5, Freiburg im Breisgau (Germany), student
education, 152, 240, 242–3, 252, 255–6, associations, 297, u n i v e rs i t y , 34,
costs, 251, examinations, 373, French 397, buildings, 104, theology, 399
Revolution, 24, 34, 240, 280, 476–7, Freiburg/Fribourg (Switzerland),
495, July, 281, parliament, 156, politics, u n i v e rs i t y , 38
151, 153, public education ministries, 88,
89–90, research, 629, 652–3, Galicia (Austria), 42, 314, 334
Restoration, 86, scholarships, 251, Gdansk (Poland), 58
sciences, 34, 495–9, Second World War, genetics, 536–8, 539
651–3, 669, seminaries, 399–400, social Geneva (Switzerland), specialist schools,
emancipation, 317–18, student 69, u n i v e rs i t y , 38, 69, 70,
associations, 338–9, student movements, professors, 69, sciences, 497
278–80, 288–9, 296, 300–1, 328, Genoa (Italy), medicine, 562, specialist
students, 262–4, Third Republic, 307–8, schools, 71
Université Saint-Joseph, 188–9, geography, 460, 477, 479, 483, plant
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 4–5, 114, 118, access, geography, 520
242, 244, admission, 116, 240–3, 246, geology, 493, 520, 530–1, 532–3, 539–41
247, arts, 56, 93, 248, 454, autonomy, geopolitics, 483
83, 85, biology, 521–2, buildings, 102, Georgia (United States), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Catholic faculties, 57, Catholic 165
universities, 91, colleges, 7–8, 10, Germany, academies and specialized
Communism, 98, degrees, 7–8, 46, 95, schools, 58, 238–9, 243, 262, 608–9,
120, 241–2, dress, 132, engineering, 626, 611–12, 621, 623, 625, 631, careers, 374,
examination, 140, 142, faculties, 186, 375–7, 381–2, Catholicism, 312, 329,
249, 262–4, 497, finance, 45, 46, 56, commercial colleges, 380, Darwinism,
85–6, 115, halls of residence, 105–7, 533, education, 22–3, 242–3, 255–6,
historiography, 476–9, income, 108, German Student Day, 347, Jews, 275,
Jews, 98, languages, 441–2, law, 34, 248, 312, 313, 320, 347, 349, 587, journals,
249, 262, letters, 249, mathematics, 431, laboratories, 504, museums, 488,
495–9, medicine, 18–19, 34–5, 249, nationalism, 24, 94, 273, 297–8, 311,
545–6, 553, 574, 581–2, mobility, 205, 312–13, 328–30, 345–51, 478, 513–14,

734
Subject index

587–8, 641–2, parliaments, 153, Gothenburg (Sweden), Chalmers


Physikalisch-Technische Reichsanstalt, Institution, 609, u n i v e rs i t y , 40
627, princes, 50, protest movements, 99, Göttingen (Germany), 394, aristocracy,
Protestantism, 312, public education 429, student associations, 297, student
ministries, 88, research, 541, 627–8, movements, 274, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, 94,
661–5, Restoration, 152, 153, 123, buildings, 103, chemistry, 503, 504,
Romanticism, 275, schools, 22–3, 120, history, 466, mathematics, 500, 512, 513,
seminaries, 397, social emancipation, natural sciences, 501, professors, 52, 152,
319–21, student associations, 296–8, 286, 468, state control, 99, theology,
311–12, 345, student movements, 272–6, 412
285–7, 292–3, 295, 306–7, 311–13, graduates, 117, 119, 363–5, 371–2, 387,
students, 168, 258, 261–2, unification, numbers of, 234–5, overproduction of,
285, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 5–6, 7, 114, 118, 59, 235, 254, 256, 376–9, 384
124, access, 238, 242, admission, Grahamstown (South Africa),
235–40, 246, 247, 254, 257–62, 377, u n i v e rs i t y (Rhodes University
autonomy, 59, 292–3, biology, 522–3, College), 197
buildings, 103, 104, business, 61, Granada (Spain), u n i v e rs i t y , 37
disappearance, 3, engineering, 613, grants, 64, 96, 118, 646, 651
faculties, 249, 261–2, 454–5, finance, 60, Graz (Austria), Catholicism, 331,
86, 115, German studies, 430, 432, Greek nationalism, 313, 323, 331, 350, student
studies, 23, humanism, 59, humanities, movements, 295, 299, technical school,
249, 417–20, laboratories, 105, 351, u n i v e rs i t y , 19, 41, 351,
languages, 429–30, law, 129, 249, 262, buildings, 105, engineering, 41, geology,
394, mathematics, 19, 494, 499, 541, physics, 505
medicine, 17–18, 22, 129, 249, 262, 546, Greece, careers, 383, student movements,
570, 587–8, mobility, 205, 526, models, 277, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 43, 114, finance,
4–6, 21, 33, 47–53, 57–61, 167–75, 228, 87, foundations, 42, medicine, 560
natural sciences, 17, 19, non-professorial Greek, 23, 134
staff, 59–60, officials, 50, 97, philology, Greifswald (Germany), student
415, 421–8, philosophy, 19, 129, 248, associations, 297, u n i v e rs i t y , 34,
262, 499, physics, 515, physiology, finance, 86, mathematics, 501
563–5, professors, 8–9, 49, 59–60, 89, Grenoble (France), Institut Electronique,
116, 119, 128–9, 131, 134–9, 152, 153, 616, u n i v e rs i t y , buildings,
157–8, reforms, 33–4, research, 60, 292, 103
resistance, 100, sciences, 113, 249, Groningen (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y ,
499–505, 659–61, social sciences, 39, astronomy, 516, sciences, 497
479–80, 486–7, state control, 91, 94, 96,
98, student movements, 24, 26, 94, Haifa (Israel), 191
students, 57, teaching, 128, theology, Halifax (Canada), u n i v e rs i t y
129, 248, 249, 262, 394, 395–6, 397–9, (Dalhousie University), 175
430, women, 248, Weimar Republic, 94, Halle (Germany), 34, 411, student
women, 247 associations, 297, student movements,
Ghent (Belgium), languages, 341, 655, 274, 306, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, 466,
social emancipation, 318, student buildings, 103, chemistry, 503, natural
movements, 301, 327, technical school, sciences, 501, theology, 405
604–5, u n i v e rs i t y , 39, 65, 282, 655, halls of residence, see accommodation
mathematics, 497, sciences, 497 Hamburg (Germany), 447, u n i v e rs i t y ,
Giessen (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , 34, 50, 61, physics, 505
chemistry, 498, 501, 503–4, 606, Hanover (Germany), technical university,
mathematics, 500, 501, natural sciences, 58, 348
501, theology, 399 Hanoi (North Vietnam), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Gijón (Spain), 610 211
Glasgow (United Kingdom), 11, Harderwijk (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y ,
u n i v e rs i t y , 36, astronomy, 516, 39
engineering, 613, history, 475, Latin, Harvard University, see Cambridge (United
421, physics, 508, sciences, 595, social States)
composition, 63 Hebrew universities, 190

735
Subject index

Heidelberg (Germany), student insignia, 26, 273


associations, 297, student movements, institutes, see seminars and institutes
307, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, buildings, 103, internationalism, 642, 645
chemistry, 503, 504, finance, 86, Iraq, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 186
mathematics, 19, 500, natural sciences, Ireland (Hibernia), u n i v e rs i t i e s , 11,
19, physics, 500, 501, 502 36, finance, 85, mathematics, 507,
Helsinki (Helsingfors) (Finland), 40, 285, medicine, 85, 555, 589, models, 214,
languages, 289, philanthropy, 146, physics, 505, professors, 155
student movements, 303, u n i v e rs i t y , Islam, 44, 442, 444, 445, Islamic
66–8, 125, 126, 276, 289, buildings, 104, institutions, 199
privileges, 125, professors, 152, 158, 336 Istanbul (Turkey), mathematics, 513,
Hermesianism, 400 medicine, 561, u n i v e rs i t y , 44
Higher Polytechnical Schools, 10 Italy, Casati Law, Legge Casati, 70, 96,
Hindu institutions, 198–9 Catholicism, 70, 355–6, 402, Darwinism,
history, authenticity, 463–76, critical 535, engineering, 617, Fascism, 94,
history, 459–63, historiography, 14, 355–6, graduates, 560, languages, 300,
476–9, historicism, 477–9, journals, public education ministries, 88, research
462–3, literary history, 431–2 institutions, 629, schools of commerce,
honorary titles, 159 71, Second World War, 659, secret
Hong Kong (East Asia), u n i v e rs i t y , 216 societies, 278, seminaries, 397, technical
hospitals, 545, 548, 549, 589 schools, 602–3, 622, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
humanism, 54, 59, 393, 394, 416, 429, 10, 114, 118, 119, admission, 248,
449, 571 autonomy, 47, 70, 71, buildings, 102,
humanities, 145, 249, 417–20, 441, 670 decrees, 96, distribution, 70, enrolments,
Humboldtian model, 4–6, 21, 33, 47–53, 245, finance, 87, income, 108,
57–61, 64–70, 74, 171, 456 mathematics, 512, medicine, 562,
Hungary, careers, 65, Janos Bolyau models, 13, officials, 121, oriental
Institute, 512, Jews, 41, 65, nationalism, studies, 444, philology, 415, 427–8,
313, public education ministries, 90, political dependence, 94, professors, 71,
student movements, 293–4, students, 51, 140, reforms, 36–7, 47, 70–2, resistance,
323, Treaty of Trianon, 65, women, 65, 100, sciences, 497, social sciences, 482,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , administration, 90, 486, state control, 96, 98, status, 56,
buildings, 103, finance, 86–7, student movements, 26–31, students, 70,
foundations, 41, languages, 65, 439, law, 71, 72, theology, 70, 397, women,
51, 65, mathematics, 512, models, 51–2, 248
64–5, state control, 94, 98, see also
Austria-Hungary Japan, languages, 225, private universities,
226, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 223–6, 227,
Iaşi (Romania), u n i v e rs i t y , 42, 560 models, 163
ideological discrimination, 92–3 Jena (Germany), 577, Catholicism, 329,
Imperial Physical-Technical Institute in student associations, 297, student
Berlin, 60 movements, 273, 274–5, u n i v e rs i t y ,
inclusiveness, 235–46 34, 125, chemistry, 503, mathematics,
India, colleges, 201–3, languages, 199–200, 501, see also Haeckel, Ernst
206, medical schools, 557, mobility, Jerusalem (Palestine), u n i v e rs i t y ,
205–6, research, 204–5, 189–91
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 198–207, 227, models, Jesuits, 113, 179, 188–9, 202, 213, 559
163, teachers, 205, 206, women, 207 Jews, 19, 65, 67, 126, 320–1, 350, 352, 379,
Indo-China, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 210–11, 663, access, 131, 333, 349, 527,
models, 163 associations, 312, 330, exclusions, 275,
Indonesia, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 211–12 313, 320, 347, 587, numerus clausus, 41,
industrial engineering, 611 65, 349, purges, 98, students, 41, 42,
industries, 493, 615, 616, 618, 663, 275, support for, 654
medicine and, 576–8 Johannesburg (South Africa),
Innsbruck (Austria), 300, languages, 330, u n i v e rs i t y (Witwatersrand), 197
nationalism, 313, 350, u n i v e rs i t y , Johns Hopkins University, see Baltimore
41, theology, 398 journalism, 148

736
Subject index

journals, 11, 338, 441, Asiatic studies, 443, Slavonic, 436–8, Tartar, 444, Turkish,
445, chemistry, 514, ethnopsychology, 443
453, history, 462–3, 478, mathematics, Latin, 421, 571
500, 512, 513, medicine, 547, philology, Latin America, 4, academies and
425, philosophy, 149, 431, 456, physics, institutions, 179–80, positivism, 178,
502, research, 172, Slavonic studies, 180, private universities, 180, student
436 movements, 182–5, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
177–85, reforms, 182–5
Kaliningrad, see Königsberg Lausanne (Switzerland), u n i v e rs i t y , 38,
Karlsruhe (Germany), technical university, 70
502, u n i v e rs i t y , buildings, 103 law, 65, 187, 480, national standards,
Kazan (Russia), 35, 513, student 90
movements, 304, 324, u n i v e rs i t y , law, jurisprudence, 460, 480
52, astronomy, 516, officials, 98, law, Roman law, 14–15
sciences, 509 League of Nations, 339, 342, 357
Kharkov (Russia), u n i v e rs i t y , Lebanon, Jesuits, 188, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
astronomy, 510, mathematics, 509 186, 187–9, Université Saint-Joseph,
Khartoum (Sudan), u n i v e rs i t i e s , 188–9
Gordon College, 192–3, Kitchener lectures, 50, 138, 467–8
School of Medicine, 193 Leeds (United Kingdom), 315,
Kiel (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , 19, 34, 50, u n i v e rs i t y , 36
274, 502 legal guarantees, 94–8
Kiev (Ukraine), academies, 36, students, 52, Leiden (Netherlands), student associations,
304, 305 315, u n i v e rs i t y , 39, 292, languages,
knowledge, international identity, 130, 443, oriental studies, 447, physics, 514,
professions and, 365–9 sciences, 497
Kolozsvar (Romania), u n i v e rs i t y , 41, Leipzig (Germany), student associations,
languages, 64 297, 329, student movements, 307, 319,
Königsberg (Kaliningrad) (Russia), student u n i v e rs i t y , 34, astronomy, 516,
associations, 297, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, buildings, 103, finance, 86, mathematics,
mathematics, 499–500, natural sciences, 501, natural sciences, 501, oriental
501, physics, 499–500, 502 studies, 445, physics, 503, professors, 49,
Korea, 225 theology, 405
Kraków, see Cracow Lemberg (Lvov) (Ukraine), student
movements, 334, students, 314,
laboratories, 18, 104–5, 144, 514, u n i v e rs i t y , 41, 42, 657, engineering,
astronomy, 516, chemistry, 504, 507, 41, languages, 64
physics, 507, 508, 514, 628, 646, Leoben (Austria), nationalism, 313,
physiology, 571, technology, u n i v e rs i t y , 41
619–20 León (Spain), specialist schools, 72
laboratory exercises, 502, 503 libraries, 105, 144, 173–4, book
laicization, 6–9 availability, 106
Landshut (Germany), 34 Liège (Belgium), student movements, 301,
languages, 24–5, Arabic, 187, 191, 443, technical school, 604–5, u n i v e rs i t y ,
Chinese, 444, 446–8, Croatian, 65, 39, 282, mathematics, 497, sciences, 497
Czech, 64–5, Dutch, 319, 341, English, Lille (France), Catholic Institute, 91, 397,
435–6, 439, Finnish, 289, 335, 336, 337, Institut Industriel, 616, Société des
343–5, Flemish, 24, 39, 65, 301, 316, Sciences, 615
318, 341, French, 439, German, 439, linguistics, 452, 453
Hungarian, 64–5, Italian, 300, Japanese, literacy, 462
447, Latin, 428, 571, Manchurian, 444, literary history, 429
Medieval and Modern Languages literature, literary history, 431–2
(MML), 441, modern, 438–42, Nordic, Liverpool (United Kingdom), 315,
439, oriental, 35, 413, 430, 442–53, u n i v e rs i t y , 36, social sciences, 486
Persian, 443, Polish, 64–5, Romance, Ljubljana (Laibach) (Slovenia), 330,
438, 439, Sanskrit, 414, 444, 452, nationalism, 314, 322
sciences of, 393, semitic, 413, 442, 443, logic, 479

737
Subject index

Lombardy (Italy), u n i v e rs i t i e s , engineering, 614, 615, finance, 85,


engineering, 602 history, 475, physics, 508, 514, 515
London (United Kingdom), Central Manila (Philippines), u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
Technical College, 62, City and Guilds, 212–13
614, colleges, 54, Geological Society, 530, Mannheim (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , 61
Guy’s Hospital, 589, Imperial College, manufacturing industries, 618
62, 614, Inns of Court, 205, King’s Marburg (Germany), student movements,
College, 54, 200, 508, Linnean Society, 346, u n i v e rs i t y , 19, 34, 50,
530, London School of Economics, 62, buildings, 104, philology, 421,
205, 339, 481–2, 486, Royal College of professors, 34
Chemistry, 508, 613, Royal College of Marieberg (Sweden), military school, 597
Physicians and Surgeons, 555, 582, Royal materialism, 563–4
College of Science, 62, Royal College of mathematical sciences, 393
Surgeons, 531, Royal Engineering mathematics, 19, 495–501, 505, 506–7,
College, 614, Royal Geographical 508, 510, algebra, 494, applied, 494,
Society, 530, Royal School of Mines, 62, arithmetic, 494, calculus, 494, classical
599, 613, Royal Society of London, 530, analysis, 512, faculty of mathematics,
student movements, 339, technical 133, 454, functional analysis, 512,
institutes, 614–15, u n i v e rs i t y , 36, 54, geometry, 494, logic, 513, mathematical
126, 127, 202, 203, engineering, 606, analysis, 497, nationalism and, 513–14,
625–6, foreign students, 205, history, probability, 513, research, 512–14, set
474, languages, 441, 444, medicine, 555, theory, 512, 513, teaching, 494, topology,
574, models, 165, 198, 200–1, 214, 513
physics, 508, statistics, 513, University Maynooth (Ireland), Royal Catholic
College, 54, 200, 508, 513 College, 85
Louvain (Belgium), languages, 341, social mechanics, 510, 605, 607–8
emancipation, 318, student movements, medicine, Brownianism, 551–2, 563, chairs,
301, 310, 327–8, students, 291, 557, chemistry, 578, degrees, 582,
u n i v e rs i t y , 39, 282, 397, 655, dermatology, 569, faculty expansion,
mathematics, 497, officials, 97, oriental 570–5, histology, 572, homeopathy, 552,
studies, 447, sciences, 497, theology, 577, insane asylums, 550–1, medical
401–2 education, 543–4, 553–63, medical
Lublin (Poland), u n i v e rs i t y , 657 instruments, 577–8, Medical Research
Lund (Sweden), u n i v e rs i t y , 40, 66, Committee, 646, medical schools, 34–5,
125, buildings, 103, economics, 483, 220, 585, 586–7, medical students,
finance, 84, 87, philology, 420, stellar 587–8, military surgeons, 555–7,
statistics, 517 modernization, 579–85, morbid
Lutheran universities, 132 anatomy, 569, 571, national standards,
Lutheranism, 158, 407 90, pathology, 567–70, physiology,
Lvov (Lwów), see Lemberg 563–70, practical medicine, 557, 573–5,
Lyon (France), Catholic Institute, 91, 397, professionalization, 588, Reform
u n i v e rs i t y , buildings, 103, theology, Movements, 565–6, Romanticism and,
396 544–53, specialization, 575–9, 583,
vivisection, 576, see also Flexner, A.
Madras (India), medical school, 557, Medieval and Modern Languages (MML),
u n i v e rs i t y , 200 441
Madrid (Spain), specialist schools, 72, Melbourne (Australia), 214,
student movements, 354, technical u n i v e rs i t y , 214
school, 601, u n i v e rs i t y , 37, 73, 302, metallurgy, 495
354, buildings, 103, halls of residence, Mexico, 181, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 179
107, medicine, 561, theology, 396 Michigan (United States), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Mainz (Germany), seminary, 397, 167, 174
399 Middle East, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 186–91
Malaya, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 209 Milan (Italy), u n i v e rs i t y , 37,
Malines (Belgium), 39 engineering, 71, 617, 623
Manchester (United Kingdom), military schools, 595–7
u n i v e rs i t y , 36, chemistry, 514, military service, 583–4

738
Subject index

military technology, 493, 596–7, 662 Netherlands, careers, 383, Catholicism,


mineralogy, 493, 495, 497 342, colonies, 211–12, nationalism, 342,
mining schools, 10, 62, 495, 597–8, 599, revolution, 281, Second World War, 653,
600, 613 social emancipation, 318, socialism,
missionary colleges, 186, 201–2, 220–1 326–7, student associations, 315–16,
missionary studies, 399 326–7, 341–3, student movements,
mobility, 65–6, 67, 69–70, 74–5, 205–6, 282–3, 301–2, 654, students, 292,
526, foreign students, 74–5, 205, 278, 309–10, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 114, 118, arts,
498–9, 510, 584–5 66, 454, autonomy, 66, degrees, 38–9,
Modena (Italy), u n i v e rs i t y , 27–9 enrolments, 245, foundations, 39,
modernism, Catholicism and, 401–5 models, 66, philology, 427, physics, 514,
monographs, 172, 540 reforms, 38–9, women, 248
Mons (Belgium), 599 Neuchâtel (Switzerland), u n i v e rs i t y , 38
Montpellier (France), medical schools, 34, New Brunswick (Canada), u n i v e rs i t y ,
553, see also Bordeu, Théophile de 175
Montreal (Canada), u n i v e rs i t y (McGill New Haven (United States), u n i v e rs i t y
University), 175, 176 (Yale University), 166, 167, 172
Moravia, 321–2, 353 New Scholasticism, 399, 402
Morocco, 195–6 New Zealand, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 214–15
Moscow (Russia), Medical Academy, 556, Nijmegen (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y , 39
student movements, 304, 305, 332, Nobel Prizes, 171, 484, 527, 538, 575,
students, 324, u n i v e rs i t y , 35, 640–1
buildings, 102, languages, 444, North Africa, u n i v e rs i t i e s , models,
mathematics, 513, mechanics, 511, 163
sciences, 509, statutes, 305, students, North America, colonies, c o l l e g e s
52 a n d u n i v e rs i t i e s , models, 164–77
Mulhouse (France), Société Industrielle, North Carolina (United States),
615 u n i v e rs i t y , 165
Munich (Germany), student movements, Norway, Second World War, 658,
346, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, 126, buildings, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 40, 66, 658,
103, mathematics, 501, physics, 505, enrolments, 245, medicine, 558
theology, 399 Nottingham (United Kingdom),
Münster (Germany), student associations, u n i v e rs i t y , 36
297, u n i v e rs i t y , theology, 398, 399 numbers, of graduates, 234–5, of students,
museums, 17, 35, 144, 444, 531, 557 57, 58, 74, 101–2, 128, 233–5, 630, 646,
music, 145 of universities, 3

Nagasaki (Japan), 557 observatories, 516, 517


Nagyszombat (Trnava) (Slovakia), obstetrics, 557
u n i v e rs i t y , 41 Odessa (Ukraine), student movements, 332,
Nancy (France), Institut Electronique, 616, u n i v e rs i t y , 36
student associations, 308 ophthalmology, 562
Nankai (China), u n i v e rs i t y , 219, 222 oriental studies, 442–53
Naples (Italy), specialist schools, 71, Oslo (Christiana) (Norway), medicine, 558,
u n i v e rs i t y , 37, 70 u n i v e rs i t y , 66, 658
Napoleonic model, 4–5, 6, 44–7, 55, 74, Otago (New Zealand), u n i v e rs i t y , 215
83, 124, 497 Oviedo (Spain), u n i v e rs i t y , 37, 72
nation states, growth of, 40–4 Oxbridge (= Oxford and Cambridge), 63,
nationalism, 24, 75, 273, 289–90, 297–98, careers, 375, models, 164–7, social
307–15, 322–3, 328–30, 331, 337, 342, composition, 63, see Cambridge, Oxford
345–51, 356, 478, 641–2, 670 Oxford (United Kingdom), ‘Oxford
nations, rise of, 20 Pledge’, 339, socialism, 326, student
natural sciences, 16–17, 19, 130, 454, 501, movements, 326, 339, students, 264–5,
507, 515, 530, 539, 541, idealism, 501–2, u n i v e rs i t y , 11, 116, 127, access, 244,
research, 511–17, status, 669 admission, 116, 243–5, 246, 247, 250,
Neo-Hellenism, 418 264–5, admission requirements, 92, 99,
Neo-Malthusian movement, 576 antiquities, 11, buildings, 102, 104,

739
Subject index

Oxford (United Kingdom) (cont.) Peru, 183, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 179


colleges, 139, degrees, 247, ecology, 539, Pest, see Budapest
engineering, 614, Extension Programme, pharmacology, 550
309, finance, 64, 84, 85, 111–12, 117, pharmacy, 43, 503, 557, 579
foreign students, 205, history, 469–74, philanthropy, 146
humanism, 54, income, 108, languages, philhellenism, 282
441, 443, 444, 447, mathematics, 506, Philippines, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
medicine, 582, officials, 97, 118–19, 212–13
Oxford Movement, 11, 93, philology, philology, 12, 50, 394, 414, 415–20,
426–7, physics, 508, privileges, 95, breakthrough of, 420–8, comparative
professors, 139, 151, 155, reforms, 61–4, philology, 449–53, diffusion of, 438–42,
308, research, 11–12, scholarships, 109, oriental studies, 442–53, origins of
sciences, 531, social sciences, 481, state modern, 438, seminars, 440–1
control, 95, theology, 413 philosophy, 19, 20, 51, 129, 248, 262, 393,
429, 453, 460, 499, ancients, study of,
pacifism, 339 419–20, faculty of philosophy, 48, 50,
Padua (Italy), u n i v e rs i t y , 27, 300, 51, 132, 262, 453, 454–5, 493, 511,
engineering, 602 journals, 149, 456, medicine and, 545–6,
Palestine, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 186, metaphysics, 394, 401, 521, natural
189–91 philosophy, 19–20, 493, 520–1, 563,
Palma (Spain), specialist schools, 72 philosophe, 148–9, stages of, 566, status,
Paris (France), academies and specialized 48, textbooks, 566, theology and,
schools, 16–17, 529, Bureau 453–7
Universitaire de Statistique, 117, phonology, 452
Catholic Institute, 91, 397, 404, Collège photography, 516
de France, 443, École Centrale, 609–10, physics, 516, 571, Cavendish Laboratory,
École des Ponts et Chaussées, 599, École 507, 508, chair of, 496, 502, 515,
polytechnique, 496–7, 599–600, experimental physics, 495–511, 515,
hospitals, 545, 589, Institut National des faculty of physics, 133, Institute for
Sciences et des Arts, 17, medical schools, Physics, 514, journals, 502, mathematical
34, 528–9, 548, 549, 553, museums, 35, physics, 497, 507, 515, nationalism and,
444, 495, Physique et de Chemie 513, research, 514–17, theoretical
Industrielles, 616, schools (collèges), 34, physics, 515
55, 56, 86, social emancipation, 317–18, physiology, 493, 523–4, 571, 582,
student associations, 308, student textbooks, 563
movements, 148, 281, 283–4, 290–1, Piedmont (Italy), u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
Université Impériale, 6, 45, 83, 124, 497, engineering, 602
u n i v e rs i t y , arts, 34, buildings, 104, Pietermaritzburg (South Africa),
chemistry, 497–8, 514, finance, 56, 85–6, u n i v e rs i t y , 197
111, foreign students, 498–9, 510, halls Pietism, 410, 411
of residence, 107, law, 34, mathematics, Pisa (Italy), u n i v e rs i t y , 27,
494, 497–8, medicine, 34, 528–9, 548, mathematics, 512
549, 553, 556, mobility, 67, monopoly, poetry, 134, 415
95, officials, 88, 93, oriental studies, 443, Poland, Catholicism, 351, CIE, 357,
philology, 426, sciences, 497, Sorbonne, Communism, 352, Fascism, 351–2,
92, 97, 99, 103, 133, 421, 499, 514, 567, general strike, 334, gentry, 277–8, Jews,
student numbers, 101, theology, 34, 42, 352, languages, 64–5, mobility, 334,
396 rebellion, 150, Romanticism, 277,
Pasteur Institutes, 529 Sanacja, 352, Second World War, 656–8,
pathology, 567–70, 572 student movements, 23, 272, 277–8,
patronage, 127 305–6, 314, technical universities, 58,
Pavia (Italy), hospital, 550, u n i v e rs i t y , u n i v e rs i t i e s , Catholic universities,
27, 29–31, 300, engineering, 602, 91, medicine, 559–60, state control, 91,
medicine, 562, see also Golgi, Camillo 94
Pécs (Hungary), u n i v e rs i t y , 41 political science, 481–4
Peking, see Beijing politics, 151–6, 479
Persian language, 443 politics, political dependence, 93–4

740
Subject index

Portugal, parliament, 156, Second World extraordinary professor


War, 648, 659, u n i v e rs i t i e s , (extraordinarius), 138, 141, ordinary
admission, 246, enrolments, 245, professor (ordinarius), 129, 131, 138,
finance, 87, medicine, 562, state control, 141
91, 98 professors, appointment and requirements,
positivism, 178, 180, 455, 460 49, 50, 89–90, 115, 126, 130, 134,
Poszony, see Bratislava 172–3, appointment procedures, 134–40,
Potsdam (Germany), 517 bureaucratization, 127–8, control of,
Prague (Czech Republic), Catholicism, 331, 115–16, education of, 50, honorary titles,
Fascism, 352–3, Jews, 321, languages, 159, income, 49–50, 108, income and
299, 330, nationalism, 313, 322–3, 331, lifestyle, 140–7, laicization, 123–7,
student movements, 294–5, technical mobility, 74–5, nepotism, 131, 370,
schools, 41, 603–4, 625, u n i v e rs i t y , numbers of, 108, political role, 151–6,
41, 352, 656, finance, 87, languages, 65, public image, 147–8, resignations and
medicine, 559, physics, 505 exile, 99–100, role of, 21–2, 147–51,
Presbyterian colleges, 85, 202 self-consciousness, 124, 159, social
Presbyterian universities, 187, 215 status, 59, 124, 132–3, 147–60, 670
Pressburg, see Bratislava professorship, see chairs
Pretoria (South Africa), u n i v e rs i t y , Protestant academies and universities, 131,
197 188, 213, 394, 398
Pribram (Czech Republic), u n i v e rs i t y , Protestant associations, 297, 315, 319
41 Protestantism, 286
printing, 142 Prussia (Germany), 272, careers, 256, 374,
private universities, 110, 126, 180, 191, education, 239–40, 255, 462, military
219–20, 226 schools, 597, public education
professional schools, 34–5 ministries, 88, qualifications, 251,
professionalization, 127–8, 384–7, 547, reforms, 22–3, seminars and institutes,
588, 629–31, national variations, 384, 60, students, 266, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,
process of, 369–73, scientific research, admission, 237, 239–40, finance, 250,
511–17 models, 47–53, professors, 131, 134–5,
professions, 91, 117, 139, expansion of, 141–2, reforms, 34
374–80, 493, knowledge and, 365–9, psychiatry, 551, 576
384, semi-professions, 372, psycho-analysis, 576
386 psychology, 452, 460, 479
professions, academic, 130–4, 259, 369–71, public authorities, 14
see also professors public education ministries, 88–90, 96,
professions, civil, 45, 57, 65, 127, 151, 251, 109
256, 262, 343, 373, 375, engineering, 10, public lectures, 149
593, 594–606, in royal or state service, publishing, 130, 172, 427, 648
125, social workers, 372
professions, commercial, 375 Quebec (Canada), u n i v e rs i t y , 177
professions, ecclesiastical, 370, 374, 394, Queensland (Australia), u n i v e rs i t y ,
453 214
professions, educational, 374,
school-teachers, 372 Rabat (Morocco), 196
professions, legal, 131, 251, 262, 370, 374, radioactivity, 508
381, 382, 453 Rangoon (Burma), u n i v e rs i t y ,
professions, medical, 131, 251, 262, 370, 208–9
374, 382, 384, dentistry, 553, 579, Rationalism, 410
military surgeons, 555–7, nurses, 372, Reading (United Kingdom), u n i v e rs i t y ,
pharmacists, 372, 553, 582, pharmacy, 36
43, 503, 557, 579, veterinarians, rector/vice-chancellor, 52, 57, 96, 120, 124,
372 rector magnificus, 97
professions, scientific, 256 religion, ideological discrimination, 92–3,
professorial typology, assistant professor scientific study of, 413–14
(adjunctus), 140, associate professors, Rennes (France), u n i v e rs i t y , buildings,
119, chairholders, 119, 129, 103

741
Subject index

research, 47, 105, 170–1, 368–9, 585, St Gallen (Switzerland), u n i v e rs i t y , 38


finance, 91–2, professionalization, St Petersburg (Russia), 35, Academy of
511–17, research institutions, 60, 172, Sciences, 541, 586, ‘Bloody Sunday’, 332,
626–9, 646, 647, 662, scientific spirit, Institute of Engineers, 601, Medical
13–15, seminars, 440–1, state control, Academy, 556, 559, 573, museums, 444,
92, technology, 623–6, wars, 646, 652–3, student movements, 303, 304, 324,
wartime, 649–51 u n i v e rs i t y , chemistry, 511, finance,
resistance, 98–100 87, languages, 447, mathematics, 510,
rhetoric, 134, 393 officials, 98, physics, 510–11, professors,
Rio de Janeiro (Brazil), u n i v e rs i t y , 182 152, students, 52
Rockefeller Foundation, 221 Salamanca (Spain), u n i v e rs i t y , 37,
Roman law, 14–15 buildings, 102, medicine, 561
Romance Studies, 12, 432–5, 438, 439, Salzburg (Austria), u n i v e rs i t y , 41
chair of, 433 sanctions, 97–8
Romania, Fascism, 353–4, Jorga Law, 94, Sanskrit, 414, 444, 452
medicine, 560, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 10, 41, Santiago de Chile (Chile), u n i v e rs i t y ,
chemistry, 498, foundations, 42–3, 180
mathematics, 498, physics, 498, state Santiago de Compostela (Spain), specialist
control, 94, 96, 98 schools, 72, u n i v e rs i t y , 37, theology,
Romanticism, 275, 276, 277, 282, 398, 397
410, 430, 502, 520–1, 543, Saragossa, see Zaragoza
Enlightenment and, 544–53 Sarajevo (Bosnia), student movements, 337
Rome (Italy), specialist schools, 71, Saratov (Russia), u n i v e rs i t y , 36
u n i v e rs i t y , 91, engineering, 602, Scandinavia, careers, 383,
mathematics, 512, physics, 515, student Scandinavianism, 289–90,
numbers, 101, u n i v e rs i t y u n i v e rs i t i e s , 118, foundations, 66,
(Gregoriana), 403 mobility, 527, models, 66, reforms, 40
Rostock (Germany), u n i v e rs i t y , 34, Schemnitz (Banska Štiavnica) (Slovakia),
natural sciences, 501, professors, 34 Bergakademie, 597–8
Rotterdam (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y scholarships, 108–9, 250, 251
(Erasmus University), 39, see also Scotland, students, 62, 646,
Erasmus u n i v e rs i t i e s , 36, 53–4, 645,
Rouen (France), u n i v e rs i t y , theology, admission, 246, councils, 99,
396 engineering, 613, finance, 11, 62, 118,
Russia, academies, 35–6, 586, aristocracy, mathematics, 506, medicine, 555,
52–3, 157, careers, 376, 382–3, models, 165, officials, 97, reforms, 63,
Communism, 87, education, 374, Jews, scholarships, 109, social composition,
333, parliament, 155, public education 62–3, state control, 95
ministries, 88, Revolution (1905), 67, Second World War, 638, sciences and,
333, Revolution (1917), 68, 585, student 649–51
movements, 25, 303–6, 314–15, 323–4, Second World War (1939-45), 359,
331–4, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 10–11, 40, 114, 647–71
118, 125, arts, 454, autonomy, 333, dress, secondary schooling, costs of, 250–4
52, finance, 52, 68, 87, Jews, 67, secret societies, 278, 284, 287, 298
languages, 444, mathematics, 498, secularization, see laicization
medicine, 67, 558–9, 573, mobility, 67, seminaries, 113, 396, 397, 399
models, 52–3, 66–8, natural sciences, seminars and institutes, 50, 60, 172, 408–9,
541, nobility, 67, officials, 52, oriental 505, agricultural institutes, 646, Catholic
studies, 447, professors, 52, 157, 305, institutes, 91, 188, 397, 404, City and
reforms, 35–6, 68, sciences, 508–11, state Guilds, 614, Dominican institutes, 212,
control, 95, 97–8, statutes, 67, 68, 333, engineering, 617, Experimental Biology,
students, 66–7, women, 67, 333, see also 585, Experimental Medicine, 585, Hindu
USSR institutes, 198–9, Imperial Physical-
Russo-Japanese War (1904–5), 332 Technical Institute in Berlin, 60, Institute
for Physics, 514, Institut Electronique,
St Andrews (United Kingdom), 616, Institut Industriel, 616, Institut
u n i v e rs i t y , 36 National des Sciences et des Arts, 17,

742
Subject index

Institute of Engineers, 601, Janos Bolyau Spanish America, u n i v e rs i t i e s ,


Institute, 512, Kaiser-Wilhelm-Institute, 179
505, 643, Kaiser-Wilhelm-Society, 33, 60, specialization, 6–9, 623–6, medicine,
Karolinska Institute, 40, 558, languages, 575–9
440, mathematics, 513, Max-Planck specialized schools, 57–9, 101,
Institutes, 541, Pasteur Institutes, 529, administration, 57, agriculture, 72, 512,
Physikalisch-Technische Reichsanstalt, buildings, 103–4, business, 38, 39, 44,
627, technical institutes, 238–9, 243, 57, 71, 72, chemistry, 508, commerce,
262, 505, 608–9 71, 380, economics, 62, 205, 339, 481–2,
service staff, 115 486, languages, 35, medical, 34–5, 193,
set theory, 512 528–9, 548, 549, 553–63, 586–7, 589,
Seville (Spain), 610, u n i v e rs i t y , 37, military, 496, 595–7, mining, 62, 495,
theology, 397 597–600, 613, natural history, 495,
Shanghai (China), 221, u n i v e rs i t y , oriental studies, 444–5, veterinary
219–20, 221 medicine, 72, 562, see also technical
Sheffield (United Kingdom), schools
u n i v e rs i t y , 36 sport, 107, 309, 325
Silesia, 321, 351 state control, academic freedom, 94–100
Singapore, 209 statistics, 513
Sinology, 446–8 Stellenbosch (South Africa), u n i v e rs i t y ,
Slavonic studies, 436–8 197
Slovakia, 353, Academy of Mining, 495, Stockholm (Sweden), Jews, 126,
student movements, 287–8, Karolinska Institute, 558, technical
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 41 institutes, 609, u n i v e rs i t y , 40, 126,
Slovenia, Catholicism, 330–1, nationalism, 133, medicine, 558, physics, 514
313, 331 Strasbourg (France), Catholic Theology
social class, bourgeoisie, 263, lower-middle Faculty, 91, medical schools, 553,
class, 259, 264, middle class, 258, 259, professional schools, 34, u n i v e rs i t y ,
264, 379, 386, upper-middle class, 259 astronomy, 516, history, 477–8,
social sciences, 394, 417, 459, 461, 484–6, mathematics, 19, natural sciences, 19
rise of, 479–9 student houses, 107, 110
sociology, 460, 461, 479, 484–8 student movements, 23–31, 100, 148, 153,
Sofia (Bulgaria), u n i v e rs i t y , 43–4 269–71, consolidation and
South Africa, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 196–8, anti-liberalism, 307–15, ‘Corps’, 286,
models, 163 296, fighting for freedom, 271–80,
South America, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 46–7, integration, 296–307, international,
models, 163 356–9, nationalism, 345–51, Philomaths,
Southampton (United Kingdom), 36 277–8, revolution and restoration,
Spain, Catholicism, 354, Civil War, 340, 281–8, social and national emancipation,
341, 355, colonies, 46–7, Fascism, 354–5, 315–24, students in revolt, 288–96,
public education ministries, 88, Second world politics and corporatism, 325–37
World War, 659, specialist schools, 72, students, 114, 115, 166, attendance, 116,
student movements, 276, 302–3, 310–11, behaviour, 309, 311–12, distribution of,
328, 354–5, technical schools, 601–2, 248–50, dress, 52, female students,
610–11, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 3, 114, 284, 584–5, financial assistance, 108–9,
administration, 90, arts, 454, attendance, mobility, 74–5, 205, 278, 498–9, 510,
72, autonomy, 46–7, 72, 118, biology, 584–5, numbers of, 57, 58, 74, 101–2,
527, buildings, 103, Catholic 128, 233–5, 630, 646, preparation of,
universities, 91, engineering, 617, 246–54, responsibilities of, social origins,
enrolments, 245, finance, 87, graduates, 257–66, student associations, 20–1,
72, income, 108, languages, 73, 296–8, 308, 310–14, 316, 320, 329, 341,
mathematics, 494, medicine, 561–2, 344, 345, women, 59, 67, 69, 207,
models, 72, oriental studies, 444, 247–8, 326, 333, 379, 584–5
privileges, 95, professors, 72, 89, 108, Stuttgart (Germany), technical university,
reforms, 37–8, 72–3, 90, 302, sciences, 58, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, physics, 505
498, state control, 95, 98, status, 56, Sudan, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 192–3
theology, 6, 396–7, women, 248 surgery, 557, 582

743
Subject index

Sweden, 597, careers, 343, Chalmers textbooks, 526, 527, anatomy, 568,
Institution, 609, Darwinism, 534, chemistry, 497–8, 502, engineering, 607,
Fascism, 343, Jews, 126, Karolinska materialism, 564, mathematics, 494,
Institute, 558, medical institutes, 40, 497–8, medicine, 546, 548, 552, 566,
military schools, 597, parliament, 155, 567, natural sciences, 509, 539,
Scandinavianism, 289–90, Second World philosophy, 566, physics, 502,
War, 659, socialism, 326, student physiology, 563, technology, 617
movements, 295, 316, students, 266, Thailand, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 209–10
316–17, 343, technical institutes, 609, theology, academic theology, 6, 34, 70,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 40, 66, 125, 126, 133, 129, 248, 249, 262, 430, archaeology,
316, 326, 534, admission, 265, 409, arts and, 393–5, Catholic, 91,
astronomy, 516, buildings, 103, 160, 395–402, dogmatics, 398, 399, 407,
chemistry, 495, economics, 483, faculty of theology, 50, 113, 123, 129,
enrolments, 245, faculties, 454, finance, 145, 158, 248, 262, 393, 396, 405–9,
84, 87, medicine, 558, models, 66, liberalism, 410–14, Lutheran, 407,
philology, 420, 421, physics, 514, mediation, 411–12, philosophy and,
professors, 150, 155, racial biology, 343, 453–7, 460, Protestant, 398, 399, 405–9,
reforms, 289, social sciences, 483, stellar Thomism, 402
statistics, 517, theology, 405, women, theology, biblical exegesis, 398, 407
248 thermodynamics, 512
Switzerland, careers, 70, Second World Tiblisi (Russia), medical school, 586
War, 659, secret societies, 278, technical Tilburg (Netherlands), u n i v e rs i t y , 39
schools, 611, u n i v e rs i t i e s , Tokyo (Japan), u n i v e rs i t i e s , 224–5,
admission, 247, chemistry, 504–5, 226, professors, 226
enrolments, 245, faculties, 454, Tomsk (Siberia), u n i v e rs i t y , 36
mathematics, 504–5, mobility, 67, Toronto (Canada), u n i v e rs i t y
69–70, models, 68–70, women, 248, (University College), 176–7
women, 69 Toulouse (France), Catholic Institute, 91,
Sydney (Australia), u n i v e rs i t y , 214 250, 397
Syria, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 186–7, models, 163 Transylvania, 293
Szeged (Hungary), u n i v e rs i t y , 41, Trinity College, Dublin, see Dublin
mathematics, 512 Trnava, see Nagyszombat
Tübingen (Germany), student associations,
Taiwan, u n i v e rs i t y , 225 297, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, mathematics,
Tananarive (Madagascar), 196 19, 501, 505, natural sciences, 19,
Tartu (Dorpat) (Estonia), u n i v e rs i t y , physics, 503, professors, 34, theology,
35, 123, 510, astronomy, 516, medicine, 398, 405, 411, 412
558, physics, 509 Tunisia, 195–6
Tashkent (Russia), medical school, 586 Turin (Italy), specialist schools, 71, 617,
Tasmania (Australia), u n i v e rs i t y , u n i v e rs i t y , engineering, 602,
214 mathematics, 512, physics, 515,
teachers, assistants and amanuenses, 144, professors, 133, 153
language, 430 Turkey, u n i v e rs i t i e s , foundations, 44
teaching appointments, 89–90 Turkish language, 443
teaching hospitals, 548, 549, 589 Turku (Åbo) (Finland), 40, 66, student
teaching, private, 49, 50, 128, 137–8, 141, movements, 24, 276, u n i v e rs i t y ,
172–3 125
technical schools, 10, 68, 351, 505, 512, Turnau, see Nagyszombat
593–4, 595–600, 615–16, 621, 622,
certificates and diplomas, 629–31, Ukraine, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 35, 36, 41, 42
diversification, 623–6, doctorates, ultramontanism, 395–400, 402
625–6, engineering, 599–600, industrial United Kingdom, careers, 61, 245, 376,
engineering, 611, models, 600–6, 381, Chemical Society, 642, civic
syllabuses, 618–19 colleges, 308, 315, Civil Engineers
technical universities, 58 Institutes, 605, education, 55, 246,
technology, for public servants, 594–600, Education Act (1944), 650, 669,
status, 617–23 examinations, 373, Inns of Court, 380,

744
Subject index

learned societies, 156, Mechanics’ university reforms, 7–8, 11, 33–40, 47, 54,
Institutes, 605, 607, medical schools, 57, 61–4, 65–6, 68, 70–3, 90, 182–5,
554–5, museums, 531, National Physical 302, 307–8, 380, 669
Laboratory, 628, 646, parliament, 155, university typology, 4, private universities,
Royal College of Physicians, 380, Royal 110, 126, 180, 191, 219–20, 226, student
Society of London, 456, 642, schools, movements, 295, 316, u n i v e rs i t y , 40,
127, Second World War, 645–51, social 125, 534, astronomy, 516, buildings, 103,
emancipation, 318, students, 306, 325–6, 160, chemistry, 495, finance, 84, 87,
339–40, 646, technical schools, 605–6, models, 66, philology, 420, professors,
University Grants Committee, 64, 96, 150, racial biology, 343, reforms, 289,
118, 646, 651, wars, 645–51, social sciences, 483, theology, 405
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 11–12, 114, access, Uruguay, 183, u n i v e rs i t y , 180
130–1, admission, 243–5, arts, 366, USSR, 10, Communism, 100, Marxism,
buildings, 103, 104, Catholics, 131, 585–7, medical schools, 586–7,
chairs, 89, civic universities, 55, 62, non-Communists, 358, public education
colleges, 63, councils, 98, engineering, ministries, 88, Second World War,
613–15, 625–6, 630–1, finance, 62, 85, 666–7, u n i v e rs i t i e s , buildings, 103,
115, 118, foundations, 36, income, 108, resistance, 100, state control, 91, 94, 98
Jews, 131, medicine, 547, 572, 574, 576, utilitarianism, 588
582, models, 53–5, 164–7, 193, natural Utrecht (Netherlands), student movements,
sciences, 17, officials, 96, 121, physics, 302, u n i v e rs i t y , 39, 553, medicine,
515–16, privileges, 95, professors, 156, 554, 556, teachers, 108
reforms, 61–4, 380, religious
discrimination, 92, research, 627, 628, Valencia (Spain), 610, u n i v e rs i t y , 37,
646, sciences, 506–8, social composition, 536
62–3, social sciences, 482, 486, sport, Valladolid (Spain), u n i v e rs i t y , 37
309, 325, state control, 95, women, Varna (Bulgaria), 44
248 Vergara (Spain), 610
United States, academic institutes, 172, veterinary medicine, 72, 562
atomic weapons, 668, libraries, 173–4, Victoria (Canada), colleges, 176
politics, 155, Rockefeller Foundation, Victoria (New Zealand), 215
174, Second World War, 665, 667–8, Vienna (Austria), 19, Catholicism, 323,
u n i v e rs i t i e s , 164–7, 227, academic 331, Export Academy, 41, Jews, 320–1,
freedom, 169–70, Egyptian university, languages, 330, nationalism, 313, 323,
192, foreign students, 205, medicine, 350, 351, student movements, 51, 287–8,
580–1, 585, mobility, 168, models, 163, 293–4, 295, 298–9, 337, technical
192, 221, professors, 169, research, school, 603–4, u n i v e rs i t y , 41,
170–2, 665, social sciences, 487, astronomy, 516, buildings, 102, 104,
students, 166 105, engineering, 41, finance, 87,
universitates, 20–1 languages, 436, 442, law, 51, medicine,
university administration, 115–21, 144, 549, 556, 562, 574, physics, 505,
councils, 98–9, education, 90–4, staff, students, 42, see also Rokitansky, Carl
107–8, state control, 88–94 Vietnam, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 210–11
university autonomy, 13–14, 46–7, 51, 59, Vilnius (Vilna) (Lithuania), Medical
66, 70, 71, 72, 83–4, 85, 90–100, Academy, 556, student movements, 277,
117–21, 222–3, 292–3, 333 u n i v e rs i t y , 35, 283, 657,
university models, 4–13, 15, 21, 33, 166, mathematics, 498, medicine, 559, physics
175, 200–1, 214, 227–9, see also and mathematics, 509, professors, 152
Cambridge; European models; Vistulaland (Poland), 334
Humboldtian model; Napoleonic model; vitalism, 521, 551–3, 563
North America; Oxford
university officials, bursar, 85, commissar, Wales, colleges, 308, u n i v e rs i t i e s , 36
50, curator, 50, 97, Grand Master, 88, Warsaw (Poland), 305, 357, revolution,
93, inspector general, 96, secretary, 115, 305–6, student movements, 283, 314,
visitor, 97, see also chancellor; u n i v e rs i t y , 42, 306, astronomy, 498,
rector/vice-chancellor mathematics, 512, medicine, 560,
university presses, 172, 427 physics, 498

745
Subject index

Wellington (South Africa), u n i v e rs i t y , Yale University, see New Haven (United


197 States)
West Africa, u n i v e rs i t i e s , models, Yugoslavia, u n i v e rs i t i e s , buildings,
163 103
Western Australia, u n i v e rs i t y , 214
Windsor (Canada), u n i v e rs i t y (King’s Zagreb, see Agram
College), 175 Zaragoza (Saragossa) (Spain),
women, 59, 67, 69, 207, 247–8, 326, 333, u n i v e rs i t y , 37, 73, theology, 397
379, female professors, 65, 126, 133, Zionism, 330
philanthropy, 146 zoological parks, 107
Worcester (United States), u n i v e rs i t y Zurich (Switzerland), Federal
(Clark University), 169, 170, 171 Polytechnical, 68, 504–5, 611, 625,
Würzburg (Germany), student associations, u n i v e rs i t y , 38, buildings, 104,
297, u n i v e rs i t y , 34, chemistry, 504, chemistry, 504, mathematics, 504,
mathematics, 501, medicine, 564, natural medicine, 584, physics, 505, professors,
sciences, 501, physics, 503 69, theology, 412

746

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