Professional Documents
Culture Documents
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
General Editor and Chairman of the Editorial Board: Walter Rüegg (Switzerland)
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 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
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
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
viii
Contents
PA RT I I I : S T U D E N T S
ix
Contents
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
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
xi
Contents
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
xii
CONTRIBUTORS AND EDITORS
xiii
Contributors and editors
xiv
Contributors and editors
xv
Contributors and editors
xvi
R E A D E R ’S G U I D E
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
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
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
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
4
Themes
5
Walter Rüegg
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
23
Walter Rüegg
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
26
Themes
27
Walter Rüegg
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
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
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
36
Patterns
37
Christophe Charle
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
39
Christophe Charle
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
40
Patterns
41
Christophe Charle
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
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
44
Patterns
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
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
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
50
Patterns
51
Christophe Charle
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.
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
55
Christophe Charle
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.
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
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
61
Christophe Charle
62
Patterns
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
64
Patterns
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
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
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
69
Christophe Charle
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
71
Christophe Charle
72
Patterns
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
74
Patterns
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
Bibliographies
‘Bibliographie d’histoire de l’éducation française’, published yearly since 1979 in
the review Histoire de l’Education.
Coing, H. (ed.) Handbuch der Quellen und Literatur der neueren europäischen
Privatrechtsgeschichte, vol. III, 1–5, Munich, 1982–88.
Craigie, J. A Bibliography of Scottish Education Before 1872, London, 1970.
De Ridder-Symoens, H. (and J. Paquet, until 1996), ‘Bibliografisch Overzicht
Universiteitsgeschiedenis der Nederlanden/Bibliographie de l’histoire des
Universités aux Pays Bas et en Belgique’, Batavia Academica, 2(1984)–12
(1994), continued since 1995 in Nieuwsbrief Universiteitsgeschiedenis/Lettre
d’infomation sur l’histoire des universités.
Erman, W. and Horn, E. Bibliographie der deutschen Universitäten. Systematisch
geordnetes Verzeichnis der bis Ende 1899 gedruckten Bücher und Aufsätze
über das deutsche Universitätswesen, 3 vols., Leipzig and Berlin, 1904–5; rpt.
1965.
Fletcher, J. M. and Deahl, J. The History of European Universities: Work in
Progress and Publications, 5 vols., Birmingham, 1977–81.
Fletcher, J. M. and Upton, C. A. ‘Publications on University History Since
1977: A Continuing Bibliography’, History of Universities, 7 (1988)–13
(1994).
Garcı́a y Garcia, A. ‘Bibliografı́a de historia de las universidades españolas’, Reper-
torio de historia de las ciencias eclesiásticas en España, 7 (1979), 599–627.
Hammerstein, N. ‘Jubiläumsschrift und Alltagsarbeit. Tendenzen bildungs-
geschichtlicher Literatur’, Historische Zeitschrift, 236 (1983), 601–33.
‘Neue Wege der Universitätsgeschichtsschreibung’, Zeitschrift für historische
Forschung, 5 (1978), 449–63.
111 Karady, Relations interuniversitaires (note 11).
75
Christophe Charle
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
Patterns
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
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
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
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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
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
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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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Paul Gerbod
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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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.
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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.
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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
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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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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
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
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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
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Paul Gerbod
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
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Paul Gerbod
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.
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Resources and management
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.
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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
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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
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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
112
Resources and management
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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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
114
Resources and management
Table 4.3 Annual cost, (t) total in million francs, (s) of a student,
(i) per inhabitant
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.
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Paul Gerbod
116
Resources and management
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
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Paul Gerbod
118
Resources and management
119
Paul Gerbod
120
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
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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
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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
126
Teachers
127
Matti Klinge
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.
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Teachers
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
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?’
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
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
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
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
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136
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137
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138
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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.
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Matti Klinge
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.
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141
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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
142
Teachers
143
Matti Klinge
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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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
148
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149
Matti Klinge
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
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).
151
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
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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
69 Polenghi, Politica universitaria (note 41), 516; cf. chapter 10, 455.
154
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155
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
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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.
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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
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.
160
Teachers
161
CHAPTER 6
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
164
The diffusion of European models
165
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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
167
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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
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
171
Edward Shils and John Roberts
17 On the introduction of the monocratic seminar directors see chapter 10, 408, 425–6.
172
The diffusion of European models
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
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
179
Edward Shils and John Roberts
180
The diffusion of European models
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).
181
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
182
The diffusion of European models
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).
183
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
184
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.
185
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.
186
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.
187
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.
188
The diffusion of European models
189
Edward Shils and John Roberts
41 Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. VIII (Jerusalem, 1971), s.v. ‘Hebrew University of Jerusalem’.
190
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.
191
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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
193
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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).
195
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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
198
The diffusion of European models
199
Edward Shils and John Roberts
200
The diffusion of European models
201
Edward Shils and John Roberts
202
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
204
The diffusion of European models
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
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
209
Edward Shils and John Roberts
(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
211
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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
214
The diffusion of European models
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
216
The diffusion of European models
79 Ibid., 379.
217
Edward Shils and John Roberts
218
The diffusion of European models
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
221
Edward Shils and John Roberts
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
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
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
select bibliography
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.
229
Edward Shils and John Roberts
230
PA RT I I I
STUDENTS
CHAPTER 7
ADMISSION*
FRITZ RINGER
∗ 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
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
235
Fritz Ringer
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
237
Fritz Ringer
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
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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.
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Fritz Ringer
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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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.
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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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
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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.
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Germany 7 4
France 6 13 22
Oxford 6 12
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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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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
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
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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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252
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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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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?
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32 Müller, Ringer and Simon, Rise (note 29), esp. chapters 1 (Müller) and 3 (Simon).
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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.
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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
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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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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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.
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Fathers’
occupation Cambridge Oxford
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
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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.
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
267
CHAPTER 8
STUDENT MOVEMENTS
269
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
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
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
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
274
Student movements
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
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
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.
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
279
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
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,
283
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
284
Student movements
285
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
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
288
Student movements
289
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
290
Student movements
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
292
Student movements
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
294
Student movements
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
296
Student movements
99 Schulze and Ssymank, Studententum (note 65), 303. 100 Ibid., 301–2.
297
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
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
301
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
303
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
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
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
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
311
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
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
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,
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
(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
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
186 See also Grieswelle, ‘Antisemitismus’ (note 20); N. Hammerstein, Antisemitismus und
deutsche Universitäten. 1871–1933 (Frankfurt, 1995).
320
Student movements
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
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
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
326
Student movements
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
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
329
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
330
Student movements
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
332
Student movements
333
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
334
Student movements
335
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
336
Student movements
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
338
Student movements
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
340
Student movements
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
357
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
358
Student movements
select bibliography
Allerbeck, K. R. Soziologie radikaler Studentenbewegungen. Eine vergleichende
Untersuchung in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland und den Vereinigten
Staaten, Munich and Vienna, 1973.
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.
Ideologien-Programme-Aktionen. 1918–1935, Gütersloh, 1967.
Boren, M. E. Student Resistance: A History of the Unruly Subject, New York,
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
vijand (Ghent, 1985), 91.
359
Lieve Gevers and Louis Vos
360
Student movements
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
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
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
365
Konrad H. Jarausch
366
Graduation and careers
367
Konrad H. Jarausch
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
369
Konrad H. Jarausch
370
Graduation and careers
371
Konrad H. Jarausch
372
Graduation and careers
373
Konrad H. Jarausch
374
Graduation and careers
Year of admission
(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.
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
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.
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.
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
377
Konrad H. Jarausch
378
Graduation and careers
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
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
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
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
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
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
386
Graduation and careers
387
Konrad H. Jarausch
select bibliography
Burrage, M. and Thorstendahl, R. (eds.) The Professions in Theory and History,
2 vols., London, 1990.
Charle, C. Les intellectuels en Europe au XIXe siècle. Essai d’histoire comparée,
Paris, 1996.
Cocks, G. and Jarausch, K. H. (eds.) The German Professions 1800–1950, Oxford
and New York, 1990.
Cohen, G. B. Education and Middle Class Society in Imperial Austria, 1848–1918,
West Lafayette, Ind., 1996.
Conze, W. and Kocka, J. (eds.) Bildungsbürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert, vol. I:
Bildungssystem und Professionalisierung in internationalen Vergleichen,
Stuttgart, 1985.
Geison, R. (ed.) Professions and the French State, Philadelphia, 1984.
Goodland, S. (ed.) Educating for the Professions, London, 1986.
Huerkamp, C. Der Aufstieg der Ärzte im 19. Jahrhundert. Vom gelehrten Stand
zum professionellen Experten. Das Beispiel Preussens, Kritische Studien zur
Geschichtswissenschaft 68, Göttingen, 1985.
Jarausch, K. H. Students, Society and Politics in Imperial Germany: The Rise of
Academic Illiberalism, Princeton, 1982.
Deutsche Studenten, 1800–1970, Edition Suhrkamp, n.s. 258, Frankfurt-am-
Main, 1984.
Jarausch, K. H. (ed.) The Transformation of Higher Learning, 1860–1930: Expan-
sion, Diversification, Social Opening, and Professionalization in England,
Germany, Russia and the United States, Historisch-sozialwissenschaftliche
Forschungen 13, Stuttgart, 1983.
Johnson, J. A. The Kaiser’s Chemists: Science and Modernization in Imperial
Germany, Chapel Hill, 1990.
Kassow, S. D. 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.
Kovacs, M. M. Liberal Professions and Illiberal Politics: Hungary from the
Habsburgs to the Holocaust, Washington, 1994.
Locke, R. 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.
Malatesta, M. (ed.) Society and the Professions in Italy, 1860–1914, Cambridge,
1995.
Manegold, K.-H. Universität, Technische Hochschule und Industrie, Schriften zur
Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte 16, Berlin, 1970.
McClelland, C. E. State, Society and University in Germany 1700–1914,
Cambridge and New York, 1980.
McClelland, C. E. The German Experience of Professionalization: Modern
Learned Professions and their Organization from the Early 19th Century,
Cambridge, 1991.
388
Graduation and careers
389
PA RT I V
LEARNING
CHAPTER 10
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
Walter Rüegg
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.
394
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.
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
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
Cracow 66 90
Tübingen 172 160 230
Münster 264 308 592
Innsbruck 275 429 453
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.
398
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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
400
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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
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.
402
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.
403
Walter Rüegg
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’).
404
Theology and the arts
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
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
407
Walter Rüegg
408
Theology and the arts
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
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
412
Theology and the arts
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’
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
417
Walter Rüegg
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.
420
Theology and the arts
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
422
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
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
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
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
430
Theology and the arts
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
432
Theology and the arts
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
434
Theology and the arts
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.
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.
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
440
Theology and the arts
441
Walter Rüegg
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
444
Theology and the arts
158 Fück, Arabistik (note 152), 348; B. Spuler, ‘Islamforschung’, in RGG (note 50),
vol. III, 926ff.
445
Walter Rüegg
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
447
Walter Rüegg
448
Theology and the arts
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
450
Theology and the arts
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
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
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
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
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
select bibliography
Arens, H. Sprachwissenschaft. Ein Gang ihrer Entwicklung von der Antike bis
zur Gegenwart, Freiburg im Breisgau and Munich, 1955.
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
und Vielfalt der Sprachen und Völker, 4 vols., Stuttgart, 1957–63; paperback
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-
tury, The Gifford Lectures in the University of Edinburgh for 1973–4,
Cambridge, London, New York and Melbourne, 1975.
Christ, K. and Momigliano, A. (eds.) Die Antike im 19. Jahrhundert in Italien
und Deutschland, Berlin, 1988.
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,
Darmstadt, 1983.
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
European Sinology’, in Europa Studies China: Papers from an International
Conference on The History of European Sinology, London, 1995.
Fück, J. Die arabischen Studien in Europa bis in den Anfängen des 20. Jahrhun-
derts, Leipzig, 1955.
457
Walter Rüegg
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
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
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
462
History and the social sciences
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
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
465
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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
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
468
History and the social sciences
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
471
Asa Briggs
472
History and the social sciences
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
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474
History and the social sciences
475
Asa Briggs
476
History and the social sciences
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
479
Asa Briggs
480
History and the social sciences
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
483
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484
History and the social sciences
485
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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
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
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
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
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490
History and the social sciences
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
494
The mathematical and the exact sciences
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
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
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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.
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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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508
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20 E. R. Philips, ‘Nicolai Nicolaevich Luzin and the Moscow School of the Theory of Func-
tions’, Historia Mathematica, 5 (1978), 275–305.
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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
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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.
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select bibliography
Artz, F. B. The Development of Technical Education in France 1500–1850, History
of Technology and Culture 3, Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1966.
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
Sciences, 9 (1978), 63–159.
de Castro Freire, F. Memoria historica da Faculdade de mathematica nos cem
annos decorridos desde a reforma da Universidade em 1772 até o presente,
Coimbra, 1872.
Crosland, M. and Smith, C. ‘The Transmission of Physics from France to Britain:
1800–1840’, Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences, 9 (1978), 1–61.
Dhombres, J. ‘Introduction: L’Ecole Polytechnique et ses historiens’, in A. Fourcy,
Histoire de l’Ecole Polytechnique, Paris, 1987, 5–69.
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-
cazioni dell’Università di Ferrara 1, Florence, 1989, 1–78.
Gericke, H. Zur Geschichte der Mathematik an der Universität Freiburg i. Br.,
Beiträge zur Freiburger Wissenschafts- und Universitätsgeschichte 7, Freiburg
im Breisgau, 1955.
Golab, S. Studia z dziejów katedr Wydzialu matematyki, fizyki, chemii Uniwer-
sytetu Jagielloc/ skiego, Cracow, 1964.
Grattan-Guinness, I. ‘Grandes Ecoles, Petite Université: Some Puzzled Remarks
on Higher Education in Mathematics in France, 1795–1840’, History of
University, 7 (1988), 197–225.
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Hájek, B., Niklicek, L. and Mannová, I. ‘An Analysis of the Origin and Devel-
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Acta historiae rerum naturalium necnon technicarum, Special issue 9 (1977),
111–32.
Harman, P. M. (ed.) Wranglers and Physicists: Studies on Cambridge Mathemat-
ical Physics in the Nineteenth Century, Manchester, 1985.
Jungnickel, C. ‘Teaching and Research in the Physical Sciences and Mathematics
in Saxony, 1820–1850’, Historical Studies in Physical Sciences, 10 (1979),
3–47.
Lorey, W. Das Studium der Mathematik an den Deutschen Universitäten seit
Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts, Leipzig and Berlin, 1916.
Meinel, C. Die Chemie an der Universität Marburg seit Beginn des 19. Jahrhun-
derts. Ein Beitrag zu ihrer Entwicklung als Hochschulfach, Academia
Marburgensis 3, Marburg, 1978.
Millan, A. ‘Los estudios de geometrı́a superior en España en el siglo XIX’, Llull,
14 (1991), 117–86.
Pahl, F. Geschichte des naturwissenschaftlichen und mathematischen Unterrichts,
Handbuch der naturwissenschaftlichen und mathematischen Unterrichts 1,
Leipzig, 1913.
Reindl, M. Lehre und Forschung in Mathematik und Naturwissenschaften, ins-
besondere Astronomie, an der Universität Würzburg von der Gründung bis
zum Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts, Würzburg, 1966.
Rowe, D. E., ‘“Jewish Mathematics” at Göttingen in the Era of Felix Klein’, Isis,
77 (1986), 422–49.
Scharlau, W. (ed.) Mathematische Institute in Deutschland 1800–1945, Braun-
schweig and Wiesbaden, 1990.
Schubring, G. ‘Pure and Applied Mathematics in Divergent Institutional Settings
in Germany: The Role and Impact of Felix Klein’, in D. Rowe and J. McCleary
(eds.), The History of Modern Mathematics: Proceedings of the Symposium
on the History of Modern Mathematics, Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, New
York, June 20–24, 1989, vol. II: Institutions and Applications, Boston, 1989,
171–220.
Shinn, T. ‘The French Science Faculty System 1808–1914: Institutional Change
and Research Potential in Mathematics and the Physical Sciences’, Historical
Studies in Physical Sciences, 10 (1980), 271–332.
Stichweh, R. Zur Entstehung der modernen Systems wissenschaftlicher Diszi-
plinen. Physik in Deutschland 1740–1890, Frankfurt-am-Main, 1984.
Vucinich, A. Science in Russian Culture: A History to 1860, London, 1965.
518
CHAPTER 13
ANTO LEIKOLA
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
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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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
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
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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
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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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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.
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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,
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.
533
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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,
535
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).
536
Biology and the earth sciences
537
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538
Biology and the earth sciences
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
540
Biology and the earth sciences
541
Anto Leikola
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
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
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
547
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
548
Medicine
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
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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
551
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
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
553
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
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
555
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
556
Medicine
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
558
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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
559
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
560
Medicine
561
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
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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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
563
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
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.
564
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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
565
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
566
Medicine
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
568
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569
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
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.
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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,
571
Antonie M. Luyendijk-Elshout
572
Medicine
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
574
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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
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.
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Medicine
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.
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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
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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.
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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)).
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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
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586
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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.
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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.
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589
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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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.
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Anna Guagnini
596
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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
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Anna Guagnini
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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
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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
29 H. Weiss, The Making of Technological Man: The Social Origin of French Engineering
Education (Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1982).
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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
611
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613
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614
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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622
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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.
623
Anna Guagnini
624
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625
Anna Guagnini
626
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627
Anna Guagnini
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
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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
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.
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select bibliography
Ahlström, G. Engineers and Industrial Growth: Higher Technical Education and
the Engineering Profession During the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Cen-
turies: France, Germany, Sweden and England, London and Canberra, 1982.
Alonso Viguera, J. M. La ingenieria industrial española en el siglo XIX, Madrid,
1944.
Alter, P. The Reluctant Patron: Science and the State in Britain 1850–1920,
Oxford, Hamburg and New York, 1987.
62 A. Grelon (ed.), Les ingénieurs de la crise. Titre et profession entre les deux guerres (Paris,
1986).
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Fox, R. and Guagnini A. Laboratories, Workshops and Sites. Concepts and Prac-
tices of Applied Research in Industrial Europe, 1800–1914, Berkeley, 1999.
Fox, R. and Guagnini, A. (eds.) Education, Technology and Industrial Perfor-
mance in Europe, 1850–1939, Cambridge, 1993.
Fox, R. and Weisz, G. (eds.) The Organization of Science and Technology in
France 1808–1914, Cambridge and Paris, 1980.
Garrabou, R. Enginyers industrials, modernització económica i burgesia a
Catalunya (1850-inicis del segle XX), Barcelona, 1982.
Gispen, K. New Profession, Old Order: Engineers and German Society, 1815–
1914, Cambridge, 1989.
Gooday, G. ‘Teaching Telegraphy and Electrotechnics in the Physics Labora-
tory: William Ayrton and the Creation of an Academic Space for Electri-
cal Engineering in Britain 1873–1884’, History of Technology, 13 (1991),
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Grandmaı̂tre, R. L’ingénieur. Son rôle, sa formation, la protection de son titre et
de sa profession, Paris and Liège, 1937.
Grelon, A. ‘La formation des ingénieurs électriciens (1880–1900)’, in F. Caron and
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1914)’, in F. Caron and F. Cardot (eds.), Histoire générale de l’électricité en
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Scuole of Milan and Turin, 1859–1914’, Minerva, 26 (1988), 512–48.
König, W. ‘Auffassungen von den Aufgaben des Faches Technikgeschichte zwis-
chen 1900 und 1945 in der Ingenieurwelt’, Humanismus und technik, 29
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‘Stand und Aufgaben der Forschung zur Geschichte der deutschen Polytech-
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Kurgan-van Hentenryk, G. and Stengers, J. (eds.) L’innovation technologique.
Facteur de changement (XIXe–XXe siècles), Brussels, 1986.
Lacaita, G. C. Istruzione e sviluppo industriale in Italia, 1859–1914, Florence,
1973.
Locke, R. The End of the Practical Man: Entrepreneurship and Higher Education
in Germany, France, and Great Britain 1880–1940, Greenwich, Conn., 1984.
Lundborg, T. ‘En blick pa tekniiska högskolans historia’, Teknisk Tidskrift,
(1927).
Lundgreen, P. ‘Engineering Education in Europe and the U.S.A., 1750–1830:
The Rise to Dominance of School Culture and the Engineering Professions’,
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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
637
Notker Hammerstein
638
Epilogue: Universities and war in the twentieth century
639
Notker Hammerstein
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
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
641
Notker Hammerstein
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
643
Notker Hammerstein
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
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.
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
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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.
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650
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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
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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
661
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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.
663
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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.
667
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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.
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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
Notker Hammerstein
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.
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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
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
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
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
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
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
684
A chronological list
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
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
691
Walter Rüegg
692
A chronological list
693
Walter Rüegg
694
A chronological list
695
Walter Rüegg
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
698
A chronological list
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
701
Walter Rüegg
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
703
Walter Rüegg
704
Alphabetical list
705
Walter Rüegg
706
NAME INDEX
707
Name index
708
Name index
709
Name index
710
Name index
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
713
Name index
714
Name index
715
Name index
716
Name index
717
Name index
718
Name index
719
Name index
720
Name index
721
Name index
722
Name index
723
Name index
724
Name index
725
Name index
726
Name index
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
730
Subject index
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
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
735
Subject index
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
738
Subject index
739
Subject index
740
Subject index
741
Subject index
742
Subject index
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
746