In 1780 Christian Dohm, a ranking Prussian civil servant, collaborated with the Berlin Jewish philosopher Moses Mendelssohn on a memorandum submitted on behalf of the Jews of Alsace to the French Council of State. A year later Dohm issued his Über die bürgerliche Verbesserung der Juden, a treatise on the civil improvement of the Jews, which contained a comprehensive program for increasing the general utility of the Jewish population. By that time, the European debate over the Jews was already long in progress. The seventeenth century had dealt with the question of readmission and the first half of the eighteenth century less successfully with naturalization. Both debates had centered in England, although the issues involved were pertinent to Holland, France, and to some extent Italy as well. Both debates had also produced a considerable number of polemics. Most recently, a 1753 bill sponsored by the Pelham government sought to facilitate the process of naturalization for Jewish immigrants. The so-called Jew Bill precipitated a wide-ranging public debate on the status of the Jews in England.

Until the 1950s the historical reputation of the eighteenth-century rulers of Hesse-Cassel rested primarily upon their practice of financing state and court expenses by leasing conscripted and trained military units to Europe's major powers. Over the course of the last forty years another picture has emerged which stresses that these petty German absolutists participated in a movement of “Enlightened” reform. More recent attempts to reconcile apparent enlightenment with a military and financial system based on involuntary military servitude have noted contradictory labyrinths of means, ends, theory, and practice. What I offer in the following pages is not an attempt to soften these antinomies but an effort to highlight them through historical analysis of the military reforms of Landgrave Frederick II (1760–85). In this way I hope to contribute to a critical account of bureaucratic “rationality” as eighteenth-century absolutist princes practiced it.

Although it seems ages ago, it was only in October 1989 that a group of historians, who teach at North American universities, gathered for a conference on postmodern challenges to German History. The symposium was meant to reflect on the changing tempers of the Germans and their (re)appropriations of the German past and on the temperament of those who make German history their living on this side of the Atlantic. What appeared to be a good idea back then, proves to be an even better one after the events of November 1989. German history is being remade and, with it, interpreters as well as their interpretations on both sides of the Atlantic. The call for the conference was a testament to the fact that tremors of this impending earthquake could be felt for some time, although none of the conference participants had any particular foresight into the unfolding events. Already then it seemed that the past had begun to change much faster than historians could remake the written record. History had come unstuck from all sorts of framing devices that historians had devised in order to nail it down.

Historians of Germany in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have always been spoilt for choice when needing to recommend a good general account of their period. Until recently, their colleagues working on the eighteenth century and the revolutionary-Napoleonic period have been less fortunate. The second volume of Hajo Holborn's A History of Modern Germany contains much that is original, penetrating, and powerful but is also decidedly uneven in quality, patchy in coverage, and not an easy read. A.J.P. Taylor's The Course of German History is a wild mixture of insight and perversity, immensely stimulating but marred by an extreme Germanophobia and distorted by a teleological perspective which sees all German history since the dawn of time heading inexorably for 1933: “it was no more a mistake for the German people to end up with Hitler than it is an accident when a river flows into the sea.” “Modern Germany” has usually been deemed to begin in 1815, so the period which immediately preceded the Vienna settlement has been studied with a view only to what it started.

The vague figure of Rudolf Haym, founding editor of the Preussische jahrbücher, hovers hazily in the background of many discussions of nineteenth-century German Liberalism. He has been relegated to obscurity by more forceful and impressive personalities: Dahlmann, Gervinus, and Hansemann in 1848, Max Duncker and Georg von Vincke in the 1850s and 1860s, Treitschke and Mommsen in the 1860s and 1870s, to name a few. Yet in a long career whose accomplishments are modest only in historical perspective, Haym possessed a quality shared by none of his more famous contemporaries: a gift for being at the center of moderate liberal opinion, sometimes a few years in advance of more renowned liberals. This gift was expressed in his philosophical work on Hegel, and above all in his political journalism in the Preussische Jahrbücher.

The central purpose of this essay is to clarify some of the terms in literary criticism that are being employed in current historiographical debates, and to comment on some of their possible implications for German history. As interdisciplinary theoretical debates proliferate beyond their immediate sources, contested positions often come to be built on misleading, heavily derived, or partisan versions of the concepts and practices drawn from the other side. Once battle has beenjoined, the issue of more exacting definitions and distinctions may go by the board. On the other hand, my modest attempt to provide a glossary for others' arguments may mask a more presumptuous claim to both the knowledge and the distance needed to set a tangled record straight. But although I want to suggest which insights might be valuable to historians, and which may be more problematic or unhelpful, I cannot pretend to adjudicate between currently competing theories of knowledge-production. For the German context, that undertaking would require at least some discussion of late nineteenth-century idealist historiography, and of the debate about modernization and modernity that can be traced through Marx, Weber, and Habermas. This will have to await another occasion.

As the French Revolution lurched toward the Terror in the early 1790s, the reaction of the German educated public shifted from qualified approval to horrified condemnation. Johann Gottlieb Fichte was one of the few German intellectuals who defied the trend. In the spring of 1793, at age thirty-one, Fichte denounced the governments of Europe for their reliance on secrecy and censorship and appealed for unconditional freedom of public expression. It was a fitting irony that this brief but impassioned Zurückforderung der Denkfreiheit had to appear anonymously, with its place of publication given as “Heliopolis, in the last year of the old darkness.”

The purpose of this essay is not to provide a review of the extensive literature on women's history, gender history, or feminist scholarship, but to reflect on the implications that these three vantage points have for the practice of writing German history. The framework for these reflections is the charge of the conference at which an earlier version of this paper was presented, namely, to consider the interdisciplinary, theoretical, and methodological challenges to historiography raised by “postmodernism.” These challenges are roughly similar for all national historiographies, though Germany's historians, it could be argued, have distinguished themselves by their especially intense focus on state institutions, national events, aggregated socioeconomic structures, large organizations, and the theories and methods appropriate to these concerns. Such foci stand in particular danger of being dissolved by alternate historiographic interests, like feminist, women's, and gender history. When the center no longer holds, that is the “postmodern” condition; their part in dissolving the center is what links feminist, women's, and gender history to “postmodernism.” Rather than rehearsing specific examples of how, say, women's history has challenged the received picture of German history, and thereby implicitly to suggest methods of damage control, this essay instead attempts to discuss some of the broader theoretical and methodological issues that feminist scholarship poses to historians and to do so within the context of the “postmodern.” References to the specific German context are mostly in the footnotes.

On 6 December 1800, a courier galloped through the gates of Vienna, rushed to the Hofburg, the winter palace of the Habsburgs, and presented to Emperor Francis II a bitter message from Archduke John, the emperor's brother and commander of the Austrian armed forces in Germany. The message read that three days earlier the archduke's troops had engaged the French army under Jean Moreau at Hohenlinden, had suffered serious losses, and were falling back to Salzburg with the officers struggling to maintain order in the ranks while they did so. The news was a crushing blow to Francis. In 1799 the Austrians had begun the War of the Second Coalition with high hopes of reversing the years of defeat at the hands of Revolutionary France. Russia and Britain had agreed to cooperate closely with Austria; France seemed weaker than ever domestically; and Napoleon Bonaparte, who had caused Vienna such grief in 1797, was far away in Egypt trying to inflict damage upon the British Empire. But these hopes turned to ashes. Russia abandoned the Coalition after its army suffered serious losses in Switzerland—indeed, in their wake the Russian ruler, Tsar Paul, had thundered so vehemently against what he saw as Austrian treachery that he had broken relations with Vienna—; Britain had been able to provide much needed funds but not more-needed soldiers; and Bonaparte had returned to work his magic on both the French army and the French people. The result was Hohenlinden, Austrian defeat, and in February 1800 the Treaty of Lunéville that ceded to France primary influence in Germany and Italy.

From the appearance of On War in 1832 until the end of the First World War, Carl von Clausewitz was known chiefly as the most profound, but also the most enigmatic member of a generation of strategists whose common object had been to discover and explain the secrets of Napoleonic warfare. This interpretation, although not entirely wrong, has lately come to seem one-sided, initially as the result of the work of Hans Rothfels in the 1920s, and most decidedly so in light of the more recent, comprehensive analysis of Clausewitz's life and ideas by Peter Paret. Today, most students of the man and his work would agree that the French Revolution itself, and not simply its Napoleonic aftermath, was the decisive influence on the development of Clausewitz's ideas about war.

The dual assignment of this presentation was to review some of the issues facing historians of Austria as they try to situate Austrian history within the wider cultural and social realm of “Central Europe” and to present some brief reflections to my colleagues who study Germany on the possible role of Austrian history in shaping the interpretive choices they may make in the future. Since these remarks were offered in a self-consciously “German” symposium (organized with the support of the DAAD), I took it as a given that internal interpretive problems of Hapsburg and/or successor state history peculiar to those arenas would not necessarily be relevant, even though they did intrude in any event. Although these brief comments were conceived in September 1989 and presented the following month, the events of November 1989 and October 1990 have only enhanced my concerns, and subsequent revisions to this text have not changed the basic character of my remarks.

Of all the regions of Central Europe, the Rhineland was the one most affected by the French Revolution. The area on the left bank of the Rhine belonged for almost two full decades to the First French Republic and the Napoleonic Empire; parts of the right bank were, for a shorter period, under the rule of the Napoleonic satellite state, the Grand Duchy of Berg. In studying these unusual circumstances, historians have sometimes focused on short-term political implications, asking how the Rhenish population of the 1790s responded to the Jacobin regime. They have also studied the long-term social and economic effects of the revolutionary legislation and the secularization of church lands.

Masterplots of national history are now commonly criticized for the univocal and unilinear nature of their narratives.1 Such narratives are increasingly seen as only one, and not necessarily even the most important, approach to understanding the modern European nation state. The study of the internal heterogeneity of nations as expression of a conflicting diversity of subnational identities, the emphasis on the peculiar place of nation-ness in the process of modern societalization (Vergesellschaftung), and the political role of integral nationalism as a contentious strategy of homogenizing difference and inequality—all this has supplanted nation- and state-centered approaches which treated the modern (nation-)state as allegorical subject.

I want to begin by suggesting that to speak of a linguistic turn in the writing of modern German history is premature. It may be true that intellectual history on both sides of the Atlantic has taken “the” linguistic turn, in the sense that, more than ever before, much current research involves “a focused concern on the ways meaning is constituted in and through language.” The formal properties, degree of sophistication, and utility for historians of these studies vary greatly. They encompass by now almost classical poststructuralist perspectives, methodologically more conservative discussions of cultural representation, and the influential works of Quentin Skinner and J.G.A. Pocock. Yet history writing on twentieth-century Germany, considered broadly, stands very much before rather than after a linguistic turn, if there will be a turn at all. Scholars of modern German cultural, social, or political history who engage current debates on language and rhetoric in truly innovative ways are the exception rather than the rule. Moreover, considerations of a linguistic turn in modern German history take place at a time when some historians criticize poststructuralist thought more forcefully than ever before.4 This makes for an interesting confluence of tensions, especially when one considers that disciplines such as literary criticism and anthropology have turned anew to the study of history.