In Jakob Burckhardt's classic vision of the emergence of a new, individualistic consciousness in Renaissance Italy, the artist took his place behind the tyrant as one of the early escapees from the crumbling prisons of medieval corporate institutions. Although the picture of his progress from craftsman to free professional is more nuanced and qualified in the recent literature, the Italian artist continues to enjoy his reputation as one of the few permanent beneficiaries of the Renaissance. As the Wittkowers have written: “But the new day came when artists began to revolt against the hierarchical order of which they were an integral part—a day when they regarded the organization meant to protect their interests as prison rather than shelter.”1 At Florence, where artists first achieved a new self-consciousness as theorists and men of letters, private patronage supplied the wealth for a new level of status, higher than that of the craftsman, and weakened the ties of guild life. Not that Florentine artists of the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries invariably became either successful businessmen or bohemians—though both types could be found there and elsewhere in Italy—nor did they revolt against corporate institutions altogether. But their new organization, the Accademia del Disegno, resembled the old guild structure only superficially and was, as its name suggests, a professional association uniting the artistic crafts rather than a type of guild.2 If the sixteenth century Italian artist lacked the social prestige of the lawyer, the notary, or the physician, neither was he any longer lumped together with the cobbler, the stonemason, or the apothecary.

Constitution-Reading is a stony road to travel.This is doubly true of early nineteenth-century German constitutions. Working in camera, their authors provided little public justification of their efforts, and consequently historians lack even the great recorded debates of a constituent assembly on which to base their interpretations. And because these constitutions were oktroyierte Verfassungen, handed down, as it were, by gracious princes, interpretations of their provisions rest on the observer's views concerning the fortunes of German constitutional development as a whole.

On January 15, 1919, Count Brockdorff-Rantzau, recently appointed foreign minister of the German Republic, concluded a press conference with the following appeal:

We demand a policy of reconciliation …, a policy which realizes a genuine … League of Nations. But we will be asked whom we are introducing into this League. Then we must be able to say: “We are introducing a united people that wants peace in the world and is willing to enter the lists for every progress of mankind. …”

With these words the German minister gave expression to an ideal that had inspired many left-wing liberals and pacifists in Germany during the war, and that had been taken up by the spokesmen of the newly proclaimed German Republic immediately after the armistice. To them, as well as to Brockdorff, the future League of Nations, in the way it was going to be constituted, was to become the test of the spirit in which the peace would be concluded. The crucial point was whether, and if so on what terms, it would include the new German Republic. If it admitted Germany on equal terms, it would thus demonstrate that it would be a universal organization, open to all democratic nations and in line with the aspirations of the moderate Left of Europe.

Of all the officers in the German High Command (OHL) during the First World War none played a more active political role than Colonel Max Bauer. Colonel Bauer's papers, which are preserved in the federal archives in Koblenz, contain numerous memoranda on a wide range of topics, which make it possible to present a coherent picture of his views. This paper will analyze Bauer's political thinking during the First World War, but it will not deal with the more complex questions of his political role and influence.

Gustav Stresemann counted on the Locarno accords of October 1925 to pave the way for peaceful revision of the Versailles treaty. Yet just days before these agreements renouncing force as a means of modifying the Rhineland frontier were to come into effect, the German foreign minister spoke of a wake, at which “the hopes which arose in Locarno are laid to rest, under a tombstone bearing the inscription: ‘Here lies the Spirit of Locarno.’” Stresemann's remark to the French chargé d'affaires in Berlin was prompted by France's apparent veto of the restoration of Eupen and Malmédy to the German Reich. As an illustration of the fundamental governmental attitudes of the participating powers, and as a measure of just what each saw in the Locarno treaties, the case of Eupen-Malmédy presents several provocative revelations.

The failure of Hitler's 1923 Putsch relegated the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP) to the periphery of German politics until the end of the decade, but these years of relative obscurity were nevertheless of crucial importance for the party. The reshaping of the NSDAP which took place during this period enabled Hitler to take advantage of the general crisis of the early thirties in a fashion that would have been impossible earlier, for in the interim a new and far more effective political instrument had been created. In large measure this was the result of little-publicized organizational work and political struggle, much of it at state and local levels.

On October 6, 1866, in Hanover and on October 8 in Kassel, Wiesbaden, and Frankfurt am Main, civil and military ceremonies completed the Prussian annexations of the Kingdom of Hanover, the Electorate of Hesse-Kassel, the Duchy of Nassau, and the Free City of Frankfurt. Together with the subsequent incorporation of Schleswig-Holstein on January 12, 1867, this augmentation of King William I's realm transferred more than five million German subjects and twenty-eight thousand square miles to Prussia and closed the physical gap between the east and central German main body of the kingdom and its prosperous Westphalian and Rhenish districts. For the first time a Hohenzollern subject could travel from the Russian border at Memel to the old Carolingian capital of Aachen on the Belgian frontier without setting foot on the territory of another German state.

At no time during the past century has European society been closer to major revolutionary upheaval than at the close of World War I. That in the end the Russian Revolution was contained and “world revolution” averted has been related by historians to any number of factors. Yet one of the most important reasons for the ebbing of the revolutionary tide has generally been overlooked or passed over lightly. This was the failure of the revolutionary movement, except in Russia, to secure really significant support from a particular segment of the working classes, namely women. A more classic case of the historian's tendency to accept sex as a constant, i.e., to operate in general as if only one sex—the male sex—exists, would be difficult to find. In fact an individual's sex can be an important variable in political behavior and like age, occupation, religion, and a variety of other social, economic, and cultural factors, something which needs to be considered much more carefully in order to arrive at a better understanding of the past.

Recent studies of the history of the National Socialist Party of Germany have produced much illuminating material on the k. party's organizational development and growth during its period of struggle up to the seizure of power. In addition, there are several studies of local or regional scope covering the same period, mostly dealing with areas in northern Germany, which provide a close-up view of the party and its tactics. This investigation will examine the nature of the Nazi voter appeal as it is revealed in the campaign and election to the state legislature (Landtag) in the south German state of Baden in 1929. The circumstance that the election fell in this year permits an examination of the development of the party midway between its failure in the Reichstag election of 1928 and its success in 1930; a close analysis of local statistics will show where the early converts to the National Socialist voting ranks came from, and will suggest some clues to the reasons for Hitler's early successes.

The Anschluss problem was one of the most vexing legacies of nineteenth-century nationalism and the peace settlement of 1919. Seen in broad perspective, the Anschluss movement belongs to the final chapter in the history of the idea of Grossdeutschland, a dream born in 1848 and shared after 1867 by German-Austrians of the most varied cultural backgrounds and political opinions. Support for German union intensified following the collapse of the Habsburg Monarchy in 1918, but was frustrated by the restrictions placed upon union by the treaties of Versailles and Saint-Germain. After 1919 sympathy for Anschluss transcended party lines in the infant Austrian republic, and grew more rapidly than within Germany itself. For many members of the “front generation,” young men who had served in the Habsburg army and who felt the humiliation of defeat with special intensity, the cause of Anschluss became a life-shaping force. Nowhere is this better illustrated than in the career of Hermann Neubacher

Hitler's takeover of power in January 1933 created a new and dangerous situation for German Jewry. Nazi policy developed gradually, but before the spring of 1933 was well advanced there could be little doubt that serious injury was intended toward the Jewish community. The “wildcat” anti-Semitic actions of undisciplined SA men were followed by the national boycott of Jewish businesses conducted on April 1. Legislative and administrative measures, preceded and accompanied by “unofficial” and “illegal” actions tending in the same direction, began the process that drove Jews from public employment, from medicine, law, and teaching, from cultural, political, and journalistic pursuits, and that severely hampered their economic activity in any form. Long before any sane observer could have glimpsed the outlines of the “final solution,” the leaders of the German Jewish community were faced with a situation demanding the utmost of their political and organizational talents. As a leading Jewish participant put it, the situation provided a classic case of Toynbee's “challenge” and “response.” To one German Jewish leader, Georg Kareski, it was a great and positive political opportunity.