Image: Archäologische Staatssammlung, Munich (© Photographer: Manfred Eberlein)
Disk fibulas of Unterhaching

The Bavarian-Salzburgian state exhibition “Die Bajuwaren. Von Severin bis Tassilo 488–788” (“The Bajuwaren. From Severinus to Tassilo 488–788”) in 1988 marked a temporary end to an intense debate on the Early History of the Baiern in years before. It conveyed an image of the beginnings of Baiern that has been widely received by the public and remained prevalent up to the present day. Based on an interpretation of the Baiern-name as ‘men from Bohemia’, it was believed that a ‘kernel of tradition’ (‘Traditionskern’) immigrated from there, initiating the ethnogenesis of the Baiern from different ‘Germanic’ tribes and local population. Moreover, since this assumption seemed to correspond to the archaeological Friedenhain-Přešt’ovice group of finds, the impression was created that “… after centuries of efforts the mystery of the origin of the Bavarians had been solved”.1

In the almost 25 years that passed since then, all disciplines involved in protohistory (Frühgeschichte) have been dealing intensely with theoretical and methodological principles for the interpretation of their relevant sources. In this context, the concepts of ‘tribal formation’ (‘Stammesbildung’) and ‘ethnogenesis’ (‘Ethnogenese’) have been developed further so that today the formation of the identity of protohistorical groups is under discussion. While archaeological sciences increasingly question whether ethnic identities manifest themselves in the archaeological record (burial habits or style of clothing), historical research deals with the problem of how (historical) tradition and its reception throughout the centuries created these ethnic identities in the first place. Eventually intense onomastic and etymological research in language border and interference areas proved the one-sided ethnic view of language also to be a product of national ideas of the 19th century.

This scholarly debate puts a different complexion on the beginnings of Baiern and poses new questions. A critical assessment of the sources in conjunction with newly gained insights toppled many an older ‘certainty’, so that the ‘mystery’ cannot be regarded as solved by any means – on the contrary: The early history of Baiern is more open than ever!

Against this background, the aim of the conference in Benediktbeuern in March of 2010 together with the present volume was to re-initiate the debate on this topic. It was not intended to replace the older model with a new one – at the current state of research this also would not be possible. In fact, the main focus was to take stock of the current debate and reveal different points of view. This is being reflected by the contributions in the present volume, which introduces numerous new approaches as well as different competing and to some extent, contradicting views.

On one hand, the development in recent years was characterized by a vast increase of archaeological finds and findings in conjunction with improved capabilities for analysis, for example regarding detailed chronology or the use of methods of natural sciences. Even the field of linguistics accesses a significantly broader and methodically more thoroughly edited material-base today. On the other hand, methodological principles for the interpretation of primary sources were discussed intensely in individual disciplines, with the result that the validity of one’s own sources is being evaluated differently today than before. Hence, a problem arising in the related disciplines is that it is impossible to keep track of either the abundance of individual results or their methodological realization. This has significant consequences for interdisciplinary cooperation. In some cases, the lack of transparency in the research-progress causes the adoption of results from related disciplines without the necessary awareness of the problem. In other cases, related subject areas are treated with great skepticism, in extreme cases to the point of complete disregard.

In view of this development, it seems absolutely essential not only to converse between disciplines about the results, but also about their realization and methodological principles. Ultimately, specific primary source material of the individual disciplines only allow a certain view on protohistory. Therefore, no discipline is able to present a comprehensive historical picture based solely on their specific perspective. Only in an active interdisciplinary debate, which also includes methodological aspects, is it possible to recognize not only the potential but also the pitfalls of the interdisciplinary approach.

As indicated before, in the past the category of ethnos appeared to be suitable to integrate contributions of various disciplines. In a way, the question of how the Baiern emerged as a tribe or people constituted a common point of focus for all subjects. However, his approach has become questionable due to findings of recent decades regarding the structure of ethnic communities in the Early Middle Ages. In addition, by focusing on ethnos, another category, which, from a present-day perspective, is considerably better suited to serve as a common reference for interdisciplinary research, has faded from the spotlight: Space. Primary sources of all disciplines involved in the research of the early history of the Baiern possess notable spatial reference: Archaeological material usually is located in space precisely; the same is true for skeleton finds that are addressed by anthropology. Toponyms are inherently space-related and written sources refer to specific places and regions in many cases. Therefore, it is not a coincidence that in contrast to the state exhibition of 1988 the colloquium in Benediktbeuern was entitled “From Raetia and Noricum to early medieval Baiovaria”. With this in mind, the present volume also focuses on the historical territory of Baiern, with its beginnings in the Alpine Foreland of Bavaria-Upper Austria between Iller and Lech in the west and the Enns River in the east, as well as its subsequent expansion into the Alpine Region in the south.

In recent times, the so-called ‘spatial turn’ in historical research raised awareness for the potential of an examination under spatial aspects. Space in its various forms is more than just a common reference point for all disciplines involved: it offers general geographical preconditions for settlement, commerce, and transportation, for strategic and political importance – consequently providing substantial information for the comprehension of historical developments. As early as in Late Antiquity, a region like early Baiern constitutes a human-made ‘cultural area’ (‘Kulturraum’) with structures of administration and political power that are, for instance, reflected in names of the Roman provinces. It is subject to debate to what extent these structures provide the basis of early medieval Baiovaria. Ultimately, almost all primary sources pertaining to protohistory are not to be interpreted without regard to location or geographical reference. Last but not least, this is true for the ‘onomastic landscape’ (‘Namenlandschaft’), which obtains further validity due to its spatial manifestation. Thereby, space itself becomes a primary source and it must be examined which ‘notions of history’ (‘Geschichtsbilder’) can be constructed plausibly on this basis.

As a visual aid to this methodological approach, the present volume provides various topical maps intending to facilitate the notion of spatial constellations as well as the comprehension of subsequent developments. The fact that historical content sometimes is pinned down more precisely than the state of discussion actually allows for needs to be considered individually.

The contributions of this volume can be divided into two groups: The first group of articles deals with questions directly related to early Baiern in terms of time and space. The second group is made up of contributions that illuminate problems of the early period of Baiern in comparison with examples from other contexts.

Michaela Konrad’s contribution sketches the different developments of the two provinces Raetia and Noricum since the Early Principate. While Noricum came under Roman influence early and experienced radical urbanization, Raetia remained a province dominated by the military with considerably less ‘Romanized’ conditions of living – preconditions whose consequences on the further development have not been discussed yet.

Roland Steinacher summarises the current state of discussion about identity formation in early medieval communities, elaborating that protohistorical identities are a highly complex and, in many cases, situationally constructed phenomenon. Thereby, they barely have anything to do with the concept of a culturally and linguistically homogeneous group, that developed as late as the Modern Period.

Jochen Haberstroh discusses the concept of the archaeologically defined Friedenhain-Přešt’ovice group of finds. Therewith, the so far predominant model of the immigration of a Baiovarian ‘kernel of tradition’ (‘Traditionskern’) is – from an archaeological perspective – deprived of its basis. At the same time, he demonstrates ways for a systematic study of plastically decorated fine-ceramic from the Migration Period, which still remains to be done despite numerous approaches on the topic of Friedenhain-Přešt’ovice.

Ludwig Rübekeil succeeds in offering new explanations for the very name Baiern. He analyses the ethnonym with a comparative approach, taking into consideration other names with the ending -varii. This typological study illustrates that these names are not based on ethnic, but rather on military structures. Furthermore, their spatial reference does not allude to a place of origin but to an area of military action. The lack of ethnic continuity becomes manifested in the Baiern name, whereby ,on-site’ identity formation is proved also from a linguistical point of view.

Alheydis Plassmann examines the ‘legend of origin’ of Baiern (‘Stammessage’), which is problematic due to its late tradition in medieval manuscripts. On one hand, she points out that the non-tradition of an early origin legend of the Baiern must not constitute an argument of research in either in a positive or a negative way. On the other hand, Plassmann emphasizes that the high medieval narrative possibly drew on older material, but a 12th century contextualization is also justified, which is why the legend can by no means be applied for the early period of Baiern.

Taking up Carl I. Hammer’s recent argument2, who trenchantly points out that the earliest dukes’ affiliation to the Agilolfings is not verifiable, while vice versa the eldest known Agilolfings were not dukes of Baiern, Britta Kägler discusses the axiom that the dukes of Baiern always were Agilolfings since the mid-6th century.

The following two contributions address the early onomastic landscape. Christa Jochum-Godglück discusses toponyms including ‘Walchen’ – a group of toponyms that has been seen as evidence for ‘residual roman culture’ (‘Restromanentum’) in older research. Composed with the Germanic ethnonym *walh-oz- (equated with Romanus in glosses), they are a phenomenon of bilingual language border areas. In addition, they frequently contain a location that reminds one of a development in the context of fiscal organisation of space. This conclusion of a contextual appearance limits the importance of the Walchen names for settlement patterns.

Dealing with the area of Iller, Danube, and Lech, Andreas Schorr turns to the western fringe of Baiovaria. He poses the question of whether specific elements of early Bairisch or Alemannic can be found in toponyms as well as personal names (‘Namengut’) of this Bairisch-Alemannic intersection area. Schorr also discusses the state and tendencies of the etymological debate – in particular for even earlier periods – based on various categories of toponyms. He fathoms the consequences for an interdisciplinary conversation by discussing their respective statements concerning communication range and questions of continuity.

Brigitte Haas-Gebhard’s contribution regarding the grave field of Unterhaching presents one of the most significant new archaeological discoveries of recent years in Bavarian early medieval archaeology. Furthermore, she demonstrates the wide spectrum of modern archaeological investigation methods. The archaeological record shows that around the year 500 C.E., a high-ranking group of people resided on the Munich gravel plain – an important location in terms of traffic and administration. According to the evidence, this group also was of Christian faith.

On a larger scale, Arno Rettner addresses the testimony of archaeological sources in Raetia. He points to the gravestone of Pierius as a little-known evidence of one of the main protagonists of the late 5th century, discussing the problem of archaeologically perceived breaks as a result of methodological deficits. Regarding the potential of the grave field, Rettner presents new arguments for the Germanic or Romanic interpretation of certain burial attributes from the Early Middle Ages. In conclusion, he emphasizes the significance of Augsburg due to early Christian evidences.

Opposingly, Hubert Fehr postulates that the concept of the immigration of the Baiovarii and the extensive resettlement of the Alpine Foreland by Germanic immigrants during the Migration Period is a master narrative, that can not be proven from an archaeological point of view. Neither would the typical linear cemeteries hint to such an immigration, nor could grave goods like weapons or bow-fibulas be labeled as Germanic.

Barbara Hausmair looks into the problem of the hiatus, which is suggested by the archaeological record in Upper Austria for the period from the Roman retreat from the province of Noricum Ripense in 488 C.E. to the second half of the 6th century. She raises the question of whether there was an actual discontinuity of settlement – which was frequently presumed based on the Vita Severini – or rather a research gap. Structural and partially stratigraphic coherences of the findings indicate that particularly the numerous graves without goods in late Roman and again in early medieval cemeteries could be the missing link.

Archaeological sources of the Migration Period in Bohemia as well as its ties to neighbouring areas are being addressed in Jaroslav Jiřík’s article. He is able to demonstrate that intense archaeological connections to present-day Southwest Germany and the Middle Danube Region become apparent; however archaeological proof for immediate contacts between Bavaria and Bohemia is rather sparse and therefore stands in contrast to the traditional assumption of an immigration from this area.

Based on the example of the early medieval grave field of Enkering, Eva Kropf’s contribution explores the potential and limits of the anthropological study of protohistoric skeleton finds. On one hand, traditional morphometric methods still have great potential. On the other hand, in recent times there is the risk of repeating old mistakes in the interpretation of data due to a noncritical usage of new scientific methods.

From the viewpoint of economic history, Josef Löffl points out Baiern’s central location and accessibility via the Danube as a fast waterway and the access to various Alpine passes. He emphasizes that organisational continuities are to be expected, especially in the context of shipping and freight traffic. Due to a period of unfavorable weather conditions in the 5th and 6th century as well as unstable political development, the focus in agriculture changed to animal husbandry, which is less prone to external threats.

Stefan Esders discusses the late Roman ducate (ducatus) as a military organisation of frontier areas like Raetia, which can be considered as a predecessor of early medieval duchies. Using the examples of the Libyan dux Pentapoleos around the year 500 C.E. and the dux Histriae around 800, Esders illustrates their institutional preconditions and financial resources. The ducate of Istria also serves as an example of a seamless transition from the Byzantine Empire to the Francs, while changing opponents, which also needs to be taken into consideration for Raetia. To comprehend the preconditions of the ducate in Baiern, as for other Merovingian duchies, it is necessary to study long-term substructures diachronically and analyse them in local operational contexts.

Based on the question, what the background of the equation of Baiern with Noricum in early to high medieval sources could be, Irmtraut Heitmeier develops the model of a dual formation of the duchy of Baiern. Since in late Roman administration Raetia was part of the Italian dioceses and Noricum part of the Illyrian, the Inn River received a superior function in the organisation of space, which separated different spheres of sovereignty already in the Ostrogothic and later in the Merovingian period. The integration of parts from both territories can help to explain the structural dichotomy of the subsequent duchy as well as the peculiarities of the dukeship of Baiern.

In the discussion on the nature of the dukeship as a hereditary sovereignty, the parallel of Aquitaine has been referenced particularly. For this reason, Philippe Depreux looks at the princeps in Aquitaine in the 7th and 8th centuries. Thereby, he points out contradictions and chronological problems in the “principautés périphériques” – as evolved by Karl Ferdinand Werner. By analysing the Miracula sancti Martialis accurately, Depreux shows that the principatus in Aquitaine is a construction of the 8th century and therefore much later than the postulated peak of the “principautés périphériques”. Ultimately, it was a title granted by the Carolingians in retrospect to those in power in Aquitaine, when it had already become a minor kingship.

With the question ‘Christians or Pagans?’, the following two contributions stress the problem of early Baiern’s identity once more. Christian Later explores the question of how religious denominations and Christianity in particular can become apparent in archaeological evidence. He not only deals with the different types of sources but also – based on the cross pins of the Aschheim thermae – offers the theory that those cross pins could constitute a reference to local forms of Christian denomination. The archaeological evidence is hardly conclusive but easily compatible with the conception that Christianity has long been widespread as the official religion in the Roman provinces of Raetia and Noricum Ripense and therefore did not need to be expressed explicitly in burial rituals.

This is Roman Deutinger’s thesis, based on a critical analysis of written sources. He exposes the reports of a Christianization of Baiern not until the 7th and 8th centuries as a master narrative. Its premises are, on one hand, the idea of individual conversions, and on the other hand, the assumption that an ethnic and religious (Pagan) identity of the Baiern already existed before the integration into Christian empires. The latter had already been refuted, but it still needs to be done with the former. In a long Christianized settlement area headed by a Christian duke, in the 6th century the Baiern could not have been pagans anymore. The primary question concerns the quality of their Christianity.

The volume is concluded by four short articles on Regensburg and its hinterland by Silvia Codreanu-Windauer, Arno Rettner, Wolfgang Janka, and Alois Schmid. These contributions originated from a roundtable debate during the conference in Benediktbeuern and discuss the previously approached questions in the specific case of the metropolis Baioariae. Their main emphases lie on the continuity or transformation of the population, the question of the early ‘capital’ of Baiern, and the issue of the transformation of the Roman territorium legionis as a basis of power for the Agilolfing dukes. These short contributions are intended to serve as material for further discussions.

At last, the spelling of the Baiern-name needs to be addressed briefly: The territory of the early Baiern covered in this volume reached far beyond the borders of the modern-day Free State of Bavaria, especially in the east and south, whereas it was bounded on the north by the Danube. To signify this in writing too, the spelling Baiern with <ai> is being used. In linguistics, it correlates with the customary spelling of ‘bairische Sprache’ (Bavarian language), whose geographical distribution in central and southern dialect areas of Bavaria corresponds to the early Baiern more or less. In early medieval sources, Baioaria/Baiovaria was commonly used as the toponym, and the residents were referred to as Baiovarii. Today’s popular spelling Bajuwaren originates in a 19th century misconception of the word Baiuuarii, where <uu> stands for <w> and not for <uw> (Rübekeil). When Ernst von Schwind entitled his edition of the Code of Baiern ‘Lex Baiwariorum’, he did not make this mistake, for which reason his title is given preference to the prevalent ‘Lex Baiuvariorum’ in this volume. Altogether, it seemed desirable to revise a problematic conception of the 19th century and to restore the names of people and territory in accordance to the sources: Baiovarii and Baiovaria.

Notes

  • SZ Nr. 299 vom 24./25/26.12.2004 S. 51.↩︎

  • Carl I. Hammer, From Ducatus to Regnum, 2007, 49.↩︎


Originally published as

Hubert Fehr, Irmtraut Heitmeier, “Ein Vierteljahrhundert später…” in Die Anfänge Bayerns: Von Raetien und Noricum zur frühmittelalterlichen Baiovaria, ed. Hubert Fehr, Irmtraut Heitmeier (St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 2012), 13-20.

Image: SZ Photo
Bavarian Constitutional Assembly at the Main Auditorium (Große Aula) at the University of Munich, 1946

For many of the West German states founded in the wake of World War II, 2016 and 2017 marked the seventieth anniversary of their founding. The degree to which they chose to commemorate these events varied widely: North Rhine-Westphalia organized a grand ceremony attended by Chancellor Angela Merkel and Britain’s Prince William, and Hesse held numerous events commemorating the history of its founding and regional successes, but other states, perhaps regarding seventy years as a rather unorthodox milestone, were more restrained in their celebrations or saw little need to mark the anniversary at all. Schleswig-Holstein, for instance, organized only a small celebration, which was unceremoniously pushed back from the actual anniversary of the state’s founding, August 23, to October so as to coincide with the end of the State Horticultural Show in Eutin.1 The state’s former minister-president, Björn Engholm, thought this was perfectly adequate: “After all, seventy years is no reason to have all the world’s choirs take to the stage,”2 he was reported as saying in the press. However, this attitude also came in for criticism. Wolfgang Kubicki, leader of the FDP faction in the state parliament, complained that in Schleswig-Holstein “celebrations of our own achievements are always given the lowest priority.”3

One striking thing about the commemorations was the marked emphasis on issues that had remarkably little to do with the states’ founding or the crucial groundwork for the future that had been laid seventy years earlier. Most representatives of the states understood the seventy years since their state’s founding primarily as a story of economic success. This was something to which Hesse, for instance, was keen to draw attention, emphasizing that, based on certain economic parameters, it was doing even better than Bavaria or Baden-Württemberg.4 Another commonly mentioned topic was the integration of refugees and displaced persons after 1945, with parallels being drawn to the present-day refugee crisis. For example, Hannelore Kraft, then minister-president of North Rhine-Westphalia, credited the various waves of immigration as a factor behind the “economic strength, … social cohesion, and … cultural diversity”5 that her state now enjoyed, seventy years after its founding.

Clearly, the German states found it difficult to celebrate the history of their own founding and those who had been central in these historical events. They also struggled to establish their own democratic tradition worthy of celebration.

It would appear that the same problem that has long affected the historiography of the Federal Republic of Germany as a whole was being repeated at the level of the states. According to Axel Schildt, there exist five (competing and in some cases contradictory) ways to narrate the history of the Federal Republic: 1) as a history of success, 2) as a history of failure, 3) as a history of modernization, 4) as a “burdened” history [Belastungsgeschichte], and 5) as a history of Westernization.6 Given these divergent interpretations, it is no wonder that “celebrating” has proven difficult. This article will therefore focus specifically on the establishment of statehood in the German states after 1945 and investigate how this history should be classified in light of recent research, so that it can be seen more clearly what exactly there is to “celebrate” seventy years on.

Because the examination and comparison of specific examples results in more detailed understanding of the historical developments, the German states of Bavaria and Rhineland-Palatinate will serve as case studies. The circumstances and general conditions surrounding the foundation of these two states varied in ways that allow for a productive juxtaposition. For reasons of space, however, this comparison of the two states’ early years focuses on three key aspects: a) the establishment of statehood and democracy, b) economic reconstruction, and c) efforts to address the burden of the National Socialist past.

I.

To properly assess the establishment of statehood and democracy in Germany after 1945, it is necessary to consider the background against which it took place, for—in the words of political scientist Hans-Peter Schwarz—our recent history is “only fully comprehensible … if one attempts … to understand it from the perspective of catastrophe, as a response to the physical, political, economic, and moral chaos out of which West German society emerged.”7 This background cannot be described as anything less than a total catastrophe of previously unimaginable scope. Allied-occupied Germany was in a state of complete collapse, without any state structures: many of the Third Reich’s political leaders had eluded responsibility for their crimes by fleeing the country or taking their own lives. Until literally the last minute, they had continued to issue senseless orders to keep on fighting and dying, thereby adding to the tally of their crimes and driving the German state as a whole into utter ruin. National Socialism had long eroded regional political identities, as the case of Bavaria illustrates especially clearly. Although there had still been a state by the name of “Bavaria” and a Bavarian minister-president, Ludwig Siebert, during the Third Reich, Siebert governed Bavaria as little more than a puppet of the National Socialist regime, overseen by a Reichsstatthalter (Reich governor). After he was succeeded by Gauleiter Paul Giesler in 1942, the last remnants of Bavarian sovereignty disappeared completely, since Giesler for all intents and purposes ceased to exercise the office.8 His counterpart in the Palatinate region, Josef Bürckel, proceeded in a similar manner, attempting to loosen the ties between the Palatinate and Bavaria so he could build up a realm along the French border in which he could exercise unlimited power.9

The dissolution of state structures was accompanied by the wholesale destruction of infrastructure and industry by the Allied air campaign and the combat operations in the final weeks of the war. While rural areas were spared the worst destruction, urban areas in Bavaria were devastated: around 33 percent of Munich and 51 percent of Nuremberg were destroyed, and the latter’s population after the war was less than half of what it had been before. On March 16, 1945, three weeks before the city was occupied by American forces, 75 percent of Würzburg was destroyed by an aerial bombardment that left 90 percent of homes in ashes and killed almost five thousand people.10

Matters were similar—or even worse—in the areas that were incorporated into the state of Rhineland-Palatinate in 1947. This was where, even as the war was in its final stages, the utterly senseless Ardennes Counteroffensive had been launched, resulting in high casualties and destruction on a massive scale. Ninety thousand soldiers perished on the German side alone in this insanity. The BASF chemical plant complex in Ludwigshafen, the region’s only major industrial site, was subjected to sixty-five aerial attacks with a combined total of some forty thousand bombs: these attacks completely destroyed one-third of the complex and damaged the remaining two-thirds so badly that no further production was possible. Moreover, after the war the company was sequestered by the French military administration, meaning its future was completely uncertain. All the bridges over the Rhine and twenty of the twenty-one bridges over the Mosel had been destroyed.11

On top of the destruction of the economic infrastructure, a global food crisis that was particularly acute between 1946 and 1948 meant the Allies were not always able to provide the Germans with sufficient food. The crisis hit the French occupation zone, in which the region that became Rhineland-Palatinate was located, harder than the American zone, in which Bavaria was located, because the weakest member of the anti-Hitler coalition did not even have enough food for its own population. Thus, there were protests over food shortages both in Ludwigshafen in the Palatinate and over the border in Lyon.12

Alongside the collapse of the state, the wholesale economic ruin, and the devastated livelihoods of many, Germans were also faced with the moral guilt their nation had brought upon itself. Before long, there could be no doubt in any honest person’s mind about the terrible toll of the war, with previously unimaginable war crimes and the murder of six million Jews and many other groups of victims now coming to light. People at the time had no idea how the victors would deal with a nation that had committed such crimes, or how, in the face of this guilt, a new German statehood, however constituted, could even be contemplated.13

It would be hard to overstate the bleakness of the situation. Even if we bear in mind only these few, by no means exhaustively described aspects, it is astonishing that there was anybody at all willing to take over from the Allied authorities and accept responsibility for the unenviable task of making a new start. It could hardly have been the prospect of success, fame, material reward, or even simply gratitude that motivated them—from the perspective of 1945/46, there was scant hope of any of these things.

II.

It is striking that the re-establishment of statehood in Germany in the years that followed, culminating in the founding of the Federal Republic of Germany in 1949, came from the bottom up out of the individual occupation zones, under the oversight of the Allied military commanders. This is especially clear in the case of Rhineland-Palatinate, where Ordinance No. 57 decreed the founding of a “Rhenish-Palatinate [Rheinpfälzisches Land]” on August 30, 1946. Following elections for the Gemeinderat (municipal council, September 15, 1946) and Kreisversammlung (district assembly, October 13, 1946), an advisory state constituent assembly was formed out of these two bodies (elected on November 17, 1946). The constituent assembly drafted a constitution, which was put to a referendum on May 18, 1947.14 In Bavaria, the state constituent assembly was directly elected on June 30, 1946, following local and municipal elections in the first half of the year. The assembly approved the draft version of the constitution on October 26, 1946, and it was subsequently accepted by 71 percent of Bavarian voters in the parliamentary elections on December 1, 1946. Although both constitutions were produced under Allied oversight, they were based on preliminary work carried out long before, which could now finally be put to use. Wilhelm Hoegner in Bavaria and Adolf Süsterhenn in Rhineland-Palatinate are thus rightly considered these states’ respective “constitutional fathers.”15

The new Rhineland-Palatinate constitution did not enjoy the same relatively widespread acceptance as its Bavarian counterpart, winning the referendum by a narrow margin of 53 percent. This slim majority was only secured thanks to strong support in the predominantly Catholic districts of Koblenz and Trier. In Rheinhessen and the Palatinate, a majority of voters actually rejected the constitution: not because they were fundamentally opposed to democracy, but rather due, firstly, to doubts about whether the artificial construct of Rhineland-Palatinate could possibly have a future and, secondly, to a dispute over a reform to the school system that was also on the ballot; whereas the newly founded CDU wanted to reintroduce denominational schools, even in areas where they had been abolished prior to 1933, the SPD, FDP, and Communist Party favored interdenominational schools, and ultimately rejected the whole constitution.16

All the same, the constitutions of both states have survived down to the present day without any fundamental changes. One need look no further than the preambles to register a fundamental rejection of the recently fallen National Socialist dictatorship and a passionate commitment to erecting in its place a new, democratic state governed by rule of law—a commitment that did not need to be compelled by the victorious powers.17

“In the face of the scene of devastation into which the survivors of the 2nd World War were led by a godless state and social order which lacked any conscience and respect for human dignity”—so begins the preamble to the new Bavarian constitution—“the Bavarian people herewith bestows upon itself the following Democratic Constitution.”18 Thus, the very first words of the document make a conscious break with the past and express respect for human dignity. In line with these aims, the second part of the constitution is devoted to civil liberties. Very generally, the Bavarian constitution of 1946 is marked by its desire to help forge a Bavarian identity—a desire that it was at least partially successful in realizing. This is why, in a rhetorical move unusual in a constitution, the document refers to Bavaria’s long history and its population’s common roots in an attempt to unite Bavarians behind the nascent democracy. The constitution thus drew on historical tradition and Bavarian identity in the service of establishing a democratic order. How could the fundamental new start down a democratic path have been formulated any more clearly?19

The new, patched-together state of Rhineland-Palatinate had no such traditions and territorial continuities to which its constitution could refer, which may be one reason why the preamble refers to God at great length than any other German state constitution. The document’s opening phrase—“Conscious of their responsibility before God, the source of right and creator of all human community”—elevates its status above that of a merely human contract. Its stated aims are “to secure the freedom and dignity of man, to regulate community life according to the principle of social justice, to promote economic progress for all people, and to form a new democratic Germany as an active member of the community of nations.”20 Part one of the constitution then sets out the fundamental rights and freedoms of the people of Rhineland-Palatinate, which are justified on the basis of natural law.21

All the work that went into establishing these new principles of statehood within Germany clearly proved fruitful, as evidenced by how long the constitutions have endured. In Axel Schildt’s terms, we thus appear to have here a remarkable history of success—even if such a history may nowadays strike us as “boring” and arouse the suspicion that a kind of simplistic, apologetic foundational myth is being handed down.22 This suspicion can be countered by incorporating aspects of what Schildt terms the “history of failure.”23 In the worldviews of both Bavaria’s and Rhineland-Palatinate’s constitutional fathers, there were elements that appear strange and contradictory when viewed through the lens of our modern, developed conception of democracy, and which seem to suggest the existence of a “restorative” mood in the founding years.

One commonly cited example in this context is the draft of a law to “defend the Bavarian state” that was penned by the social democrat Wilhelm Hoegner, Bavarian minister-president and constitutional father. The proposed law, modeled on the Law for the Defense of the Republic from 1922, would have allowed preemptive indefinite detention of people without occupations, restrictions on freedom of expression, and many other measures in the event of a threat to the Bavarian state. Attempting to intimidate the Bavarian minister-president or any other minister or to prevent them from exercising their authority would have become punishable by death or life imprisonment. The American military government was swift to block any such proposals, which was a definite help in attaining the goal of democracy.24 The father of Rhineland-Palatinate’s constitution, Adolf Süsterhenn, also held some misguided views incompatible with a democratically constituted society: In 1952, he attempted to have the film Die Sünderin banned in Rhineland-Palatinate because he considered it immoral. Later, in the mid-1960s, he called for changes to article 5, paragraph 3 of German Basic Law, which declares that “art and scholarship, research, and teaching shall be free.”25 Süsterhenn wanted to confine this freedom to the bounds of the “general moral order” so as to ensure “decency in German cultural life.”26 This proposal did not win majority support in parliament.

It would be wrong, however, to allow these misguided views to discredit these men in general or suggest a weakness in the political systems they helped to create. Hoegner’s aim, against the backdrop of the experience of National Socialism, was to protect the new democratic order by all available means. He did not want to see German democracy threatened a second time and did all he could to protect it—including attempting to have three defendants who had been acquitted at the Nuremberg trials, Franz von Papen, Hjalmar Schacht, and Hans Fritzsche, rearrested by the Bavarian police.27 Süsterhenn’s ideas, meanwhile, were rooted in the ideological concept of a “Christian Occident” [christliches Abendland]; proponents of this notion—quite popular in the wake of the Second World War and National Socialism—sought to initiate a spiritual and moral revival based on Christian tradition. It was committed to reconciliation between peoples and rejected all nationalism and chauvinism.28

This fact alone suggests that, from a regional perspective, the history of the founding of the German states may perhaps not be adequately classified as what Schildt calls a “history of Westernization” in his list of five possible historical narratives for postwar Germany.29 Despite the occasional misguided step, the founding fathers of these German states made a genuine and constructive contribution to democratic development in their own right; this development cannot be attributed solely to the influence of the occupying powers.

It would be entirely mistaken to take such opinions to mean that the founding fathers’ ultimate goal was authoritarianism or even “renazification.” Hoegner was one of the National Socialists’ fiercest opponents during the Weimar period and later fled to Switzerland to escape the Gestapo. During his exile, he was influenced by Swiss direct democracy.30 Süsterhenn also became an opponent of the Nazis, serving as a lawyer to persecuted individuals in the courts of the Third Reich.31 Many of those who now assumed positions of responsibility had similar biographies. In Bavaria, the old elites were comprehensively ousted at the level of local governments. Around a third of representatives in the first Bavarian Landtag had been imprisoned or interred in concentration camps during the Nazi period,32 and recent studies of the political backgrounds of Landtag representatives overwhelmingly refute the thesis of renazification within the two states under consideration here. Of the 559 members of the Rhineland-Palatinate advisory state assembly of 1946 and the Landtag from 1947 to 1987, only 15 percent were former members of the NSDAP, of whom the vast majority had demonstrably not been actively involved in the party’s work.33 On the other hand, among the sixty-eight members of that initial advisory state assembly, fifteen members had lost their jobs during the Nazi period for political reasons, twenty-five had been detained as political prisoners, and six had been forced into exile.34 However, these figures are not representative of all the German states; in Schleswig-Holstein, over 50 percent of those serving in the Landtag between 1954 and 1967 were former NSDAP members, and the proportion of parliamentarians who had faced persecution by the Nazi regime dropped off dramatically after 1947.35 The figure for Hesse lies somewhere in between, with a total of ninety-two former NSDAP members out of 403 Landtag representatives in the postwar period or 22.8 percent.36 The situation in Lower Saxony was similar, with 27 percent of state parliamentarians between 1946 and 1994 having been NSDAP members prior to the end of the war.37

Schildt’s “history of failure,” which is based largely on the charge that the founding years of the Federal Republic had a “restorative” character, thus becomes relativized when differences between the individual German states are taken into account. Elements of this history are also captured in Christoph Kleßmann’s notion of “modernization under conservative auspices.”38 For despite all the “retarding” or retrogressive aspects, the social dynamism unleashed by the new statehood was so great that it ultimately resulted in a pluralist democracy—a remarkable turn of events, and one worthy of commemoration.

III.

In depicting the early years of the Federal Republic and the individual German states as a “history of modernization,” there is no doubt a risk of “nostalgic retrospectives on the heroic phase of reconstruction” that can easily be mistaken for the “apologetic” variant of the history of success.39 But this should not lead us to overlook the enormous accomplishments by the architects of the country’s reconstruction, despite the occasional misstep or failure.

Their first, overriding priority was to ensure that the population was fed and housed (many people did not even have a roof over their heads) and to rebuild essential economic infrastructure. The now-published minutes of the early meetings of Bavaria’s and Rhineland-Palatinate’s councils of ministers vividly illustrate the highly practical nature of the issues that politicians had to grapple with in this period, such as the supply of coal or the potato harvest—topics that could sometimes provoke intense debate. If we fully acknowledge what the business of reconstruction involved in practice—working day and night, dealing with everything from the small necessities of life to major economic problems, rebuilding out of virtually nothing—it cannot help but command astonishment and respect even today.40 As Anton Pfeiffer, state secretary at the Bavarian State Chancellery, summed up the prevailing situation in summer 1945: “The situation is more or less like that after the Thirty Years’ War. If we lose these chances now, people in Bavaria will have to bear it for centuries. There are tremendous opportunities to shape the future.”41

The very different starting conditions and options open to the states in 1945 is once again evident in a comparison. Rhineland-Palatinate, founded in 1947, was pieced together from former border regions that had historically been economically weak, and was administered by France, which, due to its own economic problems, was not only unable to provide economic assistance, but intended to use the occupation zone to bolster its own reconstruction, and hence was planning to dismantle the state’s already minimal industrial capability. Moreover, Rhineland-Palatinate had suffered heavy damage to infrastructure even in rural regions, necessitating extensive rebuilding.42

In Bavaria, the overall situation was more favorable. Although it had some of the same problems as Rhineland-Palatinate—a large number of traditionally agricultural regions that represented economic problem zones, mass devastation from the war, the threat of destruction of industrial capability—research by Stefan Grüner found that more industrial assets remained intact and that the American military administration was better able to provide assistance.43 However, Bavaria had to deal with the mass influx of over 1.9 million refugees, since for a long time the French simply refused to allow them into their zone. Refugees and displaced persons were only admitted into Rhineland-Palatinate in the early 1950s following protracted negotiations over how to share the burden more equally between the zones. Despite the far lower numbers involved, in Rhineland-Palatinate, too, feeding and housing the new arrivals posed an enormous challenge.44 Immigration had a substantial impact on Bavaria’s demographic structure, especially the arrival of Sudeten Germans, who were soon dubbed the fourth Bavarian tribe and made up well over 20 percent of Bavaria’s population by 1949. Like the evacuees who were sent to live in the Bavarian countryside (the “air raid shelter of the Reich,” as it came to be known) during the war, the refugees were also mostly placed in smaller towns and villages, drastically altering the existing social structures. This fostered hostility toward these fellow German citizens, who had lost everything, and led to the founding of parties and groups opposed to accepting refugees. This was, to be sure, a dark chapter in the history of postwar reconstruction,45 particularly given that the refugees ultimately (albeit a few years down the line) proved to be a boon to Bavaria’s economic growth and helped bring about positive changes in their host society. The Bavarian Refugee Act of 1947 and the churches’ pastoral care for displaced persons played a key role, as did initiatives by the refugees themselves and a broad spectrum of cultural policy measures. The result was that, by the 1950s, the first signs of successful integration were already in evidence.46

The question of how a successful new start was possible in the face of this dire economic situation has been better researched in relation to Bavaria than Rhineland-Palatinate. What politicians were able to do in the structurally weak Rhineland-Palatinate, which had practically no large-scale industry other than the chemical plants in Ludwigshafen, was to pass laws designed to stimulate the economy, to actively seek economic assistance from external sources such as the federal government and the Marshall Plan, and—above all—to rebuild the transportation infrastructure, which was essential for recovery. A lot of money went into rebuilding the dominant agricultural sector. This included investment in wine production: the new state contained around 70 percent of Germany’s vineyards, but vast sums of state aid were needed to make the wine crops phylloxera-resistant before the opportunities this offered could be harnessed. Rhineland-Palatinate probably pumped too much money into agriculture at first without taking advantage of the (albeit limited) opportunities to catch up in terms of industrialization. This was due in part to the state’s financial weakness: in the early 1950s, it struggled to provide a mere 58 million Deutschmarks [DM] in economic assistance. Moreover, NATO’s defense strategy saw eight new airbases being created in the region on the left bank of the Rhine, transforming it (in the words of Minister-President Bernhard Vogel) into “NATO’s aircraft carrier.” Although this helped in the economically weak areas, it prevented modern industries from becoming established in the region and meant that, when the NATO forces withdrew after 1990, the old problems returned. Solving these problems requires a process of structural transformation that is still ongoing to this day.47

Things developed very differently in Bavaria, which also started out with a dominant agricultural sector and economically weaker border regions to the east. Despite all the political debates about whether or not the state should intervene in the economy, the first structural funding measures began in 1946/47, and in the early 1950s, Bavaria became the first state after North Rhine-Westphalia to introduce a state development plan. Bavaria’s selling points were its business-friendly labor laws, cheap commercial building land, and prestigious, long-established educational institutions. There was also a huge housebuilding program, with 350,000 new homes constructed between 1950 and 1954. The amount of state assistance on offer was in an entirely different league than Rhineland-Palatinate: by 1954, Bavaria had issued DM 700 million of indemnity bonds, for example to support the founding of new companies that were low on capital. Further assistance was available from the Bavarian State Institute for Development Financing (LfA), which was given DM 40 million of initial capital by the state.48 There was also investment in research, despite Bavaria being branded at the time as a not very research-friendly state: the Fraunhofer Society, founded in 1949, soon shook off its reputation as a product of Bavarian exceptionalism and established a respected place for itself in the German research landscape—something that also benefited the Bavarian economy. Later, the “Rucker Plan,” a program launched by Wilhelm Hoegner to promote research in Bavaria in 1956, helped to revolutionize the state’s research sector.49

With its strategy to modernize industry, Bavaria avoided the mistakes made in other German regions. In particular, the state made attractive offers to industries fleeing the Soviet occupation zone and former German territories, and became home to modern, large-scale industries with promising future prospects: for example, Auto Union/Audi relocated to Ingolstadt in 1949.50 Schott, the glassmaking company from Jena in East Germany, was one of the rare cases where Rhineland-Palatinate managed to hold its own in the face of competition from Bavaria, with the company choosing Mainz as the site for its new West German headquarters, which opened in 1952.51

In summary: although by the mid-1950s Bavaria was still below average national GDP per capita,52 its economy was gradually recovering. Rhineland-Palatinate’s recovery was slower, not taking off until the early 1960s, when it was able to take advantage of opportunities opened up by the EEC. Relative to the point they started out from, both cases—each with its own peculiarities and limitations—represent remarkable histories of success and modernization, the crucial foundations for which were laid down during the period under consideration here.53 Why this should not have been commemorated in the anniversary celebrations is unclear.

IV.

It is sometimes argued that this unparalleled growth in prosperity was accompanied by collective amnesia and suppression of the Germans’ guilt for the crimes of the Nazi era, resulting in what Ralph Giordano provocatively termed a “second guilt”;54 this (disputed) claim lies at the heart of accounts that present the founding of the Federal Republic and/or the individual states as a “burdened history.”55 It is not hard to find evidence of such suppression at the state level, either: at a meeting of Rhineland-Palatinate’s advisory state assembly in Koblenz on December 6, 1946, Peter Altmeier (later minister-president) offered up an idiosyncratic interpretation of history that went on to enjoy great popularity in the state: “The political emphasis and the leading cultural center of future German state life must lie here on the Rhine, where the nationalistic and centralistic authoritarian state thinking never could take root, where militarism never had a home, [where] on the contrary—during the Nazi era as well—democratic, federalistic and peace-loving thinking always remained alive.”56 Although these words were clearly pandering to the political views of the French military administration, and were intended to somehow bring unity to the disparate state of Rhineland-Palatinate, it is difficult to read them without a sense of incredulity.

Turning now to an example from Bavaria: at a Dachau Symposium in 2013, Sybille Steinbacher57 described the difficulties survivors of the Dachau concentration camp encountered when trying to build new lives after liberation. Some sections of the population united against them, taking the side of those who had perpetrated the crimes in Dachau and Landsberg.58 Steinbacher’s findings form part of a vast body of research showing that the Germans failed for decades to adequately confront their guilt, that German politicians and judges were too reluctant to punish the crimes of the Nazi era, and that German society was prevented from coming to terms with its past by a host of myths and legends that only gradually dissipated.

A finer-grained examination of the histories and local situations of individual German states, however, brings the mechanisms and determinants of this development into sharper relief and helps to prevent overhasty generalizations of the historical findings.

For example, a study by Edith Raim, based on an extensive analysis of thousands of German judicial proceedings against Nazi criminals, begins by noting the many different things that had to be done all at once and under the most difficult of conditions in the first ten years or so after 1945: the international war crimes tribunal took place in Nuremberg; other military tribunals and German courts also heard cases concerning Nazi war crimes; the entire population was subjected to an unprecedented political screening program known as “denazification”; reparations had to be made for damage inflicted in other countries; and compensation and restitution had to be arranged for victims. One American observer described it as the “largest judicial enterprise recorded in the history of mankind.”59

If we focus our attention on the punishment of Nazi crimes, the surviving case files give an idea of the scale of the task that had to be accomplished: in Bavaria, for example, a total of 4,932 proceedings were instituted over the course of the years, while 2,374 such cases were brought in Rhineland-Palatinate. North Rhine-Westphalia bore the heaviest brunt, with 8,674 proceedings.60 Ultimately, judges handed down sentences against some 30,000 Nazi perpetrators. To take a specific example, the Würzburg district attorney’s office instituted 218 proceedings in the period that we are interested in here, 1945–1949. By no means did all of these proceedings result in the defendants’ prosecution, but some did end with severe punishments. In 1953, for instance, a Rapportführer [report leader] from the Groß-Rosen concentration camp was sentenced to life imprisonment.61 According to Raim’s research, never again were so many proceedings initiated against Nazi perpetrators than during this period from 1945 to 1950. She believes these public trials also had great educational value, since they gave people a concrete, up-close insight into the full reprehensibility of the National Socialist regime. She concludes: “One cannot help but respect the Justice Administration for its efforts to combat forgetfulness and seek justice despite the prevailing hardship of the early postwar years.”62

The major war crimes trials conducted by the Allies—in Bavaria most notably, of course, the Nuremberg trials, though there were also other trials held before American military tribunals—are now widely regarded, after years of research, as a key milestone in the history of bringing those complicit in the crimes of dictatorial regimes to justice; these trials have served as a reference point for all subsequent attempts to undertake similar proceedings in other countries.63 To give one example, Eugen Kogon described the Nuremberg trials as “a crucial step in world history toward using justice to tame violence.”64

Comparable, though far less well-known, trials also took place in Rhineland-Palatinate, namely, the Rastatt war crimes trials, which were conducted by the French military administration and resulted in several death penalties.65 Following these trials and the manhunts for German war criminals carried out by the French authorities in Germany and France, several hundred prisoners had to serve time at the war criminal prison in Wittlich, Rhineland-Palatinate—perpetrators who have long disappeared from public consciousness, but should nonetheless be included in a full account of efforts to address the crimes of the Nazi era.66

Recent regional and local studies have likewise resulted in a more nuanced assessment of the process of denazification. Instead of simply being sweepingly disparaged as a Mitläuferfabrik (a factory turning perpetrators into “fellow travelers”), more attention is now given to the individual phases of denazification and the problems that led to an unsatisfactory overall result. In Rhineland-Palatinate, for example, the first stage of denazification—the “Auto-Épuration” of 1945/46, overseen by the French with German involvement—was anything but lenient; while it did achieve remarkable results, it quickly became politically controversial. It was only when the French proceedings were replaced by the American Spruchkammer tribunals that political guilt began to be squeezed into overly rigid categories, resulting in the well-known homogenizing effect.67 As regards Bavaria, meanwhile, a recent study on denazification in Nuremberg, the city of the Nazi rallies, refutes any suggestion that the old Nazi elites were let off lightly there; instead, surviving Nazi leaders were rigorously brought to account for their crimes.68 This contrasts with research on Augsburg, where this was found at least in some instances not to be the case.69

The intensely debated topic of reparations (Wiedergutmachung, lit. “making good” [e.g., an injustice]) for the crimes of the National Socialists has also been analyzed with specific reference to Bavaria. On the one hand, the analysis confirms the much-discussed weaknesses of the process, which required victims to provide an unreasonable level of proof of the injustices done to them; this study found greater reluctance in Bavaria to pay reparations than in other states, such as Hesse. On the other hand, it also showed that Bavaria did undertake substantial efforts to make reparation right from an early stage: for example, by October 1945, a state commission for the care of Jewish people had already been set up under the auspices of the Bavarian Ministry of the Interior. Intended to alleviate the pressing everyday hardship of the victims of persecution, this commission provided some three million Reichsmarks of immediate aid in the first three months of 1946. As ambivalent and unsatisfactory for many victims as the overall result was, the reparation process did make those whom persecution had deprived of rights into “legitimate claimants,” and “changed the present” for all parties by addressing the injustices of the recent past.70

Another key aspect of addressing this legacy was public, societal confrontation with the National Socialist era. The Institute of Contemporary History (IFZ) played a key role here. The institute, which was given its present name in 1952, was founded in Munich in 1949 with the task of studying the National Socialist period. By actively supporting and funding the institute, “Bavaria proved to be a driving force in critical engagement with the National Socialist dictatorship,”71 according to Edgar Wolfrum. Informed by their own painful experiences in the Dachau concentration camp, Bavarian CSU politicians such as Alois Hundhammer championed a rigorously anti-totalitarian attitude in the political sphere too, and in the 1950s were early proponents of plans for a Dachau memorial.72

Although there was no institution comparable to the IFZ in Rhineland-Palatinate, the Johannes Gutenberg University Mainz—a “reform” university founded by the French military administration in 1946—was able to at least partially fill the gap with its broad-ranging studium generale (“general studies”; the s.g. typically takes the form of a series of interdisciplinary talks around a particular theme open to all students and the general public). Very early on, the university hosted well-attended discussion evenings run by Karl Holzamer (later director general of the television station ZDF), featuring guests such as the émigré Carl Zuckmayer, which compensated to some extent for lack of institutions of political education.73

None of this amounted to a process of confronting the legacy of the past of the scale and quality we are familiar with today—but it did provide an important impetus with lasting effects. It shows that the early years were not yet marked by the general mentality of suppression that Hermann Lübbe called “collective silence”74—a term others have challenged—and that there were at least some efforts to face up to the legacy of the National Socialist era.

Politically, probably the most critical issue for this process of coming to terms with the past was whether it would be possible to win over German society as a whole, and the many individual citizens with varying degrees of complicity in the Nazi crimes, to the new democratic and political system. Scholars of contemporary regional history have largely neglected the question of how this was achieved among the old, mainly Protestant, national conservative elites, whose political views were especially problematic. As the example of the pharmaceutical entrepreneur Dr. Ernst Boehringer from Rhineland-Palatinate shows, this process could take over a decade. A staunch national conservative and militarist, after 1945 Boehringer continued to cleave to the ideas of a group of like-minded national conservatives whose attitude toward German guilt was at the very least problematic or ambivalent. Its members included men such as the authors Ernst Jünger and Gerhard Nebel, the philosopher Martin Heidegger, and the later NATO general Hans Speidel. However, between 1945 and 1955, Boehringer became an increasingly ardent supporter of the new German state, of the CDU (the governing party both in Rhineland-Palatinate and at federal level), and the policy of reconciliation with France, as practiced at the regional level by Minister-President Peter Altmeier and at the national level in the economic policies of Ludwig Erhard. In the last ten years before his death in 1965, Boehringer even became a committed advocate for the cause of greater international understanding. This would not have been possible without the foundations laid down in the preceding years by the founding fathers and mothers of the German states and the confrontation with the past their efforts enabled.75

VI.

Taken together, these findings from recent research about the end of the war and the years that followed make clear that the establishment of a new concept of statehood and democracy that emerged out of the founding of the German states is no cause for unqualified jubilation. Neither the post-1945 history of the individual states nor that of Germany as a whole is a simple, linear success story. Forward steps and new democratic beginnings were often counteracted and reversed by retrogressive developments, before the pendulum swung back once again toward progress.

The history of the founding of the German states can therefore probably be best described as a “history of development”: a history with numerous regional and sectoral differences, a history that it is as crucial to scrutinize as it is to commemorate, so as to avoid descending into apologetics. That the states are where they are today is, in any case, not a product of mere chance, but rather of the foundations that were laid down in the postwar years. Hence, alongside the various defects, we can also highlight the considerable achievements of this experiment (whose success was anything but assured back in 1946/47) and commemorate them at anniversary celebrations—for doing so will help us to build what Thomas Hertfelder called a “republican legitimacy sui generis76 that is capable of counteracting an overwhelmingly negative, antidemocratic populism.

Notes

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Originally published as

Michael Kißener: “Zukunft in der Katastrophe. Die deutschen Länder nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg” in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte (2016), 625-647.

Image: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)
Detail from Map of Alois von Coulon, Carl Schleich, Johann Baptist Seitz, Post-Karte von Baiern, (Munich, 1810)

By the end of 1813, Napoleon’s Grand Empire had collapsed in central Europe and, apart from a few isolated garrisons, French forces had withdrawn from all the territories east of the Rhine. With their coordinated military operations, the alliance between Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Britain had achieved its goal. Most recently, a series of uprisings had forced the French to withdraw from the territory of the Netherlands and present-day Belgium, which Napoleon had annexed in 1810. In Italy, Viceroy Eugène Beauharnais was struggling to hold his position on the Adige River; meanwhile, the Austrians had already regained control of the region to the east, Veneto, and the British field marshal, Lord Wellington, had retaken the Iberian Peninsula and advanced deep into southern France.

Significant differences emerged among the allies over whether to continue the offensive. Klemens von Metternich, Austria’s leading statesman, was willing to recognize the Rhine and the Alps as France’s “natural borders.” Tsar Alexander I of Russia, by contrast, pushed for an invasion of France, arguing that a lasting peace could only be agreed upon in Paris, and only with someone other than Napoleon. The British cabinet in London, primarily concerned with the fate of the Netherlands, was wary of offering overly generous concessions to the defeated French emperor and took the unusual step of dispatching the foreign secretary, Lord Castlereagh, to the continent.1

As 1813 drew to a close, the allied powers resolved to continue the military campaign, and Karl Philipp of Schwarzenberg’s and Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher’s armies marched into France, experiencing a series of victories and defeats in the early months of 1814. Meanwhile, Napoleon rebuffed all diplomatic overtures. When Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Britain signed the Treaty of Chaumont on March 9, 1814, Castlereagh was one step closer to achieving his great ambition of turning the wartime coalition into a “quadruple alliance” for peace. The terms of the treaty were utterly unprecedented in the diplomacy of the day: a twenty-year military alliance, a coordinated continuation of the war until Napoleon’s defeat, and jointly conducted peace negotiations. The intention, in Castlereagh’s words, was “not only to procure, but to preserve peace.2 The allied forces renewed their westward push and captured Paris on March 31, 1814; having lost the support of his marshals, Napoleon subsequently abdicated on April 6. Two weeks later, on April 23, the four allied powers—now joined by Portugal—signed an armistice with France, represented by the new French foreign minister, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand, acting on behalf of Louis XVIII, who had been restored to the throne.

Austria’s War in Italy, 1813/14

The implosion of Napoleon’s Grand Empire in the second half of 1813 and his retreat to France left central Europe to the north and south of the Alps in a “limbo of unresolved questions.”3 The territories from which Napoleon’s troops had withdrawn found themselves facing very different fates. The governor of the Russian tsar asserted claims to Poland by right of military conquest, and the representative of the Austrian emperor laid claim to northern Italy for similar reasons. Meanwhile, the German territories recovered from the French were, except where the allies acknowledged their ruler, placed under the control of a provisional central administration for the transition period, which had been set up in 1813 under the leadership of Baron vom Stein on behalf of the alliance.4 Matters were different yet again in those south German members of the Confederation of the Rhine that had voluntarily switched to the side of the anti-French coalition; Bavaria led the way with the Treaty of Ried (October 8, 1813).

On both sides of the Alps, the decisive factor in the potential new state order was the political interests of the Austrian Empire. At the same time that the far better-known battles of the “Wars of Liberation” were taking place in in Saxony and along the Main River, Austrian forces were independently (with only occasional support from the British) waging war against the Italian viceroy Eugène, Napoleon’s stepson and general.

Vienna had never taken its eyes off the Duchy of Milan, an economically important territory that Austria had acquired in 1713 but been forced to cede to Napoleon’s Cisalpine Republic in 1797; the empire had likewise ruled the regions of Veneto, Istria, and Dalmatia from 1797 to 1805 before losing them to the Napoleonic Kingdom of Italy. The Austrians’ military victories against Eugène, a celebrated general, in 1813 and 1814 allowed them to secure control of northern Italy, paving the way for the proclamation of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia in April 1815.

Italy was high on the political agenda of Emperor Francis I of Austria and his leading minister, Metternich. Metternich’s first “vision of a rebuilt Europe in a state of peace,” which he devised in May 1813 as Austria was tentatively drawing closer to the anti-Napoleon coalition, called for the restitution of the Papal States and for Austria to be given the region of Veneto to the east of the Adige.5 At the talks with Napoleon in February 1814, Metternich called for the restoration of Italy’s independent states (états indépendans).6

After prolonged hesitation, a phase of neutrality, and several attempts at mediation, the Habsburg Empire finally sided with Russia and Prussia in mid-August 1813 and declared war on France. The largest of the alliance’s three armies, the Army of Bohemia, with just under 240,000 troops under Schwarzenberg’s command, set off towards Dresden to the north, where an inconclusive engagement ensued in late August.7

At the same time, the far smaller Army of Inner Austria, an all-Austrian force of 50,000 men under the command of General Johann von Hiller, began operations against Viceroy Eugène along the border between Carinthia, Carniola, and Friuli. By mid-October 1813, when the Battle of the Nations was fought at Leipzig, the viceroy had been forced to abandon Illyria, Friuli, and eastern Veneto (apart from a few fortresses and the city of Venice) and withdraw his French–Italian troops beyond the Tagliamento.8

The Austrians now attempted to come at their enemies from behind through the Adige and Eisack valleys, a plan that required control of the road through the Puster valley, over which the Austrian lieutenant field marshal Franz Philipp Fenner von Fenneberg and Italian general Alessandro Gifflenga fought in October. This military situation explains Metternich’s interest in quickly concluding the Treaty of Ried with Bavaria; the seventh secret article of that document allowed the Austrians to conduct military operations in Tyrol.9 Austria could thus move troops and supplies through Bavarian territory in the Inn valley without disruption, and from there south via the Brenner Pass, even before a decision had been made about returning Tyrol to Austria. Moreover, the troops stationed in Upper Austria to defend against Bavaria—around 25,000 men under the command of the general Prince Heinrich XV of Reuss-Plauen—could now be redeployed to reinforce the Army of Inner Austria. Emperor Francis appointed Reuss military governor of all conquered territories in Italy.10

By the end of October, Hiller’s Austrian troops had passed through the Puster valley and occupied the cities of Bolzano and Trento. To circumvent Gifflenga’s blockade of the Chiusa di Verona, he advanced toward Vicenza via the Sugana valley, forcing Eugène to beat a rapid retreat to the west bank of the Adige, where he set up headquarters in Verona. The viceroy now found his position threatened from the south as well, for the Austrians, supported by the British Navy, had landed on the Adriatic coast and taken control of Ferrara.

In early 1814, as the allied forces were marching into France, the new commander-in-chief of the Austrian army in Italy, Field Marshal Heinrich von Bellegarde, initiated negotiations with King Joachim Murat of Naples. Bellegarde, who now had 55,000 men at his disposal, did not want to attack Eugène’s position on the Adige without the support of Murat, whose army controlled the areas south of the Po. In a treaty of alliance signed on January 11, 1814, the king pledged to send 30,000 men into battle against Eugène. He launched his first offensive near Ancona in mid-February.

Thereupon, Eugène withdrew from Verona, the southern Alpine passes, and the line of the Adige to a position on the far side of the Mincio, between Lake Garda and Mantua. Neither side advanced significantly at the Battle of the Mincio River on February 8. Clashes with Murat along the Po continued, and Eugène’s position came under a new threat when British troops under Lord William Bentinck landed in Tuscany in early March 1814 and occupied the Ligurian coast up to Genoa.

Eugène’s position in Italy finally became unsustainable with Napoleon’s abdication on April 13, 1814; the viceroy and Bellegarde formally ended armed conflict in Italy with the conventions of Schiarino-Rizzino and Mantua (on April 16 and 23, respectively). The whole of Lombardy (up to the old border along the Ticino) came under Austrian control, and the remaining French and Italian garrisons were ordered to surrender. Hostilities ceased and the French troops withdrew to the west. In the face of mass unrest in Milan, Eugène declared his abdication on April 26 and left Verona with his wife Augusta and two-week-old daughter Théodelinde. Accompanied by an Austrian escort, they set out for the court of Eugène’s Bavarian stepfather, King Maximilian I Joseph in Munich.11

Just as the Russian tsar now controlled most of Poland, the Austrian emperor, thanks to the conquests by his troops, had taken control of the region north of the Po, from the Adriatic to the Ticino (between Lake Maggiore and Pavia), which marked the border with Sardinia-Piedmont. This was the region granted to the Habsburg Empire in the second secret article of the First Peace of Paris of May 30, 1814: “Les possessions de Sa Majesté Impériale et Royale Apostolique en Italie seront limitées par le Pô et le Tesin et le lac majeur.”12 The public part of the treaty executed Metternich’s plan of dividing the rest of Italy into sovereign states (etats souverains).13

In the fluid situation during the campagne de France and the engagements along the Mincio in spring 1814, various plans were drawn up for reorganizing central Europe, based on the principles to which the four powers had agreed. For example, in April 1814, Karl August von Hardenberg, prime minister of Prussia, set out a “plan for the future arrangement of Europe” (Plan für die künftige Gestaltung Europas).14 Napoleon’s defeat, the document begins, has “undone his monstrous plans of world domination”; the victors must now, “through a just equilibrium and balanced distribution of power,” establish a European order that would ensure a stable, manageable peace. France was to be limited to its 1789 borders, while Russia had “every right to a considerable enlargement. Austria, Prussia, Sardinia, and Holland shall be restored, and receive the power and territorial expansion necessary to maintain both equilibrium and their […] independence.” Regarding Tuscany, Modena, the Papal States, and Naples, the document makes a less binding commitment: they were to be “restored as circumstances permit.” Switzerland would be “free and independent of any external influence,” while Germany was to be “a confederation of sovereign states united by a federal treaty.” Bavaria also gets a mention: as compensation for territories ceded to Austria, it was to receive Würzburg, Aschaffenburg, Hammelburg, districts in Baden and Hesse between the Main, Tauber, and Neckar, and territories on the left bank of the Rhine between Speyer, Landau, and Kaiserslautern.

Imaginary maps were a key component of the political plans. New borders were imposed on rulerless regions, with the promise of bringing stability and greater security to Europe and preventing a revival of French hegemony. The major German-speaking powers, Prussia and Austria, sought to compensate themselves for the extensive territories they had lost in the treaties of Pressburg (1805) and Tilsit (1807). Hardenberg’s plan aimed to restore both powers to the size they had been in 1805—measured not in terms of geographical area, but of population. The process of tallying up subjects and shuffling them around had its roots in cameralist resettlement theories and the mechanistic calculi born of the eighteenth-century faith in numbers. The Congress of Vienna was denounced even at the time for attempting it. Other powers articulated their interests more emphatically. For example, Britain insisted that the French withdraw from the Dutch-Belgian region and that the port of Antwerp be demilitarized; furthermore, the British delegation did not want colonial matters to so much as appear on the agendas at the peace talks or the congress.

The fundamental decisions about the new European order had already been made before the Congress of Vienna convened in late 1814 and early 1815. According to the First Peace of Paris,15 signed on May 30, 1814, the Netherlands were to be enlarged and ruled by the House of Orange, the independent states of Germany were to be united by a “federative bond,” Switzerland was to be constituted as independent of all external influences, and Italy was, in the document’s succinct formula, to be composed of sovereign states. These fundamental arrangements had first been formulated when the four allies met in February 1814; they arose out of an interest in creating a line of militarily strong buffer states along France’s eastern border to prevent any future incursions into central Europe and the Italian peninsula. Secret articles appended to the Paris treaty settled France’s Alpine border in favor of Sardinia-Piedmont and Austria, though Savoy was to remain in French hands for the time being. The former territories of the Holy Roman Empire on the left bank of the Rhine, which France had occupied since 1792 and now had to return, were to be used for the expansion of Holland and to compensate Prussia and other German states.

Italy’s Political Landscape in 1814/1815

Austria’s dominance in northern Italy was the result of the military developments between August 1813 and April 1814: Austria had fought the war against the Kingdom of Italy, which was collapsing along with Napoleon’s empire, singlehandedly, which meant that time-consuming diplomatic agreements or complex transitional administrations were not necessary. All the Great Powers were prepared to recognize the Austrian Empire’s exclusive control over northern Italy, provided that the House of Savoy’s legitimate claims in Piedmont-Sardinia were respected. Britain played a special role due to the superiority of its navy. It controlled the island of Sicily and gave protection to the Bourbons, the ruling family of Naples, who were living there in exile. Britain also supported the Austrians in the North Adriatic and intervened in the Tuscany-Liguria region.

As already noted, the peace treaty of May 1814 formalized the Habsburgs’ dominance, fixing Sardinia’s border along the line of the Ticino and awarding all the territories to its east, from the Alps to the Po, to the Austrian emperor. At the Congress of Vienna, Metternich was able, by doggedly exploiting disagreement among the Swiss cantons, to successfully assert a further claim to a small but strategically important Alpine region: in March 1815, the three districts of Valtellina (Bormio, Sondrio, and Chiavenna), located to the north of Lake Como, became part of Austria.16 Between 1822 and 1825, a new road was built there that directly linked Tyrol to Lombardy via the Stelvio Pass; at an elevation of 2,758 meters, it remains the second-highest paved Alpine pass to this day.

It was only the Peace of Paris that confirmed that not just Veneto but also Lombardy would return to Habsburg control.17 Already in March 1814, however, Emperor Francis had begun issuing decrees over what he termed his “conquered provinces” in Italy.18 Following the peace agreement, Field Marshal Bellegarde, commander-in-chief of the Austrian troops, was appointed commissioner of the occupied Italian territories. Returning from London to Vienna in July 1814, Metternich pushed for Austria’s sovereignty over the occupied territories in northern Italy to be formally recognized as soon as possible.19 Provisional civil administrations were set up in Milan and Venice. They assisted the Central Organizing Court Commission (Central-Organisirungs-Hof-Commission), established in Vienna in late July 1814 to reorganize the territories Austria had won back or newly acquired.

In February 1815, Emperor Francis decided on the proposals of the organizing commission, and in April 1815 awarded “my Italian states” the status of a kingdom, though the name Regno Lombardo-Veneto was only introduced at the last minute.20 As the name suggests, this kingdom, established by the highly condensed atto costitutivo of April 7, 1815, was a composite state, with two separate governors (Franz Joseph Graf Saurau in Milan and Peter Graf Goëss in Venice) and two advisory assemblies known as “congregations.”21 The final institutional arrangement, based on the structures of the Austrian states, was agreed upon during the emperor’s lengthy tour of the kingdom between October 1815 and May 1816; Metternich’s proposals on this matter consistently sought to strengthen the state’s rights to self-government.22 Francis’s younger brother Archduke Anton was appointed viceroy, but he never took up the office and was replaced by his brother Rainer in 1818.23

Austria’s “sphere of hegemony” on the Italian peninsula24 extended far beyond the new regno, encompassing Tuscany, Modena, Parma, and Piacenza as well. In summer 1814, Austria had contingents stationed throughout this region to defend the Habsburg Empire’s claims if necessary. Victor Emmanuel I of Sardinia–Piedmont, who was restored to his throne in May 1814 with the support and close involvement of Austria, immediately laid claim to western Lombardy and Parma. King Murat of Naples, despite having nominally been an ally of Austria since the start of 1814, was also considered a loose cannon, especially given that he had troops stationed far outside his territory.

Hence, Metternich’s political plans to stabilize Europe involved not just central Europe but also Italy in its entirety. In mid-1814, before the start of the Congress of Vienna, he considered founding a Lega Italica, which was intended to serve a twofold security function: firstly as a defensive military alliance to protect against France and secondly as a kind of “central police force” to ward off Jacobinism, which Metternich viewed as a perpetual threat. He saw the principles of the French Revolution and the possible foundation of a unified Italian state codified in a constitution as an ever-present danger that had to be “killed off.”25 Metternich’s policy on Italy was—from an earlier stage and to a more pronounced extent than his policy on the German Confederation—dominated by considerations of security. As a result of these concerns, he sought to maintain direct or indirect control over the peninsula so that Austria could maintain a military defense able to quash any effort to expand on France’s part while also keeping a watchful eye on the Italian territories, ready to intervene swiftly in the event of revolutionary unrest.26 The restitution of the individual states of the ancien régime (with minimal changes to borders) and a rejection of constitutions were further cornerstones of Metternich’s plans for Italy. Vienna avoided any policy or terminology that so much as hinted at “the idea of unifying Italy into a single power.”27 It was primarily for this reason that the Napoleonic Regno d’Italia was replaced by the Habsburgian Regno Lombardo-Veneto.

Metternich’s tactic for the negotiations at the Congress of Vienna, which began in September 1814, was to delay any discussion of Italian matters for as long as possible.28 He thereby intended to win time while developments unfolded in Naples, where King Murat was opposing French and Spanish demands for the restitution of the Bourbon monarchy. When, at the first official meeting of the decision-making Committee of Eight on November 13, 1814, the Spanish representative Pedro Gómez Labrador proposed the formation of a separate committee to specifically address Italy’s restructuring, along the same lines as had been done a month earlier for Germany, Metternich, who was chairing the meeting, rebuffed him with uncharacteristic verve: Italy, he said, had never been a “true political body” but “only a collection of independent states […] grouped under a single geographic designation,” and, moreover, unlike with Germany, no agreement had been made to form a “federative bond” for Italy. The territorial configuration of the individual Italian states should therefore be discussed “separately and successively,” going from north to south.29 Metternich’s characterization of Italy for tactical reasons as a mere “geographic designation” led to his being depicted as the archenemy of Italian unification during the Risorgimento.

Metternich succeeded in that the eight powers’ negotiations in Vienna began with a matter that had essentially already long been settled: the proposal that the king of Sardinia-Piedmont be given control of Genoa as compensation for having ceded territories in Savoy to France. After brief hearings on the precise arrangements, the congress agreed to this proposal on December 12, 1814, and King Victor Emanuel had annexed Liguria before the year was out. The disappearance of the ancient maritime republic from the map of Europe, without Genoa being given a special status within the kingdom of Piedmont or at least that of a free port, sparked outrage among the opposition in the British House of Commons. Victor Emanuel’s plans to annex parts of Lombardy, by contrast, quickly proved to be wishful thinking.

After arrangements for the two major northern territories, Lombardy-Venetia and Sardinia-Piedmont, and the Papal States in central Italy had been settled, Metternich introduced a master plan for the remaining territories on the peninsula in January 1815.30 The Austrians now gradually distanced themselves from King Murat of Naples and instead sided with the Bourbon claims. The fact that Napoleon’s brother-in-law had continued to station troops in central Italy, beyond the borders of his kingdom, was steadily eroding trust in his reliability as an ally.

To bypass dealing with Talleyrand in Vienna, Metternich did not negotiate his plans for the Italian peninsula at the congress but dealt directly with the French government in Paris. Metternich’s “principle of legitimacy,” according to which monarchs who had lost power under Napoleon’s reign should be restored, played a key role, but even more important was his fear that Murat could trigger a revolutionary war in Italy “under the banner of […] national freedom.”31 The British foreign secretary, Castlereagh, discussed Metternich’s plans with the French king Louis XVIII in person on his return journey to London and secured his support.

Napoleon’s escape from Elba in late February 1815 and the “Hundred Days” reign rendered all diplomatic plans for Italy obsolete. Murat sided with the returned emperor and issued the Rimini Proclamation, calling on all Italy, from the Alps to Sicily, to rise up against the Austrians and create an independent nation. In response, Austria declared war on Murat, and then defeated him in a brief but psychologically important campaign at the foot of the Apennines in April/May 1815; this lesser-known military action took place at the same time that allied forces were marching against Napoleon in Belgium. Based on this victory, in late May, the Bourbon monarch Ferdinand IV returned to Naples as king under the protection of the Austrian army and British navy. Formal treaties tied his political future closely to the interests of the Habsburg Empire.

In early June 1815, in the final days of the congress, the Committee of Five quickly agreed upon territorial arrangements for Italy based on Metternich’s program from the start of the year. No mention was made of Tuscany; the emperor and his family had already decided in early 1814 that Grand Duke Ferdinand III, the emperor’s brother, should return from Würzburg to Florence (though without actually consulting Ferdinand on the matter).32 Meanwhile, Archduke Francis IV of Austria-Este was finally able to assume the rule of the Duchy of Modena, more than a decade after his family had inherited the ducal title back in 1803.

In reality, the situation in Tuscany was extremely complex. In 1801, it had been elevated to the status of the Kingdom of Etruria, and, until Napoleon integrated the region directly into France in 1808, it was ruled by a branch of the Spanish Bourbons who had formerly ruled Parma. The Spanish infanta Maria Luisa, sister of the Spanish king, Ferdinand VII, laid claim to these lands, and one of the key tasks of Labrador, the chief Spanish delegate, and Talleyrand was to support her claims. Metternich had not originally included the Parma Bourbons in his plans for Italy, but was forced to revise these plans and concede the heritable Duchy of Lucca. Spain was not content with this meager territory, however, and was the only major European power to refuse to sign the congress’s Final Act. Ferdinand VII did not ratify the treaty until 1817, when a new treaty offered the Parma Bourbons succession rights to the duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla. The Congress of Vienna had granted these duchies to Napoleon’s second wife, Marie Louise, daughter of the Habsburg emperor, but only ad personam and for her lifetime; the new treaty meant that after her death (which came in 1847), they would revert from the Habsburgs to the Bourbons.

A quick glance from Italy to the opposite coast to the east reveals that Austria conceived of itself not just as an Italian but as an Adriatic power. The reconstituted kingdoms of Illyria (including Laybach and Trieste) and Dalmatia, and the portion of Croatia returned to the Kingdom of Hungary, which included the port of Fiume, extended the full length of the Adriatic coast from Istria to Dubrovnik. Vienna also showed an interest in the protectorate of the Ionian islands off the west coast of Greece, which had been controlled by Britain since 1809, but Russia repeatedly vetoed this proposal during the negotiations.33

Bavaria’s Compensation and the Dispute over Salzburg

Metternich had to contend with a far greater range of interests during the negotiations over the areas of central Europe north of the Alps than he did during those over Italy: the “wing powers” of Russia and Britain; Austria’s traditional rival, Prussia, which had an interest in Saxony and its own ideas about what form the German Confederation should take; and “middle states” such as Bavaria, Württemberg, and Baden, which owed their elevation in status and sovereignty to Napoleon’s protectorate but had abandoned the French coalition before the end of 1813. Their prize for joining the alliance against the French was a guarantee that they would retain their territory and sovereign status. Thus, even before the Congress of Vienna, it was clear that the results of the territorial revolution that had transformed central Europe during the Napoleonic era between 1803 and 1810 would remain in place; there was no question of a “restoration” of the prerevolutionary status quo.

The discussion in this section will concentrate on the region of the eastern Alps, which was the subject of bilateral negotiations between the Habsburg Empire and the Kingdom of Bavaria. The key decisions in the territorial disputes between the two neighboring powers (whose relations had been marked by frequent conflict throughout the eighteenth century) were not hammered out at the Congress of Vienna, but before and afterwards. Hence, the final territorial configuration of the Wittelsbachs’ kingdom was only settled in April 1816—and it looked rather different than Bavaria had envisioned.

From April 1813 onward, the option of switching sides against Napoleon gained increasing ground in Munich.34 The question took on a new urgency when Austria declared war on France; in late summer 1813, Bavarian and Austrian troops were mustered against each other in the Innviertel and Upper Austria. The Russian tsar called on the Bavarian king Maximilian I Joseph to join the alliance against Napoleon, leading to direct negotiations between the two commanders-in-chief, General Karl Philipp von Wrede on the Bavarian side and Prince Heinrich XV of Reuss-Plauen on the Austrian side. From mid-September, any hopes that Bavaria could remain neutral in the ongoing conflict had disappeared, but it was only with considerable reservations, and at the last minute, that Max Joseph—having written that “betraying” Napoleon “would be a cowardice incongruous with the loyalty of my character”—assented to the signing of the Treaty of Ried, which took place on October 8, 1813.35

Max Joseph allied himself with Napoleon’s opponents just as the French emperor was planning his offensive against Bernadotte’s and Blücher’s armies to the north of Leipzig, making it a very risky move for the Bavarian king. In exchange for this volte-face, however, his kingdom’s powerful neighbor, Austria, guaranteed Bavaria absolute sovereignty and constitutional independence, as well as the retention of its territory. There was no time to reach agreement on specific questions of territory; Max Joseph had wanted Franconia and Swabia to be named as preferred territories in any compensation to Bavaria, but this did not make it into the final version of the text.36 All that was agreed upon was the principle that any adjustments of borders would be made without compulsion and through the exchange of territories that were of equal value and contiguous with existing possessions.

The allied forces received an additional 36,000 Bavarian soldiers as reinforcement. Moreover, Austria benefited from the immediate opening of Tyrol for military operations to support Hiller’s Italian campaign in the Puster and Eisack valleys; it was for this reason that Austria had repeatedly stressed its interest in controlling the Inn–Brenner route during the treaty negotiations.37

For Metternich, the main factors in the decision of October 1813 were calculability and stability: “any reversal of Napoleon’s new territorial order would have triggered a chaos of old and new claims.”38 He also needed Bavaria as an ally, as part of a “fixed system,” as he called it, that was intended to bring Bavaria to the side of Austria, Prussia, and Britain and thereby keep France and Russia in check.39 The priorities were to prize Bavaria away from the French coalition as quickly as possible, to gain access to the new ally’s military resources, and, hopefully, to trigger a domino effect that would bring further members of the Confederation of the Rhine over to the allies’ side. The principles of the Treaty of Ried, which ruled out both the dissolution of the large Rhine Confederation states and a return to the order of the Holy Roman Empire, prefigured the federal solution for central Germany that Metternich outlined shortly afterwards: “Allemagne composée de princes souverains uni par un lien fédératif qui assure et garantisse l’indépendance de l’Allemagne.40 Metternich had explicitly recognized the sovereign status of the princes of the Confederation of the Rhine ever since the Treaty of Teplitz, which founded the Coalition.41 Bavaria’s carefully worded proclamation of war on October 14 therefore justified the change of sides in terms of “securing the independence of the Germanic nation and the states comprising it.”42

Because it was too late for the Bavarian troops under Wrede’s command to be mobilized for the Battle of Nations at Leipzig, they occupied Würzburg instead. In late October 1813, they were defeated in the Battle of Hanau as they attempted to cut off Napoleon’s retreat to France, but they played a successful part in the invasion of France in February/March 1814. Max Joseph, his foreign minister Maximilian von Montgelas, and his commander-in-chief Wrede, who was sympathetic to the offensive course favored by the Russian tsar, thus earned a place in the allied powers’ inner circle.43

After the allied forces reached Paris and forced Napoleon’s abdication, peace talks began in the French capital in April 1814. Wrede—who had been promoted to field marshal and granted the status of prince—had been named Bavaria’s chief negotiator, despite his own vehement objections, because he was the “most credible” representative of “Bavaria’s new political position”44 and had proved himself a capable commander in the campagne de France. The Bavarian foreign ministry now contemplated various scenarios for an exchange of territories with Austria. It was considered certain that Bavaria would be able to hold on to the Innviertel, but the claim to Tyrol had already been as good as abandoned. The only part of Tyrol to remain under nominal Bavarian control was the Inn valley, which had been practically ungovernable due to unrest and revolts ever since Austrian troops had occupied the eastern and southern areas of the region until November 1813. Maximilian Graf Lerchenfeld, commissioner-general of the Innviertel, was removed from his post in January 1814.45

A question mark hung over Salzburg. The Peace of Pressburg of December 26, 1805, had granted the Duchy of Salzburg, as it was then, along with Berchtesgaden, to the Habsburg Empire as compensation for the loss of Tyrol to Bavaria. After the 1809 conflict and a prolonged French occupation, Salzburg and Berchtesgaden were awarded to Bavaria in early 1810, along with the Innviertel, the western part of the Hausruckviertel, Bayreuth, and Regensburg. Faced with the prospect of ever less palatable losses in the Alpine region, Munich increasingly looked north for suitable compensation: to Main-Franconia (especially Würzburg), the Neckar-Kreis, and other areas along the Main and Rhine.46

In May 1814, Wrede negotiated on these matters in parallel with the Paris peace talks: firstly with Johann von Wessenberg, the Austrian envoy in Munich, and then with Metternich himself.47 Wessenberg wanted Salzburg, the Innviertel, and the Hausruckviertel in their entirety for Austria, whereas Wrede wanted Bavaria to retain at least the northern parts of Salzburg (the city and the lower-lying parts of the Flachgau). Metternich steered Wrede’s gaze to Würzburg, Aschaffenburg, Fulda, and—repeatedly—Mainz. In the end, however, Prussia—represented by Karl August von Hardenberg—laid claim to Mainz, which was a key strategic fortress that controlled the line of the Main, had served on a number of occasions as an important base for Napoleon, and lay at the intersection between the two military defensive blocs that Austria and Prussia were seeking to establish within the German Confederation.

The treaty that Metternich and Wrede signed in Paris on June 3, 1814, fleshed out the declarations of principle in the Treaty of Ried with concrete details.48 The territorial arrangements were divided into two groups, according to when they would take effect:

– Bavaria had to immediately (within two weeks) relinquish Tyrol (excluding the district of Vils and Kufstein Fortress) and Vorarlberg (excluding the district of Weiler) to Austria; in return, it was to receive Würzburg and Aschaffenburg. This exchange was completed by the end of June; Wrede had already occupied the Franconian territories since October 1813.

– Bavaria would also have to return to Austria the Innviertel, the Hausruckviertel, and the Principality of Salzburg, except for the district of Laufen and the territory on the left banks of the Salzach and Saalach. However, Munich would only be obliged to hand over these territories once it had been given what it considered an acceptable “equivalent.” To this end, Metternich offered the city and fortress of Mainz and the “ancient Rhine-Palatinate” (l’ancien Palatinat du Rhin), which had passed to Baden in 1802/03. Other exchanges with Baden, Württemberg, Hesse-Darmstadt, and Nassau were considered in order to create a land bridge between the Main and the Palatinate.

To consolidate Bavarian claims on the left bank of the Rhine, too, Austria involved Bavaria in the provisional administration of the territories to the south of the Mosel that were being held in reserve to offer as compensation.

Neither Munich nor Vienna was especially happy with this compromise; Emperor Francis himself made a written note on Metternich’s report from Paris: “The treaty with Bavaria is bad. In particular, I do not like that we will not obtain Bertolsgaden or the Bohemian possessions [i.e., Redwitz in the Upper Palatinate].”49 In reply, Metternich reminded his emperor of the overarching political interests, especially the need to cultivate good relations between Bavaria and Austria, so as to prevent Munich from developing any sort of closer political ties with Prussia. His words, surprisingly for the man in charge of the Habsburg Empire’s foreign policy, have the air of a profession of faith: “We have only one fixed point in our relationship with Germany. That point is Bavaria.”50

Negotiations in Vienna

Despite reservations on both sides, Montgelas briefed the Bavarian king’s representative at the Congress of Vienna on the basis of the Peace of Paris. This representative was once again Marshal Wrede, since Montgelas himself refused to travel to the congress despite repeated urging from Max Joseph—a move he himself later conceded was a mistake. Montgelas hoped that Bavaria would be required to cede Salzburg and the Innviertel in exchange for the territories Austria had promised along the Main and Rhine. His instructions for the congress make explicit mention of Mainz, Wetzlar, Frankfurt, Hanau, and Fulda, as well as the “whole of the area on the left bank of the Rhine between this river, the new French border, and the Mosel.”51

The negotiations at the Congress of Vienna initially centered on Prussia’s claims to compensation—i.e., on Poland and Saxony. Once the crisis that threatened to derail the talks had been averted at the start of 1815, it was necessary to deal with Prussia’s territorial claims first, since these would determine the range of options available for all subsequent agreements. At the first meeting of the Committee of Five on January 12, 1815, Metternich had announced that Austria and Bavaria would deal with unresolved issues through bilateral talks.52 Wrede’s negotiations with Wessenberg and Metternich began on February 19 and centered once again on Frankfurt and Mainz. The Austrian minister consulted the Great Powers’ leading diplomats—Hardenberg for Prussia, Nesselrode for Russia, Wellington for Britain—to sound out the feasibility of meeting Bavaria’s demands. Wellington reported home that Wrede was not remotely interested in territories to the left of the Rhine for Bavaria and favored maintaining the status quo; he would in no case be given Mainz or Frankfurt.53 Wellington further noted that territory still had to be found for the former viceroy Eugène Beauharnais, which should remain subordinate to the sovereignty of the king of Bavaria. Salzburg—“to which both Austrians and Bavarians attach the utmost importance”—was the thorniest issue. The Bavarian crown prince, Ludwig, who was especially attached to Salzburg, had made the matter personal; resolving it would require—to quote Wellington—“a good deal of coolness.” Discussing the strategic position of Salzburg, the British marshal sided with Austrian representatives such as Field Marshal Schwarzenberg, who saw Bavarian control of Salzburg as a potential threat to the line of the Danube and Austria’s links to Italy.54 Therefore, Wellington concluded, “I conceive that Salzburg ought to belong to Austria.” In late February, Emperor Francis instructed his foreign minister to support all Bavarian claims in western Germany, and ordered him, with an air of finality, “to explain that I shall not concede the return of Salzburg under any circumstances.”55

In the subsequent course of the talks, Mainz was taken off the table as a bargaining chip and replaced by the parts of the Palatinate on the right bank of the Rhine around Mannheim and Heidelberg, an area that had long been ruled by the Wittelsbachs. For a while, despite the emperor’s order, plans were also discussed to divide the Duchy of Salzburg along a line from Radstadt to the Gerlos Pass, via St. Johann im Pongau and Zell am See; Bavaria would retain the territory to the north of this line, while the area to the south would go to Austria. Wellington shared the view that Salzburg’s chief strategic value for Austria lay in the intra-Alpine link from Styria to Tyrol along the Enns and the Salzach, and that it would thus suffice to cede the southern portion of the duchy to Austrian control.56

On April 23, 1815, representatives of the five powers in Vienna agreed to a treaty between Austria and Bavaria that had been negotiated by Wessenberg, Wrede, and Nesselrode; Metternich referred to it right from the outset with the qualifier “éventuelle.”57 This treaty would have allowed Bavaria to retain the northern part of the Duchy of Salzburg and part of the Innviertel. The expansive potential gains for Bavaria along the Rhine and Main were subject to the results of as-yet-unconcluded negotiations with the governments of Baden (from which Munich hoped to obtain the entire Main-Tauber-Kreis and part of the Neckar-Kreis), Württemberg (where it hoped to obtain Nördlingen, Dinkelsbühl, Isny, Leutkirch, and other towns), the Grand Duchy of Hesse-Darmstadt (Alzenau, Seligenstadt, Miltenberg, Amorbach, Wimpfen, etc.), and the Electorate of Hesse (the city of Hanau).58 However, it could scarcely be expected that the princes of these states would consent to cede these territories to Bavaria. Especially unlikely was that the rulers of Baden would agree to return the Electoral Palatinate to Bavaria (“la réversibilité des parties de l’ancien Palatinat”) in the event that the male line of the ruling ducal house died out (article 16 of the treaty).59 The text of the treaty was never formally ratified and thus is not included in the Congress of Vienna’s Final Act. As Wrede sarcastically yet clear-sightedly remarked to Montgelas: “It is a veritable sea we have to drink up. Now it is the turn of Baden, Württemberg, and Hesse to make difficulties for us.”60

The Congress of Vienna thus “failed to resolve the Bavarian border and compensation problem.”61 As if that were not enough, on Metternich’s initiative the Austrian promises from April were quietly dropped in the final days of the congress. Article 51 of the Final Act gave Austria sole possession of the territories held in reserve on the left bank of the Rhine, which it had co-governed with Bavaria since summer 1814. On June 12, 1815, by which time the official negotiations were already over, Wilhelm von Humboldt signed a secret agreement (to which Russia and Britain were privy) in which Prussia supported Austria’s claims to Salzburg, the Innviertel, and even the Palatinate. A series of other reserve territories that might conceivably also have been used to compensate Bavaria were instead awarded to Austria, with full rights of sovereignty. Vienna and Berlin planned to share provisional command of the Fortress of Mainz; the city itself would later pass to the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt.62

Given this closing of ranks by the Great Powers over the settlement of south German affairs, the only political avenue left to Bavaria was to bide its time, engage in tactical maneuvers, and score the occasional pinprick against Austria. Wrede’s refusal to withdraw Bavarian troops from the left bank of the Rhine initially prompted displeasure and threats from Vienna. Later, when Metternich, in the course of the protracted, complicated negotiations over a second peace treaty with France in the fall of 1815, was looking for ways to curb Prussia’s aggressive claims, an unexpected opportunity opened up for Bavaria to retain the northern part of Salzburg. In a long memorandum from Paris in September, Metternich once again tried to persuade his emperor to claim the strategically important Mainz for Austria, and give up part of Salzburg by way of compensation: “If Austria wishes to play a worthy role in Germany, and not wholly relinquish this arena to Prussia, then there can be no doubt that it is essential to have possessions in Germany, specifically on the Rhine. Were Austria to hold Mainz with ample surrounding lands, it would truly rule the politics of all south German courts […] Acquiring the whole Bishopric of Salzburg, by contrast, will always be faced with considerable difficulties.”63 Having presented Emperor Francis with the alternative of giving up either Salzburg or Mainz, Metternich was informed in a meeting with Field Marshal Schwarzenberg and General Duka, the emperor’s adjutant general, that the emperor had rejected his advice and that “for military reasons, the possession of Salzburg would have to take precedence over the possession of Mainz.”64 Thus—as the Austrian emperor ordered with uncharacteristic bluntness and finality on September 28, 1815—the city itself and the entire Principality of Salzburg, the whole Innviertel, “every last village,” and the ceded part of the Hausruckviertel must be returned to Austria. Even the matter of the “Rupertiwinkel” was reopened, the cluster of judicial districts on the west banks of the Salzach and Saalach whose cession to Bavaria had been taken for granted since the bilateral negotiations began.65 Ultimately, despite further appeals in which he went so far as to elevate the Austrian acquisition of Mainz to the status of a “moral question,”66 Metternich had no choice but to reluctantly execute the decision to retain Salzburg, as ordered by the emperor in ever-sharper words. On November 3, 1815, the minister agreed to a treaty with the other Great Powers requiring Munich to immediately cede Salzburg and the territories around the Inn, and in return to accept the territory on the left bank of the Rhine, including the Fortress of Landau, that Austria offered as compensation. Metternich sent his emperor the following report on Ludwig’s reaction: “The crown prince of Bavaria is in a mighty rage over the cession of the city of Salzburg. He is [practically] knocking on the doors of all my colleagues in a blind fervor to assert his right.”67 Count Aloys von Rechberg, who Montgelas had authorized to undertake further negotiations in Paris in the causa Salzburg, lodged a protest, but stood no chance against the united front of the Great Powers.68

Lower Franconia, the Palatinate, and the Consequences of the Treaty of Munich (1816)

The final act of the territorial dispute between Bavaria and Austria—which proved brief but highly dramatic—began after the signing of the Second Peace of Paris with France on November 20, 1815.69 Emperor Francis instructed Metternich: “I must order you to press through the Salzburg, Innviertel, and Hausruckviertel matter, if not by gentle means, then by force, and to do so soon.”70 Before the year was out, Metternich had dispatched a high-ranking military official familiar with the area to Munich for bilateral talks,71 namely, Lieutenant Field Marshal Johann Peter von Wacquant de Geozelles, who had been Austria’s commissioner for handing over Salzburg and Berchtesgaden in 1810. Montgelas began the talks with a show of intransigence, insisting that Salzburg remain under Bavarian control and demanding better compensation, referring among other things to the claims of Eugène Beauharnais. This provoked a note of protest from the Great Powers and an advance of Austrian troops along the Enns at the beginning of 1816. In his comments on Metternich’s reports, Emperor Francis worked himself up into an uncharacteristically agitated state, declaring that he would “put an end to the affair with Bavaria” and assert his rights, by force if need be, and with “no half measures.”72 However, he did not believe the breakdown in relations was irreparable, and wanted to limit the military measures to threatening gestures.73 In the end, it was the Bavarian king who backed down: in late January, he sent Crown Prince Ludwig, escorted by Rechberg, to speak directly with Emperor Francis, who was touring his new Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia. It was “not exactly a pleasure trip” (voyage de plaisir), Ludwig wrote to his father.74 The emperor was unwilling to concede anything except in regard to Bavaria’s claims to the Main-Tauber-Kreis, to the south of the new Bavarian possessions on the Main between Würzburg and Aschaffenburg. This area, around Boxberg, Wertheim, and Tauberbischofsheim, currently belonged to Baden. In a letter to Max Joseph, dated February 7, 1816, Emperor Francis offered the king an annual compensation of 100,000 gulden if the Main-Tauber-Kreis were not ceded to Bavaria.75

In February 1816, while the final negotiations were taking place, preparations were made in Munich for the withdrawal from Salzburg. Furniture from Schloss Mirabell and important documents were transported to Munich, and the quarries near Fürstenbrunn at the foot of the Untersberg were declared the private property of the Bavarian crown prince. In Munich, Prime Minister Montgelas refused with increasing stubbornness to be the sole signatory to the treaty with Austria, as he did not want to become the scapegoat for the loss of Salzburg. He bluntly declared, “I hate the treaty,”76 and demanded that Rechberg, the envoy in Vienna, sign it instead. Rechberg sent his superior a barbed reply: “If one has had the rare fortune to idle around in the foreign ministry for seventeen years, it is scarcely comprehensible that one should fear a momentary storm.”77 The king summoned the two quarreling officials, whereupon his minister said to his face that he had three portfolios to manage and hence no time for negotiations; Rechberg, who had been the king’s friend since his Zweibrücken days, responded that, as a Swabian who did not own an inch of land in Bavaria, he feared the nation would accuse him of having sold Bavaria to Austria. The agitated Max Joseph took to bed with colic; he had failed to “mediate between his two old confidants.”78 It was Crown Prince Ludwig who finally managed to broker a compromise a few days later; as a result of his efforts, the Treaty of Munich of April 14, 1816, was signed not by the usual two parties, but by three: Montgelas and Rechberg both added their signatures next to that of the Austrian envoy Wacquant.79

The provisions of the Treaty of Munich have shaped Bavaria’s outline on the map right down to the present day. The Innviertel, including Braunau, Ried, and Schärding, and the regions bordering it to the east, from the Hausruck to Vöcklabruck, returned to Austrian control, as did the Tyrolean district of Vils and the greater part of the Duchy of Salzburg. However, as agreed in 1814, Bavaria retained the areas of Salzburg on the left banks of the Salzach and the Saalach (and, as article 19 mentions in passing, Berchtesgaden). This area, known as the “Rupertiwinkel” and comprising the judicial districts of Tittmoning, Laufen, Waging, and Teisendorf, which have been part of Bavaria ever since, was equivalent to around 15 percent of the old archbishopric by population, 20 percent by area, and moreover contained the region’s best farmland—and therefore represented a significant loss for Salzburg.

Consequently, the new Bavaria of the nineteenth century expanded not southeastwards, but northwestwards. Numerous legal titles and lands belonging to myriad former owners were amalgamated into a new Lower Main District (Untermain-Kreis), which in 1817 comprised no fewer than forty-six judicial districts (Landgerichte) and thirteen judicial districts of the nobility (Herrschaftsgerichte).80 From 1814, the chief part of the territory was made up of the “Grand Duchy” of Würzburg, which had formerly been under Bavarian control in 1802 and from 1803 to 1805 and then granted to the Habsburgian grand duke of Tuscany, and the “Principality” of Aschaffenburg, which in the Holy Roman Empire had formed the core of the Mainzer Oberstift, and, since 1803, had been part of the succession of states ruled by the archbishop, archchancellor, and prince-primate Karl Theodor von Dalberg (most recently, in 1810, the Grand Duchy of Frankfurt). Bavaria had been able to take possession of these two large territorial units following the Peace of Paris of May 30, 1814. Only two years later, with the Treaty of Munich of April 14, 1816, did (parts of) the districts of Hammelburg, Brückenau, and Bieberstein, nestled between Würzburg and Aschaffenburg, pass to Bavaria. This strip of land in the Rhön Mountains—which in the past had changed hands between the Bishopric of Fulda, the Principality of Nassau-Orange-Fulda, and the Grand Duchy of Frankfurt—had been occupied by Austrian troops since late November 1813, meaning that Vienna could cede it directly to Munich.81 With regards to the other areas mentioned in the Treaty of Munich, by contrast, Austria could merely promise to intercede with their current owners and attempt to persuade them to make concessions to Bavaria. These efforts bore fruit very quickly in the case of the Grand Duchy of Hesse-Darmstadt, which on July 7, 1816, transferred to Bavaria several districts on the Main that consolidated the Aschaffenburg territory. These were Alzenau (which Darmstadt had acquired from Mainz in 1803), and then—up toward the Odenwald Mountains—Miltenberg and Amorbach (both of which had also originally belonged to Mainz and passed to Darmstadt in 1810, having been held by the Principality of Leiningen and by Baden in the interim), and Kleinheubach, which in the eighteenth century had belonged to the princes of Löwenstein-Wertheim-Rochefort.82 Only in the Frankfurt General (Territorial) Recess of July 20, 1819, did Baden, with the mediation of the Great Powers and in exchange for an extensive package of political guarantees (articles 6–10), cede the part of the district of Wertheim situated around Steinfels to the south of Lohr on the left (east) bank of the Main, which before 1806 had also been a Löwenstein possession (article 1).83

It was not just Lower Franconia (known from 1837 as “Lower Franconia and Aschaffenburg”) that was born from the spirit of a provisorium; the Austrian reserve territories on the left bank of the Rhine, chiefly comprising the districts of Zweibrücken, Kaiserslautern, and Speyer and the city of Landau, became the “Rhine Circle” (Rheinkreis). Although Ludwig I renamed this Bavarian Rhine Circle of 1816 “the Palatinate,” so as to suggest a historical continuity, in reality it was a new construct, assembled from territories previously belonging to over forty non-Wittelsbach owners during the Holy Roman Empire; that is to say, Bavaria was not having old lands restored to it, but rather being given a package of territories pieced together to compensate for the loss of Salzburg. However, the “old” Electoral Palatinate on the right bank of the Rhine did make a reappearance in the Treaty of Munich, whose first secret article confirmed the Wittelsbachs’ right of succession should the House of Baden die out (“la reversion de la partie du Palatinat du Rhin dite le cercle de Neckar”).84 This clause was long a cause of tension in southern Germany, particularly between Baden and Bavaria, until it was revoked by the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1818, which recognized the succession rights of the morganatic Hochberg line (the issue had assumed particular urgency following the death of Grand Duke Karl Ludwig Friedrich of Baden that same year). The Frankfurt Recess (July 1819) revoked any further claims Bavaria might have been able to derive from the treaty of 1816, which is why Ludwig I never formally acknowledged it, instead repeatedly pressing his claims to the Palatinate.85

Bavaria was included in the French reparation payments, but there was no direct land link between the new territories on the Main and those on the Rhine. The treaty of April 14 provided only for a military road running from Würzburg to Frankenthal through Baden’s territory; secret article 5 also gave the option of a second military road through Hessian territory. The lack of a direct land bridge (Amorbach and Mannheim were separated by a distance of just under fifty kilometers, as the crow flies) violated the terms of the Treaty of Ried of 1813, and this was why the Austrian emperor had in principle recognized Bavaria’s claims to the Main-Tauber-Kreis (supplementary article 2). The territory remained under Baden’s control, but from 1820 onward Austria paid Bavaria an annual sum of 100,000 gulden (the expected annual revenue from the region, as calculated by the crown prince) as indemnity for there being no land bridge between Franconia and the Palatinate. This “contiguity compensation” (Kontiguitätsentschädigung) was not paid directly, but instead offset against the cost of the 200,000 centners of salt from Hallein that Austria supplied to Bavaria each year at a preferential price (supplementary articles 2–4).

As a result of the territorial exchanges between 1814 and 1816, Bavaria made a net gain of just under 100,000 inhabitants, meaning that, within borders more or less corresponding to those of the present day (apart from the Rhine Circle, a few towns along the Kinzig and in the Rhön Mountains, and the town of Coburg), it was home to a population of 3.5 million; by way of comparison, the equivalent figure today stands at 12.7 million, while at the start of the Napoleonic period, in 1801, the total population of the Wittelsbach possessions had been 2.3 million.

Like Prussia, Bavaria was not compensated in the east, as it had hoped and expected to be, but rather with territories to the west. It thus became part of the barrier of “middle states” (Mittelstaaten; mid-sized German states smaller than Prussia and Austria) established on the left bank of the Rhine in line with British policy so as to curb future expansion attempts by France, and thereby also a player in one of Europe’s central political arenas. The political and economic dynamism of the territories on the Rhine provided crucial impulses and challenges that fueled Bavaria’s modernization in the nineteenth century; by contrast, Salzburg, after its return to Austria on May 1, 1816, was downgraded to a district (Kreis) of Upper Austria, and, in 1825, Franz Schubert reported that grass was growing between the cracks of the paving stones in the city’s plazas.86

Unlike the dispute over Poland and Saxony, which involved all the European powers and dominated the negotiations at the Congress of Vienna, Bavaria’s territorial claims and disputes were strictly between itself and Austria. This meant they could be resolved through bilateral agreements before and after the congress, in June 1814 and April 1816—though Viennese politicians did not shy away from mobilizing the support of Britain, Russia, or Prussia on the emperor’s behalf at critical moments, as in June and November 1815. At the congress itself, the Bavarian representative, Rechberg, played a key role in the final phase of negotiations in May/June 1815 in ensuring that the sovereignty of former members of the Confederation of the Rhine was recognized, that the results of the territorial consolidation of 1803/1806 were preserved, and that the German Confederation—i.e., the concrete realization of the “federative bond” stipulated by the earlier Peace of Paris, the details of which were fleshed out during the “second German conferences” in May/June 1815—only took the form of a very loose association.87

The Treaty of Munich is, in many respects, better than the bad reputation it enjoyed in some quarters at the time—indeed, it proved, in the words of Eberhard Weis, to be a “real stroke of fortune for Bavaria.” The provisions of this treaty, signed precisely two hundred years ago, allowed Bavaria to develop lasting “good neighborly relations” with Austria,88 following almost constant military confrontation between Munich and Vienna in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, from the War of the Spanish Succession through to the Tyrolean rebellion of 1809.

In late 1816, Emperor Francis I married the second daughter of King Max Joseph, Princess Caroline Augusta (it was his fourth and final marriage).89 This marked the start of a series of better and lesser-known marital unions between the Habsburgs and Wittelsbachs in the nineteenth century. Personal relations never recovered between Metternich, who described the territorial negotiations with Bavaria as a “wretched” business, the “trickiest” and “most arduous” of his political life (the emperor seconded this view, describing them in March 1816 as “highly disagreeable” and thanking God they were over),90 and the Bavarian crown prince, the later Ludwig I; the two men had taken too high a toll on each other’s nerves in the years from 1814 to 1816.91 However, there was gradual progress in terms of concrete economic collaboration: a series of treaties governing the borders around Berchtesgaden were agreed (the last coming in 1851), and salt production in the neighboring districts was coordinated. The Bavarian–Austrian Salt Treaty of 1829, which is still valid to this day (albeit revised in 1957), regulates mining and forestry rights in Hallein and Pinzgau in the mutual interest of both sides—a subtle continuation of premodern traditions that not only established Bavarian-owned woodlands on Austrian soil, but also respected the rights of the local population to the use of the land.92 The Munich–Salzburg–Vienna telegraph line was opened in 1850, and subsequent planning for the railway line connecting Munich to the east was coordinated across borders between the Maximilian Railway (Munich–Salzburg) and Empress Elisabeth Railway (Salzburg–Linz–Vienna). In 1860, the first train from Bavaria arrived at the new railway station in Salzburg.93

The treaties of Ried, Paris, and Munich, concluded between 1813 and 1816, thus ushered in a profound transformation of relations between Bavaria and Austria.94 A “secular rivalry” that just a few decades earlier, under Joseph II, had posed a very real threat to the integrity of the Wittelsbach possessions, came to an end in 1813. Austria “moderated its political interests,” “respected Bavaria’s independence,” and accepted the neighboring kingdom as a “strategic partner,”95 as reflected in Metternich’s above-quoted description of Bavaria as a “fixed point” in Vienna’s relations with Germany.

Despite the conflicts described here in the years 1813–1816, in the critical situation in the second half of 1813, when Bavaria became the first member of the Confederation of the Rhine to join the alliance against Napoleon, it was Bavaria’s old rival Austria that recognized its status as a consolidated “middle power,” which Napoleon had initially granted it, respected its sovereignty, and became the guarantor of its continued existence in the new European order—and thus, as Michael Doeberl puts it, became Bavaria’s “savior.”96

Notes

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Originally published as

Reinhard Stauber, “Die Neuordnung Europas nördlich und südlich der Alpen. Bayern, Österreich und die italienischen Staaten 1814–1816” in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte (2015), 481-512.

Image: UPI/Süddeutsche Zeitung Photo
The Bavarian Prime Minister Hans Ehard with the French President Charles de Gaulle at his state visit in Munich, 1962

Even if Bavaria’s central location between European powers has provided fertile grounds for thinking and acting on a European level throughout its history, it cannot be denied that Europe took on a new significance in Bavarian politics and civil society after 1945. The notion that the future of Bavaria and Germany was as “European states” in the “United States of Europe” began to gain traction. Bavaria increasingly sought to distance itself from nationalism and the tradition of German-national and national-liberal political thought and to draw on the state’s long history of exchange with Romance-language culture.1 Unified Europe2 became a dominant idea in political discourse, and the realization of European unification in the European Communities and later the European Union created a new forum for Bavarian politics3 and civil society.4 Federalism5 was seen as the organizing principle that would enable Bavaria to maintain its relative political and cultural autonomy within the Federal Republic of Germany and the Europe of the future.6 Indeed, this conception of federalism was complex: it was embedded within Western Christian and humanist traditions7 and clearly set itself apart from Soviet Communism; but, it was also heavily influenced by a view of Bavarian history that centered on Bavarian statehood8 and by Bavaria’s long-standing reliance on the Catholic principle of subsidiarity. At the same time, Bavaria wanted to make a contribution to a renewed, united Europe that would rest on principles of individual freedom, rule of law and democracy and aim to promote international understanding and respect for the diversity of its member nations and regions while ensuring for peace and prosperity as well as trade standards and social rights.9 Many Bavarians have identified with these goals. They have travelled the “Road to Europe”10 at the state, national, and European level by taking trips, learning foreign languages, joining in on Europe-themed events, meeting people from different countries, participating in student exchange programs, volunteering in civil society organizations and sister city programs, becoming engaged in politics, church life, and the local community, working in trade, science, education, media, and the cultural sphere, and organizing cultural events. In doing so, they have created new social relations, practices, and a singularly European discourse.11

Regional historians have as yet paid little attention to the European dimensions of society, culture, economics and politics in contemporary Bavarian history,12 despite the fact that they have done considerable research on Bavaria’s relation to Europe in previous epochs13 and documented the increasing influence of Europe on Bavaria since the 1957 Treaty of Rome. Individuals and the economy have benefited from the new rights and possibilities afforded by a unified Europe, but this has also cost states and nations some of their old authority.14 Moreover, Bavaria has developed political initiatives to foster the idea of Europe both inside and outside of its own borders, becoming itself a player in the process of European unification. To name just a few examples: In September 1948, after Bavarian representatives Friedrich von Prittwitz und Gaffron (CSU) and Waldemar von Knoeringen (SPD) had returned from participating in the Congress of the European Parliamentary Union in Interlaken, Switzerland,15 Bavarian Landtag representatives of all political parties passed a resolution demanding that the Bavarian government do everything in its power to promote the idea of a United States of Europe and support its practical implementation.16 In 1946, the first party platform of the new CSU supported a European confederation and a European trade and currency union.17 Later, Bavaria helped develop the concept of a “Europe of Regions”18 and played an important role in making the subsidiarity principle part of the Treaty of Maastricht.19 Heinrich Aigner, a member of the European Parliament from Amberg, also worked tirelessly to establish the European Court of Auditors.20 Finally, Bavaria was instrumental in the passage of the so-called Europe Article (Article 23) of the German constitution in 1992,21 which lays out the obligations of the German states in matters concerning the European Union, and it modified its own constitution in light of the developments at the European level by adopting Article 3a.22 As the Euro was being introduced, two high-ranking Bavarian CSU politicians – Federal Minister of Finance Theo Waigel, who was immediately responsible for the Euro’s implementation, and, as a critic of the Euro project, Bavarian Minister President Edmund Stoiber – played opposing yet important roles that extended well beyond Bavarian borders.23 By providing a nuanced perspective on the role of states, communes and municipalities in the multi-level European system and on the processes that intertwine the various levels of state on the one hand and civil society on the other,24 regional history promises to give us a better understanding of both the changes that Bavaria underwent in the second half of the twentieth century and the more general, multi-faceted and by no means linear process of Europeanization.25

Since 2014, the Institute for Bavarian History at the Ludwig Maximilian University Munich has been working on a project called “Roads to Europe.” The project aims to analyze discourses of European unification, the steps taken to make it reality, and the various forms of criticism and resistance directed against it. Moreover, it seeks to study the changes in regional politics brought about by European unification and the effects that Europeanization has had on the lives of people living in Bavaria.26 Raphael Gerhardt is doing research on agricultural policy, which was delegated to the authority of the European Economic Community – and, later, the European Union – to a high degree at a very early stage; as the Bavarian economy was traditionally heavily reliant on agriculture, Bavaria had to undertake a number of measures to conform to the new supranational rules and regulations.27 Rudolf Himpsl is studying the history of Bavaria’s international trade relations, which were increasingly shaped by the EEC after the Treaty of Rome was signed. His research suggests that considerable reservations surfaced over the fact that only six states were part of the EEC.28 Thomas Jehle is doing work on Bavaria’s interstate and international cultural policies, which sought to support both Bavaria’s autonomy as well as Germany’s reintegration into Europe and the international community.29 Claudia Schemmer is seeking to understand the effects that Europeanization and internationalization have had on rural Bavaria by conducting a case study on the Traunstein region. More generally, her work aims to provide insights into the ways municipalities and civil society have influenced one another in their efforts to support the European idea.30 Laura Ulrich is conducting research on politicians who have entered European politics in order to support the project of European unification as well as to promote Bavarian interests and perspectives.31 Finally, Alexander Wegmaier is analyzing Bavaria’s policies towards Europe, the various conceptions of and discourses on European politics represented and promoted by political parties, unions and civil society initiatives, and the ways these groups have sought to achieve their agendas.32 The articles collected here thus shed light on just a few aspects of the multi-faceted research sponsored by the project “Roads to Europe.”

Notes

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  • Gehler, Michael and Silvio Vietta, Europa—Europäisierung—Europäistik: Neue wissenschaftliche Ansätze, Methoden und Inhalte (Wien, 2010).

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  • Gerhardt, Raphael, Agrarmodernisierung und europäische Integration: Das bayerische Landwirtschaftsministerium als politischer Akteur 1945-1975 (München, 2019).

  • Glaser, Hubert, Kurfürst Max Emanuel: Bayern und Europa um 1700 (München, 1976).

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Originally published as

Ferdinand Kramer: “‘Wege nach Europa’ – Forschungen zur neuesten Geschichte Bayerns” in Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte (2015), 1-6.