Citizens, Soldiers and National Armies: Military Service in France and Germany, 1789-1830 (War, History and Politics)

Citizens, Soldiers and National Armies

Compulsory military service implies a contradiction: conceived as an element and a guarantee of the citizens’ active participation in politics, it is at the same time an institution of social discipline that separates the citizens from the civil society. This tension between citizenship and discipline thus poses concretely the problem of political liberty. While being egalitarian in its principle, conscription concerns only the male parts of the population. The exclusion of women echoes their exclusion from political rights. Moreover, the universality of the obligation is in constant tension with particular class-interests. Rather than opposing a French model of republican conscription to a Prussian militarism, this book tries to show how Prussia has replied dialectically to the revolutionary institution of mass violence. The French Revolution and the Prussian Reforms are thus conceived of as two moments within a single process which is intrinsically transnational. The book seeks to confront the philosophical problem of political liberty – as it was formulated most prominently by Rousseau and Kant – to history and relies on official sources, philosophical texts, as well as ego-documents, which are subjective articulations of political modernity. Thomas Hippler is a research associate in the Leverhulme Programme on the Changing Character of War at Oxford University, and an EmmyNoether fellow of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (German Research Foundation).

War, history and politics series Series Editor: Jeremy Black

Trade, Empire and British Foreign Policy, 1689–1815 Politics of a commercial state Jeremy Black Citizens, Soldiers and National Armies Military service in France and Germany, 1789–1830 Thomas Hippler

Citizens, Soldiers and National Armies Military service in France and Germany, 1789–1830 Thomas Hippler

French edition first published 2006 by Presses Universitaires de France English edition first published 2008 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2006 Presses Universitaires de France © 2008 Thomas Hippler This book was first published in French with the title Soldats et Citoyens. Naissance du service militaire en France et en Prisse. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Hippler, Thomas, 1972– Citizens, soldiers and national armies : military service in France and Germany, 1789–1830/by Thomas Hippler. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Draft–France. 2. France–Armed Forces–Recruiting, enlistment, etc. 3. France–History, Military–1789–1815. 4. France–History, Military–19th century. 5. Draft–Germany–Prussia. 6. Prussia (Germany)–Armed Forces–Recruiting, enlistment, etc. 7. Prussia (Germany)–History, Military–18th century. 8. Prussia (Germany)–History, Military–19th century. I. Title. UB345.F8H56 2007 355.2
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ISBN10: 0-415-40979-9 (hbk) ISBN10: 0-203-08911-1 (ebk)

ISBN13: 978-0-415-40979-7 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-08911-8 (ebk)

für Petra und Klaus

Contents

Acknowledgements

ix

Introduction: citizenship and discipline

1

PART I

The French moment 1

State construction and recruitment policy in the ancien régime

11 13

From feudal recruitment to touting 13 The militia (and how to escape from it) 18 The soldier and the state 23 2

The Enlightenment and military service

28

Virtue-politics 28 Rousseau and the military: a philosophy of civic practice 33 Citizen-soldiers 37 3

Popular arming and military service in the French Revolution

46

The formation of the National Guard 46 The 1789–90 debate on the ‘military constitution’ 53 Armed forces and volunteer levies in 1791–3 56 Citizenship or discipline? 62 Unifying the public force 69 4

The revolutionary state and the ‘nation in arms’ Quatre-vingt-treize 78 ‘Death is a reminder of equality’: the self-creation of the people 83

77

viii Contents Abstraction and identification 89 Military experiences 97 Constructing a popular state 102 Transition: technologies of the state from France to Prussia

110

PART II

The Prussian moment

115

5

117

The military, society, and the state in old regime Prussia State construction and military duties 117 The establishment of the canton system 121 Social implementation 126 Criticism of the Prussian military system 131

6

German idealism and military service

140

The challenge of revolutionary war to German culture 140 Interpreting the French Revolution 144 Kant’s ‘heroic humiliation’ 149 Fichte’s inner frontier 155 7

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state

163

Empowering the nation 163 The principles of the military reform 168 Creating a body politic 172 Principles of stratification 178 The path to national war 182 8

National war and conscription

190

Organizing an insurrection 190 Constitution and terror 196 Popular arming 204 Conscription 209 Conclusion

213

Notes Bibliography Index

218 231 253

Acknowledgements

The present book is the revised version of a PhD dissertation which I submitted in December 2002 to the Department of History and Civilization of the European University Institute in Florence, under the title Citizenship and Discipline: Popular Arming and Military Service in Revolutionary France and Reform in Prussia. The Leverhulme Programme on ‘The Changing Character of War’ at Oxford University gave me the opportunity to revise the manuscript for publication. I would like to express my gratitude towards Bo Stråth for his kindness, confidence, advice and encouragement. I am also indebted to Étienne Balibar who encouraged me to work on issues that are perpendicular to academic disciplines, in order to critically think our historical present, as well as to Annie Crépin for her advice and her criticism on earlier drafts of the manuscript. The discussions in Florence and Berlin with Peter Becker, Laurence Fontaine, Wolfgang Hardtwig, and Peter Wagner also contributed greatly to the elaboration of this work. I would like to thank the following institutions for financial support: the European University Institute in Florence, the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), the German Historical Institute in Paris, the Centre for Comparative History of Europe at the Free University in Berlin, the École Normale Supérieure de Lettres et Sciences Humaines in Lyon, the University of California at Berkeley, Oxford University and the EmmyNoether Programme of the German Research Foundation (DFG). The library of the European University Institute and its interlibrary loan service have also been of invaluable help, thanks to Serge Noiret and Marcello Scocci. Thanks furthermore to Elizabeth Stone for her careful reading of the manuscript. Friends and colleagues provided help, suggestions, comments, and criticisms, thus contributing to this work. My deepest thanks to Jérémie Barthas, Axel Berger, Ralph Blessing, Chiara Bottici, Benoît Challand, Xavier Châtel, Sophie Collombet, Alexandra Couto, Augusta Dimou, Axel Dopjans, Isik Gurleyen, Alix Héricord, Claudia Jansen, Alois Loeßl, Élise Marrou, Valérie Mathevon, Frédéric Mérand, Roberto Nigro, Charlotte Nordmann, Germinal Pinalie, Hélène Quiniou, Julie Ringelheim,

x Acknowledgements Emmanuelle Rosso, Uwe Steinhoff, Hew Strachan, Savina Tarsitano, Luisa Tasca, Spiros Tegos, Jérôme Vidal and Martin Winter. Finally, a special mention to my parents, whose unconditional support throughout my life is certainly the most precious contribution.

Introduction Citizenship and discipline

Military service has been one of the most essential yet contradictory institutions regarding the integration of the individual into the modern national state. Its essential ambiguity stems from its dual character and the inseparable connection between the two conflicting features it exemplifies. On the one hand, military service is a civic duty and an expression of political and civic rights. If we accept Max Weber’s definition of the state as the monopoly of legitimate violence (Weber 1968: 56, 65), this link between military service and citizenship becomes clear: the basic component of the state, that is the monopoly of legitimate violence, is exercised by the sovereign people. Interpretations that stress the democratic impact of universal military service (which have given rise to wide-ranging political debates in continental Europe) thus become conceivable. Compulsory conscription, on the other hand, implies another aspect that is difficult to reconcile with democratic citizenship. While doing military service some of the conscript’s fundamental rights are restricted; military education aims at developing a respect for authority and hierarchical subordination – in other words, the formation of an ‘authoritarian character’ (Adorno 1973) through an institutionalized social discipline. This may certainly be described as ‘a total institution’ since it aims at total control of the conscript’s whole person. In this sense military service resembles a psychiatric asylum, prison or monastery rather than a democratic institution (Auvray 1998). But if the institution is thus ‘total’, it displays a rather uncommon feature. In contrast to other total institutions – and, in particular, in contrast to professional military forces – a conscripted army aims not only to establish a social micro-cosmos within itself but to diffuse its model of social organization across society through the impact of generalized military education. Is military service thus a ‘total institution’? Perhaps, but only in a certain sense. Since it seeks to disseminate its model of total inclusion of the individual towards the society at large, conscription can be categorized as an even more total institution – an institution that is not only total in itself but seeks to expand its model of social organization to the society at large. This interpretation matches the historiographical trend of

2 Introduction social militarization that was applied to German history after 1945.1 There is, however, another possible interpretation. If it is clear that there is a close interrelation between a conscripted army and society as a whole, another reading is possible, which sees the army’s social relations shaped by the norms in practice in society at large: rather than a militarization of society, there would thus be a socialization of the military. In other words, an approach to military service in terms of total institutions leads to the fundamental dilemma, that the nature of conscription is essentially twofold (see Cohen 1985). Military service implies at the same time citizenship and subjectivation, civic rights and their authoritarian denial, discipline and political autonomy, political participation and hierarchical subordination. Stressing this point of view leads us to consider conscription as a contradictio in adjecto in itself; the institution denies what it affirms, and affirms what it denies. However, is it not possible to consider this contradiction as an example of a more fundamental doubt about the nature of the political institutions of the modern state? Is it not possible to find similar contradictions in other institutional domains and in other fields of social practice (see Wagner 1994)? Would it not be appropriate, therefore, to consider this contradiction as but one particularly concentrated practical expression of a much vaster field of investigation? In fact, a look at the theoretical interpretative models offered for the development of the institutions of the modern state can be striking. Theorists such as Michel Foucault conceive of political modernity as a set of disciplinarian institutions that regulate various aspects of people’s lives according to procedures of anti-communitarian individualization, administrative control and bodily coercion. Modern institutions – be it hospitals, schools, prisons, barracks, factories or others – thus aim fundamentally and essentially at the individual’s submission to discipline. In reducing the margins of individual and collective liberties, the advance of modern institutions has been activated by a refinement of power technologies of micro-physical dimensions (Foucault 1977). In short, modern society and the modern state are prisons on a larger scale. It is hard to believe that the same set of objectives is described in reading that the development of modern societies opened the way for a self-determined social practice where solidarity goes hand in hand with the self-realization of the individual. The historical shift from pre-modern to modern society thus increased citizens’ access to education and political participation and choice of lifestyle by reducing arbitrariness in juridical matters, the necessity of physical work, and material insecurity (see Habermas 1990: 336–67). A theorist such as Jürgen Habermas describes a threefold process of modernity: the reflexivity of culture, the universalization of values and norms, and an increase of individual self-determination. The advent of modern society thus promotes the preservation of traditional communitarian links while at the same time encouraging abstract and universal procedures in the discursive formation of the will. Moreover, social coherence is

Introduction 3 increased through solidarity. We are thus, once more, confronted by a dual description of political modernity, the one stressing its negative and the other its positive attributes. How should the fact that modern societies and states simultaneously diplay such conflicting features be interpreted? How should we read this ambivalence? Can these dichotomies be avoided? Before pursuing the question of the ambigious relationship between the state and the individual, another consideration needs to be taken into account. Modern states historically have been constructed as national states, which means that this relationship has to embrace a reference to the ‘nation’. We therefore have a threefold relationship between the individual, the state and the nation. Applied to military service, this signifies, in the first place, an attachment of the individual to the state and to the nation. This attachment goes beyond mere allegiance; rather, it reaches a properly existential level, since the performance of military service implies the citizen’s potential death. However, where the citizen is obliged to serve the country, this thesis can be inverted: simultaneously, the modern state can be perceived as the expression of the general will of the civic nation. If the conscript belongs existentially to the state, the state conversely belongs to the conscript. And this mutual relationship of belonging and service involves the exercise of sovereign rights. From the perspective of the state, military service was, since the French Revolution, in essence an historic reaction to popular arming. The revolutionary appropriation of the potential of physical violence by rebels was thus aufgehoben in a new conception of the state, the nation and the people. Popular arming was not cancelled but channelled, controlled and even encouraged by the state and its authorities. The study of the historical transition from revolutionary popular arming to state-controlled military service thus clearly demonstrates the interdependence of violence and order, insurrection and institution, and of ‘constituted’ and ‘constituting’ powers. According to this schema, the idea and practice of popular war, which emerged with the institution of conscription, can be perceived as an externalization of an underlying model of civil war. The nation as an imagined community and expression of the citizens’ collective will was the necessary link for the integration of the individual and the state. Clearly, this account of the origins of modern military service has been inspired by theoretical positions in contemporary continental political philosophy.2 In this respect, to accept the essential ambiguity of military service involves above all retaining an objective distance from Foucault’s analysis of modern society. His description of modern societies as a matrix of apparatuses of social discipline has inspired brilliant historical scholarship, but did not go unquestioned. The principal objection to Foucault is that the development of the modern state also implied another moment which cannot be ascribed to the exercise of power through relations of social discipline. The criticism should be taken seriously. Foucault’s account of discipline displays decisive shortcomings. His demarche

4 Introduction actually hampers any possible understanding of the essential feature of the modern state, commonly termed popular sovereignty. Furthermore, within the boundaries of the conceptual framework of social discipline alone it would be difficult to account for the more substantial social and economic rights provided by the state. It seems, however, that Foucault was himself aware of the deficiencies of his concept of discipline. This is certainly the reason why he later abandoned this model, centring his analysis on new theoretical assumptions, such as ‘biopolitics’ and ‘technologies of the self’. However, it seems that neither concept is very helpful with regard to the issue of popular sovereignty. Indeed, Foucault himself explicitly rejects the concept of sovereignty as stemming from a solely juridical understanding of power. The inconveniences of this approach can very clearly be observed on the empirical level of historical investigation, and the French Revolution is certainly the most striking example. Even if his writings of the 1960s are essentially structured around the Revolution as a chronological divide, the Revolution is hardly taken into account as such. In his study of social discipline through the system of punishment in France, the Revolution tends to fade away into a mere moment in the continuous development of the mechanisms of disciplinarian control between the second half of the eighteenth and the first third of the nineteenth century. But was the French Revolution really this ‘grand and pathetic event’ that never took place? Was it only an insignificant ideological reflection of the processes of administrative centralisation? Linked to the question of discipline, another question has to be raised: was the absolutist discipline of the eighteenth century really the same as the ‘modern’ discipline of the nineteenth? Is it not precisely their relation to the underlying concept of sovereignty that marks the difference? These considerations need more refinement. Does the historian not run the risk of losing the complexity of historical developments by working with grand concepts such as social discipline, citizenship, or popular sovereignty?3 And, even worse, what if these concepts turn out to be inadequate for the analysis? Perhaps the results of the investigation would be completely different if other fundamental concepts were used and the outcome of the historical research would thus be nothing more than an increased empirical density of its own conceptual presuppositions. It has to be acknowledged that there is no easy way out of this dilemma, because our concepts stem from history and history is constructed through our concepts. And this is the reason why there is no other way of apprehending our historical being than through a continual movement from the one to the other. History without concepts is blind; concepts without history are empty. The genealogical approach tries to operate in the mode of incessant historical deconstruction. Its ideal is an ‘immanent criticism’, not starting from a superior standpoint but proceeding by reconstructing historical and conceptual necessities. And it is precisely

Introduction 5 through the awareness of these necessities that it might open up margins of liberty: the writing of history would thus be an ethical endeavour as understood by Spinoza. Accordingly, the attempt to understand some features of the modern state through the historical analysis of one of its institutions also involves a philosophical concern. It is inspired, in other words, by Foucault’s fruitful concept of grasping ‘philosophical fragments on historical sites’. As it is an institution that integrates the individual directly into the sphere of political ‘power-circulation’, military service provides an ideal field for a nominalistic analysis of history. Rather than making use of grand concepts such as social discipline, citizenship or popular sovereignty, these have to be deconstructed. This means above all that the conscript’s experiences, feelings and thoughts have to be taken into consideration (see Roynette 2000) in order to be able to tackle the political dichotomies at the individual level. This genealogy essentially consists of a downward movement towards the historical experiences that are to be reconstructed as precisely and concretely as possible, but without eluding the essential theoretical problem. The selection of source materials is a direct consequence of these considerations. Three types of sources have been used according to the three levels of the investigation – even if, in practice, at times no clear boundaries can be drawn between these three types of sources. There are, on the macro-level, official discourses, such as ordinances, decrees, laws, memoranda written by military and civil officials, leaflets and newspaper articles. These are completed, on the microlevel, by writings through which the subjective impact of the institution can be addressed, such as conscripts’ diaries and letters, and also songs, plays and sermons. The third level can be described as meta-level, since the analysis aims at deciphering the social sense with which the institution was invested or that provided the conceptual background. Such sources can be philosophical and literary texts, and also parliamentary debates and memoranda. The interaction of these three types of sources establishes a relationship between political philosophy, administrative measures, and individual and collective experiences and formations of mentalities. The interaction of history and philosophy that has been the conceptual basis of the research is mirrored in practice by the interaction of historical and philosophical sources (or, more precisely, by philosophers’ texts) in its carrying out; the ‘being in-between’ of the general approach is reflected by the dual character of the sources; the philosophical attempt to look for theoretical fragments through an historical investigation is echoed, on the historical level, by taking the cultural meaning of social processes into account. Thus the approach is clearly prescribed into attempts to rewrite history in cultural terms. It has been widely recognized, in fact, that social transformation processes are inseparably linked to constructions and reconstructions of social ‘meaning’ (Daniel 2002). Human practices are

6 Introduction always significant and cannot be understood independently of their ‘meaning’. To give an example: it is obviously not the same thing to serve as a pressed soldier or to accomplish one’s civic or patriotic duty through military service, although the practice may, from another angle, be strictly the same – the same education and training and the same forms of subordination differ radically according to their meaning. Practice and meaning are thus but two different points of view of the same object. Inversely, of course, this meaning is constructed through social practices and has to be addressed as such. As a result, the conflict between social history and the history of ideas has to be rejected as a false debate: either approach appears, in fact, as a reduction of its object to one of two inseparably connected facets. The general approach can be best described as a ‘chapter of a cultural history of the state-form’: the twofold movement of historical transformations of social practices and of social construction of historical meanings that can be grasped through the history of military service was essentially centred on the mediating role of the modern state and the particular forms of political rationality which it inspired, expressed and epitomized. It would be erroneous, however, to confine historical movement to this political rationality alone. If we do not accept the idea of a rationalistic transparency of social relationships, we have to admit that social life relies in its very essence on imaginary relations nourished by passions and bodily impressions. However, these relations, these passions and this political commitment of the body are always related to actual individuals and involve a certain type of subjectivity. The role of military service in the process of state construction thus also implied the development of a certain kind of political subjectivity. The term ‘subject’ (and related concepts, such as subjectivation and subjection) is actually particularly useful in this respect because it covers the two contradictory aspects of military service. Being a subject means two things. First, being under someone else’s control or power; second, it is the precondition for any autonomous action. So it seems that the history of military service involves of necessity some account of modern subjectivity. Beyond the dichotomy of submission vs autonomy, the genealogy of the advent of modern political subjectivity implies also a psycho-political dimension. It seems as if modern politics especially involves a psychological moment where individuals are compelled to identify as a certain ‘self’, and a certain ‘us’, in order to acquire the status of subjects. The question of the nature of the models of subjectivity with which the individuals identify themselves thus has to be raised. In other words, the threefold relationship between the nation, the state and the individual mentioned above means that the identity categories of nation, class and gender have be taken into account. Accordingly, the historical analysis of military service has to consider the development of a sense of belonging to the national community through the incorporation of its symbols in military education, ceremonies, and through the simple but striking fact that the whole person of

Introduction 7 the conscript is subordinated to the military machine, implying his potential violent death ‘for the nation and the fatherland’. The concept of universal military service implies, furthermore, the egalitarian idea that military and civic duties are the same for everyone. At the same time, there has been a constant tension between particular class interests and the claims for equality. These frictions become palpable through hierarchical privileges, exemptions, and regional or socio-professional exceptions and thus display the tensions between civic universality and particular groupspecific interests. But the proclaimed equality affected only half the population, since any female participation was ruled out. The military as ‘school of manly virtues’ such as courage, subordination and honour was thus one of the social settings in which gender difference was produced and reproduced on an institutionalized level both in a psychological and in a political sense: women’s exclusion from civic rights echoed their exemption from military service. Thus, the definition and construction of citizenship was biased according to ethnicity and nationality, class, social conflict and gender divisions. Universal participation and integration in civic matters were linked to more particular identity constructions which invested the very definition of the civic universal. In this sense, this latter may be considered as an imaginary construction which aims at the universalization of a certain particular ‘us’. However, it is also clear that the norms of the universal reflect back upon the formation of these very identities. With its implementation, military service became one of the most pervasive institutions of the modern state. As such, it is part of a series of transformation processes which in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries profoundly altered European states and societies by instituting social and national states, and forms an integral part of our political modernity and an expression of its fundamental ambiguities. The history of military service can be considered as an element of our historical present, and the obvious fact that the institution is currently becoming history is, perhaps, only a part of more fundamental transformations that affect our historical being and in particular the entity which has been the primary object of politics for the last two centuries, the national state. The apparently comparative approach stems from these considerations. The kind of historical object cannot be constructed within a model of national containers providing a spatial setting for national histories that come to pass in a temporal continuum. Abandoning the ‘brothel of historicism’ (Walter Benjamin) on the temporal level also necessitates, on the spatial level, blowing up the prisons of nationality that confine us. Otherwise some quite simple historical evidence would be lost: in the longue durée the military and civic constitutions in France and Germany have mutually determined each other through a constant historical exchange. The institution of the Brandenburg standing army in the seventeenth century was not only inspired by administrative arrangements taken from France, but organized to a large extent by French Protestant émigrés. France imported

8 Introduction back essential elements of Prussian military organization after the Seven Years War; and these military reforms were one crucial element in the success of the French revolutionary armies. In the early nineteenth century Prussia imported, and subsequently developed, the French institution of conscription. The introduction of universal military service in France after 1871 was explicitly inspired by the Prussian example. With this in mind, it becomes clear that the historical object to be considered is in itself transnational. The approach, thus only superficially comparative, is in reality transnational: the emphasis is precisely not the comparison – and thus the antithetical dimension of this shared history – but the continuity of a single process of institution in which Prussia has dialectically responded to the French revolutionary politics of mass violence. Rather than two distinct models that could be compared to each other, we are confronted by two moments in a single transnational process. As for chronological boundaries, it was arguably during the European Sattelzeit of the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century that the foundations of our political–philosophical modernity emerged (Koselleck 1972: xv). The integration of the individual into the sphere of the national state is conducted in two steps that correspond to two founding moments in French and German national histories: the first refers to the French Revolution, the second to Prussian reforms. However, in spite of their being inserted into two distinct national histories, these two moments are nevertheless considered according to their historical and logical continuity. Reforms in Prussia are thus, on the one hand, part of an internal development of state construction in Germany and, on the other, a reaction to the profound alteration of the relationship between state and individual that took place with the French Revolution. They aim precisely at instituting in Prussia a national state and citizenship. Within these parameters, the argument is presented in three steps. The advent of the modern state with its mechanisms of civic inclusion is in both cases prepared by the setting up of a framework of centralized state power. The essential historical features in this respect were the defeat of the centrifugal tendencies of feudality and the centralization of state apparatuses, among them armed forces. The argument relies essentially on the existing literature (Chapter 1). The second step concerns the properly cultural sphere of production of social meaning. In the French case, this means analysing the link constructed by Enlightenment thought between popular sovereignty and the integration of the individual into the national community through civic practices (Chapter 2). For the third step, these two preparatory lines of thought are combined and the argument developed with regard to the French Revolution (Chapter 3). The last chapter of the first part then tries to evaluate the political and conceptual difficulties of this combination. The second part, on Prussia, is arranged symmetrically. In the first place, the old-regime forms of conscription according to the Kantonsystem

Introduction 9 are paralleled with Prussian state construction. As its French pendant, the corresponding chapter relies on the existing historiographical work (Chapter 5). In a second step, the consequences of Prussia’s breakdown in front of revolutionary and Napoleonic France are analysed according to the cultural meaning conferred on these historic events by German thinkers (Chapter 6). The practical consequences drawn from this historic lesson during the era of the Prussian reform will be the object of the last step (Chapters 7 and 8).

Part I

The French moment

1

State construction and recruitment policy in the ancien régime

No one but the king has the right to raise troops. This principle, acknowledged since the reign of François I, was reaffirmed by Henri III in the ordinance of 26 December 1583. The latter may be considered the fundamental ‘recruitment charter’ of the ancien régime (Girard 1922: 14). Anybody who raised troops without explicit royal permission was to be treated as a rebel and a criminal (Briquet 1761: vol. 4, 282–3). The central power monopolized the means of violence and outlawed any attempt to create rival armed forces: in France the construction of a centralized state went hand in hand with the nationalization of the armed forces. Private armies and the personal possession of weapons gradually disappeared, to the advantage of the central power. The process of state construction, however, is not one-dimensional. Monarchies have to rely on particular social groups in order to enforce their power, and the consequent alliance of central state power and particular interest groups creates, in turn, a socially unstable equilibrium between contradictory forces. In the case of eighteenth-century France, recruitment was extremely complex since different and even conflicting practices coexisted over a long period. Three different stages of recruitment policy, however, can be distinguished: feudal recruitment, racolage (‘touting’), militia call-up and national recruitment. However, chronological boundaries between these stages were by no means clear and are distinguished here only for the sake of clarity.

From feudal recruitment to touting Despite the 1583 ordinance mentioned above, the king did not raise troops himself. Characteristically, after having deprived the aristocracy of the right to keep armed forces, the central power delegated staffing back to the aristocracy (André 1906). The military administration charged colonels – generally nobles – with the raising and maintenance of regiments. Thus, in principle, the central power did not provide regiments with soldiers, enrolment being the task of officers who were virtually proprietors of their corps. In other words, the state monopolized the armed

14 The French moment forces by sanctioning already existing social practices. The new colonels were generally officers from the royal guards or young aristocrats whose parents were sufficiently rich and influential in the royal court.4 The king sometimes contributed to the costs of the levy, although not always, which meant that the colonel had to be quite wealthy. Money and not qualification was thus often the decisive criterion for becoming an army officer. Once the colonel was nominated, the central military administration then authorized the regiment to sojourn and enlist in a given town, where it received food, arms and shelter. The colonel had the right to choose his captains and other subaltern officers. The rest of the employment procedure for newly created regiments did not differ from the regular recruitment of existing units. In the eighteenth century, the year was divided into two semesters, the summer, from April to October, when military operations took place, and the winter – le semestre – when the troops rested and staffing decisions were made. In existing units, approximately one-third of officers, sometimes accompanied by soldiers, went on leave to recruit during this time (Briquet 1761: vol. 8, 23). Each recruit received a sum of money from the officer, the so-called prime d’engagement.5 The central administration established a legal framework for this kind of hiring: first, enlistment had to be voluntary; second, the recruit should not be already engaged in another unit; and third, he should be physically able to serve in the army. The first of these conditions, that consent had to be given freely, was gradually enforced from the end of the seventeenth century. Before this time the government cared little about the complaints of those who were drafted by force (Esquieu 1911: 28). In order to prevent officers from stealing each other’s recruits and the recruits from taking money from several officers, it was also important that the soldier had not previously contracted an engagement with another officer and for another regiment: both the recruiter and the recruit were threatened by severe punishment if it became clear that the soldier had contracted more than once. The officer was fined, imprisoned for two years and dismissed, and the soldier sentenced to death as a deserter (Briquet 1761: vol. 3, 177). The third condition, that the soldier be physically capable of serving in the army, was less difficult to enforce because the officers were interested in having suitable men in their units. A typical case for feudal recruitment is that of the young aristocrat Mercoyrol de Beaulieu, who, when he was made captain in 1746, returned immediately to his home town in Viviers. He noted in his diary: ‘One mile away from the town, a nice fellow said to me that the whole town has been happy to hear about my being captain, and that my father, since I told him about it, has found three beautiful recruits, all of them from the town’ (Mercoyrol de Beaulieu 1915: 78–9.) Enrolment was largely a family affair, the local lord and his relatives often recruiting soldiers they knew personally. In the Calvados region, in northern France, the Lady d’Audrieu established a kind of recruitment agency in her castle, where she enrolled peasants – sometimes against their will –

Recruitment policy in the ancien régime

15

for her son’s company.6 On their staffing tours, colonels and captains were accompanied by lieutenants and sergeants who helped to find potential soldiers among their friends, acquaintances and neighbours. Soldiers too were interested in recruiting, however, because not only did their workload decrease once the unit was complete but they were also paid for bringing in recruits. Recruitment was a private contract between a soldier and an officer, and relied on existing feudal bonds. Written contracts of recruitment were always made in the name of the captain, not in the name of the king or the army as an institution. Even more significant was the fact that officers – depite existing rules (Briquet 1761: vol. 3, 191–2) – rarely made any distinctions between their soldiers and their servants: serving in the army meant essentially serving a master: since the unit was the officer’s property, soldiers naturally considered that their contract ended when the commander left the military. In short, until the eighteenth century, military service was one element in the web of relations that characterized the personal domination of feudal society. This kind of personal recruitment had certain advantages. The military hierarchy and social structure exactly reflected the social relations between local lords and their peasants. Since they knew each other personally they were bound by a system of mutual obligation, and solidarity within the military unit was enhanced by preexisting communitarian links. As a consequence, the desertion rate was comparatively low. At the end of the ancien régime, each soldier was legally obliged to serve for at least eight years, but in fact many soldiers were permitted to leave their units much earlier. If a soldier was needed in his community, the officer, being part of the same community, often had no choice but to let him go: the fact that soldiers and officers came from the same background helped to adapt military needs to those of civil society. However, such feudal recruitment also had definite shortcomings. In times of war it appeared to be impossible to significantly increase the strength of the army without recourse to other methods of enrolment: having exhausted the resources of personal recruitment, officers were forced to enlist soldiers outside their communities. The difference between feudal recruitment and touting can be summarized in the following way: in the case of feudal recruitment the soldier was enlisted by an officer within a community, whereas in the case of touting he was hired as a soldier for the army. In contrast to feudal recruitment procedures, officers usually touted outside their home towns. Often they hired a drummer and invited ‘young men interested in glory and money’ to join the army, but later in the eighteenth century, recruiters tended to paste up posters promising a life full of adventure, a beautiful uniform, glory and plenty of money – which seems to reflect the fact that touting had become more difficult (Girard 1922: 76; Corvisier 1964: 180; examples of posters can be found in Depréaux 1911). In contrast to feudal recruitment, touting normally took place in large

16 The French moment cities, where the recruits were often migrants who had recently arrived from the countryside (Corvisier 1964: 186). Generally the recruiter called the potential recruits to the hôtel where he was lodging or into a nearby cabaret. The contract was considered to be binding when recruiter and recruit drank together to the king’s good health (a procedure that become famous in literary descriptions, as in Voltaire’s Candide where Candide was enrolled in this way into the Bulgarian army), a practice that was tolerated by the administration and legal authorities (Girard 1922: 78–9). Similarly, anyone who accepted money from the recruitment officer was considered to be enlisted. In a report to the administration in Toulouse on the subject of a contested engagement, La Lancette, a recruitment officer in an infantry regiment, gives a vivid description of how touting was conducted: I approached Jacques Gravier asking him if he was not tempted by the service. He told me that he was not, but, having some money in a purse, I offered him the purse I held in my hands, asking him if this money and the purse were pleasurable to him. He answered immediately that he would take the purse if I gave it to him. I did not hesitate for a moment in giving it to him and he received it even very gallantly, and, having got it, turned around to walk away, but, having seen him make a couple of steps, I was immediately at his side asking him if he was going far away with this purse, and he answered that he would walk away and so I took him by the arm to take him out drinking.7 In this way Jacques Gravier became a soldier. However, as incidents of this kind took place more frequently, the population became increasingly suspicious of recruitment officers, whose jobs, in consequence, became more difficult. The government acknowledged the necessity of such practices, and intervened only if mistreatment threatened to damage the image of the army to a point where staffing became impossible. If the recruit complained, he was normally locked up for the time of the enquiry and released only if he could prove that he was enlisted by force or by manifest fraud (Girard 1922: 89). The recruiters, on the other hand, did not have an easy task either: for example, Captain de Roussy, a staffing officer in the Gardes Françaises between 1783 and 1786 whose correspondence has been examined by André Corvisier (Corvisier 1964: 180–9), lost, for various reasons, five of the 21 men enlisted during the 1784–5 semestre. In contrast to personal and feudal staffing, touting allowed the number of enrolments to rise. However, this turned out to be problematic, too. The more difficulty the recruiters had in finding soldiers, the more they came to compete with each other and so the more they were tempted to use violence or tricks in order to find recruits. During times of war, and especially during the War of the Spanish Succession, the need for soldiers

Recruitment policy in the ancien régime

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was so great that people were literally abducted into service.8 A contemporary memorandum to the Secretary of State complained about this mistreatment: Without any order they enter houses by night to abduct . . . demolishing and tearing down doors . . . and seize by force anybody they want to, beating them with their swords or sticks and firing with their guns, handcuffing and chaining them up like galley slaves without caring for anybody. (Boislisle 1881: vol. 3, 1003) Entire regions were terrorized by recruiters in this way. In the countryside in particular there was often little difference between robbers and recruiters. In cities, officers seeking to seize men by force usually operated in secret, pretending to be hiring a workforce. However, it was not possible to integrate newly captured soldiers immediately into army, for they protested, complained or deserted. First, they had to be made to accept their plight, and so officers tended to have them confined until they accepted and signed the recruitment contract. Generally, army officers had the right to detain potential deserters in prison, a right they could easily abuse.9 Arbitrary imprisonment was in fact a widely practised method of solving social conflict under the ancien régime, and varied according to the social status of the prisoner. Despite attempts by the central authorities to reduce arbitrary conditions of detention in the military, the army successfully defended its prerogative, claiming that to abandon it would be to deny an important means of dealing with internal conflict. Nonetheless, many recruiters preferred holding their future soldiers in secret dungeons, called fours (ovens) (Vaultier 1950). Detention was intended to break the prisoner’s resistance, force him to sign the recruitment contract and resign himself to serving in the army. It is reported that there were 28 fours in Paris alone by the end of the seventeenth century. As the methods of touting became less violent in the eighteenth century, the number of dungeons diminished, but they were still mentioned in Sébastien Mercier’s Tableau de Paris (Corvisier 1964: 186). This kind of practice was obviously not legal, and the civil administration periodically renewed decrees prohibiting impressments and the use of violence. The military authorities, on the other hand, generally tolerated this kind of activity and perpetrators were rarely punished. Moreover, if recruiters were found guilty, they were often released after less then one month of imprisonment (Girard 1922: 89, 130). Confronted with these difficulties, recruiters resorted to enlisting prisoners.10 The government was torn between two considerations: it acknowledged the need for soldiers, but it repeatedly rejected the idea that prisoners should be enrolled since it regarded service in the army as an honour, not a punishment:

18 The French moment The obligation to serve the king has never been and will never be a chastisement in itself; it is not intended and not characterized in this way. This is why the obligation to serve in the armed forces is considered a form of clemency for those who are condemned.11 In practice, the decision as to whether or not to enlist a prisoner was made by the local authority and depended on the nature of the misdemeanour. Debtors and Protestants were usually not enlisted, in the case of the former because of the economic damage that could occur if debtors were not suitably punished, and in the case of the latter because the authorities considered they might desert and emigrate. In general, and especially in the first half of the eighteenth century, all prisoners who were considered possible escapees, such as deserters, thieves and foreigners, were excluded from employment in the army. On the other hand, beggars, the ‘rootless of the kingdom’, homeless persons and paupers (who in the eighteenth century were generally kept in hôpitaux généraux) were widely acknowledged to be suitable recruits. In 1705 the authorities of Lyons systematically arrested all vagabonds and libertines for enlistment.12 In the larger cities, and particularly in Paris, the police carried out raids in order to seize and enrol such individuals.13 In wartime, when the need for soldiers was even greater, the government did not always respect its own principles and sent criminals directly into the army. In 1712, at the end of the War of the Spanish Succession, the Ministry of War enrolled into the French army in Spain 1,500 galley slaves from the port of Marseilles (Girard 1922: 155). The enlistment of criminals was clearly pushing the limits of touting as a form of recruitment. In both feudal recruitment and touting, staffing was the personal responsibility of the commander of the fighting unit, governmental responsibility being limited to appointing the colonel and sometimes, but not necessarily, a financial contribution towards staffing costs. By drafting criminals, however, the government became directly involved in recruitment. The practice of sending prisoners into the army is thus a change in paradigm and an essential step towards the greater centralization of recruitment in eighteenth-century France.

The militia (and how to escape from it) The royal militia was another military institution that came under the direct control of central government. Established as a regular institution under Louvois in November 1688, the militia stemmed from a longstanding tradition that had been in existence, in various guises, since the Middle Ages, and which consisted of peasants mobilized under the command of the lord in wartime (Corvisier 1976: 36–58). The militia, in the traditional sense of the word, thus involved the duty to fight for the defence of the community in case of danger, but it did not involve regular military service since the men were disbanded at the end of hostilities.

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However, some militia institutions – such as the milices bourgeoises, formed by the inhabitants of towns – existed until the end of the eighteenth century. Considered as an expression of a city’s political liberty, the first purpose of these forces (which consisted only of bourgeois citizens), was to maintain public order. In practice, however, burghers increasingly tended to pay a substitute instead of serving themselves. Some regions had a special military status that allowed them to maintain a local militia that could be either permanent or temporary, such as coastguard militias, whose purpose was to ensure safety in seaside regions. When the royal militia came into being in 1688, its organization differed markedly from its predecessors in that it was raised in the name of the king and not by a local lord. Moreover, it was an auxiliary standing army. In contrast to the line army, the royal militia was recruited by conscription, which was unpopular. As a result, compulsory conscription into the militia was abolished in 1697, re-established in 1701, abolished once again in 1712, and definitively institutionalized in 1726 (Gébelin 1882). Organization and recruitment were regional, which meant that conscripts from one region formed one fighting unit, and the designation of those who had to serve in the militia was also a matter of local competence. On the administrative level, the Ministry of War fixed the number of militiamen to be conscripted – which varied considerably from one year to the next and from one region to the other14 – and charged the regional administration (intendance) with the allocation of the quotas at the local level.15 The number of militiamen was initially calculated on the basis of the number of parishes, each village or town having to supply one man, but in practice the manpower needed never required the total allocation of parishes. The problem with this kind of allocation system was that both large and small parishes were expected to provide the same number of militiamen, which is why the system was eventually refined, with the quota of militiamen required calculated according to the number of households.16 Accordingly, the country was divided into military cantons that each had to provide a certain number of militiamen (Corvisier 1964: 200–1). Service in the militia was thus not a personal, but a communal duty. Given the fact that the number of potential militiamen was always greater than military requirements and financial capacity, communities faced the difficult issue of how to choose their quotas. In the first two years of the royal militia, militiamen were elected by their fellow villagers, but this method was soon abolished and replaced by a lottery (tirage au sort). The village thus came up with a list of the names of all male citizens who met the conditions to serve in the militia. The candidates were first measured and asked to present any documents concerning their possible exemption. Those not present were immediately declared to be enlisted. Once exemptions had been decided upon, the assembly performed the lottery publicly (Corvisier 1964: 202–3).

20 The French moment Predictably, the lottery was accompanied by viciousness, vendettas, corruption and accusations, since most young men tried to escape from conscription by any possible means. In the eighteenth century there were numerous legal exemptions from the royal militia, either personal or collective.17 Entire regions were exempted because they had their own regional militia, and in such cases the burghers could usually commute their service instead of serving personally. Until 1742 most towns were completely and collectively exempted. Personal exemptions depended foremost on the age of the individual. The rules varied significantly over the course of time, the minimum accepted age being between 16 and 22 and the maximum between 35 and 40 years. Height (minimum 165 cm) and physical ability, as well as family status, were other possible reasons for exemption. In the beginning, married men were exempted, but this rule caused an increase in the number of marriages and soon all eligible militiamen were married. It was thus decided that those who had been married for less than three or four years had to serve in the militia. Further, all foreigners were exempted, as were the clergy, the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie, since doctors, pharmacists, students, painters, architects, printworkers, watchmakers, merchants, artisans, lawyers and anyone else with a public duty, that is, anyone working for the state, enjoyed personal exemption. Significantly, some of these public charges were considered as valid discharges for the whole family. Employees and servants of the clergy and the aristocracy were exempted too. In the course of the eighteenth century, the legislation on exemptions became increasingly complex, and a military writer who calculated the number of exemptions at the end of the ancien régime came to the conclusion that only 339,000 out of 1,450,000 bachelors over the age of 18 in France participated in the militia lottery, all others being exempt (Des Pommelles 1789: 29–31). The reasons for this were the actions taken by pressure groups, the vague criteria given by the Ministry of War and the mechanics of recruitment practice at the local level (Corvisier 1964: 220). Given these circumstances, an attempt was made to transform the militia into a voluntary military service with professional soldiers. Since militia service was a communal rather than a personal duty, it became established practice to collect money in the parish before the lottery day as a kind of recompense for those serving the community. The existence of this practice induced the government to make the contribution obligatory. But the significance of the practice was also altered by other circumstances: what had been originally a voluntary communal disbursement became, over time, transformed into a commercial transaction whereby the community hired a militiaman. In theory, this practice was forbidden because the authorities feared that potential soldiers might prefer to serve as substitutes in the militia instead of enlisting in the line army (Corvisier 1964: 233–4; Girard 1922: 256). Communal obligation was thus progressively transformed into a financial contribution. With few means at its dis-

Recruitment policy in the ancien régime

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posal for controlling the situation – especially if the village as a whole paid for the substitute – the government not only tolerated replacement but even raised a substitution tax. In 1708, at the end of the War of the Spanish Succession, compulsory service in the militia was replaced by a special tax. A pecuniary contribution thus took the place of personal service (Girard 1922: 270). In 1702, five inhabitants of Suisne, for instance, concluded a contract according to which, if one of them was chosen by lottery to serve in the militia, the remaining four would be committed to collectively paying a certain amount to the chosen fifth man. If, on the other hand, a substitute was chosen, he was to receive a lesser amount of money, and if somebody else in the village had to do the service, he would receive no money at all (Girard 1922: 263). While originally independent from the line army, the militia was progressively assimiltated. From 1701 each militia unit formed a second battalion of the army, in effect becoming a reserve unit. Also in this year the first direct transfer of militiamen to the French army in Italy took place: in a situation in which normal recruitment was impossible, since the army was in a foreign country, the commanding general asked the government to send militiamen (Corvisier 1964: 235–41; Girard 1922: 167–74). Between 1703 and 1712, when the militia was temporarily abolished, annual levies were incorporated directly into the regular army and the militia was thus definitively transformed into a recruitment pool. Since it was not possible to organize a second levy the same year, militia units had to be filled up by touted ‘volunteers’. In this way, the difference between the voluntary recruitment of the line army and the conscription of the militia was blurred by the facts: on the one hand, the line army, which relied on voluntary recruitment, was recruited to a great extent among conscripted militiamen and, on the other, the newly raised militia units consisted of touted volunteers instead of conscripted militiamen. Comparable to the enlistment of prisoners, the incorporation of militiamen into the line army marked a limit to traditional forms of staffing such as feudal recruitment and touting, since manning was now directly controlled by the state and its authorities. In this way, the ‘second battalions’ lost their raison d’être and, consequently, the royal ordinance of 25 May 1703 disbanded them (Girard 1922: 174). A guarantee was made to the conscripted soldiers that they would be demobilized and sent home after three years, but this promise was generally not kept. Between 1708 and 1712 not a single militiaman was released from the army (Corvisier 1964: 241). However, even if the practice of incorporating militiamen into the army ended with the war in 1712, it was the easiest means of recruitment and, despite its unpopularity, was used regularly in the following wars (Gébelin 1882: 189). With the decline of feudal recruitment, manning of the line army was increasingly practised through touting and often by means of violence and deceit. Unsurprisingly, this kind of practice led to resistance and damaged

22 The French moment the public image of the army. Especially in the countryside, where repression was more difficult and where recruiters often acted like robbers, rebellions broke out regularly. Even in cities popular resistance against touting sometimes turned into rioting as, for instance, in 1705, when a dungeon was discovered in Paris and was besieged by 1,200 people (Girard 1922: 113–15). Armed resistance was still common at the time of the War of the Spanish Succession, although it decreased during the eighteenth century in favour of subtler methods of escaping from the military, which varied according to the social and economic condition of the people concerned (Corvisier 1964: 223). In rural regions, resistance relied heavily on social solidarity: since servants employed by nobles and clergymen were exempted from duty, local lords and priests regularly enlarged their staff during the levying period. This, in turn, induced the government to restrict the numbers of servants that could legally be exempted and to limit the right to in-house servants (Girard 1922: 217–19). If the local lord was also an army officer, he could enrol his retainers formally during the militia lottery and release them afterwards or provide them with false military passports. For the authorities, it was virtually impossible to check this kind of fraud since recruitment was the personal affair of officers, and so beyond detailed government control: an effective inspection would have meant changing the recruitment procedure altogether. The main way rural communities attempted to collectively resist levies, however, was by gaining a more advantageous legal status, be it collective exemption or the right to engage substitutes. City officials made up false lottery lists, or enlisted only the elderly and unfit, recruits who would be declared unsuitable by the militia authorities (Corvisier 1964: 223–5). Many eligible potential militiamen simply left their homes and hid during the time of the levy. This, however, led to conflict and vendetta since the lottery designated one of the remaining men as a militiaman: if some escaped, the others were more likely to get enlisted. To combat this, the government required communities to hunt out those who had escaped and announced that any militiamen who brought back a fugitive would be exempted. This procedure, however, made the situation even worse. Turgot, head of the Intendance of the Limousin region, described the drawbacks of this rule, which regularly caused tumult, fighting and even murder: It is, as has to be admitted, the fault of the administration which imposes such a cruel charge as the militia on the country, frightening the peasants, reducing them to flee to the woods, and authorizing, even obliging, a band of peasants alone to pursue and to arrest them. And how to arrest people to force them to do a service they hate without using force? And how to use force without provoking resistance, without provoking brawls, armed fights, without occasioning murders? (Turgot 1919: vol. 3, 660)

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In order to escape from the militia, peasants in the Limousin region would do whatever they could, hiding in the woods or sometimes even cutting off their fingers in order to be deemed unfit to handle a gun. In Turgot’s opinion, militia recruitment needed to be thoroughly reformed (Turgot 1919: vol. 3, 656). In civil society the military had, by tradition, an appalling reputation, being associated with bad manners, violence, blasphemy and libertinage. The attitude of the Church is revealing in this respect: not only were no protests made against the abolition of the post of military priests in 1716, but bishops refused to employ clergymen who had been in the army, considering them unsuitable for spiritual duties.18 But the civil administration, too, often showed deep contempt for soldiers, whom they considered the dregs of the population. According to a memo written by the Intendant of Bourges: these men do not ordinarily come from the wealthy classes, even less from the labouring classes . . . of ten enrolled there are at least nine, if not ten, who were fated by misery, libertinage and aversion towards work to take this part; as a result, these people are rather a discharge than a loss for agriculture and the arts. (cited in Corvisier 1964: 91) Eighteenth-century dislike of the military was most clearly expressed in literature. Soldiers were represented as stupid and violent, and increasingly also as unhappy, uprooted and incapable of reinserting themselves into civil society (Léonard 1958: 213–37). It is remarkable that this kind of criticism can also be found in the writings of military intellectuals, which suggests that this kind of criticism had also penetrated into the most learned strata of the military institution itself (see Quoy-Bodin 1987). The most widely used topos in this respect is the comparison made with the Roman legionary, depicting the contemporary French soldier as an unhappy and debauched slave and the Roman legionary as a citizensoldier attached to his fatherland. The most famous example of such a comparison is certainly Daniel’s History of the French Militia (Daniel 1721).

The soldier and the state France came to the limits of her military policy during the Seven Years War, when the Count of Choiseul headed the Ministry of War (1761–70) and military structures were thoroughly reformed. One of the results of the new military policy was the reinforcing of military discipline.19 Largely inspired by the Prussian example, the disciplinarian revolution of the middle of the eighteenth century was an essential turning-point in the social history of French military and arguably altered the social perception of the military. Especially in towns, the military and the civil society grew

24 The French moment closer and the civilization of manners in the military favoured the development of a new social type of the ‘bourgeois militaire’ (Chagniot 1985: 447). There is some evidence for the assumption that soldiers’ social perception and self-representation changed profoundly during the eighteenth century. In short, the integration of the army into the nation claimed by the revolutionaries had already been partly realized by the end of the ancien régime (see Kroener 1996). The most important change in recruitment methods was the development of national recruitment. Since 1759, Choiseul’s predecessor, BelleIsle, had envisaged a reform in recruitment: no militia lottery took place this year and the intendances were charged with recruiting for the line army. In 1763, 31 regiments were formed as a recruitment pool for the army. Since the civil authorities were considered inefficient, the newly formed divisional headquarters were charged with recruitment (Delmas 1992: vol. 2, 37–8). An anonymous memo explains the aim of this measure: In adopting the project of furnishing recruits for his troops, the king has two main purposes: first, the relief of his peoples and above all the inhabitants of the countryside by protecting militiamen from being incorporated into the regular troops as was done in the past; second, to be sure to always have a full complement of troops ready to serve.20 These national or royal recruits were not enlisted for a particular unit, or by a particular officer, but as soldiers for the army in general. When responsibility for staffing was given to the intendances and to divisional headquarters, administrative control of the troops increasingly became an issue. Refined bureaucratic methods now became a necessary replacement for personal contact. The contrôles de troupes had held administrative dossiers since 1716, but these were resented as an infringement of personal rights. In contrast to the widespread idea that modern institutions bring personal liberty, the history of social control shows that state intervention in people’s lives was accepted slowly and reluctantly. It was only in the second half of the century that soldiers were measured and a description of their physical aptitudes and characteristics given, which enabled the administration to identify them in case of desertion (Delmas 1992: vol. 2, 39). The army thus became the most important and comprehensive administrative apparatus for controlling human resources, which means that the military can be considered as a precursor of the identity revolution dated by Gérard Noiriel to the turn of the twentieth century (Noiriel 1998: 156–80). However, the military evolved not only in administrative terms but was affected by social transformations. The ‘nationalization’ and growth of the army gradually invalidated the traditional idea that fighting was a prerogative of the nobility. As the armed forces now consisted largely of com-

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moners, nobles claimed privileged access to officer positions. Consequently, service as rank-and-file was increasingly viewed as dishonourable for aristocrats, and it was above all the poorest strata of the rural gentry that sought employment in the army. An officer required significant personal funds, as did those who accepted non-venal positions (Corvisier 1964: 130). The aristocracy was thus both attracted to and repelled by the army. At the same time, the bourgeoisie and newly ennobled former bourgeois increasingly took up positions in the apparatus of state in general and in the army in particular, so that it in fact became easier for a rich bourgeois than for a poor aristocrat to make a brilliant career in the military. This, in turn, provoked the aristocratic reaction of the 1780s (Bien 1974). In 1781, the Edict of Ségur stipulated that all candidates for officer appointments in the army had to prove that their families had been noble for four generations. The government thus sanctioned claims that had been made by the French aristocracy and of which the chevalier d’Arcq and his book La noblesse militaire is the most interesting expression, while at the same time clearly displaying its limits.21 Hostility against plutocracy and the spirit of commerce is the most prominent feature of d’Arcq’s political and military thought. In order to prevent the profit economy from invading all spheres of society, the state, according to d’Arcq, should provide subsistence for those who devoted their lives to honour, that is, to the nobility, which he depicted as a kind of avant-garde of political morality, the incarnation of the ideals of austerity, grandeur and force (d’Arcq 1756: 88–91). D’Arcq’s definition of nobility, however, clearly went beyond the traditional understanding of the term (see Schalk 1986), since it was primarily perceived as a pattern of sentiments and a sense of honour, merged with an antipathy towards commerce. Thus, a common soldier could come closer to d’Arcq’s definition of nobility than a merchant of noble descent: He is a commoner, that is true, but he is saturated with bravura. Honour is his treasury. He obeys only discipline, that is, the laws of his country. He gives away his life for the tranquillity of his fellow citizens. He loves his king and his fatherland. . . . And if the French soldier has the sentiments that may be demanded only of nobility, is there such a great distance between an aristocrat and him? (d’Arcq 1756: 91) D’Arcq thus advocated granting brave soldiers, a ‘personal nobility’, one that could not be transmitted to heirs; conversely, nobles who neglected the obligations of their estate should be stripped of their titles. The aristocrat is a citizen before being a noble, and the only privilege that is provided by nobility is that choice between the important services that the state may and ought to demand. At the moment he

26 The French moment ceases to think in this way, he ceases to be a noble, and to take the title away from him, would be nothing else than to appoint him to the position he has assigned for himself. (d’Arcq 1756: 188–9) The conception of a military nobility in d’Arcq’s sense thus meant primarily an obligation to serve the state. While clearly an expression of the aristocratic reaction, La noblesse militaire is also an ideological pointer towards later conceptions favouring merit above birth (see Smith 1996). The aristocratic reaction also had an impact on another tendency in the second half of the eighteenth century: the professionalization of the armed forces, which was characterized by an increase in the duration of service, a rationalization of the rules of advancement and the commitment to a stricter discipline and subordination. Once the nobility ceased to consider the military as a seasonal occupation for times of war but as a lifelong vocation, the officer corps could develop its own professional standards, mentality and esprit de corps. This meant that the state had to guarantee permanent appointments and the possibility of regular advancement. Such bureaucratization and professionalization, however, were not limited to the military nobility and the officer corps alone, but also concerned the rank-and-file. From the moment when recruitment and troop maintenance became a state responsibility, traditional mechanisms for the social reintegration of veterans no longer worked. The ancient soldier thus became an essential issue in social policy (Bois 1990). Thus, parallel to the establishment of a centralized recruitment system was the outlining of social standards for recruits: Subjects admitted as provincial recruits [i.e. the regiments of ‘royal’ recruits] ought of right to be considered as the children of the province in general and of each town in particular, in case of accidental and granted illness, and it is opportune that they be received in municipal hospitals or charity houses of the towns where they are assembled or in the neighbourhood and that they be nourished and treated free of charge.22 Responsibilities for social care thus also shifted. In earlier periods soldiers were considered to serve their local communities, which, in turn, were charged with the corresponding social responsibilities. This changed when the soldier began to serve the larger entity of the nation. Now, social care, too, was nationalized, that is, it became the prerogative and responsibility of the national state. The reason for this is that national recruitment on a larger scale tended to disrupt the traditional social order. In a society that relied on privileges, the military was not conceived as a profession, but as an estate or a social condition, largely reserved for the aristocracy (Tuetey 1908). With the transformation of the army into an apparatus of

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the state, the armed forces no longer belonged to the old social order of estates: the rank-and-file no longer belonged to the third estate without being a member of the second (Corvisier 1964: 119). The ancien régime state thus contributed to the development of another order, beyond the confines of the traditional social structure, which belonged directly to the emerging national state. The obligations of this order – discipline, the prohibition of marriage without permission, life in the barracks, and so on – were not, however, balanced by an appropriate level of compensation or privilege. In eighteenth-century France the status of the military changed gradually and slowly, but profoundly, largely because of the consolidation of the centralized state power. The construction of the state, however, implied the development of a new and larger community, centred on the state itself (Badie and Birnbaum 1979: 126) to the detriment of communal, feudal or familial relations. This process clearly did not come to fruition in the eighteenth century, but the central elements were already in place. The development of an army’s social structure is a telling indicator for these long-term transformations: viewed in hindsight, the development towards republican France had already begun in the ancien régime (Tocqueville 1967: 81). If, however, there is a continuity between the ancien régime and revolutionary France at the institutional level, there is a clear rupture on the ideological scene (see Furet 1985). Institutional continuity was accompanied by a radical reinterpretation – in the Nietzsche sense of an anteriority of procedures to their meaning (Nietzsche 1968: 332) – of the political and moral significance of military duties. In other words, in order to construct an ideological link between military service and the exercise of citizenship, the Enlightenment thinkers and French revolutionaries could both objectively rely on already existing institutional practices and criticize them severely. Viewed in this way, the invention of military service in the French Revolution merely added a new layer of meaning to already existing social practices.

2

The Enlightenment and military service

Enlightenment thinkers condemned war as the product of irrational behaviour stemming from princely ambition, the people having no interest in making war (Rousseau 2005: 55–6). War is against the laws of nature and humanity, namely rationality, civility and the rule of law. War is essentially anti-social in that society is defined as the reign of peace within the realm of justice: ‘Peace is maintained by justice, which is a fruit of government, as government is from society, and society from consent’ (Penn 1916: 348–9). Since they considered peace to be the normal order of things, eighteenth-century thinkers criticized the military harshly. Standing armies – which Rousseau describes as the ‘plague and depopulation of Europe’ (Rousseau 2005: 217) – should, according to Kant’s Perpertual Peace, gradually disappear and be replaced by a civic militia such as existed in Switzerland (Kant 1991: 94). Interestingly, progressive army officers, such as the French general Guibert, who described the army as consisting of foreign mercenaries and vagabonds instead of citizens, also shared this viewpoint. According to Guibert, governments ‘are in a secret war against their subjects. They corrupt one part in order to dominate the other’ (Guibert 1977: 56, 100). As a remedy for this deplorable situation, Guibert proposed bringing together the state and the nation, which meant that soldiers had to be citizens. Drawing on the example of Ancient Greece and the Roman Republic, Enlightenment thinkers compared the figure of the citizen-soldier with the armies of the eighteenth century (Grell 1995). In contrast to the mercenary, the citizen-in-arms was defined as virtuous by his attachment to the community. Eighteenth-century political theory thus recommended the strengthening of these moral attitudes through civic practices such as military service. In this way, service in the armed forces became an essential part of a political framework that was most clearly expressed by Rousseau.

Virtue-politics The Enlightenment discourse considered standing armies as an instrument of despotism that aimed to artificially separate the state from the

The Enlightenment and military service 29 nation, as opposed to civic militia, which are the only form of military organization suitable for free and responsible citizens. More than mere political opinion, this kind of criticism of the military was a fundamental feature of Enlightenment political philosophy, the rediscovery of the moral impact of the political. Contrary to the theorists of absolutist raison d’État,23 eighteenth-century thinkers reintroduced the concern about morality into political discourse (Koselleck 1988: 38). This morality, however, differed from older forms of moral-political theory inasmuch as it was fundamentally secularized: it was perceived as independent from theological concerns. Political theory thus came to be increasingly concerned about the possibility of installing a moral order within the realm of the political. Placed at the intersection between political, moral and educational concerns, military service played a key role in this respect. Mirabeau claimed that the King of Prussia gave ‘a free and glorious form to that obligation by linking it to the exercise of a will, to the necessity of earning esteem, to a point of honour’. The Prussian Kantonsystem should thus be transformed into an institution that ‘enhanced the souls, that secured the public spirit, that took the form of liberty instead of degradation and slavery’ (Mirabeau 1787: 16–17). In his role as governor of the Limousin, Turgot made similar claims in a letter to the French Minister of War: peasants should receive a brief military education and be sent back to their villages afterwards. This practice would stimulate the peasantry to feel a sense of honour in being soldiers, and would also facilitate the maintenance of a strong army in times of war without heavy costs in peacetime (Turgot 1844: vol. 2, 119). Along the same lines, Condorcet distinguished, in his Essay on the Constitution and the Functions of Provincial Assemblies, the meaning of the word ‘militia’ in France from its Swiss or American sense: only the latter, republican militia ‘elevates the soul of the people’ and ‘inspires in them attachment to the fatherland and public spirit’ (Condorcet 1788: 488). In his Letters from a Freeman of New Haven to a Citizen of Virginia he described regular armies as ‘incompatible with a popular constitution’. He dismisses the argument that a militia would be militarily inferior to regular troops; in his view, the lack of discipline and military training would be compensated by the higher moral value because citizen-soldiers had more courage and enthusiasm as a result of their sense of honour and patriotism (Condorcet 1994: 323–4). Moral value was perhaps the most important issue in the eighteenthcentury debate on the military. The criticism of standing armies was expressed in terms of the moral corruption of the soldiers. Troops were considered as bunches of crooks more or less tied down by severe military discipline. The citizen, on the other hand, was perceived as an essentially moral being, capable of responsible behaviour and of containing his passions. As a consequence, the citizen-soldier became a key concept that permitted the reconciliation of military and civic virtue. The basic elements of such a concept can already be found in Montesquieu, according to

30 The French moment whom virtue was the fundamental psychic disposition of a democracy. In a monarchy, on the other hand, virtue was less important because the sense of honour could take its place (Montesquieu, III, 3–4 1989: 22–5). He defined virtue as ‘love of the laws and of the homeland [patrie]’, which necessitates a ‘continuous preference for the public interest over one’s own’, so that republics needed to ensure that the development of virtue be taught in educational institutions. ‘Virtue is a renunciation of oneself, which is always a very painful thing’ (Montesquieu, IV, 5, 1989: 35–6). In order to achieve this abnegation, the individual’s personal desires have to be left unsatisfied and strict rules have to prevent that individual obtaining satisfaction from ‘ordinary objects’. This, in turn, leads to a ‘transfer of desire’, not to another particular object, but to the restrictive rule itself. Love of the homeland leads to goodness in mores, and goodness in mores leads to love of the homeland. The less we can satisfy our particular passions, the more we give ourselves up to passions for the general order. Why do monks so love their order? Their love comes from the same thing that makes their order intolerable to them. Their rule deprives them of everything upon which ordinary passions rest; what remains, therefore, is passion for the very rule that afflicts them. The more austere it is, the more it curtails their inclinations, the more force it gives to those that remain. (Montesquieu, V, 2, 1989: 55) The citizens’ desire is thus frustrated, and this lack of satisfaction is converted into a desire for a restrictive rule in a kind of retroaction of virtuous austerity towards itself. Frustrated in their ordinary desires, the citizens would come to desire their frustration. This desire for a restrictive rule is universal, however, not particular: it is an intrinsic element of sociability. In order to fulfil the social function of creating a collective desire, the rule has to be uniform; in other words, it can be the object of collective desire only if it is the same for everybody: Love of the republic in a democracy is love for democracy; love for democracy is love for equality. Love of democracy is, moreover, love for frugality. Since everyone should share the same happiness and the same advantages, each should taste the same pleasures and form the same expectations. . . . The good sense and happiness of individuals largely consists in their having middling talents and fortunes. (Montesquieu, V, 3, 1989: 43–4) Sameness, not only equality, is thus one of the basic features of the democratic transfer of desire, because the retroaction between frugality

The Enlightenment and military service 31 and virtue creates an identity of psycho-political dispositions that is the precondition of equality. Applying this principle to the realm of the military, Montesquieu states that a republic, in contrast to a monarchy, could not employ slaves in the military (Montesquieu, XV, 14, 1989: 256). In order to prevent the executive power from becoming oppressive, it is necessary for the army to ‘be of the people and have the same spirit as the people’. As a consequence, soldiers should not serve more than one year (Montesquieu, XI, 6, 1989: 165). All the elements for a coherent theory of military service are present in Montesquieu: a republican education for virtue, a perfect equality by means of an austere abnegation of the self, and a constitutional concern for an effective control of the armed forces and their subordination to the principle of popular sovereignty. According to Mably, and following the same line of argument as Montesquieu, the object of politics was to ‘incessantly purify the moral . . . its purpose is, in short, keeping passions bent under the yoke, and, by strengthening the empire of reason, to give, in some sort, wings to virtues’. But it was not sufficient to establish good laws: citizens had to ‘love and practise’ both the laws and the virtues attached to them (Mably 1794–5a: 66, 100–2). This kind of ‘virtue-politics’, however, differed fundamentally from eighteenth-century practices of discipline in the realms of education and the military. On the contrary, the discourse of civic virtue could be clearly anti-disciplinarian, as, for instance, in Rousseau’s Emile. Civic education should not transform human beings into obedient machines, governed from outside, but should render them able to govern themselves in a rational and moral way, or, as Mably puts it, ‘the purpose that you propose in your education is that each citizen becomes for himself a more severe magistrate than the one that is established by law’ (Mably 1794–5b: 385–6). Civic virtue, in other words, requires the moral autonomy of the individual. However, the individual is not spontaneously capable of autonomy. Governmental action has to come into play in order to continuously fight the counterforces of corruption. ‘It is the duty of the legislator to dispel this laziness that always goes along with weariness and vice and that destroys the elasticity of the soul’ (Mably 1794–5b: 362). A general and public education is thus necessary, not only for children, but for adults as well. Since their character is never fully stabilized, ‘citizens are but grownup children’ (Mably 1794–5b: 253). Education has to be constant because virtue can never be fully achieved: citizens’ souls are continually haunted by the threat of moral corruption. Accordingly, ‘instruction should not abandon individuals the moment they leave school . . . it should embrace all ages’ (Condorcet 1792: 452). Condorcet went even further. It was necessary, in his view, to establish a ‘technical way’ to allow individuals to judge their own actions and strive for their own perfection. Monastic moral techniques were seen as a model for this:

32 The French moment This is the use of an habitual examination of conscience which is designed to facilitate the progress of virtue, showing either the successes one has made, or the obstacles that retarded them. This idea can be applicable up to a certain point to the entire mass of society. (Condorcet 1792: 329–30) This translation of the Catholic practice of confession into republican terms was of course never realized, but its very proposal shows the importance of the issue of an institutionalization of virtue in order to produce responsible citizens. Significantly, Condorcet continued his discussion of virtue-politics by considering the importance of saints’ days, and ‘solemn marches, military inspections and evolutions, gymnastic exercises’. In Ancient Greece and Rome, he explained, such activities had been closely related to military matters: their purpose was to bind the citizen closer to the republic (Condorcet 1792: 286–7). Vice, however, was an integral part of human life, and it could never be fully eradicated, although it was possible to contain it through virtuepolitics. Significantly, vice and virtue were conceived as gendered categories. Mably, for instance, clearly identified virtue with masculinity and vice with femininity. The presence of women in society was thus a perpetual threat to the establishment of a moral social order. However, as it was obviously not possible to dispose of women altogether, their presence had at least to be contained in order to prevent the republic from degeneration (Mably 1794–5b: 109). Nothing more is necessary to subjugate even the bravest man; and if we are tamed, you would have nothing else than a republic of femmelettes. We would be the slaves of our women, they would became the tyrants of their houses, and soon of the magistrates and the laws. . . . I defy you to cite one state where women have had power without destroying manners, laws, and the government. Thus bring up girls in modesty and love for work. (Mably 1794–5b: 376) Virtue was the central category of human sociability: vice, on the other hand, was asocial by definition (Mably 1794–5a: 99). It follows from this that social life necessarily required not only that women be excluded, but also that femininity as the principle of moral corruption be fought. Consequently, virtue-politics had to be gender-specific, too. On the one hand, the influence of women had to be circumscribed. Men, on the other hand, had to be strengthened in their masculinity, which involved physical exercises, sports, competitive games and, last but not least, military exercises (Mably 1794–5b: 373–6). The latter were particularly important because they encouraged the sense of glory, another key concept of Mably’s political anthropology. The feminine principle of vice was associ-

The Enlightenment and military service 33 ated with the pursuit of personal interest, whereas the masculine principle of glory gave way to the formation of an ‘ec-static’ being, a citizen who is somehow more than himself, who is a ‘rival of spiritual substances’ and experiences himself as God’s creature and as a member of a community for which he would be glad to offer his life (Mably 1794–5a: 125–6). In order to become a truly virtuous citizen, the individual had to become something other than what he originally was and, more particularly, to rid himself of all his particular and separate identities and become an abstract incarnation of the ruling principles of the republican community. The education of the soldier and the education of the citizen were explicitly identified: there were no, nor could there be any, real soldiers who were not also virtuous citizens, and vice versa (Mably 1794–5a: 176). May our republic be a military one; may each citizen be designed to defend his fatherland; may he be exercised each day how to handle his weapons; may he learn in the town the discipline that is necessary in the camp. By such a policy you would not only educate invincible soldiers, but you would give another new force to law and to civic virtues. (Mably 1794–5a: 175) Such an ideological programme implied a twofold criticism, first, of contemporary armies, which were considered to be the incarnation of immorality, and second, of a bourgeoisie reluctant to perform military service and thus their civic duties. Similarly, the concept of the virtuous citizen implied a double negation – both opposition to the immorality of the rabble and to the egoism of the bourgeoisie.

Rousseau and the military: a philosophy of civic practice Rousseau is certainly the most interesting and comprehensive eighteenthcentury theorist of the militia system. Any reader of Rousseau’s political writings will be struck by the emphasis he laid on military matters. In his Considerations on the Government of Poland, Rousseau argued that standing armies were ‘good for only two ends: either to attack and conquer neighbours and to enchain and enslave Citizens’, and this is why ‘all Poland [should] become warlike’ through universal and compulsory military service (Rousseau 2005: 217, 220). Rousseau’s Plan for a Constitution for Corsica therefore recommended the establishment of a militia system (Rousseau 2005: 126, 149). His political theory is not only one of the most interesting presentations of the citizen-soldier tradition, but conscription is a core element of Rousseau’s entire political philosophy. Given the fact that the Social Contract was one of the major theoretical references for French revolutionaries, the importance of Rousseau’s writings cannot be overestimated.

34 The French moment Underneath its apparent simplicity, the Social Contract is a highly problematical text. One of the main difficulties is that it proceeds by conceptual couples that presuppose themselves mutually. The philosophical and practical problem that Rousseau faces in the Social Contract is to find a form of association that defends and protects the person and the goods of each associate with all the common force, and by means of which each one, uniting to all, nevertheless obeys only himself and remains as free as before. (Rousseau 1994: 138) The answer to this issue is provided by the social contract, which constitutes a people out of a mere mass of human beings (Rousseau 1994: 137). A contract, however, which is the basic category of civil law, presupposes the existence of at least two parties who agree upon a settlement. But who are these parties in the case of Rousseau’s social contract? And on what do they agree? Rousseau’s answer is clear, but also puzzling: all these clauses . . . may come down to a single one, namely the total alienation of each associate, with all his rights, to the whole community. . . . Each of us puts together his person and all his power under the supreme direction of the general will; and in a body we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole. . . . This act of association produces a moral and collective body. (Rousseau 1994: 138–9) The contracting parties are, on the one hand, the individuals and, on the other, the whole, that is the community or the people. This answer is puzzling because the social contract was designed precisely to constitute the community – and now the latter turns out to be one of its preconditions.24 Thus, the community is presented as both the condition and the outcome of the social contract. The total alienation of each associate is then again both the condition and the outcome of the existence of the social contract. It becomes clear that there is a double sense of the word alienation. On the one hand, this alienation (of natural rights and powers) constitutes the community, which is nothing other than the union of these natural rights and powers. On the other hand, however, it is an alienation in the contractual sense of the term, which means that the community renders something to the contracting individuals: it gives a legal and moral existence to their persons and a guarantee to their possessions (Rousseau 1994: 143). The precondition for a community to come into being is that the contracting individuals alienate themselves and their possessions to it. The community, however, gives them something back. What is this? Precisely their persons and possessions (Rousseau 1994: 151) – although, not the same persons and possessions as were alienated: a community ‘must,

The Enlightenment and military service 35 in short, take away man’s own forces in order to give him forces that are foreign to him’ (Rousseau 1994: 155). Existence in a community transforms both, making citizens out of simple human beings and property out of simple possessions. It makes ‘man truly master of himself’ and of his belongings (Rousseau 1994: 142). This positive outcome is made possible by the role played by civil equality. As everybody alienates him- or herself totally, reciprocity in the terms of the contract is guaranteed. Thus, the contract is actually advantageous for all: an equal amount of ‘civil liberty’ is derived in exchange for the former ‘natural liberty’ of the person, and a right to property in exchange for the former ‘possessions’. Individuals, then, can be thought of as contracting with each other for pure selfinterest: ‘If the opposition of particular interests made the establishment of societies necessary, the agreement of these same interests made it possible’ (Rousseau 1994: 145). The individual’s particular interests are thus both the dividing element that makes a social contract necessary, and the necessary precondition for the contract (Rousseau 1994: 148). Equal alienation transforms particular self-interest into public utility, that is, into the general interest, or the general will. The general will is thus not thought of as simply devotion to the common good through renouncing particular interest. The general interest is not opposed to particular interest, and the general will is not in in opposition to the particular will. They are, on the contrary, the same interests and the same wills, but ‘universalized’ by being subject to equality. It is difficult, however, to accept Rousseau’s conclusions and to conceive of these two interests and wills as being exactly the same. Is not the one in essence particular and the other general? And how can the particular interest and the particular will be both the foundation of and contrary to the general interest and the general will? The Social Contract thus sees the particular interest both as the foundation of the general interest and as its opposite: There is often a great difference between the will of all and the general will. The latter considers only the common interests; the former considers privates interest, and is only a sum of private wills. But take away from these same wills the pluses and minuses that cancel each other out, and the remaining sum of the differences is the general will. (Rousseau 1994: 147) In other words, the formation of the general will presupposes that no ‘collective wills’ exist between the individual wills and the general will. In order to minimize the difference between the particular and the general, individuals have to deliberate as individuals and not as members of collectivities. In short, individuals have to be singled out of existing particular collectivities and formed as individuals: the individual has to be individualized (see Snyder 1999: 48). This means establishing political structures

36 The French moment that assure a permanent annihilation of particular groups and interests in society by defending and restoring the purity of the individual conscience. Elements of this structure are to be found in Rousseau’s theories of education, manners, civic religion and military service. Civic practices have to act permanently upon the individuals in order to produce and maintain individuality. Conversely, true individuality is needed to make personal interest function as the motor of the formation of the general will. Rousseau’s perspective can thus be described as the mutual production of a new community and a new form of civic individuality. On the one hand, the establishment of the political community presupposes the existence of abstract individuals (Rousseau 1994: 153). On the other hand, the existence of such a community is needed to produce individuality. There is a perfect theoretical circle. It is interesting to note that Rousseau consciously acknowledges the circle and the impossibility of bringing it into being: In order for an emerging people to appreciate the healthy maxims of politics and follow the fundamental rules of statecraft, the effect would have to become the cause; the social spirit, which should be a result of the institution, would have to preside over the founding of the institution itself; and men would have, before laws, to be what they ought to become by means of laws (Rousseau 1994: 156) The effect would have to become the cause: this should be considered as the blindspot of Rousseau’s political philosophy. His effort to theorize in an immanent way the establishment of a political community leads him to the theological category of the causa sui. Political subjectivity as an abstract form of individuality and the formation of a political community form a circle that is its own cause.25 Confronted with this paradox, Rousseau momentarily invokes the possibility of a religious foundation of the political order: ‘Gods would be needed to give laws to men’ (Rousseau 1994: 154). However, the conditional tense immediately denies what is nevertheless theoretically necessary to his endeavour. He thus abandons the overtly theological ground of lawgiving gods in favour of the crypto-theological category of the ‘legislator’ (see Grell 1993: 275). This latter is capable of changing human nature, so to speak; of transforming each individual, who by himself is a perfect and solitary whole, into a part of a larger whole from which this individual receives, in a sense, his life and his being; of altering man’s constitution in order to strengthen it; of substituting a partial and moral constitution for the physical and independent existence we have all received from nature (Rousseau 1994: 155)

The Enlightenment and military service 37 There are perhaps no clearer indications of the profoundly ambiguous character of Rousseau’s political philosophy (Israel 2001: 720). Theorist of an immanent and lay foundation of the political order, he makes a supernatural being intervene in politics, which is a flagrant contradiction of the very bases of his reasoning. On the practical level, however, Rousseau does not acknowledge the existence of this blackspot of theology, but fills it up with civic practices, such as military service. It is certainly not an exaggeration to say that these practices – like civil religion and service in the armed forces – function theoretically as political demiurgy inasmuch as they occupy the place left vacant by lawgiving gods or the legislator. As he points out in the Considerations on the Government of Poland, ‘there will never be any good and solid constitution except the one in which the law rules over the hearts of the citizens. As long as the legislative force does not reach that point, the laws will always be evaded’ (Rousseau 2005: 171). Civic practices are designed to fill the gap between the individual and the community by the individual’s personal and permanent commitment to society (Rousseau 1994: 191). Responsibility for public matters has to be assumed by the community of individuals themselves and cannot be delegated, just as sovereignty cannot be represented. Military service, in this respect, plays a special role and differs fundamentally from other civic practices, such as education, civil religion or festivities, which have one feature in common: they all contribute to the unity between the individual and the community by producing a specific form of individuality. As a citizen-soldier, however, the individual does not develop only civic spirit: he is directly part of the sovereign power. In performing military service, the individual takes part in an essential act of sovereignty, the formation of state power in the armed forces. This is why the Social Contract associates military service directly with the right to vote (Rousseau 1994: 191–2), and, in the Plan for a Constitution for Corsica, associates magistrates with the military (Rousseau 2005: 161). In Rousseau’s political philosophy military service plays an eminent theoretical role because it links the production of political individuality to the production of political community. It may be considered as the concrete institutional location where the ‘total alienation of each individual with all his rights to the community as a whole’ materially takes place.

Citizen-soldiers Interestingly, these views about civic virtue and the integration of army and society spread not only among philosophers and writers but also among professional army officers. The first to demand a universal conscription system was general Maurice de Saxe in his Mes rêveries, written in 1732 and published simultaneously in a French and an English edition in 1757 (Saxe 1757, 1895). Saxe proposed forcing every young man,

38 The French moment including the bourgeoisie and the nobility, to serve in the army for five years. In order to prevent desertion, each soldier should carry an indelible sign marked on the right hand. As to the integration of the armed forces into society, Saxe’s views are not detailed and in part contradictory, since he maintained a traditional concept of the army as an estate with a particular esprit de corps, while arguing for universal conscription. A number of ancien régime army officers were nevertheless influenced by Saxe’s book and echoed his views in a more detailed and less contradictory way. The most influential of these military theorists were Guibert and Servan. Neither treated military issues independently from political concerns, and the strength of their analyses lay in their capacity to show how military organization was closely linked to a whole web of political issues. Guibert’s famous 1772 General Essay on Tactics, which was published in 1772 in France and in 1781 in an English translation, was meant ‘to raise the edifice of a constitution, at once political and military; of a national discipline; a complete Tactic (Guibert 1781: v, 1977: 51).26 Progress in military matters implied political change. Politics was a coherent system and the military was but a part of that system, all branches of the government being related to each other (Guibert 1781: xiii, 1977: 59). It would be senseless to propose improvements in the military organization without also changing the place of the military in the framework of the political and social constitution in general. The Essay on Tactics is thus in reality an ‘Essay on Government’. The military, however, was particularly important in this respect, since ‘public force’ was considered the ‘link and the key’ to all branches of the political edifice. The general problématique of Guibert’s book is how to conceive a state that would be strong, both politically and militarily. His main criticism of the ancien régime is precisely its weakness, which means that politics is incapable of empowering the country’s forces. Even worse, the governments of his time tie down the force of the nation in order to maintain themselves in power. Power should be productive but has become repressive and even destructive since it tends to depreciate and corrupt the citizens. In the realm of the military this weakness has many negative consequences: armies lack bravery and, in order to compensate for their qualitative weakness, they become larger and larger; soldiers fight for money and not for honour and glory; peoples are opposed to their governments and the latter, consequently, buy foreign mercenaries, which extinguishes the martial virtues of the population: It is the weakness of our governments which renders our military constitutions so imperfect and so ruinous. It is that which, not being able to compose our armies of citizens, men who have a zeal for the service, or soldiers, not merely for the sake of gain, occasions them to be so numerous and burthensome. It is that which, not knowing how to make honour their reward, pays them with money alone. It is that

The Enlightenment and military service 39 which, not being able to rely on the courage and fidelity of the subject, because he lies enervated, and continually murmuring, takes into pay an auxiliary force . . . in short, it is that which is continually occupied in extinguishing every military virtue in a state, not even so much as suffering it to develop itself amongst the troops, fearful, lest from thence it should spread abroad amongst the civil, and arm that power one day or other against the abuses which oppress it. (Guibert 1781: xxiv/xxv, 1977: 64) Guibert then goes on to describe what a strong state would look like. A strong state has a citizen army and each single citizen is virtuous, which means that luxury and vice are forbidden. Moreover, a strong state is autonomous and a-centric. It is economically and militarily independent from other countries and totally homogeneous in the socio-economic domestic sphere. Without centre or periphery, the state power, the citizen’s virtue and their economic wealth are identical everywhere (Guibert 1781: xxxii, 1977: 67–8). This state is also a peaceful one, while being able to defend itself, since each citizen is happy to defend their country and to sustain a total war against any aggressor: Terrible in its anger, it would carry fire and sword against its enemy. It will intimidate, by vengeance, every nation which may be desirous of troubling its repose, and not call those reprisals barbarous, in violation of those pretended laws of war, which are founded on the law of nature. . . . Should they be drove to an extremity, they will spill the last drop of their blood to obtain satisfaction. (Guibert 1781: xxxiii, 1977: 67) Guibert was conscious of the fact that in the state he envisaged the distinction between soldier and civilian would disappear, and he also acknowledged that this implied an extension of the possible victims of war. War should no longer be an affair of professional armies separated from civil society, but should concern all citizens, even if this means exposing the entire population to war. He complained, however, that nations are not interested in wars. People consider wars as a matter for the government only, and not as their own existential concern. This lack of consideration leads to the ‘extinction of patriotism and the epidemic falling away of national bravery’. The reason for this is that the population is objectively less concerned by war: Today, all Europe is civilized. War has become less barbarous and cruel. When battles are finished, no longer is there any blood shed, prisoners are well treated, towns are not sacked and destroyed, countries are not ravaged and laid waste. (Guibert 1781: 103, 1977: 100–1)

40 The French moment Guibert’s 1772 Essay thus consciously acknowledged that the progress of civilization that protects the population from the consequences of war would vanish if the concept of the military organization he proposes were established. However, a considerable evolution can be noticed between 1772 and his treatise On Public Force, written in 1790. At the time when the National Assembly debated on military organization, Guibert used the argument of total war against those in favour of universal conscription. In 1772, however, his outlook is remarkably different. Without explicitly advocating universal and compulsory military service, he maintains that the army should be a means to promote civic education. With military, politics and education converging, a well-organized state would ‘change our manners, strengthen our souls and give impetus to the government’. Accordingly, the contemporary French military was criticized because of the gap separating the military from wider society. This separation was the reason why the armies ‘are composed of the most infamous and wretched part of the populace, strangers, vagabonds, the outcasts of nations’ (Guibert 1781: 93, 1977: 82). The citizens despised soldiers since the notion of fatherland was no longer honoured in the armies. Guibert argued that the moral constitution of the army of his time was bad and that soldiers had to be trained into being virtuous. They should not fight for money but for the honour of their fatherland. It was thus a necessity to give the military a positive sense and a patriotic purpose. Accordingly, stress was laid on the education of the soldier from the point of view of physical education, training in handling weapons and the science of war. One generation on, the entire population would become ‘a race endowed with ever virtuous ardour for a military life, and who would eagerly thirst after fame and glory’. Virtue would spread through the whole of society: ‘this thirst after military exercises, now awaked amongst the nobility, will soon be spread abroad, and caught by the whole nation’. The upper classes would not despise the military any longer and the peasants would not fear the ritual of the lottery for the militia. ‘When a whole country is military inclined, all her reciprocal inhabitants become her defenders at the first signal. As to the concern of public tranquillity, she would be in perfect security’ (Guibert 1781: 123, 1977: 107). The most comprehensive account of the concept of a civic army, however, can be found in Le soldat-citoyen, published in 1780 by Servan, a professional army officer and later Minister of War in the Girondin government. Servan’s book is important not only because it was written by a politician actively involved in the institutionalization of conscription in France, but also because it described in detail the interconnections between various military, political, economical, educational and ideological concerns. The purpose of his book is ‘to bring to perfection the instruments of that art, the soldiers and the armies, the one and the other according to the way of raising, perpetuating, maintaining, educating, employing and disciplining them’ (Servan 1780: 6). He thus sets up a mili-

The Enlightenment and military service 41 tary constitution that stresses the subjectivity of the soldier and the means to give direction not only to behaviour but also to feelings, thoughts and attitudes: It is necessary to form new men who cherish power and estimate it above all the rest and who are prepared to sacrifice their interests to the public good. It is necessary that a particular education and a different constitution for the military give us citizens who are entirely devoted to the service of the fatherland. (Servan 1780: 458) Drawing on the Spartan example as a particularly successful integration of the army into society, Servan then analyses the shortcomings of the French army of his time. His perspective can be labelled historical sociology, whose key concept is the aristocratic usurpation of the state. Originally, France was a free monarchy where each citizen was a soldier (Servan 1780: 16, 23). The turning-point came when the original French monarchy was perverted into the reign of aristocracy and the concomitant enslavement of the entire population. After a first period in which political and military organization were fully aristocratic, the absolute monarchy contributed to the coexistence of aristocratic and monarchical characteristics in military organization. The important point, however, is that the French monarchy did not succeed in creating an army that was truly national, because it did not suppress the aristocratic influence on political and military organization. As a result, the army became mercenary. Servan describes the dilemma of the army as being the consequence of an underlying political dilemma between the centralized and national state power and the political weight of aristocracy. On the one hand, the monarchy built up central state power; on the other, it had to compromise with the aristocracy. The place of the military in society was therefore unstable: aristocrats had considerable privileges and the officer corps was almost exclusively noble; the bourgeoisie bore no relation at all to the army; soldiers were recruited from the poor classes and foreigners. The dilemma of the army was that it perpetuated a feudal structure inside a general political framework that leaned towards national unity. This structural antagonism could only be contained by an increasingly severe discipline (Servan 1780: 32–4). Accordingly, the author implicitly recognized that changes in the military constitution would imply changes in the political realm. Significantly, this matter is addressed in terms of ‘government’, that is, in terms of the relation between subjectivities and power, and not in terms of ‘constitution’, that is, as political form. Servan is not a social philosopher, but rather a social engineer. Questions of justice and fairness never play key roles in his argument, and the analysis of the defaults of the recruitment system and the propositions for change are described entirely

42 The French moment from a viewpoint of efficiency. It was the author’s conviction that a solution to the numerous internal problems affecting the army was only to be found in a change in the modes of the levy, organization of subsistence, military and civil employment and discipline of the soldier. This, however, implied a vision of global political change towards a regime stimulating patriotism. The description of the crisis of France’s armed forces does not differ from contemporary diagnostics, nor do the remedies he proposed. Servan’s originality consists rather in the ingenious combination of these different elements into a general theory of the government of military and civic subjectivities within the framework of the national state. The existing system was criticized for not being sufficiently flexible to increase or lessen the number of soldiers in war or peacetime. Accordingly, Servan argued for a double system: volunteer recruitment would be the basis for a core army of professional soldiers whose strength could be increased as necessary by universal conscription, which should concern ‘all the estates’ (Servan 1780: 74–5). The universality of conscription, however, was significantly modified by the opportunity given to propertyowners to contribute ‘proportionately with their goods and only if necessary with their persons’ to the military effort of the nation: in short, the rich could buy themselves out of the obligation (Servan 1780: 73). The distinction between army professionals and conscripts, however, required two different strategies for integrating the armed forces into society. On the one hand, stress was laid on the social visibility of the army and the equity of the terms of obligations and contracts (Servan 1780: 66). Each soldier, volunteer or conscript, had to be sure that he would be dismissed after the end of the eight-year term of service (Servan 1780: 85). On the other hand, military education required special treatment, and in this respect the soldiers had to be kept apart from civil society. More particularly, Servan argued for enlistment at the age of puberty, in order to ensure a fully military education for future professional soldiers (Servan 1780: 47). As a result, ‘the soldier should certainly be considered as a citizen. . . . However, the same man is a member of a body that forms a sort of separate estate within the state.’ The military had to be integrated into society and at the same time be separated from it. Some of Servan’s demands were conventional, as, for instance, that of rationalizing punishments: the sentence should be chosen according to the crime or misdemeanour; death sentences should be reserved for capital crimes (Servan 1780: 421–3). In other respects, Servan appeared more revolutionary, for instance in his proposal for the election of officers (Servan 1780: 424–6). However, his fundamental concern was always the creation of feelings of belonging and the internalization of virtue, a concern that went beyond the confines of the army: virtue was required foremost for soldiers, but not exclusively; the discourse on military education thus concerned the general political problem of the relationship between the state and individuals. Military and civic virtue was not prob-

The Enlightenment and military service 43 lematized in terms of discipline alone since the causal relationship becomes more complex. Servan claims that the quality of discipline has to be adapted to the virtue of the individual. Accordingly, he criticized military discipline, as it was practised in eighteenth-century armies, as being essentially external to the soldier, incapable of strengthening his moral and physical forces. Being purely negative, it was unable to make use of the positive energies of patriotism, responsibility and honour (Servan 1780: 19). In short, the machine-like soldier is no longer a model. On the contrary, Servan counts on the soldier’s morals, intelligence and allegiance, and subordination should not go so far as to make the soldier incapable of autonomous action (Servan 1780: 223–4, 405). The creation and social implementation of these positive forces, however, was impossible to achieve in the army taken as a separate entity: patriotism, responsibility and honour need to exist in society in order to come into being in the army (Servan 1780: 432). A whole pattern of ideology-politics was thus needed as a civic frame for the military: What did ‘love of fatherland’ signify for the Ancients? A superstitious mixture of religion, respect, and esteem for the different orders of the republic, tenderness for one’s kindred and fellow citizens, pride together with the glory of the fatherland. Why should we not be capable of the same feelings? (Servan 1780: 50) In practice, this ideology-politics could take different forms. Servan insisted on the necessity of an oath, to be repeated annually, and of a public celebration giving social visibility to the army (Servan 1780: 95). This would also be a means of increasing the social prestige of military titles and symbols such as uniforms and medals (Servan 1780: 435–6, 445). Moreover, the soldier needed to be effectively protected against the material risks of his profession; what was needed was a form of social policy including health insurance and childcare (Servan 1780: 127, 446–8). The most important feature, however, was education in virtue by means of perpetual exercise: ‘The best precept for virtue is to practise it. . . . The first principle concerning children’s actions is that they do nothing indifferent and that each action, as far as that is possible, is or prepares for virtue’ (Servan 1780: 227). In a first stage, this implied that soldiers were permanently under supervision and considered as isolated beings and moral subjects of their actions (Servan 1780: 195). In a second stage, this external supervision was replaced by internal supervision of the group itself: ‘Each day, after the oath of fidelity, after study, the students should be assembled to judge their actions, to reward and to punish them.’ In order to do so, the future soldiers should form their own juries to judge each other. The group was thus to develop controlling practices of its

44 The French moment own. In theory, the development of civic and military virtue as described by Servan was linked to the moral autonomy of a community. Perfect virtue did not mean being continuously controlled, but, rather, controlling oneself continuously and severely. It meant endowing the moral capacities of the individual with the political and communitarian values of the res publica. Enlightenment political theory thus constructed a discursive link between military service and the exercise of citizenship, which gradually became a self-evident axiom in Enlightenment thought, and closely linked to the idea of civic virtue. Citizenship thus not only took on a political or juridical but also a moral dimension. In furnishing the discourse on citizenship with moral issues, however, Enlightenment thought was in opposition to political theory, and especially to the political anthropology of absolutism, which relied on a fundamental distinction between two spheres. Born from religious civil wars, the absolutist state was constituted as a kind of supra-moral political institution in which religious and political opinions were politically neutralized.27 The state is ideally and typically conceived as a rational machine that engenders its own sphere of political reason. The raison d’État becomes autonomous in respect of moral or religious justifications, and its being is justified by its mere factual capacity to put an end to civil war. In this respect, the raison d’État is actually perceived as reasonable inasmuch as only the state enables humans to live peacefully together. This means that the political and the moral spheres become separated. Morality, on the one hand, becomes a private matter, and as long as the individual obeys the laws, the state has no right of intervention in the private sphere. The political, on the other hand, is perceived as morally neutral. In terms of political anthropology, the individual is consequently divided into two corresponding entities, into a political subject (the citizen) on the one hand, and, on the other, a human being who is the only bearer of religious and moral opinions or beliefs: humans are separated from themselves. If, however, one considers that the concept of community implies shared attitudes, opinions and sensibility, the separation between the political and moral sphere of opinions signifies that the conditions for any possibility of forming a community are totally eliminated. Absolutist subjects may have private opinions, and they may even share these opinions with other individuals, but they are not part of any political community because their political existence depends entirely on the state. The state, however, excludes any feeling of belonging inasmuch as it bans all opinions. Such exclusion of all communitarian bonds is the reason for the transcendence of the state. In the face of the state the individual is necessarily perceived as politically heteronymous, and autonomy can only exist in the private moral sphere. The development of enlightened criticism can be interpreted as a dialectical consequence of this very separation (Koselleck 1988). Its social location was the enlightened bourgeoisie or, to use contemporary lan-

The Enlightenment and military service 45 guage, the ‘nation’ in contrast to the state. The novelty of the Enlightenment discourse on citizenship and moral virtue thus becomes obvious. The ‘citizen’, seen as the outcome of absolutist separation, is constructed as the unity of the formerly separated qualities and, as such, endowed with qualities formerly excluded, such as virtue, communitarian identification and political autonomy. The citizen is a part of the sovereign and, as such, endowed with the capacity of autonomous political action. This political autonomy, however, is the opposite of individualism or egoism: it is, on the contrary, the autonomy of an active member of a community and thus requires identification with this community. This is precisely what was called civic virtue. The separation between the armed forces and the nation, which was a main target of Enlightenment military criticism, may be viewed in exactly the same light. It mirrors the underlying absolutist distinction on the level of the very foundation of the political order. The state constituted itself as state inasmuch as it monopolized the armed forces. In doing so, however, a barrier was established between the sphere of the state and the rest of society. The monopolization of violence was the foundation for the transcendence of the state. Viewed in this way, to call this transcendence into question was also to challenge the absolutist monopoly of armed force; and it is at this point that the transition from Enlightenment political and military theory to the Revolution becomes evident. Challenging the transcendence of the apparatus of violence, on which the state relies, inevitably signified defying the absolutist state itself.

3

Popular arming and military service in the French Revolution

The French Revolution is one of the major historical events in which modern concepts of citizenship, the state and the nation took shape. It is, moreover, during this period that the military duties and compulsory enlistment of the ancien régime were transformed into the form of conscription that characterized the military systems of a wide range of countries in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. What is more, the general ambiguity of military service, with its dual nature of being both an expression of civic rights and disciplinarian submission, becomes palpable in a development over ten years, that led from insurrectional forms of popular arming to institutionalized military service. This chapter will analyse the historical movement in which, during the first years of the Revolution, the construction of a revolutionary state involved both institutional continuity with the ancien régime and radical reinterpretation of institutional practices of compulsory military recruitment in terms of a new conception of citizenship. What had been denounced as ‘military slavery’ became an essential pillar of the institutionalized affiliation of the citizen to liberty. The particular dual structure of the ancien régime – and the separations stemming from the dichotomy between the subject and the human being, on the one hand, and between the army and the nation on the other – was not easy to overcome. In practice, this dichotomy continued to exist in the distinction between the standing army and the National Guard. The latter can in fact be interpreted as the institutionalization of the takeover of power by the bourgeoisie and thus as the accomplishment of Enlightenment demands for a rapprochement between the nation and the army. The development of the National Guard was thus perceived as an exemplification of the civic foundations of the emerging nation-state.

The formation of the National Guard The armed forces of the ancien régime were not exempted from the general crisis affecting France’s political and social life, which cumulated in 1789 (Léonard 1958: 293–302). Desertion, insubordination and public troubles occurred increasingly, and troops even left their barracks and fraternized

Military service in the French Revolution 47 with the people. The government could no longer rely on the army, and this was a moment when it needed armed forces at its disposal. During the first semester of 1789 the problem of internal security became more and more urgent, since popular revolts occurred regularly. In June 1789 the National Assembly sent a letter to the king, calling for order to be kept in the capital: the king should assume his responsibilities in matters of public safety. The movement grew until the so-called ‘Great Fear’ in the summer of 1789, when a largely irrational wave of panic swept over the country. This led the bourgeois and peasants to organize militias, inspired by the medieval tradition of the milices bourgeoises. In doing so they also reaffirmed the principle of political autonomy on a local level in contrast to the excessive concentration of power in central state authority (Ligou 1960): the state’s monopoly of violence was on the wane. At the same time, the conflict between the National Assembly and royal authority continued to worsen. In early July 1789 there were rumours that the king had concentrated troops around the capital in order to dissolve the Assembly and so to put an end to the Revolution by military force. Accordingly, the same Assembly that had asked for royal troops to repress the uprising, only a few days later, demanded that the royal troops in the Parisian outskirts should retreat (Le moniteur, 8 and 10 July 1789). The 1789 Assembly was caught between absolutism on the one hand and anarchy on the other – between the struggle to impose its authority over the kingdom and popular uprisings and military rebellions – and so found it difficult to enforce its own conception of a constitutional monarchy. Thus it became clear very early on that the absence of a parliamentary armed force was one of its main political problems. In the light of this situation, electors of the third estate (the Parisian bourgeoisie) gathered near the Hôtel de Ville to insist on the establishment of a bourgeois armed force, and by 12 July 1789 an order was issued on the matter. A permanent committee was created, and each of the 60 districts of the city was asked to raise 200 men (Soboul 1982: 152). By the next day, the Parisian milice bourgeoise had been formed. The establishment of this force, however, was marked by an unusual contradiction: the members of a force that was to assure public order in the capital were armed by looting gunsmiths’ shops. With the storming of the Bastille, the Parisian bourgeoisie took power in the capital. The permanent committee was renamed Commune de Paris, while Bailly was elected mayor of the city and La Fayette commander of the milice bourgeoise, soon named the National Guard. Thus, from July 1789 onwards, the third estate had its own armed forces and the royal troops were obliged to withdraw from the area around Paris. This was a decisive step towards the establishment of a new political power in the country. Nonetheless, it soon also became clear that the interests of the bourgeoisie did not always coincide with the interests of the lower strata of society. In the first years of the Revolution the issue of participation in the armed forces was closely linked to the definition of active citizenship and

48 The French moment the right to vote. It was an established, although widely debated, opinion that all political responsibility should be assumed only by those whose private interests coincided with public prosperity, or, in other words, that citizens should have a material interest in public affairs (Rosanvallon 1992: 65–8). This led, logically, to the exclusion of the poor from all public functions, since those who did not possess goods could not be expected to care about the common good. Accordingly, service in the National Guard was reserved to active citizens. The 1791 constitution (Article 2, Section 2, Chapter 1, title 3) defined active citizenship by census: any Frenchmen aged 25 years or more who had sworn the civic oath and could pay a financial contribution equivalent to three days’ labour was entitled to apply for active citizenship (Godechot 1979: 40). Since the right to vote was a prerogative of active citizens, military service in the National Guard thus became a political right – rather than a civic duty – from which the poor were excluded. However, before June 1790 there was no national legislation about service in the National Guard, and the decision about who had the right and the duty to serve was made at the local level.28 In most cases the lower strata of society were excluded, and command was in the hands of leading local citizens (Arches 1986). But this practice did not always go unquestioned. On 20 August, for instance, the ‘persons belonging to the domestic staff of the district Isle of St-Louis’ proposed a motion to the Commune on the matter, demanding First, the reform, in any possible case, of this hard and outrageous sentence for them in article 4 of the instruction saying: people belonging to the domestic staff are excluded; – Second, the faculty to serve in the National Guard without being paid; – Lastly, the faculty to vote for the Assemblies of their Districts. Military service was thus clearly a means to gain access to civic rights, and these claims were justified by a challenge to the underlying political principles: Man is a creation of nature, and his condition is due to coincidence and we thus profess that the quality of Citizen is and ought to be essentially inherent to the individual, and independent of accidental events. . . . Persons belonging to the domestic staff are human beings and Citizens like their Masters. It is, therefore, neither consequent nor equitable to refuse to them what is accorded to all masters.29 In contrast to the political and social division between active and passive citizenship, this motion was clearly inspired by another concept of citizenship, which relied on equality and universality, instead of property. However, in contrast to the Parisian servants, the bourgeois who were actually admitted into the National Guard often felt little inclination to

Military service in the French Revolution 49 perform their service effectively. Even if the civic principle of military service was generally admitted in these communal troops, it was often claimed that everybody should have the option of contributing financially rather than in person, which meant either buying a substitute or paying a fixed amount of money to the local community in exchange for exemption from personal service. This money could then be spent to pay unemployed workers for services in the Guard, a procedure that would help in reducing social tension and work towards the military education of the population in times of war.30 Others, however, were opposed to these proposals, because of the necessity for the bourgeoisie to defend their interests themselves: it is appropriate to the class we are forming in the state, I mean the bourgeoisie, to guard ourselves. . . . We are linked by the same spirit, by the same interest. Our families, our establishments, our fortunes depend on this safeguard.31 Military service should be personal, yet restricted to bourgeois strata – which meant that social groups differing either in spirit or interest were excluded. These disputes show above all that the role of the National Guard was not clearly defined. It is generally admitted, nevertheless, that the National Guard was a bourgeois force, aimed at defending the interests of the bourgeoisie against absolutism on the one hand, and against popular claims on the other. But this general description needs to be qualified since it is also true that National Guards participated actively in popular uprisings, fraternizing with the people (Devenne 1991: 54). Moreover, the composition of the Guard did not strictly coincide with holders of active citizenship, and there are considerable regional differences in this respect (Vialla 1913: 31–5). In some towns there were no legal restrictions that limited membership of the Guard to certain social strata, but in most cases servants and dependant workers were excluded. The same applied a fortiori to vagabonds, beggars, criminals and so on. If the rules differ from one place to another, the actual practices also differ from the rules: many sons of active citizens under 25 years of age were admitted into the Guard (d’Hollander 1992: 483). The National Guard was thus much less bourgeois than it should have been according to its rules, and with the sharpening of social contradictions during the Revolution, a ‘social purification’ was increasingly claimed (see Vialla 1913: 28). In a petition to the Ministry of War, army officers suggested that the existing units should be abolished because ‘they are badly organized, badly composed, and the officers of these troops are, in certain towns, only day labourers, artisans, innkeepers and other people of that kind’.32 A parliamentary report in September 1791 stated that military authorities are ‘dominated by particular societies or drawn by popular movements’ (Boullé 1791: 2).

50 The French moment A decree issued on 10 August 1789 placed the Guard under municipal authority.33 Nevertheless, the actions of the National Guards did not always coincide with the official politics of the local authorities, as reiterated complaints about the troops confirm (see Tournes 1920; Dupuy 1972). In June 1790, one year after the formation of the Guard, a unified legal status was conferred on the Guards.34 A majority in the National Assembly believed that the National Guard should be its force of order in domestic affairs, its executive for economic, military and religious policy. A direct link between active citizenship and service in the National Guard was thus juridically established: not only was membership limited to active citizens, but also enrolment became a necessary condition for active citizenship. As the right to vote in the National Assembly was also restricted to active citizens, the exercise of civic rights and military service became inseparable qualities in the definition of citizenship. Only a minority of conservatives questioned the principle by which Guard officers were elected for a limited period of time (see Chavardès 1790: 4). There was equally consensus about the fact that a military corps needed to be subordinated in some way during its time of service, but arguments broke out about the definition of a ‘reasonable’ degree of subordination. The Minims district, for example, claimed that all commanders should be obliged to justify their decisions and orders by argument: Subordination is easily forgotten if the one who has to obey does not have an intimate knowledge of the necessity and the utility of the given orders and if the motives are not conveyed to him. The citizen who, while not in arms, is in everything equal to the officer has difficulty in passing instantly from the state of equality to that of obedience.35 Unfortunately, the lack of sources makes it impossible to reconstruct the arguments that must certainly have arisen from these concepts of military subordination. The question of the qualities necessary to become an officer was also widely debated. According to the Count of Elbée, ‘it is necessary that the choice involve only those citizens who have a good education, good manners, an honourable fortune, and are of mature age’ (Elbée 1789: 4), which means that only bourgeois and nobility should have access to officer ranks. Others, on the contrary, proposed not to exclude the ‘people’ but, on the contrary, the nobles of the National Guard, since ‘a noble is not a citizen’ (Gérard de Rarecourt 1789: 4). These disputes about the organization and composition of the civic troops shed light on the underlying uncertainties about the composition and structure of the demos. Right from the outset, the ‘people’ was an uncertain and disputed concept.36 Especially in small communities, enrolment ceremonies in the National Guard quickly became the secularized equivalent to religious ceremonies, an interesting fact for an historical anthropology of the integration of the

Military service in the French Revolution 51 individual into the national state. In the town of Cesson to the south of Paris, enlistment in the National Guard took the form of a celebration of national and civic unity: this ceremony is a good example of how many municipalities translated the philosophical principles of communitarian engagement of civic virtue into a symbolic practice. On 4 July 1790, Gautier, both priest and mayor of Cesson, gave a speech in the public square before those to be enrolled as National Guards: you burn to enrol your names on the list of the defenders of the fatherland. . . . Do not consider yourselves simply as inhabitants of the canton that saw your birth, and that renders you every year the fruits of your labour; consider yourselves as citizens of France as a whole, as children of the common mother country, and as actual brothers of all those of your kind whom she carries in her womb . . . is it not just, in exchange for all this favour, to pay the homage of your goods and your persons? Assuring her glory and her prosperity means working for your own happiness. (Gautier 1790a: 7) Even if the new military forces are recruited at the local level, their horizon is necessarily national, and the nation is described by the metaphor of the mother who gave birth to the ‘brothers’ who form the popular sovereign (see Hunt 1992). But this mother – a symbol of the original principle of the unity of the nation – requires her children’s goods and persons: she gives them life but they belong to her. She is strictly identical with its multiple manifestations that are the citizens. The legacy of absolutist political theory (in which the subject was a creature of the prince to the same extent that man is one of God’s creatures and thus owes Him the same respect and obedience) is thus reinterpreted in the light of some kind of religion of natural reason typical of Enlightenment thought, where religious creation is replaced by the natural metaphor of motherhood. Three weeks later, on the occasion of the blessing of the flag of the National Guards of Cesson and the neighbouring town of St-Port, Gautier made a second speech, this time in the church of St-Port: The apparatus of war within peace . . . a multitude of citizens armed within the calm of the cities, the empire of the lis, once the residence of pleasures and of cheerfulness, suddenly transformed into a vast military camp! What an unprecedented change! . . . Cease your surprise, dear fellow citizens; these preparations are not made to inspire your terror but your trust. (Gautier 1790b: 9) Now that a new political order was founded, nobody should fear any more that a despot’s mercenaries would force citizens under their yoke. Former

52 The French moment subjects were now citizens and soldiers at the same time; now they had a mother country for whom they were ready to sacrifice their lives, properties and personal interests: ‘Deprived of all personal affection, in some way identified with this generous mother, any external torments or pleasures count for nothing; they breathe but by her, they live but for her glory and her prosperity.’ Service in the National Guard thus restores this original relationship of the citizen-soldiers with their common mother. A new soul was formed, and pride – ‘disastrous source of injustices and crimes when it is concentrated in the individual – [was] entirely transposed to the common mother’. A vice on the private level, pride becomes a virtue if it is attached to the interpersonal echelon of the community, for it no longer serves the particular interests of the individual but the common good (Gautier 1790b: 10–12). The kinship metaphor of a relationship between a mother and her sons clearly also has a gender dimension. As soldiers, the sons will finally regain their masculinity of which they were deprived by absolutism: ‘dare to have revenge on the excesses that were made on your sex, by elevating yourselves to the height of strong and virile virtues’ (Gautier 1790b: 18). The soldiers of the National Guard, being finally counted as ‘men’, are ‘veritable members of sovereignty whose wholeness resides essentially within the whole of the body of the nation’ (Gautier 1790b: 14). Virility, strength, citizenship and political liberty tend thus to be bracketed together by the kinship metaphor of the political community. The individual becomes a free citizen to the extent to which he is a grateful member of the community, a son of the mother who gave him existence. Manly strength of reason is needed to recognize this debt, in order to prevent the feeling of liberty from turning into licence without any bounds. There is no liberty without the recognition of subjection, and vice versa. The ceremony continued with a speech by the commander of the National Guard at the blessing of the flag and a public fête. Stress was thus laid on national unity, whereas the separations, above all class and gender boundaries on which this unity relied, were concealed. The same holds true for the songs sung by the National Guard in the early years of the Revolution. One of these glorifies the unifying virtues of a common military service: ‘Dans nos cités un durable lien/Unit, confond, sous le drapeau civique/Les intérêts du soldat citoyen/Qui les défend avec la paix public.’37 If the National Guard is portrayed here as a factor of unity without naming the possible enemies of unity, another song is much more explicit in designating anarchists as the internally dividing element: Aux discords civiles/Renonçons à la fin/Bannissons de nos villes/Leurs dangereux venin . . . Ils vantent l’anarchie/Que l’ordre a fait cesser/Contre la monarchie/On les voit tout oser . . . Français, telle est la marque, du mauvais citoyen:/L’ennemi du monarque/Doit être aussi le tien.38

Military service in the French Revolution 53 It is also significant that these speeches and songs include a reminder of the distinction between liberty and unrest, liberty being defined as the recognition of pre-existing social bonds. The absence of an external enemy necessitates the transposition of the division into the sphere of political subjectivity. The forces and counterforces were not supposed to confront each other on a material battlefield but on the stage of the individual’s soul, and the outcome of the battle was to be the transformation of the individual’s anti-social passions, such as pride, striving for independence, egoism, into socially useful sentiments, such as honour, love of liberty and the public good. The basic medium through which such a transformation may be achieved is the kinship metaphor, where the integration of the individual into the community was founded on the recognition of an even deeper dependence on the social totality that brought them to life.

The 1789–90 debate on the ‘military constitution’ In autumn 1789 the Assembly began its work of reconstructing France’s political, financial, religious and military structures. If the arming of the bourgeoisie in the National Guard had strengthened the political position of the third estate in the summer of 1789, this new balance of power still needed to be translated into legal reality. The new political order, relying on the primacy of the bourgeoisie, thus remained to be assessed against the monarchy, on the one hand, and the rabble on the other. This twofold goal was to be achieved by limiting the king’s authority over the military, and by preventing its becoming too deliberative, that is, too revolutionary. Despite revolutionary equality, the ‘great principle of subordination which is . . . the soul of military art’, should never be forgotten. The military is a machine that works by a ‘cult of subordination’ (Bacon 1789: 1). The situation was thus complex: the Assembly sought to secure some control over an army which was up to that time commanded only by the king; dissolution of military discipline, desertion and fraternization with the people reduced the military reliability of the army as such; popular armed uprisings occurred throughout the country; the bourgeoisie organized its own military power in the National Guard; and, lastly, the legacy of the political ideology of the Enlightenment inclined the legislator to admit the principle of the military obligation of the citizen to the state. This was the context in which, from December 1789 onwards, the National Assembly discussed France’s future military organization. No threat of war was in sight, and just a couple of months earlier France had declared ‘peace to the world’. The issue was thus purely domestic, concerning the relation between the armed forces and society. By the time the Estates General had met, even most of the army officers were convinced of the necessity of a change,39 and so were the deputies in the Assembly. There was unanimity, furthermore, concerning the fact that the

54 The French moment new military constitution had to reflect the changes in the political system (Rabaut 1790: 1). Following the principle that ‘each citizen is the defender of his fatherland’, the Assembly agreed that the nation should be the basis of the new recruitment policy. There was equally a consensus concerning the fact that recruitment had to be considered as the core element of the future military constitution (Liancourt 1789: 1). There was hardly a parliamentary speech that did not open by underlining the central importance of military recruitment for political organization as a whole. On this basis, quite different opinions confronted one another: the point of dissent was precisely whether the army should be recruited from volunteers or by conscription. The Minister of War, Count La Tour du Pin, presented a parliamentary memorandum on the matter on 12 December 1789, in which he recognized the duty for ‘all citizens, without distinction’ to defend the state, arguing, however, that ‘an important distinction should be made in the application of this truth’ (La Tour du Pin 1789: 3). In order to reconcile two contradictory political principles – the obligation to defend the country on the one hand, and individual liberty on the other – a compromise consisting of a well-ordered separation of tasks between the different political classes had to be found (Goupy de Morville 1790: 10). The Minister was thus in favour of voluntary recruitment. Dubois-Crancé, the most eloquent of his adversaries, contended that ‘in France each citizen has to be soldier and each soldier has to be citizen, otherwise we will never have a constitution’ (Dubois-Crancé 1791: 86). This was the main point of the disagreement: those in favour of conscription challenged the separation of the different political classes and above all of citizens and soldiers. The argument, however, was politically dangerous, since it questioned one of the basic principles of the post-1789 political constitution, the separation between active and passive citizens (see Soboul 1959). Dubois-Crancé affirmed that the exclusion of passive citizens from the National Guard would make them lose their attachment to the nation. And if, moreover, the regular army continued to be recruited from volunteers – which meant in practice from people of ‘the most indigent, I almost said, the basest class of the nation’ (Cessac and Servan n.d.: 18) – then it would cease to be the public force of the community. According to that argument, the new political system could not afford to both exclude a majority of the poor and to rely on them – as soldiers in the army. In order to find virtue and patriotism in the army, it was argued, the army has to be composed of property-owners, not recruited from the indigent classes only.40 The defenders of compulsory conscription thus argued that civic virtue and economic property were closely related. More fundamentally, the disagreement about conscription displayed widely differing conceptions of political liberty. If, for the opponents of conscription, compulsory military service was the ‘pinnacle of despotism’, its promoters held that liberty was not so much a personal as a political

Military service in the French Revolution 55 matter, closely linked to the existence of the public force. In other words, a strong state is needed, since liberty ‘is a chimera if the stronger one can with impunity oppress the weaker one’ (Dubois-Crancé 1790: 8–9). No real liberty was conceivable except in a republic, and the absence of state power was understood as slavery. It was, therefore, both a holy duty and a right for each citizen to resist this kind of oppression: the state was a right before being a duty. This, however, meant that the public force had to be subordinated to the general will which, according to Rousseau, can never be wrong (Social Contract, II, 3). The promoters of conscription even admitted that, in a tyrannical state, it would be the ‘excess of despotism [for the citizens] to be obliged to carry arms to oppress themselves’.41 In a sovereign nation, however, where the laws are the expression of the general will, all the citizens obey, but to laws of which they are the collective authors inasmuch as they constitute the collective sovereign. If sovereignty may not be delegated or represented without ceasing to be, it has to remain entirely in the hands of the citizens (Social Contract, II, 1). The people are and remain sovereign if, and only if, the public force that constitutes the state rests in their hands. According to the ancient intellectual heritage of classical republicanism, military service was perceived as a factor for national synthesis, as a kind of identifier between contradicting aspects of political life formed by a new type of civic subjectivity. What was needed were docile subjects to whom the law would be ‘known and consequently respected and cherished’, as said by the Deputy Rabaut in a report to the Assembly. The citizen-soldier would be formed by ‘military celebrations, political celebrations, civic institutions of national education, that transmit to all citizens the same sentiments, the same habits, the same manners, at the same time and in the same forms’, and will thus make him ‘bow his head with religious veneration in front of the holy authority of the law’ (Rabaut 1790: 2, 8). The individual became a citizen as he became a pars totalis of the community. He became the matter from which the universal norms of liberty and equality were coined. Military service was thus opposed to all kinds of egoism, which hindered the development of the universality of reason in the political sphere, and was supposed to overcome all conflict between the particular and the universal. Even the most eloquent adversary of conscription in the Assembly, the Count of Liancourt, acknowledged this; but, in his view, the problematic point was precisely that this unity did not yet exist: ‘a happy and free Constitution will doubtlessly change France’s manners, but the revolution of manners cannot be completed but slowly. [. . .] However, waiting for this to be carried out, the Citizens will be slaves and service in the army hurts’ (Liancourt 1789: 7–8). The argument held that, even if it may be admitted that the goal to be achieved by the means of military service – the great national synthesis, was a respectable one, this should not lead to the establishment of an educational dictatorship that oppressed those whom it intended to liberate.

56 The French moment This argument was more convincing for the majority in the Assembly than those of the advocates of conscription: on 16 December 1789 the Assembly decreed that ‘French troops, of all kinds of arms, other than National Guards and Militia, will be recruited by voluntary engagement’.42 Conscription was rejected in favour of voluntary recruitment. Once this important decision had been made, the matter was delegated to the military committee, whose speaker, Bouthillier, wrote a report in December 1790 proposing the practical measures to be taken. The general structure of the regular army should remain more or less the same; the executive power over the army was in the hands of the king; military service was rejected and engagements lasted for eight years with the possibility of an extension. More particularly, the age limit for enrolment was fixed at 16, for at this young age the soldier ‘submits easily to military discipline and becomes often a distinguished subject’ (Bouthillier 1790: 9). Furthermore, the procedure of the levy was reformed: recruiters should only work in their home district, in order to come under the control of their fellow citizens. This was supposed to prevent the notorious disorders of traditional recruitment. Another important point was the nationalization of the army: only French nationals should be recruited in French corps. This principle did not include foreign corps, but French and foreign corps had to be separated (Bouthillier 1790: 10). Finally, soldiers were to lose their civic rights for the duration of their engagement (Bouthillier 1790: 15). The outcome of the debate was thus an attempt to moralize the recruitment of the army without changing its structure or the general patterns of staffing. The long term of service, the possibility of enrolment at the age of 16, the maintenance of foreign corps and the loss of civic rights for soldiers, deliberately kept the armed forces at a certain distance from civil society. Moreover, the third estate did not attack the king’s supreme authority over the state and the army, but contented itself with the recognition of the National Guard as the expression and guarantee of bourgeois participation in political matters.

Armed forces and volunteer levies in 1791–3 The legislation of 1789–90 lasted less than one year, and it was war that rendered it obsolete. In June 1791, facing the threat of war, the Assembly decided to raise battalions of national volunteers from the National Guard: this decision significantly altered the structure of the armed forces. The government felt the need to raise more troops as relations with the other European powers deteriorated: in the spring of 1791 the Pope condemned the civil constitution of the clergy; the King of Spain concentrated troops on the French border; and the governments of Prussia, Russia and Sweden worked actively in a European coalition against revolutionary France (Soboul 1982: 219–21). The Assembly received alarming reports on the situation of the army, avowing that France would have

Military service in the French Revolution 57 major difficulties in fighting a war: ‘There is a great disorder in the army: discipline and instruction are banished, trust between superiors and subordinates is destroyed’ (Bureaux de Pusy 1791: 4). The Assembly was further worried about the officer corps’ lack of attachment to the new political order and the dissolution of discipline among soldiers who ‘cover all their faults behind the veil and the name of patriotism’. In January, Deputy Alexandre Lameth had already put forward the idea that a part of the National Guard could be employed as a defensive force able to protect the country’s borders against a foreign invasion (Lameth 1791). In June of the same year, emigrants, ecclesiastical princes in Germany, and ‘the ancient agents of power and an enormous mass of influential and rich persons’ were singled out as the main agents of the threat. In addition, it was stated that ‘crooks are gathered, protected and paid off by invisible hands’ and that the multitude mixes up ‘liberty with license, submission to laws with slavery, the empire of the Constitution with the ancient despotism’ (Saint-Just 1791: 5–6). While external enemies supported by emigrants were threatening the country, the lack of social discipline was seen to paralyse her forces. Several remedies to this desolate situation were suggested. The disbanding of the officer corps and its substitution by non-commissioned officers was rejected because the government feared a further relaxation of discipline (Bureaux de Pusy 1791: 12). Lameth, the speaker of the military committee of the Assembly, suggested providing 100,000 auxiliaries to reinforce the line army, whose status would have resembled that of the former milice (Lameth 1791: 9; Cardenal 1912: 16; Vialla 1913: 50). In order to reinforce discipline within already existing units, other deputies suggested that soldiers swear an oath; but this proposition made the officers indignant, since it was perceived as an affront to their honour (Cazalès and Bouthillier 1791; Clermont-Tonnere 1791). Traditionally minded officers saw themselves as members of a caste characterized by its particular attachment to honour and so rejected any attempt to attribute military honour to the individual rather than to a special group (Cazalès 1791: 4–5) This dispute clearly displays the fact that the democratization of honour was closely linked to a changing conception of political individuality: the tendency to consider soldiers as parts of an estate decreased. Honour and moral value became qualities of the individual rather than of a particular social group. On 11 and 13 June 1791 a decree was published stating that ‘in each department a free conscription of National Guards of good will’ was to be made, in order to mobilize 5 per cent of the Guard (Déprez 1908: 100). The objective was to reinforce the line army with politically reliable volunteers. When the king tried to escape from France and was arrested in Varennes a week later, and the international situation became even worse, the government issued another decree giving precise instructions for the organization and payment of the troops to be raised (Bertaud 1970: 121). As only members of the National Guard were concerned, the call for

58 The French moment volunteers was implicitly addressed to active citizens only, although the decree did not explicitly distinguish between active and passive citizens, mentioning only ‘citizens and sons of citizens’ (Déprez 1908: 100–1). Each soldier received a payment of 15 sous per day, whereas officers were paid up to seven times this sum. In addition, soldiers were given the right to elect their officers and non-commissioned officers, and the decree affirmed clearly that these measures were limited to the time in which ‘the situation of the state required an extraordinary service’ (Déprez 1908: 109). The forms of organization and military discipline of this extraordinary military force had to differ considerably from those in operation in the line army. In this respect the most important feature was certainly the question of the staffing of officers. In many cases the outcome of the elections was that the military order imitated the social order and that nobles, bourgeois citizens and former soldiers were appointed as officers (Laugier 1893: 6–7). The right to elect their officers distinguished the volunteer battalions from the line army units; furthermore, volunteers were preferentially lodged in private houses, whereas the line army had to make do with barracks. Volunteers were expected to supply their own dress and equipment (Déprez 1908: 111–15), but they received a higher pay than the troops in the line army, although the duration of the pay was restricted to the time of actual service (Déprez 1908: 131). The volunteers’ self-perception – as far as we can reconstruct such things from their diaries, letters, memoirs and so on – tend to confirm the assumption that service as a national volunteer was perceived as fundamentally different from service in the standing army.43 In many cases, a keen awareness of their being citizen-soldiers can be observed. Bricard, a volunteer in 1792, remembered that he refused the equipment supplied by the army, since he was afraid of being considered as a soldier, instead of a national volunteer (Bricard 1891: 8). Gabriel Noël, another volunteer from 1792, described a fight between line army grenadiers and volunteers, explaining that the grenadiers esteemed themselves superior to volunteers: ‘This makes them insolent, arrogant and quarrelsome. And yet we are all equal, all soldiers of the fatherland’ (Noël 1912: 3–4). Bial, a future colonel in the imperial army, gives an account of the election of battalion officers, relating a speech by a local administrator saying that only learned young people from wealthy families were capable of commanding their fellow citizens. Bial himself affirmed that he held another opinion: I thus stood up and raised as an objection that education and training were certainly essential qualities for a commander, but that they did not suffice to make what is called military merit, since also zeal, dedication, love of liberty, and the desire to sacrifice one’s life for the sake of the fatherland were needed, that no one could be excluded, and that it was up to the mass to appraise the merit of each candidate. (Bial 1828: 36)

Military service in the French Revolution 59 Jean-François Godard, also a volunteer from 1792, was not of the same mind. He remembered that those with barrack-room manners were elected officers (Godard 1894: 3). According to this source, the military order thus developed autonomously from civil society, whereas an imitation of the social order would have had the advantage that the army would not have lost the standards of civilization that the disciplinarian revolution had introduced to the army. The situation in the army became even more critical after the declaration of war on 20 April 1792, exacerbated by the emigration of many officers of noble birth. In addition to political motives, many of these émigrés left the army because they held that discipline and subordination had been completely annihilated, rendering their working conditions untenable. Lieutenant d’Assézat related that: Since the general insurrection of the first battalion of the 48th infantry regiment that occurred this morning, 28 February 1792; considering that the voice of the officers, organ of the law, was completely disregarded, considering that confidence between us and our subordinates is entirely destroyed, considering finally that our presence is perfectly useless for the restoration of military discipline, I resign from my responsibilities. (Chuquet 1911: 8–9) Between mid-September and the beginning of December 1791, some 2,169 officers emigrated, many of them joining the émigré army in Germany (Scott 1978: 109). Internal frictions were thus increasingly added to the existing external tensions. Since November 1791, France’s economic and social difficulties sharpened with the rise of food prices, and the poor from all parts of the country demanded the suppression of the liberal economic policy. Peasants clamoured for the abolition of the feudal tithe and Parisian radicals for the extension of the right to vote to the whole male population. All these disputes led periodically to uprisings, lootings of corn convoys and the pillaging of castles. Further, the flight of the king destroyed the unanimity with which the ruling bourgeois strata had sided with the monarchy: henceforth, the bourgeoisie was torn between attachment to the kingdom and rallying to the more radical popular movements. The most explicit example of these tensions is the fusillade on 17 July 1791 at the Champ-de-Mars in Paris, where the Parisian National Guards fired into the mass of demonstrators. For the first time, the revolutionary power turned against the people (Furet 1988: vol. 1, 165). In addition to the emigration of officers, the structure of the standing army changed profoundly between 1790 and 1792, and a significant number of line troopers were engaged. In 1792 more than one-third of them had served for less than one year. This meant that traditional norms

60 The French moment of instruction, and above all of military discipline, became more difficult to establish (Bertaud 1979: 77). According to a report to the Assembly, the military authorities were completely dominated by political clubs and popular movements and ‘thus all responsibility is destroyed [and] ordinary rules forgotten’ (Boullé 1791: 2–3). The composition of the officer corps also changed profoundly, since many aristocratic professional soldiers were replaced by common non-commissioned officers, many of whom had scant military experience (Bertaud 1979: 77, 83–4). Equipment, primarily guns, was also in short supply (Servan 1792: 4). Volunteer recruitment continued the following year, since the government was conscious that the country still lacked the necessary military force. However, in contrast to the 1791 levies that were, at least partly, activated spontaneously, the 1792 levies were entirely government-induced. The government oscillated between various options of enlistment that echoed different strategies for reasserting its social basis. This uncertainty makes the 1792 levies somewhat confusing. After the failure to enlist 100,000 auxiliaries (Jacquot 1980: 39; Vialla 1913: 50), the government ordered the creation of light infantry legions (Beaupuy 1792a; Bertaud 1979: 86) and ‘frank companies’ (Beaupuy 1792b), trying to enlist former soldiers in these corps (Déprez 1908: 212–14). On the political level, however, the formation of units of ‘Federates’ turned out to be even more important. In June 1792 the government ordered the gathering of 20,000 National Guards in Paris, partly in order to replace line troops stationed in the capital and partly for ideological reasons (Déprez 1908: 187–8). This was the first direct attack on the king’s prerogative in military matters, as the gathering took place against the monarch’s will. Indeed, the king’s refusal was one of the causes of the uprisings of 20 June, in which the ‘Federates’ played an important role, as well of those of 10 August. In early 1791 the government did not give precise numbers in its demands for soldiers, although the departments were expected to ‘furnish the number of National Guards that their situation requires and their population count permit’. The decree of 3 July 1791 then specified 18,000 men; the number augmented on 12 July to 26,000, to 97,000 on 22 July, and to 101,000 on 18 August (Déprez 1908: 103–20). On 5 May 1792 the formation of 31 new battalions of national volunteers was decreed, and simultaneously the number of soldiers in each was increased to 800. The preamble of the decree stated equivocally that the Assembly wanted ‘to procure to all French citizens without any delay the possibility of working in an active manner for the safeguarding of the constitution and liberty’ without specifying if ‘French citizens’ applied also to ‘passive citizens’ (Déprez 1908: 179–81, 181–2). With the declaration of the ‘fatherland in danger’ in early July 1792, each member of the National Guard who was able to carry arms was declared to be in permanent activity (Déprez 1908: 208–10). A decree of 12 July 1791 fixed the number of National Guards to

Military service in the French Revolution 61 be incorporated at 85,400, 50,000 of them in the line army, and a couple of days later the creation of 42 new battalions was ordered (Déprez 1908: 212, 217–24). The demands became even greater the following year: on 25 January 1793 the strength of the armed forces in general was fixed at 500,000, and levies were ordered in Corsica and the Pyrenees (Déprez 1908: 282–5). These numbers, however, remained entirely abstract, since they were defined by the presumed military needs of the country and not by its actual resources. Moreover, enlistment in these new forces was voluntary, which meant that the government could not decide the numbers definitively. Commissaries sent by the Assembly to the border departments of Meuse, Moselle and Ardennes reported nevertheless that ‘the earth bristles with soldiers ready to die for the sake of liberty’, even if the patriotic ardour of the population was not always shared by the officers (Montesquiou 1791: 2–3). In September 1791 a decree stated that the Assembly was ‘satisfied by the zeal that the National Guards of the interior departments had apparently contributed actively to the defence of the state’ (Déprez 1908: 129). Despite this positive appreciation of the efforts made by the country, the government decided on 24 February 1793 to raise 300,000 men, which may be considered as the culmination of all attempts made since 1791, and of all the inherent contradictions. This levy was decided in a moment when, after the execution of the king on 21 January 1793, the internal tensions that haunted the country became even more accentuated and the differences between the different political parties even more heightened. The first article of the decree about the levy stated that ‘all French citizens, from the age of 18 and up to 40 who are unmarried or widowers without children are in state of permanent requisition, up to the completion of the effective recruitment of 300,000 men’ (Déprez 1908: 286). This was supposed to mean in practice that each community had to furnish a certain number of soldiers, either volunteers or not: In cases where the voluntary inscription does not produce the number of men fixed for each community, citizens are required to fulfil the number without delay; and in order to do so, they are to adopt the method that they find the most suitable, by majority vote. (Déprez 1908: 87) The communities were thus charged with furnishing a certain number of soldiers nominated without any criteria: this caused considerable trouble. Those who were elected by their peers to serve as soldiers complained of being victims of local intrigues (Pressavin and Reverchon 1793: 4). In other cases the community nominated invalids, adolescents or old men, being sure that they would be rejected by the authorities (Bertaud 1979: 100), or used a lottery, which had the disadvantage of mirroring the

62 The French moment militia levies of the ancien régime. The levy of 300,000 men was thus deeply ambiguous. On the one hand, the decree applied to all citizens, active and passive alike, and established a universal military requisition, even if replacement was allowed, where the person designated for service had the right to provide a substitute. On the other hand, the military obligation was not perceived as a direct consequence of citizenship, since each individual was part of a community’s quota. As a result, the levy of 300,000 men clearly reflects the same logic as the militia requirements of the ancien régime. Nevertheless, an impressive number of National Guards were enlisted in the volunteer battalions between 1791 and February 1793. Generally, these volunteers were very young men, 79 per cent of them being younger than 25. In the Ain department, for instance, 249 out of 544 soldiers raised in 1791 were younger than 20 (Lévy 1979: 115), among them many artisans and journeymen (Bertaud 1979: 67–8). Since the legal framework stated that only members of the National Guard ought to be considered, the volunteers of the 1791 levy are traditionally considered as bourgeois (Soboul 1959: 69). Regional studies, however, have shown that there are great differences according to local context. The legal specifications were not always respected, and it seems that the social composition of these forces was more popular than it should have been according to the law (Crépin n.d.: 69–70). Geographically speaking, a large proportion of the volunteers came from urban areas, particularly from those in which the economic crisis was at its worse (Jacquot 1980: 84–94). The participation of passive citizens was mainly the result of two causes. On the one hand, participation depended heavily on the social composition of the National Guard among which volunteers were recruited. Given the fact that the legal framework remained unclear for a long time, a large number of passive citizens were enrolled and had, therefore, also the right to serve as volunteers (Vialla 1913: 63). On the other hand, local authorities were often very indulgent towards those who wished to enrol in these battalions in spite of the legalities. In the Seine-et-Marne department soldiers were even paid by the local authorities before the Ministry of War had made the necessary sums available in order to ensure that the soldiers, who on the whole had no financial resources, could survive until their pay arrived. This fact demonstrates clearly that recruitment of combatants from the lower strata was sometimes even encouraged by the authorities. A reason for this may have been a wish to remove individuals who could potentially become involved in social conflict (Crépin n.d.: 83).

Citizenship or discipline? In addition to military necessities, however, it was above all citizenship, its definition, its implications and its internal tensions, that was at stake in the debates about the National Guard and military service. At first, service in

Military service in the French Revolution 63 the National Guard, and thus the constitutional right to carry arms, was reserved for active citizens. This kind of service, however, was not subject to the same harsh military discipline practised in the line army. According to the early revolutionaries, discipline was not an issue in the National Guard, precisely because the Guard was made up of citizens, that is, of moral, reasonable and responsible beings, who would spontaneously form an homogeneous political body: for active citizens it would not only be useless but also harmful to impose strict military discipline, since they are already considered to be civilized people with a material interest in defending the social order by doing their military service. This principle, however, applied neither to the entire mass of the people nor to the line army, which was composed to a large extent of passive citizens. The issue of discipline had different characteristics according to the social and political group to which it was applied. As a corollary, the young bourgeois of the National Guards became increasingly criticized for their uncivilized behaviour. According to Deputy Montlosier the National Guards ‘have not ceased, since their institution, to influence the soldiers [of the line army] with their doctrine, to [encourage their participation in] their fêtes and their orgies, and have accustomed them also to join in their license and their indiscipline’ (Montlosier 1791: 4). Complaints about the National Guard’s uncivilized behaviour and participation in uprisings usually go hand in hand, and this makes it impossible to distinguish riots from politics (Jacquot 1980: 37; Devenne 1991). The very existence of this kind of armed gathering of young men exemplified the tension of revolutionary politics between these two contradictory but inseparable principles: democracy stemmed from revolution, and revolution from uprising, but institutional forms of democracy exclude violent uprisings. It was therefore necessary to submit the institutions in which insurrection has historically taken place, such as the National Guard, to specific control. As to the link between citizenship and the right to carry arms, a third element was needed in order to contain the risks of popular arming within the institutions; and this containing link was discipline. An anonymous pamphlet addressed to the National Guard and to the line army laid emphasis on the close link between public spiritedness (civisme), possession of arms and subordination: ‘We should never forget the holy duties that are imposed upon us by public spiritedness and the possession of arms, that is, we should never deviate from this subordination which is the basis of our honourable estate’ (La Franchise n.d.: 2). From the beginning, revolutionary politics was caught in the dilemma that the principle of revolution undermined state power and thus put the existence of the state as such at risk, since state power is precisely defined by the monopoly of violence, and thus by the separation of military power and civil society. Only such a separation was able to protect society from an unrestrained outbreak of violence, and this is why professional officers

64 The French moment praised the existence of standing armies subject to their own specific rules, as against institutions such as the National Guard: ‘Nowadays we do not see any more soldiers stealing in gardens and breaking down the doors of isolated houses: a military unit, at the present time, always assures order.’44 Special forms of military discipline that differed from those in force in other social spheres were in the interest of society: it is only by means of these kinds of discipline that the state succeeded in effectively controlling the use of violence. This principle did not become problematic as long as state power was thought to emanate from the personal sovereignty of the king. According to the political theory of monarchy, all power was concentrated in the person of the king. In practice, of course, the monarchy had to rely on specific and specialized social groups in order to exercise its authority; but the very fact that the armed forces were a part of royal sovereignty determined the rules of social organization inside this particular social body. Military discipline served above all to assure coherence according to a pyramidal model of command and obedience that culminated in the sovereign. In the first years of the Revolution this principle still functioned, even if some of its consequences were increasingly questioned. A military manual published in 1791 was thus explicitly based on ancien régime regulations because of the ‘impossibility of a gathering of individuals following the same impulse’. If each member of a fighting body had his own ideas, opinions would necessarily diverge and cause dissension (Hassenfrantz 1791: 5–6, 12). Soon another line of argument became apparent: any strict separation between military and civil forms of society should be avoided, partly because it was unacceptable for the new political community to rely on an army that carried in its internal organization the very denial of its general principles, partly because the homogeneity of the armed forces was also a political threat, since it conferred too much power on the supreme commander. It was argued that the ‘constitutive military laws . . . have to be perfectly analogous to the constitutional laws of the state’, since ‘defenders of the fatherland, being human beings and Frenchmen, ought to give up only the necessary part of their human and civic rights’ (Cessac and Servan n.d.: 5). Military subordination, while being maintained as a principle, was at the same time subordinated itself to the more fundamental principle of political equality (Dorfeuille 1791: 6). The new conception of hierarchy, in other words, was perceived as stemming from equality: ‘each citizen who is armed for the common cause is his commander’s equal: once this object is acknowledged and faith established he has to obey blindly’ (Jourgniac de Saint Méard 1790: 41). These formulations, which come close to complete nonsense, clearly indicate that a third element is needed between obedience and equality in order to make them compatible: the law, the common cause, the general will or popular sovereignty. In a speech to the National Guard in the Mamers district, a local representative put it in these words:

Military service in the French Revolution 65 Sovereignty of the collective people constitutes the law, and the whole life of each citizen is devoted to obedience to this law. It is this obedience that characterizes the just man, the man who is useful to his country, the good man I mean; since without obedience to the law, man would be either malicious or a slave, that is, either a ferocious and hideous being or a degraded creature. (Véron-Fortbonnais 1792: 2) The law is the expression of the general will, which is the holder of sovereignty; and obedience and discipline are nothing other than respect for the law. Consequently, soldiers do not obey their commanders, in that they are also individual citizens, but insofar as they are holding an authority according to the law. This kind of argument was increasingly exploited by the thermidoriens. It was exactly this reference to the law and the general will that marked, according to them, the difference between despotic and free discipline:45 republican discipline was, by definition, a ‘well-spring of love’ [un ressort de l’amour] (Gossuin year VI: 3–4). In comparison with the conception of the National Guard, a twofold transformation becomes apparent: there is a return towards the model of the army as a particular body with its own specific rules; while the new military conception differs from the old one by the reference to popular sovereignty. Should this be interpreted as a purely ideological construction excusing the continuation of the same practices? In order to answer this question, it is necessary to examine how the soldiers themselves viewed their service. Interestingly, the dichotomy of the old and the new also structured the soldiers’ way of thinking (Bial 1828: 72). They depicted themselves as citizen-soldiers fighting against slave-soldiers46 and this quality created their superiority: ‘the efforts of despotism are nil if they are directed against a people that has broken its chains’ (Petitbon 1978: 26; see also Staes 1983: 155). Moreover, the superiority of citizen-soldiers was considered as being capable of contributing to elevating the ‘satellites of despotism’ to the height of civic consciousness.47 Republican ideology acts as a powerful factor of identification and thus of coherence within the armed forces, which made it a precious political device. It would therefore be erroneous to consider the relationship between citizenship and discipline as a ‘cunning of power’ since there was an actual convergence between the viewpoints of the soldiers and of the military administration. According to the latter, a soldier who disobeyed was an enemy of public happiness and guilty towards society for disturbing its harmony. The duties of the soldiers, in this respect, were not different from those of any other citizen, since all had to renounce their anti-social passions in order to promote collective happiness. Obedience was thus perceived as the strength of the soul that enabled the individual to give preference to collective rather than personal interests. Accordingly, the permanent practice of obedience contributed to strengthening the soldier’s soul and to

66 The French moment rendering him master of his passions.48 If he was ‘free in his heart’, the soldier would ‘gratefully welcome the harshest laws’ (Dumas 1792a: 7). Republican soldiers would ‘observe spontaneously and without constraint the most rigorous discipline’ (Chavardès 1793: 3–4). The Assembly could thus appeal to the volunteers without being afraid of contradiction: ‘Do not have but a single sentiment: love of liberty and of equality; but a single principle: obedience to the law’ (Lamarque 1792: 4). Obedience was an epithet of liberty and equality; hierarchy an attribute of fraternity: ‘There is no triumph without absolute obedience of the soldier to the officer, of the officer to the general, without their constant and fraternal union’ (Pastoret 1792: 3). Any doubt about the legitimacy of authority was a crime, and deliberation put liberty at risk.49 Military commanders should certainly be aware of being ‘citizens commanding citizens’, but citizens were ‘obliged to obey their commanders’ orders without hesitation’ (Rabaut 1791: 24–5). This obedience, this renouncement of one’s personal will, was construed as the equivalent and the necessary precondition of liberty (Duportail 1791: 5). There is historical evidence that this ideological construction of disciplined citizenship in the army actually worked to a certain extent, especially between 1791 and 1793. French historians have often stressed that volunteers were bearers of freely consented discipline. Contemporary sources confirm this view to a certain extent. In a letter to the Minister of War in May 1791, General Montesquiou praised the moral and military values of the volunteers (cited in Rousset 1892: 60). In July he reported to the Assembly that the volunteers were full of ‘emulation that is perceptible in the most insignificant details of military service’ (Montesquiou 1791: 10). A military administrator in the Pyrénées Orientales department wrote that ‘there is an excellent esprit de corps; discipline and behaviour merits to be praised’.50 But there were also constant complaints about the lack of discipline, both in the line army and in the volunteer battalions. The proclamation to the department made by Servan, Minister of War, on 5 June 1792 is a telling example in this respect: ‘Our enemies have tried to seduce our soldiers, alarming them about liberty . . . it is not sufficient to sacrifice their lives if this is not directed by discipline’.51 We may conclude from these contradictory accounts that there were great differences between units, and that the conceptions of what discipline was and ought to be differered according to the underlying political convictions of the authors of these reports. The accounts of discipline differ also in the soldiers’ own narratives. Jean Petit, a volunteer from Châteauroux, wrote to his brother: ‘You tell me to be obedient to my superiors, be assured that I am too good a soldier to disregard my superiors.’52 Georg Kerner, a German revolutionary living in Paris, said that in the National Guard ‘there was not much virtue and so many shameful actions . . . and anarchy it was suffering from was so great’ that the institution was soon hated everywhere (Chuquet

Military service in the French Revolution 67 1911: 374). Pierre Girardon, a revolutionary bourgeois who quickly became an officer, even demanded ‘two hundred guillotines’ in the army to establish order. His conception of subordination and discipline, however, was somewhat crude, and implied above all harsh and arbitrary corporeal punishments (Girardon 1898: 33). Unsurprisingly, other soldiers complained about the brutality of some officers (Bricard 1891: 198). It is also true, however, that the need for military discipline as such was questioned neither by the soldiers nor by revolutionary officers, since a lack of discipline could have disastrous consequences on the battlefield (Ernouf 1881: 40). Dissent arose only over the question as to what constituted a reasonable and free degree of discipline. Bricard, a volunteer of 1792, complained that the army was in ‘a most critical situation, torn between different opinions, without order, without discipline’ (Bricard 1891: 51). With this conception of discipline, it was possible to invert the causal relationship between military service and citizenship. Active citizenship had been the legal basis for service in the National Guard and, consequently, in national volunteer battalions; but several parliamentary reports and legal rulings since January 1791 stated that military service, as an auxiliary in the line army and a fortiori as national volunteer, could become a source rather than a consequence of active citizenship (Lameth 1791: 9; Déprez 1908: 140–50). The argument was thus inverted, with service in the armed forces seen as a qualification for active citizenship; the link between the two elements could work in both directions and either could be regarded as the foundation for the other. In 1791, however, this link was rather loose, since enjoyment of civic rights for ancient soldiers was regarded as a form of reward for a limited number of passive citizens with particular merits, whereas the true source of civic rights continued to be looked for in the social position of the individual. However, military experience, with its educational implications, was increasingly construed as a second source of citizenship. In a number of decrees issued between November 1791 (Lacuée 1791: 5–6) and February 1792 (Déprez 1908: 140ff.), the Assembly decreed that passive citizens could enlist in the volunteer battalions and that national volunteers would enjoy active civic rights after the war. The difference between active and passive citizens lay in the fact that the first principle – military service as the foundation of citizenship – applied within the realm of the units fighting in war, and the opposite principle – citizenship as the foundation for military service – applied only to the National Guard. In other words, the sons of the bourgeoisie could carry arms as members of the National Guard while only being subject to its rather loose discipline. People from the popular strata of society, on the other hand, had actually to fight a war before being admitted to active citizenship. On 3 August 1792 the National Assembly then granted active citizenship to each Frenchman who fought in the war (Déprez 1908: 233).

68 The French moment The tensions between citizenship and discipline become palpable in discussions about the institution of military courts and laws. In August 1792 Deputy Charbroud submitted a report and a legal project on ‘military misdemeanours and punishments’ to the National Assembly. According to him, armed forces were both necessary to protect society and dangerous and threatening. This is why they must be ‘governed by a will and this will has to be separated’ from them in order to preserve political liberty (Charbroud 1791: 11). The army had to be able to act but not to want, and it was necessary that its action was deprived of any autonomous will. Why? Because the army is society’s tool of action. Accordingly, its will must be entirely subordinated to the general will of the nation. This character of subordination of the army as a whole determined the individual subordination of each soldier: just like the army as a whole, the individual had to renounce all particular will. ‘Liberty of the citizen is modified by the social contract (état social), whereas the liberty of the soldier is renounced by his enlistment. As long as this enlistment lasts he is almost a slave’ (Charbroud 1791: 16). In order to preserve liberty in society, a certain number of individuals thus had to be subjected to a military discipline that deprived them of their will and of the possibility of all autonomous action. Charbroud argued that military laws were nevertheless ‘the last chapter of the general law’, that military law ought not to be completely separated off from the institutionalized order of freedom. His opponents in the Assembly such as Félix de Wimpffen, a descendant of the military aristocracy, pushed this reasoning further, arguing that the army does not belong to society. The army, according to him, while belonging to a ‘congregation of individuals [the nation], is outside of this congregation and not inside; and therefore it has neither the same rights nor does it live under the same laws as the individuals of the society to which it belongs’. If the general laws of the nation were applied within the army, society would vanish away into ‘anarchy and license’ (Wimpffen 1791: 2–4). Political liberty, civic rights and the rule of law relied on the exclusion of the military from these rights and liberties. Slavery was a corollary and a precondition of a free political order, and civic inclusion relied on exclusion from civic rights. The political liberty of society as a whole had thus to rely on its own concrete negation. Transposing the philosophical topos of a dichotomy of body and soul to the political level, one could say that the fighting body had to be separated from the deliberating political soul. Like a body without a soul, the army has to be a bodily force without volition. To put it in Aristotle’s terms, deliberare and agere have to be institutionally separated, and it was precisely this internal split that guaranteed the institutionalization of an order of liberty. Title IX of Article 275 of the constitution of year III thus stipulated that ‘the public force is essentially obedient: no armed body may deliberate’. These different understandings of the nature of armed forces in society

Military service in the French Revolution 69 determined different ideas about penal laws in the military. For Charbroud, military legislation was efficient not if punishment was particularly harsh but only if it intervened gradually but surely according to the misdemeanour (Charbroud 1791: 13). This is exactly the spirit of Enlightenment thought about penal laws as formulated primarily by Beccaria. Wimpffen and other professional officers, on the other hand, considered it absolutely necessary that the commanders preserved the right to make arbitrary decisions about punishment of subordinates, partly because it would be impossible to foresee and to define each possible infraction, partly because military subordination relied on a consideration for rank and the instinct of obedience: this consideration should increase along with the prerogatives linked to each rank (Wimpffen 1791: 5 and 8). This meant that the principles of liberty and equality did not apply to the army and, consequently, that the same misdemeanours should be punished differently according to the rank of the wrongdoer (Goupy de Morville 1792: 5–7). The principle of equality before the law should not be applied in the military. However, this view may be applied to professional armies, in revolutionary France to the line army, but only with difficulty to citizensoldiers such as the national volunteers. The reason for this was that the civic army was seen to obliterate the distinction between civil society, on the one hand, in which the rule of law, liberty and equality is in force, and, on the other, the military, in which they are not. In the National Guard and the volunteer battalions, discipline was thus a very delicate issue and the legal rulings against insubordination were rather loose. The provisional regulations for the National Guard, issued on 6 August 1791, just stated that ‘National Guards . . . are bound to comply with the regulations of police and with discipline currently in force for the line troops’, but without mentioning any sanctions (Déprez 1908: 113). These rules, however, became increasingly problematic from the time when volunteers of the National Guard fought alongside line troops in battle. To maintain the view that one category of soldiers had to renounce their will, autonomy and responsibility, whereas another category performed military service in order to defend their own interests, became more and more problematic: both fought the same war, for the same ends.

Unifying the public force With respect to the National Guard, it was widely considered that the new revolutionary conception of civic coherence should be mirrored in practices of military discipline that differed fundamentally from those in force in the line army. For revolutionary governmentality it was ‘more honourable to govern thinking, reasoning, and calculating men who are consequently attached to their duties as well as to their rights, than commanding robots that are demeaned by slavery and vicious by principle’

70 The French moment (Menou 1791: 2–3). Society – both civic and military – should no longer be based on passive obedience, but on freely accepted discipline. Only such liberty rendered the citizen truly virtuous. In 1791, however, the conflict between the old and new forms of social coherence appeared in effect as the coexistence of the line army with the National Guard and the volunteer battalions. Robespierre, in his speech on the organization of the National Guard, expounded this idea in a very direct way: We should remember the enormous distance that ought to exist between the organization of an armed body, which is bound to make war against external enemies, and that of citizens armed in order to be ready to defend their laws and their liberty against the usurpations of despotism; we should remember that the continuity of a rigorous service, that the law of blind and passive obedience that changes soldiers into terrible robots, is incompatible with the very nature of their duties and with the generous and enlightened patriotism that ought to be their first motive. (Robespierre 1791: 14) Robespierre’s speech can be regarded as pivotal, because he clearly distinguishes two different political principles that should be mirrored in two different institutions. The regular army, on the one hand, was bound to fight external enemies and, in order to be able to do so, it could be based on authoritarian principles contradicting the democratic political order. The National Guard, on the other hand, was perceived as a kind of katechon of popular sovereignty whose task was to hold back despotism.53 In a similar vein, a report by the military committee of the Assembly submitted in May 1791 made it clear that ‘in all the cases in which National Guards serve together with line troops, the National Guards take precedence over all the line troops’ (Bureaux de Pusy n.d.: 30) More than a simple administrative settlement, this primacy of the National Guard over the line army reflects the fact that National Guards are deemed to possess a different status in political ontology: as they are citizens, their assembly as a military force is part of the accomplishment of their civic duties, and this implies that their actual consent to a military society is subordinated to their moral value as responsible citizens. The citizen-soldier was characterized by the linked concepts of citizenship, self-defence, liberty, autonomy, and enlightenment, whereas the mercenary in a royal army was associated with ideas of passive obedience, aggressive war, despotism, heteronomy and lack of responsibility (see Koselleck 1979). Accordingly, their opponents, the potential enemy they were bound to fight, were characterized as usurpers of despotism in the case of the National Guard, and external enemies in the case of the line army. The enemy was in one case external and, in the other, internal to the nation. In this kind of discourse, the regular army and the National Guard related to com-

Military service in the French Revolution 71 pletely different political entities. This, however, implied that any unification of the two armed forces would necessitate a unification of the characteristics of the enemy. This was indeed what happened in the revolutionary wars, when the split between a National Guard fighting against despotism and the regular army fighting against external enemies was resolved in favour of a national army defending a revolutionary state against external despotism. Within the framework of the post-1789 political system of a constitutional monarchy, the coexistence of these two different structures of armed forces had been a corollary of the balance of power between the king and the Assembly. The dichotomy in the military organization thus reflected the underlying dichotomy of political power. Quite naturally, this coexistence was increasingly called into question with the radicalization of the Revolution, particularly after the flight of the king in June 1791, and even more after the fall of the monarchy in September 1792. Between 1791 and 1793, the political status of the line army thus became increasingly more problematic. One way of looking at the line army was expressed by Robespierre, according to whom it had no intrinsic raison d’être in France’s new political system. It is justified only by the necessities of external circumstances, that is, war. Following this line of argument, Kersaint’s Considerations on the Public Force distinguished two kinds of public forces, one ‘natural or spontaneous’ and the other ‘positive, maintained, and constituted’. The government preferred the latter and the people the former: ‘let us dare to admit, the one is the public force of absolute power, the other is the palladium of free peoples’. The coexistence of the regular army and the National Guard, however, is depicted as an unstable and a risky equilibrium between two irreconcilable principles of political organization. Conscription alone could ‘preserve the unity of principle in our institutions and thereby preclude the danger of a major force situated outside of the nation’ (Kersaint 1791: 7–8). Kersaint’s contribution to the debate was interesting because he pointed immediately to the perils of militarism as a major threat for the establishment of a free political order. France has been a vast military camp where each citizen has become a soldier. Uniforms, ranks, distinctions, and all the denominations that were adopted in the armies, have become the new way of existence of the French: the interregnum of their government has been a military government. (Kersaint 1791: 14) The very National Guard that was born out of the revolt against the oppressive state power reproduced the same mechanisms as regular armies, both on the level of its organization and in the political consequences of a generalized subordination to structures of military hierarchy. ‘If we want to conserve liberty, let us fear neither the turbulence

72 The French moment nor the indocility of the people, and do not let us try to bring together, inside of the same human being, two incompatible qualities: submission and pride’ (Kersaint 1791: 24–5). The people, according to Kersaint, do not have to be tamed by the servitude of military discipline that rules each instant of the citizens’ lives. On the contrary, what was needed was a free attachment of each individual to the values of the constitution, and this could only be achieved if the sphere of individual independence was guaranteed. Otherwise, the revolutionary state would reproduce the same debasing mechanisms as ancient servitude. Free forms of sociability, which were the only means by which political liberty could be achieved, should thus rely on a void of power, and it is only this that induces individuals to adhere spontaneously and freely to the community. Similar views are expressed in an undated booklet, Views on the Organization of the National Guards in France. The author began his argument by stressing the difference that should exist between the National Guard and the line army: destined to combat two different kinds of enemies, the forms of discipline had of necessity to differ too. Obedience should be passive in the line army, but enlightened and restrained in the National Guard (Rivière n.d.: 5–6). Having stressed these differences, however, the author demanded a rapprochement of the National Guard and the line army: It is necessary to bring together and to generalize the institutions and the patriotic spirit of the different troops and of all the citizens, in order to achieve the goal of usefully serving the fatherland, but with modifications concerning the occupations of the ones and the professions of the others. (Rivière n.d.: 12–15) It was thus necessary to amalgamate the patriotic and military spirits of the National Guard and the line army and subsequently to extend this model to the populace as a whole. By the beginning of the 1790s, civic arguments had thus acquired a pivotal role in the political discourse about the military, and a conceptual turnaround took place: the link between citizenship and military service that used to be applied to the National Guard was also and increasingly posited with regard to the line army. In 1791 the Minister of War, Duportail, wrote in a letter that the army was ‘called by lucky circumstances to found the reign of liberty, of justice and of reason in a large state and thus to prepare for it everywhere’ (Duportail 1791: 2). To describe a standing army as a pillar of liberty, justice and reason is to state a complete conceptual reversal. In eighteenth-century political thought standing armies were either condemned in comparison with civic militia, or justified in the name of the divine right of the monarchy. During the French Revolution this split was gradually overcome. It is also interesting to note the correspondence of these conceptual reversals with their simultaneous social

Military service in the French Revolution 73 transformations. In the perception of many contemporaries, the regular army was well disciplined, effective in combat, but politically suspect. The volunteers, on the other hand, were thought to be full of enthusiasm for the republic and the common good, but lacking in proper military training and discipline. In 1792, however, social reality corresponded less and less to this schema: many line troopers were newly engaged soldiers and came to a large extent from the same highly politicized milieus as the volunteers.54 The resemblances between the national volunteers and the line troopers were even greater on the officer level, since a vast majority of those serving in the volunteer battalions had previously served in the regular army. On the political level, military politics became more radical when Pache was appointed as head of the Ministry of War on 6 October 1792: in the eyes of the left-wing Montagnards, to whom the new Minister belonged, the patriotic spirit of the national volunteers was the best remedy against the threat of treason by the military commanders. Added to these political considerations was the difficulty in staffing the line army, since potential recruits preferred to join the national volunteers, where they were better paid and less subject to military discipline. The situation can be summarized thus: first, the dichotomy of line army and National Guard was increasingly called into question; second, it became possible to defend the line army with the same civic arguments initially used to combat standing armies; third, the social patterns of staffing the National Guard and the line army tended to merge; fourth, the Montagnard government had strong political motives to unify the two armed forces. This unification of the line army and the national volunteer battalions – the so-called amalgam – gave rise to a political struggle between the competing political parties of the Montage and the Gironde that was itself determined by the upsurge of revolutionary actions in the popular strata in the summer and autumn of 1792. The Montagnards tended to ally themselves to the claims of the insurrectionists, promoting economic regulation and the persecution of counter-revolutionaries, while the Girondins held a bourgeois, legalist and economically liberal viewpoint. In terms of military policy, the former thus tried to focus on the revolutionary spirit in the army, while the latter worked on keeping the army as a tool for governmental action (Bertaud 1973: 75). In January 1792 the military committee, dominated by the Gironde at that time, categorically rejected the idea of incorporating National Guards into the line army (Dumas 1792b: 3), and local departmental officials issued proclamations in order to find people willing to enlist in the line army (Blot 1792). After the victory of the Montagne, however, the unification of the armies was put on the political agenda. Three ways forward were envisaged: incorporating, amalgamating or embrigader. Incorporation, which was the solution preferred by the Gironde, meant dissolving the volunteer battalions and allocating the soldiers to existing units of the line army. The supporters of this solution

74 The French moment sought to maintain the forms of organization and discipline of the regular army instead of those of the volunteer battalions. The radicals preferred to amalgamate the two armies, which meant the formation of entirely new units. As in 1793 there were more national volunteers than regular soldiers, so their superiority in numbers would create a more strongly revolutionary spirit in the army.55 The technically easiest solution, however, was embrigadement, the juxtaposition of one battalion of line troopers with two battalions of volunteers, and the formation of a new kind of unit, the ‘demi-brigade’. The military committee suggested this way to proceed: it had the advantage that no existing units had to be disbanded. The socalled amalgam was thus in reality an embrigadement. In the view of DuboisCrancé, the speaker of the committee, it can be said that all the soldiers are good and loyal Frenchmen; it is thus time to make them enjoy all the rights they are entitled to . . . it is time to bring everything down to the great principle of equality . . . it is time that across the whole area of the French Republic there be only men with equal rights, veritable children of the fatherland, under the flags of the nation. (Dubois-Crancé 1793: 5) The procedure that Dubois-Crancé proposed to the Convention, the revolutionary successor to the National Assembly, may be seen as a veritable compromise between political (that is, revolutionary) and administrative (that is, state-centred) approaches. The law on amalgam thus displays all the ambiguities of a construction of a revolutionary state. The question of election of officers was paradigmatic in this respect. Dubois-Crancé’s proposal combined election and co-option: the officers of the rank to be filled could choose from three candidates selected by the soldiers. Robespierre was obviously correct in pointing out that election and cooption were two contradictory models of social organization, since the former relied on an ascending and the latter on a descending concept of authority. At stake here was the existence of the officer corps as an autonomous and professional intermediate body in which this authority was in effect constituted. Election of officers means subordinating their authority permanently to the popular vote of the soldiers. This vote, however, may be called popular only to the extent that the ensemble of the soldiers actually coincided with the people as a whole. As the army was the most important instrument of state power, this latter had to be the expression of the general will of the people. If the people, the state power and the army were actually identical, election was logically the only conceivable manner of delegating authority in a legitimate way. Things became more complicated if there was a gap between the people and the army. Subordinating military authority in an ascending way to the democratic vote of the members of the army alone would then

Military service in the French Revolution 75 mean to relegate and confine the control of state power to a specialized social group. Democratic forms in the army could then be a risk for democratic forms in society as a whole. Taking this view, the exercise of a descending authority over the army from a democratically legitimized top would turn out to be the only possible solution. In this case, however, democracy as a principle would rely on a political organization that denies the very principles of democracy. These two cases refer to two different models of political thinking of which the first may be taken as inspired by Rousseau, the second by Aristotle (see Balibar 1997: 103). Aristotle’s citizen is sometimes in a condition of obedience (archo¯n), and sometimes in a position of command (archomenos) (Politics III, 1277a25). Rousseau’s citizen, on the other hand, is simultaneously citizen (a member of the sovereign people) and subject (a member of the state) (Social Contract I, 6). The simultaneity of obedience and command, however, is dependent on the condition that there is no gap between the entirety of the citizens and the entirety of the subjects. Applied to the problem of the army as the organizational form of power in a popular state, this means that there has to be absolute identity between the people and the army. The unification of the public force put an end to the dichotomy between the National Guard and the standing army. If the latter was viewed as a relic of the absolutist transcendence of the state over the nation and of the people, the National Guard was seen as an embryo of a new foundation of state power on the basis of the nation. In order to construct a popular state, the separation between state power and the nation had thus to be overcome. The existence of the revolutionary National Guard, however, was linked to the specific historical moment in which the existing apparatuses of the old state – and most prominently, the line army – still functioned. In other words, the raison d’être of the National Guard as a separate institution was that the principles that it was seen to incarnate were not yet fulfilled on a wider scale. Being essentially the nation’s counterforce to the standing army as the force of the state, its status was profoundly paradoxical since it existed only in opposition to the force of the state. Its founding principle thus relied on its own denial. Accordingly, its death-knell sounded when it was united to the standing army. The conflicting legacy of absolutism came to an end only with the unification of the public force. In the Enlightenment concept of the nation as the basis of reason and morality, the formation of the National Guard can be interpreted as the nation in arms. However, the social location of this nation was in reality the bourgeoisie, and the difficulties linked to such a restricted concept of the nation became immediately evident. Difficulties emerged with the distinction between the bourgeois nation and the people, meaning those who were excluded from the sphere of institutionalized politics. The unification of the public force was thus a decisive step towards the unification of the nation and the people or, to put it in other words, towards the

76 The French moment construction of a unified nation as the primary subject of politics. This unification, however, posed new difficulties, and the absolutist dichotomy was, in reality, not overcome but emerged in other forms in other settings. On the individual level, the setting was the citizen’s soul, in which the forces of society had to confront the counterforces of egoism in order to fuse an identification with the community as a single whole. On the military level, the dichotomy reappeared with the distinction between a freely accepted discipline and passive obedience. On the national level, the concept of the people was torn between contradictory determinations, since it signified both the subject of politics and those who were excluded from the political sphere. On the international level, finally, the concept of the nation underwent a radical transformation, since the unification of the people into one single nation led to an assessment in terms of other nations.

4

The revolutionary state and the ‘nation in arms’

Unity between the nation and the army was the core issue in the debate about military policy in the late eighteenth century. Propositions brought forward at the beginning of the Revolution argued the need to assimilate the army into the nation in order to locate public force in society and in public opinion. The difficulty was to determine what this nation was. In its most abstract definition, a nation is essentially unitary, though composed of a plurality of individuals. But what was the origin of this unity? In the first years of the Revolution the most natural solution to this problem was to conceive of unity as emanating from the top, represented by the king or the National Assembly. Revolution, in this respect, is primarily directed against the aristocratic usurpation of power. The third estate and the king have fundamentally the same interests, the conservation of a certain social and economic order that can only be achieved through a reinforcement of the power of the centralized state.56 This unity for a time made it possible for the internal splits regarding the concept of the nation, chiefly between the bourgeois and sub-bourgeois strata, to be overcome (Condorcet 1804). The construction of national unity beyond class boundaries, however, had to be paid for by the deepening of divisions on other levels, above all those of nation and gender. Inclusion, in other words, engendered exclusions in other fields. The ‘other’ was thus, on the one hand, nationally externalized and the nation defined by contrast to other nations. This may seem self-evident today. It is known, however, that the concept of nationhood underwent a major transformation and acquired its current meaning only quite recently; in the English revolutions, for instance, it had functioned as a designation of social difference rather than of difference between one country and another (see Foucault 1997: 87–8). On the other hand, the ‘other’ was also internally excluded through the division between male and female citizen, the latter kept out of the political sphere. Lastly, the split reappeared within the very individual for whom the internal division became ever more unbearable. This last division required a truly ‘tragic emplotment’ of the political conflict, whereas all efforts to overcome divisions inevitably sharpened them. As in any tragedy, the conflict could not be resolved but by the protagonists’ deaths.

78 The French moment

Quatre-vingt-treize In a politically divided country such as revolutionary France, national unity is achieved if the individual identifies him- or herself with the national community. A governmental representative expressed this idea on the occasion of an assembly of National Guards in Valenciennes: Each citizen should be accustomed in good time and almost from birth, to considering the fortune of the state as his particular fortune. This perfect equality and this kind of civil fraternity, that makes . . . all citizens like a single family, makes all equally interested in the good & evil of their fatherland. . . . Love of the fatherland is becoming a kind of amour-propre. Loving the fatherland, one loves oneself, and finally grows to love it more than oneself. (Briez 1792: 11–12) The problem is thus how to conceive a political whole out of heterogeneous elements. The answer lies in a subordination of the particular to the universal: egoism and interests (all interests being by definition particular) are perceived as contrary to patriotic unity. Amour-propre (literally ‘love of oneself’, which may be translated as self-respect or pride) and amour de la patrie (love for the fatherland) become synonyms: the individual is to see him- or herself primarily as a part of the national community. The fullest embodiment of the norms of the nation is achieved when an individual voluntarily sacrifices his or her life for the common good. The cult of the martyrs of liberty exemplifies this point. Those who died for the nation are truly incarnations of this unitary conception of equality, that stressed relinquishing all personal interest in order to promote the effacement of the particular in the face of the civil and universal, where the individual should ‘count his interest for nothing compared to that of the fatherland’ (Chemin year II: 5). This disincarnated conception of equality, however, runs the risk of being unattainable for living beings. On a purely theoretical level, Rousseau had already met the same difficulties when stating that ‘gods would be needed to give laws to men’ in order to bring a community into being (see supra p. 36). The revolutionary experience poses this problem in practical terms, illustrating in turn some of its theoretical implications. The issue of unity leads to a political reevaluation of death that is expressed through a new political theology of democracy. In the speech by Briez to National Guards in Valenciennes cited above, republican death will be followed by resurrection: ‘the man who dies in service for his fatherland falls and gets up. His irons are broken. He is free; he is the King, he seizes heaven’ (Briez 1792: 19). Along the same lines, and according to Robespierre, the French army was the glory of the nation and of humanity; our virtuous warriors are shouting Vive la République when marching towards victory; falling by

‘Nation in arms’ 79 the enemy sword, their scream is Vive la République. Their last words are hymns to liberty; their last sighs are vows to the fatherland. (Robespierre 1965: 204) Death in the revolutionary armies tends thus to become the true ‘end’ of a republican’s life, and the army itself becomes a model for the new society which is to be built. This theme was especially exploited in military propaganda: Being strong by their virtues, they [the soldiers] sacrifice voluntarily their lives, provided that they can say when expiring: our blood helps to cement the edifice of sovereignty of the People. . . . Man, debased by slavery, regain the dignity of your being! . . . you have no other masters than yourselves under the auspices of liberty and equality. (Buffat 1793: 274) This national unity emanating from death as the ethical summit – as may be considered the final outcome of the underlying unitary conception of the people – obviously functioned primarily with regard to the army and was only with difficulty applicable to other social spheres. This, however, points to a dilemma for the conception of a civic army. In this there should be no gap between the army and society, and, according to the views of the early revolutionaries, this end was to be achieved through a remodelling of the army according to the norms of the nation. The type of society commonly wished for, however, ought to be shaped by the direct contact of each individual with a state that was thought to embody the nation. Intermediate bodies forming the middle ground between the national state and the individual were the first targets of revolutionary criticism. Very soon, indeed, the armed forces came under attack for becoming such an intermediate body in their turn, instead of representing the nation as a whole. But if the armed forces became such a particular social group, this kind of body would be the most dangerous of all, since the structure of obedience and command was utterly repugnant to the principles of liberty and equality. In the army the individual soldier was only a ‘part of a war-machine, without an individual will’.57 This kind of argument, however, had almost completely disappeared from military discussion by 1793. Is it possible to appraise the impact of the theme of unity on the soldiers’ thinking and feeling? Were they concerned by the destiny of their nation? The theme of unity sometimes appears in their writings, but as something essentially lacking. Gabriel Noël, in January 1792, gave one of the rare examples of a positive definition of unity, but only as an ‘agreement between the nation and its commander’ (Noël 1912: 26–7). Other examples can be found in the description of revolutionary and military festivities,58 and with reference to revolutionary and republican symbols,

80 The French moment such as the liberty tree (Bouscayrol 1987: 177; Girardon 1898: 23). Mostly, however, soldiers wrote regretfully about disorder and dissent, both inside (Marquant 1892: 45) and outside the army (Bricard 1891: 125). The interaction of the topoi of the people as unity and of the assessment of the armed force of the republic in itself, that is, the creation of a popular republican army, provided the conceptual background for the social dynamic of the mythical levée en masse. All the antinomies of the people’s revolutionary action culminated in this. According to Albert Soboul, the idea of a levée en masse occurred for the first time in a petition of March 1793 (Soboul 1958: 110). But ideas of a general levy of the nation as a whole had hung in the air long before. In a petition to the Assembly in January 1792, the citizen Hugot proposed measures quite similar to those suggested in 1793, even if he formulated them in a more technical and less political way (Hugot 1792: 10). The entire nation in arms that Hugot called for was indeed the logical consequence of the concept of a united people that has to defend itself both against its external and internal enemies (Roussilon 1793). In a speech at the Jacobin club on 7 July 1793 Aristide Valcour made similar claims. In order to ensure internal peace, it was necessary, he stated, that the people be armed ‘not with pikes, but with guns’. The word ‘people’, in this context, has an explicit social meaning: the poor have to be prepared to defend themselves, otherwise they will always be betrayed. In this sense bloodshed was a democratic essential: ‘It is a necessity: it needs blood to cement liberty and equality’ (Valcour 1793: 8). A few days later the members of the Parisian Finistère section asserted their demand for a general arming into a wider political programme, which involved economic measures such as taxation and price-fixing and suggested a division of tasks according to the citizen’s age: every male citizen between 16 and 45 should combat the rebels, those between 45 and 55 guard the interior, and, finally, those between 55 and 65 guard and protect properties, women and children of their brothers. Significantly, women and children were classified as chattels and were not accorded an active political role. A precondition for such a collective and violent action as a levée en masse is that the people as a whole be united and attain a stoic ‘ataraxia’, ridding themelves of their passions in order to be able to promote public happiness.59 The authentic manifesto of the levée en masse, however, is Sébastien Lacroix’s speech at the Unité section on 28 July 1793. Lacroix pictures the situation of the French republic in truly tragic terms: ‘in the interior, the monster of civil war . . . armed with seditious and devastating torches and disguised as federalism, stirs at several points of the Republic’. On the international level, France is threatened, with ‘the forces of all Europe against us’. Moreover, the efforts of ‘brave republicans’ fighting in the armies were hindered by the ‘betrayal’ of generals and some venal cowards (Lacroix 1793: 5–8). In Lacroix’s speech, too, the authentic and

‘Nation in arms’ 81 most fundamental predicament was the lack of national unity caused by the prevalence of personal interests over the general interest and a generalized ‘egoism that destroys all private and public virtues’. In order to cope with this desperate situation, Lacroix recommended a vast political programme that involved stocking up food in Paris, price-fixing for foodstuffs, monitoring of public opinion by means of a governmental board of ‘directors, of foster fathers of public opinion’, and a huge propaganda effort. This particular situation ‘that will decide the fate of the world’ imposed a general mobilization on everybody for ‘public utility’. ‘Everybody’, in this sense, meant men and women of any social status, but excluded aristocrats, foreigners and clergymen (Lacroix 1793: 12–13). An exclusion grounded on social, national and ideological criteria corresponded to this gender inclusion. The ‘people’ called to a collective ‘uprising levy’ thus consisted of third-estate and anti-clerical French-born individuals of both sexes. This collective uprising, however, was supposed to be one very limited in time: ‘eight days of enthusiasm may be more efficient for the fatherland than eight years of battle’. The idea of such a general arming was not limited to the politicized milieus of the Parisian sections, since army officers also submitted reports on how to organize a collective deployment to the battlefields. It is interesting that the rhetoric employed and the arguments brought forward to justify the need for a levée en masse were not fundamentally different from those used by political activists in the capital. Masses of citizens marching against ‘bandits’, ‘crooks’ and ‘enemies of public happiness’ were presented as the only remedy against egoism.60 The large-scale deployment of all the forces of the nation was perceived as the final battle for the republic and for liberty.61 Revolutionary rhetoric became truly tragic: like a final decision about destiny, the ultimate battle would determine the fate of France and of humanity (see Hunt 1984: 37). The idea of a levée en masse comprised more than a general arming: it was part of a wider political programme that involved economic measures, such as price-fixing (Soboul 1958: 116), and also a conception of popular sovereignty as the right to insurrection.62 The word ‘levée’ has several meanings: it signifies both ‘levy’ and ‘uprising’. Recruitment of troops, which is one of the main prerogatives of central power, and revolt are put on the same level. The oxymoron both affirms and denies state power. In the eyes of the sans-culottes the levée en masse was part of their claim for terror (see Guérin 1968): it went chronologically and logically hand in hand with the creation of the law against ‘suspects’ and with the revolutionary tribunal and army, which was to combat counter-revolution in the domestic realm (see Cobb 1961–3). According to Marat: only political censorship, a state tribunal, and a popular tribune, a momentary dictator could end our misfortunes, free us from the enemies of the fatherland, and establish liberty and public happiness;

82 The French moment failing these salutary institutions, the national militia seems to offer us a bulwark against oppression. (Marat 1911: 159) It is true that both the levée en masse and the politics of terror were only reluctantly adopted by the Jacobin government under popular pressure (Mathiez 1973). On the basis of a report by Danton, on 23 August 1793 the Convention released a decree that differed considerably from the intentions of the promoters of the idea: From this moment until the enemies are driven out from the territory of the Republic, all Frenchmen are in permanent requisition for service in the army. Young people will go to combat; married men will forge weapons and transport supplies; women will make tents and clothes and serve in hospitals; children will shred old clothes; the elderly will get themselves carried to public squares in order to excite the courage of the warriors, to preach hate of the kings and unity of the Republic. It is important to notice that the levée en masse was transformed into a ‘requisition’, the choice of words making it clear that popular arming had to remain under state control. Instead of an anarchic seizure of sovereignty by insurrectionists, it was, on the contrary, the state that ‘seized’ individuals for service in the army. The levée en masse poses some difficult questions for historical interpretation. Is it to be seen as a popular uprising or, on the contrary, as the strengthening of state power? How was the claim for ‘eight days of enthusiasm’ transformed into the beginning of a permanent disciplinarian institution? Looking at the soldiers themselves, one becomes aware that they expressed mixed attitudes about military service as a permanent institution. In their letters they generally asked about the effects of conscription at home (Joliclerc n.d.: 124). They often had an impression of injustice because their example was not followed by everybody. So they complained about those ‘cowards’ who ‘are not ashamed to hide themselves behind the skirts of a woman . . . this kind of behaviour cannot be praised in a free people’ (Jannin 1899: 413). Significantly, the ‘cowardice’ of those who refuse military service is often associated with the presence of women: You said that my brother asked for news of me and for my address. He is making fun of me; he thinks perhaps that I am doing as he does, staying in the bedroom and caressing his wife. Triple bombe! If he wants to write to me, he can do so whenever he wants, to the battlefield, to the field of honour; in Modena, near Mont Cenis, that is my address. And if he ignores this as a lie, he can take a gun and come. (Bouscayrol 1987: 157)

‘Nation in arms’ 83 Bricard related that the soldiers came to know that, in 1793, requisition caused uprisings in several departments, and congratulated the government for having taken the necessary measures to eradicate the rebellions (Bricard 1891: 75). These opinions, however, were not shared by everybody. Bernard Clémenceau, son of a bourgeois family in St-André-de-Cubzac was glad to learn that a fellow from his village could avoid requisition and congratulates his brother that his ‘deafness has left you out of the obligation, since you cannot imagine the strains that this wretched war makes us suffer’ (Clémenceau 1982: 67). Piot, who was part of the 1793 requisition, felt sorry for his ‘poor father who got himself into military slavery’ (Bouscayrol 1987: 94). When the conscription law was voted in in 1798, FrançoisJoseph Dumez commented that the young men forced into military service would not be happy about this. The measure, however, was necessary, he felt, since it was the only way to enable the discharge of those who had already fought for several years.63 For Dumez, conscription, while a necessity in terms of social justice, was certainly not a good in itself. Gabriel Noël was even more categoric, considering that the ‘decree about recruitment will dishonour in the eyes of other peoples’. Forcing the citizens to do military service is ‘an odious and barbarian taxation’ (Noël 1912: 63). Being a soldier of the Revolution thus did not necessarily mean being in favour of conscription as an institution. It can be concluded from these accounts that the levée en masse and military conscription were perceived as two fundamentally different social practices.

‘Death is a reminder of equality’: the self-creation of the people The theme of national unity – a leitmotiv of the levée en masse – was closely and dialectically linked to the topic of civic education, since the latter was supposed to contribute to the creation of the former. But there was also constant tension between these two topics insofar as the issue of civic education referred also, and more fundamentally, to the actual non-existence of a communal unity. This tension is clearly evident in Jacobin proposals for a universal civic and military education. Barère spoke about the need to ‘prepare defenders, civil servants, and good citizens’, which necessitated ‘hastening enlightenment and accelerating public military education’. The member of the Committee for Public Salvation identified not only good citizens with soldiers, but also the patrie with the state. Moreover, as a branch of general education, military education was represented as a means for promoting reason, enlightenment and republican liberty: ‘This education is the basis for the education of free men’ (Barère de Vieuzac 1793: 3, 11): ‘these young citizens will be educated according to the respect of discipline that constitutes the strength of the armies of free men’. Accordingly, there was no contradiction between liberty and discipline.

84 The French moment On the practical level, Barère suggested that positions of command should not be monopolized by a special professional group of officers, but that officer ranks should be temporary, so that ‘those who command will learn how to obey’ (Barère de Vieuzac 1793: 6, 12). Liberty could be achieved through the general application of obedience and the rotation of positions of command. Barère thus moves away from Rousseau and closer to Aristotle (see supra p. 75). The association of Enlightenment and military education made by Barère requires an explanation. In eighteenth-century thought soldiers were more likely to be depicted as debased brutes than as reasonable beings. When Barère associates military education with the development of reason, he refers to an underlying distinction not between reason and unreason but between reason and passion. Military education could contribute to the development of reason insofar as it helped to combat harmful passions. Philosophically, this distinction relies thus on another rationalistic dualism. What are passions and what is reason? How can they be identified and where are they socially located? It is easy to identify in this kind of discourse the location of passions: passions arise in the individual insofar as he or she is dominated by corporeal instincts, such as appetites and desires. The objects of these appetites or desires may vary, but generally they can be summed up as egoism, and are essentially antisocial. The definition of reason, on the other hand, is more complex. In contrast to passion, reason, though located in the individual, is in essence a social quality.64 Only the reasonable individual is able to live peacefully together with others. Reason, in this sense, resembles what is called obedience in classical political philosophy (or consent by some contemporary theorists) and refers to the basis of the social bond in the moral and intellectual sphere of the individual. The appellation reason, however, conveys another connotation that differs from the signification of obedience. This latter is thought to be achieved foremost by means of a social organization of passions, by hope and fear, while reason is precisely the antithesis of passion in that it is essentially an active quality. In contrast to the classical theory, the concept of political reason is thus considerably modified. As is well known, the political background of classical theory was provided by the absolutist state. By a coercive organization of social passions, this latter left free the individual’s inner space of reason and morality (Koselleck 1988: 38–40). Obedience and reason thus referred to two separated spheres that could nevertheless coexist in the same individual:65 reason was divided into individual reason and raison d’État, the latter requiring the individual’s obedience, or lawfulness, but leaving him or her free in the use of private reason. Moreover, the raison d’État affirms its independence from morality: the aim of the state was not the achievement of moral good but the state itself (Mandrou 1977: 109–10). Thus, the doctrine of raison d’État has been labelled atheistic and immoral. By contrast, another understanding of political reason emerged with the French

‘Nation in arms’ 85 Revolution. This involved a reoccupation of the individual’s inner intellectual and moral sphere by the state (see Dulaure year VI: 1–2, 6). Since the political individual is no longer a subject of the state but has become a citizen, a member of the sovereign, the separation between individual reason and the reason of the state could no longer be upheld. A comparable movement can be observed in the religious sphere, particularly in attempts to create a cult for the supreme being in 1793, which added the contrast between religion and atheism to already existing polarities such as republic and anarchy, and virtue and interest. The need of a religious foundation for civic virtue was justified by the argument that only private virtues offer a guarantee of public virtues, and that both can only be achieved by means of a religious faith (Couthon and Julien 1793: 2–3). The politicization of religion and the sanctification of politics began to merge: the constitution may only obtain a stability that is the condition for public happiness if it becomes a religion for the citizens. We, its supreme pontiffs, build its cult at the place of its sanctuary: it consists in a scrupulous observation of its forms. (Cornudet year V: 2) In year V of the Revolution, the objective of this religious foundation for military organization is explicitly defined as the eradication of the traces of the revolutionary disorder (Dumas year Va: 3). The thermidoriens definitively abandoned the reference to reason as a label for the interpenetration of the individual’s mental capacities and their adhesion to the national state community. As opposed to religion, reason was even declared to be politically dangerous, since it had been used as a justification for the insurrections against liberty in the name of atheism (Payan year II: 1–3). Reason became thus part of the chain of counter-concepts of anarchy – interest – atheism as opposed to liberty – virtue – religion. What is at stake in any of these cases is the interaction and integration of individuals and the state. According to a naive and optimistic apprehension, this overlapping of the community of individuals with the sovereign would result in a subordination of the sphere of state power to a civic community that is conceived as pre-existing its institutional form. It can be observed, however, that the relationship between the institutional form of the state and the individuals that form the civic community is essentially circular. Neither of the two may be said to predate the other and to determine its coming into being; inversely, they determine each other mutually. These developments have to be kept in mind in order to understand the fact that military service was increasingly invested with the mission of civic education. However, the possibility for conceiving of military service as an instance of civic education refers also to internal tensions within the concept of popular

86 The French moment sovereignty. Civic education aims at the formation of citizens, that is, of individuals who are part of the sovereign people and perceive themselves as such. However, if military service is supposed to form citizens, this presupposes precisely that they are not yet citizens. But how can a sovereign people be said to exist if the elements that form this people are not yet part of it? The experience of the French Revolution has provided three possible answers to this question. The first was the the distinction between active and passive citizens, and thus a definition of the people that excluded the popular strata: this was precisely the dilemma of the National Guard. The levée en masse and concomitant conception of a popular army in year II are the expression of another solution, according to which ‘the people’ is to create itself. Lastly, there was the constant temptation of educational dictatorship, which would permit the government to create the people that it felt it lacked. According to this last solution, liberty is only possible through educational action by a government that transmits a unique collective will to a unitary social body. The form of this transmission, however, is disciplinary coercion. According to the New Declaration of Republican Morals by the exJacobin deputy Lanthenas, it was the task of the government to put citizens incessantly back on the true route to their liberty and their happiness, by reminding them incessantly of their duties . . . the most difficult and the most necessary object of the legislator’s work is to change the manners of the nation that it institutes. (Lanthenas year III: 35 and 37) The nation is instituted by the legislator: there is no clearer expression of the idea that the people emanates from the government. In this respect, revolutionary rhetoric is but a continuation of a much older conception that is firmly rooted in the political theory of absolutism. In year II, a new conception of the political existence of a people emerged, clearly expressed in On the Theory of Democratic Government, a report to the Committee of Public Salvation by Billaud-Varenne. The figure of the citizen-soldier is central here, since popular arming marks the difference between a free nation and a tyranny (Billaud-Varenne year II: 10). A necessary reference within the Jacobin discourse then linked free citizenship to virtue. However, this could never be said to be fully achieved: this was why the citizen should be continually submitted to educational procedures that created and reproduced virtue. For a people that was regenerating itself, ‘public instruction takes place not only in schools and not only for children: it is intended for all citizens. It is not the simple culture of the spirit, but the purification of the heart and the propagation of republican feelings’ (Billaud-Varenne year II: 19). Civisme (public spiritedness) is thus defined as ‘the sublime principle of the abnegation of the self’ according to which ‘the fatherland, this common mother, clasps in her arms all her children

‘Nation in arms’ 87 without distinction’ (Billaud-Varenne year II: 23). Billaud-Varenne also uses the metaphor of the common mother to describe the point at which a mass of individuals is transformed into a unified political subject, into a ‘people’. But what is this common mother? It is to be found in several places in society: in parliament, in the ‘enlightened discussion of the popular societies’, in families and in the army, ‘where the heroes of liberty fight to the point of exhaustion and learn how to brave death in order to consolidate the triumph of the Republic’. In short, she was to be found ‘in all the places where the nation assembled’ (Billaud-Varenne year II: 19). Republican institutions thus have a double status: they are both the place where the unity of the people has taken form, they are the political ‘form’ of the people; and also this people does not yet entirely exist: ‘it is necessary, so to say, to recreate the people that is destined to liberty, since it is necessary to destroy ancient prejudices, to change old habits, to perfect depraved affections, to restrict superfluous needs, to expel inveterate vices’. Accordingly, the inauguration of democracy is the equivalent of the ‘effort of nature of the astonishing transition from nothingness to existence which is perhaps greater than the passage from life to annihilation’ (Billaud-Varenne year II: 5). This formulation merits attention. Billaud-Varenne constructs a parallel between two movements in opposite directions: on the one hand, the creation of the people and the corresponding establishment of democracy and, on the other, ‘the passage from life to annihilation’, that is, death. Within this construction, death has a precise and very concrete place. To the extent to which human beings are never a perfect incarnation of virtue, the quest for absolute unity within the virtuous people points inevitably to death as the only way to achieve this identification. Accordingly, ‘death is a reminder of equality that a free people has to consecrate in a public act, a necessary warning incessantly reiterated’ (Billaud-Varenne year II: 24). Once more death appears as the ethical summit of the democratic participation of the citizen. Practically, and more prosaically, the theme of unity – and in particular of unity as egalitarian and democratic death – permitted the existing political, social and ideological divisions to be camouflaged. Citizenship as the civic universal was thus functioning as a political abstraction of which death was only the most extreme expression. The civic universal and the individual particularity are regarded as being in a relation of circular causality. Each being respectively cause and effect of the other, they merge conjointly in the process of self-creation of the sovereign people. In the particular situation of 1793, this process is expressed in terms of an existential transition where the movements of creation and of annihilation – the birth of a new people and the death of the citizen-soldier – are explicitly tied together. It is particularly interesting to compare the theoretical discussion of these issues, as it took place in parliamentary debates and political publications, with the soldiers’ points of view.66 Bial, enlisted as a volunteer in 1792

88 The French moment in the Bas-Limousin region, gives an interesting description of how a coherent corps is formed out of singular elements: This gathering together of men without order and discipline presented a very curious picture . . . a company of 25 to 30 men was immediately organized under the command of Monsieur Boutang. . . . It was a singular scene this sudden transformation of farmers into disciplined soldiers. From this moment one could see rising in the masses of the nation the martial and patriotic spirit that was to engender such great things. . . . The next day, the battalion gathered to receive weapons and the officers were presented to their men. All this was carried out with order . . . they were lithe and obedient, full of goodwill and ready for all the sacrifices for their fatherland. (Bial 1828: 29, 38) Obviously, this is an idealized description, but it is nevertheless instructive. The patriotic spirit of the masses is perceived as a consequence of the arrangement of the individuals in a disciplined order under the command of a local leading citizen. Here we see the transformation of the people, in the sense of the lower strata of society, into a people, in the sense of the subjects of popular sovereignty. The individuals who form the people, in the first sense – and for which the ‘farmer’ is the classical metonymy – are thought to possess strength but are lacking order and reason.67 Order, however, can only be achieved by the means of discipline, by the individual’s submission to a greater unity that transcends the individual’s particularity. The volunteer Joliclerc expressed this in the following words: ‘I like myself, but I like even more my family and I like more my fatherland than my family, and the entire world more than my fatherland. One needs always to be ready to sacrifice oneself’ (Joliclerc n.d.: 229). Another writer added that ‘if we, French soldiers, rid ourselves of all particular interest, in order to think of nothing but our fatherland and all the Peoples . . . [then we will] dethrone all kings against whom we undertake audaciously a just war’ (Marquant 1898: 242). Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, however, there are individuals who ‘consider their particular interest instead of the interest of the fatherland’ (Noël 1912: 61; see also Joliclerc n.d.: 142). If he is ready to sacrifice his life, the soldier moves towards moral perfection. Moreover, this readiness creates the moral superiority of republican soldiers over their enemies: the slaves of the kings expire, cursing the cruel ambition of their masters. The defender of liberty blesses the blow that hit him; he knows that his blood is shed only for liberty, for glory and for the support of his fatherland. (Fricasse 1882: 37)

‘Nation in arms’ 89 Drawing on this spirit, the legislator’s task was to promote and disseminate it in the wider society by ‘shaping at the beginning a huge number of citizens to order and discipline’ (Lacuée 1792: 3–4).

Abstraction and identification The theme of national and civic unity that culminated practically in the levée en masse reflected ex negativo underlying political, social and ideological divisions. The practical use of the theme of unity had, in the first place, the negative function of combating practical divisions such as federalism, cultural regionalism and class division. The civic universal and the individual particular are in this model in a relation of circular causality: as each is the cause of the other, they merge together in an act of selfcreation of the sovereign people. The most extreme conceptions of this republican community, as expressed in 1793, display a truly tragic dichotomy between democracy as the self-creation of the people in a ‘transition from nothingness to existence’ on the one hand, and a movement in the opposite sense – ‘the passage from life to annihilation’ – that culminates in egalitarian death, on the other. More than a simple slogan, the revolutionary catchphrase ‘Vivre libre ou mourir’ expressed an underlying political philosophy or, rather, a political theology, in which the sovereign people plays the truly demiurgic role of creating a political world while creating itself. Thinking in terms of self-creation, however, leads almost necessarily to tautology: in order to be able to create itself, the author of the creation, that is, the people, cannot refer to anything else than precisely to itself. In order to function as such a point of selfreference, it has to be perceived as unitary yet necessarily plural, inasmuch as the people is the assembly of the citizens. Self-creation thus eludes difference and presupposes an abstract understanding of disincarnated participation. At this point, however, the question of the historical and social location of this political demiurge has to be addressed. In other words, one has to analyse what it is that the disincarnated participation incarnates. The abstraction has to be identified. In order to do so, the identity categories of nation, gender and class have to be taken into account and correlated with the question of the civic universal. French historiography of the republican tradition has largely focused attention on the way in which republican institutions dealt with the problem of class belonging. The fight against privilege was one of the main concerns for the revolutionaries themselves, and their view of the Revolution was thus deeply determined by this issue. The legacy of this created a tradition of interpretation in French historiography that continues to this day. The theme of the suppression of privileges that had haunted revolutionary debate since its beginnings became a veritable topos in revolutionary military thought with the beginning of the war in 1792. The object of the latter was explicitly defined as the annihilation of

90 The French moment all privileges (Cambon 1793: 4–5). An address by the National Assembly to the army in August described the organizational task to be accomplished: ‘to erase the last traces of the aristocratic distinctions that have survived the revolution in the army of liberty and equality’.68 Discourse has thus shifted from appeals to discipline and obedience towards a directly revolutionary task for the soldiers. The expression ‘aristocratic distinctions’ obviously referred to the still-existing predominance of nobles in the officer corps at that time, even if this predominance had no juridical basis any more. Attention now shifted to the opening up of careers in the military to the third estate, which implied that the criteria used to select officers should rely exclusively on merit. There were, however, different views on the definition of merit. A too technical definition of merit tended to favour older officers: it gave, in practice, a certain preference to nobles. From 1792 onwards, there were thus attempts to impose other norms of merit. In a report by the Military Committee it was thus stated that ‘there should only be brothers equal in rights and consequently [they should be] treated equally, if actions of virtue, of patriotism or of courage merit preference’ (Beaupuy 1792c: 4). Technical requirements were to be replaced by moral and political qualities. Another report specified that ‘often the richest in patriotism is the poorest in pecuniary means’ (Beaupuy 1792b: 4). A tension was thus perceived between the universality of civic tasks and the unequal weight of economic necessities. The social policy of the Revolution was designed to remedy this difference. Even if the beginnings of such measures can be found in the ancien régime, the specific difference of revolutionary social policy stems from the fact that institutions such as the Hôtel des Invalides were perceived as a political response to the social problem of ex-soldiers. Problems such as how to deal with invalided soldiers were difficult to solve in the traditional context of the solidarity within rural communities due to the growth of the army and soldiers’ increasing isolation from their local communities. This was why the state had to act and, in a certain sense, take on the role of community solidarity. With the Revolution, on the other hand, the necessity for the state to intervene in welfare matters was defined in civic terms: as military service became an obligation for every male citizen, the state had to offer assurance that service would not doom their families to misery (Déprez 1908: 305). The general movement from the ancien régime to the Revolution that is characterized by administrative continuity and ideological rupture can thus be observed on the level of social policy too. The origins of social citizenship can be found in the existential relationship between the citizen and the national state, as implied by conscription. Significantly, military welfare initially excluded substitutes who, in contrast to true citizens, fought for money rather than for their fatherland. However, this restriction of welfare to volunteers was immediately denounced as unjust, which highlights the issue: an economic foundation of a universal conception of civic tasks was lacking. Excluding substitutes

‘Nation in arms’ 91 from state social benefits ultimately meant excluding the poor from welfare. But the universality of civic tasks had to take into account the existing differences (Briez year II). However, the link between existential and pecuniary contributions could function in two different directions. Reversing the issue, it was possible to question universality from the basis of the existing social inequalities and to define military service as ‘impôt de sang’ (tax in blood). The Minister of Police, Fouché, thus deplored that ‘those who just pay the tribute of a part of their fortune to the state would compare their sacrifices to those of the brave conscripts who are called by law to spill their blood for the fatherland’ (Fouché year VII: 4). The association of conscription and the payment of tax would thus haunt the thermidoriens and make their conscription policy essentially asymmetric. On the one hand, they refused to oblige each citizen to serve in the army, but, on the other hand, tried to avoid ‘the obligation of service degenerating into a pecuniary allowance that would quickly corrupt this civic and military institution to which the duration of the Republic is henceforth linked’ (Dumas year Va: 10). Personal service was thus codified as the normal case from which exceptions could be made. In practice, however, this settlement obviously meant that the rich were exempted from military duties. Two conclusions may be drawn from this: the obligation is in practice only reinforced with the poor, while the rich are de facto exempted. Legally, however, the norm is based on the social position of the popular strata. Henceforth the rich are the exception and not, as was the case for the National Guard, the people. In contrast to the issue of class-belonging and conflict, the relationship between military service and nationhood has attracted the historian’s attention much less, even if, paradoxically, the nationalization of the army is a constantly repeated theme, both in the sources and in historiography. The reason for this is to be found in the ambiguities of the concept of nation. While talking about the nationalization of the army, both contemporaries and republican historians focus on an understanding of nation as demos, that is, on the active participation of the third estate in political matters, along the lines of Sieyès, who identified nation with the third estate (see Sieyès 1963). Nationhood as ethnos, as community of descent, on the other hand, has received much less attention. The question is how to assess the relationship between the two meanings of the concept and, more particularly, how to understand the shift from a democratic sense, which was preponderant in the eighteenth century, to the nationalistic understanding of the nineteenth century. But the meaning of a concept can best be understood by comparison with its contraries. During the early stages of the Revolution, the quality of being a French soldier was integrated into a structured argument that associated citizens, human beings and Frenchmen. Cessac and Servan’s Project for a Constitution of the Army of the French is paradigmatic in this respect: ‘Being human

92 The French moment beings and Frenchmen, the defenders of the fatherland should alienate only the portion of their human and civic rights which the sacrifice demands’ (Cessac and Servan n.d.: 5). Humanity and ‘Frenchness’ were thus associated and functioned together as the foundation for civic rights. These latter, inversely, were qualified by the fact that the individuals under consideration were soldiers. The argument was that even if they were soldiers – which means that they were not entitled to fully enjoy their rights – they remained nevertheless French and human beings – which meant that they were to retain as many of their rights as possible. Unsurprisingly, the change in this understanding may be dated to 1792, the beginning of the war. In a report to the National Assembly in June Deputy Coustard stated that: formerly everyone was a slave, everyone was nothing; nowadays everyone is a soldier, everyone is a citizen; and the fact that these two titles are fused in the quality of a free man and Frenchman is the happy agreement that was established by our constitution for the different tasks in society. (Coustard 1792: 4) This position was very similar to the former argument: it also turned around the notions of free man, French, soldier and citizen but, in contrast to Cessac and Servan’s argument, there was no longer any difference between the notions of soldiers and of citizens, and both were founded in the ‘title’ of a free Frenchman. If the Project for a Constitution addressed the antagonism between military discipline and civic rights, the issue was now concealed by the relegation of the negative counter-concepts (slavery and nothingness) to a bygone past (‘formerly . . . nowadays’). This time element, however, could easily be transformed to one of space. In August 1792, a couple of months after the commencement of the war, the decision was made to disband units of foreign troops in France. Brissot, one of the apologists for war in the Jacobin club and adversary of Robespierre, explained the reasons for this measure in a parliamentary report, constructed around the association of liberty and autonomy. ‘Free men ought to defend themselves.’ The Swiss units of the French army are thus depicted as ‘an isolated and particular force, foreign to our principles, to our system of government’ (Brissot de Warville 1792: 3–4). It would be an error to interpret Brissot’s argument as nationalistic, even if it may be considered as symptomatic of the difficulties of the Revolution in dealing with the problem of integrating foreigners (see Wahnich 1997). The arguments brought forward for the exclusion of foreigners were entirely political rather than nationalistic, and the argument that the Swiss were not part of the republican community was justified by the fact that they were considered as having been the defenders of despotism. The republican community was thus defined in political rather than

‘Nation in arms’ 93 cultural terms. But the fact that the ‘alliance of our kings and the Swiss . . . was not so much aimed at defending them against foreign powers than against the French’ became particularly tricky in times of revolutionary war. The very distinction between the domestic and the foreign was being reconstructed: the domestic problem of reorganizing the political structure was turned outwards, and the domestic opposition of revolution and despotism was transformed into the antagonism of a revolutionary nation towards foreign despotic powers. This allowed the foreigner to be conflated with the defender of despotism. Using this line of argument, Sébastian Lacroix’s above-cited pamphlet about the levée en masse enumerated nobles, foreigners and priests as the groups to be expelled from the revolutionary armies (Lacroix 1793: 12). We are here at a pivotal point of revolutionary debate, since the two meanings of nation are associated without mediation. The expulsion of nobles and priests clearly corresponded to Sieyès’s understanding of the nation as third estate. The expulsion of foreigners, on the other hand, limits the nation to an ethnically defined community of descent. With Lacroix we are at the fragile point where the two meanings coincide absolutely. The ethnically motivated expulsion of foreigners did actually take place but it was not universal. In some cases the concerned person consented to his dismissal, as did, for instance, the German Colonal Haacke (Chuquet 1911: 5). Others protested against their dismissal, arguing that national criteria should not be understood in an ethnic but in a political sense. The Irishman Oshée, who had served for 42 years in the French army, emphasized his ‘firm and vigorous behaviour during the revolution’ and especially his marked patriotism: ‘is it true, in the first place . . . that I should be considered as a foreigner?’ (Oshee year III: 1, 3). This association of foreigners with despotism was certainly not the dominant feature. According to the revolutionaries, the war was directed against oppression and foreign peoples were the natural allies of the French armies (see Belissa 1998). The difficulty was that these foreign peoples did not necessarily understand this: ‘the peoples to which the armies of the Republic have taken liberty do not have the necessary experience for re-establishing their rights, and it is necessary, therefore, that we declare ourselves a revolutionary power’. The first act of this revolutionary power was ‘to publish a proclamation in order to make the peoples understand that we bring them happiness’ (Cambon 1793: 7–8). There was, however, a trend from a democratic to an ethnic understanding of nation. The tricky issue was the location of the national community and the unavoidable question of how to define its limits. The principal disadvantage of an understanding of the nation as third estate was that it undermined the unity of the people. Accordingly, the externalization of the ‘other’ was becoming a necessity. The third identity category to be addressed concerns gender. Military service was progressively seen as a civic duty for men. The exclusion of

94 The French moment women from the military corresponded to their exclusion from civic rights. With some exceptions, such as Condorcet and Olympe de Gouges, revolutionary debate associated citizenship with masculinity (see Scott 1996: 19–56). Significantly, Condorcet argued that women’s physical condition made it impossible for them to serve in the military, but that they should nevertheless be admitted to all those political functions that they were physically able to exercise. Such an argument displays the importance of military service in the definition of citizenship. Against the view that women could not be citizens because they were unable to fight wars, Condorcet argued that citizenship implied other aspects for which women were equipped. This argument is also interesting, however, because it posited a minimal definition of the female as a being that bears children, whereas all other gender identities were considered to be the ‘result of education’ (Condorcet 1994: 299, 335–9). Not only were military tasks traditionally reserved for men, but the military was progressively invested with the function of strengthening manly virtues and containing feminine vices: military service makes men become truly masculine. In the eighteenth century, however, the theory of virtuepolitics in the military was in contrast to the Enlightenment criticism of standing armies. The French Revolution opened new perspectives for reconciling these two aspects in a new conceptual trinity of civic virtue, citizenship and masculinity. It has often been noticed that women, especially from the popular strata, played an important role in revolutionary demonstrations and uprisings: this means that many of them were armed. Until 1792, however, female participation in revolutionary politics was not accompanied by a female civil rights movement. There is some evidence that the issue of the political emancipation of women was linked to the increasing force of republicanism between 1791 and 1792: republicanism questioned the model of the king as the spiritual and political centre of state and society and was allowed thus to challenge the gender element of the political order of the ancien régime (see Hunt 1992). On 6 March 1792 Pauline Léon, the representative of the Société des citoyennes républicaines révolutionnaires, addressed a petition to the National Assembly demanding the creation of a female National Guard: ‘Patriotic women present themselves in front of you to claim the right of each individual to provide for the defence of life and liberty. . . . Yes, Sirs, we need weapons and we come to demand permission to obtain them’ (Léon 1792). The fact that this movement centred on the demand for weapons cannot be overestimated, and displays once more the close relationship between arming and citizenship. The first article of the rule of the Société des citoyennes thus stipulated that the purpose of the society was to be armed (see Guillon 1993: 245–9). The women’s movement, however, accelerated. On 25 March Théroigne de Méricourt claimed that ‘it is high time that women get out of their shameful nullity where men’s ignorance, conceit, and injustice have subjugated them for such a long

‘Nation in arms’ 95 time’. She calls on the citoyennes to organize female armed forces (Godineau 1988: 119). ‘We also want to merit a civic crown and aspire to the honour of dying for liberty that is perhaps dearer than to them, since the effects of despotism weighed heavier on our heads than on theirs’ (Théroigne 1791: 5, 7). In 1792 several female demonstrations also demanded that the Assembly stipulate that true citoyennes be armed. Pauline Léon’s petition posits a minimal definition of sexual difference, denying that it had any impact for politics: ‘society cannot take away what nature gave us; one cannot pretend that the Declaration of Rights is not applied to women and that they should get killed like lambs without the right to defend themselves’. The argument that ‘men are armed to defend us’ is evoked but rejected by an interesting rhetorical question that reverses the issue of equality by applying it to men rather than to women: ‘Are their lives dearer than ours?’ The argument is thus reapplied to the existential issue of exposing one’s body to death for the fatherland. The traditional framework of gender difference is thus completely overthrown. Do men and women not differ as to their bodies? Pauline Léon affirms exactly the contrary. The body is not a vector of difference, but, on the contrary, of sameness, since it is considered as no longer invested with the social tasks of bearing children and childcare, but as exposed to a deadly danger: ‘could one think that the tyrants would spare us?’ The body as ‘bare life’, as simply living and being exposed to suffering and death, erodes the gender difference that can only be perceived as a ‘form of life’, as social differentiation of functions.69 The idea was that the conquest of liberty had created a national community in which liberty went hand in hand with a perpetual threat of annihilation. This annihilation did not concern only the republican state, but, moreover, each individual member of the community, and this threat of annihilation overcame the boundaries of political individuality and, more specifically, gender. The revolutionary women in Paris were not alone in expressing such views. For instance, a booklet published by Lanthenas stated that ‘I dare to assert that no citizen, not even of the weaker sex, will dread military service when the fatherland is threatened by an urgent peril’ (Lanthenas 1792: 19). The manifestos of the Société des citoyennes républicaines révolutionnaires used the existential argument of the exposure of one’s life to declare women and men as ‘bio-politically’ equal, but this idea foundered on the opposing concept of maternity as a political role for women. In a 1793 drama with the telling title Republican Discipline, the agitator Aristide Valcour made his protagonist Cécile say that ‘by giving children to the state and bringing them up with love for the fatherland, I will have performed the duties of a republican woman’ (Valcour year II: 7).70 A revolutionary epic poem from the same year expressed this family model of politics even more clearly in the description of a celebratory revolutionary march:

96 The French moment The children, this sweet hope of the fatherland, this laughing image of equality, head the march. . . . After them, with a mien of modesty, with a look of decency, with all these chaste features of domestic virtues . . . those whose name is inseparable from yours, those who remind us profoundly of your image, those who gave us life, who nursed us for you, who taught us to smile to you and whose example for us inspired your love, and gave us the germ of courage, the MOTHERS. – They are not carrying banners, their eyes are turned to their children. . . . With the sound of bugles and cymbals, with the rolling of drums and in front of them the thunder of bronze, the family men, the fathers whose sons fight for liberty, who form alone the group of CITIZENS. – All armed, heads held high, with a proud look and a firm step, they gather around the national fasces. (Baillot year II: 7–8) Typographically, the text distinguishes four groups of individuals: children, mothers, citizens and sons of citizens. The political functions are distributed according to the family model and citizenship is reserved for the figure of the pater familias (see Verjus 2002). Inspired by the Greek model of citizenship (see Aristotle, Politics 1, XII, 1) the authority of the father over his wife and children determines his citizenship. Consequently, only these father-citizens carry weapons. However, the classical model is markedly modified by the ambiguous figure of the ‘son of a citizen’. Located somewhere between the children and the father, the son is absent from the picture since he is fighting for liberty. On the one hand, he is also deprived of civic rights, since the fathers alone are citizens. On the other hand, he shares the right to carry arms. Military service functions here as preparation for becoming a future pater familias and thus a bearer of civic rights thanks to the masculine and public virtues of honour, pride and self-assurance, which are contrasted with the feminine and domestic virtues of modesty, decency and chastity. Before ideological models of this kind, the arming of women could not but appear as a monstrosity. The National Assembly thanked the Citoyennes républicaines révolutionnaires for their patriotic spirit, but rejected their demands and sent them home. Equally, the appeals and requisitions for national volunteers were reserved to men only, but a certain number of women were nevertheless enlisted in the revolutionary armies, most of them disguised as men (Bertaud 1985: 152–7). Some were elected officers or non-commissioned officers by their fellows (Brice 1935). Like their male counterparts, most were quite young and came from the lower strata of society. Despite the scarcity of sources, their presence in the armies is attested after 30 April 1793, when a decree expelled them formally from the military (Godineau 1988: 240). The justification was that their presence was a threat to order and discipline. The civic universal as constructed during the French Revolution was

‘Nation in arms’ 97 invested by specific categories that can be identified according to their social, national and sexual determinations. Specific identities succeeded in universalizing themselves through the definition of citizenship. This illustrates clearly the fact that this specific universal of citizenship in the French Revolution was historically constructed through the struggle of certain identity categories for universality.

Military experiences The question needs now to be addressed how these bonds of identities were experienced and debated by the soldiers themselves. With regard to ego-documents, the heuristic distinction between the categories of class, nation and gender appears to be less pertinent. Within a male microcosm, the issue of gender identities becomes practically the question of relationships with women. As to national identity, it becomes an issue in interaction with the enemy. Lastly, class identities are discussed through the relationship between the armed forces and the people. For soldiers the question of identities becomes one of inclusion and exclusion. In the revolutionary army many soldiers had mistresses (Bricard 1891: 183), but these women were often despised as prostitutes. One soldier commented when he had to leave Besançon, that he ‘felt grief, but not because of the girls but because of the good wine’ in the region.71 A soldier in the army in Italy in 1794 wrote to his mother that he planned to ‘buy a woman, since they are not expensive here’ (Bouscayrol 1987: 158). Another complained that the woman he wanted to marry was considered a prostitute by his family: ‘This kind of girl may be used sometimes for my pleasure but I won’t take one of them as my wife’ (Bouscayrol 1987: 38). These accounts show that the soldiers’ legendary success with women – beautiful uniforms and military glory72 – was a mere myth. Alexandre Moullé, a soldier in the imperial army in Germany, described his disappointment on realizing that ‘the young German ladies, be they peasant women or bourgeoises, would not give themselves to the French soldiers as they said. As for the officers, I do not know what is happening in their billets, but I would be surprised if they had more success than we have.’73 The women they met were indeed often prostitutes. ‘Pleasures are not very noisy. We go each night to a colonel who came across a house of pleasure; we go there, play some music, dance with the young ladies. They are not beautiful but they compensate by their friendliness’ (Girardon 1898: 13). In most of the cases, however, soldiers did not write about themselves but about their peers going to brothels. These stories are often told as funny anecdotes about people who caught diseases (Bouscayrol 1987: 83) or who discovered that the woman they wanted to marry was a prostitute.74 It is also remarkable that their letters rarely mentioned women at home,75 and it seems that their leaving home usually broke off any relationship that they may have had. Female soldiers are also only

98 The French moment mentioned occasionally. Fricasse talked about a ‘miserable woman abandoned by her husband who emigrated’ and who enlisted together with her brother ‘in men’s clothes’. She died heroically in battle (Fricasse 1882: 39). Gabriel Noël, on the contrary, was horrified by proposals to arm ‘the whole people and even women’ with pikes (Noël 1912: 115–16). Nor is national ideology much stressed in the soldiers’ writings. If it is mentioned, their being French is usually associated with combat, which implies a we–us relationship (Bouscayrol 1987: 84). Joliclerc thus felt ‘French in the face of the enemy for the defence of the fatherland, which is a glorious cause that should animate the whole world’ (Joliclerc n.d.: 163). The ambiguities of revolutionary war could hardly be expressed more clearly than this: one is French when facing the enemy for the defence of the fatherland, but this combat for the fatherland should of right imply the entire world. Being French thus meant representing universal justice, and the enemy to be fought was the enemy of universal justice. At first, the identification of France with the universal was to reflect the fact that the revolutionary principles of justice and reason had been realized in the French Revolution: France is a predicate of justice. However, in a dialectical turnaround, justice soon became a predicate of France, and henceforth any war in France’s name was justified as such. The soldiers were thus fighting less for the Revolution than for their country. The most telling example in this respect is Jannin, who compared the revolutionary volunteers to the ‘brave soldiers of Louis XIV’ (Jannin 1899: 464). This account clearly shows that the revolutionary has been replaced by the national. Nevertheless, references to liberty (Bouscayrol 1987: 115), the republic and the fatherland76 were still often put forward. Soldiers die while singing the ‘Marseillaise’ (Bricard 1891: 40). ‘The glorious scars of the wounds’ are more distinctive than medals.77 However, the ‘sweet satisfactions’ of military life involved the risk of the soldiers losing contact with home communities and the civil population in general (see Bouscayrol 1987: 115; Jannin 1899: 460). In the early stages of the war, the soldiers considered themselves combatants for liberty and human rights and were happy to be recognized as such by the population (Bouscayrol 1987: 238–9). Accordingly, they were unable to understand when this feeling was not shared by those they wanted to liberate. The Germans were especially hard to understand78 and, if they resisted the French army, their towns or villages were burnt down79 and the population killed (Bouscayrol 1987: 14). But even some French provinces resembled enemy land, such as counter-revolutionary northwestern France,80 where the whole population was ‘aristocratic like dogs’.81 The difference between counterrevolutionary combatants and the civil population thus tended to vanish (Bouscayrol 1987: 241). A volunteer of 1792 described the disarray faced by civilians in Germany who ‘behaved very badly, many fired on our troops; it was even

‘Nation in arms’ 99 said that they committed the inhumanity of throwing the sick out of the windows’ (Terrade 1898: 508). The population had thus to be brought to recognize the justice of revolutionary war. Denis Belot, who came from a family of craftsmen in Melun and who enlisted in 1791, gave an extraordinary description of the conquest of Verdun in October 1792. Even if Verdun is a ‘guilty town’ there was, after the conquest by the revolutionary army, hope for a regeneration of its population. With the aristocracy overthrown, liberty, virtue and equality were to be reborn among humans (Belot 1888: 78–9). Pierre Girardon, too, spoke about ‘rendering the town patriotic by arms’ and about ‘warming up’ the population’s patriotism by the ‘holy guillotine’ in order to ‘bring them to reason’ (Girardon 1898: 19, 43). Bricard acknowledged that ‘the behaviour of most of the soldiers was infamous’, and that the army resembled a gathering of crooks: ‘banditry was constantly in progress: theft, rape and murder were committed each day’ (Bricard 1891: 198, 108, 128). Many gave themselves up to looting (Bouscayrol 1987: 248): soldiers ‘looted and stole according to their pleasure’ (Jannin 1899: 469); ‘the ruined army indulged in the most dreadful banditry’ (Noël 1912: 281) – the memoirs of the soldiers are full of descriptions of this kind. Generally, ‘scoundrels’ were identified as the authors of these crimes, but sometimes soldiers even boasted: we have a good life in the Vendée. We eat chicken, duck, goose, beef, mutton, and pork. We burn down everything and spill blood when we pass. We smash the barrels of wine. Nothing else to write. I finish kissing you with all my heart. Your loving son.82 Another wrote, still about the civil war, that ‘we slit the throats of many people’ (Bouscayrol 1987: 47). The family of a volunteer was promised the ears of a German soldier in an envelope (Bouscayrol 1987: 86). Marquant, admitting having taken part in the pilfering of poor peasants, justified his actions in the following way: One may accuse the French, fighting for the rights of man, of having imitated the banditry of their enemies. But they had good reasons to act in this way. The inhabitants of these two places were guilty towards us (1) for having followed their armies to France and having grown richer by spoiling our unhappy peasants; (2) for having fired on us during the fight. . . . (3) because we thought that they considered us as villains because they fled. (Marquant 1898: 183) These descriptions and reflections show that also in the eyes of the soldiers ‘the people’ was an unstable foundation of sovereignty, since it threatened at any moment to undermine the social and the military order.

100 The French moment In his memoirs, Maurice Duviquet describes revolutionary disorders in his home town of Clamecy in March 1791 and points to the difficulties of establishing ‘revolutionary order’. When the National Guard was mobilized to fight a popular uprising ‘only fifty men’ of the Guard were ready to fight their fellow citizens. For two days, the insurrection against bourgeois predominance spread over the town, and then troops from the neighbourhood crushed the rebellion (Duviquet 1905: 20–7). Girardon had similar experiences in an insurrection that broke out about corn prices. The ‘people indulged themselves in all possible horrors’ while protesting that corn was to be exported: ‘The whole rabble committed the most hideous banditries. . . . Women resembled Furies; it seemed that they were given strength. . . . It was a theatre of horror. I seemed to be seeing civil war’ (Girardon 1898: 18). Significantly, Girardon spoke of women, and this is not the only example in which the female functioned rhetorically as a metonymy of the rabble and signified a threat to social order in general. As with vice and virtue, order and disorder tended to become gendered categories. The thread of concepts of vice–disorder–women–rabble was thus opposed to the thread virtue–order–men–people (as a homogeneous social body). The reflections of the bourgeois volunteer Gabriel Noël on his military experiences in 1792 constitute a telling example of the troubled relation toward the people in arms. The revolutionary army was clearly defined and experienced as a republican melting pot. Popular arming, in his opinion, was above all aimed at the creation of a ‘public spirit of equality’ (Noël 1912: 48) and defence issues played only a secondary role (p. 136). Military service, in other words, was above all an ideological rather than a mere ‘repressive state apparatus’. Noël, however, came quickly to the conclusion that the public spirit he wished for did not yet exist, since ‘the people and even the volunteers do not have reason or moderation’ (p. 80). He thus disapproved of the results of the election of officers that brought people capable of standing up to officers in positions of command. This displayed distrust and suspicion towards the constituted authorities: ‘as if we should consider our officers as enemies! And yet this is the common opinion’ (p. 110). Noël, however, found consolation in the consideration that elections are the pillar of liberty, even if the results were dreadful, but ‘the citizens will perhaps learn with time to do better’ (p. 122). The people were generally unreasonable and could at any instance be induced by their uncontrolled passions to crime and injustice. This, however, did not mean that people were naturally evil but that they have constantly to be tamed. They simply lacked reason and control, and this deficiency made them an easy prey for ‘villainous flatterers’ (p. 140). Since the people lacked reason, the state necessarily lacked any spontaneous social coherence that would be able to pacify internal tension (p. 180). Populism and anarchy were thus identified as two complementary threats inherent in a popular constitution (pp. 101, 236–7). Gabriel Noël

‘Nation in arms’ 101 thus thought that internal peace could only be achieved through external war (p. 44). Inevitably, military experiences contributed to a transformation of the soldiers’ personalities. Bial estimated that ‘a complete transformation happened in me since my departure from the Limousin region and within those fifteen months I acquired a certain maturity of the spirit which surprised my fellows’ (Bial 1828: 76). Especially for bourgeois soldiers, the changes in their habits usually implied a certain loss of the civilized standards that they had acquired in their civil life. Gabriel Noël pointed out: ‘I am a soldier and a citizen; in that double capacity all refinement is prohibited’ (Noël 1912: 20). Dumez had the same impression that military service did not contribute to the refinement of his manners.83 For such men it soon became quite clear that the military was not their world. In January 1792, before the outbreak of the war, Gabriel Noël hoped that he would always remain gentle and human despite the fact that he would have learned the terrible trade of killing (Noël 1912: 49). There was, however, also the consciousness that too long a service in the army implied the risks of a militarization of manners, as may be said to have been achieved when a soldier wrote that he was pleased to hear that a woman he knew ‘had given birth to a little conscript’.84 Philippe-René Girault, the son of a working-class family in Poitiers who enlisted in 1791, when he was 16 years old, described his first experiences of battle: This is where I saw for the first time dead and wounded. I first had a painful feeling, but I soon saw so many that I got used to that and my sensibility was armoured for quite a long time. . . . Happily I was let off after my clothes were spattered with the brains of an officer killed just a few steps in front of me. (Girault 1884: 5) In the course of the revolutionary wars, the image of the army as the home of liberty and equality inevitably vanished. When the first units of volunteers were raised in 1791 and 1792, this idea seems to have been widespread (Bial 1828: 35): ‘We were exhilarated: this is when the soul grows larger and one is penetrated by the truth that it is sweet and glorious to die for the fatherland’ (Maury 1901: 7). These volunteers adopted the revolutionary maxim ‘vivre libre ou mourrir’85 and the ‘temporary inconvenience’ of military service did not count compared with the greater end, which was the redemption of humanity.86 Many sacrifices, however, were necessary in order to achieve this noble end, and liberty had to be cemented by the blood of the republican brothers.87 Very soon, however, military service ceased to be seen as a mission of liberation, but as slavery itself. By 1792, Gabriel Noël was already complaining that this was a widespread view among his fellow soldiers: ‘with the pretext of being free, they are submitted to a slavery that has never existed before’ (Noël 1912: 170).

102 The French moment The most telling example of the reversal of liberty into slavery is certainly the experience of François-Joseph Dumez, a well-educated, young, bourgeois moderate revolutionary who enlisted voluntarily in 1795. After three years in the military, however, he expressed his growing discontent: ‘Truly, detaining volunteers for too long is to besmirch the beautiful word of liberty in a derisory way!’ Everybody is disgusted by service and thinks about desertion. In one of his numerous poems, Dumez expressed this reversal of liberty into slavery: ‘Jadis au sein de l’esclavage/J’avais du moins la liberté;/Libre aujourd’hui par mon courage/Je suis dans la captivité!’ (Once, in the realm of slavery, I had at least my freedom, being free nowadays due to my courage I am in captivity).88 What can be seen in the writings of the soldiers of the revolution is fundamentally the same dialectical reversal of the great national and military synthesis into a kind of social particularism that is also reflected in the more theoretical sources analysed above. It thus seems that the theoretical constraints of the instabilities of the concept of the people also paralleled features of individuals’ experiences.

Constructing a popular state The syntagma ‘popular army’ concentrates all the internal tensions of the concept of the ‘people’. The expression becomes meaningful within a conceptual framework that merges the state and the people within the category of the ‘nation’. It is therefore possible to read the expression ‘popular army’ in two different ways. Viewed from the angle of the state, the army, as an aggregation of the force of the people, constitutes the state as such. Viewed from the angle of the people, the army is both the expression and the foundation of the state, the latter being the political form of the people. More concretely, the paradox of the popular army stems from the fact that it has to be the people, while being prepared to fight the people. Even more fundamentally, the relationship of expression and mutual implication between the state and the people leads to a series of identifications that is in itself deeply tautological. Historically, this paradox became possible through a concept of a popular state as an organized expression of the people. The reversal of the revolutionary appropriation of popular violence by the state was certainly the most striking example of this process: ‘Military service . . . is the first duty for everybody. From there stems this general and absolute conscription which ought to be considered as the palladium of the republic’ (Carron-Nisas year XI: 4). The state, being popular, was able to transform the right to carry arms into the disciplined submission of the individual to the military machine (Lacuée 1792: 3–4), through a hierarchial gradation of obedience, where everybody had to learn to obey (Barère de Vieuzac 1793: 12). A single yet collective being was formed out of individual citizens:

‘Nation in arms’ 103 It is thus necessary that from the rank-and-file, who is the first element, to the general, who is the soul of the army, there be a gradation of increasing authorities that are able to make move together or separately more or less impressive masses . . . that all the faculties of intelligence be most developed and yet can become mechanical and passive like the bodies they give life to; that, finally, a hundred thousand individuals form, so to speak, one single being whose movements are subordinated and directed by a single will. (Dumas year Va: 6) We are thus faced with an organizational metaphor of the army as a single body that was to be moved by a soul; but the terms of the comparison have significantly changed. In 1791 the issue was to define the relationship between the fighting body and the deliberating political soul (see supra: p. 68). As in Cartesian philosophy, these two stem from separate ‘substances’. Now, in year V of the Revolution, the underlying political philosophy has become remarkably more immanent, since it posits a model according to which the two qualities of obedience and deliberation constitute the two poles of the same field of hierarchical gradation. Obedience and autonomy are no longer separate qualities. On the contrary, they coexist within the same individual but in different degrees according to their hierarchical position. As to the individual citizen-soldier, he is progressively considered as a monadic unity that expressed the collective being in its entirety (Narbonne 1792: 34). In other words, the figure of the citizen-soldier can be envisaged as realizing the synthesis of the particular and the universal. This coincidence in a perfect unity, however, runs the risk of annihilating all difference and all personal liberty and of leading to a totalitarian militarization and uniformity. In a parliamentary debate in the year V, Deputy Dumas said: The National Guard on active service should not be . . . militarized to the point that there is a risk that by the habit of discipline and the transfer of military hierarchy into society the ideas of liberty and independence could be retarded and modified too significantly. (Dumas year Vb: 14) And his colleague Rossée added that ‘we should not expose the French people to move from liberty to the yoke of the sabre, or from equality to military hierarchy’ (Rossée year V: 5). Already, by 1792, when the government tried to re-establish discipline and passive obedience in the armies, opponents to these attempts denounced them as setting up a ‘tyrannical regime to rule men who have sworn to die for liberty’ (Merlin 1792: 2–3). Theoretically speaking, the issue was expressed as the prevalence of the single or of the multiple, of a unitary state-people or of the multitude.

104 The French moment A clear expression of the latter attitude can be found in Lanthenas’s definition of the people as multiplicity: Even national militia, if they are kept far from their homes for a long time, will lose contact with their domestic life; they will become pure machines instead of free citizens and soldiers, being slaves of their pay and of the favour of some commanders. . . . If force resides in the people, where nature ordained it, justice, law, and force will always be united; order and liberty will always be preserved. (Lanthenas 1792: 5) The model of thought is clearly nominalistic, since the power emanates from a multitude that governs itself autonomously. Others held the opposite view and insisted on the predominance of the single over the multiple, of the organized machine of the state over the individual. There is no government without a well-disciplined public force, and there is no discipline when the citizens are called to arms as if they were called to a conflagration. They would be nothing else than an armed rabble, not recognizing any but the laws they like, obeing only if they wish (Lacouteulx-Canteleu year V: 5) In a deliberative army, divisions of opinions would inevitably hinder any common action. As a result of this, the community would inescapably fade away. Beyond these debates about the means and limits of the integration of the individual into the sphere of national state power, there was, however, fundamentally a consensus concerning the necessity of such an integration, and military service was again perhaps the most striking example of this political axiom. This integration was not always spontaneously achievable and constraint was sometimes necessary. Significantly, this constraint was not avowable as such. The commanders of the National Guard in the Evreux district expressed this paradox in 1792: People talk about abduction, about forced enlistments and those barbarian lotteries known as militia that despotism used for too long to pull you out of your homes and from which the Constitution set you free! Friends, resist with horror and denounce as a bad citizen, as a secret enemy of the commonwealth, the one who would inspire in you this fear! No, these means are not adapted to a free people, and the fatherland would not entrust the honour of defence to forced men, who as such would be unworthy of service. (Depuisaye and Ecalard-Chaumond 1792: 3)

‘Nation in arms’ 105 The link between military service and the honour of serving the fatherland was more than a rhetorical means of justification. It displayed the fact that compulsory enlistment was, as early as 1792, perceived as abduction in the tradition of the milice of the ancien régime. But it is also true that the army did not generally accept criminals, and seditious towns and regions were exempted, such as, for example, Lyons89 or the Vendée (Bertaud 1979: 119). Compulsory military service in wartime posed the problem of how to organize retirement from the army: volunteers had been promised the right to leave their units after the end of each campaign, but this promise was never kept. As late as Fructidor of year VII, the Minister of War held that the soldiers’ ‘task [was] not done’: ‘the national will speaks, requires, and orders: obey its voice!’ (Bernadotte year VII: 1). Soldiers who did not want to fight a war that was to last for a quarter of a century had thus to try to get discharged and, if they failed, to desert. Unsurprisingly under these circumstances, many chose this route, especially after 1793.90 The measures taken against desertion were not very efficient:91 in the beginning the treatment was relatively mild92 and only gradually became more severe. Habitual capital punishment for a crime that was put on a par with parricide (Gaudin year VII: 5–6) was debated as late as Messidor of the year VII, and this proposal was accompanied by an amnesty to those who returned to their units (Jourdan year VII), in order to prevent deserters forming armed gangs. One main problem of the fight against desertion was that deserters were commonly protected by their home communities and even by the local administration (see Collet year VII: 2; Renault year VII: 4; Laujacq year VII: 3; Savary year VII: 8–9). Even draconic punishments against those who assisted deserters did not sort out the problem. Corruption of the administrative and medical staff was actually omnipresent, and inequality and corruption were viewed as threats to the legitimacy of the institution. It was thus decided to revoke all decisions about furlough and exemptions and to establish impersonal and universal rules upon which future cases would be decided.93 It would be an error, however, to interpret this national integration through military service as a purely disciplinarian submission to the state’s military machine. The process was essentially twofold, not only related to the enjoyment of citizenship as a more or less symbolic political right but also implying more substantial social benefits. It has been pointed out before that the military policy of the ancien régime had already necessitated the beginning of a policy of social care. With the Revolution, however, the care for veterans, wounded soldiers and their families ceased to be conceived as either a measure of charity or a prevention of social disorder. On the contrary, social benefits began to be perceived as a civic right and thus as the exact counterpart of the obligation to serve in the military: If one of the first duties of each citizen is to go to the fatherland’s assistance in the case of danger, one of the first duties of every wise

106 The French moment government is also to assure the assistance and the care citizens are entitled to demand from a grateful, generous and tender mother for all those who have been victims of their duty and their zeal. (Lacuée year VI: 1) There was thus a reciprocal relation between the obligation to risk one’s life for the fatherland and an entitlement to social benefits: this reciprocity was depicted as one of the foundations of the republic as soon as year VI (Marbot year VIa: 4; Laveaux year VIa). The proposal for a law on social benefits for veterans and their families, however, gave rise to a disagreement between the two chambers, the Conseil des CinqCents and the Conseil des Anciens (Bonaparte year VI: 1–2). A spokesman of the latter, Deputy Marbot, proposed to distribute land, rather than a pension, to the veterans or their widows (Marbot year VIb: 4). There was also disagreement about whether each soldier should be entitled to the same benefits, or whether there should be a gradation according to rank. In another report Marbot called for equality in social benefits: it is beautiful to show in this article the soldier and the general in the most perfect equality before the grateful fatherland: in this way you will demonstrate in the eyes of nations, by practice and not by empty words, this beautiful maxim, that the law is equal for all, whether it recompenses or punishes. (Marbot year VIc: 5) The opponents of this view argued for the necessity of taking into account the rank of the soldier, since the army itself relied on the distinction of ranks (Rivaud year VI: 3). This disagreement thus turned fundamentally on the question of whether military sacrifice had equal value for all or not: against the argument that the fact of risking one’s life and health was a source of equality, it was contended that the benefit had to be measured by the ‘importance’ of the service. The law on conscription of 1798 may be considered as the institutionalization of the military politics of the Revolution and thus as an essential historical turning-point in the construction of a nation-state through the clawing back of popular arming by the constituted power (Crépin 1998: 29–30). The legislator was conscious of this fact: in 1793, the Convention made the law about requisition: this was the birth of the Republic; the point was to remove its cradle from disorder . . . being more favoured today, we are at the head of an organised state: unlike the Convention, we do not have to create anymore, or to thing about creating, but to temper and to consolidate. (Laveaux year VIb: 12)

‘Nation in arms’ 107 The explicit goal was to consolidate a revolutionary state by creating revolutionary institutions: this implied the will to organize and regulate the disorders of the revolution. The specific ambivalence of the law stemmed precisely from this hybrid endeavour (see Barailon year VI: 2). According to Jourdan, the author of the law, the task of the time was precisely the institutionalisation of the Revolution; and he considered his proposal both as an institutionalization of already existing practices and as a decisive innovation: while arming a part of the citizens to defend the state; while placing this impressive force at the disposal of the government, you have to guarantee civil liberty. The armed forces have to be defenders of this liberty and not oppressors of their fellow citizens. The executive power has to find in the army defenders of the fatherland only and not mercenary satellites that are disposed to oppress the people. It is true, unfortunately, that governments have always used armed force to subjugate the nation as despots; this proves that there has never been a well-organized representative government, and never a truly national army. (Jourdan year VI: 3–4) The Revolution had created an historical situation where a firm grounding in its achievements permits an end being put to the Revolution. From this Aufhebung of the Revolution by the Revolution stemmed a representative government and a national army, a political structure in which civic (political) liberty and civil (individual) liberty come together. This was achieved through their being represented in a government where the civil society and the armed forces were thought to represent each other mutually. The practical difficulty was to reconcile two contradictory goals: military service had to be equal and universal but limited in order to avoid a militarization of society (Jourdan year VI: 9, 11–14). The solution for this problem was found in the distinction between conscription and military service: conscription meant that the individual was registered as a potential conscript, but this did not imply that all conscripts had actually to perform military service.94 ‘Many will be destined to serve, but in reality few will probably serve’ (Jourdan year VI: 6). The criterion by which the soldiers were chosen out of the mass of conscripts was age, which meant that the youngest of a class were enlisted first. But the law did not fix the length of service, and the decision about the discharge of soldiers was thus left to the government. Unsurprisingly, opinions were divided about the conditions for exemption and the question of whether conscripts should be allowed to hire a substitute instead of doing their military service in person. The 1798 law in fact prohibited substitution, since the goal was that ‘the law penetrates the thatched cottages of the poor as well as the sumptuous palaces of

108 The French moment opulence’ (Porte year VI: 8). This settlement was discussed again two years later; interestingly, similar arguments to those used in 1798 to justify the act of conscription and the interdiction of substitution now served as arguments in favour of substitution. If Jourdan’s law mentioned the necessity for adjusting conscription to the needs of arts, commerce and agriculture, the advocates of substitution denounced ‘those lovers of a chimerical equality’ who wanted to ‘force all the members of a large nation to do rigorously the same work’ (Jaucourt year VIII: 3). The argument of the general interest could serve as an argument in favour of an equal obligation for everybody, but also for a differentiation of social tasks, that is, allowing the rich the opportunity to hire substitutes: ‘Substitution will make money flow towards poor families’ (Delpierre year VIII: 4; see also Favard de Langlade year VIII). Since military service was defined as a civic duty, however, substitution was a serious problem (Portiez year VIII: 3). An argument used continuously until the end of the nineteenth century was formulated in the debate of year VIII: the definition of military service as an ‘impôt de sang’ (a blood tax). The citizens who are called to military service pay a veritable tribute that could be called the tribute of blood: as all the others, its goal is the conversion of the social body; but it is essentially unique since it affects the first of all properties, i.e. the person and the most precious of all liberties, the liberty of the individual. (Desmousseaux year VIII: 2) The promoters of substitution were also conscious that the revolutionary principle of military service would be seriously impaired if people could buy themselves out of the obligation, since this principle relied on the parallel between military service and civic rights (Chauvelin year VIII: 3). But it was contended that conscription had to be understood as the regularization and institutionalization of the system of balances between civic rights and duties (Jubé de la Perrelle year VIII: 3–4). The general good required an adjustment of the public interest to private interests. It was thus argued that ‘the real objective of military conscription is not to force each citizen without distinction to carry arms, but to assure a perpetual means of defence and security for the Republic by the devotion of everbody’ (Chauvelin year VIII: 6). It was obviously not a big step from Jourdan’s distinction between conscription and military service to this kind of argument; the underlying social philosophy, however, had profoundly changed: replacing the general will by the general good (the latter defined as an articulation between private and public interests) was a major transformation. It was Benjamin Constant, the future icon of French liberalism, who severely criticized these views, which relied, he believed, on a ‘totally subversive doctrine of conscription’, which ‘perceives only the government where the legislator meant the nation’. The object of conscription,

‘Nation in arms’ 109 according to Constant, was still to unify the people and not to sanction social separations by political barriers: ‘the goal of conscription, of this most useful and most revolutionary law in France, is to make the citizens form but one body and to prevent any split within the French people’ (Constant year VIII: 6).

Transition Technologies of the state from France to Prussia

The army, which had been perceived as a factor in and reflection of national unity, continually produced mechanisms of social exclusion that were incompatible with the needs of other social spheres. The debates held in the Assembly or in revolutionary clubs were reflected in the soldiers’ experiences, which embodied the same aporias and the same dialectics about the possible concept of popular sovereignty. In fact, this was both within the people and separated from the people. It was at the same time dispersed throughout the whole social body and ‘une et indivisible’. This is why it necessitated the unification of the social body and the reduction of incompatible differences. This attempt, however, necessarily failed and the differences remained. If democracy consists in citizens’ active political participation, the physical implication of fighting for the community is certainly the most extreme form of any possible participation. Those who carry arms in the name of the state are, by this very fact, something other, and more than, simple individuals carrying arms. They are citizen-soldiers, which means that their individual interests have to be absorbed by the collective interest of the community. Otherwise, the armed force would constitute an entity separated from society, and this would lead either to despotism or to civil war. But it is impossible to reduce existing individuals to pure incarnations of the abstract universality of the republican state – unless through the ‘egalitarian death’ of Billaud-Varenne’s account. As is evident, revolutionary practice was not as pure as these theoretical constructions, and the ideal of universal citizenship was constantly in tension with particular identities. The identity categories invested the definition of the universal by defining its specific modalities and the norms of the universal had an actual impact on the construction of these identities. There was, therefore, a circular causal relationship between civic universality and the particularity of identities. The civic universal was situated and defined according to class boundaries, nationality, ethnicity and gender divisions. At the same time, the identity categories of nation, class and gender were constructed and reconstructed in reference to the civic universal of the revolutionary state. It thus becomes clear that neither the conception of

Transition 111 the political universal – which was institutionalized in the revolutionary state – nor the identity constructions – which represented both obstacles and driving forces for the construction of the revolutionary state – were fixed entities. On the contrary, both were constituted in their relationship of conflict. The same circular causality may be considered as having been the driving force in the relationship of the community of citizens with the sovereignty of the state. In the first stage of the Revolution, a naivety and optimism led to a political and mental framework in which the spontaneously socializing forces of the community were perceived as the driving force for their institutionalization in the state. The community pre-existed logically and historically its institutional form: the latter was thus subordinated to the existence of the former. It quickly turned out, however, that this political concept relied socially on an exclusively bourgeois standpoint and accordingly necessitated the exclusion of sub-bourgeois strata from the political sphere. The civic community was thus perceived as a homogeneous social web that relied on a conception of transversal moral coherence, labelled reason. This viewpoint principally excluded any submission to discipline as practised in the army, but was subordinated to the existence of a community of manners, behaviour and civilization that reflected a strictly bourgeois standpoint, since it was, in the last instance, subordinated to bourgeois values of education and property. The lower strata of the people, in contrast, lacked the essential qualities for being part of this community. The history of the National Guard in the early years of the Revolution clearly displays this development. The French Revolution would have remained a bourgeois revolution if no attempts had been made to overcome this social split of the political element. However, there were without doubt tendencies to enlarge the social basis of civic integration to include the whole male population. At this point the political problem was that the institution of community relied on something that did not exist. The social world was experienced as being essentially divided and required political unification. Paradoxically, however, the means by which this unification was to be achieved did not exist either. The institution of a political community presupposed the formation of citizens, individuals who were part of the sovereign people. But these citizens were to be created: they did not yet exist. In other words, the elements that were supposed to constitute the sovereign through their association were lacking. The demiurgic task of the self-creation of the sovereign people can be observed in remarkable clarity through the role of military service during the French Revolution, since all the contradictions were concentrated in an exemplary way in this institution. Military service thus linked directly and intrinsically the exercise of popular sovereignty to civic education. It was this link that worked as a catalyst for the selfcreation of the sovereign people in the transition ‘from nothingness to existence’.

112 Transition The institutionalization of popular arming in the form of a system of regular conscription exemplified a general transitional movement of the French Revolution towards renewed state power on a popular basis. In the decade after 1789, popular arming, which had been one of the most seditious revolutionary demands, became an obligation for male citizens and was, as such, subordinated to and controlled by the state. This transformation went hand in hand with a post-revolutionary redefinition and reevaluation of revolutionary categories, such as revolt and uprising, patriotism and fatherland, people and society, liberty and discipline (see Launoy year V: 5). The permanent National Guard as it was created in 1789, not in the midst of a general insurrection but after the insurrection, and in order to repress the disorders by which it was accompanied; the National Guard as it was instituted by the constitution of year III, is not at all the mass of the inhabitants of the republic, it is not . . . an armed rabble; it is a sort of military conscription of citizens having aquired the civic inscription. . . . Far from disturbing the homogeneity of the elements this organization preserves, by fixing their status, by determining their relationships and the common objective, which is the maintenance of order and the obedience to the law. (Dumas year Vc: 3) It would be inexact, however, to consider this transformation as a linear movement; the tension between the two poles has existed since the beginning of the Revolution. On the anlytical level, the issue can be understood in the conceptualizations of the people (see Arendt 1965). The people represented the source of sovereignty: in this respect, the concept was positively understood: ‘Should we be afraid of the people?’ asks a petition signed by Saint-André, Danton, Lepeletier and others in 1792. But the people are just and good, they get upset [s’émeut] only for great causes; a moral instinct that misleads only very rarely leads them to truth. . . . Are we afraid of the troublemakers? The people are here to defend us, they know that we are working for their interests and they never fail to recognize their true friends. (Saint-André 1792: 5–6) In this respect the people – in the sense of the popular classes – is a paradigm of the people – in the sense of the collective political subject (see Agamben 1996: 39): ‘the people is in general patriotic, but the merchants and those who were formerly called bourgeoisie are more attached to their interests than to Revolution’ (Pressavin and Reverchon 1793: 5). But the people also constituted a permanent threat to the established social

Transition 113 order (see Bodin 1986, II, 6: 121). Popular sovereignty is thus grounded on this unstable basis and so is universal military service: while being a popular duty, it was believed to ‘crush its first and cruellest domestic enemies, discord and anarchy’ (Mille 1792: 5), which are considered as ‘terrible precursors of despotism’.95 There is thus a causal chain leading from the people as destabilizing force to anarchy and finally to despotism: the power of the people transforms itself into its opposite and thus destroys itself. It is therefore necessary to separate the people from themselves and to regard them both as the subject of sovereignty and to submit them to a power that nevertheless emanates from this very people. Once more, it is classical ontology that serves as a political model for the modern state: One is right to say that, in order to conserve the power of the people, it should not be aroused; that, when it is able to overturn everything, it is led by a minority and brought to anarchy . . . the right of the people is to influence, to be able to act, but not to act . . . the fate of persons and the social order itself are thus not abandoned to a crowd [mêlée] and their natural defenders do not have to gather tumultuously, but to join ranks in order to fulfil the first of their duties according to the accepted method that they have themselves wanted. (Dumas year Vc: 10) According to the classical distinction between potentia and potestas, the power (potentia) of the people has to be separated from them in order to constitute the basis for the power (potestas) of the state. State power relies on taking back the power of the multitude, and the former is necessary in order to prevent the latter disintegrating into anarchy. In other words, and according to another classical distinction, between potentia and actus, the power of the people is to remain in a state of pure potential and never to become actual. The people can act but never do so – only joining ranks in order to fulfil their duties. This analysis could continue with an investigation into the Napoleonic period, studying the impact of conscription for the inner state-building of the empire and for French warfare in the first 15 years of the nineteenth century. This would certainly be an interesting perspective, but some considerations suggest another way of proceeding. Napoleonic conscription may be seen as the direct legacy of the Revolution. Annie Crépin is right in pointing out that the 1798 law on conscription was the basis for the legislation of the following years. The processes of institutionalization can be considered as having terminated as early as 1798. It seems that the conceptual conclusions to be drawn from the continuation of the processes of centralization, bureaucratization and militarization – together with the general retrograde movement of the democratic tendencies that had characterized even the last years of the revolutionary period – would be rather

114 Transition weak. Without arguing that everything can be deduced from its historical origins, it is nevertheless clear that the revolutionary period was, in contrast to the empire, a ‘laboratory’ for French politics. The Revolution, in short, had opened up a set of possibilities from which the empire inherited one. Accordingly, another route has been chosen. This route consists in abandoning the French perspective and focusing on Prussia. Underlining the fragmentary character of historical analysis, this choice also highlights the openness of historical situations: Prussia was, in fact, forced to cope with the legacy of the French Revolution in very specific terms, according to its history, social structure and the international situation. In this situation, the historic challenge of the Revolution and Napoleonic warfare was taken up by Prussia in a quite original way. What is more, it was arguably this specific appropriation of the revolutionary example that had – in the longer historical perspective – a much greater impact on the model of conscriptional warfare, total mobilization and national integration in the barracks. Prussia imported the system of French conscription during the wars of liberation of 1813–15. A major political and military transformation took place in the 1860s with the Prussian Verfassungsstreit: this increased, on the political level, the authoritarian control of government over the armed forces and marked an essential political turning-point in German history by the defeat of the liberal–nationalistic tendencies. France reimported the Prussian system of universal conscription after 1870–1. Paradoxically, however, French conscription at the end of the nineteenth century was ideologically incorporated into the political framework of the construction of the republic; whereas the developments in Germany during the same years tended to cut the ideological links between military service and political participatory rights, incorporating military service into the framework of an increasingly militaristic monarchy. In this respect, the comparative approach between France and Germany has certainly the salutary effect of preventing any tendency to essentialize either of the two contradictory models.

Part II

The Prussian moment

5

The military, society, and the state in old regime Prussia

State construction went hand in hand with the centralization and monopolization of the armed forces (Schmidt 1986). Permanent armies, as they came into being with the Thirty Years War, necessitated the setting up of a centralized administration in order to manage, equip and control them (Corvisier 1988: 8). The development of a centralized administration, which can be regarded as a nucleus of modern institutions, was the answer to the difficulties of directing and controlling these large standing armies. According to Charles Tilly’s famous formulation, ‘war made the state, and the state made war’ (Tilly 1975: 42). Even if recent historiography has tried to relegate this view (see Tallet 1992: 188–9), it remains nevertheless certain that military organization has been at least one of the determining factors of the modern state, and foremost for such distinctive features as administrative and fiscal centralization (Mousnier 1980: 616–17). It was the French monarchy that played the leading role in Europe in developing a military administration, but other European states, and especially Prussia, drew on the French example and managed to set up an effective system of control of military administration by civil officials (Muhlack 1986). The state thus progressively enforced its control over the armed forces, for the most part to the detriment of feudal aristocracy (Hintze 1967: 30–55). At the end of this process the role of the military aristocracy was limited to recruitment, administration and command of a regiment, whereas decision-making on higher levels became a prerogative of the state (Schmidt 1996).

State construction and military duties The duty of military service had had a very long tradition in German public law and existed since the early Middle Ages under the name of Landfolge or ius sequalae. This juridical requirement implied the inhabitants’ duty to perform military service or provide a workforce for military use if the country was attacked. In a military decree of 1488 – one of the rare available sources on the military duties of the civil population – the obligation to do military service was depicted as stemming from the

118 The Prussian moment juridical quality of being Untertan (subject), which meant that all physically fit men were liable, although in certain cases a substitute could be hired. Military exercises did not take place (Franz 1967). Besides this duty for Landesdefension (territorial defence), the ius sequalae also implied limited levy rights. This meant that some inhabitants could in practice also be enlisted for the purpose of wars outside the territory (Schnitter 1994). The obligation to do military service relied on the feudal social order, which meant that the local lords organized military inspections and levies in their territories, relying essentially on domain proprietors to execute the levy. In the later Middle Ages and during the early modern period, military obligations began to be considered less as a personal duty stemming from the relationship between a noble and his subjects, and more as being rooted in a communal and familial social order in which agrarian proprietors and local lords played pivotal roles. In towns only eingesessene Bürger (established burghers) were drafted, whereas serfs, the poor, artisans without landed property and day labourers did not take part in territorial defence. During the sixteenth century, the quotas for territorial defence levies decreased because it became usual, in the case of war, to enlist only selected young men. Territorial governments issued decrees specifying elaborate principles for selection according to social, economic and military criteria. What had been a universal obligation to defend the country was progressively transformed into a selective draft of the socially and economically least necessary and militarily most useful individuals. Like all German princes, the Elector of Brandenburg had the right to raise militia troops. In order to assemble these troops, the cooperation of the estates was necessary, and the feudal nobility was generally opposed to the militia. The first reason for this was economic: the aristocracy did not want their serfs used as a workforce for the benefit of the central power. The more important objection, however, was politically motivated and concerned the presumed social dangers of arming dependent serfs. This conflict of interests between the central power and nobility became an issue in 1610 when the Elector of Brandenburg Johann Sigismund tried to re-establish in his territories the institution of territorial defence and charged two officials, Diestermeier and Dohna, with the practical execution of his plan. In two memoranda these officials insisted on the social dangers of leaving the defence of the country to mercenaries alone (Händel 1962: 12–14). In order to avoid this, all physically fit men should periodically receive military training and be drafted into regular troops in case of war according to military needs. But the nobility succeeded in obstructing these plans in the Provinzialstände (territorial estates). The argument against the militia was that it was dangerous to provide the peasants with means, whose ‘misuse’ could induce them ‘to forget about the obedience they owed’ to their masters (Schnitter 1994: 34). Confronted with these difficulties, many German princes preferred to rely on mercenaries, especially in order to crush rebellions. The use of

Military, society and state in the old regime 119 such troops changed during the second half of the seventeenth century, since in many German states the large standing armies of the Thirty Years War were not disbanded but maintained as a cornerstone of absolutist state-building (Burkhardt 1992: 213). The advantage in not disbanding these troops was that the risks they represented were contained and the countries no longer ravaged and looted after the end of wars. In this way, the future Prussia set up armed forces that were exclusively dependent on the central power and in no way subject to the approval of the aristocracy. At the same time, during the reign of Frederic William, Great Elector of Brandenburg, the other features of state-building were also set up, namely the bureaucracy and fiscal administration. On the administrative level, the developing central power relied on Kriegs- und Steuerkommissare (commissioners for war and finance) to implement its authority in towns and provinces (Hintze 1970: 242–74). The highest authority for these commissioners was the General-Kriegskommissarius (general commissioner for war). His task was both military and fiscal, since he was both the highest civil administrator of the army and the supervisor of the fiscal administration of the estates. The definition of the commissioner’s task clearly displays the close links between military and fiscal centralization. It was primarily through the commissions and their centralized structure that the central power in Brandenburg-Prussia defeated the centrifugal tendencies of the estates (Hintze 1915: 219). The essential turning-point was achieved in 1653 when the Great Elector obtained fiscal rights over the local serfs and thus secured a vital condition for the development of Prussian absolutism against the resistance of feudalism. The development of Prussia’s military structures must be considered in this context of state construction in the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth century (Oestreich 1970: 290–310). Following this line of argument, peasant conscription, according to the famous Kantonsystem, must be regarded as the complement of fiscal centralization for the military workforce. The creation of this kind of military service was, in other words, above all a seizure of workforce by the crown to the detriment of the nobility (Oestreich 1970: 277–89). When the Elector of Brandenburg became King of Prussia in 1701, he tried to set up a militia; but, confronted with the resistance of the aristocracy and the towns, he had to limit this Landmiliz to the royal domains instead of establishing it throughout the country. The militia in this case should therefore be considered as a private army of the king, which means that it was subject to the sovereign authority but only inasmuch as the king was a privileged member of the aristocracy. Practically, however, this militia increasingly became a recruiting pool and auxiliary force for the standing armies. Consequently, the Prussian King Frederick William I abolished the Prussian militia when he came to power in 1713, and the processes of administrative centralization and of monopolization of the armed forces were accelerated during the reign of the second King of

120 The Prussian moment Prussia. The decree of January 1717 abolishing the lords’ ius sequelae over their serfs must be considered another crucial historical turning-point (Bornhak 1885: vol. 2, 108). Generally speaking, it was arguably during the reign of Frederick William I that the most important progress was made in the construction of a Prussian absolutism. This concerns foremost the formation of a large standing army under the effective control of the crown to the detriment of the old mercenary and militia structures. A corollary of this setting up of standing armies was the reinforcement of the legendary Prussian discipline. The Prussian standing army was certainly one of the laboratories of the disciplinarian revolution in eighteenth-century armies. Centralization, however, also progressed on other levels, and it was during the reign of Frederick William I that the basic structures of Prussia’s constitution as a military state were created. Military administration was reorganized in 1723 through the foundation of the General-Ober-Finanz-Kriegs- und Domänen-Direktorium (the general high finance, war and domainal directory). This was the first attempt to create something like a Ministry of War, since essential administration was centralized in one authority. However, in many respects this was in conflict with the Regierungen (regional governments), and many competences were not clearly defined and remained unclear until the creation of a Ministry of War in 1808. After the general directory, the Kriegs- und Domänenkammern (war and domain chambers) were constituted as the second and regional level of the administrative hierarchy. At the local level come the commissarii locorum in towns and the Landräte and Steuerräte (civil and fiscal administrators) in the countryside (Helfritz 1938: 112–13). Through subordination of national, regional and local administrative interests, the central power thus disposed of an effective means of implementing its policy. The system had other deficiencies, however. First of all, a central structure of command was lacking, since the army had no general staff. The posts of Generaladjutant (general adjutant), created in 1750, and of Generalquartiermeister (general quartermaster) were certainly steps towards a rationalized structure of command, but their efficiency was reduced because of an inflated separation of competences. The central commanding body of the general staff was not established until the era of Prussian reforms (Hubatsch 1973: 125–7). On the lower level of military organization, however, recruitment and administration remained largely decentralized. Captains received subsidies from the crown and were in turn responsible for their companies’ staffing and administration. The company thus became a business, or Kompaniewirtschaft (a company economy), managed by the captain. Drawing on the example of the French Hôtel des Invalides, in 1722 King Frederick William I created a welfare organization in Potsdam for veterans (Kroener 1993). Veterans largely did garrison work, but attempts were also made to find them civil positions, mainly as guardians and teachers. During the reign of Frederick II the army was given a medical

Military, society and state in the old regime 121 structure that, despite the generally hard conditions for the wounded in wars, turned out to be effective, since some 200,000 men were treated in Prussian army hospitals during the Seven Years War. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries Prussia had thus established a functional centralized system of military administration that assured the crown’s supreme control over the military. Old militia structures were abolished and a large standing army instituted.

The establishment of the canton system During the reign of King Frederick William I the strength of the Prussian army rose from around 40,000 men, when he came to power in 1713, to some 80,000 when he died in 1740 (Behre 1905: 122). With this considerable growth in its armed forces, within a few years Prussia’s status in the European balance of power rose accordingly. Within Germany, Prussia was already a significant military power by the 1670s, but was obliged to draw on foreign resources to sustain its position. These consisted mainly of monetary and manpower benefits derived from the Elector of Brandenburg’s influence in imperial politics (Wilson 1998: 63–4). Brandenburg thus assumed defence tasks for its unarmed neighbours and gained not only substantial monetary recompense in return but also the chance to recruit outside its borders. This situation changed with the Utrecht–Rastatt peace settlement of 1713–14, when Prussia’s former allies suspended their subsidies and tried to close their borders to Prussian recruitment officers. Their attempts were backed by the Holy Roman Emperor, who tried to monopolize German recruitment grounds for Austria (Wilson 1998: 135). Furthermore, the decline of Swedish influence in central Europe and Russia’s corresponding gain forced Prussia to deal directly with its mighty eastern neighbour. The international situation Prussia had to face thus remained unstable until the 1720s, and this insecurity undoubtedly contributed to King Frederick William’s determination to strive for increasing autarky in Prussia’s military politics (MüllerWeil 1992: 107). By this time, the failure of the continuation of the traditional system of voluntary enlistment had become evident (Büsch 1981: 15–16). Since the provincial militia had been abolished in 1713 and foreign recruitment had become increasingly difficult for reasons of international policy, domestic recruiters tried to increase the army’s manpower by almost any means. Touting thus reached unseen levels in Prussia in these years, and the king and high military officials had to assert and repeat that bloodshed was to be avoided during recruitment. Moreover, there was no legal term of service: this meant in practice that soldiers had to serve until they were invalided out. Obviously, these conditions did not facilitate finding volunteers to join the army. Apart from the increased demand for military manpower and the growing difficulties in foreign recruitment, the army

122 The Prussian moment had a special need for tall men, and those who matched the necessary height became increasingly rare. The minimum height varied between 5 feet 3 inches (165.5 cm) in wartime and 5 feet 5 inches (169 cm) in peacetime, but the army preferred even taller men, of 5 feet 6 inches (173 cm) and even taller within special units (Frauenholz 1940: 290, 313, 325). Apart from aesthetic considerations (see Schnitter 1993) there was a technical reason for preferring tall men: they could much more easily handle the long rifles in use in eighteenth-century armies and were generally considered as physically more resistant (Kroener 1989). There was thus ferocious competition among recruiting officers. In 1720 in the Westphalian town of Hagen, for instance, a recruitment troop of 50 soldiers tried to recruit by force from the community gathered in church on Sunday, provoking violent resistance that ended with at least five deaths (Kloosterhuis 1996: 169). Afraid of recruitment, peasants tried any means to escape. To do so, they or their families often had to pay substantial sums to the officers. Others mutilated themselves or emigrated. Emigration reached such a height that not only young men but sometimes whole villages left the Prussian monarchy. At this point, however, the government had to react, since depopulation threatened to undermine the social and economic basis of the whole Prussian monarchy, which relied predominantly on its agricultural economy. First, the government outlawed unauthorized emigration and decreed that those who left the country in order to escape from recruitment be punished by the confiscation of their property. Second, violent recruitment was officially forbidden, although this did not mean that recruitment excesses came to an end. Third, the Kantonsystem was set up. This was an empirical combination of the two administrative procedures of enrolment and furlough. The first of these elements stemmed directly from the difficulties of finding adequate manpower. As the competition between recruiters for tall men became increasingly acute, the Enrollierung (enrolling) procedure was invented, which consisted in establishing lists of young men even before they reached the legal minimum age and providing them with Urlaubspässe (passports of leave). Those thus enrolled formed a recruiting pool for a specific company without being actually enlisted; they were legally potential soldiers and could thus not be recruited by other units. The origins of this system of furlough and passports are actually even older, and it had already been tried at the end of the seventeenth century when the Brandenburg government had systematic recourse to the procedure of discharging parts of the standing army at the end of each war on passports and recalling them when needed (Schrötter 1910: 106). The second element of the canton system was economically motivated. As recruitment within the country became increasingly difficult and foreign recruitment more expensive, the captains faced a decline in their financial situation. In order to remedy these difficulties, they began to fur-

Military, society and state in the old regime 123 lough (Beurlaubung) their soldiers for about ten months a year (Lehmann 1911: 148). The captain kept the soldiers’ pay during the time they were on leave and could thus considerably increase his income. For the soldiers, this procedure had the advantage that they could either return to their native villages to work on their families’ farms or find work as journeymen in towns. It seems that the practice of furloughs was generalized and acknowledged by the superior authorities in the 1720s (Harnisch 1996: 141). This practice also had the advantage of reducing emigration and desertion, since military service became a seasonal occupation, which no longer separated a soldier from his native community completely (Jany 1967a: 681). The Prussian canton system, as formalized in the decrees issued by King Frederick William I in 1733, combined the procedures of furlough and enrolment, providing a legal framework for both (Jany 1926). The novelty of the canton system was its ingenious combination of the structures of the standing army with elements of a militia organization (Hintze 1962: 73). The system can be described correctly but paradoxically as a militia draft for a standing army. With the canton system the Prussian crown disposed of an army that was – relative to the number of inhabitants of the country – the largest in Europe, while the financial burdens of a standing army were lessened not only through the extension of furlough but also though the mechanism of offloading paying, feeding, clothing and arming the soldiers onto local authorities. The actual costs of maintaining a standing army were in many cases less important than the expenses of recruitment and administration (Wilson 1995: 37–42), and the combination of native recruitment and furloughs, administered by local authorities that were nevertheless dependent on the central power instead of the estates, thus turned out to be a fruitful solution to a structural problem in the military organization of the early modern state. This short discussion of the essential characteristics of the system has necessarily to remain sketchy, since the system was neither uniform nor comprehensive in its application and, moreover, evolved considerably between King Frederick William I’s coming to power in 1713 and its abolition in 1814. In addition, there were substantial regional differences, as a result of dissimilar juridical, social and economic structures within the Prussian territories. Some regions, particularly urban and industrial regions, were entirely exempt, as well as whole social categories and certain individuals (see Jähns 1891: vol. 3, 219). Exemptions were progressively widened during the eighteenth century and handled differently in newly acquired territories such as East Frisia or the acquisitions after the second division of Poland in 1793. However, these variations aside, the basic system remained the same (Wilson 2000). Each regiment was assigned a recruiting area (canton), subdivided into company districts. All eligible men from the age of religious confirmation were enrolled in the company lists and the regiment took an annual quota from the list to keep it up to strength. In general, conscripts received

124 The Prussian moment between one and two years of basic military training before being furloughed to the civil economy for most of the following years. Only those considered as unreliable (unsichere Kantonisten) were condemned to do garrison work throughout the year. However, all were recalled to the colours for annual exercise periods of about two months and all were subject to mobilization in wartime. In the beginning, service was for an unspecified term and only the definitive Kantonreglement of 1792 stipulated a limit of 20 years.96 In practice, however, men were often discharged earlier. During the eighteenth century, approximately half the Prussian army was recruited on the basis of the canton system: the other half consisted of foreign volunteers. In practice, however, these men were not necessarily volunteers, and most of them came from other German states. In theory, these foreigners did garrison work throughout the year, but in practice a significant proportion was also furloughed as Freiwächter in their garrison towns, where they generally worked as day labourers. At first, enlistment was made under the authority of the military commanders (Jany 1928: 694), but the procedure was changed in 1763 in favour of a more centralized formula. The newly created Kantons-RevisionsKommissionen (canton revision commissions), consisting of military officers and fiscal administrators, were charged with enrolment. Actual recruitment was then the responsibility of the civil authorities alone (Harnisch 1996: 144). Each autumn, the Kantons-Revisions-Kommissionen established an updated list of all male individuals between ten and 40 years old in their district and sent these lists to the war and domain chambers. The regiments, in turn, informed the war and domain chambers of their manpower needs. Selection, enlistment and transport of the recruits to the garrisons were then made by the civil and fiscal administrator of the districts according to an allocation made by the war and domain chambers. Since the administrators were nominated by the central administration, the 1763 reform can be considered as having contributed to the strengthening of centralization in recruitment. At the same time, this procedure also assured a greater degree of rationalization and was better prepared to find an equilibrium between the interests of the army and the local social and economic configuration. Arguably as a consequence of this, Prussian recruitment became better accepted. With increased codification, acts of violence committed during recruitment decreased, although they did not come to an end, since even measures of regular recruitment were sometimes enforced by physical constraint (Kloosterhuis 1996: 171–2). For the individual, however, through codification recruitment became a calculable variable and thus permitted personal and communal arrangements and strategies. For the state, the canton system was a convenient and comparatively cheap means of military staffing that went hand in hand with its attempts at the regulatory and statistical control of society (Harnisch 1989: 211). For the army, recruitment inside the country had the advantage that the moral value of the cantonists – as soldiers recruited according to the

Military, society and state in the old regime 125 canton system were called – was regarded as superior to that of mercenaries (Harnisch 1996: 138). As King Frederick II pointed out in his Political Testament, the fact that cantonists had known each other for ages and often had family ties strengthened the coherence of the fighting units, since all were aware that camaraderie and solidarity could be essential for survival in war (Dietrich and Benninghoven 1986: 516). There is actually some evidence that the internalization of sentiments of military valour and contempt for cowardice as its counterpart had some impact on the popular political consciousness (Carsted 1928, cited by Harnisch 1996: 139). The king’s assertions about the moral cohesion among the cantonists show quite clearly that discussions about soldiers’ moral and military value in the eighteenth century were centred on the crucial distinction between reliable cantonists, that is, regular conscripts, and foreigners as unreliable mercenaries (Friedrich II 1819: 1). The former were increasingly regarded as being attached to the country, the latter as having to be tamed by harsh discipline in order to prevent desertion.97 In contrast to nineteenth-century debates on the nature of the bonds between conscripts and their fatherland, eighteenth-century discussions about this matter were surprisingly unideological. According to this concept, the attachment of the cantonists to the state was in fact rooted in their social and economic attachment to their native communal order. In other words, the relationship between individuals and the state is perceived as a concrete communitarian belonging in which the state appears only at a secondary stage, rather than as a direct relationship between the patriotic spirit of the soldier and the imagined community of the nation. The canton system also influenced the desertion rate. Besides the fact that regiments were to a large extent staffed by soldiers from the same villages or neighbourhoods, desertion was not only punished ad personam, but could also have severe consequences for the deserters’ families and communities. Since staffing on the basis of the canton system meant that each district had to furnish a certain contingent of soldiers, any desertion meant that another man had to be drafted from the community. The consequences of desertion for the family could be even worse. In many cases members of the deserter’s family were first arrested for a certain time, and their property – if there was any – confiscated (Kloosterhuis 1996: 182). Cantonists who decided to desert thus had to be prepared to be responsible for social and economic disadvantages in their native communities. Together with the generalization of furloughs, this arrangement contributed to the significant fall in desertion rates in the eighteenth century, and thus to the reliability of the army as a whole. For foreign mercenaries, on the other hand, none of these social and economic attachments existed: they seem, therefore, to have been more inclined to desert than the cantonists. The rare autobiographic sources by eighteenth-century soldiers provide some evidence for this view. Ulrich Bräker had been a Swiss shepherd

126 The Prussian moment before being hired as a servant by a Prussian recruiter in southern Germany. When he was sent on a mission to Berlin by his master in 1756, he was drafted against his will into the Prussian army. Bräker related that the outbreak of war a couple of months later was received very differently by the soldiers according to whether they were cantonists or foreigners. Whereas the former were reluctant to leave their wives and children, the latter welcomed mobilization as a chance for desertion (Bräker 1970: 132). Bräker himself joined a group of his Austrian enemies and they all deserted together after a battle between the Prussian and Austrian armies (Bräker 1970: 141–2). This example clearly reveals one of the fundamental structural problems of mercenary armies, especially when recruited by constraint: the mercenaries were completely indifferent to the goal of the war and, moreover, they did not identify the adversary as their enemy, which made it easy for soldiers who had been obliged to fight against each other a couple of hours before to fraternize and then desert together.

Social implementation Article 5 of the 1792 Kantonreglement stated that ‘obligation to do military service according to the canton system stems from birth on a hearth, subject to canton conscription’.98 Social implementation of the canton system has to be measured against this stipulation (see Harnisch 1996: 140–1). The number of hearths or households within the boundaries of a canton differed considerably, ranging from 3,000 for an infantry regiment based in Brandenburg in the 1730s, to 8,700 for one in Westphalia (Jany 1926: 244–5). In the 1790s most infantry cantons appear to have counted over 10,000 hearths as an average, but their sizes ranged from 5,000 to 15,000 (Wilson 2000: 19). Since each canton had to provide staffing for a particular unit, the social impact of military recruitment varied according to these figures. It is difficult to calculate the demographic impact of recruitment, but some estimation is possible for the end of the eighteenth century (Skalweit 1944). The total population in 1800 is estimated between 8.7 and 11 million inhabitants, out of whom some 1.17 million were exempt from cantonal conscription through living in privileged regions. Another 530.000 persons enjoyed personal exemption on the basis of wealth, occupation or status. Moreover, for political reasons, conscription was not fully enforced in the newly acquired Polish territories, which meant that another 2.2 million were de facto exempted. As a result, some two million men were actually liable, from which not even 1 per cent were actually drafted.99 However, the burden of military recruitment could be very heavy in some regions. From the extension of the canton system to Ansbach and Bayreuth from 1796 until 1805, nearly a quarter of the total population was enrolled (Wilson 2000: 19–20). Beyond these regional differences, there were furthermore substantial inequalities between the recruitment quotas in the countryside and in towns (Winter 1999), the

Military, society and state in the old regime 127 former having to carry a burden about 10 per cent heavier than the latter (Harnisch 1996: 151). Another difficulty is the distortion of recruitment figures because of the soldiers’ height. According to Peter Wilson, only about one-seventh of those enrolled were actually five feet or over. Of these only 22,338 reached the minimum height (Wilson 2000: 20). Generally, the army thus took shorter men and discharged them when taller recruits became available, which could sometimes happen a couple of months after they had joined the army. For all these reasons, it is impossible to quantify precisely the social impact of canton conscription,100 but one can say without doubt that it concerned foremost a specific section of society, namely tall adult males, living in rural areas. Some towns were completely exempt and generally the quotas of enlistment were lower in urban than in rural areas.101 Recent research has effectively challenged the monolithic view chiefly developed by Otto Büsch on the Prussian military system in the eighteenth century. According to Büsch, the canton system on the one hand and on the other rural nobility and serfdom, especially in the territories east of the Elbe, were united by a ‘functional link’. Since the military organization relied essentially on serfdom, the whole social system of the Prussian monarchy was, according to Büsch, shaped by excessive militarization, as the consequence of this systemic linkage (Büsch 1981: vi–vii and 49). The relationship of command and obedience between master and serf was a direct continuation of military structures and mentalities, since the master was at the same time officer in the army and the serfs were soldiers in the unit he commanded (Büsch 1981: 72). In contrast to this view, recent research has emphasized the ambiguities, regional differences and the fact that the canton system was more permeable and capable of adaptation to existing social and economic structures than depicted by Büsch (Winter 1999: 247). It has been argued that only a minority of army officers did their service in their native provinces, since the crown encouraged the appointment of officers to regiments stationed far from their estates to compel them to concentrate on their military duties (Bleckwenn 1985: 93–5). There were few differences in the way the canton system functioned in regions with different agrarian structures, which calls into question the thesis of a functional link between canton conscription and serfdom (Kloosterhuis 1992: xv). It is undoubtedly true that the establishment of the canton system constituted a substantial interference of the state, especially with the lives of rural subjects, but interference with the traditional prerogatives of nobility is certainly no less considerable. Seen in this light, the canton system is a feature of Prussian absolutism rather than a victory for the Prussian Junker (noble). At the same time, however, the stabilization of the crown’s sovereignty to the detriment of the estates by the means of safeguarding exclusive rights over recruitment pools carried elements of an ‘historic compromise’ between crown and nobility (Wilson 2000: 28). Prussian absolutism respected in principle the relation

128 The Prussian moment of domination of the local lords over their peasants while, at the same time, integrating the nobility into the state. This was largely achieved through the army, which was the essential pillar of the state. However, though it scrupulously respected the primacy of nobility over other sections of society, the construction of the absolutist state nevertheless considerably modified the direct domination of the lord over his serfs, since the central power affirmed its access to the subject’s personal and financial resources, that is, its monopoly of taxation and recruitment. The historic compromise of Prussian absolutism thus signified, on the one hand, that the strengthening of central power established a direct link between the state and the individual to the detriment of intermediate powers, namely the nobility. The nobility, on the other hand, maintained their privileged social position at the price of subordination to the central power (Harnisch 1989). The most telling example and the best illustration of this process is obviously the Prussian army. Especially since the reign of King Frederick William I, nobles were firmly encouraged to serve in the military and thus to become professionally and existentially involved with the Prussian state (Hintze 1967: 427). As a recompense for this, officer ranks were reserved for aristocrats. In contrast to the case of the nobility, the people became directly liable to the central power but gained little chance of real integration into the system. At best, a cantonist could be promoted to a non-commissioned officer after long years of service, but generally conscripts planned to be discharged from service. Canton conscription was certainly a heavy burden, not only for the individual soldier but also for his family and local community. The codification of the obligation in the canton system, however, increased the calculability of the risk and permitted the development of individual and communal strategies to cope with it. In rural areas the enrolment was universal: every young man who met the minimum of physical fitness102 had to face the prospect of military service. However, only a relatively small number of those enrolled were actually drafted. Eighteenth-century Prussia had thus already realized the basic principle of the French conscription law of 1798, described by Jourdan as the distinction between ‘conscription’ (‘enrolment’ in the Prussian sense) and actual military service, the former being universal and the latter more or less selective (see supra: p. 107). In order to make a selection of those to be drafted out of the mass of those to be enrolled, two divergent principles served as guidelines: physical fitness and social acceptability (Kloosterhuis 1996: 179). The criterion of physical fitness revolved around height and age, the army preferring tall and young men who were able to handle long rifles and promised to remain physically fit for a long time (Kloosterhuis 1995). Social acceptability meant that conscription should conflict as little as possible with the basic needs of the agrarian economy and the social structure. Practically, this signified chiefly that normally single sons were not drafted and that the majority of cantonists served only seasonally in the

Military, society and state in the old regime 129 army, being regularly on furlough the rest of the time (Harnisch 1996: 153–63). Moreover, the heads of farms and their designated successors were generally exempt.103 Rather than being only an essential part of feudal aristocracy and serfdom, the canton system was in tune with mercantilism and the population policy of the Prussian monarchy. This was true especially of King Frederick II, who insisted that discharged cantonists should be able to be installed on farms and to cultivate the countryside. Those who were subject to canton conscription, that is, peasants and the urban poor, found ways of dealing with this obligation rather than acting the part of mere obedient machines, as eighteenth-century soldiers have often been portrayed. Strategies to secure exemption (for those enrolled) or discharged (for those already enlisted) had to involve the peasant family or even the whole village community. This meant in practice that sons of wealthy rural families had some chance of not being drafted or of being discharged long before reaching 20 years of service. In many cases, conscription even fostered inter-estate solidarity between the local nobility and peasant families, since it was also in the lords’ interests that their peasants retained the possibility of establishing households. If the cantonist had already been drafted, he usually worked as a farmhand during the periods of furlough. Peasant families then tried to marry their sons with a farm tenant’s widow or the daughter of a farm tenant without sons. If they were sufficiently rich, families even bought farms for their second or third sons, even if this practice was formally forbidden according to paragraph 30 of the 1792 Kantonreglement. With the permission of the local lord, the cantonist could thus obtain his dismissal from the army. This strategy was in many cases successfully employed by the rural rich. In its practical execution, canton conscription relied fundamentally on a community working together. Besides the role of the priest, who established the lists of all male individuals, and the local administrators, who organized the levies, the repression of desertion lay also mainly in the communities’ hands.104 As a consequence, local power relations could sometimes exercise some influence on the canton levies. But the main effect of this devolution of responsibility was that the Prussian state could effectively rely on the collaboration of local institutions and even of families. If a cantonist deserted, the community had to provide a substitute, and the usual punishment was the confiscation of his property. Desertion thus jeopardized the social and economic structures of the community, with the effect that a cantonist who deserted had to be prepared to leave the country and cut links with his family, thus renouncing inheritance or further support. This was a very high price to pay, and the acceptance of canton conscription is certainly to a large extent due to the subordination of the individuals to the interests of the family and village community (Kloosterhuis 1996: 182). Communities functioned both as examples of the adaptation of military exigencies to local necessities and as a tool to prevent desertion.

130 The Prussian moment These mechanisms of control, however, were much less effective in the case of poor rural day labourers or itinerant artisans. This mobile population posed serious problems for the implementation of the canton system, even though the ancient passport system was maintained to control their movements. According to paragraphs 61 and 63 of the Kantonreglement, artisans had to show a military passport issued by the local authorities of their home towns and villages before being hired, and urban authorities had to establish lists with all relevant data for this group of people. It seems that the implementation of the canton system in towns had some particularities in comparison with the countryside (Winter 2005). For some of the urban poor, doing army service could have some advantages, since they received a pay that, though certainly not very high, was at least regular. Moreover they could be lodged for free and make extra money as day labourers or even professionals. Furloughed, they could easily earn a much higher salary than their pay as soldiers, especially if they had particular qualifications. A contemporary source thus described cantonists as privileged day labourers (Wachholtz 1843, cited by Winter 1999: 262). Figures for Frankfurt-an-der-Oder at the end of the eighteenth century establish that one-third of urban cantonists were artisans (mainly from the lower strata in terms of income and social prestige) and another tenth journeymen. Day labourers (14 per cent), transport workers (12 per cent) and former soldiers (12 per cent) were other social categories represented (Winter 1999: 260). Generally, a huge majority of the cantonists came from the lower strata of artisans and the subbourgeoisie. These social groups could be directly threatened by poverty in times of economic crisis (Kocka 1990: 123–5), and for them the small economic advantages of military service could be important (Schwieger 1980). Division of labour was practised within the company, which meant that those whose professional qualifications permitted them to earn a good salary in the urban economy paid their poorer comrades to do garrison work in their place. There is dissent among historians with regard to the impact of the canton system on social discipline and militarization on the one hand, and emancipation on the other. Challenging Büsch’s thesis, Hans Bleckwenn has argued that canton conscription also entailed an element of emancipation of the peasants from direct domination by their lords (Bleckwenn 1986). The main achievement of the canton system was certainly that it opened the way for the potentially more abstract framework of domination by the state than the direct and personal power relationship between lord and serf. This could take the form of patronage between officers and soldiers, as in the case of the Prince of Prussia who, in 1741–3, supported claims for an inheritance by one of his soldiers against local courts (Kloosterhuis 1992: 246–7). Contemporary sources speak of cantonists as more cultivated people, who are free of the normal peasants’ ‘timidity and rudeness’ (Kloosterhuis 1992: 335). In this sense, it can be stated that the

Military, society and state in the old regime 131 canton system was already marked by the fundamental ambiguity that became evident in nineteenth-century conscription, namely the fact that it linked social discipline to possible emancipation.

Criticism of the Prussian military system It has to be acknowledged, however, that this interpretation is merely an ex post construction, since there is no historical evidence that a link between military service and civic emancipation was actually experienced or that it was the intention of those involved. At the most, there are some writings by intellectuals, such as the pamphlet On Death for the Fatherland, written during the Seven Years War by Thomas Abbt. The idea of sacrificing one’s life for the fatherland, however, was hardly perceptible in 1761. Abbt, in fact, had to devote a large part of his argument to the question of whether Prussian subjects had a fatherland at all, since it was commonly held that a fatherland existed only in a republic, where the citizens could reasonably be proud of their country (see Zimmermann 1935: 27–8), whereas in a monarchy national pride was only justified if the monarch ‘is what he should be’ (Abbt 1935: 34, 47, 50). Against this common opinion, Abbt argued that, even in a monarchy, each citizen (Bürger) has to ‘love at the same time the laws of the country and the father of these, to love at the same time the fatherland and the monarch’ (Abbt 1935: 54). The reason for this obligation to love the fatherland and the king was that the common good requires that there is only one single political virtue, and, from this point of view, all the inhabitants of the state are equally attached to the common good, realized through laws given by the king. Drawing on Montesquieu, Abbt identified honour as the basic psychic disposition on which a monarchical state relied, while at the same time questioning the social division into estates in which honour was an exclusive attribute of aristocracy. Acknowledging that the sense of honour was particularly developed in the nobility and that not everybody was equally attached to the principle of honour, Abbt argued nevertheless that each human being was a potential bearer of honour. In Abbt’s account, honour was, so to speak, ‘nationalized’. This does not mean, however, that he proclaimed an actual equality of the sense of honour in the population; but the qualitative conception that there were castes capable of honour and others which were not, was replaced by a quantitative and continuous concept in which some strata of the population were depicted as more honourable than others. Differences, in short, were differences in degree and not in substance (Abbt 1935: 83). However, the crucial advantage of extending to everybody this attachment to the fatherland by honour was that, by this means, even the rabble could be elevated, at least partially, towards new and higher ways of thinking. The equalizing impact of the nationalization of honour was, moreover, directly linked to the democratization of ‘philosophy’ (Abbt 1935: 64–5): if everyone’s soul was completely dominated by

132 The Prussian moment love for the fatherland, and if the latter became a primary passion, all lower attachments to earthly things – and especially to one’s own life – would be defeated by the sentiment of glory (Abbt 1935: 80). As with Mably, love for the fatherland transformed citizens into ecstatic beings, who thus became more than they actually were (see supra: pp. 32–3), and earthly and material existence was progressively defeated by higher and spiritual forces. Political ecstasy was linked to an anthropological dualism that was translated a few years later by Immanuel Kant into a philosophical language compatible with modern state construction (see infra: pp. 149–55). The view according to which military service could contribute to the elevation and moralization of the citizen was, however, quite an isolated one in the debates of the eighteenth century. The modern absolutist state after 1648 can be characterized by its attempt to separate religious and political opinions from bureaucratically backed sovereignty, and thus tended to exclude ideological struggles from the political sphere, relegating them to the individual’s inner moral space (Koselleck 1988: 38). Accordingly, soldiers had little chance to identify by honour with the state as advocated by Abbt. The only positive element mentioned in the 1797 Kriegsartikel (code of military punishment) was the first article, which urged soldiers to pursue a Christian and virtuous life.105 Stemming from the period of the introduction of reformed religion in Brandenburg territory (Frauenholz 1940: 131–2, 217–18), this stipulation, however, had gradually been eroded of its original religious sense (Stübig 1971: 77–8). The second and third articles stipulated absolute loyalty to the king and unconditional obedience to officers, and no further reference was made to a religious or civic foundation for military service. Justi, the leading German cameralist, even warned that insubordination and disorder could be the consequences if honour were the soldiers’ driving force (Justi 1762–4: vol. 1, 555). The intimate relationship that existed between the Greek and Roman armies and the state is impossible to achieve within our present forms of government, with the exception of Switzerland. They were citizens of free republics who were taking part in political affairs through suffrage, and were thus fighting not only for their fatherland, for their fortunes, for their wives and children, but also for their own cause and they were, moreover, animated by true honour and virtue. (Justi 1762–4: vol. 3, 251) The necessity for strengthening their attachment to the state was acknowledged too, but the means he proposed were limited to the sphere of material welfare, and particularly to pension rights. Yet Abbt’s patriotic pamphlet had some impact, since it anticipated the military literature to emerge in the last third of the eighteenth century, especially the learned military journals in the Enlightenment tradition

Military, society and state in the old regime 133 (Höhn 1944: 76). The idea that soldiers should be treated as human beings capable of reason, honour and love for the fatherland was generally advocated in these journals (Basler 1933: 21). It was said to be necessary to bring enlightenment to the soldiers, ‘to capture, so to speak, their souls and to teach them patriotic pride, religious respect, bravery, obedience (not only for military but also for civil laws), fidelity, love for honour and good conduct’.106 All these qualities had traditionally been perceived as an exclusive privilege of officers and thus of nobility. In his Military Testament, King Frederick II had explicitly affirmed the principle by which only officers were capable of honour. Since honour was considered a natural attribute of nobility, and since the king was also a noble, the attachment of the officer corps to the crown was seen as a result of a community of honour within a caste. The rank-and-file of common descent, on the other hand, were excluded from this organic link of honour. At best, esprit de corps had to be instilled by the officers, but the primary driving force had to be fear of their officers (Friedrich II 1913: 233). A pitiless system of brutal military punishment was thus the basis on which Prussia’s military system in the old regime relied. Beating, however, was not considered a punishment but a necessary means of military instruction aimed at instilling obedience and subordination through a particular corporeal hexis, and ability in the handling of weapons through endless repetition of the same movements (see Kleinschmidt 1989). Ulrich Bräker gave a vivid description of Prussian methods of military drill: What followed on the drill-square also provoked similar reflections on our part. Here too there was no end of cursing and whipping by sadistic, jumped-up Junkers and the yelling of the flogged in return. We were always amongst the first to move, and really made it snappy. But we were still terribly cut up to see others so mercilessly treated on the slightest provocation and ourselves bullied like this time and time again, standing there stiff as a poker, often whole hours at a stretch, throttled by all our kit, having to march dead-straight here, there and everywhere, uninterruptedly executing lightning manoeuvres – and all on the command of some officer, facing us with a furious expression and raised stick and threatening to lay into us any minute, as if we were so much trash. With such treatment even the toughest couldn’t help becoming half-crippled, even the most patient, fuming. (Bräker 1970: 127) Mistreatment was an integral part of the socialization of the Prussian soldiers in the eighteenth century. This, however, was the normal way of things, since real misdemeanours were punished much more severely and running the gauntlet was the first real chastisement.107 Captured deserters in particular could have to run the gauntlet up to 30 times, which could

134 The Prussian moment result in death or injury. Ulrich Bräker describes this punishment in the following way: Then we had to watch them run the gauntlet eight times up and down the long passage between ranks of 200 men, until they sank to the ground gasping – and the next day had to go through it again, with their clothes ripped off their flayed backs, and once again they’d be flogged with renewed vigour, until shreds of congealed blood hung down over their breeches. Then Schärer and I would look at each other, trembling and deathly pale, and whisper: ‘The bloody barbarians!’ (Bräker 1970: 127) Mistreatment and the hierarchical gradation of punishment were cornerstones of the functioning of the military system in which noncommissioned officers served as multiplicators of an ‘authoritarian character’. A contemporary source compared them to eunuchs, since they redeemed their own self-esteem, broken by the mistreatment undured from their superiors, by subjecting the common soldiers to the same abuse in their turn (Laukhard 1909: vol. 1, 245–6). Written by a former student, who enlisted in the Prussian army before deserting and joining the army of the French Revolution, this depiction of the Prussian military system as a form of castration was already a marked contrast to the gender conception of the military of the nineteenth century, which linked manliness to autonomy and the exercise of citizenship, and was able to conceive of a free form of male obedience (Ewald 1804: 47–8). The discourse on military and gender identities at the end of the eighteenth century could thus link a criticism of military discipline as castration to a consideration of the political implications of gender relations in general. Accordingly, men tended to be more dependent on women’s company if they lacked free attachment to the community. Women were depicted as soft, delicate and dependable, whereas men were characterized by the attributes of wildness and rudeness. Being exposed most prominently to vulgarity, rudeness and suffering, soldiers were particularly attracted to women since they needed the ‘comfort’ they provided (Brandes 1787: 55–7). In a social system, however, in which the male citizen could identify himself freely with the political community, women were not needed for the reproduction of the psychological requirements of social coherence. It was in an imaginary antiquity that a web of horizontal social relations of friendship between men had made possible and preserved the manly character of the social relationship – namely the autonomy and liberty of each communitarian individual (Pockels 1805: vol. 2, 200; Brandes 1787: 24). During the revolutionary wars, and especially when it had become clear that the armies of the French Revolution had to be taken seriously, a new wave of criticism broke out in Germany. The victories of the French had shown that the demands of the military Enlightenment for more humane

Military, society and state in the old regime 135 treatment of soldiers did not preclude successful fighting in war. On the contrary, the Prussian army was potentially disadvantaged compared with the French since Prussia lacked ‘enlightenment’, especially in the military domain (Bülow 1806: xxv). In a number of new journals (see Höhn 1944: 164–74) the implications of the revolutionary wars were discussed, and particularly the impact of enthusiasm, which became a key concept in military discourse: what was at stake was the involvement of the soldier’s soul in his patriotic mission (Bülow 1801: 4). The Prussian soldier had been unsuccessful against the French in Valmy, because his soul does not drive his body like those enflamed by enthusiasm. This is the difference between an army in which each one, from the highest to the least, is warmly interested in the matter and an army in which only the highest ones are driven by ambition. (Knesebeck 1794: 57) The French army, in short, was perceived as superior because French soldiers had a positive attachment to the nation and could thus identify themselves with its military fate. Criticism of and reform proposals for the Prussian army were epitomized above all by two fundamental writings that merit examination in detail, namely Berenhorst’s Considerations on the Art of War of 1797–9 (1978) and Decken’s Considerations on the Relation between the Military Estate towards the End of the States (1800). Born in 1733, Berenhorst had been an officer from the age of 15 and served under Frederick II in the Seven Years War (Kessel 1933). After being discharged in 1762, he travelled to Italy, France and England, studied art history with Winckelmann and visted Laurence Sterne (Bahn 1911: 14). Back in Germany, he became a civil servant whose correspondence put him in contact with leading figures of the military Enlightenment, but also with German intellectuals of his time, such as Goethe (Tschirch 1933: vol. 2, 17). He also closely studied Kant’s philosophical works, and the clear intention of his Considerations on the Art of War was to make ‘so to say, a Kantian criticism’ in military matters.108 Having been an officer under Frederick II, he was widely considered an expert in military matters, and his criticism of the Prussian military system thus could not be ignored. At the same time, however, his impressive general education and the historical argument caused his work to be immediately heralded as a breakthrough, even in the bourgeois civil sphere (Opitz 1978: xvii). Berenhorst’s book was perceived by his contemporaries as a direct attack against the basic feature of the eighteenth-century art of war, that is, against sophisticated manoeuvres and evolutions. His originality was to ground this criticism in an historical examination that linked the art of war to the development of absolutism. With the logistical problem of supplying food and equipment for large standing armies and the danger of desertion during campaigns, absolutist warfare faced some difficulties for

136 The Prussian moment which a highly learned art of war was perceived to provide a solution. Ideally, eighteenth-century warfare aimed to avoid wherever possible any direct confrontation in battle so as to prevent any interruption in the surveillance of the soldiers as well as the inevitable loss of expensive manpower (see Höhn 1944: 41–51). In order to make sure that the army moved as a machine following the commander’s directives, the strictest obedience and subordination were needed (Berenhorst 1978: 215–71). Berenhorst gave a very detailed description of all possible manoeuvres in use in the Prussian army, insisting on their artificial character and on the fact that in such a sophisticated system the most insignificant misprecision could have disastrous consequences. The pivotal point of Berenhorst’s analysis, however, was to consider this art of war not as a stage of perfection in military matters but to show how it was historically linked to the development of absolutism. In contrast to a more ‘natural’ warfare in earlier periods, in which subordination was a consequence of the attachment of the soldier to the cause he was fighting for, absolutism was unable to provide a positive attachment for the soldier and had thus to rely entirely on passive obedience. Fear of inhumane punishment coupled with continuous surveillance aimed to break the soldiers’ wills and transform them into obedient machines to be put into action at the command of their superiors (Berenhorst 1978: 29). The most influential defender of the eighteenth-century military system was Decken, an officer in the Hanoverian army. In order to answer Berenhorst’s criticism of the standing army, Decken was obliged to maintain a high level of debate by supporting his position with an historical argument, too. Against Berenhorst’s Rousseauian argument that the natural warfare of earlier periods had been perverted by the absolutist state and its bureaucratic and military machine, Decken insisted on its advantages and achievements.109 He thus opposed universal military service and favoured permanent armies, arguing that only in a very primitive historical stage were wars fought by all members of a social group (Decken 1800: 15–24). With the progress of social organization, participation in fighting was then, in a second stage, limited to all physically fit males (Decken 1800: 24–33). This second historical stage was characterized as half-cultivated, since ‘schwärmerische Religionsbegriffe’ (enthusiastic religious conceptions) played an essential role in motivating the combatants. Moreover, the mobilization of the whole male population was only possible if the population and the army were limited in numbers and the weapons technically easy to handle. In contrast to this, the modern state was highly differentiated and only the necessary specialization permitted the development of arts, culture and a proficient military and bureaucratic system. From this point of view, all the claims for a popular army could be disqualified as retrograde, since they jeopardized the essential accomplishments of modern civilization. In order to assure the existence of a social system in which peasants and burghers could employ their energies in the pro-

Military, society and state in the old regime 137 duction of wealth and culture, instead of being interrupted in their activities by military exercises, the state had to pay and equip standing troops. Being professionals, these troops were depicted as necessarily superior to any militia (Decken 1800: 366). Moreover, since military service was a painful duty, constraint would have to become generalized if the army were nationalized, whereas in the existing system it was limited and subordinated to social and economic needs. Popular arming, as a result, would inevitably lead to the dissolution of the state (Decken 1800: 52–4). On the basis of these considerations, Decken then defended the idea that the military deserved of right the first rank in society, since soldiers dedicated their lives for the sake of the state, whereas ordinary tax-payers only had to make financial contributions (Decken 1800: 227–43). Moreover, with his criticism of enthusiasm, Decken questioned the cornerstone of the new French revolutionary warfare. What can be seen in these passages is the last attempt to justify systematically a moral separation between the soldier and the state, relying on the fundamental separation between the state and its subjects. Acknowledging that ‘enthusiasm’ could sometimes have positive effects, Decken argued nevertheless that it depended exclusively on ‘accidental impressions’ and was thus highly unreliable. Bravery should not depend on ‘fortuitous motivations’ but be acquired ‘mechanically’. Courage should not be the effect of an ecstatic identification of the individual with a community but passively cultivated through habit and obedience (Decken 1800: 364). The key concepts of passivity and mechanism are thus opposed to the revolutionary catchphrases of liberty and enthusiasm. There could not be any freely consented obedience, because of the human being’s natural spirit of unruliness. Decken thus agrees with de Saxe, whom he cites in his book: it is necessary to make the soldiers used to the rudest and most arduous labours, to break their will, to make them obey in a slavish manner, and to transform the unruly people into machines that come to life only through the voice of their officers. (Decken 1800: 269–70) This transformation into obedient machines was obviously to be achieved through the fear of punishment. Since the objective of military punishment was not to instil morals in the wrongdoer but only to dissuade others from misbehaving, reprimands were even more effective if characterized by a certain degree of arbitrariness in their application. Against all moral arguments opposed to arbitrary punishments, Decken insisted on the fact that the objective of the army was not ‘the promotion of the private advantage of its members’ but the functioning of the military machine as such (Decken 1800: 212–13). And this necessitated the development of a rationalistic professionalism through mechanical bravery and passive courage.

138 The Prussian moment In these characteristics, and still according to Decken, the psychological traits of the soldiers coincided with the religious traits of the subjects in the absolutist state. As religion was considered to be a cornerstone of political stability (Ewald 1790: 60–1), the state had to promote ‘das Mechanische der Religion’ (a mechanical religiosity) (Decken 1800: 281). In a parallel with religion and military discipline, Decken distinguishes two forms of attachment, arguing that passivity, mechanism and outward devotion are preferable to activity, liberty and enthusiasm.110 In this sense, the comparison of the military with monastic discipline was a constant reference for Decken – as it had already been for King Frederick II, for whom monastic discipline in the army was to oblige the soldier to live reasonably and in an ordered way (Eckert 1955: 133). It can be argued that the similitude is pertinent to a certain extent, in that, historically, the establishment of Christian monasticism was largely due to former soldiers, and military and monastic discipline had certain common features (Borkenau 1981: 342–3). Monasticism was also directed against a direct communication of the religious subject with God, insisting on the need for a social mediation of the religious relationship through direction (Foucault 2004: 167–93). And the principal operator of this mediation was obedience. In monasticism, as well as in the military, obedience became an end in itself, inasmuch as the monk had to learn to forget about his inclinations and his will in order to become what Cassian called a subject. The main purpose of the monastic rule was thus the eradication of the spirit of unruliness through the mortification of the flesh. This condition was called apathia, the deliverance from the pathos of stubborn unruliness. It has to be acknowledged, however, that other features of the eighteenth-century military did not at all match a monastic image for the army. Most soldiers lived not in barracks but with local families and were thus spatially integrated into normal life (Pröve 1996). The very limited number of barracks served, in the main, to lodge married soldiers and their families and thus did not at all resemble institutions of total discipline (see Büsching 1775: 161–3). Rather, barracks were social microcosms with an entire social and economic infrastructure of their own (Mente 1861: 28). Even if soldiers’ marriages were controlled and remained subject to the authorization of military commanders, cantonists and foreigners regularly had relations with women in their garrison towns.111 A contemporary source described these mistresses as being of the ‘lowest class and worst manners’ (Laukhard 1909: vol. 1, 249–50). The comparison with monastic discipline has shown that Decken’s traditional concept of absolutistic ethics and the claims for enthusiasm in the age of the French Revolution echoed a very long debate in the field of Western ethics. A return to enthusiasm could thus be perceived as radically questioning the ethical substance on which the early modern state relied and which was, at least in some of its features, in uniformity with much older practices, like monasticism. At the turn of the eighteenth

Military, society and state in the old regime 139 century, this type of political ethics arguably came to an end; and it was not clear to contemporaries what would replace it. Decken was afraid of a complete social annihilation of military–monastic discipline, since he could not foresee the new ethical and political forms shaped by the emerging modern state. However, the strengthening of the Prussian tradition recommended by him was already perceived at the time of the publication of his book as an arrière-garde combat, and moreover, this kind of thinking was brought to an end by the historic events of the period.

6

German idealism and military service

The advent of the modern state in Prussia was a result of radical transformations induced in European politics by the French Revolution. The historical developments in Prussia between 1807 and 1819, which are commonly called Prussian reforms, are thus intrinsically connected to the German reception of the revolutionary events in France and cannot be understood without reference to them. However, the particularity of the German development was its high degree of self-awareness: in contrast to the French case, the historical change in Prussia was not generated through a revolutionary uprising but planned and organized by a group of enlightened bureaucrats who held decision-making positions during the French occupation. The consequences and results of the French Revolution, moreover, were arguably conceptualized and understood by German rather than by French intellectuals, and the reforming bureaucracy was thus in the exceptional position of being able to draw the theoretical concepts of their political action directly from the most thorough philosophical thinking of their time.

The challenge of revolutionary war to German culture As in the whole of Europe, the keenest attention was paid in Prussia to the evolution of the French Revolution (see Voss 1983). The Revolution mobilized aspirations for political change in the backward regions of central Europe; it was passionately welcomed and contested in newspapers and journals; it even influenced popular insurrections in Prussia (Tschirch 1933: vol. 1, 11–55). Matters of state organization, civic participation, the respective roles of aristocracy and commoners, republicanism and constitutional monarchy and so on were widely debated issues in Germany while the Revolution took place in France (Raschke 1984). And military matters did not play the least of roles in these debates, particularly after the beginning of the revolutionary wars and the first successes of the French against the coalition. Goethe’s eyewitness account of the campaign in 1792 is one of the most famous of, and certainly a very good example of, German views on the

German idealism and military service 141 French citizen-soldiers.112 The Prussian defeat at Valmy on 20 September called forth Goethe’s famous dictum that ‘from this place and from this day forth commences a new era in the world’s history’ (Goethe 1849: 81). The success of the French had proved the inefficiency and the anachronism of both the military and political system of the ancien régime. Many military observers agreed that the problem they were dealing with was eminently political and necessitated a ‘philosophical evaluation’.113 The fundamental changes in France’s political system and military practice necessitated a reconsideration of traditional military doctrines (Knesebeck 1794: 54). Views on French soldiers within the Prussian army were, however, not uniform but varied according to political opinions and class boundaries. Military commanders were obviously hostile towards revolutionary France and disdained the military values of the non-professional national volunteers. Among the rank-and-file, on the other hand, a certain admiration for the Revolution and its soldiers was widespread. The French revolutionary volunteers, however, evinced not only admiration but horror: they were associated with fanatical assassins who became more dangerous the less disciplined they were. The rumour that 20,000 peasants had been armed with agricultural tools caused panic in the Prussian army – which had been considered the best in Europe (Goethe 1849: 96). The force of the revolutionary army was, in fact, seen as the perfect antithesis of eighteenth-century military tradition. The French embodied indiscipline and the brute animalistic force of the rabble.114 However, a heroic sense of honour was also recognized in their behaviour (Goethe 1849: 42) as the consequence of their political enthusiasm (Wagner 1984: 385). It was exactly the uncertain combination of these two characteristics, heroic enthusiasm and indiscipline, which was considered to be their particular strength.115 An analysis of the narrative structures of the German views on the French soldiers shows that these views were on the same wavelength as other distinctive features of German culture at this time. In particular, the similarities between these descriptions and Lukács’s depiction of the philosophical narrative structure of Goethe’s great novels – and especially the conception of the Bildungsroman in his Wilhelm Meister – are striking (see Weniger 1959). According to the German Bildungsroman, the free interaction between individuality and community was the driving force for both the education of the individual, and the development of the individual’s possibility to react upon the social totality. On the political level, this dialectic led to an Aufhebung of the juridical and abstract character of the state.116 As will be pointed out below, this spirit converged with the intention of the Prussian reform movement insofar as in both cases an educational development of the inner forces coincided with a transformation of the oppressive social and juridical framework of the state. This dialectic may be considered as an essential leitmotiv of German culture around 1800. Elements of the language of the Bildungsroman can

142 The Prussian moment also be observed in descriptions of the campaigns of the first coalition. Most importantly, the French soldiers are depicted as youngsters and in love with liberty (Schneider 1983: 201) and this imagery not only conveys the ideas of force and enthusiasm but also, and more fundamentally, the image of a people delivered from authority (see Hunt 1992). The metaphor of the youngster for the French soldier focuses on the characteristics of heroism, magnanimity and enthusiasm on the one hand, and unrest and indiscipline on the other. Moreover, this metaphor also entailed a modification of gender characteristics: because he is fighting enthusiastically for liberty, the revolutionary solider is not only a youngster, but also a male (Schneider 1983: 209). In a typical connotation, maleness is associated with liberty and the rejection of oppression, rather than with maintenance of order. The male here in the German descriptions of the French is, in short, a son rather than a father: he lacks the responsible attitude of the head of a household. In this respect, the German reaction to the Revolution, and most prominently in the view for reform, aimed precisely at Bildung – education, instruction, culture, self-cultivation – of the youth in order to profit from their positive characteristics without suffering from the bad. A similar set of ideas was conveyed by the use of the adjective ‘national’ in this time. The most striking example is certainly Fichte’s concept of national education, but the same logic was also at stake, for instance, in the eighteenth-century idea of a national theatre (see Krebs 1985). As a ‘moral institution’ (Schiller), theatre was an instrument for universal emancipation capable of bridging the gulf between the private and the universal and thus between the individual and the state (Jens 1981: 134–5). But the expression ‘national theatre’ was also highly ambiguous, since the sense of the word national underwent a major semantic transformation in these years and was increasingly compared to the state instead of something we could nowadays call civil society (Steinmetz 1996). It is also striking to note that there are similar ambiguities in ideas about theatre and about popular arming. If Goethe described the French soldiers the way he did, and if his depiction matched the narratives of other contemporary observers, it is noteworthy that he could make use of literary topoi for the description of soldiers and war (Schmidt 1976). In his poem ‘Battle Song’ of 1765, the German writer Klopstock had already condemned the slaves of tyrants in the army: Oh, each is but a tyrant’s slave!/Before the threatening faulchion free,/Before the approach and voices of the brave,/Who give themselves to Death, they turn and flee!’ (Klopstock 1848: 198) Only the soldier who fought for liberty was valorous; his enemy, on the contrary was depicted as a monster:

German idealism and military service 143 Great is the hero of the fight?/Yes, if he strive in freedom’s cause,/Or battle with ensanguin’d Might, [wider ein Ungeheuer]/That clanks her chains o’er trampled laws./Then is he worthy of his name, And nobly wins immortal fame. (‘The Worriers’ [1778], Klopstock 1848: 295) Moreover, it was ‘sweet and honourable’ to die for the fatherland: 50 years before the reform period and 30 years before the French Revolution, Klopstock stated that both a republic and a constitutional monarchy could be a fatherland worth dying for: O Freedom, not only the democrat alone/Knows what thou art;/But the good monarch’s happy son/Hath bound thee to his heart.//Not for the land alone/Where law and hundreds reign,/But for the land – his own –/To law and one a fair domain/. . . //Noble and sweet it is to share/For Fatherland the soldier’s grave:/For Frederic and his people brave,/The sons of his paternal care. (‘The New Age’ [1760] Klopstock 1848: 159) During the period of the French Revolution, the dichotomy of just war against military serfdom can actually be found in Hölderlin, too, and also the celebration of death for the fatherland, depicted as the culminating point of the individual’s communion with the community.117 On the level of the individual, this meant that, in order to be able to fight this battle, the protagonists had to be transformed from civilian citizens into citizensoldiers. The beginning of Schiller’s drama Joan of Arc hints at the difficulties of this transformation of a peasant into a soldier called up to fight for his country.118 In contrast to his Wallenstein’s Camp, in which the relationship between civilians and soldiers is portrayed as problematic, the former drama already points to the new military constitution and the concept of the nation-in-arms, whereas the historical setting of the latter was the Thirty Years War and thus a period in which the military was associated with killing, looting, indiscipline and disrespect: I dare my head over the citizens hold,/As the general rises his over the princes bold. [. . .] Two things of note only we have got,/Who to the army belongs or not./To the Banners only I give up my lot (Schiller 1854: 24, scene 6) Already in Wallenstein’s Camp, however, the soldier was depicted as possessing some fundamental characteristics of the future citizen-soldier.119 Schiller accomplished the extraordinary literary–political result of associating, within a few lines, war and the military with personal freedom, political liberty, maleness, autonomy and honesty, contempt for death and servitude:

144 The Prussian moment Cheer up, brave lads, to horse, to horse,/To the field, to fight for your freedom;/In the field a man may show himself,/Can prove the power of his courage./There’s nobody there to supply his place,/By himself alone he braves the chase.//From the world is liberty gone, it’s gone,/There are but masters and servants,/And falsehood is ruling with cunningness/O’er the cowardly human creatures,/He that can bravely death’s face behold,/The soldier alone is the man free and bold. (Schiller 1854: 65–6, scene 11) The ground was thus well prepared for the advent of romanticism where war would acquire the status of a poetical subject. In Novalis’s novel Henry von Ofterdingen, wars of religion and national hatred are described as true wars, in contrast to the limited forms of warfare of the eighteenth century: People think they must fight each other for some paltry possession; and they are not aware that the romantic spirit excites them in order to annihilate useless evils along with themselves. They bear weapons for the cause of poesy, and both armies follow a single invisible banner. . . . The true war is the religious war; it positively aims at selfdestruction, and in it the madness of men appears in its perfect form. Many wars, especially those that spring from national hatred belong in this class and are genuine poetic creations. (Novalis 1964: 113–14)

Interpreting the French Revolution More than literature, however, philosophy played an important role in the elaboration of the theoretical framework of the Prussian reforms. Foremost, the practical philosophy of Immanuel Kant played a pivotal role in the translation of the political concerns of the period into a theoretical language. Kant was one of the most thorough analysts of the implications of the French Revolution for the politics of his time. He took up an ambivalent position towards the Revolution, denying, on the one hand, any right of the people to stand up for their rights, while defending, on the other hand, most of the practical achievements of the first stage of the Revolution in France (against this view, see Losurdo 1985). According to Kant, all civil constitutions rely originally on republicanism, which he defined as a social association in which individuals are united according to the principles of freedom (as human beings), of dependence (as subjects), and of equality (as citizens) (Kant 1991: 99). The form of a pure republic is considered as the ‘eternal norm for any civil constitution’ and it is thus a duty to work towards the practical establishment of such a state. Republicanism, however, is clearly distinguished from democracy and, even more, from the idea of revolution. Kant was aware that the political

German idealism and military service 145 institution of republicanism was not achieved – and most of all not in Prussia. In spite of this gap between the idea and reality, however, he denied the right to resist any infringement of natural rights. Subjects were justified in protesting against injustice, but any sedition, rebellion or, even worse, trial of the sovereign would be committing the crime of high treason and was thus punishable by death (Kant 1991: 144). This philosophical position is a consequence of the consideration that rebellion puts the existence of the state at risk. This implies that the citizens live outside a juridical condition. Living in the state of nature, however, is the greatest imaginable denial of the idea of right as such. Staging a revolution in order to defend infringed rights would thus entail a much greater damage than the acceptance of the former condition. Accordingly, the right to resistance implied, according to Kant’s philosophy of public law, an internal contradiction, since a rebellious people would constitute the ‘sovereign of their sovereign’, which is logically impossible. Kant’s rejection of revolution becomes even clearer through his discussion of the execution of Louis XVI. The trial and punishment of the monarch is the most extreme consequence of revolutionary subversion of right and wrong. The sovereign is the source of the law and, consequently, he cannot by definition act illegally. Even worse than a simple murder, the formal execution of the king had elevated the revolutionary subversion of the subordination of the people to the king to the level of a practical maxim. The revolutionary people pretended to be superior to the sovereign but, in reality, it was the king’s lawgiving that had constituted a people as the people (Kant 1991: 146). In short, Kant considered the French Revolution an illegal usurpation of a legitimate power. There is, however, an interesting paragraph in the Metaphysics of Morals where he hints at a possible moral rehabilitation of the 1789 Revolution and the constitution of a representative monarchy in France. By convening the Estates General, the king has de facto abolished his own sovereign authority and constituted the assembly as bearer of a representative sovereignty (Kant 1991: 164). In this interpretation, the French Revolution was legally initialized by the sovereign and was, therefore, not illegal. Once a revolution had taken place and a new order been established, the new sovereign power was as legitimate as the ancient had been, and any attempt to restore the old order would be as illegal as any revolution (Kant 1991: 147). It is particularly striking that Kant announces all these political judgements not as comments on contemporary events but as eternal truths. He even condemns any historical investigation into the true origins of state power: ‘whether the power came first and the law only appeared after it, or whether they ought to have followed this order – these are completely futile arguments for a people which is already subject to civil law, and they constitute a menace to the state’ (Kant 1991: 143). What counts is in any case the positivity of the law. However, despite the condemnation of revolutionary excesses, Kant subscribes to many of the

146 The Prussian moment political and social achievements of the first stage of the French Revolution, such as the abolition of feudality and of serfdom. He also rejects the argument that human beings were not yet ready for liberty, arguing, in his Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason, that liberty can only be achieved through the practice of liberty (Kant 1998b: 180). Summed up briefly, Kant’s general political theory relies on the model of the social contract, in which individuals who live separately from another unite themselves by forming a ‘civil society, i.e. a state’ (Kant 1991: 138). The political association, however, concerned only male adults with civil and economic autonomy. Kant thus adopted traditional restrictions on citizenship, rarely challenged in the European tradition since Aristotle, excluding from civic rights women, children and the poor. He distinguished between active and passive citizens, arguing that everybody was entitled to be treated according to the norms of liberty and equality before the law, but differently with regard to political participation (Kant 1991: 139–40). Following Rousseau, Kant also distinguishes between the concepts of the state and the sovereign. Every human being was part of the state, defined as a ‘union of an aggregate of men under rightful laws’ (Kant 1991: 138), but not everybody was part of the sovereign, that is, not everyone was an active citizen. Political individuals were thus, paradoxically, unequal in being considered as citizens, and equal as subjects. Kants speaks thus about a ‘uniform equality of human beings as subjects of a state’ (Kant 1991: 75). This equality as subjects implied above all that they were indistinguishably subject to the law, which was the same for everybody, the very idea of the law excluding privileges. Kant then combined the idea that the unity of the republic stemmed from the general will of the citizens with the principle of the separation of powers (Kant 1991: 138). In contrast to Rousseau, however, he defined the true republic as a representative system (Kant 1991: 163). We thus see both a condemnation of revolution in principle and an appraisal of the achievements of the French Revolution. The two taken together explain Kant’s demand for reform of the existing state in the direction of a more liberal model of a republican constitutional monarchy: ‘An alteration to a defective political constitution, which may certainly be necessary at times, can thus be carried out only by the sovereign himself through reform, but not through revolution by the people’ (Kant 1991: 146). Kant’s political writings are thus not addressed to the people but to an enlightened bureaucracy that was capable of reforming the old political structures without fragmenting the framework of the state (Fetscher 1976: 283, 287). Kant’s opinions about revolution and reform can be considered as an expression of German intellectual commonsense of the period: the appraisal of the achievements of the first stage of the Revolution went hand in hand with a condemnation of insurrection, of the execution of the king, and of terror. The principle of revolution undermined order as such, and in this respect the publicist Wieland wrote in 1794 that France, as the home of the prin-

German idealism and military service 147 ciple of revolution, had declared a global civil war in favour of a complete reversal of all existing constitutions (Wieland 1797: 496–7). Kant’s impact on the Prussian reform movement between 1806 and 1815 was considerable (Tschirch 1933: vol. 1, 19), since a great number of the political and military reformers were intimately familiar with his philosophy and used the theoretical devices he provided to underpin their political actions (Raumer 1940). In an exchange of letters between Stein and Hardenberg, the two main political architects of the reform, the Kantian definition of Aufklärung (Enlightenment) was used to define the very purposes of the reform (Stein 1957–74: vol. 2, 562; Hubatsch 1975: 54). Theodor von Schön, Stein’s closest collaborator in Memel and Königsberg, had been Kant’s student (Wagner 1957: 64), as had Frey, the head of the police department in Königsberg and designer of the Städteordnung, a core piece of the reform (Eckert 1955: 120–1). Minister of State Friedrich Leopold von Schrötter, the organizer of the abolition of serfdom in East Prussia, was Kant’s personal friend (Eckert 1955: 90). Boyen, the future Minister of War, attended Kant’s classes in anthropology and later studied the pubished version of the lectures (Kuhrke 1929). The main military leaders, Generals Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, had no personal relationship with the philosopher but are known to have studied Kant’s works closely (Lehmann 1886–7: vol. 1, 28). Moreover, an important number of second-rank reformers in the Prussian military and bureaucracy were familiar with Kant either by personal acquaintance or through study of his works (Hubatsch 1975). In order to escape from the French occupation, the Prussian government had moved to East Prussia. This led to many local administrators from the region – many of them having studied in Königsberg – being promoted to pivotal positions (MünchowPohl 1987: 66). Moreover, the provincial atmosphere in Memel and Königsberg, and the very small number of reform bureaucrats, favoured the circulation of the ideas of the East Prussian philosopher (Rosenberg 1958: 74). Following the Enlightenment tradition of secret societies, after the defeat in 1806, high-ranking civil servants, senior officers and intellectuals formed the so-called ‘Tugendbund’ (league of virtue) in East Prussia, in order to promote national spirit, civic virtue and political reform in the Kantian sense (see Voigt 1850). Similar associations also existed in other regions and towns, such as the Pommeranian Gesellschaft der Vaterlandsfreunde (Society of the Friends of the Fatherland). The lists of members are lost but it is known that Gneisenau, Scharnhorst (Thimme 1901: 109), Boyen (Boyen 1899: vol. 1, 291–6) and Schleiermacher were at least informed about the group’s activities (Baersch 1852: 11). The members edited the journal Der Volksfreund (The Friend of the People), in which Gneisenau and Scharnhorst anonymously published two of the fundamental texts for the Prussian military reforms. The authors called for the establishment of conscription and a reform of military punishment, and

148 The Prussian moment underpinned their programme with moral, religious and patriotic arguments. Kant’s philosophical texts were thus politically brought to life, inasmuch as they served as a philosophical foundation for the claims of the most important political pressure group of the reform. In order to grasp the theoretical impact of the establishment of military service in the Prussian reform movement, we thus have to consider Kant more closely and try to identify the impact of his practical philosophy on a theoretical definition of military service. The methodological gain from such a perspective is to construe the highest theoretical formulation of the political problématique. Kant’s texts can legitimately be considered programmatic because of the use that was made of them, even if they were not written with the explicit intention of providing a political programme. This is obviously not to argue that Kant posed a philosophical problem that was then solved politically by his followers. But it is to argue that Kant’s problématique was transversal to different realms of practices – for instance military organization and philosophy. As such it may be problematized in turn, thus becoming an indispensable tool for historical analysis. Ordo, et connexio idearum idem est, ac ordo, et connexio rerum. There are three passages in which Kant speaks explicitly about conscription. At the beginning of his Perpetual Peace, he calls for the abolition of standing armies, arguing that professional soldiers were ‘mere machines and instruments in the hands of someone else (the state)’ and that this condition was incompatible with ‘the rights of men in one’s own person’. Standing armies should be replaced by ‘voluntary and periodical military practices of the citizens’ (Kant 1991: 94/5). He thus seems to condemn morally any obligation to do military service as an infringement of human rights. In his Anthropology, however, he linked the right to fight in war to the exercise of active civic rights: in order to justify the exclusion of women from citizenship, he argued that women were unable to fight in wars and to defend their rights personally. As a consequence of this inability, they had, in both cases, to be represented (Kant 2006: 103). In contrast to Perpetual Peace, which examines the problem from the point of view of constraint, the Anthropology analyses the issue from the angle of civic rights. A third paragraph concerning the obligation to do military service and its possible justification can be found in the Metaphysics of Morals. According to this text, the state had the right to compel the citizens into the military, but the obligation stemmed from ‘the duty of the sovereign to the people (not the reverse) and for this to be the case the people will have to be regarded as having given its vote to go to war. In this capacity it is, although passive (letting itself be disposed of), also active and represents the sovereign itself’ (Kant 1996: 484). The distorted formulation of this sentence may be seen as symptomatic for the underlying theoretical difficulty: the paradoxical character of the civic obligation to do military service could hardly be expressed more ‘clearly’. The obligation stems

German idealism and military service 149 from the quality of active citizenship – that is, from the fact of collectively constituting the sovereign – and is thus a manifestation of the active and autonomous political action of the collective being. This, on the other hand, is realized in the passive mode of obedience to an order. Up to this point, this theorizing does not provide new insights beyond previous conceptions. However, the notions of autonomy and duty suggest that a link between military service and the theoretical elaborations of Kant’s practical philosophy can be constructed. Seen in this light, Kant arguably goes an important step beyond the theorizing of his predecessors, be it that of philosophers like Rousseau or the implicit theories acted out in the French Revolution.

Kant’s ‘heroic humiliation’ It is striking that the fundamental structure of Kant’s thinking, namely the distinction between the noumenal and the phenomenal, reflects the inherent ambiguity of military service, in that the noumenal is characterized by freedom and reason and the phenomenal by mechanism and constraint. Kant acknowledges that this dualistic reasoning may seem a logical circle: We take ourselves as free in the order of efficient causes in order to think ourselves under moral laws in the order of ends; and we afterwards think ourselves as subjects to these laws because we have ascribed to ourselves freedom of will: for, freedom and the will’s own lawgiving are both autonomy and hence reciprocal concepts, and for this very reason one cannot be used to explain the other or to furnish a ground for it. (Kant 1996: 97) The solution of this logical circle points to what he called the ‘third antinomy of pure reason’: the human being is in one part phenomenon, but in another part, namely in regard to certain faculties, he is a merely intelligible object, because the actions of this object cannot all be ascribed to the receptivity of sensibility. We call these faculties understanding and reason. (Kant 1998a: 540) Within the realm of theoretical philosophy, this dualism can be solved in a harmonious coexistence between theoretical and practical reason. On the level of practical philosophy, however, it leads to a conflict between antagonistic determinations of human actions. Considered as empirical beings, humans seek happiness and pursue their own particular interests. Considered as intelligent beings, their will is determined by the idea of duty which is unconditionally imposed by the moral law.

150 The Prussian moment The subject is thus necessarily torn between the two contradicting determinations of particular ‘Eigendünkel’, ‘Eigenliebe’ (self-conceit or selflove) and the universal moral law. This situation implies, on the one hand, that the moral law can never be fully fulfilled and is thus constantly infringed and, on the other hand, that the ‘self-conceit’ is constantly ‘humiliated’ by the action of the law (Kant 1996: 200). In other words, the two determinations are necessarily in conflict with each other. This conflict leads to ‘Achtung’ (respect) which is the very essence of human morality. Moral virtue consists in inflicting humiliation on one’s own empirical being and this is how humans elevate themselves to morality: Achtung is a source of displeasure, but it implies at the same time a moral elevation. Kant’s moral virtue can thus be described as a heroic humiliation (Balibar 1997: 113). Distinguishing virtue from holiness, Kant argues that human beings can never achieve the latter, since they can never fully and completely realize the idea of morality. Human beings can only achieve virtue, which implies a constant inner moral struggle against the counterforces of sensibility (Kant 1996: 208), and it is through this inner moral struggle that human morality is constituted (Kant 1996: 258). In other words, the Kantian moral subject is constituted by an internal split. On the political level, this construction of the subject is the basis for its integration into a community. In an interesting metaphorical translation from moral into political terms, Kant hints directly at this: Duty and what is owed are the only names that we must give to our relation to the moral law. We are indeed lawgiving members of a kingdom of morals possible through freedom and represented to us by practical reason for our respect; but we are at the same time subjects in it, not its sovereign, and to fail to recognize our inferior position as creatures and to deny from self-conceit the authority of the holy law is already to defect from it in spirit, even though the letter of the law is fulfilled. (Kant 1996: 206) The dual structure of the moral subject is thus compared with the dual structure of a republic in which the individual is both a member of the sovereign and a subject of this sovereign. And the Kantian conception of both the community and the state reproduces the same dualistic structure that can be seen in his epistemology and moral philosophy. Kant expresses this in terms of a relation between morality and right. On a first level of analysis, Kant clearly separates the moral from the juridical sphere, because morality implies liberty and autonomy, whereas the concept of right conveys always and necessarily the idea of constraint (Kant 1996: 515). Accordingly, Kant categorically rejects any idea of virtue-politics: establishing a moral order by political means, that is by constraint, would be a contradictio in adjecto (Kant 1998b: 107). On a second

German idealism and military service 151 level of analysis, however, it becomes clear that morality is not just an individual matter, since the very concept of morality is inseparable from the idea of living together. This is clear from the very definition of the ‘categorical imperative’ (Kant 1996: 73) to treat the other as an end and never as a means (Kant 1996: 79). But this is also clear because any intercourse with other human beings is deemed to affect the individual’s moral capacities, for better or worse (Kant 1998b: 108). Accordingly, it is not sufficient to live in society according to positive laws, but it is necessary that humans gather in an ‘ethisches gemeines Wesen’ (ethical republic or ethical community), in a free association according to the norms of morality (Kant 1998b: 106). In other words, the idea of morality needs to be rooted in communitarian practices. If this ethical republic is the communitarian complement to morality, Kant constructs its counter-model in the sphere of antimorality through the concept of ‘Rotte’ (band) (Kant 1998b: 110). The same concept is also employed to describe the opposite of a republic in political and juridical terms. The Rotte thus hints at anarchy in the sense of both the absence of a state legal framework and as a lack of morality.120 On a third level of analysis, a relationship is seen to exist between morality and right, despite their being previously distinguished. It is particularly interesting to see this association of arguments each time Kant criticizes the French Revolution. This ambiguous relation between morality and right also becomes clear in the way Kant constructs political subjectivity, or citizenship. Unsurprisingly, we find the same fundamental structure of reasoning at this level, too. According to the categorical imperative, the morality of the subject is linked to the recognition of the other as human and thus as an end in itself. This other as an end in itself is an expression of moral universality and the moral obligation towards the other stems from his being human. But what exactly is this universal humanity of the other? Kant defines the universal other as a ‘person’ and thus as a juridical subject (Kant 1996: 79, 563). At the same time, this other is characterized by ‘Freiheit’ (liberty). The representation of the other as a subject of right implies, however, also a limitation of ‘Willkür’ (arbitrariness). The coexistence of all the libertyarbitrarinesses can only be achieved through the limitation of each of them, since otherwise they could destroy each other: Right is the limitation of the freedom of each to the condition of its harmony with the freedom of everyone insofar as this is possible in accordance with a universal law; and public right is the sum of external laws which make such a thoroughgoing harmony possible. Now, since any limitation of freedom through another’s choice is called coercion, it follows that a civil constitution is a relation of free human beings who (without prejudice to their freedom within the whole of their union with one another) are nevertheless subject to coercive laws. (Kant 1996: 290–1)

152 The Prussian moment The different personal liberties thus need juridical constraint in order to prevent them from destroying each other, which means that there is no spontaneous accord among them. The reason for this is that humans inevitably tend not to act according to their moral duty, since they do not always have the necessary moral strength to inflict heroic humiliation on their inclinations. Juridical constraint, in other words, is needed as an external supplement to the lack of moral virtue (Balibar 1997: 118). Morality and right are thus complementary and mutually supporting constructions. Right therefore defines the role of liberty, which is inscribed within the sphere of its contrary: constraint. A completely just civil constitution is thus defined in the Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Purpose as ‘a society in which freedom under external laws would be combined to the greatest possible extent with irresistible force’ (Kant 1991: 45). In this text, Kant develops the idea of the positive founding role of the antagonism in a directly political perspective. Without the negativity in human nature – what he calls ‘Ungeselligkeit’ (unsociability) – no development of culture would have been possible. All the culture and art which adorn mankind and the finest social order man creates are fruits of his unsociability. For it is compelled by its own nature to discipline itself . . . if he lives among others of his own species, man is an animal who needs a master . . . to break his selfwill and force him to obey a universally valid will under which everyone can be free. (Kant 1991: 46) The natural unsociability of mankind thus necessitates disciplinarian submission, under the will of the master. This will, however, is certainly not the will of a particular individual but has to be a universal will: the master of discipline is the very universality in the sphere of the empirical. In practice, this universal master cannot possibly signify anything other than the state itself, conceived, however, as a ‘universal state’. This, however, is a highly problematic theoretical figure, and in order to conceive of it, Kant has to introduce the idea of a teleologically directed historical development. He does this in two slightly different ways. There is, on the one hand, the idea of the progression of cosmopolitan right leading to perpetual peace. On the other hand, there is the idea of reform, understood as the progressive realisation of the idea of the state. Such a state is precisely the one Kant called republican, which is clearly distinguished from democracy. These two ways of teleologically viewing a universal state converge in the ‘first definitive article on perpetual peace’ according to which ‘the civil constitution in each state should be republican’. In this way Kant defines two complementary duties, the first in the realm of international relations (perpetual peace) and the other in the domestic sphere (political reforms):

German idealism and military service 153 the spirit of the original contract . . . involves an obligation on the part of the constituting authority to make the kind of government suited to the idea of the original contract. Accordingly, if this cannot be done all at once, it is under obligation to change the kind of government gradually and continually so that it harmonizes in its effect with the only constitution that accords with right, that of a pure republic, in such a way that the old (empirical) statutory forms, which served merely to bring about the submission of the people, are replaced by the original (rational) form, the only form which makes freedom the principle and indeed the condition for any exercise of coercion. (Kant 1996: 431) As can be seen, the only possible mediation between liberty and constraint consists in stipulating an obligation of the government to work continuously towards a greater harmony between the empirical political form and the idea of the state. The mediation is thus constructed through assignation of an historical telos for the rulers. However, the driving force for this historical development is not only the rulers’ goodwill; it also proceeds from the inner dynamic of the antagonism. Kant declares that war is certainly horrible but nevertheless necessary for the progress of humanity and this not because it furthers cultural development, but also in terms of the realization of freedom and social coherence (Kant 1991: 231–2). It can thus be said that there is a necessary interaction between domestic and international affairs that postpones the realization of perpetual peace to the end of a teleological process that identifies liberty and constraint as well as right and morality. In transposing the temporal dynamic of the teleological ideas of universal history and reform to the individual sphere, we now have to consider Kant’s conceptions of education and more particularly, of moral education. Concerning this practical issue, the ambiguities of Kant’s positions will become even clearer, since treating an issue such as education obliges us to problematize mediation. The problem of pedagogy, in fact, stems from the fact that the educational relation relies on the submission of the pupil to the educator, but, conversely, aims at the independence and autonomy of the educated individual (Kant 1960: 27). Generally speaking, Kant acknowledges the pedagogical principle that virtue must be acquired, that is learnt, since it consists in the strength of the observation of this duty, and this strength is measured by the force of the obstacle it has to surmount (Kant 1996: 591). We see, however, that Kant is generally unable to think about this mediation of contraries. Instead of providing an answer to the above-mentioned question of the mediation of liberty and constraint, Kant’s conceptual procedure in his Pedagogy consists of splitting up each of the contradictory concepts, thus infinitely reproducing the general dualism. He thus separates the concept of education into ‘Disziplin’, ‘Zucht’, the negative or physical aspect of discipline, and

154 The Prussian moment ‘Unterweisung’, the positive or moral aspect of instruction (Kant 1960: 3). Then, however, each of these contradicting concepts is divided in turn into contradictory aspects: instruction is both mechanical and reasonable (Kant 1960: 20–2), and discipline can be either slavish or freely accepted. In spite of these conceptual dualities, it is clear, however, that Kant emphasizes the disciplinary aspect, since discipline constitutes the very humanity of the pupil. Discipline thus logically precedes liberty. But discipline also comes first temporally. The first stage of education consists of passive obedience, whereas the use of reflection and freedom is permitted only at the second stage (Kant 1960: 23–4). The structure of this reasoning is obviously the same as for the relationship between right and morality insofar as moralization could only take place on the basis of juridical order. It is only in the Anthropology – the only Kantian text explicitly written from a pragmatic point of view – that we find some answers to our question. In this text Kant develops two new ideas: the moral division is mirrored by a social division and a logic of appearance is mooted as an element of mediation, which is utterly untypical of his style of thinking. As to the first point, the correlation between the moral and the social division relies in its most general terms on the divisions within the concept of the people. The people has actually three distinct meanings, signifying first a population, second a political community, and third the rabble, those excluded from the political community: By the word people (populus) is meant a multitude of human beings united in a region, in so far as they constitute a whole. This multitude, or even the part of it that recognizes itself as united into a civil whole through common ancestry, is called a nation (gens). The part that exempts itself from these laws (the unruly crowd within this people) is called a rabble (vulgus), whole illegal association is the mob (agere per turbas), – conduct that excludes them from the quality of a citizen. (Kant 2006: 213) If the rabble removes itself from the laws this is because of its incapacity to think.121 Accordingly, the rabble and the citizens have to be treated differently with regard to their moralization. It is not necessary that the subalterns be able to reason, since ‘the principle that should be employed must often be concealed from them’ (Kant 2006: 94).122 Accordingly, Kant speaks about the necessary moralization of the subaltern not in absolute terms but for his social situation. This kind of relative moralization is, of course, not a real moralization, but at least a preparation for the latter (Kant 2006: 141). This socially relative moralization of the subaltern, however, proceeds by means other than real moralization, which can now be described as upper-class moralization.123 The mechanism of this moral-

German idealism and military service 155 ization can be labelled the logic of appearance: by playing the role of a virtuous person, the subaltern may gradually become more and more virtuous. What Kant calls empty signs and pleasant appearance lead to a change in the way of thinking (Gesinnung) (Kant 2006: 42–5). In this way, the negative aspect of the human nature, namely the inclination to untruthfulness, is dialectically turned against itself and leads to virtue. It is true that these passages contradict other texts that are better known and more often cited, in which Kant excludes the possibility of representing the social development of virtue as state interference in the private sphere or as an understanding of morality as the internalization of repression. It is thus a widespread notion to look for the missing mediating link between the dualistic oppositions only in terms of an historical teleology. It should not be overlooked, however, that the extension of the series of Kantian dualisms into the social sphere – as a distinction between the subaltern and the upper classes – echoes precisely his restrictive definition of citizenship: an apprentice in the service of a merchant or artisan; a domestic servant (as distinguished from a civil servant); a minor . . .; all women and, in general, anyone whose preservation in existence (his being fed and protected) depends not on his management of his own business but on arrangements made by another (except the state). All these people lack civil personality and their existence is, as it were, only inherent. (Kant 1996: 458) All those are, therefore, excluded from citizenship and only Schutzgenossen: they are protected by the law but are not subjects of the law, since they are dependent on the will of another. Their situation can thus be described as immaturity, being defined as the incapacity to reason and to think rationally.124 There is certainly also an explicit criticism of the disciplinarian society in which the ‘prosperity of the states grows side by side with the misery of the people’ (Kant 1960: 21). But it seems that this criticism in the name of morality has to be measured according to the social division of the Kantian morality. Read in this way, Kant’s criticism of discipline appears as directed against the exterior forms of discipline in the sense of the absolutist state and much more compatible with its modern forms, which the French Revolution put on the political agenda.

Fichte’s inner frontier The ambivalence between discipline and moralization, which Kant was unable to conceive as such, continued to pose a theoretical problem to his successors. It was in particular Fichte’s radicalization of the Kantian point

156 The Prussian moment of view that made it possible to circumvent the dichotomy in the practice of war. A transcendental decision in the particular historical situation of the Napoleonic wars was thus thought to have inspired national consciousness into taking up arms in the defence of the fatherland. The framework of this theorizing was provided by the concepts of the nation and of education that were combined in the project of Nationalerziehung (national education) in the Addresses to the German Nation in 1807–8. Fichte’s attempt to overcome the Kantian dichotomy, however, did not imply a refusal of the dualistic structure of such thinking. On the contrary, Fichte’s philosophy is as dualistic as Kant’s, but the nationalistic impetus permitted him to externalize one of the terms of the dichotomy. Fichte’s political philosophy is thus less a theoretical reversal than a practical solution that took the form of an appeal to the individual’s voluntary free will (Fichte 1968: 213) and of national education. The paradox was that these two perspectives were radically contradictory, since the free will was to be completely annihilated and reshaped by total institutions (Fichte 1968: 26). Fichte’s attempts to analyse the rebirth of Germany by reference to the war of national liberation is inspired not only by Kant but also by the pedagogical work of Pestalozzi.125 The dualism that structures Kant’s thinking is also found in Pestalozzi; but, as the latter was a practical pedagogue and not a speculative philosopher, he emphasizes the mediation of opposites in an education that aims to develop the free and autonomous force of the spirit.126 Projects for national education were very popular in Germany at the turn of the eighteenth century, and were generally combined with Enlightenment ideas, such as the perfectibility of mankind and the striving for perpetual peace, with national and patriotic claims (see König 1960, 1972–3). But it was first and foremost Pestalozzi whose ideas were used as a reference for the educational implications of nation-building, and not only by Fichte but also by leading military reformers. In 1803 General Gneisenau submitted a memorandum to the Prussian king, calling for the establishment of Pestalozzi’s elementary method for the Prussian army (Stübig 1982: 27–34). Clausewitz wrote an article about Pestalozzi after having visited his school in Switzerland (Stübig 1982: 50–2). Chancellor Stein also drew heavily on Pestalozzi in order to underpin the educational implications of the Prussian reform movement (Stübig 1982: 53–77). The Kantian heritage, Pestalozzi’s national education, political reform and military service were thus combined in one single political, philosophical and educational project that was expressed by the head of the Prussian government in the claim that ‘the human being is not only to acquire mechanical abilities and an amount of knowledge, but that the civic and warlike spirit of the nation be stimulated’ (Stein 1957–74: vol. 2, 297). Like Kant, Fichte is a thinker of particular importance for the construction of a political theory of military service. Fichte frequented the milieu of officers who were in favour of military reform, and Clausewitz wrote

German idealism and military service 157 him a letter expressing views similar to his own (Clausewitz 1992: 279–84). His lectures in Berlin in 1803–4 on the Doctrine of Science were attended by a number of high-ranking decision-makers, including the future Ministers Altenstein, Beyme, Clewitz, and Ancillon, but also by younger intellectuals, lawyers and officers (Fischer 1943: 47–9). He was one of the most influential supporters of the French Revolution in Germany, publishing in 1793 a Contribution to the Correction of the Judgement of the Public on the French Revolution127 before adopting, in the Addresses to the German Nation, clear nationalistic positions. We can thus use Fichte to analyse the conceptual implications of the shift from revolution to nationalism during the nineteenth century: ‘cosmopolitanism as such is impossible, and in reality, cosmopolitanism has necessarily to become patriotism’.128 In spite of his former admiration for the Revolution, Fichte considered the Napoleonic wars as just wars for humanity against the ‘evil that comes along in a revolutionary form’.129 France has become the empire of evil since the French passed from a ‘republic to the worst despotism’: ‘this is the crime which your cowardice has committed against humanity’.130 Fichte placed his visualization of the rebirth of the German nation into a philosophy of history. The beginning of the nineteenth century was, according to him, the third epoch of world time, which he described as ‘Zeitalter der vollendeten Sündhaftigkeit’ (age of absolute sinfulness), in which selfishness had become the only driving force for human actions. This selfishness, however, turned dialectically into heteronomy: as people do not care about public matters, they are governed by others against their will (Fichte 1968: 1). Simultaneously, historical time is accelerating, and the situation in 1808 is presented as a transition towards the ‘Zeitalter der anhebenden Rechtfertigung’ (age of arising justification).131 This metaphysical transition takes the form of a new creation in social ontology. The shift towards a new era is, on the one hand, understood as a dialectical consequence of the determination in the old order of things, but it is, on the other hand, also a specifically human task: one epoch comes to its end and the creation of another depends on the will and the actions of human beings (Fichte 1968: 40). The reason Fichte is able to give these two contradictory explanations for the passage from one age to another is that the new era is characterized in terms of transcendental freedom. The Kantian dichotomy of determination and freedom is thus temporalized, and the problem of mediation is reformulated as the determination of an historical kairos to be seized. To this temporal determination, Fichte adds a spatial one, which is expressed in the dichotomy between Germany and ‘das Ausland’ (foreign countries). These two locations of the shift converge in Fichte’s idea that, in this specific historical situation, it is the Germans’ task to seize and realize their essence, since only Germans are capable of accomplishing this world historical shift.132 What is the specific characteristic of the Germans that enables them to break ground towards a new world historical era? Fichte explains their superiority to

158 The Prussian moment other European peoples as rooted in the essence of their language, which, in contrast to others, is free from foreign importations and thus alive. This means that, in the German language, each speech act spontaneously represents the totality of the historical and spiritual life of the nation (Fichte 1968: 58). As a consequence, the spiritual culture is in direct contact with the nation’s life, which means that there can never be an absolute division between the different classes of the nation in Germany (Fichte 1968: 60–1). Fichte, in short, considers the German language as the only one in which philosophy may become practical, penetrating into the social life of the nation. He thus conceives of the creation of a people as an organic unity in which each part expresses the essence of the totality (Fichte 1968: 4). In order to explain the concept of organic unity, in contrast to an understanding of society as a simple assemblage of individuals, Fichte distances himself from the Hobbesian paradigm, in which the social organization of the passions of hope and fear played the pivotal role.133 In the ‘age of absolute sinfulness’, that is, during absolutism, the only link between the individual and the community relied, according to Fichte, on the individual’s self-interest by means of the transfer of the individual’s passions of hope and fear to the collective being of the state (Fichte 1968: 8–9). This was achieved though a ‘gesellschaftliche Maschinenkunst’ (social mechanic art) which obliged each individual to serve the collective (Fichte 1968: 96). This, however, meant that the price for the benefits to the nation is the mutilation of the individual, since the obligation remained with the individual (Fichte 1968: 14). In contrast to this mechanical organization of the social bond, Fichte called for a social organization in which the will of the individual was no longer fixed mechanically by the transposition to the common good of selfish motivations. ‘Pleasure in right and good for its own sake’ should replace the passions of hope and fear in the role of a social organization where the individual belongs to society (Fichte 1968: 151). The moral dispositions of the right and good were thus supposed to determine directly the individual’s will by directing the individual’s intentions towards the social totality without the mediation of selfish motivations. The theoretical problem was how to conceive a causality of the good as such without mediation by self-interest. Here, the concept of national education, understood as ‘Bildung zum Menschen’ (formation of the human being), comes in. In his concept of education, Fichte made a decisive step beyond Kant, since according to the latter, morality could only be achieved through a constant moral struggle in the individual, whereas Fichte saw the role of education as a radical eradication of the roots of any possible deviance (Fichte 1968: 26). This was to be achieved through ‘completely destroying freedom of the will’ and its subsequent complete reshaping (Fichte 1968: 17–18). The purpose of this reshaping was the ‘recreation of the human kind’ from ‘earthly and sensuous creatures into pure and noble spirits’ (Fichte 1968: 187). The institutions charged with this kind of education

German idealism and military service 159 had thus to be total in the sense that the sphere of their action had to be completely separated from the wider society in order to shape a type of individual that would be able to regenerate the old society radically and completely. National education was also directly linked to a certain conception of popular sovereignty, since it was intended to take on the role of educating the prince (Fichte 1968: 98–9). Absolutist educational projects for princes aimed to form a type of ‘governmentality’ that was able to govern itself in order to be able to govern the others as sovereign. National education, by contrast, aimed at the government of the social body by itself; its purpose was to create governmentalities that were able to govern themselves as individuals in order to be able to govern themselves as the sovereign. In practice, Fichte’s national education was divided into two phases, the first of which was characterized by disciplinarian submission and the second by the development of a sense of autonomous responsibility for the community. The dichotomy that constituted the Kantian legacy re-emerges at this point. This first phase of education involved above all a ‘love for order that intensifies to an ideal’, which was to be achieved by a high degree of severity and fear of punishment (Fichte 1968: 28–9). In a second stage, those who had completely interiorized the disciplinarian submission to the rules would be permitted to offer ‘voluntary sacrifices considered as recompense for their submission to lawfulness’ beyond normal exigencies (Fichte 1968: 148–50). There should be no rule for the duration of this education: each individual should be kept in the institution until the formation of his or her will was completed. Fichte’s national education enacts a dialectic between the state and the nation according to which both determine each other: the state was the expression of the nation and the nation the social and spiritual basis for the state. This dialectic relied on a transcendent nationalism134 in which the notions of the people and the fatherland were charged with an explicit spiritual meaning which made them superior to the state. The state had thus an ontologically unstable status. On the one hand, it is not an end in itself but a mere ‘mechanical’ disposition of social organization designed to assure inner peace, propriety, personal freedom, life and wellbeing for all. On the other hand, the state is necessary to form the people by means of national education. The nation was formed by the state and the state by the nation. It is striking but very logical that both these lines of argument led Fichte to consider the military. The lower and earthly ends of the state – peace, propriety, freedom and so on – are subordinated to the higher objective of the eternity of the people. The conflict between the mechanical and the transcendental ends of the state, however, became especially obvious in a situation of war. In war, the lower objectives are legitimately jeopardized for the sake of the higher. Fichte deduced from this argument that the purpose of the military was directly linked to the transcendental end of the state: there was no authentic life and no original decision in peace (Fichte 1968: 119–21). The second line of

160 The Prussian moment argument linked the disciplinarian impact of national education to military service. The state, as ‘Vormund der Unmündigen’ (the guardian of the immature), also had the right to enforce national education against the will of the individuals – exactly as it had the right to enlist citizens against their will into the army (Fichte 1968: 167). The force needed to enforce national education, however, was much less harmful than military impressment because it aimed at morality, contrary to service in absolutist standing armies, and because it would foster morality and also prepare citizens for military service. Taking two lines of argument together, Fichte could affirm that in the existential situation of war it was with justification that the ‘noble-minded man joyfully sacrifices himself, and the ignoble man, who only exists for the sake of the other, must likewise sacrifice himself’ (Fichte 1968: 120). Military service in war may thus be considered as the situation in which the traits formed by national education transform into action. Fichte expressed this idea clearly in his political texts of the period. In war, ‘revolutionary tension’ occurred within the state and ‘active patriotism, voluntary sacrifice, and heroic sense’ replaced normal orderly obedience to the law.135 War was the authentic antithesis of triviality, since it put the human being in a situation in which death was to be overcome by the force of the will alone. Because of his ability to sacrifice himself heroically, the soldier was depicted as the ‘sanctuary’ in this world and able to understand ‘things of the higher world’.136 And it was this ability to access a higher world that enabled the soldier to free himself from such earthly determinations as the fear of death: the catchphrase was no longer ‘vivre libre ou mourir’, as it had been for the soldiers of the French Revolution, but ‘siegen schlechthin’, winning absolutely and entirely, winning tout court.137 These considerations led to an understanding of Fichte’s expression of the ‘innere Grenze’ (inner frontier) of the state. The borders of the state were or should be an expression of the inner frontiers, and both educational institutions and war had the function of aligning the one to the other (Fichte 1968: 190). A frontier, however, both includes and excludes; and an inner frontier resembles what is compatible and excludes what is different. So the frontier constituted the people by excluding what was not part of them. Fichte based his concept of the inner frontier explicitly on the community of language, but it was clear from his theory of language that the linguistic community had a political, social and even psychological significance. Accordingly, the inner frontier also excluded all those elements that could not be integrated into the community, as conceived of by Fichte: ‘a man who does not want to hear or to think anything about this subject may rightly be regarded, from now on, as not belonging to us’ (Fichte 1968: 181). Applied to the question of war, this meant that each patriot was by definition the heartless enemy of the enemy of the fatherland, which meant that the question as to whether a war was just or unjust would not even occur: in the eyes of patriots all national wars are by

German idealism and military service 161 definition just.138 The Addresses thus led to an appeal to the German nation to take up arms and to fight against French occupation: the true essence of the individual and of the people was realized in this fight of principles, of morals, of character (Fichte 1968: 201). In his 1813 lectures On the Concept of True War, Fichte synthesized the constituent elements of his theories of war, the existential decision between an alienated and an authentic life and moral unity of the nation (see Münkler 1999). Selfishness and private property, its juridical corollary, was the distinctive feature of the age of absolute sinfulness. The protection of property, however, was the basic function of the state and Fichte described this latter as an ‘Anstalt der Eigenthümer’ (institution of propertyowners). Accordingly, the population was divided into those who owned and those who did not own property, the latter having to serve the former. The military constitution derived directly from this situation: The one who owns wealth does not serve: the servant serves because he owns nothing except of his pay (Sold), the soldier. The one who has a servant, will not do by himself the services for which the servant is paid. The symptom – the exemption from military service. (Fichte 1971: vol. 4, 404) On the contrary, in an age when justification becomes necessary, all exemptions would be abolished, be they exemptions from military service, from the interest in public matters, or from the existential decision of whether to belong to the national community of freedom or not. The inclusion or the exclusion was total. Temporary life had to fight for freedom at the risk of perishing in combat, since a life without freedom was not worth living: ‘Life as such, eternal life, will never perish, no violence may give it or take it away: then death, instead of temporary life, is the liberator’ (Fichte 1971: vol. 4, 410–11). There was, however, not only the appeal to take up arms voluntarily and fight for freedom and the fatherland: in the new epoch the state was invested with a metaphysical educational mission and had therefore the right to compel citizens. In this sense, Fichte asked his students at Berlin University: ‘But if participation in resistance was not only allowed, but if you were, moreover, invited to [participate], then what would the situation be?’ (Fichte 1971: vol. 4, 609). The political theory of German idealism thus acted as a conceptual analysis and indicated a practical resolution of the puzzling experiences of the French Enlightenment and the Revolution. It can be affirmed that the theoretical moves towards nation-building in Germany at the beginning of the nineteenth century were the logical continuation of the historical experience of the Revolution. Compared with Enlightenment ideas of civic integration and their paradoxes, Kant and Fichte went a decisive step beyond the inherited theoretical framework, namely by repositioning the issue of civic integration explicitly vis-à-vis two other possible scenes.

162 The Prussian moment The theoretical steps taken by German thinkers permitted a solution by externalizing the difficulty temporarily and/or spatially, or internalizing it subjectively. The three solutions thus consist of a teleological philosophy of history, a transcendent nationalism, or the construction of a civic subjectivity centred on the notion of duty and able to internalize the tensions inherent in the concept of the people.

7

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state

The defeat of the Prussian Army in Jena and Auerstedt in 1806 by the French was perceived not only as a military defeat but as the end of the Prussian monarchy (Archenholz 1806: 394). Since the Seven Years War, the Prussian army had been considered – and considered itself – as the best in Europe. The defeats during the coalition wars against revolutionary France did not change this image, since the allied European powers had not deployed all their military forces to counter the revolution. Valmy did not count; Jena, however, was not just a military but also a moral and political defeat: once the army had been beaten on the battlefield, Prussia’s military structures crumbled, cities and fortresses surrendering without offering any resistance. The country’s forces disintegrated entirely: the new order had defeated the old regime. These views were widely held and disseminated not only by intellectuals through journals and newspapers but also among enlightened groups of civil servants and military officials; even the king was convinced of the need to change the country’s political system. The years between 1806 and the Congress of Vienna were therefore marked by a radical reversal of Prussia’s military and political structures, whose consequences were perceived by contemporaries as analogous to the revolutionary turnaround in France: in both cases the old regime came to an end and a new era began.

Empowering the nation Before 1806, all attempts to introduce reforms in the Prussian military system had failed (see Hintze 1967: 504–29). After the defeat, however, a new staff of reforming bureaucrats seized the occasion to fundamentally modify all Prussia’s social, political and military institutions. A cornerstone of the reform, the establishment of conscription was intended by its instigators to be closely linked to a radical reform of the outdated political structures that were viewed as an obstacle to the unhindered deployment of the country’s forces. In July 1807, the king appointed a Militär-Reorganisationskommission (Military Reorganization Commission),

164 The Prussian moment and assigned Scharnhorst to head it (Vaupel 1938: 8–10). When Stein was appointed Minister of State a couple of months later, he became ipso facto a member of the Military Commission: a royal order affirmed that the reorganization of the military was so important for finance, politics and the whole political constitution that the leading administrator of the state had necessarily to participate in the Commission’s deliberations (Stein 1957–74: vol. 2, 450). Military reform, in short, was an integral part of general political reform. In general, the purpose of the reform was to do what the Revolution had done in France, but in an orderly way (see Gembruch 1982). On the military level, Scharnhorst had already expressed the need to learn from the French, in his essay the Fortune of the French in the Revolutionary Wars, stating that the allies’ series of defeats must have been ‘intimately linked to their domestic conditions and those of the French nation’ (Scharnhorst 1881: 195). He drew attention first and foremost to the impact of nationalism, fostered not only by the ideals of the Revolution but also by its conscious use, for propaganda purposes, by a terrorist and highly centralized state. This permitted all vital forces of the nation to be used in war, and made possible the essential tactical innovation of the tirailleur (skirmisher). The domestic innovations of the French Revolution presented such enormous forces to the French centralized state, that the European balance of power, on which the system of collective security had relied in the eighteenth century (see Charbod 1995), had been seriously distorted. As General Gneisenau, one of the leading reformers, put it: If the other states wanted to restore this equilibrium, they would have to concoct and employ the same resources. They would have to appropriate the results of the Revolution, and in doing so they would gain the double advantage of being able to put up resistance with their whole national force and could escape the dangers of a Revolution, which are not yet dismissed, since they do not prevent violent changes by voluntary ones. (Gneisenau 1984: 76) Reform was both a protection against and an imitation of revolution. This ‘revolution from above’ was viewed from the very beginning as a kind of restoration of a more ‘natural’ political order and of the relationship between the sovereign and his subjects (Raumer 1861: 277–8). This meant that the French Revolution was regarded as having been possible because the natural political order had been perverted during the last stages of the old regime (Arndt 1813: 9). This perversion consisted in the gulf that separated not only the army from the nation, but, more generally, the citizens from the state. Stein’s Memorandum from Nassau, one of the major programmatic texts for Prussian reform politics, thus identified

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 165 the goals to be achieved as the ‘revival of the sentiments for the fatherland, autonomy, and national pride’ (Eckert 1955: 109). In his Political Will, written after his dismissal in 1808, he called for the introduction of a representative element in the political system in order to link the nation more closely to the monarchy (Stein 1957–74: vol. 2, 900). The reform strove for an appropriation of the revolutionary legacy in terms of nationalism, readiness for war and limited political participation, in order to arouse the forces of the nation. Drawing on a sketch by Altenstein, one of his closest collaborators, Hardenberg, Stein’s successor at the Ministry of State, submitted in September 1807 a memorandum concerning the future politics of the Prussian state, which directly continued Stein’s policy. At the beginning of their memoranda, Altenstein and Hardenberg stated the need for reform in terms of a theology of history in which Napoleon was the instrument of providence: ‘He is sent by God to annihilate weakness and to arouse force’ (Winter 1931: 211). The terrible evils of revolution and war were indeed intended and brought about by providence to ‘destroy everything that is weak, forceless, and outdated’. The French Revolution had aroused all the sleeping forces of the French nation, and the illusion that revolutionary tendencies could be countered by tightening the old order had only worsened things. The impact of the Revolution was an historical fact and had to be accepted as such. What was needed was a reappropriation of the results of the Revolution within the framework of a constitutional monarchy: ‘democratic principles within a monarchical government: this appears the appropriate form for the spirit of the time’ (Hardenberg, in Winter 1931: 305–6). Prussia had thus to bring about a domestic revolution in a peaceful way, in order to seize or, in other words, to liberate all the ‘forces that are useful to the state, which the individuals had monopolized and employed only for themselves to the disadvantage of the state’ (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 396). The state lacked a ‘dynamical unification of the forces of the individuals towards a common end’ and was thus much weaker than it could have been (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 393). The old regime had been weak because it had been unable to monopolize the existing forces of the nation whereas the Revolution had created power because it was able to. The weakness of the old regime had thus been a direct consequence of the gulf separating the nation from the state, hindering the state from concentrating all its national forces and using them for its benefit. The goal of this peaceful revolution from above was defined in Kantian terms as abolishing a ‘constitution, in which the human being is not respected as such, but considered as an object for other people in the state’ (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 391). The inability of the state to take over the existing forces was thus due to the fact that the citizens were not given the chance of positive integration. In order to remedy this situation, the state had to ‘seize the higher idea as a principle’ and to form a new constitution:

166 The Prussian moment The forces of individuals will be employed for the state, but not as tools for other individuals, but in order to grasp also for themselves the greatest freedom and the freest use of their forces in order to achieve the highest good. (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 371) These formulations clearly display the liberal tendencies that were undoubtedly present in the Prussian reform movement and which relied on the consideration that it was in the interest of the state not to interfere too heavy-handedly in the social life of the nation. In a transformation that could be described as a change in social ontology, the state loses its primacy in favour of the ‘nation’, since the nation is where the force stems from. Accordingly, the state has to limit its action to the governance of spontaneous forces, in order not to choke them (see Humboldt 1969: 22–41). Paradoxically, the state becomes stronger through this diminution. In effect, this programme implied the destruction of feudal structures, the abolition of serfdom, of guilds and state-guaranteed monopolies, an increased administrative autonomy for the cities and the liberalization of capital transfers.139 The reduction of the state’s excessively restrictive control of social and economic life should thus allow the possible development of a nation and for its subsequent integration into a national state. According to Altenstein, ‘all these proposals aim at forming a nation in the Prussian state’ (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 411; see also Hardenberg, in Winter 1931: 319). What was this nation? The nation was defined as a unification of human beings inspired by the same spirit. This spirit, which comprises the entire devotion of every single being for the highest good of humanity, must get much stronger than a force aiming only at destruction, robbery and sensibility. (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 370) The purpose of the bureaucratic nation-building project was the unification of the dispersed moral and physical forces of individuals in the common interest of the state (ibid.: 403). And this common interest could be achieved through the establishment of the ‘greatest possible liberty and equality’ (Hardenberg, in Winter 1931: 313) and by the ‘elevation of the oppressed’ (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 397). This definition of the nation oscillated between three partly contradictory determinations: it is closely tied to the idea of the state, while at the same time associated with something like the civil society. Lastly, there is also a nationalistic understanding of the concept. The nation, moreover, should be bound to the administration, by a representative system with two objectives: it would act in an advisory capacity for the authorities and would ‘inform the represented about the ideas of the administration, directing their souls if neces-

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 167 sary’ (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 406). Rather than being a democratic institution of control of the governors by the governed, political representation was perceived as a means of integrating the citizens into the state in order to reduce the remoteness of the authorities from the nation. These ideas led directly towards the call for a constitution. The whole idea of the ‘fatherland’ as it appeared in these memoranda may be considered as subordinated to an underlying concept of constitutionalism: ‘it is both fair and politically clever to give the peoples a fatherland, if they are to defend it boldly’ (Gneisenau 1984: 118). In a letter to Arndt, one of the most influential political writers of the period, Gneisenau evoked ‘the threefold primacy of arms, of the constitution, and of education (Wissenschaft)’ for the creation of the state and the nation (Gneisenau, in Eckert 1955: 130). The constitution was thus the essential link between popular arming in military service and the idea of Bildung. Representation in a constitutional monarchy, however, was also dependent on education in the sense that only the educated and rich were considered for representation (Gneisenau, in Eckert 1955: 127). Another positive effect of introducing representative elements into the Prussian constitution would be that national exasperation with unpopular political measures would be less destabilizing for the administration, since these measures would have to be approved by the deputies (Gneisenau, in Thimme 1901: 108). Such a system was thus part of a new ‘technology of power’ that was able to direct public opinion from the enhanced viewpoint of the administration.140 As Arndt pointed out, political participation in a representative system was fundamentally an ‘innocent illusion’, since there were necessarily only a few real decision-makers. But far from being useless, this illusion could direct people’s attention from their narrow private sphere towards the universal sphere of the state, and to ‘arouse laziness and indifference’ (Eckert 1955: 113). In contrast to classical political theory with its distinction between monarchy, aristocracy and democracy, this conception was very modern since it did not oppose democracy to monarchy. On the contrary, the democratic elements within a monarchical government are envisaged as a more effective political technique. Democracy, in short, is not to be understood as a constitutional form but as one specific modality of government. Accordingly, the reformers also envisaged a vast programme of national propaganda, chiefly through literature. Stein considered education, literature and national representation as three parts of one single reform project (Stübig 1982: 73). He suggested that the state pay pro-national writers (Eckert 1955: 197). In contrast with more direct forms of propaganda, literature permitted a more universal formulation of the claims of the reform party, and was thus less suspect (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 288). It seems that such literary propaganda had some effect, at least among the educated (Kircheisen 1909: 243). In theory, this means that social coherence was thought to be better assured if it could rely on a

168 The Prussian moment relatively autonomous social sphere that was not directly controlled by the state. In other words, the development of a political universal presupposes the existence of a relative autonomy as the basis for this universality. The intrinsic difficulty with this model is, of course, that the universal tends to be confined within one particular social sphere. As is known, the model of the German university, as it emerged during these years, was affected by this very contradiction.

The principles of the military reform The reform of the military played a pivotal role in Prussia’s general reform project, since the army had been the pillar of the Prussian state, and there was consensus about the need to reform its outdated structures and to link the armed forces to the nation (Münchow-Pohl 1987: 73). The general criticism of the lack of power occasioned by the deficit of social coherence in Prussia applied foremost to the army. According to the Military Reorganization Commission, the army was ‘considered as a state inside the state, hated and sometimes despised by the other estates, while it ought to be the unification of all the moral and physical forces of the citizens’ (Vaupel 1938: 101). Altenstein and Hardenberg therefore called for a ‘new creation’ of the military, which necessitated a ‘complete annihilation of its old and outdated structure’ (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 420). This meant in practice the abolition of foreign recruitment, less brutal military punishments, allowing commoners the chance to attain officer rank, a welfare system for veterans, and, more generally, the transformation of the military into an ‘honourable estate’. Altenstein and Hardenberg called for a militia in addition to the standing army, whose officers should be partly elected by the soldiers, and the general arming of the entire population for the defence of the country (Winter 1931: 323–30, 421–31). In Altenstein’s proposal, conscription in the French sense should be adopted, which also meant that everyone would have the right to engage a substitute (Winter 1931: 425). These general political guidelines were then refined, elaborated and translated into concrete administrative measures by the Military Reorganization Commission. By late July 1807, Scharnhorst, the head of the Commission, submitted a memorandum calling for a militia in which he wanted to enlist the bourgeoisie, who the canton system exempted from military service. This militia should have a double function: to ‘maintain domestic tranquillity’ and to defend the country alongside the regular troops (Vaupel 1938: 22). This idea was obviously inspired by the French National Guard, while taking a more narrowly state-centred viewpoint: rather than an expression of popular sovereignty like the National Guard, the goal of the militia was to get the bourgeoisie accustomed to the idea of military service. The next month, another memorandum, Outline for a Constitution for an Auxiliary Army, began programmatically with the affirmation

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 169 that ‘all inhabitants of the state are born as its defenders’ (Vaupel 1938: 82). Having stated this principle, the Commission proposed a dual structure consisting of a standing and an auxiliary army. In their reports, the reformers used various names for this second military force: national reserve, auxiliary army, national militia, provincial militia and so on. All those who could afford to pay for their equipment, uniforms and training and to deposit a substantial amount of money in the public treasury would have the right to serve in the auxiliary army, while all others had to serve in the standing army (Vaupel 1938: 329). Members of the auxiliary army should have the right to elect their officers, would be subject to laxer discipline and would have shorter terms of training. The Commission’s next memorandum (of March 1808), the Outline for a Constitution for Provincial Troops, insisted even more on the necessity of dissociating the two structures of armed forces. In both cases, the purpose was that ‘the nation be intimately united to the government, that the government concludes an alliance with the nation’ in order to promote a spirit of ‘voluntary sacrifice for the conservation of the state, of property, and of the rights of its inhabitants’ (Vaupel 1938: 323, 321). With the separation of a standing and an auxiliary army, the nation as a whole was to be associated with the army, but differentially, according to economic, social and cultural status: it would be difficult to promote a warlike spirit without conceding ‘some freedom in the manner of bringing about the means for the preservation of autonomy’ (Vaupel 1938: 323). This elliptical formulation amalgamated two meanings of the word autonomy: Selbstständigkeit in this context signified both national independence from foreign occupation and not being subject to excessive military discipline. Accordingly, the national militia, which was presented as the condition for taking back the autonomy of the nation from foreign domination, was in need of moral autonomy. Therefore, the national militia had to be organized independently from the national army and the bourgeoisie had to be offered military units whose coherence had to be assured by means other than traditional military discipline. The creation of a special military formation for the bourgeoisie was obviously justified by the fact that arming the rich was considered less dangerous for the established political order than arming the poor. This, however, points to an underlying understanding of the nature of social coherence. Traditionally, only property-owners were considered to have an interest in the state and in the social order that it guaranteed, whereas the poor were not only excluded from the political sphere but might also potentially need to be contained by repressive powers. Private property was thus considered the principal basis of social coherence. With the Revolution in France and the reform in Prussia, however, this principle, if not abolished as such, was nevertheless considerably modified by the attempt to enlarge the social basis of coherence and order. From this time on, political inclusion began to be founded less on economic difference and more on national

170 The Prussian moment integration. The rationalistic foundation of the social bond in property came about to coexist with the more irrational foundation in nationalism and the dividing frontier is subject to a new codification in cultural rather than economic terms. However, this frontier is defined culturally in two ways: the criterion of property is gradually replaced by culture in the sense of education and manners; and culture also comes to be understood as a dividing element between different nations. In the exchange of administrative memoranda, one can find traces of the disputes provoked by such a reconceptualization. The Military Commission’s proposal that wealth be used to distinguish between those allowed to serve in the militia and those to be subjected to the harsh discipline of the standing army, was severely criticized by Major Lossau in his memorandum Thoughts about the Military Organization of the Prussian Monarchy of March 1808. Lossau expressed the conviction that ‘the noteworthy aloofness towards the benefit of the state’ in Prussia was imputable to the citizens’ pursuit of money and profit. Seeking ‘autonomy through wealth’, however, hindered the development of a sense of duty towards the state that implied the ‘highest duty to offer the sacrifice of one’s life to the sovereign and the state’. The increasing ‘Krämersinn’ (spirit of grocers) was thus the direct negation of ‘Soldatensinn’ (military spirit), the latter corresponding to the civic spirit of abnegation. Military spirit was also linked to some kind of equality in relation to service and sacrifice. ‘Independence through wealth,’ by contrast, undermined the very idea of equality (Vaupel 1938: 334). The military was thus perceived as both relying on and producing principles of social coherence that were different to those of private property. In contrast to an economic foundation, integration through the military even hinted at civic features that were directly opposed to selfish economic considerations. The civic and the military on the one hand, and the economic, on the other, were thus not only perceived as different but as contradictory. If he had written in French, Lossau could have expressed this difference through the distinction between the bourgeois and the citoyen, the latter being understood as a citizen-soldier. The economic selfishness of the bourgeois was thus to be countered by the universal values of the citizen. The German language, however, did not permit this conceptual distinction, and so the dichotomy had to be articulated in terms of bourgeois idiots (from the Greek idiótes) and citizen-soldiers. A civil administrator, the East Prussian Oberpräsident Schön, made similar demands, arguing against the total segregation of the rich from the poor, implied in the distinction by wealth: if the military estate is not considered as the lot of servants of the nation who are paid for particular services, but as the very core of the people . . . it seems that only military ability may be the principle of distinction. (Vaupel 1938: 201–2)

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 171 In his annotations to Schön’s text, General Gneisenau remarked that wealth determined the citizen’s condition in every respect, ‘in education, lifestyle, even in attitudes (Gesinnung)’. The bourgeoisie thus became a sociological concept whose implications went beyond the narrow economic sphere and implied certain attitudes and certain forms of sociability. For the sub-bourgeois strata, the lack of property and the corresponding bourgeois attitudes had to be ‘balanced by the impact of military honour and discipline’ and by an open hierarchical system in the army ‘by which even the poorest day labourer has a chance to advance to the highest rank’. Beyond the differentiations between the standing and the auxiliary army, however, the proposal of nationalizing the army went hand in hand with the proposal of ‘militarizing the nation’.141 The establishment of a differentiated conscription in the standing army and the militia thus aimed at a ‘general military institution of the Prussian state, both in the higher and in the lower classes’ (Gneisenau 1984: 79). This general military institution necessitated, especially, the militarization of schools, in order to prepare the youth for their future military destination. According to Gneisenau, ‘an utterly military discipline should be launched in each school and the spirit of discipline and of military laws established’. The proposal of the Military Commission aimed at copying the example of militarization in the French lycées, and charged Professor Niemeyer from Halle, who had visited schools in France, to report on the French experience. Niemeyer was impressed by the French students’ ‘military spirit in punctuality, order, obedience to the law and subordination’, but he nevertheless argued against the introduction of military exercises in schools because of the possible ‘bad consequences for the sciences’ (Vaupel 1938: 185). Attempts to militarize Prussian schools exemplify the essential nexus between the establishment of military service and educational concerns. Conversely, the link with education also explains demands for an institutional divide between the standing army and the militia, the former charged with educating the popular classes through civic and military discipline, and the latter reserved for those who are already cultured. Education, in this context, signifies essentially national education in the sense of Pestalozzi. Nationalerziehung fitted particularly well into the general political framework of the liberal reform party because it involved both the progressive element of the emphasis on autonomy and the conservative and anti-revolutionary emphasis on discipline and control. Education was designed as a preparation for the possibility of political participation, but also as a shield against revolution. National education, military service and the general purposes of the reform aimed at strengthening both the individual’s autonomy and the bonds to the state. In the eyes of the reformers, there was no contradiction between these two objectives, even if the equation between them may seem astonishing.

172 The Prussian moment It will be the purpose of the subsequent chapters to clarify which conceptions of the individual and the state enabled such an equation.

Creating a body politic The educational issue was a practical way out of the philosophical distinction between freedom and mechanism, or constraint (see White 1989: 17). Perfection of the individual by education was a political, a military and philosophical vision that coincided with the setting up of conscription in Prussia. Through the dynamic character of perfectibility and education, the meanings of the notions of freedom, mechanism, constraint, obedience and discipline were considerably altered. Because of this transformation in meaning, discussions about these issues appear somewhat confusing: reformers could without contradiction affirm that the exaggerated discipline in the old army had hindered the development of a spirit of combat (Scharnhorst 1983: 116), yet insist on many other occasions on the need for strict discipline. This apparent contradiction was possible because the meaning of the word discipline was obviously not the same in both cases. More fundamentally, an underlying philosophy of history made it possible to bracket the contraries together according to a dynamical model: with the French Revolution in the domain of politics and the Kantian Revolution in the domain of reason, freedom and necessity tended to become the same: freedom had become an objective necessity.142 This concerned above all the military, which was considered the social sphere in which freedom had been annihilated by disciplinarian submission. The annihilation of the old military structures and the creation of a nation and a new state (Altenstein, in Winter 1931: 369) were thus two aspects of the same endeavour, which Altenstein characterized as ‘philosophical’. According to the publicist Arndt, this meant in effect that Enlightenment rationality could be overthrown by means of this very rationality: it was the ‘mischief of the spirit’ that had destroyed the old order, but it would be impossible to return to the ‘childlike bliss’ of the former condition. In the intellectual sphere, this meant that freedom of the spirit had to restore the spirituality and religious faith that it had once destroyed: ‘what destroyed us must save us now’ (Arndt 1813: 46–7). In the political sphere, this meant that the state had to instil individuals with a sense of belonging by appealing to their imagination or, as Gneisenau put it in 1811, to poetry: religion, prayer, love for the monarch, the fatherland and virtue, are nothing but poetry, there is no enthusiasm without a poetical mood. The one who acts only according to cold rationality will become an egoist. Poetry is the foundation of the security of the thrones. (Gneisenau 1984: 185)

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 173 Transposed to the intellectual and moral level, the dichotomy between economic egoism and civic sociability is articulated as the opposition of rationality to religion or poetry, the first term being regarded as a force of social division and the second as a vector of unification. However, as Arndt had pointed out, this dichotomy is inserted into a dialectical temporal movement, where the forces of rationality had destroyed the poetical foundation of political power. The task of the period was not considered to be a restoration of the former condition but as a dialectical Aufhebung in a new order of things, which would reinstate each of the conflicting terms in a new synthesis. The military reform is the clearest example of this historic transformation that aspires to ‘the preponderance of culture over raw and uneducated nature and the sovereignty of spirit over matter’ (Gneisenau, in Stübig 1982: 31–2). According to Chancellor Stein, education was not only directed at ‘mechanical skills’, but at the ‘civic and warlike spirit’, which could be achieved foremost through military and gymnastic exercises (Stein 1957–74: vol. 3, 297). As can be seen, the fundamental structural dichotomies of Western philosophy – ideas versus matter, freedom versus mechanism – also structure debates on the military. What is more, the army is increasingly charged with the mission of providing a mediation between these conceptual couples. The author of a book called The Landwehr on the Basis of Gymnastics explained that true freedom was unavoidably linked to necessity, otherwise it would degenerate into ‘Willkür’ (arbitrariness), which would to have to be tamed by constraint (Schmeling 1819: 49). Far from negating liberty, obedience was actually the only possible way of realizing it in society. However, to perceive military discipline and obedience as ‘mediation’ necessitates vaster conceptual transformations. It was the formation of character through the education of the body and the mind that now defined the humanity of an individual. Arndt could thus distinguish human soldiers from animal soldiers, the distinctive feature being that the former were subjects of their free will, whereas the latter’s passive obedience reduced them to bestiality (Arndt 1988: 5–6). The soldier could thus be either the noblest or the worst man (Arndt 1988: 20–1). The anthropological category of the human being was thus defined through active affiliation to a political community, and tended thus to be inseparable from the political quality of the citizen. Being a moral subject was inseparably linked to being a political subject, to the citizen’s identification with and integration into a political and national community. The developments of moral and political subjectivities were short-circuited, determining each other mutually. Only identification with a political community allowed soldiers to become intrinsically moral beings, individuals who were not compelled to lawful behaviour by external constraint but who were of their own volition subjects of their morality. The advent of political subjectivities in this sense would mark the decisive step beyond the external

174 The Prussian moment discipline of the ancien régime towards an internal affiliation to a new regime. The new German soldier was, therefore, depicted as the aurora of the ‘daybreak of a new time’ (Arndt 1988: 31). His coming into being was a decisive event in history. But if a new epoch had objectively already begun, the rebirth of the nation needed nevertheless to be directed. The new era was characterized by the emergence of a new form of subjectivity that would integrate individual liberties into a national community. However, neither these subjectivities nor this national community existed as such, and it was thus necessary to bring them into being – by authoritarian constraint if necessary. In a letter to Clausewitz in November 1807, Scharnhorst wrote that ‘the feeling of autonomy has to be instilled into the nation; it has to have the occasion to be acquainted with itself in order to take care of itself’ (Vaupel 1938: 174). The advent of the moral autonomy of the political subject was not considered as coming into being in a completely spontaneous manner – it had, on the contrary, to be directed and instilled. The development of subjectivity was intimately linked to the notion of self-consciousness. On the strictly philosophical level, the necessity of this link is self-evident, since the subject of German idealism is fundamentally conceived of within the framework of a philosophy of consciousness. However, similar features can be found on the political level, too. It can thus be argued that the citizen’s political subjectification also involved his acquiring political self-consciousness. In contrast to the conceptual framework of German subjective idealism, it was impossible to problematize the acquisition of political self-consciousness on the individual level alone: the subject of the political was intrinsically collective or, to employ the language of the period, it concerned the nation. And the location in which the nation was to be formed as a political subject was conscription in a thoroughly reformed army. The army was, in other words, perceived as the social sphere in which the nation ‘came in contact with itself’ and could thus acquire self-consciousness. Military service was the materialization of the interrelation of the citizen and the state, in which the citizen experienced that the nature of his people is his very own nature (Schmeling 1819: 33, 39). Along the same line of argument, a patriotic leaflet, probably from 1813, called citizens to arms, arguing for the need for the dissolution of the individual into the whole, which took place through military service.143 The state was perceived as a unitary body politic, which meant that all its members saw themselves as active parts of the whole. And this also meant that all were by nature obliged to participate in its defence. According to Major Lossau: All the members of a state form a single body. All stand in front of the one and the one in front of all. Getting rid of this duty signifies leaving the society of the political association. . . . A state can only be thought of as a whole if the single members show themselves as active

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 175 parts of it and if the egoism that denies this natural participation is impeded. . . . In a military state, the whole nation is but one and the same mass . . . it thus seems suitable to submit all the inhabitants of the state to the one and the same spirit of the laws, if possible in military forms. (Lossau, in Vaupel 1938: 337–8, 345) The formation of a nation through conscription was not only an objective necessity but also, in a certain sense, the nation’s own objective wish. This did not mean, however, that this wish was also subjectively felt as such, but, according to a letter from Scharnhorst to Stein, the ‘weak and selfish individuals’ who would be against conscription did not count (Vaupel 1938: 500). The acquisition of self-consciousness was a painful process that necessarily involved the recognition of one’s own negativity. There was, in other words, no spontaneous accord between the objective will of the nation and the subjective wills of individuals. Accordingly, the Military Commission expected the nation to view conscription with reluctance. One of its precise purposes, however, was to counter this reluctance: the universality of conscription is not only meant to procure a greater mass for the disposal of the state, but also to propagate the proper concepts of the educated classes, and above all the principle of honour among the warriors, and thus provide an intelligent predominance in the army. (Lehmann 1892: 442) In order to achieve this objective, a ‘moral lever’ was needed, which could be found in the stronger will of the educated bourgeoisie rather than in the ‘raw and lifeless force’ of the rabble. This moral lever was constituted by the ‘Bindemittel der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft’ (the cements of civil society) which were private property and the idea of duty. It was thus absolutely essential to include the Bürgertum in the obligation to perform military service, since peasants without property could never be properly attached to the fatherland (Lehmann 1892: 444). In contrast to the more statecentred account by Lossau, who drew a line of demarcation between bourgeois economic selfishness and the altruism of the citizen-soldier, calls for a mobilization of the socializing resources of the bourgeoisie and their incorporation into the army recognized the construction of a link between the armed forces and the nation from the opposite angle – from the angle of civil society, whose cement should be used as a moral lever. But the socializing forces were socially located in the Bürgertum and not in the lower strata. The bürgerliche Gesellschaft, whose cement was to be incorporated into the army, was clearly thought of as bourgeois rather than civil society. Moreover, this bürgerliche Gesellschaft was not only contrasted with sub-bourgeois strata, but also with foreigners. Peasants without property

176 The Prussian moment could clearly not be attached to the nation, but this lack of affiliation applied even more to foreign mercenaries in the Prussian army, who were regarded as having ‘increased the army formally but decreased its inner force’. The abolition of foreign recruitment was thus one of the first measures of reform in the army. The term foreigner designated almost exclusively non-Prussian Germans, a ‘national’ distinction between Germans and foreigners being still inconceivable. The abolition of foreign recruitment was also a political necessity in that, in view of France’s virtual control of Europe, the machinery of foreign conscription had to be overhauled. This argument of the Military Commission posed serious problems: the nation was perceived as a unitary body politic although it was still in the process of striving to becoming one; it was as yet an assemblage of individuals out of which a unity had to be formed. Once again, we see here the fundamental dialectics of the singular and the universal, a cornerstone of German thought at this time. In the words of Schlegel, ‘the singular and the universal are separated by an infinite chasm which can only be crossed by a salto mortale’ (cited by Bien 1976: 92). Bildung, however, was the key concept that was supposed to function as mediator between the singular and the universal.144 And Bildung was delivered through various institutions, most prominently in schools and universities but also through military service. The Bildung of the higher classes through university education, however, was less problematic, since it could rely on the mediating impact of the bürgerliche Gesellschaft and thus leave the student to his ‘solitude and liberty’ (according to Humboldt’s catchphrase). In contrast to this, national education delivered through military service differed fundamentally. If the student had to experience his solitude in order to discover and develop his moral and intellectual autonomy, the individualization of the conscript was inseparable from his being part of a military and political unit. If the student was free in his choice of classes, the liberty of the conscript (in contrast to the slavish submission in the old army) depended nevertheless on his submission to military discipline. In both cases, the aim of the educational institutions was formally the same: a mediation between the singular and the universal through Bildung. In descriptions of the German people, one can find traces of the substitution of the economic difference by moral and intellectual difference. People in all classes of society were fundamentally ‘openhearted and honest’, and loyal towards their princes, but they generally lacked fervour for war and solidarity on political and moral issues (Rühle von Lilienstern 1810: 245): they lacked the vision of a ‘common end’, which alone could mingle them into a unity. Accordingly, vigorous measures were needed, since the ‘German needs to be compelled to do what is good for him’ (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 1). Constraint is thus necessary for the individual’s will to be determined by the idea of such a common end, because not everyone had the strength to give preference to the common good rather than to their particular ends, particularly if this preference implied

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 177 the negation of the particular volitions of the individual (Lossau, in Vaupel 1938: 352). This faculty of directing the will towards choices which were individually difficult but socially necessary, was virtue. The political virtue of the citizen-soldier echoed the philosophical determination of moral virtue in Kant. In both cases, the determination of the individual’s will by the universal had to strike down the selfish tendencies of the individual. Ways of doing this, however, varied according to the ordinary situation of service in peacetime or the existential situation of war. In order to become virtuous, the citizen-soldier had to be heroically humiliated by his superiors in the barracks, and to offer his life for the fatherland in war. The moral transformation in the barracks – in which the symbolic death of the individual’s self-conceit was to prepare for his resurrection as a fully moral being – was, in this sense, only a pale simulacrum of real death on the battlefield. Accordingly, it would perhaps have been more appropriate if Schlegel, in his definition of the mediation as salto mortale, had talked about a salto morale. With regard to military service, however, this leap over the gulf that separated the universal from the singular was also potentially mortal, since the conscriptional form of mediation implied the possibility of the individual’s violent death in war. More than a simple possibility, death was thus construed as the ethical summit from which participation in a civic community could be deduced. The individual was in direct communion with the eternity of the community in the sacrifice of his life and, paradoxically, this communitarian sacrifice of life was what made life worth living (Arndt 1813: 31). Half a century after Thomas Abbt, death for the fatherland has become a topos not only in writings by intellectuals but socially disseminated through songs145 and sermons.146 This idea was part of a new conception of the national community and of popular sovereignty as inherited from the French Revolution and adapted in Prussia: in order to be sovereign, one had to be prepared to die for the fatherland (Arndt 1988: 12). In order to be collectively sovereign, a people had to be prepared to die collectively. The democratic impact of conscription can thus be deduced from the democratization of death for the fatherland. If the people constituted the sovereign, all citizens had to be ready to give their lives for the nation. The nation in arms is perceived as the collective sovereign. War, putting one’s life at risk, was the existential situation in which the nation was formed (Gneisenau 1939: 402). Ordinary conscription in peacetime was certainly functional, but, more fundamentally, a nation existed if, and only if, it was able to constitute and defend itself in struggle (Bezzenberger 1894: 14). It was not only military personnel who held this opinion: Wilhelm von Humboldt, for instance, argued in his Limits of State Action (1792), that war was one of the most salutary phenomena for the culture of human nature (Humboldt 1969: 45). In war, the nation assembled and came to itself, and especially in a moral sense. Each soldier played the part of a punishing judge towards the other nation (Lange

178 The Prussian moment 1953: 125). War was by definition a re-establishment of justice, and the soldier was necessarily fighting for a just cause. The national conscript thus could be easily identified as fighting for a good cause, for legitimacy, virtue and human rights.147

Principles of stratification The first concrete measure brought in by the Military Reorganization Commission was a change in military penal law. In a programmatic newspaper article of 1808, Gneisenau had already called for the abolition of corporal punishment in the army, arguing that a nation that honours itself could not tolerate dishonouring chastisements in its army. Motivation for good behaviour should be sought in an individual’s sense of honour rather than ‘in wood’, that is, the cane (Gneisenau 1984: 116–17). Solitary confinement in particular was thought to be as least as effective as corporal punishment, since its purpose was to transform and correct the soldier’s soul, his inner moral structure, whereas corporal punishment only affected the surface (Gneisenau 1984: 98). The military reformers expressed this reasoning in terms of a sense of honour. In the old understanding, only the officer was seen to be capable of honour, whereas the common soldier had to be directed through fear of punishment alone. The latter could acquire esprit de corps; he could participate in the honour of the unit to which he belonged (Höhn 1944: 85). Compared with the earlier concept, the new military legislation was thus based on a completely different anthropological model (Stübig 1971: 76), according to which discipline had to rely on the pre-existing moral disposition of the individual.148 The new Kriegartikel (code of military punishment) released in August 1808 (published in Frauenholz 1941: 101–19), abolished corporal punishment, protected soldiers from arbitrary verdicts by their commanders and declared that in the future military service would be compulsory. For corporal punishment, an exception was nevertheless made: soldiers could be condemned to the second class of the army, where such chastisements were still in force. Normally, however, discipline should be ‘mild’ in order not to hamper the perception of the army and of military service as a ‘holy and inviolable duty’ (Koenen, in Vaupel 1938: 427). As a reward for the accomplishment of this duty, soldiers were offered the chance to apply for officer rank. This chance of social advancement was considered necessary to instil a sense of responsibility and honour throughout all strata of the military hierarchy. All these measures attempted to invert the army’s image as a detention centre for depraved subjects into the opposite – a moral institution able to generate and disseminate virtue. The discussion about the king’s proposal to consider the prolongation of the terms of military service as punishment is particularly instructive in this respect. Koenen, the highest military judge in Prussia, argued against this suggestion, because the army should not

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 179 degenerate into a ‘community of convicts’ (Koenen, in Vaupel 1938: 371). Practically, however, this kind of argument could be used in two ways: if the army was an institution for moral perfection, criminals could also be morally enhanced through military service. The difficulty of Koenen’s argument was that he perceived the moralizing impact of the army in two incompatible determinations: his argument relied, on the one hand, on a pre-existing moral disposition, and on the other hand, the army was supposed to develop this very disposition. In November 1807, following Koenen’s logic, the Military Reorganization Commission argued against the creation of penal battalions within the army, stating that a depraved individual stood more chance of reform ‘among better subjects of his estate’ than in a ‘community of good-for-nothings’, since ‘virtue is a long habit’ that can best be acquired inside a community of good subjects (Vaupel 1938: 182). The construction of a community of good subjects, however, was inseparable from a new conception of political and military subjectivities, and thus from a new conception of individuality. In order to deploy all his physical and moral forces, the soldier had to be individualized, which meant that he had to be treated definitively as an individual. An explicit expression of this idea can be found in Clausewitz’s letter to Fichte of 1809, suggesting that the army should ‘vitalize individual energies as far as the nature of its weapons permits’ (Clausewitz 1992: 282). The Instruction for Infantry Exercises of 1809 expressed the same idea, stating that the best infantryman is the one who is least like a machine, who is able to use his intelligence individually (Höhn 1944: 588). In order to be eligible for medals of merit, a soldier must have accomplished an action of individual bravery: in general, no one marching as rank-and-file was to be considered (Vaupel 1938: 389). The Military Commission also recommended special insignia as punishment or as compensation for corrupt or distinguished subjects (Vaupel 1938: 462). The summit of the attempts to individualize, however, was the Commission’s proposal to dye the hands of military convicts in order to make them immediately recognizable as such (Vaupel 1938: 378). This politics of individualization was nevertheless intimately and intrinsically linked to the idea of community, in itself profoundly state-centred. Far from being a spontaneous transversal interaction among citizens, the community was mediated by the state as its political form. Accordingly, an antagonism between state and civil society seems not to be pertinent in conceiving of the project of building a national community through institutions such as military service. It thus seems that all attempts to interpret military service in terms of this antagonism fail to reach the essence, the fact that the institution was perceived precisely as the mode of interaction of both (see Bald 1991: 17 and Frevert 2004). The military system was in interaction with the bürgerliche Gesellschaft, in the sense of bourgeois society. National consciousness and consciousness of state thus determined each other, and the infrequent attempts to dissociate the two

180 The Prussian moment remained marginal (Stübig 1982: 110). Accordingly, the fatherland, which called for the citizen’s active participation, is inseparable from the framework of the state. These findings can be confirmed by analysis of personal documents, such as soldiers’ diaries and letters. Thus Adolph Diesterweg, who was called up to the French army in 1811, paid a substitute in order not to be enlisted. His diary records his antipathy towards the military, which he called ‘operators of violence’. At the same time, however, he affirmed in a letter that he would be glad to join the army if he was called by the fatherland: anyone who would forget about his duty is a ‘heel’ (cited in Stübig 1994: 74). For the soldier Dahlenberg, the fatherland signified the place to which he dreamed of returning – in particular in comparison with the foreign country to which he was sent. But this fatherland had also been significantly transformed by the very impact of conscription, which had become an important part of its very definition:149 in other words, the definition of the fatherland was becoming linked to the requirement to do military service, which, conversely, was an integral part of the patriotic experience. According to the Landwehr Lieutenant Fischer, military service identified the citizen as an honest man who could legitimately demand the fatherland’s gratitude.150 The idea of duty was twofold, implying the duty of the citizen to perform military service and the duty of the fatherland to extend gratitude towards the citizen. Even if Fischer did not explain explicitly what he meant by gratitude, it is clear that this could imply a symbolic or a political recognition of the citizen’s being part of the national community, or, in the case of being invalided out, even more substantial social benefits. In another example, the soldier Werckmeister considered the war he was fighting to be a ‘holy issue’ for the sake of honour and patriotism. It is significant, however, that he explicitly subordinated his decision to join the army to the king’s appeal:151 fighting for the fatherland and fighting for the king were, in this account, strictly identical. Official sources confirmed these views. The purpose of conscription was defined by the Military Commission in circular terms as the social foundation of consent about this duty towards the state. Conscription was necessary to create a consciousness of its own necessity and thus to justify itself. The use of constraint in its enforcement was certainly temporally necessary but, once consent was established, constraint would automatically cease. Accordingly, conscription implied the ‘equality of duty towards the supreme power in everything related to royal rights’ (Lehmann 1889: 99–100). But if equality was the foundation of conscription, it was also its result. Since everybody was subject to the obligation, obedience in service would become a universally shared determinant experience (Arndt 1813: 32). Equality as equal submission, however, also implied the hierarchical aspect of command and obedience that seems to be incongruent with the very idea of equality. How to conceive of this equality? And how to reconcile equality with the necessity of a hierarchical social stratification?

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 181 It is essential to bear in mind that the demands for equality in this period are foremost a criticism of the privileges of birth: equality does not exclude social hierarchies but questions the criteria of stratification. There were two incompatible conceptions of social stratification, one of which can be described as substantial, the other as immanent. The former conceives of the criteria of stratification as inherent to a certain social class, whereas, according to the latter, the social stratification should not only be independent from given social and economic differences, but also be able to produce its own immanent hierarchical criteria. The emergence of this latter line of thought is certainly new in this period. The comparison of this conception of an immanent stratification with the ideas of making use of the moral lever of the socializing forces of the bürgerliche Gesellschaft is instructive and points to a fundamental cornerstone of the debate. And these divergences lead directly to the underlying political dilemma of the causal relationship between the mutual determination of the state and society. The very idea of the construction of a new state was essentially intended to reduce the gulf that separated, in the eyes of the reformers, the political superstructure of the state from its social and economic basis. From this perspective, the incorporation of the bonds of civil society into the army was a logical consequence. This bürgerliche Gesellschaft, however, turned out to be uncertain ground for the elevation of a new political order. Its principal fault was the fact that it did not yet exist; or, rather, the bürgerliche Gesellschaft existed as bourgeois society but not as civil society. It was an exclusive concept relying on social divisions instead of functioning inclusively. As exclusivity it depended fundamentally on the ordering function of the state, inasmuch as the underlying social conflict had to be held down by its apparatus of repression. Considered in this light, however, the historical break with the social and political order of absolutism appears much less important. The outcome of the transformation process would be little more than an inclusion of the bourgeoisie into the spheres of social domination guaranteed by the state. Applied to the concrete question of the qualities required in order to be part of the ruling strata, this would mean that aristocratic honour was to be merged with bourgeois intelligence. Both qualities, however, were de facto perceived as substantial, as exclusive, because they existed in certain strata of society. This concept formed the basis of attempts to use the cement of the bürgerliche Gesellschaft as a moral lever for the army, and similar ideas were also predominant among the civilian reform party, who maintained the idea of a substantial social stratification, namely through the distinction between force and intelligence that was the theoretical translation of the underlying social distinction between the lower classes and the Bürgertum (Altenstein, in Lehmann 1887: 437–8). Military hierarchies, in other words, should be directly formulated on social hierarchies. But has the old Prussian canton system not done exactly

182 The Prussian moment the same? Is the difference between the Kantonsystem and conscription only a function of the greater integration of the bourgeoisie into spheres of social power? Without any doubt, this interpretation is not wrong and explains essential features of the reform. It seems, however, that another element emerged, and has to be taken into consideration. In contrast to all these attempts to maintain a system of substantial social stratification – while redefining the criteria of the substantial in the sense of the bourgeoisie – some proposals of the Military Commission promoted a system of a proper military stratification that could be called egalitarian to the extent that access to positions of command was in principle open to everyone and, more importantly, to the extent that everyone was equally subject to the disciplinary power of the institution. By a system of equal submission and internal promotion to higher ranks according to intrinsically defined criteria, the army could, in contrast to the exclusivity of class divisions, acquire a truly inclusive character. These characteristics may be reminiscent rather of the militarization of society through the impact of a total institution than of a socialization of the military. The issue, however, is arguably more complex, also implying a certain democratization of positions of command and, moreover, being closely linked to the idea of insurrection (see infra: pp. 190–6). As Scharnhorst had pointed out in 1797, positions of command should be the most dangerous and thus the least comfortable: this meant that their occupants should be immediately and personally held responsible for every failure of the organization. Responsibility should be disseminated within the social body, emanating from the top. Since the top positions were dangerous, any forms of patronage would inevitably cease. In this way, hierarchies would certainly not be abolished, which would be neither possible nor desirable, but positions would be distributed according to immanent criteria of merit, of moral value and of ‘interior consciousness of one’s own force and energy’ (Scharnhorst 1983: 115). At stake here is the construction of an immanent hierarchy, which could be considered as a model for a wider egalitarian community. Would it thus be exaggerating to state, paradoxically, that the true civil society was accomplished in the military?

The path to national war The Military Commission’s proposals for the establishment of universal conscription in Prussia encountered serious problems. The first obstacle was the country’s desolate financial situation, which obliged the Commission to think in terms of reducing the standing army rather than of expansion. The second problem was resistance from traditional pressure groups. The aristocracy protested against the proposal, arguing that

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 183 universal conscription which extends also to the nobility, [is an institution] which was born out of the revolution that destroyed all existing orders and constitutions in France, a conscription which is by nature based upon the idea of universal equality, would . . . cause the total annihilation of the nobility. (Vaupel 1938: 48–9) Rich merchants constituted another social group particularly reluctant to accept military service (Vaupel 1938: 749). ‘Adieu culture, adieu finance’, was the reaction of the later historian Niebuhr when he learned about the proposal to establish conscription (cited by Wohlfeil 1964: 122). But military and civil officials were also sceptical. Colonel Boguslawski wrote to the king about the necessity of considering the people and the state not as abstract things and of taking individuals as they are and not as we wished they were. In his view, the reality of the Prussian state and its inhabitants necessitated everyone being allowed to hire a substitute (Lehmann 1889: 107–8). Minister Dohna made similar demands when he proposed limiting universal conscription to wartime and allowing substitution in times of peace (Lehmann 1892: 440). Even Altenstein agreed with this view, arguing for a stronger consideration of the ‘spirit’ in comparison to ‘force’: it was perhaps necessary to discipline the brute force of the rabble but certainly not cultivated young men (Lehmann 1892: 437–8). Others even criticized the ‘democratic’ and ‘truly revolutionary’ spirit of the intended reforms (Lehmann 1922: 438). But all these discussions were rendered useless because of the conditions that Napoleon inflicted: the Treaty of Paris of September 1808 imposed an overall limit of 42,000 men on the Prussian army and forbade extraordinary measures for national defence or the formation of a National Guard (Shanahan 1945: 152). When the institution of universal conscription was made impossible, for reasons of foreign policy, the military authorities tried to augment Prussia’s armed forces within the existing Kantonsystem while respecting the letter of the law of the treaty. Already by 1808, regular exercises on Sundays for all soldiers on furlough were ordered (Vaupel 1938: 525). An instruction to the officers, however, explained that the purpose of this measure was ‘not to continue in the former way of drill’: in practice this meant that corporal punishment and even cursing were forbidden (Vaupel 1938: 544–6). During the following years, the system of increasing army reserves was continuously improved. Each company enlisted three to five new soldiers each month on the basis of the canton system, and dismissed the same number of men already drilled. Each company should thus comprise 100 men under the flag, 35 on furlough, and 100 in the cantons (Lehmann 1887: 65). Through these measures, Prussia had in 1810 some 50,000 men in the standing army and, according to Scharnhorst, about 30,000 so-called Krümper, trained soldiers in the cantons (Lehmann 1887: 83–4). This system, however, also caused

184 The Prussian moment problems, above all in the economic sphere, since the Krümper were not dismissed officially and thus still had the juridical status of soldiers. This meant that conscripted peasants could not obtain credit or invest their own capital in the farms they cultivated.152 Moreover, these people were also forbidden to marry without the permission of their officers. The increase of the army within the traditional system pinpointed the shortcomings of the Kantonsystem. Simultaneously, however, the Military Reorganization Commission continued planning for the future institution of generalized conscription once the political framework had changed. In July 1809 a Conscription Commission submitted a first report to the king in which the question whether, according to the present situation of the state, general conscription could be established was answered affirmatively. The memorandum stated that no serious objection could be raised since opposition was to be expected only from those who were exempted, the number of which was estimated at no more than 250,000 male persons. The institution of military service was not to be called conscription, partly due to the French origin of the word, and partly because the French system had a bad reputation, as substitution was allowed and the moral impact of the institution consequently disregarded. The Prussian designation canton system, however, had to be abandoned too, since the national character of military service could not be represented by a label that presupposes ‘delimitation and obligations towards a particular territory’ implied by the word canton (Lehmann 1889: 98–104). In contrast to the proposals of 1807–8 to set up an auxiliary army, the proposals of the Conscription Commission after the Treaty of Paris did not pursue the idea of a dual military structure of standing army and militia, but tried other ways to integrate the bourgeoisie into the army by offering them milder conditions and shorter terms of service. Only in July 1810 did Scharnhorst recommend the creation of special units of freiwillige Jäger (voluntary riflemen) at the margins of each battalion. This was another attempt to attract the bourgeoisie into the army, since these volunteers had to pay for their equipment and being a rifleman ought to be a condition in accessing public services, distinctions and decorations. The discussions of 1809–10 thus turned primarily on the question of substitution. The principle of military service as a universal duty was rarely questioned as such but, according to the defenders of substitution, this did not necessarily imply a personal service for everyone. Military service, in this respect, was an obligation to the state exactly the same as taxpaying. For the adversaries of substitution, on the other hand, military service was completely incompatible with the nature of pecuniary contributions, since it was an issue of politics and morals, which could not be settled financially but had to involve the whole person. We thus encounter in the Prussian discussions the same arguments that had been brought forward in France a few years earlier. The patriotic mission of conscription

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 185 was impossible to achieve if the rich were allowed to pay substitutes and if only ‘the least respected class of the inhabitants of the state’ were obliged to serve in the army (Scharnhorst, in Lehmann 1887: 104). If substitution were allowed, the army would continue to be perceived as an assemblage of depraved individuals, and the moralizing function of military service would be compromised. And a bourgeois who considered the obligation to serve as a common soldier next to the common man as disparaging treatment lacked, according to Scharnhorst, the ‘correct idea of the military estate’ (Scharnhorst, in Lehmann 1887: 103). Substitution thus being unacceptable, the Conscription Commission nevertheless envisaged easier conditions for the educated classes in order not to hamper the arts and sciences. Practically, this meant that the terms of service for the cultivated or wealthy man had to be limited to a couple of months (Lehmann 1892: 435). With the Bürgergarden (civic guards), however, another form of popular arming had progressively been established after 1806, but only for police tasks and not for directly military purposes. The principle of the civic guard was similar to that of the French National Guard in the first stage of the Revolution: Gemeindebürger (burghers) had to keep watch periodically, they wore uniforms and were armed.153 But even if the civic guard had no military impact, the main reason for its creation was nevertheless military, since it released the standing army from one of its tasks yet permitted the use of these units for proper military purposes (Vaupel 1938: 672). Moreover, those serving in the civic guards were amalgamated with the regular military since they wore uniforms, civilians owed them obedience and they were directly subordinated to the military commander (Winter 1931: 318). The institution of these guards, however, also implied a greater degree of self-organization at the municipal level. Giving the cities some responsibility for maintaining order meant, in this sense, contributing to ‘the harmony between the estates’ (Vaupel 1938: 691). Still, the problem with the civic guard was that the bourgeoisie felt little inclination to serve in it. In January 1808 a report stated that the formation of the Berlin civic guard had been a useful measure, but ‘the institution becomes in the long run a burden and the original number of civic guards decreases continuously. . . . It will be necessary to employ strong measures against the reticent burgers’ (Winter 1931: 318). Other sources confirm that merchants in particular were reluctant and tried to avoid their duty (Friese 1906: 4–5). The administrative rules for the civic guard differed from one town to the other but, in general, substitution was permitted and more and more burgers preferred to pay rather than to serve themselves. Accordingly, service in the civic guard degenerated from an honourable duty to an employment for day-labourers (Rellstab 1861: 53). It was only when war broke out in early 1813 that the king issued an appeal calling that class ‘that has been exempted from service according

186 The Prussian moment to the canton system and that is wealthy enough’ to pay for their equipment to ‘a military service that corresponds to their education and their further conditions’ (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 2–3). In line with propositions brought forward by Scharnhorst in 1810, well-educated and wealthy young men between 17 and 24 were thus called to arms. Volunteers were to form Jägerdetachements (riflemen detachments) and were promised a possible elevation to officer rank as recompense for their patriotic behaviour. The appeal had to be explicit that military service in the riflemen detachments would correspond to the volunteers’ education and bourgeois condition, that is, that it would differ fundamentally from the drill in force in the old Prussian army. There was no explicit obligation to join one of these detachments but the authorities tried to impose this military service morally and politically by stating that only volunteers were eligible for future appointments, distinctions and decorations, and brave soldiers were promised particular advantages in their future careers. It was also suggested that those who did not enlist be excluded from Bürgerrecht (civic rights) (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 6–7). The organizational form of these detachments was ambiguous, since these units were autonomous parts of regiments of the standing army. They were thus at the same time outside and part of the standing army. There was, however, also a technical reason for incorporating the volunteers into the standing army instead of forming an autonomous institution for them as had been previously proposed. The riflemen were to be as little exposed to battle as possible in order to avoid a loss of brain-power. Accordingly, it was forbidden for any military unit to comprise more than one-fifth of volunteers (Hardenberg, in Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 23). Moreover, the volunteer riflemen were also to be exempted from annoying military routine. Normally, they were neither to be employed for garrison work nor to keep watch. After being trained for two or three months by professional officers, they had the right to elect their officers. Official instructions insisted explicitly on the fact that these volunteer riflemen had to be treated equitably by their superiors, regardless of their noble or common descent (Hardenberg 1813). They were officially considered to be educated persons and potential future officers.154 According to the military reformers, these riflemen detachments had an important impact on the moralization of manners in the military (Boyen 1899: 236), but it is impossible to verify this assertion. With the creation of battalions of voluntary riflemen, the army found a real compromise between a military formation specifically for the higher classes and the attempt to institute a universal and equal military service, since these detachments provided easier conditions within the existing structures of the standing army and were thus a precursor of the later institution of the one-year volunteers (see infra: p. 209). A military institution that was separate from the regular army – which the reformers had had in mind right from the outset – was set up by the

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 187 autonomous action of one province without any direct action of the central government in the special historic situation of the winter of 1912/13. During the Napoleonic occupation, Prussia was officially allied to the French Empire, but this connection was increasingly called into question by various parties. The general pro-French sympathy of the early years of the revolutionary wars gradually vanished until anti-French sentiments proliferated. Nevertheless, in February 1812 the Prussian government signed an alliance with France, which obliged the country to contribute nearly half of its army to Napoleon’s war in Russia. Hatred of the French became not only the principal motivation in the developing Prussian and German nationalism, but also a principle of an ethnic division within Prussian territories between the German and the Polish population (Münchow-Pohl 1987: 336). According to the memoirs of a Prussian administrator in Posen, a majority of the Polish population in Prussian territories welcomed the French invasion as a potential national liberation, whereas the German population was terrorized (Goetze 1906: 11, 35). This fact clearly displays the ambiguities of the very concept of the nation in this period: the whole population, either German or Polish, was considered as one nation in relation to the sovereign; the nation was thus defined exclusively in relation to the state, which guaranteed an economic and political order. This state-centred definition of nationality, however, was radically altered with the revolutionary and Napoleonic wars, because of the moral impact of the Revolution, which cast doubt on traditional economic and political structures. In this respect the Napoleonic occupation differed radically from the usual territorial conquests and losses of the eighteenth century. The situation during the Napoleonic occupation also had an impact on the social distribution of patriotic feelings and behaviours. The case of East Prussia was paradigmatic for the new developments. In 1812 this province was the operational basis of the French army for the Russian campaign and in the early summer around 300,000 soldiers were stationed there, treating the region like enemy land. A local administrator compared the devastation and looting, which led to the traumatization of a whole population, to that of the Thirty Years War (Münchow-Pohl 1987: 352–64). Unsurprisingly, this intensified the pressure of public opinion against the government’s pro-French policy. Demands for a war against France thus spread largely in those social strata which suffered most from this situation, that is, among peasants and day labourers. A French report on the situation in Berlin had stated in 1809 that the French were hated among le peuple, whereas the bourgeoisie was resolutely against war and tried to calm the situation (Granier 1913: 385–6). Compared with the situation at the beginning of the revolutionary wars, a complete reversal had thus taken place: large elements of the bourgeoisie and the conservative aristocracy favoured a pro-French policy, whereas the lower strata of society were increasingly opposed to the French.

188 The Prussian moment However, the determining factor for the change of the Prussian policy in December 1812 was not public opinion but the army. Already after the conclusion of the French–Prussian treaty in February, a significant number of high-ranking officers, among them Gneisenau and Clausewitz, had resigned from the army, most of them going to Russia. Clausewitz propounded his reasons at length in a declaration written in 1812 (Clausewitz 1992: 285–303). There was no tradition in the Prussian army of protesting against a policy they considered wrong: the fact that these officers placed their patriotic opinions above the will of their sovereign was perceived as especially scandalous. Together with the former minister Stein, who also went to Russia, they set up a German legion to which they tried to attract German deserters from the imperial army. According to the legion’s manifesto, written by Arndt, its purpose was to promote a panGerman nationalism and to serve as a warming-house for new forms of discipline: the German legion is a party in which the petty differences between those who command and those who obey are overcome and in which every German man fighting for the fatherland, is considered as a man of honour and respected as a beloved friend and brother. (Arndt 1988: 26) The fundamental turning-point, however, was achieved after the French defeat and retreat from Russia: the Prussian General York concluded the Tauroggen Convention with the Russian commander and thus acted against royal orders and official Prussian policy. The army changed allegiance to become allies of the former enemy, Russia, against the French army, which was considered the true enemy. Following an initiative by Stein, who returned from Russia (Müller 1876: 613), and with the participation of General York, the East Prussian Landstände (provincial estates) gathered a couple of weeks later, in February 1813, to decide about arming the population (Schmidt 1981: 57–8). Each of the eight districts of the province was called on to elect two nobles, one property-owner and one representative of the towns (Bujak 1890: 20–1). Since the assembly was not authorized by the king, the estates were eager to reassure the government about their allegiance to the monarchy and affirmed that the deliberations would not concern domestic issues other than popular arming (Bezzenberger 1894: 4, 7). These declarations, however, clearly revealed that the measures of popular arming to be taken were perceived as potentially beyond the limits of the monarchical principle. In this respect, a letter from General York to the king, explaining and justifying his behaviour, is particularly revealing: ‘Together with other intelligent and patriotic men, I felt the need to take up and direct this sublime expression of the will of the multitude in the name of Your Royal Majesty’ (cited in Bujak 1890: 1). What happened in East Prussia was thus con-

Conscription in the reformed Prussian state 189 ceived as canalization of the forces of the multitude by the leading classes towards the monarchical principle. Accordingly, the estates sought close cooperation with the military authorities rather than autonomous action. In effect, however, they established a precedent of popular arming without royal permission as the basis of the Landwehr that was to become the second pillar of the Prussian military until the 1860s.

8

National war and conscription

The Prussian reform movement aimed at a ‘revolution from above’ and its long-term historical result was clearly anti-revolutionary. However, it would be erroneous to overlook the insurrectional impact of the reform both in its goals and its means of achievement. The label ‘revolution from above’ fits the characteristics of reform politics from 1807–19 very well, since truly revolutionary methods were on the reformers’ agenda. Drawing on the French example, Prussia ought to organize a levée en masse too. Leading military reformers, especially Gneisenau and Clausewitz, gave explicit theoretical substance to this idea as the organization of Insurrektion. According to them, Prussia should fight a national and insurrectional war against the French occupation. National war, however, meant in practice partisan war conducted by a whole population. The very idea of partisan war, however, did not only rest on the assumption that a whole population would spontaneously adhere to the goals of this war, but that the idea of the state and its authorities would be radically subordinated to the goals of the Volkskrieg.

Organizing an insurrection The first step towards insurrection came once more from the Prussian army. Not only had the measures taken by the Military Reorganization Commission helped to shape a new spirit in the military, but ideological and sociological reasons also pushed the army into action. After the humiliating defeat of 1806, the former pillar of the state was not only generally criticized in Prussian public opinion, but the state’s difficult financial position necessitated sending officers on furlough on half-pay. Humiliated as soldiers, politically criticized and socially declassed, young officers in particular were in favour of a new war (Münchow-Pohl 1987: 138). With the resumption of hostilities between Austria and France in April 1809, many thought that the bell for a pan-German war against France had rung. In Pomerania, Count Krockow founded a secret society for the preparation of war, to which he sought to attract dismissed soldiers and officers (Granier 1913: 465). In the former Prussian territories in Westphalia,

National war and conscription 191 another Prussian officer occupied the city of Stendhal with former soldiers of his company and tried to organize the conquest of the fortress of Magdeburg (Heitzer 1959: 158–60). The civil administrator Vincke estimated that Prussian participation in the Austrian war might become ineligible because of the attitude of the army: if the king did not declare war on France, ‘it would be difficult to maintain tranquillity’ (Granier 1913: 397). Prince August, the commander of the Prussian artillery, warned the king that the nation could take action by itself (Wiese und Kaiserswaldau 1902: 271). French diplomats in Prussia were especially alarmed about the eastern provinces. On 30 May 1809 Clérembault, consul general in Königsberg, sent a list of people ‘who, in Eastern Prussia, in Pomerania and in Silesia, have contributed most to preaching an insurrectional spirit’. Among others, Stein, Scharnhorst, Blücher, Grolman, Krockow, Gneisenau and Delbrück figured on this list (Stern 1885: 285–90). A French spy reported that the army was in a condition of complete anarchy: neither the officers nor the rank-and-file obey their superiors, nor the civil authorities to their masters. No justice is done, the soldiers do not receive any pay and there is a generalized confusion. If the king stayed away for another four weeks, revolution would break out, for all are full of anger. (Granier 1913: 357) In short, all the characteristics of a revolutionary situation were present: the loyalty of the army was vanishing and discontent growing within the populace. A former dominant caste found itself declassed, which led to a common interest among dismissed officers, poor noblemen and the lower classes, especially in the capital. In this situation of mounting discontent, Major Schill started the most spectacular military insurrection of these years (see Bock 1981). Leaving Berlin with his regiment for an alleged manoeuvre in late April 1809, he tried to initiate a national insurrectional war against the French in northern Germany, to provoke a series of popular uprisings and thus to force the government to join in the war. This was not only a military mutiny but an act of high treason, although the disloyalty had no anti-monarchical purpose: it was an attempt to initiate a national upheaval with the king at its head. Being one of the few soldiers decorated in 1806, Schill was actually considered a national hero and, according to the head of the Berlin police, his action was warmly welcomed among the rabble (Granier 1913: 414). But he failed to create the national upheaval that he sought. Members of Schill’s unit reported on the patriotic enthusiasm of the troops and on the many former volunteers who joined the insurrectional army voluntarily (Schwartzkoppen 1889: 62). Leaflets entitled To the Germans tried to mobilize the peasants for insurrection, but without success (Kircheisen 1909: 302).

192 The Prussian moment Schill had relations with the East Prussian League of Virtue (MünchowPohl 1987: 156), the Pomeranian Society of the Friends of the Fatherland and also with leading military reformers such as Clausewitz and Gneisenau, the most comprehensive theorists of insurrectional war. This shows that the idea of an insurrection had spread at least inside the circles of military and political reformers during these years (see the correspondence between Schill, Gneisenau and Blücher in Vaupel 1938: 694–700, 747). The idea of a popular insurrection in Germany against the French occupation was voiced in different memoranda, especially in 1808 and in 1811, and has to be considered as the extreme consequence of ideas about popular arming. As the war to be fought had to be a Volkskrieg (a popular and national war), the release of ‘all the physical and moral forces of the whole nation’ had to involve every citizen, ‘be he member of the army or not, directly or indirectly’, as Scharnhorst stated in a letter to Chancellor Hardenberg (Scharnhorst 1983: 493). It is also significant that plans for an insurrection were usually accompanied by organizational proposals in which secret societies played an essential part. Scharnhorst’s memorandum Organization of an Institution to Prepare and Direct the People to an Insurrection of August 1808 thus contained a detailed list of men of confidence (among them Schill) in the provinces who could organize and direct the popular insurrection (Vaupel 1938: 555–7). The idea of organizing an insurrection bureaucratically is obviously perplexing. But, compared with the above-cited underlying historical concept of a rebirth and recreation of the nation and the state, there is actually some coherence in such an idea. Insurrection would mark the definite end of the old Prussian state and give rise to a morally regenerated new state and new nation. A new political time was thus to begin. Very close to Fichte’s thought, Gneisenau’s proposals were characterized by a ‘universalistic nationalism’.With Luther’s religious reform, Germany had become the place in which religious freedom originated: it was now to become the place and play the role that gave birth to political liberty and perfection of the peoples. Gneisenau proposed, moreover, to make a tabula rasa of the traditional social hierarchies in order to redistribute distinctions according to the patriotic criteria of the new era: nobles who did not show the necessary bravery in war or offer another kind of patriotic sacrifice would lose their titles and ‘those depraved German Princes who will send their troops against us, will be deposed of their thrones and their subjects will elect worthier regents’ (Gneisenau, in Vaupel 1938: 555). What was more, patriotic behaviour and military valour would decide future economic advantages, the wealth of the faint-hearted would be nationalized and distributed among invalided veterans or their widows and orphans. Valorous warriors, on the other hand, would have their mortgages remitted. According to Gneisenau’s plans, the whole economic, social and political structure should be reshaped by the Volkskrieg, that is, national, popular and insurrectional war. The idea of insurrec-

National war and conscription 193 tional war was thus closely connected to the above-mentioned concept of immanent social stratification. The eighteenth-century concept of war had been completely abandoned. War was no longer a morally neutral conflict between princes, with the least possible effect on the political and economic order; instead, war had become a conflict between peoples for principles. Therefore, to be ‘faint-hearted [was] high treason’, and the ‘undecisive and faint-hearted character has to be elevated to a sense of community by the strong will of the government’. All were called on to decide whether to join or oppose: ‘who is not with us is against us’. Neutrality was no longer possible (Gneisenau, in Vaupel 1938: 549). Any kind of order and all present conditions were to cease. By organizing the insurrectional war, the state, as it were, abolished itself. Insurrection was not only an idea that existed in memoranda: it came into juridical existence with the famous Landsturm decree of April 1813, considered the Magna Carta of partisan war (Schmitt 1975: 48), and which is one of the most extraordinary documents in Prussian history: a state that organized its own abolition in a partisan and insurrectional war was certainly a true novelty. As the first article of the decree stated, ‘every citizen is obliged to resist the enemy with weapons of all kinds, not to obey their orders and directives and to harm them by any possible means if they try to enforce them’.155 The Landsturm was, indeed, intended as a real partisan war in which all means were good: the combatants should not be identifiable as such, operate during night and day, attack supplies, reserves and hospitals; occupied territories should be devastated; the enemy threatened by repression and terror in order to protect the Landsturm fighters; all civil servants were severely forbidden to continue their service and were designated to supervise the partisan war at the local level; local leading citizens and property-owners would elect the Schutzdeputationen, the directing committees of the Landsturm, whose task would be to nominate the first commanders of the fighting units: all other officers and non-commissioned officers were to be elected by the fighters themselves. Together with priests and teachers, the Schutzdeputationen were required to continuously control and inspire the rebelling population. The larger national community was thus split up into small units of some 500 fighters and submitted to the most extreme control where any sign of faintheartedness was punishable. During the insurrection, the ‘right over life and death, over possessions and the blood of the inhabitants’ was assumed by these decentralized heads of fighting units (Gneisenau 1984: 180–1). At the same time, however, the mark of sovereign power conferred by this vitae necisque potestas on the insurrectional administrators was, at any moment, conditioned by the fidelity of the latter to the cause of the national community: any disloyalty was punishable by death. Significantly, the right to decide about the Landsturm was not a royal prerogative but was decentralized too. This did not mean, however, that the population was supposed to organize

194 The Prussian moment insurrection spontaneously: unauthorized insurrection was as liable to be punished as mutiny. Only the local authorities were allowed to decide about their self-dissolution in the Landsturm. The insurrection as a state of exception thus dissolved sovereignty in a series of decentralized decisions – from the district commander, to the fighting units, down to the autonomous individual fighter – which were all subordinated to national liberation as the one single goal. This, however, presupposed that consciousness of and consensus about this goal pre-existed or, at least, that the impact of the fragmented communities was sufficient to produce and reproduce consciousness and consensus. Priests were explicitly designated as agents for the promotion of the necessary spirit in the population and, in order to secure their loyalty, it was considered necessary to increase their incomes (Gneisenau 1984: 186). The priest will depict the goodness, justice and humanity of the monarch, as well as the injustices he is exposed to, etc. which strike mostly the simple minds – in doing so, they will relive and broadcast the injustices and sacrileges of the French. (Scharnhorst in Vaupel 1938: 556) But the state also intervened more directly in the shaping of public opinion by promoting journals for soldiers and publishing news from the front (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 36–7). The authorities distributed Arndt’s texts widely among the soldiers (Bezzenberger 1894: 56). Once the decree was issued, the military authorities were immediately to begin the organization of the Landsturm. Organization, however, had to be distinguished from the actual launch; it meant only that preparations for the insurrection had begun. Official correspondence from April 1813 shows that the organization did actually proceed and, with the exception of Silesia, was not considered impossible by the local administrations (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 25–32). For an understanding of the Landsturm, the loss of Prussian military archives is particularly regrettable, since it obliges the historian to rely on ancient studies and source compilations that have to be deconstructed in two ways. There are, on the one hand, historical interpretations insisting on the issue of the national unity of the people behind the king, which tend to obscure the difficulties, tensions and oppositions. On the other, popular arming in the Landsturm was depicted as an extravagant and anarchistic idea of a Prussian elite that was in any case impossible to realize. A telling example not only of the organizational but also of the interpretational problems was the king’s answer to a report by the Silesian military governor Goetzen in May 1813, underlining the difficulties in executing the decree. According to the king, Goetzen had ‘misunderstood or completely misinterpreted the sense’ of the decree. The Landsturm was not intended to fight a regular war, and its organization had thus to differ completely from a military levy:

National war and conscription 195 The main purpose [of the Landsturm was], as you will find out by rereading the decree, is to cause the enemy concern on their exposed flanks, to attack their means of transport and to fight behind their back a partisan war, which will certainly gratify a bunch of peasants since they will find occasions to make a big haul. (cited in Franke 1923: 34–5) Interestingly, an event similar to the French ‘Great Fear’ took place in Prussia too, albeit, on a much smaller scale. On 11 April 1813 the whole Neumark region was on alert because of rumours of a French attack: with lightning speed the rumour spread over villages and towns up to the West-Prussian border; all fit men, young and old, were armed with rifles, spears, scythes, and forks. During the night pikes were forged and bullets cast. The armed units of the towns went to secure the allegedly threatened villages. Everybody was enflamed by a holy enthusiasm to defend the fatherland and to expel violence by violence which had never been seen before. There was a certain harmony of will in all this, and a certain voluntary obedience towards the community commanders’ call which could not be expected from the undisciplined gang of people that was not used to military order. (cited in Blumenthal 1900: 20–1) Other reports also depicted the goodwill of the population (Rühle von Lilienstern 1815: 35), not only in Prussia but also in other German territories (Pflugk-Harttung: 1913b: 62–3). However, there were contradictory reports that highlighted the undisciplined behaviour of the population, complaining about ‘licence, disobedience and mischief’ instead of calm and good behaviour (Rühle von Lilienstern 1815: 39). But it seems above all that the authorities were not very zealous in the organization of popular arming (Blumenthal 1900: 27). Many reports complained that the higher classes, especially in the capital, showed particular reluctance towards popular arming: the Berlin Magistrat tried to decelerate popular mobilization (Blumenthal 1900: 32, 70–3) and the bourgeoisie tried to escape from the capital (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 32). In Silesia, the Landsturm had been hardly organized at all, chiefly due to the reluctance of the local administration (Franke 1923: 75). According to a report by the military authorities ‘many people [in the administration] are convinced that the decree is not aimed at being realized’ (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 34). The Landsturm, however, had not only been organized in most parts of Prussia, but sometimes sprang into action, either by preventing French troops from looting, or by acting as auxiliaries for operations of the standing army (Blumenthal 1900: 134–40). For the population, however, these attempts at launching a partisan war could have serious consequences (Franke 1923: 51). Without giving any details, in May the Berlin military

196 The Prussian moment authorities reported to the chancellor that Hessian peasants had tried mounting an insurrection against the occupying forces, who had treated them with great cruelty (Pflugk-Harttung 1913b: 62–3). Similar statements were made by a local Silesian Landsturm commander, who complained that the enemy had acted in a particularly brutal way after discovering evidence of the organization (Blumenthal 1900: 30). From the point of view of international law, French troops were certainly entitled to treat the insurrectional population as unlawful combatants. Wearing no uniforms and thus not identifiable as combatants, the Landsturm fighters stood outside any juridically guaranteed order. The norms of protection of the civil population that had progressively – at least in principle – come to be acknowledged in the eighteenth century, were inapplicable to them as civilians. From the point of view of international law, the Volkskrieg fighter was thus in a position strictly analogous to the revolutionary in the domestic realm: both were, by definition, beyond any law.

Constitution and terror The disagreements to which the decree over the Landsturm gave rise were especially evident in the capital. The Berlin Landsturmausschuß (Landsturm commission) had been particularly active in its national zeal156 and was compared by its critics to the French Committee of Public Salvation and, more generally to Jacobinism (Pertz 1869: 84). In Berlin every citizen and male family member had to serve in civic battalions.157 It was, however, possible to hire a substitute, but only in very urgent cases and with special permission. Illness was one reason permission was granted, as well as ‘important and definite losses of wealth’.158 The inevitable effect of this was that almost the only people to serve belonged to the lower classes. And since the main task of the Berlin Landsturm was to work at the fortification of the city, these works were done in an atmosphere of a popular celebration in the countryside instead of with military discipline (Kloeden 1874: 309, 317–18): the bourgeoisie and the local police authorities were terrified. The ‘Jacobin’ Berlin Landsturm commission, directed by Professor Savigny and the future Minister Eichhorn, was defined in a police report as being in dangerous opposition to the government and ‘lacking all notions of obedience and submission owed’ to the monarchy.159 According to a protest by the Berlin police commander Lecoq of 26 June 1813, the mobilized people of the common classes in particular ‘drew erroneous conclusions from the principle of equality’ and increasingly ‘lacked respect and submission’ towards the constituted authorities. A ‘spirit of sedition and inclination to resistance’ grew ‘under the disguise of patriotism’. Popular arming, in this case, tended to lead to the direct opposite of social discipline: enhanced by their honour as defenders of the fatherland, the common people in the Landsturm ‘called authoritarian

National war and conscription 197 conditions into question and threw off civil subordination towards the authorities’ (Lecoq, in Blumenthal 1900: 41). The authorities in the capital called urgently for a change in ‘measures that organized and trained the armed people in the use of their collective power and gave them specific popular authorities’ besides the existing powers, and thus the potential to ‘put the whole state and its constitution into insurrection and civic disorders’ (Lecoq, in Blumenthal 1900: 51). These concerns of the local police authorities were increasingly shared by the high-level central bureaucracy. By February, a memorandum had already insisted on the necessity for the government to remain in control of popular arming, since otherwise property would be in danger. Accordingly, the Landsturm ‘had to be directed by civil servants, and by the educated and rich’, and only property-owners were to be armed. But it was above all Hardenberg’s collaborator Scharnweber who, in a series of memoranda, developed the most comprehensive argument against popular arming in the Landsturm.160 His arguments are to be read as directly opposed to Gneisenau’s and Clausewitz’s. According to Scharnweber, a partisan war as intended in the Landsturm would signify the end of the state and thus ‘the end of all civil order’. In contrast to the promoters of insurrectional war, Scharnweber held that this would cause the ‘degeneration of the people into barbarism’, since the release of the rabble from all authoritarian bonds would inevitably put personal freedom and security at risk. Also, on the economic level, all activities would necessarily cease with the insurrection and the country would descend into poverty. The peril would be even greater if the whole rabble were armed, because in this case Prussia ran the risk of losing ‘by her complete political annihilation, honour, freedom, fatherland, wives and children, possessions and lives, and everything that gives any value to earthly life’. In a generalized partisan war, the opponent would have the right to treat the whole population as enemies. Scharnweber thus advocated maintaining the separation of tasks between the different estates: fighting the war was the mission of the army, while the other classes of society were needed to produce and to administrate the necessary wealth to sustain the army and to ensure the conditions for production. This meant foremost that the country’s existing structures must not be abandoned in case of occupation, as was ordered by the Landsturm decree: ‘Justice and police shall never cease if persons and possessions are not to be exposed to the rabble.’ As can be seen, Scharnweber’s arguments relied on a political philosophy that was completely incompatible with the spirit of insurrection as professed primarily by Gneisenau – the ‘Prussian skirmisher’ as described by Engels (Engels 1971: 205). On the terminological level, Scharnweber’s use of the concept of Person (person) is noteworthy, since it was unusual: the administrative language of the period used Untertan (subject), Individuum (individual), Einwohner (inhabitant) and, to a lesser degree, Staatsbürger (citizen). Significantly, in Scharmweber’s memoranda, Person was

198 The Prussian moment associated with possession or property and connoted a link with the economic sphere, inasmuch as it was protected by a political order. In contrast to Gneisenau, Scharnweber’s memoranda spoke of citizens only in association with the military. The objective of his memoranda can thus be described as a defence of the person against a citizen who was intrinsically conceived as a soldier. Against Scharnweber, Gottfried von Hippel, the presumed author of the Landsturm decree, describes the people as essentially reliable for the defence of the social order, and he insists on its ideological coherence (see Bach 1863; Franke 1923: 10). In contrast to Scharnweber’s legal argumenta, Hippel argues from the moral point of view, stressing the goodness and reliability of the people. According to him, resistance against popular arming came only from Berlin and from Silesia, and in both cases from three classes of the population, from big merchants and manufacturers, high-ranking civil servants and the very low rabble (Blumenthal 1900: 111). The moral argument is thus sociologically situated, and what can be seen in this account is a displacement of the social position of the people. That the construction of the people as unified body politic relied on the distinction of the people from the rabble was already evident. In addition to this distinction towards the bottom (people as against rabble), Hippel now introduced a symmetrical distinction towards the top (people against elites): the subject of the political body is neither the rabble nor the rich and powerful but what Aristotle called to meson161 and what would today be called the middle classes (see Rancière 1998: 29). The body politic is thus conceptually purified from the impact of economic egoism, both of the very rich and of the very poor, and centred on the social group in which the idea of Bildung was incarnate, the middle classes. In Scharnweber’s criticism, the political order guaranteed by the state thus played a very different role from the constitutionalism in Gneisenau’s account. According to Gneisenau, the citizen was a monadic part of the organic unity of the people; whereas in Scharnweber’s view the national unity of the persons was mediated through the impact of property, and thus by the political, juridical and economic nexus that constituted this property politically through its juridical protection. Scharnweber, in other words, employed an argument that anticipated the separation criticized by Marx of the bourgeois person (l’homme) from the political citizen (le citoyen) (Marx 1843). It is thus no exaggeration to say that Scharnweber’s conception of the state was, in the last instance, economically founded. The Volkskrieg as advocated by Gneisenau, on the other hand, was obviously the most direct negation of this concept of the state since it radically subordinated not only the economy to politics but envisaged the deliberate destruction of economic resources for military purposes. Rühle von Lilienstern, the future head of the Prussian General Staff, may be considered as having opened up a path to an intermediate position between Gneisenau and Scharnweber. He followed Gneisenau’s unitary argument

National war and conscription 199 by criticizing the conceptual and political separation between der Mensch (the human being) and der Bürger (the civic bourgeois). But while human beings were defined by their moral interiority and the bourgeois by private property, both remained attached to the sphere of the particular in opposition to the universal, which is embodied in the state. This mediating third term was the family (Rühle von Lilienstern 1810: 95–6). This intuitive reference to the collective was fruitful. Making use of the family metaphor of politics permitted him not only to overcome the singular–universal dichotomy in a collectivistic concept typical of romanticism, but also to inscribe the objectives of the new era into a traditional conceptual framework and thus into continuity. On the political level, this created the possibility of linking the revolutionary principle of nationalism to the idea of the monarchy. All those issues – the articulation of the economy to politics, organic unity and class stratification of the body politic, the family metaphor of politics, and the monarchy – were expressed with perfect clarity in a poem written on the occasion of military reserve exercises in 1837. So kömmt’s denn, daß im Reich/Der Wohlstand muß gedeihen,/Die Tugend wird erhöht;/Das Laster wird verscheucht./O, wie glücklich, du Preußenland,/Wo jeder lebt vergnügt/Im hohen und niedern Stand. //Wir alle sind des Volkes Söhne,/Das seinen König ehrt/Mit Gehorsam und Treu/Und diese harmonischen Töne/Sind ja durch Tat bewährt.162 This romanticizing harmony of the 1830s, however, was not only perceived as a military model, but was dialectically derived from the national insurrection war. This war revealed the dark side of this harmony: Volkskrieg actually implied an element that can be labelled terrorism in the domestic sphere and total war on the international level. As the insurrectional war existed merely on the paper of the Landsturm decree, there was no real Prussian terreur, but its potential was intrinsically embodied in the concept of insurrection. It would be exaggerating to consider the wars of liberation of 1813–15 as total wars, but, in this case, the totality of war was objectively contained in its historical presuppositions. The possibility of terror was already implied in the disposition that, after the retreat of the state, the power over life and death would be assumed by the Landsturm. In practice, the issue became urgent in Berlin, where police authorities complained that ‘honourable citizens were driven to prison and exposed to the scorn of the rabble because of insignificant mischief or sometimes of resistance towards presumptuous orders’ (Blumenthal 1900: 50). Article 25 of the Landsturm decree conferred on the Landsturm authorities the right to judge numerous offences – of which several were punishable by death – but contained no rules about procedures, thus possibly allowing arbitrary judgments. In order to remedy this, in June 1813 the Berlin

200 The Prussian moment Landsturm commission issued an Instruction for Procedure for Inquiries and Punishments of Offences in the Landsturm, but its stipulations were in many cases contrary to Prussian law. In insurrection, the traditional separation between police and politics tended thus to be destroyed in practice. The administration, however, tried to uphold the distinction by subordinating the Landsturm to police authorities (Blumenthal 1900: 123). The second aspect of the historical transformation of these years, the totality of war, was recognized by many contemporaries. Clausewitz was foremost in evolving theories for its military and political implications (see Herberg-Rothe 2001). In the framework of eighteenth-century military and political theory, revolutionary wars were perceived as the barbaric anachronism of a ‘war of opinions’ (Eckert 1955: 39). The absolutist state, as consolidated after the religious wars of the seventeenth century, may be considered as having separated state policy from religious or political opinions. This was achieved by limiting the political sphere to providing an external framework for society while progressively withdrawing it from the internal moral space of the individual’s convictions. As a result, the state was unable to mobilize or to rely on the citizens’ allegiance on moral issues. To balance this, the absolutist separation between politics and opinion permitted a successful limitation of violence in war. With the Revolution, the basis for such a limitation faded away. Potentially mobilizing a whole population by political conviction was perceived as the return of the unholy war of opinion, with its potential for unchained violence, thought to have been prevented by the progress of civilization within the political framework of the state (see Höhn 1944: 122). Conversely, the limitation of violence by the absolutist state was perceived by contemporaries as also reducing the strength of nations in general. The German reaction to the revolutionary and Napoleonic wars noted that disciplined Prussian soldiers were powerless against the unchained natural powers of uncouth French peasants running wild with their idols of liberty, equality and fraternity. War thus became ‘much less scholarly but much more terrible, since all men, all women, all children were soldiers and enemies’ (Eckert 1955: 44–5). Following the same line of argument, Napoleon’s campaigns were described as ‘partisan war on a larger scale’ (Hahlweg 1962: 14). In order to win against such an enemy, it was necessary to appropriate their means: ‘the enemy ensures that such a fight has to be a struggle of total destruction’, Altenstein pointed out (Vaupel 1938: 424). The Prussian view of the partisan war was inspired primarily by experiences in the Vendée, in Tyrol and Spain. Major Grolman, who had been a member of the Military Reorganization Commission and later fought in Spain against the French, described in a letter to Gneisenau the advantages of partisan tactics: even if the French occupied almost three-quarters of Spain, they control nevertheless only the places in which they actually have big

National war and conscription 201 troops; moreover no French soldier can go away a quarter of a mile from his troop, otherwise he will be shot. (Eckert 1955: 181) If the soldiers of the French Revolution were depicted as uncultivated and coarse, these characteristics applied even more to the Spaniards. Insurrectional Spain was a backward country, in which the ‘spirit of philosophy of the eighteenth century which had been one of the causes of the French Revolution’ had had no impact. As a consequence, ‘Spaniards were religious and warlike, but not a military people, they even abhorred and scorned all regular troops’ (Eckert 1955: 163–6). Their lack of civilization, however, was the very reason for their success against French occupation. Religious faith and pride in their traditional lifestyle released the enormous amounts of energy needed for such a conflict. However, violence was also unleashed. ‘Each enemy soldier or troop to be overwhelmed is to be killed’ stated the East Prussian estates in their plan for popular arming (Bezzenberger 1894: 17). Military theorists and especially Clausewitz were explicit about the necessary link between insurrectional war and brutalization. The occupying forces would consider the partisans irregular fighters and treat them as such. This, however, would not discourage the population but incite them to retaliation: atrocities would escalate on both sides, which in the long run would be a disadvantage for the occupying forces, since they had fewer human resources at their disposal (Clausewitz 1966: 733–4).163 The ‘little’, that is, partisan war thus became an integral part of Prussian military strategy. In an 1818 instruction manual for officers, the future head of the General Staff described partisan tactics as a natural consequence of the Prussian reforms that were ‘not just a useful complement to the major operations, but on the contrary an essential and permanent element of warfare’ (Rühle von Lilienstern 1818: 6). The army, however, generally maintained an ambiguous relationship to the ‘little war’ (see Boyen 1899: vol. 2, 52) since the latter was in obvious contradiction to its institutional monopolization of violence.164 The escalation of violence in national war can be grasped concretely through personal sources, especially those from 1812 to 1814. The accounts of German soldiers in the Napoleonic army are already full of descriptions of looting and brutalization, both in East Prussia and in Russia (Giesse 1912: 92). When the defeated French army returned from Russia, however, the population seems to have better distinguished the nationalities of its soldiers: in Poland, Germans were in danger of mistreatment, in Prussia, they were welcomed as friends, whereas their French comrades were often mishandled (Martens 1862: 235–8). The recognition of the enemy according to national boundaries seemed to have become self-evident. In national war, the identification with a national community and the complementary classification of the enemy nation was experienced in practice. According to a Prussian officer’s

202 The Prussian moment description of a battle in 1813, the Prussians and the French stood for an instant at two metres’ distance, then the soldier reversed his rifle and beat into the French with the butt . . . after 10 minutes, the whole quarrée lay beaten up on the ground, forming a pyramid. Some 150 living and slightly wounded found their way out of the human heap, struck down. (Knobelsdorff-Brenkenhoff 1981: 64) What particularly shocked the soldiers was not so much the violence committed in battle, but the looting and ravaging of countries and mistreatment of the civil population. Theodor Janke, a volunteer in 1813 and civil servant in civilian life, described in letters to his bride the disasters of war and the devastations committed not only by the enemy but also by his own army. The brutality, however, was considered as being inherent in national Vernichtungskrieg (war of destruction). But he wondered nevertheless what the social consequences of these massive de-civilizing experiences would be (Janke 1910: 40, 74). Thomas Gottschall, who had been serving in the standing army since 1809, complained particularly about the behaviour of the bourgeois voluntary riflemen, ‘those thieving defenders of the fatherland [who] did their mischief excessively’. Interestingly, it was the account of a soldier of the standing army that showed awareness of the disastrous effects of the escalation of violence between peoples. During the campaign in France in 1814, the inhabitants of a certain French town contributed to the defence of their town, with the result that their houses were looted and the town burned: ‘We saw a great military drama. . . . The inhabitants had helped defend the town and were now bitterly punished for this. What bitterness will be the consequence of this?’165 This source reveals an awareness of the totalization of national war in which the whole population was not only potentially mobilized, but also became potential victims of war. Some of the early criticisms of conscription were inspired by this decivilizing and barbarian impact of the nationalization of war. Historians often cited the claims against conscription made by Oberpräsident Vincke in a letter to Stein in 1808 (see Frevert 2004: 16). For Vincke, conscription was intrinsically barbaric and ‘the grave of all culture, of science and trade, of civil liberty and human beatitude’ since soldiers became physically and morally corrupted by military service. Vincke announced that he would quit Prussian service if conscription were established, because he was attached to a state in which ‘human beings are left spaces of freedom, where they are recognized as ends instead of being debased to mere means and machines of blind obedience’ (Vaupel 1938: 598–601). This virulent attack on conscription is much more ambiguous than it may appear, since Vincke based his refusal on arguments that were strangely similar to those used by the promoters of conscription: liberty, autonomy

National war and conscription 203 of the individual and its recognition as an end instead of a means. This political credo would have been shared by Gneisenau, Scharnhorst or any other military reformer. Vincke in fact did not resign from Prussian service. The argument’s nexus or the presumed contradiction between conscription and culture had, however, some impact in the debate – but in a sense other than in Vincke’s argument. Hardenberg’s influential memorandum from Riga had already constructed a positive link between warfare and culture, stating that ‘each important improvement of the art of war is also an important progress of culture’ (Winter 1931: 413). The most interesting argument in the debate, however, remains Major Lossau’s March 1808 memorandum, Thoughts on the Military Organization of the Prussian Monarchy. According to Lossau, the totalization of war and its consequences could in no way lead back to barbarism. The clash of the unleashed national forces would certainly become more violent but, once this kind of military organization had been established all over Europe, wars would be less likely as well as shorter. From these ideas, already to be found in thinkers such as Guibert, Lossau draws a conclusion that seems to anticipate Walter Benjamin’s famous dictum about the link between barbarism and culture: ‘If war (as it is likely) will continue to happen among the human race, this fact seems to prove that the extremes of the greatest barbarism and the finest culture may converge’ (Vaupel 1938: 343–4). Even these extreme formulations, however, were perfectly in tune with the ideological basis of conscription as a channelled form of popular arming. A pamphlet by Ferdinand Delbrück in favour of the Landsturm decree expressed very similar convictions in a more positive way, sketching a virtuous circle from the release of restrictions and the growth of the national force towards autonomy, liberty and morality, instead of seeing a vicious circle of decline into barbarism. In order to win the national war, the Prussian government had to increase Willkür (liberty or arbitrariness) by removing ‘barriers to courage and malice’. The idea that unleashing the forces of the nation could have the positive effect of inspiring courage and the negative one of encouraging malice, cruelty, and vindictiveness was thus clearly expressed. The risk, however, was worth taking, since the Prussian people were depicted as essentially good. Moreover, by fighting a war against Napoleonic France, they were somewhat more than themselves, since the war did not only oppose one nation to another, but was percieved as a clash between two contradicting models of civilization. The Prussian soldier was thus characterized not only as Prussian or even German, but as a Christian European, defending a social order and a religion (Delbrück 1813: 6, 20–1). The release of social restrictions, the increase in popular and national forces, the goodness of the people and the greatness of the goal thus function in the debate as mutually enforcing elements that elevate the individual and the state to ever greater degrees of perfection of personal autonomy, political freedom and social morality. Regardless of the different conclusions they drew, the

204 The Prussian moment conceptual ground from which Delbrück’s virtuous and Scharnweber’s vicious circles were conceived was thus remarkably similar.

Popular arming The example of East Prussia, where a Landwehr had been organized by an autonomous action of the provincial estates (see supra: pp. 188–9), was followed by the whole country. In February 1813 all exemptions from canton conscription were suspended for the time of the war. In practice, this meant that all those who had been exempted in the 1792 Kantonreglement were invited to join a unit of voluntary riflemen in order to avoid being drafted into regular units.166 In March the government issued decrees in which Prussian citizens were called to the colours in order to defend the fatherland. The most famous of these was the king’s request to the people to take up arms, An mein Volk (To my people), issued on 17 March 1813, which fully endorsed the rhetoric and arguments of the reform bureaucracy. The monarchical principle is directly linked to nationalistic topoi, and the necessity of individual sacrifice is justified by the higher end of the fight for the Prussian and German cause. Moreover, the fight was described as the final combat – not for humanity as a whole, but for a certain national ‘us’ (Friedrich Wilhelm III 1813). It is striking to observe the similarities between the rhetoric used in Prussia in spring 1813 and that of revolutionary France. As was the case of revolutionary France, the Prussian fatherland was in danger (Pflugk-Harttung 1913a: 9). The fight was perceived as the regeneration of a whole population after an oppressive foreign occupation, and its outcome would be to mingle a heterogeneous population into a unified people (Arndt 1813: 33). There were, however, also significant differences in the Prussian account, both with regard to the internal contradictions of the very concept of the nation – the concept of a Prussian fatherland being perceived as a contradictio in adjecto, since Prussia was by definition a part of the larger entity of Germany – and with regard to the articulation of the partly contradictory ideological foundations of monarchy or nationalism. In 1812, the radical publicist Arndt had actually subordinated the monarchical principle to the will of the nation, arguing that the naturally existing cultural bonds of the people existed prior to, and were thus superior to, the existing political form ruling the people. The nation, in short, existed prior to the monarchy. In order to reach this conclusion, however, Arndt had to draw on the religious connotations of the concept of the nation: there were universally valid religious principles in the human consciousness prior to any positive right, and the national community stemmed precisely from these commonly shared moral principles (Arndt 1988: 11). In 1813 Arndt’s argument was slightly different. Now, the king and the nation were depicted as identical, each representing the other: ‘a veritable state has emerged, the king and the subjects have become the same; under the

National war and conscription 205 reign of such love all orders [Befehle] cease to be’ (Arndt 1813: 39). The exterior form of political authority had been exchanged for a situation where individuals experienced a sense of spontaneous belonging to the nation and it was no longer necessary to direct the citizens by orders since they were themselves the source and the support of moral and political norms. In the Decree concerning the Organization of the Landwehr issued the same day as the general appeal to arms, the king affirmed this principle explicitly: ‘my cause is the cause of my people and of all men of good will in Europe’.167 This spontaneous coincidence between royalty and nation, however, was very fragile and could easily be reversed in one or the other direction. In an anonymous Credo of the Prussian Landwehr from 1831, the people and the king are still portrayed as identical, but the individual is perceived as being part of the fatherland only inasmuch as he is ‘appointed’ as such by the king.168 Returning to an older and in the last instance religious conception, the king creates the people by ‘interpelling the individuals into citizens’ (see Althusser 1976 and Butler 1997: 106–31). The establishment of the Landwehr by the East Prussian estates was the first step towards a permanent institution of popular arming. The organization of the Landwehr was, in this respect, a compromise between the insurrectional popular arming and partisan war of the Landsturm on the one hand and the standing army on the other. The provincial estates in East Prussia had characterized the institution as a ‘standing National Guard’ and the ‘first contingent of the nation’, whose task was to inculcate and to express gemeinsamer Volkssinn (a common national and popular spirit) instead of a selfish bourgeois attitude (Bezzenberger 1894: 15). The royal decree stipulated that officers would be elected at a regional level, insisting nevertheless on the request that only men who were best qualified by their education and law-abiding nature should become officers in the Landwehr.169 While in 1813 access to officer ranks in the Landwehr was thus socially open, the 1815 Landwehrordnung restricted access to these positions of command to former officers of the line army, those who had served as voluntary riflemen during the war, non-commissioned officers who were also landowners and, finally, local bourgeois with a fortune of at least 10,000 thalers.170 The structure of command, in short, was to echo the social hierarchies. As for military exercises, the instructions explicitly stated that constraint and severity should be avoided.171 In contrast to the Landsturm, the Landwehr actually participated in combat and was, according to contemporary judgement, quite successful on the military level. Newspapers reported the king awarding medals to these battalions to reward their bravery, the units being able to confront the French army after only four weeks of military training (Lampe 1920: 70, 95). According to the authorities, the appeals to the population to take up arms had some success,172 and personal documents reveal evidence of enthusiasm in the population (Rellstab 1861: 169). It is reported that in

206 The Prussian moment some regions levies were superfluous due to the great number of volunteers (Berger 1926: 57). The government abolished the age limits for voluntary enlistment173 and awarded special rewards to civil servants joining the army voluntarily.174 It thus seems that the idea of the fatherland was perceived as something worth fighting for which, had had a certain impact on individual behaviour – even if the individuals drew different practical conclusions from the idea according to their personal situation and their political convictions. However, other sources mention a certain contempt for the Landwehr (Herre 1914: 217). The interpretation of voluntary enlistments in 1813–15 thus remains highly controversial. The views of older nationalistic German historiography, according to which an outbreak of spontaneous national unity took place during these years, have effectively been challenged by research undertaken since the 1970s (Ibbeken 1970: 393–439 and Frevert 2004: 24–5). Despite this, however, it remains true that the idea of death for the fatherland, hardly conceivable at the time of Thomas Abbt, had become acceptable to society (see Münchow-Pohl 1987: 426). Once more, there are striking similarities with the French Revolution: in both cases, the idea that the fatherland required the participation of all became the pivot of the debate and had, as such, an undeniable impact on behaviour. This is obviously not to argue that a whole population joined the army voluntarily. There was, undeniably, much resistance. In April 1813, 11 villages in the region around Neustettin actively resisted the Landwehr levy. Fearing that the ‘spirit of insurrection’ could spread over the whole region, the authorities decided on military coercion and to imprison the ringleaders in a military fortress.175 Chancellor Hardenberg instructed the local authorities to punish severely this disregard of duty, which stemmed from a ‘lack of intellectual conception about the duties of subjects’.176 Despite former regulations stipulating that resistance to enlistment in armed civic corps was not to be punishable according to military law,177 Hardenberg ordered that the ringleaders be judged by military courts and the others brought to their senses by a couple of weeks of military drill. A ‘completely unpatriotic and unwarlike spirit’ was furthermore detected in Silesia, where the local authorities were also accused of lacking loyalty towards the government in matters of recruitment.178 But even in the residential town of Potsdam, the hostile reactions of the population to Landwehr recruitment worried the police authorities (Eckert 1955: 245). Moreover, in contrast to the expectations of the Military Reorganization Commission that desertion would cease with the establishment of universal conscription, the king decreed in December 1813 that Article 18 of the code of military punishment outlawing corporal punishment would be suspended during the war. In order to reduce the growing number of desertions,179 deserters should be punished with 50 to 100 strokes and six weeks of confinement and, in the case of recidivism, by death.180 Polish-speaking inhabitants were considered to be especially

National war and conscription 207 inclined to desert or to resist enlistment passively. Stirred up against the fatherland by their Roman Catholic priests, the Polish-speaking peasants were depicted as resembling animals rather than human beings: ‘Regardless of the very great limitation of their understanding and without any concept of religion, these people have been occupied exclusively with cattle breeding and before their enlistment they have been with more animals than human beings.’181 Corporal punishment would therefore be more appropriate for them than confinement to a fortress. The West Prussian military government reported to Chancellor Hardenberg that the whole Polish population fled to the woods in order to escape Landwehr recruitment. As a result, the government ordered the suspension of the organization of the Landwehr for this population,182 but also that efforts should be made to capture these people by surprise and force, to drill them in a fortress and to enlist them in the regular army instead of in the Landwehr.183 However, even if there was resistance and reluctance towards military service, the idea that a population had to fight for their fatherland in time of war was becoming predominant. It may be argued that in 1813–14, two trends of influence were combined and that the outcome of this combination was the Prussian conscription law of 1814. The first of these trends is the continuity of military obligation since the eighteenth century and its progressive expansion to the whole male population; the second is the properly revolutionary heritage of popular arming. Even if the Landwehr in East Prussia was organized by the provincial estates, and thus by traditional dominant strata, it should not be overlooked that their action echoed insurrectional tendencies already extant in the population. This fact is strikingly highlighted by the case of the high-ranking civil servant Lüttwitz who, on 12 November 1812, submitted a memorandum stating that the people had the right ‘to reconquer, even without the king’s request, the independence that is lost or had been given up’. Arrested on Hardenberg’s orders for words that came close to high treason, Lüttwitz argued in his defence that the people would stand up by themselves if the government would not act (Lehmann 1886–7: vol. 2, 477). He did not specify whether the insurrection would be directed against the French occupying forces that were ravaging the East Prussian countryside or against the Prussian government that was actively collaborating with the French. The central bureaucracy, however, obviously feared that the two would go hand in hand. In the light of this consideration, the organization of the Landwehr in 1813 may be seen as the reappropriation of existing insurrectional tendencies by the constituted authorities. This reappropriation also implied a channelling, since popular arming under state control would be directed exclusively against the external enemy rather than against the domestic government. In the logic of reappropriation, the already existing institutions of the Bürgergarden (civic guards) were transformed into Landwehr battalions (Müller 1876: 142). The

208 The Prussian moment continuity between insurrection and conscription was also clearly expressed within the group of military reformers in an anonymous memorandum written in 1807 (Vaupel 1938: 88). Moreover, conservative circles were also highly conscious of the continuity between the two: for example, the Prince of Prussia argued for the suppression of the Landwehr in a later memorandum (Lehmann 1897: 1451). However, if the establishment of the Landwehr is to be considered a reappropriation of insurrectional tendencies by the state, the institution also served as a laboratory for new forms of discipline and military tactics to be adopted in the standing army too. This primarily concerned the Prussian adoption of the French invention of skirmishing tactics, which necessitated a less rigid combat formation than the one in force in the standing army. The regulation for the infantry Landwehr fighters from 1813 thus stated that the third line of combat formation is intended for scattered combat. Accordingly, this third line had to be entirely free, without marching in rank-and-file or regulated forms of carrying and loading weapons.184 The interpretation of a reappropriation of insurrectional tendencies by the state is also backed by personal accounts, from both the rank-and-file and officers. The issue is generally problematized in terms of an enthusiasm against order, and both official (Rühle von Lilienstern 1815: 35) and personal accounts (Dannenberg 1913: 17) adopted the topos. Landwehr Lieutenant Fischer wrote in a letter to his wife that ‘the frame of mind of my people is the best I could wish . . . it would be desirous if they were better exercised, so that I could direct them with more confidence, but I think that goodwill can substitute for everything’.185 Friedrich Harkort made similar observations, arguing, however, that discipline and order were established more easily because the ‘teachers were no masters of drill and discipline of the old school and the time before Jena, but neighbours, or at least known and open-minded fellows who took up arms out of patriotism alone’ (Berger 1926: 58). Professional officers also acknowledged that the Landwehr was a ‘truly national troop in which each single individual was animated by the will to fight for the salvation of the fatherland, to win and to take vengeance on the oppressors’ even if ‘the bunch of 200 people lacked everything [necessary] for being a soldier, except goodwill’ (Borcke 1888: 294). And even Barthold Georg Niebuhr, who had considered the proposals for conscription in 1808 as a threat to all culture and commerce (see supra: p. 183), praised the morality, religiosity and order of the 1813 Prussian volunteers. The fact that the army had become national had, according to him, the salutary effect that the higher classes came into contact with the ‘pure souls of the people’, and that service in a national army was morally good for the lower classes (Niebuhr 1926: 298–9, 421).

National war and conscription 209

Conscription The experience of popular arming in the war of 1813 was institutionalized the following year in legislation that would remain the basis for Prussian conscription until the 1860s. Historians have often insisted on the fact that the reformers had to face serious disputes in order to have not only the popular arming of 1813 but also the 1814 legislation accepted, and it is actually instructive to remember that conservative circles in the army and at the royal court were firmly opposed to such ‘Jacobin’ measures as conscription. Military service was equated with popular arming and both considered as the continuation of anarchistic democracy in the domain of the military.186 It was above all Boyen, the newly appointed Minister of War and a former student of Kant, who succeeded in persuading the king to sign the act of conscription (Meinecke 1896–9: vol. 1, 304–6). Like the 1798 French conscription act, the law interpreted the establishment of a universal military duty as an institutionalization of the population’s taking up arms spontaneously, thus disavowing any coercive character to the obligation.187 The state, in short, interpreted its action as an orderly expression of the will of the nation. At the same time, however, Article 4 also described the army as the ‘Haupt-Bildungsschule der ganzen Nation’ (the main educating instance of the whole nation), which may be seen as contradicting the idea of the army as an expression of the nation. This logical circle, however, in which the nation constituted the army and the army the nation, reflected the idea of a mutual Bildung – in its threefold meaning of education, formation and constitution – of the contradictory parts in an evolving perspective. In practice, the law stipulated that every inhabitant above the age of 20 was obliged to defend the fatherland (Article 1). The obligation was for three years in the active standing army, followed by two years in the reserve (Article 6), six years in the first contingent of the Landwehr (Article 8) and, finally, eight years in the second contingent (Article 10) and thus lasted until the age of 39. As a continuation of the units of voluntary riflemen created in 1813, young people from the educated classes who were wealthy enough to pay for their equipment and uniforms were offered easier conditions. They had to serve only one year in the standing army and were to afterwards become officers in the Landwehr (Article 7). These educated young people were to be treated ‘according to their condition’,188 and the officers and non-commissioned officers were expected to help their careers in becoming noncommissioned officers after three months of service and officers after one year. Further, they were excused from tiresome garrison work and keeping watch (Bagensky 1844: 37, 43). This institutionalization of popular arming and military duties in the form of conscription made it necessary for previously existing institutions, such as the civic guards, to be gradually dissolved. This was an issue particularly in the newly acquired and formerly French regions on the Rhine,

210

The Prussian moment

where former French legislation continued to exist.189 The government ordered that the Prussian legal authorities were not to prosecute infringements of the French conscription law.190 The state hesitated for a couple of years191 between contradictory considerations: on the one hand, the employment of civic guards for police tasks was considered to be relatively inexpensive192 but, on the other hand, the mixture of military functions with police tasks was considered as incongruent both by local authorities193 and by high representatives of the state (Boyen 1899: vol. 1, 350). Moreover, people were usually reluctant to accept the obligation to keep watch, and local authorities reported that the civic guards had in any case ceased to exist.194 Despite the inclusive ideology, the obligation to do military service was never truly universal since the army was not able to draft all physically fit young men. The military authorities thus fixed a certain number of conscripts to be drafted and delegated the task of selection among potential conscripts to the local recruitment commissions, composed of military and civil officials.195 Also, the criteria of physical fitness were so strict that a significant number of young men were declared ineligible.196 Moreover, the fact that local commissions were charged with selection engendered corruption, and complaints by the local authorities attest that fraud was widespread.197 During the 1820s, the discrepancy between the number of available young men and the needs of the army became greater (Frevert 2004: 49) and a lottery system was established in 1825.198 Despite affirmations in the conscription law that conscription was the wish of the whole nation, there was in fact resistance almost everywhere. It is noteworthy that promoters of the popular arming in 1813 were also opposed to universal conscription (Arndt 1988: 15), arguing that the peacetime soldier was a ‘trivial figure’ (Berger 1926: 60). Moreover, almost all pressure groups tried to negotiate easier conditions for their members. The nobility argued that the conscription of nobles would be ‘a great blow to the estate’.199 After having questioned the Ministry,200 the local authorities replied that ‘every citizen’ was subject to conscription, thus including nobles.201 In practice, however, the aristocracy was de facto exempt, at least in the early years.202 The same de facto exemptions applied to teachers, since the government considered that the lack of qualified candidates made it necessary for teachers to continue in their original profession.203 The military authorities estimated that teachers were in the majority weak people whose physical condition made them unattractive for the military.204 The same applied to theologians.205 The ecclesiastical authorities had tried in vain to insist that priests and students of theology be exempted, arguing that the military estate is the least compatible with the spiritual vocation and [that] in one or two years all necessary qualities for a theologian would be lost. As a consequence, he would either be lost to the church or – if he remains firm in his former convictions – he would never become a good soldier.206

National war and conscription 211 It is worth noting, however that dissent arose between the various branches of the government about these exemptions for teachers and theologians, since the Ministries of the Interior207 and of War208 were opposed to the attempts of the Ministry of Culture to exempt teachers and priests de jure from military service.209 Only the temporary lack of young theologians could justify their not being drafted, since any legislation about exemptions would damage the military system, whose value relied on a universal military duty for all physically fit young people.210 It can generally be observed that the administration held that the military duty should be universal: it was thus opposed to conferring any legal rights to potential conscripts entitling them to exemption.211 This standpoint, however, did not exclude generous concessions to particular social groups as long as no legal entitlements were involved. The Ministry of the Interior thus agreed, for instance, to the exemption of rich Dutch merchants living in Cleve.212 In almost every case, single sons were also exempted.213 Towns tried to achieve general immunity for their populations,214 arguing that the 1813 mobilization had proved that the population could be ready to fight a war in a couple of weeks and that regular military training was thus unnecessary.215 Having failed to secure full immunity, they tried to have the contingent reduced at least,216 arguing that inhabitants of big towns were generally less healthy than the rural population.217 Industrialists claimed that drafting would threaten hundreds of workers with unemployment218 and, as early as 1812, local administrators had complained that enlistment had caused a manpower drain.219 The local authorities were in a difficult position, since they had to balance their allegiance to the state and its attempts to impose conscription as a universally shared civic duty with the needs and wishes of the local population. They tried in many cases to provide individual support.220 The general reluctance to observe military service is displayed quite clearly in a series of memoranda on the situation of the monarchy submitted to the government by the Prussian Oberpräsidenten (provincial administrators) in 1817 and 1818. There were complaints of all kinds221 about an obligation that was perceived as a burden for the country, since its purpose, to make the whole people the defenders of the fatherland, had not been achieved and the existing patriotic enthusiasm obstructed by the authorities.222 Above all, the fact that the obligation was not universal was perceived as scandalous; and this sense of injustice was augmented by the fact that those who were drafted had – with service in the standing army, the reserve and the Landwehr – to face a military obligation of 20 years, whereas others did not have to serve at all.223 It was thus necessary to shorten the term of service.224 While the provincial authorities agreed about the dysfunctions of conscription, the conclusions they drew from this finding differed considerably. While the East Prussian authorities called for more equity in the distribution of the burden, the Oberpräsident in Cologne made the criticism that no total exemption through substitutes

212 The Prussian moment was possible.225 This request was considered completely inadmissible by the government, who regarded military service not as a burden, but as an honour, in which each citizen had to participate.226 These facts seem to suggest that the usual interpretation, crediting Prussia with realizing the true essence of conscription as an equal obligation for all, is not entirely correct. It is true that the French Empire had permitted substitution and that, under successive French regimes up to the Third Republic, the military obligation was never perceived as egalitarian. However, the practice of Prussian conscription was much less universal than its inclusive ideology suggested, and the legal intransigence of the authorities did not exclude many exemptions or change the fact that much more comfortable conditions were offered to the wealthy and educated. Nevertheless, it can be argued that the Prussian adaptation of the revolutionary heritage was socially more effective during the first twothirds of the nineteenth century than the Revolution had ever been in France. In both cases, conscription was perceived as popular arming and thus likened to insurrection – if it was an insurrection planned by military bureaucrats. If the insurrectional impact was without any doubt much more limited in Prussia, the reformers were as radical as their French counterparts in the realm of political theory. The debates on citizenship and discipline during the French Revolution were replaced by an absolute identification between these two terms in the Prussian idea of Landsturm. The fact, however, that conscription could function as part of a democratic political system (as in French Jacobinism) or in a monarchy (as in Prussia) continues to pose problems of interpretation.

Conclusion

The investigation into the history of the origins of modern military service has encountered a set of problems that have remained strangely relevant to our historical present: discipline and citizenship, political subjectivities and the nation, the state and the national community. The principal contribution to the analysis of any one of the institutions in which these problems may be historically understood consists of insisting on the intimate interrelation between them that makes it impossible to separate these conceptual contraries from each other. It has become clear that it would be useless to oppose discipline to citizenship, not only because the content of these concepts is dependent and variable according to the historical situation but, moreover, because the historical realities to which these concepts refer were interrelated too, each supporting the other. However, a symptomatic shift could be observed in the Prussian appropriation of the revolutionary heritage. As pointed out in the first part of this work, revolutionary politics soon came across the fundamental difficulty of popular sovereignty, which was both a unitary and a multiple concept: on the one hand, every single citizen was its bearer but, on the other, it was une et indivisible. The establishment of institutions of civic education – among them, and most prominently, military service – marked an attempt to overcome this paradox. In this way, the citizen was to experience himself concretely and existentially as a part of the community and, to do so, he had to develop an attitude of abnegation of the self, called civic virtue. This model, however, was essentially circular, since the institutions of civic virtue were not perceived as existing prior to the existence of the community. These institutions – and, once again, military service foremost – were perceived as the direct emanation of the community as the bearer of popular sovereignty. In other words, the creation of the people through the creation of its elements, that is, virtuous citizens, citizens being by definition virtuous, on the one hand, and the creation of the state as an emanation of the power of the people, on the other, were strictly circular processes, mutually presupposing each other. The creation of the people necessitated the existence of institutions, and thus of the state, and the creation of a popular state necessitated the existence of the

214 Conclusion people. This process has been described as the self-creation of the sovereign people. In its most extreme form, this process implied a confrontation with death, since participating in war necessarily involved the possibility of being killed in combat. Accordingly, the process of self-creation was intimately linked to the dichotomy of life and death or, as Barère put it, of existence and nothingness. The transition of the sovereign people from nothingness to existence was parallelled by the complementary transition from existence to nothingness of its elements. In other words, and more prosaically, the life of the people necessitated the death of the individual. Despoiled of any particular identity, the dead citizen-soldier was the perfect incarnation of the national community. Death was a reminder of equality and had to be institutionalized as such; it had, moreover, to be democratized, becoming accessible to and a concrete possibility for all. Death for the community was the ethical summit from which communitarian participation could be deduced. This is not to argue that a good citizen is a dead citizen. In order to acquire what Hegel called historical Wirklichkeit, in order to be politically efficient, this tragic conception of a confrontation with death needed to be translated into less extreme terms. It was necessary, so to speak, to inscribe communitarian death into the political life of the nation. The ordinary form in which death for the fatherland was institutionalized was the heroic humiliation through discipline viewed as a preparation for this very death. Military discipline in the barracks aimed to strike down the conscript’s self-conceit. It may be argued that this institutional procedure offered a way out of the dilemma of popular sovereignty sketched out above, since the people’s deficiency, which became visible through a constitutive split of the body politic, was relocated into the very sphere of the political individual. And the individual, in turn, became a political subject in that it was the bearer of this internal split. The political split was thus internalized by the political subject and the antagonism – which both constitutes the body politic and opposes it to itself – disappears from the surface and is lodged within the moral interiority of the citizen. It was precisely this internalization that enabled the state to become universal in the political sphere. Expressed from the point of view of the state, this means that its universalization relied on the externalization of the split, its removal from the political to the subjective sphere. The construction of a universal political community presupposed the universalization of the munus, of an existential duty for everybody (see Esposito 1998). Military duty and the duty to become a virtuous citizen – both strictly analogous – were in theory never-ending tasks. The political subject as the bearer of this duty was structurally burdened with a duty that could not be fully fulfilled – except in the form of communitarian death. Because of this structural burden, the political subject was always and necessarily in a situation of guilt. And the disciplinarian submission of the individual was the polit-

Conclusion 215 ical expression of this guilt. There was, in other words, a circular relationship between guilt and discipline, inasmuch as the guilt necessitated disciplinarian submission, and discipline produced guilt. Discipline, however, is always incomplete, not in the sense that it necessarily fails to regulate every instance in life, but in that it is subordinated to the very idea of law. In effect, this subordination of discipline to the law becomes clear in the structure of order and command: if the conscript owes obedience to his superior, this is not because of the person or the natural authority of the commander, but only because this latter fulfils a function that gives him the right to command. Obeying an order is thus nothing other than obeying the law. However, the process is actually more difficult (see Benjamin 1996). The law is by definition universal, prescribing and forbidding in an abstract and independent way without regard to the concrete situation. It is impossible, however, to codify in advance every possible situation. With regard to the functioning of military discipline, this means that the executive impact of an order (the fact that the order is an emanation of the law) is actually matched by a constitutive element (the fact that the order constitutes, at least partly, the sphere of application of the law). Linking back to the question of popular sovereignty, this means that the constitutive power of the people is aufgehoben (preserved and canalized, institutionally preserved through its canalization), in a hierarchical gradation of discipline. In this sense, popular sovereignty is actually disseminated throughout the social body and hierarchically unified at the same time. To the extent that the system of hierarchically organized discipline implies actually both constitutive and constituted power, it may be considered as offering a way out of the dilemma of popular sovereignty. This means, in turn, that the analysis of military service has, by implication, to account for its linkage to popular sovereignty.227 As a consequence, all attempts to perceive military service in terms of a dichotomy of the state and civil society seem to lack an essential feature. Any attempt to ground the social bond in a conception of civil society that would be conceptually prior to its realization in the state is misleading. The state is the form in which the mutual interrelations of the citizens are mediated. In the language of the period, this form of interrelation was called nation or, in German accounts, bürgerliche Gesellschaft. In both cases, however, this civic–bourgeois nation was primarily and originally an exclusive concept. This means that it was defined with regard to an underlying internal frontier, separating the bourgeois nation from what was called the people, that is, the lower strata of society, excluded from the political sphere. It is precisely because of this exclusivity that the concept was inconceivable without reference to the state. It was the state, after all, that guaranteed and maintained this inner frontier. In other words, the civic–bourgeois nation was originally a marker for an economically grounded sociological difference within the population. However, the historical outcome of revolution and reform was arguably the progressive

216 Conclusion relativization of this internal split. On the conceptual level, this development was expressed by the changing significance of the concepts of the nation and of the people. Instead of remaining mutually exclusive, the nation and the people developed a tendency to become synonymous, signifying a unified social and political body. However, this unification was also inconceivable without a double reference to the state. This latter was not only the primary actor in this unification; it was, in turn, also its political expression or, in other words, its political form. With regard to the socio-economic separations, the creation of a unified national body politic did not imply the definite end of these separations, but in fact their relativization and their adjustment to politics. The most extreme expression of this idea can be found in Gneisenau’s proposals to completely reshape the system of social stratification according to civic–military criteria, to radically subordinate the socio-economic stratification to a political stratification conceived in military terms. But the beginnings of social policy, that is, of the redistribution of material resources according to political criteria, were clearly also part of the same process. The need for the state to intervene in matters of welfare had already become clear with the setting up of large armies during the ancien régime, because a significant number of people were not only subject to the increased risk of premature death or injury, but socially alienated from their communitarian bounds and thus outside the traditional community-rooted systems of welfare. It thus becomes clear that the increasing importance of the state as an agent of social welfare was linked to the gradual generalization of military duties. The development of the bürgerliche Gesellschaft, in other words, was not only the development of a bourgeois society, but also implied elements of a civic society: neither, however, can be separated from the mediating and regulating impact of the state. If the unification of the body politic implied a certain relativization of socio-economic differences by means of their adjustment to politics, the process of nationalization was intimately connected to this process. The redefinition of the nation as imagined unitary body in contrast to other nations can be clearly interpreted in parallel to the relativization of economics as the externalization of the dividing element from the economic to another scene (see Balibar 2004: 145). This other scene can be labelled cultural, symbolic or even sacred. As has been observed, the development of the national state was inseparable from an appropriation of the sacred: ‘Once the corpus mysticum has been identified with the corpus morale et politicum of the people and has become synonymous with nation and “fatherland,” death pro patria, that is for a mystical body corporate, regains its former nobility’ (Kantorowicz 1965: 320). A paradoxical argument seems to result from these considerations: the historical transition from traditional and monarchical conceptions of sovereignty to the popular sovereignty of modern national states, implies the progressive displacement and integration of those elements that a thinker like Bodin con-

Conclusion 217 sidered as autonomous to political sovereignty, that is, the economic and the religious (Bodin 1986, vol. 1, 8: 306–9, see Balibar 2004: 20–1). Both these features may be considered to re-emerge in the form of the two fundamental characteristics of the modern state, the social and the national, and it is only by integrating them that popular sovereignty constituted itself as omnino absolutum imperium. According to a German publicist of the early nineteenth century, it was the French Revolution that constituted real sovereignty (Buchholz 1970: 62). It is evident that real sovereignty means sovereignty of the people. However, it can also easily be seen that this creation of a real sovereignty was but the reverse of the construction of the people as the bearers of sovereignty. Construction, in this sense, is to be understood both as a symbolic and a material construction: the people were perceived as the bearers of sovereignty and created as such through political and institutional means. This process is intimately linked to the the nationalization of the people and of the state. The nation thus increasingly played the role of mediation between the state and the people. The state as persona ficta had long since been perceived as unitary but, with the beginning of the nineteenth century, this unitary character also applies to the nation. The nation was charged with a symbolic, cultural and sacred meaning that permitted, on the one hand, conceiving the state as an expression of the people and, on the other, concealing the role of the state in the process of the formation of this people. However, in contrast to the state, the people are irreducible to the juridically constructed unity of the persona ficta since it is by definition a multiple concept. It is precisely for this reason that the construction of its unity involves a series of displacements of the frontier on which the unity of a community relies. The frontier could thus take various forms, separating various communities from various others. First, the frontier was the marker of a socio-economic split between the inside of the bourgeoisie and the outside of the lower classes. With the unification of the body politic of the nation, the frontier could, second, be internalized into the sphere of civic subjectivity. The Kantian solution had the advantage that the community could be conceived of as universal to the extent that the constitutive split ideally disappeared from the political surface by its complete internalization. A third element, nationalism, was to become historically dominant, according to which the frontier separates mutually exclusive national communities that are defined in cultural terms.

Notes

BNF GPStA SHAT

Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris Geheimes Preußisches Staatsarchiv, Berlin Service historique de l’armée de terre, Vincennes

1 See Ritter 1954–63; Willems 1986; Büsch 1981. Also Wehler’s influential Gesellschaftsgeschichte endorses the conception of social militarization almost without reference to other views (Wehler 1987–2002). For an analysis of the debate on militarism, see Berghahn 1981. 2 However, the approach is empirical and historical, which differentiates it from works inpired by issues of moral philosophy (Walzer 1979) or the theory of rational choice (Levi 1997). 3 See the very interesting work by Alain Ehrenberg (Ehrenberg 1983: 28, 172–3). 4 For this and what follows, I have drawn heavily from the descriptions given by Corvisier (1964), in particular ch. 2, ‘Le recrutement’. 5 See Corvisier 1964 (pp. 297–303) for further detail. 6 Archives Départementales du Calvados, C 1934, ‘Mémoire du sieur Desobeaux, enrolé de force par la baronne d’Audrieu, 20 décembre 1759’, cited by Corvisier 1964: 167. 7 Archives départementales de la Haute-Garonne, C 256 (5 October 1755), cited by Corvisier 1964: 185–6. 8 See Girard 1922: 99–135 (the chapter entitled ‘L’enrôlement forcé’) for further detail. 9 Archives de la Guerre, Archives Anciennes, Série ‘correspondance’, vol. 1840, pp. 269–70 (‘Plainte et lettre de l’intendant Bignon, 28 mai 1705’). Pierre Magnier was captured by army officers and detained for five weeks in StQuentin prison. Cited by Girard 1922: 105. 10 See Girard 1922: 137–61 for further detail. 11 ‘Lettre de Pontchartin du 13 juin 1705’, cited by Girard 1922: 140. 12 SHAT, Archives Anciennes, Série ‘correspondance’, vol. 1896, p. 333 (‘Lettre de M. de Montesan, 2 avril 1705’). 13 ‘M. d’Argenson fit visiter les auberges où on entretint jusqu’à leur départ aux fraix du roy les milicines qu’on y leva.’ Memo of November 1751, cited by Hennet 1884: 39. 14 The numbers varied from 333,345 men in 1701 to 9,800 men in 1708. See Girard 1922: 179–81 15 See the tables given by Corvisier 1976: 198–9. 16 Mémoire servant d’instruction à MM. les Subdélégués pour l’exécution de l’ordonnance du Roy du 25 janvier 1729 . . . Archives Départementales du Calvados, C 1810, cited by Corvisier 1964: 200. 17 See Corvisier 1964: 204–21 for further detail.

Notes 219 18 ‘Tout prestre qui a été aumosnier d’un régiment, quoyque homme de bien, est exclus pour toute sa vie de bénéfices et d’employ, les évesques ne voulant plus le recevoir’, cited in Corvisier 1964: 83. 19 For an instructive comparison with the Piemontese army, interpreted as a ‘laboratory of discipline’, see Loriga 1992. 20 SHAT, MR 1770 no 76, cited by Corvisier 1964: 252–3. 21 D’Arc was the illegitimate son of the Duke of Toulouse; the latter an illegitimate son of Louis XIV. La noblesse militaire (d’Arcq 1756), was a reaction to Abbé Coyer’s La noblesse commerçante, which had claimed that nobles should engage in commerce. For d’Arcq, see Léonard 1958: 181; Brancourt 1973; Smith 2000. 22 ‘Réglement des recrues nationales, Art. XXVII’ (November 1760) in Archives nationales, AN VI. vol. 17, cited by Corvisier 1964: 254. 23 There were actually different and partly incompatible conceptions of raison d’Etat. In this context, reference is made to the ‘mainstream’ discourse in contrast to ‘Machiavelliansm’. See Senellart 1989, esp. ch. 3, ‘G. Botero: le discours de la raison d’Etat’. 24 Here I am following Althusser’s analysis of the Social Contract in ‘Sur le ‘Contrat Social’, revised in Althusser 1998. 25 Strangely enough, though Althusser shows brilliantly how Rousseau ‘solves’ a theoretical problem by ‘displacing’ it at the cost of another of the same kind, to be solved in the same way, he says nothing about this final shift into a kind of political theology. 26 I shall quote the 1781 English translation but give the corresponding references from the 1977 French reprint of Guibert’s works. 27 The principal theoretical account of this feature of the absolutist state is certainly Hobbes’s Leviathan (see Part II, ch. 18). 28 ‘Décret du 12 juin 1790’, Archives parlementaires, vol. 16, pp. 14–15. 29 Petition des Personnes en état de Domesticité du District de l’Isle-Saint-Louis à messieurs les Représentans de la Commune, Paris 1789, cited by Genty 1993: 65. 30 Anonymous, Organisation d’une milice citoyenne, Paris 1789, pp. 10–11. 31 Motion du 28 juillet concernant la Garde bourgeoise de Paris, cited by Genty 1993: 68. 32 SHAT M.R. 1768: ‘Etablissement de nouvelles gardes nationales bourgeoises, [1791]’, p. 9. 33 Archives parlementaires, vol. 8, pp. 376–7. 34 ‘Décret du 12 juin 1790’, Archives parlementaires, vol. 14, pp. 14–15. 35 District des Minimes. Point essentiel à réformer dans le Règlement qui institue la garde nationale parisienne (22 December 1789), p. 13, cited by Genty 1993: 72. 36 See Sieyès’s definition of the third estate as the ‘nation’ and the corresponding exclusion of nobility from the national community: Sieyès 1963: 57. 37 BNF 8-Ye Pièce-5314: ‘La garde nationale’. 38 BNF 8-Ye Pièce-5307: ‘Noël patriotique’. 39 SHAT M.R. 1907, pp. 4, 7. 40 ‘I will ask if one can count on such an army; if one can hope to find much patriotism, and perhaps even any constant value in men picked up at random, deprived of all property, and thus without Fatherland’ (Cessac and Servan n.d.: 18). 41 Article ‘Conscription militaire’, in Encyclopédie méthodique . . . Tome Quatrième (supplément) Art militaire. À Paris, chez H. Agasse, M. DCC. XCVII, L’an V de la République Françoise, p. 199. 42 Le Moniteur, no. 116, vol. 2, p. 400. 43 The use of such sources is obviously problematic, since many soldiers could

220 Notes

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

52 53

54 55 56

57

not write themselves and so were helped by their officers. Moreover, it may be assumed that correspondence was censored. It is, indeed, not very easy to determine the degree to which a free expression of opinions was possible in letters. Guy Citerne (Citerne 1984: 8–9) noted that the form of these letters was often similar, since they all began by writing Liberté et Egalité at the top and they used the republican calendar. I would argue that, despite such similarities, differences can nevertheless be found, and even criticism, sometimes harsh, towards the army and politics. Jean-François Dumez wrote in a letter of July 1798 that soldiers who wrote letters to their families saying that they planned to desert were punished, and that their letters have thus been intercepted (SHAT 1K T 560; p. 140). This control of correspondence, however, caused indignation among the soldiers. This leads me to infer that censorship of letters was not systematic and began rather late, with the institutionalization of conscription. SHAT M.R. 1907: ‘Projet sur la methode de recruter et de rendre les troupes plus nationales, par La Barolière, lieutenant-colonel des chasseurs de Lorraine’, p. 30. SHAT M.R. 2009/15: ‘Instructions pour tous les grades de l’infanterie républicaine, 1er nivôse an 3’. SHAT Xw49 (Indre): ‘Lettres de Volontaires’, p. 23. See the letter by the captain Mony-Baudot dated 20 October 1791, in Maury 1901: 7. SHAT M.R. 2009/15. Adresse de l’Assemblée nationale à l’armée du nord au camp de Sedan du 20 août 1792, Paris, 1792, pp. 4–5. SHAT Xv31: ‘Procès-verbal de Tenue et Discipline du 2e Bataillon des Pyrénées-Orientales’. SHAT Xw42: Préfecture des Hautes-Pyrénées Dossier L. I HR 589 n° 24133 ‘Lettre du ministre de la guerre Servan’. See also ‘Proclamation du ministre de la guerre Servan aux départements, relative à la défense de la patrie’, in Déprez 1908: 186–7. SHAT Xw49 (Indre): ‘Lettres de volontaires’: p. 20. The concept of katechon (that which holds back or one who holds back) stems from St Paul (2 Thess. 2:6–7) and had played a major role in medieval political theology. It was introduced to modern political theory by Carl Schmitt (Schmitt 1988: 29). It is also an important feature in contemporary Italian political thinking (see Agamben 2000: 85–105 and Esposito 2002: 62–94). The idea that the National Guard was tacitly perceived as a counter-power can be found in Chamborant de Perissat 1875: VI. SHAT Xw42: ‘Etude générale sur le Recrutement dans le département des Hautes-Pyrénées de 1789 à 1798 [1910]’. According to Dubois-Crancé’s report to the National Convention, there were, in 1793, 213,650 national volunteers against 112,878 line troopers (DuboisCrancé 1793: 4). Mirabeau, ‘23e note adressé à la cour’, in: de Bacourt 1851, vol. 2: 197, cited in Jaume 1989: 171: ‘J’ai toujours fait remarquer que l’anéantissement du clergé, des parlements, des pays d’état, de la féodalité, des capitulations des provinces, des privilèges de tout genre est une conquête commune à la nation et au monarque.’ Journal de la société de 1789, 14 August 1790, pp. 2 and 8–9. The Société de 1789 was a minority group that split from the Jacobean Club in 1790 and comprised, among others, Condorcet, André Chenier, Dupont de Nemours, Hassenfrantz, Kersaint and La Rochefoucauld. Fifteen issues of their Journal were published between June and September 1790.

Notes 221 58 SHAT Xw2 (Aisne), p. 18: ‘Cérémonie civique à Quentin au sujet de l’enrôlement de 102 hommes, 15 mars 1793’. 59 Section du Finistère, Extrait des Registres de ses deliberations, du Dimanche 21 juillet 1793, l’an II de la République françoise, Paris, Société Typographique, n.d. [1793], pp. 13–14 and 10. 60 SHAT M.R. 1160: ‘Observations militaires sur l’état actuel de la France, presentées au Comité de salut public par l’adjutant général Sauviac, Paris, 20 Juin 1793’, p. 5. 61 SHAT M.R. 1160: ‘Offroy Montbrun, Plan de Campagne ou moyens de marcher en masse sur les ennemis de la République avec sûreté et facilité [n.d. but before 30 August 1793], p. 2. 62 Extraits du registre des délibérations du comité civil de la section du Bonnet de la liberté, n.p., n.d. [probably 1793] BNF Lb40–1747. 63 SHAT 1K T 560, p. 202 (22 October 1798). 64 Louis Le Caron, in his Dialogues (1556), defines the philosopher as ‘in love with the public good’, cited by Bourdieu 1996: 380. 65 Thus the dictum of the Prussian King Frederick II: ‘Räsoniert soviel ihr wollt, aber gehorcht!’ reported by Kant in What Is Enlightenment? The translator of Kant’s Political Writings renders the term ‘räsonnieren’ as ‘to argue’: ‘Argue as much as you like and about whatever you like, but obey!’ (Kant 1991: 55). 66 This is not to adopt the scholastic vision and to argue that the soldiers necessarily had a coherent point of view on their mission, nor that they fully understood what they were doing. See Bourdieu 1994: 127–40. 67 SHAT Xw49: ‘Lettres de volontaires’, p. 21. An unknown volunteer from the Indre region wrote to his brother on 29 August 1793: ‘L’on a fait marcher tous les paysans des environs de Strasbourg armés de fusils, de pics, de fourches pour les faire aller à l’armée. Ils se sont très bien montrés dans la bataille; ils fonçaient sur les ennemis comme des enragés.’ 68 Adresse de l’Assemblée nationale à l’armée du nord au camp de Sedan du 20 août 1792 . . ., n.p., n.d., p. 4. 69 Walter Benjamin’s concept of ‘bare life’ is at the centre of Agamben’s argument in his Homo sacer. See Agamben 1998. 70 The drama enacts the narrative of guilt and redemption in a secularized version: Cécile’s fiancé Victor, who serves as a national volunteer in the republican army, is arrested for looting. He acknowledges his guilt and demands capital punishment. A representative of the National Convention [représentant en mission] sentences him to death, but he is reprieved by order of the Convention before the execution takes place. 71 SHAT Xw49: ‘Lettres de volontaires’, p. 28. 72 SHAT 1 K T 558: ‘Mémoire de Pierre-Louis Molière de Pallud sur ses campagnes’, p. 3: ‘tu jouera des monfarines au fille et tu verra comme elles t’aimeront’. 73 SHAT 1K T 457: ‘Correspondance d’Alexandre Moullé’, 19 September 1813. 74 SHAT 1K T 560: ‘Papiers Dumez’, p. 76. 75 François-Joseph Dumez, who wrote several poems to the women he loved, is a remarkable exception: ‘L’honneur, toujours fiers, rigide, sévère,/Sous nos drapeaux ne retiens enchaîné,/Quand, loin d’ici, l’amante qui m’est chère/Me promettait un destin fortuné’, SHAT 1K T 560, p. 40. 76 SHAT Xw49: ‘Lettres de volontaires’, pp. 38, 41. 77 SHAT Xw49: ‘Lettres de volontaires’, p. 37. 78 SHAT Xw61 (Maine-et-Loire) L. 6005: ‘Lettre d’un volontaire [citoyen Muigot] à sa mère, du 5 floréal 2e année républicaine’. 79 SHAT Xw61 (Maine-et-Loire) L. 6003: ‘Lettre d’un volontaire à sa mère, le 9 frimaire au bivouc devant Mannheim l’an 3 de la République’.

222 Notes 80 SHAT 1K T 457: ‘Correspondance d’Alexandre Moullé’ (23 April 1813). 81 SHAT Xw29 (Creuse, Deux-Sèvres, Dordogne): ‘Copies faites aux Archives municipales de Parthenay’, p. 38. 82 SHAT Xw72 (Nièvre) L II n° 155. 83 SHAT 1K T 560: ‘Papiers Dumez’, p. 17 (9 July 1796). 84 SHAT 1K 1 457: ‘Correspondance d’Alexandre Moullé’ (11 June 1813). 85 See Girardon 1898: 30; Marquant 1898: 83–5; Joliclerc n.d.: 103; Fricasse 1882: 15; Bouscayrol 1987: 85. 86 See Bouscayrol 1987: 55, 88–9, 120, 214–15, 254–5; Clémenceau 1982: 71; Noël 1912: 170; Bonneville de Marsangy 1888: 24. 87 SHAT Xw39 (Hautes-Alpes): ‘Lettre du 5 août 1792 de Joseph Serre’. 88 SHAT 1K 560, pp. 4, 67 and 86. 89 Liberté, Egalité, République françoise une et indivisible. Proclamation des représentants du peuple envoyés près de l’armée des Alpes, & dans différents départements de la République, aux Citoyens des Départements réunis sous les murs de Lyon, Lyons: Aimé Vatar-Delaroche, 1793. 90 SHAT Xw42: ‘Etude générale sur le Recrutement dans le département des Hautes-Pyrénées de 1789 à 1798, par Bayard, capitaine-instructeur, Tarbes, le 12 août 1910’, p. 38. On desertion in the armies of the revolution and the empire see Forrest 1989; Rousseau 1998; Bergès 2002. 91 Extrait du registre des arrêtés des représentans du peuple près de l’armée des Pyrénées orientales, Toulouse: Desclassan, 1793, pp. 2–3. 92 Les représentans du peuple près l’armée des pyrénées orientales, Toulouse: Desclassan, n.d. [1793]. 93 Résolution du Conseil des Cinq-Cents. Extrait du procès-verbal des séances du Conseil des Cinq-Cents du premier frimaire l’an quatrième de la République française une & indivisible. Corps législatif, Paris, Imprimerie nationale, an IV, p. 2. See also Lenoir-Larouche an VII; Beauvais de Préau an VII; Delbrel an VIIa; Delbrel an VIIb: 2; and Porcher an VII. 94 The term ‘conscription’ makes reference to the expression ‘civic inscription’ that was used to designate enrolment in the National Guard. See Cornudet an VI: 6. 95 Acte du corps législatif du 31 juillet 1792, l’an 4e de la liberté, Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1792. 96 The Kantonreglement is printed in Novum Corpus Constitutionum prussicoBrandenburgensium praecique Maricarum, vol. 9. Berlin: Kunst, 1796, pp. 777–836. 97 Autobiographic sources tend to confirm this view: Der preußische Soldat, im ganzen genommen, geht weit ungerner ins Feld als irgend ein anderer. Weib und Kind und Nahrung fesseln sie ans Haus und machen ihnen den Feldzug verhaßt. Allein eben das, was den Feldzug erschwert, macht die Leute auf der anderen Seite getreu, gibt ihnen Anhänglichkeit an ihr Vaterland und bewahrt sie vor dem Ausreißen. (Laukhard 1909: 289–90) 98 ‘Die Kantonspflichtigkeit ist die Folge der Geburt auf einer Cantonpflichtigen Feuerstelle’, Novum Corpus Constitutionum prussico-Brandenburgensium praecique Maricarum, vol. 9. Berlin: Kunst, 1796: 779–80. 99 Acccording to Jany, 2,156,812 cantonists were enrolled in 1802, of whom only 312,926 were not exempt and taller than 5 feet, and only 9,287 were actually drafted (Jany 1967b: 443–4). 100 Harnisch estimates a quota of 7 per cent of the rural cantonists being drafted in Brandenburg (Harnisch 1996: 152). This figure matches the 6 per cent cal-

Notes 223

101 102 103

104 105 106 107

108 109 110

111 112 113 114 115

culated by Kloosterhuis for Westphalia (Kloosterhuis 1996: 190) but contrasts with the evaluation given by Hubatsch, who estimates that less than 1 per cent of all cantonists were drafted (Hubatsch 1973: 76). Little research has been done on the impact of the canton system in towns. A remarkable exception is Winter 1999 and 2005. See Instruction die Untersuchung der Diensttauglichkeit der Rekruten betreffend, Berlin, 6 May 1796. Declaration daß in allen Fällen, wo nach dem neuen Canton-Reglement vom 12. Februar 1792 der Besitz eines Grundstücks, und dessen eigene Bewirthschaftung von der Verbindlichkeit zum Militair-Dienst befreyet, diese Enrollments-Freiheit auch dem Erbpächter unter gleichen Umständen angedeihen soll, Berlin: Decker, 19 November 1796. Deklaration der Verordnung vom 18. September 1799 wegen der jährlichen Populations-Listen etc. Berlin: Decker, 29 September 1801. Seiner Könglichen Majestät von Preußen etc. allergnädigst neu bestätigte Kriegs-Artikel für die Unter-Officiers und gemeinen Soldaten von der Infanterie, Cavallerie und Artillerie, Berlin: Decker, 1797, p. 3. ‘Über die Aufklärung des Militärs’, in Militärische Monatsschrift Bd. 1 (1785), p. 599, cited by Höhn 1944: 84. A description of how this form of punishment was executed is given by Frauenholz 1940: 28–9, n. 1. According to an Instruction of 1797, running the gauntlet should not lead to ‘invaliding out or death’. See Seiner Königlichen Majestät von Preußen etc. etc. allergnädigste Declaration über einige Punkte zur Anwendung der neuen Kriegsartikel, Berlin: Decker, 1797. Parts of his correspondence are published in Bülow 1845–7, vol. 2: 16. Scharnhorst, who was Decken’s friend and colleague in the Hanoverian army, had made similar claims at the beginning of the revolutionary wars, defending standing armies against the idea of militia troops. See Scharnhorst 1792. The German language of the period generally employed the term ‘Schwärmerei’ in the religious sense, whereas military literature borrowed the term ‘Enthusiasmus’ from the French. In English, however, both can be translated by ‘enthusiasm’. This was also acknowledged by the military authorities. See Circular an sämmtliche Feld- und Garnisons-Prediger, Berlin, 12 May 1800. It should not be forgotten, however, that Goethe wrote the Campaign in France in 1820–1, almost 30 years after the events, and used other contemporary writings as sources. See Bredow 1999. Anonymous, Der Französische: Freiheitskrieg an dem Oberrhein, der Saar und der Mosel in den Jahren 1792/93 und 1794, Frankfurt: Behrens, 1796, vol. 2, p. 33. Anonymous, Die Frankenrepublik. Briefe über Frankreichs gegenwärtigen Zustand und den Feldzug von 1793 mit besonderer Rücksicht auf das Elsaß, von einem Augenzeugen, n.p. 1794, p. 107. Laukhard contrasted French and Prussian soldiers thus: Das einzige Wort: ‘Es lebe die Republik!’ ist den Volontärs allemal das erste und letzte, und alle ihre Gesinnungen und Anstrengungen erhalten von dieser Hauptidee Leben und Feuer. . . . Ich . . . habe das an ihnen gefunden, was die edlen Verteidiger des alten Griechenlands auch an sich hatten, nämlich warme Liebe zu ihrem Vaterland, eine Liebe, die der Deutsche deswegen nicht kennt, weil er als Deutscher kein Vaterland mehr hat. (Laukhard 1909: vol. 2, 176–7)

116

Such community is not the result of people being naively and naturally rooted in a specific social structure, not of any natural solidarity of

224 Notes kinship . . . it is the fruit of a rich and enriching resignation, the crowning of a process of education, a maturity attained by struggle and effort. The content of such maturity is an ideal of free humanity which comprehends and affirms the structures of social life as necessary forms of human community, yet, at the same time, only sees them as occasion for the active expression of the essential life substances – in other words, which takes possession of these structures, not in their rigid political and legal being-for-themselves, but as the necessary instruments of aims which go far beyond them. (Lukács 1971: 133–4) 117

O nimmt mich, nimmt mich mit in die Reihen auf,/Damit ich einst nicht sterbe gemeinen Tods!/Umsonst zu sterben, lieb’ ich nicht, doch/Lieb ich, zu fallen am Opferhügel // Für’s Vaterland, zu bluten des Herzens Blut/Für’s Vaterland – und bald ists gescheh’n! Zu euch,/Ihr Theuern!/komm’ ich, die mich leben/Lehrten und sterben, zu euch hinunter! // . . . Und Siegesboten kommen herab: Die Schlacht/Ist unser! Lebe droben, o Vaterland,/Und zähle nicht die Todten! dir ist,/Liebes! nicht Einer zu viel gefallen. (‘Der Tod fürs Vaterland’, 1799 in Hölderlin 1992: 225–6)

118

The whole town seemed to have gathered in alarm,/and as I forced a passage through the crowd,/a dark-faced gypsy woman, carrying/this helmet, came right up to me, and stared/at me, and said ‘My son, you’re looking for a helmet,/I know you’re looking for one. There! Take this! It’s yours for next to nothing.’ And I said:/‘Go to the soldiers; I don’t need a helmet./I’m just a farmer.’ But she wouldn’t be/content with that, and went on ‘Who can dare/to say he does or doesn’t need a helmet? A steel roof for the head is nowadays/better than a stone one for the house.’ (Schiller 1987: 133)

119 There are, however, ambiguities, since in the drama one soldier acknowledges that it is the soldiers’ fault if the ‘third estate’ is disrespected and in misery: ‘Whose fault is it, but the soldiers, alone,/That all trades and industry [der Nährstand] are gnawed to a bone?’ (Schiller 1854: 60 (scene 11)). 120 Since English translations often omit the conceptual coherence, it might be appropriate to cite the extract. ‘Even if an actual contract of the people with the head of the state has been violated, the people cannot reply immediately as a commonwealth [gemeines Wesen], but only by forming factions [Rottierung]’ (Kant 1991: 83). 121 In another context he speaks about sensibility, ‘which in itself is like a mob, because it does not think’ (Kant 2006: 35). 122 It is perhaps not by coincidence that Kant employed the metaphor of military hierarchy when dealing with matters of social organization: a few pages above (p. 92), he distinguished between ‘Verstand, Urteilskraft’ and ‘Vernunft’ by reference to the servant, the officer and the general. In What Is Enlightenment?, military hierarchy is a recurrent metaphor too (see Kant 1991: 56, 59). 123 This interpretation of Kant’s moral philosophy joins Bourdieu’s reading of Kant’s aesthetics in his Distinction: What is hidden, that is, the double social relationship – to the court (the site of civilization as opposed to culture) and to the people (the site of nature and sense) – is both present and absent; it presents itself in the text in such a guise that one can in all good faith not see it there and that the naively reductive reading, which would reduce Kant’s text to the

Notes 225 social relationship that is disguised and transfigured within it, would be no less false than the ordinary reading which would reduce it to the phenomenal truth in which it appears only in disguise. (Bourdieu 1984: 494) 124 According to the famous definition at the beginning of What Is Enlightenment, ‘Immaturity [Unmündigkeit] is the inability to use one’s own understanding without the guidance of another’ (Kant 1991: 54). 125 Fichte himself claims, in fact, that there is a strict parallel (but no influence) between Kant and Pestalozzi. See Der Patriotismus und sein Gegenteil, in Fichte Gesamtausgabe (1962ff.) II, 9: 444. 126 H. Pestalozzi, Ein Blick auf meine Erziehungszwecke und Erziehungsversuche, in Pestalozzi, Sämtliche Werke Kritische Ausgabe, Band 17B: Journal für Erziehung 1807, ed. S. Graber, Zurich: p. 41. 127 Beitrag zur Berichtigung der Urtheile des Publikums über die französische Revolution, in Fichte 1962, I: 1. 128 Der Patriotismus und sein Gegenteil, in Fichte 1962, II, 9: 399. 129 Anwendung der Beredsamkeit für den gegenwärtigen Krieg [1806], in Fichte 1962: II, 10: 73. 130 In Beziehung auf den Namenlosen, in Fichte 1962, II, 10: 84. 131 Grundzüge des gegenwärtigen Zeitalters, in Fichte 1962, I, 8: 141–396. 132 Der Patriotismus und sein Gegenteil, in Fichte 1962, II, 9: 36. 133 In the short text In Beziehung auf den Namenlosen, Fichte opposes the ‘Begriffe von Menschheit als organischem Ganzen, oder Sammlung von Individuen’ (Fichte 1962 II, 10: 85). 134 ‘Transcendence’ is to be understood not in the sense of German idealism but in the scholastic sense. 135 Der Patriotismus und sein Gegenteil, in Fichte 1962, II, 9: 429. 136 Der wissenschaftliche deutsche Bürger – Reden an die Deutschen Krieger zu Anfange des Feldzugs 1806, in Fichte 1962, II, 9: 80–1. 137 Anwendung der Beredsamkeit für den gegenwärtigen Krieg [1806], in Fichte 1962, II, 10: 72. 138 See the fragment Deliberationen über politische Objekte: herzloser, u. ganzer Feind des Feindes unsers Vaterlandes muß jedweder Patriot seyn. Gerechtigkeit widerfahren laßen! Stört freilich in dem Muthe: der Gebildete, u. der Anführer aber muß es, um sogar seinen Plan sicher zu nehmen. Der Gehorchende, die Faust ist nicht so weit. – Gerecht finden, aber muß man sie: sonst ist man schon Sklav. (Wenn dein Land einen ungerechten Krieg macht? Das wäre schlimm, wenn das die Bürger dächten). (in Fichte 1962ff., II, 10: 297) 139 See also Königliche Verordnung betreffend die Freiheit der Unteroffiziere und gemeinen Soldaten, über ihr Vermögen zu verfügen, gegeben Berlin, den 18 March 1811, Berlin: Decker, 1811. 140 GPStA, Rep. 74, H II (Generalia), No. 14: ‘Acta der geheimen Registratur des Staatskanzlers betreffend die von den Ober-Präsidenten eingereichte Denkschrift über die Organisation und Verfassung des Staats’, p. 10 (Antwort an die Oberpräsidenten vom 3 November 1817). 141 ‘Auch die Armee wird nationalisiert oder mit anderen Worten, die Nation militarisiert’ (Klewitz 1807, in Winter 1931: 568). 142 These formulations obviously employ the language of German idealistic philosophy, but articulate commonly shared problematizations. Altenstein, for instance, expresses his political programme in almost exactly these terms:

226 Notes

143 144 145

146 147

148

149

150 151 152

153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160

‘liberty coincides with necessity’ (Altenstein, letter to Schön, 5 July 1807, in Winter 1931: 390). Staatsbibliothek Preußischer Kulturbesitz Berlin: 39 in: 2’@An 8630–19. ‘Es gehört der Bildung, dem Denken als Bewußtsein des Einzelnen in Form des Allgemeinen, daß Ich als allgemeine Person aufgefaßt werde, worin Alle identisch sind’ (Hegel 1970: 93). ‘ “Der Tod ist schrecklich, fürchterlich!”/Nein, sag’ ich, Brüder, nein,/Das ist er nicht! Man mache sich/Nur hübsch mit ihm gemein! // [. . .] Bewies er ohne Tück’ und List/Bis an sein Ende sich?/Wer seine Pflicht erfüllt, dem ist/Der Tod nicht fürchterlich!’ (‘Von der Todes-Furcht’ Von der Todes-Furcht, in Anonymous, Vermächtniß eines edlen Preußen an Teutschlands Landwehr, Berlin: [Vogler], 1813, pp. 25–6). ‘Der Tod für Gott und Vaterland/ist ruhmvoll, groß und hehr!/Wen noch des Todes kalte Hand/Für Weib und Kind im Kampfe fand – Wer stirbt so schön als Er!’ (Tiede 1814: 13). ‘Nicht der Kraft der Herrschgier und der Rache,/Nein, des Rechtes und der Tugend Sache,/[. . .]/Menschenrechten hast du stolz gehöhnet,/Schwarzem Völkerhasse nur gefröhnet’ (Ehre dem König und Ehre dem Heer, in denen so viel Standhaftigkeit und so frommer Muth sich darthun Eine Herzensergießung veranlaßt durch die Schlachten von Ligny und Belle-Alliance, durch den officiellen Bericht des Generals Grafen von Gneisenau, und durch die Proclamation des Fürsten Blücher von Wahlstadt an die Armee vom Niederrhein, Düsseldorf: Sebert, 1815, p. 7). The Instructions for the Berlin National Guard thus even consider fines as punishment, which would have been considered an absurdity in the old military legislation. See Dienst-Instruction für die Berliner Bürger- oder National-Garde, Berlin: Quien, 1807. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 3: Briefe des Landwehrmannes Carl Dahlenbergs an seine Brüder 1814/15. Letter 2 September 1815 (p. 7) and Letter 30 May 1814 (pp. 3–4). See also the diary by an unkown soldier from 1815–16 in GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 24: Tagebuch eines Feldwebels. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 63: Briefe des Oberstleutnants v. Fischer an seine Frau 1813–1816, p. 240. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 320: Tagebuch des Oberjägers Ferdinand Werckmeister 1813/14, the chapter ‘Februar 1813’. According to an official memorandum cited in Die Reorganisation der Preußischen Armee nach dem Tilsiter Frieden. Redigirt von der historischen Abtheilung des Generalstabes, Zweiter Band. Vierter Abschnitt: Die Jahre 1809 bis 1812 (= Beilage zum Militair-Wochenblatt für August 1865 bis einschließlich Oktober 1866), Berlin: Mittler und Sohn, 1866, p. 111 Dienst-Instruction für die Berliner Bürger- oder National-Garde, Berlin: Quien, 1807, p. 82 GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 16., Nr. 94: ‘Instruktion für die Regimenter, die JägerDetaschements betreffend’. Verordnung über den Landsturm, gegeben Breslau, den 21ten April 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813, p. 2. The text is also reproduced in Eckert 1955: 249–60. See Landsturm: Instruktion für die Schutzdeputation und die Hauptleute in Berlin, Berlin: Decker, 1813. Reglement für die Bildung der Bürger-Bataillone in Berlin, gegeben Berlin, den 30ten Juli 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813. Reglement wegen des Landsturms in der Residenz Berlin, d.d. Berlin, den 18. Mai 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813. The subsequent paragraph relies on sources cited by Blumenthal 1900: 31–74. Scharnweber’s memoranda are partly edited in Blumenthal 1900: 76–127; all

Notes 227

161

162

163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171

172 173

174 175 176 177 178

subsequent citations are from there. Some extracts can also be found in Eckert 1955: 263. Aristotle, Politics IV, 1296a. The semantic field covered by the Greek radical mes- is particularly interesting: it signifies intervening space, middle class, the middle in the sense of neutral, the middle party in the sense of the moderates, difference, average, in the middle way in the sense of neither well nor ill, etc. Erinnerung an das diesjährige Manöver des VII. Armee-Corps bei Salzkotten. In drei Gedichten. Zu Ehren des 17. Landwehr-Cavallerie-Regiments. Von einem Wehrreiter des Weseler Landwehr-Eskadrons. Allen wahren VaterlandsFreunden gewidmet, Wesel: Becker, 1837, p. 4. Clausewitz expresses these views in the third part of his ‘Bekenntnisdenkschrift’, which the editors of his Historical and Political Writings have sadly omitted (see Clausewitz 1992: 285–6). GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 120: Vortrag des Oberstleutnants v. Lützow zum Thema Kleiner Krieg 1817/18, pp. 62–3. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 10: Kriegstagebücher eines Soldaten aus den Befreiungskriegen 1812–1815, pp. 568, 592. Verordnung über die Aufhebung der bisherigne Exemtion von der Kantonspflicht für die Dauer des Krieges, gegeben Breslau, den 9ten Februar 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813. Verordnung über die Organisation der Landwehr, Breslau, den 17ten März 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813. Der preußischen Landwehr Glaubensbekenntniß, Verfaßt von einem Wehrmann, Weißensee: Häßler, 1931, p. 7. Verordnung über die Organisationder Landwehr, Breslau, den 17ten März 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813, Zweite Beilage: Anweisung zur Organisation der Landwehr. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 16, Nr. 94: Instruktionen und Ordnungen zur allgemeinen Wehrpflicht: ‘Landwehr-Ordnung, gegeben Berlin den 21sten November 1815, § 33. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 16, Nr. 711: Instruktion für die Inspekteure und Kommandeure der Landwehr 19. Dezember 1816’: ‘Jeder Zwang und jede unnöthige Ausdehnung der Aufgaben, Heftigkeit und Strenge würden den Zweck ganz verfehlen und schaden. Es ist daher Mein Wille, daß selbige durchaus vermieden werden (p. 5). GPStA, 1. HA, Rep, 74, O. O., Nr. 4, Bd. 1: Conscriptions-Wesen überhaupt, p. 47, Die Immediat-Kommission berichtet wegen des Andrangs der Freiwilligen zum Dienst bei dem Heere 16. Mai 1815. Declaration vom 10ten Februar 1813 daß die gesetzliche Bestimmung der Königl. Verordnung vom gestrigen tage über das Dienstalter nur die Verbindlichkeit abmessen, keineswegs aber diejenigen ausschließen soll, die, älter als 24 Jahre, ihr innerer Beruf zu den Waffen führt, gegeben Breslau, den 10ten Februar 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813. Allerhöchste Kabinettsordre wegen Auszeichnung der Staatsdiener, so sich freiwillig zum Kriegsdienst stellen, gegeben Breslau, den 18. März 1813, Berlin: Decker, 1813. GPStA, Acta des Staatskanzlers betr. die Organisation der Landwehr – Allgemeine Bewaffnung 1813 1. HA, Rep. 74, O., X 2, Bd. 1, p. 299: Bericht des Militärgouvernements zu Stargard, gez. Beyme, 24 April 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O., X 2, Bd. 1, p. 236: Entwurf einer CO an das Militair-Gouvernement zu Stargard, betr. die Widersetzlichkeit der 11 Dorfschaften im Neustettinschen Kreise, März 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 84a (Justizministerium), Nr. 1101: Die Revision der Kriegsartikel, p. 15 (6 July 1809). GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O., X 2, Bd. 1, p. 322: Schreiben Hardenbergs an das Militair-Gouvernement von Schlesien betr. den in mehreren Gegenden

228 Notes

179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188

189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200

Schlesiens, besonders in Buntglau un der umliegenden Gegen unpatriotischen Geist bei Errichtung der Landwehr, 21 May 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 84a (Justizministeriums), Nr. 1101: Die Revision der Kriegsartikel, p. 118: ‘Brief des Königs an das Militär-Justiz-Departement vom 14. Dezember 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 84a (Justizministerium), Nr. 1101: Die Revision der Kriegsartikel, p. 116, Befehl des Königs vom 14. Dezember 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 84a (Justizministerium), Nr. 1101: Die Revision der Kriegsartikel, p. 79, Anfrage des Generalauditeurs vom 4. Mai 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O., X, Bd. 1, p. 325: Entwurf zu einer Allerhöchsten Kabinettsordre, 13 Mai 1813. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O., X 2, Bd. 1, p. 323: Schreiben des MilitairGouvernement zu Stargardt, 5. Mai 1813 an den König, wg einiger Dörfer, deren Mannschaft wegen Aushebung der Landwehr entweicht. Vorschrift zur Uebung der Landwehr-Männer zu Fuß, Berlin: Decker, 1813, pp. 28 and 30–1. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 63: Briefe des Oberstleutnants v. Fischer an seine Frau 1813–1816. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 15b, Nr. 272: Denkschrift über die stehenden Armeen (nach 1815). Gesetz über die Verpflichtung zum Kriegsdienste, gegeben Berlin, den 3ten September 1814, Berlin: Decker, 1814. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 16, Nr. 94: (Instruktionen und Ordnungen zur allgemeinen Wehrpflicht). Instruktion über den Eintritt der Freiwilligen in das stehende Heer. Zur Ausführung der in dem Edikt vom 3ten September 1814 darüber enthaltenen allgemeinen Festsetzungen, Berlin, 19 May 1816. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77, Tit. 244, Nr. 4, Bd. 5: Schreiben der Kreis-Kommission des landräthlichen Clever Kreises an das Innenministerium vom 22. Juni 1816. Verordnung betreffend das rechtliche Verhältnis der vormaligen Konscribirten zu ihren Stellvertretern in den Rheinprovinzen, gegeben Berlin, den 31sten Januar 1817, Berlin: Decker, 1817. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77, Tit. 244, Nr. 4, Bd. 5: Schreiben des Innenministeriums an die Regierung in Breslau [1816]. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77, Tit. 244, Nr. 4, Bd. 5: Reglement über die Einrichtung einer Bürger-Militz im Gouvernement des Nieder-Rheins, Cleve, 1814. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77, Tit. 244, Nr. 4, Bd. 5: Schreiben der Regierung zu Stettin an das Innenministerium, 3. März 1817. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77, Tit. 244, Nr. 4, Bd. 5: Schreiben der Regierung zu Breslau an das Innenministerium vom 10. September 1817. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 84a (Justizministerium) Nr. 2192, p. 6: Instruction für das Geschäft der Ersatzaushebung zur jährlichen Ergänzung des stehenden Heeres, 30 Juli 1817. Instruktion, die Untersuchung und Bescheinigung der zum Koeniglichen Militaerdienst als brauchbar oder unbrauchbar anzuerkennenden Rekruten oder Soldaten betreffend, Berlin, 1817, pp. 3–4. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 8: Schreiben der Regierung von Koblenz vom 22. April, die Instruction für das Geschäft der Ersatzaushebung betreffend. GPStA, 4. HA, Rep. 16, Nr. 96: Instruktion des Ministers des Inneren für die Departements-Kriegsersatzkommissionen 13. April 1825 (Circular). GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 3, Bd. 1: Schreiben der Ritterschaft an die Regierung zu Erfurt vom 27. Mai 1817. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 3, Bd. 1: Anfrage der Regierung in Erfurt an das Innenministerium vom 2. Juni 1817.

Notes 229 201 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 3, Bd. 1: Schreiben der Regierung zu Erfurt an die Ritterschaft vom 2. Juni 1817. 202 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 3, Bd. 1: Schreiben im Auftrag des Oberpräsidenten von Posen vom 2. September 1818 an das Innenministerium. 203 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 13, Bd. 2, p. 9: Abschrift eines Schreibens von Hardenberg an den Kriegsminister vom 13. Juni 1822. 204 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 13, Bd. 2, p. 2: Extract aus dem Schreiben des Königl. General-Kommandos des 6ten Armee Korps zu Breslau, vom 10. Dezember 1821. 205 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 13, Bd. 2, p. 11: Circular an sämtliche General-Kommandos, vom 21. Juni 1822. 206 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 8: Bittschrift des Aachener Generalvikariats an Hardenberg, 6. Februar 1818. 207 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 13, Bd. 2, p. 5: Schreiben des Innenministeriums vom 7. Januar 1822. 208 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 13, Bd. 2, p. 46: Votum des Kriegs-Ministerii auf die demselben mitgetheilten Anträge des Königlichen Ober-Präsidiums von Westphalen, vom 14. November 1822 die Befreiung der Theologen und Pädagogen von der Einstellung zum Militairdienst betreffend, Berlin, 16. Dezember 1822. 209 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium), Tit. 332t, Nr. 13, Bd. 2: Votum des Kultusministeriums vom 25. Juni 1824. 210 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74 (Staatskanzlei), O. P., Nr. 8: Schreiben der Regierung zu Coblenz, die Befreyung der Geistlichen betr., 26. August 1818. 211 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. O., Nr. 4, Bd. 1, p. 275: Allerhöchste KabinetsOrder an den Intendentan Graf Brühl wg. Befreiung der Schauspieler vom Militairdienst, 17. April 1817. 212 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 77 (Innenministerium) Tit. 332t, Nr. 16, Bd. 1: Anordnung des Innenministers vom 10. September 1824. 213 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 1: Schreiben an den König, Breslau den 26. März 1813 and Antwort Hardenbergs vom 22. März 1813. 214 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. O, Nr. 4, Bd. 1, pp. 232–48: Gutachten über die Exemtion Berlins. 215 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 1: Schreiben der Stadtverordneten zu Berlin an Hardenberg vom 28. Dezember 1815. 216 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 1: Schreiben des Magistrats von Berlin vom 7. Februar 1817. 217 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 8: Schreiben der Civil-Mitglieder der städtischen Aushebungs-Kommission in Aachen an den Bürgermeister und die Regierung zu Aachen, 15. Dezember 1817. 218 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 8: Denkschrift der Stadtdeputieren von Aachen an Hardenberg, 17. Februar 1818. 219 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 1: Schreiben der Landräthe von Ober- und Niederbarnim an Hardenberg, 28. Februar 1812. 220 Thus the Berlin Magistrat that supported a locksmith in his attempts to qualify for the easier conditions reserved for the educated classes. GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. O., Nr, 4, Bd. 1: Schreiben des Magistrats von Berlin wg. Zurückweisung des Schlossergesellen Wernicke vom freiwilligen Eintritt in den Militairdienst auf ein Jahr Dienstzeit, vom 17. Juli 1822. 221 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, H II (Generalia), Nr. 14, p. 23: Schreiben des Oberpräsidenten von Koblenz an Hardenberg, 6. Oktober 1818.

230 Notes 222 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, H II (Generalia), Nr. 14, pp. 2–9: Denkschrift der Regierungspräsidenten an den Staatsrath, Berlin, 30. Juni 1817. 223 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, H II (Generalia), Nr. 14, p. 27: Bericht des Oberpräsidenten v. Schön, 21 Juni 1818. 224 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, H II (Generalia), Nr. 14, p. 29: Schreiben des Oberpräsidenten von Königsberg an Hardenberg, 15. Oktober 1818. 225 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, H II (Generalia), Nr. 14, p. 17: Schreiben des Oberpräsidenten von Köln an Hardenberg, 21. September 1818. 226 GPStA, 1. HA, Rep. 74, O. P., Nr. 8: Entwurf einer Antwort an die CivilMitglieder der städtischen Aushebungs-Kommission in Aachen, Berlin 24. März 1818. 227 It is precisely in this sense that Benjamin insists that a criticism of military service must of necessity imply a criticism of all constituted power: For a duality in the function of violence is characteristic of militarism, which could come into being only through general conscription. . . . Since conscription is a case of law-preserving violence that is not in principle distinguished from others, a really effective critique of it is far less easy than the declamations of pacifists and activists suggest. Rather, such a critique coincides with the critique of all legal violence – that is, with the critique of legal or executive force – and cannot be performed by any lesser program. (Benjamin 1996: 241)

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Index

Abbt, T. 131–2, 206 Adorno 1 advancement 26, 178 Agamben, G. 112, 220n53, 221n69 Altenstein 157, 165–8, 172, 181, 183, 200, 203, 225n142 Althusser, L. 205, 219n24–5 amalgam 72–4 Ancillon 157 André, L. 13 Archenholz, J. W. v. 163 Arches, P. 48 Arendt, H. 112 Argenson 218n13 Aristotle 68, 75, 84, 96, 146, 198 Arndt, E. M. 164, 167, 172–4, 177, 180, 188, 194, 204–5, 210 Aufhebung 3, 107, 141, 173, 215 Aufklärung 147; see also Enlightenment, Lumières August (prince) 191 Auvray, M. 1 Bach, T. 198 Bacon, P. J. J. 53 Bacourt 220n56 Badie, B. 27 Baersch, G. 147 Bagensky, C. H. L. v. 209 Bahn, R. 135 Baillot, P, 96 Bailly, J. S. 47 Bald, D. 179 Balibar, É. 75, 150, 152, 216–17 Barailon, J.-F. 107 Barère de Vieuzac 83–4, 102, 214 Basler, O. 133 Bayard (capitain) 222n90 Beaupuy, N. 60, 90

Beccaria, C. 69 Behre, O. 123 Belissa, M. 93 Belle-Isle 24 Belot, D. 99 Benjamin, W. 7, 203, 215, 221n 69, 230n227 Benninghoven, F. 125 Berenhorst, G. H. v. 135–6 Berger, L. 206, 208, 210 Bergès, L. 222n90 Bernadotte, J.-B. 105 Bertaud, J.-P. 57, 60–2, 73, 96, 105 Beyme 157, 227n175 Bezzenberger, A. 177, 188, 194, 201, 205 Bial, J.-P. 58, 65, 87, 101 Bien, D. 25 Bien, G. 176 Bildung 141–2, 158, 167, 176, 198, 209, 226n144; see also education Bildungsroman 141 Billaud-Varenne, J. N. 86–7, 110 biopolitics 4, 95; see also Foucault, M. Birnbaum, P. 27 Bleckwenn, H. 127, 130 Blot, J. C. 73 Blücher 191–2 Blumenthal, M. 195–200, 226n159–60 Bock, H. 191 Bodin, J. 113, 226–7 Boguslawski (colonel) 183 Bois, J.-P. 26 Boislisle A. de 17 Bonaparte, L. 106 Bonaparte, N. see Napoleon Bonneville de Marsangy, L. 222n86 Borcke, J. v. 208 Borkenau, F. 138

254 Index Bornhak, C. 120 Boullé, J.-P. 49, 60 Bourdieu, P. 221n64, 221n66, 224–5n123 Bouscayrol, R. 80, 82–3, 97–9, 222n85–6 Bouthillier, C. L. de 56–7 Boyen, H. v. 147, 186, 201, 209–10 Bräker, U. 125–6, 133–4 Brancourt, J.-P. 219n21 Brandes, E. 134 Bredow, W. v. 223n112 Bricard 58, 67, 80, 83, 97–9 Brice, R. 96 Briez, P. C. J. 78, 91 Briquet, P. de 13–15 Brissot de Warville, J. 92 Buchholz, F. 217 Buffat, R. 79 Bujak, G. 188 Bülow, A. D. H. v. 135 Bülow, E. v. 223n108 Bureaux de Pusy, J. X. 57, 70 Burkhardt, J. 119 Büsch, O. 121, 127, 130, 218n1 Büsching, A. F. 138 Butler, J. 205 Cambon, J. 90, 93 canton system 8, 29, 121–31, 168, 181–4, 186 Cardenal 57 Carron-Nisas, H. F. 102 Carsted, S. B. 125 Cassian 138 causa sui 36 Cazalès 57 centralization 8, 18, 113, 117, 119, 120, 124 Cermont-Tonnere 57 Cessac 54, 64, 91–2, 219n40 Chagniot, J. 24 Chamborant de Perissat, A. de 220n53 Charbod, F. 164 Charbroud, C. 68–9 Chauvelin, B. F. 108 Chavardès 50, 66 Chemin, J.-B. 78 Chenier, A. 220n57 Choiseul 23 Chuquet, A, 59, 66, 93 Citerne, G. 219–20n43 citizenship 1–2, 4–5, 7–8, 27, 44–6,50, 52, 62–3, 65–8, 70, 72, 86–7, 94, 96–7,

105, 110, 134, 146, 151, 155, 212–3; active and passive 47–50, 67, 146, 149, 155; and masculinity 52, 94,146, 148, 155; social 90 citizen-soldier 28–9, 33, 37, 52, 55, 58, 65, 70, 86–7, 103, 110, 141, 143, 170, 175, 177, 214 civic guards 185, 207, 209–10 civic practice 8, 33, 36–7 civic virtue 29, 31, 37, 42, 44–5, 51, 54, 85, 94, 147, 213 civil religion 37; see also Rousseau, J.-J. civil society 15, 23, 39, 42, 56, 59, 63, 69, 142, 146, 166, 175, 179, 181–2, 215 class 6–7, 23, 40–1, 49, 52, 54–5, 77, 89, 91, 97, 101, 110, 112–13, 141, 144, 154–5, 158, 171, 175–6, 181–2, 185–6, 189, 191, 195–9, 208–9, 217 Clausewitz, C. v. 156–7, 174, 179, 188, 190, 192, 197, 200–1, 227n163 Clémenceau, B. 83, 222n86 Clérembault 191 Clewitz 157 Cobb, R. 81 Cohen, E. 2 Collet 105 Condorcet 29, 31–2, 77, 94, 220n57 Constant, B. 108–9 Cornudet, J. 85, 222n94 Corvisier, A. 15–23, 25, 27, 117, 218n4–7, 218n15–18, 219n20, 219n22 courage 7, 29, 39, 82, 90, 96, 102, 137, 144, 203 Coustard, A. P. 92 Couthon, G. 85 Coyer (abbé) 219n21 Crépin, A. 62, 106, 113 d‘Arcq, P.-A. 25–6 d‘Hollander, P. 49 Dahlenberg, C. 180, 226n149 Daniel, R. P. 23 Daniel, U. 5 Dannenberg, K. W. 208 Danton, G. J. 82, 112 de Roussy (capitain) 16 death 3, 7, 77–9, 83, 87, 89, 95, 110, 131, 142–4, 160–1, 177, 206, 214, 216; fear of 87, 160; as punishment 14, 42, 145, 193, 199, 206, 221n70 Decken, J. F. v. d. 135–9 Delbrück, F. 191, 203–4

Index 255 Delmas, J. 24 Delpierre, A. F. 108 democracy 30, 63, 75, 78, 87, 89, 110, 144, 152, 167, 209 Depréaux, A. 15 Déprez, E. 57–8, 60–1, 67, 69, 90, 220n51 Depuisaye, J. 104 des Pommelles 20 desertion 14, 15, 17–18, 24, 38, 46, 53, 102, 105, 123, 125–6, 129, 133–5, 188, 206–7, 220n43, 222n90 Desmousseaux, A. F. 108 Devenne, F. 49, 63 Diestermeier 118 Diesterweg, A. 180 Dietrich, R. 125 discipline 1–5, 23, 25–7, 29, 31, 33, 38, 42–3, 53, 56–60, 62–70, 72–4, 76, 83, 88–90, 92, 95–6, 102–4, 111–12, 120, 125, 130–1, 134, 138–9, 141–3, 152–5, 169–74, 176, 178, 183, 188, 195, 200, 208, 212–15, 219n19, 220n50; military 23, 29, 43, 53, 56, 58–60, 63–4, 67, 69, 72, 74, 92, 134, 138–9, 169, 171, 173, 176, 196, 214–15; monastic 138–9; social 1, 3–5, 57, 130–1, 196 Dohna 118, 183 Dorfeuille 64 Dubois-Crancé, E. L. A. 54–5, 74, 220n55 Dulaure, J. A. 85 Dumas, M. 66, 73, 85, 91, 103, 112–13 Dumez, F.-J. 83, 101–2, 220n43, 221n74–5, 222n83 Dupont de Nemours 220n57 Duportail, A. 66, 72 Dupuy, R. 50 duty 1, 6, 18–20, 22–3, 31, 33, 46, 48, 54–5, 63, 65, 69–70, 86, 91, 93, 95, 102, 105–6, 108, 113, 117–18, 127, 137, 144, 148–50, 152–3, 162, 170, 174–5, 178, 180, 184–5, 206, 209, 211, 214; civic 1, 6–7, 33, 48, 70, 93, 108, 211, 214, 216; military 27, 46, 91, 117, 127, 209, 211, 216 Duviquet, M. 100 Ecalard-Chaumond 104 Eckert, G. 138, 147, 165, 176, 200–1, 206, 226n155, 227n160 education 2, 6, 30–1, 33, 37, 41–3, 58, 67, 83–6, 94, 111, 141–2, 154, 156,

161, 167, 170–3, 176, 186, 205, 209, 224n116; civic 30–1, 33, 37, 40, 43, 83, 85–6, 111, 213; military 1, 6, 29, 42, 49, 83–4; national 55, 142, 156, 158–60, 171, 176; see also Bildung; national education educational novel see Bildungsroman Ehrenberg, A. 218n3 Eichhorn 196 Elbée, L. A. 50 Engels, F. 197 Enlightenment 8, 27–9, 31, 33, 35, 37, 39, 41, 43–5, 51, 53, 70, 75, 83–4, 94, 132–5, 147, 156, 161, 172, 221n65, 224n122, 225n124; see also Aufklärung enthusiam 29, 73, 81, 135–8, 141–2, 172, 191, 195, 205, 211, 223n110; see also Schwärmerei equality 7, 30–1, 35, 48, 50, 53, 55, 64, 66, 69, 74, 78–80, 83–4, 87, 90, 95–6, 99–101, 103, 105–6, 108, 131, 144, 146, 166, 170, 180–1, 183, 196, 200, 214 Ernouf, A. 67 Esposito, R. 214, 220n53 esprit de corps 26, 38, 66, 133, 178 Esquieu, L. 14 ethnicity 7, 110; see also nationality Ewald, J. L. 134, 138 Favard de Laglande 108 Fetscher, I. 146 Fichte, J. G. 142, 155–61, 179, 291, 225n125–38 Fischer (lieutenant) 180, 208, 226n150, 228n185 Fischer, W. 157 Forrest, A. 222n90 Foucault, M. 2–5, 77, 138; see also biopolitics; governmentality Fouché, J. 91 Franke, A. 195, 198 Franz, G. 118 Frauenholz, E. v. 122, 132, 178, 223n107 Frederic, William (great elector) 119 Frederick II, Friedrich II (king of Prussia) 120, 125, 129, 133, 135, 128, 221n65 Frederick, William I, Friedrich Wilhelm I (king of Prussia) 119–21, 123, 128 Frevert, U. 179, 202, 206, 210 Frey 147

256 Index Fricasse 88, 98, 222n85 Friese, F. G. 185 Furet, F. 27, 59 Gaudin, E. 105 Gautier 51–2 Gébelin, J. 19, 21 Gembruch, W. 164 gender 6–7, 32, 44, 52, 77, 80–2, 89, 93–8, 100–1, 110, 134, 138, 142, 146, 155, 210 genealogy 4, 6 general will 3, 34–6, 55, 65, 68, 74, 108, 146 Genty, M. 219n29, 219n31, 219n35 Gérard de Rarecourt 50 Girard, G. 13, 15–18, 20–2, 218n8–11, 218n14 Girardon, P. 67, 80, 97, 99–100, 222n85 Girault, P. R. 101 glory 15, 32–3, 38, 40, 43, 51–2, 78, 88, 97, 132 Gneisenau, N. v. 147, 156, 164, 167, 171–3, 177–8, 190–4, 197–8, 200, 203, 216 Godard, J.-F. 59 Godechot, J. 48 Godineau, D. 95–6 Goetze, F. J. V. v. 187, 194 Gossuin, C. J. E. 65 Gottschall, T. 202 Gouges, O. de 94 Goupy de Morville, J.-B. 54, 69 governmentality 69, 159; see also Foucault, M. Granier, H. 187, 109–10 Gravier, J. 16 great fear 47, 195 Grell, C. 28, 36 Grolman 191, 200 Guérin, D. 81 Guibert, J. A. H. 28, 38–40, 203, 219n26 Guillon, C. 94 Haacke (colonel) 93 Habermas, J. 2 Hahlweg, W. 200 Händel, H. 118 Hardenberg, K. v. 147, 165–6, 168, 186, 192, 197, 206–7, 227n178, 229n203, 229n206, 229n213, 229n215, 229n218–19, 229n221, 230n224, 230n225 Harkort, F. 208

Harnisch, H. 123–9, 222n100 Hassenfrantz, J. H. 64, 220n57 Hegel, G. W. F. 214, 226n144 Heitzer, H. 191 Helfritz, H. 120 Hennet, L. 218n13 Herberg-Rothe, A. 200 Herre, P. 206 Hintze, O. 117, 119, 123, 128, 163 Hippel, G. v. 198 Hobbes, T. 158, 219n27 Höhn, R. 133, 135–6, 178–9, 200, 223n106 Hölderlin, F. 142, 224n117 honour 7, 17, 25, 29–30, 38, 40, 43, 53, 57, 82, 95–6, 104–5, 131–3, 141, 143, 171, 175, 178, 180–1, 188, 196–7, 212 Hubatsch, W. 120, 147, 223m100 Hugot, N. 80 Humboldt, W. v. 166, 176–7 Hunt, L. 51, 81, 94, 142 Ibbeken, R. 206 individuality 36–7, 57, 95, 141, 179 intendance, intendant 19, 22–4, 218n9 Israel, J. 37 Jacquot, P. 60, 62–3 Jähns, M. 123 Janke, T. 202 Jannin, J.-C. 82, 98–9 Jany, C. 123–4, 126, 222n99 Jaucourt, A. F. 108 Jens, W. 142 Johann Sigismund (elector of Brandenburg) 118 Joliclerc 82, 88, 98, 222n85 Jourdan, J.-B. 105, 107–8, 128 Jourgniac de Saint Méard, F. 64 Jubé de la Perrelle, A. 108 Julien, M. A. 85 just war 88, 143, 157 Justi, J. H. G. v. 132 Kant, I, 28, 132, 135, 144–59, 161, 165, 172, 177, 209, 217, 221n65, 224n120–3, 225n124–5 Kantonsystem see canton system Kantorowicz, E. 216 katechon 70, 222n53 Kerner, G. 66 Kersaint, A. G. 71–2, 220n57 Kessel, E. 135 Kircheisen, F. M. 167, 191

Index 257 Kleinschmidt, H. 133 Klewitz 225n141 Kloeden, K. F. v. 196 Kloosterhuis, J. 122, 124–5, 127–30, 223n100 Klopstock, F. G. 142–3 Knesebeck, K. F. v. d. 135, 141 Kocka, J. 130 Koenen 178–9 König, H. 156 Koselleck, R. 8, 29, 44, 70, 84, 132 Krebs, R. 142 Krockow 190–1 Kroener, B. 24, 120, 122 Krümper 183–4 Kuhrke, W. 147 La Fayette 47 La Franchise 63 La Lancette 16 La Rochefoucauld 220n57 La Tour du Pin, J. F. 54 Lacouteulx-Canteleu, J. B. 104 Lacroix, S. 80–1, 93 Lacuée, J. G. 67, 89, 102, 106 Lamarque, F. 66 Lameth, A. 57, 67 Lampe, K. 205 Landsturm 193–200, 203, 205, 212, 226n155–6, 225n158 Landwehr 173, 180, 189, 204–9, 211, 226n 145, 226n149, 227n162, 227n166–71, 227n175, 228n178, 228n183–4 Lange, F. 177 Lanthenas, D. M. 86, 95, 104 Laugier, J. R. 58 Laujacq, B. 105 Laukhard, F. C. 134, 138, 222n97, 223n115 Launoy, J. B. 112 Laveaux, É. 106 Le Caron, L. 221n64 Lecoq 196–7 Lehmann, M. 123, 147, 175, 180–1, 183–5, 207–8 Léon, P. 94–5 Léonard, É. 23, 46, 219n21 Lepeletier 112 levée en masse 80–3, 86, 89, 93, 190 Levi, M. 218n2 Lévy, J.-M. 62 Liancourt, F. A. F. 54–5 liberty 2, 5, 29, 46, 52–5, 57–8, 60–1, 66,

68–72, 79–81, 83–8, 90, 92–6, 98–104, 107–8, 112, 137–8, 142–4, 146, 150–4, 166, 173, 176, 200, 202–3, 226n142; civil 35, 107, 202; martyrs of 78; natural 35; personal 24, 54, 68, 103, 107–8, 134, 143, 152, 174; political 19, 52, 54, 68, 72, 107, 143, 192 ligue of virtue see Tugendbund Loriga, S. 219n19 Lossau 170, 174–5, 177, 203 Losurdo, D. 144 lottery 19–22, 24, 40, 61, 210 Louvois 18 Lukács, G. 141, 224n116 Luther, M. 192 Lüttwitz 207 Lützow 227n164 Mably 31–3, 132 Mandrou, R. 84 Marat, J.-P. 81–2 Marbot, J. A. 106 Marquant 80, 88, 99, 222n85 Martens, C. v. 201 Marx, K. 198 Mathiez, A. 82 Maury, E. 101, 220n47 Meinecke, F. 209 Menou, J. 70 Mente, W. 138 mercenary 28, 38, 41, 51, 70, 107, 118, 120, 125–6, 176 Mercier, S. 17 Mercoyrol de Beaulieu, J. de 14 Merlin, A. C. 103 militarism 71, 218n1, 230n227 militarization 2, 101, 103, 107, 113, 127, 130, 171, 182, 218n1 Mirabeau, H. R. R. 29, 220n56 Molière de Pallud 221n72 monastery 1, 31, 138–9 Montbrun 221n61 Montesquieu 29–31, 131 Montesquiou A.-P. 66 Montlosier, F. D. 63 Mony-Baudot 220n47 moral value 29, 57, 70, 124, 182 Moullé, A. 97, 221n73, 222n80, 222n84 Mousnier, R. 117 Muhlack, U. 117 Müller, R. 188, 207 Müller-Weil, U. 121 Münchow-Pohl 147, 168, 187, 190, 192, 206

258 Index Münkler, H. 161 Napoleon 9, 113–14, 156–7, 165, 183, 187, 200–1, 203 Narbonne, L. 103 national education 55, 142, 156, 158–60, 171, 176; see also Bildung; education nationality 7, 110, 187; see also ethnicity nationalization 13, 24, 56, 91, 131, 202, 216–17 Niebuhr, B. G. 183, 208 Niemeyer 171 Nietzsche, F. 27 Noël, G. 58, 79, 83, 88, 98–101 Noiriel, G. 24 Novalis 144 Oestreich, G. 119 Opitz, E. 135 Oshée, R. R. 93 Pache, J. N. 73 Pastoret, E. 66 patriotism 29, 39, 42–3, 54, 57, 70, 90, 93, 99, 157, 180, 196, 219n40, 225n125, 225n128, 225n132, 225n135 Payan 85 Penn, W. 28 Pertz, G. 196 Pestalozzi, H. 156, 171, 225n125–6 Petit, J. 66 Petitbon 65 Pflugk-Harttung, J. v. 176, 186, 194–6, 204 Piot 83 Pockels, C. 134 Pontchartin 218n11 popular arming 3, 46, 63, 82, 86, 100, 106, 112, 137, 142, 167, 188, 189, 192, 194–7, 201, 204–10, 212 Porte, J. G. D. 108 Pressavin, J.-B. 61, 112 property 35, 42, 48, 54, 111, 118, 122, 125, 129, 161, 169, 169–71, 175, 188, 193, 197–9, 219n40 Pröve, R. 138 public force 38, 40, 54–5, 68–9, 71, 75, 77, 104 public spirit 29, 63, 86, 100 Quoy-Bodin, J.-L. 23

Rabaut 54–5, 66 rabble 33, 53, 100, 104, 112, 131, 141, 154, 175, 183, 191, 197–9 Rancière, J. 198 Raschke, B. 140 Raumer, F. v. 164 Raumer, K. v. 147 Rellstab, L. 185, 205 Renault, A. J. 105 republicanism 94, 140, 144–5 Reverchon, J. 61, 112 riflemen 184, 186, 202, 204–5, 209 rights 1–4, 7, 13, 24, 34–5, 37, 46, 48, 50, 55–6, 58–9, 62, 64, 67–9, 72, 74, 81, 90, 92–4, 113–14, 118–19, 145, 148, 150–4, 160–1, 169, 180, 204, 211; to carry arms 63, 94–6, 102; civic 1, 2, 7, 46, 48, 50, 56, 64, 67, 68, 92, 94, 96, 105, 108, 146, 148, 186; equality of 74, 90; human 64, 92, 98–9, 148, 178; to insurrection and resistence 81, 144–5, 207; morality and 150–4; natural 34, 145; political 1, 37, 48, 50, 58–9, 105, 169, 186; social and economic 4, 132 Ritter, G. 218n1 Rivaud 106 Rivière, C. de la 72 Robespierre, M. 70–1, 74, 78–9, 92 Rosanvallon, P. 48 Rosenberg, H. 147 Rossée, J. F. 103 Rousseau, F., 222n90 Rousseau, J.-J. 28, 31, 33–7, 55, 75, 78, 84, 136, 146, 149, 219n25 Rousset, C. 66 Roussilon, A. 80 Roynette, O. 5 Rühle von Lilienstern 176, 195, 198–9, 201, 208 rule of law 28, 68–9 Saint-André, J. 112 Saint-Just, E. M. P. 57 Sauviac 221n60 Savary, J. J. M. 105 Savigny, K. v. 196 Saxe, M. de 37–8, 137 Schalk, E. 25 Scharnhorst, G. 147, 164, 168, 172, 174–5, 182–6, 191–2, 194, 203, 223n109, 223n109 Scharnweber 197–8, 204, 226n160 Schill 191–2,

Index 259 Schiller, F. 142–4, 224n118–19 Schlegel 176–7 Schleiermacher, D. F. 147 Schmeling, W. v. 173–4 Schmidt, D. 188 Schmidt, H. 117 Schmidt, M. 142 Schmitt, C. 193, 220n52 Schneider, E. 142 Schnitter, H. 118, 122 Schön, T. v. 147, 170–1, 226n142, 230n223 Schrötter, F. L. v. 147 Schrötter, R. v. 122 Schwärmerei, schwärmerisch 136, 223n110 Schwartzkoppen, C. v. 191 Schwieger, K. 130 Scott, J. 94 Scott, S. 59 Senellart, M. 219n23 Serre, J. 222n87 Servan, J. 38, 40–4, 54, 60, 64, 66, 91–2, 219n40, 220n51 seven years war 8, 121, 131, 135, 163 Shanahan, W. 183 Sieyès, E. 91, 93, 219n36 Skalweit, A. 126 skirmisher 164, 197, 208 Smith, J. 26, 219n21 Snyder, C. 35 Soboul, A. 47, 54, 62, 80–1 sovereign, sovereignty 37, 45, 52, 55, 64, 82, 85–7, 99, 111–13, 132, 145–6, 148–50, 159, 164, 170, 173, 177, 187–8, 193–4, 214–17; citizen as 37, 45, 52, 85–6, 111, 146, 217; concept of 4; nation as 55, 177; popular 1, 4, 8, 31, 51, 55, 65, 70, 79, 81, 85–7, 89, 99, 110–13, 148–50, 159, 168, 177, 213–17; royal 64, 119, 127, 145, 216; sovereign rights 3, 37, 193 Spinoza 5, 148 Staes, J. 65 state construction 6, 8–9, 13, 117, 119, 132 Stein, K. v. 147, 156, 164–5, 167, 173, 175, 188, 191, 202 Steinmetz, H. 142 Stern, A. 191 Sterne, L. 135 Stübig, H. 132, 156, 167, 173, 178, 180 subjectivity 6, 36, 41, 53, 55, 151, 162, 174, 217

Tallet, F. 117 Terrade, A. 99 terror, terrorism, terreur 51, 81–2, 146, 164, 193, 196, 199 Thérgoine de Méricourt, A. de 94–5 Thimme, F. 147, 167 Tiede, T. F. 226n146 Tilly, C. 117 Tocqueville, A. de 27 total institution 1–2, 156 total war 39, 40, 199 Tournes, R. 50 touting 13, 15–18, 21–2, 121 Tschirch, O. 135, 140, 147 Tuetey, L. 26 Tugendbund 147, 192 Turgot 22–3, 29 Valcour, A. 80, 95 Vaultier, R. 17 Vaupel, R. 164, 168–71, 174–5, 177–9, 183, 185, 192–4, 200, 202–3, 208 Verfassungsstreit 114 Verjus, A. 96 Véron-Fortbonnais, F. 65 Vialla, S. 49, 57, 60, 62 vice 31–3, 39, 52, 87, 94, 100 Vincke 191, 202–3 violence 3, 8, 23, 63–4, 180, 195, 200–2, 230n227; limitation and escalation of 200–2; in recruitment 16–17, 21, 63–4, 124; state, monopoly of 1, 3, 13, 45, 47, 63, 102, 201 virtue 7, 29–33, 37–40, 42–5, 51–2, 54, 66, 79, 81, 85–7, 90, 94, 96, 99–100, 131–2, 150, 152, 155, 172, 177–9, 213; civic 29, 31, 37, 42, 44–5, 51, 54, 85, 94, 147, 213; in Kant 150, 152–3, 155, 177; ligue of see Tugendbund; military 29, 39, 42, 44 virtue-politics 28, 31–2, 150 Voigt, J. 147 Voltaire 16 Voss, J. 140 Wachholtz, F. L. v. 130 Wagner, A. 147 Wagner, P. 2 Wagner, W. 141 Wahnich, S. 92 Walzer, M. 218n2 war of the spanish succession 16, 18, 21–2 Wehler, H.-U. 218n1

260 Index Weniger, E. 141 Werckmeister, F. 180, 226n151 Wernicke 229n220 White, C. E. 172 Wieland, C. M. 146–7 Wiese und Kaiserswaldau, H. v. 191 Willems, E. 218n1 Wilson, P. 121, 123, 126–7 Wimpffen, F. de 68–9

Winckelmann 135 Winter, G. 165–8, 172, 185, 203, 225–6n141–2 Winter, M. 126–7, 130, 223n101 Wohlfeil, R. 183 York (general) 188 Zimmermann, J. G. 131