Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in Fin-De-Siècleengland And

Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany

Ben Anderson Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany Ben Anderson Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany Ben Anderson Keele University Department of History Keele, UK

ISBN 978-1-137-53999-1 ISBN 978-1-137-54000-3 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020 The author(s) has/have asserted their right(s) to be identified as the author(s) of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

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This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Limited. The registered company address is: The Campus, 4 Crinan Street, London, N1 9XW, United Kingdom To the memory of Chris Polden Preface

In 2004, as an undergraduate I made an off-the-cuff remark to a lecturer that rural space might have been just as much about ‘conducting’ oneself as the city. It has taken almost two decades, but I hope that this book justi- fies that comment. I have spent over a decade working on this project—in that time, my work and life has been guided, influenced, improved, critiqued and discussed by an astonishing array of friends and colleagues from across Europe. When I began, this book was my objective and goal; along the way, I realised that those connections were the real gain, and that this book is a reflection and celebration of them. Doubtless I will have missed someone in the following list, but in roughly chronological order, many thanks to: Catherine Feely, Jim Greenhalgh, Ben Wilcock, Tom White, Sheona Davies, Kat Fenelly, Charlie Wildman, Eloise Moss, Ian Boutle, Matt Adams, Beck Conway, Patrick Doyle, Tom Sharp, Dafydd Launder, Alex Mitchell and anyone who likes picnicking on Wednesdays. Andy Lole, Helen Boothman, Alex Cannon, Sarah Rouse, Simon Bates, Jo Solomon, Jamie Hill, Sam and Chris Watson, Dave Barrans, Andrew and Claudia Parker, Chris Todd, Dave Morse, Sophie Fosker, Merc Incles, Mark Stowe, Jane Graham, Ali Iredale, Lizzie and Sam Moxon, Jago and Sarah Warburton, Tim Marjot, Graham Johnson, Deano Maywhort and anyone else who has been dragged/dragged me climbing, running, swimming, riding or skiing when there wasn’t enough time. Luke and Jilli Taylor and Simon and Sonya Hudson for being old friends abroad, and the many residents of the brilliant Pater-Rupert-Mayer-Heim for being new ones.

vii viii PREFACE

Stephan Ritter, Martin Achrainer, Monica Gärtner, Doris Hallama, Ingeborg Schmitt-Mummert, Mike Dent, Florian Rosenberg and other colleagues at archives in Munich, Innsbruck, the Ötztal, Leutasch and Vienna. The enormously helpful co-workers at other archives—Greater Manchester County Record Office, Frankfurt City Archive, Munich City Archive, Bavarian State Archives, the Musterschule, Bavarian State Library, Mountain Heritage Trust and others. Paul Readman, Clare Roche, Jonathan Westaway, Marco Armiero, Paul Gilchrist, Mark Freeman, Marianne Dudley, Leona Skelton, Thomas Ebert, Rosamund Ridley, Douglas Hope, Robert Gray, Iain Robertson, Matt Kelly, Franziska Torma, Charlotte Lauder and many others for advice and comments. Tine Blum, and friends in Tübingen and Innsbruck for helping me through my PhD. Iain Robertson and Vicki Leanne Randall for helping me after it. My Keele colleagues and friends, but especially Rachel Bright, Alannah Tomkins, Anthony Kauders and Shalini Sharma for reading chapters. Special thanks to my PhD supervisors Leif Jerram and Max Jones, whose advice and support far transcended supervision, as well as my exam- iners Simon Gunn and Maiken Umbach, who have offered such support since, and to the reviewer for their kind, but helpful comments. Finally of course, my parents, who have put up with a lot, and most of all Gemma Ford and Olive Ford Anderson, without whom I might never have actually finished the thing. This work was supported by the Arts and Humanities Research Council Doctoral Award no. 7133670.

Keele, UK Ben Anderson 2019 Contents

1 Introduction 1

2 Mountaineers in the City 25

3 Mountaineers Against the City 65

4 Constructing the Alps 99

5 Time 139

6 Risk and Danger 175

7 Beyond the Nation 219

8 The Indoors in the Outdoors 253

9 Conclusion 281

ix x Contents

Glossary 289

Index 291 Abbreviations

AAVM Akademischen Alpenvereins München ADAV Archiv des deutschen Alpenvereins Alpenverein Deutsche und Oesterreichische Alpenverein AOeAV Archiv des Oesterreichische Alpenvereins AVAST Alpenvereinsarchiv Südtirol. CCJ Climbers’ Club Journal CHA Co-operative Holidays Association Comradeship Comradeship: The magazine of the Co-operative Holidays Association, in connection with the National Home Reading Union DAZ Deutsche Alpenzeitung FRCC Journal Fell and Rock Climbers’ Club Journal GMCRO Greater Manchester County Records Office MDOeAV Mitt(h)eilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins MNN Münchner neueste Nachrichten Naturfreund Der Naturfreund: Zeitschrift des Touristenvereins “Die Naturfreunde” Naturfreunde Touristenverein “Die Naturfreunde” ÖAZ Oesterreichische Alpenzeitung ODNB Oxford Dictionary of National Biography ÖTC Österreichische Touristen-Club/Österreichische Touristen-Klub/ Österreichische Touristenklub ÖTZ Oesterreichische Touristenzeitung RC Archive Rucksack Club Archive RC Journal Rucksack Club Journal SA München Stadtarchiv München Sektion(en) Alpenverein branch(es) StBBerlin Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin ZDOeAV Zeitschrift des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins xi CHAPTER 1

Introduction

In 1908 and 1909, the East-End railway engineer and one of the great eccentrics of pre-war mountaineering, Oscar Eckenstein (1859–1921), published his improved design for crampons—metal foot-spikes for crossing ice—in the Oesterreichische Alpenzeitung.1 He began his articles with a comment on the state of ‘Ice-craft’:

More than 30 years have passed since I first went to the Alps, and in this time, Alpinism has in some ways made quite enormous progress. Compare, for instance, today’s knowledge of rock and rock-climbing technique to that of before! It is therefore all the stranger to me, that there are areas in which Alpinism, generally, remains almost at the same level as it was 50 years ago. This is particularly true of ice-technique, and everything related to it.2

Eckenstein was born to German émigré parents in London in 1859, but retained strong links to German culture, both as a well-known railway innovator and as a member of a European climbing network centred around meetings at Pen-y-pas in Wales, Courchevel in Italy, Zermatt in Switzerland and Vienna in Austria.3 Excluded from climbing elites in London because of his social background, controversial techniques and relationship with the ‘founder of modern magick’ and ‘Great Beast 666’ Aleister Crowley (1875–1947), Eckenstein found a place amongst the emerging avant garde of European climbers based in Vienna, Munich and the cities of Northern England.4 He has been credited with inventing a

© The Author(s) 2020 1 B. Anderson, Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany, https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3_1 2 B. ANDERSON new, more gymnastic technique of ‘balance’ climbing in the 1890s, along with advice on knots common to other European elite mountaineering circles, and the improved designs for ice-climbing equipment which accompanied this article and others.5 Eckenstein’s apparently innocuous justification of his new crampon designs, and their accompanying techniques, summarised a new relationship between mountains, mountaineers and modernity which this group had been developing for the previous three decades. For Eckenstein, ‘progress’ in the mountains—he used the German term Fortschritte—was not synonymous with first ascents, or gaining a ‘summit position’ from which to exert personal or group sovereignty, as Peter Hansen has so carefully elucidated.6 His version of what it meant to be modern instead involved traversing the mountains more quickly, gracefully or efficiently, using improvements to equipment and body alike. Like many ‘haptic’ alpinists and rock climbers, he saw the mountains not primarily as a series of unclimbed peaks nor as a succession of vistas, but as a series of technical, psychological and kinetic barriers that could be overcome by ‘mountaincraft’—equipment, thought, training and knowledge, all of which Eckenstein advocated in the subsequent article, and all of which he knowingly presented as evidence of his own status as a ‘modern’ individual, whose movements would be improved by his own control over innovation, technology and landscape.7 This book is about how urban Europeans found new ways to be modern in the rising uncertainty about the future that characterised the decades before 1914.8 It concentrates on a disparate but loosely connected group of mountain enthusiasts like Eckenstein, ranging in social background from ‘mill girls’, clerks and salesmen to political and administrative elites in cities like Manchester, Munich and Vienna. Despite their varied social background, these women and men shared a commitment to cultural and behavioural norms that demanded that leisure should be socially and culturally productive. They took part in a Europe-wide debate about the meanings of concepts such as progress, civilisation and ‘modern’ life, concepts which had long provided an epistemological basis for imperial, capitalist and liberal discourse, but whose application increasingly focused on the imagination and experience of industrial, urban life.9 Yet while mountain leisure participants engaged with these broader currents of cultural criticism, and structured their activities accordingly, their modernity was as much about practices, material cultures and sensory experiences which were embedded in their interactions with urban and mountain environments alike. What Rudy Koshar has described as a ‘selective appropriation 1 INTRODUCTION 3 of modernity’ was a process of bodily practice, material interaction and affective understanding including but not reducible to representation, discourse and language, and enmeshed within the historical processes from which it claimed to stand apart.10 By interrogating not merely how contemporaries imagined and defined ‘nature’, but also the agency of material environments in the production of ideas like ‘progress’ and ‘modernity’, this book examines ways in which cultural criticism, and activities such as rambling and mountaineering, might be understood as integral, indeed quintessential parts of modern life in the decades around 1900.

Critically Modern As men and women left their cities to walk, climb and ski in hills, moorlands and mountains, they contested the value of urban life in languages and practices that were common to many types of life-reform or body- management movements of the period.11 ‘So-called cultured-people’ and ‘“civilised”’ men and women, Eckenstein wrote in his article about crampons, did not walk so much as ‘waddle’.12 As a result of poorly fitting shoes, posture-deforming corsets and a fashion for pointing toes outwards, he claimed ‘not only do most whites have a poor walk, but also have no hope of gaining a good one’.13 Eckenstein was too much the rational prag- matist to offer the crampon as a cure for his diagnosis of ‘Europeans’, but the diagrams he used to illustrate crampon technique compared the directionless, inefficient walk of ‘civilised’ men and women to the direct, straight line of walking in crampons; his new design literally offered an improved Fortschritte to the directionless stride of the apparently civilised, but—in his view—unnaturally deformed human. What German historians often term ‘cultural criticism’ was a guiding rationale for physical culture movements across Europe and America as they proliferated between the 1880s and 1914.14 Like Eckenstein, many involved in gymnastics, body-building, sport and cycling, or rambling, mountaineering and skiing, adopted sceptical attitudes to the ability of urban life to improve society, or lead to human progress. How to analyse these debates has proven a difficult question for historians ever since. For those working within the boundaries of ‘modernisation theory’ in the 1960s and 1970s, these movements and their criticisms of modernity provided clues as to the apparent deviations of states from the pre-ordained path of modernisation, leading automatically to increasing democratisation, bourgeois authority, economic expansion, scientific advance and 4 B. ANDERSON

rising living standards.15 Criticising modernity, for these scholars, was irrational in its ‘anti-modern’ attitude, and was indicative of a general tendency away from the rational thought that is still widely held to have underpinned modernisation since the Enlightenment. Historians such as Georg Mosse, Fritz Stern and Martin Wiener incorporated ‘life-reform’, preservationist, ruralist or ‘nature’ movements into explanations for British industrial decline in the twentieth century, or German National Socialist disaster.16 Historical changes within some nation-states that did not fit the rational structure of modernisation could be explained away as deviations inspired by irrationally ‘anti-modern’, culturally critical movements and ideologies. These theories have received a sustained critique since the early 1980s, as the problems of nationally focused histories of ‘modernisation’ have been identified, the open-ended multiplicity of glob- ally connected modernities has been accepted, and the powerful Euro- and Anglocentric discourse of such theories has been highlighted.17 However, the demise of modernisation theory has left historians with the ongoing problem of how to characterise those who expressed dissatisfac- tion with modern life, and sought to alter it. Revisionists such as Alison Light, Rudy Koshar, Paul Readman and John Alexander Williams have avoided categorisations such as anti-modern or reactionary, and have revealed the modern credentials of culturally critical movements and writers.18 These scholars have often concluded that, rather than rejecting modernity wholesale, cultural critics sought to offer what Thomas Rohkrämer has described as an ‘other’ modernity.19 Eckenstein confirms, in many ways, the claims of these more recent analyses. He combined cultural criticism with a claim to offer a form of progress or improvement. His rhetoric was not reactionary, since Eckenstein proposed no abandonment of urban or industrial society, and accepted the terms, if not the content, of progress, civilisation and human development. Yet if Eckenstein offered an alternative form of modern life, it was one that abandoned only that aspect of ‘civilisation’ or ‘culture’, which he considered neither civilised nor cultured. Cultural criticism of this type critiqued urban, industrial life on its own terms—Eckenstein was not ‘anti’ civilisation, culture, progress, improvement or modernity; rather, he questioned the extent to which these terms could be applied to the predominantly urban life of European people that they supposedly represented. In harnessing this criticism of modernity as unmodern, however, Eckenstein positioned himself as a figure of authority over how progress might be recovered—as a quintessentially ‘modern’ individual who ‘saw like a state’: able to attain 1 INTRODUCTION 5 an objective view of society, and offer a solution.20 Cultural criticism did not just accompany Eckenstein’s claim to represent a more modern, progressive future; it was an integral justification of that claim. Far from peripheral to a homogenous, neatly defined concept of ‘modernity’, then, we should understand Eckenstein’s cultural criticism, to borrow Geoff Eley’s formulation, as a ‘contest within the framework of modernity rather than [a] resistance against it’.21 Some research, including work on rambling and mountaineering, has indeed attempted to position such criticism as central to the modern experience, allowing historical actors to be typically critical about their lives, rather than unusually and peripherally so.22 Kevin Repp’s discussion of reform movements in Imperial Germany has aimed to ‘chart the other competing visions’ of a modernity still not worked out.23 David Matless’ examination of how places outside the city took on meaningful roles in discussions of urban culture similarly presented interwar English landscapes as ‘shuttles’ between competing ‘fields of reference’ about modernity, including nation, memory, nature and citizenship.24 This book uses rambling and mountaineering to build on this research, and in so doing argues that cultural criticism can only be fully understood by accepting the modernity of being critical about modern culture and urban life. The people investigated in this book acted in ways broadly similar to Eckenstein. These often middle-class men and women identified certain aspects of urban culture as a problem for modern progress, and identified places such as mountains and moorlands as a solution—a way of thinking about society that confirmed their political claim to citizenship and modern identity. They debated the meanings of ‘progress’, developed new ways of asserting modernity over themselves and others, produced concepts of civilisation and improvement, and investigated how their own bodies could best be turned to a modern project of development. These ideas and practices distinguished these groups from other traditions of traversing hills and mountains for pleasure, education, politics and work, amongst workers, smugglers, poachers, farmers, gem-hunters, poets, geologists and naturalists.25 While they certainly drew on these traditions, for many mountaineers and ramblers of the turn of the century, upland environments became laboratories of society during a period in which ‘progress’ appeared under threat. These spaces, when experienced in the right way and in the right places, were routinely cast as a force for progress, cultivation, education, development and fitness in terms that ranged through race, gender and class. By locating the conflicts identified by 6 B. ANDERSON

ramblers and mountaineers within modernity, this book highlights the limitations of characterisations of cultural critics not only as ‘anti-modern’ or ‘reactionary’, but also as offering a peripheral ‘other’, or ‘selective appropriation of’ modernity.26

Being Modern This book is less about defining ‘modernity’ and then comparing reform- ists’ attitudes to it than it is about how reformers defined themselves as ‘modern’ individuals in the context of a changing world—a world in which free-willed, self-improving ‘modern subjects’ often appeared threatened by the societies in which they lived.27 It is an important part of the argument in this book that the ‘turn to nature’ of this period was about expressing alternatives to modernity, but I am particularly interested in fleshing out what I would call the ontological modern in a period when the concept was placed under enormous discursive pressure. In a celebrated chapter on the place of the modern subject within colonial and postcolonial history, Frederick Cooper has suggested that the ‘modern’ be understood as a set of concepts through which individuals have been able to make political claims by associating their aims with future ‘modernisation’.28 Lynn Thomas has called for historians to ‘pay greater attention to how people have used the term “modern” to make political claims and envision different futures’.29 Modern, it seems, was a category easily adopted and appropriated; a slippery identity on which to base the com- plexes of power. Within the context of colonial history, notions of modernity have long been recognised as central ways in which colonial elites could justify social and political exclusion, demand the dissemination of European behavioural and cultural normativities, and legitimise violent regimes. At the same time, being ‘modern’ constituted an important discursive strategy through which distinctive forms of non-European culture could be produced, contributing to global, and consequently European, change.30 Indeed, while fin-de-siècle travellers and nature enthusiasts in Europe continue to be associated with debates about cultural criticism and its role in the tempestuous political movements of the early twentieth century, travellers in much of the rest of the world have been cast as seeking an ‘other’ against which the modernity of the traveller could be confirmed. As Peter Hansen has recently demonstrated, mountaineers were one group for whom ‘modern’ identities of citizenship and personal sovereignty had long been central—they therefore form an important example with which 1 INTRODUCTION 7 to explore the connection between being ‘modern’ and being in ‘nature’ in the famously nervous fin-de-siècle period.31 As we saw above, an important part of Eckenstein’s justification for using the crampon in the mountains rested on a discourse of progress, defined by many mountaineers as human control over nature.32 We might describe Eckenstein as the archetypal high-modernist who ‘saw like a state’, who reduced the mountain environment to a series of technical and mechanical problems, which he overcame through the rational application of his engineering knowledge. This perspective would not be ‘wrong’, but it would reify the very claim to authority over the environment—and over the practices of other mountaineers—that Eckenstein’s article rested on. Such an approach would also gloss over the pervasive reality that Eckenstein developed his crampon through a decades-long engagement with steel, ice, leather, machine tools, drawings, boots and terrain, as well as the local blacksmiths and mountain guides that are noticeably absent in his articles.33 Similarly, Eckenstein’s ‘balance climbing’ did not arrive at the rock face, fully developed as a new way of moving up a cliff. Instead, Eckenstein instilled his body with skill through engagement with the small, off-vertical side of a boulder, using a mechanically informed way of engaging with the rock, and a body already attuned to gymnastic movements from childhood—as well as, in all probability, the advice of his early guide Matthias Zurbriggen.34 As much as his articles deployed a discourse of rational objectivity and detachment, Eckenstein’s innovations emerged from a set of interconnections between himself and the mountains that were material, affective and kinetic. Indeed, he recognised this in the articles themselves. Despite the careful measurements provided, crampons were to be made to fit individual boots; readers were told to adjust their movements according to their own, different bodies, and a variety of ice- terrains that Eckenstein knew he could not hope to reproduce on paper. Far from offering a solution to a simplified problem from a position of detached authority, the crampon, and its associated ways of moving in mountain terrain, could be said to inhere in a complex interweaving of Eckenstein’s subjectivity and affective responses as a modern engineer, his physical bodily skill, the properties of steel and ice, mountain terrain, and a particular set of affects and practices associated with avant garde mountaineering; to say nothing of the relationships involved in publishing the articles themselves. We need sometimes to think about productions such as these crampons, and the altered relationship to the terrain that accompanied them, as taking place within an environment reducible to neither 8 B. ANDERSON nature nor culture, material nor meaning, if we are to avoid essentialising the anthropocentric claim to authority made by mountaineers like Eckenstein. These sorts of relationships have been termed ‘collectives’ by sociologist Bruno Latour, ‘naturecultures’ by feminist and historian of science Donna Haraway, or a ‘meshwork’ by anthropologist Tim Ingold, to cite only some of the more prominent concepts.35 There are some differences between these ideas, but rather than elucidate what has sometimes become a rather arcane set of debates, I will restrict this explanation to four key principles shared by these ‘new materialist’ perspectives on cultural process:

1. These theories aim to overcome the persistence of a series of dualisms that persist in Western humanist thought. These dualisms include mind/matter, culture/nature, language/materiality, and are retained in the present philosophical traditions of social con- structivism and material realism that such perspectives seek to bridge between. 2. Representations, being both material and meaningful, continue to matter (in all senses).36 Hayden Lorimer has suggested that we should think ‘more-than-representationally’ about cultural change, rather than abandoning representation altogether:

The focus falls on how life takes shape and gains expression in shared experiences, everyday routines, fleeting encounters, embodied movements, precognitive triggers, practical skills, affective intensities, enduring urges, unexceptional interactions and sensuous dispositions.37

Being ‘more-than-representational’ does not require an abandonment of techniques of textual analysis, but calls for their expansion to cover ways in which the full breadth of human experience was enmeshed in systems of power. 3. Meaning does not precede material; nor does material precede meaning. Rather, the two are a continuous process of dynamic change. A sense of movement and vibrant activity is a common thread running through almost all the disparate literatures on ‘new materialism’.38 Descriptions of ‘flows’ of energy and matter, or ‘lines’ of life, of the ‘dynamics of intra-activity’, or similar, sometimes even more abstract terms abound for what are meant to be ‘material’ processes.39 A more understandable conceptualisation was 1 INTRODUCTION 9

that made through the conversations over ‘landscape’ that dominated cultural geography between the 1980s and 2000s.40 On the one hand, landscape received a classic ‘social constructivist’ approach in the 1980s, led by Denis Cosgrove, who expanded on John Berger’s description of a landscape as a ‘way of seeing’.41 The image here was static, as a painting, but as Cosgrove explained, it asserted a power over real terrain through the views that it encouraged. Yet geographers working with ‘more-than-representational’ ways of examining landscape prefer to think of meaning emerging through the ways in which people attend to the environment; in Ingold’s classic formulation, through attending to a ‘taskscape’ of continuously immersed, and changing activity, which produces both the subject and object of interaction.42 4. ‘Affect’ is considered an important aspect of what constitutes this ‘natureculture’ knot of productive movement. In part, this is one way of recognising the world-centred and spontaneous (rather than intelligently pre-planned) aspects of most action, and role of this action in power relations. Following Nigel Thrift, this book makes use of a concept of ‘entrainment’ to describe how particular types of affect, distributed amongst populations, facilitated and controlled possibilities of action.43 Rather than describe Eckenstein as applying the knowledge of engineering to mountaineering problems, we might instead describe him as acting through a register of entrained affective responses which allowed him to define mountain terrain as a series of mechanical problems involving body and equipment, and facilitating the set of material cultures above which produced the crampon.

This book is also about the mobility of people, material and ideas between town and country, across borders, in the mountains, or around towns and cities.44 Urban historians working within the ‘spatial turn’ have made it possible to view the city ‘as an active force, an agent that creates certain kinds of behaviour, true to the modern sensibility’.45 In analyses of urban sexuality, consumerism, revolution or domesticity, historians have, for some time, interrogated how urban environments were caught up in cultural production in ways reminiscent to that outlined above.46 One particular emphasis has been to demonstrate how the material of the city was implicated in the cultures of bourgeois citizenship and selfhood theorised by Pierre Bourdieu, but more fully historicised by Simon Gunn, Manfred 10 B. ANDERSON

Hettling, Patrick Joyce, Jennifer Jenkins and Maiken Umbach, amongst others.47 Yet as David Harvey noted in 1993, ‘in the final analysis, there is nothing unnatural about New York’—people in cities do not behave in ‘unnatural’ ways any more than they do in the mountains; they behave in ways that attend to the environments in which they find themselves.48 Similarly, being ‘modern’ had its own ‘natures’; not in the sense of essentialist and determining material bases for identity, but rather as the ‘naturecultures’ of entangled urban and rural environments and meanings that are examined in this book.

The Frame of Analysis The focus of the analysis is on England, Germany and German-speaking Austria-Hungary, with a special emphasis on the cities of Manchester, Munich and Vienna, where mountains, hills or moorlands had a significant role in municipal and regional cultures as these cities coped with the transformations typical of late nineteenth-century urbanism.49 In all, rambling and mountaineering underwent rapid expansion during the late nineteenth century, to become important mass leisure activities which involved many thousands of people, and in which participants increasingly came to see solutions to the problems they perceived in contemporary urban culture. Although the book does not offer conventional institutional histories, it does use the archives left by key organisations in these cities, especially the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA), the Deutsche und Oesterreichische Alpenverein (Alpenverein), Touristenverein ‘Die Naturfreunde’ (Naturfreunde), The Rucksack Club, Oesterreichische Touristen-Club (ÖTC) and Oesterreichische Alpenclub. Although these were not the only rambling or mountaineering organisations in these cities, they were the largest, and their archives and publications offer a rich collection of sources for an investigation of how broad sections of the urban populace in England and Germany used places outside of the city to express ideas of modern selfhood and society.50 Although these groups of ramblers and mountaineers were very different, this book does argue that a transnational perspective can help historians to identify the shared languages and practices of a European ‘turn to nature’ in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As Chaps. 2, 3, 5, 6 and 7 explain, we are in some sense talking about the same mountain or outdoors leisure culture. I do not aim to compare Germany and England, much less show that one deviated from the other’s ‘normal’ 1 INTRODUCTION 11 path, though where a significant culture was restricted geographically, historians need to be honest about its limits. As Marc Bloch pointed out in 1928, and as more recently restated by Michael Werner and Bénédict Zimmermann, comparative analysis tends to reassert the primacy of the nation-state by presenting each object of comparison as self-contained, homogenous and static.51 Yet nor is this book a history of ‘transfer analysis’, which has been hailed by some researchers as the new ‘Königsweg’ (royal path) for transnational history.52 David Blackbourn recently summarised the transfer approach:

To do the history of transfers justice means to identify a body of ideas, practices, or artifacts in one country; to demonstrate how, why and by whom they were appropriated in another country, and to show what happened when they were transplanted—when, that is to say, they became hybrid.53

Historians are well versed in transfers. Cultural ‘appropriation’ or ‘emulation’ might take place between regions or cities, or between genders, classes, or professions, and it certainly would be possible to write a history of mountain leisure culture from this perspective.54 Yet the identification of a transfer requires the categorisation of the objects between which transfer might take place, and tends to emphasise, rather than challenge the significance of the border being crossed. For these reasons a transnational history of transfers between nations often reinforces, rather than questions, the priority of the nation-state, and in what follows, the transfer concept (much like nature/cultures) is employed as a heuristic tool rather than guiding methodology.55 The history offered in this book might be described as ‘metanational’— a history beyond, rather than between, nations and states, and one that accepts what has become known as the ‘shared’ or ‘entangled’ character of histories of locality, city, nation and region. It views the European bourgeoisie in particular as a culturally cohesive, although very much hetero- geneous group of people, who behaved in roughly the same ways when faced with the same sorts of problems or difficulties.56 Many of these problems were associated with the changing societies in which these people lived and, for many, places outside of the city offered one way of contesting what form modern life should take. At the same time, these people drew on well-established local traditions and political affiliations, on regional specificities of religion, identity and economy, and on assumptions and practices associated with both national identity and state 12 B. ANDERSON

organisation. Even the relatively wealthy and Germanophile walkers and climbers in Manchester’s Rucksack Club, for instance, celebrated traditions of trespass and ‘keeper-baiting’ derived from working-class radical- ism.57 Early nineteenth-century German climbers had also celebrated, and emulated, the gem-hunters and smugglers who served as early mountain guides.58 Yet in the 1890s, elite mountaineering in Germany morphed into a ‘sporting Alpinism’ that hybridised ‘English’ physical cultures with concepts of appropriate German manhood. These histories were entangled indeed, but in ways beyond the nation or state. Urban people drew on the cultures, affects and materials that surrounded them, both in the city and in the mountains. That they used these in order to find new ways to express modern identity is explained by this book.

Notes 1. Oscar Eckenstein, ‘Über Steigeisentechnik’, Österreichische Alpenzeitung: Organ des Österreichischen Alpenklubs [ÖAZ] XXX:764 (1908), pp. 136– 41; Oscar Eckenstein, ‘Über Steigeisentechnik’, ÖAZ XXXI:787 (1909), pp. 127–34. 2. Eckenstein, ‘Steigeisentechnik (I)’, p. 136. 3. See T. S. Blakeney and D. F. O. Danger, ‘Oscar Eckenstein, 1859–1921’, Alpine Journal 65:300 (1960), pp. 62–79, with Richard Kaczynski, Perdurabo: The Life of Aleister Crowley—The Definitive Biography of the Founder of Modern Magick, Rev. ed. (Berkeley, CA, 2010), pp. 42–44; Oscar Eckenstein, ‘Steigeisen-Kursus’, ÖAZ XXXIV:865 (1912), p. 300. 4. Eckenstein was friends with well-known mountaineers such as August Lorria, and the Austrians Eugen Guido Lammer, and Karl Blodig. He is said to have introduced the enfant terrible of German mountaineering, Paul Preuß, to the Western Alps in 1912, was a member of the ‘Austria’ Sektion of the deutsche and oesterreichische Alpenverein, and a well-known figure at the Manchester-dominated gatherings of mountaineers in Wasdale Head at the turn of the century. See Eugen Guido Lammer, Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhenged anken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich, 1935), p. 116; Karl Blodig, ‘Die Erste Ersteingung des Mont Blanc vom Col Emile Rey’, ÖAZ XXXIV:849 (1912), pp. 1–7 (p. 2); Blakeney and Danger, ‘Eckenstein’, pp. 75–77. Eckenstein is identifiable as the ‘Wanderer’ in Lehmann J. Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland (London, 1908), pp. 181–96. 5. Jonathan Westaway, ‘The German Community in Manchester, Middle- Class Culture and the Development of Mountaineering in Britain, c. 1850–1914’, English Historical Review 508 (2009), pp. 571–604 (pp. 593–94); Oscar Eckenstein, ‘Knots with the Lay’, Climbers’ Club 1 INTRODUCTION 13

Journal [CCJ] XI:44 (1909), pp. 144–47; Oscar Eckenstein, ‘Claws and Ice-Craft’, CCJ NS I:1 (1912), pp. 32–48. 6. Peter Hansen, Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London, 2013). 7. See Alan McNee, The New Mountaineer in Late Victorian Britain: Materiality, Modernity, and the Haptic Sublime (London, 2016), pp. 150–53. 8. The literature on modernity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries is vast. For studies that draw out a sense of crisis in this period, see Gal Gerson, Margins of Disorder: New Liberalism and the Crisis of European Consciousness (New York, 2004); Andrew Lees, Cities Perceived: Urban Society in European and American Thought, 1820–1940 (Manchester, 1985), pp. 106–88; Joachim Radkau, Das Zeitalter der Nervosität: Deutschland zwischen Bismarck and Hitler (Munich, 1998); Kevin Repp, Reformers, Critics and the Paths of German Modernity: Anti-Politics and the Search for Alternatives, 1890–1914 (Harvard, 2000), pp. 1–18; Martin Daunton and Bernhard Rieger (eds.), Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the Late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford, 2001). 9. Frederick Cooper, Colonialism in Question: Theory, Knowledge, History (London, 2005), pp. 113–49. 10. Rudy Koshar, Germany’s Transient Pasts: Preservation and National Memory in the Twentieth Century (Chapel Hill, 1998), p. 44. 11. See Ina Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Managing the Body: Beauty, Health and Fitness in Britain, 1880–1939 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 17–61; Michael Hau, The Cult of Health and Beauty in Germany: A Social History, 1890–1930 (London, 2003), pp. 1–124; Thomas Rohkrämer, Eine Andere Moderne? Zivilisationskritik, Natur und Technik in Deutschland, 1880–1933 (Paderborn, 1999), pp. 117–211; Bernd Wedemeyer-Kolwe, “Der Neue Mensch” Körperkultur im Kaiserreich und in der Weimar Republik (Würzburg, 2004). These movements were not identical, but shared many impetuses and emerged from transnational entanglements of reformist physical cultures as well as social and cultural criticism. See Thomas Rohkrämer, ‘Gab es eine “Lebensreformbewegung” in England?’, in Marc Cluet and Catherine Repussard (eds.), ‘Lebensreform’: Die soziale Dynamik der politischen Ohnmacht/La dynamique sociale de l’impuissance politique (Tübingen, 2013), pp. 319–36. 12. Eckenstein, ‘Steigeisentechnik (II)’, pp. 131–32. 13. Eckenstein, ‘Steigeisentechnik (II)’, p. 132. Despite the criticism, Eckenstein’s concept of a ‘normal’ walk was derived from European assumptions about posture and gait that were not shared in the rest of the world, but which themselves had a significant relationship with the culture of being ‘modern’. See Tim Ingold, Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description (London, 2011), pp. 33–50. 14 B. ANDERSON

14. Rohkrämer, Andere Moderne; Thomas Rohkrämer, ‘Antimodernism, Reactionary Modernism, and National Socialism: Technocratic Tendencies in Germany, 1890–1945’, Contemporary European History 1 (1999), pp. 29–50. See, however, Thomas Rohkrämer, ‘Kulturkritik als Schlüssel zum Verständnis viktorianischer Gesellschaftskritik’, Zeitschrift für Kulturphilosophie 9 (2007), pp. 111–19. 15. David Blackbourn, ‘“As Dependent on Each Other as Man and Wife”: Cultural Contacts and Transfers’, in Dominik Geppert and Robert Gewarth (eds.), Wilhelmine Germany and Edwardian Britain: Essays on Cultural Affinity (Oxford, 2008), pp. 15–37 (p. 17); Jürgen Kocka, ‘Asymmetrical Historical Comparison: The Case of the German Sonderweg’, History and Theory 1 (1999), pp. 40–50; Peter Mandler, ‘Against “Englishness”: English Culture and the Limits to Rural Nostalgia, 1850–1940’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 7 (1997), pp. 155–75; Joachim Radkau, ‘Germany as a Focus of European “Particularities” in Environmental History’, in Thomas Lekan and Thomas Zeller (eds.), Germany’s Nature: Cultural Landscapes and Environmental History (New Brunswick, 2005), pp. 17–32. 16. George Mosse, The Crisis of German Ideology: Intellectual Origins of the Third Reich (New York, 1964); Fritz Stern, The Politics of Cultural Despair: A Study in the Rise of the Germanic Ideology (London, 1961); Martin Wiener, English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit (Cambridge, 1981), pp. 98–123. See also Jeremy Burchardt, Paradise Lost: Rural Idyll and Social Change in England since 1800 (London, 2002), pp. 89–120; Robert Colls and Phillip Dodd (eds.), Englishness: Politics and Culture 1880–1920 (London, 1986); Robert Colls, Identity of England (Oxford, 2002), pp. 204–25; Carl Schorske, Wien: Geist und Gesellschaft im Fin de Siècle (Frankfurt a.M., 1982); Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Das Deutsche Kaiserreich 1871–1918 (Göttingen, 1994 [1973]). 17. David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley, The Peculiarities of German History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth Century Germany (Oxford, 1984); Harold James, ‘The German Experience and the Myth of British Cultural Exceptionalism’, in Bruce Collins and Keith Robbins (eds.), British Culture and Economic Decline (London, 1990), pp. 91–128; Matthew Jefferies, Contesting the German Empire, 1871–1918 (Oxford, 2008), pp. 18–46; Jürgen Kocka, ‘The European Pattern and the German Case’, in Jürgen Kocka and Allen Mitchell (eds.), Bourgeois Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 1993), pp. 3–39; Peter Lundgreen (ed.), Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte des Bürgertums: ein Bilanz des Bielefelder Sonderforschungsbereichs (1986–1997) (Göttingen, 2000); Paul Readman, ‘The Place of the Past in English Culture, c. 1890–1914’, Past and Present 186 (2005), pp. 147–99; Repp, Reformers, pp. 5–15; W. D. Rubinstein, 1 INTRODUCTION 15

‘Cultural Explanations for Britain’s Economic Decline: How True?’, in Collins and Robbins, British Culture, pp. 59–90; John Alexander Williams, Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900– 1940 (Stanford, 2007), pp. 4–6. 18. Alison Light, Forever England: Femininity, Literature and Conservatism between the Wars (Abingdon, 1991); Koshar, Transient Pasts, esp. p. 44; Readman, ‘Place of the Past’; Williams, Turning to Nature. 19. Rohkrämer, Andere Moderne? 20. James C. Scott, Seeing like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition have Failed (New Haven, 1998). 21. Geoff Eley, ‘Making a Place in the Nation: Meanings of “Citizenship” in Wilhelmine Germany’, in Geoff Eley and James N. Retallack (eds.), Wilhelminism and Its Legacies: German Modernities, Imperialism, and the Meanings of Reform, 1890–1930 (Oxford, 2004), pp. 16–33 (p. 19). 22. For example, Dagmar Günther, Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt, 1998); Hau, Cult of Health and Beauty; William H. Rollins, A Greener Vision of Home: Cultural Politics and Environmental Reform in the German Heimatschutz Movement 1904–1918 (Michigan, 1997); Williams, Turning to Nature, pp. 15–16. 23. Repp, Reformers, pp. 6–11. 24. David Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998), pp. 12–102. See also Melanie Tebbutt, ‘Rambling and Manly Identity in Derbyshire’s Dark Peak, 1880s–1920s’, The Historical Journal 4 (2006), pp. 1125–53. 25. See J. K. Walton, ‘The Northern Rambler: Recreational Walking and the Popular Politics of Industrial England, from Peterloo to the 1930s’, Radical History Review 3 (2013), pp. 243–68; Hansen, Summits; Martin Scharfe, Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus (Vienna, 2007); Andrew Beattie, The Alps: A Cultural History (Oxford, 2006); Harvey Taylor, A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele, 1997). 26. Koshar, Transient Pasts, p. 44; Rohkrämer, Andere Moderne? 27. See Michael Cowan, The Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania, 2008). 28. Cooper, Colonialism in Question, pp. 146–47. 29. Lynn Thomas, ‘Modernity’s Failings, Political Claims, and Intermediate Concepts’, American Historical Review 3 (2011), pp. 727–40 (p. 734). 30. Cooper, Colonialism in Question, pp. 113–49; John J. MacAloon (ed.), Muscular Christianity in Colonial and Post-colonial Worlds (London, 2008); Parameshwar Gaonkar (ed.), Alternative Modernities (London, 2001); Shmuel N. Eisenstadt (ed.), Multiple Modernities (London, 2002); Bruce M. Knauft (ed.), Critically Modern: Alternatives, Alterities, Anthropologies (Indianapolis, 2002). 16 B. ANDERSON

31. Hansen, Summits. 32. For example, see immediately preceding article to Eckenstein’s second publication on crampons: Rudolf Kauschka, ‘Die südlichen Türme von Vajolet’, ÖAZ XXXI:787 (1909), pp. 123–27 (pp. 124–25). Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 155–276; Rainer Amstädter, Der Alpinismus: Kultur—Organisation—Politik (Vienna, 1996); Peter Hansen, ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid- Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1995), pp. 291–321. 33. Eckenstein appears to have first been introduced to crampons in 1886: Oscar Eckenstein, ‘The Hohberghorn’, CCJ NS II:4 (1923), pp. 188–93 (p. 189). Tom Longstaff, a later president of the Alpine Club, remembered testing Eckenstein’s early designs alongside Aleister Crowley as early as 1899. Ed Douglas, Mountaineers (London, 2011), pp. 196–97 (p. 197). 34. Westaway, ‘German Community’, with Eric Newby, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush (London, 1958), quoted in Blakeney and Danger, ‘Eckenstein’, p. 63. 35. Donna Haraway, The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness (Chicago, 2003); Bruno Latour, ‘A Collective of Humans and Nonhumans: Following Daedalus’s Labyrinth’, in David M. Kaplan (ed.), Readings in the Philosophy of Technology (Plymouth, 2009), pp. 156–67; Ingold, Being Alive, pp. 63–94. 36. Ben Anderson, ‘The Construction of an Alpine Landscape: Building, Representing and Affecting the Eastern Alps, c. 1885–1914’, Journal of Cultural Geography 2 (2012), pp. 155–83. 37. Hayden Lorimer, ‘Cultural Geography: The Busyness of Being “More- Than-Representational”’, Progress in Human Geography 1 (2005), pp. 83–94 (p. 84). 38. Ingold, Being Alive, pp. 67–88; Haraway, Companion Species, p. 6; Nigel Thrift, Non-representational Theory: Space | Politics | Affect (Abingdon, 2008), pp. 89–106. 39. See Steve Pile, ‘Emotions and Affect in Recent Human Geography’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers NS 35 (2010), pp. 5–20. 40. An excellent summary is John Wylie, Landscape (London, 2007). 41. Denis Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape (London, 1984), p. xiv. 42. Tim Ingold, ‘The Temporality of Landscape’, World Archaeology 2 (1993), pp. 152–74; Lorimer, ‘“More-than-Representational”’, p. 85; Don Mitchell, ‘Dead Labor and the Political Economy of Landscape—California Living, California Dying’, in Kay Anderson et al. (eds.), Handbook of Cultural Geography (London, 2003), pp. 233–48 (pp. 240–41); Richard Schein, ‘The Place of Landscape: A Conceptual Framework for Interpreting 1 INTRODUCTION 17

An American Scene’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 4 (1997), pp. 660–80 (p. 662). 43. Thrift, Non-representational Theory, pp. 235–43. 44. For scholars that have discussed in some way the relationships between rambling and mountaineering and urban culture, see Amstädter, Alpinismus; Annaliese Gidl, Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne, 2007); Peter Grupp, Faszination Berg: Die Geschichte des Alpinismus (Vienna, 2008), p. 167; Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 77–160; Hansen, ‘Albert Smith’, pp. 300–24; Tait S. Keller, Apostles of the Alps: Mountaineering and Nation Building in Germany and Austria, 1860–1939 (Chapel Hill, 2016), pp. 36–52; David Robbins, ‘Sport, Hegemony and the Middle Class: The Victorian Mountaineers’, Theory Culture Society 4 (1987), pp. 579–601; Bernhard Tschofen, Berg, Kultur, Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna, 1999); Paul Veyne, ‘Bergsteigen: Eine Bürgerliche Leidenschaft’, in Philipp Felsch, Beat Gugger and Gabriele Rath (eds.), Berge, eine Unverständliche Leidenschaft: Buch zur Ausstellung des Alpenverein-Museums in der Hofburg Innsbruck (Bozen, 2007), pp. 11–32; Westaway, ‘German Community’. 45. Mark W. Turner, Backward Glances: Cruising the Queer Streets of New York and London (London, 2003), p. 127. 46. Leif Jerram, Streetlife: The Untold History of Europe’s Twentieth Century (Oxford, 2011); Matt Houlbrook, Queer London: Perils and Pleasure in the Sexual Metropolis (Chicago, 2005); Erika D. Rappaport, ‘“The Halls of Temptation”: Gender, Politics, and the Construction of the Department Store in Late Victorian London’, Journal of British Studies 1 (1996), pp. 58–83; Judith Walkowitz, ‘Going Public: Shopping, Street Harassment, and Streetwalking in Late Victorian London’, Representations 62 (1998), pp. 1–30; Adelheid von Saldern, trans. Bruce Little, The Challenge of Modernity: German Social and Cultural Studies, 1890–1960 (Chicago, 2002), pp. 93–163. 47. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Cambridge, MA, 1984); Simon Gunn, ‘Translating Bourdieu: Cultural Capital and the English Middle Class in Historical Perspective’, British Journal of Sociology 1 (2005), pp. 49–64; Simon Gunn, Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority in the English Industrial City, 1890–1914 (Manchester, 2007); Manfred Hettling, ‘Bürgerliche Kultur: Bürgerlichkeit als Kulturelles System’, in Lundgreen, Kulturgeschichte des Bürgertums, pp. 319–40; Jennifer Jenkins, Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Liberal Politics in Fin-de-siècle Hamburg (Ithaca, NY, 2003); Patrick Joyce, The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London, 2003), pp. 106–27; Maiken Umbach, German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism, 1890–1924 (Oxford, 2009). 18 B. ANDERSON

48. David Harvey, ‘The Nature of Environment: Dialectics of Social and Environmental Change’, in Ralph Miliband and Leo Panitch (eds.), Real Problems, False Solutions (London, 1993), pp. 1–51 (p. 28). 49. See Ben Anderson, ‘A Liberal Countryside? The Manchester Ramblers’ Federation and the “Social Readjustment” of Urban Citizens, 1929– 1936’, Urban History 1 (2011), pp. 84–102; Westaway, ‘German Community’; Nicholas Mailänder, Im Zeichen des Edelweiss: Die Geschichte Münchens als Bergsteigerstadt (Zurich, 2006). 50. Although calculating regional membership is difficult for the CHA, sources suggest that around a third of holiday-makers came from the Manchester conurbation—4500 in 1910—and the overwhelming majority came from the towns and cities of Northern England. In the same year, the Alpenverein had a similar presence in Munich, with around 7100 mountaineers in six different local ‘Sektionen’ or branches. National Home Reading Union Magazine, October 1902, in T. Arthur Leonard’s Personal Press Cuttings Folder, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 19; Anon., ‘C. H. A. Centres and Membership’, Comradeship: The magazine of the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union [Comradeship] 5:5 (1912), p. 80; Anon., ‘Town Reunions’, Comradeship 7:4 (1914), p. 50; Anon., ‘Bestandsverzeichnis des D. u. Ö. Alpenvereins 1910’, Mitteilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [MDOeAV] 7 (15 April 1910), pp. 92–96 (pp. 93–95). 51. Blackbourn ‘Cultural Contacts and Transfers’, p. 18; Michael Werner and Bénédict Zimmermann, ‘Vergleich, Transfer, Verflechtung. Der Ansatz der Histoire Croisée und die Herausforderung des Transnationalen’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 4 (2002), pp. 607–36 (p. 610); Michael Werner and Bénédict Zimmermann, ‘Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity’,History and Theory 45 (2006), pp. 30–50 (pp. 33–34). See also Heinz-Gerhard Haupt, ‘Historische Komparistik in der Internationalen Geschichtsschreibung’, in Gunille Budde, Sebastian Conrad and Oliver Janz (eds.), Transnationale Geschichte: Themen, Tendenzen und Theorien (Göttingen, 2006), pp. 137–49 (p. 146). 52. For advocates of the transfer approach, see Michael Müller and Cornelius Torp, ‘Conceptualising Transnational Spaces in History’, European Review of History—Revue Européenne d’Histoire 5 (2009), pp. 609–17 (p. 609); Johannes Paulmann, ‘Review: Internationaler Vergleich und Interkultureller Transfer: Zwei Forschungsansätze zur Europäischen Geschichte des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts’, Historische Zeitschrift 3 (1998), pp. 649–85; Dominik Geppert and Robert Gerwarth, ‘Introduction’, in Geppert and Gerwarth, Wilhelmine Germany and Edwardian Britain, pp. 1–13 (pp. 4–6). 1 INTRODUCTION 19

53. Blackbourn, ‘Cultural Contacts and Transfers’, p. 29. See also Patricia Clavin, ‘Defining Transnationalism’,Contemporary European History 4 (2005), pp. 421–39. Werner and Zimmermann, ‘Beyond Comparison’, pp. 35–36; Geppert and Gerwarth, ‘Introduction’, p. 5. 54. See Westaway, ‘German Community’. 55. Werner and Zimmermann, ‘Beyond Comparison’, pp. 36–37; Sebastian Conrad, ‘Doppelte Marginalisierung. Plädoyer für eine Transnationale Perspektive auf die Deutsche Geschichte’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 1 (2002), pp. 145–69 (p. 146); Hans-Ulrich Wehler, ‘Transnationale Geschichte—der Neue Königsweg Historischer Forschung?’, in Budde et al., Transnationale Geschichte, pp. 161–74. 56. See Bourdieu, Distinction; Gunn, Public Culture, p. 27. 57. See The Rucksack Club Third Annual Dinner, Friday December 2nd 1904 (Menu), in RC Archive/Box 109; Walton, ‘The Northern Rambler’. 58. Scharfe, Berg-Sucht, pp. 49–76.

Bibliography

Archival Sources Greater Manchester County Records Office [GMCRO]. The Rucksack Club Archive [RC Archive].

Newspapers and Journals Climbers’ Club Journal [CCJ]. Comradeship: The Magazine of the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union [Comradeship]. Mitteilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [MDOeAV]. Österreichische Alpenzeitung: Organ des Österreichischen Alpenklubs [ÖAZ].

Published Primary Sources Lammer, Eugen Guido (1935) Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich). Newby, Eric (1958) A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush (London). Oppenheimer, Lehmann J. (1908) Heart of Lakeland (London).

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Anderson, Ben (2011) ‘A Liberal Countryside? The Manchester Ramblers’ Federation and the “Social Readjustment” of Urban Citizens, 1929–1936’, Urban History 1, pp. 84–102. Anderson, Ben (2012) ‘The Construction of an Alpine Landscape: Building, Representing and Affecting the Eastern Alps, c. 1885–1914’, Journal of Cultural Geography 2, pp. 155–83. Beattie, Andrew (2006) The Alps: A Cultural History (Oxford). Blackbourn, David and Eley, Geoff (1984) The Peculiarities of German History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth Century Germany (Oxford). Blakeney, T. S. and Danger, D. F. O. (1960) ‘Oscar Eckenstein, 1859–1921’, Alpine Journal 65:300, pp. 62–79. Bourdieu, Pierre (1984) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Cambridge, MA). Budde, Gunille, Conrad, Sebastian and Janz, Oliver (eds.) (2006) Transnationale Geschichte: Themen, Tendenzen und Theorien (Göttingen). Burchardt, Jeremy (2002) Paradise Lost: Rural Idyll and Social Change in England since 1800 (London). Clavin, Patricia (2005) ‘Defining Transnationalism’, Contemporary European History 4, pp. 421–39. Collins, Bruce and Robbins, Keith (eds.) (1990) British Culture and Economic Decline (London). Colls, Robert (2002) Identity of England (Oxford). Colls, Robert and Dodd, Phillip (eds.) (1986) Englishness: Politics and Culture 1880–1920 (London). Conrad, Sebastian (2002) ‘Doppelte Marginalisierung. Plädoyer für eine Transnationale Perspektive auf die Deutsche Geschichte’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 1, pp. 145–69. Cooper, Frederick (2005) Colonialism in Question: Theory, Knowledge, History (London). Cosgrove, Denis (1984) Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape (London). Cowan, Michael (2008) The Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania). Daunton, Martin and Rieger, Bernhard (eds.) (2001) Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford). Douglas, Ed (2011) Mountaineers (London). Eisenstadt, Shmuel N. (ed.) (2002) Multiple Modernities (London). Eley, Geoff (2004) ‘Making a Place in the Nation: Meanings of “Citizenship” in Wilhelmine Germany’, in Geoff Eley and James N. Retallack (eds.), Wilhelminism and Its Legacies: German Modernities, Imperialism, and the Meanings of Reform, 1890–1930 (Oxford), pp. 16–33. Gaonkar, Parameshwar (ed.) (2001) Alternative Modernities (London). Geppert, Dominik and Gewarth, Robert (eds.) (2008) Wilhelmine Germany and Edwardian Britain: Essays on Cultural Affinity (Oxford). 1 INTRODUCTION 21

Gerson, Gal (2004) Margins of Disorder: New Liberalism and the Crisis of European Consciousness (New York). Gidl, Annaliese (2007) Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne). Grupp, Peter (2008) Faszination Berg: Die Geschichte des Alpinismus (Vienna). Gunn, Simon (2005) ‘Translating Bourdieu: Cultural Capital and the English Middle Class in Historical Perspective’, British Journal of Sociology 1, pp. 49–64. Gunn, Simon (2007) Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority in the English Industrial City, 1890–1914 (Manchester). Günther, Dagmar (1998) Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt). Hansen, Peter (1995) ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid-Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 291–321. Hansen, Peter (2013) Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London). Haraway, Donna (2003) The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness (Chicago). Harvey, David (1993) ‘The Nature of Environment: Dialectics of Social and Environmental Change’, in Ralph Miliband and Leo Panitch (eds.), Real Problems, False Solutions (London), pp. 1–51. Hau, Michael (2003) The Cult of Health and Beauty in Germany: A Social History, 1890–1930 (London). Houlbrook, Matt (2005) Queer London: Perils and Pleasure in the Sexual Metropolis (Chicago). Ingold, Tim (1993) ‘The Temporality of Landscape’, World Archaeology 2, pp. 152–74. Ingold, Tim (2011) Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description (London). Jefferies, Matthew (2008) Contesting the German Empire, 1871–1918 (Oxford). Jenkins, Jennifer (2003) Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Liberal Politics in Fin-de-siècle Hamburg (Ithaca, NY). Jerram, Leif (2011) Streetlife: The Untold History of Europe’s Twentieth Century (Oxford). Joyce, Patrick (2003) The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London). Kaczynski, Richard (2010) Perdurabo: The Life of Aleister Crowley—The Definitive Biography of the Founder of Modern Magick, Rev. ed. (Berkeley, CA). Keller, Tait S. (2016) Apostles of the Alps: Mountaineering and Nation Building in Germany and Austria, 1860–1939 (Chapel Hill). Knauft, Bruce M. (ed.) (2002) Critically Modern: Alternatives, Alterities, Anthropologies (Indianapolis). 22 B. ANDERSON

Kocka, Jürgen (1993) ‘The European Pattern and the German Case’, in Jürgen Kocka and Allen Mitchell (eds.), Bourgeois Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Oxford), pp. 3–39. Kocka, Jürgen (1999) ‘Asymmetrical Historical Comparison: The Case of the German Sonderweg’, History and Theory 1, pp. 40–50. Koshar, Rudy (1998) Germany’s Transient Pasts: Preservation and National Memory in the Twentieth Century (Chapel Hill). Latour, Bruno (2009) ‘A Collective of Humans and Nonhumans: Following Daedalus’s Labyrinth’, in David M. Kaplan (ed.), Readings in the Philosophy of Technology (Plymouth), pp. 156–67. Lees, Andrew (1985) Cities Perceived: Urban Society in European and American Thought, 1820–1940 (Manchester). Light, Alison (1991) Forever England: Femininity, Literature and Conservatism between the Wars (Abingdon). Lorimer, Hayden (2005) ‘Cultural Geography: The Busyness of Being “More- Than-Representational”’, Progress in Human Geography 1, pp. 83–94. Lundgreen, Peter (ed.) (2000) Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte des Bürgertums: ein Bilanz des Bielefelder Sonderforschungsbereichs (1986–1997) (Göttingen). MacAloon, John J. (ed.) (2008) Muscular Christianity in Colonial and Post- colonial Worlds (London). Mailänder, Nicholas (2006) Im Zeichen des Edelweiss: Die Geschichte Münchens als Bergsteigerstadt (Zurich). Mandler, Peter (1997) ‘Against “Englishness”: English Culture and the Limits to Rural Nostalgia, 1850–1940’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 7, pp. 155–75. Matless, David (1998) Landscape and Englishness (London). Mitchell, Don (2003) ‘Dead Labor and the Political Economy of Landscape— California Living, California Dying’, in Kay Anderson et al. (eds.), Handbook of Cultural Geography (London), pp. 233–48. Mosse, George (1964) The Crisis of German Ideology: Intellectual Origins of the Third Reich (New York). Müller, Michael and Torp, Cornelius (2009) ‘Conceptualising Transnational Spaces in History’, European Review of History—Revue Européenne d’Histoire 5, pp. 609–17. Paulmann, Johannes (1998) ‘Review: Internationaler Vergleich und Interkultureller Transfer: Zwei Forschungsansätze zur Europäischen Geschichte des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts’, Historische Zeitschrift 3, pp. 649–85. Pile, Steve (2010) ‘Emotions and Affect in Recent Human Geography’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers NS 35, pp. 5–20. Radkau, Joachim (1998) Das Zeitalter der Nervosität: Deutschland zwischen Bismarck and Hitler (Munich). 1 INTRODUCTION 23

Radkau, Joachim (2005) ‘Germany as a Focus of European “Particularities” in Environmental History’, in Thomas Lekan and Thomas Zeller (eds.), Germany’s Nature: Cultural Landscapes and Environmental History (New Brunswick), pp. 17–32. Rappaport, Erika D. (1996) ‘“The Halls of Temptation”: Gender, Politics, and the Construction of the Department Store in Late Victorian London’, Journal of British Studies 1, pp. 58–83. Readman, Paul (2005) ‘The Place of the Past in English Culture, c. 1890–1914’, Past and Present 186, pp. 147–99. Repp, Kevin (2000) Reformers, Critics and the Paths of German Modernity: Anti- Politics and the Search for Alternatives, 1890–1914 (Harvard). Robbins, David (1987) ‘Sport, Hegemony and the Middle Class: The Victorian Mountaineers’, Theory Culture Society 4, pp. 579–601. Rohkrämer, Thomas (1999a) Eine Andere Moderne? Zivilisationskritik, Natur und Technik in Deutschland, 1880–1933 (Paderborn). Rohkrämer, Thomas (1999b) ‘Antimodernism, Reactionary Modernism, and National Socialism: Technocratic Tendencies in Germany, 1890–1945’, Contemporary European History 1, pp. 29–50. Rohkrämer, Thomas (2007) ‘Kulturkritik als Schlüssel zum Verständnis viktorianischer Gesellschaftskritik’, Zeitschrift für Kulturphilosophie 9, pp. 111–19. Rohkrämer, Thomas (2013) ‘Gab es eine “Lebensreformbewegung” in England?’, in Marc Cluet and Catherine Repussard (eds.), “Lebensreform”: Die soziale Dynamik der politischen Ohnmacht/La dynamique sociale de l’impuissance politique (Tübingen), pp. 319–36. Rollins, William H. (1997) A Greener Vision of Home: Cultural Politics and Environmental Reform in the German Heimatschutz Movement 1904–1918 (Michigan). Saldern, Adelheid von trans. Bruce Little (2002) The Challenge of Modernity: German Social and Cultural Studies, 1890–1960 (Chicago). Scharfe, Martin (2007) Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus (Vienna). Schein, Richard (1997) ‘The Place of Landscape: A Conceptual Framework for Interpreting an American Scene’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 4, pp. 660–80. Schorske, Carl (1982) Wien: Geist und Gesellschaft im Fin de Siècle (Frankfurt a.M.). Scott, James C. (1998) Seeing like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition have Failed (New Haven). Stern, Fritz (1961) The Politics of Cultural Despair: A Study in the Rise of the Germanic Ideology (London). Taylor, Harvey (1997) A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele). 24 B. ANDERSON

Tebbutt, Melanie (2006) ‘Rambling and Manly Identity in Derbyshire’s Dark Peak, 1880s–1920s’, The Historical Journal 4, pp. 1125–53. Thomas, Lynn (2011) ‘Modernity’s Failings, Political Claims, and Intermediate Concepts’, American Historical Review 3, pp. 727–40. Thrift, Nigel (2008) Non-representational Theory: Space | Politics | Affect (Abingdon). Tschofen, Bernhard (1999) Berg, Kultur, Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna). Turner, Mark W. (2003) Backward Glances: Cruising the Queer Streets of New York and London (London). Umbach, Maiken (2009) German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism, 1890–1924 (Oxford). Veyne, Paul (2007) ‘Bergsteigen: Eine Bürgerliche Leidenschaft’, in Philipp Felsch, Beat Gugger and Gabriele Rath (eds.), Berge, eine Unverständliche Leidenschaft: Buch zur Ausstellung des Alpenverein-Museums in der Hofburg Innsbruck (Bozen), pp. 11–32. Walkowitz, Judith (1998) ‘Going Public: Shopping, Street Harassment, and Streetwalking in Late Victorian London’, Representations 62, pp. 1–30. Walton, J. K. (2013) ‘The Northern Rambler: Recreational Walking and the Popular Politics of Industrial England, from Peterloo to the 1930s’, Radical History Review 3, pp. 243–68. Wedemeyer-Kolwe, Bernd (2004)“Der Neue Mensch” Körperkultur im Kaiserreich und in der Weimar Republik (Würzburg). Wehler, Hans-Ulrich (1994 [1973]) Das Deutsche Kaiserreich 1871–1918 (Göttingen). Werner, Michael and Zimmermann, Bénédict (2002) ‘Vergleich, Transfer, Verflechtung. Der Ansatz der Histoire Croisée und die Herausforderung des Transnationalen’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 4 (2002), pp. 607–36. Werner, Michael and Zimmermann, Bénédict (2006) ‘Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity’,History and Theory 45, pp. 30–50. Wiener, Martin (1981) English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit (Cambridge). Williams, John Alexander (2007) Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford). Wylie, John (2007) Landscape (London). Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Ina (2010) Managing the Body: Beauty, Health and Fitness in Britain, 1880–1939 (Oxford). CHAPTER 2

Mountaineers in the City

Mountaineers were urban people. Most lived, worked and spent most of their leisure time in Europe’s towns and cities.1 They established clubs and organisations in order to place themselves at the heart of civic culture.2 They held celebrations, festivals, lectures and dances in Europe’s metropo- lises, and ran their operations from cities like Manchester, Munich, Vienna or London. They promoted themselves in urban newspapers, shopped for high-tech equipment at city stores and brought their mountains to the city in exhibitions and museums—many of whose exhibits were created in urban places too. Mountaineers and ramblers also imagined themselves as urban. They practised mountaineering, rambling or skiing as a city culture, divorced from those local people who led wealthy visitors up mountains, provided food, built their huts, cabins and paths, or simply formed a part of the landscape to be viewed. Ramblers and mountaineers structured their ‘narratives of turning to nature’ around the city, which provided the start and finish of their extra-urban adventure.3 Their justifications for going to the mountains turned on an assumption of their own modern urbanness and the power of the uplands to improve the urban experience. Mountaineers did not stop being urban when they left the city, nor stop being mountaineers when they came home.4 Although some lived in the countryside, and despite migration from rural to urban places and back again, the practices of mountaineering and rambling hardened imagined distinctions between urban and rural in the fin-de-siècle period.5

Given ramblers’ and mountaineers’ place in contemporary urban cultures, this chapter seeks to understand the city as a place in which the emotional states and behaviours of outdoors leisure were communicated, demonstrated and entrained.6 This group of men and women wrote a lot about their urban experiences and how they related to their mountain lives. Through criticisms of urban ‘hustle and bustle’, haste and noise, ramblers and mountaineers aligned themselves with reformist cultural critics, but as already argued, such criticism was essential to the notion of a sceptical, progressive modern individual to which mountaineers aspired.7 Outdoor enthusiasts engaged enthusiastically with those aspects of urban culture of which they approved. They visited and built museums, and took advantage of civic institutions that offered opportunities to practice self- cultivation or auto-didacticism. Thanks to their urban activities, mountains and moorlands became objects for modern consumption, through affective patterns of anticipation, activity and memory, and by the early twentieth century, participants in outdoors leisure embraced urban markets for technical solutions to the mountain environment. They incorporated the environments, cultures and affects of the mountains into existing urban entertainment, and they adopted urban ideas of purposive associational culture when it came to organising their activities. These urban aspects of outdoors leisure were as much a part of mountaineering or rambling as were activities away from the city. They disciplined the bodies of outdoors leisure with established and well-rehearsed practices of urban organisation, cultural attainment and consumption; in a literal sense, urban cultures affected mountain leisure in fin-de-siècle Europe.

Mountaineers in the City When a group of male outdoor enthusiasts formed Manchester’s Rucksack Club in 1902, they chose the merchant, philologist and dialect promoter George Milner (1829–1914) as vice-president. Milner had few claims to being either walker or climber, but then he was recruited for his ‘social standing’ and ‘literary attainments’ rather than mountaincraft.8 As founder and president of Manchester Literary Club, he provided an immediate legitimacy to the new organisation within Manchester’s clubland, something reinforced further when he was awarded the freedom of the city in 1905.9 Clubbable Mancunians dominated the organisation’s early years. Its first president, the chemist Harold Baily Dixon (1852–1930), twice became president of the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society, 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 27 and Alfred Hopkinson (1851–1939), who followed him as figurehead, was a fellow academic, brother of one of the cities’ nineteenth-century mayors, and vice-chancellor of Manchester University.10 One early advert for club members claimed that ‘man is everywhere a Club-forming animal, and nowhere is it more evident than in this city of ours, where those whose tastes lead them dip into the infinities of art, literature, or science’.11 Far from establishing a club to encourage members to leave Manchester for the outdoors, the Rucksack Club’s early membership hoped to place mountaineers at the centre of ‘masculine clubbability’ in the city.12 From the outset, these mountaineers sought to align themselves with Manchester’s civic and regional identity. Milner was an instrumental figure here too. As the promoter of Lancashire dialect poets, his leadership of the Literary Club sought a revival of local and regional identity. Lancastrian dialects, he and colleagues such as John Nodal (1831–1909) argued, were superior versions of English, untainted by the Norman inflections of the South, and more closely aligned to a Germanic, ‘Teutonic’ version of English identity.13 The founders of the Rucksack Club had picked up this same sense of Germanic northernness. The club was a response to a newspaper article that distinguished between the ‘solitary’ male walker carrying a ‘knapsack’, and ‘the [German] paterfamilias chivalrously carrying the bulky family “rucksack” on his shoulder’.14 The name of the club, originally misspelt Rücksack, was a nod to German culture in Manchester, and to the city’s mountaineers, who counted many connections to the German Alps.15 There was even a Manchester Sektion (branch) of the deutsche und oesterreichische Alpenverein (German and Austrian Alpine Association, Alpenverein) formed in 1889. It was based at the Schilleranstalt near to the University, where there was also gymnastic equipment that mountaineers began to use at this time.16 The relationship between this Sektion and the Rucksack Club was close: they routinely shared a president before the First World War.17 In its name, membership and activities, the Rucksack Club mirrored the Germanophile peculiarities of the city in which it was based. Mountaineers and ramblers routinely sought urban recognition and appealed to municipal or regional identities in this way. The huge Alpenverein, founded in 1873 after the merger of the Oesterreichische Alpenverein and its breakaway Deutsche twin, was only the umbrella organisation for overwhelmingly urban Sektionen (branches), recruiting German-speaking middle-class mountaineers from Germany, Austria and beyond.18 In large cities such as Munich, Vienna or Berlin, several Sektionen 28 B. ANDERSON of the same organisation co-existed by 1900, catering for distinctions of class, race, politics and gender.19 Sektion München dominated Munich’s mountaineering clubs until the 1890s. By 1900, its membership contained 3200 of the city’s wealthy Bürgertum and included civic leaders and Bavarian royalty.20 It fits an impression that German associations tended to intersect closely with state apparatuses, and this liberal, but expensive Sektion was instrumental in Munich’s attempts to transform from the ‘city of art’ to the ‘city of Alpinism’.21 Rebellious German students of the 1890s, however, associated Sektion München with the stifled, conservative world of bourgeois society that new ideas about life-reform and artistic freedom opposed. The formation of the Akademischen Alpenvereins München (AAVM) in November 1892 occurred alongside the establishment of the Munich Secession art movement in the same month, less than a kilometre away.22 Other Sektionen, which like the AAVM advocated a more basic, physical and dangerous form of mountaineering, emerged in the following years, and Ingo Tornow has counted two dozen other mountaineering clubs catering for different elements of Munich’s fragmenting bourgeoisie and wider population.23 Everywhere, mountaineering and rambling paralleled not national, but urban politics and culture. As well as the Rucksack Club, Manchester also hosted the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA), formed after a congregational minister in the nearby town of Colne, T. Arthur Leonard, organised an experimental holiday for men and women to the Lake District in 1893. By 1910, it had emerged as the largest walkers’ organisation in the region, mixing the co-operative politics and non-conformist Protestantism of North-West England with Mancunian internationalism and feminist campaigns. In Vienna, the Alpenverein’s Sektion Austria operated as a cosmopolitan club for Vienna’s wealthy and often Jewish Ringstrasse community, but in Vienna more than Munich, the Alpenverein competed with an endless sequence of other alpine clubs. These ranged from the large to the very small; they might be socialist, patriotic, internationalist or rabidly antisemitic, catering for the diverse and unequal populations of the Imperial capital.24 They included the Touristenverein ‘die Naturfreunde’ (Naturfreunde), whose upper-working- and lower-middle- class membership outgrew the Alpenverein in the interwar period, and the Österreichische Alpenclub, whose numbers included many of Europe’s leading mountaineers.25 The largest in late nineteenth-century Vienna was the patriotic Österreichische Touristen-Club (ÖTC), which outstripped Alpenverein membership both in Vienna and Austria until the mid-1890s, 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 29 and maintained a close connection with the Imperial Austrian monarchy. ÖTC members enjoyed privileged access to art galleries and museums in the city, and fostered a close connection to Vienna’s antisemitic Mayor, Karl Lueger (1844–1910).26 While these organisations also competed in the mountains themselves, their members socialised within existing urban networks. For Manchester’s disparate middle classes or the more politically defined and regulated Austro-German Bürgertum, associational life marked an essential performance of bourgeois sociability—‘voluntary association’, according to Geoff Eley, ‘was in principle the logical form of bourgeois emancipation and bourgeois self-affirmation’.27 Clubbability also varied little by state or nation. According to Stefan Hoffman, associationalism formed a unifying culture for Europe’s middle classes, who widely held voluntarism as citizenship, described using comparable concepts of ‘“moral improvement”, Bildung, obrazovanie or emulation’.28 Intellectuals such as Max Weber, John Neville Figgis and Emile Durkheim all theorised the soci- ality of association as an indispensable part of modern civil society, even as they questioned the benefits of club culture.29 For these contemporaries, in ideas such as Jürgen Habermas’ ‘public sphere’ and in recent debates about ‘civil society’, associational culture has been given a critical role in modernity irrespective of national difference.30 By forming clubs, climbers and walkers took part in behaviours that were mutually intelligible across borders, and justified mountaineering and rambling as exercises in self-improvement and ‘progress’.31 Clubs, and their modern missions, charitable aims and objectives provided a sense of political authority that legitimised members’ interventions in society—a not inconsiderable benefit for organisations that assumed a right to leisure in places owned and worked by others.32 By the late nineteenth century, associational culture had long ceased to be the preserve of salaried men (if it had ever been), and workers’ clubs proliferated.33 Organisations for poorer members of society, like those for women, did not necessarily ‘emulate’ male bourgeois culture, but regulations and legal restrictions meant that workers’ saving clubs, sporting associations and trade unions often replicated the legitimising and governance practices of middle-class organisations. In both workers’ club culture in Britain and the Arbeitervereinswesen in Austria and Germany, a tendency to ‘culture, education and emancipation’, emerged from the workers themselves, and unsurprisingly it found its way into the cultures of rambling pursued both by the Austrian Naturfreunde and the (middle- class led) Co-operative Holidays Association, based in Manchester.34 30 B. ANDERSON

Associational culture sometimes collided with the search for solitude in the countryside, and there were prosaic, campaign or service reasons for organising.35 Yet mountaineers and ramblers prized the sociability of associations, and took pleasure in reproducing the affective experience of these urban cultures in the countryside. The huts constructed by mountaineering organisations across the Alps had municipal pride at heart. Members imagined these ‘club homes’ as mountain outposts of their city, and Alpenverein members decorated their huts to remind them of home, even if this was imagined in terms of hinterland (Heimat) as well.36 In Britain, places like the Wastwater Hotel in the Lake District, or the Pen-y-Gwryd Hotel in North Wales served as a homosocial environment away from the cities.37 In the CHA, associationalism ran through the holidays themselves, with periodic votes, and an election of representatives to the Annual General Meeting at the end of each holiday week. ‘The twin objects of the association were social and educational’, the liberal MP George Peabody Gooch (1873–1968) explained in 1908:

The mere fact of coming into contact and enjoying intercourse with other people representing different views, different churches, different political parties, and different outlooks at a holiday centre was an intense pleasure and an intense stimulus and also a very definite discipline.38

These ideas were not limited to the holidays. The CHA encouraged its members to set up home reading circles and rambling clubs across Europe, and in Britain these served to maintain social connections away from the organised trips.39 When it moved headquarters to College House in Manchester in 1908, the association aimed at ‘developing the social and educational work of our movement in the city’ by offering language courses and other workshops.40 Those involved in the CHA politicised social intercourse as a socialist allegiance to co-operation. ‘In our holidays we try to learn from each other, to serve each other’, explained one participant, so that CHA trips tied self-improvement and civic virtue to co- operative behaviour.41 Whilst we might expect an emphasis on the importance of sociability in the CHA, many ramblers and mountaineers in other organisations treasured the friendship and atmosphere of associational life. Members of the Rucksack Club met for lunch in the middle of Manchester, and often praised the club for encouraging a sense of ‘comradeship’.42 In its first Annual report, an anonymous author commented that ‘we have felt that 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 31 did the club exist merely for its monthly club night it would have served its end’.43 Both the Rucksack Club and Alpenverein Sektionen met constantly throughout the winter, holding lectures and events that appeared in local newspaper articles; Sektion München held 776 such lectures in its first 30 years.44 The lectures in winter months by organisations like the Alpenverein, Rucksack Club or Naturfreunde placed rambling and mountaineering in wider urban cultures of ‘character building’ through scientific and intellectual endeavours, expressed through the set piece performance of the lecture.45 Some considered associational life a practice in politics that could be taken into a wider, liberal domain of public society. While Gooch congratulated CHA members for building ‘self-governing republics’, the Secretary of Sektion München, Nepomuk Zwickh, wrote in his club history that:46

Associational life is politics writ small […] The associational life, with its parliamentary forms and its personal cults, offers those that seek it the opportunity to exert their political sense or political instinct, to make their own abilities known or to use those of another for their own aims—to school themselves, effectively, in general politics.47

Here, Zwickh clarified the links between the development of the individual and of political society. The association stood as the schooling ground for good, active citizenship, and lectures and other presentations such as plays or comedy sketches were just such opportunities for the exertion of ‘personal cults’ amongst members. When Munich’s Sektion Bayerland brought a projector in 1900, the leadership cautioned its members not to lose the ‘subjective approach to the chosen theme […], the real aim of alpine lectures’.48 A report on a lecture in Munich by the alpinist, theatre director, photographer and female mountaineering promoter Theodore Wundt described how he ‘went over to the second part of his lecture with the whole vigorous individuality of his person’.49 Such cultures belonged to a typically bourgeois world which rewarded the self-conscious individuality of colourful characters such as the Rucksack Club’s H. E. Scott, Bayerland’s Eugen Oertel or the CHA host and self-proclaimed ‘professor of adventure’ Millican Duncan.50 In each of these cities then, there existed an impressive variety of outdoors leisure organisations by 1900, vying for a place in civic or workers’ educational culture, and representing bewildering cross-sections of urban 32 B. ANDERSON class, gender and racial politics, as well as municipal power dynamics. Within the pre-war Alpenverein, some Sektionen excluded Jewish people, women, Slavs or Italians—or welcomed all but the working class.51 Recent research has revealed the impressive contribution of Jewish people to the Alpenverein before the First World War, something tragically brought to an end in the early 1920s, and the London-based Oscar Eckenstein found his place in Vienna’s Sektion Austria, where he presumably found his Jewish heritage less of a problem than in London’s Alpine Club.52 The Co-operative Holidays Association appealed to non-conformist, left- leaning, liberal women across the north of England, but insisted on a strict ‘respectable’ behavioural code, and excluded families and all but the most able.53 The Rucksack Club excluded women from the outset (and continued to do so until 1990), but enthusiastically embraced non-English and non-British members, and from diverse social backgrounds. Pan- Germanism, pro-Habsburg patriotism, the antisemitism of Austria’s Christlich-soziale Partei, socialism, co-operative politics, masculine imperialism, women’s suffrage and muscular Christianity, all had advocates within these organisations, and an exhaustive inquiry would surely reveal the fine granularity of urban political and social culture. Mountaineers exported the exclusions and intolerances of the city into the countryside, although some female as well as Jewish mountaineers and ramblers found a comparative freedom in the mountains denied them in the city.54 Nevertheless, the question we need to ask is not so much why mountains and the countryside came to be imagined as a ‘national’ or ‘socialist’ space, but rather why and how they became sites in which urban people acted out urban political and social tensions.

Rural Leisure and Civic Culture Ramblers and mountaineers also engaged in broader urban cultures associated with bourgeois distinction, conduct and civility, or working-class auto-didacticism and social organisation.55 Institutions such as museums, art galleries or libraries, and events such as exhibitions and lectures not only provided a social circuit, but also helped to communicate the aims and performance of mountaineering. As Chap. 4 demonstrates in more depth, the affective world of the city established the forms, expectations and objectives of mountaineering in the Eastern Alps to such an extent that today’s hut and path network can be read as an inscription of late nineteenth-century urban practices onto mountain space.56 Elsewhere, 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 33 urban sites of entrained contemplation, visual engagement and self- improving education also established the mountains as a place for those self-same behaviours, and mountaineers and ramblers became a conduit for urban self-improving culture beyond the city. Their visits to museums and urban civic centres reveal how urban culture and rural leisure were entwined. Ramblers and mountaineers understood certain urban places as invested with moral meanings. Some previous studies have emphasised the role of romantic, anti-urban nostalgia amongst English walkers, picking on the influence of William Morris, John Ruskin and William Wordsworth in particular.57 Yet CHA ramblers found themselves more than at home on urban holidays too:

The task [of defining the charm of London] is the more difficult as the subject is as elusive as it is attractive and delightful. Like a beautiful but capri- cious mistress, the fair city of London is stately, smiling, disdainful, tearful in turns—yet always and in every mood, full of charm and fascination—at one moment filling her votaries with sheer gaity and joie de vivre—at others inspiring with a sublimity—a deep sense of reverence and awe.58

Descriptions of the city like this utilised the same rhetorical flourishes as those used to describe nature. For ‘A. C. D.’, London was an elusive but desirable female, with ‘moods’ and a sublime affect, tropes common to the romantic canon adopted by many ramblers and mountaineers.59 Another holiday-maker, C. G. Watts, enjoyed a city whose architecture, museums and theatres made it a ‘continual feast of intellectual enjoyment’, at least for those who possessed ‘the seeing eye’.60 Like mountains, the city was seen through the eyes of its poets, which included Charles Lamb and William Wordsworth:

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the field and unto the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock or hill; 34 B. ANDERSON

Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep; The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!61

Aside from the conflation of nature and urban landscape, this quotation from Composed Upon Westminster Bridge enabled CHA members C. G. Watts and J. Tinckler to clarify the London they experienced. Wordsworth utilised his early morning setting to contradict the ‘bad’ urban environment, though the sense of quiet before the storm of morning was palpa- ble. Indeed, overleaf in Comradeship, the CHA’s magazine, another poem by the female rambler W. H. Champness contrasted a holiday to ‘The fret and turmoil of the city’s call’.62 The London described in Wordsworth’s poem was ‘smokeless’, and ‘bright and glittering’ rather than polluted and dirty, it was ‘still’ and ‘calm’, rather than noisy and bustling, and Watts and Tinckler clearly meant this poem to be taken at face value as a paean to imperial London. There is an important point of comparison here with the German Travel Cultures explored by Rudy Koshar. Like participants in the CHA, Koshar’s Baedeker guides show how a fascination for urban and industrial landscapes, as well as rural ones, developed at the turn of the century. Similar too are the silences. Just as Baedeker ignored working- class areas, labour and culture, Watts and Tinckler used Wordsworth to produce a London devoid of work and exploitation.63 Linguistic slippages from the rural to the urban also operated in the other direction. By the mid-nineteenth century, alpinists in both England and Germany regularly utilised analogies and metaphors of urban architecture to describe rural landscapes. Descriptions of ridges as Zinne (castella- tions) and Türme (towers) likened the Alps to historic fortifications—at once a challenge to masculine endeavour and monuments that recalled the long history of the Alps as a borderland.64 In his classic Playground of Europe (1871), Leslie Stephen (1832–1904) commented on the ‘hack- neyed’ prevalence of ‘architectural metaphor’ in descriptions of the Alps, but that did not prevent him describing the Bernese Oberland as metropolitan architecture in the same work, while Edward Whymper paralleled the ascent of the Notre Dame with alpine climbing in his own 1871 text.65 The city provided perspective views, open spaces and large, visible public buildings for what John Urry has characterised a ‘tourist gaze’ which was at home in the city as well as the country.66 When the CHA advised members at the Peak District holiday centre to visit Manchester, its leader- 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 35 ship highlighted the city’s new library as ‘one of the finest specimens of modern architecture that Manchester possesses’.67 Deansgate Library certainly deserved the moniker ‘modern’—it was one of the first buildings to incorporate electric lighting, funded by the benevolence of one of the city’s leading industrialists. Yet it was also an urban improving project, as its Ruskin-inspired, cathedral-like gothic design made clear to knowledge- able visitors and passers-by. The library fitted well into the urban itinerar- ies of CHA guests, who regularly visited art galleries, museums, public architecture and parks in Manchester, London, Glasgow and Edinburgh, as well a paying homage to Ruskin in the outdoors.68 Nature enthusiasts like those in the Co-operative Holidays Association saw a particular type of urban leisure as an appropriate alternative to a countryside-based holiday. ‘There are two elements in each of us’ explained Watts and Tinckler, ‘the rural and the civic’.69 Civic culture was not the only urban attraction for tourists in the second half of the nineteenth century, when big cities provided excitement, the unknown, bright lights, spectacle and sexual possibility.70 In England, the civic cultures favoured by the ramblers and mountaineers of the CHA have even been described as entering a decline around 1900, with little building work completed thereafter.71 Even so, a city of exciting spectacle and new identities was precisely not what most ramblers and mountaineers aimed for in their urban leisure—if there was to be spectacle, it should conform to the restrictions and forms of bourgeois respectability. The romantic city of CHA participants was one of respectable performance and order through self-discipline, not a city of tempting opportunities for social, cultural and sexual transgression. CHA members were unusual in engaging in civic cultures as an alternative to visiting upland regions, but other organisations developed equally meaningful relationships to the same group of spectacular but contempla- tive institutions. German urban authorities welcomed the celebrations associated with the Alpenverein Annual General Meeting as a chance to elevate their city on a German national platform, as well as a boost to the local tourist economy.72 Consequently, city authorities regularly offered the use of civic buildings. The 1894 festivities in Munich included gatherings in the old town hall and daily breakfasts with a ‘promenade-concert’ in front of the royal residence.73 These festivities ran alongside trips to three different breweries, as well as to nearby mountains and lakes.74 Munich’s civic leadership also acknowledged the role of the development of the Alps in encouraging more people to visit—and stay—in Munich.75 36 B. ANDERSON

By associating themselves closely with a civic administration that was keen to encourage rambling and mountaineering, Munich’s alpine enthusiasts placed themselves at the centre of urban bourgeois culture. Munich’s large and wealthy alpine clubs also cemented their engagement with urban civic culture by founding a museum to celebrate the history of Alpinism. Suggested in 1907, the Alpine Museum eventually opened its doors in Munich in December 1911.76 Kate Hill echoes many previous scholars in her conclusion that late nineteenth-century museums were ‘used by bourgeois elites to create distinction and legitimacy for themselves’.77 It is therefore significant that the manufacturing of knowledge through alpine endeavour and its display in the city was common to many mountaineers across Europe. Even the tiny Rucksack Club held annual ‘exhibition’ evenings, during which members displayed the scientific ‘(eg. Zoological, botanical, etc.)’ oddities picked up on trips.78 Clubs held such exhibitions to cement ‘a place of distinction amongst the many societies of literary and scientific distinction’, as the founders of the Rucksack Club put it in 1902.79 The Alpenverein leadership, as well as the city authorities and newspaper correspondents, certainly considered the new museum a symbol of the Alpenverein’s place in bürgerlich society.80 Munich’s Mayor, the centrist politician Wilhelm George Ritter von Borscht (1857–1943), spoke at the opening festival of the museum. Munich’s town hall had been coated in Bavarian, German and Austrian colours, and processions led from the town hall to the museum and back. Von Borscht described the museum as ‘a monumental pledge to the unbreakable bonds between Munich and the German and Austrian Alpine Association’.81 Housed in the municipally provided Isarlust, a rococo building on an island in the middle of the Isar, the Museum stood at the end of Munich’s monumental thoroughfare, the Maximilianstraße. It was also just downstream from the new Deutsches Museum [of Science], which Borscht had also helped drive to completion and which now stood on the site of the 1899 Sports Exhibition examined in Chap. 4. The Alpine Museum asserted alpinism’s role in ‘bürgerliche Kultur’ by placing it alongside the other symbols of bourgeois cultural dominance in Munich’s city centre.82 Urban mountaineers and ramblers saw urban civic culture and their rural activities as mutually compatible. Whilst ramblers in the CHA organised trips to museums and art galleries without contradicting the aspirations of rambling and mountaineering, Alpenverein members chose to celebrate their activities in the middle of Munich, in a museum. Ramblers 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 37 and mountaineers understood urban environments and places like museums, art galleries and libraries in particular, as sites of self-improvement that rested upon bourgeois conceptions of taste and cultivated appropriate conducts of vision and classification.83

Ramblers, Mountaineers and Urban Consumerism Between the 1880s and 1914, mountaineers turned their hobby into a burgeoning consumerist industry. Mountains and rural landscapes formed the marketing tools for train stations, urban tourist hubs and the competing mountaineering clubs themselves. They appeared on posters, murals, as landscape reliefs on concourses, in museums, and even, in Salzburg, on a vast scale in an urban park.84 Enthusiasts could purchase mountains as paperweights, postcards advertised views from particular mountain huts or summits, while panoramas submerged urban people in mountain vistas.85 Maps, now produced for tourists, and often in colour, not only allowed navigation, but designated the sites (antiquarian, mountainous, inhabited or otherwise) and sights that tourists could experience.86 Guidebooks proliferated, and in addition to specialist mountaineering guides, series such as Baedeker or Murray provided a tourist circuit that combined countryside and city.87 Alpine huts morphed from emergency shelters to veritable mountain hotels, complete with restaurants, washing facilities and, in one case, a post-office.88 For all mountaineers and ramblers claimed to abandon urban materiality for an ascetic lifestyle, their pastime was thoroughly integrated into urban practices of mass consumption, producing tensions between the imagination and the reality of countryside leisure that have existed ever since. Even as some of their leaders sought to dissociate Alpinism from large festivals and the ‘materialism’ of sensational urban culture, mountaineers and ramblers took part in the gradual marketisation of outdoors leisure culture. Although the ‘Alpine Club rope’ was an early English example and stores in London sold limited clothing by the 1870s, this process reached maturity most rapidly in Munich and Vienna, where large numbers of mountaineers supported the growth of the new industry. By the 1890s, specialist shops sold mountaineering clothing and equipment, and advertised their produce in an increasingly varied and expansive alpine press.89 These enterprises promoted and regularised the clothing of mountaineers as distinctive, urban and fashionable—it was not the case that central-European walkers all wore lederhosen and felt hats. The influence 38 B. ANDERSON of Mizzi Langer-Kauba (1872–1955), herself an active mountaineer and the only female participant in one of the world’s first alpine ski races in 1905, should not be underestimated.90 Her 1896 shop was a product of Vienna’s expansion in the late nineteenth century, sitting near to new train stations to the Alps constructed in what had been Vienna’s vast external fortifications.91 She recruited the artist Gustav Jahn, whose works also appeared in the nearby Westbahnhof and Südbahnhof, to produce a catalogue that featured women alongside and equal to men, often wearing trousers, and for which she often posed herself.92 As a result, images of active women in the mountains, wearing the ‘modern’ styles favoured by Langer-Kauba, proliferated in adverts as other stores, such as Karl Romako in Vienna, and August Schuster in Munich followed her lead.93 Already in the 1880s, exhibitions in Munich, Vienna and Milan featured significant displays devoted to the latest equipment produced by local manufacturers.94 One reason that Eckenstein published his crampon designs in German magazines may well have been to appeal to this emerging mass- market, and Langer-Kauba’s shop was one that actually sold the new ‘Eckensteinische Steigeisen (Eckenstein crampons)’.95 Although barely noticed by historians, mountaineers and ramblers in Germany and Austria embraced and encouraged this rapid growth of the outdoors leisure industry in the years before the First World War. As Kerwin Lee Klein has pointed out, articles on rock-climbing technique and new equipment began emerging in the 1880s, but these were accompanied in mountaineering publications with all manner of inventions and commercial products, from new nails on boots, collapsing lamps, clothing and guidebooks, to beer provision in alpine huts and alpine board games.96 Predictably enough, it was the German-language alpine clubs whose members often profited from such enterprises, and who provided lavish endorsements—such as the 1899 Allgemeine Deutsche Sportsaustellung, organised by the chair of the Alpenverein’s Sektion München.97 As Chap. 5 shows, it was in this era that urban mountaineers insisted that equipment, as well as technique and responsibility for risk ceased to be dictated by the dwelt knowledge and traditions of mountain guides and locals, and should instead be a matter for ‘modern’ technology and rational calculation. One way to understand this expansion of consumerism within outdoors leisure would be to use Thorstein Veblen’s contemporary formulation of ‘conspicuous consumption’.98 There can be little doubt that the enduring criticism of those lacking the ‘correct’ equipment as foolhardy and dangerous helped to define the mountains as a middle-class space as much in 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 39 the 1900s as it does today.99 Yet at least some of the people discussed in this thesis were strongly ambivalent towards cultures of mass consumption.100 ‘Strenuous’ ramblers in the CHA and ‘extreme’ mountaineers were particularly concerned that certain elements of consumerist culture did not enter the mountains. The increasingly insistent calls for simplistic, Spartan accommodation by such groups were at least in part motivated by an opposition to luxurious ‘mountain-hotels’, and ‘middle-class comforts’ which provided guests with many opportunities for consumerist habits.101 Yet it was precisely amongst these groups that specialist equipment most rapidly took hold—elite mountaineering club emblems, for example, featured arrangements of the latest climbing equipment.102 Despite the rhetoric, the consumption of equipment soon came to symbolise the rational practices of rambling and mountaineering.103 The correct clothing would improve the ‘efficiency’ of a CHA holiday, and militate against the ‘pre- vailing increase in multifarious needs and enfeebling luxuries’, as CHA promoter Emily H. Smith described.104 There was an idea of good and bad consumption at work here: Mountaineers and ramblers critiqued ‘frivo- lous’ consumption because it had an ‘enfeebling’ effect on the self, while the same groups deemed rational consumption—having the correct equipment—as essential to realising the anticipated benefits of outdoors leisure.105 There was more to this consumption than performance and ostenta- tiousness, because in consuming the products of their new industry, mountaineers and ramblers anticipated the benefits for their own selfhoods of visits to the outdoors, and treasured the improving memories of the mountains on their return. In his classic work on modern consumption and romanticism, Colin Campbell suggested that the emotional states associated with the anticipation, and then memory of consumption are often more important than the physical object itself. This ‘modern hedo- nism’, Campbell argues, relies on ‘self-illusory’ fantasies, which place narratives of identity and selfhood onto the object of desire in such a way that makes the desiring pleasurable in itself.106 Like the various ‘life reform’ or Körperkultur movements popular in the same period, mountaineering and rambling entailed a consumption of the improved ‘mind and body’, so that critiques of the metropolis as materialistic and shallow actually supported a commercial sector devoted to self-improvement.107 Mountain leisure enthusiasts conceived of their experiences in ways that confirm Campbell’s analysis. Their emotional engagement with visits away from the city neither began when they left, nor finished on their return. 40 B. ANDERSON

Rather, anticipation on the one hand and memory on the other transported the mountain experience into the city and featured in many accounts of outdoors leisure. In September 1913, the CHA’s magazine, Comradeship, published an extract from E. M. Cobham’s The Open Road as ‘The Fascinating Map’:

In early summer we can take it out with us into the garden or a park, spread it out on the grass, with stones on the corners, and plan out tours, and gloat over delights in store. If we are not likely to be able to get away from work, we can still have this part of the fun. As cost is no longer a consideration, we may as well go a long way afield; an 1850 Murray or Baedeker can be brought for twopence in the Farringdon Road.108

Cobham advised his readers not just to look forward to a holiday, but to take pleasure in the anticipation itself. As two Rucksack Club members, T. H. Seaton and G. P. Cookson explained, ‘we had a programme, for the pleasure of a holiday is threefold, consisting of anticipation, realization and memory’.109 The effects of the holiday supposedly began before the participant left the city, and remained long after their inevitable return. For the contemporary German sociologist Georg Simmel, mountain ‘adventure’ even represented the quintessential fulfilment of this self- perpetuating, consumerist desire for novelty.110 Although many historians have understood memory as a social process, ramblers and mountaineers saw it as personal pleasure and self- affirmation.111 After 1909, the leadership of the CHA encouraged members to think further about their trips by holding an annual ‘holiday memories’ competition.112 One winner—and probable visitor from Germany—J. Grünblatt wrote how the holidays would add to his/her ‘store of treasures on return to the town’.113 ‘E. C. M.’ described how ‘living over again’ the ‘golden hours’ of a holiday would lend strength when ‘life’s problems perplex and irksome duties make insistent demands upon us’.114 For members such as the clerk ‘M’, memory seemed a benevolent version of Goya’s monsters, disturbing the ‘sleep of reason’ at work:

I hardly know what I am doing, While busy with book and pen; O’er the pages blurring the figures Come visions of hill and glen.115 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 41

Such evidence demonstrates how many members conceived a CHA holiday as producing moments of spiritual refreshment within the dull routine of urban work patterns, and alpinists like the doctor G. Roschnik shared a similar understanding. ‘What would all the mental and sensual gifts of the mountains be, without the profit, without the golden memories which we take with us?’ he asked.116 As Chap. 3 explains, a critique of modern working environments emerged from the ways in which ideas about modern bourgeois selfhood conflicted with contemporary work culture; in short, acts of distinction, independence and self-reliance were difficult in a middle-class world of work which, at the end of the nineteenth century, was increasingly managed, specialised and bureaucratic. The mountain environment provided a space in which those elements of modern selfhood might be recovered. These patterns of personal anticipation and memory could nevertheless be imagined in terms of social, urban and industrial progress. Munich’s deputy-mayor, Philip von Brunner, speaking to the Alpenverein in 1894, described the importance of Alpinism for Munich, a city that was actually out of sight of the Alps:

As a result of the position of our city, within sight of the mountains, we can reach them in a few hours. We are lucky enough to search for and find that inexhaustible spring of mental and physical refreshment and strengthening, which the mountain world offers for new power and strength during the working week.117

Similarly, CHA founder Thomas Arthur Leonard described the more physical activities of the CHA as a social responsibility:

The cultivation of the habit of going out on tramps at all seasons and in all weathers should be the duty of all loyal C. H. A. folk who want to keep young and preserve physical efficiency in these days, when the tendency seems to be all in the direction of developing brains at the expense of bodies.118

For Brunner and Leonard, moving around in nature had social as well as personal impacts. Whilst ‘mental refreshment’ certainly recalls a sense of imaginative recovery, organisations like the CHA and Alpenverein encouraged participants to engage in fantasies that made the improvement of 42 B. ANDERSON society dependent on their own improved selfhoods, and thus outdoors leisure a moral and social ‘duty’. A routine emphasis on the ‘mind and body’, or ‘physical and mental being’ of individuals pointed to the influence of an otherwise disparate set of contemporary movements in England and Germany, with which inter- nationally conscious ramblers and mountaineers were familiar.119 These included German life reform, English sport, the Fabian breakaway group ‘Fellowship of the New Life’, and traditions of ‘muscular Christianity’.120 The 1902 annual report of the CHA described how the organisation was encouraging ‘that best of all exercises, walking, with all that it brings to mind and body’.121 They were likewise clear that the physical and mental benefits of walking, alongside ‘joy in music, literature and nature-study’ would combat ‘the chief evils of the day’, identified as ‘materialistic conceptions of life’.122 ‘Mind and body’ referred to an ideal of selfhood in which both the spiritual and material development of the self could be achieved, but Leonard, like many ramblers and mountaineers, also related self-improvement to social improvement—a healthy mind and body was one solution to the ‘evils of the day’. In basic terms, the typical logic amongst ramblers and mountaineers ran that while the mind would be morally improved by the contemplation of nature, the body would be ‘refreshed and strengthened for the battle of life’ through discipline and training, and that the resulting improved individual would help to regen- erate society.123 Ramblers and mountaineers did not merely consider their visits to mountains, moorlands and countrysides as a temporary reprieve from a mechanical and over-stimulating urban life, which threatened bourgeois ideas of discipline and selfhood. Rather, through memory and anticipation, the benefits of their adventures outside the city would inform their personal identity as they went about their everyday urban lives. Ramblers and mountaineers also hoped that their activities would help them to create a more balanced and, at least for some, more masculine ‘body and mind’, which would help combat materialism in modern life. An analysis of ramblers and mountaineers identifies a tension between modern, bourgeois ideas about a balanced modern self, and modern, urban environments that ramblers and mountaineers saw as acting against appropriate self-cultivation and development. Like Charles Masterman, they felt that ‘material advance has far transcended moral progress’, and likewise related progress not to economics but to morality.124 The ‘refreshed, re-created’ 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 43 self therefore became marketised as an object of fantasy, and a way of heal- ing modern, urban society.

Conclusion This chapter has argued for a re-conceptualisation of activities such as rambling and mountaineering as integral and important parts of urban culture. Ramblers and mountaineers took pride in their close relationships with the social networks and organisations that governed self-improving lifestyles in the late nineteenth-century European city. So too, they engaged closely and supported, or even established the typical institutions and spaces of bourgeois civic cultures, such as the museums, art galleries and exhibitions of late nineteenth-century Europe. Outdoors leisure also emerged as a commercial product in the early twentieth century. As the last section explored, systems of consumption and imagination show how participants understood their ‘minds and bodies’ as carrying the benefits of the countryside into the city. These ways in which mountaineers and ramblers participated in urban cultures of self-improvement, consumerism and associational culture com- plicates our understanding of how ramblers and mountaineers perceived their modern, urban everyday lives. These groups of urban people were keen to be accepted into respectable urban civic culture, although they did critique other elements of city life. They formed associations to provide a forum in which the benefits of walking and climbing could be promoted as a moral necessity, for the city, nation and wider sense of racial community. Finally, they presented places such as mountains as sites of consumption which would inflect the urban self through memory and anticipation. In a number of different ways, then, these urban people accepted and affirmed urban culture through their extra-urban activities. Yet the activities of mountaineers and ramblers in the city do much more than question the limits of anti-urban ideas and culture, or assumptions of a pessimistic attitude towards modernity in fin de siècle. The urbanism of rambling and mountaineering questions the importance of anti-urbanism as an explanatory factor in recreational activity outside the city, and does so for two reasons. First, the evidence presented in this chapter fundamentally challenges any idea that physically leaving the city in any sense meant rejecting urban modernity. To describe ramblers and mountaineers as escaping urban modernity might be able to explain why these urban people left the city for brief periods, but it cannot explain what 44 B. ANDERSON they did on these excursions and why. By identifying those urban cultures to which ramblers and mountaineers subscribed, however, it is possible to explain more closely the activities of ramblers and mountaineers, as Chap. 3 shows. Secondly, the urbanism of ramblers and mountaineers challenges the otherness of cultural critique by locating it within contested urban cultures. One city, consisting of cultures of self-improvement, civic respectability and rational consumption was largely accepted by outdoor participants as a legitimate form of urban modernity. In contrast lay another city of dull work routines, over-stimulating but shallow cultures, rush and noise. Their critique may have been constructed, but it also reflected an urban environment which was genuinely disordered and confusing, a genuinely difficult space in which to practise respectable conduct or the considered arbitration of taste. As the following chapters will show, escape from the pathological city was constructed by appealing to the cultures of the legitimate city, remoulded onto the terrain through which ramblers and mountaineers walked and climbed.

Notes 1. Dagmar Günther, Alpines Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des bürgerlichen Alpinismus (1870–1930) (Frankfurt, 1996), pp. 37–43. 2. For institutional histories of the main organisations discussed in this book, see Annaliese Gidl, Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne, 2007), pp. 17–79; John Beatty, This Mountain Life: The First Hundred Years of The Rucksack Club (Bamford, 2003), pp. 8–29; Douglas Hope, Thomas Arthur Leonard and the Co-operative Holidays Association: Joy in Widest Commonality Spread (Cambridge, 2018); Jochen Zimmer (ed.), Mit uns zieht die neue Zeit: Die Naturfreunde. Zur Geschichte eines alternativen Verbandes in der Arbeiterkulturbewegung (Cologne, 1984). 3. John Alexander Williams, Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford, 2007), pp. 15–16. 4. See Maike Trentin-Meyer, ‘Die Anfänge des Alpinismus als Urbanistisches Phänomen’, Histoire des Alpes—Storia della Alpi—Geschichte der Alpen 5 (2000), pp. 229–40. 5. Steve Hochstadt, Mobility and Modernity: Migration in Germany, 1820– 1989 (Ann Arbor, 1999), pp. 38–39. 6. Nigel Thrift, Non-representational Theory: Space | Politics | Affect (Abingdon, 2008), pp. 235–43. 7. David Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998); Kevin Repp, Reformers, Critics, and the Paths of German Modernity: Anti-Politics and 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 45

the Search for Alternatives (London, 2000); Thomas Rohkrämer, Eine andere Moderne? Zivilisationskritik, Natur und Technik in Deutschland, 1880–1933 (Paderborn, 1999). See also Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture, and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge, 1984); Andrew Lees, Cities Perceived: Urban Society in European and American Thought 1820–1940 (Manchester, 1985); John R. Short, Imagined Country: Environment, Culture, and Society (New York, 1991), pp. 40–54. 8. Committee Meeting, 19 November 1902, in ‘First Minute Book of the Rucksack Club’, RC Archive/Box 8, p. 30. 9. Committee Meeting 19 February 1905, in ‘First Minute Book of the RC’, pp. 209–10. 10. ‘First Minute Book of the RC’, p. ii; Rucksack Club Meeting, 9 December 1910, in ‘[Rucksack Club] Third Minute Book, 1909–1913’, RC Archive/Box 8, p. 71. Alfred T. Davies, ‘Sir Alfred Hopkinson (1851– 1939)’, ODNB online. Hopkinson’s climbing career is outlined in Alfred Hopkinson, Penultima (London, 1930). 11. Arthur Burns and John Entwisle to Manchester City News, in ‘First Minute Book of the RC’, pp. 2–3 (p. 2). 12. On England/Britain: Stefan Collini, Public Moralists: Political Thought and Intellectual Life in Britain, 1850–1930 (Oxford, 1991), pp. 3–16; Simon Gunn, Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority in the English Industrial City, 1890–1914 (Manchester, 2007), pp. 84–97; Amy Milne-Smith, ‘A Flight to Domesticity? Making a Home in the Gentlemen’s Clubs of London, 1880–1914’, Journal of British Studies 4 (2006), pp. 796–818; R. J. Morris, Class, Sect and Party: The Making of the British Middle Class, Leeds, 1820–1850 (Manchester, 1990); Mrinalini Sinha, ‘Britishness, Clubbability, and the Colonial Public Sphere: The Genealogy of an Imperial Institution in Colonial India’, Journal of British Studies 4 (2001), pp. 489–521; John Tosh, A Man’s Place: Masculinity and the Middle-Class Home in Victorian England (London, 1999), pp. 185–87. On Germany: Andreas W. Daum, Wissenschaftspopularisierung im 19. Jahrhundert: Bürgerliche Kultur, Wissenschaftliche Bildung und die Deutsche Öffentlichkeit, 1848–1914 (Munich, 1998); Daniel A. McMillan, ‘Energy, Power, and Harmony: On the Problematic Relationship between State and Civil Society in Nineteenth-Century Germany’, in Frank Trentmann (ed.), Paradoxes of Civil Society: New Perspectives on Modern German and British History, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 2003), pp. 176–98; Thomas Nipperdey, Gesellschaft, Kultur, Theorie: Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Neueren Geschichte (Göttingen, 1976), pp. 174–205; Ingo Tornow, Das Münchner Vereinswesen in der Ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, mit einem Ausblick auf die Zweite 46 B. ANDERSON

Jahrhunderthälfte (Munich, 1977). On Manchester, see Alexandra Mitchell, ‘Middle-Class Masculinity in Clubs and Associations: Manchester and Liverpool, 1800–1914’, Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Manchester, 2011, pp. 76–119. 13. Taryn Hakala, ‘A Great Man in Clogs: Performing Authenticity in Victorian Lancashire’, Victorian Studies 3 (2010), pp. 387–412 (pp. 390–92). 14. Manchester City News, 23 August 1902, in ‘First Minute Book’, p. 1. 15. See Hopkinson, Penultima, pp. 24–28; ‘Mr. Joseph Collier’, Manchester Guardian, 14 October 1905, p. 6; Jonathan Westaway, ‘The German Community in Manchester, Middle-Class Culture and the Development of Mountaineering in Britain, c. 1850–1914’, The English Historical Review 508 (2009), pp. 571–604; Nicholas Mailänder, ‘Die Ursprünge des Freikletterns: Die Bewegung der Führerlosen und die Wiener Schule’, Berg 2016, pp. 148–61 (pp. 157–58). 16. Westaway, ‘German Community’, pp. 589–95. 17. ‘Zweigverein Manchester des D. u. Oe. Alpenvereins’, Mittheilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [MDOeAV] VI(XVI):5 (1890), p. 72; ‘Mr. Joseph Collier’, Manchester Guardian, 14 October 1905, p. 6. 18. Gidl, Alpenverein, 83–108; 299–315. 19. According to Gidl, by 1914, there were ten Sektionen in Vienna, eight in Munich and six in Berlin. Gidl, Alpenverein, p. 300. 20. Nepomukh Zwickh, ‘Geschichte der Section von 1869–1899’, in M. v. Prielmayer Freiherr von Priel (ed.), Geschichte der Alpenvereinssection München (Munich, 1900), pp. 11–272 (pp. 50–56). 21. Klaus Nathaus, Organisierte Geselligkeit: Deutsche und Britische Vereine im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 2009), pp. 11–144; Alois Dreyer, ‘München: die Stadt des Alpinismus’, in Verein zur Förderung des Fremdenverkehrs in München und im bayer. Hochland (e.V.), München: Ein Führer und Ratgeber zur Dauernden Ansiedlung mit Umgebungsplan, 1, 2nd ed. (Munich, 1911), pp. 87–96. 22. Nicholas Mailänder, Im Zeichen des Edelweiss: Die Geschichte Münchens als Bergsteigerstadt (Zürich, 2006), p. 92. 23. Mailänder, Edelweiss, pp. 91–106; Tornow, Münchner, p. 266. 24. The same can be said of many German or British cities in this period—in Manchester, alongside the Rucksack Club, the CHA (and its offshoots), and the Alpenverein there existed a Pedestrian Club, various branches of the Sheffield-based Clarion Club, a plethora of unaffiliated clubs such as ‘Macs’ Ramblers or the Kynder Club, and any number of antiquarian, field and naturalist clubs whose main activities were also rambling. Almost certainly, other organisations existed about which nothing remains. 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 47

25. Amongst Europeans, only French mountaineers appear to have been notably absent in the Oesterreichische Alpenclub. Oscar Eckenstein and Geoffrey Winthrop Young were British members, while Jeanne Immink was a representative from the Netherlands. 26. For example, Ed. Fehlinger, ‘Zur Ausstellung der Gesellschaft der Kunstfreude im k. k. österr. Museum’, Österreichische Touristenzeitung [ÖTZ] XIV:1 (1894), pp. 2–3; ‘Jubiläums-Festprogramm’, ÖTZ XIV:10 (1894), pp. 110. 27. Geoff Eley, ‘Nations, Publics, and Political Cultures: Placing Habermas in the Nineteenth Century’, in Nicholas B. Dirks, Geoff Eley and Sherry B. Ortner (eds.), Culture/Power/History: A Reader in Contemporary Social Theory (Princeton, 1994), pp. 297–335 (pp. 303–04). 28. Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman, Geselligkeit und Demokratie: Vereine und Zivile Gesellschaft im Transnationalen Vergleich, 1750–1914 (Göttingen, 2003), p. 184. Previous attempts to define national difference have contradicted one another: Christiane Eisenberg, ‘Arbeiter, Bürger und der “Bürgerliche Verein” 1820–1870. Deutschland und England im Vergleich’, in Jürgen Kocka and Alan Mitchell (eds.), Bourgeois Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 1992), pp. 151–78; Nathaus, Organisierte Geselligkeit, pp. 11–144; Lawrence Goldman, ‘Civil Society in Nineteenth-Century Britain and Germany: J. M. Ludlow, Lujo Brentano, and the Labour Question’, in Jose Harris (ed.), Civil Society in British History: Ideas, Identities, Institutions (Oxford, 2003), pp. 97–113 (p. 113). Trentmann, Paradoxes of Civil Society contains three articles on associational culture, but all are on Germany, and none are comparative, while Graeme Morton, Boudien de Vries and R. J. Morris (eds.), Civil Society, Associations and Urban Places: Class, Nation and Culture in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Aldershot, 2006), includes ten articles, all of which concentrate on national peculiarities of associational culture. The classic ‘history of everyday life’ of the working class was Adelheid von Saldern, Auf dem Wege zum Arbeiterreformismus: Parteialltag in Sozialdemokratischer Provinz: Göttingen 1870–1920 (Frankfurt, 1984). 29. John Hall and Frank Trentmann, ‘Contests Over Civil Society: Introductory Perspectives’, in John Hall and Frank Trentmann (eds.), Civil Society: A Reader in History, Theory and Global Politics (Basingstoke, 2005), pp. 16–17; Sung Ho Kim, Max Weber’s Politics of Civil Society (Cambridge, 2004), esp. pp. 57–94. 30. See Eley, ‘Nations, Publics, and Political Cultures’, pp. 297–335. 31. Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman, ‘Democracy and Associations in the Long Nineteenth Century: Toward a Transnational Perspective’, Journal of Modern History 2 (2003), pp. 269–99 (pp. 281–99); Hoffman, Geselligkeit und Demokratie, pp. 7–20. 48 B. ANDERSON

32. See Harvey Taylor, A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele, 1997). 33. Nathaus, Organisierte Geselligkeit, esp. pp. 83–100; 117–39, but Nathaus tends to underestimate the role of worker self-help organisations and middle-class improving clubs aimed at workers in Britain, and socialist organisation in Germany. See also Peter Bailey, Leisure and Class in Victorian England: Rational Recreation and the Contest for Control, 1830–1885 (Abingdon, 2010 [1978]). 34. Gerard Ritter, ‘Arbeiterkultur im Deutschen Kaiserreich. Probleme und Forschungsansätze’ (1979), quoted in Andreas Daum, Wissenschaftspopularisierung im 19. Jahrhundert: Bürgerliche Kultur, naturwissenschaftliche Bildung und die deutsche Öffentlichkeit, 1848– 1914, 2nd ed. (Munich, 2002), pp. 154–55; Jonathan Rose, The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes (London, 2001), pp. 58–92. 35. Robert Snape, ‘The Co-operative Holidays Association and the Cultural Formation of Countryside Leisure Practice’, Leisure Studies 2 (2004), pp. 143–58 (pp. 144–45); Taylor, Claim on the Countryside; Gidl, Alpenverein, pp. 83–318; See for example Eugen Oertel, Die Gründung der Sektion Bayerland und ihre Entwicklung in den Ersten Zehn Jahren (Munich, 1905), pp. 10–11; Edward Richter, Die Erschliessung der Ostalpen: 1. Band: Die Nördlichen Kalkalpen (Berlin, 1983), esp. pp. 1–12; Percy Redfern, ‘Wintertime at Whitby’, Comradeship 2:3 (1909), pp. 35–38 (p. 36); Manchester City News, 13 August 2002, in ‘Rucksack Club Minute Book 1’, p. 1. 36. Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne, 2016), p. 119; Gidl, Alpenverein, p. 130. 37. Alan Hankinson, A Century on the Crags: The Story of Rock Climbing in the English Lake District (London, 1988), pp. 41–43; Simon Thompson, Unjustifiable Risk: The Story of British Climbing (Milnthorpe, 2012), p. 91; Lehmann J. Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland (London, 1908), pp. 15–44. 38. Outsider, ‘Annual Conference’, p. 39; See also Anon., ‘The Annual Conference’, Comradeship 1:3 (1908), pp. 36–38 (p. 36). 39. Anon., ‘Professor Weiss on Plant Life’, Manchester Guardian, 13 September 1904, p. 12; Anon., ‘Notes from Our Rambling Clubs’, Comradeship 1:1 (1907), pp. 14–16; Anon., ‘About Setting Up a Reading Circle’, Comradeship 3:1 (1909), pp. 14–15. 40. T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary: The New Offices’, Comradeship 1:3 (1908), p. 34. 41. F. B. S., ‘Our German Guests’, Comradeship 3:5 (1910), p. 78. 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 49

42. For example, Anon., ‘The Rucksack Club’, Manchester Guardian, 2 January 1905, p. 3; Richard H. Isherwood, ‘Laddow, and Some Reflections of Climbing Books’, RC Journal 2:4 (1914), pp. 333–42 (p. 336). 43. Anon., ‘Report’, in Roger Booth, Mike Dent and John Payne (eds.), The Rucksack Club Annual Reports 1903–1905 (Manchester, 2005), p. 9. 44. Trentin-Mayer, ‘Alpinismus als Urbanistisches Phänomen’, p. 235; ‘Wochenversammlung’, ÖTZ XIII:10 (1893), p. 124; Hans Staudiger, in Hans Staudiger (ed.), I. Jahres-Bericht (Vereinsjahr 1896) der Sektion “Bayerland” München des Deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins (Munich, 1897), p. 4. 45. Trentin-Mayer, ‘Alpinismus als Urbanistisches Phänomen’, pp. 235–36. 46. Outsider, ‘Annual Conference’, p. 39. 47. Zwickh, ‘Geschichte der Section’, p. 218. 48. Hans Rehm and Mathias Leberle (eds.), V. Jahres-Bericht (Vereinsjahr 1900) der Sektion ‘Bayerland’ München (Eingetragener Verein) des Deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins (Munich, 1900), pp. 5–6. 49. W., ‘Alpenvereinssektion München (e. V.) des D. u. Oe. A. V.’, Deutsche Alpenzeitung [DAZ] 2:2 (1903), pp. 219–20 (p. 219). 50. See H. E. Scott, Rucksack Reminiscences 1903–1924 (Unpublished manu- script, 1924), RC Archive/40; Oertel, Gründung; Matthew Entwistle, Millican Dalton: A Search for Romance and Freedom (Blackburn, 2004). 51. See Martin Achrainer, ‘“So, Jetzt Sind Wir Ganz Unter Uns!”: Antisemitismus im Alpenverein’, in Hanno Loewy and Gerhard Milchram (eds.), “Hast Du Meine Alpen Gesehen?”: Eine Jüdische Beziehungsgeschichte (Munich, 2010), pp. 228–52. 52. Loewy and Milchram, Hast du meine Alpen gesehen?. ‘Touren’, MDOeAV XIII:17 (1887), p. 209. 53. For example, ‘Summer Holidays 1906’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/4/1, p. 9. 54. Alice Schalek described both in her novels: Paul Michaely [Alice Schalek], Wann wird es Tagen? Ein Wiener Roman, I Band (Vienna, 1902), pp. 236–43. 55. Gunn, Public Culture, pp. 60–83, 163–86. 56. Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (London, 1995); Amy Woodson-Boulton, ‘“Industry Without Art is Brutality”: Aesthetic Ideology and Social Practice in Victorian Art Museums’, Journal of British Studies 46 (2007), pp. 47–71; Leif Jerram, Germany’s Other Modernity: Munich and the Making of Metropolis, 1895–1930 (Manchester, 2007), pp. 39–47; Patrick Joyce, Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London, 2003); Andreas Schulz, Enzyklopädie Deutsche Geschichte, Vol. 75: Lebenswelt und Kultur des Bürgertums im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Oldenbourg, 2005), p. 22; James J. Sheehan, 50 B. ANDERSON

Museums in the German Art World from the End of the Old Regime to the Rise of Modernism (Oxford, 2000), pp. 139–40; Christopher Whitehead, The Public Art Museum in Nineteenth Century Britain: The Development of the National Gallery (Aldershot, 2005), pp. 59–68. 57. Snape, ‘Co-operative Holidays Association’; David Prynn, ‘The Clarion Clubs, Rambling and the Holiday Associations in Britain since the 1890s’, Journal of Contemporary History 11:2/3 (1976), pp. 65–77 (p. 65). See also Taylor, Claim on the Countryside, pp. 192–200. 58. A. C. D., ‘The Charm of London’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 71–73 (p. 71). See also Anon., ‘My London Holiday’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), pp. 58–59; [John] Ruskin, ‘Against Mountain Railways’, Comradeship, 1:2 (1907), p. 31; C. G. W[atts], ‘An Appreciation of London’, Comradeship 6:1 (1912), p. 15. 59. On the relationship between Romanticism and alpine leisure see Andrew Beattie, The Alps: A Cultural History (Oxford, 2006), pp. 116–34. For the feminisation of mountains, especially as desirable sexual targets, see Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 207–11. 60. Gill G. Cockram, Ruskin and Social Reform: Ethics and Economics in the Victorian Age (London, 2007); Mitchell Schwarzer, German Architectural Theory and the Search for Modern Identity (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 3, 7, 10–12, 167–214; Maiken Umbach, German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism, 1890–1924 (Oxford, 2009); Brian Ladd, Urban Planning and Civic Order in Germany, 1860–1914 (Harvard, 1990), pp. 111–16. 61. William Wordsworth, ‘Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802’, quoted in C. G. Watts and J. Tinckler, ‘Our London Centre’, Comradeship 4:5 (1911), pp. 71–72 (p. 72). See also F. T. ‘A Holiday in London’, Comradeship 7:1 (1913), pp. 9–10. 62. W. H. Champness, ‘Paycockes. February 4th, 1911’, Comradeship 4:5 (1911), p. 71. 63. Rudy Koshar, German Travel Cultures (Oxford, 2000), pp. 48–50. 64. For example, Staudiger, I. Jahres-Bericht, p. 3. 65. Leslie Stephen, The Playground of Europe, Rev. ed. (London, 1909 [1871]), pp. 14–15, 79–80. See Edward Whymper, Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860–1869 (Philadelphia, 1872), pp. 9–10 with Bernhard Tschofen, Berg, Kultur, Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna, 1999), pp. 12–14; Charles Pilkington, ‘Round Pralognan’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 1–7 (p. 6); Henry S. Salt, ‘Slag Heap or Sanctuary. How Our Mountains are Being Desecrated’, Comradeship 2:1 (1908), p. 7. 66. John Urry, The Tourist Gaze, 2nd ed. (London, 2002). 67. ‘Summer Holidays in the Peak District… 1908 Organised by the Co-operative Holidays Association in Connection with the National Home Reading Union’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/5/8, p. 2. See also 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 51

Anon., ‘The Harz Mountains and Berlin’, Comradeship 7:2 (1913), pp. 28–29; A. Correspondent, ‘An Educational Experiment’, Globe, 23 June 1907, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 3; S. C., ‘Manchester C. H. A. Rambling Club (Secretary’s Report, read at Park Hall, April 26th, 1902)’, National Home Reading Union Magazine, GMCRO/B/ CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 17. 68. Hubert Beaumont, ‘International Friendship through Holidays’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), p. 37. See also Anon., ‘My London Holiday’, pp. 57–58. 69. Watts and Tinkler, ‘London Centre’, p. 72. 70. Simon Gunn (ed.), Identities in Space: Contested Urban Terrains in the Western City since 1850 (Aldershot, 2000); Koshar, Travel Cultures, pp. 65–114; Linda Nead, Victorian Babylon: People, Streets and Images in Nineteenth Century London (Yale, 2000), pp. 62–181; Joachim Schlör, Nights in the Big City: Paris, Berlin, London 1840–1930 (London, 1998), pp. 166–91; Judith Walkowitz, City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late Victorian London (London, 1992). 71. Gunn, Public Culture, pp. 190–91. 72. Matthew Jefferies, Imperial Culture in Germany, 1871–1918 (Basingstoke, 2003), pp. 72–76. Hochverehrter des Regierungsraths to S. München 11 Juni 1892, SA München/888/Art des Magistrats München, Betreff: Generalversammlung des Alpen-Vereins 1894; ii656 (S. München to Hochverehrter des Regierungsraths), SA München/888, p. 3. 73. Nepomuk Zwickh, ‘Die XXI. Generalversammlung zu München’, MDOeAV X(XX):16 (1894), pp. 193–96. Compare Anon., ‘Die XVIII Generalversammlung in Graz’, MDOeAV VII(XVII):15 (1891), pp. 201– 05 (p. 202); Anon., ‘Vereins-Angelegenheiten: Fest Programm’, MDOeAV IX(XIX):10 (1893), p. 131. 74. Anon., ‘Ausflüge nach der Generalversammlung’,MDOeAV X(XX):14 (1894), p. 180. 75. 3212 A (5 April 1994) ‘Renar-Beschluss’ to the Verwaltungs Ausschuss, SA München/888, p. 1. 76. Anon., ‘Die Eröffnung des Alpinen Museums zu München’, MDOeAV XXVII(XXXVII):24 (1911), pp. 292–94 (p. 292). 77. Kate Hill, Culture and Class in English Public Museums, 1850–1914 (Aldershot, 2005), p. 4. See also Bennett, The Birth of the Museum, pp. 89–108; Jennifer Jenkins, Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Liberal Politics in Fin-de-siècle Hamburg (Ithaca, NY, 2003). 78. Rucksack Club Minute Book 1: 1902–1905, RC Archive/Box 8, pp. 76, 150, 223, 230; Wm. Hy. Pearson, ‘British Alpine Plants’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 19–23. 79. Rucksack Club Minute Book 1, p. 2. 52 B. ANDERSON

80. Monika Gärtner, ‘Das “Wetterstein-Relief” des österreichischen Alpenvereins… erinnert an einen “alten graugrün verschossenen, verknül- lten Hut”’, in Andreas Bürgi (ed.), Europa miniature: die kulturelle Bedeutung des Reliefs 16.–21. Jahrhundert (Zurich, 2007), pp. 91–97 (p. 91). 81. Anon., ‘Eröffnung’, p. 292. See also Anon., ‘Die Eröffnung des alpinen Museums’ MNN 591 (19 December 1911), AOeAV/KUL/1/5; Carl Müller, ‘Das alpine Museum zu München’, MDOeAV XXVIII[XXXVIII]:2 (1912), pp. 15–18 (p. 15). 82. Matthew Jefferies, ‘Wilhelminischer Monumentalismus: zur politischen und kulturellen Rolle der Architektur im deutschen Kaiserreich’, in Sven Oliver Müller and Cornelius Torp (eds.), Das deutsche Kaiserreich in der Kontroverse (Göttingen, 2009), pp. 233–45. 83. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Cambridge, MA, 1984), p. 2. 84. Sektion Innsbruck to Hauptausschuss des d. u. ö. A-V, AOeAV/ SE/81/303, p. 1; J. Dinges to C. Müller, 1912, AOeAV/Kul/1/7; Madlena Calvelti Hammer, ‘Panoramen für Touristen’, in S. Grieder (ed.), Augenreisen: das Panorama in der Schweiz (Bern, 2001), pp. 74–89; Toni Mair and Susan Grieder (eds.), Das Landschaftsrelief: Symbiose von Wissenschaft und Kunsthandwerk (Baden, 2006), p. 57; Andreas Bürgi (ed.), Europa miniature: Die Kulturelle Bedeutung des Reliefs, 16.–21. Jahrhundert/Il significato culturale dei rilievi plastici XVI–XXI secolo (Zurich, 2007). 85. Ben Anderson, ‘The Construction of an Alpine Landscape: Building, Representing and Affecting the Eastern Alps, c. 1885–1914’, Journal of Cultural Geography 29:2 (2012), pp. 155–83 (p. 161). 86. See Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland, p. 171; G. G. D., ‘With Map and Compass’, Comradeship 3:1 (1909), pp. 5–7. 87. Koshar, Travel Cultures, pp. 48–50. 88. Gidl, Alpenverein, pp. 142–45. 89. Apart from the widely distributed organs of the Alpenverein (MDOeAV; Zeitschrift des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [ZDOeAV]), Oesterreichische Alpenclub (Oesterreichische Alpenzeitung [ÖAZ]), Oesterreichische Touristenclub (Oesterreichische Touristenzeitung [ÖTZ]) and Touristenverein ‘die Naturfreunde’ (Der Naturfreund), commercial periodicals proliferated. Examples listed on http://anno.onb.ac.at include Der Tourist, DAZ, Illustrierte österreichische Alpenzeitung, Der Alpenfreund and Österreichische Alpenpost. 90. Daniela Span-Gogl, ‘Marie (Mizzi) Langer-Kauba’, http://www.gustav- jahn.at/mizzi_langer.html, Accessed 15 December 2018. 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 53

91. This was the demolition of Vienna’s outer fortifications, known as the ‘Linienwall’ in 1890–1892. These were replaced by a ring-road known as the ‘Gürtel’, which also linked train stations built just outside the wall. Langer’s shop was on the Kaiserstraße, opposite the Westbahnhof just inside the Gürtel, in a building that still bears her name and houses a mountaineering shop. 92. See http://www.gustav-jahn.at/, Accessed 11 July 2018. 93. See issues of Naturfreund, or Verkehr und Sport: Beilage zur Deutschen Alpenzeitung during the 1890s and 1900s, or occasional issues of the MDOeAV in the 1890s. 94. Ausstellungs-Commission, Katalog der Jubiläums-Gewerbe-Ausstellung Wien 1888 (Vienna, 1888), pp. 316–20; H. v. K., ‘Eine alpine Ausstellung’, ÖTZ XIV:6 (1894), p. 64; Ausstellungsleitung, Die Ausstellung München 1908: Eine Denkschrift (München, 1908), pp. 72–74, chapter 4. 95. Span-Gogl, ‘Langer-Kauba’. 96. Kerwin Lee Klein, ‘A Vertical World: The Eastern Alps and Modern Mountaineering’, Journal of Historical Sociology 4 (2011), pp. 519–48 (p. 528), though for an earlier physics-based approach to rock climbing, see Paul Güßfeldt, ‘Das Wandern im Hochgebirge’, ZDOeAV XII (1881), pp. 63–94. O. Eckenstein, ‘The Tricouni Nail’, CCJ NS:3 (1914), pp. 77–80; Emile Pott, ‘Die Buchlaterne “Blitz”’, MDOeAV XIII(XXIII):11 (1897), p. 133; H. Steinach, ‘Ueber Bierausschank auf hochgelegenen Punkten’, MDOeAV XII(XXII):2 (1896), pp. 22–23; H. Bewerunge, ‘Eine Neue Schneebrille’, MDOeAV XXIV(XXXIV):14 (1908), p. 186. ‘“Alpina”, das Spiel der Neuzeit’, Verkehr und Sport: Beilage zur Deutschen Alpenzeitung 1:5 (1905), p. 80. ‘Ausrüstung [equipment]’ became a standard feature of the MDOeAV by the early 1890s. 97. Aufruf 23 December 1898, Staatsarchiv München/pol. Dir./3759:1, p. 1. 98. Thorstein Veblen, Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions (New York, 1902). 99. For instance F. Montanus [F. Friedensburg] Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “alpinen Knigge” (Munich, 1908), p. 18. 100. See Taylor, Claim on the Countryside, pp. 1–7, 191–225. 101. For example, A. Beilhack, ‘Wandel des Alpinismus’, MDOeAV XIV(XXXIV):21 (1908), pp. 268–69 (p. 268). 102. For example, Anon., ‘Strong Boots’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 69–70. Tschofen, Berg, Kultur, Moderne, pp. 150–57. 103. George D. Abraham, The Complete Mountaineer (London, 1907), pp. 29–45; Josef Ittlinger, Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig, 1913), 54 B. ANDERSON

pp. 194–204; Erich König, Alpiner Sport (Leipzig, 1903), pp. 10–26; Franz Nieberl, Das Klettern im Fels (Munich, 1909), pp. 33–39. 104. E. H. S[mith] to Mary = ‘The Following Letter May Afford Some Useful Hints to Lady Ramblers’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/13/11, pp. 1–2. 105. Taylor, Claim on the Countryside, pp. 191–220. 106. Colin Campbell, The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumption (Oxford, 1987), pp. 58–95. 107. Ina Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Managing the Body: Beauty, Health and Fitness in Britain, 1880–1939 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 17–61; Michael Hau, The Cult of Health and Beauty in Germany: A Social History, 1890–1930 (London, 2003), pp. 107–09. 108. E. M. Cobham, ‘“The Fascinating Map”’, Comradeship 7:1 (1913), pp. 5–6. See also George T. Ewen, ‘A Traverse of Mont Blanc’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 24–29 (p. 24); Lehmann J. Oppenheimer, ‘Castles in the Air’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 42–46 (p. 44). 109. T. H. Seaton and G. P. Cookson, ‘A Guideless Traverse of the Oberland’, RC Journal 2:4 (1914), pp. 324–32 (p. 324). See also Anon., ‘Holiday Co-operation’, High Peak Advertiser, 29 April 1904, in GMCRO/B/ CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 29. See also Anon., ‘How to be Happy through Holidaying’, Comradeship 1:4 (1908), pp. 63–64 (p. 64); Outsider ‘Annual Conference’, p. 38. 110. Kevin Aho, ‘Simmel on Acceleration, Boredom, and Extreme Aesthesia’, Journal for the Theory of Social Behaviour 4 (2007), pp. 447–62 (p. 457). 111. See, for example, Alon Confino, The Nation as a Local Metaphor: Württemberg, Imperial Germany and National Memory 1871–1918 (North Carolina, 1997), pp. 7–13. 112. T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary: Holiday Memoirs’, Comradeship 3:1 (1909), p. 2. 113. J. Grünblatt, ‘Newlands (Holiday Memories: Second Prize)’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), pp. 39–40 (p. 40). 114. E. C. M., ‘Millersdale’, Comradeship 5:3 (1911), pp. 45–46 (p. 46). See also W. G. H., ‘Cader’, Comradeship 6:1 (1912), pp. 9–11 (p. 11); R. T., ‘Sonnet, with a Note Explanatory’, Comradeship 4:5 (1911), p. 74. 115. M. ‘Eskdale’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), p. 57. See also Anon., ‘Co-operative Holidays: Conference of the Association in Manchester’, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 36; Chas H. Kerr, ‘The After-Glow’, Plain Truth, September 1905, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 39a; Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley, ‘Address to the Annual Conference of the Association at Liverpool, January 3rd, 1903’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ HIS/16/1, pp. 15–16 (p. 16). 116. G. Roschnik, ‘Eine Alpine Betrachtung’, DAZ 18 (1902), pp. 153–55 (p. 155); B. B. R., ‘Mountaineering Episodes’, RC Journal 2:2 (1912), pp. 116–21. 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 55

117. J. Scholz, ‘Protokoll der XXV (XXI) Generalversammlung des D. u. Oe. Alpenvereins zu München am 10. August 1894’, MDOeAV X(XX):18 (1894), pp. 217–30 (p. 218). See also Werner Bätzing, Die Alpen: Geschichte und Zukunft einer Europäischen Kulturlandschaft, 3rd ed. (Munich, 2005), p. 17. 118. T. Arthur Leonard, Comradeship 3:2 (1909), p. 17, quoted in Taylor, Claim on the Countryside, p. 197. 119. Anon., ‘Happy through Holidaying’, p. 64; Anon., ‘Access to Mountains’, Comradeship 1:5 (1908), pp. 69–70 (p. 70); Anon., ‘Holiday Co-operation’, High Peak Advertiser (29 April 1904), GMCRO/B/ CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 29; T. Henderson, ‘What Shall I Sing?’, Comradeship 7:5 (1914), pp. 69–70 (p. 69). 120. Relevant secondary studies include: Rainer Amstädter, Der Alpinismus: Kultur—Organisation—Politik (Vienna, 1996); Christiane Eisenberg, ‘English Sports’ und Deutsche Bürger: Eine Gesellschaftsgeschichte, 1800– 1939 (Paderborn, 1999), pp. 153–266; Neil Garnham, ‘Both Praying and Playing: “Muscular Christianity” and the YMCA in North-East County Durham’, Journal of Social History 2 (2001), pp. 397–407; Bruce Haley, The Healthy Body and Victorian Culture (Harvard, 1978); Hau, Cult of Health and Beauty; Kevin Manton, ‘Establishing the Fellowship: Harry Lowerison and Ruskin School Home: A Turn-of-the-Century Socialist and his Educational Experiment’, History of Education 1 (1997), pp. 53–70; Roberta J. Park, ‘Biological Thought, Athletics, and the Formation of a ‘Man of Character’, in J. A. Mangan and James Walvin (eds.), Manliness and Morality: Middle Class Masculinity in Britain and America, 1800–1940 (Manchester, 1987), pp. 7–34 (p. 9); Taylor, Claim on the Countryside, p. 7; Bernd Wedemeyer-Kolwe “Der Neue Mensch” Körperkultur im Kaiserreich und in der Weimar Republik (Würzburg, 2004); Westaway, ‘German Community’. See also, for example, Co-operative Holidays: Programme, Songs, etc. (Buxton, 1897), GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/5/1, p. 1; Jahresbericht der Musterschule (Realgymnasium) in Frankfurt am Main, Schuljahr 1909/10 (Frankfurt a. M., 1910), Musterschule Archiv, p. 19; J. F. H., ‘Mr. J. Lewis Paton, M.A.’, Comradeship 1:3 (1908), p. 38; Hans Modlmayr, ‘Bergsport und Alpinismus’, MDOeAV IX(XIX):15 (1893), pp. 182–84. For a study of the different situation in Scottish mountaineering see Hayden Lorimer and Katrin Lund, ‘Performing Facts: Finding a Way over Scotland’s Mountains’, in Bronislaw Szerszynski, Wallace Heim and Claire Waterton (eds.), Nature Performed: Environment, Culture and Performance (Oxford, 2003), pp. 130–44. See also Alex Bentley and Paul Ormerod, ‘Tradition and Fashion in Consumer Choice: Bagging the Scottish Munros’, in Scottish Journal of Political Economy 3 (2009), pp. 371–81 56 B. ANDERSON

(pp. 372–73). See Michael Cowan, The Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania, 2008), pp. 1–111. 121. T. Arthur Leonard, Adventures in Holidaymaking: Being the Story of the Rise and Development of a People’s Holiday Movement (London, 1934), p. 36. See also Anon., ‘The Co-operative Holidays Association. A New House at Hayfield’, Manchester Guardian, 4 January 1902, p. 5; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, quoted in ‘Summer Holidays in the Peak District … 1908, Organised by the Co-operative Holidays Association in Connection with the National Home Reading Union’, in CHA, Programmes for all the Centres (1908), GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/5/8, p. 2; Prentice Mulford, ‘The Highest Love’, Comradeship 1:4 (1908), p. 62. 122. Leonard, Adventures, p. 36. 123. Anon., ‘Happy through Holidaying’, p. 64. 124. Charles Masterman, The Condition of England, Rev. ed. (London, 2008), p. 226.

Bibliography

Archival Sources Archiv des oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [AOeAV]. Greater Manchester County Records Office [GMCRO]. Musterschule Archiv. Rucksack Club Archive [RC Archive]. Staatsarchiv München. Stadtarchiv München [SA München].

Newspapers and Journals Climbers’ Club Journal [CCJ]. Der Alpenfreund. Der Naturfreund: Mitteilungen des Touristen-Vereins “Die Naturfreunde” in Wien [Naturfreund] Der Tourist. Deutsche Alpenzeitung [DAZ]. Illustrierte österreichische Alpenzeitung. Manchester Guardian. Mittheilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [MDOeAV]. Österreichische Alpenpost. Österreichische Alpenzeitung: Organ des Österreichischen Alpenklubs [ÖAZ]. 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 57

Österreichische Touristenzeitung [ÖTZ]. Rucksack Club Journal [RC Journal]. Verkehr und Sport: Beilage zur Deutschen Alpenzeitung. Zeitschrift des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [ZDOeAV].

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Rohkrämer, Thomas (1999) Eine andere Moderne? Zivilisationskritik, Natur und Technik in Deutschland, 1880–1933 (Paderborn). Rose, Jonathan (2001) The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes (London). Saldern, Adelheid von (1984) Auf dem Wege zum Arbeiterreformismus: Parteialltag in Sozialdemokratischer Provinz: Göttingen 1870–1920 (Frankfurt). Schlör, Joachim (1998) Nights in the Big City: Paris, Berlin, London 1840–1930 (London). Schulz, Andreas (2005) Lebenswelt und Kultur des Bürgertums im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Enzyklopädie Deutsche Geschichte, Vol. 75 (Oldenbourg). Schwarzer, Mitchell (1995) German Architectural Theory and the Search for Modern Identity (Cambridge). Sheehan, James J. (2000) Museums in the German Art World from the End of the Old Regime to the Rise of Modernism (Oxford). Short, John R. (1991) Imagined Country: Environment, Culture, and Society (New York). Sinha, Mrinalini (2001) ‘Britishness, Clubbability, and the Colonial Public Sphere: The Genealogy of an Imperial Institution in Colonial India’, Journal of British Studies 4, pp. 489–521. Snape, Robert (2004) ‘The Co-operative Holidays Association and the Cultural Formation of Countryside Leisure Practice’, Leisure Studies 2, pp. 143–58. Taylor, Harvey (1997) A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele). Thompson, Simon (2012) Unjustifiable Risk: The Story of British Climbing (Milnthorpe). Thrift, Nigel (2008) Non-representational Theory: Space | Politics | Affect (Abingdon). Tornow, Ingo (1977) Das Münchner Vereinswesen in der Ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, mit einem Ausblick auf die Zweite Jahrhunderthälfte (Munich). Tosh, John (1999) A Man’s Place: Masculinity and the Middle-Class Home in Victorian England (London). Trentin-Meyer, Maike (2000) ‘Die Anfänge des Alpinismus als Urbanistisches Phänomen’, Histoire des Alpes—Storia della Alpi—Geschichte der Alpen 5, pp. 229–40. Tschofen, Bernhard (1999) Berg, Kultur, Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna). Umbach, Maiken (2009) German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism, 1890–1924 (Oxford). Urry, John (2002) The Tourist Gaze, 2nd ed. (London). Walkowitz, Judith (1992) City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late Victorian London (London). Wedemeyer-Kolwe, Bernd (2004) “Der Neue Mensch” Körperkultur im Kaiserreich und in der Weimar Republik (Würzburg). 2 MOUNTAINEERS IN THE CITY 63

Westaway, Jonathan (2009) ‘The German Community in Manchester, Middle- Class Culture and the Development of Mountaineering in Britain, c. 1850– 1914’, The English Historical Review 508, pp. 571–604. Whitehead, Christopher (2005) The Public Art Museum in Nineteenth Century Britain: The Development of the National Gallery (Aldershot). Williams, John Alexander (2007) Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford). Woodson-Boulton, Amy (2007) ‘“Industry without Art is Brutality”: Aesthetic Ideology and Social Practice in Victorian Art Museums’, Journal of British Studies 46, pp. 47–71. Zimmer, Jochen (ed.) (1984) Mit uns zieht die neue Zeit: Die Naturfreunde. Zur Geschichte eines alternativen Verbandes in der Arbeiterkulturbewegung (Cologne). Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Ina (2010) Managing the Body: Beauty, Health and Fitness in Britain, 1880–1939 (Oxford).

Online Sources AustriaN Newspapers Online: http://anno.onb.ac.at Daniela Span-Gogl, ‘Marie (Mizzi) Langer-Kauba’, http://www.gustav-jahn.at/ mizzi_langer.html, accessed 15 December 2018. Davies, Alfred T. ‘Sir Alfred Hopkinson (1851–1939)’, ODNB online, https:// doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/33980. ‘Gustav Jahn’, http://www.gustav-jahn.at/. CHAPTER 3

Mountaineers Against the City

‘The strongest and most numerous roots of alpinism lie in the future’, wrote Dr Albert Halbe in the Deutsche Alpenzeitung of 1907, ‘in the same way, that all ideals of humanity lie in the future’. Mountaineering was not, Halbe argued, the rediscovery of what he called an ‘atavistic’ urge to be in the mountains, and nor was it a symptom of ‘nervousness’ and the ‘illness of the times’. Like many countryside enthusiasts of the period, he was certainly critical of those times, imagined as a decadent and nervous urbanism—but proposed the outdoors as a ‘healthy reaction’, a cure rather than a symptom. For Halbe, the ‘drive’ to visit the mountains was not just similar, but ‘directly homogenous’ with ‘advancement [Vorwärtsschreiten]’, with the ‘struggle [Ringen] for truth and knowledge’. The cure for the detrimental impact of the metropolis was more modernity, not less.1 Most mountaineers and ramblers understood their urban criticism as a sign of their modernity, rather than indicative of an ‘anti-modern’ position, but those critiques were nonetheless fundamental to how visitors to the outdoors understood and performed their activities. Urban criticism drew clear lines between the countryside and the city as well as within the city itself. It provided the languages to legitimise and define performances and actions in upland areas, and an imagination of cultural ‘good’ that could be used to exclude people and behaviours in the mountains. In this sense, the modernity of cultural criticism was ‘a “native” category for claiming and denying political inclusion and imagining new—often better—ways of being’ amongst ramblers and mountaineers.2 Rather than

© The Author(s) 2020 65 B. Anderson, Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany, https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3_3 66 B. ANDERSON using urban criticism to explain why people left the city for mountains and uplands, we need instead to ask why and how those who walked or climbed turned to the city to rationalise and justify their praxis away from it. Answering this question means placing criticism in the context of the affective and experiential qualities of urban life on the one hand, and rural leisure on the other. Outdoors leisure participants embodied pseudo- medical obsessions with nervousness, willpower, artificiality, character or personality, and sought to relate abstract urban criticisms to the detail, practicalities and expectations of their city lives. The contrasting experiences of the mountain world provided a foil for a pathologisation of their own lived urban experience, and especially the apparent failure of city life to live up to pre-defined ideals of modern selfhood. For a significant range of Europe’s middle class, these concerns focused on a bourgeois, or bürgerlich, sense of selfhood and citizenship, which had itself developed out of eighteenth-century traditions of politeness and civility.3 Historians have identified a series of tensions which pervaded bourgeois culture in the late nineteenth century, and which mountaineers’ concerns replicated.4 Stefan Collini’s indispensable work on ‘character’ has shown how ‘public moralists’ such as John Stuart Mill, or the mountaineer Leslie Stephen, understood character as the cultivation of feelings alongside rational self-interest in tenuous balance.5 Similarly, Manfred Hettling and Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman have discussed how bürgerlich lifestyle and conduct in Germany encompassed both emotional and rational elements.6 Emotion was a partner to rationality in the bourgeois imagination of appropriate modern selfhood and citizenship. Being bourgeois was not merely a case of asserting objective rationality over all emotion, sentiment and thought, as post-Weberian scholars of ‘rationalisation’ and ‘disenchantment’ sometimes assume, and a search for spiritual meaning in ‘irrational’ romanticism was neither un-bourgeois nor anti-modern, as proponents of theories about Germany’s deviation from modernisation have claimed.7 Conduct was instead an ongoing exercise of appropriate behaviour, a ‘carefully constructed balancing act’ on which practices of distinction and the arbitration of taste relied.8 As Chris Otter has explained, ‘one’s civility was always a work in progress, a telos threatened by countless deviations’.9 In their interest in museums, art galleries and libraries, in their consumerist imagination of the benefits of walking and climbing, and in their adoption of civic associational cultures, ramblers and mountaineers consistently engaged in these concerns about developing appropri- ately balanced selves. This chapter shows how outdoors leisure reconstituted 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 67 and redefined what that appropriate selfhood entailed by translating the ideals and exclusions of bourgeois practice onto spaces such as mountains and moorlands.

The Natural Unmodern of the City Ramblers and mountaineers were certainly at home with sharply criticising urban society. Leafing through the literature from both England and Germany, it does not take long to come across a claim that nature would provide a ‘fountain of youth’, or a recuperation from the stress, toil and nervous excitement of the city.10 Yet just as ideas and practices in the mountains and uplands emerged through the interaction of bodies with landscape, ‘crises’ of identity or concerns about the ability of the metropolis to create modern individuals were embodied in the urban lived experience. Rather than understanding mountaineering or rambling as the result of an ideological imperative born solely of urban rhetoric, we need to understand how the bodies of outdoors leisure were also bodies in the city, and the experience of one influenced the experience of the other. As we saw in Chap. 2, ramblers in the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA) saw moral improvement in their engagement with urban civic culture, but this experience was only available if the urban environment played along. Hubert Beaumont (1883–1948), a campaigner for small- holdings and allotments to bring about what he termed the ‘rural regen- eration of England’, was also a local secretary and host on CHA holidays.11 He explained the importance of tourist etiquette for gaining the moral lessons of a big city:

To visit London is glorious, but to be in London alone ’tis pitiable. No one knows the loneliness and temptations of being in London without friends unless they have lived there. London to the lonely is but a soulless aggregation of multiples of people engaged in eternal goings to and fro. Its very hustle and bustle intensifies the weariness of the friendless wayfarer with none to wish him “good-morrow.” But London with friends, and a home- like place to go to, then becomes an enchanting hive of industry, a realm of ancient glory, a pageant of the past, a treasure house of emotions, a centre of human delights, human romance, human pursuits and human achievements.

These moral and social reasons alone outweigh any economic consider- ations. The Association can afford to lose money on a London House, but 68 B. ANDERSON

it cannot afford to lose the golden opportunities of influencing the thought, and making pleasant the stay, of those who visit, from near or from far, the city of the Empire.12

Beaumont described the city’s environment as preventing the moral and social benefits that a visit to London should have provided. Like many other ramblers, mountaineers and cultural critics between 1890 and 1914, he rejected a city of bright lights, crowds, noise, temptation and rush as harmful, resulting not in cultivated individuals, but an ‘aggregation of multiples of people’.13 These criticisms viewed the city as a place of nervous disorder, in which over-stimulated nerves led either to an absence of self-control and irrationality, or conversely to over-mechanised, depersonalised human material.14 Similar critiques can be found in well-read works of the period by cultural commentators such as the sociologist Georg Simmel or new-liberal writer Charles Masterman.15 Indeed, Beaumont, as a liberal politician, was probably familiar with Masterman’s widely read works, which suggested the rise of a new ‘city type’ devoid of independent moral thought. His complaints were not new either—as Raymond Williams has shown, they can be traced to romantic critiques of reason in mechanis- ing and quantifying humanity, as well as to socialist authors, including Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels.16 The ‘eternal goings to and fro’ of London threatened to upset a bourgeois sense of self that was carefully balanced between order and disorder, rationality and emotion. Beaumont’s description conflated two critiques without contradiction—London’s residents were both soulless aggregates, and engaged in a confusing and disordered ‘hustle and bustle’. Appropriate conduct was made impossible by the city itself; without the help of friends and the CHA to guide him, Beaumont felt unable to access the city as a place of morality and self-improvement. Thus the cultural criticism of the city—of rush, nervousness, noise and so on—in which many ramblers and mountaineers engaged, emerged in part from their commitment to those urban cultures of education and civility discussed in Chap. 1, along with the apparent failure of the city to provide the material environments that would allow such an imperative to be fulfilled. Other mountaineers and ramblers made much the same point in different ways.17 On opening Munich’s Alpine Museum in 1911, its curator, Carl Müller (1865–1946) described the new attraction as ‘one of the most important balancing weights against the nervous hurry, restlessness and bleak flattening of the everyday pleasures of our days’.18 The psychologist 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 69

Willy Hellpach (1877–1955), writing in the Alpenverein’s yearly journal in 1913, similarly described the mountaineer as ‘fleeing the stranglehold of socio-psychic dependence, such as profession, bread-winning, sociability, status and all that they entail’ in order to reach a ‘modern feeling for nature’ that was ‘neither religion nor worldview’, but was formed ‘from the components of scientific insight and aesthetic experience’.19 When the guideless mountaineering ideologue Eugen Guido Lammer (1863–1945) engaged the graphologist Heinrich Steinitzer (1869–1947) in a long and fruitless exchange over whether alpinism was ‘culturally harmful’, they did at least agree that the ‘wild haste of city life’ was morally repugnant—only while Lammer saw alpinism as a cure, Steinitzer saw it as a pathogen.20 As well as the noise, chaos and bustle of the city street, ramblers and mountaineers also pathologised middle-class work routines of ‘desks and duties’, whose monotony and formalities led to ‘one-sided’ and ‘artificial’ men and women. Such critiques appealed to the growing cohorts of lower- middle-class workers in England and Germany who began to dominate mountaineering clubs in the 1890s, and whose work routines superficially resembled those in the upper middle class, but lacked potential for promotion and professional recognition. Carole Elizabeth Adams has explained how, in mid-nineteenth-century Britain, America and Germany, clerks considered their occupation as a precursor to independent living, yet by the 1890s these groups were little better off than skilled labourers, and their role in managing the paperwork of new bureaucracies offered few opportunities for future financial independence.21 The new generation of mountaineers therefore emerged alongside changes to the middle-class regimes of work that they often sought to critique. For many, outdoors leisure involved a performance of independent will or character for those men and women whose employment was becoming problematic as a site for the bourgeois liberal self-discipline to which many of them aspired. Most imagined and thought through these critiques with their bodies—the monotony and physical inactivity of work became a corporeal metaphor of despair at the opportunities of independent selfhood, contrasted to the expression and application of self offered or even demanded by the outdoors. The anonymous CHA holiday-maker ‘M.’ started his/ her poem on Eskdale with ‘Seated today in my office’:

I am weary and ill at ease As my hands go lightly flying Over the As and the Es. 70 B. ANDERSON

[…]

The roads and the moors we walked over; The bogs that wetted us through, The views that the mountains gave us, The fun in the common room too.22

For ‘M.’, the importance of a trip to Eskdale was the combination of comradeship, physical activity and mental or spiritual inspiration. As seen in Chap. 2, the memory of these experiences was one way in which the outdoors could enter the workplace or domestic life of participants, and like many, ‘M’ considered one of the key benefits derived from the holiday to be the generation of memories of intense emotional experience and physical movement.23 This kind of language and reference to desk-bound work was not limited to the Co-operative Holidays Association. In the Rucksack Club, tex- tile salesman T. Wyldbore reflected on what another member, Richard Coller had described as the ‘smug makeshifts of this mechanical life’24:

Monday morning came too quickly, saying “go back to your desks and duties, samples and prices, specifications and dullness”. So at 3–30am we were up and about, seeing to breakfast and tidying up in general. At five am we departed, leaving Reality, to take on the disguise commonly called civilisation’.25

This passage is preceded not by walking or rock climbing, but with building the Rucksack Club hut in Cwm Eigiau, North Wales. The manual labour of decorating and building a hut, undertaken without much planning by Rucksack Club members, was ‘Reality’ compared with the artifice and dullness of office work. By setting up an opposition between the reality of their experiences outside the city and the ‘artificiality’ of urban life, ramblers and mountaineers enlisted their extra-urban activities to the maintenance of bourgeois identity against impersonal regimes of ‘desks and duties’.26 In both England and Germany, male ramblers and mountaineers shaped their critiques of office work through contemporary discussions of the feminisation of men in the workplace.27 Manliness became a typical trope of both the Rucksack Club and turn-of-the-century English rock climbing in general28: 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 71

In the gathering dusk, the saunter down into Crowden gives opportunities for delightful reminiscences. In that one hour you may do a few things on Lliwedd, run over to Craig yr Isfa and look at the Great Gully; you may even traverse the Aletschhorn, or attempt the Matterhorn, and on special occasions the Caucasus may be looked at… It is an hour when drab and prosaic commercial men cast aside—almost unconsciously and yet half hesitat- ingly—that artificiality of manner bred of city life, and offer you fellowship with the real man. “Above, in the clear air and searching sunlight, we are afoot with the quiet gods, and men can know each other and themselves for what they are.”29

Here, Richard Isherwood (not directly related to Christopher) implied that both the climbing on Laddow Rocks in the Peak District and the recall of memories of other climbs enabled men to access their natural masculinity.30 There are some clear similarities between these strenuous ramblers and mountaineers, and the Sheffield Clarion Ramblers’ Club of 1900 which, according to Melanie Tebbutt, emerged from the masculine identities of clerks and other lower-middle-class office workers in the city. For Tebbutt, contemporary constructions of office work as feminine, reinforced by female competition for the same jobs, meant that men sought ‘new ways of asserting their masculinity’.31 Rambling across the Derbyshire moorlands, for the group of Sheffield ramblers explored by Tebbutt, was one of these ways. The masculine cultures explored by Tebbutt can also be found amongst mountaineers and climbers in England and Germany, where they mixed with the motifs of imperial mountaineering discussed by Peter Hansen, and alpinism as war discussed by Dagmar Günther.32 In his contribution to debates about alpine ‘sport’ in the years around 1910, the königlicher Oberamtsrichter and chair of Munich’s elite Sektion Bayerland, Eugen Oertel (1867–1944) clearly identified the problems associated with work in the ‘mental industry’.33 He listed the abilities required to be a mountaineer, including power, courage, decisiveness, sure handed- and footed- ness, and declared these characteristics absent in work outside the military, navy or hunting. Oertel picked out one area of work that completely failed to nurture these abilities: the ‘so widely spread office work (Schreibstubentätigkeit)’.34 The further the specialisation and division of labour developed, the more ‘papery’ modern cultures became and ‘the fewer complete men’ they produced.35 72 B. ANDERSON

In another article, this time in a special ‘alpine’ issue of Munich’s Münchner Neueste Nachrichten, Oertel pictured alpinists as Nietzschean supermen who would lead the German nation:

In the struggle for existence in professional life, in the private life, in public, political and social work (Wirken)—everywhere we see an emergency [in the shortage] of strong, proper, fearless men of strong personality, who do not strive for their own benefit and advantage. They give their best, their self- given ability, towards the reaching of a far, gleaming aim, towards the victory of an idea. Our people need such men; we raise them, when we raise proper alpinists.36

Yet developing this manliness was not intended to change the modern organisation of labour. For Oertel, alpinism was about improving men so that they could fit better into that system, because the abilities of the alpinist were also ‘needed by the man in his daily life’.37 The modern world prevented men from developing the personality that it nevertheless demanded. For Oertel, sporting alpinism offered a chance for men to strengthen their masculinity into order to fit into a modern culture that failed to shape them adequately.38 While mountaineering organisations developed a clear relationship between the assertion of the self and masculinity, the Co-operative Holidays Association provides an important gender balance to the analysis. There is no indication that ‘strenuous’ holidays such as those in the Lake District valley of Newlands had any special appeal to the male membership of the CHA since, like the other centres, they regularly had to turn women away to retain a roughly equal gender mix.39 Patronising asides from the male members of the organisation also reveal that female participants played a full role in the activities at such ‘strenuous’ centres.40 Many of the women on these holidays also engaged in salaried work, and female participants should not be reduced to those in search of a husband, any more than the reverse—rather, they faced many of the same concerns as their male companions. Freda, for instance, writing about her holiday to the Isle of Man, explained that:

How to make the wisest and happiest use of our brief annual holiday is an even more perplexing problem to the business girl than to her bachelor brother. Like him she longs to play the game off her own bat, and to enjoy her summer fortnight of leisure unhindered by the irritating restrictions of needless conventionality.41 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 73

Women such as this ‘business girl’, identified closely with the concerns of male participants, and in the CHA should be considered as taking a large part in the rhetoric described above. Indeed, given the smaller likelihood of promotion and other difficulties faced by female workers, Freda’s testi- mony suggests that women problematised their working environments in much the same ways as men, and found these problems exacerbated by their gender.42 Like the strenuous ramblers in the CHA and mountaineers of the Rucksack Club, it was to working environments that extreme German mountaineers looked to justify their particular brand of outdoor leisure. When the Munich alpinist, academic, dialect poet and Alpenverein librar- ian Alois Dreyer (1861–1938) came to write his history of alpinism, he described a typical member of the new generation as a ‘gutsy youth’ who rejected the ‘outmoded sentimentalism’ of those who visited the Alps to escape ‘the pressurising atmosphere of our [over-] culture’. These youth- ful alpinists, Dreyer wrote, saw alpine ‘sport’ as ‘a balancing weight against the dull mechanism of our daily activity’.43 At the same time, elite mountaineers positioned themselves as harbingers of the future, carriers of contemporary modern culture, and leaders of the modern drive towards progress. ‘The mountaineer has become independent’, claimed Josef Ittlinger (1880–1955), a well-known figure in Munich mountaineering circles:

Reliant on himself, he gains the most exceptional unfolding of his powers and assertion of his personality. Through this, alpinism has become a child of its times, in which in all areas of life the call is forcefully raised for full freedom and space for personality of the individual.44

Ittlinger described this alpinism as an escape from the ‘increasingly pressurising burden of professional work’, and expanded more fully than most on the problems he perceived in the ‘necessary professional obligations to acquire a living’.45 The continuous physical inactivity associated with bourgeois work would have a ‘ruinous effect on the individual and on the whole people [Volksganze]’, so that alpinism solved a national as well as personal problem.46 More telling, however, was Ittlinger’s description of the ‘atrophy of worthwhile mental abilities’:

All professions are over-subscribed, and so necessarily few people are granted employment according to their inclination and abilities. The result is that 74 B. ANDERSON

thousands and thousands of people are stuck in the compulsory service of a profession that they cannot love. Our system of labour division is continuously driven to extremes, and creates a disproportionately large number of secondary positions. The active and capable people who are placed in these positions find it hard to apply their powers and abilities. In a time in which the insights and knowledge of the masses grow extraordinarily, there is less space for their realisation than before.47

Like Oertel, Ittlinger identified the conflict that lay at the heart of bourgeois critiques of middle-class working regimes. Bourgeois work, and life in general, demanded a performance of personality and ritualised character, and yet the organisation of middle-class occupations in the late nineteenth century provided little room for such practices to take place. The critiques from Ittlinger and Oertel suggest that some mountaineers, including members of the elite Austro-German ‘Bildungsbürgertum’, viewed large bureaucracies and labour specialisation as detrimental to an individualism specific to the European bourgeoisie.48 These (often) extreme alpinists drew upon a concern, common amongst cultural critics, that the Bürgertum, and especially state officials, were losing sight of the connection between individuality and national community.49 Commentators such as Werner Sombart (1863–1941), for instance, described how ‘state systems are of little importance to the successes and failures [Wohl und Wehe] of the individual Bürger and the creation of his personal life’.50 The ‘techniques’ and ‘rules’ of the office, so vividly conceived in Max Weber’s discussion of bureaucratic culture, emerged from this same set of concerns about an increasing difference between the supposed drive of Bürger to develop their individualities, and a bureaucratic system that left them little room to do so.51 The concerns of the upper-middle-class man were not, to be sure, precisely the same as those of the lower-middle-class clerks, small shopkeep- ers, struggling professionals or schoolteachers that made up the bulk of ramblers and mountaineers in the CHA and Rucksack Club in Manchester, as well a number of those in the swollen ranks of the Alpenverein and significant numbers in the socialist Naturfreunde. Yet the differences in status between the Bildungsbürgertum and the lower-middle-class groups that came to dominate mountain leisure in the 1890s and 1900s should not obscure what were a very similar set of worries. Certainly, for instance, the search for individualism and (financial) independence, although sometimes allied to ideas of comradeship and co-operation, was shared by all 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 75 these groups.52 As a substantial amount of research has shown, the English lower middle class—in many ways more a bracket of poorly paid but salaried workers—were subject to a sustained cultural critique throughout the late Victorian and Edwardian periods.53 This critique should be seen as an exaggeration, rather than accurate depiction of lower-middle-class culture, but it nevertheless proved in part so successful (as all satire does) by making explicit precisely those contradictions its target wished most to hide.54 The ‘keeping up appearances’ jibe was typical. The lower middle classes may well have been regularly, and at times unfairly criticised by authors like George Gissing or Charles Dickens, for their pretensions to bourgeois respectability and repeated failure.55 Yet such satires only rendered comic the genuine challenges of lower-middle-class cultural life, for both its male and female members.56 More important in the context of this chapter was the popular picture of the feminised male worker—typically a clerk—as down-trodden by his wife at home as much as he was by his managers at work, yet valiantly refusing to give up his status. In such satire the clerk was victim of circum- stance, and divested of any agency to change his position. H. G. Wells’ accounts of lower-middle-class life, which were more positive than most, are typical in this respect. Wells’ novels were drawn from his own experience and often featured an ‘escape’ from the dullness and boredom of work and home, but it is only through the luck of cheating suicide or a surprise inheritance that Wells’ heroes are freed.57 The real insecurities felt by lower-middle-class employees were thus given meanings that implied a lack of individuality, agency and personal selfhood; the middle-class commentators hit them, in other words, where it hurt. When we hear of clerks in the Co-operative Holidays Association, or in the Rucksack Club talking about the passivity and dullness of their working routines, they bear the imprint not only of actual working patterns, but of a well-rehearsed way of making sense of them. It is not possible to discuss the intricacies of every profession here, but teachers deserve further exploration, in part because they made up a large contingent of the Co-operative Holidays Association, and of female members in particular. Like the rest of the lower middle class, female teachers were under considerable pressure to maintain fully ‘respectable’ standards.58 Yet, as Dina Copelman’s discussion of the London-based ‘Traveller’s Club’ has shown, the possibilities of living away from home, independent incomes and interaction with men as colleagues rather than subordinates gave female teachers more room for sexual and gendered 76 B. ANDERSON experimentation.59 Copelman describes an organisation that held much in common with the CHA, providing ‘rational recreation’ alongside unin- tended opportunities for ‘self-activity and co-operative effort’.60 Mountaineering office workers, from the German skiing pioneer and judge Eugen Oertel and the Manchester clerk Richard Coller to the female CHA member ‘Freda’, all wrote that the promise of the modern individual could not be realised within modern society. Guides to new styles of mountaineering, such as those from Clinton Dent (1850–1912), Josef Ittlinger or Franz Nieberl (1875–1968), featured sections on the importance of independence, free will and feelings of self-reliance that they claimed were absent in modern life.61 Strenuous activity, feats of endurance or the experience of danger in the mountains provided challenges that pitted the willpower or spirit of ramblers and mountaineers against both their bodies and the landscapes through which they moved. They did not abandon middle-class culture, but rather pathologised urban life to describe urban people, and especially office workers, as lacking in the requisite willpower and independence necessary for full membership of civil society. Where rambling and mountaineering included hardship, endurance, danger or difficulty, it offered a chance to develop and demonstrate willpower and self-discipline, and thereby help to balance the negative impact of the city on the self, and make the modern individual more modern. Participants explained their ‘need’ for this type of experience as arising out of contemporary working environments. Cultural critics and social commentators gave changing cultures of work meanings that implicated office-based, salaried work in a general malaise of individualistic and national willpower and vitality. Engaging in physically strenuous exercise in the countryside was one way in which the criticised elements of the middle class could engage in a performance of liberal, individualistic self- expression. In essence, mountaineering and strenuous exercise appropriated bourgeois languages for both their diagnosis of urban culture and their identification of a cure.

Urban Criticism and the Politics of Outdoor Space We need to be cautious about mountaineers’ criticism of the city, because anti-urban sentiment was as often as much a critique of behaviours in the outdoors as it was of the city itself. Around 1890, new groups began using the outdoors in greater numbers. Even with a dramatic expansion of alpine huts, the Eastern Alps became crowded in the most popular areas. Large 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 77 numbers first of the Austro-GermanMittelstand and British lower middle class, and then of wealthier workers made their way into the mountains; it was these groups that joined both the Touristenverein ‘die Naturfreunde’ and the Co-operative Holidays Association from the outset. Those who were not willing to endorse explicitly socialist ideology often simply joined the existing bourgeois clubs and associations, and came to dominate the memberships of organisations such as the Rucksack Club, and even some Alpenverein Sektionen.62 By the early twentieth century, it is fair to assume that the only groups routinely excluded from European outdoors leisure through cost were the very poorest, often female members of the urban community—and even there, brief visits to close-by moorlands, mountains or hills constituted a cheap and easy form of relaxation. This section argues that much of the criticism levelled at urban culture in the same period justified exclusions not so much in the city, but the mountains. For the first time, women from poorer social backgrounds, often in similar employment to their male counterparts also became more visible in the mountains. As Tanja Wirz has pointed out, around the turn of the century, men increasingly moved to exclude women from mountaineering clubs, with the Swiss Alpine Club excluding female members for the first time in 1907, and numerous new male-only mountaineering Clubs (and Alpenverein Sektionen) emerging in the same years.63 For Wirz, the male, middle-class majority in the Alps met a new female challenge to their absolute dominance over the mountains and their urban club culture by distin- guishing between (female, uncultured, working class) ‘masses’ and ‘mountaineers’, ‘tourists’ and ‘alpinists’, or uncultured and educated.64 Faced with what seemed like multiple threats to their authority, male, middle-class mountaineering groups redefined the role of mountaineering against specific forms of city culture, and then accused ‘less educated’ workers and women of bringing the very same urban cultures to the Alps. How far such accusations were ever accurate is doubtful; more relevant was that they replicated fears held by male middle-class populations in the city. Amongst the mountaineers and hill-walkers discussed here, debates about ‘nervousness’, or the ‘hustle and bustle’ of the city only appeared in earnest from around 1895, and from the outset were tied to criticism of people in the mountains as much as they were to those in the city: The accusation was routinely that those judged to have poor mountain etiquette had brought harmful urban cultures with them.65 One of Eugen Guido Lammer’s criticisms, for instance, was not so much of rush and 78 B. ANDERSON clock-tyranny in the city, as of mountaineers intent on beating ‘those so un-alpine time-records’, and thus not really appreciating the mountains.66 The aristocrat and doctor Hermann Freiherr von der Pfordten wrote an unusually anti-modern account in his call for a ‘nursery for alpine sanity’ in the second issue of the Deutsche Alpenzeitung in 1901.67 After beginning with an emphasis on preventing alpine accidents, he soon moved on to bemoaning how the praxis of many mountaineers prevented the relaxation that they sought in the mountains. The ‘root of all the problems’, he claimed, was that ‘the great mass of tourists are children of the city […] right modern, nervously hasty on the one hand, thoughtlessly superficial on the other’. Pfordten insisted that all must adopt the cultural praxis of ‘the privileged who has managed to live naturally in the city’, and called on urban workers to ‘gain a different being’, and ‘try to be other people’ when in the mountains.68 If workers wanted to come to the Alps, he demanded they conform to the ‘natural’ bourgeois practice that made alpinism a cultural resource for the Austro-German Bürgertum, and from which women were assumed absent. There is in fact very little evidence that working-class people genuinely did behave much differently in the Alps, beyond limits on expenditure, but the popularity of alpine culture was such that many huts could be busier than city streets, and there is little doubt that the ‘hut-to-hut’ tourists described in the next chapter vastly outnumbered ‘real mountaineers’. Nevertheless, the problems caused by overcrowding rapidly came to be interpreted as a result of new populations in the Alps who threatened the middle-class and male cultural monopoly over the landscape. In some ways at least, those organisations catering for poorer lower- middle- and working-class men and women actually made similar arguments. Certainly, the Naturfreunde’s leadership understood walking and climbing as a contrast to the ‘mind-numbing domain of the pub’—and the CHA, whose leadership was less in tune with working-class culture, echoed critiques common to middle-class ramblers and mountaineers across North-West England.69 T. Arthur Leonard, its founder, wrote in 1910 that ‘we want to counteract the influence of noisy Blackpool, but, not at the expense of bringing the Blackpool spirit and Blackpool noise into the quiet of the countryside’.70 In a 1903 speech to the organisation, the later founder of the National Trust, the Reverend Drummond Rawnsley likewise explained how ‘if one comes to some great and glorious view, and one desires to get the good of it for one’s soul, it is a little hard to be cheated of the peace which might be ours by the sudden call for a nigger 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 79 melody’.71 Blackpool had, at this point, already become a byword for all the urban culture that English ramblers and mountaineers disliked: low- brow entertainment, noise, crowds, confusion and racially suspect activities. Such criticism cast poor behaviour as uncultured, and lacking the adequate qualities of bourgeois selfhood that were demanded in the hills, mountains and moorlands. As much as the CHA asked its members to avoid ‘showy’ clothing and explicit displays of wealth, its university-educated speakers, temperance, rigorous rules, specified activities, and explicit expectations of members all enforced one, civic, middle-class and ‘respectable’ urban way of viewing the outdoors. Cultural criticism of the city rarely came with a call to actively alter the urban experience—instead, ramblers and mountaineers utilised these rhetorics to define, prescribe and legitimise a specific set of behaviours and activities in the mountains, a praxis that was derived directly from dominant performances of male, white bourgeois power in the city. Even those organisations purporting to support workers on holidays couched their activities and actions within that same set of urban critiques. The political context of such language in an era of expanding suffrage was most obvious in the Eastern Alps. There, rhetorics surrounding ‘alpine manners’ justified the effective exclusion of Austria’s poorer populations from the high Alps even as those same populations gained male enfranchise- ment. In 1906, Karl Arnold (1853–1929), a pharmacologist from Hannover, successfully lobbied Alpenverein members to double hut-fees for non-members, and withdraw from the reciprocal hut-rights arrangements that had provided members of other alpine clubs (the Naturfreunde included) parity in accommodation costs. Supporters of the move advanced a host of alternative justifications, but the measures clearly targeted poorer visitors to the Alps. Alongside these formal measures, Arnold proposed a series of actions designed to regulate behaviour in the mountains.72 Shortly before that years’ Alpenverein Annual General Meeting, he published a supporting article calling for an ‘Alpine Knigge’, recalling the well-known German ‘etiquette manual’ of the late eighteenth century.73 Arnold’s concerns were multiple, and targeted more than just ‘tourists’, but began with a far-reaching critique of mountain guides’ increasing ability to extract profit from their middle-class clients. These alpine subalterns had occupied a liminal class position in the Alps since at least the late eighteenth century; mountaineers often commented on how guides were effectively domestic staff whose role was nevertheless to give orders to their masters. For Arnold, 80 B. ANDERSON however, the modern guides’ haste to return to the valley and engage new clients prevented the use of the Hannover club hut balcony to watch the sunrise, while hurried and tired tourists could not enjoy their experience.74 Echoing points made by the elite mountaineers Ludwig Purtscheller (1849– 1900) and Alfred Mummery (1855–1895) over a decade earlier, Arnold was challenged by guides who did not conform to their position in his social hierarchy, and complained that guides expected the same food and drink and as their clients.75 Guides, Arnold went on, no longer cleaned their clients’ boots and clothing, did not volunteer to help build the huts themselves, and did not conform to polite standards of hygiene. Even worse, they occasionally slept in the beds meant for tourists—‘One evening’, Arnold recalled, ‘as I rather roughly removed a guide from a tourist-bed, a tourist explained to me that he had paid for the bed for the night, because he could not allow the guide to sleep on a straw sack’.76 Arnold responded that in that case, the guide and his client should sleep somewhere else. Yet according to him, this lack of ‘respect for the urbanite’ was not the guides’ fault—rather ‘the modern tourist has drawn the modern guide out of the originally hum- ble alpine people’.77 The erosion of privilege in the city thus led to the erosion of privilege in the Alps—Arnold blamed tourists for effectively treating guides as their social equal—‘even drinking their brotherhood’, praising their mountaineering skill, and giving both too much and too little in tips.78 Satirically transposing the fictional ‘Tropenkoller’ that German imperialists used to explain violent abuse in their colonial regimes, Arnold talked of a ‘Höhenkoller’, or nervous anger at high altitudes, which caused tourists to make unreasonable complaints (such as the absence of a toilet), yet ignore reasonable ones (such as use of a straw rather than feather mattress).79 These class criticisms in part repeated the well-entrenched distinction between the authentic adventurer and uncultured tourist, but Arnold merged these characters with bourgeois criticisms of an urban society increasingly dominated by working-class culture, and fears of such cultures bleeding into the rural domain. There can be little doubt that Arnold was reflecting on a genuine increase in the numbers of people visiting the Alps, as well as the widespread visibility of Austrian, and especially Viennese lower-middle and then working-class people in the mountains, but he was also doing so when those populations had a new political visibility as well.80 Through the 1890s, political crises in the Austrian half of the Austro-Hungarian Empire resulted in the final collapse of Austro-German liberal politics. Electoral reforms to introduce universal equal male suffrage in 1906 fol- 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 81 lowed, formented by impressive socialist mass rallies and a general strike in Czech and German Austria in 1905.81 Politically, the liberal, bourgeois members who still dominated the Alpenverein leadership could feel under threat from two quarters. On the one hand, Austria’s Social Democrats made gains in all urban centres to emerge as the second-largest party in the 1907 elections, cementing the impression of a successful socialist revolution to follow that of Russia in 1905.82 On the other, the alpine territories rapidly became core regions for Karl Lueger’s antisemitic, populist and pro-Habsburg Christlich-soziale Partei. Neither were acceptable political movements for the Alpenverein. Though certainly increasing numbers agreed with Lueger’s anti-Jewish demagoguery, his was a ‘vulgar’ antisemitism alien to the Alpenverein’s bourgeois members and, more significantly, the Christlich-soziale Partei explicitly rejected the pan-German (and secular) nationalism of the Alpenverein—Lueger instead offered a cosmopolitan anti-Jewishness intended to appeal to the nationally diverse Viennese Mittelstand. Indeed, Lueger associated himself with the Alpenverein’s closest Austrian rivals, the Oesterreichische Touristen-Club (-Klub from 1903), which welcomed his patronage. At the same time, working-class Vienna, whose increasing use of the Alps the Alpenverein had until this point broadly welcomed, now suggested a renewed threat to the status cherished by Alpenverein members like Arnold. The completion of an alpine hut by the socialist Naturfreunde in 1907, which the Naturfreunde leadership naively assumed would justify its reciprocal rights to hut use with other clubs, was instead easily interpreted as a political claim over alpine space, and that it was opened in the same year as the first universal male vote in Austria confirmed this impression.83 The defence of the Alps by wealthy Kaiserreich mountaineers (who retained an unequal franchise in their home state) against the newly enfranchised poor of Austria was thus in large part a reaction to the democratisation of Cisleithania; Arnold’s description of upstart guides being ‘drawn out’ by un- (or over-) cultured tourists paralleled contemporary perceptions of the changing politicisation of Austria’s mountain territories. In the concerns about ‘bad alpine habits’ that emerged in the same years, these distinctions of class and politics became more explicit. The Alpenverein’s ‘ten commandments of mountaineering’, created by Arnold and a Berlin alpinist, F. Friedensburg, were supposed to be visible in every club hut and on membership cards from 1908.84 The first commandment implored alpinists to ‘not do away with your education and upbringing; bad habits and crudeness are not the same as strength and happiness’.85 82 B. ANDERSON

The list as a whole was supposed to draw limits that ‘one cannot overstep without excluding oneself from the circle of the cultured, of “gentlemen”’. Relationships with local guides should be ‘seemly’—neither ‘masterly’, nor ‘common’, and in writing a reference for a guide, clients were asked to be brief to avoid making the guide big-headed. More bizarrely, given the title of the instructions, the ‘beliefs and customs’ of the locals were neither to be belittled nor ‘improved’—the alpinist should not, the last commandment suggested, be an ‘amateur apostle of the enlightenment’.86 The commandments were followed in 1908 by The Alpine journey of the ‘Rotten’ family, a true story as a contribution to ‘Alpine Knigge’, published by Friedensburg under the name F. Montanus. The Rottens, a vulgar Mittelstand Prussian family visiting the mountains as a fashionable alternative to the beach, figured as an amalgam of distasteful behaviours and attributes in the mountains, including obesity, sexual licence, hygiene, cheapness and poor clothing, as well as explicit ‘vulgar’ antisemitism, cultural chauvanism, and lack of respect for local languages and cultures (including the appropriation of traditional alpine dress).87 Friedensburg directed similar criticism towards a group of female mountaineers who formed a narrative parallel to the Rotten family. Their ‘guideless’ mountaineering relied, according to Friedensburg, on advice from other mountaineers or following guided groups. Why these practices were a problem for women, but not men was unclear, but Friedensburg was also nervous about guided women, whom he assumed aimed for the sexual attention of their guides in empty mountain huts.88 The author and his friends can be found at the end of the text, concluding that the expansion and price- reductions on railways had helped more ‘Rotten’ families to visit the Alps, and that women were not in any case welcome. Together with the decision to revoke reciprocal hut rights—and a campaign to make membership of the Alpenverein more difficult the subsequent year, these texts demonstrate how far outdoors leisure participants directed their urban criticism not so much at the city, as at those coming from it who posed a threat to their cultural dominance over the high peaks. Ramblers and mountaineers nevertheless claimed to be reluctant to take direct action against such behaviour, and many complained that the application of ‘rules’ would damage the benefits of turning to nature.89 F. P. wrote in Comradeship that the CHA should ‘guard jealously the spirit of freedom in our parties … Stern methods of repression are antiquated’. Instead, the solution was to expect ‘courtesy, geniality and broad- mindedness’ from hosts (the male leaders at each centre) and ‘restraint 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 83 and mutual consideration’ from guests.90 Leonard went further, calling on ‘gentlemen’ to ‘put themselves under a self-denying ordinance’.91 Similarly, German mountaineers proved reluctant even to post the polite and tongue-in-cheek ‘ten commandments’ in their huts.92 Josef Ittlinger, having suggested that some alpinists tended to ‘forget their education’ in the high mountains, then defined that education as self-conducting:

The truly educated person [gebildete Mensch], when he goes into the mountains, will also remain at the education level which he has in his normal life, and behave accordingly in every situation. It is clear to all of us that alpine activity in its sharper form is not always exactly ennobling and refining to every human mind. But it is therefore, all the more our responsibility to remain inside the borders of good manners and decorum, so that the most valuable accomplishments and the subtlest feathers of our culture are not lost.93

In keeping with their allegiance to bourgeois ideas of moral self-cultivation, ramblers and mountaineers like Ittlinger and Leonard hoped that conduct could be regulated by invoking a bourgeois sense of respectable selfhood—but at the same time, they blacklisted offenders, limited access for ‘undesirable’ groups in the outdoors, and sought to manage behaviours in such a way as to ensure the dominance of a bourgeois version of outdoors leisure.

Conclusion The cultural criticism levelled at the city by mountaineers and ramblers can be described as ‘contests within the framework of modernity rather than resistances against it’.94 The overwhelming majority of mountaineers and ramblers did not claim that they were unmodern, or no longer wished to be modern, or that the past should be returned to, or that modernity was unsalvageable. Instead, they criticised the city as not providing the material and mental experiences expected by modern individuals, as not fitting the urban citizen adequately for the stresses and problems of modern life, and as failing to provide material environments that would allow a practice of modern selfhood to emerge. Their criticism was not that the city was too modern, but that it was not modern enough, and they sought in the countryside, mountains and moorlands a means to make themselves more modern. 84 B. ANDERSON

For most, it was equally clear how that ‘modern’ could be defined, and it constituted a selfhood based in large part on existing concepts of bourgeois independence, distinction and individualism, including its tension between pathological rational materialism and pathological emotional irrationality. Unsurprisingly, these ideas about legitimate, moral modern selfhoods were apiece with the forms of urban culture favoured by outdoors leisure participants, since places such as libraries, museums, art galleries and exhibitions were the very sites in which the outward demonstration of bourgeois civility could be practised and refined. These concepts had been given new life by late nineteenth-century medical discourse, which obsessed over pathologies of the self such as ‘nervousness’ and attributes such as ‘willpower’, and so reproduced as a medical truth basic understandings of self inherited from the mid-nineteenth century. Many ramblers and mountaineers, however, re-imagined such discourses to accord with their everyday experiences and frustrations of office work. Stuck in dead-end, monotonous service jobs that offered little chance for physical movement, the pathologisation of urban life as harmful to the independent individual seemed for many men and women to be a literal, kinetic reality, lived out in their everyday working lives. Even so, we need to be clear that the purpose of these ways of defining outdoors leisure was not always merely to understand links between practice in the countryside and the lived experience of the city. In the early years of the new century, as it became easier for poorer people to visit the mountains, these definitions of the problems of urban life became a means to prescribe the types of outdoors leisure that might be deemed morally beneficial. Guides, working-class mountaineers and women could all be the targets of such attacks, whose implicit argument was that since outdoors leisure was a specific cure for a specific set of middle-class problems, and other groups were only welcome in the outdoors if they could repli- cate appropriate behaviour. In this sense, then, the criticism of urban culture as lacking requisite modernity entailed a claim over what countryside leisure should be, and who should be allowed to access it.

Notes 1. Albert Halbe, ‘Die Ethische Bedeutung des Bergsteigens’, DAZ VII:2 (1907–1908), pp. 197–200 (pp. 198–99). See also Hermann Freiherr v. d. Pfordten, ‘Die Vorschule der Alpinen Vernunft’, DAZ I:2 (1901), pp. 1–6 (p. 2); Ernst Keiter, ‘Die Entwicklung der Touristik in Oesterreich’, DAZ 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 85

I:3 (1901), pp. 3–4; Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley, ‘Address to the Annual Conference of the Association at Liverpool January 3, 1903’, in GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, pp. 15–16 (p. 15). 2. Lynn Thomas, ‘Modernity’s Failings, Political Claims, and Intermediate Concepts’, American Historical Review 3 (2011), pp. 727–40 (p. 734). 3. See Isabel V. Hull, Sexuality, State, and Civil Society in Germany, 1700– 1815 (New York, 1996); Lawrence E. Klein, Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness: Moral Discourse and Cultural Politics in Early Eighteenth- Century England (Cambridge, 1994); Paul Langford, ‘British Politeness and the Progress of Western Manners: An Eighteenth-Century Enigma’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 7 (1997), pp. 53–72. 4. Stefan Collini, Public Moralists: Political Thought and Intellectual Life in Britain, 1850–1930 (Oxford, 1991); Manfred Hettling, ‘Bürgerliche Kultur: Bürgerlichkeit als kulturelles System’, in Peter Lundgreen (ed.), Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte des Bürgertums: ein Bilanz des Bielefelder Sonderforschungsbereichs (1986–1997) (Göttingen, 2000), pp. 319–40; Mitchell Schwarzer, German Architectural Theory and the Search for a Modern Identity (Cambridge, 1995); Maiken Umbach, German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism, 1890–1924 (Oxford, 2009); Simon Gunn, Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority in the English Industrial City, 1890–1914 (Manchester, 2007), pp. 22–28. 5. Collini, Public Moralists, pp. 60–100. See also Jim Endersby, ‘Sympathetic Science: Charles Darwin, Joseph Hooker, and the Passions of Victorian Naturalists’, Victorian Studies 2 (2009), pp. 229–320; Robert Scott Stewart, ‘Utilitarianism meets Romanticism: J.S. Mill’s Theory of Imagination’, History of Philosophy Quarterly 4 (1993), pp. 369–88; Frank M. Turner, ‘Victorian Scientific Naturalism and Thomas Carlyle’, Victorian Studies 3 (1975), pp. 325–43 (p. 330). A similar account of character is given by the Rucksack Club president Alfred Hopkinson in Penultima (London, 1930), pp. 223–33. 6. Manfred Hettling and Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman, ‘Der Bürgerliche Wertehimmel: Zum Problem Individueller Lebensführung im 19. Jahrhundert’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 3 (1997), pp. 333–59 (pp. 338– 41). See also Manfred Hettling and Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman (eds.), Der Bürgerliche Wertehimmel: Innenansichten des 19. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen, 2000); Patrick Joyce, Democratic Subjects: The Self and the Social in Nineteenth-Century England (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 173–75. 7. For a critique of ‘rationalization’ and ‘disenchantment’ see Sharon Boden and Simon J. Williams, ‘Consumption and Emotion: The Romantic Ethic Revisited’, Sociology 3 (2002), pp. 493–512 (pp. 497–98); Maiken Umbach, ‘The Civilizing Process and the Construction of the Bourgeois Self: Music Chambers in Wilhelmine Germany’, in Mary Fulbrook (ed.), 86 B. ANDERSON

Un-Civilizing Processes? Excess and Transgression in German Society and Culture: Perspectives Debating with Norbert Elias (Amsterdam, 2007), pp. 175–202 (p. 187). For Sonderweg treatments see George Mosse, The Crisis of German Ideology: Intellectual Origins of the Third Reich (New York, 1964); Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Das Deutsche Kaiserreich 1871–1918 (Göttingen, 1994 [1973]). 8. Umbach, Bourgeois Modernism, p. 109; Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Harvard, 1984 [1979]). 9. Chris Otter, ‘Making Liberalism Durable: Vision and Civility in the Late Victorian City’, Social History 1 (2002), pp. 1–15 (p. 2). 10. Other historians of rambling and mountaineering have regularly picked up on this. See for example Edward Ross Dickinson, ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 3 (2010), pp. 579–602 (p. 583); Robert Snape, ‘The Co-operative Holidays Association and the Cultural Formation of a Countryside Leisure Practice’, Leisure Studies 2 (2004), pp. 143–58; Bernhard Tschofen, Berg, Kultur, Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna, 1999), pp. 12–15. 11. Anon., ‘Back to the Land’, Manchester Guardian, 16 December 1907, p. 8. 12. Hubert Beaumont, ‘International Friendship Through Holidays’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), pp. 37–38 (p. 38). 13. Anon., ‘Report, 1904–1905’, in George T. Ewen (ed.); ‘The Rucksack Club Third Annual Report’, in Roger Booth, Mike Dent and John Payne (eds.), The Rucksack Club Annual Reports 1903–1905 (Manchester, 2005 [1905]), p. 9; Alois Dreyer, Der Alpinismus und der Deutsch-Österreichische Alpenverein: Seine Entwicklung—Seine Bedeutung—Seine Zukunft (Berlin, 1909), pp. 142–43; Guido Eugen Lammer, ‘Zur Psychologie des Alpinisten (Eine Besprechung)’, MDOeAV XXIV(XXXIV):4 (1908), pp. 47–49 (p. 47); T. Arthur Leonard, ‘Co-operative Holiday Association Notes’, National Home Reading Union Magazine (1903), GMCRO/B/CHA/ HIS/16/1, p. 20; Eugen Oertel, ‘Sport, Alpinismus und Schilauf’, MDOeAV XXV/XXXV:1 (1909), p. 6; An Outsider, ‘The Annual Conference’, Comradeship 2:3 (1909), pp. 38–39 (p. 38); F. P., ‘A Reply’, Comradeship 6:3 (1912), pp. 36–37 (p. 36). See Ina Zweiniger- Bargielowska, ‘Building a British Superman: Physical Culture in Interwar Britain’, Journal of Contemporary History 4 (2006), pp. 595–610 (pp. 596– 601); Michael Hau, The Cult of Health and Beauty in Germany: A Social History, 1890–1930 (Chicago, 2003); David Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998); Bernd Wedemeyer-Kolwe, ‘Der Neue Mensch’ Körperkultur im Kaiserreich und in der Weimar Republik (Würzburg, 2004); John Alexander Williams, Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford, 2007). 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 87

14. Michael Cowan, Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania, 2008), pp. 1–111; Gal Gerson, Margins of Disorder: New Liberalism and the Crisis of European Consciousness (New York, 2004); Joachim Radkau, Das Zeitalter der Nervosität: Deutschland zwischen Bismarck und Hitler (Munich, 1998). 15. George Simmel, ‘The Metropolis and Mental Life’, in Jan Lin and Christopher Mele (eds.), The Urban Sociology Reader (Abingdon, 2005), pp. 24–31; Charles Masterman (ed.), The Heart of Empire: Discussions of the Problems of Modern City Life in England (London, 1901). See Philip Waller, ‘Altercation over Civil Society: The Bitter Cry of the Edwardian Middle Classes’, in José Harris (ed.), Civil Society in British History: Ideas, Identities, Institutions (Oxford, 2003), pp. 115–34. 16. Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (London, 1973), pp. 215– 32. See also Michael Löwy, ‘The Romantic and the Marxist Critique of Modern Civilisation’, Theory and Society 6 (1987), pp. 891–904; Cheyney C. Ryan, ‘The Fiends of Commerce: Romantic and Marxist Criticisms of Political Economy’, History of Political Economy 1 (1981), pp. 80–94. 17. Dagmar Günther, Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt, 1998), pp. 170–81. 18. Karl Müller, ‘Das alpine Museum’, ZDOeAV XLIII (1912), pp. 1–24 (p. 1). 19. Willy Hellpach, ‘Das alpine Naturgefühl und die geopsychische Abhängigkeit’, ZDOeAV XLIV (1913), pp. 40–53. 20. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Ist Sport Kulturschädlich?’, MDOeAV XXXVI(XXXI):9 (1910), pp. 111–14 (p. 114); Heinrich Steinitzer ‘Zur Psychologie des Alpinisten’, Graphologische Monatshefte: Archiv für Psychodiagnostik und Charakterologie. Organ der Deutschen Graphologischen Gesellschaft IX:9–10 (1907), pp. 73–88 (p. 78). 21. Carole Elizabeth Adams, Women Clerks in Wilhelmine Germany: Issues of Class and Gender (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 7–8. For England, see Gregory Anderson, Victorian Clerks (Manchester, 1976), pp. 52–73. 22. M. ‘Eskdale’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), p. 57. 23. See also Richard H. Isherwood, ‘Laddow: And Some Reflections on Climbing Books’, RC Journal 2:4 (1914), pp. 333–42 (pp. 333, 336). 24. William Lonsdale Coller, ‘The Highland Nights’ Entertainment (Read to the Club on 8th June, 1906)’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 8–15 (pp. 11–12). 25. T. Wyldbore, ‘The Rucksack Club Hut’, RC Journal 2:3 (1913), pp. 204– 08 (p. 207). See also Edward F. Pilkington, ‘Three Weeks in the Canadian Rockies’, RC Journal 2:2 (1912), pp. 83–99 (p. 98). 26. Anon., ‘At the Re-unions’, Comradeship 7:4 (1914), p. 51. 88 B. ANDERSON

27. Melanie Tebbutt, ‘Rambling and Manly Identity in Derbyshire’s Dark Peak, 1880s–1920s’, Historical Journal 4 (2006), pp. 1125–53 (p. 1137). 28. Scottish mountaineering developed differently in this period, and Welsh mountaineers are yet to receive their historian. See Hayden Lorimer and Katrin Lund, ‘Performing Facts: Finding a Way Over Scotland’s Mountains’, in Bronislaw Szerszynski, Wallace Heim and Claire Waterton (eds.), Nature Performed: Environment, Culture and Performance = Sociological Review 51:S2 (2003), pp. 130–44 (pp. 132–38). 29. Isherwood, ‘Laddow’, pp. 333–42 (p. 337). 30. See for example William L. Coller, ‘The Highland Nights’ Entertainment’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 8–14; George Milner, ‘With the Rucksack Club Men to Beckfoot, Easter, 1906’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 30–37. 31. Tebbutt, ‘Rambling and Manly Identity’, p. 1137. 32. Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 243–55; Peter Hansen, ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid-Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1995), pp. 300–24, pp. 309–22. 33. Königlicher Oberamtsrichter: An Amtsrichter was akin to a district court judge. The ‘Ober’ suggests that Oertel had a supervisory role (in the name of the Bavarian monarch). 34. Eugen Oertel, ‘Sport, Alpinismus und Schilauf’, MDOeAV XXV(XXXV):1 (1909), pp. 6–9 (p. 6). See also Friedrich Möhl, ‘Berg Heil: Ein Wort zur Erörtung über “Sport und Kultur”’, MNN 333 (19.07.1910), pp. 1–2 (p. 1) 35. Oertel, ‘Sport, Alpinismus, und Schilauf’, p. 6. 36. Eugen Oertel, ‘Die Erziehung des Alpinisten’, MNN 333 (19 July 1910), pp. 1–2 (p. 2). Highlight in original. 37. Oertel, ‘Erziehung des Alpinisten’, p. 2. 38. Oertel, ‘Sport, Alpinismus und Schilauf’, p. 6; Dreyer, Alpinismus, pp. 142–43; Erich König, Alpiner Sport (Leipzig, 1903), pp. 9, 142–43; Nieberl, Klettern, p. 1. 39. For instance: T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 65–66. 40. W. G. H., ‘Cader’, Comradeship 6:1 (1912), pp. 9–11. See also H. L., ‘How We Didn’t Climb Ben Ime’, Comradeship 5:4 (1912), p. 61; G. G. Desmond, ‘Eskdale’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 70–71, p. 71. 41. Freda, ‘Co-operative Holidays: A Girl’s Recollections’, Manchester City News, 24 July 1909, in GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 44. 42. Peter Bailey, ‘White Collars, Gray Lives? The Lower Middle Class Revisited’, Journal of British Studies 38 (1999), pp. 273–90 (pp. 283–84). 43. Dreyer, Alpinismus, pp. 142–43. See also König, Alpiner Sport, p. 9; Nieberl, Klettern, p. 1; Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 172–76. 44. Ittlinger, Handbuch, p. 19. 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 89

45. Ittlinger, Handbuch, p. 21. 46. Ittlinger, Handbuch, p. 26. 47. Ittlinger, Handbuch, pp. 26–27; See also Walther Schultze, ‘Einleitung: Das Wesen des Modernen Alpinismus’, in Clinton T. Dent (ed.) and Walther Schultze (trans), Hochtouren: Ein Handbuch für Bergsteiger (Leipzig, 1893), pp. 1–6 (pp. 3–4). 48. Manfred Hettling, Politische Bürgerlichkeit: der Bürger zwischen Individualität und Vergesellschaft in Deutschland und der Schweiz von 1860–1918 (Göttingen, 1999), pp. 220–22, 226. Gary Bonham, ‘Beyond Hegel and Marx: An Alternative Approach to the Political Role of the Wilhelmine State’, German Studies Review 4 (1984), pp. 199–225; See also Rudolf Schweikart, Organisation, Individualität Konsum: Elemente einer Sozialphänomenologie der Modernen Massengesellschaft vor 1930 (Hamburg, 1994), esp. pp. 119–48; Jürgen Kocka, Bürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert: Wirtschaftsbürger und Bildungsbürger (Göttingen, 1995), pp. 156–58; Jürgen Kocka, Industrial Culture & Bourgeois Society: Business Labor, and Bureaucracy in Modern Germany (Oxford, 1999), pp. 203–04. 49. Hettling, Politische Bürgerlichkeit, p. 228. 50. Quoted in Hettling, Politische Bürgerlichkeit, p. 237. See also Kevin Repp, Reformers, Critics and the Paths of German Modernity: Anti-Politics and the Search for Alternatives, 1890–1914 (Harvard, 2000), pp. 148–214. See also Clerk, ‘Berliner Beamte’, in Hans Ostwald (ed.), Großstadt Dokumente 43 (Berlin, 1907), pp. 7–83 (pp. 8–9). 51. Max Weber, ‘Bureaucracy’, in H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (trans. and ed.), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology (London, 1948), pp. 196–244. 52. Geoffrey Crossick, ‘The Emergence of the Lower Middle Class in Britain: A Discussion’, in Geoffrey Crossick (ed.), The Lower Middle Class in Britain, 1870–1914 (London, 1977), pp. 11–60 (pp. 27–28); Bailey, ‘White Collars, Gray Lives’, pp. 285–86. 53. Anderson, Victorian Clerks; Bailey, ‘White Collars, Gray Lives’; Crossick, ‘Lower Middle Class’; Rita Felski, ‘Nothing to Declare: Identity, Shame and the Lower Middle Class’, PLMA 1 (2000), pp. 33–45; Richard Higgins, ‘Feeling Like a Clerk in H. G. Wells’, Victorian Studies 3 (2008), pp. 457–75; Christopher P. Hosgood, ‘“Mercantile Monasteries”: Shops, Shop Assistants, and Shop Life in Late-Victorian and Edwardian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1999), pp. 322–52. 54. James Hammerton, ‘Pooterism or Partnership? Marriage and Masculine Identity in the Lower Middle Class, 1870–1920’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1999), pp. 291–321. 55. Arlene Young, ‘Virtue Domesticated: Dickens and the Lower Middle Class’, Victorian Studies 1 (1996), pp. 483–511; Rosemary Jann, 90 B. ANDERSON

‘Breeding, Education, and Vulgarity: George Gissing and the Lower- Middle Classes’, in Susan David Bernstein and Elsie Browning Michie (eds.), Victorian Vulgarity: Taste in Verbal and Visual Culture (Farnham, 2009), pp. 85–100. 56. Dina M. Copelman, London’s Women Teachers: Gender, Class and Feminism, 1870–1930 (London, 1996), p. 38. 57. Herbert George Wells, The History of Mr Polly, Rev. ed. (London, 2005 [1910]); Herbert George Wells, Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul, Rev. ed., (London, 2005 [1905]). 58. Copelman, London’s Women Teachers, p. 45. 59. Copelman, London’s Women Teachers, pp. 167–75. 60. Copelman, London’s Women Teachers, p. 174. 61. Clinton T. Dent, Mountaineering, 2nd ed. (London, 1892), p. xviii; Franz Nieberl, Das Klettern im Fels (Munich, 1909), pp. 1–4; Josef Ittlinger, Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig, 1913), pp. 19–27. 62. Minutes of the Directors Meetings of ‘Co-operative Holidays’ Guest Houses Limited’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ADM/2, pp. 11–82, cross- referenced to 1901 census records. Although £1 may have excluded some, it was about two-thirds the price of a holiday with the CHA, Leonard explicitly asked previous CHA holiday-makers to contribute, and many of those in white collar operations would have earned little more than a skilled labourer (Anderson, Victorian Clerks, pp. 20–21). Compare with Anon., St. Michaels’ Parish Journal, May 1898, in GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 2; Anon., Scarborough Mercury 1898, in GMCRO/B/CHA/ HIS/16/1, p. 3; Anon., ‘Co-operation in Holidays: A Summer Experiment’, Echoes 1902, pp. 131–33, in GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 8a-c; Anon., ‘New Wharfedale Holiday Home: An Interesting Movement’, Craven News, 18 June 1909, in GMCRO/B/CHA/ HIS/16/1, p. 23; Franz Grämer, ‘Ein Studienaufenthalt in England’, p. 192, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 26a; Minute Book 1(1902– 1905), RC Archive/Box 8; Tait S. Keller, ‘Eternal Mountains—Eternal Germany: The Alpine Association and the Ideology of Alpinism, 1909– 1939’, Unpublished PhD thesis, Washington, 2006, pp. 23–25, 284–94. See also Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 44–45. [Leopold] H[appisc]h ‘Die Begünstigungen in den Schutzhütten’, Der Naturfreund: Mitteilungen des Touristen-Vereins ‘Die Naturfreunde’ in Wien [Naturfreund] 11:4 (1907), pp. 72–74 (p. 74). 63. Tanya Wirz, Gipfelstürmerinnen: Eine Geschlechtergeschichte des Alpinismus in der Schweiz 1840–1940 (Baden, 2007), pp. 144–68. 64. Wirz, Gipfelstürmerinnen, pp. 169–82. 65. Günther, Quergänge, pp. 79–81. 66. Lammer, ‘Kulturschädlich’, p. 114. 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 91

67. Pfordten, ‘Vorschule’. 68. Pfordten, ‘Vorschule’, p. 2. 69. Der Ausschuss, ‘Werthe Mitglieder, Naturfreunde!’, Naturfreund 5:12 (1901), pp. 111–12. 70. T. Arthur Leonard, ‘To Our Members’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), pp. 35–36 (p. 35). See also T. Arthur Leonard, ‘Conduct and Commonsense’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 66–67 (p. 66). See Harvey Taylor, A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele, 1997), pp. 212–15. 71. Rawnsley, ‘Annual Conference 1903’, p. 16. See also T. Henderson, ‘What Shall I Sing?’, Comradeship 7:5 (1914), pp. 69–70 (p. 69); F. P., ‘A Reply’, Comradeship 6:3 (1912), pp. 36–37 (p. 36). 72. ‘Protokoll der XXXVII (XXXIII) Generalversammlung des D. u. Ö. A.-V. zu Leipzig am 9. September 1906’, MDOeAV XXII(XXXII):20 (1906), pp. 239–47 (pp. 243–47). 73. Karl Arnold, ‘Über die Nützlichkeit und Notwendigkeit eines “Alpinen Knigge”’, MDOeAV XXII(XXXII):15 (1906), pp. 182–85. 74. Arnold, ‘Knigge’, pp. 182–83. 75. Alfred Mummery, My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (London, 1895), pp. 110–15; Ludwig Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung der Führer-Tarife und Führer-Ordnungen’, MDOeAV VII(XVII):6 (1891), p. 75. 76. Arnold, ‘Knigge’, p. 183. 77. Arnold, ‘Knigge’, p. 183. 78. Arnold, ‘Knigge’, pp. 183–84. 79. Arnold, ‘Knigge’, p. 184. 80. See James Buzard, The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature and the Ways to ‘Culture’, 1800–1918 (Oxford, 1993); John Urry, The Tourist Gaze, 2nd ed. (London, 2002), pp. 7–10. 81. Jakub Beneš, Workers and Nationalism: Czech and German Social Democracy in Habsburg Austria, 1890–1918 (Oxford, 2017), pp. 99–100; Pieter M. Judson, The Habsburg Empire (Cambridge, MA, 2016), pp. 374–76. 82. Beneš, Workers and Nationalism, pp. 139–42. 83. Ludwig Dannewitz, ‘Unser Schutzhaus am Padasterjoch. Einige Worte anläßlich der Firstfeier am 10. Oktober 1906’, Naturfreund X:12 (1906), pp. 193–95; [Leopold] H[appisc]h, ‘Unser Ehrentag. Zur Schutzhaus- Eröffnung am 12. August 1907’, Naturfreund XI:9 (1907), pp. 165–76. 84. F. Friedensburg and C. Arnold, ‘Die zehn Gebote des Bergsteigers’, MDOeAV XXIII(XXXIII):3 (1907), pp. 33–34. 85. Friedensburg and Arnold, ‘Zehn Gebote’, p. 34. 86. Friedensburg and Arnold, ‘Zehn Gebote’, pp. 33–34. 92 B. ANDERSON

87. F. Montanus [F. Friedensburg], Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “alpinen Knigge” (Munich, 1908). 88. Montanus, Familie Ekel, p. 17 ff. 89. Ben Anderson, ‘A Liberal Countryside? The Manchester Ramblers’ Federation and the “Social Readjustment” of Urban Citizens, 1929– 1936’, Urban History 1 (2011), pp. 84–102. 90. F. P., ‘A Reply’, p. 37. 91. Leonard, ‘Conduct and Commonsense’, p. 67. 92. Eugen Oertel, ‘Die Erziehung des Alpinisten’, MNN 333 (19 July 1910), pp. 1–2 (p. 1); Karl Arnold, ‘Über die Nützlichkeit und Notwendigkeit eines “Alpinen Knigge”’, MDOeAV XXII(XXXII):15 (1906), pp. 182–85; F. Friedensburg, ‘Die Zehn Gebote des Bergsteigers’, MDOeAV XXIII(XXXIII):3 (1907), pp. 33–34. 93. Ittlinger, Handbuch, p. 52. See also pp. 58–59; Alfred v. Martin, ‘Von der Kulturellen Mission des Alpinismus’, ÖAZ 831 (1911), pp. 97–103 (pp. 98, 102). 94. Geoff Eley, ‘Making a Place in the Nation: Meanings of “Citizenship” in Wilhelmine Germany’, in Geoff Eley and James N. Retallack (eds.), Wilhelminism and Its Legacies: German Modernities, Imperialism, and the Meanings of Reform, 1890–1930 (Oxford, 2004), pp. 16–33 (p. 19).

Bibliography

Archival Sources Greater Manchester County Records Office [GMCRO]. Rucksack Club Archive [RC Archive].

Newspapers and Journals Comradeship: The Magazine of the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union [Comradeship]. Der Naturfreund: Mitteilungen des Touristen-Vereins “Die Naturfreunde” in Wien [Naturfreund] Deutsche Alpenzeitung [DAZ]. Manchester Guardian Mitteilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [MDOeAV] Münchner Neueste Nachrichten [MNN]. Österreichische Alpenzeitung: Organ des Österreichischen Alpenklubs [ÖAZ] Rucksack Club Journal [RC Journal]. Zeitschrift des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [ZDOeAV]. 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 93

Published Primary Sources Booth, Roger, Dent, Mike and Payne, John (eds.) (2005) The Rucksack Club Annual Reports 1903–1905 (Manchester). Clerk (1907) ‘Berliner Beamte’, in Hans Ostwald (ed.), Großstadt Dokumente 43 (Berlin), pp. 7–83. Dent, Clinton T. (1892) Mountaineering, 2nd ed. (London). Dreyer, Alois (1909) Der Alpinismus und der Deutsch-Österreichische Alpenverein: Seine Entwicklung—Seine Bedeutung—Seine Zukunft (Berlin). Hopkinson, Alfred (1930) Penultima (London). Ittlinger, Josef (1913) Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig). König, Erich (1903) Alpiner Sport (Leipzig). Masterman, Charles (ed.) (1901) The Heart of Empire: Discussions of the Problems of Modern City Life in England (London). Montanus, F. [Friedensburg, F.] (1908) Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “alpinen Knigge” (Munich). Mummery, Alfred (1895) My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (London). Nieberl, Franz (1909) Das Klettern im Fels (Munich). Schultze, Walther (1893) ‘Einleitung: Das Wesen des Modernen Alpinismus’, in Clinton T. Dent (ed.) and Walther Schultze (trans.), Hochtouren: Ein Handbuch für Bergsteiger (Leipzig), pp. 1–6. Simmel, George (2005 [1903]) ‘The Metropolis and Mental Life’, in Jan Lin and Christopher Mele (eds.), The Urban Sociology Reader (Abingdon), pp. 24–31. Steinitzer, Heinrich (1907) ‘Zur Psychologie des Alpinisten’, Graphologische Monatshefte: Archiv für Psychodiagnostik und Charakterologie. Organ der Deutschen Graphologischen Gesellschaft IX:9–10, pp. 73–88. Weber, Max (1948) ‘Bureaucracy’, in H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (trans. and ed.), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology (London), pp. 196–244. Wells, Herbert George (2005a [1905]) Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul, Rev. ed. (London). Wells, Herbert George (2005b [1910]) The History of Mr Polly, Rev. ed. (London).

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Beneš, Jakub (2017) Workers and Nationalism: Czech and German Social Democracy in Habsburg Austria, 1890–1918 (Oxford). Boden, Sharon and Williams, Simon J. (2002) ‘Consumption and Emotion: The Romantic Ethic Revisited’, Sociology 3, pp. 493–512. Bonham, Gary (1984) ‘Beyond Hegel and Marx: An Alternative Approach to the Political Role of the Wilhelmine State’, German Studies Review 4, pp. 199–225. Bourdieu, Pierre (1984 [1979]) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Harvard). Buzard, James (1993) The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature and the Ways to ‘Culture’, 1800–1918 (Oxford). Collini, Stefan (1991) Public Moralists: Political Thought and Intellectual Life in Britain, 1850–1930 (Oxford). Copelman, Dina M. (1996) London’s Women Teachers: Gender, Class and Feminism, 1870–1930 (London). Cowan, Michael (2008) Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania). Crossick, Geoffrey (1977) ‘The Emergence of the Lower Middle Class in Britain: A Discussion’, in Geoffrey Crossick (ed.), The Lower Middle Class in Britain, 1870–1914 (London), pp. 11–60. Dickinson, Edward Ross (2010) ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 3, pp. 579–602. Eley, Geoff (2004) ‘Making a Place in the Nation: Meanings of “Citizenship” in Wilhelmine Germany’, in Geoff Eley and James N. Retallack (eds.), Wilhelminism and Its Legacies: German Modernities, Imperialism, and the Meanings of Reform, 1890–1930 (Oxford), pp. 16–33. Endersby, Jim (2009) ‘Sympathetic Science: Charles Darwin, Joseph Hooker, and the Passions of Victorian Naturalists’, Victorian Studies 2, pp. 229–320. Felski, Rita (2000) ‘Nothing to Declare: Identity, Shame and the Lower Middle Class’, PLMA 1, pp. 33–45. Gerson, Gal (2004) Margins of Disorder: New Liberalism and the Crisis of European Consciousness (New York). Gunn, Simon (2007) Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Class: Ritual and Authority in the English Industrial City, 1890–1914 (Manchester). Günther, Dagmar (1998) Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt). Hammerton, James (1999) ‘Pooterism or Partnership? Marriage and Masculine Identity in the Lower Middle Class, 1870–1920’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 291–321. Hansen, Peter (1995) ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid-Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 300–24. 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 95

Hau, Michael (2003) The Cult of Health and Beauty in Germany: A Social History, 1890–1930 (Chicago). Hettling, Manfred (1999) Politische Bürgerlichkeit: der Bürger zwischen Individualität und Vergesellschaft in Deutschland und der Schweiz von 1860– 1918 (Göttingen). Hettling, Manfred (2000) ‘Bürgerliche Kultur: Bürgerlichkeit als kulturelles System’, in Peter Lundgreen (ed.), Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte des Bürgertums: ein Bilanz des Bielefelder Sonderforschungsbereichs (1986–1997) (Göttingen), pp. 319–40. Hettling, Manfred and Hoffman, Stefan-Ludwig (1997) ‘Der Bürgerliche Wertehimmel: Zum Problem Individueller Lebensführung im 19. Jahrhundert’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 3, pp. 333–59. Hettling, Manfred and Hoffman, Stefan-Ludwig (eds.) (2000) Der Bürgerliche Wertehimmel: Innenansichten des 19. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen). Higgins, Richard (2008) ‘Feeling like a Clerk in H. G. Wells’, Victorian Studies 3, pp. 457–75. Hosgood, Christopher P. (1999) ‘“Mercantile Monasteries”: Shops, Shop Assistants, and Shop Life in Late-Victorian and Edwardian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 322–52. Hull, Isabel V. (1996) Sexuality, State, and Civil Society in Germany, 1700–1815 (New York). Jann, Rosemary (2009) ‘Breeding, Education, and Vulgarity: George Gissing and the Lower-Middle Classes’, in Susan David Bernstein and Elsie Browning Michie (eds.), Victorian Vulgarity: Taste in Verbal and Visual Culture (Farnham), pp. 85–100. Joyce, Patrick (1994) Democratic Subjects: The Self and the Social in Nineteenth- Century England (Cambridge). Judson, Pieter M. (2016) The Habsburg Empire (Cambridge, MA). Keller, Tait S. (2006) ‘Eternal Mountains—Eternal Germany: The Alpine Association and The Ideology of Alpinism, 1909–1939’, Unpublished PhD thesis, Washington, DC. Klein, Lawrence E. (1994) Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness: Moral Discourse and Cultural Politics in Early Eighteenth-Century England (Cambridge). Kocka, Jürgen (1995) Bürgertum im 19. Jahrhundert: Wirtschaftsbürger und Bildungsbürger (Göttingen). Kocka, Jürgen (1999) Industrial Culture & Bourgeois Society: Business Labor, and Bureaucracy in Modern Germany (Oxford). Langford, Paul (1997) ‘British Politeness and the Progress of Western Manners: An Eighteenth-Century Enigma’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 7, pp. 53–72. 96 B. ANDERSON

Lorimer, Hayden and Lund, Katrin (2003) ‘Performing Facts: Finding a Way Over Scotland’s Mountains’, in Bronislaw Szerszynski, Wallace Heim and Claire Waterton (eds.), Nature Performed: Environment, Culture and Performance = Sociological Review 51:S2, pp. 130–44. Löwy, Michael (1987) ‘The Romantic and the Marxist Critique of Modern Civilisation’, Theory and Society 6, pp. 891–904. Matless, David (1998) Landscape and Englishness (London). Mosse, George (1964) The Crisis of German Ideology: Intellectual Origins of the Third Reich (New York). Otter, Chris (2002) ‘Making Liberalism Durable: Vision and Civility in the Late Victorian City’, Social History 1, pp. 1–15. Radkau, Joachim (1998) Das Zeitalter der Nervosität: Deutschland zwischen Bismarck und Hitler (Munich). Repp, Kevin (2000) Reformers, Critics and the Paths of German Modernity: Anti- Politics and the Search for Alternatives, 1890–1914 (Harvard). Ryan, Cheyney C. (1981) ‘The Fiends of Commerce: Romantic and Marxist Criticisms of Political Economy’, History of Political Economy 1, pp. 80–94. Schwarzer, Mitchell (1995) German Architectural Theory and the Search for a Modern Identity (Cambridge). Schweikart, Rudolf (1994) Organisation, Individualität Konsum: Elemente einer Sozialphänomenologie der Modernen Massengesellschaft vor 1930 (Hamburg). Snape, Robert (2004) ‘The Co-operative Holidays Association and the Cultural Formation of a Countryside Leisure Practice’, Leisure Studies 2, pp. 143–58. Stewart, Robert Scott (1993) ‘Utilitarianism Meets Romanticism: J.S. Mill’s Theory of Imagination’, History of Philosophy Quarterly 4, pp. 369–88. Taylor, Harvey (1997) A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele). Tebbutt, Melanie (2006) ‘Rambling and Manly Identity in Derbyshire’s Dark Peak, 1880s–1920s’, Historical Journal 4, pp. 1125–53. Thomas, Lynn (2011) ‘Modernity’s Failings, Political Claims, and Intermediate Concepts’, American Historical Review 3, pp. 727–40. Tschofen, Bernhard (1999) Berg, Kultur, Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna). Turner, Frank M. (1975) ‘Victorian Scientific Naturalism and Thomas Carlyle’, Victorian Studies 3, pp. 325–43. Umbach, Maiken (2007) ‘The Civilizing Process and the Construction of the Bourgeois Self: Music Chambers in Wilhelmine Germany’, in Mary Fulbrook (ed.), Un-civilizing Processes? Excess and Transgression in German Society and Culture: Perspectives Debating with Norbert Elias (Amsterdam), pp. 175–202. Umbach, Maiken (2009) German Cities and Bourgeois Modernism, 1890–1924 (Oxford). Urry, John (2002) The Tourist Gaze, 2nd ed. (London). 3 MOUNTAINEERS AGAINST THE CITY 97

Waller, Philip (2003) ‘Altercation over Civil Society: The Bitter Cry of the Edwardian Middle Classes’, in José Harris (ed.), Civil Society in British History: Ideas, Identities, Institutions (Oxford), pp. 115–34. Wedemeyer-Kolwe, Bernd (2004) “Der Neue Mensch” Körperkultur im Kaiserreich und in der Weimar Republik (Würzburg). Wehler, Hans-Ulrich (1994 [1973]) Das Deutsche Kaiserreich 1871–1918 (Göttingen). Williams, John Alexander (2007) Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford). Williams, Raymond (1973) The Country and the City (London). Wirz, Tanya (2007) Gipfelstürmerinnen: Eine Geschlechtergeschichte des Alpinismus in der Schweiz 1840–1940 (Baden). Young, Arlene (1996) ‘Virtue Domesticated: Dickens and the Lower Middle Class’, Victorian Studies 1, pp. 483–511. Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Ina (2006) ‘Building a British Superman: Physical Culture in Interwar Britain’, Journal of Contemporary History 4, pp. 595–610. CHAPTER 4

Constructing the Alps

The most important early promoter of tourism in the Eastern Alps was not a wealthy bourgeois citizen, or a resident of Munich or Vienna, but Franz Senn (1831–1884), an ambitious curate from the tiny community of Vent in the Oetztal region of the Tirol.1 From 1860, Senn turned Vent into a meeting ground for early mountaineers, and established a blueprint for the tourism that dominated the Eastern Alps until the First World War.2 As well as his ‘Widum’, a vicarage-cum-guesthouse on the valley floor, Senn promoted the nearby Kreuzspitze as a mountain viewpoint, funded an improvement of the path to it, constructed mountain huts nearby and invested substantial funds in producing a panoramic image from the peak.3 Publications advertised the new attraction to urban people through effu- sive descriptions of the view, and a copy of the panorama at a reduced cost.4 Even Senn’s vivid description of the 1869 tragedy in which his favourite guide and friend Cyprian Granbichler died should be read in terms of managing the region’s tourist identity, especially after the more famous Matterhorn disaster of 1865.5 In focusing his efforts on comfortable paths, visual enjoyment and destination advertisement, Senn was applying cultures already developed in Switzerland, but his intervention in the alpine landscape had little or nothing to do with first ascents, discovery, exploration or science. He was not building a playground for his friends in alpine associations, but rather developing Vent as a destination for the more general, but in every way bürgerlich tourist.

Senn’s impact was important in many ways, but although Vent succeeded in attracting a good proportion of the meagre number of visitors to the Eastern Alps, his entrepreneurship was a personal and economic failure. His panoramas failed to sell to the uninterested urban public of the 1860s, and his guests never really reached beyond a circle of existing alpine enthusiasts. When he left the village, heavily indebted and defeated, Vent ceased to be a tourist ‘hotspot’—a ‘little Paris’ as one early guide described it—and returned to obscurity.6 While the small number of wealthy alpine enthusiasts in Munich and Vienna appreciated his efforts, Senn failed to appeal to a German and Austrian Bürgertum for whom reasons to visit the Alps remained unclear, and behaviour in them unfathomable. The general tourist that Senn aimed at did not yet exist. Senn had hit upon a formula nonetheless. He promoted a specific way of representing the Alps, and a specific form of mountain leisure infrastructure that would eventually dominate alpine tourism between the mid-1880s and the First World War. Panoramas, along with landscape reliefs, became ubiquitous ways of communicating alpine experience and appeared in key urban sites, shops and homes across Europe during the 1880s and 1890s. The Eastern Alps initially emulated and then outstripped the mountains of Switzerland or France for the density, and ‘luxury’, of its Netz of huts and paths, known by many German alpinists as the result of alpine Erschließung—meaning the ‘development’ or ‘opening up’ of the mountains, with all of the imperial baggage that these terms convey.7 This chapter aims to understand how this dominance emerged. In order to do so, it turns to the urban cultures examined in Chaps. 2 and 3: A predominantly middle-class moral world of spectacle, exhibition, self- improvement and club life, as well as critiques of a city life that seemed to threaten a rational, morally improving version of what it meant to be modern. This chapter explains how these urban cultures of mountaineering gave Senn’s ideas about landscape development meaning and provided a market for the alpine landscape from the 1880s on. It unpicks the material cultures of urban exhibition and display, demonstrates how they came to be inscribed onto the alpine landscape, and explores the ways in which this process provided affordances for the assertion of modern identities amongst the overwhelmingly male, bürgerlich protagonists of alpine Erschließung. Those high-court judges, high-level bureaucrats or business advisors who conceived, planned, designed and organised the construction of huts and paths in the Alps established a narrative in which they claimed to be the benevolent harbingers of alpine Erschließung and wrote 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 101 out the local entrepreneurs and business people who played at least as important a part. This chapter is not focused on elite mountaineers who climbed new peaks or, as Chap. 5 explores, improvised new ways of moving in the mountains in roughly the same period. Nor is it about the vast numbers of people who went to the Alps, but rarely left the safety of the mountain valley. Instead, this chapter seeks to understand the tens, and probably hundreds of thousands of German and Austrian people who walked in the Eastern Alps in order to seek a view, vista, panorama or Rundsicht; a group that outnumbered elite climbers by as much as 20–1 and yet have largely been overlooked in the existing literature.8 These ‘hut-to-hut’ alpinists used a system of alpine refuges and trails to gain mountain passes and summits, from which they could encounter the views recommended and reproduced in a proliferating alpine media industry. For such ‘hut-to-hut’ mountaineers, the Alps were a site for walking, rather than climbing, and provided an aesthetic experience whose emphasis on realism and absolute knowledge offered something qualitatively different from either the sublime of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, or a romantic urge to self-discovery.9 Indeed, the foremost chronicler of Erschließung rejected the poetry of the Swiss pioneers Albrecht von Haller and Conrad Gessner. ‘The literature on the Eastern Alps does not go in those directions’, Eduard Richter (1847–1905) claimed in 1892:

namely, the waxing lyrical over alpine buildings, as carrying an ideal, idyllic condition, full of good and pure customs, opposing the destructiveness of the towns. Our oldest writers knew the real conditions much too well, to go in for such deceptions.10

As Chap. 5 shows, this was wishful thinking from Richter, but demonstrates the extent to which hut and path builders rejected both the aesthetic and intellectual content of Romanticism. As Peter Hansen has suggested, though Romanticism or the search for the sublime can explain visits to the Alps as far as the valley hotel, they are less useful for explaining why people might actually climb mountains, since key tropes such as the realisation of insignificance in the grandeur of nature required a perspective below a peak.11 Yet, these hut-to-hut mountaineers were not ‘conquering’ mountains either. Although an imperial impulse is detectable, a mountaineer on a carefully constructed path, only hours from an alpine 102 B. ANDERSON hut, could hardly claim to be emulating an explorer of the New World. Instead, this chapter argues that these people were agents in a complex nature/culture assembly of materials, environments, affects and representations which linked the Erschließung of the Alps to the panoramas, landscape reliefs, exhibitions paperweights and even board games that flooded urban centres across Europe and beyond in the late nineteenth century. Unpicking this web of cultural, affective and environmental processes reveals how far these practices of hut and path construction relied on urban affective repertoires absent in the 1860s but that developed during subsequent decades, and afforded participants opportunities to express their sense of modern superiority in regions imagined as ‘backward’ and ripe for urban, middle-class intervention. In this chapter, the approaches from new materialism prove to be essential to understanding why a particular group of people came to transform the mountain landscape in a particular way, at a particular time. We cannot understand the production of the ‘Alps’ through semiotics alone, because the practices and meanings associated with the mountains emerged in interactions between material objects, and not just in the world of symbols and the mind. The ‘resonances’ that this chapter uncov- ers align alpine tourism and its infrastructure with a surrounding world of complex material interactions that included, but were not limited to, language and signs. While paths, huts, museums, other tourists, guides, equipment, dynamite and telephone cables certainly carried a symbolic element alongside their material agency, it was equally the case that exhibitions, art galleries, panoramas, landscape reliefs and the written word had material forms central, rather than incidental to their impact. The term ‘resonance’ is here used to capture an individual’s tendency to align their behaviours and feelings with those around them, a process of ‘affective contagion’ that helps to explain the striking conformity of behaviour in places such as museums, art galleries—or the Alps.12 In spaces such as these, alpinists constantly interacted with one another as they attended to their activities; as Tim Ingold has argued, ‘by watching, listening, perhaps even touching, we continuously feel each other’s presence in the social environment, at every moment adjusting our movements in response to this ongoing perceptual monitoring’.13 This process of resonant affective response enables us to conceive of objects such as panoramic images or landscape reliefs, alpine museums or great exhibitions as communicating how to behave and respond towards the Alps amongst vast numbers of 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 103 urban people. They defined an affective register of alpine tourism in which enjoying a pre-defined (and reproduced) view, in a particular way, came to dominate understandings of legitimate mountaineering practice. This was not the Alpinism of romantics who hoped to find deeper spirituality and a reflection of their selfhood in the mountains; nor was it an emulation of imperial exploration. Although both informed the languages through which the Alps could be described, the German and Austrian Alpinism that emerged in the 1880s practised the Alps as a terrain to be known, modernised and aesthetically appropriated for the respectable urban individual. This process was exemplified in the relationship between Munich and the mountains of Southern Bavaria, where urban alpinists from the Bavarian capital constructed an unrivalled complex of huts and paths surrounding Germany’s highest peak, the Zugspitze. While in some ways an extreme example in terms of the zeal and application of Munich’s alpine community, the same basic processes can be found across much of the Alps, where local mountaineers routinely took part alongside regional, national and international visitors.14 Nevertheless, it was in the Eastern Alps that tourist landscapes emerged in their most complete form as a ‘net’ of huts and paths. The ‘opening up’, or Erschließung of the Alps was the defining activity of Austro-German alpine clubs, and their publications provided detailed reporting on these landscape transformations, alongside the panoramas, landscape reliefs and other forms of mountain representation to which they were intimately connected. In their histories, museums, advertisements and speeches, the mountaineers of the key alpine associations in Germany and Austria made sure that the construction of huts and paths in the Eastern Alps was narrated as their own endeavour. Yet, the last section of this chapter reveals that the relationship of urban interventionists to local people in the Alps was not a straightforward case of middle-class philanthropy. Instead, the people living in the Alps responded in diverse ways to the new opportunities and threats of tourism and, in doing so, directed and coerced the funds of their urban counterparts. At the same time, entrepreneurial locals constructed their own huts and restaurants, dominating the lower slopes of most alpine peaks and at times threatening the viability of Alpenverein huts. Despite their relatively limited resources and supposed ‘backwardness’, the communities of the Alps proved anything but the passive, naïve and deferential communities suggested in traditional accounts of alpine development. 104 B. ANDERSON

Affecting the Alps The argument of this section is that entrepreneurs, artists and middle-class enthusiasts produced the ‘Alps’ as a sensory experience in the city which the German and Austrian Bürgertum then transferred and inscribed into the Alps themselves. They created this experience by turning to a group of urban cultures that, as we saw in Chap. 2, mountaineers enthusiastically embraced. Sites of moral improvement, visual recreation and middle-class display, such as art galleries, museums, exhibitions or displays in train stations all became places in which a new visual repertoire of the Alps was communicated, and the behaviours associated with it reaffirmed and practised amongst its viewers. This section examines how we should understand this process, paying particular attention to the impact of the material cultures of alpine exhibitions in managing and communicating affective responses to the landscape. The 1899 Allgemeine deutsche Sportausstellung (General German Sport Exhibition) in Munich provides a typical example of how the Alps came to be incorporated into the modern aesthetics and urban culture of the late nineteenth-century Austro-German Bürgertum. It took place in the Ausstellungspalast (Exhibition Palace) on the Kohleinsel, an island in the middle of the Isar river, and followed the Second Kraft- und Arbeitsmaschinenaustellung (Powered Machinery Exhibition) on an established exhibition site that would eventually provide a home for the huge edifice of theDeutsches Museum.15 Most of the exhibits were destroyed following appalling weather and the Isar floods of the same year, and the exhibition also competed with an alpine art exhibition at the nearby Glaspalast (‘Crystal Palace’). Even so, 642,211 visitors came to see the displays between 15 June and 16 October, a figure far in excess of Munich’s contemporary population.16 The geologist August Rothpletz (1853–1918), who was chair of Munich’s largest Alpenverein Sektion as well as one of the presidents of the exhibition, ensured that the impressive exhibit of Alpinism was the most expensive of all the activities featured.17 In a pattern repeated at the enormous München 1908 exhibition a decade later, the Berlin Gewerbe Ausstellung of 1896, or at the ‘image factory’ of Luzern’s tourist-mile, exhibition organisers integrated mountain landscapes into urban regimes of spectacular modernity.18 At the Sport Exhibition, Rothpletz and his network in the Alpenverein ensured that the Alps and mountain sports occupied the focal point of the event, while an alpine hut outside and 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 105 alpine art upstairs, as well as balloon rides from which the Alps were visible, meant that the mountains were almost impossible to avoid.19 In the catalogue, the ‘Bergsport’ (mountain sports) feature was described at some length:

Finally, under a heavy, threatening boulder which lies loosely over the ravine, we discover an entrance through a rock fissure. We are guided by a cable, such as is used for safety when building paths… We follow the red waymark- ing over a few steps, and turning round an outcrop, we stand suddenly before one of the grandest high alpine landscapes of the Bavarian mountains, before the Blaue Gumpe in Rainthal, on the path to the Zugspitze.

Every visitor is rooted to the spot, spellbound, because they truly believe that they have been transported into one of the grandest mountain sceneries in existence.20

As the above evidence suggests, exhibitions like this were far more than representations of alpine landscapes; this was not just a case of advertising a view, but of disciplining viewers to a particular mode of appreciating it. Exhibitory displays like this were not the Alps or any other landscape in any real sense, but, as non-representational geographers have theorised, they created affective responses in their own right. To understand their impact, we need to understand the exhibition, in effect, as a landscape in itself, replete with its own set of tasks, actions, behaviours and material connections.21 In this case, the Sports Exhibition formed a landscape of affective resonance that reduced the Alps to a primarily visual experience. To achieve the view, participants involved their bodies in a striking variety of dispositions, as they explored hidden clefts, feared a teetering boulder, navigated a series of built paths and walked around outcrops. At the end, visitors encountered a huge panorama painting that submerged the visitor, ‘transporting’ [versetzen] them into the spectacle of the Alps.22 In making a panorama the climax and goal of this virtual journey, the exhibition created an affective register in which the body worked to a visual end. In another review of the exhibition, a reporter praised the landscape reliefs (scale models) that appeared after the panorama for their ‘artistic’ topographic rendering: ‘fond memories are gladly refreshed, or new walks taken up in fantasy’.23 For visitors to this exhibit and similar ones across Europe, it was not the Alps that were represented, but rather alpine activity itself; as important as gaining the view was the process by which that should happen. 106 B. ANDERSON

Nigel Thrift has described ‘affective contagion’ as a process in which ‘people seem to be fundamentally motivated to bring their feelings into correspondence with others: people love to entrain’, and with thousands of people moving through the alpine exhibit every day, such processes were inevitable, and aligned the Alps with existing codes of Großstadt behaviour.24 Historians have long described exhibitions, art galleries, museums, libraries and parks as spaces in which bourgeois, or bürgerlich conduct was disciplined, and liberal self-government entrained.25 As new materialist approaches now emphasise, this disciplining was often affective, spontaneous and unconscious, proceeding from the human tendency to imitate as each person engaged in a process of guessing the affective response of others—every visitor was supposedly rooted to the spot in the Sport Exhibition.26 Much has rightly been made of the essential role of such places and the ‘exhibitory complex’ in power relations, yet the rational, conscious ordering that they promoted is only half of the story.27 At least as important were the resonances such orderings had with and created between human visitors. The environments of museums, art galleries or exhibitions must be seen as factories of co-ordinated affective response, a natureculture that involved the close management of space typified by the Sport Exhibition. In three decades at the turn of the century, innumerable exhibitions like that in Munich not only turned the high-alpine landscape into a worldwide product for mass consumption, but defined the aspects of the mountains that should be consumed, and how. From huge world fairs, such as Paris 1900, St. Louis 1904, Liège 1905 or München 1908, to alpine museums when they opened in Bern in 1905 and Munich in 1911, numerous halls, train stations or parks in alpine towns, and countless smaller informal exhibitions, potential visitors to the Alps could not avoid this redefinition of the mountains as a site of spectacle and vision, and two media formats in particular dominated their experience.28 Panoramas were wide-angle (although not always 360°) views of mountain scenery that placed the tourist at a particular site, often a peak or alpine hut, ‘transporting’ their eyes into the Alps. Landscape reliefs, conversely, provided a three-dimensional model of mountain scenery around which a tourist might walk without the inconvenience of encountering the actual terrain. These formats can be distinguished from other representations in three ways. First, though both had different origins, they had histories discon- nected from Romantic understandings of landscape, and were more closely aligned to a positivist, enlightened fantasy of total knowledge and 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 107 control.29 Second, they seemed both ‘artistic’ and ‘scientific’, and so were thought to offer a ‘true to nature’ reflection of the beauty of the Alps, unlike mountain art on the one hand, and maps on the other.30 Third, these formats produced feelings of movement and physical locatedness. Panoramas submerged and located spectators in a landscape, an affect German visitors often described using the verb ‘versetzen’—to transport in a sense akin to ‘teleport’.31 Other forms of panorama also travelled with tourists to the mountains themselves. The pocket-sized panoramas such as those of Siegfried Hirth offered simple line drawings to guide the affective register of alpinists, leaving blank sections for the tourist to fill in, while a more artistic rendering was disseminated to the Alpenverein’s membership with the annual Zeitschift (Journal) during the 1880s and 1890s.32 Landscape reliefs, in contrast, invited the visitor to walk around a particular mountain-massif, rendered in obsessive three-dimensional detail based on a mix of topographical measurement and personal observation.33 Many reliefs required years to complete, but cast and moulded versions could be produced commercially to serve as paperweights and decorations on writing desks across Europe by 1900.34 Neither of these formats emerged from the Romantic aesthetic that has dominated understandings of mountain tourism since the mid-nineteenth century. For Romantic poets and painters, landscapes such as the Alps forced those who encountered them to realise the impossibility of total knowledge and insignificance of human life; mountains served as places to explore the indefinable and indescribable elements of the human psyche. Yet both panoramas and landscape reliefs promised complete knowledge, and control, of a landscape—these were celebrations (or fantasies) of human sovereignty over self and nature. While panoramas provided an ‘all seeing eye’ from a specific point, landscape reliefs characterised this same ‘quest to see all’ of a particular area.35 This sense was not only symbolic, but integrated into the material properties of these media genre themselves. When the geographer Albrecht Penck (1858–1945) reviewed Paul Oberlercher’s relief of the Großglöckner group, he emphasised the ways in which the relief disciplined and encouraged a specific form of affective engagement:

Because the floor accords to sea-level, those who wander round Oberlercher’s work receive, by and by, the views as if they were standing on the Hohen Dock, on the Hochliser, on the Granatspitze, on the Grossen Muntanitz or the Gridenkarkopf. Those that then bend down can enjoy the incomparable 108 B. ANDERSON

impression that the Glöckner makes over the Mölltal over the pastures, or emerging over the Dorfertal, or, by standing up a little, he can see like the walker who ascends in the Teischnitz. Finally, those who know to gain a higher position, enjoy a birds-eye view over the Grossglöckner … and they have the high mountain world, to which they must normally look up to, at their feet.36

For Penck and other visitors, landscape reliefs offered an opportunity to experience a ridge walk around a mountain landscape, and reliefs—such as Xaver Imfeld’s famous Bernese Oberland, which stood in Munich’s Alpine Museum from 1911 to 1944—were often exhibited to encourage such behaviour, with peaks at eye-level, railings and, in this case, even a step to allow for a higher viewpoint.37 The language of Romanticism certainly pervaded descriptions of alpine views, but much of its intellectual content had by this time dissolved. Panoramas and landscape reliefs—along with other contemporary forms of alpine art provided explicitly realist, ‘modern’ depictions that had little in common with Romantics’ concern with a mysterious, dangerous world.38 So too, relief modellers prided themselves on a ‘true to nature’ reproduction based on a combination of scientific quantification and artistic technique, and were only interested in the subjective position of the artist or viewer in so far as it could be rendered invisible.39 As the next section explores, these classically modern dispositions encouraged by panoramas and landscape reliefs proved an excellent match for the practice of ‘developing’ and ‘opening up’ the Alps for tourism. The integration of the Alps into the urban sites of bourgeois display and socialisation described in Chap. 2 enabled mountaineers to place their affective engagement within the discursive, humanist tropes of self- cultivation or Bildung typical of the German and Austrian Bürgertum.40 Munich’s Alpine Museum, for example, opened in 1911 to much celebration and fanfare.41 Central to its rationale, as expressed by its Bavarian court-judge curator Karl Müller, was the idea that the Alps, alpine tourism, and by extension the Alpenverein, played a key role in ‘cultural life’. He described the museum as ‘an enduring monument to a part of modern cultural endeavour’, while Munich’s centrist Mayor, Wilhelm Ritter von Borscht (1857–1943) explained at the opening ceremony how mountaineering was ‘next to the support of art, one of the most important factors for our city’.42 In this way, Europe’s middle classes integrated a particular way of engaging with the high Alps with the cultural sites of bourgeois 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 109 power in Europe’s growing cities, and aligned alpine visuality with those elements of urban culture seen as respectable, modern and progressive. Otto von Pfister, who chaired theAlpenverein from 1907 to 1910, also praised the increasing numbers of alpine tourists as ‘the most significant phenomenon of the last decades in the cultural life of our entire German peoples’, and, as Chap. 7 explores, the inscription of these cultures onto alpine landscape played a central role in promoting alpinism as a nationalist Großdeutsch mission.43 Yet, Müller’s curatorship refused to take part in such narratives of the Alps and mitigated against overt nationalism. Under his leadership before 1914, the museum exhibited mountain scenery not just from the Eastern Alps, but also from Switzerland and mountains outside Europe. The ‘ideal alpine museum’ Müller explained, should follow the alpine museology suggested by the Viennese professor of Geography (and fellow Alpinist) Eduard Brückner: ‘an exhibition of the characteristics of all the high mountains of the earth and the means to their development [Erschließung]’.44 For Müller, the Alpine Museum in Munich was not so much about Germanness in the Alps, or about the Alps as a site of wilderness, as a celebration of a generic history of mountain development by the West. At the same time, curators like Müller promoted mountains as a social and psychological solution to those aspects of urban culture that they critiqued as enemies of true progress—mountains could be presented as an integral part of bourgeois culture and as a means to overcome the fears of urban disorder and immorality explored in Chap. 3. Müller, for example, described alpinism as ‘one of the most important balancing weights against the nervous hurry, restlessness and bleak flattening of the everyday pleasures of our days’.45 He had already set out his ideas about museum peda- gogy at the 1908 Annual General Meeting, when the idea of the museum was first mooted:

[museums should] lead the viewer—i.e. the layman—to knowledge about what he should have seen in the mountains, what he should in future see, and to knowledge of the laws which lie behind what he sees, especially the development etc. [of the mountains].

[…]

The museum should demonstrate [aufklären] that mountains like the Alps give an example of, as it were, an organism. This organism affects and pat- 110 B. ANDERSON

terns inorganic phenomena of the geological and meteorological type, as well as the emergence of plant and animal life, which specifies the human both as an individual and as the member of a people’s community [Volksgemeinschaft]. The museum should further illuminate alpinism not as a narrow-minded [engherzig] sport, nor merely as physical exercise, but as a high cultural acquirement of aesthetic and ethical worth.46

For Müller, museums and landscapes were natural partners because of their similar functions in the cultural life of urban citizens. The Alps’ ‘aesthetic and ethical worth’, according to him, lay in conveying knowledge of a perfected example of a natural-cultural landscape, while the museum would impart knowledge about mountain tourism and provide visitors with the discipline required to access the Alps’ lesson. Müller hoped to imbue visitors with a specific way of viewing the Alps which would reveal an ‘organic’ alpine landscape in which people lived alongside one another in harmony; a ‘way of seeing’, to borrow John Berger’s phrase, in which viewing a landscape rendered the ‘struggles, achievements and accidents’ of its inhabitants invisible.47 Under Müller’s curatorship, the Alpine Museum rehearsed the Alps as a place of affective enjoyment based on the conduct and visual habits of the wealthy German Bürgertum, and all but wrote out the local people of the Alps who did much of the work of landscape transformation. As we saw above, the urban exhibition of the Alps had agency over visitors by disciplining their bodies and directing their feelings towards a particular form of mountain leisure. Nevertheless, Müller’s understanding of the role of the Alpine Museum suggests that conscious self-analysis contributed to this production as an integral, though elitist part of the process of alpine tourism. ‘Nature’ could only be fully experienced through the application of appropriate, middle-class intellectual and cultural knowledge, as Joseph August Lux explained in 1910:

The beauty of nature would stand lonely, recognised and wondered at by no-one, if it wasn’t for art, which has given people [Menschen] the eyes to see that wonder. What does the farmer know of the beauty of the nature of the mountains in front of his house? He shakes his head, when he hears our enthusiasm. What does the fool [Jockerl] know about the beauty of the mountain meadow [Alm]? Only we know it—those who experience this beauty artistically.48 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 111

Pierre Bourdieu has described such claims to artistic understanding as central to the ‘cultural competence’ that defined and distinguished the European urban bourgeoisie.49 Elsewhere, in Eduard Richter’s 1891 article, ‘A History of the Opening-Up of the Eastern Alps’, this relationship was even more explicit:

[These mountains] work on us similarly to the master works of educated art, influence our feelings just as music; a similarity of feelings which engender the highest poetical experience. For many modern people the Alps are even more than all art taken together: The object of an almost passionate love and enthusiasm.50

Unsurprisingly, and as Richter noted with satisfaction, an alpine trip rapidly became a rite of passage for aspiring social climbers, something widely satirised in turn-of-the-century literature.51 Such competences were nevertheless emblematic of the modern aesthetic progress used by Lux to rationalise—and justify—his participation in an elite culture of affective response. By describing their reactions through established tropes of middle-class cultural dominance, artistic truth and modern selfhood, mountain tourists rationalised a learnt affective response available to neither the uncultivated Jockerl, nor the uneducated farmer. Rational thought processes were relevant but not fundamental to the new affective cultures of the Alps that emerged in the late nineteenth century. They structured the politics of alpine tourism by justifying affective responses as a part of the ‘naturally cultivated nature’ of bürgerlich conduct, rather than the ‘naturally natural nature’ of, for instance, un-artistic farmers and fools.52 This entanglement of non-representational and representational cultural processes demonstrates how affective contagion worked on both levels simultaneously, to produce a socially exclusive system of mountain tourism that appealed to the growing bourgeoisie of Germany and Austria. In this case, Lux’s rational justification was not a parallel logic to the affective entrainment produced through panoramas and landscape reliefs in museums and exhibitions. Rather, rational thought was just one element of a well-rehearsed and entrained response to the Alps and representations of them; on such occasions, we might even consider conscious, logical thought patterns to be just another affective response to any given set of stimuli. The alpine tourism that emerged in the late nineteenth century proposed the Alps as a site for bürgerlich conduct, the assertion of taste, and 112 B. ANDERSON visual enjoyment in what were experienced as benign, often empty landscapes. The new affective register of moving through the high Alps mini- mised bodily interaction with the terrain as far as possible, and visitors to exhibitions of the Alps were encouraged to view them as a stable and unchanging environment without weather, seasons, economic change or cultural dynamism. The next section traces this affective register in the Alps, where when forced to confront a hostile, dynamic and unpredictable environment, members of alpine organisations went to extraordinary lengths to turn their fantasy of the Alps into a material reality.

Producing the Alps The high Alps—and the Eastern Alps in particular—underwent an unprec- edented material transformation between the 1880s and 1914, as wealthy urban mountaineers, speculative entrepreneurs and local community leaders sought to inscribe the landscape with new forms of affectively disciplined tourism. Whilst mountain railways dominated the narrative in Switzerland, these protagonists produced a dense network of paths, huts, viewpoints, signposts, bridges, ladders, cables and stakes from one end of the Alps to the other.53 By 1895, the numerous alpine organisations of Germany and Austria saw this process of ‘opening up’ the Alps as their raison d’être, and though their dominance is questioned below, their impact was nonetheless impressive. When the Alpine Museum opened in 1911, one exhibit illustrated the 8,348,615 Marks spent on huts and paths by the Alpenverein alone—equivalent to the annual income of over 8000 industrial labourers in that year.54 The number of paths had rocketed after 1885 and construction reached a peak in the years around 1900 but still in 1911–1912, Heinrich Menger counted 48 constructions of paths in the Nordkette (the chain of mountains between Germany and Austria, running from the Bodensee to the mouth of the Inn valley) alone.55 Individual branches sometimes seemed obsessed by hut and path building. Forty- four per cent of the total expenditure on Erschließung activity by Sektion München up to 1900 occurred in the last four years of the century, and by 1896 this expenditure already amounted to half the yearly membership subscriptions received.56 While some huts did make a small profit, the Alpenverein branches which funded them (including Sektion München) often ran up large debts on the capital investment, and took on the significant risk of maintaining necessarily flimsy structures susceptible to storm, 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 113 damp, avalanche and break-in: Hut and path building cannot be explained as a money-making scheme.57 Certainly, Alpenverein members routinely connected their new paths to a more visual, less physically demanding tourism that would also be open to the ‘less well practised’. Even ‘elite’ mountaineers such as those in the Munich-based Alpenverein branch Bayerland, who were amongst the most vocal opponents of ‘over-development’ in the Alps used such language:

It appears to us to be an irrefutable necessity to fashion the access path to the hut in such a way so that it can be walked up without danger. This should also be true for less-skilled tourists, of which the visitor of the Schachen for its outstanding views is a large contingent. Building a completely safe climb will also provide these visitors with the opportunity of insight into one of the most awesome rock-sceneries of our Bavarian Alps.58

Again and again, path and hut builders explained how their mountain constructions would promote an egalitarian visual consumption of the mountains. Yet paths also had material and kinetic impacts on the walker— they positioned and controlled this ‘tourist gaze’ by leading footsteps between specific views, which rapidly became standard images from a hut, peak or viewpoint in postcards, advertisements, exhibitions and the alpine media.59 As well as entirely new paths, the Alpenverein’s expanding membership ‘improved’ older paths by adding signs and waymarks, making dangerous sections safer, and surfaces more comfortable for tourists habituated to the flat ground of the city.60 From the mid-1880s, enthusiastic Alpenverein members sought to replace the ancient trails of smugglers, hunters and pilgrims with what the Alpenverein functionary Johannes Emmer (1849– 1928) termed ‘greater expectations, gentle inclines, width, fine gravel—in short a “promenade” character’.61 Photographs taken by path builders suggest that many built in this period matched this description, and give an indication of the flat, broad parts of the path in which they took most pride.62 At the same time, these constructions served to order and rationalise the landscape, symbolising the progress that Erschließung was meant to offer the inhabitants in the Alps. Scribbles on path-planning photographs replaced the disorderly, steep wiggles of the ‘old path’ with ubiquitous ‘Serpentinen [switchbacks]’ up steep slopes promising more comfortable, efficient inclines.63 A whole raft of technology, from dynamite to cables, bridges and metal stakes driven into the rock allowed path 114 B. ANDERSON builders to claim that even the most dangerous sections had been made safe—albeit with caveats such as ‘for the vertigo-free and sure-footed’.64 These paths were lines of bourgeois environmental control, inscribed onto a dynamic and chaotic mountain landscape. That environmental control did not just apply to the scenery; the material characteristics of the Alpenverein path also ensured that tourists would adopt the affective register of visual tourism described above. In 1899, the well-known Munich mountaineer Heinrich Steinitzer (1869–1947) described the impact of a new path in the Allgäuer Alps on his body:

It is impossible to accurately describe this path, with all its delightful variety. You have to go there and see it for yourself. Rambling on top of view- commanding heights, when the gaze sweeps all around, warrants the highest enjoyment of nature in its own right. Yet how often can the climber, on broken ridges and steep Firnschneide [i.e. ridges made out of hard snow] really indulge in this enjoyment? His gaze is fixed to the ground, and he is able to grant peaceful glances to the view only rarely. It is different on paved paths, where no danger of a false step threatens.65

In Steinitzer’s account, the new path released the sight of the walker from the terrain at their feet and allowed their eyes to gaze at the view. The entrained human body interacted with these flat, featureless paths to enable a panoramic experience that derived from a fantasy of mastery over the landscape.66 For such path-based alpine tourists, the view was the fundamental aim, the ‘reward’ for the ‘work’ of walking uphill, as it was typically put; an alpinism in which the terrain should not distract from the important task of visual discernment.67 For Steinitzer and enthusiasts like him, paths should intervene between the walker and the landscape in order to demand the same affective responses as those entrained through the urban presentation of the Alps. Neither the mountains nor the human body proved as pliable as such fantasies suggested. As cultural geographers now emphasise, our relational resonances with objects and each other are often of an accidental character.68 While ‘tripping, falling over, and a whole host of other such mis- takes’ not only disrupted the view, but often the lives of walkers, the disorderliness inherent to the mountains was still more destructive, with people, paths and entire alpine huts regularly swept away by avalanches or landslides, damaged by rockfalls and storms, or subject to an apparent epidemic of vandalisation and break-in. 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 115

Even relatively benign weather could intervene to entirely prevent any appreciation of a view at all, something the experienced guideless mountaineer Jenny Herzberg (1839–1908) exploited for some subtle comedy:

Of what and how can one give a description, when we have seen almost nothing except mist, cloud, rain and snow in interesting variations or even more interesting synchronicity?69

As shown in Chap. 6, encounters with the weather, danger and changes to environmental conditions proved a draw for extreme mountaineers like Herzberg, but the chaotic, disruptive and resistive environment of the mountains did not only afford new affective possibilities. Resistance, as Michel Foucault’s work suggests, ‘plays the role of continuously provok- ing extensions, revisions and refinements of those same practices which it confronts’.70 To fully understand this natureculture of alpine tourism, we need to take the resistance of the Alps seriously, and explain how such resistance justified the intensification of modern alpineErschließung . Safety provided a parallel discourse to comfort and ease when mountaineers described their new paths as suitable for ‘less-practised’ tourists, and typically, ‘for women as well’. In Steinitzer’s account, the ‘danger of a false step’ was all too real.71 For middle-class mountaineers whose identity rested on the maintenance of bürgerlich conduct, making the Alps ‘safe’ implicitly acknowledged the unsuitability of their bodies to a demanding mountain environment that could easily overwhelm them.72 Yet while the elite mountaineers that are the subject of Chap. 5 insisted that human bodies should be trained to the terrain, these ‘hut-to-hut’ mountaineers instead inscribed an existing, bürgerlich set of bodily skills and practices onto alpine terrains by building paths through them.73 Though there were rivals in the Stubaier Alps and near to Vienna, Sektion München’s activity in its ‘working area’ of Bavaria’s Wetterstein mountains was second to none. Its climax emerged on Germany’s highest peak, the Zugspitze, where the Sektion built Münchenerhaus between 1894 and 1897. In yearly reports, the Sektion used technocratic languages of design and engineering to describe the construction, which included a series of modern ‘luxury’ additions that images of the hut rarely failed to depict.74 Roofing felt, corrugated steel, cork and steel cables all featured in the plans drawn up by Sektion München and from the ‘practical eye’ of commercial advisor Adolf Wenz, who was responsible for the hut- building.75 Local workers, acting on behalf the Sektion, used dynamite to 116 B. ANDERSON forever alter the topography of the peak, and a telephone cable and lightning conductor to the valley ‘bound Münchenerhaus with the cultural world’.76 In a plan reminiscent of Ernst May’s mass-produced housing three decades later, each segment of the hut was made in the valley, num- bered and taken to the peak in order, and Wenz had initially planned to use blasted rock from the summit as a counterweight on a rope line to haul materials.77 In the yearly report and Alpenverein newsletter, Wenz and Sektion München’s secretary, Nepomuk Zwickh published architectural drawings of the hut and narrated the build as a triumph of modern engineering to control and mitigate nature:

The long wall that faces North-West must be calculated as facing considerable wind-pressure. The 60m-per-second maximum windspeed which was measured many years ago on the Sonnblick was taken as a basis. This windspeed has not been confirmed anywhere else, and gives a pressure of 430kg per square meter of wall. This pressure, assuming a wall 4m high, equates to a width of 1.10m, so that this wall standing alone, without other factors, can withstand the greatest hurricane.78

For bourgeois men, such as the secretary of the state statistical bureau Zwickh, commercial advisor Wenz, the engineer Heinrich Steinach, Professor of Animal Husbandry Emil Pott or Professor of Botany Carl Müller, huts were modern building projects that went ‘with the trends of the alpine times’, and that would demonstrate ‘all the newest achievements in alpine building technique’.79 Hut-building protagonists—who were not always engineers or architects—understood these ‘protection huts’ [Schutzhütten] as refuges from alpine nature—quite the opposite to the Körperkultur-inspired ‘light-and-air’ hut described by Didem Ediki, they instead offered a small space of cultural reprieve from the mountains.80 Wenz hoped that Münchenerhaus would enable the view from the Zugspitze to be enjoyed with the conduct and affective discipline he believed it deserved—that tourists would ‘wonder at the glorious panorama with leisure instead of exhaustion and haste’, and that the ‘solidly built and rock-anchored shelter will grant protection against suddenly- appearing stormy weather’.81 Alpinists saw their huts as elements of the success of bürgerlich culture, and developed a sense of mastery over nature which landscaped the Alps as a space to be developed; a distinctly modern, non-Romantic attitude. 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 117

Practices of hut and path building placed alpinists in a ‘modern’ relationship with nature, on which they acted from distance, through detached calculation, plans and the writing desk, rather than engaging in the terrain itself. Superficially, the vernacular appearance of Alpenverein huts might suggest an atavistic impulse, but their aesthetic was defined by pragmatic, rational decisions, understood and narrated as ‘modern’. This ‘vernacular modernism’ made use of well-tested, locally available materials, cheap local labour and widely available skills—much as the arch-modernist archi- tect Adolf Loos recommended for building in the mountains—but ‘the forms came—like a majority of their contents—from where the hut was planned’.82 Indeed, by leaving the heavy labour and construction to local workers and craftspeople, the professional, urban men who controlled the ‘opening up’ of the Alps pitted a bürgerlich culture of distanced technological calculation and planning against a hostile, resistive mountain environment. Alpinists characterised themselves as rendering not just the alpine environment benign, but alpine culture too—Erschließung, they claimed, would defeat the demons (or, more accurately, dragons) of superstition and bring both the Alps and its ‘backwards’ communities into modernity. The year 1894 marked the Alpenverein’s 25th year, and Zwickh used the yearly report of Sektion München to eulogise over the impact of the organisation. He began with the Alps in 1868:

The traditional dread for the horrors and dangers of the high mountains still mostly dominated the mind. All those things, which we now regard and demand as self-evident did not exist: neither paths nor accommodation, neither guides nor literature. Map-quality was still at a low-level. For the initi- ated, uncertainty ruled over the positions and names of important peaks and passes, which still remained unknown, even in their own land.

Local inhabitants regarded foreigners who went off the highways into the silent valleys as idlers who would corrupt the pious people and desecrate Sundays. He was an unwelcome guest, and misunderstanding remained over what he wanted and what he searched for.83

For Zwickh, the alpine population of the 1860s was just as undeveloped as its landscape; unenlightened thought, irrational superstition and small- minded prejudice dominated the people of a place that even the urban bourgeoisie continued to fear. The Alpenverein, Zwickh claimed, had the 118 B. ANDERSON moral task of modernising these landscapes and, by extension, the communities that lived in them:

And now? Today a net of paths spans the alpine area. The number of well- equipped, supplied and commercialised accommodation-huts up into the region of the once feared snow is almost too many, and visitor numbers already count in the hundreds of thousands. Today there are over 1100 well-equipped, experienced mountain guides. There are no problems with literature and maps—no area of the world is so thoroughly researched as the Alps.

Today, no valley of our mountains is isolated and silent enough that the name ‘Alpenverein’ is not recognised and respected. The silver Edelweiss has become a symbol of culture. Our association has reached what it set out to achieve—the exploration of the Alps.84

Zwickh’s account narrated the Alpenverein as the harbinger of modern development, enlightening, educating and improving the landscape and its people.85 What may well have begun as an attempt to make the Alps more accessible for a larger number of urban people was now a project in which bürgerlich, urban mountaineers would modernise and civilise the Alps and its communities at the same time. As should by now be clear, the landscape transformation that took place in the fin-de-siècle high Alps was very far from an anti-modern escape to a pre-capitalist culture. For all the superficial similarity that huts bore to traditional alpine structures, these were understood and constructed as the sort of imposition of rational order over a disordered world highlighted by Detlev Peukert.86 In their claims to be the carriers of economic development and ‘progress’ to alpine regions and their people, these alpinists very much ‘saw like a state’, to use James C. Scott’s famous phrase, while their languages of technological modernity and control positioned them as heroes in the ‘conquest of nature’.87 Early conservation movements and the ‘protection of wasteland’ demanded by elite mountaineers did gain some traction and resulted in ineffectual restrictions on new huts and paths in 1897. Even so, the construction of huts and paths was not seriously challenged amongst German alpinists until after the First World War, when their control was threatened by the greater commercial potential of winter sports and their ‘master narrative’ contested by new actors.88 Xaver Imfeld’s relief, which stood in Munich’s Alpine Museum from 1911, was 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 119 symbolic of this continuing drive to ‘open up’ the Eastern Alps. Originally created to showcase the Jungfrau railway at the Paris 1900 exhibition, the Jungfraurelief was then exhibited in the Swiss Alpine Club museum in Bern. By 1910, however, with the SAC actively campaigning against mountain railways, the masterpiece no longer meshed with the club’s ambitions for the Alps.89 The Alpenverein, and particularly mountaineers in Munich had fewer recriminations.90 Imfeld’s relief did not merely depict the Alps, but the ‘development’ of them, to which many German and Austrian alpinists continued to aspire. Building huts, paths and even railways provided these men with an opportunity to take part in a publically visible project of development which would display their modernity, technological know-how and ability to turn the Alps into a controlled environment; the same safe, benign environment which they presented in museums and exhibitions as the visual object of alpine tourism.

Alpine Agency Any claim as self-aggrandizing as that of the alpine hut and path builders of the fin de siècle invites a critique, but there are other reasons to be sceptical about their role as the protagonists of mountain tourism and the landscape changes that came with it. The establishment of alpine museums by almost all the key alpine organisations in the early twentieth century not only encouraged the dominance of a particular aesthetic but also served as repositories of history and thus lent control of the narrative of alpine tourism to the alpine organisations of Germany, Austria, Italy, France and Switzerland. Unsurprisingly, these archives tend to reproduce the narratives of alpine modernisation by ‘civilised’ urban people, if only because their collections are dominated by the activities of precisely these social groups. The final part of this chapter offers a counter-narrative, in which alpine people, every bit as much caught up in the economic and social changes of mid-nineteenth-century Europe, had a far greater role in the tourist landscapes of the Eastern Alps than most alpinists cared to admit. Tourism emerged at a particularly low point in the economic fortunes of much of the Eastern Alps, brought about by the unequal and sudden industrialisation and capitalisation of nearby regions between the late eighteenth and late nineteenth centuries.91 As valleys, and forests, and certainly high pastures declined as an economic resource, the economic value 120 B. ANDERSON of high-alpine ‘wasteland’ was rising, thanks to tourism. The high Alps were now open to exploitation and ‘improvement’ just as other landscapes had been since the early modern period—alpine tourism was easily enmeshed into the existing ‘taskscapes’ of agriculture.92 As the Garmisch pharmacist and founder of a local Sektion of the Alpenverein near to the Zugspitze, Max Byschl explained in the early twentieth century, the high mountains were eventually seen by many locals as ‘dead capital, […] which can only be made productive through tourism’.93 If alpine communities ‘discovered’ the Alps as a new form of economic capital, it needed investment—urban, bürgerlich men and women could hardly be expected to wonder at, much less wander in the high Alps whilst sleeping in hay stalls and getting lost in thick forests. Yet in the years before 1874, few wealthy urban alpinists were willing to help in this process.94 Instead, in places such as Sand in Taufers, Windischmatrei, the Allgäu region and Vent in Oetztal, local religious leaders, professionals and other ‘entrepreneurs’ took mat- ters into their own hands. We have already come across the Vent curate Franz Senn’s activities in promoting tourism in the 1860s and early 1870s, but his influence was also critical in establishing the new Alpenverein as a vehicle for sourcing urban investment in the alpine terrain after 1874.95 By the early 1870s, Senn had become frustrated at what he saw as the miserly attitude of the existing Oesterreichische Alpenverein when it came to grants for his hut and path projects, and saw the establishment of a new Großdeutsch alpine club as an opportunity to appeal to the far greater resources of the newly created Kaiserreich.96 In a letter to his friend, Johannes Studl (1839–1925) in early January 1869, Senn suggested the new organisation. The main aim was to ‘join the mountain-friends of Germany in joint activity. This activity should encompass everything that can exert a beneficial influence on the advancement of tourism’.97 For Senn, a Jesuit whose religion was targeted by Kulturkämpfen in both Germany and Austria in the period, notions of pan-German nationalism were of subsidiary importance to the more prosaic purpose of opening alpine tourism to the resources of the Kaiserreich’s growing middle class, and he took his inspiration from the Swiss Alpine Club, whose activities were reported to him through his friend, the mountaineer Johann Jacob Weilenmann.98 While we cannot reduce the foundation of the Deutsche Alpenverein in Munich to Senn’s aims, this vocal curate from one of the most inaccessible Tirolean valleys was almost certainly responsible for the new organisation’s constitutional aim of ‘facilitating travel to the Alps’: the statute on which ‘Erschließung’ eventually 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 121 rested when the pan-German Alpenverein formed in 1873. He was certainly recognised by Studl as the central figure, and it is not going too far to suggest that the Alpenverein of the late nineteenth century was dreamt up by a curate who saw a cross-state organisation as the best chance of securing investment in high-alpine tourist infrastructure. Nor was Senn unique as a local entrepreneur of mountain tourism. In the early years of the new Alpenverein, after its creation in 1874, it was mountain branches of the organisation, private people from the Alps, and even local community authorities who made the vast majority of applications to build huts and paths—c. 74%—and received the majority of the funding.99 To be sure, many of the urban branches of the new organisation, especially in Munich, Vienna and Prague, could afford to fund their own projects without recourse to the bureaucracy of the central association, and some urban people, such as Senn’s close friend Johannes Studl, played decisive roles.100 Yet the number of applications received from mountain-based Sektionen and individuals shows a willingness and enthusiasm to develop the high-alpine regions for tourism that was notably lacking amongst urban mountaineers in the 1870s. Indeed, there is reason to think that these applications to the Alpenverein from alpine residents represent only a small proportion of local activity in creating mountain infrastructure. In 1897, the Alpenverein commissioned a list of ‘huts’ in the Eastern Alps, which demonstrated that, while the highest regions were indeed dominated by the huts of urban alpine clubs, accommodation at lower altitudes was effectively run by locals.101 If the Erschließung of the Eastern Alps had become dominated by the urban Bürgertum by the 1890s, this was more a reflection of their greater economic resources than that they were more inherently ‘modern’ than alpine people. Despite the massive investment on the part of urban mountaineers, we need to treat their claims to have single-handedly developed the tourist economy of the Eastern Alps with significant scepticism. Attempts by local people to develop tourism infrastructure could also be contested, however. In Taufers in the Ahrntal, a locally born doctor played Senn’s role. Joseph Daimer (1845–1909), later a sewerage advisor to the Interior Ministry in Vienna, founded and led a branch of the Alpenverein in the small village from 1873 to 1894, engaging in a similar set of activities to Senn—establishing a mountain viewpoint (the Speikboden), commis- sioning panoramas, building paths, placing rest-benches, improving guide- systems and constructing a series of four huts in the nearby mountains.102 However, unlike Senn, whose activities were tolerated and even embraced 122 B. ANDERSON by the community in Vent, Daimer complained about a reluctant and actively resistant population, who routinely tore down signs and destroyed resting places.103 While the curate from Vent combined a knowledge of the forms and structures of bürgerlich society with certain amount of trust from and control over the local community, Daimer’s intervention, was, from the outset, an effort to ‘improve’ the local area without recourse to the ideas and opinions of (other) locals themselves. In most cases, it is possible to identify an individual who played a similar role in their locality to that of Senn in Vent or Daimer in Taufers.104 Although there are some disparities in employment, these ‘local pioneers’ were often bürgerlich, professional and educated. They were also relatively young, members of a new Tirolean generation of professionals who could expect to spend some time in cities such as Munich as students, in the 1848–1873 high tide of liberalism.105 Many religious leaders were involved. Indeed, while some of their older colleagues were suspicious of, or held antisemitic or anti-urban attitudes towards tourists, a younger generation of religious workers, enthused by urban talk of progress and improvement, set about changing the lives of their communities through a classic practice of landscape ‘improvement’.106 In the Oetztal valley where Vent was located, south -east of Innsbruck, Senn was only one of a group of curates led by the local agricultural improver Adolf Trientl (1817–1897); tourism was understood as just another way to develop unproductive land.107 In many ways, these men saw themselves as ‘modern’ leaders in all the same ways as their urban counterparts and were distinguished only by their relationship to the local community in question. Although not all communities welcomed tourists, local alpine ‘pioneers’ were central to the development of ‘hut-to-hut’ mountaineering in the Eastern Alps from at least the 1860s and suggest that some revisions should be made to our understanding of such tourism as driven by urban men and women. Middle-class culture remains central to any explanation, but the key figures crossing borders between the city and the countryside were not always urban people. A small, but increasingly mobile number of local religious professionals, who received their education in the bourgeois culture of the liberal mid-nineteenth century, returned to their home villages and set about improving the resources of the landscape—above all, in this context, the apparent wasteland of the high Alps. These alpine ‘entrepreneurs’ succeeded in managing their localities as middle-class cultural resources and, in doing so, helped to establish the key forms and structures of alpinism in the Eastern Alps. This does not overturn the 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 123 importance of the affective relationships described earlier in this chapter— but it does expose the more hyperbolic self-congratulatory passages by Erschließung enthusiasts as less about the reality of the situation, and more about establishing and confirming their own sense of modernity, and with it the justification for further intervention in the ‘backward’ alpine environment.

Conclusion Alpine landscapes in late nineteenth and early twentieth century Germany and Austria were not simply the outcome of a romantic aesthetic applied to the environment. Instead, the forms of tourism that developed around panoramas and landscape reliefs in the city, and huts and paths in the mountains, need to be understood as a shared set of affective reactions emerging from human interaction with these material objects. Representations of the Alps played a central role in communicating an affective register to people located some distance from the mountains, merging the performances of the mountains with the spaces and affects of civic culture. These same ways of walking, seeing and considering the Alps were then inscribed onto the mountains through a set of huts and paths. Conscious thought processes and affective registers also combined when it came to constructing the Alps in a material sense. Huts and paths were not automatically, or subconsciously communications of the affects of alpinism entrained in the city, but consciously so. Hut and path builders intended their constructions to manage tourists and the environment to make a visual, morally beneficial alpine tourism a possibility. By managing the affective culture of mountain tourism in urban places such as museums and exhibitions, members of German and Austrian alpine clubs justified their intervention in the terrain. Tourists looked to the Alps as a site to be ‘developed’ in a liberal, classical idiom of modernisation and tamed nature, however much this process was actively encouraged and promoted by apparently backward residents. Alpine tourism is best seen as emerging through a hybrid system of both conscious and unconscious processes, which connected the affective register of the Alps to middle- class urban cultures, and made possible a rationalisation of the alpine aesthetic as a key element in cultural ‘progress’. The residents of the Alps were in no wise the passive beneficiaries, or victims of this quasi-colonial bürgerlich land-grab in the high mountains. To the contrary, it is possible to identify a number of religious leaders, 124 B. ANDERSON professionals or community figures who actively encouraged urban intervention in their landscapes and developed the structures and institutions of alpine tourism in order to facilitate this development. The significance of these cultures is not, however, in measuring how much ‘modernity’ any of these cultures or people possessed, but rather in the ways in which the identity of being a modern individual was enough motive to produce a profound intervention in the mountains. To their urban designers and funders, huts and paths meant a ‘modernised’ landscape, in the sense that the Alps could be made to conform to a modern affective register familiar to urban culture, in the sense that this same intervention would ‘open up’ the Alps and its people to modernity, and in the sense that these constructions themselves could represent the technological and innovative characters of those men involved.

Notes 1. Kurt Scharr, Vent: Geographie und Geschichte eines Ortes und seiner Täler (Innsbruck, 2013), pp. 44–46. This chapter is a (significantly) updated version of Ben Anderson, ‘The Construction of an Alpine Landscape: Building, Representing and Affecting the Eastern Alps, c. 1885–1914’, Journal of Cultural Geography 2 (2012), pp. 155–83. This article won the European Society for Environmental History Article Prize in 2013. It is gratifying that the environmental historian Tait S. Keller has since come to such similar conclusions. 2. Sektion Innerötztal des ÖAV, Zur Erinnerung an Pfarrer Franz Senn: Mitbegründer des Alpenvereins, 1869, Vent (Innsbruck, 1969), pp. 3–4; Christoph Maria Merki, ‘Eine Aussergewöhnliche Landschaft als Kapital: Destinationsmanagement im 19. Jahrhundert am Beispiel von Zermatt’, Histoire des alpes—Storia della alpi—Geschichte des Alpen 9 (2004), pp. 181–201. 3. See Franz Senn, ‘Die Kreuzspitze bei Vent’, ZDOeAV II (1870–1871), pp. 52–67 (pp. 57–58). 4. Senn, ‘Kreuzspitze’, pp. 52, 58–66. The German Alpine Association (Deutscher Alpenverein) was founded in Munich in 1869 as an offshoot of the Austrian Alpenverein (Österreichischer Alpenverein). 5. Franz Senn, ‘Wanderung über den Hochjoch-Ferner am 7. Und 8. November 1868’, Böte für Tirol und Vorarlberg 288–90 (1868), quoted in full in Nicholas Mailänder, ‘Bergsteiger, Menschenfreund und Rebell: Die alpinistische Lebenswerk von Franz Senn’, in Louis Oberwalder (ed.), Franz Senn: Alpinismuspionier und Gründer des Alpenvereins 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 125

(Innsbruck, 2004), pp. 70–95 (pp. 82–89); Franz Senn, Aus dem Leben eines Gletscherführers (Munich, 1869). 6. Ludwig Steub, Drei Sommer in Tirol, 2nd ed., Vol. 2 (Stuttgart, 1871), p. 107. See Hannes Schlosser, Alpingeschichte kurz und bündig: Vent im Ötztal (Innsbruck, 2012), p. 50; Karl Baedeker, Southern Germany and Austria, Including the Eastern Alps: Handbook for Travellers, 2nd ed. (Coblenz, 1871), p. 269. 7. For an exhaustive history of Alpenverein mountain huts in the Eastern Alps, see Michael Guggenberger, Hoch Hinaus: Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 2: Die Hütten, Biwaks und Aussichtswarten des Alpenvereins (Cologne, 2016). 8. Bernhard Tschofen, Berg—Kultur—Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna, 1999); Peter Hansen, The Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London, 2013); Robert Macfarlane, Mountains of the Mind: A History of a Fascination (London, 2004); Dickinson, Edward, ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 33:3 (2010), pp. 579–602; Dagmar Günther, Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt a. M., 1998). For this estimate of numbers, see Victor Hecht, ‘Zur Regulierung der Führer-Tarife und Führer-Ordnungen’, MDOeAV VII[XVII]:12 (1891), pp. 157–59 (p. 158). 9. See Ann C. Colley, Victorians in the Mountains: Sinking the Sublime (Farnham, 2010), pp. 13–100; Josef Morrigl, Von Hütte zu Hütte: Führer zu den Schutzhütten der deutschen und österreichischen Alpen (Leipzig, 1912). 10. Eduard Richter, ‘Aus der Einleitung zur “Erschließung der Ostalpen”’, MDOeAV VIII[XVIII] (1892), pp. 123–25 (p. 125). 11. Peter Hansen, ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid-Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 34:3 (1995), pp. 300–24 (p. 301); Peter L. Bayers, Imperial Ascent: Mountaineering, Masculinity, and Empire (Boulder, 2003). 12. Nigel Thrift, Non-representational Theory: Space | Politics | Affect (Abingdon, 2008), pp. 235–43. 13. Tim Ingold, ‘The Temporality of the Landscape’, World Archaeology 25:2 (1993), pp. 152–74, (p. 160). 14. See Wolfgang König, Bahnen und Berge: Verkehrstechnik, Tourismus und Naturschutz in den Schweizer Alpen, 1870–1939 (Frankfurt a. M., 2000). 15. A. Nagler to hoher Magistrat der k. Haupt- und Residenzstadt München, SA München/Ausstellungen und Messen 28:22198 (21 November 1900), pp. 1–2; Karl Rasp, I. Vorstand der allgemeinen Gewerbeverein München to hoher Magistrat der k. Haupt- und Residenzstadt München, 126 B. ANDERSON

SA München/Ausstellungen und Messen 28:7986I (6 December 1907), pp. 1–2; Anon., Zuschreibung nr. 7986, SA München/Ausstellungen und Messen 28 (25 January 1908). Allgemeine Gewerbeverein München. Aufruf, Staatsarchiv München/pol. dir. 3759:1 (1898), p. 1; Allgemeine deutsche Sportausstellung, Offizieller Katalog der Allgemeinen deutschen Sportausstellung, München 1899 (Munich, 1899), frontispiece. 16. Anon., ‘Münchener Angelegenheiten: “Die Komodie ist aus”’, Münchener Post 236 (18 October 1899), SA München/Ausstellungen und Messen 28. 17. Allgemeine Gewerbeverein München, ‘Rechnungsabschluss per 30. Mai 1900 der Allgemein deutschen Sportausstellung München 1899’, SA München/Ausstellungen und Messen 28 (30 May 1900), p. 2. 18. Ausstellungsleitung (ed.), Amtlicher Führer durch die Ausstellung München 1908 (Munich, 1908), pp. xi–xii; Ausstellungsleitung (ed.), Die Ausstellung München 1908: eine Denkschrift (Munich, 1908), pp. xiv, 72–74; Caroline Böttcher, Arbeiter, Alpen und Attrappen: Ein Hörspaziergang über die Berliner Gewerbeausstellung von 1896 (Munich, 2018); Andreas Bürgi, Eine touristische Bilderfabrik. Kommerz, Vergnügen und Belehrung am Luzerner Löwenplatz, 1850–1914 (Zurich, 2016). 19. Allgemeine deutsche Sportausstellung, Offizieller Katalog, frontispiece. 20. Anon., ‘Rundgang durch unsere Ausstellung’, Sport-Ausstellungs-Zeitung & Tagesprogramm: Officielles Organ der Allgemeinen Deutschen Sportausstellung München (1899), pp. 111–12. 21. Kevin Blake, ‘Imagining Heaven and Earth at Mount of the Holy Cross, Colorado’, Journal of Cultural Geography 25:1 (2010), pp. 1–30 (pp. 9–13); David Crouch, ‘Flirting with Space: Thinking Landscape Relationally’, Cultural Geographies 17:1 (2010), pp. 5–18; Marcus A. Doel, ‘Representation and difference’, in Ben Anderson and Paul Harrison (eds.), Taking Place: Non-representational Theories and Geography (Farnham, 2010), pp. 117–30 (pp. 119–20). 22. Anon, ‘Der Frühschoppen im Bavariakeller’, MNN 367 (10 August 1894), p. 3; Albrecht Penck, ‘Oberlercher’s Glocknerrelief’, MDOeAV XII[XXII]:9 (1896), pp. 105–07. 23. Anon., ‘Bergsport’, Sport-Ausstellungs-Zeitung & Tagesprogramm: Officielles Organ der Allgemeinen Deutschen Sportausstellung München 1899 32 (1899), p. 3. 24. Thrift, Non-representational, p. 237. 25. Jennifer Jenkins, Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Liberal Politics in Fin-de-siècle Hamburg (Ithaca, NY, 2003); Patrick Joyce, The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London, 2003), pp. 98–137, 219–24; James J. Sheehan, Museums in the German Art World from the End of the Old Regime to the Rise of Modernism (Oxford, 2000), pp. 98–120. 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 127

26. Thrift, Non-representational, p. 237. 27. Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (London, 1995), pp. 59–105. 28. Fr. Zimmetter to Zentralausschuss des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins, AOeAV/SE/81/303 (25 October 1907), pp. 1–2; J. Dinges to Carl Müller, AOeAV/KUL/1/7 (25 August 1912); Albrecht Penck, ‘Neue Reliefs der Alpen’, Geographische Zeitschrift 10 (1904), pp. 26–38 (pp. 36–38). Madlena Calvelti Hammer, ‘Panoramen für Touristen’, in Susanne Grieder (ed.), Augenreisen: das Panorama in der Schweiz (Bern, 2001), pp. 90–109; Toni Mair and Susanne Grieder (eds.), Das Landschaftsrelief: Symbiose von Wissenschaft und Kunsthandwerk (Baden, 2006); Bürgi, Bilderfabrik. 29. Marie Louise von Plessen and Ulrich Giersch (eds.), Ausstellung Sehsucht: Das Panorama als Massenunterhaltung im 19. Jahrhundert (Bonn, 1993); Andreas Bürgi (ed.) Europa Miniature: Die kulturelle Bedeutung des Reliefs, 16.–21. Jahrhundert/Il significato culturale dei rilievi plastici XVI–XXI secolo (Zurich, 2007). 30. Mair and Grieder, Landschaftsrelief. 31. Veronica della Dora, ‘Putting the World Into a Box: A Geography of Nineteenth-Century “Travelling Landscapes”’, Geografiska Annaler 89:4 (2007), pp. 287–306 (p. 288). 32. See Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, pp. 7–8. 33. See Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, p. 8; Bürgi, Europa Miniature. 34. Penck, ‘Neue Reliefs’, p. 35. See also http://www.terrainmodels.com/ paperweights.html. 35. von Plessen and Giersch, Ausstellung Sehsucht; Monika Gärtner et al. (eds.), Rund um Berge: Faltpanoramen oder der Versuch alles sehen zu kön- nen/Mountains All Around: Folding Panoramas or the Quest to See All (Innsbruck, 2000); Bürgi, Europa Miniature, p. 14. 36. Penck, ‘Oberlercher’s Glocknerrelief’, p. 105. 37. See Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, p. 8. 38. Eduard Richter, Die Erschließung der Ostalpen: 1. Band: die nördlichen Kalkalpen (Berlin, 1893), p. 74. 39. Max Jaffé, ‘Ein alpines Kunstwerk’, ÖAZ XXXIII:831 (1911), pp. 215– 16 (p. 216); Daniel Speich, ‘Mountains made in Switzerland: Facts and Concerns in Nineteenth-Century Cartography’, Science in Context 22:3 (2009), pp. 387–408. 40. David Sorkin, ‘Wilhelm von Humboldt: The Theory and Practice of Self- formation (Bildung), 1791–1810’, Journal of the History of Ideas 44:1 (1983), pp. 55–73. 41. See documents in AOeAV/KUL/1/1. 128 B. ANDERSON

42. Müller, ‘Alpine Museum zu München’, p. 15; Anon. ‘Eröffnung’, MNN (1911). 43. Anon., ‘Eröffnung’, MDOeAV (1911), p. 292. Tait S. Keller, ‘Eternal Mountains—Eternal Germany: The Alpine Association and the Ideology of Alpinism, 1909–1939,’ Unpublished PhD thesis, Washington, DC, 2006, pp. 1–36. 44. Eduard Brückner, ‘Natur- und Völkerkunde. Das alpine Museum des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins’, Neue Freie Presse, AOeAV/KUL/1/5 (19 December 1911); Carl Müller, ‘Das alpine Museum zu München’, MDOeAV XXVIII[XXXVIII]:3 (1912), pp. 31–34 (p. 34); Karl Müller, Führer durch das Alpine Museum des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpen-Vereins in München (Munich, 1916). 45. Karl Müller, ‘Das alpine Museum von Karl Müller’, ZDOeAV XLIII (1912), pp. 1–24 (p. 1). 46. Carl Müller, ‘Antrag an der Generalversammlung 1908’, AOeAV/ KUL/1/1, pp. 1–2. Müller appears to have changed the spelling of his name in the late 1900s. 47. John Berger, quoted in Denis Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape (London, 1985), p. 271. 48. Joseph Aug[ust] Lux, ‘Die Alpen in der Kunst’, DAZ X:1 (1910–1911), pp. 187–92 (p. 187). It is likely that this is the early Werkbund critic and promoter: Mark Jarzombek, ‘Joseph August Lux: Werkbund Promoter, Historian of a Lost Modernity’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 2 (2004), pp. 202–19. 49. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (Harvard, 1984), p. 2. 50. Eduard Richter, ‘Eine Geschichte der Erschliessung der Ostalpen’, MDOeAV VII[XVII]:3 (1891), pp. 35–36 (p. 35). 51. Max Nassauer, Gebirge und Gesundheit: Hÿgienische Winke besonders für die Frauen (Munich, 1910). 52. Pierre Bourdieu, quoted in Simon Gunn, ‘Translating Bourdieu: Cultural Capital and the English Middle Class in Historical Perspective’, British Journal of Sociology 56:1 (2005), 49–64 (p. 53). 53. König, Bahnen und Berge. 54. Müller, Alpine Museum, p. 17; Volker R. Berghahn, Imperial Germany: Economy, Society, Culture and Politics (New York, 2005), pp. 6–10 and Table 14. 55. Heinrich Menger, ‘Die neuen alpinen Wegbauten in den Ostalpen’, MDOeAV XXIX[XXXIX]:11 (1913), pp. 159–62 (p. 160). 56. Nepomuk Zwickh, ‘Geschichte der Section von 1869–1899’, in M. v. Prielmayer Freiherr von Prie (ed.), Geschichte der Alpenvereinssection München, als Denkschrift nach dreissigjährigem Bestehen herausgegeben (Munich, 1900), pp. 12–13, 54, 177. 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 129

57. Zwickh, ‘Geschichte der Sektion’, pp. 386–97; August Rothpletz to Hauptausschuss des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins, ADAV/BGS/SG/201/8/16E (05 June 1913), pp. 2–3. 58. Hans Rehm and Mathias Leberle (eds.), IV. Jahres-Bericht (Vereinsjahr 1899) der Sektion “Bayerland” München (anerkannter Verein) des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins (Munich, 1900), pp. 9–10. 59. John Urry, The Tourist Gaze, 2nd ed. (London, 2002). 60. Alois Dreyer, Der Alpinismus und der deutsch-österreichische Alpenverein— seine Entwicklung—seine Bedeutung—seine Zukunft (Berlin, 1909), pp. 130–31. See Kerwin Lee Klein, ‘A Vertical World: The Eastern Alps and Modern Mountaineering’, Journal of Historical Sociology 4 (2011), pp. 519–48 (pp. 525–26). 61. Johannes Emmer, ‘Geschichte des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins’, ZDOeAV XXV[XXXV] (1894), pp. 177–438 (pp. 231– 32); Ernst Blaschka, ‘Wegbau der S. Zell am See vom Dorf Kaprun auf den Wasserfall und Moserboden’, MDOeAV IX[XIX]:11 (1893), pp. 139–41 (p. 139); Victor Zoeppritz, ‘Ueber die Bedürfnissfrage bei Weg- und Hüttenbauten’, MDOeAV XII[XXII]:22 (1896), pp. 274–75; Josef Ostermaier, ‘Rund um die Geißlerspitzen’, MDOeAV XXII[XXXII]:8 (1906), pp. 93–97 (p. 93); Heinrich Steinach, ‘Einiges über “alpinen Wegbau”’, MDOeAV XXVI[XXXV]:6 (1910), pp. 73–76. 62. Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, pp. 15–16. 63. Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, p. 17. 64. Rehm and Leberle, Jahresbericht Bayerland 1899, pp. 10–11; Chales de Beaulieu, ‘Von der Gleiwitzer Hütte zum Wiesbachhorn Hause’, MDOeAV XXIII[XXXIII]:13 (1907), pp. 158–60. Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, p. 18. 65. Heinrich Steinitzer, ‘I. vom Nebelhorn zum Hohen Licht’, in Heinrich Hess (ed.), ‘Hochalpine Spaziergänge’, MDOeAV XV[XXV]:1 (1899), pp. 2–4 (p. 2). 66. Anton Holzer, ‘Mountains All Around: Folding Panoramas or the Quest to See All’, in Gärtner, Rund um Berge, pp. 1–17 (p. 5). 67. Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 57–58. 68. Thrift, Non-representational, pp. 10, 242. 69. Jenny Herzberg, ‘Eine Bergfahrt auf den Hohen Göll’, MDOeAV XIII[XXIII]:7 (1897), pp. 77–79 (p. 77). 70. David Knights and Theo Vurdubakis, ‘Foucault, resistance and all that’, in John M. Jermier, David Knights and Walter R. Nord (eds.), Resistance to Power in Organisations (London, 1994), pp. 167–98 (p. 180). 71. Günther, Alpine Quergänge, p. 319. For example, Ludwig Purtscheller, ‘Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Alpinismus und der alpinen Technik in den deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpen’, ZDOeAV XXV[XXXV] 130 B. ANDERSON

(1894), pp. 95–176 (p. 115); Marie Reinthaler, ‘Auf der Plose, 2506m: zur Einführung eines neues hochalpinen Weges’, MDOeAV XVIII[XXVIII]:6 (1902), pp. 67–68; G. Roschnik, ‘Eine alpine Betrachtung’, DAZ II:18 (1902), pp. 153–55 (p. 153); Nepomuk Zwickh (ed.), XXIV Jahresbericht (Vereinsjahr 1893) der Alpenvereins- Section München (anerkannter Verein) (Munich, 1894), p. 9. 72. Tim Ingold, ‘Culture on the Ground: The World Perceived Through the Feet’, Journal of Material Culture 9:3 (2004), pp. 315–40 (pp. 318–29). 73. For example, Paul Preuß, ‘Der ‘Mauerhakenstreit’: künstliche Hilfsmittel auf Hochtouren’ [1911], in Reinhold Messner (ed.), Paul Preuß (Munich, 1996), p. 52. 74. Adolf Wenz, ‘Das Münchenerhaus auf der Zugspitze’, MDOeAV XIII[XXIII]:11 (1897), pp. 130–31; Anderson, ‘Alpine Landscape’, p. 21. 75. Nepomuk Zwickh (ed.), XXV. Jahresbericht (Vereinsjahr 1894) der Alpenvereins-Section München (anerkannter Verein) (Munich, 1895), pp. 18–20. 76. Nepomuk Zwickh (ed.), XXVII. Jahresbericht (Vereinsjahr 1897) der Alpenvereins-Section München (anerkannter Verein) (Munich, 1897), pp. 15–16. 77. Zwickh, Jahresbericht München 1897, p. 15; Zwickh, Jahresbericht München 1895, p. 20. 78. Wenz, ‘Münchenerhaus’, p. 131. 79. Zwickh, Jahresbericht München 1895, p. 18; H. Steinach, ‘Einiges über “alpinen Wegbau”’, MDOeAV XXVI[XXXV]:6 (1910), pp. 73–76; Emil Pott, ‘Aus den Stubaier Alpen. Von der Magdeburger- zur Müllerhütte. Weisswandspitze (3013m)’, MDOeAV VII(XVII):23 (1891), pp. 297– 300 (p. 299); Carl Müller, ‘Die Müllerhütte auf dem Pfaffennieder im Uebelthalferner’, MDOeAV VII(XVII):16 (1891), pp. 216–218. 80. Didem Ediki, ‘From Rikli’s light-and-air hut to Tessenow’s Patenthaus: Körperkultur and the Modern Dwelling in Germany, 1890–1914’, Journal of Architecture 13:4 (2008), pp. 379–406 (pp. 380–87). 81. Wenz, ‘Münchenerhaus’, p. 130. 82. Heinrich Steinach, ‘Ueber Hüttenbau’, MDOeAV X[XX]:10 (1894), pp. 119–20; Heinrich Steinach, ‘Ueber Hüttenbau’, MDOeAV XII[XXII]:24 (1896), pp. 295–97; Maiken Umbach and Bernd-Rüdiger Hüppauf (eds.), Vernacular Modernism: Heimat, Globalization, and the Built Environment (Stanford, 2005). For an excellent discussion, see Doris Hallama, ‘Hüttenbauen im Hochalpinen: Zur Architektur der Schutzhütten’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.) Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen (Cologne, 2016), pp. 121–202. Adolf Loos, ‘Regeln für den, der in den Bergen Baut’, in 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 131

Adolf Loos, Trotzdem 1900–1930 (Innsbruck, 1931), pp. 131–32; Doris Hallama, ‘Hüttenbauten im Hochalpinen: Zur Architektur der Schutzhütten’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne, 2016), pp. 121–201 (p. 160). 83. Zwickh, Jahresbericht 1894, p. 31. 84. Zwickh, Jahresbericht 1895, p. 31. 85. Peter Hansen, ‘Modern Mountains: The Performative Consciousness of Modernity in Britain, 1870–1940’, in Martin Daunton and Bernhard Rieger (eds.), Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the Late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford, 2001), pp. 185–202 (p. 187). 86. Detlev Peukert, The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity (London, 1991). 87. James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven, CA, 1998); David Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape and the Making of Modern Germany (London, 2007), pp. 113–201. 88. For an excellent environmental history of skiing, see Andrew Denning, Skiing into Modernity: A Cultural and Environmental History (Oakland, 2015). See also Lee Wallace Holt, ‘Mountains, Mountaineering and Modernity: A Cultural History of German and Austrian Mountaineering, 1900–1945’, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Texas at Austin, pp. 8–10. 89. König, Bahnen und Berge, pp. 125–33. 90. See Chap. 5, below, and K. B. Staatsministerium für Verkehrsangelegenheiten to K. Staatsminiterium des Innern, BHsAM/MInn66813/2524/3 (22 March 1912), p. 1. 91. Laurence Cole, “Für Gott, Kaiser und Vaterland”: Nationale Identität der deutschsprachigen Bevölkerung Tirols, 1860–1914 (Frankfurt, 2000), pp. 29–30. See also Martin Scharfe, Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus 1750–1850 (Cologne, 2007). 92. There are some similarities, both in terms of the notion of ‘improvement’, and the moral resistance to that change, to early modern processes of enclosure. See M. Neeson, Commoners: Common Right, Enclosure and Social Change in England, 1700–1820 (Cambridge, 1993); Andy Wood, Riot, Rebellion and Popular Politics in Early-Modern England (Basingstoke, 2002). 93. Max Byschl, Staatsarchiv München/LRA/62910, quoted in Thomas Ebert, ‘Die Zugspitze—ein ökologischer Erinnerungsort?’ Unpublished Magister-Arbeit: LMU, 2011, p. 51. 94. See Emmer, ‘Geschichte’, pp. 179–80. 132 B. ANDERSON

95. Ingeborg Schmid, ‘Die Anfänge und Auswirkungen des alpinen Tourismus im Ötztal’, Unpublished D.-Arbeit, Innsbruck University, 1998; Schlosser, Vent; Oberwalder, Franz Senn. 96. Nicholas Mailänder, ‘Jüdische Beiträge zum Alpinusmus’, in Hanno Loewy and Gerhard Milchram (eds.), “Hast du meine Alpen gesehen?” Eine jüdische Beziehungsgeschichte (Hohenems, 2009), pp. 240–57 (p. 241). 97. Quoted in Louis Oberwalder, ‘Franz Senn, ein Gründerschicksal: Die Lebensgeschichte des Kuraten von Vent’, in Oberwalder, Franz Senn, pp. 8–69 (p. 44). Senn’s word for tourism, Touristenwesens is important here, because Tourist described specifically person who went into the mountains for leisure. 98. See Oberwalder, ‘Franz Senn’, pp. 15, 41–42. 99. In 1875 4 of 8, in 1876 12 of 14, in 1877 10 of 16, in 1878 10 of 11, in 1879 9 of 11 and 1880 11 of 16. (Joint commissions, for instance by Austria and Salzkammergut, have been treated as ‘urban’). Anon. ‘Bericht über die zweite General-Versammlung des deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins zu Innsbruck am 18. August 1875’, ZDOeAV VI (1875), p. 3. Teil, pp. 17–28 (pp. 22–23); Anon. ‘Bericht über die III. General-Versammlung des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins in Botzen 1876’, ZDOeAV VII (1876), p. 3. Teil, pp. 307– 22 (pp. 311–12); Anon. ‘Bericht über die vierte General-Versammlung des Deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins in Traunstein’, ZDOeAV VIII (1877), pp. 357–71 (pp. 365–67); Anon., ‘Bericht über die fünfte General-Versammlung des Deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins in Ischl’, ZDOeAV IX (1878), pp. 351–64 (pp. 360–61); Anon., ‘Bericht über die sechste General-Versammlung des Deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins im Pinzgau (Saalfelden)’, ZDOeAV X (1879), pp. 409–22 (pp. 416–17); Anon., ‘Bericht über die siebente General-Versammlung des Deutschen und Oesterreichischen Alpenvereins in Reichenhall’, ZDOeAV XI (1880), pp. 443–53 (pp. 450–51). 100. Emmer, ‘Geschichte’, p. 184. 101. Karl von Prybila, ‘Verzeichniss der Hütten des D. u. Oe. Alpenvereins, andere Vereine, der Alpenwirthshäuser und Warten nach Special- Kartenblättern’, MDOeAV XIII (XXIII):7 (1897) beilage. Also listed were ‘Warte’, maintained bivouac sites and pavilions. It is unclear how von Prybila defined inclusion, but accommodation in villages or towns seems to have been excluded. 102. Ingrid Beikircher, Dr. Daimer und die Alpingeschichte des Tauferer Ahrntales (Sand in Taufers, 2009). 103. Josef Daimer to Zentralausschuss, AVAST/SE/18/125 and 126. 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 133

104. Other examples are Hermenegild Hammerl in Windischmatrei; Max Byschl in Garmisch; Curat Gärtner in Gurgl and Curat Eller in Sulden. See AOeAV/SE/123/101; AOeAV/PERS/32/2; Ebert, ‘Zugspitze’; For a contemporary alternative perspective, see Hans Biendl, ‘Turistik und Fremdenverkehr’, ÖAZ 862 (1912), pp. 240–46. 105. Oberwalder, ‘Franz Senn’, pp. 8–69. 106. For xenophobia and antisemitism amongst religious leaders, see Ingrid Runggaldier, Frauen im Aufstieg: Auf Spurensuche in der Alpingeschichte (Bozen, 2011), p. 154. 107. Winfrid Hofinger and Niko Hofinger (eds.), ‘Materialien zu Adolf Trientl: Aus den Beständen der Universitätsbibliothek und der Bibliothek des Museums Ferdinandeum zusammengestellt’, 8 vols. (unpublished collection, 1990), Gedächtnisspeicher Ötztal/Sammlung Haid 102258– 102265; Whilst most of Trientl’s publications relate to agricultural improvement, he did find time to publishEin Gang nach Gurgl in 1864 (Hofinger, ‘Materialien’, Vol. 1, pp. 79–104). His liberal political position is confirmed by a series of letters in the mid-1880s (Hofinger, ‘Materialien’, Vol. 1, pp. 105–34).

Bibliography

Archival Sources Alpenvereinsarchiv Südtirol (AVAST) Archiv des deutschen Alpenvereins (ADAV) Archiv des oesterreichischen Alpenvereins (AOeAV) Bayerische Hauptstaatsarchiv München (BHsAM) Gedächtnisspeicher Ötztal Staatsarchiv München Stadtarchiv München (SA München)

Newspapers and Journals Deutsche Alpenzeitung (DAZ) Mitt(h)eilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins (MDOeAV) Münchner Neueste Nachrichten (MNN) Neue Freie Presse Österreichische Alpenzeitung (ÖAZ) Sport-Ausstellungs-Zeitung & Tagesprogramm: Officielles Organ der Allgemeinen Deutschen Sportausstellung München Zeitschrift des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins (ZDOeAV) 134 B. ANDERSON

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Bayers, Peter L. (2003) Imperial Ascent: Mountaineering, Masculinity, and Empire (Boulder). Beikircher, Ingrid (2009) Dr. Daimer und die Alpingeschichte des Tauferer Ahrntales (Sand in Taufers). Bennett, Tony (1995) The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (London). Berghahn, Volker R. (2005) Imperial Germany: Economy, Society, Culture and Politics (New York). Blackbourn, David (2007) The Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape and the Making of Modern Germany (London). Blake, Kevin (2010) ‘Imagining Heaven and Earth at Mount of the Holy Cross Colorado’, Journal of Cultural Geography 1, pp. 1–30. Böttcher, Caroline (2018) Arbeiter, Alpen und Attrappen: Ein Hörspaziergang über die Berliner Gewerbeausstellung von 1896 (Munich). Bourdieu, Pierre (1984) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste (Harvard). Bürgi, Andreas (ed.) (2007) Europa Miniature: Die kulturelle Bedeutung des Reliefs, 16.–21. Jahrhundert/Il significato culturale dei rilievi plastici XVI–XXI secolo (Zurich). Bürgi, Andreas (2016) Eine touristische Bilderfabrik. Kommerz, Vergnügen und Belehrung am Luzerner Löwenplatz, 1850–1914 (Zurich). Cole, Laurence (2000) “Für Gott, Kaiser und Vaterland”: Nationale Identität der deutschsprachigen Bevölkerung Tirols, 1860–1914 (Frankfurt). Colley, Ann C. (2010) Victorians in the Mountains: Sinking the Sublime (Farnham). Cosgrove, Denis (1985) Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape (London). Crouch, David (2010) ‘Flirting with Space: Thinking Landscape Relationally’, Cultural Geographies 1 (2010), pp. 5–18. Denning, Andrew (2015) Skiing into Modernity: A Cultural and Environmental History (Oakland). Dickinson, Edward (2010) ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 3, pp. 579–602. Doel, Marcus A. (2010) ‘Representation and Difference’, in Ben Anderson and Paul Harrison (eds.), Taking Place: Non-representational Theories and Geography (Farnham), pp. 117–30. Dora, Veronica della (2007) ‘Putting the World into a Box: A Geography of Nineteenth-Century “Travelling Landscapes”’, Geografiska Annaler 4, pp. 287–306. Ebert, Thomas (2011) ‘Die Zugspitze—ein ökologischer Erinnerungsort?’, Unpublished Magister-Arbeit, LMU. Ediki, Didem (2008) ‘From Rikli’s Light-and-Air Hut to Tessenow’s Patenthaus: Körperkultur and the modern dwelling in Germany, 1890–1914’, Journal of Architecture 4, pp. 379–406. 136 B. ANDERSON

Gärtner, Monika et al. (eds.) (2000), Rund um Berge: Faltpanoramen oder der Versuch alles sehen zu können/Mountains All Around: Folding Panoramas or the Quest to See All (Innsbruck). Grieder, Susanne (ed.) (2001) Augenreisen: das Panorama in der Schweiz (Bern). Guggenberger, Michael (2016) Hoch Hinaus: Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 2: Die Hütten, Biwaks und Aussichtswarten des Alpenvereins (Cologne). Gunn, Simon (2005) ‘Translating Bourdieu: Cultural Capital and the English Middle Class in Historical Perspective’, British Journal of Sociology 1, pp. 49–64. Günther, Dagmar (1998) Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt a. M.). Hallama, Doris (2016) ‘Hüttenbauten im Hochalpinen: Zur Architektur der Schutzhütten’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne), pp. 121–201. Hansen, Peter (1995) ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid-Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 300–24. Hansen, Peter (2001) ‘Modern Mountains: The Performative Consciousness of Modernity in Britain, 1870–1940’, in Martin Daunton and Bernhard Rieger (eds.), Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the Late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford), pp. 185–202. Hansen, Peter (2013) The Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London). Holt, Lee Wallace (2008) ‘Mountains, Mountaineering and Modernity: A Cultural History of German and Austrian Mountaineering, 1900–1945’, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Texas at Austin. Ingold, Tim (1993) ‘The Temporality of the Landscape’, World Archaeology 2, pp. 152–74. Ingold, Tim (2004) ‘Culture on the Ground: The World Perceived Through the Feet’, Journal of Material Culture 3, pp. 315–40. Jarzombek, Mark (2004) ‘Joseph August Lux: Werkbund Promoter, Historian of a Lost Modernity’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 2, pp. 202–19. Jenkins, Jennifer (2003) Provincial Modernity: Local Culture and Liberal Politics in fin-de-siècle Hamburg (Ithaca, NY). Joyce, Patrick (2003) The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London). Keller, Tait S. (2006) ‘Eternal Mountains—Eternal Germany: The Alpine Association and The Ideology of Alpinism, 1909–1939,’ Unpublished PhD thesis, Washington, DC. Klein, Kerwin Lee (2011) ‘A Vertical World: The Eastern Alps and Modern Mountaineering’, Journal of Historical Sociology 4, pp. 519–48. 4 CONSTRUCTING THE ALPS 137

Knights, David and Vurdubakis, Theo (1994) ‘Foucault, Resistance and All That’, in John M. Jermier, David Knights and Walter R. Nord (eds.), Resistance to Power in Organisations (London), pp. 167–98. König, Wolfgang (2000) Bahnen und Berge: Verkehrstechnik, Tourismus und Naturschutz in den Schweizer Alpen, 1870–1939 (Frankfurt a. M.). Macfarlane, Robert (2004) Mountains of the Mind: A History of a Fascination (London). Mailänder, Nicholas (2009) ‘Jüdische Beiträge zum Alpinusmus’, in Hanno Loewy and Gerhard Milchram (eds.), “Hast du meine Alpen gesehen?” Eine jüdische Beziehungsgeschichte (Hohenems), pp. 240–57. Mair, Toni and Grieder, Susanne (eds.) (2006) Das Landschaftsrelief: Symbiose von Wissenschaft und Kunsthandwerk (Baden). Merki, Christoph Maria (2004) ‘Eine Aussergewöhnliche Landschaft als Kapital: Destinationsmanagement im 19. Jahrhundert am Beispiel von Zermatt’, Histoire des alpes—Storia della alpi—Geschichte des Alpen 9, pp. 181–201. Messner, Reinhold (ed.) (1996) Paul Preuß (Munich). Nassauer, Max (1910) Gebirge und Gesundheit: Hÿgienische Winke besonders für die Frauen (Munich). Neeson, M. (1993) Commoners: Common Right, Enclosure and Social Change in England, 1700–1820 (Cambridge). Oberwalder, Louis (ed.) (2004) Franz Senn: Alpinismuspionier und Gründer des Alpenvereins (Innsbruck). Peukert, Detlev (1991) The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity (London). Plessen, Marie Louise von and Giersch, Ulrich (eds.) (1993) Ausstellung Sehsucht: Das Panorama als Massenunterhaltung im 19. Jahrhundert (Bonn). Runggaldier, Ingrid (2011) Frauen im Aufstieg: Auf Spurensuche in der Alpingeschichte (Bozen/Bolzano). Scharfe, Martin (2007) Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus 1750–1850 (Cologne). Scharr, Kurt (2013) Vent: Geographie und Geschichte eines Ortes und seiner Täler (Innsbruck). Schlosser, Hannes (2012) Alpingeschichte kurz und bündig: Vent im Ötztal (Innsbruck). Schmid, Ingeborg (1998) ‘Die Anfänge und Auswirkungen des alpinen Tourismus im Ötztal’, Unpublished D.-Arbeit, Innsbruck University. Scott, James C. (1998) Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (New Haven, CA). Sektion Innerötztal des ÖAV (1969) Zur Erinnerung an Pfarrer Franz Senn: Mitbegründer des Alpenvereins, 1869, Vent (Innsbruck). Sheehan, James J. (2000) Museums in the German Art World from the End of the Old Regime to the Rise of Modernism (Oxford). 138 B. ANDERSON

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Online Sources http://www.terrainmodels.com/paperweights.html. CHAPTER 5

Time

On a visit to the Breton village of Pontorson in 1911, one Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA) vacationer commented on the ‘generations of Jacques and Jeans’ that occupied the market. They wore ‘the same som- ber hats and black smocks as their grandparents and great-grandparents had done before them. We British’, the writer M. B. continued, ‘looked as alone and disinherited as though we had no ancestors’.1 In pointing to the apparent rootlessness of the visitors’ culture, M. B. expressed difference in terms of a historical imagination rooted in comparative modernities. While the Breton ‘peasants’ stood unchanged for generations, the Britons had long since detached themselves from custom and tradition, and carried the symbols of modernity with them—even when recruited for some weak humour:

Hard to trace, in our motley tourist garb, the clanking armour of our Richard Two, who in those wondrous Middle-Ages, founded the present church on the sacred Mount. Our armour was mostly the latest in Kodaks, carried on the back! Our breastplates were ¼-plate, while we aimed nothing more deadly than snap-shots at the impregnable walls.2

A traditional analysis might point to such medievalism as evidence for an imagined anti-modern, nationalist idyll, but M. B.’s description, with its flippant tone, comparison of modern technologies of peace to medieval ones of war and assertion of a more complex Anglo-Norman-French

history cannot be read in this way.3 Nor can it be read as an example of continuity between the past and modernity, since M. B. explicitly rejected links to her own ancestors. If this was an exercise in the sorts of modern citizenship highlighted by David Matless meanwhile—‘arts of right living’ demonstrative of democratic nationhood—how should we understand M. B.’s portrayal of atavistic ‘Jacques and Jeans’ next to the cameras and modern clothes of British tourists?4 M. B.’s use of time demands a perspective that moves beyond insular questions of national identity, important though that was. Everywhere else in the nineteenth-century world, European people invoked the past to legitimise control and violence over others, based on imagined temporal hierarchies of race, culture and civilisation.5 In an imperial context, time constituted a system of power, shaping the identities of those who wielded it, but also the lives of those whom it was wielded against. This chapter approaches the temporal imagination of the European countryside with a similar set of focuses in mind. When outdoors leisure enthusiasts described European countrysides as backwards, idyllic, quaint or traditional, the questions we need to ask are not only what this might tell us about walkers’ or mountaineers’ own motivations, but which actions against whom such temporalities justified, and what this meant for the ‘Jacques and Jeans’ thus rendered primitive. As Peter Fritzsche highlighted in a speculative discussion of nostalgia, early twentieth-century conversation about the past was ‘predicated on a deep rupture in remembered experience’ which asserted the irreversibility of historical change even while lamenting what was lost.6 Far from a reactionary escape to a lost rural past, this form of imagining time placed some in that lost world of static culture and inherited traditions, and some in a present of constant change and dynamic futures. Yet urbanites’ application of the past to the countryside did more work than simply affirming their own modernities. By insisting on a temporal distance between their own lives and those who lived in the places through which they moved, walkers and mountaineers justified their anthropological gaze over rural people— what Rudy Koshar has described as a ‘colonizing orientalism’.7 In England, Germany and Austria, often well-meaning urban people valorised rural communities, but in doing so, they appropriated their voices, categorised and prescribed their identities, judged their status against their own as modern individuals, and as we saw in the last chapter, wrote them out of narratives of ‘progress’ in the mountains. How better, in M. B.’s account, to invoke that control of the present and future than with the Kodak—a 5 TIME 141 new technology that allowed the literal possession of any landscape in perpetuity. Adopting this perspective on the ‘place of the past’ in outdoors culture means analysing such rhetoric as assertions of power in addition to expressions of identity or genuine sentiment.8 It seems impossible that ramblers, climbers and mountaineers can have been ignorant of this potential of the past. In this era of high imperialism, Europeans imagined the world as much temporally as spatially; whether understood as white European leadership of a hierarchy of races, a thoroughgoing orientalism, or straightforward projects of legitimised evolutionary extermination, imperialism relied on a basic premise of European modernity and colonial backwardness. Outdoors leisure enthusiasts were indeed directly entangled in colonial drives to ‘progress’ and ‘improvement’. Mountaineers’ emulation of imperial heroes is now well-established, but by 1890 this was extended to imperial enterprises themselves.9 Mountaineers involved themselves in relatively benign mountaineering expeditions on the one hand, such as the first European ascent of Kilimanjaro or early attempts on mountains in the ‘greater ranges’; but also played a role in establishing pioneer colonies in what would become German East Africa, and leading the 1904 massacre of Tibetan troops.10 As a Christian organisation the Co-operative Holidays Association supported its members’ missionary activity, and its internationalist vision derived in part from a colonial imagination of the ‘teutonic race’ as the leader of the modern world.11 If mountaineers found their walking and climbing activities easy to adapt to colonial settings, it was because those activities had emerged from cultures saturated by the assumptions of imperialism, and reflected its prejudices. Though concepts such as ‘internal colonisation’ have rarely been applied to Europeans’ habit of placing people in a past that was ostensibly their own, they do capture the necessity of understanding the late nineteenth-century European obsession with a rural past as unavoidably entangled in imperial projects, as well as contemporary European processes of state-building from urban centres.12 As M. B.’s reference to fashion, technology and the capture of ‘snap- shots’ betrays, the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries also saw a new experience of time on a day-to-day (and second-to-second) basis. These changes have commonly been understood as closely aligned with the need for universal time that emerged with the railway, and as a move from ‘natural’ or ‘sun’ time to the ‘abstract’ time familiar to the twentieth century.13 Yet changes to temporal experience were both more and less 142 B. ANDERSON than this description. On the one hand, the dominance of ‘abstract’ time— that is, universal ‘clock’ time, prescribed by states, and theoretically shared worldwide—was far from complete for lengthy periods and, as Vanessa Ogle has shown, could be incorporated readily into what was already a complex web of times in local places in imperial contexts in particular.14 On the other hand, this re-imagination of time was not limited to subjec- tion to the clock, and the years around 1900 were remarkable for widespread interest in how time might be understood and utilised.15 The management of time and space integral to new processes of manufacture, later known as ‘Taylorism’, was well known enough in Germany for the influential mountaineer Eugen Guido Lammer to talk of ‘Taylorisation and mountaineering’ in one early interwar article, and inspired English mountaineers in the Lake District to develop new nutrition and training regimes in pursuit of 24-hour fell records.16 Mountaineers might reference Albert Einstein’s theories of special relativity, Henri Bergson’s call to abandon time for his concept of ‘duration’, or Ellis McTaggart’s denial of the existence of time itself, as well as time controversies such as standardi- sation, daylight-saving time, working hour limits, the ‘rational’ use of free time and contemporary obsessions with speed records.17 For these mountaineers, being modern was not just about placing oneself in the present (and others in the past) but also about demonstrating ones command and understanding of a version of time imagined as profoundly new and different to what had come before.

Pasts and Locals Despite the claims and rhetorics of mountaineers and walkers, as well as government officials, engineers and agricultural experts, rural places in Europe were every bit as much a part of ‘modernity’ as its cities. The Lake District cannot be understood apart from the extensive (military) industrialisation on its Southern shores, Snowdonia without the enormous slate mine in Llanberis, the Scottish highlands without the clearances, or the Peak District without coal and tin mining. In the Eastern Alps, too, economic and political structures resulted from the same nineteenth-century transformations on which the wealth of many visitors rested. Marginal mining industries collapsed in the early nineteenth century, and markets for wood and agricultural produce became more competitive for a region with difficult and long transit routes.18 The process of Bauernbefreiung (freeing of farmers) following 1848 freed the Austrian peasantry from 5 TIME 143 remaining feudal obligations, but at the cost of 20 years’ indebtedness to the Austrian state.19 While levels of debt in alpine regions were relatively manageable, their impact affected perhaps half of the population.20 By the 1860s, Tirolean farmers were both poor and well-integrated into capitalist credit networks, a process often accompanied by xenophobia and antisemitism.21 Similar points might be made about the ‘agricultural depres- sion’ of late nineteenth-century England: Although contemporary diagnosis emphasised backward and outdated systems that called for reform, the central problem was cheap imports from abroad (and then only really for the South East), something driven by the same processes of modernity that were supposedly missing.22 As Paul Readman has shown, however, appeals to a more distant past justified modern intervention on the behalf of an English character threatened by ‘backward’ practices.23 The one group rarely consulted was an increasingly militant working labouring class, whose solidarity with their urban counterparts was established by Alun Howkins some time ago.24 Unsurprisingly, it turned out that countryside dwellers were capable of most of the ‘modern’ forms of social organisation normally associated with their urban counterparts, to whom many were in any case related. In the Alps, mountaineers were forced to directly confront rural people who failed to passively fulfil their expected ‘backward’ role. From the late 1870s, and encouraged by the Alpenverein, mountain guides formed associations such as the Verein Katholischer Bergführer Sölden or the Kalser Führerverein.25 These acted in part as trade unions, campaigning on issues such as Sunday working and safety conditions, and in part as cartels, agree- ing fixed prices within mountain valleys.26 By the 1890s, mountain guides threatened collective action, their organisations became sites for collective labour identities and the Alpenverein, as well as other organisations such as the Österreichische Touristenclub, found themselves reforming their relatively generous insurance, training and accreditation schemes to stave off discontent and inculcate mountain guides with the deferential behaviours expected by self-consciously ‘modern’ middle-class clients.27 Sunday working was a persistent problem, understood as a symptom of recalcitrant ‘backwardness’ by urban alpinists, but as an essential part of Tirolean custom by most guides. Faced with organised solidarity, one desperate editor of the Österreichische Touristenzeitung even threatened locals with exclusion from tourism in their own backyard—‘Tirol belongs to the tourist trade, which will create everything it needs—Hotels, mountain railways, guides; if this does not happen with Tiroleans, it will happen without 144 B. ANDERSON them’, Josef Rabl (1844–1923) wrote in 1892.28 Any sense that mountain guides were examples of a naïve and idyllic peasantry was difficult to retain, and satirists exploited the distinction between imagination and reality to great effect in the period.29 Accommodating an increasingly militant workforce within an imagination of alpine regions as primitive backwaters required some rhetorical gymnastics. Ludwig Purtscheller was well known as one of the most accomplished mountaineers of his era. Born in 1849 to a middle-class family in Innsbruck, he was educated in both German (in Innsbruck) and Italian (in Rovereto) and remained bilingual for the rest of his life, most of which was spent in Salzburg.30 Soon after returning from his successful ascent of Kilimanjaro, he railed in the Alpenverein’s newsletter against what he considered the greed, disrespect and laziness of mountain guides.31 ‘Who is it that composed the current guide-tariffs, and who is, in the end, responsible for the increasing tariff scale?’ Purtscheller asked, answering that the ‘guides themselves dictated … individual tariffs and their own pay’.32 ‘Some guides’, he continued, ‘spoilt and flattered by good-natured and inexperienced tourists, behave so superiorly and inconsiderately in guest-houses and even with their clients, that it is as if the roles of guide and client were fully reversed’.33 In order to prevent such class transgres- sions, Purtscheller advised ‘close surveillance, a strong hand, and disciplinary authority’ and suggested restructured tariffs based on an hourly wage.34 Guides, he argued, had fallen victim to the ‘well-known fact’ that ‘when the rural population comes into contact with urbanites, they mainly take on their bad sides, without their good qualities’, and tacitly accepted the capitalism and labour politics at the heart of such disputes, whilst denying that such people could ever be ‘cultured’.35 While mountaineers of this period sometimes established friendships with guides with little regard for social distinction, the reluctance of guides to conform to the social expectations of urban mountaineers attracted similar opprobrium in mountain guidebooks and other articles.36 In these publications, guides acted out a deleterious modernity, which reduced their attempts to improve working conditions to naïve degenerate greed, and their tendency to ignore expectations of deference as a loss of primitive innocence. As such, when alpine residents transgressed the boundaries between modern, benevolent alpine tourist and naïve, primitive local, they could be imagined as a parable of the ‘bad’ urban and commercial cultures that culturally critical mountaineers rejected.37 5 TIME 145

The assertion that alpine people could not, or should not, be modern was apparent in a wider literature concerned with the impact on tourist experience of a population which did not simply melt into the landscape. The author, pioneering conservationist, and tourism advocate Anna Mayer-Bergwald (1852–1935) wrote that:

For the true friend of nature, the Alpenwelt and the Alpenvolk are insepara- ble phrases. Progress and culture, whose benedictory influences are not to be denied, would mean a backwards step in those places where it must weaken old and dignified customs, honourable manners, naïvity and authentic mentality. From that day on, in which the Bergvolk exchange their outer and inner clothing for a modern one, the Alpenwelt is robbed of its greatest magic, and the spring of indigenous poetry, from which thousands and thousands of the truth- and beauty-starved refresh themselves, will run dry.38

The application of turn-of-the-century cultural criticism to alpine populations could be combined with calls to restrict access to the Alps for what one mountaineer described as ‘city children … nervously hasty on the one hand, superficially thoughtless on the other’.39 Yet Mayer-Bergwald showed little concern for the numbers or class of urban tourists, and instead criticised those who presumed to ‘educate’ alpine people. The Alpenvolk, she argued, should be encouraged back into their traditional clothes—and thereby customs—through associations such the Volkstrachtenvereine [people’s costume associations] which she supported.40 Only by keeping the Alpenvolk poor, naïve and primitive could they provide the necessary ‘magic’ to the emotionally impoverished urban tourist. As the role of Völkisch costume associations suggest, asserting natural antipathy to modernity amongst alpine populations imbricated with efforts to locate nationalism in supposed aesthetic difference, eliding the flexible local identities of the Alps.41 Edward Ross Dickinson has demonstrated how tourism turned the Älpler into a focus for racial study, and that in order to ‘Germanise’ mountain populations, body aesthetics were tied to racial characteristics and race to the ‘hard’, ‘German’ landscapes of the Eastern Alps.42 Dickinson is right to highlight an increased interest in alpine race amongst German and Austrian nationalists, but until at least 1914, these were only one element of a wider genre of publications which primitivised alpine people.43 In 1910, the racist Deutsche Alpenzeitung published an excursus on ‘The Burggräfler’ by the alpine-guide author, 146 B. ANDERSON satirist and judge Luchner-Egloff (Oskar Friedrich Luchner, 1880–1948), which compared ‘true prototypes of the Germanic tribe’ living near Meran to the ‘Mongoloid’ racial features of nearby Ladino-speakers.44 Throughout, Luchner-Egloff encouraged the nationalist tourist to scruti- nise the aesthetic ‘Germanness’ of alpine people who ‘carry their nationality unconsciously in the blood, and whose nationality unconsciously protects their blood’.45 While the Deutsche Alpenzeitung was aimed at the Kaiserreich and focused almost entirely on (supposedly) German-speaking areas, the publishers of the Illustrierte Oesterreichische Alpenzeitung encouraged tourism in the multilingual southern parts of the chain. Articles such as the Slovenian folk-music promoter and Habsburg patriot Josef Tominšek’s ‘Bioscoptics from the Wocheiner Line’ also represented alpine populations as primitive and naïve and also encouraged visual scrutiny but avoided totalising languages of race.46 While Luchner-Egloff’s piece was accompanied by photographs of ‘typical’ Burggräflers, Tominšek’s article included images of porcelain figures in ‘Krainish national dress’, which adjusted readers’ focus from personal physical characteristics to costume.47 Both pieces (along with that of Mayer-Bergwald above) sought to objectify alpine populations under the gaze of both author and reader, but only Luchner-Egloff demanded that visitors transform aesthetic judgement into racial category. Racist depictions of alpine people formed one (increasing) part of a wider effort to deny alpine communities ‘modernity’ and render them permanently of a lost, mythic past, a depiction which rendered them the rightful subject of the tourists’ gaze and elided contemporary social tensions within mountain tourism. Though rhetorics of the past were always political, they were not always nationalist, and even those tied up with nation integrated other purposes. Dressing up in ‘old’ alpine costumes at urban events, for example, certainly had nationalist overtones when connected to organisations like the pan-German Alpenverein—though even here, inviting alpine populations to perform rural customs in Munich bore a striking similarity to the proliferating ‘people exhibits’ of imperial Europe.48 It is more difficult, though, to justify a connection between rural costume and nation at the money-raising events of the socialist Naturfreunde, or in rural costume as a part of fancy dress competitions amongst internationalist CHA members.49 These different contexts for performing ‘backward’ locals suggest that in the blinkered search for the roots of pathological European nationalisms, historians of European outdoors leisure have missed a more fundamental power-dynamic. Primitivising locals could be used to express 5 TIME 147 socialist ideological superiority, sectarian difference or as a means to impose national identities, but it always relied on a silencing of its objects by rendering them part of a disappearing past. In these urban political and social projects, the rural-dweller was a silent figure from the past to be acted upon, but rarely an agent of the present in their own right. Religion and ‘superstition’ played a role that has been covered only rarely in histories of rambling and mountaineering, and was particularly pronounced in the predominantly protestant, Christian-Socialist CHA. Though primitivising perspectives did occasionally appear when members visited Scotland or even the Lake District, they became more pronounced and meaningful on visits to predominantly Catholic regions of Europe. The secretary of the CHA, and non-conformist preacher T. A. Leonard advertised holidays to protestant Portrush, in Ulster, as where ‘the open-handed, open hearted Irish say, “we also say ‘Our Father’, and we claim our brotherhood and we desire … that the breaches be healed and the differences bridged over”’, while the following paragraph switched religious subject, tone and register in promoting visits to the ‘quaint old Irish seaport of Galway … where, remote from cities, the folk still cling to the primitive ways of a century or more ago’.50 In other English organisations such as the Rucksack Club too, descriptions of Ireland moved little beyond tropes of wildness and the absence of (English) civilisation in their treatment of local people.51 Slippages between brotherhood and primitive in Ireland delineated the borders of Britain and Empire, and with it the geo-temporal beginning of the liberal ‘civilising’ mission to which many mountaineers and ramblers subscribed. Yet in the CHA, distinctions between Protestant and Catholic communities also emerged in discussions about Germany. Jane M. Hindley, one of the most enthusiastic visitors abroad, to judge by her publications, claimed that visitors travelling to the (protestant) Taunus during Whit week in 1909 ‘noticed with great interest’:

the varying scenery, the towns, and perhaps most closely, the wonderful industry of the people, who were indeed striving to possess their posses- sions. Never an inch of waste land, never an unfinished furrow, no weeds, no unruly ditches or hedges, but all orderly, well calculated, scientifically accurate, every square yard yielding neither more nor less than perfection.52

Such descriptions of an industrious people were, of course, derived from a Christian outlook in which nature was subservient to human life. Although 148 B. ANDERSON the CHA’s internationalism included other faiths—such as Hinduism—for many participants, friendship with Germany was based on a Protestant solidarity.53 Hindley went on to praise Martin Luther, and wrote enthusiastically of Frankfurt’s contribution to reformation theology. Protestant connections of this sort were not unusual—as David Blackbourn has pointed out, the Anglo-German Friendship Committee was a key site of contacts between clergymen, one of which was the CHA founder and secretary, T. A. Leonard.54 The German nation and state appeared to promise Catholics in Germany a brighter future than those encountered elsewhere, too. The first trips to Catholic Germany were to the Eifel region in 1907, while in 1912, a holiday centre was established at Wolfach in the Black Forest and a limited number of members also planned to go to Austrian Tirol in 1914.55 The first report from Wolfach was written by V. E. M.—a vegetarian looking for what she described as a ‘health-giving’ holiday. Responding to criticism from some other members that the new holiday centre was too rural—and thus boring—V. E. M. romanticised the district through well- established religious stereotypes: ‘Most of them are Roman Catholics and on Sundays and Saint’s days they flock to their churches, the men looking still and awkward in their best clothes, the women and children dressed in gay colours, many wearing the striking head dresses which still survive here’.56 Whilst ‘survivals’ were based on an unmodern Roman Catholicism, V. E. M. then immediately went on to comment that ‘At all points one is impressed by the efficiency and thoroughness of German methods’.57 Catholicism was backward; but modern Germany was efficient and organised. In another description of the Catholic German Eifel which described the region as ‘at present under German rule gaining in prosperity’, rural farming practices were not placed in a romanticised past, but instead imagined as a contemporary example of co-operative labour—‘ideal! Isn’t it?’ commented the anonymous writer.58 Assumptions about local cultures amongst these visitors to Germany were undoubtedly informed by non- conformist beliefs, which associated Catholicism with tradition, superstition and the past. Catholicism also played a crucial role in defining relationships between members of the socialist mountaineering organisation Naturfreunde and local people in the Alps, where the socialist ‘mission’ of building class- consciousness could be justified by citing Catholic superstition as a bul- wark against enlightened modernity. As Dagmar Günther has noted in a brief section on the pre-War Naturfreunde, where the Alpenverein located 5 TIME 149 backwardness in cultural difference, economic poverty and essentialist nationalism, Naturfreunde members tended to concentrate their ethno- graphic criticism on Catholic belief.59 On many occasions, as elsewhere, this simply served to render those living in the Alps an essential part of a landscape to be viewed and objectified—‘Let us step into the Lavanttal one Easter Saturday to eavesdrop on the goings-on of its inhabitants’, wrote Valentin Schüssler in 1907. ‘The last bells to celebrate the resurrec- tion have barely finished, with the peculiar, mind-capturing pomp of the Catholic church’.60 To this extent, Naturfreunde practices reproduced many of the tropes outlined above.61 Elsewhere, however, Naturfreunde members problematised this alleged backwardness by drawing on Marxist critiques of religious belief and posi- tioning themselves as the bringers of social truth to the mountain valleys and those that lived in them. In efforts to make the people they encountered aware of their social position, Naturfreunde members shared an interest in ‘developing’ and ‘freeing’ alpine locals with the older, liberal wing of the Alpenverein. Indeed, some Naturfreunde members—such as later Chancellor of the Austrian Republic Karl Renner (1870–1950)—also appropriated the language of bourgeois rivals by celebrating the worker’s part in alpine technological progress, the poverty of the Alps as an integral part of the landscape, or the absence of modern advertisement in these ‘closed-off-from-the-world, partly unspoilt regions’.62 Nevertheless, others such as the teacher Georg Schmiedl (1855–1929) took aim at the ‘hypocritical Christianity’ of locals, who, despite a shrine, charged the tourists ‘a price that could never be demanded on the streets of Vienna’.63 Complaints of this sort highlighted tensions within Naturfreunde literature surrounding attitudes to modernity as well as the rural. Writers in the magazine understood the Alps both as an escape from the vicissitudes of modernity in the city, and as a culturally backward bastion of Catholicism and antisemitic Christlich-Sozialen politics. Members likewise insisted both that alpine regions suffered from the same capitalist system that the workers of the Naturfreunde laboured under, and yet that alpine populations were guilty of taking advantage of their peers as capitalist entrepreneurs. Unlike other publications, however, authors to the Naturfreunde journal often reflected on their activities in the outdoors and at least implicitly critiqued both others’ articles and their own past approaches:

You are a tiny heap, but there outside, where you have just travelled by, rises the smoke of a high dirty chimney. There two live people in hard work, and 150 B. ANDERSON

they think just like you. And there, in the belly of one of the huge mountains, they hammer and pick for ore and coal. And all those that exhaust themselves deep underground are of the same mind as you. The country- man who carries out his dangerous work on grassy cliffs. The lumberjack who goes around, axe in clenched fist—they all sigh under the same pressure and yearn for the workday to be over.64

The secretary of the organisation, printer Leopold Happisch (1863–1951) here challenged the current status quo of Naturfreunde literature in 1899—in none of the articles published in the same issue of the magazine was his hope fulfilled for social reflection, or expressions of solidarity with local people. In 1899, Happisch was a rare voice, but his intervention suggests that understanding alpine people as a ‘primitive’ proletariat waiting to be ‘awoken’ from the thrall of Catholicism was a contested one right from the beginning of the organisation. If Happisch was already calling for equal urban/rural solidarity for workers, Georg Schmiedl identified at least some of the ways in which poverty in the mountains was a phenomena that had everything to do with ‘progress’. In 1900, Schmiedl called on members to ‘take time to regard the humans who live in the shadows of your mountaineering expeditions’. He outlined iniquitous land rights systems in the Alps, the drain on young people caused by alpine railway connections, alongside bankrupt local businesses, and rising property prices caused by tourists. Schmiedl’s willingness to look beyond notions of modernity and backwardness also led him to reject the terms of that debate and reject modernity entirely: ‘From progress, the proletarian feels only rising prices and rents, just as from export we only notice the greater expense of all wares’. For Schmiedl and other voices like his, alpine communities were not impoverished because they lacked modernity, but—like the rest of the proletariat—because of it.65 The Naturfreunde offer an important case study of the use of time by outdoors leisure enthusiasts by revealing most clearly its use to justify intervention. At least some of these socialist mountaineers acknowledged the extent, and impact, of the Alps’ integration into European industrial and commercial regimes, but most nevertheless reproduced the rhetoric of ‘developing’ backwards communities common to their bourgeois cousins. They adapted this placement of mountain communities in the past to legitimise their own concept of a moral ‘mission’ in the Alps as enlightening locals to their class position in the face of Catholic ‘backwardness’ and ignorance born of propaganda from the Christlich-Sozialen Partei. Despite 5 TIME 151 the interventions of Happisch and Schmiedl, a more socially aware hiking would only emerge slowly and receive full expression in the years before the outbreak of war. In the pages of Der Naturfreund until then, alpine communities were only of the past if the organisation planned to bring them into the present—more than in other organisations, members utilised ascription of the past in an instrumental, rather than general manner. In the Eastern Alps, appropriating the voice of German ‘prototypes’ also meant asserting them as fundamentally, and naturally German- speakers in a region characterised by numerous multilingual communities, and a complex network of dialect that speakers of German from Hamburg or Frankfurt could not normally understand. Even so, alongside the aesthetic assumptions about race referred to above, dialect served to define temporal hierarchies. As a result of continuing state attempts to homoge- nise languages across Europe, dialect consistently implied a backward pro- vincialism and its use by visitors to the outdoors reveals the tensions and contradictions of rural primitivisation. In the writing of some mountaineers, dialect could appear straightfor- wardly as implying the ‘survival’ of people from an otherwise lost past. In such texts, dialect served to reinforce a wider set of descriptions that encouraged the anthropological view of the tourist, implied the naïve ignorance of locals, or justified the direct appropriation of others’ voices.66 Yet dialect could also be used to justify the need for an author to ‘translate’ and ‘interpret’ the spoken word of mountain-dwellers. Dialect formed a central component, for example, of Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley’s Reminiscences of Wordsworth among the Peasantry of Westmorland. As Rawnsley’s erroneous use of feudal language suggests, he understood his subjects as valuable because of their primitive character. Although Rawnsley bemoaned the ‘characteristic something faded away, and a certain beauty vanished’ as a result of ‘the strangers with their gifts of gold, their vulgarity, and their requirements’, the ‘race of Westmorland’ were ‘Nature’s gentlefolk still’, possessed with ‘decent exterior’, ‘shrewd wit’, ‘manly independence’ and ‘natural knightliness’.67 As a result, Rawnsley was certain that his dialect transcriptions were ‘trustworthy records from true mouths’ emerging from ‘the native love of truth’.68 Yet this truth could only be gained by the reader if Rawnsley intervened: ‘The vernacular of the Lake District must be understood a little, or wrong impressions would be got’.69 Thus, when locals truthfully reflected on Wordsworth as an ‘ugly-faäced man, and a meän liver’, Rawnsley maintained that they did not mean this, but rather that Wordsworth had ‘marked features’, and led 152 B. ANDERSON a ‘simple life’.70 It would be unfair to Rawnsley to suggest that he sought to entirely reverse the clear dislike of Grasmere residents for Wordsworth (and his apparent chimney fixation), but that is not the point. Through dialect, Rawnsley was able to quote local ‘truths’ without losing his own position as modern authority, directing readers’ attention whilst telling his ‘plain unvarnished tale’, and adding a lacquer of his own in a conclusion that was significantly kinder to the late Wordsworth than many of his interviewees had been.71 Yet Rawnsley was hardly an unknown visitor to the Lake District— when he originally conducted interviews for Reminiscences he had already been a priest in the area for 4 years; by the time he came to revise the text for publication, he had been there for 25 years. His use of time here expressed difference less as a map of urban and rural Britain than as a function of class, education, and to at least some extent his assumed position as interlocutor between Northern ‘peasant’ and his presumed Southern readership—in this case, rural people’s assumed position as ‘primitive’ survivals were integrated into the sorts of complex interpenetrations of class, region, city and politics explored by Patrick Joyce.72 Rawnsley’s childhood and education at Oxford meant that there was little problem in asserting such paternalistic approaches to Northern ‘peasants’. Although his extended contact with Keswick residents meant that he later became more alive to the challenges of Lake District, his major reformist successes—Friends of the Lake District and the National Trust— were built on the notion that his chosen home represented a disappearing past and should continue to do so. For many other outdoor enthusiasts in this book, from Manchester and Northern England, Vienna or Munich, however, dialect held potential for modern insecurity as well as expression, and their use of dialect more often satirised its association with provincial ignorance and backwardness than it asserted the same of rural residents— dialect, indeed, reveals the instability and insecurities that were inherent in being ‘modern’ in the mountains. Uses of dialect amongst mountaineers and ramblers required a navigation not just of an urban/rural, modern/primitive dichotomy, but rather complexities of class and region that mountaineers already felt themselves entangled in. The Rucksack Club, and its links to Lancashire dialect poetry through its first president George Milner, was one example, but there were others. In Walter Hampson’s (1864–1932) book-length description of a CHA holiday to France, written entirely in the Yorkshire dialect, Yorkshire men were made to knowingly conform to stereotypes of 5 TIME 153

ignorance and violence, but also offer naïve socialist wisdom about both London and France as they passed through. Hampson was known both as dialect poet and socialist activist, and here his writing offered a means to challenge the perceived cultural dominance of the South.73 When mountaineers from Manchester, Liverpool or the naval industrial hubs of the Furness peninsula visited Wasdale in the Lake District, they came into contact not just with rural locals but also with visitors from London, Cambridge and Oxford. These encounters were normally civil, but it is not difficult to find evidence that these visitors from the ‘South country’ were understood as socially and regionally different to ‘Northern’ mountaineers:

After, say, five minutes’ complete silence (not at all an unusual interval among the variety) one will say, with an air of having discovered the North- West passage, “It is a nace nate to-nate”. Then after two more minutes another will reply, “Then eh may clame to-mowwow”. After a further pause, no. 3 will continue: “Eh Fehnd the clames are nacer when it’s fane”.74

For the author of this passage, L. Halliday, the presence of these mountaineers speaking using received pronunciation was certainly threatening. ‘One feels so insignificant, so unworthy, so beyond the pale’, he wrote, using a phrase that recalled the Irish experience. Yet Halliday’s use of dialect here provincialised the South and the metropolis, reinforcing his claim that such groups were ‘composed of extremely ignorant individuals’. This ‘variety’ were ‘University men’, but who had learned nothing at university about humility. The true modern citizen was instead located in people like Halliday—‘all that we clever, observant, and highly intelligent common- folk can do is go on living our little lives, trying not to give offence to anybody’.75 Mountaineers, presenting themselves as modern individuals, were only too aware of the fragility of that statement when placed within the contested stratifications of English society, in which ones voice carried temporal categorisation well beyond those of rural/urban. The undoubted fascination with the past that characterised rural leisure was a much more powerful dynamic of extra-urban activity than its char- acterisation as a nationalist, anti-urban impulse allows. Indeed, by focusing attention purely on the identity constructions of the urban visitor to the outdoors, historians risk confirming the claims of these walkers and climbers to represent the ‘spirit of the times’, and missing the ways in which those same claims provided a foundation for interventions in the 154 B. ANDERSON outdoors that might be racist, socialist or internationalist, but all too rarely involved local, rural people in changes to their own cultures and lives.

Modern Time Not all mountaineers insisted on understanding local people in the mountains as redolent of a past to be valorised or demonised, but mountaineers’ use of time was not limited to such ascriptions of backwardness. Time was also, as Paul Glennie and Nigel Thrift have theorised, embedded in embodied (mountaineering) practices and enacted with them.76 Yet as with other affective practices encountered in this book, the time cultures of mountaineers can only be understood as entangled with urban communities of practice, including industrial experiences of time-discipline, notions of leisure time and punctuality, and the emergence of timed sport, all dependent on class especially. Once in the mountains (using that famous carrier of modern time, the railway), the precise, measured and allocated times of modernity collided with the landscape’s own rhythms, practices and cycles, and mountaineers found themselves timing and measuring a terrain very resistant to such blunt and inflexible tools. Viewed through this lens, time emerges as a shuttle for debates about appropriate modernities—it could be understood as disciplining or liberating; it might symbolise the ‘progress’ of human society through both increased speed and precision, or the mechanical dehumanisation that mountaineers claimed to escape. Mountaineering timekeeping was not, in any case, ‘taken-for-granted’ as Glennie and Thrift found so often in their case studies of earlier periods.77 In common with other contemporary sports—for which time has rarely been the subject of sustained historical debate—mountaineering times were explicit and meaningful, and in some organisations—most obviously the Co-operative Holidays Association—time fundamentally defined and ordered the activity.78 Especially in the Eastern Alps, but elsewhere too, it is difficult to find mountaineering accounts without repeated notations of time, and by implication we can assume that many, if not most mountaineers not only took a pocket watch with them into the mountains, but also a pen and paper with the express purpose of recording times at specific points. Guidebooks, including the Baedeker series, increasingly measured high-alpine space in hours and minutes, providing a temporal map of the mountains and providing the inevitable challenge of beating the ‘guidebook time’, something we can also note on path signs 5 TIME 155 that adorn the Alps to this day.79 Alongside the ascription of the past onto ‘unmodern’ others, then, mountaineers embodied present time and explored its implications in their practices. One possibility was that these embodied practices constituted just another element of the cultures described above; that local people were not only understood as ‘out of time’, but as not ‘having’ modern time at all, something that has been described as ‘allochrony’.80 We might specu- late that silences surrounding, for instance, the numerous local times that existed before time regulation in the Eastern Alps, or local timed race events in the Lake District point to an imagination of time in this way.81 Yet other sources suggest different relationships—while it is true that mountain guides do not seem to have been so keen to keep a track of time as their clients, they (and their alarm clocks) were responsible for waking mountaineers in huts every morning, and certainly hurried their clients in the face of afternoon storms and rockfalls. Silences about ‘guides races’ in the English mountaineering literature, meanwhile, need to be set alongside an enthusiasm amongst mountaineers for 24-hour distance challenges, the first of which, in the Lake District, was established by the farmer and estate agent John Wilson Robinson (1853–1906), the one local guide with whom urban mountaineers associated. The basic, and all- too visible truth of mountain communities in the 1890s was that ‘modern’ clock time had been established for decades, and when the leading English rock climber of the 1890s, Alfred Mummery made the by-now-familiar critique of ‘spoilt’ modern guides, it was their insistence on clock time that stood out:

The guide, having undertaken a contract, naturally wishes to get it satisfac- torily completed at the earliest possible time. To this end, the way up the mountain is mapped with great minuteness. The contractor knows to a second the time at which he should arrive at each rock and every ledge.82

For Mummery, this was a criminal imposition on the part of the guide, which rendered their client’s bodies exhausted and unable to ‘enjoy’ the mountains. Yet for the guide, the risks associated with a slow pace were too great to be born day after day. While a ‘true enthusiast’ might risk an afternoon and evening in the high mountains, as Mummery claimed, guides’ insistence on speed was more rational and understandable than Mummery’s assumptions of misguided modernity and earning potential suggested.83 156 B. ANDERSON

Amongst the most perceptive and intelligent mountaineers of her generation, Jenny Herzberg seems already to have realised not only the centrality of time and speed to contemporary mountaineering by the mid-1890s, but the absurdities of the hyper-masculine praxis that accompanied them. In 1896, she described how her and her mother—Aurora Herzberg—had one encounter with a group led by a mountain guide:

We continued briskly upward; behind us, a party of two, led by a guide were within sight—which made us increasingly nervous. The distance was not great—and was getting smaller when we were brought to a sudden halt round a corner in the path. The rain from the previous day had destroyed a part of the path, and the slope led quite steeply down to the Fellenbach. One could have gone back and found another way around but—the guided party, and the pride, or more correctly, the ambition!84

Herzberg and her mother scrambled over the gap, and Herzberg recounted joking about it with the guided group afterwards.85 Yet Herzberg then explained how she and her mother ignored the early start of those in the hut, and caught up with the ‘men in front’ at the summit, ‘in—well I’m not quite sure how many minutes, I think it was about 1½ hours’. Her mother, Herzberg explained, ‘who normally kept our accounts in tripli- cate’, did not have a pen and paper handy, and ‘in any case considered the tour not worth recording’.86 Herzberg was not finished however. The pair once again overtook the other groups on the descent:

This awoke the ambition of the young guide. I noticed that he called to one of his clients, and now they followed him at a great rate. A proper race to the hut emerged; I could still feel after three days that I had emerged in first place.87

Herzberg’s parodic account may have intentionally emphasised such encounters, but as much as older mountaineers decried the new ‘sporting’ alpinism and competition or records in the Alps, mountaineers compared their ascents with relation to time, and by 1895, barely a mountaineering expedition was published without a record of times taken. Indeed, by the 1900s working-class members of the Naturfreunde were confidently explicit about the importance of beating ‘standard’ times.88 Mountaineers compared their ascent times with these publications, but also with the ‘standard’ times published in Baedeker volumes, and with other recent 5 TIME 157 ascents in summit logbooks.89 In the diary of the teenage mountaineering Wunderkind Georg Winkler—later published as a polemic on extreme mountaineering—his measure of ascent times across his four years of climbing shows an increasing obsession first with hours, then fractions of hours, tens of minutes, and in the last ascents before his death, with ascent times to the nearest minute.90 Similarly, mountaineers in the Lake District began a tradition of 24-hour distance records in the 1890s that would eventually emerge as the ‘Bob Graham Round’, minutely recording their speed across the landscape.91 Jeanne Immink was concerned enough about an error in her recorded time for an ascent of the Kleine Zinne in 1893 that she insisted on a published correction, and the then ‘hardest mountain’ the Fünffingerspitze in the Dolomites became a dominant site for speed ascents and traverses in the 1890s.92 The mountaineer, Lammer wrote in 1896, was a ‘true son of the modern’ whose ‘every alpine record pushes the limits of human ability further into the empire of the impossible’.93 Herzberg’s account—in which this mother-daughter mountaineering team repeatedly used time to demonstrate their superiority over the men they found in the mountains—poked gentle fun at a central part of mountaineering culture at the turn of the century. There were, and are, important pragmatic reasons that mountaineers might be interested in time. The impact of the sun on steep snow slopes was well known by the late nineteenth century, necessitating early starts for all alpinists if they were to avoid the avalanches and rockfalls—as well as thunderstorms—of the mid-afternoon. At a smaller scale, moving fast across dangerous areas was often the safest course of action, even at risk of a fall. Speed in the mountains was an essential part of risk avoidance, and mountaineers’ increasing obsession with time after the 1880s can be understood alongside the wider practices of risk, danger and safety discussed in the next chapter. More prosaically still, train timetables also defined time limits to mountaineering for most throughout this period— as a Swiss member of the Rucksack Club described in 1909, though it was possible to climb in remoter parts of the Lake District from Manchester in a weekend, ‘in order to get back to Seascale again by 6 o’clock the following evening [to catch a train] a very early start is, of course, essential’.94 For climbers without the means to afford an emergency overnight stop, or the luxury of a tolerated absence from work, trains could set even more absolute limits, and Der Naturfreund contains examples of 24-hour mountaineering expeditions squeezed into a single day of ‘rest’, including train journeys to and from the Alps.95 158 B. ANDERSON

At the same time, ‘clock time’ can hardly be understood as dominating the mountains amongst either guides or their human clients. The mountains had their own sequences, predictable only according to their own time. Exactly when the summer sun would melt the mountain’s icy hold on detached flakes and boulders was imprecise by clock time. A warm night might mean that cliffs were insufficiently frozen; a cloudy day might help make the margin of safety a little more manageable, while the onset of Föhn winds could change a situation in minutes. After the creation of international standard time, meanwhile, the sun rose ‘earlier’ in the Eastern Alps than the West by as much as 40 clock-time minutes. Storms, which occur almost daily on summer afternoons in some parts of the Alps, provided a further impetus, as could snow bridges across crevasses that might hold only in the morning.96 It could snow on any day, almost anywhere, but in the winter sun, wind, snow and cold combined to create a dynamic and dangerous snow pack even on stable days.97 This incompati- bility of ‘clock time’ to ‘mountain time’ was something mountain users were all too aware of. For some, such as an older Lammer writing in 1910, ‘the nature of mountain sport’ rendered all ‘records’ impossible to reason- ably compare, because ‘it is rarely possible to encounter the same route in exactly the same condition’—though he admitted in a later polemic that he had, in fact, timed his own ascents.98 Others, such as William Palmer, attempted to approximate mountain records as performances in more controllable landscapes by equating so many miles in the fells to a greater number on the flat—but this did not stop him, either, from listing fell record progression to the nearest minute, and recording its progress as the triumph of ‘modern’, ‘lithe’ and ‘splendidly developed’ men.99 Mountain time also varied by mountaineers’ temporal experience— what fin-de-siècle contemporary Henri Bergson theorised as ‘duration’ emerged readily as a result of mountaineers’ embodiment of the demands of the terrain. ‘The able and skilled mountaineer must go here as fast as possible, there very slowly, often in the same day on the same route’, as Lammer, who was fond of recording ‘lightning quick’ reactions, pointed out.100 So too though, did time pass at dramatically different rates depend- ing on activity—the boredom of the hut in bad weather, or the intermi- nable cold of a high altitude bivouac contrasting sharply with the apparent speed with which the safety of a morning became the danger of an afternoon—or the brief but enduring moments of high concentration whilst rock climbing.101 5 TIME 159

As we know from the Chap. 4, alpine mountaineering organisations and their leaders had devoted astonishing resources to the ‘opening up’ or Erschließung of alpine space, a process designed precisely to mitigate the dangers and interruptions of the terrain for non-climbers, and make the experience of the mountains as easy, and visual, as possible. Yet this ‘flattening’ was as much temporal as spatial; paths ‘forbade a straight upward scramble’, according to Mami, one anonymous CHA visitor to the Alps, and taught ‘patience’.102 Franz Nieberl, in his book Klettern im Fels recommended his readers to adopt a ‘thoughtful’ and ‘calm’ style of walking, while Joseph Ittlinger described the same process as ‘slow’ and ‘steady’.103 On prepared paths, monotony was written in, and even elite mountaineers enthusiastically responded by highlighting the moral encodings of patience, endurance and neatness as symbolic of a rational, bourgeois masculinity. At the same time though, these paths wrote clock time onto the landscape. They enabled Baedeker and other guides to estimate ascent times, so that the Alps could be mapped temporally as well as spatially.104 In this context, the meanings of clock time in the mountains become clearer. Just as the technologisation of alpine viewing could be understood as the mastery of ‘modern man’ over the mountain landscape, so was that technologisation also an attempt to regularise the temporal experience of the Alps. Elite mountaineers objected to such interventions in the landscape, but only so that they could demonstrate much the same mastery through the application of their own bodies and physicality. Unsurprisingly then, at the same time as rock climbers congratulated themselves after overcoming an ‘obstacle’ or ‘adversity’ in the alpine terrain, they also recorded how long it had taken them. If the hut and path network also constituted an imposition of regularised time onto the Alps, mountaineers use of time demonstrated their personal control and sovereignty over the unpredictability and disruption of the mountain environment. It was above all skiing that caused mountaineers to express sovereignty over time, speed and experience. Ascending was still relatively slow, but this only increased its contrast to a descent that immediately came to be described using tropes of modern speed, science and technology. ‘We whizzed down—this is not travelling—we fly as if through the air and barely feel attached to the floor… in a shorter time, than it has taken me to describe the descent, we are down’, wrote one astonished pioneer in 1895, and in 1909 Eugen Oertel described the same feeling as the ‘mastery of space and time’.105 Today, skiing remains associated primarily with the wealthy, and has been since at least the 1930s. Before the First World 160 B. ANDERSON

War, however, there were no lift passes to purchase, alpine rents remained low in the winter, and the relatively simple equipment could be made cheaply by a skilled woodworker. Even more crucially, the short time required for a ski ascent and descent, which was normally far less than demanded by a summer ascent of the same summit, meant that far more could be achieved in the limited time available to workers in Germany and Austria. All this meant that the sport rapidly became popular amongst the wealthier parts of the working class, and the Naturfreunde enthusiastically embraced the new activity.106 The practice of time on CHA trips meanwhile presents a picture not so different to urban work schedules themselves. In brochures for the holidays, the organisation provided timetables for each day, including breakfast, train times, lunch stops, dinner, supper, evening entertainment and bedtime. ‘Be punctual to the times specified in the timetable’, a 1902 brochure advised, ‘and do not grumble that lights have to be out by 10.30 pm’.107 Much of the logic for such strict time-tabling relied on principles of ‘rational recreation’, in which ‘leisure time’ should be sensibly and productively used as a means to self-improvement, and the CHA readily built punctuality into this conduct of the self.108 Groups were often self-policing, and organisers received complaints of ironic applause for late arrivals at mealtimes, as well as manageresses hurrying guests so that courses could be served on time.109 Nevertheless, not all holiday-makers agreed, and the timetable provoked discussion that revealed the moral and political meanings of time for these rational recreation enthusiasts. In 1908, ‘Junius’ called for the 10.30 pm rule to be abandoned, since while in the CHA’s early years, ‘the tone, the morale was as yet unformed’, he judged that the rule now militated against the ‘innate good taste and good sense of its members’.110 Junius’ focus was on adherence to the timetable, but his argument turned on the changing clientele of the CHA, and allowing the ‘respectable’ lower-middle-class membership of 1908 to conduct themselves in way that earlier working-class participants were not. Yet other members argued that the CHA’s rules created freedom. For Clement Ord, being forced into bed at 10.30 was a ‘great release’ from a work pattern that routinely extended beyond that time.111 E. D. B. wrote that ‘a CHA guest has even more freedom than a guest at an ordinary boarding house’, on the grounds that ‘rules and regulations are necessary for the proper conduct of any society which exists for all sorts of conditions of men’.112 In these exchanges—and others on daylight-saving hours or the use of ‘off days’ on the holidays—the regulation and use of time formed a 5 TIME 161 shuttle between freedom and order, and more broadly the content of the ‘moral progress’ that the CHA hoped to achieve. The practice of mountaineering was as much one of time as it was of space. By the 1890s, rock climbers and walkers alike did not just interest themselves in what they climbed and how they climbed, but how fast they could do it. Time measurement proliferated, and records, of first ascents, or 24-hour challenges, promised a way of calculating and chronicling the ‘progress’ of mountaineering in a way not limited to the finite possibilities offered by first-ascent lists. Time in mountaineering emerged in response to a far broader re-conceptualisation of time in European society, but when mountaineers practiced time, their performances spoke to control and sovereignty over an urban temporal world that many felt over- whelmed by.

Conclusion Modernity is a fundamentally temporal construction. It presumes to describe the world and its people within a linear timeline mapped against geography and culture. It presents power as the natural outcome of up-to- date-ness, to be wielded benevolently over the salvageable or violently against the also-rans of the modern imagination. As such, being modern always entailed a critique of others as outdated, an expression of power, and an imagination of space and people as a timeline in which the speaker’s present represented the future of the other. Little wonder that the height of imperial hubris and European cultural arrogance coincided with the era of ‘high-modernity’ in which European political leaders presumed to be able to engineer what they imagined as perfected societies; as has been suggested before, colonial spaces were acted on as ‘laboratories of modernity’ in which timescales could be quickened, and people made to be more modern.113 Ramblers and mountaineers were not immune to these cultures, and as they crossed boundaries between urban and rural, they often imagined a journey through time as well as space, which affirmed their own status as modern individuals even when they placed those they encountered in ven- erated cultures of centuries past. It would be easy to suggest that these tropes of past cultures had little impact, but as we saw in the Eastern Alps, they were crucial to the justification of middle-class dominance over mountain populations, and central to the processes that allowed multilingual populations to be defined as naturally German. In English and British 162 B. ANDERSON context too, we have seen how these temporal imaginations enabled the boundaries between Britain and empire to be fixed in Ireland, notions of protestant superiority to be found in Germany, or the Lake District ‘peasant’ opinion to be appropriated. We risk missing these power dynamics if the history we tell is limited to the political, often national identities of the urban visitors themselves. Worse, we risk repeating their claims to priority in our own historical narrative, and implicitly deny what agency local communities did have in defining the forms and boundaries of outdoors leisure. Alongside these uses of historical time, ramblers and mountaineers also responded to the changing time cultures of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the very notion of time seemed up for grabs. The places in which they walked or climbed were also those natures most resistive to the new clock time that seemed to produce the monotony and boredom at (desk-based) work. Most responded in ways that expressed their control over the clock, and ability to subject the countryside, outdoors and mountains, to their own timeframes. Mountaineers kept obsessive notes of how long their ascents took them, compared their own times to ascent ‘records’, and enjoyed skiing for the apparent mastery it offered over ‘space and time’ in the mountains. In the CHA, members enjoyed the self-imposed discipline of the holiday timeframe as offering a means to freedom and order not offered by time-discipline in the city. Time in the mountains thus formed a way of measuring the constitution of independent selfhoods by ensuring that even the mountains and countrysides could be brought into the realm of ‘modern’ time.

Notes 1. M. B., ‘L’Entente Cordiale with the “Ce-aich-ah”’, Comradeship 5:3 (1911), pp. 43–45 (p. 44). 2. M. B., ‘L’Entente Cordiale’, p. 44. 3. For more recent examples, see Robert Burden and Stephan Kohl (eds.), Landscape and Englishness (Amsterdam, 2006); Anne Helmreich, The English Garden and National Identity (Cambridge, 2002). 4. See David Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998), Part I; Ben Anderson, ‘A Liberal Countryside? The Manchester Ramblers’ Federation and the “Social Readjustment” of Urban Citizens, 1929– 1936’, Urban History 1 (2011), pp. 84–102. 5. Frederick Cooper, Colonialism in Question: Theory, Knowledge, History (London, 2005), pp. 113–204. 5 TIME 163

6. Peter Fritzsche, ‘How Nostalgia Narrates Modernity’, in Alon Confino and Peter Fritzsche (eds.), The Work of Memory: New Directions in the Study of German Society and Culture (Chicago, 2002), pp. 62–85 (p. 65). 7. Rudy Koshar, Germany’s Transient Pasts: Preservation and National Memory in the Twentieth Century (Chapel Hill, 1998), p. 48. See Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York, 2002 [1983]). 8. Paul Readman, ‘The Place of the Past in English Culture, c. 1890–1914’, Past and Present 186 (2005), pp. 147–99. 9. Peter Hansen, ‘Albert Smith, the Alpine Club, and the Invention of Mountaineering in Mid-Victorian Britain’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1995), pp. 300–24. 10. Hans Meyer, ‘Ascent to the Summit of Kilima-Njaro’, Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society and Monthly Record of Geography 12:6 (1890), pp. 331–45. Oscar Eckenstein, The Karakorums and Kashmir (London, 1896); J. A. Jackson, ‘Walking Tours in China’, RC Journal 2:2 (1913), pp. 109–15; J. Falkenstein, P. Güßfeldt and E. Pechüel-Loesche, Die Loango-Expedition ausgesandt von der Deutschen Gesellschaft zur Erforschung Aequatorial-Africas, 3 vols. (Leipzig, 1879). On Francis Younghusband and the invasion of Tibet, see Wade Davis, Into the Silence: The Great War, Mallory and the Conquest of Everest (London, 2011), pp. 57–61. 11. CHA Executive Committee minutes, 26 October 2018, CHA Minute book 1900–1902, GMCRO/B/CHA/ADM/1/2, p. 23. See Chap. 6. 12. See Niall Whelehan, ‘Revolting Peasants: Southern Italy, Ireland, and Cartoons in Comparative Perspective, 1860–1882’, International Review of Social History 60 (2015), pp. 1–35; John R. Chávez, ‘Aliens in their Native Lands: The Persistence of Internal Colonial Theory’, Journal of World History 4 (2011), pp. 785–809; Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914 (London, 1977). 13. The classic account is Wolfgang Schivelbusch, The Railway Journey: The Industrialisation of Time and Space in the Nineteenth Century (Los Angeles, 1986). 14. Vanessa Ogle, The Global Transformation of Time, 1870–1950 (London, 2015). 15. Stephen Kern, The Culture of Space and Time, 1880–1918 (London, 2003 [1983]). For an excellent application to mountaineering, see Jonathan Westaway, ‘Men that can Last: Mountaineering Endurance, the Lake District Fell Records and the Campaign for Everest, 1919–1924’, Sport in History 3 (2013), pp. 303–32. 164 B. ANDERSON

16. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Taylorsystem für Bergsteiger’, in Eugen Guido Lammer (ed.), Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich, 1935 [1921]), pp. 239–62. See E. P. Thompson, ‘Time, Work Discipline and Industrial Capitalism’, Past and Present 38 (1967), pp. 56–97; Articles by Sklar, Roediger and Cross in Gary Cross (eds.), Worktime and Industrialization: An International History (Philadelphia, 1988). 17. Ellis McTaggart, ‘The Unreality of Time’, Mind 17 (1908), pp. 457–73. T. Wyldbore, ‘The Rucksack Club Hut’, RC Journal 2:3 (2013), pp. 204–08 (p. 207); ‘Real and Unreal Solitude’, CCJ 1:3 (1909), p. 264. 18. Laurence Cole, ‘Für Gott, Kaiser und Vaterland’: Nationale Identität der deutschsprachigen Bevölkerung Tirols, 1860–1914 (Frankfurt a. M., 2000), pp. 30–37. 19. Martin P. Schennach, ‘Geschichte des bäuerlichen Besitz- und Erbrechts in Tirol—ein Überblick’, Tiroler Erbhöfe 21 (2003), p. 10; Hermann Baltl and Gernot Kocher, Österreichische Rechtsgeschichte: von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (Graz, 2009), p. 200. 20. Jon Mathieu, History of the Alps 1500–1900: Environment, Development and Society (Morgantown, 2009), p. 152. 21. Cole, Nationale Identität, p. 39. 22. For a good summary of the historiography in this area, see Jeremy Burchardt, ‘Agricultural History, Rural History, or Countryside History’, The Historical Journal 2 (2007), pp. 465–81 (pp. 467–72). 23. Paul Readman, Land and Nation in England: Patriotism, National Identity and the Politics of Land, 1880–1914 (Woodbridge, 2008). 24. Alun Howkins, The Death of Rural England: A Social History of the Countryside since 1900 (London, 2003), pp. 23–24. 25. Gedächtnisspeicher Ötztal, Exhibition Material, Summer 2013; Annaliese Gidl, Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne, 2007), pp. 182–83. For examples in the Western Alps, see Peter Hansen, Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London, 2013), pp. 214–15. 26. Ludwig Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung der Führer-Tarife und Führer- Ordnungen’, MDOeAV VII(XVII):6 (1891), pp. 75–80 (p. 75). 27. Gidl, Alpenverein, pp. 164–77; A Hofmann, ‘Der Bergführer-Lehrcurs in Loeben’, MDOeAV XI(XXI):7 (1895), pp. 79–81; Peter Hansen, ‘Modern Mountains: The Performative Consciousness of Modernity in Britain, 1870–1940’, in Martin Daunton and Bernhard Rieger (eds.), Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the Late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford, 2001), pp. 185–202; Martin Scharfe, Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus (Vienna, 2007), pp. 196–224. 5 TIME 165

28. Josef Rabl, ‘Bergführer und Sonntagstouren’, ÖTZ XII:14 (1892), pp. 164–67 (p. 167). 29. F. Montanus, Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “alpinen Knigge” (Munich, 1908), p. 47. 30. Carl Blodig, ‘Ludwig Purtscheller’, MDOeAV XVI(XXVI):5 (1900), pp. 49–51. 31. Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung’, pp. 75–80. 32. Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung’, p. 75. 33. Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung’, p. 76. 34. Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung’. 35. Purtscheller, ‘Regulierung’. 36. Eleonore Noll-Hasenclever, Den Bergen Verfallen, ed. Heinrich Erler (Berlin, 1932), p. 32. Erich König, Alpiner Sport (Leipzig, 1903), pp. 102–03; Karl Arnold, ‘Über die Nutzlichkeit und Notwendigkeit eines “Alpinen Knigge”’, MDOeAV XXII(XXXII):15 (1906), pp. 182– 85 (p. 183). 37. Dagmar Günther, Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt, 1998), pp. 79–103; Rainer Amstädter, Der Alpinismus: Kultur—Organisation—Politik (Vienna, 1996), pp. 39–61, 117–22. 38. Anna Mayer-Bergwald, ‘Die Alpenwelt’, DAZ 1:1(18) (1901), p. 5. 39. Hermann Freiherr v. d. Pfordten, ‘Die Vorschule der alpinen Vernunft’, DAZ 1:1(2) (1901), pp. 1–6 (p. 2); Thomas Lekan, ‘A “Noble Prospect”: Tourism, Heimat, and Conservation on the Rhine, 1880–1914’, Journal of Modern History 4 (2009), pp. 824–58 (pp. 824–27). See also Chap. 3. 40. Dietlind Pedarnig and Edda Ziegler (eds.), Bayerische Schriftstellerinnen: Ein Lesebuch (Munich, 2013), pp. 59–67. 41. Pieter M. Judson, Guardians of the Nation: Activists on the Language Frontiers of Imperial Austria (London, 2006), pp. 164–75; Laurence Cole, ‘The Emergence and Impact of Modern Tourism on an Alpine Region: Tirol c. 1880–1914’, Annali di San Michele 15 (2002), pp. 31–40 (pp. 37–38). 42. Edward Ross Dickinson, ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 3 (2010), pp. 579–602. 43. See, for example, J. C. Platter, ‘Gebirgsboten in Wälschtirol’, Der Alpenfreund VI:6 (1896), pp. 60–61 (p. 60); Dr Bindel, ‘Die Bamberger Hütte’, MDOeAV X(XX):13 (1894), pp. 159–61 (p. 160); Josef Tominšek, ‘Bioskoptisches von der Wocheinerstrecke’, Illustrierte Oesterreichische Alpen-Zeitung VIII:9 (1908), pp. 227–30. 44. Luchner-Egloff, ‘Die Burggräfler’, DAZ X:1(1) (1910), pp. 9–10. 45. Dickinson, ‘Altitude and Whiteness’; Luchner-Egloff, ‘Burggräfler’, p. 11. 166 B. ANDERSON

46. Tominšek, ‘Bioskoptisches’, pp. 227–30. See Walter Deutsch, Das Volkslied in Österreich: Volkspoesie und Volksmusik der in Österreich lebender Völker (Herausgegeben vom k. k. Ministerium für Kultus und Unterricht) (Vienna, 1918), p. 40. 47. Tominšek, ‘Bioskoptisches’, p. 230; Luchner-Egloff, ‘Burggräfler’, pp. 6–11. 48. Anne Dreesbach, Gezähmte Wilde: Die Zurschaustellung “exotischer” Menschen in Deutschland, 1870–1940 (Frankfurt a. M., 2005). Sadiah Qureshi has linked the visual culture of such rhetorics to a similarly cate- gorising gaze on city streets; the evidence of this chapter suggests that this might be extended to the countryside. See Sadiah Qureshi, Peoples on Parade: Exhibitions, Empire and Anthropology in Nineteenth Century Britain (London, 2011), Part One. 49. Anon., ‘Unser Kränzchen’, Naturfreund 2:4 (1898), p. 22. F. J. Eason, ‘Holiday Notes: Glimpses with a Camera during a N.H.R.U Co-operative Holiday Week at “The Towers”, Portinscale, from 26th August to 2nd September 1899’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PHT/3/112, p. 12. 50. CHA, Summer Holidays by Mountain, Moor, Loch and Sea in Connection with the Co-operative Holidays Association (n.d. [c. 1905]), p. 2. 51. See Chas H. Ashley, ‘On Tramp in the South of Ireland’, RC Journal 1:3 (1909), pp. 162–69; Chas H. Ashley, ‘A Holiday in Donegal’, RC Journal 1:4 (1910), pp. 167–73. 52. Jane M. Hindley, ‘Whitsundtide in Germany’, Comradeship 3:5 (1910), pp. 71–73 (p. 71). 53. Domestic Committee Minutes, 14 November 2013, GMCRO/B/ CHA/ADM/3/1, p. 131. 54. David Blackbourn ‘“As Dependent on Each Other as Man and Wife”: Cultural Contacts and Transfers’, in Dominik Geppart and Robert Gewarth (eds.), Wilhelmine Germany and Edwardian Britain: Essays on Cultural Affinity (Oxford, 2008), pp. 15–37; T. A. Leonard, ‘In Germany’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 77–79. 55. Summer Holidays 1907, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/4/1; T. A. Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary’, Comradeship 5:5 (1912), pp. 65–66 (p. 66); Leonard, ‘In Germany’, p. 78. 56. V. E. M., ‘In Praise of Wolfach’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), pp. 60–61 (p. 61). 57. V. E. M. ‘Wolfach’, p. 61. 58. Anon., ‘Holidays in Rural Germany: The Volcanic Eifel’, Comradeship 1:3 (1907), pp. 40–42 (p. 41). 59. For example Fabricus Bauer [Georg Schmiedl], ‘Vom Ortler in’s Engadin’, Naturfreund 2:1 (1898), pp. 2–3 (p. 2). Dagmar Günther, ‘Zwischen Mission und Denunziation: Die Gebirgsvölkerung im Blick 5 TIME 167

bürgerlicher Bergsteiger und sozialistischer “Naturfreunde”’, in Jon Mathieu and Simona Boscani Leoni (eds.), Die Alpen! Zur europäischen Wahrnehmungsgeschuchte seit der Renaissance/Les Alpes! Pour une histoire de la perception européene depuis la Renaissance (Oxford, 2005), pp. 299– 314 (pp. 309–10). 60. Valentin Schüssler, ‘Die Osterfeuer im Lavanttale’, Naturfreund, 11:4 (1907), pp. 65–69 (p. 65). 61. See for example, Ig. Hornitschek, ‘Eisgrub: Das “Märische Windsor- Castle”’, Naturfreund 5:6 (1901), pp. 49–50. 62. Jos. Bloch, ‘Das Kremsthal’, Naturfreund 2:7 (1898), pp. 39–42 (p. 39). See also Karl Renner, ‘Der Arbeiter als Naturfreund und Tourist’, Naturfreund 2:1 (1898), pp. 1–2 (p. 1); [Leopold] H[appisc]h, ‘Zu unseren Bildern’, Naturfreund 3:7 (1899), p. 49; J Waller, ‘Aus den Karawanken’, Naturfreund 4:1 (1900), pp. 1–2 (p. 2). 63. Bauer, ‘Vom Ortler’, p. 2. See also Günther, ‘Gebirgsbevölkerung’, pp. 309–10. 64. [Leopold] H[appisc]h, ‘Unser Ausflug nach Zell am See’,Naturfreund 3:10 (1899), pp. 74–75 (p. 75). 65. Georg Schmiedl, ‘Die Kehrseite der Medaille’, Naturfreund 4:1 (1900), pp. 3–5 (pp. 4–5). See also Max Hecher, ‘Blankenstein’, Naturfreund 1:2 (1897), p. 3. 66. Fritz Brand, ‘Mein Absturz’, Naturfreund 5:9 (1901), pp. 80–81; R. B. Brierley, ‘Three Visits to the Cheviot in 1909’, RC Journal 1:4 (1910), pp. 252–54 (p. 253); A. E. Barker, ‘A Day’s Walk in Skye’, RC Journal 1:4 (1910), pp. 263–66; John Mason, ‘It Caps Owt’, FRCC Journal 2:2 (1911), p. 207; John Mason, ‘Mair aboot Climmers’, FRCC Journal 2:3 (1912), pp. 314–15. John Mason was a medical doctor and folk song collector from Windermere. See Susan Allen, ‘Folk Song in Cumbria: A Distinctive Regional Repertoire’, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Lancaster, 2016, p. 62. 67. Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley, Reminiscences of Wordsworth among the Peasantry of Westmorland (London, 1968 [1882]), p. 11. 68. Rawnsley, Reminiscences, p. 12. 69. Rawnsley, Reminiscences, p. 13. 70. Rawnsley, Reminiscences, p. 13. 71. Rawnsley, Reminiscences, pp. 39–42. 72. Patrick Joyce, Visions of the People: Industrial England and the Question of Class, c. 1848–1914 (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 256–304. 73. Walter Hampson, Tykes Abrooad: An Accahnt of Joss Jenkins’ Travels and Trials throo Normanton to Normandy (Wakefield, 1911). 74. L. Halliday, ‘Mountaineers at Home and Abroad’, FRCC Journal 2:3 (1912), pp. 322–26 (p. 325). 168 B. ANDERSON

75. Halliday, ‘Home and Abroad’, pp. 325–26. 76. Paul Glennie and Nigel Thrift, Shaping the Day: A History of Timekeeping in England and Wales, 1300–1800 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 68–71. 77. Glennie and Thrift, Shaping the Day, pp. 53–57. 78. For a non-historical treatment of time and sport, see Kath Woodward, Sporting Times (New York, 2013). 79. Already by the 1870s, Baedeker measured travel distances in miles, but mountain ascents in hours and minutes. Karl Baedeker, Southern Germany and Austria Including the Eastern Alps (Leipzig, 1873), pp. 264–366. 80. Glennie and Thrift, Shaping the Day, p. 57. 81. Westaway, ‘“Men Who can Last”’, p. 311. See William Thomas Palmer, In Lakeland Dells and Fells (London, 1903), which devotes a chapter to fell records, but makes no mention of guides’ races at all. 82. Alfred Mummery, My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (London, 1895), p. 112. 83. Mummery, My Climbs, pp. 113–14; Arnold, ‘“Alpinen Knigge”’, p. 183. 84. Jenny Herzberg, ‘Zwei Bergfahrten (Vortrag, gehalten am 27. März 1896)’, ÖAZ 464 (1896), pp. 259–62 (p. 260). 85. Herzberg, ‘Zwei Bergfahrten (I)’, p. 261. 86. Herzberg, ‘Zwei Bergfahrten, Fortsetzung’, ÖAZ 465 (1896), pp. 271– 75 (p. 271). 87. Herzberg, ‘Zwei Bergfahrten (II)’, p. 271. 88. Ascent times had become ubiquitous in most mountaineering journals. See Mummery, My Climbs. 89. For example, Karl Barta, ‘Der Pflerscher Tribulaun’ Naturfreund 9:9 (1905), pp. 109–15 (p. 113). Some ascents were explicitly record breaking: E. W., ‘Wien—Schneeberg (an einem Tag zu Fuss)’, Naturfreund 2:6 (1898), pp. 31–32; Albert Blattmann, ‘Eine überschreitung des Hallermauerngrates’, Naturfreund 9:3 (1905), pp. 25–29. 90. Erich König (ed.), Empor! Georg Winklers Tagebuch in Memorium. Ein Reigen von Bergfahrten hervorragender Alpinisten von heute (Leipzig, n.d. [c. 1905]), pp. 21–49. 91. See, for example, Fred. W. Jackson, ‘The Late John Wilson Robinson’, RC Journal 1:2 (1908), pp. 105–09 (p. 107). See Jonathan Westaway, ‘“Men Who can Last”’. 92. Jeanne Immink, ‘Tourenberichte: Suedtiroler Dolomiten’, ÖAZ 382 (1893), pp. 208–09; Otto Laubheimer, ‘Auf die Fünffingerspitze, 2997m, durch den Schmittkamin’, Naturfreund 7:1 (1903), pp. 1–4. 93. Lammer, Jungborn, p. 224. 94. Anton Stoop, ‘The NW Climb, Pillar Rock’, RC Journal 1:3 (1909), pp. 173–75 (p. 173). See also Richard H. Isherwood, ‘Laddow: And Some Reflections of Climbing Books’,RC Journal 2:4 (1914), pp. 333– 42 (p. 333). 5 TIME 169

95. E. W., ‘Wien—Schneeberg’; [Alois] (R[ohraue]r), ‘Den Hammer Fort ….’, Naturfreund 2:7 (1898), p. 47; Friedrich Brand, ‘Eine Oedsteingrat-Ueberschreitung bei Schneesturm’, Naturfreund 2:7 (1898), pp. 52–53; Curt Walter, ‘Zu Neujahr in den Bergen’, Naturfreund 15:1 (1911), pp. 12–13 (p. 13). 96. For storms (and the need to hurry in general), see for example Hermann Gmelin, ‘Der Zwölfer über die Nordostwand’, MDOeAV XXV(XXXV):8 (1909), pp. 105–07 (p. 106). 97. See Askar Büchle, ‘Winterwanderung im Alpstein’, Naturfreund 15:2 (1911), pp. 30–31 (p. 30). 98. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Die Grenzen des Bergsports’, MDOeAV XXVI(XXXV):20 (1910), pp. 243–45 (p. 243); Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Wettrennen im Hochgebirge’, ÖAZ 826 (1911), pp. 21–25 (p. 22). 99. Palmer, Lakeland Dells, p. 88. 100. Lammer, ‘Grenzen’, p. 245. 101. Mummery, My Climbs, pp. 15, 18, 22. Heinrich Steinach, ‘Ueber Hüttenbau’, MDOeAV X(XX):10 (1894), pp. 119–20 (p. 199); A Carraro, ‘Eingeregnet!’, Naturfreund 16:8 (1912), p. 224. Walter, ‘Neujahr in den Bergen’, p. 13; Oskar Büchle, ‘Winterwanderung im Alpstein’, Naturfreund 15:2 (1911), pp. 30–31 (p. 30). 102. Mami, ‘Another Sunrise Party. How we did it’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), p. 60; C. Stanley Wise, ‘Holiday-Makers in Switzerland. Hints for Walkers Among the Swiss Mountains’, Comradeship 7:5 (1914), pp. 73–74. 103. Franz Nieberl, Das Klettern im Fels (Munich, 1909), pp. 41–42; Josef Ittlinger, Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig, 1913), p. 135; See also George D. Abraham, The Complete Mountaineer (London, 1907), pp. 47, 105; Clinton T. Dent, Mountaineering, 2nd ed. (London, 1892), p. 91. 104. Baedeker, Southern Germany and Austria. Other examples include Theodore Trautwein, 250 Ausflüge von München, auf einen halben Tag bis zu drei Tagen, 23rd ed. (Munich, 1911); Josef Moriggl, Von Hütte zu Hütte: Führer zu den Schutzhütten der deutschen und österreichischen Alpen (Leipzig, 1912). 105. J. Aichinger, ‘Der norwegische Schneeschuh in Dienste des Alpinismus (Schluss)’, MDOeAV XI(XXI):23 (1895), pp. 281–83 (p. 282); Eugen Oertel, ‘Sport, Alpinismus und Schilauf’, MDOeAV XXV(XXXV):1, pp. 6–9 (p. 8). 106. Franz Otter, ‘Ein Neuer Wintersportplatz in Tirol’, Naturfreund 15:2 (1911), pp. 2–4. 107. For example, Summer Holidays Organised by the Co-operative Holiday Association, in connection with the National Home Reading Union at Whitby, 1902 (1901), GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/3, p. 8; Summer Holidays in the Peak District 1908 (1907), GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/5/8, pp. 3–7; Holidays by Mountain, Moor, Loch and Sea (1902), p. 6. 170 B. ANDERSON

108. Douglas Hope, Thomas Arthur Leonard and the Co-operative Holidays Association: Joy in Widest Commonality Spread (Cambridge, 2018), p. 241. 109. See ‘General Committee Minute Book Jan 2nd 1903–May 16th, 1911’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ADM/1/3, pp. 9, 55. 110. Junius, ‘A Letter from Junius’, Comradeship 2:2 (1908), p. 31. 111. ‘Junius: For and Against’, Comradeship 2:3 (1909), pp. 47–48 (p. 47). It is impossible to confirm, but it seems likely that this was the same Clement Ord who was head of the German department at Bristol University, and a Quaker. 112. ‘Junius: For and Against’, p. 48. 113. Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler, ‘Between Metropole and Colony’, in Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (eds.), Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World (London, 1997), pp. 1–56 (p. 5).

Bibliography

Archival Sources Gedächtnisspeicher Ötztal. Greater Manchester County Records Office [GMCRO].

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Thompson, E. P. (1967) ‘Time, Work Discipline and Industrial Capitalism’, Past and Present 38, pp. 56–97. Weber, Eugen (1977) Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914 (London). Westaway, Jonathan (2013) ‘Men that can Last: Mountaineering endurance, the Lake District Fell Records and the campaign for Everest, 1919–1924’, Sport in History 3, pp. 303–32. Whelehan, Niall (2015) ‘Revolting Peasants: Southern Italy, Ireland, and Cartoons in Comparative Perspective, 1860–1882’, International Review of Social History 60, pp. 1–35. Woodward, Kath (2013) Sporting Times (New York). CHAPTER 6

Risk and Danger

If historians of mountaineering identify any group as ‘modern’, it has been to elite mountaineers that they turn. From at least the mid-nineteenth century, mountaineering elites characterised their activities as the heir to enlightened exploration and discovery in the mountains, which paralleled and contributed to a broader myth of modern progress.1 In this narrative, mountain explorers rediscovered, rationalised and re-imagined places that had until then been the haunts of dragons and religious superstition. Mountains seemed a topographic parallel to enlightened thought and scientific modernity—‘the love of the mountains came in with the rights of man and the victory of the philosophers’, as public moralist and mountaineer Leslie Stephen put it.2 Mountaineers characterised their ‘first’ ascents of unclimbed peaks as triumphs of reason and modern spirit rather than bodies—especially since the really hard, skilled labour normally fell to the local mountain guide.3 Historians and mountaineers alike have broadly accepted this narrative until relatively recently. In Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory, Marjorie Hope Nicolson complicated the process by pointing to mountains as the ultimate symbol (and evidence) of god-challenging deep geological time but retained the basic story of enlightened mountaineering intact.4 More recently, Ann Colley has demonstrated that even sublime awe became a casualty of mountaineering modernity, and Kerwin Lee Klein has shown how such dynamics could be appropriated by a new proletarian group of climbers by the end of the nineteenth century, but neither resist placing

© The Author(s) 2020 175 B. Anderson, Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany, https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3_6 176 B. ANDERSON mountaineers within a narrative in which they irresistibly succeed the ‘ancients’ as the harbingers of modern progress.5 Over the last few years, this equation of elite mountaineers with modernity has received some reassessment. The work of Martin Scharfe, Peter Hansen and Tanja Wirz has moved the focus away from defining mountaineers as essentially or unconsciously modern individuals to analyse how and why different elite mountaineers constructed modern identities. Scharfe’s Berg-Sucht has forced a revision of mountaineering in the early nineteenth century by describing a ‘cultural symbiosis’ between bourgeois mountaineers and mountaineering locals who contributed far more than skill and navigation to mountaineering culture.6 In The Summits of Modern Man, Peter Hansen has demonstrated that far from the result of a long teleology of enlightened philosophical progress, mountaineering emerged as a practice that constituted new political subjects in mountain villages such as Chamonix below Mont Blanc.7 For the historian of female Gipfelstürmerinnen Tanya Wirz, elite mountaineering needs to be understood as a ‘cultural activity’:

If it is understood in this way, we might also speak of ‘telling stories’. And most of these stories are about the capabilities of the modern individual, about progress, conquest, and the search for knowledge. At the same time, these stories contain claims about the locals, who are described as tradition- bound, superstitious and weak-willed.8

For Wirz, the activities of mountaineers are not understood so much as the result of an individual’s modernity, or even of modernity more broadly, but rather as constitutive of the identification with ‘modernity’ and ‘progress’ in the first place—mountaineers did not climbbecause they were modern, but in order to be modern. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the many debates and disputes over the precise behaviours, technologies and practices of mountaineering within alpine presses between 1880 and 1914. Technological innovation, new techniques of movement or philosophical diatribes on mountaineering ‘ethics’ were the inevitable results not of modern progress but of a context in which mountaineers performed and developed competing definitions of that progress and crucially argued over who owned and directed it. This chapter explores four distinct changes in elite mountaineering culture and practice across the three decades between 1885 and 1914. The first section charts what became known as the ‘guideless’ revolution as a 6 RISK AND DANGER 177 new generation of middle-class men sought to dispense with what they saw as an immoral and infantalising reliance on local mountain guides. Figures such as Eugen Guido Lammer and Emil Zsigmondy (1861–1885) responded to debates surrounding new workplace insurance legislation in Central Europe by applying new discourses of risk management to mountaineering practice. Risk, these mountaineers now argued, was the central experience of the mountains, and overcoming it the central purpose of mountaineering. Farming that work out to a mountain guide was immoral in risking another’s life and rendered the whole exercise pointless. The second section deals with how women responded to this new definition of ‘modern’ mountaineering. That women mountaineered in this period should not, by now, come as a surprise, but in the Eastern Alps (and especially Dolomites) of the 1890s and 1900s, the first ascents of ground-breaking routes fell to women with impressive regularity. Drawing on responses from this group of female mountaineers to a survey carried out by the English-born climber Maud Wundt in 1900, the second section asks how women responded to the new obsession with fatal risk-taking, how far they understood their elite mountaineering as a claim to the same modern identities as their male counterparts, and the physical challenge that these women posed to men when they climbed ‘impossible’ routes. The third section returns to the same middle-class group as the first in order to chart a process of radicalisation that led elite mountaineers in what became known as the ‘Vienna school’ to abandon not just the help of mountain guides but of any ‘artificial aid’ whatsoever. It shows how debates surrounding the legitimacy of using safety equipment in the Alps emerged as a footnote to the wider codification of ‘amateur’ sports in late nineteenth-century England and an Austro-German bourgeois obsession with individual personal achievement, beginning a debate over climbing ‘ethics’ that has continued ever since. In mountaineering, this meant denying the legitimacy of technical means of making the sport safe as ‘unfair’, and insisting that mountaineers should actively seek out dangerous routes. In 1890s Austria and Germany, surviving fatal risk-taking in the mountains became a practice of elite modern distinction and mountaineering the first of a raft of ‘extreme’ sports. The final section charts the impact of a newly vocal, socialist and sub- versive group of mountain guides who asserted their own claims to the future of mountaineering, and led to the decline of the ‘Viennese school’ led by Eugen Guido Lammer and his followers. Along with working-class friends and associates from industrial centres near to the Alps and some 178 B. ANDERSON like-minded students, guides from the Ladin-speaking Dolomites and the Zillertal valley near to Innsbruck applied new technologies to the mountains. At first, this meant ascending very difficult routes using new technologies for safety—and occasionally upward progress as well. By the late 1900s, this group—who were also key left-wing voices in the guides’ community—extended their actions to ‘unclimbable’ routes that bourgeois elites in Munich and Vienna had attempted, but failed to climb. These newly enfranchised, politically conscious and technologically able mountain guides transformed the standards of contemporary rock climbing, ending both middle-class dominance over the sport and the intentional risk-taking that characterised ‘elite’ climbing at the fin de siècle.

Going Guideless Newly qualified from a doctoral thesis on nationalism as a ‘cultural enemy’, Eugen Guido Lammer published his first manifesto of ‘guideless solo mountaineering’ in the Alpenverein newsletter of 1884.9 Like a good mountaineering modern, Lammer justified his activities as a kinetic cipher for civilisation and enlightened rational masculinity, and used a Kantian metaphor to contrast his new style of mountaineering to earlier, guided climbers. When led by a mountain guide, Lammer claimed to feel ‘pro- tected and patronised, like a child by their governess’, while the activities and practices of guideless mountaineering emancipated him from self- imposed immaturity:

How different, when I go without guides or even alone!10 Well before I set out, I must make myself closely acquainted with the terrain through a detailed study of maps and literature […] but this navigational activity is only the much smaller part of the mental work, because I don’t [just] study the terrain from the calm office, but rather in the middle of battle with the difficulties of the terrain themselves, often in extremely critical situations. It means to jump from boulder to boulder over moraines, and to spy the next step with lightning speed in every single moment. […] In short, I know of no human activity which exerts all the powers of body and mind, often to their last reserves and always in thousands of new combinations, to the same multifaceted extent as duelling with difficult high-mountain terrain.11

Drawing on contemporary avant garde thought in European cities like his hometown of Vienna, Lammer conceived of a holistically connected ‘mind 6 RISK AND DANGER 179 and body’, in which the assertion of individual freedom and rationality depended on kinetic knowledge and experimentation.12 Rather than views and peaks, Lammer’s guideless mountaineering choreography offered a ‘taskscape’ through which the rationality of the modern individual would be developed and imposed, and whose dominance over nature would be confirmed with every successful mountaineering act.13 ‘Powerful action’, Lammer and other guideless mountaineers such as Alfred Mummery claimed, was the physical expression and ‘unfolding’ of a modern, rational masculinity explicitly opposed to the paternalist—but emasculated—figures who paid guides to do the physical work for them.14 For the new guideless mountaineer, how people climbed held as much, if not more meaning than the what and where of first ascents. Going guideless opened up the mountaineering body to new levels of political and moral contestation. Guideless mountaineering was a significant departure for the middle- class, professional men and financially independent women who dominated mountaineering until the turn of the century. Mountain guides had not merely navigated their Herren through snowy landscapes but had fil- tered topography for their clients’ benefit. Guides cut steps in glaciers and steep snow slopes, told mountaineers where to put feet and hands or physically aided them over obstacles, organised overnight stays, carried provisions, scientific equipment or photographic apparatus and decided when to turn back. They mitigated the dangers and challenges of the alpine terrain, allowing mountaineers to move in relative safety and ease through them—even if this meant carrying ladders, hammering steps into rock or fixing ropes to the rock with ‘pitons’ or pegs. At an individual level, guides often formed close relationships with both female and male ‘amateurs’, and this did not change with the rise of guidelessness.15 However, earlier mountaineers had been happy to defer to the superiority of the guide in terms of physicality and mountain skill.16 Guides were dominant in equipment innovation, and the only significant contribution of urban mountaineers before 1885 was an improved alpine rope—the very instrument that bound the safety of the client to their employee.17 In the mountain landscape, guides had an authority that far transcended the role of servant or human mule suggested by the distinction between Herr and Führer in German, or client and guide in English.18 Going guideless overturned these relationships, by breaking the reliance of urban mountain climbers on the expertise, skill and risk assessment of the guide, and threatened to usurp guides’ authority over the ‘craft’ of mountaineering.19 180 B. ANDERSON

Lammer began his article by repeating a typical claim that alpinists should aim ‘to develop as mountain guides’, but his polemic also suggested a refashioning of the mountaineer-guide relationship:

[with a guide I have] the painful feeling, that this human, who should be my equal as of right, does not just match my mountaineering effort, but also carries a load which I forego, does work which I do not, that he has always to worry about the path and direction, and I do not, and all this whilst exercising a kind of professional oversight over me. The guide tariffs are hardly sufficient to cover all these activities.20

Far from merely justifying his own guideless mountaineering, Lammer questioned the morality of using guides at all. If the urban, socially elite mountaineer expected to morally gain from the difficulties of mountaineering, he argued, delegating those challenges to a mountain guide was at best pointless, and might place an employee in unnecessary danger. Mountaineers from both Germany and England had raised similar concerns since at least the 1870s, but in the 1880s Lammer turned what had been an intellectual moral problem to the politics of class and the fraught debates about workplace safety in 1880s Central Europe.21 The Austrian half of the Austro-Hungarian Empire expanded its electorate in 1882 by lowering its tax qualification to include the ‘five-Gülden men’ who would form the basis for Karl Lueger’s antisemitic dominance of Viennese politics.22 Alongside electoral reforms, European parliaments debated and leg- islated for new workplace insurance schemes in the mid-1880s.23 Lammer’s 1884 article, published in the same year that the first accident insurance legislation was passed in Germany, but before the equivalent 1887 Austrian law, problematised the safety of the most visible proletariat of mountain tourism at a time when to do so had significant political resonance. In 1886, Lammer returned to the question of ‘mountain danger, guides, and “Herren”’ in two articles published in the Viennese alpine press at a time when the position of mountain guides and dangerous climbing in general were under increased scrutiny.24 In both articles, he argued that mountain guides were forced to put their own lives at risk because of ‘that eminent social factor, money’.25 Capitalism had ‘produced the same ugly occurrences in the modern mountain guide as it had in the industrial proletariat, but intensified because the mountain guide is hounded into endless fatal danger’.26 Lammer drew on left-leaning liberal debates about compensation, but rejected older liberal arguments based 6 RISK AND DANGER 181 on working contracts as a choice by pointing out that it was contemporary Alpinism, and not guides, which had brought the dangerous profession into being and created cultures in which its workers would be put at risk.27 He advocated a statistical basis for insurance payments based on the perceived danger of individual routes but also a cultural change amongst ‘mountaineering society’:

If we could be clear for once in alpine circles that it is immoral to play with the life of a socially-compelled wage-worker, and illogical to do this only to lie to one’s self about one’s own ability, then there would be a moral pressure against such use of mountain guides, and [dangerous guided routes] would cease to be fashionable.28

Like the Social Democrats whose language he adopted, Lammer did not consider accident insurance to be sufficient. It was far better to prevent accidents, and he feared that the emergence of alpine compensation systems alone might lead unscrupulous mountaineers to abrogate responsibility to their employees. Support for injured guides had existed in the Eastern Alps since at least 1878, and guides did indeed get relatively generous insurance in much of the Alps from the early 1880s, but Lammer’s intervention was as much about defining the roles of guides in extreme mountaineering as about reforming working conditions.29 By defining ‘danger’ as the central element to a uniquely bourgeois, urban claim on mountaineering, Lammer effectively excluded guides from any mountaineering that might be understood in morally beneficial terms. As he succinctly put it in 1886, while the new ‘modern mountaineer searches for danger’, the guide ‘does not want it’.30 Lammer provides an example of how the changing languages of risk and danger in industrial workplaces collided with alpine culture, but the same discourse led to a wider reconfiguration of ‘danger’ amongst the European bourgeoisie and its mountaineers. The emergence of workplace liability, compensation and insurance schemes shifted responsibility for safety from workers, porters and servants to middle-class experts. A raft of statisticians, natural and applied scientists, doctors, engineers, lawyers and actuarists appropriated risk from the individual worker, so that risk management came to be integrated into codes of middle-class masculinity.31 It was men of similar social status—and, in some cases, from these specific professions—that dominated guideless mountaineering in the 1880s and 182 B. ANDERSON

1890s, along with related discussions of mountaineering technique, equipment, risk analysis and social commentary. The result was a shift from the comic dismissal of dangerous circumstances popular amongst mid-century mountaineers and borrowed from imperial explorers to the use of statis- tics, mechanics, engineering, body-training, medicine, nutrition and rationality in order to document, mitigate and ‘know’ the dangers of mountaineering. Middle-class mountaineers proposed the confrontation of danger through enlightened conduct as a central performance of modernity. They developed systems of risk assessment, categorisation and rationalisation that supposedly nullified the dangers of the mountain environment by turning them into known risks, which could then be controlled. Edward Whymper had included a categorisation of ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ dangers in the 1871 first edition ofScrambles in the Alps. Even so, English mountaineers preferred to distance themselves from overt (and so ‘unjustifiable’) encounters with danger, with the result that English (as well as Scottish and Welsh) rock-climbing standards lagged behind well into the twentieth century.32 It was in Germany and Austria that ambitious elite alpinists adapted Whymper’s risk categorisation to justify a direct encounter with danger as an intrinsic part of masculine morality.33 In 1885, Emil Zsigmondy, a Viennese doctor from a Hungarian scientific family whose brothers included the Nobel Prize winner Richard Adolf Zsigmondy and the eminent mathematician Karl Zsigmondy, published Dangers of the Alps: Practical Hints for Mountaineers. This classic of mountaineering literature described rationalised ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ mountaineering dangers—those resulting broadly from the environment and the individual respectively.34 Emil Zsigmondy died on a guideless mountaineering trip in the same year—but his book was republished in new editions well into the twentieth century and became essential reading for central-European mountaineers.35 His ideas on how to manage risk in the mountains provided one basis for the annual statistical analyses of alpine accidents that appeared in the Alpenverein newsletter from the early 1890s, as well as discussions of mountaineering accidents in the wider alpine press and beyond.36 These reports also categorised mountaineering accidents: those outside of the Alps, or those in the Alps but not on specifically ‘mountaineering’ trips were excluded—if a mountaineer fell off while attempting to pick a flower, this might be recorded as a ‘flower-picking accident’; a fall whilst rock climbing in the alpine foothills might be a ‘half-alpine accident’.37 The 6 RISK AND DANGER 183 remaining very much reduced number were then analysed in order to demonstrate how far accidents resulted from irrational behaviour on the part of the dead or their companions—for the good mountaineer, the mountains were safe, while bad mountaineers could be identified by their involvement in accidents. Oscar Eckenstein—who climbed with Lammer in his early mountaineering days—was said to have caustically summarised sometime later that ‘if you’re a duffer, and fall and kill yourself, the world will be well rid of you, and [by climbing alone] you won’t run the risk of dragging down a man the world’s in need of’.38 By the mid-1890s accident reports provided a chance to redefine mountaineering as a test of self-discipline, manliness and character pitted against danger:

The overcoming of opposition [Widerstand] and the survival of dangers offers the male gender an appeal which is based deep in the nature of ancestral man. This appeal is not reprehensible, but noble and ideal. In our materialistic time, we should keep hold of and carefully nurture it.39

In such discussions, mountaineers effectively applied risk-cost analysis to defend mountaineering from critics by harnessing a critique of modern urban society in which men were emasculated by bourgeois work routines and safe, materialistic decadence. The benefits to society outweighed the loss of life, ran the basic argument. As Ingeborg Schmid-Mummert has found, elite mountaineers often reduced Alpinism to an act of willpower over nature and the human body simultaneously.40 ‘The highest peaks of the Alps will bend to his [i.e. the mountaineer’s] will’, one mountaineer quoted by Schmid-Mummert described.41 Lammer proposed mountaineering as an ‘active’ cure—a way to generate the ‘highest, purest lust for life’, while Josef Ittlinger described how the alpinist ‘gains the most exceptional unfolding of his powers and assertion of his personality’.42 Another contemporary mountaineer, Max Haushofer, commented that, in modern society, ‘without any struggle, without risk and without physical exertion, man would become a pampered artificial product’, and that sport (and above all alpine sport) played ‘a highly important role in the life of the cultured human’.43 Elite mountaineering provided the same engagement with fear in the 1880s as flying would in the 1920s, and emerged at a time when ‘willpower’ was in vogue amongst students in Vienna and Munich.44 This ‘cult of the will’ constituted a performative rediscovery of a natural modern self, able to impose its will over the irrational and emotional urges 184 B. ANDERSON of the body.45 That this self was gendered masculine should be no surprise, in view of the previous history of Alpinism, the association of manliness with public activity and the subjugation of nature to rational order since the Enlightenment. Through their cultural criticism, mountaineers placed themselves within modern life whilst retaining sceptical distance from it and proposed elite mountaineering as a means to modernity open exclusively to wealthy, urban men. Unsurprisingly, this process accompanied a bureaucratisation of mountain guides that professionalised their position and placed them rigidly under the control of urban, bourgeois mountaineering associations.46 Austrian authorities provided the Alpenverein with rights to register and licence mountain guides from 1882, and the organisation’s urban and academic leadership embraced a new role to train and ensure the ‘quality’ of guides, who would now be moulded in the image of the enlightened bourgeoisie.47 Guides from across the Tirol gathered in Innsbruck in 1881 for the first of many training courses led by abürgerlich group of schoolteachers, university lecturers, foremans of clock and optical equipment manufacturers, doctors and forestry inspectors. They covered glaciology, geography, plant-pressing, map-reading, the use of compasses, thermom- eters and clinometers, the rights and duties of guides, alpine fairy tales, first aid, and the institutions (such as insurance organisations, the Alpenverein and guides’ organisations) that regulated the guiding profession. In subsequent tests, Alpenverein members were impressed by the guides’ abilities in map-reading and geographic knowledge after so little tuition(!).48 The guides who took part doubtlessly welcomed the free accommodation and food, as well as the opportunity to gain a ‘diploma’ that could give them an advantage in the competition for clients. Few at this stage objected to a process that conferred the real benefits of life insurance and the protection of a professional licence to what had been a financially as well as physically precarious occupation. The emergence of elite, guideless mountaineers emerged alongside broader changes in mountaineering culture that diminished the role of mountain guides, reduced even the average walker’s reliance on them, and made a number of their subsidiary roles invisible or unnecessary. Path construction not only made walking safer, but radically reduced the need for guides on all but the highest mountain peaks. Alpine mapping was substantially complete by the 1890s, and offered an alternative knowledge of mountain terrain more suited to middle-class enthusiasms for precision and rationality. Techniques of contouring, shading and the proliferation of 6 RISK AND DANGER 185 landscape reliefs and panoramas helped to complete the picture, while improving compasses made map navigation possible. Beginning in the 1890s in Britain, book ‘guides’ and ‘Führer’ replaced human ones in a variety of forms, advising on climbing technique, clothing, food, training, equipment and the dangers of the Alps, while a series of other guidebooks provided descriptions and eventually lists of routes in particular areas— with topographic diagrams, descriptions and eventually grades of difficulty.49 The rapidly expanding hut network—and its stocking with food, and then ‘commercialisation’ with paid meals in the 1890s—obviated the need for mountaineering expeditions to take a small train of porters as well as guides to carry provisions. These huts did not reduce the work involved in alpine tourism, since provisions and firewood still had to be hauled to the hut, most required a warden, and maintenance in the face of harsh weather and frequent break-ins was significant, but they rendered this work largely invisible.50 Guideless mountaineers made much use of the new huts and paths, and claimed self-reliance whilst ignoring the labour inherent in the new infrastructure on which they so heavily relied. To a large extent though, these contradictions went largely unnoticed and did not put guides’ employment at risk. The same developments made mass alpine tourism possible and as we saw in Chap. 3, they were tied to the mass reproduction of the Alps in Europe’s cities rather than to any intervention on the part of the vocal but tiny number of elite mountaineers. Guides also welcomed the new huts and paths, which made their work less strenuous, less dangerous and offered career-paths beyond guiding— though some complained about the lack of income from guideless mountaineers, most happily accepted the new situation, at least in the 1880s and 1890s.51 Over the course of a decade in the 1880s, the emergence of the ‘guideless’ mountaineer nevertheless changed the equation of mountaineers, guides and what it meant to be modern in the mountains. Led by ideo- logues such as Lammer and Zsigmondy, mountaineers now placed danger and risk at the centre of their performances and understood the alpine terrain as one in which new bourgeois competencies of risk assessment could be acted out. Mountaineers now told new stories about themselves as modern individuals, replacing tales of mountain guides led by masculine pluck and spirit with a narrative of enlightened individualism and calculated triumph. Lammer’s moral fable of personal emancipation from the care of the mountain guide harnessed a Kantian enlightenment to more recently emerged risk cultures, but he and other guideless mountaineers 186 B. ANDERSON promoted implicit assumptions of difference between ‘modern’ mountaineers and mountain guides, which excluded the guide from ‘genuine’ mountaineering. New styles of mountaineering went hand in hand with a transformation in how elite mountaineers understood the mountain landscape. Guideless mountaineers now engaged directly with the mountains using the same actions as guides had done for decades, but insisted that those actions now constituted self-conscious expressions of modern identity, as well as a practice through which the content of that identity could be contested. These contestations lent a potent political resonance to apparently-insignificant changes in climbing technique, equipment or rhetoric, and this new politicisation was exploited by marginalised groups, including women and increasingly numerous mountaineers from lower-middle-class or working- class backgrounds. As a series of impressive ascents fell to women and mountain guides for whom the moral imperative to overcome life- threatening danger appeared an irrational aberration, the claims of those men to represent a brave modern future appeared increasingly irrelevant, and by 1914 a new technological revolution in mountaineering threatened to replace them completely.

Risky Women In the winter of 1900–1901, the Anglo-German mountaineer Maud Wundt sent questionnaires to 35 German-speaking ‘preeminent female mountaineers’, and published her research, with photographs, in the sen- sationalist Berlin newspaper Die Woche.52 She concluded that:

Next to the health and strengthening benefits for the sex,53 Alpinism prom- ises us a higher sense of the ideal, improved self-confidence and self- composure, the development of independence, education in being free and natural, and greater vitality. […] In view of these circumstances, one can certainly say that we are dealing here with the solution to a part of the social question, which can only be greeted with happiness. So on up into the mountains!54

As Tanya Wirz has noted, by ‘part of the social question’, Wundt clearly meant the Frauenfrage. For her, the forms of elite mountaineering favoured by her generation of female climbers offered a means to challenge male dominance not just in the mountains, but on the political and 6 RISK AND DANGER 187 social stage.55 Here, at least, was one woman who had discovered in mountaineering a political message—climbing had been Wundt’s route into women’s rights, not the other way round. For many of the mountaineers whom Wundt quoted, the article was nevertheless problematic. Although Helene Kuntze and Rose Artaria welcomed a rare opportunity to write about mountaineering and women, others refused to take part at all, having understood Wundt’s questions as allied to a project of political emancipation with which they did not agree.56 Some questioned the identity that Wundt thrust upon them as ‘preeminent mountaineers’, and expressed insecurity at being able to respond to the survey at all.57 Subsequent letters asked for responses to be dismissed, and well-known mountaineers supplied and then withdrew images of themselves or ignored questions due to ‘lack of experience’.58 These silences, obfuscations and false-modesties were despite extensive lists of mountaineering accomplishments for which Wundt subsequently asked. For many of these mountaineering women, responding to Wundt’s survey was in itself an exercise in identity construction; an invitation to write themselves as ‘female mountaineers’ which provoked personal conflict. They were not necessarily ‘new women’ or early feminists in the mountains. Indeed, the well-known mountaineer Hermine Tauscher- Geduly pleaded with Wundt ‘in God’s name do not bring the contest of the genders to [mountaineering]!’—but they nevertheless confronted male claims to exclusive rights over the modern condition and redefined what it might mean to be a modern woman.59 By the late nineteenth century, thousands of women mountaineered.60 Some were content to walk up to mountain huts, many hired guides for bigger ascents, and others sought out the most difficult ways up the world’s mountains, competing with each other, and men, for first ascents.61 A few became minor celebrities—such as Jeanne Immink (1853–1929, see below) or Cenci Sild (1878–1956), the ‘Uschba-Mädel’, who was given the then ‘hardest mountain in the world’ as a gift from a landowner impressed by her ability during the first ascent.62 A series of first ascents by women in the Dolomites culminated in a ground-breaking route on the unclimbed South Face of the Marmolada by the English governess Beatrice Tomasson (1859–1947) in 1901—probably the then ‘hardest route in the world’.63 As well as inventing the mountaineer as an urban consumer, Mizzi Langer-Kauba (1872–1955) supported the ‘Langer-Platte’, a group of rock climbers who trained in a Viennese quarry and pushed climbing standards higher in the 1890s.64 Women could not be ignored, and the 188 B. ANDERSON image of the female mountaineer became familiar enough to draw the fire of misogynist hysteria, provided a feminist metaphor for self-confident womanhood, a character for romantic novels—and provoked panic amongst conservative mountaineers, as well as the self-styled mountaineering elite described above.65 By the 1890s, male authors ranted about obsessive feminism, sexual licence, androgyny and misplaced, naïve confidence, so that the ‘female mountaineer’ rapidly became a social and political, as well as reproductive threat.66 These fears accompanied a retrenchment of institutional patriarchy in late nineteenth-century European mountaineering, as new ‘elite’ clubs in England and Germany excluded women, and the Swiss Alpine Club threw out existing female members in 1907.67 Although often denied a reciprocal place in alpine publication, first-ascent records and membership lists, the ubiquity and ability of female mountaineers could not be denied, and the structures and languages of mountain tourism tacitly recognised women’s presence.68 For those women who navigated its cultural and social barriers, elite mountaineering offered potential for agency over the sport, a chance to challenge male authority in the mountains and more broadly to experiment or express alternative identities. In the late 1880s and early 1890s, Jeanne Immink created a persona for herself that provided an inspiration for the next generation of female mountaineers.69 Having arrived in Switzerland in 1882 as a single mother, estranged from her Dutch husband in South Africa, her family in Amsterdam, and lover in colonial India, she used a stipend from her son’s British father to carve out a reputation as one of the most impressive mountaineers of her generation.70 Immink was a pioneer of winter Alpinism well before skis transformed the snow- covered Alps, was one of the first to use a helmet on climbing routes, and is rumoured to have invented an early harness.71 She adopted her own clothing style, preferring a kravatte, blouse, men’s trousers and an adapted military uniform when photographed climbing the Kleine Zinne, a series that caused a sensation.72 Immink never explicitly endorsed a feminist position; nor is she known to have been a member of any women’s associations—but in her writing, she satirised male mountaineers, challenging them to repeat her ascents, or casting herself as an arch-rationalist set against the irrational risk-taking of male companions.73 As in her personal life, Immink found in hard mountaineering a chance to avoid convention and refuse categorisation. 6 RISK AND DANGER 189

Immink was a forerunner of female alpinists in the 1890s, particularly after she moved from Switzerland to lead an itinerant life in cities around the Eastern Alps, joining both the alpinisti tridentini and the elite Oesterreichische Alpenclub. Wundt was one product of Immink’s influence. The daughter of an English lawyer, her introduction to mountaineering caused a minor sensation in 1894, when she climbed the still-feared Matterhorn with her new husband, the army officer, mountain writer, photographer, theatre producer and female mountaineering promoter Theodore Wundt (1858–1929). Theodore was already a close friend of Immink’s, and had invited her on the honeymoon as Maud’s tutor.74 Although never quite matching Immink, Wundt proved a talented climber in her own right and worked with her husband on a series of lavishly illustrated and widely admired mountaineering books.75 Though her difficulty in collecting names and addresses suggests a loosely connected network rather than the Cortina d’Ampezzo ‘Salon’ imagined by the alpine polem- icist Paul Preuß, Wundt certainly charted a growing confidence amongst female climbers in the late nineteenth-century Dolomites.76 Many who responded to Wundt shared male mountaineers’ rhetoric of willpower and self-control. Jenny Winkler (nee. Herzberg), for example, was ‘no supporter of women’s emancipation’, but used her response to reclaim those attributes which men attempted to monopolise:

I count every woman happy, for whom it is possible to peel back the chains of everyday life for a time, and get out in to the great, free, glorious mountain world, there to join their own strength with their own will in vital, purposeful action.77

Herzberg was one of the most significant German mountaineers of the 1880s. With her mother, Aurora Herzberg, she formed easily the most successful all-female guideless pair before the First World War, all the more impressive since the early death of Jenny’s father in 1878 left the family, as Aurora admitted, with ‘limited means’.78 The two were not unusual in appropriating ‘masculine’ attributes of mountaineering for women.79 Oesterreichische Alpenclub member Rosa Zöhnle expanded more fully:

To be torn from the hard-headedness and monotony of everyday life, to fill the mind and spirit with better and more beautiful impressions, to steel the body and make it elastic in battle with the multifarious obstacles that the mountain world sets against us, and through all that to become someone 190 B. ANDERSON

stronger, happier and more satisfied… those who test themselves in battle with nature, will also better withstand the vicissitudes of life!80

Like Winkler, Zöhnle explicitly rejected both the Frauenfrage and ‘the female gender’ as a framework within which to understand mountaineering—she was only, she wrote, ‘able to say what it means to me’.81 For her, mountaineering was about personal subjecthood, not female solidarity; she offered a de-gendered politics, in which a person’s legitimacy in the mountains rested on their experience of modernity. We might doubt that the wealthy women of the Oesterreichischer Alpenclub had more than second-hand experience of either housework or the few professions to which women had access, but this is to miss the point. When Cenzi Sild wrote of ‘fleeing the mechanical business of city life’, she was claiming for herself a modernity of ‘mechanical business’ from which the daughters of wealthy academics were theoretically excluded.82 Women like Herzberg, Zöhnle or Sild sought to heal a female and bourgeois mind and body from the impacts of a public modernity from which it was supposed to stand apart and contradicted misogynist attempts to use biology to rehearse definitions of women as dependent, weak and feebleminded. When women deployed claims to self-development and the assertion of ‘willpower’ as a cure for the problems of urban life, they confronted a set of questions about what an autonomous female subject might mean both in the mountains and at home. The detail of their mountain practice became a kinetic proxy for claims for modern individual economic and political independence in the city. When these mountaineers did comment on the reality of most contemporary women’s lives, they did so to promote themselves as a physical and mental elite alongside their male counterparts, and argued that women’s physical and mental ‘weakness’ had social and cultural, rather than biological foundations. Jenny Winkler, Else Berrer and Mabel Rickmers- Rickmers all considered contemporary women unable to mountaineer because

of the sad fact that in exactly that social class which possesses the necessary time and means, there are so few physically fully-normal, absolutely healthy women. The reason surely lies in the unnatural, softening lifestyle over generations, in the great absence of endurance-building, the small meaning of gymnastics, for growing girls—and perhaps more than anything, in the degraded functionality of highly-important organs as a result of senseless corseting from a tender age.83 6 RISK AND DANGER 191

Winkler placed women’s aptitude to mountaineering firmly within the scope of turn-of-the-century hygiene, clothing and life reform, including contemporary confusions over the permanence or otherwise of ‘degeneration’. Her description of unhealthy contemporary women echoed Eckenstein’s one of unhealthy contemporary men, discussed in the introduction. Both rendered mountaineering as reliant on and encouraging a healthier, ‘natural’ modern body. Mountaineering, for men and women alike, was open only to the modern physical elite that it would also create. References to clothing reform also suggest that late nineteenth-century mountaineering women saw their costume as a performance of modern womanhood. Women had long adopted male clothing in the mountains, along with innovative detachable skirts and other garments that could be carried in a rucksack, before being worn on their ‘return to civilisation’, but in the middle of the century, these remained hidden from view and carried little meaning beyond matter-of-fact necessity.84 Wundt’s contemporaries, on the other hand, not only made a point of being photographed wearing ‘masculine’ costume, but sought to develop alternative styles that linked reformed women’s clothing to contemporary Viennese fashion.85 Immink’s modified men’s military outfit was not the only possibility. Cenci Sild sent Wundt three images—a studio image as female mountaineer, a bourgeois portrait and a third standing barefoot in a field, wearing only an ankle-length, close-fitting rustic dress.86 Beatrice Tomasson rarely appeared in image or print—but in one tantalising photograph, she appears in an extravagant hat, and ornate gloves, pantaloons, socks and loose-fitting blouse, next to her guide in a cave on a rock face.87 Eleonore Noll- Hasenclever (1880–1925), who came to prominence in the early twentieth century, meanwhile, is known to have revelled in being misrecognised as a man, but also appeared wearing bohemian costume.88 Not all mountaineers experimented with clothing, but at the turn of the century, and influenced by the rapid adoption of clothing reform in Vienna’s fashion industry, some women clearly experimented with and expressed alternative femininities through their mountaineering costume. Despite these apparently resistive activities, female mountaineers all too often characterised elite mountaineering as fitting them for reproductive labour and marriage and can be understood as ‘re-gendering’ women’s existing social roles and unequal position as modern.89 While some recommended mountaineering as a way of ‘bringing fresh life into the monotony of the housewife’, or as an adjunct to improving childcare, 192 B. ANDERSON

Wundt summarised a number of women who suggested that mountaineering was beneficial to marriage:90

One further wonderful outcome is the comradely relationship that emerges between the spouses, that friendship of souls that of course helps us overcome so much in everyday life.91

Guideless mountaineering encouraged this analogy of mountaineering to marriage. The new climbing style replaced large parties of clients, guides and carriers with pairs of climbers sharing a rope. Distinctions between ‘leaders’ who climbed ahead, and their ‘second’ proved all too easy to gender, and men routinely assumed the active, ‘leader’ role as their own. Where mountaineering women married non-mountaineers, continuing the sport was near impossible, but even with an enthusiastic spouse, marriage often meant taking a supportive role. ‘My marriage meant an end to real guideless mountaineering’, wrote Jenny Winkler in 1900; ‘My husband is now my guide’.92 Though Winkler planned, prepared and navigated their trips, as well as sharing the lead on snow and ensured her rucksack was of comparable weight, she did not countenance equal pres- tige. The analogies to contemporary ideas about marriage as an unequal ‘partnership’, notions of women’s support for men, and assumptions of ‘active’ masculinity and ‘passive’ femininity proved irresistible for men and women alike. Tauscher-Geduly explained that a mountaineering pair was best when men supplied ‘strength of muscle and character’, and women ‘charm in every situation’—and justified the ‘naturalness’ of such role division by pointing to the submission to the rules of nature demanded by alpine Romanticism.93 In such pairs, ‘guideless’ mountaineering reinforced, rather than challenged, assumptions about women’s marital role. By redefining conservative models of femininity within the scope of modernity, such mountaineering women asserted their rights to mountain leisure without seeking to otherwise alter the social position of women. In the 1890s and early 1900s, the increasing popularity of guideless mountaineering amongst the top male climbers presented another possibility for ambitious women—climb with the best mountain guides. While the all-female guideless climbing pioneered by the Herzbergs, Toni Sandtner, and Ilona (1880–1945) and Rolanda (1878–1943) von Eötvös demonstrated that women did not ‘need’ a guide any more than men did, it is nevertheless true that most of the women who responded to Wundt’s questionnaire always climbed with guides and objected to the idea of 6 RISK AND DANGER 193 guideless, unaccompanied women in the mountains. Yet in the Dolomites especially, it was equally the case that the best guides routinely climbed with elite women, sometimes in preference to male clients, and often climbed the most difficult routes with female mountaineers.94 Nor did this alliance of European mountaineering’s two subaltern groups emerge from some sort of sexual impulse, as was imagined in fictionalisations such as in the Adventures of the Rotten Family.95 By combining, women and guides forced questions of legitimacy to be answered by the middle-class arbiters of first ascents in London, Vienna and Munich. Some women tackled doubters directly. ‘Since, we “female mountain-gymnasts” are unfortu- nately so often insulted after a difficult route’‚ Immink wrote after one ascent, ‘I’d like to remark that at no point was I hauled up “like a rucksack on the rope”, and have made the ascent without any particular help of the guide’.96 Yet, if female ‘rope-dancers’ had been hauled up climbs using the ‘sack of flour technique’, as male critics fantasised, not only were guides responsible for ground-breaking ascents, but they had managed them despite hauling their client behind them.97 When Tomasson ascended the South Face of the Marmolada with the Cortina guides Michele Bettega and Bortolo Zagonel in a single day in 1901, neither her nor her guides sought the legitimation of a published account in the male-dominated, urban alpine press, preferring the proof of distinctive pegs and newspaper wrappers en route. Tomasson certainly had the intellectual credentials and, as a member of the elite Oesterreichische Alpenclub, had the requisite connections but no description of the route ever appeared, little information ever emerged about who ‘led’ which parts of the route, or even where it went. The urban male mountaineering establishment was forced to beg information from Tomasson and her guides, who stubbornly refused to provide it. After much misogyny, the situation was only resolved when two years later the Munich-based guideless mountaineer Georg Leuchs took a week—and much difficulty—to complete a second ascent.98 Indeed, evidence suggests that guides and their female clients sought to share pres- tige; Sepp Innerkofler christened the Cima Immink in 1891; but Immink reciprocated the honour by providing Innerkofler with his own ‘tower’ in 1893, and on key ascents narratives did not always make it clear exactly who led what.99 For all the heroic rhetoric of fin-de-siècle guideless men, the standard of climbing reached by women and their guides in the Dolomites proved difficult to match. Tomasson’s refusal to publish an account of her ascent is best read not as deference to masculine privilege, but rather as her rejection of the authority of an alpine press dominated by 194 B. ANDERSON a self-appointed male elite whose mountaineering ability she and her guides surpassed. Although brought to an effective end by the ‘emancipation’ of the guide discussed below, this informal ‘alliance’ between guides and women in the closing years of the nineteenth century forms an important parallel history to the ‘guideless’ revolution often missed in narratives of mountaineering and rock-climbing modernity.

Going ‘Free’ In the summer of 1882, a small team of guides led by Jean Joseph Maquignaz spent four days on the Dent du Gèant, an unclimbed rock spire near to Mont Blanc. They transported and attached ropes using wooden wedges, hacked steps in the rock, and attached iron rods, using techniques and equipment that predated alpine climbing by hundreds of years, and which had been used on many ascents before.100 They returned on the fifth day with clients led by the Italian nationalist Alessandro Sella and found a note left by the Wunderkind of the Alpine Club, Alfred Mummery, which asserted that the summit was ‘absolutely innaccessible by fair means’.101 The peak was ascended—but where ten years previously, Maquignaz’s techniques would barely have been noted, now they gained notoriety. For Mummery and English climbers, ‘fair’ was a well-established codeword for the elite regularisation of sports in the mid- to late nineteenth century, a process that in this context pitted Mummery as a gentle- man amateur against the ‘professional’ guide Maquignaz and his paying clients.102 Julius Meurer (1838–1923), writing in the mouthpiece of the new Oesterreichische Alpenclub, used the episode to distinguish between Maquignaz’s ‘technical aid [technischen Hilfsmitteln]’ and ‘the usual mountaineering implements of glacier-rope, ice-pick and crampons’.103 Meurer defined the limited personal gear of the wealthy client as that of a ‘mountaineer’, while the other equipment carried or fixed by a guide belonged to a different category of person. For Meurer mechanical, worker-led means of safety was to be abandoned in favour of middle-class risk assessment and the rational confrontation of danger: debates about the legitimacy of equipment were apiece with the guideless revolution discussed in ‘Going Guideless’ above. Mummery and Meurer had fired a debate that would smoulder for at least a century. Though their languages spoke to different discourses, ‘fair play’ and what eventually settled as ‘künstliches Hilfsmittel [artificial aid]’ became the terms for a debate 6 RISK AND DANGER 195 about the legitimacy of equipment in the mountains that outlived the ‘guideless’ revolution and shaped rock climbing as a rule-driven sport. For much of the 1880s and 1890s, the notion that ladders, fixed ropes or metal pegs known as ‘pitons’ should be avoided appeared little more than a coda to ‘guideless’ climbing. As much as elite mountaineering organisations espoused these principles, even the most outspoken guideless ‘free’ alpinists such as Lammer or Oscar Schuster (1873–1917) can be said to have ‘bent’ the rules—lassoing spikes with a loop of rope, building human trees, using rope tension for a traverse, or using the axe head on rock as well as placing the occasional piton.104 Similar points might be made about climbing in England, Wales or Scotland—though pitons were almost entirely absent, shoulder-stands, inventive use of the rope and the use of ice axe on rock were standard, and British climbers are known to have practised climbs on a rope from above before attempting them from the ground.105 In this period, ‘artificial aid’ normally referred to the construction of fixed ropes, steps and other equipment by the ‘professional element’; intuitive use of personal equipment on the other hand, or practising climbs on a rope could be regarded as a gamesmanship ‘device’ used by the inventive amateur.106 In the early years of the twentieth century, definitions hardened, though most mountaineers were still less principled in practice than they were in theory. In The Heart of Lakeland, the mosaic artist and Lake District climber Lehmann J. Oppenheimer (1868–1916) recounted discussions amongst climbers at Wasdale Head, led by a figure he called the ‘Wanderer’ who was invited to act as ‘umpire’ over ‘the rules of the game’:

In my improved system of mountaineering, all aid, whether human or artificial, is absolutely forbidden in any circumstances whatsoever, and the offender is condemned to be hauled, between two guides, up Alps, provided with fixed ropes and spikes. The more a climber depends on his own brain and muscle the better, and the sooner you stop standing on each others heads and shoulders, and using artificial aids on the rocks the less chance there is that you will be made fools of by a few professional gymnasts and engineers.107

The speaker here is easily identifiable as the gymnast and engineer Eckenstein, from the pipe and beard, close familiarity with Zermatt, and the use of phrases such as ‘overcoming of difficulties’, ‘artificial aid’ and even ‘Wanderer’ drawn from German Alpinism.108 In Oppenheimer’s 196 B. ANDERSON account, Eckenstein became absurd, railed against ‘authorities’ (the Alpine Club), and declared safety equipment a racial threat. When challenged by a ‘milder man’ as to why he nevertheless always climbed on a rope (and often with a guide), Eckenstein responded that his statements were not his opinions at all but ‘yours, all of yours, taken to a logical conclusion’.109 Eckenstein’s contrariness was entirely in character, but he had good reason to warn of the ‘logical conclusions’ of free climbing. In his early climbing career in the mid-1880s, he regularly climbed with Lammer and August Lorria, but this came to an abrupt end in 1887, when Lammer convinced Lorria to attempt an ascent of the Matterhorn in appalling conditions.110 In the resulting accident, Eckenstein rescued the acutely injured Lorria, but he and Lammer were never associated again.111 With Lorria, he published a lavish photographic album, The Alpine Portfolio, but the promised further editions never appeared, and by 1893, Lorria cut a pathetic figure, bitter and syphilitic, with his hopes pinned on a legal practice in Alexandria.112 When Eckenstein spoke of the ‘logical conclusions’ of the guideless obsession with danger, he was surely thinking of his lost Viennese friends and the accident that had separated them. The ‘Vienna school’ of Alpinism, as Lammer and his acolytes became known, developed an approach that not only aimed to meet the dangers head on but to actively seek them out. The 1887 accident on the Matterhorn was a case in point: Lammer had aimed ‘to place my life on a knife edge over and over again’.113 He ignored the advice of guides in choosing not the most technically difficult or demanding route up the Matterhorn, but the most dangerous, especially given the particularly bad stone fall in the Alps of 1887 after a long, hot summer.114 His choice of route followed a pattern whose ideological basis had been fixed as a kinetic Kantian enlightenment in 1884, and given social purpose as a means to ‘free’ the guide from danger in 1886. Now though, in the 1890s, Lammer and his followers climbed dangerous routes in order to express and explore their own individualism—an individualism implicitly denied the guide who ‘did not want’ danger. This was a practice of elitist distinction. Little wonder that the more local guides warned Lammer of the dangers, the more immovable his decision to climb the West wall of the Matterhorn became. Lammer’s Matterhorn accident, along with Emil Zsigmondy’s death in 1885 proved a watershed. From these years, British climbing, and especially the Alpine Club, sharply criticised the risky undertakings of the Vienna school, and even the Oesterreichische Alpenzeitung distanced itself 6 RISK AND DANGER 197 from Lammer’s ideological polemics.115 In Germany and Austria though, the accidents did little to halt the ‘search for fatal danger’ amongst Lammer and his disciples. Georg Winkler, a 17-year-old high-school pupil who idolised Lammer, climbed a tower in the Dolomites alone and then died the following year in 1888, providing the movement with a martyr figure.116 Lammer himself aimed to break from existing alpinism more formally in 1888 by editing a short-lived ‘sports’ magazine, and by the 1890s, having read and digested Nietzsche, he sought to make sense of his experiences in new ways.117 His career in danger peaked with a fall into a crevasse in 1893 that Lammer claimed he had in some way wished on himself. In a description that the Österreichische Alpenzeitung refused to publish and which eventually appeared in the Neues Wiener Journal, Lammer celebrated the experience, along with the physical pain of broken bones, and—especially—fear:118

The poor human, who no longer knows terror, the fear of death, this wonderful nerve-pepper, whose stimulating power even the most mindless feel. I can easily do without many things on this earth, but take away fear from me—and my brave struggle with it—and my existence is empty and boring to the point of weariness.119

Lammer’s discourse on fear now hinted at a new critique of urban culture—in a society ailing because technology and machines had made it safe, the mountains offered ‘the morphium of fatal danger’ to the ‘sons of the modern’, and so no attempt to make the Alps safe was justified.120 ‘He knocks down holy danger with a hammer’, Lammer later wrote of climbers who used technology to make themselves safe, ‘and so destroys the key that could lead us from the prison of fear’.121 As the century neared its end, and as more and more lower-middle-class, and then working-class alpinists appeared in the mountains, Lammer’s mode of legitimation shifted from relieving guides from the danger that they should not be forced into, to reclaiming unfiltered danger as the necessary birth right of the overly safe and ordered, but also bourgeois urban individual.

From Guides to Leaders By the early years of the new century, Lammer’s brand of ‘extreme Alpinism’ already appeared peripheral and outdated, not least because standards of difficulty were being surpassed by women and guides in the 198 B. ANDERSON

Dolomites. A series of technical innovations not only in climbing styles, training and nutrition but also in both personal and safety equipment placed difficulty rather than danger at the heart of a rock-climbing boom. In Britain, lower-middle-class engineers such as Oscar Eckenstein and working-class ‘social climbers’ like Owen Glynn Jones (1867–1899) applied gymnastics and physics to problems on small boulders and short rock climbs in the Lake District and North Wales, forcing routes up steeper but much safer ground. According to Geoffrey Winthrop Young (1876– 1958), Eckenstein’s experiments on his eponymous boulder in North Wales in the 1890s also led to ‘balance climbing’—an important innovation, in which climbers used friction to stand on blank off-vertical faces, rather than the customary practice of placing the whole body in contact and wriggling upwards. The new technique had spread to the sandstone cliffs of the Elbsandsteingebirge near to Dresden by 1905, quite possibly via Young himself.122 By the early years of the century, most historians and rock climbers now conclude, the hardest routes in the world could be found not in the Alps, but on small cliffs on the outskirts of large industrial cities. The climbers who learnt their trade in places like the Lake District, North Wales, the Elbsandsteingebirge—or Buchenhain near Munich, or the Rodauner quarry in Vienna—understood climbing as a series of kinetic-gymnastic ‘problems’.123 While most believed that the rock should be climbed without alteration, danger was not supposed to be a part of that equation. In Britain, leading climbers judged hard, exposed climbs ‘unjustifiable’, resulting in what one historian has described as ‘organised cowardice’ in the early twentieth century.124 In Central Europe, a burst of equipment innovation in the late 1900s established the principle safety systems of twentieth-century rock climbing, and made the equipment distinctions of the 1880s untenable.125 Using new types of pitons in rock cracks, along with ‘karabiners’ borrowed from fire-fighters and new rope techniques, climbers could make themselves at least moderately safe, even on steeper cliffs.126 By using a karabiner, a metal hook with a gate, to clip their trailing rope to the pitons that they hammered in, they could try difficult sections in relative safety, and standards escalated. The difficulty—rather than danger—of the terrain was central to this new ‘school’, in which the difficulties were to be overcome through a combination of bodily strength, gymnastic technique and mechanical know-how. As Kerwin Lee Klein has argued, these changes reflected the altered social circles from which mountaineers came. Still in the 1880s, it was rare 6 RISK AND DANGER 199 to find a mountaineer who did not belong to the middle-class establishment. The limited means, holidays and weekend time of workers living in cities like Vienna, Munich or Milan imposed barriers to their involvement that eased excruciatingly slowly—even in 1902, the average workday in Germany stood at 10 hours.127 Nevertheless, by 1895, the Alpine Club member Martin Conway (1856–1937) commented on the ‘even less lovely crowd’ of the ‘lower-middle classes of small South German towns’ in valleys on the outskirts of Innsbruck; by 1908, Lammer wrote that ‘ten years ago, no-one could have expected the flood of socialist working masses into real mountain-“sport”’.128 In Austria, the Naturfreunde doubtlessly played an important role in encouraging working-class Alpinism, but worker-climbers could be found across Europe, from the gritstone cliffs of Derbyshire and Yorkshire to the Lake District or the Sandstone towers of the Elbsandsteingebirge near Dresden. There can be little doubt that the piton-karabiner-rope protection system had its origins in the working-class culture of Munich and the Dolomitic limestone of the nearby Kaisergebirge, and the karabiner in particular was borrowed from Munich fire-fighters by Otto Herzog (1888–1964), the son of an urban blacksmith.129 Yet these innovations also represented a growing class-consciousness amongst mountain guides. Tita Piaz (1879–1948), from the Ladin-speaking area of the Dolomites, was the most famous and outspoken example of a socialist (and irredentist Italian) mountain guide, but as we saw in Chap. 4, guides already formed effective trades unions by the 1890s, and knew how to take political action.130 By 1900, the socialist Arbeiter Zeitung was reporting on guides as doing the ‘most exhausting and dangerous work undertaken by a European proletariat’, alongside its coverage of socialist-influenced guides’ organisations in the Dolomites, led by top mountain guides such as Luigi Rizzi (1869–1949) and Antonio Dimai (1866–1948).131 Just how far guides had departed from the traditional Catholic conservatism of their homeland became even clearer in 1909, when guides from the Dolomites and North Tirolean Zillertal combined to disrupt and prevent the formation of a Christlich-Soziale guides organisation and used collective action to force the Alpenverein to reverse the imposition of a new tariff scheme.132 It can be no accident that it was guides from these two areas—the Dolomites and the Zillertal—that both refused Christlich-Sozialen leadership of their profession and led the way in new climbing standards and equipment. 200 B. ANDERSON

In Peter Hansen’s analysis, the obsession with being ‘first’ amongst mountaineers can be understood as a cypher for personal or group sovereignty; an implicit claim of rights over both landscape and self with inevitably political implications. When Luigi Rizzi told socialist reporters in 1900 that ‘on rock and ice, I am the Herr’, his point was not just that he was a better mountaineer than his clients, but that he was the leader of the expedition, that the ascent ‘belonged’ to him, and not to his paying client—or to put it another way, ‘first-class guides like our Rizzi, who can be regarded as the “professionals” of mountaineering, are “amateurs” at the same time, and when faced with new or difficult routes, go to work with the same sporting enthusiasm as the “Herren”’.133 Rizzi was hardly alone in the Dolomites in 1900, and as explained above, by climbing with female mountaineers in the 1890s, Dolomite guides such as him ensured that ascents became attached to their name, as well as the women they were widely assumed to have ‘hauled’ up the climbs. By the late 1900s, guides both claimed first ascents climbed with clients as theirs, and sought out new first ascents in their spare time. One of Rizzi’s colleagues, Angelo Dibona (1879–1956) had a rock tower in the Stubai Alps near Innbruck named in his honour after he made the first ascent without any partner at all in 1908—but when he guided his client Guido Mayer (1891–1945) up a first ascent of another peak in the French Alps in 1913, it too was named in the honour of the guide who had made the first ascent—and not his ‘Herr’. Between 1908 and 1910, guides like Rizzi, Dimai, Dibona, Piaz and the Zillertal guide Hans Fiechtl (1884–1925), along with working-class associates such as Herzog, and sympathetic ambitious students like Hans Dülfer (1893–1915) climbed a series of routes that pushed the limits of climbing difficulty in the Alps. In both the Kaisergebirge near to Munich and on cliffs near Vienna, this included well-known unclimbed ‘problems’ which would now be known by names such as the ‘Piaz-crack’ or ‘Dibona- groove’. Piaz certainly saw his first ascent of the west wall of the Totenkirchl near to Munich as a challenge to contemporary urban alpinists when he recalled the experience. The few remaining unclimbed pinnacles of 1908, he claimed, ‘were visibly reserved for some sort of future “Übermensch”’, and the reputation of the Totenkirchl wall in Munich was such that134:

It represented then the last door to the impossible, the problem to end all problems, whose solution would provide evidence that even in a physical sense, Nietzsche’s Übermensch was no pipe dream of a mind gone astray. 6 RISK AND DANGER 201

The Munich luminaries [Koryphäen], who then marched before the rock- climbers of all other lands had already had their noses put out of joint by this wall, and their advances were becoming ever more regular, and carried out with ever more dogged teutonic determination.135

The references to Nietzsche can only have been targeted at Lammer’s ideological ‘school’, and Piaz hammered his point home: ‘in the race for fame and honour, the “rope-dancers” had celebrated their victory festival’, he claimed, before producing a list of impressive first ascents not by ‘guideless’ climbers, but mountain guides.136 Having arrived on his motorbike from the Dolomites, Piaz was introduced to a local Alpenverein dignitary by the ‘pope of the Kaiser[gebirge]’, local mountaineer Franz Nieberl (1875–1968):

Mr President, what do you say to these highly-modern mountain guides, who travel three hundred kilometres on their motorbikes to solve the greatest problem of the Eastern Alps? You can be sure that Piaz will teach our Kaiser[gebirge] climbers a good lesson.137

That visiting Italian or Ladin guides from the Dolomites, who had only recently been allowed to vote in Austrian elections were the ones climbing ‘problems’ like the Totenkirchl West Wall added an extra frission to their exploits that could not be hidden by calling the new breed of mountaineer the ‘Munich school’. While Piaz’s account certainly embellished and retold the ascent, the new guides’ status as ‘highly modern’ challengers to the locals did not just rest on their use of motorbikes. All were pioneers of new protection techniques, such as the improved ‘Fiechtl’ piton or Piaz’s invention of the Tirolean rope traverse.138 Though they generally respected the basic principle that the rock, rather than equipment, should be climbed, they saw few problems with using any equipment necessary to ensure their own safety—as Piaz felt the need to confirm, ‘Today, this small rock wall—which I climbed not with the help of many pitons, but with my own hands—bears the magnificent name of “Piaz-wall”’.139 It is in this context that we need to understand the ‘Mauerhakenstreit’ (fixed piton dispute) that emerged in 1911, and which has long been considered a watershed in what has become known as the ‘ethics’ of mountaineering.140 It was preceded by a series of uncompromising, impressive ascents by a young Viennese student follower of Lammer, Paul Preuß (1886–1913). Beginning in 1911, Preuß set about climbing the same 202 B. ANDERSON routes as Piaz, Dibona, Rizzi and Fiechtl, but without recourse to any form of ‘artificial aid’, even for safety. It can have come as no surprise to this small and intimate group of climbers when Preuß published ‘Artificial Aid in Mountaineering’ at the end of the season, in which he used Lammer’s arguments about the moral necessity of danger to call for an almost total ban on safety equipment such as pitons in the mountains. Piaz—who knew Preuß well—almost certainly knew what was coming, knew the mountaineering literature, and saw an opportunity to call out the bourgeois elite who since the 1880s had sought to monopolise climbing by making danger the central moral impulse of the sport. Preuß’s position was all very well for bourgeois ‘amateurs’ with few responsibilities, Piaz retorted, but the guide, who trusted not only his own, but his family’s wellbeing to his physical fitness, did not want danger—it was just that now, unlike in Lammer’s day, there was a technical means to eliminate danger whilst preserving the physical difficulty of the climb. It should be clear by now that the question of who was the most ‘modern’ in these contests over climbing technique gets us nowhere. These were not conflicts between ‘moderns’ and ‘ancients’, but rather over the very contents of the term ‘modern mountaineer’. Both sides claimed a modernity for themselves—told stories about themselves—that placed their own actions as those that presaged the future, and in doing so, expressed a vision of what progress might entail, both in the mountains and beyond.

Conclusion In 1990, Stephen Lyng coined the term ‘edgework’ to describe voluntary risk-taking of the sort discussed in this chapter. Much of his analysis is confirmed by late nineteenth-century mountaineers—the notion of a modern self whose ‘self-actualisation’ was prevented by the alienation of working conditions in the city; the elitism of ‘extreme’ sport enthusiasts; the insistence on individual skill rather than reliance on others (or technology).141 At the beginning of the article, Lyng commented on the surprising contradictions of risk culture in the late 1980s:

The contradiction in American society between the public agenda to reduce the risk of injury or death and the private agenda to increase such risks deserves the attention of sociologists.142

Evidence from mountaineers like Eugen Guido Lammer or Emil Zsigmondy and their many followers suggest that this contradiction needs 6 RISK AND DANGER 203 historical attention too, and that the origins of certain forms of leisured, sporting ‘edgework’ are wrapped up in the history of public safety legislation in the late nineteenth century. The turn to ‘guideless’ mountaineering in the 1880s reflected the changing place of risk and danger in contemporary central-European societies. As new workplace insurance legislation shifted responsibility for risk from the worker to the middle- class expert, so mountaineers appropriated risk from the mountain guide in order to express their own command of danger. Understanding the emergence of a new culture of risk in mountaineering and workplaces together also means understanding this type of ‘edgework’ as politicised in ways that have only rarely been acknowledged. The ‘guideless’ revolution revoked guides’ roles as the leaders of mountaineering trips at the very moment that that position gained priority in cata- logues of first ascents, and the new emphasis on danger, rather than difficulty, sought to redefine mountaineering in terms intolerable to any mountaineer with a moral compass and dependent family members. Yet it also provided space for new groups to develop mountaineering in other, competing directions. Women only rarely climbed ‘guideless’ in this period, but in the 1890s and early 1900s, it was women who partnered mountain guides on an increasing proportion of the then ‘hardest’ rock routes and played a central role in establishing the Dolomites as the forcing ground for rock climbing in the Alps. To speak of a formal ‘alliance’ is probably going too far, but mountain guides showed no conservatism in their routes with ambitious female alpinists, women climbers satirised the male obsession with danger, and women/guide first ascents of difficult new routes threatened to undermine the authority of an alpine press that prided itself on being the arbiter of the sport. At the same time, the increasing politicisation of those same (Dolomite) guides, along with new groups of working-class mountaineers, would eventually challenge not only the priority of the middle-class male alpinist, but the definitions of what constituted legitimate means to order the dangers of the Alps. That the solutions provided by Piaz, Fiechlt, Herzog and other working-class mountaineers and guides emerged at the same time that many of these mountaineers first gained the vote in Austria-Hungary only points to a wider story of what claiming first ascents meant for political subjecthood in the early twentieth century. Risk emerges in this history not as the means to selfhood from an alienated working and blue-collar class, but rather a failed means to define sport in ways to ensure the continued dominance of male, middle-class mountaineers in the late nineteenth century. 204 B. ANDERSON

Notes 1. Peter Hansen, The Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering After the Enlightenment (London, 2013), pp. 182–83; Leslie Stephen, The Playground of Europe (London, 1871), pp. 1–68. 2. Stephen, Playground, p. 45. 3. Peter Hansen, ‘Modern Mountains: The Performative Consciousness of Modernity in Britain, 1870–1940’, in Martin Daunton and Bernhard Rieger (eds.), Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the Late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford, 2001), pp. 185–202 (pp. 193–94); Paul Veyne, ‘Bergsteigen: Eine Bürgerliche Leidenschaft’, in Philipp Felsch, Beat Gugger and Gabriele Rath (eds.), Berge, eine Unverständliche Leidenschaft: Buch zur Ausstellung des Alpenverein-Museums in der Hofburg Innsbruck (Bozen, 2007), pp. 11–32. 4. Marjorie Hope Nicolson, Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory: The Development of the Aesthetics of the Infinite (London, 1997 [1959]). 5. Ann C Colley, Victorians in the Mountains: Sinking the Sublime (London, 2016 [2010]); Kerwin Lee Klein, ‘A Vertical World: The Eastern Alps and Modern Mountaineering’, Journal of Historical Sociology 4 (2011), pp. 519–48. 6. Martin Scharfe, Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus (Vienna, 2007). 7. Hansen, Summits, pp. 61–89. 8. Tanja Wirz, ‘Wer ist die Braut von Montblanc? Einige Gedanken über Definitionsmacht, Identität and das Schreiben von Tourenberichten am Beispiel von Henriette d’Angevilles Bericht über ihre Montblanc Expedition von 1838’, in Jon Mathieu and Simona Boscani Leoni (eds.), Les Alpes: pour une histoire de la perception européene depuis la Renaissance/ Die Alpen: Zur europäischen Wahrnehmungsgeschichte seit der Renaissance (Oxford, 2005), pp. 267–77 (p. 269). For similar conclusions on d’Angeville, see Hansen, Summits, pp. 167–74. 9. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Sind Kulturvölker noch Nationen? Eine Zeitgemäße Frage’ (Universitätsbibliothek Graz, 1884), quoted in Reinhold Messner and Horst Höfler (eds.),Eugen Guido Lammer: Durst nach Todesgefahr (Augsburg, 1999), p. 4; Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Ueber das führerlose Alleingehen im Hochgebirge’, MDOeAV X:8 (1884), pp. 284–87. 10. Lammer’s distinction here is between mountaineers climbing with a non- guide partner (führerlos, guideless), and going entirely alone (Alleingehen, soloing). 11. Lammer, ‘Alleingehen’, pp. 285–87. 6 RISK AND DANGER 205

12. Lammer’s application of philosophy to mountaineering ‘play’ had a direct Manchester parallel in the leader-writer of the Manchester Guardian, C. E. Montague. Many thanks to Jonathan Westaway for this point. 13. Tim Ingold, ‘The Temporality of the Landscape’, World Archaeology 2 (1993), pp. 152–74. 14. See Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Führerlose Traversierung des Mönch 4105m’, ÖAZ 186 (1886), pp. 37–39 (p. 38); Alfred Mummery, My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (London, 1895), pp. 327–32; Lehmann J. Oppenheimer, ‘Castles in the Air’, RC Journal 1:1 (1907), pp. 42–46 (p. 42). 15. See, for example, Eleonore Noll-Hasenclever, Den Bergen Verfallen, ed. Heinrich Erler (Berlin, 1932), pp. 21–40; Matthias Zurbriggen, From the Alps to the Andes, Being the Autobiography of a Mountain Guide (London, 1899). 16. Women were often amongst the most vocal in their admiration of guides’ skill, perhaps because they could do so without threatening entrenched gender codes of mountaineering. See Ingrid Runggaldier, Frauen im Aufstieg: Auf Spurensuche in der Alpingeschichte (Bolzano, 2011), pp. 86–89; For a similar, guideless example see Noll, Bergen Verfallen, pp. 41–49. 17. Scharfe, Berg-Sucht, pp. 207–14; See also Paul Güßfeldt, In den Hochalpen: Erlebnisse aus den Jahren 1859–1885 (Berlin, 1886), p. 2. 18. Compare Scharfe, Berg-Sucht, pp. 33–76, Klein, ‘Vertical’, p. 534 and Ben Anderson, ‘Alpine Agency: Locals, Mountaineers and Tourism in the Eastern Alps, c. 1860–1914’, Rural History 1 (2016), pp. 61–78. 19. Geoffrey Winthrop Young (ed.), Mountaincraft (New York, 1920), p. 105. 20. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Ueber das führerlose Alleingehen im Hochgebirge’, MDOeAV X(8) (1884), pp. 284–87 (p. 285). 21. See, for example, C. W. Pfeiffer, ‘Ueber Führer-Versicherung’, MDOeAV VIII:3 (1882), pp. 85–87. 22. John W. Boyer, Culture and Political Crisis in Vienna: Christian Socialism in Power, 1897–1918 (Chicago, 1995), pp. 1–2. 23. The following summary is drawn from Julia Moses, ‘Contesting Risk: Specialist Knowledge and Workplace Accidents in Britain, Germany and Italy, 1870–1920’, in Kerstin Brückweh et al. (eds.), Engineering Society: The Role of the Human and Social Sciences in Modern Societies, 1880–1980 (Basingstoke, 2012), pp. 59–78. Many thanks to Dr Moses for her advice. 24. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Berggefahren, Führer und “Herren”’, ÖTZ VI:21 (1886), pp. 245–47; Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Sind die Führer Frei?’, ÖAZ VIII:207 (1886), pp. 303–07. See also Karl Schutz, ‘Dr Güssfeldt und der Alpinismus’, ÖAZ VIII:194 (1886), pp. 137–40 206 B. ANDERSON

(p. 140); Julius Meurer, ‘Gesetzliche Maassregeln zur Hintanhaltung gefährlicher Hochtouren’, ÖAZ VIII:201 and VIII:202 (1886), pp. 230– 32, 243–46; Philipp v. Böhm, ‘Gesetzliche Maassregeln zur Hintanhaltung gefährlicher Hochtouren’, ÖTZ VI:17–20 (1886), pp. 195–98, 209–11, 221–22, 233. 25. Lammer, ‘Berggefahren’, p. 245. 26. Lammer, ‘Berggefahren’, p. 246. 27. Lammer, ‘Führer Frei?’, pp. 305, 307; Pfeiffer, ‘Führer-Versicherung’, p. 87. 28. Lammer, ‘Berggefahren’, p. 247. 29. See Annaliese Gidl, Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne, 2007), pp. 166–68; Pfeiffer, ‘Führer-Versicherung’, p. 86. 30. Lammer, ‘Führer Frei?’, pp. 303. 31. Moses, ‘Contesting Risk’. 32. See Simon Thompson, Unjustifiable Risk: The Story of British Climbing (Milnthorpe, 2010), pp. 123–88. Edward Whymper, Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860–1869, 1st ed. (London, 1871), pp. 113–17. The section is absent in later editions. See Arthur Burns, ‘Accidents Will Happen: Risk, Climbing and Pedestrianism in the “Golden Age” of British Mountaineering 1850–1865’, in Chad Bryant, Arthur Burns and Paul Readman (eds.), Walking Histories, 1800–1914 (London, 2016), pp. 165–94. See also Jonathan Simon, ‘Edgework and Insurance in Risk Societies: Some Notes on Victorian Lawyers and Mountaineers’, in Stephen Lyng (ed.), Edgework: The Sociology of Risk-Taking (New York, 2005), pp. 203–26. 33. August Böhm, ‘Ueber die Berechtigung des Bergsports’, ZDOeAV 11 (1880), pp. 230–44 (esp. pp. 238–40); August Böhm, ‘Alpenvereine und führerlose Hochtouristik’, MDOeAV I(XI):8 (1885), pp. 98–100. 34. Emil Zsigmondy, Die Gefahren der Alpen: Praktische Winke für Bergsteiger (Leipzig, 1885). 35. The ninth edition was published in 1933 as Emil Zsigmondy and Wilhelm Paulcke, Die Gefahren der Alpen: Erfahrungen und Ratschläge (Munich, 1933). 36. Th. Kellerbauer, ‘Ueber die Gefahren und Unglücksfälle in den Alpen’, MDOeAV IX(XIX):6 (1893), pp. 72–74. 37. For example, Gustav Becker, ‘Die Hochalpinenunfälle 1897’, MDOeAV XIV(XXIV):6 (1898), pp. 65–67, Josef Morrigl, ‘Die alpinen Unfälle des Jahrs 1907’, MDOeAV XXIV(XXXIV):1 (1908), pp. 6–8. 38. Lehmann J. Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland (London, 1908), p. 186. 39. Schelcher, ‘Zur Beurteilung Alpiner Unglücksfälle’, MDOeAV XI(XXI):11 (1895), pp. 125–27 (p. 126). 6 RISK AND DANGER 207

40. Ingeborg Schmid-Mummert, Absturz: Eine Kulturwissenschaftlich Volkskundliche Untersuchung Tödlicher Bergunfälle im Spannungsfeld des Frühen Verbandsalpinismus (Saarbrücken, 2008), pp. 53–55. 41. Quoted in Schmid-Mummert, Absturz, p. 54. 42. Lammer, ‘Alleingehen’, pp. 284–87; Josef Ittlinger, Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig, 1913), p. 19. 43. Max Haushofer, ‘Sport’, ZDOeAV XXX (1899), pp. 94–109 (p. 94). 44. Bernhard Rieger, Technology and the Culture of Modernity in Britain and Germany, 1890–1945 (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 116–57. Michael Cowan, Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania, 2008), p. 8; Eugen Guido Lammer, Jungborn: Berggefahren und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich, 1935), p. 109. 45. Schmid-Mummert, Absturz. See also Dagmar Günther, Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt, 1998), pp. 157–86. This practice was a very physical one. Feelings of fear in climbing, produced by a terrain that was dangerous in both rhetoric and reality, can produce enough adrenaline to cause shak- ing, over-exertion and poor decision making. Dealing with and overcoming fear made climbs both safer and possible. 46. ‘It is certain that it is the role of Alpine Clubs to regulate mountain guides’—Central-Ausschuss des Deutschen und Österreichischen Alpenvereins, ‘Führerversicherung’, MDOeAV VIII:5 (1882), pp. 148– 50 (p. 148). 47. ‘Circular No. 46 des Central-Ausschusses’, MDOeAV VI:4 (1880), pp. 117–26 (p. 119); ‘Führer-Instructions-Curs der Section Innsbruck’, MDOeAV VIII:1 (1882), pp. 14–16 (p. 14). 48. ‘Führer-Instructions-Curs der Section Innsbruck’, p. 15. 49. William Parry Haskett Smith, Climbing in the British Isles, 3 vols. (London, 1894). It is probable that English language guides inspired the first German ones: G. A. Kuhfahl, ‘Die sächsische Schweiz als Klettergebiet’, ZDOeAV XXXIX (1908), pp. 177–97 (pp. 188–89). For the early history of grades, see Dietrich Hasse, Wiege des Freikletterns: Sächsische Marksteine im Weltweiten Alpinsport bis zur Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich, 2000), pp. 116–17. 50. See Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer, ‘Erschließung und Erhaltung. Fundamente für Hütten und Wege’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, vol. 1 (Cologne, 2016), pp. 49–112. 51. Thomas Antonietti, Bauern, Bergführer, Hoteliers: Fremdenverkehr und Bauernkultur, Zermatt und Aletsch, 1850–1950 (Baden, 2000). 52. The exact number cannot be known, but 35 responses were passed onto Wundt’s friend, the Chemist and autograph collector Ludwig Darmstaedter 208 B. ANDERSON

in 1917. Maud v. Wundt to Ludwig Darmstaedter, 6 December 1917, StBBerlin/HA/Darmstaedter/le/1894, pp. 16–17. 53. Wundt uses the term ‘Geschlecht’ here, which also implies race. The ambiguity was probably intentional. 54. Maud Wundt, ‘Berühmte Bergsteigerinnen’, Die Woche: moderne, illustrierte Zeitschrift [Berlin] 3:31 (1901), pp. 1360–69 (p. 1368). 55. Tanja Wirz, Gipfelstürmerinnen: Eine Geschlechtergeschichte des Alpinismus in der Schweiz, 1840–1940 (Baden, 2007), pp. 234–35. 56. Helene Kuntze to Maud Wundt, 16 February 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Slg. Darmstaedter/le/1897/Kuntze, Helene, p. 5; Rose Artaria to Maud Wundt, 13 March 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Slg. Darmstaedter/le/1890/ Artaria, Rosine, p. 4; E. Rochat to Maud Wundt, n.d. (1900), StBBerlin/ HA/Slg. Darmstaedter/le/1890/Rochat, E, p. 1. 57. Cenci Sild to Maud Wundt, 22 February 1901, StBBerlin/HA/ Darmstaedter/le/1903/Cenci Sild, p. 1; Marie Prazak to Anon. [Maud Wundt], 16 February 1901 StBBerlin/HA/Darmstaedter/le/1880/ Prazak, Marie, p. 1. 58. Cenci Sild to Maud Wundt, 11 July 1904, StBBerlin/HA/Darmstaedter/ le/1903/Cenci Sild, p. 7; Else Berrer to Maud Wundt, 6 March 1901 and 23 March 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Darmstaedter/le/1887/Else Berrer. 59. Hermine Tauscher-Geduly to Maud Wundt, n.d. (1900), StBBerlin/ HA/Darmstaedter/le/1880/Tauscher-Geduly, Hermine, p. 4. 60. Wirz, Gipfelstürmerinnin, p. 229. 61. Wundt, ‘Bergsteigerinnen’. See Clare Roche, ‘Women Climbers 1850– 1900: A Challenge to Male Hegemony?’, Sport in History 3 (2013), pp. 236–59; Caroline Fink and Karin Steinbach, Erste am Seil: Pionierinnen in Fels und Eis—Wenn Frauen in den Bergen ihren eigenen Weg gehen (Innsbruck, 2013), pp. 22–55; Felicitas v. Reznicek, Von der Krinoline zum sechsten Grad (Stuttgart, 1967), pp. 25–39. 62. Runggaldier, Frauen im Aufstieg, pp. 157–59. 63. Hermann Reisach, ‘Beatrice Tomasson and the South Face of the Marmolada’, Alpine Journal (2001), pp. 1–5, 113. 64. Daniela Span-Gogl, ‘Marie (Mizzi) Langer-Kauba’, http://www.gustav- jahn.at/mizzi_langer.html, Accessed 14 December 2018. Runggaldier, Frauen im Aufstieg, p. 118. In adverts, women featured almost as often as men. Der Naturfreund provides a good example. 65. Paul Michaely [Alice Schalek], Wann Wird es Tagen? Ein Wiener Roman, I & II (Vienna, 1902); Irma von Troll-Borostyáni, Höhenluft und andere Geschichten aus dem Hochgebirge (Reutlingen, 1907). Max Nassauer, Gebirge und Gesundheit: Hÿgienische Winke besonders für die Frauen (Munich, 1910), pp. 38–41. 6 RISK AND DANGER 209

66. F. Montanus [F. Friedensburg], Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “alpinen Knigge” (Munich, 1908). See Günther, Alpine Quergänge, pp. 317–34. 67. In England, The Climbers’ Club (f. 1892), The Yorkshire Ramblers Club (f. 1892), The Rucksack Club (f. 1902) and the Wayfarers’ Club (f. 1906) all excluded women from the outset. In the Kaiserreich, Munich’s Section Bayerland (f. 1894) excluded women, even though Section München, from which it split, had many female members. 68. Fink and Steinbach, Erste am Seil, p. 24. 69. See Harry Muré, Jeanne Immink: Die Frau, die in die Wolken Stieg (Innsbruck, 2010). 70. Muré, Immink, pp. 18–24 71. Immink normally wore a riding helmet in photographs. Muré, Immink, pp. 88–104. 72. Muré, Immink, pp. 131–33. 73. The irrationality of competitive and danger-seeking male Alpinists was a trope exploited by several women in this period for satirical purposes, and provided some excellent comic narratives. See Jeanne Immink, ‘Meine Erlebnisse an der kleinen Zinne’, in Theodore Wundt, Wanderungen in den Ampezzaner Dolomiten (Berlin, n.d. [1895]), pp. 27–30; Jenny Herzberg, ‘Zwei Bergfahrten (Vortrag, gehalten am 27. März 1896)’, ÖAZ 464–65 (1896), pp. 259–62, 271–75; Schalek, Wann wird es Tagen?, pp. 230–33; Troll-Borostyáni, Höhenluft, pp. 5–50. Muré, Immink, pp. 73–78, 153. 74. Theodore Wundt, Das Matterhorn und seine Geschichte (Berlin, 1896). 75. David Chapman and Gigiola Gori, ‘Strong, Athletic and Beautiful: Edmondo De Amicis and the Ideal Italian Woman’, in Roberta J. Park and Patricia Vertinsky (eds.), Women, Sport, Society: Further Reflections, Reaffirming Mary Wollstonecraft (Abingdon, 2011), pp. 146–65 (p. 159). Some of Wundt’s respondents cited her books as inspiration. Sild to Wundt, 22 February 1901, p. 4; Mabel Rickmers-Rickmers to Maud Wundt, 23 January 2001, StBBerlin/HA/Slg. Darmstaedter/ Le/1900/Rickmers-Rickmers, Mabel, p. 1. 76. Paul Preuß, ‘Damenkletterei’, DAZ XII:1 (1912), pp. 10–13. See also Wirz, Gipfelstürmerinnen, pp. 229–32. Though Wundt also asked for further names and addresses, initial letters appear to have been sent via the editors of the ÖAZ. See Aurora Herzberg to Maud Wundt, 23 February 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Slg. Darmstaedter/Le/1900/Herzberg Aurora, p. 1. 77. Jenny Winkler von Forazest to Maud Wundt, n.d. (c. 1900), StBBerlin/ HA/Slg. Darmstaedter/Le/1887/Winkler, Jenny (geb. Herzberg), p. 1. 210 B. ANDERSON

78. Christine Kanzler, ‘Herzberg Aurora, geb. Rumler’, in Ilse Korotin (ed.), biographiA: Lexikon österreichische Frauen, vol. 1 (Cologne, 2016), p. 1283. Aurora Herzberg to Maud Wundt, 20 February 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Slg. Darmstaedter Le 1900/Herzberg Aurora, p. 2. 79. Mily Hloüschek-Eckerth to Maud Wundt, 19 January 1901, StBBerlin/ HA/Slg Darmstaedter/le/1885/Hloüschek-Eckerth, Mily, p. 2. 80. Rosa Zöhnle, ‘Ueber Ziel u. Bedeutung der Bergsteigens der Damen’, StBBerlin/HA/Slg Darmstaedter/le/1901/Zöhnle, Rosa. 81. Rosa Zöhnle to Maud Wundt, 24 January 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Slg Darmstaedter/le/1901/Zöhnle, Rosa, p. 4. 82. Cenzi Sild to Maud Wundt, 22 February 1901, StBBerlin/HA/Slg Darmstaedter/le/1903/Cenci Sild, p. 1. 83. Winkler to Wundt, n.d., p. 3. 84. Colley, Sinking the Sublime, pp. 118–24. 85. Mabel Rickmers-Rickmers to Maud Wundt, 8 February 1901, StBBerlin/ HA/Slg Darmstaedter/le/1900/Rickmers-Rickmers, Mabel R., pp. 1–2. 86. StBBerlin/HA/Slg Darmstaedter/le/1903/Cenci Sild, Items 10–12. 87. Reisach, ‘Tomasson’, p. 113. 88. Noll-Hasenclever, Bergen Verfallen, frontispiece, p. 42. 89. Günther, Quergänge, pp. 310–11. Adelheid von Saldern ‘Social Rationalization of Living and Housework in Germany and the United States in the 1920s’, History of the Family 2:1 (1997), pp. 73–97 (p. 83). 90. Henriette Terschak to Maud Wundt, 20 February 1901, StBBerlin/HA/ Slg Darmstaedter/Le/1888/Terschak Henriette, p. 3; Herzberg to Wundt, 20 February 1901, p. 1 91. Maud Wundt, ‘Bergsteigerinnen’, p. 1369. 92. Winkler to Wundt, p. 5. 93. Tauscher-Geduly to Wundt, p. 5. 94. As well as those already recounted above, for example, the ‘Dimai/ Eötvos’ route on the Tofana di Rozes. 95. Montanus, Familie Ekel, pp. 70–71. 96. Jeanne Immink, ‘Tourenberichte: Suedtiroler Dolomiten’, ÖAZ 383 (1893), pp. 208–09 (p. 209). 97. See Wirz, Gipfelstürmerinnen, pp. 225–27. It is worth noting that it was not actually possible to ‘haul’ someone up a cliff by hand. 98. Reisach, ‘Tomasson’, pp. 105–13. 99. Hans Heiss and Rudolf Holzer, Sepp Innerkofler: Bergsteiger, Tourismuspioneer, Held (Folio, 2015), pp. 46–47. 100. Scharfe, Berg-Sucht, p. 203. 101. Alessandro Sella, ‘Il Dente del Gigante’, Bollettino del Club Alpino Italiano (1882), pp. 28–34. 6 RISK AND DANGER 211

102. See Harvey Taylor, ‘Play Up, But Don’t Play the Game: English Amateur Athletic Elitism, 1863–1910’, Sports Historian 2 (2002), pp. 75–97. 103. Julius Meurer, ‘Dent du Géant’, ÖAZ (22 September 1882), pp. 151– 52, quoted in Nicholas Mailänder, ‘Die Ursprünge des Freikletterns: Die Bewegung der Führerlosen und die Wiener Schule’, Berg (2016), pp. 148–61 (p. 151). 104. Mailänder, ‘Freikletterns’, pp. 151–52. 105. See Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland, pp. 45–62; Thompson, Unjustifiable Risk, p. 86. 106. Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland, pp. 21, 58. 107. Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland, p. 184. 108. See John Gill, ‘Oscar Eckenstein: The First Documented Advocate of Bouldering’, http://www128.pair.com/r3d4k7/Bouldering_History1.01. html, Accessed 12 December 2018. 109. Oppenheimer, Heart of Lakeland, p. 185. 110. See articles by August Lorria and Eugen Guido Lammer in MDOeAV I(XI):17 (1885), p. 194. O. Eckenstein, ‘The Hohberghorn’, CCJ NS2:4 (1923), pp. 188–93. 111. ‘Unglücksfälle’, MDOeAV III:16 (1887), pp. 195–97 (p. 196); Lammer, Jungborn, pp. 109–16. 112. It seems likely that the Portfolio was intended to provide Lorria with an income, and alternative connection to the mountains. Oscar Eckenstein and August Lorria (eds.), The Alpine Portfolio: The Pennine Alps, from the Simplon to the Great St Bernard Plates 1–50 (London, 1889). Lorria to Lammer, 26 August 1893, StBBerlin/HA/Slg/Darmstaedter/le/1884/ Lammer, Eugen Guido. 113. Lammer, Jungborn, p. 109. 114. Lammer, Jungborn, pp. 109–11. 115. Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Führerlose Traversirung des Mönch 4105 M’, ÖAZ VIII:187 (1886), pp. 49–51 (p. 49). W. A. B. Coolidge, The Alps in Nature and History (London, 1908), p. 249. 116. Erich König (ed.), Empor! Georg Winklers Tagebuch in Memorium. Ein Riegen von Bergfahrten hervorragender Alpinisten von heute (Leipzig, n.d., c. 1905). 117. Sportliche Rundschau (Wien) 1888. Georg Winkler to Eugen Guido Lammer, 22 April 1888, in König, Empor!, pp. 79–82 (p. 79). 118. Ralf-Peter Märtin, ‘Talschleichen oder Gipfelstürmer. Der Streit zwischen Heinrich Steinitzer (1869–1947) and Eugen Guido Lammer (1863– 1945) über Alpinismus, Sport und Kultur’, in Jürgen Court (ed.), Jahrbuch 2005 der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Geschichte der Sportwissenschaft e. V. (Berlin, 2006), pp. 60–75 (p. 62–63). 119. Lammer, Jungborn, p. 95. 212 B. ANDERSON

120. Lammer, Jungborn, pp. 202 [1914], 216–24 [1896]. See Michael Ott, ‘Im “Allerheiligsten der Natur”: Zur Veränderung von Alpenbildern in der Kultur um 1900’, in Adam Paulsen and Anna Sandberg (eds.), Natur und Moderne um 1900: Räume, Repräsentationen, Medien (Bielefeld, 2013), pp. 38–43. 121. Lammer, Jungborn, p. 107 [c. 1930]. 122. The only meeting between the two groups occurred in 1909, when Young climbed with the American pioneer of Saxony climbing Oliver Perry-Smith, but the two were connected earlier via the Zermatt guide Josef Knubel. Hasse, Freiklettern, p. 92. 123. Nicholas Mailänder, Im Zeichen des Edelweiss: Die Geschichte Münchens als Bergsteigerstadt (Zurich, 2006), pp. 108–11. 124. H. V. Reade, ‘Unjustifiable Climbs’, CCJ VI:21 (1903), pp. 20–25. Thompson, Unjustifiable Risk?, pp. 123–88. 125. Klein, ‘Vertical World’. 126. The first publication of the full system appeared in 1920: Hermann Amanshauser, ‘Das Versichern beim Klettern’, MDOeAV 1–8 (1920), pp. 8–10. 127. Lynn Abrams, Workers’ Culture in Imperial Germany: Leisure and Recreation in the Rhineland and Westphalia (London, 2002 [1992]), pp. 22–27; Dieter Langewiesche, Zur Freizeit des Arbeiters: Bildungsbestrebungen u. Freizeitgestaltung österreichischer Arbeiter im Kaiserreich und in der ersten Republik (Stuttgart, 1979). 128. Martin Conway, The Alps from End to End (Westminster, 1895), p. 278; Eugen Guido Lammer, ‘Zur Psychologie des Alpinisten. (Eine Besprechung)’, MDOeAV XXIV(XXXIV):4 (1908), pp. 47–49 (p. 47). Kuhfahl, ‘sächsische Schweiz’, p. 177. Alongside gradually rising wages, shorter working hours and even some limited holiday time, the adoption of cycling and skiing allowed workers to move cheaply and quickly through the mountains. Anne-Katrin Ebert, Radelnde Nationen: Die Geschichte des Fahrrads in Deutschland und den Niederlände bis 1940 (Frankfurt, 2010), pp. 282–86. J. P., ‘Ski-Partie auf den Schoberstein’, Naturfreund II:4 (1898), p. 22. 129. Mailänder, Edelweiss, pp. 110–11. 130. See Chap. 5. 131. H. Sch, ‘Wanderungen in den Dolomiten III’, Arbeiter Zeitung 273 (5 October 1900), pp. 8–9 (p. 9). 132. Antonio Dimai was the Dolomite representative. Anon., ‘Die Christlichsozialen bei den Tiroler Bergführern abgeblitzt’, Arbeiter Zeitung 92 (02 April 1909), p. 5; ‘Der Tiroler Bergführertag in Sterzing’, Innsbrucker Nachrichten 73 (01 April 1909), pp. 7–9. See also Anon., ‘Die Bergführertag in Heiligenblut’, Arbeiter Zeitung 200 (22 July 1909), p. 5. 6 RISK AND DANGER 213

133. H. Sch, ‘Wanderungen’. See also Muré, Immink, p. 93. 134. Tita Piaz, Dolomiten Meine Freiheit (Bern, 1966), p. 109. 135. Piaz, Dolomiten, p. 108. 136. Piaz, Dolomiten, p. 108. 137. Piaz, Dolomiten, p. 113. 138. Piaz, Dolomiten, pp. 94–98. 139. Piaz, Dolomiten, p. 114. 140. Klein, ‘Vertical World’, pp. 538–39. 141. Stephen Lyng, ‘Edgework: A Social Psychological Analysis of Voluntary Risk Taking’, American Journal of Sociology 4 (1990), pp. 851–86. 142. Lyng, ‘Edgework’, p. 852.

Bibliography

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Güßfeldt, Paul (1886) In den Hochalpen: Erlebnisse aus den Jahren 1859–1885 (Berlin). Immink, Jeanne (1895) ‘Meine Erlebnisse an der kleinen Zinne’, in Theodore Wundt (ed.), Wanderungen in den Ampezzaner Dolomiten (Berlin), pp. 27–30. Ittlinger, Josef (1913) Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig). König, Erich (ed.) (n.d., c. 1905) Empor! Georg Winklers Tagebuch in Memorium. Ein Riegen von Bergfahrten hervorragender Alpinisten von heute (Leipzig). Lammer, Eugen Guido (1935) Jungborn: Berggefahren und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich). Michaely, Paul [Schalek, Alice] (1902) Wann Wird es Tagen? Ein Wiener Roman, I & II (Vienna). Montanus, F. [Friedensburg, F.] (1908) Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “alpinen Knigge” (Munich). Mummery, Alfred (1895) My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (London). Nassauer, Max (1910) Gebirge und Gesundheit: Hÿgienische Winke besonders für die Frauen (Munich). Noll-Hasenclever, Eleonore (1932) Den Bergen Verfallen, ed. by Heinrich Erler (Berlin). Oppenheimer, Lehmann J. (1908) Heart of Lakeland (London). Piaz, Tita (1966) Dolomiten Meine Freiheit (Bern). Smith, William Parry Haskett (1894) Climbing in the British Isles, 3 vols. (London). Stephen, Leslie (1871) The Playground of Europe (London). Troll-Borostyáni, Irma von (1907) Höhenluft und andere Geschichten aus dem Hochgebirge (Reutlingen). Whymper, Edward (1871) Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860–1869 (London). Wundt, Maud (1901) ‘Berühmte Bergsteigerinnen’, Die Woche: moderne, illustrierte Zeitschrift [Berlin] 3:31, pp. 1360–69. Wundt, Theodore (1896) Das Matterhorn und seine Geschichte (Berlin). Young, Geoffrey Winthrop (ed.) (1920) Mountaincraft (New York). Zsigmondy, Emil (1885) Die Gefahren der Alpen: Praktische Winke für Bergsteiger (Leipzig). Zsigmondy, Emil and Paulcke, Wilhelm (1933) Die Gefahren der Alpen: Erfahrungen und Ratschläge (Munich). Zurbriggen, Matthias (1899) From the Alps to the Andes, Being the Autobiography of a Mountain Guide (London).

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Achrainer, Martin, Ritter, Stefan and Trojer, Florian (eds.) (2016) Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, vol. 1 (Cologne). Anderson, Ben (2016) ‘Alpine Agency: Locals, Mountaineers and Tourism in the Eastern Alps, c. 1860–1914’, Rural History 1, pp. 61–78. Antonietti, Thomas (2000) Bauern, Bergführer, Hoteliers: Fremdenverkehr und Bauernkultur, Zermatt und Aletsch, 1850–1950 (Baden). Boyer, John W. (1995) Culture and Political Crisis in Vienna: Christian Socialism in Power, 1897–1918 (Chicago). Burns, Arthur (2016) ‘Accidents Will Happen: Risk, Climbing and Pedestrianism in the “Golden Age” of British Mountaineering 1850–1865’, in Chad Bryant, Arthur Burns and Paul Readman (eds.), Walking Histories, 1800–1914 (London), pp. 165–94. Chapman, David and Gori, Gigiola (2011) ‘Strong, Athletic and Beautiful: Edmondo De Amicis and the Ideal Italian Woman’, in Roberta J. Park and Patricia Vertinsky (eds.), Women, Sport, Society: Further Reflections, Reaffirming Mary Wollstonecraft (Abingdon), pp. 146–65. Colley, Ann C. (2016 [2010]) Victorians in the Mountains: Sinking the Sublime (London). Cowan, Michael (2008) Cult of the Will: Nervousness and German Modernity (Pennsylvania). Ebert, Anne-Katrin (2010) Radelnde Nationen: Die Geschichte des Fahrrads in Deutschland und den Niederlände bis 1940 (Frankfurt). Fink, Caroline and Steinbach, Karin (2013) Erste am Seil: Pionierinnen in Fels und Eis—Wenn Frauen in den Bergen ihren eigenen Weg gehen (Innsbruck). Gidl, Annaliese (2007) Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne). Günther, Dagmar (1998) Alpine Quergänge: Kulturgeschichte des Bürgerlichen Alpinismus, 1830–1930 (Frankfurt). Hansen, Peter (2001) ‘Modern Mountains: The Performative Consciousness of Modernity in Britain, 1870–1940’, in Martin Daunton and Bernhard Rieger (eds.), Meanings of Modernity: Britain from the Late-Victorian Era to World War II (Oxford), pp. 185–202. Hansen, Peter (2013) The Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering After the Enlightenment (London). Hasse, Dietrich (2000) Wiege des Freikletterns: Sächsische Marksteine im Weltweiten Alpinsport bis zur Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich). Ingold, Tim (1993) ‘The Temporality of the Landscape’, World Archaeology 2, pp. 152–74. Kanzler, Christine (2016) ‘Herzberg Aurora, geb. Rumler’, in Ilse Korotin (ed.), biographiA: Lexikon österreichische Frauen, Vol. 1 (Cologne), p. 1283. Klein, Kerwin Lee (2011) ‘A Vertical World: The Eastern Alps and Modern Mountaineering’, Journal of Historical Sociology 4 (2011), pp. 519–48. 216 B. ANDERSON

Langewiesche, Dieter (1979) Zur Freizeit des Arbeiters: Bildungsbestrebungen u. Freizeitgestaltung österreichischer Arbeiter im Kaiserreich und in der ersten Republik (Stuttgart). Lyng, Stephen (1990) ‘Edgework: A Social Psychological Analysis of Voluntary Risk Taking’, American Journal of Sociology 4, pp. 851–86. Mailänder, Nicholas (2006) Im Zeichen des Edelweiss: Die Geschichte Münchens als Bergsteigerstadt (Zurich). Mailänder, Nicholas (2016) ‘Die Ursprünge des Freikletterns: Die Bewegung der Führerlosen und die Wiener Schule’, Berg, pp. 148–61. Märtin, Ralf-Peter (2006) ‘Talschleichen oder Gipfelstürmer. Der Streit zwischen Heinrich Steinitzer (1869–1947) and Eugen Guido Lammer (1863–1945) über Alpinismus, Sport und Kultur’, in Jürgen Court (ed.), Jahrbuch 2005 der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Geschichte der Sportwissenschaft e. V. (Berlin), pp. 60–75. Mathieu, Jon and Leoni, Simona Boscani (eds.) (2005) Les Alpes: pour une histoire de la perception européene depuis la Renaissance/Die Alpen: Zur europäischen Wahrnehmungsgeschichte seit der Renaissance (Oxford). Messner, Reinhold and Höfler, Horst (eds.) (1999) Eugen Guido Lammer: Durst nach Todesgefahr (Augsburg). Moses, Julia (2012) ‘Contesting Risk: Specialist Knowledge and Workplace Accidents in Britain, Germany and Italy, 1870–1920’, in Kerstin Brückweh et al. (eds.), Engineering Society: The Role of the Human and Social Sciences in Modern Societies, 1880–1980 (Basingstoke), pp. 59–78. Muré, Harry (2010) Jeanne Immink: Die Frau, die in die Wolken Stieg (Innsbruck). Nicolson, Marjorie Hope (1997 [1959]) Mountain Gloom and Mountain Glory: The Development of the Aesthetics of the Infinite (London). Ott, Michael (2013) ‘Im “Allerheiligsten der Natur”: Zur Veränderung von Alpenbildern in der Kultur um 1900’, in Adam Paulsen and Anna Sandberg (eds.), Natur und Moderne um 1900: Räume, Repräsentationen, Medien (Bielefeld), pp. 38–43. Reisach, Hermann (2001) ‘Beatrice Tomasson and the South Face of the Marmolada’, Alpine Journal, pp. 1–5. Reznicek, Felicitas von (1967) Von der Krinoline zum sechsten Grad (Stuttgart). Rieger, Bernhard (2009) Technology and the Culture of Modernity in Britain and Germany, 1890–1945 (Cambridge). Roche, Clare (2013) ‘Women Climbers 1850–1900: A Challenge to Male Hegemony?’, Sport in History 3, pp. 236–59. Runggaldier, Ingrid (2011) Frauen im Aufstieg: Auf Spurensuche in der Alpingeschichte (Bozen/Bolzano). Saldern, Adelheid von (1997) ‘Social Rationalization of Living and Housework in Germany and the United States in the 1920s’, History of the Family 1, pp. 73–97. 6 RISK AND DANGER 217

Scharfe, Martin (2007) Berg-Sucht: Eine Kulturgeschichte des frühen Alpinismus (Vienna). Schmid-Mummert, Ingeborg (2008) Absturz: Eine Kulturwissenschaftlich Volkskundliche Untersuchung Tödlicher Bergunfälle im Spannungsfeld des Frühen Verbandsalpinismus (Saarbrücken). Simon, Jonathan (2005) ‘Edgework and Insurance in Risk Societies: Some Notes on Victorian Lawyers and Mountaineers’, in Stephen Lyng (ed.), Edgework: The Sociology of Risk-Taking (New York), pp. 203–26. Taylor, Harvey (2002) ‘Play Up, But Don’t Play the Game: English Amateur Athletic Elitism, 1863–1910’, Sports Historian 2, pp. 75–97. Thompson, Simon (2010) Unjustifiable Risk: The Story of British Climbing (Milnthorpe). Veyne, Paul (2007) ‘Bergsteigen: Eine Bürgerliche Leidenschaft’, in Philipp Felsch, Beat Gugger and Gabriele Rath (eds.), Berge, eine Unverständliche Leidenschaft: Buch zur Ausstellung des Alpenverein-Museums in der Hofburg Innsbruck (Bozen/Bolzano), pp. 11–32. Wirz, Tanja (2007) Gipfelstürmerinnen: Eine Geschlechtergeschichte des Alpinismus in der Schweiz, 1840–1940 (Baden).

Online Sources Gill, John, ‘Oscar Eckenstein: The First Documented Advocate of Bouldering’, http://www128.pair.com/r3d4k7/Bouldering_History1.01.html, accessed 12 December 2018. Span-Gogl, Daniela, ‘Marie (Mizzi) Langer-Kauba’, http://www.gustav-jahn.at/ mizzi_langer.html, accessed 14 December 2018. CHAPTER 7

Beyond the Nation

Historical writing on landscape and national identity has come a long way since writers first turned their attention to the ways in which the rural domain served as a foil for Englishness or völkisch German Heimat.1 Historians have abandoned notions of Germany’s ‘special path’ through modernity or ‘anti-modern’ Englishness, but ‘landscaped national identity’ has proven a much more durable concept, subject to any number of revisions and alterations.2 Now, analysis is more attuned to the ways in which landscape became a locus for practices of citizenship, a site in which the historical story of a nation might be recovered, or even as a space in which a national, technological future might emerge.3 Attention has also increasingly been paid to the more problematic territories of Europe, and borderlands theory has enabled the study of nationalism to deal with identity in areas, like the Alps, where the concept could only be applied prob- lematically.4 The rural has emerged as a far more contested site than earlier scholars suspected, and not just as a place of contests between different nations. In much recent analysis, it was the very concept of nationhood that cultures of landscape challenged and redefined.5 This chapter seeks not to write the nation ‘out’ of the mountains—to do so would be entirely misguided—but instead asks how and why the landscape became such a potent site of political contests drawn primarily from urban culture. As important as national identity was to these places

© The Author(s) 2020 219 B. Anderson, Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany, https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3_7 220 B. ANDERSON and their uses, an obsession with it risks eliding the differences between rural locals, socialists and elitists, patriots and internationalists, who often disagreed with each other over the uses and meanings of mountain and rural landscapes. The mountains, Peter Hansen has pointed out, came to be understood as a theatre of sovereignty—but this was not limited to nationalist claims to political legitimacy.6 Landscapes were, as Paul Readman argues, sites in which historical stories could be found, recovered and acted, but these did not always narrate the nation, and when they did, competing versions of nationhood made that narration anything but stable.7 This chapter seeks to understand the outdoors as a political site for contests that ramblers and mountaineers exported from the urban centres of Europe, to be practised in a rural domain in which local people did not always understand, much less care about such urban obsessions. A key argument of this chapter concerns a continuing malleability of nationhood that is unfamiliar to the more secure versions of late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century Western Europe. Much has been written about the complexity or relative absence of national identity in ‘borderland’ areas, where multilingual communities operated unproblem- atically when left alone by middle-class agitators, and the concept of ‘nation’ meant little beyond attempts to intervene from far-away states. Certainly, this was characteristic of much of the Alps. Pieter Judson, Stefano Morosini, Tait Keller and Lawrence Cole have all identified the multilingual southern portion of the Eastern Alps, near to the Italian border, as an important site for intervention by middle-class nationalists within Austria-Hungary, operating through a mix of ‘protection clubs’, school organisations and tourist clubs which included the Alpenverein.8 Yet these attempts to control and delimit the ‘borders’ of the nation also reflected continuing uncertainty about what the nation could and did constitute—uncertainty that had its origin not so much in the Alps, as in the cosmopolitan, urban contexts of mountaineering culture. In German- speaking Austria, the pro-Habsburg, Vienna-based Oesterreichische Touristenclub (ÖTC), formed in the same years as the Alpenverein, vied for control not just near the Italian border in the South, but on the ‘other’ border between the Kaiserreich and Austria, while the socialist Touristenverein “Die Naturfreunde” demonstrated the potential of an internationalist movement and numerous other Viennese clubs promoted alternative national, municipal or other forms of political identity in the 7 BEYOND THE NATION 221 mountains. Even within the Alpenverein, differing attitudes of toleration or antisemitism, as well as visions of international expansion meant that the notion of ‘pan-Germanness’ was debated and challenged. This chapter examines how mountaineers transposed these urban ideological distinctions onto the landscape of the Eastern Alps, and what happened when they collided with one another. In England, ramblers and mountaineers proved equally capable of telling a welter of competing narratives about themselves and the landscapes that they explored. English mountaineers and ramblers were forced to confront the difficulty that few British hills and mountains were English at all. As we saw in Chap. 4, visits to Scotland, Wales or Ireland might render locals backward, adopt a colonising attitude or admit to past abuses. Yet even walking and climbing in England meant navigating a series of competing stories, and ‘Englishness’ seemed a less stable concept the further from London one walked. Manchester’s Rucksack Club found themselves at odds with the local Welsh communities near to their early mountain huts, but like other regional mountaineering clubs, they adopted a cosmopolitan provincial culture when in the city.9 The largest rambling organisation in the north of England, the CHA, may well have had an ‘English’ oak as a part of its emblem, but its members understood themselves as Northern, Teutonic and international as well—and in any case viewed the countryside as a site of co- operation and Christian solidarity as much as somewhere redolent of nationhood.10 The international imperatives of northern English ramblers such as those in the Rucksack Club and the CHA are analysed in the second part of the chapter, along with the socialist internationalism of the Vienna- based Naturfreunde. Together, these organisations represented some 20,000 walkers and climbers whose aspirations can be described as at least in some sense anti-nation and found in the landscape a means to express their political convictions.11 Yet these alternative paths to identity in landscape emerge as every bit as much conflicted as those surrounding the ‘nation’. While such movements can be congratulated in the light of two world wars based on national difference, they could be permeated by many of the same biological assumptions and racist convictions that underscored the more extreme versions of early twentieth-century nationalism, and which could also be found in the Alps. 222 B. ANDERSON

Varieties of Germanness in the Alps Despite the insistence of pan-German mountaineers such as those in the deutsche und oesterreichische Alpenverein, the notion of the Eastern Alps as German did not make much sense, especially within the linguistic definitions that dominated the national imagination in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.12 German alpinists visiting any of the areas roughly south of the Brenner Pass were likely to encounter populations who undertook their everyday lives in a multilingual context, including not just German and Italian speakers, but Ladino communities in the Dolomites and primarily Slovenian Slavic populations in the far South East. For German-speakers from further afield, the strong dialects of Tirolean alpine valleys could render even ‘German’ speakers unintelligible. Nor should we assume that the average German-speaking Tirolean considered themselves members of a pan-German community—much less one led by protestant Prussia. The continuing strength of deeply Catholic and often independently minded Tirolean nationalism in the late nineteenth century meant that allegiance to Germanness was contingent rather than assumed. Wealthy Kaiserreich citizens who presumed to intervene in the high Alps consequently found that their welcome was dependent on continued investment. The Eastern Alps seemed a liminal site of German identities at best, one in which Germans seemed under threat from other national communities, but also a site in which the concept of Germanness itself seemed more tenuous than further north. Members of the Alpenverein sought to rely not so much on the Alps as on their association to bring Germans from the Kaiserreich and the Austro-Hungarian Empire together. Most alpinists felt that the ‘shared work’ and festivities of their vast organisation would ‘bind’ Germans in Germany and Austria. The mountains provided merely a site of intervention; a ‘taskscape’ of identity construction in which the ‘shared work’ of building alpine infrastructure instrumentalised the imagined community expressed in the organisation of Alpenverein.13 The joint endeavours between urban sections and local alpine communities in hut and path building, alpinists claimed, would bind German people together, as well as help urban Germans to access the moral benefits of the Alps. The nationalist rhetoric of events such as hut-opening ceremonies or Annual General Meetings closely aligned the associational aims of the Alpenverein with ideas of ‘Greater-Germanness’, as Tait S. Keller has already covered in some detail.14 7 BEYOND THE NATION 223

The Alpenverein has sometimes been understood as a vast pan-German version of the ‘homeland associations [Heimatvereine]’ that supported tourism as a metaphor for localised nationhood in the different regions of the Kaiserreich.15 Yet when state officials spoke ofHeimat at Alpenverein Annual General Meetings, they referred to their own locality or region rather than the Alps. The Württemberg minister of the interior, Johann von Pischeck, who addressed the 1896 meeting in Stuttgart, certainly did not see the Alps as a part of his Heimat:

It is true that, since the end of the ice-age, our land no longer belongs to the working area of the Alpenverein, apart from small extremities of the Allgäuer Alps. Even so, we are only separated from the Alps by the Bodensee, and from all high mountains in the south of our land we can see a handsome part of this working area. It is precisely the Alps that give the views from our mountains their special appeal. When we look down from these mountains, soaking up the love for our beautiful Heimatland, we feel, at the same time, powerfully drawn into the towering alpine world, shimmering in the distance.16

The Alps were not a part of the Württemberger Heimat, even if von Pischeck identified a close relationship between them and the health of people in the region.17 Yet he did not forget to talk about the role of Alpinism in German nationhood entirely:

I am not saying anything new, when I pronounce, that the D. u. Oe. Alpenverein is one of, and certainly not the weakest of, the numerous, powerful belts which bind our German Empire with the brother-peoples of the Austrian Empire in ways which—I hope and wish—are insoluble. These peoples are closely related and bound through ancestry, language, history and similarity of spirit and custom (great applause).18

Von Pischeck was right—he was not saying anything new. Similar points had been made a year earlier in Salzburg, and at the 1894 meeting in Munich, when the Bürgermeister was applauded for his claim that ‘exalted patriotic and national feelings are called up by the name “Deutsche und Oesterreichische Alpenverein”’.19 Alpenverein members did not derive their concept of nation from a logic that imagined the nation in an alpine Heimat or nature. Rather, they looked to the performances of associational networking—of ‘shared work’ and the ‘constant contact’ of members with one another in the ‘working area’ of the Alps—to create an 224 B. ANDERSON imagined national community.20 Their language of nationhood emerged from an urban world in which, according to Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman, ‘associations can be regarded as the most important medium for the development and consolidation of new identities, be they national, social, con- fessional or political’.21 Alongside the city-based Annual General Meetings, the most significant of these associational activities were those of constructing Alpine infrastructure.22 Building huts and paths necessitated considerable co- operation between German and Austrian people who might live hundreds of miles apart, and consequently, organising hut-building helped to justify the existence of the Alpenverein’s central leadership.23 The wealthier and larger urban-based Sektionen normally proposed, financed, planned and managed the building of huts, whilst a mountain-based ‘sister-Sektion’ smoothed relations with nearby Austrian authorities and helped to organ- ise labour or materials.24 Yet despite the rhetoric of shared work and nationhood in the Alpenverein, the process could be tortuous, and some urban Sektionen found themselves at the mercy of alpine locals. Some communities operated as a block on tourism investment, while others threatened to remove the ‘monopoly’ of an urban Sektion over a mountain area if more investment was not forthcoming. Locals also proved adept at wringing more development from their much larger and wealthier urban peers by playing different German and Italian alpine clubs off against one another, or by threatening to support competing investments by local people.25 The Alpenverein’s narrative of shared work and deepened national bonds papered over relationships that varied from valley to valley, and relied not so much on shared political beliefs as on more prosaic questions of investment, competition and trust. At no time were those claims about national and associational achievements more clearly aligned, and complex political settlements revealed than when mountaineers celebrated hut-opening ceremonies. These festivals followed a set pattern. A festival would first take place in the village closest to the hut, normally accompanied by the flags of the alpine region, the home region or city of the urban Sektion, the black-red-gold German flag and the flag of the Imperial monarchy, so that the opening of the hut symbolised the welcoming of non-alpine and/or non-Austrian German towns and cities to the Alps.26 On the following day, hundreds of locals, Sektion members and other well-wishers would walk to the hut, dressed in a mixture of local costume, suits and mountaineering clothing.27 At the hut, after a consecration by a local priest (a significant deferment to local 7 BEYOND THE NATION 225 mountain communities from protestant Sektionen), the crowd engaged in a series of patriotic songs and cheers. At the Coburgerhütte opening ceremony, for instance, attendees cheered Wilhelm II, Franz Joseph and the Duke and town of Coburg before singing ‘God Save Our King’.28 Taking part in these ceremonies involved creating a sense of national togetherness between an urban Sektion that had designed and funded the hut, and a local community that had almost certainly provided the labour. A report in the Alpenverein newsletter in 1894 described repeated cheers to emper- ors, national anthems, and words of thanks towards local help in building the new Kaiserin Elisabethhaus:

The Hannoveraner succeeded, in the storm, in conquering the hearts of the Tiroler. In doing so, they therefore earned thanks and recognition, because they have gifted us with an exemplary high-alpine protection hut, which is a credit to the building activity of the Alpenverein.29

Existing national, patriotic, regional and local identities were thus acknowledged at these carefully choreographed occasions. On the above evidence though, visitors from Hannover were not welcomed because they were fellow Tiroleans or even Germans, but because they had built a hut. Through such festivities, alpinists bound a process of developing the Alps to one of developing a German community across Germany and Austria that was at best receptive to such overtures. Ceremonies like the one above smoothed over a welter of political differences with stage-managed friendliness, but further South, contests were more explicit and confrontational. In areas where the German language ceased to be dominant, hut-building became a form of national competition, and after 1900, open conflict described at times as a ‘cultural war’ which pitted the Alpenverein and other ‘German’ alpine associations against Italian clubs such as the alpinisti tridentini.30 Tait S. Keller and Edward Dickinson have also shown how, during the same period, alpinists increasingly harnessed the nationalist rhetoric of the Alpenverein to racism and intolerance, whose focus rapidly fell on the supposed ‘slavification’ and ‘Verwälscherung’ of previously German communities in the Southern part of the Eastern Alps.31 Xenophobia was not limited to those alpinists who saw the Alps as German; indeed, some of the most aggressive calls came from those who saw the Alps as a distinctly problematic place for Germanness. Rather than a homeland of the German people, such mountaineers saw the Alps—and especially southern parts of the Eastern Alps— 226 B. ANDERSON as a cultural front line. The report of the 1894 Annual General Meeting in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten featured the following example of intolerance that continued to tie the German nation to notions of shared work32:

Men from the German and Austrian Empires stand here together in collective work and collective happiness. And although some have tried, it will never ever come to pass that the endeavours of the confederates are impeded or reduced. The Alpenverein is one of those strong belts that tie national, ancestral affinities together. Wherever the Alpenverein appears, where its members set a foot in the far valleys and on looming mountains, it practises the noble mission of helping and fostering German custom. In the struggle against dilution [verwälschung33] and slavification in the Südmark lands, the Alpenverein stands on the front line.34

The anonymous reporter of the meeting portrayed the Alpenverein as engaging in a battle for the protection of the German nation in the Alps. The Austrian minister for railways Zdenko Freiherr v. Forster (1860– 1922), who spoke at the 1912 meeting, similarly called the ‘almost 100,000 members and many hundreds of protection-huts’ of the Alpenverein a ‘cultural campaign’ which had resulted in a ‘chain of victo- ries’ across the Alps, and as a series of projects have now explored, the Alpenverein and the irredentist alpinisti tridentini routinely built competing huts, sought to manage ‘national’ tourism and agitated for national ‘defence’ across the region.35 An increasing number of German and Austrian mountaineers in the Alpenverein and beyond advanced such xenophobic or racially motivated policies, which also targeted Jewish people.36 The Oesterreichische Touristenclub (ÖTC) had close connections to Austria’s antisemitic Christlich-Soziale Partei, while the Oesterreichische Alpenclub appears to have refused to report on the activities of its Jewish members in the 1890s.37 Until the First World War, the leadership of the Alpenverein resisted calls— mainly from Austrian Sektionen—to adopt a formal policy of racial exclusion and the central committee of the Alpenverein normally refused entrance to Sektionen with antisemitic ‘Arian paragraphs’. Nevertheless, at least four such Sektionen did exist by 1914, and of course any Sektion could simply refuse to admit Jewish people.38 The central leadership of the Alpenverein is best characterised as attempting to ignore antisemitism in this period, and in Vienna, for example, there existed both the clearly antisemitic Akademische 7 BEYOND THE NATION 227

Sektion Wien and Sektion Austria, which welcomed around 2000 Jewish members by the First World War.39 Elsewhere, there was similar vacillation as the Alpenverein’s leadership sought to hold together its politically diverse and fragmenting membership. The 1908 Alpenverein-sponsored satire, The alpine journey of the ‘Rotten’ family characterised explicit antisemitism as beyond the pale, criticised the Germanisation of place names in Trentino and finished with a scene in which ‘proper’ German mountaineers exclaimed their dismay that intolerant behaviour was destroying the reputation of Germany amongst other nationalities.40 There was certainly a rise in racist prejudice and exclusion in these years, attested to by the outgoing president, Otto von Pfister’s warning against ‘nationalistic- political aims’ in 1910.41 Yet judging by the ‘cosmopolitan’ experiences of Rucksack Club mountaineers in the Italian-speaking Alps, the xenophobia proposed at Annual General Meetings was undercut by alternative political voices, at least until the eve of the First World War.42 Competing definitions of identity meant that even liberal toleration could be invoked to support exclusive political ideologies such as antisemitism. In the ÖTC, whose membership included the Christlich-Sozialen leader Karl Lueger, members could nevertheless praise the far-away Eastern province of Bukowina as a lesson in cosmopolitanism43:

Nowhere in the whole world is there the opportunity to find so many nations living together in such proximity. There are Germans, Romanians, Ruthenians, Jews, Poles, Armenians, Lipovans∗, and Hungarians, with differing languages, customs, cultures and traditions, as well as dress.44 ∗Lipovans—An Eastern Orthodox minority persecuted in Russia since the 17th Century.

This article was intended to support the 1910 Bukowina Compromise, a complex re-arrangement of political authority in the region intended to balance the many national groups. In naming Jews, Armenians and Lipovans as nations alongside the others, Gelber went further than the Compromise and the Austrian constitution in declaring apparent liberal tolerance and support for local Jewish populations.45 For his readership in Vienna and its population of assimilated Jewish people, however, the passage implied the impossibility of being both German and Jewish, and so justified the persecution of Viennese Jews as non-Germans even as it praised Jewish political emancipation elsewhere. 228 B. ANDERSON

West from Vienna, the patriots of the ÖTC faced a very different challenge. In the multilingual southern parts of the Eastern Alps, they shared a belief with Alpenverein members that German populations had been progressively ‘Slavified’ and Italianised.46 If in the South the two organisations shared similar objectives, however, in the German- speaking north it was a different matter. By the late 1880s, ÖTC huts predominated in the German-speaking ranges roughly east of Salzburg, but in the higher mountains around the Brenner pass and further west, where Tirolean nationalism cut across loyalty to the Habsburg monarchy, the Alpenverein was widely acknowledged as the leading alpine organisation. In the 1890s, the Alpenverein and ÖTC were also roughly equal competitors at an urban level, and inside Austria the ÖTC could claim to have more members.47 Constructing huts and paths, which appeared to the Alpenverein as an effort to open up the Alps to modernity and increase the ‘bonds’ of Germans in Austria to those in Germany was easily interpreted by ÖTC Habsburg patriots as a land-grab on behalf of the Kaiserreich. They can hardly be blamed for this conclusion—after all, this was precisely what hut-building did mean for both organisations further South, and middle-class Austrians were well aware of Germanising policies towards Polish-speaking populations in Prussia.48 Just 20 years after German unification, it was reasonable to suppose that the investment of the Alpenverein in the Tirol had a more sinister purpose, and the Alpenverein were hardly shy of proclaiming their Großdeutsch inclinations. Alongside isolated complaints about huts, controversies over naming mountain regions, and the ÖTC’s establishment of branches in the Kaiserreich itself, the most fraught contests regarded not so much control of mountain territory as over the mountain guides who worked in it. In the early 1890s, the collapse of the liberal regime in Vienna, and an early wave of populist antisemitism amongst students in both the Imperial capital and Innsbruck moved distinctions between patriotic Austro-Germans and pan-German nationalists to the fore.49 For the ÖTC, whose membership enjoyed close ties to the Imperial family and the political classes of the 1870s and 1880s, adjusting to the new situation in Vienna was a challenge.50 The Emperor and his advisors viewed Karl Lueger, the leader of the now-dominant Christlich-Sozialen, as a dangerous radical, in part because of his antisemitic rhetoric.51 Yet Lueger’s patriotic, pro-Austro- German and anti-pan-German (as well as anti-Jewish) ideas chimed with 7 BEYOND THE NATION 229 much of the ÖTCs membership. Its leadership, led by the new president Julius Meurer (1838–1923), a serial agitator for ‘Austrian’ alpine clubs, set about antagonising the Alpenverein’s Großdeutsch Tirolean Sektionen, particularly in Innsbruck.52 In the Southern parts of the chain, the infrastructure of alpine tourism provided the fulcrum for nationalist disputes in the mountains, but in the north, the attentions of political agitators like Meurer focused on the training, registration and ‘ownership’ of mountain guides.53 Since the early 1880s, guides operated under licence from regional Austrian authorities, who relied on alpine organisations to assess mountain competence. Though theoretically three organisations were given this capacity, in practice in the Tirol, only the Alpenverein assessed and registered guides in the region until the 1890s, a situation that reflected the numbers of visitors from Germany, the Alpenverein’s dominance of the hut infrastructure, the sympathetic attitude of at least some Tiroleans to the Kaiserreich, and—according to the ÖTC at least—the infiltration of the Tirolean administration by local Alpenverein members.54 In late 1892, the ÖTC’s main Innsbruck branch, Innsbruck-Wilten, and almost certainly Meurer organised a ‘comfortable afternoon’ for mountain guides in the Stubai Alps, just south of Innsbruck.55 There, they provided guides with a new badge, bearing the name of the ÖTC in the same way (they claimed) as the Alpenverein’s badge already did for their rivals. A few guides refused, presumably guessing at a political motive, but most accepted. The ÖTC’s ‘patriotic’ members must have hoped for a reaction, and indeed reported early in 1893 that what were now ‘their’ guides had been threatened or refused entry to huts by Alpenverein functionaries. In a ‘Declaration’, the ÖTC’s Innsbruck members accused the Alpenverein of being a foreign organisation denying the ‘patriotic fatherland club’ its rights, and seeking to ensure that the Alpenverein remained in control of ‘its’ mountain guides.56 The ‘Alpine War’, as it became known in the wider press, continued until 1896 as the ÖTC sought to encourage Alpenverein guides across the Eastern Alps to register through them, carry the patriotic ÖTC insignia and attend new training courses in Vienna.57 Like the canny locals who agitated for increased urban investment in the landscape, the guides themselves took advantage of the competition, playing one set of far- away club bureaucrats off against another. In the Stubai valley, where the 230 B. ANDERSON initial confrontation had taken place, a new guides’ association gave the ÖTC and Alpenverein joint authority—and as one Alpenverein response pointed out58:

This sort of competition between two alpine clubs in the same region is cor- rupting for the guides’ community. The ever-growing wishes of the guides, in regards to tariffs, support, and so on, grow most when fed on two fighting clubs which are trying to out-do one another. This gives the guides the opportunity to demand from one what the other refuses.59

Doubtlessly, there were guides who welcomed the patriotic ÖTC, and others who enthused about the Alpenverein’s pan-Germanism, but for neutral, and politically flexible guides, the competition could also be welcomed to deal with more immediate concerns. Indeed, by taking advantage of apparently abstract ideological differences between alpine organisations for concrete benefits of pay and conditions, local people like mountain guides encouraged political conflict in the Eastern Alps without necessarily subscribing to any particular position themselves. The episode eventually resolved itself in the Alpenverein’s favour, as ÖTC membership numbers declined and the organisation sank into internal squabbling. Yet the crisis demonstrated the contingent character of local allegiance to the Alpenverein in the ‘German’ Tirol, as well as the extent to which political changes in cities such as Vienna could significantly alter the political settlement of alpine development, or Erschließung. Although the contests of the northern part of the chain never became as fiercely contested as those in the Dolomites and near to Bozen/Bolzano, they do show how far we need to understand landscape not so much as a site redolent of national identity, but as one in which competing claims and ideas of those identities might be worked out by the primarily urban constituencies of walkers and climbers.

Internationalism in the Mountains In 1871, the mountaineer and public moralist Leslie Stephen published his famous and much-quoted book about alpine climbing, The Playground of Europe. The title reflected Stephen’s own experience, both of Switzerland as middle-class leisure venue and as a cosmopolitan site in which Europe’s middle classes mingled and chatted. His descriptions of Chamonix, Swiss mountain huts and alpine ascents were not of an English ‘invasion’ of the 7 BEYOND THE NATION 231

Alps or ‘invention’ of mountaineering, but rather painted a picture of a cosmopolitan (and generally multilingual) society of Swiss, French and German tourists that continued the ‘spa’ atmosphere from which alpine tourism developed.60 Neither his ‘old school’ who were fearful of the Alps, nor his ‘moderns’ who understood them instead as a challenge and experience were exclusively English. In the effort to locate the nefarious nationalisms of a later period in the mid-nineteenth century, we are in danger of missing an alternative history in which the multilingual Alps and open expanses of the uplands stood not as a threat to nation, but as a means to transcend it. By 1900, the languages of mountaineering bore the imprint of this cosmopolitan, rather than national culture. English mountaineers by then spoke routinely of ‘abseiling’ (rather than ‘roping down’) wore ‘crampons’ even though Eckenstein described them as ‘ice-claws’, carried ruck- sacks rather than backpacks and tried, without much success, rope-soled ‘Scarpetti’ shoes on their home cliffs.61 In Germany, traditionalists dismissed the new forms of climbing discussed in Chap. 5 as shallow ‘sporting Alpinism’, while their English peers used the term ‘gymnasts’ to suggest that much the same group had deviated as a result of ‘foreign’ influence.62 Indeed, it is noticeable that many linguistic borrowings referred to the techniques, equipment or practices of late nineteenth- century elite alpinists: to those above we could add the ‘Tirolean’ rope traverse, or the technique of ascending a crack via opposing pressure known as ‘lay-back’ in English, but ‘Piaz-technique’ in German and ‘Dülfer-technique’ in Italian.63 These linguistic interchanges reflected the international character of elite mountaineering in the 1880s and 1890s, and the multilingual atmosphere of key towns such as Zermatt in the Swiss Alps or Cortina d’Ampezzo in the Dolomites. It reflected too the impact of international networkers such as crampon ‘inventor’ Oscar Eckenstein, the poet, climber and organiser of North Wales climbing parties Geoffrey Winthrop Young, the first mountaineer to ascend all of the Alps’ 4000m peaks Karl Blödig, female itinerant climbers such as Jeanne Immink, transnational mountaineering marriages such as Theodore and Maud Wundt, or Willy and Mabel Rickmers-Rickmers, and any number of multilingual mountain guides.64 While restricted to relatively small numbers of the most successful mountaineers, this was a period in which expeditions to mountains beyond Europe routinely featured climbers from different nationalities, and many mountaineers were members of clubs both in their home country and abroad.65 Later histories, often told from national 232 B. ANDERSON perspectives in the twentieth century, have tended to miss these connections, but without them it is difficult if not impossible to adequately explain the changing mountaineering practices and meanings of the fin de siècle. Certainly, for a minority of Großdeutsch German alpinists, the ‘cultural mission’ to bind German people together could be expanded into a more ambitious force for international peace. The same Alois Dreyer who described the Alps as a ‘foundational text for the whole Volk’ in 1909, wrote later on in the same text that:

[the Alpenverein has] pushed the borders of its friendly relationships further; it has become, to a certain degree, a means to bind nations. Because the band of community interest also includes the non-German mountaineering Associations in Europe and America, and because the Alpenverein has observable interest in pursuing the blooming and flourishing of these organisations, so these warm participants [in alpinism] welcome the Alpenverein. On the mountains lives not only freedom, but also heartfelt brotherliness!66

Dreyer also had antisemitic ideas, yet here he hoped for the establishment of a ‘Weltalpenverein’ (World Alpine Association).67 As we saw in Chap. 4, the first curator of the Alpenverein Museum in Munich hoped to tell the story of worldwide alpinism rather than of German mountains. Similar ideas were also shared by extreme alpinists such as Eugen Guido Lammer, who described nationalism as an ‘enemy of culture’ in his philosophy doc- torate, celebrated the Olympics as a force for international friendship in 1896, and revoked a series of memberships of alpine associations after the widespread adoption of ‘Aryan’ paragraphs in 1921.68 For mountaineers such as Dreyer, Müller or Lammer, the multilingual Alps and mountaineering were a chance to unite different peoples under a single, shared landscape. Even pseudo-scientific studies of German race or ethnicity could see positive cultural transfer alongside the loss of Germanness, so that some mountaineers provide examples of the sort of nationally inspired internationalism described by Rudy Koshar.69 The linguist Adolf Schiber’s 1903 article in the Alpenverein yearly journal entitled ‘Germanness in the South of the Alps’, for example, asserted that the South Tyrol had originally been German, but then went on to positively describe how the rapid assimila- tion of other cultures created an area of transmission between the ‘German’ 7 BEYOND THE NATION 233 and ‘Mediterranean’ worlds.70 Although Dreyer’s call for a ‘Weltalpenverein’ would not be taken seriously until a brief period following the Second World War, such evidence shows how the experience of German cross- state nation-building within the Alpenverein could just as easily be incorporated into a pacific internationalist project as a xenophobic insular one. The nationalist rhetoric of the Alpenverein is all too easily seen as part of an increasing sense of national antagonism that led inevitably to two world wars. What the evidence from Dreyer and others like him shows is not that the Alpenverein was tolerant (it was not), but rather that nationalist rhetoric did not inevitably lead to xenophobia and hate—there was another possibility, even in the early twentieth century. Other organisations succeeded in turning those possibilities into reality. Manchester’s Rucksack Club (and many other regional climbing clubs in England), the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA) and the Naturfreunde all pursued international friendship through upland landscapes, albeit with starkly contrasting political projects in mind. While attention has rightly been paid to the nationalist and/or patriotic rhetoric that dominated many mountaineering organisations, thousands of mountaineers and walkers were sceptical of such chauvinism, and offered a variety of internationalisms as an alternative. The least surprising of these groups was the Naturfreunde, whose internationalism was firmly rooted in the central-European Marxism of the 1890s and inherited from Vienna’s socialist scene a clear sense of opposition to the pro-Habsburg, antisemitic Christlich-Sozialen. Before the First World War, the Naturfreunde struggled to expand beyond populations in Austria-Hungary, Germany and Switzerland and remained dominated by Viennese workers who had arrived in the city from across the Empire.71 Nevertheless, thinking mountains as a site of internationalist worker solidarity came easily to its leadership, which included the Sudeten-German socialist, and future President of Austria Karl Renner, speaking here outside the newly opened Naturfreundehaus in 1907:

There below us lies the farmland, neatly divided up into squares. How small it looks from this height, that which is apportioned to the individual! The ground is fragmented and divided, borders furrow the surface of the Earth. Yet from here above, the borderstones disappear, and in the face of the vast world, the whole contents of life down there seems tiny. 234 B. ANDERSON

The world—she is divided. Yet millions and millions came out with nothing. For them is a part forbidden, and so they climb here up to the summit, in order to conquer the whole of this world with their mind, and to know border stones no more. Just as we are today assembled from three Empires, from Austria, Germany and Switzerland, and are of one mind, so can we see from the mountains of the old continent, and soon all continents. Truly— there is no mountain high enough to see the whole Empire of our political community, no mountain in Austria from which it is possible to see a land in which the working masses do not think alike with us.72

If when nationalists climbed mountains, they saw in the unclear borders and strange communities a threat to be fought, internationalists like Renner saw only hope and opportunity. ‘There will not only be a “mountain free” in our future’, Renner concluded, quoting the standard Naturfreunde greeting, ‘but also a “World free”’. Yet this metaphor relied on the modern development of the landscape every bit as much as the nationalist claims in the Alpenverein or tridentini, or patriotic ones of the ÖTC. The ‘true world citizens’ of the Naturfreunde were for Renner ‘masters of the Earth’, able to ‘tame the power of water’, ‘force the mountains under their feet’, and ‘span the globe with rail and cable’, something that tourists were supposedly particularly conscious of when they looked down on the world. The Naturfreunde used a variety of techniques to satirise and undermine the symbols and rhetoric of nationalism. Like many tourist organisations, members attended festivals and urban fundraising events in a mix of local costume and mountaineering clothing. In other places, this practice enabled mountaineers to act out ‘joint work’ and shared nationhood. In Naturfreunde celebrations, however, costume invited the exposure of inequality and worker heroes in the Alps, as well as patronising laughter reminiscent of contemporary urban ‘people exhibits’:

The most laughter emerged over the hysterically funny Goaserer, who came in with their animals, and must be named as real gems of character portrayal.

The high point of the festival were the ‘living pictures’ […] The scenes […] were taken from the Tirolean everyday and had been chosen with great knowledge. One of the best was that which depicted the struggle between hunters and poachers—and was greeted with great applause.73

Observing conflict was not just somethingNaturfreunde members encouraged each other to do at festivities in front of performed scenes, but 7 BEYOND THE NATION 235 was an integral part of the Naturfreunde culture of ‘Social Hiking’.74 Appeals to socialism connected urban workers to the problems of their rural counterparts, and cut across the nationalist claims of other alpinists and agitators in mountain and borderland regions.75 Before the First World War, the Naturfreunde’s internationalism was limited—the organisation failed to meaningfully reach beyond German-language populations, associated international tourism with wealthy elites, and had a tendency to occasionally slip into assumptions of German superiority in Austria.76 Nevertheless, the Naturfreunde’s socialism implied allegiance to an international community that could just as easily be imagined in the alpine terrain as the nationalism and patriotism of their rivals. The main organ of the Co-operative Holidays Association, Comradeship, also suggested that walks could be a time for introspection of social problems, but for CHA members, experiences away from their cities formed inspiration for change at home rather than a search for shared social inequality, and it was particularly on international holidays that members enthused about the benefits of other cultures. In his introduction to a new holiday-home in the Taunus area near Frankfurt am Main, Thomas Arthur Leonard, the founder and Secretary of the CHA introduced some of the key attractions. ‘The visits to Frankfurt’, he wrote ‘will probably be among the most interesting and enjoyable of the holiday. Frankfurt is one of the finest of modern European cities. Streets, public buildings, pleasure grounds, monuments, social institutions, and municipal organisation are such that we could wish every British city councillor could reside there for a month and see how much better the Germans do some things than we do’.77 Frankfurt, of course, was no paradise—like many German cities, it suffered housing and poverty problems that in many ways outstripped the British experience even of this era.78 Yet Frankfurt had built up a reputation for urban reform, and holiday-makers were not disappointed.79 On the first holiday, later on in 1909, they were met in the town hall by the Oberbürgermeister Franz Adickes (1846–1915), and led on a tour by the architectural historian and critic, Julius Hulsen (1873–1931).80 Leonard’s reference to ‘British city councillors’ was probably informed by these connections, since Adickes participated in the Mayoral exchanges referred to below. Although the focus here is on the experiences of travellers from Britain (and overwhelmingly from England), by 1910 the Co-operative Holidays Association was attracting significant numbers of Germans in the other direction, including over 700 visitors to Port Sunlight.81 Exchanges in both directions integrated technological spectacle, industrial developments, garden city planning and castled Romantic landscapes.82 Like the 236 B. ANDERSON contemporary literary figures explored by Petra Rau, international travel could be an opportunity to explore hopes for change at home with perceptions of difference abroad—but for the CHA, the future was about more than just the English nation.83 As Rosamund Ridley has explored, these exchanges were part of a wider community of visitors to and from Germany with an explicitly internationalist and pacifist political outlook.84 Alongside the socially diverse, gender-mixed, young and single members of the CHA, exchanges were taking place amongst schoolchildren at Manchester Grammar School and the Frankfurt Musterschule.85 At a more formal level still was a rapidly developing international community of town planners, sociologists and social reformers. The dates of the most significant CHA exchanges in 1910 and 1911 are significant for two reasons. First, as is readily apparent from references to ‘invasions’ and several articles explicitly addressing ‘peace’ within the CHA’s main organ, Comradeship, the period was one of heightened international tension between Britain and Germany, accompanied by a slew of alarmist publications, including William Le Queux’s 1906 book, The Invasion of 1910.86 Second, the same year saw the establishment of an international town-planning community with conferences in Berlin and then London, which included, like the exchanges of the CHA, visits to Port Sunlight and other Garden Cities.87 The CHA, indeed, had close connections to urban planners such as Patrick Geddes (1854– 1932), and Comradeship regularly featured articles on town planning, including one written by Patrick Abercrombie (1879–1957) to run parallel to the International Conference first planned for July, but postponed to November 1910 after the death of Edward VII.88 Languages of what constituted ‘modern’ society, the ‘social question’ and urban living became a central plank of the internationalism that increasingly dominated these exchanges. Outdoors enthusiasts such as the Canon Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley, famous as founder of the National Trust, certainly conceived of the activities of the CHA as a part of national renewal during the fears about British weakness that followed the war in South Africa.89 Yet from the first international holidays in 1905 the ramblers of the CHA were more likely to imagine a much wider, pacifist community of international ramblers.90 While an emphasis on what the organisation’s motto termed ‘greater leisure for recreation and self-development’ was retained, as the prospect of war appeared ever nearer after 1910, the ramblers of the CHA became increasingly convinced that their movement would help to create 7 BEYOND THE NATION 237 an Anglo-German international community and prevent hostility. Certainly, internationalism was a key focus of the newly elected president after co-founder John Brown Paton’s (1830–1911) death, the engineer, manufacturer and educational reformer Sir William Mather (1838–1920)91:

By intermingling and by striving better to understand each other’s life, motives and feelings, a wholesome healthy fraternity might be created that would keep the two nations linked together for the progress of humanity, civilisation, and commerce, and dispel the unhappy nightmare thoughts and feelings regarding the possible war.92

Meeting other cultures, learning new languages (including Esperanto), seeing foreign nature and engaging in mutual cultures of self-improvement were increasingly attested to at the AGMs of the Co-operative Holidays Association until the eve of the First World War.93 The German emphasis of CHA internationalism would have appealed to Manchester ramblers and mountaineers in particular, if Jonathan Westaway was right in identifying such close links between Manchester’s German community and outdoors leisure in the city.94 By linking the feelings of friendship and comradeship fostered by the ‘co-operative’, even domestic atmosphere of Co-operative Holidays Association guesthouses to ideas of international friendship, ramblers could imagine themselves as taking part in the development of a wider international community. These imaginations of harmonious modern difference could be syn- thesised into alternative futures in which English or German world leadership was replaced with an Anglo-German modernity. The Romantic, antiquarian interest of outdoor enthusiasts in both England and Germany facilitated this process by providing a vocabulary through which such a modernity could be historically and biologically ‘storied’—their ‘uncov- ering’ of Anglo-Saxon landscapes served as a foil for an imaginary, for- gotten ‘teutonic race’.95 Earlier in the same speech, Mather talked of ‘the honour of our common ancestry’, and of peace between ‘two old teutonic races’. Leonard talked of reviving an ‘old blood-relationship’ between the two nations and Jane M Hindley, an enthusiastic international holiday-goer, went on to describe a single ‘great teutonic race’.96 An article about the CHA to the Yorkshire Observer in 1911 explained that the ‘teutonic brethren’ in Brighouse and Frankfurt had recently petitioned their respective authorities to avoid war.97 These archaic terms rooted such internationalism in a lost past which meant that an antiquar- 238 B. ANDERSON ian interest in the English landscape functioned neither as a domesticated Englishness, nor as an escape to a lost past, but instead facilitated an imaginable ‘Teutonic’ identity for both groups through which a peaceful future could be imagined. ‘Teutonic’ also held well-established meanings within the Christian Socialism of this period, and historians should be wary of congratulating Mather on his ‘campaign of enlightenment’. Leonard, for one, had almost certainly gained his concept of ‘teutonic race’ from Charles Kingsley (1819–1875), whom he described as his hero, and whom he cited as the inspiration for the first visits of the CHA to Germany.98 Kingsley’s idea of Teutonic greatness rested on the role of the Teutonic nations, led by Anglo-Saxons, in regenerating the world’s degenerate races through conquest and, on occasion, annihilation.99 Although there is little sign that ramblers in the CHA shared such aggressive racism, Mather did explain the importance of Anglo-German friendship on the basis that ‘both were in Europe, in the midst of the ancient civilisations which in developing gave tone, form and colour to all the races of man- kind’.100 Internationalism, it seemed, did not mean upsetting the global order of modernity. If the pacifist calls for international friendship from Mather and the CHA often relied on the same logic and reasoning as that of aggressive nationalism, it is also possible to demonstrate that ideas about harmonious characteristics were built on the same stereotypes about German people that were feared in the British press. We have already examined how articles published in Comradeship distinguished between Protestant modernity and Catholic backwardness, but in the German case, this was permeated by the very stereotypes that underscored English fears of the new continental threat. When V. E. M. commented on the ‘the efficiency and thoroughness of German methods’ in 1913, she was repeating similar voices, such as that of John Lewis Paton (1863–1946), Headmaster of Manchester Grammar School, key figure in the CHA, and fellow Germanophile:

Instead of fighting the Germans, there are no people from whom Englishmen can learn more. Not that it is all onesided, I believe we have much to teach them in turn. But Germany is strong where we are weak. No other country has organised so effectively her national life, in no other country is there so little of that wickedest of waste, the waste of human life.101 7 BEYOND THE NATION 239

These powerful imaginations of Germany as supremely well-organised and efficient provoked fear on the part of some and admiration in others, but they were also imaginations which German bureaucrats and social reformers were hardly likely to dispel. Indeed, the friends of the Co-operative Holidays Association in Germany were drawn from the liberal and largely protestant well-educated middle class, or Bildungsbürgertum of Northern Germany, whose parents had led the anti-Catholic Kulturkampf during the 1870s, so that even the religious prejudice of many CHA members must have seemed attractive. The connections between ‘German’ attributes of organisation and efficiency to Protestantism had also been memo- rably theorised by Max Weber in the same year that the exchanges began—and ‘Protestant work ethic’ would not be a bad summary of CHA opinion of what the Teutonic race shared.102 English tropes of ‘Germanness’ were in part produced by the continuing complexities of German self- definition in the Wilhelmine era, and their translation into English prejudices. For English tourists, this rhetoric was borrowed from alarmist fears about German economic prowess made to do work to provide solutions to ‘social questions’, and took advantage of British reformers’ interest in, for instance, encouraging ‘national efficiency’, establishing systems of social insurance—or indeed tariff reform.103 Paton referred to ‘the awak- ening of a social conscience’ in England, but having pointed to Germany’s social insurance legislation and old age pensions, considered Germany ‘the place where we can study the experience of others who have faced up to these questions, have applied to them the best scientific knowledge and ideas of their time and […] have shown the way of solutions’.104 Leonard secured contacts at the Musterschule, City council and educational institutions to encourage fraternising between German and English holiday- makers, and ‘visits to institutions in Frankfort calculated to deepen interest in German methods of dealing with social problems etc’.105 In their introduction to a recent collection of essays, Dominik Geppert and Robert Gerwarth suggest that cultures of ‘entanglement and antagonism were two sides of the same coin’ with regards to Anglo-German cultural relations in the decades before the First World War.106 The same languages of modernity underscored both fears of German militarism and celebrations of German social organisation. In English nationalist narratives, the German state had caused a collection of weak and backward principalities to transform into a well-organised challenger to 240 B. ANDERSON

British economic and military power; in the narratives of the CHA, amongst other Germanophiles, the same, new characteristics, appeared to explain Germany’s apparent success at dealing with social problems and better organising modern society. Their ideals of ‘teutonic’ modernity, shared by English and German people alike, were undoubtedly well-intentioned, but ultimately rested on—and so failed to undermine—the same languages of national difference that were being created and exploited by an alarmist and anti-German press in the era before the First World War.

Conclusion Visiting landscapes—mountainous or not—away from a home city offered opportunities to explore political identity that went far beyond competing national claims. On the one hand, the landscape offered a welter of potential national narratives through which competing definitions of the nation could be storied and the ‘rights’ of different urban groups over rural populations enforced. On the other hand, alpinists did not always politicise peripheral, distant and often borderland mountain regions as places for the defence of the nation—these could also be landscapes in which a world without national, or even property division could be imagined, and was by thousands of predominantly poorer mountaineers. The nation provided a fulcrum around which landscaped debates took place, but mountaineers and ramblers were more than capable of redefining what the nation might constitute, or denying it altogether. Yet historians should be no less critical of internationalism or socialism than of nationalism in the mountains; these were, after all, still primarily solutions to urban political dramas in which local people continued to have little agency for most of this period. While socialists in the Naturfreunde spoke of a far more encompassing notion of international brotherhood, the social hiking that aimed to allow members to gain a greater understanding of rural inequalities was undercut for much of the pre-war era by an impression of superiority over rural counterparts. Internationalism in the CHA in particular all too often relied on similar sets of assumptions of racial or cultural superiority to those familiar to nationalism, and in this period referred always to Europe, and not the wider world of Empires and colonies. 7 BEYOND THE NATION 241

Notes 1. On Germany, see Klaus Bergmann, Agrarrromantik und Großstadtfeindschaft (Meisenhaim a. G., 1970); Roderick Stackelberg, Idealism Debased: From Völkisch Ideology to National Socialism (Kent, OH, 1981). On England, see Martin Wiener, English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit: 1850–1980 (Cambridge, 1980); Robert Colls and Philip Dodd (eds.), Englishness: Politics and Culture, 1880– 1920 (Wolfeboro, NH, 1986). 2. For excellent historiographical critiques, see John Alexander Williams, Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford, 2007), pp. 1–8; Paul Readman, ‘The Place of the Past in English Culture, c. 1890–1914’, Past and Present 186:1 (2005), pp. 147–99. 3. Paul Readman, Storied Ground: Landscape and the Shaping of English National Identity (Cambridge, 2018); David Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998); Bernhard Tschofen, Berg—Kultur— Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna, 1999), pp. 192–210. 4. Tait S. Keller, Apostles of the Alps: Mountaineering and Nation Building in Germany and Austria, 1860–1939 (Chapel Hill, 2016), pp. 47–66. 5. See, for example, Iain Robertson (ed.), Heritage from Below (London, 2012); Divya Praful Tolia-Kelly, Landscape, Race and Memory: Material Ecologies of Citizenship (London, 2010); Niamh Moore and Yvonne Whelan (eds.), Heritage, Memory, and the Politics of Identity: New Perspectives on the Cultural Landscape (London, 2016 [2007]); Williams, Turning to Nature; Alon Confino,The Nation as a Local Metaphor: Württemberg, Imperial Germany, and National Memory, 1871–1918 (Chapel Hill, 1997); Thomas M. Lekan, Imagining the Nation in Nature: Landscape Preservation and German Identity, 1885–1945 (London, 2004). 6. Peter Hansen, Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London, 2013). 7. Readman, Storied Ground. 8. Stefan Morosini, Sulle vette della Patria. Politica, Guerra, e nazione nel Club alpino italiano (1863–1922) (Milan, 2009), pp. 72–84; Pieter M. Judson, Guardians of the Nation: Activists on the Language Frontiers of Imperial Austria (London, 2006), pp. 141–77; Laurence Cole, ‘The Emergence and Impact of Modern Tourism in an Alpine Region: Tirol, c. 1880–1914’, Annali di San Michele 15 (2002), pp. 31–40. Keller, Apostles, pp. 47–66. See also See also Corinna Peniston-Bird, Thomas Rohkrämer and Felix Robin Schulz, ‘Glorified, Contested and Mobilized: The Alps in the “Deutscher und Oesterreichischer Alpenverein” from the 1860s to 1933’, Austrian Studies 18 (2010), pp. 141–58. 242 B. ANDERSON

9. John Beatty (ed.), This Mountain Life: The First Hundred Years of the Rucksack Club (Bamford, 2003), p. 22. 10. See Wendy Joy Darby, Landscape and Identity: Geographies of Nation and Class in England (London, 2000), pp. 158–63. 11. Both the CHA and Naturfreunde had a membership of roughly 10,000. Anon., ‘C. H. A. Centres and Membership’, Comradeship 5:5 (1912), p. 80; Wulf Erdmann and Jochen Zimmer (eds.), Hundert Jahre Kampf um die freie Natur: Illustrierte Geschichte der Naturfreunde (Ulm, 1991), p. 14. 12. Edward Ross Dickinson ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 3 (2010), pp. 579–602 (pp. 579–90). 13. Tim Ingold, ‘The Temporality of Landscape’, World Archaeology 2 (1993), pp. 152–74. 14. Tait S. Keller, ‘Eternal Mountains—Eternal Germany: The Alpine Association and The Ideology of Alpinism, 1909–1939,’ Unpublished PhD thesis, Washington, DC, 2006, pp. 36–52. 15. Dickinson ‘Altitude and Whiteness’, pp. 582–83. On Heimat, see Celia Applegate, A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Oxford, 1990); Confino,Local Metaphor. 16. ‘Protokoll der XXVII. (XXIII.) Generalversammlung des D. u. Oe. A.-V. zu Stuttgart am 29. August 1896’, MDOeAV XII(XXII):19 (1896), pp. 229–37 (p. 229); Protokoll der XXXVII. (XXXIII.) Generalversammlung des Deutschen und Österreichischen Alpenvereins zu Leipzig am 9. September 1906 (Innsbruck, 1906), AOeAV/OeAV/ZV/1, p. 5; Protokoll der 40. (36.) Generalversammlung des D. u. Ö. Alpenvereins zu Wien am 11. September 1909 (Munich, 1909), AOeAV/OeAV/ZV/1, p. 6; Anon., ‘Die XXII. Generalversammlung des D. u. Oe. A.-V. in Salzburg’, MDOeAV XI(XXI):17 (1895), pp. 205–08 (p. 206). 17. ‘Protokoll 1896’, p. 229. 18. ‘Protokoll 1896’, p. 229. 19. Anon., ‘Generalversammlung Salzburg’, p. 206; Anon., ‘Protokoll der XXV. (XXI.) Generalversammlung des D. u. Oe. Alpenvereins zu München am 10. August 1894’, MDOeAV X(XX):18 (1894), pp. 217– 30 (p. 218). 20. Protokoll der 40. (36.) Generalversammlung des D. u. Ö. Alpenvereins zu Wien am 11. September 1909 (Munich, 1909), AOeAV/OeAV/ZV/1, pp. 6–7. 21. Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman, ‘Tocquevilles “Demokratie in Amerika” und die Gesellige Gesellschaft Seiner Zeit’, in Herfried Münkler and Harald Bluhm (eds.), Gemeinwohl und Gemeinsinn: Historische Semantiken Politischer Leitbegriffe (Berlin, 2001), pp. 303–26 (p. 318). 7 BEYOND THE NATION 243

22. For patriotic language at Annual General Meetings, see Keller, ‘Eternal Mountains’, pp. 52–62. For imperialist languages, see Martin Achrainer, ‘“So, Jetzt sind wir ganz unter uns!”: Antisemitismus im Alpenverein’, in Hanno Loewy and Gerhard Milchram (eds.), “Hast due meine Alpen gesehen?”: Eine Jüdische Beziehungsgeschichte (Munich, 2010), pp. 228– 52 (p. 230). 23. Friederike Kaiser, ‘Die Bauherren’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne, 2016), pp. 113–20; Achrainer, ‘Antisemitismus im Alpenverein’, p. 230. 24. Achrainer, ‘Antisemitismus im Alpenverein’, p. 230. 25. Ben Anderson, ‘Alpine Agency: Locals, Mountaineers and Tourism in the Eastern Alps, c. 1860–1914’, Rural History 1 (2016), pp. 61–78 (pp. 66–69). 26. Anon., ‘Coburgerhütte’, p. 3; Anon., ‘Einweihung der Unterkunftshütte Vorderkaiserfelden’, DAZ 1:8 (1901), pp. 11–13 (p. 11). 27. This mix of clothing is that in the photographs of the celebrations. See Anon., ‘Coburgerhütte’, p. 3; Anon., ‘Unterkunftshütte Vorderkaiserfelden’, p. 12. On clothing in the mountains, see Josef Ittlinger, Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig, 1913), pp. 58–59. 28. Anon., ‘Coburgerhütte’, p. 5. 29. S., ‘Verschiedenes: Weg- und Hüttenbauten: Die Feierliche Eröffnung des Kaiserin Elisabethhauses auf dem Becher’, MDOeAV X(XX):17 (1894), pp. 212–14 (p. 213). 30. Morosini, Sulla vetta della Patria, pp. 52–84. 31. Dickinson, ‘Altitude and Whiteness’; Keller, Apostles, pp. 47–66. 32. Keller, ‘Eternal Mountains’, pp. 60–61. 33. Verwälschung: although verwälschen has a more general meaning, its use here is a reference to Welschtirol, the German name for the Trentino region. Before the First World War this predominantly Italian- and Ladino-speaking region was controlled by the Austrian Empire. The struggle against ‘Verwälschung’ was, then, a call for the repression of Italian language and local custom in Trentino and neighbouring Südtirol, where German predominated. ‘Slavification’ refers to the influence of other national communities in the Habsburg Empire, predominantly here Slovenes. 34. Anon., ‘Wilkommen in München!’, MNN 364 (9 August 1894), p. 4. See also Anon., ‘Verhandlungsschrift Coblenz 1911’, p. 193. 35. Anon., ‘Die 43. (39.) Hauptversammlung des D. u. Ö. Alpenvereins zu Graz’, MDOeAV XXVIII(XXXVIII):18 (1912), pp. 223–27 (p. 225). Morosini, Sulle Vette della Patria, pp. 72–84; Judson, Guardians, pp. 141–70; Cole, ‘Modern Tourism’, 37–38. 244 B. ANDERSON

36. See Dickinson, ‘Altitude and Whiteness’, pp. 579–602. 37. Nicholas Mailänder, ‘Jüdische Beiträge zum Alpinismus’, in Loewy and Milchram, “Hast due meine Alpen gesehen?”, pp. 241–57 (p. 244). 38. Achrainer, ‘Antisemitismus im Alpenverein’, pp. 229–32; Mailänder, ‘Jüdische Beiträge, p. 249. 39. Mailänder, ‘Jüdische Beiträge, p. 249. 40. F. Montanus [F. Friedensburg], Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine Wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “Alpinen Knigge” (Munich, 1908), pp. 20, 25, 47, 49, 62, 67, 72, 77. 41. Anon., ‘Verhandlungsschrift Coblenz 1911’, p. 193. Keller, ‘Eternal Mountains’, pp. 36–52. 42. J. Walter Robson, ‘A Note on the Cortina District’, RC Journal 2:4 (1914), pp. 297–300 (p. 298). 43. ‘Bürgermeiser Dr. Karl Lueger’, ÖTZ XXX:6 (1911), p. 65. 44. Alb. Gelber, ‘Aus dem fernsten Osten der Monarchie. (Rareu, Ouschor, Ineu und Schurdin)’, ÖTZ XXX:6 (1911), pp. 182–86 (p. 186). 45. See Börries Kuzmany, ‘Habsburg Austria: Experiments in Non-territorial Autonomy’, Ethnopolitics 1 (2016), pp. 43–65 (pp. 52–55). 46. Eduard Hübl, ‘Ein Ausflug in die “Sieben Gemeinden”, ÖTZ XX:17 (1900), pp. 193–96; Anon., ‘Neues aus Lusarn’, ÖTZ XX:23 (1900), p. 274; Anton Mayr, ‘Altrei. Eine deutsche Sprachinsel in Südtirol’, ÖTZ XXX:18 (1910), pp. 206–08; Julius Meurer, ‘Circulare Nr. 185 des Central-Ausschusses’, ÖTZ XIV:15 (1894), p. 173. 47. Compare Karl Ried, ‘Vierzig Jahre Österreichischer Touristen-Klub: Ein Rückblick über den Werdegang des Österreichischen Touristen-Klubs’, ÖTZ XXIX:10 (1909), pp. 113–29 (pp. 126–28) with Annaliese Gidl, Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne, 2007), p. 84. See Anon., ‘Erklärung der Section Innsbruck-Wilten des Ö. T.-C. in Bergführer-Angelegenheiten’, ÖTZ XIII:1 (1893), pp. 13–16 (p. 15). 48. See, for example, Montanus, Familie Ekel, p. 67. 49. Bruce F. Pauley, From Prejudice to Persecution: A History of Austrian Anti-Semitism (Chapel Hill, 1992), pp. 30–32. 50. When the Emperor visited the Alps, he routinely used ÖTC huts and guides, and met with ÖTC functionaries. Anon., ‘Touristentage des Kaisers’, ÖTZ XIV:15 (1894), pp. 168–70. 51. See Richard S. Geehr, Karl Lueger: Mayor of Fin de Siècle Vienna (Detroit, 1990), pp. 91–93; Pauley, Prejudice to Persecution, p. 31. 52. Meurer was an early promoter of the ÖTC, but left to help found the Oesterreichische Alpenclub before returning to the ÖTC in the 1890s. 53. Disputes did emerge over other issues, such as place names, huts and attempts by the ÖTC to open branches in the Kaiserreich. Johannes Frischauf, ‘Sannthaler oder Steiner Alpen?’, ÖTZ XIII:2 (1893), 7 BEYOND THE NATION 245

pp. 19–20; Anon., ‘Oesterreichische Dichter in der Zeitschrift des D u. Ö. A.-V.’, ÖTZ XIII:5 (1893), p. 58; Hanns Forcher-Mayr to Zentralausschuss des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins, 11 July 1909, AOeAV/SE/501/83/B, p. 2. Anderson, ‘Alpine Agency’. 54. Anon., ‘Erklärung Innsbruck-Wilten’, p. 14. 55. Anon., ‘Neue Bergführerzeichen’, ÖTZ XII:21 (1892), p. 255. 56. ‘Erklärung der Section Innsbruck-Wilten des Ö. T.-C. in Bergführer- Angelegenheiten’, ÖTZ XIII:1 (1893), pp. 13–16. See also ‘Verwahrung’, MDOeAV IX(XIX):2 (1893), pp. 13–16. 57. Julius Meurer and Carl Rint, ‘Circulare Nr. 180 des Central-Ausschusses,’ ÖTZ XIV:8 (1894), p. 89; Rudolf Ellinger, ‘Der I. Bergführer- Instructionscurs des Ö. T.-C. in Wien’, ÖTZ XIV:9 (1894), pp. 99–101. 58. ‘Der neue Bergführer-Verein im Stubaithale’, ÖTZ XIII:5 (1893), p. 55. 59. Karl Ritter v. Adamek, ‘Der Alpenkrieg’, Grazer Tagblatt IV:94 (7 April 1894), pp. 1–3. 60. Susan Barton, Healthy Living in the Alps: The Origins of Winter Tourism in Switzerland, 1860–1914 (Manchester, 2008). 61. W. Heap, ‘A New Climb in Skye’, in George T. Ewen (ed.), ‘The Rucksack Club Third Annual Report’ [November, 1905], in Roger Booth, Mike Dent and John Payne (eds.), The Rucksack Club Annual Reports 1903– 1905 (Manchester, 2005), pp. 13–17 (p. 14). 62. See especially, Heinrich Steinitzer, Sport und Kultur: Mit besonderer Berücksichtigung des Bergsports (Munich, 1910). Jonathan Westaway, ‘The German Community in Manchester, Middle-Class Culture and the Development of Mountaineering in Britain, c. 1850–1914’, English Historical Review 508 (2009), pp. 571–604 (p. 595). 63. Fritz Schmitt, Hans Dülfer: Bergsteiger—Markstein—Legende (Munich, 1985), pp. 288–94. 64. Nicholas Mailänder, ‘Die Ursprünge des Freikletterns: Die Bewegung der Führerlosen und die Wiener Schule’, Berg (2016), pp. 148–61 (pp. 159–61); Dietrich Hasse, Wiege des Freikletterns: Sächsische Marksteine im Weltweiten Alpinsport bis zur Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich, 2000), p. 92; Geoffrey Winthrop Young, Geoffrey Sutton and Wilfred Noyce, Snowdon Biography (London, 1957), p. 50. 65. ‘Forschungsreise nach dem Himalaya’, MDOeAV XVIII(XXVIII):3 (1902), p. 37; Matthias Zurbriggen, From the Alps to the Andes, Being the Autobiography of a Mountain Guide (London, 1899). 66. Alois Dreyer, Der Alpinismus und der Deutsch-Österreichische Alpenverein: Seine Entwicklung—Seine Bedeutung—Seine Zukunft (Berlin, 1909), p. 157. See also N[epomuk] Z[wickh], ‘Die XXI. Generalversammlung zu München’, MDOeAV X(XX):16 (1894), pp. 193–96 (p. 195). 67. Dreyer, Alpinismus, p. 157. 246 B. ANDERSON

68. Reinhold Messner and Horst Höfler, Eugen Guido Lammer: Durst Nach Todesgefahr (Augsburg, 1999), p. 9; Eugen Guido Lammer, Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich, 1935), p. 217; Mailänder, ‘Jüdische Beiträge’, p. 249. 69. Rudy Koshar, Germany’s Transient Pasts: Preservation and National Memory in the Twentieth Century (Chapel Hill, 1998), p. 95. 70. Adolf Schiber, ‘Das Deutschtum im Süden der Alpen’, ZDOeAV XXXIV (1903), pp. 42–55 (pp. 43, 55). 71. See Bruno Klaus Lampasiak, Leo Gruber and Manfred Pils, Berg Frei— Mensch Frei—Welt Frei: Eine Chronik der internationalen Naturfreundebewegung von den Anfängen der Arbeiterbewegung bis zum Zeitalter der Globalisierung (1895–2005) (Vienna, 2009), pp. 7–136. 72. [Leopold] H[appisc]h, ‘Unser Ehrentag. Zur Schutzhaus-Eröffnung am 12. August 1907’, Naturfreund 11:9 (1907), pp. 165–76 (p. 174). 73. Happisch, ‘Unser Ehrentag’, p. 167. 74. Williams, Turning to Nature, pp. 67–104; Ute Hasenoehl, ‘Nature Conservation and the German Labour Movement: The Touristenverein Die Naturfreunde as a Bridge between Social and Environmental History’, in Geneviève Massard-Guilbaud and Stephen Mosley (eds.), Common Ground: Integrating the Social and Environmental in History (Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 2011), pp. 125–48 (pp. 131–32). 75. E. g. Anon., ‘Hüttenbauten’, Naturfreund X:9 (1906), p. 139. 76. Rudolf Winter, ‘Kiritein: die Perle des Mährischen Karstes und die neuentdeckten Tropfsteinhöhlen’, Naturfreund XV:1 (1911), pp. 14–15 (p. 14); J. Spandel, ‘Auf Schweizer Boden’, Naturfreund X:1 (1906), pp. 1–9 (p. 1); Karl Wallersdorfer, ‘Auf den Monte Rosa 4638m’, Naturfreund VII:10 (1903), pp. 93–96 (p. 94). 77. T. A. Leonard, ‘In the Taunus (The New C.H.A. Centre.)’, Comradeship 2:3 (1909), p. 40. 78. Anon., ‘Frankfort’, Manchester Guardian, in Comradeship 2:5 (1909), pp. 67–68. 79. William R. F. Phillips, ‘The “German Example” and the Professionalization of American and British City Planning at the Turn of the Century’, Planning Perspectives 2 (1996), pp. 167–83 (pp. 171–72). 80. T. A. Leonard, ‘In the Taunus’, Comradeship 3:1 (1909), pp. 3–5 (p. 4). 81. See Rosamund Ridley, ‘Political Approach to Leisure: The “Stop the WW1 Coalition”, 1908–1914’, Journal of Academic Marketing Mysticism Online 2 (2011), pp. 21–38 (pp. 26–28). 82. F. B. S., ‘Our German Guests’, Comradeship 3:5 (1910), p. 78. 83. Petra Rau, English Modernism, National Identity and the Germans, 1890– 1950 (Farnham, 2009), pp. 1–16, 89–118. 84. Ridley, ‘Political Approach to Leisure’. 7 BEYOND THE NATION 247

85. Jahresbericht der Musterschule (Realgymnasium) in Frankfurt am Main, Schuljahr 1909/1910 (1910), Musterschule Archiv, p. 19; Jahresbericht der Musterschule (Realgymnasium) in Frankfurt am Main, Schuljahr 1910/1911 (1911), Musterschule Archiv, p. 30; Comradeship 3:5 (1910), p. 66. 86. See Ailise Bulfin, ‘“To Arms!”: Invasion Narratives and Late-Victorian Literature’, Literature Compass 9 (2015), pp. 482–96. Ridley, ‘Political Approach to Leisure’, pp. 22–23; ‘The German Invasion’, Comradeship 4:1 (1910), p. 16. 87. Phillips, ‘“German Example”’, pp. 173–76. 88. Patrick Abercrombie, ‘Town Planning: Introductory’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), pp. 44–46. 89. Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley, ‘Address to the Annual Conference of the Association at Liverpool, January 3rd, 1903’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ HIS/16/1, pp. 15–16 (p. 16). 90. The first CHA holiday outside of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales was probably to St. Luc in Switzerland. Compare T. Arthur Leonard, Adventures in Holidaymaking: Being the Story of the Rise and Development of a People’s Holiday Movement (London, 1934), p. 39, with ‘Holidays in Switzerland, 1905’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/4/1. 91. Geoffrey Tweedale, ‘Mather, Sir William (1838–1920)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004), [http://www. oxforddnb.com/view/article/45649, Accessed 25 March 2011]. 92. Anon., ‘Menaces to Anglo-German Friendship. Sir W. Mather and a Campaign of Enlightenment’, Yorkshire Daily Observer, 8 January 1912, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 53. 93. See Harvey Taylor, A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele, 1997), pp. 209–10. 94. Westaway, ‘German Community’, p. 592. 95. Readman, Storied Ground. 96. Anon., ‘Menaces’; Jane M. Hindley, ‘Whitsuntide in Germany’, Comradeship 3:5 (1910), pp. 71–73 (p. 72). 97. Anon., ‘Städtische Nachrichten’, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 46. 98. Leonard, Adventures, p. 44. 99. Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Harvard, 1981), pp. 75–77. 100. Anon., ‘Menaces’, p. 53. 101. John Lewis Paton, ‘Our Friends the Germans’, Comradeship 1:5 (1908), pp. 67–68 (p. 67). 102. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (London, 2001 [1904–1905]). 103. Phillips, ‘“German Example”’. 248 B. ANDERSON

104. Paton, ‘Our Friends the Germans’, p. 67. 105. Leonard, ‘In the Taunus’, p. 3. 106. Dominik Geppert and Robert Gerwarth, ‘Introduction’, in Dominik Geppert and Robert Gerwarth (eds.), Wilhelmine Germany and Edwardian Britain: Essays on Cultural Affinity (London, 2008), pp. 1–13 (p. 13).

Bibliography

Archival Sources Archiv des oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [AOeAV]. Greater Manchester County Records Office [GMCRO]. Musterschule Archiv.

Newspapers and Journals Comradeship: The Magazine of the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union [Comradeship]. Der Naturfreund: Mitteilungen des Touristen-Vereins “Die Naturfreunde” in Wien [Naturfreund]. Deutsche Alpenzeitung [DAZ]. Grazer Tagblatt. Mitteilungen des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [MDOeAV]. Münchner Neueste Nachrichtung [MNN]. Österreichische Touristenzeitung [ÖTZ]. Rucksack Club Journal [RC Journal]. Zeitschrift des deutschen und oesterreichischen Alpenvereins [ZDOeAV].

Published Primary Sources Booth, Roger, Dent, Mike and Payne, John (eds.) (2005) The Rucksack Club Annual Reports 1903–1905 (Manchester). Dreyer, Alois (1909) Der Alpinismus und der Deutsch-Österreichische Alpenverein: Seine Entwicklung—Seine Bedeutung—Seine Zukunft (Berlin). Ittlinger, Josef (1913) Handbuch des Alpinismus (Leipzig). Lammer, Eugen Guido (1935) Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich). Leonard, T. Arthur (1934) Adventures in Holidaymaking: Being the Story of the Rise and Development of a People’s Holiday Movement (London). 7 BEYOND THE NATION 249

Montanus, F. [Friedensburg, F.] (1908) Die Alpenfahrt der Familie Ekel, eine Wahre Geschichte als Beitrag zum “Alpinen Knigge” (Munich). Steinitzer, Heinrich (1910) Sport und Kultur: Mit besonderer Berücksichtigung des Bergsports (Munich). Weber, Max (2001 [1904–1905]) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (London). Young, Geoffrey Winthrop, Sutton, Geoffrey and Noyce, Wilfred (1957) Snowdon Biography (London). Zurbriggen, Matthias (1899) From the Alps to the Andes, Being the Autobiography of a Mountain Guide (London).

Secondary Sources Anderson, Ben (2016) ‘Alpine Agency: Locals, Mountaineers and Tourism in the Eastern Alps, c. 1860–1914’, Rural History 1, pp. 61–78. Applegate, Celia (1990) A Nation of Provincials: The German Idea of Heimat (Oxford). Barton, Susan (2008) Healthy Living in the Alps: The Origins of Winter Tourism in Switzerland, 1860–1914 (Manchester). Beatty, John (ed.) (2003) This Mountain Life: The First Hundred Years of the Rucksack Club (Bamford). Bergmann, Klaus (1970) Agrarrromantik und Großstadtfeindschaft (Meisenhaim a. G.). Bulfin, Ailise (2015) ‘“To Arms!”: Invasion Narratives and Late-Victorian Literature’, Literature Compass 9, pp. 482–96. Cole, Laurence (2002) ‘The Emergence and Impact of Modern Tourism in an Alpine Region: Tirol, c. 1880–1914’, Annali di San Michele 15, pp. 31–40. Colls, Robert and Dodd, Philip (eds.) (1986) Englishness: Politics and Culture, 1880–1920 (Wolfeboro, NH). Confino, Alon (1997)The Nation as a Local Metaphor: Württemberg, Imperial Germany, and National Memory, 1871–1918 (Chapel Hill). Darby, Wendy Joy (2000) Landscape and Identity: Geographies of Nation and Class in England (London). Dickinson, Edward Ross (2010) ‘Altitude and Whiteness: Germanizing the Alps and Alpinizing the Germans, 1875–1935’, German Studies Review 3, pp. 579–602. Erdmann, Wulf and Zimmer, Jochen (eds.) (1991) Hundert Jahre Kampf um die freie Natur: Illustrierte Geschichte der Naturfreunde (Ulm). Geehr, Richard S. (1990) Karl Lueger: Mayor of Fin de Siècle Vienna (Detroit). Geppert, Dominik and Gerwarth, Robert (2008) ‘Introduction’, in Dominik Geppert and Robert Gerwarth (eds.), Wilhelmine Germany and Edwardian Britain: Essays on Cultural Affinity (London), pp. 1–13. 250 B. ANDERSON

Gidl, Annaliese (2007) Alpenverein: Die Städter entdecken die Alpen (Cologne). Hansen, Peter (2013) Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering after the Enlightenment (London). Hasenoehl, Ute (2011) ‘Nature Conservation and the German Labour Movement: The Touristenverein Die Naturfreunde as a Bridge between Social and Environmental History’, in Geneviève Massard-Guilbaud and Stephen Mosley (eds.), Common Ground: Integrating the Social and Environmental in History (Newcastle-upon-Tyne), pp. 125–48. Hasse, Dietrich (2000) Wiege des Freikletterns: Sächsische Marksteine im Weltweiten Alpinsport bis zur Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich). Hoffman, Stefan-Ludwig (2001) ‘Tocquevilles “Demokratie in Amerika” und die Gesellige Gesellschaft Seiner Zeit’, in Herfried Münkler and Harald Bluhm (eds.), Gemeinwohl und Gemeinsinn: Historische Semantiken Politischer Leitbegriffe (Berlin), pp. 303–26. Horsman, Reginald (1981) Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Harvard). Ingold, Tim (1993) ‘The Temporality of Landscape’, World Archaeology 2, pp. 152–74. Judson, Pieter M. (2006) Guardians of the Nation: Activists on the Language Frontiers of Imperial Austria (London). Kaiser, Friederike (2016) ‘Die Bauherren’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne), pp. 113–20. Keller, Tait S. (2006) ‘Eternal Mountains—Eternal Germany: The Alpine Association and The Ideology of Alpinism, 1909–1939’, Unpublished PhD thesis, Washington, DC. Keller, Tait S. (2016) Apostles of the Alps: Mountaineering and Nation Building in Germany and Austria, 1860–1939 (Chapel Hill). Koshar, Rudy (1998) Germany’s Transient Pasts: Preservation and National Memory in the Twentieth Century (Chapel Hill). Kuzmany, Börries (2016) ‘Habsburg Austria: Experiments in Non-territorial Autonomy’, Ethnopolitics 1, pp. 43–65. Lampasiak, Bruno Klaus, Gruber, Leo and Pils, Manfred (2009) Berg Frei— Mensch Frei—Welt Frei: Eine Chronik der internationalen Naturfreundebewegung von den Anfängen der Arbeiterbewegung bis zum Zeitalter der Globalisierung (1895–2005) (Vienna). Lekan, Thomas M. (2004) Imagining the Nation in Nature: Landscape Preservation and German Identity, 1885–1945 (London). Loewy, Hanno and Milchram, Gerhard (eds.) (2010) “Hast due meine Alpen gesehen?”: Eine Jüdische Beziehungsgeschichte (Munich). 7 BEYOND THE NATION 251

Mailänder, Nicholas (2016) ‘Die Ursprünge des Freikletterns: Die Bewegung der Führerlosen und die Wiener Schule’, Berg, pp. 148–61. Matless, David (1998) Landscape and Englishness (London). Messner, Reinhold and Höfler, Horst (1999) Eugen Guido Lammer: Durst Nach Todesgefahr (Augsburg). Moore, Niamh and Whelan, Yvonne (eds.) (2016 [2007]) Heritage, Memory, and the Politics of Identity: New Perspectives on the Cultural Landscape (London). Morosini, Stefan (2009) Sulle vette della Patria. Politica, Guerra, e nazione nel Club alpino italiano (1863–1922) (Milan). Pauley, Bruce F. (1992) From Prejudice to Persecution: A History of Austrian Anti- Semitism (Chapel Hill). Peniston-Bird, Corinna, Rohkrämer, Thomas and Schulz, Felix Robin (2010) ‘Glorified, Contested and Mobilized: The Alps in the “Deutscher und Oesterreichischer Alpenverein” from the 1860s to 1933’, Austrian Studies 18, pp. 141–58. Phillips, William R. F. (1996) ‘The “German Example” and the Professionalization of American and British City Planning at the Turn of the Century’, Planning Perspectives 2, pp. 167–83. Rau, Petra (2009) English Modernism, National Identity and the Germans, 1890– 1950 (Farnham). Readman, Paul (2005) ‘The Place of the Past in English Culture, c. 1890–1914’, Past and Present 186:1, pp. 147–99. Readman, Paul (2018) Storied Ground: Landscape and the Shaping of English National Identity (Cambridge). Ridley, Rosamund (2011) ‘Political Approach to Leisure: The “Stop the WW1 Coalition”, 1908–1914’, Journal of Academic Marketing Mysticism Online 2, pp. 21–38. Robertson, Iain (ed.) (2012) Heritage from Below (London). Schmitt, Fritz (1985) Hans Dülfer: Bergsteiger—Markstein—Legende (Munich). Stackelberg, Roderick (1981) Idealism Debased: From Völkisch Ideology to National Socialism (Kent, OH). Taylor, Harvey (1997) A Claim on the Countryside: A History of the British Outdoor Movement (Keele). Tolia-Kelly, Divya Praful (2010) Landscape, Race and Memory: Material Ecologies of Citizenship (London). Tschofen, Bernhard (1999) Berg—Kultur—Moderne: Volkskundliches aus den Alpen (Vienna). Westaway, Jonathan (2009) ‘The German Community in Manchester, Middle- Class Culture and the Development of Mountaineering in Britain, c. 1850– 1914’, English Historical Review 508, pp. 571–604. 252 B. ANDERSON

Wiener, Martin (1980) English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit: 1850–1980 (Cambridge). Williams, John Alexander (2007) Turning to Nature in Germany: Hiking, Nudism and Conservation, 1900–1940 (Stanford).

Online Sources Geoffrey Tweedale, ‘Mather, Sir William (1838–1920)’, ODNB Online, http:// www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/45649, accessed 25 March 2011. CHAPTER 8

The Indoors in the Outdoors

In early 1893, the daughter of a Birmingham mineral-water manufacturer Frances (Fanny) Nelson Pringle responded to an advert placed in the Review of Reviews. In it, the Congregational Minister, Thomas Arthur Leonard described a vision of what was to become the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA), inviting ‘all those who are interested in popular education or the vitalisation of life’ to a minimalist Lake District holiday that August.1 Pringle was not who Leonard and his sponsor, the National Home Reading Union pioneer John Brown Paton had in mind. ‘The organisers had not thought of such an innovation as women’, the CHA stalwart Emily H. Smith caustically observed after the First World War.2 Indeed, according to Pringle’s own account, though Leonard proved an enthusiastic ally, Paton initially resisted the ‘grave responsibility’ of a mixed-gender organisation.3 Female ramblers nevertheless made up a third of participants on that first holiday in 1893, where governess Emily Smith and daughter of cotton manufacturer Annie Barlow acted as ‘hostesses’.4 Soon, the women of the CHA outnumbered men two-to-one, and middle-class women held positions of authority on the executive and various committees of the organisation, exercising enough power to play a crucial role in forcing Leonard out of the organisation in 1912.5 While smaller clubs and contemporary popular fiction give the impression that rambling was a form of masculine escapism, it therefore seems that women

© The Author(s) 2020 253 B. Anderson, Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany, https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3_8 254 B. ANDERSON dominated the largest—and probably most influential—club in the north of England.6 We can assume that they represent a far larger sisterhood of walkers too and point to the widespread popularity of rambling amongst women well before the 1930s ‘hiking craze’.7 A CHA holiday was categorically not a ‘flight from domesticity’ for any gender.8 The organisation’s members replicated the practices of neither Melanie Tebbutt’s ‘manly’ Sheffield Clarion Club ramblers, nor the masculine ‘self-discovery’ that Nicola Bishop has found amongst fictional lower-middle-class male clerks.9 From the outset, Leonard and his associates sought to allay Paton’s fears by exporting the cultural constraints of the late nineteenth-century home to the outdoors, and it was this ‘homeliness’ that attracted many holiday-makers.10 On the first holidays, ‘hostesses’ and ‘companion-guides’ provided female and male guardians as role models for the participants. By 1897, the ‘Domestic Committee’ held responsibility for the management of the holiday guesthouses, its membership comprised almost exclusively of middle-class married ‘ladies’. They employed figures such as Pringle, or the lawyer’s daughter and Presbyterian missionary Elizabeth Beveridge as ‘manageresses’ to oversee each holiday centre, by now employing a myriad of domestic staff.11 In 1902, one journalist who had attended a CHA holiday described how, on arriving at a guesthouse, ‘we feel that we have reached the superlative of home’, an appreciation echoed in any number of other reports.12 Yet the CHA home was not an ‘escape to domesticity’ either, since it implied no retreat or reprieve from public life.13 On CHA holidays, the home certainly became a trope for a relaxed social atmosphere, but one which confirmed the truth of political positions such as co-operativism or internationalism, provided a fantasy of future society based on ‘the equality of the sexes’ and encouraged forms of freer and more expressive heterosexual courtship.14 CHA holidays, with their educational lectures, self-improving ethos and focus on ‘social questions’ such as unemploy- ment, poverty, eugenics, suffrage or internationalism, disrupted dichoto- mies of private/public, indoors/outdoors or stability/dynamism that notions of ‘escape’ rely on. In its presentation of political and personal futures, the CHA’s domesticity was of a self-consciously ‘modern’ character, offering a reform of, rather than escape from modern life; its marriage, as well as social and political ideals were summed up in the title of the CHA’s magazine, Comradeship.15 This chapter contributes to an ongoing reconsideration of how historians should approach domesticity and its relationship to the self-conscious 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 255 modernities examined in this book. Three decades ago, few historians understood the home, domesticity and marriage as more than the space, culture and institution of an entrenched patriarchy, unmodern in both cultural representation and practice. Now, they are more likely to understand all as important political arenas for change, with the potential for modernity as well as an atavistic escape from it.16 For Adelheid von Saldern, the ‘Taylorisation’ of houses ‘regendered’ women as modern, rational and intelligent—but still fundamentally tied to the despotism of a home designed by men for the efficiency of women.17 In Judith Giles’ account, women played a more active role; the home and spaces like kitchens became theatres of modern performance, providing sites for new consumerist technologies and the practice of the ‘modern housewife’, while Alison Light has identified an ‘inward-looking’ and ‘domestically minded’ ‘conservative modernism’.18 These accounts are focused on the interwar period, but many of the trends they highlight can be found in the CHA, from the disruption of public and private though the expansion of domestic aesthetics, to rational homes and design, an interest in female physical culture, and fantasies of domestic bliss.19 In this way, the CHA provides a midway point between the public domesticity of Edwardian institutions such as asylums, schools and hospitals, as well as spaces such as tea-rooms and department stores, and the interwar reconstruction of ‘modern’ domesticity and femininity.20 This chapter does not seek to deny the unequal power dynamics that continued to underscore domestic culture but it does seek to make sense of the domestic as a site in which modern identities could be forged and promoted before the First World War. Domesticity can be found in other forms of outdoors leisure, adventure and exploration, where it often provided a point of stability for both men and women in unfamiliar environments. Carolyn Strange has discussed how home-making produced a ‘cheerful’ emotional framework within the all-male Scott expedition to the Antarctic, Katherine Walchester has explained how early female mountaineers cultivated domesticity as a means to legitimise their activities both with and without male relatives, and Paul Readman’s analysis of William Cecil Slingsby highlights how ‘home comforts were carefully and deliberately introduced into an austere and otherwise challenging environment’.21 In the alpine huts discussed in Chap. 4, female-decorated interiors also reflected homes as well as homelands, while in private club spaces and even temporary bivouacs, mountaineers who might have celebrated freedom from the domestic hearth re-created it in the outdoors as far as possible.22 While the centrality of domestic 256 B. ANDERSON culture to the activities and organisation of the Co-operative Holidays Association was exceptional, domestic culture was ubiquitous in outdoors leisure more broadly. The CHA provides a crucial case study of how ramblers used the indoors as a way of regulating—but also transforming—the outdoors as a site of urban leisure.

The ‘CHA Spirit’ You are met on arrival at the house by one of the kindly Hostesses, who has the never-failing comforter after a long journey—a refreshing cup of tea with a substantial meal ready for you. While you are seated at this, other guests are coming in, most of them greeting old companions of former years, because those who come once to our holidays come always when it is possible; and there is a general atmosphere of light hearted gaiety and absence of all restraint except what good breeding imposes. But no-one waits “to be introduced”; the Fellowship is a right Fellowship, and needs no introductions. … How good and pleasant a thing it is to dwell together in our unity.23

As Harry Lowerison’s elegy to a holiday in Whitby suggests, domestic cultures ran through the experience of a CHA holiday from beginning to end, affirming and encouraging an informal atmosphere thick with political and religious meaning. ‘Like one family we lunched under Castle Crag’, remembered the editor of The Wheatsheaf and co-operative socialist Percy Redfern after a visit to the CHA’s Newlands guesthouse, near Keswick in the Lake District.24 It was like a family too, that the CHA organised walking groups. Men blacked boots and donned knapsacks for lunch, which women would prepare and hand out at the designated stop.25 Far from a terrain that threatened to exclude one gender in favour of the other, hills and mountains encouraged heterosocial interaction, providing opportunities for ‘helping every man his neighbour’, on ‘rough descents in which the proferred arm and stout, spiked stick are both welcome’.26 ‘This is’, Redfern concluded, ‘the spirit of the CHA, and the only spirit which can make the holiday a happy one’.27 The success of the CHA spirit lay in offering a social and political solution to what often appeared the individual and private sufferings of its core constituency, elevating the oft-satirised meaninglessness of lower-middle- class lives into a moral question. In Leonard’s memoirs, his internationalist confidante, the past head of Manchester Grammar School John Lewis 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 257

Paton, recalled how ‘a brave little school ma’am’ revealed ‘in a flash how worth while the co-operative holiday was’:

Her words brought home to me the loneliness of my village colleague’s life … Here was our lonesome village teacher launched on the full swim of a company of some sixty people of all sorts and sizes, with different experiences and different points of view. … It was the altogetherness that made the difference.28

Susan Pennybacker’s work on the turn-of-the-century London County Council suggests that this experience was common amongst teachers, who formed a significant minority of the CHA’s female (and male) membership.29 For women like them, itinerant lifestyles in newly expanding professions such as teaching, nursing or shop keeping could lead to social dislocation and isolation, a problem implicit in many accounts of CHA experiences.30 ‘Ladies who join the holidays are sure of meeting congenial companions, and of enjoying themselves as they never could alone’, wrote the journalist Jessie M. King as ‘Janette’ in the Dundee-based women’s magazine People’s Friend.31 It was not only women who responded to the impoverished social lives of poorly paid but mobile professions. Another holiday-maker, Frank Ackroyd, described his pre-CHA self as a ‘solemn and serious bachelor’, ‘experienced in the loneliness of lodgings’ and who wondered what he had ‘missed on those solitary holidays of previous years’.32 Certainly, some poorer participants arrived in small groups of work-colleagues typical of northern factory culture, but the domestic atmosphere of CHA guesthouses clearly contributed to new friendships between typically lower- middle-class strangers, which were then sustained across several holidays.33 Unsurprisingly, the holidays proved attractive to such men and women whose life experience was characterised by such loneliness, but Paton also elevated this aspect of the holidays to a moral and social purpose:

More and more as our daily life becomes mechanized and specialized and intensified, we need to free ourselves from the machinery of routine, to stretch our cramped limbs and give the wing to our imagination and our heart. This book is the record of how this great piece of social engineering was successfully carried through.34 258 B. ANDERSON

Like so many mountain leisure enthusiasts of this era, the younger Paton offered the countryside and outdoors as a high-modernist solution to what he understood as the regressive elements of contemporary urban life. Here, then, domesticity provided a modernity that the depersonalised, mechanical public world of the city lacked. If this was an ‘escape to’ domesticity, it was to a form of domestic culture which could not be contained within a private-public dichotomy, and offered to reform, rather than merely offer sanctuary from an overly individualistic and atomising public life.35 These domestic practices of friendship, comradeship, fellowship, brotherliness and co-operation formed a phenomenological basis for much of the CHA’s broader political mission. Practices of mutual help, for example, could easily become politicised as co-operative community36:

services rendered for the common weal, services rendered ungrudgingly, unselfishly, spontaneously, and which had made the party like one large united family.37

Descriptions such as this moved seamlessly between references to public and private worlds, deploying the domestic to reform the ‘common weal’. Through such public—but domestic—performances of ‘healthy comradeship’, participants on the holidays built new social connections whilst imagining themselves as good co-operative citizens.38 Although familial metaphors such as ‘brotherhood’ and ‘fraternal’ may have been drawn from labour politics, Christian teaching or university experiences, they also reflected the extent to which the ‘co-operative spirit, … had found its expression in the simple, homely living’ of the guesthouses.39 In such rhetoric, the domestic formed a powerful discourse of ideal living which might be expanded to the rest of society. Connections between socialist ideology and marriage ‘comradeship’ was not unusual—especially in England’s mixed-gender left-wing clubland—but the CHA’s founders also advocated homeliness and domesticity as a solution to more specific social critiques of ‘civilisation’, and working- class holidays in particular.40 For Robert Snape, CHA guesthouses opened multi-day rambling holidays to poorer members by providing cheap accommodation away from Blackpool and other resorts.41 Yet ramblers’ dislike of ‘Blackpool’ and resorts like it was as much about urban disorder as it was about price, as Rawnsley commented shortly after the end of the Second South African War42: 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 259

Very few ever came back [from Blackpool] after the ten-pound note had been spent there with any more knowledge of their fellows than they had before they went. It was a crush in Salford and a crowd in Blackpool. One goes up in a lift at the mill; one goes up in a lift at the [Blackpool] Tower […] And, if our holiday homes did nothing else for the nation than show wherein true brotherhood consists, it is work we may well hold in honour and high esteem.43

In responding to concerns about national health and fitness, Rawnsley critiqued the impact of urban living on working people to their holidays, turning the ‘brotherhood’ of CHA guesthouses into a mission to improve the nation. One reporter contrasted the ‘home’ of the guesthouse to ‘the restraint of the boarding house or the hauteur of the hotel’.44 Home, for this rambler, seemed a positive place to go on holiday not because of its price, but for an atmosphere of easy sociability that the CHA leadership raised to the status of social mission. The CHA’s active feminists appropriated these languages of social purpose and political homeliness to challenge domestic roles and celebrate a more muscular femininity. Emily H. Smith, for example, pointed to John Lewis Paton’s activity peeling potatoes on a Sunday morning as a ‘moral education for young fellows’.45 She also supplied the obituary for fellow suffrage campaigner, Fanny Pringle, in 1912:

Coming home drenched from an all day’s wet tramp, a man commiserated her with a tone of wonder that women should venture so. ‘Oh, we aren’t made of sugar!’ she laughingly remarked. It is characteristic of her, and symbolic of her ideal of womanhood. Women were not here merely to provide pleasure and the transitory things, but the joys, the things that last, and were to march alongside men, their comrades, helping them and all fellow- wayfarers to the best of their powers and opportunities in the storm and shine of life’s journey.46

For Smith, the mutual help of the guesthouse could be understood as a means of disciplining men to new divisions of labour in the household, while supposedly ‘male’ tropes of endurance, teamwork and muscularity could become female narratives. Yet Smith’s assumptions of gender difference were equally guided by the division of labour on each holiday, in which women appeared in a visible, but still often supportive role. 260 B. ANDERSON

Similarly, domesticity also provided a basis for the CHA’s internationalist projects. ‘The holiday “spirit” and ethical basis of the Association fits it for a grand international work’, Hubert Beaumont wrote shortly after the first German visit in 1910, pointing to the ‘brotherly’ rather than ‘commercial’ character of the movement, and the benefits bestowed by a ‘home-like place to go to’.47 Indeed, the following year saw experiments in exchange visits that included periods spent in the actual homes of members in both England and Germany. One participant on these, E. D. T., wrote of the ‘German and British families brought together’ by the ‘intimate nature of the initial introduction and mutual hospitality’.48 Some visitors to Germany and France complained about the absence of English domestic rituals such as tea-drinking, but most found the CHA’s homely ‘spirit’ easily appropriated for the purposes of international friendship projects.49 The domestic cultures of the CHA transformed the guesthouse and the outdoors into a taskscape of co-operative citizenship for both men and women.50 This involved the establishment of social relationships based on numerous acts of ‘mutual help’, which aligned the private social contacts offered by the CHA to fantasies of a future co-operative public. Yet domesticity proved a particularly malleable political instrument, and both the CHA’s leadership and its members deployed its practices and performances as well as languages to promote political positions on social and electoral reform, national fitness and international solidarity. While it is doubtful that Leonard and the other pioneers of the holiday movement saw the political potential of domestic culture in 1893, by 1900, its languages and conducts had become enmeshed in every aspect of the organisation.

Constrained Nonetheless Key to the success of the CHA’s domestic culture was its ability to provide members with a lived fantasy of domestic futures that transcended divisions of public and private. Yet this fantasy in other ways reaffirmed contemporary gender roles and expectations, albeit within emerging ideas of marriage as ‘partnership’ and based on middle-class assumptions of aspira- tion.51 The all-female Domestic Committee, whose responsibility was the internal running of the various ‘guesthouses’, facilitated this fantasy— ‘everything that can be done to give a touch of home life to the places is done’, one reporter noted in 1904.52 This included specific regulations on 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 261 the provision of sit-down meals and tea-drinking, furnishings and equipment, the employment of ‘manageresses’ to oversee the day-to-day running of each guesthouse, rules on hours of rest, and limitations on the actions of domestic ‘helps’.53 While much was made of the mutual help given by guests in making their own beds, blacking boots, serving lunch or even—at the ‘strenuous’ centres—peeling potatoes, the overwhelming majority of heavy domestic labour fell to a largely invisible domestic workforce.54 Guests were welcomed on the holidays not by organisation officials, but by male and female leaders of each holiday group that rapidly came to be understood as fulfilling a parental function within the guesthouses:

And in one’s memory, alongside of [sic] pictures of grand scenery is hung a portrait of our young yet father host, striding ahead of his varied party: and one of the unmarried but very motherly hostess, always ready to advise or assist.55

Hosts and hostesses provided an idealised example of co-operative marriage ‘partnership’ within a bourgeois household in their clearly defined and gendered roles—an experience that partly explains the CHA’s much- bemoaned failure to attract a predominantly working-class clientele. Letters, bookings and contact with the outside world, as well as the organisation of lectures and walks was the responsibility of the fully paid ‘host’, or ‘local secretary’ as he was known until the mid-1900s, and who reported directly to the General Secretary, Leonard, rather than the Domestic Committee.56 Indeed, the lectures, field talks and other outdoors, ‘public’ events remained the domain of men, and despite the numbers of women in the CHA, there was still a paucity of articles on ‘social questions’ and politics by women in its magazine.57 The entirely male lecturers on field trips cited the need for a ‘harmoniously organized household’, ideally led by ‘the pervading control of the personality of an exceptional woman’ but never asked even exceptional women to lead outdoor activities themselves.58 While the guesthouses might have given the impression of radically new domestic communities, roles within each domain of labour proved strikingly impervious to change. Conversely, the local secretary’s ‘motherly’ co-worker offered social advice and supported guests on the holidays, particularly at mealtimes and with regards to the household, a practice that helped to ‘construct an illu- sion of ease’, as Grace Lees-Maffei has described it.59 In keeping with the 262 B. ANDERSON impression of labourless-work, hostesses received only a discount on their own holiday.60 The Domestic Committee meanwhile directly appointed a paid ‘manageress’—overseen by a ‘lady’ ‘domestic secretary’—to direct domestic servants as they cooked food, or cleaned, tidied and maintained the house itself.61 The ‘mutual help’ provided by holiday-makers towards each other merely served to entrench the invisibility of domestic service on the holidays, so that walkers could participate in the social and political fantasies outlined above. Such fantasies were also invoked by the name ‘guesthouse’, drawn from William Morris’ News from Nowhere, which similarly described a society devoid of alienated labour.62 The normative character of gender relations within the guesthouse was not accidental but a deliberate institutional policy designed to encourage members to feel ‘at home’ on their holidays. Although domestic gender regimes in the CHA became a means to public, political expression, those regimes remained largely intact in their practice and content. One way to understand this tension of private/public disruption with the restatement and affirmation of marital gender roles is as a form of what Adelheid von Saldern has described as ‘regendering’:

The gender division of labour was not renounced, nor did it remain truly traditional; instead it was reconstructed and renewed, that is, ‘regendered’ on the basis of modern social rationalization.63

The dream of modernity within the CHA was clearly of a different sort to that of the home-designers and mechanisation of housework discussed by von Saldern, but while the CHA turned the domestic into a political performance of co-operative citizenship, it similarly remade normative gender roles for these new contexts. This process opened up those roles to question without threatening their basic existence. Internal debates within the CHA reveal a series of tensions over who held authority over the public/ private space of the guesthouse, and the relationship of domestic culture to co-operativism, class and the perceived need for the CHA to retain an outwardly ‘respectable’ appearance. Interrogating these tensions—and the solutions that the CHA experimented with—reveals how the politicisation of marriage ‘partnership’ contributed to renewed social reflection on domestic service, the continuing centrality of domestic culture to class identity in Edwardian England, and a crisis of authority over who owned and controlled the home. 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 263

The changing semantics of the various roles in the CHA reveal how far the organisation struggled to categorise helpers/housekeepers/manageresses on the one hand, or local secretaries/hosts on the other, but it was the domestic servants employed at each guesthouse that posed the greatest moral challenge to this co-operative organisation.64 The women of the CHA can be credited with genuinely attempting to resolve what it regarded as a ‘bad social system’, even if doing so meant compromising working women and men’s ability to afford the holidays.65 At first, the organisation had a policy of hiding labour entirely: in 1897, the Domestic Committee briefed that they ‘did not think it desirable for the servants and guests to mix’.66 Under the ‘New Domestic Helpers Scheme’ of 1899 however, working conditions for domestic service at CHA centres was rendered more ‘in accord with the fraternal idea of the Association’, and domestic servants would now be ‘free to associate with the guests as if they were in their own home’.67 Worktime was reduced to 9 hours a day, pay increased to 9s a week, ‘heavy work’ limited only to men and ‘labour saving’ devices introduced to limit drudgery, so that those now termed ‘lady helps’ would ‘not be subject to the deprivations associated with domestic service’.68 Though the Domestic Committee later revised the wage down to 7s and rendered the 9 hour limit an ‘average’, they still hoped to recruit ‘women of intelligence and sympathy’, or as they more bluntly stated in private, ‘domesticated women of other than the servant class’.69 The middle-class women of the Domestic Committee undoubtedly pushed for an end to poorly paid domestic labour, but barriers between workers and guests could only be legitimately transgressed if the class profile of ‘lady helps’ was raised at the same time. In the same year, Leonard applied the opposite solution—minimise domestic service as far as possible, and did so without the oversight of the Domestic Committee at all. Although his experiment at Keld, in the Eastern Lake District still relied on a housekeeper and three ‘helpers’, it was a radically stripped down, minimalist holiday that came closer than any other to breaking down gender difference, and led by the feminist Selina Cooper. Participants, male and female, were expected not only to care for their boots, but change bedclothes, fetch water, prepare and serve food, and wash dishes.70 ‘Co-operation as interpreted at Keld meant that the ladies had a very good time, and the men were the hewers of wood and the drawers of water for the party’, wrote Jessie M. King, this time writing as ‘Our Lady Correspondent’ in the Dundee Advertiser.71 The proposition 264 B. ANDERSON here was not only related to domestic service however; Leonard and his allies in the organisation understood Keld as a challenge to what they regarded as the overly luxurious, expensive and middle-class tendencies of the Domestic Committee. As an alternative to the ‘dressiness, easy-going excursions and tendency to attract a type of guest we did not exactly expect’, Keld offered a weeks’ holiday at close to half the price, and in circumstances that allowed no room for the norms of middle-class conduct.72 These intersections of moral concerns about domestic service and the class identities and aesthetics of CHA guesthouses proved a consistent tension between the female-managed and staffed ‘domestic’ structure of the CHA, from Domestic Committee through manageress, ‘lady helps’ and hostesses, and the parallel, mainly male structure that ran through Leonard, local secretaries (or hosts), and lecturers. Indeed, because the managerial structure of the organisation mirrored the familial principles of the guesthouse, it reproduced at larger scale conflict that would normally have remained hidden in private homes. Specific disputes routinely surfaced around the control of manageresses and hostesses, who formally reported to a member of the Domestic Committee, but in the ‘home’ of the guesthouse found orders given by paternalistic male local secretaries. Similar frustrations concerned the decoration and furnishing of the centres, with Leonard often charged with organising alterations he regarded as a luxury unfit for his own Spartan, rustic aesthetic ideals, and likely to put off the working men that he had hoped to attract. Leonard’s frustration with a domesticity that implied what he termed ‘the middle-class conventional idea’ was clear when he resigned from the organisation in 1912, citing disagreements with the Domestic Committee over ‘extravagance’, responses to suggestions (‘especially from men’), and the ‘creature comforts’ such as hot water and flushing toilets demanded by ‘ladies of the Domestic Committee’.73 Although both sides could claim a morally reformist stance based on ‘co-operative’ ideals, Leonard’s language reveals how gendered these contests were, and how far they revolved around male or female control of the ambiguous public/private space of the guesthouse. Leonard did not consider the possibility, for example, that the didactic, ‘rational’ and moralis- ing character of the CHA’s outdoor activities dissuaded working men from the holidays, and instead focused on the guesthouse interior where the ‘ladies of the Domestic Committee’ ‘persisted in demanding the standard of comfort and convenience of a middle-class house’.74 His obsession 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 265 with furnishings aestheticised this gendered control, with Leonard’s preference for hard surfaces, bare unvarnished wood, and ‘quiet, simpler, homelier, and thoroughly artistic’ fabrics contrasted to soft pile carpets, ‘dressiness’ and ‘luxury’, while female ramblers also received persistent criticism for wearing clothes that were too ‘dressy’.75 While the leaders of the CHA recognised and attempted to respond to the tensions between a ‘co-operative’ socialist idea and the inequalities at the heart of Edwardian domestic arrangements, they did so only from within the same set of gender assumptions on which such inequalities were based.

Courtship by Other Means The ‘loneliness of lodgings’ referred to above was never only a reference to friendships and socialisation but also to the marital frustrations felt by many in the poor but socially aspirant groups that made up CHA membership. This was the same lower-middle-class constituency, for example, that provided the main market for the proliferating matrimonial agencies of late Victorian Britain—and at least one host was explicitly compared to a ‘sort of matrimonial bureau’.76 This was a group whose social and moral world vacillated between working-class local solidarity and middle-class conformity, and often placed great emphasis on the importance of family and home.77 As Pennybacker has suggested, courtship and future marriage ‘formed the core of “lower-middle-class” ritual and fantasy’, and it was hardly surprising that what became known as the ‘Catch-a-Husband- Association’ rapidly gained a reputation for establishing sexual, as well as social partnerships.78 Meanwhile, practices of ‘comradeship’, ‘fellowship’, ‘mutual help’ or ‘co-operation’ gave a political purpose to fantasies of marriage ‘partnership’ that many participants hoped for in their personal futures, rendering marriage a social as well as moral duty.79 The domestic ethos of the CHA played an essential role in creating a space for courtship by disrupting the boundaries between a ‘public’ outdoors and ‘private’ indoors. CHA holidays created a new disciplinary environment, in which single women and men interacted according to more flexible rules of introduction and courtship. Leonard later praised the organisation for offering ‘young Victorians of both sexes the opportunity—outside of churches and chapels—of meeting each other on a footing of equality and goodwill’, but before the First World War he and other propagandists for the holidays were more circumspect. ‘In no other organisation that I know’, wrote Janette in 1904, ‘is there the 266 B. ANDERSON same combination of delightful freedom, with no suspicion of any baser element, as at the C. H. A. centres’. This, she reassured her readers, was a result of ‘the local secretary who accompanies the daily excursions, and a couple of hostesses who arrange the evenings’ entertainments and pre- side over the open-air luncheons’. All the same, her promise to women that they would meet ‘congenial companions’ and ‘enjoy themselves as they never could alone’ hinted at sexual as well as social possibility.80 The same flexibility brought with it another tension, neatly expressed in the CHA’s aim ‘to secure the healthy comradeship of men and women from degeneration’.81 While references to flirtation, sexual adventure and often marriage were commonplace in Comradeship—over which Leonard had editorial control—the same publication carried calls from him to demonstrate sexual restraint:

It is one thing to offer or accept a friendly arm as help over a bad bit of ground; it is quite another to go about all the week arming and being armed on walks and steamers in silly vulgar familiarity, doing the same in your second with the first young man or girl who is ready to thus lower themselves and you. And—one hardly dares to mention it—what shall be said about heads in laps and other familiarities at rest or lunch-times of which ashamed C.H.A. friends (real jolly holiday folk of the right sort) occasionally tell? When comradeship between men and women passes into flirtation, and young people forget to respect each other, they injure not only themselves, but the whole party, and the holiday movement generally.82

Moral ‘Comradeship’ and immoral ‘flirtation’ were far too enmeshed with one another to be distinguished as Leonard’s complaint suggested, and while he deplored ‘vulgar familiarity’, the CHA occasionally compiled lists of marriages amongst members.83 As we will see below, when the circumstances were right, Leonard happily printed more explicit accounts of such flirtation, and the role of the CHA as a meeting ground for the unmarried lower middle class even appeared in the masthead of Comradeship; a sprig of oak leaves held by a female rambler included acorns as a symbol of (national) fertility.84 Although we should not reduce what was a complex political and social organisation to a means for lower-middle-class procre- ation, there can be little doubt that the CHA’s leadership intentionally sought to build a reputation of ‘respectability’ alongside one of sexual possibility.85 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 267

Leonard’s plea to members also helps us to understand how the CHA’s emphasis on ‘homelife’ played an active role in encouraging flirtation by consistently placing members in situations in which they could demonstrate their virtues as a future spouse. Asking holiday-makers to help each other with small tasks begged questions of to whom to offer a ‘friendly arm’, whose boots to polish, whose lunch to carry, who to serve first. Although such small practices hardly constituted any genuine reflection of the work required to maintain a home, they accorded well with contemporary ideals of marriage as a ‘partnership’, so that CHA members effectively acted out a fantasy of marriage alongside future potential spouses. Contemporary advice manuals and professional marriage bars coerced many women into assuming that even professions such as teaching were only a temporary period before motherhood, so that for them the CHA’s domestic fantasy provided a hopeful future.86 The domestic fantasy presented by the guesthouses, combined with such coercion to marry, helped to create the flirtatious atmosphere for which the CHA gained its epithet ‘Catch-a-Husband-Association’.87 Like the practices of domesticity on which they were built, even relatively explicit sexual attraction could appear in Comradeship if it was politicised in accord with the aims of the CHA. ‘Every German Mädchen in the Rhine provinces is now a pronounced Anglophile’, wrote E. J. B., ‘every- one, that is, who met my friend Jimmie’:

It is a blessed gospel of ‘comradeship’ the CHA proclaims, and Jimmie was a fervid missionary amongst the soft-eyed, gentle-natured Rhineland maid- ens, who played havoc with the susceptible heart of this too sentimental traveller.88

If in Janette’s writing, coded references to flirtation only appear between the lines, in E. J. B.’s article and elsewhere, CHA members were candid about their courtship activities, and Leonard, who edited Comradeship, was willing to print them—especially if they carried a suitable political message. A trip to Finhaut in Switzerland included a glissade during which a crowd of onlookers laughed as one couple emerged ‘clutching each other wildly and completing the journey by rolling over and over each other on the way down’, and featured ‘some of our party giving mademoi- selle Pauline her nightly lesson in English’.89 E. J. B. above presented his friend’s actions as destined to ‘outlive the passing scares of jingo panic- mongers’.90 Given political content and distance from the well-understood 268 B. ANDERSON boundaries of middle-class constraint in England, the clear sexual intent of such holiday-makers seemed transformed into a moral activity of peace- promotion and international friendship. Similarly, life-reform-inspired languages of health and beauty justified a renewed male gaze on the modern physicality of CHA women, investing concerns about national fitness and degeneration with barely disguised sexual desire whilst undermining feminist claims to genuine equality. The journalist G. G. Desmond concluded that ‘select women prove very little inferior to select men in point of height, stamina, or physical prowess’, while W. G. H. explained how ‘even the Lassies smiled! What! Go Back! Never!’ in a group that ‘fought’ and ‘conquered’ Cader Idris in mid- Wales.91 Men like Desmond and W. G. H. acknowledged the physical ability of the ‘select’ women of the CHA without challenging assumed gender hierarchies; ‘Lassies’ implicitly relied on male group leadership for their fortitude; ordinary women remained implicitly inferior to ordinary men. Undercurrents of Eugenics and Social Darwinism—both familiar to much of the CHAs leadership—were never far away, and surfaced more explicitly in the years before the First World War. Alongside a laboured threesome reference, for example, T. A. described his feeling of ‘physical righteous- ness’, after the ‘natural selection and survival of the fittest’ after walking seven miles in the Eskdale valley.92 Desmond was even more impressed by the evolutionary potential of the same walk, describing—with tongue firmly in cheek—‘a survival of the fittest of the fittest’. ‘One would think’, he wrote, ‘that the seven mile trail from Ravenglass was strewn with the bleaching bones of those who had tried to join our centre and been elimi- nated’. It was the four female winners of an intergender tug-of-war that really captured his attention however. ‘I ought to give their names’, he wrote without doing so. ‘I’ve got them all in my mind and their faces and their strong figures. I keep them there because they stand for Eskdale.’93 Social Darwinism was never taken seriously in such descriptions, but provided a language that harnessed social reform to a new aesthetics of individual beauty and sexuality—even as it reinforced a culture of masculine visual hegemony.

Conclusion In response to the social and political questions that they so often discussed, the Co-operative Holidays Association offered a modern, idealised domesticity that reproduced much of contemporary notions of ‘companionate’ marriage as a ‘partnership’ between two equal, but different, 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 269 spouses. That sense of marriage partnership was a popular one amongst the CHA’s core upper-working and lower-middle-class constituency of single men and women, who enthusiastically adopted such cultures as a means to experience future hopes—and meet future partners. On holidays both in and out of the guesthouse, small symbolic performances of ‘mutual help’ embedded these fantasies of shared household labour, and by creating a social space that was neither ‘public’ nor ‘private’, provided a context for more flexible forms of courtship. Although the CHA should not be reduced to this sense of close-knit familial culture, domesticity provided the central means through which CHA claims to modern progress came, and a language through which future forms of society could be expressed. ‘Homelife’ in the guesthouses of the organisation did not exist merely to make the holidays a legitimate undertaking for single women, as much as this may have been in the minds of the founders in 1893. Rather, domestic, familial practices ran through the organisation’s management, ideology, politics and rhetoric. ‘Partnership’ and ‘companionate’ easily dissolved into the more politically freighted terms of ‘co-operation’ and ‘comradeship’, and both leadership and members employed the domestic in support of a raft of political positions and projects. These included those from which the CHA leadership remained distant—such as women’s suffrage—as well as others that it enthusiastically promoted, such as internationalism or social reform. In this way, the CHA’s various political claims related to one another through a common set of domestic practices and rituals and enabled the organisation and its membership to pursue a series of different objectives at once. The CHA’s practices and rhetoric of idealised domesticity—as well as the courtship that they encouraged—nevertheless existed in tension with the high moral claims of the Leonard and other leaders such as Fanny Pringle, John Lewis Paton or Emily Smith. Describing late nineteenth- century marriage as a socialist ideal rapidly collided with the ‘bad social system’ domestic service required in order to minimise the more onerous tasks of household labour, and though the CHA offered two separate solutions to this problem, neither fully overcame it, and both merely revealed new tensions—between the cult of domesticity and the aims of the CHA to recruit working-class men; over the gendered control and aesthetics of the guesthouse itself. Domestic practice and performance proved sufficiently malleable to do work for a variety of political positions, but the CHA struggled to fully resolve the contradiction of using such an unequal aspect of European social organisation for ends routed in equality and egalitarianism. 270 B. ANDERSON

Notes 1. T. A. Leonard, ‘Co-operative Holidays: A Week in Lakeland for 30s’, Review of Reviews 7:5 (May 1893), p. 656. 2. Emily H. Smith, ‘The CHA Notes of Emily H Smith’, GMCRO/B/ CHA/HIS/10, p. 1. 3. Frances Nelson Pringle, ‘A Week Among the Lakes: The National Home Reading Union Summer Holiday’, The Independent and Nonconformist (31 August 1893), p. 164. 4. Pringle, ‘A Week Among the Lakes’, p. 164. Many thanks to Dr Douglas Hope for this information. See also Robert Snape, ‘The National Home Reading Union’, Journal of Victorian Culture 1 (2002), pp. 86–110 (pp. 102–03); Eliza M. Champness, ‘Associated Holidays’, Joyful News, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 1. Douglas Hope, Thomas Arthur Leonard and the Co-operative Holidays Association: Joy in Widest Commonalty Spread (Newcastle, 2017), p. 27. 5. Ben Anderson, ‘The Moral High Ground: Cities, Citizenship and Landscape in England and Germany, 1890–1914’, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Manchester, 2011, p. 227. 6. Melanie Tebbutt, ‘Rambling and Manly Identity in Derbyshire’s Dark Peak, 1880s–1920s’, The Historical Journal 4 (2006), pp. 1125–53; Nicola Bishop, ‘Ruralism, Masculinity and National Identity: The Rambling Clerk in Fiction, 1900–1940’, Journal of British Studies 3 (2015), pp. 654–78. 7. See John Walton, ‘The Northern Rambler: Recreational Walking and the Popular Politics of Industrial England, from Peterloo to the 1930s’, Labour History Review 3 (2013), pp. 257–58; Claire Langhamer, Women’s Leisure in England, 1920–1960 (Manchester, 2000), pp. 77–78. 8. John Tosh, A Man’s Place: Masculinity and the Middle-Class Home in Victorian England (London, 1999), pp. 170–94. 9. Tebbutt, ‘Manly Identity’, Nicola Bishop, ‘What Thought of “Head Office” to “One Off His Head”: Escaping “Clerkly Lives” in Middlebrow Fiction’, Unpublished PhD thesis, Lancaster University, 2014. 10. T. Arthur Leonard, Adventures in Holidaymaking: Being the Story of the Rise and Development of a People’s Holiday Movement (London, 1934), p. 106. 11. ‘Domestic Committee Minutes 1897–1911’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ ADM/3/1; Emily H. Smith, ‘In Memoriam: Miss Beveridge: Nov. 20, 1861–July 22, 1902’, N.H.R.U. Magazine, October 1902, GMCRO/B/ CHA/16/1, p. 16. 12. Anon., ‘An Ideal Holiday: A Week of Co-operative Holiday-Making’, Young Oxford, pp. 423–25 (p. 424), GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 271

p. 10b. See also T. A. Leonard, ‘Co-operative Holiday Association Notes’, in NHRU Magazine, January 1903, GMCRO/B/CHA/16/1, p. 20; Anon., ‘Co-operative Holidays Association’, Keswick Guardian, 6 July 2004, GMCRO/B/CHA/16/1, p. 32. 13. Amy Milne-Smith, ‘A Flight to Domesticity? Making a Home in the Gentlemen’s Clubs of London, 1880–1914’, Journal of British Studies 4 (2006), pp. 796–818; Tosh, Man’s Place, p. 172. 14. Anon., ‘Ideal Holiday’, p. 424. 15. See John Tosh, Man’s Place, p. 171; Smith, ‘CHA Notes’, p. 1. 16. The key text here was, of course, Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780–1850 (London: 1987). 17. Adelheid von Saldern, The Challenge of Modernity: German Social and Cultural Studies 1890–1960 (Ann Arbor, 2002), pp. 134–63. 18. Judith Giles, The Parlour and the Suburb. Domestic Identities, Class, Femininity and Modernity (Oxford, 2004); Alison Light, Forever England: Femininity, Literature, and Conservatism between the Wars (Abingdon, 1991), p. 76. See also Vicky Long, ‘Industrial Homes, Domestic Factories: The Convergence of Public and Private Space in Interwar Britain’, Journal of British Studies 2 (2011), pp. 434–64. 19. See similar trends investigated in Ina Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Managing the Body: Beauty, Health and Fitness in Britain 1880–1939 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 105–50. Hilary Hinds, ‘Together and Apart: Twin Beds, Domestic Hygiene and Modern Marriage, 1890–1945’, Journal of Design History 3 (2010), pp. 275–304 (pp. 279–84); Lucinda Matthews-Jones, ‘Settling at Home: Gender and Class in the Room Biographies of Toynbee Hall, 1883–1914’, Victorian Studies 1 (2017), pp. 29–52. 20. On institutions, see Jane Hamlett, At Home in the Institution: Material Life in Asylums, Lodging Houses and Schools in Victorian and Edwardian England (Basingstoke, 2015). On department stores: Judith Walkowitz, ‘Going Public: Shopping, Street Harassment, and Streetwalking in Late Victorian London’, Representations 62 (1998), pp. 1–30; Erika Rappaport, Shopping for Pleasure: Women in the Making of London’s West End (London, 2000); Enriqa Asquer, ‘Domesticity and Beyond: Gender, Family, and Consumption in Modern Europe’, in Frank Trentmann (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of Consumption (Oxford, 2012), pp. 568–84. This is not to suggest that women were absent in other public spaces. 21. Carolyn Strange, ‘Reconsidering the “Tragic” Scott Expedition: Cheerful Masculine Home-making in Antarctica, 1910–1913’, Journal of Social History 1 (2012), pp. 66–88; Katherine Walchester, ‘Alpine Guides, Gender, and British Climbers, 1859–1885: The Boundaries of Female Propriety in the British Periodical Press’, Victorian Periodicals Review 3 272 B. ANDERSON

(2018), pp. 521–83; Paul Readman, ‘William Cecil Slingsby, Norway, and British Mountaineering, 1872–1914’, The English Historical Review 540 (2014), pp. 1098–128 (pp. 1106ff). See also Martin Francis, ‘The Domestication of the Male? Recent Research on Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century British Masculinity’, The Historical Journal 3 (2002), pp. 637–52 (p. 643); Peter Cox, ‘Women, Gendered Roles, Domesticity and Cycling in Britain, 1930–1980’, in Peter Cox (ed.), Cycling Cultures (Chester, 2015), pp. 174–202. 22. Doris Hallama, ‘Hüttenbauten im Hochalpinen: Zur Architektur der Schutzhütten’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne, 2016), pp. 121–201 (pp. 124–25, 159–60). 23. Harry Lowerison, ‘A Reminiscence’, in A Souvenir of a Holiday Spent in the Guest Houses of the Co-operative Holidays Association at The Abbey House, Whitby, Yorkshire, and “Ardenconnel”, Row, Scotland (n.d.), GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/13/2, p. 3. Kevin Manton, ‘Establishing the Fellowship: Harry Lowerison and Ruskin School Home, a Turn-of-the- Century Socialist and His Educational Experiment’, History of Education 1 (1997), pp. 53–70. 24. Redfern, ‘Social Holiday’, p. 2. 25. D. T., ‘Co-operative Holidays’, p. 2; Redfern, ‘Social Holiday’, pp. 2–3. 26. Redfern, ‘Social Holiday’, p. 3. 27. Redfern, ‘Social Holiday’, p. 3. 28. John Lewis Paton, ‘Introit, in Leonard Adventures, pp. 13–16 (p. 13). 29. Susan D. Pennybacker, Visions for London, 1889–1914: Labour, Everyday Life, and the LCC Experiment (Abingdon, 1995), pp. 60–61. 30. Snape, ‘Co-operative Holidays’, pp. 151–53; Peter Bailey, ‘White Collars, Gray Lives? The Lower Middle Class Revisited’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1999), pp. 273–90 (p. 280); Hugh McLeod, ‘White Collar Values and the Role of Religion’, in Geoffrey Crossick (ed.), The Lower Middle Class in Britain, 1870–1914 (London, 1977), pp. 61–88 (p. 64). 31. Janette [= Jessie M. King], ‘Holidays for Teachers’, People’s Friend 416 (1910), GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 30. Many thanks to Charlotte Lauder for identifying Janette. 32. F. Ackroyd, ‘My First C. H. A. Holiday’, Comradeship 4:2 (1910), pp. 23–25. 33. Lowerison, ‘Reminiscence’, p. 3. 34. Paton, ‘Introit’, p. 16. 35. Tosh, Man’s Place, pp. 170–94; Milne-Smith, ‘Flight to Domesticity?’ 36. Doubtless some married couples did attend, but C. H. A. guest houses provided very few double beds, references to married couples were extremely rare, and children and families were actively discouraged. See Percy Redfern, ‘Family Holidaymaking’, Comradeship 6:2 (1912), p. 19. 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 273

37. S. F., ‘The Cure of the Cynic’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), p. 63. 38. An Outsider, ‘The Annual Conference’, Comradeship 2:3 (1909), pp. 38–39; CHA, 1909 Summer Brochure, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/4/1, p. 3. 39. Anon., ‘The Co-operative Holidays Association: A New House at Hayfield’, Manchester Guardian 4 January 1902, p. 5; Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley, ‘Address to the Annual Conference of the Association at Liverpool, January 3rd 1903’, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, pp. 15–16; Redfern, ‘Social Holiday’, p. 2; ‘The New Fellowship’, quoted in Summer Holidays Organized by the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union, Buxton, 1897, GMCRO/B/ CHA/PUB/5/1, p. 1. 40. Karen Hunt, ‘Strong Minds, Great Hearts, True Faith and Ready Hands? Exploring Socialist Masculinities before the First World War’, Labour History Review 2 (2004), pp. 201–17 (p. 211). 41. Snape, ‘Co-operative Holidays’, pp. 144–45. 42. Andrew Lees, Cities Perceived: Urban Thought in European and American Thought, 1820–1940 (Manchester, 1985), pp. 152–88. 43. Rawnsley, ‘Address to the Annual Conference’, pp. 15–16. See also Anon., ‘Co-operative Holidays 1: Ardenconnel, New Glasgow’, Manchester City News, 03 June 1905, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/13/1; T. Arthur Leonard, ‘Manxland’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), p. 54; D. T., ‘Co-operative Holidays’, p. 1. See Snape, ‘Co-operative Holidays’, p. 145. 44. Anon., ‘Ideal Holiday’, p. 424. 45. Smith, ‘C. H. A. Notes’, p. 3. 46. Emily H. Smith, quoted in T. A. Leonard, ‘F. N. P.’, Comradeship 5:5 (1912), p. 70. 47. Hubert Beaumont, ‘International Friendship through Holidays’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), pp. 37–38. See also Jane M. Hindley, ‘Easter at le Conquet’, Comradeship 1:5 (1908), pp. 68–69; F. B. S. ‘Our German Guests’, Comradeship 3:5 (1910), p. 78. 48. E. D. T., quoted in ‘Our German Boy Guests’, Comradeship 5:2 (1911), p. 23. 49. B. Lasker, ‘Foreign Travel’, Comradeship 4:5 (1911), pp. 78–80 (p. 79); A Outsider, ‘The Annual Conference’, Comradeship 2:3 (1908), pp. 38–39 (p. 39). 50. Tim Ingold, ‘The Temporality of Landscape’, World Archaeology 2 (1993), pp. 152–74. See David Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998), pp. 62–71. 51. A. James Hammerton, ‘Pooterism or Partnership? Marriage and Masculine Identity in the Lower Middle Class, 1870–1920’, Journal of British Studies 3 (1999), pp. 291–321. 274 B. ANDERSON

52. J. ‘Holiday Co-operation’, High Peak Advertiser, 29 April 2004, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 29; Domestic Committee Minutes 1897–1918, p. 59. 53. Domestic Committee Minutes 1897–1918. 54. This was made apparent in the creation of the new domestic helpers scheme, which sought to relieve staff of these burdens, but did not explain who might do them instead. See Domestic Committee Minutes 1897– 1918, p. 9. 55. L. T., ‘At Whitby’, Comradeship 7:2 (1913), p. 29. See also D. R., ‘With the C. H. A. in the Peak’, Comradeship 3:5 (1910), p. 69; D. T., ‘Co-operative Holidays’, pp. 3–4. 56. T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary: “Local Secretary” v. “Host”’, Comradeship 5:4 (1912), p. 51. 57. For example, although ‘ladies and gentlemen’ were invited to attend a ‘Summer School of Social Study at the CHA centre at Ardenconnel in 1906, just one of the lecturers was female. ‘Summer School of Social Study’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/13/2. The lecturers and guides at normal centres were also largely male. See Summer Holidays Organized by the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union, Buxton, 1897, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/5/1, p. 1; Programmes for all the Centres, 1908 (1908), GMCRO/B/CHA/ PUB/5/8. 58. ‘What Helps or Hinders a Lecturer’, Comradeship 5:2 (1911), p. 23. 59. Grace Lees-Maffei, ‘Accommodating “Mrs Three-in-One”: Homemaking, Home Entertaining and Domestic Advice Literature in Post-War Britain’, Women’s History Review 5 (2007), pp. 723–54 (pp. 726–28). 60. The literature here is vast, but to name relevant and classic studies: Eileen Green, Sandra Hebron and Diana Woodward, Women’s Leisure: What Leisure? (London, 1990); Langhamer, Women’s Leisure, p. 29. 61. Anon., ‘Co-operative Holidays Association: Inauguration of Scottish Guest-House’, Glasgow Herald 239 (1899), p. 12. 62. William Morris, News from Nowhere and Other Writings, ed. Clive Wilmer (London, 2004), pp. 51–53, 82; Redfern, ‘Social Holiday’, p. 2. 63. Saldern, Modernity, p. 147. 64. See ‘Domestic Committee Minutes, 1897–1918’, pp. 3, 8; Minutes of Local Secretaries and Hostesses Conference, 6 January 1912, in ‘CHA General Committee Minute Book 4: Sept. 1911–March 1921’, GMCRO/ B/CHA/1/4, p. 397. 65. Leonard, Adventures, pp. 136–37. 66. Domestic Committee Minutes, 1897–1918, p. 9. 67. Domestic Committee Minutes, 1897–1918, pp. 19–20. 68. Domestic Committee Minutes, 1897–1918, pp. 19–20. 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 275

69. Domestic Committee Minutes, 1897–1918, p. 25, insert: ‘Domestic Helpers’ Scheme’, pp. 1–2; ‘Minutes of the General Committee, Book 1: 1897–1900’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ADM/1/1, p. 112. 70. Emily H. Smith, ‘A Keld Holiday’, in T. A. Leonard, ‘Co-operative Holiday Association Notes’, in The National Home Reading Union General Reader’s Magazine: Division I—The General Course 11:1 (7 October 1899), pp. 18–19. 71. Our Lady Correspondent, ‘A Happy Holiday Haunt, No. 2’, 1899, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 5. Many thanks to Charlotte Lauder for this information. 72. Leonard, Adventures, p. 32. 73. T. A. Leonard to Drummond Fraser, 28 November 1912, GMCRO/B/ CHA/HIS/16/3, pp. 7–10. 74. Leonard to Fraser, 28 November 1912, p. 9. 75. Leonard to Fraser, 28 November 1912, p. 8; ‘Hints to Ladies on Holiday Dress &c.’, GMCRO/B/CHA/PUB/3/1, p. 4. 76. Harry Cocks, ‘The Cost of Marriage and the Matrimonial Agency in late Victorian Britain’, Social History 1 (2013), pp. 66–88 (pp. 68–70). R. T., ‘Barmouth Bottled; and a Recipe’, Comradeship 6:4 (1913), p. 58; T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary: Personalia’, Comradeship 4:1 (1910), p. 4. 77. McLeod, ‘White Collar Values’, pp. 66–74; Hammerton, ‘Pooterism or Partnership?’, pp. 311–20. 78. Pennybacker, Vision for London, p. 59. 79. Hammerton, ‘Pooterism or Partnership?’ 80. Janette, ‘Wives and Daughters’, p. 30. See also Freda, ‘Co-operative Holidays: A Girl’s Recollections’, Manchester City News, 24 July 1909, GMCRO/B/CHA/HIS/16/1, p. 44. 81. Leonard, Adventures, p. 106. This quotation appeared (albeit with slight alteration) in brochures through much of the Edwardian period, under ‘what we stand for’. CHA Holiday Brochure, 1909, B/CHA/PUB/4/1, p. 15. 82. T. Arthur Leonard, ‘To Our Members’, Comradeship 4:3 (1910), pp. 35–36 (p. 35). See also T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary’, Comradeship 5:4 (1912), p. 50; T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary’, Comradeship 5:5 (1912), p. 67. 83. T. Arthur Leonard, ‘From the General Secretary: Personalia’, Comradeship 4:1 (1910), p. 4. See also Ackroyd, ‘C. H. A. Holiday’, p. 25. 84. Wendy Joy Darby, Landscape and Identity: Geographies of Nation and Class in England (Oxford, 2000), pp. 161–62. 85. Rosamund Ridley, Dear Friends, Liebe Freunde: International Friendship and the First World War (Independently published, 2010), pp. 13–17. 276 B. ANDERSON

86. Langhamer, Women’s Leisure, pp. 114–21. M. Mostyn Bird, Woman at Work: A Study of the Different Ways of Earning a Living Open to Women (London, 1911), p. 153. 87. Snape, ‘Co-operative Holidays Association’, p. 153. 88. E. J. B., ‘Jimmie in the Taunus’, Comradeship 5:3 (1911), p. 45. 89. H. C., ‘Glissading on the Bel Oiseau’, Comradeship 4:5 (1911), pp. 76–78 (p. 77). 90. E. J. B., ‘Jimmie’. 91. W. G. H., ‘Cader’, Comradeship 6:1 (1912), pp. 9–11 (p. 10); G. G. Desmond, ‘Eskdale: A Lost Valley Rediscovered’, GMCRO/B/CHA/ PUB/13/2, p. 2. 92. T. A., ‘A New Sesame’, Comradeship 7:1 (1913), pp. 13–15. 93. G. G. Desmond, ‘Eskdale’, Comradeship 6:5 (1913), pp. 70–71.

Bibliography

Archival Sources Greater Manchester County Records Office [GMCRO].

Newspapers and Journals Comradeship: The Magazine of the Co-operative Holidays Association, in Connection with the National Home Reading Union [Comradeship]. Glasgow Herald. Manchester Guardian. The Independent and Nonconformist. The National Home Reading Union General Reader’s Magazine: Division I—The General Course. The Review of Reviews.

Published Primary Sources Bird, M. Mostyn (1911) Woman at Work: A Study of the Different Ways of Earning a Living Open to Women (London). Leonard, T. Arthur (1934) Adventures in Holidaymaking: Being the Story of the Rise and Development of a People’s Holiday Movement (London). Morris, William (2004) News from Nowhere and Other Writings, ed. Clive Wilmer (London). 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 277

Secondary Sources Anderson, Ben (2011) ‘The Moral High Ground: Cities, Citizenship and Landscape in England and Germany, 1890–1914’, Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Manchester. Asquer, Enriqa (2012) ‘Domesticity and Beyond: Gender, Family, and Consumption in Modern Europe’, in Frank Trentmann (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of Consumption (Oxford), pp. 568–84. Bailey, Peter (1999) ‘White Collars, Gray Lives? The Lower Middle Class Revisited’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 273–90. Bishop, Nicola (2014) ‘What Thought of “Head Office” to “One Off His Head”: Escaping “Clerkly Lives” in Middlebrow Fiction’, Unpublished PhD thesis, Lancaster University. Bishop, Nicola (2015) ‘Ruralism, Masculinity and National Identity: The Rambling Clerk in Fiction, 1900–1940’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 654–78. Cocks, Harry (2013) ‘The Cost of Marriage and the Matrimonial Agency in late Victorian Britain’, Social History 1, pp. 66–88. Cox, Peter (2015) ‘Women, Gendered Roles, Domesticity and Cycling in Britain, 1930–1980’, in Peter Cox (ed.), Cycling Cultures (Chester), pp. 174–202. Darby, Wendy Joy (2000) Landscape and Identity: Geographies of Nation and Class in England (Oxford). Davidoff, Leonore and Hall, Catherine (1987) Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780–1850 (London). Francis, Martin (2002) ‘The Domestication of the Male? Recent Research on Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century British Masculinity’, The Historical Journal 3, pp. 637–52. Giles, Judith (2004) The Parlour and the Suburb. Domestic Identities, Class, Femininity and Modernity (Oxford). Green, Eileen, Hebron, Sandra and Woodward, Diana (1990) Women’s Leisure: What Leisure? (London). Hallama, Doris (2016) ‘Hüttenbauten im Hochalpinen: Zur Architektur der Schutzhütten’, in Martin Achrainer, Stefan Ritter and Florian Trojer (eds.), Hoch Hinaus! Wege und Hütten in den Alpen, Band 1 (Cologne), pp. 121–201. Hamlett, Jane (2015) At Home in the Institution: Material Life in Asylums, Lodging Houses and Schools in Victorian and Edwardian England (Basingstoke). Hammerton, James (1999) ‘Pooterism or Partnership? Marriage and Masculine Identity in the Lower Middle Class, 1870–1920’, Journal of British Studies 3, pp. 291–321. Hinds, Hilary (2010) ‘Together and Apart: Twin Beds, Domestic Hygiene and Modern Marriage, 1890–1945’, Journal of Design History 3, pp. 275–304. 278 B. ANDERSON

Hope, Douglas (2017) Thomas Arthur Leonard and the Co-operative Holidays Association: Joy in Widest Commonalty Spread (Newcastle). Hunt, Karen (2004) ‘Strong Minds, Great Hearts, True Faith and Ready Hands? Exploring Socialist Masculinities before the First World War’, Labour History Review 2, pp. 201–17. Ingold, Tim (1993) ‘The Temporality of Landscape’, World Archaeology 2, pp. 152–74. Langhamer, Claire (2000) Women’s Leisure in England, 1920–1960 (Manchester). Lees, Andrew (1985) Cities Perceived: Urban Thought in European and American Thought, 1820–1940 (Manchester). Lees-Maffei, Grace (2007) ‘Accommodating “Mrs Three-in-One”: Homemaking, Home Entertaining and Domestic Advice Literature in Post-War Britain’, Women’s History Review 5, pp. 723–54. Light, Alison (1991) Forever England: Femininity, Literature, and Conservatism between the Wars (Abingdon). Long, Vicky (2011) ‘Industrial Homes, Domestic Factories: The Convergence of Public and Private Space in Interwar Britain’, Journal of British Studies 2, pp. 434–64. Manton, Kevin (1997) ‘Establishing the Fellowship: Harry Lowerison and Ruskin School Home, a Turn-of-the-Century Socialist and His Educational Experiment’, History of Education 1, pp. 53–70. Matless, David (1998) Landscape and Englishness (London). Matthews-Jones, Lucinda (2017) ‘Settling at Home: Gender and Class in the Room Biographies of Toynbee Hall, 1883–1914’, Victorian Studies 1, pp. 29–52. McLeod, Hugh (1977) ‘White Collar Values and the Role of Religion’, in Geoffrey Crossick (ed.), The Lower Middle Class in Britain, 1870–1914 (London), pp. 61–88. Milne-Smith, Amy (2006) ‘A Flight to Domesticity? Making a Home in the Gentlemen’s Clubs of London, 1880–1914’, Journal of British Studies 4, pp. 796–818. Pennybacker, Susan D. (1995) Visions for London, 1889–1914: Labour, Everyday Life, and the LCC Experiment (Abingdon). Rappaport, Erika (2000) Shopping for Pleasure: Women in the Making of London’s West End (London). Readman, Paul (2014) ‘William Cecil Slingsby, Norway, and British Mountaineering, 1872–1914’, The English Historical Review 540, pp. 1098–128. Ridley, Rosamund (2010) Dear Friends, Liebe Freunde: International Friendship and the First World War (Independently published). Saldern, Adelheid von (2002) The Challenge of Modernity: German Social and Cultural Studies 1890–1960 (Ann Arbor). 8 THE INDOORS IN THE OUTDOORS 279

Snape, Robert (2002) ‘The National Home Reading Union’, Journal of Victorian Culture 1, pp. 86–110. Strange, Carolyn (2012) ‘Reconsidering the “Tragic” Scott Expedition: Cheerful Masculine Home-making in Antarctica, 1910–1913’, Journal of Social History 1, pp. 66–88. Tebbutt, Melanie (2006) ‘Rambling and Manly Identity in Derbyshire’s Dark Peak, 1880s–1920s’, The Historical Journal 4, pp. 1125–53. Tosh, John (1999) A Man’s Place: Masculinity and the Middle-Class Home in Victorian England (London). Walchester, Katherine (2018) ‘Alpine Guides, Gender, and British Climbers, 1859–1885: The Boundaries of Female Propriety in the British Periodical Press’, Victorian Periodicals Review 3, pp. 521–83. Walkowitz, Judith (1998) ‘Going Public: Shopping, Street Harassment, and Streetwalking in Late Victorian London’, Representations 62, pp. 1–30. Walton, John (2013) ‘The Northern Rambler: Recreational Walking and the Popular Politics of Industrial England, from Peterloo to the 1930s’, Labour History Review 3, pp. 257–58. Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Ina (2010) Managing the Body: Beauty, Health and Fitness in Britain 1880–1939 (Oxford). CHAPTER 9

Conclusion

On 2 July 1936, two German climbers, Hans Teufel and Heini Sedlmayr found themselves at the foot of Tryfan, a mountain in North Wales. John R. Jenkins, their host and an impressive climber in his own right, pointed Teufel at the last remaining unclimbed section of the cliff, and ‘egged’ him on.1 Teufel obliged, creating a route known as ‘Munich Climb’, and a founding myth of the ‘British climbing ethic’—a long-standing refusal to use ‘artificial aid’—or fixed equipment on rock-climbing routes. In order to protect himself, Teufel hammered three pitons into the cliff, leaving one in place, complete with karabiner.2 Probably, the Germans thought little of it—on the previous day they had climbed a route on the Clogwyn Du’r Arddu cliffs of Snowdon that already featured one piton, and had added another.3 Indeed, Jenkins had hoped that the Germans would resort to ‘ironmongery’ sooner on the trip.4 A socialist and pacifist Quaker, whose father was educated in Germany, and who retained contacts with antisemitic German climbing elites, he had likely hoped for rapproche- ment at a time when deadly German attempts on alpine north faces inspired in British climbers equal measures of awe and horror.5 A week later, Jenkins pointed out the new route to John Menlove Edwards, who was camped in the valley below. Edwards was a devout Christian, poet and psychiatric student with unconventional ideas about a unified theory of the mind, and an uncompromising climbing philosophy

© The Author(s) 2020 281 B. Anderson, Cities, Mountains and Being Modern in fin-de-siècle England and Germany, https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-54000-3_9 282 B. ANDERSON based on progress in mental resilience.6 ‘Standard of nerves would go up, so that we could go on much longer’, Wilfred Noyce quoted him as claiming when they first met in 1935; ‘[nailed] boots, purity, no pitons’ was Edwards’ own summary.7 Yet there was more subtext here, because by 1936 Edwards was in love with the 17-year-old Noyce, and with a depth of feeling that contributed to his later suicide.8 The Munich Climb pitons were an affront to Edwards’ climbing philosophy and Anglo-Welsh pride, but also a threat to his reputation with his new lover. Edwards, both psy- chiatrist and author of sexually symbolic poetry, was surely also alive to the symbolism of removing a piton from a crack—particularly when done, as it was, with a poker.9 If, as his biographer Jim Perrin suggests, Edwards saw in the rock a mirror for himself, then the removal of the piton restored his own purity, as well as that of the mountain. In the frighteningly anti-queer world of the 1930s, such a narrative could hardly be made public, but if Jenkins hoped for greater friendship and understanding, he too was disappointed. Munich Climb became a byword for differing ideas of progress, and ‘that second nature’ as Noyce would later put it, of Germans.10 Not that the ‘continentals’ were unmodern, as Jenkins outlined in 1942, when he described a Marxian ‘mountaineering dialectic’ and called for a synthesis between British and German climbing approaches. ‘Many of the old established ideals and traditions were swept overboard at the end of the last war’, he wrote, and:

In all countries, youth sought thrills and excitement for their own sake, and the motor car and aeroplane did much to meet its demands. […] The new technique of mechanization which had reached such fantastic lengths in the Kaisergebirge and the Dolomites, was applied to the Central Alps.11

Jenkins knew that he could not stop there, because the Austro-German climbers who had visited in 1936 did not just climb more difficult routes because they used ‘mechanization’. As the attempts on the North Face of the Eiger demonstrated, they were also prepared to accept the sorts of risk- taking advocated by Lammer in 1896 and Preuß in 1911:

The Englishman is by nature unemotional, and he is not prone to all- absorbing passions. The Continental—and particularly the Latin—on the other hand, is passionate and excitable, and can achieve that degree of single-mindedness which takes its political form in Totalitarianism. In Germany and Italy in particular, a disillusioned youth fell prey to the new 9 CONCLUSION 283

cult of nationalism and surrendered itself to the State ideal with fanatical devotion […] The new gods demanded Spartan standards of endurance, bodily hardness and physical courage—the antithesis of democratic decadence which still cherished the freedom of the individual, culture in art, and the greatest happiness for the greatest number. Mountains were grim challenges to decadence that had to be fought with an inflexible single- mindedness that allowed no place for discretion, caution, or irresolution. Life was most supremely worth living on the borderland of death.12

British mountaineers, Jenkins went on, ‘retained a robust negative attitude; we hated the emergence of competitive nationalism in our supra- nationalistic sport; we abhorred this deliberate dicing with death where mature mountaineering judgement would sound a retreat; we vehemently disapproved of “ironmongery” and pulley-hauly tactics’.13 Far from the class antagonisms that underscored the ‘artificial aid’ debate in Austria before 1914, ‘ironmongery’ became synonymous with fascism and anti- democratic unfairness, but its modernity was undeniable nonetheless. ‘The actual process of climbing’, Jenkins concluded, ‘is symbolic of man’s conscious effort for upward progress’.14 The debates still turned on what it meant to be modern. Despite the impacts of two world wars and the notoriously antisemitic world of interwar German alpinism, the mountains still provided a site in which the contents of progress could be expressed and their contests played out.

* * *

Being modern at the fin de siècle was exhausting. It required constant personal introspection and self-diagnosis, and demanded endless self- improvement. Like the balance between emotion and rationality sought by bourgeois elites in the mid-nineteenth century, a modern self was always under threat, but for the moderns, identifying those threats was as essential as overcoming them. ‘Progress’, either personal or social, could meanwhile only ever be aimed at and practised, never achieved. Each ‘forward step’ merely demanded another, and the individual who claimed to have become modern relegated progress to the past and so, paradoxically, abdicated their identity as a modern self. Modern was never, could never be a static condition—it was something a person or society was always becoming, but never was. 284 B. ANDERSON

With this in mind, ramblers and mountaineers emerge not as awkwardly modern individuals, but as quintessential ones. Their discontent with predominantly urban lives emerged from a scepticism that the city did not provide the conditions for ‘progress’, whether defined in moral, social, personal or political terms. Yet the city would not be abandoned, or time turned back to a pre-industrial age, and most of those who visited the mountains took part enthusiastically in those urban cultures that aimed at the ‘improvement’ of human material. Mountaineers and ramblers sought instead to turn upland regions into factories of modern individuals—a ‘Taylorism for mountaineers’ as Eugen Guido Lammer once wrote.15 Indeed, for many, the purpose of their activities away from the city was to improve their urban lives—they sought in mountaineering and rambling not just a release or escape, but a means to render themselves more fit for the urban societies from which they came, and to which they returned. They were, to be sure, only some of the many millions of people in Europe and beyond who diagnosed ‘modern’ life as insufficiently modern and sought to alter it, but the sheer numbers involved in these activities meant that their definitions of a modern future mattered for contemporaries, and should matter for historians, too. For all its fragility and malleability, the claim to be modern was a powerful ‘claims-making’ device in fin-de-siècle Europe every bit as much as it was in the rest of the world. In leaving the city for the countryside, walkers and climbers encountered well-entrenched temporal imaginations of space, but while many valorised and celebrated what they found there, this did not entail an abandonment of progress, and only reinforced their future-orientated sense of self. In rural dwellers, mountaineers and ramblers found populations whose backwardness could be confidently assumed. The peoples, cultures and societies of the rural became an opportunity for benevolent modernisation—or a part of the landscape that should remain statically backward so as to allow others to be dynamically modern. Being modern implied others’ backwardness, and backwardness justified intervention: in construction projects in high-mountain terrain far from the cities; in the ascription of nationhood onto multilingual communities; in the membership (or not) of a supranational Teutonic future; or in the necessity of benevolent socialist education. Little wonder that the ‘left behind’ countryside became a focus for modern fantasies of development in this period, of German—and Italian—‘purity’ after the First World War.16 9 CONCLUSION 285

One of the necessary corollaries of understanding the ‘modern’ as a claims-making device is that we pay more attention to those about whom claims were being made. Countryside communities were not completely powerless, and some indeed proved more than capable of disassembling urban visitors’ claims about naïve backwardness. From an early stage, mountain guides proved a difficult and even militant group of workers who showed little respect for the class deference demanded by their urban employers, and understood how to exploit their position through collective bargaining. It should be no surprise that it was this group as much as the urban working classes that broke the dominance of middle-class definitions of legitimate, dangerous alpinism, or that they emancipated themselves from such dictates at the same time as they gained a political voice in the Austrian legislature. We also need to be sceptical of the self- aggrandising claims made by so many ramblers and mountaineers—about being the ‘first’, about creating the first modern crampon, or, as we saw in Chap. 4, about having been solely responsible for the development of tourist infrastructure in the Eastern Alps. We have long accepted tourists’ assertion of their own agency over the outdoors leisure industry—this book suggests that it might be time to question that judgement. As might be expected for cultures that had their roots in urban contexts, ramblers and mountaineers demonstrably reflected the contests of their urban, metropolitan homes, and their leisure was defined by municipal identities in Munich, Vienna or Manchester as much as it was by nation or state. The Germanophile culture specific to late nineteenth-century North-West England underscored the cosmopolitan associationalism of Manchester’s Rucksack Club and the internationalism of the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA), while contests in the Eastern Alps revolved not just around political settlements in the Kaiserreich and Austria- Hungary, but to the specific politics of individual cities—Vienna especially. Despite the widespread criticism of urban culture that can be found amongst mountaineers and ramblers across fin-de-siècle Europe, most historians have turned to the nation to understand their actions. A transnational perspective does not just reveal the shared aspects of outdoors leisure culture in fin-de-siècle Europe, but also an urban specificity that has tended to get lost in the rush to identify imaginations of the nation in the outdoors. To chart the changing definitions of modernity in mountains and uplands means understanding how the changing contents of ‘modern’ 286 B. ANDERSON were not just discussed through language, but enacted and developed through an affective relationship to the landscape itself. As Jenkins’ conclusion suggests, moving through mountain terrain could be understood as a kinetic metaphor for progress, and its contents mirrored what contemporaries understood as the requirements of a modern individual. For many mountaineers in the Eastern Alps, practices of walking between huts on carefully constructed paths enacted a control over landscape and its reduction to a bourgeois aesthetic that paralleled the rhetoric behind the construction of the infrastructure itself, and inscribed a very urban set of behavioural codes onto an otherwise chaotic mountain landscape. The ‘guideless’ revolution amongst elites, meanwhile, meant practising the risk analysis, categorisation and rational decision making that now lay at the heart of middle-class approaches to risk; the new mountaineering performed the tasks set down by workplace insurance legislation in the 1880s. Bodies took part in the contests of the modern—they were, after all, the objects of improvement, and often the means of measuring one’s status as a modern individual. This book charts the meanings of being modern during a period that saw the emergence of mass, and organised extra-urban leisure, and shows how this constituted a practice of modernity at a time when a sense of progress came under significant pressure from new critiques of the urban condition. Yet if anything, the role of the mountains and uplands in the constitution of modern identities became even more significant during the rest of the twentieth century. Every form of mountaineering, from Himalayan climbing to the ‘purity’ of short routes on small boulders has developed its own sense of modern movement and achievement. Walkers not only don the latest breathable fabrics and specialist footwear, but navi- gate using satellites and smartphones. Mountain-biking, skiing, hang- gliding, base-jumping, green-laning, motocross, canoeing, caving, fell- and sky-running, or surfing have all inscribed new patterns of activity onto rural landscapes, imposed new rules and restrictions or rights on its use, and participants have moulded rural places to suit their needs.17 National Parks have played an important role in sustaining fragile ecologies—but they have also managed places like the Lake District as static landscapes for the benefit of urban visitors rather than locals or wildlife.18 Rural places have continued to be sites that serve the needs of the city; they are the places for power stations, reservoirs, power cables and landfills, imposed on local communities and ecologies that have not always stood to benefit. The consequences of countryside tourism were not restricted to urban 9 CONCLUSION 287 histories of escapism, or state histories of nationalism. Their impacts on rural places themselves have defined European landscapes and their people as well as the environments in which we still live.

Notes 1. John R. Jenkins, ‘Visit of German Climbing Party’, RC Journal 1936, pp. 317–18 (p. 318), in Dulcibel Jenkins (ed.), Chronicles of John R. Jenkins 1913–1947: Mountaineer, Miner and Quaker (Wittering, 1987), pp. 26–27. 2. Jenkins, ‘Visit’, p. 318. 3. Jenkins, ‘Visit’, p. 318. 4. Jenkins, ‘Visit’, p. 317. 5. John R. Jenkins, ‘A Light Expedition to the Central Caucasus, 1937’, Alpine Journal (1937), pp. 12–33 (p. 12), in Jenkins, Chronicles, pp. 28–53; John R. Jenkins, ‘Mountaineering and War’, RC Journal (1939), pp. 113–20 (p. 117), in Jenkins, Chronicles, pp. 91–98; John R. Jenkins, ‘Ideas: The Social Gospel of Christ, July 5th’, in Jenkins, Chronicles, pp. 299–307; Lawrence Travis and A. S. P., ‘In Memoriam: John Jenkins’, RC Journal (1948), pp. 46–49 (p. 47), in Jenkins, Chronicles, pp. 321–24. An unclear reference suggests that Jenkins may have been antisemitic: John R. Jenkins, ‘A Socialist in Search of a Party’, in Jenkins, Chronicles, pp. 294–96 (p. 296). 6. Jim Perrin, Menlove: The Life of John Menlove Edwards (Glasgow, 1993 [1985]), pp. 90–179. 7. Wilfred Noyce, Mountains and Men (London, 1954 [1947]), p. 21; Perrin, Menlove, p. 160. 8. Perrin, Menlove, pp. 99–147, 224–63. 9. Perrin, Menlove, pp. 139. Pitons certainly have that role in Edwards’ 1939 Allegory of his relationship with Noyce, ‘Scenery for a Murder’, CC Journal (1939), in Perrin, Menlove, pp. 273–80. 10. Noyce, Mountains and Men, p. 50. 11. John R. Jenkins, ‘Marxism and Mountaineering’, RC Journal (1942), pp. 325–34, in Jenkins, Chronicles, pp. 127–37 (p. 131) 12. Jenkins, ‘Marxism’, p. 131. 13. Jenkins, ‘Marxism’, p. 132. 14. Jenkins, ‘Marxism’, p. 136. 15. Eugen Guido Lammer, Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich, 1935), pp. 239–61. 16. See Martin Achrainer and Nicholas Mailänder, ‘“Der Verein”, and Florian Trojer, “Südtirol”’, in Martin Achrainer, Friederike Kaiser and Florian Trojer (eds.), Berg Heil! Alpenverein und Bergsteigen 1918–1945 (Cologne, 2011), pp. 193–318 (pp. 224–48, 268–300) and pp. 329–82. 288 B. ANDERSON

17. Of these, skiing has received the closest analysis: Robert Groß, ‘Uphill and Downhill Histories. How Winter Tourism Transformed Alpine Regions in Vorarlberg, Austria—1930 to 1970’, Zeitschrift für Tourismuswissenschaft 1 (2017), pp. 115–39; Andrew Denning, Skiing into Modernity: A Cultural and Environmental History (Oakland, CA, 2015). 18. The contests on this are well laid out in Susan Denyer, ‘The Lake District Landscape: Cultural or Natural?’, in John K. Walton and Jason Wood (eds.), The Making of a Cultural Landscape: The English Lake District as Tourist Destination 1750–2010 (London, 2013), pp. 3–30.

Bibliography

Published Primary Sources Jenkins, Dulcibel (ed.) (1987) Chronicles of John R. Jenkins 1913–1947: Mountaineer, Miner and Quaker (Wittering). Lammer, Eugen Guido (1935) Jungborn: Bergfahrten und Höhengedanken eines einsamen Pfadsuchers (Munich). Noyce, Wilfred (1954 [1947]) Mountains and Men (London).

Secondary Sources Achrainer, Martin, Kaiser, Friederike and Trojer, Florian (eds.) (2011) Berg Heil! Alpenverein und Bergsteigen 1918–1945 (Cologne). Denning, Andrew (2015) Skiing into Modernity: A Cultural and Environmental History (Oakland, CA). Denyer, Susan (2013) ‘The Lake District Landscape: Cultural or Natural?’, in John K. Walton and Jason Wood (eds.), The Making of a Cultural Landscape: The English Lake District as Tourist Destination 1750–2010 (London), pp. 3–30. Groß, Robert (2017) ‘Uphill and Downhill Histories. How Winter Tourism Transformed Alpine Regions in Vorarlberg, Austria—1930 to 1970’, Zeitschrift für Tourismuswissenschaft 1, pp. 115–39. Perrin, Jim (1993 [1985]) Menlove: The Life of John Menlove Edwards (Glasgow). Glossary

Alleingehen/Solo Mountaineering alone. Bildungsbürgertum A clear division within the Bürgertum was between those who relied on their upbringing (Bildung) and those involved in trade and industry. Bürgerlich Pertaining to the specific practices of the Bürgertum. Bürgertum Austro-German urban middle class. They were more legally defined than the middle class in Britain through voting rights, and the word recalls older privileges. Christlich-Sozialen This refers to members of the Christlich-Socialen Partei in turn-of-the-century Austria. The party was characterised by conservative Catholic belief, antisemitism, pro-Habsburg patriotism and populism. Not to be confused with Christian Socialism, which was more accurately named and to which the Co-operative Holidays Association (CHA) broadly belonged. Crampon/Steigeisen A set of metal spikes affixed to the boot in order to walk or climb on ice or steep snow. Eastern Alps The portion of the Alps lying east of Lake Constance, now predominantly in Northern Italy, Austria and Germany. Erschießung ‘Development’ or ‘opening up’—in alpine terms, referring to the construction of huts and paths, or sometimes railways in the Alps. Großdeutsch Belief in a ‘big Germany’—that is, one including German- speaking parts of Austria-Hungary.

Guideless Mountaineering without a guide, but (normally) with another partner. Heimat German concept of nation (not always German) as landscaped local identity. Can be variously translated as home, homeland, landscape or region. Karabiner A metal hook with a gate, allowing the rope to be easily clipped to a piton or other equipment without untying. Körperkultur ‘Body-culture’—German-speaking culture of the body and fitness. Mittelstand Austro-German lower middle class. More clearly defined than their English cousins through voting rights. Piton/peg A metal pin hammered into a crack, to which a rope might then be fixed. Scarpetti Rope-soled shoes first used in the Dolomites for rock climbing. German Kletterschuhe were often of the same construction. Verwälscherung ‘Wälsch’ formally refers to Romansh-speaking regions of Switz erland, but was derogatorily used by German mountaineers to refer to Italian- and Ladino-speaking communities in the Eastern Alps. Verwälscherung implied a destruction of German custom and identity through an expansion of Italian and Ladino language. Völkisch Refers to a broad range of often racist and antisemitic German nationalisms which sought Germanness in rural culture and society. Index1

A Germanness, 222–230, 232 Abercrombie, Patrick, 236 huts (see Huts) Accident, 78, 110, 180–183, 196, organisation of, 27, 31, 41, 117, 197, 199 121, 143, 146, 184, 222, Ackroyd, Frank, 257 228–230, 232 Adams, Carole Elizabeth, 69 and other alpine clubs, 28, 79 Adickes, Franz, 235 Sektionen (branches); Austria, 27, Akademischen Alpenvereins München 28, 32; Bayerland, 31, 71, (AAVM), 28 113; Manchester, 27; Allgemeine Deutsche Sportausstellung, München, 28, 31, 38, 112, see Sports Exhibition 1899 115–117 Alpenkrieg, see Meurer, Julius; See also Deutsche Alpenverein; Mountain guides, control by Erschließung (alphine); Alpine Associations Oesterreichische Alpenverein Alpenverein Alpine Club (London), 16n33, 28, 32, Annual General Meetings, 35, 222, 37 223 Alpine ‘Knigge,’ 79 antisemitism, 81, 221, 226 Alpine Museum attitude to Alpine people, 117–118, Bern, 106 144–147 Munich, 36, 68, 108, 118 exclusion of working class Alpine populations mountaineers, 79–83 economic situation, 112, 119–121, formation, 27, 120–121 142, 143

1 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

Alpine populations, (cont.) 1907 elections, 81 as ideal Germans, 146 workplace insurance legislation, 180, imagined backwardness of, 145, 146 181 lack of recognition by urban See also Austria-Hungary alpinists, 117, 118 Austria-Hungary, 10, 203, 220, 233, role in Erschließung, 100, 115, 117, 285 159 See also Austria role of religious leaders, 122, 123 Austrian Empire, 223, 226, Alpine war, see Meurer, Julius; 243n33 Mountain guides, control by See also Austria; Austria-Hungary Alpine Associations Avalanche, 113, 114, 157 Alpinism, 109 exhibitions of, 102, 104–106, 110, 112 B hut-to-hut, 78, 101, 115, 122 Baedeker, Karl, 34, 37, 40, 154, 156, sporting, 12, 72, 156, 231 159, 168n79 winter, 188 Balance climbing, 2, 7, 198 See also Mountaineering Barlow, Annie, 253 Alpinisti Tridentini, 189, 225, 226 Bavaria, 103, 115 Amsterdam, 188 See also Wetterstein Anglo-German Friendship Committee, Beaumont, Hubert, 67, 68, 260 148 Berger, John, 9, 110 Antisemitism, 32, 81, 82, 133n106, Bergson, Henri, 142, 158 143, 221, 226–228 Berlin, 27, 81, 104, 186, 236 Arbeiter Zeitung, 199 Berrer, Else, 190 Architecture, 33–35 Bettega, Michele, 193 Arnold, Karl, 79–81 Beveridge, Elizabeth, 254 Artaria, Rose, 187 Bildung, 29, 108 Art galleries, 29, 32, 35–37, 43, 66, Bildungsbürgertum, 74, 239 84, 102, 104, 106 Bishop, Nicola, 254 Artificial aid, 177, 194, 195, 202, 281, Blackpool, 78, 79, 258, 259 283 Blödig, Karl, 12n4, 231 Associations Body and mind, 42, 178 bourgeois, 29, 77, 184 Bourdieu, Pierre, 9, 111 masculine clubbability, 27 Brückner, Eduard, 109 sociability of, 29, 30 Byschl, Max, 120 and women, 188 working class/arbeitervereinswesen, 29 C Austria, 81 Campbell, Colin, 39 Bauernbefreiung, 142 Chamonix, 176, 230 male suffrage in, 80 Champness, W. H., 34 INDEX 293

Character, 11, 31, 66, 69, 74, 80, Cookson, G. P., 40 85n5, 113, 114, 124, 143, 151, Cooper, Frederick, 6 183, 188, 192, 196, 230, 231, Cooper, Selina, 263 234, 254, 260, 262, 264 Co-operation, 30, 74, 221, 224, 258, Christian 263, 265, 269 Catholicism, 148–150; and Co-operative Holidays Association Christlich Soziale Partei, 32, (CHA) 226 Comradeship, 34, 40, 82, 235, 236, Protestantism; attitudes towards 238, 254, 266, 267 Catholics, 147–149, 238; co-operative practice, 160, 254, non-conformist, 28 260, 269 Christian Socialism (British), 238 Domestic Committee, 264 for Austro-Hungarian (see Christlich- domestic environments, 254, 256, soziale Partei) 260–263, 265–268 Christlich Sozialen, see Christlich- domestic service, 262–264, 269 Soziale Partei guesthouses, 237, 254, 256–264, Christlich-Soziale Partei, 32, 81, 149, 267, 269 150, 199, 226–228, 233 heterosexual liaison, 265–268 See also Lueger, Karl international visits, 148, 235–240, Cima Immink, 193 260, 267, 268 Cisleithania, see Austria respectability, 265–267 Clerks, 2, 40, 69, 71, 74–76, 254 social engineering, 257 Climbing, 1, 2, 34, 38, 39, 43, 45n10, spirit, 256–260 66, 70, 71, 78, 101, 141, 157, timekeeping, 154 158, 177, 178, 180, 182, 183, Copelman, Dina, 75, 76 185–188, 192–196, 198–203, Corsets, 3 207n45, 221, 230, 231, 233, Cortina d’Ampezzo, 189, 231 281–283, 286 Costume, 145, 146, 191, 224, 234 Clogwyn Du’r Arddu, 281 Courchevel, 1 Clubs, see Associations Crampons, 1–3, 7, 9, 16n33, 38, 194, Cobham, E. M., 40 231, 285 Coller, Richard, 70, 76 See also Eckenstein, Oscar Colley, Ann, 175 Crowley, Aleister, 1 Collini, Stephan, 66 Cultural criticism Colonisation, 141 as criticism of behaviour in the Conservation, 118 outdoors, 76–83 Consumerism modernity of, 2, 3, 65 advertising, 37–38 and anticipation, 39–42 and memory, 39–42 D See also Langer-Kauba, Mizzi Daimer, Joseph, 121, 122 Conway, Martin, 199 Danger, see Risk 294 INDEX

Dent, Clinton, 76 Edgework, 202, 203 Deutsche Alpenverein, 120 Ediki, Didem, 116 Deutsche Alpenzeitung, 65, 78, 145, Edwards, John Menlove, 281, 282 146 Eifel, 148 Deutsche und oesterreichische Einstein, Albert, 142 Alpenverein, see Alpenverein Elbsandsteingebirge, 198, 199 Dialect, 26, 27, 73, 151–153, 222 Electorate, see Suffrage Dibona, Angelo, 200, 202 Eley, Geoff, 5, 29 Dickens, Charles, 75 Emmer, Johannes, 113 Dickinson, Edward Ross, 145, 225 Empire, see Imperialism Dimai, Antonio, 199, 200, 212n132 Engineer, 1, 7, 116, 142, 161, 181, Dixon, Harold Baily, 26 195, 198, 237 Dolomites, 157, 177, 178, 187, 189, Engineering, 7, 9, 115, 116, 182, 257 193, 197–201, 203, 222, 230, Entrain, 106 231, 282 Erschließung (alpine), 101 Domesticity, 9, 254, 255, 258, 260, of alpine people, 117, 118 264, 267–269 and Romanticism, 101, 103, Dreyer, Alois, 73, 232, 233 106–108 Dülfer, Hans, 200 See also Huts; Landscape reliefs; Duncan, Millican, 31 Panorama; Paths Durkheim, Emile, 29 Eugenics, 254, 268 Exhibition, 25, 32, 36, 38, 43, 84, 100, 102, 104–106, 109, 111, E 113, 119, 123 Eastern Alps, 32, 76, 79, 99–101, 103, 109, 112, 119, 121, 122, 142, 145, 151, 154, 155, 158, F 161, 177, 181, 189, 201, Fair play, 194 220–222, 225, 228–230, 285, Feminism, 188 286 Fiechtl, Hans, 200–202 See also Alpine populations Figgis, John Neville, 29 Eckenstein, Oscar, 1–5, 7–9, 12n4, First World War, 27, 32, 38, 99, 100, 13n13, 16n33, 32, 38, 47n25, 118, 159–160, 189, 226, 227, 183, 191, 195, 196, 198, 231 233, 235, 237, 239, 240, and application of gymnastics to 243n33, 253, 255, 265, 268, rock climbing, 2, 3 284 on artificial aid, 195 Flirtation, 266, 267 and crampons, 1–3, 7, 9, 16n33, Foucault, Michel, 115 38, 231 France, 100, 119, 152, 153, 253, 260 friendship with Eugen Guido Frankfurt am Main, 235 Lammer and August Lorria, Frauenfrage, see Suffrage; Women 12n4, 196 Freda, 72, 73, 76 INDEX 295

Freedom, 26, 28, 32, 73, 82, 160– H 162, 179, 255, 256, 283 Habermas, Jürgen, 29 Friedensburg, F., 81, 82 Halbe, Albert, 65 Fritzsche, Peter, 150 Halliday, L., 153 Fünffingerspitze, 157 Hampson, Walter, 152, 153 Furness, 153 Hannover, 79, 80, 225 Hansen, Peter, 2, 6, 71, 101, 176, 200, 220 G Happisch, Leopold, 150, 151 Geddes, Patrick, 236 Harness, 4, 183, 188, 225, 268 Geppert, Dominik, 239 Haushofer, Max, 183 German Empire, see Germany Heimat, 30, 219, 223 Germanophile, 12, 27, 238, 240, 285 Hellpach, Willy, 69 Germany, 10, 12, 27, 29, 34, 38, 40, Helmet, 188, 209n71 42, 66, 67, 69–71, 103, 111, Herzberg, Aurora, 156, 189 112, 115, 119, 120, 123, 140, Herzberg, Jenny, 115, 156, 157, 189, 142, 146–148, 160, 162, 180, 190, 192 182, 188, 197, 199, 209n67, Herzog, Otto, 199, 200, 203 219, 220, 222, 223, 225, Hettling, Manfred, 9–10, 66 227–229, 231, 233, 234, Hill, Kate, 36 236–240, 244n53, 260, 281, Himalayas, 231 282, 285 Hindley, Jane, M., 147, 148, 237 Gerwarth, Robert, 239 Hinduism, 148 Gessner, Conrad, 101 Hoffman, Stefan-Ludwig, 29, 66, 224 Gewerbe Ausstellung 1896, 104 Hopkinson, Alfred, 27, 45n10 Giles, Judith, 255 Howkins, Alun, 143 Gissing, George, 75 Hülsen, Julius, 235 Glennie, Paul, 154 Huts Gooch, George Peabody, 30, 31 architecture, 117 Granbichler, Cyprian, 99 Coburgerhütte, 225 Great War, see First World War construction of, 100, 103, 118, Großdeutsch, 81, 109, 120, 121, 146, 123 222, 223, 228, 229, 232 Kaiserin Elisabethhaus, 225 Grünblatt, J., 40 Münchenerhaus, 116 Guidebooks, 37, 38, 144, 154, 185 Naturfreundehaus, 81, 233–234 Guideless, 69, 82, 115, 176, 178–186, -opening ceremonies, 222, 224 189, 192–196, 201, 203, as refuges from nature, 116 204n10, 205n16, 286 Guides, see Guidebooks; Mountain guides I Gunn, Simon, 9 Illustrierte Oesterreichische Günther, Dagmar, 71, 148 Alpenzeitung, 146 Gymnastics, 2, 3, 7, 27, 144, 190, 198 Imfeld, Xaver, 108, 118, 119 296 INDEX

Immink, Jeanne, 47n25, 157, Kilimanjaro King, Jessie M., see Janette 187–189, 191, 193, 231 Kingsley, Charles, 238 Imperialism, 32, 141 Klein, Kerwin Lee, 38, 175, 198 involvement of ramblers and Kleine Zinne, 157, 188 mountaineers in, 141 Knapsack, 27, 256 and time, 141, 142 Kodak, 139, 140 India, 188 Körperkultur, 39, 116 Ingold, Tim, 8, 9, 102 Koshar, Rudy, 2, 4, 34, 140, 232 Innerkofler, Sepp, 193 Kulturkampf, 120, 239 Innsbruck, 122, 144, 178, 184, 199, Kunstliche Hilfsmittel, see Artificial aid 228, 229 Insurance legislation, 177, 180, 203, 239, 286 L mountain guides, 177, 203 Ladino, 222 workplace, 177, 180, 181, 203, 286 Lake District Internationalism, 28, 148, 154, 220, depicted by Rawnsley, 151, 152 221, 230–240, 254, 256, 260, Eskdale, 268 269, 285 Keld, 263, 264 Ireland, 147, 162, 221 Keswick, 152, 256 Isherwood, Richard, 71 modernity of, 142 Italy, 1, 119, 282 Newlands, 72, 256 Ittlinger, Josef, 73, 74, 76, 83, 159, 24 hour fell records, 142 183 Wasdale, 153, 195 Lamb, Charles, 33 Lammer, Eugen Guido, 69, 77, 142, J 157, 158, 177–181, 183, 185, Jahn, Gustav, 38 195–197, 199, 201, 202, 232, Janette, 141, 144, 257, 263, 265, 267 282, 284 Jenkins, Jennifer, 10 debate with Heinrich Steinitzer, 69 Jenkins, John, R., 281–283, 286 guideless mountaineering, 69, Jewish, 28, 32, 226–228 178–181, 185, 203 mountaineers, 32, 227 internationalism, 232 See also Antisemitism See also Risk, Guideless Jones, Owen Glynn, 198 Landscape Joyce, Patrick, 10, 152 and national identity, 219, 220 Junius, 160 as site of urban political contest, 219 Landscape reliefs, 37, 100, 102, 103, K 105–108, 111, 123, 185 Kaisergebirge, 199, 200, 282 Langer-Kauba, Mizzi, 38, 187 Kaiserreich, see Germany Lay-back, 231 Kant, Immanuel, 178, 185, 196 Le Queux, William, 236 Karabiner, 198, 199, 281 Lebensreform, see Life-reform INDEX 297

Lectures, 25, 31, 32, 184, 254, 261, Literary and Philosophical Society, 264 27 Leonard, Thomas Arthur, 28, 41, 42, Literary Club, 26, 27 78, 83, 147, 148, 235, 237–239, Schilleranstalt, 27 253, 254, 256, 260, 261, University, 27 263–267, 269 See also Co-operative Holidays Leuchs, Georg, 193 Association (CHA); Northern Libraries, 32, 35, 37, 66, 84, 106 England; Rucksack Club Life-reform, 3, 4, 28, 39, 42, 191 Manliness, see Men, masculinity Light, Alison, 4 Maps, 37, 107, 117, 118, 152, 154, London, 1, 25, 32–35, 37, 67, 68, 178, 185 153, 193, 236 Maquignaz, Jean Joseph, 194 Loneliness, 67, 257, 265 Marriage, 191, 192, 231, 254, 255, Loos, Adolf, 117 258, 260–262, 265–269 Lorimer, Hayden, 8 Marx, Karl, 68 Lorria, August, 12n4, 196, 211n112 Masterman, Charles F. G., 42, 68 Lowerison, Harry, 256 Mather, William, 237, 238 Lower-middle class Matless, David, 5, 140 criticism of, 76, 77 Matterhorn, 71, 189, 196 expansion of mountaineering 1865 ascent/disaster, 99 amongst, 65, 66, 77 Mauerhakenstreit, 201 isolation of, 74 Mayer, Guido, 200 working routines of, 75 Mayer-Bergwald, Anna, 145, 146 See also Clerks, Teachers; Mittelstand McTaggart, Ellis, 142 Luchner, Oskar Friedrich, 146 Memory, 5, 26, 39–43, 70, 261 Luchner-Egloff, see Luchner, Oskar Men Friedrich danger, 182, 183 Lueger, Karl, 29, 81, 180, 227, 228 feminisation of workplace, 70, 71, See also Christlich-soziale Partei 75, 192 Luther, Martin, 148 masculinity, 70–72, 159, 178, 179, Lux, Joseph August, 110, 111 181, 183, 184, 192 Luzern, 104 Meurer, Julius, 194, 229, 244n52 Lyng, Stephen, 202 Migration, 25 Mill, John Stuart, 66 Milner, George, 26, 27, 152 M Mittelstand, 77, 81, 82 Mami, 159 See also Lower-Middle Class Manchester, 153 Modern civic and regional identity of, and anti-modernism, 3–6, 139 27 as claims-making device, 285 Deansgate Library, 35 and mountain huts, 115–118 and Germany, 10, 12 as ontology, 6 Grammar School, 236, 238, 256 and sovereignty over nature, 107 298 INDEX

Modernisation theory, 3, 4 Naturecultures, see New materialism See also Sonderweg Naturfreunde, see Touristenverein “Die Montanus, F., 82 Naturfreunde” Morris, William, 33, 262 Neues Wiener Journal, 197 Mountaineering New materialism, 8–10, 102, 106, ethics (see Artificial aid) 115 languages, 231 Nicolson, Marjorie Hope, 175 See also Alpinism Nieberl, Franz, 76, 159, 201 Mountain guides Nietzsche, Friedrich, 197, 200, associations, 143 201 class-consciousness, 199 Nodal, John, 27 control by Alpine Associations, 87, Noll-Hasenclever, Eleonore, 191 228–230 Non-representational Theory, see New criticism of, 143–145 materialism roles of, 179 North, the, see Northern England and timekeeping, 154 Northern England, 1, 18n50, 152 Müller, Karl (a.k.a. Carl), 68, 108– See also Manchester 110, 116 Northerness, see Northern England Mummery, Alfred, 80, 155, 179, 194 North Wales, 30, 70, 198, 231, 281 München 1908, 104, 106 modernity of, 142 Münchner neueste Nachrichten Nostalgia, 33, 140 (MNN), 72, 226 Noyce, Wilfrid, 282 Munich Alpenverein AGM 1894, 41, 117, 121, 225 O city of alpinism, 28 Oberlercher, Paul, 107 exhibition site, 38, 106 Oertel, Eugen, 31, 71, 72, 74, 76, school (of mountaineering), 201 159 See also Alpenverein, Sektionen; Oesterreich, see Austria Alpine Museum; Alpinism Oesterreichische Alpenclub, 10, 47n25, ,exhibitions of; Sports 189, 193, 194, 226 Exhibition 1899 Oesterreichische Alpenverein, 27, 120, Munich Climb, 281, 282 222 Murals, 37 Oesterreichische Touristenclub Muscular Christianity, 32 antisemitism, 29, 226–229 Musterschule, 236, 239 competition with Alpenverein, 228–230 See also Lueger, Karl N Oetztal, 99, 120, 122 National identity, 11, 140, 219, 220, Ogle, Vanessa, 142 230 Oppenheimer, Lehmann J., Nationalism, 81, 109, 120, 145, 149, 195 178, 219, 221, 222, 228, 232, Ord, Clement, 160, 170n111 234, 235, 238, 240, 283, 287 Our Lady Correspondent, see Janette INDEX 299

P R Pan-German, see Großdeutsch Race, 5, 28, 38, 140, 141, 145, 146, Panorama, 37, 99, 100, 102, 103, 151, 155, 156, 201, 232, 105–108, 111, 116, 121, 123, 237–239 185 Railway Paperweights, 37, 102, 107 mountain, 112, 143, 154 Paths station, 37, 38, 53n91, 104, 106 construction of, 113–115 Rambling, 3, 5, 10, 17n44, 25, 26, representation of, 113 28–31, 36, 39, 43, 46n24, 67, safety of, 115 71, 76, 86n10, 114, 147, 221, Paton, John Brown, 237, 253, 254 253, 254, 258, 284 Paton, John Lewis, 238, 239, 256– Rau, Petra, 236 259, 269 Rawnsley, Hardwicke Drummond, 78, Patriotism, 32, 235 151, 152, 236, 258, 259 Peak Reading circles, 30 laddow Rocks, 71 Readman, Paul, 4, 220, 255 modernity of, 142 Redfern, Percy, 256 Pegs, see Pitons Religion, see individual entries Penck, Albrecht, 107, 108 Renner, Karl, 149, 233, 234 Pennybacker, Susan, 257, 265 Repp, Kevin, 5 Perrin, Jim, 282 Richter, Eduard, 101, 111 Peukert, Detlev, 118 Rickmers-Rickmers, Mabel, 190, Piaz, Tita, 199–203 231 Pitons, 179, 193, 195, 198, 201, 202, Ridley, Rosamund, 236 281, 282 Risk Pontorson, 139 and middle class identity, 181, 182 Port Sunlight, 235, 236 as ‘morphium,’ 197 Postcards, 37, 113 Rizzi, Luigi, 199, 200, 202 Posters, 37 Rock climbing, see Climbing Pott, Emil, 116 Rockfall, 114, 155, 157 Preuß, Paul, 189, 201, 202, 282 Röhkramer, Thomas, 4 Pringle, Frances (Fanny) Nelson, 253, Romako, Karl, 38 254, 259, 269 Romanticism, 39, 66, 101, 108, 192 Progress, 1–5, 7, 29, 41, 42, 66, 73, Rope, 37, 116, 179, 192–196, 198, 109, 111, 113, 118, 122, 123, 201, 231 140, 141, 145, 149, 150, 154, Rothpletz, August, 104 158, 161, 175, 176, 178, 202, Rucksack, 27, 191–193, 231 237, 269, 282–284, 286 Rucksack Club Public sphere, 29 civic and regional identity of, 27 Purtscheller, Ludwig, 80, 144 hut, 70 criticism of mountain guides, 144 Ruskin, John, 33, 35 300 INDEX

S Socialism, 28, 30, 32, 48n33, 146– Sächsische Schweiz, see 148, 150, 153, 154, 220, 221, Elbsandsteingebirge 233, 235, 238, 240 Safety, 101, 105, 115, 143, 157, 158, Sombart, Werner, 74 177–181, 194, 196, 198, Sonderweg, 3–4 201–203 South Africa, 188, 236 Sand in Taufers, 120 Sovereignty, 2, 6, 107, 159, 161, 200, Sandtner, Toni, 192 220 Scarpetti, 231 Sports Exhibition 1899, 36, 38, 104 Scharfe, Martin, 176 Steinach, Heinrich, 116 Schiber, Adolf, 232 Steinitzer, Heinrich, 69, 114, 115 Schmid-Mummert, Ingeborg, 183 Stephen, Leslie, 34, 66, 175, 230 Schüssler, Valentin, 149 Strange, Carolyn, 255 Schuster, August, 38 Stubai Alps, 200, 229 Schuster, Oscar, 195 Studl, Johannes, 120, 121 Scotland, 147, 195, 221 Suffrage, 180 Scott, H. E., 31 female, 32, 269 Scott, James C., 118 male, 80 Seaton, T. H., 40 Superman, see Übermensch Sedlmayr, Heini, 281 Swiss Alpine Club, 77, 119, 120, 188 Selfhood, 9, 10, 39, 41, 42, 66, 67, Switzerland, 1, 99, 100, 109, 112, 69, 75, 79, 83, 84, 103, 111, 162 119, 188, 189, 230, 233, 234, Self-improvement, 29, 30, 37, 39, 42, 267 44, 68, 100, 160, 237, 283 Sella, Alessandro, 194 Senn, Franz T and founding of deutsche Taskscape, 9, 120, 179, 222, 260 Alpenverein, 120 Tauscher-Geduly, Hermine, 187, 192 in Vent, 99, 100, 120, 122 Taylorism, 142, 284 Sheffield Clarion Ramblers’ Club, Teachers, 75, 149, 257 71 Tebbutt, Melanie, 71, 254 Sild, Cenzi, 187, 190, 191 Teufel, Hans, 281 Simmel, George, 40, 68 Teutonic, 27, 141, 201, 221, 237– Skiing, 3, 25, 76, 159, 162, 212n128, 240, 284 286 Thomas, Lynn, 6 Slavic, 222 Thrift, Nigel, 9, 106, 154 Slavification, 225, 226, 243n33 Time Slingsby, William Cecil, 255 allochrony, 155 Slovenian, 146, 222 embodied, 154, 155, 158 Smith, Emily H., 39, 253, 259, 269 keeping, 154 Snape, Robert, 258 mountain time, 158 Snowdonia, see North Wales -records, 78 INDEX 301

Tirol, 99, 143, 148, 184, 228–230 school (of mountaineering), 177, tirolean nationalism, 222, 228 196 Tomasson, Beatrice, 187, 191, 193 See also Alpenverein, Sektionen; Totenkirchl, 200, 201 Naturfreunde; Oesterreichische Touristenverein “Die Naturfreunde” Alpenklub; Oesterreichische attitudes to Alpine people, 145, Touristenklub 146, 149, 150 Völkisch, 145, 219 attitudes to modernity, 146, 148, von Borscht, Wilhelm Georg Ritter, 149 36, 108 hut (see Huts, Naturfreundehaus) von der Pfordten, Hermann Freiherr, internationalism, 233–235, 240 78 and reciprocal rights, 81 von Eötvös, Ilona and Rolanda, 192 social hiking, 235, 240 von Haller, Albrecht, 101 Training, 2, 42, 142, 143, 184, 185, von Pfister, Otto, 109, 227 198, 229 von Saldern, Adelheid, 255, 262 Train stations, 37, 38, 53n91, 104, 106 Transnational history, 11 W comparison, 11 Walchester, Katherine, 255 metanational, 11 Wales, 195, 221 transfer analysis, 11 Pen-y-Pas, 1 Trespass, 12 See also North Wales Trientl, Adolf, 122 Walking, 3, 42, 43, 66, 70, 78, 101, Tryfan, 281 114, 123, 141, 159, 184, 221, 256, 268, 286 War, 71, 139, 151, 225, 236, 237, U 282 Übermensch, 200 Watts, C. G., 33–35 Umbach, Maiken, 10 Weather, 41, 104, 112, 115, 116, 158, Urry, John, 34 185 Weber, Max, 29, 74, 239 Weilenmann, Johann Jacob, 120 V Wells, Herbert George, 75 Veblen, Thorstein, 38 Wenz, Adolf, 115, 116 Verwälscherung, 225 Wetterstein, 115 Vienna, 1, 2, 10, 25, 27–29, 32, 37, Zugspitze, 115 38, 81, 99, 100, 115, 121, 149, Whymper, Edward, 34, 182 152, 178, 183, 191, 193, 196, Williams, John Alexander, 4 198–200, 226–230, 233, 285 Williams, Raymond, 68 and early mountaineering retail, 99 Winkler, Georg, 157, 197 Ringstrasse, 28 Winkler, Jenny, see Herzberg, Jenny 302 INDEX

Wirz, Tanja, 77, 176, 186 186, 197–200, 203, 258, 261, Wolfach, 148 265, 269, 285 Women elite mountaineering, 12 clothing, 188, 191 Wundt, Maud, 177, 186, 187, 189, elite mountaineers, 186–194 231 exclusion from alpine clubs, 77 Wundt, Theodore, 31, 189, 191, 192, feminism, 187, 188, 263, 268 207n52, 231 and guides, 192, 193, 203 Wyldbore, T., 70 modern subjecthood, 190 mountaineering and marriage, 192 numbers of ramblers in Northern Y England, 253, 254 Young, Geoffrey Winthrop, 198, 231 and office work, 71, 76 Salon, 189 suffrage, 32, 269 Z teachers, 75 Zagonel, Bartolo, 193 Wordsworth, William, 33, 34, 151, Zermatt, 1, 195, 231 152 Zillertal, 178, 199, 200 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Zöhnle, Rosa, 189, 190 34 Zsigmondy, Emil, 177, 182, 185, 196, depicted by Rawnsley, 152 202 Working class, 12, 32, 34, 47n28, 77, Zurbriggen, Matthias, 7 78, 80, 81, 84, 156, 160, 177, Zwickh, Nepomuk, 31, 116–118