In his address to the International Author's Congress held in Paris in 1935, Robert Musil—who claimed to have always held himself back from politics because, in his words, like hygiene, he had no talent for it—attempted to describe the problem of being an Austrian writer. A German author, he suggested, is unproblematically German in his writings. But an Austrian writer, he said, was in a more problematic situation. “My Austrian homeland expects from its poets that they be more or less poets of the Austrian homeland, and there are the creators of cultural history who make of show of demonstrating that an Austrian poet has always been something other as a German one.” It is perhaps the fate of Austria to have a surfeit of Kulturgeschichtskonstrukteure, of intellectuals who feel a need to build a cultural history of Austria and to project it into a distant past, and this largely in the face of the overwhelming reality that a unified cultural history of Austria is impossible, unlike, some might think, that of ancient nations such as Germany, France, or Italy.

The Rhine Crisis of 1840 has traditionally been understood as an important moment in the rise of German nationalism, when France's appeals for conquests on the Rhine were answered by the Germans in a negative way, surprising in its strength and extent. The defense of this “most German river” united people from various parts of the German Confederation as well as the various social classes, and support for the defense of the Rhine became a matter of national duty and honor. According to widespread opinion still shared by the majority of historians, the Rhine Crisis (Rheinkrise) was a national experience of crucial importance that transformed German nationalism into a mass and more aggressive movement.

Until not so very long ago, the national conflicts in the last decades of the Habsburg monarchy prompted historians to focus on nationality as the crucial marker of self-understanding among its populations. The high tide of modern nation-states after 1918 made national borders, national mindsets, and national power structures the framework for ever-greater historical interest in the lineages of national genealogy. In recent decades, scholars have questioned the assumption that modern nations were primordial or natural, even as such entities remain a prime object of attention in a world where nation-states and identity politics help define research agendas and nationalism continues to be a potent force. The lines of inquiry have taken a number of directions. First, historians have linked the pervasiveness of nation and national identity to specific historical circumstances. Perhaps most famously, the political scientist Benedict Anderson's insight regarding “imagined communities” pointed up the contingency of modern nations. It was increasingly accepted that they are artificial constructs of relatively recent date and firmly rooted in time and place. The neat boundaries that seemed to define them, as on old ethnographic maps, faded as their elusive, conditional, and shifting contours were recognized.

The population of Austria-Hungary was counted five times between 1869 and 1910. This process of counting established a new relationship between the state and its citizens. The state procured vast knowledge about its citizens, and the latter became accustomed to contact on a regular basis with state authorities and administrative practices. By the end of the nineteenth century, both the state and its citizens knew more of each other than ever before. This article scrutinizes the administrative translation of reality into discourse and the effects this had on the two parties involved.

In the autumn of 1874, Austrian popular society seemed ablaze with talk of ice. The Habsburg monarchy's first major polar expedition was returning, and, as the German geographer August Petermann put it, “No field commander, returning home with his army victorious from battle, could be received more magnificently and enthusiastically than this small band of twenty- two men.” The first published narrative of the expedition was released in Vienna around 24 September and had sold out of its print run of forty-five thousand copies by 27 September. This figure, however, is dwarfed by contemporary estimates of the multitude that turned up to welcome the explorers to Vienna on 25 September: around a quarter million, or approximately one-fourth of the city's entire population. Although such figures should be taken with a grain of salt, the festivities that greeted the explorers involved possibly the largest crowds seen on the streets of Vienna between the revolutions of 1848–49 and the mass marches of the Social Democratic Party in support of universal male suffrage around the turn of the century.

The Kingdom of Hungary instituted the civil registry of births, marriages, and deaths in 1894. While the new institution was both eulogized and criticized as a major step in the separation of church and state and toward the creation of a modern, secular Hungary, it also opened up a new path for nation building. In this exceedingly multilingual and multinational country, churches often acted as proxies of cultural and political institutions for the national minorities. In the present article, I examine the specifically nation-building aspects embodied in the new regulation for the official use of first names that accompanied Act XXXIII of 1894 on the civil registry, and focus particularly on Romanian first names. Due to their considerable mismatch with Hungarian first names, Romanian names posed a special challenge to policy makers, and for this reason they demonstrate some less obvious dimensions of the changes instituted in 1894. The geographic parameters of this investigation have been imposed by the spatial framework of a wider research project on the interconnections among language, nationalism, and social change in the eastern part of Dualist Hungary, a territory encompassing Transylvania, the easternmost counties of contemporary Hungary proper (according to the administrative division created in 1876), and the eastern two-thirds of the Banat. This framework enables me to make comparisons with other ethnolinguistic groups, notably Transylvanian Saxons and the Catholic Germans of the Banat.

The title “Cooperative Empires” may seem contradictory—or even provocative—to many historians of empire. It is widely believed that one of the defining characteristics of an empire is the presence of little or no cooperation among its individual provinces. More than that: there is a deliberate separation between the provinces that can go so far as to become a prohibition against cooperation. In theory, at least, each province must communicate with the imperial center, but not with other provinces. This contradiction between empire and cooperation is neatly illustrated by a true family story. The story is set in the 1970s in Prague, on the western edge of that space that historians today describe as the Soviet Empire. My mother, an East German from East Berlin, was then working as an interpreter in Prague. She was sitting on the tram on the way to visit some Czech friends who shared her love of jazz music. A queasy feeling began to come over her as she recalled that she was in fact forbidden to visit Czech friends, precisely because she was working in the German Democratic Republic's (GDR) embassy in Prague. It suited both the Soviet Union and the GDR that their foreign workers should not come into private contact with other nationalities, even if they belonged to allied fraternal countries. This was a sort of socialist version of the “divide and rule” principle as it was practiced in the nineteenth century.

Rising from the ruins of a post-1918 Austria shed of its monarchical leadership and much of its former territory, the Salzburg Festival acquired a symbolic authority during the First Austrian Republic that continues to ensure its privileged place in Austrian politics and culture to this day. At the core of this privileged place are two signature legacies that, while grounded in the festival's prewar history, fortified a particular agenda of the Second Austrian Republic in defining Austrian history and national identity in the decades following World War II. The first, as expressed in 1919 by the festival's most articulate cofounder, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, is that with its Salzburg setting, the festival should be understood as situated in the “heart of the heart of Europe,” a place where the antitheses of Central European geography (German and Slavic, German and Italian), social class (commoner and elite), and aesthetic genre (dramatic theater and opera) encounter one another only to be dissolved through transcendence in an “organic unity.”

The artistic and cultural life of Austria after World War I has often been presented in a gloomy light. As one contributor to a recent multivolume history of Austrian art commented, “the era between the two world wars is for long periods a time of indecision and fragmentation, of stagnation and loss of orientation … the 20 years of the First Republic of 1918–1938 did not provide a unified or convincing image.” For many this sense of disorientation and stagnation is symbolized poignantly by the deaths in 1918 of three leading creative figures of the modern period, Otto Wagner, Gustav Klimt, and Egon Schiele, two of whom succumbed to the influenza epidemic of that year. According to this view, war not only led to the collapse of the Habsburg monarchy (and a dramatic political caesura), it also caused or, at the very least coincided with, a profound interruption to artistic life and brought Vienna's cultural preeminence in central Europe to an end. The inhabitants of the newly constituted Austrian Republic were forced to contend with significant challenges as to how they might relate to the recent past. On the one hand, some—including, most famously, Stefan Zweig—sought refuge in a twilight world of nostalgic memory; others, such as Adolf Loos, used the events of 1918 as the opportunity to advance a distinctively modernist agenda that sought to create maximum distance from the Habsburg monarchy.