Over the past three decades, historians of cameralism have moved away from treating it as a largely intellectual exercise, a specific school of political and economic thought, to drawing attention to the way it was (or was not) embedded as a discourse in particular practices: university education, alchemical endeavour, experimental agriculture, or just looking for a job. In 2005 Andre Wakefield went back to Albion Small's distinction between ‘book cameralists’ and ‘practical cameralists’, calling for more attention to be given to the interaction of literary production with administrative practice. In truth, even this distinction describes, in most cases, rather than different biographies, different moments in an individual's career trajectory, moving between managerial responsibility in a private or state capacity and periods of accelerated writing, publication or involvement in education. Some managed each with rather more distinction than others, and perhaps the most prolific writers, precisely because they had time to write and build their reputation through writing, were the least representative of either the usual run of cameralist administrators, or of the everyday expectations of those who did the drudge work of running states. In cases where historians have tied the stages of this trajectory into a more coherent analysis, this has generally been done in a biographical mode, explaining the context of particular writings, or indeed examining whether individuals practised what they preached. Studies that broadly contextualise cameralist thought within long-term trends in administration and governance in the germanophone territories remain scarce.

One theme that consistently emerges in cameralist works is forestry. Forestry was a major aspect of state activity in central Europe, employed large numbers of people (as foresters, woodwards, or as part of the provision of princely hunting), and both could supply significant revenues to the fisc, or underpin the activities of strategically important industries such as metalsmelting or saltworks. Some states managed woodlands directly, or leased concessions to supply significant timber export industries. Territorial rulers both exercised extensive direct ownership of woodlands, which could be used to generate income; enjoyed rights both of regal claimed over unutilised space and in regard to hunting over their entire territory; and also asserted rights to govern the provision of basic resources to ensure basic welfare (Notdurft).

1984: Blockheads Peg The Importance The Hired Man

None of the 1984 British musical flops roused the enthusiasm of audiences. Blockheads (Mermaid Theatre, 17 October 1984; season) had a decent provenance, and decent enough actors to play Laurel (Mark Hadfield) and Hardy (Kenneth H. Waller). Mounted for ￡300,000, and encouraged by the success of the London production of Snoopy!!! for both of which shows the American Hal Hackady wrote the lyrics, the show was intended for Broadway, but never made it. Hackady had a busy career as lyricist, without much commercial success, having contributed to Broadway revues and musicals including Minnie's Boys and Ambassador, panned on both sides of the Atlantic. For some reason, the music for Blockheads was by the Russian pianist and classical music and motion picture composer Alexander Peskanov. For the Financial Times ‘This patchy, likeable work has its moments, but lacks dramatic tension’, while the Sunday Times criticised ‘a plodding storyline […] a slow, myopic stage biopic earnestly indexed with dates’, and music that was ‘undistinguished’. The Standard agreed that ‘The tunes […] are jaunty but predictable’ and the lyrics ‘pedestrian enough to be accused of loitering’. Hadfield and Waller's impersonations of the famous duo were appreciated, but Blockheads failed to generate enough interest to take it beyond its Mermaid season.

In the West End, David Heneker's run of luck with splendidly mounted British musicals (Half a Sixpence, Charlie Girl, Jorrocks, Phil the Fluter) was running dry by the mid 1980s, by which time his idea of what a British musical might be seemed out of step. Peg (Phoenix Theatre, 12 April 1984; 146) aged itself by presenting as ‘A Romantic New Musical’. At least here was a show born of Anglo-American co-operation, courtesy of its American producer Louis Busch Hager, who travelled to England ‘because of my desire to work with David Heneker’. The hope was that after its London opening following a spell at the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre in Guildford, the show would get to Broadway; a hope doomed to be forlorn.

THE UNIFYING CONCERN of the preceding section of this book, the tendency to blame social and historical ills on men, is the target of Gisela Elsner's satire in the essay “Vom Flausch und Fluch der neuen Frau” (On the Fleece and Curse of the New Woman, 1988). In her typically trenchant diction, Elsner reports that “ein Steckbrief kursiert, auf dem statt einer Verbrechervisage ein Hodensack zu sehen ist” (a wanted poster is in circulation that shows not the face of a criminal but a scrotum). In this essay, she ponders the apparent consensus among the left liberal intelligentsia that men (bar a few anomalies) have contributed nothing to the world but its destruction. Elsner was not alone in her skepticism about the roots of this misandry. In the 1980s, the philosophers Frigga Haug and Christina Thürmer-Rohr caused controversy among West German feminists when they suggested that patriarchal structures would only erode when women became aware of their own complicity and investment in oppressive thought patterns, not least the ideology of separate male and female spheres. Thürmer-Rohr insisted that women too readily painted themselves as post hoc “Trümmerfrauen des Patriarchats” (rubble women of patriarchy), disclaiming responsibility for social affliction because they were not directly responsible for the economic or political decisions that had caused social and environmental harm. Women become “Mittäterinnen” (co-perpetrators), she argues, because they tolerate the destruction wrought by male-run institutions. As the term “Mittäterinnen” implies, however, Thürmer-Rohr primarily conceives the political failings of women in the context of an already guilty male society. Perhaps the most wellknown example of this widespread tendency in feminist circles is Margarete Mitscherlich's essay “Antisemitismus: eine Männerkrankheit?” Mitscherlich argues that female antisemitism stems from identification with male prejudice. She concludes that expressions of antisemitism among women do not contradict the long-standing psychoanalytical belief that interaction is central to the psychic world of women who therefore develop a morality, “die liebevoller, beweglicher und humaner ist als die des Mannes” (which is more loving, flexible, and human than men's).

Gisela Elsner reproaches such conceptions of femininity, which she particularly associates with the current discourse of “Neue Mütterlichkeit” (New Motherliness) that emphasizes the social value of qualities deemed maternal.

The turbulence of Violeta Parra's career has been clearly delineated in the preceding chapters. A pattern emerges in the analyses of her early struggles as a singer and folklorist and of her later success as an artist on the international stage: she was more successful abroad than she was in her home country. This was particularly the case with regard to her visual art. In chapter 7 Yalkin's analysis of Parra's most famous exhibition in the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris gives a clear sense of the reception of her art in Europe. In this chapter I will continue the focus on Parra's visual art, seeking to explore the reasons why it was so successful abroad. I view Parra within the European art scene of the 1960s and consider the relationship between her art and that of other leading artists of the time.

Without a doubt, Parra's artistic masterpieces are her arpilleras (embroideries). One of these, emblematic of Parra's bold, activist style, is entitled Contra la guerra (Against War) (1964). It is a work of art which absolutely epitomises its era. The medium (cloth with wool embroidered on to it) is anti-intellectual and the pacifist message it presents brings politics into art in the era of the Cold War. In this, as in her other embroideries and sculptures, Parra was challenging the supremacy of the canvas by presenting radical ideas through undervalued and unorthodox media. In Europe at this time there was an ‘anti-movement’ formed of Abstractionists, New Realists, Assemblers and Pop artists. I propose that the agency of Parra's art was instrumental in this anti-movement. To demonstrate this, I will show that visually and conceptually her work was at the forefront of the artistic avant-garde. I relate Parra's work to what scholars like Bourdieu describe as being ‘in the air’. This endeavour is problematic because it involves recreating the less tangible aspects of an era:

The Desire for Unending Life in “This World”

A POPULAR TOAST on New Year's Eve is “Long Life!” As one year slips into the next, we look back and ahead. More pointedly than on other days of the year, we experience time as passing and life as transitory, feeling “that all flows by us, leaving us behind” as Hugo von Hofmannsthal's poem “Über Vergänglichkeit” (On Transitoriness) reminds us. This realization may feel even more unsettling when the promise of life after death that religions offer is no longer deemed convincing; the very meaning of one's life might then be cast in doubt. Even at what we would nowadays call a relatively early age, the Marschallin in Hofmannsthal and Strauss's Rosenkavalier is gripped by this anxiety about time when she gets up “in the dead of night” to stop all the clocks in the palace. After all, as the only beings aware of time, humans are aware of their temporality, the finiteness of their life, which quite literally defines them as mortals. Therefore on New Year's Eve we do not just look back but also ahead, with anxiety about fleeting time but also with a hope that is equally telling about Homo sapiens: the conventional toast at year's end hints at the urge to rebel against the knowledge that we are destined for the grave.

Of course, we do not need the calendar to remind us of this urge. The desire for the prolongation of the normal lifespan, ideally beyond all limits, is as old as mankind.

IT IS DIFFICULT TO OVERESTIMATE the influence that Theodor Adorno's 1970 Ästhetische Theorie (Aesthetic Theory, 2002) and Peter Bürger's 1974 Theorie der Avantgarde (Theory of the Avant-Garde, 1984) exercised on the understanding of montage and its relation to modern and avantgarde art. Working in the tradition that construes montage as an intermedial phenomenon and goes back to at least the 1930s and the writings of Ernst Bloch, Walter Benjamin, and Sergei M. Eisenstein, Adorno and Bürger enshrined montage as the principle of modern art and the avantgarde, respectively. Such an account of montage has proved extremely productive. Montage became the model for explaining not only the formal features of numerous artworks but also for outlining intermedial relations between the arts, describing the relationship between art and larger cultural formations, and even theorizing the genealogy of modern art.

Montage came to be seen as the artist's response to the new rapidly modernizing and industrializing world, in the face of which traditional means of representation no longer served their purpose. Next to constituting its historical cause, the advent of urbanization ushered in a novel mode of perceptual experience that, according to this paradigm, is precisely the effect that montage sought to emulate. It did so in the arts as diverse as visual art, plastic art, performance, music, theater, film, and literature, and in practices as varied as painting, collage, photomontage, assemblage, construction, sculpture, environment, happening, agitprop, epic theater, music theater, commercial film, avant-garde film, poetry, drama, and prose, among others.

WHEN IN 1809 the Leipzig publisher Breitkopf & Härtel issued Beethoven's Grande Sonate pour Pianoforte e Violoncelle in A major, its title page bore a dedication to the Baron Ignaz von Gleichenstein, a figure far less familiar today than higher-ranked aristocrats with whom Beethoven had involved, intense relationships: Archduke Rudolph, the Princes Lobkowitz and Lichnowsky, and Count Razumovsky among them. Gleichenstein neither supported the composer financially nor commissioned works from him. He was, to be sure, a member of the nobility, though his inherited status - the baron's father had served under the Prince-Abbot of St. Blasien - was well below that of other aristocrats within Beethoven's orbit. Although historians have assumed Gleichenstein (Illustration 14) was a cellist, no hard evidence actually supports this assertion. Unlike professional or even amateur cellists whose names appear on Beethoven's concert programs or were associated with the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Gleichenstein is absent from such ‘official’ documentation. Beethoven himself described the baron as ‘kein Kenner’, or ‘no connoisseur’, but rather ‘ein Freund alles Schönen und Guten’, ‘a friend of all that is beautiful and good’, distinction enough, it appears, for the composer to dedicate to his friend and confidant what arguably became the crown jewel of cello sonatas.

Just how early Beethoven met Gleichenstein is difficult to determine. ‘Strong of body and mind’, the baron had settled in Vienna in August 1800 before obtaining a post in the war ministry three months later, and he may have been introduced to Beethoven by his old Bonn friend Stephan von Breuning, who was among Gleichenstein's colleagues at the ministry. Some evidence, though, suggests that Beethoven's association with him may have dated back to 1797. Regardless, by 1807 Gleichenstein was serving as Beethoven's factotum, running menial errands such as buying shirts for the composer and assisting with his correspondence. While others offered generous financial subsidies or substantial commissions, Gleichenstein operated behind the scenes, acting, for example, as Beethoven's agent in arranging advance payments from publishers. Critically, it was Gleichenstein who intervened at the start of 1809, when Beethoven threatened to leave Vienna for Cassel to serve as Kapellmeister to the newly proclaimed Westphalian court of King Jérôme Bonaparte (an appointment the French emperor made against his better judgement and came to regret).

The preceding chapters have often dealt in dualities as I have charted changing conceptions of the string quartet in Beethoven's era. Dualities are found in the publishing history, performance dimension, locations, and listening history, as well as in the compositions themselves. On the one hand, we have seen that in Beethoven's era the string quartet was still considered as chamber music in the eighteenth-century sense: music essentially for and often by performers, which is flexible (possibly originating from or giving rise to arrangement) and ‘open’ (to excision or repetition of movements, for example). Under this view, the string quartet's primary function is to promote entertainment and sociability in private settings. On the other hand, the string quartet was increasingly considered a distinct, elevated, and exemplary genre of music. String quartets were increasingly considered as ‘closed’ musical works, located essentially in the composers’ scores, which demanded detailed study and attention – indeed reverence and respect – from performers and listeners. Under this view the genre was less functional, more representational: string quartets were publicly discussed and idealised, largely by upper-middle-class men, providing them with a sense of cultural identity, heritage, and ownership.

When Beethoven arrived in Vienna, the rage for string quartets was related to the flexibility of the medium and the opportunities for sociability that it engendered. The string quartets that were composed around 1800 were directed to performance in private and semi-private settings, and the enjoyment and interaction of the performers and listeners was primary. String quartets were one of the most popular media for arrangements, permitting further means of sociability, education, and entertainment in the private sphere: arrangements of sentimental operas, for example, allowed both performers and listeners to understand and enact contemporary ideas such as sympathy and the rewarding of virtue. These quartets were highly popular, but they took their place alongside numerous other genres of chamber music, notably Harmoniemusik and works that mixed keyboard, winds, and strings.

A more idealised view of the quartet, and more public roles for the genre, were emerging slowly in Beethoven's era, thanks especially to influential Viennese composers, critics, performers, and publishers, including Beethoven himself. The popularity of string quartets helped with the development of printing technology and print culture in Vienna in particular, which would ultimately promote the score-centred conception of chamber music.

Writing to the Quaker merchant Joseph Harford in April 1780, Edmund Burke talked of his chances of again representing Bristol in the forthcoming general election. He was reluctant because he stood ‘merely upon publick ground’ and did not have ‘what is called a natural Interest in that City’. By this he meant his appeal rested solely upon his reputation in the public sphere, what he achieved in the ‘Business of Parliament’ for his country and his constituents. In the short time he had been involved in Bristol politics he had been unable to build up the networks that were so useful in eighteenth-century politics: close contacts with important intermediaries in Bristol, links to clubs and associations, a familiarity with those channels of government patronage that would favour his friends and build up dependencies. ‘My circumstances’, Burke explained, ‘have prevented me from cultivating the private regards of the Citizens so much, as in common Course, might have been expected from me.’ In a hierarchical society in which whom you knew and whom you could influence mattered, such contacts were often the fabric of parliamentary politics. At the very least they undergirded the more turbulent shoals of political favour generated in the public domain.

Burke's comment encapsulates one of the central issues that have engaged historians of eighteenth-century politics tout court: the degree to which those politics might be regarded as intensely oligarchical, client based and local in orientation; the extent to which changes in the public sphere, in the modes of communication and culture, created extra-local identities that themselves had political traction.

Sixty years ago the convention was that British politics were intensely oligarchical and elite directed, and Bristol was offered as a classic case. In The Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III, Sir Lewis Namier used Bristol to repudiate the notion that the larger urban constituencies were ideologically independent and hostile to oligarchy. In his view Bristol politics was so dominated by merchant groups and their clubs that they were able to carve up the political representation of the city to their own satisfaction, frequently agreeing to share the representation of this two-member constituency city in ways that denied voter choice.

Introduction

In the opening pages of the Elementos da Policia Geral de hum Estado, translated from French to Portuguese by João Rosado de Villalobos e Vasconcellos and published in Lisbon in 1786, the translator made a dedication to the Lieutenant General of Police of the Portuguese kingdom, Diogo Inácio de Pina Manique, requesting his patronage for the book. The translator tells us in these opening pages that the work does not offer more than the theory behind the rules and principles already put in practice for many years by Pina Manique.

This very interesting book – which introduces itself as fully aligned with the spirit of the actions and establishments created in the field of ‘police matters’ in Portugal since the mid-eighteenth century – was originally published in French in 1781 by the famous publishing house of Fortuné- Barthélemy De Felice at Yverdon (Switzerland). Because of that, the Elemens de la police generale d'un Etat (1781), which does not contain any indication of authorship, would be traditionally assigned to De Felice. However, as indicated by Marc Weidmann, the author of the book is in fact another important name associated with the Swiss Enlightenment: the pastor and naturalist Eli Bertrand. What went unnoticed however by those who have dedicated themselves to this subject, and this book in particular, is that the Elemens de la police generale d'un Etat is actually not an original work of Bertrand, but an abridged and annotated version of a fundamental cameralist work written by Johann Heinrich Gottlob von Justi: Die Grundfeste zu der Macht und Gluckseeligkeit der Staaten; oder ausfuhrliche Vorstellung der gesamten Policey-Wissenschaft (1760/61) created for Bertrand's teaching purposes. Hence, even if inadvertently, the Portuguese translator, who also added his own notes linking the content of the book to Portuguese reality, assigned an important compendium of cameralist police science (Policeywissenschaft) as the foundation for actions and institutions in Portugal during the second half of the eighteenth century.

I will return to the topic of police matters and its regulations in more detail, but this example serves to highlight some of the issues that are central to discussion of the influence of cameralist ideas in Portugal.

Neither historians nor heritage professionals have found it easy to come to terms with the extraordinary popular uprising of October 1831. There is, to this day, no commemorative monument to the several hundred unarmed men and women killed by direct and merciless military intervention on 31 October. We do not even know the number. As at Peterloo twelve years earlier, where the death toll was much smaller and the outcry greater, there was no public enquiry and only a few inquests, none of which asked particularly searching questions and city coroners were in no mood to be critical. The Whig mayor, Charles Pinney, was put on trial and acquitted; not for murder but for failing to bring the crowd to book more quickly. Military commanders boasted with impunity of the slaughter they had overseen while a Special Commission tried 114 rioters, convicted 81, transported 26 and executed 4. The earliest attempts at historical analysis, and much popular writing on the subject since, tended to coalesce around themes of public alienation, whether it be from the structures of central or local government, or simply from the principles of civilised social order. As one popular account put it, ‘Whenever such convulsions take place in a community, they will almost always be traceable to one cause, namely an unnatural state of society, arising from misgovernment.’ Specifically, it is argued, the people and their rulers were out of touch.

Government was out of touch because the Recorder, Sir Charles Wetherell, had been foolish enough to claim to his parliamentary colleagues that there was little interest in reform at Bristol. The corporation was out of touch because it was remote, corrupt and unaccountable.