Christina Stead has had the peculiar fortune among twentieth-century Australian novelists to have enjoyed, at last count, three revivals of critical attention, reissued or newly collected works, and renewed fashionability.
The most recent bubble (they have taken place roughly two decades apart) yielded a biography and publication of Stead’s letters to her husband, William Blake.
Despite the biography’s concessions to contemporary ideological fashion, these letters remind us that all the leading figures in the Australian literary efflorescence of the 1930s (Eleanor Dark, Xavier Herbert, Katherine Susannah Prichard, Jack Lindsay, Dame Mary Gilmore, Vance and Nettie Palmer and their daughters, etc.) were Communist Party members or fellow-travellers of Stalinism.
Stead’s close friendship with the economist Henryk Grossmann features heavily.
‘I had better become a bit more intelligent before my Escort turns up next,’ she joked to Blake about Grossmann in April 1942:
I wonder at my temerity (in private) in going out cheerfully with the world’s leading Marxist, etc. but my Australian brass comes to my aid.
Stead had arrived in New York in 1937 to promote House of All Nations.
She stayed there until 1942, writing The Man Who Loved Children, joining the League of American Writers and describing herself as ‘a good Stalinist’.
Her social circle in wartime New York also included Mike Gold, whom she called a ‘perverse, deep, vain and self-interested man’ who ‘gives speeches without shame, when he has prepared nothing, for the sake of the money.’
Grossmann likewise spent the years 1937-1947 as an émigré scholar in New York.
Working in solitude — having been spurned by his old Frankfurt School milieu — he was desperate for company, intellectual stimulation and a rapprochement with Stalinist circles.
Stead sought his tutelage, hoping he might provide a fictional model for a character of the revolutionary ‘type’ (Lukács’s concept of novelistic types was then in the air).
She found to her disappointment that ‘psychology does not occur to him at all. He does not think psychologically and what he said was utterly useless.’
Grossmann eventually served as a fictional model for her Jan Kalojan (or Callowjan) in her short story ‘The Azhdanov Tailors.’
When after the war Grossmann accepted a teaching position in the DDR, Blake sought his patronage to win himself an academic place at the University of Leipzig.
In 1950 the US citizen travelled to the DDR, and enthused to Stead of the life they might enjoy under bureaucratic rule:
Like Henryk I was a nobody in America relatively, here I am a Marxian writer, which in Leipzig is the highest honour in the world apart from that of the directors of party policy and actual high administration.
He lives beautifully, really like a prince. So would we. He lives in a rococo palatial apartment house opposite a beautiful house…
Sadly Blake found Grossmann in hospital, dying of prostate cancer.
Stead’s letters regarding Grossmann provide a useful resource about Grossmann’s banishment from the Institute for Social Research, located then in New York.
Grossmann’s complaints of ‘sabotage’, related by Stead, show how the personnel and research program of the Frankfurt School, where Grossmann had worked in the 1920s and 1930s, were evolving into their familiar postwar configuration, in which he was no longer welcome.
By purging politically suspect figures like Grossmann, Max Horkheimer established a coherent ‘Frankfurt School’ research program based around himself and T.W. Adorno.
‘Critical Theory’ would be made academically respectable and salonfähig in time for the Cold War and German economic miracle.
Henceforth the Frankfurt School, shorn of any perilous links to classical Marxism, would rival Paris as the intellectual capital of Western Marxism.
While Grossmann lay on his deathbed in Leipzig, Adorno was making a triumphant return to Adenauer’s Federal Republic, where Horkheimer had been appointed rector of the University of Frankfurt.
As Perry Anderson described in Consderations on Western Marxism, the postwar Frankfurt School would be ‘officially feted and patronized’ in what remained ‘the most reactionary major capitalist country in Europe’.
In The Dialectical Imagination, his history of the Frankfurt School to 1950, Martin Jay wrote how Grossmann’s relationship with the Institute became ‘scarcely more than a formal one’ during the 1930s, leading to a ‘complete break’ during the Second World War:
An enormously learned man with a prodigious knowledge of economic history, Grossmann is remembered by many who knew him as the embodiment of the Central European academic: proper, meticulous, and gentlemanly.
He had, however, absorbed his Marxism in the years when Engels’s and Kautsky’s monistic materialistic views prevailed. He remained firmly committed to this interpretation and thus largely unsympathetic to the dialectical, neo-Hegelian materialism of the younger Institut [for Social Research] members.
More orthodox Marxists within the Institut, such as the economist Henryk Grossmann, were always criticized for their overemphasis on the material substructure of society…
Grossmann’s ideological inflexibility prevented him from having much impact on the Institut’s analysis of Nazism, or on much else in its work for that matter.
Grossmann was author of The Law of Accumulation and the Breakdown of the Capitalist System (1929), a former member of the Polish Communist Party and, before then, secretary of the Galician Bundists.
Unwelcome in Pilsudski’s Poland from 1926, he had become a researcher at the Institute for Social Research, an organization whose charter announced its dedication to the ‘history of socialism and the labour movement.’
The Institute was attached to the University of Frankfurt. Independent of the latter, it was directly answerable to the local Ministry of Culture, which appointed the Institute’s director.
The first director, Carl Grünberg, was an economist and Austro-Marxist, and Grossmann’s supervisor. (Jay later derided his ‘rather undialectical, mechanistic Marxism in the Engels-Kautsky tradition’, and his ‘inductive epistemology… a tone very different from that set after Horkheimer replaced him as director.’)
In June 1924 Grünberg had launched the Institute with the following words:
[In] contrast with the pessimists, there are the optimists.
They neither believe in the collapse of Western culture or of culture in general, nor do they alarm themselves or others with any such prospect. Supported by historical experience, they see, instead of a decaying form of culture, another, more highly developed one approaching. They are confident: magnus ab integro saeculorum nascitur ordo, a new order is being born out of the fullness of time.
And for their part they consciously demand that what is outmoded should stand aside in favour of what is emerging, in order to bring it more speedily to maturity.
Many people, whose numbers and influence are constantly growing, do not merely believe, wish and hope but are firmly, scientifically convinced that the emerging order will be a socialist one, that we are in the midst of the transition from capitalism to socialism and are advancing towards the latter with gathering speed.
According to Rolf Wiggershaus’s history of the Frankfurt School, its founder’s ‘heartfelt wish was… to create a foundation similar to the Marx-Engels Institute in Moscow, equipped with a staff of professors and students, with libraries and archives and one day to present it to a German Soviet Republic.’
Just a few short years after the aborted Communist insurrection, the Institute’s academics, most of them KPD or Social-Democrat members, were naturally monitored by the Weimar authorities.
In 1926 the Frankfurt Chief of Police confirmed that Grossmann had ‘not actually drawn any attention to himself politically’. He safely ascended to an economics professorship in 1930.
Meanwhile Grünberg’s successor, Max Horkheimer, was appointed director of the Institute in 1930, despite looser ties and lesser academic standing than Grossmann and other members. The Ministry of Culture, it was felt, would deem him less ‘politically suspect’ than these others, and his appointment would be ‘easier to push through’.
Horkheimer, a mediocre scholar, was ‘more trustworthy to his university colleagues’:
With no hope of attaining a professorship in the normal way, Horkheimer was pushing for the post of director, which brought with it the prospect of an accelerated academic career.
In 1931, the Institute ceased to issue the Archives for the History of Socialism and the Workers Movement; its new review was more innocentlv entitled The Journal of Social Research.
To a correspondent, Horkheimer straightforwardly declared himself ‘not interested’ in the traditional topics of socialism, economics or history. Rather, his ambitions lay ‘in a sociological theory appropriate to the society of those years and in the research that would be helpful for this task.’ Those seeking the substance in this vacuous formula were directed to Horkheimer’s inaugural address.
If intended as an accommodating signal of complaisance, this re-badging was of little avail by the early 1930s. Fascist ascendancy soon forced a scattering abroad.
In 1937 Grossmann was invited to New York by Horkheimer, director of an Institute now transplanted to premises on West 117th Street owned by Columbia University.
Like the Institute’s other designated ‘communist’, Karl Wittfogel, Grossmann was also excluded from the ‘Horkheimer circle.’ Without an office, Grossmann worked from home.
Five years into his stay, Horkheimer terminated the Institute’s relationship with Grossmann and trimmed other scholarly personnel from the payroll. In 1941 Grossmann’s work on economic dynamics, Marx and the classical political economists was not published under its auspices.
Grossmann decried all this as ‘sabotage’, and like Erich Fromm threatened to sue the Institute for breach of contract.
Stead’s letters shed some light on these grubby events, which are of broader interest.
Horkheimer’s renovation of the Frankfurt School certainly involved thwarted ambition, baronial intrigue and petty envy. But its consequences were neither trivial nor limited to the direct participants.
The program was one of lustration, with the conditions of exile allowing, ahead of time, the purifying cleanse of postwar liberation.
The churn of staff allowed the director, who boasted of his ‘dictatorship’, to remove those antiquated fogies whose ‘overemphasis on the material substructure of society’ clashed with his favoured research agenda.
As Jay’s history declares openly, what Horkheimer sought to displace from the Institute was a particularly musty, hidebound central European ‘tradition’, traceable to Engels and Kautsky: the ‘relative orthodoxy of the Institut’s Marxism’, still dimly alive in figures like the Galician Jew Grossmann, ‘the embodiment of the Central European academic.’
The regional, ethnic and generational nature of this turnover in personnel was no accident.
Initially Stead’s letters present the ‘gallant Cracovian’ Grossmann as a pitiable figure, if ‘highly presentable and entertaining’: ‘desperately lonely’, ‘crazy as a bedbug’, a ‘a splendid fellow, though quite a trial as a conversationalist’, ‘a marvellous fellow when he is not in one of his black or silly moods.’
Grossman was covetous of her time (‘I’ve noticed before with the Gallant, that although he may appear to give you a choice or choices, it always veers around in no time to his choice: pertinacious elf.’).
He moaned often to her of his deliberate mistreatment at the hands of Horkheimer and Adorno, and was bewildered by US society (‘All old people, went to bed 9 o’clock, lights out, finally he said, Isn’t there a café here [poor European!] and they said, Yes and showed him. A milk bar. Poor European’).
In 1942 Stead wrote to Blake in San Francisco regarding Grossmann:
He is very lonely. He talked about himself all the time, his past, his successes in Europe, what everyone said about him – what the newspapers said, praise from adversaries, etc. etc. – what is that (in a man of Grossmann’s mind) but utter loneliness!
They do not like him in the Institute – he has a contract with them and if they did not pay him he “would make them a law” [Stead’s rendition of Grossmann’s clumsy English] – but they say he is “genial but they sabotage, they compliment him, we all know Dr. Grossmann and at first he was too stupid, but now he sees it was only to sabotage.” (sabatayge) They want to cut down his work, take out all the parts that are really Grossmann and would make him stand out above them.
Then he sets out to explain Akkumulations-Theorie to muh! Let me tell you one thing – in his atrocious English he makes himself clear and interesting. He is a born expositor and teacher. He regrets most his “workshop”; all the brilliant young men he taught now scattered – where are they – he had letters from Yapan – now at war – a world scattered – what a world for a scholar says he.
And I see it as he speaks – he is tired, I think. It breaks his heart that after all his work in Europe, known and admired by enemies even, that no one even knows he exists here…
Poor lonely scholar. Isn’t it pathetic? I am quite sure that if you would work with him in S.F. he would go there at once – and that is positively all he has in mind.
He is getting rather bowed; very much so, in fact. He reads books about seven hours a day, and works in the evening too.
He is studying – well, he told me all about his work and he made it interesting, which I consider very smart, for it was all about Descartes, his mechanical view of the universe, quite new and revolutionary for the time; and now he is studying all the algebra that every was and mathematical economics – and the question of why the machines didn’t develop before, for it was invented long before – the Greeks had machines but only for toys, and in the fourteenth century they invented the bobbin, etc. but never used it. Why didn’t they need the machine in Greek times? Slave labour, unemployment, due to robbery abroad, etc. etc.
This guy is so clear in his thinking that though he is an abstruse marxist I keep seeing the clearest pictures and getting good ideas for writing from him…
He is simply overwhelmed that the Marxists don’t known him or criticise him here.
What lay behind the ‘sabotage’ Grossmann complained of?
Wiggershaus’s history tells how, in 1937, the double-dip Depression, and an ‘unlucky touch in investments’ in stocks and real estate, had brought a ‘drastic deterioration’ in the Institute’s balance sheet. (Its endowment had been donated by the grain merchant father of Felix Weil.)
Horkheimer elected to cut salaries and research personnel.
Staff were ‘left confused and insecure by more or less secretive hints about the Institute’s impending financial collapse and by obscure reductions in the salaries’:
When the endowment capital began to shrink, from the late 1930s onwards, Horkheimer’s main concern became to reserve a large enough part of the assets early enough to secure his own scholarly work on a long-term basis. Accordingly, Lowenthal – in his capacity as one of the trustees of the ‘foundations’ among which the funds were distributed – was one day asked to transfer $50 000 to a fund with Horkheimer as its sole beneficiary.
First to go was Erich Fromm (whom less successful members apparently resented: T.W. Adorno had once described him as a ‘professional Jew’).
The work of Grossmann, too, was altogether too redolent of Galicia and classical Marxism, with its embarrassing tendency to cite Plekhanov and Rosa Luxemberg, and its talk of capitalist ‘breakdown’:
[Grossmann’s] long, ponderous manuscripts did not meet the expectations of the Institute’s directors at all, and, with a not particularly happy life, he had become a rather difficult character.
Wiggershaus describes a conflict of interest between Horkheimer, Adorno, Leo Lowenthal and Friedrich Pollock on the one hand, and Herbert Marcuse and Franz Neumann on the other:
With closer incorporation of the Institute into the university [Columbia], the chances of an academic career for Marcuse and Neumann would increase; in contrast, Horkheimer and those basing their hopes on having their material needs supplied by the Institute did not want to see its independence restricted in any way.
The Institute’s co-founder informed Horkheimer that ‘Teddy’ Adorno had ‘one interest in life, to become a minor gentleman of leisure on the west coast as soon as possible’.
By 1943, the only research supported full-time by Institute funding was that of Horkheimer and Adorno. Herbert Marcuse and Franz Neumann now worked for the OSS, and every other scholar was likewise employed in the US government’s war effort.
In Pacific Palisades, a starstruck Adorno giddily assisted Thomas Mann’s work on Doktor Faustus.
Meanwhile Adorno’s stark Minima Moralia, together with his and Horkheimer’s Dialectic of Enlightenment, provided something of a programmatic manifesto for Critical Theory’s new postwar direction. The latter would reject all the aims set out for the Institute in Grünberg’s inaugural address.
Written simultaneously, these books jointly announced, in morose but full-throated tones, the Frankfurt School’s conversion to what Grünberg had called the camp of the ‘pessimists’, taking as their theme ‘the collapse of Western culture or of culture in general.’
With its strictures against ‘positivism’ and famously grim verdict on Francis Bacon and his epigones, Dialectic of Enlightenment provided a remarkable contrast with Grossmann’s history of the Scientific Revolution, also completed during the waning days of the Second World War.
In California, Grossmann’s work would no doubt have been judged as insufficiently ‘mediated.’
After German surrender, the Institute’s return to Europe was funded by the Allied High Commission for Occupied Germany and the City of Frankfurt.
Horkheimer became rector of the University of Frankfurt. With the Institute no longer relying on Weil’s money to fund its operations, Horkheimer appealed to the premier of Hesse.
The solicitation of grants and donations is described by Wiggershaus:
Horkheimer and Adorno sought support, not from the labour movement or from opposition groups, but from the ruling authorities themselves. As Horkheimer put it in a letter of thanks to the Prime Minister of the state of Hesse, Georg August Zinn, they were looking for ‘friends in high places, the sort of friends often hoped for in vain by academics also pursuing the practical goals of genuine education’.
Thus the Cold War Berufsverbot, having been preemptively enacted in exile, would require no more victims, and the Frankfurt School little intellectual defanging.
Henceforth, the long and steady descent to today’s Habermas, an ornament of the establishment — yet a figure, one must remember, of only the second postwar Frankfurt generation, and thus lineal recipient of a virtually pure inheritance from the founders — would proceed smoothly.
Since the beginning of his career in the 1950s, Habermas had been committed to German Atlanticism, or Westbindung:
The unreserved opening of the Federal Republic to the political culture of the West is the great intellectual achievement of the postwar period, of which my generation in particular could be proud…
That opening has been achieved by overcoming precisely the ideology of the center… [the] geopolitical palaver of “the old central position of the Germans in Europe”…
The only patriotism which does not alienate us from the West is a constitutional patriotism.
If, Habermas maintained, the source of all moral and intellectual authority lay in Western benevolence, and any hope of a future ‘cosmopolitan order’ reposed in Washington, then all trace of a German Sonderweg must be erased. After General Clay and John J. Mccoy had departed, the Bonn republic would have to hunt out and destroy any lingering German pretensions to being a bridge linking western and eastern Europe.
What must go, Habermas explained in the 1980s, if one was to ’emphatically defend the Federal Republic’s orientation to the West’, was ‘an ideology of “the middle”‘:
Only since the end of World War II have Germans this side of the Elbe and the Werra considered themselves, as a matter of course, to belong to Western Europe…
What is in dispute is not whether the Federal Republic belongs to Western Europe, but whether or not the option for the West has to be broadly anchored in a renewed national self-consciousness…
For it is only in the unclouded consciousness of a break with our more fateful traditions that the Federal Republic’s unreserved opening to the political culture of the West can mean more than an economically attractive opportunity and politically almost unavoidable choice…
The West integration of the German Federal Republic has taken place step by step: Economically through the Currency Reform and the European Community, politically through the splitting up of the nation and the consolidation of independent states, militarily through rearmament and NATO alliance, and culturally through a slow internationalization of science, literature and art that was not finalized until the late 1950s. These processes took place in the power context of the constellations brought about in Yalta and Potsdam, and later on through the interactions of the super-powers. But from the very beginning, they met with “an extensive pro-Western opinion among the West German population, an opinion nourished by the radical failure of the NS-politics and the repulsive appearance of Communism”.
What exactly was the pedigree disposed of by this Westbindung, with its ‘anchoring’ of Germany in NATO?
Today the once-enormous historical influence and international renown of German culture and language across Mitteleuropa, from the Baltic to the Balkans, can scarcely be imagined.
A figure like Grossmann was emblematic. He was born into the rickety Austrian political institutions of Franz Joseph: heir to the failed revolutions of 1848, with a large, recently emancipated and urbanizing Jewish population, and a residual landowning class, sharing a mostly German-language high culture across central and eastern Europe.
Long nurtured among the cultivated middle classes of the Habsburg, German and Russian imperial monarchies, since 1945 — and especially following the nationalist fragmentation and irredentism that has consumed the region since 1989, crafting monocultural territories out of formally multicultural federations — this shared lingua franca has ceased to exist.
While it lasted, however, it provided a setting in which classical Marxism, during the last third of the nineteenth century, emerged and flourished.
Both the custodians and the enemies of this heritage — the opponents of ‘Judeobolshevism’ with rather more relish than its embattled practitioners — acknowledged this geographical and demographic pattern.
The original Institute for Social Research thus established its firmest international connections with Vienna and Moscow.
Its early members generally partook of that ‘economic determinism’ (sic), which Horkheimer’s Frankfurt leadership would later repudiate as a cardinal and egregious error, a worn-out relic of the Second International and Stalinism.
Yet against this early continental reach can be measured the later national introversion of the postwar Frankfurt School, with its provincial retreat to Kant, Hegel and (with Habermas) a smattering of Anglo-Americans (Mead, Dewey, Parsons).
The upshot of Horkheimer’s victory can be judged by the following anodyne prospectus, setting out the Institute’s postwar research agenda:
Social research, in all its aspects, and particularly in the areas of research on the structure of society, on human relationships and modes of behaviour within the labour process, of opinion research and the practical application of sociological and psychological knowledge in the last few decades, has received a great boost.
Owing to political events, Germany has not been able to participate in this to the extent that might have been desired. The part these disciplines can play today both in Germany’s public life and in the rationalization of its economy can hardly be overestimated, if the experience of other industrial nations is anything to go by.
Social analyses will be able to throw light on many crucial political and social problems of the post-war period, such as the refugee problem. They can provide an important cognitive basis for the reconstruction of cities and industrial areas. Training in the methods of social research can help young people better to grasp the tensions within our own population, as well as those between nations, and thus allow them to make an independent contribution to overcoming them . . .
Last but not least, social research can open the way to a variety of new professions. The demand for scientists trained in the new methods is no less than that for engineers, chemists or doctors, and they are valued no less than those professions are. Not only government administration, and all the opinion-forming media such as the press, film and radio, but also businesses maintain numerous sociological research bodies.
Social research can create the optimal social conditions in their factories, ascertain and calculate in advance what the public needs in their branch of business, and monitor and improve the effectiveness of their advertising. A similar course of development can be expected in Germany as well.