The Modern Mind

by Peter Watson

  Gide was unusually interested in English literature: William Blake, Robert Browning, Charles Dickens. But he also knew the Bloomsbury set – Gide had studied English at Cambridge, the Bloomsbury outpost, in 1918. He met Clive Bell in Paris in 1919, stayed with Lady Ottoline Morrell in Garsington in 1920, carried on a lengthy correspondence with Roger Fry (both shared a love of Nicolas Poussin), and later served on an antifascist committee of intellectuals with Virginia Woolf.

  As she was preparing her novel Jacob’s Room, Virginia Woolf was only too well aware that what she was trying to do was also being attempted by other authors. In her diary for 26 September 1920, she wrote, ‘I reflected how what I’m doing is probably being better done by Mr Joyce.’59 T. S. Eliot, she knew, was in touch with James Joyce, for he kept her informed of what the Irishman was doing.

  Virginia Woolf was born in 1882 into an extremely literary family (her father was founding editor of the Dictionary of National Biography, and his first wife was a daughter of William Makepeace Thackeray). Although she was denied the education given to her brothers, she still had the run of the family’s considerable library and grew up much better read than most of her female contemporaries. She always wanted to be a writer and began with articles for the Times Literary Supplement (which had begun as a separate publication from its parent, the London Times, in 1902). But she didn’t publish her first novel, The Voyage Out, until 1915, when she was thirty-three.60

  It was with Jacob’s Room that the sequence of experimental novels for which Woolf is most remembered was begun. The book tells the story of a young man, Jacob, and its central theme, as it follows his development through Cambridge, artistic and literary London, and a journey to Greece, is the description of a generation and class that led Britain into war.61 It is a big idea; however, once again it is the form of the book which sets it apart. In her diary for early 1920 she had written, ‘I figure that the approach will be entirely different this time; no scaffolding; scarcely a brick to be seen; all crepuscular, but the heart, the passion, humour, everything as bright as fire in the mist.’62 Jacob’s Room is an urban novel, dealing with the anonymity and fleeting experiences of city streets, the ‘vast atomised masses scurrying across London’s bridges’, staring faces glimpsed through the windows of tea shops, either bored or bearing the marks of ‘the desperate passions of small lives, never to be known.’63 Like Ulysses and like Proust’s work, the book consists of a stream of consciousness – erratic at times – viewed through interior monologues, moving backward and forward in time, sliding from one character to another without warning, changing viewpoint and attitude as fast and as fleetingly as any encounter in any major urban centre you care to name.64 Nothing is settled in Jacob’s Room. There isn’t much plot in the conventional sense (Jacob’s early promise is never fulfilled, characters remain unformed, people come and go; the author is as interested in marginal figures, like a flower seller on the street, as in those who are, in theory, more central to the action), and there is no conventional narrative. Characters are simply cut off, as in an impressionist painting. ‘It is no use trying to sum people up,’ says one of the figures, who could have stepped out of Gide, One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely what is done.’65 Woolf is describing, and making us feel, what life is like in vast cosmopolitan cities of the modern world. This fragmentation, this dissolution of the familiar categories – psychological as well as physical – is just as much the result of World War I, she is saying, as the military/political/economic changes that have been wrought, and is arguably more fundamental.

  The effect of Sigmund Freud’s psychological ideas on André Breton (1896–1966) was very direct. During World War I he stood duty as an hospital orderly at the Saint-Dizier psychiatric centre, treating victims of shell shock. And it was in Saint-Dizier that Breton first encountered the (psycho) analysis of dreams, in which – as he later put it – he did the ‘groundwork’ for surrealism. In particular, he remembered one patient who lived entirely in his own world. This man had been in the trenches but had become convinced he was invulnerable. He thought the whole world was ‘a sham,’ played by actors who used dummy bullets and stage props. So convinced was he of this vision that he would show himself during the fighting and gesture excitedly at the explosions. The miraculous inability of the enemy to kill him only reinforced his belief.66

  It was the ‘parallel world’ created by this man that had such an effect on Breton. For him the patient’s madness was in fact a rational response to a world that had gone mad, a view that was enormously influential for several decades in the middle of the century. Dreams, another parallel world, a route to the unconscious as Freud said, became for Breton the route to art. For him, art and the unconscious could form ‘a new alliance,’ realised through dreams, chance, coincidence, jokes – all the things Freud was investigating. This new reality Breton called sur-reality, a word he borrowed from Guillaume Apollinaire. In 1917 Picasso, Jean Cocteau, Erik Satie, and Léonide Massine had collaborated on a ballet, Parade, which the French poet had described as ‘une espèce de sur-réalisme.’67

  Surrealism owed more to what its practitioners thought Freud meant than to what he actually wrote. Few French and Spanish surrealists could read Freud’s works, as they were still only available in German. (Psychoanalysis was not really popular in France until after World War II; in Britain the British Psychoanalytic Association was not formed until 1919.) Breton’s ideas about dreams, about neurosis as a sort of ‘ossified’ form of permanent dreaming, would almost certainly have failed to find favour with Freud, or the surrealists’ view that neurosis was ‘interesting,’ a sort of mystical, metaphysical state. It was in its way a twentieth-century form of romanticism, which subscribed to the argument that neurosis was a ‘dark side’ of the mind, the seat of dangerous new truths about ourselves.68

  Though surrealism started as a movement of poets, led by Breton, Paul Eluard (1895–1952), and Louis Aragon (1897–1982), it was the painters who were to achieve lasting international fame. Four painters became particularly well known, and for three of them the wasteland was a common image.

  Max Ernst was the first artist to join the surrealists (in 1921). He claimed to have hallucinated often as a child, so was predisposed to this approach.69 His landscapes or objects are oddly familiar but subtly changed. Trees and cliffs, for example, may actually have the texture of the insides of the body’s organs; or the backside of a beast is so vast, so out of scale, that it blocks the sun. Something dreadful has either just happened or seems about to. Ernst also painted apparently cheerful scenes but gave these works long and mysterious titles that suggest something sinister: The Inquisitor: At 7:07 Justice Shall Be Made.70 For example, on the surface Two Children Threatened by a Nightingale is cheerfully colourful. The picture consists of a bird, a clock that resembles a cuckoo clock, a garden enclosed by a wall. But then we notice that the figures in the picture are running away after an episode not shown. And the picture is actually painted on a small door, or the lid of a box, with a handle attached. If the door is opened what will be revealed? The unknown is naturally menacing.

  The most unsettling of the surrealists was Giorgio de Chirico (1888–1978), the ‘painter of railway stations,’ as Picasso dubbed him. An Italian of Greek descent, de Chirico was obsessed by the piazzas and arcades of north Italian towns: ‘I had just come out of a long and painful intestinal illness. I was in a nearly morbid state of sensitivity. The whole world, down to the marble of the buildings and the fountains, seemed to me to be convalescent…. The autumn sun, warm and unloving, lit the statue and the church façade. Then I had the strange impression that I was looking at these things for the first time.’71 These landscapes, these townscapes, are always depicted in the same way by de Chirico. The light is always the same (it is afternoon light, coming from the right or left, rather than from above); there are long, forbidding shadows; darkness is not far away.72 Second, there are next to no people – these townscapes are deserted.
Sometimes there is a tailor’s mannequin, or a sculpture, figures that resemble people but are blind, deaf, dumb, insensate, echoing, as Robert Hughes has said, the famous lines of Eliot: ‘These fragments have I shored against my ruins.’ There are often humanlike shadows just around the corner. De Chirico’s is a cold world; the mood is forbidding, with a feeling that this is perhaps the last day of all, that the universe is imploding, and the sun about to cease shining forever. Again something dreadful has either happened or is about to happen.73

  At first sight, Joan Miró (1893–1983) was a much more cheerful, playful painter than the other two. He never joined the political wing of the surrealists: he didn’t get involved in manifestos or campaigns.74 But he did contribute to group shows, where his style contrasted strongly with the others. A Catalan by birth, he trained in Barcelona at a time when that city was a cosmopolitan capital, before it was cut off from the rest of Europe by the Spanish Civil War. He showed an early interest in cubism but turned against it; after a childhood spent on a farm, his interest in wildlife kept bubbling through.75 This gave his paintings their biological lyricism, increasingly abstract as time went by. In The Farm 1921–2, he painted scores of animals in scientific detail, to produce a work that pleases both children and adults. (He carried dried grasses all the way from Barcelona to Paris to be sure he got the details right.) In his later Constellation series, the myriad forms echo earlier artists such as Hieronymus Bosch but are joyful, more and more abstract, set in a nebulous sky where the stars have biological rather than physico-chemical forms. Miró met the surrealists through the painter André Masson, who lived next door to him in Paris. He took part in the first surrealist group show in 1924. But he was less a painter of dread than of the survival of the childlike in adult life, the ‘uncensored self,’ another confused concept drawn from psychoanalysis.76

  The wastelands of Salvador Dalí are famous. And they are wastelands: even where life appears, it corrupts and decays as soon as it blooms. After Picasso, Dalí is the most famous artist of the twentieth century, though this is not the same as saying he is the second best. It has more to do with his extraordinary technique, his profound fear of madness, and his personal appearance – his staring eyes and handlebar moustache, adapted from a Diego Velázquez portrait of Philip IV of Spain.77 Discovering his facility with paint, Dalí found he was able to render crystal-clear landscapes that, given the themes he pursued, played with reality, again in the way dreams are supposed to do. He had the lyricism of Miró, the afternoon light of de Chirico, and Ernst’s sense of dread derived from subtly changing familiar things. His images – cracked eggs (‘Dalinian DNA’), soft watches, elongated breasts, dead trees in arid landscapes – are visually lubricious and disturbing to the mind.78 They convey a world pullulating with life, but uncoordinated, as if the guiding principles, the very laws, of nature have broken down, as if biology is coming to an end and the Darwinian struggle has gone mad.

  René Magritte (1898–1967) was never part of the salon of surrealists – he spent all his life in Brussels – but he shared their obsession with dread, adding too an almost Wittgensteinian fascination with language and the hold it has on meaning. In his classic paintings, Magritte took ordinary subjects – a bowler hat, a pipe, an apple, an umbrella – and made extraordinary things happen to them (he himself often wore a bowler).79 For example, in The Human Condition (1934), a painting of a view through a window overlaps exactly with the same view, so that they fuse together and one cannot tell where the painting begins and ends. The world ‘out there,’ he is saying, is really a construction of the mind, an echo of Henri Bergson. In The Rape, also 1934, a naked female torso, framed in hair, forms a face, a prim yet at the same time wild face, casting doubt on the nature of primness itself, suggesting a raw sexuality that lies hidden. This image is seen against a flat, empty landscape, a purely psychoanalytic wasteland.80

  The surrealists played with images – and the verb is pertinent; they were seriously suggesting that man could play himself out of trouble, for in play the unconscious was released. By the same token they brought eroticism to the surface, because repression of sexuality cut off man from his true nature. But above all, taking their lead from dreams and the unconscious, their work showed a deliberate rejection of reason. Their art sought to show that progress, if it were possible, was never a straight line, that nothing was predictable, and that the alternative to the banalities of the acquisitive society, now that religion was failing, was a new form of enchantment.

  Ironically, the wasteland was a very fertile metaphor. What underlines all the works considered here is a sense of disenchantment with the world and with the joint forces of capitalism and science, which created the wasteland. These targets were well chosen. Capitalism and science were to prove the century’s most enduring modes of thought and behaviour. And by no means everyone would find them disenchanting.

  12

  BABBITT’S MIDDLETOWN

  In the 1920s the eugenicists and scientific racists were especially persistent in America. One of their main texts was a book by C.C. Brigham called A Study of American Intelligence, which was published in 1923. Brigham, an assistant professor of psychology at Princeton University, was a disciple of Robert Yerkes, and in his book he relied on the material Yerkes had obtained during the war (Yerkes wrote the foreword for Brigham’s book). Despite evidence that the longer immigrants were in the United States, the better they performed on IQ tests, Brigham’s aim was to show that the southern and eastern peoples of Europe, and Negroes, were of inferior intelligence. In making his arguments he relied on the much earlier notions of such figures as Count Georges Vacher de Lapouge, who thought that Europe was divided into three racial types, according to the shape of their skulls. Given this, Brigham’s conclusions were not surprising: ‘The decline in intelligence [in America] is due to two factors, the change in the races migrating to this country, and to the additional factor of the sending of lower and lower representatives of each race…. Running parallel with the movements of these European peoples, we have the most sinister development in the history of this continent, the importation of the negro…. The decline of American intelligence will be more rapid than the decline of the intelligence of European national groups, owing to the presence here of the negro.’1

  In such a context, the idea for a return to segregation was never far below the surface. Cornelia Cannon, noting that 89 percent of blacks had tested as ‘morons,’ wrote in the American periodical Atlantic Monthly, ‘Emphasis must necessarily be laid on the development of the primary schools, on the training in activities, habits, occupations which do not demand the more evolved faculties. In the South particularly … the education of the whites and colored in separate schools may have justification other than that created by race prejudice.’2 Henry Fairfield Osborn, a trustee of Columbia University and president of the American Museum of Natural History, believed ‘those tests were worth what the war cost, even in human life, if they served to show clearly to our people the lack of intelligence in our country, and the degrees of intelligence in different races who are coming to us, in a way which no one can say is the result of prejudice…. We have learned once and for all that the negro is not like us.’3

  The battles over biology did not stop with the victory the eugenicists achieved in getting the 1924 Immigration Restriction Act passed. The following year biology was back in the public eye in the notorious Scopes trial. As early as 1910 the Presbyterian General Assembly had drawn up a list of the ‘Five Fundamentals’ which they believed to be the basis of Christianity. These were: the miracles of Christ; the Virgin birth; the Resurrection; the Crucifixion, understood as atonement for mankind’s sins; and the Bible as the directly inspired word of God. It was the latter that was the focus of the Scopes trial. The facts of the case were not in dispute.4 John Scopes, of Dayton, Tennessee, had taught a biology class using as a textbook Civic Biology by George William Hunter, which had been adopted as a standard text by the State Textbook Commis
sion in 1919. (It had actually been used in some schools since 1909, so it was in circulation for fifteen years before it was considered dangerous.)5 The part of Hunter’s book which Scopes had used reported evolution as a fact. This, the prosecution argued, was contrary to Tennessee law. Evolution was a theory that contradicted the Bible, and it should not be asserted as bald fact. The trial turned into a circus. The prosecution was led by William Jennings Bryan, three times a presidential nominee, a former secretary of state, and a man who told Seventh Day Adventists before the trial that it would determine whether evolution or Christianity survived. He also said, ‘All the ills from which America suffers can be traced back to the teachings of evolution. It would be better to destroy every book ever written, and save just the first three verses of Genesis.’6 The defence was led by a no less colourful person, Clarence Darrow, a skilled orator and a fabled criminal lawyer. While Bryan was determined to make the trial a contest of Darwin versus the Bible, Darrow’s technique was to tie his adversary in knots, aided by eminent scientists and theologians who had arrived in Dayton determined to see that Bryan did not have his fundamentalist way. At one point, when Bryan insisted on testifying as an expert in biblical science, he proved unwilling or unable to answer questions about the age of the earth or of well-known archaeological sites. He defended himself by saying, ‘I do not think about things I do not think about.’ Darrow replied drily, ‘Do you think about things you do think about?’ In fact, Bryan won the case, but on a technicality. The judge kept the focus of the trial not on whether Darwin was right or wrong but on whether or not Scopes had taught evolution. And since Scopes admitted what he had done, the result was a foregone conclusion. He was given a fine of $100, which was then successfully appealed because the judge rather than the jury had set the fine. But that technicality apart, Bryan lost heavily. He was humiliated and mocked in the press, not just in America but around the world. He died five days after the trial ended.7