Modern Mind: An Intellectual History of the 20th Century (9 page)

Max Nordau
(1849–1923), born in Budapest, was the son of a rabbi. His best-known book was the two-volume
Entartung
(Degeneration), which, despite being 600 pages long, became an international best-seller. Nordau became convinced of ‘a severe mental epidemic; a sort of black death of degeneracy and hysteria’ that was affecting Europe, sapping its vitality, manifested in a whole range of symptoms: ‘squint eyes, imperfect ears, stunted growth … pessimism, apathy, impulsiveness, emotionalism, mysticism, and a complete absence of any sense of right and wrong.’
²⁶
Everywhere he looked, there was decline.
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The impressionist painters were the result, he said, of a degenerate physiology, nystagmus, a trembling of the eyeball, causing them to paint in the fuzzy, indistinct way that they did. In the writings of Charles Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde, and Friedrich Nietzsche, Nordau found ‘overweening egomania,’ while Zola had ‘an obsession with filth.’ Nordau believed that degeneracy was caused by industrialised society – literally the wear-and-tear exerted on leaders by railways, steamships, telephones, and factories. When Freud visited Nordau, he found him ‘unbearably vain’ with a complete lack of sense of humoura.
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In Austria, more than anywhere else in Europe, social Darwinism did not stop at theory. Two political leaders, Georg Ritter von Schönerer and Karl Lueger, fashioned their own cocktail of ideas from this brew to initiate political platforms that stressed the twin aims of first, power to the peasants (because they had remained ‘uncontaminated’ by contact with the corrupt cities), and second, a virulent anti-Semitism, in which Jews were characterised as the very embodiment of degeneracy. It was this miasma of ideas that greeted the young Adolf Hitler when he first arrived in Vienna in 1907 to attend art school.

Not dissimilar arguments were heard across the Atlantic in the southern part of the United States. Darwinism prescribed a common origin for all races and therefore could have been used as an argument
against
slavery, as it was by
Chester Loring Brace.
²⁹
But others argued the opposite. Joseph
le Conte
(1823–1901), like Lapouge or Ratzel, was an educated man, not a redneck but a trained geologist. When his book,
The Race Problem in the South,
appeared in 1892, he was the highly esteemed president of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. His argument was brutally Darwinian.
³⁰
When two races came into contact, one was bound to dominate the other. He argued that if the weaker race was at an early stage of development – like the Negro —
slavery was appropriate because the ‘primitive’ mentality could be shaped. If, however, the race had achieved a greater measure of sophistication, like ‘the redskin,’ then ‘extermination is unavoidable.’
³¹

The most immediate political impact of social Darwinism was the
eugenics movement
that became established with the new century. All of the above writers played a role in this, but the most direct progenitor, the real father, was Darwin’s cousin
Francis Galton
(1822–1911). In an article published in 1904 in the
American Journal of Sociology,
he argued that the essence of eugenics was that ‘inferiority’ and ‘superiority’ could be objectively described and measured – which is why Lapouge’s calibration of skulls was so important.
³²
Lending support for this argument was the fall in European populations at the time (thanks partly to emigration to the United States), adding to fears that ‘degeneration’ – urbanisation and industrialisation – was making people less likely or able to reproduce and encouraging the ‘less fit’ to breed faster than the ‘more fit.’ The growth in suicide, crime, prostitution, sexual deviance, and those squint eyes and imperfect ears that Nordau thought he saw, seemed to support this interpretation.
³³
This view acquired what appeared to be decisive support from a survey of British soldiers in the Boer War between 1899 and 1902, which exposed alarmingly low levels of health and education among the urban working class.

The German Race Hygiene Society was founded in 1905, followed by the Eugenics Education Society in England in 1907.
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An equivalent body was founded in the United States, in 1910 and in France in 1912.
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Arguments at times bordered on the fanatical. For example, F. H. Bradley, an Oxford professor, recommended that lunatics and persons with hereditary diseases should be killed,
and their children.
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In America, in 1907, the state of Indiana passed a law that required a radically new punishment for inmates in state institutions who were ‘insane, idiotic, imbecilic, feebleminded or who were convicted rapists’: sterilisation.
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It would be wrong, however, to give the impression that the influence of social Darwinism was wholly crude and wholly bad. It was not.

A distinctive feature of Viennese journalism at the turn of the century was the
feuilleton.
This was a detachable part of the front page of a newspaper, below the fold, which contained not news but a chatty – and ideally speaking, witty – essay written on any topical subject. One of the best
feuilletonistes
was a member of the Café Griendsteidl set,
Theodor Herzl
(1860–1904). Herzl, the son of a Jewish merchant, was born in Budapest but studied law in Vienna, which soon became home. While at the university Herzl began sending squibs to the
Neue Freie Presse,
and he soon developed a witty prose style to match his dandified dress. He met Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Arthur Schnitzler, and Stefan Zweig. He did his best to ignore the growing anti-Semitism around him, identifying with the liberal aristocracy of the empire rather than with the ugly masses, the ‘rabble,’ as Freud called them. He believed that Jews should assimilate, as he was doing, or on rare occasions recover their honour after they had suffered
discrimination through duels, then very common in Vienna. He thought that after a few duels (as fine a Darwinian device as one could imagine) Jewish honour would be reclaimed. But in October 1891 his life began to change. His journalism was rewarded with his appointment as Paris correspondent of the
Neue Freie Presse.
His arrival in the French capital, however, coincided with a flood of anti-Semitism set loose by the Panama scandal, when corrupt officials of the company running the canal were put on trial. This was followed in 1894 by the case of Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer convicted of treason. Herzl doubted the man’s guilt from the start, but he was very much in a minority. For Herzl, France had originally represented all that was progressive and noble in Europe – and yet in a matter of months he had discovered her to be hardly different from his own Vienna, where the vicious anti-Semite Karl Lueger was well on his way to becoming mayor.
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A change came over Herzl. At the end of May 1895, he attended a performance of
Tannhäuser
at the Opéra in Paris. Not normally passionate about opera, that evening he was, as he later said, ‘electrified’ by the performance, which illustrated the irrationalism of
völkisch
politics.
³⁹
He went home and, ‘trembling with excitement,’ sat down to work out a strategy by means of which the Jews could secede from Europe and establish an independent homeland.
⁴⁰
Thereafter he was a man transformed, a committed Zionist. Between his visit to
Tannhäuser
and his death in 1904, Herzl organised no fewer than six world congresses of Jewry, lobbying everyone for the cause, from the pope to the sultan.
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The sophisticated, educated, and aristocratic Jews wouldn’t listen to him at first. But he outthought them. There had been Zionist movements before, but usually they had appealed to personal self-interest and/or offered financial inducements. Instead, Herzl rejected a rational concept of history in favour of ‘sheer psychic energy as the motive force.’ The Jews must have their Mecca, their Lourdes, he said. ‘Great things need no firm foundation … the secret lies in movement. Hence I believe that somewhere a guidable aircraft will be discovered. Gravity overcome through movement.’
⁴²
Herzl did not specify that Zion had to be in Palestine; parts of Africa or Argentina would do just as well, and he saw no need for Hebrew to be the official language.
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Orthodox Jews condemned him as an heretic (because he plainly wasn’t the Messiah), but at his death, ten years and six congresses later, the Jewish Colonial Trust, the joint stock company he had helped initiate and which would be the backbone of any new state, had 135,000 shareholders, more than any other enterprise then existing. His funeral was attended by 10,000 Jews from all over Europe. A Jewish homeland had not yet been achieved, but the idea was no longer a heresy.
⁴⁴

Like Herzl, Max Weber was concerned with religion as a shared experience. Like Max Nordau and the Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso, he was troubled by the ‘degenerate’ nature of modern society. He differed from them in believing that what he saw around him was not wholly bad. No stranger to the ‘alienation’ that modern life could induce, he thought that group identity was a central factor in making life bearable in modern cities and that its
importance had been overlooked. For several years around the turn of the century he had produced almost no serious academic work (he was on the faculty at the University of Freiburg), being afflicted by a severe depression that showed no signs of recovery until 1904. Once begun, however, few recoveries can have been so dramatic. The book he produced that year, quite different from anything he had done before, transformed his reputation.
⁴⁵

Prior to his illness, most of Weber’s works were dry, technical monographs on agrarian history, economics, and economic law, including studies of mediaeval trading law and the conditions of rural workers in the eastern part of Germany – hardly best-sellers. However, fellow academics were interested in his Germanic approach, which in marked contrast to British style focused on economic life within its cultural context, rather than separating out economics and politics as a dual entity, more or less self-limiting.
⁴⁶

A tall, stooping man, Weber had an iconic presence, like Brentano, and was full of contradictions.
⁴⁷
He rarely smiled – indeed his features were often clouded by worry. But it seems that his experience of depression, or simply the time it had allowed for reflection, was responsible for the change that came over him and helped produce his controversial but undoubtedly powerful idea. The study that Weber began on his return to health was on a much broader canvas than, say, the peasants of eastern Germany. It was entitled
The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.

Weber’s thesis in this book was hardly less contentious than Freud’s and, as Anthony Giddens has pointed out, it immediately provoked much the same sort of sharp critical debate. He himself saw it as a refutation of Marxism and materialism, and the themes of
The Protestant Ethic
cannot easily be understood without some knowledge of Weber’s intellectual background.
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He came from the same tradition as Brentano and Husserl, the tradition
of Geisteswissenschaftler,
which insisted on the differentiation of the sciences of nature from the study of man:
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‘While we can “explain” natural occurrences in terms of the application of causal laws, human conduct is intrinsically meaningful, and has to be “interpreted” or “understood” in a way which has no counterpart in nature.’
⁵⁰
For Weber, this meant that social and psychological matters were much more relevant than purely economic or material issues. The very opening of
The Protestant Ethic
shows Weber’s characteristic way of thinking: B glance at the occupation statistics of any country of mixed religious composition brings to light with remarkable frequency a situation which has several times provoked discussion in the Catholic press and literature, and in Catholic congresses in Germany, namely, the fact that business leaders and owners of capital, as well as the higher grades of skilled labour, and even more the higher technically and commercially trained personnel of modern enterprises, are overwhelmingly Protestant.’
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That observation is, for Weber, the nub of the matter, the crucial discrepancy that needs to be explained. Early on in the book, Weber makes it clear that he is not talking just about money. For him, a capitalistic enterprise and the pursuit of gain are not at all the same thing. People have always wanted to be rich, but that has little to do with capitalism, which he identifies as ‘a regular orientation
to the achievement of profit through (nominally peaceful) economic exchange.’
⁵²
Pointing out that there were mercantile operations – very successful and of considerable size – in Babylonia, Egypt, India, China, and mediaeval Europe, he says that it is only in Europe, since the Reformation, that capitalist activity has become associated with the
rational organisation of formally free labour.
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Weber was also fascinated by what he thought to begin with was a puzzling paradox. In many cases, men – and a few women – evinced a drive toward the accumulation of wealth but at the same time showed a ‘ferocious asceticism,’ a singular absence of interest in the worldly pleasures that such wealth could buy. Many entrepreneurs actually pursued a lifestyle that was ‘decidedly frugal.’
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Was this not odd? Why work hard for so little reward? After much consideration, carried out while he was suffering from depression, Weber thought he had found an answer in what he called the ‘this-worldly asceticism’ of puritanism, a notion that he expanded by reference to the concept of ‘the calling.’
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Such an idea did not exist in antiquity and, according to Weber, it does not exist in Catholicism either. It dates only from the Reformation, and behind it lies the idea that the highest form of moral obligation of the individual, the best way to fulfil his duty to God, is to help his fellow men, now, in this world. In other words, whereas for the Catholics the highest idea was purification of one’s own soul through withdrawal from the world and contemplation (as with monks in a retreat), for Protestants the virtual opposite was true: fulfilment arises from helping others.
⁵⁶
Weber backed up these assertions by pointing out that the accumulation of wealth, in the early stages of capitalism and in Calvinist countries in particular, was morally sanctioned only if it was combined with ‘a sober, industrious career.’ Idle wealth that did not contribute to the spread of well-being, capital that did not
work,
was condemned as a sin. For Weber, capitalism, whatever it has become, was originally sparked by religious fervour, and without that fervour the organisation of labour that made capitalism so different from what had gone before would not have been possible.