Exiles and Expatriates in the History of Knowledge, 1500–2000

By Peter Burke and Dror Wahrman

In this wide-ranging consideration of intellectual diasporas, historian Peter Burke questions what distinctive contribution to knowledge exiles and expatriates have made. The answer may be summed up in one word: deprovincialization. Historically, the encounter between scholars from different cultures was an education for both parties, exposing them to research opportunities and alternative ways of thinking. Deprovincialization was in part the result of mediation, as many émigrés informed people in their “hostland” about the culture of the native land, and vice versa. The detachment of the exiles, who sometimes viewed both homeland and hostland through foreign eyes, allowed them to notice what scholars in both countries had missed. Yet at the same time, the engagement between two styles of thought, one associated with the exiles and the other with their hosts, sometimes resulted in creative hybridization, for example, between German theory and Anglo-American empiricism. This timely appraisal is brimming with anecdotes and fascinating findings about the intellectual assets that exiles and immigrants bring to their new country, even in the shadow of personal loss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandeis University Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512600339

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PETER BURKE

EXILES AND EXPATRIATES in THE HISTORY of KNOWLEDGE, 1500–2000

THE MENAHEM STERN JERUSALEM LECTURES

BRANDEIS UNIVERSITY PRESS

HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF ISRAEL

BRANDEIS UNIVERSITY PRESS

Waltham, Massachusetts

BRANDEIS UNIVERSITY PRESS / HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF ISRAEL

An imprint of University Press of New England

www.upne.com

© 2017 Historical Society of Israel

All rights reserved

For permission to reproduce any of the material in this book, contact Permissions, University Press of New England, One Court Street, Suite 250, Lebanon NH 03766; or visit www.upne.com

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-5126-0033-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

available upon request

In memory of

my grandparents,

immigrants all

For my favorite expatriate,

Maria Lúcia

CONTENTS

Foreword by Dror Wahrman

Preface

Introduction

1. THE VIEW FROM THE EDGE

2. A GLOBAL TOPIC

3. EARLY MODERN EXILES

4. THREE TYPES OF EXPATRIATE

5. THE GREAT EXODUS

A Comment on Brexit

Appendix

One Hundred Female Refugee Scholars in the Humanities, 1933–1941

Notes

Bibliography

Index

FOREWORD

Dror Wahrman

Many years ago in Cambridge I heard an anecdote about Professor Peter Burke, which may well be apocryphal. But as historians we know that stories that are not true are often more revealing than those which are. The story was that when Peter came from the University of Sussex, where he taught through the sixties and seventies, for an interview at the University of Cambridge, one of the interviewers asked him, Dr. Burke, what languages do you know? Peter’s measured response was Well, I know and use in my work every language from Moscow to Lisbon, but my spoken Norwegian isn’t very good. The panel hired him.

In another context, this story could be told about the (surely mistaken) image of the academic hiring process in some old-school university settings back then, which could have been completed without reading the candidate’s CV. But I’m invoking this anecdote to introduce Peter Burke because his linguistic skills are truly extraordinary, even unique. They afford him broad access to scholarship and sources in all European languages, allowing him to write books that really take the whole of Europe as their topic, something many claim to do but few actually can.

Another layer was added to this anecdote when I learned years later about Peter’s family history, which in itself encompassed the whole of Europe, the same territory spanned by his works. On one side, Peter Burke’s father’s parents came from the westernmost part of Europe, from Ireland; on the other side were his mother’s parents, Jews from Vilnius. (His mother then converted to Catholicism to marry the Irish father.) So Peter’s vision of Europe might be taken to a certain degree as genetically determined.

The other formative moment I would like to mention is his military service in Asia—in Singapore, I believe. He was a clerk—therefore by definition bored—and thus he started exploring people quite different from any he’d ever seen before. After developing a considerable appreciation for cultural difference, he came upon a book by the famous anthropologist E. E. Evans-Pritchard. As a consequence, Peter suddenly realized that what he was engaged in was actually what in certain circles is called fieldwork, and that those circles fell under the rubric of anthropology. When he eventually became a historian, he remained one of the main champions of the use of social science methodologies in the writing of history.

So what is Peter Burke a historian of? That’s a question rather difficult to answer, since there are few topics Peter has not written about. Indeed, every time I take a different turn in my own intellectual interests, once I learn the terrain a bit, I find Peter’s unmistakable footprints there before me. Writing and teaching recently about the uses of art as historical evidence brought me to Peter’s Eyewitnessing: The Uses of Images as Historical Evidence (2001). When I took what for me was a surprising step and taught a course about Venice as a unique laboratory of European culture, sure enough: I discovered an early book of Peter’s of which I was unaware, Venice and Amsterdam: A Study of Seventeenth-Century Elites (1974). And since my current work is about the self-image of an early modern wannabe absolutist ruler, August the Strong of Saxony, and his cultural politics centered on precious objects, I must first contend with Peter’s The Fabrication of Louis XIV (1992). And so on . . .

So let me conclude with just a few words about three significant directions in Peter Burke’s work, including in the book I just mentioned.

In 1978 Peter’s Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe was published. This was a book with a unique achievement: it provided a major sweeping synthesis of that new and exciting field before—not after!—the field had actually matured in its development. How did he do it? By reading every study and numerous sources from every part of Europe, including Scandinavia and the Balkans, and then putting together a narrative that traced three hundred years of history. The book manifested a profound belief in the unity of Europe during the period before the rise of nationalism: the key variables were not England versus Germany versus Russia, but highland versus lowland, town versus country, shepherd versus weaver—and also, crucially, elite versus popular culture: how the elites first were enamored of popular culture in the Renaissance, then wagged a finger at it during the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, and finally simply moved away from it completely during the eighteenth-century Enlightenment. The influence of this seminal work is hard to overstate.

The second direction I wish to mention is again one in which Peter, more or less, founded a whole new field: the social history of language. It is hardly surprising that at some point languages became for him not only a powerful tool of research but an object of research in their own right. Several of Peter’s books, from The Art of Conversation (1993) to Languages and Communities in Early Modern Europe (2004), explore the social historian’s history of language. How was language used in specific circumstances? How, in a concrete example, did it come to be linked to identities in the period from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries? And so on. One could say that Peter brought history into the field of sociolinguistics. (It is also worth mentioning in this context that every one of Peter’s major works was translated in turn into a mind-boggling variety of different languages. For Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe, for instance, the list includes Albanian, Belarusian, Bulgarian, Chinese, Croat, Czech, Dutch, German, Hungarian, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Polish, Portuguese, Spanish, Swedish, Turkish, Ukrainian—again, a cultural and linguistic reach almost certainly unparalleled among modern historians.)

The last book I’d like to mention for a second time is The Fabrication of Louis XIV. This is a book that reconfigured our understanding of the zenith of European absolutism, by treating Louis XIV as the first major modern media event and the king himself as a media mogul—again, long before such formulations became fashionable.

I will stop here, though there are some twenty-five more books to go. But if I may, I would like to end on a more personal note. Peter would surely not remember this, but my standing here now, as a historian of Europe, owes something significant to him. He visited Tel Aviv University in the mid-eighties: I was then a physics PhD student hanging around the history department and trying to figure out whether what they were doing was more interesting than my potential future career in science. We met in the cafeteria of the humanities building and talked at some length about the future in history, as it were. Generously giving of his time, he made the field sound very exciting and accessible (I didn’t know about all these languages then . . .). So here I am now, having switched careers as he suspected I would, grateful for the opportunity to offer a few introductory words to the readers of this book, based on Peter Burke’s stimulating Jerusalem lectures.

PREFACE

Like my parents, I have been lucky enough not to have the experience of exile, but all four of my grandparents were born outside Britain. My mother’s family were exiles in the sense that they were refugees, or to use the dichotomy so frequently employed in studies of migration, pushed out of the Russian Empire by fear of pogroms. My father’s family, on the other hand, were expatriates, pulled from the west of Ireland to the north of England by the hope of a better life, choosing to move to a place that offered new opportunities.

As a British university student and teacher from 1957 onward, I found it impossible not to have known many exiles and expatriates as academic colleagues, to have made friends with some, and to have engaged in discussions with others over the years. At Oxford, I learned much from the seminars as well as the lectures of Edgar Wind, while at St Antony’s College, János Bak initiated me into Hungarian history and Juan Maiguashca into Latin American history and much more. Outside Oxford, I learned much from dialogues with Arnaldo Momigliano in a sort of extended conversation that was conducted in three countries and spread over twenty years, as well as from less frequent encounters with Ernst Gombrich and Eric Hobsbawm. In similar fashion, thirty years of conversation with David Lowenthal and Mark Phillips have taught me a good deal about distance—and also about proximity.

At the University of Sussex in its early days, I became a close friend of the sociologist Zev Barbu, a Romanian who opposed the postwar Communist regime, and the art historian Hans Hess, who left Germany in 1933, as well as enjoying frequent conversations with the Indian historian Ranajit Guha, the Anglo-Italian John Rosselli (son of Carlo, an exile murdered by Fascists in France), the philosopher István Mészáros (a former student of Georg Lukács), and Eduard Goldstuecker, who became professor of comparative literature at Sussex when he was forced to leave Czechoslovakia in 1968. In Cambridge, I came to know other exiles, including two more Czechs, Ernest Gellner and Dalibor Vesely, the Slovak Mikuláš Teich, and the Hungarian István Hont, as well as the expatriate Japanese Toshio Kusamitsu.

Other debts are more closely connected with the making of this book. The catalyst was the invitation to deliver the Menahem Stern Lectures to the Historical Society of Israel in spring 2015. I am extremely grateful for the invitation and for the impeccable organization of my visit by Maayan Avineri-Rebhun, as well as for the warm response from the audience, for comments by Elihu Katz, and for hospitality and conversation in Jerusalem with Albert I. Baumgarten, Yaacov Deutsch, Aaron L. Katchen, and especially with Yosef Kaplan.

Pepe González, Tanya Tribe, and Ulf Hannerz all invited me to present papers on the role of exiles in the history of sociology and art history in England, papers that I did not yet know would lead to a book. Pepe’s advice and references have helped me improve what I had written about the Spanish exiles of the 1930s in Mexico and elsewhere. Joanna Kostylo, an expatriate Pole, allowed me to read her draft chapters on Italian Protestant physicians in sixteenth-century Poland. Eamon O’Flaherty contributed valuable information about Irish exiles and exiles in Ireland. David Maxwell encouraged me to study Africa and missionaries, and Peter Burschel to focus on what was lost, especially by Germany in the twentieth century. For references, books, suggestions, and e-conversation, I should also like to thank Antoon de Baets, Alan Baker, Ângela Barreto Xavier, Melissa Calaresu, Luke Clossey, Natalie Davis, Simon Franklin, Elihu Katz, David Lane, David Lehmann, Jennifer Platt, Felipe Soza, and Nicholas Terpstra. Audiences for papers on this topic in Ankara, Cambridge, Graz, Madrid, Medellín, Rio de Janeiro, Vienna, and Zurich all gave me ideas. Portions of the manuscript were read by Yosef Kaplan, Mikuláš Teich, and Joan-Pau Rubiés, and the whole book was read by my wife Maria Lúcia García Pallares-Burke, who made her usual valuable suggestions.

INTRODUCTION

In 1891, at a time when this observation was not yet commonplace, the great historian of the frontier Frederick Jackson Turner remarked, Each age writes the history of the past anew with reference to the conditions uppermost in its own time.¹ As we move into the future, we tend to look at the past from new angles. For example, the rise of historical demography in the 1950s was a response to contemporary debates about the population explosion, while the events of May 1968 in Paris stimulated the studies of early modern popular revolt published in the 1970s in France and elsewhere. Today, it is obvious enough that the rise of environmental history responds to current debates about the future of the planet, global history to discussions of globalization, the history of diasporas to concern about migration, and the history of knowledge to debates about our knowledge society.

Some scholars took up these topics in earlier generations. Immigrants, for instance, were studied by historians who were themselves immigrants (like Piotr Kovalevsky, who wrote about the Russian diaspora), or their children, as in the case of Oscar Handlin, born in Brooklyn to Russian Jewish parents and the author of Boston’s Immigrants (1941) and The Uprooted (1951), or more recently by Marc Raeff, born in Moscow, educated in Berlin and Paris, a professor in New York and the author of Russia Abroad: A Cultural History of the Russian Emigration, 1919–1939 (1990). All the same, the rise of interest in both the history of diasporas and the history of knowledge since the beginning of the twenty-first century is a remarkable one.

Beginning from present concerns is not a reason for embarrassment, either individual or collective. Professional historians reject what they sometimes call presentism, but it is necessary to distinguish questions and answers. We are surely right to ask present-minded questions, although we need to avoid present-minded answers, obliterating the otherness or foreignness of the past. In this way historians can contribute to understanding the present through the past, viewing the present from the perspective of the long term.

This book is located at the crossroads of two of the trends just mentioned, the history of knowledge and the history of diasporas, concerned as it is with exiles and expatriates and what might be called their displaced, transplanted, or translated knowledges. It might be described, like two earlier volumes of mine, as an essay in the social history, the historical sociology, or the historical anthropology of knowledge, inspired by the work of Pierre Bourdieu, Michel Foucault, and Karl Mannheim. Mannheim, who was twice an exile, transplanted from Hungary to Germany and later from Germany to England, argued that knowledge was socially situated. His argument was intended to apply to everyone, but his point is particularly obvious in the case of exiles, who have to respond to major changes in their situation.²

The Vocabulary of Exile

To describe more or less forced migration, the Hebrew word is galut, while exiles is an old term in many European languages.³ In Italian, esìlio is a term used by Dante to describe the state of exile, which he knew all too well, while èsule, referring to an individual exile, is used by the sixteenth-century historian Francesco Guicciardini. Ariosto refers to a prófugo in the sense of someone who has fled, while Machiavelli uses the more neutral term fuoruscito, someone who has gone out. In Spain, the word exilio only came into use in the twentieth century. The traditional Spanish term, destierro, uprooting, is vividly concrete in its reference to the loss of one’s native land. One relatively optimistic exile, the Spanish philosopher José Gaos, who took refuge in Mexico after the civil war, preferred the neologism transtierro, declaring that he felt not uprooted in Mexico but . . . transplanted (no me sentia en México desterrado, sino . . . transterrado). However, his fellow exile Adolfo Sánchez Vázquez vehemently contradicted Gaos on this point.⁴

Gaos may have been exceptionally fortunate in his new environment, but his concept is a valuable one, like the idea of transculturation (transculturación) coined by the Cuban sociologist Fernando Ortiz to replace the term acculturation used by anthropologists at the time (the 1940s).⁵ Unlike one-sided concepts such as acculturation or assimilation, transculturación and transtierro imply that change takes place for both parties in the encounter, as many examples in what follows will suggest.⁶

Refugees is a noun first recorded in both French and English, appropriately enough, in 1685, the year of the expulsion of Protestants from France following the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Examples of the new word include the Histoire de l’établissement des François réfugies dans . . . Brandebourg, published in Berlin by Charles Ancillon, himself a refugee, in 1690, and the anonymous Avis important aux réfugiés sur leur prochain retour en France, published in the Netherlands in the same year. The German term Flüchtling, someone who has fled, also dates from the seventeenth century, while Verfolgte, to refer to someone who is pursued or persecuted, is more recent. Displaced persons is a relatively new coinage, first recorded toward the end of World War II, though a List of Displaced German Scholars was published in London in 1936.⁷

As for expatriates, in the sense of voluntary migrants, the term appears in English in the early nineteenth century. Expatriates are sometimes described as having been pulled toward a new country rather than pushed from their homeland. This mechanistic language obscures the choices that refugees had to make, even if those choices were both hard and limited. In other words, the distinction between voluntary and forced migration is not always a clear one, a difference of degree rather than a difference of kind.⁸ To take examples that will be discussed later, in the 1930s some German Jewish scholars in Turkey and some Spanish Republican scholars in Mexico may be described both as exiles (because they were virtually forced to leave their homelands) and as expatriates (because they were invited elsewhere). Again, in the 1970s, some Latin American intellectuals were neither expelled from their homelands nor in serious danger, but left because they rejected undemocratic regimes. In doubtful cases, I shall have recourse to the neutral term emigrant or émigré, which will also be employed when discussing exiles and expatriates together.

Personal Problems

From a subjective point of view, the label of refugee or exile is sometimes difficult to accept. The Chilean writer Ariel Dorfman rejected the term refugee, preferring to speak of himself as an exile. Again, the German philosopher Hannah Arendt declared in 1943 that we don’t like to be called ‘refugees.’ We ourselves call each other ‘newcomers’ or ‘immigrants.’ In similar fashion, John Herz (originally Hans Hermann Herz), a leading political scientist who moved from Germany to the United States in the 1930s, spoke not of exile but of his emigration.⁹

Some individuals accepted none of these labels. They were in denial for some time after their arrival, thinking of themselves as only temporarily absent from their homeland. The sociologist Nina Rubinstein, the daughter of refugees from Russia and later a refugee from Germany herself after 1933, described this initial stage of denial or disbelief as a recurrent one in the history of displacement. Denial is clear enough in the case of some of the Huguenots who left France in the 1680s, like the pastor Pierre Jurieu, expecting an early return. Again, in 1935, two years after his arrival in Britain, the art historian Nikolaus Pevsner did not see himself as an emigrant or a refugee.¹⁰

Denial is one story to tell about exiles. There are many others, many of which involve the loss to which the title of this book refers. Transplanting from homeland to what it is convenient to call the hostland involves the trauma of displacement and a broken career, feelings of insecurity, isolation and nostalgia for the homeland, along with practical problems such as unemployment, poverty, the struggle with a foreign language, and conflicts with other exiles and with some locals (because the fear or hatred of immigrants is nothing new).¹¹ Loss of professional status following immigration must not be forgotten, as a number of cases from the Great Exodus of Jewish scholars in the 1930s remind us (Karl Mannheim, for instance, Victor Ehrenberg, and Eugen Täubler, all of them discussed in Chapter 5).

The shock of exile also includes the loss of an individual’s former identity. It was surely significant that when the refugee art historian Kate Steinitz wrote under a pseudonym, she chose Annette C. Nobody. The struggle to construct a new identity has often been symbolized by a change of name. Thus the Austrian critic and journalist Otto Karpfen became Otto Maria Carpeaux in his new life in Brazil, while the Polish sociologist Stanisłas Andrzejewski, finding that the English were unable to pronounce his name, changed it to Stanislav Andreski.¹²

In short, for many individuals exile proved to be a traumatic experience, which sometimes led to suicide, as it did for the writer Stefan Zweig and for Edgar Zilsel, a philosopher-historian of science described by a colleague as an outstandingly brilliant mind. Both men were Austrian Jews who fled in 1938, when Nazi Germany invaded their country. Zweig ended up in Brazil, Zilsel in the United States. Zweig is still well known, while Zilsel is almost forgotten. He obtained a Rockefeller research grant and a teaching post at Mills College in California, but killed himself with an overdose of sleeping pills in 1944. The broken career of this pioneer in the historical sociology of science has been called a tragic case of failed transfer of knowledge.¹³ Zilsel was not the only exiled intellectual to commit suicide. Other examples include the romance scholar Wilhelm Friedmann, the medievalist Theodor Mommsen, the Spanish historian Ramón Iglesia, the German historian Hedwig Hintze, and the German art historian Aenne Liebreich (the last two killed themselves, like Walter Benjamin, when their escape was blocked).

A major problem for early twentieth-century exiles in particular was the need to become fluent in a new language. The situation of many early modern exiles was easier in this respect, because Latin was the scholarly lingua franca in the age of the Respublica literarum, while French was spoken and understood in many parts of Europe. The loss of opportunities to use one’s native language abroad is probably felt most acutely by imaginative writers like Zweig. Think, for example, of the tragic destiny of the Hungarian novelist Sándor Márai, one of the most successful writers in Hungary in the 1930s and 1940s. Opposing the new Communist regime, Márai left the country in 1948. The regime responded by banning his books in Hungary. Outside the country, the books were free to circulate, but they could be read only by the relatively few people who knew Hungarian. It is scarcely surprising that Márai wrote very little in the forty years of life that remained to him before he too killed himself.

Academic exiles also suffered in this way, although to a lesser degree. One scholar who bore vivid witness to this problem was the Austrian art historian Hans Tietze, who was fifty-eight when he went into exile, comparing his new language to the enforced use of a sieve which caused all subtle shadings and inflections to drain away. Another was the Italian literary scholar Leonardo Olschki, who took refuge in the United States in 1939, and wrote with black humor that in his circle of fellow exiles, they referred to the sort of English that they were learning to speak as Desperanto.¹⁴

Yet another witness was the German art historian Erwin Panofsky, noting that a scholar in the humanities who lives abroad finds himself in a real quandary. With him the stylistic formulation is an intrinsic part of the meaning he tries to convey. Consequently, when he writes himself in a language other than his own, he will hurt the reader’s ear by unfamiliar words, rhythms and constructions; when he has his text translated, he will address his audience wearing a wig and a false nose (as this passage suggests, Panofsky himself, here writing in English, had himself escaped from the quandary, but some of his colleagues never did). As the exiled art historian Nikolaus Pevsner noted when reviewing the English version of Paul Frankl’s classic study of Gothic, the result was sense lost in transit.¹⁵

W. G. Sebald, himself living as an expatriate in England (but writing in his native German), distilled many stories about survival and death, adaptation and refusal to adapt in his novels, including the four vividly imagined life histories in The Emigrants (Die Ausgewanderten, 1992). These stories illustrate the point that Theodor Adorno made, in his usual dogmatic way, after his own return from exile in the United States: "every intellectual in emigration is, without exception, damaged (beschädigt)."¹⁶ Exiles are both intellectually and emotionally dislocated.

For a sixteenth-century example, one might cite the scholar-printer Henri Estienne, a Protestant who fled from Paris to Geneva. Estienne was described by his son-in-law, the learned Isaac Casaubon, as neither able to return home nor to find a place that is right for him elsewhere. This description may remind some readers of the Austrian writer Stefan Zweig’s description of himself as homeless in all countries, or that of the critic Edward Said as out of place everywhere.¹⁷

Thinking of the insecurity of exiles, we might take the case of two Hungarians, both of them Jewish, who fled their country in 1919 when the Soviet-style regime of Béla Kun was displaced by Admiral Horthy and a White Terror began. The philosopher-critic Georg Lukács, living in Vienna, carried a pistol in his pocket to guard against possible attempts to kidnap him and take him back to Hungary. The physicist Leó Szílárd, who was living in Berlin in 1933, kept his most important belongings packed in two suitcases, so that he would be ready to move at any time at a moment’s notice.¹⁸

Expatriates too face serious problems on occasion. They too suffer from nostalgia, even if they can usually return home if they want to. As Malinowski’s posthumously published diaries suggest, anthropologists sometimes suffer from a sense of isolation when they do fieldwork among a people with very different habits from their own. Again, expatriates, even able ones, may find it difficult to make a career in the country they have chosen.

Take the case of Rüdiger Bilden, a pioneer in Brazilian and Latin American studies. Bilden was a German who decided to emigrate to the United States as a young man of twenty-one, arriving there just before the outbreak of the World War I. He studied at Columbia University, where scholars of the caliber of Franz Boas believed that he had a brilliant future ahead of him. That future never materialized. Bilden never obtained a permanent academic post, and although he was full of ideas, he published very little. He was in part a victim of his own perfectionism, never finishing his PhD thesis, but he also had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, a German in the United States during two world wars as well as the Great Depression. He died unknown and in poverty, while his younger friend, the Brazilian scholar Gilberto Freyre, made his reputation by developing ideas that Bilden had put forward years earlier.¹⁹ In the history of exiles and expatriates, as in history in general, there are losers as well as winners.²⁰

Once heard, the stories of the losers are difficult to forget, like the everyday problems of exile even in the lives of successful individuals. Soon after Pevsner arrived in England, he wrote to his wife, Swimming in these waters isn’t going to be easy. Each sentence, each lecture, each book, each conversation here means something completely different from what it would mean back home.²¹ The fact that some émigrés moved from one hostland to another, or to more than one, suggests that settling down was not a simple process. New niches have new requirements for survival.²² To succeed abroad, it is often necessary to reinvent oneself, to enter a new field, or to master a new