Too Many Philosophers


Mother was off again, this time to New England to paint the Harvard philosophy department—all five of its members, and on a single canvas. Mother had known the Harvard philosophers before, but only slightly, when my father had studied under them during his graduate years. The thought that five such different men as William James, George Herbert Palmer, Josiah Royce, Hugo Münsterberg, and George Santayana—who, in the first decade of the century, had created the golden age of philosophy at Harvard—might not sit serenely within one frame never occurred to her.

Born in the raw mining town of Carson City, Nevada, in 1872, the daughter of an itinerant photographer, my mother, Winifred Smith Rieber, had had a long climb to become a well-known portraitist, one whose subjects included John Dewey, Franz Boaz, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Mann. Painting the Harvard philosophy department held no terrors for her.

She confidently designed a pleasing composition—arranging the five men as she would objects for a still life, prepared the big canvas, and set out for New England, confident of success. As soon as she faced the actual situation, however, she wrote us from Cambridge, “I’ve arrived, and I feel like Alice in Wonderland, only my wonderland is a gray, forbidding, intellectual New England, filled with too many philosophers.”

In a makeshift campus studio arranged for her in Emerson Hall, she blocked in her preliminary sketch on the big canvas, and waited for her sitters to come.

All five arrived at once. In they swept—an overwhelming crimson flood of academic robes. They examined her sketch coldly. None of them liked it.

Josiah Royce was the first to rebel. Highly sensitive about his appearance, he said he’d be damned if he was going to occupy the focal point of the painting. He was stormy; he was obstinate. “Don’t pay any attention to Royce,” my mother remembered William James whispering to her. “He always goes off half-cocked like this, at first. You’ll get used to it.”  But James had his own objections. He didn’t want to be painted in profile. One eye, he claimed, carried less authority than two, and so put him at a disadvantage. Mr. Palmer, a short man, preferred to be portrayed standing instead of sitting. His protest was gracious, but equally final.

Then Hugo Münsterberg began to rumble. Because of his height and bulk, she had put him at the rear of the group. “Mrs. Rieber!” he exclaimed. “You have misunderstood my personality.” Towering over her, arms folded across his chest, and chin thrust forward, eyes huge and defiant behind his thick glasses, he announced that he had a positive personality. Raising an imperious forefinger, he indicated where he should sit: center front. Mother hastily sketched in both professor and chair at the place he had chosen.

During the mutiny, Santayana was the only noncombatant. He sat apart, nonchalant and amused. Now and then he tossed in a word as a ringmaster might crack a whip to stir up the performers. But from the start it was obvious that he did not wish to be included in the group at all. Finally he rose. “Whatever metaphysical egotism may assert,” he said, “one cannot vote to be created,” and left the room.

This left four philosophers. It also left mother’s composition in ruins. Dominating the ruins sat Hugo Münsterberg. How, she wondered, could she rescue her picture from complete disaster? Then she knew. Early the next morning, she hurried to Emerson Hall, picked up her paint rag, and with three strokes removed the discordant note, leaving only the chair in which the burly professor had wished to sit. Three philosophers remained. Mother started work. Things went smoothly. Royce cooled down; James accepted the profile amiably, saying he could probably see farther and straighter with one eye than Royce could with two. Palmer got to stand.

William James was the first to pose. A fragile man, lightly bearded, James had a charming smile, a tranquil manner, an affable friendliness, and a flower pulled through his lapel. His clothes looked as if they had come freshly pressed from the cleaner; and his mind seemed to have blown in on a storm.

But he was an easy man to paint. Perhaps realizing that an artist works best with the mind turned off, he made no demands on her attention.

Not so Josiah Royce, who posed next. When he entered mother’s studio for his first sitting, he said, “Why, hello,” as if surprised at his own arrival. Reluctantly, he climbed up on the model stand for the embarrassing ordeal of having what he called “poor ugly me” examined in detail. He was a small but impressive man with a large, tousled head, pale blue eyes beneath a protruding brow. He wore a rumpled suit which had once been gray, but now was green from age and frequent cleanings.

For a few minutes he sat stiff and ill at ease. Then, forgetting himself, he exchanged embarrassment for the livelier pastime of metaphysical acrobatics. James had warned Mother that Royce would want to probe her mind. Royce, he had said, had a mania for it. James was right.