Chicanery: Senior Academic Appointments in Antipodean Anthropology, 1920–1960 9781800739710

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CHICANERY

Methodology and History in Anthropology Series Editors: David Parkin, Fellow of All Souls College, University of Oxford David Gellner, Fellow of All Souls College, University of Oxford Nayanika Mathur, Fellow of Wolfson College, University of Oxford Volume 44

Volume 39

Chicanery: Senior Academic Appointments in Antipodean Anthropology, 1920–1960 Geoffrey Gray, Doug Munro and Christine Winter

After Society: Anthropological Trajectories out of Oxford Edited by João Pina-­Cabral and Glenn Bowman

Volume 43

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The Social Origins of Thought: Durkheim, Mauss, and the Category Project Edited by Johannes F.M. Schick, Mario Schmidt and Martin Zillinger

Total Atheism: Secular Activism and the Politics of Difference in South India Stefan Binder

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Crossing Histories and Ethnographies: Following Colonial Historicities in TimorLeste Edited by Ricardo Roque and Elizabeth G. Traube

Franz Baermann Steiner: A Stranger in the World Jeremy Adler and Richard Fardon Volume 41

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Anthropology and Ethnography Are NOT Equivalent: Reorienting Anthropology for the Future Edited by Irfan Ahmad

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Search After Method: Sensing, Moving, and Imagining in Anthropological Fieldwork Edited by Julie Laplante, Ari Gandsman and Willow Scobie

Medicinal Rule: A Historical Anthropology of Kingship in East and Central Africa Koen Stroeken

Engaging Evil: A Moral Anthropology Edited by William C. Olsen and Thomas J. Csordas

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CHICANERY Senior Academic Appointments in Antipodean Anthropology, 1920–1960

Geoffrey Gray, Doug Munro and Christine Winter

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2023 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2023 Geoffrey Gray, Doug Munro and Christine Winter All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gray, Geoffrey, author. | Munro, Doug, author. | Winter, Christine, author. Title: Chicanery : senior academic appointments in antipodean anthropology, 1920-1960 / Geoffrey Gray, Doug Munro and Christine Winter. Description: First edition. | New York : Berghahn Books, 2023. | Series: Methodology & history in anthropology ; 44 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022054548 (print) | LCCN 2022054549 (ebook) | ISBN 9781800739703 (hardback) | ISBN 9781800739710 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: College teachers--Selection and appointment--Case studies. | Anthropologists--Australia--Scholarships. | Anthropologists--New Zealand--Scholarships. | Anthropology--Study and teaching (Higher)-Australia. | Anthropology--Study and teaching (Higher)--New Zealand. Classification: LCC LB2331.7 .G73 2023 (print) | LCC LB2331.7 (ebook) | DDC 378.1/20994--dc23/eng/20230201 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054548 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054549 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-­1-80073-­970-­3 hardback ISBN 978-­1-80073-­971-­0 ebook https://doi.org/10.3167/9781800739703

Where in the anthropology we write do we deal with those high realities of academic actuality: the smear, the careful silences, the well-­placed knife, the packing of panels of selectors, and the arts of prearranged judgement? —W.E.H. Stanner

CONTENTS

Prologueviii Acknowledgementsxiii List of Abbreviationsxiv Introduction1 Chapter 1. Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes

7

Chapter 2. Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-­Brown and A.P. Elkin

27

Chapter 3. Australasian Anthropology during the Second World War

46

Chapter 4. ‘A Matter of Reproach to New Zealand’: Auckland University College, 1949

57

Chapter 5. ‘The Brightest of His Generation’: Siegfried Frederick Nadel, Foundation Professor of Anthropology, the Australian National University

86

Chapter 6. Finding a Successor to A.P. Elkin, 1955

117

Chapter 7. Expansion: Anthropology at the University of Western Australia

135

Chapter 8. A Successor to S.F. Nadel

146

Chapter 9. Sydney Again

176

Conclusion184 Epilogue192 References199 Index229

PROLOGUE

As a professional field of inquiry, social anthropology emerged at the beginning of the twentieth century, though it had many progenitors. It evolved from a field of sister disciplines and developed complex relationships with these. A racially informed psychology and colonial-­ experienced Christian mission are two to mention. Some of our cohort had an interest in or studied psychology, such as Ralph Piddington, who was awarded a Master of Arts in anthropology and Master of Arts in psychology at the University of Sydney; in 1931 he studied under S.D. Porteus in Hawai`i on how to conduct psychological tests for his fieldwork (Gray 1994b; Anderson 2014). Reo Fortune, studying dreams at Cambridge, completed his doctorate in anthropology at Columbia University. In New Zealand Earnest Beaglehole regarded himself primarily as a psychologist, though his legacy as an anthropologist persists. S.F. Nadel in turn tried to establish anthropology combined with sociology and psychology at the Australian National University (ANU). Others came out of active church service and entered anthropology as a second career. This was more widespread in German-­speaking Europe, with the Catholic Father Wilhelm Schmidt occupying a chair in anthropology in Vienna, and Protestant missionary Diedrich Westermann, Professor of African studies in Berlin. Thus, while Anglican priest A.P. Elkin’s double career in his church and in ­anthropology – ­he remained active in the New South Wales Anglican church all his l­ ife – ­seems unusual within our cohort, other anthropologists also remained active in their respective religion, such as Camilla Wedgewood’s engagement in Quaker politics. Anthropology in the Antipodes, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was wide-­ranging in its interests, driven by a belief that ‘native’ peoples were doomed to extinction; its focus was on the ‘examination of the intellectual and material progress of man from the earliest ages down to the present’ (J.J. Wild, in Mulvaney 1988: 196). As a separate discipline and as a formal programme of study,

Prologueix

social anthropology did not emerge in the Antipodes until after the First World War, although there were resolutions passed by learned societies and associations, especially the British Association for the Advancement of Science, its Australasian counterpart, the Australian and Aotearoa/New Zealand Association for the Advancement of Science, and at various Pan-­Pacific Science congresses for the creation of academic appointments in Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand (Mulvaney 1988; Peterson 1991; Gray 2007a; Anderson 2019). This was driven in part by the perceived needs of colonial administrations in Oceania. Anthropology, it was argued, could assist in uplifting colonized peoples through a better understanding of their cultural, social and political lives. Initially, there were calls for the appointment of government anthropologists in the Australian territory of Papua and the territory of New Guinea, a League of Nations ‘C’ Mandate, as well as the training of field officers in anthropology, suggesting an enlightened and humane colonialism. As the newly founded League of Nations underlined: ‘the preservation, progress and welfare of the native population’ was a ‘sacred duty’ – a clear although problematic role for the new discipline of anthropology (see, for example, Bourmaud et al. 2020; Gordon 2021). When Australian governments made these appointments, it was British anthropologists from whom they sought advice.1 Robert R. Marett at Oxford University recommended Francis Edgar Williams for the position of assistant government anthropologist in Papua; the position of government anthropologist was held by William M. Strong, the chief medical officer, until his retirement in 1928, when Williams took over. In 1924, Cambridge anthropologist Alfred Cort Haddon recommended Ernest W.P. Chinnery as government anthropologist in New Guinea. Both Williams and Chinnery had diplomas of anthropology, from Oxford and Cambridge respectively. Despite various recommendations, the Aotearoa/New Zealand Government rejected such positions for Samoa and the Cook Islands (Ross 1959: 221–33). In Aotearoa/New Zealand, the establishment of the Maori Ethnological Research Fund was enthusiastically supported by the Anthropological and Ethnological Section of the 1923 Pan-­Pacific Science Congress, held in Sydney and Melbourne. The participants were gratified in finding support from ‘one of the native races of the Pacific’ (Skinner 1923; McCarthy and Tapsell 2019). Indeed, the Board of Maori Ethnological Research (BMER) sponsored the research of select anthropologists, such as Roger Keesing, with a view to better governing New Zealand’s Pacific colonial dependencies.

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It was during the interwar period that Australian social anthropology became a recognized academic discipline with the accoutrements of professionalization: specialized and specific qualifications and training, specific funding for research problems, a growing body of specialists, a journal devoted to publishing the results of research, and various attempts to ‘control a market for their expertise’ (Larson 1977: xvi; Wright 2005: 4–5). Those years saw the demise of the amateur ethnographer, who was usually associated with museum anthropology. However, the primary journals Mankind and Oceania (in Australia) and The Journal of the Polynesian Society (in Aotearoa/ New Zealand) underwent a gradual shift to privilege the writing of professional anthropologists over amateurs. At the London School of Economics (LSE), Bronisław Malinowski supervised and encouraged a generation of anthropologists. He did what he could to support some of his students, such as Raymond Firth, for the few academic appointments of the period. This did not stop him from interfering in placements such as a replacement for A.R. Radcliffe-­Brown at the University of Sydney. Radcliffe-­Brown, a key theorist of the time, likewise was rarely consulted by either the academy or the government. Haddon, a generation earlier, possibly had greater influence: he recommended Malinowski for work at the LSE, and he was consulted over both the Cape Town (1920) and the Sydney (1925) chairs and supported Radcliffe-­Brown for both positions (Hammond-­Tooke 1997; Young 2004: 168; Gray 2007a: 1–29; Mills 2008: 29–48). He supported Henry D. Skinner for the Otago University position (1919). This is not to say, however, that within the limitations of a fledgling discipline, Malinowski and Radcliffe-­Brown did not support their students in obtaining positions. Cambridge and Oxford were marginal to the expansion of social ­anthropology – ­Oxford less so than Cambridge.2 However, with the appointment of Radcliffe-­Brown (and E.E. Evans-­Pritchard in 1935 as research lecturer in African sociology), postwar Oxford became a centre of influence in the development of British anthropology.3 The paucity of academic ­positions – ­both teaching and ­research – meant a career in anthropology was largely dependent on the ­ goodwill and patronage of senior scholars.4 Without the support of the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial’s funding of research, the expansion of anthropology would have been severely limited. The University of Sydney was initially the primary recipient of funds for anthropological research. As a result, Sydney became ‘a center from or through which field research was carried on, not only in Australia,

Prologuexi

but throughout’ Oceania (Stocking 1995: 340; see also Gray 2007a, 2010). Once Malinowski engineered Rockefeller funding for the LSE’s International Institute of African Language and Culture (IIALC), the emphasis was on Africa, especially the British colonies. Rockefeller funding in Australia ceased in 1935. British-­ trained anthropologists who had established themselves before the Second World War are referred to as ‘pioneers’.5 Anthropologist and historian of British social anthropology Adam Kuper regards this small group of anthropology professors as dispensers of patronage: they held ‘key positions on government grant-­giving committees’ and ‘the decisive voice in the appointment of staff and often in the choice ­of … ­graduate students’. They could ‘effectively withhold or grant promotions, leaves and other privileges, and [their] recommendation was crucial in any application for a research grant or for a position elsewhere. [They were] generally the only effective channel of communication with the university authorities and grant-­giving bodies’ (Kuper 1983: 125). Of those, Evans-­Pritchard, Raymond Firth and Daryll Forde stand out in postwar anthropology. Firth seems to have exercised the greatest influence and his recommendations for senior appointments were most likely to be accepted. He, above all others, was most entangled, but he claimed he was able ­to – a ­ nd it was generally accepted that he c­ ould – s­ tand apart from personal friendships and make a decision that reflected the needs of the university. Firth’s influence and advice extended from Australasia to South Africa and Canada (Gray and Winter 2021). Evans-­ Pritchard and Forde were consulted over senior positions within the United Kingdom as well as the Commonwealth of Nations (the renamed British Empire), but Evans-­Pritchard seemed somewhat uninterested at times, such as the appointments to the ANU and the University of Sydney (see Goody 1995: 81–83).6 The expansion in teaching and research and the establishment of new positions and institutions across the dominions enabled Firth to become the most influential anthropologist of the postwar period.

Notes 1. The University of New Zealand sent examination papers for assessment to UK scholars. 2. Edmund Leach is scathing in his assessment of Cambridge anthropology before the Second World War. In his view, despite the history propagated at

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Cambridge that the field started in 1901 with the appointment of Haddon and Rivers, ‘[t]he most remarkable feature of Cambridge anthropology during this period was that Haddon and Rivers failed to establish anything at all’ (Leach 1984: 4). Haddon’s successors were former Indian public servants. Anthropology was revived by the appointment of Meyer Fortes to the William Wyse Chair in 1951. 3. ‘The electors were inclined toward Malinowski, who excluded himself in favour of Radcliffe-­Brown’ (Stocking 1995: 360–66; see also David Mills, in Riviere 2007: 85–87). Mills, however, seems to ignore Radcliffe-­ Brown’s experiences in establishing anthropology at Cape Town, Sydney and Chicago; rather, he emphasizes Malinowski’s experiences at the LSE as the template for Oxford. See also James (2007). 4. Of the interwar Australians who completed their doctorates in London, only A.P. Elkin and H. Ian Hogbin were employed in Australia. Ralph Piddington (Aberdeen, Edinburgh), Phyllis Kaberry (Yale, University College London), W.E.H. Stanner (Oxford, Makerere) and C.W.M. Hart (who had not completed his doctorate; Toronto, Canada) were employed outside Australia. University of Melbourne anthropologist Donald Thomson received his doctorate from Cambridge. Of the pre-­war New Zealanders, only Raymond Firth did anthropology at the LSE; Felix Keesing on the other hand remained in New Zealand, being awarded his D.Litt in 1934. Ernest Beaglehole briefly attended the LSE but not to do anthropology. Reo Fortune went initially to Cambridge, and later to Columbia University, where he completed his PhD. I.L.G. Sutherland obtained his PhD from the University of Glasgow. Peter Buck (Te Rangi Hiroa), although a medical practitioner, developed an interest in anthropology and was appointed director of the Bernice P. Bishop Museum in Hawai`i. 5. For a detailed account of the interwar students funded by the Rockefeller Foundation at the LSE, see Goody (1995: 26–28, ff.). 6. Audrey Richards and Phyllis Kaberry never had a chair; Lucy Mair had to wait until 1963.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Always in a project like this, which has extended over many years, we hope we have forgotten no-­one who provided assistance and support. We would like to acknowledge numerous archivists who went out of their way to be of assistance: Julia Mant and Tim Robinson at the University of Sydney Archives; Libby Nicholl, Records Management Programme Manager, Office of the Vice-­Chancellor, University of Auckland; Sarah Walpole, Royal Anthropological Institute; staff at the LSE archives; staff at the ANU Library and the Noel Butlin Archives. A blanket thank you goes to the staff in the Manuscripts Section of the National Library of Australia and the archives of the University of Vienna. We also want to thank Jan Borrie for once again doing a splendid copy edit and index and Rachel Evans for her final edit. We thank Tim Causer (then at King’s College London) for his inspired research assistance among London archival repositories. At various times, Michael Young, Cyril Belshaw and Jeremy Beckett commented on earlier versions. Andy Pawley, Jack Golson, Steven Webster, Caroline Thomas and the late Anthony Hooper assisted by reading some aspect of our work, simply talking with us or suggesting archival material. We would like to thank Terrence Hays, Lamont Lindstrom and Stephen Foster, who also commented helpfully on earlier material and our interest in writing a book on senior appointments. Michael Young encouraged us to make this material into a book. We would also like to thank the late Raymond Firth and the late John Barnes for discussions on some of these matters; Hugh Firth for quotation rights from his father’s papers; and Rory Barnes for discussing his father and allowing us to repeat what he said. We are grateful for their encouragement, comments and observations, but any shortcomings rest with us. We have used material from our jointly and singly authored articles (see References), modifying our earlier perspectives and judgements on the events and drawing them into wider argument on academic appointments which shaped Antipodean anthropology.

ABBREVIATIONS

AAAS AIAS ANRC ANU ASIO ASOPA BMER BOGS DORCA JPS LSE NAA NLA NSW RSPacS RSSS SPC UWA

Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies Australian National Research Council The Australian National University Australian Security Intelligence Organisation Australian School of Pacific Administration Board of Maori Ethnological Research Board of Graduate Studies Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs The Journal of the Polynesian Society London School of Economics National Archives of Australia National Library of Australia New South Wales Research School of Pacific Studies, ANU Research School of Social Sciences, ANU South Pacific Commission University of Western Australia

INTRODUCTION

Academic appointments can bring forth unexpected and unforeseen contests and tensions, cause humiliation and embarrassment for unsuccessful applicants, and reveal unexpected allies and enemies. It is also a time when harsh assessments can be made about colleagues’ intellectual abilities, their body of work, capacity as a scholar and fieldworker, effectiveness as a departmental administrator, qualities of leadership, the extent of their collegiality and so on. Rarely do such events bring to the fore disputation and disagreement over theoretical orientation or empirical approaches. That is left to debates and disputes within the university department or faculty and other academic venues, such as conferences and scholarly journals. Judgements by colleagues are typically expressed in more or less private ­contexts – ­in personal correspondence and conversation. But in the matter of academic appointment, and under the expectation of confidentiality, assessments are stated with greater ­deliberation – ­sometimes with greater caution and at other times with greater ­candour – ­which are every so often preserved in the relevant university files.1 Notwithstanding, at an institutional and disciplinary level, the choice of a new professor is implicitly a judgement about the past, and opens contested visions for the future. Settling on one candidate, moreover, can alter the direction of a department, sometimes renewing or even reinvigorating it, at other times continuing (or even hardening) old cleavages and disputes within a discipline and department. Or, in the case of a new chair, such as those at Auckland and the Australian National University (ANU), they can create different challenges: appointing new staff, establishing a coherent approach, and settling on new directions in anthropological practice and theory. In the appointment process, personal attributes such as a readiness to get along with colleagues, temperament, leadership qualities, teaching abilities or, as the Sydney selection committee pithily put it, ‘intellect, character and personality’, are s­ought – i­nsights that only colleagues and peers close to the candidates can provide. What

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Chicanery

we found often disconcerted us. The assessors’ reports were often disturbingly personal in nature and lay bare the likes and dislikes, allegiances and enmities, as well as unexpected contests and tensions, in international (largely British-­based) anthropology that were used to assist in appointments and hence determined the futures of peers and colleagues. Accessing public and private correspondence enables an insight into what people say about each o ­ ther – s­ ome of it incisive, some bitchy and much of it of value for a historian trying to make sense of events and people. Writing disciplinary history can expose anxieties in some practitioners of the discipline. Making the contents of correspondence public has brought forth comment from disciplinary practitioners, some of whom trace their intellectual lineage to figures about whom we are writing. There is a misunderstanding that the decision-­making was taken by a body of academic staff broader than simply anthropologists interviewing and assessing other anthropologists. Some of our articles have received reviews that expressed deeply personal opposition, often verging on the abusive. We wonder whether a tendency to emphasize academic lineages brings forth gatekeeping or, rather, a desire to control the way the past is constructed and presented. History as we detail it disrupts personal narratives of origin, and subsequently some rejections relied on claims that the readers knew a different story that was ‘true’. We have had comments from some colleagues that we provide an institutional and organizational history of the discipline of anthropology through painstaking and detailed archival research. We have also received criticism from other quarters along the lines that this type of history of anthropology is ‘history for history’s sake’, presenting a ‘sardonic view of the squabbles and jealousies of what was until the 1970s a very small profession’ (see Goody 1995: 25). We have been accused by some of concentrating excessively on personal enmities, alliances and appointment details, of making public the private opinions and evaluations of the work and competence of people now dead but well known to many living anthropologists. These opinions, we are told, were never intended to enter the public domain. One commented despairingly that ‘if this is social science, God help the enterprise’. In contrast, we have been acknowledged as providing ‘a welcome addition to the recent upsurge of interest in the history of universities, the tracing of academic connections and networks across the globe and the development of academic disciplines. Let us hope that further studies of Australasian intellectuals during this period

Introduction3

will enrich this emerging historical field’ (Darian-­Smith 2015: 129; see also Darian-­Smith and Waghorne 2019). Many senior anthropologists view writing on academic appointments as trespassing; we are frequently accused of inquiring too insistently in what is considered a private domain, which should be kept under very tight wraps. We have even been informed that our work attacks the reputations of individual anthropologists.2 One referee’s report, for instance, kept referring to ‘the author’ (Geoffrey Gray) despite it being clearly stated that the paper was co-­authored: Some will see in this the continuing attempt by the author to attack the reputation of Professor Berndt, in particular, by making public the low evaluation of his work by some of the people consulted about the applicants for Elkin’s p ­ osition … T ­ he author does not help the situation by interpreting everything to do with Ronald Berndt in the worst light.3

This criticism reveals an anxiousness, a fear that such research may unearth details best left hidden, or reveal secrets hitherto held closely within the domain of personal memory. Jack Goody, for example, insists that anthropologists’ acrimonious relationships did not affect their professional behaviour. The nearness of the past further complicates this anxiety.4 It is much like family ­history – ­so many toes waiting to be trodden on. What may appear to be in the past for the historian often remains in the present for colleagues of some of the scholars under discussion. In addition, in some branches of anthropology, the lineage of training and affiliation of an anthropologist is part of a professional and personal identity. This can impact directly on their sense of themselves, their colleagues and their place (reputation) in the present. It seems to us these are calls for a steam-­cleaned history of the discipline. Besides, on the matter of confidentiality, these records are in the public domain, as are government records. Goody, after initial concerns, had few qualms about using personal papers when writing The Expansive Moment, which traces the development of social anthropology in Britain and Africa through ‘its key practitioners’. He did wonder about the propriety of using personal c­ orrespondence … ­since it seemed like a breach of confidence. Some of this is distasteful enough to lead some readers to want to leave it out. But I have used n ­ othing … ­that does not appear in a public a ­ rchive … i­ t would be a mistake to bowdlerize their contents by selecting some extracts and deliberately avoiding ­others … ­What I have done is to try and place such remarks in a wider context of understanding, the verstehen of the ­anthropologist … ­I have not been concerned with aspects of their personal life except in so far

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as I considered that it affected ‘the history of social anthropology’. By this I mean not only the intellectual history but their relations with organisations and colleagues, as these influenced the course of events. (Goody 1995: 6)

Closer to our interests is an observation by the Australian anthropologist William Edward Hanley (Bill) Stanner, who revealed the brutal and, in his perception, at times very personal side of the selection process, heightened by his disappointment at missing out on the Sydney chair in 1955 and again in 1958, and the ANU chair in 1957. He was critical of the process and wrote to Raymond Firth, his mentor. It was a time of considerable stress and overwhelming disappointment: ‘Curious, isn’t it: where in the anthropology we write do we deal with those high realities of academic actuality: the smear, the careful silences, the well-­placed knife, the packing of panels of selectors, and the arts of prearranged judgement?’5 It is a damning indictment of the selection process but one that reflects some of the, at times, sheer chicanery we have seen revealed in the archival record. Stanner’s comments contain the kernel of the problem we seek to examine and explicate: was the choice based on theoretical knowledge, academic status, a fit for the organizational and institutional needs of the university or even the collegial preferences of fellow professors of sister disciplines? Or a combination of these? Based on detailed documentary evidence, we show how senior academic appointments were ­handled – ­the vagaries, the quirks and processes, questions of good faith and bad ­faith – ­and how filling a chair brought in wider academic networks, as senior figures within the anthropological fraternity became involved as referees for the various candidates, not to mention the lobbying for a preferred candidate or on behalf of oneself. Appointment decisions are also important in terms of their consequences, whether it be to continue a line of descent or theoretical orientations or as the catalyst for change, as well as in terms of relationships within a department. It is, however, more than a matter of personal alliances and enmities, although these are integral. Rather, we are mindful of the interplay of the four ‘“i”­s – ­individuals, ideas, identities and institutions’ (Mills 2008: 3, 11). That is, academic networks and the relationships between individuals are mediated through institutional prisms that, in turn, have a bearing on the directions and orientations of an academic discipline (Gray 2001, 2007a; Stocking 1995). The appointing of senior academics brings these interrelationships into sharp focus. One main (although

Introduction5

not surprising) difference between Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand in these past appointment processes also became apparent to ­us – ­namely, the unevenness of the inclusion of Indigenous peoples, as candidates, advisors or selection panel members.6 As well as epistemological and institutional issues, there is a methodological question. The present study, as we stated above, is firmly based on the documentary record, with a leavening of oral testimony, although we recognize that memory fades and transmutes with the passing of time. We are also aware that documentary evidence has its own problems, not least in creating an illusion of fixed evidence. Jack Goody makes a pertinent observation: Participants do not make the best historians, nor do practitioners make the best historians of science. But historians too are at a disadvantage. In the first place they are dependent on the written record, ­or … ­on recollections about the ­past … ­the written record is very partial in a number of ways. Not simply because much is left out, much destroyed. (Goody 1995: 191)

Importantly, he acknowledges that the written record ‘of an incident covers a greater span than the understanding of any one of the participants, perhaps all of them’ (Goody 1995: 191; cf. Stocking 2010: 111–13). Contrast this with Stocking (1995: xviii) on the transmission of anthropological ‘oral traditions’ of the recent past by ‘certain elder anthropologists [who] used to take fledglings on rural outings, in which they would indoctrinate them in the authorized version of the discipline’s mythistory’. In short, no single set of documents and no single memory concerning a university appointment are likely to yield other than a partial and sometimes misleading version. Even those most closely involved will necessarily have an incomplete (sometimes mistaken, other times nuanced) understanding of events, will repeat a trope generated by stories within a department that are favourable to a failed candidate, or perhaps simply be deceitful, or any combination of these. Overall, it is a small group of people who weave in and out of the ­accounts – s­ ome as applicants, others are referees, most connected in some way as students, teachers or colleagues. Internationally, with the exception of the United States, which saw an increase in the number of anthropologists during and after the Second World War, anthropology was a small group, many of whom attended university together, shared teachers and so on (see, for example, Price 2008). As Goody (1995: 85) points out:

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Like the members of other academic disciplines, anthropologists can be considered as a ­tribe … T ­ hat was especially true of British social anthropology from the 1930s to the 1960s, since the dominant figures had virtually all been students at the same place and of the same man. They were coevals, age mates, who dispersed to take up academic positions throughout the country (and elsewhere).

Chicanery is a group biography (a prosopography) of senior anthropologists and the way in which they interacted with each other over senior appointments, and what they thought of each other as people and scholars. For the most part, interwar selection panels consisted of three men who made a choice between the candidates; however, by the mid-­1950s, selection brought to the fore the webs of patronage and a more competitive process. Selection panels in the main consisted of disparate disciplinary representatives, which reinforced the obligation to fit the needs of the university rather than the discipline itself.

Notes 1. The retention of appointment files is even less certain today as various Acts of Parliament protect an individual’s privacy and mandate the disposal of material relating to unsuccessful candidates. 2. See Pybus (1999b) for a discussion of using revelations found in personal papers. 3. The Australian Journal of Anthropology, referee’s report, ‘Finding a successor to A.P. Elkin, 1955: A Transnational History’, 2010. [Our emphasis.] Ronald Berndt died in 1990. For a blind review, this illustrates the acrimony of the present towards the ‘unknown author’ (it was a joint authorship). The editor of the journal did not reject such a review; rather, she repeated the accusation; when we pointed out that at no stage did we traduce Berndt’s character and reputation, she accepted the paper. 4. However, this cannot be said of A.P. Elkin, Professor of Anthropology at the University of Sydney (see, for example, Gray 1994b; Gray and Munro 2011). Compare with Sutton (2009), who paints a rosy picture of friendliness and goodwill among Australian anthropologists, asking after one another’s health and such like. 5. Letter, W.E.H. Stanner to Raymond Firth, 15  October 1958, FIRTH: 8/2/13. 6. Australia has a shameful record: it was only in 1966 that the first Indigenous person, Charles Perkins, graduated from university.

Chapter 1

ESTABLISHING SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY IN THE ANTIPODES

Australian scientists, supported by their British counterparts, worked to convince the Australian Government of the value of anthropology as an academic discipline seeking to ascertain the laws of human sociality and origins and its usefulness in training colonial field officials.1 At the 1911 meeting of the Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), ‘Aboriginal welfare [as] a matter of serious debate’ was raised for the first time (Mulvaney 1988: 205). The following year, Herbert Basedow (a medical doctor) and Baldwin Spencer (a biologist turned ethnologist) were appointed protectors of Aborigines in the Northern Territory to assist in the administration of Aboriginal people, help define the problems and provide solutions. Around the same time, J.P.H. Murray, the Lieutenant-­Governor of Papua, an advocate for the use of anthropology in colonial administration, was casting around for a government anthropologist (West 1968: 204–35). The 1914 meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science (BAAS), held in Australia between 28 July and 30 August, supported a more specific and direct interest in the development of anthropology as a university subject (‘Anthropological Note’ 1913: 59–61, 63, 67; ‘Anthropological Teaching in the Universities’ 1914: 171–72). It was proposed that a committee be appointed to examine how the teaching of anthropology could be extended to the Dominions. It also urged that the vanishing tribes of Australia should be studied ‘before it was too late’. The meeting was interrupted by the declaration of war. There was an exodus of visiting international

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scientists returning to their home nations. Some were not so fortunate and were interned as enemy aliens, such as German anthropologist Fritz Graebner; the Polish-­born Bronisław Malinowski, an Austrian citizen, had to remain in the Trobriand I­slands – a ­ form of internment.2 Other meeting attendees included Alfred Cort Haddon, Reader in Anthropology at Cambridge University and a leading anthropologist of the time; he was a strong proponent of anthropology as both an academic discipline and one useful in colonial administration.3 He maintained connections with white settler nations such as Australia, Aotearoa/New Zealand and South Africa. Despite the urging of the BAAS and other groups and individuals, it was not an Australian university but one in Aotearoa/New Zealand that made the first academic appointment and taught anthropology as part of an arts/science degree by providing a Diploma in Anthropology.

Aotearoa/New Zealand Soon after war was declared in 1914, Henry Devenish Skinner enlisted for service overseas. He was wounded during the attack on the Dardanelles (Gallipoli) and classified as ‘permanently unfit for further service’. He took the opportunity to complete a Diploma of Anthropology at Cambridge under Haddon in 1917 and qualified the following year for his BA (Research). His thesis, ‘The Material Culture of the Moriori’, was submitted in 1923. The development of anthropology as a professional and academic discipline in Aotearoa/New Zealand begins with Skinner’s appointment as lecturer in ethnology at the University of Otago, Dunedin, on 30 December 1918 (Freeman 1959). His initial appointment was assistant curator (ethnologist) in the Otago University Museum.4 It was ‘an innovation [Skinner] had advocated with the support of prominent British anthropologists’, especially Haddon. His appointment established Otago as the first of the Aotearoa/New Zealand university colleges to recognize anthropology as a subject worthy of tuition (Thomas 1995: 7; Morrell 1969: 123–24; see also Anderson 2014). In the years leading up to Skinner’s appointment, natural scientists and amateurs, using the archaeological record to determine the period over which Mā ori had existed in Aotearoa/New Zealand, dominated ethnology and anthropology. The early twentieth century showed an increasing interest in the study of humankind combined with a

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes9

belief that the traditions and customs of Mā ori were on the point of ­extinction – a ­ common settler-­colonial trope. This coincided with the beginning of the Polynesian Society and its journal, The Journal of the Polynesian Society (JPS), which played (and continues to play) an important role in the development of anthropology in Aotearoa/New Zealand, in all its facets. The primary goal of the Polynesian Society at the time was ‘[t]o afford a means of communication, co-­operation and mutual criticism between those interested in, or studying Polynesian anthropology, ethnology, philology, history, manners and customs of the Oceania races, and the preservation of all that relates to such matters in a permanent form’ (cited in Thomas 1995: 6). The professionalization of a discipline is often difficult to locate and usually appears in retrospect, as past writings are examined, revealing the manner in which the author earned his or her living and the institutional setting in which they produced their work. Being able to devote most of one’s working life to the discipline and a journal devoted to publishing this specialized material are critical. A journal such as JPS is one of several stages in the making of anthropology as a profession in Aotearoa/New Zealand, despite most of its earliest contributors being gentlemen-­amateurs.5 Over time, anthropology evolved into an academic discipline with specialized and specific qualifications and training, specific funding for research problems, and a growing body of specialists and academic journals devoted to publishing the results of research. Elsdon Best and William Henry Skinner, H.D. Skinner’s father, were among the first to show an ethnographic interest in the language and culture of Mā ori – ­albeit their main field of interest was archaeology. Anthropologist Jeffrey Sissons (2012) described Best as Aotearoa/ New Zealand’s ‘first professional ethnographer’ and comments that he was fortunate to be in positions within the public service that ‘allowed him to pursue his personal interest in the Maori’. Best, along with S. Percy Smith and Edward Tregear, could be described as ‘professional amateurs’ who represented a stage in the progression from gentlemen-­amateurs to university-­trained and based ‘professionals’ (Thomas 1995: 65–84). During the first decades of the twentieth century, there was an emphasis on the recording and analysis of the language and customs of what was, even then, in 1914, seen as a ‘culture worthy of preservation’ (see Stanner 1939). Best first suggested the teaching of anthropology in 1891; picking up on debates in London, under the pseudonym of ‘Rawiunui’, he wrote:

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It has been truly said that the proper study of mankind is man [and] the study of these matters in youth will have the effect of producing a broadness of mind and of giving the student an interest in the human species, which will never be lost in after ­life … ­Those who become interested in anthropological subjects will find in them great solace of l­ife … ­This same grand science has taught us to trace the history of man and the development of his civilisation from the time when he existed. (Cited in Thomas 1995: 83)

It is unclear whether Best was making a call for anthropology as an academic discipline. Thomas suggests the first explicit reference to anthropology as an academic subject was made by Thomas Moreland Hocken, whose name is perpetuated in the Hocken Library (Otago Museum), when he addressed the congregation of the University of Otago, Dunedin, in 1894: To those whose tastes lie in the direction of language and ethnology, I could recommend no more absorbing subject than that connected with the ­Polynesian … ­races inhabiting the Pacific region. Problems of the most astounding interest are here everywhere ­presented – ­islands untenanted for ages, where huge monoliths and massive structures tell of a bygone people who have left no other trace, and whose history is utterly unknown to those, who 600 years ago, came after ­them … ­Were it in my power, I would found a chair for the prosecution of studies such as these. (Thomas 1995: 83)

Some twenty-­odd years later, a position, but not a chair, was created at Otago when the presentation of a series of popular lectures in 1919 and 1920 saw the first teaching of anthropology as part of a degree course. By 1922, it had become a subject for the arts and science degrees at Otago. H.D. Skinner was able to achieve what the others had not: the introduction of anthropology into the university curriculum. There had been calls at the end of the nineteenth century for Mā ori language studies and teaching (Thomas 1995; Reilly 2011).

Otago At its meeting in June 1918, the Royal Anthropological Institute passed a resolution that a chair of anthropology be established in the University of New Zealand6 to ‘train civil servants and administrators whose work lies among the more primitive peoples’. Further, ‘owing to its geographical position, New Zealand, had an unrivalled opportunity for field work in anthropology’ (‘Anthropology as a University Subject’ 1918: 259). When he was at Cambridge, Skinner made

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes11

the acquaintance of anthropologists such as the Egyptologists and diffusionists Grafton Elliot Smith and W.J. Perry, and Melanesianist W.H.R. Rivers. Haddon and Rivers were at the forefront of modern anthropological methodology and thinking in the first decades of the twentieth century, especially in developing and propagating arguments about the application of anthropological methods and knowledge to assist colonial administrations to manage, control and develop their indigenous subjects. Skinner bought into this argument. Skinner forwarded letters of support from Haddon, Charles Seligman (University of London), James Frazer (Cambridge) and R.R. Marett (Oxford) to the registrar and chancellor of the University of New Zealand.7 The editor of the JPS, S. Percy Smith, declined to publish Skinner’s letters supporting the introduction of anthropology to the university curriculum, offering instead to abstract them; Skinner’s correspondence ‘would take up too much room in his valuable journal’ (cited in Thomas 1995: 86). Skinner found a willing publisher in the Board of Science and Art. By publishing these letters of support in The New Zealand Journal of Science and Technology, they obtained a wider circulation than they would have in JPS. In following issues, there were other articles supporting anthropology as a university subject. Skinner wrote to all university colleges as well, outlining the introduction of anthropology as an academic subject (Cameron 2014: 211). These letters resulted in a special committee to investigate the possibility of introducing academic anthropology. It recommended anthropology be ‘included amongst the subjects taught at affiliated colleges of the University of New Zealand’; that ‘some acquaintance w ­ ith … ­Anthropology is extremely desirable for those going to the Pacific Islands either as administrators or missionaries’; and that anthropology could be taught by the existing staff at Otago, ‘­but … t­ he addition of a specialist in Polynesian and Melanesian anthropology would be a great advantage’ (Thomas 1995: 90). The University of Otago Council requested the committee provide a further report and provisional syllabus including those who could undertake the teaching. There were responses from mental health science and moral philosophy setting out a course of ‘comparative study of social phenomena’; geological anthropology, with a ‘study of geological conditions in the past’; and anatomical anthropology. While the Senate was discussing the idea of introducing anthropology to the curriculum, ‘­Otago … w ­ as taking the steps towards introducing it, and to a certain extent pre-­empting any decision the Senate would make’ (Thomas 1995: 89). In October

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1918, the Auckland-­based New Zealand Herald carried a feature article titled ‘Man in the South Pacific’, which lamented the neglect of and proposal for anthropological studies.8 Unaware of what was happening in Dunedin, it suggested an eminent anthropologist be recruited and that such a chair should be located at Auckland. It was another thirty years before a chair was established at Auckland. In Dunedin, matters were progressing. The council had decided anthropology should go ahead but it would offer a certificate of competency rather than a diploma. Such a course, short as it was, would benefit those preparing for a career such as missionaries (clergymen), colonial officials, teachers and those ‘interested in native peoples, their life and customs’ (cited in Thomas 1995: 93). Having effectively established anthropology as an academic discipline, there were still no trained staff. Of course, as we have seen, the obvious candidate was Skinner. Willi Fels, who owned the Drapery and General Importing Company of New Zealand (a now defunct chain of department stores better known as the DIC), paid half Skinner’s salary until 1923. In late 1917, Fels, an avid collector, decided his collections should be given to the community, and commenced his long association with the Otago Museum.9 Two years earlier, he had organized and was a major contributor towards an endowment fund to extend the museum’s ethnological collections, and a building fund that culminated in the erection of the Fels Wing in 1930. Anthropology was a one-­year ­course – ­a ‘unit’ – in the Bachelor of Arts degree. It was described as providing ‘an excellent coverage of the total field of anthropology, condensing remarkably well virtually all the main features of the subject, and so supplying the student with the essential basis of general knowledge and particular interest for later specialised study’. The ‘prescriptions’ in the unit were: zoological, palaeontological, archaeological, ethnological and sociological (Freeman 1959: 20). Skinner was trained in zoology. Freeman argued that two emphases can be discerned in Skinner’s teaching of anthropology: firstly, following Haddon, his approach was that of the natural scientist; and, secondly, his ‘ruling i­nterest … h ­ as been in cultural anthropology’, explaining ‘why the same people have a different social heritage at different points in time’, and in accounting ‘for the difference and for resemblances between cultures of distinct peoples, whether they are contemporaries or not’. Skinner’s approach was ‘little affected’ by either Malinowski or Radcliffe-­Brown’s theories. (Freeman 1959: 21). Skinner, for his part, produced descriptive rather than analytic accounts of Mā ori (Sutherland 2013: 150–52).

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes13

Otago produced scholars who became prominent social anthropologists, including, for example, Derek Freeman, William Robert (Bill) Geddes and Catherine Berndt (née Webb). In a letter to Raymond Firth in 1945, the purpose of which was to introduce Geddes, Skinner pointed out that his ‘work in Anthropology here continues at Stage I. I have made no effort to carry it further because that would involve cutting out museum work, which has always been my principal interest.’ He added: ‘Our museum collections are developing very well, both Old World and Pacific.’ He realized that a consequence of this was that ‘not many of my students have gone on’ with undertaking further studies in anthropology or archaeology. He nominated, however, Catherine Berndt and Roger Duff (an archaeologist) as two who had pursued anthropology or archaeology as a profession. Freeman joined Geddes at the LSE after the war.10 Although the other three university ­colleges – ­Canterbury (in Christchurch), Victoria (in Wellington) and A ­ uckland – ­ trailed behind in formal recognition of anthropology, a few postgraduate students from existing departments did focus their postgraduate studies on Mā ori (Sutherland 2013: 151). In Auckland, young scholars like Firth and Felix Keesing were taking an interest in Mā ori life. Firth’s study of the kauri gum industry ‘took him into the Far North and into the predominantly Maori communities of the time’. In a move that was uncommon for an economics thesis, he interviewed people about their lives and work. William Anderson, Professor of Philosophy at Auckland, pushed Firth’s interests in Mā ori beyond the descriptive and towards the anthropological. Although initially he planned to do an economics thesis concentrating on the frozen meat trade, Firth was encouraged to attend the LSE, where Malinowski was developing a new anthropological method and theories. Firth’s LSE doctorate, ‘Primitive Economics of the New Zealand Maori’, was published in 1929. Keesing, a year or so after Firth, first visited Chicago when he was nineteen. He returned with an interest in ‘shapes, lines and colours’ of Mā ori children. His postgraduate work, however, focused on the social and cultural background of Mā ori. He published his MA thesis in 1928 under the title ‘The Changing Maori’. His studies in Hawai`i, at the instigation of Peter Buck (Te Rangihı̄ roa), were funded by the Board of Maori Ethnological Research (BMER). The BMER was founded in 1923. Its founders, Āpirana Ngata and Peter Buck, were ‘sandwiched between two generations of New Zealand anthropologists; between the amateur ethnologists who founded the Polynesian Society in the 1890s, Smith, Tregear and Best

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and the new generation of New Zealand-­born but overseas-­trained anthropologists who came to the fore in the 1920s and 1930s’, Skinner, Keesing, Firth, I.L.G. Sutherland and Ernest Beaglehole. Despite Ngata and Buck lacking ‘any special training in ethnology in our university ­days … ­we both have a field experience that few, if any, ethnologists have been favoured w ­ ith … N ­ either the ethnologists of the old school like Peehi [Best] nor the younger generation like Skinner could tackle the things that you or I know to be of importance’ (cited in Sorrenson 1982: 7). Ngata, for example, had an interest in enlisting anthropology as both a way of preserving Mā ori culture and, more generally, part of the armoury of colonial administration (Ngata 1928; Sorrenson 1982; Webster 1998; Cameron 2014; McCarthy and Tapsell 2019; Salmond 2019). Ngata and Buck were ‘keenly interested in the government of native races’ (Sorrenson 1982: 17).11 Ngata asserted that ‘a function of government in New Zealand was to discover and appraise “stubborn, conservative elements” of Maori culture, and “especially to judge whether in their nature they were detrimental to ­progress … ­or worth preserving in a modified form”’ (Ngata 1928). Mā ori had reached what Firth, in The Primitive Economics of the New Zealand Maori, called the ‘phase of adaptation’ (1929: 471). Ngata praised Firth as a ‘competent ethnologist who brings to his study honesty of purpose and a sympathetic understanding of Mā ori people’ (1931: 8). It led to Ngata and Buck entertaining the possibility of encouraging Firth, at that time a young anthropologist working at the University of Sydney, to implement Ngata’s suggestion to ‘establish a department of anthropological field research which would later train officials in native affairs and islands administration’ (Sorrenson 1982: 17; cf. Campbell 2000). The BMER sponsored the research of selected anthropologists with a view to better governing New Zealand’s Pacific colonial dependencies (Cameron and McCarthy 2015a; 2015b). There was a recognition that there should be some training in anthropology for field officials, to develop a sympathetic understanding. Keesing argued for ‘the establishment of some central educational institute or c­ ollege … ­where the future development of the race could be fostered’ and young Mā ori ‘thought-­leaders could come to catch their fuller vision’ (1928: 51–53). Indeed: this Mā ori-­conceived, Mā ori-­led and Mā ori-­funded [BMER] effectively took over the management of anthropological research in Aotearoa/ New Zealand and exerted considerable influence on related bodies: the

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes15

Department of Native Affairs, the Dominion Museum, the Alexander Turnbull Library (ATL), and the Polynesian Society and its journal. It is a remarkable story of indigenous agency unparalleled in the history of museums and anthropology in settler societies. (McCarthy and Tapsell 2019: 88)

Ngata and Buck read widely, particularly Firth and Keesing. They ‘regularly discussed their Pakeha [European New Zealander] protégés: first Skinner, Firth and Keesing, then Ivan Sutherland [at Canterbury University College] and later Ernest Beaglehole [at Victoria University College]’. Skinner could scarcely be described as a protégé; it was his ‘lack of Mā ori language skills and focus on material culture/archaeology [that] set him apart from Buck and Ngata’ (McCarthy and Tapsell 2019: 92). Skinner did not attract the same interest as Firth, Keesing and Beaglehole (Sutherland 2013: 152). While Ngata was critical of Firth’s work – ‘he had failed to penetrate the psychological strata of Maori life and thought’ – he nonetheless quoted Firth extensively in his major report to Parliament in 1931 on Mā ori land development. As historian Keith Sorrenson (2012) wrote: ‘Anthropology for Buck, as for Ngata, was no mere academic game, but was a necessary means of facilitating action in the field, in land development and in cultural regeneration.’ Despite further calls for a chair of anthropology, especially by Beaglehole, it was after the Second World War before one was finally established at Auckland. The British-­trained Australian anthropologist Ralph O’Reilly Piddington, who was appointed to the chair, recognized the place of Otago: ‘Thanks largely to [Skinner’s] initiative and vision the teaching of anthropology has been inaugurated at two ­colleges … ­future generations of New Zealand anthropologists will remember [him] with respect and affection for [his] pioneering work’ (Piddington 1951: 108). Piddington overstated Skinner’s role and understated that of Mā ori scholars and intellectuals such as Buck and Ngata, and other contributors such as Beaglehole. He seemed unaware of the BMER. H.D. Skinner retired in 1952. Under Skinner, anthropology at Otago was taught as a level 1 course and covered both physical and cultural anthropology. After Skinner retired, there was a gap of several years before a new lecturer in anthropology was appointed, though the course was offered in some years with the assistance of a visiting lecturer. Cambridge archaeologist Peter Gathercole, trained as a museum curator at Birmingham Museum, moved to Dunedin in 1958 to take up a joint role with Otago Museum and Otago University.

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He revived the level 1 course. His appointment enabled the establishment of a Department of Anthropology and, by 1963, Gathercole, joined by archaeologist Les Groube and social anthropologist John Harré, was able to offer a full degree programme. Gathercole returned to Britain (Oxford) in 1968. He was replaced with Cambridge archaeologist Charles Higham, the first Professor of Anthropology.

Australia At the 1921 AAAS conference, it was resolved, first, that the Commonwealth Government establish a museum with the purpose of ‘securing specimens, historical and ethnological, while they are yet available’; and second, immediately investigate and record the ethnology of ‘the Northern part of Western Australia’ (AAAS 1921: xxxiii). The latter resolution was underpinned by a belief that Aboriginal people ‘would be virtually extinct in a comparatively short time and any surviving remnants would have lost all knowledge of their original habits and customs’ (Elkin 1970: 11; see also McGregor 1997). It was believed at the time that it was in northern and northwest Australia where the few remaining tribes maintained a culture that was comparatively uninfluenced by contact with ‘civilization’.12 To implement these resolutions required the Commonwealth Government to endow ‘a chair in Anthropology, especially in view of its value in the Government of subject races’ (Radi 1971). The resolutions of the 1923 Pan-­Pacific Science Congress held in Melbourne and Sydney reiterated and expanded on those passed at the 1921 AAAS conference: a chair in anthropology could assist in the ‘preservation, progress, and welfare of the native population of Oceania’, which could be achieved by a policy ‘based on the investigation of native conditions, customs, laws, religion, and the like, which is a study not merely of academic interest and importance, but points the way to a sympathetic method of dealing with and governing such peoples’. It complemented the terms of the League of Nations ‘C’ mandate policy, which was ‘promoting the material and moral well-­being and social progress of the inhabitants’. There was also the ‘practical importance of the ethnological study of native ­races … ­Experience has shown the economic value of placing the control of labour in the hands of a man who has a sympathetic knowledge of native conditions and thought in eliminating disputes and inducing a contented frame of mind in the workers’. Finally, research

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes17

was ‘urgently needed’ in both Oceania and Australia because the ‘undoubted disappearance of the native population’ would result in the ‘loss of most valuable scientific material’. This pointed to the study of the Indigenous inhabitants of Australia, who were ‘of great and particular ­interest … ­as representing one of the lowest types of culture available for study, of the rapid and inevitable diminution of their numbers’. The belief that Aborigines were about to be overwhelmed by the influence of a ‘higher culture’ meant steps needed to be taken, ‘without delay, to organise the study of those tribes that are, as yet comparatively uninfluenced by contact with civilisation’.13 The hoped-­for outcome was that the governments responsible for the welfare of Oceanic peoples would recognize that ethnology had a practical value in administration and was of ‘definite economic importance’, and the resolution urged the Australian Government in particular to make ‘­provision … ­for the teaching of Anthropology in the Universities of Australia’.14 The Australian National Research Council (ANRC) was formed in 1919 as Australia’s link with the International Research Council and other international scientific institutions. It supported the need for ‘the endowment of systematic scientific research in the Pacific Islands under Australian Control’.15 A deputation from the ANRC, headed by its president, chemist David Orme Masson, met with acting Prime Minister Earle Page, and ‘the definite suggestion was advanced that the Commonwealth Government should fund and maintain a chair of Anthropology at the University of Sydney at an approximate cost of £1700 p.a.’.16 Cabinet approved the general concept later that day, 7 December 1923. In January 1924, Masson, who was Malinowski’s father-­in-­law, drafted a memorandum to both the Prime Minister and the Minister for Home and Territories on the proposed chair.17 The Australian Government remained cautious, unsure that a chair of anthropology was the best means for training field officers for the Colonial Service. Colonel John Ainsworth, Chief Native Commissioner in the British colony of Kenya, was asked to advise the Australian Government on the administration of ‘native people’ in the Territory of New Guinea. Ainsworth advised against university-­ trained field officers, preferring ‘men of good tone, character, personality and initiative and a tolerant patient disposition’. These attributes, ‘combined with a fairly liberal education’, were, he wrote, of greater value than a university degree ‘for the purposes of the administration of a territory with a primitive backward people’. There was, however, a role for university training. He advised that cadets for the ‘tropical

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services’ should undergo some form of training, such as ‘a six or nine months course of lectures and studies’ at an Australian university in: 1) the ‘geographical and climatic conditions’ of the area in which the cadet was to serve; 2) ‘the recording of temperature and rainfall’; 3) ‘phonetic spelling’; 4) ‘medical first aid, vaccination and hygiene’; 5) ‘tropical products’; 6) ‘legal procedure’ (magistrate’s court, civil and criminal procedures); 7) ‘simple accounts’; 8) ‘land surveying’; and 9) anthropology. However, this study should occur ‘after a term of service [when] officers will be in a better position to understand and appreciate the benefits of such knowledge and also apply the preliminary teaching they have received’. He added that the appointment of Ernest William Pearson Chinnery as ‘Director of Anthropology’ would meet the ‘scientific needs’ of New Guinea and, at the same time, be of considerable help to district officers and others who possessed a ‘rudimentary knowledge’ of ‘the native’ through ethnographic investigation. These informal courses in anthropology could assist in ‘the acquisition of a better understanding of the natives, and the reasons for, and explanations of, their customs and traditions’, thus enabling an official to obtain the ‘natives’ confidence and respect’ and begin ‘effective administration’ (Ainsworth 1924). In his advice to his minister, J.G. McLaren, Secretary of the Department of Home and Territories, used Ainsworth’s report to support an argument that anthropology and legal procedure affected only those who would become district officers (in New Guinea) or resident magistrates (in Papua). The government anthropologist could arrange for a three-­month intensive course of training and, during that time, the principal medical officer could ‘set apart an hour daily’ for instruction in first aid, hygiene and the identification and treatment of ‘diseases of the natives’. With regard to the other matters, the cadets could be attached for brief periods to the staffs of the relevant departments. McLaren did concede that some formal teaching in anthropology at university level could ‘serve a very useful public purpose in encouraging the study of anthropology amongst the community as a whole and in promoting a better general understanding of the problems with which Australia has to deal in the care and protection of the native peoples under her control’. He concluded that there was not ‘sufficient justification for the establishment of a University Chair of Anthropology at the expense of the Commonwealth’.18 In light of McLaren’s assurance to his minister, there seemed little possibility that the Commonwealth would acquiesce to the university’s needs.

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes19

The minister informed the ANRC that he had ascertained the views of Ainsworth ‘on the nature of the training required’. He agreed that the appointment of government anthropologists in New Guinea and Papua relieved ‘the necessity of field research’ conducted by a university. Thus, ‘considering the question solely from the standpoint of the training of Government officials, I do not feel that I would be justified in recommending the establishment of a University Chair of Anthropology at the expense of the Tropical Territories of the Commonwealth’.19 Without Commonwealth support and funding, the University of Sydney could not ‘proceed in this matter unless the funds are provided wholly by the Federal Government’.20 A disappointed Masson left it to George Knibbs, director of the newly constituted Commonwealth Institute of Science and Industry and acting president of the ANRC, and Baldwin Spencer, ANRC vice-­ president, to respond.21 They shifted the emphasis away from the use of anthropology to broaden community knowledge and understanding of colonized Indigenous peoples and forcibly argued two ­propositions – ­namely, ‘the necessity of training future Government and other officials, who are called on to deal with native races’ and, second, ‘the necessity of training investigators competent to undertake Anthropological research’. At stake, they stated, was the ‘reputation of the Commonwealth’. They stressed that the responsibilities undertaken by the Australian Government regarding New Guinea and Papua, ‘irrespective of her own Aboriginal inhabitants, [made] it necessary that adequate [university] training should be available in Australia ­for … s­ tudents who wish to take positions in the tropical territories of the Commonwealth’. The system of selecting and training officials proposed by Ainsworth had not been ‘a conspicuous success’ elsewhere; ‘certainly it has failed to cope both with the investigation of native customs and beliefs’ and with the problem of depopulation and the disappearance of ‘[p]rimitive and backward races’ or ‘becoming modified in regard to their customs, beliefs and industries’. If a record ‘of them is to be secured and handed on to future generations it must be obtained at once by competent investigators’. Hence, it was unrealistic to expect government anthropologists to undertake the ‘proper investigation of these natives’. No ‘two men could possibly deal with ethnological work over such great areas, occupied by members of tribes speaking different languages, each with its own special cultures and ­beliefs … ­proper ­investigation … n ­ ecessitates intensive study extending over a long time in a limited area’. In fact, Knibbs and Spencer were ‘quite ­certain … ­that Colonel Ainsworth’s

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view would not have the support of any anthropologist in any part of the world; that it is based upon a failure to understand the question’. While acknowledging that the Commonwealth was responsible for New Guinea and Papua, the minister reminded the ANRC that the ‘care of the aboriginals in the various Australian States is the immediate responsibility of the State Governments, whose co-­operation ­should … b ­ e enlisted in any m ­ ovement … f­or the establishment of a Chair’.22 Convincing the states to financially support a chair of anthropology became critical to obtaining Commonwealth support. It looked like anthropology as a university discipline was at a standstill.

The Rockefeller Foundation In late December 1923, the American philanthropic Rockefeller Foundation received a proposal from the Galton Society for the Study of the Origin and Evolution of Man for a major study on Aboriginal people in ­Australia – ­home of the ‘natural society’ and the ‘lowest human race’ (Jonas 1989: 118–25; Peterson 1991: 11).23 The Galton Society members were devoted to the study of human wellbeing and fitness. The society wanted to establish a purpose-­built field hospital, staffed by five Americans and two Englishmen, which would offer treatment as a means of attracting Aboriginal people for study. There was no intention to involve Australian scientists or institutions. It failed to garner support but Edwin Embree, head of the Rockefeller Foundation’s Division of Studies, salvaged a project out of the society’s proposal: a study of the vanishing Aboriginal cultures of Australia, which he put to the trustees of the Rockefeller Foundation. In keeping with the foundation’s policy to work through the institutions and scholars of the countries concerned, Embree chose the ANRC, which he considered was the only body able to handle scientific responsibilities at a national level. It was a project, he argued, that went beyond a mere scholarly commitment to knowledge for its own sake. Embree arranged for the Australian anatomist Grafton Elliot Smith, chair of anatomy at University College London, to undertake a fact-­finding trip to Australia (Blunt 1988; Jonas 1989: 137–38). He was entrusted with a proposal that was put before the Australian Government. Smith informed Prime Minister Stanley Melbourne Bruce that he had been ‘consulted by the Rockefeller Foundation as to the establishment of a Department of Anthropology in the

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes21

University of Sydney and to draw up a plan for a campaign of field work in connection with it’ (Dawson 1938: 85; Peterson 1991: 10). He informed Bruce in a carefully worded letter that it was the position of the foundation that if the Australian Universities either individually or collectively have or wish to develop plans for studies of aboriginal peoples, and if they need financial assistance in carrying out these plans and care to approach the Rockefeller Foundation with respect to such assistance, we are prepared to sympathetically consider such ­proposals … ­As to the scope of the studies, this will depend upon the resources, the personnel and the plans of the Australian U ­ niversities … T ­ he types of s­ tudies … ­might ­include … ­such i­ tems … ­regularly thought of as falling under the general subject of anthropology, b ­ ut … ­include what might be called immunology and comparative physiology on the one hand and ethnology, social customs, and organisation on the other.

Smith stressed it was not a firm commitment, merely ‘one of inquiry’.24 In his attempt to obtain the support of the Australian Government, Smith pointed out that internationally the proposals put forward at the AAAS and Pan-­Pacific conferences had ‘excited widespread interest’ and it was felt that the ‘adoption of these resolutions would mark the commencement of a new era in dealing more sympathetically and intelligently with the native peoples entrusted to the care of European Powers’.25 Several days later, Smith and Thomas Lyle, representing the ANRC, met with the secretary of the Prime Minister’s Department and drew attention to the fact that the AAAS and Pan-­Pacific Science conferences had ‘emphatically re-­affirmed the conviction that the provision ­of … ­anthropological education for all officers who are to serve in Papua and the Mandated Territories is a matter of urgent practical importance’.26 Prime Minister Bruce advised Smith to inform the Rockefeller Foundation that the government ‘keenly appreciated this new demonstration of the Foundation’s interest in Australia and would gratefully welcome any help the Foundation might give to promote the scientific study of the native population of Australia’.27 Smith subsequently relayed Bruce’s message.28 Embree could hardly contain his enthusiasm. He ‘looked for far-­reaching results’ from the enterprise that Smith’s ‘sympathetic and tactful assistance’ had initiated (Jonas 1989: 141). On 7 November 1924, the foundation’s Board of Trustees pledged US$100,000 towards the support of anthropological studies in Australia over a five-­year period; this was reaffirmed on 26  May 1926 (Jonas 1989: 141, 144).

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The Commonwealth reconsidered its decision. It announced that the states should contribute ‘proportionately to their respective populations, a total sum of £1500 per annum’.29 In response to the ANRC’s deputations, the governments of New South Wales (NSW), Victoria, Tasmania and Queensland promised contributions, with South Australia ‘likely to join with them’. Western Australia initially declined.30 New Zealand was also approached but declined.

Sydney The ANRC had ‘achieved its immediate object’ and subsequently urged the University of Sydney Senate to ‘consider the appointment of a professor and the arrangements for the work of the new School’. The duties of the new professor would be to teach anthropology and ethnology and to organize and direct field and laboratory research; with the school’s ‘immediate aims being: (a) The training of government officials, missionaries and others who, in commercial undertakings, will be in contact with the natives; (b) The training of investigators in the field’. The Senate moved to establish a chair of anthropology and appointed a committee consisting of Haddon and British-­ based Australians J.T. Wilson (Professor of Anatomy, Cambridge) and Elliot Smith.31 The main applicants were Alfred Reginald (Radcliffe)-Brown, A.M. Hocart (an honorary lecturer in ethnology at University College London) and Arthur Grimble (Resident Commissioner of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands Colony). Malinowski was considered in the absence of an application, but it was felt certain he would not leave the LSE. Anthropologist Nicolas Peterson suggests Hocart was the preferred candidate, but it was ‘thought unlikely’ he would accept the position if it was offered. Radcliffe-­Brown, who ‘had university teaching experience and field work in Australia was the unanimous choice’ (Peterson 1991 11; Elkin 1970: 12).32 Radcliffe-­Brown changed his name by deed poll in 1926. The year before Radcliffe-­ Brown arrived, Embree and Clarke Wissler, curator of anthropology at the American Museum of Natural History, had visited Australia to investigate research in universities and museums. It was a six-­month tour, visiting New Zealand, Australia and Hawai`i. In response to the question of ‘What the Rockefeller Foundation was likely to do in practical subsidy towards research in Australian anthropology’, Embree stated that he had

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes23

no power to act, but only to make a report, and recommendations. It was the great practical forward step of the establishment, by the help of your Federal Government, of a Chair of Anthropology in the University of Sydney that led us to realise that you really meant business. It is only fair to say that I think it very likely that the Rockefeller Foundation will agree to give what practical assistance towards this important object that it considers adequate. (Herald [Melbourne], 18 November 1925)

He explained that ‘the Rockefeller Foundation was to carry its contribution through a central scientific body, leaving to ­that … ­body … decisions as to the allocation of funds’. The ANRC was chosen in part because the trustees ‘understood that ­it … ­was willing to assume this responsibility’. This also satisfied the University of Sydney, which preferred to ‘have funds that may be expended in part in other Universities handled by some general scientific body rather than through the University’s own treasury’.33 The research projects carried out with Rockefeller Foundation support ‘should [be] broadly conceived [and] … include anatomy, archaeology, ethnology, pathology, physiology, psychology and sociology’. A special committee, headed by the Professor of Anthropology, would determine ‘how funds for research will be expended’. To help overcome the shortage of Australian-­trained researchers, the foundation would grant fellowships ‘studying either anthropology or subjects in the group of sciences that may be roughly defined as human biology’. Such persons should have ‘some graduate degree’ and be assured of either a definite university post or a connection with teaching, research or scientific work in ‘the country from which they come’. The allocation and administration of these fellowships would be left to the Rockefeller Foundation on the recommendation of the ANRC.34 The establishment of the chair of anthropology was the beginning of modern social anthropology in Australia, although the elasticity of professional definitions remained. Rockefeller continued to fund anthropological research, including the journal Oceania, until 1935. Moreover, distance and time created a unique situation: no official from the Rockefeller Foundation visited Australia between the end of 1925 and 1938 (Jonas 1989: 153–54).

Notes   1. There is a considerable body of work detailing the events leading up to these d ­ evelopments – ­for example, Mulvaney (1988); Kuklick (1991);

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Stocking (1995); Kuper (1978; 1983; 1996); Gray (2007a, 2016); Mills (2008).  2. Dr Robert Fritz Graebner and Dr Peter Pringsheim were interned (made prisoners of war) as officers of the reserve of the German Army (Letter, Chief of the General Staff to Commandant, 3rd Military District, 22  August 1914, National Archives of Australia, Canberra [hereinafter NAA]: MP16/1, 1914/3/14l). For Malinowski, see Young (2004: 289–309).   3. In Europe, it was a time for the expansion of ethnographic inquiry. European anthropologists had access to captured people from African colonies who fought for empire armies in the First World War. See Evans (2010); Johler et al. (2010); Winegard (2012); Jarboe and Fogarty (2014).   4. To obtain a comfortable office, he took on the additional position of librarian of the Hocken Library (Anderson 2014).   5. Elsdon Best is probably the best known of these early ethnographers; he wrote in 1918 that he had ‘often thought that every person who is appointed to dwell among, or control, such inferior peoples, should be a man who has had some training in anthropological ­science … ­Knowing the customs and prejudices of his neighbours, he would respect them’ (Best 1918: 15).   6. The University of New Zealand comprised four constituent colleges: Auckland University College, Victoria University College (in Wellington), Canterbury University College (in Christchurch) and the University of Otago (in Dunedin). Otago was permitted to keep the name of a university in its own right. The University of New Zealand was dissolved in 1961 and its constituent colleges and two associated agricultural colleges became degree-­granting institutions with their own charters.   7. ‘Anthropology as a University Subject’ (1918).  8. New Zealand Herald [Auckland], 10 October 1918 (clipping in Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, qms-­0207, 154, available from https://pa​ perspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZH19181010.2.12).   9. Fels was a quintessential cultural philanthropist. ‘Soon after arriving in New Zealand he began to collect Maori and Oceanic artefacts and mastered the techniques of archaeological prospecting at Maori sites on the Otago beaches of Little Papanui, Murdering Beach and Long Beach. He also collected arms, ceramics, decorative art and ethnographic objects from Tibet, Persia, India, Burma and Japan. In later life he concentrated on his collection of Greek and Roman coins and English coins and medals. He built up a library, principally of Greek and Roman history and literature, but which also included books by the early Italian printers as well as first editions of some contemporary English authors’ (Anson 2012). 10. H.D. Skinner to Firth, 4 July 1945, FIRTH: 8/1/36. 11. Information on many of the individuals referred to in this article may be

Establishing Social Anthropology in the Antipodes25

gleaned from the Dictionary of New Zealand Biography (http://www.dnzb​ .govt.nz/dnzb). 12. Cattle had been introduced at the end of the 1800s, which was associated with the disruption of ‘tribal’ life, the destruction of foodstuffs and various ­killings – s­ ome of which can only be described as massacres. 13. Oceania was divided into four main areas of research, with responsibility allocated to each colonial power in the region: Australian Aboriginal ethnology was of ‘especial concern’ for Australia, which ‘should more particularly investigate Papua, the Mandated Territory of New Guinea and Melanesia, but Great Britain and France should assist in this work’; the investigation of Mā ori was the ‘especial province’ of New Zealand. The rest of Polynesia was regarded as pre-­ eminently the field for American research, with the co-­operation of France and New Zealand; and the study of Micronesia was ‘the particular province’ of Japan and the United States. Extract from Minutes of General Meeting of the Second Pan-­Pacific Congress, held in Sydney, September 1923, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I; see also Gray (2010, 2016.) 14. Extract from Minutes of General Meeting of the Second Pan-­Pacific Congress, Sydney, September 1923, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 15. Minute Book, 17  August 1922, Papers of the Australian National Research Council [hereinafter ANRC Papers], National Library of Australia, Canberra [hereinafter NLA], MS 482, File 1. 16. 7 December 1923, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 1. 17. Masson, Proposed Chair of Anthropology in the University of Sydney, Draft Memorandum, 30  January 1924. See also Suggested Chair of ­Anthropology – ­Sydney University, Proposals of Australian National Research Council, 25 February 1924, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I. 18. Memo, Secretary, Department of Home and Territories, 25  February 1924, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I. 19. George Pearce to Masson, 10 March 1924, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 20. M.W. MacCallum (Vice-­Chancellor) to Secretary, Home and Territories Department, 5 March 1924, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 21. The following, unless otherwise noted, is from Knibbs and Spencer to Pearce, 28 April 1924, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I. 22. Pearce to ANRC, 5 September 1924, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I. 23. During the interwar years, the Rockefeller Foundation, in the form of the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial fund, pursued a global policy of promoting the efficiency and objectivity of the social sciences (see, for example, Fisher 1980, 1986; Bulmer and Bulmer 1981). The foundation ‘emphasized anthropology as one of those disciplines most emendable to scientific methodology’ (Mulvaney 1988: 208). 24. Elliot Smith to Prime Minister, 2 September 1924, NAA A518, N806/1/1, Part I.

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25. Smith to Prime Minister, 2  September 1924, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 26. Memo, Prime Minister, 15  September 1924, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 27. Smith to Embree, 30  September 1924, cited in Peterson (1991: 11); Memo, 10 September 1924, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 28. Smith to Embree, 30 September 1924, cited in Peterson (1991: 11). 29. It was estimated that the annual cost of the chair would be: salary of professor, £1,000; towards pension, £150; salary of lecture room assistant, £350; purchase of books, travelling expenses and so on, £200. ‘It was pointed out also that, as the school developed, it would be necessary to supply a Scientific Assistant, at a salary rising to £750, so that after a few years, the annual expense would be approximately £2500’ (Gray 2007a: 1–29). 30. The amounts for each state in 1932 were: Tasmania, £56; NSW, £577; Victoria, £425; Western Australia, £93; Queensland, £212; South Australia, £137. Memo, Prime Minister’s Department, 7  April 1932, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I. 31. University of Sydney Senate Minutes, 1 June 1925, University of Sydney Archives. Wilson and Elliot Smith were graduates of the University of Sydney. 32. For Hocart, see Laughlin (2018). 33. Embree to Wood Jones, 28 May 1926, cited in Peterson (1991: 12). 34 Embree to Masson, 27 May 1926, and Embree to Masson, 27 May 1926 [separate letters], Personal Archives of A.P. Elkin, University of Sydney Archives, P120 [hereinafter EP]: 155/4/1/1; Letter, Masson to Radcliffe-­ Brown, 10 July 1926, EP: 157/4/1/24.

Chapter 2

ANTHROPOLOGY AT SYDNEY A.R. RADCLIFFE-­BROWN AND A.P. ELKIN

A.R. Radcliffe-­Brown arrived as foundation Professor of Anthropology at the University of Sydney in July 1926. As he had done at the University of Cape Town, he developed social anthropology, both teaching and research. His experience in setting up anthropology at Cape Town was invaluable (Gordon 1990; Schapera 1990; Gray 2007a; cf. Campbell 2014: 111–40). He taught students interested in anthropology and those who sought more practical assistance in their work with Indigenous peoples, especially cadets and officers for the Colonial Service in Papua and New Guinea and missionaries. He addressed both the practical application of anthropology and academic and scholarly anthropological investigation with its emphasis on theoretical and sociological explanations of human behaviour and action. Two years before he left for Australia, Radcliffe-­Brown drew a distinction between ‘ethnology’ and what he called ‘social anthropology’. He regarded ‘ethnology’ as ‘the study of culture by the method of historical reconstruction’ and ‘social anthropology’ as ‘the study that seeks to formulate the general laws that underlie the phenomena of culture’, making explicit a distinction that he saw as already ‘implicit in a great deal of the current usage of the terms’ (Srinivas 1958: 8). At Sydney, he was faced with making anthropology relevant to the needs of colonial administration, especially for New Guinea, which was a League of Nations ‘C’ mandate. This was part of the government remit for financially supporting the chair. Radcliffe-­Brown was conscious of the demands of the Commonwealth Government, plus its concern about its international reputation and meeting the requirements of the League of Nations Permanent Mandates Commission (Radi 1971; Gray 2003, 2020a; Pedersen 2015: 299–324). Anthropology neatly fitted these demands. Ernest Chinnery was

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confident that anthropological research supported the ‘moral and spiritual progress of the natives’ and that, through the application of anthropological knowledge, gained through research, a colonial administrator could encourage ‘the natives ­themselves … t­ o take an active interest and responsibility for their own progress’ (Chinnery 1932). Within a month of his arrival in Sydney, Radcliffe-­Brown had discussed with the Secretary of the Department of Home and Territories the question of providing cadets and officers for the ‘territorial services’ with instruction in anthropology. He considered this to be ‘one of the most [important] activities’ of his own Department of Anthropology.1 He saw his department as breaking new ground, changing ‘anthropology from an academic ­subject … ­into a study having immediate and important bearings on the administration of native peoples’.2 To this end, he asked Sir Frederick Lugard, the former colonial Governor of Nigeria, for a copy of the ‘Official Memoranda for Northern Nigeria’, stating that he was responsible for the ‘training in Anthropology and in the Principles of Colonial Administration of the cadets of the Mandated Territory of New Guinea’. He also queried whether Lugard’s ‘plan for the system of reporting which is used by the officers of Northern Nigeria is included in the Official memoranda, but, if not, I should be very grateful for [a] copy of this also’.3 He proposed a bold and ambitious programme. He wanted the Department of Anthropology to act as a bureau of ethnology, a sort of database, on all matters relating to the Indigenous populations of Australia, Papua, New Guinea and Melanesia generally. The collection and collation of all information from printed sources were to be ‘commenced immediately’; the New Guinea and Papuan administrations were ‘to be asked’ to make available copies of all reports dealing with local populations received from district officers, with particulars in each case as to the name of the officer, date of report, division and locality and name of tribe; the information collected in this and other ways to be filed in a manner that would facilitate reference by those seeking information about any tribe or custom; co-­operation in the work of the Anthropology Department to be arranged with the islands under the High Commissioner of the Western Pacific, based in Fiji; work in Polynesia to be maintained through the Bernice P. Bishop Museum (in Honolulu) and the American Museum of Natural History (in New York); and, if possible, contact to be established with Japan in relation to ethnographic work in Micronesia.4 He also proposed that the government anthropologists of both territories write their annual

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin29

reports in Sydney each year and thus help to establish and maintain systematic co-­operation between their respective organizations and the Anthropology Department. This was an ambitious proposal, which failed. The bureau was not realized, nor was the associated proposal for a national museum.5 It was furthermore proposed that the Commonwealth and state governments and various missionary organizations be informed of the value of the courses being offered, stressing the ‘desirability’ of government medical officers undertaking the course. Radcliffe-­Brown wanted cadets in the Colonial Service to have completed their preliminary training in New Guinea before enrolling for the academic year. Instruction was chiefly in anthropology, with special training in geography or other subjects as may be desirable and possible to provide. It was not until 1929 that the course was finally established and the first cadets from New Guinea attended.6 Despite his support for the chair of anthropology, J.H.P. Murray, Governor of Papua, was not so supportive of his field officers attending the University of Sydney for extended periods. He was, however, amenable to truncated courses of study and he ‘expressed the hope that in time Government officials from Papua would be able to a ­ ttend … ­for instruction in Anthropology, either for the Diploma course or for the short course’.7 Later, clarifying his position with regard to the attendance of Papuan officers, he wrote that ‘it was improbable that the Papuan Government could agree to the system of cadetships’, although Papuan officers would be allowed the ‘privilege of attending these lectures, and passing through these ­courses … ­That is Papuan officials were to have the right to attend, … no promise was given that they would’.8 After 1930, no officers or cadets from Papua attended.9 Although Radcliffe-­Brown’s expansive vision for the training of field officers had been watered down, other aspects of his programme forged ahead. Rockefeller Foundation funds supported a research programme, which covered Melanesia and the Australian mainland. Of the seventy-­five research projects funded by the Rockefeller Foundation between 1927 and 1935, (after which, funding ceased), most were undertaken within the period 1927 to 1931 (Elkin 1938a; Gray 2007a: 1–27, 228–30). Investigations were also carried out by the Departments of Physiology and Anatomy of the University of Sydney and by the Board for Anthropological Research of the University of Adelaide.10 The teaching staff comprised one full-­ time lecturer supported by researchers from the field. It was somewhat makeshift. Bernard

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Table 2.1. Anthropology course, 1928 Course

Subject

Term

Time (Day)

A

Introduction to Physical Anthropology Ethnology Ethnology of Oceania Ethnological Theories Linguistics Pre-­Historic Archaeology Introduction to Sociology* Family, Kin and Clan Social Basis of Religion

Lent

M

Lent Trinity Michaelmas Trinity Michaelmas Lent Trinity Trinity & Michaelmas Michaelmas

W&F W&F W M&F M&F T, W & Th T & Th W

Lent

(10 lectures given by Gregory Bateson)

B(1) B(2) B(3) C D E(1) E(2) E(3) E(4) F G H K

Economic and Political  Institutions Languages of New Guinea Australian Society Principles of Colonial  Administration Papuans & Melanesians

Michaelmas Trinity

T & Th

F

Michaelmas

* Repeated in Trinity. Notes: BA Course I: All students attend courses A, B, C, D. Honours students also attend Course K. BA Course II: All students attend Course E. Honours students also attend Course G. Diploma in Anthropology: Students attend all courses. Special Short Course in ­Anthropology – T ­ rinity Term: Students can attend Courses B(2), C, E(1), E(2), E(3), H.

Deacon, Radcliffe-­Brown’s preferred lecturer in anthropology, died in Malekula (Vanuatu) before he could take up his position.11 This led to Radcliffe-­Brown taking on all teaching and supervisory commitments. Little wonder he described it as ‘one of the busiest years of my life’.12 Cambridge graduate Camilla Wedgwood filled the vacant position the following year. Firth replaced Wedgwood in 1930.13

Radcliffe-Brown Departs Radcliffe-­Brown wrote to Malinowski in early 1929 pointing out that as soon as Raymond Firth returned from fieldwork in Tikopia, he would see his ‘way to getting back to Europe. I should expect to

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin31

see him succeed me here.’14 It was to Chicago (initially for twelve months), not Europe, that he was headed, and finally, in 1937, to Oxford, where he remained until his retirement. Before departing for the University of Chicago, Radcliffe-­Brown suggested a series of reforms, which he was confident would strengthen the independence of the chair and ensure its continuance.15 He recommended that the Commonwealth Government increase its grant to £2,500 and that the states be urged to continue ‘their present contributions’ until the Commonwealth Government assumed full responsibility. He returned to an earlier idea of an ‘institute for social and administrative anthropology’ to replace the Sydney department, recommending that the ‘duties of this institute shall be to provide training in anthropology and colonial administration for cadets and officers of New Guinea and Papua, and to carry out and direct research amongst the Australian aborigines and amongst the natives of New Guinea’. It would provide teaching for undergraduates and administrative officers, administer the Rockefeller Foundation funds, conduct research and house the journal Oceania. He envisaged that it would be attached to the University of Sydney in much the same way as were the schools of Public Health and Tropical Medicine. Radcliffe-­Brown attempted to put in place a structure that would have sustained anthropology at Sydney. The ANRC did not warm to these arguments; nor did these proposals find support from the University Senate.16 It was an issue of trust between Radcliffe-­Brown and the ANRC, that is, the ANRC was wary of any plan which might usurp its position of authority (Wise 1985: 92–99). There is no doubt the Sydney department was in financial crisis at the time of Radcliffe-­Brown’s departure, as the Commonwealth and particularly the state governments had indicated they were no longer prepared to fund the department to the extent they had. The states withdrew financial support, with the exception of NSW, whose grant was greatly reduced.17 Without Commonwealth and state government funding, the Rockefeller subsidy for the chair would cease. These were dire times for anthropology. It was rumoured that Sydney University ‘could not even guarantee Radcliffe-­Brown’s salary’.18 At the end of 1931, the Rockefeller Foundation renewed its grant for a further five years. Research funding was assured until 1935 but future funding to subsidize the chair was not clear. In his history of British social anthropology, Adam Kuper assessed Radcliffe-­Brown’s tenure as ‘in the end only just short of disastrous’ owing to his ‘overbearing ways and political maladroitness’ (Kuper

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1983: 45). He also sees the output of the department diminishing under Radcliffe-­Brown (Kuper 1983: 48).19 This assessment overlooks the impact the Great Depression had on the continuance of the ­department – ­a factor A.P. Elkin also elides. Indeed, Kuper is in step with the tenor of Elkin’s critique of Radcliffe-­Brown’s departure. Elkin bitterly described Radcliffe-­Brown as a starter and a stirrer, rarely staying in one place for long. He declaimed: [A] new department is founded; he seeks and obtains appointment and sets its activities on sound lines. About five years later another a new one is established; he seeks, obtains, and sets going; but about five years later moves on again, and if not to start up a ­department … ­at least to stir one up, as in the case of Chicago and, a little later, ­Oxford … ­Radcliffe-­Brown excelled in this role … [He was the] ‘five year’ type of office holder, the missioner type. (Elkin 1956: 239)

There was, said Elkin, concern that Radcliffe-­Brown’s departure might lead to the department going ‘to pieces as it had done in Cape Town’ when he left there (Elkin 1956: 239; cf. Hammond-­Tooke 1997: 39–57). Tigger Wise, in her biography of Elkin, wrote that he ‘did a full hatchet j­ ob … d ­ enigrating Radcliffe-­Brown as a fieldworker, demolishing his contribution as out of date, one-­sided and opaque, and accusing him unashamedly of plagiarism’ (Wise 1985: 223). It was typical Elkin: unnecessarily critical, overstating the situation, ungenerous, at times dishonest and placing blame unfairly. Australian anthropologist W.E.H. Stanner, a former student of Radcliffe-­Brown’s at the University of Sydney, described Elkin’s obituary as ‘a notably ungenerous memorial’ and not ‘representative of all Australian anthropologists’. Stanner was confident that Elkin, who was editor of Oceania, would not publish his response to Elkin’s damning assessment of Radcliffe-­Brown. He was correct. Stanner told Firth that he recalled Radcliffe-­Brown discussing with him the dire situation of the Sydney department and telling him of his impending resignation (see Wise 1985: 96–112). Stanner rebuked Elkin: I have no doubt w ­ hatever … t­hat this reasoned judgment of the economic future played the decisive part in his resignation, and that the background matters you [Elkin] cite were ­peripheral … I­ t is obviously necessary to consider all the relevant circumstances. And once this is done, your theses of the ‘five-­year type’, and of the restless scholar searching for ‘cult-­position which his sole [sic] seemed to crave’, may be seen in their true perspective. That is to say, as ­figments … ­The simple fact of the matter is that certain Chairs just happened to become available at, roughly, quinquennial i­ntervals … ­It so happened also that at this time there were two leading American Universities most

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin33

desirous of obtaining his ­services … ­Radcliffe Brown did not have to seek employment. He was sought after.20

End of Anthropology at Sydney? When Raymond Firth was appointed acting head in 1931, the financial future of the chair was uncertain, and the university was reluctant to commit itself beyond 1933. Camilla Wedgwood was appointed lecturer assisting Firth. Radcliffe-­Brown expressed great confidence in Firth’s abilities and saw him as ‘the only qualified man with the necessary special knowledge to plan research in the regions with which Sydney is concerned and to train students for the work in that region’.21 Wedgwood was flattering: Firth combined a ‘capacity for organising and administration as well as first-­rate anthropology, and such people are about as rare as icicles in mid-­summer’.22 The Commonwealth Government wisely sought detailed information on the Anthropology Department and its training courses, while it considered whether to continue funding the chair.23 In a memorandum entitled ‘On the Study of Anthropology in Australia and the Western Pacific’, Firth provided the first overview of the department since its foundation: 267 students had passed through in Anthropology I (a second-­year subject) and, of these, 81 continued in Anthropology II between 1926 and 1931.24 Anthropology I and II included teaching the ‘principles of social structure with special relation to kinship grouping, law and Government, economic organisation and moral and religious institutions; general ethnography; cultures of Oceania, especially Australia, and Melanesia’. Two students had completed the MA, with two sitting the examination in 1932, and a further three to sit in 1933. Two Diplomas in Anthropology were awarded.25 Fourteen cadets from the Mandated Territory of New Guinea had received training, while twelve officers and six missionary students had attended the short course. Members of the government service in Papua and the Mandated Territory of New Guinea, officials from Australia’s Northern Territory and the British Solomon Islands Protectorate ‘have taken advantage of the facilities available, while an officer from the New Hebrides Government applied for enrolment. The interest shown by the cadets and other officers in these courses has been most satisfactory, and they claim to have derived considerable benefit therefrom in relation to their problems of administration.’ A ‘special short course’ of one term was provided for magistrates and

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other officers of Papua and New Guinea, and missionaries. In addition to the ‘ordinary instruction’, lectures and discussions in the application of anthropological methods to colonial administration were held for cadets and the other special students.26 Firth summarized the ‘present position of field research’ in Australia as providing additional ‘intensive studies of hitherto little-­ known tribes’, combined with ‘more general surveys of tribes over wider areas for comparative purposes’. This research was helping to close the ‘gap in our anthropological knowledge of the groups between the Kimberley district and North Arnhem L ­ and … t­ hough much will remain yet to be done in this area’. Firth emphasized: [A] closer study than heretofore might be of some practical assistance to Governments in their efforts at stemming the decline of the aboriginal population, or at all events at ameliorating their present ­condition … ­Intensively and extensively the study of Australian aboriginal culture has thus benefited greatly, and much of the k ­ nowledge … g ­ ained is capable of being turned to practical advantage, should it be desired, in the interests of the administration of the natives.

He noted this was ‘well exemplified by the publications of Dr. Elkin, as in his booklet “Understanding the Australian Aborigines”’. Melanesia was a largely neglected area, but Firth was hopeful that ‘soon it should be possible to set out a plan of systematic research’ (see Firth 1931). The work on the ‘Polynesian islands [outliers] on the fringe of the Melanesian area will be taken up and completed’.27 Firth’s report had no immediate effect on the funding situation, and the future of the department remained as uncertain as ever. A further complication was that, after little more than a year in the job, Firth requested twelve months’ leave to write up his Tikopia research at the LSE under the supervision of Malinowski. As Wedgwood pointed out to Malinowski: The continued existence of the Department is still problematical. Raymond is very tired and I am devoutly thankful for his sake that he is going home. All this administrative work has taken up far too much of his time and it is to my mind rather surprising how much he managed to get through. But six months or a year’s leisure to write should enable him to finish his first two books on Tikopia.28

Malinowski discussed with Firth the person best suited as Firth’s locum tenens. It would be ‘very ­important … ­not [to] introduce into the Sydney chair somebody who would be very difficult afterwards to dislodge’; an appointment had to be for no longer than a year.29 This would leave the position open for Firth. There was no opportunity

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin35

for Wedgwood as there was a very strong anti-­woman element in the University Senate, which was further compounded by her correct belief that a woman would not be acceptable to the men of the ANRC.30 Malinowski was keen on Ian Hogbin, who had recently completed a doctorate under his supervision, declaring that he was ‘personally interested in [his] career and development’; he understood Hogbin was becoming very successful as a lecturer and ‘developing in his theoretical grasp’ of anthropology. In short, he would be an ‘excellent [short-­term] successor’.31 Firth, however, proposed A.P. Elkin, a 41-­ year-­ old ordained Anglican priest and London University-­ trained anthropologist, as his ‘substitute’.32 He considered Hogbin unsuitable to ‘handle the ANRC side of things’, aware administration was not one of Hogbin’s strengths. He added that ‘for a permanent appointment a man can take time to work himself into the research administration’ but Elkin was ‘equipped from the start’. Moreover, the deepening financial crisis regarding the department’s future made it essential to have someone with Elkin’s administrative abilities.33 Elkin was on the Australian Board of Missions, the representative of the Bishop of Newcastle on the Sydney Anglican Diocese Council and had considerable administrative experience, as well as being well connected (see Firth 1931). Firth, conscious of responsibilities not only to the department but also to Radcliffe-­Brown, did not want to leave the department without a future should the situation improve. He recommended to the university that Elkin take his position on an acting basis for twelve months. The financial situation deteriorated, however, and the University Senate presented Firth with an ultimatum: resign or stay. Even had he stayed, his future was not assured. Firth opted to leave. On hearing of Firth’s imminent departure, Radcliffe-­Brown told Elkin that he was ‘distressed that Firth is ­leaving … ­and that the fate of the department is so doubtful’. He asked whether there was any chance that Elkin would take over and assured him of his support if he did.34 The future certainly looked bleak. Elkin was appointed lecturer-­ in-­charge, with the task of overseeing the closure of the department. He was instructed not to enrol any new students. Elkin, however, was not going to give in without a fight. He enlisted the support of the British-­based Elliot Grafton Smith, who had played a significant role in enabling Rockefeller funding for the chair and its acceptance by the Australian Government. Elkin emphasized to Smith that under the mandate system Australia was expected to train field officials ‘for their work amongst the primitive peoples concerned’. There was no

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doubt, he told Smith, that a year of studying anthropology ‘does make the officers more efficient and understanding in their work’. Despite their experience in the field, ‘they really know very little about the natives or the problems … [They benefit] materially from a year’s work here’.35 The financial situation improved in late 1933, when the Commonwealth declared it would provide £1,250 per year for the next four years. With the NSW Government’s grant and the pound-­for-­ pound subsidy from the Rockefeller Foundation, it was probable the chair would continue in the foreseeable future. There was, however, no guarantee the NSW Government would continue to provide an annual subsidy once the Rockefeller Foundation subsidy ceased in 1935. After further submissions by the ANRC, indicating that £1,250 per annum was insufficient, the Commonwealth increased its subsidy to £1,750.36 There is little doubt that Smith’s connections helped. Elkin believed success lay with Smith and himself, and the acceptance by the Australian Government of ‘the value of anthropology for the administration of Papua and New Guinea’ (Elkin 1970: 264). Firth considered Elkin had exaggerated his role in saving the department: ‘The Sydney department was indeed in sore financial straits, but not irredeemable, as Elkin showed. He certainly did a great deal for its survival, though he was not its sole saviour.’37

Saved At the end of 1933, the university advertised the position of Professor of Anthropology for an initial five-­year period. Several scenarios were raised, including the possibility of Radcliffe-­Brown returning to Sydney or that Firth might be induced to return.38 Despite these possible scenarios, the university was clear about how it wished to proceed. Sir Mungo MacCallum, the deputy chancellor, was keen for an Australian to be appointed.39 There were nine applicants, including Elkin, and one late application from the Australian Charles W.M. Hart. The names of the other applicants are unknown although from other sources it is known that F.E. Williams, government anthropologist in Papua, was an applicant, as was New Zealand-­born anthropologist Reo Fortune.40 Wise thinks Hogbin also applied. Firth did not. Elkin was informed on 22 December that he was appointed professor for five years from 1 January 1934.

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin37

Hogbin, who had been associated with the department for as long as Elkin, wrote to him five days after the decision: ‘As you know quite well, since I was not to have the chair myself, I would far rather see you there than any of the other applicants.’41 In later years, their relationship was marked by bitter disagreement, with each attempting to thwart the other. The executive of the ANRC liked the appointment and offered their congratulations. Elkin was assured of the co-­ operation and ‘whole-­hearted support’ of the council in all matters concerning anthropology, and that ‘relations between the Council and yourself will be in future, as they have been in the past, of the happiest and most helpful nature’.42 However, an unexpected event nearly derailed the whole enterprise of saving the department and continued research. On 25 May 1934, Henry Chapman, the honorary treasurer of the ANRC, committed suicide. It was discovered that he had misappropriated between £13,700 and £15,400 from the ANRC, including the Rockefeller Foundation funds for anthropological research (Moran 1939: 266–87; Weickhardt 1989: 88–89, 161–66; Gray 2005a: 84–88).43 This left the ANRC in much the same financial position as it was at its inception, fifteen years earlier.44 It was realized that without Rockefeller support the council would ‘experience very considerable difficulties in carrying on the present anthropological activities’, especially in connection with payments to researchers in the field.45 Fortunately, the foundation reimbursed the ANRC and anthropological research continued. The Rockefeller Foundation made further appropriations for research: US$15,000 in 1935–36; US$10,000 in 1936–37; and US$5,000 in 1937–38. This enabled work to be completed and several smaller new projects to start.46 Elkin was a part-­time professor. He commuted between Morpeth (north of Newcastle), his diocese and his duties as rector of the local Anglican church and ­Sydney – ­that is, he was at Sydney three days of the week and the rest at Morpeth. In 1935, he decided he could forgo his clerical responsibilities and devote his energies to the chair full-­ time, aided by both the Commonwealth and the NSW Governments, which had increased their contributions, and the fact that funding was assured until 1941. This had the added effect of Ian Hogbin also being appointed to a permanent position, in 1936. Elkin wrote to the Minister of the Interior with the hope that ‘some day the Commonwealth Government will be able to make some grants to the Australian National Research Council in order that it might continue the research work in Australia, which hitherto has

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been financed by the Rockefeller Foundation’.47 The Commonwealth Government showed little interest in supporting research, although it continued to subsidize the chair for reasons associated with the training of colonial field officers for work in New Guinea (minimal as it was), thus meeting some of its obligations to the League of Nations Permanent Mandates Committee (Pedersen 2015: 299–324; Gray 2003, 2020a). There were no Australian philanthropists to pick up from Rockefeller, as it had hoped, and the department continued to rely on the residue of Rockefeller funds and internal university funding for research.

Anthropological Practice Radcliffe-­Brown, conscious of the requirement to train colonial officials and thus highlight the practical importance of anthropology, boldly declared in the editorial of the newly minted journal Oceania that he wanted a ‘systematic series of investigations’ to survey the social organization of ‘the surviving native tribes of Australia’. These investigations were ‘perhaps not of any immediate practical use, for the Australian aborigines, even if not doomed to extinction as a race, seem at any rate doomed to have their cultures destroyed. But they will provide data of the very greatest importance for a comparative science of culture’ (Editorial 1930: 1–4).48 Yet the practical application of anthropology was not ignored: [There is] a ­steadily … ­growing recognition all over the world that the satisfactory control, in administration and education, of what are called backward peoples, requires a thorough understanding of their culture, their social and economic organization, their laws and customs, and their special ways of thought, and that the attainment of such an understanding is made possible only by the systematic researches of the specialist. (Editorial 1930: 2)

Modifying Indigenous cultures required ‘a fair understanding of how a culture works as a functioning system’ before ‘­we … ­set about producing any particular modification that may be desired to avoid bringing harm or even disaster to the people themselves with our interference’ (Editorial 1930: 3).49 Anthropology was thus associated with the administration of people under tutelage (Indigenous populations in both mainland Australia and its external colonies of Papua and New Guinea), which, in turn, resulted in research that focused on the problems of colonial administration (see, for example, Hogbin

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin39

1932). Of course, under Radcliffe-­Brown, as Firth illustrated in his report to the Australian Government, much was achieved. It was a legacy Elkin inherited and used to his advantage. Elkin’s own trajectory illustrates the tension between opportunism and altruism, as well as the compromises involved in his being an impresario. During his 1928 fieldwork, he engaged in a ‘systematic investigation’ of the social organization and religion of Aborigines.50 In an interview beforehand, he stated that his aim was to study the ‘culture and physical’ anthropology of Aborigines and to ‘try and discover how far scientific ethnology could be of help in making contact of black and white in Australia of value to both races’. Soon after, he wrote a series of articles setting out the ameliorative and palliative values of anthropology (see, for example, Elkin 1929, 1932, 1934a, 1934b, 1934c). This was underpinned by a moral consideration to see social anthropology as an instrument for moral progress, and to use anthropological knowledge in a morally responsible way (Markus 1986, 1990: 161–67). By bringing a Christian humanitarianism to bear on his understanding of Aboriginal deprivation and advancement, Elkin placed himself in the public domain and debate, leading to an activist role with government and mission bodies.51 The shift of emphasis by Elkin as to what anthropology was expected to achieve might be interpreted as revealing that slightly different responses were possible within a colonial settler nation. Such an argument, however, also must consider the economic and political changes during the interwar years, which impacted on the discipline and its young academic institution. Elkin did not discard the importance of field research. Less than twelve months after his election to the chair, he stated that the ‘essential point about’ a research ‘programme is the selection of the best workers and the most important ­fields – ­important either because the natives are quickly dying out [as in Australia] or being thoroughly changed in culture or important because of the typical nature of the culture chosen for study [Papua and New Guinea]’.52 Researchers were required who could take up an area, master its language, and then in due time understand thoroughly the social, economic, and religious principles of the aborigine’s life. In addition, more time should be given by a couple of well-­qualified workers, to investigate amongst the remnants of tribes, both to regain as far as possible a knowledge of their former life, and also to study the effect which the white culture has had on them and their way of life.53

Such grand plans were scuttled by the lack of funding.

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The reduced funding and the ‘tapering’ of the Rockefeller Foundation’s grant in 1935 made it impossible to ‘do all the work that requires doing even in Australia, let alone New Guinea, but the work started will be rounded off, and only especially important new pieces of research undertaken’. The honorary secretary of the ANRC reminded Elkin that the finance committee had emphasized that remaining funds ‘should be used to publish research results rather than to obtain further results which would probably remain unpublished’. This was premised on a dissatisfaction ‘that for the immense amounts of money expended in the past ten years on anthropological work, there is very little to show in tangible form, and [the council] would urge once more that before the funds are exhausted, every effort should be made to concentrate on publishing as much as possible of the more important researches already carried out’. Further, the finance committee refused to ‘approve of any further expenditure on research at present’.54 Unperturbed, Elkin replied that the proposed research was in line with the statement of the treasurer at the executive committee meeting of 23 April 1937 ‘to the effect that it was hoped that when all the present grant had been made, there would be about £1000 in hand for any special pieces of research that might be necessary’.55 The main beneficiaries of this funding were linguist Arthur Capell, to complete and write up his linguistic work in the Kimberley, and anthropologist Phyllis Kaberry, recently awarded her doctorate (LSE), to start her New Guinea (Ablem) work. In mid-­October 1939, when Elkin reported to the ANRC on the state of research and future needs, he introduced the possibility of undertaking research projects that reflected the consequences of European ­settlement – ­that is, the sociological effectiveness of assimilation.56 This required historical research as well as ‘close and sustained study of contact situations in several regions of different types’. Such regions might be coastal NSW, far inland NSW or western Queensland, northern Queensland, and the Northern Territory. It required ‘undertaking as soon as possible because of its historical significance to white and black and peoples of mixed ­blood … ­Even one or two full time workers could do a lot.’ For maximum effectiveness, workers specially trained in anthropology, sociology and the ‘particular problem of culture contact’ should undertake such research. Some of this work fitted in with Elkin’s role on the NSW Aborigines Welfare Board, of which he was vice-­chairman after 1941.57 There remained a sense of urgency, as the life of ‘the Aborigines is changing quickly and every endeavour should be made to continue

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin41

intensive studies of Aboriginal social and religious life and mentality, “before it’s too late”. This throws light on man in general as well as helping us to understand primitive man whose life we are changing.’58 The urgency, in Elkin’s opinion, was somewhat less in New Guinea as there was not the same ‘danger of the natives disappearing as there is in Australia, but the work is there to be done’. The theme to ‘do the work now or it will never be done’ was as strong in 1939 as it was at the Pan-­Pacific Science Congress in 1923, but the emphasis had shifted. The role of anthropology in assisting government in the control and development of Indigenous peoples and in the formulation of policy was, by the late 1930s, firmly established. Research was an adjunct that could help the colonial administrator understand the ‘traditional’ life of people and how to modify the worst aspects of that life. The outbreak of the Second World War saw Elkin at the height of his career. President of the Association for the Protection of Native Races, editor of the journal Oceania, Chairman of the ANRC Committee on Anthropology, adviser to both governments and missionary groups, a member of the Anglican Australian Board of Missions Council and the interdenominational National Missionary Council, his influence was profound. Through his humanitarian, church and welfare roles, he managed to extend the influence a mere university-­based professor would normally have been able to exert. In 1938, with J.A. Carrodus, Secretary of the Department of the Interior, and Jack McEwen, Minister for the Interior, he helped formulate the so-­called New Deal for Aborigines; the Commonwealth Government was intent on raising the status of Aborigines ‘so as to entitle them by right and by qualification to the ordinary rights of citizenship, and enable them and help them to share with us the opportunities that are available in their own native land’.59 In the same year, Elkin published The Australian Aborigines: How to Understand Them, which became a standard text.60 Few questioned his position on anthropological issues to do with Aboriginal Australia and his standing was secure as the only Professor of Anthropology in Australasia. Challenges to his hegemony, however, were brought about by the expediency of war and the establishment of war-­born organizations.

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Notes  1. Radcliffe-­ Brown to Robert H. Lowie (Professor, Department of Anthropology, UCLA, Berkeley), 28 June 1927; Radcliffe-­Brown to Lord Lugard, 10 September 1930, both in EP: 164/4/2/17.   2. Radcliffe-­Brown to Lord Lugard, 10 September 1930, EP: 164/4/2/17.   3. Radcliffe-­Brown to Sir Frederick Lugard, 18 April 1928, EP: 164/4/2/17.   4. Memorandum, ‘Chair of Anthropology (Sydney University) in its relation to cadets and officers of the Territorial Services’, 10  September 1926, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. For its implementation, see Gray (2010).   5. It took until 2001, when the National Museum of Australia was finally built on Acton Peninsula, in Canberra. For similar plans at Cape Town, see Gordon (1990).   6. See correspondence between Radcliffe-­Brown and McLaren (Home and Territories), NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I.  7. Minutes, Permanent Advisory Committee, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I.   8. Murray to Minister, Home and Territories Department, 29  June 1927, NAA: 518, N806/1/1, Part I.  9. Anthropologist Reo Fortune worked on Tewara Island in the D’Entrecasteaux group in Papua from November 1927 to May 1928. His relations with Murray and the government anthropologist F.E. Williams were problematic, to the extent that Fortune’s actions were sufficient for a change in Murray’s attitude towards continued independent anthropological research in Papua (Gray 1999). 10. Annual Report Anthropological Committee, 1928–29, July 1929, EP: 161/4/1/81. 11. Report of the Chairman, the Permanent Advisory Committee (in connection with the Chair of Anthropology), January 1928, NAA: A518, N806/1/1, Part I. 12. Radcliffe-­Brown to Lowie, 3 July 1928, EP: 41/17. 13. Wedgwood was at the LSE with Firth, Edward Evans-­Pritchard, Hortense Powdermaker and Isaac Schapera. Of this young cohort who found themselves in Sydney, only Reo Fortune and Raymond Firth were born in Australasia; Hogbin came to Australia as a child. Wedgwood was also an external and viva examiner of Hogbin’s PhD thesis. 14. Radcliffe-­Brown to Malinowski, 2 January 1929, NLA, MS Acc11.020. 15. Radcliffe-­Brown to McLaren, 13 August 1930, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I. 16. Correspondence, Gibson to Wilsmore, 31 December 1930, State Records Office of Western Australia, Perth [hereinafter SROWA]: ACC653, 120; Gibson to Radcliffe-­Brown, 13 January 1931, EP: 155/4/1/10; see also Radcliffe-­Brown to McLaren, 13  August 1930; Memorandum, Prime Minister, 19 March 1930, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I.

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin43

17. Memo, Prime Minister’s Department, 7  April 1932, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part I; Mitchell (Premier of Western Australia) to Robert Wallace (Vice-­ Chancellor, University of Sydney), 13  June 1931, SROWA: ACC 653, 120; Memorandum, Prime Minister’s Department, 30 November 1932, NAA: A518, P806/1/1, Part II. Significantly, the NSW contribution was included in the overall grant to the university. 18. Stanner to Firth, 8 August 1956, FIRTH: 8/5/8. 19. However, see Gray (2007a: 228–30, and passim) for the number of researchers engaged in Australia, Papua, New Guinea and Melanesia. 20. Stanner to Firth, 8 August 1956, FIRTH: 8/5/8 (Stanner’s emphasis). 21. Radcliffe-­ Brown to Malinowski, 2  January 1929; Radcliffe-­ Brown to Chapman, 24  December 1931, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 850(c). 22. Wedgwood to Malinowski, 25  December 1931 (provided from the Malinowski Papers at the Yale University Library by Michael Young). 23. McLaren to Radcliffe-­ Brown, 24  February 1931, EP: 165/4/2/46; Raymond Firth, Memorandum on the Study of Anthropology in Australia and the Western Pacific, c. 1932, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 849, also in EP: 163/4/1/105 [hereinafter Memorandum]. See also Radcliffe-­ Brown to Secretary, Prime Minister’s Department, 26  February 1931, EP: 163/4/1/46. 24. The following quotes unless otherwise indicated are from Report on the Committee on Anthropological Research, July 1931–July 1932, EP: 161/4/1/63. 25. It included course work and a thesis. 26. Memorandum. 27. Memorandum. 28. Wedgwood to Malinowski, 29  October 1932, Malinowski Papers, Yale University Library, courtesy of Michael Young [hereinafter MP]. (Home for Firth was New Zealand, not England, as it was for Wedgwood.) 29. Malinowski to Firth, 25 May 1932, MP. 30. Wedgwood to Malinowski, 25 December 1931, MP. 31. Malinowski to Firth, 25 May 1932; Firth to Malinowski, 1 June 1932, MP. 32. Wedgwood was thirty-­one; Hogbin was twenty-­eight. 33. Firth to Malinowski, 1 June 1932, MP. 34. Radcliffe-­Brown to Elkin, 2 August 1932; Elkin to Firth, 11 September 1932; Firth to Elkin, 18 September 1932, EP: 158/4/1/41; Wedgwood to Malinowski, 29 October 1932, MP. 35. Elkin to Elliot Grafton Smith, n.d., EP: 167/4/2/52. 36. Gibson to Masson, 7  April 1933; Masson to Gibson, 30  March 1933; Malinowski to Masson, 3 May 1933, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 804(h). 37. Firth to Gray, Personal communication, 15 February 1993.

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38. Malinowski to Masson, 3 May 1933, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 853(c). 39. The selection c­ommittee – c­omprising MacCallum, Vice-­ Chancellor Robert Wallace, Judge Alfred Backhouse, barrister Frank Leverrier, Professors T.G.B Osborn and H.A. Todd, and A.J. Gibson representing the ­ANRC – m ­ et on 19 December and reported to the senate on 21 December. 40. Seligman to Masson, 30  January 1933, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 853(c). Elkin’s referees were Elliot Smith, W.J. Perry and Radcliffe-­ Brown. See also Thomas (2011). 41. Hogbin to Elkin, 27 December 1933, Hogbin Papers. 42. Gibson to Elkin, 28 November 1933; Gibson to Elkin, 8 January 1934, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 804(e). 43. Gibson to J.B. Cleland, 15 June 1934, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 804(c). Chapman had accused fieldworkers such as Ralph Piddington and Donald Thomson of misappropriating Rockefeller funds. 44. He also embezzled £3,400 from the Royal Society of New South Wales, of which he had been honorary treasurer for more than twenty-­two years. It was impossible for the ANRC to trace the full extent of his defalcations as he destroyed all records before his death. It was declared at the time as completely out of keeping with his character: ‘he was true to all his t­ rusts …u ­ ntil quite lately’. Alex J. Gibson to F.P. Keppel, Carnegie Corporation, 18 August 1934, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 804(b). Moran, in contrast, suggests Chapman provided evidence of his deceptive character early in his life (Moran 1939: 267–86). 45. Oscar U. Vonwiller to Day (Rockefeller Foundation), 15  August 1934, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 804(b). 46. Report of Executive Committee to General Meeting of the ANRC, 7  January 1937, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 142; Gibson to Rockefeller Foundation, 20  December 1934, ANRC Papers, NLA, MS 482, File 832. 47. Elkin to Paterson, 11 June 1936, NAA: A1, 38/31785. 48. Raymond Firth developed a public role for anthropology by focusing on the wellbeing of Aboriginal people (see Firth 1931). 49. Kuper (1983: 44) states that Radcliffe-­Brown ‘­argued … ­the anthropologist’s job was simply to provide a scientific appraisal of the situation which the administrator faced: he should not attempt to advocate any particular policy’. 50. Annual Report of the Committee for Anthropology Research, 1928– 29, EP: 161/4/1/81. Radcliffe-­Brown to Osborn, 4  April 1930, EP: 155/4/1/9; Gray (1996b). Elkin’s list of publications can be found in Elkin to Firth, 12  November 1931, attached résumé; Elkin to Firth, 4 December 1931, EP: 158/4/1/40; Elkin to Firth, 11 March 1932, EP: 158/4/1/41. 51. For a discussion on whether there was, under Elkin, a particular and

Anthropology at Sydney: A.R. Radcliffe-Brown and A.P. Elkin45

unique style of anthropological research and orientation, see, for example, Beckett (2001); Gray (2007a: 13–21). 52. Report to the ANRC, General Meeting, January 1935, Elkin’s draft, 20 December 1934, EP: 161/4/1/81. 53. Report on Anthropological Field Work for 1935, EP: 161/4/1/81; Report to the ANRC, General Meeting, January 1935, Elkin’s draft, 20 December 1934, EP: 161/4/1/81. 54. Gibson to Elkin, 9 November 1937, EP: 156/4/1/13. 55. Elkin to Gibson, 19 November 1937, EP: 156/4/1/13. 56. Elkin to Hon. Sec., 19 October 1939, EP: 156/4/1/14. Quotes following from this correspondence. 57. It disbanded in 1968; Elkin remained vice-­chairman until then. 58. Elkin commented in 1945 that ‘the depopulation of full-­blood Aborigines, which began in 1788, was still continuing and their extinction in the far-­off future seemed inevitable. By the 1950s, however, the tide had turned and both they and aborigines of “mixed-­blood” were definitely increasing’ (Elkin 1977: xvii). 59. Commonwealth Government’s Policy with Respect to Aboriginals, Issued by the Honourable J. McEwen, Minister for the Interior, February 1939. 60. Elkin (1938b). It was revised and reprinted until 1979.

Chapter 3

AUSTRALASIAN ANTHROPOLOGY DURING THE SECOND WORLD WAR

The Second World War was an opportunity for intellectual talent to play a role in running and shaping post-­war Australia and New Zealand.1 Some New Zealand social scientists served abroad during the war, often using the opportunity to further their careers afterwards. A considerable cohort of New Zealand scientists remained at home and contributed to the ‘Allied effort in the Pacific war in a number of ways, but the most direct was in the field of radar’ (Galbreath 2000: 211; see also MacLeod 2000). Australian social scientists, by and large, remained at home helping the war effort through their expertise or serving in the armed forces. After all, the war was at their doorstep. In Scholars at War (2012), we explored the use of Australian and New Zealand social scientists within wider examinations of the role of intellectuals in war. We argued that the use of anthropological knowledge in war was an extension of its use by colonial governments in the Pacific in the interwar years (Farish 2005: 673, 2010: 101–46). Military planners needed advice on local populations, and both the Australian and the American armies produced guides for soldiers encountering Pacific Islanders (we include Solomon Islanders and Papuan and New Guineans). The American armed forces in Micronesia used anthropologists as ‘culture brokers’ as well as for running ‘survival courses’ for US troops on the ground (Krauss 1988: 295–302; Kiste and Marshall 1999; for a description of the survival course, see Price 2008). It was ‘the experience anthropologists possessed in contact situations and field methods … “an informant’s view of culture”, a particularly relevant approach for those soldiers who would be engaging in social control at the local level’ that was useful (Farish 2005: 673). The work of anthropologists covered a diverse range of tasks, from how to best use indigenous populations in support

Australasian Anthropology during the Second World War47

of the war effort to the suitability of indigenous peoples as soldiers in the defence of Australia and its territories. An unexpected consequence of military service in the South and South-­West Pacific was an increased interest in anthropology as an academic subject after the war among returning soldiers. Mervyn Meggitt, for example, served with the Royal Australian Navy during the war. His wartime experience ‘attracted him to anthropology, and like other anthropologists of his generation, the war gave him the opportunity for a [university] education, which he might not otherwise have had’ (Beckett 2005: 557). Student numbers were on the rise, partly due to the influx of state-­assisted war veterans in Australian universities (under the Commonwealth Reconstruction Training Scheme), and new positions opened to cater for extra teaching loads (Barcan 2002; Macintyre 2015: 326–33). In fact, political faith in anthropologists to advise government on colonized indigenous cultures, the consequences of culture contact and urbanization (race relations) in settler nations such as Australia and New Zealand was at its height in the post-­war period (Mandler 2013: x–xv). In addition, where colonial rule was re-­established in areas that had been under Japanese occupation, anthropologists were used to assess the impact of war and occupation on the outlook and desires of local people. This chapter provides a brief overview of the way anthropologists were employed during the Pacific War (1942–45), thus contextualizing the post-­war expansion of anthropology in New Zealand and Australia. Indeed, it illustrates how significant the Second World War was for the growth and influence of anthropology (Gray 2000a). New Zealand had (colonial) dependencies in the Cook Islands, Tokelau and Niue, as well as Western Samoa as a Class C Mandate, which were not threatened by Japanese invasion (as occurred in Papua and New Guinea and the British Solomon Islands Protectorate), and the small German presence in Samoa presented no military threat.2 In the absence of danger at home, social scientists were not employed or used by the New Zealand Government or military services in specialist units to the extent they were in Australia (Munro 2012b: 163–64). There were no surveys on attitudes and responses to the war such as those undertaken by Elkin for white settler Australians.3 However, the Industrial Psychology Division (IPD) attempted ‘to facilitate New Zealand’s industrial war effort and rural sociology was developed within the Department of Agriculture’. During the 1940s, the IPD investigated labour shortages and ‘the persistence of so-­called class divisions’ (Crothers 2018: 28).

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In 1943, the Army Education and Welfare Service (AEWS) was established as ‘a joint venture between the Education Department and the New Zealand army’. The AEWS raised many sociological concerns in the materials it provided for men and women in the services, and facilitated discussions in which personnel debated matters of society and citizenship.4 There was, however, no examination of the ‘gritty realities of contemporary social life’ (Crothers 2018: 28). Nevertheless, it did encourage military personnel to ‘think about the shape and pattern of the social world they would return to after the war’. Lectures and discussion courses covered a ‘range of sociologically relevant topics: rehabilitation and the return to civilian life, housing provision, work, the future shape of towns, Maori life and aspirations, international affairs, democracy and social welfare, economic problems in a changing world, and the role of science’ (Brickell 2007: 15; Morrow 2014). During the war and in the immediate post-­war years, the ‘ethno-­ psychology’ approach of Ernest Beaglehole had considerable influence and several important studies of Mā ori communities took place. Some of the wider functions of social description and critique that sociology might have performed were taken up during this period by the stronger academic establishment of history and economics (Crothers 2009, 2018: 23–34; see also Brickell 2007). Sociological research in New Zealand was not institutionalized until the late 1950s, although various university courses contained sociological material, such as the School of Social Sciences that was established at Victoria University in Wellington in 1950.5 When war with Germany broke out, Elkin, concerned that Australians would sink into apathy, took to the pages of the daily newspapers to engender a sense of responsibility about the war. He appealed to patriotism, sacrifice and civic virtues.6 He conducted opinion polls on matters he considered needed urgent attention by government, including public morale. In 1941, he published a booklet entitled Our Opinions and the National Effort, which included chapters on ‘The Young People: Are They Thinking?’, ‘The Over Twenty-­Nines: What Are They Saying?’ and ‘Apathy Or?’.7 Adding to the importance of his type of sociological work, Elkin founded the Australian Institute of Sociology. He was elected president, founded a new journal, Social Horizon, and wrote the lead article, ‘The Need for Sociological Research in Australia’ (Elkin 1943a). After the war, he attempted to have the journal affiliated with the newly founded Social Science Research Committee, which aimed to ‘promote research in

Australasian Anthropology during the Second World War49

the social sciences … [which included] a range of disciplines that applied scientific methods of observation, analysis and reasoning to social phenomena’. It included anthropology, economics, education, history, law, philosophy, politics and psychology. He was unsuccessful (Macintyre 2010: 30–54). Despite this rebuff, he remained involved in sociological research during and after the war (Pomeroy 1995, 2012). The work sponsored in this field included studies of people of mixed descent, especially in rural and urban NSW, and research ‘into problems connected with the assimilation of alien groups’. This research investigated culture contact and change among Aboriginal people and people of mixed decent in rural townships in ­NSW – ­people who were living on the fringes of these townships, close to their country. Elkin distinguished this type of work from that of social anthropology, which focused on colonized people. On firmer ground, Elkin contended that anthropology had a national role to play during war, spreading ‘a knowledge of the scientific facts regarding race and culture’ as a counter to racial theories propounded by Nazism; likewise, anthropology ‘shows that war is not biologically determined but culturally conditioned’. Anthropologists, he stated, were therefore able to understand the cultural causes of war and use this knowledge in ‘marshalling a nation for total war’; they could also make a contribution to reconstruction and the consequences of problems associated with change brought about by the nation being on a war footing; and finally, anthropology ‘can assist materially in forming our policies towards allies, neutrals and enemies and the native races with whom we are concerned in the war’. The native races, he declared, ‘are citizens and our charge’ (Elkin 1942: 78–79; emphasis in original). For two years, Elkin offered anthropological and sociological advice although there was no specific task for anthropological investigation until December 1941 when Japan entered the war and Australia was under potential attack. The role for anthropology then was clearer. As far as Elkin was concerned: ‘The army and administration require [anthropologists] for direct dealings with the native peoples and with the problems of rehabilitation of native life. The army authorities h ­ ave … ­agreed that research into the problems arising out of war situations and war contacts is necessary.’8 There was, however, little opportunity for Elkin to provide formal advice to government or the defence forces. Unable to join the military, he continued teaching, sending his better students into the field, most of whom were women. Women

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scientists were few in number in Australia and New Zealand, which reflects a perceived maleness of war and a desire to domesticate women; men went overseas, and women, with few exceptions, stayed at the home front. It also underlines the lack of suitably qualified university-­ educated women. Elkin’s sociological research programme during the war was supported, and funded, by the Commonwealth (Federal Government) Department of Post-­War Reconstruction, which identified three commissions of inquiry: housing, rural reconstruction and secondary industry. Elkin’s students were able to provide information on the first two. This sociological research was undertaken by ­recent – m ­ ainly ­women – g ­ raduates in the department: Jean Craig (later Martin), Caroline Tennant Kelly, Moira Ravenscroft, Florence Harding, Vere Hole, John MacDonald and James Bell. In early 1945 Craig was appointed teaching fellow at the University of Sydney so she continued her rural research. Earlier, Kelly researched problems connected with the assimilation of alien groups; this was under the auspices of Post-­War Reconstruction and the Department of the Interior. After the war Kelly did field research on migrants in Victoria and Queensland. Other researchers worked in Indigenous studies during the war. Elkin researched people of mixed descent; Ronald and Catherine Berndt and Marie Reay, recent graduates, mainly undertook this research. It was regarded as sociological rather than anthropological research. Catherine and Ronald Berndt, a young married couple, went to Ooldea Soak (in the Great Victoria Desert) in 1942.9 After this work, they commuted between Adelaide and Sydney, undertaking some research for the NSW Aborigines Welfare Board at Menindee as well as investigating people living in urban and rural townships in South Australia, including Adelaide. At the end of 1944, they were working on cattle stations in the north-­east of the Northern Territory, investigating the state of labour (Berndt and Berndt 1945a, 1945b, 1945c, 1951, 1987; Gray 2015). Elkin sent Marie Reay to Cumeroogunga Aboriginal Station in early 1944 and, later in the same year, to ­Walgett – ­in both cases, for four months – ‘under the auspices of the NSW Aborigines Welfare Board’. She returned to Walgett (and Moree) in 1946 (Reay 1945; Reay and Sitlington 1948). While Elkin focused on the home front and new academic opportunities, the base on which academic anthropology had been resting since the foundation of the Sydney ­chair – ­training for external colonial ­territories – ­was reconfigured by groups outside Sydney

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University. From 1942, war-­ born organizations, including the Australian New Guinea Administrative Unit (ANGAU)10 and the Australian Army’s Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs (DORCA) (including the School of Civil Affairs) began to recruit anthropologists, which resulted in a challenge to Elkin’s university monopoly on research and training. The war thus created openings for a younger generation of anthropologists not enmeshed in Elkin’s web. The Pacific War (1941–1945) resulted in an increased need for social scientists, especially anthropologically trained personnel for the Colonial Service and those working with subject peoples as well as new roles for anthropologists in the academy and the civil service (Price 2002; Gray et al. 2012; Sligo 2013; see also van Bremen 2003). Unlike in the United States, Britain and Japan, anthropologists in Australia were not employed in the armed forces in areas associated with frontline fighting or advising frontline troops (Insa et al. 2018). The limited use of Australian anthropologists as military commanders of Indigenous soldiers was confined to the involvement of Squadron Leader Donald Thomson and Major W.E.H. Stanner. Much has been written about Thomson, the University of Melbourne anthropologist, and the uniqueness of the Northern Territory Special Reconnaissance Unit (Thomson 1983, 1992; Walker and Walker 1986; Hall 1989: 86–99; Riseman 2012). Their role was to keep an eye out for any Japanese landings. Likewise, with Stanner and the North Australia Observation Unit. Stanner convinced the military hierarchy of the advantage of a mobile commando unit and, due to the nature of its work and potential interaction with Aboriginal people, it was deemed appropriate he be appointed to it. Neither Thomson nor Stanner was a regular member of the armed forces before their appointment and neither had training as a regular soldier, although Thomson had undergone a short course on guerrilla warfare at Wilson’s Promontory, in Victoria. Anthropologists were also used as part of a propaganda war that included former New Guinea government anthropologist and Commonwealth Advisor on Native Affairs, Ernest Chinnery, who was with the Far Eastern Liaison Office. Papuan government anthropologist F.E. Williams was a member of the Allied Geographical Section of Military Intelligence; the educationalist and anthropologist William C. Groves was deputy director of the Directorate of Army Education. Williams and Groves developed materials for use by Allied troops in their dealings with ‘native peoples’, including maps of the terrain of the South-­West Pacific, descriptions of the physical hazards, information

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on the people of the area and a booklet, You and the Native, to guide soldiers coming into contact with Papuans and New Guineans.11 They placed white people at the centre of Indigenous lives and encouraged ideas about ‘European’ superiority, assuming that Indigenous peoples preferred to be governed by and fight for white people (Read 1946, 1947; Wolfers 1975: 113). Such affirmative assertions that the Indigenous peoples of Papua and New Guinea were loyal to Australia were tempered, however, by a belief that Aboriginal people might assist the Japanese should they invade Australia. Across northern Australia, there were reports of potential Aboriginal disloyalty (Nelson 1978; Gray 2018c; Winter 2011).12 Australian anxiety over the loyalty of its Indigenous subjects (including New Guineans) increased the perceived value of anthropological knowledge to be placed at the disposal of military planners and fighting troops. Elkin, promoting the value of anthropology, declared in early 1942 that anthropologists were able to assist in the ‘best use of Aborigines’ in the fight against the Japanese, for ‘unless they [the Aborigines] were told to the contrary by [anthropologists] whom they understood and trusted, [the Aborigines] would not see why they should not guide and help the Japanese’.13 Yet Elkin’s suggestion to use anthropologists as intermediaries at the war front fell on deaf ears (Riseman 2012; Gray 2018c). Rather, it was in Papua and New Guinea that anthropological knowledge was sought by military authorities, but not using anthropologists as intermediaries. When the need arose for specialist tasks associated with the war, Elkin was pointedly not consulted. Nearly twelve months after war with Japan was declared, the Australian Army established a Directorate of Research, which in today’s terminology was a multidisciplinary think tank (Sligo 2013). It was attached to the Commander-­in-­Chief of the Australian Army and, in late 1944, broadened its interests and was renamed the DORCA. Such an agency was needed because the army in New Guinea had to be watched lest, while fighting the Japanese, it left behind a discontented and troublesome population. New Guineans, who had been under German colonial rule less than three decades earlier, had no particular reason to be loyal to Australia and, more importantly, they would offer assistance to the Japanese rather than risk incurring the wrath of the Japanese in any way, and similarly with Allied troops (Read 1946; Hogbin 1951; Winter 2014, 2019). To advise on these matters was the special domain of anthropologists, although the practical knowledge of colonial officials was not ignored.

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Between 1943 and 1946, DORCA reviewed a range of topics, from army health and nutrition to the dietary standards for Papuans and New Guineans employed by the army, and trends in Allied, imperial and international relations. With time, its attention moved towards post-­war military government. It also prepared plans to counter the invasion and occupation of Australia by the Japanese, should it happen (Sligo 2013: chs 7, 8). At this time, Stanner, Wedgwood, Ralph Piddington and LSE anthropologist Lucy Mair were recruited (Wetherell and Carr-­Gregg 1990; Gray 2012b). Stanner was to advise on British colonial policy and practice; Piddington was appointed deputy principal of the School of Civil Affairs (Gray 2018a); Mair lectured on colonial administration and wrote a report on colonial government in Papua and New Guinea, which was published as Australia in New Guinea (Mair 1948); and Wedgwood advised on education (Wedgwood 1950). Ian Hogbin, who had been part of DORCA from its inception, conducted investigations on labour and the impact of war on New Guineans. He was assisted by Kenneth E. Read, a young Sydney graduate. Hogbin was a member of the Native War Damage Compensation Committee, which implemented a workable scheme compensating New Guineans for loss of or damage to land and property, death or injury, arising either from military operations or ‘from causes attributable to the existence of a state of war in the territories’ (Hogbin 1951: 19–21; Legge 1956: 185–87; Gray 2012a; Westermark 2001). Immediately after the war, Hogbin advised the Minister for Territories on colonial policy in Papua and New Guinea and taught at the Australian School of Pacific Administration (ASOPA) before returning to the University of Sydney. After completing her survey of education in New Guinea, Wedgwood continued as lecturer in anthropology at the School for Civil Affairs and its successor, ASOPA. There is little doubt that DORCA, through the input of Hogbin, Wedgwood and Mair in particular, led the debate on reforming colonial policy in Papua and New Guinea in the immediate post-­war years, but its long-­term influence on the direction of colonial policy is less clear. J.K. Murray, the first post-­war administrator of the territory, claimed DORCA was responsible for a policy in ‘­which … t­ he interests of the native people are paramount and that priority be given to their educational, social, economic and political development’ (Murray 1969).14 With the 1949 election win by Robert Menzies and the conservative Liberal Party, however, the progressive direction of colonial governance ceased.

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To be sure, the Pacific War gave applied anthropology a boost by enabling investigations of the effects of the war on indigenous peoples and their relations with the military and civil administration, as well as considering the problems of post-­war rehabilitation and reconstruction and leaving a body of empirical-­based scholarship. Importantly for the institutional development of anthropology in Australasia, the hegemony of the Sydney department was challenged with the establishment, in December 1944, of the School of Civil Affairs, a training school initially for army officers who were going into recently reoccupied war zones as part of military governments, especially Borneo, Papua and New Guinea. It was envisaged that it would be responsible for the training of field (patrol) officers and cadets for a post-­war civilian-­administered Papua and New Guinea.15 The leading members of the School of Civil Affairs hoped it would be incorporated into the new national university that was being planned as a special Commonwealth-­supported, research-­focused institution, as a School of Colonial and Pacific Studies, but this did not eventuate. In 1947, it was put under the Department of Territories, renamed the Australian School of Pacific Administration and moved to Sydney (McPherson 2001). The training of colonial officials at the University of Sydney ceased. After the war, Elkin failed to convince the Commonwealth Government to support projects associated with Aboriginal Australia and in the recently reoccupied territories of Papua and New Guinea. By the end of the 1940s, anthropology was very much the province of the new and well-­funded (by the Commonwealth Government) ANU in Canberra, the focus of which was Papua New Guinea and, to a lesser degree, the South-­West Pacific. The Sydney department simply could not compete against the new institution and was further hampered as it was not until 1955 that it was able to award PhD degrees, which the ANU offered from the start. Ever watchful of his turf, Elkin sought an assurance that the ANU would not intrude on Sydney’s central position of Aboriginal research, resulting in an undertaking from Raymond Firth, one of four academic advisors to the ANU Interim Council, that Aboriginal anthropology would remain with Sydney and the emphasis of the ANU would be on Pacific studies. In real terms, it left the Sydney department with Aboriginal Australia as its main research area. Funding was limited, which had a profound effect on anthropological practice in Sydney as well as on the research programme.16 The war thus proved to have far-­reaching effects for established positions, for the universities and for the nature

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and direction of anthropological research, shifting resources and direction from Sydney to Canberra, from domestic issues of importance to Aboriginal welfare (people of mixed descent in urban and rural areas) and to strategic issues associated with the administration of the South-­West Pacific and Papua New Guinea. At the ANU, anthropology was also embedded in a multidisciplinary set-­up of early post-­war studies of the region. The ANU, once formally established, started its search for a Professor of Anthropology. In Aotearoa/New Zealand, the end of the war also hurried the appointment of a professor in the newly established Department of Anthropology at Auckland University College. Firth, in London, was consulted over both appointments. We now turn to the appointment of Ralph Piddington at Auckland.

Notes   1. We have drawn on our introduction from Gray (2001) and Gray et al. (2012).   2. German nationals numbered just less than fifty; some were interned on Somes Island in Wellington Harbour (Winter 2015, 2017).   3. Cf. Hogbin’s (1951) and Read’s (1946) work for DORCA for attitudes of New Guineans.   4. ‘AEWS was first set up among the forces based in New Zealand, and soon a school began operation at the army headquarters in Wellington. In time, the organization spread to the Pacific and to prisoners of war, the Middle East and Italy’ (Brickell 2007: 15).   5. Barrowman (1999: ch. 10) offers an overview of the development of the social sciences at Victoria University.   6. For example, Sydney Morning Herald, 12 September 1941.   7. Elkin was assisted by ‘twenty observers mostly graduates in anthropology’. ‘Notes and News’, (1941: 187).   8. Elkin to Cleland, 10 November 1943, EP: 157/4/1/23.   9. Catherine was in receipt of research funds. 10. ANGAU was to compile a team of experts in native administration. Francis Edgar Williams, government anthropologist in Papua (1922–43), was seconded to the unit in March 1943. He was killed in a plane accident in May 1943. This effectively resulted in the unit being controlled by former patrol officers of the New Guinea service. For a history of ANGAU, see Powell (2003); for DORCA, see Sligo (2013). 11. Allied Geographical Section, Southwest Pacific Area, 1943, You and the Native: Notes for the Guidance of Members of the Forces in their Relations with New Guinea Natives, Ike Skelton Combined Arms Research Library,

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Leavenworth, KS. http://cgsc.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/ref/collection​/p4 013coll8/id/4108. Retrieved 11 August 2015. 12. See also Security (Qld) to Director-­General Security, 16 July 1942, NAA: MP729/6, 29/401/626; Memo to the Minister for the North-­West, 16 July 1942, SROWA: ACC993, 592/43. In the later phase of the war, suspicions about New Guinean loyalty were also strongly asserted. 13. Elkin to Prime Minister, 2 April 1942, NAA: A659, 1942/1/3043. 14. Paul Hasluck, who was appointed Minister for Territories in 1951 and undid the policies of Murray, later claimed DORCA ‘wielded no influence whatever’, and that few tangible results could be traced back to Conlon and the directorate. Cf. Jinks (1976); Ryan (1993); Sligo (2013). 15. Papua and New Guinea were amalgamated in 1946 despite New Guinea remaining a Trust Territory of the United Nations. Papua remained an Australian territory. 16. These funds were supplemented by the NSW Aborigines Welfare Board and Commonwealth Government funding for projects associated with European migration.

Chapter 4

‘A MATTER OF REPROACH TO NEW ZEALAND’ AUCKLAND UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, 1949

Throughout the interwar years, as alluded to earlier, there was discussion among New Zealand social scientists, amateur ethnographers, Mā ori leaders and government officials about the value of anthropology for the governance of colonized people and as a way to capture and revitalize Mā ori lifeways (McCarthy 2014). Henry Skinner’s emphasis on museum anthropology and archaeology was out of favour with Mā ori ethnologists such as Āpirana Ngata and Peter Buck. Buck, for example, took exception to Skinner’s ‘bald description of Museum objects [which] leaves me cold’. Material culture is ‘somewhat of a drudgery to describe but remains dead unless it is woven into the living culture of the people’ (cited in Cameron 2014: 209). The emerging discipline of social/cultural anthropology found resonance in the positions of Ngata and Buck as well as the younger scholars turning to anthropology. Of the interwar generation who were educated overseas, only Ivan G.L. Sutherland (Canterbury University College, Christchurch) and Ernest Beaglehole (Victoria University College, Wellington) returned and remained (Sorrenson 1982: 7; see also Barrowman 1996; Sorrenson 1996, 2012; Webster 1998; Hilliard 2006: 88–93; Morrow and Brookes 2013; cf. McCarthy 2014).1 Beaglehole was promoted to the chair of psychology and philosophy in 1948, having conduced fieldwork in Polynesia. Sutherland’s fieldwork was among Mā ori and he was involved in army education during the Second World War, then in postwar reconstruction but spent most of his time attempting to negotiate entry and settlement for Jewish refugees fleeing Europe (Sutherland 2013: 316–35). Sadly, a

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combination of work pressure and academic disappointment resulted in his suicide in 1952. Beaglehole’s influence on the course of anthropology in New Zealand was greater than Sutherland’s. He built on previous efforts. Ngata, Buck and, to a lesser degree, Felix Keesing, in the late 1920s and Beaglehole himself in the late 1930s argued for the establishment of a school of anthropological studies that focused on social-­cultural anthropology rather than physical anthropology and material culture of both Mā ori and Polynesian peoples, and for an academic rather than a museum-­based anthropology.2 They were modest in their aims. It was part and parcel of Ngata’s unceasing work for the maintenance of Mā ori culture and language and, in turn, Mā ori social and economic advancement (Walker 2001). Beaglehole had academic anthropology in mind but did not envisage a ‘school of anthropology’; rather, ‘One or two instructors, a few square feet of office room, a few books on anthropology and an extremely modest research grant is the limit of my most extravagant dream’ (Beaglehole 1938: 161n.). Ngata, as Minister for Native Affairs, was also responsible for the Cook Islands and Samoa and, over the years, found supportive arguments for the use of anthropology in the governance of ‘native’ races in the Pacific at Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science (later the Australian and New Zealand Association for the Advancement of Science or ANZAAS) and Pan-­Pacific Science congresses. His argument, set out initially in his 1927 paper ‘Anthropology and the Government of Native Races in the Pacific’, saw value in anthropology as an aide to colonial rule, thus enabling officials assisting cultural adjustment to work in the spaces between the governing and the governed. Museum historian Conal McCarthy asserts that ‘for Ngata, anthropological knowledge was a kind of authority which was strategically invested in the organization of governmental practices for rather than against Mā ori populations’ (McCarthy 2014: 291; Sorrenson 1987: 211). Teaching anthropology in a university setting was implicit in Ngata’s position. Beaglehole was a persistent voice for a university-­based anthropology; although he regarded himself as a psychologist rather than an anthropologist, Beaglehole, with his wife, Pearl (nee Maslin), had nonetheless conducted fieldwork among the Hopi in North America, in Hawai`i and at Pukapuka in the northern Cook Islands at the behest of Peter Buck.3 Appointed as senior lecturer in mental and moral philosophy at Victoria University College in 1937, Beaglehole launched an impassioned plea in successive articles in JPS for an

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academic school of anthropology to be established ‘here and now’ (Beaglehole 1937, 1938). Keen to set the pace, Beaglehole developed a course, ‘Man and Culture: An Introduction to Social Anthropology’, which was taught according to the precepts of American cultural anthropology (Barrowman 1999: 251). In the same year, but not in response to Beaglehole, the Auckland University College Council proposed a chair of anthropology be established when funding became available. Despite these pleas for training in anthropology, there was no place in New Zealand where a career in anthropology could be developed; Beaglehole described it as ‘the poor sister of the sciences, lacking dowry, dress or home’ (Beaglehole 1937: 167). New Zealand anthropologists, as we saw with Keesing and Firth for example, were forced to look elsewhere. New Zealand was quite simply unable to absorb all the talent it ­produced – ­a feature of national life described by historian James Belich as ‘cultural overproduction’ (Belich 2001: 341–45). Nevertheless, the state of anthropology was indicative of a general neglect of the social sciences in New Zealand, which was in accord with the view of Arnold Everitt Campbell, director of the New Zealand Council for Educational Research, who wrote that research in New Zealand on socioeconomic, psychological and cultural fields ‘has been backward, the failure of the University [of New Zealand] to grasp the opportunity to make New Zealand a centre of Polynesian studies being symptomatic’.4 The other issue for consideration was the state of what Beaglehole called ‘Mā ori studies’. He was critical of the way in which it had been treated both within the academy and in museums (see McCarthy 2014). Both institutions were responsible for large ‘gaps in our understanding’ and a failure to appreciate the ‘unique materials for study’ that previous ­observers – ­mostly amateur anthropologists, archaeologists and ­historians – ­had provided. The greatest weakness was found in the ‘field of ethnology and social organization’ of Mā ori cultural and social life, especially comparative work on the study of cultural change. Only by a study of the history of cultural change ‘can present culture be understood’, he argued. Ngata added an insight lacking in Beaglehole’s prognosis of the value of cultural contact: ‘An outstanding illustration today is the success of some of the East Coast tribes in adopting elements of Pakeha culture which has influenced other tribes throughout Mā oridom to emulate their achievements in education, in social reorganization, land settlement, and the preservation of the poetry and arts and crafts of the race’ (Ngata 1931: 13).

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Ngata concludes this section of the report by quoting Buck, who views ‘the problem of cultural adjustment from a scientific angle and boldly assert[s] that the Mā ori can now select what is suitable in the culture of the Pakeha and retain that which shows a tendency to persist in his own culture’ (Buck, cited in Ngata 1931: 13; see also McCarthy 2014: 292). This is pertinent to anthropological investigations at the time: a belief that ‘the story of culture-­­change … ­can be analysed both as a detailed story and as an annotation on such recent phenomena of culture contact as the mass neuroses of messianic religion, cultural nationalism, or the difficulties of adjustment to dual cultural standards’. It was a powerful plea for tolerance – ‘to-­day’s neglected virtue’ (Beaglehole 1937: 158). There was also the matter of New Zealand’s colonial responsibilities: ‘the administration and wise guidance of approximately 144,000 Polynesians, both in New Zealand and in her Pacific mandate and dependencies’. A trained anthropologist (Beaglehole suggested a government anthropologist) ‘may take some of the guess work out of the contact between European and native Polynesian’. Equally, an argument could be made ‘for the establishment of a school of anthropology through whose doors could pass all those civil s­ ervants … a ­ nd missionaries whose career is likely to bring them into touch with Mā ori or Polynesian’. To bring this to fruition, Beaglehole argued for a ‘centrally-­located school of anthropology’; his choice was Wellington, the national capital, which probably reflected his own location and the added advantage for an anthropology used in the service of colonial governance being close to relevant government officials (Beaglehole 1937: 154–60). Anthropology (a ‘study of man’s culture’) also had broad appeal; it was intrinsically valuable in itself. It was, Beaglehole declared, the best antidote to ethnocentrism. Ethnocentrism equates with intolerance of other people and their way of life, and anthropology ‘makes a direct frontal attack on intolerance and ethnocentrism’. Beaglehole used Edward Sapir’s ‘expressive phrase that anthropology is constantly rediscovering the normal’. Importantly, given New Zealand’s Mā ori and its colonies, anthropology enabled a sympathetic and wise governance of colonized ­peoples – ­a common trope found in settler dispossessory nations and British-­influenced colonial policies and practices. It was more nuanced than the need for adjustment by colonial people; rather, it was a call for helping and understanding the changes and agency for colonized people (and urbanization), and for anthropology to play its part in building the nation.

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Beaglehole argued there was a need to evaluate the Mā ori ‘nationalistic movement and culture’ in terms of what they might mean for future relations between Mā ori and Pakeha (Beaglehole 1937: 166–67; see also Webster 1998: 73–102). New Zealand, he continued, was ‘now moulding for good or evil the future relations of Mā ori and European by the type of education, its content and philosophy, that we are providing for the Mā ori’. He saw ‘no good reason’ why ‘this education should not be sensitive to, and guided by, the dynamics of present-­day Mā ori culture’. Whatever its purpose, ‘the education of the native in his Pacific island or education of the Mā ori’ benefits from ‘an anthropological orientation [which] is the best measure we know of today that this education shall at once subsume and guide the values of native culture in terms of better personal and social adaptation’ (Beaglehole 1937: 163–67). In short, anthropology was equipping Pakeha in their interactions with Mā ori. Given these observations, Beaglehole asked: what kind of anthropology should be taught in New Zealand? Physical anthropology and archaeology, the distribution of techniques, weapons and implements and such like were well covered by museum work, yet hardly a reflection of modern trends in anthropology. He argued for teaching anthropology as a ‘cultural study’ and proposed the establishment of a School of Polynesian Studies (inclusive of Mā ori studies) that ‘could train civil servants and Native Affairs officers in the elements of anthropological sophistication’. Such a school could conduct research into problems relating to ‘man and his culture’; it could proceed with original research in the Mā ori–Polynesian field; it could teach Mā ori–Polynesian languages; it could proceed with a linguistic survey of Polynesia that was ‘so badly needed’; it could join hands with psychology on the one side and human anatomy on the other, to provide a wider, systematic basis for psychological generalization and a careful survey of Mā ori somatology; it could conserve knowledge already gained, proceed to new formulations and render significant service to the community at large (Beaglehole 1937: 171). The applied anthropological side of the school could be carried out most successfully through the teaching of cadets stationed in W ­ ellington … ­ the leaders of this school with their first-­ hand scientific field-­ experience, would be close at hand for consultation should heads of departments administering our native peoples ever feel the need for scientific advice (and of course, I hope they would, frequently); a ­ nd … ­even in Wellington research workers would still be close to the

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larger Mā ori communities in the North Island. (Beaglehole 1938: 161)

He noted that Christchurch ‘some day in the distant future’ planned to establish a School of Pacific Studies. He did not dismiss anthropology at Otago out of hand but, when compared with Wellington, considered Dunedin ‘too far distant easily and inexpensively to train our civil servants, and the Christchurch school is too far distant in another sense either to train, research, or teach’ (Beaglehole 1938: 161–62).

A Chair of Anthropology? Despite Beaglehole’s argument for anthropology at Wellington’s Victoria University College, it was Auckland that made the move, with the support of the New Zealand Council for Educational Research, which agreed that Auckland was the ‘natural place’ in which to establish such a centre.5 Meeting in June 1943, the Auckland University College Council decided to wait until university staffing arrangements ­improved – ­that is, the council’s ‘first responsibility was to improve the status and staffing of existing departments’ before settling on establishing a chair in anthropology as first proposed in 1937.6 Despite these reservations, it was decided that ‘a Chair of Anthropology at Auckland should be included in the list of post-­war requirements’ and raised at the Conference of Colleges meeting for that year.7 It argued that the establishment of a properly staffed Department of Anthropology and Pacific Studies in New Zealand is long overdue. New Zealand is a natural centre for teaching and research in this subject. The Auckland Institute and Museum some time ago represented to the Council the need for the establishment of a Chair in Anthropology at A ­ uckland … I­ f such a Department is to be established Auckland would seem to be the natural place in which to establish it.

The council also put forward a proposal for a lectureship in geography and the creation of a School of Social Sciences, the primary purpose of which would be the training of social workers. The Conference of Colleges approved the establishment of a chair of anthropology at Auckland and a chair of social studies at Victoria University College in Wellington. The Auckland University College Council was constrained by funding considerations and there the matter remained until war’s end.

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At the end of 1946, there was a submission to the Auckland University College Council that a lectureship in Mā ori language be established as ‘a step towards the later establishment of a chair in Mā ori and Polynesian ethnology’. The matters of the chair and its staffing were raised once more. These ­matters – ­a chair in anthropology and lectureship in Mā ori ­language – w ­ ere referred to the Education Committee of the Auckland University College Council for ‘consideration and report’. After further discussion, it was resolved that the following anthropologists be invited to express ‘their views (in the form of a memorandum) to the proposed course’: Ernest Beaglehole (Victoria University College), H.D. Skinner (University of Otago), Raymond Firth (LSE), Sir Peter Buck (Bernice P. Bishop Museum, Honolulu), Felix Keesing (Stanford University) and the Australian A.P. Elkin (University of Sydney).8 They were asked to advise on the following: Staffing requirement for School (number of members, status and technical assistants); ­Administration – ­including space for museum and laboratories; Equipment; Library; Amount and kind of practical work required [for] each stage; whether the study of Anthropology should be included as part of the B.Sc. Degree; whether it is desirable or necessary to link the study of the Mā ori Language with that of Anthropology; in what direction the study of Anthropology would be of benefit in the social studies of Mā ori people in relation to their ­future … ­Relationship to Mā ori W ­ elfare … R ­ elationship to Civil Service Course in [the] Pacific.

Only Beaglehole and Elkin provided detailed ­suggestions – ­on staffing, course content and the relationship to New Zealand’s dependencies and the colonial civil service. Beaglehole argued against ‘developing a hard and fast scheme’ relating to the teaching of anthropology in advance of the appointment of a professor. He suggested a way to do this ‘would be first to appoint the Chair, then allow the new Professor time to participate in choosing his staff, organizing his course, arranging liaison with the Auckland Museum and making contacts with Mā ori leaders before requiring him to embark on his teaching duties’. Only ‘by this method’, he declared, ‘will it be possible to secure the best possible staff and thereafter to start both teaching and research with a well organised programme that should promise immediate and long lasting success’. Beaglehole also outlined a comprehensive four-­year undergraduate course culminating in an MA. It was wide-­ranging, covering a general introduction to anthropology: social anthropology, material culture, ‘primitive linguistics’ and archaeology; in the second year,

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he recommended, ‘peoples and cultures of the Pacific’ and a ‘survey of ethnological theory’ with specific reference to Africa, North America and Asia. The third stage concentrated on social organization, plus Polynesian and Mā ori culture and methodology. The MA, which resembled a modern BA honours degree, consisted of four papers and a thesis on one of the following topics: ‘primitive languages’, archaeology and material culture with ‘special reference to Maori and Polynesian materials’, ‘principles of culture contact’ in the Pacific, ‘advanced studies in Polynesian culture’ and, finally, ‘studies in the theory of culture’. He argued that the emphasis of the department ‘should be placed on the investigation and study of living peoples and their cultures both in New Zealand and the Pacific’. It was ‘undesirable’, Beaglehole continued, that the Mā ori language should be taught as a ‘separate subject apart from the teaching of Mā ori life, customs and culture’. He advocated the appointment of a ‘specialist in this subject’ if a senior lecturer ‘was not able to offer the Mā ori and Polynesian languages’. Elkin, the only professor of anthropology in the Antipodes, was prone to talk himself up. He was, he told the committee, ‘only too pleased to give you any help I can from my own experience during the past fifteen years in this Chair’ (at the University of Sydney). Elkin was not in favour of Mā ori or ‘any other language … [as] a compulsory part of the course of Anthropology’. He was in favour, however, of students gaining knowledge of ‘the principles of linguistics and phonetics’. If Mā ori was taught, it should be done in conjunction with ‘at least one year’s Anthropology’. Unlike Beaglehole, Elkin was reluctant to ‘lay down rules on such matter[s]’, leaving it for the incoming professor to decide. Skinner regarded it ‘desirable that Mā ori be taught in a College that teaches Anthropology’ but it was not a high priority. Except for Skinner, the others addressed staffing: Beaglehole suggested a professor ‘with qualifications in Social Anthropology’, two senior lecturers, one in physical anthropology and archaeology and the other in ‘primitive linguistics’, and a junior lecturer ‘as demonstrator in material culture’. Elkin and Firth strongly advocated a chair in social anthropology and advised how such a department could be staffed. Firth suggested one professor who ‘is a specialist in Social Anthropology, and who is prepared to apply himself to the study of the Pacific and in particular to Polynesian problems’, a lecturer well versed in economic anthropology and a departmental secretary. Elkin detailed the staffing situation at Sydney, stressing the importance of a lecturer in linguistics. His team of ­six – ­himself, a Reader in Melanesian

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Anthropology, a Reader in Linguistics, a teaching fellow, a research assistant and a secretary to help the professor – ‘enables me to cope with the Anthropology I and Anthropology II [courses] … together with the Distinction work in e­ ach … A ­ nthropology ­III … i­ s the Fourth-­ year honours course for the B.A.’. He added that anthropology ‘is not commenced by students until their second academic y ­ ear … ­I find this very useful indeed for I think Anthropology requires a degree of maturity of mind which a successful year at University can provide’. Elkin emphasized the importance of getting the right staff. He recommended that, at ‘a minimum’, Auckland should start with a professor, a lecturer in social anthropology and a secretary and/or research assistant. Elkin did not support a general anthropology course that included physical anthropology and archaeology, although he did not dismiss such interests for postgraduate students. Buck thought a professor, with a full-­time clerical assistant, was sufficient. He also argued for co-­operation with the Auckland Institute and Museum. Following the arguments of Ngata, Firth and Buck in the late 1920s and early 1930s, Beaglehole posed the question: ‘What is the good of Anthropology for the present and future welfare of the Mā ori and Pacific islanders in New Zealand’s dependencies?’ He proposed that colonial officials – ‘Pacific Islands Personnel and Others’ – could attend a short course, which would lead towards a ‘College Diploma in Anthropology’. Such a course would meet the needs of New Zealand missionaries, medical personnel, teachers and government servants undertaking administrative and other duties in the Pacific Islands, as well as the needs of district nurses, native schoolteachers and Native Department personnel ‘serving Mā ori districts’. Such training would reduce conflict and contact ‘between such persons and Pacific islanders and Mā oris will be more efficient and ­helpful … ­based on knowledge and informed understanding of native needs and problems’. On the matter of training for the Colonial Service, Elkin was more strident and, of course, more experienced than any of the other advisors. Training for the Colonial Service was ‘almost the main reason why the [Sydney] Department of Anthropology was founded’, he confidently declared. A result of ‘this practical motive’ was the type of anthropology developed at Sydney: ‘social anthropology, applied anthropology and the problems of culture contact’. In courses for administrative officials and missionaries, stress was laid on the ‘practical problems which they face’. Other subjects besides anthropology

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were also part of the training: psychology, law and an elementary knowledge of tropical health and hygiene. Buck, the distinguished New Zealand anthropologist and director of the Bernice P. Bishop Museum in Honolulu, devoted most of his one-­page response to the training of civil servants as a way of providing a ‘better understanding of the native people in the Pacific’. He referred the college committee to the special course established by the US Navy at Stanford University, of which Felix Keesing was director (Price 2008: 41, 222–23). He also took the opportunity to further credential himself as an anthropologist and the importance of anthropological research: The Co-­ordinated Investigation of Micronesian Anthropology (CIMA) is being assisted by the US Navy because it realized that the anthropological survey will be of great value to the Military Government of the Micronesian area. There are forty-­four trained anthropologists from twenty-­two American universities taking part in the project. The Bishop Museum is sending four (including myself) to the Polynesian occupied atolls of Kapingamarangi and Nukuoro.9

This type of survey, Buck stated, illustrated the importance of anthropology to both civil and military institutions, and in New Zealand’s case, ‘anthropological ­ training … ­ will be particularly useful in view of the proposed establishment of the South Pacific Commission’.10 The commission, in fact, was one of several developments that worked in favour of the expansion of anthropology in New Zealand, which included, in the words of historian Mary Boyd: [T]he Pacific War and the development of New Zealand nationality, the Australia–New Zealand Agreement of 1944, the establishment of the international trusteeship system in San Francisco in 1945, and the South Pacific Commission in 1947; also, the Samoan petition for self-­government and Albert Henry and the Cook Islands Progressive Association, which were putting pressure on the Fraser government for ‘new look’ policies to promote political as well and economic and social advancement. (Boyd 1996: 18; also Munro 2012a)

These were exciting times for Pacific studies generally and the atmosphere was receptive to new academic initiatives. For his part, Skinner was also riding his hobby horse in focusing on the importance of choosing a professor. He emphasized the role of the museum in teaching anthropology: ‘every-­one of my students (all of them Stage I) knows pretty intimately the sections of the Otago Museum devoted to man’s ancestry, prehistory, the early stages in the development of civilization, and Oceanic material culture’. It would be

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‘wrong to plan a Department of Anthropology at Auckland without making the museum collections a central feature of the work’. What he wanted was a department that reflected his own work at Otago and he recommended that Auckland ‘require practical work from the beginning, and, further that your laboratories should be part of the Auckland Museum building, though lectures would probably be given’. He recognized that such a proposal may not find appeal, referencing a critique of Otago anthropology by Beaglehole, who believed Skinner engaged in ‘a rather curious attempt to train in one year’s study, a professional anthropologist or perhaps a more or less efficient museum assistant, or again a jack-­of-­all-­trades field-­assistant’ (Beaglehole 1937: 170). Raymond Firth, a former student of Auckland University College and author of the influential text The Primitive Economics of the New Zealand Maori (1929), was clear in his view that the new chair had to be in social anthropology, for two reasons: ‘the separate branches of Anthropology nowadays have attained practically independent status, and the training and equipment required for each is very different’. Physical anthropology and archaeology, moreover, ‘need not be concentrated at the one centre’. However, ‘the problems of the Mā ori people, of the island peoples whom New Zealand has in its charge, and of the general relation of New Zealand to the Pacific, are such that a concentration on the social aspects of anthropology would seem most desirable’. He added that the department should give ‘some attention to race relations and race problems, and in this respect should endeavour to get the biological school to provide an elementary course on say Heredity and Variation in Man’. Linguistics was an important tool for the field, and he recommended there be a course in general linguistics, including phonetics, and a course in Polynesian languages. Unlike Beaglehole, Elkin and Firth, who favoured arts, Buck supported Skinner’s contention that anthropology should be part of a science degree. Felix Keesing did not respond.

The Committee’s Recommendation Echoing the sentiment of writers such as Beaglehole and Buck, the committee observed that ‘it is a matter of reproach to New Zealand’ that no provision had been made for students to undertake a full university course in anthropology and that a ‘major discipline of accepted practical value and academic significance is not making its full contribution

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to thought and scholarship in the Dominion’. It reported to the council that it had sought the advice of ‘eminent anthropologists’ on a series of matters. As a result, the committee was ‘­satisfied … o ­ f the urgent need for the establishment of the Chair and of the advantages which the School will give in providing not only an academic discipline but also practical assistance in understanding of the problems of Mā ori welfare, and in providing training for those who are to participate in administrative work in the Pacific’. The committee, the council was informed, ‘feels strongly that a Chair of Anthropology should be established’. There were strong reasons, the committee stated, for the selection of Auckland: it was nearest to the island dependencies and ‘within the area of greatest Mā ori population. Mā ori history is part of Polynesian history and the experience of the Mā ori people in adjusting themselves to European social and economic life has significance for the future of the inhabitants of the dependencies.’ Addressing the ‘question of whether the School should be one of general anthropology or of social anthropology’, the committee was of ‘the opinion, that while research interests in anthropology may very well, and not inappropriately, turn towards social anthropology, it would be undesirable to limit the scope of the studies to this side’. It recommended the council establish a school that provided studies in the field of anthropological science: Besides providing teaching to honours standard for those who wish to follow a research career in Anthropology, the course will offer a valuable component for pass degrees as at present organised. The needs of intending public servants in Native Administration will be met either in the degree courses or through special courses such as are conducted at Oxford, Cambridge and London, and at Sydney. It may be expected that students will include Mā ori who would, through the opportunities and means provided by the School, maintain the prestige of their race in administration and in scholarship and research in Anthropology.

The committee recommended a ‘lectureship in Mā ori (including Polynesian linguistics) should be included in the School’. It also recommended that ‘the staff requirements are one Professor, two Senior Lecturers, One Lecturer and clerical assistance’. The professor would be responsible for the academic appointments. It was decided to ask the government to cover the costs associated with these appointments. The council accepted the recommendations but before it proceeded sought the views of the Professorial Board. There were two issues: whether the establishment of a chair would financially disadvantage ‘existent departments’; and whether anthropology would be a

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research and postgraduate department or an undergraduate teaching department. The choice had an impact on both the budget and the accommodation.

Prevarication At its March 1948 meeting, the Professorial Board supported the creation of a chair of anthropology as long as existing arrangements were not affected and, second, ‘the work of the Department of Anthropology should be entirely at the post-­graduate stage on the grounds that any wide and deep study of anthropology demands an adult and critical approach, and presupposes a study of such subjects as history, the classics and philosophy’. The council, in response, sought clarification: did the board intend to recommend that ‘in view of the present circumstances the establishment of a C ­ hair … s­ hould … be abandoned’; ‘in what respects it feels that establishment of the Chair would effect other departments’; and would it reconsider its views on whether the study of anthropology should be an entirely postgraduate course? The board’s primary concern was the cost of a new department; it noted that most departments in the college were ‘suffering from a shortage of accommodation’ and a new department would ‘constitute further demands on the limited facilities’. It reiterated its view that the Department of Anthropology would work only at the post-­graduate level. Nonetheless, the board ‘welcomed the establishment of a Chair subject to [those] reservations’. Anthropology was thus an add-­on and existing disciplines would feed into it. The Professorial Board was defending its status quo. The problem of funding was addressed in part by the government giving formal approval for the establishment of the chair but funding only for a professor plus books and equipment. Further consideration would be given after the appointment of a professor. The council, bypassing the concerns of the Professorial Board, proceeded with the appointment of a professor and the Anthropology Committee was asked to draw up conditions of appointment along the lines recommended in its February report. The position was duly advertised. The applicants were advised that the School of Anthropology ‘shall provide for study in the whole field of Anthropology’. They were further advised that the staff ‘will include a lecturer in Mā ori and Polynesian languages and linguistics’. The appointment was initially for five years, ‘renewal thereafter indefinitely’.

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Selection Panels and Applicants The Association of Commonwealth Universities in London was asked to convene a committee to advise on the appointment of a professor. Raymond Firth, who by this time was closely involved with the establishment of the ANU Research School of Pacific Studies (RSPacS), was asked to chair the committee and to be responsible for appointing the other ­members – n ­ amely, Edward Evans Evans-­Pritchard from Oxford and Daryll Forde from London. This committee would make a recommendation, which would then be considered by the Anthropology Committee (in reality, the council’s Education Committee). Firth was in a peculiar but not unusual position, being named as a referee by three of the candidates: Ralph Piddington, W.E.H. Stanner and W.R. Geddes. Firth not only encouraged Stanner to apply for the chair, but also provided a glowing general assessment of Piddington, which was attached to Piddington’s application.11 The other applicants were the New Zealand-­born sociologist/anthropologist Harry Hawthorn, Richard Morris Stovin Taylor and the Reverend Percival Hadfield (‘who had previously been interviewed for other posts; the committee did not consider his qualifications such as to merit an interview on this occasion’). Hadfield and Taylor were quickly eliminated.12 Of the remaining applicants, only Piddington and Hawthorn held senior current academic positions. Stanner had resigned from Makerere College, University of East Africa. Hawthorn had been appointed to the University of British Columbia in 1947 to establish social anthropology (Martin 2006; Whittaker and Ames 2006: 158). Piddington, on the other hand, was part of a cohort of anthropologists who attended the University of Sydney (under Radcliffe-­Brown) in the mid-­to-­late 1920s and who developed a strong sense of themselves as emissaries of a new discipline. These young anthropologists, including Firth, were on a journey to make a career in the new discipline of social anthropology.13 Piddington was Reader in Anthropology at Edinburgh University. He was responsible for establishing a Department of ­Anthropology – a ­ role not dissimilar to the one he had undertaken at the University of Aberdeen before the war (Gray 2018a).14 In both cases, Piddington argued for a broad-­ based ­anthropology – ­the four d ­ isciplines – ­that did not focus solely on social anthropology. Firth considered Geddes, who had only recently completed his PhD, an anthropologist of considerable promise. His training in psychology gave him a ‘very useful additional theoretical angled analysis

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of human affairs’. He had done ‘useful work’ in Fiji, but it was ‘largely without guidance’; for his ‘proper development’ as an anthropologist, it was ‘essential’, he commented, that he do ‘at least one piece of field research in professional conditions, and only on the results of that will I feel capable of judging his calibre properly. At the same time, I do not think that Dr. Geddes is yet of the seniority desirable for the hold of a Chair in Anthropology, particularly one of such responsibility as this.’ Nevertheless, Firth had a ‘high regard’ for Geddes and would support his appointment to a lectureship.15 This left a short-­list for chair of Piddington, Hawthorn and Stanner, who had made a late application. Piddington’s application explicated the problem with which the council and Professorial Board had grappled. He wrote that it was not clear from the advertisement whether anthropology was an undergraduate course. He understood: the proposed Department of Anthropology is to be primarily a research school, with major emphasis upon the anthropological problems connected with the administration of Polynesian ­peoples … ­I am, however, convinced that a School could only achieve maximum development if there were also facilities for undergraduate teaching, which also has other advantages apart from the building up of a research school. It would of course be premature to refer to details of curricula, but I should like to make it clear that my application is subject to agreement in principle that courses in Anthropology should be available to [undergraduates], both at pass and honours level. Much as I should welcome the ­opportunity … I­ should not wish to be appointed to the Chair in question unless I were satisfied that facilities would be provided for the building up of a unified teaching and post-­graduate research school comparable with that which is at present growing in the University of Edinburgh.16

Piddington had given his application considerable ­thought – ­certainly more than either Stanner or Hawthorn. On 10  May, the London committee, with J.F. Foster, Secretary of the Universities Bureau of the British Empire (also known as the Association of the Universities of the British Commonwealth) in attendance, interviewed Piddington and Stanner. Hawthorn was considered in his absence. The committee carefully considered the ‘testimonials and letters of reference’ about Hawthorn and ‘endeavoured to assess his qualifications as accurately as possible without the advantage of a personal interview’. While his ‘testimonials were good, his publications were diffuse and rather thin’, and he was ranked below Piddington and Stanner.

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The London committee provided some personal and academic details for the Auckland committee: age, marital status and a brief physical description. Both men were of similar ­age – ­Piddington forty-­ three and married and Stanner forty-­four and single. At the University of Edinburgh, Piddington was known as an excellent teacher; he explained, however, that what he now sought was an ‘opportunity to undertake and publish more research’. He mentioned his forthcoming ‘An Introduction to Social Anthropology’, proofs of which Firth had seen.17 It was noted that he had worked in north-­west Western Australia in the early 1930s (Gray 1994b, 2006). Stanner had ‘done some work in the field ­and … ­spent about a year as Director of the East African Institute of Social Research’, at Makerere.18 Stanner was questioned ‘fairly closely on his ideas on the development of the courses and the use of the proposed lectureships at Auckland, but he declined to give a definite answer as he had not given any thought to the matter’. When asked his reasons for applying for the chair, he said he wanted a post primarily where he could teach; second, complete his publications; and third, undertake further research. He did not appear very interested. He told them ‘he h ­ oped … ­if appointed to the Auckland Chair, to carry out his own work, but was thinking less of personal investigations than of directed research through students’. He was also questioned ‘about publications which at the moment really only amount to eight or nine papers in Oceania; the Kamba (Kenya) report is only in draft although Firth ‘thinks highly of the ­manuscript … ­which he said was now in the press’ (it was never published). Stanner declared he would be free to take up the appointment in September or October 1949. Stanner lacked the interest and enthusiasm of Piddington, as well as experience in setting up a department, and his teaching experience was nugatory. This was all noted by the committee. After discussion, Firth, Evans-­Pritchard and Forde decided on Piddington. They explained: Though a tense personality [Piddington] is much the better scholar of the two, and has demonstrated his capacity to successfully build a University Department. [Stanner’s] personal qualities command respect but he has had very little teaching experience (none at all in the last 13 years) and has never been in charge of a University Department. There is also some doubt in the depth of interest in anthropological scholarship as distinct from practical affairs, and his career suggests as one member of the Committee put it ‘he often goes to the starting post but does not always run’. On present anthropological publications, his record is somewhat weak. Dr Stanner is therefore an unknown

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quantity, while there is no doubt that Dr Piddington would do the job well if he could be attracted to the Chair.

The committee was unequivocal: it recommended Auckland act without delay, in view of Piddington’s ‘apparent reluctance to leave Edinburgh without long notice’. Nevertheless, ‘in the event of him not being available an alternative offer could be made to Stanner, or, failing him Professor Hawthorn’.19 They advised against re-­ advertising the position. Unbeknown to the London committee, Elkin had been asked to provide his opinion on the candidates.20 His views were contrary to those of the committee. Elkin’s report, with its impression of an insider able to comment on the abilities and qualities of the candidates, albeit uncertain about the position of candidates other than Stanner and Piddington, is a conglomeration of hearsay, gossip, anecdote and ­fact – ­a deliberate misrepresenting of the qualities and abilities of the applicants, specifically against Piddington. He was dismissive of both Geddes and Hawthorn, even questioning the value of their doctorates. Despite a cunning veneer of restraint, it is a thoroughly dishonest document. Its sole purpose was to discredit Piddington. Elkin wrote: As I see it, the qualifications required are (1) high anthropological attainments; (2) field experience of first-­class value; (3) good publications; (4) tact and administrative ability so as to build the new Department into the University and to create a sound opinion of it in the hands of the Government and people; (5) lecturing ability.   In my opinion, Dr. Stanner has all these qualifications. He is a well-­ trained anthropologist of Sydney and London; his field experience, the results of which are of first-­class quality, is very wide, having been twice in northern Australia, twice in Africa, and having made an important survey in the Pacific. His publications, thanks to the war and continued field work, are not as numerous as they could be, but his material on Oceania is of high quality. His book on the Pacific is being published by the Institute of International Affairs. A very important [MA] thesis on Culture Contact in Northern Australia, which I had the privilege of examining should be in the press, though I am not sure of this21 … He is outstanding in tact and administrative ability, and his knowledge of international affairs is very great indeed. Incidentally, when the war broke out in this area, he joined up and organised a reconnaissance unit in North Australia, and this did very good work. Later on, he was switched to Civil Administration, following the advance of the Armies in Germany and secondly in Borneo. Finally, he is an excellent lecturer, preparing his lectures well.   To sum up, I don’t think you could make a mistake in appointing Dr. Stanner, and I don’t think Dr. Stanner could be bettered by any of the other applicants. I think, too, that he is of the right age for founding

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such a Department, for as I mentioned, the first five years are crucial in the life of a Department of Anthropology. Inevitably, it has contacts not only with other departments, but also with administrative problems in which the Government is vitally concerned. It is, therefore, essential that the Head of the Department of Anthropology must be a person whom the Government will trust and to whom it will go for advice on very many problems of human significance. As I mentioned, this Department nearly crashed in 1931/32 because the authorities did not feel able to do this.22

Elkin then proceeded to dismiss the other candidates. He thought Taylor, ‘a specialist in Dentistry’, did not have ‘the qualifications you require in the field of Anthropology, which must include a sound knowledge of Social and Cultural Anthropology, Anthropology as related to Administration and the problem of culture change, and in addition a sufficient knowledge of Physical Anthropology and Linguistics to introduce students to these subjects’. Hadfield was ‘unknown’ to Elkin. Elkin claimed to know Hawthorn, who had come to anthropology from school teaching; his The Maori: A Study in Acculturation exhibited ‘good workmanship, but there is no evolving principles out of the material he collected. The reason for that might quite well be that he received his anthropological training after having worked for two years in the Mā ori village concerned.’23 He added that the committee ‘probably know ­him … ­for I understand that he is a New Zealander’. He likewise thought (although he was not certain) Geddes was a New Zealander and ‘a recent recruit to Anthropology’: I know him from a small article he submitted to me for publication in Oceania three years ago. After a good deal of editorial work and re-­ writing, I published i­ t … I­ think he has only just received his Doctorate. Apparently, in his case and in that of Dr. Hawthorn, it was possible to get a PhD in Anthropology without having done the subject for a lower degree24 … His field experience is limited, as far as I know, to what he was able to observe while in the New Zealand Forces in Fiji. He may be quite a good man, but he has not yet had real experience in the subject.

He then turned to Piddington. Elkin’s dislike of Piddington is evident from the lengths to which he had already gone to derail Piddington’s career.25 Elkin had been angered by Piddington’s criticisms of the West Australian Government’s treatment of Aboriginal people in the early 1930s (Gray 1994b). Piddington had exposed Elkin’s pandering to government authorities and his reluctance to make public those acts of mistreatment and abuse he, too, had witnessed when he was in north-­west Western Australia only a few years earlier (Gray 1996b). Elkin also

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deplored Piddington’s heavy drinking (Gray 2018a).26 With a veneer of reasonableness, Elkin informed the council: Dr. R.O. Piddington has had a good academic training in Sydney and London and a good lot of teaching experience. He did field work in the early ’30’s in north-­west Australia. His results are embodied in a few articles in Oceania. It has to be remembered that he had very full notes on the peoples of the region based on work by myself.27 His part was to build on these notes. The superstructure was very slight. In his second piece of field work in the same region he followed Dr. Porteus, being engaged in psychological research. Once again, the results were not satisfactory. He was not a successful field worker. His main useful work has been the editing, under the guidance of Professor Firth, of material of the late Dr. Williamson on Central Polynesia. In doing this, he summarised quite adequately Professor Malinowski’s views. He is quite thoughtful. On the other hand, he lacks that stability and self-­discipline that is required for running such a Department as one of Anthropology. I could not put him in the same class as Dr. Stanner.

Elkin asked the committee to keep his remarks confidential (for good reason). Summing up, he declared Stanner ‘the outstanding candidate and would certainly put him well above Dr. Piddington for the purposes of the Chair’. It is apposite to detail Piddington’s experience. Elkin not only ignored Piddington’s establishing departments at Aberdeen and Edinburgh, he also downplayed Piddington’s qualifications and belittled his fieldwork and its outcomes. Piddington was an outstanding researcher with two degrees and international grants and recognition at the early stage of his career. Piddington had left Sydney before Elkin took charge, in 1932. In May 1930, while Piddington was carrying out anthropological research into the language and culture of the Karadjeri in Lagrange, north-­western Australia, under the auspices of the ANRC and a University of Sydney science research scholarship, the University of Hawai`i advertised a fellowship for a graduate student in anthropology and psychology of an Australian university.28 Radcliffe-­ Brown nominated Piddington, ‘who has passed the degree of MA in Psychology with honours, also presenting himself for the degree of MA in Anthropology’ (which he also passed with honours). Piddington uniquely satisfied the requirements.29 After training in Honolulu, he returned to LaGrange in August 1931, where he conducted ‘certain psychological ­tests … ­with a view to obtaining information on the question of racial differences in mental traits’ (Piddington and Piddington 1932: 343). He returned to Sydney in January 1932. In May that year, Firth, acting Professor of Anthropology, wrote to

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the ANRC in support of Piddington’s application for a Rockefeller Foundation fellowship to study in London: Mr Piddington is interested particularly in the problems presented by mythology and dreams in native life, and in the theoretical aspects of the relations between social anthropology and P ­ sychology … ­he would be assisted very materially by a period spent ­abroad – I­ understand he would like to work under Professor Malinowski at the London School of ­Economics – ­and I am sure that he would make a good and fit use of any opportunity that might be offered him.30

Piddington was awarded a fellowship, which stipulated that the holder would be guaranteed employment in an Australian university on completion of his PhD, which was awarded in May 1935.31 He never returned to Australia except during the war and for his mother’s funeral. Elkin’s recommendation of Stanner over Piddington was accepted by Auckland, which rejected the recommendation of the London committee. There was no reason for the committee to question Elkin’s integrity and judgement; he was credentialled academically and in the moral field, as an ordained Anglican priest and a Professor of Anthropology. Yet his assessment of Piddington and Stanner was distinctly at odds with that of the London-­based committee, which was unequivocal in its recommendation of Piddington. There is no explanation in the record why the Auckland committee preferred Elkin’s recommendations. Elkin had personal knowledge of both Piddington and Stanner and his report, with its hint of insider knowledge, may well have placed question marks over the competence of the London committee, but this is conjecture and questions remain. Why did the Auckland committee reject the recommendation of the London committee? Did the Auckland committee give more weight to Elkin as an Australian who knew his fellow countrymen? Was Elkin’s report sufficient reason for the committee to select Stanner? If so, why was Firth’s advice disregarded? Was Elkin used to break a deadlock on the Auckland committee? The archival record is silent on these matters. What we do know is that the committee informed the council that ‘in view of the difference of opinion between the London Committee and the referees concerning the candidates, the Executive does not feel able at present to make a strong recommendation in favour of any candidate and asks that further enquiries be made’. Again, it is hard to determine who else was asked as the minutes do not record these names, their reports or whether Elkin was further consulted. Stanner was offered the chair.

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Stanner, whose lack of enthusiasm was noted by the London committee, was in two minds about accepting the offer. He recognized that it was ‘a rather decisive matter’; in fact, it would be a turning point in his career. He sought advice from Firth, as he frequently did, who pointed out that if he accepted the Auckland position, he would be better placed to seek a more attractive chair in the future.32 Stanner vacillated; he wanted to be sure that there would be ‘no doubt about my fitness for it’. He felt he would not be ‘fully ready for a couple of years at least’. This is a surprising lack of confidence for a man who over the years had behaved as if only senior positions were suitable for his talents and skills (Gray 2012a). He realized that rejecting the offer carried dangers for the future, ‘that I either have to take this chance in NZ or prepare myself to miss ­out … ­at some later stage’. His anxiety over being ready may be related to his lack of experience in both teaching and establishing a new ­department – p ­ oints that the London committee had emphasized. Both required considerable planning and he had not undertaken any, which is apparent from the interview notes. Firth had indicated that Stanner was likely to be offered a readership at the newly founded ­ANU – ­a position in which he would have little responsibility, no teaching other than several postgraduate students at any one time and be free to pursue his anthropological interests and fieldwork. Stanner informed Auckland that he would withdraw his candidature. By this time, Piddington was ‘rather fed up with the long delay’,33 but on the same day he received notification that Auckland wanted to know when he ‘could take up duties’.34 Piddington arrived in Auckland in October 1950. On hearing that Piddington had accepted the chair, Elkin, hypocritically, congratulated him. It was patronizing and self-­congratulatory. Elkin embellished his own role and interest in the chair, ‘because I was associated with the arguments and representations for the preceding two years. One of my emphatic points was that the chair should not be started unless there was a position for a lecturer and a secretary.’ Then came the gratuitous advice: ‘Your responsibility is a big one. A Department of Anthropology has many external relations and repercussions as well as relationships within the university, so that one has to work wisely and tactfully if a sound foundation is to be ­laid … ­The Sydney experience was an eye-­opener to me.’ Finally, he set out a potted history of the Sydney department and concluded with how he had inherited a department, at the end of 1932, which was on its knees: ‘I only mention this to let you see, from my experience,

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the great responsibility that is on your shoulders, and of its many aspects.’35 Piddington replied, diplomatically, observing ‘the debt which our science owes to you for building on the work of Radcliffe-­Brown and Firth’. He pointed out that the situation at Auckland, however, was ‘entirely different’ to that at Sydney: The social, economic and political importance of the Maori in the life of the Dominion means that there is a general readiness, in fact eagerness, to accept anthropological studies. The particular pattern of race relations pertaining here means that there is basic respect for and interest in native cultures something which is lamentably lacking in Australia. The situation as regards the island territories is not so satisfactory, and here I shall have to work along the lines suggested by you.36

Piddington’s relationship with Firth was in direct contrast. Firth had supported Piddington in his critique of the West Australian Government’s policy and treatment of Aboriginal people in the early 1930s; supported him when he effectively was barred from any career in Australia to obtain a Rockefeller Foundation fellowship to undertake doctoral studies at the LSE; supported him in obtaining work at the LSE; and supported him for a position at the University of Aberdeen and later at the University of Edinburgh. Towards the middle of November, Piddington thanked him ‘for all you did to secure this appointment for me and for your invaluable preliminary guidance. Thanks to your introductions, I have made very pleasant contacts [in Auckland].’ Moreover, he was grateful that Geddes had accepted the lectureship, which he understood was on the basis of Firth’s insistence.37

Shaping a New Department It helped that Piddington arrived in Auckland with a teaching text. He had completed the first volume of his Introduction to Social Anthropology (published in 1951) and used it as the primary text at Auckland: ‘until the second volume was published, dog-­eared drafts of it were passed among Anthropology tutors and lecturers’ (Webster 1998: 105). Piddington, a devotee of Malinowskian functionalism, came well versed in the type of anthropology he wanted taught at Auckland. For example, at Aberdeen he had expressed the hope that one result of the teaching of ­anthropology … ­will be the training of students to carry out original research in the fi ­ eld – t­o go out to the

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remote parts of the world and help to amass a heritage of scientific knowledge for the future. To do that they must concentrate on functional rather than historical problems, for it was in actual field work, in the collection of raw material of anthropological science, that the functional method was of the greatest importance and contrasted most sharply with that of the historical schools. It insisted upon observations and documentation, upon the formulation or hypotheses on the basis of empirical observation, and the verification, rejection or modification of these on the same basis of further studies of the same kind. It stressed the necessity of studying each element of culture in this context, of tracing out its relations to other elements and of defining its integral role in a cultural scheme for the satisfaction of human needs. (Piddington 1938)

It was a view on the value of anthropology that he brought to, and implemented at, Auckland. He promoted what may be termed ‘four-­ field’ anthropology: social anthropology (including Mā ori studies), linguistics, archaeology and physical anthropology. This fitted well with the aims of the Auckland University College Council that the new department should be one of general anthropology. Moreover, the council encouraged co-­operation with the Auckland Museum and its director, Gilbert Archey, as well as creating a climate whereby Mā ori language and/or studies could be introduced as part of course work in anthropology. Piddington also hoped to run a course for administrators working with Mā ori and in the Pacific. Such a course required government funding; however, none was forthcoming, and the idea lapsed. At his first meeting with the Faculty of Arts, Piddington set out his proposed course structure for anthropology to commence in 1951. It was comprehensive and wide-­ranging in its conceptualization. He pointed out that it was not fixed and could be altered by the appointment of staff and their interests. Anthropology I was a basic introduction: elementary physical anthropology and prehistory, social organization, primitive culture, introduction to culture contact and colonial administration, and ‘special attention’ would be ‘paid to the traditional culture of the Maori’. In addition, all students who took honours and the MA would be encouraged to take the degree examination in Mā ori I. He placed great importance on the thesis, pointing out that ‘candidates will be required to devote a considerable amount of time to this part of their work’. The oral would give ‘examiners a better insight into the ability and knowledge of the candidate, particularly in regard to topics which may have been treated cursorily or with an insufficient degree of clarity in the body of the thesis’. There

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was also the need to be certain that the thesis represented ‘the candidate’s original work’. Candidates for the final examination would ‘present themselves for examination in three papers, a thesis and an oral examination on the subject of the thesis’. Piddington’s only prescription was examination on the ‘papers on General Ethnography and Ethnological Theory, which ­are … ­essential for candidates for a master’s degree in the University of New Zealand’. Mā ori language and culture were prominent from the beginning. Piddington announced there would be one lecture a week on elementary Mā ori, one lecture on Mā ori language per week for fluent speakers and one lecture on Mā ori culture, which were ‘provisional and experimental’. The ‘tentative nature of these ­arrangements … i­s due to the need to consider carefully certain policy decisions which will determine future developments’. His selection of staff complemented his proposals for teaching anthropology. Following the appointment of Geddes, Piddington quickly appointed Bruce Biggs, a schoolteacher at the Waiorongomai Mā ori School, as part-­time lecturer in Mā ori ­language – ­the first such position at any New Zealand ­university – ­and Richard Alexander Scobie as part-­time lecturer in technology and primitive economics (Millar 2010: 238).38 The archaeologist and prehistorian Jack Golson, a Cambridge graduate, was appointed lecturer in 1953 (Allen 2019). In 1955, Piddington sent Biggs to the University of Indiana, Bloomington, to begin his PhD. He went on to become Professor of Mā ori Studies at Auckland, in time became ‘a leading national figure in the promotion of Te Reo Mā ori as a language of academic teaching and learning, and did more than perhaps anyone to promulgate language as the foundation of contemporary Mā ori identity’ (Morrow 2014: 91).39 In 1961, Golson was appointed Professor of Prehistory at the ANU, while Geddes was appointed Professor of Anthropology at the University of Sydney in 1958. When Piddington gave the chairman’s address at the seventh Science Congress of the Royal Society of New Zealand in 1951, he left no-­one in doubt that ‘New Zealand was entering a new era of anthropology’. Piddington ‘debunked the uncritical culture history that had passed for anthropology up till that time’. And he prosecuted his ‘synchronic view of anthropology energetically’, giving papers, lectures and speaking on radio. It was an exciting department from the beginning and ‘assumed something of an international character’, with visits by Firth and Keesing within the first two years, and

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a steady stream of ‘Fulbright and other long-­term researchers from America’ (Biggs 1988).40 Piddington’s legacy was greater than simply establishing Mā ori studies and language at Auckland. His advocacy and raising of concerns about social justice issues were constants in his life (Gray 1994b). Once in Auckland, he was active in supporting Mā ori aspirations. He challenged the New Zealand Government’s policy of assimilation and its cousin, integration. He embraced ‘action anthropology’ (a concept developed by Sol Tax), which aimed to empower Indigenous and minority groups to make their own decisions, even to the extent of deciding on appropriate and relevant research projects. This, allied with his enthusiastic support and advocacy of ‘social symbiosis’, was a powerful critique. At the 1957 Australian and New Zealand Association for the Advancement of Science conference in Dunedin, he argued that colonized peoples (such as Mā ori) did not simply abandon their own ways to adopt introduced ones, but rather, developed new forms out of traditional practices in a process he called ‘emergent development’. He argued that ‘Mā ori and Pakeha would co-­exist in a relationship of mutual dependence, while recognising differences between their cultures’ (Piddington 1968: 259; 1957; Morrow 2013: 185; see also Webster 1998: 103–23; Morrow and Brookes 2013). These ideas were hailed by Mā ori leaders as validation of their own plans but ignored by government officials working to assimilate Mā ori into mainstream society (Metge 2000). Anthropologist Steven Webster argues that the ‘integrity of Piddington’s teaching gives us no grounds to suppose a dominant ideology’. Rather, he suggests, many of Piddington’s students ‘would have learned more from his sincere struggle to understand culture contact, his liberal divergence from more conservative predecessors, his defence of Mā ori and other cultures’ right to be different, and his ‘pioneering efforts to develop an applied anthropology devoted to social process. Perhaps most importantly they would have learned from him the uniquely anthropological spirit of scholarly critique and polemic’ (Webster 1998: 127; Morrow 2013: 193–94). Piddington’s students undertaking research in Mā ori communities in the 1950s and 1960s reflected Piddington’s ‘abiding concern’ with contemporary Mā ori society. It was an ahistorical approach, reflecting ‘a functionalist disinterest in history’ and his notion of culture as traditional whole ways of life. The work of his students was ‘centrally interested in social and cultural change in the sense of a transition’ from traditional to modern Mā ori culture. This research embedded

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an ‘essentialised version of traditional Mā ori culture’. Nonetheless, Piddington’s students were able to go beyond his functionalized and thus ahistorical preconception of culture. These were all matters that were challenged, Webster argues, by a succeeding generation of scholars and Mā ori intellectuals and activists. Notwithstanding, Piddington’s legacy remains: he initiated and developed modern social anthropology and Mā ori studies and, with Bruce Biggs, made Mā ori language central to study in New Zealand universities (see Morrow 2013). Ralph N.H. Bulmer, appointed by Piddington as a lecturer in the mid-­1960s, returned to head the department after establishing anthropology at the University of Papua New Guinea in the late 1960s; he was part of an unofficial triumvirate that included Biggs and the archaeologist Roger Green, which ran the department for most of the 1970s after Piddington’s retirement. Bulmer, in his speech at the naming of the ‘Piddington Room’ (Anthropology Reading Room), noted that Piddington ‘chose to develop a “traditional” ­Department … c­ ontaining all the main branches of our d ­ iscipline – ­Prehistory, Physical Anthropology and Linguistics as well as Social Anthropology’. Possibly not aware of the long history of developing a teaching course in Mā ori language, Bulmer gave Piddington credit: ‘His prescience in sponsoring the teaching of the Mā ori language, and of Mā ori studies, at a very early stage in the history of the department, was an enormous credit to him’ (from Bulmer 1979: 1–3). (This was a view supported by Biggs, who spoke of Piddington’s ‘temerity’ in introducing these subjects.) Bulmer continued that a result of making a general department was particularly important to archaeology and linguistics in Oceania, ‘who between them have totally transformed our knowledge of the prehistory of Oceania’. These achievements were Piddington’s overarching legacy. Bulmer could not resist making the point that Piddington’s attachment to Malinowskian functionalism was ‘at a time this became unfashionable among most of his colleagues’. Piddington retired on 31  January 1972 as professor emeritus, leaving, in the words of Joan Metge (2000), a department ‘firmly established and widely respected’ – a department that far exceeded the hopes of such early advocates as Ernest Beaglehole.

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Notes   1. Sutherland was a collaborator with Ngata. See Ngata (1940).   2. Mā ori and Polynesians were connected through the regional colonial interests of New Zealand, historical origins and racial theories.   3. Ernest and Pearl Beaglehole completed their research in 1935. Published in 1938 as Ethnology of Pukapuka, it remains ‘the most comprehensive of any Bernice P. Bishop Museum expedition’. They also continued their studies of contemporary Polynesian life with the fieldwork that resulted in the publication of Some Modern Hawaiians (1939). Pearl’s ‘knowledge of Pacific languages enabled their fieldwork to penetrate areas of understanding inaccessible’ to Ernest (Ritchie and Ritchie 2000).   4. ‘Chair of Anthropology and Maori language’, University of Auckland Archives [hereinafter UAA].   5. Ibid.   6. The departments were small: typically, a male professor, usually from overseas, and a sole lecturer and/or ­tutor – o ­ ften a woman.   7. The following is drawn from the file ‘Chair of Anthropology and Maori language’, UAA.   8. Elkin was the only non-­New Zealander, but he had family connections in New Zealand. His father, from whom he was estranged, was born in New Zealand; Elkin had spent part of his childhood in Auckland.   9. Kiste and Marshall (1999) evaluate how anthropological research in the Trust Territory has affected the Micronesian people, the US colonial administration and the discipline of anthropology itself. 10. The South Pacific Commission was established in Australia with the signing of the Canberra Agreement between Australia, France, Netherlands, New Zealand, the United Kingdom and the United States of America (Fry 1997; see also Beaglehole 1944, 1947). 11. Firth to W.E.H. Stanner, 7  December 1948, FIRTH: 7/7/31; Firth, ‘To whom it may concern’, 8 February 1949, FIRTH: 8/1/96. Raymond Firth told Gray (letter, 20 February 1993) he was ‘sympathetic to [Piddington] both in his Australian work and later, in his job applications in Aberdeen etc’. 12. Dr Taylor, a dentist by training and the Health Department’s principal dental officer, had interests in anatomy and zoology. In 1937, on the grounds of dental arrangements, he declared the ‘Piltdown man’ a hoax. Percival Hadfield had previously authored two scholarly books, on totemism (in 1938), with Australia being a core region, and on divine kingship in Africa (in 1949), before enrolling after the war for a PhD in biblical history and literature at the University of Sheffield. The resulting thesis, ‘Matthew’s Gospel and the Apocalyptic Writers’, was finalized in 1952. Hadfield finished his career in the church as vicar of Youlgraeve in Derbyshire. He died in 1970. One reviewer dismissed his scholarly

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work as ‘a thing of shreds and patches, a rehash of older ­views … ­and a collection of facts not too skillfully arranged, gathered by earlier workers in the field’. He authored The Savage and His Totem (London: Allenson & Co., 1938) and Traits of Divine Kingship in Africa (London: Watts & Co., 1949). 13. Piddington to C.W.M. Hart, 31 March 1955, copy in author’s possession. Firth remembers Sydney when he was there (1928–32): ‘We were a cosmopolitan group of diverse interests, but we saw much of one another, dining together nearly every night at a Swiss restaurant, the Claremont Cafe, and having frequent parties at one another’s rooms’ (Parkin 1988: 328). 14. See also correspondence between Piddington and Margaret Read, Royal Anthropological Institute Archives, 131/1/23, in which he discusses the anthropology course he established and taught. 15. Firth to Foster, 9 February 1949, FIRTH: 8/1/36. 16. Piddington to Registrar, 15  February 1949, attachment in Council Minutes, Auckland University College, 9 June 1949, UAA. 17. Piddington, An Introduction to Social Anthropology. Volume 2 (1957). 18. Stanner blamed the war for his current situation (Gray 2012a). 19. Foster to Registrar, Auckland University College, 16 May 1949, attachment in Minutes of Council, Auckland University College, 9 June 1949, UAA. 20. Elkin to William Hollis Cocker (President of the Auckland University College), 23  April 1949, attachment in Minutes of Council, Auckland University College, 9  June 1949, UAA. The initiating correspondence could not be found. 21. It was not in press. It remains an unpublished MA; in fact, it remains strictly controlled. Permission from his widow is required to read it. 22. This is a snide remark and complete reworking of Radcliffe-­Brown’s departure and the reasons the department found itself under financial pressure in 1931. See Chapter 2. 23. Hawthorn studied anthropology at the University of Hawai`i in 1938. The following year, he was offered another fellowship, to study anthropology at Yale University, where he completed his PhD in 1941. (‘Harry Bertram Hawthorn’, Archival holdings at the Museum of Anthropology, University of British Columbia, http://atom.moa.ubc.ca/index.php/har​ ry-­bertram-­hawthorn, retrieved 10 August 2019.) 24. Which is how Elkin was awarded his doctorate, a library thesis, supervised by Elliot Grafton Smith and J.W. Perry, University of London, 1927. 25. Piddington destroyed most of his personal correspondence and field notes in 1938. His son, Kenneth, told Gray that his father despaired of ever returning to Australia and burnt everything. Conversation with Kenneth Piddington, Melbourne, 4 February 1994. 26. In addition, both Piddington’s parents were Sydney-­based progressives,

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his father in law (an industrial lawyer and High Court judge) and his mother advocating eugenics and family planning (following Marie Stopes). 27. Elkin spent two weeks at Lagrange (Gray 1996a: 112) compared with Piddington’s nearly twelve months (Gray 2006). Piddington thanked Elkin, ‘whose valuable field notes facilitated the initial stages of the research’ (Piddington and Piddington 1932: 342). 28. Advertisement sent to University Registrars by the ANRC, 26 May 1930, EP: 155/4/1/9. 29. Radcliffe-­ Brown to Gibson, Hon. Sec. ANRC, 21  May 1930, EP: 155/4/1/9. 30. Firth to Gibson, Hon. Sec. ANRC, 27 May 1932, EP: 155/4/1/11. 31. Its title was ‘Culture and Neurosis: A study of the part played by cultural forms in the production of individual mental abnormalities and the light cast by such abnormalities upon the nature of social structure, together with a comparative examination of certain primitive societies from this point of view’. 32. Firth to Stanner, 12 August 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/31. 33. Piddington to Registrar, 15  February 1949, attachment in Council Minutes, Auckland University College, 9 June 1949, UAA. 34. Cable in FIRTH: 7/6/15. 35. Elkin to Piddington, 7 December 1950, EP: 183/4/2/355. 36. Piddington to Elkin, 17 January 1951, EP: 183/4/2/355. 37. Piddington to Firth, 13 November 1950, FIRTH: 8/1/96; Firth to Geddes, 14 November 1950, FIRTH: 8/1/36. 38. Biggs, who developed his linguistic interests while stationed in Fiji during the Second World War, was, through his father, of Ngā ti Maniapoto ancestry. During his time as a teacher, he learnt Te Reo Mā ori. 39. Piddington also assisted Maharaia Winiata to undertake doctoral studies at the University of Edinburgh. Winiata was a tutor-­organizer in the adult education programme at the University of Auckland. His doctoral thesis, ‘The Changing Role of the Leader in Maori Society: A Study in Social and Race Relations’, was completed in 1954. His was the first doctorate completed by a Mā ori overseas. 40. Dorothy Billings was one such Fulbright scholar. She went on to become Professor of Anthropology at Wichita State University (pers. comm., 18 August 2003).

Chapter 5

‘THE BRIGHTEST OF HIS GENERATION’ SIEGFRIED FREDERICK NADEL, FOUNDATION PROFESSOR OF ANTHROPOLOGY, THE AUSTRALIAN NATIONAL UNIVERSITY

The foundation of the ANU, following planning for a new postwar era for Australia and the region, created a novel and prestigious Commonwealth Government-­ funded university, dominated by research and interested in connections with politics and policy advice. The university sought to encourage the return of expatriate scholars, many of whom had been part of the ‘brain drain’ to Britain. An initial task for the university and its academic advisors was finding suitable Australian applicants for senior academic positions.1 To this end, the interim university council appointed a London-­based Academic Advisory Board comprising eminent Australian scholars Howard Florey (medicine), Mark Oliphant (physics), Keith Hancock (social science) and New Zealander Raymond Firth (Pacific studies). Each was expected to accept appointment as director of their specific schools once the national university was formally established. In the event, only Oliphant stayed on to direct a school, although Hancock returned in the mid-­1950s to direct social sciences (Foster and Varghese 1996: 24–27, 41, 44–50, 126–29, 137–39). Raymond Firth explained to the vice-­chancellor in early 1949 that as a result of a number of senior positions filled in Britain there was ‘a most acute shortage of good anthropologists’, which was compounded by an ‘extreme shortage of good men’ in the social sciences suitable for appointment to the ANU RSPacS.2 Firth was confident, however, that if the Commonwealth imperial historian Keith Hancock accepted

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the position of director of both the Research School of Social Sciences (RSSS) and RSPacS, it would encourage ‘a few good’ people to accept appointment. Included in this was the likely appointment of New Zealander James Wightman (Jim) Davidson as Professor of Pacific History, who had made it clear he would accept ‘on condition’ that Hancock was at the ANU. With Hancock and Davidson in place, Firth suggested, ‘it should not be difficult to attract’ others: ‘Not only would the field of history be safe for the University but all kinds of encouragement to people in the other social sciences would be given.’3 On the other hand, finding an anthropologist with the ‘right capacity and also with much first-­hand acquaintance of Pacific problems’ would be difficult. Firth considered suitable Australian candidates, including Elkin, but considered him ‘too valuable where he is to be ­disturbed … ­and someone rather different is needed at Canberra’.4 This left two Australian candidates, H. Ian Hogbin (then Reader at the University of Sydney) and W.E.H. Stanner, of whom only Hogbin deserved ‘very serious consideration’. His strengths were that he was a ‘first rate field worker. His relations with Government also appear to be very good.’ Firth knew him well and had ‘a very great respect for his capacity’. But he would not, Firth felt, ‘be the best person to occupy the Chair of Anthropology and be responsible for the ultimate standard of teaching and research’. Theoretical anthropology, moreover, was ‘not Hogbin’s forte; his capacities lie in other types of analysis’. He should be ‘offered a Readership in the new School, a Professor should be looked for elsewhere’.5 Firth had discussed the position with Evans-­Pritchard, and they agreed ‘there were only two men in England, S.F. Nadel and M[eyer] Fortes, of the right calibre’. Firth suggested another possibility in Audrey Richards, who had trained under Malinowski, was academically accomplished and experienced in university and colonial administration. Her career at the time was exceptional given the paucity of women in senior academic positions and the impediments confronting them. The only other instances of senior university appointments and long-­lasting careers in anthropology and sister disciplines in Britain around that time were Eileen Power and Lucy Mair at the LSE, Margery Perham at Oxford and the Australian Phyllis Kaberry at University College London.6 In Firth’s view, Richards was ‘not only of high quality scientifically but ­also … ­deeply associated with anthropological research in the Colonial field’.7 Hancock was impatient to fill the position and not interested in long, drawn-­out deliberations. He told Firth he was ‘most eager to

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get a Social Anthropology Professor with the least possible ­delay – ­I would hope in a month or two. Though it would be cruel to rob you of Audrey [Richards], it would give me a great feeling of security to have her as a colleague.’ It was, he continued, important to point out to her that going to the ANU ‘is not exile for life’. His other choice, if Richards decided against accepting the offer, was Fortes, ‘whom I have always liked’.8 Firth had spoken to Richards, who made ‘it clear she could accept it only on conditions, and she has not committed herself’. An overriding difficulty would be moving from ‘Africa to Canberra’ and losing ‘one great asset of regional knowledge, and whereas she [could] come back from Africa in five years or so, the situation would be rather different [returning from] … Canberra’. On Firth’s reckoning, ‘the chances of getting her are not great’.9 This was underlined when Stanner unexpectedly resigned as director of Makerere College in Uganda. Richards was sounded out to replace him, which she did (Mills 2006: 82; cf. Hinkson 2008). It is perhaps not surprising considering the dominance of male research professors at the ANU over many decades that the initial internal support for Audrey Richards diminished over the years once the ANU had established itself nationally and internationally. In 1949, despite it being known she would move to Makerere, Richards was considered by the council for the ANU chair: her work was well known and there would be no objection to her appointment on the grounds that she was a woman.10 This view changed when, in 1956, the sudden death of the foundation professor of anthropology left the new chair vacant. Despite a solid record of achievement, Richards’ consideration for the chair of anthropology at the ANU was summarily dismissed by the Vice-­Chancellor, L.G. Melville: ‘Do you not think that Audrey Richards, especially in view of her sex, might be a little old to take over a young department in an area where she is unfamiliar?’11 Realizing that Richards was unlikely to accept, Hancock, disregarding Firth’s preference for Nadel, supported Meyer Fortes, informing Firth that Fortes ‘would go with me’ to Canberra. He was confident he had Fortes ‘in the bag’.12 Nevertheless, he asked Firth to tell him ‘a little about Nadel ­personally – ­his parentage, education, age, character, etc’.13 Firth provided a short (if superficial and at times misleading) biography that talked him up. He was naturalized and from ‘being Siegfried is now Fred’. Nadel was aged about forty, ambitious,

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relatively easy to get on with, and extremely able. Talks very freely but well with ideas. A very good knowledge [of] sociology and p ­ sychology … ­as well as in Social Anthropology and with a cultivated taste in the arts and an especially good knowledge of m ­ usic … ­The theory in his ­publications … i­ s implicit rather than manifest, but he has an extremely good theoretical equipment. Very stimulating to students of all grades.14

In May 1949, Hancock resigned from the Academic Advisory Committee.15 Disappointed that Hancock had withdrawn, Firth urged the council to fill the positions in anthropology ‘as soon as possible’. He noted that a chair was being created at Liverpool, ‘and there was a chance that Nadel might be ­lost … ­unless the opportunity of securing him was seized at once’. Firth underlined the qualities Nadel possessed, which he considered were necessary for such a position, reiterating most of what he had told Hancock. Firth told the council he could ‘think of no one better to occupy a new Chair in such an important field that demands high theoretical capacity’. As for Nadel’s lack of experience in the Pacific, Firth had no doubt he would ‘remedy this very rapidly, and his comparative experience in Africa would be of the greatest value’.16

S.F. Nadel Siegfried Ferdinand Stephan Nadel was born on 24  April 1903 in Lemberg (Lvov), Galicia, part of the Habsburg monarchy.17 Both his parents were born in Lemberg (Lieberman 2006; Bartov 2007, 2018). His father, Moritz, was a senior railway lawyer, and the family moved to Vienna in 1912.18 After attending State Real Gymnasium (Vienna), 1913–21, Siegfried enrolled at the Musikakademie at the University of Vienna; his early ambition was to be a conductor and composer. This led him to the psychology of music, and general psychology was at that time affiliated with philosophy. He was awarded his dissertation (in musicology) in November 1925. That year, he was also temporary assistant conductor at the Düsseldorf Opera House. The following year, he married Lisbeth Braun (b. 1900), also a musicologist. In 1927, he established his own opera company, which toured Czechoslovakia. After a brief time in England at a summer school of music, he returned to Vienna, where he continued to work as a musicologist, developing an interest in African, Javanese and Caucasian music. At the Musikkonservatorium, he sorted the ethno-­musical papers of Rudolf Poch and later catalogued musical

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instruments for the Wiener Museum für Völkerkunde. He maintained an interest in psychology and was an active member of the psychological colloquiums of Karl Buehler. He also worked as an assistant in the Psychological Institute.19 Nadel handed in his habilitation, ‘Der Duale Sinn der Musik [The Dual Nature of Music: A Musical Typlogy]’, on 10 December 1930. It was read by four staff members in March 1931, and then by an additional six staff colleagues in May and June 1931, before a meeting took place at the end of June. Nadel’s habilitation was completed during a time of great divisions and hostilities (Staudigl-­Ciechowicz 2017: 798–813). It was unfortunate timing for him, as a heated personal difference of opinion between the two musicologists at the university had come to a head. A long-­standing dispute between Robert Lach and Rudolf von Ficker had escalated in 1929 and 1930, drawing in more and more staff and students. During the winter semester of 1930–31, Ficker decided to leave Vienna and accept a position in Munich. The dean of the Philosophical Faculty, Professor Dr Richard Meiser, chaired a meeting on 30  June that saw the attending staff divided in their assessment of Nadel’s thesis, with strong statements made against granting the Venia Legendi. There is little doubt the psychology of music was a contested area between psychology and musicology. After Meiser set out biographical information about Nadel, Ficker specified that the habilitation covered comparative musicology, psychology of music and aesthetics of music. The next speaker was Lach, Nadel’s supervisor in musicology, who started an attack on Nadel’s character and dedication to music, accusing him indirectly of being loyal to Buehler, not Lach. The candidate, he asserted, had undertaken work that was excellent in its critical and methodological aspects, but its content left a lot to be desired. The focus was too much on psychology, and it ‘lacked an inner rapport [Verhaeltnis] with music’. For his attack, Lach drew on stereotypes of the clever ­Jew – i­ ntelligent, parasitic of a host culture, but never truly at home in German-­speaking lands.20 As historian Sander Gilman writes, ‘there was a general assumption in Vienna that there was a “Jewish mind” that transcended conversion or adaptation and that this mind was inherently unoriginal’ (Gilman 1996: 46). During the meeting, only the Professor of Psychology consistently spoke in favour of one of his best students. Nadel’s writings in historical musicology were also regarded by some as insufficient, and it was debated whether the candidate should be asked to prepare additional work (Salat 1976: 29). The dean decided after a straw vote to postpone

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the meeting. Nadel’s two supervisors, the musicologist Lach and the psychologist Buehler, had abstained from voting, but the remaining seven committee members had rejected the habilitation. Nadel was informed that it was prudent to withdraw, which he did on 28 July 1931. The failure of Nadel to pass his habilitation was a result of professional and disciplinary infighting; it was not directed at him personally. A close reading of the minutes of the meeting, however, reveals the underlying antisemitism that was widely growing in Vienna at the time, alluded to above. Indeed, Gilman points out that Vienna was probably the most antisemitic city in Central Europe (Gilman 1996: 46). Legislation had been passed in 1926 restricting the lives of Austrian Jews.21 Lach had been appointed in 1927 as successor to, and against the wishes of, Guido Adler, mentor to both Ficker and the Nadels, with the support of conservative circles. Lach is described by historians as an ‘aggressive anti-­Semite’, and he went on to join the NSDAP (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei; Nazi Party) in March 1933, which was then illegal in Austria (Staudinger 2005: 160–61; Pammer 2013). With Ficker departing and Lach in control, it was time for the Nadels to move to a less hostile environment. Despite Nadel’s family converting to Catholicism,22 the restrictions on him and the limited opportunities to pursue his musical vocation, as well as the antisemitism in Vienna, most likely prompted his and Lisbeth’s departure for Berlin, where he worked on a commissioned biography of the composer and pianist Feruccio Busoni, titled Feruccio Busoni, 1866–1924 (Freeman 1956: 3). It was Nadel’s last major publication on music. In Berlin, ‘the opportunities for studying the musicology of primitive peoples was even greater than in Vienna’ but his interest shifted: he soon became ‘more and more intrigued with the problems of ethnology’ (Freeman 1956: 3). The ethnomusicologists Kurt Sachs and Erich von Hornbostel introduced Nadel to Diedrich Westermann, at that time Professor of African languages at Berlin University, a senior member of the International Institute of African Languages and Cultures and editor of the journal Africa (Stoecker 2007, 2008; de L’Estoile 2007; Ziegler 2008). Within twelve months, Nadel, with the support of Westermann, under whom he studied African languages, was awarded a Rockefeller Foundation fellowship to attend the International Institute of African Languages and Cultures (later, simply the International African Institute) at the LSE. Nadel had a remarkable facility and determination for learning languages. He arrived in London with ‘hardly any better knowledge

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of English than what he had learned in school, but his capacity of mastering a language within an astonishingly short time proved to be of advantage here as well as during his fieldwork. Very s­oon … ­Nadel’s first ­reviews … ­appeared in English.’ He was ‘anglicised’ in a surprisingly short time (Freeman 1956: 3; Salat 1983: 26). Nadel registered as a doctoral student in the Department of Anthropology at the LSE, under the supervision of Charles Seligman and Bronisław Malinowski.23 In 1933–34 he undertook an ‘expedition’ to West Africa (northern Nigeria), which resulted in a short theoretical doctorate, ‘The Political and Religious Structure of Nupe Society (Northern Nigeria)’ (in 1935), and a further trip in 1935–36. He published A Black Byzantium from these field trips (Nadel 1942). He welcomed the opportunity to illustrate the usefulness applied anthropology offered ‘in providing the knowledge of social structure of native groups upon which a sound and harmonious Native Administration, as envisaged in Indirect Rule, should be built’ (Loizos 2006). He invited Lord Lugard, who formulated the idea of indirect rule, to write a foreword to Black Byzantium. In 1937, Nadel was appointed anthropologist to the Government of Anglo-­Egyptian Sudan. His field research on the Nuba peoples was undertaken largely at the request of the colonial administration. His interest lay more with the long-­range directions of social c­hange – ­an interwar p ­ roject – t­han with ‘quick-­fix’ solutions. The results were published in The Nuba (Nadel 1947) and Nupe Religion (Nadel 1954). As the war extended beyond the boundaries of Europe, Nadel enlisted in the British Army (civil affairs) and was posted to the Army of Occupation in the Military Administration of Eritrea. Later, he was posted to Tripolitania as HQ Staff Officer, with duties as Secretary for Native Affairs. Soon after the European war ended, he was offered the position of senior lecturer at the LSE but was unable to take it up until 30 May 1946, when he was released from the army.24 He (and Lisbeth) took out British naturalization in May 1947.25 At the end of 1948, he was appointed Reader at King’s College in ­Newcastle – ­a constituent college of Durham University. As anthropologist Paul Sillitoe observes: The 1950s was not a dynamic period in the department’s history. This is evident in the University’s Calendar entries for the decade, giving regulations for degrees that feature anthropology and listing the courses examined. The undergraduate degrees and a postgraduate diploma remain much as designed by Nadel, first appearing in the Calendar for the 1949–1950 academic year. (Sillitoe 2018: 254)

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In the face of such torpor, it is only natural that someone of Nadel’s restless energy would be eager to ply his trade elsewhere.

Appointment Firth discussed with Nadel the conditions of employment at the ANU in early November 1948, noting that formal duties would not begin until 1951. He described the position as ‘­attractive – d ­ irecting and doing research, and postgraduate teaching’. The university was offering employment conditions better than those offered in Britain and other Australian universities: • A£2,000 per annum, ‘but if a Professor is stationed in the U.K. pending establishment of the University at Canberra, £2000 sterling’. • Superannuation, FSSU (Federated Superannuation System for Universities) or analogous. • Tenure until age sixty-­five. • Study leave: one year in four away on full pay, ‘with a substantial contribution to overseas ­travel – ­quite apart from field research travel. This allows frequent visits to Europe.’ Firth added that the university would provide reasonable travel and removal expenses.26 There were no guarantees, but Firth was confident his ‘recommendation [would] go a long way’.27 He also informed Nadel of the probable appointments of Melanesianist H. Ian Hogbin and Australianist W.E.H. Stanner as readers, telling him that as they both had ‘knowledge of the Pacific field’, it would relieve Nadel ‘of the initial burden, l­eaving … y ­ ou free to plan the work of the anthropology department’.28 Douglas Copland, Vice-­ Chancellor of the ANU, cabled Nadel formally offering the chair; Nadel accepted the following day. Pleased to have his formal acceptance, Copland pointed to some possible difficulties he might encounter. He wished him ‘all possible success’ as the first Professor of Anthropology – ‘a highly responsible office in the academic world of Australia’. Despite ‘a feeling that the National University was, in a way, an intruder and would not fit into the academic structure’, he assured Nadel that ‘we have done quite a lot to establish good relations generally between the National University and the other [Australian] Universities’. He nevertheless alerted Nadel to a potential difficulty.

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He was sure that Firth had told him ‘about the present position of Anthropology in this country. I think you will have no difficulty in establishing good working relations with the Sydney people, some of whom are a little touchy about their previous status in the study of Anthropology in Australia.’29 He was referring to Elkin. Nadel’s appointment addressed the lack of theory in Australian anthropology, but he had limited impact on Australian Aboriginalist anthropology, which remained the domain of Sydney and Adelaide (Meggitt 1963: 211–17). His department focused on the Pacific in its widest sense and largely ignored Australian Aboriginal research (Worsley 2008: 79–97; Gray 2014a). It certainly helped to cool potential rivalries that the two departments had different functions and focuses: whereas the ANU department catered for research and PhD supervision, Sydney taught second- and third-­year undergraduates and supervised theses to MA level. It was not until 1955 that Sydney established a doctoral programme in the Arts Faculty, by which time Elkin was on the eve of retirement.

Canberra Canberra, Australia’s capital city, was essentially a small country town, spread out along both sides of the Molonglo River. It was not the most attractive of country towns. Furthermore, it was an imposed city designed by Walter Burley Griffin, which created an artificiality about the township (Brown 2014: 96–158). The feeling that Canberra is always evolving has remained with the city from its foundation. There were only a small number of public buildings and a very basic transport and communications network with the larger cities, such as Melbourne, which was the temporary Commonwealth administrative centre.30 During the war, some growth took place, due mainly to the extra public servants and their families brought to Canberra along with military personnel and diplomats (Hasluck 1980: 45–53). By the end of the war, Canberra’s population was a little more than 16,000 people.31 Australia’s population was just over 7.5 million. Paul Hasluck, historian and politician, employed in the Department of External (Foreign) Affairs during and immediately after the war, recalled: [R]elaxation ­in … ­Canberra was mainly a Saturday night party in one home or another. There was the occasional concert and the Repertory Society held play readings and the infrequent play. On Saturday

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afternoons one walked to the National Library to change a book.32 Men, who had their daily excursion to work and sometimes a trip away on duty, suffered much less than the housewives from the boredom and restriction of life in Canberra. (Hasluck 1980: 49)

Building a university, and especially finding accommodation for its pioneering staff in a city that had a residential housing shortage, required some form of incentive, beyond salary, for prospective appointees: senior academics were provided with temporary housing on arrival and had the choice of a house block on the condition they commenced building within six months. Historian Nicholas Brown (2014: 130–32), in his history of Canberra, describes the situation for most residents: a shortage of housing, an increasing waiting list for new homes, and the difficulties of dormitory accommodation. At the time, the accommodation offered to senior academics was not only superior to that enjoyed by other Canberra residents, but also better than that offered by other Australian universities. Some chose university-­designed houses by the Melbourne University Professor of Architecture Brian Lewis. Others commissioned architects to design their houses (Cameron 2010). On the other hand, junior academics and postgraduate students at the ANU had cause for dissatisfaction and disenchantment, having to put up with the inconveniences of Canberra’s infrastructure while struggling to make ends meet. This was compensated by the close interaction between students and staff, although anthropology was ‘incredibly hierarchical’.33 Some of these impositions were removed in 1954 with the opening of University House, which offered accommodation for single and married ­staff – ­as long as they were childless. Indeed, all unmarried postgraduate students were required to live at University House (Waterhouse 2004: 61, 97), which set standards in providing accommodation and a social hub for academics and graduate students otherwise lacking in the city. Its elegance was one product of the brief, unhappy tenure of Brian Lewis, the architect charged to give coherence to the campus overall, but defeated by contending ambitions and interests. Its furnishings showed the more enduring influence of Frederick Ward, employed as the ANU’s design consultant, who merged fine craftsmanship with new techniques and materials emerging from wartime innovation. (Brown 2014: 129)34

Anthropologist Jane Goodale, then a graduate student at the University of Pennsylvania, recalls University House as ‘the grandest graduate student digs I had ever seen being particularly impressed

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with the built-­in cupboards, with a place for (wine) bottles and even tennis rackets’ (Goodale 2001: 35). There were the inevitable difficulties of settling into an institution that was being built from scratch. One section of the official ANU history is aptly entitled ‘A Shed in a Paddock’ (Foster and Varghese 1996: 64–67; see also Cameron 2010: 95–96). As well as an initial paucity of library and laboratory resources, for many years, academics and administrators alike were housed in ‘temporary “shed-­like” facilities at Acton [the surrounding suburb] and construction had commenced for buildings to serve many other researchers on the payroll but necessarily at work elsewhere’ (Brown 2014: 129). Some new arrivals had negative feelings towards Canberra and the underdeveloped university that so often lacked the facilities and services they wanted and needed. Different people reacted differently. Nadel wrote to Firth: ‘our first impression is one of unreserved enthusiasm, for ­everything – ­the country, our colleagues, and the University, even in its protracted growing-­stage’.35 Others, such as Walter Russell Crocker, Professor of International Relations, were unhappy from the time they arrived. He declared that if he found ‘after due trial that the experiment is not practicable, I will consider myself free to renounce the tenancy and to leave Canberra until the University has found me appropriate accommodation’. None was forthcoming and he resigned.36 He was the first ANU professor to arrive and the first to leave, confirming a pattern of disaffectedly leaving his employers at an early juncture and thereafter denouncing them (Crocker 1981). The Nadels, by contrast, were far hardier and more adaptable, and were in for the long haul. They arrived in Canberra in early 1951 with their young daughter, Barbara, who was aged about ten. On the way to Canberra, Nadel visited the United States, where he had discussions with anthropologists at Columbia, Yale, Harvard, California (Berkeley) and ‘other major universities’ and sounded out future collaborative research projects.

Research Plans Nadel realized, after lengthy discussions with Firth over the structure of his research plan, that it was ‘useful to formulate fairly early the main research problems with which the Department of ­Anthropology … ­will be concerned’.37 Although detailed, it was nonetheless a tentative proposal, ambitious, seeking to satisfy competing interests,

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intended to act as a ‘basis for planning coordinated research between the Schools of Pacific Studies and Social Sciences’ and dependent on the ‘interests and number of scholars available’. It was academic research with a practical twist, which reflected his experience in Sudan. Importantly, he did not draw a sharp distinction between sociology and anthropology as ‘far as the subject matter of research’. He believed the ‘continuity of research and the growth of a systematic body of knowledge are served better by connected studies, planned beforehand and focused on a number of relevant problems, than by studies dictated by varying individual preferences’ (Wilson and Young 1996). He envisaged close collaboration between disciplines, which involved teamwork between scholars. Nadel’s first project concerned ‘the analysis of the social organization and, generally speaking, the types of society occurring in the Highlands of New Guinea’, which, from the ‘point of view of modern social ­anthropology … ­is virgin ground’. The University of California (with funds of its own) had expressed interest in joining Nadel’s scheme; this would increase ‘the number of field workers available for this study’ (Hays 1992: 30). It is unclear, however, if Sydney University was asked whether it would like to share in this work, although it seems Elkin considered some agreement was in place. He told Nadel he had ‘gained the impression that you were concentrating on the region from Goroka to Mt Hagen [the Central Highlands], in a quite intensive coverage’. The ‘agreement’ was questioned when Ralph Bulmer, a young Cambridge anthropologist undertaking his doctoral studies at the ANU, told Elkin he expected to work in the Western Highlands of New Guinea. Elkin had been directing his ‘own workers, and any person for whom I had responsibility, either to the eastern end, or the western end of the Highlands’. There was, as far as we can ascertain, only a rather loose understanding of intentions and no real agreement, formal or informal (Hays 1992: 30–31).38 Nadel’s second project was social change in the Pacific Islands: ‘Here we can profitably make two symptoms or indices of change as our starting points – (a) the appearance of the Cargo Cult, and (b) the recorded striking changes in ­population … i­n some of the island groups.’ This research would provide ‘valuable insight into the processes of culture change’.39 Nadel, echoing Firth, believed this research would be entrusted to the ANU and that the SPC would co-­ operate and hopefully subsidize it.40 His third project was not strictly anthropological, but more sociological: ‘a study of the process of assimilation among the recent

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European immigrants to Australia’.41 This research had been started initially by Elkin, and was also being undertaken by demographer Wilfred David (Mick) Borrie at the RSSS from 1948,42 as well as by Sydney-­trained anthropologists Caroline Tennant Kelly, Jean Craig (later Martin) and ‘a group of social psychologists in Melbourne’ (Gray et al. 2012: 10–11; Pomeroy 2012; Beilharz et al. 2015). Nadel wanted to compare two different immigrant groups: the ‘ordinary’ immigrants, ‘who have left their country and culture for a new home, where they partly hope to find people of their own background among previous migrants; and immigrants who have come to Australia from displaced persons camps (refugees) and thus, as it were, from a cultural vacuum’. Such research would ‘add significant comparative data to similar research previously carried out in the United ­States …E ­ qually I imagine it would be of great interest to the Australian Government.’ Such a project would be multidisciplinary, involving anthropologists, psychologists, political scientists, demographers and economists.43 His fourth proposal, for an ‘intensive community study in one of the areas of the Pacific where ethnic mixture and the influence of western civilisation are strongly pronounced’, was ‘crystallised’ during his US tour. This kind of approach, he wrote, ‘seems the only one capable of attacking the many-­sided problem of the adjustment of a primitive population to modern values and ways of life’. This research could build on previous studies, such as Stanner’s ‘earlier work on Samoa’ and Adrian Mayer’s ‘present research [on rural Indians in] Fiji’. It was also of interest to the SPC, which had expressed interest in islander commerce and industry.44 His final project was a study of an Indonesian community, ‘which I should like to carry out myself’. He recognized that, in the current political climate, the Indonesian Government may not be favourably disposed but thought ‘the best way to overcome the likely objections … [would] be to offer the chance of anthropological training to some of their own students or scholars, and encourage them to do research in their own country, ­perhaps … ­in collaboration with our own School’. The alternative was to look at research projects in Pakistan or India.45 These projects formed the foundations of anthropological research at the ANU throughout the 1950s and 1960s (Barnes 2001). There was, however, an emphasis on the Highlands of Papua New ­Guinea – ­recently ‘discovered by miners and government officials’ (Hays 1992). It was an anthropologist’s garden of delights.

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Staffing Firth was confident Hogbin and Stanner would accept appointments as readers with Nadel as professor. He highlighted the value of Hogbin and Stanner. Hogbin ‘is an excellent lecturer and on the regional anthropology of the West Pacific in particular would be a most valuable acquisition to the School’. Stanner, despite having ‘no book as yet, his capacity is in my mind equally great though in a different ­direction … ­He lectures well and ­would … b ­ e a very good teacher of post-­graduate research students. His joint training in Economics and Anthropology and his administrative experience have given him a breadth of v ­ iew … a ­ ppropriate for him to hold a Readership.’ Firth stressed that whatever procedure was adopted in making appointments, it was important to make them as soon as possible.46 There was, however, a problem with salaries. Copland had discussed with Firth the possibility of Hogbin as reader and Stanner as senior fellow; he believed the Council must endeavour to retain the services of Hogbin, who was clearly of reader standard. He wondered whether Stanner would be prepared to accept appointment as senior fellow at A£1,000 per annum, whereas the salary for a reader was A£1,400 per annum. Hogbin felt that, in view of his publications, academic experience and knowledge of the South-­West Pacific, he should be paid at a higher rate than Stanner.47 Stanner made it very clear he regarded ‘any differentiation between him and Hogbin as unjust’. He argued that to give a difference of salary when it was not a matter of different social responsibilities (for example, children) would be tantamount to recognizing a difference of status. And while Hogbin had longer academic experience and more publications, Stanner believed he had greater research and subject experience.48 Firth, overlooking Copland’s reservation, saw merit in Stanner’s arguments but importantly wanted to avoid from the start any sense that there was preferential treatment and suggested the same salary (A£1,400) for both. He nonetheless was surprised that Stanner felt so strongly on the subject.49 It might have been on Firth’s mind that, should Stanner reject the ANU position, he would be left with finding him alternative employment. Stanner had in the past walked away from Makerere, rejected the chair at Auckland and had missed out on Manchester and Oxford. He was running out of options. Indeed, Stanner believed ‘[e]very avenue seems closed’.50 It was thus in Firth’s interest to see Stanner was paid similar remuneration to Hogbin and thus keep him at the ANU.

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Stanner had unfinished business in Kenya, which delayed his arrival.51 Hogbin anticipated starting on 1 January 1950 but unexpectedly withdrew his application.52 It is unlikely that dissatisfaction with the decision to offer similar remuneration to Stanner led to Hogbin’s withdrawal; there were other factors. He had expressed a reluctance to live in Canberra, as well as concern over his superannuation and pension, which were tied to the NSW Public Service and were not transferable to the ANU.53 His reluctance may also have been connected to his homosexuality and the lack of privacy in a city as small as ­Canberra – ­but this is speculation on our part.54 A permanent position at Sydney in those circumstances outweighed what was offered at the ANU. On the other hand, he might have decided to wait out Elkin’s ­retirement – ­due in five y ­ ears – ­with the hope he could engineer a new professor and head of department who was more congenial to his interests and demands. He seemingly did not aspire to the position himself. There was an added ­factor – n ­ amely, a difficult working relationship between Hogbin and Stanner, which had been compounded during the war (Gray 2012b).55 Stanner disagreed with most of Hogbin’s conclusions and recommendations on matters to do with the governance of colonial peoples. Stanner expressed concern over postwar developments such as the Commonwealth Government’s Pacific Territories Research Committee and the establishment of the Australian School of Pacific Administration (ASOPA), which in his view threatened not only the training of colonial officials and the teaching of anthropology at the University of Sydney, but also Elkin’s control over anthropological research. He warned Elkin: ‘The next will be your chair, when you go; and when they have that, all the research into anthropology, sociology and colonial administration in the S.W.P. [South-­West Pacific] will be in the same ­hands – c­ ocksure, ambitious, politically-­minded, and quite unscrupulous.’ Stanner blamed Hogbin most of all; it was he who had undermined the integrity of anthropology, ‘pursuing consciously a policy which he knew could only weaken the Sydney d ­ epartment … ­And to please whom? A group of power-­hungry thrusters on the one hand, and a political party [the Australian Labor Party] on the other. This is bad stuff, Elkin. Short-­sighted, unscholarly, and in my opinion politically venal.’56 And finally, the political climate in Canberra had changed with the election of a conservative government; such a change favoured Stanner rather than Hogbin (Gray 2012a). The immediate problem for Nadel, and Firth, was what the ANU should do: there were two consequential matters, one of which was

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Hogbin’s ‘projected visit to New Guinea’, which was part of his short-­ term fellowship with the ANU. The other was Hogbin’s offer ‘to continue to advise on research matters especially the Melanesian field’, which Firth advised Nadel to accept. As to readvertising the position, it was decided to ‘hold it over for a period’.57 In the event, it was not readvertised.

Social Processes in the Pacific Oskar Spate, the foundation Professor of Geography, nostalgically recalled the atmosphere of the early days at the ANU: When physicists and historians, lawyers and geographers (one of each) were all packed into the little tearoom of [the] Old Hospital Building, a collection of weatherboard and tin roofs surrounded by rickety decking, with Law housed in what had been the Labour Ward and Joe Jennings [the geomorphologist] in the operating theatre because it had a sink. (Spate 2006: 24)

More prosaically, settling into a new university with buildings that were used for other purposes created difficulties, such as with the Jubilee Conference on Social Processes in the Pacific to be held in August 1951.58 Nadel wondered whether the university was ‘risking too much by staging our Conference this year’. He was sure the visitors ‘won’t mind the temporary character of the buildings; U.S. Universities are full of temporary structures. But these are all conspicuously and unequivocally University buildings; and ours are not and will not be for a long time. Stanner, Hohnen [ANU Registrar], and the others do not think these obstacles too g ­ reat … I­ do not share this view.’ It was hoped that all the scholars attached to RSPacS, especially in anthropology, would be in attendance, which as it turned out was not possible. Nadel wrote to Firth that ‘we shall have very little to show in the way of students and ­scholars … ­Our plans, yours and mine, of having all our scholars in Canberra in August have for one reason or another gone wrong’. Kenneth E. Read’s fieldwork was set back by his wife’s illness; Harry Powell returned to England for family reasons at the end of May; Cyril Belshaw did not expect to leave Papua before October; and Peter Lawrence was in England and would not be back in time. Only Adrian Mayer would be there, although he was in a hurry to get to England so as not to miss the registration date for the LSE for 1951–52.59

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Nadel left the decision – ‘perhaps unfairly’ – to Firth.60 Firth declared it should go on. He pointed out the basic aim of the conference was utilitarian: ‘to bring together a group of people of whom a few, like yourself and Spate have wide experience though, as yet, no first-­hand knowledge of the Pacific and most of the others have good first-­hand experience of the Pacific problems’.61 It was an opportunity for Nadel to develop knowledge and expertise on the Pacific. The Jubilee Seminar: Social Processes in the Pacific, would discuss and define problems of social process in the Pacific ­and … ­formulate hypotheses for further research. The careful formulation of such hypotheses w ­ as … ­especially important where the problems have a regional focus. [There was] a danger of having merely good descriptive work produced in a piling-­up of more facts about the Pacific, without reaching the underlying processes. [At RSPacS,] theoretical considerations were well to the fore. The members of the present School are not merely area experts, but rather theorists taking the Pacific as their major field of study.62

Despite Nadel’s concerns, the conference was a success, not least for putting ANU Pacific studies on the ­map – a ­ lbeit there was a general criticism that the ‘subject chosen was too wide’ and any future conference should focus on a particular area. Significantly for the future work of Pacific studies, Firth stressed in his concluding remarks that the ‘interdisciplinary nature of the conference h ­ ad … b ­ een very valuable’.63 This aligned with the aim of Nadel (and Firth) to develop an interdisciplinary RSPacS.

The First Years Academically, the new school was making headway and Nadel, with Firth’s support, quickly set about making academic appointments and getting researchers into the field. Firth enabled a doctoral placement for Peter Lawrence and, in conjunction with Nadel, research fellowships for Kenneth Read and Cyril Belshaw (in 1950), both of whom had completed their doctorates supervised by Nadel and Firth.64 In 1951, Kenelm Burridge and Peter Worsley started their doctoral studies.65 Marie Reay, Richard Salisbury, Robert Glasse, Ralph Bulmer and Jean Martin followed soon after. Of these appointments, Worsley, Martin, Burridge and Belshaw did not work in the Highlands. Jeremy Beckett arrived at the end of 1955. Derek Freeman, also an LSE graduate, was appointed research fellow in the same year.

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Attracting such a high number of PhD students was no mean feat. The number of PhD students in anthropology was low internationally. Before the foundation of the ANU, Sydney did not offer a PhD until 1955 and the first Auckland PhD was awarded, to Andy Pawley, in 1967. New Zealand students tended to go to the United States, including Hawai`i, while Australians tended to favour Britain, particularly the LSE, for PhDs.66 It is thus intriguing that of the first intake of PhD students at the ANU, only the women were Australia-­born. While the ANU exerted an international pull (mainly from the United Kingdom and its dominions and the United States) that reflected recommendations made by a network of senior scholars in anthropology, its appeal to local male students grew slowly. Which begs the question, if Sydney was not as supportive of women to undertake PhDs abroad, did the ANU offer women an opportunity for a PhD closer to home? Ruth Fink went to Columbia in 1957, while Marie Reay and Jean Craig (Martin) went to the ANU. Reay’s academic beginnings support the latter assumption. Her family was anxious about her leaving home and she was sent to her first fieldwork accompanied by a female chaperone. However, the attraction for women to study at the ANU should not be overstated (Gray et al. 2012: 8–12). Nadel’s seminars were intellectually demanding.67 They were modelled on Malinowski’s seminars at the LSE. Nadel had taken several seminars for Malinowski and was therefore not without experience conducting high-­ powered meetings. Malinowski’s seminars were legendary. Meyer Fortes wrote that when he and Nadel were students at the LSE: Malinowski’s charisma was at its height and the group of research students gathered around him i­ncluded … f­uture anthropologists of ­note … ­From time to time visiting anthropologists on their way to or from the field joined us; and Raymond Firth and Audrey Richards were, like Lucy Mair, also present in their capacity as members of the teaching staff. It w ­ as … ­a lively seminar, with plenty of disputation, fanned by Malinowski himself. (Fortes 1975: 9)

Stanner, who attended some of Malinowski’s seminars in 1937, found them ‘extraordinarily stimulating’. Malinowski ‘has his own superb way, less kind, but with a very heavy authority. He seems made mostly of encyclopedias, bitter quills, and steel points, and the most mellifluous English I have ever heard.’68 Above all, Malinowski’s seminars were exacting, with no quarter given, and Nadel replicated this somewhat terrifying atmosphere in his own seminar series at the ANU. Incidentally, this fitted his domineering personality. In the

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same way, Nadel’s supervision was strict and rigorous. As Firth noted, Nadel demanded from his students the ‘same high standards as he set himself, and he paid them the compliment of assuming that they could follow abstract argument if it was illumined by pithy illustration’. He had ‘no false modesty about the value of his own theoretical approach, he was a keen and helpful critic, providing, wherever necessary, his own framework of ideas in which others could set their material’ (Firth 1957: 122). Some thrived in Nadel’s seminars; others, like Marie Reay, who had completed her MA at Sydney supervised by Elkin, were intimidated. Overall, she was unhappy with Nadel, and described her experience accordingly: There was a pecking order among the students at ANU: first, Nadel’s ‘bright boys’; second, the other male students; and last, ‘us girls’. The select band of Nadel’s bright boys excelled in seminars. Nadel himself dominated these with lofty orations purported to draw out the theoretical implications of the material presented in the papers. His flow of ideas was impressive. He then allowed one of his bright boys to chime in, and we heard an unwitting caricature of the master’s own method, bold theories that were not simply abstract but impossible to relate back to social reality. Nadel was definite that we should go into the field with a ‘problem’, that is, a theoretical problem to solve.

Reay attempted to ‘devise such a problem’ but found it nearly impossible: when she tested her ‘­problem … a ­ gainst my knowledge of the Orokaiva [with whom she had worked previously], I found it just as inconsistent with human behaviour as the theories of Nadel’s bright boys and the wilder excesses of Nadel himself’ (Reay 1992: 139).69 On the other hand, Peter Worsley, a doctoral scholar at the same time, remarked that the seminars in anthropology were ‘an intellectual pleasure. Nadel gave a superb set of papers which became The Theory of Social Structure [Nadel 1957].’ Worsley recalled, however, that when he attended the LSE, he had been ‘too petrified to open his mouth in discussions dominated by such luminaries as Evans-­Pritchard and Siegfried Nadel (who was perfectly prepared to put down even fellow-­professors in debate, often rudely)’ (Worsley 2008: 80, 82, 125; Email, 21 March 2006). Theoretically, Nadel was a step above most of his contemporaries. Firth described him as ‘the brightest of his generation’.70 Stanner, too, recognized Nadel as a master of theory and practice of his subject and a stimulating teacher whose ruling passion was a rigorous conception of research, who

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impressed on all his students that facts have to be collected for theoretical significance, not empirical interest, and that it is a moral as well as an intellectual duty to give inquiry as sharp a Problemstellung as knowledge and theory allow. But he also taught that sovereignty is with the facts. (Stanner 1962: v)

Despite his personal dislike of Nadel, Cyril Belshaw admired his theoretical work: ‘He was one of the few people unafraid to use abstract theory for the guidance of anthropological thought. His masterly book on the subject [Foundations of Social Anthropology (1951)] is one of the most ignored treasures of the discipline’ (Belshaw 2009: 89–90). Cambridge anthropologist Jack Goody declared The Foundations of Anthropology and The Theory of Social Structure (1957) ‘showed Nadel as the foremost analytic thinker among the British school’ (Goody 1995: 103).71 A young aspiring anthropologist, Jeremy Beckett, interviewed by Nadel in London in 1955, regarded him with awe: [H]e was the author of what I would still regard, for its period, as the most sophisticated and scholarly book on anthropological theory, The Foundations of Social Anthropology. It was a work of quite extraordinary breadth, including Gestalt psychology, Gregory Bateson’s ethos and eidos, American cultural anthropology, British structural functionalism and the philosophy of science. Just before I came out, Nadel gave a series of lectures at the LSE which became his last book, Social Structure. This I found much more difficult, and in retrospect I regard it as a dead-­ end in anthropology. But at the time I was impressed, not to say intimidated. (Beckett 2001: 86–87; see also Loizos 1977: esp. 144n.7)72

Early Administrative Difficulties Finding a director for RSPacS was a continuing problem after Firth decided against accepting the position. Copland remarked to Firth, after he had declined the directorship, that ‘If that is Nadel’s work I’ll …’. Firth assured him it was not Nadel, but ‘our [Rosemary and his] own considered preference’.73 This revealed a tension between Nadel and Firth. Firth commented some years later that Nadel was ‘kind in social affairs, but professionally was hostile. He had, so he said, taken the professorship on the understanding that I was not going out as Director, and now I had turned up as Acting, with prospect of assuming the post! So, he treated me purely as an administrator, and I was never invited to any of his seminars!’ As Firth noted, Nadel had a sensitivity to ‘his professional status and with most decided opinions

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upon the best way to set up and organize academic institutions’ (Firth 1957: 122). The situation was exacerbated when Crocker resigned and left open the position of dean of RSPacS. It created an opportunity for J.W.  Davidson, Professor of Pacific History, to set out his ideas on the role of a director and a dean. He emphasized the importance of encouraging collaboration between disciplines and departments: The peculiar value of the School of Pacific Studies lies, I think, in the opportunity that we have for establishing inter-­disciplinary links. The anthropologist, the historian, the political scientist, or the geographer, can be made aware of his colleagues’ point of view; he can have his thinking criticized by those working on closely related problems from the viewpoint of other academic disciplines. This sort of ­collaboration … ­can arise only from the general desire of members of the school to work together for their mutual intellectual advantage. For this purpose a Director would have to rely solely on his personality and his knowledge of the work of the school, not at all on his formal status.74

Unless these criteria were met, Davidson favoured a dean be appointed. Moreover, he believed that apart from Firth, there was no-­one with ‘sufficient academic experience and personal distinction combined with broad knowledge of the field of work proposed for the School’, as well as having the ‘capacity to establish close and sympathetic relations with the senior staff’.75 In case the Vice-­Chancellor missed the drift, Davidson sent a ‘confidential’ letter to him on the same day: ‘I should like in this confidential note to take the liberty of expressing my opinion upon the possible appointment of my colleague Professor Nadel.’ He expressed his ‘misgivings regarding [Nadel’s] suitability as Director’, which he assured Copland were ‘quite apart from my high opinion of him as a colleague and friend’. On that score, Davidson was ‘delighted that the University had attracted a man of his intellectual ­calibre … ­I fully recognize the high quality of his mind and the great breadth of his knowledge and interests. Also, I like him as a person and find him a most pleasant colleague.’ Despite such niceties, Davidson objected to Nadel being appointed on three grounds. First, his lack of ‘broad knowledge of the field of study of the School’ and his lack ‘of any deep interest in the Pacific region as an area of study’. Davidson dismissed Nadel’s interest in Papua New Guinea as a ‘continuation of what was being ­done … ­at an earlier stage’.76 Second, he did not think Nadel encouraged interdisciplinary co-­operation despite ‘close inter-­disciplinary contacts … ­ ­ successfully being created’. Finally, he declared that

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‘Nadel’s authoritarian tendencies are ­already … ­well known outside of Canberra’. This had led, Davidson declared, to making ‘scholars (who are, inevitably individualists) chary of joining us’.77 In fact, Nadel aroused ‘a lot of antagonism among his colleagues at ANU in particular when he enlarged the title of his chair from Anthropology to Anthropology and Sociology’.78 In contrast to Davidson’s concerns, Stanner found Nadel easy to work with and was pleased with the way Nadel ran the department.79 Davidson did not object to Nadel being appointed dean; he expressed no interest in being appointed either dean or director himself. There was no strong case for appointing a director. Nevertheless, Davidson had ‘raised matters of real substance and it is necessary that they be fully examined’. As to Davidson’s misgivings over Nadel, Copland was circumspect, pointing out that he had heard ‘impressive accounts of the intellectual status’ of Nadel, adding that we ‘all know he is a man of great vigour’.80 There is little doubt that Nadel was a man of great energy and was intellectually demanding; as such, he did not suffer fools gladly – ‘whether white fools or black ones’ – and was prone to impatience and anger. Firth described Nadel as ‘sometimes impatient in professional matters if he encountered what he thought was stupidity or inefficiency’ (Firth 1957: 59).81 We get an indication of the short-­tempered and impatient Nadel in reading Lisbeth Nadel’s journal of their time in Nigeria among the Bida. She makes numerous references to Nadel’s anger, usually with his British colleagues – ‘a man short on patience and ­temper … c­ learly an irritable man’ (Loizos 2006). Cyril Belshaw told one of us that Nadel projected a slight disregard for people not on quite the same level: ‘he had a kind of sneer to his voice which he could never quite dissipate’; he was ‘angry and authoritarian’.82 Belshaw saw him as ‘a weak would-­be martinet who backed off in a great flurry if anyone stood up to him. He was generally disliked for this.’83 A jaundiced Walter Crocker, an Australian diplomat who first met Nadel in Nigeria, described him as ‘insufferable’: ‘his worst quality was his persistence. This combined with his non-­stop ­talking – ­to get a single word in at any point was really d ­ ifficult – ­wore down the will to resist. Men gave in just to get rid of his terrible company.’ Crocker, however, interpreted Nadel through stereotypes. He added that ‘if you want to know why [antisemitism] arises Nadel showed why’.84 His other references to Nadel are an exercise in malicious antisemitism. The ANU put the matter of director of RSPacS into abeyance and decreed the deanship be stopgap, with no fixed term of office on the off chance a suitable candidate for director appeared. Nadel saw it as a

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‘compromise between the present vague and makeshift arrangement, where the two schools have an elected Chairman, and the original plan of having appointed Directors which had proved impracticable’. Nadel suggested the ‘object behind the c­ ompromise … m ­ ight be to create a “Director” without the implication of permanence’. If so, the deanship should have a fixed term during which the dean would ‘build up his School and develop its programme of research’. Nadel told Copland that the dean in effect administered ‘a large [university] Department, a considerable number of students, and several research projects in progress’. He added: ‘If I undertook, in addition, to look after School affairs as well (as I have done in the past, merely because no one else would), it would seriously curtail the time left for my own research and writing.’ He declared it was a ‘sacrifice’ he was ‘unwilling to make for the sake of a stop-­gap administrative position’. He was, however, ‘greatly interested’ in a ‘position permitting me also to guide or direct the academic work of the School of Pacific Studies. That some such guidance is necessary will not, I think, be denied [by] anyone impartially judging the varied personnel and the even more varied activities of the School.’ He was prepared to accept a deanship ‘having a tenure for at least three ­years … i­f it is fully understood to imply the same degree of “direction” of academic work as did the original Directorship’.85 Nadel’s attempt to link the duties of dean with that of a director did not gain support from Copland or the council. Rather, it was hoped that in the circumstances Nadel would ‘take a less uncompromising stand’.86 The council agreed to review the position at the end of twelve months, when it would consider the tenure of the office for the deanship.87 The following year, Nadel was appointed for two years. When he went on study leave in 1955, he arranged to remain in the position until the end of June 1956.88 He returned at the end of 1955 having completed The Theory of Social Structure. Unexpectedly, Nadel died at the beginning of 1956, aged fifty-­two (‘Family Notices’, The Canberra Times, 17 January 1956).89

Legacy Nadel’s time at the ANU was short, as was his professional life, and it is difficult to ascertain his legacy. Colleagues such as Derek Freeman, a former student, said Nadel ‘had succeeded in establishing a Chair and a Department that were known throughout the anthropological world, and in initiating and directing several important and co-­ordinated

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programmes of field research’. Indeed, by ‘the end of 1955 more than a score of different research projects had been completed and inaugurated’ (Freeman 1956: 8, 10). Stanner observed that Nadel ‘set as a primary aim the reduction of the almost unknown ethnography of the [Papua New Guinea] Highlands. He declined to allow an inevitably small number of research-­workers to spend themselves on piecemeal studies throughout Melanesia: research was to have [a] strategic aim, not become a scatter of raids and forays’ (Stanner 1962: v). Meyer Fortes, Nadel’s long-­time colleague and friend (he was guardian to Nadel’s daughter, Barbara), observed: ‘What impressed everyone who met ­Nadel … ­was the fertility of his ­ideas … ­his boldness in putting forward his ideas and his quick response to other points of view’ (Fortes 1957: ix). This was a view shared by Freeman, who stated there were three qualities by which he would remember Nadel: ‘The scientific spirit which so animated all his activities’; ‘his absolute integrity and his constant regard for ethical principle’; and ‘the remarkable lambency of mind’ (Freeman 1956: 8). Goody points out that, like Fortes, Nadel did not see himself as an Africanist or as bounded by regional ties; rather, he and Fortes defined themselves as anthropologists: ‘they mainly regarded themselves as comparative sociologists in the sense that their understanding was not, in their view, limited to one culture [or one region] alone. Rather it was human culture itself’ (Goody 1995: 152). LSE anthropologist Peter Loizos assessed Nadel’s position within the ranks of British anthropologists: In Nadel’s case, we are dealing with a figure of importance. While he has not received the kind of attention in textbooks and histories accorded to Malinowski, Firth, Fortes, Gluckman or Leach, his name must certainly find a place in the second rank of British scholars of the period. In his brief professional life, he produced five substantial books, numerous articles, and took up a prestigious Chair in the newly formed Australian National University. He was remembered by his colleagues as an outstanding mind (Raymond Firth, personal communication), and well aware of his pre-­eminence.   A case can be made for Nadel’s having made a very significant intellectual contribution to the thinking of his contemporaries. This was his analysis of an African state, which was, quite simply the best of its kind, and far ahead of the normal products of functionalist anthropology. (Loizos 2006)

Jeremy Beckett recalled that Nadel ‘had been a powerful presence, and his death left a vacuum, intellectually and politically’ (Beckett 2001: 90). The ANU started its search to find a replacement.

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Notes   1. The foundation of the ANU is discussed in some detail by Foster and Varghese (1996: 3–82).   2. Firth to Copland, 25 January 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/8; Firth to Elkin, 23 July 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/36; School of Pacific S ­ tudies – N ­ otes on Discussion between the Vice-­Chancellor and Professor Firth on Monday 23  May 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/8.   3. Firth to Hancock, 25 March 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/36.   4. Firth to Copland, 25 January 1949; School of Pacific ­Studies – ­Notes on Discussion between the Vice-­Chancellor and Professor Firth on Monday 23 May 1949, both in FIRTH: 7/5/8.   5. Firth to Copland, 25 January 1949. FIRTH: 7/5/8   6. Power was Professor of Economic History; Perham was an Africanist based at Balliol College, Oxford; Mair was, successively, Reader in Colonial Administration and Reader (later Professor) in Applied Anthropology at the LSE; Kaberry remained Reader.   7. Firth to Copland, 25 January 1949; School of Pacific ­Studies – ­Notes on Discussion between the Vice-­Chancellor and Professor Firth on Monday 23 May 1949, both in FIRTH: 7/5/8.   8. Hancock to Firth, 3 March 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/11.   9. Firth to Hancock, 9 March 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/11. 10. School of Pacific S ­tudies – N ­ otes on Discussion between the Vice-­ Chancellor and Professor Firth on Monday 23 May 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/8. 11. L.G. Melville to W.K. Hancock, 19  March 1956, Hancock Papers, Australian National University Archives, Canberra [hereinafter ANUA], Series 77, 19/18. (Richards was born in 1899; Melville in 1902.) 12. Hancock to Copland, 24 May 1949 [carbon copy], FIRTH: 7/7/11. 13. Hancock to Firth, 3 March 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/11. 14. Firth to Hancock, 9 March 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/11. 15. Hancock to Copland, 3 May 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/11. 16. Extract from Firth, 6 July 1949, ANUA, 19/19. 17. In his LSE student file, he gives his name as Siegfried Ferdinand Nadel. It seems he changed his name, though when is unclear. S.F. Nadel remained his professional name. For everyday usage, he Anglicized his first name and was known as ‘Fred’. His wife, Lisbeth, became ‘Betty’. 18. He had a sister, Else (b. 1905). His mother was Adele Hirschsprung. 19. Nadel to Registrar, 29 April 1945, ‘Application for the Position of Senior Lecturer in Social Anthropology at the LSE’, Archives LSE, Staff file, S.F. Nadel. 20. 30 June 1931, Protokoll der philosophischen Fakultaet der Universitaet Wien, File Nadel Siegfried, Archive of the University of Vienna. 21. There was already a movement of Jews from Eastern E ­ urope – ­for example, Galicia and Hungary (Budapest) – to Vienna and from there on to Berlin,

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which was a well-­worn journey. After 1933, and the rise of Hitler, those who could left for the United States or England (Frank 2009). 22. ­Conversion – w ­ hich over many centuries in Europe had been a means of escaping Jewishness or hiding it from a ­ uthorities – w ­ as in post-­First World War Austria of limited benefit, and with the race-­based bureaucratic approach of the National Socialist regime after the annexation of Austria in 1938, no longer of any use. (For biographical case studies, see, for example, Bonyhady 2011; Bartov 2018: 6–36.) The fate of all the members of Siegfried Nadel’s and Lisbeth Braun’s families is difficult to establish. Siegfried Nadel’s father died in 1929; his mother, Adele, and aunt were deported to Minsk in June 1942 and murdered. His sister and brother-­in-­law emigrated from Vienna to Tel Aviv (Salat 1976). Lisbeth’s large family, the Brauns and Pollaks, was Viennese, and many did not survive. Her mother died in the Jewish Hospital in Vienna in July 1942 shortly before her deportation, and two of her aunts perished in 1942 in Poland and Berlin, respectively. Several uncles, aunts and cousins migrated, mostly to the United Kingdom and the United States of America. One uncle, Dr Johannes Pollak, arrived in Australia in April 1939. Siegfried and Lisbeth returned to Vienna in 1 ­ 955 – a ­ year after the Soviets had moved o ­ ut – p ­ ossibly to seek out family members, but no record appears to have been kept from this visit. Information for Adele Nadel from Yad Vashem Holocaust Victims Database and Vienna Jewish Document Centre lists. 23. The following, unless indicated otherwise, is taken from Nadel’s application as a senior lecturer in social anthropology at the LSE. Nadel to Registrar, 29 April 1945, S.F. Nadel, Staff file, LSE. 24. He enlisted as an Austrian citizen. (Austrian citizenship, however, had formally ceased with the Anschluss in 1938. It is unclear whether he was formally stripped of a German citizenship by Germany, into which Austria had been amalgamated, but it is likely.) 25. See Nadel, personal file, LSE; National Archives, HO 334/179/26701. 26. Firth to Nadel, 25 July 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/26. 27. Firth to Nadel, 12  November 1948; Firth to Nadel, 28  January 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/26. 28. Firth to Nadel, 8 June 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/26. 29. Copland to Nadel, 18  August 1949, ANUA, 19/19. For Copland, see Harper (2013). 30. A temporary federal Parliament was located in Melbourne until 1923, when it moved to a (temporary) Parliament House in Canberra. It was not until 1988 that a permanent Parliament House was opened, on Capital Hill. 31. At the outbreak of the Second World War, the population had reached just less than 13,000. During the war, growth was again slow, and, at the census of 30 June 1947, the population was 16,905. Subsequently,

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the population showed steady increases, and, at the census of 30  June 1954, it was 30,315. The population reached 58,828 at the census of 30  June 1961 and, at 30  September 1962, the population of the Australian Capital Territory was 67,308 (ABS 1963). 32. Before it was built in 1968, the NLA’s holdings were dispersed among temporary locations around Canberra. 33. Peter Worsley, a doctoral student, got on well with his supervisor, Stanner, ‘partly because he used to invite us to dinner to consume vintage Hunter Valley wines when all we could afford was Penfolds sherry at 5/a bottle’ (Worsley 2008: 80, 82; Email, 21 March 2006). 34. For Fred Ward, see Wrigley (2013). 35. Nadel to Firth, 7 February 1951 and 3 March 1951, FIRTH: 7/5/8. 36. For example, Crocker to Registrar, 3 November 1950, ANUA, 6.2.1.4, Part 2; also, Crocker to Registrar, 7  September 1950, ANUA, 6.2.1.4, Part 2. 37. All quotes, unless otherwise indicated, are from ‘Research Projects in Anthropology’, S.F. Nadel, February 1951, Copy in Gray’s possession. 38. Elkin to Nadel, 11 June 1954, EP: 41/4/2/414. Elkin sent Ronald and Catherine Berndt (in 1951) to Fore, D’Arcy Ryan to Mendi (in 1955) and Mervyn Meggitt to Enga (in 1955). 39. The results include Kenelm Burridge’s thesis on Tangu (in 1954) and Cyril Belshaw’s thesis on Hanuabada (in 1957). Peter Worsley was to conduct research into cargo cults but was unable to enter Papua New Guinea (Gray 2014a). 40. Firth to Harry Maude (SPC), 27 October 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/22. 41. He was, arguably, a sociological pioneer in anthropology (Freeman 1956: 4). Paul Sillitoe opines: ‘It prompted him early on to draw on sociology, which today is commonplace, and subsequently to enquire into the conceptual underpinnings of social anthropology, albeit idiosyncratically’ (Sillitoe 2018: 250). 42. Mick Borrie, born in New Zealand and educated at Otago and Cambridge, was Australia’s first full-­ time academic demographer and the first appointment to RSSS (Foster and Varghese 1996: 51). See also Price (2000). 43. Jean Martin’s study of displaced persons in Australia was eventually published, with additions, as Martin (1965). 44. Nadel had discussed this work with Harry Maude, the executive officer for social development with the commission, soon after he arrived in Australia. Nadel to Firth, 7 February 1951; Firth to Maude, 27 October 1949. FIRTH: 7/7/26. Elkin produced a report for the SPC, which was later published under its auspices (Elkin 1953). Maude sent a copy of Elkin’s report to Firth. Firth commented that he thought Elkin was ungenerous towards Ian Hogbin and noted their personal differences. Firth to Maude, 3 March 1951, FIRTH: 7/7/22; Firth to Elkin, 22 March

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1948, EP: 174/4/2/178; cf. Ian Hogbin, ‘Anthropological Research in the Pacific’, n.d., ANUA, Series 19, General files, File 6.1.1.0, H. Ian Hogbin. 45. The geographic scope of Pacific studies was elastic. 46. Firth to Copland, 23 May 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/8. See also various correspondence between Hancock and Firth, in FIRTH: 7/7/11; and Davidson (2010: 242). 47. School of Pacific S ­tudies – N ­ otes on Discussion between the Vice-­ Chancellor and Professor Firth on 23 May 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/8. 48. Stanner’s position underlines his sense of self-­importance and entitlement. His argument about research and subject experience is overstated (Gray 2012b). On any reckoning, Hogbin (b. 1904) was a more experienced fieldworker and teacher and had more publications, including two books; Stanner (b. 1905) had none. See also Hogbin to Hohnen (ANU Registrar), n.d., application and CV, FIRTH: 7/7/12; Hohnen to Firth, 19  October 1949, FIRTH7/7/12; Stanner’s application for the ANU Readership, dated 23 August 1949, and his qualifications, FIRTH: 7/7/29. 49. Firth to Nadel, 1  October 1949, FIRTH: 7/7/26; Firth to Copland, 22 October 1949, FIRTH: 7/1/12. 50. Elkin to Stanner, 8  December 1944, EP: 197/4/2/573; Stanner to Clunies-­Ross, 30 September 1948, NAA: A10651, ICR 23/28; Stanner to Elkin, 25 October 1948, EP: 197/4/2/573. 51. Sally Chilver to Nadel, 6 January 1950, FIRTH: 7/7/12. 52. Hogbin to Firth, 19 August 1949, and Hogbin to Hohnen, 15 November 1949, both in FIRTH: 7/7/12. 53. Hogbin to Hohnen, 15 November 1949, FIRTH: 7/1/12. 54. J.W. Davidson, Professor of Pacific History, was also gay. Hogbin went to great lengths to guard his privacy even in Sydney and to keep his home and employment separate. There was nothing in his apartment that would tie him to the University of Sydney. 55. Firth to Nadel, 3 December 1949, FIRTH: 7/1/12. Hogbin and Stanner were both members of the Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs but held opposing views on colonial rule, welfare and indigenous rights. 56. Stanner to Elkin, 25 October 1948, EP: 197/4/2/573. He made similar observations on the future of anthropology at Sydney to Firth: Stanner to Firth, 6 April 1946, FIRTH: 7/7/3. 57. Firth to Nadel, 3 December 1949, FIRTH: 7/1/12. 58. It was the jubilee year of the Federation of the Australian states (in 1901). 59. Nadel to Firth, 4 April 1951, FIRTH: 7/7/26. 60. Nadel to Firth, 7 March 1951, FIRTH: 7/5/8. 61. Firth to Nadel, 22 March 1951, FIRTH: 7/5/8. 62. Jubilee Seminar: Social Processes in the Pacific, 1951, 2, Copy in authors’ possession.

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63. Ibid., 34. 64. Read’s doctoral thesis was supervised by Nadel and Firth. In The High Valley, ‘Read describes his anthropological training by thanking S.F. Nadel, his PhD supervisor, “the intellectual mentor of my years as a graduate student”, and Ian Hogbin as “my first teacher in anthropology” who “introduced me to the people of Melanesia and New Guinea”’ (quoted in Herdt 1996: 1). 65. Burridge is an example of how not only senior anthropologists employed in universities, but also PhD students, were part of British Empire networks. Burridge was born in Malta, raised in India and, after service in the Royal Navy, studied at Oxford University, before his PhD at the ANU. He was appointed to the University of British Columbia, Canada. 66. After the Second World War, a shift occurred in New Zealand. Freeman and Geddes both went to the LSE. Linguists, however, were sent to Indiana University, for example. 67. Diane Barwick wrote to Paula Brown: ‘After hearing Ken Burridge and Mick Read and Cyril Belshaw reminisce about Nadel’s department while I was in Canada during April–May, there is no doubt in my mind that membership of that [Nadel’s] department was a scarifying experience.’ Barwick to Paul Brown, 7 June 1977, ANUA, (Reay) 440/Box 51 (874). 68. Stanner to Elkin, 15 January 1937, EP: 160/4/1/78. 69. Marie Reay was the last researcher sent to the field by ASOPA. She was near Mount Lamington when it erupted on 21 January 1951. It affected her badly and she suffered what was then described as a ‘nervous breakdown’ (Interview with Gray, 3 February 1993). See also Johnson (2013). 70. Firth to Gray, February 1993 (copy in recipient’s possession). 71. Paul Sillitoe (2018: 250–51) writes: ‘The sociological trajectory informed Nadel’s consequent contributions to social theory, firstly in his book The Foundations of Social Anthropology completed while at Durham “a remarkable feat even if it had not been accomplished at the same time as the creation of a new teaching department” (Fortes 1957: xiii). He intended the book to further understanding of “the logical premises that underlie our knowledge of societies” (Nadel 1951: v). In this respect he was atypical for his time, focussing not on the structure and function of the social group ­exclusively – ­regardless of the title The Theory of Social Structure of his posthumous b ­ ook – ­but arguing for consideration too of the individual actor, reflecting his training in psychology.’ 72. Cf. anthropologist James Faris, who thinks The Theory of Social Structure was a theoretical failure. In a highly critical analysis of Nadel’s ‘functionalism’, Faris argues that it ‘­focused … ­on control and regulation. For those of you who have had to suffer through The T ­ heory … a ­ s graduate students as I had to, you may remember that items from his symbolic calculus became part of the everyday ­lexicon – ­c a [control over actions] and c r b [control over rights and benefits] … however appropriate and

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useful Nadel’s theory may have been for regulating ­people … ­the theory fails to tell us why societies are the way they are, [or] how they came to be that way’ (Faris 1973: 163). 73. Firth, ‘Reflections of a Centenarian Anthropologist’, n.d., by permission of Hugh Firth. 74. Davidson to Copland, 28  April 1952, Papers of J.W. Davidson, NLA, Canberra, MS 5105, Box 1. 75. Ibid. 76. A similar criticism could be levelled at Crocker and Spate, both of whom had limited knowledge of the Pacific. Davidson’s claim that Nadel was building on the work of ‘Belshaw, Read and others’ was mistaken and petty (see Hays 1992: 34–36; Wilson and Young 1996). 77. For example, young Australian anthropologist Ronald Berndt rejected the offer of a doctoral ‘fellowship’ at the ANU based on what he and his wife, Catherine, considered to be Nadel’s ‘abrasive and arrogant manner’ (Berndt 1992: 69). 78. Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Papers of Max Gluckman, Royal Anthropological Institute, London, MS 450 [hereinafter Gluckman Papers, RAI], Folder D25. J.A. Barnes, who succeeded Nadel, told Max Gluckman: ‘According to one report, he was trying at one stage to put Psychology into it as well. There is still no Psychology at ANU and I gather there is a strong feeling that the department should be made to restrict its activities to anthropology in future and not go dabbling with sociology and other subjects that properly belong elsewhere.’ 79. Stanner to Firth, 25 February 1953, FIRTH: 7/1/29. 80. Copland to Davidson, 12 May 1952, Papers of J.W. Davidson, Australian National University Archives, Series 57 [hereinafter Davidson Papers], ANUA, 57/46. When looking over his life, Firth appears to take some pleasure in Davidson thwarting Nadel’s attempt to be Director: ‘his “plan” to be Director ­himself … ­was thwarted by Jim Davidson, who laughed at his p ­ retensions – a ­ nd who would have preferred a kind of committee structure of directorship’ (Firth, ‘Reflections of a Centenarian Anthropologist’, n.d., by permission of Hugh Firth). This does raise a question: did Firth push Nadel for the chair at the ANU as a way of removing him from London? We have discussed this but have come to no firm opinion other than to think it unlikely. 81. Paul Sillitoe (2018: 251) makes a similarly harsh judgement: ‘It seems that the nascent Durham department was saved a divisive legacy, unlike some elsewhere’, by which we think he is referring to the ANU. 82. Email, Belshaw to Gray, 8 January 2010. 83. Email, Belshaw to Gray, 12 January 2012. 84. Crocker commented, ignoring Nadel’s family’s conversion to Catholicism, that to ‘everyone’s surprise’, Nadel was buried as a Roman Catholic. ‘The ­ANU – ­Ten Years Later’, Papers of Sir Walter Crocker, Special Collections,

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Barr Smith Library, University of Adelaide, MSS 327 C938p, S.R.2 [hereinafter Crocker Papers], Series 9, Vol. 1.1. 85. Nadel to Copland, 18 November 1952, Davidson Papers, ANUA, 57/40 [Nadel’s emphasis]. 86. Copland to Nadel, 24 November 1952, Davidson Papers, ANUA, 57/40. 87. University Circular No. 100, Appointment of Deans, 24 December 1952, Copy in Davidson Papers, ANUA, 57/40; Davidson to Firth, 9 February 1953, FIRTH: 8/2/10. 88. Assistant Registrar to Nadel, 23  December 1955, Davidson Papers, ANUA, 57/40. 89. He was privately interred.

Chapter 6

FINDING A SUCCESSOR TO A.P. ELKIN, 1955

In the year before Nadel’s death, the University of Sydney was casting around for a replacement for Elkin. He had dominated Australian anthropology for more than twenty years and was concerned his retirement might result in the demise of Aboriginal anthropology as the core of the Sydney department. Such a possibility was anathema and would undo much of what he had built up (Wise 1985: 191–220). As alluded to earlier, the Sydney department under Elkin practised an anthropology that was peculiar to A ­ ustralia – a ­ settler dispossessory nation. It focused on ‘practical anthropology’ – that is, the use of anthropological knowledge to assist colonial authorities in the formulation of Aboriginal policy to, in effect, give the policy an enlightened, humane edge. The other dominant practice of the Sydney department, from its foundation, was to record and describe traditional Aboriginal life ‘before it was too late’.1 Australia’s colonies, Papua and New Guinea and Melanesia in general, were not ignored but did not form a central place in the ethnographic interests of the department after Radcliffe-­Brown. As mentioned previously, in response to limited funding (mainly the end of Rockefeller Foundation funding) the Sydney department shifted its interest to researching the position and lifestyle of people of mixed descent (‘mixed-­race’) in rural and urban NSW. This research was associated with the NSW Aborigines Welfare Board, of which Elkin was vice-­chairman (Goodall 1982), and most of it was directed towards problems specific to the implementation of the policy of assimilation as governance and uplift (McGregor 2011). Elkin also encouraged research ‘into problems connected with the assimilation of alien groups’, funded in large measure by the Australian Department of

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Post-­War Reconstruction (Gray 2001: 1–29; Beilharz et al. 2015; also, Macintyre 2010: ch. 2).

Holding Patterns The convention at Sydney was that outgoing professors remained at arm’s length in the choice of their successor. That did not prevent Elkin making strenuous attempts to orchestrate the appointment of a chosen successor in the form of Ronald Murray Berndt, who would maintain the department’s focus. From the time he first applied for entry to the University of Sydney to enrol in the Diploma in Anthropology, Berndt had enjoyed Elkin’s support. He was initially ineligible for admittance to the course, but Elkin arranged for a change of the university’s regulations to ensure his entry. Exactly when Elkin decided on Berndt is difficult to ascertain but Berndt’s burning ambition and determination, his enthusiasm for anthropology and his work ethic, doggedly staying at a task, which mirrored Elkin’s attributes, were most likely key factors (Wise 1985: 166; Gray 2005b, 2014b). There was a further consideration. When Ronald met Catherine Webb, a fellow student (they married in April 1941), Elkin found his long-­desired husband and wife combination; he was to refer to them as his ‘anthropological children’ (Gray 2005b; Barnes 2007: 246). Elkin’s biographer writes that ‘Elkin was their paterfamilias’ (Wise 1985: 219–20). For the next decade and a half, Elkin encouraged and supported the Berndts. While the Berndts were in England completing their doctorates, Elkin arranged for a lectureship at Sydney, ensuring Ronald would apply for the chair from a strong position. Berndt, however, was somewhat diffident and told Elkin: It would be an honour of inestimable value to hold your c­ hair – ­I can only say that when the time comes I shall apply as you have suggested. Apart from anything else, Sydney is the natural centre of my interests and my r­ esearch – ­for both Aboriginal Australia and the Pacific. It is with this intention too that I wish to be ‘strong’ academically (both in degrees and t­ heoretically – a ­ nd with practical experience in organisational matters). I hope it will not be necessary to apply until we return [from the LSE].2

There had been others who had attracted Elkin’s patronage and s­ upport – ­namely, Phyllis Kaberry and W.E.H. ­Stanner – ­although Elkin, after supporting Stanner, became increasingly reluctant to promote him. Before the war, he had recommended Stanner for the

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position of director of the newly formed Northern Territory Native Affairs Branch, in 1939, based on Stanner’s administrative ability, his experience in the Northern Territory and his training in economics. When a lecturing position was created near the end of the war, however, Elkin offered it to Kaberry, who politely refused.3 He did not offer it to Stanner. Kaberry had established herself with the British Colonial Office during the war and had turned her research focus to the Cameroons. Elkin’s final act of support for Stanner was over the Auckland chair, but that was against Piddington.

Early Skirmishes Ian Hogbin had been in the department almost as long as Elkin, during which time a deep animosity had developed.4 Elkin was the antithesis of the more refined and elegant Hogbin. Hogbin had advantages of style and substance over his more senior colleague, as Elkin’s biographer acknowledges: ‘striding up and down in front of the students with a cigarette between his fingers, [Hogbin] was widely read, cultured, liberal, brilliant, a witty lecturer’ (Wise 1985: 138, 220). The animosity between the two men was not helped by Elkin’s decision in 1947 to appoint the linguist and fellow Anglican priest Arthur Capell over Hogbin for a readership in the department.5 Elkin justified his decision to the Professorial Board, describing Capell as a ‘unique linguistics expert’. Hogbin was enraged.6 The outcome was that both Capell and Hogbin were offered readerships in 1948. Elkin was more successful in preventing Hogbin from pressing his claim for the chair in 1955, or so the rumour goes, by threatening to expose aspects of his private life should he apply.7 If Elkin actually made this threat, he was wasting his time because Hogbin did not want the ­chair – ­or more precisely, he had no wish to be lumbered with the administrative tasks that were inseparable from a professorship. (At the time, Australian university departments had a single full professor, who was automatically the head of the department; it was a life sentence.) Indeed, Hogbin’s limitations as an administrator and organizer were one reason for disqualifying him, in Firth’s view, for the foundation chair of anthropology at the ANU in 1949.8 The vacant Sydney chair was duly advertised, setting out information for candidates, including the conditions of employment and 1  May 1955 as the closing date for applications. Elkin had no say over the content of the advertisement and, contrary to his wishes, the

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job description did not specify that applicants be versed in Aboriginal anthropology. In a tactical move, Elkin attempted to regain the initiative by submitting a referee’s report on behalf of Ronald Berndt well in advance of the closing date. He attached six pages entitled ‘Functions of the Department of Anthropology’ – a historical overview setting out the functions of the chair; he also listed what he called ‘departmental policy’. He no doubt hoped his old ally Harold Maze, the registrar, would have some influence over the process. Playing to Berndt’s strengths, Elkin put the case that ‘a person whose knowledge and experience has not been in Australia and the South Pacific, will be under too great a handicap to lead the Department in its functions of field research and the study of culture change problems, and of providing the information and counsel which is sought from the Department’. The new occupant of the chair, said Elkin, should be especially interested in, and also well experienced in, the anthropology of the Australian Aborigines and the peoples of New Guinea and ­Melanesia … ­priority should be given to the former. Government Departments, Missionary organizations and the public rightly expect ­this … h ­ e should be interested in the sociological problems of the mixed-­ blood Aborigines, and this will lead him at least to encourage sociological research.9

His departmental ally Arthur Capell also highlighted this aspect in his own reference for Berndt, noting that as Berndt ‘is himself a product of this University, I feel that there would be great gain in appointing one who has been for so long in such close association with the Anthropology Department, and has its interests very much at heart’.10 Berndt, in Capell’s opinion, was just the man for the job. Elkin also stated that the successful applicant would take over the editorship and management of the journal Oceania. Berndt followed Elkin’s schema in his application, writing: ‘What I have sketched is based essentially on what has been instituted and accomplished in the Department. This firm foundation, for the construction of which Professor Elkin has been pre-­eminently responsible, provides an excellent basis for future development and extension.’11 While Elkin was attempting to perpetuate his legacy and entrench Aboriginalist anthropology through the appointment of his chosen one, Hogbin was doing all in his power to thwart such designs. With nothing to lose, Hogbin campaigned without inhibition for change. If Elkin was going to ‘exert strong backstairs pressure’, so would he; in a few hectic weeks, Hogbin sent and received a stream of letters to and

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from friends and associates, pressing his case and fuelling the rumour mill. He knew that Raymond Firth and Isaac Schapera, both at the LSE, would be probable referees for several candidates and he pestered Firth, his long-­time friend and past colleague at Sydney, with no fewer than four long letters between mid-­April and mid-­June. Hogbin quickly learned that his first choice, Edmund Leach, was not applying. Aware that Stanner, whom he detested, would apply, Hogbin urged the youthful Maurice Freedman of the LSE to submit an application.12 Happily, another strong candidate, John Arundel Barnes, also applied: ‘how much better either [Freedman or Barnes] would be than Berndt’, or Stanner or Cyril Belshaw, who, if appointed, would ‘not only [be] a tragedy for Sydney but for the future of anthropology in Australia’.13 Next, Hogbin was telling Firth that a field of eight was going to be considered the following week by the selection committee and that he would be lobbying committee members to move that Schapera and Firth rank the candidates who made the shortlist.14 ‘My own view’, he wrote to Firth, ‘is that Barnes and Freedman have incomparably the best qualifications (and I would be delighted to have either of them). I hope that you share this opinion.’15 By now, Firth was becoming uneasy at the tack Hogbin was taking: [I]t does strike me that it is a bit unwise of you to express your own attitudes so openly both in Sydney and to me when it looks as if you are involving me and Schapera in the judgement of the candidates. In fact, it might make it a bit awkward no matter who was elected. If I am being asked to rank the candidates, in one sense the less I know about the Sydney end the better.16

But Hogbin was not about to be diverted. It occurred to him that the presence of Freedman and Barnes, the outstanding candidates (in his opinion), might result in the vote being split and both would drop out in the final count, with the result that ‘someone else, possibly Berndt’ would be appointed: So, what I am doing is urging my friends on the Committee to support the appointment of either Barnes or ­Freedman – ­but to decide for themselves which. As John [Barnes] has already arrived, so to ­speak – ­he is already a reader and has quite a list of p ­ ublications – ­most of them will, I think, plump for him. What you and Schap have to say, however, will naturally be of enormous importance. I do not want you to think that I am trying to influence you (I know too well, anyway, that I could not do so on an issue so vital), but there will be no harm in saying that I am devoutly hoping that you will, when you are asked, place John or Maurice far far ahead of Berndt and Stanner.17

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Hogbin was presuming his friendship in writing to Firth as he did. As we will see, Firth was his ‘own man’ and did not comply with Hogbin’s advice or pleadings. Firth, experienced in this role, presented the rankings fairly based on what was required or, more precisely, what he perceived as the requirements of the i­ nstitution – i­ n this case, Sydney University.

Preliminaries The selection committee convened on 15  June, comprising the vice-­ chancellor and ten professors. There were eight applicants: J.A. Barnes (aged thirty-­six), C.S. Belshaw (thirty-­three), R.M. Berndt (thirty-­eight), R.F. Fortune (fifty-­two), M. Freedman (thirty-­four), P. Hadfield (fifty-­two), W.E.H. Stanner (forty-­nine) and G.R. Gayre (forty-­seven).18 Elkin was invited to give his view on the applicants for the committee to consider. He reiterated his ‘opinion that the appointee should be a specialist in the field in and around Australia’. He dismissed Gayre and Hadfield; he thought Fortune had a history that militated against him (‘brilliant but erratic’) and, while supportive of Cyril Belshaw, he nevertheless hinted that he was not ready for the duties of a professor.19 He judged Freedman to be weaker than Barnes. He knew ­Barnes – ­whom he had met once in 1954 at a conference on race relations in ­Honolulu – t­ o be ‘pleasant and self-­assured, no independent views, subservient to others’ opinions, an Africanist, academically very good, workmanlike, efficient and thoughtful. … well equipped in social anthropology ­but … ­no experience in Australian and Melanesian fields’. Barnes, Elkin declared, ‘is in his right position [as reader] until he matures’.20 He described Stanner, who was a threat to his chosen successor, Berndt, as courteous and tactful with strong moral ­principles … ­not a strong or driving leader or d ­ irector … a ­ cademically s­ ound … h ­ as experience and interest in the Australian aboriginal and Melanesian ­fields … H ­ e has not shown drive; is prone to let circumstances beat him; he is a little unsure of himself and has moved about a lot. He has not quite finished some tasks which he has undertaken.

In contrast, Elkin was effusive when discussing Berndt: [He is] quietly cultured, a charming host and thoughtful; has moral strength, courage, venturesomeness and complete sincerity in his subject. He would be a good and interesting colleague. In administration he plans thoroughly. His academic career is a good one. Is at

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present working for a PhD in London. Berndt is the most outstanding field worker we have had. His publications have brought a great deal of fame to the Anthropology Department. He is a scholar of high rank and has strong contacts with Governments and other Universities. He is a good leader, has d ­ etermination … ­He is a good lecturer and has improved tremendously in the conduct of seminars.21

It was Elkin at his best, damning the opposition with faint praise, highlighting their weaknesses, and exaggerating the qualities and abilities of his chosen candidate.22 It was noted by the committee that Elkin ranked Berndt ‘well above the other candidates’. Even the committee was moved to question his assessment: ‘Were there additional referees for Berndt, anyone whose opinion is worthwhile?’ they asked each other. The possibility of Hogbin being asked his opinion was raised. It was decided not to proceed with this idea. After Elkin had withdrawn, the committee eliminated Fortune, Belshaw, Hadfield and Gayre, leaving a short-­list comprising Barnes, Berndt, Freedman and Stanner.

Short-Listed Applicants John Barnes belonged to the postwar generation of anthropologists who consolidated the research begun in colonial British Africa by the students of Radcliffe-­Brown at Cape Town and Malinowski at the LSE.23 This cohort of second-­generation Africanists (variously influenced by E.E. Evans-­Pritchard, Meyer Fortes and Max Gluckman) included Elizabeth Colson, Mary Douglas, Bill Epstein, Jack Goody, Godfrey Lienhardt, Max Marwick, John Middleton, Clyde Mitchell, M.G. Smith and Victor Turner (Schumaker 2001). Barnes described himself as a Central Africanist. Barnes attended Cambridge on a St John’s College scholarship to do the Mathematical Tripos, taking courses in anthropology during his final year and graduating with a BA in 1939. Despite the mediocre teaching he received at C ­ ambridge – o ­ nly Jack Driberg engaged h ­ im – ­Barnes fancied becoming an anthropologist.24 The war deferred any decision: he joined the Fleet Air Arm of the Royal Navy. After the war, he held a research position with the Rhodes–Livingstone Institute and, in early 1946, he joined Max Gluckman and Clyde Mitchell for a crash-­course in fieldwork.25 He spent the best part of the next two years doing fieldwork among the Ngoni. Two books resulted from this research: Marriage in a Changing Society (in 1951) and Politics

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in a Changing Society: A Political History of the Fort Jameson Ngoni (in 1954). On his return from Africa in 1949, Barnes took up a lectureship at University College London, which Daryll Forde had earmarked for him. By the end of 1951, he had been awarded an Oxford D.Phil in social anthropology and he held simultaneously a Simon fellowship at Manchester University, a college fellowship at St John’s, Cambridge, and an honorary research assistantship at University College London. ‘I had three jobs’, he told Australian anthropologist Les Hiatt, ‘so I went off to Norway’ (Hiatt 1996: 10). This move, Michael Young (2011) writes, was partly to please Gluckman, who wanted to introduce sociology into his new Anthropology Department at Manchester (see also Mills 2008: 108–10). Unfortunately, Gluckman had miscalculated and there was no job in the offing when Barnes returned to Manchester. In 1954, Barnes applied for a lectureship at Cambridge but was beaten to it by Edmund Leach, whose readership at the LSE was thereby fortuitously vacated for Barnes to fill. Two years later, there being no professorships on the horizon in Britain, Barnes was tempted to try for Sydney, although he admitted later that as a Central Africanist he was ‘ill prepared for working as an anthropologist in Australia’ (Barnes 2001: 141). Ronald Murray Berndt left school at age fourteen and completed a bookkeeping course at the South Australian School of Mines. Slowly, he developed an interest in anthropology, brought about by an interest in collecting mostly South Asian artefacts (bronzes) (Brittlebank 2007; see also Gray 2007b, 2014b).26 At the age of twenty-­three, he was appointed honorary assistant in ethnology at the South Australian Museum and, at the same time, was casting around for a way into anthropology. He wrote to Elkin seeking information on enrolment for the Diploma in Anthropology.27 Berndt, filled with determination and ambition, told Elkin it was his intention to study anthropology ‘to better fit myself for a life-­time of work in ethnological fields’.28 He completed a Diploma in Anthropology in 1943, was awarded his BA (Research) in 1951 and his MA in 1954 (Gray 2014b). Elkin realized Berndt needed a doctorate for the sake of his career and that he had to do it overseas because, as already mentioned, the Sydney Arts Faculty at that point did not offer study at PhD level. (It is possible Elkin encouraged Ronald and his wife, Catherine, to do fieldwork in the New Guinea Highlands as preliminary research for their doctorates, thus better positioning Ronald for a shot at the chair.) Ronald and Catherine settled on the LSE, where they were awarded their PhDs in

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July 1955. From the completion of his diploma, he and Catherine had spent more time in the field than most anthropologists of the period and published extensively. Moreover, by 1955, he (with Catherine) had published several monographs. Maurice Freedman was the least qualified and the most inexperienced of the four. He was the only candidate who had no doctorate or published monograph. He studied at King’s College London and, after the war, enrolled for an MA in anthropology at the LSE, where he conducted fieldwork on the ‘overseas Chinese’ in Singapore; he was appointed as lecturer at the LSE in 1951. When Freedman applied for the Sydney chair, he was undertaking research for the World Health Organization in Indonesia and was partway through his PhD, which was awarded in 1957. Stanner’s case is more complicated. He was much older than the other short-­listed candidates and his career had been one of false starts, diversions and indecisiveness, which perplexed his contemporaries and often drew their scorn. Stanner was among the early group of undergraduate students educated by Radcliffe-­Brown at the University of Sydney. He completed his MA under Firth and Elkin and, in 1937, attended the LSE, completing his doctorate in 1938. He was different to the other applicants as in his working life he had been a journalist, government advisor, public administrator, army man and university academic. The period from the beginning of the Second World War saw him engaged in a variety of t­ asks – w ­ hat he called his ‘wasted years’ – which involved no ethnographic fieldwork. His major text, The South Seas in Transition (1953), was a survey conducted on behalf of the American Institute of Pacific Relations (Gray 2012b; Hinkson and Beckett 2008).

The Referees Not all the nominated referees were contacted. Those who were approached for reports were asked to rank the candidates relative to one another. The primary referee was Raymond Firth, followed by Isaac Schapera. It seems most weight was given to their reports. Of all the referees, Firth was the best known in Australia, having been acting Professor of Anthropology at Sydney in 1931 and 1932, Rockefeller Foundation fellow in 1928–29, lecturer in 1930, supervisor of several doctoral theses by Australian scholars at the LSE and one of the four academic advisers in the establishment of the ANU

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in the late 1940s and early 1950s. His word carried weight, and a measure of the respect with which he was held was his being offered the founding directorship of ANU’s RSPacS, which he declined. It was Firth’s practice ‘on these occasions’, as he had done for the ANU, for example, to act as a referee ‘on the understanding that I do not just write a glowing testimonial but give a frank estimate of [a candidate’s] capacities and qualities’.29 Nadel, after Elkin, was the most senior anthropologist in Australia and the committee made specific reference to his judgement. It is, however, difficult to determine the weight given to the other referees, as there is nothing in the surviving record to show this. In most instances, the other reports elucidated matters raised by Firth, Schapera and Nadel, supported their judgements or raised matters of a personal nature to show the suitability or otherwise of a candidate. The referees were familiar with the work of the short-­listed candidates, most having supervised and/or taught them. There was widespread agreement among the referees (Gluckman, Forde, Schapera, Evans-­Pritchard and Kaberry) that Berndt was an accomplished fieldworker, and an equally strong countervailing consensus that he was deficient in his grasp of anthropological theory (Schapera, Mair, Kaberry and Nadel). The ready acknowledgement that Berndt was well published was turned into the vice of being ­overpublished – ­described by one referee as: ‘If anything, they are too voluminous, too full of ethnographic detail with theoretical issues still somewhat undeveloped.’ Schapera went so far as to say that Berndt ‘has reached a stage where it would be to his advantage to do less writing and more reading and thinking’, and Kaberry opined that Berndt ‘has yet to learn to eliminate the unessential and develop a major theme or argument’.30 The general feeling was also that Berndt was ‘a dull and unexciting person’ (Gluckman) who would make a poor lecturer. Nadel was scathing. He stated that Berndt lacked ‘sophistication: [H]is anthropology is still rather ­crude … ­He is not too good at expressing himself concisely, at developing thoughts in a clear and systematic way, and at convincing others in argument. I do not doubt his gifts as an ethnographer, though I should not call him exceptionally gifted. But I am convinced that, at least at the moment, he is not equal to the task of a teacher nor in other ways adequately qualified for the Sydney position. Once more bearing in mind the importance of the position, I feel Mr. Berndt is not a serious candidate.31

Gluckman needed fewer words: ‘I find it difficult to imagine him giving directions to other research workers, or running and unifying

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a teaching D ­ epartment … I­ don’t think any evidence would persuade me that Berndt, despite his virtues, has the qualities of a professor.’ What really stands out is the disparity between Elkin’s assessment and that of the external referees. Maurice Freedman was treated more kindly. It was generally agreed that he was ‘a sound, original scholar with a good critical mind’ (Firth), possessed of ‘a bright and lively mind’ (Gluckman), who ‘writes lucidly [and is] well versed in anthropological theory’ (Schapera). The least experienced of the applicants, he had excellent potential but time ‘will tell’ whether he could ‘deliver the goods’ (Gluckman). It was possible, Gluckman mused, that ‘Freedman will turn out even better work than ­Barnes – ­but it would have to be very good work’. Nadel was clearer, and typically harsher, in his assessment: Freedman was ‘a gifted young man but still rather immature and inexperienced’, and definitely not suitable for ‘such an important and responsible position as the Sydney Chair’. The one wholehearted supporter of Freedman was Evans-­Pritchard, who declared: ‘I would myself, were I in the position of being able to appoint one of the applicants for a post in the Institute of Social Anthropology at Oxford, choose Mr. Freedman.’ (Ironically, Freedman replaced Evans-­Pritchard on his retirement in 1970.) Generally, Freedman was deemed to be not yet ready. His application, as with Berndt’s, was considered premature. Kaberry summed up the general feeling: ‘Mr. Freedman has a competent mind, but in my opinion lacks the personal and intellectual qualifications for a professorship at this stage of his career.’ Questions of politics, personal likes and dislikes and old enmities are particularly evident in Stanner’s case. As with Berndt and, to a lesser degree, with Freedman, there are wide discrepancies in the referees’ reports. Stanner’s best results were from Firth and Nadel, who ranked him equal first. Whereas Freedman was considered a fine younger scholar but not yet ready for a chair, Stanner was largely seen as an older man who had little to show for his years of effort. Stanner would have been shocked to know the extent of his poor reputation, as evidenced in several of the referees’ reports. Gluckman wondered whether Stanner had lost touch with recent developments in anthropology; Kaberry was of the opinion that Stanner’s more recent publications were inferior to those of the 1930s; and Forde spoke for many in saying that Stanner did ‘not approach Dr Barnes in intellectual calibre and I would consider that he would not carry through research projects as effectively or elicit the same degree of sustained keenness in students’. An otherwise supportive Nadel, who praised

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Stanner’s ‘real “flair” for problems of theory and method’, also noted a readiness to get ‘sidetracked’. The frequency with which proposed publications had fallen by the wayside reinforced the suspicion that Stanner had difficulty in seeing projects to a conclusion. Mair put it in damning terms by questioning the quality of Stanner’s publications: [I]t is relevant to remark that [Stanner’s] one published book [Stanner 1953] is not based on research in social anthropology, but is a discussion of administrative policy placed against a general background of anthropological theory. If I add that two of my own books are of this kind, it will be obvious that this comment is not intended to be derogatory in general terms; but I would not regard these books as qualifying me to apply for a Chair in social anthropology.32

Evans-­Pritchard went even further in saying: ‘in spite of having done field research many years ago, [Stanner] has published almost nothing of a social anthropological kind, it is difficult to assess his qualities as a field worker or writer. I have always regarded him as an able journalist.’33 The remaining short-­listed candidate was Barnes, who, by general consensus, was the outstanding candidate. Most referees praised the quality of his mind and his abilities as a teacher as well as his collegiality and personal qualities. Forde summed up the general feeling with the assessment: Dr Barnes, on grounds of intellect, character and personality, is certainly the outstanding candidate. [He] is a man of very considerable intellectual distinction; he writes and speaks with exceptional clarity; he is generous and co-­operative in his relations with colleagues and students, and of exceptionally equable temperament with a good sense of humour. He is widely read outside anthropology and has seen a good deal of the world. He is also very business-­like in all his professional activities.34

The Committee’s Decision Firth and Schapera had been asked to comment on Elkin’s ­suggestion – ­which was a departure from the position ­description – ­that preference should be given to candidates with knowledge and experience of ‘the anthropology of the Australian aborigines and the peoples of New Guinea and Melanesia’. Neither considered this of ‘very great importance’. They probably realized, but did not state, that Elkin’s agenda was one of self-­interest – t­ o perpetuate his own legacy via the appointment of his acolyte. Firth noted that the

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initial advantage of ‘local experience’ would diminish over time: ‘As a general rule in such appointments regional experience counts for less than the quality of the man.’ The committee accepted their view. As well, Kaberry, Gluckman and Schapera argued that the ‘time has come when the Department requires stimulus of a broader theoretical and ethnographic approach’, which further undermined Elkin’s (and Capell’s) pleadings for more of the same. The committee accepted the referees’ advice, thus ensuring that Hogbin’s worst n ­ ightmare – t­ hat the decision would come down to either Berndt or S ­ tanner – ­did not eventuate. Berndt was accordingly ranked in last place, in both quantitative and qualitative terms. He and Freedman were eliminated. Stanner, by contrast, was not discounted, especially having been ranked equal first by Nadel and Firth. The committee, however, heeded the weight of evidence, which inevitably led to Barnes being the unanimous choice. The selection process had worked independently, and this despite Elkin’s attempts to have his chosen successor appointed to ensure the line of descent as well as Hogbin working his mischief behind the scenes. The selection panel was more interested in personal attributes such as getting on with colleagues, temperament, leadership qualities and teaching abilities. These were insights that only colleagues and peers close to the candidates could provide. The Professorial Board approved the decision and the unsuccessful applicants were notified on 9 November. Barnes was surprised to get the job. He and his family duly sailed for the Antipodes. He attended his first Professorial Board meeting in May 1956.35

Changing Direction at Sydney? Describing himself as ‘ill-­prepared for working as an anthropologist in Australia’ (Barnes 2001: 142), Barnes tried to find out what he could about Sydney once he heard of his new appointment. As he later confessed, ‘although Australia was somewhere I was aware of, I knew very ­little … ­of its ethnographic literature’ (Barnes 2001: 141–42). In general, the people to whom he spoke ‘who had knowledge about Sydney were encouraging without being enthusiastic’ (Barnes 2007: 249). He had met Radcliffe-­Brown at Oxford and later at University College London while he was teaching there, and he attended his undergraduate lectures. He had also spoken with Kaberry, who was at University College London. Both had alerted him ‘to the importance

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of Australian ethnographic evidence but ­also … ­its complexity’. He thought Stanner was ‘more concerned with his work in East Africa than with his Australian research’. When the Berndts were doctoral candidates, writing up their New Guinea research, Barnes invited ‘Ron to lecture on Aboriginal Australia in a course I was giving on kinship, but found I could not understand what he said’. Likewise with another Australian, T.G.H. (Ted) Strehlow, who ‘seemed to be working with an odd frame of reference I did not understand’. Others were more positive. His colleague Lucy Mair told him ‘the finest period of her life had been the time she spent in Australia and Papua New Guinea during the war’. Nadel, too, ‘extolled the attractions of Australia’ (Barnes 2001: 142). Nadel had alerted Barnes to differences between a Commonwealth-­ funded, research-­oriented university, the ANU, and the teaching orientation of a state-­funded university such as Sydney. The parlous financial position dampened Barnes’s plans when he arrived in Sydney: ‘The public finances of N.S.W. have a comic opera quality which makes it difficult to take them seriously, but the practical effect is that the University has just enough money to retain those research students who are already in the middle of their projects, but scarcely any to spare for new applicants.’36 Lack of funding also impacted on new positions: there was ‘no money for any academic expansion. I discovered that with my arrival the number of staff positions in [the] anthropology department had declined’ (Barnes 2001: 143; Gray 2007a: 176–200). Barnes found a department not only underfunded but also moribund, shackled and cluttered by its past. Barnes quickly discovered, as Berndt put it to Firth, that the cleavage that ‘bedevilled the Sydney Dept. for so many years is still a factor to be reckoned with, particularly during Chair-­crises, if only serving as a nucleus in the development or strengthening of other antagonisms’.37 Indeed, Barnes was struck by the way people in the department tended to treat me much as they had treated Elkin. H ­ e … ­took all the decisions himself without consulting a ­ nybody … ­I called a staff meeting to discuss lectures and tutorials, and apparently this greatly surprised everyone, as no-­one had ever had a staff meeting ­before … I­ t looks as though my own staff will go on calling me Professor for quite a while yet.38

Elkin lamented the appointment of Barnes and the consequent downgrading of Aboriginal anthropology, commenting to Harry Giese, Director of Welfare in the Northern Territory, ‘all that can be said for

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Sydney is that there will be a couple of staff who have had experience amongst the mixed-­bloods’. In fact, it was worse, as there would be ‘neither at this Department nor at Mosman [ASOPA] … any member of staff personally conversant with the aboriginal problems of Northern Australia’.39 Of course, Elkin was primarily referring to himself. Barnes’s attempts, limited as they were, to introduce change in the practice, focus and theoretical orientations (such as they existed under Elkin) of the discipline at Sydney met considerable resistance, which he details in his autobiography (Barnes 2007: 249–75). Both Capell and Hogbin had been in the department ‘for a long time and indeed were significantly older than me in age and professional experience. They had built up their courses and wished to continue with them without major change. Hogbin’s introductory lecture course had developed over the years into a polished piece of dramatic art, [the content of which] he had no intention of abandoning’ (Barnes 2001: 143; see also Gray 2018d). After some twelve months in the job, Barnes wrote to Firth: ‘the academic position is becoming clearer. I’ve dealt with my first set of examination results, and have a better idea of the level of student attainment and aspiration. I think something can be made of this department, but it’s going to be quite a tough proposition!’ He had six doctoral students and expressed confidence only in Mervyn Meggitt: The others can, perhaps, be coaxed through their degrees but, on their present showing, I would be reluctant to push them any further. After them, there will be quite a gap before anyone else comes along to begin research, for we had no finalists this year, and none of the people in the junior years performed sufficiently well in their exams to raise expectations for good performance in their honour’s year, if they get that far. I think that part of the trouble has been that anthropology had come to be regarded, rightly, as an easy subject that did not take up much time or require much effort. Hence people came into the subject who needed an extra course or two to complete their degree requirements and who did not have any real interest in it. In the recent examinations, about a third failed in each of the junior years, and I hope that the news of this will get around the student body so that we may in future attract a more actively-­inclined type of student. As it was, in order to let two-­thirds of them through I had to relax my standards of marking considerably.40

Additionally, the chance to influence research and the discipline itself through the editorship of the journal Oceania was denied Barnes. He discovered that it remained with Elkin, contrary to his earlier declarations (Barnes 2001: 143; 2007: 261; Wise 1985: 221–24). Elkin

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remained editor until his death in 1979. In fact, the presence of Elkin was insidious. Barnes told one of us he was ‘tired of sharing his desk with Elkin’.41 Sydney was not what he expected; he was beginning to wonder whether he had made the right decision, and an unexpected offer made him rethink his priorities. Ronald Berndt was a lecturer in the Sydney department, having been appointed by Elkin, and he was wondering whether he could work under Barnes.

Notes   1. A strong focus was on ‘memory culture’ – that is, culture and social practices as they were remembered by old people, combined with ‘participant observation’. See, for example, Berndt and Berndt (1993).   2. Berndt to Elkin, 21 August 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375.   3. In 1934, Elkin sent Kaberry, his ‘girl student’, to Western Australia for her fieldwork, with one of her tasks being to repair relations with the Chief Protector of Aborigines, Auber O. Neville, which had become strained after Piddington made public criticism. Her research was published as Aboriginal Woman: Sacred and Profane. After a short stint of research in New Guinea, she departed for Britain and made her career there, away from Elkin’s patronage (Gray 2005a).   4. Jeremy Beckett interviewed Hogbin in the1980s and knew him as a colleague and friend from the mid-­1960s when Beckett took a position at the University of Sydney. One picture to emerge from these interviews, published in Beckett (1989) and an earlier interview for the NLA (Hogbin and McGrath 1983), is the uncomfortable fact that Hogbin liked few of his colleagues.   5. ‘I do detest him [Elkin] so.’ H. Ian Hogbin to Mary Turner Shaw, 3 June 1949, Papers of H. Ian Hogbin, University of Sydney Archives, Series 10, Box 15.   6. Hogbin to Firth, 31 March 1947, FIRTH: 8/1/52.   7. The suggestion is that Elkin would expose Hogbin’s homosexuality. Clive Moore, a historian specializing in Solomon Islands, and also gay, spoke to Hogbin ‘around 1979’ about his homosexuality. It was an awkward conversation. Clive Moore, pers. comm., 17 October 2018.   8. Firth to Copland, 25 January 1949, FIRTH: 7/5/81. Hogbin’s steadfastness in ‘using his position of Reader to steer clear of administrative tasks’ was also apparent (Barnes 2007: 271).   9. Elkin to Registrar (University of Sydney), 12 April 1955, EP: 41/4/2/375. 10. Capell to Registrar, 12  April 1955, ‘Chair of Anthropology 1955’ file, University of Sydney Archives, G3/190 [hereinafter G3/190]. This is the

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consolidated University of Sydney file containing the job description and information for candidates as well as the instructions to referees, applications, referees’ reports and the deliberations of the selection committee. Henceforth, details taken from the file will not be footnoted, except in the case of indented quotations or in the interest of clarity. 11. Berndt to Registrar, 15 April 1955, G3/190. 12. Hogbin to Firth, 11  April 1955, FIRTH: 8/1/52. Stanner had accused Hogbin of ‘consciously pursuing a policy which he knew could only weaken the Sydney department’. Stanner to Elkin, 25 October 1948, EP: 197/4/2/573. 13. Hogbin to Firth, 20  April 1955, and Hogbin to Firth, 6  June 1955, FIRTH: 8/1/52. Belshaw has no recollection of having applied for the chair (pers. comm., 10 January 2010). 14. Among those who were on the selection panel who were close associates of Hogbin were Julius Stone (law) and Alan K. Stout (philosophy). The other members were Professors C.R. McRae (education, deputy vice-­chancellor, Sydney University, 1955–61); William M. O’Neil (psychology, chairman, Professorial Board); Sir Edward Ford (preventive medicine, director of the School of Public Health and Tropical Medicine); S.J. Butlin (economic history), A.G. Mitchell (early English literature and language); P.D.F. Murray (zoology); John M. Ward (history); and A.D. Winston (town and country planning). 15. Hogbin to Firth, 6 June 1955, FIRTH: 8/1/52. 16. Firth to Hogbin, 15 June 1955, FIRTH: 8/1/52. 17. Hogbin to Firth, 16 June 1955, FIRTH: 8/1/52. 18. Reverend Percival Hadfield used the Duke of Devonshire and the Archdeacon of Sheffield as his referees; he was bereft of academic social anthropological support. Robert Gayre, a Scottish physical anthropologist, supporter of race science and author of several works on heraldry, had no significant anthropological work to his name at that point. He was a founder of Mankind Quarterly, which started publication in 1960. 19. Belshaw does not recall applying for Sydney (email, 8 January 2010). 20. Barnes recalls that all the conference delegates wore the casual Hawaiian styles of clothing except Elkin, who persisted with a formal shirt and tie (Barnes 2007: 243). 21. ‘Resume of Elkin’, G3/190. 22. Elkin’s assessment of Stanner (and Piddington) for the Auckland chair contradicts his assessment of Stanner above. 23. The following is taken from Young (2011) and Hiatt (1996). See also Gordon (1988, 1990). 24. David Mills, in his history of modern British anthropology, states that during the 1930s, in contrast to the LSE and Oxford, ‘Cambridge remained relatively marginal, dominated as it was by biological anthropologists and administrative ethnographers’ (Mills 2008: 6).

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25. Barnes first met Gluckman in 1939 when he had ‘journeyed to Oxford’ to meet Evans-­Pritchard. 26. His father collected Aboriginal material, as did Berndt’s friend, the artist James V. Wigley (Gray 2015: 220–22). 27. Ronald Murray Berndt, Student Record Card, University of Sydney Archives; Minutes, Professorial Board, Arts Faculty, University of Sydney, 16 June 1948. 28. Berndt to Elkin, 3 March 1941, EP: 160/4/1/78. 29. Firth to Stanner, 11 March 1955, FIRTH: 7/7/31. 30. Even Elkin conceded the point, although in a more private context. Regarding a book the Berndts hoped to publish, he commented to Linden Mander: ‘I agree with y ­ ou … w ­ ith regard to editorial discretions. It is very necessary in any of the Berndts’ work, for they are apt to repeat a good deal and to take somewhat longer to say things than is really necessary. I have had to deal with this in editing their material for Oceania.’ Elkin to Linden A. Mander, 8 August 1946, Papers of Linden A. Mander, University of Washington Libraries, Seattle, WA, 730-­ 7-55, Box 5, Folder 5-­4. 31. Nadel to Registrar, 10 July 1955, G3/190. 32. Lucy Mair to Registrar, 27 June 1955, G3/190. Stanner described Audrey Richards and Lucy Mair as part of a small, ‘self-­interested coterie’ at the LSE with ‘whose views I have disagreed’. Stanner to Elkin, 25  October 1948, EP: 197/4/2/573. 33. Stanner seems to have misplaced his confidence in Evans-­Pritchard. At the end of 1948, when he was casting around for a suitable position, he wrote that he could ‘count on Radcliffe-­Brown and Evans-­Pritchard, and think ­also … ­Firth’. Stanner to Elkin, 25 October 1948, EP: 197/4/2/573. Evans-­Pritchard was a member of the British committee selecting a professor for Auckland University College in 1949, which concluded that Stanner’s ‘publication record is somewhat weak’. J.F. Foster, Secretary of the Commonwealth Association of Universities, 16 May 1949, attachment in Minutes of Council, Auckland University College, 9 June 1949, University of Auckland Archives. 34. Daryll Forde to Registrar, 4 July 1955, G3/190. 35. Tonkinson and Howard (1990: 32) state, somewhat enigmatically, that Berndt was ‘relieved when Barnes was appointed’. 36. Barnes to Firth, 4 January 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/3. For a discussion of the department, see Barnes (2007: 261–67). 37. Ronald Berndt to Firth, 22 November 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/8. 38. Barnes to Max Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Gluckman Papers. 39. Elkin to Giese, 11 November 1955, EP: 189/4/42/455. 40. Barnes to Firth, 4 January 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/3. 41. Pers. comm., 8 July 1992.

Chapter 7

EXPANSION ANTHROPOLOGY AT THE UNIVERSITY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA

In 1952, American anthropologists Clyde and Florence Kluckhohn made a survey of the social sciences in Australia in which they recommended that the University of Western Australia (UWA) should be the site of a new Anthropology Department. Consequently, funding from the Carnegie Corporation was provided to establish a senior lectureship in anthropology based in the Department of Psychology, headed by Professor Ken F. Walker, foundation Professor in Psychology at UWA. Walker had an interest in Aboriginal anthropology and had completed a Diploma in Anthropology at the University of Sydney.1 Walker informed Elkin that he proposed modelling ‘the courses on the general Sydney plan, requiring Psychology I as a prerequisite for a second and third year unit’.2 After the disappointment of Barnes’s appointment, it was an opportunity for Elkin to influence the making of the Anthropology Department at UWA, which he eagerly accepted. Pleased that Walker had funds to create a position, Elkin hoped it might be ‘possible to set up a separate department [of anthropology] on a permanent basis’ (‘Notes and News’ 1954; see also Berndt 1979). In the meantime, he was supportive of Walker’s emphasis on ‘the need for research problems relating to Aborigines’. Underlining the importance of such research, Walker’s initial appointment was a young anthropologist, Ruth Fink (later Latukefu), a recent Sydney graduate. She was known to Walker, albeit it as a young girl; he and his wife ‘were close friends of Friedel and Lotte [Ruth’s parents]. When we lived in Sydney, we met them at a club the mother of a friend of ours organized for German and Austrian refugees from the Nazis to meet Australians.’3 Fink met Walker’s criteria as ‘someone with

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training in psychology and anthropology to make a survey of the Aboriginal and part-­Aboriginal population of Western Australia in the white community’ (Latukefu 2001: 58). Elkin assured Walker that Fink was ideal for the position. Walker then turned his attention to finding suitable applicants for the senior lectureship. Naturally, he consulted Elkin. The attraction of Ronald Berndt, as pointed out earlier, was that he and Catherine were a husband-­and-­wife team. Elkin often lamented the lack of knowledge about Aboriginal women, and the Berndts enabled the possibility of studying both men and women concurrently.4 Catherine likened their approach to the underlying structure of gender relations within Aboriginal society: ‘independence within a framework of interdependence’ (Tonkinson and Howard 1990: 38). But it was the career of Ronald that Elkin assisted and promoted. Catherine, despite early scholarly achievements, slipped increasingly into the background. Although supportive of Catherine, Elkin was also constrained by the mores of the time: unless they were unmarried, women in academia were often forced through employment rules to resign on marriage or encouraged by colleagues, family and a wider public to relinquish their own career and support their husband’s. Elkin had supported Ronald from the beginning. Having overseen Ronald’s academic career, Elkin was aware of his academic shortcomings (and strengths). Elkin encouraged Ronald to bolster his academic credentials and attend the LSE, not only to obtain his doctorate, but also to develop an international network: ‘the main thing is to make contacts and get everything you can out of the seminars’.5 Catherine, who was considered the more accomplished of the two, also enrolled at the LSE, where the couple wrote up their respective PhDs, using material from their fieldwork in Papua New Guinea, between late 1951 and early 1953 (C.H. Berndt 1992; R.M. Berndt 1992). Awarded their doctorates in 1955, they were a formidable couple. Ronald assured Elkin that ‘England has been (and is) an experience which we needed, and from our point of view we are glad to be having this period’.6 Elkin encouraged the Berndts to travel to the United States on the way home to Sydney, visiting anthropology and sociology departments and making contacts. They informed themselves by visiting anthropology and sociology departments, making contacts and generally familiarizing themselves with the development and teaching of anthropology in major US universities. During the time the Berndts were in England, Elkin had been busy putting in place a position for Ronald that was under consideration

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by the University of Sydney Senate.7 In the interim, on Elkin’s advice, Ronald applied for the position at UWA. Elkin pointed out some of the problems that might confront Berndt at Sydney and contrasted those with the possibilities in Perth. He told him: [I]f you were appointed lecturer in ­Sydney … ­you would soon be a Senior Lecturer. A good deal will, of course, depend on who succeeds me, but at least you will be close to your chosen fields [Australia and New Guinea]. On the other hand, in Perth, you will be near good fields of study, and might even break into Timor. Such are the ­possibilities – ­you must d ­ ecide – ­and in any case apply for the Sydney position.8

Such advice illustrated the fact that Elkin could not guarantee Berndt’s future in the Sydney department and therefore, just in case, he had helped create a set of circumstances in Perth that was conducive to Ronald’s success and the continuance of Australian Aboriginal anthropology organization. Elkin’s strategy was to undermine potential candidates for the UWA ­position – ­in this case, particularly British ­candidates – ­promoted by Firth. Firth had written to Walker explaining what he considered the position required: ‘an expert on studying our own society and somewhat of a psychologist’9 – a more general anthropological position. Elkin, in contrast, advised Walker that such a view ‘should be ­secondary – y ­ ou want s­ omebody … w ­ ho will take especial interest in spreading and advancing knowledge about the Aborigines and all the problems related to them’. Elkin pointed out to Walker that an important aspect of the position was ‘to make anthropology of some use to the Departments of Education and Native Affairs, and also make contact with the public’. This was an important role for anthropology and underpinned the way in which the Sydney department and Elkin interacted with government and the wider public. Elkin added that when seeking suitable applicants, what Walker needed were assurances from the applicants that they ‘would attack the problems which are so important in Western Australia’.10 Elkin’s advice was designed to ensure Aboriginal anthropology was a key component of the proposed anthropology course. Firth, one of Berndt’s doctoral supervisors at the LSE, provided a testimonial. He noted of Berndt: ‘With his wife he has possibly obtained a greater insight into the everyday life of aborigines living to a great extent in tribal conditions than most other field workers in Australia.’ Nonetheless, it was qualified support, pointing to some of the shortcomings in Berndt’s training, which in part reflected on anthropology in Australia under Elkin:

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I am sure that Mr. Berndt, were he appointed, would have a most valuable contribution to make to the development of anthropology in Western Australia. In saying this I am aware that as yet he has not devoted attention to the broader problems of the use of anthropological techniques and concepts to tackle the problems, scientific as well as practical, of Western types of society. He has not either as yet devoted much attention to psychological theory in any detail, which would obviously be desirable from the associations of the proposed post. On the other hand, he is earnest and eager to broaden his range of knowledge.11

Elkin, in his attempt to disrupt any candidate Firth might propose, wasted no time. He provided Walker with three prospective candidates and warned him against taking too much notice of Firth and his views. There appeared to be no other applicants. Elkin ranked the three candidates, all of whom were graduates of his department: Ronald Berndt, Mervyn Meggitt and Kenneth E. Read.12 Read was inexperienced in the Aboriginal field and Meggitt, who had still to complete his MA, wanted to undertake comparative studies in New Guinea;13 there was no-­one, Elkin declared to Walker and the Registrar, with Berndt’s ‘qualifications or experience in the Australian field who could better fill the position in the sub-­Department of Anthropology in Perth, or in a later separate Department’.14 While Elkin was shoring up Berndt’s position, the University of Sydney Senate confirmed Berndt’s appointment as lecturer in the Department of Anthropology there. Subsequently, Elkin advised Berndt to withdraw his application to UWA, confident he could arrange for Berndt to succeed him. Elkin informed the Registrar of UWA on behalf of Berndt: ‘Your offer is a very kind and considerate one, which Mr Berndt appreciates very much, and so do I.’15 UWA put the position in abeyance. The Berndts were pleased: ‘our friends and interests are there, but there are, as you [Elkin] mention better opportunities for Catherine’s research’.16 Sydney better suited their interests – ‘near the New Guinea field as well as the Aboriginal field’.17 There was an added advantage, with Ronald telling Elkin: ‘if you remain in Sydney after your retirement, we shall be able to keep in closer touch with you’.18 The first part of Elkin’s ­plan – ­to enable Berndt to replace him when he ­retired – w ­ as in place. He now intensified his attempt to ensure Berndt would succeed him.19 He was confident he could ensure that Australian Aboriginal anthropology would continue at the centre of the department and this would strengthen Berndt’s case. Despite Elkin’s support, Ronald Berndt doubted whether he would succeed Elkin. He was sure that Hogbin ‘will ­try … ­and Stanner too. But we hope you will alter your

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decision to retire, and continue to hold the Chair for at least a number of years to come.’20 This was unlikely as retirement was mandatory at age sixty-­five. Berndt would have to put himself forward despite his reservations. As we saw earlier, he was unsuccessful. On the election of Barnes as professor, it was apparent, to both Ronald Berndt and Elkin, that Berndt had no future in a department in which Hogbin might exert influence. (As we saw earlier, Hogbin worked against the appointment of Ronald as chair of the Sydney department as much as Elkin worked to ensure Ronald was appointed.) The Berndts were too aligned with Elkin. It was hardly likely that Hogbin would embrace, let alone support, Elkin’s protégés. He commented to Australia-­born political scientist Linden Mander that the Berndts ‘are good field workers, though I think Mrs. Berndt is the better man of the two (academically speaking)’.21 The Berndts’ relationship with Hogbin when they were in London had been courteous but aloof; he was closely associated with Firth, with whom, they informed Elkin, he seemed to spend most of his time.22 He was also nearly fifteen years their senior and an established and reputable scholar on Melanesia. Elkin assured the Berndts that Hogbin’s relationship with Firth was based ‘on friendship’, not on scholarship: ‘I don’t think [Firth] has a very high opinion of Hogbin’s ability, certainly not theoretically. He will help him get medals and such like, but I don’t think he would have him on his staff.’23 It was a harsh and misleading assessment, but it reflected the antagonism between Hogbin and Elkin. Hogbin’s ­friendship – ­social and ­academic – ­with Firth dated from 1928, when they met at the University of Sydney and travelled together to their respective field ­sites – ­Firth to Tikopia and Hogbin to Ontong Java. Berndt had expressed his concern that Elkin’s legacy was under threat from Hogbin and he hoped Barnes was ‘not drawn too much towards Hogbin’. It was believed Hogbin had the ear of B ­ arnes – a ­ rumour Barnes dismissed. The Berndts thought having Elkin ‘within observational distance of the Department should mean a great deal’ and would be an antidote to such rumours.24 There was a further factor, however. It appears Ronald Berndt was not favourably disposed to Barnes. The Australian anthropologist Phyllis Kaberry, who examined Catherine’s PhD thesis, explained to her friend Mary Durack, the Australian author whom she had known since 1934: ‘the Berndts are not friends of the Barnes and, between you and me, Berndt said he would not work under Barnes. No reflection on J ­Barnes – m ­ erely that 25 Barnes is the same age and Berndt is jealous.’ In contrast to Kaberry’s

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opinion, the Berndts told Elkin that Barnes was ‘agreeable: he is really quite a pleasant chap’.26 This view changed once Barnes took over and removed a collection of Aboriginal art and artefacts, including most of the material collected by the Berndts, from the department’s rooms, where it had been stored.27 He cleaned out the department of its ‘clutter’, earning the everlasting animosity of Ronald Berndt. In such circumstances, it was fortuitous that UWA had not filled the position from which Ronald withdrew his application the previous year.28 When Berndt withdrew, Walker was faced with no immediate replacement. He wanted a ‘specialist in Aboriginal culture’ and Read was a New Guinea specialist.29 Elkin made it known that Berndt was available should the position be open. Fortunately, for Berndt, it was. Ronald Berndt, Walker wrote to one of us, was the only suitable candidate and ‘we knew we’d get Catherine for free. We appointed her Honorary Lecturer at once.’30 Berndt resigned from the Sydney position.31 He explained his decision to the Registrar at Sydney: Since the Sydney Chair has now been filled by an anthropologist with no previous experience in Australia and the Pacific, I have come to the conclusion that my services would be most ­useful … ­in Western Australia, where there is the possibility of establishing a strong department with emphasis in these fields, with which I am relatively well acquainted.32

Elkin was confident that at the end of five years, ‘or soon after, it will become a separate Department and a Chair’33 – a view supported by Walker. Walker told Berndt: ‘if the students were sufficient in number and quality, I was 90% sure that in about 3 years a chair would be established, and he would be the inside candidate’. He did make a caveat. Walker, as Berndt’s head of department, found Ronald ‘pushy’. He made Walker’s task of establishing a separate department ‘difficult by antagonising several professors’. Indeed Walker specifically asked Berndt ‘never to push for the creation of a chair’.34 In the event, Berndt was reader in 1959, and elevated to professor in 1963, as head of a separate department. Spending four months visiting departments of anthropology, sociology and social psychology in the United States and Canada ‘was an immensely interesting and stimulating trip, extremely useful to us personally and (we trust) also to Australian Anthropology’. The Berndts’ experience was put into effect at UWA, where they had ‘to start from scratch’. They were motivated by the knowledge that the department would become independent. They followed Sydney by making Introducing Anthropology I a second-­year subject. ‘We have

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already achieved a sequence of courses, which will begin next ­year – ­2nd and 3rd year units, with Honours for 4th year and provision for an M.A. in Social Anthropology; there are a number of alternative prerequisites for 1st year ­units … ­This has meant a great deal of work, but potentially there are many opportunities.’ They concentrated on Aboriginal Australia and the Pacific and looked at South-­East Asia and India/Pakistan. Indeed, they ‘saw Aboriginal studies as a necessary and intrinsic feature of general Anthropology in this country’. There was provision for ‘a course on complex, industrialized and, urbanized societies, so that our orientation is anthropological-­ sociological (in fact, the course may eventually bear the joint title, and when funds are available, I hope we can get a lecturer who has this dual approach)’. Although they were reluctant to leave Sydney, they enjoyed the ‘relative independence of action, and room for initiative in building up and developing Anthropology-­Sociology along the lines we consider the most rewarding (as an attempt to blend the best, or what we feel to be the best, in English and American Anthropology); and this offers much more scope and satisfaction than if we had remained in Sydney’. Staffing and research funds were the main difficulties confronted in setting up anthropology (Berndt 1979: 509).35 Twelve months later, Ronald commented that ‘most of the students taking this subject have no ambition to become professional anthropologists: but I am hoping that an occasional outstanding one will do so’. He was already raising the possibility of a promotion to reader and consolidating anthropology as a separate discipline: ‘My immediate interest is expansion.’36 Under Berndt, the department expanded, but the establishment of anthropology at UWA rested initially with Ken Walker and his support. Robert Tonkinson, a former student of Berndt and his successor as professor, notes that under Berndt, both anthropology and sociology prospered. He ‘recruited staff with an eye to maintaining both geographical and topical eclecticism in these disciplines’ (Tonkinson 2007; Brittlebank 2008a). In 1962, a linguist was added to the department, which in time also included prehistory and archaeology. It was a beneficiary of funding from the newly established Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, based in Canberra, and the largesse of the Whitlam Labor Government (1972–75) (Lambert 2012). The department grew at a time when there was an expansion of tertiary education in Australia. In 1976, the Berndts established the Berndt Museum, donating a collection of cultural items they had gathered from Australia and Melanesia.37

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Catherine’s career was subtly subsumed by Ronald’s, helping him develop and expand the Department of Anthropology.38 She lectured and tutored, usually as an honorary member of staff (Gray 2005a; Toussaint 2018; see also Crawford and Tonkinson 1988). Ronald acknowledged his debt ­often – ­for example, dedicating Love Songs of Arnhem Land to Catherine: she ‘has been and continues to be my constant companion on all our fieldwork’ (Berndt 1978: xx). He acknowledged that there were ‘tremendous advantages’ in working as a team (Berndt 1992: 69; see also Brittlebank 2008b). Ronald was without doubt the key public figure in the partnership. His interests lay particularly with visual and material culture, while Catherine was drawn to mythology and oral texts, with her primary focus on the lives of Aboriginal women and children.39 The couple’s partnership was described by a fellow anthropologist, somewhat effusively, as one of the most industrious ‘ever encountered’ in anthropology (Sutton 2001).40 After Elkin, the Berndts became the most authoritative anthropologists on Aboriginal Australia, publishing jointly a major volume, The World of the First Australians: Aboriginal Traditional Life – Past and Present, in 1964, which was revised four times.41 Ronald Berndt also adopted a role similar to that of Elkin, particularly engaging with the West Australian Government and offering ­advice – ­often ­unsolicited – ­on a range of matters pertinent to Aboriginal affairs in that state. Robert Tonkinson, Berndt’s first doctoral student, told one of us that Berndt is remembered ‘more for his aggressive arrogance, and [was] always very determined to prevail in whatever he felt strongly about’.42 Ruth Fink was a recipient of Berndt’s bossy manner (Latukefu 2001).43 Soon after the Berndts’ arrival in Perth, Fink accompanied them to Warburton. She told Elkin she would have liked to have sent him some sound recordings: [B]ut the situation is rather delicate, as Dr. B. objects and wants to use the material ­here – a ­ nd though I know well that in Sydney it would mean immediate circulation etc., I simply cannot do anything about it, as he would oppose it and severely censure me. So I hope he will get around to making a set one of these days. We could hardly do any recording on the Warburton trip, as the recorders broke down, and also I had to act under instructions from the Berndts on how the natives were to sing, for example they would not allow me to play back to them etc., so the people took no interest whatever and their efforts were very uninspired.44

Like Elkin, Berndt had a fierce sense of territoriality and ownership, and was quick to stake ownership on the couple’s research sites. For

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more than thirty years, they dominated and attempted to control all aspects of Aboriginal Australian anthropology (Lambert 2012). Anthropologist Jeremy Beckett remembers writing to Ronald Berndt seeking a suitable field site, ‘but he blocked off virtually the whole of Western Australia, most of Arnhem Land, and quite a bit of South Australia, as his turf or reserved for his students’ (Beckett 2001: 93–94). In 1963, Ronald Berndt became foundation professor and head of a separate Anthropology Department. He retired in 1981 and was made Emeritus Professor. He retained an office in the department, continued his writing and contributed to the department through lecturing, seminar participation and his active role in the Anthropology Research Museum. So, despite some starts and stops along the way, Elkin’s hopes for the continuance of Australian Aboriginalist anthropology were realized, possibly beyond his expectations. Ronald and Catherine were without doubt Elkin’s ‘anthropological children’. In the year the Berndts arrived in Perth, ANU anthropology had its first crisis: the death of S.F. Nadel.

Notes   1. Walker to Gray, 12 August 2007.   2. Walker to Elkin, 22 April 1954, EP: 41/4/2/433.   3. Walker to Gray, 12 August 2007.   4. Phyllis Kaberry wrote the ground-­breaking study Aboriginal Woman: Sacred and Profane (London: George Routledge, 1939). Other women anthropologists, such as Ursula McConnel and Olive Pink, concentrated on men rather than women (O’Gorman 1989; Perusco 2000; Marcus 2001; Gray 2002).   5. Elkin to R.M. Berndt and C.H. Berndt, 3 August 1954; also R.M. Berndt to Elkin, 2 May 1954, both in EP: 41/4/2/375; cf. R.M. Berndt (1992: 68–72).   6. Berndt to Elkin, 21 August 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375.   7. Gray (2005b).   8. Elkin to Berndt, 2 September 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375.   9. ‘Testimonial from Raymond Firth for Lecturer in Western Australia’, 14 October 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 10. Elkin to Walker, 26 October 1954, EP: 41/4/2/433. 11. Firth provided a copy to Elkin. ‘Testimonial from Raymond Firth for Lecturer in Western Australia’, 14 October 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 12. For Read, see Herdt (1996); for Meggitt, see Beckett (2005).

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13. Elkin to Walker, 26 October 1954, EP: 41/4/2/433. 14. Elkin to Registrar (UWA), 9 February 1955, EP: 41/4/2/375. 15. Elkin to Berndt, 7  December 1954; see also Elkin to Registrar (UWA), 9 February 1955; Registrar (UWA) to Elkin, 17 February 1955, all in EP: 41/4/2/375. 16. Berndt to Elkin, 20 December 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 17. Elkin to Berndt, 7 December 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 18. Berndt to Elkin, 20 December 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 19. Elkin to Registrar (University of Sydney), 12 April 1955, EP: 41/4/2/375. 20. Berndt to Elkin, 21 August 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 21. Hogbin to Mander, 30  July 1946, Mander Papers, 730-­7-55, Box 5, Folder 5-­4. 22. Berndt to Elkin, 29 May 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 23. Elkin to R.M. Berndt and C.H. Berndt, 26  February 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 24. Berndt to Elkin, 6 June 1956, EP: 41/4/2/375. 25. Kaberry to Mary Durack, 25 April 1956, Papers of Mary Durack, Berndt Museum, UWA; also Berndt to Elkin, 24  July 1956, EP: 41/4/2/375. (Berndt was born in 1916; Barnes in 1922.) 26. Berndt to Elkin, 6 June 1956, EP: 41/4/2/375. 27. The ownership of the objects was contested. In as far as the research was funded by ANRC grants, the objects belonged to the Sydney University collections, though the Berndts saw them as personal belongings (Gray 2007b). 28. Registrar (UWA) to Elkin, 17 February 1955, EP: 41/4/2/375. 29. Read later became famous for his classic New Guinea study, The High Valley (New York: Scribner, 1965). 30. Walker to Gray, 12  August 2007. At the time, spouses could not be employed in the same department. This made Catherine an adjunct to her husband’s career. 31. Elkin to Berndt, 12  December 1955, EP: 41/4/2/375. Mervyn Meggitt replaced Berndt as lecturer in the department. 32. Berndt to Registrar, 3  December 1955, G3/158. University of Sydney Archives. 33. Elkin to Berndt, 2 September 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 34. Walker to Gray, 12 August 2007. 35. Berndt to Firth, 16 July 1956, FIRTH: 8/2/11; Berndt to Firth, 22 March 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/8. 36. Berndt to Firth, 22 November 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/8. 37. In July 2021, UWA announced it was downgrading anthropology so that no graduate studies could be undertaken and only a subject as part of an undergraduate degree. The previous year, the Berndt Museum was moved from the Anthropology Department to Indigenous Studies. Asian Studies was initiated by the Berndts and this, too, will be ‘dissolved’ (Styles 2021).

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38. In 1965, when legislation was passed, allowing married women to be employed, Catherine decided against applying, preferring short-­term or honorary employment (de Garis 1988: 103–5, 244–45). 39. They left a large collection of Aboriginal and New Guinea artware and objects and Asian art, mostly bronzes (Brittlebank 2007, 2008a; see also Berndt Museum of Anthropology, at http://www.culturalprecinct.uwa​ .edu.au/venues/galleries-­and-­museums/berndt-­museum/). 40. Elkin wrote in 1948: ‘I might say that Mr and Mrs Berndt are probably the most efficient field workers, who have worked in the Aboriginal field, having been in the field almost continuously since 1941.’ Elkin to H.S. Temby (Secretary), Commonwealth Literary Fund, 13  October 1948, EP: 177/4/2/219. A select bibliography can be found in Tonkinson and Howard (1990: 45–63). 41. It was last published in 1988 by Aboriginal Studies Press in Canberra. 42. Email, Robert Tonkinson to Gray, 24 May 2004. 43. She also drove the vehicle as neither of the Berndts was licensed (Gray 2005a). 44. Ruth Fink to Elkin, 11 May 1957, EP: 71/1/12/190.

Chapter 8

A SUCCESSOR TO S.F. NADEL

Siegfried Nadel’s sudden death from a heart attack on 14  January 1956 was described as the ‘first crisis’ of the ANU’s RSPacS (Spate 2006: 26).1 It was a ‘grievous loss’, as evidenced by the tribute in the ANU’s 1956 Annual Report: It will be a long time before the influence of his mind and personality fades from the Department which he founded. He will be remembered mainly perhaps for an unusual combination of sensibility and force. His mind had a large span; his expository gift was remarkable; he was erudite in several disciplines; and he was a cultivated man in the humane fields. In his scientific work, these qualities issued in interests others might have found too catholic. But a fine sense of research-­ design, a rigorous logical discipline and a forceful personality combined to produce a large and steady output of high-­quality work. Even his occasional papers showed the erudition, acuity and formative quality of thought which reached their peak in The Foundations of Social Anthropology, published in the year of his arrival in Canberra.2

Nadel’s death raised, once more, the possibility of linking the chair of anthropology with the directorship of RSPacS, especially since the then vice-­chancellor, Sir Leslie Melville, doubted whether any of the ‘present professors of the School of Pacific Studies would make the ideal Dean or provide what we want from a Director’.3 The ANU therefore sought an anthropologist of international scholarly distinction and preferably someone suitable as a prospective director. In Nadel’s six years at the ANU, the city of Canberra remained underdeveloped and short of suitable accommodation and services, although the population had grown to 50,000. The description of Canberra by Paul Hasluck, a future Minister for Territories and governor-­general, as ‘suburbs without a city’ was apt (Hasluck 1980: 46). Moreover, in the years before Nadel’s death, there had been an increase in the general hysteria over communism and the vetting of

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academic appointments (Gray 2014a). The university, while publicly supporting academic freedom, was in fact careful not to upset the conservative Commonwealth Government, which was increasingly concerned about scholars suspected of having links with the Communist Party, of being fellow travellers or in some way deemed sympathetic to communism and thus politically suspect (Anderson 2005; Van Konkelenberg 2009; Foreman 2013; Horner 2014; Gray 2014a, 2020b). More importantly, the government was also becoming concerned about the cost of the ANU. Economist and senior public servant Sir Leslie Melville was appointed the second vice-­chancellor, in 1953, to succeed the ebullient Douglas Copland, because the Prime Minister made it clear it would be a case of ‘No Melville, no money’. That is, Melville could be relied on to exercise fiscal restraint and the university was railroaded into discarding further consideration of the other short-­listed candidate (Foster and Varghese 1996: 116–18; Austin 2001: 435–38). Journalist John Farquharson summed up the contrasting styles: ‘­Copland … w ­ ith his flamboyant, entrepreneurial style, had got the ANU off to an admirable start. Melville, more cautious and modest, ushered in an era of consolidation, marked by his shrewdness and humanity’ (Farquharson 2002). The term ‘humanity’ is a misnomer. Rather, as geographer Oskar Spate recalled: ‘the winds of change were ­chill … ­Under Copland, we had come to think that the cornucopia would never dry up, and it was time we were reined ­in – ­but [Melville’s] manner was unfortunate for morale’ (Spate 2006: 26–27). A more austere dispensation was afoot, even if the ANU was well funded in comparison with the state universities (Foster and Varghese 1996: 116–18). Notwithstanding the manner of his appointment, Melville made certain changes for the better. In 1955–56, he lured Keith Hancock to the ANU as Professor of History and director of the RSSS, having persuaded the council that Hancock was the person to revive the flagging fortunes of the school (Davidson 2010: 376–82; Hancock 1976: 23; Foster and Varghese 1996: 44–45). Conscious of his standing and status, Hancock had a deep-­seated urge to dispense patronage and to be a kingmaker. It is in character that before finally accepting the ANU’s offer, Hancock sought, and received, clarification on a final point: I hope you will forgive me if I mention one additional assumption governing my decision to accept. We did not discuss it because it is connected with the vacancy arising from Professor Nadel’s d ­ eath … ­It had, I think, already been taken for granted between us that I should be

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given the opportunity to express my views at an early date about potential Directors of the School of Pacific Studies. Since the Directorship may very well be combined with the Chair of Social Anthropology, I should expect similarly to be consulted in the filling of that Chair. I hope that you and Council will not find this point unreasonable, given the close interweaving work of the two Schools.4

He also had in mind his o ­ bjective – ­initially set out in 1949 when he had served as one of the ANU’s academic a ­ dvisors – t­ o be director of both schools. Melville gently headed him off.5 Nonetheless, he staked a claim to being involved in deciding on Nadel’s replacement and the affairs of RSPacS. It was generally agreed within the ANU administration that the two non-­science schools were a ‘rabble’ of individualists who required the bracing leadership of forceful directors. The appointment of Hancock resolved one problem given he had no compunction about interfering in the affairs of RSPacS; however, it was bound to create new problems.

The Initial Search The search for Nadel’s replacement took place in two different anthropological networks, in the United States and in Britain. On study leave in the United States, the most senior member of the Anthropology Department, W.E.H. Stanner, provided a short-­list of suitable US candidates. There were four people who had ‘a combination of qualities which makes them outstanding’ – namely, Frederick Eggan, Lauriston Sharp, Douglas Oliver and Alexander Spoehr: ‘all highly or well-­reputed; less eminent and perhaps less brilliant than Nadel; all are Anglophile and pleasant men to boot; no one could cavil at their s­ cholarship … ­none ­is … ­a world figure in the sense in which Nadel was’. Stanner provided short biographical accounts of each. He went on to discuss their suitability as professor, dean or director of RSPacS, and compared them with the British possibilities, which he reduced to Fortes and Firth, who could fill both the chair and the directorship. If neither was available, an American ‘may be the solution’.6 Hancock responded with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, noting that ‘Americans normally are loath to migrate into the sterling area’ and ‘often have a tendency to excessive administration and empire building which, under present circumstances at Canberra might be a danger’.7 He was, therefore, decidedly against ‘an American as Director of the

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Pacific Studies School’.8 Melville was in England tidying up the details of Hancock’s appointment. Attention then turned to British-­based possibilities and Edmund Leach’s name was put forward early on. He was strongly recommended by Mark Oliphant, the director of the ANU’s Research School of Physical Sciences (and acting vice-­chancellor during Melville’s absence). Leach would, said Oliphant, ‘make a very good professor, I am told, but not a Director’.9 Also considered were Fortes, Richards, Gluckman and Schapera. Hancock was certain Fortes would not leave Cambridge, and neither would Firth leave London. Leach, he had heard ‘from various testimony’, would be ‘first-­rate’. He was inclined to rate Gluckman ‘lower than I did some time back’. If Leach was unavailable, Hancock encouraged them to ‘go all out to get’ Richards. The dream candidate who could lead anthropology and the whole of the research school remained elusive. Thus, suitability for the directorship or deanship of RSPacS was being gradually disconnected from the search for the new Professor of Anthropology. Adding a sense of urgency, Hancock pointed out to Melville and his Electoral Committee colleagues that they had: no time at all to lose in filling this Chair. If Leach is your No. 1, you should go for him straight away. Failing him, you should very rapidly sound out the others that may interest you, in the knowledge that Audrey Richards is free now but may not be in a few months hence. If you fail to fill this Chair in the next few months, you may not fill it at all unless you are prepared to accept rejects of Sydney University [that is, the failed applicants for the Sydney chair in 1955]. I would urge you therefore to give Spate [who was in England at the time] prompt instructions, including the instruction to keep in touch with me.10

The Electoral Committee, after considering comments from Hancock, Spate, Stanner, Oliphant and E.E. Evans-­Pritchard, decided on Fortes and Leach.11 Hancock told Melville that Fortes ‘is not a postulant’ and suggested he ‘make a determined drive for Leach’.12 Edmund Leach attended Clare College, Cambridge, where he studied mathematics, then engineering. After a period working as a commercial assistant for a British firm in China, he took up anthropology at the LSE in 1938 but war put a stop to his studies. From 1939 to 1945, he was an army officer stationed in Burma. After the war, he returned to the LSE to complete his PhD and, after a short spell in Borneo, where he conducted further fieldwork, he was appointed lecturer, and later reader, in anthropology. In 1953, he moved to the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology at Cambridge.

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Hancock lunched with Leach and found himself ‘in fullest agreement with all the other people who have highly recommended [him]’. He told Melville ‘the University will be extremely fortunate if it secures him’, which seemed likely; ‘certainly he left me in a mood to say Yes. He is however not so certain about his wife’s mood.’ Hancock arranged another lunch so they and their wives together could talk about the appointment. Based on that discussion, Hancock felt that Celia Leach was ‘seemingly resistant to the idea of upheaval’.13 He nevertheless remained optimistic, ‘provided nothing goes wrong when he visits Canberra, I should say the prospect of getting him is very good’.14 Leach had moved from a readership at the LSE to a lectureship at Cambridge in 1953, believing his friend and colleague Meyer Fortes, who had been appointed to the William Wyse Chair of Social Anthropology, could secure for him an all-­important fellowship of a constituent college at Cambridge. Forte’s inability to do so strained their relationship and Leach ­believed – ­rightly or ­wrongly – ­that Fortes had reneged on a promise to obtain for him a college fellowship as part of the arrangement of his coming to Cambridge (Tambiah 2002: 49–52). Leach’s biographer, Stanley Tambiah, however, warns against taking Leach at face value on this point. Firth told him he advised Leach against the move ‘without a definite appointment to a college fellowship’. Leach recognized ‘the force of his advice, but had felt that he could not “resist Cambridge”’. Firth was ‘doubtful if Fortes actually promised a college fellowship’, noting that ‘his recollection is that Edmund knew when he went that no fellowship had been fixed up though there was the expectation’ (Tambiah 2002: 50). Leach offered a further reason, more domestic than professional, for his move to Cambridge. He explained to Tambiah that he accepted the lesser position because he was becoming exhausted by the train travel from Hertfordshire to London to drop his children off at school and then heading to the LSE (Tambiah 2002: 11–12). Whether the offer from the ANU would give Leach leverage with Cambridge, help alleviate his disappointment with Fortes or in some other way soften his perceived difficulties is hard to determine.15 Hancock was authorized to offer the position to Leach and to invite him to Canberra in the hope of securing his appointment.16 A further attraction for Leach was being able to combine the visit to Canberra (11–24  July) with fieldwork in Ceylon (Sri Lanka) on the return journey.17 In the event, Leach accepted the sponsored travel to Canberra but declined the ANU’s offer of the chair, and a disappointed

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Melville could only remark: ‘I do not think that we could have done anything more to tempt him.’18 There are various explanations for Leach’s decision. Writing from Colombo, Leach informed Melville that he had decided to stay at Cambridge for purely academic reasons. Melville told Spate that Leach ‘told me that as far as his wife was concerned the decision would be wholly on his consideration of his own Anthropological career’.19 It seems, however, that Celia Leach’s decision was critical, and it was against relocating to Canberra. Hancock was aware of her misgivings (and had reported them to Melville). What Hancock (and Melville for that matter) did not realize was the depth of her feelings. But Leach did, and he related them to his former doctoral student Derek Freeman, who was by then a senior fellow at the ANU. Freeman told Max Gluckman: ‘it was one of the most infernally difficult decisions he [Leach] had ever had to make’. [His] reasons for not coming here were entirely personal; in chief, that to have done so would have been too strongly against his wife’s wishes. Even before he came he wrote to me saying that Celia was ‘deeply suspicious of the whole idea’; and while he was here he made it quite plain that Celia had most rooted objections to leaving Cambridge and England, and in particular the society of the artists and writers of East Anglia and elsewhere to which she was so attached.20

Leach also mentioned that he was worried about his daughter having to change schools. Freeman concluded: ‘I think I am right in saying that Edmund declined our invitation not because Canberra had any snags as far as he was concerned as an anthropologist, but because he felt that he could not bring undue pressure on his wife in the face of her continued opposition to leaving England.’21 John Barnes added a further reason; he recalled, many years later, that Leach ‘had been impressed with the arrangements at ANU if it was viewed as a forward base for field research, but thought that as a metropolitan university it was inadequate’ (Barnes 2007: 260). In another variation, soon after returning to England, Leach told Hancock ‘he found he could not become “Australian” in a whole-­ hearted way, nor ask his family to make the attempt. So that is that: a personal decision.’22 Leach’s daughter, Louisa Brown, offers what may be considered a family decision.23 It was, in the end, personal rather than academic. She corroborates Freeman’s belief that Leach turned down the ANU for family rather than professional reasons. She pointed out that her father was very ambitious. He wanted to get to the top and badly

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wanted to go to Canberra, but her mother had no intention of forsaking her artistic circles in England and ‘refused to budge’.24 Celia Leach’s ultimatum was, ‘You can go but I am staying’. Louisa Brown recalls that her father was ‘very sad’ over the decision to decline the ANU’s offer. In response to the suggestion that remaining at Cambridge might have been better for her father’s career, she replied that her father thought otherwise and regretted what he saw as a missed opportunity (see, however, Leach 1984: 1–23). The final word goes to Hancock, who thought it ‘[b]ad luck for the School’.25 Leach remained at Cambridge, where he was appointed reader in 1957 and given his own chair in 1972. He was appointed a fellow of Kings College in 1960 and elected provost in 1966; he retired in 1978. One can only speculate what might have happened to Australian anthropology (and to Edmund Leach’s career) had he succeeded Nadel, and indeed how long he might have stayed. With greater certainty, we can relate the denouement. When Leach turned down the ANU opportunity, the chair was then offered to Douglas Oliver, who likewise declined for personal reasons, his wife being gravely ill and unable to travel. The young British anthropologist Jeremy Beckett, who had arrived at the ANU two weeks before Nadel’s death, recalls that it ‘coincided with the departure of a number ­of … ­people in the department, and within a few weeks we were reduced to a small group under the acting headship of Derek [Freeman], the only member above the level of research scholar [PhD student]’. In Beckett’s view, Nadel’s ‘death left a vacuum, intellectually and politically. There was an expectation that he would be replaced quite soon, but by w ­ hom … ­It was a difficult period for everyone, since major decisions were on hold’ (Beckett 2001: 90). Twelve months later, Robert Glasse, a doctoral student, made a similar observation when he returned from the field, commenting that ‘the Department was in some disarray’. Soon after, he was offered a temporary lectureship at the University of Sydney; the appointment was a ‘godsend’ – the ‘presence of Ian Hogbin, Mervyn Meggitt, and D’Arcy Ryan on the faculty led to many helpful discussions’, which were lacking at the ANU (Glasse 1992: 243–44). Not only was the department in ‘some disarray’. Nadel’s death severely disrupted the smooth running of the school itself because work on the upcoming budget was put on hold. One suggestion was that Melville assume responsibility for the school’s affairs in the meantime, but he felt this would establish an undesirable precedent. So,

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for the next few months, the school was in an uncomfortable state of limbo.26

Intermezzo After these failures, a decision was made to delay making an appointment until a suitable candidate was found or offered him or herself up. This resulted in Derek Freeman being appointed acting head of department, which he relinquished to Stanner when the latter returned from study leave and fieldwork at the end of August 1956. Soon after, Stanner prevailed on the ANU’s academic board, the Board of Graduate Studies (BOGS), that he be appointed head of department for at least two years so he could ‘revitalize’ it and thus salvage the ‘value of the Chair’.27 This could be achieved, he argued, by giving him authority to get the department ‘back into a strong working condition’ and regain its international stature.28 Withholding the chair ‘from the market for some time’ would ‘increase [its] sadly depreciated value’ as well as giving him time to ‘reconstruct the department and set it on a new path of work’.29 He would then step aside, having declared no interest in the chair for himself. In January 1957, Melville regularized ‘the de facto arrangement’ and confirmed Stanner’s position as head of the Department of Anthropology and Sociology, adding: ‘It is not anticipated that any further move towards filling the Chair will be made for some time.’30 The BOGS made Stanner’s appointment conditional on his remaining in Canberra ‘most of the time, even though this is likely to involve his giving up field work which he had hoped shortly to undertake in connection with his own research’.31 Melville, however, had earlier made a separate arrangement with Stanner, which enabled him to go to Port Keats (Wadeye), in the Northern Territory, from late June to the end of August.32 Stanner made a compelling argument: 1957 would be a comparatively light year with only one new scholar arriving. The other students were in the field or near completion: ‘Until about mid-­year, therefore, things will be pretty quiet, not much more being required than routine supervision.’ Mid-­year (the Australian winter, June–August) was the best time to do fieldwork in northern Australia; added to this was an imperative: ‘it is a matter of getting some work ­done … ­in 1957, or postponing everything to an indefinite future’.33 Spate, as dean of RSPacS, supported Stanner.34 Melville approved Stanner’s fieldwork, conditional that Spate made sure ‘Freeman was a

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willing party to the plan’.35 Spate and Melville were satisfied Freeman could run the department for those months Stanner was in the field. J.W. Davidson, chair of the selection committee, saw ulterior motives in Stanner’s proposal and believed Melville’s loosely worded assurance resulted in Stanner regarding a delayed appointment ‘as his opportunity to demonstrate that he could make a real success of running the department. He had hoped, as he has told me several times, that in a few years he would be accepted as the natural person to continue to run the department on a permanent basis.’36 Stanner claimed to have a different outcome in ­mind – n ­ amely, creating the circumstances in which Firth could be tempted back to the ANU as both Professor of Anthropology and director of RSPacS. He told Firth that he had observed your wish that I should not introduce your name, but I can tell you now (I suppose far too late) that the whole rationale of my effort to keep things open in the department for a few years was an idea that if I could prevent a premature appointment of anyone to this Chair I might be able to fix things so that you would again have to be asked.37

As part of his strategy, Stanner rejected visiting professorships to the ANU, which, in his opinion, ran the risk that one such appointee might be invited to become permanent professor.38 He forcefully declared: ‘in due course, I shall make my own proposals about visiting Professorships. The first year I shall make them for is likely to be 1959, when I hope there will be a concentration of people [at the ANU] returned from the field.’39 This caused Spate to comment to Melville: ‘As you will see, it is unfortunately completely non possumus. Some of his arguments seem rather obscure, but his general line is quite clear. This was of course to be reckoned with. I do not know whether any useful purpose would be served by discussing it further with Dr. Stanner.’40 Spate was sceptical, reckoning that Stanner ‘may not be entirely disinterested’. Melville, too, was having second thoughts, wondering whether ‘we must take some action now or lose our opportunities’.41 There seems little doubt that Stanner’s rigid manner and his curt dismissal of the possibility of visiting professors for the foreseeable future did not endear him to Melville or Spate. This may have resulted in Melville losing confidence in Stanner’s ability to make a balanced assessment, considering him more interested in pursuing his own agenda than attending to the university and its needs.

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An Unexpected Candidate As mentioned previously, John Barnes was becoming disillusioned with the situation at the University of Sydney.42 His concerns centred on finances and academic problems, staff and students. These financial and academic problems caused Barnes to wonder whether he had made the right decision, and his misgivings were compounded by what he regarded as the generally undistinguished anthropological fraternity in Australia. Nor could he see himself able to effect any changes in the courses offered or the teaching; there were no funds for new appointments and his ability to influence the research agenda was hindered by his predecessor, Elkin, reneging on an understanding to hand over the editorship of the journal Oceania (Barnes 2001: 142– 43). Elkin continued to be, in Barnes’s view, a disruptive presence in the department. Barnes feared the aggravations might distract him from his academic calling; he explained to his friend Max Gluckman that he had to guard against becoming a reformer! I can see it happening already with people who came out at about the same time as I did, or a little before it. One gets so frustrated at the short-­comings of Australian life, and so little encouragement to persue [sic] learning and truth that one abandons scholarship and the ivory tower and tries to change the world. I don’t suppose that Elkin needed much encouragement to follow this course; but this is certainly the line he followed, and this is why he has this extremely high reputation among the public generally here and is more or less unknown outside Australia. I hope this won’t happen to me.43

Aware that Barnes was unhappy at Sydney, Hancock suggested to Melville that Barnes should be sounded out for the chair. Melville was receptive to Hancock’s proposal. Hancock took the view that leaving the chair unfilled diminished the ANU internationally. The search had dragged on for almost eighteen months, and Barnes was an elegant way out of this stalled situation. Hancock had known Barnes for some years and had been one of his referees for the Sydney position (Barnes 2007: 247).44 He described Barnes as ‘completely first ­rate … ­He is lively, friendly and a man of the most cheerful good humour. He is very hard working and well-­disciplined and has, I believe, as well, a strong vein of personal originality.’45 In June 1957, Stanner, as planned, left for fieldwork at Port Keats (Wadeye) in a Land Rover that had been purchased from departmental

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funds earmarked for the 1956–57 professorial salary. On or near the day Stanner departed, the University Registrar, Ross Hohnen, advised Melville that it was difficult to interpret the ambiguous passage assuring Stanner that there was no intention of filling the chair ‘for some time’.46 The question was ‘what interpretation to put on’ the arrangement with Stanner. Despite the apparent ambiguity, he advised Melville that he did not think it precluded the ANU ‘from accepting someone who let us know he was anxious to come’.47 Consequently, an appointment was made for Melville to meet with Barnes when the latter was in Canberra attending a meeting of the Social Science Research Council.48 Barnes was asked to keep their conversation confidential. The immediate consequence was an awkward meeting later that day with Jim Davidson, an old friend. It was evident to Barnes that Davidson had been sidelined. Although ‘attracted by the idea’ of moving to Canberra, he wanted to seek the views of his wife, Frances, before making any commitment.49 When John and Frances Barnes visited Canberra two weeks later, ‘surveying the schools and talking to the University’s architects’, Davidson was in Nouméa, on university business; he had still not been informed of these developments. Of course, as Barnes wrote to Gluckman: ‘Fran’s sudden and unexplained appearance in Canberra, with a curious interest in visiting schools and looking at university houses in the company of the Deputy Registrar, must have made things obvious to anyone with half an eye open’.50 The secrecy and speed with which the ANU acted to enlist him must have been somewhat bewildering for Barnes, but it was a way out of Sydney.51 Earlier, Davidson had sought Barnes’s advice on possible candidates for the chair, should the Electoral Committee wish to reopen the search; Barnes suggested Max Gluckman, a close friend and colleague, whose presence in Canberra would have made his own life at Sydney bearable. Freeman, on a visit to Sydney in late May, enthusiastically discussed with Barnes the possibility of tempting Gluckman to Canberra. Barnes, too, had been urging Gluckman to make himself available. Even Derek Freeman, who went out of his way to find out what was going on, was caught out by what transpired, explaining to Gluckman that he was greatly surprised because Barnes had ‘only a fortnight or so ago’ agreed that he and Freeman should persuade Gluckman to apply. Davidson, who had returned from Nouméa, was also surprised, ‘for he had not heard the news himself until earlier the same day’. As Freeman noted, the fact that

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Melville ‘had acted without conferring with the Electoral Committee in any way … annoyed Davidson; ­and … ­also annoyed the other members of the Committee with whom I have discussed it’.52 Davidson rightly believed that Hancock and Melville were undermining his position as chair of the Electoral Committee, and that Hancock was interfering in the affairs of ­RSPacS – ­one of several episodes that led to estrangement between Davidson and Hancock.53 Indeed, the personal dimension was one reason the search for Nadel’s successor became unnecessarily fraught. Melville and Davidson had no respect for each other. At a general level, Melville overreacted to the element of the enfant terrible in Davidson, who could be deliberately provocative when confronted with what he regarded as staidness and over-­formality. Specifically, Davidson had severely embarrassed and annoyed Melville for his involvement in the so-­called Indo-­China debate in 1954, when the Commonwealth Government was taken to task for its opposition to the nationalist movement in present-­day Vietnam. Such temerity left Davidson permanently in Melville’s disfavour (Foster and Varghese 1996: 124–26; Munro 2009: 103–4).54 Melville’s and Hancock’s feelings impacted on the appointment process when, in breach of university procedures, they shut Davidson out for as long as decently possible, not revealing their plans and leaving him to find out in the manner he did. Davidson was somewhat mollified when he realized Melville had not intended to bypass the usual appointment procedures, and an orderly process would go ahead.55 But what was proper process? What were the ANU’s own rules? In successive letters, Melville provided Hancock with information regarding appointments, which had altered since the latter’s involvement as academic advisor in 1949, when the ANU appointed by invitation.56 Paradoxically, the ANU was relaxing its appointment procedures in practice even as they were being tightened on paper. What transpired was only a veneer of proper process as the formalities were followed rather than respected. It shows that Melville confidently anticipated a simple process, which would result in the appointment of Barnes. When the Electoral Committee met on 24  June, the chairman reported, in wording that implied that Barnes had approached the university, not the other way around: ‘the university had received information that Professor J.A. Barnes might like to be considered for appointment to the Chair of Anthropology at a fairly early date’. The committee was reminded that Barnes had been considered earlier but ruled out as he only recently accepted the Sydney chair. However,

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it was ‘­clear … t­hat the information now received made it necessary to consider whether Professor Barnes should now be invited to accept the Chair’.57 The committee also considered that the ‘proposed appointment of Professor Barnes might be in conflict with the understandings entered into with Dr. Stanner’. The vice-­chancellor’s letter to Stanner ‘on this ­point … ­was read and it was agreed that the proposed appointment was not in conflict with the terms of that letter, though it was clear that he would necessarily be disappointed at this new development’. Overriding such concern, however, was the fact the ‘needs for the development of the Department made it essential not to miss such an opportunity for a permanent appointment as had been presented’.58 The Electoral Committee agreed that the external ­ assessors – ­Evans-­Pritchard, Fortes and American anthropologist and ethnolinguist Robert ­Redfield – ­should be asked for ‘their opinions of Professor Barnes’ qualifications for the Chair and his suitability for appointment in relation to the present senior members within the Department’, namely, Stanner and Freeman. Having dismissed the possibility of approaching Raymond Firth, the committee decided to request his services as an external assessor.59 Melville and Davidson wrote individually to Stanner. As acting head of the Department of Anthropology and Sociology, Stanner should have been informed (if not consulted, perhaps postponing the meeting until he returned) that the Electoral Committee was reopening the question of an appointment to the chair and that Barnes had been approached. Melville crafted his letter carefully, conscious that Stanner would be upset and disappointed, but he was hardly truthful. Melville assured Stanner: ‘no decision has been reached and your own position is not being overlooked. It may well be some time before I can let you know the outcome of the present consideration and I see no reason why you should let it interfere with your present arrangements.’60 Davidson, as chair of the Electoral Committee, wrote in ‘long hand to emphasize the fact that this was a private and personal communication’ – a puzzling decision given he had been asked to formally advise Stanner. It was, he told Stanner, ‘the possible availability of Barnes which had led to the re-­opening of the question’; he also inquired whether Stanner ‘wished to do anything to support his own claim to consideration as a candidate for the Chair’.61 Stanner did not receive this mail until 23  July. It is likely both Melville and Davidson were aware of the unpredictability of the mail service to Port Keats (which was nearly 400 kilometres by coastal

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vessel from Darwin).62 Whether this was a deliberate tactic on their part is unknown, but Davidson or Melville could have cabled Stanner, as Freeman had over another matter concerning a graduate student in the department. The decision to write rather than cable (or do both) suggests both men were conscious that Stanner had been ­deceived – ­a view certainly held by Stanner, who told Davidson that the committee reconvening to consider the appointment of Barnes told him ‘nothing about the most important things: what urgencies were felt, or what pressures were used, and by whom, to start this affair in my absence, without my knowledge, and in disregard of an agreement about the Department’.63

A Spanner in the Works? There was one unexpected development, not anticipated by either Melville or Hancock. Barnes and Freeman had attempted unsuccessfully to persuade Gluckman to apply for the chair. Now Freeman forced the issue, beseeching Gluckman that he was the ‘person best qualified ­to … ­promote the development of anthropology in Australia generally’; if it were a choice between ‘you and John there could be no question at all as to which should fill the A.N.U. Chair of Anthropology’.64 Freeman then sent Davidson an extract of a personal letter from Gluckman in which the latter had expressed that he ‘would ­certainly … ­consider the possibility of going [to the ANU]’. For good measure, Freeman appended a copy of Gluckman’s CV and his entry in Who’s Who, 1955.65 Davidson passed this information to Melville, saying there was no point in the Electoral Committee reconvening until Gluckman had responded and adding the rebuke: ‘I hope that from this point on we shall be able to proceed to a decision in an orderly and constitutional way.’66 Davidson invited Gluckman to apply.67 This was supported by Firth, who told Davidson that Gluckman ‘may well have wanted to be asked, especially in view of the earlier request to Leach’.68 Davidson’s pitch was that if ‘one could plan for an ideal world, one would hope to see you in Canberra and J­ ohn … ­in Sydney. Then, anthropology in Australia would be in a really flourishing condition. Unfortunately, things are not so simple.’ To build up the struggling Sydney department would ‘take ­years … ­if it could be done at all; and ­John … ­is somewhat repelled by the unpromising prospect’.69 Gluckman, however, decided against a move to Canberra. This is not surprising in hindsight, as Barnes

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and Gluckman were very close friends. In rejecting the overtures of Freeman and Davidson, Gluckman saved the committee the problem of challenging Melville and Hancock.

An Orderly Process? With Gluckman out of consideration and no other external prospects, there was a need nonetheless to create the artifice of a selection process; the inclusion of Stanner and Freeman only illustrates the farcical nature of that process. Stanner did not even know he was being considered and F ­ reeman – l­ikewise enlisted to give the process a veneer of l­egitimacy – ­told one of us that his sole motivation was to thwart Stanner.70 Freeman had limited experience, although he had been acting head after Nadel’s death and was highly thought of by both Nadel and others at the ANU and the LSE. The external assessors, by contrast, took the process seriously, unaware it was a fait accompli. Firth, as was his practice, provided the most detailed report. He expressed respect for Stanner’s ‘intelligence and insight and admired his grasp of broad subjects’, and paid tribute to his ‘strong interest in politics and his training in economics as well as anthropology’.71 The most damning statement was his assessment that Stanner has been his [own] worst academic enemy. Essentially, he has seemed unwilling to face responsibility. His resignation of the directorship of the East African Institute of Social Research was symptomatic of his tendency to dwell upon the difficulties inherent in the situation rather than the possibilities of what can be made out of it. His desire for a really worthwhile achievement sometimes makes him over-­elaborate his argument.

Firth continued: ‘While I respect his capacity and achievement I recognize his defects, which are much more obvious than those of the other two men. How far complete responsibility for a Research Department would settle and strengthen him as an administrator I do not know.’ Firth also raised a question mark against Barnes, wondering whether Barnes ‘would supply the drive and theoretical distinction needed in a Research Professorship’. On Freeman, he expressed more certainty, confident that he ‘­would … ­supply the drive and his theoretical potential [is] at least Barnes’ ­equal … ­a reservation is whether the mould he would supply would in the end turn out to be cast-­iron’. Firth, not sure any of the candidates were suitable, suggested that ‘if

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there is a possibility of any other major candidate being in the field, then I think it would be well to look more widely before coming to a decision’. Meyer Fortes dismissed Stanner’s claims, stating that he did not ‘feel that Dr. Stanner is a suitable person for this Chair’. He deemed Stanner’s interests, judged from his publications and from ‘talks with him when he was over here last year, are not primarily anthropological and sociological’. In Fortes’ opinion, ‘For all [Stanner’s] ability, charm and versatility’, he was not ‘likely to give any impetus to a department or to maintain a high level of research in it’. Fortes saw it as a choice between Barnes and Freeman.72 He favoured Freeman, reiterating what he wrote in 1954 in support of Freeman’s appointment as senior research fellow.73 Fortes described Freeman as ‘one of the two or three outstanding Social Anthropologists not yet in professorial positions in the British Commonwealth’. Freeman’s fieldwork was ‘superb’, ‘rich, and penetrating, in ­quality … a ­ man with original i­deas … a ­ nd a meticulous respect for scientific accuracy … [Combining] patient and acute analysis of detail with theoretical judgment of a high ­order … ­I can only say he would add distinction to any department in which he held a post.’ The American Robert Redfield knew little about Barnes and made no reference to Freeman; on the basis of both Barnes and Stanner holding similar qualities, he plumped for S ­ tanner – a ­ ‘very good man, an able anthropologist and an excellent personal and academic associate’. Evans-­Pritchard did not respond to the ANU’s request.74 Ignoring Firth’s suggestion that the decision be delayed, as well as Fortes’ support for Freeman and Redfield’s preference for Stanner, the Electoral Committee went ahead and recommended the appointment of Barnes as planned. In providing its recommendation to the BOGS, the Electoral Committee advised it had received ‘­information … ­that Professor J.A. ­Barnes … ­would consider an offer of appointment to the Chair of Anthropology’, continuing the fiction that Barnes had initiated proceedings. The committee duly recommended Barnes, stating his work ‘shows originality, intellectual power, and unusual breadth of ­interest … ­a freshness and originality of approach’. Aware he was ‘not primarily a theorist in the sense that Professor Nadel was in his later years’, the committee was confident that his approach to empirical studies ‘is of a kind which has made them (and will continue to make them) of considerable significance in the development of theory’. Moreover, Barnes had reached a stage in his career ‘at which he both sees clearly the role of the head of a research department and

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is prepared fully to carry out the duties which the role involves’. And finally, ‘on grounds of p ­ ersonality … ­Barnes would be an admirable choice’. As for future research, Barnes prepared a statement, at the university’s request, in which he indicated generally the type of research he would like to see the Department ­undertake – p ­ articularly in New G ­ uinea – and ­­ … i­t would be his intention to keep in close touch with field work, by visits to the field, while avoiding any prolonged absence from C ­ anberra … ­till he was sure that others could carry out his duties toward junior staff and students.75

A final matter for the BOGS to consider was whether to promote Freeman to a readership. Nadel wrote at the time of Freeman’s appointment as senior research fellow that ‘on the grounds of capabilities and research’, he had no ‘hesitation in recommending his appointment to a Readership. On the other hand, his publications are at the moment insignificant.’ Nadel intended to ‘keep him on and offer him the chance of a Readership in due course’. In the discussion, it was noted that the committee placed Freeman slightly below Barnes on two grounds: first, that ‘his k ­ een … i­ nterest in theoretical questions leads him to a certain rigidity in his approach to empirical studies’; and second, he ‘is in the middle of a period of most valuable work upon the Iban, which would make it difficult (and perhaps undesirable) for him to assume the duties of a Head of Department’. The committee recommended and the BOGS agreed that Freeman be promoted to reader. In his autobiography, Barnes expresses annoyance that he had been presented with a fait accompli over Freeman’s promotion to a readership. In fact, Barnes was consulted beforehand and had given his distinct approbation (Barnes 2007: 271–72).76 Freeman, of course, was ‘entirely happy’ with the outcomes, telling Firth: ‘It’s a huge relief to know that the long, difficult and profitless interregnum that has followed Nadel’s tragic death is at last at an end.’77 In later life, Barnes memorably said he had ‘jumped at the possibility of moving from an impoverished teaching department to a well-­funded research school’ (Barnes 2001: 143). In fact, he had to overcome several misgivings. It seemed to him, writing after Leach had rejected the offer of the chair and the ANU was vacillating over a replacement, that he would be swapping one unsatisfactory department for another. Before becoming a contender, he had written to Gluckman that ‘there are several people at ANU who would be quite pleased to see the anthropology department run downhill for a while, and who don’t want to see the chair filled in a hurry, and certainly not with someone as forceful as Nadel was’. He predicted that ‘in two

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years time the [anthropology at ANU] will be quite dead, so anyone who goes there then will have to start from scratch, with a rather sour Freeman and Stanner as a legacy from the past’.78 His professional qualms mainly centred on the poor relationship between Stanner and Freeman. But he overcame his concerns, including the upheaval of yet another relocation and Frances’s medical career being put on hold. All that remained was for Barnes to stay at Sydney until his two years were up and thereby avoid the necessity to repay his fares and removal expenses to the ­university – ­but at the cost of having to administer two departments until his arrival in Canberra in May 1958, aged thirty-­nine (Barnes 2007: 273–74).

Aftermath Stanner received nothing. From the moment he heard that the search for the chair had been reopened, he realized he had been duped. His disappointment and anger were palpable as he saw his best-­laid plans disappear, compounded by the duplicity of Melville and Hancock and the apparent connivance of Davidson. Stanner was furious with Davidson’s part in the process: ‘As far as I am concerned, what you and my other colleagues are now doing rests on a breach of faith. There was an agreement, and you would know it. I recall that, before leaving Canberra, I asked ­you … t­o watch for and delay until my return any attempted changes of policy.’ Stanner felt badly let down by Davidson. It was, Stanner declared, an absurd situation in settling on three candidates, one of whom did not ask to be considered [himself], and one of whom [Freeman], assured me not long since that he would ask to be considered if only a junior person (such as [Cyril] Belshaw) were being thought about s­ eriously … T ­ hese methods may fill the Chair, though not too gloriously; but they will not earn the ANU much respect. I can only ask: WHY do things in this way?79

Stanner also expressed misgivings about the future of the chair in Sydney. Barnes resigning from Sydney ‘will wreck that unhappy Department; and make us some justified enemies, if the outcome of solicitation by the A.N.U. becomes p ­ ublic … h ­ is appointment will look ramp. I only hope you [Davidson] have taken this into good account. Surely, if you were determined on making an appointment, you should either have advertised, or widened the field of consideration.’80 These were harsh words.

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As protracted as it was, finding a successor to Nadel was not without its aftershocks. Davidson was mistaken in thinking that Stanner, although ‘bitterly disappointed’, seemed ‘determined to accept the situation’.81 To the contrary. Stanner returned to Canberra briefly at the end of 1957 before heading off again to Port Keats. To help assuage his disappointment, he spent as much time as he could working in Port Keats. Stanner made four trips, spending twenty of the next twenty-­four months using Port Keats as a respite from the politics and hurt of the ANU.82 In a talk delivered at University House in September 1959, Stanner said: ‘sometimes when I am in that northern country, where the Dreaming stands f­or – a ­ ll the ultimate meanings which the human intuition finds in ­life – t­ake on a very great power. Then I have to resume diplomatic relations with the ANU. Sometimes this is quite hard.’83 The burden of Stanner’s recriminations, however, centred on Hancock. He saw Hancock, rightly, as the primary instigator: ‘in essence, it began with Hancock, who swung Davidson into line, and Davidson and Freeman worked together, Melville condoning’. Stanner outlined to Firth what he called ‘the odd affair at Canberra’ – that the decision was ‘cut and dried before I left, and was under way within a week of my departure. By the time I heard, it was a just a matter of signatures. There was nothing I could do except go on with what interested me. So I came back [to Port Keats] – digging out a cave, and finishing off an organizational study.’84 Stanner poured his heart out to Firth, in letters that are full of recrimination and forecasts of doom for Australian anthropology: ‘Well, me, I am out of it, and not ungladly so; I like little of what I see and hear; and if it were not that the School, and anthropology in Australia, were in such a bad way, I should have thoughts only for what I am doing which interests me.’85 He had, as alluded to above, in the months since the appointment of Barnes, lashed out at various members of the Electoral Committee, but he reserved his severest comments for Hancock, with devastating clarity and insight. In Stanner’s opinion, Hancock’s form becomes increasingly clear: much protestation that he does not want power and responsibility, together with a slow acquisition of both. I should guess that when the time comes he will with the utmost reluctance allow himself to be persuaded that it is his duty to look after [RSPacS] as well as [RSSS]. Meanwhile, with much pretty play on the disabilities of age (‘after all, I’m going on for sixty’) and on the joys of other times (‘there was no snobbery at All Souls’) and of things foregone

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(‘I have been too long away to understand the modern Australia’) he proceeds to dominate.86

Given his humiliation and rejection, Stanner wondered whether remaining in Canberra was possible: ‘I could get along very well with Barnes, but I do not think it would be a good thing for me to stay on. Throat-­cutting of that order leaves a lot of blood lying around.’87 Anthropologist Marie Reay recalls meeting Stanner in the University House carpark soon after the decision was made, when he broke down and wept, devastated, wondering whether he should remain in anthropology.88 This was probably as bleak as it got for Stanner. Overall, the process of making the appointment led to a rupturing of relations: Hancock’s and Melville’s secrecy and duplicity overshadowed the deliberations; Davidson was duped by Melville and Hancock. Barnes was both a willing and an unwilling participant in the secrecy and machinations of Melville and Hancock. Relations between Stanner and Davidson never quite recovered. Davidson’s relationship with Hancock deteriorated almost from the moment Hancock set foot on campus. Hancock had supported Davidson’s appointment to the ANU and was aggrieved that Davidson had published so little in the intervening years. It is not so easily understood how these events affected the friendship between Davidson and Barnes. The aftermath of Barnes’s appointment revealed a pattern of fracturing relations centred on Derek Freeman. Soon after Freeman’s arrival at the ANU, Stanner told Firth: ‘Freeman has settled down happily: he will be a strong addition to the staff, and is already well liked.’89 Despite his early assessment, relations steadily worsened and were totally ruptured after the appointment of Freeman to a readership. Freeman was confident he and Barnes ‘would work together extremely well’.90 There was a steady deterioration of working relations, ­however – ­what Barnes later described as his ‘long and troubled relationship’ with Freeman (Barnes 2007: 345). Confrontational, disputatious and unyielding, prone to deracination and convinced of having answers, Freeman taxed the abilities of his head of department. Barnes found it unpleasant dealing with Freeman’s overpowering personality and occasionally bizarre behaviour. Freeman was, said Barnes, ‘the major disruptive element’ in the department (Barnes 2007: 356).91 An unintended consequence was an uneasy détente between Barnes and Stanner. Barnes, ironically, given that had previously expressed his disdain of Stanner, on one occasion saying: ‘Derek

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has his limitations, but at least he is an anthropologist, which is more than one can say of Stanner.’92

Barnes at the ANU Barnes commuted between Sydney and Canberra until May 1958, at which point he no longer had to repay Sydney the costs of bringing him out from London. He had to organize and rejuvenate a department in Sydney, despite his misgivings, and plan for Canberra, which was also in need of rejuvenation. The problems and challenges of Sydney were left to his successor. The ANU department under Nadel had expanded both in scholarly output and in spatial range; the geographic reach extended as far as northern Afghanistan, but Barnes drew the line at Madagascar (Barnes 2007: 293). As he wryly reminisced, he ‘resisted pressure to produce a detailed plan for departmental r­ esearch … I­ was lucky in being able to maintain intellectual flexible p ­ arameters … a ­ nd although I often reported of our research that it conformed to our departmental strategy, I escaped having to disclose exactly what that strategy was’ (Barnes 2001: 144). Yet Barnes did have a strategy. In the first month of taking over, he drafted a report on the department’s current research interests and future directions. He ensured the continuity of Nadel’s broader research agenda, maintaining the interests of the department in twelve specified topics, all of which dealt with social organization, politics, economics and exchange (see Hays 1992: 33–34). ‘Under twelve rubrics he listed topics that could be conveniently studied in “various places in the Pacific region”, in particular Australia, Papua and New Guinea, Island Melanesia, Polynesia, Indonesia and South East Asia.’ Long-­time secretary of the department Judith Wilson and anthropologist Michael Young go on: ‘This wide array of research topics and geographical locations was just as ambitious in scope as Nadel’s’ (Wilson and Young 1996: 69, 71).93 He continued Nadel’s research focus on the New Guinea Highlands, writing a seminal paper, ‘African Models in the New Guinea Highlands’ (Barnes 1962, 2007: 331; see also Karp 1978). He also rectified his ignorance of Aboriginal anthropology, ‘producing in 1967 the technically brilliant’ ‘Inquest on the Murngin’ (Young 2011: 7). Yet Barnes, like his predecessor, conducted no field research in the Australasian region. In 1958, he appointed his former Manchester colleague Arnold Leonard (Bill) Epstein, who ‘brought more African research experience

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to bear on New Guinea, notably among the Tolai of New Britain’. Epstein’s wife, Scarlett, also moved her focus from India to the Tolai (Young 2011: 4). Barnes invited Max Gluckman, too, as a visitor in the department, mainly to visit the Epsteins in New Guinea so he could discuss and compare their African experiences. Gluckman, however, was denied entry to Papua New Guinea based on an adverse security report. He remained in Australia, travelling, visiting various Aboriginal settlements and departing from Darwin after one month (Gray 2020b; Barnes 2007: 283–95). Barnes put high priority on postgraduate supervision and enforced the maintenance of standards. On one occasion, he refused to accept any of the doctoral candidates on offer because he felt none was sufficiently equipped for the rigours of fieldwork (Barnes 2007: 281, 294–95). He was a supervisor who encouraged his students to work out their own research objectives, which ‘must have been [a] somewhat traumatic initiation process for new arrivals to the department’. Although socially welcoming, intellectually, Barnes preferred to neglect, or even ignore, newly arrived students in the hope that they would learn to work on their own and would discover what their own anthropological interests really were. I think this policy worked reasonably well; the department had a good success rate for doctoral dissertations that were substantial contributions to our understanding of the societies in our region. (Barnes 2001: 143)

Jeremy Beckett, a doctoral student, noticed a change in the department when he returned from his second stint of fieldwork in the Torres Strait. He felt: [t]he Anthropology department’s character had changed c­ onsiderably … ­in particular, the Highlands no longer dominated the discussion. We got to see a rather different side of British anthropology, particularly during the visit of Max Gluckman … [I] found it refreshing to have conflict brought into focus, since I had so much of it in my n ­ otebooks … ­I tried to incorporate some of these ideas, along with John Barnes’s work on networks in Norway. (Beckett 2001: 95)

The intellectual energy and scholarly ­collegiality – m ­ issing for Glasse in early ­1957 – w ­ ere back. Barnes brought stability, direction and an intellectual vigour to the department and managed to retain the international reputation gained under Fred Nadel. In time, it became clear that both Meyer Fortes and Firth had underestimated Barnes regarding his theoretical outlook. Barnes’s tenure at the ANU made ‘theoretical ­contributions … ­to fields as diverse as kinship and social organization, political and legal anthropology, network analysis, the

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sociology of knowledge, historical demography, colonialism and post-­ colonialism, and the study of professional ethics’ (Young 2011: 2–3). Young anthropologists at the time recognized Barnes’s contribution, as already noted by Beckett. Lester R. Hiatt, a student of both Elkin and Barnes, declared Barnes ‘brought Australian anthropology firmly back into the mainstream of contemporary social inquiry’, which was not the case with Elkin (Hiatt 1965: xv; 2001: 108–14; cf. Berndt 1966). Hiatt, who started out doing dentistry, found Elkin’s lectures on kinship theory ‘more and more convoluted’ and concluded that ‘if anthropology was about aboriginal kinship, then maybe dentistry wasn’t so bad after all’. Anthropologist Annette Hamilton, a student of Hiatt’s at Sydney, observed that Barnes ‘made a valuable contribution to the Australian scene and h ­ as … m ­ aintained close contact with many of the scholars who worked under him, now venerables of Australian anthropology themselves’ (Hamilton 1982: 99). Hiatt’s assessment of Barnes was too much for Ronald Berndt: ‘one suspects that Professor Barnes has been ­engaged … n ­ ot simply in a pioneering but also in a truly missionary enterprise, as a bearer of intellectual enlightenment to the “natives”; that in the intervening years, since the 1920’s, we Australian anthropologists had strayed far from the fold’ (Berndt 1967: 244). Indeed, he declared that the appointment of Barnes would ‘undoubtedly mean a narrowing of Anthropology in Australia. All I can say is thank goodness we got out of Sydney and are establishing Anthropology here [at UWA] in a way which will counteract the kind of emphasis it is likely to have now in Sydney and Canberra.’94 In the Berndts’ opinion, they ­alone – ­albeit following initially in the footsteps of ­Elkin – ­were the standard-­bearers of Australian anthropology. Barnes left the ANU in 1969 to become foundation Professor of Sociology at Cambridge. There are complex reasons for his departure, but a large part of the explanation was a desire to ‘avoid spending the next decade being administratively responsible for Freeman’ (Barnes 2007: 368).95 Dissatisfaction had brought Barnes to the ANU, and it accompanied his departure.96 In 1964, the ANU advertised for an additional professorial appointment. Persuaded by Firth, Stanner put his name forward. Stanner was appointed; it was almost a consolation prize, as he believed the chair was earmarked for F.G. Bailey, a British social anthropologist who was part of Gluckman’s Manchester School. He was unavailable, having accepted a position at the University of Sussex.

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Postscript Spate, director of RSPacS, wrote to Firth seeking his advice on the applicants to replace Barnes. The ANU only had three applications for the chair: Murray Groves, Jan Pouwer and Harry Scheffler. Each was appointable. He wondered whether Firth had others he could recommend. Spate commented that Groves did not get his ‘stuff published’, Pouwer was ‘stimulating but a bit erratic’ and Scheffler was ‘fixated on kinship’.97 Firth only knew Groves and Pouwer, and Spate had ‘summed up both of them already’. Firth commented that ‘the US has proved too much of a magnet for other first-­rate people: Victor Turner, Meggitt, Robin Fox have all tasted large salaries and more important, research opportunities of scale. And Meggitt, I gather, likes large cities. I can think of no one else at the moment in the UK.’ In Australia, Swift and Jayawardena ‘both probably have their critics, but I think either has the quality worth looking but neither had run a department’.98 After meeting Hogbin and Chandra Jayawardena in Sydney, whose views seemed to concur which ‘often serves as a barometer of anthropological opinion’, Firth supported Bill Epstein.99 In the event, Epstein was appointed. In 1972, he left for Sussex University. Again, Spate sought advice from Firth. In four months, he would cease being director and wanted to leave his successor with as ‘few left overs as possible’.100 In the frame were Michael G. Swift of Monash, Jayawardena of Macquarie, Michael Moerman of California and Ken Burridge, who was the ‘most interesting’. Spate requested an opinion on Anthony Forge and Louis Langness. Firth thought what was wanted was to ‘get a man who is committed to ­Australia – ­as the last two holders of the chair have not been’ (that is, Barnes and Epstein). In his view, Langness was not ‘robust enough’, Swift and Jayawardena were both capable and men of ‘calibre’. He liked Burridge but ‘perhaps [he is] hardly strong enough to stand up against pressure, but a scholarly man with an impressive row of books behind him and undoubted seniority over the rest’. Firth thought highly of Forge.101 Derek Freeman, an internal candidate, was appointed. Forge was appointed foundation Professor of Anthropology in the Faculties at the ANU.

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Notes    1. Oliphant to Crocker, 16 January 1955, Crocker Papers, Series 9, Vol. 1.2.   2. Annual Report 1956, 39. https://openresearch-­repository.anu.edu.au/bi​ tstream/1885/14764/1/AnnualReport-­1956.pdf.    3. Melville to Hancock, 16 March 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7, Part 1.    4. Hancock to Melville, 24 February 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).    5. Melville to Hancock, 16 March 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7, Part 1.   6. ‘Extract from letter dated 2.3.56 from Dr. Stanner to the Vice-­ Chancellor’, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).    7. Hancock to Melville, 27 March 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).    8. Hancock to Melville, 19 April 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c); Melville to Spate, 10  August 1956, Hancock Papers, ANUA 19/8/9.2.1.7(c); Melville to Hancock, 8 August 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).    9. Oliphant to Melville, 25 January 1956 [copy], ANUA 19, Box 317.   10. Hancock to Melville, 27 March 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).   11. Melville to Hancock, 27 April 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).   12. Hancock to Melville, 5 May 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).   13. Celia was a writer and poet. Celia Buckmaster was her professional name.  14. Hancock to Melville, 16  May 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c). In Hancock’s estimation, Leach had ‘left England balanced 50–50’ and his decision might be swayed by the housing on offer in Canberra. Hancock to Melville, 18  July 1958, Hancock Papers, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).   15. Over in Western Australia, there was no doubt: anthropologist Ronald Berndt announced to Firth that Leach was soon to visit Canberra, to step ‘into Nadel’s shoes’. R.M. Berndt to Firth, 16 July 1956, FIRTH: 8/2/11.  16. Minutes of the Board of Graduate Studies, Australian National University, ANUA Series 193 [hereinafter BOGS Minutes], 6 February 1956, 24 February 1956, 18 May 1956.   17. This was the continuation of research commenced in 1953 on land tenure and kinship (Leach 1961).   18. Melville to Spate, 12 October 1956 [copy], ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).  19. We have been unable to find Leach’s letter to Melville; we have assumed that Melville summarized the contents accurately to Hancock and Spate. Melville to Spate, 10 August 1956, ANUA 19/8/9.2.1.7(c); Melville to Hancock, 8 August 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).   20. Freeman to Gluckman, 8 July 1956, Gluckman Papers.  21. Ibid.  22. Hancock to Melville, 15  August 1956, Hancock Papers, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7, Part 1.

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  23. Telephone discussion with Louisa Brown, 3  January 2010. Leach’s daughter assured us, contrary to Freeman’s verbatim report of his conversation with Leach, that the decision had nothing to do with her schooling; she was consulted but had no particular feelings either way.  24. See ‘Celia Buckmaster’, on Wikipedia, retrieved from https:// en.wikipedia​.org/wiki/Celia_Buckmaster (retrieved 5  January 2010). Later in her life, Louisa described ‘Gurneys’, the family home in Howell, Hertfordshire, as ‘a truly wondrous place, forever my home’ (Tambiah 2002: 11).  25. Hancock to Melville, 15  August 1956, Hancock Papers, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7, Part 1.   26. J.W. Davidson to K.L. Gillion, 6 March 1956, Gillion’s Student and Staff File, ANUA 19/396/49.   27. Stanner to Spate, 11 February 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1 [Anthropology Department, RSPacS].   28. Melville to Hancock, 21  November 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c); BOGS Minutes, 28  September 1956, 26  October 1965; Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Gluckman Papers.   29. Stanner to Spate, 11 February 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1.  30. Melville to Stanner, 11  January 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1.   31. BOGS Minutes, 23 February 1957.   32. Stanner to Melville, 3 December 1956; Spate to Melville, 14 December 1956; Melville to Stanner, 11 January 1957; see also Melville to Spate, 9 January 1957, ANUA 57/40. Stanner had previously sought permission from Melville to accept a position as visiting professor at Harvard and Cornell universities in the belief that a new professor would take up duties in the first term of 1957. Stanner to Melville, 16 April 1956; Melville to Stanner, 26 April 1956; Stanner to Melville, 4 June 1956; Melville to Stanner, 13  June 1956, ANUA 19/82/6.2.2.1, Part 2 (W.E.H. Stanner).   33. Stanner to Melville, 3 December 1956, ANUA 19/82/6.2.2.1, Part 2.   34. Spate to Melville, 14  December 1956; Spate to Melville, 9  January 1957, ANUA 19/82/6.2.2.1, Part 2. See also Melville to Spate, 9 January 1957, ANUA 57/40.   35. Notation by V.-C. [Vice-­Chancellor] (4  January 1957) on Spate to Melville, 14 December 1956, ANUA 19/82/6.2.2.1, Part 2.   36. Davidson to Firth, 10 June 1957, FIRTH: 7/3/39; see also Freeman to Gluckman, 7 June 1957, Gluckman Papers.   37. Stanner to Firth, 15 October 1958, FIRTH: 8/2/13.   38. Several candidates were proposed for visiting professorships, including potential contenders for the c­ hair – n ­ amely, Meyer Fortes (Cambridge) and Isaac Schapera (LSE). See Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Gluckman Papers.

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39. 40. 41. 42.

Chicanery

Stanner to Spate, 11 February 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1. Spate to Melville, 25 February 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1. Melville to Spate, 5 March 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1. Barnes to Firth, 25 January 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/3; Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, and 28 June 1957, Gluckman Papers. The remainder of this section is drawn from Barnes’s autobiography (2007: 256–68).   43. Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Gluckman Papers.   44. Hancock to Registrar, 27  June 1955, ‘Chair of Anthropology 1955’ file, G3/190.  45. Ibid.  46. Ross Ainsworth Hohnen, University Registrar (1949–67), later University Secretary (1968–75).   47. Notation (6  June 1957) on Melville to Stanner, 11  January 1957, ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1 [Department of Anthropology, RSPacS, ANU File 6.5.2.1].   48. Barnes to Gluckman, 28  June 1957; Freeman to Gluckman, 15  July 1957, Gluckman Papers; Barnes (2007: 269–70).   49. Barnes to Gluckman, 28 June 1957, Gluckman Papers.   50. Ibid. It was during this visit that Barnes told Freeman of the vice-­ chancellor’s approach.   51. The paragraph is drawn from Barnes to Gluckman, 25  March and 28 June 1957, and Freeman to Gluckman, 7 June, 8 July and 15 July 1957, Gluckman Papers; Barnes (2001: 143; 2007: 269).   52. Freeman to Gluckman, 15 July 1957, Gluckman Papers. Emphasis in original.   53. Hancock’s biographer (Davidson 2010: 407) agrees that he interfered in the affairs of RSPacS: ‘he enjoyed a wide ambit, for as director of the School of Social Sciences he could effectively impose a protectorate over the School of Pacific Studies, led as it was by a mere dean’ (Davidson 2010: 385–86, 414).   54. When interviewed on 16 January 1999, it was soon clear the passage of time had not softened Melville’s attitude towards Davidson.   55. Davidson to Firth, 10 July 1957, FIRTH: 7/5/39.   56. Melville to Hancock, 19  March 1956; Melville to Hancock, 25  May 1956, ANUA 19/18/9.2.1.7(c).   57. ‘Dean’s Draft of Report of the Electoral Committee [for the Chair of Anthropology]’ (527/1957), Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.  58. ‘Electoral Committee [Meeting] for the Chair of Anthropology’, 20 August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.   59. ‘Dean’s Draft of Report of the Electoral Committee [for the Chair of Anthropology]’, (527/1957), Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30; BOGS Minutes, 27 August 1957.   60. Melville to Stanner, 28 June 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.   61. We have only Stanner’s reply to Davidson to indicate what Davidson

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wrote. Stanner to Davidson, 15 August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.   62. Stanner had helped the Catholic missionaries build the mission station in the mid-­1930s.   63. Stanner to Davidson, 15 August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30. Davidson assured the ANU’s Deputy Registrar (on 26 June) that he had already told Stanner, that he had sent a handwritten letter to Stanner and therefore did not have a copy (Davidson to Deputy Registrar, 26  June 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30). In fact, Davidson’s letter to Stanner, according to the latter’s response, is dated 27 June, meaning Davidson most likely wrote to Stanner the day after he had assured the Deputy Registrar this had already been done.   64. Freeman to Gluckman, 8  July 1957 and 15  July 1957, Gluckman Papers.   65. Freeman to Davidson, 11 July 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.   66. Davidson to Melville, 16 July 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.  67. When Max Gluckman was approached, as per the arrangement made with the government and the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO), the vice-­chancellor informed ASIO. The regional director sought advice from ASIO headquarters on Gluckman, who ‘is under consideration for an appointment’ to the ANU ‘and it would be appreciated by Sir Leslie if our enquiries could be expedited. Sir Leslie also asks that our enquiries cover the wife of Professor Gluckman.’ Regional Director to Headquarters, 16 July 1957, NAA, A6119/1231, Vol. 1 (Gray 2020b).   68. Firth to Davidson, 8  October 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/18; Gluckman to Freeman, 8 August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.   69. Davidson to Gluckman, 15 July 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30; Davidson to Firth, 10 July 1957, FIRTH: 7/5/39.   70. Interview, 5 February 1993.  71. See BOGS Minutes, 27  August 1957. Unless indicated otherwise, all quotes from the referees’ reports are from ‘Electoral Committee [Meeting] for the Chair of Anthropology’, 20 August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.   72. Fortes and Firth are described as being mentors to Freeman. Fortes brought Freeman to Oxford; Firth enabled funding for his Iban research. Freeman was supported in his early fieldwork by Edmund Leach when he was at the LSE. Similarly, Firth supported Stanner while he was undertaking his doctoral studies at the LSE in 1937–38.   73. Fortes to Registrar (Hohnen), 25 June 1954; see also Leach to Registrar, 22 June 1954, A/ANU2001/39, Box 2, File 30. See also Hempenstall (2017: 40).   74. An explanation may be that Evans-­Pritchard, from previous reports for both the Auckland and the Sydney chairs, was not supportive of any of

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the three candidates for the ANU chair. Nor was he supportive of the Manchester School under Gluckman: ‘He describe[d] the enterprise as “a public m ­ enace – c­ heapening anthropology”’ (Goody 1995: 73; see also Foreman 2013; Gordon 2018).  75. J.A. Barnes, ‘Some Comments on the Work of the Department of Anthropology and Sociology’, 18 August 1957 (652/1957), Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30 (also in ANUA 53/1114/6.5.2.1, Part 1).   76. Davidson to Barnes, 24 July 1957, Barnes to Davidson, 26 July 1957, Barnes to Davidson, 30 August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30; BOGS Minutes, 27 September 1957.   77. Freeman to Firth, 28 August 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/33, Part 1.   78. Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Gluckman Papers.  79. Stanner to Davidson, 15  August 1957, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/30.  80. Ibid.   81. Davidson to Firth, 2 October 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/18.  82. Between July 1956 and October 1959, Stanner was absent from Canberra for twenty-­ three months and there for sixteen months. Davidson to Melville, 29 July 1959, Davidson Papers, ANUA 57/49.  83. W.E.H. Stanner, 30  September 1959, Papers of W.E.H. Stanner, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, Canberra, MS485 (11).   84. Stanner to Firth, 24 February 1958, FIRTH: 8/1/121.   85. Stanner to Firth, 15 October 1958, FIRTH: 8/2/13.  86. Ibid.   87. Stanner (from Port Keats, NT) to Firth, 24  February 1958, FIRTH: 8/1/121.   88. Interview with Marie Reay, 5 February 1993.   89. Stanner to Firth, 1 April 1955, FIRTH: 8/1/121.   90. Freeman to Gluckman, 15  July 1957, Gluckman Papers; see also Freeman to Firth, 28 August 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/33, Part 1.   91. For a nuanced examination of Freeman’s life, see Hempenstall (2017).   92. Barnes to Gluckman, 28 June 1957, Gluckman Papers.   93. They also provide detail for the twelve rubrics.   94. Berndt to Elkin, 24 July 1956, EP: 41/4/2/375.   95. It is somehow fitting that Stanner, ‘[i]n a disconsolate mood one d ­ ay … ­predicted to me that sooner or later Freeman would force me out of the department’ (Barnes 2007: 357).   96. Barnes was quickly dissatisfied at Cambridge and, within two years of his arrival, was attempting to return to the ANU, even applying for the position of director of RSSS in 1979. See various in ANUA 19/8/5 (J.A.  Barnes). Rory Barnes, son of John, recalls ‘there was a huge amount of ill-­feeling at Cambridge towards Sociology, which was seen as the Trojan horse of anarchy’. Telephone discussion, 4 January 2012. See also Henley (2011).

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  97.   98.   99. 100. 101.

Spate to Firth, 23 December 1968, FIRTH: 8/2/17. Firth to Spate, 23 January 1969, FIRTH: 8/2/7. Firth to Spate, 16 April 1969, FIRTH: 8/2/7. Spate to Firth, 29 May 1972, FIRTH: 7/6/18. Firth to Spate, 26 June 1972, FIRTH: 7/6/18.

Chapter 9

SYDNEY AGAIN

Barnes’s departure for the ANU left Sydney University bereft of anthropological leadership. After Elkin’s long occupancy, Barnes must have been a disappointment, possibly confirming Elkin’s assessments of the candidates. Berndt commented on the fractious nature of the department; it was now self-­evident.1 Elkin had ceased being ever present in the department, taking up residence in an office in the Mackie Building, on the wrong side of Parramatta Road (that is, off the main campus): ‘It was difficult enough finding the triangular Mackie building itself, perched on an unlikely block between the screaming ambulances of Parramatta Road and the Australasian Medical Publishing Company’s looming Arundel Street bulk on the other’ (Wise 1985: 221). There, he edited the journal Oceania. His presence was not as intrusive but, more importantly, he had no substantive role in the choice of Barnes’s replacement. Reo Fortune and W.E.H. Stanner applied (once more), but Ronald Berndt decided against applying, as did Belshaw. Belshaw explained to Firth that the main reason he ‘didn’t have a crack at Sydney’ was that he had committed to fieldwork in Fiji and to look after UBC [University of British Columbia] for Harry [Hawthorn] next year, and felt this would introduce too many ifs and buts into an application. Secondly, I felt from what I had heard, that to do what was needed in Sydney meant an applicant in a good bargaining position, which I felt I did not have. Too much can go wrong there, and one needs to be able to state terms within reason. Otherwise one is just trading the status of a chair, for another undergraduate post in a university which is not solving staff or teaching problems as well as UBC. I felt if they wanted ­me – a ­ nd saw no reason they ­would – ­they would make it known and I would start from there.2

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Berndt, by now, was aware of the opposition to him from Hogbin and no doubt others who had opposed him in 1955. He did nevertheless seek advice from Firth about whether he should apply. Firth, in his usual way, pointed to the possibilities rather than the weaknesses: ‘you ask my frank opinion I think that you would probably do well to build up your position in the University of Western Australia rather than apply for Sydney, unless you have fairly strong backing’. He added, reinforcing Berndt’s own reservations, that ‘you might find some fairly strong opposition’ within the department, of which Berndt was aware. In an aside, Berndt expressed bemusement, that Hogbin ‘finds me rather less objectionable than Stanner!’3 The other applicants were Bill Epstein, Bill Geddes, Kenneth Read, Frank R. Secoy,4 Murray C. Groves and Peter Worsley. At the selection committee meeting of 5 March, Barnes, as was the protocol, discussed the applicants with the committee, which comprised, with few exceptions, those who had appointed him in 1955. Firth was again asked to rank the candidates; he supplied a reference for Geddes as well.5 The committee met again in April, narrowing the field to Epstein, Geddes and Read. By a majority of eight to two, Geddes was selected. The Professorial Board considered the recommendation but could not reach agreement and referred the decision back to the selection committee.6 The committee reconvened. What appears to have decided the matter was the contribution of N.W.G. Macintosh, Professor of Anatomy, who had been absent from the previous meeting. ‘Black Mac’, as he was often called, strongly supported Geddes based on familiarity with his work. There is the probability that the hand of Elkin was again at work: he and Macintosh were old warriors in university politics, and there may have been collusion over Geddes (Wise 1985: 252, 258).7 The committee reaffirmed its decision by seven votes to one.8 At its May meeting, the Professorial Board voted twenty-­three to one that Geddes be appointed.9 Unfortunately, the documentary evidence for the 1958 Sydney appointment is sparse. William Robert (Bill) Geddes attended the University of Otago, where he majored in philosophy in 1938. In 1939–40, he was a demonstrator in the university’s Department of Psychology. He put H.D. Skinner’s one-­year anthropology course to good use during his war service (1941–45) in the 2nd New Zealand Expeditionary Force. Rising to staff sergeant, he spent most of his time in Fiji, although he spent a year (1943–44) in Bougainville and the Solomon Islands with Fijian troops.10 His experience in Fiji was the basis for his Polynesian Society memoir, Deuba: A Study of a Fijian Village (in 1945), written

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during the Bougainville campaign, and his University of London thesis (PhD, 1948), ‘An Analysis of Cultural Change in Fiji’. In 1945, he was appointed ‘relieving assistant lecturer’ in Ivan Sutherland’s Department of Philosophy at Canterbury University College (University of New Zealand). ‘Geddes’s background was in psychology but, as it had with Ivan … [it] led him into social anthropology’ (Sutherland 2013: 338). In 1947–48, he lectured (four hours per week) in psychology at Birkbeck College, University of London. Selected to work with the Land Dayaks of Sarawak under a scheme sponsored by the Colonial Social Science Research Council, Geddes published his work first as a report to the council, The Land Dayaks of Sarawak (in 1954), and then, as a well-­received book, Nine Dayak Nights (in 1957). In 1951, he took a lectureship at Auckland University College, where he was appointed senior lecturer in 1954 and associate professor in 1957.11 Ronald Berndt remarked that ‘at least [Geddes’] Sydney appointment should break down a little the unhappy Sydney feud-­situation’. He and Catherine were sorry nevertheless about ‘Mick [K.E.] Read (who is, after all, in much the same predicament that we are: too many teaching commitments etc. make it difficult to do as much writing as one would like), and surprised at the rebuff to Stanner, at least we were very pleased that you [Firth] supported Geddes so firmly against Epstein’.12 That year, Read took up a position as associate professor at the University of Washington, Seattle (Herdt 1996). An obvious question is why Stanner was discarded so early in the selection process in 1958, particularly given how close he came in 1955. Did the selection committee, supported by the Professorial Board and the Senate, decide, as it did in 1955, that it would no longer support Aboriginal anthropology as central in the department? The answer, we suspect, is unconnected and simple: Stanner did not want the job. Stanner’s application was late and he was careless enough to include two dead referees, A.R. Radcliffe-­Brown and S.F. Nadel. It may have seemed to the selection committee that he was not serious and was happy to remain at the ANU. In mitigation, Stanner was badly bruised and disillusioned after his experience with the ANU selection process. He may simply have applied through a sense of duty. Barnes recalls that Stanner accused him of influencing the electors against him (Barnes 2007: 272). To be sure, Barnes had at the time a poor opinion of Stanner and possibly would have been pleased to see him at Sydney rather than remaining at the ANU. As far as Barnes

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was concerned, ‘any RAI [Royal Anthropological Institute] man worth his salt ought to [be] able to establish a moral ascendancy over Stanner in 5 minutes’.13 Barnes certainly supported Epstein against Geddes, yet every indication is that Stanner was out of contention before Barnes was asked to comment.14 On the other hand, Firth’s assessment of Stanner’s suitability as head of department may have lingered in the memories of those associated with the appointment of Barnes. Firth observed, in another context: ‘in a way Stanner’s achievement has tended to fall short of expectation and very far short of his own ideal. In some ways he has been his own worst academic enemy. Essentially, he has seemed unwilling to face responsibility.’15 In addition, Firth pointed out that ‘strong opinions are ­formed … ­in advance in some circles in Australia’.16 Stanner frequently fell out with colleagues (Pybus 1999a; Gray 2012b). He had been critical of the Sydney department under Elkin, especially the teaching and the journal Oceania. In his opinion, both reflected a lack of interest in theory; he was critical also of the ‘thin sociological studies of the Middletown type’ pursued by the department. He told Firth that ‘since you and Radcliffe-­Brown left I can’t find one theoretical gleam’.17 Barnes was intensely aware of the stagnation of the Sydney department, the lectures unchanged and the narrow understanding of anthropological theory and practice. Geddes inherited a department that was underfinanced, a doctoral programme that was, in Barnes’s view, of poor quality, a dissatisfied staff and an interventionist Elkin, who remained influential in the corridors of power, keen to see Australian Aboriginalist anthropology revived in some form. Elkin had cosseted the department, seeing no need for c­ hange – f­ or example, to introduce a doctoral programme. In his view, the MA (hons) degree awarded by the department was ‘tougher and more honourable than most PhD degrees’. But he was pragmatic: he recognized that the Arts Faculty would ‘have to introduce a PhD in Arts before l­ong … ­because it will mean that students from India and elsewhere will come to Sydney if they can get that degree’.18 The ANU might be a research university taking away valuable research funds but, in Elkin’s view, its standards of scholarship were not comparable. He commented to Nadel on Peter Worsley’s doctoral thesis, which he examined: ‘it might have gained an MA with First Class Honours h ­ ere – b ­ ut perhaps our MA (Firsts) standard is over high’.19 He told the Berndts he had ‘­expressed … ­hesitation, but of course, the standard is the standard of the ANU, and Worsley was awarded the PhD’. Elkin even queried the LSE PhD; he assured the Berndts that ‘judging from the number of

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PhD theses I have seen, I don’t think they really stand above a good First Class MA thesis here. What you are doing of course is about two D.Litts for your PhD.’20 Such a high opinion was not recognized at Oxford however. When D’Arcy Ryan, a graduate of the Sydney department, enrolled at the Oxford Institute of Anthropology, Evans-­ Pritchard told him: ‘Of course, you must realize that Here, we don’t regard any student of Professor Elkin as having even the makings of an anthropologist’ (Ryan 1992: 200; emphasis in original). This was not far short of the view of Barnes, who thought the standard not high compared with what he was used to at the LSE. Geddes instigated a change of direction at Sydney, not least opening introductory anthropology to first-­year students who hitherto had been thought too young to do anthropology. Jack Golson, a colleague at Auckland University and lifelong friend, notes that, for Geddes: ‘the ultimate value of the anthropological endeavour was to document, explain and make known the variety and value of human cultural experience. In these terms anthropology had importance in an educative role, as a force for understanding, tolerance and appropriate action’ (Golson 1989). Geddes also shifted the focus of the department to South-­East Asia, particularly Thailand (Wakin 1992; Robinson 2008). The appointments of Lester Hiatt and Jeremy Beckett in the early 1960s, however, led to a resurgence, of sorts, in Aboriginal anthropology. In 1970, Beckett ‘overhauled’ the traditional introductory anthropology course. It was, one of his students recalls: ‘around a framework based on American Anthropology’s post-­McCarthy era reinstatement of a kind of historical materialism: within this framework, we [students] were exposed to the ideas of its architects, scholars like Marshall Sahlins and Eric Wolf’ (Robinson 2008: 244). Hiatt, who flirted with Claude Lévi-­Strauss and ethology, was developing an orthodox anthropology theoretically underpinned by anthropologists like Mervyn Meggitt and Barnes, yet it ‘had a flavour of its own’ (Maddock 1997: 30). Geddes, on the other hand, while maintaining an interest in Fiji and Sarawak, helped establish the Tribal Research Centre in Thailand, leaving a legacy that remains controversial and unresolved to this day.21 There is nothing to suggest that the Tribal Research Centre, or Geddes, co-­operated with any counterinsurgency agencies; however, there is some evidence that the Australian Government, which funded Geddes’ salary through the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO), may have used the research for counterinsurgency purposes.22 The controversy added to existing tensions in the department.23

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Geddes turned his attention to other interests, especially ethnographic film. ‘He was a skilled and sensitive still photographer, who had taught himself filming. He was quick to appreciate the importance of film as a record of fast-­disappearing ways of life’ (Golson 2007). He was a member of the Interim Council and chairman of the Film Production Advisory Committee of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (AIAS) for almost a decade from 1963 and played a significant role in the development of ethnographic filming (Bryson 2002; Golson 2007). Geddes’ work focused particularly on the Dayak people of Borneo and Thailand, rather than on Australia.24 From 1966 until 1973, his department hosted the AIAS film unit. Geddes’ active association with the institute declined after that time. Under Geddes (as with Barnes), there was a move away from interacting directly with the formulation of government policy and advising on matters to do with the welfare and advancement of Aboriginal people. Indeed, Geddes was critical of government policy and its lack of tolerance of difference (Mortimer 2019: 63, 87). This may explain why the government overlooked him for advice. Despite his retirement, Elkin remained the authority on matters to do with Aboriginal policy for government and mission bodies, although his influence with the Commonwealth Government waned (Gray 1994a). He retained his position on the NSW Aborigines Welfare Board, which was abolished in 1968. Geddes had no such role. In contrast with Elkin, Geddes believed anthropology was important as a force for cross-­cultural understanding, tolerance and appropriate civic action (Golson 2007; Clark 2008: 167). Geddes supported and assisted the Foundation for Aboriginal Affairs, chairing it between 1964 and 1970. The foundation was established to provide assistance to Aboriginal people living in Sydney. Originally intended as a non-­political and non-­religious organization, it became ‘an important stepping stone in the push towards community-­control within Sydney’s Aboriginal community’ (Golson 2007). It ceased operations in 1977. Geddes retired in 1981.

Notes   1. Berndt to Firth, 22 November 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/8.   2. Belshaw to Firth, 29 June 1958, FIRTH: 8/1/5.   3. Berndt to Firth, 22 November 1957, and Firth to Berndt, 28 November 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/8.   4. Frank Secoy was the author of a slim volume, Changing Military Patterns on the Great Plains (17th Century through Early 19th Century), published

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in 1953. His second and final book (a revision of the original work) was published almost forty years later.   5. Geddes to Firth (from Chiengmai), 1 May 1958, FIRTH: 8/1/36  6. Professorial Board Minutes, 30  April 1958, 175–76, University of Sydney Archives.  7. On a previous occasion, Elkin had been dismissive of Geddes; see Chapter 4.   8. Berndt refers to ‘a struggle of which you [Firth] have probably also heard details’. Unfortunately, he provides no details. Berndt to Firth, 29 May 1958, FIRTH: 8/1/8.   9. Professorial Board Minutes, 28 May 1958, 177–78, University of Sydney Archives. It appears that in both instances Julius Stone, Professor of Jurisprudence, was the dissenting vote. Barnes to Gluckman, 23  April 1958, Gluckman Papers. Hogbin appears to have played a minor role compared with the appointment replacing Elkin. 10. See LSE Student file, William Robert Geddes, Archives LSE. 11. For a short but detailed biography, see Golson (2007). 12. Berndt to Firth, 29  May 1958, FIRTH: 8/1/8. It is hard to understand the reasons for opposing Epstein, although at the time Ronald Berndt struggled with his antisemitism (pers. comm., Colin Tatz, 12 July 2001). 13. Barnes to Gluckman, 25 March 1957, Gluckman Papers. 14. Barnes to Gluckman, 23 April 1958, Gluckman Papers. 15. Firth to ANU Registrar, 25 July 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/3. 16. Firth to Hohnen, 25 July 1957, FIRTH: 8/1/3. 17. Stanner to Firth, 6 April 1946, FIRTH: 7/7/31. At the AIAS conference in May 1961, Mervyn Meggitt voiced similar misgivings about the state of theory in Australia (Meggitt 1963: 216). 18. Elkin to R.M. and C.H. Berndt, 15 March 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. 19. Elkin to Nadel, 22 June 1954, EP: 41/4/2/414. 20. Elkin to R.M. and C.H. Berndt, 3 August 1954, EP: 41/4/2/375. The DSc and the DLitt were ‘awarded for original and sustained contributions to branches of learning or science apart from any question of training, an essential element in the PhD qualification is the spending of a definitive period in training under academic supervision’ (Professorial Board Minutes, 28 October 1946). 21. Project Camelot, initiated in 1964, presented ethical and moral dilemmas for anthropologists. Camelot was sponsored by the US Department of Defense to study areas of insurgency and potential revolution in the Third World, and to ascertain ways to offset such developments. Kathleen Gough, one of the main critics of Camelot, argued that it was merely a continuation of a trend well recognized where anthropology served government, empire and capitalism (Berreman 1968). These debates led, in the early 1970s, to the development of ethical guidelines for anthropologists in the United States and elsewhere, including Australia. In

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1970, it was revealed that the US Department of Defense, despite having abandoned Camelot in the late 1960s, had contracted several universities to collect intelligence in Northern Thailand to crush insurgent forces. Australia was involved in this through the Tribal Research Centre (Hiatt 1969; Hamilton 1982: 98–99; Wakin 1992; Hinton 2002; Robinson 2004; Kwanchewan 2006; Miles 2008). 22. ‘Geddes reported to both the Thai Director of Public Welfare and the Secretary General of SEATO. A SEATO Report for 1967–1968 made it clear that the reports produced by the TRC [Tribal Research Centre] were becoming increasingly important in counteracting Communist subversion. Accusations that Geddes had been instrumental in the death of Hmong (people) at the hand of the Thai Military were reported by the editor of Retrieval in the Sunday Review in Australia in 1970, resulting in Geddes taking out a libel action, which he won’ (Lambert 2012: 138). 23. The ‘Thailand Controversy 1969–1971’ is also documented in the papers of L.R. Hiatt, MS 4129/17/1, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. 24. The Land of the Dayaks of Borneo (1961–66, 38 mins, New York University).

CONCLUSION

In the Prologue, we pointed to the influence that anthropologists like Alfred Cort Haddon and Robert R. Marett exercised over academic and government appointments in Australia and New Zealand in the first decades of the twentieth century. When read through the lens of appointments, a web of connections unfolds. Haddon was pre-­eminent: he successfully recommended the appointment of (Radcliffe-)Brown at Cape Town and Sydney, and Skinner at Otago. Malinowski and Radcliffe-­Brown promoted their better students; Malinowski secured the appointment of Raymond Firth at the LSE. Radcliffe-­ Brown promoted Firth to take over at Sydney in 1931 after he departed for Chicago. And, as we saw, Firth was instrumental in the appointment of A.P. Elkin as head of the Sydney department, despite Malinowski favouring H. Ian Hogbin, his former student. It was soon after we started our research on professorial appointments, drawn in by files we came across during other research, that we realized Raymond Firth had a role in each appointment in Australia and New Zealand in the two decades after the Second World War. It was finding a successor at Sydney where he displayed an ability to put the institution first, ahead of personal ­preference – t­ hat is, he targeted his advice to the needs of the institution (and anthropology) at the time. This contrasts with the way he is remembered today in his role as a scholar – ‘principally as an area specialist and an economic anthropologist, particularly his ‘work on non-­industrial economies’.1 Indeed, British anthropologist Maurice Bloch credits him with ‘single-­handedly’ creating ‘a British form of economic anthropology, which is still thriving’ (Bloch 2002). However, John H.R. Davis, in an obituary for the British Academy, alerts us to Firth the ‘organisation man’. Davis writes that ‘from the 1930s, both in his theory and in his administrative ­activities … ­he was a consistent and fair-­minded advocate for anthropology at home and abroad’ (Davis 2004: 71. It is this a ­ spect – ­a consistent and fair-­minded advocate for ­anthropology – t­ hat was revealed by our research, and consequently

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we endeavoured to explicate his place in the establishment and development of anthropology in Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand. It is a persona that is clearly visible after the Second World War. There were hints before then, as alluded to above, such as putting the needs of the institution ahead of personal friendship in enabling Elkin to succeed him as professor at Sydney. Firth was consulted about all senior academic appointments in the Antipodes between 1946 and 1965 during this crucial foundation and consolidation time for academic anthropology in Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand. He promoted mostly graduates from the LSE, especially those from the Antipodes, many of whom were his colleagues when he was at Sydney. There was a dynamic conviviality that grew around the Sydney ­department – R ­ adcliffe-­Brown frequently dined with them (Stocking 1995: 347). Those days were fondly remembered by Firth. They were, he told David Parkin: important for my aesthetic development and breadth of cultural understanding what I sometimes used to call the ‘golden years’. We were a cosmopolitan group of diverse interests, but we saw much of one another, dining together nearly every night at a Swiss restaurant, the Claremont Cafe, and having frequent parties at one another’s ­rooms … ­It was a lively, amusing period that no doubt helped to strengthen my feeling for the exotic. (Parkin 1988: 328)2

These young anthropologists included Ian Hogbin, Ralph Piddington, Charles W.M. Hart, W.E.H. Stanner, the Americans W. Lloyd Warner and linguist Gerhardt Laves. Taught by Radcliffe-­ Brown, they were part of a cohort that developed a strong sense of themselves as emissaries of a new discipline. Piddington enjoyed the ‘solidarity’ during ‘the old days of the Group’, as he called them, brought about by anthropology’s newness and its opposition to other ‘decaying disciplines’. They were on a journey to make a career in social anthropology.3 Firth was a few years older, at thirty-­one, than the others. On the cusp of his international career, he was photographed, in 1932, by Sarah Chinnery, a photographer, writer and wife of Ernest Chinnery, New Guinea government anthropologist: learned in front of his books, immaculately dressed, urbane with cigarette and cigarette etui in hand, and confidently holding the camera’s gaze.4 Around this time, Margaret Mead, then married to Reo Fortune and on the brink of leaving him for Gregory Bateson, observed that Firth was ‘an impossible little ex-­Methodist bounder, petty pup in ­office … ­He’s just awful, although a pretty boy, with his mask on’.5 Whatever the charm revealed by Sarah Chinnery, it did not impress Mead.

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With the exception of Warner, who briefly attended some of Malinowki’s seminars before arriving in Sydney, all the Sydney Australian cohort went on to attend the LSE for doctoral studies in anthropology. Laves returned to Chicago and Sapir, while Hogbin completed his doctorate in 1931. Malinowski arranged a position for Firth – ‘Malinowski’s pet pupil’.6 Hart and Piddington, recommended by Firth, arrived just before he took up his appointment at the LSE. Both were funded by Rockefeller Foundation fellowships. Hart found work at Toronto and helped establish anthropology there.7 Piddington, denied a position in Australia, worked for Firth as his research assistant and later received funding through Firth to edit Essays in Polynesian Ethnology by Robert W. Williamson.8 He was appointed to Aberdeen University in 1938. Piddington and Firth’s was a friendship that lasted throughout their lives. Other Australians, such as Stanner, arrived at the LSE in 1937, soon after Phyllis Kaberry, another Sydney graduate (Gray 2007a). Hogbin retained his friendship with Firth and took his sabbaticals at the LSE. Although Donald F. Thomson, who completed his Diploma in Anthropology in 1928, was part of that early cohort, he remained aloof. He was older, had a first degree in zoology and was attached to the University of Melbourne (Gray 2005a). The Australians embarking on a future as anthropologists had completed a Master of Arts, a postgraduate degree, with field experience, which formed the foundation of their PhD dissertation at the LSE.9 There was no similar preparation for the New Zealanders, as there was no undergraduate degree specializing in anthropology; those who wanted a career had to leave the country to gain further academic qualifications. Firth’s trajectory, however, was atypical, starting in economics, as was that of fellow New Zealander Reo Fortune, who began his studies in psychology. Fortune had an MA from Auckland, a Diploma in Anthropology from Cambridge and completed his PhD at Columbia, in New York, in 1931. As it was, those New Zealand anthropologists who attended the LSE did so after the war. Only Felix Keesing attended the LSE when Firth was there, between 1933 and 1934. He had completed a DLitt at Auckland. Like Firth, he was recruited to the intelligence services during the war; in 1942, the Office of Strategic Services called him to Washington, DC, where he worked with South Pacific materials and lectured to high-­ ranking naval officers on the cultures of the area. Firth was attached to British naval intelligence, compiling Pacific Island handbooks and maps, which is where he met fellow New Zealander Jim Davidson, later foundation Professor of Pacific History at the ANU.

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By the end of the war, Firth had replaced Malinowski as professor. He played a key role in helping to establish the Colonial Social Science Research Council (1944–45) and was its first secretary. In part, it was set up to provide an empirical base of knowledge for colonial development after the war. In some sense, it can be seen as a continuation of ‘the Changing African’ project developed by Malinowski, Joseph H. Oldham and Diedrich Westermann in the 1930s. Firth’s reputation grew during the war. In 1947, he was recruited as one of four academic advisors to the newly established, research-­only ANU; his portfolio was to establish the RSPacS (Foster and Varghese 1996: 3–82). He was responsible for advice on the course of Pacific studies and all appointments in the school. He had a skill, recognized initially by Radcliffe-­Brown in 1929, that exceeded mere administration. Firth brought anthropological observation and analysis into the arena of academic politics. Part of his special skill was the way he negotiated closeness and distance, personal friendships and institutional needs. He, above the others, was most entangled; he had taught most of the anthropologists seeking positions or they had been colleagues, but he was able, so he claimed, and it was generally accepted, to stand apart from personal friendships and make recommendations that reflected the needs of the respective university (see Young 2003, for example). Evans-­Pritchard and Forde were consulted over senior positions within the United Kingdom as well, but Evans-­Pritchard seemed somewhat uninterested at times on matters in the Antipodes, such as when asked to advise on a professorial appointment at the ANU in 1957 (Goody 1995: 81–83).10 Despite Evans-­Pritchard’s apparent lack of interest, George Stocking contended that after the war Evans-­Pritchard became the single most important figure in British social anthropology, dominating the profession both intellectually and institutionally (Stocking 1995: 430). During the second half of the twentieth century, a tension over Australia’s intellectual and cultural position permeated the country; it has been termed the ‘cultural cringe’: conflicting desires of fledgling nationalism to hold local culture and identity proud and an undercurrent of doubt that handed admiration and worth to a Britishness that resided in the Metropole. Firth managed to assuage this tension by being both Antipodean and at the centre of a metropolitan Britishness; he possessed a cloak of Britishness by virtue of his professorship at the LSE. In the Antipodes, Firth’s influence and authority were rarely challenged; they reflected, in part, a desire to choose one of their own to advise on senior appointments. This was certainly a key factor in

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his appointment as an advisor to the fledgling ANU.11 Institutions in the Antipodes, especially before the Second World War, regularly sought advice from British scholars and frequently appointed scholars born in the UK to university positions (Pietsch 2013). Firth operated successfully in these environments. As one colleague remarked, he ‘was the centre of power with major connections in corridors that mattered’ (Belshaw 2009: 61). Anthropologist Cyril Belshaw, born in Aotearoa/New Zealand, and who regarded Firth as a mentor (‘I owe him a lot’), saw him nevertheless as ‘manipulator number ­one … ­always done in an urbane and kindly manner’. Firth, Belshaw told one of us: ‘had come a vast way from being the initially brash but upwardly mobile acolyte of Malinowski. In the context of the cut-­ throat competition that was there when he gained the chair, that was quite an achievement.’12 Firth, as we have shown, occupied a set of diverse roles in selection processes. He was consulted over a proposed position as an advisor, sometimes as a selection panel member (usually chair) making a recommendation, as a referee for some of the applicants or breaking a deadlock on a local selection committee. This is not to say that his advice was necessarily accepted, although more often than not it was. There were times when local competitors (gatekeepers) challenged or attempted to undermine Firth’s r­ecommendations – n ­ otably, when advising on a successor to the retiring Professor Elkin at the University of Sydney, he met opposition from Elkin himself. Elkin saw himself as the pre-­eminent anthropologist of Australia (if not the region) and he had no compunction in interfering in the appointment of his successor, as he had done over the appointment of a foundation professor at Auckland University College and that of a senior lectureship in anthropology at UWA. Elkin took a personal interest in his favoured students and their advancement. He was a provider of patronage, a gift-­giver adept at withholding his bounty to those who crossed him as well as promoting his chosen students.13 Firth sought a role different to that of Elkin. Unlike Elkin, he protected no legacy and was free to assist in making an appointment that best suited, in his view, the needs of the respective university. In short, Firth’s method was to take the institution, look at the individual and elucidate a fit that met the explicit as well as the implicit criteria. His skill shifted from the descriptive and analytic to the predictive. How would this person perform in the position in the structure of the institution? He was able to write a personal report for the selection committee, often suggesting a short-­list that was adopted

Conclusion189

by the committee, including even those for whom he had acted as a referee. He seamlessly shifted to a new persona, disengaged from earlier actions as referee, turning instead to the selection committee as his primary concern as he set out the criteria by which one or more of the candidates were a fit for the university. Firth made assessments on the qualities he thought a professor and head of department required: accepting responsibility, providing intellectual leadership, the ability to deal with the brightest students and a research plan. The focus in the end was on ‘the fit’ of the applicant to the needs of the university. He did not always voice a clear choice, leaving that to the university selection panel. Despite personal entanglements, he was able to overcome possible conflicts of interest.14 In the selection processes we analysed, we found that it was not Firth who engaged in trickery and chicanery, but the local selection panels, which often hid their true intentions from Firth. Firth, directly and indirectly, oversaw the institutional emergence and consolidation of social anthropology in the Antipodes. He was there at its birth when he was at the University of Sydney under Radcliffe-­Brown. After a brief time as head of department, he enabled Elkin to succeed him. On his return to the LSE, he witnessed, and was a participant in, a discipline that was increasingly confident of itself. As opportunity arose, he moved into higher and more authoritative positions. Importantly, he had the support of Malinowski, although the LSE was increasingly focused on British Africa rather than Oceania, and specifically the South Pacific. He was offered the LSE chair in 1944 but did not take it up until December 1945. From there, his influence spread and his reputation for balanced and thoughtful advice on teaching anthropology and appointments to senior positions was recognized outside the British Isles. After the war, he was critical in making the senior foundational appointments at the ANU in Pacific studies (including anthropology) and at the University of Auckland. He oversaw Elkin’s replacement and, subsequently, Barnes’s replacement, in 1957, at Sydney. He was consulted, in 1955, over anthropology at UWA. His advice was sought, in 1963, by Monash University over establishing a Department of Anthropology there. His focus, as we have detailed, was on ‘the fit’ of the applicant matched to the needs of the university. His appointments were free of theoretical considerations outside that of the ANU. He had taught or at least knew most of the applicants. Despite such entanglements, he was able to overcome, or rather compartmentalize, possible conflicts of interest. On the other hand, not all appointments he recommended

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were met with satisfaction. For example, Cyril Belshaw told one of us that when he was consulted over appointments to the University of British Columbia, Firth’s choices were unsatisfactory: ‘He recommended with flowery language two people to my department when I was recruiting. One turned out to be pompously hopeless and the other, while doing some fairly good work, earned a reputation for manipulating women students to recruit them to feminist ideology in a rather extreme way.’15 While Belshaw had a personal axe to grind, there is some merit to his assessment. There were occasions when Firth considered an individual academic’s longer-­term career and, more importantly, a chess board of Anglo-­ anthropology appointments in the United Kingdom, its dominions and spheres of influence. He oversaw the development of the discipline on a grand scale, while paying close attention to local differences and needs. Was his eye sharpened by the place Ngata and Buck attempted to create for anthropology? Did the fleeting power of Sydney as a regional centre allow him to analyse and utilize the LSE and his role in it? A Southern sensibility, we claim, permeated his politics, which ensured universality and recognized difference and locality. He also trusted the locality to draw in the anthropological researcher. The Pacific, as in the case of the ANU, or Mā ori studies and linguistics, would grow on the respective scholar. This is a reversal of the idea that expertise on a specific locale or culture was a prerequisite. This, too, we see as a Southern sensibility (Connell 2007). Firth retired in 1968. His retirement coincided with the decade that saw a major expansion of anthropology across both Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand.16 Firth’s longer legacy in the Antipodes would be a subject to consider separately and is not our focus here, although there is no doubt his recommendations led to long-­lasting change and a more robust Antipodean anthropology than before the war, despite some local selection committees ignoring his considered assessment of candidates.

Notes   1. He was not regarded as a major theorist, although at the time most professors had some theory they propounded, or, as Kuper notes, it was a time ‘when every professor had to have a theory’ (Kuper 2016: 131; cf. Goody 1995: 24–25). The ways in which Darryl Forde and E.E. Evans-­ Pritchard exerted their authority in the United Kingdom are outside our interest here.

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  2. The Claremont Cafe (Kings Cross) was run by ‘German émigré Walter Magnus; he introduced an exotic, international flavour to the dining experience’ (Dunn 2011).   3. Piddington to C.W.M. Hart, 31 March 1955, copy in author’s possession, courtesy of Kenneth Piddington.   4. Sarah Chinnery, Portrait of Sydney University anthropologist Professor Raymond Firth, Anthropology, Sydney, 1932 [picture], NLA, PIC/11131/65 LOC Album 1116/2.   5. Margaret Mead to Ruth Benedict, letter dated 26 October 1931, MMP S3, LOC, cited in Caroline Thomas (2011: 104).   6. Seligman to Kirchhoff, 19  April 1932, Malinowski Papers (Yale), via Michael Young.   7. It was revealed in 1956 that he had not completed his doctorate. This led to his dismissal from the University of Wisconsin.  8. Essays in Polynesian Ethnology. Edited by Ralph Piddington; with an analysis of recent studies in Polynesian history by the Editor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1939. See also Gray (1994b, 2018a).   9. See field reports published in the journal Oceania. 10. Audrey Richards and Phyllis Kaberry never had a chair; Lucy Mair had to wait until 1963 for hers. 11. Despite recognizing difference and despite a fierce sporting rivalry, Australians and New Zealanders have a symbiotic relationship with each other, so that at times they are interchangeable. 12. Belshaw to Gray, email, 12  January 2010. Firth told a story of accidently being in the right place at the opportune ­moment – ­first, when Malinowski was ill and, second, when he was offered the LSE chair. 13. Initially, Elkin supported Stanner; he moved his support to Phyllis Kaberry; when she declined his offers, Elkin turned his attention to Ronald Berndt, who with his wife, Catherine, became his much sought-­ after husband-­ and-­ wife t­eam – h ­ is ‘anthropological children’ (Gray 2005a). 14. We are aware of an exception: Firth wrote to one of us that he had taken a personal interest in Ralph Piddington’s career and had helped him find suitable employment (Firth to Gray, 3  February 1993). This included Aberdeen before the war and Edinburgh after the war. 15. Belshaw to Gray, email, 12 January 2010. 16. For his continued association with the ANU, see Spate to Firth, 23  December 1968, FIRTH: 8/2/17; Firth to Spate, 23  January 1969, FIRTH: 8/2/7; Firth to Spate, 16  April 1969, FIRTH: 8/2/7; Spate to Firth, 29 May 1972, FIRTH: 7/6/18.

EPILOGUE

In the 1960s and early 1970s, there was an expansion of anthropology departments in Australian universities. This paralleled the expansion of the Australian university system in the wake of the 1957 Murray Report, which gave respite to the impoverished and overloaded state universities (Bessant 1977: 92–95). There was similar growth in the Aotearoa/New Zealand university system following the 1966 Parry Report, but dedicated anthropology departments were slow in coming. In any case, the mid-­1960s and 1970s were a time when Firth was consulted less, and the focus on US-­trained and non-­ British men and women in Australian universities shifted the locus of anthropological authority (Beckett 2001). Coinciding with these changes was the diminished authority of the prewar generation and the increasing diversity of the discipline in terms of theory and ethnic descent. Anthropology had become diffuse and no longer the province of a small group of influential anthropologists in positions of power. A case in point: in 1961, when Monash University opened its campus, Firth was consulted over the structure and development of a new Anthropology and Sociology Department. He was not asked to take any role in the appointment process, however. He was simply asked about the relevance of physical anthropology and whether there should be a close relationship with psychology, in particular. Firth assured the dean of the Faculty of Arts, William A.G. Scott, that physical anthropology was ‘not dead’: ‘modern studies in blood group work and other aspects of physical anthropology allied to genetics are very much alive in this country and developing’. He went on to declare that ‘what is dead, or nearly so, is the old-­fashioned integrative of anthropology as [a] subject comprising the branches [of] physical anthropology, archaeology, social ­anthropology – w ­ ith technology and ­linguistics – ­united in one department or school’. So, he suggested physical anthropology in the sciences or medicine. He had reservations about anthropology and ‘modern experimental’ psychology, but he was supportive of associating social anthropology with social

Epilogue193

psychology ‘just as with sociology’. Finally, he advised Scott to seek the opinion of Bill Geddes and John Barnes.1 Maxwell Gay Marwick, part of Gluckman’s Rhodes–Livingstone Institute, was appointed and the emphasis was on Central Africa; this was underlined by the appointment in 1967 of the South Africa-­born George Silberbauer as a lecturer, whose thesis was on the G/wi Bushmen of the Central Kalahari Desert, in Botswana.2 Marwick was replaced in 1969 with Michael Swift, who shifted the emphasis from Africa to a focus on South-­East Asia (Firth 1984). Despite the growth of academic anthropology, research on traditional forms of social and cultural life in Aboriginal Australia was nevertheless in decline, brought about in part by funding constraints on research and a dependence on funding from state Aboriginal welfare boards and museums, which focused on problems associated with assimilation. Apart from the UWA, no university provided instruction on Aboriginal anthropology or sociology. Barnes and Geddes encouraged anthropological investigation outside Australia. Mervyn Meggitt is a case in point: he completed his research on the Walbiri in Central Australia in 1953, and in 1960 on the Enga in the Western Highlands of New Guinea. As Beckett commented: ‘the shift from Aboriginal Australia took [Meggitt] from an ethnography that, at that time, was antiquarian and almost moribund to one that [was] both physically and intellectually challenging’ (Beckett 2005: 557). The dismal state of orthodox Australian Aboriginal anthropology was further illustrated by the fact that at the ANU there were only three doctoral candidates undertaking Aboriginal anthropological research during the late 1950s and early 1960s: Diane Barwick, Nancy Munn and Lester Hiatt.3 Jeremy Beckett’s research was on the Torres Strait Islands, completed in 1961. He had earlier completed an MA on Aboriginal people in north-­ west NSW, supervised by Stanner.4 South Africa-­born Colin Tatz, who arrived in Australia in 1960, started a thesis in the ANU Political Science Department on Aboriginal administration in the Northern Territory.5 James H. Bell and Malcolm Calley, both at Sydney, had recently completed their doctorates, as had Fay Gale at the University of Adelaide.6 The focus overall was on culture contact, people of mixed descent and problems associated with assimilation. Indeed, academic interest had lapsed to such an extent that the Liberal (conservative) parliamentarian William C. Wentworth took up the cause, declaring that ‘if we do not undertake [research] now,

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humanity will lose something of permanent value and we Australians, as its custodians, will lay ourselves open to perpetual reproach’ (quoted in Lambert 2012: 2). Wentworth gained the support of Stanner, whom he had known since 1934 when they worked in the office of the NSW Premier. In arguing for the creation of an institute of anthropological studies (he initially wanted Papua New Guinea to be included), Wentworth pointed out to the Prime Minister, Robert Menzies: [The] Commonwealth Government’s position might be strengthened [internationally] if it could demonstrate that its policies and programmes for the development of Aborigines were underpinned by systematic studies and research into the problems of contemporary aboriginal life in the Australian community. These problems are likely to remain with us for a considerable time, both in relation to the Aborigines of Australia and the native peoples of New Guinea.7

One response was the AIAS, which was formally established in 1964, but its inaugural event was the ‘May 1961 conference’, which assessed what had been accomplished and pointed to what remained to be done (Sheils 1963). John Barnes commented that ‘in retrospect, it is easy to be surprised at how little was known about Aboriginal society and culture in 1961’ (Barnes 1988: 269). The AIAS resisted research on non-­traditional topics, especially when these related to ‘southern’ urban Aboriginal people or involved issues of acute change. Initially, its orientation was primarily that of a funding body and repository. The AIAS became the hub for Aboriginal studies, serving as a reference point for scholars. It established a register of all research studies. Other functions were to assist researchers with equipment, to publish or assist with the publication of the results of research, to display and to assist others to display Aboriginal materials and to train researchers. From its inception, the AIAS was firmly entrenched within the academy, and the discipline with primary responsibility for Aboriginal culture was anthropology. For example, the AIAS indirectly supported the expansion of anthropology-­related disciplines in Australian universities through a competitive grants programme, and directly by financially supporting a film unit at the University of Sydney and an archaeology lectureship at UWA (Moser 1995; Bryson 2002; Lambert 2012). To be sure, the AIAS was focused initially on studying ‘man and man’s nature’, to record for posterity what remained of Aboriginal lifeways. It was slow to fully embrace research into the contemporary situation. In response to this perceived lack

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of interest, Tatz established the Centre for Research into Aboriginal Affairs at Monash University (Kerin 2016). Tatz correctly observed: very few (if any) researchers were interested in the contemporary situation in Aboriginal affairs in Australia during the 1960s, a sign of the pervasiveness of the dying race theory which, even then, still held sway. A wall of ‘secrecy and silence’ surrounded the status of Aborigines ‘incarcerated’ on missions and reserves, and very little was known about how Aboriginal people lived in cities and towns. (Quoted in Kerin 2016: 2)

Generally, the AIAS played a critical role in Australian Aboriginal anthropology, which for the first decade was dominated by established senior scholars. This changed with the appointment of a new, dynamic head in 1972. It was a ‘golden age’: funding was increased and the scope of research widened. This is not, however, part of this book’s story (see Lambert 2012). Finally, in the 1960s and 1970s, there was a steady increase in academic appointments and the creation of anthropology departments in both established and newly founded universities. Australia saw growth in anthropology: Sydney, the ANU and UWA all increased the numbers of staff and offered students a wide range of courses. By the 1960s, teaching departments were established at Monash University (1964), Macquarie University (1967), La Trobe University (1967), the University of Queensland (1972)8 and the University of Adelaide (1974). The ANU introduced an undergraduate degree and the University of Melbourne continued a rather ad hoc Anthropology Department. In 1967, the University of Papua New Guinea (UPNG) introduced anthropology, with Ralph Bulmer appointed professor. UPNG taught social anthropology and linguistics, archaeology and sociology. Bulmer had previously been at Auckland. Similarly in Aotearoa/New Zealand, anthropology slowly but steadily became an institutional presence. In 1965, a new department opened at Victoria University of Wellington, under the Netherlands-­ trained anthropologist Jan Pouwer. He was replaced with US-­trained Ann Chowning, who had previously been at UPNG (Pawley 2016). Other departments followed, at the University of Waikato and Massey University, although these were often initially linked with or subsumed by sociology.9 The University of Waikato combined sociology and anthropology. It followed the ‘Sussex pattern’, meaning there were no departments; rather, there were subjects, each of which was to ‘regard itself as a mere part of a greater whole, no matter what the ­context – ­in first and second year courses at all events’ (Day

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1984: 81, quoted in Campbell 2014: 47). Waikato appointed South African-­born human geographer David Bettison as its first Professor of Anthropology (and Sociology) in 1972 (Schumaker 2001: 157–59; MacArthur and Harington 2014). He had been with the Rhodes– Livingstone Institute and headed the ANU’s New Guinea Research Unit in Port Moresby. Overall, the establishment of academic anthropology in Aotearoa/ New Zealand was institutionally uneven. Several models were ­implemented – n ­ amely, single departments of anthropology, collaborations of university anthropology with museums, and anthropology as an addendum to sociology. The double emphasis on Mā ori and Polynesia present at its inception carried through the following decades, although the 1960s and 1970s brought great diversity. With the participation of Mā ori leaders and scholars in the debates leading up to the appointment of the first chair, and Mā ori scholars shaping new directions, especially in linguistics, New Zealand-­based anthropology differed from Australian-­based anthropology, though an interest in applied anthropology permeated both. In time, Mā ori studies was cleaved off anthropology and sociology and became a stand-­alone discipline. The 1970s, both in Australia and in Aotearoa/New Zealand, saw an increase in US and Canadian scholars seeking and obtaining academic appointments (Beckett 2002). Australian anthropologist Jeremy Beckett, commenting on postwar Australian anthropology, notes that recruitment in Australia has been ‘influenced by most of the schools and currents to be found elsewhere. Until the early 1970s, the British influence predominated, partly because the senior anthropologists had got their doctorates in Britain and went back there for sabbaticals’ (Beckett 2002: 128). He adds that, likewise, the Australian Association of Social Anthropologists (the predecessor to the Australian Anthropological Society) was a chapter of the British body and all membership applications were sent to the Britain for approval (Beckett 2002: 128; Mills 2008; see also Barnes 2001). But these appointments are not the subject of this book, other than to point out that the network created by the second generation of British-­trained anthropologists was overtaken by this explosion of anthropology departments and newly trained anthropologists. In comparison with the period covered in Chicanery, it was a free-­ for-­all dominated by local selection committees. The late 1960s and early 1970s were a highpoint for anthropology and its associated disciplines, and marked the end of the entwined networks that

Epilogue197

had developed since before the Second World War in the British Empire. Coincidental to these events was the beginning of the independence of Pacific Island nations and a developing critique of British anthropology and its roots in imperial Britain and its colonies. The critique was internal (Asad 1973; cf. Loizos 1977) and external (Berreman 1968; Hau`ofa 1975; Owusu 1978; Iamo 1992). There were also changes in accessing former colonial sites for ethnographic investigation (see, for example, Morauta and Chowning 1979). This brought about a shift in the research agenda, focusing more on the needs of the community.10 These are all matters for the future.

Notes   1. Scott to Firth, 22  December 1961; Firth to Scott, 17  January 1962, FIRTH: 8/2/8.   2. Silberbauer was Marwick’s PhD student.   3. Nancy Munn, ‘Walbiri Graphic Art and Sand Drawing: A Study in the Iconography of a Central Australian Culture’ (1960); Diane Barwick, ‘A Little More than Kin: Regional Affiliation and Group Identity among Aboriginal Migrants in Melbourne’ (1963); L.R. Hiatt, ‘Conflict in Northern Arnhem Land’ (1962).   4. Jeremy R. Beckett, ‘Politics in the Torres Strait Islands’ (1963) and ‘A Study of a Mixed-­Blood Aboriginal Minority in the Pastoral West of NSW’ (MA, 1958). Originally, he planned to go to Papua New Guinea, but was barred by ASIO.   5. Colin Tatz, ‘Aboriginal Administration in the Northern Territory’ (1964).   6. Jim Bell, ‘The La Perouse Aborigines: A Study of their Group Life and Assimilation into Modern Australian Society’ (PhD thesis, University of Sydney, 1959); Malcolm Calley, ‘Social Organization of Mixed-­Blood Communities in North-­Eastern New South Wales’ (PhD, University of Sydney, 1959); Fay Gale, ‘A Study of Assimilation: Part Aborigines in South Australia’ (University of Adelaide, 1960). Marie Reay edited Aborigines Now: New Perspectives in the Study of Aboriginal Communities (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1964), which promoted the work of younger scholars and showed the range of research interests.   7. Wentworth to Menzies, n.d. [c. 1959] cited in Lambert 2012: 7. See Lambert (2012: 7–127) for a detailed discussion of the establishment of the AIAS.   8. The University of Queensland Anthropology Museum was established largely through the efforts of Dr Lindsey Page Winterbotham, a medical practitioner and lecturer in medical ethics. In 1948, the university formally accepted the donation of Winterbotham’s private collection of

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more than 1,000 artefacts, with a view to using it to support studies and teaching in a ­ nthropology – a ­ discipline yet to be established in Queensland at that time.   9. For a sense of the various combinations at Waikato, see Alcorn (2014: 72–74, 81–82, 145–46). 10. However, for thoughtful insights and observations on anthropology and its future in the Antipodes, see Shore and Trnka (2013).

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INDEX

Aberdeen, University of, xiin4, 70, 75, 78, 83n11, 186, 191n14 Adelaide, University of, 29, 94, 193, 195 Adler, Guido, 91 AIAS. See Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies Ainsworth, John, 17, 18, 19 American Institute of Pacific Relations, 125 American Museum of Natural History, 22, 28 Anderson, William, 13 ANRC. See Australian National Research Council ANU. See Australian National University, The Aotearoa/New Zealand, ix, 22, 25n13, 112n42, 184, 191n11 academic appointments in, ix, 5, 8, 55, 77, 196 anthropologists in, xiin4, 13–14, 15, 66, 70, 83n8, 186 Army Education and Welfare Service (AEWS), 48, 55n4 Council for Educational Research, 59, 62 development of anthropology in, 8–16, 47, 57–68, 80, 185, 186, 190, 192, 195–96 Government and anthropology, 47, 57 Government’s assimilation policy, 81 Government’s desire for Maˉori studies, 8–9, 14

influence of BMER in, 14–15 and The Journal of the Polynesian Society (JPS), x, 9 lack of women scientists in, 50 loss of students overseas, 103, 114n66, 186 neglect of social sciences, 59 Pacific dependencies, ix, 14, 47, 60, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67 post-war development, 46, 47, 55, 185 race relations, 47 Raymond Firth in, 43n28, 59 role of social scientists in, 46, 47, 48 and Second World War, 46, 47, 48, 50, 66, 177 and SPC, 66, 83n10 study of Maˉori language, 80, 82, 196 Archey, Gilbert, 79 Army Education and Welfare Service (AEWS), 48, 55n4 ASIO. See Australian Security Intelligence Organisation ASOPA. See Australian School of Pacific Administration Association of Commonwealth Universities, 70 Auckland University College alumni, 13, 67, 80, 178, 180, 186, 195 Anthropology Committee, 69, 70 appointments to, 178, 188, 189 Council, 59, 62, 63, 68, 79

230

Army Education and Welfare Service (AEWS) (cont.) creation of anthropology chair, 1, 12, 13, 15, 55, 57–82, 134n33 Education Committee, 63, 64, 66, 67–69, 70, 72–73, 76 first PhD at, 103 Institute and Museum, 62, 63, 65, 67, 79 as part of University of New Zealand, 24n6 Australasia, xi, 2, 41, 42n13, 46–55, 166 Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), ix, 7, 16, 21, 58 Australian Anthropological Society, 196 Australian Association of Social Anthropologists, 196 Australian Board of Missions, 35, 41 Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (AIAS), 141, 181, 182n17, 194, 195 Australian Institute of Sociology, 48 Australian Labor Party, 100, 141 Australian National Research Council (ANRC), 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 35, 40, 75 call for government funding of Sydney chair, 17, 19, 20–21 Committee on Anthropology, 41 financial problems, 37, 40, 44n44 grants to, 36, 37 and Rockefeller Foundation, 20, 21, 23, 36, 37, 40, 76 and Sydney University, 23, 31, 35, 36, 37 Australian National University, The (ANU), 147, 195 alumni, 97, 101, 103, 114n65, 193, 196 appointments, 1, 80, 86–88, 93, 96, 101, 105–8, 146–47, 154, 157–58, 168, 169, 186

Index

Audrey Richards considered for chair, 87–88 competition with Sydney University, 54, 55, 94, 97, 163, 179 conditions for students, 95, 103–4, 105 crisis of S.F. Nadel’s death, 143, 146 Derek Freeman as acting department head, 152, 153–54, 160 Derek Freeman at, 102, 158, 159, 160, 165, 168, 169 Derek Freeman considered for chair, 161, 162, 163 dominance of men at, 88, 104 Edmund Leach considered for chair, 149, 150–52, 159, 162 establishment of, 55, 86, 93, 101, 125, 147 Evans-Pritchard and appointments to, xi, 87, 149, 158, 161, 173n74, 187 focus on Pacific studies, 54, 55, 94, 97, 98, 102, 108–9, 166, 190 government funding of, 54, 55, 86, 130, 147, 179 hierarchical nature of, 95, 104 Ian Hogbin at, 93, 99, 100, 101 Ian Hogbin considered for chair, 87, 100–1 ‘incident’ with W.E.H. Stanner over chair appointment, 4, 153–54, 155, 156, 157, 158–59, 160, 161, 163–66, 168, 173n63, 178 infrastructure, 94–96, 101, 146, 151, 156, 170n14 Interim Council, 54, 86 international standing of, 88, 101, 102, 103, 108, 151, 153, 155, 163, 167, 179 Jeremy Beckett at, 152, 167, 168

Index231

John Barnes’s appointment to, 155–56, 157–63, 164, 166–68 John Barnes’s departure from, 168, 169 John Barnes’s development of department, 130, 163, 166, 167–68 Keith Hancock and Academic Advisory Board, 86, 89 Keith Hancock at, 86–88, 147–49, 172n53 Leslie Melville and appointments to, 88, 146, 147, 149, 157, 159, 160 Leslie Melville as Vice-Chancellor, 88, 147 London Academic Advisory Board, 86 Max Gluckman considered for chair, 149, 156, 159–60, 173n67 Meyer Fortes as assessor for chair, 158, 161 Meyer Fortes considered for chair, 87, 88, 148, 149, 171n38 problems within department, 115n81, 152–53, 162–63 provision of PhDs, 54, 94, 103, 179–80, 193 Raymond Firth on Academic Advisory Board, 86–88, 89 Raymond Firth as adviser to, xi, 54, 125–26, 187, 188, 189 Raymond Firth on Interim Council, 54 Raymond Firth’s appointment to, 187–88 relations among staff, 95, 96, 101, 147–48, 165, 168 relations with other universities, 54, 93, 94 Ronald Berndt’s rejection of job at, 115n77 and School of Civil Affairs, 54

search for foundation chair, 1, 55, 87–88, 119 search for John Barnes’s replacement, 169 search for S.F. Nadel’s replacement, 109, 146, 147–65 S.F. Nadel as foundation chair, 86–109, 114n67, 114n71, 115n78, 146, 162, 166 S.F. Nadel’s development of department, viii, 96–98, 102–4, 108–9, 166 W.E.H. Stanner as acting department head, 153–54, 158, 159, 174n82 W.E.H. Stanner considered for chair, 4, 87 W.E.H. Stanner’s appointments to, 77, 93, 99, 100, 168 See also Research School of Pacific Studies; Research School of Social Sciences Australian and New Zealand Association for the Advancement of Science (ANZAAS), ix, 58, 81 Australian School of Pacific Administration (ASOPA), 53, 54, 100, 114n69, 131 Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO), 173n67, 197n4 Bailey, F.G., 168 Barnes, John Arundel, 123–24, 151, 174n96, 180, 193, 194 and A.P. Elkin, 122, 130, 132, 133n20, 135, 155 application for Sydney chair, 121, 122, 123, 124, 127, 128 appointment to ANU, 155–56, 157–63, 164, 166–68 appointment to Sydney University, 129–30, 131, 132, 135, 139, 157, 176

232

Barnes, John Arundel (cont.) and Arthur Capell, 131 and Berndts, 139–40 denied Oceania editorship, 131–32, 155 departure from ANU, 168, 169 departure from Sydney University, 163, 176, 177, 178–79, 189 and Derek Freeman, 165–66, 168, 172n50, 174n95 development of ANU department, 130, 163, 166, 167–68 disillusionment with Sydney University, 155, 156, 159, 163, 166, 179, 180 and Ian Hogbin, 121, 131, 139 and Jim, Davidson, 156, 165 and Keith Hancock, 155 making changes at Sydney, 130–31, 140, 166, 181 and Max Gluckman, 124, 127, 134n25, 155, 156, 159–60, 167 and Raymond Firth, 131, 160 and Ronald Berndt, 130, 132, 134n35, 139, 168 search for replacement at Sydney University, 176–77, 189 and S.F. Nadel, 115n78 and W.E.H. Stanner, 165, 174n95, 178 on W.E.H. Stanner, 130, 163, 165–66, 178–79 Barwick, Diane, 114n67, 193 Basedow, Herbert, 7 Beaglehole, Ernest, viii, xiin4, 14, 15, 60, 67, 83n3 and Auckland University chair, 63–64, 67, 82 influence of, 48, 58 and Maˉori studies, 59, 61–62, 64, 65 push for anthropology in New Zealand, 15, 58–59, 60, 62 at Victoria University College, 57, 58, 59

Index

Beckett, Jeremy, 102, 132n4, 143, 180, 193, 196 at ANU, 152, 167, 168 on S.F. Nadel, 105, 109 Bell, James H., 50, 193 Belshaw, Cyril, 101, 102, 112n39, 115n76 A.P. Elkin on, 122 application for Sydney chair, 122, 123, 133n13, 133n19, 163, 176 Ian Hogbin’s criticism of, 121 opinion of Raymond Firth, 188, 190 on S.F. Nadel, 105, 107, 114n67 Berndt, Catherine (née Webb), 13, 55n9, 118, 139 gendered discrimination of, 136, 144n30, 145n38 at LSE, 124–25, 136 research, 138, 142 Ronald’s eclipsing of, 142 at UWA, 138, 140, 142 Berndt, Ronald, 6n3, 115n77, 120, 124, 140, 142 A.P. Elkin arranging positions for, 118, 124–25, 136–37, 138 A.P. Elkin’s push for Sydney chair for, 118, 119–20, 122–23, 139 application for Sydney chair, 120, 121, 122, 126, 127, 129 criticism of, 3, 6n3, 126–27, 130, 140, 142–43, 182n12 departure from Sydney, 140, 141, 168 Ian Hogbin’s dislike of, 121, 129, 139, 177 and John Barnes, 130, 132, 134n35, 139, 140, 168 in London, 122–23 at LSE, 124–25, 136 opinion of Sydney University, 176, 177, 178 Raymond Firth’s opinion of, 137–38, 139

Index233

at Sydney University, 118, 132, 136–37, 138, 139, 140 at UWA, 140, 141, 143, 168, 177 Berndt, Ronald and Catherine, 50, 125, 139, 142, 168 and A.P. Elkin, 134n30, 139, 179–80 A.P. Elkin’s support for, 118, 136–37, 145n40, 191n13 Berndt Museum, 141, 144n27, 144n37 dislike of S.F. Nadel, 115n77 and John Barnes, 139–40 move to UWA, 140, 142, 143 in New Guinea, 112n38, 124 Bernice P. Bishop Museum, xiin4, 28, 63, 66, 83n3 Best, Elsdon, 9, 10, 13–14, 24n5 Bettison, David, 196 Biggs, Bruce, 80, 82, 85n38 BMER. See Board of Maori Ethnological Research Board of Graduate Studies (BOGS), 153, 161, 162 Board of Maori Ethnological Research (BMER), ix, 13, 14, 15 Borrie, Wilfred David (Mick), 98, 112n42 British Columbia, University of, 70, 114n65, 176, 190 Brown, Alfred Reginald. See (Radcliffe)-Brown—Alfred Reginald Bruce, Stanley Melbourne, 20, 21 Buck, Peter (Te Rangi Hıˉroa), 13–14, 15, 57, 58, 67, 190 appointment to Bernice P. Bishop Museum, xiin4, 66 and creation of Auckland course, 63, 65, 67 criticism of H.D. Skinner, 57 and Ernest Beaglehole, 58 and founding of BMER, 13–14

and governance of native races, 14, 65, 66 and Maˉori culture, 60 Bulmer, Ralph N.H., 82, 97, 102, 195 Burridge, Kenelm, 102, 112n39, 114n65, 114n67, 169 California, University of, 96, 97, 169 Calley, Malcolm, 193 Cambridge, University of, 68 alumni, viii, ix, xiin4, 8, 10, 11, 15, 16, 22, 30, 80, 97, 105, 112n42, 123, 124, 149, 150, 151, 152, 186 anthropology at, x, xin2, 133n24 sociology at, 168, 174n96 Campbell, Arnold Everitt, 59 Canberra, 94–96, 100, 101, 141, 146, 156, 159, 166 Canberra Agreement, 83n10 Canterbury University College, 13, 15, 24n6, 57, 62, 178 Cape Town, University of, x, xiin3, 27, 32, 123, 184 Capell, Arthur, 40, 119, 120, 129, 131 Carnegie Corporation, 135 Carrodus, Joseph Aloysius, 41 Chapman, Henry, 37, 44n43, 44n44 Chicago, University of, xiin3, 13, 31, 32, 184, 186 Chinnery, Ernest William Pearson, ix, 18, 27–28, 51, 185 Chowning, Ann, 195 Colson, Elizabeth, 123 Columbia University, viii, xiin4, 96, 103, 186 Commonwealth Institute of Science and Industry, 19 Copland, Douglas, 93, 99, 105, 106, 107, 108, 147 Craig, Jean (later Martin), 50, 98, 102, 103, 122n43

234

Crocker, Walter Russell, 96, 106, 107, 115n76, 115n84 Davidson, James Wightman (Jim), 87, 106, 113n54, 115n80, 186 and John Barnes, 156, 165 and Keith Hancock, 87, 157, 164, 165 and Leslie Melville, 156–57, 159, 172n54 on S.F. Nadel, 106–7, 115n76 and S.F. Nadel’s replacement, 154, 156–57, 158–60, 163, 164 and W.E.H. Stanner, 154, 158–59, 163, 164, 165, 173n63 Deacon, Bernard, 30 Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs (DORCA), 51, 52, 53, 56n14, 113n55 Douglas, Mary, 123 Duff, Roger, 13 East African Institute of Social Research, 72, 160 Edinburgh, University of, 70, 71, 72, 73, 75, 78, 85n39, 191n14 Eggan, Frederick, 148 Elkin, Adolphus Peter, xiin4, 39, 87, 133n20 activist role, 39, 40–41 administrative abilities, 35 advice to Auckland University, 63–65, 67, 73–76 as adviser to government, 41, 49, 50, 54, 137, 181 Anglicanism of, viii, 35, 39, 41 and ANRC, 40, 41 arranging positions for Ronald Berndt, 118, 124–25, 136–37, 138 on Australian Board of Missions, 35, 41

Index

and Berndts, 118, 124, 134n30, 136–40, 143, 145n40, 191n13 challenge to authority of, 51, 54, 94, 100 credibility of, 41, 76 criticism of, 130, 179, 180 criticism of A.R. Radcliffe-Brown, 32 discrediting of others, 73–76, 122–23, 179–80 as disruptive presence at Sydney, 132, 155, 176, 179 ‘double career’, viii, 37 as editor of Oceania, 41, 131–32, 155 founding of Australian Institute of Sociology, 48 and Ian Hogbin, 100, 112n44, 119, 120, 129, 132n7, 139 influence of, 51, 76, 126, 137, 142, 168, 176, 179, 181 influence on UWA, 135–38, 140 and John Barnes, 122, 130–32, 155, 176 and Ken Walker, 135, 136, 137, 138 lack of support for W.E.H. Stanner, 118–19, 122 legacy, 120, 128, 139, 143, 188 and Les Hiatt, 168 as locum tenens for Raymond Firth, 35–36 and New Guinea, 41, 97 on NSW Aborigines Welfare Board, 40, 50, 117, 181 and Phyllis Kaberry, 118, 119, 132n3, 191n13 as President of Association for the Protection of Native Races, 41 push for Ronald Berndt as successor, 118, 119–20, 122–23, 127, 129, 138–39 and Ralph Piddington, 73–75, 76, 77, 119, 133n22

Index235

report for SPC, 112n44 research, 40, 50, 98, 117–18 retirement, 94, 100, 117, 138, 139, 176, 181 and Ruth Fink, 142 search for successor, 3, 117–32, 188, 189 in Second World War, 48–50, 52 self-promotion, 36, 64, 77, 128, 142, 188 and Social Horizon journal, 48–49 students of, 104, 168, 180 as successor to Raymond Firth, 184, 185, 189 support for W.E.H. Stanner, 73–74, 75, 76, 118–19, 191n13 as Sydney chair, 6n4, 39, 64, 77–78, 94, 97, 117, 131, 179 threat to control of, 54, 94, 100 undermining of candidates, 137, 138, 177 on value of anthropology, 35–36, 39, 49, 52 war surveys, 47, 48 and W.E.H. Stanner, 100, 133n22 W.E.H. Stanner’s criticism of, 32, 100, 113n56, 179 W.E.H. Stanner’s rebuke of, 32–33 works on Aborigines, 34, 41 Epstein, Arnold Leonard (Bill), 123, 166, 167, 169, 177, 178, 179, 182n12 Evans-Pritchard, Edward Evans, x, xi, 42n13, 104, 123, 127, 180, 187 and ANU appointments, xi, 87, 149, 158, 161, 173n74, 187 and Australasian appointments, xi, 70, 72, 126, 127, 128, 134n33, 173n74 Fels, Willi, 12, 24n9 Ficker, Rudolf von, 90, 91

Fink, Ruth (later Latukefu), 103, 135, 136, 142 Firth, Raymond, xiin4, 14, 42n13, 59, 70, 184–90, 192 as acting Sydney chair, 30, 33, 75, 125, 184, 189 advice on S.F. Nadel’s replacement, 158, 159, 160–61 advice on UWA, 137, 189 as adviser to ANU, xi, 54, 125–26, 187, 188, 189 on anthropology in Australia, 34, 44n48, 94 on ANU Academic Advisory Board, 86–88, 89 on ANU Interim Council, 54 on A.P. Elkin, 36, 87, 112n44 and A.P. Elkin’s successor, 121, 122, 125–26, 127, 128–29, 188 A.P. Elkin’s undermining of, 137, 138, 188 Aˉpirana Ngata’s criticism of, 15 Aˉpirana Ngata’s praise for, 14 appointment of A.P. Elkin to Sydney, 35, 184 appointment to ANU, 187–88 and A.R. Radcliffe-Brown, 33, 35, 39 and Berndts, 137–38, 177 on Bill Geddes, 70–71, 78, 177, 178 and Bronisław Malinowski, x, 34, 186, 188 Camilla Wedgwood on, 33 consultation on Australian appointments, 55, 70, 86, 119, 177, 184–85, 187, 188–89, 192 consultation on New Zealand appointments, 55, 63, 64, 67, 70–72, 76, 184–85, 189 criticism of W.E.H. Stanner, 160, 179 and Cyril Belshaw, 176, 188, 190

236

Firth, Raymond (cont.) departure from Sydney University, 35, 36 and Derek Freeman, 162, 173n72 and Edmund Leach, 150 fieldwork/research, 30, 34 and H.D. Skinner, 13 and Ian Hogbin, 121, 122, 139, 186 on Ian Hogbin, 87, 99, 119 and John Barnes, 131, 160, 167 and John Barnes’s replacement, 169 and Jubilee Conference, 101, 102 legacy, xi, 109, 187, 190 at LSE, 13, 34, 103, 121, 184, 186, 187, 191n12 on Maˉori life, 13, 14, 65 on Maurice Freedman, 127 on Max Gluckman, 159 and Meyer Fortes, 87, 150 as protégé of Aˉpirana Ngata and Peter Buck, 15 and RSPacS directorship, 105, 106, 126, 148, 149, 154, 158 search for locum tenens for, 34, 35 and S.F. Nadel, 96, 97, 100–2, 104, 115n80 on S.F. Nadel, 105–6, 107 on state of Sydney department, 130 support for Audrey Richards, 87, 88 support for Ralph Piddington, 70, 72, 75–76, 78, 83n11, 186, 191n14 support for S.F. Nadel, 87, 88, 89, 93 support for W.E.H. Stanner, 127, 129, 160 at Sydney University, 14, 36, 70, 84n13, 139, 185, 189 Sydney University appointments, 184–85, 188, 189, 190 visits to Auckland University, 80

Index

and W.E.H. Stanner, 87, 32, 125, 154, 164, 165, 179 as W.E.H. Stanner’s mentor, 4, 70, 77, 99, 134n33, 168, 173n72 Florey, Howard, 86 Forde, Daryll, xi, 70, 72, 124, 126, 127, 128, 187, 190n1 Forge, Anthony, 169 Fortes, Meyer, 103, 109, 123, 161, 167 as assessor for ANU chair, 158, 161 at Cambridge, xin2, 150 considered for ANU chair, 87, 88, 148, 149, 171n38 and Derek Freeman, 161, 173n72 Fortune, Reo, viii, xiin4, 36, 42n9, 42n13, 122, 123, 176, 185, 186 Foster, J.F., 71 Fox, Robin, 169 Frazer, James, 11 Freedman, Maurice, 121, 122, 123, 127, 129 at King’s College London, 125 Freeman, Derek, 12, 13, 108–9, 151, 162, 165, 169 as acting ANU department head, 152, 153–54, 160 at ANU, 102, 158, 159, 160, 165, 168, 169 consideration for ANU chair, 161, 162, 163 at LSE, 13, 114n66 and Max Gluckman, 156–57, 159 and Meyer Fortes, 161, 173n72 and Raymond Firth, 160, 173n72 relationship with John Barnes, 165–66, 168, 172n50, 174n95 relationship with W.E.H. Stanner, 163, 164, 165, 174n95

Index237

Gale, Fay, 193 Galton Society for the Study of the Origin and Evolution of Man, 20 Gathercole, Peter, 15, 16 Gayre, George Robert, 122, 123, 133n18 Geddes, William Robert (Bill), 177–78, 180–81, 183n22, 193 A.P. Elkin’s criticism of, 73, 74, 182n7 application to Auckland University, 70–71 appointment to Sydney University, 80, 177, 178, 179, 180–81 Auckland University lectureship, 78, 80 at LSE, 13, 114n66 at Otago University, 13, 177 and Raymond Firth, 71, 177, 178 Giese, Harry, 130 Glasse, Robert, 102, 152, 167 Gluckman, Max, 109, 126–27, 129, 149, 151, 167 considered for ANU chair, 149, 156, 159–60, 173n67 and John Barnes, 123, 124, 134n25, 155, 156, 160, 162, 167 at Manchester University, 124, 168, 173n74 at Rhodes–Livingstone Institute, 123, 193 Golson, Jack, 80, 180 Goodale, Jane, 95 Goody, Jack, 3, 5, 104–5, 109, 123 Graebner, Robert Fritz, 8, 24n2 Green, Roger, 82 Grimble, Arthur, 22 Groube, Les, 16 Groves, Murray C., 169, 177 Groves, William Charles, 51

Haddon, Alfred Cort, ix, x, xii, 8, 11, 12, 22, 184 Hadfield, Reverend Percival, 70, 74, 83n12, 122, 123, 133n18 Hancock, Keith, 86 at ANU, 86–88, 147–49, 172n53 and ANU Academic Advisory Board, 86, 89 and Edmund Leach, 149, 150, 151, 152, 170n14 and Electoral Committee, 149, 156 and Jim Davidson, 87, 156, 157, 165 and John Barnes, 155 and Leslie Melville, 147, 155, 157 and Meyer Fortes, 88, 149, 149 and search for S.F. Nadel’s replacement, 148, 149, 150, 151, 155, 157, 159, 160, 163, 165 W.E.H. Stanner’s anger with, 163, 164–65 Harding, Florence, 50 Harré, John, 16 Hart, Charles William Merton, xiin4, 36, 185, 186 Harvard University, 96, 171n32 Hasluck, Paul, 56n14, 94, 146 Hawai`i, viii, 13, 22, 58, 103 Hawai`i, University of, 75, 84n23 Hawthorn, Harry, 70, 71, 73, 74, 84n23, 176 Hiatt, Lester Richard (Les), 124, 168, 180, 193 Higham, Charles, 16 Hocart, A.M., 22 Hocken, Thomas Moreland, 10 Hogbin, H. Ian, xiin4, 42n13, 53, 113n48, 113n54, 113n55, 114n64, 132n4, 132n7, 132n8, 169, 185, 186 at ANU, 93, 99, 100, 101 and A.P. Elkin, 37, 112n44, 119, 139 and Berndts, 139, 177

238

Hogbin, H. Ian (cont.) consideration for ANU chair, 87, 100–1 consideration for Sydney chair, 35, 36, 37 dislike of W.E.H. Stanner, 121, 177 friendship with Raymond Firth, 122, 139, 186 Raymond Firth on, 35, 87, 93, 99, 112n44, 121 and Sydney chair, 119–22, 123, 129, 139, 184 at Sydney University, 37, 53, 87, 100, 113n54, 119, 131, 133n12, 138, 152 and W.E.H. Stanner, 99 W.E.H. Stanner’s criticism of, 100, 113n48, 133n12 Hohnen, Ross, 101, 156 Hole, Vere, 50 Honolulu, 28, 66, 75, 122 Hornbostel, Erich von, 91 Industrial Psychology Division (IPD), 47 Institute of International Affairs, 73 International Institute of African Language and Culture (IIALC), xi, 91 International Research Council, 17 Jayawardena, Chandra, 169 Journal of the Polynesian Society, The (JPS), x, 9, 11, 15, 59. See also Polynesian Society Jubilee Conference on Social Processes in the Pacific, 101, 102 Kaberry, Phyllis, xiin4, xiin6, 40, 87, 110n6, 143n4, 186 A.P. Elkin as patron of, 118, 119, 132n3, 191n13 and A.P. Elkin’s successor, 126, 127, 129–30

Index

on Berndts, 126, 139–40 on W.E.H. Stanner, 127 Keesing, Felix, xiin4, 13, 14, 15, 58, 59, 63, 66, 67, 80, 186 Keesing, Roger, ix Kelly, Caroline Tennant, 50, 98 King’s College London, 125, 152 Kluckhohn, Clyde and Florence, 135 Knibbs, George, 19 Lach, Robert, 90, 91 Langness, Louis, 169 Latukefu, Ruth. See Fink—Ruth Lawrence, Peter, 101, 102 Leach, Edmund, xin2, 109, 121, 124, 149, 150, 173n72 consideration for ANU chair, 149, 150–52, 159, 162 League of Nations, ix, 16, 27, 38 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 180 Liberal Party of Australia, 53, 193 Lienhardt, Godfrey, 123 London ANU Academic Advisory Board in, 86 committee, 71, 72, 73, 76, 77 London School of Economics (LSE), xiin3, 103, 104, 109, 133n24, 185 Berndts at, 124, 136, 137 Bill Geddes at, 13, 114n66 Bronisław Malinowski at, x, xi, xiin3, 13, 22, 34, 76, 103, 123 Charles Hart at, 186 Derek Freeman at, 13, 102, 114n66, 160 Earnest Beaglehole at, xiin4 Edmund Leach at, 124, 149, 150, 173n72 Eileen Power at, 87 Ian Hogbin at, 186 John Barnes at, 124, 180 Lucy Mair at, 53, 87, 110n6, 134n32 Maurice Freedman at, 121, 125 Meyer Fortes at, 103

Index239

Phyllis Kaberry at, 40, 186 Ralph Piddington at, 78, 186 Raymond Firth at, xiin4, 13, 34, 63, 125, 184, 186, 187, 189, 190, 191n12 Rockefeller Foundation funding for, xi, 78, 91 S.F. Nadel at, 91, 92, 103, 104, 105, 110n17 W.E.H. Stanner at, 125, 134n32, 186 London, University of, 35, 68, 70 Bill Geddes at, 178 LSE. See London School of Economics Lugard, Sir Frederick (Lord), 28, 92 Lyle, Thomas, 21 MacCallum, Mungo, 36, 44n39 MacDonald, John, 50 Macintosh, Neil William George, 177 Macquarie University, 169, 195 Mair, Lucy, xiin6, 53, 87, 103, 110n6, 126, 128, 130, 134n32 Makerere College (Uganda), xiin4, 70, 72, 88, 99 Malinowski, Bronisław, 8, 17, 22, 30, 109 interference in Sydney appointments, x, 34, 35, 184 at LSE, x, xi, xiin3, 13, 34, 76, 103, 123, 187 Malinowskian functionalism, 78, 82 and Raymond Firth, 34, 184, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191n12 students of, x, 87, 92, 103, 184 theories, 12, 13, 75 Manchester, University of, 99, 124, 166, 168, 173n74 Marett, Robert Ranulph, ix, 11, 184 Martin, Jean. See Craig—Jean Marwick, Maxwell Gay, 123, 193, 197n2

Masson, David Orme, 17, 19 McEwen, Jack, 41 McLaren, John Gilbert, 18 Meggitt, Mervyn, 47, 112n38, 131, 152, 169, 180, 182n17, 193 at UWA, 138, 144n31 Meiser, Richard, 90 Melbourne, 16, 94, 98, 111n30 Melbourne, University of, 95, 195 and Donald Thomson, xii4, 51, 186 Melville, Leslie Galfreid, 88, 147, 151, 152 and ANU appointments, 88, 146, 147, 149, 157, 159, 160 as ANU Vice-Chancellor, 88, 147 and Jim Davidson, 154, 157, 159, 165, 172n54 and John Barnes, 155, 156, 165 and Keith Hancock, 147, 148–49, 150, 155, 157 and Oskar Spate, 151, 153–54 and W.E.H. Stanner, 153, 154, 156, 158, 159 W.E.H. Stanner’s anger with, 163, 164, 165 Menzies, Robert, 53, 194 Middleton, John, 123 Mitchell, Clyde, 123 Moerman, Michael, 169 Monash University, 169, 189, 192, 195 Munn, Nancy, 193 Murray Report, 192 Murray, Jack Keith, 53, 56n14 Murray, John Hubert Plunkett, 7, 29, 42n9 Nadel, Siegfried Ferdinand Stephan (Frederick), viii, 109, 110n17, 111n22, 112n44, 178, 179 in Africa, 92, 107 as ANU Foundation Professor, 87–89, 93–109, 114n67, 114n71, 115n78, 146, 162, 166

240

Nadel, Siegfried Ferdinand Stephan (Frederick) (cont.) Berndts’ dislike of, 115n77 consultation on A.P. Elkin’s successor, 126, 127, 130 criticism of, 104, 105–7, 114n67, 114n72, 115n76, 115n77, 162 criticism of Ronald Berndt, 126 Cyril Belshaw on, 105, 107, 114n67 death of, 108, 117, 143, 146, 147, 152, 160, 162 and Derek Freeman, 109, 160, 162 development of ANU department, viii, 96–98, 102–4, 108–9, 166 at Durham University, 92–93 Jeremy Beckett’s praise of, 105, 109, 152 Jim Davidson on, 106–7, 115n76 and John Barnes, 115n78, 130 Keith Hancock and search for replacement for, 148, 149, 150, 151, 155, 157, 159, 160, 163, 165 legacy, 108–9, 166, 167 in London, 91, 105, 115n80 at LSE, 91, 92, 103, 104, 105, 110n17 Marie Reay’s criticism of, 104 on Maurice Freedman, 127 and Meyer Fortes, 109 Oskar Spate and search for successor for, 149, 151, 153–54 and Raymond Firth, 96, 97, 100–2, 105–6, 107, 115n80 Raymond Firth on, 105–6, 107 Raymond Firth’s advice on replacement for, 158, 159, 160–61 Raymond Firth’s support for, 87, 88, 89, 93, 102

Index

Rockefeller Foundation fellowship to LSE, 91–92, 103 and RSPacS, 102, 107–8, 115n80 search for successor for, 109, 146, 147–65 students of, 102–3, 114n64 support for W.E.H. Stanner, 127–28 on W.E.H. Stanner, 127–28, 129 W.E.H. Stanner on, 104–5, 107, 109, 148 Walter Crocker on, 107, 115n84 Neville, Auber O., 132n3 New Zealand. See Aotearoa/New Zealand New Zealand Expeditionary Force, 2nd, 177 New Zealand Journal of Science and Technology, 11 New Zealand, Royal Society of, 80 New Zealand, University of, xin1, 24n6, 59, 178 colleges of, 8, 11, 13, 15, 24n6 Conference of Colleges, 62 establishment of anthropology at, 10, 11, 80 See also Auckland—University of; Otago—University of; Victoria University College Ngata, Aˉpirana, 13, 14–15, 57–58, 59–60, 65, 190 NSW Aborigines Welfare Board, 40, 50, 56n16, 117, 181 Oceania (journal), x, 31 A.P. Elkin as editor, 32, 41, 74, 75, 120, 134n30, 176 A.R. Radcliffe-Brown in, 38 Berndts in, 134n30 Bill Geddes in, 74 John Barnes denied editorship of, 131, 155 Ralph Piddington in, 75 Rockefeller Foundation funding of, 23

Index241

W.E.H. Stanner in, 72 W.E.H. Stanner’s criticism of, 179 Oldham, Joseph H. (Joe), 187 Oliphant, Mark, 86, 149 Oliver, Douglas, 148, 152 Otago, University of, 10, 11, 15, 24n6 alumni, 13, 112n42, 177 anthropology at, 10–12, 15 Ernest Beaglehole’s criticism of, 62, 67 H.D. Skinner’s appointment to, x, 8, 10, 15, 67, 184 Otago University Museum, 8, 10, 12, 15, 66 Oxford, University of, x, xiin3, 68, 127, 180 alumni, ix, 11, 16, 70, 87, 99, 110n6, 114n65, 173n72 A.R. Radcliffe-Brown at, x, 31, 32, 129 John Barnes at, 124, 129, 134n25 Page, Earle, 17 Pan-Pacific Science Congress, ix, 16, 41, 58 Parry Report, 192 Pawley, Andy, 103 Perham, Margery, 87, 110n6 Perry, William James, 11, 44n40, 84n24 Peterson, Nicolas, 22 Piddington, Ralph O’Reilly, viii, xiin4, 70, 78, 84n25, 84n26, 85n27, 132n3, 185 at Aberdeen University, 75 and A.P. Elkin, 77–78 A.P. Elkin’s discrediting of, 73, 74–75, 76, 119, 133n22 appointment to Auckland chair, 15, 55, 70, 71, 72–80 criticism of, 44n43 and DORCA, 53 at Edinburgh University, 70, 72, 73, 75

on H.D. Skinner, 15 legacy, 81–82 and Raymond Firth, 78, 83n11, 186, 191n14 Raymond Firth on, 70, 76 Rockefeller Foundation fellowship, 76, 186 shaping of Auckland department, 78–80, 81, 85n39 Polynesian Society, 9, 13, 15, 177 See also The Journal of the Polynesian Society Pouwer, Jan, 169, 195 Powell, Harry, 101 Power, Eileen, 87, 110n6 (Radcliffe)-Brown, Alfred Reginald, x, 12, 22, 36 Alfred Haddon’s support for, x, 184 and ANRC, 31 and A.P. Elkin, 32, 35 appointment to Sydney chair, 22, 27, 184 criticism of, 31–32, 84n22 departure from Sydney, 30–33, 184 ideas on anthropology, 27, 38, 44 legacy, 39, 78, 117 move to Chicago, 31, 32 at Oxford University, 129 and Ralph Piddington, 70, 75 and Raymond Firth, 33, 35, 184, 185, 187, 189 as Sydney chair, xiin3, 27–32, 184 at Sydney University, 30, 31–32, 70, 125, 179, 185 and training of Colonial Service officers, 27–29, 31, 38 at University College London, 129 at University of Cape Town, x, 27, 32, 123, 184 and W.E.H. Stanner, 125, 134n33, 178

242

(Radcliffe)-Brown, Alfred Reginald, (cont.) W.E.H. Stanner’s defence of, 32–33 Ravenscroft, Moira, 50 Read, Kenneth Eyre (Mick), 53, 114n64, 114n67, 101, 102, 138, 140, 144n29, 177, 178 Reay, Marie, 50, 102, 103, 104, 114n69, 165, 197n6 Redfield, Robert, 158, 161 Research School of Pacific Studies, ANU (RSPacS), 106, 146 deanship, 106, 107, 148, 149 directorship, 105, 106, 107, 146, 148, 149 and Jubilee Conference, 101, 102 and Keith Hancock, 86–87 Keith Hancock’s interference in, 147, 148, 157, 164, 172n53 Leslie Melville on, 146, 147 Oskar Spate as dean, 153 Oskar Spate as director, 169 Raymond Firth declines directorship of, 105, 126, 154 Raymond Firth’s role in establishment of, 70, 86–87, 102, 187 S.F. Nadel on, 108, 102 Research School of Social Sciences, ANU (RSSS), 87, 98, 112n42, 147, 164, 172n53, 174n96 Rhodes–Livingstone Institute, 123, 193, 196 Richards, Audrey, xiin6, 87–88, 103, 110n11, 134n32, 149, 191n10 Rivers, W.H.R. (William Halse Rivers), xin2, 11 Rockefeller Foundation, x, xi, 20–22, 25n23, 29, 91, 117 and ANRC, 23, 37–38, 76 cessation of Australian funding, xi, 29, 36, 40 fellowships, 76, 78, 91, 125, 186

Index

funding of Oceania journal, 23 misappropriation of funds from, 37, 44n43 and Sydney chair, x, xi, 20–21, 22–23, 29, 31, 35, 36, 37–38, 117 Royal Anthropological Institute, 10, 179 Royal Society of New Zealand, 80 RSPacS. See Research School of Pacific Studies RSSS. See Research School of Social Sciences Ryan, D’Arcy, 152, 180 Sachs, Kurt, 91 Sahlins, Marshall, 180 Salisbury, Richard, 102 Schapera, Isaac, 42n13, 121, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 149, 171n38 Scheffler, Harry, 169 Scobie, Richard Alexander, 80 Scott, William A.G., 192, 193 Secoy, Frank Raymond, 177, 181n4 Seligman, Charles, 11, 92 Sharp, Lauriston, 148 Silberbauer, George, 193, 197n2 Skinner, Henry Devenish, 8, 9, 10–11, 14, 15, 57 and Auckland chair, 63, 64, 66, 67 and Otago University, x, 8, 10, 12, 13, 15, 67, 177, 184 Smith, Grafton Elliot, 11, 20, 21, 22, 35–36, 84n24 Smith, Michael Garfield, 123 Smith, Stephenson Percy, 9, 11, 13 South Pacific Commission (SPC), 66, 83n10, 97, 98, 112n44 Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO), 180, 183n22 Spate, Oskar, 101, 102, 115n76, 147, 169 on Derek Freeman, 153–54

Index243

and search for S.F. Nadel’s successor, 149, 151, 153–54 on W.E.H. Stanner, 153, 154 Spencer, Baldwin, 7, 19 Spoehr, Alexander, 148 Stanford University, 63, 66 Stanner, William Edward Hanley (Bill), xiin4, 4, 84n18, 101, 125, 171n32, 173n62, 185, 194 1957 fieldwork, 153–54, 155–56, 158–59, 164 as acting ANU department head, 153–54, 158, 159, 174n82 anger with Keith Hancock, 163, 164–65 anger with Leslie Melville, 163, 164, 165 ANU appointments, 77, 93, 99, 100, 168 and A.P. Elkin, 100, 133n22 A.P. Elkin’s lack of support for, 118–19, 122 A.P. Elkin’s support for, 73–74, 75, 76, 118–19, 191n13 applicant as A.P. Elkin’s successor, 122, 123, 125, 127–28, 129, 138 application for Auckland chair, 71, 72–74, 75, 76, 77, 99, 134n33 application for Sydney chair, 4, 176, 178, 179 and A.R. Radcliffe-Brown, 125, 134n33, 178 arrangements with Leslie Melville, 153, 154, 156, 158, 159 on Bronisław Malinowski, 103 considered for ANU chair, 4, 87 criticism of, 72, 125, 127–28, 161, 179 criticism of A.P. Elkin as Sydney chair, 32, 100, 113n56, 179 criticism of Audrey Richards, 134n32

criticism of Australian anthropology, 100 criticism of Ian Hogbin, 100, 113n48, 133n12 criticism of Lucy Mair, 134n32 defence of A.R. Radcliffe-Brown, 32–33 departure from Makerere, 70, 88, 99, 160 and DORCA, 53, 113n55 and Ian Hogbin, 99 Ian Hogbin’s dislike of, 121, 177 ‘incident’ over ANU chair appointment, 4, 153–54, 155, 156, 157, 158–59, 160, 161, 163–66, 168, 173n63, 178 and Jim Davidson, 154, 158, 159, 163, 164, 165, 173n63 and John Barnes, 165, 174n95, 178 John Barnes on, 130, 163, 165–66, 178–79 at LSE, 125, 134n32, 186 at Makerere, 72 as military commander, 51 and Oceania (journal), 72, 179 opinion of Sydney department, 32, 100, 163, 179 and Oskar Spate, 153, 154 poor relations with Derek Freeman, 163, 164, 165, 174n95 and Raymond Firth, 87, 32, 125, 154, 164, 165, 179 Raymond Firth as mentor, 4, 70, 77, 99, 134n33, 168, 173n72 Raymond Firth’s criticism of, 160, 179 Raymond Firth’s support for, 127, 129, 160 rebuke of A.P. Elkin, 32–33 research, 72, 73, 98, 130, 153 and Ronald Berndt, 177 and search for S.F. Nadel’s replacement, 148, 149, 158–59, 160, 161, 164

244

Stanner, William Edward Hanley (Bill) (cont.) on S.F. Nadel, 104–5, 107, 109, 148 S.F. Nadel on, 127–28, 129 S.F. Nadel’s support for, 127–28 as student of A.R. RadcliffeBrown, 32, 125 students of, 112n33, 193 support for S.F. Nadel, 104–5, 107, 109 Strehlow, T.G.H. (Ted, Theodor George Henry), 130 Sutherland, Ivan L.G., xiin4, 14, 15, 57–58, 83n1, 178 Swift, Michael G., 169, 193 Sydney, University of, Anthropology Department, 29, 144n27, 149, 194 Alfred Haddon’s support for Radcliffe-Brown as chair, x, 184 alumni, 26n31, 42n13, 50, 53, 98, 104, 135, 186, 193 and ANRC, 23, 31, 35, 36, 37 ANRC call for government funding of, 17, 19, 20–21 A.P. Elkin arranging positions for Ronald Berndt at, 118, 124–25, 136–37, 138 A.P. Elkin as chair, 6n4, 39, 64, 77–78, 94, 97, 117, 131, 179 A.P. Elkin as disruptive presence in, 132, 155, 176, 179 A.P. Elkin’s appointment to, 36, 37, 184, 185 A.P. Elkin’s push for Ronald Berndt as chair, 118, 119–20, 122–23, 139 appointments to, 1, 30, 33, 36, 50, 177 A.R. Radcliffe-Brown as chair, xiin3, 27–32, 184 A.R. Radcliffe-Brown at, 30, 31–32, 70, 125, 179, 185

Index

A.R. Radcliffe-Brown’s appointment to, 22, 27, 184 A.R. Radcliffe-Brown’s departure from, 30–33, 184 Bill Geddes’ appointment to, 80, 177, 178, 179, 180–81 Bronisław Malinowski’s interference in appointments to, x, 34, 35, 184 as centre of research, x–xi, 94, 190 challenge to hegemony of, 50, 51, 54, 55, 94, 100 competition from ANU, 54, 55, 94, 163 conflict within, 130–31, 155, 163, 166, 176, 178 criticism of A.P. Elkin as chair, 32, 100, 113n56, 130, 179 criticism of A.R. Radcliffe-Brown as chair, 31–32 Cyril Belshaw’s application for chair, 122, 123, 133n13, 133n19, 163, 176 development of anthropology at, 31, 33, 65, 94, 100, 117, 131, 137, 140, 159, 176, 180–81, 189, 195 Edward Evans-Pritchard and appointments to, xi, 173n74 establishment of, 22–23, 27–41 financial problems, 31–32, 35, 36, 130, 155 government funding of chair, 17, 19, 23, 27, 31, 33, 36, 37–38, 55 Ian Hogbin and chair, 119–22, 123, 129, 139, 184 Ian Hogbin at, 37, 53, 87, 100, 113n54, 119, 131, 133n12, 138, 152 Ian Hogbin considered for chair, 35, 36, 37 introduction of PhDs, 54, 94, 103, 124, 179, 180

Index245

John Barnes’s application for chair, 121, 122, 123, 124, 127, 128 John Barnes’s appointment to, 129–30, 131, 132, 135, 139, 157, 176 John Barnes’s departure from, 163, 176, 177, 178–79, 189 John Barnes’s disillusionment with, 155, 156, 159, 163, 166, 179, 180 John Barnes’s implementation of change, 130–31, 140, 166, 181 lack of support for women, 35, 103 Maurice Freedman’s application for chair, 125, 127 as model for UWA school, 135, 137, 140 Ralph Piddington at, viii, 70, 75 Raymond Firth and appointments to, 184–85, 188, 189, 190 Raymond Firth as acting chair, 30, 33, 75, 125, 184, 189 Raymond Firth at, 14, 36, 70, 84n13, 139, 185, 189 Raymond Firth on state of, 130 Raymond Firth’s appointment of A.P. Elkin to, 35, 184 research focus, 22, 29, 54–55, 94, 117 Robert Glasse at, 152 Rockefeller Foundation funding of, x, xi, 20–21, 22–23, 29, 31, 35, 36, 37–38, 117 Ronald Berndt as applicant for chair, 120, 121, 122, 126–27, 139 Ronald Berndt at, 118, 132, 136–37, 138, 139, 140 Ronald Berndt’s departure from, 140, 141, 168 Ronald Berndt’s opinion of, 176, 177, 178

search for locum tenens for Raymond Firth, 34, 35 search for replacement for A.P. Elkin, 117–32, 188 search for replacement for A.R. Radcliffe-Brown, 34, 36 search for replacement for John Barnes, 176–77, 189 and S.F. Nadel at ANU, 94, 97 staffing, 29–30, 33, 64–65, 130, 195 staffing under A.P. Elkin, 64 threat to A.P. Elkin’s control over, 54, 94, 100 and training of Colonial Service officers, 17, 22, 27, 28, 29, 38, 50–51, 54, 65, 68, 100, 117 W.E.H. Stanner at, 32, 73, 125 W.E.H. Stanner’s application for chair, 4, 176, 178, 179 W.E.H. Stanner’s criticism of A.P. Elkin as chair, 32, 100, 113n56, 179 W.E.H. Stanner’s opinion of, 32, 100, 163, 179 Sydney University Senate, 22, 31, 35, 137, 138, 178 Tatz, Colin, 193, 195 Taylor, Richard Morris Stovin, 70, 74, 83n12 Te Rangi Hıˉroa. See Buck—Peter Thomson, Donald, xiin4, 44n43, 51, 186 Tregear, Edward, 9, 13 Turner, Victor, 123, 169 University College London, xiin4, 20, 22 John Barnes at, 124, 129 Phyllis Kaberry at, 87, 129 universities. See under individual names UWA. See Western Australia— University of

246

Victoria University College (Wellington), 13, 15, 24n6, 48, 55n5, 57, 58, 62, 63, 195 Walker, Kenneth F. (Ken), 135–36, 137, 138, 140, 141 Wedgwood, Camilla, 30, 33, 34–35, 42n13, 53, 43n28, 43n32 Wentworth, William C., 193, 194 Westermann, Diedrich, viii, 91, 187 Western Australia, University of (UWA), Anthropology Department, 135–43, 144n37, 193, 194, 195 A.P. Elkin’s influence on, 135–38, 140 A.P. Elkin’s interference in appointments to, 137, 138, 188 Berndts’ development of, 140–41, 168 Berndts’ move to, 140, 142, 143 Carnegie Corporation funding for, 135

Index

Catherine Berndt at, 138, 140, 142 Ken Walker at, 135–36, 137, 138, 140, 141 Mervyn Meggitt at, 138, 144n31 Raymond Firth’s advice on, 137, 189 Ronald Berndt at, 140, 141, 143, 168, 177 Ronald Berndt’s application to, 137, 138, 140 Sydney department as model for, 135, 137, 140 Whitlam Labor Government, 141 Williams, Francis Edgar, ix, 36, 42n9, 51, 55n10 Wilson, James Thomas, 22, 26n31 Wilson, Judith, 166 Winiata, Maharaia, 85n39 Wissler, Clarke, 22 Wolf, Eric, 180 Worsley, Peter, 102, 104, 112n33, 112n39, 177, 179 Yale University, xii4, 84n23, 96