Russell Tussle

Bertrand Russell last week found himself in a clamorous scrap for the second time in less than three years. In 1940 the philosopher's appointment to the College of the City of New York was revoked after outraged parents called attention to such old Russell saws as, "I am sure that university life would be better, both intellectually and morally, if most university students had temporary childless marriages." Russell's more recent boot was delivered by Philadelphia's Dr. Albert C. Barnes, whose foul temper is as famed as his gallery of Cezannes, Matisses, Renoirs and Picassos (TIME, Oct. 28, 1940).

Barnes, the South Philadelphia boy who invented Argyrol, made millions, and settled down to insult Philadelphia society and accumulate paintings, sometimes gets a yen for a philosopher. His favorite, and frequent drinking companion, is John Dewey. In 1940, blaming the C.C.N.Y. furor on "bigoted authoritarians," Barnes hired Bertrand Russell for the Barnes Foundation, an art school connected with the gallery.

Barnes gave Russell a five-year lecture contract ($8,000 yearly) with "no restrictions." Barnes chose a house for Russell and his third wife, arranged its furnishings and offered free advice on the care of their five-year-old son. This decisive hospitality grated on Mrs. Russell's British sense of privacy. She wrote Barnes a polite note inviting him to mind his own business, selected a less expensive house 25 miles from the Foundation.

Barnes soon discovered that Russell, who regularly changes his unlisted telephone number, did not intend to become as cozy as John Dewey. Russell also preferred not to lecture in the Foundation's main gallery, where the glowing nudes distracted him, and moved his lectures to less fleshly quarters on the second floor.

Though Russell, a British earl, dislikes his title, his wife called herself Lady Russell when telephoning the Foundation. This infuriated Barnes, who carries anti-snobbery to a point of fanatic snobbism. Snorted he: "She seems to have difficulty swallowing the impressive title of Lady Russell. It evidently gets stuck just below her larynx for she regurgitates it automatically."

One day Lady Russell worked on her knitting at the Foundation during her husband's lecture. She soon got a letter from the Foundation's Board of Trustees* saying that her knitting was "harmful to the Foundation's interests."

Mrs. Russell then pinned back the Barnes ears. She wrote: "When I consulted my husband, he remarked that I had disturbed no one by my knitting at far more difficult and technical lectures at the Universities of Oxford, Chicago, California and Harvard and that, therefore, I might assume that I would be giving no offense. ... I... marvel that anyone should wish in a world so full of mountains of hostility to magnify so grandiloquently so petty a molehill."

Replied the trustees: "It was sweet of you. . . ."

On Jan. 7 Russell did not show up for his regular lecture. It was the chance Barnes had been waiting for. His trustees immediately announced that "Mr. Bertrand Russell has discontinued his lectures" and that the contract was broken. Russell last week sued Barnes for the $24,000 the philosopher was to receive through 1945. The Philadelphia Record suggested that Dr. Barnes "subsidize Russell so that a controversy enjoyed by all might be continued without undue hardship upon one of the principals." Growled Barnes: "The suggestion may be practicable."*

* The trustees: Mrs. Barnes and three of Barnes's employes.

* In another tantrum Barnes last week closed his museum and art school after his ration board insisted he convert to coal heat. Coal smoke would smudge his paintings, Barnes said, adding that the ration board was "semiliterate" and "asked me if I ever beat my wife."

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