Elton

JVtayo
Elton
Mayo
The
Humanist
Temper

Richard C.S. Trahair

With a foreword
by Abraham Zaleznik;

O Routledge
Taylor & Francis Group
LONDON AND NEW YORK
First published 1984 by Transaction Publishers

Published 2017 by Routledge

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Library of Congress Catalog Number: 83-24116

The Library of Congress has cataloged the cloth edition as follows:

Trahair, R.C.S.
The humanist temper.

Bibliography: p.
Includes index.
1. Mayo, Elton, 1880-1949. 2. Industrial sociologists—United
States—Bibliography. 3. Industrial sociology—United States. I.Title.
HD6957.U6T73 1984 306'.36'0924 [B] 83-24116
ISBN 0-88738-006-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-4128-0524-7 (pbk)

 Contents

Foreword: The Promise of Elton Mayo 1

Abraham Zaleznik
Preface 15
Acknowledgments 19
Abbreviations and Sources 23
1. Mayo Family in Adelaide, 1880-1893 25
2. Early Failures, 1893-1904 35
3. Education and Career, 1905-1911 51
4. Early Years in Queensland, 1911-1913 61
5. Career, Family, and Friends, 1914-1919 73
6. War, Politics, and the New Psychology, 1914-1919 87
7. Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer, 1919-1921 103
8. Crises and Career, 1919-1921 125
9. To America, 1922-1923 143
10. Industrial Studies in Philadelphia 171
11. Philadelphia to Harvard 181
12. Harvard 1926-32: Early Research and Associates 197
13. Harvard 1926-1932: Teaching, Clinical Work,
Writing and Travel 213
14. Mayo at the Hawthorne Works: 1928-1931 225
15. Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works: 1929-1932 243
16. Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism: 1932-1942 257
17. Family and the Clinic: 1932-1942 271
18. Collaboration: 1932-1942 287
19. Personal and Political Problems: 1932-1942 303
20. Last Years at Harvard: 1942-1947 321
21. Retirement and Death in England: 1947-1949 341
22. The Character and Contributions of Elton Mayo 349
Photographs 362
Writings of Elton Mayo 367
References 373
General Index 377
Elton Mayo Index 385
 Foreword: The Promise of Elton Mayo

Abraham Zaleznik

George Elton Mayo pioneered in the field of industrial human relations

and for that work deserves a place in business history. I seriously doubt,
however, that Mayo would have secured this position were it not for the
labor and dedication of his countrym an and biographer Richard
C.S. Trahair.
Understanding Elton Mayo, the man and his ideas, requires more than a
reading of his few books or studying the results of the Western Electric
researches. Almost everyone takes for granted today that the success of an
enterprise requires careful attention to human factors. No one believes that
Frederick Taylor and scientific management provide the key to industrial
management. Almost everyone accepts the idea that management is more
than applied economics and that decision making is much more than the
mathematics of probability or applied game theory. All schools of business
and public administration appoint social scientists to their faculties, and
courses in organizational behavior are routinely accepted in the curricula.
Yet in Mayo’s time, management was hardly viewed as a profession, and
the idea of considering human relations in factories and offices was as­
tonishing. From the perspective of the 1890s, what Mayo urged in broad
outline has become part of the orthodoxy of modern management. Despite
this diffuse acceptance of Elton Mayo’s ideas, few students know who he is,
and even the most mature managers probably spend little time reflecting
on his work.
In writing the biography of Elton Mayo, Richard Trahair sought to
discover the facts about this man and his work and to report them
faithfully and accurately. It was never his intention to make a hero of
Mayo, nor to apologize for his foibles and limitations. The foibles and
limitations were in abundance, and to his great credit, the author does not
spare his subject by glossing over facts that lead to questions about the
nature of this bold figure in industrial history, the content of his psychology
of the workplace, and the manner of the cure he sought to impose on the

1
2 Elton Mayo

sickness of an acquisitive society. Richard Trahair had to face and report

the fact that Mayo was not averse to overpresenting his formal qualifica­
tions or that he eagerly sought acceptance from medical practitioners and
psychiatrists. It was remarkable how easily he gained the confidence of
respected physicians who invited him into their clinics and referred pa­
tients to him for psychiatric treatment. Among respected management
specialists such as Colonel Urwick, Mayo was known as “doctor,” and
referred to as a psychiatrist specializing in the treatment of mental disor­
ders. Mayo did attend medical school in Australia and England, but he
dropped out of the course of study for reasons that are not clear but that
suggest the anxieties of a young man who felt overwhelmed when faced
with making commitments or accepting conventional roles. Despite the
fact that he left medical school, he appeared drawn to the practice of
psychiatry such as it was in his time, and indeed, the record seems clear
that Mayo had an extraordinary capacity to touch people who were in
distress and for whom a healer was a godsend.
I did not know Elton Mayo personally. When I accepted my first ap­
pointment as a research assistant at the Harvard Business School in Febru­
ary 1947, Elton Mayo was preparing to retire the following June. I first
became aware of this strange figure of a man when the head teller of the
Cambridge Trust Company, a local bank, pointed him out to me and said
in a voice mixed with awe and amusement: “There goes Elton Mayo.”
Years later, a colleague described how Mayo, with uncanny acuity, recog­
nized his distress over the illness of his infant child. Mayo asked the kinds
of questions and made the kinds of comments that were reassuring if only
on the level of showing human concern for another’s commonplace anx­
ieties. Many people thought that he had magical powers as an interviewer.
Putting the question of magic aside, Mayo’s rules of interviewing still de­
serve attention from researchers who think they can advance knowledge by
studying people in the places where they live and work or, as we often say at
the Harvard Business School, “in the field.” To listen and not to talk does
not come naturally to most of us; we can obtain huge dividends by reflect­
ing on Mayo’s simple advice for conducting studies in the field.
From the perspective of psychoanalytic knowledge, Mayo’s talents were
not so uncanny as they appeared to his students or to the industrial man­
agers who accepted his guidance in the conduct of research into the condi­
tions of productivity and morale in the factory. Nevertheless it took
extraordinary talents and nerve to venture into factories with a method
based on a theory derived from psychiatry. Imagine what it must have been
like in the 1920s and 1930s to conduct research in factories into the human
aspects of productivity and morale. From the textile mills in Philadelphia
to the Hawthorne Works in Cicero, Illinois, this slim, gangly figure, with
his long cigarette holder, held court on the problems of reveries and their
interference with a worker’s ability to concentrate and perform his tasks.
 Foreword 3

Mayo’s cure for these unsettling reveries was to establish contact with the
worker and give him a feeling of no longer being alone. Mayo believed that
the isolation of the workplace produced the symptoms of distress such as
boredom, fatigue, and the sense of hoplessness that often accompany isola­
tion—what the sociologist Emile Durkheim called “anomie.” Mayo be­
lieved there was a variety of ways to interfere with the morbid process that
he ascribed to reverie—ranging from taking a worker’s blood pressure and
getting him to talk about what was on his mind, to establishing rhythms of
work and rest, with the periods of rest including an opportunity for workers
to talk to each other. In advance of Carl Rogers, Mayo practiced nondirec­
tive interviewing, primarily designed to establish human contact among
otherwise isolated individuals.
As I have indicated, Mayo’s practice was not magical or uncanny. He
utilized the power of transference to affect the people he saw. Lest the
accusation be made that he used transference only with members of the
working class, who could easily be seduced into a dependency relationship,
the following pages clearly show that managers were also susceptible to the
powers of transference, and placed extraordinary trust in this odd figure
who spoke like an Englishman and carried a handkerchief in his sleeve.
After reading Elton Mayo’s work—a lean legacy considering the many
years he spent in universities—I doubt that Mayo understood that he was
using transference to reform industrial practice and human relations.
Mayo, professing to a strong aversion to Freud, confessed in a letter that he
was no longer a Freudian. Indeed, he may never have been one. Because of
his limited understanding of transference, Mayo may have been caught up
in it emotionally as much as the subjects who sat quietly as he took their
blood pressure and only gradually began to give voice to their inner
thoughts and feelings.
The systematic study of transference, whether in the clinic or the fac­
tory, creates an awareness of the varying kinds of emotions that bind peo­
ple to one another. It also produces a healthy antidote to the tendency to
manipulate people by gaining some access to, and even control over, their
emotions. However, Mayo was anything but a cautious man. Either the
power of the tools he was using was outside of his awareness, or he believed
that greater dangers came from the psychological isolation of the factory
than from the fallouts of the kind of seduction he practiced.
There was still another side to Mayo’s simplistic view of psychopathol­
ogy and the remedies he proposed and practiced in its amelioration. Mayo’s
strategy was to seek complex fact and apply simple theory. This strategy
may explain his attraction to the neurologist Pierre Janet who, as intellec­
tual history demonstrates, was a minor figure in the pantheon of the psy­
chopathologists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Janet proposed
that the symptoms of hysteria resulted from the hypnogogic states that
certain individuals were predisposed to as a result of unspecified organic
4 Elton Mayo

factors. Mayo took Janet’s theories of the hypnogogic state and the effects
of suggestibility and applied them to the industrial scene. He believed that
instead of organic factors predisposing the individual to hypnogogic reverie
it could occur as an effect of the social isolation of the workplace and the
repetitive quality of the work itself. Strangely enough, Mayo seldom spec­
ified, or for that matter investigated systematically, the content of a reverie
to-seek its meaning and identify what was noxious in its substance. Instead,
Mayo looked for its social causation—in particular the absence of interper­
sonal ties under conditions of repetitive work activity. Mayo’s prescriptions
for these human problems of an industrial civilization followed from his
theory, but the key point in his strategy was to keep the theory simple.
What we shall have to consider later in this essay is the consequences of this
strategy on investigators who followed him and on the practitioners who
tried to apply his remedies. As we shall see, one of the dilemmas of apply­
ing a transference cure to any illness, is that the healing effects usually last
only so long as the transference figure is around to keep the seduction alive
and the promise a continuing source of hope. Mayo, like many trans­
ference figures before and after him, did not have the power to maintain the
effects of his personality on the people who came under his influence.
Mayo’s formula of simple theory and complex fact enabled him to com­
municate a message that provided the industrialist with fresh ideas with
which to confront the popular program of scientific management that then
dominated the theory and practice of industrial management. In providing
these fresh ideas, Mayo found powerful allies in the Rockefeller Founda­
tion and in the dean of the Harvard Business School, Wallace Brett Don-
ham, the physiologist Lawrence J. Henderson, and the philosopher Alfred
North Whitehead. Mayo’s other allies included his friend Bronislaw Mal­
inowski, the gifted anthropologist, and child psychologist Jean Piaget,
whom Mayo knew mainly from his writing. These latter figures provided
Mayo with support from the social sciences for his methodology of field
work and for his strategy of simple theory and complex fact.
Wallace Brett Donham was the second dean of the Harvard Business
School. A lawyer and banker, Donham’s legal education and experience in
practical affairs underpinned his strong support of the faculty of the Busi­
ness School in their use of the case method of instruction. Mayo’s experi­
ences in the clinic and his advocacy of field studies matched Donham’s
enthusiasm for the case method. But Donham’s agenda went well beyond
fostering a teaching approach which already had the enthusiastic support
of his faculty. At the time, business administration lacked depth largely
because it was tied to theories of economics and to arts of practice that
were narrowly drawn and intellectually uninteresting. Business education
was scorned by the intellectual community, and this tended to put the
Business School faculty on the defensive or—what may have been worse—
 Foreword 5

to adopt the aggressive posture of the antiintellectual. Much of what ap­

peared to be cultishness to others was a reflection of the difficult at­
mosphere in which faculty at the Harvard Business School worked through
the 1950s. I had to learn, for example, how to be adroit in dealing with
Cambridge cocktail party conversation in which silly ladies with high
voices reflected the community’s disdain for what we were doing “across
the river” by shrieking: “Oh, you’re at the busy school! What in the world
do you do over there?” In the face of such derision, many of us turned in­
ward and developed a great cohesion, but at the cost of intellectual isolation.
Donham had his own way of dealing with this disdain while simul­
taneously fostering business education and the growth of the people lead­
ing this development. With an astute sense of how to kill more than two
birds with one stone, Donham attracted his own followers, and they were
men of high intellectual standing at Harvard and in the wider academic
world. For example, Donham bought the Herbert Somerton Foxwell col­
lection of early economic literature. With the financial support of Claude
W. Kress, the merchant, he organized the Kress rare book collection at
Harvard Business School’s Baker library and, indeed, built Baker Library
itself—the greatest institution of its kind. Both are anomalies at a school
committed to the case method of instruction. Building the library was part
of Donham’s plan to gain academic standing for business education at
Harvard. By bringing Elton Mayo to the faculty of the Harvard Business
School from the University of Pennsylvania, Donham at once drew the
support of the Rockefeller Foundation, attracted Professor Lawrence J.
Henderson to the school, and gained the sympathetic wisdom of the great
philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, thus helping to build an intellectual
foundation for business education. By hiring Mayo, Donham gave sub­
stance to his conviction that nothing was of greater importance to business
education and the job of business leaders than to understand human
relations.
Scholars will argue for many moons over the quality of Donham’s vision
and, in particular, Mayo’s contribution to building the substance of the
human relations approach. But while carrying on the debate, we should
remember the context and the times before we conclude that Mayo was
both too simplistic and too sparse in his approach.
Mayo’s theory of reverie and work was in place before he came to the
Harvard Business School. He did not originate the Western Electric Re­
searches, but guided a program underway and offered crucial suggestions
and interpretations. The work he published while he was at Harvard con­
tained observations and theories, but its aim was mainly to persuade prac­
titioners in, and teachers of, business administration to change their ideas
about work and management. Mayo proposed little research after the West­
ern Electric studies. He encouraged the publication of the results of these
6 Elton Mayo

investigations but did not choose to participate as author. Instead he left

the writing to Fritz J. Roethlisberger and William Dickson. His influence
always seemed to be indirect, and it involved few initiatives on his part.
The studies in the Harvard Fatigue Laboratory, in which Mayo collabo­
rated with L.J. Henderson, produced almost no empirical findings and
conclusions. Mayo’s interest in this work was probably half-hearted. He
espoused the importance of pedestrian research and detailed observation,
but he could not resist the “big picture”—a bombshell which would excite
people but not necessarily foster critical observation and judgment. Typical
of such statements was the following: “I f our social skills had advanced step
by step with our technical skills, there would not have been another Euro­
pean War”1 This statement typifies Mayo’s seductive style. It obviously
cannot withstand careful scrutiny or a critical reading of history. It is an
astonishing oversimplification, but what a grandiosely seductive statement!
It excited managers and gave them, perhaps for the first time, a vision for
their everyday practice. If one of the jobs in building a profession is to help
construct an ego ideal for its members, Mayo’s style moved Donham’s
enterprise a long way forward.
Mayo himself taught only sparingly, a matter that did not endear him to
his colleagues at the Harvard Business School who were excellent and
dedicated teachers. He gave only occasional lectures, and as a result had
limited impact on the generation of students at the school during his tenure
there. It is interesting to reflect on why teaching did not appeal to Mayo
considering its potential for such a powerful personality. I believe Mayo
experienced enormous empathy only for those people who needed to be
patients, the troubled souls in search of a healer. The students of the Har­
vard Business School, then and now, were not looking for therapy. In a
curious way, Mayo could use his empathy in a one-to-one situation and
also in communicating with an impersonal audience such as that addressed
by an author. His language was seductive and was aimed at affecting the
emotions of his readers. But he wrote so infrequently as to suggest that an
unseen audience did not command nearly as much of his energies as the
single individual in distress. All the people close to Mayo were, in one form
or another, his patients. He could help them in their personal and profes­
sional lives without asking them to declare themselves either as patients or
people in need of help. While healing them, Mayo gave them work and a
method. Invariably, the method consisted of having them conduct inter­
views in clinics or factories through which they too could break loose from
their reveries, attend to someone other than themselves, and through a
reflective process, gain insight into them. This training program was so
devoid of structure as to confuse Mayo’s colleagues, but many people bene­
fited from his therapeutic work and were grateful to him. They showed,
however, varying states of confusion about their seductive healer.
Fritz Jules Roethlisberger was, by far, Mayo’s most famous student.
 Foreword 7

Roethlisberger, along with William Dickson of the Western Electric Com­

pany, wrote the story of the Hawthorne studies in the book that was to
become a classic in the literature of management and the social sciences.
The book made Roethlisberger famous and established a debt to Elton
Mayo that was difficult for him to repay. Largely on the strength of Man­
agement and the Worker, Roethlisberger became a full professor at the
Harvard Business School. More than that, he found his healer in Elton
Mayo. In his memoir entitled The Elusive Phenomena, Roethlisberger tells
his story of Mayo and the work he himself accomplished after Mayo’s
retirement. Roethlisberger effectively completed Mayo’s program by intro­
ducing human relations into the curriculum of the Harvard Business
School. This work substantially ended Mayo’s isolation from the school,
although he was not around to enjoy the fact. Roethlisberger also preserved
Mayo as a legend, a fact that reflected Roethlisberger’s struggle with his
transference toward Mayo.
I was a student of Fritz Roethlisberger soon after the end of World War
II. In retrospect, it seems that Roethlisberger perpetuated the legend of
Elton Mayo in order to support his own style. The residual guilt
Roethlisberger felt in trying to be like his mentor while repaying the debt
he owed him, made Roethlisberger’s world even more confusing.
Roethlisberger was misled by his perception of Mayo as a researcher, and in
his own seductiveness he was more like Mayo than he could admit. Like
others in academic life who become associated with a famous work,
Roethlisberger could not escape from the shadow of the Western Electric
studies and the so-called Hawthorne effect, and become free to plan and
carry out an independent research program. Teaching became his forte and
in this he made a lasting contribution to moving Mayo’s ideas into the
classroom. Roethlisberger could not settle for that formidable accomplish­
ment. Instead he tried to live up to his own image of Elton Mayo as a
researcher. The reader can decide for himself the stuff of which this legend
was made, but I know that Roethlisberger’s need for this legend only added
to the confusion he felt.
The content of the legend of Elton Mayo, as celebrated by Fritz
Roethlisberger and others, is of some interest. The outstanding legend
came out of period twelve in the Relay Assembly Test Room study. The
formal findings appear in Management and the Worker and in countless
dissertations in universities all over the world, but the legend is something
else.
The main idea in back of the Relay Assembly Test Room experiments at
the Hawthorne Works of the Western Electric Company was to observe the
effects on worker productivity of variations in the conditions of work. As
the conditions were changed (e.g. introducing rest periods or shortening
hours), productivity increased. This seemed a logical consequence of the
changes, and, very intelligently, the investigators restored the original con­
8 Elton Mayo

ditions of work as a control on their observations. From the logic of the

experiments, the investigators expected output to go down. Instead it in­
creased, just as it had with the introduction of each variation in working
conditions. This gave rise to the interpretation called the “Hawthorne
effect”—that people will respond positively, despite the logic of the situa­
tion, if they feel good and have a strong attachment to the authority figures
involved. The Hawthorne effect is transference. It is also the phenomenon
that in medicine is called the “placebo effect.” A patient complaining of
symptoms may not have anything physically wrong with him, but as a
means of reassuring him, the doctor will prescribe a placebo (some harm­
less substance) which in fact makes the patient feel better. Medical practi­
tioners have long been aware of the placebo effect, but they also view it with
extreme caution. Many a diagnosis will be overlooked if the physician
concludes too quickly that a patient’s complaints are grounded in his
psyche or result from psychological stress.
The placebo is also used in clinical trials in medicine. Experimenters
administer a neutral substance to a control group to measure the effects of
a new medication which has been given to the experimental group. To
make certain that the effects of the doctor-patient relationship (or trans­
ference) cannot contam inate the results, clinical trials are “double
blind”—neither patient nor doctor knows whether the substance admin­
istered is medicine or a placebo. The psychology underlying the placebo
effect, as with the Hawthorne effect, is the transfer of emotions previously
attached to a parent or authority figure. The parental figure to whom these
unconscious feelings are attached has considerable influence over the per­
son who experiences the transference. If it is a doctor, the ministering of a
neutral substance will ameliorate symptoms as though some genuine medi­
cation were at work. Transference of the positive kind can be likened to
falling in love. As in any love relationship, elements of power exist and can
be used for good or evil.
The legend of the Hawthorne effect is that Mayo had a blinding flash of
creative insight and designed period twelve of the experimental study to
demonstrate its validity. This legend led to an idealization of the creative
moment at the Harvard Business School and set back research at that
institution at least one generation. As young researchers, we felt defeated if
the creative flash or the eclaircissement did not occur. It usually did not.
Alas, the reality of research is that at best we are toilers in the vineyard. We
must toil daily or nothing will come of the work. If one is blessed by some
creative inspiration, more power to him. But this is not the stuff of which
science is made. Rather than let go of the myth and face reality, we had our
little tricks of denial, one of which we called “writing the last chapter.”
In the interest of being insightful, creative, and above all, relevant, we
would attempt a grand last chapter to say what the research meant for
managers. Somehow we believed that to appeal to managers, we had to be
 Foreword 9

eloquent, moving, and capable of drawing the big picture. If this entailed a
leap of fancy, an extrapolation light years beyond our data, so be it. Every­
one understood this was the last chapter with no holds barred. There were
some very strange last chapters written at the Harvard Business School.
Fritz Roethlisberger tried to be an expert at the last chapter and this nearly
killed him. He took his longing for the grand last chapter into the class­
room where the seduction worked for a while, but it caught up with him
there too, and he finally ran out of space. The idea of the last chapter was
the legacy of Elton Mayo and the legend of his creativity. I hope that
Richard Trahair’s biography of Elton Mayo will destroy the legend once
and for all. If it does, we will all be better off for the work that lies ahead and
in return will afford to Elton Mayo the honor that is his due.
I tried my hand at the last chapter in my youth at the Harvard Business
School. But I was luckier than most in having the chance to work with the
gifted sociologist George C. Homans. He had a great deal to do with my
achieving some clarity about the nature of investigation in industry and the
problems of observation, evidence, and inference. This awakening oc­
curred for me when we conducted the research that resulted in publication
of The Motivation, Productivity, and Satisfaction o f Workers: A Prediction
Study, which I coauthored with C. Roland Christensen, Fritz J.
Roethlisberger, and George C. Homans. Not long after publication of this
book in 1958,1 began formal training in psychoanalysis. George Homans
published Social Behavior: Its Elementary Forms as a follow-up to the
widely acclaimed The Human Group. In Social Behavior Homans showed
how a theory of explanation differs from a conceptual scheme. The theory
he used to construct an explanatory structure is a direct derivative of
behavioral psychology and the work of B.E Skinner. While I turned my
energies to a vastly different psychology in becoming a student of Sigmund
Freud’s psychoanalysis, I still admired Homans’s masterful use of theory.
One of the uses I made of George Homans’s work was to put to bed the
legend of the last chapter and Elton Mayo’s creativity. As Homans often
liked to say, “science is done by the damndest methods,” but one of them, I
am sure, is not in the longing for the last chapter. To be intelligent ought to
be good enough. To be grandiose is the road to disaster.
Fortunately, George Homans has written his intellectual memoir, which
Transaction Books is publishing simultaneously with the Mayo biography.
Together, these two volumes provide important accounts of the develop­
ment of industrial studies. Professor Homans represents sociology and the
social psychology of the primary group. As he indicates in his intellectual
autobiography, Homans studied under Elton Mayo as well as Lawrence J.
Henderson while he was a member of the Society of Fellows at Harvard
University. It was during these formative years that Homans developed the
conviction, which he maintained as a sociologist, that field studies are
essential to the understanding of groups, organizations, and the nature of
10 Elton Mayo

work in an industrialized society. Whereas Roethlisberger extended Mayo’s

ideas by teaching managers and fledgling academics, Homans concen­
trated on the uses of field observation to construct explanatory theory.
Professor Homans continued the work he had begun as a student of Mayo
and Henderson in the Department of Social Relations at Harvard and later
in its Department of Sociology where he also served as chairman. The
American Sociological Association recognized Professor Homans’s impor­
tant contributions by electing him president of the association.
Perhaps because of his interest in the science of the group and the
organization, Homans remained aloof from the effects of transference and
was able to maintain a perspective on Mayo that was not available to
Roethlisberger and others who continued their work at the Harvard Busi­
ness School. Homans admired Mayo and learned much from him, but he
was never persuaded by the potential for healing that was at the core of
Mayo’s interests. Above all, Homans hated the last chapter.
Observing Roethlisberger and Homans over the course of “The Predic­
tion Study” during the mid-1950s, I had the sense that each served as alter
ego for the other and probably reflected two sides of Elton Mayo’s person­
ality. Roethlisberger was the healer and Homans the scientist. One was
tender-minded and the other tough-minded, one the twice-born and the
other the once-born personality. But there were more than two sides to
Mayo. He was also an entrepreneur, a side alien to both Roethlisberger and
Homans.
Mayo promoted the study of human relations in industry and, like
many entrepreneurs, he had a bit of the juvenile deliquent in him. He
never conformed to the expectations of the Harvard Business School.
Nearly all the faculty adopted the work habits of business and scorned the
leisurely pace of the academy. It was nine to five with a half day on Satur­
day and plenty of overtime besides. Summer holidays, while ostensibly
belonging to the individual, were seldom taken except for a brief few
weeks, and only rarely a solid month. Everyone, with the exception of
Mayo, showed up at the office early in the morning. Mayo arrived at mid­
morning, worked a few hours conducting interviews with his assistants, in
which he mixed therapy and work (for him the two were the same). He
would then repair to St. Clair’s restaurant in Harvard Square where he
would take lunch and sherry late in the afternoon. Whether Mayo enjoyed
this routine as much as he did flouting the culture of the Harvard Business
School is an open question.
Apart from a few students and L.J. Henderson, Mayo had only distant
relations with his colleagues on the faculty. He did maintain a close rela­
tionship with Dean Donham, who protected Mayo during his years on the
faculty. There are some indications that Mayo tried Donham’s patience,
much as delinquent adolescents cause concern to their parents and other
authority figures. Mayo would not write except at his own pace, and he
 Foreword 11

certainly taught sparingly. What he did with his time was a matter of
conjecture. Perhaps the simple answer is that Mayo was fundamentally a
lazy man who managed to dodge the pressures of the Protestant work ethic.
Mayo wrote about the “conviction of sin” and its effects on people. He
was also interested in obsessive thinking. The conviction of sin and obses­
sive thinking were part of Mayo’s theory of reverie, following the psychol­
ogy of Pierre Janet. I suspect that Mayo learned about the conviction of sin
and obsessive thinking from his own inner experience. For some, the solu­
tion to the ravages of guilt is to plunge into activity, to work hard and hope
for some salvation as a result. At a minimum, working hard allays the
anxiety that surrounds the conviction of sin. The so-called Sunday neu­
rosis attests to the important part activity plays in avoiding guilt. But Mayo
clearly did not take advantage of the opportunity that hard work provides
to escape an unpleasant inner world. Perhaps this avoidance of activity as a
defense provides a clue to the mind and personality of Elton Mayo.
Whatever the contents of his fantasies, Mayo appeared to be drawn to
them. This likelihood becomes greater when one recognizes that Mayo had
few close relationships. He spent much time apart from his wife and
daughters and would not allow his students to get too close to him. He
enjoyed creating an aura of ambiguity about him, including unsolved mys­
teries about his experiences in childhood and youth. In whatever way he
sought identity, Mayo avoided the comfort one can enjoy from belonging
to a profession, gaining accreditation, and benefiting from the esteem oth­
ers accord in accomplishing fine work within a field. While his desire for
privacy—bordering on secrecy—makes it difficult to know the man, some
general observations, perhaps speculations, can be made.
For most obsessive personalities, the contents of their ruminations dis­
guise the lines along which their conflict flows. Above all, they use their
elaboration of thinking to repress feelings. In the most extreme forms,
obsessives keep themselves so preoccupied with their thoughts that they
can be rendered helpless when it comes time to act. But despite the fact that
thinking hides feeling, the contents of obsessive ideas are not without
meaning, acting very much like a dream with its uses of symbols to yield
and disguise meaning. An illness for most, obsessive thinking may also
provide a pathway for original work on the part of talented people. While
psychology has provided limited understanding of talent, it may be true
that once a talented obsessive overcomes the terror connected with his
inner thoughts, he may begin to use them in the service of his work. But the
definition of that work will not necessarily follow conventional pathways.
I strongly suspect that Elton Mayo became thoroughly acquainted with
his reveries, tried to accept them, and then began to use them in construct­
ing a new role (healer in the industrial world) he practiced at the Harvard
Business School and in his researches in the factory. Mayo tried to make
this role an intrinsic part of supervisory practices, and it was this idea that
12 Elton Mayo

caught Roethlisberger’s interest and led him to train people in nondirective

counseling. The idea of listening with the empathy of the healer began to
infiltrate the courses at the Harvard Business School, particularly in the
human relations offerings. The idea soon became applicable to the group
dynamics of the classroom and fueled the imagination of many faculty
members and students from the end of World War II to the beginning of the
1960s when it began to collapse of its own weight.
In this connection, scholars will be interested in comparing Elton Mayo
with Kurt Lewin. Each pioneered in social reform, but utilizing different
theories and approaches to their respective work. Kurt Lewin was a Ger­
man psychologist who emigrated to the United States to escape the Nazis.
He originated the group dynamics movement, which also found its way
into industrial studies and practice. The one idea that unifies Mayo and
Lewin is the principle of removing noxious elements from the workplace to
afford people an escape from the tyranny of stress that arises in the face of
mounting rage and the sense of helplessness people experience when they
begin to lose control. The key idea that caught Mayo’s attention, along with
most other participants in the human relations movement of the postwar
era, was to change the practices of authority figures to incorporate the
efficacy of healing that is sometimes possible in a relationship.
But the remedies of the human relations practitioners encountered an­
other model that aimed at dealing with the same problems, but in vastly
different ways. The American labor movement viewed Mayo’s work in a
hostile light. The object of the labor movement was to secure countervail­
ing power so that management and the worker could meet as equals over
the bargaining table and thereby assert the independence and sense of
control necessary for the economic and psychological well-being of work­
ing people. The intellectual leaders of the labor movement saw in the work
of the human relations practitioners a means of blocking workers’ political
motives with the consequence (whether intended or not) of increasing the
dependency of workers on management. The American solution of coun­
tervailing power, and the resolution of conflict through political activity,
may explain why the human relations movement as a practical application
of a psychological theory of work failed to take hold. But the present
dilemmas of America’s competitive situation suggest that a further evolu­
tion has to occur if our industrial society is to be healthy. The laws of
economics and the marketplace are impersonal, often cruel, but neverthe­
less real. If the only form of discourse between management and labor is in
the confrontations of power, we might have to endure a period of economic
decline such as we have not experienced since the Great Depression.
Mayo lacked economic sophistication and an understanding of institu­
tions and the problems of power. Others at the Harvard Business School
were not afflicted with the same blind spots which are common to healers.
The former dean of the Harvard Business School, George Pierce Baker,
 Foreword 13

expressed the vision this way: the profession of management needs a new
synthesis of economic, political, and psychological ideas to fuel an ego
ideal of the executive capable of acting with competence, courage, and
humanitarian impulses.
The Harvard Business School is celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary,
and the appearance of Richard Trahair’s biography of Elton Mayo is in
commemoration of this event. The current dean, John H. McArthur, and
the director of the Division of Research, Professor E. Raymond Corey,
made it possible for this book to be published in order to encourage reflec­
tion and debate about the nature of man, his role in institutions, and the
challenges facing business education in the years ahead. The community of
the Harvard Business School owes Richard Trahair a great debt for writing
the biography of George Elton Mayo.

Note

1. George Elton Mayo, The Social Problems o f an Industrial Civilization (Boston:

Harvard University, Graduate School of Business Administration, Division of
Research, 1945), p. 23.
 Preface

This biography answers many questions scholars in the social sciences

have been asking about Elton Mayo. He is known for having established the
scientific study of what today is called “organizational behavior” when he
gave close attention to the human, social, and political problems of indus­
trial civilization while he was professor of industrial research at the Har­
vard Business School from 1926 to 1947. But little is known about Mayo’s
background, and puzzling questions emerge from scrutiny of brief bio­
graphical sketches and obituaries.
How did an unknown philosopher from Queensland, Australia, become
a major contributor to the study of human relations in American industry?
Why did he put so much emphasis on medical science? Was he a medical
practitioner, and, if so, how did he become the most notable academic
associated with the famous Hawthorne studies of the Western Electric
Company? What qualifications did he have to make him accepted at the
Harvard Business School? Why did he concentrate on the study of fatigue
and cooperation at work? Was he working for management? If so, why was
he so interested in the welfare of workers? How did he become interested in
such topics as shell-shocked soldiers, Jung, labor agitators, industrial mo­
rale, the League of Nations, Pierre Janet, economic depression, anomie,
psychoanalysis, child rearing, sex, and sin? The catalogue of questions is
endless. This biography grew from such questions as these, and was written
so as to answer them in an orderly way by tracing the personal and intellec­
tual origins of Mayo’s remarkable influence in industrial sociology and
social psychology.
Mayo attracts the attention of a biographer for other reasons. He is the
only Australian to have made a contribution to the social and behavioral
sciences before the end of the Second World War. His work has been
praised and condemned for almost fifty years. Many references to his work
in popular textbooks on industrial sociology and organizations are in error
and inconsistent, and use Mayo’s ideas to illustrate almost every argument,
viewpoint, or principle that can be advanced about people at work. To
some people Mayo’s ideas on the impact of rapid industrialization of work
are in support of Western capitalism and should therefore be condemned;
others say Mayo’s ideas are those of a dangerous psychiatrist; and still
others maintain he has made the best recommendations ever for the de-

15
16 Elton Mayo

mocratization of industry and the improvement of the quality of working

life. Over the past ten years the work of Mayo and his associates has been
the subject of vigorous debate at every conceivable level of discussion by
scholars in the United States, Britain, Europe, and Australia. This biogra­
phy sets down Mayo’s ideas and traces their origins in his personal life so
that the dust may settle around the debate and allow the man and his work
to be seen clearly.
The first chapter establishes Mayo’s medical background and how trag­
edy in the family contributed to his ambivalent orientation to medical
science; the conflict between his parents in their approach to the role of
peers in a child’s social development; the agreement between his parents on
the role of ambition and high purpose in a career; the experience of eco­
nomic depression, its social ills, and the bankruptcy of modern ideologies
that offer political solutions to human and social problems. The second
chapter relates Mayo’s adolescence directly to his adult thinking. When
young he learned the value of participation in decision making, optimism
in the face of adversity, harmony in conflicted social relations, and the
proper place of work in a well-balanced life. But he turned away from
conventional attitudes to professions, especially medicine and religion,
and, in a state of youthful melancholy, looked for adventure in Europe.
There he learned something of the inhumanity that flowed from the rapid
industrialization of work, the degradation that work imposed on most who
had to do it to live, and the difference between real adventures and those in
the mind.
Chapter 3 answers questions about Mayo’s business experience in South
Australia, how he became an able and respected philosopher, and what
values that he acquired from his family were congruent with his develop­
ment as a mature university student, e. g., science applied to human prob­
lems; order, unity, and variety in nature; the lack of administrative skills
among politicians; and politicians’ overemphasis on material development
at the expense of understanding social ills. Where did he go to become an
academic? And how did his interest turn from academic philosophy to
medical psychology? What part did his emotional life play in the change?
How did the change contribute to his outstanding skill as a public speaker
and lecturer?
At the University of Queensland Mayo rediscovered his adolescent mel­
ancholy, treated it with overwork, and searched for some principles of
relaxation that would help him master fatigue. A rebellious spirit re­
emerged and he began to attack many conventions imposed on him by
those whom he did not respect. He turned his attention from the way men
deliberately used their minds to the impulsive forces of mental life that
were being discussed as “the new psychology”: Jung, Freud, and Janet. He
fell in love, married, and raised two daughters. He became a settled and
respected academic.
In the reorganization of his university after the Great War, Mayo was
 Preface 17

promoted to professor and, with assistance from one of his students,

turned away from abstract theories of mind to the treatment of the minds
affected by war neurosis, hysteria, and obsessional disorder. A chance
meeting with the anthropologist Malinowski started a long friendship and
extended Mayo’s intellectual horizons into primitive thinking.
Chapter 6 answers the question: How did Mayo use psychological ideas
to understand political issues? From consultations with the Queensland
government, observations on an election campaign, panic in a crowd, and
rowdiness at union meetings, Mayo set down a theory of political psychol­
ogy that recommended for the success of modern democracy—the central
issue for him raised by the Great War—that state controls must be curbed
in times of peace and that cooperative relations among society’s main
groups must replace competition. His first book, Democracy and Freedom,
was written to promote worker education programs, and to outline the core
of his beliefs in the human social and political issues that had been caused
by the too rapid industrialization of work.
Mayo was a social activist who sought to make his society more civilized
and humane. Chapter 7 describes how he diagnosed its maladies, his clini­
cal insight, and the way he taught university students, businessmen, profes­
sionals, and workers the unfortunate consequences of the way work had
been organized and the way children had been reared.
In middle age Mayo faced crises in his personal life and career, and tried
to leave Queensland for those parts of Australia where his ideas would be
more widely accepted and his work would attract more respect. Chapters 8
and 9 tell why he left Australia and was offered the fortunate opportunity
to pursue research on his ideas while on sabbatical leave. With strong
financial support from the Rockefeller Foundation and Philadelphia’s busi­
nessmen, deep sympathy for his psychological and sociological explana­
tions of industrial conflict in the United States, and great respect from
psychiatrists for his clinical skills, Mayo made a niche for his work, re­
signed his Queensland position, and quickly established himself as a lead­
ing psychologist. With a remarkable capacity to integrate ideas from
diverse disciplines, he persuaded associates to fund more of the research he
thought would be valuable. Chapter 10 describes his techniques of inves­
tigation, his early research, his relations with Pierre Janet, the populariza­
tion of his research in industry, and the important social connections he
made among industrialists, psychologists, and social scientists.
How did he attract the interest of Harvard University, and what work
did he do at the Harvard Business School to justify the enormous grant he
and Lawrence J. Henderson received from the Rockefeller Foundation?
Chapter 12’s answers show how Mayo’s early failures to interest New En­
gland industrialists led him to consider undertaking sociological work in
Colorado and administrative problems in the movie industry.
Mayo’s most noted contribution to industrial sociology and psychology
began when the Western Electric Company asked him to make physiologi­
18 Elton Mayo

cal studies of a few employees. Chapters 14, 15, and 16 detail what Mayo
did in Chicago and New York to clarify, promote, protect, and extend the
research being done at the Hawthorne Works; the role of the business
community in making such research public; and the publicity and sadistic
criticism to which the studies at Hawthorne were exposed.
Mayo published The Human Problems of an Industrial Civilization
when his career was at its peak. At that time his wife and daughters went to
live in England, and he remained at Harvard. He himself did no research
for ten years but instead concentrated on helping his associates on prob­
lems of collaboration and the value of clinical observations for understand­
ing political solutions to the economic depression.
The deaths of two colleagues and the demands of the Second World War
took away much of Mayo’s personal influence and initiated the final stages
of his work in the United States. He undertook two large research studies
and used them to illustrate theses he had been refining for twenty-five
years. Before retiring he published The Social Problems of an Industrial
Civilization, a book that was favorably received.
Mayo wanted to carry forward in England his work on educating admin­
istrators to a scientific understanding of industrial problems and the hu­
mane, democratic treatment of subordinates. Sudden illness prevented
this, and the task was taken over by his elder daughter who for ten years
had followed his ideas and practices. The final chapter evaluates Mayo’s
character by reconstructing the image he left with the people who remem­
bered him, and by drawing on the main personal themes in his early
development.
The biography is a simple narrative—work, family, ideas, and senti­
ments—and is interrupted only by short summaries of Mayo’s published
and unpublished writings and speeches. This is done to show that his
experiences and feelings at the time were closely tied to ideas he was de­
veloping. Much of Mayo’s thought is not readily available because he pre­
ferred talking to publishing; what did appear in print is repetitive and fails
to include accounts of research he did for private reasons.
The narrative assumes that important shaping experiences occur early
in life, and for this reason gives as full an account of Mayo’s young years as
the evidence allows. The reader will see that Mayo continuously inter­
preted his own conflicted life and character with considerable insight. He
wanted to live an energetic adventure but without heavy effort; to uphold
scientific, humane, and democratic values yet enjoy the recognition that he
needed; to influence men of affairs without suffering the obsessional mel­
ancholy that follows their rejection of one’s ideas. He believed he was the
product of an orderly society that put great store on civilized and respect­
able living yet spent a lifetime in actively combating its vulgarities. And in
his work he had his family’s support, affection, disappointments, and prob­
lems, albeit on an irregular basis.
 Acknowledgments

Basic research for the biography was done with the Mayo papers in the
Baker Library, Harvard Business School, in 1975 and 1981-82. Laurence J.
Kipp and Mary V. Chatfield allowed me unrestricted access to the papers,
and Robert Lovett, Florence Bartoshesky, and Marjorie Kierstead gave
sound advice on their use. At the Rockefeller Archives Center, J. William
Hess and staff showed me papers on Mayo’s research. Michael Ryan helped
me see correspondence on Mayo’s work in the Special Collection at the
University of Chicago’s Joseph Regenstein Library. Also I acknowledge
help from R Allen, at the British Library, and considerable guidance from
David Muspratt, Working Men’s College, London.
In South Australia I had access to the Mayo papers at the State Library,
Adelaide, and with the help of J. H. Love was permitted to see private
papers of people whom Mayo knew well. I am grateful to the registrars and
their staff at the Universities of Adelaide, Melbourne, and Queensland for
helping me to find documents related to Mayo’s academic activities in
Australia. The staff of the La Trobe University Library helped collect cop­
ies of Mayo’s published work.
In January 1974 I was shown a collection of private correspondence
between Elton Mayo and his wife and daughters, which Patricia and Ruth
Elton Mayo allowed me to use to add to my knowledge of their father’s life.
I acknowledge a great debt to them. These letters are on microfilm in the
Baker Library and their use remains restricted. Also I acknowledge the help
of Oliver Mayo, who kindly allowed me to see the private diaries of the late
Herbert Mayo, Elton’s younger brother. These books are also restricted.
Research for this biography began in January 1974 in Luxembourg,
where Patricia Elton Mayo showed me her father’s letters, and at the Har­
vard Business School, where the late Fritz J. Roethlisberger and George FF
Lombard gave me valuable information and advice on how to undertake
the study.
In 1975 and 1981-82 I had considerable help from George Lombard; he
found information on Mayo, directed me to people who had been closely
associated with him, and was always willing to answer fully any of my
questions. He has read what I have written, and his criticism of my con­
clusions about Mayo were friendly and his corrections were extremely

19
20 Elton Mayo

helpful. Without this close and cooperative working relationship the biog­
raphy would not have been as accurate and comprehensive as it is. I am in
great debt to him for making possible this research. And in Australia Julie
Marshall assisted me splendidly by searching for information on Mayo as
well as by offering sharp, cogent criticism of the work as it was being
written.
The study was funded by the Ford Foundation in 1975, and for several
years before and after by La Trobe University in Melbourne. I am grateful
for the generosity of both institutions. The Australian Research Grants
Commission gave funds to finish the study in 1981. The Division of Re­
search at the Harvard Business School and the Baker Library provided
office space needed for the work and access to the privileges of the Harvard
University community.
As well as with persons named above, I was fortunate to have con­
versations with the following people who knew Mayo well, or could give
vivid accounts of the time they spent with him. Australia: Lady Hilda
Axon, E.M. Jones, Mrs. S. A. Kyle, Katherine E. McGregor, Dr. and Mrs.
T.H.R. Matthewson, A.E. Pearse, F.W. Paterson, Eric Partridge, Lyndall
Urwick. United States: Arlie V. Bock, Joseph C. Bailey, Eliot D. Chappie,
Hilda Carter-Fletcher, Don A. Chipman, John H. Findley, W. R. Hocken-
berry, George Homans, A. G. Holmes, Frances R. and W. K. Jordan,
Harold D. Lasswell, Osgood S. Lovekin, Edmund P. Learned, Henry A.
Murray, Ruth Norton, David Riesman, E.C. Tessman, Andrew Towl,
Mildred Warner. England: Lord Monsell.
The following people provided me with information and advice that was
helpful in finding evidence on Mayo and the conditions under which he
lived. Australia and New Zealand: David Anderson, Leo Behm, Alfred W.
Clark, H. Alan Cubbon, W.G.K. Duncan, Frank Davidson, G. J. Hart, J.W.
Hayward, Margaret B. Horan, A. H. Jackson, D.A. Kearney, D.C.
McDonald, D.W. Mcllwain, George M. Mayo, Lady Gwen Mayo, Mrs. Eric
Mayo, J. S. Miller, Sir Mark L. Mitchell, Ray B. Malloy, Charles McConnel,
Elizabeth Morrison, Margaret O’Keefe, Andrew D. Osborne, Joan Paton,
Hollis W. Peter, C. Robertson, S.A. Raynor, S. Routh, G. S. Reid, C.
Streton, L.G. Stubbings, Elizabeth R. Simpson, H.E.W. Smith, John A.
Salmond, Joanna Thomson, G.E. Thompson, Claudio Veliz, L.P. Weber,
Betty Wigg, J.L. Weir. Britain: Y.D. Barrett, Dustan Curtis, Fiona M.
Picken, Neil Robertson, John H. Smith, Marion White, Dorothy Wardle.
Canada and the United States: Bruce J. Biddle, Chauncey Belknap, Byron
Barnes, Mariam Chamberlain, Francis J. Dallett, Henri F. Ellenberger,
William Gormbley, Max Hall, Pearson Hunt, Everett C. Hughes, J.
William Hess, Hilda Holton, George E. Johnson, Solon T. Kimball, Fred
Keefe, Jack Kaufmann, J. Lorsch, Paul J. Lawrence, Charles M. McArthur,
Richard Rosenbloom, Michael T. Ryan, Fred A. Stint, Jeff Sonnenfeld,
 Acknowledgments 21

Helen Q. Schroyer, Renato Tagiuri, Richard E. Walton, Harriet E. White­

head, Abraham Zaleznik.
Colleagues who have seen sections of the manuscript and made valuable
comments include Julie Marshall and Alfred Clark. I am grateful to Max
Hall for editorial criticism and help, especially in the early stages of writing
the biography.
Typing and deciphering a frequently illegible script was undertaken
cheerfully by Norma Cann and Julie Stayner, in the School of Social Sci­
ence, La Trobe University, Australia. The final draft was typed by Robyn
Ripper in Australia and Vy Crowe in Boston.
I am grateful to my family and close friends who provided the support
that I am sure biographers need and look forward to but may never fully
understand or set down for readers to examine.
 Abbreviations and Sources

The following symbols refer to sources.

1. In the Manuscript Division, Baker Library, Graduate School of Business

Administration, Harvard University:
AA929.41 Industrial and Physiological Research Memoranda.
AFFD1 Administration. Faculty (Former) Deceased, Mayo,
Elton, file 1.
AFFD2 Administration. Faculty (Former) Deceased, Mayo,
Elton, file 2.
ARIP Administration. Research: Industrial and Physiologi­
cal, 1927-1940.
BLA Baker Library Archives.
FJR Roethlisberger Papers.
M f 1-186 Microfiche of Western Electric Company records.
MM Mayo Manuscript, drawer and file number.
2. Harvard University Press.
HUP Two files, Elton Mayo—Some Notes on the Psychol­
ogy of Pierre Janet.
3. Rockefeller Archive Center, New York.
RF Folders in:
1. United States, Boxes 342,343, Series 200
2. L.R.S.M., Series 3, Boxes 35, 75, 76.
4. State Library of South Australia, Adelaide, South Australia.
SAA Mayo family archives.
5. Mayo letters in the possession of Patricia Elton Mayo (Mrs. Dunstan
Curtis).
Mayo’s elder daughter, Patricia Elton Mayo, was called “Patricia,”
“Toni,” “Patty,” and “Poppet.” Her sister was known as “Ruth” and
“Gael Elton Mayo.” To avoid confusion, in the text the elder daughter is

23
24 Elton Mayo

called “Patricia”; the younger, “Ruth.” In the notes the elder daughter is
“Toni” and the younger is “Gael” because that is the name they used.
6. Interviews.
A diary was kept of conversations with people who knew Mayo. They are
indicated by “conversation with” followed by the person’s name and the
date.
7. Letters.
Many of Mayo’s students and young associates wrote to the author. The
letters are indicated by, for example, “Hargraves to Trahair” and the
date.
8. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks.
These books are in the possession of Dr. Oliver Mayo, Adelaide. Each
item in the books is numbered.
 1
Mayo Family in Adelaide, 1880-1893

The moon was full on a summer night in the mid-1890s when the head
of one of South Australia’s respected families led his two elder sons into the
spacious back garden of their family home. He carried a double-barreled,
muzzle-loading fowling piece. The boys were shown how to put gun to
shoulder and fire. Each lad took careful aim and fired one shot. But, like
their father who had been taken through the same ritual years before, the
boys missed their target. It was the moon.1
The younger son did not forget this ritual of paternal protection and
high hope. He pleased his family by studying well at school and university,
becoming a prominent lawyer and judge, and being knighted. But Sir
Herbert Mayo upon retirement quickly sold all his law books and devoted
the rest of his life to the only activity that had deeply interested him,
astronomy.2
The elder son disappointed his family. They had hoped he would be­
come a doctor, like his grandfather, but after desultory studies he took to
psychology, was made a professor, went to the United States, and became a
prominent social scientist.
George Elton Mayo was born on December 26, 1880, in Adelaide, the
capital city of the colony of South Australia. He died on September 1, 1949,
at Guilford in Surrey, England. Elton was reared in Adelaide, attended St.
Peter’s College and the University of Adelaide, and at thirty-eight became
the first professor of philosophy at the University of Queensland. In July
1922 he sailed across the Pacific to San Francisco on his way to spend
sabbatical leave in England. He had arranged to lecture at the University of
California, take a train to the East Coast, and sail to England. The arrange­
ments fell through, and he spent the rest of his academic life in the United
States helping to establish the study of human and social problems of
people at work. He never returned home.
Elton was born into a respected family in a society that was based on
families and that put great store in respectability.3 The family lived in a
home beside Nibley House, which had been built for Elton’s grandfather,
Dr. George Mayo. As surgeon aboard the Asia in 1839, Dr. Mayo had come
from England to the new colony of South Australia. He married Maria
Gandy, once the housekeeper of Colonel William Light, who had planned

25
26 Elton Mayo

the city of Adelaide. Maria bore three girls and one boy, George Gibbes
Mayo, born in 1845. She died of tuberculosis in 1847. In 1851 Dr. Mayo
visited American relatives and went to the Great Exhibition in London.
While in England he was elected a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons,
attended his father’s deathbed, and, before returning home, married again.
His second wife suffered a decline in mental health and lived in seclusion.
For thirty years, “Old Doctor Mayo” as he came to be called, was the
leading surgeon in the colony, prominent in the administration of its medi­
cal institutions, a lieutenant colonel in the Adelaide Regiment, and an
active support to Trinity Church.
Doctor Mayo was primarily a surgeon but maintained the warmth, sym­
pathy, and conscientiousness of the family doctor. He was keen on exercise,
enjoyed walking and bicycling, and was one of the last doctors in Adelaide
to ride on horseback to see his patients. With age he became gruff and
blunt, a little eccentric, and developed a retiring manner, a dislike for
notoriety, and a rooted objection to being photographed. Upon his death in
1894 the family inherited money, property, and a prominent position in
Adelaide society.
George Gibbes Mayo, Elton’s father, did not achieve the same promi­
nence as Doctor Mayo. After Maria died, George and his sisters were reared
by servants and friends until 1853, when Dr. Mayo returned from England.
George Gibbes Mayo’s childhood was not happy but his adolescence in­
cluded an amusing potpourri of lost opportunities, curious rewards and
boyish adventures, and his stories about them would entertain his own
children. At his first school George had been so underfed that he stole food.
He was caught, and was enrolled in St. Peter’s College. He ran away, the
police tracked him down, and the college authorities made him a prefect.
After his schooling he chose to work on a sheep station rather than study at
Oxford University; later he went prospecting for coal in a region of West
Australia that afterward was one of the country’s richest gold fields. He
spent his twenty-first birthday in 1866 as a member of an expedition to find
suitable grazing land in northern Australia. The expedition failed in its
purpose but introduced George to sharks, alligators, floods, and starvation.
The following year George studied engineering under the physicist Lord
Kelvin at the University of Glasgow. He spent a year as an apprentice to a
shipbuilder on the Clyde, later toured the Continent, and in 1873 returned
to Adelaide to live with his father and work as an engineer on the expand­
ing railways. From 1889 until retirement in 1914 he was a real estate agent.4
In September 1877 George Gibbes Mayo married Henrietta May Don­
aldson, daughter of a schoolmaster. They lived in a house on Adelaide’s
West Terrace. Hetty, as she became known, bore seven children: Helen in
1878, Elton in 1880, Olive in 1883, Herbert in 1885, William Godfrey in
1887 (he lived only three weeks), Mary Penelope in 1889, and John Chris­
tian in 1891.
 Mayo Family in Adelaide 27

Elton lived with his family until 1900. During his youth the colony of
South Australia underwent economic, political, and social changes that
affected him and from which he drew many illustrations for use in his later
work.
The colony depended on rural industry—wool, wheat, copper—but,
during Elton’s childhood, the rural population was drifting to Adelaide. By
1900, 45 percent of the colony’s population lived there. People moved to
the city because it offered employment, prospects for advancement, shorter
working hours, a brighter life, a haven for widows, and the welfare and
medical services needed by the aged. Also, because education beyond pri­
mary level was not available in the country, boys were sent to Adelaide for
their secondary education. When the statistics on the migration became
known, the press, public officials, and touring speakers tried to reverse the
movement by persuading people in the country to make their style of life
more attractive, and to improve farming methods by adopting scientific
techniques.5 Hetty traveled often to speak to members and friends of the
Mother’s Union.6 So in his youth, Elton was exposed to the problems of
urbanization as well as the arguments in support of using science to help
solve them.
During Elton’s early life the colony underwent an economic depression
with only slight and temporary recoveries. Rents rose, wages dropped, the
labor market swelled with immigrants from the neighboring colony of
Victoria, and sweated labor was common. The respectability of colonial
life was threatened by the growth of billiards saloons, betting clubs, “two-
up” schools, and the appearance of pimps and brothels. Responses to the
depression, destitution, and social evils varied, and were often misguided.
For example, unions tried to distribute the burden of poverty by demand­
ing that all members work the same number of hours; this simply increased
the distress of breadwinners with many dependents. Education, a valued
pathway to a respected position in Adelaide society, which was prized
strongly in the Mayo household, was found to be no guarantee of a job.
Charity inspired relief movements; socialists and anarchists spread their
propaganda; and unions tried to teach tolerance, Christianity, and fair-
mindedness to all members. But there was not enough charity to go
around. Teaching self-help through revolutionary ideology and worker ed­
ucation failed because most of the victims of poverty were uncomprehend­
ing and inarticulate people who believed that poverty was self-inflicted;
that it originated with alcohol, indolence, and incapacity; and that individ­
uals, alone, had the duty to raise their own living standards. A political
solution was needed.
South Australia’s politics became democratized as Elton was entering
adolescence. In his boyhood, colonial gentlemen had constituted many
short-lived governments, all headed by a member of the Adelaide Club—
the Mayos’ club. Before the depression these men had remained in power
28 Elton Mayo

for many reasons: they had always upheld the progressive liberal policies of
the colony’s founders; they had overcome most of the problems involving
the ownership of land; they had not been aloof, nor had they maintained a
superior attitude to the less-respected colonists; they had been visibly ac­
tive at the hub of the colony’s political and economic affairs. Nevertheless
the consequences of the depression were so great that in 1893 the last
government to be formed by a member of the Adelaide Club was replaced
by that of the radical Charles Kingston. For six years Adelaide was as­
tonished by Kingston’s demands for higher taxes, his attacks on the legal
and medical professions, his demagogic blasts at the interests and privileges
of former politicians, and his personal power in the cabinet. Elton saw
himself as a colonial gentleman, and believed that self-understanding
could be gained through broad education. He came to loathe the dema­
gogues and crowd pleasers who, with subtle propaganda and ill-will, de­
stroyed opportunities for every man to learn and come to terms with the
real problems of the day. Political and economic changes in South Australia
laid a solid foundation for Elton’s approach to the political problems of
industrial civilization.
Enlightened attitudes toward the distress of Adelaide’s poor followed the
changes in Adelaide’s political life. At first the government gave food to the
starving; later, land was made available for cultivation during periods of
unemployment. In the liberal tradition, crime was fought by establishing a
criminological society, and then by teaching that environment rather than
inherent evil was the main cause of crime. Courts were established for
children, prisons were modified, and institutions were introduced for pros­
titutes and inebriates.
Women’s rights raised a political issue for Elton. In 1880 the University
of Adelaide had accepted women; in 1894 Catherine Spence helped South
Australia’s women win the right to vote. But the Mayo family was not
united on the issue. During Spence’s campaign, in a letter to the daily
paper, signed “Suffragette,” Elton pointed to the few opportunities for
women in a man’s world. He listed the inequities, then asked, “If men are
allowed to mix bathe, why not women?” When his father saw the letter he
exploded: “Fancy giving the vote to such silly women. If this is how the
majority of them think, then they should not be given the vote.”7
Women were expected to marry; five children was the norm. But be­
cause more women than men lived in Adelaide, women were accepted in
laundries, offices, and shops. Prevailing opinion turned women from at­
tempting to join the professions. A few women fought that attitude and
completed medical degrees. Elton’s sister Helen was one; she became a
successful specialist in child care.8
Social status in Adelaide was determined by success in both rural and
urban industries. Merchants and professional men invested in grazing
land, pastoralists took seats on the boards of banks and insurance com­
 Mayo Family in Adelaide 29

panies, and wool brokers and shippers capitalized mining ventures. Social
status and influence were reinforced by the interlocking of family and
business. Two strata were at the top of Adelaide society: the first included
pastoralists, then lawyers, and merchants; the second included land agents,
brewers, flour millers, and doctors. Status was dictated by wealth—provid­
ing it was not acquired in shopkeeping—and, to a lesser extent, by educa­
tion and profession. The gentlemen of Adelaide built substantial mansions
in the city; they enjoyed such refinements as ventilation, bathrooms, potted
ferns and flowers, fashionable bric-a-brac, and a piano. To avoid the city’s
hot summer, they drove their families to their country homes, or to cot­
tages of friends, or guest houses by the sea. Although Elton’s family had a
substantial mansion in Adelaide, it did not have a country home; so, in
terms of wealth, residence, and occupation, the Mayo family was of the
second level in Adelaide society.
The cultural life of Adelaide developed during Elton’s youth. Good taste
and intellectual achievement, which the Mayos enjoyed, were everywhere
congratulated and celebrated. People from the governor’s associates down
to bank clerks and schoolboys attended local and imported productions of
Shakespeare, musicals, and opera. The literary associations of prominent
local churches organized lectures, recitations, concerts, and intellectual
discussions on social issues. A club life developed for deerstalking, yacht­
ing, polo, and archery. The Mayo family and friends patronized, admin­
istered, and subscribed to the public library, university, botanic gardens,
zoo, geographical society, and charities. Lighter popular pursuits were tea
and tennis parties and “conversaziones,” Adelaide’s precursors to cocktail
parties. Elton drank tea, played tennis well, and enjoyed—and would lec­
ture on—the art of conversation.
South Australians were proud and jealous of their public image. Ade­
laide was known as the “Queen City of the South,” a garden city that
boasted astounding refinements and encouraged its inhabitants to imagine
they lived in the Philadelphia of Australia. But they still called England
“home.” Elton’s career as an industrial social psychologist was to begin in
Philadelphia; throughout his life he would idealize England; he retired and
died there in 1949.

George Gibbes Mayo and Hetty Mayo raised a close and affectionate
family but on some points they differed. Few professional families lived in
the west end of Adelaide, so in the neighborhood were no playmates of
appropriate background. The Mayo children felt isolated, and had to ask
their mother to invite companions from other parts of town. Hetty was
troubled by this, but George could see no disadvantages. His sister Helen
believed that residential isolation had put severe limitations on the chil­
dren’s social development; Elton would emphasize the same point in his
study of child psychology many years later.
30 Elton Mayo

The Mayo children were both seen and heard; to this extent their family
life was far from the authoritarian image of the mid-Victorian period.
George, who had been lonely as a boy, objected strongly to leaving the
children with servants. Hetty did not want the children to hear everything
parents said, and preferred that the little ones be shielded from the burdens
of adult talk. She had a strong influence on Elton’s emotional life. She did
not comfort him as a close, warm, and touching mother but was a cool,
distant, strong person to imitate. But she was an ambiguous figure, and
therefore Elton would never know whether or not he had pleased her. She
frowned upon his assertiveness, thought him “cock-sure” and overconfi­
dent, and did not congratulate him for his initiative. At the same time she
held high aspirations for him; when he achieved a degree of success, she
expected him to do better. This relationship prepared Elton for an adult­
hood dominated by swings of mood from excitable, aggressive thrusting to
melancholic withdrawal, a conviction of sin, and obsessive reveries about
his shortcomings. George was more capable than Hetty of sacrificing him­
self to the children, and for encouraging their initiative.9
George and Hetty were united on the value of education. George had
had his adventures, then his training at Glasgow. Hetty was not an educated
woman, but she was intelligent and particularly keen to educate, and be
educated. Much to the children’s amusement, George would tell how he
had furthered Hetty’s education during their courtship by teaching her the
principle of the lever. He said she had responded readily. Hetty was am­
bitious for her children and believed that education was the way to self­
improvement. Well-educated people could be identified by fluent and accu­
rate speech, so Hetty encouraged her children to speak well and pronounce
words properly and set them an example by lecturing in public. At the
dinner table the children were encouraged to read aloud and give their
opinions on intellectual matters. Elton’s lecturing talent and skill in con­
versation can be partly attributed to his training at home.
Elton’s education began in an unregulated and leisurely fashion. Early
in 1889 a governess, Miss Kekwick, came to give the children lessons in a
small schoolroom at the bottom of the garden, well away from the house.
They learned to sing English, Scottish, and Irish songs at the piano. Helen,
Elton, and Olive did some work, but, because the schoolroom was out of
earshot of the house, the younger children often made noise and trouble for
Miss Kekwick. Herbert—the future Sir Herbert—was mainly to blame, so
when he was about six, the family decided that he should be banished to a
school. When confronted with his grandson, Dr. Mayo next door would
offer the family faint hope by saying, “Of all my grandchildren I see myself
in Herbert,” and then add, “I was a dreadful humbug, too.” Each day
George walked Herbert half a mile to a strict Lutheran school. Private
tuition continued for the others until Helen began at the Grote Street
Advanced School for Girls and Elton went to Queen’s School. Herbert
joined him for one year in 1894, before both attended St. Peter’s College.
 Mayo Family in Adelaide 31

George, in his real estate business, had an office at home that gave onto
Franklin Street, but most of the time he attended to the domestic tasks that
Hetty did not care for. He seemed motherly, wise, gentle, and capable of
bridging the gap between the different lives of youth and middle age. He
encouraged the children’s independent growth.10 For example, to combat
the alarming hazards of increased traffic in Adelaide, he taught them a
poem with a play on words in its tail:

The rule o f the road is a paradox quite

Both in riding and driving along,
I f you keep to the left you are sure to be right,
I f you keep to the right you are wrong.11

If the children were ill, Dr. Mayo attended them; if they felt poorly,
George administered that foul-tasting, mid-Victorian cure-all castor oil.
The tasteless variety was not available in those days, so the potion was
mixed with warm milk or taken neat. Castor oil was used freely to open
bowels, to relieve nausea, and even to lubricate engines, weatherproof
boots, and treat the ills of cats, dogs, fowls, and ponies.12In Elton, castor oil
helped banish melancholy moods: “As is usual with me (after castor oil) I
woke up this morning in highest spirits.”
In summer George took the children camping, or to stay at a holiday
home, or a boarding house on the coast. On the camping trips the children
were allowed to bring along their friends and share George’s wisdom in
organizing expeditions and identifying rocks, plants, and animals. If poss­
ible, they gathered mushrooms; and once Helen bagged a swan on the wing
for the family’s collection of native fauna.13
A September holiday in 1896 was the prelude to a tragedy. Olive, then
thirteen, gentle and like a mother to the boys, was sent with Herbert to stay
for ten days at a guest house by the sea. They came home when she com­
plained of pain and tenderness in the center of her stomach, developed a
slight fever, and began to vomit. Doctor Mayo had died in December 1894,
so it was another doctor who diagnosed a bowel disorder. Olive was of
course given castor oil. Subsequent treatment eased her pain but did not
improve her health, for she had appendicitis and the castor oil had made it
worse. Although surgery for appendicitis was available, it was not com­
monly performed. Olive died on November 19, and for years after on
Sunday afternoons Hetty put flowers on her daughter’s grave.14
Elton often told his children of how his father once was almost robbed.
In his office George kept a large safe. One night burglars started to bore a
hole in the safe, were disturbed, and dashed away. On discovering the
intrusion, George deposited valuable papers with his bank, placed in the
safe papers of no value to anyone but himself, and installed a crude obvious
alarm. The burglars tried again to bore a hole in the safe, but again they
were disturbed and took off. This amused the family because, had the
32 Elton Mayo

burglars turned the handle, the unlocked safe would have opened. The
burglars made a third unsuccessful attempt but this time left sufficient
traces for a tracker to find them and the loot they had amassed. The gang
called the Dyke brothers served a term in prison.15
Even though George Mayo was gentle, humble, unambitious, and de­
voted to his family, he did have enemies. His enemies used one of the most
powerful weapons that mid-Victorian life could offer to degrade the head of
a respectable family: gossip. During his lifetime George received poison-
pen letters that alleged, directly or by imputation, that he was the illegiti­
mate son of Colonel Light. Such libelous letters troubled him deeply, for
he, his sisters, and Doctor Mayo had held Maria Mayo in the highest
esteem and regarded her as a woman of great virtue.16
George had had no definite career, but he did shape the careers of his
children. No doubt Hetty had her say, and so did the children. Helen
decided to be a doctor, and her parents were delighted for her to try,
although prevailing attitudes were opposed to women’s entering medicine.
It was considered to be mannish, and most brothers in those times did not
relish a bluestocking for a sister; not so the Mayo boys. Helen went on to an
outstanding career.
John followed Helen into medicine and, continuing his youthful inter­
ests in engineering and electricity, contributed to developments in radio­
therapy and radiography. Penelope stayed at home and looked after Hetty
until her death in November 1930. Penelope completed an honors course
in philosophy, an M.A., and, using family documents, published The Life
and Letters o f Colonel Light. Herbert had always wanted to be an astron­
omer, and would have settled for engineering, but George advised him that
there was no future in it.17 So Herbert drifted into law, became an eminent
judge, and was knighted.
Elton was pushed into medicine.

Notes

1. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 320, held by the Mayo family in Adelaide.
2. Conversation with Lady Mayo, Sir H erbert’s widow, 25 May 1974.
3. Douglas Pike, The Paradise o f Dissent (Melbourne: M elbourne University
Press, 1957), ch. 20. The following account of life in South Australia is taken
from Jo h n H irst, A d ela id e a nd the C ountry: 1870-1917 (M elb o u rn e:
M elbourne University Press, 1973), and C. Chinner, “Earthly Paradise: A Social
History of Adelaide in the Early 1890’s,” honors thesis in history, University of
Adelaide, Adelaide, South Australia, 1960. Inform ation about the Mayo family
comes from the Mayo papers in the South Australian Archives, especially Helen
Mayo’s “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo,” and A. A. Lendon’s essay “Old
Doctor Mayo” ; C. H. Mayo, A Genealogical Account o f the Mayo and Elton
Families o f Welts and Herefordshire and Som e Other Adjoining Counties, To­
gether with N um erous Biographical Sketches, 2d ed. (London: Privately
printed, Chiswick Press, Whiltingham, 1908); Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks.
 Mayo Family in Adelaide 33

4. George Gibbes Mayo did not qualify as a civil engineer, as his family thought.
He received a Proficiency Certificate in Engineering Science. In her biographical
notes on Elton, Helen Mayo wrote that her father’s lecturers thought him an
able student. South A ustralian Directory, 1883-1915 (Adelaide: Sands &
McDougall, n.d.).
5. Hirst, Adelaide and the Country, p. 5.
6. Adelaide Advertiser, 6 November 1930, p. 10; conversation with Dr. Margaret B.
Horan, 11 July 1974.
7. Margaret B. Horan, “A Goodly Heritage: An Appreciation of the Life and Work
of the Late Dr. Helen Mayo,” M edical Journal o f Australia, 20 February 1971,
pp. 419-24.
8. Ibid.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 1 April 1916; 24 April 1919; Hetty to Herbert, 28 September
1914, SAA; H etty to Elton, 17 April 1928, MM 1.007; Helen Mayo to
Roethlisberger, 20 August 1960, FJR.
10. Conversation with Dr. Horan, 11 July 1974.
11. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 553.
12. Ibid., 912; Elton to Dorothea, 6 April 1920.
13. Horan, “A Goodly Heritage.”
14. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 1315.
15. Ibid., 336, 1108.
16. Ibid., 199, 1318.
17. Conversation with Lady Mayo, 25 May 1974.
 2
Early Failures, 1893-1904

In 1893, at the age of twelve, Elton was sent to Queen’s School in North
Adelaide to introduce discipline to his education. At home Elton had
shown that he was intelligent and could master anything that interested
him. He had devoured the novels of Scott and Dickens, and finished Gib­
bon’s Decline and Fall o f the Roman Empire. He had learned to recite
poetry, grave and gay, to discuss history, and to describe birds, and, by his
father, had been introduced to geology, botany, and physics. But Elton was
impervious to what he did not like, as Hetty found when she had tried to
teach him the multiplication tables.1
Queen’s School was new and enjoyed no reputation except that its head­
master, Mr. Linden, had been the senior master at St. Peter’s College, one of
Adelaide’s long-established private colleges for boys. However, during
Elton’s first year, his school earned a high assessment from the school’s
examiner, who reported that the boys wrote and spelled well, their arithme­
tic and German were excellent, algebra was progressing, and French would
improve.2
Elton was on good terms with his teachers, but believed that his school
work “had travelled very little as compared with other people.”3 This pessi­
mism stayed with him through his schooldays; in an effort to enhance his
self-esteem he studied hard. The results were excellent; he won prizes for
Latin, French, chemistry, mathematics, and Greek, and at Speech Day,
Chief Justice Sir Samuel Waye presiding, Elton was chosen to recite a
humorous poem.4
From 1896 to 1898 Elton studied at St. Peter’s College, a private school
for Christian gentlemen, founded by Doctor Mayo and his contemporaries
and attended by Elton’s father.5 Elton was unhappy at St. Peter’s. After the
first year his scholastic interests faded, and he gave up team games and
athletic interests because he was not able to remain on good terms with the
teachers who were in charge of classroom and sporting activities.6 One
schoolfellow recalls that Elton was an intellectual snob, obtuse, pedantic,
and comic, whose only memorable contribution to school life was climb­
ing the spiked gate at the school’s entrance.7 Such odd behavior at school
earned Elton the nickname “Bill,” after Billy Elton, a well-known traveling
comedian.8 Years later Elton wrote to his wife: “In school I used to have

35
36 Elton Mayo

rotten times, and I learned that if you wait things pass. In my teens I used
to think it a blessed thing that one could sleep and forget.”9
Elton was happier at home than at school. His parents maintained a
democratic atmosphere, and, although they encouraged the children to do
well at whatever they chose, heavy effort was thought by their father to be
more comical than virtuous.10 At school control was strict and au­
thoritarian, and working hard—or the appearance thereof—was consid­
ered the best answer to charges of adolescent laziness and daydreaming.
Because the school aimed to produce Christian gentlemen, religion was
used to spread moral virtues and curb unholy activities among the boys.11
Religion was put to such use at home only when Elton’s Aunt Jane de­
scended on the family and unwittingly entertained the children with her
forceful caricature of Victorian morality.12 At the slightest sound from
Aunt Jane, Elton would amuse the family with his favorite cry, “Aunt Jane!
Aunt Jane! My God! What a noise!” The Mayo children were taken to
church more often for the spiritual experience and the opportunity to
develop a sense of faith than to be impressed by eloquent convictions of
sin.13
At home Elton’s reading and intelligent conversation were encouraged,
and his occasional moods of depression and withdrawal were attributed to
his sensitiveness. At school depression and withdrawal were seen as symp­
toms of intellectual snobbery. Outdoor sports were encouraged at Ade­
laide’s private schools, and most boys could get onto some team or other.
Elton had pale and sensitive skin that burned quickly in the dry wind and
hot sun, so he had to stay indoors or cover his skin completely, which partly
explains why he did not appear in team games at school. Instead he took up
independent sports like swimming, tennis, and golf, which allowed him to
wear the clothes he liked and decide when he would play.
The Mayo children formed a circle of their own. Professional families
did not live nearby so the neighborhood offered no suitable playmates.
And school afforded Elton few friends. Together the children played cha­
rades, rode horses and bicycles, and camped out. Elton was called “Stilts,”
Penelope was “Puddles,” and Herbert was “Tubb.” Helen and Olive had no
nicknames. Sometimes a friend was admitted to the circle and saw how
rich and varied was family life with the Mayos. Elton’s father tried hard to
teach the children to live together in peace and amity, and to be willing to
give and take in their relations with one another. “Our background was
amazingly different from most of them,” wrote Helen Mayo, “we were
lucky—and that alone is enough to show how important an excellent home
life is.”14
Elton was not always well behaved. In some of his boyish pranks and tilts
at authority he was joined by Herbert. For ten years they slept upstairs in
the same bedroom with shuttered windows that overlooked their grand­
father’s backyard. The boys had been given a six-foot blowpipe from
 Early Failures 37

Borneo. Green olives fitted it admirably, and the olives carried straight for
sixty yards. Hidden by shutters, Elton and Herbert blasted away mercilessly
at grandfather’s chicken shed. The gardener would wake at the sound of the
olives raining onto the iron roof, search about, scratch his head, and walk
away, much to the boys’ delight.15 On a summer holiday during the Boer
War, Elton and Herbert were encouraged one night to set fire to a thirty-ton
stack of longwood on the beach. It was in readiness to celebrate the end of
the war. People rode for miles to see the great blaze, and the boys were
amused to hear them ask, “Has peace been declared?”16 Elton also de­
lighted in visiting a certain pier to annoy the old men fishing from it by
outcasting them and catching more fish than they did.17
Elton’s academic work was good but not outstanding. From the boys in
Form VI at St. Peter’s he was chosen for the College’s Westminster scholar­
ship in classical studies, but his performance was mediocre. In November
1897 he took the Senior Public Examination for entry to the University of
Adelaide. Six boys from St. Peter’s College performed with credit, and were
awarded high passes. Elton passed at a low level in English, French, pure
mathematics, and chemistry. In November 1898 he repeated the examina­
tion, but his performance was no better.
Elton was eligible to enter the university to study arts or law but not
medicine because he had not taken Latin. This regulation was known to
Elton and his family because his sister Helen had begun her studies in
medicine. Elton had decided not to follow her. However, with a heavy push
from his parents he changed his mind, and in March 1899 passed yet
another examination in English, French, pure mathematics, and, this time,
Latin.18
In July 1899, with seven other young men, Elton became a student of
medicine at the University of Adelaide.19 Facilities there were miserable.
The library was small, cold, and damp. Students sat on a hard bench in a
dark lecture theater. They had to take down every word uttered in formal
lectures because textbooks were scarce, and few abstracts and journals were
available. Many of the students envied their peers whose parents had had
enough money to send them “home” to England where they could study at
Oxford or Cambridge.20
The medical course lasted five years, and students were expected to
attend at least three-fourths of the lectures given during the two sessions,
from March to August and from September to December. Examinations
were held in the second session. In the first year lectures were in anatomy,
biology, physiology, chemistry, botany, and physics; there was practical
work in the first three subjects so the students had to learn the elements of
the subjects and demonstrate skill in dissection and in the preparation of
specimens for close study. Elton worked well, and received a second-class
pass, to share top place with two others.21
Elton’s second year was directed more to specific topics for medical
38 Elton Mayo

students. In anatomy he learned about the nervous system, sense organs,

parts of the lung and the brain, and how to dissect the elbow and the knee.
He studied physiology, organic chemistry, Materia Medica, and learned
some elementary therapeutics.22 The students were hard pressed to com­
plete their work before the numerous examinations at the year’s end. To
help in their studies, medical students founded a society that encouraged
members to write papers and promoted fellowship. In the first part of the
year they met once each month, and at the end of the year celebrated their
success with a dinner.23
Comfortable facilities for students were not available at the university,
so the Adelaide University Union was established, and Elton joined its
committee. He helped the union to promote social life amongst the mem­
bers of the university, to receive and discuss academic papers, and to hold
debates on approved subjects. The union acquired a handsome, com­
modious room, furnished it with tables, magazines, and newspapers, and
invited members to enjoy smoking, reading, and club life.24
In his second year, then, Elton had a secure place in the general life of
the university and the exclusive community of medical students. At the
end of 1900 he lost all this when he failed the examination. A recent history
of the university records: “In the days of our grandfathers a student who
failed his chosen profession’s entrance qualifications was in dire straits. As
in the noble game of cricket, he was either ‘in’ or ‘out.’”25 Elton was out.
Elton’s failure changed his career and life. Why he failed is not securely
known. His sister Helen said he lost interest in medicine, found amusing
companions, got into debt, and did insufficient work; his brother Herbert
mentioned a certain woman and heavy losses at the race track. Also, Elton
was unsuited to the way medicine was taught. Under Hetty he had rebelled
against learning the multiplication tables; it seems likely he rebelled
against requirements of the university’s medical staff “to memorize and be
able to regurgitate an enormous amount of anatomical detail and clinical
facts and figures.”26 Further, a sharp difference existed between his parents
in their attitude to work. Hetty and George had agreed that their children
should be pushed toward not only a professional vocation but a broad
range of human affairs, but they had disagreed on how this was to be done.
Hetty had learned that success followed from persistent and concentrated
attention to the task at hand; George had learned to be more skeptical, and
was convinced, in his whimsical way, “that heavy effort was excellent com­
edy.”27 At nineteen years Elton had not reconciled the two approaches;
instead he chose George’s way, found amusement inside the university and
out, broadened his experience of human affairs, but failed to hold his place
among the most hard-pressed and exam ination-ridden university
students.28
Hetty and George were deeply disappointed. Elton was ashamed of
himself and suffered a great loss of self-esteem. He never forgot the feeling
 Early Failures 39

that he had let down his family. “I think I told you about my phantasy,” he
wrote to his daughter in 1938, “that I should like to meet my father and
grandfather in the happy hunting grounds (on terms of complete equality)
and to compare and discuss experiences with them.”29 He was sorry that
Hetty had not lived to see his success in the United States.30
At the time of his failure the family decided that Elton’s companions
had led him astray—he could not bear to confess to being uninterested in
medicine—so, to rid him of their influence, he was sent to the University of
Edinburgh to continue his studies.
Little is known about his activities in Scotland. In June 1901 he repre­
sented students of the University of Adelaide at the Ninth Jubilee of the
University of Glasgow.31 Elton told of arriving so late at one important
dinner that no seat was available; he sent his card to the chairman, who
found a seat beside a former governor of South Australia.32 In September
Elton matriculated at the University of Edinburgh,33 but he did not study
medicine for long. In Adelaide, Elton’s parents held to the belief that he
had still not freed himself from the wrong sort of companions, so George
decided to send him to the small medical school at St. George’s Hospital,
London.34 At the end of April 1903 Elton had enrolled to take the conjoint-
examinations of the Royal College of Physicians and the Royal College of
Surgeons, which would lead to diplomas equivalent to bachelor’s degrees in
medicine and surgery in Australia.35
Elton lived at Colonel Charles Mayo’s home, “Folkdene,”in Grove Park,
London. A boyhood friend, Dr. John Cleland, visited him in September
1903 and found him apparently studying assiduously.36 In truth Elton was
not absorbed in medical studies; he was in a dilemma. On one hand he
shrank from disappointing his father, and on the other, no matter how hard
he tried, he could not make himself like medicine. Earlier this conflict had
prevented him from writing home, but now he wanted to be rid of study. In
December 1903 he dropped medicine for the third time.
George accepted the decision and suggested that Elton find a vocation
for himself, offering a small allowance to support him during the search.
Elton found a position with the Ashanti Mining Company, miners of gold
in Obuassi, West Africa,37 where life was unhealthy for Europeans and
proved dangerous and disappointing for Elton. Many white men suffered
and died from blackwater fever; and most of those who survived the haz­
ards of the first six months were shipped back to England with diseases that
took a lifetime to throw off. Elton was determined to make good in West
Africa. He had failed to follow the respectable profession of medicine, so
there was little to lose by taking up an adventure, as his grandfather and
father had done before him. Years later he told his children that he went to
West Africa looking for diamonds, and “to see what it was like.” The
decision had been taken to escape failure, and to become sure of what he
should do with his life.38 But the adventure was another failure.
40 Elton Mayo

Elton worked at the company’s headquarters, applied himself diligently,

and even rose early each morning.39 When his health failed, the medical
officer decided to send him back to England in late March 1904. He
brought back with himself a nightmare: dengue fever.40
Later Elton drafted a short story based on his experience, in which West
Africa is a place of “stern reality” where “death sudden and unaccount­
able” awaits the white man. The bed-ridden main character fears death and
is being deafened by “the roar of the stampers grinding out more gold for
millionaires.” The doctor assures him that he has only a touch of fever. The
patient laughs wildly: “It’s touch and go then Doctor; and I’m going this
tim e.. .. Can’t you put me right? Damn it! Where’s your skill and science?”
The doctor replies grimly: “Science? All science has so far achieved is to
confirm our certainty of annihilation.”41 Years afterward Elton reported
that, following the death of a white man, his West African valet “disappears
for at least a week until such time as the magic which has slain his master
may have dispersed.”42 As Elton’s interests in psychology and anthropology
developed, he called on his West African experience to illustrate sim­
ilarities between the primitive mind of natives, the mental processes in
childhood, the thoughts of neurotic adults, and the superstitions and irra­
tionalities in everyday life.
Two reasons were circulated to explain Elton’s unexpected return to
Colonel Mayo’s home: an abcess in the ear, and appendicitis.43 By the first
week of April he had regained his health sufficiently to accompany his two
female cousins*to Tilbury to meet the S.S. Arcadia, which had brought his
sister Helen to London. She had completed her undergraduate work in
medicine at the University of Adelaide, and planned to continue her stud­
ies in tropical medicine before spending a year in India. Cleland was there
to welcome her too. For about a month Elton and Helen lived at Grove
Park, and Cleland visited them weekends. With the Mayo girls and their
friends the three Australians lunched, played tennis and croquet, rode
bicycles, and enjoyed the city’s sights. They talked about their families at
home, their childhood, and the future. It was clear that Elton had not
measured up to the standards of his own homeland; he had no qualifica­
tions, no clear future, and no income.
Elton decided to write. The papers he read reported much news about
Australia and the British Commonwealth. The Westminster Budget pub­
lished an article on how the Children’s Court worked in South Australia;
the Pall Mall Gazette reported on the cricket successes of Trumper and
Rhodes, the gold rushes in Queensland, the impact of British imperial
strategies on the Australian navy, winemaking in South Australia, Canada’s
need of immigrants, the success of Chinese labor in the mines of Australia’s
Northern Territory, the training of women for medicine. And Elton knew
of Alan Burgoyne’s success; at the age of twenty-three Burgoyne had written
for Harpers, World Wide, and Pall Mall Magazine, and had received thirty
 Early Failures 41

pounds for accounts of his adventures in Siam and New Guinea. It seemed
reasonable that Elton could be a journalist as well. He was twenty-three,
too.
Late in April, Cleland helped Helen find comfortable rooms in Gower
Street, close to the School of Tropical Medicine. Through the University
Women’s Club she made friends, some of whom took tea with her in her
rooms. Edith Hooper, an intelligent philosophy graduate from Phila­
delphia, became a close friend, and she impressed Elton when once he
came to tea. He himself had no close friends, and now that Helen was gone
from Grove Park, he was unhappy.
Elton was unhappy for many reasons. He depended on his father for
money. This forced him to be less extravagant than in the past, but he still
could not acquire the prudent habits needed to prevent his expenditure
from exceeding his income. At the same time he had little energy and no
inclination for work. And because he had no job or position in view, he
believed that he could not easily borrow money, even from those who
thought highly of him. At Grove Park his attitude was perverse and un­
cooperative; he became a nuisance because he stayed up until 2 a .m . and
never rose before 11 a .m ., he refused to be corrected by the mistress of the
house, and if anyone tried to advise him or manage his affairs, he became
quite savage. He idled about the house, wrote a little, spent his money, and
then thought of writing a little more. The growing difficulties at Grove
Park, combined with the curious working habits Elton was cultivating, led
him to find some digs at 49 Great Ormond Street, a short walk from
Helen’s room.
In the evenings he often visited her and they would sit in the little
garden, Elton puffing on a cigarette, Helen reading aloud her letters from
home. Together they planned the future, daydreamed, and recalled their
fortunate upbringing—how it afforded them a “mental hinterland” of var­
ied interests and wide knowledge that, they assured each other, would lead
to a deeper understanding of life’s problems.
In these confidential conversations Helen gave her brother close atten­
tion, assured him of sympathetic support, and kept back her own disap­
pointment at his poor university record. She listened to him because she
loved him, and his thoughts interested her. She decided not to argue with
him nor to give him advice because “it would destroy any influence I now
have.”44 By listening, she encouraged him to talk and say many things
about himself and the family that would otherwise have been difficult to
say. She knew that it was not only a chronic shortage of cash that bothered
Elton but also a sustained loss of self-esteem exacerbated by the absence of
close friends with whom to share his youthful plans. She believed he car­
ried a deep but suppressed affection for his parents, and refused to write
home because he had wanted to maintain the view that they deliberately
failed to understand him. Helen helped Elton to appreciate the complexity
42 Elton Mayo

of their disappointment and to see that it was he who had failed them and
then turned away from them in search of a challenge on which to deploy his
talents. In time, she brought her brother back to the opinion that he was
lucky to have had the parents he did. Their talks seem to have had many of
the features of clinical relationships that Elton discussed years later.
Elton worked for a short period as a proofreader in a firm that published
the Bible. People chuckled when he told the story that because he had been
so familiar with the work he had had to read every line, closely, from right
to left.45 Also, Elton wrote for the newspapers.
Elton had an early piece in the Pall Mall Gazette on a political crisis in
Australia.46 He had left South Australia at about the time the colonies
federated and the commonwealth was proclaimed. In April 1904, after the
breakdown of a political coalition, the Australian Labour Party (ALP) had
sufficient support to form a federal government. Elton drew the attention
of the English to the “grave significance,” the “danger to the Constitution,”
and the “great anxiety” in Australia following the ALP success. He accused
the party of placing great financial burdens on the new nation and failing
to foster settlement outside the cities. To illustrate his case, he pointed to
the old age pensions, village settlements, and the immigration bill. ALP
policy benefited only one class. The leaders were incompetent; their
scheme for a “white Australia” and their socialist ideology would limit
immigration of colored laborers and thereby raise wages artificially; their
special land tax would give the state full control of all property, and their
plan to introduce state-controlled industries would “crush private commer­
cial enterprise.” Elton here argued a point that he would repeat in his
political writings and in his views on education. “Ignorant men may be led
by their intellectual superiors: the insufficiently educated, particularly
when a large majority has entire control of affairs, are obstinately self-
opinionated, and, as such, are a distinct menace to the social well-being of
the community.”47
Elton attacked socialism, not because he objected to the ideology but
because in Australia “labour politicians and stump or pot-house orators”
approached socialism wrongly, emphasized selfishness and class jealousy,
and, by playing on the mob’s ignorance, planned to drag down “advanced
individuals . . . to the level of the common herd.” He scorned the idea that
the redistribution of wealth would stabilize; to him it was basically unfair,
and, if done quickly, would lead to anarchy and civil war. He wrote that
“the idle and extravagant must necessarily sink, those naturally industrious
and thrifty cannot but rise,” and advocated social improvement by educa­
tion not legislation. The blame that he first attributed to the ALP politi­
cians he directed also to the lethargic “colonial upper classes” who, he
warned, would shortly be the victims of a “rude awakening.” Elton’s poli­
tics were clear enough. He loathed socialism because it flourished on mob
ignorance, and preferred “a high ethical Socialism” that developed from
 Early Failures 43

“the voluntary sacrifice of certain advantages by a more cultured class in

order to raise the moral and intellectual level of their less enlightened
brethren.”
Nine years later, on the eve of his marriage, Elton was rummaging
through his papers when he found a copy of his analysis of Australia’s
political crisis of 1904. He considered sending it to his fiancee, for its style
was interesting, but he was so horrified by its impertinence and lack of
honesty that he burned it instead.48
Elton’s article caught the eye of an Australian in London at this time.
Signing himself “P.N.R.”, he wrote a reply that appeared five days later in
the same place on the front page.49 First, the village settlements and old age
pension schemes were state not commonwealth schemes; the former was
introduced by a conservative not a socialist government, and the latter was
supported by both parties and not a divisive issue. Second, no attempts had
been made to limit the immigration of “desirable persons,” and most
parliamentarians—not simply Labourites—had supported the “White
Continent” policy and agreed on the definition of “desirable.” “P.N.R.”
further asserted that it was common knowledge that the desert interior was
not suitable for economic development, and, because most arable land
along the coasts was controlled by a few wealthy individuals, young agri­
culturalists had been forced to seek work in the cities, thus raising urban
unemployment levels. A progressive tax was the most appropriate way to
redistribute land, and ease the economic distress; it would not become a
single tax as Elton had predicted. “P.N.R.” refused to discuss Elton’s views
on socialism, but countered those on the origins of economic troubles in
Australia by declaring that they had been caused by the bank crashes of
1893 and not recent ALP practices.
Ten days after “P.N.R.’s” rejoinder, W.H. Irvine, the conservative former
premier of Victoria who had earned great praise at home for saving his
state from a railworker strike, disembarked at Tilbury. Replying to report­
ers’ questions on Australia’s political crisis, he too contradicted Elton by
asserting that all Australians, including Labourites, wanted increased im­
migration. Then he comforted British investors with assurances that the
ALP had bound its irresponsible elements hand and foot, and that the
party’s socialist legislation could never endanger commercial growth be­
cause the states, not the commonwealth, secured investors’ property.50
The delight of seeing his writing published gave way to melancholic
preoccupations when Elton learned that Helen planned to visit Hetty’s
family and friends in Edinburgh. Shortly before her holiday Elton went to
see her. He looked pale, complained that bedbugs kept him awake, and told
of how the rejection of manuscripts was discouraging him. She listened
without comment to unhappy accounts of his inability to write, failures at
journalism, loneliness, and homesickness aroused by the occasional visitor
from Adelaide. “We all have to work these things out for ourselves” she
44 Elton Mayo

wrote to her parents; she was not tempted to take her brother in hand,
except to recommend he begin some outdoor exercise and take a tonic.51
Elton’s insensitivity toward his English cousins had so alienated them
that he was regarded as a permanent irritant. He was not welcome except
by special invitation. Only Cherie, his cousin, had any time for him. When
her marriage was announced in September, Elton, Helen, and John Cle­
land were invited, but with the marriage Elton lost the most sympathetic of
his Grove Park cousins, the one who had done all she could do “to gain his
confidence and prevent friction.”52
Twenty years later when Elton was alone in the United States he remem­
bered the London summer of 1904. He had talked with no one, and had
eaten alone. All the small things that fill up life had disappeared. He had
learned how much he needed the company of others, and doubted that he
would ever be able to make friends.53 Elton’s melancholia drove him to
walk about the streets, a pitiful wraith, obsessed with a deep and genuine
sense of his own worthlessness. This emotional circle of loneliness, self­
denigration, loss of personal contact, and further loneliness seemed an
impossible one to break. He was “idle and extravagant” and “must neces­
sarily sink.” Then one day his eye was caught by a three-story house at 46
Great Ormond Street. Fifteen-inch black lettering on a bold white strip
above the windows of each story told the pedestrian he was passing the
Working Men’s College. Elton stopped. One notice said that on September
27 evening classes for beginners would commence; above the front door
another notice pleaded urgently for £15,000 to expand the college. He
went in. The ring of loneliness was broken; Elton had taken his first step
into education of people at work.
Although the Working Men’s College would play only a brief part in
Elton’s development, the ideas on which it was established were congruent
with his later beliefs on the proper attitude toward work. In 1854, under the
leadership of F.D. Maurice, a prominent theologian and academic, the
college had been founded to provide working men with organized human
studies in a self-governing and self-supporting institution with standards
comparable to a university college. Christian fellowship set the tone for
human relations in the college; liberal rather than technical studies were
encouraged; education technique was centered on the limited experience
and interests of mature adult workers rather than the privileged back­
ground of clever young men. Although the teachers had university experi­
ence, and came from among middle-class professionals, they were chosen
for their sympathy toward the working class, their Christian sense of duty,
their humility and good-will, and their preference for cultivating human
understanding through cooperative learning rather than for handing down
knowledge through expert instruction. Freedom and order were the promi­
nent values; working men were to be unshackled from their forced igno­
rance and shown the right order of their social and political world. The
 Early Failures 45

college gave “an answering response in the social conditions of the times; in
the indignity and frustration which the conditions of the new industrial
society forced upon workers, denying them their status as full members of
society.”54
The college flourished until 1872. After a short crisis it was reorganized,
and from 1884-1902, under the influence of a prominent businessman,
George Tansley, emphasis on Christian socialism and social reform gave
over somewhat to the establishment of a stable educational system. In 1902
changes in British education led to fresh plans for the college. Since 1896
the college had been trying to raise money for expansion. Next door the
Children’s Hospital had a similar scheme; it received a handsome grant and
offered to purchase the college. So plans were drawn up for a new building
in Crowndale Road. Elton joined the college at this time. Further changes
were in the air. The control of London schools was being transferred from a
central agency to local authorities, and England’s education system was
beginning a rapid expansion that would continue until the Great War.
Voluntary education associations were growing; in particular, the Worker’s
Education Association (WEA) spread throughout England and the colo­
nies to fill gaps in adult education that other movements had overlooked.
In Australia ten years later, Elton would embrace such WEA activities.
Between September 9 and December 17, 1904, Elton was on the staff of
the Working Men’s College. Because a shortage of teachers had affected
many London schools, Elton’s application to conduct an advanced course
in English grammar was welcomed. The class met on Thursday evenings
from 8 to 10; Elton was not paid. What Elton taught ranged far from
grammar and kept his pupils’ interest. Also, he attracted them with his
charming and considerate manner. They admired his brilliant style of argu­
ment, and his extraordinary memory. It was an audience that gave Elton
the chance to see how rapidly he could develop his remarkable capacity to
use facts and that gave him much respect.55
In time Elton’s attempts at journalism gave over to playing chess and
reading in the library at the college. Also he began to enter the college’s
social life. In Australia the Labour government had lost power, and Elton
entertained the Debating Society with his argument “This house welcomes
the recent downfall of the Labour Ministry in Australia,” which carried by
a vote of ten to five. This was a notable success in view of the ethos of social
reform that was upheld in the college. Late in October Elton attended the
jubilee dinner in the company of the founder’s son, C. Edmund Maurice,
A.V. Dicey, and G.M. Trevelyan.56 At a smokers’ concert where prizes for
athletics were being distributed Elton offered the company a musical item,
and shortly before Christmas the Old Student’s Club had him to supper. Of
Elton the college journal wrote: “It is remarkable to what extent he entered
into the College life during the six m onths.. . . He carries many friendships
and pleasant memories . . . with him.” Seventeen years later Elton wrote to
46 Elton Mayo

Dorothea: “As a youngster I walked into the Working Men’s College and
was immediately taken into the confidence of the workers themselves.”57
News of Elton’s desultory activities had reached the family in Adelaide,
and George wrote suggesting to Helen that she and Elton take a holiday on
the Continent. The first week of October was free, so they bought tickets on
the Belgian railways and took Cook’s hotel coupons, “the cheapest and
nicest way of doing it.”58 The tour was a brief tour of churches, castles, and
museums, all hastily summarized on picture postcards. One museum—the
Wiertz Museum—was to become of particular significance to Elton.
Antoine Wiertz (1806-1865) had bequeathed to the citizens of Brussels a
permanent exhibition of the sculptures and paintings in his home. “To
make the transfiguration of Raphael and then die” had been the aim of the
young Wiertz;59 as he matured, he was possessed by humanitarian ideals,
which he expressed by drawing attention to war, threats to family life,
capital punishment, and social injustice. His technique was to shock the
observer with realistic imagery. The exhibition is dominated by enormous
gruesome paintings. With few exceptions they depict beautifully formed
men and women being decapitated, impaled, dismembered, and otherwise
subjected to mysterious rituals or physical and mental torment: Satan and
Christ watch a man blowing off his head with a pistol; a woman, wild with
hunger and unable to pay her taxes, is chopping up her child and cooking it
in a pot; a mother with no place to leave her infant during the day is
snatching its charred body from the stove; children play war games beside a
great cannon; orphans pine over the coffin of their parents recently killed
by the collapse of their house; women flee with their children from
rapacious, drunken soldiers.
Helen and Elton marveled at the “instinct with insane genius. He was
mad for a time before his death.”60 They were drawn, particularly to: Une
Scene de I’enfer, in which a proud Napoleon is called to account for his
butchery by his victim’s families, who thrust at him the bloody limbs of
their dead; Inhumation precipitee depicts horror in the face of a man
peering from under his coffin lid, marked “Mort du cholera—certifie par
nous Docteuss Sans doutes”; a triptych, Pensees et visions d ’une tete cou­
pee, shows the suffering that a person was believed to endure for three
minutes after decapitation. Many paintings depict Jesus and Satan; in all of
them, Elton and his sister agreed, the face of Satan or Lucifer had greater
strength and beauty than that of Christ. “Elton was immensely interested
and very anxious to buy a book of the pictures,” wrote Helen, “but I
personally would not care to have such morbid things with me, and we did
not get any.”61
During his life Elton developed no personal interest in painting even
though Wiertz’s work did intrigue him. Wiertz upheld many values that
were important to Elton and were characteristic of romantics of his day.
For example, in Wiertz’s enormous Le dernier canon, the message is to end
 Early Failures 47

war, slaughter, and artificial boundaries between human beings: “Progress

breaks the cannon, Genius sets it alight, and the civilized activities of
Science, Art and Work spread peace and kindness throughout the world.”
Wiertz painted to capture the attention of important authorities, to shame
them with vivid, realistic images of their uncivilized accomplishments, and
to show the “light of kindness, of reason, of fraternity.”62 Sympathy for
Wiertz’s feelings are present in Elton’s later orientation to authority figures,
human experience at work, relations between people in organized life, and
the passing of traditional community life with the growth of industrializa­
tion. Whenever the opportunity arose, Elton visited the Wiertz Museum.63
Heidelberg was of particular interest to Elton and Helen because George
had often told them of the happy time he had spent there thirty years
before, but when they arrived Elton was unwell. In London he had taken to
eating lightly all through the day and had developed a habit of having tea
and cakes rather than a proper midday meal. Malnourished, he tired from
extra exertion, like night travel, and in Heidelberg showed symptoms of
malaria, so he rested for two nights.64
After the holiday Helen enlisted John Cleland to help Elton improve his
health. Helen shortly noted a recovery in his “mental tone.” His morbid
obsessive daydreams, which she attributed to West Africa, were being re­
placed by a growing interest in the Working Men’s College, an increasing
group of friends, and high hopes for his writing.65 But toward the end of
October Elton was complaining of tiredness, inability to work, and eye
strain, and at the same time his future was becoming unclear. He had had
no more articles accepted. Helen was planning to study midwifery in Dub­
lin then go to India for a year. The family in Adelaide seemed sympathetic
toward him, so he planned to rejoin them. Yet, he had almost landed an
important secretarial post, which showed London offered opportunities
not readily available in Adelaide. Finally, Elton decided to return home
and try his hand at various things.66
In mid-December Elton changed his mind, and decided, once more, to
escape misery by following an adventure. Five good reasons presented
themselves. First, Elton and his father appear to have had a misunderstand­
ing about who should have paid for the vacation in Europe. Second, Helen
was in Dublin and not available to help clarify the problem. Third, classes
had ended at the Working Men’s College. Fourth, a lonely Christmas stared
at him. And fifth, Christmas day would be followed by his birthday; Elton
loathed his birthday because all his life it had been treated as the fag-end of
the holiday celebrations.67 It was the day to run away from. Elton decided
to try Canada.68
Canada? Early in 1904, the Honorable James A. Smart, Canada’s deputy
minister of the interior, had visited London to encourage farmers and
laborers to migrate to Canada. He had predicted that by 1914 Canada could
feed all England, and that its industrial expansion would rival that of the
48 Elton Mayo

United States.69 In December 1904, Canada looked like a better adventure-

land than had West Africa in December 1903. Elton wrote to Helen asking
for passage money, but she could no longer maintain her neutral attitude.
She felt she had to take him in hand. “It seemed . . . too silly to go to an
unknown country without money or influence when there was his own
home waiting for him.”70 He accepted her advice, and she advanced him
money for his fare and expenses. On January 19, 1905, he departed from
Liverpool for Adelaide aboard the S.S. Persic. He sent Helen a postcard,
“Ave atque vale,” and left a message, “So long,” on the mantelpiece in the
common room at the Working Men’s College.71

Notes
1. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo,” SAA.
2. R. J. Nicholas, “Private and D enom inational Secondary Schools of South
Australia,” thesis in education, University of Melbourne. Parkville, Victoria,
Australia, 1951.
3. Elton to Herbert, 16 November 1937, SAA.
4. In the personal libraries of Patricia and Gael Elton Mayo; Helen Mayo, “Bio­
graphical Notes on Elton Mayo.”
5. Reports differ as to when Elton was at St. Peter’s; school records show he at­
tended 1896-98. Evans to Trahair, 22 May 1974.
6. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo.”
7. Hargraves to Trahair, 24 May 1974.
8. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 1073, 1293.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 22 October 1922.
10. Elton to Toni, 19 April 1935.
11. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 134.
12. Ibid., 876.
13. Elton to Dorothea, 18 November 1922.
14. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 930, 1048, 1293. Helen to Elton, 3 February
1945, MM 1.007.
15. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 504, 506, 573.
16. Ibid., 83.
17. Mayo to Roethlisberger, 20 August 1940, FJR.
18. University of Adelaide, Calendar, 1898, 1899, 1900; Elton to Toni, 19 April
1935.
19. Medical Student Register, University of Adelaide.
20. W. G. K. Duncan and R. A. Leonard, The University o f Adelaide, 1874-1974
(Adelaide: Rigby, 1974), ch. 6.
21. University of Adelaide, Calendar, 1900.
2 2 .Ibid.
23. Ibid., 1901.
2 4 .Ibid.
25. Duncan and Leonard, University o f Adelaide, p. 59.
2 6 .Ibid.
27. Elton to Toni, 19 April 1935.
28. Duncan and Leonard, University o f Adelaide, p. 59.
29. Elton to Toni, 7 January 1938.
30. Elton to Toni, 19 April 1935.
 Early Failures 49

31. M cKenna to M uspratt, 10 September 1975, Library correspondence, Univer­

sity of Glasgow.
32. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo.”
33. White to Trahair, 25 September 1974.
34. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo.”
35. Mackay to Trahair, 17 July 1974.
36. John Cleland’s Diary, SAA.
37. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo” ; Helen Mayo to Meecham, 8
July 1959, SAA; John Cleland’s Diary.
38. Conversation with Gael Mayo, 12 February 1975.
39. Helen Mayo to her parents, 11 November 1904, SAA.
40. Helen Mayo to her parents, 14 October 1904, SAA; conversation with George
Homans, January 1974.
41. Mayo’s Notebook, pp. 98-99, BLA.
42. Elton Mayo, “The Irrational Factor in Society,” Journal o f Personnel Research 1
(1923):419-26.
43. John Cleland’s Diary.
44. Helen Mayo to her parents, 28 April 1904, SAA.
45. Conversation with Ruth Norton, 4 March 1975.
46. Elton Mayo, “The Australian Crisis,” Pall M all Gazette, 12 May 1904, pp. 1-2.
47. Ibid.
48. Elton to Dorothea, 13 March 1913.
49. Elton Mayo “The Irrational Factor in Society.”
50. Op. cit., 27 May 1904, P. 9.
51. Helen Mayo, in “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo,” indicates that other arti­
cles were accepted and that for each one Elton received one guinea. Copies of
the articles have not been found in the papers to which she referred.
52. Helen Mayo to her parents, 28 April 1904, SAA.
53. Ibid.
54. Elton to Dorothea, 20 September, 7, 25 October 1922.
55. Harrison, J.EC., A History o f the Working Men s College, 1854-1954. (London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1954), p. 25.
56. Helen Mayo to her parents, 24 November 1904, SAA.
57. Mayo to Donham, M M .3.036.
58. Working M ens College Journal 8 (1904): 396, 434, 447, 453; IX (1905): 2, 19,
32, 71.
59. Helen Mayo to her parents, 6 October 1904, SAA.
60. Potvin, J. Antony Wiertz, English ed., trans. by the author (Brussels, 1913), p.
115.
61. Helen Mayo to her parents, 6 October 1904, SAA.
6 2 .Ibid.
63. Potvin, Anthony Wiertz, p. 122.
64. Conversations with Patricia Elton Mayo, January 1974.
65. Helen Mayo to her parents, 6 October 1904, SAA.
66. Helen Mayo to her parents, 14 October 1904, SAA.
67. Helen Mayo to her parents, 10 November 1904, SAA.
68. Conversations with Patricia Elton Mayo, September 1975.
69. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo.”
70. Pall M all Gazette, 78, 27 January 1904, p. 12.
71. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo.”
72. Helen Mayo, “Biographical Notes on Elton Mayo”; Working M ens College
Journal 9 (1905): 32.
 3
Education and Career, 1905-1911

It was February when Elton reached South Australia. With Helen in

India and Herbert studying law in Melbourne, only Penelope, sixteen, and
John, fourteen, were still at home. They delighted in getting reacquainted
with their errant brother, who told stories of adventures abroad and gave
practical advice on school work.
Hetty and George established close and happy relations with Elton, and,
within a few weeks of his arrival, acquired for him a partnership with
George W. Jacobs in the printing firm J.H. Sherrington and Co., Bickford
Buildings in Leight Street, Adelaide. Experience at the Working Men’s
College had helped him to manage some administrative difficulties, but he
never adapted fully to conventional office hours and other routines. He
stuck to it until 1910.1
Elton’s welcome home did not extend much beyond the family. He
recalled, “When I came back to Australia from England . . . everyone [was]
pointing the finger of scorn or else disregarding me.” He was ostracized for
two good reasons: first, he had twice failed medicine, and this was not easily
forgotten by those who knew him; second, he had gone into business,
which had a social status well beneath the profession of his grandfather and
sister. Worse, he had become an enigma. On one hand, his lower social
standing was incongruous with his family’s respectable connections; on the
other, he had a capable mind and was remarkably skilled in associating
with different people, something that Helen had recognized and admired.
Further, he was a showman; in 1905, he played a waiter in an impromptu
performance at a guest house at Port Elliot and, with no script, kept his
audience fully entertained.2 In short, Elton’s intelligence and charm were
acknowledged, but his social standing partially denied him the status that
his family once enjoyed.
Although Elton was sometimes depressed by being cut and was rankled
by his associates, he managed himself constructively by turning to his
notebooks.3 He composed flippant dialogue and witty verses about his
feelings, casting himself as the “Ostracized Agnostic,” a poor fellow at
times in love with the “Dainty Patricia,” a young woman of high degree.
We learn that between the Ostracized Agnostic and Dainty Patricia lies a
wide gulf. The Ostracized Agnostic is properly a Bohemian, in whose so-

51
52 Elton Mayo

ciety women of good taste have “subjugated the conventional delusions”

and taken to drinking champagne and placing their feet on the nearest
mantelpiece. Of course the Dainty Patricia would never behave so, because
she imagines the Ostracized Agnostic would quit the room in disgust. She
prefers to keep her illusions, her taste for Russian tea, and her detestation
of “humbug—even in bishops.” To this nonsense he replies:
To be in the world, fortuitously as it were . . . is a far happier condition than
to be o f it socially To be content with ephemeral pleasure is, no doubt, a
crime; but it is more easily justifiable than to exist for the single purpose of
snubbing one’s next door neighbour. I am no hedonist, not even in the altruis­
tic sense. (And regarding humbug in a bishop) . . . I detest wings that creak
audibly in an archangel. Nothing annoys me more intensely than the com ­
plete self satisfaction o f those ‘society leaders’ who, after merely making
themselves unpleasant in their life, are assured by their respective padres o f
front seats in eternal bliss.

In a love poem to the Dainty Patricia, our Ostracized Agnostic again

attacks bogus social distinctions. Poor fellow wants to send her a note but
suffers “from affright of High Society.” Why? His own social rank is too low,
but “tho’ ne’er a Socialist” he is determined:

I'll overcome, so help me Fate,

The difference in our stations;
I have indeed no aspirates,
But lofty aspirations.

Sometimes Elton used his intellect aggressively in response to real or

imagined hypocrisy in those who scorned or disregarded him. At one social
gathering he asked people for their opinions on a new book, “Perdition.”
Some approved it, others condemned it. No such title had been recently
published. Although the revenge was no doubt sweet enough, it was civi­
lized, because, like the entries in his notebook, it was secret, and hurt no
one. And Elton convinced Herbert, who had known of the ruse, that it was
not a childish prank but rather the establishment of a new moral: don’t be
misled into talking about books!4
By 1906 Elton shared with George Jacobs a directorship in their print­
ing, lithographing, bookbinding, stationery, and rubber-stamp-making
firm. In 1907 Jacobs withdrew and he was joined by Horace G. Mumme
and E. Sherring. But business was not Elton’s calling, and he turned instead
to academic studies under the influence of Professor William Mitchell.
Mitchell, a Scot born in 1861, had been a lecturer in moral philosophy at
the Universities of Edinburgh and London and, at thirty-three, had ac­
cepted the Hughes Chair of Philosophy at the University of Adelaide,
where eventually he achieved the standing of a philosopher-king. His unas­
sailable authority was based on an impressive physical stature, a quiet
forceful assurance, true intellect, and a deep sense of morality. At Adelaide
 Education and Career 53

he studied and taught mental and moral philosophy, zoology, anatomy,

psychology, political science, logic, theory and practice of education, and
English language and literature. He was titled “Professor of English Lan­
guage and Literature and Mental and Moral Philosophy,” and joked that
he occupied not so much a chair as a sofa. Mitchell was a genuine nine­
teenth-century liberal, and respected conservative and reactionary col­
leagues alike. By 1934 he was a tremendous influence in the university, and
for his contribution he was knighted. He died at 101.5
Mitchell’s Structure and Growth of the Mind, published in 1907, was to
play an important part in Elton’s intellectual growth. The book comprises
lectures on the body-mind problem, the field of academic psychology, and
how to explain and analyze human experience. Mitchell also considers
psychological explanations of social relations in discussions on imitation,
fellow-feeling, and aesthetics; outlines how intelligence develops through
the complex refinement and raising of sensory and perceptual experience;
and looks at the place of scientific explanation in psychology.
Elton admired Mitchell, studied under him, and became a close friend.
Mitchell spoke of Elton with pride. How they became known to each other
is not clear. In 1896 and 1897 Helen Mayo had been an arts student under
Mitchell; no doubt he learned of her prize-winning record in medical
studies, as well as Elton’s failures. Probably the Mayo and Mitchell families
knew each other. In 1906 Mitchell had been abroad. In 1907 when the
acquaintanceship was renewed, after Mitchell’s trip, Mitchell and Elton
discussed the dissatisfactions of business life. Mitchell could answer Elton’s
questions, so, Elton tells us, he decided to begin an undergraduate degree
in philosophy.6
In his first year Elton took economics, logic, and psychology, attending
Mitchell’s lectures, in the late afternoon, four days each week. Economics
was a two-year course based on Gide’s Principles o f Political Economy,
Syke’s Banking and Commerce, and Cunningham and McArthur’s Outline
o f English Industrial History. For private reading Elton was encouraged to
tackle Marshall’s Economics o f Industry, and Mill’s Principles o f Political
Economy. In a class of sixteen students, Elton and two others shared a high
pass. Logic was a one-year course. Elton used Elementary Lessons in Logic
by Jevons, and by himself studied Bosanquet’s Essentials o f Logic. Again
he did well. In psychology his performance was outstanding; his medical
knowledge helped because the course centered on elements of physiologi­
cal psychology, following the texts of Huxley and McDougall. The psycho­
logical components of the course were drawn from Stout’s Manual o f
Psychology and, of course, Mitchell’s own book. In a class of twenty-five
Elton shared, with Eirene M. Williams, the Roby Fletcher Prize, an award
named after the university’s former vice-chancellor and given for the best
matriculated or graduate student in psychology.7
Elton had educational interests outside class. Again we see the influence
54 Elton Mayo

of Mitchell, who inaugurated and presided over the Adelaide University

Arts Association. This attracted Elton’s interest because Mitchell encour­
aged discussion and debate on topics that students liked, and promoted the
university’s social life by drawing together groups of mature students and
professors.8
Elton kept in touch with the Working Men’s College in London, whose
officers held him in high regard for his work there in 1904. Sir Charles
Lucas, a vice-principal of the college in Elton’s day, visited Australia in
1909; at that time he was assistant under secretary of state for the colonies,
and had come at the suggestion of Alfred Deakin, the prime minister. In
Adelaide Sir Charles stayed at Government House as the guest of the gover­
nor, Sir Day Bosanquet. Elton was sent for. Sir Charles relayed a request
from the college that Elton return to handle meetings of workingmen.
Elton chose to continue his studies in philosophy.9 Penelope joined Elton
in studies at the university.
Using Seth’s Ethical Principles and Sedgwick’s History o f Ethics, Elton
was introduced to ethical hedonism and the contributions of Bentham,
Mill, Kant, and Nietzsche, together with criticisms of utilitarian doctrines
and Spencer’s application of the theory of evolution to society. The course
considered egoism versus altruism. Hobbes on social structure; rational­
ism; the work of Butler, Clarke, and Locke; the commonsense writers like
Reid and Douglas Stewart; and Kant’s ideas on pure reason, law, God’s
existence, freedom, inevitability, and good-will. Elton combined his ideas
on psychology and ethics when he considered the scientific status of studies
in ethics, concluding that “the facts for ethics (i. e. what we ought to know)
are found in psychology.” And in his study of the state—an important
mediator of what we ought to know and do—Elton was drawn to the
notion that the ideal (i.e., highly ethical) society in any community “is that
in which individuals can lead their fullest life.”10
In philosophy Mitchell’s lectures drew on Schwengler’s History of Phi­
losophy and Royce’s World o f the Individual Particular emphasis in the
history of epistemology was placed on ideas of Locke, Berkeley, Hume, and
Kant, ideas that subsequently helped Elton with his distinction between
academic and medical psychology. Close attention was given to Ward’s
work and the first hundred pages of T.H. Green’s Prolegomena to Ethics.n
In addition to the British philosophers, Mitchell introduced Elton to the
early philosophers, for which he acquired some competence in Greek. In
both ethics and philosophy, Elton passed examinations at the highest level.
In 1909 Elton completed a first-year course in French. No lectures were
available. In two examinations students were expected to translate into and
from the French, and to show that they understood the growth of the
language and were familiar with set texts by Racine, Michelet, Barine, and
Anatole France. Elton performed well.12French was important for his later
work on Pierre Janet’s theories and research in psychopathology.
 Education and Career 55

A mature undergraduate, Elton proved that he had the perseverence and

intelligence required for a scholar’s career. At the same time he developed
an interest in less academic matters. He became an active member of the
Pickwick Club,13 which gave him a chance to display his talent at public
speaking, and to learn more about topics from art to immortality and from
romantic poetry to fanatical socialism.
Late in February 1909 Elton addressed the Pickwick Club. In “The
Criticism of Art,” with special reference to fiction, he made two points
regarding unity in a work of art: first, each part of the work must have a
place in the whole scheme; second, unity must not be achieved at the
expense of variety. Thus, unity is not governed by simplicity but by well
integrated complexity. This principle can be found in Elton’s later work on
human personality and his recommendations for the study of social life. To
illustrate his principle Elton applied his ideas to historical studies and
religious discussions on higher criticism of the New Testament, calling for
support from Percy Gardner and Edersheim. Shaw’s Major Barbara, one of
Elton’s favorites, was examined in the same way. He asked whether or not
Shaw is caught between the roles of artist and reformer, thereby weakening
the play’s dramatic quality. Elton argued that although a work of art can be
judged best by its degree of internal consistency, this should not preclude
its having moral elements with external referents. Major Barbara meets the
aesthetic criteria of a work of art because it does not call upon external
elements or raise questions of its purpose at its most dramatic points, i. e.,
when Barbara, her notions of the universe shattered, leaves the army, and,
again, when she returns to work. For this reason Elton asserted the play has
high aesthetic unity, dramatic quality, and diversity.
In July the Pickwick Club was entertained by Elton’s “Personal Immor­
tality.” He began with the kind of quip that would become a regular feature
of his talks: “Personal Immortality . . . this is not a religious paper [so it]
need not offend any. . . . ” He took up one of his favorite openings, the
apparent conflict between scientific and religious opinions, and argued that
although they differ they complement one another because both are
founded on faith in the unity of the universe. Science asks questions about
the unity; religion concerns itself with a mystical orientation toward all
things unknown. Only in particular cases does conflict emerge between
religious and scientific positions. Having put any conflict behind him,
Elton asked whether the scientific position and personal immortality are
incompatible. Quickly Elton set aside mystical issues, pantheism, and the
Upanishads, to take up immortality in terms of the brain’s functions,
sensory experience, perceptual understanding, and objective versus subjec­
tive knowledge. He concluded that no substantial proof exists in the per­
sistence or otherwise of life after death. From death he turned to life
processes, and asserted that to persist, rather than to be immortal, one
must have added to subjective knowledge and to the practice of relating the
56 Elton Mayo

self to “the other self,” i.e., to the understanding of people and relations
between them. This talk is worth noting fully because it shows Elton, a
promising academic, trying to apply himself to human and social problems
of everyday life.
Political life interested him too. In a debate before Mitchell’s Arts Asso­
ciation, Elton led, in the affirmative: “That in practical politics principle is
of less importance than expediency.” His notes are a valuable introduction
to the political problems he saw in industrial civilization. He began by
stating that just as ideals of truth and perfection do not help us judge a
particular case, so fanatical political principles and causes prevent us from
hearing criticism and, thus, from learning by experience. Although a cause
may be important to a person, the person must regard it principally as a
working hypothesis and an opportunity to ask not only “What ought I to
do?” but also “What can I do?” As a rule, he argued, reformers fail to see
this point, and are carried too far. These ideas came from Elton’s studies in
ethics, and to illustrate them he discussed fanatics in the French Revolu­
tion who were overcommitted to their cause, and misfits in West Africa
who were devoted to consuming whiskey. In West Africa many people died;
missionaries, who went to save souls from whiskey, also died; only the
government resident had the answer: “I drink as little as possible, but, at
night, I take something to overcome the utter lassitude of the tropics.” So
devotion to a cause is important, but not to the exclusion of all other
causes. At that time Elton’s case rested on a plea for common sense.
A month later Pickwick members listened to “Fanaticism and Indiffer­
ence,” in which Elton further elaborated his political views. Fanaticism
and indifference (or apathy) indicate decadence in national politics. Facing
Elton were the fanatics of socialism in the Australian Labour Party, and the
mass of Australians, who were far from convinced that this political arm of
the nation’s trade union movement was the best answer to the nation’s
development. Elton argued that common sense says political action is best
determined by political principles in relation to the facts of a particular
case. Political principles include systematic knowledge (theory) and plans
for the future (ideals); decadence emerges when people fail to systematize
their political facts and deny the reality of the facts in favor of fanatic
ideals, or when they accept their political fate with indifference. Elton
asserted that the scientific orientation that had been successfully applied to
problems of commerce ought to be tried for social and political problems
as well. “Our very party system of government is founded on the idea of
opposing fanaticisms,” and this is dangerous. Why? Fanatics are obsessed
with principles and dogma, and have a blankly defiant attitude to the
universe; they miss the important difference between a theory and an ideal,
draw a line across the path of progress, and remain indifferent to any
contradiction. Using an issue within the Australian economy—free trade
versus protection—Elton recommended that, although we should be de­
 Education and Career 57

voted to a cause, we must welcome criticism and recognize other causes.

“Criteria for Social Progress” was Elton’s honors thesis prepared under
the supervision of Mitchell. No copy is available, but some points in it can
be reconstructed from Elton’s notes. In the modern world progress is poss­
ible through following scientific principles and methodology, and having
faith in the existence of lawfulness and order. If our intellectual system of
laws simply strives to achieve perfect unity, this is no argument for its
actuality. Social progress requires both devotion to some moral beliefs as
well as skill in the scientific study of what ought to be done and what can be
done. Utopian and revolutionary conceptions of progress are fallacious.
From considering the vexed question of how individuals are related to the
state, two points emerge. First, assume that an individual develops in a
society; second, society makes the individual’s development possible
through its members’ collaborating in an effort to realize an ideal or abso­
lute unity. Individuals differ in the value of their collaborative effort. An
individual’s contribution matters only if it makes a difference of value—
concrete and complex—to the unity of society. So social progress consists
of the increments to the unity of a society, which are made possible through
the competence of those people who have learned to understand, scien­
tifically, the society that encourages their development.
With this general thesis in mind, Elton tackles the problems of social­
ism, particularly as they were presented by the rise of the Australian La­
bour Party with support from trade unions. In 1904, Elton’s views on ALP
socialism had appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette; in 1909 he had a more
sophisticated, less hostile argument. He declared that socialism could be
justified if it achieved “a difference of value in social unity” and if it was
based on skilled investigation, observation, and application of facts, com­
bined with an open mind regarding contradictory attitudes. Socialism
could not be justified if its aims were achieved through extreme action.
From Elton’s observations, one important basis on which socialism could
be justified was “skill in administration,” which he believed was an intellec­
tual skill. Of course, if this skill was all that was needed, then socialism
would develop best through aristocrats of intellect, and government by
aristocrats of intellect might be preferable to government by aristocrats of
wealth. But he thought more was required than skill in administration; a
moral stance was necessary because the intellect alone would produce
merely abstract thought systems for socialism. Such abstract theory reveals
only inconsistencies in itself and in its conception of a society; it is inade­
quate to deal with the facts of reality, the problems raised by social change.
Because society is concrete and changes in it carry consequences, it should
be reconstituted with great care and in a definite direction according to
acceptable ideals. What ideals are available?
Elton thought that both capitalism and the current labor movements
overemphasized material efficiency. Democratic socialism seemed promis­
58 Elton Mayo

ing, but its philosophy was largely unwritten; its study was “so imperatively
needed that the future of civilization may be considered to depend on its
developments.” To Elton it seemed that social progress was being so poorly
directed that even a genuine social philosophy might be carried to a dan­
gerous excess. Blind experimentation could ensue without the benefit or
restraint of systematic, scientific criticism of its results. In theory, demo­
cratic government could answer this point.
But, as a theory of government, democracy was to be questioned. When
democracy is combined with utilitarian interests “in which the greatest
good accrues to the greatest number, hopelessly abstract arguments arise as
to what is good, and how it can be equated with number.” Elton recognized
that democratic principles established the importance to the state of each
community member, but on balance, “democracy is founded on a vicious
attempt to equate good with numbers.” And because, in practice, democ­
racy fails to discriminate social ills from their remedy, inequalities and
injustices arise, and these make current institutions of society inadequate.
Elton argued that skill is needed to understand complexity in social
problems. Democracy prefers easy solutions instead; witness the Aus­
tralian politicians, incompetent leaders, who stumble “blindly from one
bad solution to another learning through a maximum of suffering.” Elton
preferred socialism to a foolishly led democratic government, but sug­
gested a critical comparison of capitalism and socialism. He recognized
good elements in socialism, but disliked the principle of imposing a fixed
system of ideas on a community, and mounting socialist institutions before
having made a systematic study of social problems and appropriate solu­
tions. So Elton concluded that the development of a society depends on its
individuals rather than the erection of institutions. But how could one
determine who were the right people, the noble volunteers skilled and able
enough to appreciate ethical rather than materialistic socialism? Elton be­
lieved the answer might be found in psychology and eugenics; these he
much preferred to extreme political doctrine.
Elton had a practical as well as an ideological approach to social prob­
lems. His sister Helen, who had returned from India, shared this view, and
could see the merits of his arguments. She was working to have the South
Australian government change the Childrens’ Act in respect to the age at
which foster children could come under the responsibility of the Education
Department. Elton helped her draft a letter to the press in which seven
years of age was argued forcefully. The letter was discussed in Parliament,
and her recommendation became law.14
From early childhood, through adolescence, and well into maturity,
Elton was interested in the art of conversation. At the dinner table the
Mayo parents had encouraged good conversation among the children; in
Brisbane, and later at the Harvard Business School, Elton developed a
mature skill in conversation. At the University of Adelaide he began to
 Education and Career 59

discuss conversation as an art. He held that long ago there had been only
drawing room chatter. Dinner guests preferred horseplay, idle vaporizing,
vulgar repartee, foul jokes, or tales of self-aggrandizement. To Elton, wit
was central to good conversation, and he argued that although “middle-
class humour . .. may be trite and obvious, . . . it has improved” on what
passed for the mainstay of early conversation.15 Twenty years later Elton
would underplay the role of wit, and stress the unique contributions an
individual could make to a conversation.
In the spring of 1909 Elton wrote a poem for a competition among
members of the Pickwick Club.16 “Addressed to Incog(nito)” and intended
to be “serious if possible,” it was about a “Fair idyll of my dreams—far
away.” This is the only evidence that illuminates a family story that Elton
admired a beautiful wealthy young woman in vice-regal circles in Sydney.
He was advised against proposing marriage because of the wide gap be­
tween their social positions.17 Echoes of “Dainty Patricia.” Probably he
would have ignored the advice had he been ready to marry, because a
similar objection would be raised to his engagement some years hence. The
poem showed that Elton had a romantic image of love and a serious inter­
est in an ideal woman; later, he would combine them with a religious
conviction in the decision to marry.
In 1910 Elton continued studies in French and philosophy. The French
course was difficult, for again no lectures were available, and this time
students were expected to answer all examination questions in French. He
achieved a low pass.18 In the honors course in philosophy under Mitchell’s
supervision, Elton read Kant and completed a thesis, “The Criteria of
Social Progress.”
Elton and Mitchell were coming closer. Elton joined the committee of
Mitchell’s Arts Association.19 In September he relinquished his business
partnership.20 During the year he learned to shed the role of a respectful
student who addressed his teacher as “Sir” and to adopt, uneasily, a col­
legial relation with “Mitchell.”21 In November, Mitchell recommended
Elton’s thesis for the David Murray Scholarship, a prize for meritorious
scholarship. In April 1911, at a special congregation, Elton was awarded an
Honours Degree, Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy.22
Meanwhile the Senate of the newly established University of Queens­
land had invited applications for a foundation lectureship in logic, psychol­
ogy, and ethics. Elton applied, and within a fortnight, Mitchell sent a note
saying: “Mr. Mayo . . . was my best student . . . during the fifteen years I
have held this chair.” Drawing attention to Elton’s “facility and clearness,”
Mitchell asserted that he “would be an excellent teacher and would do
much to promote philosophical studies outside the University as well as in
it.”23
Elton Mayo took up his first academic position in Brisbane, Queens­
land, in April 1911.
60 Elton Mayo

Notes

1. Helen Mayo, “Biographical N otes on Elton Mayo,” SAA; South Australian

Directory, 1905-1912 (Adelaide, Sands & McDougall).
2. Helen Mayo, “Biographical N otes on Elton Mayo.”
3. Elton Mayo’s large notebooks, pp. 90-91, BLA. Dates are not certain; all
quotations are taken from these pages.
4. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 579.
5. W.G.K. Duncan and R. A. Leonard, The University o f Adelaide, 1874-1974
(Adelaide: Rigby, 1974), pp. 19-20, 77-81.
6. William Kyle, “Elton Mayo,” ANZAAS Conference, 29 May 1951, SAA.
7. University o f Adelaide, Calendar, 1908; Student Records, Registrar’s Office,
University o f Adelaide.
8. Helen Mayo, “Biolographical N otes on Elton Mayo”; University o f Adelaide,
Calendar, 1909.
9. Working M ens College Journal 10 (October 1907): 181; ibid., 11 (October
1909):224; J.F.C. Harrison, A History o f Working M en ’s College, 1854-1954
(London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1954), p. 153; Elton to Dorothea, 2
November 1921; Sir Charles Lucas, Notes on a Visit to Australia, New Zealand,
and Fiji, in 1909 (London: H.M.S.O., 1910).
10. Elton Mayo’s small notebooks, No. 2, GA 54.4, BLA.
1 1 .Ibid.
12. University o f Adelaide, Calendar, 1909.
13. The origins and aims o f the Pickwick Club are uncertain. What follows is a
reconstruction o f lecture notes from Elton Mayo’s small notebooks, particularly
Nos. 6, 13, 14, GA 54.4, BLA. All quotations are from these notes.
14. Margaret B. Horan, “A Goodly Heritage: An Appreciation o f the Life and Work
o f the Late Dr. Helen Mayo,” M edical Journal o f Australia, 20 February 1971,
pp. 419-24.
15. Elton Mayo’s small notebooks, No. 6, GA 54.4, BLA.
1 6 .Ibid.
17. Conversations with Lady Mayo and Mrs. Wigg, May 1974, and Patricia Elton
Mayo, November 1975.
18. Student Records, Registrar’s Office, University o f Adelaide.
19. University o f Adelaide, Calendar, 1911.
20. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks 819.
21. Mayo to James, 23 July 1945, MM 1.049.
22. Sir Herbert Mayo’s Notebooks, 819, 833, 925.
23. Mitchell to University o f Queensland, 13 March 1911, SAA.
 4
Early Years in Queensland, 1911-1913

The University of Queensland occupied Queensland’s Government

House beside the botanical gardens of the state capital, Brisbane. Mayo
lived at Montpelier, a three-story private hotel in Brisbane’s Wickham
Terrace, a twenty-minute walk from the university.1 Queensland residents
who had traveled believed Montpelier to be the best hotel in eastern Aus­
tralia, better than Sydney’s Wentworth and The Windsor in Melbourne. Its
refined atmosphere was maintained by two gentle theosophists, Mrs. John
Forsyth and Miss Marcella Clark. Afternoon tea was served by waiters in
brown linen uniforms, and at dinner the guests wore formal attire and
intelligent conversation was the rule. Montpelier was Mayo’s home during
his early years in Brisbane.
Mayo thought that his experience in London had taught him to cope
without the family, but he felt a sense of loss for more than a year.2 When
Herbert decided to marry that May, Mayo recalled their happy boyhood—
excursions, blasting grandfather’s ducks—but this brought with it the pain­
ful realization of his own shortcomings. He knew that his world centered
on the Mayo family, and that his greatest pleasure was to serve its interests
before his own.3 Since 1905 the family had given him security, direction,
and self-esteem, but the great distance between Adelaide and Brisbane cut
the flow of affection he needed to overcome emptiness and doubt.
Work was Mayo’s antidote for loneliness. He was an early appointment
to the Faculty of Arts, which directed the teaching of the classics, modern
languages and literature, mathematics, and, in his charge, moral and men­
tal philosophy.4 Because of his publishing experience he was chosen to edit
the Official Report o f the Inaugural Ceremony o f the University o f Queens­
land.5He was appointed to the Board of Examiners, which controlled entry
to the new university and to junior posts in government agencies. Mayo
examined the candidates’ English papers for competence in language,
grammar, composition, and knowledge of Shakespeare, and nineteenth-
century poets and novelists.6
Early in 1912 a young economist, E.O.G. Shann, who shared Mayo’s
study, accepted a professorship in West Australia, and teaching economics
became Mayo’s responsibility, together with logic, ethics, metaphysics, and
psychology.7 Also, he had plans to develop a new course in education, so a

61
62 Elton Mayo

lectureship was advertised. No suitable candidate was found, but the posi­
tion was kept open and his work load remained heavy.8
Mayo’s courses covered a wide range. In systematic economics he con­
sidered problems in defining the market, in changing money supply, apply­
ing Gresham’s Law, and the connection between wealth, credit, and the
banker’s role; he lectured on Malthus’s theory of population, protective
tariffs, and the economic effect of Wages Boards in Australia. His two
courses in logic examined the validity of deduction, scientific classification,
the truth of syllogisms, causality, Mill’s methods, and the psychology of
using hypotheses. In his two courses on psychology, Mayo lectured on
associationism, Locke, Hume, and the meaning of sensation, reality, belief,
will, perception, explanation through experience, the Weber-Fechner Law,
Kant, Mitchell on thinking, Bosanquet on consciousness, McDougall and
James on emotion, Sherrington’s experiments, and the place of psychology
in epistemological studies. In ethics and metaphysics, he introduced stu­
dents to the ideas of Socrates, Aristotle, Spinoza, Rousseau, and Descartes,
and their critics Royce, Seth, and Bosanquet; topics included hedonism,
idealism, empiricism, sophistry, institutions, habits, emotions.9
In March 1913 an assistant lecturer was found for Mayo, but John F
Adams then refused the position because the annual salary was only £300
for five years, and outside employment was forbidden. Mayo had to shelve
again plans for a course in education, and begin another search for an
assistant. The salary was raised £50 to attract more applicants; meanwhile
a law graduate, Mr. K. ffoulkes Swanwick accepted the post of temporary
lecturer.10
Mayo was interested in adult education outside the university. In April
1913 the university learned that Albert Mansbridge, secretary of the
Worker’s Educational Association (WEA) in Britain, was visiting Australia.
Through its affiliation with the Working Men’s College Mayo had become
familiar with the association and was keen to have Mansbridge visit Bris­
bane and explain its aims to the University Senate. Within the university
this proposal was resisted; the Board of Faculties thought the WEA was
suited only to large population centers like Sydney and Melbourne, so the
university could hardly benefit from Mansbridge’s visit to Brisbane. But
Mayo had his way. After the visit of Mansbridge in August, the University
Senate received an application for tutorial assistance in economics and
economic history, and Mayo undertook the tutorial duties for that year.11
Mayo accepted more tasks. Inside the university he became a member of
the Faculty of Science as well as Arts, and outside he agreed to examine
candidates at the Military College.12 Mayo enjoyed participating in the
student life and addressing groups outside the university. In 1912 he deliv­
ered “Criticism” and the “Inadequacy of Pragmatism” before the Student
Christian Union; at the Australian Church Congress in Brisbane he lec­
tured on the philosophical attitude to religion.13 To enlighten new students
 Early Years in Queensland 63

at the university, and to answer its outside critics, Mayo published a brief
paper rejecting the commonsense goals—vocational training, practical
knowledge, democratic attitudes—and arguing that a university should
develop in people the capacity for independent thought and investigation
rather than simply instruct them in the rules and methods of well-estab­
lished specialties.14
Australia’s dentists were at that time trying to gain professional status,
and one deplorable practice that stood in their way was the advertising of
painless extractions. Invited to speak to Queensland’s Odontological So­
ciety on professional ethics, Mayo began by saying that whenever “he had
opened his mouth . . . before a member of the dental profession, he had
immediately had a gag put in it.”15 Much laughter indicated that he had
their attention, and he launched into the reasons that tradesmen advertise
and that professionals do not. Their assured income meant that the com­
munity’s welfare benefited from their practicing a special skill. He encour­
aged the audience to continue to raise the requirements for entry to the
profession, to pursue research, and to organize themselves for their own
and the community’s welfare. Loud applause and praise followed, and
hopes were kindled that the university would establish a school of dentistry.
Through strenuous work, public speaking, and publications, Mayo was
advancing his academic career. Spurring his ambition were his earlier luck­
less ventures and his disappointed family. He loathed himself for failure,
and, in an effort to banish it turned his hostility toward the medical profes­
sion. In published papers and debates Mayo remarked on the language,
origins, professional status, community service, and intellect of doctors.
He implied that only an uncritical mind would be satisfied to explain the
cause of death with the term “syncope,” a pathologist’s word for heart
failure.16 He belittled doctors when he used them to show how a simple
calling that had once apprenticed its young had become complex by using
universities for the purpose of professionalization. 17He accused doctors of
operating a beneficent monopoly and making it difficult to be admitted to
their ranks.18 At the University Union, Mayo joined the affirmative side in
a debate: “That the services of the Medical Profession be Nationalised.”
When the debate was over and before the motion was put, Dr. Hirschfeld of
the University Senate and Sir David Hardie spoke against the motion.
Mayo replied so well that the president of the union suggested that a vote
not be taken on the motion; 19no doubt the result would have embarrassed
the respected spokesmen of medicine. A year later, Mayo’s contempt for
muddled thinking among the profession appeared in his evaluation of
Mercier’s A New Logic: “Perhaps this is why Dr. Mercier, founding his
notions of reasoning on the practice of medicine, is so little able to under­
stand the significance and utility of logic.”20 With few exceptions, Mayo’s
hostility toward doctors was restrained, intellectualized, and placed in a
context of wit and good humor.
64 Elton Mayo

Among students Mayo’s reputation was enhanced in 1912 when he gave

much energy to the production of Sheridan’s St. Patrick’s Day by the dra­
matic society. He and E.O.G. Shann coached the actors, but the press
reviewed their efforts so unkindly that Mayo wrote his own account: the
audience had been pleased; some players had performed difficult characters
with success; giggling and forgetting lines had been caused by nervousness;
and the rehearsal had been better than the final public performance.21
A year later Mayo helped with the production of T.W. Robertson’s
School, a frothy comedy first produced in London in 1869. It was an
excellent choice for young amateurs because it is set in a women’s college
and demands little of the actors. The plot is based on the Cinderella fairy
tale and includes lost identity, romantic love, misconstrued motives, elope­
ment, and reunited love. Again Mayo wrote the criticism, a witty catalogue
of excuses and reasons for a theatrical disaster. Nevertheless, one actor
portrayed villainy so well that in the audience three clergymen had hooted,
and, Mayo quipped: “Not everyone can make an archdeacon hoot.”22 Both
of Mayo’s critiques are encouraging and constructive.
Religion had a central place in Mayo’s work, his personal life, and his
view of society. In “The Philosophical Attitude to Religion,” he remarked
that philosophy makes easy questions difficult. Why? Because philosophy
aims for truth, not by using vague labels to explain it away but through
constructive, impartial criticism. Mayo illustrated the philosophical ap­
proach by outlining weaknesses in Laplace’s mechanical theory of the uni­
verse and in Tyndall’s attack on the efficacy of prayer. He concluded that
only psychology, history, and sociology—certainly not the physical sci­
ences—can help us understand human values and society. Religion is the
vital means for teaching values of civilized life to each generation; religious
values and customs are based on precedent, not on rationality, and, for this
reason, seem inconsistent and unclear at times. The church must be con­
servative and careful about attacks on religious doctrine, especially those
from scientists whose own doctrines are no less inconsistent than the
dogma of Christ. Religious doctrines are valuable working hypotheses cre­
ated from the facts of experience; one such important fact is that “warmth
and intimacy of a personal affection is necessary for the highest form of
religious emotion, and through it necessary also to the continued well
being and progress of society.”23
Before the Student Christian Union Mayo emphasized the stabilizing
effect of religious institutions, and their support in helping young people
learn the customs and practices of community life. He also advocated
continuous reform—not revolution—of religious practices to improve
community life. Religion could aid individuals by helping them to cope
with their problems. This is particularly so when sins are forgiven and cares
plucked out, when personal isolation is banished, and a sense of com­
munity and fellow-feeling encouraged. Mayo believed that religious con­
 Early Years in Queensland 65

version could change a self-seeker into an altruistic citizen, thereby bene-

fitting society. But, when taken to extremes, religious services can produce
saints and mystics; saints never escape the conviction of sin, and mystics
always embrace impractical activities. Thus, the shortcoming of religious
practice is that, although it can show people a better way, it cannot make
them desire it. “When man has developed to the extent of finding his
deepest or truest or most complex emotion in personal affection, then his
religious emotion—as the highest of all—demands an object for which he
can feel personal affection.”24 Late in 1912, the desire in Elton Mayo found
its object in Dorothea McConnel.
Dorothea McConnel came from one of Queensland’s most respected
and prominent families. Her grandfather, David Cannon McConnel
(1818-1885) of Manchester, had studied natural science at Edinburgh Uni­
versity, and in 1840 sailed to New South Wales. A private income enabled
him to travel with pioneers to various pastoral districts, there to select and
stock land. In 1840 he acquired land on the Brisbane River at Cressbrook,
becoming the first settler between the coast and the Darling range. He
imported purebred shorthorns and established a prize-winning herd. In
1848 he married Mary McLeod in Edinburgh, brought her to Brisbane,
and built for her “Bulimba,” the first stone house in the town. On his 220-
acre farm he experimented with the cultivation of many varieties of grains,
and milked fifty head of purebred cows. He helped found Brisbane’s Pres­
byterian Church, was one of the first local directors of the great Bank of
New South Wales. Research in the natural sciences fascinated him, and he
sent ornithological and geological specimens, meteoric stones, and shells to
the Manchester museum. On the last of many visits to England, he died
suddenly after an operation, and his valuable collection of land and sea-
shells went to the Brisbane museum.
In 1850 a son, James Henry McConnel had been born. Like the other
seven children, James was raised at Cressbrook. He was educated at Edin­
burgh Academy and Cambridge. In 1869 he took over the management of
Cressbrook. He pioneered the consignment of frozen meat to London, and
promoted the development of Queensland’s railways. In 1876 he married
Mary Elizabeth Kent of Queensland, and on August 30, 1877, the first of
six daughters, Dorothea, was born.25
Dorothea was raised at Cressbrook. She was an energetic child who
pursued her interests with a sense of adventure. She learned to ride well
and would mount wild horses bareback. To many people she seemed dash­
ing and graceful. In her adolescence she gave the appearance of a natural
aristocrat: beautiful, sensitive, loyal, and always considerate. But family life
was not always happy.
Mary McConnel bore seven children in eleven years, so Dorothea had
little opportunity in her early life to develop a close affectionate bond with
her mother. Many family chores fell to Dorothea, and often she had to play
66 Elton Mayo

hostess for her father. When she was twelve, while her parents were away,
Dorothea had the terrifying task of organizing life at the homestead during
so great a flood that carcasses of cattle floated into the house.
Dorothea was educated at home and later at local schools. When she
was seventeen, her mother bore the first of two more children, and, con­
sequently, Dorothea’s duties at home expanded. Mary McConnel scolded
and dominated her easygoing husband, maintained a rigidly straitlaced
attitude toward her children’s development, and encouraged her daughters
to believe that their duty was to the home and the ways of the church. She
seemed convinced that a high-spirited and attractive young woman like
Dorothea could easily fall into sin unless tight constraints were placed on
her life. Mary punished her, maltreated her with puritanical vigor, heaped
duties on her, and, more than once, insisted that she was ugly and plain.
Mary McConnel was a victim of her own sincere conviction of sin, a
conviction that Mayo would regard later as a hallmark of the McConnel
girls’ upbringing.
Heavy responsibilities at home, a wretched relationship with her
mother, a distant and ineffectual but respected father, and incessant de­
mands from a growing band of sisters and brothers affected the develop­
ment of Dorothea’s social character. Under these conditions she could
become highly strung and sometimes neurotic, and her high intelligence
and fluency would emerge as intellectual snobbery. She dreamed of escap­
ing her enforced round of duties and fleeing to Europe to the civilized life
and unconventional people she idealized.26
The McConnels often visited relatives in England and Scotland, and at
the turn of the century Dorothea was given her first chance to travel.
Between 1900 and 1912, she frequently visited Europe, and, at least once,
crossed the United States.27 By 1909 her French was fluent enough that she
completed a postgraduate degree in art history at the Sorbonne, with a
thesis on landscape art. She learned sufficient German and Russian to be
an interpreter and guide for relatives and friends. In 1912 Dorothea re­
turned home, a mature, civilized woman who had enjoyed the company of
admirers in Europe, but who had been induced to believe that she ought to
accept her mother’s dictum to become a teacher in Queensland.28
In November, Dorothea’s sister Barbara invited two bachelors from the
university to call at Cressbrook. No doubt they had been drawn to Bar­
bara’s attention when she had stayed, as the McConnels usually did, at
Montpelier. Professor John Michie, the young classicist, and his friend
Elton Mayo arrived by carriage. At his first sight of Dorothea, Mayo was
moved: “I said to myself—‘Well you have been an ass.’” He fell in love.29
Her hair shone like gold; she was a woman of ideal and incredible beauty.
“All my wise resolutions not to think of marriage until the future was
achieved and certain, all my doubts as to the possible congruency of mar­
riage and work—these considerations that had ruled my whole life with a
 Early Years in Queensland 67

rod of iron went by the board and were as though they had never been.” But
his heart fell when he saw a sapphire ring on her finger. He asked himself:
“Was she already engaged?”30 It turned out that she was not. Within three
weeks they were engaged.
Why had Mayo not married before he met Dorothea McConnel? Two
conventional replies appear in his letters to her: first, he had resolved not to
think of marriage until he had an established career; second, he had always
found women were “mentally ineffective and distinctly amusing—even
though I loved all the dear creatures.”31 One night these reasons gave way
when he was talking with a forty-three-year-old, wealthy, lonely, and world-
weary bachelor friend who was trying to persuade himself to propose mar­
riage to a nice woman for whom he felt no real enthusiasm. The poor
fellow was being led to marriage simply to have some interest in life. In
Adelaide Mayo had been tempted to this path but found always that he
could not continue for fear of having to live forevermore with someone
who would not understand his work, his ideas, his eagerness for self-de­
velopment, or who would regard him as a freak.32 Dorothea was quite
different. At their first conversation Mayo spoke about his plans so strongly
that her eyes filled with tears; he saw her concern for his work, and what it
would mean for other people.33 After snatching a few hasty, insufficient
meetings together, they decided to marry as soon as possible.34
Impediments to the marriage took one major form: Mayo could not
support Dorothea as the McConnels had done. For this reason, a close
friend advised him to postpone the event. But they had agreed that poverty
would help them to become free.35 Yet Montpelier would be expensive.
Was he being selfish in taking Dorothea from her environment, and forcing
the McConnels and their friends to see her having to economize? He could
hardly afford even to have people to stay with them after their marriage.36
But he believed poverty was the price when people bid for both a career and
happiness.37 Even so, toward the end of March 1913, Mayo was still asking
himself how he could have had the temerity to propose marriage on the
income of a university lecturer. He considered going into business, but
since businessmen did not value thinking, and thinking was what he did
best, it seemed to be an unreal alternative. Writing fiction might pay. This
was another obsession that, like his constant worry about being short of
money, would command his attention whenever he felt lonely, tired, and
indecisive.38
Doubt about his self-worth, indecisiveness, and feelings of loneliness
were Mayo’s symptoms of melancholy. If he was tired as well, he would
treat the disorder by isolating himself and using an oriental technique for
maintaining silence; if he was not tired, he would “musate,” a relaxing form
of meditation he had learned from reading the work of Charles S. Peirce, the
American philosopher. Years later he would recognize his symptoms of mel­
ancholy in Pierre Janet’s theory of psychopathological obsession.
68 Elton Mayo

He described his method of coping with melancholy in a letter to Dor­

othea: “For when I get that far it is better either to work, or retire to realms
that are not of this world. And in these excursions you always come with
me, now... .”39 In those realms Dorothea became Mayo’s ideal woman; she
was his gracious queen, mature, straightforward, charitable, and gifted. In
her he found all the heroines of fiction, all comedy and tragedy, all the
music of the world. She was his universe.
Mayo wrote to Dorothea about a strange incident that had occurred on
his fourteenth birthday. He was on holidays with some school fellows at
Port Elliott. They were looking into a shop window when an old woman
stopped and asked him for his name. He had felt embarrassed, but was
courteous enough to answer her. She wrote down his name, and said, “I
shall expect to hear of you in twenty years.” Mayo believed she must have
foreseen his long sleep, and that Dorothea had been chosen to be “the one
woman in the world who could, and did, rouse me from my slumbers.”40
Before Dorothea met Mayo, he had seen himself as gentle, pessimistic
ascetic, self-contained and self-determining.41 After their first meeting he
felt reborn, revitalized, a new man cast in a condition of sustained glad­
ness. He believed she had taught him more about himself than anyone
before her, and he wanted to continue his development with her help.42In
return he offered her his mature understanding of theories, people, the
everyday world, spiritual values, freedom, aesthetic experience, and art,
and his sympathetic ear for fearless discussion.43
Dorothea had doubts too. She could remember reading that on entering
marriage individuals should keep part of themselves in reserve. This was a
variation on the proverb “Familiarity breeds contempt,” and played on
normal childlike fears of trust and intimacy between adults. Mayo saw no
wisdom in deliberately making a mystery out of oneself; people who did
were not cultivating a “secret orchard” but trying to hide a barren mental
hinterland.44 Dorothea had been led to think that keeping something in
reserve could help prevent a marriage from becoming stale. Mayo’s answer
was that only an average marriage—a “species of civil contract” blessed by
the church, and fit only for the unthinking—required its partners to follow
the convention of keeping something in reserve. He would rather cut his
throat than enter an average marriage; his marriage would be a special
relationship between intelligent people who worked together with vigor,
communicated without fear, and were free to discuss and doubt each
other’s ideas. “The idea that either of us under these conditions (if we
honestly work on) could exhaust the interest of the other is psychologically
absurd and profoundly silly.”45
Psychological criteria were applied to Dorothea’s second doubt. She was
in love, and, feeling uncertain of herself, she wrote asking him never to let
her go. Her plea went deep, and Mayo replied with “the truest letter I have
ever written.” Dim race-memories came to him; he was a cave-dweller, an
 Early Years in Queensland 69

ugly troglodyte with a somber face, gazing across a dangerous world, and
behind him in the cave Dorothea was sleeping. Time passed, and in a
matriarchal clan, ruled by her, he helped with future plans and institutions.
Later still he deserted her and became a priest. Five thousand years passed,
during which she suffered and became uncertain of herself. Now they are to
be united, and will be so for the next thousand years. Together they will go
where the big battalions are, and, with a clearer vision than that which
clouds today’s so-called democracies, they will take charge again, guide and
direct in rational ways the force that life has entrusted to them.46
Mayo believed that race-memories helped to explain human develop­
ment. They included early original sensations and instinctive activities,
and gave the foundation for higher and more complex stages of personal
growth. He felt that philosophers were well equipped to understand this
because they had a broad view of life, and could clearly, serenely, and
without prejudice or interference from material values, see the divine
spark, the vision, the way to beauty, humor, and the proper conditions of
civilized life. He tried not to overestimate his own ability, but instead to
argue for those who he believed knew where civilized man ought to go. And
Mayo wanted Dorothea to join him on the journey through the great
universal order that was life.
A vision of life was important to Mayo. He did not want to be immersed
in practical detail as were businessmen in sordid commerce. He did not
want to lose a vision of life and thereby lose his soul, become afraid, and
fall prey to doubts and melancholy. Religion had helped him, but he re­
jected intellectualized religion because it lost God and combined a mate­
rialistic, suburban, and banal existence with the futile and agonizing wait
for a new religion. Instead, he developed a vision of high human attain­
ment and drew personal comfort from a psychological understanding of
religious experience. He wanted Dorothea to share this understanding with
him.
Because Mayo was in love, he believed that he and Dorothea made a
unique couple to whom normal conventions could never apply. He did not
care two straws for what people said and thought. He and Dorothea were
among the few who had vision, and who had the work of the world to do.
They did not have to conform to things that “a mere idle ‘toshing’ Bohe­
mian could never understand.”47
So the predictable doubts that arose from Elton’s decision to marry were
immersed in solitary musation, and, there, transformed into romantic,
absolute certainties about Dorothea, his career, and the golden years to
come. The usual warm congratulations flowed in after the announcement
of the forthcoming marriage, but so did a few predictable disencourage-
ments. One jealous friend suggested Mayo and his bride were entering a
financial and social disaster. Another exclaimed, “But you don’t know
her!”48 John Michie, Mayo’s bachelor-friend, who was the handsome, shy,
70 Elton Mayo

idol of young ladies in the classics lectures, expressed a charming am­

bivalence. He said the worst of it was that he would have to change his
views on marriage, but to show deference to the institution, as well as a
warm regard for Mayo, he offered his rooms for a party at which selected
university staff might pay their respects to Dorothea and take tea with her
attractive sisters.49 On April 18 the marriage was celebrated by the arch­
bishop of Brisbane, the honeymoon was spent on the sands of Coolangatta,
and the Elton Mayos returned to live at Montpelier.
Within three years Mayo had founded an academic career, married a
beautiful and intelligent daughter from one of Queensland’s prominent
families, and developed a good following outside the university. Gone were
the grounds for scorn from his Adelaide critics; Mayo had become respect­
able. In October 1913, he wrote to the factor of the Otago Presbyterian
Church Board of Property, Dunedin, New Zealand, and requested applica­
tion forms for the chair of mental and moral philosophy.50
Testimonials in support of Mayo’s application came from seven men.51
First, Mitchell testified that since 1911 Mayo had “proved his capacity as a
teacher and public lecturer,” and that if he got the chair he could specialize
more than was possible in the University of Queensland. Second, the Most
Reverend St. Clair Donaldson, archbishop of Brisbane, declared Mayo to
be a “man of exceptional power—a man of the world,” an inspiring, attrac­
tive, impressive teacher. Third, the governor of Queensland, Sir William
Macgregor, added that Mayo had given loyal service to the university and
had earned the esteem of his colleagues. Fourth, Michie told how Mayo
had built the Philosophy Department, given loyal support to other valuable
academic endeavors, and gained the confidence of students; also, Michie
valued his alertness, independence, decisiveness, capacity for command,
ability to hold an audience without popularizing, and his sane outlook.
Fifth, Professor Bertram Steele praised Mayo’s gift of lucid exposition,
charm, high character, and ideas. Sixth, Lewis Radford, once a Cambridge
fellow and now warden of St. Paul’s College at the University of Sydney,
stated that Mayo’s thinking was clear, his language careful, and his presen­
tations simple and fluent. The under secretary for public instruction was
fully supportive, too. In spite of the testimonials and a sumptuously
printed application, Mayo was overshadowed by Francis W. Dunlop.52
Nonetheless. Mayo began 1914 as a success; his salary was raised to £440,
he had an assistant,53 and he knew that his colleagues and people in high
places respected him.

Notes

1. Elton to Dorothea, 16 March 1921.

2. Elton to Dorothea, January 1923.
3. Elton to Herbert, 11 May 1911.
 Early Years in Queensland 71

4. Minutes, Faculty o f Arts, University o f Queensland, 20 April, 22 November

1911.
5. Mayo papers, SAA.
6. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 13 September 1911; University o f
Queensland, M anual o f Public Examinations, 1910-1912, pp. 20, 42, 131, 145.
7. Minutes, Faculty o f Arts, 20 September 1912; Minutes, Senate, 16 October
1912; Minutes, Board o f Faculties, 31 October 1912; Minutes, Senate, Schedule
11, 11 September 1912, University o f Queensland.
8. Minutes, Faculty o f Arts, 26 April 1912; “Seventh Report o f the Education
C om m ittee,” 12 October 1912; M inutes, Board o f Faculties, 25 November
1912, University o f Queensland.
9. University o f Queensland, Calendar, 1914, pp. 304-10.
10. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 14 May, 11 June, 9 July 1913.
11. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 9 April, 14 May, 20 August 1913;
University o f Queensland, Calendar, 1922.
12. Minutes, Board o f Faculties, University o f Queensland, 29 July 1913.
13. Elton Mayo, “The Philosophical Attitude to Religion,” Official Report o f the
Australian Church Congress 8 (1913):69-74.
14. Elton Mayo, “The University and the State,” University o f Queensland M aga­
zine 1 (May 1913): 148-49.
15. Elton Mayo, “Professional Ethics,” Australian Journal o f Dentistry, September
30, 1913, pp. 264-67.
16. Mayo, “Philosophical Attitude to Religion,” p. 69.
17. Mayo, “University and the State,” p. 148.
18. Mayo, “Professional Ethics,” p. 266.
19. University o f Queensland M agazine 1 (August 1913): 184. A month later Mayo
was elected chairman o f the University U nion after another interesting debate.
Ibid., 2 (October 1913): 19.
20. Elton M ayo,”The Limits o f Logical Validity,” M ind 24 (1915): 70-74.
21. University o f Queensland M agazine 1 (August 1912): 107; ibid., 1 (October
1912): 139-40.
22. Ibid., 2 (October 1913): 9; Elton to Dorothea, 2 April 1913.
23. Mayo, “Philosophical Attitude to Religion.”
24. Elton Mayo, “The Function o f Religious Services,” special lecture to the Pres­
byterian M en’s Society, Brisbane, SAA. N o final draft is available; this paragraph
is based on notes about the topic in Mayo’s notebook, No. 7, GA 54.4, BLA. The
date is uncertain; probably 1912.
25. E.W.J. McConnel, James McConnel o f Carsiggan, his Forebears and Descen­
dants (privately printed, 1931); Mary McConnel, Queensland Reminiscences
and Memories o f Days Long Gone By (privately printed, n.d.); Mary M. Banks,
M emories o f Pioneer Days in Queensland (London: Heath. Cranton, 1930?).
26. Conversations with Gael Elton Mayo, 12 February, 7 August 1975; and Patricia
Elton Mayo, 6 February 1975.
27. Elton to Dorothea, 27 September 1922.
28. See note 26 above.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 12 March 1913.
3 0 .Ibid.
3 1 .Ibid.
32. Elton to Dorothea, 27 March 1913.
33. Elton to Dorothea, 3 April 1913.
34. Elton to Dorothea, 12 March 1913.
35. Elton to Dorothea, 7 March 1913.
36. Elton to Dorothea, 13, 28 March 1913.
72 Elton Mayo

37. Elton to Dorothea, 13 March 1913

38. Elton to Dorothea, 26 March, 2 April 1913.
39. Elton to Dorothea, 13 March 1913.
40. Elton to Dorothea, 28, 29 March 1913.
41. Elton to Dorothea 12, 13 March 1913.
42. Elton to Dorothea, 24, 28, 29 March 1913.
43. Elton to Dorothea, 7, 12, 13 March 1913.
44. Elton to Dorothea, 29 March 1913.
45. Elton to Dorothea, 2 April 1913.
46. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 27 March 1913.
47. Elton to Dorothea, February, 13 March 1913.
48. Elton to Dorothea, 24 March 1913.
4 9 .Ibid.
50. M cDonald to Trahair, 2 October 1974.
51. Mayo papers, SAA. The paragraph is based on letters and testimonials in Elton
Mayo’s application.
52. M cDonald to Trahair, 2 October 1974.
53. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 12 November 1913.
 5
Career, Family, and Friends, 1914-1919

From 1914 to 1918 Mayo was lecturer in charge of the Department of

Philosophy in the Faculty of Arts. He taught psychology, ethics, meta­
physics, and, until March 1916, systematic economics.1Percy A. Seymour,
an Oxford graduate, was appointed assistant lecturer early in 1914; he
taught education and logic, and assisted Mayo in teaching the honors
course in philosophy.2 Seymour’s first year was not entirely happy; in Sep­
tember he talked with Mayo about resigning,3 but the war froze such plans.
In early 1918 the University of Western Australia offered him a full
lectureship.4
Early in 1918 Mayo, too, was dissatisfied with his career. University
ideals did not enthuse him as once they had, and he was beginning to
believe that he had made no progress in the academic community. He
thought of turning to law,5 a fantasy that gave Mayo hope whenever aca­
demic life went stale but had insufficient substance to initiate a change of
career.
Mayo and Seymour were not the only lecturers to feel discontented. The
question of salaries and status had been raised a year earlier in a proposal
put before the University Senate to reorganize the entire university. From
Mayo’s viewpoint the greatest change would have been the establishment of
an associate professorship and a lecturership in the Department of Philoso­
phy and Education. The Senate approved the scheme pending an increase
in government funds, which did not come about. A deputation from the
staff was received by the Senate, but all it could do was to regard the
deputation with sympathy.6 By the summer of 1918 Mayo had become
uninterested in the cause.
When he returned from vacation, his colleagues again put to him the
question of salaries and status. In his role as senior among the lecturing
staff, Mayo induced them to send a letter to the University Senate asking
that it regard as urgent the question of salaries. He also persuaded his
friend Michie to demand that the Senate ask the Queensland government
to raise the university’s endowment from fifteen to twenty thousand
pounds to extend the scope of the arts faculty and raise the salaries of
lecturers. The time was right because the government was to face the elec­
torate in March. Mayo planned to have a deputation of workingmen re-

73
74 Elton Mayo

quest the government to support plans to extend teaching to include so­

ciological studies.7 In the light of these moves, Seymour decided to stay
rather than accept the offer from Western Australia.
While planning possible developments for the university after the elec­
tion, Mayo hoped “most fervently that this may be the last year at Bris­
bane.”8 He believed that he was not achieving success commensurate with
his maturity. And when he heard of Seymour’s decision, and the rumor that
a friend in Sydney had declined a professorship in Adelaide, Mayo wished
that someone would offer him something. “Even Sydney [University], I
think, would make me young again.”9
The University of Queensland responded quickly to the demands of its
staff. The Select Committee in University Organization and Expansion was
established, made inquiries, and at the end of 1918 recommended that four
new chairs be established and the professor’s salaries be raised.10 Mayo was
promoted to professor of philosophy, and Seymour was made a full lec­
turer. Seymour was satisfied with his increased status and salary, and
pleased with Mayo’s advancement because the Philosophy Department had
been given the only new chair in the Arts Faculty, which meant that in
university councils the department had proved itself over the Department
of History and Modern Languages, and would be represented in the newly
established Professorial Board.11 Seymour’s satisfaction with the university
would not last long.
When Mayo had come to the university it was understood that academic
staff would work toward raising intellectual standards throughout Queens­
land and not simply limit their teaching to Brisbane. Early in 1913 the
Senate had formed a committee to administer the policy; correspondence
studies were developed and lecturers visited inland towns. War curtailed
this work until 1919, when education in the common problems of a chang­
ing world became widely discussed. The university appointed a committee
to sponsor lectures in a central hall in Brisbane, and with the cooperation
of the Chamber of Commerce a series of addresses were given to business­
men. Further, it was announced that any university course might be at­
tended by the public for a prescribed fee; special intramural courses were
offered, as well as courses in inland towns. From the beginning of his career
at the university Mayo supported these activities as an administrator and
public lecturer.12
Mayo was also at the center of efforts to educate people who were not
eligible to enter the university and who had not enjoyed the advantages of
an advanced education. In 1913 he had undertaken to serve in tutorial
classes for the new branch of the Workers’ Educational Association (WEA)
in Brisbane, and was joined by his colleagues. Interest in the program grew,
and by early 1916 more lecturing staff were needed. The University Senate
formed a joint committee of four university staff and four WEA members
to organize the classes. Mayo was always a member of the committees that
 Career, Family, and Friends 75

promoted education among members of the WEA, and often held classes
himself.13
Mayo’s psychology students had to appreciate Locke’s contribution to
the history of psychological theory and some of the errors in his work; to
distinguish among sensation, memory, understanding, learning, instinct,
attention, and apperception, to show some grasp of James’s “self”; to relate
the appeal of art to race-memory; and to be familiar with the connection
between mental processes and the physiology of the nervous system. In
their second year, students of psychology were acquainted with James’s
“stream of consciousness” as a theory of mental activity, and Mayo’s criti­
cism of that theory from his doctrine of the “total situation.” Personal
identity, dreams, original thinking, and the process of the education were
discussed as well as the status of psychology as a science.14
Students of ethics concentrated on the meaning of nature, con­
sciousness, the effect of intellect on morality, psychology and the theory of
mind, idealism, self-denial and temperance, hedonism, natural and nor­
mative science, social evolution, free-will, utilitarianism, and justice.15
Metaphysics dealt with how recent developments in psychological theory
affected idealistic philosophy; problems in sensationism, and the doctrine
of the self; and causation, knowledge, and reality.16
Between 1914 and 1915 Mayo taught psychology in two parts. In the
first, students were directed to Mitchell’s work on the mind, Huxley’s Ele­
mentary Physiology and Meyers’s Experimental Psychology In the second
part, Mitchell’s work was supplemented with McDougall’s Physiological
Psychology In his courses on ethics and metaphysics Mayo used the texts
by Green, Sidgwick, Bosanquet, Dewey, and Tufts. In later years he also
used Stout’s Manual o f Psychology Mayo’s psychology courses changed
little until 1918, when he became interested in teaching how irrational and
extralogical factors affected thinking. In 1920 students in the second part of
his psychology course were referred to Jung’s Analytic Psychology.; and in
1921 Elton began to use Tansley’s psychoanalytic text, The New
Psychology17
Until 1916 Elton was also responsible for teaching systematic econom­
ics; he used Marshall’s Economics o f Industry Hobson’s The Industrial
System, Barker’s Cash and Credit, and Sykes’s Banking and Currency Stu­
dents were expected to understand how the law of supply and demand
determined prices; to discuss the relation between rent and price for retail
services, manufactured and agricultural products; to outline differences
between nominal and real capital, gross and net interest; to know how
currency in banking theory regulated note issues; to grasp the impact of
changes in gold supply; to evaluate the effect of monopolies; to study
changes in working conditions; to discuss single-tax theories and the doc­
trines of Marx, Rousseau, and Ricardo.18
In the morning students in the Faculty of Arts attended hourly lectures
76 Elton Mayo

between nine and one; afternoons were free; and evening lectures began at
seven and finished at ten. In 1914 and 1915 Mayo’s teaching load was heavy,
but after 1916 it eased. On a Monday morning, he lectured on psychology
for two hours and a further hour at night; on Tuesday morning he met his
ethics class for an hour; Wednesday evening he taught more psychology for
an hour; Thursday he began and finished the day with classes in systematic
economics as well as two evening classes in psychology from seven to nine;
Friday morning he taught two more hours of psychology. Between 1916 and
1918 he had two lectures on Monday, one on Tuesdays, three on Wednes­
days, and one on Thursdays and Fridays. In 1919, after the University had
been reorganized, Mayo no longer taught logic in the Faculty of Science—a
task he had undertaken years before—and his teaching load dropped to
one lecture each day except Friday.
Mayo was a memorable lecturer. Before lectures began twenty to thirty
students in black gowns gathered outside the classroom. On the hour they
entered the room; young gentlemen stood aside for young women, who
took seats in the first row. Before them was a wooden table on a raised dais
in front of the blackboard. When Mayo entered, chattering ceased. Mayo
was above average height, athletic, clean shaven, and lightly tanned be­
neath his freckles. His auburn hair was balding at the forehead, and he was
always impeccably dressed. The prime feature of his appearance was his
footwear; in those days most lecturers wore boots, but Mayo wore shoes.
Most lecturers either stood to address the students or delivered a lecture
sitting behind a table, but Mayo began his lectures sitting cross-legged on
the front edge of the table, then paced back and forth across the room. The
students quickly chose Mayo’s socks to distinguish him from other lec­
turers, and, because his socks were never the same color from one day to
the next, the young women in the front row would make sport of guessing
the color before his arrival. In time, his socks became items of such humor­
ous conversation and satire around the university that in the 1917 student
production of “Twelfth Night” a line was altered to incorporate “a flame-
coloured Mayo sock.”19
Mayo kept a close eye on students because he wanted to be sure they
understood him. Once at the start of a lecture to first-year psychology
students he enunciated an abstract point, and then saw a man scratch his
head in puzzlement. So Mayo thought he should make the abstract point
more clear. He suddenly found a new idea, and lectured extemporaneously
for the remaining fifty minutes on that point, drawing illustrations from
recent experiences as well as his texts.20
No one was bored in Mayo’s lectures. No one played the fool. Students
listened attentively until he asked for questions.21 He spoke effortlessly,
rarely used notes. His voice was quiet. He neither orated nor declaimed,
and was always eloquent and often witty. He had some of the qualities of an
enthusiastic visionary, preferring to weave an outline on a favorite subject
 Career, Family, and Friends 77

and put it in broad perspective rather than doggedly plow through a text­
book. He would give his own view, illustrate it with amusing stories and
case studies, and then put questions to the students. At times he would
warn that they would be examined on a topic he had no time to cover in
lectures. Mayo’s teaching style contrasted with that of his assistant
Seymour, who stuck to the textbook and repeated his points as if to fix
them permanently in the students’ minds.
Mayo was not close to his students, and only a few spoke with him
outside class. He was not rude, overbearing, or sarcastic; students found
him uncommunicative, intellectually able, and with a general knowledge
well above the average. To some people he seemed arrogant, especially to
those who spoke on topics he knew well, and with which they had had only
a passing familiarity. Although he was impatient with foolishness, he did
seem kind and gracious to young people who approached him. So most
students respected him from a distance, but felt they were beneath his
serious attention. A few students who enrolled for final honors in philoso­
phy took tutorials with Mayo, and came to know him better than did most
undergraduates.
Mayo’s manner was once taken for hostility by two students. He called
them before Michie to answer a charge of systematic collusion in missing
lectures. Mayo’s attendance records showed each had cut a lecture but on
different dates. He charged that they had arranged to copy each other’s
notes and thus avoid the lecture. In fact, one student had had military
duties, and the other had simply forgotten to come. After Mayo’s intense
cross-questioning the latter student blurted out something he had learned
from Mayo: “You know, Mr. Mayo, we cannot forget systematically.”
Michie smiled, but played the unflappable arbitrator. He accepted Mayo’s
evidence but said it did not show the students had colluded systematically.
From the student viewpoint, Mayo’s effectiveness as a teacher was lim­
ited in three important ways. First, philosophy and psychology were well
above the heads of most students. Second, Mayo did not follow a text
closely, so students felt compelled to take down verbatim all that he was
saying, which was impossible because he spoke quickly. In reaction, one
student published a poem, in rhyming couplets and with the same meter as
“How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix,” “How We Took
Down the Words of Prof. Mayo B.A.” In the poem all students but one drop
with writer’s cramp to the classroom floor. The next day in class Mayo said
he deliberately paced his delivery so that students could take down only his
important points.22
Third, students were anxious about their examination grades. In 1914 an
anonymous contributor to the university magazine reported that in a
dream he had accepted an invitation to visit Mayo’s home where he met
Ward, the philosopher, who stood at one end of the hearth and glared at the
student while he tried to read a prayer. In the dream Ward represented the
78 Elton Mayo

study of philosophy; the hearth was the world, the flesh, and the devil, all of
which separated the student from his studies; and the prayer symbolized
the only means by which the student could hope to satisfy his examiner,
Mayo. Examination anxiety was to remain with his students, but over the
years the form of its expression changed with the subject matter of his
lectures. As soon as Mayo learned of the early work in psychoanalysis, he
introduced it to his psychology students. A student’s poem records Mayo’s
loquacious praise of Freud and Jung and is signed “Exam Neurotic.”23

E xam s draw on; we’re feeling cloyed,

Our jo y is not so unalloyed;
We feel as if our knell has rung,
For we must cram on Freud and Jung.
What wonder then we feel annoyed,
Loquacious P rof

Examinations were important to students, and Mayo’s attitude about

examinations was clear. He maintained that when he had to fail a student
he did not care a straw for what others thought. He knew the university
would back his decision, and felt a strong duty to the Queensland of tomor­
row and nothing for what he called “the hydra-headed mob that thinks it is
Queensland now.”24 But individual decisions were never easy. For example,
students thirty to forty years old took his psychology course, and some
would perform badly; he would pass them because he saw no virtue in
setting back people’s careers if their approach to the subject was disciplined
and performance in other subjects was improving. Also, Mayo believed
psychologists were born, not made; some students could never master
psychology, for they lacked speculative capacities; and other students with
ordinary practical minds always found the subject matter too abstract. In
short, Mayo evaluated his students in a context broader than the one in
which he taught. And when he had made a decision, he held to it because
he felt his position in the university was secure and that he should keep its
future in his sight.
Mayo was active in academic life outside class. The university appointed
him to examine essays submitted for the Archibald Prize, a reward for
scholarship in commerce; from 1914 to 1916, when Mayo was examiner, the
set topics included general problems of civilization and specific taxation
issues in Queensland.25 In 1915 the university asked Mayo to give an official
welcome to new students, which he did with his customary wit and logic:
“The fresher, being young, is miserable, but not being very young, is not
very miserable.”26 Students elected Mayo president of the University
Union; at the Essay Club he joined discussion of a paper on intellectual
authority and individual judgment; he read the lesson at the annual service
of the Student’s Christian Union; he coached the Dramatic Society in
productions of Lady Windemeres Fan and Twelfth Night.21 Dorothea
 Career, Family, and Friends 79

joined Mayo in this work. She was elected president of the Women Stu­
dents Club, and she helped stage an entertainment, which, like the produc­
tion of Twelfth Night, raised funds for the University Red Cross Society.28

In July 1914, Mayo and Dorothea rented a house, Bulwurradah, in the

Brisbane suburb Kangaroo Point. Dorothea, who was obsessed by cleanli­
ness and neatness, had the general services of cheerful Mrs. Reid, who had
affectionate regard for Dorothea and was most anxious to work for her.
Mrs. Reid had a maid, Nellie, to help with the housework, and a gardener
was available. Mayo was happy at Bulwurradah, but Dorothea never
seemed to enjoy a house once she had arranged it to meet her needs. In
August 1918 they returned to rooms at Montpelier, where they lived until
the end of 1921.
In September 1915 the Mayos’ first child, Patricia Elton—Patty—was
born in Sydney. Dorothea took her to Tasmania that summer to avoid the
tropical heat in Brisbane. Mayo was ambivalent about his new role; on the
one hand he was overjoyed at becoming a father, on the other he was less
certain of his world. He liked to give advice on infant care but had difficulty
in imagining the atmosphere that would surround him at Bulwurradah
when Dorothea brought Patty home. “I cannot ‘see’ the part that the
dearest daughter will play,” he wrote to Dorothea. But he could see the
humorous side of his fatherhood. One day in Brisbane he laughed aloud
outside a movie house, where beneath an outrageous cardboard figure of a
mother holding a child was the inscription: “Poor unfortunate infant—
cursed from the beginning with a likeness to her father.” Also Patty’s birth
affected Mayo’s standing with his associates. He was gratified to learn that
he and Dorothea had “‘come up’ immensely in the eyes of many since
Patty arrived . . . the verdict has been ‘human after all.’”29
As Patty grew, Mayo turned to psychology to help him define his task as
her father. In March 1918 he learned from Jung’s Collected Papers on
Analytic Psychology that the influence of the father dominated the person­
ality development of most children and adolescents to their detriment.
Reflecting on his own upbringing, Mayo concluded that George must have
been most unusual, for unlike the type of father that Jung described, he
had had an enduring capacity for sacrificing himself to his children and for
encouraging initiative in them. Mayo believed George’s approach was “the
chief ‘cause’ of his children’s interest in things academic.”30 So Mayo de­
cided he too would try not to be dogmatic, autocratic, or narrow-minded;
instead, he would encourage Patty to approach life as an adventure and
never “try to insist upon Patty believing anything.”31
Mayo had no relatives of his own in Brisbane but the McConnels were
often close at hand. They lived at Cressbrook on the family’s cattle station
about ninety miles away; on visits to the city they stayed at Montpelier.
When Mayo and Dorothea were married in 1913, Dorothea’s parents
80 Elton Mayo

were living, as were two brothers and five sisters. In 1914 Dorothea’s father,
James M cConnel died, and Edgar, the elder son, took charge of
Cressbrook. He had been born in 1881, and lived there as a grazier and
breeder of stud cattle. He had a diploma from an agricultural college,
became an associate of the Surveyor’s Institute in London, and, during the
First World War served as a major in the Australian Light Horse. In 1909 he
had married Phyllis, daughter of Thomas Murray-Prior. Edgar and Mayo
were on good terms, but Phyllis held the view that he was a “packet of
crackers.”32 She gave up this attitude when Patty was born. Dorothea’s
brother Kenneth, born in 1882, was a captain in the Second Australian
Infantry in Europe during the war; eventually he became an architect.
Mayo had little contact with him.
Most of Dorothea’s sisters became important figures in Mayo’s life at
different times. Elspeth, born in 1882, had trained as a teacher, in 1916
married Bevis Geral White, and lived in Queensland; Barbara, born in
1884, lived at Cressbrook until she died in 1921; Katherine, born in 1886,
studied at the University of Cambridge and later qualified as a school
teacher in Sydney; Ursula, born in 1888, studied at the University of
Queensland, became an anthropologist, and worked with Radcliffe-Brown
and Edward Sapir; the youngest girl, Judith, born in 1894, lived at
Cressbrook until she married Aubrey W. Biggs in 1920.33
Ursula developed a close relation with Mayo and Dorothea, and accom­
panied Dorothea to Tasmania after Patty’s birth. Ursula was twenty-seven
and had started studies in philosophy under Mayo. Like Dorothea, Ursula
was attractive, intelligent, and enjoyed talking. As an undergraduate she
argued earnestly with Mayo, and often he would turn the weaknesses of her
argument to his own amusing purposes. She resented his playfulness and
effortless domination of her arguments, and, for a short time their friend­
ship cooled. Often he lent her books he had recently read; she would speak
on any topic with him, and discuss even her most personal feminine dis­
comforts. He liked her frankness and confidence but found that she always
made heavy going of her studies. She progressed “up the slopes of Par­
nassus, shins .. . bruised and bleeding . . . it is her way never to save herself
but, having sensed the difficulty, to sail straight at it.”34
In March 1918 Ursula finished her final examination in philosophy,
which Mayo invigilated. He observed her tension and anxiety, and was
concerned for her health. He believed she needed his personal encourage­
ment so that she would give her best effort, but hesitated because she was
fearful of speaking with him until the ordeal had ended.35 Afterward she
was fit again, and seemed to rejoice in the lightening effect that follows
examinations. Mayo recalled the quiet ebbing of tension after his studies
and there were echoes of old failures. He remembered how Dorothea had
helped him, and he envied Ursula, thinking, “It must be beautiful to have
enough resources to wander off looking for adventure after a bout of
 Career, Family, and Friends 81

work.”36 When he talked with Ursula about her career he carefully avoided
making suggestions because he felt his influence on her had been sufficient.
They discussed the possibility of a master’s degree in economics at the
University of Sydney or Melbourne, but no decision was taken. Later
Ursula raised the topic again, and Mayo was secretly delighted when she
suggested studying political philosophy and social psychology at the Uni­
versity of Queensland.37
What is known of Mayo’s marriage can be learned from letters he wrote
when they were apart. For their wedding Dorothea had given him a writing
board with the carved initials “EM.” She expected him to write to her every
day they were apart. All his married life he went to great trouble to meet
that expectation; he calculated the intervals between letters to ensure she
received some kind of message daily. And she did the same. In his letters he
acknowledges her moral and financial support, and that she had made a
brave sacrifice in marrying him.38 Their first separation was during the
summer vacation of 1915-16, when Dorothea took baby Patricia to Tas­
mania. To Mayo their time apart was a divorce; he missed her deeply,
wanted her near him, his love for her intensified, and he felt “afflicted with
fears and tremors—so dependent am I—and cannot understand how I can
be cross with the dearest woman.”39 She was still his “lady of dreams” who
made marriage a delight, a rebirth, a finding of himself. To banish thoughts
of her, he worked, but she and Patty remained “background to my work,
dearest wife, dearest daughter, so much my mental hinterland in these days
of absence.”40 His ardor provoked her to write about their love. They
agreed that the sex relation was not even interesting unless it was set in
broad context of affection; in that context she appeared to him a gracious,
kind, “royal head—so courageously parting the wide world.”41
Mayo’s idealization of Dorothea was tempered by good advice to protect
and guide her through real and imagined problems. He never ceased to
worry about whether or not she had enough money to spend. And when
she was afflicted by periodic skin eruptions Mayo would send an urgent
telegram of sympathy and arrange for the vaccine she needed.42 He coun­
seled her on keeping her intellect alert: “Read books not newspapers.”43 In
the summer of 1917-18, when she was in Sydney seeking advice about her
second pregnancy, Elton was insistant she “not do too much, avoid rushing
around, get the taxi driver to drive slowly, see Dr. Rennie on how to achieve
your hopes, and mine, for a son or daughter.” He wanted her to be comfort­
able, “no risks please, no sense in rushing ‘til you’re ill, rest, in six months
you’ll be in Sydney again.”44 But the second child did not live, and it was
not until April 1921 that Dorothea bore their second daughter, Gael.
Letters between Dorothea and Mayo examine difficult social questions
and show something of their intellectual life together. Once Dorothea
wrote asking for his views on the morality of sex relations outside marriage
and whether polygamy should be condoned to overcome the shortage of
82 Elton Mayo

men that would necessarily follow the end of the Great War. He held that
morality was not necessarily endangered provided sex relations were sys­
tematic and not promiscuous, but that the family, as he knew it, would lose
ground if the “wild promiscuity which we politely ignore” were to con­
tinue. Because men would be too few after the war he assumed a lapse from
rigid sex standards would follow, as had been so in Sparta. But “promis­
cuity is definitely anti-social and disintegrative in its tendencies.” From
studying Aristotle’s writings on Sparta, Mayo concluded that “directly sys­
tematic sex relations are relaxed, promiscuity sets in, and promiscuity
notoriously does not make for increased population.” Men should be al­
lowed to procreate, providing they stand by their women during gestation,
and support their women and children during infancy, youth, and later; the
state cannot maintain a system of sexual relations and an infancy system if
odd women all over the land produce inexplicable children. “As a result,”
he wrote, “sex anarchy follows and social disintegration” as serious as any
revolution. If anything were to be done about the shortage of men then “it
will have to be done carefully by people of intelligence and means, and it
will have to be concealed: the State cannot recognise as a lawful union any
but marriages which fulfil the prescribed conditions of monogamy” (italics
Mayo’s).45
Mayo’s letters to Dorothea reveal the organization of his emotional life
and his image of himself. When first in Brisbane he had been lonely be­
cause he was without family or close friends; and he had worked hard to
help himself through recurrent periods of sadness. During his short engage­
ment to Dorothea he had endured separation from her by working through
the doubts surrounding their decision to marry, by applying his mind to
imaginative schemes, and by idealizing her and their future life. A more
comprehensive pattern presents itself in letters to her between 1915 and
1918. When he was alone Mayo’s mood would swing to depression and his
self-esteem would fall. “I am very much like a cheap jewel torn from its
setting. As part of a beautiful scheme possessing some meaning, but as
solitary as a thing of neither beauty nor moment.”46 Her absence was like
losing a limb or half his life’s work, and her gentle criticism was needed to
keep him on course.47
He employed several means to overcome his sadness and lack of self­
worth. One lonely Christmas eve many years after, he recalled that “years
ago as I walked to the University in Brisbane I used to sit down in the small
park below Montpelier, where we lived, on many a morning when I felt
chunks of gloom or ‘fatigue’ rolling about—and chase or rather trace its
source—often some silly thing like a personal reflection on my capacities
or prospects or appearance. Usually I could pick up the silly thing that had
provoked all the gloom—and so laugh and get rid of it.”48
Belittling the apparent cause of gloom and laughing it away were not the
 Career, Family, and Friends 83

only means Mayo used. Occasionally the mood would be transformed into
an aggressive censoriousness toward others, and attach itself to an es­
pecially tiresome colleague, a driveling companion at dinner, or a Jew,
because of a residual schoolboy prejudice. Then would come a stab of
compassion, an attack of moral anxiety, a childish fear of retribution. On a
long hot train journey to Brisbane he felt “utterly wearied by the essential
commonness of my fellow passengers . . . a contrast to the ship pas­
sengers—I decided I had been too censorious of late, and set myself to like
them. And behold, this morning even the Jew who is the other occupant of
my compartment stood revealed as a decent enough citizen.”49 A few days
later at the university this mood prevailed again, and Mayo recorded, “I
have not been altogether pleased with some of my actions. At Faculty
meeting, for instance, I pitched into poor Priestly—and so passed Friday
with transgressions, but hope to do better.”50
To manage his dislike for himself, Mayo often needed another target,
and over the years Henry James Priestly, professor of mathematics, filled
the position well. Mayo never failed to find him irritating in matters of
organization and self-centered, a fussy old hen and first-class bore who
spent his energy making everything become distressingly important.51 (He
also played tennis badly.) But to complete Mayo’s emotional life he needed
a good friend. Friendship was vital to Mayo; when explaining William
James’s idea of “me,” and how friends contribute to one’s personality, Mayo
asserted that “to lose one is like (and actually is) cutting off a great piece of
oneself.”52 John Michie, played this role for Mayo, and needed Mayo for a
friend too. When they had been bachelors together, Michie was helped over
his shyness of women by the assurance of Mayo’s company; in preparing
lectures Michie would consult with Mayo; and in 1918 when the university
was being reorganized, Mayo wrote, “Michie and I have fallen back into the
old relationship—I think that Priestly’s notorious inadequacies to certain
questions drives him back on me.”53
Mayo’s most rewarding friendship was with Bronislaw Malinowski, the
anthropologist, whom he met in July 1914. Malinowski, a student of math­
ematics and physics who had turned to anthropological work on the Aus­
tralian aboriginal family, came to Australia to speak to the British
Association for the Advancement of Science, and then go on to Papua to
work among the Mailu.54 His approach to anthropology was to study the
actual behavior and experience of exotic tribes rather than imitate his
contemporaries and theorize imaginatively on social evolution and univer­
sal history. Malinowski’s address considered a fundamental problem in
religious sociology: the importance of the distinction between the sacred
and the profane among primitives. Scholars were divided on the issue, but
Malinowski believed that the available evidence showed that among primi­
tives who valued religion highly, the distinction was sharp; among those
84 Elton Mayo

who did not, the distinction was unclear. He held that evidence, not polem­
ics, properly determined knowledge in religious sociology; the more ample
the evidence the more reliable the knowledge.
Mayo and Malinowski became friends shortly after they first met. They
had a common interest in the scientific approach to social research, shared
the belief that human behavior and experience were best understood in the
context to which they belonged, and emphasized the importance of both
psychological and social facts in studies of mankind. Their friendship grew
for other reasons, too. Because of the conflict in Europe many people were
suspicious of Malinowski’s interest in studying life in the German colony of
Papua, but Mayo and Dorothea offered sympathy and hospitality whenever
he was in Brisbane. In March 1916 Mayo attended to Malinowski’s luggage
problems; in October the next year the Mayos looked after him, discussed
the university’s problems, Mayo’s political theories, and planned to take
holidays together; when Malinowski left for his field research they were
there to wish him well.55 Malinowski was immensely pleased by their
charm and hospitality; and his friendship was sealed with a warm letter
expressing a high opinion of Mayo’s work.
The real scientific mind is absolutely in touch with life— and whatever is
done, created, and impressed upon humanity by such a one is o f direct
practical value, though it may have to be cashed only after many detours.
During my wanderings in English-speaking countries I had the privilege o f
meeting such a mind only once— at a backwater university in sub-tropical
Australia.56

Mayo was heartened by these comments, which came at a time when he felt
particularly low. He wrote, “No Englishman would have the decency to say
such things . . . no Britisher would come to such a conclusion. . . . I don’t
suppose anyone else will ever speak of me like that.”
At the end of 1918 Mayo went to Melbourne to work and to stay with
Malinowski.57 At first Mayo had welcomed the opportunity, but he later
found it to be a powerful test of friendship. Malinowski used the visit to
repay Mayo’s hospitality in Brisbane; he bought Mayo cigarettes and food,
served him breakfast in bed, and even took him to the opera. In the face of
such heavy efforts at reparation Mayo could do very little. The problem
was that Malinowski lived in “Slavonic squalor” in Grey Street, East
Melbourne where he housed Mayo in a box-like room with a rickety old
bed and coarse bedclothes. Mayo ameliorated the squalor with frequent
bathing, and once caught his friend in a weak moment and bought him a
decent meal at the Hotel Australia.
Mayo found work with Malinowski was rewarding but exhausting. All
day in Malinowski’s room at Melbourne’s public library they worked to­
gether on problems in psychology and sociology until Mayo was ready to
drop. “It is the doing of two kinds of work, psychological and social, is the
killing element in a visit of this kind.” The routine was broken only when
 Career, Family, and Friends 85

Malinowski went to spend time with Elsie Masson, his fiancee, or when the
two men visited friends at the University of Melbourne. At night in the
Grey Street rooms they would continue their work. After three days Mayo
proposed courteously and firmly to return to Brisbane to help Dorothea
prepare for holidays. Malinowski would have none of this. He insisted that
while they were in a working vein, it would be better for Mayo to stay and
get all the benefit he could. The escape was delayed by five days.
Mayo and Malinowski did not meet again until 1926 in the United
States, when the warmth of their friendship seemed as genuine to Mayo as
it had been at their first meeting. In 1928 he was doubly grateful for that
friendship when it helped smooth the way for entry to British intellectual
circles.
Notes
1. Elton to Dorothea, 16 March 1916; University o f Queensland, Calendar, 1915,
p. 310; ibid., 1916, p. 58.
2. Minutes, Board o f Faculties, University o f Queensland, 20 September 1920.
3. Bronislaw Malinowski, A Diary in the Strict Sense o f the Term: 1914-15, and
1917-18 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1967), p. 4.
4. Elton to Dorothea, 3 March 1918.
5. Elton to Dorothea, 7 March 1918.
6. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 15 June, 12 October 1917.
7. Elton to Dorothea, 11 March 1918.
8. Ibid.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 3, 17 March 1918.
10. M inutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 13 Decem ber 1918, 14 March
1919.
11. Elton to Dorothea, 21 March 1919.
12. The University o f Queensland, 1910-1922: A History (Brisbane: University o f
Queensland, 1923).
13. University o f Queensland, Calendar, 1922, pp. 279-85; Minutes, Education
Committee, University o f Queensland, 3 November 1914, and Minutes, Senate,
University o f Queensland, 20 April 1917.
14. Elton to Dorothea, 11 January 1923; University o f Queensland, Calendar,
1914, pp. 313-14; ibid., 1915, pp. 60-62.
15. University of Queensland, Calendar, 1914, p. 315; ibid., 1915, p. 63.
16. Ibid., 1914, p. 315; ibid., 1915, p. 316.
17. Ibid., 1917, pp. 56-57, 129-32; ibid., 1918, pp. 62-65, 130-33; ibid., 1920, p. I l l ;
ibid., 1921, p. 112.
18. Ibid., 1915, p. 310; ibid., 1916, p. 58.
19. Queensland University M agazine 6, no. 2 (1921 ):334; conversation with Miss E.
K. McGregor, 22 August 1974; Jones to Trahair, 7 October 1974; Kyle to
Trahair, 20 September 1974.
20. Elton to Dorothea, 2 April 1913.
21. Sources for Mayo’s behavior in class are: Kyle to Trahair, 20 September 1974;
Pearse to Trahair, 5 November 1974; Partridge to Trahair, 26 September 1974;
Jones to Trahair, 7 October 1974; conversations with Lady Axon, 21 August
1974, and Miss K. E. McGregor, 22 August 1974.
22. Queensland University Magazine, 20 October 1920, pp. 38-39; Jones to Trahair,
7 October 1974.
86 Elton Mayo

23. Galmahra (formerly Queensland University Magazine) 1, no. 3 (1921 ):45, 46.
In this issue appears another verse on Mayo’s lectures:

Old M ayo’s a psycho-analyst, enraptured by Jung and Freud;

I f you tell him yo u ’re a Sensationist, h e’s certain to feel annoyed.
For he feels convinced that Locke and H um e are very much out o f date,
A nd the lower levels o f consciousness he loves to investigate.

24. Elton to Dorothea, 13 March 1913.

25. Minutes, Faculty o f Arts, University o f Queensland, 19 August 1914, and M in­
utes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 14 August 1915; University o f Queens­
land, Calendar, 1915.
26. Queensland University M agazine A, no. 1 (1915): 18.
27. Ibid.,2, no. 2 (1914):48, 49, 54; ibid., 3, no. 3 (1915):77.
28. Ibid., 2, no. 4 (1914):106; ibid., 3, no. 2 (1915):47-48; ibid., 4, no. 3 (1917): 14,
50.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 18 November 1915; 13, 14, 21, 24, 30 March, 2-5 April
1916; 6, 7, 15, 18 March 1918; 18 March 1921; conversation with Patricia Elton
Mayo, January 1974.
30. Elton to Dorothea, 5 March 1918.
31. Elton to Dorothea, 16 March 1918.
32. Elton to Dorothea, 5 April 1916.
33. E.W.J. McConnel, James McConnel o f Carsiggan, his Forebears and Descen­
dants (privately printed, 1931).
34. Elton to Dorothea, 5 April 1916.
35. Elton to Dorothea, 4-6 March 1918.
36. Elton to Dorothea, 10 March 1918.
37. Elton to Dorothea, 11 March 1918.
38. Elton to Dorothea, 2 April 1916.
39. Elton to Dorothea, 24 March 1916.
40. Elton to Dorothea, 25 March, 5 April 1916.
41. Elton to Dorothea, 4 April 1916.
42. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 21 March, 3 April 1916.
43. Elton to Dorothea, 30 March 1916.
44. Elton to Dorothea, 4-7, 11 March 1918.
45. Elton to Dorothea, 14, 15 March 1918.
46. Elton to Dorothea, 14 November 1915.
47. Elton to Dorothea, 23 March 1916.
48. Elton to Toni, 24 December 1937.
49. Elton to Dorothea, 10 March 1916.
50. Elton to Dorothea, 21 March 1916.
51. Elton to Dorothea, 3, 5, 6, 16 March 1918.
52. Elton to Dorothea, 24 March 1916.
53. Elton to Dorothea, 4, 11, 15, 16 March 1918.
54. British Association for the Advancement o f Science, Report o f Eighty-Fourth
Meeting (London, 1915); J. A. Barnes, Introduction to The Family Am ong the
Australian Aborigines, by B. Malinowski (New York: Schocken, 1962; originally
published 1913).
55. Elton to Dorothea, 13, 16, 21 March 1916; Malinowski, Family Am ong the
Australian Aborigines, pp. 4, 108, 111.
56. Elton to Dorothea, 7 March 1918.
57. Elton to Dorothea, December 1918.
 6
War, Politics, and the New Psychology,
1914-1919

The Great War gave Mayo opportunities to extend his influence among
colleagues in Queensland, but when he tried he was frustrated on every
point. His ideas were too radical for conservative men, and too elitist and
compromising for those who wanted great changes in the social and politi­
cal order; his recommendations were misjudged by businessmen and so­
cialists alike, political commentators were divided on his policies, and
politicians would not follow his advice. To Mayo politics seemed irrational,
so he turned to the new theories of psychology for an explanation of social
and political problems, and wrote a small book on them before taking up
the neurotic problems of men who were returning from the war.

Conflict in Europe led Australian and British intellectuals to examine

relations between Great Britain and its colonies. Among the British spokes­
men was Lionel Curtis, who had helped create the Union of South Africa
after the Boer War and who had founded Round Table, a liberal magazine
that published discussions of Britain’s imperial problems. Before war was
declared in 1914 Curtis had visited Australia, New Zealand, and Canada to
establish Round Table groups and extend discussion of relations among
members of the British Empire.1 Mayo attended a small meeting in Bris­
bane at which Curtis revealed the purpose of the Round Table organiza­
tion. It aimed for a theory of the state based on a liberal view of the British
Empire; and individuals’ duties, opportunities, and challenges were to be
pursued within guidelines of British imperial policy. At the time Round
Table subscribed to a policy of devolution and the notion that the British
Empire was best understood as a single political unit whose members
should act as one in world affairs. It argued that imperial matters should be
managed by a representative imperial council; and although dominions
should manage their domestic affairs, ultimately Britain would be respons­
ible for their citizens. Those who opposed Round Table groups condemned
their policy as statism and deplored the view that the British Empire should
be an omnipotent political unit shaping the moral personality of its cit­
izens. Mayo believed the state was the individual’s servant not an overbear-

87
88 Elton Mayo

ing master, and placed himself among Curtis’s opponents by pointing out
that Round Table policy was “exceedingly silly and utterly irrelevant to the
facts in Australia at the time.” Mayo’s politics were too radical for his peers;
he was censured, and from then on “was very nearly prevented from having
anything in the nature of an effective say in the affairs of my own country.”2
In university affairs Mayo always enjoyed an effective say, and was put
on the university’s War Committee when it was founded in 1915. Students
lampooned Mayo’s first contribution, calling it an obscure, irrelevant, ab­
stract argument, and they presented Mayo’s associates as buffoons.3 But
later his help was invaluable. He edited early publications of the War
Committee,4 while many of his colleagues toured country towns lecturing
on how people might direct their efforts toward Queensland’s contribution
to ending the war. Mayo could not tour—Percy Seymour went in his
place—because Dorothea was about to have their first child.
The War Committee’s first document was a call to service in the militia,
to manufacture munitions, and to maintain necessary industries.5 It was
distributed in July 1915 at a meeting where leading citizens heard the new
governor of Queensland, Sir Hamilton John Goold-Adams, ask for
support.
The second document concerned organization for the production of
war munitions. To ensure efficiency, it recommends that a census be taken
of all labor and machinery to establish the resources available for produc­
tion; that the English system of contracting production be avoided because
it leads to profiteering; that profits be limited to 8 percent on capital; and
that unions relax their regulations so as to allow for more shift-work, the
employment of nonunionists, and unskilled workers on machines. The
third pamphlet outlined the state’s normal and real losses in wartime, and
ways to limit them. Under normal competitive market conditions, which
are subject to the laws of supply and demand, the cost of war would double
or treble, and few people would reap great benefits. So “the production of
munitions by means of contract with private firms is a wrong method for
providing for” wartime needs. The proper action would be for the com­
monwealth government to control munitions factories; it would prevent
competitive demand for labor and materials from swelling the costs of
production, and offset industrial dislocations that might occur.6
Mayo’s active work on the committee ended in November 1915. At one
meeting the members had spent time criticizing Queensland’s Labour gov­
ernment and carping at Mayo’s radical ideas. “I lashed out at them—told
them they seemed to be politicians first and patriots afterwards.” Overwork
had contributed to Mayo’s outburst. Athough the meeting moved a vote of
thanks for his efforts and he apologized for not behaving well, later he
wrote to its senior members—including the archbishop of Brisbane—say­
ing that he would retire.7
To provide “authoritative and impartial guidance” at a time of “political
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 89

stress” and “widespread political changes engendered by the war” Mayo

believed Australia needed a journal that published impartial, reasoned
political and theological discussions. Earlier attempts at such a journal had
failed for lack of subscribers. But at the University of Melbourne, a neu­
rologist, Professor Berry, had given the matter thought and suggested that
in each state an editorial committee be established. Mayo offered to help in
Queensland. He wanted an “Australian Review” similar to the Hibbert
Journal. Most subscribers would come from two groups. “In the Queens­
land club I have often heard reputed staunch supporters of the so-called
liberal cause, pastoralists, express views of the most astounding [political
heresy and] heterodoxy,” Mayo wrote to Berry, and assured him these
people would subscribe to a review “that welcomed honest expression of
opinion.” Also, “the rank and file of the Australian Labour Party will read
with avidity any definitely Australian publication which endeavours to
take account of their political difficulties and disabilities.”8 Mayo’s enthusi­
asm went unrewarded, for the journal did not come into being.
Mayo’s efforts appeared with a lighter touch in April 1916. A friend in
Adelaide, Mrs. Anna Booth, who had admired his understanding of human
experience and benefited from his psychological advice on children’s prob­
lems, asked him to join her in a contribution to the Lady Galway Belgium
Book. The book was sponsored by the Red Cross and the Belgian Relief
Fund, and compiled by Lady Marie Galway, wife of South Australia’s gov­
ernor. Short stories, poems, scenes from Belgium, paintings and articles on
diverse subjects appear in the book. Anna Booth and Mayo offered a short
story or playlet of four scenes.9 The story is set in a hotel at a fashionable
resort, where a young, overworked barrister, Peter Fawcett, is resting at his
physician’s instructions. Fawcett is warned that a guest, Mrs. Addison, is a
siren. Within two weeks she inveigles Fawcett into kissing her, but to her
surprise he refuses to abandon himself utterly to her influence. In three
days he changes his mind and suggests they elope. She is astonished; he is
insistent; she declines; he laughs uproariously. She is puzzled, so he tells her
the truth about herself: she is incapable of loving men, and all she really
wants is to collect them. The plot is slight, and probably held more signifi­
cance for Anna and Mayo than for any reader. The occupations of the
characters and their names allude to Anna’s Adelaide acquaintances. The
risque and brittle dialogue suggests Bernard Shaw, whose Major Barbara
Anna and Mayo had enjoyed immensely.10
Mayo’s view of the political problems of citizens in wartime appears in
“Socialism and War,” a talk he gave to Socialists at the Trades Hall.11As did
the pamphlets he edited, the address attacked wartime profiteering and
undemocratic government. First, he denigrated profiteers and outlined
Marx’s theory of surplus value. Marx’s criticism of profits “may be wrongly
based if considered from the point of view of scientific economics, but is
nonetheless probably true”; and modern economic writers assume wrongly
90 Elton Mayo

that entrepreneurs profit legitimately as a result of superior intelligence.

Mayo said Marx “knew perfectly well that large profits, more often than
not, were not due to superior but inferior brains [and] to the absence of
human qualities and a veritable obsession of selfish interest, [so] caution is
the only factor that operates to restrain [the entrepreneur’s] cupidity.” In
wartime, community needs become urgent, and unscrupulous capitalists
can easily profit from real or feared shortages, e.g., the cheese and flour
merchants cited in the June 1915 issue of Round Table. Socialists and
“every honest citizen” had the duty to prevent “predatory raids of this kind
on the community.” Second, Mayo asserted, the war’s end would pattern
world politics. To him the war was a struggle between democracy and
military autocracy, and, therefore, the possibility of anything but a victory
for England and her allies was alarming. Finally he asked: “Where do
Socialists stand on this point?” When Mayo returned from his summer
vacation of 1915-16, colleagues told him that he was popular at the Trades
Hall because his audience had decided that he was a Socialist and “a true
friend of the cause.”12
Mayo was both amused and annoyed by reaction at the Trades Hall. He
had no objection to publicity for good work done; he enjoyed public speak­
ing and the discussions that followed his addresses. But he abominated
political publicity, and loathed party politics. He could not support social­
ism, because it was based on the Marxist view of class war, which he
believed aimed to destroy social order not build it. He objected equally to
capitalism because it harbored greedy and dull-witted businessmen.
However roundly he criticized each political camp, Mayo saw his duty in
helping both sides to understand and accept their shortcomings, and to
address themselves, together, to a better industrial organization for the
community.
Business interests were cool to Mayo’s approach on ways industries
should plan their organization,13 but the Queensland government was in­
terested. In May 1915, for the first time, the Labour Party won the Queens­
land state election. Edward G. Theodore became state treasurer and acting
premier during the premier’s absence. When Labour came to power, The­
odore was given ministerial responsibility for industrial matters.14
In Mayo’s opinion the Queensland cabinet knew neither where nor how
to begin work on problems of industrial organization in wartime. His
pamphlet for the university War Committee had outlined how industrial­
ists should forgo immediate interests and unions should curb their controls
on work, and how both should cooperate for the community’s benefit. Now
he was keen to develop these ideas in a scheme that the government might
use to administer industries during the war. He sent a short account of his
views to the government, and Theodore invited Mayo for a discussion of
them.
Mayo’s ideas came directly from his reading of Barker’s Political
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 91

Thought in England from Herbert Spencer to Today}5 The final chapter

draws apart four strands of socialism: Marxism, Fabianism, syndicalism,
and guild socialism. Mayo’s attention was caught by the discussion of syn­
dicalism, a French school of political thought advocating more social and
economic autonomy for professions and occupations, and, at the same
time a severe curb on the power of the state. The chapter also briefly
reviews Graham Wallas’s The Great Society an evaluation of social psy­
chology and its promise to diagnose, forecast, and offer control over
human behavior, especially the evils of modern democrary, e.g., politicians
who hypnotize electors, and classes of voters who pressure governments for
whom they work. It argues that syndicalism, by emphasizing cooperative
relations within professions and occupations and limits to state power,
could correct these evils. Mayo wrote to Dorothea that his upcoming dis­
cussion with Theodore would include two propositions; “The day of Social­
ism is over and the day of Syndicalism arrived,” and “Will, not force, is the
basis of the State.” The latter proposition was drawn from Barker’s second
chapter, which summarizes the ideas of T.H. Green, the liberal idealist and
author of The Principles o f Political Obligation. In time Mayo would cast
syndicalism aside, but Green’s maxim would remain central to Mayo’s
political beliefs for the rest of his career.16
Because Theodore’s Labour ministry was committed to socialism, Mayo
believed his own views would not be readily adopted, so he worked assidu­
ously to prepare a strong and persuasive case. On the night before the
meeting with Theodore, Mayo reviewed his scheme carefully and rehearsed
his arguments, but his vision of a syndicalist organization for industry was
clouded by personal doubts. To convince the socialist government was “a
tough job, since my councils of moderation might be twisted into crit­
icisms of Government measures.”17 And he was ambivalent about the gov­
ernm ent’s adoption of his scheme. He thought that it may promote
politicians’ careers, but that his own reputation could be easily smashed if
his conservative friends were to hear of his influence. He asked Dorothea to
say nothing of the meeting. Further, he expected his fatigue from ceaseless
work on the scheme would combine with his fear that Theodore would
dismiss the scheme, and doubt would give way, as it so often had, to feelings
of worthlessness and depression. But he was wrong.
The interview with Theodore was far from disappointing. Mayo was
treated courteously, given an excellent cigar, and afforded ample time. “It
was a new experience for me to be listened to by [an Acting] Premier . ..
able fellow whatever his other qualities or defects.”18 Theodore’s copious
notes showed Mayo that he was having some influence on the politician’s
thinking.
Although Theodore accepted some of Mayo’s ideas, he was told his
scheme was foreign to the declared policy of the Labour Party, and possibly
was dangerous to it. Mayo knew he had not clarified the political safeguards
92 Elton Mayo

that the scheme would need. Theodore acknowledged Mayo’s reasoned

criticisms for a failed syndicalist scheme in France. But central to all
schemes was the problem of raising money for the reorganization of indus­
try, and Theodore wanted to exclude the capitalists entirely. Mayo, know­
ing money would be difficult to raise, wanted the capitalists included
within a limited form of syndicalism. Theodore believed money could be
raised in England, but Mayo reasoned that the war militated against such a
loan. Finally, Theodore’s attention was caught by Mayo’s critical comments
on modern democracy and the behavior of politicians. He outlined his own
views for Mayo to consider, and closed by saying he would be pleased to
review the discussion.
Mayo saw Theodore’s government could not accept his scheme without
great changes to Labour Party policy, so he asked if he might publish his
views as his own. Theodore assented, asking that he be sent anything that
appeared in print. A title had already come to mind: “Democracy and
Government.” It would appear in 1919 as Democracy and Freedom, the
first in a series of Workers’ Educational Association pamphlets.
The question of conscripted or voluntary service for the war divided
Australians in the 1916 referendum: 1,087,557 voted for conscription;
1,160,033 against. Shortly after the referendum Mayo published a letter,
“National Organization: The Referendum and After,”19a social psycholog­
ical explanation of the referendum results and an exhortation to reconsider
Australia’s military and economic future. Mayo assumed the meaning of
conscription varies with the culture in which it is found. In Germany
conscription was undemocratically forced upon the blindly obedient popu­
lace in the one form of military service and in the interests of militarism. In
Australia conscription could take different forms and should rest on the
people’s enthusiastic desire for efficient national organization.
Mayo analyzed the intentions of the Australian electorate, and, contrary
to the views of most political commentators, argued that the voters did not
take what they thought was the safest course but were motivated by inse­
curity and self-interest. They lacked confidence in the political leaders
because they had offered no carefully considered scheme of industrial and
military organization but had merely debated the issue of “compulsion.”
Mayo thought both sides had misled the voters. In democracies compul­
sion was not relevant, and “will (human desires), not force (compulsion) is
the basis of the State.” He argued that the desire to undertake duty comes
from within; compulsion imposed from without has relatively little effect
on doing one’s duty. In this light, conscription was nothing more than a
procedure for organizing human desires to act in the general interest. Aus­
tralian voters preferred the current military and industrial system of 1916
because, Mayo argued, they feared militarism and industrial conscription,
and they distrusted politicians who would have had to unite liberal with
syndicalist policies if conscription was adopted. Mayo stated that Aus­
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 93

tralians, because of inadequate leadership, were ignorant of the real-world

problems raised by the Great War. The European civilization that existed
before August 1914 would never return; economic and industrial changes
had occurred more rapidly than Australians had realized; war had ended
economic competition and brought in the new era of national organiza­
tion. Australians must learn this, Mayo wrote, because Australia’s fate was
tied to that of Europe in a war for democracy.
Mayo was passing through Sydney early in 1918 when the government’s
plan for the repatriation of soldiers attracted his attention. Mayo attacked
it because it smacked of charity, failed to consider adequately the economic
situation to which the soldiers were returning. He denounced proposals to
establish secondary industries (e.g., piano making) that made no use of
Australia’s natural resources, and advocated extending primary industries
and their markets (e.g., pig farms). Mayo predicted that unless his advice
was followed Australia would become bankrupt. His advice was not taken
and he was roundly criticized, but the general principle that repatriation of
soldiers should occur in a well-understood and properly managed context
guided recommendations of the Subcommittee on Rehabilitation that
Mayo chaired thirty years later for the National Research Council in
Washington.20
During 1917 Mayo became interested in the application of social and
psychological ideas to Australian politics. The University Senate appointed
him to the John Thomson Lectureship, and he gave two public lectures on
“Psychology and Politics.”21 They constitute his earliest and most systema­
tic statement on the political problems of an industrial society, and show
clearly how influenced he was by social psychology and Green’s ideal con­
ception of the state.
For Mayo, society comprised individuals organized in occupations.
Each occupation had its social function. Individuals’ political attitudes and
behaviors are created not by the party to which they belong, but by their
race-tradition or inherited characteristics, and by occupation. Of the two,
occupation is the stronger. For a society to be stable and healthy, individu­
als must see clearly and accurately the functional relation between their
and other occupations in society.
Mayo asserted that in Australian industry these ideal conditions are not
present. Australian industry originated with the economic expansion of
nineteenth-century Europe. During this expansion social chaos was
wrought by an economic creed that advocated competition, survival of the
fittest, and no political interference in industry. In the twentieth century,
much distress was alleviated as capitalism and industrialism grew, but these
attitudes did not promote social stability, unity, or health. Because of the
inhumane working conditions of the last century, most workers, under­
standably, supported Marxism, and viewed industry as the scene of class
war. Because of the ruthless competition in nineteenth-century commerce,
94 Elton Mayo

most employers, understandably, adopted the view that workers were items
in the cost of production, and not responsible citizens serving a social
function. Notwithstanding the restrictions on competition, the employers’
attitude remained. As long as workers did not understand the complex
economics of industry, and employers did not see the social function of
work, industrial strife would persist and social unity would not be achieved.
In Australia false political cures for economic ills predominated, Mayo
stated. Craft unionism turned to political unionism, based on Marxism
and class war. And although the Australian Labour Party’s goal—One Big
Union of Workers—was necessary to achieve humane work conditions, the
social consequences had been unfortunate. Industrial grievances flared
into political issues, and every industrial function lost sight of its social
purpose; the New South Wales Railways strike of 1917 was a case in point.
The Labour and Liberal Parties showed no mutual understanding, logic, or
reason; instead, traditional selfish sentiment shaped their attitudes. The
Liberal Party’s capitalism assumed that superior skill entitled one to the
sole right of ownership and control in industry; Labour’s industrialism
discounted all skill and upheld democratic control of industry without the
knowledge to manage its problems.
The state, Mayo argued, and its politicians should be passive and critical
of society’s activities, and offer only moral criticism. Instead, through the
Commonwealth Arbitration Court, the state legalized social disintegration
of industry. Arbitration is sound when it encourages reasoned discussion of
common problems, but in Australia the Arbitration Court assumed that
no mutual interest could exist between the two parties, and intruded itself
between them to uphold the public interest. It encouraged workers to think
only of “logs of claims” and to ignore work’s technical problems; it
provided a tedious incomprehensible list of work regulations that pro­
hibited cooperation and social progress, and killed initiative, leadership,
and the individual’s sense of citizenship.
In Mayo’s opinion trusts and unions held some hope for social unity,
because they reduced the host of petty competitors and curbed ideas of
class war. In such monopolies a consciousness of social function could
grow because large social organizations required their members to take a
broad view of the world, forgo political ideologies, and emphasize coopera­
tion rather than hatred. Mayo’s opinion was shared by few; most people
suspected both unions and trusts of inspiring class interests and conflict
rather than industry harmony.
Finally Mayo criticized Australia’s universities for emphasizing profes­
sional training in law and medicine and giving too little attention to eco­
nomics and arts, which properly study social and industrial problems. Also
he argued that if Australia were to achieve a stable, unified, civilized so­
ciety, more reliance must be put on the scientific study of conditions that
promote social unity and less on the irrationalities of politicians.
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 95

The two lectures were well attended, and were accurately and favorably
reported in the Brisbane Courier, but were followed by such a disappoint­
ing lack of concern among Mayo’s associates that he did not draft his
lecture notes for publication as a pamphlet by the university. “One does
need the stimulus of interest aroused somewhere... . For many years I have
had to go without much,” he wrote to Dorothea.22 Interest in Mayo’s ideas
came from distant and friendly colleagues, close family, and local union­
ists. Meredith Atkinson, director of tutorial classes at the University of
Sydney and president of the Workers’ Educational Association in Australia
wanted a chapter from Mayo for a new book. Dorothea’s mother so ap­
proved the lectures that she wanted to distribute copies when they were
printed.23 A heartening letter from Malinowski, a personal note from an­
other faraway friend, and a warmly received speech to a small group of the
National Council of Women combined to raise Mayo’s enthusiasm for the
task. Too, he won another great success at the Trades Hall. He had been
asked to speak on industry and education, and when he arrived hundreds
were waiting to hear him. To Mayo it seemed the Workers’ Educational
Association had come into its own in Queensland. The audience followed
the description of his scheme for arts and studies in social sciences atten­
tively, and a loud cheer followed his final claim that “the office of education
is to break down the shackles of custom, convention and social environ­
ment, and set man free to think.”24 Mayo revised the lecture, called it
“Australia’s Political Consciousness,” and sent a copy to Atkinson early in
March 1918.25
In March 1918 the first term of Queensland’s Labour government ended,
and the main issue of the elections was the efficacy of Labour’s socialist
schemes. Inflation had been high and the government had spent freely on
its state-controlled enterprises, e.g., cattle stations, butcher shops, insur­
ance, and banking. Other Australian states had tried similar schemes with­
out success, so Labour’s opponents, the Queensland Nationalist Party,
predicted financial disaster if Labour were returned to office. The election
campaign and its curious aftermath gave a special thrust to Mayo’s applica­
tion of psychoanalytic psychology to political problems, and to ideas that
would become the basis of his early work in the United States.
Labour won the election by an unexpected majority of two to one. At
first Mayo took only a minor interest in the result because his wife’s uncle
had been a Nationalist candidate. In Mayo’s opinion the Nationalists de­
served to be beaten because they had campaigned badly, dwelt on the
defects in the personality of Labour’s leader, put up poor candidates, and
delivered no constructive criticism of Labour’s state-run enterprises.26 But
later he turned to the irrationalities of politicians and voters and the psy­
chology of the election.
Early in March 1918 Mayo was reading the analytical psychology of
Jung, and began to apply it to problems of his own fatherhood and to the
96 Elton Mayo

neuroses of various friends.27 The application called for the use of associa­
tion tests to identify unconscious patterns of emotion or “complexes.”
Jung assumed complexes were important unconscious determinants of
observable behavior and could be brought into awareness by uttering men­
tal associations to certain words. In fact, Mayo believed that he had inde­
pendently discovered the association method for himself when reading a
story about Sherlock Holmes. And he became even more excited by Jung’s
work when he read that Jung had applied the association method to dis­
cover the culprit in a case of theft at a hospital.28
On the day after Labour’s success, “I began to make notes about
the election,” Mayo wrote to Dorothea, “and it has worked out as a new
chapter for [my book] ‘Democracy and freedom.’” He assumed the
campaigners had made the electorate psychasthenic or neurasthenic, and
concluded, “The Nationalists lost because in the endeavour to be logical
they took no account of ‘phobias’ (anxiety neuroses) motivated from the
‘unconscious.’” Mayo believed this idea was congruent with, and could lead
to the improvement of, the theories of the French crowd psychologist Le
Bon, and might be a sound basis for a study of “elector psychasthenia and
twilight-thinking.”29
Two days later a crowd of depositors made a run on the Queensland
Government Savings Bank because rumors had spread that the govern­
ment would appropriate the depositors’ funds. Both the state premier and
the leader of the Nationalist Party deprecated the rumor, excessive with­
drawals were declared unnecessary, the Commonwealth Bank offered sup­
port to the bank under siege, and, at the end of the week, the bank scare
was over. This panic impressed Mayo greatly, showing him that obsessions,
fears, and confused ideas like those that had been aroused during the
campaign were similar to the emotional distress of neurotics and to the
thought patterns of children. And authoritarian fathers’ attempts to con­
trol thoughts and feelings of their children resembled the Queensland pol­
iticians’ manipulation of the voters’ notions. During that year Mayo set
down these thoughts for his Democracy and Freedom, which would be the
first in a series of authoritative texts on the social conditions of life in the
British countries of the South Seas, published by the Workers’ Educational
Association of Australia, and edited by Mayo’s colleague Meredith
Atkinson.30
Democracy and Freedom is short and is Mayo’s only full statement on
the political problems of industrial civilization. The first chapter shows
how modern democracy failed to engender social growth and individual
autonomy, and the second outlines Mayo’s ideal of democratic govern­
ment. The third chapter criticizes the inadequate leadership in modern
democracies, and the fourth condemns state regulation of industrial con­
flict. The final chapter summarizes Mayo’s thesis by arguing that in a civi­
lized society the social will is expressed in law, equity, marriage, contracts,
public opinion, trades, professions, and other moral institutions.
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 97

Chapters 2 and 3 include Mayo’s ideas on psychology and politics for

democratic government. Modern democracies in Britain, the United
States, and Australia do not base policies on sane logical discussion, nor do
they employ properly trained people to execute the policies. Instead of
logical discussion, politicians use fear and hatred to win office. Le Bon
stated that terrifying images have strong immediate effects on crowds; and
Ostrogorski, the Russian constitutional democrat, showed that party poli­
tics has introduced to modern popular government collective mediocrity
based on confused judgment. Further, because political organization of
parties is being preferred to systematic political education, and political
brokers are replacing statesmen, party victory is sought at the expense of
society’s good, and thus democracy is degraded.
Modern psychologists help us understand one problem in modern de­
mocracy. Freud and Jung show that unconscious irrational fears in neu­
rasthenics and hysterics can be studied systematically, and that these fears
can arise in, and disrupt, the controlled conscious thinking of normal
people. Jung found reaction time increased with the sensitiveness of cer­
tain ideas and feelings. In political meetings, skilled speakers appeal to, and
stimulate, unconscious emotional fears of the audience, attach them to
social and industrial problems, and then profess the cure. The politician
tests ideas on an audience, sees what emotional reactions can be aroused,
and then develops a topic by intensifying people’s emotions and directing
them to a purpose. During the 1918 Queensland campaign candidates had
talked about recruitment, conscription, relatives in combat, unemploy­
ment, cost of living, and social class differences. Mayo illustrated his ideas
with a story about the rumor that the reelected Socialist government would
appropriate savings of the middle-class and the subsequent run on the local
bank.
Continuing political education and enlightened leadership are needed
for effective democracy. But, in Australia, political organizations exploited
sectional distrust and irrational fears rather than promoting political edu­
cation, and politicians manipulated mob prejudice instead of eloquently
inspiring ideals of social progress. Could the problem be solved? French
social theorists had stated that crowds respond largely to unconscious irra­
tional thoughts, so a community’s action is determined not by especially
able people but by these unconscious elements of the collective mind.
Thus, the social theorists concluded that as a group specialists are no more
able than imbeciles to make rational decisions. Mayo asserted that this
pessimistic and unwarranted conclusion has been disproved by modern
psychologists. Freud and Jung show that normal rational thought and
understanding are achieved repeatedly through the use of reason.
In a hastily drafted review for the Melbourne Herald Herbert Heaton,
lecturer in economics and director of tutorial classes at the University of
Adelaide, introduced Democracy and Freedom with a bitter lament about
the failure of Australia’s universities to provide for the scientific study of
98 Elton Mayo

social psychology, politics, and economics.31 He outlined Mayo’s applica­

tion of psychology to politics, but feared that because the “excellent little
book” did not fully develop its main ideas, many unsophisticated readers
might not understand Mayo’s thesis. Heaton sent Mayo a copy of the
review, apologized for its shortcomings, and, praised him for his discussion
of guild socialism and state regulation of industry. “It’s a pity you made the
book so short though; doubly-distilled political writing is not easy to under­
stand by those not trained to philosophical or psychological language, and
I fancy you will ‘catch it’ from some labor reviewers for having used techni­
cal terms without having explained them.”32 Mayo thought the review re­
flected Heaton’s breezy, cheerful personality, and he was much amused by
the notion that he would have difficulty in surviving unsophisticated
criticism.33
Brisbane’s Daily Mail stormed at Mayo for writing in an ivory tower and
providing a typically obscure, abstruse, verbose, literary, unconvincing,
and inadequate contribution to Australian political thought. Le Bon,
Freud, and Jung were denigrated; sociology and social psychology were
dubbed “learned nonsense.” After recounting the thesis on the role of the
state, the reviewer asserted that Mayo had deceived himself and miscon­
ceived democratic politics, and was nothing but a “kind of (philosophic)
anarchist.. . who does not want to be bothered by Governments.”34 Bris­
bane’s Daily Standard was more favorably inclined, and regarded the work
as “thought-provoking” but “not satisfying.”35 The reviewer recommended
the book as a “helpful criticism” of democracy, but warned that although
Mayo ridiculed, regretted, and condemned both state socialism and cap­
italism, he did not offer a firm alternative to either. “Very friendly, very
sane,” thought Mayo.36
“Mr. Mayo hits right and left” wrote Professor William Mitchell, Mayo’s
mentor and friend, in Adelaide’s Advertiser:37 Mitchell thought Mayo
qualified as an “advanced” labor leader for his progressive views but he
would not be accepted because, Mitchell believed, the majority of Aus­
tralian workmen feared private masters and would always prefer the safe
alternative of state regulation of industry. “This is why Democracy must be
saved from itself,” wrote Mitchell. “The best service that Mr. Mayo’s book
may do is keep that single fact to the front.” Also in Adelaide, the Aus­
tralian Christian Commonwealth38 praised the book as “one of those best
of all books to read,” vigorous, original, clear, and stimulating. The Sydney
Morning Herald held the same view; the book was “distinctly original. . .
interesting . . . thought-provoking.”39 And the Melbourne Argus,40 al­
though condemning the work because it was not constructive, stated, “If
Mr. Mayo, and his [W.E.A.] colleagues . . . can only induce workers to think
seriously and honestly upon politics and economics, they will do a magnifi­
cent service, no matter what their own views may be.”
Late in 1919 Mayo restated the main ideas of Democracy and Freedom
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 99

in a short essay on industrial autonomy among workers. In postwar indus­

trial reconstruction, he wrote, competition among individuals must give
way to social cooperation, and company directors must take on com­
munity responsibilities in any plan to increase worker’s participation in
industry. Autonomy in industry comes through self-control, not voting
and representation; and only those people who know the methods and
conditions of work, market factors, modern economics, and the history of
social organization are competent to share in industry. This knowledge
would remove the intellectual fetters of the working class and help it
achieve industrial autonomy.41
Thirty years later a conference was held on human relations in admin­
istration at the Graduate School of Business Administration, Harvard Uni­
versity. Mayo had been prominent on the faculty for twenty-one years and
the conference was held in recognition of that service upon his retirement.
His two lectures, “The Modernization of a Primitive Community” and
“Changes and its Social Consequences,” were published as The Political
Problem o f Industrial Civilization,42 a book that calls for comparison with
Democracy and Freedom.
The books have many points in common. Society is assumed to be a
cooperative system of groups; relations among them are based on personal
understanding, tradition, customs, and the will to work together. “Will, not
force is the basis of the State”; centralist organization directed with com­
pulsion is suited only to crises and emergencies, not peacetime work. The
Queensland politicians who manipulated crowd sentiment are replaced by
ignorant men, Hitler and Mussolini, who thrust heroic patterns of domina­
tion on modern democracies rather than use civilized ways of administra­
tion. Civilized adm inistration requires enlightened leadership from
educated administrators whose technical skills are supplemented by social
skills; they are able to engender cooperative relations among people at
work, and to ameliorate the hostility that flows from competition in the
pursuit of self-interest. Marxist solutions to industrial problems are
inadequate.
The theses are similar but the styles are different. In both writings Freud
is mentioned, but in the later work psychoanalytic ideas are absent; in­
stead, strong weight is given to the assumption that the psychological need
for security and happiness is best satisfied by group membership and con­
tinuous association with others. As a young man Mayo had known how
depressed a solitary person could become, and how important it had been
for him to have the company of others. “The solitary who works alone is
always a very unhappy man,” he said in his final lecture.43
Mayo’s understanding of this experience was deepened when, in 1919,
his attention was drawn away from the political problems of Australia’s
postwar reconstruction, to the psychological problems of soldiers who suf­
fered from war neurosis.
100 Elton Mayo

Notes

1. Curtis to Shepardson, 25 December 1948, in J. J. Conway, “The Round Table: A

Study o f Liberal Imperialism,” Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1951.
2. Mayo to Keppel, 25 August 1941, MM 1.052.
3. Queensland University Magazine, August 1915, pp. 45-46.
4. Mayo papers, SAA.
5. U niversity War C om m ittee, The U niversity War C om m ittee (Brisbane:
McGregor, 1915), p. 1. Mayo papers, SAA.
6. University War Committee, Industrial Organization and the Cost o f War (Bris­
bane: McGregor, 1915), p. 2.
7. Elton to Dorothea, 18 November 1918.
8. N otes for a letter, Mayo to Professor Berry, n.d., probably 1916. Mayo’s N ote­
books, No. 7, GA 54.5, BLA.
9. Anna F. Booth and G. Elton Mayo, Ring Down the Curtain, in Lady Galway
Belgium Book, comp. Marie C. Galway (Adelaide: Hussey & Gillingham, 1916).
10. Booth to Mayo, 23 July 1946, MM 1.022.
11. Elton Mayo, “Socialism and the War,” MM 2.055.
12. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 24 March 1916.
13. Elton to Dorothea, 24 March 1916.
1 4 .1. Young, Theodore, H is Life and Times (Sydney: Alfa, 1971).
15. Elton to Dorothea, 1 April 1916.
16. Elton Mayo, The Political Problem o f Industrial Civilization (Boston: Harvard
University, Graduate School o f Business Administration, Graduate School of
Business, 1947).
17. Elton to Dorothea, 30 March, 2 April 1916.
18. Elton to Dorothea, 3 April 1916.
19. The letter is undated; probably October 1916. Mayo papers, SAA.
20. Sydney Morning Herald, 1 March 1918, p. 1; ibid., 8 March 1918, p. 8; Subcom­
mittee on Rehabilitation o f the Committee on Work and Industry, Rehabilita­
tion: M an and the Job, Reprint and Circular Series, 121 (Washington, D.C.:
National Research Council, March 1945).
21. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 15 June 1917.
22. Brisbane Courier, 29 September 1917, p. 7; ibid., 6 October 1917, p. 4; Elton to
Dorothea, 15 March 1918.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 14 March 1918.
24. Elton to Dorothea, 8, 11 March 1918.
25. Elton Mayo, “The Australian Political Consciousness,” in Australia, Economic
and Political Studies, ed. Meredith Atkinson (Melbourne, 1920), pp. 127-44.
26. Elton to Dorothea, 17 March 1918.
27. Elton to Dorothea, 3 March 1918.
28. Elton to Dorothea, 5 March 1918.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 17. March 1918.
30. Elton Mayo, Democracy and Freedom: An Essay in Social Logic (Melbourne:
Macmillan, 1919).
31. Herald (Melbourne), 6 February 1919, MM. 1.060.
32. Herbert Heaton to Mayo, 14 February 1919, MM. 1.060.
33. Elton to Dorothea, 21 March 1919.
34. Daily M ail (Brisbane), 15 February 1919, MM. 1.060.
35. Daily Standard (Brisbane), 27 February 1919, MM. 1.060.
36. Elton to Dorothea, 23 March 1919.
37. Advertiser (Adelaide), 18 February 1919.
 War, Politics, and the New Psychology 101

38. Australian Christian Commonwealth (Adelaide), 6 June 1919, M. 1.060.

39. Sydney M orning Herald, 8 March 1919.
40. Argus (Melbourne), 9 May 1919, M. 1.060.
41. Elton Mayo, “Industrial Autonomy,” Queensland University M agazine 6, no. 8
(1919):5.
42. Mayo, Political Problem o f Industrial Civilization.
43. Ibid.
 7
Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer,
1919-1921

After the Great War Mayo’s reputation grew as a successful academic,

clinical psychologist, and public speaker. When the university was re­
organized he was promoted to professor, and his psychology lectures at­
tracted a young doctor who needed help with neurotic patients, especially
shell-shocked soldiers. As he saw them Mayo developed the unique clinical
skills that enabled him to treat cases that had baffled other clinicians, and
to help his wife’s three sisters with their emotional problems. Mayo applied
his clinical experience and the new psychology he was reading (Janet,
Freud, Adler, Jung) to problems in religion, politics, education, industrial
relations, and child development, and he gave many public lectures on
these topics.

Early in March 1919 Mayo left Dorothea with Patty and Ursula at
Bowral, an inland holiday resort in New South Wales, and traveled home to
Brisbane for the beginning of the academic year. On the way he stopped in
Sydney to lunch and dine with academic colleagues, and, at the Australia
Club, took the opportunity to discuss his ideas on social reform and the
new psychology with the aging Sir Edmund Barton, Australia’s first prime
minister. Later Mayo packed his luggage carefully for a week’s detention at
Wallangara Camp, a quarantine station on Queensland’s border for all
northbound travelers who had been exposed to the frightening influenza
epidemic in Australia’s southern states.
At Wallangara Camp the showers and lavatories were so primitive and
the camp grounds so dirty that he advised Dorothea to bring Patty home by
ship or through a camp on Queensland’s coast. What irritated him more
was that his carefully packed luggage had been misplaced so he was without
clean linen or adequate changes of clothing. But Mayo enjoyed the oppor­
tunity to talk seriously with working men on current issues in economics,
sociology, religion, and psychology, and he was particularly pleased to dis­
cuss “French investigations of the superior and inferior psyche” with the
camp doctor. The doctor called Mayo “Sir,” and in doing so “amused [his]
unconscious considerably.”1 But the most memorable day came when he
received a telegram congratulating him on being promoted to the chair of

103
104 Elton Mayo

philosophy at the University of Queensland. Mayo had hoped for changes

in the organization of the university and had expected promotion for him­
self, but he was surprised by the swiftness and courage of the Senate’s
decisions.2
For two weeks after the telegram arrived Mayo’s thoughts were occupied
with real and imagined consequences of his promotion. Never far from
them was the comforting image of Dorothea. On first hearing the news he
wrote to congratulate her on becoming “Madame la Professeur,” indicated
what the salary would be, but asked her to mention the news only to friends
and relatives, and especially not to tell certain medical specialists whom
she was consulting on Patty’s behalf because they might raise their fees
when they learned of his new financial status. At the same time Mayo did
not feel absolutely sure the telegram was true. Word spread through the
camp and Mayo was pleased to accept congratulations, until one of his
university colleagues, suffering from an acute attack of envy, insulted Mayo
and roundly condemned the Queensland government for wasting its
money by adding to the university’s professorial staff.
When he returned to the university Mayo was gratified to learn of his
new salary—£550 annually rising by £50 per annum to £800—and felt the
initial change in status odd and uncomfortable, a feeling that was exacer­
bated by the irritating sycophants who insisted on “Professor Mayoing”
him at every turn. But mild flattery from his assistant Percy Seymour, who
was delighting in his own promotion to lecturer and that of philosophy to
membership on the new Professorial Board at the expense of other depart­
ments, and increased deference from people outside university made Mayo
pleased with himself. Then quickly he denied himself this pleasure, and
countered the feeling of increased self-worth with an imagined “return
along the road, eight years, to the solitary devil, an acknowledged failure,
travelling, gloomily enough northwards to Queensland,” and with the
memory of an excellent mother and father who had been disappointed by
their son’s desultory achievements as a student, laborer, journalist, and
printer. Yet he knew that he was a success, and reminded himself that as the
university’s first professor of philosophy he had the intellect and talent to
match his peers on the Professorial Board. He resolved the conflict between
expanding self-esteem and the anguish of old failures by sharing the feeling
of achievement with Dorothea—“the prettiest woman in Queensland”—
and by turning to his new work in medical psychology.3
Mayo found in his evening class for psychology students a Dr. Thomas
R.H. Matthewson, whom he had met at a friend’s home. Matthewson, a
year younger than Mayo, had been born in Queensland, been educated in
Brisbane, and had studied medicine at Edinburgh. He had impressed his
teachers as an intelligent, painstaking, and first-class student. From 1910 to
1912 he had held medical and surgical posts at three hospitals in Edinburgh
and Glasgow and then had returned to practice privately in Brisbane.
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 105

When he first met Mayo he was physician at the Sick Children’s Hospital,
and was specializing in functional and nervous diseases. In 1917 he re­
ported on an epidemic of polio encephalitis in Brisbane and later published
papers on the treatment of gastroenteritis among children and on a case of
Hodgkin’s disease. He had joined Mayo’s class to learn more of the new
psychology and of psychic factors in disease. When classes finished Mat­
thewson would drive Mayo home to Montpelier and discuss cases he had
seen. Mayo sent Matthewson a patient, and it was not long before they
began clinical work together.4
Their first patient was a thirty-five-year-old man who, since the age of
seventeen, had suffered from sexual anxieties, insomnia, and irrational fear
of crowds. In an effort to treat himself he had read Freud, Brill, and Jung,
understood them a little, and subsequently sought psychoanalytic treat­
ment. To activate memories of early emotional life, Mayo talked with the
man about his childhood activities, feelings, and ideas associated with
them. Hoping that “my ancestors’ flair for diagnosis has descended on me,”
Mayo began the analysis on the assumption that, first, the neuroses had
started well before the age of seventeen, and, second, that the patient’s
assertions were the result of gradual mental development rather than a
recent event or experience. Mayo administered Jung’s association test, and
noted that the word that occasioned the shortest reaction time was incon­
sistent with the patient’s belief that the neurotic symptoms had first ap­
peared at seventeen. After the test Mayo explained “free associations” and
encouraged the patient to express his ideas freely by saying whatever came
to mind. Then, as a stimulus to free associations, Mayo shot in the incon­
sistent word; immediately the patient related a long coherent story of
events during his eighth year. “Matthewson was thunderstruck,” and so
was Mayo at the success of their first session. From what the patient had
said, it seemed to Mayo that he and Matthewson were the first in Australia
to use psychoanalysis as a therapeutic.5
Their second patient was a twenty-four-year-old, good-looking man
from a decent family. His sister, who brought him to see Matthewson, said
the family was distressed by the effect of the war on him. He was tense and
nervous, suffered from headaches, blinked constantly as he looked at peo­
ple, and started violently at the slightest sound. The patient told Mayo that
at nineteen he had gone to war. While a sergeant major in the Medical
Corps at Gallipoli, he was wounded and endured shell-shock. He was
treated in Egypt and discharged as cured, but, because he was repulsed by
the sight of blood and battlefield injuries, he was transferred to the Artillery
and sent to France. Ten months later he was again wounded. The ship on
which he was being sent to England was torpedoed and sank, but he was
rescued. Subsequently he was put into the Flying Corps, but crashed on his
first flight. While recovering he enrolled in Officers’ School, and as a lieu­
tenant returned to France, where he was soon promoted to captain. In
106 Elton Mayo

battle outside Amiens, he saw four fellow officers and eight soldiers die and
all his artillery destroyed. He struggled back to camp only to be sent back
with more men and equipment. Within five minutes German airplanes
dropped one hundred bombs on them and all his men were killed. He was
brought in unconscious; when he came to he was unable to hear, speak, or
see.
The man’s symptoms formed a classic case of war neurosis and his
experience with medical treatment had left him “sick of doctors,” so Mat­
thewson concluded there was little he himself could do. He called urgently
for Mayo, who believed that the man would not be amenable to any treat­
ment until he had developed some confidence in his doctor. Mayo admin­
istered Jung’s association test, followed it with free associations, and
discovered that the patient had been engaged to marry for almost three
years before he had gone to war and that while he was away his fiancee had
thrown him over for another man. To be told this fact meant to Mayo that
he had taken an important step in winning the man’s confidence. When he
said he wanted to return for another session, Mayo believed successful
treatment could begin.6
This patient was important because he gave Mayo another illustration
for his university lectures and strengthened his belief that ideas in the
classroom could be used successfully outside it. Also, the second case en­
hanced Matthewson’s growing esteem for Mayo.
Mayo’s third patient was more difficult to treat but led him to a dazzling
analysis. No amount of questioning by Matthewson could uncover the
cause of an eighteen-year-old girl’s emotional distress. He asked for Mayo’s
help. The association test yielded nothing, so Mayo asked for a dream; she
could recall only one and it was six months old. “At the time of the Armi­
stice I dreamed that the Kaiser was walking about on the verandah talking
to someone about poison pins. He came close to me, I screamed and woke
up.” . .
Because Mayo could get the girl to give no associations to “Kaiser” he
tried “poison pins.” She remembered a book about German spies who used
poison pins, but recalled nothing more, so Mayo tried “pins” alone. “Dress­
makers use them instead of tacking,” she said, and remembered a story
about a jealous dressmaker who threatened to stick pins into a certain
customer who had shown an interest in the dressmaker’s husband. Mayo
asked the young patient for more. “Last year,” she said, “my sister pricked
her finger with a pin and poisoned it.” Mayo wanted her to continue.
“When my sister tries on dresses she sticks pins into me.” Mayo asked,
“What is your sister?” The girl replied, “A dressmaker.” Mayo asked, “Is she
jealous of you?” The girl answered, “Yes,” and then the full account of the
jealous spiteful sister was poured out.
Mayo was not satisfied that the dream itself had been fully analyzed
because nothing of sexual significance had been revealed to the girl. Proba­
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 107

bly association to “Kaiser” would have eventually produced repressed sex­

ual material, but as Mayo wrote to his wife, “I tried to get at it—but what
can one do with a girl of eighteen—anyway we had found the neurosis.”7
To have another case of his own to cite in lectures was valuable in itself,
but it was particularly gratifying to Mayo to see his friend, the dour classi­
cist John Michie, intrigued by the story.
The fourth case illustrates a new development in Mayo’s clinical tech­
nique. Matthewson put the patient, a chauffeur stricken with anxiety neu­
rosis, into a private hospital. The man could not sleep, and often when
angered he would faint. He was too tense to respond to psychoanalysis, or
complete an association test, so Mayo suggested that Matthewson try hyp­
nosis. Matthewson was not confident enough to use hypnosis, so Mayo
decided that he would try. First he explained “anxiety neurosis” to the
chauffeur—when a slight emotion appears in the front of the mind the
mental hinterland falls into a furious mental turmoil—and said that psy­
chological analysis can show that mental turmoil is a response to an earlier
shocking experience. Mayo had the patient sit comfortably, watch the sky­
light, and count “all the sheep in Australia.” He said: “Your eyes will feel
heavy and close, and you will sleep.” The man’s eyes closed, his breathing
deepened, and he went to sleep. “Lift your right hand.” He obeyed. Two
minutes later he woke. Thereafter when the patient’s agitation occurred,
Mayo instructed he was to sleep for one minute and the agitation would
disappear. Mayo rid the patient of a headache, and, through hypnosis,
helped him recall the name of a book, and finally managed to administer
an association test.
The session itself had lasted ninety minutes, but afterward Mayo spent
forty-five minutes in conversation with the man, explaining that if he
composed himself and relaxed properly then he could increase his control
over the turmoil in his mental hinterland. A moment before their meeting
ended Mayo suddenly said, “Sleep.” The patient’s eyes closed, he lay back
quietly, relaxed, then shook himself, smiled, and said, “That was funny,
wasn’t it? I suppose you call that mesmerism.”8
The assumption that proper relaxation engenders control over mental
processes would guide Mayo three years hence in his industrial research on
fatigue, boredom, mental disorder, and political activism in one of Phila­
delphia’s spinning mills.
By 1920 Matthewson’s medical practice had expanded so much that he
turned away patients, especially in psychological work and curbed his early
interest in children’s diseases.9 Much of the change was due to Mayo’s help
and advice. He assisted Matthewson with difficult psychoneurotics, and
arranged for him to be a resident medical officer in New South Wales at
Russell Lea, the Red Cross hospital for shell-shocked veterans.10 For Mat­
thewson’s first psychological paper, “The Psychic Factor in Medical Prac­
tice,” Mayo suggested dropping the question of the sexual etiology of
108 Elton Mayo

psychoneurosis, concentrating on fear as a complication in disease, and

illustrating the thesis with six of their clinical cases. The paper showed
clearly the influence of Mayo’s expressions and ideas, and was received as
an “excellent epitome of modern thought in psycho-analysis.”11
Matthewson’s success was a source of vicarious gratification to Mayo.
Because he was not a medical doctor he could not enjoy the recognition
that he often felt their work in medical psychology deserved. He was
pleased to see Matthewson’s psychological practice grow and was grateful
for such a keen and active associate, but he sometimes envied Matthew­
son’s financial gains.12
The clinical work became too strenuous for Mayo, so in 1921, at Dor­
othea’s suggestion, Matthewson stopped asking Mayo to take on the more
difficult cases.13 Occasionally they would see a patient together, and if
Matthewson was out of town Mayo would care for a distressed individual,
but in the last year of their association, their regular meetings were given
over to discussion of psychic research and religious problems.14
Although the association between Mayo and Matthewson was close and
had effectively changed their respective careers, their individual techniques
of psychotherapy diverged. Matthewson was gentle, sympathetic, often
playful, and largely submissive to the patient’s fantasies; he was not openly
aggressive, and emphasized rest as a central therapeutic. Although Mayo
thought that he, too, was sympathetic with patients, he believed that he
should eradicate irrational fear by dominating them forcefully and direct­
ing them tactfully in how to recover and enjoy mature and responsible
relations with others. The case of Miss G. illustrates how different were the
two techniques.
Matthewson was to be absent from Brisbane for a fortnight, and he
suggested to Miss G. that, if need be, she could consult Mayo. Mayo wrote
to Dorothea:
The need accordingly appeared at once. She was to have seen me on Thurs­
day but on Sunday she became ‘miserable’, poor thing, and rang up, so I
agreed to see her this afternoon. I refused to enter into the game which she
and Matthewson have devised o f ‘letting misery in’, and ‘putting him out’
again. I talked to her for an hour and pointed out the game led nowhere— was
in fact taking her back to her former position (she admitted this). I discussed
the meaning o f repression again, told her how she was refraining from talking
to people or finding an interest in living simply in order to play a childish
game with ‘Misery.’ I asked her if she played cards and she said that her father
(dead 30 years ago) didn’t like to. I rubbed this in— infantile. At the end o f
the interview she said she was miserable, but I didn’t tone down my advice at
all. I urged her to talk to people and listen to them — very unpalatable advice.
I may have to see her— but I am going to make sure that she gets the right
counsel— however miserable it makes her. I am inclined to think sometimes
that Matthewson sometimes gives way too much to his patients’ fantasies.
She was really talking quite intelligently at the end o f the interview— though
miserable . . . she cannot possibly get better while the ‘scuffle’ game with
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 109

‘Misery’ persists— it gets between her and all human relations. (Nine days
later). I had a long interview with Miss G. . . . I grudged the afternoon to the
poor old thing but she was very miserable— and Matthewson returns on
Saturday. She is much more sensible— quite sees that she hasn’t been backing
up as she might and is prepared to try new methods. I finished by getting her
to relax and doze on the front verandah while all the world came in and ou t.15

Although most of Brisbane’s medical establishment was skeptical of

Matthewson’s methods and had little respect for Mayo’s ideas, Matthewson
was sent difficult cases. And though Mayo had decided not to treat any
more patients, he felt obliged for their sakes to offer a second opinion when
asked. Among Mayo’s patients were youngsters, women with inexplicable
pains, insomniacs, melancholics, and people with hysterical fits and tics;
among his methods were muscular relaxation, mental distraction, hypno­
sis, and, as the case of Miss G, shows, persuasion.16
In an amusing way his work attracted the attention of visiting house
guests at Montpelier. One such guest was the wife of the leading player in a
touring Gilbert and Sullivan company. After dinner one evening she sug­
gested Mayo show his skill, asking him in the lounge room to give her an
association test for all the guests to see. He obliged and, to her surprise,
found two complexes at once!17
Mayo’s psychological studies were enriched by a sad and frightening
illness that Patty had contracted in 1918, when she was about two and a
half. She began vomiting and became feverish, the surface of her left thigh
reddened and became tender, and muscular spasms gave her acute pain.
Medical specialists diagnosed osteomyelitis, an infection carried by the
blood from one part of the body to the shafts of the bone where the blood
supply is poor. Many children had died from the disease as it spread
through their bodies. Patty grew weak and the pain increased. She was put
to bed, her leg was immobilized in a splint, and she was to keep as still as
she could. For eighteen months she was under these restrictions, until early
in 1920 when the infection was contained, her temperature returned to
normal, and she could run without pain.18Mayo was distressed by the need
to restrain Patty so severely; during her slow convalescence he carried her
gently on his shoulders, and helped her to restore the wasted leg muscles
with regular swimming.
Patty’s response to being kept in bed showed Mayo that a child’s mental
life was like that of a neurotic adult or a savage insofar as all three often fail
to distinguish real from imagined events. Patty had no regular compan­
ions, so, as her nurse suggested, she invented two brothers, Ernest and
Fred. During the endless loneliness they were her playmates, and helped
her personality to grow by expressing her wishes and fears, sharing her
difficulties, and personifying her interests and desires. She was frightened
of wars and violence, so the brothers made excellent soldiers; because she
could not move, they were endowed with great agility and enduring
110 Elton Mayo

strength; and to fulfill her frustrated wishes to destroy the bonds upon her
and at the same time be obedient, she made Ernest all evil and Fred all
good. Mayo noted: “It is the infant’s method of self-analysis and self­
exploitation.”19
Absence of companionship had played a part in the lives of Mayo’s
siblings and in his own adolescence and young adulthood; now he saw its
impact on his own child. The experience contributed to his explanation of
the personality disorders among compulsive neurotics that he gave in a
public lecture, “Psychology and Religion,” in September 1921:

The child, like the adult, requires two spheres o f social interest— the home
and the wider social group outside the home. When either o f these interests is
lacking, the result is certain to be harmful. The identity in respect o f the
personal history o f compulsion neurotics is often surprising— no school life
before the age o f twelve, solitary childhood, much association with ad u lts.. . .
The child who, during infancy has not associated with other children beyond
the four walls o f the home, and learned to hold his own with them, is unequal
to the task o f associating with them on terms o f equality in adolescence and
maturity. . . .20

In examination of psychoneurotics Mayo was often concerned with the

role that religion had played in their lives. One case was the son of a
prominent businessman who was deeply religious, highly agitated, and
unable to manage his anxiety. Mayo had Matthewson put the man in
Brisbane’s Pyremont Hospital to rest and to read quietly. The treatment
had some beneficial but insufficient results, for the young man found lying
still to be difficult. Mayo explained that to lie still would be hard at first,
and that it was his job as a patient to concentrate on this task, await simple
rises in his emotions, and then “to sit on them.” The patient had problems
recognizing the kinds of emotions he was supposed to inhibit, and in his
unsuccessful efforts to cooperate, began to play off Matthewson against
Mayo. He acknowledged Matthewson’s sympathy and decency but said he
preferred Mayo’s therapy because it directed him exactly what to do. Mayo
thought this an ungrateful act and sought to reestablish both himself and
Matthewson in the treatment. In light of the patient’s religious convictions,
Mayo invited him to discuss what was meant by the everlasting mercy of
God. In time the patient understood that God’s mercy was, in reality, an
attribute of the individual’s experience, i. e., his serenity of mind. He
became much quieter, was very grateful for the help of both men, and in
less than a month was much improved.21
In his patients Mayo found that the punitive features of religious dogma
and practice gave rise to irrational fears, which he referred to as “convic­
tion of sin,”22 following Starbuck’s idea. Three important patients whose
lives had been shaped by this conviction were his sisters-in-law, Katherine,
Ursula, and Barbara.
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 111

Katherine, at thirty-four, was still living with Mrs. McConnel, and in

Mayo’s view was doing nothing but expending mental energy and emotion.
She was neurasthenic, and overtired, and had difficulty sleeping. She ap­
proached Mayo about her insomnia, attributing it to blood poisoning,
which she suspected had been caused by a cut on her finger. Mayo exam­
ined the small clean cut, explained why there was no blood poisoning, and
suggested she see Matthewson. Matthewson gave her an association test
and coached her in how to rest. He regarded her condition as serious, and
believed its origin lay somewhere in her infancy or youth but was uncertain
as to the appropriate treatment. Mayo, who was familiar with the results of
Mrs. McConnel’s strict child-rearing practices, suggested to Katherine that
she ask Matthewson if she could be admitted to Pyremont Hospital for two
weeks under the Weir-Mitchell regimen. Matthewson agreed and, although
Katherine went willingly, she felt ashamed of herself for letting down the
family by being unable to manage her own life. Mayo helped her by cutting
off all contact with her family, and asking Mrs. McConnel to suppress all
letters to her. He stopped Katherine from reading, writing, and sewing, and
persuaded Matthewson to keep her in a torpid state, free of visitors. She
began to sleep well, dream, and otherwise yield up her troubles one by one.
The aim of the treatment was to induce a humble and quiescent state into
which distressing emotions could enter and then be consciously sup­
pressed. Afterward Katherine’s life became a little easier to bear, but she
and her sisters remained under the mother’s influence, and were a group of
aloof, unenterprising women who waited for but rarely initiated social
contact. Thus they perpetrated conditions that helped convince them of
their own unworthiness and enjoyed few opportunities to enhance their
self-esteem through easy association with others. To help Katherine escape
from the family Mayo tried to get her some charity work with the church;
meanwhile, she kept seeing Matthewson.23
Ursula, at thirty-two, was in Melbourne, where she had recently de­
clined an offer to become a housemistress at a girls college. Shortly after
her decision she complained of “flaming nerves.” Mayo thought her symp­
toms were serious, and suggested to Dorothea, who was in Melbourne for
the summer, that she ask Ursula if upon her return to Brisbane she would
like to help him teach psychology. He thought she could administer Jung’s
association test to thirty or forty students, and follow this with Freud’s free
association test. She could also help demonstrate psychological cases and
phenomena after Mayo’s public lectures. Results of her work might even be
prepared for publication in some American journals. After a year she could
return to Melbourne equipped with considerable knowledge and some
valuable skills, and continue her studies. Although Mayo wanted to help
her, he did not want to take on her psychological problems. “If she gets
nerves, I’ll bully her into Pyremont.” He preferred to see her in a job
without pay rather than go under the Weir-Mitchell regimen.24
112 Elton Mayo

Within a week Ursula arrived at Montpelier and agreed to be Mayo’s

unpaid research assistant and psychological demonstrator. He gave her
Jung’s association test, and found a few easily recognizable and managea­
ble complexes. She was keen to work with Mayo because he gave her a sense
of purpose, and she promised that she would curb her readiness to suppose
everyone who spoke to her was insulting her.
With Ursula he began a practice that would later become an essential
part of his work with students. He took her to Pyremont Hospital to see a
woman who was having fits. While he tried to persuade the patient that her
fits were unnecessary, Ursula sat still and watched silently. “I am teaching
her to suppress all her ideas and to observe the patient only,” Mayo wrote to
Dorothea.
Two days later he was discussing plans for his psychology class when
conversation turned to an analysis of Ursula. She was amenable to the
process, open-minded, and, Mayo thought, courageous. He saw that when
the lacunae in her knowledge were filled, she would overcome her neurotic
behavior, and easily develop a normal attitude to other people. From her
point of view the work with him, his lectures, and the psychoanalysis
combined to keep her out of an asylum for the insane.25
Barbara, the eldest of his three unmarried sisters-in-law, was Mayo’s
most difficult patient.26 Early in 1921 she suffered a nervous breakdown,
felt a loss of control over herself and her destiny, and could not sleep
because her chest muscles and throat convulsed with a spasmodic tic. She
had more social poise than the other two sisters. She had traveled through
Europe, Russia, and the United States, and enjoyed a reputation as an
opera singer, but her emotional life was little more than a string of tragic
love affairs. In consequence she believed wrongly that she was immensely
egotistical, and had developed the habit of becoming rattled, i.e., psych-
asthenically confused, whenever two or more people spoke to her.
Mayo talked with Barbara for two days. His first task was to master an
emotional problem aroused by the remarkable likeness between Barbara
and Dorothea, and his longing for Dorothea, who was in Sydney with their
newborn daughter Ruth. He had seen Dorothea beset by irrational fears,
and he had been able to help her overcome them. Now he saw the same
fears in Barbara, and his heart ached for the presence of Dorothea to help
him separate his erotic interest in Barbara from the equally powerful need
to be a detached and expert clinician.
Mayo attributed Barbara’s anxiety primarily to Mrs. McConnel’s strong
distaste for and strong attraction toward sex. Barbara firmly resisted any
suggestion that she should seek psychological help, had no intention of
being hospitalized and preferred to manage her difficulties herself with,
perhaps, a little help from Mayo. She said this in the lounge at Montpelier,
and the opportunity arose to bring Matthewson into the conversation;
Mayo and Matthewson talked freely of their cases, how well they were
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 113

going, and this had its effect on the resistant Barbara. Later Mayo explained
the meaning of “nervous break-down” and told her about the content of
his lectures, and she accepted from him one of Herbart’s books. She began
to talk about herself, her fear of the future, and the horrifying idea that
never again would she be able to control her voice because of the involun­
tary contractions of the throat and chest muscles. Mayo learned that at the
age of three years her hands had been tied to the sides of her cot to stop her
from tearing off her nightclothes in the hot weather, and at the same time
she had been severely punished for not going to sleep. This was one origin
of the neurotic muscular contractions and insomnia, but Mayo believed
that her fear of never again being able to sing brought on the contractions,
was related to her unhappy love affairs, and could be attributed primarily
to Mrs. McConnel’s attitudes toward sex. But how? It seemed that her
symptoms constituted an ingenious rationalization to keep her from the
emotional distress that had emerged from her wish to be a singer and also
to enjoy gratifying sexual experiences.
Elton promised Dorothea that he would treat Barbara, and pledged to
himself that she would be his last case. She agreed to cooperate. After the
two days of talking and analysis Elton administered an association test; he
diagnosed a compulsion neurosis with a strongly repressed conviction of
sin. She found religion horrible, especially as it was practiced on Sundays at
Cressbrook, imagined God was an avenger, felt ambivalent toward her
family, harbored sadistic impulses and was driven by a strong sexual curi­
osity. As well as infantile traumas, she recalled another vision or dream she
had had while under an anesthetic at nineteen: a taunting devil, a vicious
God, and Ursula weeping tears of blood over Barbara’s wickedness. She
also recalled a love affair in London that had been spoiled by a sudden
conviction that she was being sinful. Such thoughts as these brought on the
tic of which Mayo would manage to rid her.
Barbara was deeply shaken, and understood that satisfactory treatment
could be done only if she were in hospital. Pleased that he had overcome
her resistance to treatment, Mayo with Matthewson’s help arranged for
Barbara to have a quiet room in a new hospital. Mayo believed he had not
been given sufficient respect by the nursing staff at Pyremont Hospital, so
at the new hospital the staff were instructed by Matthewson that Mayo was
not to be disturbed. Barbara saw Mayo twice a day. When he was absent she
concentrated on her feelings about the conviction of sin, and many bitter
experiences came back to her. Fears of incest appeared in her dreams about
life in England, which Mayo attributed to Mrs. McConnel and her banning
of sex from the girl’s youth. Barbara was staggered by this revelation. As
more unhappy material emerged her misery deepened, and she saw that
she must stay longer in hospital to work on the problems when Mayo was
not with her. In time she could so control her approach to the therapy that
she began to see, for example, that her broadmindedness on sexual matters
114 Elton Mayo

concealed ignorance and confusion rather than displayed sophisticated

understanding, and that a complete reconstruction of her emotional life
was needed if she were to master fully her insomnia and spasmodic con­
vulsions.
Mayo was determined to treat her successfully. Although he knew that
other therapists would not follow him, he was convinced that his “down
with all the barriers method” was appropriate. She was his most important
patient because she had enough confidence to weather the therapeutic
storm he initiated, the intelligence to reflect sensibly on what of herself was
being revealed, the willingness to accept his directions, and the good sense
to see how firmly he believed in her capacity for self-analysis. And because
she shared these attributes with Dorothea, Mayo found Barbara’s case one
of the most difficult to treat.27
In September 1921 Barbara was so much better that Mrs. McConnel
noted the change as “extraordinary.” Later that year Barbara decided to
undergo an operation from which she knew she would probably not re­
cover. She asked Mayo to await a communication from her after death. He
agreed, and waited in vain; but then he did not really imagine that contact
with the after life was as easy as Barbara had expected.28
At the time Mayo was developing his skill and practical understanding
of clinical psychology his attention was arrested by the general and growing
disposition in the community to attack the university. The attack was
joined by utilitarians who wanted to use the university for training profes­
sionals, and labor supporters who thought the university should educate
more of the underprivileged citizens. On another front a sharp battle de­
veloped between the university and extremists in the Workers’ Educational
Association over control of workers’ education. The latter conflict drew
Meredith Atkinson from Melbourne to conciliate. Mayo was involved in
the solutions to both problems.29
To resolve the problem of general attacks on the university and its
relation to the community, the Public Lecture Committee was established
in April 1919, and Mayo offered the services of his department to give
“extension lectures designed primarily to arrest the attention of the general
public.”30 The second problem required a clear, full statement of the rela­
tion between the WEA and the university. The Senate announced that in
Queensland the WEA was a self-governing body and independent of the
university. Its aim was to federate working-class organizations and to edu­
cate men and women through public lectures and tutorial classes. In this
latter aim the WEA and the university were to be associated, neither having
a say in the other’s affairs. The tutorial classes were to be limited to thirty
members, whose task was to undertake three years intensive study in his­
tory, economics, biology, literature, and other disciplines. The Joint Com­
mittee for Tutorial Classes was established and guidelines for it were laid
down by the University Senate and the WEA. Mayo volunteered to take a
class in psychology and offered ten lectures without fee.31
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 115

When he began teaching in 1919 Mayo had been impressed by a political

skirmish among returned soldiers. On March 24 The Daily Standard, a
labor newspaper with the largest circulation in Brisbane, published an
editorial recommending that the ban on flying the red Russian flag be
abolished. That evening a crowd of former soldiers rioted in protest against
the Russian Association in South Brisbane. Next day The Daily Standard
condemned the riot, and that evening the offices of the newspaper were
stoned by another crowd of former soldiers who howled, cheered, and, after
listening to patriotic speechmakers, burst into “God Save the King.” De­
mocracy and Freedom had pointed up the psychological origins and dan­
gers of mob action, and now Mayo noted that “it is extraordinary how
much soldier fury that straggling Russian red flag procession has
aroused.”32 The person allegedly responsible for rousing political turmoil
by raising a red flag was charged, and his case had been well publicized
when Mayo gave two lectures for the Public Lecture Committee.
The lectures were given in Brisbane’s Albert Hall. At the first the chair­
man was Minister for Public Instruction John Huxham; at the second,
Archbishop Donaldson.33 The lectures were Mayo’s first public lectures on
psychopathological aspects of personality and social processes.
The first lecture, “The Emotional Factor in Society,” asserts that all
forces leading to either civilized or anarchical activity originate in the
human mind. The conscious part of the mind helps individuals alone and
in groups to adapt natural instincts to environmental demands and so
meet their needs. Civilization is the product of this adaptive action. Chil­
dren enter the world with instinctive desires and capacities for survival. To
survive and gratify the desires they must learn to understand their chaotic
instincts and the pressures of the environment, and, with intelligence,
blend the two into a purposive organic whole. But understanding oneself is
difficult because at the back of one’s mind is the race consciousness that
criticizes and intervenes in one’s personal growth toward organic unity. The
race consciousness does not insist upon only instinctive gratifications; it
demands personal growth and the achievement of individuality. Men are
society’s civilizing agents, not only from choice but also from nature, and
men’s lives are emotional struggles to achieve individuality through the
integration of inherited or racial attributes with demands of the physical
and social environment. Emotions indicate the adequacy of the relation
among the three elements: race consciousness, developing self, and en­
vironment. A neurasthenic person—eccentric, self-centered, and unrea­
sonable—suffers emotionally from an inadequate relation among the three
elements, and in an extreme situation race consciousness may rise, smash
the developing individuality, and cause its disintegration into uncoordi­
nated primary impulses.
Because current theories of human nature ignore the person’s natural
urge to be an individual and ignore the impact of race consciousness, the
present social system does not meet today’s demands. For example, the
116 Elton Mayo

leaders of the industrial system ignore the human elements in work, use
outdated abstractions, and impose work systems that upset the adequate
relation between the working individual and race consciousness, and con­
sequently provoke destructive impulses. Also, the utilitarians who domi­
nate the education system impose too many unnecessary examinations,
which requires that school be like a prison and that the student’s broad
outlook be narrowed to a prelude to merely professional interests. Current
educational practice excludes learning about human nature, whereas it
should make education a prelude to adventure, allowing persons to think
for themselves and pursue interests free of custom and convention.34
The second lecture, “At the Back of the White Man’s Mind,” includes
ideas that Mayo would use often in later years. The title reveals two ideas
that he frequently used in discussions with students, i. e., the false dichot­
omy and the “twisteroo,” as his student Fritz Roethlisberger would call it.35
The title is taken from Donald Crawford’s Thinking Black, an account of a
missionary’s life in Central Africa between 1890 and 1912; Mayo’s approach
to the mind and Crawford’s lifelong observations show a remarkable
parallel.36
Conventional opinion held that the mind of a White was different in
kind from that of a Black, that logical syllogisms and foresight were the
unique features of the White’s civilized mind, and that old customs, natural
phenomena, and superstitions dominated “black thinking.” Crawford gives
many examples of customs that govern “black thinking”: Nkole, a custom
whereby a harmless third party is kidnapped and held as surety against a
crime committed by someone unknown in the belief that the unknown
person will someday retaliate by claiming damages for illegal seizure; a
young innocent girl is beaten for a crime committed by her twin sister
because both were born twins, lived as twins, and must therefore suffer as
twins. But when Crawford describes the process of “black thinking,” he
reveals that although the customs that govern it appear uncivilized the
processes themselves are no different from, and sometimes superior to,
“white thinking.” He says the rationalizations in “black thinking” show
neither stupidity nor deficiency of intelligence, and often function at a high
level of abstraction. Furthermore, in the ease of superacute senses, the
Black’s mind is the more sophisticated of the two. Most White’s consider
superacute sense as a sense in addition to the five senses and call it the
“sixth sense.” In “black thinking” the sixth sense is the coalescence of the
five senses into a fresh pattern of thought that incorporates real knowledge.
With evidence of five senses the Black would debate or argue a case syl-
logistically, but with the real knowledge derived from the sixth sense—
wisdom—there is no room for debate or argument because syllogisms do
not apply to deep thought of unconscious origin.37
Mayo argues that processes in the back of the White’s mind, the mental
hinterland, determine conscious thinking and behavior and, consequently,
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 117

conventional opinion promotes a false dichotomy when it holds that the

minds of Blacks and Whites differ in kind. In this way he expands the point
he made in the first lecture: the individual’s race consciousness—the pas­
sive critic of personal development—lies ready in the mental hinterland to
intervene actively when occasion demands.
The lecture assumes, contrary to current texts on psychology, that
thought and consciousness are not equivalent, that the personal self, does
not incorporate the consciousness, and that the self can be analyzed. Many
examples and authorities show thought and consciousness are not the
same, e.g., when we sleep we are conscious of events around us, and we
experience several intermediate stages of consciousness between sleep and
waking (William James, Sigmund Freud, Auguste Forel, Charles Peirce,
Paul Bjerre, Otto Wetterstrand).
That there are different levels of consciousness is the starting point for
Mayo’s theory of the self. The first level of attention or consciousness
includes the personal self of which we are immediately aware, and the idea
that when we think we are thinking about something and can easily name
it. The second level of consciousness comprises our memories of forgotten
events, outlined in Freud’s dream theory, and evident when a feverish
person becomes delirious, or in the works of a poet like Coleridge. To
emphasize the difference between the two levels of the psyche Mayo con­
trasted the early British philosophers of psychology with modern psycho­
logists by saying: “The sensationist psychologists of the nineteenth century
studied memory while the modern psychologist studies forgetting.”
Modern psychologists, Jean-Martin Charcot, Pierre Janet, and Alfred
Binet are concerned with dissociation of the mind or split consciousness.
Janet discovered that apparently anesthetic areas of the body were control­
led by a split-off portion of consciousness, concluded that in the body are
areas of lessened attention, and illustrated the conclusion with a patient
who would not heed shouting but had a secondary self that could hear
whispering. The two dissociated areas are complementary; thus we have
the “dual personality.” This abnormal condition involves a definite loss of
intelligence and mental power. It is like the second level of consciousness in
a normal person because that also involves some monotony and routine
control of automatic actions like habits and forgotten events preserved in
one’s memory. That the distortion between the first and second levels of
consciousness is valid for normal as well as dissociated personalities has
been shown in experiments by Binet and in clinical casework with Janet’s
method of distraction.
The third level of consciousness is illustrated with cases from work by
Richard von Krafft-Ebing, Janet, Binet, Charles Fere, and Joseph Del-
boeuf. The continued control of this level of consciousness is so difficult to
demonstrate that the best illustrations appear in the hypnoid state or when
the primary self is disintegrated. This third level of consciousness is Jung’s
118 Elton Mayo

impersonal consciousness; it comprises the inherited control of instincts

and reflexes and is called by Mayo “race consciousness.”
When the demands made of life by the “race consciousness” are incon­
sistent with the mode of living that a civilized individual has adopted, the
lower two levels of consciousness conflict, and the person may suffer from
nervous disorders. To support the psychological etiology of neuroses, Mayo
cites Freud, Jung, and Alfred Adler, and adds that Arthur F. Hurst, author
of Medical Diseases o f the War (1917), found that in his experience all
neuroses had psychological origins. This indicates that healthy individual
development must be guided by a social purpose that suppresses some
natural capacities of the race consciousness and subliminates others.
Human conflicts are difficult to manage because they begin beneath the
level of personal consciousness. The essential part of curing human con­
flict is through abreactions—release of the emotion along new lines—and
purposive reeducation. Amnesia in wartime and shell shock are good ex­
amples.
Failure to reduce inner conflict and to achieve an integrated personal
self (individuality) causes physical ill health, personal unhappiness, and
social disintegration. So in the struggle and search for individuality the
person must take account equally of inherited factors and difficulties pre­
sented by the environment. He will find himself “out there in the world, in
society, in the universe; [and] the spirit of the universe is in man—if he can
find it.”38
During 1920 Mayo continued using his clinical experience to illustrate
lectures and extend his theory of the mind, and also to get support for his
ideas on education, and how everyday life could be more humane, enjoy­
able, adventurous, and effective if people understood themselves better. To
this end he considered opening his Psychology I lectures to the public, and
offering a series of twelve lectures to people far from Brisbane.39
One such lecture was “Fear,” given first at the inland town of
Toowoomba, where the organizer of the event was so pleased that he began
a movement to establish a course of such lectures for the community.40
Mayo repeated the lecture in Brisbane two months later.41
The lecture distinguishes normal from abnormal development, arguing
that in the normal person the capacities for thought, feeling, emotion, and
action are equally and harmoniously developed. Normality is achieved
when the individual has learned to understand and control both environ­
ment and racial consciousness. “Life is a struggle for individuality and
control—a struggle in which the individual is compelled to take account
equally of forces in the environment and of inherited factors in himself.”
Fear interrupts normal living. Some fears are directly tied to the environ­
ment, e.g., ferocious animals, which we either fight or flee from; other fears
are subjective and persist as uneasy elements in our consciousness. The
latter fears may be attached to illnesses, anger, remorse, or other emotional
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 119

conditions. Association tests can show how common are such fears, and
how they are repressed and kept unconscious in the mental hinterland.
Such deep fears are caused either by the environment, and are transient, or
by mental disintegration of the self. The first type is illustrated by cases of
shell shock or fear of death from influenza; in the second type the fear is a
symptom difficult to remove, e.g., fear of disease due to another person’s
death, melancholia, fear of being subject to authority. Many such fears can
be found in the minds of savages, and are controlled by primitive taboos
that serve to repress their emotional origins. In our civilization educational
practices are like taboos, do the same work as taboos, and consequently do
not help the child to develop. Although our civilization seeks to cast out
fears, it has imported many, e.g., fears of sex, which have lead to sexual
perversions and neuroses; fear of God and the growth of Satanism; fear of
the future and the hatred of the world order. Such fears are often concealed
by social movements that purport to raise the level of civilized life but are
based on fear and hate. Studies in social psychology show that they are
antisocial and detrimental to the normal growth of the individual.
Although Mayo’s public lectures were successful in themselves, their
value was limited because they did not involve systematic study, were
disconnected and infrequent, lacked free discussion and interchange of
ideas, and were delivered mainly in Brisbane, and then only to an audience
of interested intellectuals. The Workers’ Educational Association was situ­
ated so as to counter these drawbacks except that it appealed to only one
section of the community. The university’s Department of Correspondence
Studies distributed lecture notes widely to people seeking professional
qualifications, but the notes were little more than an inferior textbook. So
in July 1920 a proposal was put to the university’s Board of Faculties to
raise the standard of adult education by bringing the university closer to
the people. It recommended that the disconnected extramural activities
should be reorganized with an emphasis on nonprofessional and nonvoca-
tional education. Proof of demand lay in the work of the WEA Workers’
School of Social Science, scientific and literary clubs, and other private and
semiprivate organizations. A committee was proposed of townsfolk in Bris­
bane, Toowoomba, Rockhampton, and Townsville to organize local ac­
tivities. A lecturer would be appointed to each district, and a chief lecturer
would be appointed to coordinate the work throughout Queensland. The
person would have professorial status, be based in Brisbane, would lecture
inside the university and out, tour the countryside, and generally supervise
and direct district activities. The subjects should include history, econom­
ics, literature, philosophy and science. It was hoped that the centers even­
tually would develop with added staff into university colleges where the
first year of a degree could be completed. The proposal was a clear expres­
sion of Mayo’s plan to extend the university’s work.42
During 1921 Mayo gave many lectures outside the university. In March
120 Elton Mayo

he was asked to speak at a luncheon at the Advertising Men’s Institute. He

was writing articles on the psychological causes of industrial unrest for
Ambrose Pratt’s Industrial Australian Mining Standard, and agreed to
deliver a lecture at a conference in Sydney, “The Spirit and the Working of
the Present Economic Order in Australia.” He decided to use the luncheon
talk as a trial run of his Sydney and Melbourne material; he called it
“Industrial Unrest and Psychological Research,” and it served as a plea for
psychological research in industry.43
The talk identifies the presence of industrial unrest and social move­
ments that make for revolution, e.g., Satanism and its vicious hostility
toward the world order, and warns that the problems are like those that
emerged before the Great War. In industry careful attention and effort is
needed to combat the social unrest arising from industrial ills. Arbitration
courts are no longer able to help. Unrest means general dissatisfaction,
suspicion, distrust, strikes, “go slow” practices, sabotage, bitter class divi­
sions. It also means political organizations that exacerbate these ills by
appealing to fear, rage, and hate. The imminence of destruction does not
allow for creative reform of society. The press is mistaken in assuming that
social ills can be resolved by rational discussion because psychological
research has shown the cause of these ills lies not in the rational but the
nonrational part of the mind. Thus it is necessary to study “fantasy com­
pensations” as the cause of the symptoms of social unrest. In the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries theories of mind assumed that people were gov­
erned by the will to work and the will to be free. The latter determined
political institutions, and was extended to industrial organizations. The
former is expressed in the selfishness of the economic motive, demand for
the security of tenure, and a sense of social function. These are important,
but the more fundamental problem is that workers have lost the faculty to
enjoy life because civilization treats them as mere items, and industry
makes it impossible for them to participate in work simply because they
want to. Instead too much emphasis is given to the material aspect of life
and work, and little to intellectual pleasures. So long as civilization blindly
disregards certain mental factors that contribute to the individual’s de­
velopment, society shall have many “lame dogs,” i. e., people who find life
and work dissatisfying, and whose mental disintegration and fear of life
lead to an abandonment of effort and, eventually, nervous breakdown.
Psychological investigation of problems at work is needed to prevent this.
The talk lasted about an hour, and Mayo believed that it had been
received well enough for him to continue the theme at the Sydney con­
ference, where he gave more time to the history of industrialization and its
effect on the social order, and, presented more evidence of the causes of low
morale among workers, and its consequences for human happiness. This
point was drawn from Democracy and Freedom. At the Sydney conference
he also joined the panel discussion “The Supremacy of Christ in All
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 121

Human Relationships.” Here he took the position of a psychologist and set

himself the task of showing how in human nature can be found all that
Christ stood for in human progress. He did this by presenting his theory of
mind, i.e., levels of consciousness, and by contrasting his ideas with those
of the biologist. His message was modified further for a talk, “Deficiencies
of Education,” given under the auspices of the Australian Education Fra­
ternity in Brisbane in July 1921. In it he outlined the psychological con­
sequences of causes of industrial and social unrest, the importance of the
human factor at work, and psychological research into the “mental hinter­
land,” making a strong appeal to augment occupational and technical
education training with education for living. “Commerce was made for
man and not man for commerce” met with a round of applause!44 In
another address, “Influence of Advertising on the Character of Business,”
Mayo made the same basic points, and sought to convince advertising men
that they should take a professional approach to their work and join uni­
versity researchers in modern psychology to learn what mental processes
were involved when people made purchases.45
In the middle of 1921 Mayo gave ten lectures on abnormal psychology as
part of the university’s new policy to take adult education to the outside
community. The first lecture criticizes the sensationists for omitting
human instincts from a theory of mind. By separating traditional academic
psychology from the new medical psychology, Mayo showed that instincts
are fundamental, and the assumption that man thinks only rationally is
clearly false. Medical psychology demonstrates that rational thinking, like
sanity, is achieved through an education that develops rather than sup­
presses inherited mental capacities. So we need to know how complex is the
mind if we are to help ourselves develop to a civilized stage. The second
lecture on the complexity of the mind reviews the work of the early hypno­
tists— Mesmer, Elliotson, Esdaile, and Braid, whose work helps identify
different levels of consciousness. Charcot, Krafft-Ebing, Forel, Delboeuf,
Bernheim, and Wetterstrand had experimented on the complexity of the
mind, and Mayo illustrated the effect of different states of consciousness
with cases of shell-shocked soldiers and by hypnotizing a person from the
audience. The third lecture shows that different levels of consciousness and
varieties of dissociated thought are found not only in the clinic but also in
everyday life. Each person’s “mental hinterland” effects changes in be­
havior, and research illustrations of Charcot and Janet augment accounts
of unusual daily activities of shell-shocked soldiers. In the fourth lecture
appear Janet’s theories of hysteria as a form of retraction of the field of
consciousness and dissociation, and the processes of psychasthenia, e.g.,
doubts, obsessions, agitation, and other forms of fantasy thinking. Illustra­
tions are from cases of disturbed children in families where excessive re­
strictions are placed on impulsive actions. The other five lectures are on
Freud, and discuss the unconscious, sexuality, psychoneurosis, dreams,
122 Elton Mayo

and compulsion neurosis. The final lecture restates the main themes of the
earlier talks on the origins of social unrest and low industrial morale, and
the importance of the individuals’ struggles to understand and control their
environments as well as themselves so that living becomes worthwhile.
Mayo concluded with his frequent observation that modern democracies
are in conflict with the developing will and freedom of humankind.46
Following the last of this series Mayo gave the second Douglas Price
Memorial Lecture, “Psychology and Religion.” Douglas Price (1874-1916)
was born of a Quaker family in Birmingham, England, became deeply
religious when young, but at eighteen rejected the coldness of Quakerism
and was baptized into the Church of England. After completing theological
studies and working for five years as curate of St. Mark’s in Leicester, he
came to Queensland in 1903 to be principal of the Brisbane Theological
College and rector of All Saints Church. Within a few years he became a
mystic, and fearlessly belittled the conventional doctrines of the Trinity, the
Virgin Birth, and the Deity of Jesus, and the concept of atonement. He
resisted subtle pressure to resign but the archbishop of Brisbane concluded
that Price’s sermons held so little positive emphasis on the verities of faith
and had so much to condemn them, that in 1910 he called for Price’s
resignation. The congregation supported Price’s views and asked the arch­
bishop to reconsider. Although he admired Price’s plainness and honesty,
the archbishop refused to alter the decision, and Price left the country. He
returned in 1911, became an active modernist and extolled a new religious
spirit that sought to restate old religious faiths with the truths of science
and criticism. The first Douglas Price Memorial Lecture had been given in
March 1920 by Mayo’s colleague Meredith Atkinson, who followed Price’s
ideas in his presentation, “ The Place of Ethics and Religion in
Education.”47
Mayo’s lecture also followed the general theme of Price’s ideas by adopt­
ing a detached view of religion and religious practices, and referring to
psychological research and anthropological studies to show that in many
cases the adolescent experience of religious conversion involves an over­
whelming conviction of sin, a sense of incompleteness, insecurity, and an
unrealistic view of the social and material world. Brooding depression and
morbid introspection ensue, real interest in the social world is withdrawn,
the individual becomes preoccupied with self and has no concern for oth­
ers. Suddenly interest turns outward; morbid introspection gives over to
happy serenity, the self becomes part of the universe, the adolescent sub­
mits to God, old loves and hatreds are given up, faith enters, the outside
world is received, and new mental currents stream forth. But this is not
always the case. Mayo centered attention on the conviction of sin, its role
in abnormal mental life, especially in compulsion neurosis, and asserted
that if the conviction is accompanied by excessive repression of racial
capacities and restriction of social life, then it may never be adequately
 Professor, Clinician, and Lecturer 123

understood and mastered, and mental ill health is likely to result. If re­
ligion is to contribute to the healthy development of normal adults, then it
must help adolescents with the psychological problems of the conviction of
sin and not exploit them during the process of religious conversion simply
to gain adherents to the church. For this reason church leaders should
study human experience, pursue the religion that gives a sense of unity
with God and the universe, and therewith develop in people the vision to
aspire to knowledge of themselves and to construct a better social order. On
these final points Dorothea had specific ideas that Mayo used to improve
the lecture for publication.48
At the end of 1921 he attended the annual reunion dinner for students
and tutors of the WEA. In proposing the toast he traced the history of the
WEA in England, told how Australian workers had overcome their early
suspicions of the university’s links with the association, and said that much
good work had been achieved.49 A week later he gave his last lecture in
Brisbane at the Trades Hall. He wanted to do well because interstate dele­
gates to the Australian Labour Party conference were to be present. He
decided to make “a sort of summing up” and then restate the necessity for
psychological research for industrial peace. He spoke for just over an hour
and afterwards amused the audience with his replies to three critics. One
tried to ridicule Mayo by saying that he was standing on his head. Mayo
answered whereupon the critic tried to fire a further salvo but became so
confused that Mayo said finally, “Well, sir, I agree with you that one of us is
standing on his head!” The hall rang with laughter. Mayo wrote to Dor­
othea: “I always enjoy the discussion.”50

Notes

1. Elton to Dorothea, 11-17 March 1919.

2. Elton to Dorothea, 15, 16, 19, 21, 23 March 1919.
3. Elton to Dorothea, 26, 29 March 1919.
4. Elton to Dorothea, 29 March 1919; Board o f Faculties, University o f Queens­
land, “Tenth Report” (1921), pp. 62-70.
5. Elton to Dorothea, 6 April 1919. This case is reported, with minor changes, in
Elton Mayo, “Should Marriage Be M onotonous?” H arpers 151 (1925):426.
6. Elton to Dorothea, 20 April 1919. This case is like the soldier in Elton Mayo,
“Civilized U nreason,” H arper’s 148 (1924):530.
7. Elton to Dorothea, 26, 27 April 1919.
8. Elton to Dorothea, 27 April 1919.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 19, 20 March 1920.
10. Elton to Dorothea, 29 February 1920; Board o f Faculties. University o f Queens­
land, “Tenth Report” (1921), p. 67.
11. Elton to Dorothea, 20 March 1920; Thomas H. R. Matthewson, “The Psychic
Factor in Medical Practice,” M edical Journal o f Australia, 24 July 1920, pp.
73-77, 86.
12. Elton to Dorothea, 20 March 1920.
13. Elton to Dorothea, 7 March 1921.
124 Elton Mayo

14. Elton to Dorothea, 13, 14, 20, 23, 27 March, 3, 10, 23 April, 8, 13 May, 29
September, 15 October 1921.
15. Elton to Dorothea, 10, 19 May 1921.
16. Elton to Dorothea, 19 March 1920, 7 April, 6, 8, 9 May, 15 October 1921.
17. Elton to Dorothea, 19 October 1921.
18. Elton to Dorothea, 20 February, 19 March 1920; conversation with Patricia
Elton Mayo, January 1974.
19. Elton Mayo, “The Secret Gardens o f Childhood,” MM 2.056.
20. Elton Mayo, Psychology and Religion: Douglas Price M em orial Lecture, No. 2
(Melbourne: Macmillan, 1922), pp. 24-25.
21. Elton to Dorothea, 4, 23 March 1920.
22. Mayo, Psychology and Religion.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 28, 29 February, 1, 2, 4, 7-10, 12 March 1920, 7, 17 March,
23 April 1921.
24. Elton to Dorothea, 8, 9 March 1920.
25. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 16 April 1920; Elton to Dorothea,
19, 2 1 ,2 3 March 1920.
26. Elton to Dorothea, 3-27 May 1921.
27. Elton to Dorothea, 25 May, 9 November 1921.
28. Patricia Elton Mayo to Trahair, 12 January 1978.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 21, 23, 26 March 1919.
30. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 14 April 1919.
31. Ibid., 16 April, 14 November 1919.
32. Elton to Dorothea, 26 March 1919.
33. Brisbane Courier, 18 September 1919, p. 8; ibid., 2 October 1919, p. 8.
34. MM 2.019.
35. Fritz J. Roethlisberger, Introduction to The Human Problems o f an Industrial
Civilization, by Elton Mayo (New York: Viking, 1960; London: Macmillan,
1933).
36. D. Crawford, Thinking Black: 22 Years without a Break in the Long Grass o f
Central Africa (London: Morgan Scott, 1913); William Kyle’s notes on Elton
Mayo, n.d. (from D. W. M cllwain, University o f Queensland).
37. Crawford, Thinking Black, pp. 9, 72, 388.
38. MM 2.017.
39. University o f Queensland, Calendar, 1922, p. 223; Elton to Dorothea, 1, 19
March 1920.
40. Elton to Dorothea, 28 March 1920.
41. MM 2.021.
42. Minutes, Board o f Faculties, University o f Queensland, 2 July 1920.
43. Elton to Dorothea, 29, 30 March 1921; MM 2.021.
44. Brisbane Courier, 19 July 1921, p. 7.
45. MM 2.021.
46. Brisbane Courier, 1 July 1921, p. 8; 15 July 1921, p. 6; D aily Standard
(Brisbane), 11 July 1921, p. 6; ibid., 26 July 1921, p. 6; ibid., 13 September 1921,
p. 5. The last five lectures were not reported.
47. A. Ralston, “Biographical Sketch” (of Douglas Price), in The Place o f Ethics in
Religion and Education: Douglas Price M em orial Lecture, No. 1, by Meredith
Atkinson. (Brisbane: Cuming, 1920).
48. Brisbane Courier, 22 September 1921, p. 9; Elton to Dorothea, 27 September
1921; Mayo, Psychology and Relgion.
49. Elton to Dorothea, 29 September, 7 October 1921.
50. Elton to Dorothea, 10, 16 October 1921.
 8
Crises and Career, 1919-1921

Although his reputation was growing Mayo was not satisfied with his
career. He wanted to extend scientific research in psychological problems
and find practical solutions to them, but administrative difficulties at the
university commanded his attention. To overcome these as well as teach
and do research meant that he overworked, and his doctor forced him to
curb his activities. The university helped him, but he was nevertheless
dissatisfied with his life in Brisbane because university support was insuffi­
cient and his colleagues were ambivalent toward him and his work. He
tried to quit the university but could find no other job. He took leave to
study and write. Writing was difficult, but eventually he published his ideas
on the psychological origins of industrial conflict. He began planning to
study in Britain in the hope he could work elsewhere and never have to live
again in Queensland.

Between the middle of 1919 and the end of 1921 Mayo worked con­
stantly on the task of establishing conditions for the scientific research into
aspects of the new psychology and for putting that research into use. He
believed psychological research would bring immediate benefits, and
pointed to his own work with Matthewson’s more difficult patients. In May
1919 Mayo drafted a proposal to the Walter and Eliza Hall Trust, an Aus­
tralian foundation that supported academic research into the alleviation of
human suffering, for a fellowship in psychology and psychotherapy to in­
quire into the applications of those disciplines to shell shock and kindred
mental disorders.1 He described how he and Matthewson had applied the
techniques of psychoanalysis, suitably amended by the British neurophysi­
cians, and that in Brisbane the Church of England had been so impressed
with their successes that it had made available to them an outpatient de­
partment in a new hospital. Mayo wanted to do part of the work himself, so
anticipating that he could be freed from teaching duties he requested half a
professorial salary for two years. He closed the proposal with a typically
hostile observation on current medical practice in Brisbane: “At present
the neurasthenic and neurotic are all too often abandoned to the mercies of
the quack and the charlatan.”2 In September the trust announced con­
tinued support for fellowships in engineering, and grants in economics,

125
126 Elton Mayo

biology, and applied chemistry, but nothing was offered for Mayo’s work.3
Nevertheless, he was determined to carry it forward and continued search­
ing for its financial support.
By June 1920 he knew that he had taken on far too much. He was
treating patients, extending his lecture program, administering a growing
department, and planning more research. Also, he had promised to write a
book on his research for Macmillan during his forthcoming sabbatical
leave. In June he asked the university Senate to grant him two weeks away
from work and an assistant to take his ethics and metaphysics lectures for
the remainder of the year. His medical adviser had recently forbidden him
to combine any longer lecturing, publication, research, and administra­
tion. The Senate granted him relief from all lectures except those in psy­
chology, and reduced administrative duties where possible.
But Mayo’s work was held up in the following month by organizational
problems inside his department. Seymour’s work load too had become
heavy; he was teaching first and second year students in logic, theory and
the history of education, and taking tutorials for honors students in phi­
losophy at second- and third-year levels. The breadth of the work was too
great to engage students at anything but a minimum level of interest.
Further, no time was available for research or for developing a real interest
in his own work. Because there was no plan to appoint a lecturer in educa­
tion, his temporary assignment seemed likely to go on another seven years!
It had become impossible for him to lecture effectively in both education
and philosophy, and at the same time, to know something of recent psycho­
logical and educational investigations. Seymour resigned.4
Mayo agreed with much of what Seymour had said. He suggested to the
Board of Faculties that he also should resign and accept a two-year appoint­
ment to a research chair in psychology, with the vacated chair in philoso­
phy going to Seymour. This would mean a sacrifice for Mayo because after
two years he would be without a job, but he was keen to pursue his research
in psychology, and this seemed the best way. After the board was assured
that the suggestion was a true reflection of Mayo’s wishes, it supported the
idea because thereby the university would retain both his and Seymour’s
services, the standard of work in their department would be maintained by
the hiring of a temporary lecturer, research facilities in both psychology
and education would be enhanced, and the Senate would have two years in
which to decide on a new teaching and research policy in psychology,
education, and philosophy. A small salary increment was recommended
for Mayo to offset his impending loss of employment. The Senate did not
accept Mayo’s scheme in its entirety but instead resolved to create a tempo­
rary research professorship in psychology and to advertise his chair in
philosophy; Seymour could apply with others for the opening and be con­
sidered on his merits. The Senate would also advertise to fill the position
from which Seymour had recently resigned. Seymour was asked if he
 Crises and Career 127

wanted his resignation to stand, and Mayo was given a week to reconsider.
Seymour informed the university that during the three months between
lodging his resignation and the Senate’s consideration of it, his situation
had changed, and he was not free to withdraw it. He would return to Jesus
College, Oxford University, to be a fellow and bursar.5
Without Seymour, whom Mayo had grown to regard as tiresome and
bumptious, the Departm ent of Philosophy was ready for complete
reorganization.6 Mayo would remain as its professor and increase its teach­
ing staff by three: one each for psychology and philosophy, logic and ethics,
and education and psychology. Salaries had to be raised. Seymour had been
receiving £430 a year, while comparable positions in Sydney paid
£500-700, and in Britain, £650-900. In Queensland even schoolteachers
received £420. Because the university could not increase lecturer salaries,
Mayo suggested that temporary lectureships be advertised at £300-450 a
year until funds were available to hire full-time appointees. Also he wanted
to introduce a diploma of education, which emphasized practical work,
notably in abnormal psychology with casework and demonstrations, and
training in the use of the Binet-Simon intelligence tests and Jung’s associa­
tion test. Such a course would help educationists manage backward chil­
dren and improve methods of instruction for normal pupils. In all his
psychology courses Mayo planned to augment the lectures with practical
demonstrations, and give students the chance to complete minor research
studies. To philosophy subjects he wanted to add a special course that
would go deeply into the work of one great philosopher; classes would be
open to the public for a fee, and would examine political philosophy,
ethics, and metaphysics.7
Most of Mayo’s requests were granted, and for 1921 he was given two
temporary lecturers. Lewis D. Edwards would teach classes in logic and
philosophy, and was also willing to take classes in psychology. A Melbourne
scholar, Miss Flinn, would lecture in ethics and metaphysics, but shortly
after her appointment, said she thought there were too few lectures given in
the department, disapproved of the subordination of philosophical to psy­
chological studies, was grieved she could not lecture for the whole subject
of ethics, and showed no desire to extend her grasp of psychology. Mayo
attributed her views to a “wounded amour p r o p r e and did his best not to
show how much he disliked her. Although these arrangements added ad­
ministrative duties, Mayo was freed of the heavy teaching that he had had
the year before.8
Now Mayo had time to work toward establishing conditions for scien­
tific research on the application of the new medical psychology. While
helping his sisters-in-law with their emotional problems, lecturing to the
WEA and other outside groups, and counseling Matthewson, he was also
making indirect contributions by writing, supporting the careers of some
people, curbing the activities of others, and, whenever the opportunity
128 Elton Mayo

arose, stressing the value of applying the new psychology to problems in

industry and education.
In August 1920 Mayo had accompanied Matthewson to the Australasian
Medical Congress in Brisbane, and, in the Section on Psychological Medi­
cine, was the only discussant whose remarks were published. He com­
mented on George Rennie’s paper, “Psycho-analysis in the Treatment of
Mental or Moral Deficiency,” which describes the treatment of an adoles­
cent boy who stole money. Rennie, who has been resistant to the idea of a
sexual etiology for psychoneurosis, had changed his mind after examining
the boy and observing the results of a psychoanalyst. Mayo stated that
psychoanalysis must be based on clinical evidence rather than a psycholo­
gist’s beliefs, especially those that assume that neurotic behavior is due
solely to repressed sexual desires. Psychoanalysis was more valuable as a
technique than a theory, and sex should not be introduced into the analysis
until mentioned by the patient himself. Concepts such as “conflict” and
“repression” were important, but they would be superseded as the working
hypotheses of psychoanalytic theory were refined. Finally, Mayo sum­
marized his own theory of personality, emphasizing its differing levels of
consciousness and the prime motive of all individuals to achieve sanity by
relating themselves successfully to their environment.9
Mayo’s insistence that mental life be studied scientifically lay behind his
attempt to curb and redirect activities of Brisbane’s Psychical Research
Society. He took a team of associates, including Matthewson, Ursula Mc­
Connel, and Miss Flinn to a discussion on the formation of psychic re­
search groups. Followers of spiritualism wanted to establish investigations
of psychic phenomena but were adamant that the investigators use no test
that might injure mediums or to which the spirits of the other world might
object. Two such members controlled the meeting with their reminis­
cences, which Mayo observed were based on experiences of twenty-five
years ago. The dreary and unprofitable recollections led him to attack the
two for their tediousness and gullibility. He stated that he would not leave
until the character of the society was completely changed, and immediately
the meeting got out of hand. Mayo challenged the group to consider the
conditions he thought should be placed on the work. Good humored on
the surface but fuming below, he proposed that a special committee be
appointed for each test of a psychic phenomenon; that only one phe­
nomenon be tested at a time; that the conditions for each test be agreed to
at the university and not in the medium’s room; that no test be done unless
the medium agreed to the conditions; and that no vexatious or painful tests
be administered to mediums. After the meeting Mayo and his associates,
who enjoyed his performance as much as he, detached some of the younger
members who had taken up the proposals. But a week later a “trance
address” was canceled because the medium was indisposed. Mayo guessed
that news of his attack at the previous meeting had circulated and the
 Crises and Career 129

medium had lost courage, which served to strengthen his loathing for
individuals whose “stunt” was to give “ ‘sittings’ at a guinea each to
neurotics.”10
In a more positive way Mayo helped establish the research and teaching
of medical psychology in Brisbane through his association with the Red
Cross Society.11 In July 1920 the British Red Cross Society sent £10,000 to
the University Senate for the endowment of a medical research chair that
would promote inquiries into the application of psychology for the allevia­
tion and cure of psychoneurosis, the psychological etiology of psycho­
neurosis, and the bearing of m odern psychological discoveries on
education. The applicants for the chair had to have both psychological and
medical training. Mayo joined a subcommittee to determine and advertise
the conditions of appointment, and he proposed that, contrary to the
conditions that had accompanied the donation, the appointee should be
allowed to practice medicine privately and not be restricted to research.
Research for its own sake was never supported by Mayo.12
The two applicants were J.R Lowson, a British physician, and Matthew­
son. Mayo was Matthewson’s only referee. After extolling his diligence,
competence, and experience in psychotherapy, Mayo wrote that “this Uni­
versity really owes the Research Chair indirectly to Dr. Matthewson. But
for the facilities of research which he originally provided we should not
have been able to advise in the work of the Russell Lea Hospital for Re­
turned Soldiers (Red Cross Society) in New South Wales.” Mayo’s support­
ing letter veils his firm conviction that it was his own work, extended by
Matthewson that had got the Red Cross money for the university.13
Lowson had testimonials from C.S. Myers, director of the Laboratory of
Experimental Psychology, Cambridge University; Dr. E. Faquar Buzzard,
physician to St. Thomas Hospital, London; Dr. Gordon Holmes, promi­
nent wartime consulting neurologist; and Lt.-Col. R.H. Hall, deputy com­
missioner of medical services in the British Ministry of Munitions. Mayo’s
acquaintance, Professor James T. Wilson, formerly of Sydney University,
and now professor of anatomy at Cambridge, interviewed Lowson and
compared him with documents he had on Matthewson. Mayo’s lone rec­
ommendation could not match the powerful support of four British refer­
ees. In December 1921, shortly after Mayo had begun sabbatical leave, the
university announced that Lowson would occupy the new chair.14 Five
years later Matthewson would leave Brisbane for his psychoanalysis in
London and the essential and much envied experience abroad that most
colonials then needed to enter respected positions in their own country.15
Although Mayo knew that he had a “very good and very interesting job”
at the university, he was largely dissatisfied with his work. He was pained by
the wearisome board meetings at which university officials made every
mistake possible, and disappointed by his failure to get support, even from
Michie, to plan and work for higher education standards among Queens­
130 Elton Mayo

land’s high schools. Mayo was distressed by his colleagues’ refusal to bring
new blood into senior academic appointments, and irritated by the am­
bitiousness of local incompetents who thrust themselves forward for pro­
motion. He was appalled at the pettiness of the Senate’s decision to double
salary raises for lecturers but not professors, thus saving the university a
mere seventy-five pounds. He was furious at colleagues who chose to face
students’ demands with aggressive confrontation rather than positive coop­
eration. Mayo had come to the view that the “Queensland Enlightenment”
was led by very small men, and the university’s policies were framed by
“congenital idiots.”16
The future had spread itself without any immediate prospects of relief,
so Mayo planned to quit Brisbane. Meredith Atkinson, who was in Bris­
bane to give the first Douglas Price Memorial Lecture, suggested he apply
for the Challis Professorship of Philosophy at the University of Sydney
when Francis Anderson retired. Mayo believed he was such an obvious
candidate that he would not apply unless someone from Sydney suggested
that he should, so he waited. A year later he had heard no word from
Sydney except that applications were being considered. He thought then of
putting himself forward, but he was dissuaded by the prospect of once
more teaching logic, ethics, and metaphysics when he had firmly resolved
to work on problems of applied psychology.
He was troubled by doubts and hopes, and dominated by a strong need
to escape Queensland. He believed that men at Sydney would have a better
chance of success than he and reasoned that an offer of appointment would
be unlikely because Anderson had always seemed hostile to his work. Syd­
ney would be swayed by no man but Anderson unless a strong campaign
from within the university were to press explicitly for Elton Mayo. Even if
Anderson wanted a psychologist to succeed him, and he had said he did
not, Sydney could always promote the local man, Tasman Lovell. Further­
more, Mayo held that the Faculty of Arts at Sydney comprised mainly
deadheads, a few able men, and no great scholars.17
Nevertheless he hoped that Sydney might call him; if not, then he
thought the pick would be a Scot or an Englishman, or a local candidate
like Bernard Muscio, whose work Mayo regarded as a collection of mere
“paper distinctions.”18
Such thoughts, doubts, and hopes turned to bitter envy in October 1921
when Mayo learned that Muscio would succeed Anderson. “A good job for
an inexperienced man. . .. Anderson said he was opposed to the appoint­
ment of a second psychologist! All Muscio’s special work has been done in
psychology—Good luck to him, anyway—and a deliverance for all of us.”19
Had Mayo applied for the position he would not have won it. Muscio was
six years younger but had far more experience in psychology. He had also
enjoyed the advantage of the much-valued work at Cambridge University,
and unlike Mayo, had concentrated on the psychology of motor and sen­
 Crises and Career 131

sory process rather than the content and levels of human consciousness,
had completed experimental rather than clinical research, and had pub­
lished his research in reputable academic journals and his lectures in two
books.20
While musing over possibilities at Sydney, Mayo had been roused fur­
ther by a newspaper clipping from Dorothea describing the newly created
directorship of the Commonwealth Institute of Science and Industry. With
a colleague, he talked over his intention to apply for the post and the
chances of success. Rumors were spreading that Prime Minister William
Hughes had announced the post without proper or sufficient consultation
with Australia’s universities, and that of the three “certainties” for the job
the first was an egotistical brute, the second was irresponsible, and the third
was well past his best. Also because the newsclipping emphasized that the
incumbant’s duty would be to organize the institute, men in universities
thought that a businessman rather than a scientist would get the job if the
three “certainties” were passed over. For this reason it was unlikely that
Australian academics would apply for the position, so Mayo applied. Be­
cause the federal cabinet ministers delayed their decision, he scoffed that
they probably did not have the moral courage to appoint a psychologist.
Perhaps he was right. Commonwealth Statistician George H. Knibbs, age
sixty-two, was chosen, thus confirming that the job was merely administra­
tive, that new ideas were not wanted, and that Hughes had appointed his
old friend to the position. Mayo wrote bitterly, “Having a friend in court
seems to be as important in a democracy as in a monarchy.”21
The only remaining alternative for Mayo was to request leave of absence
for further study; years before a similar request had been granted to a
biologist in the university. In July 1921 the Senate decided that such leave
was necessary for the ultimate efficiency of the university, and that if taken
by Mayo would help him become conversant with all modern develop­
ments in his subject; however, he must be prepared to pay his own travel
and living expenses, and accept less pay. Mayo agreed, and suggested a
salary of £425 for himself in the plan he submitted for the organization of
his department while he was away.22
Dissatisfaction with university affairs was not the only reason Mayo
wanted to leave Queensland. He was sensitive to the way important people
treated him. Often he was treated well, and he enjoyed the experience.
Through Dorothea’s family he received invitations to Government House,
and because of his psychological work with Matthewson, Mayo had wid­
ened the circle of his and Dorothea’s friends. He had become recognized as
a man of superior talent, and was invited regularly to the monthly meeting
of doctors, professors, clerics and lawyers at Matthewson’s home. Mayo was
a foundation member of the Thirty Club, an informal group of Brisbane’s
intellectuals among whom it was said that he, better than most, could state
both sociological and biological problems. At such gatherings Mayo and
132 Elton Mayo

Dorothea left memorable impressions. He was known for his personal

charm, pleasant voice, wit, and broadmindedness. She, unlike most of the
wives, had the courage to take control of intelligent discussion as well as
show a deep and active interest in her husband’s work. Also she had a
reputation for preferring to talk with men rather than women. Together
they made an unusual pair: each could command a conversation, and if
disagreed with, could state definite opinions loudly, and persist until the
argument was won.23 But in medical circles Mayo was not treated as well,
and felt uncomfortable.
Mayo was becoming recognized for his psychotherapeutic practices, but
because of their medical connection his sense of their recognition was often
overshadowed by memories of his failure at medical school. Consequently
the need for recognition became so distorted that he would overreact
whenever a doctor accepted or rejected his work, or behaved indifferently
toward him. This difficulty was exacerbated by the strong resistance among
Australia’s doctors and academics to psychological, especially psychoana­
lytic, explanations of disorders that had no conventional or clear cause.24
Dr. J. Lockhart Gibson, a prominent Brisbane doctor, was skeptical of
Mayo’s work, so when another skeptic, Dr. Meehan, a surgeon, saw the
value of light hypnosis for a patient whom Mayo had treated briefly and
decided to attend Mayo’s psychology lectures at the university, Mayo
joyfully anticipated that he would now become “one-up on Lockhart.”25
Shortly before Mayo left Queensland he was one of only two academics
invited by Sir Thomas Robinson to an important dinner of one hundred of
Brisbane’s notables. There a long-standing friend of Mayo’s family, Dr.
Espie J. Dods, snubbed Mayo not once but several times for no obvious
reason. At the time he was tired, so the deeply painful snub combined with
his ever-present and largely unconscious conviction of sin to drive home
the old notion that because of failure at medicine he might never rise above
his own unworthiness.26
At this time a report appeared in Sydney’s Sunday Times on Dr. Ralph
Noble’s neurological work at the Russell Lea Hospital for neurasthenics in
New South Wales. The article was illustrated with cases of shell shock.
Although one of the cases was Mayo’s, and another was treated successfully
along lines he had recommended, no mention was made of his contribu­
tion. He was “amused” by the omission, and wrote that he was pleased to
see “that perhaps I had helped. The atmosphere here [in Brisbane] is dif­
ferent—except among the working and middle classes who treat me very
nicely.”27 On another occasion Mayo was happy to learn from his sister-in-
law Barbara that her doctor had agreed with Mayo’s advice as to the role
vaccines should play in her treatment.28 And he was most gratified to
receive a letter from a Melbourne doctor asking if he could send Mayo a
patient whom he had seen on his last Melbourne visit, and including a note
 Crises and Career 133

from the patient’s aunt stating that Mayo had understood the patient’s
problem far better than any of the doctors seen before him.29
Recognition of Mayo came from an unexpected quarter during the
summer of 1921 in Melbourne when he met Captain George H.L.E Pitt-
Rivers, private secretary and aide-de-camp to Lord Forster, the governor
general of Australia. Like Malinowski, Pitt-Rivers became a friend and
much admired Mayo’s work. Pitt-Rivers had been president of the Psycho­
logical Society when he was completing his B.Sc. at Oxford University. He
then went to the war as a captain in the Royal Dragoons and was badly
wounded. After recovering he became one of McDougall’s research assis­
tants and undertook special studies in psychology and social anthropology.
From information given to him by the chief of intelligence on the Russian
General Staff he wrote a preliminary essay on the Russian Revolution from
the psychological point of view that attracted much public comment when
it was published in 1920. He married the daughter of Lord Forster, whose
personal staff he later joined. On his way from Melbourne to New Guinea
and the Bismarck archipelago for an eight-month field trip, Pitt-Rivers
dined with Mayo. He waxed enthusiastic about the uses of psychology in
Democracy and Freedom, and said that he would quote the work in his
future writings. He believed that Mayo’s research was far ahead of similar
work in England. Although Mayo was lifted by the appreciation given to his
work he thought that Pitt-Rivers had concluded too quickly that the work
was of value before knowing its details. “In any case I think I have a new
friend—and a good one. It was rather exciting.”30
Mayo’s ambivalence toward Pitt-Rivers’s interest in his work could not
be fully explained at the time. Unknown to Mayo, Pitt-Rivers had come to
Australia for the British Secret Service to report on the new formation of
the Australia security operations; anthropology was his cover. Mayo’s work
was attractive because it supported Pitt-Rivers’s feelings about revolutions
and confirmed his suspicions about the use of democracy by Bolsheviks.
Also, not long before Pitt-Rivers arrived, Mayo had exposed a communist
who had been trying to induce trade unionists to become revolutionaries.
During the day the man had worked as the lead writer for a conservative
newspaper in Brisbane; at night he addressed unionists and began attack­
ing Mayo’s politics while he was on the WEA committee. Mayo exposed the
duplicity by allowing the man to display his revolutionary aims to those
who knew only his conservative cover. Once Pitt-Rivers posed as a com­
munist sympathizer so that he could collect information at a public meet­
ing in Sydney’s D om ain Park. He also saw threats from among
theosophists, Rosicrucians, Masons, and supporters of feminists. He pro­
posed as a countermeasure that the government establish an advisory bu­
reau of social stability and research, quoting from Mayo’s Democracy and
Freedom to support the proposal. Pitt-Rivers was an anti-Semite, and dur­
134 Elton Mayo

ing the Second World War he would become pro-Nazi and be imprisoned
as a security risk. Mayo’s uncertainty about him arose probably because he
sensed a closed-minded extremist, not unlike the communist agitator who
had posed as a conservative journalist. Eventually Mayo would learn about
Pitt-Rivers’s extremism, but not his espionage.31
In Melbourne during the summer of 1921 Mayo agreed to write five
articles on industrial peace and psychological research for Ambrose Pratt’s
Industrial Australian Mining Standard?2 He drafted and revised the art­
icles that year while he was giving his public lectures for the university on
the psychological causes of industrial unrest and aspects of abnormal psy­
chology. The articles constitute the integration of Mayo’s ideas on the role
of the psychologist in resolving industrial conflict.
The first two articles draw heavily on his Democracy and Freedom but
contain many new ideas. The first article, “Civilization and Morale,” ex­
plains that the industrial unrest and economic burdens caused by the war
continue to threaten civilized society, and that the usual remedies have
failed to reduce industrial strife. Now unanimity and fresh efforts are
needed. During the war psychological studies had showed that the strain of
war could be reduced, and that morale and fighting effectiveness could be
raised with the systematic use of rest and recreation. The same applies to
industry. Research shows that morale—a mental attitude that is the source
of human effort—is more important for success at work than are machines
and office systems. Industrial morale is low because workers get little help
from their leaders, who denigrate traditional forms of authority, condemn
established social organization, and advocate anarchy and tyranny based
on fear and suspicion. Economic and political theories cannot help be­
cause they assume workers are motivated by logic, and ignore nonrational
human factors. Industrial peace can be restored by applying to industry the
evidence from psychological research on morale.
The second article, “Industrial Unrest and Nervous Breakdown,” says
that most mental activity—the cause of either anarchy or civilized ac­
tion—is out of awareness, and that mental attitudes toward life are deter­
mined by inherited racial consciousness and the opportunities for personal
development. If the opportunities are incongruent with racial characteris­
tics, then mental health declines and its place is taken by anxieties, obses­
sions, hysteria, and a loss of interest in living. Mental health is an
achievement. Education promotes sanity by giving opportunities to people
that help them understand and use their racial characteristics. While ani­
mals simply pursue immediate gratification by adapting to their environ­
ment, humans change their environments, raise their understanding of
racial capacities, strive to collaborate with others, and work toward an
integrated purpose. But many people have disintegrated minds because
they lack self-control, have not achieved sufficient sanity, are forgetful, and
are prey to nervous insomnia, melancholia, compulsions, and anxiety neu­
 Crises and Career 135

roses. Crime, war, and social revolution may ensue. Industrial and political
practices exacerbate these mental states, and people pursue repressive and
neglectful educational practices. These neglected mental attitudes and
emotional complexes thrive in the unconscious mind—the mental hinter­
land—and feed industrial conspiracies and delusions that equally affect
workers and employers.
Mayo seemed to have little difficulty in setting down these thoughts. The
psychological ideas had been developed well in his university lectures on
psychology, and the way that political leaders exploited the mental distress
of people in a crowd had become a well-established theme of his. But the
next article, “The Mind of the Agitator,” gave him considerable trouble:

I have spent the morning cursing roundly because o f my absolute incapacity

to express m yself with a pen. I can talk and lecture well enough on occasion
but when I take up a pen to write an article (or a text book) I become the most
stilted pedant imaginable. I have spent at least an hour and a half over 20
lines or so o f a M elbourne article and now the beastly thing reads like the
dying croak o f a strangled scholar. There is so much unadulterated bosh
written about psychology that I want to take a hand. Yet I do no more than
rage furiously together, like the heathen, and imagine a vain thing because o f
my lack o f literary facility. At the present m om ent if I could express what I
know on paper I could lift m yself out o f this soul-destroying University
regime. Last night and early this morning I had four o f our financial and
political leaders reduced to unsightly lumps o f quivering protoplasm by rea­
son o f the account I gave them o f the psychological causes making for social
revolution in our working class population. The Ad-men when I had finished
with them were in a condition o f lachrymose and impious petition. And
when I came to write the d ----------d stuff it W ON’T GO. How can I eliminate
the factors that cramp my expression? Come over to M acedonia and help
us.33

Reasons for Mayo’s difficulty may be found in the subject of the article,
circumstances in which the article was written, and earlier experiences.
The article has four main points. The first states that psychological factors
are important for explaining social ills; that if people lose control of their
racial consciousness and fail to master all aspects of mental life, then
irrational social actions may ensue. The second point illustrates the first by
describing an unsettled, rebellious political agitator whose resentment of
and conflict with authority is attributed to brutal treatment at the hands of
an alcoholic father. The third point says that such agitators, many of whom
are intelligent and burning to redress social ills, are a burden to the Aus­
tralian Labour Party; their behavior is attributed to abuse and persecution
but also to an education system that is constricted to preparing young
people for a mere trade or profession, and thereby represses natural feeling
and promotes neurosis. Consequently, the neurotic agitators, unlike the
melancholics who wish to do away with themselves, read their personal
misery into society and seek to obliterate it. The fourth point extends the
136 Elton Mayo

third by asserting that the education system restricts youths so much that
they value intellectual research and social service less than selfishness,
sloth, and destruction; modern psychology could help alter this attitude if
people understood that in healthy well-educated individuals, dispersed
nonrational thinking and fantasies that compensate for distress are inte­
grated purposefully with concentrated rational thinking about ways to re­
solve social and individual difficulties. Political agitators lack this
integration, and, in an effort to realize their compensating fantasies, they
pursue ideologies—socialism, guild socialism, anarchism—that justify de­
structive actions against society.34
These ideas were of intellectual value to Mayo. He had alluded to them
in Democracy and Freedom and used them in his public speeches and
university lectures. They also provided illustrations for lectures and discus­
sions in the United States, and, at the end of his life, appear in the first
chapter of Some Notes on the Psychology o f Pierre Janet?5
At the time of his struggle to put the ideas on paper, their emotional
value was clear. During an attack of dengue, the disease he had contracted
seventeen years before in West Africa, Mayo wrote to Dorothea: “Directly I
became feverish my anxieties all tended to come to the surface. I dreamed
about social revolution all night and my three dearests in trouble. .. .”36
The dream expressed simply the fear that all good things may be coming to
an end, and that his dearest women, for whom he cared and who were a
reliable source of self-esteem, were endangered.
When he had this dream and called to Dorothea to “come over to
Macedonia and help us,” Mayo knew his father’s life was coming to an end.
George was dying from tuberculosis, the disease that had killed his mother,
and to which he had been exposed as a young man on the boat to
England.37
During a visit to his dying father, Mayo struggled to follow the old man’s
ideas on the importance of women in a man’s life. Later, when considering
the fifth article, “Revolution,” for Ambrose Pratt, Mayo began changing
his view of women, those “dearests” in his life:
I am beginning to understand what dear old George meant when he put
loyalty so high as a quality o f dear women. (The dear old fellow’s suggestions
com e back to me everywhere). I am very glad I said what I did to the dear old
fellow just before he crossed over. If there is anything on the other side, he will
know how fortunate I have been in finding you to help my blundering pas­
sage, my dearest dear.. . . I realise how you have stood by me, helping me into
the clear atmosphere o f steadiness and devotion where you for ever dwell.
Perhaps some day I shall become capable o f making some return to you for
all you have given m e— your mental qualities and your dear delightful self.38

George’s death aroused old loves, hatreds, fears, and hopes in Mayo
while he lived alone and worked so hard during 1921. A father’s death is a
sign to his son that his own life must end, and that mortals are helpless in
 Crises and Career 137

the face of death. More specifically, the death was a reminder to Mayo that
doctors, who had often hurt him with their aloofness and arrogance, are
rendered impotent by death, confused, as in West Africa, by their igno­
rance of disease, and culpable, as in his sister Olive’s tragic death, for their
false diagnoses. Mayo’s probable anger, aroused by the death of George was
turned back on himself. He felt guilty of failure to enter the medical profes­
sion, and shame for having let down the family. Although the death gave
him the opportunity to say how he would make up for the disappointing
past, his well-established conviction of sin and essential unworthiness agi­
tated him, and he became sad and depressed.
George’s death indicated, too, that life under the old order would end.
At this point Mayo was in conflict. George had given him the gold watch
that had belonged to old Dr. Mayo. The gesture meant clearly to him that
his duty was to maintain the traditions of the family, and that he must
answer to past generations in performing that duty.
Mayo’s sense of loss, conviction of his unworthiness, and inner conflict
between the duty to support old ways and the urge to carry forward new
work were reminders of how once he had suffered at the hands of respected
authority, been repressed by narrow-minded educationists, trained vig­
orously in a profession chosen for him not by him, and been banished to
Edinburgh to make amends. In partial reparation he had turned to psy­
chology, found its place in medicine, agitated for its use to overcome social
ills, and used it to compensate for earlier rebelliousness and failure to
follow convention.
Such thoughts and feelings may have constituted Mayo’s inner conflict
as he was composing the articles on society’s ills and their psychological or­
igins. That his difficulties in writing were associated with the death of his
father is clear from the imagery in the letter to Dorothea likening his
struggle to write to the “dying croak of a strangled scholar.” Further, the
inner conflict between the value of psychology and the authority it should
enjoy appears in the letter’s imagery. On one hand psychology is “unadul­
terated bosh”; on the other it is so omnipotent that it makes powerful
leaders quiver and “Ad-men” weep. That he identified himself with the
agitator and his mob can be seen from his description of himself as a
heathen who imagines vain things. “Why doth the heathen rage?” was the
first title he gave to what would appear as “The Rabble Hypothesis” in The
Social Problems o f an Industrial Civilization.39 Finally, psychological ten­
sion was heightened by his strong wish to escape Queensland and retrieve
some of the self-esteem lost in failing twice to find another job.
The conflict made heavy work of putting on paper the ideas that he
could so easily otherwise express. And when George, who had always de­
precated heavy effort, praised Hetty’s loyalty, Mayo was reminded of what
she had, so loyally, developed in him: the capacity to speak well in public.
In two months the conflict had passed, he achieved the sanity he sought,
138 Elton Mayo

integrated nonrational thinking with concentrated and purposeful ideas,

and wrote:
I am slowly developing my ideas on “Revolution.” I think the series is really
good. I expected when I re-read them the other day to be disappointed or
dissatisfied with patches. But I think I am quite content to leave them as they
are. I hope, indeed, that they will definitely challenge the attention o f our
social scientists. I believe there is a certain “inevitability” about them that
may “tune up” the quidnuncs. They were much rewritten— and “revolution”
is undergoing the same process at present.40

“Revolution” and “The Will of the People” were the last of the five
articles. Both draw heavily from Democracy and Freedom, and summarize
the three earlier articles.
Mayo decided to take his study leave in Melbourne, but his future plans
were still unclear. He wanted to spend a few weeks with Dorothea because
they had been apart so often since their marriage. He wanted to speak with
Ambrose Pratt and with Archibald Strong, associate professor of English,
and other colleagues from the University of Melbourne.41 He also hoped
some sort of job would appear while he worked on “The Psychology of
Sanity” manuscript for Macmillan. When a Brisbane friend asked if he
wanted “to go home to England,” he said that he could not afford the fare
because the university had not allowed him sufficient salary while on
leave.42 He had hoped that Ambrose Pratt would syndicate the five articles
and thus augment his Melbourne income, but Pratt had found that news­
papers were loath to print anything that might offend their readers. Mayo’s
articles explained industrial conflict by pointing to psychological weak­
nesses in both labor and conservative parties, praising neither, and attacked
the system of arbitration that had been used to curb and resolve the
conflict.43
Three weeks before he left Queensland Mayo decided that after a stop in
Melbourne he would go to Britain. The university had reconsidered the
matter of salary for professors on study leave, and Mayo heard a rumor that
he might receive a minimum of almost £500. So he began to reason why he
should travel to London. In 1905 when Sir Charles Lucas was visiting the
governor of South Australia, he had suggested to Mayo that he return to
London and use his skills to handle meetings of working men. Mayo re­
membered that as a young man he had walked into the Working Men’s
College and was immediately taken into the men’s confidence, interviewed
by Professor Albert V. Dicey, the principal, and put onto many commit­
tees.44 Mayo was also approached at this time by a “woolly-headed but
decent” mathematics lecturer at the university, Kenneth Swanwick, who
said he thought Mayo could be very useful in London because prominent
scholars like Professor L.T. Hobhouse and G. V.H. Cole had failed to show a
practical grasp of Britain’s industrial relations problems. In the beginning
 Crises and Career 139

Mayo was inclined to think “that an assault on London, where the ‘big
men’ are is advisable” even if he came back to Queensland afterward.45
Inclination turned to firm resolve after discussions with “a clever old Brit­
ish Jew,” the governor of Queensland, Sir Matthew Nathan, who also be­
lieved that Mayo could be of greater use in London than Brisbane.46 Later
that day, Swanwick, who had been secretly fired by the thought of Mayo’s
personal impact on British labor problems, presented him with an enthusi­
astic letter of introduction to friends to the effect that Mayo had a “very
special task to save the Empire.” With notable prescience Swanwick had
imagined that Mayo would not be returning to Queensland, so he recom­
mended Mayo drop academic life and take up politics as a member of no
less than the British House of Commons! Swanwick believed Mayo was
well known in Australia’s major capitals and respected by both con­
servative and labor presses. He was the “right kind of Australian, with the
gift of utterance,” “and a man with a message for the world.” Mayo was
surprised and heartened by Swanwick’s enthusiasm. So the die was cast,
and London it would be.47
To confirm the London decision, Mayo talked with John Huxham, a
businessman, member of the University Senate, and secretary for public
instruction in Queensland. Huxham agreed that by cutting Mayo’s salary
while on leave the university had treated him ungenerously, especially be­
cause he had been largely responsible for the £10,000 Red Cross gift for the
chair in medical psychology. Huxham offered to make Mayo the Queens­
land government’s special representative to inquire abroad into applica­
tions of psychology to education and industry. Mayo welcomed the offer,
for it would take him into high official circles and help him to meet influen­
tial politicians and industrialists.48 Meanwhile, another colleague recom­
mended that Mayo not waste his time in Melbourne but go directly to
London as a leading exponent of psychoanalysis in Australia. He would be
well paid for case work, and in the evenings he might teach sociology and
economics at the London School of Economics.49
Mayo did not want another long separation from Dorothea. He thought
she should come with him; the extra expense would not be great. They
could take a cottage in Sussex, and, through his work, she could meet
people like Barbara Drake, research worker for the women’s labor move­
ment, and the prominent sociologist, Beatrice Webb. These possibilities
made Mayo feel that “the years are dropping from me now that my face is
turned to London again.” He imagined that a relative from Edinburgh
would meet their ship, they would have a celebratory dinner at an expen­
sive restaurant, and Dorothea could spend the winter at Bournemouth
until he found a cottage. Lines from Kipling’s The Long Trail came to
mind and expressed his intense need for escape, new work, and an adven­
ture with Dorothea.50
140 Elton Mayo

Theres a whisper down the field , where

the year has shot her yield,
A nd the ricks stan d grey to the sun,
Singing “Over then, com e over, fo r the
bee has quit the clover,
A nd your English su m m ers done .”
You have heard the beat o f the off-shore
wind,
A nd the thresh o f the deep-sea rain;
You’ve heard the song— how long? how
long?
Pull out on the trail again!
H a ’ done with the Tents o f Shem, dear
lass,
We’ve seen the seasons through,
A nd i t ’s tim e to turn on the old trail,
our own trail, the out trail,
Pull out, pu ll out, on the long trail—
the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O m y heart, from the Foreland
to the Start
We’re steam ing all too slow,
A nd i t ’s twenty thousand m ile to our little
lazy isle
Where the trumpet-orchids blow.

The goal was clear even if the means were not yet available. Mayo did
not intend to return to Queensland. Six years later he would describe the
day of his leaving: “I rode out of Queensland in 1921 (my last departure) in
the railway coach reserved for His Excellency (the Governor of Queens­
land, Sir Matthew Nathan) arguing as to whether or not Queensland was
entirely stupid—Mayo for the affirmative.”51

Notes

1. Elton to Dorothea, 7 May 1919.

2. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 11 July 1919.
3. Ibid., 12 September 1919.
4. Minutes, Board o f Faculties, University o f Queensland, 20 September 1920;
Board o f Faculties, University o f Queensland, “Fifth Report to the Senate,” 12
November 1920.
5. Seymour to the Registrar, University o f Queensland, 20 October 1920; Minutes
o f Special Meeting, Board o f Faculties, University o f Queensland, 24 September
1920.
6. Elton to Dorothea, 10 March 1920.
7. Board o f Faculties, “Fifth Report to the Senate.”
8. Ibid.; Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 10 December 1920.
9. Transactions o f the Australian M edical Congress, 21-28 August 1920, p. 412.
10. Elton to Dorothea, 14, 15, 21 March 1920.
 Crises and Career 141

11. E. Jones, “On the N ecessity for the Establishment o f Psychiatric C linics,”
Transactions o f the Australian M edical Congress, 21-28 August 1920, p. 410.
12. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 16 July 1920; ibid., 15 April 1921;
Elton to Dorothea, 18 March 1921, 27 April 1921.
13. Mayo to the Registrar, 1 July 1921, in Board o f Faculties. University o f Queens­
land, “Tenth Report to the Senate”; Elton to Dorothea, 10 November 1921.
14. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 16 December 1921.
15. Conversation with Matthewson, 21 August 1974.
16. Elton to Dorothea, 10, 18, 23, 30 March 1921.
17. Elton to Dorothea, 15, 23 March 1921.
18. Elton to Dorothea, 10 March 1920.
19. Elton to Dorothea, 11 October 1921.
20. A. A. Landauer and M. J. Cross, “A Forgotten Man: M uscio’s Contribution to
In d u stria l P sy c h o lo g y ,” A u s tr a lia n J o u rn a l o f P sy c h o lo g y 23, n o. 1
(1971 ):235-40.
21. Elton to Dorothea, 7, 16, 19 March 1921.
22. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 12 August 1921.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 29 February 1920; W. M. Kyle, “The Psychologist in Indus­
try” (University o f Queensland, 1952, mimeographed), p. 10; S. Castlehow,
“The Thirty Club” (1956, mimeographed; Robinson MSS, Fryer Library, U n i­
versity o f Queensland); conversation with Matthewson, 21 August 1974.
24. Richard C. S. Trahair and Julie G. Marshall, Australian Psychoanalytic and
R elated Writings, 1884-1939: An A nnotated Bibliography, La Trobe University
Library Publications, No. 16 (Bundoora, Victoria, 1979).
25. Elton to Dorothea, 7 March 1921.
26. Elton to Dorothea, 1, 2 November 1921.
27. Sunday Tim es (Sydney), 29 February 1920; Elton to Dorothea, 4 March 1920.
28. Elton to Dorothea, 29 September 1921.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 9 May 1921.
30. W ho’s Who, 1959 (London: Black, 1959), p. 2418; Elton to Dorothea, 24
March, 16 April 1921; Pitt-Rivers to Mayo, 22 July 1922, BLA.
31. Richard Hall, The Secret State: A u stralia’s Spy Industry (Melbourne: Cassell,
1978), pp. 213, 218; Elton to Toni, 19 October 1932.
32. Elton Mayo, “Industrial Peace and Psychological Research,” Industrial Aus­
tralian M ining Standard 67 (January-June 1922): 16, 63, 111, 159-60, 253.
33. Elton to Dorothea, 16 March 1921.
34. Mayo, “Industrial Peace and Psychological Research,” p. 111.
35. Elton Mayo, Som e Notes on the Psychology o f Pierre Janet (Cambridge: Har­
vard University Press, 1948).
36. Elton to Dorothea, 9 May 1921.
37. Helen Mayo, “Biographical N otes on Elton Mayo,” SAA.
38. Elton to Dorothea, 12 October 1921.
39. Elton Mayo, The Social Problem s o f an Industrial C ivilization (Boston: Har­
vard University, Graduate School o f Business Administration, Division o f Re­
search, 1945); Bingham to Mayo, 27 July 1942, MM 1.024; and Gregg to Mayo,
13 November 1942, MM 1.072.
40. Elton to Dorothea, 12 October 1921.
41. Elton to Dorothea, 2 October 1921.
42. Elton to Dorothea, 15 October 1921.
43. Elton to Dorothea, 18 October 1921.
44. Elton to Dorothea, 2 November 1921.
45. Elton to Dorothea, 11 November 1921.
46. Elton to Dorothea, 3 November 1921; Mayo to Ruml, 29 January 1928, RE
142 Elton Mayo

47. Elton to Dorothea, 3 November 1921.

4 8 .Ibid.
49. Elton to Dorothea, 8 November 1921.
50. Elton to Dorothea, 6 November 1921; Rudyard Kipling, Verse (New York
1939), pp. 164-66.
51. Elton to Dorothea, 10 November 1921; Mayo to Ruml, 29 January 1928, RF.
 9
To America, 1922-1923

After delivering a series of public lectures on psychoanalysis and applied

psychology in Melbourne, Mayo decided to apply for an academic position
at the University of Melbourne and to take study leave in Britain to add
overseas experience to his application. He would go via the United States,
where a lecture program had been arranged for him at the University of
California, Berkeley. The plans fell through, and, because he had little
money, he sought work as a clinician and industrial psychologist, but with
little success. He met important men in universities and research founda­
tions who asked him to New York and Washington to discuss psychology
applied to work. He was invited to address leading psychologists, psychia­
trists and industrialists; they were much impressed with his style of public
speaking and his idea that revery was a major source of human motivation.
Because he was made so welcome, he decided to seek work in the United
States but funds were not available until his friend Beardsley Ruml found
sufficient money to support him for six months’ work at the University of
Pennsylvania.

In Melbourne Mayo prepared for study abroad. To augment his income

he took psychological cases1 and delivered public lectures. The Herald
announced he was on his way to Europe, and that the public was invited to
attend six lectures on psychology and psychoanalysis “by one of the fore­
most psychologists of the day,” noted for special recognition by the British
Red Cross Society in treating shell shock. Mayo also planned to conduct a
parent-teacher study circle on problems among infants and adolescents,
and a discussion group on techniques of psychoanalysis.2
The six lectures were so well attended that he received fees of £285,
almost half his Brisbane salary.3 There were several reasons for his success.
First, he had already spoken to groups of professionals who knew his work
well. At the Victorian Branch of the British Medical Association he talked
on psychology, psychoanalysis, and applied psychology.4 At a private girls
school in Melbourne—with Dr. Eleanor Cissly Kemp, a New York psycho­
logist, and Dr. Stephen P. Duggan of the Institute of International Educa­
tion—he talked to specialists in education on how psychoanalysis clarified
social problems. He talked to advertising people on the psychology of
middle age, combining his theory of personality with the popular Amer­
ican success ideology, and concluding that “with concentration of thought

143
144 Elton Mayo

and phantasy would come success in life.”5 Another reason for his success
on the platform was skillful promotion by Mayo’s friend from university
days, Stanley S. Addison. Addison had completed a science degree, and
after war service became the assistant registrar at the University of
Melbourne. He enthused over Mayo’s ideas on the structure of con­
sciousness and the “mental hinterland.” Because he appreciated the prom­
ise of modern psychology for resolving classroom problems and industrial
strife, he advocated a chair in social or applied psychology at the university
and arranged Mayo’s appearance before the Melbourne University Asso­
ciation.6 Thus, before the first public lecture Mayo’s reputation was well
established.
The first lecture, “The Two Psychologies,” stressed the scientific status
of psychology, distinguished academic psychology (the study of rational
mental processes) from medical psychology (the study of irrational states
of mind), and outlined levels of mental activity by contrasting deep uncon­
sciousness processes in the “ mental hinterland” with concentrated
thought. The second lecture, “Dissociation and Split Consciousness,” fol­
lowed Janet’s distinction between hysteria and psychasthenia, and showed
ways in which the mind loses its unity and may disintegrate. The third
lecture, “The Unconscious,” described many neurotic disorders, and how
ideas of Jung, Freud, and William Mitchell contribute to a four-level the­
ory of consciousness. The fourth lecture summarized Freud’s contributions
to sexual theory (aberrations, infantile sexuality, libido); the fifth lecture set
out Freud’s theory of psychoneuroses; and the last outlined Freud’s theory
of dreams.7 In keeping with the Australian attitude toward Freud’s ideas,
the Melbourne newspapers reported the substance of the first lecture but
not the last three.8
Following the remarkable reception of his public speaking, and with the
support of Addison, Mayo was invited to join the archbishop of
Melbourne, prominent judges, and politicians in addressing the annual
dinner of the Melbourne University Association. At the last minute the
archbishop fell ill and could not give the major address. Asked to propose
the ceremonial toast, Mayo turned his wit upon politicians: they controlled
funding of the universities and would not allow them to save a portion of
their income to gain some financial autonomy for development and plan­
ning. He also argued that although the tradition of lecturing at the univer­
sities was excellent, the Oxford and Cambridge tutorial or discussion
system was far better.9
Mayo’s success in Melbourne was followed by a change in plans. The
directorship of tutorial classes at the University of Melbourne had become
vacant and presented an opportunity for Mayo to escape Queensland and
reach a wider audience. He felt more accepted in Melbourne than in Bris­
bane, and believed that Dorothea would be happier in Melbourne, but he
knew that he did not have sufficient overseas experience to be certain of
 To America 145

getting the directorship if he applied. So, at Addison’s suggestion, Mayo

planned to go to England by way of the United States. Addison arranged
with Dr. Gillanders at the University of California, Berkeley, for Mayo to
lecture there during the summer to augment his income. A.J. Tanza, an
American psychiatrist in Australia on a Rockefeller grant to help establish
the Commonwealth Health Department, gave Mayo a letter of introduc­
tion to Professor Stanley Cobb at Harvard University to discuss all phases
of the promotion of mental hygiene. In England Mayo would associate
himself with Professor J.T. Wilson, who had been at Sydney University and
now had the Chair of Anatomy at Cambridge University.10
Mayo also had letters of introduction to senior executives of Standard
Oil, two letters from the American vice consul, and a letter from Prime
Minister Hughes that states quite wrongly that “Professor George Elton
Mayo . . . occupies the position of Professor of Psychology and Physiology
in the University of Queensland.” The error could hardly have been an
oversight, for the letter is countersigned by Mayo himself. In 1922 there
were no chairs in psychology or physiology at the University of Queens­
land. At worst the letter was deliberate deception by Mayo to win respect
from mental hygiene authorities, and at best an indication of the resources
he believed that he needed to carry forward his work, i. e., “the application
of psychology to social investigation, (e.g., the causes of social unrest)
education, and industrial organisation.”11
Before leaving Melbourne he addressed the Free Kindergarten Union
on modern education practices, arguing strongly for a form of school
discipline that was structured but not punitive so that “the individual was
led to the appreciations of his own powers.” He stressed the importance of
peers in the child’s education.12 Also, when he was invited to speak on
social psychology, he emphasized the value of studying the disorders of an
industrial civilization, following the theme that Pitt-Rivers had taken up in
public lectures for the Victoria League.13At the time The Argus was report­
ing industrial violence in the United States: the murder of mine workers,
the use of troops to curb riots, and the death of a child in clashes between
strikers and railway property guards.14 So Mayo’s plea for the study of the
psychological causes of industrial unrest in Melbourne was preparatory for
what he would say at the University of California.
At Scott’s Hotel in Melbourne Mayo and Dorothea were given a farewell
dinner by his brothers John and Herbert. Among the guests were the finan­
cier Edward C.E. Dyason and M ayo’s m entor, Professor W illiam
Mitchell.15 Carrying, among other things, fountain pens, the letters of
introduction, and a good-luck telegram from Mayo’s sister Helen, Mayo
left Australia on July 12 aboard the S.S. Sonoma bound for San Francisco,
via Pago Pago and Honolulu.
When Mayo docked at San Francisco, newspaper reporters beseiged his
room at the Palace Hotel and demanded that he expand on his comments
146 Elton Mayo

about the psychology of flappers that had appeared in the Honolulu press.
He had said the activities of flappers indicated that society, like individuals,
could have a “nervous breakdown.” Women were not achieving self-expres­
sion nor the control of their destiny, so they substituted for this an imagin­
ary world of dissociated reveries and an unreal social life in which they felt
free. He asserted that modern literature, magazines, and musical comedies
extended and strengthened in women the tendency to flapperism as a
neurotic mode of adjustment.16 What he had said had not been reported
accurately.
Errors in the newspaper accounts irritated Mayo, and he much pre­
ferred that attention be given to his views on the psychological determi­
nants of industrial strife in the United States. Examples were being
reported daily: railroad executives had refused the president’s proposals for
industrial peace; strikers were being savaged by dogs; and duels, bombings,
and deaths were increasing. He outlined his thoughts to a young woman
from the San Francisco Chronicle, and was pleased when she took copies of
his five articles on industrial peace and psychological research for possible
syndication in West Coast newspapers.17
For the next three weeks Mayo’s future was uncertain. Gillanders had
made no arrangements for him to teach, so he had no income, and his
expenses were unexpectedly high. His contacts at Standard Oil offered little
advice or help. Dean Hatfield, deputy president of the university showed
him the campus, and had him to lunch with local psychiatrists. Professor
Alfred L. Kroeber, the psychoanalytically inclined anthropologist, advised
Mayo that he could earn more money as a public lecturer on the East Coast
than in California.
Because his funds were dwindling rapidly Mayo decided to see Jessica
Colbert, a promotor of public lectures. He persuaded her to advertise his
three talks called “At the Back of the White Man’s Mind” in San Francisco.
He then went to a conference of psychologists at Stanford, where he met
Lewis M. Ter man and Knight Dunlap. Among the rank-and-file psychol­
ogists Mayo found no one with special force and many who bitterly op­
posed Freud. He joined the discussion, and his amusing breezy style, which
contrasted with the inarticulateness of most speakers, led listeners to tell
him how good it was to hear English spoken so well. Harvard psychologist
Herbert S. Langfeld, a colleague of William McDougall, assured him of a
welcome in Cambridge, saying, “You are very different from an English
professor—they can’t talk.” A doctor recommended him to the local neu­
rologists as a “rattling good” speaker, and Kroeber wrote to a promoter of
lecturers, he “can hold and please any audience.” It was all very gratifying
but furnished no immediate solution to his lack of money.18
On docking at San Francisco Mayo had hastily accepted an invitation
from Dr. Blanche L. Sanborn to speak on the psychology of Australia at the
 To America 147

San Francisco Club of Applied Psychology. At the time he did not know
that his lecture was one in a series that included such topics as earth’s
mysteries, the psychology of raw food, the power of the spoken word, and
fulfillment of prophecy revealed through psychology. Dr. Sanborn herself
would conclude the series with “How to Use Human Analysis and Attain,
Retain and Maintain Health, Youth and Beauty.”19Blasphemous prayers to
the Almighty opened the evening, a senile violinist scraped through two
excruciating solos, Mayo turned black with rage as he delivered an abom­
inable lecture, and Dr. Sanborn’s health-cum-success treatment finished
the evening. “Another experience of that sort and I shall go back to Aus­
tralia, steerage,” Mayo wrote home.20
Mayo rued his association with such a pernicious charlatan, and
squirmed with shame as he recalled that he had accepted fees for his
Melbourne lectures on psychoanalysis. Was he also such a charlatan?
Should he offer to call off lecturing on psychoanalytic ideas to the local
psychiatrists, and cancel arrangements with Jessica Colbert? Such dark
reveries brought back the habits of London twenty years before. Doubts
about his ability and embarrassment led Mayo to walk the streets, brood,
and, with intense curiosity, watch the people about him. This country was
not for him: connections at Standard Oil had failed him; at Berkeley
Gillanders had let him down; San Franciscans seemed provincial and to
care little for anyone but themselves; and, worst of all, Jessica Colbert had
objected to his favorite phrase, “mental hinterland.” On August 15 Mayo
would have gladly boarded the S.S. Sonoma, had he the fare.21
Resignation replaced rage, and the wish to return home gave over to the
reality that no one would suddenly donate money for him to visit Amer­
ican universities and learned societies at his leisure. So he rested, came
back into favor with himself, revised his lectures, and accepted invitations
from local neurologists. One arranged a visit to the jail, where inmates
were treated appallingly. Mayo saw that inadequate education in large cities
meant “we build prisons and breed people to fill them.” Another doctor
told about plans for the purchase of a country estate to be used as a
sanatorium for neurotics and mild mental cases, and then took him to a
state home for defective children, where he saw vivid, bizarre mental disor­
ders and the children’s circumscribed lives.22
Mayo hoped that Jessica Colbert would promote his lectures so well that
he would earn enough to go to Harvard University, then to England, and
finally back to Melbourne. Suddenly the way east was closed by a Dr.
Musgrove, who seemed to control much of the professional and public
activities of the medical profession on the West Coast. Musgrove told him
that he was not to lecture on medical psychology, and that to go counter to
the fiat was ill advised. Mayo acted quickly; his lecture series would be
called “The Problem of the Strike—in Australia and Elsewhere” but con­
148 Elton Mayo

tent would be unchanged. Musgrove was circumvented, and Jessica Col­

bert was pleased because the new title fitted in with newspaper stories
about the rail strike.23
Then Mayo had a stroke of good luck. One of Dorothea’s aunts arranged
for a doctor to lunch with him at the exclusive Bohemian Club. They were
joined by Dr. Vernon Kellogg. When Mayo learned that Kellogg had been
Herbert Hoover’s assistant during the war and was now on the National
Research Council in Washington, he outlined for Kellogg his views about
the psychological determinants of strikes and how research could help in
their control. Kellogg suggested Mayo visit Washington to discuss his ideas
further, but Mayo did not see how he could raise the fare. “I really want to
see you,” said Kellogg, “if when the time comes you are unable to get
across, wire me, and perhaps we’ll send for you.” Mayo reached into his
pocket for the letter of introduction from the prime minister and passed it
across the table.24
Although the East Coast was again in sight, Mayo had only enough
money to keep him for two weeks. Addison had sent £170 from
Melbourne, but Jessica Colbert had not yet made firm plans for the lecture
series. Mayo’s first reaction was to ask Kellogg for industrial research work,
and to ask the New York office of Standard Oil to back the request. Mayo
believed that if he were invited to lecture in the East, he could convince
psychologists to support him. A visit to the San Francisco office of Stand­
ard Oil seeking advocacy was unavailing.25
Family problems in letters from Dorothea, declining funds, vague anx­
ieties, and nagging doubts were difficult to quash. Mayo asked himself, “I
wonder what an energetic man of fiction would do?” Answer: “Repack his
luggage, leave it with Gillanders, and go fruit picking.” On impulse he
cabled a friend in Australia for a loan of four hundred pounds; nothing
came of it. Standard Oil offered no help from New York. In five days he
would be penniless and have to register with the Community Placement
Bureau.26
What he thought would be his last five days of respectable living began at
the Pacific Union Club with a lunch at the expense of the British consul
general. There an owner of a railroad and a corporation lawyer who were
impressed with Mayo’s “new gospel,” as they called it, which denounced
agitators who manipulated large groups. That evening he outlined the
distinction between medical and academic psychology for a group of psy­
chologists at Berkeley who called the presentation a restatement of psy­
chology and asked why it had not been published. These two occasions
showed Mayo he really could attract and hold the attention of both
psychologists and businessmen. A medical friend offered him a psychologi­
cal case, but he refused it because the five days were just about up and in
any event he could not live on one case.27
At breakfast on the fifth day Mayo was handed a letter from Kellogg,
 To America 149

who was going to urge his New York colleagues to give Mayo a chance at
industrial research. Mayo quickly took on the psychological case at ten
dollars an hour; asked the medical friend to write a letter of recommenda­
tion to Kellogg; and cabled his brother Herbert for a loan of two hundred
pounds, putting up as guarantors Michie and Matthewson. In two days
Herbert had wired the money, and Mayo was, once again, rising into favor
with himself.
Kroeber visited Mayo, urging him to continue with lectures on medical
psychology, offering to tell Jessica Colbert how he could not fail to interest
an audience, and suggesting that six rather than three lectures were appro­
priate. Feeling confident, Mayo put aside the objections of Dr. Musgrove
and rescheduled the lectures on psychoanalysis. And to Dorothea he wrote,
“Three cheers for Freud and psychology . . . here’s success to our adven­
ture, sweetheart.” He celebrated with a haircut.
On 23 September 1922 a letter summoned him to Washington. His
expenses would be paid by the National Research Council, and, in New
York, a representative of a “major foundation” would talk with him. The
chairman of the council’s Psychology and Anthropology Division was
much interested in Mayo’s work, and was sure other psychologists would be
too. Mayo exulted: “This is the best thing that ever happened to us. . . . I
am so overjoyed I cannot keep still. . .. Kellogg & co. are wonderful—to
decide without knowing me, that this is worthwhile—I met him once, at
lunch. . . .”28
Mayo speculated with Kroeber on Kellogg’s letter, and particularly the
part about one of “the major foundations.” Mayo hoped he would have the
chance to see leading psychologists and businessmen before he returned to
Australia. “Let’s hope I can outroar the lions. I shall be surrounded by
them in Washington,” he wrote. “I have an academic psychology that
counts more among the psychologists than all the Freudian work.”29
The call to Washington frightened him, but he also was sure that he
would find something of value after enduring so much anxiety and fighting
so hard to survive. What caliber of man would he meet in Washington?
Large minded, generous men, or men absorbed in their own views? From
the book he was reading, Theodore L. Stoddard’s The Revolt against Civi­
lization, Mayo planned to take some ideas, hit hard with them, and show
the Washington people what road to follow.30
Kellogg arranged the first interviews, and assured Mayo that business­
men were ready for his psychological approach to industrial conflict, but
before he could talk with the financiers of research in New York he had to
satisfy the industrial psychologists in Washington. Mayo’s old problem had
followed him across the continent; he worried that by the time he was
accepted and ready to start, he would be penniless, and have to work to get
his fare home. He scolded himself that his “was a cheeky attitude to take,
arriving here without any money and try to hold America up for a job.”31
150 Elton Mayo

Mayo met Charles E. Merriam, a leading political scientist who was

planning the structure and activities of the Social Science Research Coun­
cil,32 and on many points their thinking was similar. Both had optimistic
views of democracy, despite its apparent failings, and agreed that, although
it was easy to recognize and plan for continuing diversity of interests,
cooperation could be engendered by the application of intelligent thought
to problems. Citizens should be well educated, politicians and administra­
tors should be well trained. Training should be based on scientific knowl­
edge of society, and such knowledge would come from applied social and
political research in the universities. Specifically, Merriam wanted research
that used improved techniques of data collection and analysis, that called
on practical political experience, and that turned to the insights available
in sociology and Freudian psychology for help with political problems in
modern democracies. Like Mayo, who had seen how a socialist govern­
ment had dominated Queensland’s industry, Merriam rejected socialism
because it gave the state too much control over the economy. And, both
men were dissatisfied with the free enterprise system because its unthinking
and sometimes rapacious growth made for a source of great power outside
a democratic nation’s control. Merriam and Kellogg spoke of taking Mayo
to see Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover. With James McKeen Cat-
tell of the Psychological Bureau in New York, Mayo felt less impressive.
Although Cattell was friendly, his profound dislike of Freud and medical
psychology combined with a marked preference for his experimental re­
search prevented Mayo from discussing his preferred topics. Mayo spent
the next morning with Raymond Dodge, president of the Anthropological
and Psychological Section of the National Research Council, and lunched
with Robert M. Yerkes, who had once supervised the U.S. Army’s psycho­
logical testing and, in Mayo’s view was the country’s leading psychologist.
Mayo learned that he was being compared favorably with the late Elmer
Southard (1876-1920), a Harvard-trained physician whose neuropathologi-
cal studies had led to his appointment as the first director of the Boston
Psychopathic Hospital. Like Mayo, Southard developed a critical attitude
toward the pessimism and emotional monism of Freud and his followers
but fought antipsychologism among his own medical colleagues. The se­
nior academics in the National Research Council considered that Mayo
was the first person they had met who was familiar with the field of indus­
trial sociopsychology since Southard’s death.33 And Louis L. Thurstone, a
prominent psychologist, said that he wanted to consult Mayo on methods
for studying causes of industrial unrest in Pittsburgh.34 Because he had so
impressed Kellogg and associates, Mayo was sent to New York with a letter
of introduction to Beardsley Ruml and Raymond Fosdick.
Ruml had recently been appointed as stop-gap director of the Laura
Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Foundation. He would become one of
Mayo’s closest American friends and the man largely responsible for Mayo’s
 To America 151

being so well established in academic life in the United States. Ruml was
born in 1894, the son of a doctor in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. At Dartmouth
College he was distinguished by a curious combination of high intelligence,
playful loafing, and brilliant ideas. At the University of Chicago he com­
pleted a Ph.D. in psychology and education, and furthered his unusual
technique of inventive thinking: alone, he would maintain a waking
dream-state, and follow his reveries wherever they led. Ruml became an
assistant to Professor Walter V. Bingham, and as codirector of the Division
of Trade Tests during the war, became skilled in the development of mental
tests. For a short time after the war, he worked with his former army
supervisor, Dr. Walter D. Scott, and was an adviser to the management of
the Armour and Swift meatpacking companies. In 1920 John D. Rocke­
feller, Jr., engaged Ruml to advise as to how the value to the public of New
York’s leading cultural institutions might be raised. The excellence of
Ruml’s work and his engaging personal style led to his immediate accep­
tance in New York society. At twenty-seven he was made director of the
Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Foundation. With customary en­
ergy and boldness, Ruml pursued a scheme to disburse $75-$80 million on
long-term, large-scale research in sociology, political science, economics,
psychology, and anthropology. The Rockefeller advisers had always pre­
ferred small, traditional projects on current issues, but Ruml overcame
their resistance. Eventually he earned the reputation of a founder of Amer­
ican social sciences. In 1930 he went to the University of Chicago, then
later became the treasurer of R.H. Macy’s. His most notable idea would be
devising the pay-as-you-go income tax plan in 1942.
Although Ruml was fourteen years younger than Mayo, of greater bulk,
and American born, at this point differences fade. Both men had come
from a medical family and valued clinical observations, and both had
studied issues in education and the new medical psychology. They had also
learned how to use their mental hinterland for imaginative thinking, and
recognize the importance of a scientific base to reliable knowledge, and the
value of applied knowledge. The overlap in their professional interests was
augmented by a shared pleasure in conversation, wine, and gourmet
cooking.35
Although Raymond B. Fosdick (1883-1972) would never become as
close to Mayo as Ruml, he held Mayo’s attention for his interest in novel
ideas on labor relations and his efforts to prevent another war. Before the
war Fosdick had been associated with John D. Rockefeller, Jr., through his
Bureau of Social Hygiene, and studied European methods of police admin­
istration as part of a larger program to curb prostitution in the United
States. In 1916 he was appointed chairman of a military commission on
training camp activities. After the war he worked with President Woodrow
Wilson on plans for a U.S. role in the League of Nations, and later helped
create the Foreign Policy Association and organize the Council on Foreign
152 Elton Mayo

Relations. In these ways Fosdick involved Rockefeller in European politics.

In industrial research, Fosdick encouraged Rockefeller to fund Industrial
Relations Counselors, a New York agency that advised on means to re­
duce industrial conflict through raising worker morale, and to support
scientific studies in industrial relations and have the subject taught in the
universities. From 1936 to 1948 Fosdick was president of the Rockefeller
Foundation.36
From his first contact with Ruml, Mayo learned that the decision to
finance his research was “touch and go.” Ruml suggested that meanwhile
he write for magazines that were offering good fees to freelancers. Even
though Mayo’s notes were not at hand, he began immediately to prepare
articles on failure of education, training in revery, and achievement in
middle age.37
Mayo raised with Ruml, the matter of financial support for an institu­
tion to promote mental hygiene among industrial workers. He had had
plans to set up such an entity if he became director of tutorial classes at the
University of Melbourne.38 Mayo decided that he wanted to work in the
United States but if that was not possible he would accept the directorship
if it was offered. If neither possibility came to pass, he would have to return
to the University of Queensland in March 1923. Although he was making a
network of valuable contacts, time was closing in. So he waited, hoped,
wrote, and went to the theater.
News from home began ten days of misery. The Mayo family thought
Hetty was on her deathbed, but Mayo could not bring himself to write to
her lest his lack of achievement, which might appear between the lines,
aggravate her condition. He sensed, too, that the Melbourne job would not
be his. His luggage had not turned up, a calamity for such a fastidious
dresser, and the notes he needed for his articles were in the missing steel
trunk. Further, the editor of The American asked that his submitted articles
be rewritten; it would be a week or two before he would learn if they would
be accepted as revised. Angry and desperate Mayo considered asking his
brother Herbert for more money, but instead sent a sharp reminder to
Ruml that Kellogg had promised to pay the travel expenses he had in­
curred. Dark reveries developed: he should have stuck with Jessica Colbert
and not believed Ruml’s tales of easy money from magazine publishers; he
wanted to be rid of both Freud and academic psychology; he would have to
go back to Brisbane after vowing to himself that he intended never to
return. The crisis was like that of 1905 when he was sent back from
London, and had to face scorn at home.
Next day he found he had powerful friends after all. Ruml had received
Mayo’s note, and suggested to Leonard Outhwaite, professor of anthropol­
ogy and psychology at Columbia University, that Mayo speak to his class.
How unconscious mental processes contribute to problems of social organ­
ization was the theme of Outhwaite’s course. Mayo took the class through
 To America 153

his ideas on the mental hinterland to the ways of achieving sanity in the
modern world, successfully, he believed. Afterward students consulted him
on personal problems. Then Outhwaite took him to Yale to discuss the new
psychology with President Angell, the president of both Yale and the Amer­
ican Psychological Association.
Mayo was becoming convinced that his old and well-worked integration
of Janet’s theory of obsessions and reveries with Freud’s theory of uncon­
scious mental processes appeared to be new to American audiences; they
seemed to want him to repeat the ideas, and to examine scientifically the
growth of irrelevant reveries in an individual’s life.
In New York he was invited to a meeting of psychiatrists to open discus­
sion of a paper on cryptomnesia (unconscious plagiarism) by Alexander A.
Brill, founder of the New York Psychoanalytic Society and first American
translator of Freud’s works. Mayo impressed the gathering, and Brill said
how pleased he was to find a man who knew what he was talking about.
The psychiatrists obviously liked Mayo’s use of case lore, and the psychol­
ogists seemed awed by the clinical experience it implied. He felt at ease in
both camps and believed that he was being accorded a valued interstitial
role. Whereas in San Francisco he had felt rejected as a Freudian, in New
York he felt welcomed as a unique “mental hinterland” and “revery” psy­
chologist among “mental foreground” and “stream of consciousness”
psychologists.39
Although Mayo could see his reputation growing, a professional identity
becoming clear, no money was coming in. In the past a lack of money had
so undermined his self-esteem that black thoughts made it mandatory that
he spend a few days in silence to recover. But this time outrage and indigna­
tion took hold, and he stormed at his acquaintances in New York. He
attacked Kellogg for not having paid his travel fare. Then he went for
Ruml, declaring that he had not come to New York to get magazine articles
rejected. Results were promising. Kellogg said the expenses would be paid
and hinted that Rockefeller might support Mayo’s industrial work. But
Ruml’s help was more real. Firm offers of money as well as actual cash
came for Mayo’s articles; interviews were arranged with a senior executive
in Standard Oil; invitations came to speak at a psychiatrists’ dinner and
before the National Council for Mental Hygiene;40 Ruml and his psychol­
ogist wife became more friendly, and said they appreciated his distinction
between academic and “revery” psychology.41 But Ruml’s most valuable
assistance lay in introducing Mayo to Professor Joseph H. Willets, who
welcomed the freshness of his ideas and offered two weeks at the University
of Pennsylvania speaking to students, faculty, foremen from local indus­
tries, and managers from the local Chamber of Commerce.42
Mayo arrived in Philadelphia on November 15 at 4 p. m . At 5 p. m . he was
speaking to Willets4s graduate class in the Industrial Research Department
of the Wharton School of Finance and Commerce because Willits had
154 Elton Mayo

been called away. Next day Willits returned and heard Mayo lecture. After
an informal desultory hour, Mayo moved at a more intriguing pace into
what he liked most: discussion. A group of educators, businessmen, and
medical men stayed behind for more discussion, some remarking that they
hoped he would be available for consultation. Willits was so pleased with
what he had seen and heard that he began immediately to rearrange plans
for the academic year so that Mayo could be implanted at the university
rather than spend only two weeks as a visitor.43
Willits, a Quaker born in 1889 and educated at Swarthmore College,
had developed interests in economics that centered on labor relations and
employment. In 1915 he began studies of unemployment in Philadelphia,
and was granted a Ph.D. by the University of Pennsylvania in 1916, and
then for two years was employment superintendent of a U.S. naval aircraft
factory. This led to his current academic appointment and to studies of
labor relations for the U.S. Coal Commission. In his professional life,
Willits set himself the task of “hunting for, identifying and serving superior
talent,”44 and Mayo was one of his early discoveries.
The Wharton School was the first American school of commerce. It had
been founded in 1881, and in 1908 began graduate education.45 In March
1921 the Department of Industrial Research was established, and its aim
was to be “a regional experiment station for the study of problems es­
pecially illustrated in the Philadelphia metropolitan area.”46 In its early
days its growth was limited by the depression and by Willits’s policy that it
avoid becoming a service agency for any kind of industrial research with­
out regard to ethical motives behind the request. As the department de­
veloped, it first upheld scientific research as the basis for sound community
service and, second, established ties with Quaker employers who supported
research with a practical and socially constructive character.
The main areas of study were wages and employment, executive leader­
ship, effectiveness of personnel practices, and economic bases of industrial
stability. Mayo’s area would be “the group of problems of individual adjust­
ment to [the] industrial environment whose solution involves cooperation
among economists, psychologists, physiologists and kindred scientists.”47
But initially Mayo had to convince local influentials of the value of his
work and that they should provide the university with money to begin it;
Ruml could put such evidence to his foundation for funds to continue.
Willits hoped to introduce Mayo to influential businessmen and aca­
demics but shortly sicknesss intervened, and his assistant, W.E. Fisher, a
young economist, planned Mayo’s daily activities. Mayo taught Willits4s
class, and talked with Anne Bezanson, a Harvard graduate who shared his
interests and was helping Willits with the Coal Commission inquiries.
Fisher wanted to learn from Mayo more about psychology and anthropol­
ogy. He was puzzled by Mayo’s casual remarks about the aristocracy’s
characteristic agnosticism and fearlessness. Mayo explained that the con­
 To America 155

ventional religious doctrines, which had been designed to keep the bour­
geoisie at their social duties, were invalid for scholars and scientists, whose
duty was to be tolerant of all views, even to the point of collaborating with
the religious. Combined with comments on psychology and problems of
authority, such talk aroused Fisher’s conviction of sin, made him aware of
the “apparatus of the restricted academic,” and, Mayo wrote, stimulated
him “to reading off his usual track in some excitement.”48
A recovered Willits and Fisher took Mayo to a graduate seminar on
“character analysis” at which he left a deep impression. Without profes­
sional training in clinical and social psychology, the leader of the discussion
had acquired some grasp of the fashionable psychologizing that Mayo had
seen purveyed in San Francisco. When he began touting phrenology, Mayo
rose, and selecting evidence from biologists, physiologists, and anatomists,
he roundly denounced all that had been said. The audience enjoyed this
display, the speaker retreated, and Willits and Fisher praised Mayo for the
repudiation. But, after some initial satisfaction, Mayo privately admon­
ished himself for his aggressiveness.49
The forcefulness with which he was gaining associations in eminent
circles brought Mayo personal satisfaction but anxiety, too. He was invited
to give a conference paper on November 28 before the historical section of
the Academy of Medicine on the development of psychopathology since
Braid and its relation to educational theory and practice. Notable men
would be there: John Dewey, the foremost educational pragmatist since
William James; James H. Robinson, director of the New York School of
Social Research; Everett D. Marton; and Charles L. Dana. To Dorothea he
wrote: “In our personal history, yours and mine [the conference] is an
historic moment.”50 Although he knew the usual route to success was from
a low to a high position, Mayo deliberately used the reverse, attacking from
above downward. The approach took its toll, for it aroused conviction of
his own sin. First, he felt guilty because he had violated the rule of respecta­
ble men that one ought not to gain opportunities for distinction by thrust­
ing; second, he felt ashamed because he thought he might fail to perform
competently before those who had given him the opportunities. Thus, he
was elated by his new associations with people of rank but also depressed
by irrational fears of his own possible shortcomings.
Mayo’s reaction to this conflict was to turn his attention to the current
task, bringing to it a mixture of concentrated effort and comforting revery.
He revised his paper, made an abstract of it, pondered it, and memorized it.
“The thing now is to justify the opportunity they have given me,” he wrote
to Dorothea. “I expect just for a moment to be a little nervous when I stand
up—but I shall look across the many miles of sea to you—and then turn to
the attack.” Reveries were becoming central to his personal experiences, his
professional pronouncements, and his family life. “Watch little Patty’s rev­
eries and companions. Her daddy is going to be identified with ‘revery.’”51
156 Elton Mayo

Mayo was anxious to impress the audience with his ideas on academic
psychology and psychopathological revery and believed that if he could,
“there is no doubt of a succes d’estime.”52 Afterward he thought the presen­
tation had been too long and only moderately successful, even though it
did result in an evening’s discussion with Dewey, Robinson, and Pierce
Clark. The medical director of the National Committee for Mental
Hygiene wanted to publish the paper, but Mayo preferred to wait. Ruml
had enjoyed the address, and invited Mayo to lunch with Joseph Hayes and
Raymond Dodge of the National Research Council. Ruml revealed that he
had cut through the red tape around a conference of the Americal Psycho­
logical Association and arranged for Mayo to take part in a symposium at
Harvard University with William Healey, the Boston psychotherapist,
Clarence S. Yoakum from the Carnegie Institute, and Edward L. Thorn­
dike, a leading experimental psychologist. Ruml had even chosen the sub­
ject of Mayo’s talk: the psychological analysis of industry. Without saying
so, Mayo decided he would speak again on revery and its educational
effects. Also, Ruml said that if Philadelphia’s businessmen donated enough
money to the university to attract his foundation’s funds, Mayo’s salary
would be a hundred dollars a week. Mayo spent Thanksgiving Day with
Hayes‘s party at the Vanderbilt Hotel enjoying violations of the Volstead
Act, and feeling that he was “moving amongst the elite.”53
Psychologists were beginning to note Mayo’s illumination of work by
Janet, Jung, and Freud. He emphasized the fundamental role of revery in
normal life, and played down the sexuality in the psychoanalytic approach;
impressed, Yerkes sent a representative of the Sex Research Committee of
the National Committee for Mental Hygiene to consult with Mayo. When
opportunities presented themselves, he would open discussion with his
psychology colleagues—Ruml, Dewey, Clark—on reveries of murder and
suicide, and, to his amusement, saw them collecting one another’s suicide
reveries.54
Although Mayo believed that businessmen wanted him in Philadelphia,
it was not certain that they would donate enough money to the university
before the date of his departure. The matter agitated him, but he could do
nothing but wait. He did not have Dorothea to listen to his worries, and he
had so much difficulty sleeping that at times he wandered restlessly through
the streets, putting his worries aside, “thinking anxiously of you, and your
troubles.” Nights for a week he planned and reveried about his future,
Dorothea’s teeth, Patty’s companions, the irresponsibility of black nannies,
the possibilities of his taking a quick trip to Brisbane or of Dorothea’s
coming to Philadelphia, borrowing against his life insurance. In the
daytime he taught, and pursued normal academic activities, for example,
he attended a seminar on Robinson’s The Mind in the Making, dominated
the group, and led discussion to one of his favorite topics, the difficulties for
women of combining education and marriage.55
 To America 157

At several meetings with Philadelphia’s business leaders, Mayo put his

case for psychological studies in industry and, at the same time, prepared
his material for the Harvard symposium. For each meeting the procedure
was as follows: Willits invited twelve to fifteen businessmen to dinner at the
university’s Lenape Club. After the meal, Willits introduced Mayo, who
talked for about three-quarters of an hour and then for an hour fielded
questions and developed the discussion. Each audience seemed interested,
assessed his claims correctly, found something new in his approach, and
many went home with the catchword “revery.” All the men were courteous,
sympathetic, and keen; no aloofness, no sneers; they treated him as a
distinguished authority. “Such a change from Australia . . . ” he wrote to
Dorothea, “rather wonderful by comparison with the anxiety of Sydney
not to have me.” Mayo wondered what people in Brisbane would think if he
did not appear there again.56
After one evening with a group of businessmen, the manager of Wana-
maker’s department store asked Mayo to see one of the department heads.
Mayo found him suffering from a mild anxiety neurosis, of which the most
incapacitating symptom was an intense muscular rigidity. Mayo suggested,
among other things, that the muscular tension was causing many of the
other symptoms, and as the afternoon wore on the man improved. He
accepted and smoked a proffered cigarette. “That was very nice,” he said.
“I’ve been afraid to smoke for two years.” Apparently the muscular tension
had previously combined with the irritation of the cigarette smoke to
produce incapacitating bouts of coughing.57
Willits and Mayo became closer. So that Willits would be free for con­
sultation with the Coal Commission, Mayo lectured on mental testing to
his class. Willits arranged a luncheon for Mayo with the professor of psy­
chology Witmer, from whom Mayo’s presence had been concealed for two
weeks to prevent interference with Willits’ plans; another luncheon was
planned with a politician who was about to take charge of the state’s ad­
ministration of problems in labor and industry—Mayo felt he had created
a favorable impression on both men but could see no clear purpose to the
occasions. Witmer invited him to visit the children’s clinic; the politician
wanted to know him better, and, as their conversation developed, Mayo
learned that Willits6s plans would involve association with “some very big
names.” Worried by the vagueness of Willits’ plans, Mayo told Willits later
that unless his role became clearer, he would have to return to Australia.
Time was short, and he was anxious about money. “After Xmas,” laughed
Willits.58
As Christmas approached Mayo’s thoughts turned more often to money,
Australia, and the paper for the Harvard symposium. From the university
he had received board and lodging for almost two weeks, and two hundred
dollars for his services, but most of the money went for his New York trip.
To get cash for Christmas presents and a holiday for Dorothea and the girls
158 Elton Mayo

he wrote to the magazine publishers asking for what he thought was due
him. No reply. Willits promised to write, too. Still nothing. Apparently
Willits was paying for Mayo’s board: “If he hadn’t I should have been in
Queer Street,” Mayo wrote.59
Around Mayo, families were celebrating. People hurried by with parcels,
and wished him “Happy Christmas.” All he could do was smile and men­
tally shrug his shoulders, tot up the cost of his forthcoming trip, and, back
to his room, carry the shame of having let down his family. Sundays were
his lonely days, his days for reveries of home. Once, for Dorothea’s sake, he
visited an art gallery; another time he went to a “so-called musical comedy,
‘Blossom Time’” which delighted him, and “went far to ‘sublimate’ some
of“ his “unbelievable longing for” Dorothea’s presence. Often he would
walk and plan. He was looking forward to the day—January 3, Willits had
said—when he could wire Dorothea to come. Perhaps they could live with
the university crowd at Swarthmore, ten miles from Philadelphia’s center.
Dorothea could easily commute to the New York theater; American trains
took only half the time taken by trains in Australia. Rent would be about
eight hundred dollars; income, five thousand plus, or more, if summer
teaching became available, even more if there really was a boom in applied
psychology. Dorothea would like Philadelphia’s shops. He needed her: “It
cuts deep this absence . . . if I followed my desire I’d come flying back to
Australia—cured of ambitions, if ever I had them.. . . I’m alone, and I have
to count the paving stones as I walk the streets to keep myself from
revery.”60
Mayo worried about Dorothea’s income. If he resigned in March at the
beginning of the academic year the University of Queensland would be
unable to staff his department adequately and have good reason to curtail
salary payments to Dorothea. So he decided to request a twelve-month
extension to his leave without pay—a similar request had been granted to a
colleague—and resign within six months.61
With this decision behind him his thoughts turned to Harvard, where he
imagined he would have to “cross swords with all the might of America on
the Thursday after Christmas.” The test would offer Mayo a critical au­
dience for his psychology of revery; he was not anxious but did believe that
because his ideas were still changing that perhaps he was not in as good
form for speaking as the occasion might demand. It was most important
that he keep the listeners’ attention. He had something worthwhile to say,
but the problem was to “put it over” as he heard Americans remark so
often.62
On his birthday—he was forty-two—Mayo went to Harvard for the first
time. “Red bricks, flat, white windows, with a dozen panes in each and
green shutters. Everywhere snow, and boards above it to walk on.” He
called on Langfeld who was too busy to give him more than a minute but
courteously suggested he stay on after the conference for a few days. The
 To America 159

general secretary of the American Psychological Association made Mayo

an official guest, which extended him some courtesies. He dined with some
young Harvard men and their wives and discussed the sort of intellectual
activity a woman can pursue and still be fair to her children, herself, and
her husband. His “brutal onslaught” on the higher education of women
was successful, so he thought.63
But Mayo needed cash. All the cheap hotels had been filled, so he had to
stay at Boston’s luxurious Copley-Plaza. He had only fifty dollars and at the
week’s end he would be asked for fifty-four! All he could do was send a
desperate plea to the magazine publishers and hope that someone like
Ruml would arrive in time to help him pay the account.
On the day before his address he went to the conference to hear how
speakers delivered their papers; they simply read them at the audience. As
he was leaving Yerkes introduced him to William McDougall and the two
canvassed American psychology, psychopathology, and one of Mayo’s fa­
vorites, the Nordic’s conviction of sin. McDougall suggested Mayo write
about the topic, and invited him for lunch the next day.
McDougall’s courtesies strongly affected Mayo. He determined to speak
well and to use few notes. He revised the talk as an attack on crowd
psychology. Then he read in the newspaper that at the conference the day
before, Dr. Thomas Baker of Pittsburgh had said: “Our system of educa­
tion may not be able to check the growing power of the crowd. This is one
of the disappointing symptoms of the age.” Mayo decided to start there,
and “Heaven help me (us) to ‘put it over.’”64
At the McDougalls’ house, the next day Mayo ate lunch with Knight
Dunlap and other colleagues. He sat on Mrs. McDougall’s right and con­
tributed liberally to the flow of conversation about the friend they had in
common, Pitt-Rivers, his work, his wife, and life in Australia.
Mayo began his address standing at the lectern, then, as was his habit, he
moved toward the edge of the platform, and with a sheet of paper in his
hand, delivered the body of the address without looking at his notes. When
he finished the psychologists came forward, introduced themselves, and
put questions to him. The psychotherapists attacked him—Healey, Emer­
son, H. Addington Bruce—but Elton came back at them. Bruce wanted
Mayo to write a book in his Mind and Health series, and the editor of the
National Committee of Mental Hygiene quarterly wanted to publish
Mayo’s address. It seemed he had “put over” his idea that all psychopathol­
ogy from Braid to Freud could be regarded as a continuing investigation of
the educational effects of revery. Chairman Raymond Dodge said, “Fine,
splendid,” as he shook Mayo’s hand. Yerkes congratulated him; as did the
president of the association, who remarked loudly to McDougall, “It’s
refreshing to see a man get the whole of a 35 minute address off a single
sheet of paper.” And later John B. Watson said: “It’s a great method yours,
much more effective to talk like that.”
160 Elton Mayo

At dinner that evening Mayo was put beside Mrs. Walter Bingham, wife
of the leading industrial psychologist, at the head of the table. During the
conversation he got a laugh here and there, and much praise for having
chosen his stories so well that afternoon. Even Cattell, the doyen of Amer­
ican psychologists, introduced him to Mrs. Cattell. “It really was quite a
minor triumph . . . it was nice to be congratulated by the ‘great names’ in
psychology—and to have said a new thing . . . altogether, you’ll agree,
much better than a triumph in Brisbane or Melbourne.”65
At the peak of his triumph that night Mayo’s conviction of sin set to
work. He asked Dorothea not to take too much notice of the praise he had
been given. After all, he was a stranger, and they had simply been very kind
to him. The noted psychotherapist whom he had attacked, and con­
sequently displeased, was really quite a decent fellow. And even though
most people had been very nice to him, there were dissenters from his
viewpoint. Fame does not come so easily. By the time he was ready for bed,
the day’s triumph had been reduced to a “good first step.”
Next day Mayo was depressed; “many causes . . . no reasons.” A mild
touch of appendicitis forced him to decline a visit to the Boston Psycho­
pathic Clinic, and an embarrassing shortage of money forced him to bor­
row fifty dollars to get back to Philadelphia. One cause of his misery was
the imminent departure of an Australian friend, Mary Dods, whom he had
known since they were youngsters. She and Mayo talked without end of
Dorothea, Australia, the little girls, the United States. She offered to lend
him money, but of course he could not accept. On January 28 the S.S.
Niagra would leave for Australia; Mayo wished he could go too. “Things
here are too big—3,000 scientists—in one city, talking—it gives me a feel­
ing of futility.” How could he educate the girls on a yearly salary of five
thousand dollars? A year at Bryn Mawr cost two thousand dollars. If they
did not go there, “we should have to send them to public schools with
Niggers and Jews and so on.” He thought the best decision would be to
return to Brisbane to take up some special studies. He would have £810 net
per year; with Dorothea’s £300 they could settle down, and his American
experience would establish him as an authority on psychology. “It wouldn’t
be a come-down because I would have refused work in America,” he wrote.
Reveries deepened his depressing thoughts about dragging himself back to
Philadelphia to see the “old pussies” at the Sherwood Hotel, to hear the
endless hymns emanating from the lounge outside his bedroom, to wallow
in his solitude.
Mayo understood how the solitude, the absence of Dorothea, and the
departure of a friend combined: “I get a conviction of sin—the contrasts
are too evident—what I really need is regular work and the interest of it.
I’ve just thought of that, and it’s rather a solution.” He left the Copley-Plaza
room and, plodding through the knee-deep snow in the square, went to
admire the mural decorations and the painting by Sargent at the Public
 To America 161

Library. “If it wasn’t for you,” he wrote to Dorothea “and your inspiration
hovering over me I wouldn’t do these things. My dearest woman—when
shall we see each other again.”66
On his return to Philadelphia Mayo read Dorothea’s cable urging him to
remain in the United States until he had money enough to support the
family. Then she would come with a nurse and the children. He could not
reply until after the last dinner speech to Willits4s Philadelphia business­
men, when his task was to convince them that his research was so valuable
that they should match the ten thousand dollars that it was hoped Ruml
could convince his trustees to donate to the university. And it would not be
until January 17 that the trustees’ decision would be taken. On New Year’s
Day Mayo cabled Dorothea: “Yes. Expect Philadelphia decision soon.
Greetings.”67
The decision to cable Dorothea led Mayo into thoughts of the hurdles to
their reunion. Among the hurdles was a shortage of money, which when
overcome would be followed by difficulties in acquiring a passport; once
she had that, she would be set upon by strange people aboard ship; and if
she did reach the West Coast, immigration officials would not allow her in
under the immigrant quota, so she and the girls would have to camp on
Ellis Island. To facilitate her unimpeded passage, he suggested she sail to
Vancouver, take a train to Montreal or Toronto, pretend she was a Cana­
dian, and bluff her way across the border. The pessimism was accompanied
by joy and impatience, and the conflict was resolved by his vow never again
to leave his wife and children.68
While the welfare of his family occupied the back of his mind, Mayo’s
attention was given to how he could get work and the money that would
bring them to his side. He imagined that with the Rockefeller money
behind him he could do something for the future of civilization. He had
attracted Ruml’s attention through their shared interest in the application
of the social sciences to industrial affairs. At every opportunity he tried to
maintain Ruml’s attention for the developing theory of reveries, but soon
learned that Ruml appreciated him as much for his conversation and wit as
for the professional discussion of psychology.69
While Mayo waited for January 17 and news from New York, the recog­
nition that people were giving his concepts kept in perspective the haunting
images of poverty and separation from family. His ideas were moving
rapidly toward a theme of “education by revery” and an investigation
under which he could subsume work from Janet to Freud. His thesis would
be that mental health is determined by the relation between concentration
and revery.
While Mayo was working on his revery thesis, Dr. Tartmeyer at the
university clinic offered him the opportunity to study children with speech
defects, and to visit the Children’s Bureau directed by Dr. Jessie Taft. She
seemed to Mayo to be “as frank as Havelock Ellis and as understanding.”70
162 Elton Mayo

He expected that Dorothea would like her, and that on his say-so Dr. Taft
would regard Dorothea as a competent psychologist and give her work at
the bureau. A week lat^r Dr. Taft learned of Mayo’s own clinical skill, and
was curious to know what he meant by relaxation. He obliged her by
putting a twelve-year-old to sleep. He considered another difficult child,
explaining how a child’s show of temper was usually a response adequate to
a situation; the problem then became how to understand the situation
rather than the unacceptable behavior. This was his doctrine of the “total
situation,” which he had taken up in 1914 at Brisbane. In his black mo­
ments it comforted him to know that people in the United States appreci­
ated his ideas, and that in the past he had followed the right line.71
Many opportunities helped to banish those black moments during the
ensuing days. Dr. Taft offered him all the clinical work he wanted, but he
had to say again that at present he was not taking any cases; Yerkes, chair­
man of the National Research Council, pushed men toward Mayo for
consultation; he corresponded freely with McDougall on national welfare,
social decay, and the Nordic race; he was asked to speak at a dinner for
social workers; Willits was trying to arrange a place for him in the Coal
Commission inquiries; and one day a faculty member said something flat­
tering about him to Willits, and John Dewey agreed. It seemed to Mayo
that he was becoming a member of a group of workers, and could expect to
enjoy their backing.72
He began to take a favorable view of the world and himself. He kept in
trim with exercise, and did not lose his eye for pretty girls, who were
reminders of how he loved Dorothea. He wanted her to keep well, to look
at life positively: “Head up sweetheart, use Coue’s method ‘better and
better everyday’—it’s a good revery.”73
Mayo saw that his impact came mainly in the discussions after his talks,
but several people wanted his ideas on paper. Willits had asked for a written
statement of the scope and extent of his proposed research; Ruml said he
would need something, too. And Leonard Outhwaite pressed him for art­
icles for the Journal o f Personal Research. So Mayo tackled what he had
often found more taxing than anything else: writing.
To Willits Mayo proposed that his research should be of immediate help
to industry, but not so restricted that it was concerned only with efficiency
in office systems at the expense of valuable educational and social interests.
He disdained the schools of social science that expounded ideologies of
groups and classes without the support of specialized inquiries; he was sure
he could make such inquiries into the real value of democracy.74 Mayo
asserted that the recent demands to democratize industry falsely identified
democracy with majority rule. Society requires individuals to make moral
decisions (e.g., voting, jury duty) and technical decisions (e.g., professional
work).
 To America 163

Whereas it is probably best to decide who shall represent an electorate in

Parliament by a popular vote, it is obviously impossible to decide the correct
treatment o f a typhoid fever by means o f referendum. Now many o f the
current appeals for the “democratization” o f industry, and many popular
political theories, fail entirely to discriminate between these two types o f . . .
decision. Democracy . . . came into being, first, to protect industries and
skilled professions from ignorant interference, and, second, to ensure that
moral decisions shall be made by the com m unity and not for it. . . . Con­
gresses and numerical majorities are just as capable o f ignorant interference
with self-government as any monarch. . . . The “capitalistic” organization o f
society . . . whatever its faults . . . has served to conserve skill in the service o f
the community, to protect historic and professional traditions against the
assaults o f ignorant ochlocracy.75

To Mayo the Chartist riots had heralded defects in industrial society that
in time became so widely felt that some people believed the world’s eco­
nomic structure would crack and civilization would fall. “There is,
however, no need for such pessimism,” wrote Mayo, and he warned, “our
understanding of the human problems of civilization should be at least
equal to our understanding of its material problems. In the absence of such
understanding, the whole industrial structure is liable to destruction or
decay. A world-wide revolution of the Russian type would completely de­
stroy civilization.”76
How did civilization get to this stage? With the industrialization of
society no improvement had come in the social status of the worker. Once
workers had had skilled jobs with necessary social functions but now they
were dispossessed of decisions over their work, and its important functions
passed to scientists and financiers. At the same time that workers became
cogs in the machine, they were offered a vision of greater political freedom.

What wonder if he thinks little o f the political freedom which is limited to a

vote in the party organization, when he finds that his opportunity o f directing
his econom ic destinies is apparently irredeemably lost. Industrial research
must be so far psychological . . . the investigator must discover the mental
effect o f this developm ent and its expression in society. There is no question
but that society will have to give back to the worker some opportunity for
self-expression in work and o f self-control. At the same time, it will be neces­
sary to ensure that collaboration and skill in work are adequately conserved.
We shall be unable to achieve this without considerable research, and es­
pecially psychological research. And without such development, civilization
will have reached an impasse. This is the entirely practical research o f the
present which cries most urgently for attention.77

Mayo wrote that the alternatives, socialism and syndicalism, were

“charlatan remedies” and “quack political medicines.” Covering the same
ground as he had at Harvard a month earlier, he concluded, “It was not
only the real but also the imagined situation which determined individual
164 Elton Mayo

development.”78 With the analogy “it is obvious that a society, like an

individual, may suffer from ‘nervous breakdown,”’ Mayo argued that when
“individuals are not achieving the direct experience of life which they are
racially entitled to expect” they compensate with “‘dissociated’ reveries.”
“What else is socialism but a revery of this type? . . . The working class is
failing to achieve that self-expression and control of individual destiny
which racially it is entitled to expect. And it has substituted for such de­
velopment a revery, an imagined social situation. . . . Socialism is a symp­
tom . . . that all is not well with the industrial situation and that industrial
research is required.” But dissociated reveries were found not only among
workers:
The employer sits in his club and hears a lengthy tirade on the dangers of
socialism. Returning to his office, he is faced with a request for increased
wages, and replies by an indignant refusal. . . . So also with the employee. He
hears constantly that he is being “exploited,” that he is a “wage slave.” These
notions may seem to be forgotten but insofar as he has failed to achieve
normal happiness they enter into his reveries. And some day a situation arises
when they express themselves in action.79

In short, conflict was growing in industry, and, consequently, the danger of

decadence or collapse of society was mounting. Through psychological
investigation the irrational causes of conflict may be found and brought
under rational control.
Willits had heard the arguments before, and asked Mayo to state how he
would do his research. Mayo answered that he was accustomed to adapt the
means to the situation; as a rule, he would begin by spending a few weeks
among the workers, and talk later to assemblies of them. When he felt he
had their confidence, he would administer association tests to a small
group of people who worked together, take personal histories, analyze their
reveries and dreams, and finally compare the development of the reveries
with their orientation to life. He did not aim, as did the psychiatrist, to
identify the mentally abnormal workers; rather, he sought to apply the
psychiatric methods of study to normal people, and help identify the ab­
normality in their ideas and actions.80
Mayo’s proposals to study the crises of industrial society were written
during his personal crises. He desired intensely to be liberated from the
constraints of his academic peers in Brisbane, and to be free to develop a
career in the United States. He had gained valued recognition for his ideas
but he had done all he could; the rest was in Ruml’s hands. Without any
control over the decision that would so deeply affect him, Mayo waited,
plagued by doubts of his competence and old fears of failure, but bouyed
by the slightest praise. Because he could recognize his personal difficulties,
and the context in which they were exacerbated, he coped intelligently and
productively by writing for Ruml, Willits, and Outhwaite, and pouring
forth long abreactions, as he called them, in letters to Dorothea.
 To America 165

Whenever Willits was called to duties for the Coal Commission Mayo
was left with no one to talk to and nothing to do. He preferred to be
overworked than underworked. Among his reveries was the doubt that he
would be able to do the work and handle the workers, and he felt guilty
about discussing his anxieties and doubts in letters to Dorothea. Long days
of solitude, inactivity, and Dorothea’s absence mingled with the shame of
not making enough money when lecturing on the West Coast, and the guilt
of aspiring to become a charlatan who had lost the respect of scientists, the
medical profession, academic psychologists and other colleagues.81
Colleagues helped him forget the personal crisis. At the Lenape Club
academics would come up to his end of the table to hear him talk. In
response to their attentions Mayo would expand not so much from conceit
as from the relief of solitude and depressing thoughts. Once he and his
colleagues were discussing Europe; a German approached the table, sa­
luted, and announced that in his view the British race was the greatest on
earth. This compliment struck to the center of Mayo’s being. He had imag­
ined becoming a naturalized U.S. citizen to facilitate Dorothea’s entry to
the country; the German’s statement reminded him that “I don’t want to
give up being British at all.”82 He would always be a Britisher in the United
States.
Mayo finished his “Irrational Factor in Society” and “Irrationality and
Revery,”83 the two main parts of his address at Harvard. The articles stated
the problems of democracy in an industrial society, outlined the weakness
of theories in crowd psychology to cope with the problems, and asserted
that medical rather than academic psychology offers the best approach.
The stream of consciousness theory was put aside for his theory of mind at
four levels—concentration, revery, hypnoid state, and sleep—with particu­
lar emphasis given to reveries. Colorful examples were drawn from clinical
experience, industry, and politics in Australia. The articles urge strongly
the psychological study of reveries that people entertain at work. Mayo had
a third article in mind, “Educational and Psychological Tests,” which ap­
parently he did not finish, but it probably would have indicated how he
thought research ought to be done.84
Now there was little to do but wait for the decision of January 17. In a
restless mood he wrote to his mentor Professor William Mitchell, and
accused Australia of putting too many difficulties in his path. Little notice
had been taken of his ideas and he regretted having to leave Australia.
Mayo believed the University of Adelaide has allowed a mere bit of red tape
to block his being awarded a master’s degree. He wanted to have an M.A. to
show his mother that he had become a credit to her, so he wrote to his
friend Addison to see whether or not something could be done about it.85
The decision was postponed again. Fear struck Mayo that if such
postponements continued his job in Brisbane would lapse before he had
anything in the United States. In New York the trustees of the Laura
166 Elton Mayo

Spelman Rockefeller Memorial would not back Ruml’s request to support

Mayo, nor would they consider the matter further because his proposed
work was clearly industrial and not medical. Ruml turned to Rockefeller,
pointing to the modest sum needed, the work already in progress at the
Wharton School, and the unusual opportunity given by Mayo’s presence to
explore how far local businessmen would go to support psychiatric re­
search in industry. Ruml suggested giving three thousand dollars for use
until July 1. If Mayo’s work proved sound, then ten thousand dollars a year
should be granted for two or three years; if it failed Mayo would return to
Brisbane in July. Ruml added that since the death in 1920 of Dr. Elmer E.
Southard of Harvard University, industrial psychiatry had suffered, and
that Mayo would be his first replacement. Arthur Woods and Raymond B.
Fosdick supported Ruml’s personal appeal.86
While the people in New York were considering, Mayo waited, enter­
taining reveries on financial difficulties, problems of resigning from the
University of Queensland, accommodating a family in Philadelphia, cop­
ing with traffic deaths on the road, nuisances on board ship, travel across
Canada, and the immigrant quota at San Francisco. After ridding himself
of these specific reveries with a lengthy abreactive letter to Dorothea, Mayo
was beset again by the familiar blackness of general depression. But some­
thing his brother Herbert had said came to mind: Elton had more will to
win than anyone Herbert knew, and Herbert’s son Eric had inherited the
same attribute. “And then I came back with the notion, that I may be
beaten,” he wrote to Dorothea “but I’ll have a go—for you—first.”87
On January 19, two days later than promised, Ruml phoned. The trust­
ees had turned down his proposal altogether and allocated money instead
to welfare work among disadvantaged children, but Rockefeller had prom­
ised personally sufficient money for Mayo to stay six months. “So we
suffered a defeat and gained perhaps a greater victory,” Mayo wrote to
Dorothea. “We are ‘placed next’ (as they say here) to the richest man in the
world, religious, interested in social and industrial investigations.” Al­
though the decision from New York was clear, Mayo was thrown into
confusion. Should he cable Dorothea and the girls? Could they live on that
amount of money? Would he have a job after six months? He decided to
secure his job in Brisbane by asking officials at the National Research
Council to request that his leave be extended another twelve months. He
cabled Dorothea: “Satisfactory program. Details undecided.” Next day
Willits told Mayo there would be no problems about carrying on after July;
and Outhwaite cabled that the two articles were accepted. Mayo could
write to Dorothea: “Come over, then, come over. .. .”88
Notes
1. Dorothea to Henrietta, 1 May 1922, SAA.
2. H erald (Melbourne), 18 February 1922, p. 11; ibid., 22 February 1922, p. 22.
 To America 167

3. Mayo notebooks, Book 12, GA 54.4, BLA.

4. M edical Journal o f Australia, 1 April 1922, p. 365.
5. Argus (Melbourne), 8 March 1922, p. 8.
6. M elbourne University M agazine 16, no. 2 (August 1922):67-69; Melbourne
University Graduate House, Secretarial Files; Elton to Helen, 9 July 1922, SAA.
7. Argus (Melbourne), 16 March 1922, p. 8; ibid., 30 March 1922, p. 8, MM 2.020.
8. A search revealed no reports; see also Richard C. S. Trahair and Julie G. Mar­
shall, Australian Psychoanalytic and R elated Writings, 1884-1939: An Anno­
ta te d B ibliog ra p h y, La Trobe U n iv ersity Library P u b lica tio n s, N o. 16
(Bundoora, Victoria, 1979).
9. Argus (Melbourne), 26 April 1922, p. 14; ibid., 1 May 1922. p. 8.
10. Lanza to Edsall, 10 July 1922, MM 3.026; Elton to Helen, 9 July 1922, SAA.
11. MM 1.099.
12. Argus (Melbourne), 28 June 1922, p. 6.
13. Pitt-Rivers to Mayo, 29 June, 2 July 1922, MM 3.085.
14. Argus (Melbourne), 6 July 1922, p. 8; 10 July 1922, p. 7.
15. Sir Herbert Mayo’s N otebooks 557; Sir William M itchell to Helen Mayo, Sep­
tember 1949, SAA.
16. Mayo to Willits, 17 January 1923; MM 1.099.
17. Elton to Dorothea, 1 August 1922.
18. Elton to Dorothea, 2, 3, 4 August 1922.
19. San Francisco Chronicle, 6, 18, 25 August, 1 ,8 , 15 September 1922.
20. Elton to Dorothea, 11 August 1922.
21. Elton to Dorothea, 15 August 1922.
22. Elton to Dorothea, 17 August 1922.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 22 August 1922.
24. Elton to Dorothea, 26 August 1922; MM 1.099.
25. Elton to Dorothea, 1 September 1922.
26. Elton to Dorothea, 8 September 1922.
27. Elton to Dorothea, 8, 11 September 1922.
28. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 19, 23 September 1922.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 24, 27 September 1922.
30. Elton to Dorothea, 3, 4 October 1922.
31. Elton to Dorothea, 5 October 1922.
32. Barry D. Karl, Charles E. M erriam and the Study o f Politics (Chicago: Univer­
sity o f Chicago Press, 1974).
33. Who Was Who in Am erica (Chicago: M arquis)l:l 157-58; John Frosch and
Nathanial Ross, eds., The Annual Survey o f Psychoanalysis, Vol. 7 (London:
Hogarth, 1956), p. 7
34. Elton to Dorothea, 9 October 1922.
35.N ew Yorker, 10 February 1945, pp. 28-32, 35; ibid., 17 February 1945, pp.
26-30, 33-34; ibid., 24 February 1945, pp. 30-34, 36, 38-39; ibid., 12 September
1942, p. 12; Karl, Charles E. M erriam , pp. 132.
36. Peter Collier and D. Horowitz, The Rockefellers: An American D ynasty (New
York: Holt, Rinehart & W inston, 1976).
37. Elton to Dorothea, 12 October 1922.
38. A few days later the selection com m ittee compiled a list o f three applicants:
Douglas B. Copeland, Herbert Heaton, and J. A. Gunn. Gunn was appointed.
Minutes, Committee o f Selection, Director o f Tutorial Classes, University o f
Melbourne, 18 October 1922, Central Registry.
39. Elton to Dorothea, 12 November 1922.
40. Elton to Dorothea, 2, 4 November 1922.
41. Elton to Dorothea, 12 November 1922.
168 Elton Mayo

42. Elton to Dorothea, 7 November 1922.

43. Elton to Dorothea, 15 November 1922.
44. National Bureau o f Economic Research N ational Bureau Report, No. 14, Feb­
ruary 1975, pp. 12-13.
45. M. T. Copeland, A nd M ark an Era (Boston: Little, Brown, 1958), p. 15.
46. A brief account o f the Department o f Industrial Research, Wharton School,
University o f Pennsylvania (mimeographed), RF.
47. Ibid.
48. Elton to Dorothea, 19 November 1922.
49. Elton to Dorothea, 24 November 1922.
50. Elton to Dorothea, 12, 24 November 1922.
51. Elton to Dorothea, 25, 26 November 1922.
52. Elton to Dorothea, 17 November 1922. N otes for Mayo’s talk are in MM 2.021
and MM 2.074. Many o f the ideas and illustrations appear in Elton Mayo, “The
Irrational Factor in Society and Irrationality and Revery,” Journal o f Personnel
Research 1, nos. 10, 11 (1923):419-26, 477-83.
53. Elton to Dorothea, 29 November, 2 December 1922.
54. Elton to Dorothea, 1, 2 December 1922. Mayo collected suicide and murder
reveries to illustrate his talks. He set down reveries o f ten men and nine women.
The cases were described by reference to the person’s marital status, age, oc­
cupation, racial type (North European, Nordic), eye color, and complexion.
Among men favored methods were a shot through the head, drowning, or jum p­
ing from a high place; among women, poisoning (gas, ether, morphine), drown­
ing, shooting, and electrocution. Mayo noted whether or not the suicide reveries
were accompanied by murder reveries. As a rule, murder reveries were denied;
in exceptional cases the desire to hurt another person was found more among
women than men. MM 3.013.
55. Elton to Dorothea, 4 December 1922.
56. Elton to Dorothea, 5, 7, 11, 13 December 1922.
57. Elton to Dorothea, 15 December 1922.
58. Elton to Dorothea, 18, 19, 20 December 1922.
59. Elton to Dorothea, 13, 17, 22 December 1922.
60. Elton to Dorothea, 17, 19, 20 December 1922.
61. Elton to Dorothea, 21 December 1922.
62. Elton to Dorothea, 9, 22, 24 December 1922.
63. Elton to Dorothea, 26 December 1922.
64. Elton to Dorothea, 27, 28 December 1922.
65. A summary o f the address appears in MM 2.049; Elton to Dorothea, 28 D ecem ­
ber 1922.
66. Elton to Dorothea, 29 December 1922.
67. Elton to Dorothea, 31 December 1922, 1 January 1923.
68. Elton to Dorothea, 1, 8, 20 January 1923.
69. Elton to Dorothea, 3 January 1923.
70. Elton to Dorothea, 5, 6 January 1923.
71. Elton to Dorothea, 11 January 1923.
72. Elton to Dorothea, 1, 2, 3, 7, 11 January 1923.
73. Elton to Dorothea, 11 January 1923.
74. Mayo to Willits, 17 January 1923, MM 1.099.
75. Ibid. A few days earlier Mayo had sent a similar letter to Ruml; Mayo to Ruml,
10 January 1923, RE
76. Mayo to Willits, 17 January 1923, MM 1.099.
7 7 .Ibid.
 To America 169

78. When he wrote to Ruml on the same point the arguments were more emphatic.
He claimed, “[my work] is going to sweep out o f existence the social psychology
o f McDougall, Graham Wallas, psychologists o f the crowd and herd (i.e. Tarde,
Durkheim, LeBon and Trotter) when it shows in individual instances that we are
dealing with highly organized irrationalities and em otions. The simple lists o f
instincts (McDougall), political impulses (Wallas), ‘desires’ (Knight Dunlap) all
become irrevelant when it is realized that we are dealing with highly complex
products o f developm ent by revery— different in each individual instance—
though capable o f being moulded to com m on action by a skilled orator.” Mayo
to Ruml, 10 January 1923, RE
79. Mayo to Willits, 17 January 1923, MM 1.099.
80. Mayo to Ruml, 10 January 1923, RE
81. Elton to Dorothea, 12 January 1923.
82. Elton to Dorothea, 13 January 1923.
83. See note 52 above.
84. Elton to Dorothea, 15 January 1923; Mayo to Ruml, 10 January 1923, RF.
85. Elton to Dorothea, 16 January 1923.
86. Woods and Ruml to Rockefeller, 17 January 1923, RF.
87. Elton to Dorothea, 17 January 1923.
88. Elton to Dorothea, 20 January 1923.
 10
Industrial Studies in Philadelphia

Mayo had a salary that would keep him and his family for six months,
and no guarantee of employment thereafter unless he demonstrated the
practical value of applying his psychological ideas to problems at work. So
he cabled the University of Queensland: “Opportunity lead in industrial
research: ask year’s extended leave without salary.”
With supporting cables from the National Research Council and its
associates, the precedent of two years leave without salary granted to the
professor of biology at the university, and a reputation for having enhanced
the university’s public image, Mayo thought the Senate would do as he
asked. It refused, and asked when he would return to duty. Mayo answered:
“Refusal unanticipated owing to request National Research Council and
Biology precedent com m itted four m onths work. Please suggest
compromise.”
There would be no compromise. The Senate cabled: “Special meeting
Senate general dissatisfaction expressed existing temporary arrangements
Philosophy Department. Necessary you resume duty forthwith or tender
your resignation. Cable your decision immediately.”
Mayo’s reply: “Regret Senate action compels resignation.”

In February 1923 Mayo resigned, and feared that by doing so his charac­
ter would be so blackened in Brisbane that stories would cross the Pacific
and hold up his attempts to become established.1 However, in three years
he became so well known for his ideas and research in industrial psychol­
ogy that he was called to Harvard University. Industrial research, personal
contacts, public addresses, lectures and informal talks, clinical cases, and
publications would contribute to his remarkably quick, sure and authorita­
tive rise to prominence in American academic life.
Mayo began to apply the new medical psychology to factory work. His
approach was to assume the factory was like a hospital of shell-shocked
soldiers who had to be examined for abnormalities in their attitude to life,
especially those that affected collaboration at work. The approach proved
to be too slow; it ignored problems in work organization as well as special
difficulties of the employer, and risked arousing suspicion among both
employers and employees.2

171
172 Elton Mayo

Mayo’s first venture was in the noisy, filthy engine room of C.H. Mas-
land & Sons, a textile manufacturer in North Philadelphia, where he told a
small group of workers much of what he had been saying to managers and
employers at Willits’s special dinners: contrary to the popular view, shell­
shocked soldiers, like mental patients, were curable; every year fifty thou­
sand Americans were put into mental asylums because they could not care
for themselves or achieve a satisfactory adaption to life; and, at that rate, in
ten years half a million people who had been apparently normal children
would be in an asylum before they were forty. Mayo asserted that work is
affected by irritability, depression, and other irrationalities; for many indi­
viduals the irrationalities pass, but in the mass they cumulate and fre­
quently cause breakdowns in group work. Psychopathologists showed that
the irrationalities, once thought to be inborn, began during a person’s
lifetime, appear as socially maladjusted actions and brooding, and are
exacerbated by poor opportunities for personal expression. Mayo argued
that in industry the irrationalities and their consequences should be stud­
ied to determine the degree that social and industrial organization had
contributed to them.
Mayo emphasized these observations, arguments, and proposals with
his theory of revery. The mind operates at four levels of consciousness—
concentration, revery, hypnoid state, sleep—and mental health depends on
the relation between concentration, which we use to test ideas against
observations, and revery, which we use to relax and allow the mind to work
of its own accord. In a genius, ideas born of revery are tested at the level of
concentration; but among neurotics revery is used as a refuge from con­
centration. Such individuals are led to a state of mental dissociation in
which no cooperation exists between revery and concentration, and the
two mental processes work in different directions. Two kinds of self de­
velop, and unhappiness and maladjustments ensue; they can be corrected
if taken in hand early by a psychiatrist. Conditions that cause the disin­
tegration of the self are varied; monotonous work can contribute to hostile
reveries, and work that requires close attention to detail can cause reveries
of resentment against a society that sets such terms for employment. Over­
work, then, is the result, not the cause, of nervous breakdown. When
concentration and revery are well integrated overwork is impossible; when
they are not, melancholic reveries can arouse feelings of insecurity, re­
bellion against authority and order, and radicalism. To help expose these
irrationalities and, consequently, remove the effects of fear, part of the
plant should be available for a modified form of psychopathological inves­
tigation that would collect data on mental problems at work and develop
solutions for application in the plant and other workplaces.3
Managers had often been attracted to Mayo’s ideas and presentation. On
this occasion Masland workers were so impressed that, with their em­
ployer’s consent, they called a meeting so more workers could hear Mayo.
 Industrial Studies in Philadelphia 173

They seemed keen for him to begin, so early in March he was given a noisy
corner of the factory where workers could consult him. Few took the
opportunity because most workers suspected he was there primarily to
promote Masland interests. This worried Mayo, for if not many wanted his
help and that fact was reported, Rockefeller funding would cease, he would
be forced to quit the University of Pennsylvania, and he would not be able
to support his family.
At the end of March Mayo was obliged to quit the factory anyway. A girl
who had had her clothes ripped off by a machine fainted at the sight of her
nakedness and was sent to Mayo to talk about her reaction. He first sought
advice from a woman social worker, and when the girl revealed how igno­
rant she was of her body, he offered her a book on the physiology of sex.4
One of the firm’s partners objected to Mayo’s action. Mayo saw his ap­
proach had overemphasized medical aspects of his work, and decided that
in future educational factors affecting factory life should be given closer
attention.
While he was at Masland Mayo had visted all departments, and some
clinical cases had come to him, e.g., paranoia, excessive headaches, aural
illusions, sexual fears, irrational radicalism. On a sociological level, he
observed hostility among skilled Americans toward unskilled Italian new­
comers who readily accepted low wages, general bitterness toward the com­
pany, and little or no interest or pride in work. And he believed that the
company would worsen further its labor relations if it continued a hostile
policy toward trade and labor organizations, and employee social life at
work.
Mayo was next employed briefly by the Philadelphia Textile Employers’
Association to study crime among workers, and the effect of Italian and
Polish communities on American workers. He found that the industry’s
criminals were mostly petty thieves, and many of them were Italians, Poles,
or European Jews; the few Americans among them tended to be hoboes,
derelicts, or “white trash.” He also found that members of the Italian
colony worked for less yet lived well and maintained large families even
so—a situation that aroused envy and hostility in American workers.
Two companies asked Mayo to reduce labor turnover, and in both he
struck difficult personality problems among managers. Melville G. Curtis,
president of Collins and Aikman Company, makers of plush, wanted to use
a psychological test to select prospective employees with the mental capac­
ity for work in the weaving department. It should be translated into Ger­
man, French, Italian, and Polish, and its scoring and interpretation
procedures so standardized that it could eliminate irrational factors from
problems in the personnel department, and eventually remove the need for
psychologists in the firm. Curtis instructed Mayo to tell his assistant to
standardize interview records, and to define the position, pay, tasks, and
hours of work of his assistant, Dr. Morris S. Viteles. Then Curtis accused
174 Elton Mayo

one of the assistants of advising a former employee to return to work after

having been dismissed for incompetence. Curtis wanted Mayo to be more
businesslike in his approach, advice that was anathema to Mayo; he prefer­
red to follow research wherever it led him. Soon it was clear to him that
Curtis feared that he might uncover defects in company organization that
led to high turnover. When Curtis actually closed avenues of inquiry that
Mayo had opened and took charge of his work, Mayo asked Willits’s leave
to withdraw from Collins and Aikman, saying that in future “I’ll know how
to handle Curtises better.”5
Mayo faced a conflict of personalities at the Miller Lock Company. E.S.
Jackson, fifty-six, senior controlling partner, managed sales; his brother,
A.C. Jackson, forty-one, controlled production. The latter had called in
vocational guidance and time-study experts to solve the firm’s problems by
finding a psychological test to eliminate the unfit hands before their re­
cruitment. Asked to discover why labor turnover was so high, Mayo found
it was because wages and morale were low, productivity had declined, hours
were long, most work demanded no skill and was monotonous, production
schedules were confused, tools were inadequate, quality control was poor,
and supervisors were frustrated and exasperated. And there was bad feeling
between the sales and production departments.
Mayo found the elder Jackson poorly educated, someone who had
learned business from his father. He regarded his brother—a civil engineer
well trained in business but dour and intractable—as a failure. The enmity
between the men put sales and producton at odds, to the detriment of
profits.
Mayo persuaded the brothers to allow the formation of an advisory
council composed of company executives to improve collaboration within
the company. The Jacksons were not to attend its meetings. Mayo sug­
gested to the council that, because the Jackson’s were incompetent man­
agers, any suggestions for improvements to the firm should be made by the
council as a body, not by individuals, and then only after full and careful
consideration of the probable consequences. After the council solved the
problem of quality control and brought greater order to production, Mayo
suggested several other managerial improvements, and it ended there.6
The most important of Mayo’s research was done at Continental Mills,
makers of woolen fabrics who had introduced a personnel department,
bonus schemes, sickness benefits, a savings arrangement, and various rec­
reations for workers. In the spinning department labor turnover was 250
percent, while in other departments the average was 5 to 6 percent. Why?
“My first case in the industrial nervous breakdown field. Heaven help us,”
Mayo wrote to his wife, “my first case in Brisbane was not more
important.”7
At Continental Mills Mayo’s approach differed from that he had used at
Masland. With strong support from the management he began inquiries,
 Industrial Studies in Philadelphia 175

not as a psychopathologist but as a visitor. Although he did not have to

persuade employees to seek his advice, he met some minor resistance at
first. So one day he brought a lunchbox and settled down to eat and talk
with them. The few who mistrusted him very soon saw he was genuinely
interested in their way of life.8
Mayo found that high turnover was typical of spinning departments in
other factories, so he studied closely the work and conditions. Five ten-
hour days a week spent at walking among machines, looking for broken
threads and then twisting them together, was monotonous. The only vari­
ety was machine breakdowns and replacements. Workers complained that
their legs were tired, and they showed neurotic disorders symptomatic of
the inability to relax fatigued muscles. Alcohol consumption was higher
among spinners than other workers, which indicated to Mayo that they
were driven to achieve muscular relaxation by the wrong method. He
found much evidence of pessimistic reveries. He concluded that the walk­
ing and stretching awkwardly across machines induced physical fatigue,
and this was exacerbated by the reveries.
Mayo discussed his observations with Madison Taylor, a prominent psy­
chiatrist, who diagnosed debility due to a sharp difference in blood pressure
between the upper and lower body. He recommended a modification of a
French army practice: soldiers marched in thirty-minute stretches inter­
spersed with ten-minute rests, during which they kept their feet raised.
Mayo’s suggested variant of alternating work and relaxation was tried not
in Continental’s spinning department but in another department. Produc­
tion rose 30 percent; the workers liked it; and the management praised its
“splendid results.”9 In May 1923 the results were used to show Ruml how
the research was progressing and he recommended to Rockefeller that he
fund Mayo for three years. From then on Mayo’s livelihood was secure.
Toward the end of September 1923, after working with the Jackson
brothers at the Miller Lock Company, Mayo returned to Continental Mills
to find that the rest-pause system had been adopted in several other depart­
ments. Althought results were generally good, he observed that women
sorters did not relax in the approved manner. Once they followed his in­
structions to lie down with their legs properly supported, their vigor and
the quality of their work improved. During moments away from their work
they would sit and talk with him. Mayo also learned that two months
earlier in the spinning department his ideas had been used with good
results all around: production increased; employee well-being improved;
and turnover fell.
As a psychologist, Mayo was more attentive to irrational ideas and
superstitions about work than to the immediate economic gains from regu­
lated relaxation. Tired workers experienced anxiety reveries about their
hearts, feet, arms, and knees; many went to quacks for treatment. Among
managers also fatigue led to unproductive and wasteful reveries. The chief
176 Elton Mayo

engineer, a good worker and normally popular, had violent temperamental

outbreaks due to reveries about his health and domestic problems. The
young and successful general manager reveried about his health to the
extent that he could report details of minor illnesses as far back as five
years. Even Colonel Brown, the senior partner, feared that trade unions
conspired to destroy industry. Workers, especially middle-aged workers at
monotous machine tasks dreaded the loss of health, and this was played
upon by union organizers.
Mayo learned shortly before Christmas 1923 that some men in the
spinning department had discontinued their rest pauses, and it was subse­
quently found that two head tenders had interfered with the system. Dur­
ing the period of their self-appointed control, employees became tired,
pessimistic, and less efficient, and absenteeism rose.10 Colonel Brown rein­
stated the rest periods, and cots were placed in the spinning rooms. He was
so impressed with the consequent fall in turnover and rise in productivity
that he put the whole firm at Mayo’s disposal for the intensive study of
individuals at work.
However favored a researcher Mayo had become, he soon learned the
management of Continental Mills was not entirely motivated by a humane
concern for workers. An uncertain market in the summer of 1925 curtailed
orders while inventories climbed. Employees were laid off and the work
week was cut. In most firms during slack times employees flocked to the
dispensary and mentioned reasons that they should be kept on the payroll,
but the Continental Mills dispensary was in the personnel department, and
people did not want to bring themselves to the attention of officers in that
way. Nevertheless, cases of tuberculosis, duodenal ulcer, and gangrene were
identified at the dispensary, and referred for diagnosis and treatment.
When he studied the total situation of the worker Mayo found that
problems at work often had domestic and curious cultural origins. For
example, the American working wife of an Italian employee had refused to
bear children for fear of being deserted during pregnancy, a not uncommon
practice. The husband became ill tempered, unwell, and developed a her­
nia; because the symptoms were unusual, he was diagnosed as psycho­
neurotic. After further inquiry Mayo found the m an feared an
impoverished old age because, unlike most Italian fathers, he would have
no children to support him. Further, Mayo ascertained that generally work­
ers’ sex instruction had been poor and that their attitudes toward sex were
irrational, with guilt about sex extensive. This ignorance combined with
superstitions about death, marriage, birth, and bad luck gave Mayo a fair
picture of the human factors affecting work. He was reminded of the fear of
Australian railway employees when management had uttered the words,
“Taylor system,” and effectively froze union members into a long strike in
August 1917.
 Industrial Studies in Philadelphia 177

Union members and their education had concerned Mayo in Australia;

in Philadelphia he followed this interest further and taught classes for the
Philadelphia Labor College from late 1923 to 1925. His ideas were wel­
comed and accepted, and many of his students talked with him about their
personal lives and business affairs. He learned from them how employers
had curbed labor organizations in response to an irrational fear of their
growth. As far as he could tell unions were not prospering to the extent that
management thought, nor were they conspiring as a unit to take control of
industry. Unions seemed caught between the general disapproval of man­
agers and the specific irrational demands of communists for a dictatorship
of labor. As a rule union members were looking to employers to develop
career paths. Many union members had good pay and a home; few had
cars. They could not be expected to follow militant communism as their
employers suspected.
Rather than consider the expectations of unions, managers had tried to
undermine unions wherever they began. For example, Mayo found that
Colonel Brown, paid favored employees to join a union and to determine
which employees attended meetings. One such employee, a steady worker,
was dismissed, to the detriment of the spinning department. In Mayo’s
view such a policy, based on irrational fear rather than evidence, would go
far toward duplicating the class warfare that long had dominated British
and Australian industrial relations. Eventually the unions would become
powerful in industry, and a political force that distorted the purpose of the
economy. Mayo recommended intelligent handling of the situation rather
than attempts at control by employers. The use of tests for intelligence,
trade skill, or vocational interest had also exacerbated labor relations, as
had the introduction of Taylorism for systematically defining tasks. Mayo
believed that scientific study of individuals and of human relationships at
work was required first; then the knowledge thereby acquired could be
applied to manage work and make it both humane and efficient. Industrial
leaders should take note of Graham Wallas’s The Great Society or Brooks
Adams’s Theory o f Social Revolutions, listen to what union members had
to say, and heed advice from employment managers and social scientists.11
During the next fifteen months Mayo extended his industrial studies in
Philadelphia in line with orientation of “total situation enquiry of a psy­
chopathologist in a mental clinic.”12 His aim was becoming clearer. He did
not intend to eliminate mentally distressed or psychopathological individ­
uals from the workplace, as did most psychologists who limited themselves
to techniques of selection and vocational guidance. Instead, Mayo in­
tended to discover how far past experience, home life, and work conditions
gave rise to obsessional reveries, which, in turn, eventuated in turnover,
radical views of society, inefficiency, and emotional malady. His first prob­
lems had been those of management. Now he wanted to study workers, but
178 Elton Mayo

there he was at a disadvantage. He was a stranger, had no office or rooms

from which to work, no assistants, and, sometimes, his attempts to study
some workers interfered with the productive work of others.
At the Miller Lock Company Mayo had seen how many problems could
arise in the study of workers. The company employed a registered nurse
and a doctor, but the doctor gave little attention to nonmedical aspects of
the employees’ lives. His special interest in heart conditions led to undue
emphasis on heart ailments. Another firm’s doctor was making a research
career for himself in industrial medicine, but he did not apply his results to
the factory workers at hand. Also, Mayo found that dispensary records
were usually kept in the files of the personnel department and were thereby
open to other office employees. Further, he considered the mental capaci­
ties of industrial nurses far too low. Mayo believed there should be a well-
qualified, intelligent nurse to listen reflectively to employees appearing at
the factory dispensary.
Mayo needed to establish his own employment conditions. At the Miller
Lock Company he had met a registered nurse whose skills were not being
used fully, so he tried to have her transferred to a similar post at the
Continental Mills. He needed, too, the regular services of a medical practi­
tioner because psychoneurotics required a medical examination before
undergoing psychopathological inquiry. And Mayo needed rooms, for
some of the people he was meeting wanted advice on private problems. His
Labor College classes were held in the Machinist’s Temple, and this was too
noisy. In 1924 he received funds to rent rooms in the Otis Building in
Philadelphia, to travel, and to hire secretarial and research assistants.
Mayo’s first assistant was Mrs. L.H. Gilbert, and in the fall of 1924 she
was succeeded by Emily Paysen Osborne, a registered nurse who would
assist him until June 1937.13 Miss Osborne joined the dispensary at Conti­
nental Mills and there recorded information about the personal attitudes,
home life, and adaptation to work of the workers who came for treatment.
Within eight months her confidential files contained one hundred cases.
The information was to be used to identify the early symptoms of fatigue in
specific departments, and to anticipate and help prevent widespread fa­
tigue. Mayo did not publish this feature of his work because he believed
that in its undeveloped form his work could be abused, and information
might be misused and arouse employee hostility.
Mayo’s ideas and practices attracted the interest of more and more
industrialists in Philadelphia, and he and his staff were sometimes asked to
study aspects of discipline. At the Chester plant of the Aberfoyle Textile
Company a curious problem was drawn to their attention. The firm
provided employees with amenities—country club, chiropodist, dentist,
medical help, social welfare services—and was particularly proud of its
democratic administration. Yet, the personal officer, Mrs. Stearns, was
overworked, and her attempts to deal with personnel problems came to
 Industrial Studies in Philadelphia 179

nothing. The democratization of work, which was of great interest to

Mayo, was the origin of her difficulties. She was on a workers’ committee
whose task was to recommend changes in factory methods and to provide
some control of the country club. There was no corresponding manage­
ment committee so the committee had to make recommendations and give
reasons directly to the executives involved, irrespective of their position in
the chain of command. This unworkable devolution of authority created
much busy work for Mrs. Stearns and showed her that the firm was not a
democratic organization at all but a multiplicity of minor autocracies. Its
amenities served to mask a conservative attitude to real changes in work
methods, and its resistance to changes was maintained by the usual culture
of the plant. Unknown to Mrs. Stearns, employees and executives tended
to have long-standing intimate acquaintance with one another; whatever
she recommended to raise efficiency would subsequently be blocked, pre­
sumably by actions occasioned by the friendships. Further, the country
club was being used, especially by the many young women in the firm, for
irregular liaisons, which, Mayo thought, was partly to blame for the un­
usually high incidence of psychiatric problems at the plant.
Inside the plant Mayo made interesting observations of the social con­
trol employees exercised over psychological problems of fatigue. In the
cone-winding department the number of attendants was raised from two to
three in the alleys between the rows of machines. Production rose but,
because the piece-rate payment system was unchanged, the employees
earned a little less. No one objected because the reduction in earnings was
slight, the job market was tight, and a third attendant eased the task. Also,
because mercerized thread did not break often during winding and thus
close attention was not necessary, many young women habitually broke the
monotony by congregating in the lavatory, where they scrawled obscenities
on the walls, gossiped, and read magazines.
The quilling department saw similar practices. There each person at­
tended one foot-operated machine that simultaneously wound 378 threads
onto bobbins. When the quality of the yarn fell, breaks were so frequent
that workers despaired, and to win in their contest with the machines
would develop foot trouble, take unauthorized rests by lying prone on the
foot board, of leave for another factory.
Mayo concluded that when appropriate rest pauses are not allowed for,
workers take breaks on their own that frequently create waste and admin­
istrative chaos. And when he found that in the past efficiency had been
highest when employees worked forty-eight instead of fifty-four hours a
week, he began to experiment with the introducton of systematic rest
pauses in one of the firm’s similar plants. Mayo’s assistant Rexford B.
Hersey published the research.14
Among Mayo’s early work in Philadelphia only the study at Continental
Mills showed the value of systematic rest pauses for productivity and mo­
180 Elton Mayo

rale. And it was the willfulness of the two head machine tenders rather than
Mayo’s systematic control and observation of the study that had led ul­
timately to such dramatic results. Mayo’s work for Masland, the Textile
Employers, Curtis, and the Jackson brothers came to nothing, and Hersey
wrote the Aberfoyle study. The early industrial work illustrates Mayo’s
interest in workers’ behavior and their life away from work rather than in
managers’ technical problems. Nevertheless by the summer of 1925 he had
established such a high reputation in industrial psychology that he was
brought to the attention of the dean of the newly organized School of
Business Administration at Harvard University. Mayo’s status had been
helped along by well-connected friends and acquaintances in a network
that spanned industry, education, finance, and psychiatry.

Notes

1. Minutes, Senate, University o f Queensland, 9 March 1923; Elton to Dorothea,

2, 7, 13 February 1923.
2. Elton Mayo, “The Method o f Research to Be Adopted,” n.d., MM 1.099.
3. Mayo to Willits, 14 May 1923, 2 RF; “Meeting o f Business Problems Group,” 24
February 1925, MM 2.060; Elton Mayo, “The Application o f Psychopathology
to Industry,” Van Ordsell report, MM 4.011; Elton to Dorothea, 6, 8-12, 19
February 1923.
4. Elton to Dorothea, 23, 26, 28 March 1923.
5. MM 4.008.
6. Mayo to Willits, 28 December 1923, RE
7. Elton to Dorothea, 12 April 1923.
8. Hockenberry to Trahair, 20 March 1975.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 28 May, 6, 7, 16 June 1923.
10. MM 4.034; Elton Mayo, “Revery and Industrial Fatigue,” Journal o f Personnel
Research 3 (1924):273-81.
11. MM 4.008.
12. Richard C. S. Trahair, “Elton Mayo and the Early Political Psychology o f Harold
D. Lasswell,” Political Psychology 3 (1981-82): 170-88.
13. Mayo to Jurgman, 11 April 1944, MM 1.068; Balash to Trahair, 20 October
1975.
14. Rexford B. Hersey, “Rests Authorised and Unauthorised,” Journal o f Personnel
Research 4 (1924):39-45.
 11
Philadelphia to Harvard

By May 1923, shortly before his family joined him, Mayo had an estab­
lished reputation in Philadelphia’s medical, academic, and business com­
munity. He gave many addresses between 1923 and 1925 on the
psychology of thinking, the role of physiology in mental integration, psy­
chology and psychiatry applied to work, and the measurement of fatigue at
work, many of which were published, as were popular articles on industrial
relations and marriage. He saw patients whom doctors referred to him, and
met Pierre Janet, whose ideas he would use for many years. Shortly before
going to Harvard, he attended the first of the Dartmouth conferences on
the social sciences.

Mayo’s industrial work developed with help from influential people who
respected his ideas and ability and sympathized with his feelings and clini­
cal orientation. Three early contacts were particularly helpful. H.H. Don­
aldson, medical specialist at Wistar Institute and president of the Lenape
Club at the University of Pennsylvania, and his wife often introduced
Mayo to respected medical men and associates of senior administrators in
prestigious universities.
Early in February 1923 Mayo began a close friendship with Frances
Colbourne, an ascetic, well-dressed, and good-looking single Englishwom­
an forty years of age. She had been a governess, and during her twelve years
in the United States had become a professional social worker. At first
uncertain, she soon warmed to Mayo’s English manner. He wrote to Dor­
othea that there was “something or other in her mental hinterland I can’t
describe.” During their four-month friendship, she listened with genuine
attention to his concern for his family’s future welfare, his financial prob­
lems, hopes, and plans. She introduced him to other social workers and to
sociology staff and students at Bryn Mawr, typed his papers, accompanied
him to movies and concerts, and advised him on life in the United States as
his family would experience it.1
Outside the university Mayo’s most valuable early medical contact was
S. DeWit Ludlum, who was a little older than Mayo, ran a private hospital,
held a position in the Neuropsychiatric Clinic of Philadelphia General
Hospital, and was one of the city’s leading psychiatrists. He liked Mayo’s

181
182 Elton Mayo

ideas on the application of psychology to industry, offered Mayo private

patients, and suggested that Mayo set himself up as a psychological con­
sultant. He also arranged for Mayo to spend Tuesday afternoons at the
hospital, insisted that he attend the clinic’s neurology and psychiatry meet­
ings, and put him up for membership in the University Club.2
Mayo did not become a consultant, but he did accept Ludlum’s other
suggestions and offers. Such sudden good fortune, especially in the medical
field, took its inevitable psychological toll.
If only this works out as it seems likely to— I’m so stupid, a foolish anxiety
reverie makes me afraid to trust good fortune. I must eliminate it. It is only a
revery, because when I’m in action I never question my capacity for fortune;
it is only when I sit back “to think”— I’ve given much time to the develop­
ment o f a theory o f revery since I got here, as you know. And I’m really trying
to organize my own reveries, i.e. I’m trying to cut out the disaster “reveries”
as useless. I’m no longer a Freudian, if I ever was one. We have to get beyond
Freud. . . . Ludlum liked my methods o f describing the psychopathologist’s
work and method— and said so— very nice o f him. . . . It’s very important to
get the backing o f the medical profession.3

Mayo’s enduring doubts about his relation with medical men were ban­
ished one day when Ludlum was absent from the hospital. The other
doctors walked the wards with him and talked over their cases, and the
director of the clinic, Franklin Ebough, offered him as many cases as he
could take. His joy at being accepted by them was doubled when he learned
that they had been trained at, or were closely associated with, institutions
that were highly respected by Brisbane doctors. Within a few weeks Mayo
had a niche in Philadelphia that had been denied him in Australia. There
were dinners with the “bloods of Philadelphia” and contacts with profes­
sional writers, architects, sociologists, anthropologists, industrial psychol­
ogists, rich businessmen, and politicians. By the time Ruml and his
associate visited the University of Pennsylvania in May 1923 to see how
Mayo’s research had progressed, he was so well established that they recom­
mended that Rockefeller give him funds for three more years.
Mayo’s industrial work also benefited from the opportunities he was
given to address informal groups and professional associations whose inter­
est lay in applied psychology. Mayo read to the Franklin Institute a paper of
a colleague on the relation between modern physics and psychology, and
was able to handle discussion afterward, although much of the paper had
been difficult to follow. He spoke, too, at Princeton, and at a conference on
mental hygiene in Wilkes-Barre.4 Mayo talked to a women’s club, and
attended a meeting on prison reform held by the American Academy of
Political and Social Sciences.5 A week after he had spoken to his first group
of workers at Maslin’s factory, he turned the ideas into an address that
much impressed several audiences.6 He had his thoughts mimeographed as
“The Application of Psychopathology to Industry” for a university course
 Philadelphia to Harvard 183

for works managers.7 He put the ideas to more of Willits’s businessmen,

among whom were the Pharisees, a group of elderly and distinguished Jews
who held him for an hour’s discussion. Also, Mayo spoke on psychology to
students and professors at Byrn Mawr.8
One of Mayo’s most important audiences was Philadelphia’s Psychiatric
Society; his topic, “Total Situation in Health and Psychoneurosis.”9 Al­
though his ideas on mental life were unchanged, he introduced an element
to his reasoning about linking psychopathology with an understanding of
the individual’s adjustment to the social and physical environment: phys­
iology. For many years it was essential in arguments to gain support for his
industrial work and was the means by which his approach won general
respect in medical circles. Ludlum, at whose invitation Mayo had ap­
peared, had expected a pro-Freudian address and was cheered that two
elderly anti-Freudians congratulated Mayo.
The address assumes that psychological theories are not useful unless
they are related to physiological evidence. Psychology concerns the per­
son’s relation with the environment, and physiology concerns the internal
balance of the organism. Because the approaches supplement each other,
their joint study is mandatory.
With regard to the internal balance of the organism, Mayo quoted stud­
ies by Sherrington and Head showing that the psychological state of con­
sciousness is a physiologically integrated response of the organism to a
stimulus. With regard to the relation of the organism to the environment,
behaviorists Watson and Holt show that responses to stimuli are them­
selves an integration of reflexes functioning in relation to the stimulus
situation. The integration of the response is, on its inner or subjective side,
what is known as understanding of the surroundings. Accordingly, if func­
tional disorders are seen as failures to respond adequately to one’s early
environment, the cases of many noted psychopathologists can be partly
explained, e.g., cases where physiological changes are induced through
suggestion. Among normal people in the civilization the inherited plas­
ticity of the nervous system reaches a compromise with the particulars of
specialized education. Thus, one is not born sane; sanity is a physiological
and psychological balance that is achieved or missed by the individual in
growth to adulthood.
Confusions in psychological research and theory are due to the lack of
integration between competing claims of academic psychology, psycho­
pathology, and behavioristic psychology. Physiology can help the integra­
tion because it depicts the individual’s total situation rather than settling
on one of the primary urges. But people find this integration difficult
because it varies at each level of consciousness—concentration, revery,
hypnoidal state, and sleep—e.g., the shell-shocked soldier who, afraid of
the dark, sleeps when lights are on and wakes immediately when they are
switched off. So even at low levels of awareness we are consciously directed
184 Elton Mayo

to the total situation and then to a particular stimulus. Sherrington’s ideas

on nervous facilitation and inhibition correspond with the assertion that
consciousness is an achieved orientation to the world rather than a thought
process, as the stream of consciousness theorists imply.
In psychology, Mayo continued, the mind comprises everyday thought
embedded in a field of consciousness or mental hinterland. The mind
becomes unique when subject to concentration, attentive thought, discrim­
ination, and habits over a lifetime. Failure to learn and overcome childish
impulses means the individual has not achieved the necessary integration
of levels of consciousness. This parallels Sherrington’s idea on normal
growth and physiological integration of the nervous system. Psychiatrists
show that education comes by way of revery as much as concentration.
Functional disorders are due to misuse of revery, and psychoanalysis is a
way to discover unacknowledged and repressed reveries. Because of its
close relation to physiology, the psychology of the total situation is the
preferred approach in psychopathology.10
In the summer of 1924 Mayo was invited to Woods Hole to see the
biological research of Dr. E.G. Conklen of Princeton, and to address Con-
klen’s Sunday forum on “Primitive Thinking in Modern Society.”11 The
address included material for his paper “The Persistence of Primitive Ideas
in Industry,” which, with Dr. E.A. Bott (University of Toronto) and Charles
S. Myers (National Institute of Industrial Psychology, Britain), he would
give at a conference of the Toronto Chamber of Commerce. The paper
argues that because people respond adequately but differently to the same
situation, only psychological ideas can account for variation in meanings
people attach to the situation. Mayo distinguished academic from medical
psychology, outlined the ideas of Janet, Jung, Freud, Sidis, and Morton
Prince, and concluded that revery, or dispersed thinking, plays as impor­
tant a part in determining behavior as does concentration. The first in­
cludes primitive ideas; the second, logical ideas. A sound mental life is
achieved by a balanced integration of the two forms of thought and their
respective contents. Mayo illustrated the primitive ideas of revery with case
material from Freud, personal friends, and his daughter Toni and her imag­
inary playmates Ernest and Fred. He argued that revery of an experience
rather than the experience itself provides the meaning of situations for an
individual.
The ideas were not new, but the illustrations show him broadening his
ideas to include anthropological as well as psychological research. He re­
ferred to the thinking style of savages studied by Pitt-Rivers and Mal­
inowski, and his own observations in West Africa, and compared
primitives’ ideas with the superstitions of apparently civilized Phila­
delphians, the ideologies of communist agitators, children’s nursery and
fairy stories, and ancient Egyptian religious and magical ceremonies.
In September 1924 he was invited by L. L. Thurstone to discuss psycho­
 Philadelphia to Harvard 185

logical methods of approach to political problems at the second annual

meeting of the Political Science Association. There he renewed his ac­
quaintance with Charles E. Merriam, and attracted his interest with a
combination of anthropological, physiological, and psychological work
that could be applied to politics.12
At Woods Hole Mayo had been introduced to Dr. G.H.A. Clowes, ad­
ministrator of the research department of Eli Lilley and Company, a phar­
maceutical manufacturer in Indianapolis. Clowes agreed that the methods
of anthropology and psychopathology could be applied to industry, so he
invited Mayo to look over the research department. Mayo found the same
difficulties he had found in Chester and Germantown: the productive ca­
pacity of the worker was related directly to the amount of fatigue caused by
the work and the type of revery it provoked.13
Central to Mayo’s industrial research was the treating of cases that ap­
peared in the factory. At the Neuropsychiatric Clinic of the Philadelphia
General Hospital the director and chief resident psychopathologist, Frank­
lin Ebough, wanted Mayo to take cases and join the staff in case discussion;
in return for Mayo’s assistance, Ebough agreed to handle pronounced prob­
lems of mental ill health referred by Mayo from industrial settings, and to
arrange for help from social workers and welfare agencies.14
Mayo was also encouraged to take a few nonmedical cases for a fee. At
Ludlum’s private hospital, Gladwyne Colony, Mayo’s first case was a mel­
ancholic in his sixties whom no one had been able to help. Mayo quickly
established that an anxiety neurosis was making a sin of a sexual encounter
with a spinster more than forty years ago. At Ebough’s clinic Mayo helped a
woman and two epileptics, and Ruml sent Mayo a twenty-year-old man
from New York for counseling.15
Also, Mayo arranged for scholars to visit and exchange ideas on theory
and problems in clinical work. Leonard Outhwaite, a former editor of
Journal of Personnel Research, brought ideas from his practical knowledge
of industry and anthropology. Josephine Gleeson (Vassar) and L.L.
Thurstone (Chicago) learned about Mayo’s techniques in clinical psycho­
pathology at Ludlum’s hospital. Mrs. Taber welcomed the visitors to the
clinic at Philadelphia General Hospital.
At that time Mayo was beginning to clarify his ideas on clinical psychol­
ogy by applying what he learned from clinical cases to current theories. He
rejected as superficial and invalid the Bleuler-Jung labeling of hysteria as a
form of extraversion, and dementia praecox as introversion. In hysteria,
Mayo thought, the symptoms are determined by mental preoccupations,
and the voluntary and autonomic nervous systems are so abnormally re­
lated that organic needs and physiological processes are not integrated.
Mayo recommended the study of obsessional neurotics because, unlike
hysterics and dements, they were better integrated mentally and phys­
iologically, and could be more easily treated. He believed that the compara­
186 Elton Mayo

tive study of obsessionals, hysterics, and dements would show the nature of
the integration of their voluntary and autonomic nervous systems, their
different patterns of mental preoccupations, and the various conditions
under which cooperation of the p a tie n t could be achieved in
psychotherapy.
Mayo wrote of his treatment of an hysteric, a twenty-eight-year-old fac­
tory worker, that the hypnotized man was put before a fluorescent screen:
“His stomach was much relaxed, but when I began to talk to him about a
fear he had of malignant disease in his wife his stomach went into a violent
spasm. Judged by his outward appearance, he was apparently undisturbed
and continued in the somnambolic conditions. I then explained away his
fears and reassured him and his stomach returned to relaxation.”16
In the factory Mayo found that separating the hysteric from the healthy
person was a problem. Knowing the hysteric’s voluntary and autonomic
nervous systems were not well integrated, Mayo and Miss Osborne de­
veloped a technique that seemed effective: they watched the pupillary ac­
commodation in the eyes of the worker; if it was out of relation with the
light stimulus—and organic disorder was not indicated—there was the
possibility of hysteria. In one case Mayo noticed that the small pupils in the
eyes of a working girl dilated immensely when she went outside into bright
light. In his experience such symptoms were not found in obsessional
adults.
Mayo wanted to probe the origins of hysteria by studying how traces of
the disorder in childhood persist into adulthood. He believed that princ­
iples governing the physiology of growth and the psychology of small ad­
justments interacted and produced a more or less functionally integrated
organism. Here, he thought, was the fundamental problem of psychiatry.
Physiologically the problem began once the myelinization of the nervous
system was complete, and psychologically it began when surroundings
were more or less suitable for the infant to integrate the autonomic and
voluntary nervous systems. These ideas were not carried forward in Phila­
delphia but were essential to his early teaching at Harvard.
When Mayo began industrial research he was not certain that his ideas
and skills would provide enough money to support the family, so he wrote
for an income as well as to establish his professional position. His early
professional writing included “Irrationality and Revery,”17 the sequel to
“The Irrational Factor in Society.” The second article integrates the mate­
rial from his report to Willits, addresses businessmen and psychiatrists,
and uses illustrations from Australia and the United States. Both articles
introduce his empirical research of later years. He also published “Supersti­
tions,” which asserts that many curious beliefs found in Africa, Australia,
New Guinea, and Samoa may be found in Philadelpha, e.g., if a bird flies
into and out of a house, a death in the family is imminent; if a visitor enters
a house by one door and leaves by another, disaster will befall its occupants;
 Philadelphia to Harvard 187

if a woman enters a coal mine, tragedy will ensue. Even educated individu­
als are prey to superstitions: a clergyman carries a potato in his pocket to
ward off rheumatism; a basketball team refuses to launder its jerseys lest
their luck be washed away. A civilized person stifles a yawn in the interests
of good manners; a New Guinea male does so to stop his soul from leaving
his body.18
The articles were summarized in “The Irrational Factor in Human Be­
haviour—The ‘Night-Mind’ in Industry.”19The night-mind corresponds to
the mental hinterland, and its role is illustrated with many examples, par­
ticularly from Mayo’s first investigation in the spinning department of
Continental Mills. The article was in a special issue, “Psychology in Busi­
ness,” of the journal of the American Academy of Political and Social
Science, of which Willits was the associate editor. The other countributors
were thirty of the leading American applied psychologists, among them,
Jam es M cKeen C attell, K night Dunlap, R obert Yerkes, A rthur
Kornhauser, Walter Bingham, L.L. Thurstone, Charles Yoakum, and Mor­
ris Viteles. So by the middle of June 1923, Mayo had become well-estab­
lished in industrial psychology.20
Mayo decided to broaden his audience to include the readers of popular
magazines. He engaged a literary agent, Mathilde Weil, under whose guid­
ance he worked on five articles that would be republished as The Secret
Gardens of Childhood: “The Invisible Playmates”; “The Perilous Adven­
ture”; “Enchanted Forest”; “The Garden of Fear”; and “The Difficult
Problem of Education.”21 The series was intended to help parents under­
stand the context in which their children developed, and the material and
drawn from anthropology and normal psychology. Mayo made extensive
notes and outlines, but no articles were finished, nor was a book published.
The ideas were an amalgam of observations on his daughter Patricia when
she was recovering from her illness, the children of distressed parents
whom he had helped in Adelaide and Brisbane, illustrations from his psy­
chology lectures at the University of Queensland, and ideas appearing in
his American publications particularly the “night-mind” summary of his
work. Another article he planned was “The American Girl and Marriage,”
about problems of true romance for young women who worked in Phila­
delphia’s textile industry.
The effort to establish himself was tiring and often during his absence
from his family Mayo would reflect upon the appropriateness and value of
his activities. Money worries overwhelmed him, and his inability to sleep
made for pessimistic reveries about his own worth, especially in gaining
acceptance of his factory work research and thus his ability to support his
family. The circle of hard work, fatigue, pessimism, and either a conviction
of his own sin or hatred of the people in Brisbane who had not wanted to
recognize his work, was periodically broken when Frances Colbourne
heard him out, or Ludlum arranged for some consulting for him, or Willits
188 Elton Mayo

praised what he was doing, or a stranger remarked on his English

characteristics.
Much of his anxiety was allayed by the anticipation of his family’s ar­
rival. He wrote to Dorothea each day, told her his money worries, outlined
his scheme for her to land in Vancouver, cross Canada by train, and enter
the United States from Toronto. To make them welcome, he rented a
cottage at Cape May for the summer. Mayo went to meet them in Toronto,
only to find nothing he could do would bend the official rule controlling
entry to the country. For a month he went to see them there on weekends,
then sought help from powerful political friends. He and the family were
joined toward the end of June in 1923, after almost twelve months of
separation. In Philadelphia they rented a furnished house, and about two
years later, in August 1925, they moved to the Colonial Inn, Bryn Mawr,
because Dorothea, who had become obsessive about tidiness and cleanli­
ness, found the task of maintaining a house beyond her. The girls went to
the Baldwin School.22
By the middle of 1925, when he was assured of a career in industrial
psychology, Mayo began to integrate his ideas on the value of several disci­
plines for the study of work, particularly fatigue at work. His problem was
to find a reliable and valid measure of fatigue that was independent of the
individual’s statement of feeling, and of readily observable behavior. Two
colleagues helped him, Ludlum and Ellice McDonald.
In May 1925 Ludlum and McDonald published “The Mechanisms of
Disease,” an article to which Mayo would often refer in addresses, writings,
and research reports and proposals.23 The authors defined disease as a
deviation from the proper balance between the vagus and the sympathetic
parts of the vegetative nervous system that control the unconscious proc­
esses of the body, e.g., lungs, heart, pupils, intestines. The vagus inhibited
heart action, and stimulated action of the intestines and pupils. The sym­
pathetic stimulated the heart, and inhibited action of intestinal muscles.
The authors asserted that mental disorders were correlated with the degree
of integration of the two parts of the vegetative nervous system. Indicators
of mental disorder that unconsciously affected the system were unusual
dilation of the pupils, involuntary spasms in the stomach, or extremes of
blood pressure.
Mayo used all three indicators in his case work, but became particularly
interested in blood pressure. He needed a measure of how people differed
in their response to similar work, how different work affected one individ­
ual, and how one individual’s reaction to work varied as the workday pro­
gressed. Measurement of blood pressure provided an index of heart action,
i.e., a physiological process related to work effort over which one has no
conscious control.
To measure blood pressure two readings are taken: when the heart is
forcing blood into the arteries, the systolic pressure, and when the heart is
 Philadelphia to Harvard 189

briefly inactive, the diastolic pressure. Normally they are about 118 and 78,
respectively, and the difference, 40, is the pulse pressure. As a person begins
to work, both readings rise; when the person is adjusted to work, they fall.
Variations in rise and fall are determined by health. If the person is sick,
unfit, or anxious, the systolic reading remains high, the diastolic pressure
begins to fall, the tone of the arterial system decreases, and so does capacity
for work. Increasing pulse pressure indicates this. Mayo knew that what
people felt or said about their work was not always a good estimate of how
well they were suited to it. So blood pressure was a way to find out how true
fatigue could be measured, in the hope that, later, some methods of mini­
mizing fatigue could be developed.24
Mayo also thought blood pressure readings would be useful in studying
mental disorder. He believed Ludlum and McDonald had found that ob­
sessive individuals could be identified by the failure of their blood pressure
to rise when they got up from lying down.25 And he found the same phe­
nomenon among workers toward the day’s end. This showed that during a
day’s work normal individuals could become like obsessives, and that this
sometimes occurred even when no other symptoms of fatigue were present.
From Pierre Janet’s work, Mayo saw that as an individual became less able
to maintain the organic tension needed for work he began to be obsessive,
i.e., he perceived inaccurately events and conditions in the immediate
work environment, he oscillated in his capacity to decide, hallucinated,
and confused his experience of inner and outer reality. In summary, as
working conditions diminished the normal individual’s capacity for
organic tension, measurable in terms of blood pressure readings, obsessive
reveries could emerge. The appropriate treatment for fatigue among nor­
mal people is rest and proper relaxation, but in the genuine obsessive the
symptoms would persist unless psychopathological treatment was given.
In integrating the work of Ludlum and McDonald with that of Janet,
Mayo had a physiological and psychological theory of fatigue as well as a
precise measure of bodily change to correlate with feeUngs, thoughts, and
behavior about work. A further stimulus to Mayo’s industrial work came
when he learned that Janet would visit the United States.
In 1925 the French government delegated Janet to be an exchange pro­
fessor to Mexico.26 Early in August Mayo invited him to address doctors
and psychologists in Philadelphia on depression and happiness. Although
Janet had visited the United States three times before, his ideas had not
been given the same publicity as had been given to those of the psycho­
analysts. Mayo enthused over Janet’s visit, and Janet agreed to allow him to
check the translation, by one of Morton Prince’s students, of Les Nevroses.
When Janet arrived, credit for attracting such a notable was given not to
Mayo but to the famous clinic at Philadelphia General Hospital where
Ludlum worked. At the clinic Janet discussed cases, traced developments
in psychiatry over the last twenty years, and raised topics essential to
190 Elton Mayo

Mayo’s work by declaring that “many men who can make bargains and
carry on mercantile activities, nevertheless lack the experimental mind
and can neither reflect nor learn by experience.”27
Before Janet’s visit Mayo was invited to the first of six conferences that
helped stage the development of the social sciences in the United States.
Early in 1924 Beardsley Ruml had suggested an informal meeting of social
scientists to discuss the directions that research might take. Mayo replied
with a paper, “A New Way of Statecraft,” that included his critique of
modern democracy, a recommendation to study Machiavelli’s Prince, and
warm support for “an informal collection of appropriate men at some
seashore or country place for purposes of conversation (no papers).. . . [It]
needs a good clear-headed student of social happenings to hold the thing
together . . . [and] beware of sentimentalists, socialists, reactionaries or
anyone who knows the solution of anything.” The discussions should lead
to research, and the research should be used to train “diplomatists—inter­
national and industrial.”28 A year later the Laura Spelman Rockefeller
Memorial Foundation planned for August the first of the gatherings vari­
ously called the “Dartmouth,” “Hanover,” or “Summer” conferences, to
explore the social sciences for views that would advance both science and
the common welfare. Mayo was one of the first invited to contribute by the
organizer, L.L. Thurstone, who thought him to be an “excellent catalytic
agent,” even though he never got to the point of stating details of a research
project.29 Mayo was pleased to accept and, after discussion with Ruml,
agreed to take up the general topic of psychology and social science.30
Among the contributors were Angell, Wissler, and Dodge from Yale; Bott
from Toronto; McFie Campbell, Gay, and Wells from Harvard; Walter
Bingham from the Personnel Research Foundation; the New York psychia­
trist G. V. Hamilton; Wolfgang Kohler from Clark; Charles E. Merriam and
C.J. Herrick from Chicago; and G.M. Stratton and Robert S. Woodworth
from the National Research Council.
During discussions Mayo contributed to a broad range of topics and
demonstrated his skill as an intellectual catalyst and imaginative integrator
of diverse fields of expertise. His colleagues clapped appreciatively when he
outlined his ideas. He introduced the subject of orgasms among French
prostitutes (Havelock Ellis), and the importance of orgasms for marital
stability. Later he argued that psychopathological behavior, sexual or other­
wise, was related to the adequacy of orgasm, and the conditions affecting
both were medical, domestic, industrial, political, and social. Through his
long discussions the general thesis centers on conditions promoting inte­
gration of the individual, i.e., the “total situation” viewpoint. He advo­
cated scientific research, reflection, and discussion among scientists with
clinical and experimental expertise in chemistry, biology, physiology, psy­
chology, psychiatry, medicine, and anthropology. He used ideas from re­
cent work in all the fields to identify critical differences between hysterics
and obsessionals.
 Philadelphia to Harvard 191

Mayo’s address “Psychology and Social Science” was toward the end of
the conference. He brought together his colleague’s contributions to the
conference, and recommended collaboration among his fellows for the
general application of psychology to social problems from his “total situa­
tion” viewpoint. He used his characteristic technique of integrating op­
posites, turning common conceptions on their heads, and inviting fresh
alternatives in frequent and sometimes outrageous combinations of ideas.
His opening statement:
To the many things that have been said this week o f scientific investigation I
have only one to add— not by way o f criticism but as an insignificant addi­
tion. That is that science is a lunatic adventure— lunatic because the adven­
turer voluntarily leaves the paths o f rest, com m odity and reputation in order
to voyage the unchartered seas o f his own dark ignorance. Such a voyage
inevitably involves privation in respect o f comfortable thinking; the wander­
ing knight is made to feel, socially, the consequences o f his folly. So counsel
with his fellows is o f high benefit; it seems to extend and confirm the adven­
ture. The greatest danger is always that paths o f ease may lure the wanderer
from his quest. The discovery o f associates as in the Pilgrim’s Progress cannot
but intensify the depth and dream o f his desire.31

Mayo closed with a strong recommendation that anthropologists could

contribute to social sciences. He argued it was not the case, as Merriam had
said, that anthropologists were wanting to be shown by psychologists the
new and proper directions for research but, rather, that anthropologists
were replacing psychologists, particularly the faculty psychologists with the
“total situation” approach. Mayo’s views were stong enough to ensure that
his friend Bronislaw Malinowski was invited to the next Hanover con­
ference.32 Mayo enjoyed the conference, its content he found rewarding
and entertaining, and its membership placed him with eminent men,
many of whom he had known only by name.33
Mayo’s reputation as an expert on the psychodynamics of family life was
spreading. In October 1925 he was a speaker at a Child Study Association
Conference in Philadelphia with David S. Muzzey of Columbia University,
Miriam Van Waters, and C.W. Kimmins from Britain. Mayo spoke on the
meaning of freedom for the child, advocating that parents furnish the
unknown background to their children’s lives with reassurance and a feel­
ing of safety, thus ridding the children of fear and providing them with the
ability to order their own method of managing reality.34
Success in public presentations and discussions was accompanied by
success in writing. In the second half of 1923, when Ruml and associates
decided that they would continue to fund Mayo’s research, he published
three papers.35 In 1924 he published two professional papers, two popular
articles, and an address, “Mental Hygiene in Industry,” to Philadelphia’s
College of Physicians, which received laudatory comment from the discus­
sant, Dr. Charles W. Burr.36 The first research paper reports part of his
address on research at Continental Mills and was delivered at the psychol­
192 Elton Mayo

ogy section of the Toronto meeting of the British Association for the Ad­
vancement of Science. The second research paper emphasizes the psychol­
ogy of the total situation and was originally presented to the Taylor Society
in New York.37 One popular article, “Civilization—The Perilous Adven­
ture,” repeats what he had said and written on similarities in the mental
lives of savages, children, neurotic adults, and those who would destroy
society because of the distressingly inhuman conditions of their work. The
other article, “Civilized Unreason,” repeats ideas in his 1919 book, Democ­
racy and Freedom, i.e., it argues for a science of society, criticizes inept
politicians, and raises the importance of parents and teachers in promoting
normal development and controlling infantile reveries. It was reprinted in
the second edition of K.A. Robinson’s Essays Towards Truth, along with
contributions from philosophers such as Bertrand Russell.38
In 1925 Mayo published two more popular articles and a disarming
open letter to a critic, and saw his Toronto paper published in Britain.39
The first popular article, “The Great Stupidity,” includes ideas on indus­
trial conflict and the need for research, and one of its points was sharply
criticized by Robert W. Bruere, associate editor of The Survey.40 First
Bruere praised Mayo:

N o one has penetrated closer to the center o f the industrial conflict than Mr.
Mayo, no one has more lum inously defined its character. The psychological
technique o f which he is master is as indispensable to the development of
human relations in industry as the earlier technique o f Frederick W. Taylor
has proved to be in the developm ent o f the science and art o f administration
and management. . . . Mr. Mayo’s work has been widely recognized as having
much o f the pioneering quality o f Taylor’s.

But Bruere could not agree with Mayo’s conclusion that the happy fu­
ture of American industry “would seem to depend upon the intelligence of
employers and employers’ associations . . . [in] anticipating the unioniza­
tion of industry, by making it unnecessary.” Bruere believed that the con­
clusion urged one party in industry to do away with its self-governing
opposition, and that doing so would fuel, not extinguish, “the fires of
obsessional irrationality.” Here was the first critic to accuse Mayo of a bias
against unions.
In reply Mayo admitted that his article could be misunderstood, agreed
with Bruere’s sentiments, and offered not a general but a specific solution
to industrial conflict, i.e., scientific research of problems in industrial rela­
tions. The management “open shop” policy against compulsory unioniza­
tion would only raise industrial conflict and support the historic develop­
ment and purpose of unions. Mayo did not intend, as Bruere thought, that
every right be conceded to employer organizations and that unions be
ruled out; but, because the United States had not endured a long and bitter
class struggle between labor and capital, it could “intelligently anticipate
 Philadelphia to Harvard 193

that dichotomy between employer and employed which vexed and vexes
Europe” and encourage unionism to grow not from a base “of instability
and uncertainty” but to a “continuing means of stability and security”
This task, as Mayo would repeat often, may be carried out if executives
improve their understanding of themselves and workers, and acquire the
skills needed to administer cooperative rather than competitive relations in
industry.
A fourth popular article earned Mayo a wider readership. “Should mar­
riage be monotonous? Of course it should,” he wrote in the September
issue of Harpers.41 In a breezy style he turned conventions about marriage
upside down. He attacked rather than idealized romance, illustrated his
points with psychoneurotic cases, and concluded that among young people
unhappiness in marriage was due to their parents’ repudiation of monot­
ony. Also, marital unhappiness is a product of urbanization; women are
isolated and lonely at home, domestic duties become drudgery, and they
and their men lead distressing functionless lives that lack a sense of com­
munity. Finally, among young people an overemphasis on sex combined
with its continous suppression confuses the proper relation between love
and erotic experiences in marriage; and neither sexual promiscuity nor
severe restraints on sex is a panacea. Mayo cited many women who were
dissatisfied in love and marriage, blaming poor sex education at home and
in the schools, and the obsessional reveries on sex in modern magazines
and movies. By monotony in marriage Mayo meant the reliability, trust,
sympathy, and understanding that he thought were essential for the great
adventure of marriage.
The article drew many letters of praise. Distressed women sought
Mayo’s help, and he referred them to G.V. Hamilton, the psychiatrist
whom he had met at the Dartmouth conference.42 Congratulations came
from Joseph Willits, who promised to save a copy for his wife, and high
praise came from a doctor to whom Mayo had referred an anxious patient,
and also from the editor of Social Health.43 A nurse wrote recommending
the article to all young people; another reader added more illustrative
cases; an anxious woman asked Mayo whether or not her having mastur­
bated as a girl would wreck her marriage; and another woman wanted to
have the article enlarged for publication as a book.44 The article was re­
printed in the December issue of the American Journal o f Social Hygiene.
Those who liked the article said it was timely, interesting, much needed, of
tonic quality, cleverly written, graceful, first-rate thinking, sane, sure, and
authoritative. But others, like Pierre Janet’s cousin, were merely “amused”
and had “reservations”.45
Except for a brief essay on the value of psychiatry for the study of
human factors at work,46 the “marriage” article was Mayo’s last publication
before he was called to the Graduate School of Business Administration at
Harvard University.
194 Elton Mayo

Notes
1. Elton to Dorothea 2, 5, 11, 23 February, 3, 27-30 March, 4, 8, 14, 20, 23 April,
13 May 1923.
2. Elton to Dorothea, 23, 26, 28 February, 6 March 1923.
3. Elton to Dorothea, 26 February 1923.
4. Mayo to Ruml, 25 January 1923, RF.
5. Elton to Dorothea, 23 February 1923.
6. Elton to Dorothea, 1 March 1923.
7. Mayo to Willits, 14 May 1923, RF.
8. Elton to Dorothea, 10, 23 March 1923.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 8, 11 May 1923.
10. Elton Mayo, “Total Situation in Health and Psychoneurosis,” May 1923, MM
2.049.
11. MM. 2.057.
12. Richard C.S. Trahair, “Elton Mayo and the Early Political Psychology o f Harold
D. Lasswell,” Political Psychology 3, 1982, pp. 171-88.
13. Mayo to Willits, April 1925, RF; MM 1.099.
14. Mayo to Willits, 14 May 1923, RF.
15. Elton to Dorothea, 3 March, 3 April, 6 June 1923.
16. Mayo to Willits, April 1925, RF; MM 1.099.
17. Elton Mayo, “Irrationality and Revery,” Journal o f Personnel Research 1, no. 11
(1923):47 3-83.
18. Elton Mayo, “Superstitions,” Continental Pathfinder (Continental Mills, Ger­
mantown, Philadelphia) 1 (1923): 5.
19. Elton Mayo, “The Irrational Factor in Human Behaviour: The “Night M ind’ in
Industry,” Annals o f the A cadem y o f Political and Social Sciences 110 (1923):
117-30. ‘
20. Elton to Dorothea, 13 June 1923.
21. MM 2.056 Elton to Dorothea 2, 5, 8, 15, 17, 23 April, 17 May 1923.
22. Elton to Dorothea, 2 M arch-16 June 1923; Patricia Elton Mayo to Trahair, 24
November 1975.
23. Stanley D. Ludlum and Ellice E. M cDonald, “The Mechanism o f Disease,”
M edical Journal and Record, 20 May 1925, pp. 1-14, MM 3.045.
24. MM 3.007.
25. MM 2.003.
26. Henri F. Ellenberger, The D iscovery o f the Unconscious: The H istory and Evolu­
tion o f D ynam ic Psychiatry (New York: Basic Books, 1970), p. 345.
27. Janet to Mayo, 19 September, 14 December 1925; Mayo to Allen, 30 September
1925; Philadelphia Public Ledger, 14 October 1925, MM 1.050.
28. Ruml to Mayo, 15 March 1924, plus enclosures, RF; Trahair, “Elton Mayo.”
29. Ford to Thurstone, 1 July 1925; Thurstone to Ford, 7 July 1925, RF.
30. Mayo to Ford, 24 July 1925, and related documents, RF.
31. Transcript o f the conference, pp. 58-61, 189-204, 243-41, RF; notes in MM
2.075.
32. G. W. Stocking, Jr., “Clio’s Fancy: Docum ents to Pique the Historical Imagina­
tion,” H istory o f Anthropology N ewsletter 2 (1978): 10.
33. Mayo to Ruml, 25 September 1925, RF.
34. Elton Mayo, “Freedom for the Child— What D oes It Mean?” Child Study 28
(October 1925), MM 1.060.
35. See notes 17, 18, and 19 above.
36. Elton Mayo, “Mental Hygiene in Industry,” Transactions o f the College o f Phy­
sicians (Philadelphia), 3d series, 46 (1924):736-48.
 Philadelphia to Harvard 195

37. Elton Mayo, “Revery and Industrial Fatigue,” Journal o f Personnel Research 3
(1924):273-81; Elton Mayo, “The Basis o f Industrial Psychology,” Bulletin o f the
Taylor Society 8 (1924):249-59.
38. Elton Mayo, “Civilized Unreason,” H arper’s 148 (1924):527-35; Elton Mayo,
“Civilization— The Perilous Adventure,” H arper’s 149 (1924):590-97 (reprinted
in E ssays towards Truth, ed. Kenneth A. Robinson [New York: Holt, Rinehart
& W inston, 1924]).
39. Elton Mayo, “Day-dreaming and Output in a Spinning M ill,” Journal o f Oc­
cupational Psychology 2, no. 5 (1925):203-09.
40. Elton Mayo, “The Great Stupidity,” H arper’s 151 (1925):225— 33; Elton Mayo,
“Open Letter to Robert W. Bruere,” Survey (East Stroudsburg, Penna.) 54
(1925):644-45 (reprinted with R. W. Bruere’s “The Great Obsession” in Bulletin
o f the Taylor Society October 1, 1925, pp. 220-25).
41. Elton Mayo, “Should Marriage Be M onotonous?” H arper’s 151 (1925):420-27
(reprinted in American Journal o f Social H ygiene 11 [ 1925]:521-35).
42. Mayo to Millstone, 9 September 1925, MM 3.057; Davis to Mayo, 10, 15, 26
January 1926, MM 4.013.
43. Carncross to Mayo, 9 October 1925, MM 4.013; Social Health 11, no. 1
(1925):2, MM 1.060.
44. Herzog to Mayo, 12 January 1926, MM 3.059; Schmidt to Mayo, 19 October
1925, MM 3.055; Strasswell to Mayo, 10 November 1925, MM 3.057; Bennett
to Mayo, 30 January 1926, MM 3.058.
45. Whittman to Mayo, 22 September 1925, MM 1.050.
46. Elton Mayo, “Psychiatry in Industry,” Bulletin o f M assachusetts Society fo r
M ental H ygiene 5, no. 2 (1926):4.
 12
Harvard 1926-1932: Early Research
and Associates

How Mayo was called to Harvard University in not known for certain.
“I first met Dean Donham in 1925 at dinner in a New York Hotel,” Mayo
said.1And the popular view holds that the dean of the Graduate School of
Business Administration was so greatly impressed by “Civilized Unrea­
son?” “Civilization—The Perilous Adventure,” and “The Great Stupidity”
in Harpers that he hired him immediately. But inquiries show that Mayo’s
appointment was controlled by personal contacts and alternative job of­
fers, and complicated by debates on the university’s future employment
policies.

Donham was attracted early to Mayo’s ideas, and, once his work began,
became one of its strong followers. In 1942, after his retirement as dean, he
took an active interest in teaching Mayo’s ideas. So, throughout his career
at the Business School Mayo had strong support from Donham.
Lawrence J. Henderson, a Harvard biologist, was another influential
man who supported Mayo. Under Henderson’s direction, Henry A. Mur­
ray and his brother Charles studied at Cambridge in the summer of 1925.
Henry Murray returned to Bryn Mawr in the fall, and was visited by
Charles, who had recently been so impressed by Mayo’s work that he spoke
of it to his brother and Henderson. At first Henderson was skeptical, but
after meeting Mayo recommended him to Donham.2 In November 1925 at
the Boston Chamber of Commerce Donham heard Mayo talk on psychol­
ogy applied to industrial problems. Other speakers were McFie Campbell,
director of the Boston Psychopathic Hospital, and Abraham Myerson, a
neurologist from Tufts Medical School. Mayo spoke last, so he had the
opportunity to summarize the others’ ideas. A few days later Mayo was
invited to lecture on industrial management at the Business School. At the
end of November Donham asked Mayo to join the school.3 Mayo was
considering an offer to establish experimental psychology at McGill Uni­
versity, but when Donham outlined his plans Mayo believed the Harvard
research setting would be superior.4
On December 7 Mayo and Donham met to reach a decision. Mayo was

197
198 Elton Mayo

happy, relaxed, and talkative; he reminisced about his Australian experi­

ences and outlined the shortcomings of recent British research on indus­
trial fatigue. Donham needed evidence of Mayo’s qualifications and past
academic achievements, so Mayo gave him the letter signed by the prime
minister of Australia saying that Mayo had been a professor of psychology
and physiology at the University of Queensland, and that he enjoyed “a
very high reputation in the particular branch of study in which he is en­
gaged.” Ludlum would send a supporting reference.5
Donham sent the letter to Harvard President A. Lawrence Lowell, and
with it an erratic statement of Mayo’s academic experience that suggested
that he had qualified in medicine during his four years at the Universities
of Adelaide, Edinburgh and London; that in 1910 he had been appointed
reader in psychology at the University of Adelaide, which had awarded him
an M.A.; that in 1911, Mayo had been a lecturer in psychology at the
University of Queenstown (sic\ and that in 1918 he had been promoted to
professor of psychology; and that “in recognition of Dr. Mayo’s work” on
shell-shock cases between 1914 and 1922 and “on the recommendation of
Professor J.T. Wilson, Cambridge University these studies had led to the
endowment of a Chair in Medical Psychology.” Lowell “talked with Dean
Edsall [Medical School] and Dr. Henderson about Dr. Mayo and [got] the
opinion that he [was] a very valuable man.”6
Lowell did not support Donham’s proposal to hire Mayo because it was
an expansion within a new field for which funds were available for only
three and a half years, and should Harvard want to offer tenure to Mayo,
then the financial burden would be too heavy. Donham replied that Mayo’s
work was not a new discipline, that human relations in industry was impor­
tant for both teaching and research, that A. Lincoln Filene, the Boston
retailer, would guarantee enough money to support Mayo’s work, and that
Mayo understood clearly his appointment as associate professor of indus­
trial research was for no more than five years. Donham also mentioned
that McGill was keen to have Mayo on the same terms, and that Ruml
wanted the matter settled before the year’s end. Lowell would not assent
because he understood the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Founda­
tion intended to establish an enduring study of Mayo’s subject and, after
five years when Filene’s gift came to an end, funds would not be available to
decide whether or not to continue the work. At this point Donham was
faced with a series of complicated negotiations with senior Harvard aca­
demics and officials who distributed the Rockefeller funds.
Donham wanted $200,000 to finance studies on human relations in
industry and related medical research. Dean Edsall said the Medical
School could not help. Mayo agreed to postpone his reply to McGill be­
cause he appreciated Harvard’s prestige, believed that among American
industrialists Harvard-trained disciples would be accepted more than
would others, and anticipated that collaboration with physiologists and
 Harvard 1926-1932 199

psychiatrists in Cambridge would be rewarding. Meanwhile Donham

learned that a sensitive official in the Rockefeller Foundation felt slighted
because he had not been kept fully posted’on discussions regarding Mayo’s
intended move. At the same time Mayo received an offer from University
College, London. Donham was caught between the employment needs of
Mayo, the demands of Harvard to choose its own research directions, and
the expectations of the Rockefeller Foundation officials that its phi­
lanthropy be both limited and highly praised.
At the end of March 1926 Donham spoke with Lowell and resubmitted
the proposal to employ Mayo. It was to be experimental, to last only five
years, and to be fully funded by the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial
Foundation. Lowell agreed, and in September 1926 Mayo took up appoint­
ment as associate professor and head of the Industrial Research Depart­
ment in the Harvard Business School. Emily Osborne came with him as his
secretary and research assistant.7
Mayo wrote of his appointment to Sir William Mitchell, his mentor at
the University of Adelaide. Immediately Mitchell personally arranged for
Mayo to receive a Master of Arts degree. It was awarded for a thesis,
presumably, on Mayo’s research at Continental Mills.8
In the early years at Harvard Mayo had four young men assist him with
studies of industrial problems in Massachusetts and with clinical work:
Harold D. Lasswell, Osgood S. Lovekin, Fritz J. Roethlisberger, and W.
Lloyd Warner. In 1926-27 Mayo worked with Lasswell, who was twenty-
two, on his personal problems, interviewing skills, and aspects of politics
and psychoanalysis, which Lasswell would later make central to his career.9
Osgood Lovekin, twenty-four, had completed undergraduate require­
ments for a medical degree at Stanford University but decided to enter the
Harvard Business School in 1925. Late in 1926 Lovekin attended one of
Mayo’s lectures to second-year students. Mayo fascinated the class as he sat
cross-legged on a table, lecturing effortlessly without notes or any form of
preparation. He moved from the classics to recent scholars—Janet, Freud,
Malinowski, and Pitt-Rivers—whose work was unfamiliar to most stu­
dents. He spoke like quicksilver, lighting pathways of ignorance, darting
from one discipline to another with anecdotes, homilies, crisp stories, and
brilliant illustrations. At the time students were stimulated and excited by
Mayo’s insights; a week later, when the charisma faded, they looked at their
notes and asked, “What does it all mean?” As always Mayo aimed to raise
curiosity to an intensity that would lead a young student to join him in the
adventure of industrial research.
Osgood Lovekin joined Mayo’s department in February 1927, and, with
Emily Osborne, took blood pressure measures and conducted interviews in
New England factories. Their research was more an exploration than a task
with specific hypotheses, so, once data were collected, Lovekin analyzed
them and wrote reports. To learn interviewing, he attended the clinic at
200 Elton Mayo

Boston Psychopathic Hospital with Mayo and McFie Campbell, the city’s
eminent psychiatrist. Shortly before leaving Mayo, he assisted with re­
search at the Hawthorne Works of Western Electric Company. At the
Hawthorne Works Lovekin interviewed the plant supervisors because the
staff had neither the status nor the objectivity to win and keep respect from
their interviewees. Later Lovekin interviewed the inmates of the Norfolk
Prison Colony, where progressive and humanitarian policies were followed
in rehabilitating criminals. During his last year with the department, Love­
kin assisted W. Lloyd Warner at Newburyport in a study of consumption
habits and control of household expenditures. In 1933 Lovekin entered
business, later studied medicine, and at the outbreak of World War II
became a senior hospital administrator.10
Fritz Jules Roethlisberger became Mayo’s most notable student, clinical
assistant, and follower, and contributed much to the application of Mayo’s
ideas to American industry. Although he was not appointed as Mayo’s
research assistant in industrial research until September 1927, Roeth­
lisberger began working with Mayo on clinical cases referred to him in May
1927. With a science degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technol­
ogy and two years of industrial experience, Roethlisberger entered Harvard
to study philosophy but did not complete the requirements for the higher
degree. His life had become “dust and ashes,” and he was so deeply de­
pressed that even psychiatric help was valueless. A. North Whitehead, the
retired English philosopher who had joined Harvard’s Department of Phi­
losophy, advised him to see Mayo.
When he first met Roethlisberger, Mayo was “curious and amused”; no
doubt he saw himself as an immature young man in the sad young philoso­
pher. When next they met, Mayo offered him a job assisting in research and
interviewing unhappy young students. In April 1927 Roethlisberger wrote
up the case of a woman from a local manufacturing company who had
become addicted to heroin. Later Mayo considered giving one of his own
cases to the young man because, as he wrote to Ruml, “Rothlisberger [sic]
. . . is doing well. Having apparently mastered his own obsessions, he is
proving himself very much able to capture the obsessions of others—all
this in a week or two.” By January 1928 Mayo was pleased with
Roethlisberger’s developing clinical skills and effective methods of therapy
with distressed students from the Business School.11
Roethlisberger made his career with Mayo. Between them grew an emo­
tional bond so strong that Mayo was seen as a father, miracle worker, healer,
admired and envied colleague, and, eventually, a respected man with
faults. Mayo saw Roethlisberger as an intelligent obsessive, and helped the
young man through his emotional problems with work, and through
squabbles with peers and colleagues, and enabled him to make a valuable
contribution to industrial research. But in 1942, Mayo was shocked when
Roethlisberger’s resistance to taking charge of some of Mayo’s work led to
 Harvard 1926-1932 201

effort syndrome, which made for a long recuperation and self-renewal away
from Mayo.
Until the summer of 1930 Roethlisberger was largely responsible for
psychological cases that came directly to Mayo’s department. Most cases
were Business School students whose preoccupations, misunderstandings,
and distresses had interfered with their studies; others were people on the
administrative staff, and a few came from outside the Business School. At
the same time Mayo was seeing cases referred to him by doctors, and talked
about them with Roethlisberger. In August 1930 Roethlisberger visited the
Hawthorne Works of the Western Electric Company and discussed the
evaluation of interview data collected from employees.12 In March 1931 he
was engaged to interview executive staff and supervisors at the Hawthorne
Works, and Mayo was planning to write a book on the earlier research.13
That year few students needed counseling, so Roethlisberger spent most of
his time in Chicago discussing plans for further research at the Hawthorne
Works.14 In the winter and spring of 1932 when glaucoma prevented Mayo
from writing the planned book, Roethlisberger and two Western Electric
staff members, Harold A. Wright and William Dickson, began collating
material and writing Management and the Worker.15
In April 1930, W. Lloyd Warner, a young follower of Malinowski and
Radcliffe-Brown, joined Mayo. Supported by the Laura Spelman Rocke­
feller Memorial Foundation in the late 1920s, Warner had studied aborig­
ines in Australia, and when the foundation increased Mayo’s funds,
Warner, who had gone to Harvard’s Department of Anthropology, was
attracted to work with Mayo.16 Warner decided to study the problems of
industrial civilization by making a general survey of Newburyport. The
community’s leaders and citizens were keen to be studied, and the town
was both representative of small American towns and within commuting
distance of Harvard University.17 At first Warner had help only from stu­
dents in anthropology, but later Mayo and his staff, and even Dorothea,
became involved in training research assistants and in data collection. By
the end of 1931 Warner was an assistant professor in Mayo’s department,
had extended his anthropological studies to Ireland, and had become a
contributor to research at the Hawthorne Works. Much of his support
came from funds available to Mayo.18
In April 1926 the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial Foundation
gave $12,000 a year for five years for Mayo’s work at Harvard. The follow­
ing year a supplementary grant of $155,000 was made: $35,000 to equip
Lawrence Henderson’s Fatigue Laboratory in the basement of the Business
School, and $30,000 a year for four years to continue industrial research in
physiology and related areas. By April 1930 Mayo’s work had so effectively
joined with that of Henderson and associates that the earlier grant was
cancelled and replaced with a seven-year grant of $125,000 a year for a
comprehensive program of research in industrial hazards. A special com­
202 Elton Mayo

mittee—Mayo, Henderson, and Dean David Edsall—administered the

funds independently of faculty control. Each year $25,000 to $35,000 was
used as fluid research funds for whatever projects emerged within the over­
all program, and the remainder was divided equally between Mayo and
Henderson. Mayo’s estimated annual budget was $68,000; the Fatigue Lab­
oratory’s about $54,000. Reasons for extending the grant over seven years
center on the remarkably cooperative relations that had grown between
Harvard’s Schools of Business, Medicine, Public Health, and Engineering,
and the likelihood of further collaboration with other schools. Also, Mayo
planned to augment his psychological work with sociological investigations
of living conditions in industrial centers, e.g., Newburyport, and Hender­
son wished to study more physiological factors and increase the subjects
used in experiments. The support was liberal so that Mayo and Henderson
would pass quickly beyond the early stages of their research.19
A few months after he joined the Business School Mayo found a friend
in Lawrence J. Henderson. The friendship lasted until Henderson’s sudden
death in February 1942.20 He was one of Harvard’s most able, respected,
and influential academics, a masterful man who set high standards of
excellence for his students and colleagues. The relationship between Mayo
and Henderson was based on more than shared academic interests.21 In
many ways the men themselves were similar. Both had been reared in
families in which the businessman father had little influence and the
mother showed good sense, adaptability, and strong independent judg­
ment. As adolescents both had been prize-winning students who willfully
pursued their own interests, but in the early stages of education Henderson
enjoyed greater freedom from family constraints. Both studied medicine,
not to become physicians but rather to follow an interest in related re­
search; later they would join in criticism of medical training because it
omitted concern for the social relation between physician and patient.
Mayo and Henderson had diverse wide-ranging academic interests, e.g.,
philosophy, history of science, physiology, psychiatry, sociology. As a young
man Henderson had studied philosophy under Royce and with a close
friend, Elmer E. Southard; when Mayo first came to the United States his
style was likened to that of the late Southard. In 1925 when Henderson and
Mayo first met they shared similar conceptions of how the organism’s
functioning related to its total environment. Also, both men attributed
order to the apparent chaos of natural phenomena by first assuming a
strain toward balanced, harmonious integration between elements and
their interaction within the total social and physical context. To the study
of humans both men applied the methodology of the medical sciences, i.e.,
close continuous observation and experiment to refine, clarify, and extend
firsthand knowledge. Only this approach, they believed, would raise psy­
chological and sociological work from sentimental, biased, and phi­
losophic inexactitudes to the level of a respected science.
 Harvard 1926-1932 203

The two men differed in their approach to research problems with stu­
dents.22 Mayo was humanistic, and cared as much for the students’ experi­
ence of the research problem as for the problem itself; Henderson seemed
to use his personal force to conceal any sympathy for the student lest the
problem remain unclear. Mayo enjoyed giving to some unexpected re­
search finding or half-baked proposal a thought-provoking, hypothesis-
generating, adventurous twist. With a joke he would turn a problem on its
head. But when a student took a problem to Henderson, either he was
castigated for stupidity in not seeing an obvious solution or Henderson
demanded, then and there, that the elements of the problem be defined, the
variables be stated exactly, and from their relations he deduced scien­
tifically testable propositions. And Henderson did not joke. Along these
quite different paths Mayo and Henderson followed their creative imagina­
tion in science.
When they met first, Henderson was troubled by two matters that a
scientist could not quickly clarify. Following World War I many intellec­
tuals began to believe that organized society was in danger. Mayo had
feared as much—and had had nightmares about it—years before; he sup­
posed the origin of the danger lay in the minds of men and, especially, the
uncivilized hostility of agitators, revolutionaries, and incompetent leaders
who, in democracy’s name, manipulated the obsessions of people in
crowds. For help Mayo had turned to the new psychology. Henderson,
following a colleague’s advice, read Pareto and thereby brought order to his
fear of chaos in society. He eventually taught Pareto’s ideas to Harvard’s
sociology students and selected faculty, and vigorously upheld Pareto’s ap­
proach as the clearest approach to the study of concrete rather than intel-
lectualized social problems. Mayo reinforced Henderson’s interest in
Pareto, proved a good listener when that was expected, and felt the so­
ciological perspective tempered Henderson’s interpersonal relations and
helped him become more understanding, sympathetic, and caring for
humanity.
Early in their association Mayo noted that Henderson’s “relapse into
common humanity” was accompanied by a positive attitude toward psy­
chiatry.23 The attitude may have been established by Henderson’s earlier
friendship with the psychiatrist Southard, banished when the latter died,
and returned when Mayo appeared. The concern for psychiatry may also
have been reawakened by Henderson’s wife Edith, who was committed to
an institution for the insane.
Sometimes Mayo was a guest at Henderson’s summer home in Vermont,
and often Mayo’s dinners included Henderson. Both relished good food—
Henderson’s coq au vin was more a celebration than a dinner—and were
delighted with French wines. And when Dorothea and Mayo decided she
should live in England with their daughters, the loneliness of the two men
would draw them even closer. At work they seemed very close; their offices
204 Elton Mayo

were together, they ate lunch together, and they shared a large research
grant and controlled the committee for its disbursement. In the Business
School their personal influence was impressive; they were the only faculty
members seen to have the privilege of strolling into Donham’s office with­
out appointment and joining immediately in discussions, regardless of who
was with the dean.24

During his first four years at the Business School Mayo tried to interest
local businessmen in his approach to the human and social problems of
industrial life. He was not successful because of the resistance to his ideas,
which came from within both the Business School and the firms that
sought Mayo’s help. Colleagues at the Business School thought the study of
fatigue, monotony, and morale had no proper place in the training of men
of business. Further, special, close, and time-consuming instruction was
needed for the understanding of human problems in the workplace, in­
struction that was costly, the return on which was difficult to see and to
justify in business terms. Students resisted the study of human problems in
industrial organization because it was a new and undeveloped field in
business administration, and higher salaries could be earned in other
fields.25
Within industry Mayo’s ideas were resisted by those whose influence
would be most affected by the changes he advocated. “Our main problem,”
wrote Osborne to Donham two years after Mayo had joined the Business
School, “is to gain the confidence and cooperation of leaders in industry
. . . [however] we have been unable to work in any plant where we have
received the cooperation of the management and heads of departments.”26
In a firm Mayo could gain the confidence of higher management and the
cooperation of employees but little help from middle management and
foremen, who were fearful of his research and obstructed it. As a rule Mayo
aimed to study fatigue and its effects by first seeing employees who came to
the dispensary for medical attention from the industrial nurse. While she
took the employees’ blood pressure readings they would talk about their
preoccupations. Such information revealed to Mayo the human problems
at work and the production, labor, and organizational difficulties in various
parts of the plant, and he could then identify where his research would
bring most benefit. But middle management and foremen, sensing that
organizational changes arising from Mayo’s work would undermine their
control, saw no utility for themselves in cooperation with the dispensary.
They kept it well away from their administrative problems, tolerating it
only to satisfy the firm’s insurers.
Mayo’s research with the United States Rubber Company illustrates the
course taken by his early industrial work. On February 20, 1928, the com­
pany’s supervisor of industrial relations, C.S. Ching, a leader in the United
States in the development of personnel management, sent Mayo a report,
 Harvard 1926-1932 205

“Study of Fatigue in Relation to Work Places” by Marion Lee, the assistant

industrial relations manager of one of the company’s East Cambridge fac­
tories, the American Rubber Company. Mayo complimented Ching on the
research and sought to augment the study with one of his own that would
aim to improve selection of workers. Medical criteria, he wrote, are not
adequate; and because even fit people differ in work performance, one
must study workers’ capacities by continuously examining them on the
job. Mayo mentioned research findings showing that low efficiency and
poor morale are symptoms of pessimistic preoccupations, which in turn
indicate organic fatigue due to metabolic disorders arising from unsuitable
work conditions and lack of vocational aptitude. He thought the Addis
Index (pulse rate X pulse pressure/100) would help identify workers who
were subject to such adverse work conditions, and those who lacked inter­
est in their work. During the day the Addis Index curve of the efficient and
highly productive worker is steady, but “marked variations are significant
of a production 20-30% below the individual’s average. Such variations
indicated lower production and lowered organic fitness (e.g. thyroid inade­
quacy, menstruation) often when the worker was not aware of reduced
fitness,” and lowered work capacity. Mayo proposed to use Marion Lee’s
workers to see whether or not the Addis Index would measure changes in
the worker capacity for and attitude toward work.
Ching supported Mayo’s proposal, and through G. Woodward, the com­
pany’s works manager, arranged for Osborne to visit Marion Lee and her
boss, D.F. Ohlstrom, at the plant in January 1929. First-line supervisors
were expected to resist the proposal, so Mayo addressed them and the
Factory Council before beginning experimental work. Meanwhile Osborne
befriended the company doctor and his nurse, who understood and had
sympathy for Mayo’s plan but said that the management had given no
cooperation on similar and related matters in the past. She also found that
the work force included many Irish and Portuguese, whom the foremen
mixed lest they fight among themselves in their own groups and become
troublemaking socialists.27
Mayo spoke three times on his scheme, each time pitching his talk to the
interests of the specific audience. He said that mechanization of work
advances faster than knowledge of human behavior and experience, and
work fatigue is a recurrent issue that requires scientific study and raises
many unknown psychological and physiological problems that affect pro­
duction, absenteeism, and labor turnover. The problems are best ap­
proached by studying how people change during a day’s work.28
Late in February 1929 Osborne and Roethlisberger took blood pressure
readings, and listened to workers who needed help from the dispensary.
During March and April, Lovekin joined them. At set times during the day
blood pressure readings were taken on the job as well; the average Addis
Index was calculated for each department and the individual deviations
206 Elton Mayo

from the average were noted. These measures were related to production
figures.
Lovekin wrote the report on this study. The Addis Index correlated with
energy expenditure, and could show the rate of energy expenditure on
mentally and physically exacting work. Lovekin planned more studies, but
in May 1929 demand fell for the company’s goods, and subsequent
reorganization made research impossible. As the business depression ad­
vanced, morale among workers fell. Partly to remedy this Mayo was asked
to return and talk to the industrial relations officers on the implications of
the report. He advocated systematic rest periods and interviewing that he
had seen at the Western Electric Company in Chicago, but the production
manager of the American Rubber Company had no time for such recom­
mendations. By May 1930 the depression had all but closed the plant, and
Mayo’s association with the firm ceased.29
Another company that sought Mayo’s help was the Boston Manufactur­
ing Company of Waltham, producers of yarn and fancy cloth. In December
1926 Osborne and Lovekin, and later Roethlisberger conducted clinical
interviews, took blood pressure readings, and related these to the produc­
tion of a hundred employees. The research problems were: Why do young
girls adapt easily to silk winding while older women prefer beaming? What
are the physical characteristics of successful employees? Is a particular
physical or mental type better suited to monotonous work? How is the
worker’s mental attitude related to fatigue? How can monotonous work be
defined?
Before Mayo and his associates could advance their work a report was
made on the firm’s operations in April 1927; it indicated that central con­
trol was lacking, morale was low, and the executive staff was seeking, at no
cost to the firm, modern techniques of scientific management. Mayo’s work
was unsuited to such expectations, so his association with the firm came to
an end in May.30
In November 1927 the application of modern scientific management to
knitwear production at the William Carter Company led to a call for
Mayo’s help. The standards department had learned of the initial benefits
of rest pauses, and also that upon their cessation production fell. The
management feared that rest pauses would slow production and cause
carelessness. Lovekin studied seven young women at work and reported the
production curves did not support the management’s fear. He argued that
whether or not rest pauses are given, people adjust to increasing fatigue by
slacking off, voluntarily or not. Production stops and, if the employees
drive themselves to maintain it, inefficiency and organic damage follow. He
advised the firm to accept the slack periods and organize them into con­
trolled rather than uncontrolled rest pauses, thus maintaining smooth pro­
duction curves for the firm and achieving an evenly fluctuating energy
expenditure among employees.31 Mayo did not learn if the firm followed
this lead.
 Harvard 1926-1932 207

Early in 1930 Osborne and Mayo discussed the Industrial Research

Department and Mayo wrote answers to Osborne’s questions about their
future. In Mayo’s view New England industries needed extensive economic
reorganization. Some of those he studied had liquidated or shut down, thus
making his work inappropriate. Only two of the twelve firms he had stud­
ied—Continental Mills (Philadelphia), and Western Electric (Chicago)—
had fortunate results; and in the American Pulley, American Rubber,
Hood Rubber, and Carter companies some fruitful inquiries had been
conducted. Negative results marked the studies of the other six firms. Mayo
believed his work had been impeded by middle managers and foremen
who, he thought, were too much devoted to rituals and were constantly
looking for easy rules of thumb instead of a genuine understanding of
work.
Mayo concluded that the work of his department could not continue for
more than another year or so unless industries in Massachussetts became
available for research and “apprentices” could be persuaded to join him.
The department had sound financial support from the Rockefeller founda­
tion and willing collaboration from Harvard’s Law and Medical Schools
and the Departments of Bio-chemistry, Economics, Abnormal Psychology,
and Psychiatry. Because of these strong associations Mayo did not see the
department’s being absorbed by industry, but he expected his staff to be­
come consultants to a few firms.32
In a search for industries that might follow his lead, Mayo was directed
by Dean Donham to consult with executives in the movie industry. Early
in 1927 Mayo was asked to see Mr. Brownell of Kennedy’s Moving Picture
Corporation and report to Donham, who saw the need to train business­
men in that industry because of its rapidly growing influence in the econ­
omy. Mayo’s report was harsh and critical, and reflected his personal loath­
ing of people who manipulate the ignorant and waste opportunities to
advance socially responsible and civilized behavior.
Mayo reported that three major defects in the movie industry led to the
waste of millions of dollars. First, the criteria for selecting a movie plot that
would appeal to a large audience are applied unsystematically, and the
decision to “picturize” conventional novels or magazine stories makes new
developments for movies impossible. Second, the criteria are applied in
Hollywood, where the movies are made, rather than in the New York head
office, where the initial decisions are taken, which makes for administrative
chaos in the industry. Third, alterations to plots made between New York
and Hollywood are based on whim, not consultation with writers or pro­
ducers. Three consequences follow: there is no chance of learning from
successes and failures, and this leads to the creation of a bored public; if
control of movie making is left to the creative inspiration of a Hollywood
director, this may lead to a brilliant success but no one will know why, and
costly failures will certainly ensue; if individualism rather than planning
controls the industry it produces strong directors, star actors, favorite au­
208 Elton Mayo

thors, and, perhaps, excellent movies, but such actors and directors burden
the industry when they believe their renown will redeem a poor plot. “In
the long run even . . . brilliant individuals would be unable to meet compe­
tition from better organised institutions.”
Mayo believed the chaos in the movie industry could be overcome by
defining functions and their relations. The selection of a plot should be
determined by what is known of the human appeal of issues, events, and
their background. In cooperation with the authors, the directors should
control actors and acting but never drastically alter the script lest effective
collaboration within the industry be destroyed, learning be limited, depart­
mental dictators emerge, few artists find expression for their talent, and the
industry have more failures than successes.
Mayo enjoyed movies, and was concerned about their impact on society.
Some years later a student of his would join the industry and attempt to
have the ideas realized, but with little success. As Mayo predicted, individu­
alism and the star system would dominate the economy of the movie
industry.33
Donham understood that charlatans applied psychology to business and
even well-meaning individuals used the results of psychological studies in
industry loosely and unprofessionally. Mayo’s work had to be protected
against such misuse, and his ideas had to spread and be directed through
sound reputable business connections. One such connection was made at
the Harvard Club in New York in October 1927 when Mayo spoke on what
psychology could do for industry in the next ten years to The Lunchers, a
group of prominent industrialists. The invitation had come from Arthur
H. Young, the director of Industrial Relations Counselors, an organization,
that Donham hoped would be helpful.34
Industrial Relations Counselors was incorporated in 1926, and had
emerged from a small staff of industrial relations specialists directed by
Raymond B. Fosdick of Curtis, Fosdick and Belknap. John D. Rockefeller,
Jr., provided the funds for Fosdick’s work and was the sole support of
Industrial Relations Counselors. The original purpose of this nonprofit
organization was to keep Rockefeller informed on industrial relations in
his firms; companies other than Rockefeller’s would later support the or­
ganization and benefit from its work “to advance the knowledge and prac­
tice of human relationships in industry, commerce, education and
government.”35
Mayo’s talk impressed The Lunchers and led to many valuable connec­
tions with senior industrialists and managers.36 Among the listeners was
T.K. Stevenson, the personnel director of Western Electric Company, who
would ask Mayo to read reports he had received on the company’s research
in its Hawthorne Works at Cicero, Illinois. In January 1928 Rockefeller
entertained Mayo, and in October he was commissioned to research indus­
trial relations problems at Rockefeller’s Colorado Fuel and Iron Company
in Pueblo.37
 Harvard 1926-1932 209

The Colorado Fuel and Iron Company had established its industrial
plan in 1915 with personal support from Rockefeller. The plan aimed to
reduce industrial strife and promote a cooperative relation between man­
agement and labor in the company’s mines and steel works. Its cornerstone
was the Committee on Conciliation and Wages, which included members
from among managers and workers. Despite the intervention of Rocke­
feller, the plan had not been entirely successful.
Accompanied by Arthur H. Young, Mayo spent three weeks at the plant
in Pueblo studying the human situation and the adequacy of manage­
ment’s information, and evaluating the efficacy of the plan. Mayo found
the plan deficient because top managers were autocratic and unbending,
middle and first-line supervisors felt the plan had diminished their influ­
ence, and employee representatives and associates used the plan to union­
ize the work force and promote socialism. Notwithstanding, on many
occasions the committee had resolved conflicts. Mayo concluded that con­
flicts had arisen because management was not adequately prepared for
such a radical change in the company’s industrial relations policy. Worker
representatives, seeing some managers were hostile toward the plan, had
avoided important matters, pursued trivialities, raised legalistic arguments,
and neglected the spirit of agreement. Mayo recommended that a full,
precise account be made of the human problems associated with the plan;
that managers be given the account to help them understand and accept
the plan. Their understanding should be shown to the workers, who would
then accept and use the plan because they would know managers were no
longer hostile toward it.
Mayo used his report to examine and criticize the work of the former
investigators of the plan, Benjamin M. Selekman and Mary Van Kleck,
who, with support from the Russell Sage Foundation, had favored worker
participation in management through representation and joint commit­
tees, or collective bargaining. Mayo agreed that if industrial relations were
cooperative workers could make constructive suggestions, but wrote that
such contributions should be evaluated correctly by management. There
was evidence that in Britain and Australia worker participation in manage­
ment had created disastrous industrial relations whenever management
had not evaluated such participation accurately, and both unions and man­
agement had not substitued mutuality of interests for class conflict.
On a more general level, Mayo’s thesis was that between workers and
management there must exist a knowledge of common interests from
which would emerge mutual confidence, trust, and effective collaboration.
On that basis a business would thrive. An independent investigator could
provide an intelligent understanding of mutual interests and initiate action
to achieve collaborative relations at work.
When Van Kleck assumed industrial democracy and modern political
democracy were alike, Mayo became severely critical, and illustrated his
argument by again pointing to Australia, where the arbitration system had
210 Elton Mayo

raised rather than diminished the incidence of industrial strife. Mayo pre­
ferred the American approach, which did not allow economic areas to be
debased by the modern developments in democracy. In this regard, Mayo
held that success in industry depended upon management’s being so well
informed on the human situation at work that grievances can be under­
stood and their origins eliminated before they create strife.
Mayo carried his work beyond the conflict and squabbling within the
organization of the mines and steel works to the sociological problems in
the community. Following the anthropological work of Malinowski and
Pitt-Rivers and Ruth Cavan’s studies in Chicago, Mayo assumed a direct
relation between a community’s social organization or disorganization and
its industrial content or unrest. “Directly the major significance [i.e., the
social] of an individual’s life disintegrates, his interest in his work must
diminish also.. . . The social ailment which affects the cities of our civiliza­
tion has made its appearance in . . . Pueblo.” Mayo’s solution to social
disintegration lay in extending the community’s recreation facilities and
providing skilled leaders to turn disaffected youth from hostile gang ac­
tivities to constructive sport and cultural pastimes.
Mayo was appalled by the illiteracy, overcrowding, ill health, and sexual
promiscuity in Pueblo’s Mexican community. He recommended that the
Rockefeller Foundation support a sociomedical survey of these problems
in preparation for a systematic change in community welfare services.38
Two months after the Colorado study Mayo and Osborne received fees
from Industrial Relations Counselors: Mayo, $1,000 a year retainer as a
consultant; Osborne, to write a monthly report for Arthur Young on the
work done in Mayo’s department.39 A few months later Dean Donham
invited Young to lecture at the Business School.40 Thereafter Mayo and
Young were close working associates; Mayo benefited from the connections
made through Young, and Young admired Mayo’s “natural gift (for color­
ful, persuasive expression) which needs no further cultivation.”41

Notes
1. Elton Mayo, “The Study o f Human Problems o f Administration,” Harvard
Business School A lum ni Bulletin, Sumer 1942, p. 232.
2. Conversation with Henry A. Murray, 17 April 1975.
3. Biddle to Mayo, 4 December 1925; Mayo to Donham, 3, 8, 25 December 1925;
Donham to Mayo, 2 December 1925. Donham file, GC 332, AFFD1, AB4,
BLA; MM 1.060.
4. Martin to Mayo, 17 December 1925, MM 3.079.
5. William M. Hughes, 26 June 1922, MM 1.099; Donham to Lowell, 14 D ecem ­
ber 1925, Donham file, BLA.
6. Lowell to Donham, 15 December 1925, Donham file, BLA.
7. Donham to Edsall, 24 December 1925; Edsall to Donham, 30 December 1925;
Downey to Donham, 7, 8 January, 8, 16 March 1926; Mayo to Donham, 9
January 1926; Donham to Ruml, 30 March 1926; Donham to Lowell, 23 March
1926, Donham file, BLA.
 Harvard 1926-1932 211

8. N o details o f the theses can be found; Wesley-Smith to Trahair, 5 June 1974. Sir
William Mitchell “reported verbally on work received from Mr. G. Elton Mayo
. . . the Faculty approved his suggestion that the matter be left” to Professor
Stewart and him. Minutes, Faculty o f Arts, University o f Adelaide, 17 N ovem ­
ber 1926. The degree was awarded 25 November 1926.
9. Richard C.S. Trahair, “Elton Mayo and the Early Political Psychology o f Harold
D. Lasswell,” Political Psychology 3 (1982): 171-88.
10. Conversation with Lovekin, 18 September 1975.
11. Fritz J. Roethlisberger, The Elusive Phenomena (Boston: Harvard University,
Graduate School o f Business Administration, Division o f Research, 1977), pp.
26-33; Mayo to Ruml, 16 May 1927, 28 January 1928, RF; MM 3.008.
12. O sb orn e R ep orts, O ctob er 1930, A pril, N ovem b er, D ecem b er 1931;
Roethlisberger, Elusive Phenomena, p. 49.
13. Mayo to Pennock, 24 March 1931, Mayo to Putnam, 25 March 1931, MM
1.090.
14. Osborne Reports, November, December 1931.
15. Wright to Mayo, 25 April 1932, Mayo to Putnam, 27 April 1932, MM 1.091.
16. Osborne Reports, May, November, December 1930.
17. Osborne Reports, November, December 1930, January, February, December
1931; Roethlisberger, Elusive Phenomena, p. 54.
18. Osborne Reports, November 1931; Streiber to Mayo, 16 October 1931, MM
1.081.
19. “Harvard University Research in Industrial Hazards,” 16 April 1930, Doc. No.
30108, RF; Mayo to Donham, 22 January 1927, ARIP.
20. Mayo to Ruml, 9 February 1927, RF.
21. For this comparison the material on Henderson comes from Walter B. Cannon
Biographical M em oir o f Lawrence J. Henderson (Washington, D.C.: National
Academy o f Sciences, 1943).
22. Conversation with Homans, 3 June 1975; conversation with Chappie, 28 Au­
gust 1975.
23. Mayo to Ruml, 20 April 1927, RF.
24. Lombard to Trahair, 1 April 1975.
25. Trahair, “Elton Mayo and the Early Political Psychology o f Harold D. Lasswell ”
26. Osborne to Donham, 14 June 1928, MM 3.071.
27. Osborne Reports, 1 February 1929.
28. Osborne Reports, March 1929; Factory Council minutes, American Rubber
Company, 11 February 1929, MM 3.001-2.
29. Lovekin to Woodward, 16 May 1929, MM 3.049; Osborne Reports, May,
November-December 1929, May 1930.
30. MM 3.008-10, 3.047.
31. MM 3.001.
32. Mayo to Osborne, March 1930, MM 1.068.
33. Mayo to Donham, 9 May 1927, MM 1.033; ARIP.
34. Donham to Ruml, 14 December 1926, RF.
35. Industrial Relations Counselors, Inc. (New York: Industrial Relations Coun­
selors, 1951), MM 1.102.
36. Young to Mayo, 22 November 1927, MM 1.102.
37. Mayo to Ruml, 29 January 1928, RE
38. Mayo to Woods, 20 November 1928, MM 3.016.
39. Young to Mayo, 23 January 1929, Young to Fosdick, 24 January 1929, MM
1.103.
40. Young to Mayo, 29 May 1929, MM 1.103.
41. Young to Mayo, 21 September 1929, MM 1.103.
 13
Harvard 1926-1932: Teaching, Clinical
Work, Writing, and Travel

Dean Donham and Mayo agreed that scientific studies of human rela­
tions in industry should be the basis of Mayo’s contribution to the Business
School. For this reason, research had first priority and Mayo did little
teaching in his early years. Each year Mayo gave three lectures on his
research to students in the Business School. For his research assistants and
special students he held informal discussions of set texts.1

Malinowski’s functional theory of society guided Mayo’s teaching of the

industrial problems of civilization. Mayo assumed that in primitive com­
munities if social functions are clear then individuals can identify with
them easily and, consequently, society is well integrated. In the United
States social functions are unclear and individuals are unable to identify
readily with their occupations, are thrown onto their own resources, and
have no communal support or guidance other than psychiatric help.
The disintegration began when industrialization increased labor mobil­
ity and weakened communal ties, isolated family life, organized work so
that obsessions dominated mental life, and justified all these changes by
placing a high value on economic growth. The practical consequences of
destroying social functions for individuals are divorce, crime, irregular
living, resentment, and paranoia. To manage these problems an education
is needed that gives people control o^er their own preoccupations, and
helps them to discipline themselves by subordinating their needs to a social
function. Mayo had made these points often in his lectures on industrial
psychology in Australia, in Democracy and Freedom, and in the articles for
Harper’s.
In his teaching of psychology, Mayo’s topics included elementary phys­
iology and psychopathology. In physiology students studied muscular and
mental fatigue and body metabolism; in psychopathology, obsessive think­
ing and its origins in psychogenetic fatigue. Students applied academic and
research studies to problems in industry and among criminals, and to
fellow students’ incapacity for concentrated work and decisions. They
learned the use of physiological measures in distinguishing personality

213
214 Elton Mayo

types, methods of interviewing to identify individuals’ productive capaci­

ties, the role of the industrial dispensary, organization of personnel work,
education in industry, problems of adolescent girls at work, and the diffi­
culties work made for normal, intelligent adults.
Readings included Freud on hysteria, sexuality, dreams, and primitive
thinking, and works by related authors: Jung, Janet, Bramwell, Bjerre,
Morton Prince, William James, Starbuck. Social theory was from Mal­
inowski, Wallas, Westermarck, Durkheim, Barker, Frazer, Ginsberg, and
Maclver. Industrial studies were from Goldmark, Vernon, and Watts.2
Often Mayo illustrated his teaching with cases of patients he had treated.
Until late in 1928 Mayo saw patients, but thereafter they were directed
to Roethlisberger. Most patients suffered from obsessional neurosis. In
1927-28 Mayo’s department received forty-seven cases; of the forty-two on
which some clinical comments were made, twenty-six had clear symptoms
and seven showed less serious indications of obsessional neurosis.3 The
substantive problems centered on marital relations, overwork, or a lack of
purpose and personal identity. Local doctors referred cases to Mayo from
among Business School students, office staff, and colleagues; he saw pa­
tients referred by Ludlum in Philadelphia and Harvard’s Department of
Mental Hygiene, and institutions where he talked.4 Mayo treated most
cases quickly, but two lasted many years because they were probably
psychotics.5
A case that illustrates both Mayo’s technique and ideas was a business­
man whom Mayo first saw at Philadelphia General Hospital. A young,
bright, and vigorous bachelor, he was promoted to store manager just as the
depression was beginning. He enjoyed gambling and the company of young
people but his pleasures gave way to bouts of melancholia. He considered
marriage seriously because his sexual urge was strong and quickly aroused;
masturbation, the only outlet, depressed him. Neither reasoning with him­
self nor psychiatric advice helped. Mayo advised him to read Malinowski’s
Sex in Primitive Society to extend his understanding of his instincts and
society’s attitudes toward them. The treatment was successful, until two
years later when a business takeover left him unemployed. He became
depressed again by the daunting problem of finding a managerial position.
He wanted to see Mayo because a psychologist he had seen would not listen
to his sex problems. Henry A. Murray took him as a patient, but the man
could not bring himself to pay the fees; he could make no financial sacrifice
without evidence of progress. He became disgusted with himself because
his inner life was too complex to understand. He found a promising job,
and then the Wall Street crash ruined his hopes for success in business. He
returned to Philadelphia General Hospital, for the old habit of overthink­
ing problems was returning. Mayo could help no more because he was now
in Boston.6
When Mayo came to Harvard many organizations wanted him as a
 Harvard 1926-1932 215

public speaker, lecturer, and adviser on the application of psychology to

industrial, social, and family problems. Several of his addresses were pub­
lished between 1927 and 1932; two report the work at Continental Mills:
“Fatigue in Industry” and the “Surrey Textile Company.” In the first paper
Mayo integrated clinical, laboratory, and industrial research on fatigue,
using Janet’s theory of obsessional neurosis, Kleitman’s studies of sleep
deprivation, and Ludlum’s work on the physiological correlates of fatigue
and obsession. As general fatigue increases during the working day, normal
people begin to react, especially in the afternoon, as if they were obsession­
al neurotics.7 In the second paper, the “Surrey Textile Company” is Conti­
nental Mills; the article describes Mayo’s research in Philadelphia and
summarizes his ideas on fatigue for the collection of cases for classroom
work at the Business School.8
In March 1927 Mayo spoke on industrial fatigue to industrialists at the
Cambridge Chamber of Commerce.9 Between September 1927 and August
1929 at Silver Bay on Lake George, Mayo attended four conferences on
human relations in industry sponsored by the New England Committee of
the Y.M.C.A. About three hundred prominent workers in industrial rela­
tions attended each conference, thus providing Mayo with an excellent
opportunity to publicize his ideas and research on control of people and
situations, fatigue, and the scientific approach to industrial relations.10 The
first of the talks was published, and shows that Mayo’s approach to indus­
trial relations was becoming clear and definite. With the introduction of
mass production and long working days, output falls, discontent increases,
and morale diminishes. Little is done to learn about fatigue and repetitive
work, problems of organization and control, class consciousness, and
strikes. The latter two emerge with the obsessive belief of no identity of
interest between employers and workers. Research on fatigue should
broaden to include the relation of emotional needs to social issues. Finally,
problems of industrial control arise because complex organizations curb
craftsmen’s initiative and autonomy, devalue their intelligence and skill,
create monotonous tasks, and, as compensation, offer only money and
leisure time. Mayo pointed to research at Harvard on the relation of meta­
bolic disturbance to fatigue, and the relation of fatigue to irrational preoc­
cupations and their role in determ ining class consciousness and
radicalism. He recommended that proper rest periods break the vicious
circle of poor work conditions producing poor industrial relations.11
In December 1928 Mayo joined a group of distinguished scholars, in­
cluding Joseph H. Willits and Harvard’s Frank W. Taussig, to deliver the
Wertheim Lectures on Industrial Relations. The first part of his lecture
repeats the address at Lake George. The second part argues that social
integration is vital to an individual’s contentment, and illustrates this thesis
with theories and research from anthropology, sociology, and psycho­
pathology. The theme from Democracy and Freedom is repeated: when
216 Elton Mayo

individuals identify with their occupations and this in turn with social
functions, then they are adapting themselves to society. In the United
States, because labor is highly mobile, the society disintegrates, social func­
tions blur, and, consequently, individuals become maladjusted. Mayo illus­
trated the process with the life he had seen in Pueblo. He outlined the work
of Charcot, Janet, and Piaget to show that the relation of the individual to
society is, as Spencer wrote, a “moving equilibrium” that could be thrown
off balance by the eruption of pessimistic reveries at work. Finally, he again
summarized the Continental Mills research, and cited the value of the
Addis Index of blood pressure for identifying fatigue.12
In the summer of 1928 Mayo went to England to study recent research
in his field, and used much of the above material in “The Practical Out­
come of Psychopathology,” an address to the Industrial Section of the
British Psychological Society.13 In January 1929 he published the same
ideas in “What Is Monotony,” illustrating the thesis with the case of tele­
graphist’s cramp. In England, telegraphists have job security, perform an
obviously fatiguing task, and, consequently, suffer cramp; but in the
United States, where labor mobility is high, telegraphist’s cramp is rare
because the individuals are not tied to a job they detest.14 This was Mayo’s
last publication in industrial psychology before he became associated with
studies at the Hawthorne Works of the Western Electric Company.
Although he was an applied psychologist, Mayo occasionally made the­
oretical psychology a point for discussion. In August 1926 he spoke on his
approach to psychology at the Social Sciences Council conference at
Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire. Following recent pub­
lications by Wallas and Poincare, Mayo saw a place in scientific thinking
for creative reveries and the principle of equilibrium and synthesis among
natural phenomena. He criticized the stimulus-response theory of psychol­
ogy, and with evidence from anatomy, chemistry, biology, adult and child
psychiatry, and speculations of the early philosophers in psychology, he
advocated the use of the concept “organism” to mediate between the stim­
ulus and response in psychological theory. Mayo argued that such a con­
cept was needed to integrate recent work emerging from the disciplines
cited, and took the points further in discussion with two young psycholo­
gists, Robert S. Woodworth and Gordon Allport.15
Clinical psychology was Mayo’s topic in an entertaining address he gave
in New York to the First Colloquium in Personality Investigation. He used
cases that he and Roethlisberger had collected from their psychological
investigations and counseling. “Obessions in Students” follows the ideas of
Janet, and uses jokes and witty remarks to keep up interest in the catalogue
of cases.16
Mayo was often asked for his opinions on child and family psychology.
Early in January 1927 he read a paper on the place of father in the present-
day home. After an erudite review of anthropology’s contribution to defin­
 Harvard 1926-1932 217

ing sex roles in various societies, Mayo selected three problems in the
modern family: sexual, economic, and social. He stated that between men
and women sexual intimacy was “the highest relation of all and must be the
basis of any successful social order.” Then he argued that in modern fam­
ilies women had lost their economic functions; attempts to regain the pride
and pleasure of these past activities had often led to great unhappiness,
which was exacerbated by the growth of an abnormally intense and over-
protective concern for children. Mayo recommended that, for the sake of
their sanity, all family members should develop direct relations with social
groups outside the home; but to cope with complexities of civilized society
each family member needed personal comfort and affection inside the
home. Within the family each member must learn that affection and se­
curity is more important than strict discipline and obedience.17
Late in January Mayo delivered “The Dynamics of Family Life” at the
Institute on Parent Education in New York, attending to issues arising
between generations. He combined his theory of mental life with his expe­
riences as a child and as an adviser on child rearing to friends and worried
parents. Children become normal adults if anxious and overprotective
parents do not stop them from developing ordinary social relations outside
the family. Children need a well-ordered, simple, and secure home in which
they not only can learn skills with other people but also revery and
daydream by themselves; this allows their egocentric, primitive ideas to be
differentiated from and change into communicable social thoughts. If fam­
ily life is chaotic and insecure the difference between the two will never be
learned, the change will be impaired, the children will fear and never fully
trust others, and then regress to infantile and obsessive modes of thinking.
Such modes arise in homes where children have been either ignored or
overprotected. In the first, obsessional thinking arises from infantile terrors
and distrust; in the second, incomplete and childishly logical thinking
among parents provides for the compulsion to overthink problems. For
normal childhood development, Mayo recommended that parents always
be affectionate toward children, and reformulate intelligently the children’s
preoccupations rather than restrict the children with such false di­
chotomies as good versus bad, or authority versus repudiation.18
Mayo’s reputation as a family psychologist spread. In September he
summarized discussion on the free-time problems of the housewife for
conference delegates at the American Association of Social Workers at
Wellesley College.19 In March and April 1929 he spoke to members of the
Illinois Society of Mental Hygiene, the Chicago Foundation for Child
Study, and the Child Guidance Association of Chicago. And in April 1930
he presented a paper on Jean Piaget’s work to the Ohio State University’s
Educational Conference in Columbus.20
Mayo and his sister Helen believed that as youngsters they had not
experienced sufficient direct social relations outside their home in Ade­
218 Elton Mayo

laide, and he had concluded his own tendency to melancholic reveries

stemmed partly from that defect. Such experiences and their rationaliza­
tion in his theory of the individuals’ adaptation to society contributed not
only to his talks and publications on the social psychology of the family but
to advice he gave to the troubled wives of industrialists, and to his own
decision to accept Dorothea’s plan to send their daughters to be educated in
England.21
Other topics on which Mayo lectured and wrote included sin, eugenics,
and the business depression. “Sin with a Capital ‘S’” notes the widespread
alarm in 1927 at the behavior of youth and the anxiety of members of the
older generation toward their children’s deviance. Forty-year-olds should
understand youth better, Mayo argued, and youth should be congratulated
both on its progressive and civilized morality and its demonstration to the
older generation that moral restraints on and condemnation of youth arise
from ignorance and an obsessive thinking. Mayo outlined his ideas on
religious conversion that he had given in Psychology and Religion, and
described again Janet’s theory of obsessional neurosis. In that description
Mayo found the theme for his article: “It is not the sin [the obsessive] has
done that distresses him . . . it is the indefinable sin he might do.”
The thesis: in a person who feels distant from the real world there emerges
a conviction of sin that combines a sense of inferiority with personal de­
pression. In Mayo’s thinking, the person becomes preoccupied with over­
simplified attitudes, and substitutes false dichotomies for complex well-
form ed opinions. Adolescents have a strong attachm ent for false
dichotomies, particularly in regard to what affects them most, i.e., sex,
authority, and changes in social relations. Because of its ignorance of sex
and young peoples’ values, the older generaton provokes in the young a
morbid sense of sin; they respond by using false dichotomies to master
their sexual and social problems and conflict radically with the older gener­
ation. Although the article was a popular exegesis of life during the 1920s, it
contained many ideas that would be used in teaching at the Business
School.22
Interaction between generations always interested Mayo. When he first
undertook the study of psychology in Adelaide he had been attracted to
eugenics because it promised help in deciding who was fit, psychologically,
to undertake political leadership in modern democracy. The promise was
never kept, and the idea that control could be exercised through biogenic
selection of authorities became discredited. Nevertheless, Mayo main­
tained a passing interest in eugenics, and in September 1930 when he was
visiting Pitt-Rivers in Dorset he accepted an invitation to meet with the
International Federation of Eugenic Organizations and to introduce a film,
“The Evolution of Social Consciousness.”23
By 1931 most Harvard Business School faculty had become concerned
about the business depression. Mayo set down his ideas in Economic
 Harvard 1926-1932 219

Hygiene, a report that included four essays: “The Problem of the Admin­
istrator,” “Economic Stability and the Standard of Living,” “Economic
Health and Balance,” and “Economic Hygiene.” Mayo sent copies to the
Rockefeller Foundation, and to Arthur Young and Joseph Willits.24 In
April 1931 Mayo addressed the Industrial Relations Association (Chicago)
on human factors related to economic stability.25
“The Problem of the Administrator” quotes extensively from Theory o f
Revolution by Brooks Adams, argues for raising administrators’ intel­
ligence to the level of other major occupations, and goes as far as to suggest
that the business depression was caused by “the inferiority o f . . . admin­
istrative intelligence.” Mayo distinguished between two kinds of scientist:
those who develop knowledge logically according to precise rules, methods,
and techniques, and those with a broader view, who look on science as an
adventure. He applied the distinction to administrators: sound administra­
tors need some scientific training and experience at first, but later, if they
are to be effective, they must be alert to the new, the changing, and the half­
known, and the continuing need for fresh enquiries. The ideal man would
be “capable of any intensive study [which] the situation may demand but
with undimmed perception of the relevant facts at the experiental level.”
The tasks allocated to such men are to make decisions when precise knowl­
edge is lacking, recommend action without knowing its full effect, and act
on premises they know are insufficient or wrong. Such men muft be alert to
symptoms of error in their decisions, be constant in their method so they
learn from it, and maintain normality in social and economic develop­
ment. Mayo placed great importance on these attributes and tasks of the
administrator, recommended them to the Western Electric management,
and repeated them in his Lowell lectures.26
“Economic Stability and the Standard of Living,” published for dis­
tribution to the Business School alumni in the summer of 1931, was the
main part of Mayo’s address of July 1932 to a London meeting of the
International Management Institute. The paper was translated into French
in 1933. When it was published it included the main ideas from the other
two parts of the report, “Economic Health and Balance” and “Economic
Hygiene.” He used the ideas for several addresses in the United States and
England.27
Mayo asked what external, noneconomic factors determined the im­
balance between production and consumption in the depressed American
economy. He looked to France first, and showed that its economy had
resisted depression better than had either the British or American. The
French economy was relatively stable because its industry had developed
slowly and retained the nation’s social determinants of living standards;
American industry had grown rapidly, abolished the social standards of
living, replaced them with the compulsions of advertisers and salesmen,
and, consequently, produced goods for individual display rather than goods
220 Elton Mayo

with a stable social function. The business depression was a result of a

declining demand for goods that individuals use for show—cars, fur coats,
candy, fountain pens, and so on—and that do not always bring an increase
in the standard of living. Such materialistic industrialism, abetted by mass
production methods, discounted individuality, and, as anthropological and
sociological studies in cities like Chicago showed, social pathologies and
personal disorganization ensued and thus led to an imbalance in the rela­
tion of consumption to production.
Mayo explained the imbalance by using his thesis on the social con­
sequences of rapid industrializaton. Before such industrialization, al­
though travel and intellectual growth were restricted, people lived a full
communal life and served a necessary social function. After industrializa­
tion labor became highly mobile, families lived in temporary quarters,
travel to work used much more time, apartment life restricted the family’s
physical world, and every five years the neighborhood population changed.
All of these factors affected internal markets because people began to pur­
chase for material gain rather than for social use and enjoyment. The
production of material goods rose as people began to use them to compen­
sate for the disintegration of communal life. Mayo asserted: “The demand
for material goods as a substitute for social values is not indicative of a high
but of a low standard of living” and implies uneven economic growth. A
satisfactory market cannot be found in a poorly ordered community, be­
cause its members have become highly susceptible to persuasive advertis­
ing and calamitous rumors, and act as if they lived in a state of either high
prosperity or deep depression. As a general conclusion, Mayo stated any
diminution of social integration leads to a retraction of socially required
expenditure and so converts what was necessary income into surplus for
extravagant use and excessive speculation on stock exchanges. Mayo rec­
ommended that society should give as much attention to organizing con­
sumption and the social problems of economic stability as it does to fi­
nancing and producing goods and services.28
Anthropology and sociology have much to contribute to the under­
standing of economic behavior, Mayo believed, and action should follow
from that understanding. He wrote a short paper on such action, “The
Dynamic Pose,” which distinguishes dynamic or latent capacity for action
from energia, or actuality of action. The dynamic pose is found in business,
art, and science. Mayo considered the dynamic pose was false and con­
demned the professional who adopts a dynamic pose, pretending to be
knowledgeable and wise when he is not. But the falsity of the dynamic pose
lies not so much with man himself as with the popular attitude to the field
of study. Mayo used economics as his example, for this was the field of
study that it was widely believed would eliminate business depression. The
dynamic pose had been foisted on the economist by promoters of popular
opinion. Mayo asserted that scientific study, not popular opinion, should
 Harvard 1926-1932 221

underpin the economist’s ideas, and that only scientific research could
show how valid were the assumptions that economic theory makes about
human nature and social organization.29
In the summer of 1928 Mayo planned to visit Britain. He had not been
there since 1905. He wanted to see Bernard Hart, London’s leading psycho­
pathologist, and Dr. Charles S. Myers of the National Institute of Industrial
Psychology (N.I.I.P.), “a personal friend . . . interested in our . . . diverse
approaches to” industrial inquiries. He planned to return to the Working
Men’s College, where he had taught, to collaborate on adult education
policies among workers with Albert Mainsbridge, whom he had met in
Queensland. Mayo hoped to have discussions at the London School of
Economics with Malinowski, and at University College with A. V. Hill, the
physiologist; to renew his acquaintance with Sir Matthew Nathan, former
Governor of Queensland, and discuss industrial questions in the United
States, England, and Australia; to canvass work done by the British Indus­
trial Fatigue Research Board; and to visit Jean Piaget in Geneva and Pierre
Janet in Paris.30 The plan was too ambitious. He did not stay long enough
to visit Janet and Piaget; Hart and Mainsbridge were unavailable; and he
did not see the Working Men’s College.
The travel plan was a response to several pressures that had arisen in
1928. Mayo’s research was not advancing as he had expected,31 and, by
extending associations abroad, he hoped his local reputation would grow
and he could gain the cooperation of industry. By contrast, Henderson’s
work was progressing—the new laboratory had just been named, “the Fa­
tigue Laboratory”32—and Hetty, Mayo’s mother, had written of the Ade­
laide family members’ successes and her high hopes for her eldest son’s
future. She wanted copies of his lectures, books and articles, something
tangible to show for what he was doing at Harvard, but she also wanted him
to go “home” to England. “I think I should like it better if you were in
England than in America other things being equal. . . . I hope the new
Chair at Harvard is making itself felt. . . . It would be a joy if you would go
home to England in a short time and stir them up.”33
Mayo tried to do as Hetty wanted. In his report on the English visit,
Mayo listed the many firm and important associations he had made.34 At
the insistence of Sir William Beveridge, Mayo was made an honorary
member of the Senior Common Room, London School of Economics, and
thus enjoyed the privileges of faculty at the University of London. He
renewed acquaintances with Malinowski and Pitt-Rivers; associated with
Westermarck, J.G. Frazer, Seligman, Marcel Mauss, and Sir Arthur Keith;
worked with Myers and Miles of N.I.I.P.; lunched with Sidney Webb, Allyn
Young, and Harold Laski; held discussions with fatigue researchers Eric
Farmer, May Smith, Millais Culpin, and, D.R. Wilson and spoke at a
special meeting of the British Psychological Association.
In the years to come Mayo would travel to Europe every summer, and
222 Elton Mayo

on returning give his Cambridge colleagues and young associates a deep

impression that in Europe he was well connected, particularly within Bri­
tain’s aristocratic circles and among academics.35 Because he had enjoyed
so much regular contact with these people, Mayo could report on many
aspects of British work in anthropology, sociology, and economics; de­
velopments in medical and industrial psychology; the appropriateness of
his thesis on the changes to society that accompanied rapid industrializa­
tion; the importance of equilibrium both within the organism and in rela­
tion to its environment; psychopathological inquiries; and the recent
developments in psychoanalysis and related psychologies.
At the end of his report Mayo compared British work with a study he
had recently joined at the Hawthorne Works of Chicago’s Western Electric
Company. George Pennock, the officer in charge of the study, had reported
on a year’s observation of five girls at work. He found that when they were
in a state of organic equilibrium their production was high. After rest
pauses and proper diet, organic equilibrium improved, production rose,
variability of output fell, and the girls’ mental and physical health im­
proved. Mayo was reminded of what he had been told in 1915 by a Labour
politician in Queensland: fatigue among workers leads to morbid preoc­
cupations and class consciousness, and is followed by diminishing interest
in work and job skills. Mayo believed that Pennock’s research illustrated
what could be done when fatigue was eliminated, and showed that it was
better for production and for workers when supervisors listened attentively
to subordinates.36
The month in Britain served personal ends also. He learned the sad
news that Malinowski’s wife Elsie was afflicted with multiple sclerosis. Pitt-
Rivers entertained Mayo royally but showed little interest in his work—
apparently because it was being done in the United States rather than
England. Mayo had the impression that Sir Matthew Nathan held the same
attitude.
Ambivalent attitudes and associated preoccupations emerged during
Mayo’s absence from Dorothea. He bought new clothes, and was pleased to
find a jeweler to repair his late father’s watch but he loathed spending the
money. He looked forward to visiting Dorothea’s relatives, but when he was
with them he found their company more dull than entertaining. In a
restaurant he enjoyed playful persiflage with two “ladies-of-the-street,” but
his black anger rose when he remembered how uncivilized was the society
that had produced such human distress.
He heard gossip about the intimate life of noted psychologists, the back­
ground to factions among anthropologists, and the details of the Savidge
Case (indecent exposure combined with zealous police work). He attended
plays, movies, horse races, and a risque musical: “I’d never seen so many
naked feminine legs” he wrote to Dorothea. After an informal meeting of
industrial psychologists he enjoyed tackling the criticism of his ideas; and
 Harvard 1926-1932 223

at dinner with Ruml listened patiently to the exasperation of a man who

felt harassed by the demands from Britons for nothing more from him but
Rockefeller’s money. At the end of June Mayo sailed to Nova Scotia for a
short holiday with Dorothea and the girls and to write his report on his first
month in London since 1905.37
For three years in Boston, Mayo’s family life was normal. In September
1926 he had brought the family from a holiday at Les Eboulements in
Quebec to live in Cambridge at 11 Trail Street. After a year they moved to
43 Larch Street. In the summer of 1929 this house was vacated when
Dorothea and he took Gael and Patricia to Europe. On the boat the girls
were told they were unlikely to return because they would be going to
school in England.
The girls where to be educated at Bedales, a progressive school. Dor­
othea, an anglophile, was determined her daughters would not be raised as
Americans. Also, she was fifty-three that summer and did not have suffi­
cient patience to deal with teenage girls. She feared she might reproduce
her past miserable family life by becoming a domineering matriarch and
dispensing adult tasks to adolescents. And she wanted to further her intel­
lectual interests. So Dorothea persuaded Mayo that better opportunities
existed for the girls’ proper education in England, and in summer they
could join them for a holiday in the hotels of Europe. At the end of every
summer the girls would cry when the leaves began to turn because they
were reminded that their two months of regular family life were coming to
an end.38
Notes

1. Osborne Reports, February, May 1929, March, April 1930, January, February,
April 1931.
2. Miscellaneous notes, 1927-28, MM 2. 019.
3. MM 2.019.
4. MM 3.056, MM 3.060, MM 3.099, MM 1.099.
5. MM 3.052-3.
6. Halbkrain to Mayo, 20 October 1926-24 November 1929, MM 3.031.
7. Elton Mayo, “Industrial Fatigue Studies,” or “Fatigue in Industry,” Winter
1926-27, MM 2.033.
8. Elton Mayo, “Surrey Textile Company,” Harvard Business Reports 4 (1927):
100-15.
9. Boston Herald, 17 March 1927.
10. Mayer to Mayo, 27 May 1929, MM 1.105.
11. Elton Mayo, “The Scientific Approach to Industrial Relations,” Proceedings o f
Y.M.C.A. Conference on Hum an Relations in Industry, September 1927, pp.
19-23.
12. Elton Mayo, “The Maladjustment of the Industrial Worker,” in Wertheim Lec­
tures in Industrial Relations, ed. O.S. Berger et al. (Cambridge: Harvard Univer­
sity Press, 1928), pp. 165-96.
13. Elton Mayo , “The Practical Outcome of Psychopathology,” address, Industrial
Section, British Psychological Association, 21 June 1928, MM 2.019.
224 Elton Mayo

14. Elton Mayo, “What Is Monotony?” Human Factor 5 (1919): 3-4.

15. Elton Mayo, “The Approach to Psychological Investigation” (transcript), Social
Sciences Research Council’s Hanover Conference, August 27, 1926, pp. 401-32,
MM 2.007.
16. Elton Mayo, “Obsessions in Students” (transcript), address, First Colloquium in
Personality Investigation, New York, December 1928, MM 2. 028.
17. Elton Mayo, “The Place of the Father in the Present Day Home” (transcript) ,
MM 2.045, MM 3.059.
18. Elton Mayo, “The Dynamics of Family Relations,” Child Study, May 1927, p. 6.
19.Boston Herald, 17 September 1927, MM 1.060; Northampton Gazette, 23
September 1927, GC 563, BLA.
20. Osborne Reports, March, April 1929, April 1930, GB 2.563, BLA.
21. Mayo to Woods, 23 September 1928, MM 1.100.
22. Elton Mayo, “Sin with a Capital ‘S’,” Harper’s 154 (1927): 537-45; excerpts, HP
267, BLA.
23. Western Gazette (Dorset, England), 19 September 1930, MM 1.060.
24. Elton Mayo, “Harvard University—Economic Research Report on Economic
Hygiene,” n.d., RF; Young to Mayo, 27 March 1931, MM 1.104; Willits to
Mayo, 25 March 1931, MM 1.099.
25. Daily News (Chicago), 15 April 1931.
26. Mayo to Pennock, 9 February 1931, MM 1.090; Elton Mayo, The Problems o f
an Industrial Civilization (New York: Macmillan, 1933).
27. Elton Mayo, “Economic Stability and the Standard of Living,” Harvard
Business School Alum ni Bulletin 7, no. 6 (1931): 290-94; Elton Mayo, “The
Study of Consumption and Markets,” Bulletin o f the International Manage­
ment Institute 6, no 11 (1932): 3-15; Elton Mayo, “La Stabilite Economique et
le ‘Standard of Living’,” Travail H um ain (Paris) 1 (1933): 49-55; Daily News
(Chicago), 15 April 1931; Oak Leaves Weekly (Oak Park, III.), 17 April 1931.
28. Mayo, “Economic Stabilty and the Standard of Living.”
29. Elton Mayo, “The Dynamic Pose,” Harvard Business School Alum ni Bulletin 9,
no. 3 (1933): 95-97.
30. Mayo to Biddle, 6 April 1928; Mayo to Biddle, 11 April 1938; Elton to
Dorothea, 15 May-26 June 1928.
31. Osborne to Donham, 14 June 1928, MM 3.071.
32. Henderson to Ruml, 31 March 1928, RF.
33. Hetty to Elton, 17 April 1928, MM 1.007.
34. Mayo to Donham, 25 September 1928, RF.
35. Conversation with Homans, 3 June 1975.
36. Conversation with Homans, 3 June 1974.
37. Elton to Dorothea, 15 May-26 June 1928.
38. Mayo to Donham, 9 September 1926, AFFDI; Anon, to Dorothea, 14 August
1929, MM 1.004; conversation with Gael Mayo, 12 February, 22 July 1975;
conversation with Patricia Elton Mayo, January 1975.
 14
Mayo at the Hawthorne Works: 1928-1931

This chapter describes industrial research in the test rooms, interview­

ing employees and supervisors, and the bank wiring observation room at
the Hawthorne Works of the Western Electric Company in Cicero, Illinois,
and how, between 1928 and 1931, Mayo advised the researchers and helped
them bring their work to the attention of industrialists and social scientists
in the United States and Europe.

The Western Electric Company, manufacturer of telephone equipment

at its Hawthorne Works, had a policy of high wages and good working
conditions for employees and of using modern placement techniques. For
twenty years before the research began, managers considered general mo­
rale was high among employees and the incidence of industrial conflict
infrequent.1
In collaboration with the National Research Council the company stud­
ied the relation between intensity of illumination at work and the output of
workers. No simple direct relation appeared because many psychological
factors interfered. To control them, especially the factor of fatigue, re­
searchers asked six girls to work in a test room away from their regular
department; to be subject to changes in working hours, rest pauses, and
other conditions; and to have their comments on work recorded while their
output was measured. The girls agreed. Five girls assembled telephone
relays, one supplied the parts. For five years, beginning April 1927, accu­
rate records were kept of the number of relays made, temperature and
humidity of the test room, medical and personal histories, eating and
sleeping habits, and snatches of conversation on the job. No one supervised
the girls; instead a test room observer, and later his assistants, kept records,
arranged work, and tried to keep up the spirit of cooperation among the
girls. The girls were told to work as they felt and at a comfortable pace, and
only with their consent would changes be made in their work.
First, the researchers measured productive capacity by recording the
girls’ output for two weeks before the test-room study began. Then, for the
first five weeks no changes at work were made so that the mere effect on
output of being transferred was known. At the third stage, a pay system was
introduced that ensured each girl’s earnings were in proportion to her

225
226 Elton Mayo

efforts, thereby centering her financial interests on the study. Eight weeks
later, two five-minute rest pauses—one at 10 a . m ., the other at 2 p. m .— were
introduced; subsequently they were extended to ten minutes, then six five-
minute rests were established. Next, the girls were given a light lunch in the
mid-morning and afternoon rest pauses. In the eighth phase, the workday
ended a half-hour early; in the ninth, the girls finished work an hour earlier
than usual. In phase ten, work conditions returned to what they had been.
Then a five-day week was introduced and it ran through the summer of
1928. Results showed an unexpected gradual rise in daily output. The
researchers, believing that something other than the changes had affected
the output, asked the girls if they would return to the original work condi­
tions, i.e., no pauses or lunches and a full work week. The girls agreed, and
for twelve weeks output declined, but not to its original level.
The researchers expected that if output rate were directly related to the
physical conditions of work, then identical conditions would produce simi­
lar output rates. Instead, the girls’ output rate rose from one phase of the
study to the next. It remained on a high plateau until the depression ended
the study in 1933. Detailed analysis of the data would show that there may
be an association between output and physical environment in extreme
conditions, but within the limits of the test room physical changes ap­
peared to have no definite effect on output rate.
Why? The girls’ comments recorded during work offered an answer.
They knew that without consciously putting themselves to it they where
producing more in the test room than they had elsewhere. Also, they
valued the idea of doing work that might lead to improving their fellow
employees’ working conditions. Moreover they liked not being supervised.
In time friendships grew and continued after work. The girls made a cere­
mony of their regular medical examinations by having the company serve
ice cream and cake, they celebrated birthdays, and helped any one among
them who was fatigued. Also, leadership developed, centering in one am­
bitious member. Researchers concluded that changes in output could be
attributed to changes not only in work conditions but also work attitudes
and social relations.
In the test room the girls’ attitudes to work differed from those in the
original workplace because there supervisors had been particularly irk­
some. But managers had thought the supervisors quite capable. Because of
this sharp difference, the researchers decided to interview many employees,
and from specific questions learn attitudes toward company policy and
supervisory methods in the hope the information would improve super­
visor training.
In September 1928, eight months after the test-room studies had begun,
the interviewing of five supervisors in the Inspection Branch was initiated.
Completed early in 1929, results were so useful that interviewing was ex­
tended to the Operations Branch. On February 1, 1929, the Division of
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 227

Industrial Research was founded to interview all forty thousand employees

to discover attitudes toward work, to correct causes of discontent and
enhance favorable work conditions, and to study fatigue, efficiency, and
employee relations. By 1930 over half the employees had been interviewed
and the team of interviewers had grown to about thirty.
Workers and supervisors accepted the interviewing. Workers enjoyed
the opportunity to express their feelings and ideas about their work; such
expression often allowed discharge of irrational impulses, and con­
sequently attitudes toward work became more accepting and tolerant. Su­
pervisors found they were not embarrassed or fearful of the interviewers’
findings, but instead learned much about effective supervision when the
transcripts were used for training.
Interviewers found their specific questions were frequently unrelated to
opinions workers wanted to express, and that worker comments were often
merely subjective views about individuals and situations rather than objec­
tive and accurate statements. So the interviewers’ noting of replies to ques­
tions about what was liked and disliked about work gave over to directed
conversations, recorded verbatim, following topics chosen by the inter­
viewees. Consequently, a seemingly quiet interviewee would become talka­
tive, and another would become unexpectedly preoccupied with a single
topic. The preoccupations were like obsessions or compulsions of the men­
tally ill; many workers who complained of feeling overtired seemed to
think like obsessives: no control of reflective thought, compulsive rituals,
indecisiveness, elaborate reasons for not acting, complaints of nervous
tension, and anxiety about nothing specific. Often interviewers could trace
problems to home life as well as to work conditions.
Researchers saw that responses in interviews were the result of the indi­
viduals’ social lives, e.g., families, communities, and work group. Inter­
views showed employees followed their own practices at work, e.g., a
standard daily output, rules for punishing workers who exceeded or failed
to meet the standard, leaders who united workers and enforced standards,
and clear beliefs about the futility of promotion and the domineering
manner of supervisors. So, in May 1931, interviewers were assigned to
particular work groups and talked with each member frequently. Results
were surprising. Whereas managers had always believed specific tasks were
difficult to master, workers had found them easy to learn and considered
themselves clever to have fooled the managers. To do this the workers had
formed groups in which one man had the task of keeping visiting managers
ignorant and an other man of teaching new members how to restrict their
production. And the group supervisor had no real authority over the men’s
work practices. And most members were dissatisfied because they thought
it futile to be serving opposed interests.
To study social norms and satisfaction the Division of Industrial Re­
search assembled a work group of fourteen men that from early December
228 Elton Mayo

1931 to May occupied a special room and wired banks of telephone ex­
change terminals. An investigator noted what the men said and did. At first
the men formed two friendship groups that together undermined wage
incentive systems that assumed employees work to maximize pay and pres­
sured fellow employees to cooperate toward this end. But the workers re­
stricted output for fear of management’s lowering the pay rate, demanded a
minimum of output from one another to stop some workers from being
paid for work they did not do, and allowed no worker to behave officiously
toward a fellow worker or say anything to supervisors that might affect any
worker’s standing on the job. Anyone breaking the rules was punched on
the upper arm or insulted. Also, management’s assignment of employees to
jobs according to skill was violated; men swapped jobs and otherwise
helped each other. Accounting controls were broken when the group chief
recorded claims for pay that the men were not legally entitled to make.
Researchers believed that the workers’ actions were logically related not
to the technical but to the social organization of work; and that changes in
the technical organization often attacked routines of human association
that give value to work. In response, workers protected themselves against
such attacks with what appeared to be illogical sentiments and practices.
Work for the girls in the test room differed from that of the men in the
observation room. The girls had no close supervision, and always had the
chance to originate and participate in decisions affecting their work; the
men were under close supervision, disliked it, and were never given the
chance to participate in decisions about their tasks. The researchers con­
cluded that different social relations within the two groups helped explain
why the girls cooperated to raise output while the men collaborated to
restrict it.
In 1932 the business depression ended most of the research at the
Hawthorne Works, but in January 1936 the researchers were able to begin
with a new approach. They proposed a counseling program based on what
had been learned from the interviews. It aimed to study personnel prob­
lems, to give nonauthoritative support to employees and supervisors in
understanding individuals’ difficulties, and to provide managers with infor­
mation on how relevant their practices and policies were to those of the
work groups under them. The study would be done through counselors. By
April 1936 the program was in place. Recent college graduates and high
school graduates were hired and trained for the position of counselor or
“personnel man” in each department. The counselor assumed none of the
supervisor’s duties; he helped both supervisors and workers to speak freely
with him, and he treated personal information in confidence.
Initial resistance to the counselors was overcome when they dispelled
fears about the anonymity of interview material, forestalled objections that
they would duplicate the functions of union representatives, and allayed
anxieties that they constituted a spy system to help managers oppose
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 229

worker demands. In consequence, the counselors were free to help individ­

uals adjust to personal problems at work and home, to give supervisors an
appreciation of those difficulties, and provide general information about
employees’ feelings and activities that managers could incorporate in the
firm’s policies.

Following his talk to The Lunchers on psychology in industry, Mayo

received a letter in March 1928 from the Western Electric Company comp­
troller of manufacturing, T. K. Stevenson,2 enclosing a copy of the report
on the six girls’ work in the test room and asking for comments. From data
collected during the first seven periods of the study, the researchers could
see that as rest periods were introduced Theresa Layman and Ladislas
Blazijak produced consistently more and more relays; Anna Haug had kept
her output at an even level, and then raised it suddenly after her vacation,
and continued at the higher level; Adeline Bogotowicz and Irene Rybacki
had similar output records that fell, rose, jumped suddenly, and later
dropped. The differences could not easily be explained. Relations with
supervisors, friendships, differences between tasks, and organic variations
among the girls all played a part.
Mayo’s task was to see if organic differences could explain variations in
output. He thought the Addis Index, a measure of pulse product, indicated
organic differences because it varied with oxygen consumed for tasks re­
quiring muscular effort or attentiveness and during emotional arousal.
Such energy levels were determined by the individual’s constitution, de­
mands of the task, and food intake. When pulse product was related to
output, four types of worker emerge: worker under strain—high pulse
product and high output; sluggish worker—low pulse product and low
output; fatigued worker—high pulse product and low output; and efficient
worker—low pulse product and high output.3
Dissatisfied with his previous attempts to establish industrial research in
New England, Mayo was hoping that late in 1928, when he returned from
the summer in Europe, he would be able to “secure a convenient niche in
the industrial structure from which to push investigations and experi­
ments.” For this reason Mayo was strongly attracted to the problem at the
Hawthorne Works.4
On April 25 and 26 Mayo, Osborne, and Lovekin took blood pressure
readings of Layman, Blazijak, Haug, and two new girls who had joined the
group, Mary Volango and Jenny Sirchio. Also, readings were taken of three
girls in the coil winding department: Mary Ganski, Eloinia Markovitch,
and Allika Kacikek.5 Bogotowicz and Rybacki had been asked to leave the
test room because of uncooperative behavior. A few days later Mayo wrote
to Ruml, “Once again the highest producer was .. . [Sirchio] who achieved
an organic equilibrium—and kept it.”6 The report was more cautious.
Although the researchers had expected that a low steady index—a desirable
230 Elton Mayo

state of equilibrium—would be associated with high output, no constant

relation between the two variables emerged. Results showed that all opera­
tors were working well within their physical capacities, and that differences
among them could be attributed to variations in work habits and dif­
ferences in constitution generally.7
Mayo’s results could not be used to explain the unexpected uncoopera­
tive behavior of Bogotowicz and Rybacki. The former had married, and
after being dropped from the study and taking an assembler’s position
elsewhere in the plant, left the company in August. Rybacki had lost inter­
est in her home life and work during the months leading up to Bogotowicz’s
marriage. Both girls’ output had fallen, and the other girls teased her about
it, and she became irritated. Also, despite the assurance of company offi­
cials to the contrary, she began to believe her friends whom she had left in
the regular department when they told her that the test-room study was a
management scheme to maximize profits. In management’s eyes she
turned “Bolshie,” and in December 1927 was asked by George Pennock,
assistant works manager, and his associate Mark Putnam to explain her
change in attitude. She could not, complained of fatigue, and said she
wanted to leave the study. Ten weeks later when Mayo visited the
Hawthorne Works, he asked to see her medical report, noticed imme­
diately that she had symptoms of secondary anemia, and suggested referral
to one of the company doctors. He put her on a special diet, and a two-
week vacation was planned for her in the summer. Her blood count im­
proved, and she regained weight and began to take a positive interest in life
at home. She continued as an assembler in the regular department until
she quit the company in September 1930 for health reasons about five
months after her marriage.8
During his first visit Mayo discussed general personnel issues with Pen­
nock, and made some suggestions for which Pennock was grateful. Mayo
was assured that in November he would be sent further blood pressure
readings when the rest pauses and the girls’ lunches had been
discontinued.9
In September 1928, on his way back from observing industrial problems
in Colorado, Mayo spent two days at the Hawthorne Works. He learned
from Pennock that the research was being extended to include an interview
inquiry into the effects of various supervisors on the preoccupations of
workers. Mayo thought that such a radical approach could lead to changes
in the company’s policy on supervision. He read the most recent progress
report, and wrote to Pennock that his study “will be almost a classic in the
literature of industrial investigation,” suggested that Osborne go to the
Hawthorne Works as an observer, and recommended the research be pub­
lished at a conference to be held by Walter Bingham’s Personnel Research
Federation early in December.10 Pennock agreed, and added that the inter­
viewing and the use of conference groups to train supervisors was rapidly
producing good results.11
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 231

In January 1929, Pennock told Mayo that over the next two years the
company planned to spend $200,000 on a scheme to interview all em­
ployees at the Hawthorne Works. Results would be used to identify un­
satisfactory working conditions and to train supervisors.12 Early in March
Mayo visited Pennock to consider the method and the theory of interview­
ing, and to propose that indirect methods of interviewing be adopted.13
Pennock wanted Mayo to join the firm and take full responsibility for the
interviewing program, but Mayo declined, saying that he preferred his
present position because, although he might have to earn extra money with
occasional lectures and magazine articles, he enjoyed the freedom of aca­
demic life and had no mind for the “unpleasant emergencies of earning”
that employment elsewhere often required. He told Pennock that Indus­
trial Relations Counselors gave him an annual retainer for his services, but
rather than have Western Electric Company follow suit, he proposed it
simply bear the expense of his occasional visits, during which he would
“extend and intensify your enquiries . . . help to train your interviewers,”
adding, “I have in fact done this in many places.” Pennock agreed and
began building his team of interviewers, while Mayo prepared an evalua­
tion on the work done so far.14
Mayo’s evaluation centered on the interview, and argued that training in
how to interview would produce “an entirely superior technique of select­
ing and training administrators.”15 To support his approach, he offered a
long quotation from Brooks Adams’s The Theory o f Revolution but re­
placed the word “capital” with “manager,” “businessman,” “industralist,”
and “employer.” Mayo preferred an interview technique that required the
interviewer to listen sympathetically, to probe for information rather than
ask for it directly, and to follow the course of the respondent’s interests
rather than the concerns of the interviewer. Two months later, in July 1929,
the interviewing method was changed along the lines that Mayo had
suggested.
Mayo could see that all the interviewers were capable of following the
ideas he was advocating; some understood from firsthand experience the
indirect interview style, but most were badly confused as to the precise
research objectives. He recommended that all interviewers adopt his sug­
gestion, and then, in time, their own preoccupations about the aim of the
research would diminish. In fact, the vagueness of purpose was, to Mayo, a
sign of good health in research. Taking as his authorities, Poincare and
Peirce, he asserted that scientific inquiry follows a question, and as it does
so, the question changes. If the question does not change, then inquiry
becomes merely a technical exercise and no longer of scientific interest.
Feelings of awkwardness, doubt, ambiguity, impatience all come before a
new illumination casts itself on an inquiry. Mayo wanted the researchers to
keep in mind two questions: How are production, organic balance, and
mental attitude related? And, what does that relation hold for industry?
Mental attitudes could be explored through nondirected interviews, while
232 Elton Mayo

organic balance could be assessed through extending the experimental

work to more groups and refining the technique of continuous pulse-prod-
uct measurement during the working day.16 Lovekin took up the second
task, while Mayo worked to have his views on interview technique take
hold.
In September 1929 the influence of Mayo’s views extended at the
Hawthorne Works when he accepted Pennock’s invitation to address com­
pany executives on his evaluation of the Hawthorne research. But Mayo’s
obsessive cycle of personal doubts was turning. Weeks before, he felt that
he had spoken poorly at several meetings; a few days earlier at the Silver
Bay conference on industrial relations he had been cheered each time he
rose to speak. Now, exhausted, sweating, and grimy from hours of train
travel he was entering a heat wave that had engulfed Chicago. Would he be
able to show the old spontaneity? Did he have the capacity to push the
audience before him? The cycle of self doubts had begun when, at sum­
mer’s end, he sailed to Boston leaving Dorothea in England to help the girls
with their first few weeks schooling at Bedales. Also he had recently been
promoted to a tenured professorship at Harvard. So he feared for his fam­
ily’s welfare, was anxious to meet the new and unclear expectations from
his colleagues, and wondered if he could hold his audience at Hawthorne.
“There is at the back of my mind a loss that is perpetual and an anxiety for
the letter I cannot get until Chicago . . . if I wasn’t moving actively, I should
go morbid. . . . If Chicago goes well, then we are ready for the year.”17
Chicago did go well. On his first night Mayo dined with Pennock and
Fred W. Willard, the personnel director. The next day Mayo received
princely treatment:
At 8:30 the doorman clears the taxis away from the Wabash Street entrance of
this hotel [The Palmer House] and a large limousine with a uniformed chauf­
feur slides noiselessly in. The door is opened and Elton Mayo, formerly of
South Australia, gets in and glides off to his alleged industrial researches. At
5:45 in the evening the event is repeated—the large limousine glides in and
the afore-said E.M. gets out after his alleged industrial researches. The door
snaps shut, someone says ‘Good night, Sir’—and the porters and the door­
men grievously misjudge E.M.’s financial (and therefore social) status. The
. . . Western Electric Co. . . . are very nice to me—and the work is going very
well. My apprehensiveness . . . the superstitions of an obsessive . . . were
groundless . . . after all.18

The industrial Research Division had been established in February 1929

with Mark Putnam as its chief, and a well-educated and intelligent staff to
be responsible for interviewing, analysis of interview data, training of su­
pervisors, and experimental studies of employee reactions and efficiency.
Mayo was concerned in all these functions, but on this visit was expected to
discuss the new interviewing technique, and help the interviewers under­
stand the value of replacing interrogation with indirect questioning and
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 233

sympathetic listening. The interview program had been such a success in a

short time that the plan to interview the forty thousand Chicago employees
was extended to include twenty thousand more at the Kearney plant in
New Jersey. “So we are affecting the lives of 60,000 people already,” he
wrote to Dorothea. Also a new series of experiments was planned that
would use “the Piaget Method,” which meant “taking down any remark
th at a worker makes, and . . . com paring preoccupations with
production.”19
On personal as well as technical grounds Mayo’s relations were begin­
ning to become stable at Hawthorne. He had been asked to talk with
Pennock’s teenage son, whose low grades at college were putting his educa­
tion at risk. Mayo quickly identified poor study techniques and advised on
how to improve them; the youth worked better and was allowed to continue
at college. A year later Mayo would arrange medical aid and counseling for
him in Boston. Also, Pennock liked Mayo personally, and tried again to
entice him to join the firm, but without success.20
The September visit was the first of three in 1929 that would secure for
Mayo the niche he wanted in the American industrial structure. But suc­
cess brought back the painful doubts of childhood. At first he enjoyed a
heightened sense of personal worth; he wanted that, but as soon as he
began to enjoy it the doubt swiftly returned. Early in his working life the
doubts had weighed heavily; in the United States he lifted them by writing
to Dorothea. No matter how successful his achievements, the doubts
merely changed form and would never be banished because he was
ashamed of needing Dorothea to assuage the moral anxiety that gave rise to
them.
I have to struggle with the sort of superstitious reluctance to admit that all
goes well—those people who believe they did well to shake my ‘self con­
fidence’ in childhood were gravely mistaken. Of course I fought back and in
some degree perhaps conquered. But even now— and in success rather than
failure, the doubts returned . . . it is shameful to inflict this on you—except
that my dear lady should know all there is of me.21

While in Chicago, Mayo was consulted by C.G. Stoll, vice president of

Western Electric, on the management of time lost among office workers.
Mayo had no opportunity to study any specific instances, but, flushed with
the success from discussions with Pennock and Putnam, and their associ­
ates, he considered the problem to be one of inadequate supervisors, and
suggested presenting them with the problem and having them discuss
frankly the alternative methods for using time in the office.22
In October Mayo returned to the Hawthorne Works to discuss with 250
division chiefs of the company the methods of employee control that he
had introduced to the staff in the Industrial Research Division a month
before. This was his first meeting with the senior executives. He sat with
234 Elton Mayo

Stoll, C.G. Rice, manager of the Hawthorne Works, Pennock, Putnam, and
the senior doctor. Two hundred of “the most hard bitten and experienced
engineers in the country” constituted his audience, he wrote to Dorothea.23
Surrounded by microphones Mayo spoke at high speed for ninety minutes
without faltering, and drew on many humorous images and stories to build
a theme on the value of administering work with human understanding
and insight that comes from effective listening and careful observation of
employees. It seemed to Mayo that he held the audience. For the next few
days he was cross-questioned by the “hard-bitten” executives in small
groups, and by Putnam’s staff, who asked for advice on two difficult cases.
The October visit had three important results. First, it raised the status
of Pennock and Putnam in the company especially when Rice publicly
supported their past research. Second, it left Mayo with the impression that
he was at the center of a great change in industrial administration.24

I have come to the conclusion that we are ‘sitting in’ at a major revolution in
industrial method—a revolution that will probably be as far reaching in its
ultimate effect as the so called industrial revolution of the latter eighteenth
century. I really think that the work has just assumed this magnitude— or
threatens to do so shortly. It is amazing—the effect of the interview pro­
gramme (when backed by courage, intelligence and energy.)25

This paragraph to Dorothea became the main point in a letter to Pennock

that Mayo wrote immediately on his return to Cambridge. He thought that
although the revolutionary changes would have humane rather than me­
chanical implications for industry, they would deal more precisely than
ever before with human problems of industrial civilization, raise self-con­
trol, and diminish irrational and unnecessary conflict. Why? First, the
workers approved of the interviewing because they believed their morale
and sense of cooperation with the company improved with the opportunity
to state their complaints and see some of them removed. Second, the test-
room researches showed that work performance, personal health, and indi­
vidual morale all benefited when methods of control were altered and
interviewing was continuous. Mayo’s favorite illustration was an operator
from a group of mica-splitters who, during a talk on her unhappy home
life, decided to quit living with her mother; she began to produce more at
work, and then when she had to return home to nurse mother, her output
fell. The guiding principle, which Mayo himself had lived through and was
now abstracting from the research findings, was that everywhere, from
medical clinics to industrial workshops, mental health varies with the asso­
ciation between one’s preoccupations and actions; as soon as one decides to
act instead of pitying oneself, life improves and work becomes productive.
And Mayo liked to cite the case of “even a Bolshevik” who agreed with his
view on the proper changes in methods of control: “If all fear of bully­
ragging can be taken out of supervision, and if a majority of supervisors are
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 235

trained interviewers . . . industry will enter upon a new and undreamed era
of active collaboration that will make possible and almost incredible
human advance.”26
The third result of Mayo’s October visit was better interviewers. They
began to understand the purpose of their work, which a month earlier had
been vague, directionless, and worrisome. They saw that when the inter­
viewee was encouraged to control the course of the interview, this improved
the interviewer’s own technique of eliciting information and enhanced his
grasp of its pattern. Putnam, himself, had had such experiences, and Mayo
could see that he now believed the Industrial Research Division’s work was
objectively valuable where once it had seemed nebulous, with little to
contribute.
In teaching how to interview at work, Mayo gave a simple set of instruc­
tions taken from the introduction to Jean Piaget’s The Child’s Conception
of the World and from Andreas Bjerre’s Psychology of Murder. The method
was a clinical sociological technique that Mayo assumed would be appro­
priate to the tasks of administrators, social scientists, and scholars. The
instructions that he set down for the interviewers at Hawthorne covered
two main elements: rules to guide the interviewer, and patterns to note in
the respondent’s life.
The rules were: give full attention to the interviewee, and make it evi­
dent that you are doing so; listen and do not talk; never argue or give
advice; listen for what the interviewer wants to say, does not want to say,
and cannot say without help; as you listen, plot tentatively and for subse­
quent correction the pattern that is being set before you, and to test the
pattern summarize cautiously and clearly what has been said without
twisting it; treat what is said in confidence.
From following the penultimate rule, a pattern emerges that shows the
relation between the person’s present beliefs and past experiences. To com­
plete,the pattern the interviewer should ask about the person’s family of
origin—neighborhood, economic and social prestige, geographical and so­
cial mobility—and personal life, i.e., relations with family members,
friends at school and work, and effects of illness on social life. Questions
should center on habitual preoccupations and assumptions, and these
should be related to events in the person’s life, whether or not he is solitary,
and if so, by preference or circumstance. Other questions should elicit his
rituals, i.e., his nonlogical social skills, his social mana based on his unique
skills, and his irrational or obsessive compulsions that constitute his social
rituals. Estimates should be made of the proportional balance between
these three in a day, and ultimately of the person’s degree of independence
or dependence in relations with others.
The teaching staff in the Industrial Research Division would use Mayo’s
ideas to give weight to the instructions that their pupils were expected to
follow; “(Until Doctor Mayo came along the interview was used mainly for
236 Elton Mayo

supervisory training and research, but) . . . as we know, he revealed what

seems to be the greatest use of all—emotional release . . . the employee is
given freedom to unburden himself and a chance to express his thoughts.”
In addition to laying out the technical procedure for “catharsis,” Mayo
told how the modern theories of abnormal psychology related to the inter­
viewing technique. He taught the various psychoses and psychoneuroses,
and drew attention to obsessions, compulsions, and preoccupations or
reveries and how they accompany organic and psychological imbalance at
work. To the company’s officials Mayo’s thesis was “as interfering reveries
are expressed and gotten rid of underlying normalcy returns.”27
On a personal level, Mayo’s rules stemmed from his lonely period in
London when only his sister had helped him overcome depressing preoc­
cupations; the areas of substantive questioning take their origin from de­
fects Mayo believed he had suffered in his own childhood. These personal
experiences were refined, clarified, and extended through his reading of the
psychopathologists Janet, Freud, and Jung, reflections on his own thought
processes, theories of personal and social maladjustment, and patients he
had seen in Queensland, Sydney, Philadelphia, and Boston.
He thought the first rules were appropriate to use alone for studying
people at work because, in his view, at work no one had the right to ask
direct questions. The substantive questioning, however, was suited to, say,
hospitals where time is short and direct questions are normally asked
because responses to them are treated confidentially. Generally, Mayo con­
sidered the rules sufficient in themselves inasmuch as they constituted a
superior method from which emerged, at the pace the interviewee could
control, a valuable pattern of his own experience rather than of the inter­
viewer’s expectations. This enhanced the interviewer’s understanding of the
person and gave a sounder base on which to offer advice or otherwise
help.28
Mayo’s own interview shows his technique. A worker who had suffered
exposure to mustard gas during during the Great War is allowed to direct
the substance of the interview until he is ready to learn that his obsessional
attitude to health and financial problems at home could be partly resolved
by recognizing his capacity to acquire new skills and get a better paid job.
Mayo’s first impression of the transcript of this interview was that he had
“broken all the principles that I have so carefully inculcated into the inter­
viewing group.”29
When he returned to Boston, Mayo received not only a copy of his own
interview but a letter from Stoll that included some comments from a
supervisor, J.D. Watson, in the machine construction department: “The
interviewing system was certainly not on trial. . . . It seemed like a full
fledged competent kind of bird showing itself for criticism and gathering
only approval. It works. . . . It is a humanist movement and at the same
time, as Mr. Pennock said, a sound commercial proposition.”30
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 237

Mayo also undertook to draw the attention of industrial psychologists

and businessmen to the importance of the Hawthorne studies. Already in
the summer of 1928 he had mentioned the research briefly at discussions
with British academics, and during his September visit to the Hawthorne
Works, when he learned of the radical innovations in the use of interview­
ing for supervisory training, he suggested that Pennock begin reporting the
research to scholars and colleagues outside the company. Mayo recom­
mended Walter Bingham’s Personnel Research Federation, a loose group­
ing of prominent colleges, universities, labor organizations, government
agencies, and large business corporations. The federation encouraged sci­
entific research into personnel problems, published a personnel journal in
which Mayo’s first American writings had appeared, and was to hold its
autumn meeting in December 1928. Pennock agreed, and Bingham set
aside almost a whole morning for Pennock to present, and for Mayo to
open formal discussion of, the Hawthorne studies.31 However, Fred
Willard, with Stoll, Stevenson, and a company vice-president, William F.
Hosford, decided publication of the research should be delayed. Hosford
wanted to discuss the work with a regular meeting of personnel executives
he attended,32 and Willard wanted Pennock to report the research to a
group of competent managers and professionals for their constructive crit­
icism. Mayo and Arthur Young would be among them, because, after their
recent study of an employee representation plan in Colorado, Willard
thought they could bring their experience and open-mindedness to bear on
that aspect of Pennock’s presentation that others might think could limit
supervisors’ authority and concede too much control to employees.
Willard made peace with Bingham, who was overly keen to be associated
with and even claimed responsibility for the work at Hawthorne. So Pen­
nock’s publication of the studies was held up until early in 1929,33 but this
decision did not bind Mayo.
Mayo’s first statements in the United States were made early in Novem­
ber 1928 to Willard’s group, the Conference Committee, an exclusive and
confidential monthly luncheon meeting of leading American industrialists
who discussed one another’s plans and policies before they were to be
implemented. The committee comprised influential men from American
Telephone and Telegraph, Union Carbide and Carbon, U.S. Rubber, New
York Central Railroad, Standard Oil, General Motors, Tidewater Oil, U.S.
Steel, Bethlehem Steel, and Industrial Relations Counselors. Willard heard
Mayo speak, and reported to Pennock that Mayo had mentioned Pennock’s
research, offered no criticism, gave Pennock full credit, seemed a wholly
disinterested account, and reflected a truly scientific spirit. Willard was
much impressed, and recommended Pennock maintain a close working
relation with Mayo for both his technical competence and sensitive
discretion.34
In March 1929 Pennock himself addressed Willard’s associates, and won
238 Elton Mayo

Mayo’s congratulations for the presentation. And in July Willard spoke on

the work at a summer school for engineering teachers at the Hawthorne
Works.35
On November 15, 1929 Pennock, Putnam, and Mayo made the first
major public statement about the Hawthorne studies to the New York
conference of the Personnel Research Federation. Mayo’s task was to evalu­
ate the work, so he read beforehand what Pennock and Putnam were going
to say, and immediately encouraged both men by praising their papers as
“immensely interesting . .. excellent. . . intriguing,” and told them that in
the audience they would find L.J. Henderson and McFie Campbell.36
Pennock reported the test-room studies, outlined the benefits that ac­
crued to employees, discussed his firm’s modern personnel practices, and
emphasized that never before had the company based its programs on facts
derived from employees’ experiences but only from the ideas of executives.
The experiments showed how inadequate the latter programs were, and at
the same time provided criticism and constructive suggestions for training
managers.
The research began with the illumination studies, which had found that
many rather than only one factor affected work behavior, and that con­
trolled experiments and careful observation could study many factors. Six
were chosen; tiredness, rest, hours of work, attitudes to the company,
equipment changes, and production levels. After two years the research
question changed to: What effect do right and wrong methods of supervi­
sion have on worker performance and morale? From the test-room studies
and their results, it was concluded that because relief from fatigue and
raises in pay had not wholly determined production changes, they must be
due to changes in employees’ mental attitudes— “the major accomplish­
ment of our entire study.”
Supportive data were: a friendliness toward supervisors that indicated
how unnecessary were the urging, driving types of supervisor; a feeling that
production rose without conscious effort; a belief that the man in charge
was not a boss; and the discovery that output is associated with freer,
happier, and more pleasant work conditions. Also, work performance was
seen to be affected by the emotional tone and the quality of home life.
Then Putnam told how the findings were used to train supervisors and
otherwise improve working conditions. He outlined the interview program,
the way it changed, and how the transcripts were used to show supervisors
more humane and insightful ways to manage subordinates.
Mayo praised the papers for heralding two important changes in indus­
try. The first lay in the relation between industrial organization and biolog­
ical inquiry. This point gave him the opportunity to upbraid industrialists
who expect the “rags and tatters of physiology and psychology coupled
with oddments of technique . . . to yield increased production and dimin­
ished turnover.” The experiments, he said, aimed not merely to furnish
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 239

material benefits but primarily to advance understanding of human situa­

tions, to provide precise biological knowledge, and to give more general
information on conditions that affect the capacity for work. To achieve this
aim the research studied organic, production, and attitude changes among
workers.
At the Harvard Fatigue Laboratory research provided an hypothesis to
guide studies of organic change, especially fatigue, at work, i.e., individuals
cannot continue productive work unless they maintain an organic equi­
librium. Because the sources of fatigue at work are not merely physiologi­
cal, external factors must be studied. At the Hawthorne Works researchers
found that workers differ in organic equilibruim, and the differences could
be attributed to health, personal history, and social situations outside work.
Researchers found, too, that when given the chance to talk in confidence
with interviewers the troubled workers were emotionally relieved, found
they could state and realize the origin of their troubles, and, subsequently,
their lives became more readily manageable and work performance
improved.
The second change the papers heralded lay in the methods of supervi­
sion and arose from the use of confidential interviews. The identity of the
interviewee was protected, the interview material was collated, and the
information was used to show supervisors the facts of human experience.
Also, unlike other studies, this drew the interviewers from among the firm’s
employees rather than from outside. Finally, the company used the facts to
train a new kind of supervisor, i.e., one who valued human work experi­
ence and the skill of attentive listening, and who did not feel impelled to
moralize or become emotionally involved with workers. In consequence,
employees were willing to speak openly because they knew their views
would not be abused and they felt more confident themselves with this new
form of supervision.37
To Mayo, November 15, 1929 was a celebration as much as a report of
the Hawthorne studies, and over the next three years he took many oppor­
tunities to repeat the presentation of the work himself. On December 30 in
Washington he delivered “The Human Effect of Mechanisation” to the
annual meeting of the American Economic Association. He integrated the
research at Hawthorne with work done by Lovekin and Henderson’s associ­
ates in the Fatigue Laboratory. He drew five specific conclusions: rest peri­
ods raise total output; daytime work conditions affect production more
than does the number of days worked each week; factors outside the plant
affect the worker’s emotional life, which in turn affects production; super­
visory method is the most important factor affecting production; if work­
ing conditions are poor, then pay incentives do not stimulate production.
He recommended that in the future “industry should give as much atten­
tion to human as well as material enquiry.” A discussant, Elizabeth F.
Baker, made the first public criticism of the Hawthorne research when she
240 Elton Mayo

asked if it was desirable for employers to be concerned with anxieties that

arose in conditions outside the workplace, asserted that it would be difficult
to find enough supervisors competent in listening to do the work normally
expected of them, and suggested the costs of employing such supervisors
could not easily be borne by industry during the “ups and downs of com­
petitive businesses.”38 Three weeks later Willits asked Mayo and Pennock
to attend a conference of Quaker businessmen and discuss the Hawthorne
research.39
In the January 1930 issue of The Human Factor the editor stated: “This
issue is the most significant yet published [because it includes] . . . a sum­
mary of ELTON MAYO’s recent work on supervision and production in
the Hawthorne Works. . . . Elton Mayo’s work tells of a new and practical
method of supervising employees based on good mental hygiene princi­
ples.”40 The March issue of Bingham’s The Personnel Journal included the
addresses by Pennock, Putnam, and Mayo.41
Mayo not only spoke about the Hawthorne research but also arranged to
distribute the printed accounts of the work. In December 1929 he sent
Pennock a list of people who should be interested in the research. The
papers were to be accompanied by a personal cover letter from Mayo that
would indicate the relevance of the studies to the recipient’s own interests.
A similar note was sent to Edmund E. Day at the Rockefeller Foundation.
Mayo’s list included: Britain—Sir Josiah Stamp (statistician), Seebohm
Rowntree (businessman), Henry Clay (Bank of England), Malinowski, and
Pitt-Rivers; League of Nations—Sir Arthur Salter (economics), Albert
Thomas, and E. J. Phelan (I.L.O.); Geneva—Jean Piaget; Paris—Pierre
Janet, J.M. Lahy (industrial psychology), and Andre Siegfried (politics);
New York—Edmund Day, Arthur Young, Wesley Mitchell (Columbia Uni­
versity), and C.S. Ching (U.S. Rubber); Cambridge—Donham and George
F. Doriot (Business School), Edsall, and McFie Campbell; and Pennsyl­
vania—Morris Viteles (industrial psychology). To this list Day added
Robert S. Lynd of the Social Sciences Research Council.42 In response
Pennock decided to print the three addresses of November 15 in a special
monograph, and Arthur Young proposed to print the “mechanisation”
paper and distribute it through his organization.43
In April, before leaving for Europe, Mayo reported the work, calling the
paper “Psychology in Industry,” to the Ohio State University Education
Conference.44 And in September, while in England at a conference at Bal-
liol College, he repeated the “mechanisation” paper under the title “Recent
Industrial Researches of Western Electric Company in Chicago.” It was
published shortly after, and an amended version with photographs ap­
peared in 1931 as “Supervision and Morale.”45
On his return from Europe Mayo repeated the talk, calling it “A New
Approach to Industrial Relations,” to colleagues at the Harvard Business
School. Donham wrote that “of the various researches that have been
 Mayo at the Hawthorne Works 241

undertaken from time to time at the School, this represents the largest
single development of a long term project; it is the best available ‘case’ on
the question of the value of research to business.”46 In December at the first
meeting of Associates of the Harvard Business School, a group of 250
businessmen who each paid annual dues of $1,000 to further the school’s
scientific research in business, Mayo presented the Hawthorne studies as
“An Experiment in Industry.”47
During his next visit to Europe from June to October 1930 Mayo had
more chances to publicize the research and report its impact among busi­
nessmen he knew. He spoke to a group of thirty at the British Association
for the Advancement of Science, and, in general, the industrialists seemed
to favor the work, particularly Seebohm Rowntree, Lord Amulree (Eco­
nomic Advisory Committee), and Johnstone of the International Labor
Office in Geneva. Also, Major Lyndell Urwick, who would become one of
Britain’s leading management consultants, wanted to reprint in three lan­
guages Mayo’s “mechanisation” paper.48
Notes
1. The summary of the Hawthorne studies is based on Fritz J. Roethlisberger and
William J. Dickson, Management and the Worker (Cambridge: Harvard Univer­
sity Press, 1939), and National Research Council, Committee on Work and
Industry, Fatigue o f Workers with Relation to Industrial Production (New York:
Reinhold Publishing Company, 1941).
2. Stevenson to Mayo, 15, 23 March 1928, Mayo to Stevenson, 19 March 1928,
MM 1.087.
3. Roethlisberger and Dickson, M anagement and the Worker, p. 119.
4. Mayo to Ruml, 11 April 1928, RF; Mayo to Donham, 14 June 1928, AA 924.41,
BLA.
5. MM 3.101.
6. Mayo to Ruml, 30 April 1928, RE
7. Western Electric Report, Section V, p. 6, MM 5.001.
8. See notes 6, 7 above; Mayo to Stevenson, 7 May 1928, MM 1.087; Mayo to
Pennock, 7 September 1928, Mf 159.
9. Pennock to Mayo, 11 May 1928, MM 1.087.
10. Mayo to Pennock, 7 September 1928, Mf 159.
11. Pennock’s introduction to the interviewing program, 13 September, 1928, Mf
107; Pennock to Bingham, 24 September 1928, MM 1.087; Mayo to Donham, 1
October 1928, AA 929.41, BLA; Pennock to Mayo, 20 November, MM 1.087.
12. Pennock to Mayo, January 1929, AA 929.41, BLA.
13. Osborne Reports, pp. 10, 12.
14. Mayo to Pennock, 25 March 1929, Pennock to Mayo, 3 April 1929, MM 1.088.
15. Roethlisberger and Dickson, M anagement and the Worker, p. 208.
16. Putnam to Mayo, 22 March, 2 April 1929, Mayo to Putnam, 1 April 1929, Mayo
to Pennock, 23 April 1929, Pennock to Mayo, 6 May 1929, MM 1.088.
17. Elton to Dorothea, 2 September 1929.
18. Elton to Dorothea, 3 September 1929.
19. Elton to Dorothea, 8 September 1929. Interviewing at Kearney was delayed
until the early 1940s.
20. See notes 18, 19 above; Elton to Dorothea 11, 12 September 1929; Mayo to
Pennock, 12 May 1930, MM 1.089.
242 Elton Mayo

21. Elton to Dorothea, 12 September 1929.

22. Mayo to Stoll, 30 September 1929, MM 1.088.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 23 October 1929.
24. Pennock to Mayo, 15 October 1929, MM 1.088.
25. Elton to Dorothea, 26 October 1929.
26. Mayo to Pennock, 28 October 1929, MM 1.088.
27. Davidson’s memoranda: 15, 27 November 1929, Mf 107.
28. Roethlisberger and Dickson, M anagement and the Worker, ch. 3; National Re­
search Council, Committee on Work in Industry, Fatigue o f Workers, ch. 5;
memorandum, 16 December 1929, MM 3.063.
29. Mayo to Pennock, 14 January 1930, MM 1.089.
30. Stoll to Mayo, 20 December 1929, MM 1.088.
31. Pennock to Bingham, 24 September 1928, MM 1.087; Bingham to Pennock, 8
October 1928, Mf 159.
32. Hosford to Rice, 11 October 1928, Mf 159.
33. Willard to Pennock, 3, 11, October 1928, Mf 159; Willard to Pennock, 28
February 1929, Mf 160.
34. Willard to Pennock, 2 November 1928, Mf 159.
35. Mayo to Pennock, 25 March 1929, MM 1.088; conversation with Holmes, 11
November 1975.
36. Mayo to Pennock and Mayo to Putnam, 6 November 1929, MM 1.088.
37. George A. Pennock, “Test Studies in Industrial Research at Hawthorne”; Mark
L. Putnam, “A Plan for Improving Employee Relations on the Basis of Data
Obtained from Employees”; and Elton Mayo, “Changes in Industry,” in R e­
search Studies in Employee Effectiveness and Industrial Relations: Papers Pre­
sented at the Annual Autum n Conference o f the Personnel Research Federation
at New York, November 15, 1929 (New York: Western Electric Company, 1930).
38. Elton Mayo, “The Human Effect of Mechanization,” American Economic R e­
view 20, no. 1 (1930): 156-76 Elizabeth F. Baker, “Economic and Social Con­
sequences of Mechanization in Agriculture and Industry— Discussion,” ibid.,
pp. 177-80.
39. Willits to Mayo, 23 January 1930, MM 1.099.
40. H uman Factor 6 (January 1930): 1-2.
41. Personnel Journal 8, no. 5 (1930) includes the papers listed in note 37 above.
42. Mayo to Pennock, 2 December 1929, MM 1.088; Mayo to Day, 3 December
1929, Day to Mayo, 5 December 1929, RF.
43. Pennock to Mayo, 16 January 1930, Mayo to Pennock, 17 January 1930, MM
1.089; Young to Mayo, 8 January 1930, Mayo to Young, 6, 9 January 1930, MM
1.104.
44. Elton Mayo, “Psychology in Industry,” Ohio State University Bulletin 35, no. 3
(1930):83-92.
45. GB 2.563, BLA; Elton Mayo, “Supervisor and Morale,” Journal o f Occupa­
tional Psychology 5 (1931 ):248-60.
46. Elton Mayo, A New Approach to Industrial Relations (Boston: Harvard Univer­
sity, Graduate School of Business Administration, 1930).
47. Elton Mayo, “An Experiment in Industry,” Proceedings o f the First Annual
Meeting o f the 250 Associates o f the Harvard Business School, December 6,
1930, pp. 59-65, DE 5.83, BLA.
48. Mayo to Pennock, 10 September 1930, Mf 159.
 15
Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works:
1929-1932

Effective collaboration with researchers at Hawthorne increased Mayo’s

influence at the Western Electric Company, and enabled him to integrate
the Hawthorne studies with the interests of his associates at the Harvard
Business School. Between 1929 and 1932 he nurtured that relationship,
publicized the work, and protected it against professional criticism and the
effects of the business depression.

When he began publicizing the Hawthorne studies Mayo’s influence

with the Western Electric Company began to change. In February 1929 he
and Willard had agreed that researchers from the Hawthorne Works would
benefit from a visit to the Fatigue Laboratory and related areas, while
Mayo’s associates would learn much from time spent at the Hawthorne
Works.1 A year later, and only a few months after the presentations on
November 15, Stoll approved a visit to the Harvard Business School by
William Dickson and Harold Wright. They had been working under Put­
nam, who released them for two weeks to study interviewing with Mayo
and Roethlisberger. Putnam was much pleased with the results of the visit,
and encouraged further contact between the two men and Roethlisberger.2
In the summer of 1930 three of Mayo’s associates visited the Hawthorne
Works: Roethlisberger, Richard S. Meriam, and William Lloyd Warner.
Meriam was an economist in the Business School, and Warner had recently
accepted a joint appointment in the Business School and the Department
of Anthropology. Roethlisberger and Warner would have close and long
association with the research at the Works.
After working for two years with the clinical problems of Business
School students, Roethlisberger had given a definition of his job for 1929-
BO to Mayo. The young man wanted to develop a technique to assess adult
situations so a person could understand and control them better. To do this
Roethlisberger would use psychological tests and interviews, the results of
which should be evaluated within the available knowledge of the person’s
total situation. Experiences with troubled students and discussions with
Mayo had brought Roethlisberger to where he could draw a parallel be-

243
244 Elton Mayo

tween the morbid preoccupations of the unproductive student who had

learning problems and the eccentric attitudes of fatigued workers whose
productive capacity had diminished. And from this parallel he noted how
similar were his ideas on research method to the techniques practiced at the
Hawthorne Works.3
Roethlisberger did not know precisely Mayo’s early relations with the
Hawthorne Works; later he saw him as an adventurous, informal adviser to
Pennock, Putnam, Stoll, and their associates, as a teacher of interviewing,
and as an interpreter of puzzling data who could lead others to fresh
research. He knew of Mayo’s visits to the Works in 1928 and early 1929 and
could see vaguely how they related to his own interests. His view sharpened
in March 1930, when Dickson and Wright came to see Mayo for two weeks,
and Roethlisberger was asked to join them in reading and training in
interviewing technique.4
In the summer of 1930 at the Hawthorne Works, Roethlisberger learned
something of the confusion and anxiety among Putnam’s research associ­
ates. They were unclear about their research aims and worried that they
had poor qualifications for carrying their work forward, wondered about
their future with the firm, and felt caught in the dilemma of either striving
for efficiency or pursuing humanism in industrial organization.5
A year later, when the interviewing program was under way and follow­
ing principles that Mayo had enunciated, Roethlisberger was given leave to
return to the Hawthorne Works and interview executive officers and super­
visors. In October he called for assistance from Lovekin because the num­
ber of people seeking interviews was far greater than had been expected.6
While he was conducting the interviews Roethlisberger offered to write
regular reports and memoranda telling Putnam how he was doing the
interviews, and what he was learning that might guide Putnam’s staff in
their tasks.
Only after he had seen fourteen supervisors did Roethlisberger discover
what his interviews might cover: terms of employment, major problems,
qualities of an able supervisor, reasons for seeking the position of super­
visor, and relations between a supervisor and subordinates.
As the work progressed Roethlisberger was struck by a curious case in
which being diplomatic had made unexpectedly for confusion rather than
improved understanding; he noted how the supervisor role had changed
from hard-boiled autocrat to jargon-ridden and friendly follower of nonag-
gressive rituals who sought increased control through either a new tricky
formula or scientific facts. Four types of interviews emerged: informal,
diagnostic, therapeutic, and educational. Each had value in training super­
visors. He began to see that “projection,” a mechanism of defense whereby
unacknowledged impulses are imputed to others rather than being ac­
cepted by oneself, distorted a supervisor’s view of reality and should be
clearly seen or else his control would seriously deteriorate. This observa­
 Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works 245

tion led Roethlisberger to write on the total situation—one of Mayo’s favor­

ite concepts—and its use in noting what supervisors do, e.g., blame fate,
play safe, avoid facts, resist learning, separate earnings from performance,
maintain an infantile view of authority, and become preoccupied with
objects and attitudes they cannot change. From these considerations
Roethlisberger was able to compile a list of topics for interview training,
many of which reflect Mayo’s influence, e.g., irrelevant syntheses like su­
perstitions, false dichotomies, interview techniques, self-observation, and
the approach by way of the “total situation.”
After returning to the Business School, Roethlisberger reported exten­
sively on the 253 supervisors interviewed in the Operating Branch at the
Hawthorne Works. He presented evidence and conclusions about their
preoccupations and attitudes toward authority, foreman and higher bosses,
company policy, and how they saw their tasks, themselves, and their rela­
tion to the Western Electric Company. Immediately after sending the re­
port to the Hawthorne Works, Roethlisberger arranged to return to
Chicago to help analyze the interview data collected from workers. And in
June 1932, with help from Shirley Taylor, Joseph Kish, Jr., presented a
statistical analysis of 522 interviews that studied the correlates of dissatis­
faction at work, and found that among both men and women it varied with
departments, and that only among women work dissatisfaction was associ­
ated with personal situation and the individual who had conducted the
interview. Reasons for the findings were not clear and further research was
needed.7
Meriam reported to Mayo on Stoll’s interest in using interviews to antic­
ipate workers’ grievances, Putnam’s concern with the role of case studies in
pedagogics of supervisor training, problems of noise in the test rooms, the
importance of financial and economic incentives to workers, and the gen­
eral interest at the Hawthorne Works in regular employment and employee
representation. Meriam’s interests were primarily economic, and although
for almost two years he did help Putnam with case material for the super­
visory training, his association with Mayo was not as close as
Roethlisberger’s.8
In May 1930 Mayo sent Putnam and Pennock a letter of introduction to
Warner, and he also visited the Hawthorne works that summer.9 On War­
ner’s return to Harvard, Putnam sent him reports of the research, and
Warner promised to offer specific proposals for its direction once he had
decided upon them with Mayo, whose ideas Warner believed were similar
to his own. Warner was interested in a course of instruction for supervisors
but was much taken by Putnam’s idea of using Harvard anthropology
students to investigate the Hawthorne Work’s environs in Cicero according
to Warner’s plans for studying an eastern city. Warner agreed: “Social
anthropology has a lot to offer the kind of work you are pioneering.”10 At
Christmas he returned to Hawthorne to discuss the plan further. By that
246 Elton Mayo

time he had chosen Newburyport as his eastern city. The seventeen thou­
sand inhabitants constituted what Warner considered a well-integrated,
well-adjusted community where family life seemed stable; he wanted to
study Cicero, too, because then he could “see how the relationship of a
community to a large industry . . . [different from] that of a small industry
in a town that has adjusted the industry to its larger social structure.”11
During the next month Warner helped clarify the central idea that sup­
ported the bank wiring room study that would begin later that year. While
telling stories about his field experience he had mentioned to Dickson that
in the study of families the researcher concentrates more on relations
among members than on the members themselves. Dickson asked: Could
this be applied to the study of work groups, too? Warner said: Yes, the
principle applies to any social structure, to relations among people within a
group, and to relations between one group and another, i.e., internal and
external relations are central to understanding group research at
Hawthorne. Warner suggested that in the study of work groups Dickson
and associates note the antagonisms and solidarities between persons, how
the relations become balanced and then organized. Also, he said, groups
contain three types of social cohesion on which the balance turns and the
organization rests: superordination, subordination, and coordination. The
first two are obvious from supervisor-employee relationships, and the third
appears in the equality of relations among workers. Warner believed that if
the Hawthorne researchers looked at these three from the viewpoint of the
principle of antagonism-solidarity, then much work group behavior would
be explained. Evidence for these ideas comes from interviews and direct
observation, which are the primary techniques of the social anthropologist
in the field as well as those discovered independently at Hawthorne. “The
big thing to look for is the attitude” of those under observation, Warner
wrote. The attitudes are often unconscious and prejudiced; to the psycho­
analyst they are latent content, to the sociologist they are the elements of
social structure. With these principles, observations began in December
1931 in the bank wiring room.12
At the same time Putnam reminded Warner about extending the study
to the environs of the Hawthorne Works. Professors Binger and Newcombe
of the University of Chicago, were anxious to begin research along the lines
that Mayo and Ruml had been discussing with Putnam. But Putnam saw
the Chicago school as too oriented to studies of delinquency; he much
preferred Warner and Mayo to begin researching fully the social structure
surrounding the Hawthorne Works, but this was prevented by the down­
turn of the depression early in 1932.13
Mayo had a hand in facilitating visits to Hawthorne by people further
from his field of direct influence. Dennison, the prominent welfare indus­
trialist in Framingham, sent two men to study the work under Putnam’s
control. Arthur Young was sufficiently interested to visit. Mme. Zimmern,
 Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works 247

following Mayo’s suggestion, visited the plant and said she wished Euro­
pean industry would follow the Hawthorne methods. She declared her
intention of using the interview techniques for handling visitors to her
work in Geneva. And on Mayo’s fiftieth birthday, he arranged for Hender­
son to make his only visit to the Hawthorne Works.14
Mayo supported the Hawthorne research staff with praise, protected
them from their critics, and, for as long as he could, spared them the effects
of the company’s policies on how best to cope with the depression. He
congratulated Pennock, Putnam, and associates on their foresight, excel­
lent attitude toward the studies, and the value of their findings. At the same
time he encouraged them by reporting back favorable impressions of their
work, and by countering any criticisms of it.
One of the early critics was Arthur W. Kornhauser, a young industrial
psychologist who would become an American academic leader in the field.
In a report for the Industrial Relations Association of Chicago, he com­
mented on Putnam’s paper “Improving Employee Relations.”15 His re­
marks were offered hesitantly and interlarded with much praise for the
Hawthorne studies as a whole, which he viewed as “extremely valuable
[and] highly important.” Nevertheless, he identified many weaknesses that
would occasion many attacks on the research for almost fifty years.16
Kornhauser compared the test room studies with similar work from
Germany and the British Industrial Fatigue Research Board, and con­
cluded that the results were “rather fruitless” because the tests had been
conducted with inadequate experimental controls. The interpretations
were not “too clear,” and the conclusion that “supervision is the important
thing” was unconvincing, i.e., the effects of variations in wages and of
removing the women from their regular workplace had not been properly
eliminated. Kornhauser preferred systematic experimental control to weak
control through observation of “the multiple free variation of factors.”
Interview findings were not representative of the employee population,
and Kornhauser was bothered by the absence of statistical statements. The
overwhelmingly favorable attitude of supervisors to the interviewing may
have arisen because they were “pretty well sold” on the program, and not
because of the program itself. By stressing the anonymity of the interview,
the researchers had so depersonalized it that employees could be excused
for thinking that their comments were not much valued, and that as indi­
viduals they would never be recognized as the source of change in the
organization of work. To remedy this, Kornhauser suggested that the inter­
views should be continuing and frequent rather than annual. Also, being
interviewed once a year might help a person get complaints about the
working environment off his chest, but the feeling of relief would last only a
day or so and do little to help him resolve deep psychological problems.
Kornhauser suspected the highly positive character of the findings. He
wondered about completeness of the report because no negative attitudes
248 Elton Mayo

toward the Works were stated. And because the interviews were anony­
mous and confidential, he was surprised no one was reported to have
mentioned trade unionism, or to have advanced a way to improve condi­
tions through rewards to employees for suggestions adopted by the firm. He
concluded that, as a rule, at work men rarely mention what is important to
them, and usually say what is easily verbalized and largely superficial. So he
recommended that the researchers do as others had done before them: use
questionnaires to elicit balanced and statistically sound information.
Practical issues also concerned Kornhauser. He was not sure that the
methods of the researchers were preferable to an employee representation
scheme for enhancing the workers’ control of their employment condi­
tions; he wondered if the company would really take action on employee
complaints in interviews, or tend to ignore them. And, although the il­
lustrations were vivid and had apparently made their point, using cases and
the conference method for the supervisor training was not an innovation.
Putnam thought Kornhauser’s comments interesting, and asked Mayo’s
view. Mayo said the comments were negative and therefore unhelpful, that
in general the criticisms attempted to defend the author’s work against an
imagined attack, and that inasmuch as Kornhauser sought to “defend to
the la s t. . . exclusive and proprietary rights” to the field of inquiry, genial
collaboration with him would be difficult. Mayo wrote that Kornhauser’s
preference for rigorous experimental control was “poverty stricken and
fruitless,” as Henderson’s studies had proven; in human experimentation
researchers must go on a voyage of discovery for new concepts and tech­
niques of control. Putnam was comforted by Mayo’s remarks, and reported
that Kornhauser’s exasperating attitude as he delivered the criticism had
lost him much support.17
In a more positive vein, Mayo told Pennock how audience response to
the November 1929 presentation had pleased Stoll. A few days later Mayo
wrote to Putnam, “I am still hearing reverberations of the New York meet­
ing—some interesting, some stupid. One University professor asked me to
devise a method of eliminating the need for intelligence in business man­
agement.”18 By May 1930, on the eve of his summer vacation, Mayo could
report to Edmund Day that interest in the Hawthorne studies had already
extended to England and Paris. He wrote to Putnam, “I shall do my best to
cram the methods of the Western Electric Co. down the throats of re­
searchers like Kornhauser and his tribe, whatever language or dialect they
speak.”19And after speaking at Balliol College to the British Association for
the Advancement of Science, he wrote to Pennock that his talk had “roused
in the audience great interest in and respect for your work,” and the indus­
trialists’ “vote of gratitude to you and the Company was wholehearted and
unanimous.”20
Late in 1930 Mayo began to protect the Industrial Research Division
from threats inside the Western Electric Company. “Definite changes in the
 Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works 249

business situation,” as D.F.G. Eliot, the personnel director, put it, were
being felt generally at the company.21 The research budget for the division
was to be cut, and the interviewing program curtailed. Mayo went to help
Putnam plan for 1931, then to Stoll to assure him of the value of the
division’s work, then back to Pennock to assure him that Stoll was as
interested as ever in the division’s work, that he would support an extended
presentation of the Hawthorne findings to the company’s supervisors, and
that he had consented to publication of a monograph of the research.
During 1930 Mayo stressed repeatedly the “need for making an extensive
claim in order that your work shall get the attention that it deserves.”22
Early in February 1931 Pennock was anxious to have Mayo’s advice on
the report of the Industrial Research Division for Stoll and the senior
executives of the company in New York. The report had three sections.
The first outlined the test room studies, and recommended future refine­
ment of measures of employee effectiveness and the creation of a work
group for close observation. The second described the interviewing pro­
gram, its aims, benefits, and findings on the deeper motives of employees.
The third outlined the changes in training for supervisors.
Mayo was expected to comment generally on the research in a way
neither Pennock nor Putnam felt free to do. And Mayo was asked to answer
critics among Western Electric executives who thought the new interview­
ing program was unnecessary, that good supervisors did not need it anyway,
and that the plan, if adopted, would be seen as a spy system by supervisors
and undermine their morale. To refute these assertions Pennock had pro­
posed a questionnaire to study whether or not the supervisors’ morale had
dropped. Putnam wanted help to clarify the stated aim of interviewing
programs.23
In response Mayo wrote to Pennock and compared his studies with the
British work of Vernon, Myers, and Lyndal Urwick, and concluded that
the Hawthorne studies were unique because they began within a firm that
had imposed no clear plan or system on them and had long continued
subsidiary inquiries. In the test room—a scientific adventure that should
be published—intelligent direction of continuous research showed the im­
portance of freely expressed relief from ordinary supervision, detrimental
effects of personal preoccupations on production, and production changes
related to changes in workers’ lives outside the plant.
The interviewing program was a necessary broadening of test room
inquiry to find the preoccupations with private misfortune that distort the
workers’ perception of employment conditions. The interviewers them­
selves ameliorated the effect of such misfortune on morale and production.
In integrating the test room and interview findings, Mayo claimed that
dissipating preoccupations raised production 30 to 40 percent; and because
interviews showed these preoccupations to be widespread in the plant, if a
means became available to deal with them, production levels would rise 30
250 Elton Mayo

to 40 percent. He dismissed the criticisms Pennock had asked him to con­

sider as absurd accusations, coming from company executives who had
never visited Hawthorne, for it was his policy always to point out openings
for further industrial investigation rather than defend research unnecessarily.
Finally Mayo stated a major industrial problem—an old issue for him
but one calculated to attract the attention of the Western Electric execu­
tives—the inadequacy of those in authority. He used Brooks Adams’s
phrase “the inferiority of the administrative intelligence” to identify the
insufficiency of mere specialist logic in business affairs that call for the
generalist’s approach. In 1932 Mayo would address British managers on
this topic, and later develop it for the last of his Lowell lectures, “The
Problem of the Administrator.” His letter told the company executives that
an effective administrator should not only concentrate on a special techni­
cal field but also attend to the complexities of the human situation for
which he is responsible. “He must capitalize his ignorance” by studying
gaps in his knowledge and in the relation of his task to that of his fellows.
These practical consequences would follow: the Western Electric Company
should permanently raise the competence of all levels of supervision ac­
cording to suggestions from the Hawthorne studies; and recruit, select, and
train men of exceptional and rare capacity for executive administration.24
With a few excisions Mayo’s letter was appended to the report for Stoll,
who, in discussions of the report with Mayo, made minor changes and
suggested that with editorial emendations the report could be placed with
the Journal o f Industrial Hygiene.25 Mayo pushed the idea further and
recommended the report be considered an outline for a book. He also
proposed that supervisors’ attitudes toward the company could be studied
better through interviews than questionnaires, and that Roethlisberger be
freed from duties at the Harvard Business School to do those interviews.
Pursuing Putnam’s notion, he advised designating a department to be su­
pervised by someone who would abandon all interest in production and
attend only to the personal situations of employees. These ideas shaped his
associates’ work for 1931-32.26
In the summer of 1931, while Roethlisberger was interviewing super­
visors at the Hawthorne Works, Mayo was publicizing the research and its
plans. Shortly before sailing for Europe he spoke to the American Neu­
rological Association and repeated the “mechanization” paper with addi­
tional comments on psychopathological aspects of the indirect or
conversational interview technique. Mayo’s theory was that because the
interviews lacked a formal structure, the workers’ preoccupations or reflec­
tive thinking processes came forward, and they could readily express, and
thereby gain sudden insight into, distorted, exaggerated, and unduly emo­
tional attitudes. Also the interview technique deepened the interviewers’
understanding on their task.27
In London, Mayo joined D.G.H. Miles from the National Institute of
 Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works 251

Industrial Psychology (NIIP), Dr. C. H. Northcott, labor manager for

Rowntree Sc Company, and Professor P. Sargent Florence from the Com­
merce Faculty at Birmingham’s university in speaking before the British
Research and Management Association. While the others discussed effi­
ciency of managerial incentives, research in personnel work, and manage­
ment education, Mayo spoke on the Hawthorne researches and to his usual
statement added four points. First he contrasted the NIIP policy of bring­
ing into an organization for a few months an expert to solve a problem
with the Western Electric Company’s policy of continuing research on a
problem as it changed over several years. Second, he reviewed the strengths
and weaknesses of applying academic psychology and physiology to indus­
trial problems, and suggested that in industry human rather than academic
disciplinary research was more realistic. Third, he discussed the plans by
Putnam and Warner to compare the social environs of the Hawthorne
Works with those of Newburyport to see the extent to which rapid and
complex industrialization creates social disorganization. Fourth, he out­
lined how social disorganization itself produces a condition such that irre­
sponsible production becomes directed toward meeting demands of
irrational consumption, and, in consequence, that economic stability is
diminished and business drepression ensues.28
Before sailing for Boston, Mayo sent Putnam, Pennock, and Stoll each
the issue of Week End Review in which Myers described the Hawthorne
research. And on his return home, Mayo gave the three men a report on the
impact in Europe of their researches. “The fame of your researches,” he
wrote to Putnam, “is resounding through the chancelleries of Europe . . .
the impersonal eye of the European world is regarding you fixedly through
a microscope. . . . Myers . . . the European leader on industrial investiga­
tion, formally presents you with his congratulations and appreciation.” To
Pennock, Mayo wrote that Myers found “your work rather than the English
the most interesting and . . . relevant for quotation and discussion.. . . I was
astonished at the number of appreciative eulogistic references to the work.
. . . Interest in England, France, and Switzerland is unmistakable and
profound . . . congratulations. I have written to Mr. Stoll at length.”
To Stoll Mayo was less extravagant with praise but congratulatory about
Stoll’s policy of maintaining the continuity of the research. In a February
letter Mayo had made exactly this point, and noted for Stoll that Myers had
said as much in his independent and widely publicized statement in Week
End Review. Mayo also reported his astonishment that details of the re­
search “had been so carefully read by many distinguished economists and
men of affairs.”29
During the fall of 1931 Mayo’s Industrial Research Department formally
employed William Lloyd Warner, social anthropologist, and a new man,
Thomas North Whitehead, the thirty-nine-year old son of the British phi­
losopher at Harvard College.30
252 Elton Mayo

Whitehead had come to the Business School in February, and was made
a member of Mayo’s staff in September. He was a graduate of Trinity
College who had studied engineering at the University of London, served
in the British army in France and Africa during World War I, and since the
war’s end been a scientific officer in the British Admiralty. He would spend
nearly nine years with Mayo, publish a technical report on the relay assem­
bly test room study and a book on leadership in democracies. In November
1939, he returned to England to advise the Foreign Office on American
affairs, and in 1943 came back to the Business School to plan the personnel
administration course at Radcliffe College.31
Mayo took Whitehead on his first visit to Hawthorne in April 1931. He
was pleased to have the company of an Englishman, and enjoyed White­
head’s trained mind and sense of humor in talking over the day’s work.
Whitehead’s English reserve and reticence, and his squeamishness about
off-color jokes amused the men at Hawthorne, but they were favorably
impressed by the articulate banter and debate that Whitehead could draw
out of conversation with Mayo. Shortly afterward Mayo sent Whitehead to
discuss the Hawthorne research with Stoll.
During the latter months of 1931 the relation between the Hawthorne
research and Mayo’s department was formalized. Warner would advise on
sociological research; Roethlisberger would continue with psychological
case work at the Business School and advise Hawthorne researchers on
their interviewing; Whitehead’s attention would be given to the refinement
of measures of output in the test room studies and related experiments;
Emily Osborne, whose personal problems had prevented her effective col­
laboration with Warner in the Newburyport study, would begin research
on physiological and emotional correlates of work and domestic life
among women at Hawthorne; Lovekin, who had been helping in the Fa­
tigue Laboratory and in Newburyport, would assist Mayo with a new pro­
ject at the Norfolk Prison; and Mayo would write the book on the
Hawthorne studies.32
Mayo had discussed the idea of a book with Stoll earlier in the year, and
later with Putnam; the three had agreed Mayo should narrate the drama of
the research, avoid discussing its implications, and present fully the evi­
dence for its conclusions.33 Mayo suggested, and the others assented, that
because recognition for work done on the studies would look like a tele­
phone listing, only Western Electric Company, MIT, and Harvard Univer­
sity should claim authorship. Because Mayo had undertaken this task he
would not visit the Hawthorne Works as regularly as in the past, and his
associates would carry the burden of advising the firm’s executives.34
In December 1931 Mayo told the Business School faculty how his work
was progressing at Hawthorne, and in January he spent ten days at the
Hawthorne helping Putnam reorganize the Industrial Research Division.
They decided that the interviewers, who had been taken from all over the
 Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works 253

plant, should return to their departments in keeping with the company’s

policy to spread evenly the burden of the depression. This gave the division
a chance to begin raising the skills of its staff.35
Mayo’s prestige in the division was at its highest now. “They are nice to
me here,” he wrote to Dorothea, “all spring to attention when I enter a
room.” He continued publicizing the research by introducing prominent
international visitors to the Hawthorne Works, and collaboration between
Mayo’s associates and Putnam’s researchers grew.36
By the last week in February 1932 Wright had established parallel files at
Hawthorne and Harvard so that Mayo had a standard reference system to
help with the correspondence and to identify details of information needed
for the proposed book. The records were kept in a newly established library
for use by Mayo’s students and associates.37
Cost-reduction practices continued at Hawthorne but did not affect
Putnam’s division more than any other part of the firm, and it seemed to
him that they were unlikely to do so. Sharing Putnam’s guarded optimism,
Mayo wrote that he hoped “retrenchment will not set us all in the streets to
continue our researches there.”38 Ten days later the depression shattered the
Hawthorne-Harvard plans.
Emily Osborne had gone to Chicago to begin her research, and Putnam
had made her welcome. But Pennock was embarrassed, and would not
have her at Hawthorne. Since Mayo’s visit in January, when he and Pen­
nock had quickly agreed on Osborne’s work, four cuts had been made in
the manufacturing schedules. As a result some employees were dismissed,
most others were put on a short work week, and sections were combined to
otherwise reduce costs. In Putnam’s division special interviewing was cur­
tailed to avoid criticism that interviews were superficial when jobs were
threatened. Osborne was to interview women, and the cost was to be borne
by Mayo’s research grant, but Pennock felt he could not permit it. There
was no time to make it known that her work was not funded by the com­
pany, and he did not want to face the consequences a misunderstanding
might arouse. Recognizing Pennock’s problem, Mayo withdrew Osborne.
After clearing the request through Ruml, Mayo asked Mary Gilson—who
had helped him when he worked with Arthur Young for Industrial Rela­
tions Consellors, and who was an economist at the University of Chicago—
and Dean Donald Slesinger if they could find a research task for Osborne.
Remaining on Mayo’s payroll, Osborne later did research at an experimen­
tal nursery school.39
Mayo went to Chicago and learned from Pennock and Putnam that the
company had never before faced such a crisis. It had devised policies to cut
labor costs that were proving insufficient to the situation. In the belief that
the depression had reached its final depths, Pennock and Putnam agreed
the essentials of their research would be safe if they reduced the hours of
work to fourteen a week. Substitutes were put into the test room, while
254 Elton Mayo

Dickson and his associates kept observing the bank wiring research. Soon
the depression would end it all.
Mayo saw Chicago suffering. He believed the depression would deepen.
Western Electric was planning to dismiss another five thousand, and Inter­
national Harvester ten thousand. Only a few floors of his hotel, the Palmer
House, were in use. Outside the hotel, a blinding blizzard made him grip
young Putnam’s arm as the wind blew them across the icy pavement to the
soft snow in the gutter. Mayo’s “ancient enemy,” ringworm, badly afflicted
his hands and feet. He wrote to Dorothea, “I hope this is the black moment
which marks the turn.”40 But there was worse to come.
Whitehead, who had begun to analyze the production data from the test
room studies, developed a duodenal ulcer, and was unable to return to
work until early in May. Mayo’s difficulties compounded when glaucoma in
his right eye required an operation to prevent blindness, but with good
humor he wrote to Pennock, “My critics have often accused me of a certain
monocular blindness. I do not wish to discover that after all they are right.”
He arranged for the surgery to be done in London, and adopted White­
head’s suggestion that Wright come to Boston and write the book with
Roethlisberger.41
Before leaving for London, Mayo took two more opportunities to publi­
cize the Hawthorne research. At the New York convention of counsulting
psychologists he said the human relations aspect of the world’s situation “is
crying for enquiries which we psychologists have not been permitted to
begin,” repeated the need for long-term research rather than quick studies
in the laboratory, and pointed to Hawthorne for illustrations.42
With Walter Bingham, Edward Thorndike, and Morris Viteles, Mayo
gave one in a series of radio talks on psychology in industry. He offered a
changed interpretation of the Hawthorne studies, traces of which had first
appeared in a London paper, October 1931. He began to draw again on
Democracy and Freedom, blending it with observations from Colorado
and the delinquency studies in Chicago, and showed the influence of
Warner’s dictum that human relations as well as widely held attitudes were
the elements of social structure. He called the talk “The Problem of Work­
ing Together,” and said that fifty years ago men had lived in communities
where their work was a part of communal life and their morale and amuse­
ments derived from a sense of solidarity among themselves and service to
the community. But today men drift with no plans, go where work takes
them, and must live in a society with an unstable economy. Because com­
munal life outside work is neglected, it becomes urgently needed within the
workplace; the need raises the requisites of working together: cooperation
and collaboration.
Mayo reported the Hawthorne research and its recent extension—the
observations in the bank wiring room—which found that some people who
are socially inept may be quite capable if their surroundings suit them;
 Collaboration at the Hawthorne Works 255

others who are exceedingly capable may not be so in an inappropriate

milieu. Results showed that abstract managerial schemes, e.g., efficiency
drives, fail because relations between people and work groups are not rec­
ognized. In response workers create their own practical schemes. To rec­
ognize an abstract work regulation and to work under concrete or formal
practices irks both workers and supervisors; they see the conflict and how it
prevents effective collaboration. In the Hawthorne studies the test room
girls overcame the conflict between what they wanted and what was possi­
ble, and, in consequence achieved a high degree of collaboration. “The
reorganization of modern industry must be based on knowledge of how to
achieve effective collaboration . . . the conviction to which the Hawthorne
experiments led.” The knowledge applies to the problem of working to­
gether whether in factories, societies, or an international conference.43

Notes
1. Willard to Pennock, 28 February 1929, Mf 160.
2. Mayo to Putnam, 21 March 1930, Mayo to Stoll, 26 March 1930, Stoll to Mayo,
28 March 1930, Putnam to Mayo, 6 May 1930, MM 1.089.
3. Roethlisberger to Mayo, 16 October 1929, MM 3.090.
4. Osborne Reports, p. 49. Fritz J. Roethlisberger, The Elusive Phenomena
(Boston: Harvard University, Graduate School of Business Administration, Di­
vision of Research, 1977), pp. 48-51.
5. Osborne Reports, pp. 51, 59; Roethlisberger to Wright, 11 September 1930,
MM 1.089.
6. Roethlisberger to Mayo, 27 May 1931, MM 1.090; Osborne Reports, pp. 74,
76-77.
7. Roethlisberger’s Reports to Putnam, 1 June 1931-1 June 1932, MM 3.090;
Osborne Reports, pp. 80, 82, 87, 92, 98.
8. Meriam to Mayo, 12 November 1930, MM 1.089.
9. Mayo to Pennock, Mayo to Putnam, 12 May 1930, MM 1.089.
10. Warner to Putnam, 30 July 1930, Mf 159.
11. Warner to Putnam, 26 November 1930, Mf 159; conversation with Mildred
Warner, 30 March 1975.
12. Warner to Dickson, 27 February 1931, Mf 157; 2 December 1931, MM 5.015.
13. Putnam to Mayo, 5 March 1931, MM 1.090.
14. Pennock to Mayo, 16 January 1930, Mayo to Pennock, 2 March, 1930, Mayo to
Pennock, 18 December 1930, MM 1.089; Mayo to Young, 12 March 1930, MM
1.104.
15. Kornhauser’s report accompanies Putnam to Mayo, 10 March 1930, Mf 162.
16. Jeff Sonnenfeld, “Clarifying Critical Confusion in the Hawthorne Hysteria,”
American Psycologist (December 1982): 1397-99.
17. Mayo to Putnam, 21 May 1930, Putnam to Mayo, 28 May 1930, MM 1.089.
18. Mayo to Pennock, 26 November 1929, Mayo to Putnam, 2 December 1929,
MM 1.088.
19. Mayo to Day, 31 May 1930, RF; Mayo to Putnam, 31 May 1930, MM 1.089.
20. Mayo to Pennock, 10 September 1930, Mf 159.
21. Eliot to Mayo, 4 October 1930, MM 1.089.
22. Mayo to Putnam, 16 December 1930, Mayo to Pennock, 18 December 1930,
MM 1.089.
256 Elton Mayo

23. Pennock to Mayo, 2 February 1931, Putnam to Mayo, 5 December 1931, MM

1.090.
24. Mayo to Putnam, 16 February 1930, MM 1.090; Mayo to Pennock, GB 2.563,
BLA.
25. Mayo to Pennock, 9 February 1931, Putnam to Mayo, 28 February 1931, Mayo
to Putnam, 3 March 1931, MM 1.090.
26. Mayo to Pennock, 24 March 1931, Mayo to Putnam, 25 March, 3 April 1931,
MM 1.090; Elton to Dorothea, 23 March, 2 April 1931.
27. Elton Mayo, “Psychopathologic Aspects of Industry,” American Neurological
Association Transactions 57 (1931):468-75.
28. Manchester Guardian, 1 October 1930; Elton Mayo, “Industrial Research”
(memorandum), 6 October 1930, MM 2.034.
29. Mayo to Pennock, Putnam, Stoll, 20 October 1931, MM 1.090.
30. Osborne Reports, p. 76; Dean’s report of Harvard Business School, AB4, BLA.
31. Osborne Reports, p. 73; T. North Whitehead, “Now I Am an American”
(unpublished memoirs), 1964, BLA.
32. Elton to Dorothea, 18 April 1931, Roethlisberger to Mayo, 20 July 1931, MM
1.090.
33. Mayo to Stoll, 11 May 1931, MM 1.090.
34. Mayo to Stoll, 15 November 1931, Mayo to Putnam, 27 November, 23
December, 1931, Mayo to Pennock, 7, 23 December 1931, MM 1.090; Osborne
Reports, pp. 73-97.
35. Osborne Reports, pp. 82-83, 86.
36. Elton to Dorothea, 22 January 1932.
37. Wright to Mayo, 22 February 1932, MM 1.091.
38. Mayo to Putnam, 4 March 1932, MM 1.091.
39. Letter and cables between Mayo and Osborne, Putnam, Pennock, Gilson,
Ruml, Slesinger, 11-17 March 1932, MM 1.091.
40. Elton to Dorothea, 20 March 1932; Wright to Mayo, 25 April 1932, MM 1.091.
41. Mayo to Wright, 14 April 1932, Mayo to Putnam, 27 April 1932, Mayo to
Pennock, 10 May 1932, MM 1.091.
42. New York Herald Tribune, 8 May 1932.
43. Elton Mayo, “The Problem of Working Together,” in Psychology Today:
Lectures and Study Manual, ed. W. V. Bingham (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1932).
 16
Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism:
1932-1942

Mayo’s activities at the Hawthorne Works diminished during the 1930s.

Nevertheless, he encouraged the firm to use the research results, reviewed
the studies in his lectures on human problems in industry, and helped his
associates to publish details of the work and to tolerate its critics.

Mayo’s operation for glaucoma was successful. He needed new glasses

and to avoid irritation from the smoke of his cigarettes he bought a long
holder of interlocking goose quills. Colleagues and associates never learned
why Mayo used such a holder, and over the years alleged it was a stylish
affectation—functionless, except to dramatize a well-turned phrase—
merely an addition to the catalogue of eccentricities an aging academic
might be allowed.1
While convalescing in London, Mayo learned from Whitehead how
seriously the depression imperiled research at Hawthorne, and was asked
to support a scheme to protect the researchers from retrenchment. Since
May a third of the work force had gone, and the girls in the test room had
been replaced; Wright and Dickson, being short-service men, were threat­
ened with early retirement, but their superiors agreed that the two would
not go until Mayo could be consulted. Suddenly, senior executives at
Hawthorne who feared for the security of their own positions, announced
Dickson would be dismissed before Mayo’s return. Wright, certain he
would be next to go, recommended to Putnam that the test room studies be
discontinued, the bank wiring room observations be written up, all other
data be analyzed, and the book be finished. Dickson and he would do all
this under Mayo’s direction at Harvard.2 Pennock liked the notion, and
Wright believed Stoll would accept it if it were put to him by Mayo person­
ally. So, in October after an anxious briefing by Whitehead, Roethlisberger,
and Warner in New York, Mayo talked to Stoll. At the same time he gave
up his usual $2,500 retainer that Western Electric had planned to pay him.
Stoll accepted both proposals. Although this much reduced Mayo’s in­
come, he rejoiced that for at least a year he was obliged to make no more
“dreadful excursions to Chicago”3 and that he would be free to write his

257
258 Elton Mayo

Lowell lectures, which he had been invited to deliver in December.4 Mean­

while Roethlisberger planned the account of the Hawthorne research with
help from Wright and Dickson, and Whitehead began to analyze the out­
put records of the girls in the test room.5
The girls who had been replaced in the test room and later let go from
the Hawthorne Works held Mayo’s attention for several years afterward
through the efforts of Emily Osborne. In January 1933 while beginning her
new research in Chicago she arranged a meeting of the girls. Mary Volango
had a job in a rubber factory at half her former pay. Jenny Sirchio had
walked the streets before finding a poorly paid job weighing macaroni in a
firm where her father was the night watchman. Theresa Layman was out of
work but hoped to marry her boyfriend when the economy improved.
Lottie Blazijak, unemployed, lived with a family most of whose members
were also out of work. Anna Hegland, married, lived in De Kalb close to
poverty. The five girls met infrequently and shared memories of the years at
Hawthorne. Jenny thought there was always a strong bond between them
and believed that Western Electric Company had done more than other
Chicago firms for workers during the depression. Eventually Jenny got a
job at thirteen dollars a week. For all the girls work was difficult to find, and
keep, and pay was no more than twenty cents an hour.6
Mayo’s Lowell lectures were published as The Human Problems of In­
dustrial Civilization in 1933. In the first chapter he reviewed industrial
studies of fatigue and concluded that it comprises a complex set of varia­
bles, and that further experiments should control the variables through
measurement and observation rather than direct manipulation. He sum­
marized research from the Fatigue Laboratory, compared organic im­
balance in the laboratory with fatigue at work, and stated the limits of the
comparison. As a rule, at work interference leads to organic imbalance
among biological variables, thus affecting the individual’s steady state, as
measured by pulse product. Mayo’s view of fatigue as a state of organic
imbalance contrasted with the economist’s view of fatigue as the result of
taking work out of people and depleting their reserves. The second chapter
reviewed studies of monotony, and showed that it varies among individu­
als, their social situation, and work conditions. Mayo described his study in
Philadelphia, and concluded that after rest pauses monotony declined,
production rose, labor turnover fell, and the mental health and general
welfare of workers improved.
Chapter 3 summarized Western Electric reports of the Hawthorne stud­
ies. They showed that when rest pauses are introduced to overcome fatigue
and monotony they have a secondary effect insofar as they give workers
increased autonomy in decisions that affect their work. Such autonomy
strengthens the workers’ inner emotional equilibrium, helps them achieve
a steady state so they can deal with the many experimental changes at
work, and determines how well they use their skills each day. Chapter 4
 Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism 259

reported the mica room study and the interviewing program. As interviews
were changed from interrogations to personal conversations they gave case
material for supervisor training, and showed that supervision, like fatigue
and monotony, was a complex pattern of many variables. Chapter 5 cen­
tered on psychological and social experiences at work that help define
morale. Combining data from the Hawthorne studies and British research
with ideas from Janet and Freud, Mayo depicted the obsessional character:
he feels incomplete, inferior to others, unreal, besieged, driven to certain
thoughts against his will and to fight stressfully against them; he thinks
with difficulty, cannot attend easily to his situation or ideas about it, prefers
abstract intellectualization to concrete ideas and conducts long discussions
with little purpose, rethinks what is obvious, and finds decisions burden­
some; agonizing indecisiveness inhibits his ability to act, he exaggerates
small points, substituting the literal use of language for dealing maturely
with larger matters. But his behavior is not unusual, for he can be found in
high offices working compulsively, checking his already corrected work,
and claiming a strong belief in self-control. He venerates hard work, which
he knows is right, and lives a life devoid of emotional satisfaction.
If a person works under conditions that cause him organic imbalance,
feelings of diminished self-worth, and a sense that his social life is futile,
then he would entertain reveries like those of obsessive characters. In a
plant, Mayo stated, work organization often leads to fatigue and a sense of
diminished self-worth; and he argued that outside the plant modern city
life can lead workers to a sense of social futility. To study the role of social
factors, Mayo outlined the observations from the bank wiring room, where
formal social rules were poorly integrated with informal rules, led to out­
put restrictions and a sense of personal futility, and showed the nonlogical
bases of collaboration.
Chapter 6 considered the broad effect of industrialization on the social
order and asked if modern industry creates obsessive behavior among its
employees. Mayo examined the work of Park and associates (University of
Chicago) and concluded that the disintegration of the traditions that a
community needs for ordered living, progress, and the granting of freedom
to act and think easily leads to the breakdown of socially accepted feelings
and ideas, and results in crime and suicide. Further support for this comes
from Durkheim, Freud, Halbwachs, and J.S. Plant. That modern indus­
trialization leads to obsessive behavior has important implications for
studies of delinquency, crime, industrial relations, psychoneurosis, suicide,
education, and unstable economic consumption. Such social studies have
not kept pace with the technical studies on which rapid industrialization
was based.
In chapter 7 Mayo considered the role of government in the social order.
He began with an attack on politicians in the United States, Europe, and
Russia, pointing to their ignorance and manipulative modes of control,
260 Elton Mayo

and to how they created an anomic society and promoted acquisitiveness

to treat its ills rather than studying the conditions that led to the anomie.
He outlined his functionalist theory of society, the purpose of education,
the importance of traditional codes for training people in social skills for
sane rather than obsessive thinking. Mayo argued that rapid technical
change destroys traditions at work and requires new work organization.
For workers who stay at a plant under such conditions, this leads to a
decline in self-worth and a failure to adjust socially to new work schemes.
To protect themselves they create an illogical social organization, which is
often led by an obsessive character. Workers who leave plants continually
face new living environments where their culture clashes with that of oth­
ers and their routines of regular and intimate family life are destroyed. The
comfort of nonlogical traditions is gone. They become exasperated because
they have no social function and feel no sense of solidarity with a con­
tinuing group. While their lack of function leads to feelings of insecurity
and the making of exaggerated demands on life, their lack of solidarity
prevents their acquiring basic skills. Like the workers who stay on, they
turn for help to illogical social organization, led by an obsessive character
who, by his very personality, must promise a political salvation that never
can make up for the original loss.
The final chapter reiterated the results from Hawthorne and the thesis
that fatigue and monotony result from interference to the physiological
and psychological equilibrium of the organism. He outlined ideas of Pareto
and Brooks Adams. If the necessary movement of capable people and
families—the elite—from lower to the higher class is interrupted, then the
circulation of the elites will fail and society’s equilibrium will be disturbed.
Mayo thought this circulation had been disturbed, and society’s leaders did
not know it. For this reason, during the present social changes brought on
by the too-rapid industrialization of work, society must produce admin­
istrators of a high “order of generalizing mind.” Such a capable elite is
available, but is untrained in human understanding and control, and lacks
knowledge of biological and social facts to advance collaboration. These
people must be found and trained in understanding nonlogical social codes
as well as the logic of economics and physical science, so that in their
administrative positions they can improve methods of maintaining morale
at work rather than taking sides in employer-employee conflict. The prob­
lem is not who should control society, unions or management, but what
research is needed for intelligent control? To this end socialism, Marxism,
and communism are irrelevant; instead, we must banish ignorance and
illiteracy and bring about human collaboration.
If the new administrators are to facilitate human collaboration they
should be skilled in listening, know the limits of their understanding of
what they hear, and see the logical, nonlogical, and irrational elements in
individual and group attitudes. Such administrators need university train­
 Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism 261

ing in how to handle concrete difficulties between people, in both national

and international relations.7
Most reviews of the book were favorable, and many reported accurately
what Mayo had written. He was described as brilliant, highly suggestive,
courageous, and as an expert diagnostician and integrator of knowledge
from diverse fields. One reviewer placed him in the company of A.N.
Whitehead, Spengler, Stuart Chase, and Lewis Mumford. His ideas were
invaluable, careful, illuminating, thorough, clear and critical; and the book
was recommended to social scientists, medical people, administrators of
industry and politics, and labor and trainee managers.8
Criticism came from the New York Sun, which condemned him for
being out of date and recommending anthropological studies for the na­
tion’s economic problems.9 The reviewer for the New Republic, who found
Mayo’s noneconomic explanation of society’s distress distasteful, thought
he was a floundering scientist who had strayed from his laboratory and,
with only abracadabra to guide him, proved insensitive to hard facts.10
The favorable reviews were an unexpected pleasure for Mayo. After
,n
reading comments in Mental Hygiene which he thought showed the
reviewer knew that he was talking about, Mayo wrote to Dorothea, “The
high approval has surprised me—rather used to the other or being ig­
nored.”12 A note from Bingham said the book showed how fruitful had
been the studies at Hawthorne; and from the NIIP in London, Charles S.
Myers sent:

I have evidently underrated your ability to deep thought and good writings!
For I had no idea that you could turn out anything so really first rate . . . I
never expected that you had it in you to produce such a thoroughly successful
boo k. . . somebody had to do i t . . . I wish it had been in my power to do i t. . . .
I shall urge everyone I can to read it.13

Kornhauser, an early critic of the Hawthorne research, described the

work as “richly suggestive . . . with more questions than it answers . . . cuts
deep into modern life . . . delightfully ignores the fences separating aca­
demic fields of knowledge.”14 But in the American Journal o f Public
Health, Hayhurst complained that the book had lengthy quotations and
unsummarized chapters, omitted references to some workers in the field,
failed to see the economic significance of abandoning the gold standard,
and was repetitious and verbose. He was prepared to admit, however, that
the “concluding dogma” on collaboration was masterfully handled and the
practical applications of the Hawthorne research were “instructive.”15
The most laudatory academic praise appeared in the American Journal
o f Sociology, not in the book section but in the body of the issue. Robert E.
Park reviewed the book fully and concluded that it was “lucid, illuminating
. . . showing . . . an extraordinarily precise knowledge of a wide range of
scientific theory,” that it gave the concept of equilibrium “a new, wider . ..
262 Elton Mayo

more precise significance,” and that it illustrated collaboration between

experts on complex problems from diverse disciplines “with the best possi­
ble results”16
Between 1932 and 1935 Mayo had little to do with the Western Electic
Company. In November 1933 he visited the Hawthorne Works to discuss
problems that might arise with the introduction of an employee representa­
tion plan.17A year later he wrote the foreword to Roethlisberger and Dick­
son’s report on observations of the bank wiring room; he emphasized that
excellent results are produced when there exists a “comfortable equi­
librium” between the authority in a workplace and the workers’ spon­
taneous social organization.18 In the fall of 1935 he suggested company
officials use professional advice for a case of classical paranoia; and earlier
that year at a London congress on scietific management he had presented
his paper “The Blind Spot in Scientific Management.”19
The paper reviewed all the Hawthorne research, and with emphasis
again on observations from the bank wirers, argued that the hypothesis of
necessary or inevitable hostility between management and workers is un­
tenable. Why? The thesis is based on Marx’s defective economic theory of
class warfare and not on facts learned in actual organizations. Mayo
warned that when scientific management presents logical, technical inno­
vations to workers, they will resist with their established nonlogical work
routines. Why? Because for too long workers have had to accommodate to
changes that they had not initiated, and that robbed them of meaning,
significance, and traditions. It is not surprising, then, that they take revenge
for the changes imposed on them.
At the end of 1935 Mayo, Whitehead, and Roethlisberger were asked to
visit the Hawthorne Works to discuss the reintroduction of interviewing as
part of a plan to train supervisors in dealing with problems that could arise
with the introduction of the employee representation plan. Mayo was con­
vinced that although not many Western Electric officers were sympathetic
to his approach, Rice, Pennock, Putnam, and Wright still supported his
views on the need for interview training. And Mayo was heartened to hear
from Putnam that Western Electric “had employed many advisors . . . on
human relations and that in every instance—except Mayo—the results
have been ‘silly.’” “May it continue to be so,” was Mayo’s unspoken reply.20
At that time the research group at Hawthorne had moved beyond an
interest in informal spontaneous groupings of workers and their relation to
official management positions. Now the researchers believed that when
they were observing informal groups they saw “an attitude of resistance to
change.” Mayo showed them that the non-European civilization deliber­
ately imposes change on itself, and refuses to accept the idea of stabiliza­
tion in social relationships or achieved economic standards. Before an
achievement is complete “we nowadays break it off in order to reach out
again.” Mayo thought interviewing now had a new function: “a continuous
 Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism 263

operation disguised to help the individual to grow and develop—to ‘com­

plicate’, make more complex, his situation continuously—and it is de­
signed also to keep social organization fluid, to prevent crystallization at a
given point.” As Mayo understood it, the interviewer or counselor related
himself to everyone at the plant, did not seek interviewees, and at the
beginning of the interview did not ask questions. The tactic was to develop
the interview as far as may be, and at the end leave it to another occasion to
complete the pattern. This was not a clinical relationship because no diag­
nosis, prognosis, treatment, or catharsis was involved. “But it is as effective
as ever,” wrote Mayo, “indeed more so . . . because the individual is more
than ever conducting his own interview.” The counselor functioned thus:
when the individual’s “mental growth or capacity to complicate his situa­
tion is being ‘held up’, the interview enables him to work this out for
himself, to pass the barriers and go on, and [because] it is his own achieve­
ment . . . he comes back for aid if further difficulties arise—the interviewer
is not associated in his mind with some particular suggestion.”21
In the early months of 1936 Mayo was busy at the Hawthorne Works
consulting on management problems with large meetings and small groups
of managers; and in 1937 he visited the Works twice to learn about
Hosford’s staff training program that had been based on results from the
Hawthorne studies.22 Nevertheless, Mayo’s relations with the Hawthorne
researchers was becoming more distant, leaving him with one last major
task, the publication of Roethlisberger and Dickson’s full account of the
research studies.
At the end of 1935 Mayo was reading what had been written and was
battling with what he saw at the time as Roethlisberger’s slipshod and
colloquial prose.23 But by February 1936 a copy was before Stoll, who read
it chapter by chapter and passed each one to Hosford.24 At the beginning of
April Mayo talked with Macmillan but then began arrangements instead
with Harvard University Press.25
Without warning Whitehead announced that he had turned his lectures
into a book on industrial society. “He is ambitious,” thought Mayo, when
he was given a copy to read, and noted that the preface included a para­
graph eulogizing him. Mayo thought it “popular in a dignified” way, and
when he suggested some minor alterations, Whitehead showed him the
proposed dedication: “‘To Elton Mayo. Everything he took up thereby
became important’. . . . As something to live up to it scares me stiff!. . . The
book is an exposition of our attitude for the general public.” At the time the
book had no title, and Whitehead immediately adopted Mayo’s suggestion
that it be called “Leadership in a Free Society.”26
With a subsidy of $3,800 from the Business School Mayo arranged with
the press to publish Roethlisberger’s book, and expected that his and
Whitehead’s would be on sale late in 1936. Stoll and Hosford were pleased
with what they were reading, and made some minor suggestions to which
264 Elton Mayo

Mayo agreed.27 He sailed for Europe that summer, having given

Roethlisberger the task of completing the minor revisions to the man­
uscript before putting it in the hands of the press. But the book did not
appear for three years.
At first Hosford had minor criticisms of errors in the description of
labor grades, pay rates, and operating procedures, all of which he thought
reflected badly on Hawthorne’s managers. Stoll’s concerns centered on the
title and acknowledgments of authorship. But when Hosford had finished
reading the whole book, he made general comments that held up
publication.
Hosford thought the book showed that the interests of the researchers
not Western Electric management had controlled the direction of the stud­
ies; and that the book did not indicate what use the research was to the
company. He believed that a firm simply could not justify such expensive
research solely to increase knowledge, nor could it allow readers to imagine
that the direction, cost, and benefit of the research was out of manage­
ment’s full control. He suggested, first, that in a foreword Stoll disabuse
readers of such impressions. Second, because the book quoted supervisors’
unfavorable comments about their superiors the readers would gather that
the rule governing confidentiality of interview data had been disregarded
and, worse still, that the managers were incompetent. The same applied to
quotations from operators about their supervisors. Because many of the
statements were derogatory, the character and the ability of these people
and the morale at the company might suffer. Third, the researchers’ alleged
discovery of output restriction in the bank wiring room had been always
known to managers. Output restriction was common in industry, but the
book suggested that it was unique to the Hawthorne Works. Finally, the
book should be carefully reviewed by workers and managers at the
Hawthorne Works, and, in light of their comments, it should be amended
“to ensure that nothing is said that is unfair to . . . employees . . . super­
visors, or . . . the organization.”28
Hosford’s reactions contributed to at least a year’s delay in publishing
the book. Also, at the time AT&T was subject to the uncertainties of a legal
inquiry, and the firm’s lawyers advised that its public image could be tar­
nished if a federal commission were to grant a rate increase to a company
that had spent large sums on research with no clear direction or immediate
financial benefit,29
Stoll released the book for publication in May 1939.30 Management and
the Worker appeared in October, and no one expected it would become a
classic in the social sciences, feted for the lead it would give to American
industrial psychology and sociology. It also became a center of contention
and the object of polemics among social scientists for over forty years.31
By April 1940, 874 copies had been sold, and the net investment by the
Business School stood at $3,116. Between May and December, in response
 Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism 265

to some academic and industrial writers’ reviews, people were buying be­
tween 27 and 68 copies a month. But in January 1941,174 copies were sold;
in February, 952. The net investment fell to $803, and the total sales were
2,348. The explanation lay in the February issue of Reader’s Digest. Stuart
Chase’s article about the book had occasioned an enormous flood of mail,
and he was commissioned by his editor to write another piece on similar
research. By July 1942, 4,000 copies had been sold, and the book started to
consolidate its reputation as a report on outstanding research in the human
and social problems of industry.32
With one exception the early reviews of the book were favorable, and
only three minor criticisms were raised; it did not mention organized labor;
its style was not popular; and it contained no practical advice that a man­
ager could use immediately.33 Two academic reviews set the tone of the
controversy over the research, Mayo, Roethlisberger, and the role of human
relations for industry. In the Psychological Bulletin the reviewer, a man
well known for his vitriolic critiques, sang the book’s praises. His adjectives
were: honest, precise, clear-headed, capable, serious-minded, coherent,
consistent, and frank; his phrases were: excites marginal notations, tran­
scends the limits of the field, a landmark of real importance in dynamic
social psychology, avoids evangelism and dull pedantry. The authors’ only
fault was that they had not integrated their findings with those of other
researchers, thus giving the reader the false impression that the topics were
being considered for the first time.34
The same fault was used in excoriating the work by Mary B. Gilson.
Mayo had known her well in the days when they were associated with
Arthur H. Young and Industrial Relations Counselors. She wrote to Mayo
how amused she was by the authors’ naive remark that men commented
more than did women on advancement at work; she knew from her experi­
ence at the Hawthorne Works that women were banned from promotion
and for reasons that she, as a feminist, thought were contemptible. Also she
said that the results of the research were painfully obvious, and that the
researchers were “clever in interviewing the controllers of funds”; further­
more, she could not understand why the interviewees had not mentioned
organized labor because in her research with women workers it had often
appeared. Last, she told Mayo that in her interviews at Western Electric,
the authority in the firm had appeared little short of military; this fact,
rather than what Roethlisberger had written, was the central problem in
the firm. With a note of resentment, she recalled for Mayo the early days of
her career and reminded him, “You have never cared to tap my knowledge
since the severance of my relations with the Rockefeller group.” These
personal remarks were gentle pricks compared with the vitriol-tipped barbs
in her review of the book in the American Journal o f Sociology.35
In view of her letters to Mayo, Gilson’s printed criticism reads like a
bitter, uncompromising, and personal attack on the authors and, because
266 Elton Mayo

she assumed wrongly that he had originated the Western Electric studies,
on Mayo himself. Her catalogue of faults: had the authors read anything of
earlier research, they would have known what to expect; they were naive to
imagine it possible to control variables in the study of human groups, and
to inquire about promotion among women in a firm that bans their ad­
vancement as a matter of policy; with their charts, mathematical tables,
formulas, and jargon, the authors impressed only ignorant readers; they
had discovered the obvious about unpleasant work, and offered no advice
on the restoration of spontaneous cooperation at work. Gilson then cited a
book that would do that job. She was surprised to find no adequate men­
tion of organized labor among the twenty thousand interviews, and said
she suspected the counseling program to be a management spy system
aimed at countering the organization of workers. Finally, she asserted the
book raised only one important question: Why does big business finance
social research? Although her remarks have been largely ignored, they are
the springboard of much present-day criticism of the Hawthorne studies.
Roethlisberger was hurt by the Gilson review, and Mayo offered a com­
forting explanation:

Don’t let Mary Gilson worry you— everyone knows that she is crazy as hell.
. . . She sent me successive and silly letters—which I answered courteously—
while she was writing it. She hates all men—thinks women are badly “put
upon”—and nothing of discussion can shake this compulsion. After attack­
ing me for not employing, promoting, advocating the cause of women she
suddenly changed her tune and said she had told me everything in M anage­
ment and the Worker long ago. Then she went off on the tack that she had
really done the work and that I like the usual man, had taken her work
without acknowledgment. . . . The poor lady should really be put away
somewhere. . . . Tell Srole to hit as hard as he likes—not so much at Mary G.
but at the editors for printing fantastic misstatements . . . and forget it. The
more successful you are the more you will be misrepresented.36

Mayo, who had not seen Gilson’s review, sent Roethlisberger a well-
intentioned comment on the book by Srole. But he was not keen to see it
published as a rejoiner to Gilson’s review.
The best thing that can happen is no correspondence, no further notice, and
the whole affair dying down. Gilson is obsessive, paranoid, and a “destroyer.”
She will make short work of Srole because no sense of validity will restrain
her vicious return to the attack. One might as well reason with Hitler about
Srole’s race. On the other hand, if she does not get the supreme satisfaction of
other statements to distort and abuse, she might (if really obsessive) begin to
be uneasy herself. These things are soon forgotten, if neglected. Of course if
there is really libel it is another matter. If a letter must be s ent . . . [it should
simply list the untrue statements in the review, because such a letter offers]
little to be seized for distortion and abuse.37

Mayo, Management and the Worker; and the Hawthorne studies have
 Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism 267

been praised and denigrated since 1940. Many articles and monographs
have weighed the arguments and concluded that Mayo and his associates
were great or minor contributors to the social science of industry. Most of
the evaluation appeared after World War II, and little of it before Mayo’s
death. He knew of some criticism but was neither able nor interested in
answering it. Roethlisberger carried its burden at the same time as he
enjoyed a career following Mayo’s ideas in teaching and research at the
Harvard Business School. Ten years after Gilson’s review Roethlisberger
analyzed the criticisms and found five major classes of objections.
First, Mayo and associates never stated their ideology, thus showing they
were insensitive to and obtuse about problems of value and interest. They
considered skills of cooperation without referring to the aims of coopera­
tive action; they failed to see problems in agreeing on what were the ends of
industrial organization. They assumed between managers and workers lay
a fundamental identity of interest, that workers were a means to be manip­
ulated to impersonal ends, and that cooperation was healthy while conflict
was a social disease. They romanticized anthropology, and overvalued the
Middle Ages, small groups, communities, and established societies. Overall
their values were those espoused by managers. They held that the future of
industry depends on managers, sought new symbols for them, stole liberal
ideas to support sophisticated conservatism, and by “cooperation” Mayo
and associates thought workers should do what managers say.
Second, they failed to acknowledge unions as a real unit in industrial
relations, i.e., nowhere did they treat workers’ loyalty to class, unions, and
shop stewards, or mention unions in class conflict or fulfilling non­
economic needs. Some reasons for this were: unionism was not important
during the studies; unionists do not use counseling; and Harvard men do
not want to see workers off the job.
Third, they were insensitive to and feared problems of power and au­
thority in industry, organizing production, and the administration of polit­
ical processes. Their study blurred the facts of power, minimized the
evidence on class (income and property), and emphasized status and pres­
tige. Thus, they did not see that interviewing, counseling, social-skill train­
ing, and equilibrium in social relations were all concepts for justifying
manipulation of workers toward a belief that they were members of a work
community best managed by the authoritarian framework of modern
industry.
Fourth, the studies were neither scientific nor useful. To depict social
relations they used diagrams that were complicated and undifferentiated,
and that overemphasized spatial relationships; they studied small groups as
if no one had ever done so before; they used techniques of analysis that
were too involved for extension to large complex organizations; and they
assumed that supervision in small groups was no different from that re­
quired in large factories.
268 Elton Mayo

Finally, the researchers used crudely defined methods, ideas, and hy­
potheses. They confused analytic research with problem solving and clini­
cal diagnosis, technology with science, psychiatry with social science,
social skill with tact and forbearance, spontaneous cooperation with volun­
tary cooperation, managers’ goals with workers’ interests, communication
with indoctrination, and executives’ responsibilities for managers’ aims.
Their hypotheses were never tested, and their ideas owed too much to
Freud, Pareto, and the values of managers, and too little to general con­
ceptions of social behavior. In consequence their theories were weak, ad
hoc, and could not be generalized to other situations, occasions, or
occupations.38
Much of this criticism as it applies to industrial relations would be
examined closely in 1958 by Landsberger.39 He found most criticisms were
either false or overstated, and the scientific status of the inquiries was
sound.

Notes

1. Conversation with Joe Bailey, 14 April 1975.

2. Wright to Reothlisberger, 25 August 1932, MM 1.091; Whitehead to Mayo, 6
September 1932, MM 1.097.
3. Elton to Dorothea, 2, 3, 8 October 1932; Mayo to Osborne, 10 October 1932,
MM 1.067.
4. Stoll to Mayo, 11 May 1933, MM 1.092; memorandum to Roethlisberger, 30
March 1934, MM 1.092.
5. Elton to Dorothea, 10 November 1932; Mayo to Pennock, 13 December 1932,
Pennock to Mayo, 21 December 1932, MM 1.091.
6. Osborne to Mayo, 28 January, 11 April 1933, 19 February 1935, 25 May 1936,
MM 1.067.
7. Elton Mayo, The Hum an Problems o f an Industrial Civilization (New York:
Macmillan, 1933).
8. American Economic Review 24 (June 1934): 322; Booklist 30 (February 1934):
173; New York Times, 3 December 1933, 18 February 1934, p. 18; Management
Review 23 (March 1934): 23; Syracuse Post Standard 26 September 1934; L a­
bour Management (London), April 1934; School and Society 39 (7 April 1934);
Harvard Business School Alum ni Bulletin 10 (February 1934): 91; Transcript
(Boston), 6 January 1934; Hum an Factor, March 1933.
9. New York Sun, 18 November 1933.
10. New Republic, 28 March 1934, p. 192.
11. M ental Hygiene, 28 (October 1934):4.
12. Elton to Dorothea, 28 October 1934.
13. Elton to Dorothea, 8 February, 26 September 1934.
14. Annals o f the American Academy o f Political Science 172 (March 1934): 171.
15. American Journal o f Public Health 24 (March 1934):291.
16. Robert E. Park, “Industrial Fatigue and Group Morale,” American Journal o f
Sociology 40, no. 3 (November 1934):349-56; Elton to Dorothea, 9 November
1934.
17. Mayo to Stoll, 20 November 1933, MM 1.092.
18. Fritz J. Roethlisberger and William J. Dickson, “Management and the Worker:
Technical versus Social Organization in an Industrial Plant, ” Business Research
 Hawthorne Reported and Early Criticism 269

Studies (Harvard University, Graduate School of Business Administration, Di­

vision of Research) 9, no. 21 (October 1934).
19. Elton Mayo, “The Blind Spot in Scientific Management,” Proceedings, Sixth
International Congress for Scientific Management, London, July 15-20, vol. 3,
pp. 214-18, MM 2.004; Christian Science Monitor, 18 July 1935.
20. Elton to Dorothea, 10, 20, 27, 28 October, 3 November, 11 December 1935.
21. Elton to Toni, 21 September 1941. These are Mayo’s impressions of counseling
at the Hawthorne Works. The mental process, complication, he discussed early
in the 1930s and used the idea to relate his equilibrium hypothesis to Janet’s
theory of mental life in lectures at the New School for Social Research, 1940-41.
A history of counseling at Hawthorne is William J. Dickson and Fritz A. Roeth­
lisberger, Counseling in an Organization: A Sequel to the Hawthorne R e­
searchers (Boston: Harvard University, Graduate School o f Business
Administration, Division of Research, 1966); Mayo’s lectures are in Elton Mayo,
Som e Notes on the Psychology o f Pierre Janet (Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1948).
22. Elton to Dorothea, 22 January, 1, 9, 21, 30 March 1936; Pennock to Mayo, 2
April 1937, Mayo to Pennock, 5 April 1937, Mayo to Rice, 30 October 1937,
Rice to Mayo, 20 December 1937, MM 1.092.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 24 November 1935.
24. Mayo to Stoll, 21 February 1936, Mayo to Westburgh, 29 February, 1936, Mayo
to Stoll, 4 March 1936, MM 1.091.
25. Elton to Dorothea, 29 April 1936.
26. Elton to Dorothea, 27 February, 4, 6 April 1936.
27. Mayo to Stoll, 18 May 1936, Stoll to Mayo, 20 May 1936, Mayo to Stoll, 21 May
1936, MM 1.091 Roethlisberger to Mayo, 24 June 1936, FJR.
28. Hosford to Stoll, April 29, June 2, 1936, and undated (approximately July
1936) comments by Hosford, FJR.
29. Report of the Industrial Research Department, January 1937, MM 1.034; con­
versation with Lombard, 5 May 1975; Fritz J. Roethlisberger, The Elusive Phe­
no m en a (Boston: Harvard U niversity, Graduate School o f Business
Administration, Division of Research, 1977), p. 53.
30. Stoll to Roethlisberger, 10 May 1936, Roethlisberger papers; see note 28 above.
31. Henry A. Landsberger, Hawthorne Revisited (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University
Press, 1958); Dana Bramel and Ronald Friend, “Hawthorne, the Myth of the
Docile Worker, and Class Bias in Psychology,” American Psychologist 36, no. 8,
pp. 867-78. Landsberger gives a balanced view of the criticisms; the other au­
thors offer a recent rkdical interpretation.
32. Mayo to Mitchell, 25 July 1942; Read to Trahair, 15 December 1980; Elton to
Toni, 15 April 1941; Stuart Chase, “What Makes the Worker Like Work?”
Readers Digest, February 1942, pp. 15-20; Chase to Mayo, 8 April 1941, MM
1.026; proceeds from sales of Management and the Worker, MM 1.095.
33. Business Week, 21 October 1939; Millers Chicago Letter, 31 January 1940,
Harvard Business School Alum ni Bulletin, February 1940; Management R e­
view, April 1940; Advanced Management, April-June 1940.
34. Psychological Bulletin, May 1940, pp. 319-21; Jenkins to Mayo, 25 January, 8
May 1940, MM. 1.051.
35. American Journal o f Sociology 46 (1940): 98-101 Gilson to Mayo, 8, 12, 14
March 1940, MM 1.040.
36. Mayo to Roethlisberger, 24 July 1940, FJR.
37. Mayo to Roethlisberger, approximately 12-19 September 1940, FJR.
38. Fritz J. Roethlisberger, “Criticisms of Mayo and the ‘Harvard Group,’ Classified
into Five Categories for Purposes of Discussion” (mimeographed), 21 February
1950, FJR.
39. See note 31 above.
 17
Family and the Clinic: 1932-1942
During five years separation from his family Mayo wrote regularly to
Dorothea and the girls, shared their interests and anxieties, and in the
advice he often gave for dealing with their problems he indicated the per­
sonal experiences that gave rise to his clinical ideas at work.

From 1934 to 1939 Mayo lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, while

Dorothea lived in England, for she wanted to be near their daughters who
were at Bedales school. Because her blood pressure was too high for her to
manage domestic duties, Mayo wanted her to find a sanatorium where she
could rest and enjoy sufficient peace to write long, descriptive letters.1 To
both of them the separation seemed preposterous and unreasonable. And
although his eccentricities sometimes irritated her—he pawed his balding
head, and too often would repeat his favorite jokes—she felt lonely and
wanted him with her and the girls.2 He missed her, too, and after each New
Year’s Eve would count the months, then the weeks and finally the days that
he had to wait before sailing the Atlantic to be with her and the girls in
summer.3
Money was a constant worry. Dorothea was not able to manage their
expenses easily, and, although Mayo had a good salary, he felt that he never
provided adequate funds for his family’s standard of living.
Mayo’s affection for his wife was strong, sentimental, and romantic.
Evelyn Laye in the movie The Night Is Young reminded him of Dorothea
as a young woman at their marriage in 1913. He remembered her when he
heard the song “When I Grow Too Old to Dream.” In Coward’s “Private
Lives,” which he saw at least five times, he felt the separation and recon­
ciliation of loving couples, heard the brittle dialogue that he had attempted
in his story “Ring Down the Curtain,” and in one letter noted, “How
potent cheap music is.”4
To help Dorothea manage their separation Mayo recom mended
strongly that she read Ann Bridges’s Illyrian Spring, a popular novel in
which a middle-aged English woman suddenly leaves her family, takes a
long vacation in Europe to follow her interests in art, almost falls in love,
returns to her family, and is loved, respected, and appreciated more than
ever before. Through the novel Mayo idealized his own marriage, its

271
272 Elton Mayo

changes, and his view of marriage as an adventure of independent, loving,

like-minded, and mature adults.5
Patricia presented her father with one particularly familiar problem of
adolescence: she did not know who she was or what she wanted to be. She
changed her name from Patricia to Toni or Tony—a variation of Elton—
and raised him to a state of high anxiety by announcing that while at
university she would become an actress.6 He was hoping she would follow
seriously academic studies at Newnham College before rushing into life; he
believed that a university could mature young adults by helping them to
“complicate,” i.e., show them how to see the meaning in events, to find a
purpose, cause, or quest, and to view life as an adventure for indepen­
dence.7 He had followed something of a quest himself, and had valued the
Christian moral “Our hearts shall surely there be fixed where true joys are
to be found.” Acting held no true joy and was far too artificial and ego­
centric. Mayo felt that Patricia’s protests cast him in the role of the oppres­
sive father.8
He gave her little advice, suggested she get an opinion from an intel­
ligent man in a drama academy, and, since she seemed to enjoy a few stage
successes in the course of attempting a “brilliant career,” he let her run free,
hoping she would learn that she had misperceived the world and would not
drive herself into a neurotic state of ambivalence.9
Patricia seemed to lead a hectic life with her theatrical friends and their
fast cars. Mayo hoped her university acquaintances might balance her
theatrical associates. He refused to perform the role of a heavy stage father,
so he anxiously sat by, watching her blaze into the world of the theater,
repress her good intellect, and conceal from herself a deep sadness against
which her hectic behavior was a strong reaction.10 In the summer of 1935
he tried to retrieve Patricia from the theater. He wanted her to see that a
career has a “cause,” and recommended that in her maturity a trained
intellect would be necessary for a happy social life. Intelligent individuals
stand apart from the rest of the world, lead more interesting lives, count for
more; all this can be seen from the inside looking out. He wished that he
could walk the hospital wards with her and show that his clinical observa­
tions and insight—the Mayo “old fashioned magic”—provided a detailed
knowledge of how to handle people. At the time he was doing exactly that
with Graham Eyres-Monsell at Joseph Pratt’s clinic.
A year later his wish was granted, and she came to live and work with
him in Boston. She attended his seminars and went to Pratt’s clinic, and in
the evening after dinner they would discuss the day’s events and ideas that
had come to her. Mayo did not believe that he could help Patricia, so he did
not tell her anything but simply listened to her comments and questions.
In return he offered explanations, largely psychoanalytic, and observed the
“flood of illumination.”11 At the hospital her intelligence, practicality,
quickness, and unconventional approach led to her being given respon­
 Family and the Clinic 273

sibilities that exceeded her experience. Nevertheless, Mayo saw her over­
come that difficulty, adopt his work style, dissipate many of the active fears
she had acquired about herself in England, and recover her vigor and
youthful attitude toward life. She seemed to her loving, adoring father to
have become happy.12
When Patricia returned to Britain and began a career in personnel and
labor relations, Mayo encouraged her to see a career in front of her and to
value her intellectual, cultural, and social skills. He advised her to develop
her capacity to move easily between groups at different social levels and
allow no group to oppress her spirit. On this he wrote: “Be kind—kind .. .
but sensible. Remember often the greatest ass is telling us the most impor­
tant thing.. . . If you follow the [interviewing] rules .. . you cannot fail... .
Best wishes for the great adventure. . . . I’m very proud of my dear
Poppet.”13
For years afterward Mayo wrote Patricia telling her how daily he was
reminded of their year together by small objects, occasional conversations
with colleagues, comments from taxi drivers, waitresses, and doctors. She
loved him and respected his judgments and opinions on seeking a career,
making friends, and the personal difficulties that she was having with the
possessiveness that had become Dorothea’s burden. Mayo advised Patricia
not to allow her energy to be sapped too much by associating closely with
Dorothea at the expense of work and friendships. He wanted Patricia to
realize that her mother’s possessiveness and melancholia would grow as her
children exercised their independence. This was because Dorothea, like all
women of her time, had not been well treated in the “Victorian world,” and
they had learned to respond “naturally enough by becoming a deuce of a
problem.” A few months later Dorothea’s sadness passed and, like the
heroine in Illyrian Spring, she followed her interest in art for a time in
Vienna.14
Patricia planned to work for two years, then marry. So the question of
the right kind of man arose. When Mayo learned that she had a special
interest in one of her admirers he cast himself in the role of an “old badger
with a long history,” and counseled patience and caution so that the “un­
wanted streaks” that must appear in the character of a special admirer
would not hit her so hard when they become obvious. Caution would
protect her against the pitfalls of early marriage and allow her to live her
life at a high level of human responsibility and scientific insight, and to
shape a long, continuously fascinating career by ensuring that new interests
displaced early desires. “Anything else is boring!” He recalled that when he
was about thirty he had undergone a “psychopathological redemption,” a
new start that helped him to look at people all over again, to see their
struggles and “the spark concealed . . . ready to be fanned, to burn more
brightly.”15
Patricia’s social life was vigorous and she pushed herself to attend many
274 Elton Mayo

bright parties. Mayo warned her against fatigue that arises in the social
whirl: “Don’t go out until the limits of phantasmagoria . . . begin to
appear.”16 And because she had a good intellect, he warned her against the
enemy of all intelligent people, the “conviction of sin.”17When she needed
attention in the hospital he sympathized with her distress, reminded her
that she was valuable and eminent, and recommended, from Bunyan’s
Pilgrim s Progress, that after lapsing toward Miss Much-Afraid and Mrs.
Ready-to-Halt, she laugh into the Valley of Humiliation and model herself
on Messrs. Goodheart and Valiant-for-Truth. And he rejoiced to hear that
her tough heredity and sulfanilamide had cooperated to lift her out of
trouble.
Her health was always his concern. He worried about her being dis­
figured in a car crash, asked her to be especially careful when she decided to
take flying lessons, hoped she would get the best medical opinion on her
suspected anemia, and gave much thought to her welfare at the hands of a
psychoanalyst.18
Psychoanalysis had always raised issues for Mayo. He had accepted the
technique but rejected the people who used it; and he was both ambivalent
and eclectic in his attitude toward the ideas of Freud. He much preferred
Janet’s ideas. Nevertheless he agreed with Freud that obsessional compul­
sion was a repetitive symptom that inhibited growth, and he admired
Freud’s insights in individual cases. But Mayo was astounded by Freud’s
blindness to the importance of the group for individuals; although it is
sound to seek out a childhood trauma, once the individual relives that, the
therapist must press the patient wisely for identification with his own gen­
eration to discover love, satisfying friendships, and how to associate rou­
tinely in social tasks. To Mayo, the individual’s strongest passion was to
stand well with his fellows in an active relation; if the passion is frustrated
then sexual and parental themes become elaborately overembroidered. To
gratify strong passion, each individual needs an ordered community of
happy families in which children can readily learn the difference between
individuals and roles that they are expected to play.19
To help Patricia’s psychoanalysis, especially the issues in sex-role identi­
fication, Mayo described his part in her childhood. When she had fallen
asleep in his arms, her head on his shoulder, she had experienced the
feminine protected attitude. But in discussions he had always assumed her
intelligence equal to his, and that she knew the masculine intelligent atti­
tude. In maturity her task, he advised, was to unify the masculine and
feminine attitudes and retain them without inconsistencies.
Following the interviewing rules, he used to give her his full, uncritical
attention and help her to expression. She felt uncertain of his open accep­
tance, but that would not occur with people of her own generation for they
cannot, in an ordinary sense, provoke the feelings of “royal certainty” that
come from the individualized attention of one’s parents or elders. Mayo felt
 Family and the Clinic 275

that if Patricia knew this about her past, then she could all the more easily
overcome problems of positive transference with the analyst. He thought
that during her stay in Boston this early relationship with him had revived,
following her adolescence, during which he might well have provided a
clash between the masculine and feminine attitudes in her.20
Religion and work were also important topics discussed in his letters to
Patricia.21 She married a Jew, Walter Goetz, and the question arose as to
the value of one religion over another. Mayo wrote that in Christianity
stately diction and profound human truths are mixed with pagan myths,
distressing self-importance, and mental confusion. The problem for the
newcomer to Christianity was to grasp the truth and the stately diction and
to laugh at the pomp, circumstance, and imbecility. For some Christians,
religiosity is a mask that shows they are apparently reconciled with God
but conceals in their mental hinterland a confused and raging hatred.
Christianity is compounded of so many things; it is said to have come
from the Jews, wrote Mayo, and they “have a most extraordinary capacity
for getting themselves persecuted—from Pharaoh to Hitler—read this to
Walter.” To that, St. Paul contributed much from his Greek education in
the dialectic. But Christianity lost more when the bitter northerners took it
up, people who suffer from a deadly conviction of sin, drunkenness, sui­
cide, irregular living, and Presbyterianism. Catholic traditions were not
much better. Although Catholicism offered active social cooperation and
solemn ritual unity, it combined this with a God who revenged himself on
miserable sinners. In Mayo’s puckish view, the best critic of what he called
“Crosstianity” was Shaw, and the best place to turn was Major Barbara.
Mayo’s personal religion, his ideology for mastering the problems of
modern working life, recommended turning to the Upanishads and studies
in social science that revived the value of spontaneous cooperation over
aggressive, self-centered competition. From the Upanishads he took the
rule that before an individual can know about humans, their passion and
suffering, and escape the inevitable forces of determinism and become a
detached, independent adult with a stable, coherent view of his world, he
should “run the gamut of human experience.” To do this he must identify
himself clearly at each stage of his emotional development and know “the
love of mother, children . . . home, avocation. . . . ” A poem, Song o f Kabir
by Rudyard Kipling, captured the mature religious mood for Mayo:
He has looked upon Man and his eyeballs are clear
(There was One; there is One and but One, saith Kabir)
The R ed M ist o f Doing has thinned to a cloud
He has taken the Path for bairagi avowed!
To learn and discern o f his brother the God,
H e has gone from the council and put on the shroud
(Can ye hear? saith Kabir), a bairgari avowed!

For spontaneous cooperation Mayo recommended the work of his asso-

276 Elton Mayo

ciates. If neither the Upanishads nor social science research was acceptable
to a particular individual, then Mayo recommended the slightly confused
early work of Evelyn Underhill, Mysticism.
He warned Patricia that careerism, i.e., the belief that one’s working life
should be devoted to shuffling about for advantages of position, was an
“unfortunate European degradation,” and that it ought to be ignored. If an
individual ignored careerism then he would become independent of it and,
“indeed, amused by it.”
When Patricia found herself attempting to introduce her father’s meth­
ods into a firm dominated by men who had made their careers by avoiding
Mayo’s radical approach to organization life, she asked for his advice. It
seemed to him that she was surrounded by self-satisfied and incompetent
colleagues who were unlikely to concede her any authority to do the work
she thought was worthwhile. He advised her not to worry about her superi­
ors’ stupidity, but to know the facts, state them temperately, and define
clearly what she thought should be done. Eventually a clear-headed supe­
rior would see her purpose.
Finally he advised her that if she shared his wholehearted interest in
humanity, then she should be guided by the principle that “without par­
ticipation there can be no spontaneity of cooperation.” To learn this both
workers and managers need much education. Workers, particularly, need
to blow off steam about personal difficulties before they can objectively see
the economic problems of the organization. So, in the first stages of this
education, interviewing was an important preliminary. “If we need the
intelligent judgment of a man who suffers a crashing headache, we know
that we must relieve the headache before we can get his cooperation.”
Mayo did not have the same deep, close relationship with Ruth. As a
teenager she was bored and pressured her overworked teachers, and thereby
created problems for Dorothea. Mayo assured his wife that Ruth’s prob­
lems had their origin in her restless imagination, which, he believed,
needed a teacher with the skill to capture the restlessness and put it to
work.22 He hoped that because he was not there to help Dorothea, perhaps
Patricia might guide the youngster. But Ruth was very much her own
mistress. She would not attend Oxford, which disappointed him because,
recalling his own adolescence, “doing nothing means degeneration to a
scrap of protoplasmic flapdoodle. . . . Freedom is there for the taking . . .
and [Ruth] is the only person who can choose the path.... The devil of it is
with the immature. . . . Whatever one says is interpreted as an active
shove—until they learn that no one can shove them unless they themselves
translate what is said into a push (when it is not).”23
In the summer of 1939 Ruth married Vsevelod Gebrovosky. They were
caught behind German lines when Ruth was hospitalized for the birth of
their child in 1940. Mayo sent them money by way of Whitehead, the
Rockefeller Foundation offices, and the Jewish underground to fund their
 Family and the Clinic 277

escape via Portugal and South America to Boston. The cost severely eroded
Mayo’s savings, and during the period of Vsevelod’s unemployment Ruth’s
emergencies made Mayo’s income “effervesce like soda water” and severely
reduce the amount normally available.24 He loved her, admired her charac­
ter, but believed that in her use of money she was like her mother, a poor
manager. After four years Ruth and her husband were divorced and she
married again.25

During the late 1930s, when Mayo’s concern for his wife and daughters
heightened his interest in family life and its effects on social relations
outside the family, he became interested again in the psychological origins
of the problems people had in collaborating with each other. This return to
clinical psychology began from discussions with Dr. Joseph Pratt at Boston
City Hospital.26
Pratt was interested in Mayo’s use of Janet’s theory in teaching his asso­
ciates to note human problems of administration, and asked him to dem­
onstrate Janet’s techniques for handling working-class patients to Pratt’s
young medical associates.27 Early in 1935 Mayo held two seminars for
about thirty doctors—black and white, men and women. He described
Janet’s theory and practices as they related to obsessional neurosis, and,
particularly to the case of a mother who had become too much involved
with her daughter.28 Although Pratt was much interested in Janet’s ap­
proach, it required giving much time to individual cases; Pratt had too
many patients and too few assistants to do that.
When Mayo returned from his summer in Europe, he went back to
Pratt’s clinic regularly. Graham Eyres-Monsell had come to Mayo to over­
come the deep depression that had brought him close to wishing for the
end of his life. Mayo took the young Englishman to the clinic, where he was
shown how Pratt taught his patients to manage pain that had no organic
origin by using self-help techniques for relaxation, and how Mayo handled
recalcitrant obsessives.29
After discussing Pratt’s clinic with Henderson, Mayo agreed to have
Henderson’s son Larry, a recent law graduate, attend the clinic to learn
from Mayo how better to handle people who would come to him with
problems. This led to Mayo’s plan for about five graduates from various
disciplines to use the clinic as an observation post from which to see
common human problems.30
The first case was a tense and overactive woman, fifty-three, who was
obsessed about her role in the death of her two stillborn children. Mayo
established the origin of the symptoms at ten years rather than the dates of
the tragic births. The second case Mrs. Malatesta, had long resisted treat­
ment of her worries and headaches; suddenly, under Mayo’s questioning,
she presented clear and treatable symptoms of anxiety neurosis. A third
puzzling case appeared to be mild hebephrenia. A week later Mrs. Mai-
278 Elton Mayo

atesta was given to Eyres-Monsell, while Larry Henderson took down a

case history of a woman who had mastered her pain. And after talking with
Mayo, the apparent hebephrenic seemed better. Mayo was amused because
he had neither diagnosed her problem nor begun any treatment.31
“Back to the army again,” thought Mayo when Pratt and Mayo’s col­
leagues commissioned him to lead the larger group into the clinic. He
called his therapy “words of power.” One case, Connie Faletra, twenty-five,
had given up factory work for six years because she continually saw lights
that frightened her. She was inarticulate and lacked both education and
insight; she was not hypnotizable so hysteria was contraindicated; nor was
there clear evidence of dementia or obsessional neurosis. She simply hallu­
cinated frightening lights. In the presence of five observers, Mayo coached
her in physical relaxation and in taking notice of her preoccupations.32
Within ten days Connie said the lights had gone, and she decided to return
to work. Mrs. Malatesta so improved under Eyres-Monsell’s care that she
left the hospital to go home and cook Thanksgiving dinner. And after
therapy with Mayo, a man who had been unable to eat began enjoying his
meals. These cases pleased Mayo because no one had been able to diagnose
the symptoms properly, and each person had improved despite this. They
all illustrated his view that psychotherapy centered on “words of power,”
which meant simply spending time in getting detailed knowledge of the
patients and handling them by following the rules of interviewing.33
His quick successes at Pratt’s clinic helped to prevent any serious consid­
eration of Mayo’s retiring from Harvard. He felt needed again, and that his
work, training young men to help people in distress, was worthwhile again.
And he liked the praise that medical men gave him. For example, the clinic
staff had failed to get a history from a bedridden, sensitive, and intelligent
forty-year-old man, who was so inhibited that he was unable to act. Mayo
approached him and quickly found his interest in fly fishing—Mayo’s vaca­
tion hobby—and within an hour the man had given a history of his suffer­
ing and agreed to see Mayo again. The case showed the doctors who were
observing Mayo that clinical work should begin not with what the doctor
wanted to know but with the patients’ interests. Mayo’s technique was to
follow their interests, close out areas of no interest, and avoid having pa­
tients form worrisome opinions of their conditions. The therapist’s aim, he
thought, should be to observe the drama in the patients’ lives, and then the
salient events, the plot, would begin to emerge.34
Mayo’s success was so dramatic that he was invited to give the annual
“Care of the Patient” lecture at the Harvard Medical School in January
1938. Mayo stated the patient is both a case of disease and a human being;
he requires medical attention for his disease, and for himself he needs
assurance—not heartiness, breezy self-confidence, or dogma. Two diag­
noses are required: the first for the organic need, the second to meet the
need for assurance. To illustrate this point, Mayo recounted the experience
 Family and the Clinic 279

of a Queensland doctor who had learned how to reassure his anxious

patients or “frightened people.”
People seek a physician for three situations. (1) In a small community,
because the physician’s work is embedded in accepted social routines,
frightened patients are few; the need for assurance and medical treatment
are well integrated. (2) The more common situation is where the patient
and doctor are unknown to one another. Because they do not share a
background, no help for meeting the need for reassurance can come from
their social ties. Three problems emerge: first, when the patient’s disorder is
directly related to his anxious overthinking about it; second, when the
disorder masks an apparently unrelated personal difficulty; and third,
when the disorder reflects a problem in the relationship the patient has
with a person who does not attend the doctor. Two points are important: in
treating the disorder, assurance must be given to the patient as an individ­
ual and be relevant to the patient’s social context outside the clinic. Also, in
the well-integrated community, the organized family can support the doc­
tor in his assuring of the patient, but in a complex society, where intimate
social relations are weak, such a family can reinforce the patient’s fears and
exaggerate his disorder. (3) In the third situation, the patient’s organic
disorder is relatively minor but his terror is exacerbated and need for
assurance heightened by a social system that seems to conspire to produce
loneliness and insecurity. Mayo described cases of anomie, i.e., social out­
casts who could not discern their disorders clearly—nor could the physi­
cian. Neurotic and normal anxiety ensued in the form of overreactions to
the lack of assurance from the doctor.
Psychiatrists are unable to accept many such problems that call for
assurance because change in the patients’ social lives is often indicated.
Further, society has changed from the close-knit community to a great
mass that has created social dislocations and diminished human associa­
tion. The need for assurance grows from this kind of change, and no
effective economic or political panacea presents itself. Doctors must under­
stand and accept this.
Finally the doctor must see that although he might have given his pa­
tient sound treatment for the medical disorder, his health will not be re­
stored unless that treatment is accompanied by a careful and reassuring
study of the patient’s personal and social history.35
The lecture seemed successful to Mayo. A few months later he repeated
it to a meeting of Boston’s social workers, and twelve months later it was
published.36 At the Harvard Medical School plans were made to have doc­
tors learn from Eyres-Monsell how to interview patients along Mayo’s
lines. Mayo’s standing at the hospital was much enhanced. He was given his
own clinic, where he saw patients for two hours on Wednesday mornings,
had the services of a secretary and a social worker, and doctors in training
had the opportunity to observe him in action. With each patient he built
280 Elton Mayo

up a case history and, for the young doctors’ sake, pointed to the signifi­
cance of the interview for the patient. He then added a final touch by
showing the patient and the doctors the unmistakable meaning of the
social structure they had just seen unveiled.37
A year after “Frightened People” was published, Mayo was invited to
give fifteen lectures at the New School for Social Research in New York.
The lectures were planned to introduce the general problem of mental
hygiene and its consequences for both medicine and politics, and to de­
scribe the radical “destroyers” from Queensland, about whom he had been
lecturing and writing for almost two years. He wanted to begin with the
subject of his 1922 Boston address, i.e., the history of theory and practice
in mental health from Braid to Janet, to outline the discoveries on hysteria,
and to state the value of hypnosis and clinical methods for science. Then he
would outline ideas from Janet, Freud, and Piaget, give special attention to
the antecedents of social maladjustment, and follow that with the work of
the French sociologists and his friend Malinowski to stress the primacy of
social over economic determinants of societal control. Finally he would
blend the sociology of the intimate with gestalt psychology and show how
clinical interviews relate to the social study of work.38 He was spurred to
the task by memories of July 1939, when he met Pierre Janet, whom he
called “a friend and collaborator of long standing . . . I am bringing (a
much belated) understanding of Janet’s importance as an observer to this
country.”39 But as Mayo’s ideas developed he decided to impose the equi­
librium hypothesis on Janet’s theory and “watch . . . him struggle under
it.”40 The scheme so engrossed Mayo that he planned the lectures as a
book.41
The lectures synthesize Mayo’s application of social and clinical psy­
chology to political, industrial, and interpersonal relations. The material
was used for teaching at the Harvard Business School during the war, and
published a year after he retired.42
The book was intended to fill the requests of a few colleagues concerned
with difficult social, personal, and administrative tasks. The first chapter
sketches problems of mental hygiene and outlines the psychopathology of
the political agitator or destroyer in order to introduce obsession and the
rules of the clinical interview. Chapter 2 traces the history of hysteria and
hypnosis to the 1880s, when Janet learned that hypnotizability was a symp­
tom of hysteria. To explain this he suggested that the proper study of the
malady as both a neurological and mental disorder requires close observa­
tion and description. Mayo outlined Janet’s main ideas, and using the case
of Lucie, the double personality, gave illustrations of Janet’s method of
distraction and the differences between hypnosis and suggestion. He used
industrial cases to show how often people are active and productive while
in a hypnoid state. In Janet’s theory hysteria involves retraction of the field
of consciousness, and dissociation of the primary and secondary selves.
 Family and the Clinic 281

The two function independently, which explains why hysterics typically

show alternative personalities and are more hypnotizable and suggestible
than normal people.
In chapter 3 Mayo explained that a mental state comprises many ele­
ments in balanced relations: conditioned reflexes under subcortical control
and primary reflexes acquired during growth; cortically controlled, ac­
quired skills; and habitual skills that attribute meaning to a situation and
change according to the active response to that situation, i.e., the point of
adaptation or learning. These elements are in an ordered equilibrium;
disequilibrium appears in diminished capacity for action and alert atten­
tion to surroundings, and is caused by injury, illness, personal disappoint­
ments, and grief. To the extent that the elements are well developed in a
balanced relation to each other, and the act of attention is adequate to the
situation, the individual is at a high point of psychological tension. Like a
trained athlete the individual’s metabolism is high as a result of a well-
integrated and coordinated system of physiological functions.
The next two chapters concentrate on obsessive thinking and the equi­
librium hypothesis. Mayo contrasted the hysteric with the obsessive, and
described the latter’s social origins and the major characteristics of his
feelings, thoughts, and behavior. Unlike hysterics, obsessives are unhyp-
notizable, and to help themselves maintain their pointless reasoning and
argument, they do not accept suggestions. They make difficult patients,
and therapists resent them. Obsessives tend to be between twenty and forty
years of age; they are intellectual, seek private rather than public medical
support, and appear well educated. Usually their obsessiveness originates
from a major defect in their education. And their numbers are increasing.
Obsessives appear awkward, uncomfortable, embarrassed, and inarticu­
late. This apparent difficulty in expressing themselves belies their capacity
to spell out, with tormenting details, their symptoms and why the symp­
toms arose. They fear the topic of their obsession and know it is unrealistic.
They have two feelings: first, a conviction of sin, i.e., self-disgust and con­
tempt for themselves and their disorder; second, a strong compulsion to act
as if they were unbalanced or even insane. To ward off accidents and
misfortunes, which they know originate within themselves, they take ex­
cessive precautions; in turn they are supported by an elaborate and con­
trived argument, i.e., their obsession. Each day they bolster the obsession’s
rationalizations. And when reality contradicts them, obsessives become
extremely anxious, exaggerate crises by rejecting objective evidence, and
fall back even more on their elaborate arguments and preoccupations.
An obsessive’s thinking has three main features. First, his arguments are
inconclusive and rest on false dichotomies or alternatives. And the argu­
ments never end because he feels compelled on one hand to generalize and
on the other to make absurdly fine logical distinctions. The obsessive often
sees and feels driven to consider and decide on minor points as if they were
282 Elton Mayo

great moral issues, and yet ridicules his overthinking of problems. Second,
he loses the feeling that he is part of the present world, experiences in­
completeness, and senses that he is an automaton in a dream. He knows he
cannot actively and adequately respond to the real world and is anxious
and even phobic about this. Third, he is so scrupulous that he takes per­
sonal responsibility for all he thinks and does. An intelligent obsessive
manages these responsibilities by elaborately articulating their implica­
tions, while a less intelligent obsessive attempts to do the same, usually
fails, becomes swamped by misery, feels he is in a crisis, and experiences
pain or some physical disorder. Actions are caught in unhappy, compul­
sive, and endless rituals that prevent the obsessive from developing normal
routines, produce misery for others, and protect him from an emotional
understanding of his preoccupations and from developing complex, ma­
ture relations with others.
In applying the equilibrium hypothesis to obsessions, Mayo emphasized
“the loss of the function of the real,” and the “lowering of psychological
tension,” i.e., the imbalance among the psychological elements in adapting
to variations in the total situation. Then Mayo restated the “destroyers”
characteristics and showed they too were obsessive. He asserted that fewer
than one-third of the obsessives are destroyers; the remainder do not de­
stroy others but, instead, attack themselves and in extreme cases attempt
suicide.
In discussing lowered psychological tension Janet had noted that obses­
sives lack education in the habitual skills essential to living; consequently,
they are withdrawn, impractical, and clumsy, and fail at most things they
try. To Mayo this explained the behavior of the “destroyers,” and gave good
reason as to why intellectuals failed to relate ideas to performance and
conducted endless debates. He noted that obsessives assume action may
not be taken unless its logic has been predetermined, thus banishing ex­
periment, adventurous investigation, and normal learning and growth. In
his social life the obsessive often attempts to dominate conversation, be­
lieving that when he can silence others he is more successful than they;
should he fail, then he withdraws with damaged self-esteem to a position he
believes is superior to that occupied by individuals who do not gratify his
need to dominate them.
The last chapter summarizes earlier points and extends the commentary
on the social significance of obsession. Janet had noted that the obsessive
was unable to attend to topics offered for consideration because too often
he undergoes a crisis of revery, i.e., he becomes preoccupied with unsolva-
ble personal problems. This lack of ability originates from a failure in
infancy and adolescence to develop the social skills necessary to ordinary
communication between normal people.
Normal people are always discovering that their ideas are often inade­
quate to a changing situation. As Janet said, they reflect on their knowledge
 Family and the Clinic 283

and skills to give unity to their experience. Reflection is an act of inner

attention, and helps rearrange knowledge in the light of new information.
The obsessive can never complete the rearrangement because his incessant
concern with verbal topics and their mere logic prevents his attending
easily to anything new and systemizing his knowledge through trial and
error. Poor schooling is responsible.
Mayo told his associates how obsessive behavior among the universities’
intellectuals could be traced to defects in early childhood—defects that he
himself had endured. In childhood obsessive academics had been isolated
from their peers and dominated by parental values and standards. Thereaf­
ter in interaction with others they had acquired little social skill and had
learned to solve problems by imposing solutions on others. As academics
they fixed their attention on special formulae or abstract theory, which
tended to oversimplify any problem. Then, because they were socially
unskilled in refining ideas through group discussion, they would overthink
them endlessly. Thus social scientists would produce consistent but other­
wise untestable ideologies, which gave the individual a crutch for an emer­
gency or grounds from which to deliver intellectualized criticism rather
than a secure base for cooperative research.43
And Mayo showed that these points from Janet are relevant to industry
too. Obsessives cannot easily decide or use reflective thinking. At work
indecisiveness and nonreflective thinking can be caused by social con­
straints or fatiguing tasks that prevent a person from pursuing his line of
interests and acquiring the complexity (i.e., maturity) of normal adult
thought. Among normal people such constraints produce irritability, inde­
cision, and loss of interest.
Mayo recommended that students of society learn Janet’s three points:
complexity of attention, interrelation of active and reflective thought, and
how constraints and a sense of insecurity cause obsessive thinking to
emerge. Training in psychology is needed to grasp the first two, else the
student will never see the origins of feelings of insecurity and constraint,
and never understand the social situation he is studying.
Mayo’s book was published by Harvard University Press in 1948, and
sold only thirteen hundred copies in almost twenty years. During the 1960s
fewer than a hundred copies were sold. In April 1963, the book went out of
print, but in 1969 it was republished by Greenwood Press.44
Reviews of the work were mixed. In the American Sociological Review
an anonymous note suggested the book was a “curious book by any stand­
ards” because it recommended Janet’s ideas on individual adjustment
“without more than a passing reference to Freud . . . or any later develop­
ments in the field.”45 Gordon Allport, the Harvard psychologist for whom
Mayo had never showed much respect, was not convinced of Mayo’s view
that in modern times obsessive behavior was becoming more prevalent
than hysteria, and asserted that Mayo’s ideas on hysteria were out of date.
284 Elton Mayo

However, Allport, like Mayo, commended Janet’s theory of obsession and

favored Mayo’s first chapter over the book as a whole, which he wrote was
an incomplete study of Janet.46 In the New York Times, Frederick
Wertheim, a personal student of Freud and Ernest Jones’s, critized the work
as dated and not doing justice to the clinical theory and methods associated
with Janet’s ideas. And he attacked Mayo for simplifying Janet’s concept of
obsession and not seeing how different it is from various psychoses and
defective intellect. The sociological interview seemed naive and the use of
Janet’s ideas was unscientific, particularly when Mayo asserted, wrongly so
Wertheim maintained, that individuals who commit suicide are obsessive.
According to Wertheim, neither Janet nor Freud would have agreed with
Mayo on that point.47
Mayo dismissed Wertheim as “very much a Freudian, but as usual igno­
rant of Freud,” because he had overlooked the two main points of the book:
habit is not repetition but a skilled response to a situation; and attention is
also a complex act.48
The Janet book marked the end of Mayo’s psychological writings, and
his clinical work was terminated when the loss of his close associates and
exigencies of war turned his attention to teaching and research during his
last five years at Harvard.

Notes
1. Elton to Dorothea, 10 November 1932, 16 October 1933.
2. Elton to Dorothea, 8 February, 27 September 1934; Elton to Toni, 5 March
1934.
3. Elton to Dorothea, 13 March 1935.
4. Elton to Dorothea, 15 March 1935.
5. Elton to Dorothea, 3 November 1935; Elton to Toni, 10 November 1935.
6. Elton to Toni, 5 March 1934.
7. Elton to Dorothea, 8, 10, October, 10 November 1932; Elton to Toni, 19 Octo­
ber 1932.
8. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 18, October 1934.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 18 October, 8 December 1934.
10. Elton to Dorothea, 26 March 1935.
11. Elton to Dorothea, 29 March 1935.
12. Elton to Dorothea, February 1937.
13. Elton to Dorothea, 30 April, 11 May 1937.
14. Elton to Toni, 15 (?) September 1937.
15. Elton to Toni, 28 December 1937, 7 February 1938.
16. Elton to Toni, 7 January 1938.
17. Elton to Toni, 20 February 1938.
18. Elton to Toni, 27 October 1938.
19. Elton to Toni, 5 July 1939.
20. Elton to Toni, 1 February 1940.
21. Elton to Toni, 10 February 1940.
22. Elton to Toni, 5 January, 5 May 1942.
23. Elton to Dorothea, 9 January, 6 February, 10 April 1936, 30 April 1937.
24. Elton to Toni, 12 October 1938.
 Family and the Clinic 285

25. Correspondence between Elton and Toni, Christmas 1939 to January 1941.
26. Elton to Toni, 8 August 1941, 21 March, 10 June 1942.
27. Elton to Dorothea, 20 November, 16 December 1934.
28. Elton to Dorothea, 9, 11 January, 8, 17 February 1935.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 23, 31 October 1935.
30. Elton to Dorothea, 27, 31 October 1935.
31. Elton to Dorothea, 31 October 1935.
32. Elton to Dorothea, 10 November 1935.
33. Elton to Dorothea, 20, 21 November 1935.
34. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 22, 26 February 1936, 11 May 1937.
35. Elton Mayo “Frightened People,” Harvard M edical School Alum ni Bulletin 13,
no. 2 (January 1939): 1-7.
36. Elton to Dorothea, 2 February 1938.
37. Elton to Toni, 26 January 1938.
38. MM 3.070.
39. Elton to Toni, 22 September 1940.
40. Mayo to Roethlisberger, 22 August 1940, FJR.
41. Elton to Toni, 10 September 1940.
42. Elton Mayo, Som e Notes on the Psychology o f Pierre Janet (Cambridge: Har­
vard University Press, 1948).
43. Conversation with Lombard, 2 June 1982.
44. Mayo correspondence, Harvard University Press.
45. American Sociological Review 13 (1948): 247.
46. Survey Graphic, May 1948, p. 267.
47. New York Times Book Review, 15 August 1948, p. 13.
48. Mayo to Lombard, 19 November 1948, MM 1.012.
 18
Collaboration: 1932-1942
The chapter traces the role of collaboration at work, its origins in Mayo’s
theory of child rearing, his teaching, and his personal relations with his
associates.

Mayo believed that in an effective democracy authority must freely

move from central to peripheral organizations in response to critical
changes in the society’s political environment. In modern democracies
centralized authority was far too common; this had arisen because people
lacked the social skills needed to accept centralized control during crises
and, in normal times, to adopt easily and spontaneously the cooperative
relations needed for their work. As a rule individuals learn the skills of
accepting either centralized or collaborative authority as children in a sta­
ble family, but the modern family lacks order and stability. In a lecture,
“The Job and Mental Health,” Mayo noted Brooks Adams’s observation
that society could no longer rely on cohesive families, and said that the
consequences—“volatilized individuals”—were often found among the
unemployed and raised problems for both industrialists and experts in
mental health. He thought that the two groups should promote social and
personal research, drop the false belief that economic factors determine
work organization and control, and discover, through research, the lost
characteristics of the human desire for cooperation and the ability of peo­
ple to work together harmoniously.1
Mayo illustrated collaboration at work when his associates, Whitehead,
Dickson, and Roethlisberger, presented papers on the Hawthorne research
to the New York conference of the Personnel Research Federation in Janu­
ary 1935. Mayo joined the three for the discussion period. When a question
was asked, he indicated who could best give the answer, and sotto voce
prompted any of the three who seemed to hesitate. The audience seemed
impressed by the display of researchers working so cooperatively.2
Later Mayo told a group of Boston businessmen that problems of work­
ing together had been ignored in government, and that administrators of
Roosevelt’s New Deal were like the fascists of Europe and inflexible indus­
trialists and union officials in Britain in the way they tried to impose

287
288 Elton Mayo

collaboration on their subordinates. To understand how to collaborate at

work, Mayo asked for more research on human relations in industry.3
Research in administration and the role of human relations at work
depended greatly on the social skills of researchers or administrators, and
specifically relied on the technique of interviewing to establish the facts in
any particular case. To Mayo this technique was central to the clinical
investigation of human and social action. In November 1935 at the Na­
tional Academy of Science conference on scientific problems of industrial
and labor conditions, Mayo again outlined the rules of interviewing, their
underlying theory, and the effect of their use on individuals and social
relations at work.4 And early in 1936 he accepted J. Edgar Hoover’s invita­
tion to talk on interviewing to instructors at the Federal Bureau of Inves­
tigation training school.5
To industrialists and administrators Mayo’s general point was that social
relations determine the course of economic activities, not vice versa. This
was illustrated in his foreword to Whitehead’s “The Industrial Worker” and
the paper Mayo presented with Henderson at Harvard’s Tercentenary.6
From New York to Ohio and Tennessee newspapers reported their ideas.7
Much the same argument appeared in Mayo’s radio address, “Security,
Personal and Social,” in which he accused industrialization of creating
loneliness, isolation, and insecurity, and asserted that economic remedies
for insecurity are valueless. Pointing to Europe, he argued that as a rule
isolated groups become hostile to each other.8
Not far behind the problem of collaboration at work lay an explanation:
the family could no longer teach the skill of cooperation, for its members
were desperately unhappy. Because the reason for human unhappiness had
always concerned him, Mayo accepted an invitation to give his views to the
Cincinnati chapter of the American Association of Social Workers. Mayo
proposed that modern studies showed that in time of chaos people should
have a view of the world based on optimism rather than the materialism of
economic and political thinkers or the misrepresentations of Freud. An
optimistic view, so Mayo believed, would emerge from the systematic study
of conditions that promote human happiness, i.e., in a community of
stable families that encourage social as well as cognitive experiences so
children can develop nonlogical and logical skills. Mayo warned that be­
cause poor social discipline allowed free play to irrational sentiments and
weak control of pessimistic preoccupations, many youngsters would be­
come neurotic adults. Comparison of modern and primitive societies illus­
trated the thesis that if families are isolated from the community, then
social routines of cooperation are destroyed and individuals who have no
stable kinship affiliation become hostile to outsiders and uncooperative
with one another. But if families are well integrated into a community, then
its groups hold together and material needs are satisfied. In political terms
the question is not who should be the sovereign to bring unity to diverse
 Collaboration 289

groups but what is the nature of sovereignty? The answer lies in that theory
of authority that assumes humans will be happy when they feel a sense of
responsible control that allows, on one hand, multiple relations with others
and, on the other, a direct relation to the central authority.9
These ideas extend later parts of Mayo’s Lowell lectures and talks he had
given in Australia; they were published in two articles to which Mayo
attached high value: “What Every Village Knows” and “Frightened Peo­
ple.” Both rely on his memories of his childhood. The first article concen­
trated on community life and the second on relations between doctor and
patient.
In “What Every Village Knows” Mayo gave a brief, colorful account of
the difference between life in a small Victorian village, no doubt it was
Adelaide, and a complex industrial city. In the introduction he appears as a
child dominated by his Aunt Jane or his mother, watching a circle of ladies
while they sew. He recalls that their work seemed integrated with their
social routines. He applied this image to Continental Mills, the Hawthorne
Works, and the work of other researchers. All the results showed Mayo that
social relations determine economic activities. Without recognition of
this—which is what every village knows—rapid industrialization will bring
social chaos in a community and, in turn, that chaos will worsen economic
distress. Mayo concluded, “The restoration of human collaboration, in
work and out of it, is the urgent problem of our time.”10
In reply to a telegram from Dr. Watson Davis, director of science ser­
vices in Washington, Mayo described the problems of executive authority
and unemployment, and the growing use of the human relations approach
in American industry. The answer was needed immediately for presenta­
tion to the Temporary National Economic Committee of Congress. Mayo’s
letter was the core of his thinking on authority in industry, and during the
next three years would be revised before becoming the first two chapters of
The Social Problems o f an Industrial Civilization. For a general discussion
of human relations in industry Mayo recommended Management and the
Worker; outlined its findings, and noted its unusually high sales due to
recognition from intelligent managers and union organizers. Next he crit­
icized the view that society is merely a horde of individuals driven by self-
interest in the logical pursuit of nothing but material gain. On the contrary,
asserted Mayo, research shows society is an organization of traditions, and
individuals are motivated by a strong desire to share and enjoy routine
associations with one another and to put aside the logical pursuit of self-
interest to gratify that desire. In vocational selection and placement and in
studies of the mental health of workers, psychologists and psychiatrists
ignore both the informal relations among people on the job and how the
social background of employees contributes to their individual behavior at
work.
To understand the social bases of authority at work Mayo recommended
290 Elton Mayo

Chester Barnard’s Functions o f the Executive. It supported Mayo’s biphasic

theory of authority that he believed was appropriate in a democracy: first,
authority originates from spontaneous informal groupings and receives
formal and logical direction from an executive head; second, in normal
times orderly change comes from below, but in crises peripheral authority
is centralized. The theory Mayo wrote, is widely followed in democracies,
but little or no critical study has been made of it.
Finally, Mayo criticized approaches to unemployment that begin with
statistical descriptions of those out of work, propose new housing, and state
the conditions for relocation and training. Such an approach treated the
symptoms without diagnosing the illness. First, study the people, as Durk-
heim did, and note that during periods of industrial prosperity community
life is seriously altered because of rapid labor mobility and changes in the
social structure of neighborhoods and the personal lives of families. Thus,
while industrial prosperity raises material standards, social standards of
living deteriorate. Then material goods are used and displayed to compen­
sate for and symbolize the lost social standards. As the disintegration of
community life continues, demand for material display fluctuates and with
it demand for labor. In short, because American capitalism has quickly
raised material standards of living and unwittingly destroyed social living
standards, demand for goods and services has become unstable and unem­
ployment has risen. Again, Mayo wrote, no adequate study of this process
has been made.
In support of his views, and as a source of additional advice, Mayo
recommended that Davis see Henderson; Barnard; Harold Ruttenberg,
researcher for the Congress of Industrial Organizations; and social psycho­
logist John G. Jenkins. In Mayo’s opinion the issues of unemployment,
authority, and social relations at work included problems requiring re­
search for which no financial outlay would be too great. All that was needed
was money to pay able young people to do the research.11
A year later, in February 1941, Mayo would use these ideas in an address
to the American Management Association (AMA) that, with minor revi­
sions, would be published as “Research in Human Relations.”12 At this
point Mayo had his recommendations for solving both the political and
social issues of industrial civilization, and it remained for him to set down
the ideas in the first two chapters of his book.
After the AMA conference Mayo accepted an invitation from his friend
Arthur H. Young, now a vice-president of U.S. Steel, to visit Los Angeles
and speak on human relations to help justify a scheme for enlarging the
academic study of industrial relations in California.13 He gave two talks—
in Los Angeles, “The Feeling of Economic Helplessness”; at Stanford,
“Economic Confusion and Its Diagnosis”14—that were a pastiche of the
Davis letter and the AMA conference paper.15This material appeared again
in April as “Descent into Chaos,” given with Roethlisberger at Phillip
 Collaboration 291

Cabot’s New England Conference on National Defense. At the conference

Mayo’s statement on the origins of modern industrial problems would
appear as “The Road Back to Sanity” and be delivered by Roethlisberger.
And “Descent into Chaos” would appear yet again as the foreword to a
manager’s text by Roethlisberger, “Management and Morale.”16
In October 1941 Mayo wrote “Industrial Morale,” a chapter for a hand­
book in applied psychology, but the war prevented its publication; later
Mayo decided to use it in The Social Problems. . . . 17The book would begin
with a summary of two major themes in his later work: first, modern
society’s failure to teach social skills to balance the rapid growth of techni­
cal skills; second, criticism of the thesis that society is a horde of individu­
als, motivated by self-interest in the logical pursuit of material gain, and
that a central authority is only means to control such a horde. The first
theme was called “Why Doth the Heathen Rage?” (Psalms 2:1) but was
later changed to “The Seamy Side of Progress.” The second became “The
Rabble Hypothesis.” The remainder of the book outlines inquiries at Con­
tinental Mills, and adds to a summary of his work at Hawthorne two
wartime studies on absenteeism and labor turnover.

As well as recommending that the conditions of effective collaboration

be researched in organizations, Mayo proposed that the origins of the skills
for collaboration be recognized in the raising of children.
In October 1932 he addressed members of the Child Study Association,
and although his views met resistance, he believed that the ideas were
accepted by Dr. Marion Kenworthy, one of New York’s hard-headed psy­
choanalysts, and the author and novelist, Dorothy Canfield Fisher.18Over a
year later an audience questioned Mayo’s views in a lecture, “Mature Re­
sponsibility in the Family,” to psychologists and educators at a women’s
hospital in Boston. Mayo’s thesis directly opposed the then popular princi­
ples of progressive education that advocated for children Freudian freedom
at all stages of their growth. Mayo preferred Piaget’s principle that in their
first eight years children needed a regular routine in a structured family to
ensure an orderly view of the world, and the opportunity to develop a well-
rounded intellect.19
At the end of 1934 Mayo lectured at the Judge Baker Guidance Center
on training children to responsibility in the modern world.20 He sum­
marized his approach to child psychology, and showed how problems in
this field are related to general social issues in a changing industrial civiliza­
tion. He reviewed the history of ideas on unconscious motivation, and
used the distinction between hysteria and obsession to show the role of
repression and either reaction formation or sublimation in the developing
personality. He asserted then, as he had been doing for fifteen years, that
civilization and organic endowment join to arouse feelings that in children
suppress normal activities. He argued that Freud did not recommend
292 Elton Mayo

abandoning repression to allow undisciplined expression of infantile im­

pulses, and warned that if necessary repression were not established before
puberty, attempts thereafter to discipline the individual would give rise to
psychoneuroses. Freud was a stern disciplinarian, so Mayo said, not a
radical exponent of self-expression. All social maladjustments, suicide,
murder, and delinquency were the products of social changes far too rapid
for most individuals to manage.
The relation between social adjustment and psychological growth uses
Piaget’s theory that distinguishes early egocentric from later socialized as­
pects of the child’s life, and the primitive from the autonomous sense of
responsibility. Because logical thinking and social growth advance together
step by step, every child must live by the codes of social life until he has
fully mastered logical thinking; to do this society must be ordered and
stable, the child should be surrounded by age peers from outside the family,
and in his immediate background should have available the moral support
and guidance of parents and teachers. Under these conditions the child’s
social powers grow out of constraint into cooperation. Ideally the con­
straint is maintained by moral support, sympathy, and understanding from
parents, while the cooperation, the goal of mature development, is learned
according to the “rules of the game” as children discipline and thereby
socialize themselves. If children enter adolescence with impaired logical
and social thinking, then they are committed to inferior logical techniques
and social skills. They become obsessive, quite unlike the well-adapted
member of a cooperative group who can think independently and act
autonomously.
Anthropological research distinguishes logical, nonlogical, and irra­
tional behavior. Logical behavior shows the individual is capable of inde­
pendent discriminations; nonlogical behavior reflects the social order, its
discipline and rules for effective collaboration within restricted ranges of
action, and leads to a sense of security and happiness; irrational, often
obsessional, behavior occurs in the face of unmanageable tasks in which
the individuals are unable to collaborate, social relations disintegrate, and
group life disappears.
Mayo saw the remedy in a balanced education that promoted reason
and independent thinking and showed how cultures confer powers of disci­
pline, cooperation, and responsibility on its members. But why had educa­
tion failed so far in providing this balance? The too rapid application of
technical knowledge derived from excellent research in the physical sci­
ences has given society its experts in logic, but these people are bereft of
nonlogic and thus find cooperation alien to themselves.
So what is a responsible adult? A person who is willing to participate in
group activities, to find his chief interest in a life of cooperative work, to
amend the social codes with improved knowledge, and thus to substitute
logic for routine. Mayo presented these ideas again a few months later at a
 Collaboration 293

luncheon with Eleanor Roosevelt, and a year later at a conference in Lang-

horne, Pennsylvania, on problems of educating the exceptional child.21
In his insistence that children grow socially with their age peers or else
fall victim to an obsessive life style, Mayo was outlining his own childhood
and describing the child-rearing practices that he and Dorothea had
adopted for Patricia and Ruth. In his youth peers had been lacking, and he
thought this was one primary cause of his own melancholic, self-doubting,
and obsessional approach to life. He illustrated this by describing the case
of an after-dinner speaker—obviously himself—who once worried so
much about what he was going to say and the impression he might leave
that he felt joyless rather than grateful for the chance to speak, and thus he
put in jeopardy the effectiveness of his address.22
At the Langhorne conference Mayo introduced the Cohn Theorem
when answering a question on the role of psychiatry in work among young
children. He quickly rejected the cause-and-effect hypothesis for explain­
ing human behavior, and emphasized what Henderson had put to him a
year before: for an explanation of change look for conditions under which
balanced relations between interrelated variables alter and then return to a
more complex and harmonious state. To illustrate his point Mayo de­
scribed a professor who thought logically and was eminent in his field; his
wife supported him well and relieved him from worry by keeping the house
in excellent order. Because the home was run so sensibly, he believed it was
just another tribute to his intelligent approach to problems. One day, think­
ing that he had not given sufficient attention to the running of the house­
hold, he looked around the kitchen and made a great num ber of
suggestions, most of them valid and exceedingly valuable. But the cook
gave notice. Mayo then said:

Now what has he done? He has disrupted the routine performance; you can
only perform a complex task by reducing a great deal o f it to something
within the nature o f routine so that the m om ent I put this [a chair] here, a
collaborator whom perhaps I don’t know intimately, will pick it up and do
something else with it. That, you see, is a breach o f the routine, against the
whole o f the social conception o f what is right and proper. Now, I think he
should first, if he wants to do that sort o f thing, discuss it with the wife and
allow her to give her version o f the suggestion to the cook and . . . make it the
consequence o f something not imposed upon the cook, but a developed
spontaneity o f interest in a suggestion which seems to come from the cook
herself.23

Early in 1937 Mayo published ideas from his talks on the importance of
a stable family life for training children in the skills of collaboration.24
Problems of collaboration often faced Mayo’s associates at work:
Roethlisberger, Whitehead, Warner, and later Eyres-Monsell. In each of
these men Mayo saw changes that he thought had their origin in the rela­
tionship between the images they held of their family members and the
294 Elton Mayo

personal regard they held for him. In many cases their problems of collab­
oration involved difficulties in gaining from Mayo paternal assurance that
he valued their achievements.25 The most outstanding instance was Fritz
Roethlisberger. Between the fall of 1932 and the winter of 1942 Mayo saw
many changes in Roethlisberger. To Mayo he seemed a small, quiet man,
unassertive, oversensitive to problems beyond his control and anxious
about those he could master, intelligent, and prone to think himself into a
fog. Life seemed to hold few rewards for Roethlisberger, and the most
steadying influence at work was his mentor “Dr. Mayo.” The young man
was not confident to speak in public, inept as a teacher, and quite unable to
summarize clearly ideas arising from group discussion. But all this would
change.
Roethlisberger undertook to write the book on the Hawthorne research.
Before it was published he had success with a paper on technical versus
social factors in organizations. He enjoyed the recognition it brought but
was terrified by what he imagined the recognition might imply. It led him
away from his psychoanalytic orientation to a sociological view of industry.
Second, when Mayo saw Roethlisberger blundering in seminars on mate­
rial he once had mastered, he took him aside and taught him quickly the
skills of communication needed for good teaching. In a short time
Roethlisberger became a wise and competent discussant, a person who
could deliver witty and well-balanced lectures, and face any audience, from
eager students to skeptical businessmen. Third, he was “transformed,” as
Mayo put it, when given the task of representing Mayo’s ideas in the coun­
seling program at Hawthorne and, later, leading a group of researchers in
Macy’s and other large organizations.
Roethlisberger’s growth in personal confidence, teaching ability, and
social skills helped him master fretful and irritating relations with his rival
for Mayo’s attention, T. North Whitehead. Like Roethlisberger, Whitehead
needed Mayo’s continuous reassurance; whenever it seemed unavailable he
used his su p erio r in fluence w ith D ean D onham to dow nplay
Roethlisberger’s work by attributing it to Mayo, or gave Roethlisberger
tasks he knew would be daunting. The behavior presented Mayo with the
problem of placating the two rivals, dispersing the hostility that gave rise to
their rivalry, and helping them to work amicably. In Roethlisberger’s case
this was made difficult by his growing ambivalence toward Mayo; one
moment he was deferential and the next he would try—and always fail—to
score intellectually off Mayo. One day he stormed at Mayo and shattered
their old, tried friendship. Roethlisberger’s wife intervened, and Mayo was
amused to be told that his protege had a “one track mind.” He assured her
that he understood the outburst, valued it as a sign of maturity, and that in
spite of their differences Roethlisberger, not Whitehead, would be taking
over the industrial side of Mayo’s work.
That was February 1942. In response Roethlisberger “crashed,” so Mayo
 Collaboration 295

wrote. The depressing impact of war and the loss of close associates com­
bined with the fear of being responsible for Mayo’s work to revive the young
man’s misery of those months in 1926 before he went to see Mayo. Mayo
thought that Roethlisberger had been overprotected as a child, and that he
made Mayo his “father” and leaned heavily on him because he feared that
failure would attend everything he attempted. When it did not,the fear of
being responsible for important supervised work overwhelmed him. If
Roethlisberger was ever to stand up and face the world, Mayo thought, now
was the time to do it. And he did.
At first Mayo was delighted to have among his associates the son of
retired British philosopher Alfred N. Whitehead. And in Mayo’s plans for
early retirement, the younger Whitehead’s engineering and industrial back­
ground held much value. But soon Mayo looked upon him as a difficult,
amusing, pathetic person, ignorant of the social methods of research, and
obsessed by becoming associated with influential academics at Harvard.
Whitehead thought Dean Donham a “perverted genius” and maintained a
supercilious attitude toward Henderson, Homans, and Warner. He com­
bined his general air of disapproval with a habit of incessantly talking
“shop.” With every boring dinner party for the wrong groupings of the
“right” people—he could not see the difference between individuals of
senior and junior status at Harvard—Whitehead and his wife became more
and more unaccepted.
Whitehead’s outward show of confidence masked a core of insecurity.
Whenever he wanted to make up his mind about his work he had to
rehearse all the possible decisions before Mayo. Mayo listened patiently,
acknowledged him as an excellent worker and as a loyal and enthusiastic
follower, and, whenever possible, combined an energetic push to his career
with approval for his efforts. Whitehead idealized Mayo, and in 1935,
because of this relation with Mayo, Whitehead’s behavior and attitude to
his work began to change.
Early in 1935 Whitehead told Mayo that whenever Mayo was away
collaboration among his associates diminished, but upon his return it re­
vived. Mayo thought team collaboration depended on each individual’s
believing firmly that his own work was important, and that as their leader,
his own task was to reassure each man as to the value of his contribution.
In one instance Mayo helped Henderson and Whitehead to see clearly the
meaning and importance of their opposed interests rather than simply
disapproving of each other’s attitudes. Eventually the two began to respect
each other, and Henderson even invited Whitehead to organize and con­
tribute to Henderson’s sociology seminars. In turn, Whitehead learned to
put aside his superior and critical attitude, to wait and see how events
turned out rather than judging them quickly, and to admire the ways Mayo
promoted collaboration rather than competition among the younger men
who worked with him.
296 Elton Mayo

Finally Whitehead began to observe Mayo’s clinical skills. He saw Mayo

hypnotize his son Eric and thus help eradicate an hysterical tic from which
the boy had long suffered. Later Whitehead followed Mayo’s advice to send
Eric to Bedales school, where he would acquire the skills of cooperation by
interacting with his age peers rather than develop a neurotic lifestyle
through overexposure to his parents.
Mayo observed the slow change in Whitehead as he became more toler­
ant of his American colleagues, and they in turn, were less offended by his
manner. Early in 1938 Mayo thought that Whitehead had become an ac­
cepted member of the group; he was relaxed, independent, and able to
accept criticism easily. Whitehead himself said that he felt he had changed,
and that Mayo had been his therapist and helped him to escape the preju­
diced thinking that he had learned in childhood. Then Mayo introduced
Whitehead to clinical interviewing and put a patient in his charge; in that
patient Whitehead saw a reflection of his own obsessional lifestyle. The
insight was sudden and exciting for Whitehead, but he would not grow in
clinical skills until he returned to Harvard after serving his country in the
war.
W. Lloyd Warner, unlike Whitehead, understood Mayo’s methods of
clinical and social investigation. He was loyal to Mayo, became a good
teacher, and made excellent progress in organizing the Newburyport study.
To Mayo Warner’s only fault was an inability to manage his domestic
finances, and in one emergency Mayo acted quickly to help Warner with a
loan from the Business School. But, when in trouble he began to idealize
Mayo with most unhappy results.
Trouble began in the fall of 1934 when the head of the Department of
Anthropology did not want to continue Warner on the faculty. Warner’s
teaching load was severely cut, and it seemed to him he was being treated in
a less friendly manner. Behind the scenes Mayo worked to forestall any
attempt to have Warner moved, and to give him a good chance to be
offered a new position in the department. Warner showed all the symptoms
of a man under great stress. His behavior changed dramatically. He began
to lose trust in his colleagues and suspect them of not giving him the
general support that he thought he deserved. He announced that he was far
more competent than most of those with whom he worked. His teaching
deteriorated, and he deluded himself into believing that, like Mayo, he
could easily take a class without any preparation. What Warner did not
know was that Mayo had always prepared thoroughly before entering the
classroom; his lectures and discussions were only apparently extempo­
raneous.
At the time the new dean of social sciences at the University of Chicago,
Robert Redfield, offered Warner a position, mentioning how impressed he
was with the research that Mayo had undertaken and the methods he had
employed. Mayo advised Warner to accept the offer. But Warner had grown
 Collaboration 297

even more suspicious of his associates, had become angry and depressed,
felt badly used, and began to defend rather than develop his ideas. He
thought it scandalous that Harvard would let him go to Chicago, and in a
tearful outburst accused Mayo of setting up the Chicago offer. Mayo was
astounded that his personal influence could be so easily overestimated, and
saddened to be the object of such anger and resentment. Mayo accepted
full responsibility for Warner’s ill feeling, and with help from Warner’s wife
patched over the misunderstanding. The storm passed, and later their
friendship was reestablished.
Early in the conflict Mayo had sensed that a clinical or therapeutic
relationship with Warner would not be effective; rather than have the
young man reappraise himself, Mayo had tried to get him support from
people who had decided they would not give it. In this case Mayo unwit­
tingly found the limits to collaboration are reached when individuals are
deluded as to their abilities, hostile toward their friends and coworkers, and
cannot engender spontaneous support to see them through difficult times.
In the end Mayo believed that he had nursed Warner through a bout of
mental illness, a period of extreme egotism, and that Warner had wisely
decided to accept the Chicago offer because he had gone as far at Harvard
as his ability and his colleagues would allow.
In London in the summer of 1935, after the Warner affair, Mayo met
Graham Eyres-Monsell, the son of a British politician. He was pleasant and
intelligent, had a sound knowledge of music and an excellent command of
French, and was often among the associates of Britain’s royal family. He
had attended Eton, Oxford, and Sandhurst. But the demands of his own
family, especially those of his father, and the expectations of the social set in
which Eyres-Monsell moved led him to a low opinion of himself and con­
vinced him he was a complete failure. The year before he had been so
depressed that he no longer wished to live and he had sought psychiatric
help. When he came to Mayo, he seemed shy, diffident, and obsessed by a
conviction of sin. Mayo wanted to make a success of treating a cabinet
minister’s son, so he accepted Eyres-Monsell as a personal challenge. Treat­
ment began in Boston in October.
Mayo treated Eyres-Monsell in the same way he had managed the ill­
nesses of Ursula McConnel and Fritz Roethlisberger. The two men met
daily for an hour or so, read and discussed physiology, Freud, and psycho­
pathology. After a month Mayo, assuming mental patients could do more
for Eyres-Monsell than anyone else, arranged for him to take on a case at
an outpatient psychiatric clinic in Boston. The young man showed such
sensitivity to the feelings of others and so ably led patients to control their
reflective thinking and sense of social being that the director of the clinic
concluded he was an expert in psychoneuroses.
Whenever Eyres-Monsell reverted to being shy, obsessive, and uncertain
of himself, Mayo gave time to direct analysis of his dreams and personal
298 Elton Mayo

history, and, in doing so, catalogued for him the advantages and shortcom­
ings of his social, military, and county background in Britain. Soon Eyres-
Monsell saw how bitterly he had hated his father and how the anger had
been the basis of his depression. To the young man Mayo became a “chief­
tain of psychopathology” in his approach to patients and a “secret fount of
wisdom.” Eyres-Monsell began to change. As his clinical knowledge grew
he preferred work to night clubs; he learned to relax, seemed happy with
new men and women friends, lost his shyness, and cleared himself of his
obsessive conviction of sin. He was most grateful to Mayo. By 1938 he had
joined Whitehead’s industrial work and was scheduled to teach both in
Henderson’s sociology class and at Radcliffe College. Plans were made for
him to help medical students understand the relation between patients’
illnesses and their social and personal histories, but in October 1939 he
returned to Britain to join his regiment and serve in the war.
Mayo was able to accept patients like Eyres-Monsell, talk on child de­
velopment, consult at psychiatric clinics, and speak at education con­
ferences because in the Business School teaching was not his major
responsibility. This was so until 1942 with the coming of the war, the death
of his close associates, the loss of his assistants, and the end of the original
grant from the Rockefeller Foundation. Nevertheless Mayo did teach infor­
mally in at least three ways.
In 1934 he introduced “Human Problems of Administration,” one of
several new courses. After two years he shared the work with Whitehead
and Roethlisberger; in later years they were joined by Benjamin F. Selek-
man, George Lombard, and John Fox.26 Mayo’s early contributions came
from his published work, public talks, and lectures; his students were the
closest of his assistants, and their task was to read with him in psycho­
pathology, physiological psychology, and anthropology. His later contribu­
tions were organized by his associates and he simply lectured to a large
class and carried the discussion afterward.
Mayo and his associates taught a Department of Sociology graduate
class, Sociology 23, attended twice weekly by seniors and graduates. The
course began with Henderson’s interest in the Italian sociologist Pareto,
who would fall afoul of modern sociologists for his apparent interest in
fascism and related political beliefs. Mayo contributed little to the seminars
and in time found them boring, largely because Henderson’s interests dic­
tated the course.27 Nevertheless Mayo continued to put in an appearance
regularly, and to beam continuously “like a senile ray of sunshine,” lest the
seminar leader would take his absence as a personal reproach.28 In 1937-38,
Henderson’s course used more studies on social and political aspects of
business administration, and Mayo and his associates were joined by
Phillip Cabot.29
Cabot had established a monthly weekend seminar at the Business
School in the fall of 1934. The “Cabot Weekends,” as they would become
 Collaboration 299

known, were attended by sixty or more senior executives from the largest
corporations in the Northeast. They aimed to clarify social and human
problems in industry, and Cabot’s early interests were taken mainly from
Mayo’s ideas. Mayo was one of the first to speak at these meetings and
would become a regular discussant.30
Again Mayo’s contribution carried with it some regret. He always en­
joyed speaking to and directing the discussion of groups of businessmen,
but he did not like their company. So, if he could, he avoided lunching with
them or attending meetings where neither he nor his associates had an
active role. Early in the history of the “Cabot Weekends,” Mayo, chairing a
meeting was irritated by the poor presentation of excellent material by an
industrial relations executive from Standard Oil. After the presentation
Mayo dropped the traditional role of unobtrusive chairman and began a
whirlwind of speedy repartee. He contrived sharp quick exchanges between
the speaker and selected listeners, cut down those who uttered con­
ventional wheezes or empty platitudes, and closed the meeting with a
cogent summary of relevant statements from the speaker and discussants.
All the while Mayo drew much delight from watching amusement gradu­
ally overtake the stern expressions of Cabot and Whitehead while terror
froze on Roethlisberger’s face. None had ever seen Mayo deal so out­
rageously with leading industrialists.31
After 1933 Mayo’s teaching was directed at four main problems in ad­
ministration: industrial relations, personnel issues, consumerism, and ex­
ecutive training for corporate life.32 He argued that negotiating with unions
was not the inevitable method of handling industrial relations; to Mayo,
unions were ad hoc institutions used to meet historico-social problems in
Britain’s industrialization of work. Two conditions were relevant: first, in
small industrial centers unions were an established element with a clear
function in the social order; second, in large industrial regions unions were
elements of social disorder. Mayo recommended that in the United States it
was necessary to research unions before assuming any kind of attitude
toward trade union policies. Personnel issues had been approached
wrongly, in Mayo’s opinion; techniques were too psychological, attuned too
much to finding individuals with the capacity to adjust to working condi­
tions. Mayo thought that the Hawthorne studies showed working condi­
tions were what should be adjusted, and that anthropological research
techniques suited to the study of group life should supplement the psycho­
logical and physiological techniques that personnel officers were using.
Third, Mayo thought consumer research on individual buying habits was
incidental to studying standards of living. Social conditions leading to
expenditure, not material expenditure itself, were the proper subjects for
study. He believed social controls held markets firmly even during a busi­
ness depression; and social disintegration caused maximal fluctuations in
markets. Finally, the corporation executive should be a generalist who
300 Elton Mayo

could critically acknowledge the nature and sphere of specialists; thus, in

addition to his own expertise and experience in, say, economics, he should
have the social skill necessary to appreciate the attitudes, interests, and
prejudices of the people with whom he worked.
All Mayo’s teaching aims were on the boundary of existing knowledge,
and in stating them he advocated extending that boundary to find the
proper subject matter to teach. This is what he meant by calling teaching
and learning an adventure. And scientific research provided the substance
for that adventure.
Mayo was responsible for but not actively involved in research done by
his associates during the 1930s.33 He encouraged one man who almost
secured a niche in the movie industry to apply Mayo’s ideas to choosing
stories to film. He backed Warner’s Newburyport studies, and comparable
research by Allison Davis in Natchez and by Conrad Arensberg in County
Clare, Ireland. Such studies showed how anthropological research could
describe and clarify problems in the relations between industry and home
life in small communities. In industry, Mayo noted Pigors’s case studies at
the East Springfield plant of the Westinghouse Electric Manufacturing
Company; he was interested in Whitehead’s work with Eyres-Monsell on
the personnel problems in Swift and Company; and discussed with
Roethlisberger and Lombard studies at General Motors and Macy’s. Also,
he believed that George Homans was considering problems of centralized
and peripheral authority at Western Electric,34 and was much interested in
a study with Homans and John Cooley at New Castle on how technological
change affected employment and living standards.35 Mayo took note, too,
of Frederick Richardson’s research on the organization of handicrafts in
Essex County, as well as his study on the relation between economic sta­
bility and standards of living among resettled workers.36
Clinical teaching was important to Mayo during the second half of the
1930s. In 1935 he began occasional sessions for the students of Dr. Joseph
Pratt at his outpatient clinic in the Boston Dispensary and gave lectures at
McLean Hospital. Mayo wanted to introduce young doctors to the social
factors that affected mental disorders and expose them to the methods of
psychopathologists, particularly the techniques of Janet. At the same time
Mayo wanted to secure for his students and associates the opportunity to
learn interviewing by taking case histories at the clinic. Among the associ­
ates were Larry Henderson (law), John Cooley (philosophy), George
Homans (history), William F. Whyte (economics), Arthur Colburn (theol­
ogy), Eyres-Monsell, Gordon Bowden (sociology), John Fox, and George
Lombard. These men would meet regularly in seminars to discuss the work
of Mayo’s favorite psychopathologists, sociologists, psychologists, and
anthropologists.
 Collaboration 301

Notes

1. Elton to Dorothea, 13 March 1933; MM 3.037; Elton Mayo, “Human Relations

in Industry,” M ental Health Observer 2 (April 1934):6-8.
2. Elton to Dorothea, 11, 27 January 1935.
3. Mayo’s lecture to Jackson and Curtis, 29 October 1935, MM. 2.079.
4. Gregg’s memorandum, 13 November 1935, RF; MM 3.064.
5. Elton to Dorothea, 12 February 1936.
6. Elton Mayo, Foreword to The Industrial Worker: A Statistical Study o f Human
Relations in a Group o f M anual Workers, by T. North Whitehead (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1938); Lawrence J. Henderson and Elton Mayo, “The
Effects o f Social Environment,” Journal o f Industrial Hygiene and Toxicology
18, no. 36 (1936):401-16.
7. New York Times, 25 August 1936; News Sentinel (Knoxville, Tenn.), 30 August
1936; World Telegram, 24 August 1936; Times Press (Akron), 27 August 1936.
8. Elton Mayo, “Security, Personal and Social,” New England Journal o f Medicine
217 (1936):38-39.
9. Elton to Dorothea, 28 March 1936; Elton Mayo, “The M ovement Towards
Human Happiness,” April 8, 1936, MM 2.044a; Elton Mayo, “The Ancient
Magic Runs” (undated), MM 2.075.
10. Elton Mayo, “What Every Village Knows,” Survey Graphic, December 1937,
pp. 695-98.
11. Mayo to Davis, 28 March 1940, MM 2.032.
12. E lton M ayo, “ R esearch in H u m an R e la tio n s ,” P ersonnel 17, no. 4
(1941):264-69; Rice to Mayo, 15 March 1941, Mayo to Rice, 18 March 1941,
MM 2.032.
13. Elton to Toni, 30 January 1941, Elton to Dorothea, 25 February 1941.
14. Times (Palo Alto), 4 March 1941.
15. Harvard Business School A lum ni Bulletin 17, no. 3 (1941 ):270; Elton to Toni, 9
March 1941.
16. Elton to Toni, 4 May 1941; Bulletin o f Harvard Business School Alum ni Asso­
ciation 17, no. 3 (1941 ):263; Elton Mayo, The Descent Into Chaos, and Fritz J.
Roethlisberger, The Road Back to Sanity New England Conference on National
Defense, 5, 6 April 1941 (privately printed); Elton Mayo, Foreword to Manage­
ment and Morale, by Fritz J. Roethlisberger (Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1941).
17. Mayo to Fryer, 21 October 1941, Mayo to Van Toor, 20 January 1947, MM
2.009.
18. Elton to Dorothea, 16, 17 October 1932; Elton to Toni, 19 October 1932.
19. Elton to Dorothea, 27 January 1934; Boston Globe, 31 January 1934.
20. Elton Mayo, “Training the Child for Responsibility to His World,” 23 N ovem ­
ber 1934, MM 2.061.
21. Transcript (Boston), 16 February 1934; Washington Post, 17 February 1934;
Herald (Boston), 18 February 1934; Elton to Dorothea, 18 March 1934.
22. Elton Mayo, “Social Change and Its Effect U pon the Training o f the Child,”
Proceedings o f the Child Research Clinic Conference in Education (Woods
School, Langhorne, Penna.) 2 (1936): 11-16.
23. MM 2.024.
24. Elton Mayo, “Psychiatry and Sociology in Relation to Social Disorganization,”
American Journal o f Sociology 42, no. 6 (May 1937): 825-31.
302 Elton Mayo

25. What follows is a reconstruction from Mayo’s letters to his family o f the
character, changing behavior, and personal relations between his four young
associates, 1932-42.
26. D ean’s reports, 1929-44, BLA; AB 4:2, 9, MM 2.031; Elton to Dorothea, 29
December 1939; Fritz Roethlisberger, The Elusive Phenomena (Boston: Har­
vard University, Graduate School o f Business Administration, Division o f
Research, 1977), p. 107.
27. Elton to Dorothea, 12, 19, 28 April, 5 May 1935.
28. Elton to Dorothea, 10 November 1935.
29. Reports to Dean, 1924-44, MM 1.034.
30. Elton to Dorothea, 20 February 1935.
31. Elton to Dorothea, 12, 14, April 1935.
32. MM. 1.034.
33. Ibid.
34. Elton to Toni, 2 February, 24 March 1940.
35. MM 1.071, 3.069.
36. Elton to Toni, 18 February 1940; MM 1.034.
 19
Personal and Political Problems: 1932-1942

Mayo’s family problems affected plans for his career in the 1930s. He
attempted to influence the movie industry in the United States and reorgan­
ize the National Institute of Industrial Psychology in Britain. During this
period he developed his political ideas on international relations, cen­
tralized authority for the state, the role of personality in political leader­
ship, and the differences between totalitarian and democratic forms of
domination.

During the five years of separation Mayo lived with his family only in
summer, and often he and Dorothea thought of how he might retire from
Harvard to live and work in Britain. He was bored by his work at the
Business School; he had tired of repeating lectures and talks about his
research, and of being simply a “little ray of sunlight that [kept] the group
at work.” 1
The decision to retire was difficult to come to. Dorothea did not manage
domestic expenses competently, and Mayo always felt he should supply a
high income for her “emergencies,” as he called them. In Britain academic
salaries were low, and most other sources of income were unacceptable to
him. He considered that a position at Oxford University on one thousand
pounds a year could not meet his family’s expenses; he did not want to
work in association with Lyndall Urwick, one of England’s leading man­
agement consultants; he believed that reorganizing the ailing National In­
stitute of Industrial Psychology (NIIP) was not worthwhile; and, although
he would have liked to direct the amalgamation of Britain’s diverse man­
agement associations and groups, he knew that English industrialists
wanted a Briton rather than an Australian with American experience.2
Also, his American colleagues seemed to need him, and Harvard would
not allow him to retire early without good reason. He had to support his
young associates in their careers; Donham and Henderson wanted Mayo’s
advice and help in the squabbles each was having over the role at Harvard
of public and business administration and the integration of social sciences
generally. And as his interests in clinical psychology and politics returned,
Mayo could see much to keep him where he was.3

303
304 Elton Mayo

Mayo’s activities centered on four main topics: movies and society; poli­
tics, psychology, authority, and propaganda; a general theory of industry
and mental health in society; and family and clinical psychology. In 1938
he sought an opinion on his career from Beardsley Ruml, who advised him
to keep his professorship, give up industrial research, turn more to clinical
psychology, and, from that viewpoint, extend the final chapters of The
Human Problems . . . into a theory concerning psycho-political-social
problems of government and administration.4 Ruml’s advice was suppor­
tive because it reflected Mayo’s ideas and efforts since 1934, and directed
him in two ways; first, he looked back to 1904 and thought he would
propose a study of international relations to Britain’s colonial secretary;
second, he looked forward to joining the NIIP when asked to reorganize it
in the spring of 1939. The latter alternative might have given him the
chance to live and work in England, but the Second World War intervened.
When the war began Dorothea joined Mayo, Ruth married and remained
in Europe, and Patricia started to follow her father’s work in England.

Mayo’s chance to advise producers in the movie industry during 1935

and the possibility of working for the NIIP in 1940 were the only real
opportunities he had to quit academic life. Each case illustrates his capac­
ity to make from his ideas practical and useful plans.
Mayo was a moviegoer and recognized how movies could broaden and
enrich life, and make it less brutish and nasty.5 He enjoyed some movies
but many displeased him. He concluded that in Hollywood there was a
systematic attempt to destroy the social order. He likened the producers to
a communist he had known in Queensland, who by day worked as a jour­
nalist on a conservative newspaper and by night followed a plan to use
unions for radical social change. Mayo had exposed him, and he left for the
United States.6
So Mayo began writing articles that he hoped would redirect the influ­
ence of the movies, divert him away from the pettiness and boredom of
university life, and add to his income.7 A colleague, Georges F. Doriot,
followed Mayo’s approach; he had been able to predict which movies would
and would not be box office successes.8
From movies he had seen and discussions in New York with Sam Gold-
wyn and in London with Alexander Korda, Mayo concluded that movie­
makers were not learning from their experiences. The industry simply
imitated a “sure fire” success until the copies began to show deficient
technical intelligence and impoverished imagination. The scriptwriters
contributed to failures by putting best-selling novels on the screen without
following explicit, carefully tested procedures. When scientists and doctors
replaced novelists as society’s effective critical thinkers, novelists became
obsessed with crime, revolution, and psychoneurosis, topics that attracted
smaller audiences. Thus the movie industry paid heavily for learning what
 Personal and Political Problems 305

it should film. Mayo pointed to the summer of 1934, when a boycott forced
Hollywood to extirpate sin, sex, and heroic lawbreaking from the movies
and to close many theaters in Philadelphia. “Sure-fire” themes backfired,
so Mayo wrote, and he advised Hollywood to think before choosing
stories.9
In his second article, “Choice of a Story”, Mayo used Pareto’s theory to
give authority to suggestions for selecting film stories. First, the story must
relate to contemporary circumstances. Second, intellectual versus nonin­
tellectual considerations must be ignored because even though movies ap­
peal more to sentiment than to logic their plots should not be too
sentimental or nonsensical nor abandon their social function. Third, the
plot must never take second place to an actor because human feelings, not
one person’s attributes, make films successful. Fourth, the story should not
be secondary to sex—love, yes, but not mere sex—because it cannot sus­
tain interest for two hours.
Pareto’s residues should guide the choice of a story, i.e., the urge to social
combination, aggregation, and routine; the need to show sentiments; so­
ciability; integrity of the self; and sex. And, despite claims to the contrary
from Goldwyn and Korda, Mayo asserted that the content of stories—what
the public wants—can be systematically known before a film is made.
Celtic, Anglo-Saxon, and Teutonic folklore was the best source of film
stories because these were the major racial strains represented in the au­
diences; intellectuals, pessimists, and psycho-neurotics were not the best
sources. To Mayo this explained the success of Possessed, The Barretts of
Wimpole Street, and Cavalcade.
Finally, Mayo argued that, using Pareto’s theory, scriptwriters can find in
folklore clear, persistent themes for film stories. By substituting modern
derivatives of city life and industry for those of the village and forest and by
turning old fairy tales into modern romances, the writers would become
broadly educated and no longer need to go outside the industry for most of
their material.10
Mayo did not allow Doriot to give the second article to a publicist in the
movie industry because he suspected the man would use the ideas without
acknowledgment, and that most filmmakers preferred Hebrew folklore to
any other and would not in any case give his proposals a second thought.11
A student of Mayo’s tried to introduce Mayo’s ideas into the film indus­
try, and for a brief period met with success. He was employed by the
Columbia Pictures Corporation, and promised a high salary for comment­
ing on scripts that were troublesome. To get the job, the student had used
Mayo’s rules for interviewing, but he met resistance to Mayo’s ideas on
dramatic unity and the use of Pareto’s theory. In two months the student
faced a problem more suited to Mayo’s ideas on the exercise of authority at
work than the task of choosing a film story. The president of Columbia
Pictures, Harry Cohn, thrived on crises and assumed maximum efficiency
306 Elton Mayo

came only when subordinates reported directly to him and never commu­
nicated among themselves. Because he had to work through Cohn, the
student was perceived as the prime source of Cohn’s criticism and dissatis­
faction with the employees. The student became unpopular with his co­
workers, and left the firm in November 1936.12
Another opportunity to join his family offered itself to Mayo in Septem­
ber 1938 at the International Congress on Scientific Management in Wash­
ington, D.C. He learned that his friend Dr. Charles S. Myers, director of the
NIIP in London, had lost the support of its executive committee. E. S.
Byng, executive vice-chairman, suggested Mayo might like the director­
ship. Mayo considered the suggestion an impertinence, but did offer to
study the institute and think about its aims. In October Myers was retired;
in November Byng put Mayo’s offer to the committee and it was accepted.
Mayo had support for leaving Harvard to join the NIIP from both Hender­
son and Donham, and he knew he had the interest and backing of some
young British scholars in his field as well as two large industries and the
people who no longer stood behind Myers.13
Mayo approached the task with two ideas in mind. He wanted a position
in England, and the directorship of the NIIP seemed appropriate. Also, he
wrote: “What I really hope is that there may be one or two really intelligent
young men in NIIP—more or less unattached. My general idea . . . is to
leave the present work more or less alone and push off with a new lead.”14
When he got to London Mayo was told of the problems that Myers had
left behind. Myers had refused to permit his staff to study industrial rela­
tions, had encouraged the use of what Mayo thought were the trivial tech­
niques of vocational testing, and had allowed scholarship and scientific
research to drop away from psychological studies of industry. Myers had
contributed little to Britain’s industrial rehabilitation and nothing to solv­
ing problems of unemployment; instead, the institute’s work had been
determined by industry. Myers had accepted this because the institute
needed industry money to survive.15
Mayo’s impression was that the institute staff members were busy at
work that neither paid well nor added anything to their effective know­
ledge. They formed two distinct groups: one dealt with vocational guidance;
the other did field work in industry. The first group tested clients and,
because the staff had no experience of industry and little knowledge of
psychology, the work was not successful. Members of the second group
went alone to firms and recommended efficient work practices and organi­
zation. To Mayo they appeared pleased with themselves, showed they had
read little psychology, and behaved like professionally irresponsible, hope­
less amateurs. Whenever their work was not a success they became angry
and claimed their critics were unfair.
In particular Mayo singled out the inept interview method used by a
woman whose paper at the Washington meeting had gracefully acknowl­
 Personal and Political Problems 307

edged Mayo’s technique and then claimed a superior procedure that used
“advice-given and action after the interview which,” Mayo wrote, “shows
whoever is responsible doesn’t even begin to understand.”16 When he dis­
cussed the procedure with her, he was riled by the extravagant claims she
made for it. After satisfying himself that she was complacent, ignorant of
the psychologists and psychopathologists Mayo knew, and read only her
own reports, he cautiously indicated a vital flaw in her method. She bristled
and immediately claimed that with her method she could give workers
more than the Hawthorne employees had ever received. Mayo believed she
was an incompetent who passed for a qualified psychologist.17
Other young members of the staff appeared to be more capable than she,
but they were unsophisticated in either psychology or scientific research. It
seemed to Mayo that they were searching for a simple prepotent factor that
would answer all their clients’ problems. In this regard the pressure that
industry had put on them was not unlike that Mayo had endured in his
early work in Philadelphia and Massachusetts.
Mayo’s private views were omitted from his formal report. In a cour­
teous analysis of the problem, he recommended that new leadership would
help the staff in both divisions to raise their technical competence and
skills in collaborative rather than separate work, and suggested a change
from episodic to continuous interviewing in industry, as had been done at
the Hawthorne Works. Mayo wanted two of the young staff to come to
Boston with him to learn his approach and techniques. In this way he
hoped to stem their irresponsible claims to scientific rigor, to instill a sense
of serious purpose and a professional attitude, and, perhaps, thereby to
demonstrate his fitness to direct the institute. He further suggested the
necessity for a large endowment, so the institute could escape the planless­
ness of studies made at the request of troubled firms, train its investigators
better, conduct long-term experimental studies in industry, and learn how
to collaborate in the field. The alternative to accepting the recommenda­
tions was simply to abolish the NIIP.18
[The war put an end to Mayo’s relationship with the institute, but,
ironically, he became associated with its work briefly in 1947 during his
retirement.19 He gave an opening lecture for its winter program that year
and promised his general support. That was a mistake. The British In­
stitute of Management (BIM), unlike the NIIP, had acquired government
support after the war and Mayo hoped that it would invite him to join, and
then he would not have to stay with the NIIP.20 The BIM employed Mayo’s
daughter Patricia to do the kind of research that he had followed in the
United States. In the last week of November, the NIIP withdrew its offer to
Mayo, but he nevertheless kept his promise to speak on its behalf in Bir­
mingham, Manchester, and Liverpool.21 The strain of appearing at three
universities on consecutive nights was too much. On December 19 Mayo
suffered a paralyzing stroke that would end his working life.]
308 Elton Mayo

The exercise of authority in organizations attracted Mayo’s interest

when Dean Donham asked him to plan a course for possible third-year
students that would include problems of government as well as business
administration. Mayo assented because he had never seen any reason to
separate training for the public and private sectors. He also agreed to
review general problems of administration as they arose in political democ­
racies. His ideas had appeared in Democracy and Freedom; to illustrate
them in the 1930s he noted discussions of political problems in Europe and
became an active member of the Foreign Policy Association, which had
been founded to awaken Americans’ interest in European politics.22
Mayo’s first contact with the association came when he heard President
James G. M cD onald’s address “ The Serious Situation in Europe.”
McDonald proposed that Germany follow the United States and Britain in
international trade policies, and that the League of Nations should proba­
bly be abandoned. Mayo rejected the proposals because he had always
believed that each nation should retain its own identity, and that only
through an organization like the League could international collaboration
grow. From this point on he took an active interest in the training of
administrators for both business and international politics.
In the summer of 1933 Mayo accepted appointment as an American
delegate from The Council on Foreign Relations to a London conference,
at Chatham House, “The State and Economic Life.” The League of Na­
tions International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation had asked him to
speak on the use of scientific methods of research in international rela­
tions. Mayo criticized the widely touted view that state intervention was
the proper means to treat the social ills of Germany and Italy; he proposed
that social ills be diagnosed before treatment is prescribed. His observa­
tions in Colorado, the Hawthorne studies, social research in Chicago, and
work by Durkheim all showed that social ills, or “cultural decay” as he
called it then, always appear when people fail to collaborate. Traditions
that discipline individuals to spontaneous collaboration break down in the
course of too-rapid industrialization. The best treatment is a liberal educa­
tion; this requires, first, scientific research into society’s ills and, second,
training in scientific facts for the society’s administrators. Mayo’s views ran
counter to the prevailing attitudes of the time, and his talk was not pub­
lished. He noted that his views were, in fact, suppressed.23
Mayo’s thoughts on the League of Nations suffered the same fate. In his
paper “The Problem of the League,” Mayo reviewed the ideas of William
Rappard, F.H. Simmond, James Powers, Norman Angell, Walter Lipp-
mann, and William McDougall. He noted that international problems
were exacerbated by increasing economic and political nationalism and the
diminishing influence of the League. Why? In discussions on international
problems each member nation of the League dwelled on its own problems;
they were largely economic and related to the balance of trade and the
 Personal and Political Problems 309

industrialization of work. The world seemed to comprise a chaos of con­

flicting interests. Following McDougall’s proposal to reduce the chaos and
Brooks Adams’s advice on how better to manage conflict, Mayo recom­
mended that the methods of anthropology be used to study international
problems, and that administrators be trained in the appreciation of such
studies.
Mayo recapitulated from the early chapters of his Democracy and Free­
dom what he thought were the mistakes of political science, and argued
that modern democracy had become as tyrannical as the political system it
was supposed to replace, and that the League of Nations was as guilty of
tyranny as any all-powerful state authority. Why? Rather than leading the
way with studies of problems that arise within and between nations and
thereby aiming for spontaneous collaboration, the League dominated its
members, as do fascist and communist organizations, with leadership that
was ignorant of the proper relation between authority and spontaneity. It
aimed for control by “seizing power and authority, supressing criticism and
opposition [and] seeking to develop pseudo-spontaneity with the use of
active, reiterative propaganda.”
In place of propaganda, constructive questions are: What is the social
order in a community? How does it relate to current political theories?
What changes are occurring at present? But Mayo’s questions were accom­
panied by further attacks on the League. He ridiculed its research, accusing
the committee that had sponsored the conference and especially the bu-
reacracy of the League of being “too much a civil service and not [having] a
scientific research conception.” He had no time for the elegant forbearance
and tact among diplomats; such was not the proper basis for authority and
effective negotiation of international problems. “The only authority at
Geneva that will ever serve the cause of peace and civilization is the au­
thority of superior knowledge of fact and logic . . . new knowledge and
especially a new kind of knowledge—this and this alone will make the
League supreme.”24
Mayo’s ideas were not accepted at the time but he did not change them,
and whenever opportunity arose he stated them vigorously. He saw that in
1935, as in 1915, they were anathema to people who had acquired authority
and who were following what he called “parish pump reasoning” and the
political administrative theories of the nineteenth century. By this he
meant the ideologies that were used to justify the policies and practices of
those in power. To Mayo, ideologies were, using Pareto’s terms, nonlogical
and irrational; in the psychoanalytic sense, they were “rationalizations”
used to uphold both customary social routines and the delusion that peo­
ple can deal with feelings by treating them as if they were logical axioms. A
politician of such persuasion, thought Mayo, was “a museum piece—nine­
teenth century enlightenment at its most fatal.”25 And when Mayo’s “an­
cient contexts [were] shattered” by the war, he wrote to Patricia that he
310 Elton Mayo

hoped that her generation would take over and administer nations and
their economies with an intelligence based on facts, and would stun into
silence “liberal verbalizers . . . they must be quieted, put to sleep . . . the
idea that endless talk can settle anything must be disposed of.”26 That was
the main problem of the League.
While his ideas on the League were developments of Democracy and
Freedom and the final chapters of The Human Problems . . . , Mayo’s
second entry into political theorizing began in a discussion with Edwin
Cohn, an associate of Henderson’s and one of Harvard’s medical re­
searchers whom Mayo respected immensely. The “Cohn Theorem,” as
Mayo would call it, was a proposition taken from biochemical theory and
applied to relations among European nations in 1934. At the time Mayo
was following Donham’s proposals for a course of study for public admin­
istrators27 and helping Henderson plot to control developments in the
social sciences at Harvard so that the university would undertake only
scientific work in its studies of society.
In this academic squabble Mayo’s task was to chair the symposium
“Changes in the European Equilibrium in 1934” in January 1935 at the
meeting of the Foreign Affairs School of Radcliffe College.28 The League of
Women Voters of Massachusetts sponsored the meeting and the Foreign
Policy Association chose the seven speakers. Mayo was selected to be chair­
man because on one hand he had no aspirations at Harvard and could not
be aligned with empiricists like the physical scientists, and on the other he
could control the political scientists and their supporters easily, amuse an
intelligent audience, and leave it unruffled by a clear and articulate state­
ment of the “Cohn Theorem.”
The theorem contradicted the prevailing assumption that the attributes
of one nation, its leaders or its people were the logical cause of that nation’s
impact on others. In the social sciences the theorem is known today as the
principle of equipotentiality; it assumes that changes in relations among
nations are due to no one nation’s . . . goodness, stupidity, or intelligence
but that relations alter in a nonlogical and mutually dependent pattern.
Mayo was flattered to be designated chairman. He believed the theorem
pushed “all the ‘isms’ out of court (fascism, communism, and even the
current attitudes held by most people at the League of Nations)” and gave a
real lead to political science; it brought sudden clarity to his thoughts on
Pareto and extended sensibly the ideas he had used in his Lowell lectures.29
Also, he was amused to be asked by Mrs. Cohn to thank Count von Tip-
pelkirsch, the German consul, for agreeing to speak at the meeting: “She
musn’t because she’s a Jew. Apparently I am the Nordic-in-chief.”30
Mayo opened the discussion by reminding the audience that too often
international crises resemble nursery quarrels between good and naughty
nations. The speakers’ difficult task, he said, would be
 Personal and Political Problems 311

to show something o f the balanced relationships that exist between European

countries, to show that a change occurring anywhere immediately results in
changes o f attitude and relationships throughout the whole European system
. . . the audience will realize that ordinary discussion reads far too much
intention, will, intelligence into political crises. The problem is better stated
as an almost mathematical problem o f equilibrium between different na­
tional routines and national sentiments. It is a problem o f non-logic; and
logical descriptions involve m isstatement.31

Mayo’s contribution to the symposium and ensuing discussion were

received well, and, as a result he was invited to speak on current political
problems at various dinners and to the Foreign Policy Association. In these
talks he began two new themes regarding political and social problems that
would be published after the war.
In February 1936 he addressed the Harvard Club in New York; Phillip
Cabot, an admirer of Mayo’s work and founder of the “Cabot Weekends” at
the Business School, had planned the meeting. Mayo’s presentation was
unusual. He carefully avoided rhetoric by sitting down, speaking quietly,
and sacrificing everything to his main idea on the function of the sovereign
state. He was hostile to both fascism and recent changes in modern democ­
racies that he thought led to fascism and communism. The latter he
dubbed the “suburban pessimism of disappointed intellectuals” and “a
saintly variety of fascism.” He repeated the paper at his oldest dinner club,
the William James Institution. Both audiences seemed engrossed by his
criticism of apparently opposed political systems, and he thought they were
satisfied and amused when he left their “political thinking in ruins.” Cohn’s
impression upon reading a copy of Mayo’s paper was that he was offering
“quite a new political doctrine.”32
Mayo’s theme was the precursor of “The Rabble Hypothesis,” which he
would publish in 1945. The idea was that society comprises not a horde of
individuals fighting to survive but a set of functionally related groups that,
rather that being dominated by a central state authority, would each con­
tribute harmoniously to the society’s well-being if allowed to cooperate
spontaneously. Modern society has been shattered by too rapid technologi­
cal changes in the major functions of its members. Proof comes from
noting the preoccupations of Roosevelt in the United States, problems of
cooperation in Britain and France, cruelty to Jews in Germany, eradication
of intellectuals in the USSR, and a general state of anomie in many indus­
trialized democracies. Fascist characteristics appear: isolationism, self-suf-
ficiency, nationalism, and calls by radicals, revolutionaries, and commu­
nists for strong central authority. For his warning Mayo turned to Jenks’s
Law and Politics in the Middle Ages.
In political organization, Jenks showed the state and clan differed in
kind, not in degree. The clan, based on kinship and the worship of ances­
312 Elton Mayo

tors, was replaced by the state, which organized military violence against
the clan, its external enemies, and internecine conflicts. Power had been
given to the state, not as a result of intelligent understanding and deliberate
planning, but to resolve vexatious problems that could not otherwise be
handled. In Jenks’s theory the state is replaced by a partnership of interest
groups in the formation of a well-integrated society.
Mayo criticized Jenks for legalistic overstatements, especially the de­
structive principles of political organization and the assumptions that all
facets of group activity are logically related to a single principle of change.
For Mayo, simple cultures like the clan reorganize into new complex social
orders illogically, without deliberate planning, and not in accord with
known principles. Therefore a changing society is always in danger of being
controlled in the interests of logic by a centralized dictatorship. This is a
form of authority that follows a single principle, a false dichotomy, one that
asserts all forms of human association are either hostile or friendly. To
illustrate, Mayo used the Nazi attitude toward the Lutheran Church.33
The next stage in Mayo’s political thinking centered on the personalities
of the world’s political figures late in 1938, and involved the combination of
his ideas about men he had seen at union meetings in Queensland and the
curious behavior of Adolf Hitler.
Mayo accepted an invitation to join William Y. Elliot, Harvard’s pro­
fessor of government, and Mary Agnes Hamilton, from the BBC, to discuss
“The Prestige of England—Up or Down?” at a luncheon of the Foreign
Policy Association.34 Elliot and Hamilton asserted that Britain’s prestige
would rise if it armed to safeguard peace, and that the United States would
soon follow such a policy. Mayo had agreed to play the Tory, so he sup­
ported the policy of the British government, denounced Elliot and
Hamilton as “bloodthirsty pacifists,” and declared that Britain’s prestige
rested far more on the decency of the British worker than on the ideas of
those who stood to gain by a policy of militarism.
Personal gain and public policy were also at the root of Mayo’s criticism
of the “tendency of political and social scientists to rationalize their own
obsessive attitudes—and to call it political science or sociology. There is no
experiment, not even close observation to check the procedure.” What was
“biting” him was hearing colleagues expound some highly elaborate theory
of politics.35 And Mayo raised this question again, months later, in a letter
to Neville Chamberlain.
Chamberlain, condemned for not having dealt firmly with Hitler, had
pursued a policy with which Mayo agreed. In the United States, many
loudly disparaged Chamberlain, but his supporters were silent. William A.
Grant, chairman of Grant’s department stores, asked Mayo to write to
Chamberlain saying that his methods of appeasement were sound. Mayo
did not tell the prime minister that the methods were eventually adequate
 Personal and Political Problems 313

to the crises they were intended to divert, but that they seemed successful
in managing at least one European crisis.
In his letter to Chamberlain Mayo applied his ideas about the person­
ality of “destroyers,” whom he had known in Queensland, to American
businessmen and to Hitler. Mayo noted that at the head of U.S. industry
were men whose personal history and administrative behavior were like
Hitler’s. They were intelligent people who in childhood had been isolated
from their age peers and, consequently, as adults were unable to relate
easily to others although they had extensive technical skills. For them,
business organization was a strain; useful as managers, they created prob­
lems because their personal relations were a string of acute emergencies.
Mayo claimed that industrial research shows how to use the capabilities of
such people and, at the same time, diminish their “nuisance function.”
How? Be open to them, listen endlessly to their terrors, ambitions, and life
stories. Two results follow: the solitary person feels friendship for the first
time, and “in some fashion we cannot explain, tends to develop a greater
capacity for teamwork and for ordinary human association.”
Hitler, “a not-very-happy personality,” had been without friends as a
child, became devoted to his resentful, critical mother, and idealized Ger­
many. As a soldier he had made no friends and earned military distinctions
only in emergencies. He developed no talent for conversation, only ora­
tion. For him, human relations were something that he, as a leader, was
driven to dominate; otherwise he would feel he had no function. He had
few intimates and retired to solitude when no situation commanded his
attention. Hitler’s leadership turned Germany’s national and international
problems into crises to be approached with oratory rather than careful
thought. The pattern was “Emergency—crisis—drive—drive—Sieg Heil!”
Further, according to the “Cohn Theorem,” “the fiction of an emergency in
one nation strongly held tends to provoke actual emergency everywhere.”
Thus Hitler’s personality, his leadership style, and the systemic relations
among nations created a world crisis.
Mayo thought that Chamberlain’s methods—at the time they were being
used in the Hawthorne counseling program— “of careful listening, friend­
ship at the ordinary level, no criticism until the individual himself becomes
critical of what he says . . . [were] the pathway to appeasement.” Mayo
hoped that foolish critics would not divert Chamberlain from that path.36
A few days later in class with Roethlisberger’s students Mayo extended
the Chamberlain letter by stating six points about the radical communists
he had known in Queensland, and discussed in his articles on the mind of
the agitator in 1922.37 First, they had no friends except at the propaganda
level, and were not very friendly even there because every relation was an
emergency or crisis. Second, they had no power of conversation and kept
silent, orated, or gave their life histories. Third, all action was based on
314 Elton Mayo

emergencies, not routine. Fourth, to them the world seemed hostile; they
could not cooperate on equal terms with others but had to challenge,
defeat, and then lead them. Fifth, they were victims of an unreasoned drive
for success, such that the harder they drove the more certain they privately
became of failure, because they lacked the self-confidence that grows from
continued association with others. Sixth, in society they functioned as
intellectual destroyers who could succeed only if supported by good
organizers. In their early personal lives they had strived to stand well not
with their age peers, for none were at hand, but with an older generation,
i.e., their parents. Now, because they have no group of their own they try to
make one. The only treatment for them is to break up their attitudes and
preoccupations through the transference in an interview and to encourage
them to experience something approaching a normal social relation with
another person. Logical studies of problems are not effective as a cure or
treatment; only reexperiencing old feelings and discovering new meanings
will help.
Mayo used the first chapter of Stephen Robert’s The House That Hitler
Built to illustrate his thesis that Hitler was a potential “destroyer,” and
argue that if the development of routine relations with members of one’s
own generation is omitted from one’s life, then the growth of intelligent
understanding “runs off the rails.” He used this material in an address to
the annual meeting of Massachusetts psychiatrists three days later, and
again at one of Cabot’s weekend meetings.38
These ideas were to form the material for a small book, “The Hitler
Complex,” and Mayo hoped that in time he would find someone who
would take up the question of the relation between psychopathology and
politics. Mayo did not know that, shortly after leaving him, Harold
Lasswell had done just that in Psychopathology and Politics (1930). At the
time Mayo was developing “The Hitler Complex,” an Australian friend,
Duncan Hall, from the League of Nations, visited him at the Business
School. Hall had been psychoanalyzed, and suggested that he and two
others should apply psychoanalytic ideas to national and international
problems. Mayo favored the suggestion and for two days discussed Hall’s
plans, but they did not suit Mayo. Mayo believed Hall was the victim of an
“unreasoned drive” or obsession that centered on establishing an institute
at Harvard in which two analysts would write, lecture, and propagandize
through radio and films. Hall would have no other suggestions, plans, tasks,
or associates. Although Mayo strongly favored the general application of
psychology to politics, he had to pour cold water on Hall’s proposal be­
cause its base was too narrow and it did not include plans for the training of
administrators.39
When war was declared in August 1939 Mayo reflected on the politics
and politicians in the world that had shaped his central beliefs. The world
had been one of old pomposities, he thought, due for the waste bin, a dead
 Personal and Political Problems 315

aristocracy of wealthy individuals with functionless titles. He believed that

he had been a good Victorian, a nineteenth-century relic who still believed
in civilization, decency, and a sense of social order as stated by Durkheim,
Pareto, LePlay, and Brooks Adams. The enemies of civilization were Ger­
many and the USSR. Mayo could not see how anything good could emerge
from the cynical, merciless regimentation of people in a Russia that had
deprived itself of a highly skilled middle class, and whose leaders main­
tained a continuous policy of intrigue and murder. And “Germany has
been the big black bogey man all our lives,” he wrote to Patricia, “because
of nasty little blood-thirsty, Hitler, his mob of bullies, who with his horse-
trading friend Mussolini emulated Frederick the Great and Caesar.”40
The future promised little unless those in power on both sides of the
struggle were replaced when the war ended. He thought it foolish to sub­
stitute for the dead aristocracy equally dead alternatives—communism,
fascism, socialism. He wanted the new leaders to be young people who
could function socially, independent of material rewards, and who would
have two main attributes. First, they would eschew “chop-logic . . . verbal
acrobatics and . . . isms,” and beside technical expertise would develop a
superior administrative intelligence based on a knowledge of how to pro­
mote and achieve spontaneous cooperation. Second, they would put aside
all thought of a single complex theory of authority; they would learn that in
a crisis centralized authority is effective, while in quiet times authority
must return to peripheral organizations. Unless such a two-phase theory of
authority obtains, spontaneous cooperation will never develop and democ­
racy will remain a muddled political system.41
These ideas were in Mayo’s mind after the First World War; during the
Second World War they reemerged, supported by Roethlisberger’s ideas on
informal and formal features of organizations and a book recommended to
Mayo by Patricia, Church and the Modern State by John Figgis.
Mayo’s ideas failed of publication. In July 1940 Oxford University Press
invited him to write on world affairs for a series of pamphlets describing the
Nazi dictatorship of labor and industry in Germany. The series would be
read widely and serve as anti-Nazi propaganda. Mayo’s paper, “The Last
Ditch,” was a summary statement of the political problems of industrial
civilization. It was not published, so wrote the manager of the press, be­
cause it was so brilliant and scholarly that it would go over the heads of
most readers. Mayo was unwell at the time, and no suggestion was made to
revise. In a terse note to Donham, Mayo’s view was that “I have said in 29
pages what should have taken 290.”
The “ditch” is the English Channel, and Mayo’s paper warned Amer­
icans that if the Nazis were to cross the ditch, then the Atlantic Ocean
would become the “last ditch.” By this Mayo meant that the war was being
fought to protect democracy from annihilation by Hitler and Mussolini,
not, as the dictators had claimed, from capitalism, Jews, and other alleged
316 Elton Mayo

manipulators of international finance. To support this argument Mayo

came to the aid of capitalism. He pointed to the material gains that flowed
from industrialization, and said that the social ills that accompanied it
were due to the rapidity of the change, not to the change itself. Next he
stated that in democracies where capitalism flourished material standards
were high, social improvements were great, and research into change was
freely pursued; in totalitarian states inhabitants were bound to their lead­
ers’ personal limitations.
Democracy brings changes but at the same time preserves social and
economic equilibrium. Other political states keep stable by discouraging
change and promoting a closed economy, like that found among Aus­
tralian aborigines. Unlike totalitarian states, democracies uphold a com­
plex balance of power among diverse interests within their boundaries;
they manage centralized authority during emergencies and return au­
thority to peripheral organizations during normal times. In democracies
this bi-phasic system of authority ensures widespread participation in ma­
terial welfare. But in Nazi Germany material welfare is directed from a
central authority, which inspires people to believe they are in a crisis.
Consequently, initiative is nowhere allowed; education is linked with war,
and welfare with hate; and some groups—Jews and intellectuals—never
participate in decisions affecting them.
In democracies change at one point affects activities at other points, i.e.,
when interference to the whole system is removed it returns to its former
balanced state at a higher level of adaptation. To this extent it is like a living
organism. But on the question of control, a democracy is quite different
from an organism. In a state under siege all authority is centralized until
the emergency passes and autonomy is returned to the peripheral groups;
in an organism the passage of central control is not nearly as marked. And
in dictatorships the emergency is assumed to be ever present by an au­
thoritarian regime.
Mayo summarized these theses and turned to Jenks for authoritative
support on how the clan was superseded by the state. From this two points
emerge: it is false to assume the state is hostile to groups within it, and to
assume that the state is nothing but a collection of individuals. In democ­
racies the state encourages initiative among local groups, and maintains
itself as a series of functional groups in social contexts, each one with its
own routine of interaction. And the state cannot exist if it requires from its
members direct and absolute obedience; to live, the state needs to stimulate
initiative, adventure, and autonomy in its constituent parts. If it does not,
when it demands obedience it will meet restrictions of effort and output
and go into a decline.
Following Lippmann’s distinction between routineers and inventors,
Mayo stated that democracy emphasizes the latter more than the former; if
changes are too great, then routines of effective collaboration can be shat-
 Personal and Political Problems 317

tered. The same results follow when an authoritarian government destroys

a society’s functional groups and in their place attempts to rule over a
“disordered dust of individuals.”
To prevent the ruinous effects of sudden changes, individuals require
education designed to help them adapt to the new, and education in per­
sonal and social responsibility as well as in the new technical and logical
methods.
Finally, Mayo argued that the war was not about ideologies. While
democracy is committed to an endless adventure of civilization, Hitler and
Mussolini sought to end that adventure. So it is not in Britain, the empire,
or the United States that one finds the last ditch—it is in civilization.42
Part of “The Last Ditch” appeared in Mayo’s article “The Fifth Colum­
nists of Business,” which briefly and dogmatically stated the conflict be­
tween Hitler’s allegedly new social order and the American political and
business tradition. The article condemned the thesis that the chaos of class
conflict in Europe would reappear in the United States and fall under the
kind of control that Hitler was using. Why? The American approach to
administration is experimental and innovative; American industry is open
and willing to accept young, unprejudiced, promising, intelligent men
from diverse backgrounds who are trained to observe the human scene.
Although much needs to be done to train such people in the human prob­
lems of administration, they are superior to their counterparts in Germany
because there aspirations are killed by a “ dull deadening central
authority.”43
Although he was willing to write anti-Nazi propaganda—albeit abstract
and unpublishable—on the differences between totalitarian and demo­
cratic nations, Mayo refused to write the case against Hitler’s anti-Semi­
tism. Carl F. Friedrich asked for an article based on forty questions about
Jews. Mayo declined, and would do the same after the war. His reason for
not wanting to enter discussions of Judaism and Jews arose from an inci­
dent following an informal talk initiated by the secretary of the Jewish
Defense Council in London shortly after Hitler’s rise to power. The secre­
tary had approached Mayo, and the conversation ended with “the tentative
conclusion that too energetic a defense often provoked criticism where
before there had been no thought of it.” When the secretary returned with
this conclusion to the council he was asked to resign. Mayo believed the
resignation had been engineered by the left-wing political scientists. Since
then he had refused to write about Jews and their religion. To him the
exacerbation of a conflict was not the hallmark of true democracy but the
symptom of a disorder from which modern democracy now suffered; the
solution lay in restating personal and social issues and not in pursuing
“problems as stated by journalists and the vulgar.”44
Ironically, Hitler’s war touched Mayo’s family as closely as it did some of
Europe’s Jews. To help his daughter Ruth bring her baby and husband to
318 Elton Mayo

safety from occupied France, Mayo had to send money to them through
the Jewish underground.45

Notes

1. Elton to Dorothea, 20 October 1934, 3 January 1935.

2. Elton to Dorothea, 3 January, 1, 8 February 1935; 31 October, 7 November, 25
December 1937; Elton to Toni, 26 March 1938.
3. Elton to Dorothea, 6, 20 March 1935.
4. Elton to Dorothea, 8 March 1938.
5. Conversation with Gael (Ruth) Elton Mayo, 14 February 1975.
6. Elton to Toni, 19 October 1932.
7. Elton to Dorothea, 2 February 1935.
8. Elton to Dorothea, 13 February 1935.
9. Elton Mayo, “Despair in Hollywood,” MM 2.044.
10. Elton Mayo, “Choice o f a Story,” MM 2.014.
11. Elton to Dorothea, 30 March, 2, 6 April 1935.
12. Elton to Dorothea, 30 September 1935, 26 April 1936; Elton to Toni, 29 April
1936; MM 1.080.
13. Mayo to Donham, 9 January 1939, GC 563. BLA.
14. Elton to Toni, 6 February 1939.
15. MM 2.076.
16. Elton to Toni, 12 September 1938.
17. Mayo to Henderson, 27 May 1939.
18. Mayo to Keane, 1939-40, MM 1.022.
19. Mayo to Lombard, 15 October 1947, MM 1.012.
20. Dorothea Mayo to Donham, 11 December 1947, GC 563.BLA.
21. Mayo to Lombard, 14 November 1947, MM 1.012; Morrison to Trahair, 26
October 1981.
22. Elton to Dorothea, 8 October 1932.
23. MM 2.039.
24. Elton Mayo, “The Problem o f the League,” MM 2.039.
25. Elton to Dorothea, 22 December 1935.
26. Elton to Toni, 21 October 1940.
27. Elton to Toni, 2 October 1934.
28. White to Mayo, 26 December 1934, MM 1.079.
29. Elton to Dorothea, 2 October, 9, 14, 15, 25, 26 November, 16 December 1934.
30. Elton to Dorothea, 23 December 1934.
31. Elton Mayo, notes beginning “Actually . . .,” 23 January 1935, MM 2.078.
32. Willcox, Jr., to Mayo, 10 February 1936, MM 1.079; Fascism notes, MM 2.008;
Elton to Dorothea, 12, 13, 16 February, 14 March 1936.
33. MM 2.008.
34. Elton to Toni, 16 December 1937; Advertiser (Boston), 9 January 1938.
35. Elton to Toni, 28 December 1937.
36. Mayo to Chamberlain, 13 October 1938, MM 1.031.
37. Elton to Toni, 18 October 1938.
38. Elton to Toni, 30 October, 23 November 1938; Elton Mayo, “Routine Interac­
tion and the Problem o f Collaboration,” American Sociological Review 4, no. 3
(1939): 335-40.
39. Elton to Toni, 23 November 1939.
40. Elton to Toni, undated 1939.
41. Elton to Toni, 14 October, 7 December 1939.
 Personal and Political Problems 319

42. Elton Mayo, “The Last D itch,” MM 2.038.

43. Elton Mayo, “The Fifth Colum nist o f Business,” Harvard Business School
A lum ni Bulletin, August 1941:33-34.
44. Fredrich to Mayo, 14 August 1941, Mayo to Fredrich, 21 August 1941, MM
1.037; Mayo to Finkelstein, 5 April 1946, MM 1.038.
45. Elton to Toni, 12 March, 16 April 1940, 30 January 1941.
 20
Last Years at Harvard: 1942-1947

When his associates went to war and close friends at the Business School
died, Mayo’s working life changed. With help from Alan Gregg, Mayo
began research into absenteeism, team work, and labor turnover, and wrote
a book that summarized the research. He studied soldiers’ rehabilitation
problems, taught, and planned for retirement. In May 1947 he retired to
live in England, leaving Roethlisberger and associates to carry on the work
started twenty years before.

The Second World War made a sudden, immense impact on Mayo’s

image of himself, his work, and civilization. He was a good Victorian who,
despite his experience of the Great War, was optimistic about civilization
and believed that if it were orderly then mankind would always return
quickly to sane, decent activities.1 But this view was difficult to maintain
when the conflict in Europe destroyed his “deep-seated conviction that the
ungodly cannot prosper . . . all the ancient contexts [are] shattered.”2
Many changes close to him altered his daily life. Whitehead and Eyres-
Monsell had gone to England; letters to Patricia were sometimes lost at sea
and were always written under the imagined scrutiny of a censor; early
attempts to free Ruth and her family had failed.3 His first response to these
changes was “a hinterland of nightmare,” and the second was work.4
At work he lectured in Sociology 23, taught a seminar of twelve selected
students, spoke at the “Cabot Weekends,” joined the group at Radcliffe to
discuss personnel issues, and, at Patricia’s suggestion, acquainted himself
with the work of John Figgis.5
To help him train replacements for his associates the Rockefeller Foun­
dation granted him $15,000 a year for two years.6 He funded two instruc­
tors, George Lombard and John Cooley, and took George Homans and
Betty Boyle, a research secretary, to begin the New Castle study, which
Mayo hoped would match the researches at Hawthorne and Newburyport.7
On vacation he found that his nightmare of pessimistic obsessions pre­
vented him from fishing in peace, so he began planning a book on obses­
sion using his Janet lectures. “The need to work . . . has been a disguised
blessing;” in fact, as he wrote to Patricia, he had been “frantically busy.”8

321
322 Elton Mayo

As the war began to threaten all of European civilization Mayo felt

uncommonly fortunate that his interesting work prevented the nights from
being too long and dark. Good fortune had appeared in what he thought
was the fair success of his Janet lectures,9 the extraordinary sales of Man­
agement and the Worker, and a call from Washington for Roethlisberger’s
services. Also he thought that Patricia and Ruth had seen a high standard
of civilization during their years in Europe, a standard that he hoped they
could use to judge future efforts. His great joy was the arrival in Boston of
Ruth and her family in the summer of 1941. But great losses quickly
followed.
In December 1941 Phillip Cabot died, the United States went to war, and
Mayo’s nephew Eric was killed when HMAS Sydney was sunk in the Indian
Ocean. Mayo broke his custom and attended the memorial service for
Cabot.10 He began to feel the heavy expense of supporting Ruth and her
family and the sudden increase in income taxes.11
In February 1942 Mayo’s close friend Henderson died. Mayo felt things
were out of control: “Events have crowded in on me recently so fast.”12
Henderson’s death was an unexpected shock, the heaviest blow his work
had suffered. Their association had been a vital element in Mayo’s daily
life; together they had always been able to laugh at their disagreements and,
with sympathy and consideration, to communicate clearly with each other.
They were “used” to each other, which was to Mayo “the most important
element in intimacy.”13
Mayo responded to the loss of Henderson by taking up new work and
putting aside his usual tasks. He decided to hand over the industrial work
to Roethlisberger, and follow Henderson’s advice to prod, push, and hound
political scientists into studying political problems rather than merely
speculating about them.14 Roethlisberger worried that Mayo was giving
him a task but not allowing him the full responsibility to perform it; he
protested to Donham that he could not do Mayo’s work unless he were
independent of Mayo.15 But when given that responsibility, Roethlisberger
“crashed . . . felt inadequate to this quaint world,” and left Mayo with an
enormous teaching load and no one his own age to listen to him “batter out
a scheme” for it.16
Mayo began what he considered at the time was a complete revision of
his whole approach by studying writers whose work would add authority to
his two essays “Why Doth the Heathen Rage?” and “The Rabble Hypoth­
esis.”17 But the “complete revision” owed its origin to the last years in
Queensland when he had also felt anger at problems colleagues raised, and
had accepted heavy responsibilities for new work. In fact, the revision was a
recall of early political writings he had summarized in Democracy and
Freedom; and the methods he used to control his anger were not new.
Following the techniques he had used in Queensland, Mayo stifled his
obsessional thinking, curbed his conviction of sin, dispersed “the red mist
 Last Years at Harvard 323

of doing,” decreased active participation with colleagues whose views he

did not respect, and detached himself from academic careerists.
Among his colleagues at the university he saw a special breed of ass: they
were the forerunners of the “two cultures” whom C.P. Snow would identify,
i.e., technicians and liberal abstract system makers. And between them,
Mayo saw a third kind of ass, i.e., lawyers with views on the political
problems of postwar reconstruction that were as modern as those of Pope
Innocent IV (1243 a . d .). At the same time as he sought to withdraw from
the world, Mayo wished Patricia would come to Boston to help “talk myself
into clarity.”18
Problems in the summer of 1942 were eased when Mayo learned that
Roethlisberger’s health was improving and that one of his students had
introduced employee interviewing into a management training program in
a large San Francisco firm.19 But then more problems arose. Donham
retired that summer, and immediately the new dean discussed with Mayo
how he saw his role in the Business School, pointing to the differences
between his work and that of others in the school. The next day Mayo
welcomed the opportunity to write of past achievements and the origin of
his new administrative problems.
Mayo described how he, personally, had influenced Henderson and
earned his respect and that of Donham by having the Rockefeller grant
raised. He had guided the Hawthorne researchers and gained access to the
plant for his associates. Now between him and others in the school was a
wide gap. Why? He had planned that Whitehead would take his place when
he retired, but the war had intervened. At the time Roethlisberger was
unfit. Mayo had encouraged Homans to take responsibility for the indus­
trial work with support from Lombard and Fox, but Homans had been
called to naval duties. Mayo was left with no trained collaborators and this
widened the gap. He was trying to fill it quickly by turning for support to
Lombard and Fox,20 and he hoped Roethlisberger’s health would improve.
When Roethlisberger resumed work, he demanded that he and Mayo’s
associates Bowden, Fox, and Lombard be moved from their quarters near
Mayo to another part of the school. Also, Dean David intimated that he
would be glad if another institution would take Mayo for the last few years
of his working life.21 So, by the end of 1942 Mayo had accumulated heavy
losses: some associates off at war; older colleagues dead; younger housed
elsewhere; support from the Rockefeller Foundation eroded; contacts in
the Business School weakened. In his mental hinterland all the ancient
contexts had been shattered, he had lost a relative in naval action, and there
was little hope that he would see Patricia soon.
Mayo needed someone about his own age with whom he could discuss
his troubles. He turned to Alan Gregg, a Harvard-trained physician who
had served with Britain’s Royal Army Medical Corps during the Great War.
Gregg was ten years younger than Mayo, and, like Beardsley Ruml, ad­
324 Elton Mayo

mired Mayo’s charm, intellect, and sensitivity. Between 1922 and 1930
Gregg had become familiar with Mayo’s work while serving as associate
director of medical education and, later, medical sciences for the Rocke­
feller Foundation. Mayo’s research had always been funded by the medical
rather than the social sciences directorate of the foundation; and after 1931,
when Gregg became director of medical sciences, he was in frequent con­
tact with Mayo and had a clear understanding of how he and Henderson
collaborated.22
In the summer of 1942 Mayo had written two chapters of a “popular
book” that would become The Social Problems o f an Industrial Civiliza­
tion, and was planning another book based on Janet’s studies of obsession.
But Mayo had needed someone with Henderson’s “pungent criticisms of
lax thinking,” and Gregg had been the only person to offer constructive
criticism of the chapters. He had listed twenty-three points and suggested
revising the chapters to improve their clarity because the “The Rabble
Hypothesis” seemed too isolated from “Why Doth the Heathen Rage?” A
possible link: now that the reader can understand society needs socially
skilled leaders, let him see the great emphasis usually given instead to
dogma and erudition by the disciplines of politics, law, and economics.
Mayo was grateful to Gregg, and remarked that two deans had made useless
comments, thereby proving the need to rearrange the ideas for more lucid
presentation.23
For comment, Mayo also sent Gregg a copy of the letter to Dean David
that explained the origins of the gap between his work and that of other
faculty in the Business School. Gregg replied that Mayo had been both the
initiator and the catalyst for the best part of the Fatigue Laboratory studies,
and that his connection to the Business School had been through Hender­
son to Donham, and his task had always been to train men to replace them,
too.24
When Donham retired he did not leave the Business School but, with
Dean David’s support, took an active interest in the field which Mayo had
developed. To Mayo this was a “damned nuisance,” and Gregg was not
pleased by Donham’s decision.25 It threw a long shadow over Donham’s
own accomplishments, and put him in a position where he could, unwit­
tingly, interfere and consequently lose the dignity of leaving office. And
Mayo felt that his relation with Gregg had been put in hazard when Don­
ham and Dean David, without consulting Mayo, approached the Rocke­
feller Foundation for further assistance after the Mayo-Henderson grant
had terminated. Noting this development, Gregg advised Mayo to watch
carefully the “flavors of the regrouping in the Business School,” assured
Mayo of their unbroken friendship, stating that he would offer no opinion
on the Donham-David request.26
Early in 1943 Mayo was still depressed and detached from activities in
the Business School.27 He needed to talk with Gregg about “‘developments’
 Last Years at Harvard 325

no longer, alas, to be discussed with L.J.” He was uncertain about how to

use his time.28 As a direct consequence of his talk with Gregg, Mayo was
approached by George B. Holderer, chief of the Resources Section in the
War Production Board’s Copper Division,29 to study causes of absenteeism
in mines, smelters, refineries, and brass mills. Such a study, Holderer
thought, “would be of value to all the nation,” and he chose the copper
industry in Waterbury, Connecticut: Chase Brass and Copper Company,
American Brass, and Scoville Brass.30
The absenteeism studies show how Mayo conducted his field work. First,
he used the formal chain of command in the company he planned to study
to secure consent for his work. He wrote to the general manager of Chase
Brass and Copper for an appointment, and, at the same time, informed the
company’s president, asking for his views on the firm’s problems. Also, he
wrote to the local union official, telling him of the War Production Board’s
intentions and saying that Harold Ruttenburg, who had left his union post
to assist the board, was looking forward to the union’s collaboration in the
work.31 Having established his position and its status in the field, Mayo
then answered questions as to his particular task. To the general manager
he wrote that he intended to make no survey of employees because that was
too ambitious, would get out of hand, and become “addicted to publicity”;
instead, he would get the facts of the situation from senior managers,
advise on appropriate action, but take no action himself without the man­
agement’s consent. All conversations would be held in confidence, atten­
tion would be given to facts rather than opinions, and those facts would not
be made public. To the union official Mayo gave an assurance that rather
than conduct a survey “that might interfere with your activities or others of
the company,” he would consult with company officers and the union, and
that no inquiry would be started unless it were appropriate to everyone
concerned.32
Mayo took Lombard on the first field trip. They conferred with man­
agers of the three companies, and learned the managers were unclear as to
the purpose of the study because, contrary to Holderer’s view, none saw
absenteeism as a problem. The causes of absenteeism, however, were clear
enough: too much pay; too much interest in weekend excursions; excessive
alcohol consumption; and overactive unions. The union official, on the
other hand, was concerned about absenteeism; he predicted that it would
rise during summer due to poor ventilation and poor air conditioning at
the plants.33
The list of reasons for absences was of no use to Mayo, so in talks with
the company executives he persuaded them that they should work together
on the problem, and that he was not selling a special quick system of
reorganization to stop absenteeism altogether. Instead, he proposed that
after careful research in each plant, the companies themselves would de­
cide if they wanted to alter their organizations. Mayo repeated that without
326 Elton Mayo

effective diagnosis there could be no sure remedies for absenteeism short of

quackery.34
Because Lombard was called to other duties, John Fox joined Mayo at
the next conference with managers in Waterbury. Fox toured the plants and
got the general support needed for the study from the middle and first-line
supervisors.35 As the work began Mayo saw the practical problem in the
field was “to make [managers, union officials, and workers] stop abusing
each other and get them to look at the facts. These same facts have proved
immensely surprising to all of them, and, at the moment, they are finding
each other much better fellows than they had supposed.”36
Mayo took the research findings as they emerged and introduced them
to the relevant individuals. In each plant the casting shop was chosen to
begin the study because Chase’s vice-president Richard D. Ely thought the
casting shop had been the bottleneck in the flow of operations and the
origin of most absenteeism. The sheet mill was chosen as well because
competent observers said that it was the most appropriate basis for com­
parison with the casting shop. The researchers went for their preliminary
analysis to the attendance records of each firm.
Mayo was not interested in showing that sickness accounts for most
absences, so he proposed that absence be defined by as being away from
work without permission for so many consecutive days. Within a short
time Mayo had results that showed most employees were rarely absent, and
that what absences there were could readily be attributed to the work
situation rather than simply to employee malingering.37 In a preliminary
report to Holderer, Mayo suggested that absence rates reflected a broad
social problem.38
Because of labor shortages in Waterbury, employees worked long and
hard; some volunteered to work as much as twelve to sixteen hours a day.
Mayo warned, “This policy . . . will lead to disaster.” He advised that the
draft boards, the armed services, and industry must cooperate more in
their moving of men from industry to the military. The research continued
for a short period after Mayo’s letter, and eventually Fox reported addi­
tional observations that showed that reasons for differences in the absence
rates for workplaces lay in the extent to which management understood the
hum an and social, as well as the technical, problems of industrial
organization.39
Mayo had not wanted the work to be written up, so he and Fox reported
the results to Dean David, a representative of the three firms, and Holderer.
Mayo believed that a written report could get into the wrong hands and be
misunderstood in Washington. Eventually Dean David was required to
persuade Mayo to produce four reports: one for each firm and one for the
firm’s representative. The identity of the firms had to be a secret because of
the war. But, as Mayo wrote, in human organizations there are no trade
secrets, and if it appears that there are, then spontaneous cooperation at
work will give way to mistrust and suspicion.
 Last Years at Harvard 327

The reports were sent to senior executives in the plants, and responses
were generally favorable, except that the president of Scoville wanted to
know the secret of one company’s superiority over the other, and the presi­
dent of Chase thought Mayo had failed to show how absences had affected
operations or to appreciate the effect of pressure from government and
unions on the showing of his organization. Mayo could only repeat his
earlier statement that research in human organization does not reveal se­
crets or formulae for success. He emphasized that the measure used for
absenteeism was unique and that another measure be used to assess ab­
sence among employees with high attendance records. It would indicate
differences in morale. Also, he recommended that management not use the
same penalties for different forms of absence, so as to avoid arousing
resentment and indignation among employees. He reminded his readers
that the research did not show that one management was superior to
another.40
Mayo kept Gregg informed of the Waterbury research, and Gregg ad­
mired Mayo’s capacity to “reexamine facts and squeeze new juice out of old
fruit.”41 He suggested “Waterbury [is] a paradigm for your group” because
the approach was unique and promoted the value of the direct relation
between research in industry and the Business School. And when he read
Mayo’s “Report on Absenteeism in Three Metal Companies” he recom­
mended that it be edited to be a practical guide for a company’s reorgan­
ization rather than a research report.42 The final report was published late
in 1943, with Fox and Jerome Scott as authors.43
For two months Jerome Scott extended the observations made at Water­
bury in a study of labor turnover in the Southern California aircraft indus­
try. Mayo had been to several plants and had had to leave the West Coast
unexpectedly.44 Scott reported his work to Mayo in April 1944, and by the
end of May a report, “Plant Teamwork and Labor Turnover,” was delivered
to the assistant secretary of commerce for air, for whom the work had been
done.45 When Scott was called into military service, Lombard volunteered
to revise the report for publication.46
The study shows that in 1942, due to population drift to the West Coast,
the cumulative rate of labor turnover in the Southern California aircraft
industry was 69 percent. The results indicated that absenteeism was a
social phenomenon attributable to supervisors’ methods of control. Those
whose subordinates had good attendance records defined their tasks as
helping individual workers perform technical activities and handling plans
for work group members to contact people outside the group. And as the
work groups formed and became teams, intragroup communication de­
veloped and the group disciplined its members into regular attendance.
The report states that when managers are introducing technological change
into worker tasks, or moving a man from one position to another, they can
unwittingly defeat the natural process of grouping, and the strong desire for
human association can take the form of excessive absenteeism and high
328 Elton Mayo

labor turnover. Workers cannot sensibly be blamed for management’s

failure to observe the human factors in organization. As a rule, when
technical and human considerations are balanced in industrial organiza­
tion, relations between supervisors and workers, and among workers, be­
come mutually supportive and contribute to overall efficiency. Without
that balanced approach, discord and inefficiency ensue.
In July 1944 Mayo was invited to undertake what would be his last
research inquiry. The National Research Council asked him to chair a
three-man subcommittee of the Committee on Work and Industry that
would study problems of rehabilitating soldiers and displaced industrial
workers. Mayo’s colleagues would be Dr. Clarence D. Selby from General
Motors and Dr. J.G. Townsend from the U.S. Public Health Service. The
invitation fed an old obsession. As John Fox noted, Mayo seemed “very
excited . . . due a little bit to his being chairman over two medical people.
. . . He certainly wanted the Dean to hear about it.”47 The committee first
met in September and sought information from many companies and
communities on their schemes for vocational rehabilitation.
The committee report commended large firms for attention to the prob­
lems of rehabilitation, and recommended that such attention be extended
to small and medium-sized firms that lacked specialist help in medical
counseling and engineering. Also, special research was needed on the struc­
ture and needs of the labor market. It was found that little attention had
been given to securing the veteran’s cooperation in making use of his skills
in peacetime. Research was needed to provide courses for training in per­
sonal and social rehabilitation at work. Plans must follow a policy of “bal­
anced attention” to the total needs of the veterans by training supervisors
in how to welcome veterans to an organization, counsel them, and place
them and their work in context. Since readjustment to work would deter­
mine the extent of the veteran’s cooperation, special interest must be taken
in his social skills, thinking, and physical health. Research and training in
personal counseling was needed to make veterans able to handle problems
at work and to grow personally. For this purpose, special notice should be
given to Carl Rogers’s counseling methods, which had been used with the
United Services Organization (USO) as well as those developed at the
Hawthorne Works. Finally, the report found that the nation needed re­
search on the determinants of cooperation at work and a scheme whereby
such research could be turned into action for veterans.
Mayo had had Lombard as the committee’s secretary, and it was he who
prepared the report. Mayo’s task as chairman had been extended to include
company visits to discuss rehabilitation programs, and to address a Busi­
ness School conference on the problems of the returning veterans, recalling
his Australian experiences with shell-shocked soldiers in “The Discharged
Veteran as a Member of an Organization.”48
In June 1944, at the suggestion of Dr. Joseph Willits, Mayo was invited
 Last Years at Harvard 329

to submit a paper for the September Conference on Science, Philosophy

and Religion. He agreed, but when the time came he could not attend
because of his commitment to the rehabilitation inquiry, so he sent for
discussion a copy of “Group Tensions in Industry.” It blended the two
essays he had written in 1942 with the two absenteeism studies. In Novem­
ber 1944 he was invited to open the McGill University lecture series on
supervision sponsored by National Breweries. His talk, “Supervision and
What it Means,” included the same ideas as “Group Tension in Industry”
but discussed work groups controlled by supervisors.49
In his last major publication, The Social Problems of an Industrial
Civilization, Mayo presented once again ideas from recent lectures and
papers published between 1917 and 1945. Ideas on the need for cooperation
and the ill effects of industrialization had appeared in Democracy and
Freedom, the Australian papers, and two forceful essays, modifications of
the unpublished “The Last Ditch.”50
In the first essay, “Why Do the Heathen Rage?” later given the title “The
Seamy Side of Progress,” Mayo stated LePlay’s contrast between simple
and modern industrial communities. In the simple community, the econ­
omy comprises rural occupations and the social order is well founded
because each person understands the economic activities and social func­
tions he is expected to perform. Kinship ties relate him to social events,
and from them he learns how to cooperate with others. Social codes and
individual desires are congruent, and, as a result, individuals are content
and the society remains stable. In the modern community, rapid tech­
nological changes make occupational careers uncertain, so the social order
based on them becomes unstable. Communication and cooperation
among individuals is no longer spontaneous or effective, they feel insecure
and miserable, and turn for compensation and happiness to an endless
chain of novelties. Durkheim had noted that whereas in the simpler com­
munities the children and adolescents learned willingly to subjugate infan­
tile desires to the purposes of their groups, in the more complex societies
the unity of individuals and group interests diminishes and with it goes
collaboration among people. Work satisfaction declines, and social dis­
unity and individual unhappiness follow.
Mayo noted that the state is unable to organize the intimate social life of
its citizens, and no scientific studies have been made to indicate how to
compensate for the social and personal unhappiness that followed rapid
industrialization. He asked that collaboration among people and groups
should no longer be left to chance but administered competently so as to
give each person and group gratifying material and economic goals, and to
maintain spontaneous cooperation among people in organizations. A re­
turn to the primitive, simple community is not realistic.
The prime fact in cooperative relations is communication: “the capacity
of an individual to communicate feelings and ideas to another . . . of
330 Elton Mayo

groups to communicate effectively and intimately with each other.” Com­

munication is a simple social skill that if not learned tends to bring about
psychoneurosis in individuals and intellectualized formulae finding in in­
ternational relations, which, in turn, prevents parties from understanding
one another. This led Mayo to assert that if social skills had advanced with
technical skills a second European war would not have occurred.
People who lack social skills—and their numbers are increasing—think
like Janet’s obsessives. They can be found among scholars in universities as
well as political agitators in unions. Mayo listed their attributes—no
friends, no conversation, anxious in a hostile world—and traced the origins
of the pathology to a childhood that had either limited the variety of
personal relations outside the family or encouraged the development of
social skills irrelevant to urban industrial organizations. This personal
problem could be resolved for many people through skilled interviewing at
work.
Also, because technical changes in industry radically alter occupations
and the social life associated with them, and, consequently, individuals
suffer deep depression and lose their confidence in democratic leadership,
there come into being political conditions that provide domination like
Hitler’s. Mayo recommended that along with technical changes “intelligent
attention at the top” of industrial organization must introduce retraining
into industry. He assumed that workers would respond loyally, capably, and
willingly if their needs were understood by socially skillful administrators.
“The Rabble Hypothesis” condemns economic theory for assuming that
society comprises rabble rather than organizations of individuals, and that
individuals act logically to serve only their self-interest. Mayo admitted this
may be so in a crisis when routines for cooperation disintegrate and no
leaders emerge to organize individual activity; however social research in
industry showed workers organize themselves and will pursue, non-
logically, their social interests even when they have the opportunity to
maximize gains logically. As a rule human desires for association are
stronger than individual desires or the logical pursuit of self-interest.
Powerful centralized states were once assumed to be the organizing
agents of the alleged rabble. But the historian John Figgis and the admin­
istrator Chester Barnard argued otherwise. In a democracy, organizations,
not the absolute state, have authority over and plan people’s tasks accord­
ing to the cooperative attitudes they hold toward one another. Those in
authority need the skill and understanding of human collaboration that
only a close and thorough study of human interaction can provide. For this
reason administrators of organizations need to augment their technical
education with training in social skills if they wish to exercise authority
effectively and efficiently.
State domination of individuals is hostile to the view that organizational
authority can integrate social groups. To illustrate this point Mayo used
 Last Years at Harvard 331

Jenks’s theory of differences between the state and the clan to uphold
Barnard’s assertion that organizations can meet their goals and those of
their members only when individuals in the organization cooperate. The
alternative, a powerful centralized state, produces the tyranny of Hitler and
Mussolini. So, for democracy to flourish, active social skills and insights
are mandatory.
The other chapters of The Social Problems . . . outline Mayo’s inquiries
at Continental Mills, the Hawthorne studies, the wartime research on ab­
senteeism and labor turnover, and there is a summary.
The 150-page book was well publicized. Most reviews summarized it
without evaluation, and many quoted Mayo’s provocative speculation: “If
our social skills had advanced step by step with our technical skills there
would not have been another war.” One journalist did not agree that Mayo
had stated the most important problems of industrial civilization, and
wondered what had happened to issues of unemployment and maldistribu­
tion of wealth; he characterized the Hawthorne studies as solely intended
to raise productivity, and complained that the book was pretentious, apoc­
alyptic, and too broadly motivated.51 The industrial correspondent for the
Times (London), in light of the industrial strife facing Chancellor of the
Exchequer Hugh Dalton on the eve of his budget speech, recommended
that Mayo’s ideas on group psychology at work might give direction to
attempts at reviving the economy.52 In “Calling All Social Scientists,”
Stuart Chase described fully all Mayo had written, warmly praised it, and
concluded that “we need about a thousand more Professor Mayos.”53
Early reviews in industrial magazines said the book was thoughtful,
practical, and, perhaps at first too serious for the average manager, it was a
simple plea for cooperation at work in the interests of production.54 Two
Catholic reviewers were not so impressed: one objected to the positivism of
Mayo’s approach to the scientific study of mankind’s problems, the other,
without stating a reason, found that he could not accept the book’s argu­
ments and conclusions even though they were stimulating and challeng­
ing.55 Two British reviews were highly favorable.56 Although Mayo’s views
were not new, according to Scope's reviewer, their scientific basis was vital
and practical, and he congratulated Mayo for devising instruments to un­
cover the resentment among workers and to reveal the false economic
theories. But the British review that most pleased Mayo came from Urwick
and Brech. Long quotations interlarded high praise, and the final tribute
said of the book: “nunc dimittis of a great man, the harbinger of his [reti­
rement] . . . it is beyond our power to pay fitting tribute to one of the great
figures of the time . . . grand leadership in the blazing of a pioneer trail.”
Much praise came from academic colleagues. Harvard’s President Con-
ant liked the book but could not see how evidence could be adduced to
support the generalization that the number of unhappy people was grow­
ing. Mayo assured Conant the facts were soundly based on forty years of
332 Elton Mayo

clinical experience.57 A leading psychiatrist and anthropologist, Alexander

H. Leighton, said the book illuminated and integrated his own half-formed
notions, touched on vital problems of the times, and helped him in plan­
ning his teaching.58 Similarly affected were Cyril James and Ewen Cameron
from McGill; Lord Marley at the British House of Lords; Dawson, whose
ideas Mayo had used extensively; William O. Douglas of the Supreme
Court; and the senior staff of BOAC.59 From U.S. industrialists Mayo heard
that his findings were valued in their relation to productivity and war­
ranted extended distribution among personnel executives.60 Jenkins, the
psychologist with a reputation for sharp criticism of social science, thought
the “The Seamy Side of Progress” should be required reading for all gradu­
ate students.61 Meanwhile, Lloyd Warner enjoyed “The Rabble Hypoth­
esis” for the influence it might have on the thinking of economists and
political scientists.62 And Howard Mumford Jones, president of the Amer­
ican Academy of Arts and Sciences, saw more educational wisdom in the
two early chapters than the Harvard University Report, and ranked Mayo’s
work with Erich Fromm’s Escape from Freedom.63
Nature reviewed Mayo’s ideas in the context of Britain’s postwar indus­
trial strife, and recognized that new incentives were needed to improve
industrial relations by pointing to the practical possibilities of group coop­
eration and its relation to a renewed form of democracy. The reviewer did
note, however, that perhaps economists would find Mayo’s “rabble hypoth­
esis” irritating.64 And they did. John W. Harriman of Dartmouth College
and D.N. Chester of Oxford University wrote that, contrary to Mayo’s
assumption, economists had long realized the importance of nonmonetary
compensation, and that Mayo had confused scarcity in the economic sense
with scarcity during a famine. Further, they could not agree with Mayo that
all social malaise was due to industrialization or that mere social skills
could have been used effectively to combat Hitler; and they asserted that it
was a myth that everyone had been happy in the established society of long
ago.65
Other reviewers shared the opinion that conflict had been commonplace
among established societies where, so they assumed Mayo had argued,
social skills had always been highly developed.66 One reviewer ventured
that political scientists would find Mayo had offered nothing new; after all,
Aristotle had observed that man was a political animal. And, ignoring
Mayo’s obvious humanism, the reviewer wrote that to advocate the exten­
sion of social skills without giving direction as to its use could justify the
spirit of cooperation behind Hitler’s social groupings that had gained their
“strength through joy.”67 Mayo’s theory of cooperation was too simplistic
because it lacked normative considerations, he had pushed too far the
analogy between methods of the social and physical sciences, and he had
ignored too much of the traditional research in politics and economics, as
well as social inquiries that were in line with his own.68
 Last Years at Harvard 333

Sociologists were critical of the book, especially when they saw that
Mayo had disowned them, and, at the same time, had done sociological
research himself.69 Although the book was praised by many social scientists
for its humane, useful, and hopeful tone, they took Mayo to task for not
dealing with how unions could win security and self-respect for their mem­
bers through cooperative action.
The most disparaging review came from Wilbert E. Moore, the indus­
trial sociologist at Princeton. Between The Human Problems . . . and The
Social Problems . . . Mayo’s “voice [had] merely become shrill.” Mayo was
now a radical empiricist, ignorant of theory in social research and dif­
ferences between science and technology, insensitive to problems of value,
and an advocate of random observation in place of purposeful research. Of
cooperation, Moore asked, “towards what goals, with what inducements,
under whose direction, with what safeguards for, participants?” And for
what Moore alleged to be Mayo’s pontificating generalizations and misin­
formed condemnation of sociology as well as all the universities that had
taught discipline, he recommended that Harvard take Mayo to court for
libel.70
James S. Plant, whose work on the sociological determinants of mental
health Mayo had often quoted, was not so prone to overlook Mayo’s demo­
cratic and humane values, and described the book as “one of the brilliant
and penetrating pieces of work of our time . . . [with] insights of unmatched
importance in the field of mental hygiene.” He hoped that “the way Mayo
[looked] at data . . . will be some day the way that all science will view its
material.” Apart from Mayo’s overenthusiastic approach, Plant found two
flaws in the work: the distinction between knowledge-about and knowl-
edge-of-acquaintance was not fully discussed; and there was mental illness,
i.e., obsessive traits, among capitalists as well as their political opponents.71
Mayo irritated many psychologists too. His book was seen by them as
provocative and interesting, but it did not provide enough evidence for
dismissing the value of psychological tests in selecting supervisors. And
they questioned the validity of his ideas on authority.72
Despite the criticisms from the professions that had come under Mayo’s
sharp and brief attack—economics, political science, sociology, and psy­
chology—Mayo’s book was reviewed often and fully, and won many ad­
herents. Nevertheless it did not sell as well as projected. To boost sales of
The Social Problems . . . the Business School’s Division of Research ar­
ranged to have The Human Problems . . . republished, and for Mayo to be
the subject of an article in the November 1946 issue of Fortune. The first
draft of the article opened an old wound when it referred to him as “Doctor
Mayo.” Rather than tell the writer that he had never qualified as as a
medical doctor, Mayo wrote, “It is easy to confuse what I am now doing
with my original medical studies; and when I took my degree, a very long
time ago, the Ph.D. degree was only German, [and]. . . regarded by us with
334 Elton Mayo

a species of unmerited contempt as a Germanic overstatement.”73 The

appropriate alterations were made. In a year sales of The Social Problems
. . . stood at thirteen thousand.
Mayo’s books were translated into German, Japanese, Spanish, Italian,
and Arabic; the British edition of The Social Problems . . . went through
five printings to 1966 and was republished in 1975.
While revising the two essays on the ill effects of industrialization, Mayo
was asked for advice on how to guide academic retirees, who, for lack of
preparation for a new role, had become discouraged and resentful at being
pushed aside. The problem seemed apposite to Mayo, because he was
hoping to retire too. Mayo answered with a letter—which he distributed
widely among colleagues and family—in which he applied his ideas to the
changing role and circumstances of academics over the last eighty years,
i.e., academics tend to have highly developed technical skills and poor
social skills. Mayo said that pamphlets on how to think about retiring
painlessly would have little effect on those who, as a matter of course,
overthink their situations, and suggested establishing settlements where
retirees could join their peers, continue their major activities, and be useful
to the local community.74 At the time Mayo was hoping that he might do
just that: retire into the Community of the Resurrection. Dorothea had
other plans.
Mayo delayed retirement until 1947 because he was needed to teach the
staff who would carry forward his work. Also he continued to give occa­
sional talks. In January 1946 he prepared a lecture for the Boston Institute
for Religion and Social Studies, “Economic Threats to American Unity.”75
First, he drew upon letters from Patricia to illustrate the plight of Euro­
peans,76 and argued that Americans cannot isolate themselves from Europe
as they had done after the Great War. He believed that the United States
would be affected by the “material insufficiency of the European economy
. . . and . . . European despair, the lack of capacity for spontaneous coopera­
tive effort.” Second, he pointed to the current industrial conflicts, asserting
that the quarrel was not between management and workers but, “rather,
between management and union organizers, on one side, and rank and file
workers on the other.” Third, after summarizing his views on the “seamy
side of progress” and the “rabble hypothesis,” he advocated augmenting
technical studies in science and economics “with a sociology, developed far
beyond anything . . . in any university.” Endowments and “gifted . . . well-
trained men and women” were needed to develop a sociology that would
show how to replace suspicion and hostility with effective collaboration.
Later that year Mayo informally aired his views on coal strikes in Bri­
tain, the United States, and Australia to the Visiting Committee at the
Business School. He was asked to repeat them at a conference in New York
in December.77
Mayo’s last talk to the officials at the Western Electric Company was in
 Last Years at Harvard 335

January 1947. He reminded them that modern education taught clear

articulate expression and logical analysis but neglected careful listening to
the nonlogical through rational attitudes that directed behavior. This
showed that widely accepted beliefs in a long-established culture are at
sword’s point with views and techniques in counseling. This talk was to
have been followed by an address at the University of California,
Berkeley—the institution where he had been scheduled, unsuccessfully, to
give a course on his ideas about the social and psychological factors affect­
ing industrial conflict when he first arrived in the United States—but he
refused to go when he found that the conference’s director of industrial
relations had cut out part of the address without having seen more than its
subheadings. To Mayo, this was an infringement of academic freedom, and
would have left nothing for him to follow but “mangled . . . unrelated
fragments,” too disjointed for the listener to understand.78
Mayo’s last address was at “The Mayo Weekend,” a conference on
human relations and administration at the Business School on May 10 and
ll.79 Among the sixty-odd discussants were Alan Gregg and Joseph Willits
from the Rockefeller Foundation; executives from Western Electric, AT&T,
Ford Motor Company, General Motors, and Standard Oil; Stuart Chase,
whose article had drawn so much attention to the Hawthorne studies; and
academics from Colgate, Yale, and the University of Maryland. From Ben­
nington College came a special guest, Peter E Drucker, who had made
himself known to Mayo a year earlier by sending him a copy of Concept of
Corporation.
Donham, Roethlisberger, and Lombard traced the origin and develop­
ment of Mayo’s work at the Business School; Benjamin Selekman and
Edmund Learned applied Mayo’s work to industrial relations and the
human aspects of administration; William Dickson spoke of Mayo’s influ­
ence on the counseling program in the Western Electric Company; and
John Jenkins told of the value of Mayo’s ideas for integrating formal and
informal organization, for morale, efficiency, and the resistance to fatigue
in military exercises.
Mayo began his address by saying that conflict between nations was a
problem in unity and cooperation that arises in disagreements between
conceptions of society and methods of social control. Although all people
desire to be free of dictatorship, Green’s liberal principle—’’Will, not force
is the basis of the State”—had been ignored, consequently allowing power­
ful, centralized control to become established. Mayo preferred phasic alter­
nation of control. Continued central control promoted militarism and
heroic domination like that of Hitler, Mussolini, Hollywood stars, and the
desk-thumping business executive. Popular opinion is then misled into the
belief that equates such domination with success. Phasic alternation is
found in organizations where administrators understand the relation
among parts of the organization and support a general policy of control by
336 Elton Mayo

cooperation rather than tyranny. The USSR illustrates the thesis well. Aim­
ing to become a modern civilization it adopted heroic methods of control
to unify society. Such methods once had the benefit of overcoming hostility
among its minorities, but the leaders, because they were enmeshed in
crises, failed to see the peacetime reactions against heroic leadership, and
did not appreciate that organization for spontaneous cooperation was bet­
ter than organization for emergencies. Second, the early Russian revolu­
tionary leaders had dictated to the proletariat and avenged themselves on
the bourgeoisie, which they thought comprised nothing but exploiters of
labor and greedy profiteers, and which a classless society could well do
without. But today, recognizing that the bourgoisie knows principles of
industrial organization and can act responsibily, Russian leaders reward
educated citizens even more than workers. Nevertheless, the centralized
controls remain, hostile relations with neighbors grow, and internal crises
are probable.
From his industrial studies Mayo asserted that a group of cooperative
workers with high morale often were suspicious of and felt threatened by
outsiders. Similarly, primitive societies protect and benefit their members
and also are hostile toward outsiders. So, personal security varies directly
with the area of active cooperation. In a primitive society that area is
limited geographically, and eventually the society collapses. Although the
USSR had overcome this problem, it needed to relate its development
more to lands beyond its frontiers and use freely the recent developments
in communications or else it too would collapse.
In the Middle Ages the rise and collapse of European nations ended with
the growth of Christianity and the creation of Western civilization. The
Christian felt he was part of all Europe, a participant in the church’s work,
and that he had a duty to cooperate with everyone. Thus human coopera­
tion guided civilization. But inasmuch as science continuously opened new
areas for study, the view of man’s Christian duty became unacceptable, the
authority of the clergy was questioned, and faith in universal human coop­
eration weakened. Western civilization broke into separate nations or cul­
tures. Instead of the belief that when individuals work together mutual
benefits follow and self-interest becomes secondary, the claim was made
that self-interest must be primary, and if it is pursued vigorously, general
social benefits ensue. Mayo declared that recent research contradicted the
claim; at work, individuals subordinate self-interest to group goals, and the
solitary who pursues self-interest is unhappy. So as the high purpose of
Christianity disappeared, the value put on purely economic theories of
man rose and rivalries grew among different cultures. To control the con­
flict participatory democracy gave over to militaristic, centralized control.
And with the decline in cooperative social relations, individuals felt insec­
ure and lost their sense of personal well-being.
Industrial studies were showing that where cooperation is maintained
 Last Years at Harvard 337

personal security grows and discontent diminishes, so Mayo recommended

that managers deal honestly with employees and take a genuine interest in
them in order to win their trust and confidence; and that union officers not
organize members with militant and heroic methods. Joint work is the best
means for mutual cooperation. For organizations, Mayo recommended
scientific studies of the systematic ordering of operations, economic needs,
and the conditions of effective communication and cooperation. Without
such studies, political leaders would remain ignorant of the basis for effec­
tive control in civilized life and continue with old techniques of centralized
control that would never provide spontaneous cooperation. Such coopera­
tion originates in the will of individuals and groups and cannot be effec­
tively imposed on them from outside.
Mayo’s address was given in two parts.80 At the end of the first, in
informal discussion, Peter Drucker took the opportunity to show how he, a
political scientist with an interest in the social responsibility of business­
men, looked at politics in industry. Some members of the audience knew
that Drucker’s work at Bennington had begun to turn to human and social
problems of management, and that because of this Drucker was being
considered for a faculty position at the Harvard Business School.81 Drucker
had failed to appreciate Mayo’s main point, taken from Green’s maxim and
Chester Barnard’s administration theory, i.e., in an organization spon­
taneous cooperation requires the willing consent of subordinates and can­
not be effectively imposed on them by a domineering executive. Drucker
left the impression that political ideas derived from studies in human rela­
tions at work could be used by managers as tools to manipulate subordi­
nates. The impression was given largely through Drucker’s illustrations
drawn from his European experience, and from his attitude toward super­
visors and workers, which he conveyed in answers to questions and other
remarks in the discussion. Mayo was upset by hearing the conclusion he
had reached in his study of situations in industry distorted in these ways,
and took the floor to poke fun at Drucker’s ideas. To show what a subordi­
nate thinks about a manipulative boss, Mayo put his thumb to his nose
and, looking at Drucker, asked: “You know what this means?” Drucker did
not. “Then you should,” replied Mayo. The audience could see that Mayo’s
gesture signified not only the attitude of a subordinate who was unwilling
to consent to directives from a domineering boss but also Mayo’s view of
the ideas that Drucker had expressed.82
Drucker subsequently wrote to Mayo and apologized that, in the rush of
departure at the end of the meeting, he had not had the opportunity to take
proper leave, and, as he had done frequently, highly praised Mayo’s work.
In reply Mayo alluded to his remarks following Drucker’s commentary, and
asked that Drucker forgive him; they had been intended to “lighten the
whole atmosphere and to reassure those who might have succumbed” to a
misunderstanding of Drucker’s ideas. And, Mayo added, “One must be
338 Elton Mayo

intelligent to the maximum in work, but one must also be exceedingly

careful in the display of intelligent capacity before Anglo-Saxon audiences.
I am sure that your Continental training will enable you to understand
what I am talking about.”83 From that point Drucker’s negotiations for a
position at the Business School ceased, and Mayo’s work was carried for­
ward by Roethlisberger and Lombard with support from Edmund Learned
and their students.
A few days later Mayo and Dorothea flew to England.
Notes
1. Elton to Toni, 31 December 1939.
2. Elton to Toni, 17 June, 19 August 1940.
3. Elton to Toni, 12 January, 3, 12 March 1940
4. Elton to Toni, 17 June 1940.
5. Elton to Toni, 12 January, 3, 12 March 1940.
6. Elton to Toni, 17 June 1940.
7. Elton to Toni, 14 October 1940.
8. Elton to Toni, 10 September, 14 October 1940.
9. Elton to Toni, 30 January 1941. Lombard recalled that the series was not well
attended and Mayo did not finish the course. Later lectures were used in Har­
vard Business School courses to train teachers and administrators.
10. Elton to Toni, 25 January 1942.
11. Elton to Toni, 11 December 1941.
12. Elton to Jordan, 14 February 1942, MM 1.048.
13. Elton to Goetz, 24 February 1942; Elton to Willard, 13 April 1942; Elton to
Hanson, 21 April 1942, MM 1.063.
14. Elton to Toni, 21 March, 3 May 1942.
15. Gregg’s diary, 16 April 1942, RF.
16. Elton to Toni, 21 March, 3 May 1942.
17. Elton to Toni, 3 May, 10 June 1942.
18. Elton to Toni, 3 May, 14 June 1942.
19. Lombard to Mayo, 10 July 1942, MM 1.012.
20. Mayo to David, 1 August 1942, MM 1.033.
21. Gregg’s diary, 16 November 1942, RF.
22. Who Was Who in America: Vol. 3, 1951-60 (Chicago: Marquis, 1960), p. 346.
Because the Rockefeller philanthropies did not fund the social sciences before
1928, Mayo’s work was supported by the Division of Medical Education. The
practice continued under the Directorate for Medical Sciences when the divisio­
nal arrangem ents were dropped in 1929. Because Mayo’s work was closely
linked with H enderson’s research on industrial physiology and industrial haz­
ards, his relations with the Rockefeller Foundation continued to be handled by
medical rather than the social sciences officials. Hess to Trahair, 25 October
1982.
23. Gregg to Mayo, 13 November, 1942; Mayo to Gregg, 16 November 1942, MM
1.072; Mayo to Gregg, 6 December 1942, RF.
24. Gregg to Mayo, 10 December 1942, MM 1.072.
25. Mayo to Gregg, 6 December 1942, RF.
26. Gregg to Mayo, 30 December 1942, 30 April, 19 June 1943; Mayo to Gregg, 24
April 1943, MM 1.072.
27. Donham to Gregg, 10 March 1943, RF.
 Last Years at Harvard 339

28. Mayo to Gregg, 20 February 1943; Gregg’s diary, 26 February 1943, RF.
29. Mayo to Gregg, 14 March 1943, RF.
30. Holderer to Mayo, 12 March 1943; Mayo to Holderer, 15 March 1943, MM
1.084.
31. Mayo to Jackie, Mayo to Cashin, 15 March 1943, MM 1.084.
32. Mayo to Cashin, 18 March 1943, MM 1.084.
33. Mayo to Holderer, 24 March 1943, MM 1.086.
34. Mayo to Lombard, 3 April 1943, MM 1.013.
35. Jerome F. Scott, “Notes on Waterbury Conference,” 6-9 April 1943, MM 1.086.
36. Elton to Toni, 17 April 1943.
37. Mayo to Gregg, 18 April 1943, RF.
38. Mayo to Holderer, 19 May 1943, MM 1.086.
39. John B. Fox and Jerome E Scott, Absenteeism: M anagem ents Problem (Boston:
Harvard University, Graduate School of Business Administration, Division of
Research, 1943).
40. Mayo to Gross, 19 August 1943; H art to Fox, 31 August 1943, MM 1.086.
41. Gregg to Mayo, 19 June 1943, MM 1.072.
42. Gregg to Mayo, 2 September 1943, MM 1.072.
43. Fox and Scott, Absenteeism.
44. Scott to Fox, 7 January 1944, MM 1.073.
45. Mayo to Burden, 25 May 1944, MM 1.030.
46. Elton Mayo and George F. F. Lombard, Teamwork and Labor Turnover in the
Aircraft Industry o f California (Boston: Harvard University, Graduate School of
Business Administration, Division of Research, 1944).
47. Fox to Lombard, 31 July 1944, MM 1.012.
48. Committee on Work in Industry, Subcommittee on Rehabilitation, Rehabilita­
tion: The M an and the Job, reprint and circular series, 121 (Washington, D.C.:
National Research Council, March 1945).
49. Elton Mayo, “Group Tension in Industry,” in Approaches to National Unity, ed.
L. Bryson, L. Finkelstein, and R. M. Mclver (New York: Harper, 1945), pp.
46-60; Elton Mayo, “Supervisor and What It Means,” in Studies and Supervi­
sion, ed. D. E. Cameron (Montreal: McGill University, 1945), pp. 5-27.
50. Elton Mayo, The Social Problems o f an Industrial Civilization (Boston: Har­
vard University, Graduate School of Business Administration. Division of Re­
search, 1945).
51. Commonweal (New York), 5 April 1946, pp. 625-26.
52. The Times (London), 9 April 1946.
53. Nation, 4 May 1946.
54. Tracks (New York), June 1946; Railway Age, 30 March 1946, p. 682.
55. American Catholic Sociological Review, June 1947; Bulletin o f the Institute o f
Social Order (Jesuit), February 1947.
56. Scope: M agazine for Industry (London), April 1947, p. 100; Industry Illus­
trated, July 1946, pp. 11-17.
57. Conant to Mayo, 5 February, 1946; Mayo to Conant, 12 February 1946, MM
1.028.
58. Leighton to Mayo, 30 January 1946, MM 1.059.
59. MM 1.057.
60. Wolf to Mayo, 9 April 1946, MM 1.057.
61. Jenkins to Mayo, 18 October 1946, MM 1.057.
62. Warner to Mayo, 16 May 1946, MM 1.057.
63. Jones to Mayo, 25 May 1946, MM 1.057.
64. Nature 159, no. 4036 (8 March 1947):313-15.
340 Elton Mayo

65. American Economic Review 36 (June 1946):394-96; Economic Journal, June

1946.
66. Accounting Review, 3 (July 1946):359-60.
67. American Academy o f Political and Social Science Review 145 (May 1946):
206-7.
68. University o f Chicago Law Review, April 1946, pp. 393-95; United States
Quarterly Book List, June 1946, p. 130.
69. Sociology and Social Research, March-April 1946.
70. American Sociological Review 12 (February 1947): 123-24.
71. M ental Hygiene 36 (1946):659-62.
12. Journal o f Abnormal and Social Psychology 42 (1947):375-77; Journal o f
Applied Psychology 31, no. 3 (June 1947).
73. Mayo to McDonald, 4 October 1939, MM 1.039.
74. Correspondence with James, July-September 1943, MM 2.012.
75. MM 2.006.
76. Elton to Toni, 21 January 1946.
77. Elton to Toni, 28 November 1946.
78. Elton to Toni, 20 February 1947; Mayo to Sproul, 17 February 1947, MM
1.029.
79. MM 2.095.
80. Elton Mayo, The Political Problem o f Industrial Civilization (Boston: Harvard
University, Graduate School of Business Administration. Division of Research,
1947).
81. Correspondence between Mayo, Dean David, and Drucker, 1946-47, MM
1.035.
82. Conversations with Lombard and Bailey, 14 April 1975.
83. Correspondence between Mayo, Dean David, and Drucker, 1946-47, MM
1.035.
 21
Retirement and Death in England:
1947-1949

Six months after Mayo landed in England his plans for retirement went
awry; he worked too hard, suffered a stroke, and had to rest. When he
recovered he began to write, consult with colleagues on Britain’s industrial
problems, and plan another book. His income was low, and he was often
tired. Dorothea was tired and ill, too. In the summer of 1949 Mayo’s health,
which had been improving, took a turn for the worse and he died in
September.

“I have not celebrated my last morning here,” wrote Mayo to Dean

David, “by trailing drearily about to every member of the Faculty inter­
rupting his work to say ‘good-bye’. . . . It is part of my own defective
disposition to feel that an old fellow, when the time comes, should merely
fade out with as little fuss as possible.” 1He walked out of his office, leaving
his papers for the archives in the Baker Library and many of his books to
be shipped to England.
But he could not leave Harvard without some new mission. He had
declined Cyril James’s offer to spend a year or two at McGill; he did not
accept an invitation to Australia to give radio talks and address business
groups. Instead he decided, so he wrote to Beardsley Ruml, to “turn the
English from their conventional ways and from the barbaric economic
theory to which they are so devotedly attached.”2 By this Mayo meant he
would accept the offer from the National Institute of Industrial Psychology
(NIIP) of a thousand pounds a year to chair its Technical Advisory Board.3
If this plan fell through he could rely on his daughter Patricia to introduce
him to Britain’s top industrialists, who were beginning to see the value of
his work. They would be able to help him supplement his monthly pension
of two hundred dollars that Harvard would begin in August.4
After Mayo retired no one was chosen to fill his place. Roethlisberger
had been promoted to a professorship in human relations in January, and
in July Lombard would be made associate professor. They would have most
of the responsibility for carrying forward the work Mayo had initiated.
Roethlisberger began teaching what he called the “Mayo Syndrome.”5

341
342 Elton Mayo

He showed students that fatigue and monotony do not adequately express

the many aspects of an individual’s total situation; that skill is developed
gradually; and that learning advances such that an attentive act must be
seen as a highly complex experience. Obsessions are excellent examples to
illustrate the complexity of the attentive act because their content and
form are important for an understanding of how individuals interact. And
the way adult behavior is affected by preoccupations in obsessive characters
can be understood best by reading Freud and others on family life and early
childhood training.
Using a more sociological perspective, Roethlisberger and associates
followed Mayo’s notions by thinking of business as a social system that
requires exploratory research to answer specific managerial questions.
They assumed that the elements of business, as a social system, are interde­
pendent—not randomly occurring—and tend toward equilibrium, a bal­
anced state. The main object of study in a social system is interaction
among people. That interaction reveals nonlogical as well as logical forms
of behavior, and experiences variously categorized as meanings, intentions,
residues, derivations, and sentiments. Some of these behaviors and experi­
ences are latent, others are overt; some are functional for the balanced state
of the system, others are dysfunctional. Human experiences contribute to,
and are affected by, the equilibrium of the system, depending upon the
individual’s state of physiological equilibrium or homeostasis, and his de­
gree of psychological tension, i.e., obsessional versus syncretic thinking,
conviction of sin, skills, sense of adaptive growth or complication of think­
ing and experience, and ego versus sociocentricity. The interaction may
seem purposeless and disordered for the individual, and when it does, can
give rise to feelings of anomie and actions intended to reduce this feeling.
The context of business is also a social system; that context is changing
from a primitive, traditional, or established state to a complex, adaptive
state.
The most appropriate methods for the scientific study of society, social
systems, interactions, and individuals are controlled observation and clini­
cal interviewing. Research studies following this principle had been done
on adjustment to problems by students, in the Hawthorne researches, and
in Newburyport. Within industry Mayo’s associates had studied absentee­
ism, labor turnover, the training of foremen, problems of middle managers
in a growing organization, and the relations between office and production
plants. Teaching had been informal, no classes were held, no regular
courses were given; training had been through apprenticeship, reading,
discussion, and the use of clinical interviewing.
On the basis of these assumptions and experience, Mayo’s followers
began to state more clearly the elements of business-as-a-social-system and
to study industrial groups and human interaction at work. The terms they
used to extend their thinking were: the logic of management, formal versus
 Retirement and Death 343

informal organization, effectiveness and efficiency, group norms as expres­

sions of output restriction, and resistance to technological change; au­
thority and control in relation to employee participation, teamwork, and
cooperation; two-way communication, nondirective counseling, inten-
sional and extensional orientations, maps, and territories at work. Major
problems facing foremen centered on relations between them and their
subordinates, workers, and management, self-awareness of both, and how
to diagnose and take action on problems at work. Research emerging from
this approach included clinical cases in cooperation, control, communica­
tion, and changes in small work groups and large organizations. Cases were
described and academic theses were written. Teaching was done in a sec­
ond-year course on the study of human problems of administration, and
was offered as lectures and case material from the viewpoint of the expert
in personnel; later these ideas were extended to teaching a more practical,
action-oriented, and generalist position. At the same time studies were
published, executive weekend courses were established, and books were
published to inform the business community.
The conceptual framework turned more to testing hypotheses on the
determinants of behavior in work groups, and to changes in organizations
using the ideas drawn from special fields in the social sciences. Administra­
tive practices and human relations were first- and second-year courses and
advanced training was offered in teaching and in clinical and doctoral-level
research. There were also upper-level courses in the recent developments of
organizational behavior for senior executives.6

Mayo and his wife flew to Britain, a new experience for both. “Dorothea
was at first interested in going up and coming down, but finally somewhat
bored” by the fourteen-hour journey.7 They stayed in a London hotel for a
few days, and Patricia arranged meetings for her father with senior indus­
trialists. Then Mayo and Dorothea moved to a hotel on the Thames in
Berkshire, and began to search for a place to live in London. But the city
was overcrowded, and they thought that rents were exorbitant. Through a
friend of Patricia’s husband they learned that the National Trust had avail­
able private apartments in Polsden Lacey, a manor house about two and a
half miles from a small town in Surrey. The Mayos were deemed suitable
tenants.8 Dorothea, exhausted by moving, was instructed to rest under
medical care.
Mayo’s first task was to make himself known to businessmen and indus­
trial psychologists, and he started by giving a lecture in London.9 At home
he was correcting the proofs for the book on Janet. Two matters disturbed
him: about 45 percent of his income went for taxes, so he could not afford
the services of an intelligent secretary, and he missed discussions with
colleagues. But Jerome Scott, who was studying at Oxford, visited Mayo,
and British colleagues began to entertain him at dinner. Also, the arrange­
344 Elton Mayo

ments for work with the NIIP were in order, so financial problems would
soon be solved.10
In the NIIP’s winter program Mayo gave the opening lecture, “An Indus­
trial Civilization,” which paid tribute to C.S. Myers, briefly reviewed the
Hawthorne studies, and considered Britain’s industrial strife.11 Conflict in
industry was a “silent revolution,” Mayo said, against a management that
ignored the human element for the sake of technical and financial rewards.
If a manager wants employees to cooperate with him, he must come to the
shop floor and see for himself work from a worker’s viewpoint. If he does
this, then workers give their wholehearted cooperation, and output and
morale rise. Industrial psychologists could help in solving the problems of
Britain’s industrial conflicts.
Ten days later Mayo delivered “Problems of an Industrial Civilization”
in Blackpool at the annual conference of the Institute of Personnel Man­
agement. The lecture outlined the social relation between groups of man­
agers and workers, the uneven progress in the growth of technical and
social skills, the Hawthorne studies, the absenteeism research, and con­
cluded with a strong plea for scientific research in industry as a basis for
training administrators.12
By mid-October 1947 Mayo knew his work for the NIIP would not be as
he had been led to expect.13 Rowntree had written to Joseph Willits at the
Rockefeller Foundation that Mayo would be supervising an NIIP study of
incentives in industry and that the institute was hoping for government
funds. Would the foundation also fund the institute, especially because it
had Mayo’s services?14 “There is no getting away from the fact,” wrote
Rowntree, “workers are not working well. That is why I feel an investiga­
tion . . . is important.” The British government did not support the NIIP
but gave funds to the newly constituted British Institute of Management
(BIM), where Patricia held a research position. Mayo hoped that the BIM
would offer him a position, too, because the NIIP plans were far too am­
bitious, and he did not want to lecture any more.15 Nevertheless, he agreed
to keep his promise to the NIIP to go “barnstorming . . . to Birmingham,
Manchester, Liverpool—three days—after which, when convalescent, I’ll
write again.”16
Mayo overstepped the limits of his health; lecturing on three successive
nights was far too strenuous. On December 1 he had a stroke that paralyzed
his left arm and affected his speech. In a few days his speech improved, and
his face became less twisted, but little hope was held out for his left side.
After a week at a London hospital, room was found for him in the hospital
at Guilford, a few miles from home. Dorothea could visit him, but she
herself was ill and her doctor insisted she rest. Mayo’s mind was clear, but
he was restless and made a nuisance of himself trying to leave his bed and
ringing the night bell. A special nurse had to be hired to attend to him.
 Retirement and Death 345

Daily massages were beneficial, and his doctor gave Dorothea hope that he
would survive.17
By the end of February Mayo had convalesced sufficiently to write again
in a shaky, almost indecipherable hand. He advised Roethlisberger on how
to bring forward their work, and corresponded regularly with Lombard,
who was shepherding the Janet book through difficulties in publication and
handling tax problems that were unexpectedly eroding Mayo’s income.18
He enjoyed visits from Alan Gregg, Jerome Scott, and Ruth and Patricia.
Recovery was slow, but by April he was able to walk a half-mile, and his
mental vigor was returning to normal.19 Food was short, so he and Dor­
othea were pleased by parcels from relatives in Australia. The cost of living
was so high that expenses had begun to exceed their income, and travel was
out of the question.20
In the middle of the summer of 1948, Mayo was well enough to write a
paper for the August meeting of the International Congress of Industrial
Medicine, and to begin plans for a book on politics. And although he could
walk outside with little trace of his paralysis, to Dorothea he seemed to
toddle and shuffle for no good reason. She was annoyed that he would not
follow the doctor’s advice to exercise more. But his blood pressure had
remained high, which meant that he would have to lead a much quieter life
than before.21
In August he wrote to the London Times recommending the develop­
ment of free communication at all levels between the United States and
Britain because Britain was facing a problem that had already been partly
answered by Mayo’s work.22 “Why, in countries where industries have been
nationalized, is it so difficult to induce workers to cooperate with managers
in peacetime?” Free communication and collaboration at work affects the
efforts and activities of workers; in fortunate conditions their behavior is
fully cooperative, in less fortunate conditions workers are doubtful and
suspicious to the extent that they withhold their best efforts. Knowledge of
these conditions would clarify the problem. Mayo cited experience at Har­
vard where union officials had been encouraged to study administrative
problems, especially those centering on communication between different
levels of authority, and he reported the growth of research and teaching in
the social sciences to help understand general human and social problems
that accompany industrialization. To add support to his recommendation
Mayo suggested to Stuart Chase that he send his recent work, The Proper
Study o f Mankind, to Sir Stafford Cripps because Mayo’s letter and Chase’s
book made much the same point.23
By September 1948 Mayo was even better, but he was troubled by having
to pay taxes in two countries and annoyed that when Harvard University
Press had taken over the publication of The Human Problems . . . he had
not been allowed royalties on its sales.24 And he was feeling remote from
346 Elton Mayo

the Business School in what he called “this Socialist-ridden country.”25

Gloomy weather, Patricia’s impending divorce, his inability to write easily,
the absence of secretarial assistance, and the hesitancy of English pub­
lishers to print The Social Problems . . . all together led Mayo to write to
Dean David, “We may be nearly, but not quite, done.”26
In a letter to the Times his main point concerned “remote control,” to
which he had alluded in his valedictory lecture.27 He cited research in
Pennsylvania and Newburyport that found that “a central policy forming
body must learn to leave decisions to management and men in the locality.
Otherwise adaptability and spontaneity of cooperation will be lacking.”
This led Mayo to consider adaptability as the most important issue in
industrial growth. In a modern, adaptable society rapid technical develop­
ments occur at work; such techniques and processes require adaptable
people to manage them. People learn to become adaptable only when they
are trained well in the profession of management. If people are untrained
in both human and technical aspects of change, then spontaneous coopera­
tion among people will not be forthcoming and the rapidity of develop­
ment cannot be maintained. Such people need to be vigorous and have
initiative; they do not need what Mayo believed impeded change: “the
ancient political parrot cries [i.e., conservative or radical ideologies] of a
century ago.”
A few days after the letter appeared Mayo was well enough to go to
London to advise colleagues, and to begin work on his next book, tenta­
tively titled “Political Opportunism and Industrial Method.”28 Shortly after
the visit he was tired and felt wearied of being disabled, “crippled in walk­
ing and writing,” and disinclined to accept four hundred dollars from the
Business School to pay for a part-time secreatry. Nevertheless, he wanted to
say something “before the gates shut.”29
He made a pastiche of his two letters and main points from The Social
Problems . . . and sent it for publication to the World Review.30 Now his
main interest was in “political drift.” The drift was to large-scale organiza­
tion of work in both the private and public sectors. With the drift came
remote control and its ills, disloyalty and lack of discipline among em­
ployees. The reason for the ills was, again, poor communications between
remote executives and their workers, who feel they do not participate in
decisions affecting their work. “Where this feeling is present, there will be
no spontaneity of collaboration between management and workers. The
. . . problem demands attention and remedy.” These were Mayo’s last pub­
lished words.
Mayo’s health was becoming uncertain. Patricia thought that because he
was having frequent discussions with people of different political parties
that his mind was as alert and active as ever, and that he would have no
trouble writing another book if he had secretarial help. But Dorothea
 Retirement and Death 347

thought he would never produce enough material to warrant a part-time

secretary at regular hours. Dorothea was right.31
Mayo knew he was too old and ill to travel far, but he did accept invita­
tions to advise the Director General of UNESCO in Paris and to visit Kings
College, Cambridge, to meet Professors Kilcaldy (industrial relations) and
Macgregor (economics). He found the younger university men were follow­
ing his ideas, but in Paris his main interest seemed to be the excellent
food.32
On his return from Paris he had a visit from Chester Barnard, now
president of the Rockefeller Foundation, and took the opportunity to sup­
port Lombard and Roethlisberger’s application for funds for advanced
research in industrial training. Mayo thought of what he had recom­
mended in 1919: if industrial democracy were to be effective and employees
were to join managers in deciding the course for business to take, then all
members of an organization must be well trained in economics, account­
ing, and other relevant topics.33
By the summer of 1949, when the Times industrial correspondent was
arguing the relevance of The Social Problems . . . to Britain’s industrial
problems, Mayo’s health was in decline. Dorothea saw that he was quite
unable to consult, as he had planned, with United Nations officials on the
appointment of a director to their employee training program. Late in
August he was returned to the nursing hospital in Guilford because Dor­
othea was too ill to continue nursing him. A few days later, early on Thurs­
day morning, September 1, Mayo died peacefully and without pain.34

Notes

1. Mayo to David, 24 May 1947, MM 1.044.

2. Mayo to Ruml, 7 May 1947, MM 1.071.
3. Rowntree to Mayo, 8 February 1947, RF; Elton to Herbert, 6 May, 4 June 1947;
Elton to Helen, 7 May 1947, SAA.
4. Elton to Herbert, 4 June 1947, SAA.
5. Roethlisberger to Mayo, 12 December 1947, FJR.
6. George F. F. Lombard, “The Developing Field of Organizational Behavior at the
Harvard Business School” (mimeographed), 1960, BLA.
7. Mayo to Lombard, 2, 7 June 1947, MM 1.012.
8. Dorothea to Gardner, 13 June 1947, MM 1.012.
9. Lawton to N orton, 7 December 1947, MM 1.012.
10. Mayo to Lombard, 24 June, 24 July, 9 September 1947, MM 1.012.
11. News (National Institute of Industrial Psychology, London), 3 November 1947.
12. Elton Mayo, “Problems of an Industrial Civilization,” Journal o f the Institute of
Personnel Management, November-December 1947, pp. 264-69.
13. M orrison to Trahair, 26 October 1981.
14. Rowntree to Willits, 7 July 1947, RF (NIIP files).
15. Dorothea to Donham, 11 December 1947, AFFD 1, BLA.
16. Mayo to Lombard, 15 October, 14 November 1947, MM 1.012.
348 Elton Mayo

17. Dorothea to Donham, 11 December 1947, AFFD 2, BLA; Dorothea to Herbert,

11 December 1947, SAA; Dorothea to Lombard, 12 December 1947, MM
1.012 .
18. MM 1.012.
19. Dorothea to Lombard, 25 April 1948, MM 1.014.
20. Elton to Helen, 30 April 1948; Elton to Herbert, 30 April, 26 May 1948, SAA.
21. Mayo to Lombard, 6, 31 May 1948, MM 1.014; Elton to Herbert, 11 July 1948,
SAA.
22. The Times (London), 11 August 1948.
23. Mayo to Chase, 27 September 1948, MM 1.012.
24. Delaney to Lombard, 18 October 1948, MM 1.012.
25. Mayo to Wilson, 2 December 1948, MM 1.012.
26. Mayo to David, 8 November 1948, AFFD 2, BLA.
27. The Times (London), 2 December 1948.
28. Mayo to Lombard, 28 December 1948, MM 1.012.
29. Mayo to David, 19 January 1949, AFFD 2, BLA.
30. Elton Mayo, “H um an Problems in Industry,” World Review, new series, 3 (May
1949):5-8.
31. Mayo to David, 19 January 1949, AFFD 2, BLA; Patricia Mayo to Lombard, 20
January 1949, MM 1.015.
32. Elton to Herbert, 20 January 1949, SAA; Mayo to Lombard, 8 February, 19
April 1949, MM 1.012.
33. Mayo to Lombard, 19 April, 26 May 1949, MM 1.012.
34. Scott to Lombard, 5 September 1949, MM 1.012; Dorothea to Herbert, 9
September 1949, BLA.
 22
The Character and Contributions of
Elton Mayo

The character and contributions of Elton Mayo are reconstructed from

the impressions he left with the people who were closest to him at work and
in family life.1 His appearance and manner, his style of family and social
life depict his general role. His institutional role—teaching and research—
precedes an account of his interpersonal style and the four major roles that
he played so uniquely. Finally, these are augmented and partly explained by
the way that Mayo thought and how he came to value what he thought
about.

Mayo stood a bit over five feet, seven inches, and weighed about 125
pounds. He had little hair, freckled fair skin, deep blue eyes, and a wide
smile that showed perfect teeth. He dressed neatly and to advantage; when
he entered a room he gave the impression that an important person had
arrived. On the street in good weather he wore a brimmed hat with a
colorful band, carried a cane, sported a handkerchief up his sleeve, and
walked with a jaunty swagger that used the full length of his slim body.
Mayo was always in good health and anxious to stay that way. His great fear
was appendicitis. He exercised regularly, sometimes played tennis, was a
good swimmer, and danced. He enjoyed watching cricket and horseracing.
He understood the value of proper relaxation, and to this purpose would
sometimes fall into long periods of silence, or would fish, read detective
stories, play patience occasionally, or solve a crossword puzzle. He loved
jazz and went to musical comedies. Although he was deeply moved by the
paintings of Antoine Wiertz, where fine arts were concerned Mayo was a
philistine. He asserted that, with the exception of Prokofiev, all Russian
musicians were mad. His favorite play in later life—he saw it at least five
times—was Noel Coward’s Private Lives. Its witty dialogue depicts a ro­
mantic pattern of seduction, marriage, divorce, reconciliation, and marital
discord. The dramatic strain in relations among the four characters echoed
the quality of love between Mayo and his wife.
Difficulties in the Mayos’ marriage were obvious, but the ways in which
they were managed were hidden. During the last few years they were to-

349
350 Elton Mayo

gether in Cambridge, Dorothea enjoyed holding social gatherings, par­

ticularly tea parties. The occasions bored Mayo unless they had something
intellectual to offer. In conversations Dorothea would interrupt his story­
telling, and his retorts were in tones too sharp and rude to be missed.
Mayo’s young associates thought that such behavior between mature mar­
ried adults was improper, especially for a clinical psychologist and senior
professor at Harvard. At home the children heard their parents bicker, but
the arguments were not destructive. Mayo could be irritating when he
fussed about punctuality, but in most things he was the easier of the two to
live with because he was more considerate of others. He disliked heated
arguments and petty contention, so whenever he went on a trip he would
leave home saying, “Be kind to each other, ladies.” And when Dorothea
insisted that their daughters be educated in England, where they could
enjoy access to valuable social connections, Mayo did not object. He him­
self put a similar value on England; and he knew she needed relief from the
daily burden of rearing children and immediate access to them. When he
and the girls were reunited every summer, they knew from his reassuring
voice that his affection for them was always warmly loving, while Dor­
othea’s tended to be expressed in a possessive manner.
Alone in Cambridge, Mayo gave his colleagues the impression that he
was a man of the world or, as Henderson put it, “a man of affairs.” He used
England, or “home” as Australians had called it for generations, as his
criterion of excellence. Mayo’s young asssociates were often impressed by
his stories of how he moved among the British aristocracy and dined at
exclusive London clubs. Mayo’s speech was “very British”: clipped, stac­
cato, like that of a sophisticated Noel Coward character, and quite unlike
what Americans expected of an Australian. For his academic colleagues
Mayo gave excellent dinner parties; the menus were well chosen and the
French wines were superb. He had “god-given style.”
But Mayo’s style could turn into arrogance and embarrass his guests in a
restaurant when he sent back to the kitchen food and wine that had fallen
short of his standards. And sometimes in dinner conversation he would
offend his listeners when he used a thrusting manner to overstate a position
and drive home a point they seemed to have missed but in fact had no wish
to acknowledge. Nevertheless, his persuasive charm could usually carry his
arguments and allow him to move easily between levels in the social hier­
archy so as to exercise his worldliness on people of influence.
Mayo’s national allegiance was divided. He did not make a home in the
United States. It had been his mother’s wish that, if he chose to live abroad,
it would be in England. He saw himself as a colonial gentleman, and
revered Britain for its influence in the world that had raised him. Yet, when
he retired to England, he loathed its vulgarities. Away from Australia, he
yearned often for its long, clear moonlight nights.
His associates in the Business School deemed Mayo an influential ad-
 Character and Contributions 351

viser to both Henderson and Donham. Faculty could not see Donham
except by appointment, but to Mayo he was always available because he
valued Mayo’s unique advice, based as it was on unusual clinical insight.
Henderson used Mayo as a sounding board for political problems within
the university and the personal problems raised by the young men selected
for Henderson’s Society of Fellows.
In the Business School Mayo’s formal position was professor and head of
the Department of Industrial Research. It was the only department in the
School, and Mayo’s connection with it was through Henderson and Don­
ham. Among the faculty Mayo’s status was high, not so much for the value
placed on his work as for the privileged access he had to Donham and the
location his office—last on the right, first floor, Morgan Hall. Mayo did
little teaching and, because he did not involve himself in the affairs of the
school, rarely attended faculty meetings. Thus his function in the School
was not well understood.
To the faculty, Mayo’s associates—Henderson, Donham. Roethlisberger,
and Whitehead—were a clique dominated by Henderson. Their apparently
closed ranks and well-known grant from the Rockefeller Foundation made
them the object of envy and resentment and earned them the title “Don-
ham’s Million Dollar Folly.”
Research was the leading task in Mayo’s department. In the field he
applied the principle of functional penetration by level. He alone per­
suaded the senior management of a firm to allow him to study their organi­
zation; his assistants met with employees and staff at lower levels. Often
Mayo’s assistants were apprehensive because they were unsure of what he
had claimed he could do or had promised to senior managers so they would
follow his ideas.
His technique was to approach a company, or be asked to consult with it
on a labor problem. He would see senior executives first and later persuade
foremen and employees of the need to study the “human factor” at work,
i.e., fatigue. That meant blood pressure readings to assess the physiological
factors, and interviews to establish psychological reveries. Most subjects
were women; they giggled at the suggestion of an interview with a man, and
could not see the relevance of the blood pressure readings. Such resistance
was easily overcome when Mayo gave a medical tone to the expectations
that he wanted met. Because the purpose of Mayo’s research was explora­
tory, and therefore ambiguous, data collection was not as systematic as
would often be required in present times. The value of the research was
always in doubt and rested on finding some order in the data rather than in
testing specific hypotheses. When found, that order would be used to rec­
ommend whatever changes seemed necessary to promote individual wel­
fare and cooperation at work. Full reports of research were not important
to Mayo.
In the Hawthorne research Mayo did not state systematically all find­
352 Elton Mayo

ings; instead he gave speeches about them, and frequently spoke in an

uplifting and revolutionary style. His associates were anxious lest inac­
curacies creep in and his speeches claim more than the research had
achieved. For this reason Roethlisberger believed strongly that he should
write an accurate and full report of the Hawthorne research. Mayo was not
interested in the niceties of research design or the techniques and pro­
cedures of data collection or analysis that nowadays social scientists value
so highly. Nor was he interested in writing research reports. He preferred to
let his associates do these tasks. Consequently, the data collected on New
Castle—a planned extension of the Hawthorne and Newburyport stud­
ies—were not analyzed or written up after Homans went to war, and they
remain untouched in Mayo’s files.
Action based on results of scientific research was Mayo’s strong interest,
and the counseling program at Western Electric was a good example of this
interest. But Mayo was shocked when he learned what had happened to the
counseling program. On his last visit to the Western Electric plant, he
commented warmly on how valuable personal counseling was to admin­
istrators; when he was told that counselors saw only workers, Mayo stopped
in his tracks, amazed that counseling had ceased at the supervisory level.2
At the Business School Mayo did little teaching. In his own way he
followed the school’s tradition of teaching by the case method. But to Mayo
a case was a clinical history taken from a person or situation, and useful to
illustrate points in a lecture. His teaching method was always informal in
lectures, seminars, and with individuals.
In lectures Mayo would walk around the table between the class and
himself, put a leg over the table corner, and speak in a relaxed way, pausing
skillfully and using his long cigarette holder to dramatic advantage. His
stories were amusing, well constructed, and placed carefully but not ob­
viously to hold the listeners’ attention. He had a fine sense of humor, would
chuckle and laugh in many different ways, but never before his story had
made its point.
Lectures ran for one hour and were followed by a half-hour of good
discussion. Mayo used notes only when the material for the lecture had not
been well prepared beforehand. His delivery was clear, and he was careful
not to speak over the students’ heads. It was important to him that lectures
finish well, not with a thud; he would close with encouragement to discus­
sion by drawing out individuals to whom his material was both familiar
and important. So each one felt Mayo had spoken directly to him, that he
had been selected for special notice, and, as a rule, each one responded
loyally.
Most of Mayo’s teaching was done in seminars to which members were
admitted by invitation only. Meetings were held on Tuesday or Thursday at
his office or his rooms in the Brattle Inn.
In his rooms or office or sometimes over lunch Mayo would see individ­
 Character and Contributions 353

ual students. While the young man outlined his research Mayo would listen
attentively, ask questions to clarify the purpose of the study, make some
subtle or otherwise valuable distinction, and close the discussion with com­
mendation of the student’s choice of research plan. The student would
leave, buoyed that Mayo had appreciated the research proposal, had
thought it worthy of his attention, and had given it wise, purposive guid­
ance. Mayo himself would seem gratified, even flattered, to have an intel­
ligent young man seek advice and follow the idea that research was a long
scientific adventure that would eventually win worthy rewards.
Mayo’s unusual methods of teaching extended to his workday routine,
and sometimes led to envy among his associates who found that they could
not admire Mayo’s attitude toward work. In the Business School the faculty
and staff kept the regular working hours, and they made the practice ob­
vious to one another. Such a ritual was not for Mayo. After his arrival at his
office, by taxi, no later than 9:45 a . m ., he became available to others at
11:00 a . m . He would hold court, talk a while with Henderson or Donham,
then lunch at St. Clair’s. After a walk he would spend the afternoon at the
Brattle Inn. Such was the observer’s impression; in fact, Mayo was at work
all day, talking and listening. Mayo shied from heavy effort or busy work
and the appearance of both. To this extent he seemed eccentric, to violate
tradition at the Business School. But this was how he defined his own work
style; and central to it was helping others to clarify problems and to enjoy
emotional well-being and a full career, and especially encouraging his
younger associates to be noticed as much as possible for work well done.

After Henderson’s death and Donham’s retirement Mayo seemed with­

drawn and isolated, and to have no friends. The few people who knew him
well saw the condition as a legacy of his and Dorothea’s initial unwilling­
ness to put any effort into sustaining friendships in the United States. In
1927, when settled in Cambridge, they seldom entertained; and after Dor­
othea took their girls to England, Mayo would accept invitations to lunch
on Sundays with two friends. They soon realized that they bored him
because he often said how much he enjoyed the company of notable people
in Britain, and preferred the summers in Europe to those in Maine or
Vermont. Thus, Mayo and Dorothea appeared to collide with the United
States, leaving the impression that Cambridge was merely a stopover on the
way to somewhere else. In turn, Mayo felt that he enjoyed little respect
from his Harvard peers and could probably earn little more no matter what
he did.
People admired Mayo for his skill in conversation. Wherever he sat was
the head of the table. He loved the challenge of intelligent conversation,
talked rapidly as ideas came into his head, twisted the meanings of words,
and, with puns, jokes, and allusions, created brilliant flashes of humor. He
had a remarkable capacity to show that a current issue with which every
354 Elton Mayo

one of his listeners was familiar illustrated an abstract generalization. In

this way he could turn dry, intellectual conversation into a vivid exchange.
The slightest trace of stupidity bored him, no matter whether in family,
colleagues, or people he knew less well. He could hurt those whose views
did not command his respect. So Mayo had few friends and many acquain­
tances, largely because he was quick to dismiss people whose conversation
fell short of his standards and because he did not have the patience or skill
needed to maintain lasting friendships.
However unable or uninterested he might have been in initiating or
maintaining friendships, Mayo was highly competent at sustaining social
relations that centered on care and consideration for the feelings that oth­
ers found hard to manage. He was noted for his kindness, tolerance,
thoughtfulness, and charm, which were what made it possible for him to
move so easily up and down the social hierachy. But his considerate man­
ner was limited to people who he felt needed help. The exception was
Henderson, who was probably Mayo’s only close and lasting friend in the
United States. Their relationship was based on at least two important
factors: Henderson was the only peer to whom Mayo could defer with
respect, and Mayo was the only peer who could offer Henderson the deep
compassion needed to understand his wife’s mental illness.
So Mayo’s interpersonal relations were the product of his intolerance for
foolishness, especially among the intelligent, and his openheartedness to­
ward those whom he felt he could help. These are the major elements of a
therapeutic style of friendship. And even when he spoke in public these two
elements dictated his relation with the audience. Each listener felt that
when Mayo used personal, intimate cases to illustrate his points, he was
speaking to that individual. In this way the whole audience could be se­
duced. When Mayo finished the talk each listener, realizing suddenly that
he was not really alone with Mayo, joined with his fellows in applause to
reduce the inner tension to which the sudden awareness had given rise.
Applause was the personal praise that Mayo needed. In the discussion
afterward Mayo would concentrate intently on particular persons, showing
compassion for those who needed his wisdom and, with good humor,
dismissing those whose ideas seemed to him foolish. Mayo loved the dis­
cussion periods because they brought him close to the social relation he
enjoyed and could control best. With the exception of Henderson, whom
Mayo revered, all Mayo’s close associates were in a therapeutic relation
with him. In this relation lay the tragedy of Mayo. Whitehead and Eyres-
Monsell left Mayo to go to war; Roethlisberger escaped into his (probably)
creative illness; Homans and Warner had avoided the therapeutic relation
with Mayo as had the young anthropologists who worked with Warner; and
Mayo’s later associates were not working for him because of the heavy
duties imposed by the role of the Business School in training wartime
administrators. Without associates in a therapeutic relation with him at
 Character and Contributions 355

work, Mayo lacked his most important source of self-esteem. But after the
summer of 1942 this need was not so potent for Mayo, because retirement
to England was imminent and with it a new adventure. Fortunately, he had
the personal support of Alan Gregg to help mourn the many losses in life
that affected him so deeply before the summer of 1942.

Difficuties emerge in defining Mayo’s major roles and contribution to

social sciences in industry. Charles Merriam, an admirer of his work, wrote
that he was a “rare bird . . . I should like to be with [him], and if we had a
few more like . .. Mayo, something might be started in the good old social
sciences.”3
A “rare bird” is difficult to identify because its characteristics are elusive.
To identify the characteristics of Mayo by reference only to the positions he
held in organizations and the tasks allocated thereto misses the unique,
personal quality of his role performance. Usually roles are defined as ex­
pectations held for a person’s behavior by those with whom he interacts. As
a “rare bird” Mayo was elusive because he himself defined the roles he was
going to play. As one colleague noted, Mayo would study the mores and
expectations governing the behavior of others but would respond to none
himself. This observation caricatures Mayo’s style but at the same time
points to a way that Mayo’s self-defined role can be understood, and directs
attention to his unique contribution to the application of social and psy­
chological ideas to work.
From the reconstruction of impressions Mayo made on his colleagues,
four roles emerge: healer, doctor, catalyst, magician. Mayo was a “healer”
of disease in industrial society. His main task was to help people to cooper­
ate and collaborate, i.e., to bring unity to conditions that aroused conflict.
To this end he helped to spread ideas from the Western Electric research
and to dissipate the sadistic criticism that it attracted; he helped people to
meet others who could be useful; he helped many people to see the value of
their work and where it fitted well with that of others; he helped people who
were angry at one another to develop productive relations at work; he
ministered to those who came to him with family, financial, emotional,
intellectual, and career problems; he showed people how to find work that
best suited their talents.
At home this healing was evident too. It dominates the tone of letters to
the family, especially to Dorothea. He wrote to assure her that every day
that they were apart his spirit was beside her. He cared for the experiences
she had with others, her well-being and harmonious social relations, the
unity of her conscious and unconscious thinking, and the wholeness and
unity of life around her. He showed great concern that his family and
friends like one another, and for the times when they were separated.
Second, Mayo played the role of doctor. In the United States he was
always known as “Dr. Mayo.” Associates thought that he had acquired his
356 Elton Mayo

knowledge of shellshock from experience in the trenches in France during

the Great War. Mayo did not avoid using the title “doctor,” and when he
came to Harvard he brought as his research assistant a registered nurse,
who often was seen taking blood pressure readings for Mayo. In his office
he had a set of scales for weighing patients and measuring height. As the
years passed, the scales were moved out of the way but they were never out
of sight. Mayo did not keep company with medical doctors nor have them
among his few friends. He did not refer to himself as a doctor nor claim the
rights and privileges of that profession. To those close to him he said that he
felt uneasy about being addressed as “doctor,” but that to explain that he
was not a doctor disturbed the flow of discussion and good conversation.
Mayo’s third role was that of catalyst for others rather than as a worker
who followed through on his ideas and wrote up research based on them.
To the work of others he brought challenges and innovation, a fresh twist to
an old problem, and the encouragement needed to study it.
Finally Mayo was a magician, not a trickster but a man whose sense of
mystery and preference for the unexpected could produce surprising ideas,
propositions, explanations, and predictions. This was partly because he
had developed fine clinical skills and could observe important items that
others would miss. He could hypnotize people and once predicted the
whereabouts of a missing person by reconstructing his character from
sketchy police information. Mayo’s magic came from the unusual insight
and confidence of one who could persuade others to reexamine closely
their own thinking.
Mayo’s four roles and the relation between them can be illustrated by the
research with which his name is so closely associated, the Hawthorne stud­
ies.4 At Hawthorne, Mayo did not, as many textbooks assert, initiate, di­
rect, or control research. He played four distinct roles, all of which were
unique to him at Hawthorne, and stemmed from his personal style. For the
first eighteen m onths he was an “appreciative helper.” He visited
Hawthorne to study the physiology of the women at work in the relay
assembly test room, but beyond that he advised on the health of a woman
no longer in the study, suggested possible changes in interviewing methods
and purposes, praised the researchers and encouraged them to follow new,
uncharted courses of action. During the next fifteen months he was a
“counselor-cum-publicist.” He counseled executives on family and work
problems, praised the study, thereby helping its status within the Western
Electric Company, and publicized the results so that the research gained
prestige in the United States and Europe. Third, for almost thirty months
he was a “cooperative collaborator.” He encouraged the exchange of per­
sonnel between Harvard and Hawthorne and laid the social basis for spe­
cific, defined joint activities. Finally, during the four years of close associa­
tion with the Hawthorne Works, Mayo was a “protective supporter.” He
helped the researchers to endure destructive criticism of their work from
 Character and Contributions 357

inside the company and out, and to tolerate their own doubts about the
value of their work.
In these roles, specific to Mayo at Hawthorne, he was applying, more or
less consciously, his general healer-doctor-catalyst-magician roles. As
healer, he aimed to unite and integrate divisive elements within the firm
and protect the researchers from outside attack; as doctor, he diagnosed
and offered treatment for administrative ills that others could not discern;
as catalyst, he encouraged the researchers to be fearlessly curious in their
scientific study of human experience at work and taught them an uncom­
mon interviewing technique for this purpose; and as magician he showed
them the value of surprise, challenges, anxiety about one’s goals, and the
unexpected rewarding turn events could take.
Mayo’s contribution appears in his attitude toward universities and ad­
ministration. Mayo was not a psychologist, sociologist, or anthropologist,
although sometimes he was cast as such. These are academic, professional
roles acquired after training within disciplines that separate and divide the
study of the problems of mankind. Mayo would not take a disciplinary
role, preferring to integrate the study of human experience and behavior,
not pursue a separate discipline. The same applies to Mayo’s approach to
administration, the point on which he and Donham were in such close
agreement. Both men believed that administration was the means of inte­
grating special functions into a well-formed and cohesive organization.
The four roles that were unique to Mayo’s character originate in the
values he was taught, the conditions of his childhood, and the sentiments
and impulses that gave so much energy to his life. The role of healer is a
mystic’s role because it upholds the value of unity, especially between op­
posites and among incongruent elements. To accept this value requires a
sense of high purpose, and this was instilled into the Mayo children by their
parents and reinforced by their Christian education, academic studies, and
personal reading. The role helped Mayo compensate for disappointing the
family by not continuing his medical studies, and, at the same time, al­
lowed him to follow the adventures of his mind—not discipline his mind to
one academic course—and match them with the mental adventures of
others in the psychiatrist’s clinic. In Mayo’s mental hinterland strong anx­
ieties were aroused originally by opposing views of life held by his parents,
the absence of playmates to help him become used to life with peers, a
strong need to be regarded well by others and to be rebellious toward them.
To bring unity into his emotional life and the residue of his family experi­
ences, and to heal the world about him Mayo used reflective thinking and
concentrated thought. In his own mental life the task for him was to inte­
grate the two and learn to move easily from the highest to the lowest levels
of mental consciousness.
Mayo behaved like a doctor, the accepted role of healers. By taking
rather than denying the role, Mayo could realize the values of the healer,
358 Elton Mayo

especially those no doctor could pursue and still keep the respect of col­
leagues, i.e., the importance of sexuality in the origins of psychoneuroses.
In Australia there had been no opportunity to heal unless he did so under
the supervision of a medical practitioner; only in the United States could
he be known as a doctor, behave like one, be respected as if he were one, yet
not have to possess the technical qualifications that the law demanded. In
his role Mayo’s need to integrate conflicting impulses joined with the wish
to identify and treat the imagined ills in his body. His sense of self-worth
and identity was enhanced by this role: in it he was what he felt he ought to
be, and eventually believed he had good reason to be known as—a doctor.
The roles of catalyst and magician uphold the values of unexpected
change, challenge, and innovation. For Mayo, these values lay along the
highly valued path of science. They are the obverse of healer and doctor,
but they were well-chosen roles for Mayo because they also helped compen­
sate for having failed to meet family expectations and at the same time they
set limits within which rebellious, hostile clashes could be promoted. From
the conflict of opposites come new ideas, and their origins are always a
mystery. Mayo’s skill as a catalyst was developed through the use of words
and the way his magical thinking could make them run.
Mayo’s thinking can be compared with that of his close friend Hender­
son. Henderson used his intellect as Mayo’s destroyers used their obses­
sions. For Henderson three questions could destroy another intellect: Why?
What do you mean by . . . ? And, Can you give an example of t h a t. . . ?
“Why?” exposes the underlying assumptions of an argument or the
unconscious direction given to an observation. Mayo’s thinking was allu­
sive, innovative, intuitive, and insightful; in conversation it seemed bril­
liant and often profound. Those who could not match his thinking, or
otherwise lost his respect, were either dismissed or dealt with brutally. So,
in different ways, but to the same purpose, Mayo and Henderson would
find the weaknesses in the thinking of others. And if Henderson put
“Why?” to Mayo, not only did one answer appear, there being no end to
allusive thought, but other answers tumbled forth aimed at reversing con­
ventional assumptions and exposing or concealing unconscious wishes.
“Why?” became “Why am I the way I am?” That question was important
to Henderson because its answer helped him understand the impoversh-
ment of feeling that family tragedy had introduced to his life.
Henderson’s “What do you mean by . . . ?” shows the speaker’s ambigu­
ous and irrational thinking. Mayo thrived on ambiguity and irrationality;
it was the raw material of his career and had provided him with criteria for
accepting or rejecting others, sharpening his wit, displaying his humor, and
for winning recognition and praise from individuals who thought him
brilliant and from groups who were entertained by his speeches and discus­
sion. The “twisteroo,” “The problem is not the . . . sickness of the acquisi­
tive society . . . [but] the acquisitiveness of the sick society,” illustrates how
 Character and Contributions 359

Mayo could produce entirely fresh questions by making his terms unclear
and using irrational reversals of meaning.
Henderson’s third question, “Can you give me an example of t h a t . . . ?”
attacks the academic intellectuals. In Mayo’s terms such individuals take a
too-simple theory or formula and overthink it into a fog of elaborate
distinctions. They are unable to connect their ideas with their observations
of the world and turn away from it. While Henderson would make any
person who could not answer the question feel foolish, Mayo would take a
more constructive approach and invite the individual to attend the psy­
chology clinic with him to see others whose mental processes had become
far too elaborate for normal dealings with reality. Larry Henderson was
one such observer. Mayo was fond of examples, illustrations, and anecdotes
and had cases for all occasions. In principle, Henderson would rub the
intellectual’s nose in his own futile abstractions, while Mayo would lead
him to test the abstractions against reality; Henderson had no time for
fools, but Mayo thought that even the greatest fool had something of value
to say if one had the patience to hear him out.
Both men valued Henderson’s questions. If Henderson put them to
Mayo he would not only answer them but also turn them to his own
advantage in relations with Henderson. While Henderson occasionally
used his questions sadistically, Mayo was far more humane. To this extent
Mayo’s thinking was more open, thus allowing him to move easily from
theories of the central nervous system to those of the economy in a primi­
tive tribe. He seemed to be able to integrate ideas from diverse fields with­
out many restrictions. But two restrictions on his thinking stand out. Mayo
took the ideas and findings of others and regularly imposed on them his
own theses about the origin and dynamics of human social and political
problems of an industrial civilization. Second, he saw obsessive characters
everywhere. “Normal” obsessives in everyday life he liked; intellectual
obsessives in academia he helped; the destructive obsessives in power he
feared; and the remaining obsessives he dismissed.
The feelings that determine the intensity of human attitudes, beliefs,
and behavior are laid down at an unexpectedly early age; therefore, impor­
tant experiences shape the expression of those feelings but they cannot
eradicate them. Fragments from Mayo’s early life help reconstruct a pattern
for his important feelings and beliefs.
Mayo saw at first hand the consequences of the industrialization of work
in South Australia. Movement to the towns and the social ills accompany­
ing economic depression were familiar to him, although it was not true that
he suffered directly. Also he saw that unionization of the work force and
charity failed to meet these problems. Ignorant part-time politicians and
crowd-stirring demogogues were no solution either. Mayo was taught that
science would establish the facts and proper public education could dis­
seminate them; social problems could not be solved other than by careful
360 Elton Mayo

and dispassionate study—raging ideologies and revolutionary politics were

nothing but dangerous.
Mayo’s patients had helped him to see these features of his social world
from the standpoint of a highly respected medical family, one that had
served the community as a matter of duty, had enjoyed the studied leisure
available to the well-off, and had made England its cultured center. A
measure of conflict that was evident in the society that reared Mayo was
found in his family also. His mother was unmotherly to the extent that she
presented herself as a strong, cool, and distant figure; but his father seemed
a warm, amiable protector. The older Mayo preferred to view life as an
adventure shaped by fortune rather than as a career achieved through
heavy effort; yet he insisted that the son take the arduous path of medicine.
His mother preferred to assert herself in public speaking and uphold hard
work and ambition, yet she did not like to see thrusting assertiveness in the
behavior of her elder son. His father wanted his children to have access to
parents and grownups at all times; thus they would always feel cared for, be
given direction when lost, be helped in solving family squabbles, and have
a place to come home to. He wanted his children to get on well with one
another and he promoted a democratic atmosphere in family life; his elder
son made participation and cooperative social relations at work a leading
goal for modern industrial society. His mother wanted her children to be
spared the presence of adults and to have playmates to help them learn the
social skills needed to stand well with their age peers; her elder son made
this recommendation the center of his theory about the socialization of
children and a vital condition for the establishment of a personality free
from disabling obsessions. Both parents taught Mayo to value science and
education, not only to provide him with technical skills but also to impart
a high moral purpose and the social skills to achieve it that would aid him
in efforts to make the world a better place than it had been when he entered
it. To Mayo’s father, this was a dream, like shooting for the moon; to Mayo’s
mother, it was realistic goal, especially if one could become accepted in
England and serve or influence important people. And medicine was the
proper path.
School introduced Mayo to more of life’s inconsistencies. At home he
had become well read by learning simply to follow his own interests, and he
did not welcome being pushed along a specific course of learning, but in
the classroom he saw that others were achieving better results than he. He
responded by becoming an eccentric among his fellow pupils and chose
independent rather than team games. He seemed to have no school friends.
And school conflicted with family life on many points: authority, hard
work, daydreaming, talking, leisure. So it was at school Mayo began on his
collision course with society; when he was hurt he felt himself unworthy
and this lack of self-esteem was exacerbated by the religious instruction
that placed so much emphasis on the conviction of sin that young people
were obliged to suffer.
 Character and Contributions 361

Olive’s death at the hands of an incompetent doctor put a question mark

over the high value placed by the family on medicine as a career, but Mayo
accepted his parents’ demands that he, like his respected grandfather, enter
medicine. It was to be a matter of how he did so. His failure to prepare
successfully for a medical career after a good beginning showed he was
caught between his mother’s insistance on achievement through hard work
and his father’s view of great effort as comical. Also university life allowed
him freedom with companionship, but he had not acquired the skills for
disciplined social relations. As an act of adolescent defiance, Mayo’s failure
dealt a heavy blow to his parents’ respectability and to his own self-esteem.
To mature, he was sent away to endure a depressing series of failures and a
listless period of adolescent melancholy in England.
In England he was drawn out of melancholy and dark obsessions about
his worthlessness when his sister patiently applied her newfound clinical
skills to his unmerited view of personal inadequacy. From the emotional
life of a young patient emerged the skill and knowledge of clinical observa­
tion. Mayo began to take an interest in the outside world. Briefly he entered
the Working Men’s College to teach and join in the social life of working
men; there he learned that he could interest a group, conduct a lively
discussion, and combine the technique of teaching with the social life of
pupil and teacher. Also, in the paintings of Antoine Wiertz he saw vividly
how universal were the miserable consequences of rapid industrialization
of society and work. These feelings of anger at an unfair world were clar­
ified, refined, and given communicable form when Mayo returned home
and found a consistently admirable model for his intellectual life in Pro­
fessor William Mitchell at the University of Adelaide. Mitchell, more than
anyone else, helped Mayo to master his inner conflict, to integrate his ideas
and, as Mayo himself once put it, “to answer my questions.”
Not until he met Henderson did Mayo again find such a stabilizing
figure to help him make his ideas and feelings cohere.

Notes

1. The people who provided inform ation for this chapter were: Arlie V. Bock; Eliot
D. Chappie; Hilda Carter Fletcher; John H. Findley; George Homans; Frances
and “K itch” Jordan; Harold D. Lasswell; George F.F.Lombard; Osgood S. Love-
kin; Edm und P. Learned; Patricia and Ruth Elton Mayo; Henry A. Murray; Ruth
N orton; Andrew Towl; and Lord Monsell.
2. The training of supervisors and managers had been separated formally from the
activities of counselors; consequently, their expert knowledge of hum an problems
was not directly com municated to those who planned the training programs.
Also, the counselors did not fully understand how to contribute what they had
discovered to the training staff because they did not appreciate how the therapeu­
tic role that they filled could best be related to formal authority structure that
usually directs behavior at work.
3. M erriam to Ruml, 24 April 1926, M erriam Papers, University of Chicago
Library.
362 ElTHre M ayonist Temper

Elton Mayo, 1892

 Photographs 363

Elton Mayo at St. Peter (1896?)

364 Elton Mayo

Elton Mayo as a university student, 1906-1910

Henrietta Mayo, Elton’s mother George Gibbs Mayo, Elton’s father
 Writings of Elton Mayo

1904
“The Australian Crisis.” Pall M all Gazette 78, 12 May, pp. 1-2.

1911
Official Report o f the Inaugural Ceremony; ed. Brisbane; University of Queensland.
“The Inadequacy of Pragmatism.” Address to Students’ Christian Union, Univer­
sity of Queensland.
“Criticism ” Address to Students’ Christian Union, University of Queensland.

1912
“The Function of Religious Services.” Special lecture to Presbyterian M en’s Society,
Brisbane, Queensland.
“ Religion and Psychology.” Special lecture to Theological College, N undah,
Queensland.
“Religion and Religious Services.” Address to Students’ Christian Union, Univer­
sity of Queensland.

1913
“The University and the State.” Queensland University M agazine 1,5: 148-49.
“School.” Queensland University M ag a zin e!, 1: 9.
“Professional Ethics.” Australian Journal o f Dentistry 17: 264-67.
“The Philosophical Attitude to Religion.” Official Report o f the Australian Church
Congress 8: 69, 74.
“The M odern Development of Banking.” Inaugural address to Queensland Bankers
Association, Brisbane.
“The Divinity of Christ.” Address to Students’ Christian Union, University of
Queensland.
“Sub-consciousness.” Special lecture to Theological College, Nundah, Queensland.

1915
“The Limits of Logical Validity.” Mind, New Series, 24: 70-74.
The University War Committee, ed. Brisbane: McGregor.

367
368 Elton Mayo

Som e Considerations Affecting Organisation for the Production o f M unitions o f

War, ed. Pamphlet No. 1. Brisbane: University War Commitee (McGregor).
Industrial Organisation and the Cost o f War, ed. Pamphlet No. 2. Brisbane: Univer­
sity War Committee (McGregor).

1916
“National Organization: The Referendum and After.” Unidentified newspaper clip­
ping, October 29. State Library of South Australia.
“Ring Down the C urtain,” with Anna F. Booth. In Lady Galways Belgium Book,
ed. M. C. Galway. Adelaide: Hussey & Gillingham. Pp. 40-48.

1919
“Industrial Autonomy.” M agazine o f the University o f Queensland, pp. 5, 6, 8.
Democracy and Freedom: An Essay in Social Logic. Workers’ Educational Series,
No. 1. Melbourne: Macmillan.
“Notes on Consciousness and Attention.” In H um an Relations: Concepts and Cases
in Concrete Social Issues, vol. 1, ed. H. Cabot and J. A. Kahl. Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1953. Excerpts from Mayo’s psychology lectures at
the University of Queensland.

1920
“Australian Political Consciousness.” In Australia: Economic and Political Studies,
ed. M. Atkinson. Melbourne: Macmillan. Pp. 127-44.

1921
Discussant, G.E. Rennie, “Psychoanalysis in the Treatment of Mental and Moral
Deficiency.” In Transactions o f the Australian Medical Congress, 11th Ses­
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1922
Psychology and Religion. Melbourne: Macmillan.
“Civilisation and Morale”; “Industrial Unrest and ‘Nervous Breakdown’” ; “The
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“Psychology in Relation to Psychoanalysis and Applied Psychology.” Address to
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1923
“The Irrational Factor in Society.” Journal o f Personnel Research 1: 419-26.
“Irrationality and Revery.” Journal o f Personnel Research 1: 477-83.
 Writings of Elton Mayo 369

“The Irrational Factor in H um an Behaviour: The ‘Night-M ind’ in Industry.” A n­

nals o f the Academy o f Political and Social Science 110: 117-30.
“Superstitions.” Continental Pathfinder (Continental Mills, Germantown, Phila­
delphia, Pa.) 3: 1, 5.

1924
“Revery and Industrial Fatigue.” Journal o f Personnel Research 3: 273-81.
“Mental Hygiene in Industry.” Transactions o f the College o f Physicians (Phila­
delphia), Third Series, 46: 736-48.
“Civilized Unreason ” Harpers 148: 527-35.
“Civilization— The Perilous Adventure.” Harpers 149: 590-97.
“The Basis of Industrial Psychology: The Psychology of the Total Situation Is Basic
to a Psychology of Management.” Bulletin o f the Taylor Society (New York)
9: 249-59.

1925
“Daydreaming and O utput in a Spinning Mill: An Investigation in a Pennsylvania
Mill.” National Institute o f Industrial Psychology Journal 2: 203-9.
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“Open Letter to Robert W. Bruere.” Survey (East Stroudsburg, Pa.) 54: 644-45.
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Taylor Society October, pp. 220-25.
“Should Marriage Be M onotonous?” Harpers 151: 420-27. Reprinted in Journal o f
Social Hygiene 11: 521-35.

1926
“Psychiatry in Industry.” Bulletin o f Massachusetts Society for M ental Hygiene 5: 2,
4.
“The Approach to Psychological Investigation.” Proceedings o f the Social Science
Research Council Conference, Hanover, NH, August 27, 1926.

1927
“Sin with a C ap ital‘S.’” Harper’s 154: 537-45.
“The Dynamics of Family Relationships” Child Study, May, pp. 6-7.
“The Scientific Approach to Industrial Relations.” Proceedings ofY.M .C .A. Con­
ference on Hum an Relations in Industry, September, 19-23, 1927.
“Surrey Textile Com pany” Harvard Business Reports 4: 100-115.
“Orientation and Attention: Mental Hygiene in Industry.” In The Psychological
Foundations o f M anagem ent, ed. H.C. Metcalfe. New York: Shaw. Pp.
261-90.

1929
“The M aladjustment of the Industrial Worker.” In Wertheim Lectures in Industrial
Relations, 1928. ed. O.S. Berger et al. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Pp. 165-96.
“W hat Is M onotony?” Hum an Factor 5: 3-4.
370 Elton Mayo

1930
“Changes in Industry: The Broad Significance of the Western Electric Investiga­
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conference of the Personnel Research Federation at New York, November 15,
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“The Western Electric Company Experiment ” H um an Factor 6, 1: 1-2.
‘Changing Methods in Industry.” Personnel Journal 8: 326-32.
“The H um an Effect of Mechanization.” American Economic Review 20, supp:
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A New Approach to Industrial Relations. Boston: Graduate School of Business
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“Psychology in Industry.” Ohio State University Bulletin 35, 3: 83-92.
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“Recent Industrial Researches of the Western Electric Company in Chicago ” Pro­
ceedings o f the Balliol College Conference, September, 1930. Pp. 38-55.

1931
“Psychopathologic Aspects of Industry.” Transactions o f the American Neurological
Association 57: 468-75.
“Economic Stability and the Standard of Living.” Harvard Business School Alum ni
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“Supervision and Morale.” National Institute o f Industrial Psychology Journal 5:
248-60.

1932
“The Problem of Working Together” (broadcast). In Psychology Today: Lectures
and Study Manual, ed. W.V. Bingham. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
“The Study of Consumption and Markets.” Paper delivered before a meeting of the
M anagement Library, London, July. Reviewed, Bulletin o f the International
Management Institute (Geneva) 6, 11 (November).

1933
“The Dynamic Pose.” Harvard Business School Alum ni Bulletin 9, 3: 95-97.
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1934
“H um an Relations in Industry.” M ental Health Observer 2, 4: 1, 8.
Foreword to M anagement and the Worker: Technical versus Social Organization in
an Industrial Plant, by F.J. Roethlisberger and W.J. Dickson. Boston: Divi­
sion of Research, G raduate School of Business A dm inistration, Harvard
University.
 Writings of Elton Mayo 371

1935
“The Blind Spot in Scientific Management.” Proceedings o f the Development Sec­
tion, Sixth Annual Congress for Scientific Management 3: 214-18.

1936
“Social Change and Its Effect on the Training of the Child ” Proceedings o f a Con­
ference on Education and the Exceptional Child, Woods Schools, Langhorne,
Pennsylvania2: 11-16.
“The Effects of Social Environm ent,” with L.J. Henderson. Journal o f Industrial
Hygiene and Toxicology 18: 401-16.

1937
“W hat Every Village Knows.” Survey Graphic 26 (13 November): 695-98.
“Security, Personal and Social.” New England Journal o f Medicine 217: 38-39.
“Psychiatry and Sociology in Relation to Social Disorganization.” American Jour­
nal o f Sociology 42: 825-31.

1938
“Significant Conclusions of Personnel.” Proceedings o f the Seventh International
Congress, Washington, D.C. Baltimore: Waverley Press. Pp. 198-99.
Foreword to The Industrial Worker: A Statistical Study o f Hum an Relations in a
Group o f M anual Workers, by T.N. Whitehead. Cambridge: Harvard Univer­
sity Press. Pp. vii-viii.

1939
“Frightened People.” Harvard M edical Alum ni Bulletin 13, 2: 2-7.
“Routine Interaction and the Problem of Collaboration.” American Sociological
Review A: 335-40.
“Homo M ensura.” Journal o f Comite National de VOrganisation Frangaise.
Preface to M anagement and the Worker, by F.J. Roethlisberger and W.J. Dickson.
Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

1940
“Industrial Research.” Harvard Business School Alunm i Bulletin 16, 2: 3-8.

1941
“Research in H um an Relations.” Personnel 17, 4: 264-69.
Descent into Chaos. New England Conference on National Defense, April 5.
Boston: Graduate School of Business Administration, Harvard University.
“The Fifth Columnists of Business: Opportunities in Management for Men Who
Can Grasp Handling of H um an Affairs.” Harvard Business School Alum ni
Bulletin 18, 1: 33-34.
Foreword to M anagement and Morale, by EJ. Roethlisberger. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press. Pp. xv-xxii.
372 Elton Mayo

1942
“The Study of H um an Problems of Administration.” Harvard Business School
A lum ni Bulletin 18, 1: 231-32.

1943
Foreword to Absenteeism: M anagem ents Problem, by John B. Fox and Jerome F
Scott. Boston: Division of Research, Graduate School of Business Admin­
istration, Harvard University.

1944
Teamwork and Labor Turnover in the Aircraft Industry o f Southern California, with
G.FE Lombard. Boston: Division of Research, Graduate School of Business
Administration, Harvard University.

1945
“G roup Tensions in Industry.” In Approaches to National Unity, ed. L. Bryson, L.
Finkelstein, and R.M. Maclver. New York: Harper. Pp. 46-60.
“Supervision and What It Means.” In Studies in Supervision, ed. D.E. Cameron.
Montreal: McGill University. Pp. 5-27.
The Social Problems o f an Industrial Civilization. Boston: Division of Research,
G raduate School of Business Administration, Harvard University.

1946
“W hat Do Workers Want?” Reviewing Stand 8, 1: 3-10.
“Letter to the Editor.” Harvard Law School Record, August 21.

1947
The Political Problem o f Industrial Civilization. Boston: Division of Research,
Graduate School of Business Administration, Harvard University.
“Problems of an Industrial Civilization.” Journal o f the Institute o f Personnel M an­
agement. November: 264-69.
“An Industrial Ciivilization” (review of lecture). News (National Institute of Indus­
trial Psychology), November.

1948
Som e Notes on the Psychology o f Pierre Janet. Cambridge: Harvard University
Press.
“Britain and America: Industrial Studies: Development of Free Communication.”
Letter to Times (London), August 11.
“Rem ote Control in Industry: An Organizational Difficulty” Letter to Times
(London), December 2.

1949
“H um an Problems in Industry” World Review, New Series, 3 (May): 5-8.
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 General Index

Aberfoyle Textile Com pany, 178–80 Baker, Elizabeth E , 239–40

A dam s, Brooks, 177, 219, 231, 250, 315 Barker, E rnest, 91, 214
Addis Index, 205, 206, 216, 229 B arnard, Chester, 290, 330–31, 337, 341
A ddison, Stanley S., 144, 145, 148, 165 “B arnstorm ing” in England, 344
Adelaide U niversity A rts A ssociation, 54, 56 B arton, Sir E d m u n d , 103
Adelaide U niversity U n io n , 38 B ernheim , H ., 121
Adler, A lfred, 103 Beveridge, Sir W illiam , 221
Advertiser (Adelaide), 98 B ezanson, A nne, 154
A dvertising M en’s Institute, 120 Biggs, Aubrey W., 80
A llport, G o rd o n , 216, 283 BIM (British Institute o f M anagem ent), 307,
A LP (A ustralian L abour Party), 42–43, 45, 344
56, 57, 89, 90, 91, 94, 95, 123, 135 B inet, Alfred, 117
AM A (A m erican M a n ag em en t A sssocia– B ingham , W alter V., 151, 187, 190, 230, 237,
tion), 290 240, 254, 261
A m erican, The, 152 Bjerre, A ndreas, 214, 235
A m erican A cadem y o f Political and Social Bjerre, Paul, 177
Science, 187 Blazijak, Ladislas, 229, 258
A m erican A ssociation o f Social W orkers, Boer War, 87
288 Bogotowicz, Adeline, 229, 230
A m erican Brass Com pany, 325 B ohem ian Club (San Francisco), 148
A m erican Journal o f Public H ealth, 261 B ooth, A nna, 89
A m erican Journal o f Social H ygiene, 193 B osanquet, Sir Day, 54
A m erican Journal o f Sociology, 261–62, 265 Boston C ham ber of C om m erce, 197
A m erican Psychological A ssociation, 156, Boston M anufacturing Com pany, 206
159 Boston Psychopathic C linic, 160
A m erican Sociological R eview , 283 Boston Psychopathic H ospital, 197, 200
A m ulree, (Lord), 241 B ott, E.A., 184, 190
A nderson, Francis, 130 Bowral (New South Wales), 103
Angell, Jam es R ., 153, 190, 308 Boyle, Betty, 321
A rchibald Prize (U niversity o f Q ueensland), B raid, Jam es, 121
78 Bramwell, M ilne, 214
Arensberg, C o n rad , 300 Bridges, A n n , 271
Argus, The (M elbourne), 98, 145 Brill, A lexander A ., 105, 153
A tkinson, M eredith, 95, 96, 114, 122, 130 Brisbane Courier, 95
A ustralia C lub, 103 British Association for the A dvancem ent of
A ustralian C hristian C om m onw ealth, 98 Science, 83, 192, 241, 248
A ustralian E ducation Fraternity, 121 British Industrial Fatigue B oard, 221

377
378 Elton Mayo

British M edical A ssociation, 143 C onklen, E .G ., 184

British R ed Cross Society, 89, 129, 143 C ontinental M ills, 174, 175, 176, 178, 179,
British Research an d M anagem ent Associa­ 191, 199, 207, 215, 216, 289, 331, 346
tio n , 251 Cooley, Jo h n , 300, 321
Brown, C olonel, 176, 177 Corey, R aym ond E., 13
Brownell, (Mr.), 207 C ouncil on Foreign R elations, 308
B ruce, H. A ddington, 159 Coward, N oel, 349, 350
B ruere, R o b ert W., 192 Crawford, D onald, 116
Bryn Mawr, 160, 181, 197 C ressbrook, 65, 66, 79–80
B ulw urradah, 79 C ripps, Sir Stafford, 345
Burr, Charles W., 191 C ulpin, M illais, 221
Byng, E.S., 306 C urtis, Lionel, 87–88
C urtis, Melville, G ., 173, 174
C abot, Phillip, 291, 298–99, 311, 322
“C abot W eekends, ” 298–99, 311, 321 D aily M a il (Brisbane), 98
Cam bridge C ham ber o f C om m erce, 215 D aily Standard (Brisbane), 98, 115
C am ero n , Ew en, 332 D an a, Charles L ., 155
C am pbell, M cFie, 190, 197, 200, 238, 240 D artm o u th College, 151, 216, 332
C an ad a, 47–48 D artm o u th conferences on social sciences,
C attell, Jam es M cK een, 150, 160, 187 181, 190–91, 193, 216,
Cavan, R u th , 210 D avis, Allison, 300
C ham berlain, N eville, 312–13 D avid, D onald K ., 323, 324, 326, 341, 346
C harcot, Jean –M artin 117, 121, 216 D avis, W atson, 289, 290
C hase Brass a n d C o p p er C o m p an y , 325, D aw son, C hristopher L ., 332
326, 327 Day, E dm und E ., 240, 248
Chase, S tu art, 265, 331, 335, 345 Delboeuf, J., 117, 121
Chester, D .N ., 332 D ennison, H enry, 246
C h ild ’s C o n c ep tio n o f th e W orld, T h e , D epartm ent o f C orrespondence Studies, 119
(Piaget), 235 Dewey, John 155, 156, 162
C hing, C.S., 204–5, 240 Dicey, A lbert V., 45, 138
C lark, M arcella, 61 D ickson, W illiam J., 6 , 7, 243, 244, 246,
C lark, Pierce, 156 254, 257, 258, 287, 335
Clay, H enry, 240 D odge, R aym ond, 150, 156, 190
C leland, Jo h n , 39, 40, 41, 4 4, 47 D ods, Espie J., 132
C obb, Stanley, 145 D ods, M ary, 160
C o h n , Edw in, 310, 311 D onaldson, H .H ., 181
C o h n , H arry, 305–6 D o n a ld s o n , M ay H e n rie tta . S e e M a y o ,
C olbert, Jessica, 146, 147, 148, 149, 152 H enrietta (Hetty)
C olbourne, Frances, 181, 187 D onaldson, St. Clair, 70, 155
C o lb u rn , A rthur, 300 D o n h am , Wallace B rett, 4 , 5, 6, 10, 197, 198,
Collins and A ikm an C om pany, 173, 174 199, 213, 249, 294, 295, 303, 308, 310,
Colonial Inn (Bryn Mawr), 188 315, 322, 323, 324, 335, 351, 353, 357
C olorado Fuel and Iron C om pany, 208–10 D oriot, George E , 240, 304–5
C olum bia Pictures C orporation, 305 D orset (England), 218
C olum bia University, 152 D ouglas, W illiam O., 332
C om m onw ealth A rbitration C o u rt, 94, 120 D rake, B arbara, 139
C om m onw ealth B ank, 96 D rucker, Peter F , 335, 337, 338
C om m onw ealth D ep artm ent o f H ealth, 145 D uggan, Stephen P., 143
C om m onw ealth Institute o f Science and In­ D unlop, K night, 146, 187
dustry, 131 D urkheim , Em ile, 214, 259, 290, 308, 315,
C o m m unity o f the R esurrection, 334 329
C o n an t, Jam es B., 331 D yason, C .E., 145
 General Index 379

Ebough, F ranklin, 182, 185 G oold–A dam s, Sir H am ilton Jo h n , 88

Edsall, D avid, 198, 202, 240 G leeson, Josephine, 185
Edw ards, Lewis D ., 127 G ra n t, W illiam A ., 312
E liot, D .E G ., 249 G reat War, The. See W orld War I
E liot, W illiam Y., 312 G reen, T.H., 91
Elliotson, Jo h n , 121 Gregg, A lan, 321, 322, 324, 325, 327, 335,
Ely, R ichard D ., 326 345, 355
Esdaile, Jam es, 121
E y res–M o n se ll, G ra h a m (L o rd M o n sell), H albw achs, M aurice, 259
272, 277, 278, 279, 293, 297–98, 300, 321, H all, D u n can , 314
354 H am ilton, G.V., 190, 193
H am ilto n , M ary Agnes, 312
Farm er, Eric, 221 H arrim an , John W., 332
Fatigue L aboratory, 6, 201, 202, 221, 239, H a rt, B ernard, 221
243, 252, 258 H arvard Business School, 2, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10,
Fere, C harles, 117 11, 12, 13, 15, 58, 99, 193, 197, 199, 201,
Figgis, Jo h n , 315, 321, 330 202, 204, 210, 213, 218, 240–41, 243, 245,
Filene, A. L incoln, 198 252, 263, 264, 296, 322–23, 324, 327, 334,
First W orld War. See W orld War I 335, 337, 346
Fisher, D orothy Canfield, 291 H arvard M edical School, 279
Fisher, W.E., 154 H arvard University, 145, 146, 147, 156, 158,
F lin n , (Miss), 127, 128 171, 181, 197, 198, 201, 296–97, 341
Florence, R Sargent, 251 H a rv a rd U n iv e rsity D e p a rtm e n t o f A n ­
Foreign Policy A ssociation, 151, 308, 310, thropology, 296
311, 312 H arvard University Press, 263, 345
F ord, A ugust, 117, 121 H atfield, (Dean), 146
Forsyth, Mrs. Jo h n , 61 Haug (Hegland), A nna, 229, 258
Fortune, 333 H aw th o rn e W orks. S ee W estern E lectric
Fosdick, R aym ond B., 150, 151–52, 166, 208 C om pany researches
Fox, J o h n , 298, 323, 326, 327, 328 Hayes, Joseph, 156
Frazer, J.G ., 214, 221 Healey, W illiam , 156, 159
Free K indergarten U n io n , 145 H eato n , H erb ert, 97–98
F reud, S igm und, 16, 78, 97, 98, 99, 103, 105, H enderson, Larry, 277, 278, 300, 359
117, 121, 144, 149, 150, 152, 153, 156, 161, H enderson, Lawrence J., 4, 5, 6, 9, 10, 17,
182, 184, 199, 236, 259, 268, 274, 283, 197, 198, 201, 202–4, 221, 238, 239, 247,
284, 291–92, 297, 342 288, 290, 293, 295, 298, 303, 310, 322,
Friedrich, Carl F , 317 323, 324, 325, 350, 351, 353, 354, 358–59,
Functions o f the E xecutive (B arnard), 290 361
H errick, C.J., 190
Galway, Lady M arie, 89 Hersey, Rexford B., 179–80
G andy, M aria, 25–26, 32 H ibbert Journal, 89
G anski, M ary, 229 Herald, The (M elbourne), 97, 143
Gay, Edwin F , 190 H ill, A.V., 221
Gebrovosky, Vsevelod, 276–77 H itler, Adolf, 99, 275, 312, 313, 314–15, 317,
G ibson, J. L o ck h art, 132 330, 331, 332, 335
G ilb ert, Mrs. L .H ., 178 HM AS S ydney, 322
G illanders, (Dr.), 145, 146, 147, 148 Holderer, George B., 325, 326
G ilson, M ary B., 253, 265–67 Hollywood, 304–6
G insberg, M orris, 214 H om ans, George C ., 9, 10, 295, 300, 321,
G oetz, Walter, 275 323, 352, 354
G o ld m ark , J.C ., 214 H ood R ubber Com pany, 207
G oldw yn, Sam , 304, 305 Hoover, J. Edgar, 288
380 Elton Mayo

H osford, W illiam E , 237, 262, 263, 264 F o u n d atio n , 150, 151, 165–66, 190, 198,
H ughes, W illiam , 131, 145 199, 201
H u x h am , Jo h n , 115, 139 L aym an, T heresa, 229, 258
L earned, E d m u n d , 335, 338
ILO (In ternational L abor Office), 240, 241 Le B on, G ustave, 96, 97, 98
Industrial A ustralian M in in g Standard, 120, Lee, M arion, 205
134 L eighton, A lexander H ., 332
In d u strial R elations C ounselors, 152, 208, Lenape C lub, 157, 181
210, 231, 237, 253, 265 Le Play, Frederic, 315, 329
Lew in, K u rt, 12
Jackson b rothers, th e, 174, 175 L ip p m an n , Walter, 308, 316
Jacobs, G eorge W., 51, 52 L o m b a rd , G eorge F.E, 19, 298, 300, 321,
Jam es, Cyril, 332, 341 323, 325, 326, 327, 328, 335, 338, 341,
Jam es, W illiam , 117, 214 345, 347
Ja n et, P ierre, 3–4 , 11, 16, 17, 54, 67, 103, 117, L o ndon, 39–48, 61, 221–23, 257, 262
121, 144, 153, 156, 161, 181, 184, 189, 199, Los Angeles, 290
214, 215, 216, 221, 236, 240, 259, 274, L ovekin, Osgood S., 199, 205, 206, 229, 232,
277, 280, 282, 283, 284, 300, 321, 322, 239, 244, 252
330, 343, 345 Lowell, A. Lawrence, 198, 199
Jen k in s, John G ., 290, 332, 335 Lowell lectures, 250, 258–81
Jewish Defense C ouncil, 316 Lowson, J.P., 129
Jo int C om m ittee for Tutorial Classes, 114 Lucas, Sir Charles, 54, 138
Jones, How ard M u m ford, 332 L u d lu m , S. D e W it, 181, 183, 185, 187,
Journal o f Industrial H ygiene, 250 188–89, 198, 214, 215
Journal o f Personnel Research, 162, 185 “L unchers, T he,” talk, 208, 229
Ju n g , Carl Gustav, 16, 78, 79, 95–96, 97, 98, L ynd, R obert S., 240
103, 105, 117, 144, 156, 184, 214, 236
M cA rthur, John H ., 13
K acikek, Allika, 229 M c C o n n e l, B a rb a ra (siste r–i n –law ), 6 6 ,
Kellog, V ernon, 148, 149, 150, 152–53 112–14, 132
K em p, Eleanor Cissley, 143 M cC onnel, D orothea. See Mayo, D orothea
K ennedy’s M oving Picture C orporation, 207 (wife)
Kenworthy, M ario n , 291 M cC onnel, Edgar, (brother–in–law), 80
K im m in s, C.W., 191 M cC onnel, Elspeth (sister–in–law), 80
K ipling, R udyard, 275 M cConnel family, 65–66, 79, 103
K ingston, Charles, 28 M cC onnel, Jam es H enry (father–in–law), 65,
K leitm an , 215 80
K nibbs, G eorge, H ., 131 M cC onnel, Judith (sister–in–law), 80
K ohler, Wolfgang, 190 M cC o n n el, K ath erin e (sister–in –law), 80,
K orda, A lexander, 304, 305 110–11
K ornhauser, A rthur, 187, 247–48, 261 M cC onnel, M ary Elizabeth (m other–in –law),
Krafft–E bing, R ichard von, 117, 121 65, 66, 95, 111, 112, 113, 114
Kroeber, Alfred L., 146, 149 M cC onnel, U rsula (sister–in –law), 80, 103,
110, 111–12, 113, 128, 297
L a d y Galway B elgium B ook, 89 M cD onald, Ellice, 188–89
Lahy, J.M ., 240 M cD onald, Jam es G ., 308
Landsberger, H .A ., 268 M cD ougall, W illiam , 133, 146, 159, 162, 308
Langfeld, H erbert S., 146, 158 M cGill University, 197, 198, 329, 332, 341
Laski, H aro ld , 221 Macgregor, Sir W illiam , 70
Lasswell, H arold D ., 199 M aclver, R obert, 214
L a u ra S p e lm a n R o c k e fe lle r M e m o ria l M ajor Barbara (Shaw), 89, 275
 General Index 381

M alinow ski, Bronislaw, 4 , 17, 83–85, 97, 133, Mayo, Olive (brother), 26, 30, 31, 36, 137,
184, 191, 199, 201, 210, 213, 214, 221, 222, 361
240 M ayo, P atricia E lton (Patty, Toni [daugh­
M anagem ent and th e W o rker ter]), 79, 80, 81, 103, 184, 187, 188, 223,
(R o e th lisb e rg e r a n d D ic k so n ), 7 , 201, 271, 272–76, 293, 304, 309, 315, 321, 322,
264–66, 289, 322 334, 341, 343, 345, 346
M ansbridge, A lbert, 62, 221 “Mayo Syndrom e,” 341
M arkovitch, E loinia, 229 “Mayo W eekend, T h e,” 335–38
Marley, (Lord), 332 Mayo, W illiam G odfrey (brother), 26
M a rtin , Everett D ., 155 M edical Diseases o f the War (H urst), 118
M asland & Sons, 172–73, 182 M eehan, 132
M asson, Elsie, 85, 222 M elbourne (Australia), 84, 143–45
M a tth e w so n , T h o m a s R .H ., 104–13, 125, M elbourne University A ssociation, 144
126, 131, 149 M ental H ygiene, 261
M aurice, C .E., 45 M eriam , R ichard, 243, 245
M aurice, E D ., 44 M erriam , Charles E ., 150, 185, 190, 355
M auss, M arcel, 221 M esm er, Franz A ., 121
M ayo, Charles (Colonel), 39, 40 M ichie, Jo h n , 66, 69, 70, 77, 83, 129, 149
Mayo (nee M cConnel), D orothea (wife), 46, M iles, D .G .H ., 221, 251
65, 66, 67–70, 79–82, 84, 85, 95, 96, 103, M iller Lock Com pany, 174, 175, 178
104, 108, 111, 112, 113, 123, 131–3 2 , M itchell, Wesley, 240
136–38, 139, 144, 145, 148, 149, 155, 156, M itchell, Sir W illiam , 52–54, 56, 57, 59, 70,
157, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 188, 75, 98, 144, 145, 165, 199, 361
201, 203, 218, 222–23, 232, 233, 234, 253, M ontpelier P rivate H o tel, 61, 70, 79, 82,
254, 271, 273, 276, 293, 304, 334, 338, 105, 109, 112
341, 343, 344, 345, 347, 349–50, 353, 355 M oore, W ilbert E., 333
M ayo, Eric, 322 M u m m e, H orace G ., 52
Mayo family, 25–32 M urray, Charles, 197
M a y o , G e o r g e ( “ O ld D o c to r M a y o ” M urray, H enry A ., 197, 214
[grandfather]), 25–26, 30, 31, 32, 39, 137 M uscio, B ernard, 130
M ayo, George Elton. See Elton Mayo Index, Musgrove, 147–48, 149
385–92 M ussolini, B enito, 99, 315, 331, 335
M ayo, George G ibbes (father), 26, 29, 30, 31, Muzzey, David S., 191
36, 38, 39, 46, 47, 51, 79, 136–37, 360 M yers, Charles S., 129, 184, 221, 249, 261,
M ayo, Helen (sister), 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 306, 344
32, 36, 37, 38, 40, 41–42, 43, 44, 46, 47, M yerson, A braham , 197
48, 51, 53, 58, 145, 217, 361
M ayo, H erbert (later Sir H erbert [brother]), N ath an , Sir M atthew, 139, 221, 222
25, 26, 30, 31, 32, 36, 37, 51, 52, 61, 145, N ational Council for M ental Hygiene, 153,
149, 152 156, 159
M ayo (n ee D o n ald so n ), H e n rie tta (H etty N ational Council of W om en, 95
[m other]), 26, 29, 30, 38, 39, 43, 51, 152, N ational Research C ouncil (W ashington),
221, 289, 360 93, 148, 149, 150, 156, 162, 190, 225, 329
M ayo, Jo h n C hristian (brother), 26, 32, 51, N ature, 332
145 Nellie the m aid, 79
M ayo, M ary Penelope (sister), 26, 32, 36, 51, Neuroses, L es (Janet), 189
54 N ew buryport (“Yankee City”) studies, 200,
M ayo, M aria (grandm other), 26 201, 202, 246, 251, 252, 296, 300, 321,
M ayo, Gael Elton (R uth [daughter]), 81, 188, 342, 346, 352
223, 271, 276–77, 293, 304, 317, 321, 322, New Castle study, 300, 321, 352
345 New R epublic, 261
382 Elton Mayo

New York Psychoanalytic Society, 153 238, 240, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248,
N ew York S u n , 261 249, 251, 252, 253, 254, 257, 262
N ew York T im es, 284 P yrem ont Hospital (Brisbane), 110, 111–12
N IIP (N ational Institute of Industrial Psy­
chology, Britain), 184, 221, 250–51, 303,
Q ueen’s School, 35
304, 306–7, 341, 344
Q ueensland, election in 1918, 95–97
N oble, R alp h , 132
Q u e e n s la n d G o v e rn m e n t S avings B an k
N o rth co tt, C .H ., 251
Scare, 96
N SW (New South Wales) Railway Strike of
Q ueensland N ational Party, 95, 96
1917, 94, 176

O sborne, Emily Paysen, 178, 186, 199, 204, Radcliff–Brown, A .R ., 80

205, 207, 210, 229, 230, 252, 253, 258 R adford, Lewis, 70
Otago Presbyterian C hurch, 70 R adio talks, 254, 288
O uthw aite, L eonard, 152, 162, 164, 185 R appard, W illiam , 308
R ea d er’s Digest, 265
Pacific U n ion C lub, 148 Redfield, R o b ert, 296
P areto, Vilfredo, 260, 268, 305, 315 Referendum on C onscription, 92
P ark, R o b ert E., 259, 260–61 R eid, (Mrs.), 79
Peirce, Charles S., 67, 117, 231 Relay Assem bly Test R oom . See W estern
Pennock, G eorge, 222, 230, 231, 232, 233, Electric C om pany Researches
234, 236, 237, 238, 240, 244, 247, 248, R ennie, G eorge, 128
249, 250, 251, 253, 257, 262 R ice, C .G ., 234, 262
Personnel Journal, 240 Richardson Jr., Frederick, 300
Personnel Research F oundation, 190, 230, R oberts, Stephen, 314
237, 287 R obinson, Jam es H ., 155, 156
P h elan , E.J., 240 E ssays Towards Truth (R obinson, K.A.), 192
Philadelphia, 153–66, 171–91 R obinson, Sir T hom as, 132
P hiladelphia Textile Employers’ A ssociation, Rockefeller F oundation, 4, 5, 17, 145, 161,
173 219, 240, 276, 298, 323, 324, 335, 344,
Piaget, Je an , 4 , 216, 217, 221, 233, 235, 240, 347, 351
291, 292 Rockefeller, John D. Jr., 151, 152, 153, 166,
Pickwick C lub, 55, 59 173, 208, 223
P itt–Rivers, George H .L .F , 133–34, 145, 159, Roethlisberger, Fritz J., 6–12, 116, 199, 200–1,
184, 199, 210, 218, 221, 222, 240 205, 214, 216, 243, 244, 245, 250, 252,
P lan t, J.S., 259, 333 257, 258, 262, 263, 265, 266, 267, 287,
Poincare, H en ri, 216, 231 290, 291, 293, 294–95, 297, 298, 300, 313,
Political Science A ssociation, 185 315, 321, 322, 323, 335, 338, 341, 345,
Powers, Jam es, 308 347, 351, 352, 354
P ra tt, A m brose, 120, 134, 138 Rogers, Carl, 328
P ra tt, Joseph, 272, 277, 278, 300 Roosevelt, Eleanor, 293
Price, Douglas, 122 R o u n d Table, The, 87–88, 90
Prince, M o rto n , 184, 214 R ow ntree, Seebohm , 240, 241, 344
Private Lives (Coward), 349 R u m l, Beardsley, 143, 150–51, 152, 153, 154,
Proper S tu d y o f M a n kin d , The (Chase), 345 156, 159, 161, 164, 166, 175, 182, 185, 190,
Psychical Research Society, 128 191, 198, 223, 229, 246, 253, 304, 323, 341
Psychological B ulletin, 265 Russell Lea H ospital (New South Wales),
Psychology o f M urder, The (Bjerre), 235 107, 129, 132
Public Lecture C om m ittee, 114, 115 Russell Sage F oundation, 209
Pueblo, 209–10 R uttenberg, H arold, 290, 325
P u tn a m , M a rk , 230, 232, 233, 234, 235, R ybacki, Irene, 229, 230
 General Index 383

Saint G eorge’s H ospital, 39 Taft, Jessie, 161, 162

Saint Peter’s College, 26, 30, 35, 37 Tansley, G eorge, 45
Salter, Sir A rth u r, 24 T anza, A .J., 145
S an b o rn , Blanche L ., 146–47 Tartemeyer, Dr., 161
San Francisco Chronicle, 146 T asm ania, 79, 80, 81
Sapir, E dw ard, 80 Taussig, F rank W., 215
Scope, 331 Taylor, Frederick Winslow, 1
Scott, Jero m e, 327, 343, 345 Taylor, M adison, 175
Scoville Brass Com pany, 325, 327 T em porary N ational Econom ic C om m ittee
Selby, Clarence D ., 328 o f Congress, 289
Selekm an, B enjam in M ., 209, 298 T erm an, Louis M ., 146
Seligm an, C .G ., 221 T heodore, Edward G ., 90–92
“Serious S ituation in E urope, T he” (Jam es T hinking B lack (Crawford), 116
G. M cD onald), 308 T hirty C lub, 131
S e x in P rim itive Society (M alinowski), 214 T hom as, A lbert, 240
Seym our, Percy A., 73, 74, 77, 104, 126–27 T h orndike, Edward L ., 156, 254
S hann, E.O.G., 61, 64 T hurstone, Louis L ., 150, 184, 185, 187, 190
Shaw, George B ernard, 89, 275 T im es (London), 345, 346, 347
Shell shock. S ee War neurosis T oronto C ham ber o f C om m erce, 184
Sherring, E ., 52 Townsend, J.G ., 328
S herrington & Com pany, 51 Trevelyan, G .M ., 45
Sidis, Boris, 184
Siegfried, A ndre, 240 U nderhill, Evelyn, 276
S im m ond, E H ., 308 U nited States R ubber C om pany (Am erican
Sirchio, Jenny, 229, 258 Rubber), 204–5, 206, 207
Slesinger, D o n ald , 253 University o f Adelaide (Australia), 37, 39,
S m ith, May, 221 40, 58, 165, 199, 361
Social H ealth, 193 University of C alifornia (Berkeley), 143, 145,
Social Sciences Research C ouncil, 150, 240 335
Southard, E lm er E., 150, 166, 202, 203 University of Chicago, 151, 246, 253, 259,
Spence, C atherine, 28 296, 297
Spencer, H erb ert, 216 University o f Edingburgh (Scotland), 39
Srole, L ., 266 University o f Glasgow (Scotland), 39
Stam p, Sir Josiah, 240 University o f M elbourne (Australia), 81, 89,
Standard Oil Com pany, 145, 146, 147, 148, 90, 143
153 University o f Pennsylvania, 5, 143, 153, 173,
Starbuck, E .D ., 214 181, 182
S tearns, (Mrs.), 178–79 University o f Sydney (Australia), 81, 95, 130
Steele, B ertram , 70 University o f Q ueensland (Australia), 59, 61,
Stevenson, T.K., 208, 229, 237 70, 74, 80, 81, 145, 158, 187
S toddard, T.L., 149 University Red Cross Society (Q ueensland),
Stoll, G .C ., 233, 234, 236, 237, 243, 244, 79
245, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 257, 263, Urw ick, Lyndell, 241, 249, 303, 331
264
S tratto n , G .M ., 190 Van K leck, M ary, 209
Strong, A rchibald, 138 Van W aters, M iriam , 191
S u n d a y T im es (Sydney), 132 V ernon, H .M ., 214, 249
Surrey (England), 25, 343–47 Viteles, M orris S., 173, 187, 240, 254
Survey, The, 192 Volango, M ary, 229, 258
Swanwick, K enneth ffoulkes, 62, 138–39
S yd n ey M orning H erald, 98 W allangara C am p, 103–4
384 Elton Mayo

Wallas, G rah am , 214, 216 W hite, Bevis G ., 80

Walter and Eliza Hall Trust, 125 W hite, W illiam E , 300
W a rn e r, W. L lo y d , 199, 2 0 0 , 201, 2 4 3 , W hitehead, Alfred N o rth , 4, 5, 200, 251, 295
245–4 6 , 251, 252, 257, 293, 295, 296–97, W h ite h e a d , T h o m a s N o r th , 251–52, 2 5 4 ,
300, 332, 354 257, 258, 262, 263, 277, 287, 293, 294,
War neurosis, 99, 103, 105–6, 107, 118, 119, 295–96, 298, 300, 321, 323, 351, 354
121, 132, 143, 172, 183 W iertz, A ntoine, 46–47, 349, 361
W ar P ro d u ctio n Board (C opper D ivision), W iertz M useum , 46–47
325 W illard, Fred, W., 232, 237, 238, 243
W ashington (D.C.), 149–53 W illiam C arter Com pany, 206, 207
W atson, Jo h n B., 159 W illits, Joseph H ., 153, 154, 155, 156, 157,
W atts, W.A., 214 158, 162, 164, 165, 166, 172, 187–88, 193,
WEA (W orker’s E ducation Association), 45, 215, 219, 240, 328, 335, 344
62, 74–75, 95, 96, 98, 114, 119, 123, 133 W ilson, D .R ., 221
W ebb, Beatrice, 139 W ilson, Jam es T., 129, 145, 198
W ebb, Sidney, 221 Wissler, C lark, 190
Week E n d R eview , 251 W oods, A rthur, 166
Weil, M athilde, 187 W oodw orth, R obert S., 190, 216
Wells, E L ., 190 W orking M en’s College (London), 44–48, 51,
W ertheim , Frederick, 284 54, 62, 138, 221, 361
West A frica, 39–40, 47, 56, 136, 184 World R eview , 346
W esterm arck, E.A., 214, 221 World War I, 73, 74, 80, 82, 87–93, 103, 120,
W estern Electric C om pany researches, 1, 2, 356
5, 6 , 7, 15, 17, 18, 200, 201, 206, 207, 208, W orld War II, 200, 276, 284, 291, 304, 307,
216, 222, 225–29, 238–41, 243–55, 257–68, 309, 315–17, 321, 322, 326, 330, 331
289, 294, 299, 300, 307, 308, 313, 321, W right, H arold A ., 201, 243, 244, 254, 257,
323, 328, 331, 334, 335, 342, 344, 351–52, 258, 262
355, 356
– Mayo at: advises o n , 230, 231, 232, 233,
234–35, 236, 247, 249, 250, 252–53, 262, Yale University, 153, 190
263; collaborates w ith, 243–55; concludes Yerkes, R obert M ., 150, 156, 159, 162, 187
from , 239; plans for the book o n , 252, Y okum , Clarence S., 156, 187
253, 254, 257, 258, 263; praises, 238–39; Young, Allyn, 221
protects researchers, 248–50, 257–68; pub­ Young, A rthur H ., 208, 209, 210, 219, 237,
licizes, 2 37–41, 251, 2 5 3 , 254–55, 2 5 9 , 240, 246, 253, 265, 290
260, 262
W etterstrand, O tto , 117, 121
W harton School o f Finance and C om m erce, Z aleznik, A braham , 1–13
153, 154, 166 Z im m ern , M m e., 246–47
 Elton Mayo Index

This index is divided into the following categories: Life: Personal; Life:
Work and Career; Major Topics of Interest; On Himself; On Other People;
Other People on; Published/Unpublished Addresses and Other Writings;
Published Books

Adolescence, 27–29, 51, 359–60 103–4; ringw orm , 254; stroke, 307, 341,
A ppearance, 349, 350 344
Hom elife with D orothea, 79–82, 138, 148,
Birthday, 47, 158
155, 158, 188, 218, 223, 232, 271–72, 293,
Business, 52, 53
303, 334, 349–50
C areer (university), 73, 74, 125, 129–30 Interpersonal relations, 354–55
C astor oil, 31
C hildhood, isolation in , 29, 36, 99, 218, 293, Love for D orothea, 66–70, 79–82, 138, 161
360 M elancholy: in L ondon, 40–48, 152, 361; in
Conflicts, personal, 35–36, 135–38, 358, 360 A m erica, 147, 148, 158, 160, 162, 165, 166,
182, 187, 203, 232, 321
“D ainty P atricia,” 51–52, 59
M ental hinterland, 41, 81, 107, 116, 121, 144,
D eath , 347
147, 151, 153, 181, 184, 275, 357
Depression: and loss o f close associates and
M oney: hates spending on himself, 222; in­
fam ily, 321, 322, 323; m anagem ent of,
adequate incom e, 257, 271, 303, 322, 341,
82–83, 104, 147, 152, 158, 160, 162, 165,
343, 345, 346; savings go in daughter’s res­
182, 187, 218, 233, 321
cue, 276–77
Family, 25–32, 61, 79, 289, 357, 359–60 M oon, shooting for, 25, 360
F rien d sh ip w ith H e n d e rso n , 20 2 –4 , 32 2 ,
Parenthood: and P atricia’s illness, 109–10,
358–59
274; as a father, 79, 272–77
H ealth: ap p en d icitis, 4 0 , 160, 349; blood R ecreation, 349
pressure, 345; dengue, 40, 136; exercise,
U nem ploym ent, fear of, 165–66, 173
162, 349; glaucom a, 254, 257; ill health in
U nique roles, 355–58
E u ro p e, 4 0 , 4 7 , 136; personal hygiene,
103, 152; q u a r a n tin e d fo r in f lu e n z a , W om en, an eye for, 162, 222

Life: Work 1 Career

Clinical psychology: cases accepted, 148–49, – Mayo as clinical psychologist, 103–14, 143,
185, 214; cases declined, 162, 182, 214; 162, 200–1, 214, 277–78, 354–55; with U r­
cases listed, 105–14, 157, 162, 173, 183, sula M cC onnel, 111; w ith M atthew son,
186, 214, 277–78, 296–98 104–13; with Jessie Taft, 162

385
386 Elton Mayo

C linical techniques: “dow n w ith all b a rri­ M iscellaneous roles: businessm an, 51; cata­
ers, ” 114; dream analysis, 106; free asso­ lyst, 356, 357, 358; chairm an , 299, 310,
ciation, 106; hypnosis, 107, 121, 162, 186, 328; conversationalist, 353–54; coopera­
296; Ju n g ’s association test, 105, 106, 107; tive co llab o rato r, 356; co u n selo r–c u m –
patients’ interests, 278; “psychoanalysis,” publicist, 356; debater, 45, 54, 63; doctor,
105, 107, 139, 143–44; relaxation, 107, 175, 355–56, 357, 358; healer, 6, 7, 10–12, 355,
278, 349; rest pauses at w ork, 179–80; rev– 357; helper, 356; jo u rn a lis t, 40–45, 89;
ery, 184; W eir–M itch e ll re g im e n , 111; m agician, 356, 357, 358; producer o f stu­
“words o f power, ” 278 dent plays, 64, 78; protective supporter,
356; thinker, 358–59
E d u catio n : at h o m e , 30, 35, 38, 360; at
school, 30, 35–36, 360; outside university, Proposals
7 4 , 78; at u n iv ersity in m ed ic in e , 32, – general: to find work in A m erica, 148–66;
37–39, 132; at university in philosophy,
to leave Brisbane, 126, 130, 131, 137, 138,
53–59, 361 139, 140, 144, 157, 158; to publish M a n ­
H elpers: S.S. A d d iso n , 144, 145; F rances agem ent and the Worker, 263–64; to re­
C o lb o u rn e, 181, 187; H .H . D o n ald so n , organize N IIP, 306–7; to visit L o n d o n ,
181; W.B. D o n h am , 197, 207, 208; Alan 138–39, 143, 144, 145, 147, 221, 321; to
G re g g , 3 2 2 –25; L .J. H e n d e r s o n , 197, Walter and Eliza H all Trust, 125–26
202–4; Vernon Kellogg, 148–49, 150, 153; – research: on scientific research in applied
A.L. K roeber, 146, 149; S. De W. L udlum , (industrial) psychology, 125–26, 127, 129,
182, 187; W. M cD ougall, 159; B. M al­ 162–64, 172, 177, 192; on social disintegra­
inow ski, 84–85, 213; Helen M ayo, 41–42, tion in Pueblo, 210; on University exten­
236; C h a rle s M e rr ia m , 150; W illiam sion work, 119
M itchell, 53–54, 56–59, 199, 361; B. R u m l,
150–6 6 , 175; L loyd W arn er, 255; J.H . Positions
W illits, 154; A.H. Young, 210 – applied for: chair in Philosophy in New
Z e a la n d , 70; d ire c to rs h ip o f tu to ria l
Intellectual influences: B eyond Politics and classes a t U n iv e r s ity o f M e lb o u r n e ,
The M a kin g o f E urope (Dawson), 332; 144–4 5 , 152; d irecto rsh ip o f C o m m o n ­
T h e C h ild ’s C o n ception o f th e W orld wealth Institute o f Science and Industry,
(Piaget), 235; The Church and the M odern 131; lectureship at U niversity o f Q ueens­
S tate (Figgis), 315, 321, 330; The Great land, 59
Society (Wallas)), 91, 177; The H ouse that – appointed: associate professor, head o f In­
H itler B u ilt (Roberts), 314; Illyrian Spring dustrial R esearch D e p a rtm e n t, H arvard
(Bridges), 271, 273; L aw and Politics in Business School, 197–99; delegate, C oun­
the M iddle Ages (Jenks), 311–12, 316; M a ­ cil on Foreign R elations, 308; full p ro ­
jo r Barbara (Shaw), 89, 275; The M echa­ fessor at H arvard Business School, 232;
n i s m s o f D i s e a s e (L u d lu m a n d lecturer at University o f Q ueensland, 59;
M cD onalds), 188–89; M ysticism (U nder­ m em ber o f U niversity (of Q ueensland)
hill), 276; The P ilg rim ’s Progress (B un– War C om m ittee, 88; president o f Univer­
yan), 274; Political Thought in E ngland sity (of Q ueensland) U n io n , 78; professor
fro m Herbert Spencer to Today (Barker), o f philosophy, University o f Q ueensland,
91, 214; The Principles o f Political Obliga­ 74, 103–4
tio n (G re e n ), 91; T h e P sy c h o lo g y o f – offers from: A ustralia, 341; M cGill U n i­
M urder (Bjerre), 235; The Revolt against versity, 197, 341; University o f L ondon,
Civilization (Stoddard), 449; Song o f K a­ 199
bir (Kipling), 275–76; The T heory o f So­ – resignation from U niversity o f Q ueens­
cial R evolution (Brooks), 177, 219, 231, land, 166, 171
2 5 0 , 315; T h e U p a n ish a d s, 2 7 5 , 276; – retirem en t plans, 303, 304, 306–7, 321,
W iertz M useum , 46–47 334, 341–46
 Elton Mayo Index 387

Qualifications: errors, in listed, 198; in letter Colony, 200, 252; P hiladelphia’s indus­
o f in tro d u c tio n , 145, 148; postg rad u ate, tries, 171–80
165, 199, 333

R ep u tatio n : developing, 103, 125, 131–32, Teaching

143–4 4 , 146, 148, 153, 159–60, 162, 171, – at: H arvard Business School, 197, 213–14,
178, 180, 182, 187, 191, 232, 233, 234, 298, 299–300, 314, 321, 322, 334, 351;
235, 278, 279, 288, 334; established, 188, P h ila d e lp h ia L a b o r C ollege, 177, 178;
191, 198, 214–15, 253; flagging, 221, 229; U n iv e rsity o f P e n n sy lv a n ia , 154, 157;
in H arv ard Business School, 204, 322, U niversity o f Q ueensland, 61–70, 73–78
323, 350–51; on retirem ent, 341–43 – subjects: clinical psychology and inter­
Research: absenteeism in W aterbury’s indus­ viewing tech n iq u es, 185, 199, 200, 214,
tries, 325, 326, 327, 344; B ritain’s indus­ 243, 244, 262–6 4 , 277–78, 279–80, 283,
tries, 341, 343, 346; clinical interviews at 300, 304; psychology o f political agitators,
work, 235, 236, 250, 273, 276, 288, 328; 313–14
C o lo r a d o F u e l a n d I r o n C o m p a n y ,
209–10, 308; effect o f business depression Work: enjoys public speaking an d discus­
o n , 206, 207, 246, 253–54; Eli Lilley and sion, 90, 103, 123, 128; habits, 61, 63, 88,
C om pany, 185; fatigue o f w orkers, 175–76, 125, 147, 158, 159, 165, 204, 257, 321–22,
179–80, 185, 188–89, 204–5, 215, 258, 260; 323, 340, 334, 352–53
fu n d in g , 157, 161, 166, 173, 175, 182, – p ro b le m s w ith: asso ciates a t H a rv a rd
201–2 , 298, 321, 323, 351; H aw thorne, see Business School, 204, 287, 293–98, 322,
Western Electric C om pany researches; la­ 323; clinical objectivity, 112; lectures in
bor tu rn o v er in S outhern C alifornia, 327; S an F ra n c isc o , 146, 147–48; p la n n in g
m eth o d , 164, 172–80, 185, 199, 209–10, w ork, 126–27; w riting, 135–38, 162; teach­
325–2 6 , 351; in movie industry, 207–8, ing style, 45, 76–79, 216, 234, 296, 352,
300, 303, 304–6; New E ngland’s indus­ 358–59
tries, 199, 204–7, 221, 229; N orfolk Prison W ritings, 369–72

M ajor Topics of Interest

A bsenteeism , research, 321, 325, 326, 327, Childhood and children’s problem s, 79, 89,
331 143, 145, 191, 216–18, 274, 291, 292
A cting, 272 C hildhood com panions and adult m ental
A daptability in industry, 346 health, 110, 145, 217, 274, 283, 292,293,
A dm inistrative Skill, 193, 209–10, 219, 231, 313
234–35, 2 5 0 , 260–61, 276, 287–88, 289, “C ohn T heorem ,” 293, 310–11, 313
291, 299–300, 308, 309, 313, 314, 315–17, C om m unism , 133–34, 260, 304, 311, 315
330, 336, 344, 347 C om plication, 272, 283
Adolescents, 218 Com pulsion neurosis, 110, 113, 122, 123
Anthropology, 40, 83, 116, 119, 122 C onscription, 92
A rbitratio n , 138, 209 C onversation, 58–59, 353
A rt, 55 C ooperation an d collaboration instead o f
Authority, centralized vs. collaborative/pe­ com petition at w ork, 99, 138, 192–93, 209,
ripheral, 287–93, 300, 304, 308, 312, 315, 254–55, 260, 275–76, 287–93, 295, 308,
316–17, 330–31, 335, 336–37, 346 329, 330, 336, 337, 344, 345

Business depression, 218–21

Education: m o d ern , 145, 152, 317, 335; u ni­
C apitalism , 57 versity, 63, 94, 114, 116, 121, 144, 154–55
Careers and careerism , 272, 273, 276 England, 29, 346
C hildren’s m ental life, 109–10, 115, 121, 184, Ethics, professional, 63
217, 274, 291, 292 Eugenics, 218
388 Elton Mayo

E xam inations, 77–78, 116 153, 177, 193, 216, 218; o f personality
structure and developm ent, 115–23; o f po­
False dichotom y, 116, 117, 218, 245, 312
litical a g ita to rs, 135–38, 184, 2 8 0 , 312,
Fam ily and social status, 287, 288, 289, 291,
313–14; a n d p o litic s, 9 3 –9 9 , 103, 115,
292, 296
162–63, 185, 304, 312, 313; and physiol­
Fascism , 315
ogy, 183–84, 185, 222; o f reveries, 5, 10,
G ro u p m em b ersh ip a n d in d iv id u al well­ 146, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 159, 161, 162,
being, 99, 217–18, 283, 292 164, 165, 172, 182, 183, 184, 185, 216; and
social reform , 103, 134–38, 145, 163–64;
Industrial conflict, origins of, 93–94, 99, 120,
and sociology, 202, 210; and religion, 103,
122, 134–38, 145, 146, 150, 162–63, 172,
110, 218; research in industry, need for,
177, 192–93, 209, 213, 215–16, 299
120, 123, 125, 134–38, 145, 157, 161, 163,
L abor turnover, 321, 331 164, 197, 208, 222, 254, 287–88, 344
League o f N atio n s, T h e, 308–10, 314 Prostitution, 222
Life after d eath , 114
Race consciousness, 117–18
Love, ro m an tic, 59, 193, 271–72, 273
R eading, 81
M arriage, 68–69, 193, 272–73 Religion, 55–56, 64–69, 218, 272, 275–76
M arxism and the class war, 89–90, 94, 99, R etirem ent, 334
260, 262 Satanism , 119, 120
M edical profession, 63, 103, 278–80 Sex: extram arital, 81–82, 193; m orality an d ,
Politics: in tern atio n al, 303, 308, 309, 313, 82, 193, 217, 218; plays dow n, 156, 193,
315–17, 3 3 5 , 336; m o d e rn d em o cracy 305; prom iscuity an d , 82, 193
a n d , 58, 92, 96, 122, 162–63, 165, 190, 210, Sin, conviction of, 66, 110, 122, 155, 159,
2 8 3 , 2 8 7 , 309, 316–17; m otives o f A us­ 218, 274
tralians an d , 92; politicians in , 42, 88, 90, Socialism , 42–43, 57, 89, 91, 163–64, 260,
92–93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 135–38, 144, 148, 315, 346
259–60, 309–10, 313, 315, 335–37; prob­ S ociety: th e in d iv id u a l a n d , 8 7 –8 8 , 91,
lem s an d theories of, 56, 84, 87–88, 89, 90, 93–94, 213, 304, 329, 330–31, 336; social
91–9 3 , 9 3 –9 9 , 134–3 8 , 163, 199, 2 5 5 , progress an d , 57–58, 59, 163–64, see also
2 5 9 –6 0 , 3 0 4 , 3 0 8 , 309, 311, 312, 315, “W hy doth the H eathen Rage?” (or “The
316–17, 335–37, 345–46; and R ound Table Seamy Side o f Progress”); theory of, 93,
policies, 87 96, 99, 162–64, 213, 215–16, 254, 259–60,
Psychoanalysis, 128, 143–44, 156, 274–75 288–89, 292, 304, 311, 316, 329–31
Psychology, 78, 93–99, 103, 115–23, 134–38, Syndicalism , 91, 92, 94, 163
143–44, 183–84, 216; and advertising, 121, Team w ork, 312
143–44; an d anthropology, 184, 185, 191; “Total situation, ” 75, 162, 176–77, 183–84,
o f cryptom nesia, 153; and education, 103, 190–91, 192, 245
134, 145, 193; an d fam ily problem s, 215, “Twisteroo, ” 116
216–18, 287, 291–92, 304; o f flappers, 146;
U nions, 192–93, 299
o f hysteria, 185–86, 190, 280; and indus­
University and the com m unity, 114
tr ia l r e la tio n s , 103, 115–16, 120, 121,
134–38, 162–64, 165, 215, 222, 304; and “W ill, n ot force, is the basis o f the State”
levels o f consciousness, 117–18, 121, 128, (Green), 91, 92, 99, 335
172, 183, 281; o f m iddle age, 143, 152, 218; W om en, education and m arriage, 156, 159
o f obsessional neurosis, 186, 188, 189, 190, W orkers, hum ane regard for, 120, 172, 262,
204–5, 214, 216, 218, 259, 260, 280–83, 330, 344
292; o f obsessive thinking, 11, 67, 96, 134, W orld W ar I, 88, 90, 92, 93
 Elton Mayo Index 389

On Himself

A chievem ents an d abilities: am bivalence to ­ D eath, im pact of, 136–37, 322, 324
w ard, 104, 147, 149, 155, 158, 160, 164, D octors, feelings ab o u t, 132–33, 182, 278
165, 166, 182, 187, 303, 322; confidence D ream o f social revolution, 136
in , 149, 166; pessim ism and low self–es–
Father, as a , 95–96, 272, 273, 274–75
teem tow ard, 35, 39, 67–68, 80, 82, 91, 95,
Father, im pact o f his, 79, 136–37
99, 137, 146–4 7 , 152, 155, 156, 160, 161
164–65, 166, 218, 232–33, 273, 321, 322; M alinow ski, im pact of, 84
p le a se d w ith , 104, 132–3 3 , 144, 149, M oney w orries, 146, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153,
156–57, 162, 182, 191, 278, 310, 323 156, 157, 159, 160, 166, 173, 303, 322, 343
Aging, image o f himself, 298, 315, 321, 341,
346 Needs: chair o f philosophy (U niversity o f
Sydney), 130; overseas experience, 144;
British subject, as a, 164, 188, 350 regular w ork, 160, 321
C hildhood and m ental health, 218, 293
“O stracized Agnostic, ” as a n , 51–52
Conflict, 135–38, 156, 164, 166
Conviction o f sin, 136, 155, 160, 322 S tatus, sensitivity tow ard, 131–32, 152, 153

On Other People

A llport, G o rd o n , 283 K nibbs, G eorge, 131

A m erican psychologists, 146
Lawyers, 323
B usinessm en, 90, 207, 299
M cC onnel, B arbara, 112–14
C attell, Jam es M cK een, 150 M cC onnel, U rsula, 80–81, 111–12
C olleagues, 83, 88, 104, 113, 129–30, 140, M alinow ski, Bronislaw, 84
153, 155, 160, 322–23, 324, 353 M arx, K arl, 89–90
C om m unist agitator, 133–34 M atthew son, T hom as H .R ., 107–8, 129
C u rtis, Lionel, 88 M ayo, D orothea (wife), 81–82, 136, 303
M uscio, B ernard, 130
D octors, 63, 103, 104, 108, 132, 137, 328,
356, 361 P itt–Rivers, George H .L .F , 133
D rucker, Peter E , 337–38 Priestley, H enry Jam es, 83
Psychical researchers, 129
Eyres–M onsell, G rah am , 297–98
Roethlisberger, Fritz J., 200, 263, 294–95
G ilson, M ary, 266 T heodore, Edward G ., 91–92
H eato n , H erb ert, 98 W arner, W. Lloyd, 296–97
H enderson, Lawrence J., 203, 298, 322 W hitehead, T. N o rth , 263, 295, 296
Jews, 83, 275, 317–18 Yerkes, R obert M ., 150

Other People on

Brill, A lexander A ., 153 C abot, Phillip, 311

B ruere, R obert W., 192 Chase, S tuart, 331
Burr, Charles W., 191 C ohn, Edw in, 311
B u s in e s s m e n , 9 0 , 148, 157, 172, 178, Colleagues and associates, 77, 88, 93, 104,
208 150, 204, 222, 261, 332, 350–51, 355
390 Elton Mayo

C ontem poraries in A delaide, 51–52, 70 P itt–Rivers, George H .E L ., 133

Psychologists a n d p sy c h iatrists, 148, 153,
D odge, R aym ond, 159
159–60, 190
Eyres–M onsell, G rah am , 298
Redfield, R o b e rt, 296
Fisher, W.E., 154–55 R eview ers of: D em ocracy a n d F reed o m ,
97–99; The H um an Problems o f Industrial
G ibson J. L o ck h art, 132
C ivilization, 261–62; The Social Problems
G ilson, M ary B., 263–64
o f an In d u s tr ia l C iv iliz a tio n , 331–34;
Gregg, A lan, 324, 327
S o m e N otes on the Psychology o f Pierre
In–laws, 79 Janet, 283–84
Roethlisberger, Fritz J., 244
Jan et, P ierre, 190
R u m l, Beardsley, 166
Kellogg, V ernon, 150
Seymour, Percy, 104
K roeber, A lfred, 146
Socialists, 90
Langfeld, H erbert S., 146 Swanwick, K enneth ffoulkes, 139
Lovekin, Osgood S., 199
T hurston e, Louis L ., 150, 190
Lowell, A. Law rence, 198
W atson, John B., 159
M alinow ski, Bronislaw, 84, 95
W hitehead, T. N o rth , 263
M atthew son, T hom as H .R ., 105, 106
W illard, Fred W., 237
Mayo, D oro th ea, 271
W illets, Joseph H ., 153–54, 155
M edical establishm ent, 109
Worker, 172
M erriam , Charles, 355
M ichie, Jo h n , 107 Yerkes, R obert M ., 159
Myer, Charles S., 261 Young, A rth u r H ., 210

P ark, R obert E., 261–62 Z aleznik, A braham , 1–13

Published and Unpublished Addresses and Other Writings

“ [ R e p o r t o n ] A b s e n te e is m in T h r e e “Discharged Veteran as a M em ber of an Or­

C om panies, ”327 ganization, T he,” 328
“A t the Back o f the W hite M an ’s M ind, ” 116, “Dissociation and Split Consciousness, ” 144
146 “D ynam ic Pose, T he, ” 220
“A m erican Girl and M arriage, T h e,” 187 “D ynam ics o f Family Life, T he, ” 217
“A pplication o f Psychopathology to Indus­
try, T h e, ” 183 “E conom ic Confusion and Its Diagnosis,”
“A ustralia’s Political C onsciousness, ” 93–95 290
“E conom ic H ealth and Balance, ” 219
“ B lin d S p o t in S cien tific M a n a g e m e n t, “Econom ic Hygiene, ” 218–19
T h e, ” 262 “ E conom ic S tability an d the S tandard of
“Change an d Its Social Consequences, ” 99 Living, ” 219
“Choice o f a Story, ” 305 “ E conom ic T h reats to A m erican U n ity , ”
“Civilization and M orale,” 134 334
“Civilization: The Perilous A dventure, ” 192 “E ducational and Psychological Tests, ” 165
“Civilized U n reaso n , ” 192 “E m otional Factor in Society, T he,” 115
“E nchanted Forest, ” 187
“Deficiencies o f E ducation, ” 121 “E xperim ent in Industry, A n, ” 241
“D em ocracy and G o vernm ent,” 92
“D escent into C haos,” 290–91 “Fatigue in Industry,” 215
“Difficult P roblem o f E ducation, T he, ” 187 “Fear, ” 118
 Elton Mayo Index 391

“ Feeling o f E conom ic H elplessness, T h e , ” “ P rim itive T hinking in M odern Society, ”

290 184
“Fifth C olum nists o f Business, T he, ” 317 “Problem o f the A dm inistrator, T he, ” 219,
“Frightened People,” 278–80, 289 250
“P roblem o f the League, T h e, ” 308
“G arden o f Fear, T h e,” 187 “ P roblem o f the Strike– in A ustralia and
“G reat Stupidity, T he, ” 192 Elsewhere, T h e,” 147
“G ro u p Tensions in Industry, ” 329 “ P roblem s o f an Industrial C ivilization, ”
344
“H itler C om plex, T h e, ” 314
“Psychology and Politics, ” 93–95
“ H u m a n E ffect o f M e c h a n iz a tio n , T h e , ”
“Psychology and Religion,” 110, 122, 218
239
“Psychology and Social Science,” 191
“Industrial A utonom y,” 99 “Psychology in Industry,” 240
“Industrial C ivilization, A n ,” 344 “Psychology o f Sanity, T he, ” 138
“Industrial M orale, ” 291
“ In d u stria l U n re st a n d N erv o u s B reak ­ “ R abble H ypothesis, T h e, ” 137, 291, 311,
dow n,” 134 322, 324, 330, 332, 334
“ In d u strial U n rest an d Psychological R e­ “ R ecent Industrial Researches o f W estern
search,” 120 Electric C om pany in Chicago, ” 240
“Influence o f A dvertising on the C haracter “R em ote C ontrol in Industry, ” 346
o f Business, ” 121 “ Research in H u m an R elations,” 290
“Invisible Playm ates, T h e,” 187 “R evolution, ” 136, 138
“ Irra tio n a l F acto r in H u m a n B ehaviour: “Ring D own the C u rtain ,” 271
The ‘N ight–M in d’ in Industry, T he, ” 187 “R oad Back to Sanity, T he,” 291
“Irrational Factor in Society, ” 165, 186
“Irrationality an d Revery,” 165, 186 “Seamy Side of Progress, T he,” 291
“Secret G ardens o f C hildhood, T he,” 187
“Job and M ental H ealth, T he, ” 287 “Security, Personal and Social, ” 288
“Should M arriage Be M onotonous,” 193
“Last D itch , T h e,” 315–17, 329
“Sin with a Capital S,” 218
“M ature Responsibility in the Family, ” 291 “Socialism and War, ” 89
“M ental Hygiene in Industry,” 191 “Spirit and the W orking o f the Present Eco­
“M ind o f the A gitator, T h e,” 135 nom ic O rder in A ustralia, T h e,” 120
“ M o d e r n iz a tio n o f a P rim itiv e C o m ­ “S uperstitions, ” 186
m unity, ” 99 “ Supervision and W hat It M eans,” 329
“ Supervision and M orale,” 240
“N atio n al O rganization: T he R eferendum “ Suprem acy o f Christ in All H um an R ela­
and After, ” 92 tionships, T h e,” 120–21
“New A pproach to Industrial R elations, A ,” “ Surrey Textile C om pany,” 215
240
“New Way o f Statecraft, A , ” 190 “ T otal S itu a tio n in H e a lth an d P sy ch o ­
“Obsessions in Students,” 216 neurosis, ” 183
“Two Psychologies, T h e,” 144
“Perilous A dventure, T he, ” 187
“Persistence o f Prim itive Ideas in Industry, “U nconscious, T he,” 144
T h e,” 184
“Plant Team work and L abor Turnover, ” 327 “W hat Every Village K now s, ” 289
“ P o litic a l O p p o r tu n is m a n d In d u s tr ia l “W hat Is M onotony?” 216
M ethod, ” 346 “W hy D oth the H eathen Rage?” 137, 291,
“ P ractical O u tco m e o f P sychopathology, 322, 324, 329, 332, 334
T he, ” 216 “Will o f the People, T h e, ” 138
392 Elton Mayo

Published Books

D em ocracy and Freedom , 17, 92, 96–99, 115, Political Problem o f Industrial C ivilization,
120, 133, 134, 136, 138, 192, 213, 215, 2 54, The, 99
308, 309, 310, 322, 329 Social P roblem s o f an In d u stria l C iviliza­
tion, The, 18, 137, 289, 291, 324, 329–34,
H u m a n P roblem s o f an In d u stria l C ivil­ 346, 347
ization, The, 18, 258–61, 304, 310, 333, S o m e N o tes on the P sychology o f P ierre
345 Janet, 136, 280–83, 322, 324