…My fourth course [freshman year at Harvard] was different. It was elementary economics. I was lucky. I drew an excellent instructor named Bigelow. Using Frank W. Taussig’s Principles, he introduced us to the general logic of the neoclassical theories of relative prices of commodities and of the factors of production, land, labor, and capital, to the distribution of income among these primary factors, to the theory of international trade, and to the virtues of free markets. He offered us a list of supplementary readings, one of which was called simply Supply and Demand, by an English economist, H.D. Henderson. It was a thin book, but it was a notable example of the lucid presentation of the logic of the economics of value and distribution. One could see all around one examples in ordinary life of the validity and importance of the theory. The way in which the various parts of the subject hung together in an interdependent system seemed not only analytically deep; it emerged as a beautiful structure, an aesthetic as well as a logical and tested structure. More than any other experience, it was this little book that drew me to go on with economics. When I returned to Harvard in September 1929, therefore, I chose economics as my field of concentration. And, indeed, when the economy began its collapse in October of that year, it confirmed me in my choice. It was a decisive experience.
Concentrating in Economics
Having chosen to concentrate in economics, I was assigned a tutor. Here again I was lucky. He was Edward S. Mason, then a still young assistant professor. But he was destined for both academic leadership and, as my story unfolds, for a real influence on practical affairs. Even more important for me, however, was the fact that this young man was already recognizably “wise,” a man of good judgment in both scholarly decisions and practical matters. He took a liking to me, and he remembered his friends! He was due to turn up with support and help at several critical junctures in my story.
My very first meeting with Mason was an exciting moment. It was late September or early October in 1929, that fateful year. We chatted, and then, more brash than usual, I said, “Well, Professor, when is the stock market going to break?” He answered, without hesitation, “Almost immediately.” And when I returned for our second meeting, it had happened. And then, still brash, I said, “Well, Professor, you must have made a mint of money.” And then I learned something about him and perhaps most academics of the time. He said, “Are you crazy? I have never owned a share of stocks in my life.”
… Like many, but not all, of the young economists of the time, who had no deep commitment to mainstream economics, I saw clearly enough that mainstream theory offered us no guidance in understanding the Great Contraction and Depression, and it was consequently a poor basis for public policy. Something new was needed, a theory that dealt more adequately with recurrent recessions and expansions of business and particularly with the very serious depressions and eventual recoveries which in the U.S. had succeeded one another at intervals of about 15 to 20 years since the 1830s. For the moment, I did not get beyond dissatisfaction with the older wisdom, Real enlightenment came only in 1936 with the publication of J.M. Keynes’s General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money. When I had absorbed Keynes’s reasoning, I became an enthusiasticKeynesian and I remain so to this day.
There was also a quite personal effect of these developments on my own work history. They prepared me to join the National Bureau of Economic Research when the chance came in 1937 and to do empirical research on business cycles under the direction of Wesley Mitchell and Arthur Burns, the most notable people doing such work at that time.
Still an undergraduate in 1929, however, at the beginning of the economic contraction and depression, I still had three years of undergraduate work to do. Guided by Mason and later by Douglas V. Brown, I took Taussig’s famous course in price theory at both the undergraduate and graduate levels. Taussig was then the leading American price theorist of his time and by far the most influential person in the Economics Department. In these courses, conducted by Socratic methods, he clearly formed a good opinion about me. I am sure he was of help to me behind the scenes at several junctures. I also remember two enlightening courses, Sumner Slichter on Labor Economics and John Williams on Money and Banking. In Williams’s course, I read Keynes’s earlier books and began to become familiar with his way of thinking. Anyhow, I did well in all these courses and in others in economics, history, and in one really interesting course in literature. That was Irving Babbett on Rousseau and Romanticism. I was apparently a natural-born good student and exam taker. The upshot was that I was graduated summa cum laude and I was given a Sheldon Traveling Fellowship.
For me, this last was more than an honor and more than a year of support and European travel and study at a time when money was so scarce and jobs for new college graduates almost nonexistent. My tutors and professors, including the influential Taussig, had already been encouraging me to think about going on to graduate study in economics and to an eventual academic career. To my parents and my brother, such a course was strange and uncertain. Abe began to call me “meshugana Moishele.” But it was clear that in the end they would support me in any decision I made. And the fellowship, which was tangible proof of the good opinion of the Harvard faculty, confirmed me in a career choice I had already more than half made: It was a decisive event.
[late June of 1932 left for Europe but Moses Abramovitz’s father died in September 1932]
… I resigned my scholarship and in that September of 1932 walked along Nostrand Avenue to Eastern Parkway and took the subway (IRT, Broadway and 7th Avenue Line) to Broadway and 116th Street. Half a block away, one entered Columbia. I walked in and registered and began three years of graduate work in economics. This was a big departure from the program I had thought lay before me, but I cannot remember any feeling of distress or resistance. I was glad to provide some degree of solid continuity for my mother, and I felt confident about the future. Columbia would also be a good start.
Columbia as a School of Economics
By forgoing Vienna, Cambridge, and Harvard, I had made a bigger change than I realized when I started in Columbia. Vienna, Cambridge, and Harvard were all centers in which understanding of the domestic economy of a country and of its international economic relations was squarely based on theoretical economics. This, in turn, was a doctrine logically derived from certain basic primary assumptions: that economic agents (consumers, savers, business firms, investors generally) were well informed, foresighted, and rational, and acted to promote their own individual interests, that they faced competitive markets and, as business firms, acted under the pressures of competition; they operated subject to the constraints of income and wealth and of market prices which they could not by their own actions significantly influence. Actions in this context were perceived as leading to an equilibrium of prices, wages, profits, etc., and of consumer satisfactions in which change might be harmful to some but would be more than offset by benefit to others. Thus, there was no room or occasion for public action except such as was necessary to enforce contracts, maintain competition, prevent or punish fraud and generally keep the peace. Changes in technology and in consumer tastes would lead to a new equilibrium of prices, rewards, incomes, etc., but such changes were viewed as “exogenous,” not the result of economic action or motivation and beyond the ken of economics.
The Columbia economists, however, rejected this structure of theory or, at least, its general application. They conceded its usefulness in explaining very simple matters: why a grand piano cost more than a pair of shoes, and, in general, why there is a rough association between the prices of commodities and their costs of production. They were skeptical, however, about the theoretical assumptions that agents were foresighted, well-informed, and rational. They saw markets as characterized by various degrees of monopoly power, with business firms capable not only of profiting by constraining production and raising prices more than costs alone would justify; they also often had the power to shape consumer tastes, for example by advertising, and, most important, to invest in research and development and so to advance and sometimes to retard—technological progress. They tended to see the economy as a whole, not as tending to an equilibrium, but as generating long-term growth of productivity, income, and wealth. This tendency did not, however, emerge continuously and at a stable rate but subject to recurrent fluctuations, loosely called “cyclical,” in which advance was sometimes fast,sometimes slow, and sometimes negative.
As I absorbed all this, I saw the justice of the Columbia outlook and came to appreciate its radical departure from the economics in which I had been trained as a Harvard undergraduate. Columbia economics, as it stood in the Thirties, however, had its own serious limitations. It was well advanced in its understanding of two subjects. One was in the study of the behavior of firms that had acquired and enjoyed various kinds and degrees of monopoly power. This was the province of Arthur Robert (“Columbia”) Burns—not the Arthur Frank (“Bureau”) Burns with whom I later did research on business cycles.
The other subject was another sphere of monopoly power, that of labor unions. Why were they so much less important in the U.S.A. than in Europe? What activities were successfully unionized and which not? And why? This was the area over which Leo Wolman ruled. Wolman later played a considerable role in the Roosevelt Administration, especially in connection with the disorders in the labor market stemming from the organizing drives of the AFL/CIO. He worked as chairman of the Automobile Labor Board, where he tried to keep the peace in that important industry—an effort that won him no friends in the unions. Wolman’s teaching, however, was as far from academic as can be imagined. It came directly from his own experience with labor unions. Although a professor at Columbia, he also worked as the economic advisor of Sidney Hillman, the president of the Amalgamated Clothing Workers, the men’s clothing union. Wolman learned as much as he advised. He saw clearly that in the flexible and mobile population conditions of the American continent, the only unions that could exercise strong and stable monopoly power were those operating in industries frozen in location. The newsprint industry was an example. The book print industry was not. Where the industry could move, it could flee from a union whose wage and other demands were excessive. Such a condition faced the Amalgamated, and Wolman used his influence to restrain labor’s demands. Even so, the industry moved from New York City to upstate New York, then down South, then to Chicago and on to California. It was the barrier to movement posed by small nation-states that made European unions stronger and more stable than America’s.
These subjects then were well taught at Columbia, and I felt I learned much from A.R. Burns and Leo Wolman. The basic academic tone of the faculty, however, stemmed from Wesley Mitchell. He had been the dominating influence on the faculty since he joined it just before the First World War. According to Mitchell’s own view of himself, his outlook stemmed in part from his early Midwestern origins. He was the son of a physician who was a small town practitioner in central Illinois. The down-to-earth pragmatism of the neighboring family farmers ran strongly in his personality. It was quite natural, therefore, that he should have been drawn to the philosophical schools of William James and John Dewey when these became prominent. Experience, not the logical implications of some generalized ideal, had to be our guide to life. He told about teasing his good Baptist grandmother and her conception of a God of Love who could yet condemn unbaptized infants to the torments of Hell.
[…]
Mitchell carried out his scheme and reported his findings, together with his evidence, in a large book with the simple title, Business Cycles. The book began with a summary of earlier work relevant to the subject together with the “speculations” (one of Mitchell’s favorite characterizations of largely theoretical but inadequately verified ideas). He used these as suggestions of subjects needing investigation. There followed Mitchell’s own quantitative studies of these and other subjects: production (agricultural and other), income, sales, retail, wholesale, manufacturing, etc., commodity prices, the prices of stocks and bonds, and the profits and interest rates they paid. Mitchell’s quantitative descriptions involved tracing the fluctuations of the behavior in these activities and of their long-term trend and seasonal fluctuations so that the fluctuations connected with business cycles could be seen free of the influence of trends and seasonal factors. The book ended with a statement of Mitchell’s views of how the concatenation of the behavior of the separate activities led to expansions of business activities in general followed by similarly general contractions, which in turn produced the conditions that generated another business expansion.
Mitchell’s book made a notable impression on economists. This was partly because now, for the first time, students of economics could base their attempts to explain business cycles and to develop a theoretical model based on definite quantitative information about the typical behavior of the major business activities. But it was partly, perhaps mainly, because it gave economists at large a new vision of how economic research could be carried on. It need not mainly consist of logical deductions from a set of preannounced assumptions. It could instead take the form of observed behavior, together with empirical tests of the hypotheses so formed based on fresh observations independent of those from which the hypotheses originally proposed had been drawn. It was this vision of an empirically based economics that was the spirit of the Columbia program, and it stood in sharp contrast to the program at Harvard, where I was introduced to the subject, and, indeed, with the economics then taught in the other leading universities.
I did not give up my allegiance to Harvard easily. Two episodes illustrate my resistance. Mitchell gave a course on business cycles. I chose to take it. It was a course that, in a sense, was a duplicate of his 1913 book, refreshed by data not available in 1913. But as I listened to Mitchell’s “analysis” of one time series after another—amplitude, lead or lag relative to the “reference” peak or trough (that is, relative to the peak or trough of the general business cycle), rates of expansion or contraction in successive thirds of the fluctuations, and more—I could make nothing of it. After some weeks I dropped the course. Mitchell signed the necessary form without demur and, apparently, never held it against me—a characteristic of his liberal and tolerant attitude.
In other respects, my year was pleasant and rewarding. I found Eli Ginzberg and began a lifelong friendship, the closest and most intimate in my life. Like other graduate students, I occupied a “cubicle” on the top floor of the new Butler Library—just enough space for a table, chair, and file cabinet. A friend said: “It’s all right if I am in there alone, but if I get an idea, I have to move into the corridor.” One day, there was a knock on my door, and in walked Eli. He had just returned from a scholarship, traveling the country and interviewing business executives, union bosses, politicians, etc. On his return, he asked Mrs. Stewart, the all-knowing department secretary, what new people were interesting. She mentioned me, and there he was. He sat down and began to tell me about his travels, the first of many sessions on the same subject.
One early reward of my new friendship was to come to know his parents. They occupied an eighth-floor apartment on 114th Street, directly behind the Butler Library. Eli’s father, Louis Ginzberg, was a professor in the Jewish Theological Seminary at 120th Street. He was perhaps the most notable Jewish scholar of his time, a specialist in Talmudic history and interpretation based on a wide knowledge of ancient Middle Eastern languages and in the history of its peoples. Eli began to bring me to their Friday evening suppers. I found old Louis to be a wise and humorous man, a fine companion and host for a pleasant evening.
On one of my first visits, Eli took me into Louis’s study to show me a lampshade that one of Louis’s students had made. The parchment shade was decorated. All around the shade were drawn the spines of books, and on each spine there appeared the title of one of Louis’s books, perhaps 14 or 15 in all. And then the student had an inspiration. He added one more spine and on it drew the title of Eli’s first book, his Ph.D. dissertation, The House of Adam Smith. At the time, we wondered whether Eli could duplicate his Father’s achievement. In fact, he did so many times over, in quantity at least, if not always in depth—something to which Eli did not aspire.
[…]
Now back to my struggle between Harvard and Columbia economics. In that second year at Columbia, the internal conflict found two new exponents. On the Columbia side was Eli. He was someone of great personal interest to me, but as an economist, he was an eccentric. He was a skeptic about anything theoretical and served mainly as an exemplar of Columbia’s tolerance for talent in whatever way it showed itself. On the Harvard side, there now appeared a powerful supporter. He was Milton Friedman, who had come to Columbia on a scholarship for a year of graduate work. We soon became good friends. It emerged that we two were the only Columbia students who had had a real training in neoclassical price theory, the very bedrock of the economics of the time. The faculty, moreover, refused to sanction a course in the subject, and the students realized what they were missing. Milton and I undertook to do something to fill the gap. We organized a student-run seminar, worked out a list of topics, assigned students to prepare papers, and guided the presentation and discussion. The other students benefitted and so did we. We were having our first teaching experience. For the moment, however, it helped keep my mind running in the grooves of my Harvard training
My friendship with Milton was solidified when a Columbia classmate invited us to join him in a long holiday in his family’s fishing camp on the French River in Northern Ontario, still a wild and unsettled area. It turned out, however, that our friend was ordered to work in his family’s business concern for the summer. We were invited to use the camp ourselves, and we did. So we spent a wonderful six weeks together. We drove north in my Model A Ford roadster until we reached a tiny settlement on the French River called Bon Air. There we parked the car at a general store where we hired some cots, some cooking utensils, a gasoline cookstove, and a canoe, and where we bought some canned and packaged foods as well as eggs and Canadian back bacon. The general store owner piled all these objects in his motorboat and, with the canoe in tow, took us out to our camp 3½ miles down the river on a tiny island in the stream. We were the only inhabitants. There he literally threw our stuff on the shore and took his leave. From now on, we had to depend on our canoe to get back and renew supplies at Bon Air.
Neither of us at first knew anything about canoeing, but we had good teachers by example in the Indians from a reservation across the river. Watching them, we soon learned the J stroke and became fairly competent. We canoed to Bon Air twice weekly and soon organized our camp. We had a privy some 50 yards away. We had the usual first experience trying to cook rice, but we learned to get along. We swam twice a day, and, as we gained confidence in the canoe, took overnight canoe trips down the river. These were fun, especially because of occasional rapids which we could run going down the river but had to portage around on the way back. The one thing we did not try was fishing. In fact, we became known along the river as those strange boys who did not fish, so many men returning in the late afternoon would throw us a fish or two. We had a valuable supplement to our diet of canned goods.
The thing we did do all day long, every day, was talk—about everything, but mostly economics. Milton was much less ideological then than he later became, so he was a very pleasant and agreeable companion; that was especially important in 1934, in the depths of the Depression when Roosevelt’s New Deal was just taking shape, when it included so much that was controversial, and when the menace of Hitler was becoming clearly visible.
As things turned out, however, the most important thing for me in that academic year of 1933-34 was the advent of Carrie [whom he would marry]. But that belongs in a chapter of its own.
…When I finished my graduate course work in 1935, I was given an instructorship at Harvard, I owed it to the sponsorship of Ed Mason, my old tutor. With all this arranged, we determined to get married. I was to have a first year to get started at Harvard, and Carrie was to have a year to complete her Columbia course. We would marry in June 1937. We told our parents and friends. Everyone was pleased.
…You will recall that on completing my graduate work at Columbia, I returned to Harvard as an instructor and tutor in 1936. I spent the first year on my own; then, following our marriage, Carrie joined me there. We lived in a comfortable little apartment at 31 Concord Avenue, near the RadcliffeYard.
It turned out to be an unsatisfactory time, which brought each of us into our only serious confrontations with discrimination. For Carrie it was a brush with what would now be called “sexism.” She heard that Wellesley was looking for a young instructor. She thought correctly that her graduate work and teaching experience qualified her. She appeared for an interview, which was conducted by John Dunlop, a Harvard professor. They reviewed her background, and, he conceded, she was qualified. And then he told her, with expressions of regret, that her application could go no further. Wellesley, a women’s college, wanted only a male.
My own problem was an example of that anti-Semitism that still infected Harvard and most other universities. During my time back at Harvard, I had taught Ec A and a course in Labor Market Economics, and I had tutored a full quota of economics majors in my tutorial rooms in Dunster House. I thought it had gone pretty well.
To this I should add the tale of an amusing development. When I returned to Cambridge in September 1937 together with Carrie, I was told by the department chairman that my salary, then $2,500 a year, would be raised by $200. And then he carefully explained that that was not because, as a married man, my expenses were higher. It was because I was married that he could add Radcliffe girls to my list of tutees. Needless to say, the relation of women to men has since changed radically. Harvard and Radcliffe are now fully merged. Women and men are now equally Harvard professors and Harvard students. The days when Radcliffe girls were thought to be at special and intolerable risk if they met an unmarried tutor have long gone.
In the spring of 1938, I received another summons from the chairman [Harold Burbank]. He received me cordially, and after the usual preliminary politenesses, he explained that it was time we discussed my future at Harvard. His opening was itself a warning about what was to come. “Now, Moe, we are both men of the world.” And then he went on to say that I had done well. I had a promising future. “But you must understand; we could not promote Jakey, so you must not expect to stay on here.” I had formed no such expectation, but I understood perfectly. “Jakey” was Jacob Viner, a truly notable economist. He had done brilliant theoretical work early. He was Taussig’s favorite student. Clearly, Harvard’s president at the time was a bar. He would not accept the appointment of Jews, something widely whispered. They might be scholars, but, by Lowell’s Boston Brahmin standards, they could not be gentlemen. So all this was hardly a complete surprise. But my chairman’s quiet but open expression of anti-Semitism was a shock.
I have often wondered whether it was not really a subtle way of ending my appointment without saying that I simply had not measured up. Perhaps, but that could hardly apply to Viner, who went on to do brilliant work, and who ended his career as a colleague of Einstein at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton. Had a Nobel Prize for Economics existed at the time, he would certainly have been a Nobel laureate.
So I left the interview knowing that I had to make plans to move. My opportunity was not long in coming. Later that same spring, I appeared again at Columbia for the defense of my dissertation, the last step on the way to the doctorate. The committee was chaired by Wesley Mitchell, the man whose course on business cycles I had dropped six year earlier. It made no difference to the examination. Apparently, I passed easily. Indeed my thesis won the Seligman Prize for the best of the year. When the committee adjourned, Mitchell asked me to stay behind. He wanted to ask me whether I would be willing to join the National Bureau to work with him on the Bureau’s business cycles project. My salary would be $3,500 year, a thousand dollars above my Harvard salary. In my circumstances it did not take me long to decide. In a couple of days he had my answer. I would be delighted. So now, after our first summer in Maine, Carrie and I moved to New York. I can guess now how the Bureau appointment had come about. My friend Milton Friedman (see Chapter Six), had just joined the Bureau with an appointment like my own, but to work on another subject. Milton was a friend and also the favorite student of Arthur F. Burns, at the time Mitchell’s chief assistant, who was already the really effective head of the business cycles work. My guess is that Milton became aware of Burns’s interest in finding an associate for business cycles to work especially on the cyclical role of inventories. My dissertation included a chapter on inventories. So he probably told Burns, and then events took their course.
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