The Secret That Could Not Keep
On the afternoon of September 16, 1922, a twenty-year-old publicity agent and his bride walked out of the austere marriage chapel in the New York Municipal Building having executed what they believed to be the perfect covert operation. No family. No friends. No ring — that relic of spousal slavery. No gown. The city-issued clock had read five minutes to noon when they arrived, the chapel moments from closing, a window so narrow that no reporter, however enterprising, could possibly file copy in time for the next morning's editions. Eddie and Doris had settled on a modern marriage, one that was more merger than romance, and they intended to announce it on their own terms, at the hour of their own choosing, with the maximum possible control over the narrative.
It lasted approximately forty-five minutes.
"Directly we reached the Waldorf-Astoria, where we were to honeymoon, all desire for secrecy blew away like a mist in the sunny breeze," Doris Fleischman recalled years later. "My husband grasped the telephone and called hundreds of his most intimate friends to tell them about our secret marriage." But the phone calls were the warm-up act. The real performance came when Eddie — short, wiry, electric with the need to be known — persuaded his new bride to register at the hotel under her maiden name. He knew this would trigger a policy he himself had instituted as the Waldorf's PR man: the press would be notified immediately of anything newsworthy. And what was more newsworthy than a married woman checking into the suite recently vacated by the king and queen of Belgium, signed in as "Edward L. Bernays and wife, Doris E. Fleischman"?
More than 250 newspapers ran the story. Headlines declared "This Bride Registers Under Her Maiden Name" and, more simply, "Independent." Doris overnight became a symbol of women's rights. The Waldorf became a beacon of feminism in the public mind. And Eddie had demonstrated — on the first day of his marriage, using his own wedding as raw material — the principle that would define an eighty-year career: that the boundary between life and publicity was, for him, not a line but a fiction.
"Doris didn't like the publicity," he conceded four decades later, "but I liked it."
That is perhaps the most honest sentence Edward L. Bernays ever uttered. The rest of his life would be spent constructing elaborate architectures of persuasion — for cigarette companies and presidents, soap manufacturers and foreign governments, ballet troupes and banana republics — while insisting, with a straight face and an unshakable confidence, that he was performing a public service. He called it "the engineering of consent." His critics called it something else. His uncle Sigmund, whose theories furnished the intellectual scaffolding for Eddie's career, might have called it the most productive sublimation in the history of the Bernays family.
By the Numbers
The Bernays Record
103Age at death (1891–1995)
80+Years of active professional work
800+Boxes of papers donated to Library of Congress
250+Newspapers covering his wedding-day stunt
$25/wkSalary when he launched Damaged Goods (1913)
1923Year he taught the first university PR course (NYU)
125,000PR practitioners in the U.S. by the 1990s
The Nephew's Inheritance
The biographical fact that Edward Bernays was Sigmund Freud's nephew is typically delivered as a parenthetical garnish, the sort of coincidence that lends a profile its opening-paragraph hook. But the connection was not parenthetical. It was structural. It shaped how Bernays understood human behavior, how he sold that understanding to clients, and — most revealingly — how he sold himself to the world. The relationship was double-knotted: his mother, Anna, was Freud's sister; his father, Ely, was the brother of Freud's wife, Martha. Eddie was nephew on both sides, a genetic redundancy he treated less as a quirk of Viennese intermarriage than as a credential.
Ely Bernays was a prosperous grain merchant who had transplanted his family from Vienna to New York in 1892, when Eddie was barely a year old. The move severed the boy from the Viennese milieu but not from its ideas. Eddie's two older sisters remained behind with Freud and Freud's parents until Ely got established, and the psychoanalyst's presence hovered over the family like the intellectual weather of an entire continent compressed into a single surname. When Eddie visited his uncle in Carlsbad in 1913 — fresh off his first promotional triumph with Damaged Goods — they walked in the woods together, the Austrian uncle in his green Tyrolean hat with a feather and a ram's horn stuck in the hatband, salt-and-pepper knickers, and brown brogues; the American nephew fitted out in a Brooks Brothers suit. Freud was fifty-seven, already famous. Eddie was twenty-two, already restless.
What they discussed in those woods remains largely unknown. Eddie's memories, recorded decades later, were curiously domestic: his uncle's gentle admonition not to swat an insect on the tablecloth — "Let the fly take its promenade on the high plateau" — and a quip about brook trout "swimming in the order of their price range." But what Eddie took from Freud was less a body of specific ideas than a posture toward human irrationality. Freud argued that unconscious drives dating to childhood made people act the way they did. Eddie was convinced that understanding those instincts and the symbols that triggered them could help him shape the behavior of the masses. The uncle studied the unconscious to heal. The nephew studied it to sell.
Bernays would promote Freud's work in America for decades — arranging the translation and publication of his books, name-dropping the connection at every opportunity. As one documentary on Bernays' career later put it: "First, Eddie created Uncle Siggy in the U.S., made him acceptable, and then capitalized on Uncle Siggy." The circularity was elegant and unsettling. The nephew used the uncle's ideas to build a career in persuasion, and used that career in persuasion to build the uncle's reputation, and used the uncle's reputation to further legitimize the career. It was Bernays turtles all the way down.
An Agriculture Degree and Other Misadventures
Cornell's College of Agriculture, perched above the overgrown village of Ithaca on the flats of Cayuga Lake, was an odd destination for a boy raised in a New York City brownstone on Broadway theater and books. The decision was a joint one by his parents: Ely was an ardent disciple of Teddy Roosevelt's back-to-the-soil movement; Anna worshiped nature. They believed the remote setting would sever Eddie's ties to Manhattan and teach him to earn his living from the land.
The roots never took. He was short and wiry; his farm-bred classmates were tall and strapping. He'd spent his summers at a spa near Wiesbaden or at an Adirondack Mountain retreat and dug into declensions in Latin, Greek, and German when the weather turned cold. His fellow students — most of them — had sprung from the soil. They were the kinds of boys who'd gone barefoot until November and ordered their one pair of shoes from the Sears, Roebuck catalog, who knew the agricultural life because their parents and grandparents had lived it, and who had no use for city boys or Jews, although, except for Eddie, they didn't know many of either.
He stayed awake just enough to get passable grades in courses like General Comparative Morphology and Physiology of Plants and Animal Husbandry, which involved "the principles of feeding, care, selection and management of dairy and beef cattle, sheep and swine." His disappointment was still evident fifty-three years later: "My three and a half years at the Cornell University College of Agriculture gave me little stimulation and less learning."
But he learned more than he thought. His work on the Cornell Countryman confirmed that he wasn't a gifted writer but could be a masterful communicator — a distinction that would prove more consequential than any course in morphology. Membership in the Cosmopolitan Club won him friends from China, South Africa, and Cuba. And the knowledge that he didn't fit in with conventional thinking on campus got him accustomed to thinking unconventionally, to operating at the edge and pushing the boundaries. "Perhaps Cornell was the right place for me after all," he decided later, "because it furnished, in a negative way, a test for aptitudes and adjustments.... I was looking for something that was not there and found something better."
When Cornell handed him his degree in February 1912, the twenty-year-old with the wavy mustache and close-cropped hair accepted a professor's offer to write for the National Nurseryman journal. He relished the way "German-American proprietors of nurseries in Danville, New York, greeted me as if I were a rich uncle, inviting me to lunch and dinner at their homes, where we discussed Goethe, Schiller, and fruit-tree stock." The job might have lasted if there'd been more time for Goethe and Schiller and less need to come up with stories about apples, peaches, and pears. From there he tried filling out bills of lading on hay and oats at his father's Produce Exchange, booked himself as supercargo on a freighter bound for Rotterdam, made his way to Paris — where he strolled the narrow streets near the Place Vendôme with his latest amour, "stopping occasionally to embrace and kiss passionately" — and tried decoding cables concerning grain trades for the venerable Louis Dreyfus and Company. Each job proved more tedious than the last.
His way out appeared by accident, and as he liked to tell the story, "it all started with sex."
Damaged Goods and the Birth of a Method
Back in Manhattan on that brisk December morning in 1912, Eddie bumped into Fred Robinson on the Ninth Avenue trolley. Years earlier they'd been coeditors of the school paper at Public School 184. Fred's father had just turned over to him two monthly journals — the Medical Review of Reviews and the Dietetic and Hygienic Gazette. Fred asked Eddie, "How'd you like to help me run the Review and the Gazette?" Eddie accepted on the spot and began work the next morning.
Neither he nor Fred knew much about medicine or nutrition, and neither had any real experience in publishing unless you count the Echo at P.S. 184. But both were ambitious, both were willing to do everything from writing and editing to promotion and errands, and they used the Medical Review to argue against women wearing corsets with stays, to encourage shower baths, and to publish expert opinions on health controversies — a relatively novel approach. They also tried something newer still: distributing free copies to most of the 137,000 licensed physicians in the United States.
Their real break came two months later, when a doctor submitted a glowing review of Damaged Goods, a work by French playwright Eugène Brieux. The play — about a man with syphilis who marries, then fathers a syphilitic child — attacked the prevailing standards of prudery. It was taboo to openly discuss sexually transmitted disease, and worse to talk about public health remedies. Eddie and his partner published the doctor's review, a bold step given their conservative audience. Then they went further. They'd read that Richard Bennett, a leading actor and father of soon-to-be movie star Joan Bennett, was interested in producing Damaged Goods. So Eddie wrote him: "The editors of the Medical Review of Reviews support your praiseworthy intention to fight sex-pruriency in the United States by producing Brieux's play Damaged Goods. You can count on our help."
Bennett quickly accepted. Eddie was so excited that he volunteered to underwrite the production. There were two problems with this generosity. He was earning just $25 a week at the journals, and another $25 tutoring the scions of fashionable New York families. And the New York City censors who had shut down a George Bernard Shaw play about prostitution several years before were not likely to approve one featuring frank treatment of syphilis.
What happened next would become the template — the Ur-text — for Bernays's entire career. The twenty-one-year-old formed a Medical Review of Reviews Sociological Fund Committee, then attracted members with an artful appeal that played on Bennett's reputation as an artist and the worthiness of battling prudishness. Among those who signed up: John D. Rockefeller Jr., Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt Sr., Mr. and Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt, Dr. William Jay Schieffelin, and the Reverend John Haynes Holmes of New York's Unitarian Community Church. Each committee member was asked to contribute four dollars, which entitled him to one ticket, and many were asked for endorsements designed to head off police intervention.
The committee was more effective than anyone dreamed. Hundreds of checks poured in. Rockefeller himself offered a testimonial: "The evils springing from prostitution cannot be understood until frank discussion of them has been made possible." The play opened before overflow audiences in New York, then headed to the National Theater in Washington for a performance before Supreme Court justices, members of the president's cabinet, and congressmen. Most reviewers agreed with the New York American, which pronounced the play "dull and almost unendurable." What mattered more was that the production, in the words of one editorial on March 15, 1913, made it strike "sex-o'clock in America."
This was the first time that Eddie, or anyone else, had assembled quite such a distinguished front group. Its success ensured not only that he would use the technique repeatedly but that it would continue to be employed into the present — when it takes a detective to unmask the interests behind innocuous-sounding groups like the Safe Energy Communication Council (antinuclear), the Eagle Alliance (pronuclear), and the Coalition Against Regressive Taxation (trucking industry).
Anything could be accomplished if people could be made to see what looked like an obstacle as an opportunity. All that was required was a bit of insight into how people defined obstacles and opportunities, along with some creative prodding to get them to rethink those definitions.
Richard Bennett had other ideas about the partnership's longevity. Having quietly acquired all American rights to the play, the actor bade Eddie and Fred goodbye. "I don't need you or your damn sociological fund anymore," he told them. "I own all the rights to Damaged Goods. Ta, ta."
Snakes, Ballerinas, and the Education of a Propagandist
Eddie's adrenaline was flowing too fast for wound-licking. Between 1914 and 1917 he worked as a Broadway press agent for Klaw and Erlanger, the General Motors of theatrical booking agents, and developed a principle he would refine for decades: hitching private interests to public ones. For Jean Webster's Daddy Long-Legs, a comedy about an orphan girl, he organized a network of Daddy Long-Legs funds on college campuses and in high schools that raised money for orphan care. A dollmaker manufactured ten thousand dolls dressed in orphan-blue checkered gingham; a famous race car driver retired his lucky Kewpie doll in favor of a Daddy Long-Legs version. The achievements were chronicled in newspapers across New York State, with one story crediting the campaign with spawning "a small upheaval in clubdom."
Then came the assignment that tested every instinct he was developing. In the summer of 1915, it was announced that Sergei Diaghilev's Ballet Russe — the company that had revitalized European ballet by blending classical form with the modern dance of Isadora Duncan, featuring the most sought-after dancers on the continent, including Vaslav Nijinsky — would make its American debut the following January. It was left to a twenty-three-year-old agriculture graduate to sell the Ballet Russe to a country that didn't care much for European culture, knew and cared even less about Russia, and thought men had no business dancing on stage wearing slippers and tights.
Bernays began by acknowledging that he was as ignorant about ballet as the public he sought to enlighten, then set out toward self-enlightenment — digging up everything he could from the library, secondhand bookstores, and the Metropolitan Opera Company, which was sponsoring the tour. He conducted what would today be called opinion research, but in 1915 consisted mainly of chatting with people and forming educated guesses about what they thought of ballet and why. Having roughly determined what the public didn't know or didn't like, he set out to alter their attitude.
His press packet suggests the inventive slants he used: "4 pages sketch of Nijinsky's life, 2 pages Choreography Becomes Chirography, 3 pages Nijinsky's mother-in-law brands him a spy, 3 pages Are American Men Ashamed of Being Graceful? 1 page World's Greatest Dancer Walks Broadway Unnoticed, 2 pages Dreaming a Ballet Into Being, 1 page Nothing Like a Stencil To Keep My Lady Warm, 1 page Life of Ballet Girl, 1 page It's Safety Pins that Keeps the Ballet Russe Together, 21 pages (15 stories) of fashions, novelties, and influence of the Ballet on modern dress."
When the Ladies' Home Journal wouldn't run promotional photographs because skirts didn't reach below the knees, Eddie spent $600 to have painters add length to the ballerinas' skirts. The pictures ran in a two-page color spread reaching millions of subscribers who never knew. When he needed to make the press pay attention to Flores Revalles, the principal ballerina in Scheherazade, and only the Morning Telegraph showed up to a press conference, he had Revalles photographed at the Bronx Zoo with a long, harmless snake draped around her body. The caption claimed she had selected a cobra but "through her charm and beauty had rendered it harmless." Newspapers ran the story on page one.
"I urged Revalles to make a pet snake her trademark and never to travel without one," he recalled. "Without the snake or some equivalent, Flores Revalles, an attractive, provocative and talented girl, might well have had to wait years for national recognition. The snake took up a long lag time."
The Ballet Russe was sold out before opening night. By the time the company toured American cities, demand had dictated a second tour and little girls were dreaming of becoming ballerinas. Adella Hughes, founding director of the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra, wrote: "No project was ever better prepared for in the matter of publicity and promotion.... The value and quality of the promotional material that came from his office have never been equalled by any other organization within my experience."
Bernays had not merely promoted a ballet tour. He had demonstrated that an entire national attitude — toward art, masculinity, European culture — could be reshaped through the strategic deployment of symbols, third-party endorsements, and engineered events. He was twenty-three.
The Man with the Orchid-Lined Voice
While wrapping up the Ballet Russe, Eddie was presented with another European artistic sensation: Enrico Caruso, the greatest tenor of his time and one of the music world's great characters. Plugging Caruso meant following what was becoming a familiar pattern — press releases, visits to editors, coined phrases. He dubbed Caruso "the man with the orchid-lined voice." What distinguished this assignment was the amount of time Eddie spent observing the artist up close, staying in the same hotels, remaining on call twenty-four hours a day.
Being on call sometimes meant handling crises. At a banquet following a nine-encore performance in Cincinnati, Caruso suddenly slid under the table and wouldn't come out until Eddie ordered someone to shut a nearby window — the source of a draft the tenor worried would give him a cold. At Pittsburgh's Shenley Hotel, Caruso insisted on two extra mattresses and seventeen more pillows. Eddie dug up the bedding; Caruso supervised the construction of a triple-tiered bed with pillows placed around the edges to keep out breezes. When a hotel wedding party on the floor below kept the singer awake, Eddie called the manager, who called the revelers, who, upon learning the identity of the complainant, willingly relocated nine floors down.
What fascinated Eddie was not the tenor's eccentricities but the public's adoration — and the realization that such impressions could easily be fashioned or reshaped. "The overwhelming majority of the people who reacted so spontaneously to Caruso had never heard him before," he wrote. "The public's ability to create its own heroes from wisps of impressions and its own imagination and to build them almost into flesh-and-blood gods fascinated me."
It was the insight that would carry him from Broadway to the White House, from soap manufacturers to Central American coup d'états. Public visibility had little to do with real value. What mattered was the impression — and who was controlling it.
Making the World Safe for Public Relations
The war raging in Europe had dampened grain exports, effectively shutting down Ely Bernays's business, and had compressed the space available for Broadway coverage — press agents fought more fiercely than ever for the meager column inches that remained. Eddie launched his campaign to enlist on April 6, 1917, the very day America declared war on Germany. The army rejected him twice: flat feet and defective vision. He was insecure about his Austrian roots, his Jewishness, and most of all his diminutive 5-foot-4-inch stature. Now he was determined to prove he was a true American.
He finally wangled an interview with Ernest Poole, head of the Foreign Press Bureau of the U.S. Committee on Public Information (CPI), the closest thing to a propaganda bureau the government had. The CPI had been created by President Woodrow Wilson within days of the declaration of war, tasked with firing up a reluctant American population into what its chairman, George Creel — a former muckraking journalist — called "the white hot mass of patriotism." It brought together the brightest minds in advertising, journalism, graphic design, and the nascent field of public relations. By war's end, more than 100,000 Americans had contributed to the CPI's efforts. They created Uncle Sam. They churned out millions of press releases, bulletins, photographs, and posters. Seventy-five thousand local notables, known as Four Minute Men, delivered carefully crafted inspirational orations in church halls and movie theaters across the country.
Eddie's abilities, Military Intelligence concluded after a months-long investigation of his Austrian birth, were "unquestionably remarkable." Given his chance, he recruited Ford, International Harvester, and scores of other American firms to distribute literature on U.S. war aims to foreign contacts and post propaganda in the windows of 650 American offices overseas. He distributed postcards to Italian soldiers at the front, planted propaganda behind German lines to sow dissent, organized rallies at Carnegie Hall featuring freedom fighters from Poland and Czechoslovakia, and had American propaganda printed in Spanish and Portuguese for insertion into export journals sent across Latin America.
He helped win America over to an unpopular war using precisely the techniques he'd used to promote Daddy Long-Legs and the Ballet Russe.
I recognized that words and pictures had been powerful factors in helping win the war. Paris became a training school without instructors, in the study of public opinion and people.... The process was as fortuitous as the flight of windswept pollen.
When he accompanied Wilson to the Paris Peace Conference as part of a sixteen-person CPI press team, things went less smoothly. Eddie put out a press release announcing the mission; the New York World ran a story saying its "announced object" was "to interpret the work of the Peace Conference by keeping up a worldwide propaganda to disseminate American accomplishments and ideals." Republicans in Congress erupted, charging that Creel and the CPI were perpetuating wartime censorship to favor the Democratic president. Creel blamed the whole mess on Eddie's statement. Eddie blamed Creel for not fighting to maintain the functioning of the press mission. The controversy offers a clean X-ray of how Eddie operated: he viewed events in which he was involved in epic terms; he was exceedingly proprietary about his role; he saw himself as having battled for the public good as others succumbed to temptation; and he always got the last word because he outlived contemporaries who were unable to defend themselves. Creel died twelve years before Eddie wrote his autobiography.
But the experience cemented something essential. "If this could be used for war," Bernays realized, "it can be used for peace." What he meant by "peace" was business.
Torches of Freedom and the Color of Fashion
In 1919, Bernays and Doris Fleischman — who would become his wife three years later — opened what they called a public relations office, one of the first in the country. Their early clients included the U.S. War Department, which wanted to persuade businesses to hire returning veterans, and the Lithuanian government, lobbying for U.S. recognition. For Venida hairnets, Bernays publicized the danger of women workers' wearing long, loose hair in factories and restaurants; several U.S. states passed laws requiring factory workers and female food-service employees to wear hairnets. For Procter & Gamble's Ivory soap, he overcame children's congenital distaste for soap by sponsoring a National Soap Sculpture Contest — within a year, 23 million schoolchildren were entering. For a bacon client, he got doctors to endorse a "hearty breakfast" in newspapers nationwide, reframing the American morning meal so thoroughly that bacon slid into the starring role it has never relinquished.
But it was his work for the American Tobacco Company that most dramatically illustrated both his genius and his moral vacancy.
George Washington Hill, president of American Tobacco, called Bernays with a blunt commercial proposition: half the potential market for Lucky Strike cigarettes was being lost because of the taboo against women smoking in public. What could be done? Bernays consulted psychoanalyst A. A. Brill, who postulated that as cigarettes were invariably associated with men, for women they could represent freedom and sexual liberation. With this insight, Bernays hired fashionable young debutantes — recruited through a contact at Vogue — to march in the 1929 Easter Parade in New York City, lighting Lucky Strikes as they walked. He tipped off the press in advance, framing the event as a protest against gender inequality. The women would be lighting their "Torches of Freedom."
The story appeared in newspapers across America, including the New York Times, which reported that "a group of young women who said they were smashing a tradition and not favoring any particular brand, strolled along the lane between the tiered skyscrapers and puffed cigarettes." Similar marches took place in Boston, Detroit, and San Francisco. The late 1920s saw a marked rise in the number of American women taking up smoking.
There was a second act, no less audacious. When surveys showed that women objected to Luckies because the forest-green package clashed with the colors of their clothes, Hill adamantly refused to change the packaging — he'd already spent millions advertising it. "If you won't change the color of the package," Bernays said, "change the color of fashion — to green." Over six months, under the auspices of a local charity, he planned a Green Ball and dispatched a society matron to Paris couturiers to coax them into providing green gowns. He convinced a leading textile manufacturer to sponsor a Green Fashions Fall luncheon for fashion editors, invited an art historian and a psychologist to expatiate on the significance of green, organized a Color Fashion Bureau that disseminated trends to the press emphasizing the "dominance" of green, induced department stores to feature green dresses in their window displays, and persuaded the Reinhardt Galleries to hold a "Green Exhibition" of paintings. Green became the hot new color of fashion.
The ethical dimensions of this work are worth pausing over. As Ron Chernow noted in his review of Larry Tye's biography, by the early 1930s Bernays was privy to studies linking smoking and cancer. These early warnings led him not to withdraw from the account but to tout smoking as soothing to the throat and good for a trim waistline. He lined up "neutral" experts, many of them doctors, to applaud the benefits of smoking, all the while concealing the tobacco company's sponsorship. And there was this: "He hated her smoking," his daughter Anne Bernays recalled. Whenever he discovered a pack of his wife Doris's Parliaments, "he'd pull them all out and just snap them like bones, just snap them in half and throw them in the toilet."
The man who got America's women smoking spent decades trying to stop the one woman closest to him.
The Invisible Government
In 1923, Bernays published
Crystallizing Public Opinion, the first book on the subject of public relations. That same year, he taught the first university course in PR at New York University. In 1928, he published
Propaganda, a slim, seismic volume whose opening paragraph has never stopped reverberating:
"The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country. We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of."
The term "propaganda" did not yet carry its later stigma — that would come during World War II, when association with Nazi Germany made it toxic. In the 1920s, it simply meant information, or something like it. Bernays used it without apology. He argued that propaganda was the modern instrument by which intelligent minorities could fight for productive ends, that public opinion was slow and reactionary, and that those who used the psychology of public persuasion to bring about changes were performing a great public service. He later promoted the more palatable term "public relations" — and, still later, coined the phrase "the engineering of consent" as his preferred definition of what PR professionals actually did.
The ideas drew from a constellation of thinkers: his uncle Freud, on unconscious motivation; Gustave Le Bon, the French mass psychologist; Wilfred Trotter, the British neurosurgeon and social psychologist; and Walter Lippmann, the American journalist and technocratic theorist who had served alongside Bernays on the CPI. Bernays synthesized them into a practical methodology. The public relations counsel, as he conceived the role, did not simply place stories in newspapers. He studied the target audience's psychology, identified the unconscious drives and symbols that motivated behavior, then "created events and circumstances" that would generate the desired coverage — and, through it, the desired shift in attitude or action. The press became an unwitting instrument. The public never saw the hand.
His client list grew to include General Electric, General Motors, CBS, Dodge Motor Company, Cartier, United Fruit Company, and American presidents including Woodrow Wilson and Calvin Coolidge. To counteract Coolidge's stiff image, Bernays organized pancake breakfasts and White House concerts with Al Jolson and other Broadway performers; Coolidge won the 1924 election. For General Electric, he orchestrated "Light's Golden Jubilee" in 1929 — a massive national campaign celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the light bulb, featuring Thomas Edison himself, with attendees including President Hoover, Orville Wright, Will Rogers, and J. P. Morgan. Live radio reenacted Edison's original demonstration. The New Yorker later wrote: "Under Bernays' direction committees were formed from Maine to Honolulu, holidays declared, lights turned on and off, speeches made, and a special stamp issued."
The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country.
The Guatemala Problem
If the Torches of Freedom campaign revealed the moral ambiguity of Bernays's methods, his work for the United Fruit Company revealed something darker.
Sam Zemurray — the Russian-born banana baron who had clawed his way from a teenage produce hustle in Mobile, Alabama, to the presidency of United Fruit, the most powerful company in Central America — hired Bernays when Guatemala's democratically elected government threatened to expropriate company land. Bernays's job was not merely to manage corporate reputation. It was to get the U.S. government involved — specifically the CIA — so that a hostile foreign government could be overthrown and replaced with one more sympathetic to United Fruit's interests.
Bernays engineered a public relations campaign that reframed what was essentially a land dispute between a corporation and a sovereign nation as a frontline battle in the Cold War. Guatemala's government was painted as communist; its land reform program was cast as Soviet expansionism in the Western Hemisphere. The campaign worked. In 1954, the CIA backed a military coup that deposed Guatemala's democratically elected president, Jacobo Árbenz, and installed a succession of authoritarian regimes that would govern for decades. Bernays had helped sell the American public — and, more importantly, American policymakers — on a covert intervention in a foreign democracy.
As Noam Chomsky later put it: Bernays "was an authentic Roosevelt/Kennedy liberal. He also engineered the public relations effort behind the U.S.-backed coup which overthrew the democratic government of Guatemala." The juxtaposition was not lost on historians, nor was the fact that Bernays continued to insist, until the end of his life, that he was in the business of serving democratic values.
The Bundle of Contradictions
Larry Tye, whose
The Father of Spin remains the definitive biography, met Bernays once, a year before his death. The old man was sitting in the library of his Cambridge, Massachusetts, home. "He told one story after another in rote fashion as if they had been prerecorded, and then he told them again."
By that point — 1994, Bernays a hundred and three — the stories had calcified into a mythology the man had spent eight decades polishing. He saved every scrap of paper he sent out or took in — more than 800 boxes of personal and professional papers donated to the Library of Congress, provided to be made public after his death. In doing so, as Tye noted, "he lets us see just how policies were made and how, in many cases, they were founded on deception."
The contradictions were not incidental to his character; they were its defining feature. He rode roughshod over young staffers while preaching the virtues of tolerance and democracy. He promoted cigarettes he suspected were deadly at the same time he was promoting national health insurance. He espoused women's rights but often treated his female employees and his wife like indentured servants. He continually capitalized on the fact that he had outlived all of his contemporaries — dying in 1995 at 103 — to advance his contention that he, more than anyone else, deserved to be called the Prince of Publicity.
In a 1991 interview, at the age of 100, he was still consulting with clients and still bristling. "Public relations today is horrible," he told the New York Times. "Any dope, any nitwit, any idiot can call him or herself a public relations practitioner." A young woman had recently called him for career advice, he said. She claimed to be in public relations. He asked what she did. "She said she gave out circulars in Harvard Square."
He was, as his biographer noted, "a small man" whose "claims were as huge as his dreams." Short and paunchy, he lined the walls of his home with photographs of himself hobnobbing with Olympian clients. He was, in Ron Chernow's description, "the sort of veteran bore who liked to steer visitors" to that wall. And yet: his feats were often impressive, and the craft he almost single-handedly created — however troubled its applications — reshaped how corporations, governments, and institutions communicate with the public. By the 1990s, there were 125,000 PR practitioners in America. Every one of them worked in a profession that had not existed, in any meaningful sense, before Edward Bernays invented it.
"Although he was a small man," Tye wrote, "his claims were as huge as his dreams. It was those claims that first drew me to Bernays."
The Fly on the High Plateau
Doris Fleischman died in 1980. They had been married for fifty-eight years and had worked together for sixty-one. She was his wife and his partner, his first hire and his most constant critic, and the woman whose maiden name had, on the day of their wedding, become the most famous maiden name in America — because her husband couldn't help himself.
Bernays moved from New York to Cambridge in 1962 and continued to work, write, and think about public relations almost to his dying day on March 9, 1995. Life magazine had named him one of the 100 most influential Americans of the twentieth century. Ann Douglas, a Columbia professor, had placed him at the center of 1920s American culture: "Edward Bernays, often called the 'father of public relations,' who orchestrated the commercialization of a culture, was Freud's nephew and a self-conscious popularizer of his thought." Josef Goebbels, Hitler's propaganda minister, had reportedly kept a copy of Crystallizing Public Opinion on his desk. Bernays was upset when he learned this. He had turned down Hitler, Franco, and Somoza as clients. But the methods, once released, belonged to anyone.
His spirit was electric and his enthusiasm so infectious that many who had heard a single speech decades before, or studied with him for one semester, could recite his every phrase years later. He told one story about dining with Thomas Edison and Henry Ford at Ford's home in Dearborn during Light's Golden Jubilee. He sat between them — two giants in history — looking forward to stimulating conversation about the affairs of the world. Instead, all he heard was the two men loudly talking across the table about their personal health, digestive problems, and medications. Edison was deaf in one ear.
In Carlsbad, seventy years before the end, the uncle had told the nephew to let the fly take its promenade on the high plateau. The nephew spent the rest of his century-long life ensuring that nothing — no insect, no attitude, no taboo, no government — was left to its own promenade. Everything could be managed. Everything could be engineered. The question Bernays never satisfactorily answered — the question his methods bequeathed to every generation that followed — was whether it should be.
He once joked: "I have served three generals: General Motors, General Electric, and General Eisenhower."
The brook trout swim in the order of their price range.
