“So gorgeous was the spectacle on the May morning of 1910 when nine kings rode in the funeral of Edward VII of England . . .” So begins Barbara Tuchman’s Pulitzer Prize-winning The Guns of August, an epic tale of the first month of World War I. That first sentence, brimming with details and expressive imagery, foreshadows what is to come—not only the historical events, but the prose: Tuchman’s dramatic, eloquent style. This style of writing brought her dozens of awards, honorary degrees, and lectureships. Yet her life stretched far beyond the page. Tuchman was also an activist, a mother, and a resolute defender of democratic ideals. She refused to be confined to a single role. So who was Barbara Tuchman?
Barbara Tuchman was born on January 30, 1912 as the second of three daughters to Maurice Wertheim and Alma Morgenthau. Her father founded the investment bank Wertheim & Co. and served as president of the American Jewish Committee. He took an active role in his community as a philanthropist, funding arts and theatre programs in New York and at Harvard University. Her mother founded the first progressive school in New York City, the Walden School, and served as a patron of contemporary American music. Equally impressive was Tuchman’s extended family. Her maternal grandfather, Henry Morgenthau Sr, served as the ambassador to the Ottoman Empire during World War I and organized the first international refugee relief program. Her uncle, Henry Morgenthau Jr, served as Secretary of the Treasury during the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration.
A self-described voracious reader from age six, Tuchman gobbled up every piece of information in sight. She received a formal education at the Walden School, but her family values and experiences outside of the Walden School had a greater impact on her character. Tuchman’s sister recalled family night dinners, when they debated current events and politics around the kitchen table. Even as a teenager, Tuchman wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and she never hesitated to disagree with someone. Her sister recalled one evening when Tuchman quoted Roosevelt, a topic forbidden by their father; her father demanded she go to her room, but she refused, stating she was too old to be sent away, and her father could not muster an immediate response. At that moment, Tuchman was to her sister “the bravest person on earth.” These family values of discussion, reflection, and active participation in a variety of causes settled deeply within her. For the rest of her life, she’d always express her opinion and fight for what she believed in, no matter who she might upset in the process.
The family spent their winters in New York City and their weekends and summers in Cos Cob, immersed in the wilderness of Wyndygoul. The estate, formerly the childhood home of historical novelist Anya Seton, was now home to another future author. Tuchman took after the wild nature that surrounded her; as the middle child, she was independent and self-confident. Nevertheless, she always offered a helping hand to her sisters. She was always there throughout their separate adult lives to talk to and receive support from. Her sister later dedicated the “marvel of sisters” to the trust they’d built together.
Tuchman spent one year at Swarthmore College, but because Jewish students were not allowed to join Greek life at the time, she transferred to Radcliffe College, where she majored in English history and literature. Ever searching for intellectual stimulation, she skipped her college graduation in 1933 and instead traveled to London to attend the World Monetary and Economic Conference. After college, she worked for her father’s newspaper, The Nation, as a foreign correspondent in Japan, Spain, and Britain. Her time in Spain and England inspired her first book, The Lost British Policy: Britain and Spain Since 1700, published in 1938 in London.
For this book and every book after, Tuchman followed a strict schedule. She first discovered an interesting tidbit from a time period she considered relevant to the modern world. Upon further research, if she learned more about herself through the time period, she would continue with the story, as that was a sign the story was valuable. If she learned nothing about herself or her world through the past, she shelved the story and looked for another. Indeed, Tuchman viewed the “quality of being in love with your subject” as a necessary prerequisite for any good historical writing. She would then travel to the settings of her books, taking meticulous notes on index cards. When she returned, she’d begin the “seductive” process of research and the “hard work” of writing. Every day, she locked herself in a little shed, completely secluded from her house, and forbade anyone from entering. With only her writing materials, she worked for over ten hours, completely alone and immersed in her story, leaving only once to retrieve a sandwich for lunch. Her manuscripts, handwritten and then typed, became “ponderous affairs” cluttered with “scribbled notes, penciled insertions, deletions, [and] corrections.”
Tuchman’s historical writing emphasized the role of human fallibility in the events she researched—for example, the weakness of national leaders in The Guns of August. Of her writing style, she remarked, “I belong to the ‘How’ school rather than the ‘Why.’” She believed her role was that of a narrator, as a “seeker of the small facts.” Instead of pursuing a large explanation, she closely followed the timeline of events and sought to portray the facts, the individuals, and the individuals’ mistakes in an exciting and intriguing manner. Especially important was her interpretation of her research, more than the research itself; her interpretations of historical figures’ motives, beliefs, and emotions formed the basis for her books.
Tuchman’s method worked. She was described as the daughter of Clio, the Greek muse of history; she was said to have a “grasp of history that was clever, cool and telling.” Compliments were showered on her: she brought history “dramatically alive”; she “captured the spirit of an incident . . . with sparkling incisiveness”; she had the “power to use words to create beautiful sentences.” However, through the two Pulitzer Prizes that were to come and the numerous distinctions that further cemented her as a great writer of history, Tuchman was never quite certain of her ability. She needed to know that people appreciated her work and her, as a person; Robert Gottlieb, who worked with her for the last four years before her death, recalled that she often needed reassurance from people she trusted that her work was as good as everyone insisted it was. Whenever she wrote a sentence she was particularly proud of, she would excitedly read it aloud and then check to see if her audience, typically composed of close friends and family, enjoyed it as well. Far more than remote critics’ reviews, this personal encouragement gave her the confidence to continue writing.
Although during the first chaotic weeks of research, drafts, and revisions Tuchman spent most of her time holed up in her study, she cultivated a rich social life with close and devoted companions. She loved to have lunch with friends and discuss the politics and social causes of the day. Her friend, Elizabeth Janeway, fondly remembered debates she had with Tuchman over lunch; despite often disagreeing with her, she grew from their disputes, as the exchange of ideas and opinions led her to rethink and explore her earlier judgment. The effect was likely the same for Tuchman; as evidenced by the friends and colleagues who spoke at her memorial service, ranging from journalists to editors to historians, she surrounded herself with intellectually stimulating people from whom she could learn and expand her perspective.
Tuchman also took a progressive stance on women’s rights, although she immediately dismissed the notion that she was a feminist. (She insisted that women were already liberated, adding that “any woman with enough drive will do what she wants to do.”) However, she reflected that as a female author in the mid-1900s, she often was not taken seriously: “Being a wife and a mother—that in people’s minds is enough to establish you as an amateur.” Coupled with her lack of a PhD, Tuchman’s work appeared trivial to potential agents and editors. She worked twice as hard and faced thirty rejections before publishing a single book. Yet when she did gain recognition, she never failed to remember the dismissal she had faced. When she accepted an award from the Cosmos Club, which did not admit women at the time and had consequently been rocked by protests, she declared, “If the criterion of membership is ‘achievement,’ then the exclusion of women is the club’s loss, not ours.” She wished to highlight the irrationality of the men who denied women recognition in academia, but she refused to give them the satisfaction of outright anger.
Among Tuchman’s other political stances, she was a nationalist liberal and a deep believer in political freedom. A close friend described her as a public teacher—a leader in her community. She advocated for an immediate withdrawal from Vietnam, and she fought to stop the “imperial presidency.” She detested Nixon, whom she considered the head of the imperial presidency, and declared that his resignation showed “every potential president that there are limits he may not exceed.” By castigating Nixon, she revealed her patriotic belief in the ideals of the American government. During her time on the boards of various organizations, including as a trustee of Radcliffe College and on the Authors Guild, she dedicated herself to protecting those very ideals of “independent judgment and freedom.” Tuchman also used her books to advocate against particular policies or ideas. Although not explicitly writing her books from a certain political view, she chose her subjects because they offered important lessons for the world today. She believed readers could learn from the past through her books and avoid similar mistakes.
It is impossible to capture the entirety of Barbara Tuchman’s life, work, and convictions in a single account. She died in 1989 at age 77, in the midst of working on yet another book. In total, she wrote eight books and countless essays. She was a formidable author and even more of a formidable person. She used her writing to teach, warn, and inspire, drawing upon the past to inform the present and the future. Her legacy is best represented by her own words: “Without books history is silent, literature dumb, [and] thought and speculation at a standstill.”
