Pauling and Freeman: The End of the Run

[Post 8 of 8 in our series examining Linus Pauling’s relationship with his long-time publishing house, W.H. Freeman & Co.]

In the 1970s and 1980s, well after Bill Freeman’s departure from the company that he started, Linus Pauling published a number of other books through Freeman and Co., including two big sellers, Vitamin C and the Common Cold, and How to Feel Better and Live Longer, as well as Orthomolecular Psychiatry, which was more of a niche volume. But as the staff at Freeman and Co. evolved, Pauling began to experience trouble communicating.

Over time, Pauling also felt his editorial contributions were being restricted. Notably, when Basic Physical Chemistry for the Life Sciences was published as part of his series, Pauling had no hand in editing it. Once the book had gone to the printers, Pauling sent a letter to Freeman & Co. president Stanley Schaefer stating his belief that the text should not have been released in this manner. No text, he felt, should be published in his series if he was not really and truly the editor.

Schaefer replied that he had no intention of impinging upon Pauling’s authority over the series, but did express his feeling that Pauling’s fame worked against the company at times. In addition, Pauling’s manuscript comments were often very blunt, and while it is unclear how many authors were given the opportunity to read Pauling’s assessments directly, those who did were often upset by comments that they felt were unfair.

One author in particular, an R. Nelson, wrote several pages to Schaefer defending his stylistic choices after the company had rejected his manuscript. Pauling, for one, had criticized his informal tone, but Nelson felt that the approach made the book more appealing to younger generations of scientists. Nelson then attacked the company’s decision to retain Pauling as an editor for the chemistry series, writing

The problem really arises because the chemistry editor is the author of the first text and is a man of strong convictions (as well as great prominence). I believe that this situation puts a potential author (one with no prominence) in an untenable position.

Schaefer was moved by this comment in particular and asked Pauling to reconsider the manuscript with the understanding that some minor errors would be corrected. In so doing, Schaefer also sided with Nelson’s point of view in suggesting that Pauling’s take was based largely on differences in style. In this instance, Pauling was flexible and reconsidered.

In 1970, to help with the problem that Nelson had raised, Schaefer hired Pauling’s friend, colleague and former student, Harden McConnell, to serve as a co-editor for the chemistry series. McConnell was someone whom Pauling respected and who also tended to be rather more gentle in his critique, and the arrangement worked out well. The collaboration likewise helped to spread the editorial responsibilities such that Pauling could dedicate more time to other projects.

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Pauling’s notes for his memoir.

The situation had changed substantially by 1979 when Richard Warrington, the latest president of the company, suggested that Pauling terminate his editing contract. Though stressing that Pauling’s “association with the company as an author and adviser in the early years was very important to the success that followed,” Warrington also pointed out that Pauling was no longer teaching. As such, Warrington worried that Pauling’s interests and priorities had changed significantly. He also felt that the Freeman company hadn’t been as effective at bringing in successful chemistry texts in recent years. Pauling felt similarly, but also pointed out that the flow of manuscripts from the company had slowed considerably.

As the company continued to experience leadership changes throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Pauling’s relationship with Freeman as an author also began to deteriorate. Notably, at the same time that Warrington had asked him to terminate his editing contract, Pauling discovered that the company had allowed his landmark General Chemistry to go out of print. Another milestone came about a year later when Neil Patterson assumed the role of president and moved the company to New York to be closer to Scientific American, with which Freeman and Co. now shared a CEO. Pauling had long enjoyed having a publisher based on the West Coast and was disappointed with the move.

In 1991, a correspondent named Jonathan Paul Von Neumann wrote a letter to Pauling expressing his disappointment that Freeman and Co. hadn’t shown any interest when he approached them about translating How to Feel Better and Live Longer into other languages. Pauling wrote back, sharing Von Neumann’s concern and confiding his belief that publishing companies often mishandled their authors.

In 1992, Pauling’s relationship with Freeman and Co. all but came to a close when the publisher rejected two of his proposed manuscripts. One was a freshman text that he planned to write with his youngest son, Crellin. Perhaps more disappointing was the firm’s lack of interest in Pauling’s second suggestion, a memoir that he was to title The Nature of Life — Including My Life.

W.H. Freeman and Company was eventually reabsorbed into its parent company. Now an imprint under Macmillan Learning, the group continues to publish successful science textbooks and provide other educational resources.

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Perhaps more than anything else, William Hazen Freeman was a man who created a network of scientists who came together to write, edit, and circulate textbooks geared at improving science education in university classroom. In pursuing this ambition, he harnessed the brilliance of scientists who were top-notch in their fields and commissioned them as editors or writers (or, in the case of Pauling, as both) to disseminate knowledge and advance disciplines. As a result, W.H. Freeman & Co. was, in its prime, a hub for collaboration and communication between scientists and other creative thinkers. It is likely that no other corporation played as profound a role in Pauling’s story than did his long-time publisher.

 

Life After Bill Freeman

[Tracing Linus Pauling’s association with the W.H. Freeman & Co. publishing house. This is post 7 of 8.]

In the years immediately following Bill Freeman’s departure from the company that he founded, Stanley Schaefer ran W.H. Freeman & Co. quite smoothly. In 1969, Bill Kaufman took over as president with Schaefer staying on as chairman, and Kaufman also did well. Notably, he played a key role in the release of revised editions of Linus Pauling’s General Chemistry and College Chemistry, and by the end of his first year in charge, Schaefer was able to report that the company had grown. As the onset of the 1970s loomed, Freeman & Co. had published fourteen new books and added seventy-two titles to its Scientific American offprint series. The outlook for the next fiscal year seemed bright.

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The connection with Scientific American was especially important, as the company had formally merged with the publication in 1964. Of this change Schaefer remarked,

Now united are the forces of two successful, non-competitive publishers who have outstanding reputations for high standards and excellence in scientific publishing. Each is making distinctive contributions to the new alliance. I mention, for example, the significant new source of authors for Freeman books that is now available to us.

Illustrator Roger Hayward, who had spent years working for both Freeman and Scientific American, expressed surprise at this news, but congratulated both parties and noted that the transition seemed to him a “happy circumstance.”

That same year, Pauling and Hayward began collaborating on The Architecture of Molecules, originally titled Molecular Architecture but renamed by Pauling just prior to its release. A stunning and unique collision of science and art, the book was successful right away and continued to do well for years afterward. Both collaborators received 15% royalties for the first 10,000 copies sold in cloth, 18% for every cloth-bound copy sold beyond the initial 10,000, and 10% for the paperback editions.

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C.B. Van Niel

Despite his earlier claim that he would not feel confident in the company without Freeman directing it, Pauling continued to maintain a positive and productive relationship with his long-time publisher. In one particular instance, Pauling played an instrumental role in smoothing tensions caused by an unflattering review of a Freeman text. The review in question was authored by microbiologist C.B. Van Niel, whose highly critical assessment of Wayne W. Umbreit’s Modern Microbiology appeared in the widely read magazine, Science.

Prior to the review appearing in print, Van Niel had sent a letter to Bill Freeman warning him that the review would not be favorable, but Freeman had left the company by this point. His replacement, Stan Schaefer, didn’t see the review until it had been published. Once he saw the Science piece, Schaefer responded personally to Van Niel, writing that the criticisms had hit sales hard. Schaefer further speculated that Van Niel harbored a personal grudge against Umbreit and that this was the real source of the animus permeating the review.

It was at this point that Pauling came to Schaefer’s aid. He informed Van Niel that he personally had not found the book to be nearly as flawed as the review claimed and accused his correspondent of “malicious mischief,” stating that most of the errors that he attacked were simple and relatively common across publications.

Without waiting for Van Niel’s response, Pauling then wrote to Phil Abelson, the editor of Science, asking him to redact the review because it was disrespectful, incorrect, took sentences out of context, and was overly aggressive in tone. Seeing Pauling come to Umbreit’s defense, many other professionals in biology and bacteriology spoke out against the review, criticizing its focus on minor errors. More importantly, many within this group also chose to adopt the text despite its flaws.

To stave off future conflicts of this sort, Schaefer requested that, as a courtesy, drafts of reviews be sent to Freeman & Co. before publication, so that the company could prepare if the analysis was unfavorable. Pauling also asked Van Niel for his own annotated copy of the Umbreit text so that Umbreit could use it in his revision process.

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When Stanley Schaefer promoted Bill Kaufman to president in 1969, he assumed the position of chairman, a post that had previously been occupied by Freeman himself. Kaufman opted for early retirement in 1971, reporting to Pauling that the timing felt opportune because the “fame” of the company was at an all-time high. He was also confident in the competence of the staff and its collective motivation to ensure the continued success of the company.

Pauling was also feeling bullish about the company’s prospects — so much so that he finally brought up an issue that had been troubling him for some time. Contractual modifications that Bill Freeman had instituted for the second edition of College Chemistry — modifications that lowered Pauling’s royalty rate — were presented as temporary changes needed to help grow the young company financially. When it was suggested, Pauling saw no problem with the change, so long as it was temporary. But, as far as he could see, the lower royalty rate had been applied to the third edition of College Chemistry as well, and Pauling came to feel that he was being taken advantage of. In a letter to Stan Schaefer he expressed his feeling that the agreement, as it was being continued, “might be said to have been obtained by fraudulent methods, involving statements to me that I think were untrue or at least misleading about the financial situation of the Company.”

Schaefer checked the royalty statements and concluded that Pauling was correct in his assessment. After apologizing and thanking Pauling for bringing the matter to his attention, he then set about calculating the difference between the royalties Pauling had received and the royalties that should have dispensed. Once done, Schaefer assured Pauling that the company would pay him $5,000 owed for the second edition of College Chemistry and $7,400 for the third. Pauling thanked Shaefer for his straight dealing and then requested that the company pay him interest at the rate of 7% on these remittances because they were late.

Freeman, Cooper and Co.

[An exploration of William H. Freeman and the publishing firms that he founded. This is part 6 of 8 and focuses on Roger Hayward’s interactions with Freeman, Cooper & Co.]

Despite the disappointing end to his involvement with the company that he had founded, Bill Freeman worked in the publishing industry for the rest of his life. Post Freeman & Co., he stayed with his new employer, Addison-Wesley, long enough to regain a sense of confidence. With his wife Margaret, he then set about establishing his second independent press: Freeman, Cooper & Company, a name that once again incorporated the Freeman brand, but now also included Margaret’s maiden name.

Rather than limiting the scope of their new firm to a specific discipline as Freeman had done in the past, Freeman, Cooper & Co. published books on a wide range of subjects. While Bill Freeman was still primarily interested in publishing textbooks, he shied away from entering into direct competition with his previous company. As a result, his new venture published books for academic use that were not, strictly speaking, textbooks. And while science remained a key area for the publisher, other areas including psychology and philosophy also began to populate the catalog.

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Roger Hayward, ca. 1960s

Though Freeman relished the fresh start, he still recognized the value of retaining past connections. Key among these connections was illustrator and close friend Roger Hayward, whom Freeman approached with a few project ideas in 1971. The first of these ideas was a book that he hoped Hayward would write on “the simpler and fundamental geometry of nature,” intended for use by both introductory and advanced students. He also proposed that Hayward illustrate a different book on crystallography for chemists, and a third book focusing on the chemical elements.

Hayward expressed interest in these projects, as long as Freeman could pay him royalties. Freeman agreed, but warned that the royalties might be small because the audience for each project was likely to be rather specialized. For Hayward, this was a risk worth taking, given that his royalty income from other projects was robust enough to absorb a potentially low payout from these new ventures. Having arrived at this understanding, Freeman’s only additional request of Hayward was that he not complete illustrations for any rival publishers. This was also an easy request to fulfill as Freeman, Cooper & Co. were engaged in direct competition with only a few other firms.

Their agreement in place, Hayward set to work on new illustrations and an early draft for his geometry of nature book, contacting Freeman regularly to keep him apprised of his progress. By this point in his career, Freeman no longer held his authors to strict deadlines, so long as they did a good job of staying in touch. In their exchange of letters, Freeman provided gentle guidance to Hayward as he developed his text. When Hayward broached the idea of including anecdotes from his personal life in the book, Freeman expressed reluctance. And while he ended up telling Hayward to proceed, he advised caution: too much autobiography could harm an author’s academic authority, he felt, though the right amount of personal narrative could work to forge a deeper connection with students.

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Drawing of a Cooper Structure as published by Ruth Walker in October 1973.

Once Freeman had piqued Hayward’s interest with these smaller projects, he unveiled the idea that he was most excited about, an organic chemistry manuscript by Ruth Walker, a chemist at Hunter College. Hayward enthusiastically agreed to provide illustrations for the text, but soon became enmeshed in a familiar set of struggles: when Walker raised concerns about Hayward’s initial drafts, the illustrator refused to make changes.

Most of Walker’s concerns were over small or superficial details in the illustrations, but a particularly contentious debate ultimately led to a significant advancement. As part of his portfolio for the Walker project, Hayward had created a paper model of a tetrahedron that was designed for students to tear out and construct into own molecule. While on board with the idea, Walker claimed that the instructions that Hayward had written were inaccurate and that the overall design was ineffective.

Unable to resolve the debate themselves, Walker and Hayward brought the matter to Freeman. The publisher was intrigued by Hayward’s unique design, but agreed with Walker that it would be difficult for students to follow the instructions that Hayward had provided. As a means of clarification, Freeman suggested a minor modification – the addition of dotted lines to indicate the direction in which students should bend the model. He also promised Hayward that he would collect more authoritative opinions from accomplished chemists and reconvene with him before the publication of the text.

Several of the chemists that Freeman contacted agreed that Hayward’s model was unique and had potential as a teaching tool. When Freeman relayed this feedback to Hayward, the illustrator immediately took steps to patent his design. Freeman assured him that the copyright protecting the material in the book would be sufficient for this purpose as well.

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Once it was established that Hayward and, to some extent, Freeman had created something new, Freeman’s associates in the scientific world went about naming the structure. They eventually settled on the Cooper Structure, an obvious source of frustration for Roger Hayward. Peeved, he crafted a short memo to Freeman that was written in the large, bold typeface that he had adopted as a result of worsening eyesight. “For goodness’ sakes,” it read, “What’s wrong with the Hayward Structure?”

Freeman replied that the Hayward Structure was actually the first name that had been proposed, but that the group of scientists couldn’t arrive at a consensus. Some other names they tried included the Freeman Structure, a hopper crystal, a starved tetrahedron (because of the model’s concave sides), an inverted dodecahedron, an instellated polyhedron, a Texas Tetrahedron, and a Cooper Crystal. The Cooper Structure was the name that everyone ultimately agreed upon. Hayward belatedly suggested the HFC Form – for Hayward, Freeman, Cooper – but his suggestion was largely ignored.

Changing tactics, Hayward once again began investigating a patent, arguing that  copyright protections simply prevented anyone from publishing the design. Freeman remained sympathetic to Hayward’s feelings, but firm in his resolution that a patent was not necessary. As time moved forward, Hayward sensed that he was losing the fight and that the process had moved beyond him. In fact, because Freeman’s modification is what made the model effective, Ruth Walker gave him credit for the discovery. In a Journal of Chemical Education article, she wrote

A unique model for illustrating the tetrahedral geometry of sp³ bonding is obtained when the pattern in the figure is cut out and assembled…the resulting structure is a tetrahedron with four recessed faces and a central hole, and has been named the Cooper Structure. Each face is recessed in such a way as to produce a model that clearly shows the relative position of four bands extending from the center of a tetrahedron, one towards each apex. This model was designed by William H. Freeman for inclusion in ‘Organic Chemistry: How to Solve It (I. Molecular Geometry)’ by Ruth A. Walker, after Mr. Freeman observed models made by Roger Hayward, the illustrator of the organic workbook published by Freeman, Cooper and Co. in 1972.

Hayward was somewhat placated by the wording of the article, which let him claim a share of the credit for the design. He proceeded to recommence work on his geometry of nature book, but never finished it as his health problems increased in severity.

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Meanwhile, Bill Freeman was also experiencing his share of setbacks. Just before the Cooper Structure conundrum arose he was hospitalized for exhaustion, which slowed production considerably and led to a period of prolonged discouragement. In a letter to Hayward, he made reference to “hurdles, disappointments, problems and shenanigans that I dare not put into print.” And for all the fuss that it caused, Ruth Walker’s book, Organic Chemistry – How to Solve It, sold only 11,000 copies.

Over the course of its history, Freeman, Cooper, and Company experienced moderate success, but never achieved the same fame as its predecessor. Many of the authors who had found their niche at W.H. Freeman & Co. remained loyal to the original company even after its namesake had moved on; indeed, with the notable exception of Roger Hayward, Bill Freeman built his new company largely from scratch. He insisted though, that modest successes did not diminish his passion for the independent press. After he passed away in 1992, Margaret took over the firm and ran it smoothly for a few additional years before letting it go to become another piece of publishing history.

Trouble at Freeman and Co.

A W.H. Freeman catalog from 1986 noting the firm’s long association with Scientific American magazine.

[Exploring Linus Pauling’s relationship with the W.H. Freeman & Co. publishing firm. Part 5 of 8.]

After more than a decade of success in the publishing world, W. H. Freeman and Co. hit a roadblock. The difficulties began with a personal matter that arose in the summer of 1959, when Bill Freeman separated from his wife, the former Verne Kopplin. When divorce papers were ultimately filed the following year, Freeman offered his wife an even division of all their assets, with the notable exception of his stake in the company. Collectively, the couple owned 43% of the firm and Verne insisted that she retain her share. In her communications with Freeman, Verne pointed out they had married in 1946, the same year that the company was founded, and that they had worked together to grow the company to its current stature. As such, she was entitled to a degree of control over its future direction.

From the outside looking in, Linus Pauling maintained a different point of view. In a letter to Freeman, Pauling expressed his feeling that, although Verne – a prominent Bay Area attorney – had previously provided legal services to Freeman & Co., she had, in his opinion, done little to support the company beyond her contributions as a consultant.

The possibility that Verne might retain a claim to the company was one that weighed heavily on Freeman. In a letter to Pauling he revealed that “I find it quite impossible to carry on my work while sharing with her anything of my future.” He also expressed concern that he might lose control of the company were Verne to retain her shares.

Freeman knew that he would not be able to influence Verne’s decisions concerning the direction of the company. He also feared that she was planning to consolidate the stocks held by colleagues and friends to essentially buy the company out from under him.

Pauling did his best to provide a lift in his reply:

I believe that W.H. Freeman and Company, as built up by you, has become the outstanding publisher of college textbooks of the highest quality in the United States…I was so greatly impressed by your ability that I felt that the advantage of having my book [General Chemistry] put out by your firm, because of your extraordinary ability and originality and convictions about the importance of publication of books of high quality, would outweigh the disadvantage of lack of an organization and reputation of long standing.

He concluded that he wouldn’t feel comfortable continuing his association with the company in the event that Verne succeeded in reducing Freeman’s control over it.

So strong was Pauling’s conviction that he expressed a willingness to dramatically increase his skin in the game. Cognizant of the financial burden that the divorce and its aftermath had placed on Freeman, and hoping to ease this burden, Pauling offered to buy Freeman’s stock, which would provide Freeman with the capital to purchase Verne’s shares should he wish. Freeman agreed to the proposition but only on condition that he be given the option to buy his stock back within three years. Pauling was not comfortable with this arrangement and the two failed to arrive at a solution that would satisfy them both.

In the end Verne retained her shares, and once the divorce was settled in the fall of 1960, Freeman continued to spiral. In order to keep Verne from gaining control of the company, he was obliged to purchase at least 200 of her shares at $55 each while also paying the mortgage on the house that they had shared. In a letter to illustrator Roger Hayward, Freeman bemoaned his state of affairs:

Old man Freeman feels like the tempest in a terribly small teapot; no one ever gives any thought to the tempest’s feelings or understands how constrained he feels.

In need of an escape, Freeman took the summer off to travel around Europe. He made it as far as Greece and self-published a book describing his experiences, titled Ola Kala: The Greek Word for It.

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An excerpt from Stanley Schaefer’s letter to shareholders written during trying times for the company that he now led. October 1, 1962.

Meanwhile, tensions mounted at W.H. Freeman & Co. as their eponymous leader became increasingly unstable. A growing sentiment among many stockholders was that Freeman would do anything to keep control. As this idea continued to grain traction, executive vice president Stanley Schaefer became nervous about the future of the company and sent out a request to many of the stockholders that they become proxies, thereby granting them the authority to make decisions about the firm.

Finally, in January 1962, Bill Freeman agreed to sell his stock, though he was resistant to sell within the company because of his objections to the firm’s recent association with Scientific American. It is likely that the arrangement with Scientific American was entered into to provide a measure of protection for the company amidst the financial damage caused by Freeman’s divorce. In his correspondence with Pauling – one of the few people at W.H. Freeman & Co. that he still trusted – Freeman railed against the decision and expressed sharp criticisms of Stanley Schaefer and Bill Kaufman as well as other long-timers like Harvey McCaleb and Adam Kudlacik. Pauling balked at these denunciations, pointing out that Freeman had hand-picked these men and needed to trust in their judgment, as Pauling did.

After a different and particularly troubling discussion with Freeman, who sometimes met the Paulings for dinner, Linus reflected on the current state of the company, noting that “Bill and Verne damaged it, neglected it, and [devoted] their energy to fighting each other.” Though he was sympathetic to Freeman’s situation and deeply concerned about his friend, Pauling believed that there was no justification for the damage that Freeman was causing to the company.

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Stanley Schaefer also wanted to help and offered to buy Freeman’s stock. When Freeman declined, Schaefer suggested that Scientific American could purchase the shares. Freeman felt that this was not a realistic solution either. He did, however, agree to not sell his stock to a competing company. When Freeman subsequently took a job at Addison-Wesley’s western office, signing a contract that would allow the company to purchase his Freeman & Co. shares, he effectively broke this promise.

When Pauling asked Freeman why he had done this, Freeman confessed that he was too dissatisfied with the present management at Freeman & Co. to consider associating with it anymore. Scientific American stepped in at this point and made an offer for Freeman’s stock that Addison-Wesley could not match. Ava Helen Pauling, who remained a confidant for Freeman, advised him to sell his stock to the magazine publisher. Doing so, she reasoned, could secure a stable future for his children while also providing an avenue for Freeman to leave his old company gracefully.

Freeman reluctantly agreed and Gerald Piel, the president of Scientific American, put the money from this transaction into a trust fund. Trustees “in whose rationality and integrity” the company had confidence would vote at a later date on the matter of what to do with the proceeds. Meanwhile, once Freeman had become associated with Freeman & Co. in name only, Verne also lost interest and refocused her energies on her legal career. She eventually remarried and went on to challenge discriminatory policies at law firms in Connecticut, where she practiced law for several years.

Some time later, having relocated and newly married to his former secretary, Margaret Cooper, Freeman reached out to Ava Helen to explain his behavior. In his letter, he confided

For old times’ sake, I will say to you that I had no alternatives – financial ones possibly, but professional or personal ones, absolutely none…As I’ve said to Linus, until the future speaks, I trust that we can each of us respect the other’s right to act in accordance with his convictions.

The Golden Years: Freeman and Co. in the 1950s

Stanley Schaefer as photographed by the San Francisco Chronicle, 1962.

[Part 4 in our series examining Linus Pauling’s relationship with publisher W.H. Freeman & Co.]

As the 1950s moved forward, W.H. Freeman & Company sought to actively build on past successes. Objective number one in doing so was expanding the number of textbooks that the company published. Objective number two for Bill Freeman was to increase the firm’s staff in order to match editorial and publishing demands.

One of the first employees that Freeman hired when he started his company was Janet MacRorie, the head of marketing. MacRorie and Freeman first collaborated on the advertising and marketing campaign supporting General Chemistry in 1947. In the early 1950s, Adam Kudlacik joined the firm as treasurer and secretary, thus beginning a lengthy tenure with the company. Harvey McCaleb also joined the team in 1953 to handle Midwest authors.

Perhaps the most significant addition to Freeman’s staff come on board in 1949, when Stanley Schaefer joined Freeman and John Behnke as one of the firm’s principal editors. The original intention for Schaefer was that he base himself in New York for purposes of recruiting and negotiating with East Coast authors, but Freeman was so impressed with Schaefer’s work that he invited him to move to the company’s headquarters in San Francisco not long after he was hired. Schaefer was pleased with the transfer and, in 1957, was promoted to executive vice-president. (He remained with the company for several decades, eventually becoming president and chairman.) With Schaefer’s promotion, another consequential hire was made when William Kaufman took Schaefer’s old spot on the editorial staff.

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Though business had been been strong throughout the post-war period, by the late 1950s Freeman began to worry that the company’s competitors were gaining traction. Looking to bolster his catalog, Freeman decided to re-concentrate efforts to entice respectable authors to sign contracts with Freeman & Co. And while he continued to send outside manuscript proposals to Linus Pauling for the chemistry series that he edited, Freeman also began to query Pauling for ideas on scientific areas that did not currently have a well-written or modern textbook in circulation. He then used this feedback to pinpoint his recruitment of authors to publish within those areas.

Freeman also updated the editorial plan for the book series that Pauling was heading. In particular, Freeman began to push the idea that non-science students could be harnessed to promote what he called “the revolution in scientific education.” Likewise, because Pauling’s groundbreaking General Chemistry text had been so successful, Freeman wanted to publish more non-traditional and experimental books in Pauling’s line.

Pauling didn’t disagree with Freeman’s point of view, but he advised caution. Privately, Pauling was concerned that, in seeking to grow the company, Freeman might begin to adopt selection and recruitment policies that were employed by larger firms. Were he to do so, Pauling worried that Freeman might be tempted to sell the company if it grew beyond him. In Pauling’s opinion, Freeman was fundamental to the company’s success and this success could not continue – at least not in the same way – if Freeman allowed the company to pursue the same models as larger publishing firms.

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Despite the hand-wringing, W.H. Freeman & Co. flourished throughout the remainder of the 1950s. A new milestone was reached at the end of the decade, when Freeman announced plans to open a satellite editorial operation in London. The establishment of this branch in 1960 opened new markets for the company in England and elsewhere across Europe, and did much to increase the firm’s appeal among British authors.

Bill Freeman was beginning to receive recognition for his achievements as well. In 1960 he was awarded a Doctorate of Humane Letters from his alma mater Hamilton College, and was also nominated by Pauling as California Industrialist of the Year. Though he didn’t win this award, it meant a great deal to Freeman to know that Pauling respected and admired him enough to nominate him for a prize that celebrated success through creativity and innovation.

Unsurprisingly, the company’s reputation in its hometown was quite strong. On one occasion, the San Francisco Chronicle called Freeman & Co. “a great big sensational success story,” and indeed this was so. At the time, textbook publishing was largely the domain of a handful of companies located on the East Coast. In fact, as the Chronicle article pointed out, there was only one reputable textbook publisher anywhere on the West Coast: W.H. Freeman & Co.

But amidst growth, change and strategic planning, for Freeman the mission statement remained the same. The company, he said, published “only those [books] it thinks are based on a new and advanced viewpoint.” And though the company’s mission was unchanged, its approach to publishing was becoming more experimental. Notably, as the 1960s moved forward, the firm entered into a joint venture with Scientific American to publish off-prints of older articles.

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As we will see in our next post, Freeman was not on board with the Scientific American arrangement, a collaboration that emerged out of larger difficulties for the company. In fact, while at the conclusion of the 1950s Freeman could happily describe himself as director of the company but also “semi-retired,” change was very near on the horizon. Comforted for the moment by the glow of hard-earned achievement, the publisher may also have had an inkling of the troubles that would soon arise.

College Chemistry

[Part 3 in our series examining Linus Pauling’s relationship with the W.H. Freeman & Co. publishing house.]

Linus Pauling’s landmark General Chemistry textbook hadn’t yet cooled from the press when he, along with publisher Bill Freeman and illustrator Roger Hayward, began planning for a younger sibling, College Chemistry.

Initially, Freeman had expressed high hopes that Pauling might consider writing a chemistry text for liberal arts students and other non-science majors. Pauling suggested another fundamental college text instead. He did so in part because he was troubled by several reviews that had dismissed General Chemistry as being too challenging for a freshman audience. Whether or not this was the case, Pauling felt that he could not adapt his existing book enough to adequately address this complaint. He also did not want to compromise his original intent, which was to give students who were passionate about chemistry a challenging and engaging textbook that would help them to build a strong foundation of core principles within the discipline.

The gap that resided between Freeman’s hopes and Pauling’s goals was ultimately filled by College Chemistry, a text that was specifically marketed as being for the average student. Intent on achieving this objective, Freeman insisted that Pauling’s process rely upon a stable of editors who had absolutely no background in chemistry. Only in this way could the firm verify that this second book would be truly accessible to students lacking in specialized knowledge.

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Freeman marketing materials for College Chemistry and General Chemistry, 1951.

As Pauling circulated the first fifteen and then the second fifteen chapters, Freeman became increasingly excited about their new project. Buoyed by these feelings and intent on using what he had learned from their experience with General Chemistry, Freeman laid plans for an early and aggressive advertising campaign.

He and Pauling, however, had different ideas about the specifics of a successful marketing strategy. In one instance, Freeman sent Pauling an ad that depicted nuclear fission with the following caption:

The above picture, of course, shows the process of nuclear fission. But it might also illustrate the way Linus Pauling’s College Chemistry has hit American colleges. Has this chain reaction hit you?

Upon seeing this, Pauling replied that the ad gave him the feeling of a text that had somehow disrupted American colleges, noting that “Whatever the disrupting effect is, it seems to be that it would be undesirable.” Freeman quickly learned his lesson and steered away from science puns in future marketing attempts.

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Hayward color plate included in College Chemistry, 1950.

Despite their hectic schedules and a few setbacks, Pauling and Freeman managed to get College Chemistry published by 1950. The new book succeeded in reaching a wider audience than had General Chemistry, and the reviews that it received were largely positive. Pauling dedicated the book to his doctor, Thomas Addis, with the epigraph, “who in supplying science to medicine kept always uppermost his deep sympathy for mankind.”

Shortly after sending the first edition off to press, Pauling was already working on revisions to College Chemistry. Though generally pleased with the work, he felt that there was room to further refine the writing and presentation of information. He also wanted to update the design. For instance, when he saw the color plate for a proposed illustration, Pauling was so impressed that he asked if they could print all of the second edition’s illustrations in color. Though the newer technology excited him as well, Freeman denied this request, citing cost as a barrier. Indeed, such was the state of publishing at the time that Freeman felt they were already ahead of their competitors with the inclusion of a single color plate.

Despite the warm reception that College Chemistry received, Freeman warned that Pauling would have to make substantial revisions to further improve the accessibility of the text and to integrate new scientific developments that had come about between editions. Pauling heeded this warning and saved $300 of his royalties to recruit Fred Allen – then of Purdue University but formerly his professor at Oregon Agricultural College – to assist with the editing. At Freeman’s request, Pauling also circulated his manuscript to non-science professionals, once again seeking to ensure that the text would reach its target audience.

Another key change between the first and second edition was the royalty agreement governing Pauling’s work for Freeman. As the company was still in its early years and in the midst of growing pains, Freeman proposed that Pauling receive a royalty of 10% for the first 10,000 copies (as opposed to their earlier contract, which stipulated a 15% royalty for the first 5,000 copies), 15% for the next 5,500 sold in a year, and 19% on all other copies sold in a year.

Pauling agreed to these new terms for two reasons. First, it was his desire that the company’s success continue. And second, the lower royalty rate meant that Freeman could sell the book at a lower list price. These compromises worked to increase distribution potential and, indeed, both author and publisher saw a satisfactory number of copies leaving the shelves.

Roger Hayward at Freeman & Co.

Roger Hayward, ca. 1930s.

[An examination of the history of the W.H. Freeman & Co. publishing house as viewed through the lens of Linus Pauling and his colleagues. This is part 2 of 8.]

As Linus Pauling’s chemistry series at W.H. Freeman & Co. moved forward, a third member of the team proved to be of crucial importance: illustrator Roger Hayward.

As we’ve covered previously, Bill Freeman initially employed Hayward to create the illustrations for Pauling’s General Chemistry textbook and, suitably impressed, wound up commissioning him for a number of other projects. Freeman quickly saw that Hayward was an incredibly talented illustrator and the two formed a close friendship that lasted through the years.

Freeman even recruited Hayward to design his new office when the company moved from Market Street. Freeman was colorblind and admitted that he needed help when it came to outfitting a space. In the past, he had relied upon a “Vice-Presidents-in-Charge-of-Decoration” committee made up of several female colleagues, but ultimately decided that Hayward’s insights were a better fit. In particular, Freeman commissioned Hayward to create an illustration meant specifically to hang in his office. Hayward gladly obliged and, a few weeks later, presented Freeman with a large illustration of molecules that – as Freeman’s staff informed him – were a lovely shade of apricot.

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A Hayward illustration used in the first edition of General Chemistry, 1948.

Professionally, Hayward was a fundamental asset to the company, and in more ways than one. For example, when Freeman was courting John D. Strong, then at Johns Hopkins, for a book on optics, Hayward played a crucial role in convincing Strong to sign with the San Francisco firm rather than a larger publishing house on the East Coast. Once secured, Hayward and Strong worked well together, engaging in lively discussions as they collaborated on the manuscript.

As their relationship flourished, Freeman became a strong supporter of Hayward and his work. On one noteworthy occasion in the early 1950s, a textbook published by Houghton-Mifflin came under scrutiny because it contained a number of illustrations that closely resembled those that Hayward had created for use in General Chemistry. Hayward noticed immediately and brought the matter to Freeman’s attention. In his reply, Freeman suggested that

No one can copyright an idea. One can copyright the expression of an idea. This last applies, not only to the use of words…but to illustrations as well.

Believing that Houghton-Mifflin had indeed committed a violation of this type, Freeman became aggressive. In the end, he negotiated a deal with the president of the company stipulating that Houghton-Mifflin would pay a $0.04 royalty fee to Hayward for each copy sold.

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Betty and Roger in 1956.

Hayward’s value was such that Freeman ultimately thought it wise to offer him a contract with the company, rather than enlisting him periodically as a freelancer. While beneficial to the company, this contract also offered the promise of a steady wage and a new era of financial security for Roger and his wife Betty.

The agreement seemed simple on paper. Hayward would continue to receive royalty payments for relevant books published prior to the contract, but for future work, he would receive an annual salary of between $4,500 and $7,500, ($40,000 to $67,000 in today’s dollars) depending on how many hours he logged. And though he would be on salary, Hayward would not be asked to be physically present at the office as long as he kept track of the time that he spent working on projects for the company.

The contract specifications were satisfactory for Hayward, particularly because of the royalties language, as continuation of these payments would insure some degree of income for Betty were Roger to pass away suddenly. Indeed, perhaps the most significant benefit of the contract was the health insurance that the company offered to Hayward, who suffered from asthma. Importantly, the insurance agreement stated that Hayward and his family would receive health benefits during the run of the contract and also for two years after any event that led to his incapacitation or death. The only new requirement of Hayward was that he commit to completing illustrations for the exclusive use of Freeman & Co. and a partner publication, Scientific American magazine.

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Hayward illustration used in Concepts of Classical Optics, by John D. Strong, 1958.

After a period of negotiation, Hayward agreed to terms and, in 1958, began working as a contract employee. His first task was to experiment with alternatives to color printing and texturing. While Freeman knew that color printing might help set his firm apart from its competitors, he worried that the costs were too high. With Hayward, Freeman tinkered with screen tone and half-tone techniques, but neither proved especially successful.

Other professional complications emerged not long after. A year into his contract, Hayward began to feel that he was being treated more as a draftsman than an artist, and was too often compelled to engage in what he described as “uncongenial work.” Freeman was sympathetic to Hayward’s lament, but only to a point:

The boys around here certainly have tried to see that each of us doesn’t have to misuse his talents or have a disproportionate amount of the uncongenial. How in the world could we keep this spirit if we had an exception, one sharing in the perquisites but able to rule (by himself) that he would not do some share of the work because he decided it was uncongenial?

But drudgery wasn’t Hayward’s only concern. Increasingly he felt that authors were overly critical of his illustrations and unwilling to give him the respect that he deserved. As Hayward grew more and more unhappy, Freeman found himself spending a great deal of time mediating. This wasn’t necessarily out of character; he often referred to himself as “Old Man Freeman,” a persona of wisdom and benevolence that he felt he needed to embody as director of the company.

In Hayward’s case however, this persona began to wear thin. Circumstances reached a boiling point when George Pimentel, who published The Hydrogen Bond with Freeman in 1960, suggested corrections to drawings that Hayward had provided. Upon learning of these suggestions, the illustrator took immediate offense and refused to complete the project. Freeman intervened to remind Hayward that authors greatly respected his skill as an artist but that his job as a company employee was to take direction from the authors or, at the very least, to negotiate with them. In response, Hayward wrote

I see nothing in that [contract] which commits me to the philosophy that the author or any other person is always right. I certainly would never sign a contract which would require me to satisfy any person or persons who are not a party to that instrument.

Growing impatient, Freeman’s reply was terse

We and our authors are the sole judges of what goes into a book and you legally must abide by that principle or you do not fulfill your part of the bargain with this company.

Suitably chastened, Hayward apologized to both Freeman and Pimentel and resumed illustrating.

With enough of these conflicts however, Freeman saw that a contract was no longer benefiting the authors, the company, or Hayward. Eventually he offered to terminate the agreement and allow Hayward to revert back to freelance status, receiving additional payments on a royalty basis. Hayward accepted and his relationship with the company, as well as his friendship with Freeman, quickly returned to a mutually respectful and co-productive state.

W.H. Freeman: The Man, His Company, and His Star Editor

[Ed Note: In November and December 2017, we explored Linus Pauling’s connections with the publishing house W.H. Freeman & Co. as viewed through the lens of Pauling’s groundbreaking textbook, General Chemistry. Today we begin a new series that delves more deeply into that relationship, exploring Pauling’s interactions with Bill Freeman the man and W.H. Freeman the company. This is part 1 of 8.]

William Hazen Freeman, Jr. was born in New York state in March 1905. Though information about his early life is scant, we do know that his father, William Hazen Freeman, was a doctor who specialized in gastrointestinal issues. The younger Freeman attended Hamilton College in New York and graduated in 1926, a member of the same class as famed behaviorist B.F. Skinner.

Macmillan Publishing Company had already hired Freeman by the time of his graduation and, over the next few years, he rose to an editorial position within the company’s textbook department. In the midst of this, Freeman relocated to San Francisco, where he began work at the company’s newly opened satellite branch.

Not long after arriving on the West Coast, Freeman met with Linus Pauling for the first time. Macmillan was keen to publish a series of textbooks in chemistry, and Freeman felt that Pauling would be the ideal editor for such a series. Furthermore, Freeman saw any potential partnership as mutually beneficial: Macmillan would enlist the skill, expertise, and reputation of a prominent scientific figure who had built a strong reputation as a teacher and Pauling could use the association with a large publishing firm to develop his own series of textbooks.

Though Pauling couldn’t deny that this sounded appealing, he hesitated. For one, he disliked the idea that he wouldn’t retain authority over the direction of the series. Rather, Macmillan planned to select the books that would be published and then pass them on to Pauling for his input. Moreover, the publisher wanted Pauling to coordinate closely with a team of Macmillan editors throughout the process. The company also suggested that they would likely terminate the series after just a few years. Taking all of these factors into consideration, Pauling thanked Freeman for his time and declined the offer.

In 1941, when Pauling began circulating early drafts of General Chemistry, Freeman approached him again, this time to express Macmillan’s interest in the manuscript. Though Pauling chose not to publish with Macmillan, the two stayed in contact through the war years, even though Pauling had postponed work on all major writing projects.

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While Freeman was working in San Francisco, he met Verne Kopplin, a young lawyer who was specializing in tax law. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin, Kopplin was the 106^th woman to practice law in the state. She subsequently passed the bar in Massachusetts and California, and was ultimately hired by the prestigious San Francisco firm of Rogers and Clark, which had previously abstained from employing women as attorneys. Indeed, by the time that she became involved with Freeman, Kopplin had already challenged discriminatory gender practices in three states.

Freeman and Kopplin married in 1946, the same year that W.H. Freeman & Company opened for business. In each other, they recognized a mutual determination to succeed, even if they had to challenge powerful institutions to do so. For Freeman, this ambition meant leaving Macmillan when it failed to show enough genuine interest in Pauling’s General Chemistry manuscript. Freeman also fiercely believed in small, independent presses and the importance of developing a trusting and intimate relationship between authors and publishers. He once remarked to illustrator Roger Hayward, with whom he shared a deep personal friendship for many years, that “the relationship between an author and a publisher is something like a marriage.”

Macmillan’s lackluster interest in Pauling’s text was indeed the spark that led Freeman to create his own publishing house, and it was a gamble that paid off. In 1947, W.H. Freeman & Co. published its first book, General Chemistry, now regarded to be a classic of the genre. That same year also brought success for Verne, as it marked the beginning of her practice at Rogers and Clark. She remained there for eight years before establishing her own practice. During her time in California, she also acted as a consultant for Freeman & Co., typically providing guidance on matters related to stockholders.

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Freeman set up shop on Market Street, a major San Francisco thoroughfare that promised high visibility for his fledgling company. Freeman’s boldness of vision matched well with the prominence of his chosen location. As he stated in his first corporate mission statement: “We say first of all that we want each book we publish to be something that hasn’t been done or that has not been well done.” As a first order of business in pursuing this objective, he revived the idea of a chemistry series for which Pauling would be the sole editor.

Once Pauling was officially on board, Freeman began sending his new editor several manuscripts each month, curating Pauling’s feedback about each submission’s potential for success. In addition to providing suggestions on whether or not a given book should be published, Pauling’s responsibilities as editor of the series also included bringing new manuscripts to Freeman’s attention. Once a proposal was accepted, Pauling provided further suggestions as the text went through the process of development. He did all of this while also writing and editing his own books.

Pauling was an exacting reader and often much sterner than Freeman in his evaluations. Indeed, he rejected most of the manuscripts that Freeman and, later, Stanley Schaefer sent to him. For one physical chemistry proposal that Pauling judged to be particularly poor, he told Freeman, “If you have any thought of publishing this, send it back to me and I’ll tear it to pieces for you.” Freeman replied sympathetically, noting that he found life as an editor to be mostly unsatisfactory, except in cases where he encountered writing like Pauling’s.

Those few manuscripts that did receive Pauling’s blessing were generally qualified with a long list of criticisms. For a general chemistry text authored by Arthur Campbell, Pauling sent four to five pages of revisions per single manuscript page — the book took several years to publish. It wasn’t Pauling’s intention to be unduly harsh. Rather, his thorough critiques reflected his steadfast commitment to improving the quality of scientific education. It was important to Pauling that his series only release texts that were current, unique, and highly effective. In this, he did much to reinforce Freeman’s mission statement.

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However, as the 1950s moved forward and Pauling became busier, he found that there was far less time to devote to editorial responsibilities. By 1956, Freeman had become fairly concerned and, in one instance, he pressed Pauling to take a look at a book on hydrogen bonding. In doing so, he reiterated that, “I am very anxious to publish something worthwhile and of a specialized nature in your series, for it is not good to have your series show as little activity as it has.” Thus motivated, Pauling refocused his efforts and returned the manuscript a short while later, offering few critical comments.

Roscoe Dickinson, 1923.

Though the series was overall a success, not every project worked out. One particularly tantalizing idea that Freeman put forth was for Pauling to collaborate with Caltech colleagues Richard Badger, David Shoemaker, and Stuart Bates to compile and contextualize a series of notes written by Roscoe Dickinson. (Pauling’s major professor and the first person to earn a Ph.D. from Caltech, Dickinson died in 1945 at the young age of 51.) Freeman’s idea came from requests that a book be written on Dickinson’s unpublished work in chemical thermodynamics. Unfortunately, the project never came to fruition for a number of reason, including lack of access to Dickinson’s papers.

Another possibility that went unrealized was an idea that Pauling flirted with from time to time: writing a high school textbook. Freeman successfully dissuaded Pauling from pursuing this notion by enlisting the help of his personal secretary, Margaret Cooper.

Freeman hired Cooper in 1953 and quickly came to respect her opinion on all sorts of matters. Based on her experience as a former high school teacher, she explained to Pauling and Freeman that the American education system had inadequately prepared high school students and instructors alike. In making this suggestion, she pointed out that, while a degree in education technically qualified individuals to teach all fields, in certain instances she felt that she had been forced to provide instruction in subjects for which she lacked the necessary skill set. This anecdote helped Freeman to convince Pauling that writing a text for high school students wasn’t a good use of his time as the content would too often fall upon deaf ears.

But most of Freeman & Co.’s projects found a happy medium between the sensational success of General Chemistry and the trapped potential of the Dickinson text, and overall Bill Freeman was pleased by his company’s success. Notably, at the end of 1949, the publisher was able to put out its first catalog of books. Freeman was quick to point out that most publishing houses were “in the red” for their first five years, but this was not the case for Freeman & Co. Rather, after only three years, the firm had published eight titles and favorably impressed numerous colleges with their small but successful operation.

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Outside of their professional association with each other, Pauling and Freeman also formed a close personal friendship. They visited one other as frequently as their busy schedules allowed, and their respective families also became close. In a letter to Pauling, Freeman remarked, “I gather that Lin [daughter Linda Freeman] fell in love with Crelly [son Crellin Pauling] even as Verne fell in love with Peter [son Peter Pauling]. I’ll have to watch the women in my family around your boys.”

(Like Pauling, Freeman had a daughter named Linda. He and Verne also had a son.)

Pauling’s immense faith in Freeman’s abilities matched Freeman’s deep respect for Pauling’s life and work. The two often brought potential projects to one other, with Freeman suggesting at one point that Pauling star in a series of instructional science films. Who knows? Had he taken Freeman’s suggestion to heart, Linus Pauling could have been the Bill Nye of the 1960s!

Saving General Chemistry

Front cover of the Dover reprint edition of General Chemistry, 1988.

[Our seventh and final post examining the history of Linus Pauling’s textbook, General Chemistry, first published in 1947. This is also our last post for 2017. Many thanks to you, our readers, for another great year! Look for us again in early January.]

In 1979, Linus Pauling contacted his publisher, W.H. Freeman & Co., with the intent to order more copies of the third edition of his General Chemistry text, only to learn that it had gone out of print. Freeman’s new president, Richard Warrington, apologized to Pauling for the lapse in communication, and then noted that the firm had stopped printing the book the previous summer. Warrington explained that sales for 1978 were not sufficient to justify further printing runs of the book: just 387 copies had been sold that year, as compared to 13,469 copies purchased when the third edition went live in 1970. With the book now officially out of print, all rights to General Chemistry reverted back to Pauling and it was up to him to figure out what to do with the content, if anything at all.

Not long after, in 1980, Freeman & Co. came under new management, which promptly ushered in a series of sweeping changes. Now led by Neil Patterson, the firm chose to cease all promotion of back-listed books and allowed dozens of titles to go out of print. Freeman & Co. had merged with Scientific American in 1962 and now shared a CEO with their corporate partner. Because of these connections, Patterson also chose to move the company from San Francisco – the only home that it had ever known – to New York. This relocation led to the diminishment or outright severing of ties with several authors based on the west coast.

Pauling expressed regret that the company had chosen to move across the country, but it was his recent experience with Freeman & Co. – specifically their neglect in communicating to him that one of his signature titles was no longer being produced – that led him to cut ties with the company.

In the midst of all this, Freeman continued to navigate seas of change. Linda Chaput took over as president and executive editor shortly following the move to New York, but the company continued to flail financially. It eventually became an imprint of MacMillan – ironically, the firm at which founder William H. Freeman got his start – but was allowed to keep its name and to market the story of its propitious beginning.

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Cover of the Dover reprint of Introduction to Quantum Mechanics, 1985.

Meanwhile, time moved forward and General Chemistry remained out of print, a fact that gnawed on its author. In 1984, Pauling approached New York-based Dover Publications, Inc. to see if they might be interested in resuscitating the third edition. Pauling had reason to believe that this entreaty might be looked upon favorably, as the company had already agreed to release a reprint version of Pauling’s influential Introduction to Quantum Mechanics with Applications to Chemistry, originally co-authored with E. Bright Wilson in 1938.

The Dover edition of Introduction to Quantum Mechanics appeared in 1985 and, as it turned out, sales were promising enough that the firm quickly agreed to sponsor the General Chemistry reprint, offering Pauling a flat sum of $2,000 in place of any royalties. This reproduction made it to market in 1988 and is still available for purchase today.

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Pauling’s notes for his talk, “Improving Science Education: Changes That Make it Possible,” January 30, 1984. In particular, Pauling emphasizes the sheer physical size of modern science textbooks, a consistent pet peeve of his.

While the paperback Dover reprint keeps General Chemistry alive today, it is the Freeman editions that stand as true classics. General Chemistry was sold by the firm for thirty-one years, an extraordinarily long life for a college science textbook. And for the bulk of those three decades, the title served as the flagship for Freeman & Co.’s chemistry series, while also providing inspiration, if not a template, for similar series written for other scientific disciplines. Feedback to the book also inspired Pauling to write College Chemistry, a slightly more traditional text which likewise went through three editions and remained very popular with chemistry teachers at the high school and college levels for decades.

General Chemistry and later College Chemistry reflected a change of style in textbook writing that sought to thread a small needle. Essentially, Pauling took it upon himself to challenge engaged students while also making scientific concepts more accessible. He did so by organizing and reimagining content in radically different ways. Pauling was, for example, the first author of a chemistry textbook to use chemical bonding and molecular structure as guiding pedagogical principles. His was also the first textbook to explain elements, isotopes, and compounds in terms of electron shells and atomic weight, an approach that has since become the norm.

General Chemistry was hugely important in at least one other way. Though Pauling had set out to write a textbook oriented primarily toward students of chemistry, the book initiated and propelled a much larger conversation among his colleagues, particularly those seeking to author their own volumes. Within a decade of Pauling publishing General Chemistry, introductory chemistry texts around the world had begun following the contours of Pauling’s model, emphasizing physical and descriptive chemistry as well as real-world applications of chemistry and the scientific method.

And even after he had moved on from devoting significant time or attention to the textbook game, Pauling strove to ensure that his revolutionary work would continue. At a 1984 meeting of the Oregon Consortium for Quality Science Education, for example, he urged textbook authors to work harder to make their material more engaging and accessible to students. Worried that many high school textbook writers suffered from a superficial knowledge of their subjects, Pauling warned that these authors risked discouraging otherwise successful students from becoming scientists by leading them to believe that they could not grasp fundamental topics. In issuing this warning, Pauling was also distilling a core belief of his own: a well-written textbook can influence student success at least as much as the initiative put forth by a teacher in the classroom.

General Chemistry – The Third and Final Edition

[An examination of General Chemistry, published by Linus Pauling seventy years ago. This is part 6 of 7.]

By the time that Linus Pauling was preparing to revise and publish a third edition of General Chemistry, the cast with which he had been working since the 1940s had shifted considerably. For one, publisher William H. Freeman had left Freeman & Co. in 1962, following the company’s merger with Scientific American. His secretary, Margaret Cooper, left the company with him, and the couple subsequently married that same year.

In 1964, the newlyweds started a new publishing house, Freeman, Cooper & Co., where a primary focus on science textbooks expanded to eventually include philosophy texts as well. At the time that he was creating this new company, Freeman, in a letter to illustrator and long-time collaborator Roger Hayward, outlined his sense of the continuing need for independent publishing houses as well as his own continuing interest in being involved with independent ventures of this sort.

Reading between the lines, one might conclude that the idea of associating with a corporation as massive as Scientific American had prompted Freeman to reevaluate his involvement with Freeman & Co. in much the same way that he had reevaluated his career at MacMillan almost twenty years before. Pauling, on the other hand, did not harbor similar misgivings – comfortable in his relationship with Freeman & Co., he opted to continue publishing with the firm even after the departure of his long-time editor and the company’s namesake.

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Illustration proposed by Evan Gillespie for use in the third edition of General Chemistry.

Bill Freeman was not the only familiar face to be absented from the third edition; Pauling also chose to shift gears with his visuals. By the end of the 1960s, Roger Hayward’s illustrations no longer seemed satisfactory to Pauling, who wanted to experiment with stereoscopic drawings rather than sticking with Hayward’s more traditional style. Hayward had made an attempt at creating the kinds of three-dimensional images that Pauling was seeking but, by the time of the third edition, his struggles with chronic asthma and declining vision were both restricting his availability for projects and compromising his ability to create superior work.

In the end, Pauling decided to begin a new collaboration with Evan Gillespie, the director of the art department at Freeman & Co. Hayward, by now formally retired, continued to find commission work for the remainder of his life. He passed away in 1979 at the age of 80.

With Freeman and Hayward no longer in the picture, the core of Pauling’s new team consisted of illustrator Gillespie and editor Stanley Schaefer, who was also chairman of the Freeman & Co. board. Family played a significant role in the third edition as well, with Peter Pauling and Barclay Kamb – Pauling’s son-in-law – contributing intermittently throughout the project

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Released in 1970, the third edition of Pauling’s General Chemistry focused more on physical and theoretical principles while – in response to a trend in comments expressed about the second edition – largely avoiding abstract mathematics. (Instead, he included more statistical mechanics.) Pauling also pruned what had been a longer section on descriptive chemistry and shortened his chapter on organic chemistry.

The question of how best to treat organic chemistry had presented a particularly vexing conundrum during the revision process. Pauling’s first edition had been criticized for providing only a surface treatment of the subject, but his expansion on the topic as presented in the second edition was met with even more criticism. For the third edition, Pauling worked to strike a balance on the subject, though some reviewers protested that he had failed to update his ideas sufficiently, rendering his new textbook at least partially out of date.

Generally speaking however, the third edition received a warm response. Most reviewers applauded Pauling’s switch to S.I. units, and the typically rigorous nature of the book – perhaps, by now, less of a shock within the academic community – elicited more positive praise than had been the case in the past. One reviewer specifically pushed back against complaints that the textbook was too difficult by noting that it was a professor’s responsibility to present Pauling’s subject matter with clarity and assistance when introducing it in the classroom. In other published reviews, Pauling’s clarity, unification of scientific principles, and modernity were emphasized.

Nonetheless, as time moved forward it became clear that more and more people were using General Chemistry as a reference book rather than a textbook. Pauling’s approach, revolutionary in 1947, had, by the early 1970s, become classic. As a new generation of chemists, many of them trained using General Chemistry, moved through the ranks of their profession, Pauling’s textbook assumed more of an artifactual positioning: solid in its place in history but increasingly less vital for students.

Importantly, Pauling had likewise moved on to a new phase of his career: in the same year that the third edition was released, so too was Vitamin C and the Common Cold. This book’s runaway success and the maelstrom of work and controversy that followed would consume much of Pauling’s attention for the remainder of his life.