UtopiaUsurers

Produced by Mike Pullen

UTOPIA OF USURERS AND OTHER ESSAYS

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

CONTENTS

A Song of Swords

Utopia of Usurers

I. Art and Advertisement

II. Letters and the New Laureates

III. Unbusinesslike Business

IV. The War on Holidays

V. The Church of the Servile State

VI. Science and the Eugenists

VII. The Evolution of the Prison

VIII. The Lash for Labour

IX. The Mask of Socialism

The Escape

The New Raid

The New Name

A Workman’s History of England

The French Revolution and the Irish

Liberalism: A Sample

The Fatigue of Fleet Street

The Amnesty for Aggression

Revive the Court Jester

The Art of Missing the Point

The Servile State Again

The Empire of the Ignorant

The Symbolism of Krupp

The Tower of Bebel

A Real Danger

The Dregs of Puritanism

The Tyranny of Bad Journalism

The Poetry of the Revolution

A SONG OF SWORDS

“A drove of cattle came into a village called Swords;

and was stopped by the rioters.”—Daily Paper.

In the place called Swords on the Irish road

It is told for a new renown

How we held the horns of the cattle, and how

We will hold the horns of the devils now

Ere the lord of hell with the horn on his brow

Is crowned in Dublin town.

Light in the East and light in the West,

And light on the cruel lords,

On the souls that suddenly all men knew,

And the green flag flew and the red flag flew,

And many a wheel of the world stopped, too,

When the cattle were stopped at Swords.

Be they sinners or less than saints

That smite in the street for rage,

We know where the shame shines bright; we know

You that they smite at, you their foe,

Lords of the lawless wage and low,

This is your lawful wage.

You pinched a child to a torture price

That you dared not name in words;

So black a jest was the silver bit

That your own speech shook for the shame of it,

And the coward was plain as a cow they hit

When the cattle have strayed at Swords.

The wheel of the torrent of wives went round

To break men’s brotherhood;

You gave the good Irish blood to grease

The clubs of your country’s enemies;

you saw the brave man beat to the knees:

And you saw that it was good.

The rope of the rich is long and long—

The longest of hangmen’s cords;

But the kings and crowds are holding their breath,

In a giant shadow o’er all beneath

Where God stands holding the scales of Death

Between the cattle and Swords.

Haply the lords that hire and lend

The lowest of all men’s lords,

Who sell their kind like kine at a fair,

Will find no head of their cattle there;

But faces of men where cattle were:

Faces of men—and Swords.

UTOPIA OF USURERS

I. Art and Advertisement

I propose, subject to the patience of the reader, to devote two or

three articles to prophecy. Like all healthy-minded prophets, sacred and

profane, I can only prophesy when I am in a rage and think things look

ugly for everybody. And like all healthy-minded prophets, I prophesy in

the hope that my prophecy may not come true. For the prediction made by

the true soothsayer is like the warning given by a good doctor. And the

doctor has really triumphed when the patient he condemned to death has

revived to life. The threat is justified at the very moment when it is

falsified. Now I have said again and again (and I shall continue to say

again and again on all the most inappropriate occasions) that we must

hit Capitalism, and hit it hard, for the plain and definite reason that

it is growing stronger. Most of the excuses which serve the capitalists

as masks are, of course, the excuses of hypocrites. They lie when they

claim philanthropy; they no more feel any particular love of men than

Albu felt an affection for Chinamen. They lie when they say they have

reached their position through their own organising ability. They

generally have to pay men to organise the mine, exactly as they pay

men to go down it. They often lie about the present wealth, as they

generally lie about their past poverty. But when they say that they

are going in for a “constructive social policy,” they do not lie. They

really are going in for a constructive social policy. And we must go in

for an equally destructive social policy; and destroy, while it is still

half-constructed, the accursed thing which they construct.

The Example of the Arts

Now I propose to take, one after another, certain aspects and

departments of modern life, and describe what I think they will be like

in this paradise of plutocrats, this Utopia of gold and brass in which

the great story of England seems so likely to end. I propose to say what

I think our new masters, the mere millionaires, will do with certain

human interests and institutions, such as art, science, jurisprudence,

or religion—unless we strike soon enough to prevent them. And for the

sake of argument I will take in this article the example of the arts.

Most people have seen a picture called “Bubbles,” which is used for the

advertisement of a celebrated soap, a small cake of which is introduced

into the pictorial design. And anybody with an instinct for design (the

caricaturist of the Daily Herald, for instance), will guess that it was

not originally a part of the design. He will see that the cake of soap

destroys the picture as a picture; as much as if the cake of soap had

been used to Scrub off the paint. Small as it is, it breaks and confuses

the whole balance of objects in the composition. I offer no judgment

here upon Millais’s action in the matter; in fact, I do not know what

it was. The important point for me at the moment is that the picture

was not painted for the soap, but the soap added to the picture. And

the spirit of the corrupting change which has separated us from that

Victorian epoch can be best seen in this: that the Victorian atmosphere,

with all its faults, did not permit such a style of patronage to pass as

a matter of course. Michael Angelo may have been proud to have helped an

emperor or a pope; though, indeed, I think he was prouder than they

were on his own account. I do not believe Sir John Millais was proud of

having helped a soap-boiler. I do not say he thought it wrong; but he

was not proud of it. And that marks precisely the change from his time

to our own. Our merchants have really adopted the style of merchant

princes. They have begun openly to dominate the civilisation of the

State, as the emperors and popes openly dominated in Italy. In Millais’s

time, broadly speaking, art was supposed to mean good art; advertisement

was supposed to mean inferior art. The head of a black man, painted

to advertise somebody’s blacking, could be a rough symbol, like an inn

sign. The black man had only to be black enough. An artist exhibiting

the picture of a negro was expected to know that a black man is not so

black as he is painted. He was expected to render a thousand tints of

grey and brown and violet: for there is no such thing as a black man

just as there is no such thing as a white man. A fairly clear line

separated advertisement from art.

The First Effect

I should say the first effect of the triumph of the capitalist (if

we allow him to triumph) will be that that line of demarcation will

entirely disappear. There will be no art that might not just as well be

advertisement. I do not necessarily mean that there will be no good art;

much of it might be, much of it already is, very good art. You may put

it, if you please, in the form that there has been a vast improvement in

advertisements. Certainly there would be nothing surprising if the head

of a negro advertising Somebody’s Blacking now adays were finished

with as careful and subtle colours as one of the old and superstitious

painters would have wasted on the negro king who brought gifts to

Christ. But the improvement of advertisements is the degradation of

artists. It is their degradation for this clear and vital reason: that

the artist will work, not only to please the rich, but only to increase

their riches; which is a considerable step lower. After all, it was as

a human being that a pope took pleasure in a cartoon of Raphael or a

prince took pleasure in a statuette of Cellini. The prince paid for

the statuette; but he did not expect the statuette to pay him. It is my

impression that no cake of soap can be found anywhere in the cartoons

which the Pope ordered of Raphael. And no one who knows the small-minded

cynicism of our plutocracy, its secrecy, its gambling spirit, its

contempt of conscience, can doubt that the artist-advertiser will often

be assisting enterprises over which he will have no moral control, and

of which he could feel no moral approval. He will be working to spread

quack medicines, queer investments; and will work for Marconi instead of

Medici. And to this base ingenuity he will have to bend the proudest

and purest of the virtues of the intellect, the power to attract his

brethren, and the noble duty of praise. For that picture by Millais is

a very allegorical picture. It is almost a prophecy of what uses are

awaiting the beauty of the child unborn. The praise will be of a kind

that may correctly be called soap; and the enterprises of a kind that

may truly be described as Bubbles.

II. Letters and the New Laureates

In these articles I only take two or three examples of the first and

fundamental fact of our time. I mean the fact that the capitalists of

our community are becoming quite openly the kings of it. In my last (and

first) article, I took the case of Art and advertisement. I pointed out

that Art must be growing worse—merely because advertisement is growing

better. In those days Millais condescended to Pears’ soap. In these days

I really think it would be Pears who condescended to Millais. But here

I turn to an art I know more about, that of journalism. Only in my ease

the art verges on artlessness.

The great difficulty with the English lies in the absence of something

one may call democratic imagination. We find it easy to realise an

individual, but very hard to realise that the great masses consist of

individuals. Our system has been aristocratic: in the special sense of

there being only a few actors on the stage. And the back scene is kept

quite dark, though it is really a throng of faces. Home Rule tended to

be not so much the Irish as the Grand Old Man. The Boer War tended not

to be so much South Africa as simply “Joe.” And it is the amusing but

distressing fact that every class of political leadership, as it comes

to the front in its turn, catches the rays of this isolating lime-light;

and becomes a small aristocracy. Certainly no one has the aristocratic

complaint so badly as the Labour Party. At the recent Congress, the real

difference between Larkin and the English Labour leaders was not so much

in anything right or wrong in what he said, as in something elemental

and even mystical in the way he suggested a mob. But it must be plain,

even to those who agree with the more official policy, that for Mr.

Havelock Wilson the principal question was Mr. Havelock Wilson; and that

Mr. Sexton was mainly considering the dignity and fine feelings of Mr.

Sexton. You may say they were as sensitive as aristocrats, or as sulky

as babies; the point is that the feeling was personal. But Larkin, like

Danton, not only talks like ten thousand men talking, but he also has

some of the carelessness of the colossus of Arcis; “Que mon nom soit

fletri, que la France soit libre.”

A Dance of Degradation

It is needless to say that this respecting of persons has led all the

other parties a dance of degradation. We ruin South Africa because it

would be a slight on Lord Gladstone to save South Africa. We have a bad

army, because it would be a snub to Lord Haldane to have a good army.

And no Tory is allowed to say “Marconi” for fear Mr. George should say

“Kynoch.” But this curious personal element, with its appalling lack of

patriotism, has appeared in a new and curious form in another department

of life; the department of literature, especially periodical literature.

And the form it takes is the next example I shall give of the way in

which the capitalists are now appearing, more and more openly, as the

masters and princes of the community.

I will take a Victorian instance to mark the change; as I did in the

case of the advertisement of “Bubbles.” It was said in my childhood, by

the more apoplectic and elderly sort of Tory, that W. E. Gladstone was

only a Free Trader because he had a partnership in Gilbey’s foreign

wines. This was, no doubt, nonsense; but it had a dim symbolic, or

mainly prophetic, truth in it. It was true, to some extent even then,

and it has been increasingly true since, that the statesman was often an

ally of the salesman; and represented not only a nation of shopkeepers,

but one particular shop. But in Gladstone’s time, even if this was true,

it was never the whole truth; and no one would have endured it being the

admitted truth. The politician was not solely an eloquent and persuasive

bagman travelling for certain business men; he was bound to mix even his

corruption with some intelligible ideals and rules of policy. And the

proof of it is this: that at least it was the statesman who bulked

large in the public eye; and his financial backer was entirely in the

background. Old gentlemen might choke over their port, with the moral

certainty that the Prime Minister had shares in a wine merchant’s. But

the old gentleman would have died on the spot if the wine merchant had

really been made as important as the Prime Minister. If it had been

Sir Walter Gilbey whom Disraeli denounced, or Punch caricatured; if

Sir Walter Gilbey’s favourite collars (with the design of which I am

unacquainted) had grown as large as the wings of an archangel; if

Sir Walter Gilbey had been credited with successfully eliminating the

British Oak with his little hatchet; if, near the Temple and the

Courts of Justice, our sight was struck by a majestic statue of a

wine merchant; or if the earnest Conservative lady who threw a

gingerbread-nut at the Premier had directed it towards the wine merchant

instead, the shock to Victorian England would have been very great

indeed.

Haloes for Employers

Now something very like that is happening; the mere wealthy employer is

beginning to have not only the power but some of the glory. I have

seen in several magazines lately, and magazines of a high class, the

appearance of a new kind of article. Literary men are being employed to

praise a big business man personally, as men used to praise a king. They

not only find political reasons for the commercial schemes—that they

have done for some time past—they also find moral defences for the

commercial schemers. They describe the capitalist’s brain of steel and

heart of gold in a way that Englishmen hitherto have been at least in

the habit of reserving for romantic figures like Garibaldi or Gordon. In

one excellent magazine Mr. T. P. O’Connor, who, when he likes, can write

on letters like a man of letters, has some purple pages of praise of

Sir Joseph Lyons—the man who runs those teashop places. He incidentally

brought in a delightful passage about the beautiful souls possessed

by some people called Salmon and Gluckstein. I think I like best the

passage where he said that Lyons’s charming social accomplishments

included a talent for “imitating a Jew.” The article is accompanied with

a large and somewhat leering portrait of that shopkeeper, which makes

the parlour-trick in question particularly astonishing. Another literary

man, who certainly ought to know better, wrote in another paper a piece

of hero-worship about Mr. Selfridge. No doubt the fashion will spread,

and the art of words, as polished and pointed by Ruskin or Meredith,

will be perfected yet further to explore the labyrinthine heart of

Harrod; or compare the simple stoicism of Marshall with the saintly

charm of Snelgrove.

Any man can be praised—and rightly praised. If he only stands on two

legs he does something a cow cannot do. If a rich man can manage to

stand on two legs for a reasonable time, it is called self-control. If

he has only one leg, it is called (with some truth) self-sacrifice. I

could say something nice (and true) about every man I have ever met.

Therefore, I do not doubt I could find something nice about Lyons or

Selfridge if I searched for it. But I shall not. The nearest postman or

cab-man will provide me with just the same brain of steel and heart

of gold as these unlucky lucky men. But I do resent the whole age

of patronage being revived under such absurd patrons; and all poets

becoming court poets, under kings that have taken no oath, nor led us

into any battle.

III. Unbusinesslike Business

The fairy tales we were all taught did not, like the history we were all

taught, consist entirely of lies. Parts of the tale of “Puss in Boots”

or “Jack and the Beanstalk” may strike the realistic eye as a little

unlikely and out of the common way, so to speak; but they contain some

very solid and very practical truths. For instance, it may be noted

that both in “Puss in Boots” and “Jack and the Beanstalk” if I remember

aright, the ogre was not only an ogre but also a magician. And it will

generally be found that in all such popular narratives, the king, if he

is a wicked king, is generally also a wizard. Now there is a very vital

human truth enshrined in this. Bad government, like good government,

is a spiritual thing. Even the tyrant never rules by force alone; but

mostly by fairy tales. And so it is with the modern tyrant, the great

employer. The sight of a millionaire is seldom, in the ordinary sense,

an enchanting sight: nevertheless, he is in his way an enchanter. As

they say in the gushing articles about him in the magazines, he is a

fascinating personality. So is a snake. At least he is fascinating to

rabbits; and so is the millionaire to the rabbit-witted sort of people

that ladies and gentlemen have allowed themselves to become. He does,

in a manner, cast a spell, such as that which imprisoned princes and

princesses under the shapes of falcons or stags. He has truly turned men

into sheep, as Circe turned them into swine.

Now, the chief of the fairy tales, by which he gains this glory and

glamour, is a certain hazy association he has managed to create between

the idea of bigness and the idea of practicality. Numbers of the

rabbit-witted ladies and gentlemen do really think, in spite of

themselves and their experience, that so long as a shop has hundreds

of different doors and a great many hot and unhealthy underground

departments (they must be hot; this is very important), and more people

than would be needed for a man-of-war, or crowded cathedral, to say:

“This way, madam,” and “The next article, sir,” it follows that

the goods are good. In short, they hold that the big businesses are

businesslike. They are not. Any housekeeper in a truthful mood, that

is to say, any housekeeper in a bad temper, will tell you that they are

not. But housekeepers, too, are human, and therefore inconsistent and

complex; and they do not always stick to truth and bad temper. They are

also affected by this queer idolatry of the enormous and elaborate; and

cannot help feeling that anything so complicated must go like clockwork.

But complexity is no guarantee of accuracy—in clockwork or in anything

else. A clock can be as wrong as the human head; and a clock can stop,

as suddenly as the human heart.

But this strange poetry of plutocracy prevails over people against their

very senses. You write to one of the great London stores or emporia,

asking, let us say, for an umbrella. A month or two afterwards you

receive a very elaborately constructed parcel, containing a broken

parasol. You are very pleased. You are gratified to reflect on what

a vast number of assistants and employees had combined to break that

parasol. You luxuriate in the memory of all those long rooms and

departments and wonder in which of them the parasol that you never

ordered was broken. Or you want a toy elephant for your child on

Christmas Day; as children, like all nice and healthy people, are very

ritualistic. Some week or so after Twelfth Night, let us say, you have

the pleasure of removing three layers of pasteboards, five layers of

brown paper, and fifteen layers of tissue paper and discovering the

fragments of an artificial crocodile. You smile in an expansive spirit.

You feel that your soul has been broadened by the vision of incompetence

conducted on so large a scale. You admire all the more the colossal

and Omnipresent Brain of the Organiser of Industry, who amid all his

multitudinous cares did not disdain to remember his duty of smashing

even the smallest toy of the smallest child. Or, supposing you have

asked him to send you some two rolls of cocoa-nut matting: and supposing

(after a due interval for reflection) he duly delivers to you the five

rolls of wire netting. You take pleasure in the consideration of a

mystery: which coarse minds might have called a mistake. It consoles you

to know how big the business is: and what an enormous number of people

were needed to make such a mistake.

That is the romance that has been told about the big shops; in the

literature and art which they have bought, and which (as I said in

my recent articles) will soon be quite indistinguishable from their

ordinary advertisements. The literature is commercial; and it is

only fair to say that the commerce is often really literary. It is no

romance, but only rubbish.

The big commercial concerns of to-day are quite exceptionally

incompetent. They will be even more incompetent when they are

omnipotent. Indeed, that is, and always has been, the whole point of

a monopoly; the old and sound argument against a monopoly. It is only

because it is incompetent that it has to be omnipotent. When one large

shop occupies the whole of one side of a street (or sometimes both

sides), it does so in order that men may be unable to get what they

want; and may be forced to buy what they don’t want. That the rapidly

approaching kingdom of the Capitalists will ruin art and letters, I

have already said. I say here that in the only sense that can be called

human, it will ruin trade, too.

I will not let Christmas go by, even when writing for a revolutionary

paper necessarily appealing to many with none of my religious

sympathies, without appealing to those sympathies. I knew a man who sent

to a great rich shop for a figure for a group of Bethlehem. It arrived

broken. I think that is exactly all that business men have now the sense

to do.

IV. The War on Holidays

The general proposition, not always easy to define exhaustively, that

the reign of the capitalist will be the reign of the cad—that is, of

the unlicked type that is neither the citizen nor the gentleman—can

be excellently studied in its attitude towards holidays. The special

emblematic Employer of to-day, especially the Model Employer (who is

the worst sort) has in his starved and evil heart a sincere hatred of

holidays. I do not mean that he necessarily wants all his workmen to

work until they drop; that only occurs when he happens to be stupid as

well as wicked. I do not mean to say that he is necessarily unwilling to

grant what he would call “decent hours of labour.” He may treat men like

dirt; but if you want to make money, even out of dirt, you must let

it lie fallow by some rotation of rest. He may treat men as dogs, but

unless he is a lunatic he will for certain periods let sleeping dogs

lie.

But humane and reasonable hours for labour have nothing whatever to do

with the idea of holidays. It is not even a question of ten hours day

and eight-hours day; it is not a question of cutting down leisure to

the space necessary for food, sleep and exercise. If the modern employer

came to the conclusion, for some reason or other, that he could get most

out of his men by working them hard for only two hours a day, his whole

mental attitude would still be foreign and hostile to holidays. For his

whole mental attitude is that the passive time and the active time are

alike useful for him and his business. All is, indeed, grist that

comes to his mill, including the millers. His slaves still serve him in

unconsciousness, as dogs still hunt in slumber. His grist is ground not

only by the sounding wheels of iron, but by the soundless wheel of blood

and brain. His sacks are still filling silently when the doors are shut

on the streets and the sound of the grinding is low.

The Great Holiday

Now a holiday has no connection with using a man either by beating or

feeding him. When you give a man a holiday you give him back his body

and soul. It is quite possible you may be doing him an injury (though

he seldom thinks so), but that does not affect the question for those to

whom a holiday is holy. Immortality is the great holiday; and a holiday,

like the immortality in the old theologies, is a double-edged privilege.

But wherever it is genuine it is simply the restoration and completion

of the man. If people ever looked at the printed word under their eye,

the word “recreation” would be like the word “resurrection,” the blast

of a trumpet.

A man, being merely useful, is necessarily incomplete, especially if

he be a modern man and means by being useful being “utilitarian.” A man

going into a modern club gives up his hat; a man going into a modern

factory gives up his head. He then goes in and works loyally for the old

firm to build up the great fabric of commerce (which can be done without

a head), but when he has done work he goes to the cloak-room, like the

man at the club, and gets his head back again; that is the germ of the

holiday. It may be urged that the club man who leaves his hat often goes

away with another hat; and perhaps it may be the same with the factory

hand who has left his head. A hand that has lost its head may affect the

fastidious as a mixed metaphor; but, God pardon us all, what an unmixed

truth! We could almost prove the whole ease from the habit of calling

human beings merely “hands” while they are working; as if the hand were

horribly cut off, like the hand that has offended; as if, while the

sinner entered heaven maimed, his unhappy hand still laboured laying

up riches for the lords of hell. But to return to the man whom we found

waiting for his head in the cloak-room. It may be urged, we say, that he

might take the wrong head, like the wrong hat; but here the similarity

ceases. For it has been observed by benevolent onlookers at life’s drama

that the hat taken away by mistake is frequently better than the real

hat; whereas the head taken away after the hours of toil is certainly

worse: stained with the cobwebs and dust of this dustbin of all the

centuries.

The Supreme Adventure

All the words dedicated to places of eating and drinking are pure

and poetic words. Even the word “hotel” is the word hospital. And St.

Julien, whose claret I drank this Christmas, was the patron saint of

innkeepers, because (as far as I can make out) he was hospitable to

lepers. Now I do not say that the ordinary hotel-keeper in Piccadilly or

the Avenue de l’Opera would embrace a leper, slap him on the back, and

ask him to order what he liked; but I do say that hospitality is his

trade virtue. And I do also say it is well to keep before our eyes the

supreme adventure of a virtue. If you are brave, think of the man who

was braver than you. If you are kind, think of the man who was kinder

than you.

That is what was meant by having a patron saint. That is the link

between the poor saint who received bodily lepers and the great hotel

proprietor who (as a rule) receives spiritual lepers. But a word yet

weaker than “hotel” illustrates the same point—the word “restaurant.”

There again you have the admission that there is a definite building or

statue to “restore”; that ineffaceable image of man that some call the

image of God. And that is the holiday; it is the restaurant or restoring

thing that, by a blast of magic, turns a man into himself.

This complete and reconstructed man is the nightmare of the modern

capitalist. His whole scheme would crack across like a mirror of

Shallot, if once a plain man were ready for his two plain duties—ready

to live and ready to die. And that horror of holidays which marks the

modern capitalist is very largely a horror of the vision of a whole

human being: something that is not a “hand” or a “head for figures.” But

an awful creature who has met himself in the wilderness. The employers

will give time to eat, time to sleep; they are in terror of a time to

think.

To anyone who knows any history it is wholly needless to say that

holidays have been destroyed. As Mr. Belloc, who knows much more

history than you or I, recently pointed out in the “Pall Mall Magazine,”

Shakespeare’s title of “Twelfth Night: or What You Will” simply meant

that a winter carnival for everybody went on wildly till the twelfth

night after Christmas. Those of my readers who work for modern offices

or factories might ask their employers for twelve days’ holidays after

Christmas. And they might let me know the reply.

V. THE CHURCH OF THE SERVILE STATE

I confess I cannot see why mere blasphemy by itself should be an excuse

for tyranny and treason; or how the mere isolated fact of a man not

believing in God should be a reason for my believing in Him.

But the rather spinsterish flutter among some of the old Freethinkers

has put one tiny ripple of truth in it; and that affects the idea which

I wish to emphasise even to monotony in these pages. I mean the idea

that the new community which the capitalists are now constructing will

be a very complete and absolute community; and one which will tolerate

nothing really independent of itself. Now, it is true that any positive

creed, true or false, would tend to be independent of itself. It might

be Roman Catholicism or Mahomedanism or Materialism; but, if strongly

held, it would be a thorn in the side of the Servile State. The Moslem

thinks all men immortal: the Materialist thinks all men mortal. But the

Moslem does not think the rich Sinbad will live forever; but the poor

Sinbad will die on his deathbed. The Materialist does not think that Mr.

Haeckel will go to heaven, while all the peasants will go to pot, like

their chickens. In every serious doctrine of the destiny of men, there

is some trace of the doctrine of the equality of men. But the capitalist

really depends on some religion of inequality. The capitalist must

somehow distinguish himself from human kind; he must be obviously above

it—or he would be obviously below it. Take even the least attractive

and popular side of the larger religions to-day; take the mere vetoes

imposed by Islam on Atheism or Catholicism. The Moslem veto upon

intoxicants cuts across all classes. But it is absolutely necessary for

the capitalist (who presides at a Licensing Committee, and also at a

large dinner), it is absolutely necessary for him, to make a distinction

between gin and champagne. The Atheist veto upon all miracles cuts

across all classes. But it is absolutely necessary for the capitalist to

make a distinction between his wife (who is an aristocrat and consults

crystal gazers and star gazers in the West End), and vulgar miracles

claimed by gipsies or travelling showmen. The Catholic veto upon usury,

as defined in dogmatic councils, cuts across all classes. But it is

absolutely necessary to the capitalist to distinguish more delicately

between two kinds of usury; the kind he finds useful and the kind he

does not find useful. The religion of the Servile State must have no

dogmas or definitions. It cannot afford to have any definitions. For

definitions are very dreadful things: they do the two things that most

men, especially comfortable men, cannot endure. They fight; and they

fight fair.

Every religion, apart from open devil worship, must appeal to a virtue

or the pretence of a virtue. But a virtue, generally speaking, does some

good to everybody. It is therefore necessary to distinguish among

the people it was meant to benefit those whom it does benefit. Modern

broad-mindedness benefits the rich; and benefits nobody else. It was

meant to benefit the rich; and meant to benefit nobody else. And if you

think this unwarranted, I will put before you one plain question. There

are some pleasures of the poor that may also mean profits for the rich:

there are other pleasures of the poor which cannot mean profits for the

rich? Watch this one contrast, and you will watch the whole creation of

a careful slavery.

In the last resort the two things called Beer and Soap end only in a

froth. They are both below the high notice of a real religion. But

there is just this difference: that the soap makes the factory more

satisfactory, while the beer only makes the workman more satisfied. Wait

and see if the Soap does not increase and the Beer decrease. Wait and

see whether the religion of the Servile State is not in every case what

I say: the encouragement of small virtues supporting capitalism, the

discouragement of the huge virtues that defy it. Many great religions,

Pagan and Christian, have insisted on wine. Only one, I think, has

insisted on Soap. You will find it in the New Testament attributed to

the Pharisees.

VI. SCIENCE AND THE EUGENISTS

The key fact in the new development of plutocracy is that it will use

its own blunder as an excuse for further crimes. Everywhere the very

completeness of the impoverishment will be made a reason for the

enslavement; though the men who impoverished were the same who enslaved.

It is as if a highwayman not only took away a gentleman’s horse and all

his money, but then handed him over to the police for tramping without

visible means of subsistence. And the most monstrous feature in this

enormous meanness may be noted in the plutocratic appeal to science, or,

rather, to the pseudo-science that they call Eugenics.

The Eugenists get the ear of the humane but rather hazy cliques by

saying that the present “conditions” under which people work and breed

are bad for the race; but the modern mind will not generally stretch

beyond one step of reasoning, and the consequence which appears to

follow on the consideration of these “conditions” is by no means what

would originally have been expected. If somebody says: “A rickety cradle

may mean a rickety baby,” the natural deduction, one would think, would

be to give the people a good cradle, or give them money enough to buy

one. But that means higher wages and greater equalisation of wealth; and

the plutocratic scientist, with a slightly troubled expression, turns

his eyes and pince-nez in another direction. Reduced to brutal terms of

truth, his difficulty is this and simply this: More food, leisure, and

money for the workman would mean a better workman, better even from the

point of view of anyone for whom he worked. But more food, leisure, and

money would also mean a more independent workman. A house with a decent

fire and a full pantry would be a better house to make a chair or mend

a clock in, even from the customer’s point of view, than a hovel with a

leaky roof and a cold hearth. But a house with a decent fire and a full

pantry would also be a better house in which to refuse to make a chair

or mend a clock—a much better house to do nothing in—and doing nothing

is sometimes one of the highest of the duties of man. All but the

hard-hearted must be torn with pity for this pathetic dilemma of the

rich man, who has to keep the poor man just stout enough to do the work

and just thin enough to have to do it. As he stood gazing at the leaky

roof and the rickety cradle in a pensive manner, there one day came into

his mind a new and curious idea—one of the most strange, simple, and

horrible ideas that have ever risen from the deep pit of original sin.

The roof could not be mended, or, at least, it could not be mended much,

without upsetting the capitalist balance, or, rather, disproportion in

society; for a man with a roof is a man with a house, and to that extent

his house is his castle. The cradle could not be made to rock easier,

or, at least, not much easier, without strengthening the hands of the

poor household, for the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world—to

that extent. But it occurred to the capitalist that there was one sort

of furniture in the house that could be altered. The husband and wife

could be altered. Birth costs nothing, except in pain and valour and

such old-fashioned things; and the merchant need pay no more for mating

a strong miner to a healthy fishwife than he pays when the miner mates

himself with a less robust female whom he has the sentimentality to

prefer. Thus it might be possible, by keeping on certain broad lines

of heredity, to have some physical improvement without any moral,

political, or social improvement. It might be possible to keep a

supply of strong and healthy slaves without coddling them with decent

conditions. As the mill-owners use the wind and the water to drive their

mills, they would use this natural force as something even cheaper; and

turn their wheels by diverting from its channel the blood of a man in

his youth. That is what Eugenics means; and that is all that it means.

Of the moral state of those who think of such things it does not become

us to speak. The practical question is rather the intellectual one:

of whether their calculations are well founded, and whether the men

of science can or will guarantee them any such physical certainties.

Fortunately, it becomes clearer every day that they are, scientifically

speaking, building on the shifting sand. The theory of breeding slaves

breaks down through what a democrat calls the equality of men, but which

even an oligarchist will find himself forced to call the similarity of

men. That is, that though it is not true that all men are normal, it is

overwhelmingly certain that most men are normal. All the common Eugenic

arguments are drawn from extreme cases, which, even if human honour

and laughter allowed of their being eliminated, would not by their

elimination greatly affect the mass. For the rest, there remains the

enormous weakness in Eugenics, that if ordinary men’s judgment or

liberty is to be discounted in relation to heredity, the judgment of

the judges must be discounted in relation to their heredity. The Eugenic

professor may or may not succeed in choosing a baby’s parents; it is

quite certain that he cannot succeed in choosing his own parents. All

his thoughts, including his Eugenic thoughts, are, by the very principle

of those thoughts, flowing from a doubtful or tainted source. In short,

we should need a perfectly Wise Man to do the thing at all. And if he

were a Wise Man he would not do it.

VII. THE EVOLUTION OF THE PRISON

I have never understood why it is that those who talk most about

evolution, and talk it in the very age of fashionable evolutionism, do

not see the one way in which evolution really does apply to our modern

difficulty. There is, of course, an element of evolutionism in the

universe; and I know no religion or philosophy that ever entirely

ignored it. Evolution, popularly speaking, is that which happens to

unconscious things. They grow unconsciously; or fade unconsciously; or

rather, some parts of them grow and some parts of them fade; and at any

given moment there is almost always some presence of the fading thing,

and some incompleteness in the growing one. Thus, if I went to sleep

for a hundred years, like the Sleeping Beauty (I wish I could), I should

grow a beard—unlike the Sleeping Beauty. And just as I should grow

hair if I were asleep, I should grow grass if I were dead. Those whose

religion it was that God was asleep were perpetually impressed

and affected by the fact that he had a long beard. And those whose

philosophy it is that the universe is dead from the beginning (being

the grave of nobody in particular) think that is the way that grass can

grow. In any case, these developments only occur with dead or dreaming

things. What happens when everyone is asleep is called Evolution. What

happens when everyone is awake is called Revolution.

There was once an honest man, whose name I never knew, but whose face

I can almost see (it is framed in Victorian whiskers and fixed in a

Victorian neck-cloth), who was balancing the achievements of France and

England in civilisation and social efficiencies. And when he came to the

religious aspect he said that there were more stone and brick churches

used in France; but, on the other hand, there are more sects in England.

Whether such a lively disintegration is a proof of vitality in any

valuable sense I have always doubted. The sun may breed maggots in a

dead dog; but it is essential for such a liberation of life that the dog

should be unconscious or (to say the least of it) absent-minded. Broadly

speaking, you may call the thing corruption, if you happen to like dogs.

You may call it evolution, if you happen to like maggots. In either

case, it is what happens to things if you leave them alone.

The Evolutionists’ Error

Now, the modern Evolutionists have made no real use of the idea of

evolution, especially in the matter of social prediction. They always

fall into what is (from their logical point of view) the error of

supposing that evolution knows what it is doing. They predict the State

of the future as a fruit rounded and polished. But the whole point of

evolution (the only point there is in it) is that no State will ever be

rounded and polished, because it will always contain some organs that

outlived their use, and some that have not yet fully found theirs. If we

wish to prophesy what will happen, we must imagine things now moderate

grown enormous; things now local grown universal; things now promising

grown triumphant; primroses bigger than sunflowers, and sparrows

stalking about like flamingoes.

In other words, we must ask what modern institution has a future before

it? What modern institution may have swollen to six times its present

size in the social heat and growth of the future? I do not think the

Garden City will grow: but of that I may speak in my next and last

article of this series. I do not think even the ordinary Elementary

School, with its compulsory education, will grow. Too many unlettered

people hate the teacher for teaching; and too many lettered people

hate the teacher for not teaching. The Garden City will not bear much

blossom; the young idea will not shoot, unless it shoots the teacher.

But the one flowering tree on the estate, the one natural expansion

which I think will expand, is the institution we call the Prison.

Prisons for All

If the capitalists are allowed to erect their constructive capitalist

community, I speak quite seriously when I say that I think Prison will

become an almost universal experience. It will not necessarily be a

cruel or shameful experience: on these points (I concede certainly for

the present purpose of debate) it may be a vastly improved experience.

The conditions in the prison, very possibly, will be made more humane.

But the prison will be made more humane only in order to contain more of

humanity. I think little of the judgment and sense of humour of any man

who can have watched recent police trials without realising that it is

no longer a question of whether the law has been broken by a crime; but,

now, solely a question of whether the situation could be mended by an

imprisonment. It was so with Tom Mann; it was so with Larkin; it was so

with the poor atheist who was kept in gaol for saying something he

had been acquitted of saying: it is so in such cases day by day. We no

longer lock a man up for doing something; we lock him up in the hope

of his doing nothing. Given this principle, it is evidently possible

to make the mere conditions of punishment more moderate, or—(more

probably) more secret. There may really be more mercy in the Prison,

on condition that there is less justice in the Court. I should not be

surprised if, before we are done with all this, a man was allowed to

smoke in prison, on condition, of course, that he had been put in prison

for smoking.

Now that is the process which, in the absence of democratic protest,

will certainly proceed, will increase and multiply and replenish the

earth and subdue it. Prison may even lose its disgrace for a little

time: it will be difficult to make it disgraceful when men like Larkin

can be imprisoned for no reason at all, just as his celebrated ancestor

was hanged for no reason at all. But capitalist society, which naturally

does not know the meaning of honour, cannot know the meaning of

disgrace: and it will still go on imprisoning for no reason at all. Or

rather for that rather simple reason that makes a cat spring or a rat

run away.

It matters little whether our masters stoop to state the matter in the

form that every prison should be a school; or in the more candid form

that every school should be a prison. They have already fulfilled their

servile principle in the case of the schools. Everyone goes to the

Elementary Schools except the few people who tell them to go there. I

prophesy that (unless our revolt succeeds) nearly everyone will be going

to Prison, with a precisely similar patience.

VIII. THE LASH FOR LABOUR

If I were to prophesy that two hundred years hence a grocer would have

the right and habit of beating the grocer’s assistant with a stick, or

that shop girls might be flogged, as they already can be fined, many

would regard it as rather a rash remark. It would be a rash remark.

Prophecy is always unreliable; unless we except the kind which is

avowedly irrational, mystical and supernatural prophecy. But relatively

to nearly all the other prophecies that are being made around me to-day,

I should say my prediction stood an exceptionally good chance. In short,

I think the grocer with the stick is a figure we are far more likely to

see than the Superman or the Samurai, or the True Model Employer, or the

Perfect Fabian Official, or the citizen of the Collectivist State. And

it is best for us to see the full ugliness of the transformation which

is passing over our Society in some such abrupt and even grotesque image

at the end of it. The beginnings of a decline, in every age of history,

have always had the appearance of being reforms. Nero not only fiddled

while Rome was burning, but he probably really paid more attention to

the fiddle than to the fire. The Roi Soleil, like many other soleils,

was most splendid to all appearance a little before sunset. And if I

ask myself what will be the ultimate and final fruit of all our

social reforms, garden cities, model employers, insurances, exchanges,

arbitration courts, and so on, then, I say, quite seriously, “I think it

will be labour under the lash.”

The Sultan and the Sack

Let us arrange in some order a number of converging considerations that

all point in this direction. (1) It is broadly true, no doubt, that the

weapon of the employer has hitherto been the threat of dismissal, that

is, the threat of enforced starvation. He is a Sultan who need not order

the bastinado, so long as he can order the sack. But there are not a few

signs that this weapon is not quite so convenient and flexible a one

as his increasing rapacities require. The fact of the introduction of

fines, secretly or openly, in many shops and factories, proves that it

is convenient for the capitalists to have some temporary and adjustable

form of punishment besides the final punishment of pure ruin. Nor is it

difficult to see the commonsense of this from their wholly inhuman

point of view. The act of sacking a man is attended with the same

disadvantages as the act of shooting a man: one of which is that you can

get no more out of him. It is, I am told, distinctly annoying to blow a

fellow creature’s brains out with a revolver and then suddenly remember

that he was the only person who knew where to get the best Russian

cigarettes. So our Sultan, who is the orderer of the sack, is also the

bearer of the bow-string. A school in which there was no punishment,

except expulsion, would be a school in which it would be very difficult

to keep proper discipline; and the sort of discipline on which the

reformed capitalism will insist will be all of the type which in free

nations is imposed only on children. Such a school would probably be in

a chronic condition of breaking up for the holidays. And the reasons

for the insufficiency of this extreme instrument are also varied and

evident. The materialistic Sociologists, who talk about the survival of

the fittest and the weakest going to the wall (and whose way of looking

at the world is to put on the latest and most powerful scientific

spectacles, and then shut their eyes), frequently talk as if a

workman were simply efficient or non-efficient, as if a criminal were

reclaimable or irreclaimable. The employers have sense enough at least

to know better than that. They can see that a servant may be useful in

one way and exasperating in another; that he may be bad in one part of

his work and good in another; that he may be occasionally drunk and yet

generally indispensable. Just as a practical school-master would know

that a schoolboy can be at once the plague and the pride of the school.

Under these circumstances small and varying penalties are obviously the

most convenient things for the person keeping order; an underling can be

punished for coming late, and yet do useful work when he comes. It will

be possible to give a rap over the knuckles without wholly cutting

off the right hand that has offended. Under these circumstances the

employers have naturally resorted to fines. But there is a further

ground for believing that the process will go beyond fines before it is

completed.

(2) The fine is based on the old European idea that everybody possesses

private property in some reasonable degree; but not only is this not

true to-day, but it is not being made any truer, even by those who

honestly believe that they are mending matters. The great employers will

often do something towards improving what they call the “conditions”

of their workers; but a worker might have his conditions as carefully

arranged as a racehorse has, and still have no more personal property

than a racehorse. If you take an average poor seamstress or factory

girl, you will find that the power of chastising her through her

property has very considerable limits; it is almost as hard for the

employer of labour to tax her for punishment as it is for the Chancellor

of the Exchequer to tax her for revenue. The next most obvious thing to

think of, of course, would be imprisonment, and that might be effective

enough under simpler conditions. An old-fashioned shopkeeper might have

locked up his apprentice in his coal-cellar; but his coal-cellar would

be a real, pitch dark coal-cellar, and the rest of his house would be a

real human house. Everybody (especially the apprentice) would see a most

perceptible difference between the two. But, as I pointed out in the

article before this, the whole tendency of the capitalist legislation

and experiment is to make imprisonment much more general and automatic,

while making it, or professing to make it, more humane. In other words,

the hygienic prison and the servile factory will become so uncommonly

like each other that the poor man will hardly know or care whether he

is at the moment expiating an offence or merely swelling a dividend. In

both places there will be the same sort of shiny tiles. In neither place

will there be any cell so unwholesome as a coal-cellar or so wholesome

as a home. The weapon of the prison, therefore, like the weapon of

the fine, will be found to have considerable limitations to its

effectiveness when employed against the wretched reduced citizen of our

day. Whether it be property or liberty you cannot take from him what he

has not got. You cannot imprison a slave, because you cannot enslave a

slave.

The Barbarous Revival

(3) Most people, on hearing the suggestion that it may come to corporal

punishment at last (as it did in every slave system I ever heard of,

including some that were generally kindly, and even successful), will

merely be struck with horror and incredulity, and feel that such a

barbarous revival is unthinkable in the modern atmosphere. How far it

will be, or need be, a revival of the actual images and methods of

ruder times I will discuss in a moment. But first, as another of the

converging lines tending to corporal punishment, consider this: that for

some reason or other the old full-blooded and masculine humanitarianism

in this matter has weakened and fallen silent; it has weakened and

fallen silent in a very curious manner, the precise reason for which I

do not altogether understand. I knew the average Liberal, the average

Nonconformist minister, the average Labour Member, the average

middle-class Socialist, were, with all their good qualities, very

deficient in what I consider a respect for the human soul. But I did

imagine that they had the ordinary modern respect for the human body.

The fact, however, is clear and incontrovertible. In spite of the horror

of all humane people, in spite of the hesitation even of our corrupt and

panic-stricken Parliament, measures can now be triumphantly passed for

spreading or increasing the use of physical torture, and for applying

it to the newest and vaguest categories of crime. Thirty or forty years

ago, nay, twenty years ago, when Mr. F. Hugh O’Donnell and others forced

a Liberal Government to drop the cat-o’-nine-tails like a scorpion, we

could have counted on a mass of honest hatred of such things. We cannot

count on it now.

(4) But lastly, it is not necessary that in the factories of the future

the institution of physical punishment should actually remind people of

the jambok or the knout. It could easily be developed out of the many

forms of physical discipline which are already used by employers on the

excuses of education or hygiene. Already in some factories girls are

obliged to swim whether they like it or not, or do gymnastics whether

they like it or not. By a simple extension of hours or complication of

exercises a pair of Swedish clubs could easily be so used as to leave

their victim as exhausted as one who had come off the rack. I think it

extremely likely that they will be.

IX. THE MASK OF SOCIALISM

The chief aim of all honest Socialists just now is to prevent the coming

of Socialism. I do not say it as a sneer, but, on the contrary, as a

compliment; a compliment to their political instinct and public spirit.

I admit it may be called an exaggeration; but there really is a sort of

sham Socialism that the modern politicians may quite possibly agree to

set up; if they do succeed in setting it up, the battle for the poor is

lost.

We must note, first of all, a general truth about the curious time we

live in. It will not be so difficult as some people may suppose to make

the Servile State look rather like Socialism, especially to the more

pedantic kind of Socialist. The reason is this. The old lucid and

trenchant expounder of Socialism, such as Blatchford or Fred Henderson,

always describes the economic power of the plutocrats as consisting in

private property. Of course, in a sense, this is quite true; though they

too often miss the point that private property, as such, is not the same

as property confined to the few. But the truth is that the situation has

grown much more subtle; perhaps too subtle, not to say too insane, for

straight-thinking theorists like Blatchford. The rich man to-day does

not only rule by using private property; he also rules by treating

public property as if it were private property. A man like Lord Murray

pulled the strings, especially the purse-strings; but the whole point of

his position was that all sorts of strings had got entangled. The secret

strength of the money he held did not lie merely in the fact that it was

his money. It lay precisely in the fact that nobody had any clear idea

of whether it was his money, or his successor’s money, or his brother’s

money, or the Marconi Company’s money, or the Liberal Party’s money,

or the English Nation’s money. It was buried treasure; but it was not

private property. It was the acme of plutocracy because it was not

private property. Now, by following this precedent, this unprincipled

vagueness about official and unofficial moneys by the cheerful habit of

always mixing up the money in the pocket with the money in the till, it

would be quite possible to keep the rich as rich as ever in practice,

though they might have suffered confiscation in theory. Mr. Lloyd George

has four hundred a year as an M. P.; but he not only gets much more as a

Minister, but he might at any time get immeasurably more by speculating

on State secrets that are necessarily known to him. Some say that he has

even attempted something of the kind. Now, it would be quite possible to

cut Mr. George down, not to four hundred a year, but to fourpence a

day; and still leave him all these other and enormous financial

superiorities. It must be remembered that a Socialist State, in any way

resembling a modern State, must, however egalitarian it may be, have the

handling of huge sums, and the enjoyment of large conveniences; it is

not improbable that the same men will handle and enjoy in much the same

manner, though in theory they are doing it as instruments, and not as

individuals. For instance, the Prime Minister has a private house, which

is also (I grieve to inform that eminent Puritan) a public house. It

is supposed to be a sort of Government office; though people do not

generally give children’s parties, or go to bed in a Government office.

I do not know where Mr. Herbert Samuel lives; but I have no doubt he

does himself well in the matter of decoration and furniture. On the

existing official parallel there is no need to move any of these

things in order to Socialise them. There is no need to withdraw one

diamond-headed nail from the carpet; or one golden teaspoon from the

tray. It is only necessary to call it an official residence, like

10 Downing-street. I think it is not at all improbable that this

Plutocracy, pretending to be a Bureaucracy, will be attempted or

achieved. Our wealthy rulers will be in the position which grumblers

in the world of sport sometimes attribute to some of the “gentlemen”

players. They assert that some of these are paid like any professional;

only their pay is called their expenses. This system might run side by

side with a theory of equal wages, as absolute as that once laid down by

Mr. Bernard Shaw. By the theory of the State, Mr. Herbert Samuel and Mr.

Lloyd George might be humble citizens, drudging for their fourpence

a day; and no better off than porters and coal-heavers. If there were

presented to our mere senses what appeared to be the form of Mr. Herbert

Samuel in an astrakhan coat and a motor-car, we should find the record

of the expenditure (if we could find it at all) under the heading of

“Speed Limit Extension Enquiry Commission.” If it fell to our lot to

behold (with the eye of flesh) what seemed to be Mr. Lloyd George

lying in a hammock and smoking a costly cigar, we should know that the

expenditure would be divided between the “Condition of Rope and Netting

Investigation Department,” and the “State of Cuban Tobacco Trade:

Imperial Inspector’s Report.”

Such is the society I think they will build unless we can knock it down

as fast as they build it. Everything in it, tolerable or intolerable,

will have but one use; and that use what our ancestors used to

call usance or usury. Its art may be good or bad, but it will be an

advertisement for usurers; its literature may be good or bad, but it

will appeal to the patronage of usurers; its scientific selection will

select according to the needs of usurers; its religion will be just

charitable enough to pardon usurers; its penal system will be just cruel

enough to crush all the critics of usurers: the truth of it will be

Slavery: and the title of it may quite possibly be Socialism.

THE ESCAPE

We watched you building, stone by stone,

The well-washed cells and well-washed graves

We shall inhabit but not own

When Britons ever shall be slaves;

The water’s waiting in the trough,

The tame oats sown are portioned free,

There is Enough, and just Enough,

And all is ready now but we.

But you have not caught us yet, my lords,

You have us still to get.

A sorry army you’d have got,

Its flags are rags that float and rot,

Its drums are empty pan and pot,

Its baggage is—an empty cot;

But you have not caught us yet.

A little; and we might have slipped

When came your rumours and your sales

And the foiled rich men, feeble-lipped,

Said and unsaid their sorry tales;

Great God! It needs a bolder brow

To keep ten sheep inside a pen,

And we are sheep no longer now;

You are but Masters. We are Men.

We give you all good thanks, my lords,

We buy at easy price;

Thanks for the thousands that you stole,

The bribes by wire, the bets on coal,

The knowledge of that naked whole

That hath delivered our flesh and soul

Out of your Paradise.

We had held safe your parks; but when

Men taunted you with bribe and fee,

We only saw the Lord of Men

Grin like an Ape and climb a tree;

And humbly had we stood without

Your princely barns; did we not see

In pointed faces peering out

What Rats now own the granary.

It is too late, too late, my lords,

We give you back your grace:

You cannot with all cajoling

Make the wet ditch, or winds that sting,

Lost pride, or the pawned wedding rings,

Or drink or Death a blacker thing

Than a smile upon your face.

THE NEW RAID

The two kinds of social reform, one of which might conceivably free

us at last while the other would certainly enslave us forever, are

exhibited in an easy working model in the two efforts that have been

made for the soldiers’ wives—I mean the effort to increase their

allowance and the effort to curtail their alleged drinking. In the

preliminary consideration, at any rate, we must see the second question

as quite detached from our own sympathies on the special subject of

fermented liquor. It could be applied to any other pleasure or ornament

of life; it will be applied to every other pleasure and ornament of life

if the Capitalist campaign can succeed. The argument we know; but

it cannot be too often made clear. An employer, let us say, pays a

seamstress twopence a day, and she does not seem to thrive on it. So

little, perhaps, does she thrive on it that the employer has even some

difficulty in thriving upon her. There are only two things that he can

do, and the distinction between them cuts the whole social and political

world in two. It is a touchstone by which we can—not sometimes, but

always—distinguish economic equality from servile social reform. He can

give the girl some magnificent sum, such as sixpence a day, to do as she

likes with, and trust that her improved health and temper will work for

the benefit of his business. Or he may keep her to the original sum of a

shilling a week, but earmark each of the pennies to be used or not to

be used for a particular purpose. If she must not spend this penny on a

bunch of violets, or that penny on a novelette, or the other penny on

a toy for some baby, it is possible that she will concentrate her

expenditure more upon physical necessities, and so become, from the

employer’s point of view, a more efficient person. Without the trouble

of adding twopence to her wages, he has added twopenny-worth to her

food. In short, she has the holy satisfaction of being worth more

without being paid more.

This Capitalist is an ingenious person, and has many polished

characteristics; but I think the most singular thing about him is his

staggering lack of shame. Neither the hour of death nor the day of

reckoning, neither the tent of exile nor the house of mourning, neither

chivalry nor patriotism, neither womanhood nor widowhood, is safe at

this supreme moment from his dirty little expedient of dieting the

slave. As similar bullies, when they collect the slum rents, put a

foot in the open door, these are always ready to push in a muddy wedge

wherever there is a slit in a sundered household or a crack in a broken

heart. To a man of any manhood nothing can be conceived more loathsome

and sacrilegious than even so much as asking whether a woman who has

given up all she loved to death and the fatherland has or has not shown

some weakness in her seeking for self-comfort. I know not in which of

the two cases I should count myself the baser for inquiring—a case

where the charge was false or a case where it was true. But the

philanthropic employer of the sort I describe is not a man of any

manhood; in a sense he is not a man at all. He shows some consciousness

of the fact when he calls his workers “men” as distinct from masters. He

cannot comprehend the gallantry of costermongers or the delicacy that is

quite common among cabmen. He finds this social reform by half-rations

on the whole to his mercantile profit, and it will be hard to get him to

think of anything else.

But there are people assisting him, people like the Duchess of

Marlborough, who know not their right hand from their left, and to these

we may legitimately address our remonstrance and a resume of some of

the facts they do not know. The Duchess of Marlborough is, I believe,

an American, and this separates her from the problem in a special way,

because the drink question in America is entirely different from the

drink question in England. But I wish the Duchess of Marlborough would

pin up in her private study, side by side with the Declaration of

Independence, a document recording the following simple truths: (1)

Beer, which is largely drunk in public-houses, is not a spirit or a grog

or a cocktail or a drug. It is the common English liquid for quenching

the thirst; it is so still among innumerable gentlemen, and, until very

lately, was so among innumerable ladies. Most of us remember dames of

the last generation whose manners were fit for Versailles, and who drank

ale or Stout as a matter of course. Schoolboys drank ale as a matter of

course, and their schoolmasters gave it to them as a matter of course.

To tell a poor woman that she must not have any until half the day is

over is simply cracked, like telling a dog or a child that he must

not have water. (2) The public-house is not a secret rendezvous of bad

characters. It is the open and obvious place for a certain purpose,

which all men used for that purpose until the rich began to be snobs

and the poor to become slaves. One might as well warn people against

Willesden Junction. (3) Many poor people live in houses where they

cannot, without great preparation, offer hospitality. (4) The climate of

these picturesque islands does not favour conducting long conversations

with one’s oldest friends on an iron seat in the park. (5) Halfpast

eleven a.m. is not early in the day for a woman who gets up before six.

(6) The bodies and minds of these women belong to God and to themselves.

THE NEW NAME

Something has come into our community, which is strong enough to save

our community; but which has not yet got a name. Let no one fancy I

confess any unreality when I confess the namelessness. The morality

called Puritanism, the tendency called Liberalism, the reaction called

Tory Democracy, had not only long been powerful, but had practically

done most of their work, before these actual names were attached to

them. Nevertheless, I think it would be a good thing to have some

portable and practicable way of referring to those who think as we do

in our main concern. Which is, that men in England are ruled, at this

minute by the clock, by brutes who refuse them bread, by liars who

refuse them news, and by fools who cannot govern, and therefore wish to

enslave.

Let me explain first why I am not satisfied with the word commonly used,

which I have often used myself; and which, in some contexts, is quite

the right word to use. I mean the word “rebel.” Passing over the fact

that many who understand the justice of our cause (as a great many at

the Universities) would still use the word “rebel” in its old and strict

sense as meaning only a disturber of just rule. I pass to a much more

practical point. The word “rebel” understates our cause. It is much too

mild; it lets our enemies off much too easily. There is a tradition in

all western life and letters of Prometheus defying the stars, of man

at war with the Universe, and dreaming what nature had never dared to

dream. All this is valuable in its place and proportion. But it has

nothing whatever to do with our ease; or rather it very much weakens it.

The plutocrats will be only too pleased if we profess to preach a new

morality; for they know jolly well that they have broken the old one.

They will be only too pleased to be able to say that we, by our own

confession, are merely restless and negative; that we are only what we

call rebels and they call cranks. But it is not true; and we must not

concede it to them for a moment. The model millionaire is more of a

crank than the Socialists; just as Nero was more of a crank than the

Christians. And avarice has gone mad in the governing class to-day, just

as lust went mad in the circle of Nero. By all the working and orthodox

standards of sanity, capitalism is insane. I should not say to Mr.

Rockefeller “I am a rebel.” I should say “I am a respectable man: and

you are not.”

Our Lawless Enemies

But the vital point is that the confession of mere rebellion softens

the startling lawlessness of our enemies. Suppose a publisher’s clerk

politely asked his employer for a rise in his salary; and, on being

refused, said he must leave the employment? Suppose the employer knocked

him down with a ruler, tied him up as a brown paper parcel, addressed

him (in a fine business hand) to the Governor of Rio Janeiro and then

asked the policeman to promise never to arrest him for what he had

done? That is a precise copy, in every legal and moral principle, of the

“deportation of the strikers.” They were assaulted and kidnapped for not

accepting a contract, and for nothing else; and the act was so avowedly

criminal that the law had to be altered afterwards to cover the crime.

Now suppose some postal official, between here and Rio Janeiro, had

noticed a faint kicking inside the brown paper parcel, and had attempted

to ascertain the cause. And suppose the clerk could only explain, in a

muffled voice through the brown paper, that he was by constitution and

temperament a Rebel. Don’t you see that he would be rather understating

his case? Don’t you see he would be bearing his injuries much too

meekly? They might take him out of the parcel; but they would very

possibly put him into a mad-house instead. Symbolically speaking, that

is what they would like to do with us. Symbolically speaking, the dirty

misers who rule us will put us in a mad-house—unless we can put them

there.

Or suppose a bank cashier were admittedly allowed to take the money out

of the till, and put it loose in his pocket, more or less mixed up with

his own money; afterwards laying some of both (at different odds) on

“Blue Murder” for the Derby. Suppose when some depositor asked mildly

what day the accountants came, he smote that astonished inquirer on the

nose, crying: “Slanderer! Mud-slinger!” and suppose he then resigned his

position. Suppose no books were shown. Suppose when the new cashier came

to be initiated into his duties, the old cashier did not tell him about

the money, but confided it to the honour and delicacy of his own maiden

aunt at Cricklewood. Suppose he then went off in a yacht to visit

the whale fisheries of the North Sea. Well, in every moral and legal

principle, that is a precise account of the dealings with the Party

Funds. But what would the banker say? What would the clients say? One

thing, I think, I can venture to promise; the banker would not march up

and down the office exclaiming in rapture, “I’m a rebel! That’s what I

am, a rebel!” And if he said to the first indignant depositor “You are

a rebel,” I fear the depositor might answer, “You are a robber.” We have

no need to elaborate arguments for breaking the law. The capitalists

have broken the law. We have no need of further moralities. They have

broken their own morality. It is as if you were to run down the street

shouting, “Communism! Communism! Share! Share!” after a man who had run

away with your watch.

We want a term that will tell everybody that there is, by the common

standard, frank fraud and cruelty pushed to their fierce extreme; and

that we are fighting THEM. We are not in a state of “divine discontent”;

we are in an entirely human and entirely reasonable rage. We say we have

been swindled and oppressed, and we are quite ready and able to prove it

before any tribunal that allows us to call a swindler a swindler. It is

the protection of the present system that most of its tribunals do not.

I cannot at the moment think of any party name that would particularly

distinguish us from our more powerful and prosperous opponents, unless

it were the name the old Jacobites gave themselves; the Honest Party.

Captured Our Standards

I think it is plain that for the purpose of facing these new and

infamous modern facts, we cannot, with any safety, depend on any of the

old nineteenth century names; Socialist, or Communist, or Radical, or

Liberal, or Labour. They are all honourable names; they all stand, or

stood, for things in which we may still believe; we can still apply them

to other problems; but not to this one. We have no longer a monopoly

of these names. Let it be understood that I am not speaking here of the

philosophical problem of their meaning, but of the practical problem of

their use. When I called myself a Radical I knew Mr. Balfour would not

call himself a Radical; therefore there was some use in the word. When

I called myself a Socialist I knew Lord Penrhyn would not call himself

a Socialist; therefore there was some use in the word. But the

capitalists, in that aggressive march which is the main fact of our

time, have captured our standards, both in the military and philosophic

sense of the word. And it is useless for us to march under colours which

they can carry as well as we.

Do you believe in Democracy? The devils also believe and tremble. Do you

believe in Trades Unionism? The Labour Members also believe; and tremble

like a falling teetotum. Do you believe in the State? The Samuels also

believe, and grin. Do you believe in the centralisation of Empire? So

did Beit. Do you believe in the decentralisation of Empire? So does

Albu. Do you believe in the brotherhood of men: and do you, dear

brethren, believe that Brother Arthur Henderson does not? Do you cry,

“The world for the workers!” and do you imagine Philip Snowden would

not? What we need is a name that shall declare, not that the modern

treason and tyranny are bad, but that they are quite literally,

intolerable: and that we mean to act accordingly. I really think “the

Limits” would be as good a name as any. But, anyhow, something is born

among us that is as strong as an infant Hercules: and it is part of

my prejudices to want it christened. I advertise for godfathers and

godmothers.

A WORKMAN’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND

A thing which does not exist and which is very much wanted is “A

Working-Man’s History of England.” I do not mean a history written

for working men (there are whole dustbins of them), I mean a history,

written by working men or from the working men’s standpoint. I wish five

generations of a fisher’s or a miner’s family could incarnate themselves

in one man and tell the story.

It is impossible to ignore altogether any comment coming from so eminent

a literary artist as Mr. Laurence Housman, but I do not deal here so

specially with his well known conviction about Votes for Women, as with

another idea which is, I think, rather at the back of it, if not with

him at least with others; and which concerns this matter of the true

story of England. For the true story is so entirely different from the

false official story that the official classes tell that by this time

the working class itself has largely forgotten its own experience.

Either story can be quite logically linked up with Female Suffrage,

which, therefore, I leave where it is for the moment; merely confessing

that, so long as we get hold of the right story and not the wrong story,

it seems to me a matter of secondary importance whether we link it up

with Female Suffrage or not.

Now the ordinary version of recent English history that most moderately

educated people have absorbed from childhood is something like this.

That we emerged slowly from a semi-barbarism in which all the power

and wealth were in the hands of Kings and a few nobles; that the King’s

power was broken first and then in due time that of the nobles, that

this piece-meal improvement was brought about by one class after

another waking up to a sense of citizenship and demanding a place in

the national councils, frequently by riot or violence; and that in

consequence of such menacing popular action, the franchise was granted

to one class after another and used more and more to improve the social

conditions of those classes, until we practically became a democracy,

save for such exceptions as that of the women. I do not think anyone

will deny that something like that is the general idea of the educated

man who reads a newspaper and of the newspaper that he reads. That

is the view current at public schools and colleges; it is part of the

culture of all the classes that count for much in government; and there

is not one word of truth in it from beginning to end.

That Great Reform Bill

Wealth and political power were very much more popularly distributed

in the Middle Ages than they are now; but we will pass all that and

consider recent history. The franchise has never been largely and

liberally granted in England; half the males have no vote and are not

likely to get one. It was never granted in reply to pressure from

awakened sections of the democracy; in every case there was a perfectly

clear motive for granting it solely for the convenience of the

aristocrats. The Great Reform Bill was not passed in response to such

riots as that which destroyed a Castle; nor did the men who destroyed

the Castle get any advantage whatever out of the Great Reform Bill. The

Great Reform Bill was passed in order to seal an alliance between the

landed aristocrats and the rich manufacturers of the north (an alliance

that rules us still); and the chief object of that alliance was to

prevent the English populace getting any political power in the

general excitement after the French Revolution. No one can read

Macaulay’s speech on the Chartists, for instance, and not see that this

is so. Disraeli’s further extension of the suffrage was not effected

by the intellectual vivacity and pure republican theory of the

mid-Victorian agricultural labourer; it was effected by a politician

who saw an opportunity to dish the Whigs, and guessed that certain

orthodoxies in the more prosperous artisan might yet give him a balance

against the commercial Radicals. And while this very thin game of

wire-pulling with the mere abstraction of the vote was being worked

entirely by the oligarchs and entirely in their interests, the solid and

real thing that was going on was the steady despoiling of the poor

of all power or wealth, until they find themselves to-day upon the

threshold of slavery. That is The Working Man’s History of England.

Now, as I have said, I care comparatively little what is done with the

mere voting part of the matter, so long as it is not claimed in such

a way as to allow the plutocrat to escape his responsibility for

his crimes, by pretending to be much more progressive, or much more

susceptible to popular protest, than he ever has been. And there is this

danger in many of those who have answered me. One of them, for

instance, says that women have been forced into their present industrial

situations by the same iron economic laws that have compelled men. I say

that men have not been compelled by iron economic laws, but in the main

by the coarse and Christless cynicism of other men. But, of course,

this way of talking is exactly in accordance with the fashionable

and official version of English history. Thus, you will read that the

monasteries, places where men of the poorest origin could be powerful,

grew corrupt and gradually decayed. Or you will read that the mediaeval

guilds of free workmen yielded at last to an inevitable economic law.

You will read this; and you will be reading lies. They might as well say

that Julius Caesar gradually decayed at the foot of Pompey’s statue. You

might as well say that Abraham Lincoln yielded at last to an inevitable

economic law. The free mediaeval guilds did not decay; they were

murdered. Solid men with solid guns and halberds, armed with lawful

warrants from living statesmen broke up their corporations and took away

their hard cash from them. In the same way the people in Cradley Heath

are no more victims of a necessary economic law than the people in

Putumayo. They are victims of a very terrible creature, of whose sins

much has been said since the beginning of the world; and of whom it was

said of old, “Let us fall into the hands of God, for His mercies are

great; but let us not fall into the hands of Man.”

The Capitalist Is in the Dock

Now it is this offering of a false economic excuse for the sweater that

is the danger in perpetually saying that the poor woman will use the

vote and that the poor man has not used it. The poor man is prevented

from using it; prevented by the rich man, and the poor woman would be

prevented in exactly the same gross and stringent style. I do not deny,

of course, that there is something in the English temperament, and in

the heritage of the last few centuries that makes the English workman

more tolerant of wrong than most foreign workmen would be. But this only

slightly modifies the main fact of the moral responsibility. To take an

imperfect parallel, if we said that negro slaves would have rebelled

if negroes had been more intelligent, we should be saying what is

reasonable. But if we were to say that it could by any possibility be

represented as being the negro’s fault that he was at that moment

in America and not in Africa, we should be saying what is frankly

unreasonable. It is every bit as unreasonable to say the mere supineness

of the English workmen has put them in the capitalist slave-yard. The

capitalist has put them in the capitalist slaveyard; and very cunning

smiths have hammered the chains. It is just this creative criminality in

the authors of the system that we must not allow to be slurred over. The

capitalist is in the dock to-day; and so far as I at least can prevent

him, he shall not get out of it.

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND THE IRISH

It will be long before the poison of the Party System is worked out

of the body politic. Some of its most indirect effects are the most

dangerous. One that is very dangerous just now is this: that for most

Englishmen the Party System falsifies history, and especially the

history of revolutions. It falsifies history because it simplifies

history. It paints everything either Blue or Buff in the style of its

own silly circus politics: while a real revolution has as many colours

as the sunrise—or the end of the world. And if we do not get rid of

this error we shall make very bad blunders about the real revolution

which seems to grow more and more probable, especially among the Irish.

And any human familiarity with history will teach a man this first of

all: that Party practically does not exist in a real revolution. It is a

game for quiet times.

If you take a boy who has been to one of those big private schools which

are falsely called the Public Schools, and another boy who has been to

one of those large public schools which are falsely called the Board

Schools, you will find some differences between the two, chiefly a

difference in the management of the voice. But you will find they

are both English in a special way, and that their education has been

essentially the same. They are ignorant on the same subjects. They have

never heard of the same plain facts. They have been taught the wrong

answer to the same confusing question. There is one fundamental element

in the attitude of the Eton master talking about “playing the game,”

and the elementary teacher training gutter-snipes to sing, “What is the

Meaning of Empire Day?” And the name of that element is “unhistoric.” It

knows nothing really about England, still less about Ireland or France,

and, least of all, of course, about anything like the French Revolution.

Revolution by Snap Division

Now what general notion does the ordinary English boy, thus taught to

utter one ignorance in one of two accents, get and keep through life

about the French Revolution? It is the notion of the English House of

Commons with an enormous Radical majority on one side of the table and

a small Tory minority on the other; the majority voting solid for a

Republic, the minority voting solid for a Monarchy; two teams tramping

through two lobbies with no difference between their methods and ours,

except that (owing to some habit peculiar to Gaul) the brief intervals

were brightened by a riot or a massacre, instead of by a whisky and soda

and a Marconi tip. Novels are much more reliable than histories in such

matters. For though an English novel about France does not tell the

truth about France, it does tell the truth about England; and more than

half the histories never tell the truth about anything. And popular

fiction, I think, bears witness to the general English impression. The

French Revolution is a snap division with an unusual turnover of votes.

On the one side stand a king and queen who are good but weak, surrounded

by nobles with rapiers drawn; some of whom are good, many of whom are

wicked, all of whom are good-looking. Against these there is a formless

mob of human beings, wearing red caps and seemingly insane, who all

blindly follow ruffians who are also rhetoricians; some of whom die

repentant and others unrepentant towards the end of the fourth act.

The leaders of this boiling mass of all men melted into one are called

Mirabeau, Robespierre, Danton, Marat, and so on. And it is conceded that

their united frenzy may have been forced on them by the evils of the old

regime.

That, I think, is the commonest English view of the French Revolution;

and it will not survive the reading of two pages of any real speech or

letter of the period. These human beings were human; varied, complex and

inconsistent. But the rich Englishman, ignorant of revolutions, would

hardly believe you if you told him some of the common human subtleties

of the case. Tell him that Robespierre threw the red cap in the dirt in

disgust, while the king had worn it with a broad grin, so to speak; tell

him that Danton, the fierce founder of the Republic of the Terror, said

quite sincerely to a noble, “I am more monarchist than you;” tell him

that the Terror really seems to have been brought to an end chiefly by

the efforts of people who particularly wanted to go on with it—and he

will not believe these things. He will not believe them because he has

no humility, and therefore no realism. He has never been inside himself;

and so could never be inside another man. The truth is that in the

French affair everybody occupied an individual position. Every man

talked sincerely, if not because he was sincere, then because he was

angry. Robespierre talked even more about God than about the Republic

because he cared even more about God than about the Republic. Danton

talked even more about France than about the Republic because he cared

even more about France than about the Republic. Marat talked more about

Humanity than either, because that physician (though himself somewhat

needing a physician) really cared about it. The nobles were divided,

each man from the next. The attitude of the king was quite different

from the attitude of the queen; certainly much more different than any

differences between our Liberals and Tories for the last twenty years.

And it will sadden some of my friends to remember that it was the king

who was the Liberal and the queen who was the Tory. There were not two

people, I think, in that most practical crisis who stood in precisely

the same attitude towards the situation. And that is why, between them,

they saved Europe. It is when you really perceive the unity of mankind

that you really perceive its variety. It is not a flippancy, it is a

very sacred truth, to say that when men really understand that they are

brothers they instantly begin to fight.

The Revival of Reality

Now these things are repeating themselves with an enormous reality in

the Irish Revolution. You will not be able to make a Party System out of

the matter. Everybody is in revolt; therefore everybody is telling the

truth. The Nationalists will go on caring most for the nation, as Danton

and the defenders of the frontier went on caring most for the nation.

The priests will go on caring most for religion, as Robespierre went on

caring most for religion. The Socialists will go on caring most for the

cure of physical suffering, as Marat went on caring most for it. It is

out of these real differences that real things can be made, such as the

modern French democracy. For by such tenacity everyone sees at last that

there is something in the other person’s position. And those drilled in

party discipline see nothing either past or present. And where there is

nothing there is Satan.

For a long time past in our politics there has not only been no real

battle, but no real bargain. No two men have bargained as Gladstone and

Parnell bargained—each knowing the other to be a power. But in real

revolutions men discover that no one man can really agree with another

man until he has disagreed with him.

LIBERALISM: A SAMPLE

There is a certain daily paper in England towards which I feel very much

as Tom Pinch felt towards Mr. Pecksniff immediately after he had

found him out. The war upon Dickens was part of the general war on all

democrats, about the eighties and nineties, which ushered in the brazen

plutocracy of to-day. And one of the things that it was fashionable to

say of Dickens in drawing-rooms was that he had no subtlety, and could

not describe a complex frame of mind. Like most other things that are

said in drawing-rooms, it was a lie. Dickens was a very unequal writer,

and his successes alternate with his failures; but his successes

are subtle quite as often as they are simple. Thus, to take “Martin

Chuzzlewit” alone, I should call the joke about the Lord No-zoo a simple

joke: but I should call the joke about Mrs. Todgers’s vision of a wooden

leg a subtle joke. And no frame of mind was ever so self-contradictory

and yet so realistic as that which Dickens describes when he says, in

effect, that, though Pinch knew now that there had never been such a

person as Pecksniff, in his ideal sense, he could not bring himself

to insult the very face and form that had contained the legend. The

parallel with Liberal journalism is not perfect; because it was once

honest; and Pecksniff presumably never was. And even when I come to feel

a final incompatibility of temper, Pecksniff was not so Pecksniffian as

he has since become. But the comparison is complete in so far as I share

all the reluctance of Mr. Pinch. Some old heathen king was advised by

one of the Celtic saints, I think, to burn what he had adored and adore

what he had burnt. I am quite ready, if anyone will prove I was wrong,

to adore what I have burnt; but I do really feel an unwillingness

verging upon weakness to burning what I have adored. I think it is a

weakness to be overcome in times as bad as these, when (as Mr. Orage

wrote with something like splendid common sense the other day) there is

such a lot to do and so few people who will do it. So I will devote

this article to considering one case of the astounding baseness to which

Liberal journalism has sunk.

Mental Breakdown in Fleet Street

One of the two or three streaks of light on our horizon can be perceived

in this: that the moral breakdown of these papers has been accompanied

by a mental breakdown also. The contemporary official paper, like the

“Daily News” or the “Daily Chronicle” (I mean in so far as it deals with

politics), simply cannot argue; and simply does not pretend to argue. It

considers the solution which it imagines that wealthy people want, and

it signifies the same in the usual manner; which is not by holding

up its hand, but by falling on its face. But there is no more curious

quality in its degradation than a sort of carelessness, at once of

hurry and fatigue, with which it flings down its argument—or rather its

refusal to argue. It does not even write sophistry: it writes anything.

It does not so much poison the reader’s mind as simply assume that the

reader hasn’t got one. For instance, one of these papers printed an

article on Sir Stuart Samuel, who, having broken the great Liberal

statute against corruption, will actually, perhaps, be asked to pay his

own fine—in spite of the fact that he can well afford to do so. The

article says, if I remember aright, that the decision will cause general

surprise and some indignation. That any modern Government making a very

rich capitalist obey the law will cause general surprise, may be true.

Whether it will cause general indignation rather depends on whether

our social intercourse is entirely confined to Park Lane, or any such

pigsties built of gold. But the journalist proceeds to say, his neck

rising higher and higher out of his collar, and his hair rising higher

and higher on his head, in short, his resemblance to the Dickens’

original increasing every instant, that he does not mean that the law

against corruption should be less stringent, but that the burden should

be borne by the whole community. This may mean that whenever a rich man

breaks the law, all the poor men ought to be made to pay his fine. But

I will suppose a slightly less insane meaning. I will suppose it means

that the whole power of the commonwealth should be used to prosecute an

offender of this kind. That, of course, can only mean that the matter

will be decided by that instrument which still pretends to represent

the whole power of the commonwealth. In other words, the Government will

judge the Government.

Now this is a perfectly plain piece of brute logic. We need not go into

the other delicious things in the article, as when it says that “in old

times Parliament had to be protected against Royal invasion by the man

in the street.” Parliament has to be protected now against the man

in the street. Parliament is simply the most detested and the most

detestable of all our national institutions: all that is evident enough.

What is interesting is the blank and staring fallacy of the attempted

reply.

When the Journalist Is Ruined

A long while ago, before all the Liberals died, a Liberal introduced

a Bill to prevent Parliament being merely packed with the slaves of

financial interests. For that purpose he established the excellent

democratic principle that the private citizen, as such, might protest

against public corruption. He was called the Common Informer. I

believe the miserable party papers are really reduced to playing on the

degradation of the two words in modern language. Now the word “common”

in “Common Informer” means exactly what it means in “common sense” or

“Book of Common Prayer,” or (above all) in “House of Commons.” It

does not mean anything low or vulgar; any more than they do. The only

difference is that the House of Commons really is low and vulgar; and

the Common Informer isn’t. It is just the same with the word “Informer.”

It does not mean spy or sneak. It means one who gives information. It

means what “journalist” ought to mean. The only difference is that the

Common Informer may be paid if he tells the truth. The common journalist

will be ruined if he does.

Now the quite plain point before the party journalist is this: If

he really means that a corrupt bargain between a Government and a

contractor ought to be judged by public opinion, he must (nowadays) mean

Parliament; that is, the caucus that controls Parliament. And he must

decide between one of two views. Either he means that there can be no

such thing as a corrupt Government. Or he means that it is one of the

characteristic qualities of a corrupt Government to denounce its own

corruption. I laugh; and I leave him his choice.

THE FATIGUE OF FLEET STREET

Why is the modern party political journalism so bad? It is worse even

than it intends to be. It praises its preposterous party leaders through

thick and thin; but it somehow succeeds in making them look greater

fools than they are. This clumsiness clings even to the photographs

of public men, as they are snapshotted at public meetings. A sensitive

politician (if there is such a thing) would, I should think, want to

murder the man who snapshots him at those moments. For our general

impression of a man’s gesture or play of feature is made up of a series

of vanishing instants, at any one of which he may look worse than our

general impression records. Mr. Augustine Birrell may have made quite a

sensible and amusing speech, in the course of which his audience would

hardly have noticed that he resettled his necktie. Snapshot him, and

he appears as convulsively clutching his throat in the agonies of

strangulation, and with his head twisted on one side as if he had been

hanged. Sir Edward Carson might make a perfectly good speech, which no

one thought wearisome, but might himself be just tired enough to shift

from one leg to the other. Snapshot him, and he appears as holding one

leg stiffly in the air and yawning enough to swallow the audience.

But it is in the prose narratives of the Press that we find most

manifestations of this strange ineptitude; this knack of exhibiting your

own favourites in an unlucky light. It is not so much that the party

journalists do not tell the truth as that they tell just enough of it

to make it clear that they are telling lies. One of their favourite

blunders is an amazing sort of bathos. They begin by telling you that

some statesman said something brilliant in style or biting in wit, at

which his hearers thrilled with terror or thundered with applause. And

then they tell you what it was that he said. Silly asses!

Insane Exaggeration

Here is an example from a leading Liberal paper touching the debates on

Home Rule. I am a Home Ruler; so my sympathies would be, if anything, on

the side of the Liberal paper upon that point. I merely quote it as

an example of this ridiculous way of writing, which, by insane

exaggeration, actually makes its hero look smaller than he is.

This was strange language to use about the “hypocritical sham,” and Mr.

Asquith, knowing that the biggest battle of his career was upon him,

hit back without mercy. “I should like first to know,” said he, with a

glance at his supporters, “whether my proposals are accepted?”

That’s all. And I really do not see why poor Mr. Asquith should be

represented as having violated the Christian virtue of mercy by saying

that. I myself could compose a great many paragraphs upon the same

model, each containing its stinging and perhaps unscrupulous epigram.

As, for example:—“The Archbishop of Canterbury, realising that his

choice now lay between denying God and earning the crown of martyrdom by

dying in torments, spoke with a frenzy of religious passion that might

have seemed fanatical under circumstances less intense. ‘The Children’s

Service,’ he said firmly, with his face to the congregation, ‘will be

held at half-past four this afternoon as usual.’”

Or, we might have:—“Lord Roberts, recognising that he had now to face

Armageddon, and that if he lost this last battle against overwhelming

odds the independence of England would be extinguished forever,

addressed to his soldiers (looking at them and not falling off his

horse) a speech which brought their national passions to boiling point,

and might well have seemed blood-thirsty in quieter times. It ended with

the celebrated declaration that it was a fine day.”

Or we might have the much greater excitement of reading something like

this:—“The Astronomer Royal, having realised that the earth would

certainly be smashed to pieces by a comet unless his requests in

connection with wireless telegraphy were seriously considered, gave an

address at the Royal Society which, under other circumstances, would

have seemed unduly dogmatic and emotional and deficient in scientific

agnosticism. This address (which he delivered without any attempt to

stand on his head) included a fierce and even ferocious declaration that

it is generally easier to see the stars by night than by day.”

Now, I cannot see, on my conscience and reason, that any one of my

imaginary paragraphs is more ridiculous than the real one. Nobody can

believe that Mr. Asquith regards these belated and careful compromises

about Home Rule as “the biggest battle of his career.” It is only

justice to him to say that he has had bigger battles than that. Nobody

can believe that any body of men, bodily present, either thundered or

thrilled at a man merely saying that he would like to know whether his

proposals were accepted. No; it would be far better for Parliament if

its doors were shut again, and reporters were excluded. In that case,

the outer public did hear genuine rumours of almost gigantic eloquence;

such as that which has perpetuated Pitt’s reply against the charge of

youth, or Fox’s bludgeoning of the idea of war as a compromise. It would

be much better to follow the old fashion and let in no reporters at all

than to follow the new fashion and select the stupidest reporters you

can find.

Their Load of Lies

Now, why do people in Fleet-street talk such tosh? People in

Fleet-street are not fools. Most of them have realised reality through

work; some through starvation; some through damnation, or something

damnably like it. I think it is simply and seriously true that they

are tired of their job. As the general said in M. Rostand’s play, “la

fatigue!”

I do really believe that this is one of the ways in which God (don’t get

flurried, Nature if you like) is unexpectedly avenged on things infamous

and unreasonable. And this method is that men’s moral and even physical

tenacity actually give out under such a load of lies. They go on writing

their leading articles and their Parliamentary reports. They go on doing

it as a convict goes on picking oakum. But the point is not that we are

bored with their articles; the point is that they are. The work is done

worse because it is done weakly and without human enthusiasm. And it

is done weakly because of the truth we have told so many times in this

book: that it is not done for monarchy, for which men will die; or for

democracy, for which men will die; or even for aristocracy, for which

many men have died. It is done for a thing called Capitalism: which

stands out quite clearly in history in many curious ways. But the most

curious thing about it is that no man has loved it; and no man died for

it.

THE AMNESTY FOR AGGRESSION

If there is to rise out of all this red ruin something like a republic

of justice, it is essential that our views should be real views; that

is, glimpses of lives and landscapes outside ourselves. It is essential

that they should not be mere opium visions that begin and end in

smoke—and so often in cannon smoke. I make no apology, therefore, for

returning to the purely practical and realistic point I urged last week:

the fact that we shall lose everything we might have gained if we lose

the idea that the responsible person is responsible.

For instance, it is almost specially so with the one or two things in

which the British Government, or the British public, really are behaving

badly. The first, and worst of them, is the non-extension of the

Moratorium, or truce of debtor and creditor, to the very world where

there are the poorest debtors and the cruellest creditors. This is

infamous: and should be, if possible, more infamous to those who think

the war right than to those who think it wrong. Everyone knows that

the people who can least pay their debts are the people who are always

trying to. Among the poor a payment may be as rash as a speculation.

Among the rich a bankruptcy may be as safe as a bank. Considering the

class from which private soldiers are taken, there is an atrocious

meanness in the idea of buying their blood abroad, while we sell their

sticks at home. The English language, by the way, is full of delicate

paradoxes. We talk of the private soldiers because they are really

public soldiers; and we talk of the public schools because they are

really private schools. Anyhow, the wrong is of the sort that ought to

be resisted, as much in war as in peace.

Ought to Be Hammered

But as long as we speak of it as a cloudy conclusion, come to by an

anonymous club called Parliament, or a masked tribunal called the

Cabinet, we shall never get such a wrong righted. Somebody is officially

responsible for the unfairness; and that somebody ought to be hammered.

The other example, less important but more ludicrous, is the silly

boycott of Germans in England, extending even to German music. I do

not believe for a moment that the English people feel any such insane

fastidiousness. Are the English artists who practise the particularly

English art of water-colour to be forbidden to use Prussian blue? Are

all old ladies to shoot their Pomeranian dogs? But though England would

laugh at this, she will get the credit of it, and will continue: until

we ask who the actual persons are who feel sure that we should shudder

at a ballad of the Rhine. It is certain that we should find they

are capitalists. It is very probable that we should find they are

foreigners.

Some days ago the Official Council of the Independent Labour Party, or

the Independent Council of the Official Labour Party, or the Independent

and Official Council of the Labour Party (I have got quite nervous about

these names and distinctions; but they all seem to say the same thing)

began their manifesto by saying it would be difficult to assign the

degrees of responsibility which each nation had for the outbreak of the

war. Afterwards, a writer in the “Christian Commonwealth,” lamenting

war in the name of Labour, but in the language of my own romantic

middle-class, said that all the nations must share the responsibility

for this great calamity of war. Now exactly as long as we go on talking

like that we shall have war after war, and calamity after calamity,

until the crack of doom. It simply amounts to a promise of pardon to

any person who will start a quarrel. It is an amnesty for assassins. The

moment any man assaults any other man he makes all the other men as

bad as himself. He has only to stab, and to vanish in a fog of

forgetfulness. The real eagles of iron, the predatory Empires, will be

delighted with this doctrine. They will applaud the Labour Concert or

Committee, or whatever it is called. They will willingly take all the

crime, with only a quarter of the conscience: they will be as ready to

share the memory as they are to share the spoil. The Powers will divide

responsibility as calmly as they divided Poland.

The Whole Loathsome Load

But I still stubbornly and meekly submit my point: that you cannot

end war without asking who began it. If you think somebody else, not

Germany, began it, then blame that somebody else: do not blame everybody

and nobody. Perhaps you think that a small sovereign people, fresh from

two triumphant wars, ought to discrown itself before sunrise; because

the nephew of a neighbouring Emperor has been shot by his own subjects.

Very well. Then blame Servia; and, to the extent of your influence, you

may be preventing small kingdoms being obstinate or even princes being

shot. Perhaps you think the whole thing was a huge conspiracy of Russia,

with France as a dupe and Servia as a pretext. Very well. Then blame

Russia; and, to the extent of your influence, you may be preventing

great Empires from making racial excuses for a raid. Perhaps you think

France wrong for feeling what you call “revenge,” and I should

call recovery of stolen goods. Perhaps you blame Belgium for being

sentimental about her frontier; or England for being sentimental about

her word. If so, blame them; or whichever of them you think is to blame.

Or again, it is barely possible that you may think, as I do, that the

whole loathsome load has been laid upon us by the monarchy which I have

not named; still less wasted time in abusing. But if there be in Europe

a military State which has not the religion of Russia, yet has helped

Russia to tyrannise over the Poles, that State cares not for religion,

but for tyranny. If there be a State in Europe which has not the

religion of the Austrians, but has helped Austria to bully the Servians,

that State cares not for belief, but for bullying. If there be in

Europe any people or principality which respects neither republics nor

religions, to which the political ideal of Paris is as much a myth as

the mystical ideal of Moscow, then blame that: and do more than blame.

In the healthy and highly theological words of Robert Blatchford, drive

it back to the Hell from which it came.

Crying Over Spilt Blood

But whatever you do, do not blame everybody for what was certainly done

by somebody. It may be it is no good crying over spilt blood, any

more than over spilt milk. But we do not find the culprit any more by

spilling the milk over everybody; or by daubing everybody with blood.

Still less do we improve matters by watering the milk with our tears,

nor the blood either. To say that everybody is responsible means that

nobody is responsible. If in the future we see Russia annexing Rutland

(as part of the old Kingdom of Muscovy), if we see Bavaria taking a

sudden fancy to the Bank of England, or the King of the Cannibal Islands

suddenly demanding a tribute of edible boys and girls from England and

America, we may be quite certain also that the Leader of the Labour

Party will rise, with a slight cough, and say: “It would be a difficult

task to apportion the blame between the various claims which…”

REVIVE THE COURT JESTER

I hope the Government will not think just now about appointing a Poet

Laureate. I hardly think they can be altogether in the right mood. The

business just now before the country makes a very good detective story;

but as a national epic it is a little depressing. Jingo literature

always weakens a nation; but even healthy patriotic literature has

its proper time and occasion. For instance, Mr. Newbolt (who has been

suggested for the post) is a very fine poet; but I think his patriotic

lyrics would just now rather jar upon a patriot. We are rather too much

concerned about our practical seamanship to feel quite confident that

Drake will return and “drum them up the Channel as he drummed them long

ago.” On the contrary, we have an uncomfortable feeling that Drake’s

ship might suddenly go to the bottom, because the capitalists have made

Lloyd George abolish the Plimsoll Line. One could not, without being

understood ironically, adjure the two party teams to-day to “play up,

play up and play the game,” or to “love the game more than the

prize.” And there is no national hero at this moment in the soldiering

line—unless, perhaps, it is Major Archer-Shee—of whom anyone would

be likely to say: “Sed miles; sed pro patria.” There is, indeed, one

beautiful poem of Mr. Newbolt’s which may mingle faintly with one’s

thoughts in such times, but that, alas, is to a very different tune. I

mean that one in which he echoes Turner’s conception of the old wooden

ship vanishing with all the valiant memories of the English:

There’s a far bell ringing

At the setting of the sun,

And a phantom voice is singing

Of the great days done.

There’s a far bell ringing,

And a phantom voice is singing

Of a fame forever clinging

To the great days done.

For the sunset breezes shiver,

Temeraire, Temeraire,

And she’s fading down the river…

Well, well, neither you nor I know whether she is fading down the river

or not. It is quite enough for us to know, as King Alfred did, that a

great many pirates have landed on both banks of the Thames.

Praise and Prophecy Impossible

At this moment that is the only kind of patriotic poem that could

satisfy the emotions of a patriotic person. But it certainly is not

the sort of poem that is expected from a Poet Laureate, either on

the highest or the lowest theory of his office. He is either a great

minstrel singing the victories of a great king, or he is a common Court

official like the Groom of the Powder Closet. In the first case his

praises should be true; in the second case they will nearly always be

false; but in either case he must praise. And what there is for him to

praise just now it would be precious hard to say. And if there is no

great hope of a real poet, there is still less hope of a real prophet.

What Newman called, I think, “The Prophetical Office,” that is, the

institution of an inspired protest even against an inspired religion,

certainly would not do in modern England. The Court is not likely to

keep a tame prophet in order to encourage him to be wild. It is not

likely to pay a man to say that wolves shall howl in Downing-street and

vultures build their nests in Buckingham Palace. So vast has been the

progress of humanity that these two things are quite impossible. We

cannot have a great poet praising kings. We cannot have a great prophet

denouncing kings. So I have to fall back on a third suggestion.

The Field for a Fool

Instead of reviving the Court Poet, why not revive the Court Fool? He is

the only person who could do any good at this moment either to the

Royal or the judicial Courts. The present political situation is utterly

unsuitable for the purposes of a great poet. But it is particularly

suitable for the purposes of a great buffoon. The old jester was under

certain privileges: you could not resent the jokes of a fool, just

as you cannot resent the sermons of a curate. Now, what the present

Government of England wants is neither serious praise nor serious

denunciation; what it wants is satire. What it wants, in other words,

is realism given with gusto. When King Louis the Eleventh unexpectedly

visited his enemy, the Duke of Burgundy, with a small escort, the Duke’s

jester said he would give the King his fool’s cap, for he was the fool

now. And when the Duke replied with dignity, “And suppose I treat him

with all proper respect?” the fool answered, “Then I will give it to

you.” That is the kind of thing that somebody ought to be free to say

now. But if you say it now you will be fined a hundred pounds at the

least.

Carson’s Dilemma

For the things that have been happening lately are not merely things

that one could joke about. They are themselves, truly and intrinsically,

jokes. I mean that there is a sort of epigram of unreason in the

situation itself, as there was in the situation where there was jam

yesterday and jam to-morrow but never jam to-day. Take, for instance,

the extraordinary case of Sir Edward Carson. The point is not whether we

regard his attitude in Belfast as the defiance of a sincere and dogmatic

rebel, or as the bluff of a party hack and mountebank. The point is not

whether we regard his defence of the Government at the Old Bailey as a

chivalrous and reluctant duty done as an advocate or a friend, or as

a mere case of a lawyer selling his soul for a fat brief. The point is

that whichever of the two actions we approve, and whichever of the four

explanations we adopt, Sir Edward’s position is still raving nonsense.

On any argument, he cannot escape from his dilemma. It may be argued

that laws and customs should be obeyed whatever our private feelings;

and that it is an established custom to accept a brief in such a case.

But then it is a somewhat more established custom to obey an Act

of Parliament and to keep the peace. It may be argued that extreme

misgovernment justifies men in Ulster or elsewhere in refusing to obey

the law. But then it would justify them even more in refusing to

appear professionally in a law court. Etiquette cannot be at once so

unimportant that Carson may shoot at the King’s uniform, and yet so

important that he must always be ready to put on his own. The Government

cannot be so disreputable that Carson need not lay down his gun, and yet

so respectable that he is bound to put on his wig. Carson cannot at once

be so fierce that he can kill in what he considers a good cause, and yet

so meek that he must argue in what he considers a bad cause. Obedience

or disobedience, conventional or unconventional, a solicitor’s letter

cannot be more sacred than the King’s writ; a blue bag cannot be more

rational than the British flag. The thing is rubbish read anyway, and

the only difficulty is to get a joke good enough to express it. It is a

case for the Court Jester. The phantasy of it could only be expressed by

some huge ceremonial hoax. Carson ought to be crowned with the shamrocks

and emeralds and followed by green-clad minstrels of the Clan-na-Gael,

playing “The Wearing of the Green.”

Belated Chattiness by Wireless

But all the recent events are like that. They are practical jokes. The

jokes do not need to be made: they only need to be pointed out. You and

I do not talk and act as the Isaacs brothers talked and acted, by their

own most favourable account of themselves; and even their account of

themselves was by no means favourable. You and I do not talk of

meeting our own born brother “at a family function” as if he were some

infinitely distant cousin whom we only met at Christmas. You and I, when

we suddenly feel inclined for a chat with the same brother about his

dinner and the Coal Strike, do not generally select either wireless

telegraphy or the Atlantic Cable as the most obvious and economical

channel for that outburst of belated chattiness. You and I do not talk,

if it is proposed to start a railway between Catsville and Dogtown, as

if the putting up of a station at Dogtown could have no kind of economic

effect on the putting up of a station at Catsville. You and I do not

think it candid to say that when we are at one end of a telephone we

have no sort of connection with the other end. These things have got

into the region of farce; and should be dealt with farcically, not even

ferociously.

A Fool Who Shall Be Free

In the Roman Republic there was a Tribune of the People, whose person

was inviolable like an ambassador’s. There was much the same idea

in Becket’s attempt to remove the Priest, who was then the popular

champion, from the ordinary courts. We shall have no Tribune; for we

have no republic. We shall have no Priest; for we have no religion. The

best we deserve or can expect is a Fool who shall be free; and who shall

deliver us with laughter.

THE ART OF MISSING THE POINT

Missing the point is a very fine art; and has been carried to something

like perfection by politicians and Pressmen to-day. For the point is

generally a very sharp point; and is, moreover, sharp at both ends.

That is to say that both parties would probably impale themselves in an

uncomfortable manner if they did not manage to avoid it altogether. I

have just been looking at the election address of the official Liberal

candidate for the part of the country in which I live; and though it

is, if anything, rather more logical and free from cant than most other

documents of the sort it is an excellent example of missing the point.

The candidate has to go boring on about Free Trade and Land Reform and

Education; and nobody reading it could possibly imagine that in the town

of Wycombe, where the poll will be declared, the capital of the Wycombe

division of Bucks which the candidate is contesting, centre of the

important and vital trade on which it has thriven, a savage struggle

about justice has been raging for months past between the poor and rich,

as real as the French Revolution. The man offering himself at Wycombe as

representative of the Wycombe division simply says nothing about it at

all. It is as if a man at the crisis of the French Terror had offered

himself as a deputy for the town of Paris, and had said nothing about

the Monarchy, nothing about the Republic, nothing about the massacres,

nothing about the war; but had explained with great clearness his views

on the suppression of the Jansenists, the literary style of Racine,

the suitability of Turenae for the post of commander-in-chief, and the

religious reflections of Madame de Maintenon. For, at their best, the

candidate’s topics are not topical. Home Rule is a very good thing, and

modern education is a very bad thing; but neither of them are things

that anybody is talking about in High Wycombe. This is the first and

simplest way of missing the point: deliberately to avoid and ignore it.

The Candid Candidate

It would be an amusing experiment, by the way, to go to the point

instead of avoiding it. What fun it would be to stand as a strict Party

candidate, but issue a perfectly frank and cynical Election Address.

Mr. Mosley’s address begins, “Gentlemen,—Sir Alfred Cripps having been

chosen for a high judicial position and a seat in the House of Lords, a

by-election now becomes necessary, and the electors of South Bucks are

charged with the responsible duty of electing, etc., etc.” But suppose

there were another candidate whose election address opened in a plain,

manly style, like this: “Gentlemen,—In the sincere hope of being myself

chosen for a high judicial position or a seat in the House of Lords,

or considerably increasing my private fortune by some Government

appointment, or, at least, inside information about the financial

prospects, I have decided that it is worth my while to disburse large

sums of money to you on various pretexts, and, with even more reluctance

to endure the bad speaking and bad ventilation of the Commons’ House

of Parliament, so help me God. I have very pronounced convictions on

various political questions; but I will not trouble my fellow-citizens

with them, since I have quite made up my mind to abandon any or all

of them if requested to do so by the upper classes. The electors are

therefore charged with the entirely irresponsible duty of electing a

Member; or, in other words, I ask my neighbours round about this part,

who know I am not a bad chap in many ways, to do me a good turn in my

business, just as I might ask them to change a sovereign. My election

will have no conceivable kind of effect on anything or anybody except

myself; so I ask, as man to man, the Electors of the Southern or Wycombe

Division of the County of Buckingham to accept a ride in one of my

motor-cars; and poll early to please a pal—God Save the King.” I do not

know whether you or I would be elected if we presented ourselves with

an election address of that kind; but we should have had our fun and

(comparatively speaking) saved our souls; and I have a strong suspicion

that we should be elected or rejected on a mechanical majority like

anybody else; nobody having dreamed of reading an election address any

more than an advertisement of a hair restorer.

Tyranny and Head-Dress

But there is another and more subtle way in which we may miss the point;

and that is, not by keeping a dead silence about it, but by being just

witty enough to state it wrong. Thus, some of the Liberal official

papers have almost screwed up their courage to the sticking-point about

the bestial coup d’etat in South Africa. They have screwed up their

courage to the sticking-point; and it has stuck. It cannot get any

further; because it has missed the main point. The modern Liberals make

their feeble attempts to attack the introduction of slavery into South

Africa by the Dutch and the Jews, by a very typical evasion of the vital

fact. The vital fact is simply slavery. Most of these Dutchmen have

always felt like slave-owners. Most of these Jews have always felt like

slaves. Now that they are on top, they have a particular and curious

kind of impudence, which is only known among slaves. But the Liberal

journalists will do their best to suggest that the South African

wrong consisted in what they call Martial Law. That is, that there is

something specially wicked about men doing an act of cruelty in khaki

or in vermilion, but not if it is done in dark blue with pewter buttons.

The tyrant who wears a busby or a forage cap is abominable; the tyrant

who wears a horsehair wig is excusable. To be judged by soldiers is

hell; but to be judged by lawyers is paradise.

Now the point must not be missed in this way. What is wrong with the

tyranny in Africa is not that it is run by soldiers. It would be quite

as bad, or worse, if it were run by policemen. What is wrong is that,

for the first time since Pagan times, private men are being forced to

work for a private man. Men are being punished by imprisonment or exile

for refusing to accept a job. The fact that Botha can ride on a horse,

or fire off a gun, makes him better rather than worse than any man like

Sidney Webb or Philip Snowden, who attempt the same slavery by much less

manly methods. The Liberal Party will try to divert the whole discussion

to one about what they call militarism. But the very terms of modern

politics contradict it. For when we talk of real rebels against the

present system we call them Militants. And there will be none in the

Servile State.

THE SERVILE STATE AGAIN

I read the other day, in a quotation from a German newspaper, the highly

characteristic remark that Germany having annexed Belgium would soon

re-establish its commerce and prosperity, and that, in particular,

arrangements were already being made for introducing into the new

province the German laws for the protection of workmen.

I am quite content with that paragraph for the purpose of any

controversy about what is called German atrocity. If men I know had not

told me they had themselves seen the bayoneting of a baby; if the

most respectable refugees did not bring with them stories of burning

cottages—yes, and of burning cottagers as well; if doctors did not

report what they do report of the condition of girls in the hospitals;

if there were no facts; if there were no photographs, that one phrase I

have quoted would be quite sufficient to satisfy me that the Prussians

are tyrants; tyrants in a peculiar and almost insane sense which makes

them pre-eminent among the evil princes of the earth. The first and

most striking feature is a stupidity that rises into a sort of ghastly

innocence. The protection of workmen! Some workmen, perhaps, might have

a fancy for being protected from shrapnel; some might be glad to put up

an umbrella that would ward off things dropping from the gentle

Zeppelin in heaven upon the place beneath. Some of these discontented

proletarians have taken the same view as Vandervelde their leader, and

are now energetically engaged in protecting themselves along the line

of the Yser; I am glad to say not altogether without success. It is

probable that nearly all of the Belgian workers would, on the

whole, prefer to be protected against bombs, sabres, burning cities,

starvation, torture, and the treason of wicked kings. In short, it is

probable—it is at least possible, impious as is the idea—that they

would prefer to be protected against Germans and all they represent.

But if a Belgian workman is told that he is not to be protected against

Germans, but actually to be protected by Germans, I think he may be

excused for staring. His first impulse, I imagine, will be to ask,

“Against whom? Are there any worse people to come along?”

But apart from the hellish irony of this humanitarian idea, the question

it raises is really one of solid importance for people whose politics

are more or less like ours. There is a very urgent point in that

question, “Against whom would the Belgian workmen be protected by

the German laws?” And if we pursue it, we shall be enabled to analyse

something of that poison—very largely a Prussian poison—which has long

been working in our own commonwealth, to the enslavement of the weak

and the secret strengthening of the strong. For the Prussian armies

are, pre-eminently, the advance guard of the Servile State. I say this

scientifically, and quite apart from passion or even from preference.

I have no illusions about either Belgium or England. Both have been

stained with the soot of Capitalism and blinded with the smoke of mere

Colonial ambition; both have been caught at a disadvantage in such

modern dirt and disorder; both have come out much better than I should

have expected countries so modern and so industrial to do. But in

England and Belgium there is Capitalism mixed up with a great many other

things, strong things and things that pursue other aims; Clericalism,

for instance, and militant Socialism in Belgium; Trades Unionism and

sport and the remains of real aristocracy in England. But Prussia is

Capitalism; that is, a gradually solidifying slavery; and that majestic

unity with which she moves, dragging all the dumb Germanies after her,

is due to the fact that her Servile State is complete, while ours is

incomplete. There are not mutinies; there are not even mockeries; the

voice of national self-criticism has been extinguished forever. For this

people is already permanently cloven into a higher and a lower class:

in its industry as much as its army. Its employers are, in the strictest

and most sinister sense, captains of industry. Its proletariat is,

in the truest and most pitiable sense, an army of labour. In that

atmosphere masters bear upon them the signs that they are more than men;

and to insult an officer is death.

If anyone ask how this extreme and unmistakable subordination of the

employed to the employers is brought about, we all know the answer.

It is brought about by hunger and hardness of heart, accelerated by a

certain kind of legislation, of which we have had a good deal lately

in England, but which was almost invariably borrowed from Prussia. Mr.

Herbert Samuel’s suggestion that the poor should be able to put their

money in little boxes and not be able to get it out again is a sort

of standing symbol of all the rest. I have forgotten how the poor were

going to benefit eventually by what is for them indistinguishable from

dropping sixpence down a drain. Perhaps they were going to get it back

some day; perhaps when they could produce a hundred coupons out of the

Daily Citizen; perhaps when they got their hair cut; perhaps when they

consented to be inoculated, or trepanned, or circumcised, or something.

Germany is full of this sort of legislation; and if you asked an

innocent German, who honestly believed in it, what it was, he would

answer that it was for the protection of workmen.

And if you asked again “Their protection from what?” you would have

the whole plan and problem of the Servile State plain in front of you.

Whatever notion there is, there is no notion whatever of protecting the

employed person from his employer. Much less is there any idea of his

ever being anywhere except under an employer. Whatever the Capitalist

wants he gets. He may have the sense to want washed and well-fed

labourers rather than dirty and feeble ones, and the restrictions may

happen to exist in the form of laws from the Kaiser or by-laws from the

Krupps. But the Kaiser will not offend the Krupps, and the Krupps

will not offend the Kaiser. Laws of this kind, then, do not attempt to

protect workmen against the injustice of the Capitalist as the English

Trade Unions did. They do not attempt to protect workmen against the

injustice of the State as the mediaeval guilds did. Obviously they

cannot protect workmen against the foreign invader—especially when (as

in the comic case of Belgium) they are imposed by the foreign invader.

What then are such laws designed to protect workmen against? Tigers,

rattlesnakes, hyenas?

Oh, my young friends; oh, my Christian brethren, they are designed to

protect this poor person from something which to those of established

rank is more horrid than many hyenas. They are designed, my friends, to

protect a man from himself—from something that the masters of the earth

fear more than famine or war, and which Prussia especially fears as

everything fears that which would certainly be its end. They are meant

to protect a man against himself—that is, they are meant to protect a

man against his manhood.

And if anyone reminds me that there is a Socialist Party in Germany, I

reply that there isn’t.

THE EMPIRE OF THE IGNORANT

That anarchic future which the more timid Tories professed to fear has

already fallen upon us. We are ruled by ignorant people. But the most

ignorant people in modern Britain are to be found in the upper class,

the middle class, and especially the upper middle class. I do not say

it with the smallest petulance or even distaste; these classes are

often really beneficent in their breeding or their hospitality, or their

humanity to animals.

There is still no better company than the young at the two Universities,

or the best of the old in the Army or some of the other services. Also,

of course, there are exceptions in the matter of learning; real scholars

like Professor Gilbert Murray or Professor Phillimore are not ignorant,

though they are gentlemen. But when one looks up at any mass of the

wealthier and more powerful classes, at the Grand Stand at Epsom, at

the windows of Park-lane, at the people at a full-dress debate or a

fashionable wedding, we shall be safe in saying that they are, for the

most part, the most ill-taught, or untaught, creatures in these islands.

Literally Illiterate

It is indeed their feeble boast that they are not literally illiterate.

They are always saying the ancient barons could not sign their own

names—for they know less of history perhaps than of anything else. The

modern barons, however, can sign their own names—or someone else’s for

a change. They can sign their own names; and that is about all they can

do. They cannot face a fact, or follow an argument, or feel a tradition;

but, least of all, can they, upon any persuasion, read through a plain

impartial book, English or foreign, that is not specially written to

soothe their panic or to please their pride. Looking up at these seats

of the mighty I can only say, with something of despair, what Robert

Lowe said of the enfranchised workmen: “We must educate our masters.”

I do not mean this as paradoxical, or even as symbolical; it is simply

tame and true. The modern English rich know nothing about things, not

even about the things to which they appeal. Compared with them, the

poor are pretty sure to get some enlightenment, even if they cannot get

liberty; they must at least be technical. An old apprentice learnt

a trade, even if his master came like any Turk and banged him most

severely. The old housewife knew which side her bread was buttered, even

if it were so thin as to be almost imperceptible. The old sailor knew

the ropes; even if he knew the rope’s end. Consequently, when any

of these revolted, they were concerned with things they knew, pains,

practical impossibilities, or the personal record.

But They Know

The apprentice cried “Clubs?” and cracked his neighbours’ heads with

the precision and fineness of touch which only manual craftsmanship can

give. The housewives who flatly refused to cook the hot dinner knew how

much or how little, cold meat there was in the house. The sailor who

defied discipline by mutinying at the Nore did not defy discipline in

the sense of falling off the rigging or letting the water into the hold.

Similarly the modern proletariat, however little it may know, knows what

it is talking about.

But the curious thing about the educated class is that exactly what it

does not know is what it is talking about. I mean that it is startlingly

ignorant of those special things which it is supposed to invoke and keep

inviolate. The things that workmen invoke may be uglier, more acrid,

more sordid; but they know all about them. They know enough arithmetic

to know that prices have risen; the kind Levantine gentleman is always

there to make them fully understand the meaning of an interest sum; and

the landlord will define Rent as rigidly as Ricardo. The doctors can

always tell them the Latin for an empty stomach; and when the poor man

is treated for the time with some human respect (by the Coroner) it

almost seems a pity he is not alive to hear how legally he died.

Against this bitter shrewdness and bleak realism in the suffering

classes it is commonly supposed that the more leisured classes stand for

certain legitimate ideas which also have their place in life; such as

history, reverence, the love of the land. Well, it might be no bad thing

to have something, even if it were something narrow, that testified to

the truths of religion or patriotism. But such narrow things in the

past have always at least known their own history; the bigot knew his

catechism; the patriot knew his way home. The astonishing thing about

the modern rich is their real and sincere ignorance—especially of the

things they like.

No!

Take the most topical case you can find in any drawing-room: Belfast.

Ulster is most assuredly a matter of history; and there is a sense in

which Orange resistance is a matter of religion. But go and ask any of

the five hundred fluttering ladies at a garden party (who find Carson so

splendid and Belfast so thrilling) what it is all about, when it began,

where it came from, what it really maintains? What was the history

of Ulster? What is the religion of Belfast? Do any of them know where

Ulstermen were in Grattan’s time; do any of them know what was the

“Protestantism” that came from Scotland to that isle; could any of them

tell what part of the old Catholic system it really denied?

It was generally something that the fluttering ladies find in their own

Anglican churches every Sunday. It were vain to ask them to state the

doctrines of the Calvinist creed; they could not state the doctrines

of their own creed. It were vain to tell them to read the history of

Ireland; they have never read the history of England. It would matter as

little that they do not know these things, as that I do not know German;

but then German is not the only thing I am supposed to know. History and

ritual are the only things aristocrats are supposed to know; and they

don’t know them.

Smile and Smile

I am not fed on turtle soup and Tokay because of my exquisite intimacy

with the style and idiom of Heine and Richter. The English governing

class is fed on turtle soup and Tokay to represent the past, of which

it is literally ignorant, as I am of German irregular verbs; and to

represent the religious traditions of the State, when it does not know

three words of theology, as I do not know three words of German.

This is the last insult offered by the proud to the humble. They rule

them by the smiling terror of an ancient secret. They smile and smile;

but they have forgotten the secret.

THE SYMBOLISM OF KRUPP

The curious position of the Krupp firm in the awful story developing

around us is not quite sufficiently grasped. There is a kind of academic

clarity of definition which does not see the proportions of things for

which everything falls within a definition, and nothing ever breaks

beyond it. To this type of mind (which is valuable when set to its

special and narrow work) there is no such thing as an exception that

proves the rule. If I vote for confiscating some usurer’s millions I am

doing, they say, precisely what I should be doing if I took pennies out

of a blind man’s hat. They are both denials of the principle of private

property, and are equally right and equally wrong, according to our view

of that principle. I should find a great many distinctions to draw

in such a matter. First, I should say that taking a usurer’s money by

proper authority is not robbery, but recovery of stolen goods. Second,

I should say that even if there were no such thing as personal property,

there would still be such a thing as personal dignity, and different

modes of robbery would diminish it in very different ways. Similarly,

there is a truth, but only a half-truth, in the saying that all modern

Powers alike rely on the Capitalist and make war on the lines of

Capitalism. It is true, and it is disgraceful. But it is not equally

true and equally disgraceful. It is not true that Montenegro is as much

ruled by financiers as Prussia, just as it is not true that as many men

in the Kaiserstrasse, in Berlin, wear long knives in their belts as wear

them in the neighbourhood of the Black Mountain. It is not true that

every peasant from one of the old Russian communes is the immediate

servant of a rich man, as is every employee of Mr. Rockefeller. It is as

false as the statement that no poor people in America can read or write.

There is an element of Capitalism in all modern countries, as there is

an element of illiteracy in all modern countries. There are some who

think that the number of our fellow-citizens who can sign their names

ought to comfort us for the extreme fewness of those who have anything

in the bank to sign it for, but I am not one of these.

In any case, the position of Krupp has certain interesting aspects. When

we talk of Army contractors as among the base but active actualities of

war, we commonly mean that while the contractor benefits by the war,

the war, on the whole, rather suffers by the contractor. We regard this

unsoldierly middleman with disgust, or great anger, or contemptuous

acquiescence, or commercial dread and silence, according to our personal

position and character. But we nowhere think of him as having anything

to do with fighting in the final sense. Those worthy and wealthy persons

who employ women’s labour at a few shillings a week do not do it to

obtain the best clothes for the soldiers, but to make a sufficient

profit on the worst. The only argument is whether such clothes are just

good enough for the soldiers, or are too bad for anybody or anything. We

tolerate the contractor, or we do not tolerate him; but no one admires

him especially, and certainly no one gives him any credit for any

success in the war. Confessedly or unconfessedly we knock his profits,

not only off what goes to the taxpayer, but what goes to the soldier. We

know the Army will not fight any better, at least, because the clothes

they wear were stitched by wretched women who could hardly see; or

because their boots were made by harassed helots, who never had time to

think. In war-time it is very widely confessed that Capitalism is not a

good way of ruling a patriotic or self-respecting people, and all sorts

of other things, from strict State organisation to quite casual personal

charity, are hastily substituted for it. It is recognised that the

“great employer,” nine times out of ten, is no more than the schoolboy

or the page who pilfers tarts and sweets from the dishes as they go up

and down. How angry one is with him depends on temperament, on the stage

of the dinner—also on the number of tarts.

Now here comes in the real and sinister significance of Krupps. There

are many capitalists in Europe as rich, as vulgar, as selfish, as

rootedly opposed to any fellowship of the fortunate and unfortunate. But

there is no other capitalist who claims, or can pretend to claim, that

he has very appreciably helped the activities of his people in war. I

will suppose that Lipton did not deserve the very severe criticisms

made on his firm by Mr. Justice Darling; but, however blameless he was,

nobody can suppose that British soldiers would charge better with the

bayonet because they had some particular kind of groceries inside them.

But Krupp can make a plausible claim that the huge infernal machines to

which his country owes nearly all of its successes could only have been

produced under the equally infernal conditions of the modern factory

and the urban and proletarian civilisation. That is why the victory of

Germany would be simply the victory of Krupp, and the victory of Krupp

would be simply the victory of Capitalism. There, and there alone,

Capitalism would be able to point to something done successfully for a

whole nation—done (as it would certainly maintain) better than small

free States or natural democracies could have done it. I confess I think

the modern Germans morally second-rate, and I think that even war, when

it is conducted most successfully by machinery, is second-rate war. But

this second-rate war will become not only the first but the only brand,

if the cannon of Krupp should conquer; and, what is very much worse, it

will be the only intelligent answer that any capitalist has yet given

against our case that Capitalism is as wasteful and as weak as it is

certainly wicked. I do not fear any such finality, for I happen to

believe in the kind of men who fight best with bayonets and whose

fathers hammered their own pikes for the French Revolution.

THE TOWER OF BEBEL

Among the cloudy and symbolic stories in the beginning of the Bible

there is one about a tower built with such vertical energy as to take a

hold on heaven, but ruined and resulting only in a confusion of tongues.

The story might be interpreted in many ways—religiously, as meaning

that spiritual insolence starts all human separations; irreligiously,

as meaning that the inhuman heavens grudge man his magnificent dream;

or merely satirically as suggesting that all attempts to reach a higher

agreement always end in more disagreement than there was before. It

might be taken by the partially intelligent Kensitite as a judgment on

Latin Christians for talking Latin. It might be taken by the somewhat

less intelligent Professor Harnack as a final proof that all prehistoric

humanity talked German. But when all was said, the symbol would remain

that a plain tower, as straight as a sword, as simple as a lily, did

nevertheless produce the deepest divisions that have been known among

men. In any case we of the world in revolt—Syndicalists, Socialists,

Guild Socialists, or whatever we call ourselves—have no need to worry

about the scripture or the allegory. We have the reality. For whatever

reason, what is said to have happened to the people of Shinak has

precisely and practically happened to us.

None of us who have known Socialists (or rather, to speak more

truthfully, none of us who have been Socialists) can entertain the

faintest doubt that a fine intellectual sincerity lay behind what

was called “L’Internationale.” It was really felt that Socialism was

universal like arithmetic. It was too true for idiom or turn of phrase.

In the formula of Karl Marx men could find that frigid fellowship which

they find when they agree that two and two make four. It was almost as

broadminded as a religious dogma.

Yet this universal language has not succeeded, at a moment of crisis,

in imposing itself on the whole world. Nay, it has not, at the moment

of crisis, succeeded in imposing itself on its own principal champions.

Herve is not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking French. Bebel is

not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking German. Blatchford is

not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking English, and jolly good

English, too. I do not know whether French or Flemish was Vandervelde’s

nursery speech, but I am quite certain he will know more of it after

this struggle than he knew before. In short, whether or no there be a

new union of hearts, there has really and truly been a new division of

tongues.

How are we to explain this singular truth, even if we deplore it? I

dismiss with fitting disdain the notion that it is a mere result of

military terrorism or snobbish social pressure. The Socialist leaders

of modern Europe are among the most sincere men in history; and their

Nationalist note in this affair has had the ring of their sincerity. I

will not waste time on the speculation that Vandervelde is bullied by

Belgian priests; or that Blatchford is frightened of the horse-guards

outside Whitehall. These great men support the enthusiasm of their

conventional countrymen because they share it; and they share it because

there is (though perhaps only at certain great moments) such a thing as

pure democracy.

Timour the Tartar, I think, celebrated some victory with a tower built

entirely out of human skulls; perhaps he thought that would reach to

heaven. But there is no cement in such building; the veins and ligaments

that hold humanity together have long fallen away; the skulls will roll

impotently at a touch; and ten thousand more such trophies could only

make the tower taller and crazier. I think the modern official apparatus

of “votes” is very like that tottering monument. I think the Tartar

“counted heads,” like an electioneering agent. Sometimes when I have

seen from the platform of some paltry party meeting the rows and rows of

grinning upturned faces, I have felt inclined to say, as the poet does

in the “The Vision of Sin”—“Welcome fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and

empty heads.”

Not that the people were personally hollow or empty, but they had come

on a hollow and empty business: to help the good Mr. Binks to strengthen

the Insurance Act against the wicked Mr. Jinks who would only promise

to fortify the Insurance Act. That night it did not blow the democratic

gale. Yet it can blow on these as on others; and when it does blow men

learn many things. I, for one, am not above learning them.

The Marxian dogma which simplifies all conflicts to the Class War is so

much nobler a thing than the nose-counting of the parliaments that one

must apologise for the comparison. And yet there is a comparison.

When we used to say that there were so many thousands of Socialists

in Germany, we were counting by skulls. When we said that the majority

consisting of Proletarians would be everywhere opposed to the minority,

consisting of Capitalists, we were counting by skulls. Why, yes; if all

men’s heads had been cut off from the rest of them, as they were by the

good sense and foresight of Timour the Tartar; if they had no hearts or

bellies to be moved; no hand that flies up to ward off a weapon, no foot

that can feel a familiar soil—if things were so the Marxian calculation

would be not only complete but correct. As we know to-day, the Marxian

calculation is complete, but it is not correct.

Now, this is the answer to the questions of some kind critics, whose

actual words I have not within reach at the moment, about whether my

democracy meant the rule of the majority over the minority. It means the

rule of the rule—the rule of the rule over the exception. When a nation

finds a soul it clothes it with a body, and does verily act like one

living thing. There is nothing to be said about those who are out of it,

except that they are out of it. After talking about it in the abstract

for decades, this is Democracy, and it is marvellous in our eyes. It is

not the difference between ninety-nine persons and a hundred persons; it

is one person—the people. I do not know or care how many or how few of

the Belgians like or dislike the pictures of Wiertz. They could not be

either justified or condemned by a mere majority of Belgians. But I am

very certain that the defiance to Prussia did not come from a majority

of Belgians. It came from Belgium one and indivisible—atheists,

priests, princes of the blood, Frenchified shopkeepers, Flemish boors,

men, women, and children, and the sooner we understand that this sort of

thing can happen the better for us. For it is this spontaneous spiritual

fellowship of communities under certain conditions to which the four or

five most independent minds of Europe willingly bear witness to-day.

But is there no exception: is there no one faithful among the unfaithful

found? Is no great Socialist politician still untouched by the

patriotism of the vulgar? Why, yes; the rugged Ramsay MacDonald, scarred

with a hundred savage fights against the capitalist parties, still lifts

up his horny hand for peace. What further need have we of witnesses?

I, for my part, am quite satisfied, and do not doubt that Mr. MacDonald

will be as industrious in damping down democracy in this form as in

every other.

A REAL DANGER

Heaven forbid that I should once more wade in those swamps of logomachy

and tautology in which the old guard of the Determinists still seem to

be floundering. The question of Fate and Free Will can never attain to

a conclusion, though it may attain to a conviction. The shortest

philosophic summary is that both cause and choice are ultimate ideas

within us, and that if one man denies choice because it seems contrary

to cause, the other man has quite as much right to deny cause because

it seems contrary to choice. The shortest ethical summary is that

Determinism either affects conduct or it does not. If it does not, it is

morally not worth preaching; if it does, it must affect conduct in the

direction of impotence and submission. A writer in the “Clarion” says

that the reformer cannot help trying to reform, nor the Conservative

help his Conservatism. But suppose the reformer tries to reform the

Conservative and turn him into another reformer? Either he can, in which

case Determinism has made no difference at all, or he can’t, in which

case it can only have made reformers more hopeless and Conservatives

more obstinate. And the shortest practical and political summary is that

working men, most probably, will soon be much too busy using their Free

Will to stop to prove that they have got it. Nevertheless, I like to

watch the Determinist in the “Clarion” Cockpit every week, as busy as a

squirrel—in a cage. But being myself a squirrel (leaping lightly from

bough to bough) and preferring the form of activity which occasionally

ends in nuts, I should not intervene in the matter even indirectly,

except upon a practical point. And the point I have in mind is practical

to the extent of deadly peril. It is another of the numerous new ways in

which the restless rich, now walking the world with an awful insomnia,

may manage to catch us napping.

Must Be a Mystery

There are two letters in the “Clarion” this week which in various ways

interest me very much. One is concerned to defend Darwin against the

scientific revolt against him that was led by Samuel Butler, and among

other things it calls Bernard Shaw a back number. Well, most certainly

“The Origin of Species” is a back number, in so far as any honest and

interesting book ever can be; but in pure philosophy nothing can be

out of date, since the universe must be a mystery even to the believer.

There is, however, one condition of things in which I do call it

relevant to describe somebody as behind the times. That is when the man

in question, thinking of some state of affairs that has passed away, is

really helping the very things he would like to hinder. The principles

cannot alter, but the problems can. Thus, I should call a man behind the

times who, in the year 1872, pleaded for the peaceful German peasants

against the triumphant militarism of Napoleon. Or I should call a man

out of date who, in the year 1892, wished for a stronger Navy to compete

with the Navy of Holland, because it had once swept the sea and sailed

up the Thames. And I certainly call a man or a movement out of date

that, in the year 1914, when we few are fighting a giant machine,

strengthened with all material wealth and worked with all the material

sciences, thinks that our chief danger is from an excess of moral and

religious responsibility. He reminds me of Mr. Snodgrass, who had the

presence of mind to call out “Fire!” when Mr. Pickwick fell through the

ice.

The other letter consists of the usual wiredrawn argument for fatalism.

Man cannot imagine the universe being created, and therefore is

“compelled by his reason” to think the universe without beginning or

end, which (I may remark) he cannot imagine either. But the letter ends

with something much more ominous than bad metaphysics. Here, in

the middle of the “Clarion,” in the centre of a clean and combative

democratic sheet, I meet again my deplorable old acquaintance, the

scientific criminologist. “The so-called evil-doer should not be

punished for his acts, but restrained.” In forty-eight hours I could

probably get a petition to that effect signed by millionaires. A short

time ago a Bill was introduced to hold irresponsible and “restrain” a

whole new class of people, who were “incapable of managing their affairs

with prudence.” Read the supporters’ names on the back of that Bill, and

see what sort of democrats they were.

Now, clearing our heads of what is called popular science (which means

going to sleep to a lullaby of long words), let us use our own brains a

little, and ask ourselves what is the real difference between punishing

a man and restraining him. The material difference may be any or none;

for punishment may be very mild, and restraint may be very ruthless. The

man, of course, must dislike one as much as the other, or it would not

be necessary to restrain him at all. And I assure you he will get no

great glow of comfort out of your calling him irresponsible after you

have made him impotent. A man does not necessarily feel more free and

easy in a straight waistcoat than in a stone cell. The moral difference

is that a man can be punished for a crime because he is born a citizen;

while he can be constrained because he is born a slave. But one

arresting and tremendous difference towers over all these doubtful or

arguable differences. There is one respect, vital to all our liberties

and all our lives, in which the new restraint would be different

from the old punishment. It is of this that the plutocrats will take

advantage.

The Plain Difference

The perfectly plain difference is this. All punishment, even the most

horrible, proceeds upon the assumption that the extent of the evil is

known, and that a certain amount of expiation goes with it. Even if

you hang the man, you cannot hang him twice. Even if you burn him,

you cannot burn him for a month. And in the case of all ordinary

imprisonments, the whole aim of free institutions from the beginning of

the world has been to insist that a man shall be convicted of a definite

crime and confined for a definite period. But the moment you admit this

notion of medical restraint, you must in fairness admit that it may go

on as long as the authorities choose to think (or say) that it ought

to go on. The man’s punishment refers to the past, which is supposed

to have been investigated, and which, in some degree at least, has been

investigated. But his restraint refers to the future, which his doctors,

keepers, and wardens have yet to investigate. The simple result will be

that, in the scientific Utopia of the “Clarion,” men like Mann or Syme

or Larkin will not be put in prison because of what they have done.

They will be kept in prison because of what they might do. Indeed, the

builders of the new tyranny have already come very near to avowing

this scientific and futurist method. When the lawyers tried to stop the

“Suffragette” from appearing at all, they practically said: “We do not

know your next week’s crime, because it isn’t committed yet; but we are

scientifically certain you have the criminal type. And by the sublime

and unalterable laws of heredity, all your poor little papers will

inherit it.”

This is a purely practical question; and that is why I insist on it,

even in such strenuous times. The writers on the “Clarion” have a

perfect right to think Christianity is the foe of freedom, or even

that the stupidity and tyranny of the present Government is due to the

monkish mysticism of Lord Morley and Mr. John M. Robertson. They have a

right to think the theory of Determinism as true as Calvin thought it.

But I do not like seeing them walk straight into the enormous iron trap

set open by the Capitalists, who find it convenient to make our law even

more lawless than it is. The rich men want a scientist to write them a

lettre de cachet as a doctor writes a prescription. And so they wish

to seal up in a public gaol the scandals of a private asylum. Yes; the

writers on the “Clarion” are indeed claiming irresponsibility for human

beings. But it is the governments that will be irresponsible, not the

governed.

But I will tell them one small secret in conclusion. There is nothing

whatever wrong in the ancient and universal idea of Punishment—except

that we are not punishing the right people.

THE DREGS OF PURITANISM

One peculiarity of the genuine kind of enemy of the people is that his

slightest phrase is clamorous with all his sins. Pride, vain-glory, and

hypocrisy seem present in his very grammar; in his very verbs or adverbs

or prepositions, as well as in what he says, which is generally bad

enough. Thus I see that a Nonconformist pastor in Bromley has been

talking about the pathetic little presents of tobacco sent to the common

soldiers. This is how he talks about it. He is reported as having said,

“By the help of God, they wanted this cigarette business stopped.” How

one could write a volume on that sentence, a great thick volume called

“The Decline of the English Middle Class.” In taste, in style, in

philosophy, in feeling, in political project, the horrors of it are as

unfathomable as hell.

First, to begin with the trifle, note something slipshod and vague in

the mere verbiage, typical of those who prefer a catchword to a creed.

“This cigarette business” might mean anything. It might mean Messrs.

Salmon and Gluckstein’s business. But the pastor at Bromley will not

interfere with that, for the indignation of his school of thought, even

when it is sincere, always instinctively and unconsciously swerves

aside from anything that is rich and powerful like the partners in a big

business, and strikes instead something that is poor and nameless like

the soldiers in a trench. Nor does the expression make clear who “they”

are—whether the inhabitants of Britain or the inhabitants of Bromley,

or the inhabitants of this one crazy tabernacle in Bromley; nor is it

evident how it is going to be stopped or who is being asked to stop it.

All these things are trifles compared to the more terrible offences

of the phrase; but they are not without their social and historical

interest. About the beginning of the nineteenth century the wealthy

Puritan class, generally the class of the employers of labour, took a

line of argument which was narrow, but not nonsensical. They saw the

relation of rich and poor quite coldly as a contract, but they saw that

a contract holds both ways. The Puritans of the middle class, in short,

did in some sense start talking and thinking for themselves. They are

still talking. They have long ago left off thinking. They talk about the

loyalty of workmen to their employers, and God knows what rubbish; and

the first small certainty about the reverend gentleman whose sentence

I have quoted is that his brain stopped working as a clock stops, years

and years ago.

Second, consider the quality of the religious literature! These people

are always telling us that the English translated Bible is sufficient

training for anyone in noble and appropriate diction; and so it is. Why,

then, are they not trained? They are always telling us that Bunyan, the

rude Midland tinker, is as much worth reading as Chaucer or Spenser;

and so he is. Why, then, have they not read him? I cannot believe

that anyone who had seen, even in a nightmare of the nursery, Apollyon

straddling over the whole breadth of the way could really write like

that about a cigarette. By the help of God, they wanted this cigarette

business stopped. Therefore, with angels and archangels and the whole

company of Heaven, with St. Michael, smiter of Satan and Captain of

the Chivalry of God, with all the ardour of the seraphs and the flaming

patience of the saints, we will have this cigarette business stopped.

Where has all the tradition of the great religious literatures gone to

that a man should come on such a bathos with such a bump?

Thirdly, of course, there is the lack of imaginative proportion, which

rises into a sort of towering blasphemy. An enormous number of live

young men are being hurt by shells, hurt by bullets, hurt by fever

and hunger and horror of hope deferred; hurt by lance blades and sword

blades and bayonet blades breaking into the bloody house of life. But

Mr. Price (I think that’s his name) is still anxious that they should

not be hurt by cigarettes. That is the sort of maniacal isolation that

can be found in the deserts of Bromley. That cigarettes are bad for

the health is a very tenable opinion to which the minister is quite

entitled. If he happens to think that the youth of Bromley smoke too

many cigarettes, and that he has any influence in urging on them the

unhealthiness of the habit, I should not blame him if he gave sermons

or lectures about it (with magic-lantern slides), so long as it was in

Bromley and about Bromley. Cigarettes may be bad for the health: bombs

and bayonets and even barbed wire are not good for the health. I never

met a doctor who recommended any of them. But the trouble with this sort

of man is that he cannot adjust himself to the scale of things. He would

do very good service if he would go among the rich aristocratic ladies

and tell them not to take drugs in a chronic sense, as people take opium

in China. But he would be doing very bad service if he were to go among

the doctors and nurses on the field and tell them not to give drugs, as

they give morphia in a hospital. But it is the whole hypothesis of war,

it is its very nature and first principle, that the man in the trench

is almost as much a suffering and abnormal person as the man in the

hospital. Hit or unhit, conqueror or conquered, he is, by nature of the

case, having less pleasure than is proper and natural to a man.

Fourth (for I need not dwell here on the mere diabolical idiocy that can

regard beer or tobacco as in some way evil and unseemly in themselves),

there is the most important element in this strange outbreak; at least,

the most dangerous and the most important for us. There is that

main feature in the degradation of the old middle class: the utter

disappearance of its old appetite for liberty. Here there is no question

of whether the men are to smoke cigarettes, or the women choose to

send cigarettes, or even that the officers or doctors choose to allow

cigarettes. The thing is to cease, and we may note one of the most

recurrent ideas of the servile State: it is mentioned in the passive

mood. It must be stopped, and we must not even ask who has stopped it!

THE TYRANNY OF BAD JOURNALISM

The amazing decision of the Government to employ methods quite alien to

England, and rather belonging to the police of the Continent, probably

arises from the appearance of papers which are lucid and fighting, like

the papers of the Continent. The business may be put in many ways. But

one way of putting it is simply to say that a monopoly of bad journalism

is resisting the possibility of good journalism. Journalism is not the

same thing as literature; but there is good and bad journalism, as there

is good and bad literature, as there is good and bad football. For the

last twenty years or so the plutocrats who govern England have allowed

the English nothing but bad journalism. Very bad journalism, simply

considered as journalism.

It always takes a considerable time to see the simple and central fact

about anything. All sorts of things have been said about the modern

Press, especially the Yellow Press; that it is Jingo or Philistine or

sensational or wrongly inquisitive or vulgar or indecent or trivial; but

none of these have anything really to do with the point.

The point about the Press is that it is not what it is called. It is not

the “popular Press.” It is not the public Press. It is not an organ

of public opinion. It is a conspiracy of a very few millionaires, all

sufficiently similar in type to agree on the limits of what this great

nation (to which we belong) may know about itself and its friends and

enemies. The ring is not quite complete; there are old-fashioned and

honest papers: but it is sufficiently near to completion to produce on

the ordinary purchaser of news the practical effects of a corner and

a monopoly. He receives all his political information and all

his political marching orders from what is by this time a sort of

half-conscious secret society, with very few members, but a great deal

of money.

This enormous and essential fact is concealed for us by a number of

legends that have passed into common speech. There is the notion that

the Press is flashy or trivial because it is popular. In other words,

an attempt is made to discredit democracy by representing journalism

as the natural literature of democracy. All this is cold rubbish.

The democracy has no more to do with the papers than it has with the

peerages. The millionaire newspapers are vulgar and silly because the

millionaires are vulgar and silly. It is the proprietor, not the editor,

not the sub-editor, least of all the reader, who is pleased with this

monotonous prairie of printed words. The same slander on democracy can

be noticed in the case of advertisements. There is many a tender old

Tory imagination that vaguely feels that our streets would be hung with

escutcheons and tapestries, if only the profane vulgar had not hung them

with advertisements of Sapolio and Sunlight Soap. But advertisement does

not come from the unlettered many. It comes from the refined few.

Did you ever hear of a mob rising to placard the Town Hall with

proclamations in favour of Sapolio? Did you ever see a poor, ragged

man laboriously drawing and painting a picture on the wall in favour

of Sunlight Soap—simply as a labour of love? It is nonsense; those who

hang our public walls with ugly pictures are the same select few who

hang their private walls with exquisite and expensive pictures. The

vulgarisation of modern life has come from the governing class; from the

highly educated class. Most of the people who have posters in Camberwell

have peerages at Westminster. But the strongest instance of all is that

which has been unbroken until lately, and still largely prevails; the

ghastly monotony of the Press.

Then comes that other legend; the notion that men like the masters of

the Newspaper Trusts “give the people what they want.” Why, it is the

whole aim and definition of a Trust that it gives the people what it

chooses. In the old days, when Parliaments were free in England, it

was discovered that one courtier was allowed to sell all the silk, and

another to sell all the sweet wine. A member of the House of Commons

humorously asked who was allowed to sell all the bread. I really tremble

to think what that sarcastic legislator would have said if he had been

put off with the modern nonsense about “gauging the public taste.”

Suppose the first courtier had said that, by his shrewd, self-made

sense, he had detected that people had a vague desire for silk; and

even a deep, dim human desire to pay so much a yard for it! Suppose

the second courtier said that he had, by his own rugged intellect,

discovered a general desire for wine: and that people bought his wine

at his price—when they could buy no other! Suppose a third courtier had

jumped up and said that people always bought his bread when they could

get none anywhere else.

Well, that is a perfect parallel. “After bread, the need of the people

is knowledge,” said Danton. Knowledge is now a monopoly, and comes

through to the citizens in thin and selected streams, exactly as bread

might come through to a besieged city. Men must wish to know what is

happening, whoever has the privilege of telling them. They must listen

to the messenger, even if he is a liar. They must listen to the liar,

even if he is a bore. The official journalist for some time past has

been both a bore and a liar; but it was impossible until lately to

neglect his sheets of news altogether. Lately the capitalist Press

really has begun to be neglected; because its bad journalism was

overpowering and appalling. Lately we have really begun to find out that

capitalism cannot write, just as it cannot fight, or pray, or marry, or

make a joke, or do any other stricken human thing. But this discovery

has been quite recent. The capitalist newspaper was never actually

unread until it was actually unreadable.

If you retain the servile superstition that the Press, as run by the

capitalists, is popular (in any sense except that in which dirty water

in a desert is popular), consider the case of the solemn articles in

praise of the men who own newspapers—men of the type of Cadbury or

Harmsworth, men of the type of the small club of millionaires. Did you

ever hear a plain man in a tramcar or train talking about Carnegie’s

bright genial smile or Rothschild’s simple, easy hospitality? Did you

ever hear an ordinary citizen ask what was the opinion of Sir Joseph

Lyons about the hopes and fears of this, our native land? These few

small-minded men publish, papers to praise themselves. You could no more

get an intelligent poor man to praise a millionaire’s soul, except for

hire, than you could get him to sell a millionaire’s soap, except for

hire. And I repeat that, though there are other aspects of the matter of

the new plutocratic raid, one of the most important is mere journalistic

jealousy. The Yellow Press is bad journalism: and wishes to stop the

appearance of good journalism.

There is no average member of the public who would not prefer to have

Lloyd George discussed as what he is, a Welshman of genius and ideals,

strangely fascinated by bad fashion and bad finance, rather than

discussed as what neither he nor anyone else ever was, a perfect

democrat or an utterly detestable demagogue. There is no reader of a

daily paper who would not feel more concern—and more respect—for Sir

Rufus Isaacs as a man who has been a stockbroker, than as a man who

happens to be Attorney-General. There is no man in the street who is not

more interested in Lloyd George’s investments than in his Land Campaign.

There is no man in the street who could not understand (and like)

Rufus Isaacs as a Jew better than he can possibly like him as a British

statesman. There is no sane journalist alive who would say that the

official account of Marconis would be better “copy” than the true

account that such papers as this have dragged out. We have committed one

crime against the newspaper proprietor which he will never forgive. We

point out that his papers are dull. And we propose to print some papers

that are interesting.

THE POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION

Everyone but a consistent and contented capitalist, who must be

something pretty near to a Satanist, must rejoice at the spirit and

success of the Battle of the Buses. But one thing about it which happens

to please me particularly was that it was fought, in one aspect at

least, on a point such as the plutocratic fool calls unpractical. It

was fought about a symbol, a badge, a thing attended with no kind of

practical results, like the flags for which men allow themselves to fall

down dead, or the shrines for which men will walk some hundreds of miles

from their homes. When a man has an eye for business, all that goes on

on this earth in that style is simply invisible to him. But let us be

charitable to the eye for business; the eye has been pretty well blacked

this time.

But I wish to insist here that it is exactly what is called the

unpractical part of the thing that is really the practical. The chief

difference between men and the animals is that all men are artists;

though the overwhelming majority of us are bad artists. As the old fable

truly says, lions do not make statues; even the cunning of the fox can

go no further than the accomplishment of leaving an exact model of

the vulpine paw: and even that is an accomplishment which he wishes

he hadn’t got. There are Chryselephantine statues, but no purely

elephantine ones. And, though we speak in a general way of an elephant

trumpeting, it is only by human blandishments that he can be induced to

play the drum. But man, savage or civilised, simple or complex

always desires to see his own soul outside himself; in some material

embodiment. He always wishes to point to a table in a temple, or a cloth

on a stick, or a word on a scroll, or a badge on a coat, and say: “This

is the best part of me. If need be, it shall be the rest of me that

shall perish.” This is the method which seems so unbusinesslike to the

men with an eye to business. This is also the method by which battles

are won.

The Symbolism of the Badge

The badge on a Trade Unionist’s coat is a piece of poetry in the

genuine, lucid, and logical sense in which Milton defined poetry (and

he ought to know) when he said that it was simple, sensuous, and

passionate. It is simple, because many understand the word “badge,”

who might not even understand the word “recognition.” It is sensuous,

because it is visible and tangible; it is incarnate, as all the good

Gods have been; and it is passionate in this perfectly practical sense,

which the man with an eye to business may some day learn more thoroughly

than he likes, that there are men who will allow you to cross a word

out in a theoretical document, but who will not allow you to pull a big

button off their bodily clothing, merely because you have more money

than they have. Now I think it is this sensuousness, this passion, and,

above all, this simplicity that are most wanted in this promising revolt

of our time. For this simplicity is perhaps the only thing in which the

best type of recent revolutionists have failed. It has been our

sorrow lately to salute the sunset of one of the very few clean and

incorruptible careers in the most corruptible phase of Christendom. The

death of Quelch naturally turns one’s thoughts to those extreme Marxian

theorists, who, whatever we may hold about their philosophy, have

certainly held their honour like iron. And yet, even in this instant

of instinctive reverence, I cannot feel that they were poetical enough,

that is childish enough, to make a revolution. They had all the audacity

needed for speaking to the despot; but not the simplicity needed for

speaking to the democracy. They were always accused of being too bitter

against the capitalist. But it always seemed to me that they were (quite

unconsciously, of course) much too kind to him. They had a fatal habit

of using long words, even on occasions when he might with propriety have

been described in very short words. They called him a Capitalist when

almost anybody in Christendom would have called him a cad. And “cad”

is a word from the poetic vocabulary indicating rather a general and

powerful reaction of the emotions than a status that could be defined

in a work of economics. The capitalist, asleep in the sun, let such long

words crawl all over him, like so many long, soft, furry caterpillars.

Caterpillars cannot sting like wasps. And, in repeating that the old

Marxians have been, perhaps, the best and bravest men of our time, I say

also that they would have been better and braver still if they had never

used a scientific word, and never read anything but fairy tales.

The Beastly Individualist

Suppose I go on to a ship, and the ship sinks almost immediately; but

I (like the people in the Bab Ballads), by reason of my clinging to a

mast, upon a desert island am eventually cast. Or rather, suppose I am

not cast on it, but am kept bobbing about in the water, because the only

man on the island is what some call an Individualist, and will not throw

me a rope; though coils of rope of the most annoying elaboration and

neatness are conspicuous beside him as he stands upon the shore. Now,

it seems to me, that if, in my efforts to shout at this fellow-creature

across the crashing breakers, I call his position the “insularistic

position,” and my position “the semi-amphibian position,” much valuable

time may be lost. I am not an amphibian. I am a drowning man. He is

not an insularist, or an individualist. He is a beast. Or rather, he

is worse than any beast can be. And if, instead of letting me drown, he

makes me promise, while I am drowning, that if I come on shore it shall

be as his bodily slave, having no human claims henceforward forever,

then, by the whole theory and practice of capitalism, he becomes a

capitalist, he also becomes a cad.

Now, the language of poetry is simpler than that of prose; as anyone

can see who has read what the old-fashioned protestant used to call

confidently “his” Bible. And, being simpler, it is also truer; and,

being truer, it is also fiercer. And, for most of the infamies of our

time, there is really nothing plain enough, except the plain language of

poetry. Take, let us say, the ease of the recent railway disaster,

and the acquittal of the capitalists’ interest. It is not a scientific

problem for us to investigate. It is a crime committed before our eyes;

committed, perhaps, by blind men or maniacs, or men hypnotised, or men

in some other ways unconscious; but committed in broad daylight, so that

the corpse is bleeding on our door-step. Good lives were lost, because

good lives do not pay; and bad coals do pay. It seems simply impossible

to get any other meaning out of the matter except that. And, if in human

history there be anything simple and anything horrible, it seems to have

been present in this matter. If, even after some study and understanding

of the old religious passions which were the resurrection of Europe,

we cannot endure the extreme infamy of witches and heretics literally

burned alive—well, the people in this affair were quite as literally

burned alive. If, when we have really tried to extend our charity beyond

the borders of personal sympathy, to all the complexities of class

and creed, we still feel something insolent about the triumphant and

acquitted man who is in the wrong, here the men who are in the wrong are

triumphant and acquitted. It is no subject for science. It is a subject

for poetry. But for poetry of a terrible sort.

VIII. The Lash for Labour IX. The Mask of Socialism

The Escape

The New Raid

The New Name

A Workman’s History of England

The French Revolution and the Irish

Liberalism: A Sample

The Fatigue of Fleet Street

The Amnesty for Aggression

Revive the Court Jester

The Art of Missing the Point

The Servile State Again

The Empire of the Ignorant

The Symbolism of Krupp

The Tower of Bebel

A Real Danger

The Dregs of Puritanism

The Tyranny of Bad Journalism

The Poetry of the Revolution

A SONG OF SWORDS

“A drove of cattle came into a village called Swords;

and was stopped by the rioters.”—Daily Paper.

In the place called Swords on the Irish road

It is told for a new renown

How we held the horns of the cattle, and how

We will hold the horns of the devils now

Ere the lord of hell with the horn on his brow

Is crowned in Dublin town.

Light in the East and light in the West,

And light on the cruel lords,

On the souls that suddenly all men knew,

And the green flag flew and the red flag flew,

And many a wheel of the world stopped, too,

When the cattle were stopped at Swords.

Be they sinners or less than saints

That smite in the street for rage,

We know where the shame shines bright; we know

You that they smite at, you their foe,

Lords of the lawless wage and low,

This is your lawful wage.

You pinched a child to a torture price

That you dared not name in words;

So black a jest was the silver bit

That your own speech shook for the shame of it,

And the coward was plain as a cow they hit

When the cattle have strayed at Swords.

The wheel of the torrent of wives went round

To break men’s brotherhood;

You gave the good Irish blood to grease

The clubs of your country’s enemies;

you saw the brave man beat to the knees:

And you saw that it was good.

The rope of the rich is long and long—

The longest of hangmen’s cords;

But the kings and crowds are holding their breath,

In a giant shadow o’er all beneath

Where God stands holding the scales of Death

Between the cattle and Swords.

Haply the lords that hire and lend

The lowest of all men’s lords,

Who sell their kind like kine at a fair,

Will find no head of their cattle there;

But faces of men where cattle were:

Faces of men—and Swords.

UTOPIA OF USURERS

VIII. La Sferza per il Lavoro IX. La Maschera del Socialismo

La Fuga

La Nuova Razzia

Il Nuovo Nome

Una Storia d’Inghilterra di un Operaio

La Rivoluzione francese e gli Irlandesi

Liberalismo: un Assaggio

La Stanchezza di Fleet Street

L’Amnistia per l’Aggressione

Far Rivivere il Giullare di Corte

L’Arte di Mancare il Bersaglio

Di Nuovo lo Stato Servile

L’Impero degli Ignoranti

Il Simbolismo di Krupp

La Torre di Bebel

Un Pericolo Reale

La Feccia del Puritanesimo

La Tirannia del Cattivo Giornalismo

La Poesia della Rivoluzione

UN CANTO DI SPADE

“Una mandria di bestiame entrò in un villaggio chiamato Swords;

e fu fermata dai rivoltosi.”—Foglio quotidiano.

Nel luogo detto Swords sulla strada irlandese

Si racconta per nuova fama

come tenemmo le corna del bestiame, e come

terremo ora le corna dei demoni,

prima che il signore d’inferno, col corno sulla fronte,

sia incoronato nella città di Dublino.

Luce a Oriente e luce a Occidente,

E luce sui signori crudeli,

Sulle anime che d’un tratto tutti conobbero,

E la verde bandiera volò e la rossa bandiera volò,

E più d’una ruota del mondo si fermò, anch’essa,

Quando il bestiame fu fermato a Swords.

Siano peccatori o meno che santi

Quelli che colpiscono in strada per rabbia,

Sappiamo dove la vergogna brilla chiara; conosciamo

Voi che essi colpiscono, voi loro nemici,

signori del salario iniquo e vile,

Questo è il vostro legittimo salario.

Avete stretto un bimbo a un prezzo di tortura

Che non osaste nominare a parole;

Sì nero scherzo era la moneta d’argento

che il vostro stesso dire tremò per la vergogna,

E il codardo fu palese come una vacca colpita

Quando il bestiame si è sbandato a Swords.

La ruota del torrente delle mogli girò

Per spezzare la fratellanza degli uomini;

Deste il buon sangue irlandese a ungere

I randelli dei nemici del vostro paese;

vedeste l’uomo valoroso battuto in ginocchio:

E vedeste che era cosa buona.

La corda dei ricchi è lunga e lunga—

La più lunga delle corde di boia;

ma i re e le folle trattengono il fiato,

In una gigantesca ombra su tutto ciò che sta sotto

Dove Dio sta reggendo le bilance della Death

Tra il bestiame e Swords.

Forse i signori che assoldano e prestano,

I più bassi fra i signori degli uomini,

che vendono i loro simili come armenti a una fiera,

Non vi troveranno capo del loro bestiame;

Ma volti d’uomini dove era il bestiame:

Volti d’uomini—e Swords.

UTOPIA DEGLI USURAI

I. Art and Advertisement

I propose, subject to the patience of the reader, to devote two or

three articles to prophecy. Like all healthy-minded prophets, sacred and

profane, I can only prophesy when I am in a rage and think things look

ugly for everybody. And like all healthy-minded prophets, I prophesy in

the hope that my prophecy may not come true. For the prediction made by

the true soothsayer is like the warning given by a good doctor. And the

doctor has really triumphed when the patient he condemned to death has

revived to life. The threat is justified at the very moment when it is

falsified. Now I have said again and again (and I shall continue to say

again and again on all the most inappropriate occasions) that we must

hit Capitalism, and hit it hard, for the plain and definite reason that

it is growing stronger. Most of the excuses which serve the capitalists

as masks are, of course, the excuses of hypocrites. They lie when they

claim philanthropy; they no more feel any particular love of men than

Albu felt an affection for Chinamen. They lie when they say they have

reached their position through their own organising ability. They

generally have to pay men to organise the mine, exactly as they pay

men to go down it. They often lie about the present wealth, as they

generally lie about their past poverty. But when they say that they

are going in for a “constructive social policy,” they do not lie. They

really are going in for a constructive social policy. And we must go in

for an equally destructive social policy; and destroy, while it is still

half-constructed, the accursed thing which they construct.

The Example of the Arts

Now I propose to take, one after another, certain aspects and

departments of modern life, and describe what I think they will be like

in this paradise of plutocrats, this Utopia of gold and brass in which

the great story of England seems so likely to end. I propose to say what

I think our new masters, the mere millionaires, will do with certain

human interests and institutions, such as art, science, jurisprudence,

or religion—unless we strike soon enough to prevent them. And for the

sake of argument I will take in this article the example of the arts.

Most people have seen a picture called “Bubbles,” which is used for the

advertisement of a celebrated soap, a small cake of which is introduced

into the pictorial design. And anybody with an instinct for design (the

caricaturist of the Daily Herald, for instance), will guess that it was

not originally a part of the design. He will see that the cake of soap

destroys the picture as a picture; as much as if the cake of soap had

been used to Scrub off the paint. Small as it is, it breaks and confuses

the whole balance of objects in the composition. I offer no judgment

here upon Millais’s action in the matter; in fact, I do not know what

it was. The important point for me at the moment is that the picture

was not painted for the soap, but the soap added to the picture. And

the spirit of the corrupting change which has separated us from that

Victorian epoch can be best seen in this: that the Victorian atmosphere,

with all its faults, did not permit such a style of patronage to pass as

a matter of course. Michael Angelo may have been proud to have helped an

emperor or a pope; though, indeed, I think he was prouder than they

were on his own account. I do not believe Sir John Millais was proud of

having helped a soap-boiler. I do not say he thought it wrong; but he

was not proud of it. And that marks precisely the change from his time

to our own. Our merchants have really adopted the style of merchant

princes. They have begun openly to dominate the civilisation of the

State, as the emperors and popes openly dominated in Italy. In Millais’s

time, broadly speaking, art was supposed to mean good art; advertisement

was supposed to mean inferior art. The head of a black man, painted

to advertise somebody’s blacking, could be a rough symbol, like an inn

sign. The black man had only to be black enough. An artist exhibiting

the picture of a negro was expected to know that a black man is not so

black as he is painted. He was expected to render a thousand tints of

grey and brown and violet: for there is no such thing as a black man

just as there is no such thing as a white man. A fairly clear line

separated advertisement from art.

The First Effect

I should say the first effect of the triumph of the capitalist (if

we allow him to triumph) will be that that line of demarcation will

entirely disappear. There will be no art that might not just as well be

advertisement. I do not necessarily mean that there will be no good art;

much of it might be, much of it already is, very good art. You may put

it, if you please, in the form that there has been a vast improvement in

advertisements. Certainly there would be nothing surprising if the head

of a negro advertising Somebody’s Blacking now adays were finished

with as careful and subtle colours as one of the old and superstitious

painters would have wasted on the negro king who brought gifts to

Christ. But the improvement of advertisements is the degradation of

artists. It is their degradation for this clear and vital reason: that

the artist will work, not only to please the rich, but only to increase

their riches; which is a considerable step lower. After all, it was as

a human being that a pope took pleasure in a cartoon of Raphael or a

prince took pleasure in a statuette of Cellini. The prince paid for

the statuette; but he did not expect the statuette to pay him. It is my

impression that no cake of soap can be found anywhere in the cartoons

which the Pope ordered of Raphael. And no one who knows the small-minded

cynicism of our plutocracy, its secrecy, its gambling spirit, its

contempt of conscience, can doubt that the artist-advertiser will often

be assisting enterprises over which he will have no moral control, and

of which he could feel no moral approval. He will be working to spread

quack medicines, queer investments; and will work for Marconi instead of

Medici. And to this base ingenuity he will have to bend the proudest

and purest of the virtues of the intellect, the power to attract his

brethren, and the noble duty of praise. For that picture by Millais is

a very allegorical picture. It is almost a prophecy of what uses are

awaiting the beauty of the child unborn. The praise will be of a kind

that may correctly be called soap; and the enterprises of a kind that

may truly be described as Bubbles.

Arte e Pubblicità

Propongo di dedicare due o…

Tre articoli per la profezia. Come tutti i profeti sani di mente, sacri e

Profano, posso solo profetizzare quando sono furioso e penso che le cose vadano male

Brutto per tutti. E come tutti i profeti sani di mente, io profezzo in…

la speranza che la mia profezia non si avveri. Perché la previsione fatta da

Il vero veggente è come l’avvertimento di un buon medico. E il

il medico ha davvero trionfato quando il paziente che ha condannato a morte ha

Risuscitato alla vita. La minaccia è giustificata nel momento stesso in cui…

Falsificato. Ora ho detto più e più volte (e continuerò a dire)

Ancora e ancora in tutte le occasioni più inappropriate), che dobbiamo

Colpisci il capitalismo e colpiscilo duramente, per la ragione chiara e definitiva che

Sta diventando più forte. La maggior parte delle scuse che servono ai capitalisti

Le maschere sono, naturalmente, le scuse degli ipocriti. Mentono quando…

invocano la filantropia; non provano più un particolare amore per gli uomini di quanto

Albu provava affetto per i cinesi, che mentono quando dicono di avere…

Hanno raggiunto la loro posizione grazie alla propria capacità organizzativa.

Di solito bisogna pagare gli uomini per organizzare la miniera, esattamente come si paga

Uomini che scendono in basso. Spesso mentono sulla ricchezza attuale, come fanno…

generalmente mentono riguardo alla loro passata povertà. Ma quando dicono che essi

Se si opta per una “politica sociale costruttiva”, non mentono.

Stiamo davvero adottando una politica sociale costruttiva? E dobbiamo farlo

Per una politica sociale altrettanto distruttiva e distruggere mentre è ancora

a metà costruita, la maledetta cosa che stanno costruendo.

L’esempio delle arti

Ora propongo di prendere in esame, uno dopo l’altro, alcuni aspetti e

Dipartimenti della vita moderna e come li vedo io

In questo paradiso dei plutocrati, questa Utopia d’oro e di ottone in cui

La grande storia dell’Inghilterra sembra destinata a finire. Propongo di dire cosa

Penso che i nostri nuovi padroni, semplici milionari, faranno con certe cose…

Interessi e istituzioni umane: arte, scienza, giurisprudenza

o la religione — a meno che non agiamo in tempo per impedirlo. E per il

Per amore di discussione, in questo articolo prenderò l’esempio delle arti.

La maggior parte delle persone ha visto un quadro chiamato “Bolle”, che è utilizzato per…

Pubblicità di un celebre sapone, con l’introduzione di una piccola pastiglia

Nel disegno pittorico. E chiunque abbia un istinto per il disegno…

Caricaturista del Daily Herald, per esempio), indovinerà che era

Non originariamente parte del progetto. Vedrà che il sapone…

distrugge l’immagine come immagine, tanto quanto se il sapone fosse

È stato usato per rimuovere la vernice. Piccolo com’è, rompe e disorienta

L’equilibrio complessivo degli oggetti nella composizione. Non esprimo giudizi.

Sull’azione di Millais nella questione; in realtà, non so cosa

Era così. Per ora l’importante è che il quadro…

Non fu dipinto per il sapone, ma il sapone aggiunse al quadro. E

Lo spirito del cambiamento corrotto che ci ha separato da ciò

L’epoca vittoriana si riflette meglio qui: nell’atmosfera vittoriana,

con tutti i suoi difetti, non permise che un tale stile di protezione passasse inosservato

una cosa ovvia. Michelangelo Angelo potrebbe essere stato orgoglioso di aver contribuito a un

Imperatore o papa: ma credo che fosse più orgoglioso di loro

Erano per suo conto. Non credo che Sir John Millais ne fosse orgoglioso

avendo aiutato un saponificio, non dico che pensasse fosse sbagliato; ma

non ne andava fiero. E questo segna esattamente il cambiamento rispetto al suo tempo.

I nostri mercanti hanno davvero adottato lo stile del commerciante

Principi: hanno iniziato apertamente a dominare la civiltà della

Stato, come gli imperatori e i papi dominavano apertamente in Italia. In Millais’

tempo, in senso lato, si riteneva che l’arte significasse buona arte; pubblicità

Si supponeva che significasse arte inferiore. La testa di un uomo nero, dipinta

Annunciare la lucidatura di qualcuno potrebbe essere un simbolo grezzo, come una locanda

segno. Bastava che l’uomo nero fosse abbastanza nero. Un artista esponendo

L’immagine di un negro si aspettava di sapere che un uomo nero non è così

Nero come lo dipingono. Si pensava che potesse rendere mille sfumature di…

Grigio e marrone e viola: perché non esiste l’uomo nero

Non esiste l’uomo bianco. Una linea abbastanza chiara

ha separato la pubblicità dall’arte.

Il primo effetto

Direi che il primo effetto del trionfo del capitalista (se

gli permettiamo di trionfare) sarà che quella linea di demarcazione sarà

scompariranno del tutto. Non ci sarà arte che non potrebbe altrettanto bene essere

Pubblicità. Non intendo dire che non ci sarà arte buona;

Gran parte di esso potrebbe essere, gran parte già è, un’arte molto buona. Puoi mettere

Se proprio vuole, nella forma che c’è stato un enorme miglioramento

Pubblicità. Non ci sarebbe nulla di sorprendente se la testa…

Di un negro che pubblicizza la lucidatura di qualcuno ai giorni nostri è finita

Con colori attenti e sottili come quelli dei vecchi superstiziosi

i pittori avrebbero sprecato sul negro re che portò doni a

Cristo. Ma il miglioramento degli annunci pubblicitari è la degradazione della

Gli artisti e la loro degenerazione per una ragione chiara e vitale:

l’artista lavorerà non solo per compiacere i ricchi, ma solo per aumentare

Le loro ricchezze: un passo indietro considerevole. Dopotutto, era come…

Un essere umano che un papa apprezzava in una caricatura di Raffaello o un…

Il principe si dilettò con una statuetta di Cellini. Il principe pagò per

La statuetta; ma non si aspettava che la statuetta lo pagasse. È il mio…

Impressione che non si trovi nemmeno un pezzo di sapone nei fumetti

Che il Papa ordinò a Raffaello. E nessuno che conosca la mentalità ristretta…

Cinismo della nostra plutocrazia, il suo segreto, lo spirito del gioco,

disprezzo della coscienza, può dubitare che l’artista-pubblicitario spesso

Aiutare imprese su cui non avrà alcun controllo morale

Di cui non poteva approvare moralmente. Lavorerà per diffondere

Medicinali falsi, investimenti strani e lavorerò per Marconi invece di

I Medici. E a questa bassa astuzia dovrà piegare i più orgogliosi

E la più pura delle virtù dell’intelletto: il potere di attrarre

Fratelli e il nobile dovere della lode. Per quel dipinto di Millais è

Un quadro molto allegorico. È quasi una profezia di ciò che verrà.

in attesa della bellezza del bambino non ancora nato. La lode sarà di un tipo

Quello che si può chiamare sapone e le imprese di quel tipo

possono veramente essere descritti come Bolle.

II. Letters and the New Laureates

In these articles I only take two or three examples of the first and

fundamental fact of our time. I mean the fact that the capitalists of

our community are becoming quite openly the kings of it. In my last (and

first) article, I took the case of Art and advertisement. I pointed out

that Art must be growing worse—merely because advertisement is growing

better. In those days Millais condescended to Pears’ soap. In these days

I really think it would be Pears who condescended to Millais. But here

I turn to an art I know more about, that of journalism. Only in my ease

the art verges on artlessness.

The great difficulty with the English lies in the absence of something

one may call democratic imagination. We find it easy to realise an

individual, but very hard to realise that the great masses consist of

individuals. Our system has been aristocratic: in the special sense of

there being only a few actors on the stage. And the back scene is kept

quite dark, though it is really a throng of faces. Home Rule tended to

be not so much the Irish as the Grand Old Man. The Boer War tended not

to be so much South Africa as simply “Joe.” And it is the amusing but

distressing fact that every class of political leadership, as it comes

to the front in its turn, catches the rays of this isolating lime-light;

and becomes a small aristocracy. Certainly no one has the aristocratic

complaint so badly as the Labour Party. At the recent Congress, the real

difference between Larkin and the English Labour leaders was not so much

in anything right or wrong in what he said, as in something elemental

and even mystical in the way he suggested a mob. But it must be plain,

even to those who agree with the more official policy, that for Mr.

Havelock Wilson the principal question was Mr. Havelock Wilson; and that

Mr. Sexton was mainly considering the dignity and fine feelings of Mr.

Sexton. You may say they were as sensitive as aristocrats, or as sulky

as babies; the point is that the feeling was personal. But Larkin, like

Danton, not only talks like ten thousand men talking, but he also has

some of the carelessness of the colossus of Arcis; “Que mon nom soit

fletri, que la France soit libre.”

A Dance of Degradation

It is needless to say that this respecting of persons has led all the

other parties a dance of degradation. We ruin South Africa because it

would be a slight on Lord Gladstone to save South Africa. We have a bad

army, because it would be a snub to Lord Haldane to have a good army.

And no Tory is allowed to say “Marconi” for fear Mr. George should say

“Kynoch.” But this curious personal element, with its appalling lack of

patriotism, has appeared in a new and curious form in another department

of life; the department of literature, especially periodical literature.

And the form it takes is the next example I shall give of the way in

which the capitalists are now appearing, more and more openly, as the

masters and princes of the community.

I will take a Victorian instance to mark the change; as I did in the

case of the advertisement of “Bubbles.” It was said in my childhood, by

the more apoplectic and elderly sort of Tory, that W. E. Gladstone was

only a Free Trader because he had a partnership in Gilbey’s foreign

wines. This was, no doubt, nonsense; but it had a dim symbolic, or

mainly prophetic, truth in it. It was true, to some extent even then,

and it has been increasingly true since, that the statesman was often an

ally of the salesman; and represented not only a nation of shopkeepers,

but one particular shop. But in Gladstone’s time, even if this was true,

it was never the whole truth; and no one would have endured it being the

admitted truth. The politician was not solely an eloquent and persuasive

bagman travelling for certain business men; he was bound to mix even his

corruption with some intelligible ideals and rules of policy. And the

proof of it is this: that at least it was the statesman who bulked

large in the public eye; and his financial backer was entirely in the

background. Old gentlemen might choke over their port, with the moral

certainty that the Prime Minister had shares in a wine merchant’s. But

the old gentleman would have died on the spot if the wine merchant had

really been made as important as the Prime Minister. If it had been

Sir Walter Gilbey whom Disraeli denounced, or Punch caricatured; if

Sir Walter Gilbey’s favourite collars (with the design of which I am

unacquainted) had grown as large as the wings of an archangel; if

Sir Walter Gilbey had been credited with successfully eliminating the

British Oak with his little hatchet; if, near the Temple and the

Courts of Justice, our sight was struck by a majestic statue of a

wine merchant; or if the earnest Conservative lady who threw a

gingerbread-nut at the Premier had directed it towards the wine merchant

instead, the shock to Victorian England would have been very great

indeed.

Haloes for Employers

Now something very like that is happening; the mere wealthy employer is

beginning to have not only the power but some of the glory. I have

seen in several magazines lately, and magazines of a high class, the

appearance of a new kind of article. Literary men are being employed to

praise a big business man personally, as men used to praise a king. They

not only find political reasons for the commercial schemes—that they

have done for some time past—they also find moral defences for the

commercial schemers. They describe the capitalist’s brain of steel and

heart of gold in a way that Englishmen hitherto have been at least in

the habit of reserving for romantic figures like Garibaldi or Gordon. In

one excellent magazine Mr. T. P. O’Connor, who, when he likes, can write

on letters like a man of letters, has some purple pages of praise of

Sir Joseph Lyons—the man who runs those teashop places. He incidentally

brought in a delightful passage about the beautiful souls possessed

by some people called Salmon and Gluckstein. I think I like best the

passage where he said that Lyons’s charming social accomplishments

included a talent for “imitating a Jew.” The article is accompanied with

a large and somewhat leering portrait of that shopkeeper, which makes

the parlour-trick in question particularly astonishing. Another literary

man, who certainly ought to know better, wrote in another paper a piece

of hero-worship about Mr. Selfridge. No doubt the fashion will spread,

and the art of words, as polished and pointed by Ruskin or Meredith,

will be perfected yet further to explore the labyrinthine heart of

Harrod; or compare the simple stoicism of Marshall with the saintly

charm of Snelgrove.

Any man can be praised—and rightly praised. If he only stands on two

legs he does something a cow cannot do. If a rich man can manage to

stand on two legs for a reasonable time, it is called self-control. If

he has only one leg, it is called (with some truth) self-sacrifice. I

could say something nice (and true) about every man I have ever met.

Therefore, I do not doubt I could find something nice about Lyons or

Selfridge if I searched for it. But I shall not. The nearest postman or

cab-man will provide me with just the same brain of steel and heart

of gold as these unlucky lucky men. But I do resent the whole age

of patronage being revived under such absurd patrons; and all poets

becoming court poets, under kings that have taken no oath, nor led us

into any battle.

II. Lettere e i nuovi laureati

In questi articoli prendo solo due o tre esempi del primo e

fondamentale fatto del nostro tempo. Intendo il fatto che i capitalisti della

nostra comunità ne stanno diventando, del tutto apertamente, i re. Nel mio ultimo (e

primo) articolo, presi il caso dell’Arte e della pubblicità. Feci notare

che l’Arte deve per forza peggiorare — semplicemente perché la pubblicità va

migliorando. A quei tempi Millais si degnava di lavorare per il sapone Pears. Oggigiorno

credo davvero che sarebbe Pears a degnarsi di Millais. Ma qui

mi volgo a un’arte che conosco meglio, quella del giornalismo. Solo che nel mio caso

l’arte rasenta l’assenza d’arte.

La grande difficoltà con gli inglesi sta nell’assenza di qualcosa

che si potrebbe chiamare immaginazione democratica. Ci riesce facile concepire un

individuo, ma assai difficile concepire che le grandi masse constano di

individui. Il nostro sistema è stato aristocratico: nel senso particolare che

vi sono solo pochi attori sulla scena. E lo sfondo è tenuto

del tutto al buio, benché sia in realtà una calca di volti. L’Autogoverno tendeva a

essere non tanto gli irlandesi quanto il Grande Vecchio. La Guerra Boera tendeva a

essere non tanto il Sudafrica quanto semplicemente «Joe». Ed è il divertente ma

penoso fatto che ogni categoria di leadership politica, man mano che viene

alla ribalta a sua volta, cattura i raggi di questo isolante riflettore;

e diventa una piccola aristocrazia. Di certo nessuno ha il male aristocratico

così grave come il Partito Laburista. Al recente Congresso, la vera

differenza tra Larkin e i leader laburisti inglesi non stava tanto

in qualcosa di giusto o sbagliato in ciò che diceva, quanto in qualcosa di elementare

e persino mistico nel modo in cui evocava una folla. Ma dev’essere chiaro,

persino a chi concorda con la politica più ufficiale, che per il signor

Havelock Wilson la questione principale era il signor Havelock Wilson; e che

il signor Sexton badava soprattutto alla dignità e ai delicati sentimenti del signor

Sexton. Si potrà dire che fossero sensibili come aristocratici, o imbronciati

come bambini; il punto è che il sentimento era personale. Ma Larkin, come

Danton, non solo parla come diecimila uomini che parlano, ma possiede anche

un po’ della noncuranza del colosso di Arcis; «Que mon nom soit

flétri, que la France soit libre.»

Una Danza della degradazione

Inutile dire che questo rispetto delle persone ha trascinato tutti gli

altri partiti in una danza di degradazione. Roviniamo il Sudafrica perché

sarebbe un affronto a Lord Gladstone salvare il Sudafrica. Abbiamo un cattivo

esercito, perché sarebbe uno smacco per Lord Haldane avere un buon esercito.

E a nessun Tory è permesso dire «Marconi» per paura che il signor George dica

«Kynoch». Ma questo curioso elemento personale, con la sua spaventosa mancanza di

patriottismo, è comparso in una forma nuova e curiosa in un altro ambito

della vita; l’ambito della letteratura, e specialmente della letteratura periodica.

E la forma che assume è il prossimo esempio che darò del modo in cui

i capitalisti ora appaiono, sempre più apertamente, come

i padroni e i principi della comunità.

Prenderò un esempio vittoriano per segnare il mutamento; come feci nel

caso della pubblicità di «Bubbles». Si diceva, nella mia infanzia, da

parte del genere di Tory più apoplettico e attempato, che W. E. Gladstone fosse

liberista solo perché aveva una partecipazione nei vini esteri di Gilbey.

Questo, senza dubbio, era una sciocchezza; ma conteneva un oscuro significato simbolico, o

principalmente profetico, una verità in sé. Era vero, in una certa misura anche allora,

ed è stato sempre più vero da allora, che l’uomo di Stato era spesso un

alleato del venditore; e rappresentava non solo una nazione di bottegai,

ma una bottega in particolare. Ma ai tempi di Gladstone, anche se questo era vero,

non era mai tutta la verità; e nessuno avrebbe tollerato che fosse la

verità ammessa. Il politico non era soltanto un eloquente e persuasivo

piazzista in giro per conto di certi uomini d’affari; era costretto a mescolare persino la sua

corruzione con qualche intelligibile ideale e regola di condotta. E la

prova di ciò è questa: che almeno era l’uomo di Stato a campeggiare

grande agli occhi del pubblico; e il suo finanziatore restava interamente sullo

sfondo. I vecchi gentiluomini potevano soffocare sul loro porto, con la morale

certezza che il Primo Ministro avesse azioni in una ditta di vinai. Ma

il vecchio gentiluomo sarebbe morto sul colpo se il vinaio fosse

stato reso davvero importante quanto il Primo Ministro. Se fosse stato

Sir Walter Gilbey che Disraeli denunciava, o che Punch caricaturava; se

i colletti preferiti di Sir Walter Gilbey (del cui disegno sono

all’oscuro) fossero cresciuti grandi come le ali di un arcangelo; se

a Sir Walter Gilbey fosse stato attribuito il merito di aver abbattuto la

Quercia Britannica con la sua piccola accetta; se, presso il Temple e le

Corti di Giustizia, la nostra vista fosse colpita da una maestosa statua di un

vinaio; o se la zelante dama conservatrice che lanciò un

biscotto di pan di zenzero contro il Premier lo avesse indirizzato verso il vinaio

invece, lo shock per l’Inghilterra vittoriana sarebbe stato assai grande

davvero.

Aureole per i datori di lavoro

Ora qualcosa di molto simile sta accadendo; il semplice datore di lavoro facoltoso

comincia ad avere non solo il potere ma un po’ della gloria. Ho

visto di recente in parecchie riviste, e riviste di alto livello, la

comparsa di un nuovo tipo di articolo. Uomini di lettere vengono ingaggiati per

lodare personalmente un grande uomo d’affari, come un tempo si lodava un re. Essi

non solo trovano ragioni politiche per i disegni commerciali — cosa che

fanno già da qualche tempo — ma trovano anche difese morali per gli

intriganti del commercio. Descrivono il cervello d’acciaio del capitalista e il

cuore d’oro in un modo che gli inglesi finora hanno perlomeno avuto

l’abitudine di riservare a figure romantiche come Garibaldi o Gordon. In

un’eccellente rivista il signor T. P. O’Connor, che, quando vuole, sa scrivere

di lettere da vero uomo di lettere, ha alcune pagine sfarzose in lode di

Sir Joseph Lyons — l’uomo che gestisce quelle sale da tè. Egli, per inciso,

vi ha inserito un delizioso passo sulle belle anime possedute

da certe persone chiamate Salmon e Gluckstein. Credo che mi piaccia di più il

passo in cui diceva che le affascinanti doti mondane di Lyons

comprendevano un talento nell’«imitare un ebreo». L’articolo è accompagnato da

un grande e alquanto sogghignante ritratto di quel bottegaio, che rende

il numero da salotto in questione particolarmente sbalorditivo. Un altro uomo

di lettere, che di certo dovrebbe saperne di più, scrisse in un altro giornale un pezzo

di culto dell’eroe a proposito del signor Selfridge. Senza dubbio la moda si diffonderà,

e l’arte delle parole, così levigata e affilata da Ruskin o da Meredith,

sarà perfezionata ancor di più per esplorare il labirintico cuore di

Harrod; o per paragonare il semplice stoicismo di Marshall al santo

fascino di Snelgrove.

Ogni uomo può essere lodato — e giustamente lodato. Se non fa altro che stare su due

gambe, fa qualcosa che una mucca non sa fare. Se un uomo ricco riesce a

stare su due gambe per un tempo ragionevole, lo si chiama autocontrollo. Se

ha una gamba sola, lo si chiama (con una certa verità) abnegazione. Io

potrei dire qualcosa di bello (e di vero) su ogni uomo che abbia mai incontrato.

Perciò, non dubito che potrei trovare qualcosa di bello su Lyons o su

Selfridge, se lo cercassi. Ma non lo farò. Il primo postino o

cocchiere che capiti mi fornirà esattamente lo stesso cervello d’acciaio e cuore

d’oro di questi sfortunati uomini fortunati. Ma davvero mi indigna che tutta l’età

del mecenatismo venga fatta rivivere sotto mecenati tanto assurdi; e che tutti i poeti

diventino poeti di corte, sotto re che non hanno prestato alcun giuramento, né ci hanno condotto

in alcuna battaglia.

III. Unbusinesslike Business

The fairy tales we were all taught did not, like the history we were all

taught, consist entirely of lies. Parts of the tale of “Puss in Boots”

or “Jack and the Beanstalk” may strike the realistic eye as a little

unlikely and out of the common way, so to speak; but they contain some

very solid and very practical truths. For instance, it may be noted

that both in “Puss in Boots” and “Jack and the Beanstalk” if I remember

aright, the ogre was not only an ogre but also a magician. And it will

generally be found that in all such popular narratives, the king, if he

is a wicked king, is generally also a wizard. Now there is a very vital

human truth enshrined in this. Bad government, like good government,

is a spiritual thing. Even the tyrant never rules by force alone; but

mostly by fairy tales. And so it is with the modern tyrant, the great

employer. The sight of a millionaire is seldom, in the ordinary sense,

an enchanting sight: nevertheless, he is in his way an enchanter. As

they say in the gushing articles about him in the magazines, he is a

fascinating personality. So is a snake. At least he is fascinating to

rabbits; and so is the millionaire to the rabbit-witted sort of people

that ladies and gentlemen have allowed themselves to become. He does,

in a manner, cast a spell, such as that which imprisoned princes and

princesses under the shapes of falcons or stags. He has truly turned men

into sheep, as Circe turned them into swine.

Now, the chief of the fairy tales, by which he gains this glory and

glamour, is a certain hazy association he has managed to create between

the idea of bigness and the idea of practicality. Numbers of the

rabbit-witted ladies and gentlemen do really think, in spite of

themselves and their experience, that so long as a shop has hundreds

of different doors and a great many hot and unhealthy underground

departments (they must be hot; this is very important), and more people

than would be needed for a man-of-war, or crowded cathedral, to say:

“This way, madam,” and “The next article, sir,” it follows that

the goods are good. In short, they hold that the big businesses are

businesslike. They are not. Any housekeeper in a truthful mood, that

is to say, any housekeeper in a bad temper, will tell you that they are

not. But housekeepers, too, are human, and therefore inconsistent and

complex; and they do not always stick to truth and bad temper. They are

also affected by this queer idolatry of the enormous and elaborate; and

cannot help feeling that anything so complicated must go like clockwork.

But complexity is no guarantee of accuracy—in clockwork or in anything

else. A clock can be as wrong as the human head; and a clock can stop,

as suddenly as the human heart.

But this strange poetry of plutocracy prevails over people against their

very senses. You write to one of the great London stores or emporia,

asking, let us say, for an umbrella. A month or two afterwards you

receive a very elaborately constructed parcel, containing a broken

parasol. You are very pleased. You are gratified to reflect on what

a vast number of assistants and employees had combined to break that

parasol. You luxuriate in the memory of all those long rooms and

departments and wonder in which of them the parasol that you never

ordered was broken. Or you want a toy elephant for your child on

Christmas Day; as children, like all nice and healthy people, are very

ritualistic. Some week or so after Twelfth Night, let us say, you have

the pleasure of removing three layers of pasteboards, five layers of

brown paper, and fifteen layers of tissue paper and discovering the

fragments of an artificial crocodile. You smile in an expansive spirit.

You feel that your soul has been broadened by the vision of incompetence

conducted on so large a scale. You admire all the more the colossal

and Omnipresent Brain of the Organiser of Industry, who amid all his

multitudinous cares did not disdain to remember his duty of smashing

even the smallest toy of the smallest child. Or, supposing you have

asked him to send you some two rolls of cocoa-nut matting: and supposing

(after a due interval for reflection) he duly delivers to you the five

rolls of wire netting. You take pleasure in the consideration of a

mystery: which coarse minds might have called a mistake. It consoles you

to know how big the business is: and what an enormous number of people

were needed to make such a mistake.

That is the romance that has been told about the big shops; in the

literature and art which they have bought, and which (as I said in

my recent articles) will soon be quite indistinguishable from their

ordinary advertisements. The literature is commercial; and it is

only fair to say that the commerce is often really literary. It is no

romance, but only rubbish.

The big commercial concerns of to-day are quite exceptionally

incompetent. They will be even more incompetent when they are

omnipotent. Indeed, that is, and always has been, the whole point of

a monopoly; the old and sound argument against a monopoly. It is only

because it is incompetent that it has to be omnipotent. When one large

shop occupies the whole of one side of a street (or sometimes both

sides), it does so in order that men may be unable to get what they

want; and may be forced to buy what they don’t want. That the rapidly

approaching kingdom of the Capitalists will ruin art and letters, I

have already said. I say here that in the only sense that can be called

human, it will ruin trade, too.

I will not let Christmas go by, even when writing for a revolutionary

paper necessarily appealing to many with none of my religious

sympathies, without appealing to those sympathies. I knew a man who sent

to a great rich shop for a figure for a group of Bethlehem. It arrived

broken. I think that is exactly all that business men have now the sense

to do.

IV. The War on Holidays

The general proposition, not always easy to define exhaustively, that

the reign of the capitalist will be the reign of the cad—that is, of

the unlicked type that is neither the citizen nor the gentleman—can

be excellently studied in its attitude towards holidays. The special

emblematic Employer of to-day, especially the Model Employer (who is

the worst sort) has in his starved and evil heart a sincere hatred of

holidays. I do not mean that he necessarily wants all his workmen to

work until they drop; that only occurs when he happens to be stupid as

well as wicked. I do not mean to say that he is necessarily unwilling to

grant what he would call “decent hours of labour.” He may treat men like

dirt; but if you want to make money, even out of dirt, you must let

it lie fallow by some rotation of rest. He may treat men as dogs, but

unless he is a lunatic he will for certain periods let sleeping dogs

lie.

But humane and reasonable hours for labour have nothing whatever to do

with the idea of holidays. It is not even a question of ten hours day

and eight-hours day; it is not a question of cutting down leisure to

the space necessary for food, sleep and exercise. If the modern employer

came to the conclusion, for some reason or other, that he could get most

out of his men by working them hard for only two hours a day, his whole

mental attitude would still be foreign and hostile to holidays. For his

whole mental attitude is that the passive time and the active time are

alike useful for him and his business. All is, indeed, grist that

comes to his mill, including the millers. His slaves still serve him in

unconsciousness, as dogs still hunt in slumber. His grist is ground not

only by the sounding wheels of iron, but by the soundless wheel of blood

and brain. His sacks are still filling silently when the doors are shut

on the streets and the sound of the grinding is low.

The Great Holiday

Now a holiday has no connection with using a man either by beating or

feeding him. When you give a man a holiday you give him back his body

and soul. It is quite possible you may be doing him an injury (though

he seldom thinks so), but that does not affect the question for those to

whom a holiday is holy. Immortality is the great holiday; and a holiday,

like the immortality in the old theologies, is a double-edged privilege.

But wherever it is genuine it is simply the restoration and completion

of the man. If people ever looked at the printed word under their eye,

the word “recreation” would be like the word “resurrection,” the blast

of a trumpet.

A man, being merely useful, is necessarily incomplete, especially if

he be a modern man and means by being useful being “utilitarian.” A man

going into a modern club gives up his hat; a man going into a modern

factory gives up his head. He then goes in and works loyally for the old

firm to build up the great fabric of commerce (which can be done without

a head), but when he has done work he goes to the cloak-room, like the

man at the club, and gets his head back again; that is the germ of the

holiday. It may be urged that the club man who leaves his hat often goes

away with another hat; and perhaps it may be the same with the factory

hand who has left his head. A hand that has lost its head may affect the

fastidious as a mixed metaphor; but, God pardon us all, what an unmixed

truth! We could almost prove the whole ease from the habit of calling

human beings merely “hands” while they are working; as if the hand were

horribly cut off, like the hand that has offended; as if, while the

sinner entered heaven maimed, his unhappy hand still laboured laying

up riches for the lords of hell. But to return to the man whom we found

waiting for his head in the cloak-room. It may be urged, we say, that he

might take the wrong head, like the wrong hat; but here the similarity

ceases. For it has been observed by benevolent onlookers at life’s drama

that the hat taken away by mistake is frequently better than the real

hat; whereas the head taken away after the hours of toil is certainly

worse: stained with the cobwebs and dust of this dustbin of all the

centuries.

The Supreme Adventure

All the words dedicated to places of eating and drinking are pure

and poetic words. Even the word “hotel” is the word hospital. And St.

Julien, whose claret I drank this Christmas, was the patron saint of

innkeepers, because (as far as I can make out) he was hospitable to

lepers. Now I do not say that the ordinary hotel-keeper in Piccadilly or

the Avenue de l’Opera would embrace a leper, slap him on the back, and

ask him to order what he liked; but I do say that hospitality is his

trade virtue. And I do also say it is well to keep before our eyes the

supreme adventure of a virtue. If you are brave, think of the man who

was braver than you. If you are kind, think of the man who was kinder

than you.

That is what was meant by having a patron saint. That is the link

between the poor saint who received bodily lepers and the great hotel

proprietor who (as a rule) receives spiritual lepers. But a word yet

weaker than “hotel” illustrates the same point—the word “restaurant.”

There again you have the admission that there is a definite building or

statue to “restore”; that ineffaceable image of man that some call the

image of God. And that is the holiday; it is the restaurant or restoring

thing that, by a blast of magic, turns a man into himself.

This complete and reconstructed man is the nightmare of the modern

capitalist. His whole scheme would crack across like a mirror of

Shallot, if once a plain man were ready for his two plain duties—ready

to live and ready to die. And that horror of holidays which marks the

modern capitalist is very largely a horror of the vision of a whole

human being: something that is not a “hand” or a “head for figures.” But

an awful creature who has met himself in the wilderness. The employers

will give time to eat, time to sleep; they are in terror of a time to

think.

To anyone who knows any history it is wholly needless to say that

holidays have been destroyed. As Mr. Belloc, who knows much more

history than you or I, recently pointed out in the “Pall Mall Magazine,”

Shakespeare’s title of “Twelfth Night: or What You Will” simply meant

that a winter carnival for everybody went on wildly till the twelfth

night after Christmas. Those of my readers who work for modern offices

or factories might ask their employers for twelve days’ holidays after

Christmas. And they might let me know the reply.

V. THE CHURCH OF THE SERVILE STATE

I confess I cannot see why mere blasphemy by itself should be an excuse

for tyranny and treason; or how the mere isolated fact of a man not

believing in God should be a reason for my believing in Him.

But the rather spinsterish flutter among some of the old Freethinkers

has put one tiny ripple of truth in it; and that affects the idea which

I wish to emphasise even to monotony in these pages. I mean the idea

that the new community which the capitalists are now constructing will

be a very complete and absolute community; and one which will tolerate

nothing really independent of itself. Now, it is true that any positive

creed, true or false, would tend to be independent of itself. It might

be Roman Catholicism or Mahomedanism or Materialism; but, if strongly

held, it would be a thorn in the side of the Servile State. The Moslem

thinks all men immortal: the Materialist thinks all men mortal. But the

Moslem does not think the rich Sinbad will live forever; but the poor

Sinbad will die on his deathbed. The Materialist does not think that Mr.

Haeckel will go to heaven, while all the peasants will go to pot, like

their chickens. In every serious doctrine of the destiny of men, there

is some trace of the doctrine of the equality of men. But the capitalist

really depends on some religion of inequality. The capitalist must

somehow distinguish himself from human kind; he must be obviously above

it—or he would be obviously below it. Take even the least attractive

and popular side of the larger religions to-day; take the mere vetoes

imposed by Islam on Atheism or Catholicism. The Moslem veto upon

intoxicants cuts across all classes. But it is absolutely necessary for

the capitalist (who presides at a Licensing Committee, and also at a

large dinner), it is absolutely necessary for him, to make a distinction

between gin and champagne. The Atheist veto upon all miracles cuts

across all classes. But it is absolutely necessary for the capitalist to

make a distinction between his wife (who is an aristocrat and consults

crystal gazers and star gazers in the West End), and vulgar miracles

claimed by gipsies or travelling showmen. The Catholic veto upon usury,

as defined in dogmatic councils, cuts across all classes. But it is

absolutely necessary to the capitalist to distinguish more delicately

between two kinds of usury; the kind he finds useful and the kind he

does not find useful. The religion of the Servile State must have no

dogmas or definitions. It cannot afford to have any definitions. For

definitions are very dreadful things: they do the two things that most

men, especially comfortable men, cannot endure. They fight; and they

fight fair.

Every religion, apart from open devil worship, must appeal to a virtue

or the pretence of a virtue. But a virtue, generally speaking, does some

good to everybody. It is therefore necessary to distinguish among

the people it was meant to benefit those whom it does benefit. Modern

broad-mindedness benefits the rich; and benefits nobody else. It was

meant to benefit the rich; and meant to benefit nobody else. And if you

think this unwarranted, I will put before you one plain question. There

are some pleasures of the poor that may also mean profits for the rich:

there are other pleasures of the poor which cannot mean profits for the

rich? Watch this one contrast, and you will watch the whole creation of

a careful slavery.

In the last resort the two things called Beer and Soap end only in a

froth. They are both below the high notice of a real religion. But

there is just this difference: that the soap makes the factory more

satisfactory, while the beer only makes the workman more satisfied. Wait

and see if the Soap does not increase and the Beer decrease. Wait and

see whether the religion of the Servile State is not in every case what

I say: the encouragement of small virtues supporting capitalism, the

discouragement of the huge virtues that defy it. Many great religions,

Pagan and Christian, have insisted on wine. Only one, I think, has

insisted on Soap. You will find it in the New Testament attributed to

the Pharisees.

V. LA CHIESA DELLO STATO SERVILE

Confesso di non riuscire a capire perché la mera bestemmia di per sé debba essere una scusa

per la tirannia e il tradimento; o come il mero fatto isolato che un uomo non

creda in Dio debba essere una ragione perché io creda in Lui.

Ma il fremito piuttosto zitellesco tra alcuni dei vecchi Liberi Pensatori

vi ha messo una minuscola increspatura di verità; e ciò tocca l’idea che

desidero sottolineare fino alla monotonia in queste pagine. Intendo l’idea

che la nuova comunità che i capitalisti stanno ora costruendo sarà

una comunità assai completa e assoluta; e che non tollererà

nulla di realmente indipendente da sé. Ora, è vero che qualsiasi credo positivo,

vero o falso, tenderebbe a essere indipendente da essa. Potrebbe

essere il Cattolicesimo romano o il Maomettanesimo o il Materialismo; ma, se

fermamente professato, sarebbe una spina nel fianco dello Stato Servile. Il Musulmano

crede tutti gli uomini immortali: il Materialista crede tutti gli uomini mortali. Ma il

Musulmano non pensa che il ricco Sindbad vivrà in eterno; mentre il povero

Sindbad morirà sul suo letto di morte. Il Materialista non pensa che il signor

Haeckel andrà in cielo, mentre tutti i contadini andranno in malora, come

i loro polli. In ogni seria dottrina del destino degli uomini, vi è

qualche traccia della dottrina dell’uguaglianza degli uomini. Ma il capitalista

dipende in realtà da qualche religione della disuguaglianza. Il capitalista deve

in qualche modo distinguersi dal genere umano; deve essere manifestamente al di sopra

di esso—o sarebbe manifestamente al di sotto. Si prenda anche il lato meno attraente

e popolare delle grandi religioni odierne; si prendano i meri veti

imposti dall’Islam all’Ateismo o al Cattolicesimo. Il veto musulmano sugli

inebrianti attraversa tutte le classi. Ma è assolutamente necessario per

il capitalista (che presiede una Commissione per le Licenze, e anche un

grande banchetto), è assolutamente necessario per lui, fare una distinzione

tra il gin e lo champagne. Il veto ateo su tutti i miracoli attraversa

tutte le classi. Ma è assolutamente necessario per il capitalista

fare una distinzione tra sua moglie (che è un’aristocratica e consulta

veggenti della sfera di cristallo e astrologi nel West End) e i volgari miracoli

vantati da zingari o saltimbanchi ambulanti. Il veto cattolico sull’usura,

come definito nei concili dogmatici, attraversa tutte le classi. Ma è

assolutamente necessario al capitalista distinguere più sottilmente

tra due specie di usura; quella che trova utile e quella che

non trova utile. La religione dello Stato Servile non deve avere

dogmi né definizioni. Non può permettersi di avere definizioni. Poiché

le definizioni sono cose terribili: fanno le due cose che la maggior parte

degli uomini, specialmente gli uomini agiati, non possono sopportare. Combattono; e combattono

lealmente.

Ogni religione, a parte l’aperto culto del diavolo, deve richiamarsi a una virtù

o alla pretesa di una virtù. Ma una virtù, in generale, fa un po’ di

bene a tutti. È perciò necessario distinguere tra

le persone che doveva beneficiare quelle che effettivamente beneficia. La moderna

apertura mentale beneficia i ricchi; e non beneficia nessun altro. Era

pensata per beneficiare i ricchi; e pensata per non beneficiare nessun altro. E se

ritenete ciò ingiustificato, vi porrò una semplice domanda. Vi

sono alcuni piaceri dei poveri che possono anche significare profitti per i ricchi:

vi sono altri piaceri dei poveri che non possono significare profitti per i

ricchi? Osservate questo solo contrasto, e osserverete l’intera creazione di

una accurata schiavitù.

In ultima analisi le due cose chiamate Birra e Sapone finiscono solo in

schiuma. Entrambe sono al di sotto dell’alta considerazione di una vera religione. Ma

vi è proprio questa differenza: che il sapone rende la fabbrica più

soddisfacente, mentre la birra rende solo l’operaio più soddisfatto. Aspettate

e vedete se il Sapone non aumenti e la Birra non diminuisca. Aspettate e

vedete se la religione dello Stato Servile non sia in ogni caso ciò che

dico: l’incoraggiamento delle piccole virtù che sostengono il capitalismo, lo

scoraggiamento delle grandi virtù che lo sfidano. Molte grandi religioni,

Pagane e Cristiane, hanno insistito sul vino. Solo una, credo, ha

insistito sul Sapone. La troverete nel Nuovo Testamento attribuita ai

Farisei.

VI. SCIENCE AND THE EUGENISTS

The key fact in the new development of plutocracy is that it will use

its own blunder as an excuse for further crimes. Everywhere the very

completeness of the impoverishment will be made a reason for the

enslavement; though the men who impoverished were the same who enslaved.

It is as if a highwayman not only took away a gentleman’s horse and all

his money, but then handed him over to the police for tramping without

visible means of subsistence. And the most monstrous feature in this

enormous meanness may be noted in the plutocratic appeal to science, or,

rather, to the pseudo-science that they call Eugenics.

The Eugenists get the ear of the humane but rather hazy cliques by

saying that the present “conditions” under which people work and breed

are bad for the race; but the modern mind will not generally stretch

beyond one step of reasoning, and the consequence which appears to

follow on the consideration of these “conditions” is by no means what

would originally have been expected. If somebody says: “A rickety cradle

may mean a rickety baby,” the natural deduction, one would think, would

be to give the people a good cradle, or give them money enough to buy

one. But that means higher wages and greater equalisation of wealth; and

the plutocratic scientist, with a slightly troubled expression, turns

his eyes and pince-nez in another direction. Reduced to brutal terms of

truth, his difficulty is this and simply this: More food, leisure, and

money for the workman would mean a better workman, better even from the

point of view of anyone for whom he worked. But more food, leisure, and

money would also mean a more independent workman. A house with a decent

fire and a full pantry would be a better house to make a chair or mend

a clock in, even from the customer’s point of view, than a hovel with a

leaky roof and a cold hearth. But a house with a decent fire and a full

pantry would also be a better house in which to refuse to make a chair

or mend a clock—a much better house to do nothing in—and doing nothing

is sometimes one of the highest of the duties of man. All but the

hard-hearted must be torn with pity for this pathetic dilemma of the

rich man, who has to keep the poor man just stout enough to do the work

and just thin enough to have to do it. As he stood gazing at the leaky

roof and the rickety cradle in a pensive manner, there one day came into

his mind a new and curious idea—one of the most strange, simple, and

horrible ideas that have ever risen from the deep pit of original sin.

The roof could not be mended, or, at least, it could not be mended much,

without upsetting the capitalist balance, or, rather, disproportion in

society; for a man with a roof is a man with a house, and to that extent

his house is his castle. The cradle could not be made to rock easier,

or, at least, not much easier, without strengthening the hands of the

poor household, for the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world—to

that extent. But it occurred to the capitalist that there was one sort

of furniture in the house that could be altered. The husband and wife

could be altered. Birth costs nothing, except in pain and valour and

such old-fashioned things; and the merchant need pay no more for mating

a strong miner to a healthy fishwife than he pays when the miner mates

himself with a less robust female whom he has the sentimentality to

prefer. Thus it might be possible, by keeping on certain broad lines

of heredity, to have some physical improvement without any moral,

political, or social improvement. It might be possible to keep a

supply of strong and healthy slaves without coddling them with decent

conditions. As the mill-owners use the wind and the water to drive their

mills, they would use this natural force as something even cheaper; and

turn their wheels by diverting from its channel the blood of a man in

his youth. That is what Eugenics means; and that is all that it means.

Of the moral state of those who think of such things it does not become

us to speak. The practical question is rather the intellectual one:

of whether their calculations are well founded, and whether the men

of science can or will guarantee them any such physical certainties.

Fortunately, it becomes clearer every day that they are, scientifically

speaking, building on the shifting sand. The theory of breeding slaves

breaks down through what a democrat calls the equality of men, but which

even an oligarchist will find himself forced to call the similarity of

men. That is, that though it is not true that all men are normal, it is

overwhelmingly certain that most men are normal. All the common Eugenic

arguments are drawn from extreme cases, which, even if human honour

and laughter allowed of their being eliminated, would not by their

elimination greatly affect the mass. For the rest, there remains the

enormous weakness in Eugenics, that if ordinary men’s judgment or

liberty is to be discounted in relation to heredity, the judgment of

the judges must be discounted in relation to their heredity. The Eugenic

professor may or may not succeed in choosing a baby’s parents; it is

quite certain that he cannot succeed in choosing his own parents. All

his thoughts, including his Eugenic thoughts, are, by the very principle

of those thoughts, flowing from a doubtful or tainted source. In short,

we should need a perfectly Wise Man to do the thing at all. And if he

were a Wise Man he would not do it.

VI. LA SCIENZA E GLI EUGENISTI

Il fatto essenziale nel nuovo sviluppo della plutocrazia è che essa userà

il proprio errore come pretesto per ulteriori delitti. Ovunque la stessa

completezza dell’impoverimento sarà fatta ragione dell’

asservimento; benché gli uomini che impoverirono fossero gli stessi che asservirono.

È come se un brigante non solo portasse via a un gentiluomo il cavallo e tutto

il suo denaro, ma poi lo consegnasse alla polizia per vagabondaggio senza

visibili mezzi di sostentamento. E il tratto più mostruoso di questa

enorme meschinità si può notare nell’appello plutocratico alla scienza, o,

piuttosto, alla pseudo-scienza che essi chiamano Eugenetica.

Gli Eugenisti si guadagnano l’orecchio delle cricche umanitarie ma piuttosto nebulose

dicendo che le presenti «condizioni» in cui la gente lavora e si riproduce

sono nocive alla razza; ma la mente moderna in genere non si spinge

oltre un solo passo di ragionamento, e la conseguenza che sembra

derivare dalla considerazione di queste «condizioni» non è affatto quella che

originariamente ci si sarebbe aspettati. Se qualcuno dice: «Una culla sconquassata

può voler dire un bambino rachitico», la deduzione naturale, si direbbe, sarebbe

di dare alla gente una buona culla, o di darle denaro sufficiente a comprarne

una. Ma questo significa salari più alti e una maggiore perequazione della ricchezza; e

lo scienziato plutocratico, con un’espressione lievemente turbata, volge

i suoi occhi e il suo pince-nez in un’altra direzione. Ridotta a brutali termini di

verità, la sua difficoltà è questa e semplicemente questa: più cibo, tempo libero e

denaro per l’operaio significherebbero un operaio migliore, migliore anche dal

punto di vista di chiunque si servisse di lui. Ma più cibo, tempo libero e

denaro significherebbero anche un operaio più indipendente. Una casa con un decente

fuoco e una dispensa piena sarebbe una casa migliore in cui fabbricare una sedia o riparare

un orologio, anche dal punto di vista del cliente, di un tugurio dal

tetto che perde e dal focolare freddo. Ma una casa con un decente fuoco e una dispensa

piena sarebbe anche una casa migliore in cui rifiutarsi di fabbricare una sedia

o di riparare un orologio — una casa assai migliore in cui non far nulla — e non far nulla

è talvolta uno dei più alti doveri dell’uomo. Tutti tranne i

duri di cuore devono essere straziati dalla pietà per questo patetico dilemma del

ricco, che deve tenere il povero abbastanza robusto da poter fare il lavoro

e abbastanza magro da essere costretto a farlo. Mentre stava fissando il

tetto che perde e la culla sconquassata in atteggiamento pensoso, un giorno gli venne in

mente un’idea nuova e curiosa — una delle idee più strane, semplici e

orribili che siano mai sorte dal profondo abisso del peccato originale.

Il tetto non poteva essere riparato, o, almeno, non poteva essere riparato di molto,

senza sconvolgere l’equilibrio capitalistico, o, piuttosto, la sproporzione nella

società; poiché un uomo con un tetto è un uomo con una casa, e in tal misura

la sua casa è il suo castello. La culla non poteva essere fatta cullare più facilmente,

o, almeno, non molto più facilmente, senza rafforzare le mani della

povera famiglia, poiché la mano che culla la culla governa il mondo — in

tal misura. Ma al capitalista venne in mente che c’era una sorta

di mobilio nella casa che poteva essere modificato. Il marito e la moglie

potevano essere modificati. Nascere non costa nulla, se non in dolore e valore e

cose così antiquate; e il mercante non deve pagare di più per accoppiare

un robusto minatore a una sana pescivendola di quanto paga quando il minatore si accoppia

da sé con una femmina meno robusta che egli ha il sentimentalismo di

preferire. Così potrebbe essere possibile, seguendo certe ampie linee

di ereditarietà, ottenere qualche miglioramento fisico senza alcun miglioramento morale,

politico o sociale. Potrebbe essere possibile mantenere una

scorta di schiavi forti e sani senza viziarli con decenti

condizioni. Come i proprietari di mulini usano il vento e l’acqua per far girare i loro

mulini, essi userebbero questa forza naturale come qualcosa di ancora più a buon mercato; e

farebbero girare le loro ruote deviando dal suo canale il sangue di un uomo nella

sua giovinezza. Questo è ciò che significa l’Eugenetica; e questo è tutto ciò che significa.

Dello stato morale di coloro che pensano tali cose non ci si

addice parlare. La questione pratica è piuttosto quella intellettuale:

se i loro calcoli siano ben fondati, e se gli uomini

di scienza possano o vogliano garantire loro simili certezze fisiche.

Fortunatamente, diventa più chiaro ogni giorno che essi stanno, scientificamente

parlando, costruendo sulla sabbia mobile. La teoria dell’allevamento degli schiavi

crolla per via di ciò che un democratico chiama l’uguaglianza degli uomini, ma che

perfino un oligarchico si troverà costretto a chiamare la somiglianza degli

uomini. Vale a dire, che benché non sia vero che tutti gli uomini sono normali, è

schiacciantemente certo che la maggior parte degli uomini sono normali. Tutti i comuni argomenti eugenici

sono tratti da casi estremi che, anche se l’onore umano

e il riso ne permettessero l’eliminazione, non altererebbero con la loro

eliminazione granché la massa. Per il resto, rimane l’

enorme debolezza dell’Eugenetica, che se il giudizio o la libertà degli uomini comuni

devono essere scontati in relazione all’ereditarietà, il giudizio dei

giudici deve essere scontato in relazione alla loro ereditarietà. Il professore eugenico

può riuscire o meno a scegliere i genitori di un bambino; è

del tutto certo che non può riuscire a scegliere i propri genitori. Tutti

i suoi pensieri, compresi i suoi pensieri eugenici, scaturiscono, per il principio stesso

di quei pensieri, da una fonte dubbia o contaminata. In breve,

ci occorrerebbe un Uomo perfettamente Saggio per fare la cosa in assoluto. E se egli

fosse un Uomo Saggio, non la farebbe.

VII. THE EVOLUTION OF THE PRISON

I have never understood why it is that those who talk most about

evolution, and talk it in the very age of fashionable evolutionism, do

not see the one way in which evolution really does apply to our modern

difficulty. There is, of course, an element of evolutionism in the

universe; and I know no religion or philosophy that ever entirely

ignored it. Evolution, popularly speaking, is that which happens to

unconscious things. They grow unconsciously; or fade unconsciously; or

rather, some parts of them grow and some parts of them fade; and at any

given moment there is almost always some presence of the fading thing,

and some incompleteness in the growing one. Thus, if I went to sleep

for a hundred years, like the Sleeping Beauty (I wish I could), I should

grow a beard—unlike the Sleeping Beauty. And just as I should grow

hair if I were asleep, I should grow grass if I were dead. Those whose

religion it was that God was asleep were perpetually impressed

and affected by the fact that he had a long beard. And those whose

philosophy it is that the universe is dead from the beginning (being

the grave of nobody in particular) think that is the way that grass can

grow. In any case, these developments only occur with dead or dreaming

things. What happens when everyone is asleep is called Evolution. What

happens when everyone is awake is called Revolution.

There was once an honest man, whose name I never knew, but whose face

I can almost see (it is framed in Victorian whiskers and fixed in a

Victorian neck-cloth), who was balancing the achievements of France and

England in civilisation and social efficiencies. And when he came to the

religious aspect he said that there were more stone and brick churches

used in France; but, on the other hand, there are more sects in England.

Whether such a lively disintegration is a proof of vitality in any

valuable sense I have always doubted. The sun may breed maggots in a

dead dog; but it is essential for such a liberation of life that the dog

should be unconscious or (to say the least of it) absent-minded. Broadly

speaking, you may call the thing corruption, if you happen to like dogs.

You may call it evolution, if you happen to like maggots. In either

case, it is what happens to things if you leave them alone.

The Evolutionists’ Error

Now, the modern Evolutionists have made no real use of the idea of

evolution, especially in the matter of social prediction. They always

fall into what is (from their logical point of view) the error of

supposing that evolution knows what it is doing. They predict the State

of the future as a fruit rounded and polished. But the whole point of

evolution (the only point there is in it) is that no State will ever be

rounded and polished, because it will always contain some organs that

outlived their use, and some that have not yet fully found theirs. If we

wish to prophesy what will happen, we must imagine things now moderate

grown enormous; things now local grown universal; things now promising

grown triumphant; primroses bigger than sunflowers, and sparrows

stalking about like flamingoes.

In other words, we must ask what modern institution has a future before

it? What modern institution may have swollen to six times its present

size in the social heat and growth of the future? I do not think the

Garden City will grow: but of that I may speak in my next and last

article of this series. I do not think even the ordinary Elementary

School, with its compulsory education, will grow. Too many unlettered

people hate the teacher for teaching; and too many lettered people

hate the teacher for not teaching. The Garden City will not bear much

blossom; the young idea will not shoot, unless it shoots the teacher.

But the one flowering tree on the estate, the one natural expansion

which I think will expand, is the institution we call the Prison.

Prisons for All

If the capitalists are allowed to erect their constructive capitalist

community, I speak quite seriously when I say that I think Prison will

become an almost universal experience. It will not necessarily be a

cruel or shameful experience: on these points (I concede certainly for

the present purpose of debate) it may be a vastly improved experience.

The conditions in the prison, very possibly, will be made more humane.

But the prison will be made more humane only in order to contain more of

humanity. I think little of the judgment and sense of humour of any man

who can have watched recent police trials without realising that it is

no longer a question of whether the law has been broken by a crime; but,

now, solely a question of whether the situation could be mended by an

imprisonment. It was so with Tom Mann; it was so with Larkin; it was so

with the poor atheist who was kept in gaol for saying something he

had been acquitted of saying: it is so in such cases day by day. We no

longer lock a man up for doing something; we lock him up in the hope

of his doing nothing. Given this principle, it is evidently possible

to make the mere conditions of punishment more moderate, or—(more

probably) more secret. There may really be more mercy in the Prison,

on condition that there is less justice in the Court. I should not be

surprised if, before we are done with all this, a man was allowed to

smoke in prison, on condition, of course, that he had been put in prison

for smoking.

Now that is the process which, in the absence of democratic protest,

will certainly proceed, will increase and multiply and replenish the

earth and subdue it. Prison may even lose its disgrace for a little

time: it will be difficult to make it disgraceful when men like Larkin

can be imprisoned for no reason at all, just as his celebrated ancestor

was hanged for no reason at all. But capitalist society, which naturally

does not know the meaning of honour, cannot know the meaning of

disgrace: and it will still go on imprisoning for no reason at all. Or

rather for that rather simple reason that makes a cat spring or a rat

run away.

It matters little whether our masters stoop to state the matter in the

form that every prison should be a school; or in the more candid form

that every school should be a prison. They have already fulfilled their

servile principle in the case of the schools. Everyone goes to the

Elementary Schools except the few people who tell them to go there. I

prophesy that (unless our revolt succeeds) nearly everyone will be going

to Prison, with a precisely similar patience.

VII. L’EVOLUZIONE DELLA PRIGIONE

Non ho mai capito perché coloro che più parlano di

evoluzione, e ne parlano proprio nell’epoca dell’evoluzionismo di moda, non

vedano l’unico modo in cui l’evoluzione si applica davvero alla nostra moderna

difficoltà. C’è, naturalmente, un elemento di evoluzionismo nell’

universo; e non conosco religione o filosofia che l’abbia mai del tutto

ignorato. L’evoluzione, in senso popolare, è ciò che accade alle

cose inconsapevoli. Crescono inconsapevolmente; o svaniscono inconsapevolmente; o

meglio, alcune loro parti crescono e altre svaniscono; e in ogni

dato momento c’è quasi sempre qualche presenza della cosa che svanisce,

e qualche incompletezza in quella che cresce. Così, se andassi a dormire

per cento anni, come la Bella Addormentata (magari potessi), mi

crescerebbe la barba—a differenza della Bella Addormentata. E proprio come mi

crescerebbero i capelli se dormissi, mi crescerebbe l’erba se fossi morto. Coloro la cui

religione voleva che Dio dormisse erano perpetuamente colpiti

e influenzati dal fatto che egli avesse una lunga barba. E coloro la cui

filosofia vuole che l’universo sia morto fin dal principio (essendo

la tomba di nessuno in particolare) pensano che sia così che l’erba può

crescere. In ogni caso, questi sviluppi avvengono solo con cose morte o

sognanti. Ciò che accade quando tutti dormono si chiama Evoluzione. Ciò che

accade quando tutti sono svegli si chiama Rivoluzione.

C’era una volta un uomo onesto, di cui non seppi mai il nome, ma il cui volto

posso quasi vedere (incorniciato da basette vittoriane e fissato in un

cravattone vittoriano), che soppesava i meriti della Francia e

dell’Inghilterra in civiltà ed efficienze sociali. E quando giunse all’

aspetto religioso disse che vi erano più chiese di pietra e mattoni

in uso in Francia; ma, d’altra parte, vi sono più sètte in Inghilterra.

Se una disintegrazione tanto vivace sia una prova di vitalità in qualche

senso apprezzabile, ne ho sempre dubitato. Il sole può generare vermi in un

cane morto; ma è essenziale per una simile liberazione di vita che il cane

sia inconsapevole o (a dir poco) distratto. In senso

lato, potete chiamare la cosa corruzione, se per caso amate i cani.

Potete chiamarla evoluzione, se per caso amate i vermi. In entrambi

i casi, è ciò che accade alle cose se le lasciate sole.

L’errore degli evoluzionisti

Ora, i moderni evoluzionisti non hanno fatto alcun uso reale dell’idea di

evoluzione, specie in materia di previsione sociale. Cadono sempre

in quello che è (dal loro punto di vista logico) l’errore di

supporre che l’evoluzione sappia ciò che fa. Predicono lo Stato

del futuro come un frutto tondeggiante e levigato. Ma tutto il senso dell’

evoluzione (l’unico senso che vi sia) è che nessuno Stato sarà mai

tondeggiante e levigato, perché conterrà sempre alcuni organi che

hanno sopravvissuto al proprio uso, e altri che non hanno ancora trovato pienamente il proprio. Se

vogliamo profetizzare ciò che accadrà, dobbiamo immaginare cose ora moderate

divenute enormi; cose ora locali divenute universali; cose ora promettenti

divenute trionfanti; primule più grandi dei girasoli, e passeri

che incedono impettiti come fenicotteri.

In altre parole, dobbiamo chiederci quale istituzione moderna abbia un futuro davanti a

sé. Quale istituzione moderna potrebbe essersi gonfiata a sei volte la sua attuale

dimensione nel calore e nella crescita sociale del futuro? Non credo che la

Giardino Città crescerà: ma di ciò parlerò forse nel mio prossimo e ultimo

articolo di questa serie. Non credo che nemmeno la comune Scuola

Elementare, con la sua istruzione obbligatoria, crescerà. Troppi illetterati

odiano il maestro perché insegna; e troppi letterati

odiano il maestro perché non insegna. La Giardino Città non porterà molti

fiori; la giovane idea non spunterà, a meno che non spari al maestro.

Ma l’unico albero fiorito della tenuta, l’unica espansione naturale

che credo si espanderà, è l’istituzione che chiamiamo Prigione.

Prigioni per tutti

Se ai capitalisti sarà consentito erigere la loro costruttiva comunità

capitalistica, parlo del tutto seriamente quando dico che credo che la Prigione

diverrà un’esperienza quasi universale. Non sarà necessariamente un’esperienza

crudele o vergognosa: su questi punti (lo concedo di certo per

il presente scopo del dibattito) può essere un’esperienza enormemente migliorata.

Le condizioni nella prigione, molto probabilmente, saranno rese più umane.

Ma la prigione sarà resa più umana solo per contenere più

umanità. Ho scarsa stima del giudizio e del senso dell’umorismo di chiunque

abbia potuto osservare i recenti processi di polizia senza rendersi conto che

non è più questione se la legge sia stata infranta da un reato; ma,

ora, solo questione se la situazione possa essere rimediata da una

carcerazione. Fu così con Tom Mann; fu così con Larkin; fu così

col povero ateo che fu tenuto in prigione per aver detto qualcosa che

era stato assolto dall’aver detto: è così in casi simili giorno dopo giorno. Non

rinchiudiamo più un uomo per aver fatto qualcosa; lo rinchiudiamo nella speranza

che non faccia nulla. Dato questo principio, è evidentemente possibile

rendere le mere condizioni della pena più moderate, o—(più

probabilmente) più segrete. Può esservi davvero più clemenza nella Prigione,

a condizione che vi sia meno giustizia nel Tribunale. Non mi

sorprenderei se, prima di aver finito con tutto ciò, a un uomo fosse consentito

fumare in prigione, a condizione, s’intende, di essere stato messo in prigione

per aver fumato.

Ora, questo è il processo che, in assenza di protesta democratica,

certamente procederà, crescerà e si moltiplicherà e riempirà la

terra e la soggiogherà. La Prigione potrebbe persino perdere il suo disonore per un poco di

tempo: sarà difficile renderla disonorevole quando uomini come Larkin

possono essere incarcerati senza alcun motivo, proprio come il suo celebre antenato

fu impiccato senza alcun motivo. Ma la società capitalistica, che naturalmente

non conosce il significato dell’onore, non può conoscere il significato del

disonore: e continuerà comunque a incarcerare senza alcun motivo. O

meglio, per quella ragione piuttosto semplice che fa balzare un gatto o fa fuggire un

topo.

Poco importa se i nostri padroni si abbassino a formulare la questione nella

forma che ogni prigione dovrebbe essere una scuola; o nella forma più candida

che ogni scuola dovrebbe essere una prigione. Hanno già adempiuto al loro

servile principio nel caso delle scuole. Tutti vanno alle

Scuole Elementari, tranne i pochi che dicono loro di andarci. Io

profetizzo che (a meno che la nostra rivolta non riesca) quasi tutti andranno

in Prigione, con una pazienza esattamente simile.

VIII. THE LASH FOR LABOUR

If I were to prophesy that two hundred years hence a grocer would have

the right and habit of beating the grocer’s assistant with a stick, or

that shop girls might be flogged, as they already can be fined, many

would regard it as rather a rash remark. It would be a rash remark.

Prophecy is always unreliable; unless we except the kind which is

avowedly irrational, mystical and supernatural prophecy. But relatively

to nearly all the other prophecies that are being made around me to-day,

I should say my prediction stood an exceptionally good chance. In short,

I think the grocer with the stick is a figure we are far more likely to

see than the Superman or the Samurai, or the True Model Employer, or the

Perfect Fabian Official, or the citizen of the Collectivist State. And

it is best for us to see the full ugliness of the transformation which

is passing over our Society in some such abrupt and even grotesque image

at the end of it. The beginnings of a decline, in every age of history,

have always had the appearance of being reforms. Nero not only fiddled

while Rome was burning, but he probably really paid more attention to

the fiddle than to the fire. The Roi Soleil, like many other soleils,

was most splendid to all appearance a little before sunset. And if I

ask myself what will be the ultimate and final fruit of all our

social reforms, garden cities, model employers, insurances, exchanges,

arbitration courts, and so on, then, I say, quite seriously, “I think it

will be labour under the lash.”

The Sultan and the Sack

Let us arrange in some order a number of converging considerations that

all point in this direction. (1) It is broadly true, no doubt, that the

weapon of the employer has hitherto been the threat of dismissal, that

is, the threat of enforced starvation. He is a Sultan who need not order

the bastinado, so long as he can order the sack. But there are not a few

signs that this weapon is not quite so convenient and flexible a one

as his increasing rapacities require. The fact of the introduction of

fines, secretly or openly, in many shops and factories, proves that it

is convenient for the capitalists to have some temporary and adjustable

form of punishment besides the final punishment of pure ruin. Nor is it

difficult to see the commonsense of this from their wholly inhuman

point of view. The act of sacking a man is attended with the same

disadvantages as the act of shooting a man: one of which is that you can

get no more out of him. It is, I am told, distinctly annoying to blow a

fellow creature’s brains out with a revolver and then suddenly remember

that he was the only person who knew where to get the best Russian

cigarettes. So our Sultan, who is the orderer of the sack, is also the

bearer of the bow-string. A school in which there was no punishment,

except expulsion, would be a school in which it would be very difficult

to keep proper discipline; and the sort of discipline on which the

reformed capitalism will insist will be all of the type which in free

nations is imposed only on children. Such a school would probably be in

a chronic condition of breaking up for the holidays. And the reasons

for the insufficiency of this extreme instrument are also varied and

evident. The materialistic Sociologists, who talk about the survival of

the fittest and the weakest going to the wall (and whose way of looking

at the world is to put on the latest and most powerful scientific

spectacles, and then shut their eyes), frequently talk as if a

workman were simply efficient or non-efficient, as if a criminal were

reclaimable or irreclaimable. The employers have sense enough at least

to know better than that. They can see that a servant may be useful in

one way and exasperating in another; that he may be bad in one part of

his work and good in another; that he may be occasionally drunk and yet

generally indispensable. Just as a practical school-master would know

that a schoolboy can be at once the plague and the pride of the school.

Under these circumstances small and varying penalties are obviously the

most convenient things for the person keeping order; an underling can be

punished for coming late, and yet do useful work when he comes. It will

be possible to give a rap over the knuckles without wholly cutting

off the right hand that has offended. Under these circumstances the

employers have naturally resorted to fines. But there is a further

ground for believing that the process will go beyond fines before it is

completed.

(2) The fine is based on the old European idea that everybody possesses

private property in some reasonable degree; but not only is this not

true to-day, but it is not being made any truer, even by those who

honestly believe that they are mending matters. The great employers will

often do something towards improving what they call the “conditions”

of their workers; but a worker might have his conditions as carefully

arranged as a racehorse has, and still have no more personal property

than a racehorse. If you take an average poor seamstress or factory

girl, you will find that the power of chastising her through her

property has very considerable limits; it is almost as hard for the

employer of labour to tax her for punishment as it is for the Chancellor

of the Exchequer to tax her for revenue. The next most obvious thing to

think of, of course, would be imprisonment, and that might be effective

enough under simpler conditions. An old-fashioned shopkeeper might have

locked up his apprentice in his coal-cellar; but his coal-cellar would

be a real, pitch dark coal-cellar, and the rest of his house would be a

real human house. Everybody (especially the apprentice) would see a most

perceptible difference between the two. But, as I pointed out in the

article before this, the whole tendency of the capitalist legislation

and experiment is to make imprisonment much more general and automatic,

while making it, or professing to make it, more humane. In other words,

the hygienic prison and the servile factory will become so uncommonly

like each other that the poor man will hardly know or care whether he

is at the moment expiating an offence or merely swelling a dividend. In

both places there will be the same sort of shiny tiles. In neither place

will there be any cell so unwholesome as a coal-cellar or so wholesome

as a home. The weapon of the prison, therefore, like the weapon of

the fine, will be found to have considerable limitations to its

effectiveness when employed against the wretched reduced citizen of our

day. Whether it be property or liberty you cannot take from him what he

has not got. You cannot imprison a slave, because you cannot enslave a

slave.

The Barbarous Revival

(3) Most people, on hearing the suggestion that it may come to corporal

punishment at last (as it did in every slave system I ever heard of,

including some that were generally kindly, and even successful), will

merely be struck with horror and incredulity, and feel that such a

barbarous revival is unthinkable in the modern atmosphere. How far it

will be, or need be, a revival of the actual images and methods of

ruder times I will discuss in a moment. But first, as another of the

converging lines tending to corporal punishment, consider this: that for

some reason or other the old full-blooded and masculine humanitarianism

in this matter has weakened and fallen silent; it has weakened and

fallen silent in a very curious manner, the precise reason for which I

do not altogether understand. I knew the average Liberal, the average

Nonconformist minister, the average Labour Member, the average

middle-class Socialist, were, with all their good qualities, very

deficient in what I consider a respect for the human soul. But I did

imagine that they had the ordinary modern respect for the human body.

The fact, however, is clear and incontrovertible. In spite of the horror

of all humane people, in spite of the hesitation even of our corrupt and

panic-stricken Parliament, measures can now be triumphantly passed for

spreading or increasing the use of physical torture, and for applying

it to the newest and vaguest categories of crime. Thirty or forty years

ago, nay, twenty years ago, when Mr. F. Hugh O’Donnell and others forced

a Liberal Government to drop the cat-o’-nine-tails like a scorpion, we

could have counted on a mass of honest hatred of such things. We cannot

count on it now.

(4) But lastly, it is not necessary that in the factories of the future

the institution of physical punishment should actually remind people of

the jambok or the knout. It could easily be developed out of the many

forms of physical discipline which are already used by employers on the

excuses of education or hygiene. Already in some factories girls are

obliged to swim whether they like it or not, or do gymnastics whether

they like it or not. By a simple extension of hours or complication of

exercises a pair of Swedish clubs could easily be so used as to leave

their victim as exhausted as one who had come off the rack. I think it

extremely likely that they will be.

VIII. LA FRUSTA PER IL LAVORO

Se dovessi profetizzare che fra duecento anni un droghiere avrebbe

il diritto e l’abitudine di bastonare col bastone il garzone del droghiere, o

che le commesse potrebbero essere frustate, come già possono essere multate, molti

lo giudicherebbero un’affermazione piuttosto avventata. E sarebbe un’affermazione avventata.

La profezia è sempre inaffidabile; a meno che non se ne eccettui il genere che è

dichiaratamente irrazionale, mistico e soprannaturale. Ma in rapporto

a quasi tutte le altre profezie che oggi si vanno facendo attorno a me,

direi che la mia previsione gode di una probabilità eccezionalmente buona. Insomma,

penso che il droghiere col bastone sia una figura che assai più probabilmente

vedremo che non il Superuomo o il Samurai, o il Vero Datore di Lavoro Modello, o il

Perfetto Funzionario Fabiano, o il cittadino dello Stato Collettivista. Ed

è bene per noi vedere tutta la bruttezza della trasformazione che

sta passando sulla nostra Società in qualche immagine così brusca e persino grottesca

alla fine di essa. Gli inizi di una decadenza, in ogni epoca della storia,

hanno sempre avuto l’apparenza di essere riforme. Nerone non solo suonò la lira

mentre Roma bruciava, ma probabilmente prestava davvero più attenzione

alla lira che al fuoco. Il Roi Soleil, come molti altri soli,

era di tutta apparenza più splendido poco prima del tramonto. E se

mi chiedo quale sarà il frutto ultimo e finale di tutte le nostre

riforme sociali, città-giardino, datori modello, assicurazioni, borse,

tribunali arbitrali, e così via, allora dico, del tutto seriamente: «Penso che

sarà il lavoro sotto la frusta».

Il Sultano e il Sacco

Disponiamo in qualche ordine una serie di considerazioni convergenti che

tutte puntano in questa direzione. (1) È largamente vero, senza dubbio, che

l’arma del datore di lavoro è stata finora la minaccia del licenziamento, vale

a dire la minaccia della fame forzata. Egli è un Sultano che non ha bisogno di ordinare

la bastonatura, finché può ordinare il sacco. Ma non sono pochi i

segni che quest’arma non è poi così comoda e flessibile

quanto le sue crescenti rapacità richiedono. Il fatto dell’introduzione delle

multe, segretamente o apertamente, in molti negozi e fabbriche, prova che

è comodo per i capitalisti avere qualche forma di punizione temporanea e regolabile

oltre alla punizione finale della pura rovina. Né è

difficile scorgere il buonsenso di ciò dal loro punto di vista del tutto disumano.

L’atto di licenziare un uomo è accompagnato dagli stessi

svantaggi dell’atto di sparare a un uomo: uno dei quali è che non puoi

cavarne più nulla. È, mi si dice, decisamente seccante far saltare

le cervella di un proprio simile con una rivoltella e poi ricordarsi all’improvviso

che egli era l’unica persona a sapere dove procurarsi le migliori sigarette

russe. Così il nostro Sultano, che è l’ordinatore del sacco, è anche il

portatore del laccio. Una scuola in cui non vi fosse alcuna punizione,

tranne l’espulsione, sarebbe una scuola in cui sarebbe assai difficile

mantenere una disciplina adeguata; e il tipo di disciplina su cui il

capitalismo riformato insisterà sarà tutto del genere che nelle nazioni

libere è imposto solo ai bambini. Una tale scuola sarebbe probabilmente in

una condizione cronica di scioglimento per le vacanze. E le ragioni

dell’insufficienza di questo strumento estremo sono anch’esse varie ed

evidenti. I Sociologi materialisti, che parlano della sopravvivenza del

più adatto e del più debole che va al muro (e il cui modo di guardare

il mondo è di inforcare gli occhiali scientifici più recenti e potenti,

e poi chiudere gli occhi), spesso parlano come se un

operaio fosse semplicemente efficiente o non efficiente, come se un criminale fosse

recuperabile o irrecuperabile. I datori di lavoro hanno abbastanza senno almeno

da saperlo meglio di così. Sanno vedere che un servitore può essere utile in

un modo ed esasperante in un altro; che può essere cattivo in una parte del

suo lavoro e buono in un’altra; che può essere occasionalmente ubriaco e tuttavia

in generale indispensabile. Proprio come un maestro pratico saprebbe

che uno scolaro può essere al tempo stesso il flagello e l’orgoglio della scuola.

In tali circostanze piccole e variabili penali sono ovviamente le

cose più comode per chi mantiene l’ordine; un subalterno può essere

punito per essere arrivato in ritardo, e tuttavia svolgere utile lavoro quando arriva. Sarà

possibile dare un colpetto sulle nocche senza recidere del tutto

la mano destra che ha offeso. In tali circostanze i

datori di lavoro hanno naturalmente fatto ricorso alle multe. Ma vi è un ulteriore

motivo per credere che il processo andrà oltre le multe prima di essere

compiuto.

(2) La multa si fonda sulla vecchia idea europea che ognuno possiede

proprietà privata in qualche misura ragionevole; ma non solo ciò non è

vero oggi, ma non lo si sta rendendo per nulla più vero, nemmeno da coloro che

credono onestamente di star rimediando alle cose. I grandi datori di lavoro

spesso faranno qualcosa per migliorare quelle che chiamano le «condizioni»

dei loro operai; ma un operaio potrebbe avere le sue condizioni tanto accuratamente

sistemate quanto le ha un cavallo da corsa, e tuttavia non avere più proprietà

personale di un cavallo da corsa. Se prendete una comune povera cucitrice o operaia

di fabbrica, troverete che il potere di castigarla attraverso la sua

proprietà ha limiti assai considerevoli; è quasi altrettanto difficile per il

datore di lavoro tassarla per punizione quanto lo è per il Cancelliere

dello Scacchiere tassarla per gettito. La cosa più ovvia successiva a cui

pensare, naturalmente, sarebbe la prigionia, e ciò potrebbe essere abbastanza efficace

in condizioni più semplici. Un bottegaio all’antica poteva aver

rinchiuso il suo apprendista nella carbonaia; ma la sua carbonaia sarebbe

una vera carbonaia buia pece, e il resto della sua casa sarebbe

una vera casa umana. Chiunque (specialmente l’apprendista) vedrebbe una assai

percettibile differenza tra le due. Ma, come ho segnalato nell’

articolo precedente a questo, l’intera tendenza della legislazione capitalista

e della sperimentazione è di rendere la prigionia assai più generale e automatica,

pur rendendola, o professando di renderla, più umana. In altre parole,

la prigione igienica e la fabbrica servile diventeranno così straordinariamente

simili l’una all’altra che il pover’uomo saprà o si curerà a stento se

stia in quel momento espiando un reato o semplicemente gonfiando un dividendo. In

entrambi i luoghi vi sarà lo stesso genere di piastrelle lucide. In nessuno dei due luoghi

vi sarà alcuna cella tanto malsana quanto una carbonaia o tanto salubre

quanto una casa. L’arma della prigione, perciò, come l’arma

della multa, si scoprirà avere considerevoli limitazioni alla sua

efficacia quando impiegata contro il misero cittadino ridotto dei nostri

giorni. Che sia proprietà o libertà, non puoi togliergli ciò che

non ha. Non puoi imprigionare uno schiavo, perché non puoi asservire uno

schiavo.

Il Barbarico Ritorno

(3) La maggior parte delle persone, all’udire il suggerimento che si possa giungere alla punizione

corporale alla fine (come avvenne in ogni sistema schiavista di cui abbia mai sentito parlare,

compresi alcuni generalmente benevoli, e persino riusciti), sarà

semplicemente colpita da orrore e incredulità, e sentirà che un simile

barbarico ritorno è impensabile nell’atmosfera moderna. Fino a che punto

sarà, o dovrà essere, un ritorno delle immagini e dei metodi effettivi dei

tempi più rozzi lo discuterò fra un momento. Ma prima, come un’altra delle

linee convergenti che tendono alla punizione corporale, si consideri questo: che per

qualche ragione o altra il vecchio umanitarismo sanguigno e virile

in questa materia si è indebolito ed è ammutolito; si è indebolito ed è

ammutolito in un modo assai curioso, la cui precisa ragione

non comprendo del tutto. Sapevo che il Liberale medio, il medio

ministro Nonconformista, il medio Membro Laburista, il medio

Socialista borghese erano, con tutte le loro buone qualità, assai

carenti in ciò che considero un rispetto per l’anima umana. Ma immaginavo

davvero che avessero l’ordinario rispetto moderno per il corpo umano.

Il fatto, tuttavia, è chiaro e incontrovertibile. Nonostante l’orrore

di tutte le persone umane, nonostante l’esitazione persino del nostro corrotto e

atterrito Parlamento, si possono ora far passare trionfalmente misure per

diffondere o accrescere l’uso della tortura fisica, e per applicarla

alle più nuove e vaghe categorie di reato. Trenta o quarant’anni

fa, anzi, vent’anni fa, quando il signor F. Hugh O’Donnell e altri costrinsero

un Governo Liberale a lasciar cadere il gatto a nove code come uno scorpione,

potevamo contare su una massa di onesto odio per tali cose. Non possiamo

contarci ora.

(4) Ma da ultimo, non è necessario che nelle fabbriche del futuro

l’istituzione della punizione fisica debba effettivamente ricordare alla gente

il jambok o il knut. Potrebbe facilmente svilupparsi dalle molte

forme di disciplina fisica che sono già usate dai datori di lavoro con la

scusa dell’educazione o dell’igiene. Già in alcune fabbriche le ragazze sono

obbligate a nuotare, che piaccia loro o no, o a fare ginnastica, che piaccia

loro o no. Con una semplice estensione delle ore o complicazione degli

esercizi, un paio di clave svedesi potrebbero facilmente essere usate così da lasciare

la loro vittima esausta quanto uno uscito dal cavalletto della tortura. Penso

estremamente probabile che lo saranno.

IX. THE MASK OF SOCIALISM

The chief aim of all honest Socialists just now is to prevent the coming

of Socialism. I do not say it as a sneer, but, on the contrary, as a

compliment; a compliment to their political instinct and public spirit.

I admit it may be called an exaggeration; but there really is a sort of

sham Socialism that the modern politicians may quite possibly agree to

set up; if they do succeed in setting it up, the battle for the poor is

lost.

We must note, first of all, a general truth about the curious time we

live in. It will not be so difficult as some people may suppose to make

the Servile State look rather like Socialism, especially to the more

pedantic kind of Socialist. The reason is this. The old lucid and

trenchant expounder of Socialism, such as Blatchford or Fred Henderson,

always describes the economic power of the plutocrats as consisting in

private property. Of course, in a sense, this is quite true; though they

too often miss the point that private property, as such, is not the same

as property confined to the few. But the truth is that the situation has

grown much more subtle; perhaps too subtle, not to say too insane, for

straight-thinking theorists like Blatchford. The rich man to-day does

not only rule by using private property; he also rules by treating

public property as if it were private property. A man like Lord Murray

pulled the strings, especially the purse-strings; but the whole point of

his position was that all sorts of strings had got entangled. The secret

strength of the money he held did not lie merely in the fact that it was

his money. It lay precisely in the fact that nobody had any clear idea

of whether it was his money, or his successor’s money, or his brother’s

money, or the Marconi Company’s money, or the Liberal Party’s money,

or the English Nation’s money. It was buried treasure; but it was not

private property. It was the acme of plutocracy because it was not

private property. Now, by following this precedent, this unprincipled

vagueness about official and unofficial moneys by the cheerful habit of

always mixing up the money in the pocket with the money in the till, it

would be quite possible to keep the rich as rich as ever in practice,

though they might have suffered confiscation in theory. Mr. Lloyd George

has four hundred a year as an M. P.; but he not only gets much more as a

Minister, but he might at any time get immeasurably more by speculating

on State secrets that are necessarily known to him. Some say that he has

even attempted something of the kind. Now, it would be quite possible to

cut Mr. George down, not to four hundred a year, but to fourpence a

day; and still leave him all these other and enormous financial

superiorities. It must be remembered that a Socialist State, in any way

resembling a modern State, must, however egalitarian it may be, have the

handling of huge sums, and the enjoyment of large conveniences; it is

not improbable that the same men will handle and enjoy in much the same

manner, though in theory they are doing it as instruments, and not as

individuals. For instance, the Prime Minister has a private house, which

is also (I grieve to inform that eminent Puritan) a public house. It

is supposed to be a sort of Government office; though people do not

generally give children’s parties, or go to bed in a Government office.

I do not know where Mr. Herbert Samuel lives; but I have no doubt he

does himself well in the matter of decoration and furniture. On the

existing official parallel there is no need to move any of these

things in order to Socialise them. There is no need to withdraw one

diamond-headed nail from the carpet; or one golden teaspoon from the

tray. It is only necessary to call it an official residence, like

10 Downing-street. I think it is not at all improbable that this

Plutocracy, pretending to be a Bureaucracy, will be attempted or

achieved. Our wealthy rulers will be in the position which grumblers

in the world of sport sometimes attribute to some of the “gentlemen”

players. They assert that some of these are paid like any professional;

only their pay is called their expenses. This system might run side by

side with a theory of equal wages, as absolute as that once laid down by

Mr. Bernard Shaw. By the theory of the State, Mr. Herbert Samuel and Mr.

Lloyd George might be humble citizens, drudging for their fourpence

a day; and no better off than porters and coal-heavers. If there were

presented to our mere senses what appeared to be the form of Mr. Herbert

Samuel in an astrakhan coat and a motor-car, we should find the record

of the expenditure (if we could find it at all) under the heading of

“Speed Limit Extension Enquiry Commission.” If it fell to our lot to

behold (with the eye of flesh) what seemed to be Mr. Lloyd George

lying in a hammock and smoking a costly cigar, we should know that the

expenditure would be divided between the “Condition of Rope and Netting

Investigation Department,” and the “State of Cuban Tobacco Trade:

Imperial Inspector’s Report.”

Such is the society I think they will build unless we can knock it down

as fast as they build it. Everything in it, tolerable or intolerable,

will have but one use; and that use what our ancestors used to

call usance or usury. Its art may be good or bad, but it will be an

advertisement for usurers; its literature may be good or bad, but it

will appeal to the patronage of usurers; its scientific selection will

select according to the needs of usurers; its religion will be just

charitable enough to pardon usurers; its penal system will be just cruel

enough to crush all the critics of usurers: the truth of it will be

Slavery: and the title of it may quite possibly be Socialism.

THE ESCAPE

We watched you building, stone by stone,

IX. LA MASCHERA DEL SOCIALISMO

Lo scopo principale di tutti gli onesti socialisti in questo momento è impedire l’avvento

del socialismo. Non lo dico come dileggio, ma, al contrario, come un

complimento; un complimento al loro istinto politico e al loro spirito civico.

Ammetto che lo si può chiamare un’esagerazione; ma esiste davvero una sorta di

socialismo fasullo che i politici moderni potrebbero benissimo accordarsi per

instaurare; e se riescono a instaurarlo, la battaglia per i poveri è

perduta.

Dobbiamo notare, anzitutto, una verità generale sul curioso tempo in cui

viviamo. Non sarà così difficile come alcuni potrebbero supporre far sì che

lo Stato Servile assomigli piuttosto al socialismo, specialmente agli occhi del più

pedante tipo di socialista. La ragione è questa. Il vecchio, lucido e

tagliente espositore del socialismo, come Blatchford o Fred Henderson,

descrive sempre il potere economico dei plutocrati come consistente nella

proprietà privata. Certo, in un senso, questo è del tutto vero; benché essi

troppo spesso manchino il punto che la proprietà privata, come tale, non è la stessa cosa

della proprietà ristretta a pochi. Ma la verità è che la situazione è

divenuta assai più sottile; forse troppo sottile, per non dire troppo folle, per

teorici dal pensiero diretto come Blatchford. Il ricco oggi non

governa soltanto usando la proprietà privata; governa anche trattando

la proprietà pubblica come se fosse proprietà privata. Un uomo come Lord Murray

tirava i fili, specialmente i cordoni della borsa; ma tutto il senso della

sua posizione era che ogni sorta di fili si era ingarbugliata. La segreta

forza del denaro che deteneva non stava semplicemente nel fatto che fosse

il suo denaro. Stava precisamente nel fatto che nessuno aveva un’idea chiara

se fosse il suo denaro, o il denaro del suo successore, o il denaro di suo fratello,

o il denaro della Marconi Company, o il denaro del Partito Liberale,

o il denaro della Nazione inglese. Era un tesoro sepolto; ma non era

proprietà privata. Era l’acme della plutocrazia proprio perché non era

proprietà privata. Ora, seguendo questo precedente, questa spregiudicata

vaghezza circa i denari ufficiali e non ufficiali, con l’allegra abitudine di

confondere sempre il denaro in tasca con il denaro nella cassa,

sarebbe del tutto possibile mantenere i ricchi ricchi come sempre in pratica,

benché in teoria abbiano subìto la confisca. Il signor Lloyd George

ha quattrocento sterline l’anno come deputato; ma non solo ne ottiene molte di più come

Ministro, ma potrebbe in qualsiasi momento ottenerne incommensurabilmente di più speculando

su segreti di Stato che gli sono necessariamente noti. Alcuni dicono che abbia

persino tentato qualcosa del genere. Ora, sarebbe del tutto possibile

ridurre il signor George, non a quattrocento sterline l’anno, ma a quattro pence al

giorno; e lasciargli comunque tutte queste altre ed enormi superiorità

finanziarie. Va ricordato che uno Stato socialista, in qualunque modo

assomigli a uno Stato moderno, per quanto egualitario possa essere, deve avere la

gestione di somme ingenti, e il godimento di grandi comodità; non è

improbabile che gli stessi uomini gestiscano e godano press’a poco allo stesso

modo, benché in teoria lo facciano in quanto strumenti, e non in quanto

individui. Per esempio, il Primo Ministro ha una casa privata, che

è anche (mi duole informare quell’eminente puritano) una casa pubblica. Si

presume sia una sorta di ufficio governativo; benché la gente non

generalmente dia feste per bambini, né vada a dormire, in un ufficio governativo.

Non so dove viva il signor Herbert Samuel; ma non ho alcun dubbio che

si tratti bene in fatto di decorazioni e mobilio. Sul

parallelo ufficiale esistente non c’è bisogno di spostare alcuna di queste

cose per socializzarle. Non c’è bisogno di togliere un solo

chiodo dalla testa di diamante dal tappeto; o un solo cucchiaino d’oro dal

vassoio. È solo necessario chiamarla residenza ufficiale, come

il numero 10 di Downing Street. Penso che non sia affatto improbabile che questa

plutocrazia, fingendosi burocrazia, sarà tentata o

conseguita. I nostri ricchi governanti saranno nella posizione che i brontoloni

nel mondo dello sport talvolta attribuiscono ad alcuni dei “gentiluomini”

giocatori. Costoro sostengono che alcuni di essi sono pagati come qualsiasi professionista;

solo che la loro paga è chiamata rimborso spese. Questo sistema potrebbe correre fianco a

fianco con una teoria dei salari uguali, assoluta quanto quella un tempo enunciata dal

signor Bernard Shaw. Secondo la teoria dello Stato, il signor Herbert Samuel e il signor

Lloyd George potrebbero essere umili cittadini, sgobbando per i loro quattro pence

al giorno; e non più agiati di facchini e scaricatori di carbone. Se ci fosse

presentata ai nostri meri sensi quella che sembrasse la figura del signor Herbert

Samuel in un cappotto di astrakan e su un’automobile, troveremmo la registrazione

della spesa (se mai riuscissimo a trovarla) sotto la voce

“Commissione d’inchiesta sull’estensione del limite di velocità.” Se ci capitasse di

scorgere (con l’occhio della carne) quel che sembrasse il signor Lloyd George

disteso in un’amaca e intento a fumare un costoso sigaro, sapremmo che la

spesa sarebbe ripartita tra il “Dipartimento d’indagine sullo stato di corde e reti

”, e lo “Stato del commercio del tabacco cubano:

Relazione dell’Ispettore Imperiale.”

Tale è la società che penso costruiranno a meno che non riusciamo a demolirla

con la stessa rapidità con cui la costruiscono. Ogni cosa in essa, tollerabile o intollerabile,

avrà un solo uso; e quell’uso è ciò che i nostri antenati usavano

chiamare usanza o usura. La sua arte potrà essere buona o cattiva, ma sarà una

réclame per usurai; la sua letteratura potrà essere buona o cattiva, ma

si appellerà al patrocinio degli usurai; la sua selezione scientifica

selezionerà secondo i bisogni degli usurai; la sua religione sarà

caritatevole quel tanto che basta a perdonare gli usurai; il suo sistema penale sarà

crudele quel tanto che basta a schiacciare tutti i critici degli usurai: la sua verità sarà

la Schiavitù: e il suo titolo potrà benissimo essere Socialismo.

LA FUGA

Vi guardavamo costruire, pietra su pietra,

The well-washed cells and well-washed graves

We shall inhabit but not own

When Britons ever shall be slaves;

The water’s waiting in the trough,

The tame oats sown are portioned free,

There is Enough, and just Enough,

And all is ready now but we.

But you have not caught us yet, my lords,

You have us still to get.

A sorry army you’d have got,

Its flags are rags that float and rot,

Its drums are empty pan and pot,

Its baggage is—an empty cot;

But you have not caught us yet.

A little; and we might have slipped

When came your rumours and your sales

And the foiled rich men, feeble-lipped,

Said and unsaid their sorry tales;

Great God! It needs a bolder brow

To keep ten sheep inside a pen,

And we are sheep no longer now;

You are but Masters. We are Men.

We give you all good thanks, my lords,

We buy at easy price;

Thanks for the thousands that you stole,

The bribes by wire, the bets on coal,

The knowledge of that naked whole

That hath delivered our flesh and soul

Out of your Paradise.

We had held safe your parks; but when

Men taunted you with bribe and fee,

We only saw the Lord of Men

Grin like an Ape and climb a tree;

And humbly had we stood without

Your princely barns; did we not see

In pointed faces peering out

What Rats now own the granary.

It is too late, too late, my lords,

We give you back your grace:

You cannot with all cajoling

Make the wet ditch, or winds that sting,

Lost pride, or the pawned wedding rings,

Or drink or Death a blacker thing

Than a smile upon your face.

THE NEW RAID

The two kinds of social reform, one of which might conceivably free

us at last while the other would certainly enslave us forever, are

exhibited in an easy working model in the two efforts that have been

made for the soldiers’ wives—I mean the effort to increase their

allowance and the effort to curtail their alleged drinking. In the

preliminary consideration, at any rate, we must see the second question

as quite detached from our own sympathies on the special subject of

fermented liquor. It could be applied to any other pleasure or ornament

of life; it will be applied to every other pleasure and ornament of life

if the Capitalist campaign can succeed. The argument we know; but

it cannot be too often made clear. An employer, let us say, pays a

seamstress twopence a day, and she does not seem to thrive on it. So

little, perhaps, does she thrive on it that the employer has even some

difficulty in thriving upon her. There are only two things that he can

do, and the distinction between them cuts the whole social and political

world in two. It is a touchstone by which we can—not sometimes, but

always—distinguish economic equality from servile social reform. He can

give the girl some magnificent sum, such as sixpence a day, to do as she

likes with, and trust that her improved health and temper will work for

the benefit of his business. Or he may keep her to the original sum of a

shilling a week, but earmark each of the pennies to be used or not to

be used for a particular purpose. If she must not spend this penny on a

bunch of violets, or that penny on a novelette, or the other penny on

a toy for some baby, it is possible that she will concentrate her

expenditure more upon physical necessities, and so become, from the

employer’s point of view, a more efficient person. Without the trouble

of adding twopence to her wages, he has added twopenny-worth to her

food. In short, she has the holy satisfaction of being worth more

without being paid more.

This Capitalist is an ingenious person, and has many polished

characteristics; but I think the most singular thing about him is his

staggering lack of shame. Neither the hour of death nor the day of

reckoning, neither the tent of exile nor the house of mourning, neither

chivalry nor patriotism, neither womanhood nor widowhood, is safe at

this supreme moment from his dirty little expedient of dieting the

slave. As similar bullies, when they collect the slum rents, put a

foot in the open door, these are always ready to push in a muddy wedge

wherever there is a slit in a sundered household or a crack in a broken

heart. To a man of any manhood nothing can be conceived more loathsome

and sacrilegious than even so much as asking whether a woman who has

given up all she loved to death and the fatherland has or has not shown

some weakness in her seeking for self-comfort. I know not in which of

the two cases I should count myself the baser for inquiring—a case

where the charge was false or a case where it was true. But the

philanthropic employer of the sort I describe is not a man of any

manhood; in a sense he is not a man at all. He shows some consciousness

of the fact when he calls his workers “men” as distinct from masters. He

cannot comprehend the gallantry of costermongers or the delicacy that is

quite common among cabmen. He finds this social reform by half-rations

on the whole to his mercantile profit, and it will be hard to get him to

think of anything else.

But there are people assisting him, people like the Duchess of

Marlborough, who know not their right hand from their left, and to these

we may legitimately address our remonstrance and a resume of some of

the facts they do not know. The Duchess of Marlborough is, I believe,

an American, and this separates her from the problem in a special way,

because the drink question in America is entirely different from the

drink question in England. But I wish the Duchess of Marlborough would

pin up in her private study, side by side with the Declaration of

Independence, a document recording the following simple truths: (1)

Le celle ben lavate e le tombe ben lavate

Abiteremo ma non possederemo

Quando i Britanni saranno finalmente schiavi;

L’acqua aspetta nel truogolo,

La docile avena seminata è distribuita gratis,

C’è Abbastanza, e appena Abbastanza,

E tutto è pronto ormai tranne noi.

Ma non ci avete ancora presi, miei signori,

Dovete ancora acciuffarci.

Un misero esercito avreste avuto,

Le sue bandiere son stracci che ondeggiano e marciscono,

I suoi tamburi son padella e pentola vuote,

Il suo bagaglio è—una culla vuota;

Ma non ci avete ancora presi.

Un poco; e saremmo potuti sfuggire

Quando giunsero le vostre voci e le vostre vendite

E i ricchi sconfitti, dalle labbra fiacche,

Dissero e disdissero le loro tristi storie;

Gran Dio! Ci vuole una fronte più ardita

Per tenere dieci pecore dentro un recinto,

E noi non siamo più pecore ormai;

Voi siete solo Padroni. Noi siamo Uomini.

Vi rendiamo tutti i debiti ringraziamenti, miei signori,

Compriamo a buon prezzo;

Grazie per le migliaia che rubaste,

Le tangenti via telegrafo, le scommesse sul carbone,

La conoscenza di quel nudo intero

Che ha liberato la nostra carne e la nostra anima

Fuori dal vostro Paradiso.

Avevamo custodito i vostri parchi; ma quando

Gli uomini vi schernirono con tangenti e compensi,

Vedemmo solo il Signore degli Uomini

Ghignare come una Scimmia e arrampicarsi su un albero;

E umilmente eravamo stati fuori

Dai vostri principeschi granai; non vedemmo forse

In musi aguzzi che sbucavano

Quali Ratti ora posseggono il granaio.

È troppo tardi, troppo tardi, miei signori,

Vi restituiamo la vostra grazia:

Non potete con tutte le lusinghe

Rendere il fosso bagnato, o i venti che pungono,

L’orgoglio perduto, o le fedi nuziali impegnate,

O il bere o la Morte cosa più nera

Di un sorriso sul vostro volto.

LA NUOVA SCORRERIA

I due tipi di riforma sociale, uno dei quali potrebbe forse liberarci

alla fine mentre l’altro ci renderebbe di certo schiavi per sempre, sono

esibiti in un facile modello concreto nei due sforzi che sono stati

fatti per le mogli dei soldati—intendo lo sforzo di aumentare il loro

sussidio e lo sforzo di frenare il loro presunto bere. Nella

considerazione preliminare, in ogni caso, dobbiamo vedere la seconda questione

come del tutto distaccata dalle nostre simpatie sul particolare tema delle

bevande fermentate. Potrebbe applicarsi a ogni altro piacere o ornamento

della vita; si applicherà a ogni altro piacere e ornamento della vita

se la campagna capitalista potrà riuscire. L’argomento lo conosciamo; ma

non lo si può chiarire troppo spesso. Un datore di lavoro, diciamo, paga a una

sarta due penny al giorno, e lei non sembra prosperarci. Così

poco, forse, vi prospera che il datore ha perfino qualche

difficoltà a prosperare su di lei. Ci sono solo due cose che egli può

fare, e la distinzione tra esse taglia l’intero mondo sociale e politico

in due. È una pietra di paragone con cui possiamo—non a volte, ma

sempre—distinguere l’eguaglianza economica dalla servile riforma sociale. Egli può

dare alla ragazza qualche somma magnifica, come sei penny al giorno, da usare come

meglio crede, e confidare che la sua salute e il suo umore migliorati gioveranno

al bene dei suoi affari. Oppure può tenerla alla somma originaria di uno

scellino a settimana, ma destinare ciascuno dei penny a essere usato o no

per uno scopo particolare. Se ella non deve spendere questo penny in un

mazzo di violette, o quel penny in un romanzetto, o l’altro penny in

un giocattolo per qualche bimbo, è possibile che ella concentri la sua

spesa più sulle necessità fisiche, e così divenga, dal

punto di vista del datore, una persona più efficiente. Senza il disturbo

di aggiungere due penny al suo salario, egli ha aggiunto due penny di valore al suo

cibo. In breve, ella ha la santa soddisfazione di valere di più

senza essere pagata di più.

Questo Capitalista è una persona ingegnosa, e ha molte raffinate

caratteristiche; ma credo che la cosa più singolare in lui sia la sua

sconcertante mancanza di vergogna. Né l’ora della morte né il giorno del

giudizio, né la tenda dell’esilio né la casa del lutto, né

la cavalleria né il patriottismo, né la femminilità né la vedovanza, è al sicuro in

questo momento supremo dal suo sporco piccolo espediente di mettere a dieta lo

schiavo. Come simili prepotenti, quando riscuotono gli affitti dei bassifondi, mettono un

piede nella porta aperta, costoro sono sempre pronti a ficcare un fangoso cuneo

ovunque vi sia una fessura in una casa divisa o una crepa in un cuore

spezzato. Per un uomo di una qualche virilità nulla può concepirsi di più ripugnante

e sacrilego che anche solo il chiedere se una donna che ha

dato tutto ciò che amava alla morte e alla patria abbia o non abbia mostrato

qualche debolezza nel suo cercare conforto di sé. Non so in quale dei

due casi mi dovrei ritenere il più vile per l’aver indagato—un caso

in cui l’accusa era falsa o un caso in cui era vera. Ma il

filantropico datore di lavoro del tipo che descrivo non è un uomo di alcuna

virilità; in un certo senso non è affatto un uomo. Egli mostra una certa coscienza

del fatto quando chiama i suoi operai «uomini» distinti dai padroni. Egli

non può comprendere la galanteria dei venditori ambulanti o la delicatezza che è

assai comune tra i vetturini. Egli trova questa riforma sociale a mezze razioni

nel complesso vantaggiosa al suo profitto mercantile, e sarà difficile fargli

pensare a qualcos’altro.

Ma vi sono persone che lo assistono, persone come la Duchessa di

Marlborough, che non distinguono la mano destra dalla sinistra, e a costoro

possiamo legittimamente rivolgere la nostra rimostranza e un riepilogo di alcuni dei

fatti che non conoscono. La Duchessa di Marlborough è, credo,

un’americana, e ciò la separa dal problema in un modo particolare,

perché la questione del bere in America è del tutto diversa dalla

questione del bere in Inghilterra. Ma vorrei che la Duchessa di Marlborough

appendesse nel suo studio privato, accanto alla Dichiarazione di

Indipendenza, un documento che riporti le seguenti semplici verità: (1)

Beer, which is largely drunk in public-houses, is not a spirit or a grog

or a cocktail or a drug. It is the common English liquid for quenching

the thirst; it is so still among innumerable gentlemen, and, until very

lately, was so among innumerable ladies. Most of us remember dames of

the last generation whose manners were fit for Versailles, and who drank

ale or Stout as a matter of course. Schoolboys drank ale as a matter of

course, and their schoolmasters gave it to them as a matter of course.

To tell a poor woman that she must not have any until half the day is

over is simply cracked, like telling a dog or a child that he must

not have water. (2) The public-house is not a secret rendezvous of bad

characters. It is the open and obvious place for a certain purpose,

which all men used for that purpose until the rich began to be snobs

and the poor to become slaves. One might as well warn people against

Willesden Junction. (3) Many poor people live in houses where they

cannot, without great preparation, offer hospitality. (4) The climate of

these picturesque islands does not favour conducting long conversations

with one’s oldest friends on an iron seat in the park. (5) Halfpast

eleven a.m. is not early in the day for a woman who gets up before six.

(6) The bodies and minds of these women belong to God and to themselves.

THE NEW NAME

Something has come into our community, which is strong enough to save

our community; but which has not yet got a name. Let no one fancy I

confess any unreality when I confess the namelessness. The morality

called Puritanism, the tendency called Liberalism, the reaction called

Tory Democracy, had not only long been powerful, but had practically

done most of their work, before these actual names were attached to

them. Nevertheless, I think it would be a good thing to have some

portable and practicable way of referring to those who think as we do

in our main concern. Which is, that men in England are ruled, at this

minute by the clock, by brutes who refuse them bread, by liars who

refuse them news, and by fools who cannot govern, and therefore wish to

enslave.

Let me explain first why I am not satisfied with the word commonly used,

which I have often used myself; and which, in some contexts, is quite

the right word to use. I mean the word “rebel.” Passing over the fact

that many who understand the justice of our cause (as a great many at

the Universities) would still use the word “rebel” in its old and strict

sense as meaning only a disturber of just rule. I pass to a much more

practical point. The word “rebel” understates our cause. It is much too

mild; it lets our enemies off much too easily. There is a tradition in

all western life and letters of Prometheus defying the stars, of man

at war with the Universe, and dreaming what nature had never dared to

dream. All this is valuable in its place and proportion. But it has

nothing whatever to do with our ease; or rather it very much weakens it.

The plutocrats will be only too pleased if we profess to preach a new

morality; for they know jolly well that they have broken the old one.

They will be only too pleased to be able to say that we, by our own

confession, are merely restless and negative; that we are only what we

call rebels and they call cranks. But it is not true; and we must not

concede it to them for a moment. The model millionaire is more of a

crank than the Socialists; just as Nero was more of a crank than the

Christians. And avarice has gone mad in the governing class to-day, just

as lust went mad in the circle of Nero. By all the working and orthodox

standards of sanity, capitalism is insane. I should not say to Mr.

Rockefeller “I am a rebel.” I should say “I am a respectable man: and

you are not.”

Our Lawless Enemies

But the vital point is that the confession of mere rebellion softens

the startling lawlessness of our enemies. Suppose a publisher’s clerk

politely asked his employer for a rise in his salary; and, on being

refused, said he must leave the employment? Suppose the employer knocked

him down with a ruler, tied him up as a brown paper parcel, addressed

him (in a fine business hand) to the Governor of Rio Janeiro and then

asked the policeman to promise never to arrest him for what he had

done? That is a precise copy, in every legal and moral principle, of the

“deportation of the strikers.” They were assaulted and kidnapped for not

accepting a contract, and for nothing else; and the act was so avowedly

criminal that the law had to be altered afterwards to cover the crime.

Now suppose some postal official, between here and Rio Janeiro, had

noticed a faint kicking inside the brown paper parcel, and had attempted

to ascertain the cause. And suppose the clerk could only explain, in a

muffled voice through the brown paper, that he was by constitution and

temperament a Rebel. Don’t you see that he would be rather understating

his case? Don’t you see he would be bearing his injuries much too

meekly? They might take him out of the parcel; but they would very

possibly put him into a mad-house instead. Symbolically speaking, that

is what they would like to do with us. Symbolically speaking, the dirty

misers who rule us will put us in a mad-house—unless we can put them

there.

Or suppose a bank cashier were admittedly allowed to take the money out

of the till, and put it loose in his pocket, more or less mixed up with

his own money; afterwards laying some of both (at different odds) on

“Blue Murder” for the Derby. Suppose when some depositor asked mildly

what day the accountants came, he smote that astonished inquirer on the

nose, crying: “Slanderer! Mud-slinger!” and suppose he then resigned his

position. Suppose no books were shown. Suppose when the new cashier came

La birra, che si beve per lo più nelle osterie, non è un liquore né un grog

né un cocktail né una droga. È il comune liquido inglese per placare

la sete; e tale rimane presso innumerevoli gentiluomini, e, fino a

tempi assai recenti, lo era presso innumerevoli dame. Molti di noi ricordano signore della

generazione passata i cui modi erano degni di Versailles, e che bevevano

ale o Stout come cosa del tutto naturale. Gli scolari bevevano ale come cosa del tutto

naturale, e i loro maestri gliela davano come cosa del tutto naturale.

Dire a una povera donna che non può averne finché metà della giornata non sia

trascorsa è semplicemente folle, come dire a un cane o a un bambino che non deve

avere l’acqua. (2) L’osteria non è un ritrovo segreto di brutti

ceffi. È il luogo aperto e ovvio per un certo scopo,

scopo per cui tutti gli uomini la usavano finché i ricchi non cominciarono a farsi snob

e i poveri a farsi schiavi. Si potrebbe altrettanto bene mettere in guardia la gente contro

lo scalo di Willesden. (3) Molti poveri vivono in case dove

non possono, senza grandi preparativi, offrire ospitalità. (4) Il clima di

queste pittoresche isole non favorisce lunghe conversazioni

con i propri amici più vecchi su una panchina di ferro nel parco. (5) Le undici

e mezza del mattino non sono presto per una donna che si alza prima delle sei.

(6) I corpi e le menti di queste donne appartengono a Dio e a sé stesse.

IL NOME NUOVO

Qualcosa è entrato nella nostra comunità, qualcosa di abbastanza forte da salvare

la nostra comunità; ma che non ha ancora un nome. Nessuno immagini che io

confessi una qualche irrealtà quando confesso questa mancanza di nome. La moralità

chiamata Puritanesimo, la tendenza chiamata Liberalismo, la reazione chiamata

Democrazia Tory, non solo erano state a lungo potenti, ma avevano di fatto

compiuto la maggior parte della loro opera, prima che questi stessi nomi fossero loro

attribuiti. Nondimeno, penso che sarebbe cosa buona avere un qualche

modo maneggevole e praticabile di riferirsi a coloro che la pensano come noi

nella nostra principale preoccupazione. Che è questa: che gli uomini in Inghilterra sono governati, in questo

preciso minuto dell’orologio, da bruti che rifiutano loro il pane, da bugiardi che

rifiutano loro le notizie, e da stolti che non sanno governare, e perciò desiderano

renderli schiavi.

Lasciate che spieghi anzitutto perché non sono soddisfatto della parola comunemente usata,

che io stesso ho spesso usato; e che, in certi contesti, è proprio

la parola giusta da usare. Intendo la parola «ribelle». Sorvolando sul fatto

che molti i quali comprendono la giustizia della nostra causa (come moltissimi nelle

Università) userebbero ancora la parola «ribelle» nel suo antico e stretto

senso di semplice perturbatore di un giusto governo. Passo a un punto assai più

pratico. La parola «ribelle» sminuisce la nostra causa. È fin troppo

mite; lascia i nostri nemici a troppo buon mercato. Vi è una tradizione in

tutta la vita e le lettere d’Occidente, di Prometeo che sfida le stelle, dell’uomo

in guerra con l’Universo, e che sogna ciò che la natura non aveva mai osato

sognare. Tutto ciò ha il suo valore, nel giusto luogo e nella giusta misura. Ma non ha

nulla a che vedere con la nostra causa; anzi, la indebolisce non poco.

I plutocrati saranno fin troppo lieti se professiamo di predicare una nuova

moralità; poiché sanno maledettamente bene di aver infranto quella vecchia.

Saranno fin troppo lieti di poter dire che noi, per nostra stessa

confessione, siamo soltanto irrequieti e negativi; che siamo solo ciò che noi

chiamiamo ribelli ed essi chiamano esaltati. Ma non è vero; e non dobbiamo

concederglielo neppure per un istante. Il milionario modello è più

esaltato dei Socialisti; proprio come Nerone era più esaltato dei

Cristiani. E l’avarizia è impazzita nella classe dirigente d’oggi, proprio

come la lussuria impazzì nella cerchia di Nerone. Secondo tutti i validi e ortodossi

criteri della sanità mentale, il capitalismo è folle. Non direi al signor

Rockefeller «Io sono un ribelle». Direi «Io sono un uomo rispettabile: e

voi no».

I nostri nemici fuorilegge

Ma il punto vitale è che la confessione di una mera ribellione attenua

la sconcertante illegalità dei nostri nemici. Supponiamo che l’impiegato di un editore

chiedesse cortesemente al suo datore di lavoro un aumento di stipendio; e, essendogli

rifiutato, dicesse di dover lasciare l’impiego. Supponiamo che il datore lo

abbattesse con una riga, lo legasse come un pacco di carta da imballo, lo indirizzasse

(con bella grafia da commerciante) al Governatore di Rio de Janeiro e poi

chiedesse al poliziotto di promettere di non arrestarlo mai per ciò che aveva

fatto. Questa è la copia esatta, in ogni principio legale e morale, della

«deportazione degli scioperanti». Furono aggrediti e rapiti per non aver

accettato un contratto, e per nient’altro; e l’atto fu così dichiaratamente

criminale che la legge dovette poi essere modificata per coprire il delitto.

Ora supponiamo che qualche funzionario postale, tra qui e Rio de Janeiro, avesse

notato un debole scalciare dentro il pacco di carta da imballo, e avesse tentato

di accertarne la causa. E supponiamo che l’impiegato potesse solo spiegare, con

voce soffocata attraverso la carta, di essere per costituzione e

temperamento un ribelle. Non vedete che starebbe piuttosto sminuendo

il proprio caso? Non vedete che sopporterebbe i propri torti con troppa

mansuetudine? Potrebbero tirarlo fuori dal pacco; ma con ogni

probabilità lo caccerebbero piuttosto in una casa dei matti. Simbolicamente parlando, questo

è ciò che vorrebbero fare a noi. Simbolicamente parlando, gli sporchi

avari che ci governano ci metteranno in una casa dei matti — a meno che non possiamo mettere

loro là.

Oppure supponiamo che a un cassiere di banca fosse dichiaratamente permesso di prelevare il denaro

dalla cassa, e di metterlo sciolto in tasca, più o meno mescolato al

proprio denaro; puntando poi parte dell’uno e dell’altro (a quote diverse) su

«Blue Murder» al Derby. Supponiamo che, quando qualche depositante chiedesse blandamente

che giorno venissero i revisori, egli colpisse quell’attonito questuante sul

naso, gridando: «Calunniatore! Diffamatore!» e supponiamo che poi rassegnasse le

dimissioni. Supponiamo che nessun registro venisse mostrato. Supponiamo che, quando giungesse il nuovo cassiere

to be initiated into his duties, the old cashier did not tell him about

the money, but confided it to the honour and delicacy of his own maiden

aunt at Cricklewood. Suppose he then went off in a yacht to visit

the whale fisheries of the North Sea. Well, in every moral and legal

principle, that is a precise account of the dealings with the Party

Funds. But what would the banker say? What would the clients say? One

thing, I think, I can venture to promise; the banker would not march up

and down the office exclaiming in rapture, “I’m a rebel! That’s what I

am, a rebel!” And if he said to the first indignant depositor “You are

a rebel,” I fear the depositor might answer, “You are a robber.” We have

no need to elaborate arguments for breaking the law. The capitalists

have broken the law. We have no need of further moralities. They have

broken their own morality. It is as if you were to run down the street

shouting, “Communism! Communism! Share! Share!” after a man who had run

away with your watch.

We want a term that will tell everybody that there is, by the common

standard, frank fraud and cruelty pushed to their fierce extreme; and

that we are fighting THEM. We are not in a state of “divine discontent”;

we are in an entirely human and entirely reasonable rage. We say we have

been swindled and oppressed, and we are quite ready and able to prove it

before any tribunal that allows us to call a swindler a swindler. It is

the protection of the present system that most of its tribunals do not.

I cannot at the moment think of any party name that would particularly

distinguish us from our more powerful and prosperous opponents, unless

it were the name the old Jacobites gave themselves; the Honest Party.

Captured Our Standards

I think it is plain that for the purpose of facing these new and

infamous modern facts, we cannot, with any safety, depend on any of the

old nineteenth century names; Socialist, or Communist, or Radical, or

Liberal, or Labour. They are all honourable names; they all stand, or

stood, for things in which we may still believe; we can still apply them

to other problems; but not to this one. We have no longer a monopoly

of these names. Let it be understood that I am not speaking here of the

philosophical problem of their meaning, but of the practical problem of

their use. When I called myself a Radical I knew Mr. Balfour would not

call himself a Radical; therefore there was some use in the word. When

I called myself a Socialist I knew Lord Penrhyn would not call himself

a Socialist; therefore there was some use in the word. But the

capitalists, in that aggressive march which is the main fact of our

time, have captured our standards, both in the military and philosophic

sense of the word. And it is useless for us to march under colours which

they can carry as well as we.

Do you believe in Democracy? The devils also believe and tremble. Do you

believe in Trades Unionism? The Labour Members also believe; and tremble

like a falling teetotum. Do you believe in the State? The Samuels also

believe, and grin. Do you believe in the centralisation of Empire? So

did Beit. Do you believe in the decentralisation of Empire? So does

Albu. Do you believe in the brotherhood of men: and do you, dear

brethren, believe that Brother Arthur Henderson does not? Do you cry,

“The world for the workers!” and do you imagine Philip Snowden would

not? What we need is a name that shall declare, not that the modern

treason and tyranny are bad, but that they are quite literally,

intolerable: and that we mean to act accordingly. I really think “the

Limits” would be as good a name as any. But, anyhow, something is born

among us that is as strong as an infant Hercules: and it is part of

my prejudices to want it christened. I advertise for godfathers and

godmothers.

A WORKMAN’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND

A thing which does not exist and which is very much wanted is “A

Working-Man’s History of England.” I do not mean a history written

for working men (there are whole dustbins of them), I mean a history,

written by working men or from the working men’s standpoint. I wish five

generations of a fisher’s or a miner’s family could incarnate themselves

in one man and tell the story.

It is impossible to ignore altogether any comment coming from so eminent

a literary artist as Mr. Laurence Housman, but I do not deal here so

specially with his well known conviction about Votes for Women, as with

another idea which is, I think, rather at the back of it, if not with

him at least with others; and which concerns this matter of the true

story of England. For the true story is so entirely different from the

false official story that the official classes tell that by this time

the working class itself has largely forgotten its own experience.

Either story can be quite logically linked up with Female Suffrage,

which, therefore, I leave where it is for the moment; merely confessing

that, so long as we get hold of the right story and not the wrong story,

it seems to me a matter of secondary importance whether we link it up

with Female Suffrage or not.

Now the ordinary version of recent English history that most moderately

educated people have absorbed from childhood is something like this.

That we emerged slowly from a semi-barbarism in which all the power

and wealth were in the hands of Kings and a few nobles; that the King’s

power was broken first and then in due time that of the nobles, that

this piece-meal improvement was brought about by one class after

another waking up to a sense of citizenship and demanding a place in

the national councils, frequently by riot or violence; and that in

consequence of such menacing popular action, the franchise was granted

to one class after another and used more and more to improve the social

per essere iniziato ai suoi doveri, il vecchio cassiere non gli parlò

del denaro, ma lo affidò all’onore e alla delicatezza della propria vecchia

zia zitella a Cricklewood. Supponiamo che poi sia partito su uno yacht per visitare

le baleniere del Mare del Nord. Ebbene, per ogni principio morale e legale,

questo è un resoconto preciso di come ci si è comportati con i Fondi del

Partito. Ma cosa direbbe il banchiere? Cosa direbbero i clienti? Una

cosa, credo, oso promettere: il banchiere non passeggerebbe su

e giù per l’ufficio esclamando in estasi: «Sono un ribelle! Ecco cosa

sono, un ribelle!». E se dicesse al primo indignato depositante: «Lei è

un ribelle», temo che il depositante potrebbe rispondere: «Lei è un ladro». Non

abbiamo bisogno di elaborare argomenti per infrangere la legge. I capitalisti

hanno infranto la legge. Non abbiamo bisogno di ulteriori moralità. Hanno

infranto la loro stessa morale. È come se tu corressi giù per la strada

gridando: «Comunismo! Comunismo! Dividere! Dividere!» dietro a un uomo che è scappato

col tuo orologio.

Vogliamo un termine che dica a tutti che vi è, secondo il comune

criterio, aperta frode e crudeltà spinte al loro feroce estremo; e

che stiamo combattendo LORO. Non siamo in uno stato di «divino scontento»;

siamo in una collera del tutto umana e del tutto ragionevole. Diciamo di essere

stati truffati e oppressi, e siamo del tutto pronti e capaci di provarlo

davanti a qualsiasi tribunale che ci permetta di chiamare truffatore un truffatore. È

una difesa del sistema attuale che la maggior parte dei suoi tribunali non lo consenta.

Al momento non riesco a pensare ad alcun nome di partito che ci distingua in modo particolare

dai nostri avversari più potenti e prosperi, a meno che

non fosse il nome che i vecchi Giacobiti si diedero: il Partito Onesto.

Catturati i Nostri Stendardi

Penso sia evidente che, allo scopo di affrontare questi nuovi e

infami fatti moderni, non possiamo, con alcuna sicurezza, affidarci ad alcuno dei

vecchi nomi dell’Ottocento: Socialista, o Comunista, o Radicale, o

Liberale, o Laburista. Sono tutti nomi onorevoli; tutti rappresentano, o

rappresentavano, cose in cui possiamo ancora credere; possiamo ancora applicarli

ad altri problemi; ma non a questo. Non abbiamo più il monopolio

di questi nomi. Sia chiaro che qui non parlo del

problema filosofico del loro significato, ma del problema pratico del

loro uso. Quando mi definivo Radicale sapevo che il signor Balfour non si sarebbe

definito Radicale; perciò la parola aveva una qualche utilità. Quando

mi definivo Socialista sapevo che Lord Penrhyn non si sarebbe definito

Socialista; perciò la parola aveva una qualche utilità. Ma i

capitalisti, in quella marcia aggressiva che è il fatto principale del nostro

tempo, hanno catturato i nostri stendardi, sia nel senso militare sia in quello filosofico

della parola. Ed è inutile per noi marciare sotto colori che

essi possono portare tanto bene quanto noi.

Credi nella Democrazia? Anche i demoni credono e tremano. Credi

nel Sindacalismo? Anche i deputati laburisti credono; e tremano

come una trottola che cade. Credi nello Stato? Anche i Samuel

credono, e sogghignano. Credi nell’accentramento dell’Impero? Così

faceva Beit. Credi nel decentramento dell’Impero? Così fa

Albu. Credi nella fratellanza degli uomini: e credi tu, caro

fratello, che il Fratello Arthur Henderson non ci creda? Gridi:

«Il mondo ai lavoratori!» e immagini che Philip Snowden non lo

farebbe? Ciò che ci serve è un nome che dichiari, non che il moderno

tradimento e la moderna tirannia siano cattivi, ma che siano, del tutto letteralmente,

intollerabili: e che intendiamo agire di conseguenza. Penso davvero che «i

Limiti» sarebbe un nome buono quanto un altro. Ma, comunque, qualcosa nasce

tra noi, forte quanto un Ercole neonato: ed è parte dei

miei pregiudizi volerlo battezzare. Cerco padrini e

madrine.

UNA STORIA D’INGHILTERRA DI UN OPERAIO

Una cosa che non esiste e di cui si sente gran bisogno è «Una

Storia d’Inghilterra dell’operaio». Non intendo una storia scritta

per gli operai (ce ne sono interi bidoni), intendo una storia,

scritta dagli operai o dal punto di vista degli operai. Vorrei che cinque

generazioni della famiglia di un pescatore o di un minatore si incarnassero

in un solo uomo e raccontassero la storia.

È impossibile ignorare del tutto qualsiasi commento proveniente da un così eminente

artista letterario come il signor Laurence Housman, ma non mi occupo qui in modo

così particolare della sua ben nota convinzione sul Voto alle Donne, quanto di

un’altra idea che, credo, le sta piuttosto dietro, se non in lui

almeno in altri; e che riguarda questa questione della vera

storia dell’Inghilterra. Poiché la vera storia è così interamente diversa dalla

falsa storia ufficiale che le classi ufficiali raccontano, che ormai, a questo tempo,

la stessa classe operaia ha in gran parte dimenticato la propria esperienza.

Entrambe le versioni possono, del tutto logicamente, essere collegate al Suffragio Femminile,

che, perciò, lascio dov’è per il momento; limitandomi a confessare

che, purché si afferri la storia giusta e non quella sbagliata,

mi sembra questione di secondaria importanza che la colleghiamo

o no al Suffragio Femminile.

Ora, la versione ordinaria della recente storia inglese che la maggior parte delle persone mediamente

istruite ha assorbito fin dall’infanzia è più o meno questa.

Che siamo emersi lentamente da una semi-barbarie in cui tutto il potere

e la ricchezza erano nelle mani dei Re e di pochi nobili; che il potere del Re

fu spezzato per primo e poi, a suo tempo, quello dei nobili; che

questo miglioramento frammentario fu prodotto da una classe dopo

l’altra che si destava a un senso di cittadinanza e reclamava un posto nei

consigli nazionali, spesso con la sommossa o la violenza; e che in

conseguenza di tale minacciosa azione popolare, il diritto di voto fu concesso

a una classe dopo l’altra e usato sempre più per migliorare le condizioni sociali

conditions of those classes, until we practically became a democracy,

save for such exceptions as that of the women. I do not think anyone

will deny that something like that is the general idea of the educated

man who reads a newspaper and of the newspaper that he reads. That

is the view current at public schools and colleges; it is part of the

culture of all the classes that count for much in government; and there

is not one word of truth in it from beginning to end.

That Great Reform Bill

Wealth and political power were very much more popularly distributed

in the Middle Ages than they are now; but we will pass all that and

consider recent history. The franchise has never been largely and

liberally granted in England; half the males have no vote and are not

likely to get one. It was never granted in reply to pressure from

awakened sections of the democracy; in every case there was a perfectly

clear motive for granting it solely for the convenience of the

aristocrats. The Great Reform Bill was not passed in response to such

riots as that which destroyed a Castle; nor did the men who destroyed

the Castle get any advantage whatever out of the Great Reform Bill. The

Great Reform Bill was passed in order to seal an alliance between the

landed aristocrats and the rich manufacturers of the north (an alliance

that rules us still); and the chief object of that alliance was to

prevent the English populace getting any political power in the

general excitement after the French Revolution. No one can read

Macaulay’s speech on the Chartists, for instance, and not see that this

is so. Disraeli’s further extension of the suffrage was not effected

by the intellectual vivacity and pure republican theory of the

mid-Victorian agricultural labourer; it was effected by a politician

who saw an opportunity to dish the Whigs, and guessed that certain

orthodoxies in the more prosperous artisan might yet give him a balance

against the commercial Radicals. And while this very thin game of

wire-pulling with the mere abstraction of the vote was being worked

entirely by the oligarchs and entirely in their interests, the solid and

real thing that was going on was the steady despoiling of the poor

of all power or wealth, until they find themselves to-day upon the

threshold of slavery. That is The Working Man’s History of England.

Now, as I have said, I care comparatively little what is done with the

mere voting part of the matter, so long as it is not claimed in such

a way as to allow the plutocrat to escape his responsibility for

his crimes, by pretending to be much more progressive, or much more

susceptible to popular protest, than he ever has been. And there is this

danger in many of those who have answered me. One of them, for

instance, says that women have been forced into their present industrial

situations by the same iron economic laws that have compelled men. I say

that men have not been compelled by iron economic laws, but in the main

by the coarse and Christless cynicism of other men. But, of course,

this way of talking is exactly in accordance with the fashionable

and official version of English history. Thus, you will read that the

monasteries, places where men of the poorest origin could be powerful,

grew corrupt and gradually decayed. Or you will read that the mediaeval

guilds of free workmen yielded at last to an inevitable economic law.

You will read this; and you will be reading lies. They might as well say

that Julius Caesar gradually decayed at the foot of Pompey’s statue. You

might as well say that Abraham Lincoln yielded at last to an inevitable

economic law. The free mediaeval guilds did not decay; they were

murdered. Solid men with solid guns and halberds, armed with lawful

warrants from living statesmen broke up their corporations and took away

their hard cash from them. In the same way the people in Cradley Heath

are no more victims of a necessary economic law than the people in

Putumayo. They are victims of a very terrible creature, of whose sins

much has been said since the beginning of the world; and of whom it was

said of old, “Let us fall into the hands of God, for His mercies are

great; but let us not fall into the hands of Man.”

The Capitalist Is in the Dock

Now it is this offering of a false economic excuse for the sweater that

is the danger in perpetually saying that the poor woman will use the

vote and that the poor man has not used it. The poor man is prevented

from using it; prevented by the rich man, and the poor woman would be

prevented in exactly the same gross and stringent style. I do not deny,

of course, that there is something in the English temperament, and in

the heritage of the last few centuries that makes the English workman

more tolerant of wrong than most foreign workmen would be. But this only

slightly modifies the main fact of the moral responsibility. To take an

imperfect parallel, if we said that negro slaves would have rebelled

if negroes had been more intelligent, we should be saying what is

reasonable. But if we were to say that it could by any possibility be

represented as being the negro’s fault that he was at that moment

in America and not in Africa, we should be saying what is frankly

unreasonable. It is every bit as unreasonable to say the mere supineness

of the English workmen has put them in the capitalist slave-yard. The

capitalist has put them in the capitalist slaveyard; and very cunning

smiths have hammered the chains. It is just this creative criminality in

the authors of the system that we must not allow to be slurred over. The

capitalist is in the dock to-day; and so far as I at least can prevent

him, he shall not get out of it.

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND THE IRISH

It will be long before the poison of the Party System is worked out

condizioni di quelle classi, fino a diventare praticamente una democrazia,

Salvo alcune eccezioni come quella delle donne, non credo che qualcuno…

Nega che qualcosa del genere sia l’idea generale degli istruiti

L’uomo che legge un giornale e il giornale che lui legge

È l’opinione corrente nelle scuole e nei college; ne fa parte la…

cultura di tutte le classi che contano molto nel governo; e là

non c’è una sola parola di verità da principio a fine.

Quel grande disegno di legge sulla riforma

La ricchezza e il potere politico erano molto più distribuiti in modo popolare

nel Medioevo più che ora; ma lasciamo perdere tutto questo e…

Considerate la storia recente. Il diritto di voto non è mai stato ampiamente e

Concesso liberamente in Inghilterra; la metà degli uomini non ha il diritto di voto e non lo è

Probabile che se ne ottenga uno. Non fu mai concesso come risposta alle pressioni da

hanno risvegliato settori della democrazia; in ogni caso c’era una perfetta

Motivo chiaro per concederlo solo per comodità

aristocratici. Il grande disegno di legge per la riforma non fu approvato in risposta a tali

disordini come quello che distrusse un castello; né gli uomini che lo distrussero

il Castello non trasse alcun vantaggio dal Grande disegno di legge sulla riforma. Il

Il grande disegno di legge per la riforma fu approvato allo scopo di sigillare un’alleanza tra il

Aristocratici terrieri e ricchi industriali del nord (un’alleanza)

che ancora ci governa); e l’obiettivo principale di quell’alleanza era di

impedire che la popolazione inglese ottenga potere politico

eccitazione generale dopo la Rivoluzione Francese. Nessuno può leggere

Il discorso di Macaulay sui Cartisti, per esempio, e non capire che questo

È così. L’ulteriore estensione del suffragio da parte di Disraeli non fu realizzata

Dalla vitalità intellettuale e dalla pura teoria repubblicana

L’operaio agricolo del periodo vittoriano di metà secolo: fu realizzato da un politico

Chi vide l’occasione di screditare i Whig e intuì che certi…

Ortodossie nel più prospero artigiano potrebbero ancora dargli un equilibrio

Contro i radicali commerciali e mentre questo gioco molto sottile di

Manovre elettorali con l’astrazione del voto in corso

Interamente controllato dagli oligarchi e interamente nei loro interessi, il solido e

La vera cosa che stava succedendo era il costante impoverimento dei poveri

di tutto il potere o la ricchezza, fino a trovarsi oggi in una situazione…

soglia della servitù. Questa è la storia dell’operaio inglese.

Ora, come ho detto, mi interessa relativamente poco cosa si faccia con il…

La semplice votazione è parte della questione, purché non sia richiesta in tal modo

Un modo che permetta al plutocrate di eludere la sua responsabilità per

I suoi crimini, fingendo di essere molto più progressisti o molto più…

più sensibile alle proteste popolari di quanto non sia mai stato. E c’è questo

Il pericolo di molti che mi hanno risposto. Uno di loro, per esempio…

Ad esempio, si dice che le donne siano state costrette nella loro attuale situazione industriale

Situazioni governate dalle stesse rigide leggi economiche che hanno costretto gli uomini. Dico

Gli uomini non sono stati costretti da rigide leggi economiche, ma per lo più

dal cinismo grossolano e senza Cristo di altri uomini. Ma, ovviamente,

Questo modo di parlare è esattamente in linea con la moda

e la versione ufficiale della storia inglese storia. Così, leggerete che il

Monasteri, luoghi dove uomini di umili origini potevano essere potenti

si corruppe e gradualmente decadde. Oppure leggerai che il medievale

le corporazioni di liberi lavoratori cedettero infine a una legge economica inevitabile.

Leggerete questo e leggerete menzogne. Potrebbero altrettanto bene dire

che Giulio Cesare andò gradualmente in rovina ai piedi della statua di Pompeo. You

potrebbe altrettanto bene dire che Abraham Lincoln cedette infine a un inevitabile fato

legge economica. Le libere corporazioni medievali non sono cadute in decadenza; sono state

Uccisi. Uomini seri con armi e alabarde solide, dotati di legittima…

Mandati di arresto da parte di statisti in carica sciolsero le loro corporazioni e tolsero

Il denaro facile e la gente di Cradley Heath

Non sono vittime di una legge economica necessaria più degli altri

Putumayo: vittime di una creatura terribile e dei suoi peccati

Molto è stato detto dall’inizio del mondo e da chi lo fu

Dicevano un tempo: «Cadiamo nelle mani di Dio, perché le sue misericordie sono…

grande; ma non cadiamo nelle mani dell’uomo».

Il capitalista è sul banco degli imputati

Ora è questa offerta di una scusa economica falsa per la maglia che

Il pericolo di dire sempre che la povera donna utilizzerà…

Voto e l’uomo povero che non lo usa. L’uomo povero è ostacolato

dall’usarlo; impedito dal ricco e dalla povera donna sarebbe

Impedito nello stesso stile volgare e severo. Non nego,

Certo che c’è qualcosa nel temperamento inglese e in…

L’eredità degli ultimi secoli che ha creato l’operaio inglese

più tolleranti verso l’errore rispetto alla maggior parte dei lavoratori stranieri, ma questo solo

Modifica leggermente il fatto principale della responsabilità morale. Per esempio,

Parallelo imperfetto: se avessimo detto che gli schiavi neri si sarebbero ribellati

Se i negri fossero stati più intelligenti, diremmo ciò che è

Ragionevole. Ma se dovessimo dire che potrebbe in qualche modo essere…

Rappresentato come colpa del negro per essere in quel momento

in America e non in Africa, dovremmo dire ciò che è francamente

Ingenuo. È altrettanto ingenuo dire che la mera inerzia

Gli operai inglesi sono finiti nel cortile degli schiavi capitalistici.

Il capitalista li ha messi nel cortile degli schiavi capitalistici e molto astuto

I fabbri hanno battuto le catene. È proprio questa creatività criminale che…

Gli autori del sistema che non dobbiamo permettere di essere ignorati.

Il capitalista è oggi sul banco degli imputati; e finché posso, lo eviterò

lui non ne uscirà mai.

LA RIVOLUZIONE FRANCESE E GLI IRLANDESI

Passerà molto tempo prima che il veleno del sistema dei partiti sia eliminato

of the body politic. Some of its most indirect effects are the most

dangerous. One that is very dangerous just now is this: that for most

Englishmen the Party System falsifies history, and especially the

history of revolutions. It falsifies history because it simplifies

history. It paints everything either Blue or Buff in the style of its

own silly circus politics: while a real revolution has as many colours

as the sunrise—or the end of the world. And if we do not get rid of

this error we shall make very bad blunders about the real revolution

which seems to grow more and more probable, especially among the Irish.

And any human familiarity with history will teach a man this first of

all: that Party practically does not exist in a real revolution. It is a

game for quiet times.

If you take a boy who has been to one of those big private schools which

are falsely called the Public Schools, and another boy who has been to

one of those large public schools which are falsely called the Board

Schools, you will find some differences between the two, chiefly a

difference in the management of the voice. But you will find they

are both English in a special way, and that their education has been

essentially the same. They are ignorant on the same subjects. They have

never heard of the same plain facts. They have been taught the wrong

answer to the same confusing question. There is one fundamental element

in the attitude of the Eton master talking about “playing the game,”

and the elementary teacher training gutter-snipes to sing, “What is the

Meaning of Empire Day?” And the name of that element is “unhistoric.” It

knows nothing really about England, still less about Ireland or France,

and, least of all, of course, about anything like the French Revolution.

Revolution by Snap Division

Now what general notion does the ordinary English boy, thus taught to

utter one ignorance in one of two accents, get and keep through life

about the French Revolution? It is the notion of the English House of

Commons with an enormous Radical majority on one side of the table and

a small Tory minority on the other; the majority voting solid for a

Republic, the minority voting solid for a Monarchy; two teams tramping

through two lobbies with no difference between their methods and ours,

except that (owing to some habit peculiar to Gaul) the brief intervals

were brightened by a riot or a massacre, instead of by a whisky and soda

and a Marconi tip. Novels are much more reliable than histories in such

matters. For though an English novel about France does not tell the

truth about France, it does tell the truth about England; and more than

half the histories never tell the truth about anything. And popular

fiction, I think, bears witness to the general English impression. The

French Revolution is a snap division with an unusual turnover of votes.

On the one side stand a king and queen who are good but weak, surrounded

by nobles with rapiers drawn; some of whom are good, many of whom are

wicked, all of whom are good-looking. Against these there is a formless

mob of human beings, wearing red caps and seemingly insane, who all

blindly follow ruffians who are also rhetoricians; some of whom die

repentant and others unrepentant towards the end of the fourth act.

The leaders of this boiling mass of all men melted into one are called

Mirabeau, Robespierre, Danton, Marat, and so on. And it is conceded that

their united frenzy may have been forced on them by the evils of the old

regime.

That, I think, is the commonest English view of the French Revolution;

and it will not survive the reading of two pages of any real speech or

letter of the period. These human beings were human; varied, complex and

inconsistent. But the rich Englishman, ignorant of revolutions, would

hardly believe you if you told him some of the common human subtleties

of the case. Tell him that Robespierre threw the red cap in the dirt in

disgust, while the king had worn it with a broad grin, so to speak; tell

him that Danton, the fierce founder of the Republic of the Terror, said

quite sincerely to a noble, “I am more monarchist than you;” tell him

that the Terror really seems to have been brought to an end chiefly by

the efforts of people who particularly wanted to go on with it—and he

will not believe these things. He will not believe them because he has

no humility, and therefore no realism. He has never been inside himself;

and so could never be inside another man. The truth is that in the

French affair everybody occupied an individual position. Every man

talked sincerely, if not because he was sincere, then because he was

angry. Robespierre talked even more about God than about the Republic

because he cared even more about God than about the Republic. Danton

talked even more about France than about the Republic because he cared

even more about France than about the Republic. Marat talked more about

Humanity than either, because that physician (though himself somewhat

needing a physician) really cared about it. The nobles were divided,

each man from the next. The attitude of the king was quite different

from the attitude of the queen; certainly much more different than any

differences between our Liberals and Tories for the last twenty years.

And it will sadden some of my friends to remember that it was the king

who was the Liberal and the queen who was the Tory. There were not two

people, I think, in that most practical crisis who stood in precisely

the same attitude towards the situation. And that is why, between them,

they saved Europe. It is when you really perceive the unity of mankind

that you really perceive its variety. It is not a flippancy, it is a

very sacred truth, to say that when men really understand that they are

del corpo politico. Alcuni dei suoi effetti più indiretti sono i più

pericolosi. Uno molto pericoloso proprio ora è questo: che per la maggior parte

degli inglesi il Sistema dei Partiti falsifica la storia, e specialmente la

storia delle rivoluzioni. Falsifica la storia perché la semplifica

storia. Dipinge ogni cosa o di Azzurro o di Camoscio nello stile della sua

sciocca politica da circo: mentre una vera rivoluzione ha tanti colori

quanti l’alba—o la fine del mondo. E se non ci liberiamo di

questo errore commetteremo pessimi abbagli sulla vera rivoluzione

che sembra farsi sempre più probabile, specialmente tra gli irlandesi.

E ogni umana familiarità con la storia insegnerà a un uomo prima di

tutto questo: che il Partito praticamente non esiste in una vera rivoluzione. È un

gioco per tempi tranquilli.

Se prendete un ragazzo che ha frequentato una di quelle grandi scuole private che

sono falsamente chiamate Public Schools, e un altro ragazzo che ha frequentato

una di quelle grandi scuole pubbliche che sono falsamente chiamate Board

Schools, troverete alcune differenze tra i due, principalmente una

differenza nel controllo della voce. Ma scoprirete che entrambi

sono inglesi in un modo speciale, e che la loro educazione è stata

essenzialmente la stessa. Sono ignoranti sugli stessi argomenti. Non hanno

mai sentito parlare degli stessi semplici fatti. È stata loro insegnata la

risposta sbagliata alla stessa domanda che confonde. C’è un elemento fondamentale

nell’atteggiamento del maestro di Eton che parla di «stare al gioco»,

e del maestro elementare che addestra i monelli di strada a cantare: «Qual è il

Significato dell’Empire Day?». E il nome di quell’elemento è «astorico». Non

sa davvero nulla dell’Inghilterra, ancor meno dell’Irlanda o della Francia,

e, meno di tutto, naturalmente, di qualcosa come la Rivoluzione francese.

Rivoluzione per Voto Improvviso

Ora, quale nozione generale l’ordinario ragazzo inglese, così addestrato a

proferire un’unica ignoranza in uno di due accenti, ricava e conserva per tutta la vita

sulla Rivoluzione francese? È la nozione della Camera inglese dei

Comuni con un’enorme maggioranza Radicale da un lato del tavolo e

una piccola minoranza Tory dall’altro; la maggioranza che vota compatta per una

Repubblica, la minoranza che vota compatta per una Monarchia; due squadre che marciano

attraverso due corridoi senza alcuna differenza tra i loro metodi e i nostri,

salvo che (per qualche abitudine peculiare della Gallia) i brevi intervalli

erano ravvivati da una sommossa o da un massacro, invece che da un whisky e soda

e da una soffiata sulle azioni Marconi. I romanzi sono molto più affidabili delle storie in tali

questioni. Poiché sebbene un romanzo inglese sulla Francia non dica la

verità sulla Francia, dice la verità sull’Inghilterra; e più della

metà delle storie non dice mai la verità su nulla. E la narrativa

popolare, credo, testimonia l’impressione generale inglese. La

Rivoluzione francese è una divisione improvvisa con un insolito ribaltamento di voti.

Da un lato stanno un re e una regina che sono buoni ma deboli, circondati

da nobili con lo stocco sguainato; alcuni dei quali sono buoni, molti dei quali sono

malvagi, tutti quanti di bell’aspetto. Contro costoro c’è una informe

folla di esseri umani, con berretti rossi e apparentemente folle, che tutti

seguono ciecamente furfanti che sono anche retori; alcuni dei quali muoiono

pentiti e altri impenitenti verso la fine del quarto atto.

I capi di questa massa ribollente di tutti gli uomini fusi in uno solo si chiamano

Mirabeau, Robespierre, Danton, Marat, e così via. E si concede che

la loro frenesia congiunta possa essere stata loro imposta dai mali del vecchio

regime.

Questa, credo, è la più comune visione inglese della Rivoluzione francese;

e non sopravviverà alla lettura di due pagine di un qualsiasi vero discorso o

lettera dell’epoca. Questi esseri umani erano umani; vari, complessi e

incoerenti. Ma il ricco inglese, ignorante di rivoluzioni,

a stento vi crederebbe se gli raccontaste alcune delle comuni sottigliezze umane

del caso. Ditegli che Robespierre gettò il berretto rosso nel fango con

disgusto, mentre il re l’aveva portato con un largo sorriso, per così dire; ditegli

che Danton, il feroce fondatore della Repubblica del Terrore, disse

con tutta sincerità a un nobile: «Sono più monarchico di voi»; ditegli

che al Terrore sembra davvero essere stata posta fine soprattutto dagli

sforzi di persone che desideravano in particolare continuarlo—ed egli

non crederà a queste cose. Non ci crederà perché non ha

nessuna umiltà, e dunque nessun realismo. Non è mai stato dentro se stesso;

e così non poté mai essere dentro un altro uomo. La verità è che nella

faccenda francese ognuno occupava una posizione individuale. Ogni uomo

parlava sinceramente, se non perché era sincero, allora perché era

adirato. Robespierre parlava ancor più di Dio che della Repubblica

perché gli importava ancor più di Dio che della Repubblica. Danton

parlava ancor più della Francia che della Repubblica perché gli importava

ancor più della Francia che della Repubblica. Marat parlava più di

Umanità di entrambi, perché quel medico (per quanto egli stesso alquanto

bisognoso di un medico) davvero se ne curava. I nobili erano divisi,

ciascuno dall’altro. L’atteggiamento del re era del tutto diverso

dall’atteggiamento della regina; certamente assai più diverso di qualsiasi

differenza tra i nostri Liberali e Tory negli ultimi vent’anni.

E rattristerà alcuni dei miei amici ricordare che fu il re

a essere il Liberale e la regina a essere la Tory. Non c’erano due

persone, credo, in quella crisi quanto mai concreta che stessero esattamente nel

medesimo atteggiamento verso la situazione. Ed è per questo che, insieme,

salvarono l’Europa. È quando si percepisce davvero l’unità del genere umano

che se ne percepisce davvero la varietà. Non è una leggerezza, è una

verità assai sacra, dire che quando gli uomini comprendono davvero di essere

brothers they instantly begin to fight.

The Revival of Reality

Now these things are repeating themselves with an enormous reality in

the Irish Revolution. You will not be able to make a Party System out of

the matter. Everybody is in revolt; therefore everybody is telling the

truth. The Nationalists will go on caring most for the nation, as Danton

and the defenders of the frontier went on caring most for the nation.

The priests will go on caring most for religion, as Robespierre went on

caring most for religion. The Socialists will go on caring most for the

cure of physical suffering, as Marat went on caring most for it. It is

out of these real differences that real things can be made, such as the

modern French democracy. For by such tenacity everyone sees at last that

there is something in the other person’s position. And those drilled in

party discipline see nothing either past or present. And where there is

nothing there is Satan.

For a long time past in our politics there has not only been no real

battle, but no real bargain. No two men have bargained as Gladstone and

Parnell bargained—each knowing the other to be a power. But in real

revolutions men discover that no one man can really agree with another

man until he has disagreed with him.

LIBERALISM: A SAMPLE

There is a certain daily paper in England towards which I feel very much

as Tom Pinch felt towards Mr. Pecksniff immediately after he had

found him out. The war upon Dickens was part of the general war on all

democrats, about the eighties and nineties, which ushered in the brazen

plutocracy of to-day. And one of the things that it was fashionable to

say of Dickens in drawing-rooms was that he had no subtlety, and could

not describe a complex frame of mind. Like most other things that are

said in drawing-rooms, it was a lie. Dickens was a very unequal writer,

and his successes alternate with his failures; but his successes

are subtle quite as often as they are simple. Thus, to take “Martin

Chuzzlewit” alone, I should call the joke about the Lord No-zoo a simple

joke: but I should call the joke about Mrs. Todgers’s vision of a wooden

leg a subtle joke. And no frame of mind was ever so self-contradictory

and yet so realistic as that which Dickens describes when he says, in

effect, that, though Pinch knew now that there had never been such a

person as Pecksniff, in his ideal sense, he could not bring himself

to insult the very face and form that had contained the legend. The

parallel with Liberal journalism is not perfect; because it was once

honest; and Pecksniff presumably never was. And even when I come to feel

a final incompatibility of temper, Pecksniff was not so Pecksniffian as

he has since become. But the comparison is complete in so far as I share

all the reluctance of Mr. Pinch. Some old heathen king was advised by

one of the Celtic saints, I think, to burn what he had adored and adore

what he had burnt. I am quite ready, if anyone will prove I was wrong,

to adore what I have burnt; but I do really feel an unwillingness

verging upon weakness to burning what I have adored. I think it is a

weakness to be overcome in times as bad as these, when (as Mr. Orage

wrote with something like splendid common sense the other day) there is

such a lot to do and so few people who will do it. So I will devote

this article to considering one case of the astounding baseness to which

Liberal journalism has sunk.

Mental Breakdown in Fleet Street

One of the two or three streaks of light on our horizon can be perceived

in this: that the moral breakdown of these papers has been accompanied

by a mental breakdown also. The contemporary official paper, like the

“Daily News” or the “Daily Chronicle” (I mean in so far as it deals with

politics), simply cannot argue; and simply does not pretend to argue. It

considers the solution which it imagines that wealthy people want, and

it signifies the same in the usual manner; which is not by holding

up its hand, but by falling on its face. But there is no more curious

quality in its degradation than a sort of carelessness, at once of

hurry and fatigue, with which it flings down its argument—or rather its

refusal to argue. It does not even write sophistry: it writes anything.

It does not so much poison the reader’s mind as simply assume that the

reader hasn’t got one. For instance, one of these papers printed an

article on Sir Stuart Samuel, who, having broken the great Liberal

statute against corruption, will actually, perhaps, be asked to pay his

own fine—in spite of the fact that he can well afford to do so. The

article says, if I remember aright, that the decision will cause general

surprise and some indignation. That any modern Government making a very

rich capitalist obey the law will cause general surprise, may be true.

Whether it will cause general indignation rather depends on whether

our social intercourse is entirely confined to Park Lane, or any such

pigsties built of gold. But the journalist proceeds to say, his neck

rising higher and higher out of his collar, and his hair rising higher

and higher on his head, in short, his resemblance to the Dickens’

original increasing every instant, that he does not mean that the law

against corruption should be less stringent, but that the burden should

be borne by the whole community. This may mean that whenever a rich man

breaks the law, all the poor men ought to be made to pay his fine. But

I will suppose a slightly less insane meaning. I will suppose it means

that the whole power of the commonwealth should be used to prosecute an

offender of this kind. That, of course, can only mean that the matter

will be decided by that instrument which still pretends to represent

the whole power of the commonwealth. In other words, the Government will

judge the Government.

fratelli, cominciano immediatamente a combattersi.

Il Risveglio della Realtà

Ora queste cose si stanno ripetendo con una realtà enorme nella

Rivoluzione irlandese. Non riuscirete a ricavare un Sistema di Partiti da

quella materia. Tutti sono in rivolta; perciò tutti dicono la

verità. I Nazionalisti continueranno a curarsi soprattutto della nazione, come Danton

e i difensori della frontiera continuarono a curarsi soprattutto della nazione.

I preti continueranno a curarsi soprattutto della religione, come Robespierre continuò a

curarsi soprattutto della religione. I Socialisti continueranno a curarsi soprattutto della

cura della sofferenza fisica, come Marat continuò a curarsene soprattutto. È

da queste differenze reali che possono nascere cose reali, come la

moderna democrazia francese. Perché con tale tenacia ognuno vede alla fine che

c’è qualcosa nella posizione dell’altro. E coloro che sono addestrati alla

disciplina di partito non vedono nulla, né passato né presente. E dove non c’è

nulla, c’è Satana.

Da lungo tempo nella nostra politica non solo non c’è stata alcuna vera

battaglia, ma nemmeno alcun vero patto. Nessun uomo ha contrattato come Gladstone e

Parnell contrattarono — ciascuno riconoscendo nell’altro una potenza. Ma nelle vere

rivoluzioni gli uomini scoprono che nessuno può davvero accordarsi con un altro

uomo finché non è stato in disaccordo con lui.

IL LIBERALISMO: UN CAMPIONE

C’è un certo quotidiano in Inghilterra verso il quale provo pressappoco

ciò che Tom Pinch provava verso il signor Pecksniff subito dopo averlo

smascherato. La guerra contro Dickens faceva parte della guerra generale contro tutti i

democratici, negli anni ottanta e novanta, che inaugurò la sfrontata

plutocrazia di oggi. E una delle cose che era di moda

dire di Dickens nei salotti era che egli mancava di sottigliezza e non sapeva

descrivere uno stato d’animo complesso. Come la maggior parte delle altre cose che si

dicono nei salotti, era una menzogna. Dickens era uno scrittore molto ineguale,

e i suoi successi si alternano ai suoi fallimenti; ma i suoi successi

sono sottili tanto spesso quanto sono semplici. Così, per prendere «Martin

Chuzzlewit» da solo, definirei la battuta su Lord No-zoo una battuta semplice:

ma definirei la battuta sulla visione della signora Todgers di una gamba di

legno una battuta sottile. E nessuno stato d’animo fu mai tanto auto-contraddittorio

eppure tanto realistico quanto quello che Dickens descrive quando dice, in

sostanza, che, sebbene Pinch sapesse ormai che non era mai esistita una

persona come Pecksniff, nel suo senso ideale, non riusciva a indursi

a insultare quel volto e quella figura stessa che avevano contenuto la leggenda. Il

parallelo con il giornalismo liberale non è perfetto; perché esso un tempo fu

onesto; e Pecksniff presumibilmente non lo fu mai. E anche quando arrivo a sentire

una definitiva incompatibilità di carattere, Pecksniff non era così pecksniffiano come

è poi divenuto. Ma il paragone è completo nella misura in cui condivido

tutta la riluttanza del signor Pinch. Un antico re pagano fu consigliato da

uno dei santi celtici, credo, di bruciare ciò che aveva adorato e adorare

ciò che aveva bruciato. Sono del tutto pronto, se qualcuno proverà che avevo torto,

ad adorare ciò che ho bruciato; ma provo davvero una riluttanza

che rasenta la debolezza a bruciare ciò che ho adorato. Penso sia una

debolezza da vincere in tempi tristi come questi, quando (come il signor Orage

scrisse con qualcosa di simile a uno splendido buon senso l’altro giorno) c’è

tanto da fare e così poche persone che lo faranno. Dedicherò dunque

questo articolo a considerare un caso della sbalorditiva bassezza a cui

il giornalismo liberale è sprofondato.

Crollo Mentale a Fleet Street

Una delle due o tre strisce di luce sul nostro orizzonte si può scorgere

in questo: che il crollo morale di questi giornali è stato accompagnato

anche da un crollo mentale. Il giornale ufficiale contemporaneo, come il

«Daily News» o il «Daily Chronicle» (intendo nella misura in cui si occupa di

politica), semplicemente non sa argomentare; e semplicemente non finge di argomentare. Esso

considera la soluzione che immagina i ricchi desiderino, e

la manifesta nel modo consueto; che non consiste nell’alzare

la mano, ma nel cadere bocconi. Ma non c’è qualità più curiosa

nella sua degradazione di una sorta di noncuranza, insieme di

fretta e stanchezza, con cui getta giù il proprio argomento — o piuttosto il proprio

rifiuto di argomentare. Non scrive nemmeno sofismi: scrive qualunque cosa.

Non tanto avvelena la mente del lettore quanto semplicemente presume che il

lettore non ne abbia una. Per esempio, uno di questi giornali stampò un

articolo su Sir Stuart Samuel, il quale, avendo violato il grande statuto liberale

contro la corruzione, forse verrà davvero chiamato a pagare la propria

multa — nonostante il fatto che possa ben permetterselo. L’

articolo dice, se ricordo bene, che la decisione causerà generale

sorpresa e una certa indignazione. Che un qualsiasi Governo moderno costringa un

capitalista molto ricco a obbedire alla legge causi generale sorpresa, può esser vero.

Se causerà generale indignazione dipende piuttosto dal fatto che

i nostri rapporti sociali siano interamente confinati a Park Lane, o a simili

porcili costruiti d’oro. Ma il giornalista prosegue dicendo, col collo

che si erge sempre più fuori dal colletto, e i capelli che si rizzano sempre più

in alto sulla testa, in breve, con la sua somiglianza all’

originale dickensiano che cresce ad ogni istante, che egli non intende che la legge

contro la corruzione debba essere meno rigorosa, ma che il peso debba

essere sostenuto dall’intera comunità. Ciò può significare che ogni volta che un ricco

viola la legge, tutti i poveri debbano essere costretti a pagargli la multa. Ma

supporrò un significato un po’ meno folle. Supporrò che significhi

che l’intera potenza dello Stato debba essere usata per perseguire un

trasgressore di questo genere. Ciò, naturalmente, può solo significare che la faccenda

sarà decisa da quello strumento che ancora pretende di rappresentare

l’intera potenza dello Stato. In altre parole, il Governo

giudicherà il Governo.

Now this is a perfectly plain piece of brute logic. We need not go into

the other delicious things in the article, as when it says that “in old

times Parliament had to be protected against Royal invasion by the man

in the street.” Parliament has to be protected now against the man

in the street. Parliament is simply the most detested and the most

detestable of all our national institutions: all that is evident enough.

What is interesting is the blank and staring fallacy of the attempted

reply.

When the Journalist Is Ruined

A long while ago, before all the Liberals died, a Liberal introduced

a Bill to prevent Parliament being merely packed with the slaves of

financial interests. For that purpose he established the excellent

democratic principle that the private citizen, as such, might protest

against public corruption. He was called the Common Informer. I

believe the miserable party papers are really reduced to playing on the

degradation of the two words in modern language. Now the word “common”

in “Common Informer” means exactly what it means in “common sense” or

“Book of Common Prayer,” or (above all) in “House of Commons.” It

does not mean anything low or vulgar; any more than they do. The only

difference is that the House of Commons really is low and vulgar; and

the Common Informer isn’t. It is just the same with the word “Informer.”

It does not mean spy or sneak. It means one who gives information. It

means what “journalist” ought to mean. The only difference is that the

Common Informer may be paid if he tells the truth. The common journalist

will be ruined if he does.

Now the quite plain point before the party journalist is this: If

he really means that a corrupt bargain between a Government and a

contractor ought to be judged by public opinion, he must (nowadays) mean

Parliament; that is, the caucus that controls Parliament. And he must

decide between one of two views. Either he means that there can be no

such thing as a corrupt Government. Or he means that it is one of the

characteristic qualities of a corrupt Government to denounce its own

corruption. I laugh; and I leave him his choice.

THE FATIGUE OF FLEET STREET

Why is the modern party political journalism so bad? It is worse even

than it intends to be. It praises its preposterous party leaders through

thick and thin; but it somehow succeeds in making them look greater

fools than they are. This clumsiness clings even to the photographs

of public men, as they are snapshotted at public meetings. A sensitive

politician (if there is such a thing) would, I should think, want to

murder the man who snapshots him at those moments. For our general

impression of a man’s gesture or play of feature is made up of a series

of vanishing instants, at any one of which he may look worse than our

general impression records. Mr. Augustine Birrell may have made quite a

sensible and amusing speech, in the course of which his audience would

hardly have noticed that he resettled his necktie. Snapshot him, and

he appears as convulsively clutching his throat in the agonies of

strangulation, and with his head twisted on one side as if he had been

hanged. Sir Edward Carson might make a perfectly good speech, which no

one thought wearisome, but might himself be just tired enough to shift

from one leg to the other. Snapshot him, and he appears as holding one

leg stiffly in the air and yawning enough to swallow the audience.

But it is in the prose narratives of the Press that we find most

manifestations of this strange ineptitude; this knack of exhibiting your

own favourites in an unlucky light. It is not so much that the party

journalists do not tell the truth as that they tell just enough of it

to make it clear that they are telling lies. One of their favourite

blunders is an amazing sort of bathos. They begin by telling you that

some statesman said something brilliant in style or biting in wit, at

which his hearers thrilled with terror or thundered with applause. And

then they tell you what it was that he said. Silly asses!

Insane Exaggeration

Here is an example from a leading Liberal paper touching the debates on

Home Rule. I am a Home Ruler; so my sympathies would be, if anything, on

the side of the Liberal paper upon that point. I merely quote it as

an example of this ridiculous way of writing, which, by insane

exaggeration, actually makes its hero look smaller than he is.

This was strange language to use about the “hypocritical sham,” and Mr.

Asquith, knowing that the biggest battle of his career was upon him,

hit back without mercy. “I should like first to know,” said he, with a

glance at his supporters, “whether my proposals are accepted?”

That’s all. And I really do not see why poor Mr. Asquith should be

represented as having violated the Christian virtue of mercy by saying

that. I myself could compose a great many paragraphs upon the same

model, each containing its stinging and perhaps unscrupulous epigram.

As, for example:—“The Archbishop of Canterbury, realising that his

choice now lay between denying God and earning the crown of martyrdom by

dying in torments, spoke with a frenzy of religious passion that might

have seemed fanatical under circumstances less intense. ‘The Children’s

Service,’ he said firmly, with his face to the congregation, ‘will be

held at half-past four this afternoon as usual.’”

Or, we might have:—“Lord Roberts, recognising that he had now to face

Armageddon, and that if he lost this last battle against overwhelming

odds the independence of England would be extinguished forever,

addressed to his soldiers (looking at them and not falling off his

horse) a speech which brought their national passions to boiling point,

and might well have seemed blood-thirsty in quieter times. It ended with

Ora questo è un pezzo di pura logica perfettamente semplice. Non occorre entrare

nelle altre deliziose cose dell’articolo, come quando dice che «negli antichi

tempi il Parlamento doveva essere protetto dall’invasione Regia dall’uomo

della strada». Il Parlamento deve ora essere protetto contro l’uomo

della strada. Il Parlamento è semplicemente la più detestata e la più

detestabile di tutte le nostre istituzioni nazionali: tutto ciò è abbastanza evidente.

Ciò che è interessante è la vuota e attonita fallacia della tentata

replica.

Quando il Giornalista Viene Rovinato

Molto tempo fa, prima che tutti i Liberali morissero, un Liberale presentò

un disegno di legge per impedire che il Parlamento fosse semplicemente stipato degli schiavi degli

interessi finanziari. A tal fine stabilì l’eccellente

principio democratico che il privato cittadino, in quanto tale, potesse protestare

contro la corruzione pubblica. Fu chiamato il Common Informer. Io

credo che i miseri giornali di partito siano davvero ridotti a giocare sulla

degradazione delle due parole nella lingua moderna. Ora la parola «common»

in «Common Informer» significa esattamente ciò che significa in «common sense», o

in «Book of Common Prayer», o (soprattutto) in «House of Commons». Non

significa nulla di basso o volgare; non più di quanto lo significhino quelle. L’unica

differenza è che la House of Commons è davvero bassa e volgare; e

il Common Informer no. Accade lo stesso con la parola «Informer».

Non significa spia o delatore. Significa colui che dà informazioni. Essa

significa ciò che «journalist» dovrebbe significare. L’unica differenza è che il

Common Informer può essere pagato se dice la verità. Il comune giornalista

sarà rovinato se lo fa.

Ora il punto del tutto semplice davanti al giornalista di partito è questo: se

egli intende davvero che un patto corrotto tra un Governo e un

appaltatore debba essere giudicato dall’opinione pubblica, deve (oggigiorno) intendere

il Parlamento; cioè, il caucus che controlla il Parlamento. E deve

decidere tra una di due opinioni. O intende che non può esistere

una cosa come un Governo corrotto. Oppure intende che è una delle

qualità caratteristiche di un Governo corrotto denunciare la propria

corruzione. Io rido; e gli lascio la sua scelta.

LA STANCHEZZA DI FLEET STREET

Perché il moderno giornalismo politico di partito è così pessimo? È peggiore persino

di quanto intenda essere. Loda i suoi assurdi capipartito attraverso

ogni difficoltà; ma in qualche modo riesce a farli apparire più grandi

sciocchi di quanto siano. Questa goffaggine si attacca perfino alle fotografie

degli uomini pubblici, colti d’istantanea nelle riunioni pubbliche. Un politico sensibile

(se una cosa simile esiste) vorrebbe, immagino,

assassinare l’uomo che lo coglie d’istantanea in quei momenti. Perché la nostra generale

impressione del gesto o del gioco dei tratti di un uomo è fatta di una serie

di istanti fuggevoli, in ognuno dei quali egli può apparire peggiore della nostra

impressione generale registrata. Il signor Augustine Birrell può aver fatto un

discorso sensato e divertente, nel corso del quale il suo pubblico

difficilmente avrebbe notato che si riassettava la cravatta. Coglietelo d’istantanea, ed

egli appare mentre si stringe convulsamente la gola nelle agonie dello

strangolamento, con la testa contorta da un lato come se fosse stato

impiccato. Sir Edward Carson potrebbe fare un discorso perfettamente buono, che

nessuno giudica noioso, ma egli stesso potrebbe essere appena stanco abbastanza da spostarsi

da una gamba all’altra. Coglietelo d’istantanea, ed egli appare mentre tiene una

gamba rigida in aria e sbadiglia abbastanza da inghiottire il pubblico.

Ma è nelle narrazioni in prosa della Stampa che troviamo le maggiori

manifestazioni di questa strana inettitudine; questa abilità di mostrare i tuoi

stessi favoriti sotto una luce sfortunata. Non è tanto che i giornalisti di partito

non dicano la verità quanto che ne dicano quel tanto che basta

a rendere chiaro che stanno dicendo menzogne. Uno dei loro

svarioni preferiti è una stupefacente sorta di bathos. Cominciano col dirvi che

un qualche statista disse qualcosa di brillante nello stile o pungente nell’arguzia, al

che i suoi ascoltatori fremettero di terrore o tuonarono d’applausi. E

poi vi dicono che cosa fosse ciò che disse. Sciocchi somari!

Folle Esagerazione

Ecco un esempio da un importante giornale liberale a proposito dei dibattiti sull’

Home Rule. Io sono un Home Ruler; perciò le mie simpatie sarebbero semmai

dalla parte del giornale liberale su quel punto. Lo cito solo come

esempio di questo modo ridicolo di scrivere, che, per folle

esagerazione, fa in realtà apparire il suo eroe più piccolo di quel che è.

Fu strano linguaggio da usare a proposito della «ipocrita finzione», e il signor

Asquith, sapendo che la più grande battaglia della sua carriera gli era addosso,

reagì senza pietà. «Vorrei prima sapere», disse, con uno

sguardo ai suoi sostenitori, «se le mie proposte sono accettate?»

Tutto qui. E davvero non vedo perché il povero signor Asquith debba essere

rappresentato come colpevole di aver violato la cristiana virtù della pietà col dire

ciò. Io stesso potrei comporre moltissimi paragrafi sullo stesso

modello, ciascuno contenente il suo pungente e forse spregiudicato epigramma.

Come, per esempio: «L’Arcivescovo di Canterbury, rendendosi conto che la sua

scelta ora stava tra il rinnegare Dio e guadagnare la corona del martirio

morendo tra i tormenti, parlò con una frenesia di passione religiosa che avrebbe

potuto sembrare fanatica in circostanze meno intense. ‘Il Servizio dei

Fanciulli’, disse fermamente, col volto rivolto alla congregazione, ‘si

terrà alle quattro e mezza questo pomeriggio come al solito.’»

Oppure, potremmo avere: «Lord Roberts, riconoscendo che doveva ora affrontare

l’Armageddon, e che se avesse perso quest’ultima battaglia contro forze soverchianti

l’indipendenza dell’Inghilterra sarebbe stata spenta per sempre,

rivolse ai suoi soldati (guardandoli e senza cadere dal suo

cavallo) un discorso che portò le loro passioni nazionali al punto di ebollizione,

e avrebbe ben potuto sembrare sanguinario in tempi più tranquilli. Terminò con

the celebrated declaration that it was a fine day.”

Or we might have the much greater excitement of reading something like

this:—“The Astronomer Royal, having realised that the earth would

certainly be smashed to pieces by a comet unless his requests in

connection with wireless telegraphy were seriously considered, gave an

address at the Royal Society which, under other circumstances, would

have seemed unduly dogmatic and emotional and deficient in scientific

agnosticism. This address (which he delivered without any attempt to

stand on his head) included a fierce and even ferocious declaration that

it is generally easier to see the stars by night than by day.”

Now, I cannot see, on my conscience and reason, that any one of my

imaginary paragraphs is more ridiculous than the real one. Nobody can

believe that Mr. Asquith regards these belated and careful compromises

about Home Rule as “the biggest battle of his career.” It is only

justice to him to say that he has had bigger battles than that. Nobody

can believe that any body of men, bodily present, either thundered or

thrilled at a man merely saying that he would like to know whether his

proposals were accepted. No; it would be far better for Parliament if

its doors were shut again, and reporters were excluded. In that case,

the outer public did hear genuine rumours of almost gigantic eloquence;

such as that which has perpetuated Pitt’s reply against the charge of

youth, or Fox’s bludgeoning of the idea of war as a compromise. It would

be much better to follow the old fashion and let in no reporters at all

than to follow the new fashion and select the stupidest reporters you

can find.

Their Load of Lies

Now, why do people in Fleet-street talk such tosh? People in

Fleet-street are not fools. Most of them have realised reality through

work; some through starvation; some through damnation, or something

damnably like it. I think it is simply and seriously true that they

are tired of their job. As the general said in M. Rostand’s play, “la

fatigue!”

I do really believe that this is one of the ways in which God (don’t get

flurried, Nature if you like) is unexpectedly avenged on things infamous

and unreasonable. And this method is that men’s moral and even physical

tenacity actually give out under such a load of lies. They go on writing

their leading articles and their Parliamentary reports. They go on doing

it as a convict goes on picking oakum. But the point is not that we are

bored with their articles; the point is that they are. The work is done

worse because it is done weakly and without human enthusiasm. And it

is done weakly because of the truth we have told so many times in this

book: that it is not done for monarchy, for which men will die; or for

democracy, for which men will die; or even for aristocracy, for which

many men have died. It is done for a thing called Capitalism: which

stands out quite clearly in history in many curious ways. But the most

curious thing about it is that no man has loved it; and no man died for

it.

THE AMNESTY FOR AGGRESSION

If there is to rise out of all this red ruin something like a republic

of justice, it is essential that our views should be real views; that

is, glimpses of lives and landscapes outside ourselves. It is essential

that they should not be mere opium visions that begin and end in

smoke—and so often in cannon smoke. I make no apology, therefore, for

returning to the purely practical and realistic point I urged last week:

the fact that we shall lose everything we might have gained if we lose

the idea that the responsible person is responsible.

For instance, it is almost specially so with the one or two things in

which the British Government, or the British public, really are behaving

badly. The first, and worst of them, is the non-extension of the

Moratorium, or truce of debtor and creditor, to the very world where

there are the poorest debtors and the cruellest creditors. This is

infamous: and should be, if possible, more infamous to those who think

the war right than to those who think it wrong. Everyone knows that

the people who can least pay their debts are the people who are always

trying to. Among the poor a payment may be as rash as a speculation.

Among the rich a bankruptcy may be as safe as a bank. Considering the

class from which private soldiers are taken, there is an atrocious

meanness in the idea of buying their blood abroad, while we sell their

sticks at home. The English language, by the way, is full of delicate

paradoxes. We talk of the private soldiers because they are really

public soldiers; and we talk of the public schools because they are

really private schools. Anyhow, the wrong is of the sort that ought to

be resisted, as much in war as in peace.

Ought to Be Hammered

But as long as we speak of it as a cloudy conclusion, come to by an

anonymous club called Parliament, or a masked tribunal called the

Cabinet, we shall never get such a wrong righted. Somebody is officially

responsible for the unfairness; and that somebody ought to be hammered.

The other example, less important but more ludicrous, is the silly

boycott of Germans in England, extending even to German music. I do

not believe for a moment that the English people feel any such insane

fastidiousness. Are the English artists who practise the particularly

English art of water-colour to be forbidden to use Prussian blue? Are

all old ladies to shoot their Pomeranian dogs? But though England would

laugh at this, she will get the credit of it, and will continue: until

we ask who the actual persons are who feel sure that we should shudder

at a ballad of the Rhine. It is certain that we should find they

are capitalists. It is very probable that we should find they are

foreigners.

Some days ago the Official Council of the Independent Labour Party, or

the Independent Council of the Official Labour Party, or the Independent

and Official Council of the Labour Party (I have got quite nervous about

these names and distinctions; but they all seem to say the same thing)

began their manifesto by saying it would be difficult to assign the

degrees of responsibility which each nation had for the outbreak of the

war. Afterwards, a writer in the “Christian Commonwealth,” lamenting

war in the name of Labour, but in the language of my own romantic

middle-class, said that all the nations must share the responsibility

for this great calamity of war. Now exactly as long as we go on talking

like that we shall have war after war, and calamity after calamity,

until the crack of doom. It simply amounts to a promise of pardon to

any person who will start a quarrel. It is an amnesty for assassins. The

moment any man assaults any other man he makes all the other men as

bad as himself. He has only to stab, and to vanish in a fog of

forgetfulness. The real eagles of iron, the predatory Empires, will be

delighted with this doctrine. They will applaud the Labour Concert or

Committee, or whatever it is called. They will willingly take all the

crime, with only a quarter of the conscience: they will be as ready to

share the memory as they are to share the spoil. The Powers will divide

responsibility as calmly as they divided Poland.

The Whole Loathsome Load

But I still stubbornly and meekly submit my point: that you cannot

end war without asking who began it. If you think somebody else, not

Germany, began it, then blame that somebody else: do not blame everybody

and nobody. Perhaps you think that a small sovereign people, fresh from

two triumphant wars, ought to discrown itself before sunrise; because

the nephew of a neighbouring Emperor has been shot by his own subjects.

Very well. Then blame Servia; and, to the extent of your influence, you

may be preventing small kingdoms being obstinate or even princes being

shot. Perhaps you think the whole thing was a huge conspiracy of Russia,

with France as a dupe and Servia as a pretext. Very well. Then blame

Russia; and, to the extent of your influence, you may be preventing

great Empires from making racial excuses for a raid. Perhaps you think

France wrong for feeling what you call “revenge,” and I should

call recovery of stolen goods. Perhaps you blame Belgium for being

sentimental about her frontier; or England for being sentimental about

her word. If so, blame them; or whichever of them you think is to blame.

Or again, it is barely possible that you may think, as I do, that the

whole loathsome load has been laid upon us by the monarchy which I have

not named; still less wasted time in abusing. But if there be in Europe

a military State which has not the religion of Russia, yet has helped

Russia to tyrannise over the Poles, that State cares not for religion,

but for tyranny. If there be a State in Europe which has not the

religion of the Austrians, but has helped Austria to bully the Servians,

that State cares not for belief, but for bullying. If there be in

Europe any people or principality which respects neither republics nor

religions, to which the political ideal of Paris is as much a myth as

the mystical ideal of Moscow, then blame that: and do more than blame.

In the healthy and highly theological words of Robert Blatchford, drive

it back to the Hell from which it came.

Crying Over Spilt Blood

But whatever you do, do not blame everybody for what was certainly done

by somebody. It may be it is no good crying over spilt blood, any

more than over spilt milk. But we do not find the culprit any more by

spilling the milk over everybody; or by daubing everybody with blood.

Still less do we improve matters by watering the milk with our tears,

nor the blood either. To say that everybody is responsible means that

nobody is responsible. If in the future we see Russia annexing Rutland

(as part of the old Kingdom of Muscovy), if we see Bavaria taking a

sudden fancy to the Bank of England, or the King of the Cannibal Islands

suddenly demanding a tribute of edible boys and girls from England and

America, we may be quite certain also that the Leader of the Labour

Party will rise, with a slight cough, and say: “It would be a difficult

task to apportion the blame between the various claims which…”

REVIVE THE COURT JESTER

I hope the Government will not think just now about appointing a Poet

Laureate. I hardly think they can be altogether in the right mood. The

business just now before the country makes a very good detective story;

but as a national epic it is a little depressing. Jingo literature

always weakens a nation; but even healthy patriotic literature has

its proper time and occasion. For instance, Mr. Newbolt (who has been

suggested for the post) is a very fine poet; but I think his patriotic

lyrics would just now rather jar upon a patriot. We are rather too much

concerned about our practical seamanship to feel quite confident that

Drake will return and “drum them up the Channel as he drummed them long

ago.” On the contrary, we have an uncomfortable feeling that Drake’s

ship might suddenly go to the bottom, because the capitalists have made

Lloyd George abolish the Plimsoll Line. One could not, without being

understood ironically, adjure the two party teams to-day to “play up,

play up and play the game,” or to “love the game more than the

prize.” And there is no national hero at this moment in the soldiering

line—unless, perhaps, it is Major Archer-Shee—of whom anyone would

be likely to say: “Sed miles; sed pro patria.” There is, indeed, one

beautiful poem of Mr. Newbolt’s which may mingle faintly with one’s

il Consiglio Indipendente del Partito Laburista Ufficiale, o l’Indipendente

e Ufficiale Consiglio del Partito Laburista (mi sono davvero innervosito per

questi nomi e distinzioni; ma sembrano tutti dire la stessa cosa)

cominciò il suo manifesto dicendo che sarebbe stato difficile assegnare i

gradi di responsabilità che ciascuna nazione aveva per lo scoppio della

guerra. In seguito, uno scrittore del «Christian Commonwealth», deplorando

la guerra in nome del Lavoro, ma nel linguaggio della mia stessa romantica

classe media, disse che tutte le nazioni devono condividere la responsabilità

di questa grande calamità della guerra. Ora, esattamente finché continuiamo a parlare

così, avremo guerra dopo guerra, e calamità dopo calamità,

fino allo schianto del giudizio. Equivale semplicemente a una promessa di perdono a

chiunque inizierà una lite. È un’amnistia per gli assassini. Nel

momento in cui un uomo aggredisce un altro uomo, rende tutti gli altri uomini altrettanto

cattivi quanto lui. Non ha che da pugnalare, e da svanire in una nebbia di

oblio. Le vere aquile di ferro, gli Imperi predatori, saranno

deliziati da questa dottrina. Applaudiranno il Concerto Laburista o

Comitato, o comunque si chiami. Prenderanno volentieri tutto il

crimine, con solo un quarto della coscienza: saranno pronti tanto a

condividere la memoria quanto lo sono a condividere il bottino. Le Potenze divideranno

la responsabilità con la stessa calma con cui divisero la Polonia.

L’Intero Ripugnante Carico

Ma continuo, ostinatamente e umilmente, a sostenere il mio punto: che non si può

porre fine alla guerra senza chiedere chi l’abbia iniziata. Se pensate che sia stato qualcun altro, non

la Germania, a iniziarla, allora incolpate quel qualcun altro: non incolpate tutti

e nessuno. Forse pensate che un piccolo popolo sovrano, appena uscito da

due guerre trionfanti, dovrebbe deporre la propria corona prima dell’alba; perché

il nipote di un Imperatore vicino è stato ucciso dai suoi stessi sudditi.

Molto bene. Allora incolpate la Serbia; e, nella misura della vostra influenza, voi

potreste impedire ai piccoli regni di essere ostinati o persino ai principi di essere

uccisi. Forse pensate che l’intera faccenda sia stata un’enorme cospirazione della Russia,

con la Francia come zimbello e la Serbia come pretesto. Molto bene. Allora incolpate

la Russia; e, nella misura della vostra influenza, potreste impedire

ai grandi Imperi di inventare scuse razziali per una razzia. Forse pensate

che la Francia abbia torto a provare ciò che voi chiamate «vendetta», e che io dovrei

chiamare recupero di beni rubati. Forse incolpate il Belgio per essere

sentimentale riguardo alla sua frontiera; o l’Inghilterra per essere sentimentale riguardo alla

sua parola data. Se è così, incolpateli; o chiunque di loro riteniate colpevole.

Oppure, di nuovo, è appena possibile che pensiate, come me, che l’

intero ripugnante carico ci sia stato imposto dalla monarchia che io non ho

nominato; e ancor meno ho sprecato tempo a insultare. Ma se vi è in Europa

uno Stato militare che non ha la religione della Russia, eppure ha aiutato

la Russia a tiranneggiare i Polacchi, quello Stato non si cura della religione,

ma della tirannia. Se vi è uno Stato in Europa che non ha la

religione degli Austriaci, ma ha aiutato l’Austria a tiranneggiare i Serbi,

quello Stato non si cura della fede, ma del sopruso. Se vi è in

Europa un qualsiasi popolo o principato che non rispetta né repubbliche né

religioni, per cui l’ideale politico di Parigi è tanto un mito quanto

l’ideale mistico di Mosca, allora incolpate quello: e fate più che incolpare.

Con le sane e altamente teologiche parole di Robert Blatchford, ricacciatelo

nell’Inferno da cui è venuto.

Piangere sul Sangue Versato

Ma qualunque cosa facciate, non incolpate tutti per ciò che fu certamente fatto

da qualcuno. Può darsi che non serva piangere sul sangue versato, non

più che sul latte versato. Ma non troviamo il colpevole di più

versando il latte su tutti; o imbrattando tutti di sangue.

Ancor meno miglioriamo le cose annacquando il latte con le nostre lacrime,

né tantomeno il sangue. Dire che tutti sono responsabili significa che

nessuno è responsabile. Se in futuro vedremo la Russia annettere il Rutland

(come parte dell’antico Regno di Moscovia), se vedremo la Baviera prendere un’

improvvisa fantasia per la Banca d’Inghilterra, o il Re delle Isole dei Cannibali

improvvisamente esigere un tributo di ragazzi e ragazze commestibili dall’Inghilterra e

dall’America, potremo anche essere del tutto certi che il Leader del Partito

Laburista si alzerà, con un lieve colpo di tosse, e dirà: «Sarebbe un difficile

compito ripartire la colpa tra le varie pretese che…»

RESUSCITARE IL BUFFONE DI CORTE

Spero che il Governo non pensi proprio ora a nominare un Poeta

Laureato. Non credo affatto che possano essere del tutto nello stato d’animo giusto. La

faccenda ora davanti al paese fa un’ottima storia poliziesca;

ma come epopea nazionale è un po’ deprimente. La letteratura sciovinista

indebolisce sempre una nazione; ma persino la sana letteratura patriottica ha

il suo giusto tempo e la sua occasione. Per esempio, il signor Newbolt (che è stato

proposto per l’incarico) è un poeta molto fine; ma penso che le sue

liriche patriottiche proprio ora stonerebbero piuttosto a un patriota. Siamo un po’ troppo

preoccupati della nostra pratica marineria per sentirci del tutto fiduciosi che

Drake ritornerà e li «tamburellerà su per la Manica come li tamburellò tanto

tempo fa». Al contrario, abbiamo la spiacevole sensazione che la

nave di Drake possa improvvisamente andare a fondo, perché i capitalisti hanno fatto

abolire a Lloyd George la Linea di Plimsoll. Non si potrebbe, senza essere

inteso ironicamente, esortare oggi le due squadre di partito a «gioca,

gioca e gioca il gioco», o ad «Amare il gioco più del

premio». E non c’è alcun eroe nazionale in questo momento nella carriera

militare — a meno che, forse, non sia il Maggiore Archer-Shee — di cui qualcuno

sarebbe propenso a dire: «Sed miles; sed pro patria». C’è, invero, una

bella poesia del signor Newbolt che potrebbe mescolarsi debolmente ai propri

thoughts in such times, but that, alas, is to a very different tune. I

mean that one in which he echoes Turner’s conception of the old wooden

ship vanishing with all the valiant memories of the English:

There’s a far bell ringing

At the setting of the sun,

And a phantom voice is singing

Of the great days done.

There’s a far bell ringing,

And a phantom voice is singing

Of a fame forever clinging

To the great days done.

For the sunset breezes shiver,

Temeraire, Temeraire,

And she’s fading down the river…

Well, well, neither you nor I know whether she is fading down the river

or not. It is quite enough for us to know, as King Alfred did, that a

great many pirates have landed on both banks of the Thames.

Praise and Prophecy Impossible

At this moment that is the only kind of patriotic poem that could

satisfy the emotions of a patriotic person. But it certainly is not

the sort of poem that is expected from a Poet Laureate, either on

the highest or the lowest theory of his office. He is either a great

minstrel singing the victories of a great king, or he is a common Court

official like the Groom of the Powder Closet. In the first case his

praises should be true; in the second case they will nearly always be

false; but in either case he must praise. And what there is for him to

praise just now it would be precious hard to say. And if there is no

great hope of a real poet, there is still less hope of a real prophet.

What Newman called, I think, “The Prophetical Office,” that is, the

institution of an inspired protest even against an inspired religion,

certainly would not do in modern England. The Court is not likely to

keep a tame prophet in order to encourage him to be wild. It is not

likely to pay a man to say that wolves shall howl in Downing-street and

vultures build their nests in Buckingham Palace. So vast has been the

progress of humanity that these two things are quite impossible. We

cannot have a great poet praising kings. We cannot have a great prophet

denouncing kings. So I have to fall back on a third suggestion.

The Field for a Fool

Instead of reviving the Court Poet, why not revive the Court Fool? He is

the only person who could do any good at this moment either to the

Royal or the judicial Courts. The present political situation is utterly

unsuitable for the purposes of a great poet. But it is particularly

suitable for the purposes of a great buffoon. The old jester was under

certain privileges: you could not resent the jokes of a fool, just

as you cannot resent the sermons of a curate. Now, what the present

Government of England wants is neither serious praise nor serious

denunciation; what it wants is satire. What it wants, in other words,

is realism given with gusto. When King Louis the Eleventh unexpectedly

visited his enemy, the Duke of Burgundy, with a small escort, the Duke’s

jester said he would give the King his fool’s cap, for he was the fool

now. And when the Duke replied with dignity, “And suppose I treat him

with all proper respect?” the fool answered, “Then I will give it to

you.” That is the kind of thing that somebody ought to be free to say

now. But if you say it now you will be fined a hundred pounds at the

least.

Carson’s Dilemma

For the things that have been happening lately are not merely things

that one could joke about. They are themselves, truly and intrinsically,

jokes. I mean that there is a sort of epigram of unreason in the

situation itself, as there was in the situation where there was jam

yesterday and jam to-morrow but never jam to-day. Take, for instance,

the extraordinary case of Sir Edward Carson. The point is not whether we

regard his attitude in Belfast as the defiance of a sincere and dogmatic

rebel, or as the bluff of a party hack and mountebank. The point is not

whether we regard his defence of the Government at the Old Bailey as a

chivalrous and reluctant duty done as an advocate or a friend, or as

a mere case of a lawyer selling his soul for a fat brief. The point is

that whichever of the two actions we approve, and whichever of the four

explanations we adopt, Sir Edward’s position is still raving nonsense.

On any argument, he cannot escape from his dilemma. It may be argued

that laws and customs should be obeyed whatever our private feelings;

and that it is an established custom to accept a brief in such a case.

But then it is a somewhat more established custom to obey an Act

of Parliament and to keep the peace. It may be argued that extreme

misgovernment justifies men in Ulster or elsewhere in refusing to obey

the law. But then it would justify them even more in refusing to

appear professionally in a law court. Etiquette cannot be at once so

unimportant that Carson may shoot at the King’s uniform, and yet so

important that he must always be ready to put on his own. The Government

cannot be so disreputable that Carson need not lay down his gun, and yet

so respectable that he is bound to put on his wig. Carson cannot at once

be so fierce that he can kill in what he considers a good cause, and yet

so meek that he must argue in what he considers a bad cause. Obedience

or disobedience, conventional or unconventional, a solicitor’s letter

cannot be more sacred than the King’s writ; a blue bag cannot be more

rational than the British flag. The thing is rubbish read anyway, and

the only difficulty is to get a joke good enough to express it. It is a

case for the Court Jester. The phantasy of it could only be expressed by

some huge ceremonial hoax. Carson ought to be crowned with the shamrocks

and emeralds and followed by green-clad minstrels of the Clan-na-Gael,

pensieri in tempi simili, ma quella, ahimè, è su un tono assai diverso. Io

intendo quella in cui egli riecheggia la concezione di Turner della vecchia

nave di legno che svanisce con tutte le valorose memorie degli Inglesi:

C’è una campana che suona lontano

Al calar del sole,

E una voce fantasma sta cantando

Dei grandi giorni trascorsi.

C’è una campana che suona lontano,

E una voce fantasma sta cantando

Di una fama per sempre avvinta

Ai grandi giorni trascorsi.

Poiché le brezze del tramonto rabbrividiscono,

Temeraire, Temeraire,

Ed ella svanisce giù per il fiume…

Ebbene, ebbene, né voi né io sappiamo se ella stia svanendo giù per il fiume

o no. Ci basta sapere, come sapeva Re Alfredo, che

moltissimi pirati sono sbarcati su entrambe le rive del Tamigi.

Lode e Profezia Impossibili

In questo momento quello è l’unico genere di poesia patriottica che potrebbe

soddisfare le emozioni di una persona patriottica. Ma certamente non è

il genere di poesia che ci si aspetta da un Poeta Laureato, né sulla

più alta né sulla più bassa teoria del suo ufficio. Egli è o un grande

menestrello che canta le vittorie di un grande re, o un comune funzionario di Corte

come il Guardiano dell’Armadio della Cipria. Nel primo caso le sue

lodi dovrebbero essere vere; nel secondo caso saranno quasi sempre

false; ma in entrambi i casi egli deve lodare. E che cosa ci sia per lui da

lodare proprio ora sarebbe assai arduo dire. E se non c’è

grande speranza di un vero poeta, c’è ancor meno speranza di un vero profeta.

Ciò che Newman chiamava, credo, «L’Ufficio Profetico», cioè, l’

istituzione di una protesta ispirata persino contro una religione ispirata,

certamente non andrebbe bene nell’Inghilterra moderna. La Corte non è propensa a

tenere un profeta addomesticato per incoraggiarlo a essere selvaggio. Non è

propensa a pagare un uomo perché dica che i lupi ululeranno a Downing-street e

gli avvoltoi costruiranno i loro nidi a Buckingham Palace. Tanto vasto è stato il

progresso dell’umanità che queste due cose sono del tutto impossibili. Non

possiamo avere un grande poeta che loda i re. Non possiamo avere un grande profeta

che denuncia i re. Devo dunque ripiegare su una terza proposta.

Il Campo per un Buffone

Invece di resuscitare il Poeta di Corte, perché non resuscitare, di quella Corte, il Buffone? Egli è

l’unica persona che potrebbe fare del bene in questo momento sia alle

Corti Regie sia a quelle giudiziarie. L’attuale situazione politica è del tutto

inadatta agli scopi di un grande poeta. Ma è particolarmente

adatta agli scopi di un grande buffone. L’antico giullare godeva di

certi privilegi: non si potevano risentire le battute di un buffone, proprio

come non si possono risentire i sermoni di un curato. Ora, ciò che l’attuale

Governo d’Inghilterra vuole non è né seria lode né seria

denuncia; ciò che vuole è satira. Ciò che vuole, in altre parole,

è realismo dato con gusto. Quando Re Luigi Undicesimo inaspettatamente

visitò il suo nemico, il Duca di Borgogna, con una piccola scorta, il

giullare del Duca disse che avrebbe dato al Re il suo berretto da buffone, perché ora era lui il buffone

adesso. E quando il Duca replicò con dignità: «E supponi che io lo tratti

con ogni dovuto rispetto?», il buffone rispose: «Allora lo darò a

te». Quello è il genere di cosa che qualcuno dovrebbe essere libero di dire

ora. Ma se lo dite ora sarete multati di cento sterline come

minimo.

Il Dilemma di Carson

Perché le cose accadute di recente non sono soltanto cose

su cui si potrebbe scherzare. Esse sono, veramente e intrinsecamente,

scherzi. Intendo che c’è una sorta di epigramma di irragionevolezza nella

situazione stessa, come c’era nella situazione in cui c’era marmellata

ieri e marmellata domani ma mai marmellata oggi. Prendete, per esempio,

lo straordinario caso di Sir Edward Carson. Il punto non è se noi

consideriamo il suo atteggiamento a Belfast come la sfida di un sincero e dogmatico

ribelle, o come il bluff di un mestierante di partito e ciarlatano. Il punto non è

se consideriamo la sua difesa del Governo all’Old Bailey come un

cavalleresco e riluttante dovere compiuto come avvocato o amico, o come

un mero caso di un legale che vende la sua anima per una lauta parcella. Il punto è

che qualunque delle due azioni approviamo, e qualunque delle quattro

spiegazioni adottiamo, la posizione di Sir Edward è comunque delirante nonsenso.

Con qualsiasi argomento, egli non può sfuggire al suo dilemma. Si può sostenere

che le leggi e le consuetudini vadano obbedite quali che siano i nostri sentimenti privati;

e che sia consuetudine consolidata accettare un incarico in un caso simile.

Ma allora è consuetudine alquanto più consolidata obbedire a un Atto

del Parlamento e mantenere la pace. Si può sostenere che l’estremo

malgoverno giustifichi gli uomini in Ulster o altrove nel rifiutare di obbedire

alla legge. Ma allora li giustificherebbe ancor più nel rifiutare di

comparire professionalmente in un tribunale. L’etichetta non può essere insieme tanto

irrilevante che Carson possa sparare all’uniforme del Re, eppure tanto

importante che egli debba essere sempre pronto a indossare la propria. Il Governo

non può essere così screditato che Carson non debba deporre il fucile, eppure

così rispettabile che sia tenuto a indossare la parrucca. Carson non può insieme

essere così feroce da poter uccidere in ciò che considera una buona causa, eppure

così mite da dover argomentare in ciò che considera una cattiva causa. Obbedienza

o disobbedienza, convenzionale o non convenzionale, la lettera di un procuratore

non può essere più sacra del mandato del Re; una borsa azzurra non può essere più

razionale della bandiera britannica. La cosa è insulsa comunque la si legga, e

l’unica difficoltà è trovare uno scherzo abbastanza buono da esprimerla. È un

caso per il Giullare di Corte. La fantasticheria di ciò potrebbe essere espressa solo da

qualche enorme burla cerimoniale. Carson dovrebbe essere incoronato di trifogli

e smeraldi e seguito da menestrelli vestiti di verde del Clan-na-Gael,

playing “The Wearing of the Green.”

Belated Chattiness by Wireless

But all the recent events are like that. They are practical jokes. The

jokes do not need to be made: they only need to be pointed out. You and

I do not talk and act as the Isaacs brothers talked and acted, by their

own most favourable account of themselves; and even their account of

themselves was by no means favourable. You and I do not talk of

meeting our own born brother “at a family function” as if he were some

infinitely distant cousin whom we only met at Christmas. You and I, when

we suddenly feel inclined for a chat with the same brother about his

dinner and the Coal Strike, do not generally select either wireless

telegraphy or the Atlantic Cable as the most obvious and economical

channel for that outburst of belated chattiness. You and I do not talk,

if it is proposed to start a railway between Catsville and Dogtown, as

if the putting up of a station at Dogtown could have no kind of economic

effect on the putting up of a station at Catsville. You and I do not

think it candid to say that when we are at one end of a telephone we

have no sort of connection with the other end. These things have got

into the region of farce; and should be dealt with farcically, not even

ferociously.

A Fool Who Shall Be Free

In the Roman Republic there was a Tribune of the People, whose person

was inviolable like an ambassador’s. There was much the same idea

in Becket’s attempt to remove the Priest, who was then the popular

champion, from the ordinary courts. We shall have no Tribune; for we

have no republic. We shall have no Priest; for we have no religion. The

best we deserve or can expect is a Fool who shall be free; and who shall

deliver us with laughter.

THE ART OF MISSING THE POINT

Missing the point is a very fine art; and has been carried to something

like perfection by politicians and Pressmen to-day. For the point is

generally a very sharp point; and is, moreover, sharp at both ends.

That is to say that both parties would probably impale themselves in an

uncomfortable manner if they did not manage to avoid it altogether. I

have just been looking at the election address of the official Liberal

candidate for the part of the country in which I live; and though it

is, if anything, rather more logical and free from cant than most other

documents of the sort it is an excellent example of missing the point.

The candidate has to go boring on about Free Trade and Land Reform and

Education; and nobody reading it could possibly imagine that in the town

of Wycombe, where the poll will be declared, the capital of the Wycombe

division of Bucks which the candidate is contesting, centre of the

important and vital trade on which it has thriven, a savage struggle

about justice has been raging for months past between the poor and rich,

as real as the French Revolution. The man offering himself at Wycombe as

representative of the Wycombe division simply says nothing about it at

all. It is as if a man at the crisis of the French Terror had offered

himself as a deputy for the town of Paris, and had said nothing about

the Monarchy, nothing about the Republic, nothing about the massacres,

nothing about the war; but had explained with great clearness his views

on the suppression of the Jansenists, the literary style of Racine,

the suitability of Turenae for the post of commander-in-chief, and the

religious reflections of Madame de Maintenon. For, at their best, the

candidate’s topics are not topical. Home Rule is a very good thing, and

modern education is a very bad thing; but neither of them are things

that anybody is talking about in High Wycombe. This is the first and

simplest way of missing the point: deliberately to avoid and ignore it.

The Candid Candidate

It would be an amusing experiment, by the way, to go to the point

instead of avoiding it. What fun it would be to stand as a strict Party

candidate, but issue a perfectly frank and cynical Election Address.

Mr. Mosley’s address begins, “Gentlemen,—Sir Alfred Cripps having been

chosen for a high judicial position and a seat in the House of Lords, a

by-election now becomes necessary, and the electors of South Bucks are

charged with the responsible duty of electing, etc., etc.” But suppose

there were another candidate whose election address opened in a plain,

manly style, like this: “Gentlemen,—In the sincere hope of being myself

chosen for a high judicial position or a seat in the House of Lords,

or considerably increasing my private fortune by some Government

appointment, or, at least, inside information about the financial

prospects, I have decided that it is worth my while to disburse large

sums of money to you on various pretexts, and, with even more reluctance

to endure the bad speaking and bad ventilation of the Commons’ House

of Parliament, so help me God. I have very pronounced convictions on

various political questions; but I will not trouble my fellow-citizens

with them, since I have quite made up my mind to abandon any or all

of them if requested to do so by the upper classes. The electors are

therefore charged with the entirely irresponsible duty of electing a

Member; or, in other words, I ask my neighbours round about this part,

who know I am not a bad chap in many ways, to do me a good turn in my

business, just as I might ask them to change a sovereign. My election

will have no conceivable kind of effect on anything or anybody except

myself; so I ask, as man to man, the Electors of the Southern or Wycombe

Division of the County of Buckingham to accept a ride in one of my

motor-cars; and poll early to please a pal—God Save the King.” I do not

know whether you or I would be elected if we presented ourselves with

an election address of that kind; but we should have had our fun and

(comparatively speaking) saved our souls; and I have a strong suspicion

suonando «The Wearing of the Green».

Tardiva Ciarleria via Telegrafo Senza Fili

Ma tutti i recenti avvenimenti sono così. Sono scherzi pratici. Gli

scherzi non hanno bisogno di essere fatti: hanno solo bisogno di essere additati. Voi e

io non parliamo e agiamo come i fratelli Isaacs parlarono e agirono, secondo il loro

stesso resoconto più favorevole di sé; e persino il loro resoconto di

sé non era affatto favorevole. Voi e io non parliamo del

fatto di incontrare un nostro fratello di sangue «a una funzione di famiglia» come se fosse un

cugino infinitamente lontano che vedevamo solo a Natale. Voi e io, quando

ci sentiamo improvvisamente inclini a due chiacchiere con lo stesso fratello sulla sua

cena e sullo Sciopero del Carbone, non scegliamo generalmente né la telegrafia

senza fili né il Cavo Atlantico come il canale più ovvio ed economico

per quello sfogo di tardiva ciarleria. Voi e io non parliamo,

se si propone di avviare una ferrovia tra Catsville e Dogtown, come

se l’erezione di una stazione a Dogtown non potesse avere alcun effetto economico

sull’erezione di una stazione a Catsville. Voi e io non

riteniamo sincero dire che quando siamo a un capo di un telefono

non abbiamo alcun tipo di connessione con l’altro capo. Queste cose sono entrate

nella regione della farsa; e dovrebbero essere trattate farsescamente, non addirittura

ferocemente.

Un Buffone Che Sia Libero

Nella Repubblica Romana c’era un Tribuno della Plebe, la cui persona

era inviolabile come quella di un ambasciatore. C’era pressappoco la stessa idea

nel tentativo di Becket di rimuovere il Sacerdote, che era allora il campione

popolare, dalle corti ordinarie. Non avremo alcun Tribuno; perché non

abbiamo repubblica. Non avremo alcun Sacerdote; perché non abbiamo religione. Il

meglio che meritiamo o possiamo aspettarci è un Buffone che sia libero; e che ci

liberi con la risata.

L’ARTE DI MANCARE IL PUNTO

Mancare il punto è un’arte assai fine; ed è stata portata a qualcosa

come la perfezione dai politici e dai giornalisti di oggi. Perché il punto è

generalmente un punto assai acuto; ed è, per giunta, acuto a entrambe le estremità.

Vale a dire che entrambe le parti probabilmente si infilzerebbero in modo

scomodo se non riuscissero a evitarlo del tutto. Ho

appena guardato il proclama elettorale del candidato liberale ufficiale

per la parte del paese in cui vivo; e benché

sia, semmai, piuttosto più logico e privo di ipocrisie della maggior parte degli altri

documenti del genere, è un eccellente esempio del mancare il punto.

Il candidato deve andare avanti a tediare su Libero Scambio e Riforma Agraria e

Istruzione; e nessuno leggendolo potrebbe mai immaginare che nella città

di Wycombe, dove sarà proclamato lo scrutinio, capoluogo della

circoscrizione di Wycombe nel Bucks che il candidato contende, centro del

commercio importante e vitale su cui essa ha prosperato, una selvaggia lotta

sulla giustizia infuria da mesi tra i poveri e i ricchi,

reale quanto la Rivoluzione francese. L’uomo che si presenta a Wycombe come

rappresentante della circoscrizione di Wycombe semplicemente non ne dice nulla

affatto. È come se un uomo, al culmine del Terrore francese, si fosse presentato

come deputato per la città di Parigi, e non avesse detto nulla

sulla Monarchia, nulla sulla Repubblica, nulla sui massacri,

nulla sulla guerra; ma avesse spiegato con grande chiarezza le sue vedute

sulla soppressione dei Giansenisti, sullo stile letterario di Racine,

sull’idoneità di Turenne alla carica di comandante in capo, e le

riflessioni religiose di Madame de Maintenon. Perché, nel migliore dei casi, i

temi del candidato non sono d’attualità. L’Home Rule è una cosa molto buona, e la

moderna istruzione è una cosa molto cattiva; ma nessuna delle due è cosa

di cui qualcuno stia parlando a High Wycombe. Questo è il primo e

più semplice modo di mancare il punto: evitarlo e ignorarlo deliberatamente.

Il Candidato Candido

Sarebbe un esperimento divertente, tra parentesi, andare al punto

invece di evitarlo. Che spasso sarebbe presentarsi come rigido candidato di Partito,

ma pubblicare un Proclama Elettorale perfettamente franco e cinico.

Il proclama del signor Mosley comincia: «Signori, essendo Sir Alfred Cripps stato

scelto per un’alta carica giudiziaria e un seggio nella House dei Lord, una

elezione suppletiva si rende ora necessaria, e gli elettori del South Bucks sono

investiti del responsabile dovere di eleggere, ecc., ecc.». Ma supponete

che vi fosse un altro candidato il cui proclama elettorale si aprisse in uno stile piano,

virile, così: «Signori, nella sincera speranza di essere io stesso

scelto per un’alta carica giudiziaria o un seggio nella House dei Lord,

o di accrescere considerevolmente la mia fortuna privata con qualche nomina

Governativa, o, almeno, di ottenere informazioni riservate sulle prospettive

finanziarie, ho deciso che vale la pena per me sborsare grosse

somme di denaro a voi con vari pretesti, e, con ancor maggiore riluttanza,

sopportare la cattiva oratoria e la cattiva ventilazione della House dei Comuni

del Parlamento, che Dio mi aiuti. Ho convinzioni assai pronunciate su

varie questioni politiche; ma non tedierò i miei concittadini

con esse, poiché ho deciso del tutto di abbandonarne una qualsiasi o tutte

quante se richiesto di farlo dalle classi superiori. Gli elettori sono

perciò investiti del dovere del tutto irresponsabile di eleggere un

Membro; o, in altre parole, chiedo ai miei vicini di questa zona,

che sanno che sotto molti aspetti non sono un cattivo tipo, di rendermi un favore nei miei

affari, proprio come potrei chiedere loro di cambiarmi una sterlina. La mia elezione

non avrà alcun immaginabile effetto su nulla e su nessuno tranne

me stesso; perciò chiedo, da uomo a uomo, agli Elettori della Meridionale o Wycombe

Circoscrizione della Contea di Buckingham di accettare un giro su una delle mie

automobili; e di votare presto per compiacere un amico — Dio Salvi il Re». Non

so se voi o io saremmo eletti presentandoci con

un proclama elettorale di quel genere; ma ci saremmo divertiti e

(relativamente parlando) avremmo salvato le nostre anime; e ho il forte sospetto

that we should be elected or rejected on a mechanical majority like

anybody else; nobody having dreamed of reading an election address any

more than an advertisement of a hair restorer.

Tyranny and Head-Dress

But there is another and more subtle way in which we may miss the point;

and that is, not by keeping a dead silence about it, but by being just

witty enough to state it wrong. Thus, some of the Liberal official

papers have almost screwed up their courage to the sticking-point about

the bestial coup d’etat in South Africa. They have screwed up their

courage to the sticking-point; and it has stuck. It cannot get any

further; because it has missed the main point. The modern Liberals make

their feeble attempts to attack the introduction of slavery into South

Africa by the Dutch and the Jews, by a very typical evasion of the vital

fact. The vital fact is simply slavery. Most of these Dutchmen have

always felt like slave-owners. Most of these Jews have always felt like

slaves. Now that they are on top, they have a particular and curious

kind of impudence, which is only known among slaves. But the Liberal

journalists will do their best to suggest that the South African

wrong consisted in what they call Martial Law. That is, that there is

something specially wicked about men doing an act of cruelty in khaki

or in vermilion, but not if it is done in dark blue with pewter buttons.

The tyrant who wears a busby or a forage cap is abominable; the tyrant

who wears a horsehair wig is excusable. To be judged by soldiers is

hell; but to be judged by lawyers is paradise.

Now the point must not be missed in this way. What is wrong with the

tyranny in Africa is not that it is run by soldiers. It would be quite

as bad, or worse, if it were run by policemen. What is wrong is that,

for the first time since Pagan times, private men are being forced to

work for a private man. Men are being punished by imprisonment or exile

for refusing to accept a job. The fact that Botha can ride on a horse,

or fire off a gun, makes him better rather than worse than any man like

Sidney Webb or Philip Snowden, who attempt the same slavery by much less

manly methods. The Liberal Party will try to divert the whole discussion

to one about what they call militarism. But the very terms of modern

politics contradict it. For when we talk of real rebels against the

present system we call them Militants. And there will be none in the

Servile State.

THE SERVILE STATE AGAIN

I read the other day, in a quotation from a German newspaper, the highly

characteristic remark that Germany having annexed Belgium would soon

re-establish its commerce and prosperity, and that, in particular,

arrangements were already being made for introducing into the new

province the German laws for the protection of workmen.

I am quite content with that paragraph for the purpose of any

controversy about what is called German atrocity. If men I know had not

told me they had themselves seen the bayoneting of a baby; if the

most respectable refugees did not bring with them stories of burning

cottages—yes, and of burning cottagers as well; if doctors did not

report what they do report of the condition of girls in the hospitals;

if there were no facts; if there were no photographs, that one phrase I

have quoted would be quite sufficient to satisfy me that the Prussians

are tyrants; tyrants in a peculiar and almost insane sense which makes

them pre-eminent among the evil princes of the earth. The first and

most striking feature is a stupidity that rises into a sort of ghastly

innocence. The protection of workmen! Some workmen, perhaps, might have

a fancy for being protected from shrapnel; some might be glad to put up

an umbrella that would ward off things dropping from the gentle

Zeppelin in heaven upon the place beneath. Some of these discontented

proletarians have taken the same view as Vandervelde their leader, and

are now energetically engaged in protecting themselves along the line

of the Yser; I am glad to say not altogether without success. It is

probable that nearly all of the Belgian workers would, on the

whole, prefer to be protected against bombs, sabres, burning cities,

starvation, torture, and the treason of wicked kings. In short, it is

probable—it is at least possible, impious as is the idea—that they

would prefer to be protected against Germans and all they represent.

But if a Belgian workman is told that he is not to be protected against

Germans, but actually to be protected by Germans, I think he may be

excused for staring. His first impulse, I imagine, will be to ask,

“Against whom? Are there any worse people to come along?”

But apart from the hellish irony of this humanitarian idea, the question

it raises is really one of solid importance for people whose politics

are more or less like ours. There is a very urgent point in that

question, “Against whom would the Belgian workmen be protected by

the German laws?” And if we pursue it, we shall be enabled to analyse

something of that poison—very largely a Prussian poison—which has long

been working in our own commonwealth, to the enslavement of the weak

and the secret strengthening of the strong. For the Prussian armies

are, pre-eminently, the advance guard of the Servile State. I say this

scientifically, and quite apart from passion or even from preference.

I have no illusions about either Belgium or England. Both have been

stained with the soot of Capitalism and blinded with the smoke of mere

Colonial ambition; both have been caught at a disadvantage in such

modern dirt and disorder; both have come out much better than I should

have expected countries so modern and so industrial to do. But in

England and Belgium there is Capitalism mixed up with a great many other

che venissimo eletti o respinti su una maggioranza meccanica come

chiunque altro; senza che nessuno si sognasse di leggere un discorso elettorale più di

quanto legga la pubblicità di un rigeneratore di capelli.

Tirannia e copricapo

Ma c’è un altro e più sottile modo in cui possiamo mancare il bersaglio;

ed è questo: non serbando un mortale silenzio al riguardo, ma essendo appena

abbastanza arguti da enunciarlo in modo errato. Così, alcuni giornali ufficiali

liberali hanno quasi portato il loro coraggio al punto critico riguardo al

bestiale colpo di Stato in Sudafrica. Hanno portato il loro

coraggio al punto critico; e lì si è impuntato. Non riesce ad andare

oltre; perché ha mancato il punto principale. I liberali moderni compiono

i loro fiacchi tentativi di attaccare l’introduzione della schiavitù in Sud

Africa da parte degli olandesi e degli ebrei, con un’elusione assai tipica del fatto

vitale. Il fatto vitale è semplicemente la schiavitù. La maggior parte di questi olandesi si è

sempre sentita padrona di schiavi. La maggior parte di questi ebrei si è sempre sentita come

schiava. Ora che sono in cima, hanno una particolare e curiosa

specie di sfrontatezza, che si conosce solo tra gli schiavi. Ma i

giornalisti liberali faranno del loro meglio per suggerire che il torto

sudafricano consistesse in ciò che chiamano Legge Marziale. Ossia, che vi sia

qualcosa di particolarmente malvagio nel fatto che uomini compiano un atto di crudeltà in cachi

o in vermiglio, ma non se lo compiono in blu scuro con bottoni di peltro.

Il tiranno che porta un colbacco o un berretto da fatica è abominevole; il tiranno

che porta una parrucca di crine di cavallo è scusabile. Essere giudicati dai soldati è

l’inferno; ma essere giudicati dagli avvocati è il paradiso.

Ora il punto non va mancato in questo modo. Ciò che è sbagliato nella

tirannia in Africa non è che sia gestita da soldati. Sarebbe altrettanto

grave, o peggio, se fosse gestita da poliziotti. Ciò che è sbagliato è che,

per la prima volta dai tempi pagani, uomini privati sono costretti a

lavorare per un uomo privato. Gli uomini vengono puniti con la prigionia o l’esilio

per aver rifiutato di accettare un impiego. Il fatto che Botha sappia cavalcare un cavallo,

o sparare con un fucile, lo rende migliore, anziché peggiore, di un uomo come

Sidney Webb o Philip Snowden, che tentano la stessa schiavitù con metodi assai meno

virili. Il Partito Liberale cercherà di deviare l’intera discussione

verso una su ciò che chiamano militarismo. Ma i termini stessi della politica

moderna lo smentiscono. Poiché, quando parliamo di veri ribelli contro il

sistema presente, li chiamiamo Militanti. E nessuno ve ne sarà nello

Stato Servile.

DI NUOVO LO STATO SERVILE

Ho letto l’altro giorno, in una citazione da un giornale tedesco, l’assai

caratteristica osservazione che la Germania, avendo annesso il Belgio, avrebbe presto

ristabilito il suo commercio e la sua prosperità, e che, in particolare,

si stavano già prendendo accordi per introdurre nella nuova

provincia le leggi tedesche per la protezione dei lavoratori.

Mi accontento pienamente di quel paragrafo ai fini di qualsiasi

controversia su ciò che si chiama atrocità tedesca. Se uomini che conosco non mi

avessero detto di aver visto con i propri occhi un neonato infilzato con la baionetta; se i

più rispettabili profughi non recassero con sé storie di casolari in fiamme

— sì, e anche di contadini bruciati; se i medici non

riferissero ciò che riferiscono sulle condizioni delle ragazze negli ospedali;

se non vi fossero fatti; se non vi fossero fotografie, quella sola frase che ho

citato basterebbe pienamente a convincermi che i prussiani

sono tiranni; tiranni in un senso peculiare e quasi folle che li rende

preminenti fra i principi malvagi della terra. Il primo e

più impressionante tratto è una stupidità che si eleva a una sorta di spettrale

innocenza. La protezione dei lavoratori! Alcuni lavoratori, forse, avrebbero

voglia di essere protetti dagli shrapnel; alcuni sarebbero lieti di aprire

un ombrello che riparasse dalle cose che cadono dal gentile

Zeppelin nel cielo sul luogo sottostante. Alcuni di questi scontenti

proletari hanno assunto la stessa posizione del loro capo Vandervelde, e

sono ora energicamente impegnati a proteggere se stessi lungo la linea

dell’Yser; e sono lieto di dire non del tutto senza successo. È

probabile che quasi tutti i lavoratori belgi, nel

complesso, preferirebbero essere protetti da bombe, sciabole, città in fiamme,

fame, tortura e il tradimento di re malvagi. Insomma, è

probabile — è quantomeno possibile, per quanto empia sia l’idea — che

preferirebbero essere protetti dai tedeschi e da tutto ciò che rappresentano.

Ma se a un lavoratore belga si dice che non dev’essere protetto dai

tedeschi, bensì proprio protetto dai tedeschi, credo che gli si possa

perdonare di restare a bocca aperta. Il suo primo impulso, immagino, sarà di chiedere:

«Da chi? C’è forse gente peggiore in arrivo?»

Ma a parte l’infernale ironia di questa idea umanitaria, la questione

che essa solleva è davvero di solida importanza per chi ha una politica

più o meno simile alla nostra. C’è un punto assai urgente in quella

domanda: «Da chi verrebbero protetti i lavoratori belgi dalle

leggi tedesche?» E se la seguiamo, saremo in grado di analizzare

qualcosa di quel veleno — in gran parte un veleno prussiano — che da tempo

opera nella nostra stessa comunità, a schiavizzazione del debole

e a segreto rafforzamento del forte. Poiché gli eserciti prussiani

sono, in modo preminente, l’avanguardia dello Stato Servile. Lo dico

scientificamente, e del tutto a prescindere dalla passione o persino dalla preferenza.

Non nutro illusioni né sul Belgio né sull’Inghilterra. Entrambi sono stati

macchiati dalla fuliggine del Capitalismo e accecati dal fumo della mera

ambizione coloniale; entrambi sono stati colti in svantaggio in tale

sudiciume e disordine moderno; entrambi ne sono usciti assai meglio di quanto mi

sarei aspettato da paesi così moderni e così industriali. Ma in

Inghilterra e in Belgio il Capitalismo è mescolato a molte altre

things, strong things and things that pursue other aims; Clericalism,

for instance, and militant Socialism in Belgium; Trades Unionism and

sport and the remains of real aristocracy in England. But Prussia is

Capitalism; that is, a gradually solidifying slavery; and that majestic

unity with which she moves, dragging all the dumb Germanies after her,

is due to the fact that her Servile State is complete, while ours is

incomplete. There are not mutinies; there are not even mockeries; the

voice of national self-criticism has been extinguished forever. For this

people is already permanently cloven into a higher and a lower class:

in its industry as much as its army. Its employers are, in the strictest

and most sinister sense, captains of industry. Its proletariat is,

in the truest and most pitiable sense, an army of labour. In that

atmosphere masters bear upon them the signs that they are more than men;

and to insult an officer is death.

If anyone ask how this extreme and unmistakable subordination of the

employed to the employers is brought about, we all know the answer.

It is brought about by hunger and hardness of heart, accelerated by a

certain kind of legislation, of which we have had a good deal lately

in England, but which was almost invariably borrowed from Prussia. Mr.

Herbert Samuel’s suggestion that the poor should be able to put their

money in little boxes and not be able to get it out again is a sort

of standing symbol of all the rest. I have forgotten how the poor were

going to benefit eventually by what is for them indistinguishable from

dropping sixpence down a drain. Perhaps they were going to get it back

some day; perhaps when they could produce a hundred coupons out of the

Daily Citizen; perhaps when they got their hair cut; perhaps when they

consented to be inoculated, or trepanned, or circumcised, or something.

Germany is full of this sort of legislation; and if you asked an

innocent German, who honestly believed in it, what it was, he would

answer that it was for the protection of workmen.

And if you asked again “Their protection from what?” you would have

the whole plan and problem of the Servile State plain in front of you.

Whatever notion there is, there is no notion whatever of protecting the

employed person from his employer. Much less is there any idea of his

ever being anywhere except under an employer. Whatever the Capitalist

wants he gets. He may have the sense to want washed and well-fed

labourers rather than dirty and feeble ones, and the restrictions may

happen to exist in the form of laws from the Kaiser or by-laws from the

Krupps. But the Kaiser will not offend the Krupps, and the Krupps

will not offend the Kaiser. Laws of this kind, then, do not attempt to

protect workmen against the injustice of the Capitalist as the English

Trade Unions did. They do not attempt to protect workmen against the

injustice of the State as the mediaeval guilds did. Obviously they

cannot protect workmen against the foreign invader—especially when (as

in the comic case of Belgium) they are imposed by the foreign invader.

What then are such laws designed to protect workmen against? Tigers,

rattlesnakes, hyenas?

Oh, my young friends; oh, my Christian brethren, they are designed to

protect this poor person from something which to those of established

rank is more horrid than many hyenas. They are designed, my friends, to

protect a man from himself—from something that the masters of the earth

fear more than famine or war, and which Prussia especially fears as

everything fears that which would certainly be its end. They are meant

to protect a man against himself—that is, they are meant to protect a

man against his manhood.

And if anyone reminds me that there is a Socialist Party in Germany, I

reply that there isn’t.

THE EMPIRE OF THE IGNORANT

That anarchic future which the more timid Tories professed to fear has

already fallen upon us. We are ruled by ignorant people. But the most

ignorant people in modern Britain are to be found in the upper class,

the middle class, and especially the upper middle class. I do not say

it with the smallest petulance or even distaste; these classes are

often really beneficent in their breeding or their hospitality, or their

humanity to animals.

There is still no better company than the young at the two Universities,

or the best of the old in the Army or some of the other services. Also,

of course, there are exceptions in the matter of learning; real scholars

like Professor Gilbert Murray or Professor Phillimore are not ignorant,

though they are gentlemen. But when one looks up at any mass of the

wealthier and more powerful classes, at the Grand Stand at Epsom, at

the windows of Park-lane, at the people at a full-dress debate or a

fashionable wedding, we shall be safe in saying that they are, for the

most part, the most ill-taught, or untaught, creatures in these islands.

Literally Illiterate

It is indeed their feeble boast that they are not literally illiterate.

They are always saying the ancient barons could not sign their own

names—for they know less of history perhaps than of anything else. The

modern barons, however, can sign their own names—or someone else’s for

a change. They can sign their own names; and that is about all they can

do. They cannot face a fact, or follow an argument, or feel a tradition;

but, least of all, can they, upon any persuasion, read through a plain

impartial book, English or foreign, that is not specially written to

soothe their panic or to please their pride. Looking up at these seats

of the mighty I can only say, with something of despair, what Robert

Lowe said of the enfranchised workmen: “We must educate our masters.”

I do not mean this as paradoxical, or even as symbolical; it is simply

cose, cose forti e cose che perseguono altri scopi; il Clericalismo,

per esempio, e il Socialismo militante in Belgio; il Sindacalismo e

lo sport e i resti di una vera aristocrazia in Inghilterra. Ma la Prussia è

il Capitalismo; cioè, una schiavitù che gradualmente si solidifica; e quella maestosa

unità con cui essa si muove, trascinandosi dietro tutte le mute Germanie,

è dovuta al fatto che il suo Stato Servile è completo, mentre il nostro è

incompleto. Non ci sono ammutinamenti; non ci sono nemmeno beffe; la

voce dell’auto-critica nazionale è stata spenta per sempre. Perché questo

popolo è già permanentemente scisso in una classe superiore e una inferiore:

nella sua industria non meno che nel suo esercito. I suoi datori di lavoro sono, nel più stretto

e più sinistro dei sensi, capitani d’industria. Il suo proletariato è,

nel più vero e più pietoso dei sensi, un esercito del lavoro. In quell’

atmosfera i padroni portano su di sé i segni di essere più che uomini;

e insultare un ufficiale è la morte.

Se qualcuno chiede come questa estrema e inequivocabile subordinazione degli

impiegati ai datori di lavoro sia realizzata, tutti conosciamo la risposta.

È realizzata dalla fame e dalla durezza di cuore, accelerata da un

certo tipo di legislazione, di cui abbiamo avuto parecchio di recente

in Inghilterra, ma che era quasi invariabilmente presa in prestito dalla Prussia. Il

suggerimento del signor Herbert Samuel che i poveri possano mettere il loro

denaro in scatolette e non riuscire più a tirarlo fuori è una sorta

di perenne simbolo di tutto il resto. Ho dimenticato come i poveri

avrebbero infine tratto beneficio da ciò che per loro è indistinguibile dal

lasciar cadere sei pence in un tombino. Forse lo avrebbero riavuto

un giorno; forse quando avessero potuto produrre cento coupon dal

Daily Citizen; forse quando si fossero tagliati i capelli; forse quando

avessero acconsentito a farsi inoculare, o trapanare, o circoncidere, o qualcosa del genere.

La Germania è piena di questo genere di legislazione; e se chiedeste a un

innocente tedesco, che vi credesse onestamente, che cosa fosse, egli

risponderebbe che era per la protezione degli operai.

E se chiedeste di nuovo «La loro protezione da che cosa?» avreste

l’intero piano e problema dello Stato Servile chiaro davanti a voi.

Qualunque nozione ci sia, non c’è nozione alcuna di proteggere la

persona impiegata dal suo datore di lavoro. Ancor meno c’è alcuna idea che egli

possa mai trovarsi da qualche parte se non sotto un datore di lavoro. Qualunque cosa il Capitalista

voglia, la ottiene. Può avere il buon senso di volere operai lavati e ben nutriti

piuttosto che sudici e fiacchi, e le restrizioni possono

darsi esistano nella forma di leggi del Kaiser o di regolamenti dei

Krupp. Ma il Kaiser non offenderà i Krupp, e i Krupp

non offenderanno il Kaiser. Leggi di questo genere, dunque, non tentano di

proteggere gli operai contro l’ingiustizia del Capitalista come facevano i

Sindacati inglesi. Non tentano di proteggere gli operai contro l’

ingiustizia dello Stato come facevano le corporazioni medievali. Ovviamente

non possono proteggere gli operai contro l’invasore straniero — specialmente quando (come

nel comico caso del Belgio) sono imposte dall’invasore straniero.

Da che cosa, dunque, sono concepite queste leggi per proteggere gli operai? Tigri,

serpenti a sonagli, iene?

Oh, miei giovani amici; oh, miei fratelli cristiani, sono concepite per

proteggere questa povera persona da qualcosa che per coloro di rango

stabilito è più orribile di molte iene. Sono concepite, amici miei, per

proteggere un uomo da sé stesso — da qualcosa che i padroni della terra

Temono più della carestia o della guerra, e che la Prussia teme specialmente come

ogni cosa teme ciò che sarebbe certamente la sua fine. Sono intese

a proteggere un uomo contro sé stesso — cioè, sono intese a proteggere un

uomo contro la sua virilità.

E se qualcuno mi ricorda che c’è un Partito Socialista in Germania, io

rispondo che non c’è.

L’IMPERO DEGLI IGNORANTI

Quell’anarchico futuro che i più timidi Tory professavano di Temere è

già caduto su di noi. Siamo governati da gente ignorante. Ma la gente più

ignorante nella Britannia moderna si trova nella classe alta,

nella classe media, e specialmente nell’alta classe media. Non lo dico

con la minima petulanza né persino avversione; queste classi sono

spesso davvero benefiche nella loro educazione o nella loro ospitalità, o nella loro

umanità verso gli animali.

Non c’è ancora compagnia migliore dei giovani nelle due Università,

o dei migliori tra i vecchi nell’Esercito o in alcuni degli altri servizi. Inoltre,

naturalmente, ci sono eccezioni in fatto di sapere; veri studiosi

come il Professor Gilbert Murray o il Professor Phillimore non sono ignoranti,

benché siano gentiluomini. Ma quando si guarda a una qualsiasi massa delle

classi più ricche e più potenti, alla Tribuna d’Onore di Epsom, alle

finestre di Park-lane, alla gente a un dibattito in grande tenuta o a un

matrimonio alla moda, potremo dire con sicurezza che sono, per la

maggior parte, le creature più mal istruite, o non istruite, di queste isole.

Letteralmente Illetterati

È invero il loro fiacco vanto di non essere letteralmente illetterati.

Vanno sempre dicendo che gli antichi baroni non sapevano firmare il proprio

nome — perché sanno di storia forse meno che di ogni altra cosa. I

baroni moderni, invece, sanno firmare il proprio nome — o quello di qualcun altro tanto

per cambiare. Sanno firmare il proprio nome; ed è pressappoco tutto ciò che sanno

fare. Non sanno affrontare un fatto, o seguire un argomento, o sentire una tradizione;

ma, meno di tutto, sanno, con qualsiasi persuasione, leggere fino in fondo un semplice

libro imparziale, inglese o straniero, che non sia scritto appositamente per

lenire il loro panico o compiacere il loro Orgoglio. Guardando in alto a questi seggi

dei potenti posso solo dire, con qualcosa di simile alla Disperazione, ciò che Robert

Lowe disse degli operai affrancati: «Dobbiamo istruire i nostri padroni».

Non intendo questo come paradossale, o persino simbolico; è semplicemente

tame and true. The modern English rich know nothing about things, not

even about the things to which they appeal. Compared with them, the

poor are pretty sure to get some enlightenment, even if they cannot get

liberty; they must at least be technical. An old apprentice learnt

a trade, even if his master came like any Turk and banged him most

severely. The old housewife knew which side her bread was buttered, even

if it were so thin as to be almost imperceptible. The old sailor knew

the ropes; even if he knew the rope’s end. Consequently, when any

of these revolted, they were concerned with things they knew, pains,

practical impossibilities, or the personal record.

But They Know

The apprentice cried “Clubs?” and cracked his neighbours’ heads with

the precision and fineness of touch which only manual craftsmanship can

give. The housewives who flatly refused to cook the hot dinner knew how

much or how little, cold meat there was in the house. The sailor who

defied discipline by mutinying at the Nore did not defy discipline in

the sense of falling off the rigging or letting the water into the hold.

Similarly the modern proletariat, however little it may know, knows what

it is talking about.

But the curious thing about the educated class is that exactly what it

does not know is what it is talking about. I mean that it is startlingly

ignorant of those special things which it is supposed to invoke and keep

inviolate. The things that workmen invoke may be uglier, more acrid,

more sordid; but they know all about them. They know enough arithmetic

to know that prices have risen; the kind Levantine gentleman is always

there to make them fully understand the meaning of an interest sum; and

the landlord will define Rent as rigidly as Ricardo. The doctors can

always tell them the Latin for an empty stomach; and when the poor man

is treated for the time with some human respect (by the Coroner) it

almost seems a pity he is not alive to hear how legally he died.

Against this bitter shrewdness and bleak realism in the suffering

classes it is commonly supposed that the more leisured classes stand for

certain legitimate ideas which also have their place in life; such as

history, reverence, the love of the land. Well, it might be no bad thing

to have something, even if it were something narrow, that testified to

the truths of religion or patriotism. But such narrow things in the

past have always at least known their own history; the bigot knew his

catechism; the patriot knew his way home. The astonishing thing about

the modern rich is their real and sincere ignorance—especially of the

things they like.

No!

Take the most topical case you can find in any drawing-room: Belfast.

Ulster is most assuredly a matter of history; and there is a sense in

which Orange resistance is a matter of religion. But go and ask any of

the five hundred fluttering ladies at a garden party (who find Carson so

splendid and Belfast so thrilling) what it is all about, when it began,

where it came from, what it really maintains? What was the history

of Ulster? What is the religion of Belfast? Do any of them know where

Ulstermen were in Grattan’s time; do any of them know what was the

“Protestantism” that came from Scotland to that isle; could any of them

tell what part of the old Catholic system it really denied?

It was generally something that the fluttering ladies find in their own

Anglican churches every Sunday. It were vain to ask them to state the

doctrines of the Calvinist creed; they could not state the doctrines

of their own creed. It were vain to tell them to read the history of

Ireland; they have never read the history of England. It would matter as

little that they do not know these things, as that I do not know German;

but then German is not the only thing I am supposed to know. History and

ritual are the only things aristocrats are supposed to know; and they

don’t know them.

Smile and Smile

I am not fed on turtle soup and Tokay because of my exquisite intimacy

with the style and idiom of Heine and Richter. The English governing

class is fed on turtle soup and Tokay to represent the past, of which

it is literally ignorant, as I am of German irregular verbs; and to

represent the religious traditions of the State, when it does not know

three words of theology, as I do not know three words of German.

This is the last insult offered by the proud to the humble. They rule

them by the smiling terror of an ancient secret. They smile and smile;

but they have forgotten the secret.

THE SYMBOLISM OF KRUPP

The curious position of the Krupp firm in the awful story developing

around us is not quite sufficiently grasped. There is a kind of academic

clarity of definition which does not see the proportions of things for

which everything falls within a definition, and nothing ever breaks

beyond it. To this type of mind (which is valuable when set to its

special and narrow work) there is no such thing as an exception that

proves the rule. If I vote for confiscating some usurer’s millions I am

doing, they say, precisely what I should be doing if I took pennies out

of a blind man’s hat. They are both denials of the principle of private

property, and are equally right and equally wrong, according to our view

of that principle. I should find a great many distinctions to draw

in such a matter. First, I should say that taking a usurer’s money by

proper authority is not robbery, but recovery of stolen goods. Second,

I should say that even if there were no such thing as personal property,

there would still be such a thing as personal dignity, and different

modes of robbery would diminish it in very different ways. Similarly,

there is a truth, but only a half-truth, in the saying that all modern

Powers alike rely on the Capitalist and make war on the lines of

docili e veri. I moderni ricchi inglesi non sanno nulla delle cose, nemmeno

delle cose alle quali si appellano. Al confronto con loro, i

poveri hanno buone probabilità di ricevere qualche illuminazione, anche se non possono ottenere

la libertà; devono almeno essere competenti. Un vecchio apprendista imparava

un mestiere, anche se il suo padrone piombava come un turco e lo bastonava nel modo più

severo. La vecchia massaia sapeva da che parte il suo pane fosse imburrato, anche

se fosse così sottile da risultare quasi impercettibile. Il vecchio marinaio conosceva

le cime; anche se ne conosceva l’estremità sferzante. Di conseguenza, quando qualcuno

di costoro si ribellava, si occupava di cose che conosceva: pene,

impossibilità pratiche, o l’esperienza personale.

Ma Loro Sanno

L’apprendista gridava «Randelli?» e spaccava le teste dei vicini con

quella precisione e finezza di tocco che solo l’artigianato manuale può

dare. Le massaie che si rifiutavano recisamente di cucinare il pranzo caldo sapevano quanta

o quanto poca carne fredda vi fosse in casa. Il marinaio che

sfidava la disciplina ammutinandosi al Nore non sfidava la disciplina nel

senso di cadere dal sartiame o di lasciar entrare l’acqua nella stiva.

Allo stesso modo il proletariato moderno, per quanto poco possa sapere, sa di che cosa

sta parlando.

Ma la cosa curiosa della classe colta è che proprio ciò che essa

non sa è ciò di cui parla. Voglio dire che è sorprendentemente

ignorante di quelle cose speciali che dovrebbe invocare e mantenere

inviolate. Le cose che gli operai invocano possono essere più brutte, più acri,

più sordide; ma le conoscono a fondo. Conoscono abbastanza aritmetica

da sapere che i prezzi sono saliti; il gentile signore levantino è sempre

lì a far loro comprendere appieno il significato di una somma d’interessi; e

il padrone di casa definirà la Rendita con rigore pari a Ricardo. I medici sanno

sempre dir loro il latino per uno stomaco vuoto; e quando il pover’uomo

viene trattato per una volta con un po’ di rispetto umano (dal Coroner)

sembra quasi un peccato che non sia vivo per udire quanto legalmente sia morto.

Contro questa amara scaltrezza e questo tetro realismo nelle classi sofferenti

si suppone comunemente che le classi più agiate rappresentino

certe idee legittime che pure hanno il loro posto nella vita; come

la storia, la riverenza, l’amore per la terra. Ebbene, non sarebbe forse un male

avere qualcosa, anche se fosse qualcosa di angusto, che testimoniasse

le verità della religione o del patriottismo. Ma tali cose anguste nel

passato hanno sempre almeno conosciuto la propria storia; il bigotto conosceva il suo

catechismo; il patriota conosceva la via di casa. La cosa stupefacente dei

ricchi moderni è la loro reale e sincera ignoranza—specialmente delle

cose che amano.

No!

Prendete il caso più attuale che possiate trovare in un salotto qualsiasi: Belfast.

L’Ulster è assai certamente una questione di storia; ed esiste un senso in

cui la resistenza orangista è una questione di religione. Ma andate a chiedere a una qualsiasi

delle cinquecento svolazzanti dame a un garden party (che trovano Carson così

splendido e Belfast così emozionante) di che cosa si tratti, quando cominciò,

da dove venne, che cosa realmente sostenga. Quale fu la storia

dell’Ulster? Qual è la religione di Belfast? Sa alcuna di loro dove

fossero gli uomini dell’Ulster al tempo di Grattan; sa alcuna di loro quale fosse il

«Protestantesimo» che dalla Scozia giunse a quell’isola; saprebbe alcuna di loro

dire quale parte dell’antico sistema cattolico esso realmente negasse?

Era generalmente qualcosa che le svolazzanti dame trovano nelle loro stesse

chiese anglicane ogni domenica. Sarebbe vano chieder loro di enunciare le

dottrine del credo calvinista; non saprebbero enunciare le dottrine

del proprio credo. Sarebbe vano dir loro di leggere la storia d’

Irlanda; non hanno mai letto la storia d’Inghilterra. Conterebbe così

poco che non conoscano queste cose, quanto che io non conosca il tedesco;

ma il tedesco non è l’unica cosa che si suppone io sappia. La Storia e

il rituale sono le uniche cose che si suppone gli aristocratici sappiano; ed essi

non le sanno.

Sorridi e Sorridi

Non vengo nutrito di zuppa di tartaruga e di Tokaj per la mia squisita intimità

con lo stile e l’idioma di Heine e Richter. La classe dirigente inglese

viene nutrita di zuppa di tartaruga e di Tokaj per rappresentare il passato, del quale

è letteralmente ignorante, come io lo sono dei verbi irregolari tedeschi; e per

rappresentare le tradizioni religiose dello Stato, quando non conosce

tre parole di teologia, come io non conosco tre parole di tedesco.

Questo è l’ultimo insulto offerto dai superbi agli umili. Essi li

governano col sorridente terrore di un antico segreto. Sorridono e sorridono;

ma hanno dimenticato il segreto.

IL SIMBOLISMO DI KRUPP

La curiosa posizione della ditta Krupp nella tremenda vicenda che si sviluppa

attorno a noi non è colta con sufficienza. Esiste una sorta di accademica

chiarezza di definizione che non vede le proporzioni delle cose, per la quale

tutto rientra in una definizione, e nulla mai irrompe

oltre di essa. A questo tipo di mente (che è preziosa quando applicata al suo

compito speciale e ristretto) non esiste cosa quale un’eccezione che

confermi la regola. Se voto per confiscare i milioni di qualche usuraio, sto

facendo, dicono, precisamente ciò che farei se togliessi dei penny

dal cappello di un cieco. Sono entrambe negazioni del principio della proprietà

privata, e sono egualmente giuste ed egualmente sbagliate, a seconda della nostra visione

di quel principio. Io troverei moltissime distinzioni da tracciare

in tale materia. Primo, direi che prendere il denaro di un usuraio per

debita autorità non è furto, ma recupero di beni rubati. Secondo,

direi che anche se non esistesse cosa quale la proprietà personale,

esisterebbe comunque cosa quale la dignità personale, e diversi

modi di rapina la sminuirebbero in modi assai diversi. Allo stesso modo,

esiste una verità, ma solo una mezza verità, nel detto secondo cui tutti i moderni

Poteri parimenti si affidano al Capitalista e fanno guerra secondo le linee del

Capitalism. It is true, and it is disgraceful. But it is not equally

true and equally disgraceful. It is not true that Montenegro is as much

ruled by financiers as Prussia, just as it is not true that as many men

in the Kaiserstrasse, in Berlin, wear long knives in their belts as wear

them in the neighbourhood of the Black Mountain. It is not true that

every peasant from one of the old Russian communes is the immediate

servant of a rich man, as is every employee of Mr. Rockefeller. It is as

false as the statement that no poor people in America can read or write.

There is an element of Capitalism in all modern countries, as there is

an element of illiteracy in all modern countries. There are some who

think that the number of our fellow-citizens who can sign their names

ought to comfort us for the extreme fewness of those who have anything

in the bank to sign it for, but I am not one of these.

In any case, the position of Krupp has certain interesting aspects. When

we talk of Army contractors as among the base but active actualities of

war, we commonly mean that while the contractor benefits by the war,

the war, on the whole, rather suffers by the contractor. We regard this

unsoldierly middleman with disgust, or great anger, or contemptuous

acquiescence, or commercial dread and silence, according to our personal

position and character. But we nowhere think of him as having anything

to do with fighting in the final sense. Those worthy and wealthy persons

who employ women’s labour at a few shillings a week do not do it to

obtain the best clothes for the soldiers, but to make a sufficient

profit on the worst. The only argument is whether such clothes are just

good enough for the soldiers, or are too bad for anybody or anything. We

tolerate the contractor, or we do not tolerate him; but no one admires

him especially, and certainly no one gives him any credit for any

success in the war. Confessedly or unconfessedly we knock his profits,

not only off what goes to the taxpayer, but what goes to the soldier. We

know the Army will not fight any better, at least, because the clothes

they wear were stitched by wretched women who could hardly see; or

because their boots were made by harassed helots, who never had time to

think. In war-time it is very widely confessed that Capitalism is not a

good way of ruling a patriotic or self-respecting people, and all sorts

of other things, from strict State organisation to quite casual personal

charity, are hastily substituted for it. It is recognised that the

“great employer,” nine times out of ten, is no more than the schoolboy

or the page who pilfers tarts and sweets from the dishes as they go up

and down. How angry one is with him depends on temperament, on the stage

of the dinner—also on the number of tarts.

Now here comes in the real and sinister significance of Krupps. There

are many capitalists in Europe as rich, as vulgar, as selfish, as

rootedly opposed to any fellowship of the fortunate and unfortunate. But

there is no other capitalist who claims, or can pretend to claim, that

he has very appreciably helped the activities of his people in war. I

will suppose that Lipton did not deserve the very severe criticisms

made on his firm by Mr. Justice Darling; but, however blameless he was,

nobody can suppose that British soldiers would charge better with the

bayonet because they had some particular kind of groceries inside them.

But Krupp can make a plausible claim that the huge infernal machines to

which his country owes nearly all of its successes could only have been

produced under the equally infernal conditions of the modern factory

and the urban and proletarian civilisation. That is why the victory of

Germany would be simply the victory of Krupp, and the victory of Krupp

would be simply the victory of Capitalism. There, and there alone,

Capitalism would be able to point to something done successfully for a

whole nation—done (as it would certainly maintain) better than small

free States or natural democracies could have done it. I confess I think

the modern Germans morally second-rate, and I think that even war, when

it is conducted most successfully by machinery, is second-rate war. But

this second-rate war will become not only the first but the only brand,

if the cannon of Krupp should conquer; and, what is very much worse, it

will be the only intelligent answer that any capitalist has yet given

against our case that Capitalism is as wasteful and as weak as it is

certainly wicked. I do not fear any such finality, for I happen to

believe in the kind of men who fight best with bayonets and whose

fathers hammered their own pikes for the French Revolution.

THE TOWER OF BEBEL

Among the cloudy and symbolic stories in the beginning of the Bible

there is one about a tower built with such vertical energy as to take a

hold on heaven, but ruined and resulting only in a confusion of tongues.

The story might be interpreted in many ways—religiously, as meaning

that spiritual insolence starts all human separations; irreligiously,

as meaning that the inhuman heavens grudge man his magnificent dream;

or merely satirically as suggesting that all attempts to reach a higher

agreement always end in more disagreement than there was before. It

might be taken by the partially intelligent Kensitite as a judgment on

Latin Christians for talking Latin. It might be taken by the somewhat

less intelligent Professor Harnack as a final proof that all prehistoric

humanity talked German. But when all was said, the symbol would remain

that a plain tower, as straight as a sword, as simple as a lily, did

nevertheless produce the deepest divisions that have been known among

men. In any case we of the world in revolt—Syndicalists, Socialists,

Guild Socialists, or whatever we call ourselves—have no need to worry

Capitalismo. È vero, ed è vergognoso. Ma non è egualmente

vero ed egualmente vergognoso. Non è vero che il Montenegro sia governato dai

finanzieri quanto la Prussia, così come non è vero che tanti uomini

nella Kaiserstrasse, a Berlino, portino lunghi coltelli alla cintura quanti ne portano

nei dintorni della Montagna Nera. Non è vero che

ogni contadino di uno degli antichi comuni russi sia il servo immediato

di un ricco, come lo è ogni dipendente del signor Rockefeller. È

falso quanto l’affermazione che nessun povero in America sappia leggere o scrivere.

Vi è un elemento di Capitalismo in tutti i paesi moderni, come vi è

un elemento di analfabetismo in tutti i paesi moderni. Vi è chi

pensa che il numero dei nostri concittadini capaci di firmare il proprio nome

dovrebbe consolarci per l’estrema esiguità di coloro che hanno qualcosa

in banca a cui apporlo, ma io non sono di questi.

In ogni caso, la posizione di Krupp ha certi aspetti interessanti. Quando

parliamo dei fornitori dell’Esercito come tra le basse ma attive realtà della

guerra, intendiamo comunemente che, mentre il fornitore trae vantaggio dalla guerra,

la guerra, nel complesso, piuttosto soffre a causa del fornitore. Guardiamo a questo

antimilitare intermediario con disgusto, o grande collera, o sprezzante

acquiescenza, o commerciale sgomento e silenzio, a seconda della nostra personale

posizione e carattere. Ma in nessun luogo lo pensiamo come avente qualcosa

a che fare col combattere in senso ultimo. Quelle degne e facoltose persone

che impiegano il lavoro delle donne per pochi scellini alla settimana non lo fanno per

procurare gli abiti migliori ai soldati, ma per ricavare un sufficiente

profitto dai peggiori. L’unica questione è se tali abiti siano appena

abbastanza buoni per i soldati, o troppo cattivi per chiunque e qualsiasi cosa. Noi

tolleriamo il fornitore, o non lo tolleriamo; ma nessuno lo ammira

particolarmente, e certamente nessuno gli attribuisce alcun merito per un qualsiasi

successo nella guerra. Confessatamente o inconfessatamente, decurtiamo i suoi profitti

non solo da ciò che va al contribuente, ma da ciò che va al soldato. Noi

sappiamo che l’Esercito non combatterà affatto meglio, almeno, perché gli abiti

che indossa furono cuciti da misere donne che a stento vedevano; o

perché i loro stivali furono fatti da assillati iloti, che non ebbero mai tempo di

pensare. In tempo di guerra si confessa assai diffusamente che il Capitalismo non è un

buon modo di governare un popolo patriottico o rispettoso di sé, e ogni sorta

di altre cose, dalla rigida organizzazione statale alla più casuale carità

personale, vi vengono frettolosamente sostituite. Si riconosce che il

«grande datore di lavoro», nove volte su dieci, non è più del ragazzo di scuola

o del paggio che ruba crostate e dolci dai piatti mentre salgono e

scendono. Quanto ci si adiri con lui dipende dal temperamento, dal momento

della cena—e anche dal numero delle crostate.

Ed ecco venire in gioco il reale e sinistro significato dei Krupp. Vi

sono molti capitalisti in Europa altrettanto ricchi, altrettanto volgari, altrettanto egoisti, altrettanto

radicalmente ostili a ogni fratellanza tra i fortunati e gli sfortunati. Ma

non c’è altro capitalista che pretenda, o possa fingere di pretendere, di

aver molto apprezzabilmente aiutato le attività del proprio popolo in guerra. Io

supporrò che Lipton non meritasse le severissime critiche

mosse alla sua ditta dal signor giudice Darling; ma, per quanto irreprensibile fosse,

nessuno può supporre che i soldati britannici caricherebbero meglio alla

baionetta perché avevano dentro qualche particolare sorta di generi alimentari.

Ma Krupp può avanzare la plausibile pretesa che le enormi macchine infernali alle

quali il suo paese deve quasi tutti i suoi successi potessero essere prodotte solo

nelle egualmente infernali condizioni della fabbrica moderna

e della civiltà urbana e proletaria. Ecco perché la vittoria della

Germania sarebbe semplicemente la vittoria di Krupp, e la vittoria di Krupp

sarebbe semplicemente la vittoria del Capitalismo. Là, e là soltanto,

il Capitalismo sarebbe in grado di indicare qualcosa fatto con successo per un’

intera nazione—fatto (come certamente sosterrebbe) meglio di quanto piccoli

liberi Stati o naturali democrazie avrebbero potuto farlo. Confesso di ritenere

i tedeschi moderni moralmente di seconda scelta, e ritengo che perfino la guerra, quando

è condotta con maggior successo dai macchinari, sia una guerra di seconda scelta. Ma

questa guerra di seconda scelta diverrà non solo la prima ma l’unica marca,

se i cannoni di Krupp dovessero vincere; e, ciò che è assai peggio, essa

sarà l’unica risposta intelligente che un capitalista abbia finora dato

contro la nostra tesi che il Capitalismo è tanto dispendioso e tanto debole quanto è

certamente malvagio. Io non temo alcuna simile finalità, poiché mi accade di

credere in quel genere di uomini che meglio combattono con le baionette e i cui

padri martellarono le proprie picche per la Rivoluzione francese.

LA TORRE DI BEBEL

Tra le nebulose e simboliche storie all’inizio della Bibbia

ve n’è una su una torre eretta con tale verticale energia da voler afferrare

il cielo, ma andata in rovina e sfociata soltanto in una confusione di lingue.

La storia potrebbe essere interpretata in molti modi—religiosamente, come significante

che l’insolenza spirituale dà origine a tutte le separazioni umane; irreligiosamente,

come significante che i cieli disumani invidiano all’uomo il suo magnifico sogno;

o meramente satiricamente, suggerendo che tutti i tentativi di raggiungere un più alto

accordo finiscono sempre in un disaccordo maggiore di quello che c’era prima. Essa

potrebbe essere intesa dal parzialmente intelligente kensitita come un giudizio sui

cristiani latini per il parlare latino. Potrebbe essere intesa dal alquanto

meno intelligente professor Harnack come una prova definitiva che tutta l’umanità

preistorica parlasse tedesco. Ma, tutto sommato, il simbolo rimarrebbe

che una schietta torre, diritta come una spada, semplice come un giglio,

ciò nonostante produsse le più profonde divisioni che siano state conosciute tra gli

uomini. In ogni caso noi del mondo in rivolta—Sindacalisti, Socialisti,

Socialisti delle Corporazioni, o comunque ci chiamiamo—non abbiamo bisogno di preoccuparci

about the scripture or the allegory. We have the reality. For whatever

reason, what is said to have happened to the people of Shinak has

precisely and practically happened to us.

None of us who have known Socialists (or rather, to speak more

truthfully, none of us who have been Socialists) can entertain the

faintest doubt that a fine intellectual sincerity lay behind what

was called “L’Internationale.” It was really felt that Socialism was

universal like arithmetic. It was too true for idiom or turn of phrase.

In the formula of Karl Marx men could find that frigid fellowship which

they find when they agree that two and two make four. It was almost as

broadminded as a religious dogma.

Yet this universal language has not succeeded, at a moment of crisis,

in imposing itself on the whole world. Nay, it has not, at the moment

of crisis, succeeded in imposing itself on its own principal champions.

Herve is not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking French. Bebel is

not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking German. Blatchford is

not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking English, and jolly good

English, too. I do not know whether French or Flemish was Vandervelde’s

nursery speech, but I am quite certain he will know more of it after

this struggle than he knew before. In short, whether or no there be a

new union of hearts, there has really and truly been a new division of

tongues.

How are we to explain this singular truth, even if we deplore it? I

dismiss with fitting disdain the notion that it is a mere result of

military terrorism or snobbish social pressure. The Socialist leaders

of modern Europe are among the most sincere men in history; and their

Nationalist note in this affair has had the ring of their sincerity. I

will not waste time on the speculation that Vandervelde is bullied by

Belgian priests; or that Blatchford is frightened of the horse-guards

outside Whitehall. These great men support the enthusiasm of their

conventional countrymen because they share it; and they share it because

there is (though perhaps only at certain great moments) such a thing as

pure democracy.

Timour the Tartar, I think, celebrated some victory with a tower built

entirely out of human skulls; perhaps he thought that would reach to

heaven. But there is no cement in such building; the veins and ligaments

that hold humanity together have long fallen away; the skulls will roll

impotently at a touch; and ten thousand more such trophies could only

make the tower taller and crazier. I think the modern official apparatus

of “votes” is very like that tottering monument. I think the Tartar

“counted heads,” like an electioneering agent. Sometimes when I have

seen from the platform of some paltry party meeting the rows and rows of

grinning upturned faces, I have felt inclined to say, as the poet does

in the “The Vision of Sin”—“Welcome fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and

empty heads.”

Not that the people were personally hollow or empty, but they had come

on a hollow and empty business: to help the good Mr. Binks to strengthen

the Insurance Act against the wicked Mr. Jinks who would only promise

to fortify the Insurance Act. That night it did not blow the democratic

gale. Yet it can blow on these as on others; and when it does blow men

learn many things. I, for one, am not above learning them.

The Marxian dogma which simplifies all conflicts to the Class War is so

much nobler a thing than the nose-counting of the parliaments that one

must apologise for the comparison. And yet there is a comparison.

When we used to say that there were so many thousands of Socialists

in Germany, we were counting by skulls. When we said that the majority

consisting of Proletarians would be everywhere opposed to the minority,

consisting of Capitalists, we were counting by skulls. Why, yes; if all

men’s heads had been cut off from the rest of them, as they were by the

good sense and foresight of Timour the Tartar; if they had no hearts or

bellies to be moved; no hand that flies up to ward off a weapon, no foot

that can feel a familiar soil—if things were so the Marxian calculation

would be not only complete but correct. As we know to-day, the Marxian

calculation is complete, but it is not correct.

Now, this is the answer to the questions of some kind critics, whose

actual words I have not within reach at the moment, about whether my

democracy meant the rule of the majority over the minority. It means the

rule of the rule—the rule of the rule over the exception. When a nation

finds a soul it clothes it with a body, and does verily act like one

living thing. There is nothing to be said about those who are out of it,

except that they are out of it. After talking about it in the abstract

for decades, this is Democracy, and it is marvellous in our eyes. It is

not the difference between ninety-nine persons and a hundred persons; it

is one person—the people. I do not know or care how many or how few of

the Belgians like or dislike the pictures of Wiertz. They could not be

either justified or condemned by a mere majority of Belgians. But I am

very certain that the defiance to Prussia did not come from a majority

of Belgians. It came from Belgium one and indivisible—atheists,

priests, princes of the blood, Frenchified shopkeepers, Flemish boors,

men, women, and children, and the sooner we understand that this sort of

thing can happen the better for us. For it is this spontaneous spiritual

fellowship of communities under certain conditions to which the four or

five most independent minds of Europe willingly bear witness to-day.

But is there no exception: is there no one faithful among the unfaithful

found? Is no great Socialist politician still untouched by the

patriotism of the vulgar? Why, yes; the rugged Ramsay MacDonald, scarred

della scrittura o dell’allegoria. Noi abbiamo la realtà. Per qualsivoglia

ragione, ciò che si dice sia accaduto al popolo di Sinar è

precisamente e praticamente accaduto a noi.

Nessuno di noi che abbia conosciuto i Socialisti (o piuttosto, a dire più

veritieramente, nessuno di noi che sia stato Socialista) può nutrire il

più flebile dubbio che una schietta sincerità intellettuale stesse dietro ciò che

fu chiamato «L’Internationale». Si sentiva davvero che il Socialismo era

universale come l’aritmetica. Era troppo vero per idiotismi o giri di frase.

Nella formula di Karl Marx gli uomini potevano trovare quella gelida fratellanza che

trovano quando concordano che due più due fa quattro. Era quasi altrettanto

di larghe vedute quanto un dogma religioso.

Eppure questa lingua universale non è riuscita, in un momento di crisi,

a imporsi al mondo intero. Anzi, non è riuscita, nel momento

della crisi, a imporsi ai suoi stessi principali campioni.

Hervé non parla l’Esperanto Economico; parla francese. Bebel non

parla l’Esperanto Economico; parla tedesco. Blatchford non

parla l’Esperanto Economico; parla inglese, e per giunta ottimo

inglese. Non so se il francese o il fiammingo fosse la lingua d’infanzia di Vandervelde,

ma sono ben certo che ne saprà di più dopo

questa lotta di quanto ne sapesse prima. Insomma, che vi sia o no una

nuova unione dei cuori, vi è stata davvero e veramente una nuova divisione delle

lingue.

Come dobbiamo spiegare questa singolare verità, anche se la deploriamo? Io

respingo con adeguato disdegno l’idea che sia un mero risultato del

terrorismo militare o di una snobistica pressione sociale. I capi socialisti

dell’Europa moderna sono tra gli uomini più sinceri della storia; e la loro

nota nazionalista in questa faccenda ha avuto il suono della loro sincerità. Non

sprecherò tempo sulla congettura che Vandervelde sia intimidito dai

preti belgi; o che Blatchford sia spaventato dalle guardie a cavallo

fuori di Whitehall. Questi grandi uomini sostengono l’entusiasmo dei loro

convenzionali compatrioti perché lo condividono; e lo condividono perché

esiste (sebbene forse solo in certi grandi momenti) una cosa quale

la pura democrazia.

Timur il Tartaro, credo, celebrò qualche vittoria con una torre eretta

interamente di teschi umani; forse pensava che quella avrebbe raggiunto il

cielo. Ma non v’è cemento in tale costruzione; le vene e i legamenti

che tengono insieme l’umanità sono da tempo caduti; i teschi rotoleranno

impotenti a un tocco; e diecimila trofei simili in più potrebbero solo

rendere la torre più alta e più folle. Penso che il moderno ufficiale apparato

dei «voti» sia molto simile a quel vacillante monumento. Penso che il Tartaro

«contasse le teste», come un agente elettorale. Talvolta, quando ho

visto dalla tribuna di qualche meschina riunione di partito le file e le file di

ghignanti volti rivolti all’insù, mi sono sentito incline a dire, come fa il poeta

nella «Visione del Peccato»—«Benvenuti, concittadini, cuori vuoti e

teste vuote».

Non che quella gente fosse personalmente vuota di cuore o di testa, ma era venuta

per un vuoto e vacuo affare: aiutare il buon signor Binks a rafforzare

la Legge sulle Assicurazioni contro il malvagio signor Jinks che avrebbe soltanto promesso

di fortificare la Legge sulle Assicurazioni. Quella notte non soffiò il democratico

vento. Eppure esso può soffiare su costoro come su altri; e quando soffia gli uomini

imparano molte cose. Io, per uno, non sono troppo altero per impararle.

Il dogma marxiano che semplifica tutti i conflitti nella Guerra di Classe è una

cosa tanto più nobile del contar-nasi dei parlamenti che

occorre scusarsi del paragone. Eppure un paragone c’è.

Quando eravamo soliti dire che vi erano tante migliaia di Socialisti

in Germania, contavamo per teschi. Quando dicevamo che la maggioranza

composta dai Proletari sarebbe stata ovunque opposta alla minoranza,

composta dai Capitalisti, contavamo per teschi. Ebbene, sì; se a tutti

gli uomini le teste fossero state tagliate via dal resto di loro, come lo furono per

il buon senso e la lungimiranza di Timur il Tartaro; se non avessero avuto cuori o

ventri da smuovere; nessuna mano che si leva a parare un’arma, nessun piede

che possa sentire un suolo familiare—se le cose stessero così, il calcolo marxiano

sarebbe non solo completo ma corretto. Come sappiamo oggi, il calcolo marxiano

è completo, ma non è corretto.

Ora, questa è la risposta alle domande di alcuni benevoli critici, le cui

parole precise non ho sottomano in questo momento, su se la mia

democrazia significasse il dominio della maggioranza sulla minoranza. Essa significa il

dominio della regola—il dominio della regola sull’eccezione. Quando una nazione

trova un’anima, la riveste di un corpo, e agisce veramente come una sola

cosa vivente. Non c’è nulla da dire di coloro che ne sono fuori,

se non che ne sono fuori. Dopo averne parlato in astratto

per decenni, questa è la Democrazia, ed è meravigliosa ai nostri occhi. Non è

la differenza tra novantanove persone e cento persone; è

una sola persona—il popolo. Non so né m’importa quanti o quanto pochi dei

Belgi amino o disamino i quadri di Wiertz. Non potrebbero essere

né giustificati né condannati da una mera maggioranza di Belgi. Ma sono

ben certo che la sfida alla Prussia non venne da una maggioranza

di Belgi. Venne dal Belgio uno e indivisibile—atei,

preti, principi del sangue, bottegai francesizzati, zotici fiamminghi,

uomini, donne e bambini, e prima comprenderemo che questa sorta di

cosa può accadere, meglio sarà per noi. Poiché è di questa spontanea spirituale

fratellanza delle comunità in certe condizioni che le quattro o

cinque menti più indipendenti d’Europa rendono oggi volentieri testimonianza.

Ma non v’è eccezione: non v’è nessuno fedele trovato tra gli infedeli?

Non v’è alcun grande politico socialista ancora intatto dal

patriottismo del volgo? Ebbene, sì; il rude Ramsay MacDonald, sfregiato

with a hundred savage fights against the capitalist parties, still lifts

up his horny hand for peace. What further need have we of witnesses?

I, for my part, am quite satisfied, and do not doubt that Mr. MacDonald

will be as industrious in damping down democracy in this form as in

every other.

A REAL DANGER

Heaven forbid that I should once more wade in those swamps of logomachy

and tautology in which the old guard of the Determinists still seem to

be floundering. The question of Fate and Free Will can never attain to

a conclusion, though it may attain to a conviction. The shortest

philosophic summary is that both cause and choice are ultimate ideas

within us, and that if one man denies choice because it seems contrary

to cause, the other man has quite as much right to deny cause because

it seems contrary to choice. The shortest ethical summary is that

Determinism either affects conduct or it does not. If it does not, it is

morally not worth preaching; if it does, it must affect conduct in the

direction of impotence and submission. A writer in the “Clarion” says

that the reformer cannot help trying to reform, nor the Conservative

help his Conservatism. But suppose the reformer tries to reform the

Conservative and turn him into another reformer? Either he can, in which

case Determinism has made no difference at all, or he can’t, in which

case it can only have made reformers more hopeless and Conservatives

more obstinate. And the shortest practical and political summary is that

working men, most probably, will soon be much too busy using their Free

Will to stop to prove that they have got it. Nevertheless, I like to

watch the Determinist in the “Clarion” Cockpit every week, as busy as a

squirrel—in a cage. But being myself a squirrel (leaping lightly from

bough to bough) and preferring the form of activity which occasionally

ends in nuts, I should not intervene in the matter even indirectly,

except upon a practical point. And the point I have in mind is practical

to the extent of deadly peril. It is another of the numerous new ways in

which the restless rich, now walking the world with an awful insomnia,

may manage to catch us napping.

Must Be a Mystery

There are two letters in the “Clarion” this week which in various ways

interest me very much. One is concerned to defend Darwin against the

scientific revolt against him that was led by Samuel Butler, and among

other things it calls Bernard Shaw a back number. Well, most certainly

“The Origin of Species” is a back number, in so far as any honest and

interesting book ever can be; but in pure philosophy nothing can be

out of date, since the universe must be a mystery even to the believer.

There is, however, one condition of things in which I do call it

relevant to describe somebody as behind the times. That is when the man

in question, thinking of some state of affairs that has passed away, is

really helping the very things he would like to hinder. The principles

cannot alter, but the problems can. Thus, I should call a man behind the

times who, in the year 1872, pleaded for the peaceful German peasants

against the triumphant militarism of Napoleon. Or I should call a man

out of date who, in the year 1892, wished for a stronger Navy to compete

with the Navy of Holland, because it had once swept the sea and sailed

up the Thames. And I certainly call a man or a movement out of date

that, in the year 1914, when we few are fighting a giant machine,

strengthened with all material wealth and worked with all the material

sciences, thinks that our chief danger is from an excess of moral and

religious responsibility. He reminds me of Mr. Snodgrass, who had the

presence of mind to call out “Fire!” when Mr. Pickwick fell through the

ice.

The other letter consists of the usual wiredrawn argument for fatalism.

Man cannot imagine the universe being created, and therefore is

“compelled by his reason” to think the universe without beginning or

end, which (I may remark) he cannot imagine either. But the letter ends

with something much more ominous than bad metaphysics. Here, in

the middle of the “Clarion,” in the centre of a clean and combative

democratic sheet, I meet again my deplorable old acquaintance, the

scientific criminologist. “The so-called evil-doer should not be

punished for his acts, but restrained.” In forty-eight hours I could

probably get a petition to that effect signed by millionaires. A short

time ago a Bill was introduced to hold irresponsible and “restrain” a

whole new class of people, who were “incapable of managing their affairs

with prudence.” Read the supporters’ names on the back of that Bill, and

see what sort of democrats they were.

Now, clearing our heads of what is called popular science (which means

going to sleep to a lullaby of long words), let us use our own brains a

little, and ask ourselves what is the real difference between punishing

a man and restraining him. The material difference may be any or none;

for punishment may be very mild, and restraint may be very ruthless. The

man, of course, must dislike one as much as the other, or it would not

be necessary to restrain him at all. And I assure you he will get no

great glow of comfort out of your calling him irresponsible after you

have made him impotent. A man does not necessarily feel more free and

easy in a straight waistcoat than in a stone cell. The moral difference

is that a man can be punished for a crime because he is born a citizen;

while he can be constrained because he is born a slave. But one

arresting and tremendous difference towers over all these doubtful or

arguable differences. There is one respect, vital to all our liberties

and all our lives, in which the new restraint would be different

from the old punishment. It is of this that the plutocrats will take

advantage.

The Plain Difference

da cento selvagge lotte contro i partiti capitalisti, leva ancora

la sua callosa mano per la pace. Che ulteriore bisogno abbiamo di testimoni?

Io, da parte mia, sono del tutto soddisfatto, e non dubito che il signor MacDonald

sarà tanto industrioso nello smorzare la democrazia in questa forma quanto in

ogni altra.

UN PERICOLO REALE

Il cielo mi guardi dal guadare ancora una volta quelle paludi di logomachia

e tautologia in cui la vecchia guardia dei Deterministi sembra tuttora

dibattersi. La questione del Fato e Libero Arbitrio non può mai giungere a

una conclusione, benché possa giungere a una convinzione. Il più breve

sommario filosofico è che tanto la causa quanto la scelta sono idee ultime

dentro di noi, e che se un uomo nega la scelta perché sembra contraria

alla causa, l’altro uomo ha altrettanto diritto di negare la causa perché

sembra contraria alla scelta. Il più breve sommario etico è che

il Determinismo o influisce sulla condotta o non lo fa. Se non lo fa, è

moralmente non degno di predicazione; se lo fa, deve influire sulla condotta nella

direzione dell’impotenza e della sottomissione. Uno scrittore del «Clarion» dice

che il riformatore non può fare a meno di tentare di riformare, né il Conservatore

di aiutare il suo Conservatorismo. Ma supponiamo che il riformatore tenti di riformare il

Conservatore e di mutarlo in un altro riformatore? O può, nel qual

caso il Determinismo non ha fatto alcuna differenza, o non può, nel qual

caso esso non può che aver reso i riformatori più disperati e i Conservatori

più ostinati. E il più breve sommario pratico e politico è che

gli operai, molto probabilmente, saranno presto troppo occupati a usare il loro Libero

Arbitrio per fermarsi a dimostrare di averlo. Ciò nonostante, mi piace

osservare il Determinista nell’Arena del «Clarion» ogni settimana, indaffarato come uno

scoiattolo—in gabbia. Ma essendo io stesso uno scoiattolo (che salta lieve di

ramo in ramo) e preferendo la forma di attività che occasionalmente

finisce in noci, non interverrei nella faccenda neppure indirettamente,

se non su un punto pratico. E il punto che ho in mente è pratico

fino al limite di un pericolo mortale. È un altro dei numerosi nuovi modi in

cui i ricchi irrequieti, che ora camminano il mondo con una spaventosa insonnia,

potrebbero riuscire a coglierci nel sonno.

Deve Essere un Mistero

Vi sono due lettere nel «Clarion» questa settimana che in vari modi

mi interessano moltissimo. Una si preoccupa di difendere Darwin dalla

rivolta scientifica contro di lui capeggiata da Samuel Butler, e tra

le altre cose definisce Bernard Shaw roba superata. Ebbene, di certo

«L’Origine delle Specie» è roba superata, nella misura in cui qualsiasi onesto e

interessante libro possa mai esserlo; ma nella pura filosofia nulla può essere

fuori moda, poiché l’universo dev’essere un mistero perfino per il credente.

Vi è, tuttavia, una condizione di cose in cui lo chiamo davvero

pertinente descrivere qualcuno come indietro coi tempi. È quando l’uomo

in questione, pensando a qualche stato di cose ormai svanito,

sta realmente aiutando le stesse cose che vorrebbe ostacolare. I principi

non possono mutare, ma i problemi sì. Così, chiamerei indietro coi

tempi un uomo che, nell’anno 1872, perorasse per i pacifici contadini tedeschi

contro il trionfante militarismo di Napoleone. Ovvero chiamerei fuori tempo un uomo

che, nell’anno 1892, desiderasse una Marina più forte per competere

con la Marina d’Olanda, perché essa un tempo aveva spazzato il mare e risalito

il Tamigi. E chiamo di certo fuori tempo un uomo o un movimento

che, nell’anno 1914, quando noi pochi combattiamo un gigantesco macchinario,

irrobustito da ogni ricchezza materiale e mosso da ogni scienza

materiale, pensi che il nostro principale pericolo provenga da un eccesso di responsabilità morale e

religiosa. Egli mi ricorda il signor Snodgrass, che ebbe la

presenza di spirito di gridare «Al fuoco!» quando il signor Pickwick sprofondò nel

ghiaccio.

L’altra lettera consiste nel solito stiracchiato argomento a favore del fatalismo.

L’uomo non può immaginare l’universo creato, e perciò è

«costretto dalla sua ragione» a pensare l’universo senza principio né

fine, il che (posso osservare) neppure è in grado di immaginare. Ma la lettera si chiude

con qualcosa di assai più sinistro di una cattiva metafisica. Qui, in

mezzo al «Clarion», nel centro di un pulito e combattivo

foglio democratico, incontro di nuovo la mia deplorevole vecchia conoscenza, il

criminologo scientifico. «Il cosiddetto malfattore non dovrebbe essere

punito per i suoi atti, ma contenuto». In quarantotto ore potrei

probabilmente ottenere una petizione a tal fine firmata da milionari. Poco

tempo fa fu presentato un disegno di legge per dichiarare irresponsabili e «contenere» un’

intera nuova classe di persone, che erano «incapaci di gestire i propri affari

con prudenza». Leggete i nomi dei sostenitori sul retro di quel disegno di legge, e

vedete che sorta di democratici fossero.

Ora, sgombrandoci il capo da ciò che si chiama scienza popolare (il che significa

andare a dormire su una ninnananna di paroloni), usiamo un poco il nostro

cervello, e chiediamoci quale sia la reale differenza tra il punire

un uomo e il contenerlo. La differenza materiale può essere qualsiasi o nulla;

poiché la punizione può essere assai mite, e il contenimento assai spietato. L’

uomo, s’intende, deve avversare l’uno tanto quanto l’altro, o non sarebbe

necessario contenerlo affatto. E vi assicuro che non trarrà alcun

gran bagliore di conforto dal vostro chiamarlo irresponsabile dopo che

l’avrete reso impotente. Un uomo non si sente necessariamente più libero e

a suo agio in una camicia di forza che in una cella di pietra. La differenza morale

è che un uomo può essere punito per un delitto perché è nato cittadino;

mentre può essere costretto perché è nato schiavo. Ma una

impressionante e tremenda differenza torreggia su tutte queste dubbie o

discutibili differenze. Vi è un aspetto, vitale per tutte le nostre libertà

e tutte le nostre vite, in cui il nuovo contenimento sarebbe diverso

dall’antica punizione. È di questo che i plutocrati trarranno

vantaggio.

La Differenza Lampante

The perfectly plain difference is this. All punishment, even the most

horrible, proceeds upon the assumption that the extent of the evil is

known, and that a certain amount of expiation goes with it. Even if

you hang the man, you cannot hang him twice. Even if you burn him,

you cannot burn him for a month. And in the case of all ordinary

imprisonments, the whole aim of free institutions from the beginning of

the world has been to insist that a man shall be convicted of a definite

crime and confined for a definite period. But the moment you admit this

notion of medical restraint, you must in fairness admit that it may go

on as long as the authorities choose to think (or say) that it ought

to go on. The man’s punishment refers to the past, which is supposed

to have been investigated, and which, in some degree at least, has been

investigated. But his restraint refers to the future, which his doctors,

keepers, and wardens have yet to investigate. The simple result will be

that, in the scientific Utopia of the “Clarion,” men like Mann or Syme

or Larkin will not be put in prison because of what they have done.

They will be kept in prison because of what they might do. Indeed, the

builders of the new tyranny have already come very near to avowing

this scientific and futurist method. When the lawyers tried to stop the

“Suffragette” from appearing at all, they practically said: “We do not

know your next week’s crime, because it isn’t committed yet; but we are

scientifically certain you have the criminal type. And by the sublime

and unalterable laws of heredity, all your poor little papers will

inherit it.”

This is a purely practical question; and that is why I insist on it,

even in such strenuous times. The writers on the “Clarion” have a

perfect right to think Christianity is the foe of freedom, or even

that the stupidity and tyranny of the present Government is due to the

monkish mysticism of Lord Morley and Mr. John M. Robertson. They have a

right to think the theory of Determinism as true as Calvin thought it.

But I do not like seeing them walk straight into the enormous iron trap

set open by the Capitalists, who find it convenient to make our law even

more lawless than it is. The rich men want a scientist to write them a

lettre de cachet as a doctor writes a prescription. And so they wish

to seal up in a public gaol the scandals of a private asylum. Yes; the

writers on the “Clarion” are indeed claiming irresponsibility for human

beings. But it is the governments that will be irresponsible, not the

governed.

But I will tell them one small secret in conclusion. There is nothing

whatever wrong in the ancient and universal idea of Punishment—except

that we are not punishing the right people.

THE DREGS OF PURITANISM

One peculiarity of the genuine kind of enemy of the people is that his

slightest phrase is clamorous with all his sins. Pride, vain-glory, and

hypocrisy seem present in his very grammar; in his very verbs or adverbs

or prepositions, as well as in what he says, which is generally bad

enough. Thus I see that a Nonconformist pastor in Bromley has been

talking about the pathetic little presents of tobacco sent to the common

soldiers. This is how he talks about it. He is reported as having said,

“By the help of God, they wanted this cigarette business stopped.” How

one could write a volume on that sentence, a great thick volume called

“The Decline of the English Middle Class.” In taste, in style, in

philosophy, in feeling, in political project, the horrors of it are as

unfathomable as hell.

First, to begin with the trifle, note something slipshod and vague in

the mere verbiage, typical of those who prefer a catchword to a creed.

“This cigarette business” might mean anything. It might mean Messrs.

Salmon and Gluckstein’s business. But the pastor at Bromley will not

interfere with that, for the indignation of his school of thought, even

when it is sincere, always instinctively and unconsciously swerves

aside from anything that is rich and powerful like the partners in a big

business, and strikes instead something that is poor and nameless like

the soldiers in a trench. Nor does the expression make clear who “they”

are—whether the inhabitants of Britain or the inhabitants of Bromley,

or the inhabitants of this one crazy tabernacle in Bromley; nor is it

evident how it is going to be stopped or who is being asked to stop it.

All these things are trifles compared to the more terrible offences

of the phrase; but they are not without their social and historical

interest. About the beginning of the nineteenth century the wealthy

Puritan class, generally the class of the employers of labour, took a

line of argument which was narrow, but not nonsensical. They saw the

relation of rich and poor quite coldly as a contract, but they saw that

a contract holds both ways. The Puritans of the middle class, in short,

did in some sense start talking and thinking for themselves. They are

still talking. They have long ago left off thinking. They talk about the

loyalty of workmen to their employers, and God knows what rubbish; and

the first small certainty about the reverend gentleman whose sentence

I have quoted is that his brain stopped working as a clock stops, years

and years ago.

Second, consider the quality of the religious literature! These people

are always telling us that the English translated Bible is sufficient

training for anyone in noble and appropriate diction; and so it is. Why,

then, are they not trained? They are always telling us that Bunyan, the

rude Midland tinker, is as much worth reading as Chaucer or Spenser;

and so he is. Why, then, have they not read him? I cannot believe

that anyone who had seen, even in a nightmare of the nursery, Apollyon

straddling over the whole breadth of the way could really write like

La differenza perfettamente lampante è questa. Ogni punizione, anche la più

orribile, procede dall’assunto che l’estensione del male sia

conosciuta, e che a essa si accompagni una certa misura di espiazione. Anche se

impiccate l’uomo, non potete impiccarlo due volte. Anche se lo bruciate,

non potete bruciarlo per un mese. E nel caso di tutte le ordinarie

carcerazioni, tutto il fine delle libere istituzioni dal principio del

mondo è stato insistere che un uomo sia condannato per un delitto definito

e recluso per un periodo definito. Ma nel momento in cui ammettete questa

nozione di contenimento medico, dovete per equità ammettere che esso può andare

avanti finché le autorità scelgano di pensare (o dire) che debba

andare avanti. La punizione dell’uomo si riferisce al passato, che si suppone

sia stato indagato, e che, in qualche grado almeno, è stato

indagato. Ma il suo contenimento si riferisce al futuro, che i suoi medici,

custodi e guardiani devono ancora indagare. Il semplice risultato sarà

che, nella scientifica Utopia del «Clarion», uomini come Mann o Syme

o Larkin non saranno messi in prigione a causa di ciò che hanno fatto.

Saranno tenuti in prigione a causa di ciò che potrebbero fare. Anzi, i

costruttori della nuova tirannia sono già giunti assai vicino a confessare

questo metodo scientifico e futurista. Quando i legali tentarono di impedire alla

«Suffragetta» di comparire del tutto, dissero in pratica: «Non

conosciamo il tuo delitto della prossima settimana, perché non è ancora commesso; ma siamo

scientificamente certi che tu abbia il tipo criminale. E per le sublimi

e inalterabili leggi dell’eredità, tutte le tue povere carticine

lo erediteranno».

Questa è una questione puramente pratica; ed è per ciò che vi insisto,

anche in tempi tanto tormentati. Gli scrittori del «Clarion» hanno un

perfetto diritto di pensare che il Cristianesimo sia il nemico della libertà, o perfino

che la stupidità e la tirannia dell’attuale Governo siano dovute al

monastico misticismo di Lord Morley e del signor John M. Robertson. Hanno il

diritto di pensare la teoria del Determinismo vera quanto la pensò Calvino.

Ma non mi piace vederli camminare dritti dentro l’enorme trappola di ferro

spalancata dai Capitalisti, che trovano conveniente rendere la nostra legge ancora

più illegale di quanto sia. I ricchi vogliono uno scienziato che scriva loro una

lettre de cachet come un medico scrive una ricetta. E così desiderano

sigillare in una pubblica galera gli scandali di un manicomio privato. Sì; gli

scrittori del «Clarion» rivendicano davvero l’irresponsabilità per gli esseri

umani. Ma saranno i governi a essere irresponsabili, non i

governati.

Ma dirò loro un piccolo segreto in conclusione. Non c’è nulla

di sbagliato nell’antica e universale idea della Punizione—se non

che non stiamo punendo le persone giuste.

LE FECCE DEL PURITANESIMO

Una peculiarità del genuino tipo di nemico del popolo è che la sua

più lieve frase è clamorosa di tutti i suoi peccati. L’orgoglio, la vanagloria e

l’ipocrisia paiono presenti nella sua stessa grammatica; nei suoi stessi verbi o avverbi

o preposizioni, tanto quanto in ciò che dice, che è generalmente abbastanza

cattivo. Vedo così che un pastore anticonformista di Bromley ha

parlato dei patetici piccoli doni di tabacco spediti ai comuni

soldati. Ecco come ne parla. È riferito che abbia detto:

«Con l’aiuto di Dio, volevano che questa faccenda delle sigarette fosse fatta cessare». Come

si potrebbe scrivere un volume su quella frase, un gran grosso volume intitolato

«Il Declino della Classe Media Inglese». Nel gusto, nello stile, nella

filosofia, nel sentimento, nel progetto politico, gli orrori di essa sono tanto

insondabili quanto l’inferno.

Primo, per cominciare dall’inezia, si noti qualcosa di sciatto e vago nella

mera verbosità, tipico di coloro che preferiscono uno slogan a un credo.

«Questa faccenda delle sigarette» potrebbe significare qualsiasi cosa. Potrebbe significare la ditta dei

signori Salmon e Gluckstein. Ma il pastore di Bromley non

interferirà con quella, poiché lo sdegno della sua scuola di pensiero, perfino

quando è sincero, sempre istintivamente e inconsciamente devia

da qualsiasi cosa sia ricca e potente come i soci di un grande

affare, e colpisce invece qualcosa che è povero e senza nome come

i soldati in una trincea. Né l’espressione rende chiaro chi siano «loro»—

se gli abitanti della Gran Bretagna o gli abitanti di Bromley,

o gli abitanti di questo solo folle tabernacolo di Bromley; né è

evidente come debba essere fatta cessare o a chi sia chiesto di farla cessare.

Tutte queste cose sono inezie in confronto ai più terribili peccati

della frase; ma non sono prive del loro interesse sociale e

storico. Verso l’inizio del diciannovesimo secolo la facoltosa

classe puritana, generalmente la classe dei datori di lavoro, adottò un

ragionamento che era angusto, ma non insensato. Vedevano la

relazione tra ricchi e poveri assai freddamente come un contratto, ma vedevano che

un contratto vale in entrambi i sensi. I Puritani della classe media, in breve,

cominciarono in qualche senso a parlare e a pensare per conto proprio. Stanno

ancora parlando. Da tempo hanno smesso di pensare. Parlano della

lealtà degli operai verso i loro datori di lavoro, e Dio sa che sciocchezze; e

la prima piccola certezza sul reverendo gentiluomo di cui ho citato la

frase è che il suo cervello ha smesso di funzionare come un orologio si ferma, anni

e anni fa.

Secondo, si consideri la qualità della letteratura religiosa! Questa gente

ci dice sempre che la Bibbia tradotta in inglese è sufficiente

addestramento per chiunque a una nobile e appropriata dizione; e così è. Perché,

allora, non sono addestrati? Ci dicono sempre che Bunyan, il

rozzo calderaio delle Midlands, vale la lettura quanto Chaucer o Spenser;

e così è. Perché, allora, non l’hanno letto? Non posso credere

che chiunque abbia visto, anche in un incubo della fanciullezza, Apollyon

a cavalcioni sull’intera larghezza della via potesse davvero scrivere così

that about a cigarette. By the help of God, they wanted this cigarette

business stopped. Therefore, with angels and archangels and the whole

company of Heaven, with St. Michael, smiter of Satan and Captain of

the Chivalry of God, with all the ardour of the seraphs and the flaming

patience of the saints, we will have this cigarette business stopped.

Where has all the tradition of the great religious literatures gone to

that a man should come on such a bathos with such a bump?

Thirdly, of course, there is the lack of imaginative proportion, which

rises into a sort of towering blasphemy. An enormous number of live

young men are being hurt by shells, hurt by bullets, hurt by fever

and hunger and horror of hope deferred; hurt by lance blades and sword

blades and bayonet blades breaking into the bloody house of life. But

Mr. Price (I think that’s his name) is still anxious that they should

not be hurt by cigarettes. That is the sort of maniacal isolation that

can be found in the deserts of Bromley. That cigarettes are bad for

the health is a very tenable opinion to which the minister is quite

entitled. If he happens to think that the youth of Bromley smoke too

many cigarettes, and that he has any influence in urging on them the

unhealthiness of the habit, I should not blame him if he gave sermons

or lectures about it (with magic-lantern slides), so long as it was in

Bromley and about Bromley. Cigarettes may be bad for the health: bombs

and bayonets and even barbed wire are not good for the health. I never

met a doctor who recommended any of them. But the trouble with this sort

of man is that he cannot adjust himself to the scale of things. He would

do very good service if he would go among the rich aristocratic ladies

and tell them not to take drugs in a chronic sense, as people take opium

in China. But he would be doing very bad service if he were to go among

the doctors and nurses on the field and tell them not to give drugs, as

they give morphia in a hospital. But it is the whole hypothesis of war,

it is its very nature and first principle, that the man in the trench

is almost as much a suffering and abnormal person as the man in the

hospital. Hit or unhit, conqueror or conquered, he is, by nature of the

case, having less pleasure than is proper and natural to a man.

Fourth (for I need not dwell here on the mere diabolical idiocy that can

regard beer or tobacco as in some way evil and unseemly in themselves),

there is the most important element in this strange outbreak; at least,

the most dangerous and the most important for us. There is that

main feature in the degradation of the old middle class: the utter

disappearance of its old appetite for liberty. Here there is no question

of whether the men are to smoke cigarettes, or the women choose to

send cigarettes, or even that the officers or doctors choose to allow

cigarettes. The thing is to cease, and we may note one of the most

recurrent ideas of the servile State: it is mentioned in the passive

mood. It must be stopped, and we must not even ask who has stopped it!

THE TYRANNY OF BAD JOURNALISM

The amazing decision of the Government to employ methods quite alien to

England, and rather belonging to the police of the Continent, probably

arises from the appearance of papers which are lucid and fighting, like

the papers of the Continent. The business may be put in many ways. But

one way of putting it is simply to say that a monopoly of bad journalism

is resisting the possibility of good journalism. Journalism is not the

same thing as literature; but there is good and bad journalism, as there

is good and bad literature, as there is good and bad football. For the

last twenty years or so the plutocrats who govern England have allowed

the English nothing but bad journalism. Very bad journalism, simply

considered as journalism.

It always takes a considerable time to see the simple and central fact

about anything. All sorts of things have been said about the modern

Press, especially the Yellow Press; that it is Jingo or Philistine or

sensational or wrongly inquisitive or vulgar or indecent or trivial; but

none of these have anything really to do with the point.

The point about the Press is that it is not what it is called. It is not

the “popular Press.” It is not the public Press. It is not an organ

of public opinion. It is a conspiracy of a very few millionaires, all

sufficiently similar in type to agree on the limits of what this great

nation (to which we belong) may know about itself and its friends and

enemies. The ring is not quite complete; there are old-fashioned and

honest papers: but it is sufficiently near to completion to produce on

the ordinary purchaser of news the practical effects of a corner and

a monopoly. He receives all his political information and all

his political marching orders from what is by this time a sort of

half-conscious secret society, with very few members, but a great deal

of money.

This enormous and essential fact is concealed for us by a number of

legends that have passed into common speech. There is the notion that

the Press is flashy or trivial because it is popular. In other words,

an attempt is made to discredit democracy by representing journalism

as the natural literature of democracy. All this is cold rubbish.

The democracy has no more to do with the papers than it has with the

peerages. The millionaire newspapers are vulgar and silly because the

millionaires are vulgar and silly. It is the proprietor, not the editor,

not the sub-editor, least of all the reader, who is pleased with this

monotonous prairie of printed words. The same slander on democracy can

be noticed in the case of advertisements. There is many a tender old

Tory imagination that vaguely feels that our streets would be hung with

quella cosa su una sigaretta. Con l’aiuto di Dio, volevano che questa faccenda delle sigarette

fosse fatta cessare. Perciò, con angeli e arcangeli e l’intera

schiera del Cielo, con San Michele, percussore di Satana e Capitano

della Cavalleria di Dio, con tutto l’ardore dei serafini e la fiammeggiante

pazienza dei santi, faremo cessare questa faccenda delle sigarette.

Dove se n’è andata tutta la tradizione delle grandi letterature religiose,

perché un uomo debba cascare su un tale bathos con un tale tonfo?

In terzo luogo, naturalmente, c’è la mancanza di proporzione immaginativa, che

sale in una sorta di torreggiante bestemmia. Un enorme numero di vivaci

giovani uomini viene ferito da granate, ferito da pallottole, ferito dalla febbre

e dalla fame e dall’orrore della speranza differita; ferito da lame di lancia e lame di spada

e lame di baionetta che irrompono nella sanguinante casa della vita. Ma

il signor Price (credo si chiami così) è ancora ansioso che essi non

vengano feriti dalle sigarette. Questa è la sorta di maniacale isolamento che

si può trovare nei deserti di Bromley. Che le sigarette facciano male alla

salute è un’opinione assai sostenibile alla quale il ministro ha pieno

diritto. Se gli accade di pensare che la gioventù di Bromley fumi troppe

sigarette, e che egli abbia una qualche influenza nell’inculcare in essa

l’insalubrità dell’abitudine, non lo biasimerei se tenesse sermoni

o conferenze su ciò (con proiezioni a lanterna magica), purché fosse a

Bromley e su Bromley. Le sigarette possono far male alla salute: bombe

e baionette e perfino filo spinato non fanno bene alla salute. Non ho mai

incontrato un medico che raccomandasse alcuno di essi. Ma il guaio di questa sorta

di uomo è che non sa adattarsi alla scala delle cose. Renderebbe

un ottimo servizio se andasse tra le ricche dame aristocratiche

e dicesse loro di non prendere droghe in senso cronico, come la gente prende l’oppio

in Cina. Ma renderebbe un pessimo servizio se andasse tra

i medici e le infermiere sul campo e dicesse loro di non somministrare droghe, come

somministrano la morfina in un ospedale. Ma è tutta l’ipotesi della guerra,

è la sua stessa natura e primo principio, che l’uomo in trincea

sia quasi altrettanto una persona sofferente e anormale quanto l’uomo nell’

ospedale. Colpito o incolume, vincitore o vinto, egli, per natura del

caso, prova meno piacere di quanto sia proprio e naturale a un uomo.

In quarto luogo (poiché non occorre qui indugiare sulla mera diabolica idiozia che sa

considerare la birra o il tabacco come in qualche modo malvagi e sconvenienti in sé),

c’è l’elemento più importante in questo strano scoppio; almeno,

il più pericoloso e il più importante per noi. C’è quel

tratto principale nella degradazione della vecchia classe media: l’assoluta

scomparsa del suo antico appetito di libertà. Qui non v’è questione

se gli uomini debbano fumare sigarette, o le donne scelgano di

mandare sigarette, o perfino che gli ufficiali o i medici scelgano di permettere

le sigarette. La cosa deve cessare, e possiamo notare una delle più

ricorrenti idee dello Stato servile: è menzionata in modo passivo.

Deve essere fatta cessare, e non dobbiamo nemmeno chiedere chi l’abbia fatta cessare!

LA TIRANNIA DEL CATTIVO GIORNALISMO

La stupefacente decisione del Governo di impiegare metodi del tutto alieni all’

Inghilterra, e piuttosto propri della polizia del Continente, probabilmente

nasce dalla comparsa di giornali lucidi e combattivi, come

i giornali del Continente. La faccenda può essere posta in molti modi. Ma

un modo di porla è semplicemente dire che un monopolio del cattivo giornalismo

sta resistendo alla possibilità del buon giornalismo. Il giornalismo non è la

stessa cosa della letteratura; ma c’è buono e cattivo giornalismo, come c’è

buona e cattiva letteratura, come c’è buono e cattivo calcio. Negli

ultimi vent’anni o giù di lì i plutocrati che governano l’Inghilterra hanno concesso

agli Inglesi null’altro che cattivo giornalismo. Pessimo giornalismo, semplicemente

considerato come giornalismo.

Occorre sempre un considerevole tempo per vedere il semplice e centrale fatto

su qualsiasi cosa. Ogni sorta di cose è stata detta sulla moderna

Stampa, specialmente la Stampa Gialla; che è sciovinista o filistea o

sensazionalista o indebitamente inquisitoria o volgare o indecente o triviale; ma

nessuna di queste ha realmente a che fare col punto.

Il punto sulla Stampa è che essa non è ciò che si chiama. Non è

la «Stampa popolare». Non è la Stampa pubblica. Non è un organo

dell’opinione pubblica. È una cospirazione di pochissimi milionari, tutti

sufficientemente simili di tipo da concordare sui limiti di ciò che questa grande

nazione (alla quale apparteniamo) può sapere di sé e dei suoi amici e

nemici. L’anello non è del tutto completo; vi sono giornali all’antica e

onesti: ma è sufficientemente prossimo al compimento da produrre sull’

ordinario acquirente di notizie gli effetti pratici di un accaparramento e

di un monopolio. Egli riceve tutte le sue informazioni politiche e tutti

i suoi ordini di marcia politici da ciò che è a questo tempo una sorta di

società segreta semiconsapevole, con pochissimi membri, ma una gran quantità

di denaro.

Questo enorme ed essenziale fatto ci è celato da un certo numero di

leggende passate nel linguaggio comune. C’è la nozione che

la Stampa sia sgargiante o triviale perché è popolare. In altre parole,

si compie un tentativo di screditare la democrazia rappresentando il giornalismo

come la naturale letteratura della democrazia. Tutto ciò è freddo ciarpame.

La democrazia non ha più a che fare coi giornali di quanto abbia con i

titoli nobiliari. I giornali dei milionari sono volgari e sciocchi perché i

milionari sono volgari e sciocchi. È il proprietario, non il redattore,

non il vicecapo, meno di tutti il lettore, a compiacersi di questa

monotona prateria di parole stampate. La stessa calunnia sulla democrazia può

notarsi nel caso delle inserzioni pubblicitarie. C’è più d’una tenera vecchia

Tory immaginazione che vagamente sente che le nostre strade sarebbero addobbate di

escutcheons and tapestries, if only the profane vulgar had not hung them

with advertisements of Sapolio and Sunlight Soap. But advertisement does

not come from the unlettered many. It comes from the refined few.

Did you ever hear of a mob rising to placard the Town Hall with

proclamations in favour of Sapolio? Did you ever see a poor, ragged

man laboriously drawing and painting a picture on the wall in favour

of Sunlight Soap—simply as a labour of love? It is nonsense; those who

hang our public walls with ugly pictures are the same select few who

hang their private walls with exquisite and expensive pictures. The

vulgarisation of modern life has come from the governing class; from the

highly educated class. Most of the people who have posters in Camberwell

have peerages at Westminster. But the strongest instance of all is that

which has been unbroken until lately, and still largely prevails; the

ghastly monotony of the Press.

Then comes that other legend; the notion that men like the masters of

the Newspaper Trusts “give the people what they want.” Why, it is the

whole aim and definition of a Trust that it gives the people what it

chooses. In the old days, when Parliaments were free in England, it

was discovered that one courtier was allowed to sell all the silk, and

another to sell all the sweet wine. A member of the House of Commons

humorously asked who was allowed to sell all the bread. I really tremble

to think what that sarcastic legislator would have said if he had been

put off with the modern nonsense about “gauging the public taste.”

Suppose the first courtier had said that, by his shrewd, self-made

sense, he had detected that people had a vague desire for silk; and

even a deep, dim human desire to pay so much a yard for it! Suppose

the second courtier said that he had, by his own rugged intellect,

discovered a general desire for wine: and that people bought his wine

at his price—when they could buy no other! Suppose a third courtier had

jumped up and said that people always bought his bread when they could

get none anywhere else.

Well, that is a perfect parallel. “After bread, the need of the people

is knowledge,” said Danton. Knowledge is now a monopoly, and comes

through to the citizens in thin and selected streams, exactly as bread

might come through to a besieged city. Men must wish to know what is

happening, whoever has the privilege of telling them. They must listen

to the messenger, even if he is a liar. They must listen to the liar,

even if he is a bore. The official journalist for some time past has

been both a bore and a liar; but it was impossible until lately to

neglect his sheets of news altogether. Lately the capitalist Press

really has begun to be neglected; because its bad journalism was

overpowering and appalling. Lately we have really begun to find out that

capitalism cannot write, just as it cannot fight, or pray, or marry, or

make a joke, or do any other stricken human thing. But this discovery

has been quite recent. The capitalist newspaper was never actually

unread until it was actually unreadable.

If you retain the servile superstition that the Press, as run by the

capitalists, is popular (in any sense except that in which dirty water

in a desert is popular), consider the case of the solemn articles in

praise of the men who own newspapers—men of the type of Cadbury or

Harmsworth, men of the type of the small club of millionaires. Did you

ever hear a plain man in a tramcar or train talking about Carnegie’s

bright genial smile or Rothschild’s simple, easy hospitality? Did you

ever hear an ordinary citizen ask what was the opinion of Sir Joseph

Lyons about the hopes and fears of this, our native land? These few

small-minded men publish, papers to praise themselves. You could no more

get an intelligent poor man to praise a millionaire’s soul, except for

hire, than you could get him to sell a millionaire’s soap, except for

hire. And I repeat that, though there are other aspects of the matter of

the new plutocratic raid, one of the most important is mere journalistic

jealousy. The Yellow Press is bad journalism: and wishes to stop the

appearance of good journalism.

There is no average member of the public who would not prefer to have

Lloyd George discussed as what he is, a Welshman of genius and ideals,

strangely fascinated by bad fashion and bad finance, rather than

discussed as what neither he nor anyone else ever was, a perfect

democrat or an utterly detestable demagogue. There is no reader of a

daily paper who would not feel more concern—and more respect—for Sir

Rufus Isaacs as a man who has been a stockbroker, than as a man who

happens to be Attorney-General. There is no man in the street who is not

more interested in Lloyd George’s investments than in his Land Campaign.

There is no man in the street who could not understand (and like)

Rufus Isaacs as a Jew better than he can possibly like him as a British

statesman. There is no sane journalist alive who would say that the

official account of Marconis would be better “copy” than the true

account that such papers as this have dragged out. We have committed one

crime against the newspaper proprietor which he will never forgive. We

point out that his papers are dull. And we propose to print some papers

that are interesting.

THE POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION

Everyone but a consistent and contented capitalist, who must be

something pretty near to a Satanist, must rejoice at the spirit and

success of the Battle of the Buses. But one thing about it which happens

to please me particularly was that it was fought, in one aspect at

least, on a point such as the plutocratic fool calls unpractical. It

was fought about a symbol, a badge, a thing attended with no kind of

practical results, like the flags for which men allow themselves to fall

stemmi e arazzi, se solo il volgo profano non li avesse ricoperti

di pubblicità di Sapolio e del Sunlight Soap. Ma la pubblicità non

viene dai molti illetterati. Viene dai pochi raffinati.

Avete mai sentito di una folla insorta per tappezzare il Municipio con

proclami a favore del Sapolio? Avete mai visto un pover’uomo cencioso

disegnare e dipingere faticosamente un quadro sul muro a favore

del Sunlight Soap — semplicemente per amore dell’opera? È un’assurdità; coloro che

ricoprono i nostri muri pubblici di brutte immagini sono quegli stessi pochi eletti che

ricoprono i propri muri privati di quadri squisiti e costosi. La

volgarizzazione della vita moderna è venuta dalla classe dirigente; dalla

classe altamente istruita. La maggior parte di chi ha manifesti a Camberwell

ha titoli nobiliari a Westminster. Ma l’esempio più forte di tutti è quello

che è rimasto ininterrotto fino a poco fa, e in gran parte ancora prevale; la

spettrale monotonia della Stampa.

Poi viene quell’altra leggenda; l’idea che uomini come i padroni dei

Trust dei giornali «diano al popolo ciò che vuole». Ebbene, è proprio lo

scopo e la definizione di un Trust il dare al popolo ciò che esso

sceglie. Ai vecchi tempi, quando i Parlamenti in Inghilterra erano liberi,

si scoprì che a un cortigiano era concesso vendere tutta la seta, e

a un altro vendere tutto il vino dolce. Un membro della Camera dei Comuni

chiese con umorismo a chi fosse concesso vendere tutto il pane. Davvero tremo

a pensare che cosa avrebbe detto quel sarcastico legislatore se lo avessero

liquidato con le moderne fandonie sul «tastare il gusto del pubblico».

Immaginate che il primo cortigiano avesse detto che, col suo scaltro intuito da sé fatto,

aveva rilevato che la gente nutriva un vago desiderio di seta; e

persino un profondo, oscuro desiderio umano di pagarla tanto alla iarda! Immaginate

che il secondo cortigiano avesse detto di aver, col suo rude intelletto,

scoperto un generale desiderio di vino: e che la gente comprava il suo vino

al suo prezzo — quando non poteva comprarne altro! Immaginate che un terzo cortigiano si fosse

alzato di scatto e avesse detto che la gente comprava sempre il suo pane quando non

riusciva a trovarne altrove.

Ebbene, è un parallelo perfetto. «Dopo il pane, il bisogno del popolo

è la conoscenza», disse Danton. La conoscenza è ora un monopolio, e giunge

ai cittadini in rivoli esili e selezionati, esattamente come il pane

potrebbe giungere a una città assediata. Gli uomini devono voler sapere ciò che

accade, chiunque abbia il privilegio di riferirglielo. Devono ascoltare

il messaggero, anche se è un bugiardo. Devono ascoltare il bugiardo,

anche se è un noioso. Il giornalista ufficiale, da qualche tempo a questa parte, è

stato tanto un noioso quanto un bugiardo; ma era impossibile, fino a poco fa,

trascurare del tutto i suoi fogli di notizie. Di recente la Stampa capitalista

ha davvero cominciato a essere trascurata; perché il suo cattivo giornalismo era

soverchiante e spaventoso. Di recente abbiamo davvero cominciato a scoprire che

il capitalismo non sa scrivere, così come non sa combattere, o pregare, o sposarsi, o

fare una battuta, o compiere qualsiasi altra afflitta azione umana. Ma questa scoperta

è stata piuttosto recente. Il giornale capitalista non fu mai davvero

non letto finché non fu davvero illeggibile.

Se conservate la servile superstizione che la Stampa, così com’è gestita dai

capitalisti, sia popolare (in un senso qualsiasi tranne quello in cui l’acqua sporca

in un deserto è popolare), considerate il caso dei solenni articoli in

lode degli uomini che possiedono i giornali — uomini del tipo di Cadbury o

Harmsworth, uomini del tipo del piccolo club di milionari. Avete

mai sentito un uomo qualunque su un tram o un treno parlare del

luminoso e geniale sorriso di Carnegie o della semplice, disinvolta ospitalità di Rothschild? Avete

mai sentito un cittadino comune chiedere quale fosse l’opinione di Sir Joseph

Lyons sulle speranze e i timori di questa, la nostra terra natia? Questi pochi

uomini gretti pubblicano giornali per lodare se stessi. Non potreste

convincere un povero intelligente a lodare l’anima di un milionario, se non a

pagamento, più di quanto potreste convincerlo a vendere il sapone di un milionario, se non a

pagamento. E ripeto che, benché vi siano altri aspetti della questione

della nuova incursione plutocratica, uno dei più importanti è quella puramente giornalistica:

la gelosia. La Stampa Gialla è cattivo giornalismo: e desidera impedire la

comparsa del buon giornalismo.

Non c’è membro medio del pubblico che non preferirebbe veder

discutere Lloyd George per ciò che è, un gallese di genio e di ideali,

stranamente affascinato dalla cattiva moda e dalla cattiva finanza, piuttosto che

discusso per ciò che né lui né alcun altro fu mai, un perfetto

democratico o un demagogo del tutto detestabile. Non c’è lettore di un

quotidiano che non proverebbe più interesse — e più rispetto — per Sir

Rufus Isaacs come uomo che è stato agente di cambio, che come uomo che

si dà il caso sia Procuratore Generale. Non c’è uomo della strada che non sia

più interessato agli investimenti di Lloyd George che alla sua Campagna per la Terra.

Non c’è uomo della strada che non saprebbe capire (e apprezzare)

Rufus Isaacs come ebreo meglio di quanto possa mai apprezzarlo come uomo di Stato

britannico. Non c’è giornalista sano di mente al mondo che direbbe che il

resoconto ufficiale dei Marconi sarebbe migliore «materia» del vero

resoconto che giornali come questo hanno tirato fuori. Abbiamo commesso un

delitto contro il proprietario del giornale che egli non perdonerà mai. Facciamo

notare che i suoi giornali sono noiosi. E ci proponiamo di stampare giornali

che siano interessanti.

LA POESIA DELLA RIVOLUZIONE

Chiunque, tranne un capitalista coerente e soddisfatto, il quale dev’essere

qualcosa di assai vicino a un satanista, deve rallegrarsi dello spirito e del

successo della Battaglia degli Autobus. Ma una cosa di essa che

mi piace in modo particolare è che fu combattuta, almeno sotto un

aspetto, su un punto che lo sciocco plutocrate definisce poco pratico. Fu

combattuta per un simbolo, un distintivo, una cosa che non comporta alcun genere di

risultati pratici, come le bandiere per cui gli uomini si lasciano cadere

down dead, or the shrines for which men will walk some hundreds of miles

from their homes. When a man has an eye for business, all that goes on

on this earth in that style is simply invisible to him. But let us be

charitable to the eye for business; the eye has been pretty well blacked

this time.

But I wish to insist here that it is exactly what is called the

unpractical part of the thing that is really the practical. The chief

difference between men and the animals is that all men are artists;

though the overwhelming majority of us are bad artists. As the old fable

truly says, lions do not make statues; even the cunning of the fox can

go no further than the accomplishment of leaving an exact model of

the vulpine paw: and even that is an accomplishment which he wishes

he hadn’t got. There are Chryselephantine statues, but no purely

elephantine ones. And, though we speak in a general way of an elephant

trumpeting, it is only by human blandishments that he can be induced to

play the drum. But man, savage or civilised, simple or complex

always desires to see his own soul outside himself; in some material

embodiment. He always wishes to point to a table in a temple, or a cloth

on a stick, or a word on a scroll, or a badge on a coat, and say: “This

is the best part of me. If need be, it shall be the rest of me that

shall perish.” This is the method which seems so unbusinesslike to the

men with an eye to business. This is also the method by which battles

are won.

The Symbolism of the Badge

The badge on a Trade Unionist’s coat is a piece of poetry in the

genuine, lucid, and logical sense in which Milton defined poetry (and

he ought to know) when he said that it was simple, sensuous, and

passionate. It is simple, because many understand the word “badge,”

who might not even understand the word “recognition.” It is sensuous,

because it is visible and tangible; it is incarnate, as all the good

Gods have been; and it is passionate in this perfectly practical sense,

which the man with an eye to business may some day learn more thoroughly

than he likes, that there are men who will allow you to cross a word

out in a theoretical document, but who will not allow you to pull a big

button off their bodily clothing, merely because you have more money

than they have. Now I think it is this sensuousness, this passion, and,

above all, this simplicity that are most wanted in this promising revolt

of our time. For this simplicity is perhaps the only thing in which the

best type of recent revolutionists have failed. It has been our

sorrow lately to salute the sunset of one of the very few clean and

incorruptible careers in the most corruptible phase of Christendom. The

death of Quelch naturally turns one’s thoughts to those extreme Marxian

theorists, who, whatever we may hold about their philosophy, have

certainly held their honour like iron. And yet, even in this instant

of instinctive reverence, I cannot feel that they were poetical enough,

that is childish enough, to make a revolution. They had all the audacity

needed for speaking to the despot; but not the simplicity needed for

speaking to the democracy. They were always accused of being too bitter

against the capitalist. But it always seemed to me that they were (quite

unconsciously, of course) much too kind to him. They had a fatal habit

of using long words, even on occasions when he might with propriety have

been described in very short words. They called him a Capitalist when

almost anybody in Christendom would have called him a cad. And “cad”

is a word from the poetic vocabulary indicating rather a general and

powerful reaction of the emotions than a status that could be defined

in a work of economics. The capitalist, asleep in the sun, let such long

words crawl all over him, like so many long, soft, furry caterpillars.

Caterpillars cannot sting like wasps. And, in repeating that the old

Marxians have been, perhaps, the best and bravest men of our time, I say

also that they would have been better and braver still if they had never

used a scientific word, and never read anything but fairy tales.

The Beastly Individualist

Suppose I go on to a ship, and the ship sinks almost immediately; but

I (like the people in the Bab Ballads), by reason of my clinging to a

mast, upon a desert island am eventually cast. Or rather, suppose I am

not cast on it, but am kept bobbing about in the water, because the only

man on the island is what some call an Individualist, and will not throw

me a rope; though coils of rope of the most annoying elaboration and

neatness are conspicuous beside him as he stands upon the shore. Now,

it seems to me, that if, in my efforts to shout at this fellow-creature

across the crashing breakers, I call his position the “insularistic

position,” and my position “the semi-amphibian position,” much valuable

time may be lost. I am not an amphibian. I am a drowning man. He is

not an insularist, or an individualist. He is a beast. Or rather, he

is worse than any beast can be. And if, instead of letting me drown, he

makes me promise, while I am drowning, that if I come on shore it shall

be as his bodily slave, having no human claims henceforward forever,

then, by the whole theory and practice of capitalism, he becomes a

capitalist, he also becomes a cad.

Now, the language of poetry is simpler than that of prose; as anyone

can see who has read what the old-fashioned protestant used to call

confidently “his” Bible. And, being simpler, it is also truer; and,

being truer, it is also fiercer. And, for most of the infamies of our

time, there is really nothing plain enough, except the plain language of

poetry. Take, let us say, the ease of the recent railway disaster,

and the acquittal of the capitalists’ interest. It is not a scientific

cadono morti, o i santuari verso i quali gli uomini cammineranno alcune centinaia di miglia

dalle loro case. Quando un uomo ha occhio per gli affari, tutto ciò che accade

su questa terra in tale stile gli è semplicemente invisibile. Ma siamo

caritatevoli con l’occhio per gli affari; l’occhio è stato assai ben pestato

questa volta.

Ma desidero qui insistere che è esattamente ciò che si chiama la

parte impratica della cosa a essere realmente la pratica. La principale

differenza tra gli uomini e gli animali è che tutti gli uomini sono artisti;

benché la stragrande maggioranza di noi siano cattivi artisti. Come dice veramente l’antica favola,

i leoni non fanno statue; perfino l’astuzia della volpe non può

andare oltre l’impresa di lasciare un modello esatto della

zampa vulpina: e perfino quella è un’impresa che essa vorrebbe

non aver compiuto. Ci sono statue crisoelefantine, ma nessuna puramente

elefantina. E, benché parliamo in generale di un elefante

che barrisce, è solo per umane lusinghe che lo si può indurre a

suonare il tamburo. Ma l’uomo, selvaggio o civile, semplice o complesso,

desidera sempre vedere la propria anima fuori di sé; in una qualche materiale

incarnazione. Desidera sempre indicare una tavola in un tempio, o un panno

su un’asta, o una parola su un rotolo, o un distintivo su una giubba, e dire: «Questo

è il meglio di me. Se occorre, sarà il resto di me che

perirà». Questo è il metodo che pare tanto poco pratico agli

uomini con occhio per gli affari. Questo è anche il metodo col quale le battaglie

vengono vinte.

Il Simbolismo del Distintivo

Il distintivo sulla giubba di un Sindacalista è un pezzo di poesia nel

genuino, lucido e logico senso in cui Milton definì la poesia (ed

egli doveva ben saperlo) quando disse che era semplice, sensuosa e

appassionata. È semplice, perché molti comprendono la parola «distintivo»,

che potrebbero non comprendere nemmeno la parola «riconoscimento». È sensuosa,

perché è visibile e tangibile; è incarnata, come tutti i buoni

Dei sono stati; ed è appassionata in quel senso perfettamente pratico,

che l’uomo con occhio per gli affari potrà un giorno apprendere più a fondo

di quanto gli piaccia, che vi sono uomini che vi lasceranno cancellare una parola

in un documento teorico, ma che non vi lasceranno strappare un grosso

bottone dal loro corporeo abbigliamento, solo perché avete più denaro

di loro. Ora, penso che siano questa sensuosità, questa passione e,

soprattutto, questa semplicità le cose più necessarie in questa promettente rivolta

del nostro tempo. Poiché questa semplicità è forse l’unica cosa in cui il

miglior tipo di recenti rivoluzionari ha fallito. È stato nostro

dolore di recente salutare il tramonto di una delle pochissime pulite e

incorruttibili carriere nella fase più corruttibile della Cristianità. La

morte di Quelch volge naturalmente il pensiero a quegli estremi marxiani

teorici che, checché possiamo ritenere della loro filosofia, hanno

certamente tenuto il loro onore come ferro. Eppure, perfino in questo istante

di istintiva riverenza, non posso sentire che fossero abbastanza poetici,

cioè abbastanza fanciulleschi, da fare una rivoluzione. Avevano tutta l’audacia

necessaria per parlare al despota; ma non la semplicità necessaria per

parlare alla democrazia. Erano sempre accusati di essere troppo aspri

contro il capitalista. Ma mi è sempre parso che fossero (del tutto

inconsapevolmente, s’intende) troppo gentili con lui. Avevano la fatale abitudine

di usare parole lunghe, perfino in occasioni in cui egli avrebbe potuto con proprietà

essere descritto con parole assai brevi. Lo chiamavano Capitalista quando

quasi chiunque nella Cristianità l’avrebbe chiamato un mascalzone. E «mascalzone»

è una parola del vocabolario poetico che indica piuttosto una generale e

potente reazione delle emozioni che uno status definibile

in un’opera di economia. Il capitalista, addormentato al sole, lasciava strisciare tali lunghe

parole tutte su di sé, come tanti lunghi, molli, pelosi bruchi.

I bruchi non pungono come le vespe. E, ripetendo che i vecchi

marxiani sono stati, forse, gli uomini migliori e più coraggiosi del nostro tempo, dico

anche che sarebbero stati ancora migliori e più coraggiosi se non avessero mai

usato una parola scientifica, e non avessero mai letto null’altro che fiabe.

L’Individualista Bestiale

Supponiamo che io salga su una nave, e la nave affondi quasi immediatamente; ma

io (come la gente nelle Bab Ballads), in virtù del mio aggrapparmi a un

albero, su un’isola deserta alla fine sia gettato. O piuttosto, supponiamo che io

non vi sia gettato, ma sia tenuto a galleggiare nell’acqua, perché il solo

uomo sull’isola è ciò che alcuni chiamano un Individualista, e non mi getterà

una fune; benché matasse di fune della più irritante elaborazione e

nettezza siano cospicue accanto a lui mentre sta sulla riva. Ora,

mi pare che se, nei miei sforzi di gridare a questo mio simile

attraverso i frangenti fragorosi, io chiami la sua posizione la «posizione

insularistica», e la mia posizione «la posizione semi-anfibia», molto prezioso

tempo potrebbe andare perduto. Io non sono un anfibio. Sono un uomo che affoga. Egli

non è un insularista, né un individualista. È una bestia. O piuttosto, è

peggio di quanto qualsiasi bestia possa essere. E se, invece di lasciarmi affogare, egli

mi fa promettere, mentre sto affogando, che se giungo a riva sarà

come suo corporeo schiavo, senza più alcuna umana pretesa d’ora in poi per sempre,

allora, per tutta la teoria e la pratica del capitalismo, egli diventa un

capitalista, egli diventa anche un mascalzone.

Ora, la lingua della poesia è più semplice di quella della prosa; come chiunque

può vedere se ha letto ciò che l’antiquato protestante era solito chiamare

con sicurezza «la sua» Bibbia. Ed essendo più semplice, è anche più vera; ed

essendo più vera, è anche più feroce. E, per la maggior parte delle infamie del nostro

tempo, non c’è davvero nulla di abbastanza schietto, tranne la schietta lingua della

poesia. Prendiamo, diciamo, il caso del recente disastro ferroviario,

e l’assoluzione dell’interesse dei capitalisti. Non è una scientifica

problem for us to investigate. It is a crime committed before our eyes;

committed, perhaps, by blind men or maniacs, or men hypnotised, or men

in some other ways unconscious; but committed in broad daylight, so that

the corpse is bleeding on our door-step. Good lives were lost, because

good lives do not pay; and bad coals do pay. It seems simply impossible

to get any other meaning out of the matter except that. And, if in human

history there be anything simple and anything horrible, it seems to have

been present in this matter. If, even after some study and understanding

of the old religious passions which were the resurrection of Europe,

we cannot endure the extreme infamy of witches and heretics literally

burned alive—well, the people in this affair were quite as literally

burned alive. If, when we have really tried to extend our charity beyond

the borders of personal sympathy, to all the complexities of class

and creed, we still feel something insolent about the triumphant and

acquitted man who is in the wrong, here the men who are in the wrong are

triumphant and acquitted. It is no subject for science. It is a subject

for poetry. But for poetry of a terrible sort.

problema da investigare per noi. È un delitto commesso sotto i nostri occhi;

commesso, forse, da ciechi o da maniaci, o da uomini ipnotizzati, o da uomini

in qualche altro modo inconsapevoli; ma commesso in pieno giorno, sicché

il cadavere sanguina sulla nostra soglia. Vite buone furono perdute, perché

le vite buone non rendono; e il carbone cattivo rende. Sembra semplicemente impossibile

ricavare dalla faccenda un altro significato che non sia questo. E, se nella storia

umana vi è qualcosa di semplice e qualcosa di orribile, pare essere stato

presente in questa faccenda. Se, persino dopo un certo studio e una certa comprensione

delle antiche passioni religiose che furono la resurrezione dell’Europa,

non possiamo sopportare l’estrema infamia di streghe ed eretici letteralmente

arsi vivi—ebbene, le persone in questo affare furono altrettanto letteralmente

arse vive. Se, quando abbiamo davvero cercato di estendere la nostra carità oltre

i confini della simpatia personale, a tutte le complessità di classe

e di credo, avvertiamo ancora qualcosa di insolente nell’uomo trionfante e

assolto che è dalla parte del torto, qui gli uomini che sono dalla parte del torto sono

trionfanti e assolti. Non è materia per la scienza. È materia

per la poesia. Ma per una poesia di sorta terribile.