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Title: Democracy Author: Dora Marsden Date: 1914 Language: en Topics: egoism, democracy, The Egoist Source: Retrieved on 09/26/2021 from https://modjourn.org/issue/bdr520337/ Notes: Originally published in The Egoist Volume I Number 8 (April 15, 1914). Title is unofficial and derived from the text.
The offending aspect of the pretensions of "democracy" is not that in
the name of what the "majority" supposedly thinks we are supposed to be
pleased and happy to be "ruled" by a clique "for our good." Far from it,
since, in truth, but few of us are "ruled" at all. It is merely our
little foible to pretend we are. We give our "rulers" to understand they
"rule" us because it pleases them so greatly to think they do: and then
there is the consideration that a docile demeanour serves to divert
their too too kind attention; probably the most servile-seeming member
of a "state" the most bent upon fulfilling the role of step-grandmother
fundamentally is untouched by "rule." The obedient attitude is a very
convenient garb for the perverse to wear: and if the mere doing of it
does not jar the temper too much, appearing to submit will define the
line of least resistance to doing what, under the circumstances is what
we please. Thus under the shelter of the servile demeanour there forms a
residue- of mulish waywardness, especially in those who appear to
present their parts to receive the kicks which keep them going between
gutter and cesspool: a waywardness which even more than temper succeeds
in making them into a kind of clay unmeet to the hand which would
govern. The great unwashed will accept the infliction of the bath which
cuts a slice off the space of their limited premises with resignation
and reflect that it will indeed have a use as a wardrobe and coal-place.
Though they are cast down by such things they are not defeated. "Rule"
slides from them, as water slides from a duck. "Rule" has effect only on
those who are indoctrinated with the Dogma: those who are under the
spell of the "Word." Even these—these intellectuals—are not placed in
bondage by the rulers: theirs is a voluntary bondage—true freedom,
according to the Word—and if they act as automata it is that they
subscribe to the dogma that it is their duty to be as automata. They
submit themselves to the law: because they approve not always indeed of
the law, but of the attitude which submits to law.
---
It is not therefore for its supposed prowess in the line of government
that democracy's claims are obnoxious. It earns its odium through the
commodity which the "rulers" offer in exchange for their investiture
with authority to govern. "Rulers" appear contemptible not for what they
take but what they give. That they lay hold of authority and all the
ready cash which their positions render available is, if regrettable,
yet tolerable: the machine will go until it breaks; the vexatious thing
is that in order to become installed in their position of advantage they
must needs undermine and bemuse by flattery the intelligence of those
whose lack of it is sufficiently evidenced by their willingness to have
truck with them.
---
Once upon a time, we heard—or read—about a soldier belonging to the
ranks who by the workings of some chance which we forget, found himself
dining at the officers' mess. Finding himself unable to guess the use to
which he might be expected to put ice which was placed before him, he
hazarded putting it in the soup; whereupon the officers laughed: all,
that is, save one—the highest in rank. This noble one, in order to
administer the rebuke to the manners of his brother-officers, and
further to cover the confusion of the guest, straightway placed ice in
his soup also. This edifying story as we remember it did not stop at
this point but went on to explain how true gentility and true democracy
reveal themselves in so fine an essence of Christian good-breeding, but
it will serve our purpose better to regard the story as here finished
and use it as an analogy in a totally different sense, thus: those who
use the flattery of the democratic "equality" argument in order to win
the support of the mob do their uttermost to confuse the import of
"gentility": how far they have succeeded the influence of the concept of
"natural rights" bears witness. They encourage "claims" to be laid to
things which from their nature can only be freely given. A delicacy
which merely seeks not to press the confusion which error brings in
misconstrued into a concession that no error exists: rather, indeed,
that those who fail to perpetuate it are themselves in error.
---
Every new creed is ninety-nine parts rechauffe of all the creeds which
by virtue of its hundredth part it is supposed to supersede: the fact
that the ingredients are incongruous proving no bar to such rehashing.
To mince the whole to a uniform state of non-recognition where possible,
and to accept whole what resists the process according to its external
merits, is the method of treatment. Naturally therefore in the cult of
equality-cum-democracy it is not surprising to be met with the spirit of
"Noblesse oblige," "notwithstanding the fact that democracy knows no
"Noblesse." How this curious combination of exclusives is worked in
together is illustrated by the incident narrated above. The "noble"
officer acted in the spirit which lies behind the attitude "Noblesse
oblige"—the attitude that a superior can always afford to concede a
point: it is the spirit of chivalry: the meaning of the handicap: it is
to be found almost everywhere where the relatively strong and weak,
superior and inferior meet together. It is the swagger of the superior
at their subtlest and suavest, since it wins a conscious recognition of
superiority by the very act which would seem to minimise it. Now the
confusion which is effected by the demagogues: those would-be rulers who
in order to win their way to authority must flatter the mob, lies in the
implication that while still "Noblesse oblige," the tacit acknowledgment
of relative merit on which it is built is there no longer. It has been
submerged in democratic equality. Therefore a superior not merely may
ice his soup: he ought and must; in fact, we supposedly, all prefer iced
soup now: the new creed having created a new procedure. If incompetence
is the equal of competence and the incompetent outnumber the competent,
then by the "right" of democracy and the "will of the greatest number"
the incompetent must set the procedure. There is nothing of course in
the ways of procedure already existing which is not the result of "class
prejudice" and autocratic naughtiness: nothing in the relative quality
of men's intelligence and the nature of things otherwise to explain why
the relative positions have arranged themselves as they have. All this
wicked disparity is purely superficial and will be combated by a
judicious mixture of scolding and pleading. Hark unto Mr. Lansbury's
paper on the subject: "Every private must be as free as any dandy
officer." "Must" no less ! Suppose he had said "can be"! Why did he not?
Presumably because "he" can't be. Then what is the route, between point
and point of which, "Can't be" becomes "Must be" in a mind like Mr.
Lansbury's? What magic human alchemy is worked on the way and who works
it? Mr. Asquith or Mr. Macdonald or even Mr. Lansbury himself? Or does
Mr. Lansbury find hope in the temper of "privates" themselves? To us
they seem to be conspicuously silent. We may be sure the privates are as
free as they can be, and when they can be more free, thev will be.
"Free" is such an odd sort of a word. It has the power of suggesting
itself to be something which can be conferred, like rations and
uniforms, and yet when it has been followed through a long series of
disillusionings it lets one-down to the truth that it is in itself
representative only; it merely marks the limit of one's individual
power, like the index-needle on those machines where one hits on a sort
of anvil with a hammer to test one's strength. The index will move up
and down the scale in the most obliging manner within the limits of
one's power to strike. And similarly with the privates' freedom: it is
anything their power can make it. If their power of "freedom" were equal
to that of officers: why did they not become officers and so become
"free" and dandy too? They would then have avoided the grounds of
suspicion that it was less. It is to be assumed they did not become
privates because in comparison with being officers they preferred to.
Parents' poverty? But we must accept parents. Our parents are our one
not-uncertain inheritance. What they are and what they do is part of
what one inevitably comes by, inevitably as we come by our features and
our gifts. Unequal opportunity? But there can be no equal opportunities.
Moreover Fortune keeps in stock at least ten thousand opportunities per
man. It is not the opportunities that are lacking but the power to
accept them. And if all, out of a man's ten thousand opportunities fail
to suit, it always lies open to him to create a wholly new one unique
for himself. All of which may well appear if not indeed, but doubtfully
true, at least quite unhelpful as to the telling. To which the reply is
that it is quite true and would be helpful to a real democrat, if only
one could find such. As a matter of fact, this "democrat" is a very rare
bird and not a nice one. The illusion that he exists in his hundreds of
thousands is a simple fiction put into currency by journalists:
"democracy" a label unmeritedly attached to a community of
self-respecting egoistic common-sense people, who only very occasionally
and shamefacedly talk about their abstract rights, equality, the will of
the people and the rest. There is not, for instance, one person in one
hundred thousand who could recite this tirade of Mr. Lansbury's with an
unembarrassed countenance.
"There seem to be two recognised and main ways of serving humanity. The
exponent of one method deduces from his love of people in general a love
of himself in particular. Charity, he argues, enlightenment,
idealism—these must begin at home; and with a loyal and logical
conscience he proceeds to bleed out of that same suffering world either
fortune or social position, influence, power. And for the damnable
wholeness of his flesh (if men had but the eyes to see it) the leprosy
of humanity festers and reeks the more." —Daily Herald, Saturday, April
11.
---
In fact, the conclusion to which one is pressed is that we—that is the
people who talk and write—take all theories, politics and propagandas
too seriously: far more so than ever was intended by those who amuse
themselves by such species of Sport. The permanent role of propagandists
and politicians is that of public entertainer; and they stand or fall by
the answer to the question, "Do they entertain?" And it must be admitted
that they still exert a draw. Star turns like Sir Edward C arson or Mr.
Asquith can compete without shame with a football match before the
season gets exciting: with a "cinema" entertainment. It is true that
they have the entire strength of the advertising power of the Press of
both parties to boost them and create a fictitious interest. The minor
characters of course have a harder time of it, though for these the
services of the Press are always available. The "principles," the
"creeds" of politicians have nothing to do with their pull on the public
attention: everything depends upon their ability to organise a good
display (whether they run a one-man show or a team matters nothing)
which will provide a reasonable excuse for the backers of the favourite,
or the home team, shouting themselves delirious with delight. When
politicians, through some defect of horse-sense, mistake their vocation,
and imagine themselves to be teachers and preachers with a message and
think that the message will make good their failure to entertain with
the public, they are quickly put to rights. The present unpopularity of
the suffragettes following so rapidly on their former popularity will
illustrate the case. When their "propaganda" was worked as a smart,
prompt, unfailingly successful show, it was an enthusiastic success: a
sort of Vesta Tilley on the political stage. Now that it has betaken
itself to seriousness, to stretchers, "tragedies" and ugly scenes, it is
vaguely disliked by its former enthusiastic backers. Their "principle"
is exactly what it was, but because the entertainment they put on the
boards is voted a poor show, what were "heralds of the dawn" are now
labelled misguided fanatics. Sir Edward Carson offers another instance.
It is because he has made it clear he can put up a smart exhilarating
show that the "people" are prepared to offer to the Conservative Grand
Opera Company a prospect of future patronage; and Mr. Balfour showed a
sure "statesmanship" in picking up the cue and appearing as stump orator
in Hyde Park. Again — Mr. Asquith. He was intelligent enough to see that
it was not an argument the recent "political" situation required: it was
a counter-hero: and did his best. Very nicely too: his success can be
gauged by what his audience was prepared to swallow whole. A more
laughable speech was never uttered than the one this gentleman offered
at Ladybank a week ago. Had he not been a "hero" it would have been
riddled through' with laughter. Consider the remark: the top-note on
which he was bold enough even to pause—for applause: "The Army will hear
nothing of politics from me, and in return I expect to hear nothing of
politics from the Army." You bet he doesn't. The "Army will hear nothing
of politics from me." Of course not, but to make a "ruler" gaily ruling
hear something of politics from them is the Army's very proper business.
One must confess that so finely-nerved a stroke commands one's
admiration. After this master-stroke "your army" is merely the purring
approval a pleased operator will show to a patient who has stood a
trying operation well.
---
Still, Mr. Asquith must have felt he was making a desperate,
neck-or-nothing experiment. It must be a wearing method of providing for
a wife and family of an elderly gentleman to accept all odds offered, on
the strength of one's ability to move to slow music and talk vague
theory in a recitative calculated to hypnotise any intelligence which
may be lurking hidden in one's audience. Melodrama is dangerous as an
occupation for people past their first youth: one snigger from a devotee
suddenly illumined with an intelligent gleam might destroy the career
into which have been built the hopes of a lifetime. It seems inevitable
politicians will be driven seriously to consider the advisability of
getting a little ahead of the more lagging intelligences, by changing
their role from melodrama to comedy. The change will melt away their
dignity; the sense of the actual thrown on heroics is a sure solvent,
but on the precipitate of comic relief which the process ultimately
throws down will be laid a far surer foundation for those "careers" from
which they hope so much. There is in short a far greater scope for
display of talent in a character of W.S. Gilbert, than in the most
heroic of Grand Opera heroes, and a Dan Leno will go far deeper into the
affections of the public than can a Sir Henry Irving; accordingly a
politician who worked indiscretion into a conscious habit, who allowed
fact to make its commentary on the interpretation of facts, baiting the
interpretation with the fact as the comic spirit baits the "noble" one,
such a one would really enrich the community with a new kind of art. If
a clever man entered political circles with the realisation that by the
side of, say, the collected political utterances of a "correct"
politician like Sir Edward Grey, the simple narration of a servant
girl's carryings-on with the butcher's man is an artistic document of
relatively high worth, dulness which is the only evil would take wings
and depart. The actual doings of politicians must have some human
interest: whereas those by which they choose to be known in public have
none. Instantly the veil slips aside, things become luminous. Turned
indiscreet side out, they lose their smug smoothness. An indiscreet
politician assisted in well-doing by an indiscreet press would realise
that their proper business is just with those things which at present
are enabled remotely to tickle our sense in the shape of the scandalous
memoirs of circles now fifty years dead. Scandal, in short, is the only
news worth retailing. It represents public life in earnest whereas at
present we get public life by pretence. There is scope for a "creative"
genius in such a rĂ´le.