The New Machiavelli

So far I had the substance of the club with me, but I opened new ground and set Crupp agog by confessing my doubt from which party or combination of groups these developments of science and literature and educational organisation could most reasonably be expected. I looked up to find Crupp’s dark little eye intent upon me.

There I left it to them.

We had an astonishingly good discussion; Neal burst once, but we emerged from his flood after a time, and Dayton had his interlude. The rest was all close, keen examination of my problem.

I see Crupp now with his arm bent before him on the table in a way we had, as though it was jointed throughout its length like a lobster’s antenna, his plump, short-fingered hand crushing up a walnut shell into smaller and smaller fragments. “Remington,” he said, “has given us the data for a movement, a really possible movement. It’s not only possible, but necessary – urgently necessary, I think, if the Empire is to go on.”

“We’re working altogether too much at the social basement in education and training,” said Gane. “Remington is right about our neglect of the higher levels.”

Britten made a good contribution with an analysis of what he called the spirit of a country and what made it. “The modern community needs its serious men to be artistic and its artists to be taken seriously,” I remember his saying. “The day has gone by for either dull responsibility or merely witty art.”

I remember very vividly how Shoesmith harped on an idea I had thrown out of using some sort of review or weekly to express and elaborate these conceptions of a new, severer, aristocratic culture.

“It would have to be done amazingly well,” said Britten, and my mind went back to my school days and that ancient enterprise of ours, and how Cossington had rushed it. Well, Cossington had too many papers nowadays to interfere with us, and we perhaps had learnt some defensive devices.

“But this thing has to be linked to some political party,” said Crupp, with his eye on me. “You can’t get away from that. The Liberals,” he added, “have never done anything for research or literature.”

“They had a Royal Commission on the Dramatic Censorship,” said Thorns, with a note of minute fairness. “It shows what they were made of,” he added.

“It’s what I’ve told Remington again and again,” said Crupp, “we’ve got to pick up the tradition of aristocracy, reorganise it, and make it work. But he’s certainly suggested a method.”

“There won’t be much aristocracy to pick up,” said Dayton, darkly to the ceiling, “if the House of Lords throws out the Budget.”

“All the more reason for picking it up,” said Neal. “For we can’t do without it.”

“Will they go to the bad, or will they rise from the ashes, aristocrats indeed – if the Liberals come in overwhelmingly?” said Britten.

“It’s we who might decide that,” said Crupp, insidiously.

“I agree,” said Gane.

“No one can tell,” said Thorns. “I doubt if they will get beaten.”

It was an odd, fragmentary discussion that night. We were all with ideas in our minds at once fine and imperfect. We threw out suggestions that showed themselves at once far inadequate, and we tried to qualify them by minor self-contradictions. Britten, I think, got more said than any one. “You all seem to think you want to organise people, particular groups and classes of individuals,” he insisted. “It isn’t that. That’s the standing error of politicians. You want to organise a culture. Civilisation isn’t a matter of concrete groupings; it’s a matter of prevailing ideas. The problem is how to make bold, clear ideas prevail. The question for Remington and us is just what groups of people will most help this culture forward.”

“Yes, but how are the Lords going to behave?” said Crupp. “You yourself were asking that a little while ago.”

“If they win or if they lose,” Gane maintained, “there will be a movement to reorganise aristocracy – Reform of the House of Lords, they’ll call the political form of it.”

“Bailey thinks that,” said some one.

“The labour people want abolition,” said some one. “Let ‘em,” said Thorns.

He became audible, sketching a possibility of action.

“Suppose all of us were able to work together. It’s just one of those indeterminate, confused, eventful times ahead when a steady jet of ideas might produce enormous results.”

“Leave me out of it,” said Dayton, “IF you please.”

“We should,” said Thorns under his breath.

I took up Crupp’s initiative, I remember, and expanded it.

“I believe we could do – extensive things,” I insisted.

“Revivals and revisions of Toryism have been tried so often,” said Thorns, “from the Young England movement onward.”

“Not one but has produced its enduring effects,” I said. “It’s the peculiarity of English conservatism that it’s persistently progressive and rejuvenescent.”

I think it must have been about that point that Dayton fled our presence, after some clumsy sentence that I decided upon reflection was intended to remind me of my duty to my party.

Then I remember Thorns firing doubts at me obliquely across the table. “You can’t run a country through its spoilt children,” he said. “What you call aristocrats are really spoilt children. They’ve had too much of everything, except bracing experience.”

“Children can always be educated,” said Crupp.

“I said SPOILT children,” said Thorns.

“Look here, Thorns!” said I. “If this Budget row leads to a storm, and these big people get their power clipped, what’s going to happen? Have you thought of that? When they go out lock, stock, and barrel, who comes in?”

“Nature abhors a Vacuum,” said Crupp, supporting me.

“Bailey’s trained officials,” suggested Gane.

“Quacks with a certificate of approval from Altiora,” said Thorns. “I admit the horrors of the alternative. There’d be a massacre in three years.”

“One may go on trying possibilities for ever,” I said. “One thing emerges. Whatever accidents happen, our civilisation needs, and almost consciously needs, a culture of fine creative minds, and all the necessary tolerances, opennesses, considerations, that march with that. For my own part, I think that is the Most Vital Thing. Build your ship of state as you will; get your men as you will; I concentrate on what is clearly the affair of my sort of man, – I want to ensure the quality of the quarter deck.”

“Hear, hear!” said Shoesmith, suddenly – his first remark for a long time. “A first-rate figure,” said Shoesmith, gripping it.

“Our danger is in missing that,” I went on. “Muddle isn’t ended by transferring power from the muddle-headed few to the muddle-headed many, and then cheating the many out of it again in the interests of a bureaucracy of sham experts. But that seems the limit of the liberal imagination. There is no real progress in a country, except a rise in the level of its free intellectual activity. All other progress is secondary and dependant. If you take on Bailey’s dreams of efficient machinery and a sort of fanatical discipline with no free-moving brains behind it, confused ugliness becomes rigid ugliness, – that’s all. No doubt things are moving from looseness to discipline, and from irresponsible controls to organised controls – and also and rather contrariwise everything is becoming as people say, democratised; but all the more need in that, for an ark in which the living element may be saved.”

“Hear, hear!” said Shoesmith, faint but pursuing.

It must have been in my house afterwards that Shoesmith became noticeable. He seemed trying to say something vague and difficult that he didn’t get said at all on that occasion. “We could do immense things with a weekly,” he repeated, echoing Neal, I think. And there he left off and became a mute expressiveness, and it was only afterwards, when I was in bed, that I saw we had our capitalist in our hands…

We parted that night on my doorstep in a tremendous glow – but in that sort of glow one doesn’t act upon without much reconsideration, and it was some months before I made my decision to follow up the indications of that opening talk.

5

I find my thoughts lingering about the Pentagram Circle. In my developments it played a large part, not so much by starting new trains of thought as by confirming the practicability of things I had already hesitatingly entertained. Discussion with these other men so prominently involved in current affairs endorsed views that otherwise would have seemed only a little less remote from actuality than the guardians of Plato or the labour laws of More. Among other questions that were never very distant from our discussions, that came apt to every topic, was the true significance of democracy, Tariff Reform as a method of international hostility, and the imminence of war. On the first issue I can still recall little Bailey, glib and winking, explaining that democracy was really just a dodge for getting assent to the ordinances of the expert official by means of the polling booth. “If they don’t like things,” said he, “they can vote for the opposition candidate and see what happens then – and that, you see, is why we don’t want proportional representation to let in the wild men.” I opened my eyes – the lids had dropped for a moment under the caress of those smooth sounds – to see if Bailey’s artful forefinger wasn’t at the side of his predominant nose.

The international situation exercised us greatly. Our meetings were pervaded by the feeling that all things moved towards a day of reckoning with Germany, and I was largely instrumental in keeping up the suggestion that India was in a state of unstable equilibrium, that sooner or later something must happen there – something very serious to our Empire. Dayton frankly detested these topics. He was full of that old Middle Victorian persuasion that whatever is inconvenient or disagreeable to the English mind could be annihilated by not thinking about it. He used to sit low in his chair and look mulish. “Militarism,” he would declare in a tone of the utmost moral fervour, “is a curse. It’s an unmitigated curse.” Then he would cough shortly and twitch his head back and frown, and seem astonished beyond measure that after this conclusive statement we could still go on talking of war.

All our Imperialists were obsessed by the thought of international conflict, and their influence revived for a time those uneasinesses that had been aroused in me for the first time by my continental journey with Willersley and by Meredith’s “One of Our Conquerors.” That quite justifiable dread of a punishment for all the slackness, mental dishonesty, presumption, mercenary respectability and sentimentalised commercialism of the Victorian period, at the hands of the better organised, more vigorous, and now far more highly civilised peoples of Central Europe, seemed to me to have both a good and bad series of consequences. It seemed the only thing capable of bracing English minds to education, sustained constructive effort and research; but on the other hand it produced the quality of a panic, hasty preparation, impatience of thought, a wasteful and sometimes quite futile immediacy. In 1909, for example, there was a vast clamour for eight additional Dreadnoughts —

“We want eightAnd we won’t wait,”

but no clamour at all about our national waste of inventive talent, our mean standard of intellectual attainment, our disingenuous criticism, and the consequent failure to distinguish men of the quality needed to carry on the modern type of war. Almost universally we have the wrong men in our places of responsibility and the right men in no place at all, almost universally we have poorly qualified, hesitating, and resentful subordinates, because our criticism is worthless and, so habitually as to be now almost unconsciously, dishonest. Germany is beating England in every matter upon which competition is possible, because she attended sedulously to her collective mind for sixty pregnant years, because in spite of tremendous defects she is still far more anxious for quality in achievement than we are. I remember saying that in my paper. From that, I remember, I went on to an image that had flashed into my mind. “The British Empire,” I said, “is like some of those early vertebrated monsters, the Brontosaurus and the Atlantosaurus and such-like; it sacrifices intellect to character; its backbone, that is to say, – especially in the visceral region – is bigger than its cranium. It’s no accident that things are so. We’ve worked for backbone. We brag about backbone, and if the joints are anchylosed so much the better. We’re still but only half awake to our error. You can’t change that suddenly.”

“Turn it round and make it go backwards,” interjected Thorns.

“It’s trying to do that,” I said, “in places.”

And afterwards Crupp declared I had begotten a nightmare which haunted him of nights; he was trying desperately and belatedly to blow a brain as one blows soap-bubbles on such a mezoroic saurian as I had conjured up, while the clumsy monster’s fate, all teeth and brains, crept nearer and nearer…

I’ve grown, I think, since those days out of the urgency of that apprehension. I still think a European war, and conceivably a very humiliating war for England, may occur at no very distant date, but I do not think there is any such heroic quality in our governing class as will make that war catastrophic. The prevailing spirit in English life – it is one of the essential secrets of our imperial endurance – is one of underbred aggression in prosperity and diplomatic compromise in moments of danger; we bully haughtily where we can and assimilate where we must. It is not for nothing that our upper and middle-class youth is educated by teachers of the highest character, scholars and gentlemen, men who can pretend quite honestly that Darwinism hasn’t upset the historical fall of man, that cricket is moral training, and that Socialism is an outrage upon the teachings of Christ. A sort of dignified dexterity of evasion is the national reward. Germany, with a larger population, a vigorous and irreconcilable proletariat, a bolder intellectual training, a harsher spirit, can scarcely fail to drive us at last to a realisation of intolerable strain. So we may never fight at all. The war of preparations that has been going on for thirty years may end like a sham-fight at last in an umpire’s decision. We shall proudly but very firmly take the second place. For my own part, since I love England as much as I detest her present lethargy of soul, I pray for a chastening war – I wouldn’t mind her flag in the dirt if only her spirit would come out of it. So I was able to shake off that earlier fear of some final and irrevocable destruction truncating all my schemes. At the most, a European war would be a dramatic episode in the reconstruction I had in view.

In India, too, I no longer foresee, as once I was inclined to see, disaster. The English rule in India is surely one of the most extraordinary accidents that has ever happened in history. We are there like a man who has fallen off a ladder on to the neck of an elephant, and doesn’t know what to do or how to get down. Until something happens he remains. Our functions in India are absurd. We English do not own that country, do not even rule it. We make nothing happen; at the most we prevent things happening. We suppress our own literature there. Most English people cannot even go to this land they possess; the authorities would prevent it. If Messrs. Perowne or Cook organised a cheap tour of Manchester operatives, it would be stopped. No one dare bring the average English voter face to face with the reality of India, or let the Indian native have a glimpse of the English voter. In my time I have talked to English statesmen, Indian officials and ex-officials, viceroys, soldiers, every one who might be supposed to know what India signifies, and I have prayed them to tell me what they thought we were up to there. I am not writing without my book in these matters. And beyond a phrase or so about “even-handed justice” – and look at our sedition trials! – they told me nothing. Time after time I have heard of that apocryphal native ruler in the north-west, who, when asked what would happen if we left India, replied that in a week his men would be in the saddle, and in six months not a rupee nor a virgin would be left in Lower Bengal. That is always given as our conclusive justification. But is it our business to preserve the rupees and virgins of Lower Bengal in a sort of magic inconclusiveness? Better plunder than paralysis, better fire and sword than futility. Our flag is spread over the peninsula, without plans, without intentions – a vast preventive. The sum total of our policy is to arrest any discussion, any conferences that would enable the Indians to work out a tolerable scheme of the future for themselves. But that does not arrest the resentment of men held back from life. Consider what it must be for the educated Indian sitting at the feast of contemporary possibilities with his mouth gagged and his hands bound behind him! The spirit of insurrection breaks out in spite of espionage and seizures. Our conflict for inaction develops stupendous absurdities. The other day the British Empire was taking off and examining printed cotton stomach wraps for seditious emblems and inscriptions…

In some manner we shall have to come out of India. We have had our chance, and we have demonstrated nothing but the appalling dulness of our national imagination. We are not good enough to do anything with India. Codger and Flack, and Gates and Dayton, Cladingbowl in the club, and the HOME CHURCHMAN in the home, cant about “character,” worship of strenuous force and contempt of truth; for the sake of such men and things as these, we must abandon in fact, if not in appearance, that empty domination. Had we great schools and a powerful teaching, could we boast great men, had we the spirit of truth and creation in our lives, then indeed it might be different. But a race that bears a sceptre must carry gifts to justify it.

It does not follow that we shall be driven catastrophically from India. That was my earlier mistake. We are not proud enough in our bones to be ruined by India as Spain was by her empire. We may be able to abandon India with an air of still remaining there. It is our new method. We train our future rulers in the public schools to have a very wholesome respect for strength, and as soon as a power arises in India in spite of us, be it a man or a culture, or a native state, we shall be willing to deal with it. We may or may not have a war, but our governing class will be quick to learn when we are beaten. Then they will repeat our South African diplomacy, and arrange for some settlement that will abandon the reality, such as it is, and preserve the semblance of power. The conqueror DE FACTO will become the new “loyal Briton,” and the democracy at home will be invited to celebrate our recession – triumphantly. I am no believer in the imminent dissolution of our Empire; I am less and less inclined to see in either India or Germany the probability of an abrupt truncation of those slow intellectual and moral constructions which are the essentials of statecraft.

6

I sit writing in this little loggia to the sound of dripping water – this morning we had rain, and the roof of our little casa is still not dry, there are pools in the rocks under the sweet chestnuts, and the torrent that crosses the salita is full and boastful, – and I try to recall the order of my impressions during that watching, dubious time, before I went over to the Conservative Party. I was trying – chaotic task – to gauge the possibilities inherent in the quality of the British aristocracy. There comes a broad spectacular effect of wide parks, diversified by woods and bracken valleys, and dappled with deer; of great smooth lawns shaded by ancient trees; of big facades of sunlit buildings dominating the country side; of large fine rooms full of handsome, easy-mannered people. As a sort of representative picture to set off against those other pictures of Liberals and of Socialists I have given, I recall one of those huge assemblies the Duchess of Clynes inaugurated at Stamford House. The place itself is one of the vastest private houses in London, a huge clustering mass of white and gold saloons with polished floors and wonderful pictures, and staircases and galleries on a Gargantuan scale. And there she sought to gather all that was most representative of English activities, and did, in fact, in those brilliant nocturnal crowds, get samples of nearly every section of our social and intellectual life, with a marked predominance upon the political and social side.

I remember sitting in one of the recesses at the end of the big saloon with Mrs. Redmondson, one of those sharp-minded, beautiful rich women one meets so often in London, who seem to have done nothing and to be capable of everything, and we watched the crowd – uniforms and splendours were streaming in from a State ball – and exchanged information. I told her about the politicians and intellectuals, and she told me about the aristocrats, and we sharpened our wit on them and counted the percentage of beautiful people among the latter, and wondered if the general effect of tallness was or was not an illusion.

They were, we agreed, for the most part bigger than the average of people in London, and a handsome lot, even when they were not subtly individualised. “They look so well nurtured,” I said, “well cared for. I like their quiet, well-trained movements, their pleasant consideration for each other.”

“Kindly, good tempered, and at bottom utterly selfish,” she said, “like big, rather carefully trained, rather pampered children. What else can you expect from them?”

“They are good tempered, anyhow,” I witnessed, “and that’s an achievement. I don’t think I could ever be content under a bad-tempered, sentimentalism, strenuous Government. That’s why I couldn’t stand the Roosevelt REGIME in America. One’s chief surprise when one comes across these big people for the first time is their admirable easiness and a real personal modesty. I confess I admire them. Oh! I like them. I wouldn’t at all mind, I believe, giving over the country to this aristocracy – given SOMETHING – ”

“Which they haven’t got.”

“Which they haven’t got – or they’d be the finest sort of people in the world.”

“That something?” she inquired.

“I don’t know. I’ve been puzzling my wits to know. They’ve done all sorts of things – ”

“That’s Lord Wrassleton,” she interrupted, “whose leg was broken – you remember? – at Spion Kop.”

“It’s healed very well. I like the gold lace and the white glove resting, with quite a nice awkwardness, on the sword. When I was a little boy I wanted to wear clothes like that. And the stars! He’s got the V. C. Most of these people here have at any rate shown pluck, you know – brought something off.”

“Not quite enough,” she suggested.

“I think that’s it,” I said. “Not quite enough – not quite hard enough,” I added.

She laughed and looked at me. “You’d like to make us,” she said.

“What?”

“Hard.”

“I don’t think you’ll go on if you don’t get hard.”

“We shan’t be so pleasant if we do.”

“Well, there my puzzled wits come in again. I don’t see why an aristocracy shouldn’t be rather hard trained, and yet kindly. I’m not convinced that the resources of education are exhausted. I want to better this, because it already looks so good.”

“How are we to do it?” asked Mrs. Redmondson.

“Oh, there you have me! I’ve been spending my time lately in trying to answer that! It makes me quarrel with” – I held up my fingers and ticked the items off – “the public schools, the private tutors, the army exams, the Universities, the Church, the general attitude of the country towards science and literature – ”

“We all do,” said Mrs. Redmondson. “We can’t begin again at the beginning,” she added.

“Couldn’t one,” I nodded at the assembly in general, start a movement?

“There’s the Confederates,” she said, with a faint smile that masked a gleam of curiosity… “You want,” she said, “to say to the aristocracy, ‘Be aristocrats. NOBLESSE OBLIGE.’ Do you remember what happened to the monarch who was told to ‘Be a King’?”

“Well,” I said, “I want an aristocracy.”

“This,” she said, smiling, “is the pick of them. The backwoodsmen are off the stage. These are the brilliant ones – the smart and the blues… They cost a lot of money, you know.”

So far Mrs. Redmondson, but the picture remained full of things not stated in our speech. They were on the whole handsome people, charitable minded, happy, and easy. They led spacious lives, and there was something free and fearless about their bearing that I liked extremely. The women particularly were wide-reading, fine-thinking. Mrs. Redmondson talked as fully and widely and boldly as a man, and with those flashes of intuition, those startling, sudden delicacies of perception few men display. I liked, too, the relations that held between women and men, their general tolerance, their antagonism to the harsh jealousies that are the essence of the middle-class order…