Liberty or Equality

CHAPTER III A CRITIQUE OF DEMOCRACY

“. . . for the few shall save
The many or the many are to fall
Still to be wrangling in a noisy grave.”

The belief that the liberty of the people can be guaranteed by parliamentary government has ceased to exist for some time. . . . The world is fed up with parliamentarism, but nobody has a better solution, and the knowledge that this despised institution has to be carried over as a necessary evil into the twentieth century fills the minds of the best of our contemporaries with anxiety.

1. THE BASIC PROBLEM

IN our investigation of the modern pattern of democracy, as in every other analysis of political phenomena, we should always remain firmly grounded on philosophical soil, yet never lose sight of the historical realities—in the widest sense of the term. Don Luigi Sturzo in one of his essays very correctly says:

Which reminds one of Diodorus’ statement (i.2): “ —history is the fatherland of philosophy.”

The record of democracy has been of an entirely different character in Protestant as compared with Catholic nations, not to mention the examples of democracy in antiquity. We are convinced that religion—or, to be more precise, the character of a culture’s religious basis—is the most important element in determining the affinities between nations and political forms. The success of specific political forms depends on the closeness and harmony of such affinities. The interrelation between democracy and religion will be dealt with in Chapter V.

We know very well that there are also other factors involved, as, for instance, a collective historical experience (as well as historical memories), the influence of geographic environment (i.e., geopsychological aspects), economic realities or, in given moments, the “charismatic” qualities of outstanding rulers, leaders or demagogues. It is extremely difficult to establish a valid hierarchy of these factors; but we are inclined to put the religious realities first and the geographic element in second place. Race, for instance, would figure a great deal lower in our tabulation. And last, but by no means least, there is always an x of a purely historical character, in which even accidents play an important rôle.

Democracy, let us repeat, is concerned with the question of who should be vested with ruling power; while liberalism deals with the freedom of the individual, regardless of who carries on the government. A democracy can be highly illiberal, while on the other hand an absolute ruler could be a thorough liberal—without being for this reason the least bit democratic. Even a dictator, theoretically, could be a liberal (see above, pp. 3, 10). Though admittedly the likelihood of a modern dictator having this propensity is very small because, as the leader of an ideologically-inclined mass party, he will have strong majoritarian (and thus totalitarian) tendencies. A purely military dictatorship based on the bayonets and sabres of a handful of professional soldiers has greater liberal potentialities (one has only to compare Franco, Oliveira Salazar and Pétain with Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin).

Now liberty is, as a matter of fact, an intermediary end—a condition (or precondition) rather than an ultimate goal. There are certain ends which presuppose the existence of liberty (which itself is, for the purposes of our investigation, of necessity relative and not absolute). These specific ends we have in mind seem to be predominantly of a non-material nature—of a human, not an “animal” nature. Although it cannot be denied that mankind, by and large, prefers a subjective feeling of freedom to coercion, we also know of a craving for material goods which frequently can only be satisfied at the expense of liberty. Conversely, we know of “freedoms” which can only be preserved with sacrifice of material values. This is a tragic dilemma which neither the Manchester liberal nor the communist wants to face.

Nor must it be forgotten that it is by no means easy to draw the exact line in individual cases. The profiteers have frequently paid lip-service to the ideals of freedom in order to gain purely material advantages. Still, freedom is the average man’s indispensable precondition for the development of his personality (of course only the saint—that is, the person accepting death and poverty—is free at all times) and thus also of his deeper, implicit happiness, which does not necessarily rise to the surface of his consciousness. Goethe’s lines remain eternally true:

Höchstes Glück der Erdenkinder
Ist doch die Persönlichkeit!

If we investigate the propensities of the masses we find that they frequently sacrifice freedom, this condition so fundamental to various intellectual and spiritual ends, in order to enjoy material or psychological advantages. Only certain élites have a real stake in the liberty of self-expression. Thus liberal revolutions come from above while their democratic counterparts come from below. To the former belong the risings and rebellions of 1215, 1222 (Golden Bull, Arany Bulla), 1688, 1776, 1789 (Lafayette, Noailles, Mirabeau), 1825 (Dekabrists). Yet it must not be forgotten that liberal revolutions (by the very fact of being revolutions) suffer from the inner contradiction of having to use force, a principle opposed to liberty. Moreover, by breaking up familiar patterns they create uncertainties and fluctuations which cannot be easily controlled, and result in conditions which are the very opposite of the liberal blueprints. The devotees of Voltaire never suspected the rise of a Robespierre or a Napoleon; the Madrid professors who hailed the establishment of a republic in 1931 hardly envisaged the rise of a Negrín or a Franco; little did the Russian intelligentsia expect a Red October, and to the enthusiasts of the Weimar Republic it was by no means manifest that the fall of the Hohenzollerns rendered the rise of Hitler possible.

2. MORAL ASPECTS OF DEMOCRACY

Conceptually, as distinct from practically, the choice between quality and quantity, the best or the most, is crucial, and will not admit of compromise.

Before we deal with the problem of a pure democracy in a more immediate fashion, we have to make a digression into the field of original sin. The reader without religious conviction or theological training has no good reason to become weary of our investigation. As a matter of fact, whatever we have to say in this and the following paragraphs can be translated easily into secular terms.

According to Catholic theology man—originally far more perfect than he is now—because of his Fall was deprived of his extraordinary gifts and weakened in his nature (spoliatus gratuitis et vulneratus in naturalibus). This result is not a punishment in the narrow sense of the term, since we cannot maintain that Adam had any right to the privileges he enjoyed before the Fall. To the first group of losses belongs, for instance, eternal life on earth. The agnostic will readily agree that we are mortal. He will also agree that he could imagine a state of human perfection which man does not possess; it is only too obvious that we are exposed to maladies, that we get tired, that we forget, that our senses fail us, that our whole moral fibre is “shot through” with weaknesses. The agnostic will certainly reject the Judæo-Christian explanation of our imperfections, but he can hardly overlook the reality which interests us here.

It is evident that modern government has achieved an autonomy from society (we mean auto-nomy: the power to make and live by its own laws) which would baffle and frighten the medieval observer. Nietzsche’s “coldest of all monsters” would terrify pre-Renaissance man. State, the hard shell of society, can now be separated from the body social like the outer hull of a broiled lobster. And if we look now at the essential functions of the modern state—the waging of wars, sanitation, social legislation, regulation of education, inspection of factories and cemeteries, law courts, and so on—then we have to doubt strongly that the state is compatible with Paradise. We have only to remind the reader of the thesis of José Ortega y Gasset, who considers the automobile to be an expression of human (physical) mortality; if we were immortal we could as well walk from New York to Los Angeles. (Hence the indifference towards the time element in originally strongly religious civilizations—the mañana of the Spaniards and the zavtra of the Russians.) Even if automobiles should be manufactured in an eternalized paradise (the reader is reminded that Paradise has nothing to do with Heaven!) human beings would in all likelihood be perfect drivers, and thus not be in need of green lights and traffic policemen. And even if we are wrong in this, it still must be pointed out that man prior to original sin might have enjoyed head-on collisions; being immortal he could not possibly take serious harm. Moreover, without the original sin there would be no universities as we know them—no medicine, no theology (as we understand it), no law school, no polytechnic.

But let us return to the main theme. We know that democracy can be either direct or indirect. Direct democracy is feasible in small units, and it still survives in New England town meetings and in certain Swiss cantons. It is obvious that direct democracy, restricted by size, has a good chance to escape the character of a mass-democracy which, in recent years, has been so severely criticized by Pope Pius XII. We should also remember that even Rousseau found democracy desirable only in small political units. Under such ideal conditions the element of anonymity and irresponsibility can be brought down considerably.

Yet as a result of the many inventions of modern times direct democracy could today be realized in a large nation also. It would certainly be feasible to install black and white pushbuttons in every household, which could work by inserting a latch key. At noon the citizenry could be informed over the radio by a steering committee in the capital about the various political and legislative propositions. In the evening the vote could be taken and registered by electric adding machines in the centre of the nation. At 10 p.m. the results could be announced. Thus a nation could declare a war on Monday, suffer a defeat on Tuesday, sue for an armistice on Thursday and re-open hostilities (if this were still possible) on a new motion on Saturday.

We have not made this proposition as a joke, but as an illustration of what the democratic principle pure and simple would mean: the most far-reaching possible harmonization of the general will (i.e., the majority’s will) with current policies, political practices, laws, and so forth. It is quite evident that this proposition is divorced from any practical value; but we have to ask ourselves whether a good (provided it really is a good) can become an evil if it exists in an unadulterated form. Moral philosophy and moral theology, unlike chemistry, admit of no alloys. To maintain that a thesis is true in the abstract and untrue in the concrete is pure manichæism or bombinatio in vacuo. Valid ethics have to be at least “theoretically practicable.”

We will admit that it is perhaps possible that a direct democracy, carefully synchronized with all popular desires and whims, would be a sound proposition were it based on a population untainted by original sin. (Would it, by the way, turn out to be a government by unanimity? This seems unlikely if we accept St. Thomas’ theory that intellectual gradations would still exist in a population free of original sin.) A humanity consisting of perfect persons—not omniscient, but with limitless and unerring intellectual capacities, endowed with firm, well-grounded characters and with clearness of vision—could be trusted with such an otherwise suicidal constitution. Everybody could become an expert in politics (as well as in other subjects), because the expert—in the narrow sense of the term—is precisely the result of our intellectual imperfection. Perfect man could gradually learn and understand everything; imperfect man has to concentrate on a few matters and listen to the advice of other experts within the society in which he lives. Of symbolic value are the efforts of Adam and Eve, after the Fall, to clothe themselves in aprons of leaves (Genesis 3. 7); this clumsy effort was rectified by the Lord who made them clothes of skins (Genesis 3. 21). Particularly in medicine is the dependence of the layman on the expert noticeable. Society is thus an agglomeration of cripples who have to help each other; and, naturally, those who have a real grasp of politics and statecraft are few and far between.

Yet it is precisely this overlooking of original sin with its moral and intellectual results that seduces the democratic ideologists of the Neo-Thomist persuasion to arrive at their rigid and dogmatic constructions. They have, by necessity, the most daring educational schemes which take into account neither innate intellectual inequalities nor the absolute limitations of our capacities.

The ethical dogmatists of democracy run into equally hopeless difficulties when they have to deal with the problem of territorial allegiances. According to their views the inhabitants of individual provinces, cities or villages should have the right to vote periodically on their status in relation to their state; whether they want to keep their ties, whether they want to join a neighbouring state or whether they want total independence. An interesting dilemma thus arises when the majority of citizens of a nation disapprove of the results of local plebiscites, or when a local General Will in a corner of a province opposes the pan-provincial General Will. Whatever their answer, there will always be sheer arbitrariness in the delineation of territorial categories. There is, for instance, no doubt that the majority of the population of the British Isles would not, on a purely plebiscitarian basis, have given freedom to Ireland. There is equally no doubt that a majority of Irishmen would have voted for secession from the United Kingdom. It is also manifest that the majority of the population of the six northern counties of Ulster would oppose the Irish majority and insist on keeping their ties with Britain. Conversely it must be admitted that at least two counties (Fermanagh and Tyrone) would oppose the majority of Ulstermen and vote for union with Eire.

The problem of boundaries and local allegiance would exist in a world state also. It is rather naïve to believe that borders are felt merely on account of customs officials and passport regulations. No United States of Europe could have been erected over the monstrosities of the 1919 boundaries; disregarding this fact would mean merely to rename international wars “internal conspiracies and revolutions.”

3. DIFFICULTIES AND ILLUSIONS

Man of the past does not resemble the man of today. He would have refused to form part and parcel of the animal herds which the plutocratic, Marxist or racist democracies keep for the factories and the charnel houses.

The existence of more than two parties, on the other hand, leads easily to minority rule. A small party which holds the key to the absolute parliamentary majority can quite effectively run the country; and thus the democratic principle of majority rule is eliminated. In Rump-Austria between 1919 and 1933, for instance, none of the three parties really supported the constitution of the democratic republic. The Christlichsoziale were Catholic crypto-royalists; the Sozialdemokraten were Marxians with a totalitarian bent who, as Pan-Germans, together with the Grossdeutsche denied not only the constitution but the very independence of the country.

Yet the establishment and survival of both of Laski’s conditions fall into the domain of society: the free state can decree no common ideological denominator, nor prevent the rise of additional parties. The totalitarian state, with its “annexation” of society, is in a very different position, and desires the number of parties reduced to a single one. In these societal aspects of the Laski premises we get a hint as to the intrinsic connections between state and society. Moreover, they help us to realize that constitutions are mere frames, in which all sorts of pictures may be hung.

Part of the success of the democratic and parliamentary régime in the English-speaking countries has to be ascribed to the fact that the societies of these countries (and especially the society of the United States, which lacks the royal alloy) have tried wisely and jealously to preserve the common ideological denominator. In the United States practically a hundred per cent of the population believes in republicanism and democracy, and Professor R. H. Gabriel is right when he points out that democracy is part and parcel of American nationalism. Republicanism and democracy, with all their implications, are taught and extolled in schools and theatres, in daily papers and in periodicals, in commencement speeches and in films, in novels, textbooks and radio comments, in drugstore conversations, in sermons and at cocktail parties.

The “common framework of reference” is, obviously, necessary not merely for fruitful parliamentary debate, but also for the very stability of the country in the course of elections. The two-party system alone would never do without the common denominator. In Britain, for instance, the common denominator is already of debatable validity. What happens if the Labour Party actually carries out a very far-reaching programme of socialization—and is defeated at the next elections? Will the Conservatives be able to sell state property to the highest (private) bidder? We must come to the conclusion that the actions of ruling political parties have a certain finality which creates historically irredeemable and irreparable situations. And we have to add that if the difference between the parties is considerable, every election means a bloodless revolution; thus the ship of state will soon be on the rocks.

To the foregoing problem it should be added that a law issued by one legislature can be cancelled by the next one, voted into power in order to remove that unpopular piece of legislation. But if a hasty declaration of war is made and the fight is lost, the electorate can only watch the actions of the government in impotent rage. The illusion of “self-government” breaks down. And the wheel of history having been turned inexorably permits of no erasure of the events which have taken place. Even if the vast majority of the voters disapproves of the decision of the government, no subsequent defeat at the polls is going to bring back to life those who have fallen on the battlefields. Matters are made worse if the deputies have been elected on a “peace platform.”

Since we have spoken about religious dissent, a warning should be sounded in relation to religion as a sufficient “common denominator” or framework of reference. Just because most religions have—in spite of their numerous ethical and political principles—no concrete uniform political ideology, they would be too “wide” as a common denominator. Let us imagine, for argument’s sake, a country with two roughly equal Catholic parties—one republican, the other royalist. We leave it to the reader to visualize all the difficulties and problems of such a situation. We might, again, conceive of a country with four parties: one royalist, conservative and Catholic; another royalist, conservative and Protestant; a third republican, “progressive” and Catholic; a fourth socialist, non-Marxist and “non-sectarian.” What would happen under such circumstances? In all likelihood the political alignment would cut across the lines of religious allegiance. The Bavarian wing of the Centrist (Catholic) party of Germany broke off in 1919 because the Bavarian Catholic royalists did not see eye to eye with the Prussian Catholic collaborators of the Weimar Republic.

From the foregoing it also becomes fairly evident that an analysis of democracy in action has to use two separate vantage points: one in the case of the existence of a common denominator, the other one in the case of its absence. The ethical problem of self-government, as a principle, postulate and possibility, will be dealt with later on. Here we merely want to point out that the political aspects of democracy on the European continent (with the exception of Switzerland) give us valuable negative insights into the character of parliamentary democracy. There the two Laskian premises are absent, and thus the various constitutions become mere armistice agreements. The famous bon mot that wars arc nothing but continuations of diplomacy by other means may for this case be adapted to read that revolutions and civil wars are merely the continuation of democratic party politics by other means. (In this sense the two Austrian revolutions of February and July 1934 were nothing but the only honest and “direct” forms of the inter-party “dialogue” that had been going on since 1919.) The agreement of parties on a given constitution only indicates the fact that none of them has an absolute majority, and that a final showdown resulting in a one-party dictatorship would be premature. The elections thus receive the character of public manifestations demonstrating numerical strength.

It is significant that, with things standing thus, the plurality of parties becomes a temporary safeguard against one-party dictatorship. It is obvious that parties which cannot hope ever to get a majority incline towards revolutionary tactics. Yet if one party receives an overwhelming majority, the transition to dictatorship can be made through bloodless and constitutional means; this transition often does not even need the expediency of “amendments.” It must not be forgotten, for example, that even after 1933 Germany continued as a republic, and that the Weimar constitution was never abolished, but only suspended in parts. On the other hand, the impossibility of forming a coalition backed by a majority of parties can also lead to a deadlock and thus to a dictatorship of a cabinet. The Nazis came to power by a combination of both situations rapidly following one another.

Even in the United States, with its “common denominator,” the perpetuation in power of one single party does not favour the preservation of parliamentary democracy. If for any reason one party were re-elected with an overwhelming majority twelve consecutive times, most checks and balances (including the Supreme Court) would break down or become obsolete. The safeguards against tyranny of the fairest constitution are relative and not absolute.

It is thus all the more significant that representative government in Europe—outside of Switzerland—was successful only if the royal, non-democratic alloy was present, as in the case of Britain, the Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, Norway. Of stable republics of a non-totalitarian character there are only two or three left—if we place the United States, Switzerland and Finland in that category. In this connection it must again be recalled that constitutions in themselves are no guarantees whatsoever for a liberal democracy in the Anglo-Saxon sense. The Constitution of the United States has been successfully adopted by many a South and Central American dictatorship (the Republic of Santo Domingo even has a two-party system, but for some time the two of them had only one presidential candidate—Dictator R. L. Trujillo); and the constitution of the U.S.S.R.—theoretically acceptable by any Christian state—is in Russia the instrument of a totalitarian autocracy. Britain has no written constitution; but, paralleling Protestant bibliolatry, there is in some countries a real worship of written constitutions and politico-legal arrangements, just what was ridiculed by Plato (Republic, viii, 557).

4. SELF-GOVERNMENT

Every age is befooled by the notions which are in fashion in it. Our age is befooled by “democracy.”

—W. G. SUMNER, quoted by LLOYD MORRIS,

Postscript to Yesterday

It is obvious that all these vistas are unacceptable to anybody clinging to a non-materialistic philosophy; we have to reject them as figmentary and return consciously to the realities of the human person. It is, after all, man with all his glories and shortcomings, all his desires, longings, and emotions, his reason, his faith and his despair, who faces history and politics—and not some imaginary polycephalic centipede. To the philosopher of the New Mechanism the difference between the effectiveness of one person’s vote among five and among 500,000 will be merely in degree. This statement is mathematically correct. But “existentially” this is by no means the case.

To these reflections it must be added that the intensity of a vote cannot be calculated either; if 51 per cent of a nation vaguely approves of a party or of a particular measure the fanatical, fervent and desperate opposition of 49 per cent is of no avail.

There is no doubt that “self-government” is an enticing ideal and a fine dream. It may be part and parcel of our human nostalgia of the “paradise lost,” and related to the soothing vision of the anarchists. Actually it does not and cannot exist in its popular connotation. Human beings are algebraic entities who at the polls do not really “add up.” At the polls a plus b plus c is neither d nor 3; it is just what it says: a+b+c. The very choice of the candidates or the parties is limited and “prefabricated,” and thus the voter can often indulge merely in negations (“voting against” someone or something) and not in affirmations—unless he embraces a current political faith and closes his eyes to the personality of the candidate. An Austrian Socialist, for instance, who had voted in 1920 for his Marxist party, found himself ruled by a clerical party under the leadership of a Monsignor, and thus exercised no “self-government.”

The concept of “government by consent of the governed” is practically identical with that of “self-government”; personally and “existentially” it is an accidental concomitant of any form of government including tyranny. To Comrade Ivanov, who is a convinced Communist, the régime of the U.S.S.R. is a “government by consent of the governed” as far as he is concerned; to Citizen Petrov, relegated to the “Minus Six,” it is a tyranny. Moreover, the very reason for the difference in the two attitudes may be traced back to the psychological aspects of the government’s propaganda effort. Comrade Ivanov is of the Communist “persuasion”; Citizen Petrov is still unconvinced.

The ethical value of these political “opinions” and “persuasions” is another matter. To what extent do they genuinely form parts of the personalities of voters? It is certain that democracy rests squarely on the vacillations and shifting loyalties of a certain sector of the electorate, since well-grounded and unchanging political convictions would result in a “freezing process” which is the very end of democracy.

5. ETHICS AND REPRESENTATION

Flatter les vices du peuple est encore plus lâche et plus sale que de flatter les vices des grands.

—CHARLES PÉGUY, “Mémoires et dossiers”

Ex senatus-consultis et plebiscitis scelera exercentur.

—SENECA

The problem of the borderlines between these two norms is one of the first magnitude—especially in the United States.* It is evident that the dishonest republican electee might sidetrack his own opinion to gain popularity, while a democrat might be unable to resist the voice of his conscience. Yet, viewing this overlapping of theory and practice, the person adhering to Christian ethics can only approve of the republican, not of the democratic, thesis. To him human action is permissible only in conformity with one’s conscience (see Note 688). The true Christian as a candidate in a thoroughly democratic state is almost unthinkable; only in rare cases will he succeed in maintaining his position. Without a truly magic personality he can hardly expect success.

In order to illustrate our ethical dilemma, let us imagine three candidates—a good Christian, a good pagan, and a bad pagan—running for office and holding an election meeting. They are heckled by the audience, and reply according to their lights. In order to illustrate our thesis we shall be rather typical and exaggerate their respective positions.

1. Question: “We all want the Caloosahatchie Canal. Are you going to vote for it?”

The Good Christian:	The Good Pagan:	The Bad Pagan:
I am sorry but I am going to vote against the project. I know that you would benefit from it locally but your local benefit is out of all proportion to the expenses which would have to be borne by the taxpayers of the whole nation.	Though the prospects are not very bright I will do my best. As a representative of this area I will put its interests always first.	The Canal has always been on the top of my agenda. Sure, I’ll vote for it. This state is going to have the finest, broadest, bluestand smoothest canal in the world!

2. Question: “What are you going to do about our relations with Mexico? We don’t trust her.”

The Good Christian:	The Good Pagan:	The Bad Pagan:
I have studied the problem of our relations with Mexico for many years. To give you an exhaustive and honest answer I would need at least three hours and I am not sure that you would even then understand what I mean.	It all depends on what the present Mexican Government is going to do about our investments. It is probably premature to make plans at the present moment. The interests of our nation are, naturally, paramount to me.	Nobody in his senses ever trusts Mexico. We won’t play sucker to her again and the big stick remains the best policy. We’re going to break off diplomatic relations with her—that’s what I am going to vote for!

3. Question: “We want better roads. We’re against railroad subsidies. How are you going to vote in these matters?”

The Good Christian:	The Good Pagan:	The Bad Pagan:
I have no idea. As a matter of fact I have never studied this problem and I know nothing about it. I will, though, investigate the matter, which might take me a couple of months. I’ve been told that it is a complicated question.	Of course, better roads are necessary and I will vote for them. Like you, I view the railroad subsidies with mistrust. Yet I doubt that these matters will come up in the next session. Still, you can count on me.	That highway-versus-railroad problem is very simple. Only a stuffed shirt or longhaired professor would make it appear complicated. I’ll give you the lowdown in a nutshell. It boils down to the following simple facts. . . . (Follows a three-minute outline.)

One factor—and a very important one—in the preservation of a republic lies in the moral standards upon which a society is insisting. Another one is the limited material and honorific rewards a political career should offer, thus providing the “democrat” with no economic (or other) advantages in, and incentives for, re-election. To the professional politician popularity, as a means to re-election, is the immediate goal. The republican, on the other hand, should view popularity with indifference, and failure in the elections with equanimity; this again is more likely if he has private interests, wealth and, perhaps, a career outside the political sphere. (Hence the old republican—but highly undemocratic—property qualifications.) And herein lies the very tragedy of republican government, which has to steer constantly between the Scylla of a camouflaged aristocratic rule and the Charybdis of a democracy—the extremes of the Venetian Christianissima Respublica and Hitler’s republikanischer Führerstaat with a deutsche Demokratie.

6. KNOWLEDGE

La “Colère des Imbeciles” ravage aujourd’hui la terre.

—GEORGES BERNANOS, La France contre les robots

Having dealt with the ethical problem of the elector and elected, we have to investigate the intellectual aspects of democracy. Thus we come, first of all, to the problem of knowledge.

Knowledge, in a narrower sense, is cognition of the true. An objective judgment can be made only if we know the nature of the object in question. Without a real knowledge of the object we cannot let reason make a judgment. On the other hand, a few external aspects, if perceived, are sufficient to let our emotions react.

But while knowledge can discriminate between true and untrue, good and bad, the emotions can only express subjective feelings, “likes” and “dislikes.” In this case there is no comprehension but merely the recognition that something appears likeable or unlikeable to an observer. Without a grasp of the real nature of a thing only appearances can be dealt with. The picture of the object in the mind of the “judging” person becomes all-important—the picture and not the reality. “Thus I like you, thus I dislike you,” says the person. It is obvious that real knowledge will, finally, correct that picture and basically alter the affective attitude of the observer. And under “knowledge” we might also distinguish between Vernunft and Verstand—reason and understanding. It ought to be conceded that there is a deeper understanding, and even knowledge, possible through affection and love. Yet love might not only open eyes but also make blind! The tenet “I believe that I may understand” (and “I love that I may understand”) may entail rich rewards, but also terrible losses. Here lies the risk of a pure Augustinianism, as well as of a naked existentialism.

To these considerations the supporters of the democratic dogma will reply that the whole problem is not one of knowledge and efficiency; that the issue is purely moral, and concerned with such aims as “self-government,” freedom, and volition. They will quote “freedom of choice in cases of doubt”—and the disciples of the “liberal heresy” will point out that “we have a right to be wrong!” It is, admittedly, sometimes prudent not to enforce truth; but a right to be wrong does not exist.

As to the problem of control by experts, we want to repeat that the most pressing problem of good (and that automatically implies ethical) government lies today in building up defence machineries around spheres in which the person should have power and self-government approximately commensurate with his own capacities. The Middle Ages and their aftermath were characterized by a multitude of such autonomous and semi-autonomous spheres; medieval man frequently belonged to a variety of these. Moral perfection and intellectualization for central governments, coupled with a restriction of their radius of action, should be our programme—the very reverse of the existing trends. The characteristics of modern mass government are: a central organ increasing in totality and ubiquity, driven by emotions but employing bureaucratic staffs of varying qualifications and efficiency, and putting (more or less) knowledge and experience to the service of whims and emotions, thus placing the “heart” above the “brain.” Totalitarian dictatorships, though hampered by irrational doctrines, nevertheless rely more on the help of experts—and they are, in addition, highly conscious of the fact that emotions can be “manufactured.”

It is fairly obvious that the enormous disorder and chaos in this world is not the result alone of the flagrant breach of practically every ethical postulate, but is also due to the retreat of knowledge and reason from the domain of politics. Oxenstierna’s injunction was never truer than today. It really seems that statesmanship is incompatible with “politics” in the democratic sense. We have seen great statesmen (of the ethical as well as of the Machiavellian pattern) in monarchies, aristocratic republics and post-revolutionary tyrannies. Yet the complete lack of security of tenure, necessitating a constant preoccupation with mere “politics,” is a fatal handicap in democracies. It is to be doubted that the parliaments of the last fifty years have produced a single outstanding statesman. Products of the old British oligarchy like Disraeli or Gladstone would be unthinkable in the democratized parliamentary scene of today.

To the historian this antithesis is neither new nor particularly encouraging. After two hundred years of cheerful and ironic anti-clericalism the Reformation came after all, and destroyed the fabric of the Church in a number of nations. The scholastic “I distinguish” has little bearing on the masses.

7. SHADOWS OF TYRANNY

Compressing the idea into one syllable, Hamilton at a New York dinner replied to some democratic sentiment by striking his hand sharply on the table and saying: “Your people, sir—your people is a great beast.”

In the basically non-democratic world with free societies and democratic constitutions, the situation is quite different. There the principles of indirect democracy (equality, election of representatives and majority rule) appear as a mere constitutional frame: any conceivable picture can be fitted into it. Hence the absolute futility of “enforcing” democracy. The “frame” might be imposed, the “picture” never. Constitutions may be decreed, but societies are entities of natural growth—unless we do some “social engineering.”

Of course, there are short cuts to modern tyranny by revolutions and pronunciamientos (Russia, Italy). Yet it must be borne in mind that all modern tyrannies were (and are) party dictatorships with a parliamentary “prehistory.” And full party dictatorship is possible only in a republic, or in a monarchy camouflaged as such. A leader (Führer, duce, vozhd’) is not a ruler. He “marches ahead” but is, theoretically at least, an “equal.” As a modernized “tribune of the people” he is not only the product of political but also of “social” democracy. Thus in Italy the rupture between the dictatorship of the Fascist party and the monarchy had to come sooner or later—when Mussolini established his Repúbblica Sociale Italiana and thus reverted to his earlier republican programme. No wonder that it is the republic which has become synonymous with dictatorship, not the monarchy.

Of liberal, democratic republics there are only three surviving: the United States, Switzerland and, perhaps, Finland; to which one might add the Irish experiment. All other republics are either ruled dictatorially or stand on the brink of civil wars. “True democracy” (in the popular sense) is much more at home in the monarchies of north-western Europe and the British Commonwealth. And it is significant that all these nations, whether monarchical or republican, are, with the exception of Belgium, predominantly Protestant or have a superimposed Protestant culture.

Thus the value of the monarchical alloy should not be underestimated. If society has failed to establish a common denominator for all political parties, a mere alloy, as the case of Italy in 1922 has demonstrated, is not sufficient, and a more effective strengthening of the monarchical factor becomes necessary. We have to ask ourselves whether in the most extreme cases, when violent temperament is combined with thorough ideological incompatibility (Spain, Portugal, Greece, South America), government from above on a bureaucratic basis is not the only safeguard against the alternative of anarchy and party dictatorship, which again reminds us of Plato’s warning: “Tyranny, then, arises from no other form of government than democracy.” Among these nations the political ideologies are dynamite, a fatally disruptive force; to introduce such a highly explosive element into the legislative body is sheer folly. It makes sense to let a couple of calm, well bred, gentle Catholic theologians debate the problems of Grace and Free Will. Such an interchange of ideas stands a good chance of being constructive and methodical. Yet a discussion between a member of the Federatión Anarquista Ibérica and a Navarrese Carlist on the curriculum of state secondary schools has no theoretical or practical value whatsoever. The final argument in such a discussion can only be civil war and the dialogue of machine guns.

The attempt to stage discussions between people of widely divergent views is in itself quite harmless. A free society whose task is not to preserve the premises of a sound parliamentary democracy will always tolerate dissent. The suicide and downfall begins if dissent is made the essence of government. Nobody in his senses would elect a king suffering from schizophrenia to rule a country. As a matter of fact, a hereditary king suffering from schizophrenia, unlike a parliament divided against itself, would be automatically replaced by a regency.

Yet this relativism, which the clear thinker and logician rejects, plays an enormous rôle in the political and spiritual realm of democracy. We leave it to the psychologist to determine the feminine implications of such relativism. But relativism and readiness for compromise go hand in hand, and an absolute refusal to compromise on fundamentals (a Catholic rather than a Protestant trait) would soon bring democratic machinery to a standstill. The political coalitions of the temporary democracies in the Catholic orbit have contributed more than anything else to the undermining of the moral prestige of politicians; yet the various coalition governments with their combinazioni are not the only manifestations of compromise—the voter has, first of all, to make a compromise between his own views and those of the party he supports. The electee will have to compromise in a similar way. In the democracy with several parties the parties will have to compromise among themselves. They collectively will have to compromise with “reality,” i.e., the” facts,” and also with the oscillations of public opinion. This frenzy of compromise differs curiously from the noble device: Prius mori quam foedari—“Sooner die than compromise.” And it is the most destructive moral and psychological preparation of the masses for facing oppression and enslavement. It is significant that the most heroic resistance against the Nazi invaders came from “backward” nations which had a minimum of democratic experience. The resistance of the French, Belgians, Dutch and Danes cannot in the least be compared with that of the Poles, Serbs, Greeks or even the Italians. The heroic struggle of Warsaw is without parallel in the history of the twentieth century. And so is its betrayal.

It is not surprising that the “liberal heresy” is a much better foundation or lubricant for the smooth functioning of a democratic republic than a theology or philosophy insisting on absolutes. In the religious field the liberal heresy, in turn, harmonizes best with modern, liberal Protestantism. Once we reject either the existence of absolute truth or its human attainability—and this is the essence, not of liberalism but of the “liberal heresy”—there can be no virtue attached to a stubborn defence of convictions of verities. We have only to remember the tragedy of the liberal heretic in the person of Pilate. In John 18. 37–38 we read how Our Lord insists in his presence that He is indeed a King who came into this world in order to be a witness for truth. Everyone born of truth will listen to His voice. And Pilate asks: ;—“What is truth?” He is convinced that he can get no answer to this question; he leaves the Son of Man, walks out to the howling mob and shifts in his predicament from liberal doubt to democratic procedure. The majority shall decide. . . .

8. ADDITIONAL ASPECTS OF THE PROBLEM

In certain historical periods one has to make the full circle of follies in order to return to reason.

—BENJAMIN CONSTANT

The evolution from democracy to tyranny can hardly be prevented by more and better education, nor can democracy be made workable by the plan of making everybody into a philosopher-king. The advocates of this Utopian dream completely overlook original sin, with its effects on the moral and intellectual qualities of man. As a result we see in all democracies the tendency to increase education quantitatively (primarily by an extension of compulsory education), but, in order to make it “available to all,” the standards are constantly reduced. Of course, once the Ph.D. is made compulsory for all young Americans—there is already talk about an obligatory college education—American intellectual life will be annihilated. “Indoctrination” (in the narrow, exclusive, European sense of the term) on the other hand, trying to establish the common framework of reference directly or indirectly and to guard it jealously, will not only fail to establish a connection between the actual knowledge and that necessary to judge the great political questions—it will also prevent the formation of a necessary sovereignty of mind and the attainment of wider horizons. All it will accomplish is intellectual and spiritual inbreeding, if not total sterility. For these and other reasons a mass democracy is almost inevitable in any larger nation which is pledged to the democratic dogma.

Some democratic Catholics took great comfort from the Christmas message of Pope Pius XII in 1944. Yet the Pope, dealing with the shibboleth “democracy”—which in its popular connotation covers such a wide variety of ideals, institutions and political forms—merely outlined the sane and ethical forms of representative government as one example of many good forms of government. What the Pope had in mind is the parliamentary part of a mixed government; this is obvious from his reference to the possible monarchical alloy. The Pope did not “underwrite” democracy as we understand the term; he even took pains to point out that his condemnation of totalitarianism does not cover an absolute monarchy. (The ethical evaluation of an absolute monarchy depends in each individual case on how accurately it aims at the common good—which includes respect for the freedom and the natural rights of man.)

Still, it is quite amazing to see what has been read into the Pontiff’s text. After making the observation that the irresponsibility of the dictators has evoked a general desire to control governmental action, he immediately launched into a distinction between “the people” and “the masses,” i.e., “shapeless multitudes.” He insisted that a “mass democracy” would be catastrophic—an extremely pessimistic statement, if we take the anti-personal mass character of our megalopolitan civilization into consideration. Then he attacked the concept of a mechanical equality, noting that inequalities ought not to obviate a spirit of union and brotherhood. Finally he laid great stress on the fact that

Now if we look at the voters in the democratic polity we have again to distinguish between nations with, and nations without, the “common denominator.” In the former case we have in the parties mere “ins” and “outs,” and there is no good reason why individuals should not easily shift their allegiance between the two (or more) groups. The necessary flux of parliamentary government depends on the “disloyalty” of the “shifters,” to whom the choice of parties is a “toss-up.” Under such circumstances we will find citizens who, deeply convinced of the validity of the Acton formula, will vote on principle against any party which has been in power “too long.” This lack of security of tenure, in turn, often fosters graft and corruption, irresponsibility, and a petty bureaucratic mentality. Yet the greatest damage will be done in matters of foreign policy, which will follow a zigzag course depending on the outcome of the elections (cf. pp. 159–160).

This situation assumes a different character in ideologically-divided nations, where we find opposing political philosophies which are fairly often co-extensive with “racial” (ethnic) religious, or social groups. A follower of the “Re-Reformed” Dutch Church will hardly vote for the Catholic State Party, or a Calvinist Magyar intellectual from the Danubian region for the Slovak Catholic People’s Party. In the case of such a shift the accusation of treason would not be unjustified. The final logical deduction from the democratic dogma was made by the great Czechoslovak democracy, which exiled the Sudeten Germans en masse—three and a half million, one quarter of the population—for having voted Nazi in 1938. The Austrian political situation, of which we have spoken above, today seems to be as “frozen” as it was in 1920: all but two of the federated states and the federal government have a Catholic, conservative control with slight royalist and agrarian implications, while Vienna (a state as well as a city) is administered by a party which holds membership in the Second International and traditionally has a strong anti-Christian bias. Whereas the main support of the People’s Party comes from the peasants, the upper middle classes and the clergy, the Social Democrats are primarily represented among the workers and the lower bourgeoisie. Here we cannot expect much flux, and thus the democratic process in Austria lacks not merely the necessary conditions for a “dialogue,” but also the element of change. Only a mass hysteria can change this situation—the number of real converts being too small to affect the ratio of deputies materially.

The dangers besetting democracies and forcing them down the path to tyranny are so numerous that we have to be critical of this form of government, not only on account of its intrinsic weaknesses but also for its evolutionary potentialities. It is also often precisely the claim of the democratic governments that they truly represent the general will which paralyzes the opposition against the ensuing totalitarian development of the state. Monarchs in the past, when tyranically inclined, had to operate under much more difficult circumstances; the constitutional and psychological position of the Christian monarch was always a risky and tenuous one. Democracy, in its mobility and uncertainty, was always an entirely different proposition. Gonzague de Reynold, the brilliant Swiss historian, penned the following severe but unassailable judgment:

The law of democracy is the law of numbers. But every government regulated by the law of numbers becomes a telluric phenomenon subject to its own fatality.

 

 

* It is obvious that these terms, viz., “republican” and “democratic,” are not related to the respective American parties. Though some Republicans would openly reject the epithet “democratic,” all Democrats are professed republicans. To make the confusion of labels worse the Democrats have in the Northern states a strong egalitarian wing, while their main strength in the South is derived from the former upholders of Slavery.