Compelling Reason Page 17

  Let us be quite clear what the question is. If a man says, ‘I have no interest in the history of literature simply as history’, one would have no controversy with him. One would reply, ‘Well, I dare say not; don’t let me detain you.’ If he says, ‘I think criticism twenty times more important than any knowledge of the past’, one would say, ‘No doubt that is quite a reasonable view.’ If he said, ‘Literary history is not criticism’, I should heartily agree. That indeed is my point. The study of the forms and styles and sentiments of past literature, the attempt to understand how and why they evolved as they did, and (if possible) by a sort of instructed empathy to relive momentarily in ourselves the tastes for which they catered, seems to me as legitimate and liberal as any other discipline; even to be one without which our knowledge of man will be very defective. Of course it is not a department of criticism; it is a department of a department of history (Kulturgeschichte). As such it has its own standing. It is not to be judged by the use it may or may not happen to have for those whose interests are purely critical.

  Of course I would grant (and so, I expect, would Mr Mason) that literary history and criticism can overlap. They usually do. Literary historians nearly always allow themselves some valuations, and literary critics nearly always commit themselves to some historical propositions. (To describe an element in Donne’s poetry as new commits you to the historical proposition that it is not to be found in previous poetry.) And I would agree (if that is part of what he means) that this overlap creates a danger of confusions. Literary (like constitutional) historians can be betrayed into thinking that when they have traced the evolution of a thing they have somehow proved its worth; literary critics may be unaware of the hist-orical implications (often risky) which lurk in their evaluative criticism.

  But if Mr Mason is denying literary history’s right to exist, if he is saying that no one must study the past of literature except as a means of criticism, I think his position is far from self-evident and ought to be supported. And I think he is denying that. For if one values literary history as history, it is of course very clear why we study bad work as well as good. To the literary historian a bad, though once popular, poem is a challenge; just as some apparently irrational institution is a challenge to the political historian. We want to know how such stuff came to be written and why it was applauded; we want to understand the whole ethos which made it attractive. We are, you see, interested in men. We do not demand that everyone should share our interests.

  The whole question invites further discussion. But I think that discussion will have to begin further back. Aristotle’s (or Newman’s) whole conception of the liberal may have to be questioned. Fordism may admit of some brilliant defence. We may have to ask whether literary criticism is itself an end or a means and, if a means, to what. But till all this has been canvassed I was unwilling that the case for literary history should go by default. We cannot, pending a real discussion, let pass the assumption that this species of history, any more than others, is to be condemned unless it can deliver some sort of ‘goods’ for present use.

  24

  WILLING SLAVES OF THE WELFARE STATE1 (1958)

  Progress means movement in a desired direction, and we do not all desire the same things for our species. In ‘Possible Worlds’2 Professor Haldane pictured a future in which Man, foreseeing that Earth would soon be uninhabitable, adapted himself for migration to Venus by drastically modifying his physiology and abandoning justice, pity and happiness. The desire here is for mere survival. Now I care far more how humanity lives than how long. Progress, for me, means increasing goodness and happiness of individual lives. For the species, as for each man, mere longevity seems to me a contemptible ideal.

  I therefore go even further than C. P. Snow in removing the H-bomb from the centre of the picture. Like him, I am not certain whether if it killed one-third of us (the one-third I belong to), this would be a bad thing for the remainder; like him, I don’t think it will kill us all. But suppose it did? As a Christian I take it for granted that human history will some day end; and I am offering Omniscience no advice as to the best date for that consummation. I am more concerned by what the Bomb is doing already.

  One meets young people who make the threat of it a reason for poisoning every pleasure and evading every duty in the present. Didn’t they know that, Bomb or no Bomb, all men die (many in horrible ways)? There is no good moping and sulking about it.

  Having removed what I think a red herring, I return to the real question. Are people becoming, or likely to become, better or happier? Obviously this allows only the most conjectural answer. Most individual experience (and there is no other kind) never gets into the news, let alone the history books; one has an imperfect grasp even of one’s own. We are reduced to generalities. Even among these it is hard to strike a balance. Sir Charles enumerates many real ameliorations. Against these we must set Hiroshima, Black and Tans, Gestapo, Ogpu, brain-washing, the Russian slave camps. Perhaps we grow kinder to children; but then we grow less kind to the old. Any GP will tell you that even prosperous people refuse to look after their parents. ‘Can’t they be got into some sort of Home?’ says Goneril.3

  More useful, I think, than an attempt at balancing, is the reminder that most of these phenomena, good and bad, are made possible by two things. These two will probably determine most of what happens to us for some time.

  The first is the advance, and increasing application, of science. As a means to the ends I care for, this is neutral. We shall grow able to cure, and to produce, more diseases – bacterial war, not bombs, might ring down the curtain – to alleviate, and to inflict, more pains, to husband, or to waste, the resources of the planet more extensively. We can become either more beneficent or more mischievous. My guess is that we shall do both; mending one thing and marring another, removing old miseries and producing new ones, safeguarding ourselves here and endangering ourselves there.

  The second is the changed relation between Government and subjects. Sir Charles mentions our new attitude to crime. I will mention the trainloads of Jews delivered at the German gas-chambers. It seems shocking to suggest a common element, but I think one exists. On the humanitarian view all crime is pathological; it demands not retributive punishment but cure. This separates the criminal’s treatment from the concepts of justice and desert; a ‘just cure’ is meaningless.

  On the old view public opinion might protest against a punishment (it protested against our old penal code) as excessive, more than the man ‘deserved’; an ethical question on which anyone might have an opinion. But a remedial treatment can be judged only by the probability of its success; a technical question on which only experts can speak. Thus the criminal ceases to be a person, a subject of rights and duties, and becomes merely an object on which society can work. And this is, in principle, how Hitler treated the Jews. They were objects; killed not for ill-desert but because, on his theories, they were a disease in society. If society can mend, remake and unmake men at its pleasure, its pleasure may, of course, be humane or homicidal. The difference is important. But, either way, rulers have become owners.

  Observe how the ‘humane’ attitude to crime could operate. If crimes are diseases, why should diseases be treated differently from crimes? And who but the experts can define disease? One school of psychology regards my religion as a neurosis. If this neurosis ever becomes inconvenient to Government, what is to prevent my being subjected to a compulsory ‘cure’? It may be painful; treatments sometimes are. But it will be no use asking, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ The Straightener will reply: ‘But, my dear fellow, no one’s blaming you. We no longer believe in retributive justice. We’re healing you.’

  This would be no more than an extreme application of the political philosophy implicit in most modern communities. It has stolen on us unawares. Two wars necessitated vast curtailments of liberty, and we have grown, though grumblingly, accustomed to our chains. The increasing complexity and precariousness of our economic lif
e have forced Government to take over many spheres of activity once left to choice or chance. Our intellectuals have surrendered first to the slave-philosophy of Hegel, then to Marx, finally to the linguistic analysts.

  As a result, classical political theory, with its Stoical, Christian and juristic key-conceptions (natural law, the value of the individual, the rights of man), has died. The modern State exists not to protect our rights but to do us good or make us good – anyway, to do something to us or to make us something. Hence the new name ‘leaders’ for those who were once ‘rulers’. We are less their subjects than their wards, pupils, or domestic animals. There is nothing left of which we can say to them, ‘Mind your own business.’ Our whole lives are their business.

  I write ‘they’ because it seems childish not to recognize that actual government is and always must be oligarchical. Our effective masters must be more than one and fewer than all. But the oligarchs begin to regard us in a new way.

  Here, I think, lies our real dilemma. Probably we cannot, certainly we shall not, retrace our steps. We are tamed animals (some with kind, some with cruel, masters) and should probably starve if we got out of our cage. That is one horn of the dilemma. But in an increasingly planned society, how much of what I value can survive? That is the other horn.

  I believe a man is happier, and happy in a richer way, if he has ‘the freeborn mind’. But I doubt whether he can have this without economic independence, which the new society is abolishing. For economic independence allows an education not controlled by Government; and in adult life it is the man who needs, and asks, nothing of the Government who can criticize its acts and snap his fingers at its ideology. Read Montaigne; that’s the voice of a man with his legs under his own table, eating the mutton and turnips raised on his own land. Who will talk like that when the State is everyone’s schoolmaster and employer? Admittedly, when man was untamed, such liberty belonged only to the few. I know. Hence the horrible suspicion that our only choice is between societies with few freemen and societies with none.

  Again, the new oligarchy must more and more base its claim to plan us on its claim to knowledge. If we are to be mothered, mother must know best. This means they must increasingly rely on the advice of scientists, till in the end the politicians proper become merely the scientists’ puppets. Technocracy is the form to which planned society must tend. Now I dread specialists in power because they are specialists speaking outside their special subjects. Let scientists tell us about sciences. But government involves questions about the good for man, and justice, and what things are worth having at what price; and on these a scientific training gives a man’s opinion no added value. Let the doctor tell me I shall die unless I do so-and-so; but whether life is worth having on those terms is no more a question for him than for any other man.

  Thirdly, I do not like the pretensions of Government – the grounds on which it demands my obedience – to be pitched too high. I don’t like the medicine man’s magical pretensions nor the Bourbon’s Divine Right. This is not solely because I disbelieve in magic and in Bossuet’s Politique.4 I believe in God, but I detest theocracy. For every Government consists of mere men and is, strictly viewed, a makeshift; if it adds to its commands ‘Thus saith the Lord’, it lies, and lies dangerously.

  On just the same ground I dread government in the name of science. That is how tyrannies come in. In every age the men who want us under their thumb, if they have any sense, will put forward the particular pretension which the hopes and fears of that age render most potent. They ‘cash in’. It has been magic, it has been Christianity. Now it will certainly be science. Perhaps the real scientists may not think much of the tyrants’ ‘science’ – they didn’t think much of Hitler’s racial theories or Stalin’s biology. But they can be muzzled.

  We must give full weight to Sir Charles’s reminder that millions in the East are still half starved. To these my fears would seem very unimportant. A hungry man thinks about food, not freedom. We must give full weight to the claim that nothing but science, and science globally applied, and therefore unprecedented Government controls, can produce full bellies and medical care for the whole human race: nothing, in short, but a world Welfare State. It is a full admission of these truths which impresses upon me the extreme peril of humanity at present.

  We have on the one hand a desperate need: hunger, sickness and the dread of war. We have, on the other, the conception of something that might meet it: omnicompetent global technocracy. Are not these the ideal opportunity for enslavement? This is how it has entered before: a desperate need (real or apparent) in the one party, a power (real or apparent) to relieve it, in the other. In the ancient world individuals have sold themselves as slaves, in order to eat. So in society. Here is a witch-doctor who can save us from the sorcerers – a warlord who can save us from the barbarians – a Church that can save us from Hell. Give them what they ask, give ourselves to them bound and blindfold, if only they will! Perhaps the terrible bargain will be made again. We cannot blame men for making it. We can hardly wish them not to. Yet we can hardly bear that they should.

  The question about progress has become the question whether we can discover any way of submitting to the worldwide paternalism of a technocracy without losing all personal privacy and independence. Is there any possibility of getting the super Welfare State’s honey and avoiding the sting?

  Let us make no mistake about the sting. The Swedish sadness is only a foretaste. To live his life in his own way, to call his house his castle, to enjoy the fruits of his own labour, to educate his children as his conscience directs, to save for their prosperity after his death – these are wishes deeply ingrained in white and civilized man. Their realization is almost as necessary to our virtues as to our happiness. From their total frustration disastrous results, both moral and psychological, might follow.

  All this threatens us even if the form of society which our needs point to should prove an unparalleled success. But is that certain? What assurance have we that our masters will or can keep the promise which induced us to sell ourselves? Let us not be deceived by phrases about ‘Man taking charge of his own destiny’. All that can really happen is that some men will take charge of the destiny of the others. They will be simply men; none perfect; some greedy, cruel and dishonest. The more completely we are planned the more powerful they will be. Have we discovered some new reason why, this time, power should not corrupt as it has done before?

  ORIGINAL SOURCES

  1.‘Why I Am Not a Pacifist’ was read to a pacifist society in Oxford in 1940. Lewis made a copy of the manuscript for his former pupil and friend, George Sayer, and I have Mr Sayer to thank for providing me with a reproduction of it. The essay was included in an expanded edition of Lewis’s The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses published by Macmillan Publishing Co. of New York in 1980. It was published for the first time in Great Britain in 1987 in Timeless At Heart.

  2.‘Bulverism or, The Foundation of Twentieth-century Thought’ is Lewis’s title for the essay which appeared as ‘Notes on the Way’ in Time and Tide, vol. XXII (29 March 1941), p. 261.

  3.‘First and Second Things’ is the name Lewis gave this essay which first appeared as ‘Notes on the Way’ in Time and Tide, vol. XXIII (27 June 1942), pp. 519–20.

  4.‘Equality’ is reprinted from The Spectator, vol. CLXXI (27 August 1943), p. 192.

  5.‘Three Kinds of Men’ is reprinted from the Sunday Times, no. 6258 (21 March 1943), p. 2.

  6.‘Horrid Red Things’ was originally published in the Church of England Newspaper, vol. LI (6 October 1944), pp. 1–2.

  7.‘Democratic Education’ is Lewis’s title for his ‘Notes on the Way’ from Time and Tide, vol. XXV (29 April 1944), pp. 369–70.

  8.‘A Dream’ is reprinted from The Spectator, vol. CLXXIII (28 July 1944), p. 77.

  9.‘Is English Doomed?’ is from The Spectator, vol. CLXXII (11 February 1944), p. 121.

  10.‘Meditation in a Toolshed’ is reprinted from the Coventry
Evening Telegraph (17 July 1945), p. 4.

  11.‘Hedonics’ comes from Time and Tide, vol. XXVI (16 June 1945), pp. 494–5.

  12.‘Christian Apologetics’, published originally in Undeceptions, was read to an assembly of Anglican priests and youth leaders at the Carmarthen Conference for Youth Leaders and Junior Clergy during Easter 1945.

  13.‘The Decline of Religion’ is taken from an Oxford periodical, The Cherwell, vol. XXVI (29 November 1946), pp. 8–10.

  14.‘Religion Without Dogma?’ was read to the Socratic Club on 20 May 1946, and was published as ‘A Christian Reply to Professor Price’ in The Phoenix Quarterly, vol. I, no. 1 (Autumn 1946), pp. 31–44. It was then reprinted as ‘Religion Without Dogma?’ in The Socratic Digest, no. 4 (1948), pp. 82–94. The ‘Reply’ which I have appended to this essay is Lewis’s answer to Miss G. E. M. Anscombe’s article ‘A Reply to Mr C. S. Lewis’s Argument that “Naturalism is Self-refuting”’, both of which appeared in issue no. 4 of The Socratic Digest. Those who are interested in Miss Anscombe’s article will find it reprinted in her Collected Philosophical Papers, vol. II (1981).

  15.‘Vivisection’ appeared first as a pamphlet from the New England Anti-Vivisection Society (1947) and it was reprinted in this country by the National Anti-Vivisection Society (1948).

  16.‘Modern Translations of the Bible’ is my title for Lewis’s Preface to J. B. Phillips’s Letters to Young Churches: A Translation of the New Testament Epistles (Geoffrey Bles Ltd, 1947).

  17.‘On Living in an Atomic Age’ is taken from the last issue of the annual magazine Informed Reading, vol. VI (1948), pp. 78–84.