The Fruits of Victory. Norman Angell
infection’ of Bolshevist ideas, indicate, on the contrary, a very real belief that feelings can be subject to an extremely rapid modification or redirection. In human society mere instinct has always been modified or directed in some measure by taboos, traditions, conventions, constituting a social discipline. The character of that discipline is largely determined by some sense of social need, developed as the result of the suggestion of transmitted ideas, discussions, intellectual ferment.
The feeling which made the Treaty inevitable was the result of a partly unconscious but also partly conscious propaganda of war half-truths, built up on a sub-structure of deeply rooted nationalist conceptions. The systematic exploitation of German atrocities, and the systematic suppression of similar Allied offences, the systematic suppression of every good deed done by our enemy, constituted a monstrous half-truth. It had the effect of fortifying the conception of the enemy people as a single person; its complete collective responsibility. Any one of them—child, woman, invalid—could properly be punished (by famine, say) for any other’s guilt. Peace became a problem of repressing or destroying this entirely bad person by a combination of nations entirely good.
This falsified the nature of the problem, gave free rein to natural and instinctive retaliations, obscured the simplest human realities, and rendered possible ferocious cruelty on the part of the Allies. There would have been in any case a strong tendency to ignore even the facts which in Allied interest should have been considered. In the best circumstances it would have been extremely difficult to put through a Wilsonian (type 1918) policy, involving restraint of the sacred egoisms, the impulsive retaliations, the desire for dominion inherent in ‘intense’ nationalisms. The efficiency of the machinery by which the Governments for the purpose of war formed the mind of the nation, made it out of the question.
If ever the passions which gather around the patriotisms disrupting and Balkanising Europe are to be disciplined or directed by a better social tradition, we must face without pretence or self-deception the results which show the real nature of the older political moralities. We must tell truths that disturb strong prejudices.
THE FRUITS OF VICTORY
CHAPTER I
OUR DAILY BREAD
I
The relation of certain economic facts to Britain’s independence and Social Peace
POLITICAL instinct in England, particularly in the shaping of naval policy, has always recognised the intimate relation which must exist between an uninterrupted flow of food to these shores and the preservation of national independence. An enemy in a position to stop that flow would enjoy not merely an economic but a political power over us—the power to starve us into ignominious submission to his will.
The fact has, of course, for generations been the main argument for Britain’s right to maintain unquestioned command of the sea. In the discussions before the War concerning the German challenge to our naval power, it was again and again pointed out that Britain’s position was very special: what is a matter of life and death for her had no equivalent importance for other powers. And it was when the Kaiser announced that Germany’s future was upon the sea that British fear became acute! The instinct of self-preservation became aroused by the thought of the possible possession in hostile hands of an instrument that could sever vital arteries.
The fact shows how impossible it is to divide off into watertight compartments the ‘economic’ from the political or moral. To preserve the capacity to feed our people, to see that our children shall have milk, is certainly an economic affair—a commercial one even. But it is an indispensable condition also of the defence of our country, of the preservation of our national freedom. The ultimate end behind the determination to preserve a preponderant navy may be purely nationalist or moral; the means is the maintenance of a certain economic situation.
Indeed the task of ensuring the daily bread of the people touches moral and social issues nearer and more intimate even than the preservation of our national independence. The inexorable rise in the cost of living, the unemployment and loss and insecurity which accompany a rapid fall in prices, are probably the predominating factors in a social unrest which may end in transforming the whole texture of Western society. The worker finds his increased wage continually nullified by increase of price. Out of this situation arises an exasperation which, naturally enough, with peoples habituated by five years of war to violence and emotional mass-judgments, finds expression, not necessarily in organised revolution—that implies, after all, a plan of programme, a hope of a new order—but rather in sullen resentment; declining production, the menace of general chaos. However restricted the resources of a country may have become, there will always be some people under a régime of private capital and individual enterprise who will have more than a mere sufficiency, whose means will reach to luxury and even ostentation. They may be few in number; the amount of waste their luxury represents may in comparison with the total resources be unimportant. But their existence will suffice to give colour to the charge of profiteering and exploitation and to render still more acute the sullen discontent, and finally perhaps the tendency to violence.
It is in such a situation that the price of a few prime necessaries—bread, coal, milk, sugar, clothing—becomes a social, political, and moral fact of the first importance. A two-shilling loaf may well be a social and political portent.
In the week preceding the writing of these lines five cabinets have fallen in Europe. The least common denominator in the cause is the grinding poverty which is common to the peoples they ruled. In two cases the governments fell avowedly over the question of bread, maintained by subsidy at a fraction of its commercial cost. Everywhere the social atmosphere, the temper of the workers, responds to stimulus of that kind.
When we reach the stage at which mothers are forced to see their children slowly die for lack of milk and bread, or the decencies of life are lost in a sordid scramble for sheer physical existence, then the economic problem becomes the gravest moral problem. The two are merged.
The obvious truth that, if economic preoccupations are not to dominate the minds and absorb the energies of men to the exclusion of less material things, then the fundamental economic needs must be satisfied; the fact, that though the foundations are certainly not the whole building, civilisation does rest upon foundations of food, shelter, fuel, and that if it is to be stable they must be sound—these things have been rendered commonplace by events since the Armistice. But before the War they were not commonplaces. The suggestion that the economic results of war were worth considering was quite commonly rejected as ‘offensive,’ implying that men went to war for ‘profit.’ Nations in going to war, we were told, were lifted beyond the region of ‘economics.’ The conception that the neglect of the economics of war might mean—as it has meant—the slow torture of tens of millions of children and the disintegration of whole civilisations, and that if those who professed to be the trustees of their fellows were not considering these things they ought to be—this was, very curiously as it now seems to us at this date, regarded as sordid and material. We now see that the things of the spirit depend upon the solution of these material problems.
The one fact which stood out clear above all others after the Armistice was the actual shortage of goods at a time when millions were literally dying of hunger. The decline of productivity was obvious. It was due in part to diversion of energies to the task of war, to the destruction of materials, failure in many cases to maintain plant (factories, railways, roads, housing); to a varying degree of industrial and commercial demoralisation arising out of the War and, later, out of the struggle for political rearrangements both within States and as between States; to the shortening of the hours of labour; to the dislocation, first of mobilisation, and then of demobilisation; to relaxation of effort as reaction from the special strain of war; to the demoralisation of credit owing to war-time financial shifts. We had all these