The Man On Top / Gilbert Keith Chesterton

There is a fact at the root of all realities to-day which cannot be stated

too simply. It is that the powers of this world are now not trusted

simply because they are not trustworthy. This can be quite clearly seen

and said without any reference to our several passions or partisanships.

It does not follow that we think such a distrust a wise sentiment to

express; it does not even follow that we think it a good sentiment to

entertain. But such is the sentiment, simply because such is the fact.

The distinction can be quite easily defined in an example. I do not

think that private workers owe an indefinite loyalty to their employer.

But I do think that patriotic soldiers owe a more or less indefinite

loyalty to their leader in battle. But even if they ought to trust their

captain, the fact remains that they often do not trust him; and the fact

remains that he often is not fit to be trusted.

Most of the employers and many of the Socialists seem to have got a very

muddled ethic about the basis of such loyalty; and perpetually try to put

employers and officers upon the same disciplinary plane. I should have

thought myself that the difference was alphabetical enough. It has

nothing to do with the idealising of war or the materialising of trade; it

is a distinction in the primary purpose. There might be much more

elegance and poetry in a shop under William Morris than in a regiment

under Lord Kitchener. But the difference is not in the persons or the

atmosphere, but in the aim. The British Army does not exist in order to

pay Lord Kitchener. William Morris's shop, however artistic and

philanthropic, did exist to pay William Morris. If it did not pay the

shopkeeper it failed as a shop; but Lord Kitchener does not fail if he is

underpaid, but only if he is defeated. The object of the Army is the

safety of the nation from one particular class of perils; therefore, since

all citizens owe loyalty to the nation, all citizens who are soldiers owe

loyalty to the Army. But nobody has any obligation to make some

particular rich man richer. A man is bound, of course, to consider the

indirect results of his action in a strike; but he is bound to consider

that in a swing, or a giddy-go-round, or a smoking concert; in his wildest

holiday or his most private conversation. But direct responsibility like

that of a soldier he has none. He need not aim solely and directly at the

good of the shop; for the simple reason that the shop is not aiming solely

and directly at the good of the nation. The shopman is, under decent

restraints, let us hope, trying to get what he can out of the nation; the

shop assistant may, under the same decent restraints, get what he can out

of the shopkeeper. All this distinction is very obvious. At least I

should have thought so.

But the primary point which I mean is this. That even if we do take the

military view of mercantile service, even if we do call the rebellious

shop assistant "disloyal"--that leaves exactly where it was the question

of whether he is, in point of fact, in a good or bad shop. Granted that

all Mr. Poole's employees are bound to follow for ever the cloven pennon

of the Perfect Pair of Trousers, it is all the more true that the pennon

may, in point of fact, become imperfect. Granted that all Barney Barnato's

workers ought to have followed him to death or glory, it is still a

Perfectly legitimate question to ask which he was likely to lead them to.

Granted that Dr. Sawyer's boy ought to die for his master's medicines, we

may still hold an inquest to find out if he died of them. While we

forbid the soldier to shoot the general, we may still wish the general

were shot.

The fundamental fact of our time is the failure of the successful man.

Somehow we have so arranged the rules of the game that the winners are

worthless for other purposes; they can secure nothing except the prize.

The very rich are neither aristocrats nor self-made men; they are

accidents--or rather calamities. All revolutionary language is a

generation behind the times in talking of their futility. A revolutionist

would say (with perfect truth) that coal-owners know next to nothing about

coal-mining. But we are past that point. Coal-owners know next to

nothing about coal-owning. They do not develop and defend the nature of

their own monopoly with any consistent and courageous policy, however

wicked, as did the old aristocrats with the monopoly of land. They have

not the virtues nor even the vices of tyrants; they have only their powers.

It is the same with all the powerful of to-day; it is the same, for

instance, with the high-placed and high-paid official. Not only is the

judge not judicial, but the arbiter is not even arbitrary. The arbiter

decides, not by some gust of justice or injustice in his soul like the old

despot dooming men under a tree, but by the permanent climate of the class

to which he happens to belong. The ancient wig of the judge is often

indistinguishable from the old wig of the flunkey.

To judge about success or failure one must see things very simply; one

must see them in masses, as the artist, half closing his eyes against

details, sees light and shade. That is the only way in which a just

judgment can be formed as to whether any departure or development, such as

Islam or the American Republic, has been a benefit upon the whole. Seen

close, such great erections always abound in ingenious detail and

impressive solidity; it is only by seeing them afar off that one can tell

if the Tower leans.

Now if we thus take in the whole tilt or posture of our modern state, we

shall simply see this fact: that those classes who have on the whole

governed, have on the whole failed. If you go to a factory you will see

some very wonderful wheels going round; you will be told that the employer

often comes there early in the morning; that he has great organising power;

that if he works over the colossal accumulation of wealth he also works

over its wise distribution. All this may be true of many employers, and

it is practically said of all.

But if we shade our eyes from all this dazzle of detail; if we simply ask

what has been the main feature, the upshot, the final fruit of the

capitalist system, there is no doubt about the answer. The special and

solid result of the reign of the employers has been--unemployment.

Unemployment not only increasing, but becoming at last the very pivot upon

which the whole process turns.

Or, again, if you visit the villages that depend on one of the great

squires, you will hear praises, often just, of the landlord's good sense

or good nature; you will hear of whole systems of pensions or of care for

the sick, like those of a small and separate nation; you will see much

cleanliness, order, and business habits in the offices and accounts of the

estate. But if you ask again what has been the upshot, what has been the

actual result of the reign of landlords, again the answer is plain. At

the end of the reign of landlords men will not live on the land. The

practical effect of having landlords is not having tenants. The practical

effect of having employers is that men are not employed. The unrest of

the populace is therefore more than a murmur against tyranny; it is

against a sort of treason. It is the suspicion that even at the top of

the tree, even in the seats of the mighty, our very success is

unsuccessful.