F

I

RANCE and America are sister republics and sister democracies." On the 4th and 14th of July this venerable phrase is as full of unspeakable comfort as the blessed word Mesopotamia. In the sober remainder of the year it may sound a trifle -democratic. For democracy is Proteus. Napoleon, we are told in good earnest, was the archangel of democracy. Jefferson was a democrat. Lincoln was democracy incarnate. The unreconstructed South is obstinately democratic. Tammany is a stronghold of democracy. Woodrow Wilson would make the world safe for democracy. George Clemenceau was a radical democrat before Woodrow Wilson was born. But Wilsonian democracy had better not go for a ride on the Tiger-Princeton, Tammany, or Clemenceau. And our heads begin to whirl.

It was a keen disappointment for the friends of France in this country to discover that France was democratic neither in thought nor in deeds. On the other hand, our enthusiasm for democracy, pure and undefined, struck our French friends as a token of political immaturity. Clemenceau referred with something akin to affectionate sarcasm to "la noble candeur" -the holy simplicity-of President Wilson. When it was agreed that the Great War was a crusade for democracy, France raised no objection; the French leaders might have repeated the words of the old English parliamentarian (Lord Melbourne, I believe): "It does not much matter what we say; but we must all say the same thing." But when President Wilson practically promised Germany a free pardon if she would put on the white robe of

democracy, or when he sent his generous greeting to the first assembly of the PanRussian Soviet, France-political France

demurred. Clouds rear themselves into magnificent castles; but such visions should not interfere with the work to be done in a world of realities. And for the best-trained French intellects in our generation, democracy is not a reality.

It is hard to agree upon a definition of democracy. The government of the people, by the people, and for the people, will do as well as any. Translated into concrete terms, this implies universal suffrage. Every widening of the franchise is a step toward democracy. Caste and property qualifications, race and sex disabilities have been swept away. There remains one stronghold of privilege, one survival of ancient arbitrary discriminations-age. Universal suffrage is at best adult suffrage. A manifest injustice: for many a promising high-school student might cast a more intelligent vote than some of his elders. When babes in arms are taken to the polling booth, we shall have perfect democracy. As this hardly belongs to the realm of practical politics, we are compelled to tone down our high-sounding definition. Democracy never was, and never could be, the government of the people by all the people. Whether it has ever been a government for the whole people is a question which history cannot answer offhand with an exultant affirmative. Ideally, it is the government of the people by the best of the people. Practically, it is the government of the people by alternating minorities of professional politicians, indorsed, with enthusiasm or with resignation, by a majority of qualified voters. It may be a bare majority, so bare as to be indecent.

We take it for granted that the more progressive thought in a country must be also the more democratic. This is by no

means invariably the case. vanced" elements in Europe have repeatedly turned their backs on democracy. The Jacobins at the time of the great Revolution, the Syndicalists in our own days, frankly proclaimed the right of a conscious, or enlightened, minority" to lead the ignorant masses. Jacobinism, Syndicalism, and Bolshevism are words of ill repute. But the same problem presented itself to moderate Republicans, with whom we are in full sympathy, and was settled in their minds in the same way: a more or less open denial of the democratic dogma. The crucial instance was this: in 1848, the sovereign People saw fit to elect Louis Napoleon President of the Republic, simply because he was a Bonaparte. When, four years later, he made himself Emperor, he could rightfully claim that he held his crown "by the grace of God and the will of the people" -assisted by a little bit of juggling. This placed the Republicans in a most painful quandary: the application of the democratic principle had led to what they thought the suicide of democracy. Victor Hugo had to admit that democracy might be deluded; in other terms, that you could fool the great majority of the people some of the time, and then fool them again with something else, and so ad infinitum. When you called upon the People to raise its god-inspired voice, you might get an answer from a totally different entity, the Rabble:

"Oui, le Peuple est en haut, mais la Foule est en bas.'

The chief distinction between the two is that the People votes for us and the Rabble against us. So the great democratic poet came to the conclusion that votes should be weighed rather than counted; the enlightened Republicanism of the Parisian working men should mean more than the gregarious Bonapartism of the rural masses; la Ville-Lumière, the Metropolis of Light, had a right to dictate to the rest of the country-a right which was asserted once more in March, 1871, during the tragic farce of the Commune. Another case of conflict between radicalism and democracy in France is offered by the woman-suffrage question. In theory, the Radicals approve of it. In practice they know or they believe that

Before condemning those French democrats who are afraid of democracy, it would be well to remember that we, who proclaim the sanctity of the democratic dogma in politics, reject it contemptuously in all other domains. Democracy exists neither in art nor in science. A best-seller is not ipso facto a masterpiece, else Harold Bell Wright would be our Balzac. And it would be farcical to submit Einstein's theory-or Darwin's, for that matter-to a popular referendum. In the economic world, many political democrats shudder at the thought of democracy. It seems natural to intrust the fate of a huge concern like the city of New York, or the Union itself, to the decision. of the multitude. But it is heretical to suggest the same form of government for a much more modest industrial or commercial concern. It is monstrous that a man should be chief executive of a nation by hereditary right; that a judge should openly purchase his seat on the bench and bequeath it to his son; that a captain should buy his company or a colonel his regiment. But we find it perfectly normal that a captain of industry should purchase a new plant-thereby controlling more intimately than any politician the welfare of thousands; and that Captain Junior should step into his father's shoes. If democracy be indeed absurd in art, science, commerce, and industry, it is hard to see why it should be held sacred in politics.

II

NOTHING would be more unjust, therefore, than to condemn our friends unheard, simply because their conception of

democracy is not absolutely co-extensive with ours. The French, for instance, are backward enough to appoint their judges instead of electing them; but our federal bench, likewise, is appointed, and we are not sure that it is inferior to the judiciaries of the different States. With all these preparations, I think I may safely discuss my main point: to wit, that the French Government is not a democracy. It uses a democratic vocabulary, and it affects the form of a Constitutional Monarchy of the English type. But it remains today, under M. Doumergue, what it was already under Louis-Philippe, Louis XIV, Louis XI, Philip the Fair: a government by permanent officials, recruited from the middle class and embodying the ideal of the middle class; a Bourgeois Bureaucracy, in terms borrowed directly from the French; or, to use the word suggested by our best authority on South American affairs, Victor Andrès Belaúnde, a "mesocracy."

It is the tritest of paradoxes to say that the political machinery in France is of trifling importance: the three real powers are the Bureaucracy, the Press, and Money. Parliament might very well shut up shop, as it did in Spain; Presidents and Cabinet ministers might grow lettuce à la Dioclétienne, or translate Horace in rural retreats; and France would miss nothing vital-only an exciting and expensive form of sport, more humane than bull-fights and more intellectual than baseball. The Bureaucracy would keep functioning, as it has functioned from time immemorial, under King, Emperor, or President: self-recruiting, honest on the whole, proud of its particular branch of the service, fairly efficient, and wofully unprogressive.

This is not a wild hypothesis: it is a plain statement of fact. France had at least half a dozen revolutions and coups d'état within less than a hundred years (1789-1871). Dynasties, flags, and régimes passed away: the Bureaucracy neither died nor surrendered. Not only did it preserve its traditional methods unshaken, but most of its personnel clung to their official armchairs with the same tenacity as the Vicar of Bray to his benefice. The same men received renewed investiture from Bonaparte, Bourbon, Or

leans, or Republic; the France they served

the France they were—had existed long before the political puppet that happened to strut in Paris for a season, and it would endure long after dynasties had gone to the scrap-heap.

Take the management of foreign affairs: M. Philippe Berthelot, who retired (under a Chinese cloud) not so very long ago, had been the power behind the throne at the Quai d'Orsay under the nominal leadership of a dozen ministers. M. Jusserand represented France at Washington for nearly twenty years, and he was continuously in the diplomatic service for no less than forty-five. Such men are keeping up the traditions of Talleyrand, who served the Ancient Régime, the Revolution, Napoleon, the Restoration, and Louis-Philippe; and Talleyrand was but continuing Vergennes, de Lionne, and Richelieu.

In home affairs, the Prefects of the Third Republic are the lineal descendants of the Prefects of Napoleon, who were but the Intendants of the old Monarchy under a more classical name. There is no more curious instance of the stability of the Bureaucrats, and of their independence of political power. The Prefects are the heads of the ninety subdivisions of France known as Departments. They are the chief executives in their districts, as the representatives, not of the local population, but of the central government somewhat in the same manner as the governors of colonial possessions. Appointed by the Home Office, or Ministry of the Interior, they are supposed to be the instruments of the Cabinet in power, and to support its policies. They, at any rate, might be expected to be political appointees and to follow the fate of their patrons. But such is not the case. Prefects remain at their posts under Moderates and under Radicals; they would still carry on under Napoleon IV, Philip VII, or a Soviet. All that a new government does is to shift them round a little. A Prefect who is persona grata with his Minister will be transferred to a pleasanter or more influential prefecture. One who has incurred disfavor will be sent to a sleepy little town, or to one in which local society still ostracizes government officials, as in some of the Western provinces.

But he is not dismissed. He may even be kicked upward instead of out; or he may be put in cold storage in some well-paid sinecure. Except in a case of scandalous unworthiness-a case so rare as to be almost unthinkable-a Prefect is as secure in the possession of his rank as a general in the regular army. Both may be unsuitably employed and in comparative disgrace, like a famous general under President Wilson, but both are sure of holding their title, and a job.

There is a French proverb which expresses this invincible continuity of French life, whatever may be the frail and pretentious little craft that float upon its stream: "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

III

WE said that the Bureaucracy in France was self-perpetuating. There is no strict equivalent for our spoils system. In most branches there is an examination at the entrance of the career, and appointments are made practically for life. It would be excessive to claim that political pull has no part in securing admission or promotion; but as Ministers come and go, while officials are permanent, it is hardly safe for a man to commit himself too completely to one political group. Then, the Bureaucrats have a strong esprit de corps; they resent, and attempt to thwart the intrusions of the politicians.

All this would not be radically contrary to democracy, if the officials were recruited from all classes, and were themselves free from class feeling. But such is not the case. Although there have been signs of change within the last twenty years the growth, within the Bureaucracy, of a proletariat permeated with syndicalist ideas-Officialdom is still the stronghold of the bourgeoisie.

It was so from the beginning: for centuries the nobles had scorned the work of administration, reserving their activity for war and social pleasure. The kings, distrusting the nobility, did not encourage them to take part in the government either of provinces or of the realm as a whole. The masses were disqualified on account of their ignorance. So the honorific and profitable burden of adminis

tration fell upon the Third Estate: an intelligent middle class, the most substantial, the most permanent element in French society; and this class is ruling to-day.

The limits of the French bourgeoisie are real, and yet hard to define. Within our own lifetime the upward boundary has practically disappeared; the nobility survives, but almost completely merged with the plutocracy (Jewish, American, and even French), and the plutocracy, in its turn, is nowhere separated from the bourgeoisie. Thus the word bourgeoisie, which used to denote exclusively the middle class, is now extended by socialist writers to the capitalistic upper class. In this new parlance a duke, a rich merchant or manufacturer, and a high government official are all bourgeois.

A caste system-a class is but a caste which has not yet solidified-could not endure without external marks of distinction: conversely, when there are indelible physical differences between elements in the population, a caste system is bound to arise, as in the colonies of most European powers and in our own South. In France, the physical criterion is not racial; no one has ever been socially damned because he had brown eyes and a high cephalic index. It is entirely a question of costume and personal habits. A bourgeois is a man with a white collar and uncalloused hands. He may be a struggling clerk or shop walker, much poorer than many peasants and mechanics. But as soon as he assumes the uniform of the ruling class, he also adopts its mentality. He is a bourgeois, with reverence for order, property, tradition, with contempt for men whose clothes are grimy, whose hands are horny, and whose speech is rude-a contempt which will not be lessened, but intensified, if the objectionable person be of their own kin. Just as patriotism is most extreme on the border, class consciousness is most intense at the boundary between the bourgeoisie and the people. There is more democracy of manners among the descendants of the feudal aristocracy than among the men just risen from the abyss, who are in mortal fear of being dragged back into it. The son ashamed of his parents whose lifelong sacrifice has opened for him the