Socialism and Democracy in Europe

by Samuel Peter Orth

The theory of violence, then, has almost disappeared. The Syndicalist, in his reversion to anarchy, attempts to revive the forsaken theory. He does this by a general strike. But the general strike is not to be confused with the social revolution. The general strike, wherever it has been tried as an economic forcing valve, has failed. But whenever it has been used as a political uprising, demanding political rights, it has been more or less successful. In Belgium we have seen how it brought results. In Sweden a few years ago there was a general strike that not only shut every factory, but stopped the street cars and all transportation lines, closed the gas-works, and even the newspapers were suspended. It was a powerful political protest, but the number of striking workmen did not equal the non-strikers.

In Italy in 1904 a general strike was called to protest against the arbitrary attitude of the government toward the labor movement. In some of the cities all work ceased, even the gondoliers of Venice joined the strikers. In Russia in 1904-5 the transportation lines and post and telegraph lines were tied up while the workingmen demonstrated for their political liberty.

The violence of Socialism to-day is political; the violence of trade unionism is economic. As the democratic consciousness spreads, there may be such a coalescing of interests that violence will cease. But a human society without warfare and contention is still a tax upon the imagination. Strikes are increasing in number and bitterness and all the arbitrations and devices of democracies seem helpless in the turmoil of economic strife.

I am not unmindful that behind all this parliamentary activity there is the dim background of hope in the hearts of many Socialists that somehow the wage system will vanish, that competition will cease, that the primary activities of production and distribution will be assumed by society, and that economic extremes will become impossible. In a people of fitful temper and ebullient spirit the doctrine of overturning remains a constant menace. Socialism in Spain and Italy wears a scarlet coat, in Germany a drab, and in England a black. The danger to civilization lurks, not in the survival of the doctrines of the older Socialism, but in the temper of the people who espouse them.

The Socialist movement has accomplished three notable things. First, it has spread democracy. The bourgeois revolutions established democracy; Socialism extends it. We have seen how in Belgium it compelled the governing powers to give labor the ballot; how in Germany, hard set and dogmatic, it is shaping events that will surely lead to ministerial responsibility and to universal suffrage; and how in England it is resulting in universal manhood suffrage and probably "votes for women." Socialism is spreading the obligations of government upon all shoulders. It is not, however, democratizing the machinery of administration. In France the centralized autocracy of Napoleon's empire remains almost untouched. In England the ancient traditions of administration are slow to change. In Germany the civil service will be the last barrier to give way.

Secondly, Socialism has forced the labor question upon the lawmakers. This is a great achievement. The neglected and forgotten portions of the human family are now the objects of state solicitude. The record of this revolution is written in the statute books. Turn the leaves of the table of contents of a modern parliamentary journal, and compare it with the same work of thirty years ago. Almost the entire time is now taken up with questions that may be called humanitarian rather than financial or political. Grave ministers of state make long speeches on the death-rate of babies in the cities, on the cost of living in factory towns, on the causes of that most heartbreaking of modern woes, non-employment. Budgets are now concerned with the feeding of school children as well as the building of warships, and with the training of boys as well as the drilling of soldiers.

Nowhere has this radical change taken place without a labor party. The laboring man forced the issue. He bent kings and cabinets and parliaments to his demands. The time was ripe, society had reached that stage of its development when it was ready to take up these questions. But it did not do so of its own free will. When labor parties sprang like magic into puissance, a decade ago, the social conscience was ready to hear their plea. Bismarck foresaw their demands. But he was too obsessed of feudalism to realize their motives. Therefore his state socialism failed to silence the Socialists. The workman had his heart in the cause, not merely his tongue.

And the third great achievement is the natural result of the other two. When democracy is potent enough to force its demands on parliament, then the power of the state is ready to fulfil its demands. So we find in every country where Social Democracy has gained a foothold a constant increase of the functions of the state. What shall the state do? That is now the great question. One hundred years ago it was, What sort of a state shall we have? That is answered: a democratic state; at least, a state democratic in spirit. The state is no longer merely judge, soldier, lawmaker, and governor. It is physician, forester, bookkeeper, schoolmaster, undertaker, and a thousand other things. Society has grown complex, and the state, which is only another name for society, has developed a surprising precocity.

We have seen that in England especially the trend of legislation is to deprive the individual, one by one, of those prerogatives which gave him dominion over property. A man owning land in the city of London, for instance, has not the liberty to build as he likes or what he likes. He must build as the state permits him, and the exactions are manifold. He can be compelled to build a certain distance from the street,—that is, the city demands a strip of his land for common use. He can build only a certain height,—the community wants the sunlight. If his older buildings are dilapidated, the city tears them down. If the streets through his allotment are too narrow, the city widens them. In short, he may have title in fee simple, but the community has a title superior. Even his income from this parcel of land is not all his own. The state now takes a goodly slice in taxes. If he is inclined to resent this, and does not improve his property, the state taxes him on the unearned increment, and if he refuses to submit to this "socialism," the constable seizes the whole parcel, and he can have what is left after the community has satisfied its demands.

The taxes that he pays are distributed over a vast variety of activities. They go to feed school children, to pension aged workmen, to send inspectors into the factories, to keep up hospitals, as well as to light and pave the streets and pay policemen. Other taxes that he pays on other forms of property go to the improvement of agriculture, to the payment of boards of arbitration, and so on. In short, ownership is becoming more and more only an incident; it is not merely a badge of ease, but a symbol of social responsibility.