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IN DEFENCE
OF ARISTOCRACY
PEREGRINE WORSTHORNE

Dedication

I love it [aristocracy], like history.

Sylvia Plath

The hereditary permanency of families, and sets of families . . . are an invisible social asset on which every kind of culture is more or less dependent.

Labordere, quoted in Robert Skidelsky,

John Maynard Keynes

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Index

Copyright

About the Publisher

Acknowledgements

I want to acknowledge the great debt I owe to Larry Siedentop’s fine essay on De Tocqueville (Oxford University Press, 1994) and his learned and lively Democracy in Europe, every page of which only served to confirm me in my belief that without an aristocratic dimension that noble ideal can never be realised. Siedentop himself, it needs to be said, reaches no such conclusion. Aristocracy is dismissed as a thing of the past. But it is often an embarrassing mark of a great work, such as his, to have unintended consequences.

I also want to thank Professor Vernon Bogdanor, of Brasenose College, Oxford, Edward Skidelsky and Derwent May for their very great kindness in reading my book and making invaluable suggestions. In no way, however, should their kindness allow them to be saddled with any responsibility for my conclusions.

And most important of all I want to pay tribute to my secretary, Claire Allan, whose patience, mastery of the computer, wise advice and encouragement have smoothed my path at every turn. The librarians at the London Library, too, have been unfailingly helpful, well beyond the call of duty.

Thanks are also due to Caroline Michel and Michael Fishwick, of Harper Collins, for not being put off by an unfashionable theme, and to Catherine Heaney and Kate Hyde for so cheerfully and efficiently getting the book into print.

And apologies to my wife for any embarrassment caused.

Prologue

Not only does every country have the aristocracy it deserves, but so does every era, including the democratic era. In this essay the term is used in two senses: first, to describe families whose power and authority, high prestige and assured dignity, depended upon titles of nobility dating back, in some cases, to feudal times; and, second, to describe families whose power and authority depend not so much on the distinction of ancient lineage as on what the distinguished American historian John Lukacs* calls ‘distinctions derived from the consanguinity of their families with high civic reputation’; in other words, on a record of public service rather than on blood. Of the first it could be said that they were powerful and authoritative because they were noble; of the second that they were noble because they were powerful and influential.

Mr Lukacs suggests that a better term to describe this second meaning – families who are noble because they are powerful and influential, rather than the other way around – would be ‘patrician’ rather than aristocratic. They have something in common he writes, ‘with the old patrician societies of modern Europe, nearer to the middle of the continent, with a social and civic order incarnated by the great merchant families in cities such as Basel, Geneva, Amsterdam, Hamburg, or with the grand bourgeois (often Protestant) families in France . . . little in common with Proust’s world of the Guermantes; many things in common with the world of Buddenbrooks (which Thomas Mann described in 1901) . . . solidly bourgeois (in the best sense of that often used word) and not glitteringly feudal.’ Mr Lukacs’s point is well taken. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the description ‘patrician’ catches the flavour of the English ruling class rather better than the word ‘aristocratic’, covering, as it does, both Peel and Salisbury, Disraeli and Gladstone, Harold Macmillan and Hugh Gaitskell, even, just, both Tony Blair and Michael Howard. Nevertheless, out of habit, I have decided to stick to aristocratic and aristocracy and to leave it to the reader to make the necessary adjustment according to the context.

In any case, central to both meanings is the idea of certain families, joined together by the invisible bonds of memory, as bearers of important moral and social values and political traditions that carry authority because they have been demonstrated, to the satisfaction of all classes, to have served the public interest over many generations.

An aristocracy must also have another intangible source of power and authority – transcending all the others – that comes from longevity; from having been around long enough to have become an integral part of the nation’s history and mythology. So without that time-honoured place in a nation’s history and mythology an aristocracy ceases to be an aristocracy, and reverts back to being an ordinary power elite, whether in the form of plutocracy, oligarchy, a military junta, or meritocracy. In other words, the authority of an aristocracy, like that of a theocracy, depends on the power of faith: the public’s faith in it and the aristocracy’s faith in itself. It profits an aristocracy little, therefore, to retain only its wealth and power because without that intangible element of faith – beyond the range of political scientists to identify or quantify – it is no more than sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.

In this essay I shall try to argue that because of the British aristocracy’s uniquely successful past, residual elements of the old faith still survive, along with even larger elements of its old wealth and influence. Legal status is also a factor. At the time of writing, the aristocracy still has legal status. Titles are officially bestowed and recognized, and a certain number of hereditary peers are still allowed to take a seat in the House of Lords, albeit only if elected by their fellow peers. But legal status could be more of a liability than an asset because, as John Stuart Mill famously remarked, ‘the best way to discredit an idea is to give it a privileged, legal status’.

Unquestionably this causes resentment, and in some ways, therefore, the French, who got rid of the privileged status of their aristocracy in the eighteenth century by cutting off their heads, and the Americans, who never had such an aristocracy in the first place, are now less upset by the idea of aristocracy than the British. So much is readily admitted in this essay. In today’s climate a de jure privileged aristocracy with titles of nobility and places in parliament may be an enemy of de facto hereditary aristocracy, which merges so imperceptibly into the ranks of meritocracy as not to present any visible target on which doctrinal egalitarians can train their guns. So it could well be that the idea of aristocracy in Britain would be strengthened rather than weakened by the removal of their legal privileges.

In any case, as this essay also tries to show, the role of the hereditary aristocracy in British history was so massive and splendid that it cannot – much as it might like to – just fold up its tents and fade away. The public and media won’t let it. It is still too much part of ‘us’; too deeply embedded in the nation’s literature and culture; indeed in the national consciousness itself. What is more, its code of gentlemanly behaviour, which was eventually adopted by substantial elements in all classes, came to enjoy the status of a sub-Christian cult, exercising on many (for whom the demands of Christianity were too arduous) a more direct influence for good than did Christianity proper. So although in theory it might be wonderful to replace aristocratic deference with civic republicanism, that is most unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future. What is much more likely to happen – indeed is already happening – is the replacement of aristocratic deference, not by civic republican pride, but by something much more like egalitarian hypocrisy at the top and proletarian rancour at the bottom.

Plainly, therefore, some opening of minds is needed. Reactionary supporters of the class system, if there are any left, must understand how offensive it is to contemporary public opinion for the State to reserve positions of power and influence at the top of society – in the House of Lords, for example – for men and women whose individual talents would not otherwise justify them holding these positions. Most anti-egalitarians, I would imagine, have now conceded this point. But most egalitarians, unfortunately, are still as far as ever from opening their minds to the no less important truth that for the power of the State to be used to create a wholly classless society is equally objectionable. By a classless society* they presumably mean one in which those running things in the present have no association with those who ran them in the past; in which those running things are all drawn from families who have not themselves been running things; a society, that is, in which the only social distinction officially approved of is the one separating the minority that is running things (i.e. the elites) from the majority who are not running things (i.e. the masses). While such a society would certainly do away with individuals enjoying positions at the top of society to which their inherent talents do not qualify them – a marginally desirable development – it would also mean that the social space at the top occupied by those who deserved to be at the top would be demoralizingly barren and thin – a fundamentally undesirable development. A state-sponsored classless society would be an atomized society. It doesn’t bear thinking about. In other words, there ought always to be a social space at the top of society in which vestiges of the past (elites emeritus, so to speak) remain. Otherwise life at the top will be horribly nasty, brutish, and short, with grim consequences for life at every other social level.

In the past the State has smiled on aristocracy, and in this essay I lovingly adumbrate the benefits this country over the centuries has garnered from an aristocracy so favoured. But I also recognize that smiling on aristocracy, in the present climate, is no longer acceptable. To that degree, egalitarianism must rule. But only to that degree. What must not happen is that the smile should be replaced by a frown; that legal discrimination in favour should be replaced by legal discrimination against. In short, what this essay seeks to help create is a state of public opinion in which the old upper classes and their institutions, shorn of their legal privileges, are once again seen as a source of strength rather than weakness; a blessing rather than a curse; and above all, as ideally suited – rather than exceptionally unsuited – for public service.*

So this essay is not just a lament for the passing away of aristocracy; it is quite as much a plea for it to be given a new and constructive lease of life. For the only way to supersede an aristocracy that has done such historic service as Britain’s has is to incorporate it. Only by continuing to use it, can we go beyond it.*

One

Others ascribe to me alternately democratic or aristocratic prejudices; perhaps I might have had one or the other if I had been born in another century and in another country. But as it happened, my birth made it very easy for me to guard against both. I came into the world at the end of a long revolution which, after having destroyed the old order, created nothing that could last. When I began my life, aristocracy was already dead, and democracy was still unborn. Therefore, my instincts could not lead me blindly towards one or the other. I have lived in a country which for forty years has tried a little of everything and settled nothing definitively. It was not easy for me, therefore, to have any political illusions . . . I had no natural hatred or jealousy of the aristocracy and, since that aristocracy had been destroyed, I had no natural affection for it, for one can only be strongly attached to the living. I was near enough to know it intimately, and far enough to judge it dispassionately. I may say as much for the democratic elements. . . . In a word, I was so nicely balanced between the past and the future that I did not feel instinctively drawn toward the one or the other. It required no great effort to contemplate quietly both sides.

Alexis de Tocqueville

The spark that fired me into writing this essay on the importance of the class system to English democracy was the following paragraph in Richard Hoggart’s final volume of memoirs, First and Last Things:

Democracy is never an abstraction. It has to be rooted in a sense of our own particular culture, of its virtues, strengths, limitations . . . It arises from the people we have known, loved, respected as we grew up, whether that was among the urban or rural working class, or the conscientious and public-spirited among the middle class, or the upper class.

‘Or the upper class’. Those were the four words that did the trick. For although I knew Mr Hoggart to be a most fair-minded man, I could not stifle the suspicion that he had added them only in a spirit of giving the devil his due – rather as a child feels obliged to add the name of some much disliked gorgon of an aunt to its bedtime supplications. Could he sincerely have believed, I asked myself, that a member of the British upper class had anything useful to contribute on the subject of British democracy except in an apologetic, exculpatory, or at best nostalgic mode? And if Mr Hoggart did so believe, surely he should at least have warned such a person to keep quiet about his own aristocratic provenance, lest readers should dismiss his views as likely to be self-serving and anachronistic, harking back to the ‘good old days’ when everybody knew where they stood but only a privileged few, like himself, enjoyed being there?

But then I had second thoughts. Why on earth should not a member – which I myself in part am – of the very class that, in 1688, created England’s particular kind of democracy, and presided over its glorious destiny for over three hundred years, have something useful to say about its future? True, such a person, with roots in the upper-class culture, would be less qualified than Mr Hoggart, with his roots in the working class, to write about the ‘virtues, strength, limitations’ of English democracy from the bottom-dog perspective of the ruled; but did not that suggest, by the same token, that he would be more qualified to write about them from the equally if not more important top-dog perspective of the rulers?

Democratic top dogs? Is that not a contradiction in terms? Most emphatically not, since this is precisely what English aristocrats were: an organic part of England’s democratic body politic, no more or less an organic part of that body than were the bottom dogs. Was not Winston Churchill, grandson of a Duke, but elected by the people, also, in the English sense, a democrat – someone, like Brutus, prepared to take up arms against tyranny? In England love of freedom, not a lack of quarterings, was and is the true test. Trying to write the aristocratic dimension out of English democracy, therefore, is like trying to write the Prince of Denmark out of Hamlet.

In my youth, of course, they tended to try to do the opposite: to write the working class out of the story. England’s democracy seemed then to consist exclusively of grandees, most with titles. It was a view of democracy from the top downwards. Now, however, the fashionable view is increasingly from the bottom upwards. Thus the success or failure of England’s democracy, which in the old days was largely measured by the statesmanship of its leaders and the standing of the country, is now largely measured by the quality of the man in the street.

In this essay, mindful of Mao’s dictum about the fish rotting from the head downwards, I try to redress the balance, not, I hasten to say, so as to advocate reinstating the upper class – or anything as absurdly reactionary as that – but so as to highlight the gaping hole left in the head of our body politic by its extinction; its extinction, moreover, without any serious thought having been given to how, and with whom, that great empty hole should be filled. From time to time newspaper commentators amuse us by pretending that ‘Tony’s cronies’ have filled the hole. That only shows how little the role of the old ruling class, in the sense that it is used in this essay, is understood.

The difficulty here, I believe, is that ever since the problems created by the Industrial Revolution, political and social thinkers in Britain, as in the rest of the world, have been concerned exclusively with the condition of the tail – the poor and the underprivileged. And quite rightly so since, thanks to the Victorian reforms of the public schools, of Oxbridge, and of the Civil Service, the elites, by the end of the nineteenth century, were in pretty good shape. What so much more obviously and urgently needed attention was the quality of life, moral and material, not of the few but of the many.

Roughly speaking, that still remains the state of play today. While there have been endless studies of the demoralizing effects of inner-city living conditions, or of capitalism generally, on the poor and underprivileged, there have been none, so far as I know, of the demoralizing effects of gross suburban affluence in such towns as Beaconsfield and Gerrards Cross – where there is a Mercedes and/or a BMW in every garage – and of capitalism generally on the rich and overprivileged.* No, I am not being facetious. Plato has a lot to say about the ideal conditions for nurturing elites, or what he called ‘guardians’. So, of course, famously, did Edmund Burke.

To be bred in a place of estimation; to see nothing low and sordid from one’s infancy; to be taught to respect oneself; to be habituated to censorial inspection of the public eye . . . to stand upon such elevated ground as to be enabled to take a large view of the widespread and infinitely diversified combinations of men and affairs in a large society; to have leisure to read, to reflect, to converse; to be enabled to draw on the attention of the wise and learned, wherever they are to be found . . . these are the circumstances of men that form what I call a natural aristocracy, without which there is no nation.

Nor does one need to go back to the eighteenth century or to classical Athens for such comments. For the great twentieth-century thinker and economist Joseph Schumpeter, in his famous Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy (1943), has this to say:

There are many ways in which politicians of a sufficiently good quality can be secured. Thus far, however, experience seems to suggest that the only effective guarantee is in the existence of a social stratum itself a product of a severely selective process, that takes to politics as a matter of course. If such a stratum be neither too exclusive nor too accessible for the outsider and if it be strong enough to assimilate most of the elements it currently absorbs, it not only will present for the political career products of stocks that have successfully passed many tests in other fields – served, as it were, an apprenticeship in private affairs – but it will also increase their fitness by endowing them with traditions that embody experience, with a professional code and with a common fund of views.

Schumpeter’s words ‘Thus Far’ were written during the war, but as far as I know there has been no evidence since then to suggest that we have found any better ways. Quite the opposite, judging by the quality of today’s leaders. But when did you last hear a contemporary politician – even a Tory one – admit as much? Nor is this in the least surprising, since to do so would be committing political suicide.

While in the old days socialists argued, very reasonably, that it was the duty of the State to improve the conditions of the lower classes, and Old Tories argued, also very reasonably, that it was their party’s duty to maintain the privileges of the upper classes (and the liberals made a powerful case for not feather-bedding either the Duke or the dustman), today all the parties agree, or pretend to agree, that it is the job of the State to do away with class altogether, quite regardless of the fact that our political institutions (c.f. Mao’s head) grew out of that class system and have depended on it ever since for their health and strength.

But having been brought up among the upper class myself, perhaps it is only natural for me to be aware of that class’s strengths and virtues rather than its limitations. I don’t think so. For as it happens, fate dealt me a very mixed hand of class cards, which I like to think has made it easier for me than for others to achieve a degree of objectivity. But in case that is wishful thinking on my part, it is probably wisest to take the opportunity at the outset to lay my class cards face up on the table, so that readers of the essay can swallow it with as large or as little a pinch of salt as they deem desirable or necessary.

My grandfather, Alexander Koch de Gooreynd, came from Belgian banking stock, his father having emigrated here at the end of the nineteenth century. Having arrived, he bought a house in Belgrave Square and then built his wife another and tried – only being just nipped in the bud by the Astor family – to buy The Times from Lord Northcliffe. After sending my father to Eton and into the Irish Guards, my grandfather then put the final touches to my father’s rites of passage into the upper class by arranging for him to marry my mother, granddaughter of the 12th Earl of Abingdon – a Catholic family connected by marriage to the Duke of Norfolk, secular head of the Catholic establishment. The marriage, however, did not work since the couple were incompatible, my father wanting to lead the life of the idle rich and my mother, much the stronger character, determined to shoehorn him into English public life. The poor man was found a parliamentary constituency by our uncle Edmund Fitzalan, (younger brother of the Duke of Norfolk), the Tory Chief Whip at the time, and did his best – changing his name to Worsthorne* for the purpose – but it didn’t work. And after several unsuccessful attempts, he gave up the struggle and the name. My mother, who despised the idle rich, never forgave him and they soon separated.

From then on, so terrified was my mother that my brother and I might follow in our father’s self-indulgent footsteps that during our childhood we were scarcely ever allowed to see him. I remember being taken out from school in his yellow Rolls Royce,^† equipped ahead of the times with a cocktail bar, at the most twice, and that, alas, was the total extent, until we came of age, of our contact. Not so much a role model, therefore, as an anti-role model. We were brought up to be as unlike our father as possible, even to the point of not being sent to Eton and not being allowed to join the Irish Guards.

Then, in the 1930s, our mother got her heart’s desire. She married the man of her dreams, Montagu Norman, then the great interwar Governor of the Bank of England, as dedicated to public service as our father was to private pleasure. Norman, unlike our father, was Protestant, which meant divorce and remarriage in a registry office, both repugnant to our recusant Catholic relations, from whose presence my mother – to her great relief – and her children were summarily banished for life: for my brother and I, this meant, in turn, no more Christmases and holidays with Uncle Edmund at Cumberland Lodge, his grace-and-favour home in Windsor Park – where guests included George V and Queen Mary, as well as the then prime minister, Stanley Baldwin – or at Arundel Castle; and no more eavesdropping as our elders and betters discussed ad nauseam the Conversion of England, the future of the Catholic schools, and other such burning public issues of the day. But instead, being thenceforward under Montagu Norman’s roof, we soon became equally accustomed to hear talk about more secular public issues – the Gold Standard, unemployment, etc., with visitors like Dr Schacht, Hitler’s economic guru, Sir John Reith, the first Director General of the BBC, and Maynard Keynes. So from a very early age, res publica, ‘the public thing’, was part of our lives.

I can remember quite clearly when I was made aware that it was not part of everybody else’s life. The parents of a fellow pupil at my prep school had taken me out and in the course of the outing my friend’s father, who was in the rag trade, had waxed indignant about a Neville Chamberlain Budget. Always anxious to find some precociously grown-up subject to write about to my mother in my weekly letter home, I passed on this conversation, mentioning in particular the father’s objection to a tax rise that would hit the retail trade particularly hard, only to receive a long handwritten letter – the first and the last – from the Governor himself. Sadly, I haven’t kept the text, but its gist left a lasting mark. The Chancellor’s job, he emphasized, was not to please the rag trade, or any other private interest, but rather to take care of the nation’s solvency. A good Budget was almost by definition an unpopular Budget. He went on to cite his friend Walter Lippmann’s view that it was a government’s job to tax, conscript, command and prohibit, punish, and balance the budget, none of which responsibilities could usually be safely fulfilled without offending many individual members of the public. Inevitably, the conflict between the public interest and the private interest was most acute in time of war, when the balance had to be got right between the public interest in victory and the private interest of millions of mothers and fathers that their boys should return home alive; but in peacetime, too, there could be almost equally agonizing conflicts and he instanced his own recent duty at the Bank of England to take actions in the national interest that had inflicted cruel suffering on the unemployed.

Very recently, in Louis Menand’s excellent book The Metaphysical Club – mostly about late nineteenth-and early twentieth-century American philosophers – I came across a ruling of the famous American Civil War veteran and Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, who was also one of my stepfather’s correspondents, and its chilling note had such a familiar ring that I am sure it was also included in that letter. Certainly it is in its spirit and comes in the course of a 1927 opinion by Holmes about a Virginian law permitting the involuntary sterilization of mentally incompetent persons. Menand rightly describes it as Holmes’s most ‘notorious opinion’* and it went as follows:

We have seen more than once that the public welfare may well call upon the best citizens for their lives.^† It would be strange if it could not call upon those who already sap the strength of the State for these lesser sacrifices.

Whether or not that was the same quotation as the one recommended to me by my stepfather I shall never know; but, if not, it was certainly another equally stupefying.

And then at about the same time, as if to pile Pelion on Ossa, the critic John Davenport – whose war work was to teach English at Stowe for the duration – recommended me to read Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy, wherein I came across a passage that included the following quotation from Boethius:

If any were visited with the falling sickness, madness, gout, leprosy, or any such dangerous disease, which was likely to be propagated from the father to the son, he was instantly gelded; a woman kept from all company of men; and if by chance, having some such disease, she were found to be with child, she with her brood were buried alive: and this was done for the common good, lest the whole nation should be injured or corrupted [my italics].

To which Burton had added:

A severe doom, you will say, and not to be used amongst Christians, yet more to be looked into than it is. For now, by our too much facility in this kind, in giving way for all to marry that will, too much liberty and indulgence in tolerating all sorts, there is a vast confusion of hereditary diseases, no family secure, no man almost, free from some grievous infirmity or other, when no choice is had.

It was a heady brew. Clearly somebody, ‘lest the whole nation should be injured or corrupted’, had to do the nation’s dirty work; had to authorize difficult and sometimes cruel actions for the common good; had to be on the side of realism against sentimentality; had to resist giving way not only to every grievance (which was relatively easy) but also to manifestly worthy causes as well; had to rub society’s nose in the painful realities of keeping a great nation on course. No less clearly, careerist politicians – whose careers depended on retaining popular favour – were the last people who could be relied upon to grasp these nettles. So who were these indispensable somebodies who had to bear these public burdens? The inference from my stepfather’s letter was unavoidable: those indispensable somebodies most definitely included me.