The historian should not aim at completeness, he should aim at relevance.
-- R. G. Collingwood, 'Notes on Historiography'
The standard explanation for the failure of fascism in Britain is the Whiggish one, that British parliamentary institutions were too strong and well developed to fall prey to such an ephemeral movement. This explanation is based on the argument that fascism was a foreign invention, alien to British ways. British fascists, in particular Oswald Mosley and the British Union of Fascists (BUF), were basically imitators, in thrall to Mussolini and, later, Hitler. No such peculiar imports would ever succeed on British soil. As a letter writer to the New Age put it in response to an article by Oscar Levy praising Mussolini,
I trust you do not suggest that the doctor's ideas should be adopted by our nation. The principles of the Italians, Machiavelli and Mussolini, and the philosophy of the Polack Nietzsche, may be suited to the Latin and other Mediterranean races, but they are alien to the northern genius. Benevolent tyranny is the best thing for nations composed of gods and worms, but leadership without too much rule is better for the more homogeneous nations of the north. [1]
With the exception of the extravagances of national self-aggrandisement, this view of Britain is one that still basically underpins the historiography of British fascism. After surveying the potential challengers to parliamentary stability -- the Irish question, suffragism, trade unions, the effects of the First World War -- one scholar notes that 'During the 1920s, then, there was little opportunity for extremist parties to gain any purchase on the political system', and goes on to conclude that 'Ultimately, the failure of the BUF and of the earlier fascist movements to gain greater support must be attributed to the established parties' success during the interwar years in maintaining and even increasing their support.' [2] Among historians and political theorists, British fascism is usually treated as something of a joke, only marginally less risible than the Irish Blue Shirt movement. Even its most careful historian believes that, in the last instance, British fascism 'was small beer', and that, 'In terms of its impact on society and politics, British fascism has been over-rated.' [3] Another historian believes that since, in the northern European democracies, the prerequisite conditions identified by scholars for the emergence of fascism were lacking, 'There was neither space nor "need" for revolutionary nationalism', and that the BUF was thus 'essentially a contradiction in terms, a sort of political oxymoron'. [4]
These statements are, of course, correct. But there is more to a political movement than just politics. It is easy to dismiss British fascism as an imitative movement that never stood a chance of unseating a relatively stable parliamentary democracy, since, at least after the First World War, co-operation and coalition in government -- coupled with convenient economic circumstances -- did contrive to keep out extremist parties. But apart from the fact that this outcome was never a given -- the evidence that some Tories were prepared to abandon the parliamentary system over the issue of Irish Home Rule and lead Britain into civil war in 1913-1914 is compelling -- the nature of fascism in Britain is not synonymous with politics narrowly defined as the attempt by the BUF or other, minor, fascist parties to win power in local or national government. Julius Streicher's Nazi newspaper, Der Sturmer, may have been correct to call Mosley's BUF 'a Jewish catch-up movement' [5] (at least in the latter part of the claim) but this is to ignore the whole cultural background to political fascism in Britain, a cultural background whose assumptions were far more widespread than the simple high-political record of British fascism suggests.
In this book, I will challenge the view, derived from traditional approaches to political history, which dismisses British fascism as a pale imitation of its continental counterparts, and as an irrelevance in British political history. Instead, using a history of ideas approach, I argue that there was a well-developed indigenous tradition of ways of thinking which, while they cannot be called 'fascist' -- not before 1918 at any rate -- can certainly be seen as 'protofascist'. I am not putting forward a new argument for the failure of fascism; since, in the end, that failure was so marked, it would be tilting at windmills to argue otherwise. I am, however, proposing that we reassess the intellectual provenance of proto-fascist ideas in Britain, suggesting that they may be found to quite a large degree in the Nietzsche and eugenics movements, movements that represented the 'extremes of Englishness'.
What I mean by the phrase 'extremes of Englishness' is that the ideas of the writers whom I discuss do not produce a blend that contains all the elements necessary for a fully fledged fascist ideology. Instead, they indicate channels of thinking that, when combined, add up to an indigenous proto-fascism. Arnold White's militarism, the Edwardian popular leagues' demands for conscription and defence of empire, Lord Willoughby de Broke's 'National Toryism', Oscar Levy's Nietzschean critique of an effete western ethic, Anthony Ludovici's call for a 'masculine renaissance', Karl Pearson's and W.C.D. Whetham's equation of eugenics with anti-alienism and anti-feminism, A. H. Lane's antisemitism, William Sanderson's vision of an organic society dedicated to 'service', Viscount Lymington's rural revivalism -- all of these are, singly, elements of a reactionary, sometimes revolutionary-reactionary, ideology. In combination, they come very close to satisfying the criteria regarded by scholars as constituting fascism.
While there is not complete agreement as to how best to define fascism, there is some broad consensus among scholars. The attempt to define 'generic fascism' has given rise to fruitful comparative research, and the definitions offered by two scholars are cited here to indicate how I am conceiving fascism in this study. Roger Griffin defines fascism as 'a genus of political ideology whose mythic core in its various permutations is a palingenetic form of populist ultranationalism'. [6] Roger Eatwell, building on the work of Griffin and others, proposes this definition (while cautiously noting the impossibility for simple definitions 'to reveal the full complexity of political phenomena'): fascism is
an ideology that strives to forge social rebirth based on a holistic-national radical Third Way, though in practice fascism has tended to stress style, especially action and the charismatic leader, more than detailed programme, and to engage in a Manichean demonisation of its enemies. [7]
In a recent book, Dave Renton has added the important proviso to these theories that, by stressing the ideational background to fascism, they tend to overlook the fact that fascism was also -- primarily -- a form of action. [8] While this may be so, in Britain one sees the theoretical and ideational background, but only to a small extent the action. In other words, following Robert Paxton's five-stage model of fascism -- 1) the initial creation of fascist movements, 2) their rooting as parties in a political system, 3) the acquisition of power, 4) the exercise of power, 5) radicalisation or entropy -- it is clear that British fascism barely got beyond the first stage. [9] The writers I am examining here show that in some ways even this first stage was incomplete in Britain, at least until the 1930s. When I talk, then, of the intellectual background to British fascism, I am seeking to understand the extent to which the subjects in this study can be seen as being the instigators of what could have become, under different political circumstances, a fascist movement which moved from stage 1 in Paxton's scheme to stage 2, and have developed into a fully fledged movement integral to the political scene, threatening to take power.
Given that it is dealing with only the first stage in fascist formation, this study will not offer a new definition of generic fascism, nor is it an attempt to question the definitions of Griffin, Eatwell or anyone else (such as Ze'ev Sternhell or Stanley Payne); I cite these two examples in order to show that theorists of fascism recognise that the history of ideas of fascism is still relevant for historians of fascism proper, even if it is clear that one of the defining features of fascist movements in power is that they become indifferent to their early programmes. My contention is that in Britain the ideas existed without the movement, even before the rise of fascism in Italy and Nazism in Germany. Historians are correct to note that fascism was squeezed out of the political process in the interwar period. But I also argue that this outcome was by no means as inevitable as the Whiggish historiography suggests, especially in the context of the radical right before 1914. The manifold, radical ideas that feed fascism -- whether or not they subsequently guide it in power is not here the question -- existed in abundance in Britain, especially in the Edwardian cultural sphere, as I demonstrate below. British fascism failed not because it was an imitative movement, but because mainstream conservatism did not need to co-opt its ideas in order to remain in power. But this context, it must be stressed, was never inevitable. There was a National Government in 1931, but not in 1913; in other words, British political traditions are only long-standing traditions in retrospect, giving the illusion of permanence. The historian, in this case the historian of ideas, should recreate a sense of the play of ideas, the great number of possibilities that existed in the tumultuous, pessimistic days of Edwardian and interwar Britain, and restore a sense of contingency to a setting that is too easily slotted into a story of political continuity that was not felt with such confidence during the period itself. As Peter Clarke has noted, 'Historians who complacently celebrate the smooth transition from aristocratic to democratic government in Britain perhaps overlook the Ulster crisis as the moment of truth for a politically emasculated governing class, resisting the implications of representative government.' [10]
Besides, it is worth noting Richard Griffiths's recent claims, in An Intelligent Person's Guide to Fascism, that the scholarly concentration on defining generic fascism means that, for reasons of post facto definition, movements that are obviously fascist tend to get left out (especially the Action Francaise), while others that were not so important are over-emphasised. It is essential now to recognise that in the 1920s and 1930s, before the Holocaust, calling oneself a fascist did not carry the same stigma that it does (or should) today, but that fascism was, in manifold ways, pervasive and persuasive. [11] Intellectuals, it seems, were especially prone to fascism's seductions. [12]
This is not therefore a book about fascism per se, but about streams or tendencies in the history of ideas that, when combined, could have helped produce a fully fledged native fascism. There are many reasons why this did not happen in Britain, which have been studied by historians in detail. After this introduction, then, I will not refer to the thinkers I am studying (with the exception of Lymington and the later Ludovici) as fascists, for they were not. I will instead talk of the 'extremes of Englishness' for, as well as suggesting radicalism, this term indicates the existence of an indigenous tradition of modern illiberalism. Hence, in order neither to presuppose the 'fascist' nature of this intellectual provenance, nor to stretch the concept of fascism beyond a useable limit, I will refer henceforth to the 'extremes of Englishness' when talking of these Edwardian and interwar ideas.
Although it is outrageous to talk of a thinker such as Oscar Levy as a fascist, it makes more sense to think in terms of the 'extremes of Englishness'. In Levy's case, the epithet is not totally inappropriate: despite being a German Jew, and despite his attacks on nationalism and fascism, his peculiar, Nietzschean understanding of the Jewish roots of the evils of western civilisation drove him into the arms of fascists and antisemitic conspiracy theorists such as George Lane-Fox Pitt-Rivers. The two men became good friends, and Levy even visited Pitt-Rivers when the latter was interned during the Second World War. But other writers are more difficult cases; take, for example, T.E. Hulme. Although he called himself a Tory, and although he flirted with Maurras's Action Francaise, there is in his writings no trace of antisemitism. He is also in a different league of writing from the other people discussed in this book (with the partial exception of Levy). Like all major thinkers -- and Hulme was an original and challenging thinker -- his thought cannot be pinned down. At times he sounds authoritarian, at others he asserts the equality of all men. Nevertheless, he is mentioned in this study because he was involved with the members of the Nietzsche movement and the New Age, and because my argument is not that these thinkers were fascists, but that they reveal strands of thought in Britain in the Edwardian period and later which had the potential to fuel fascist movements. Hulme's fear of the 'cinders', the 'fundamental chaos' that underlies all existence, typifies a certain modern fear of the void that all fascist movements across Europe sought to overcome: the idea that for things to stay the same things must change. [13]
The same argument applies to the eugenicists. It is now fairly widely accepted that eugenics appealed to thinkers across the political spectrum. Furthermore, eugenics was not some kind of free-wheeling amorphous project, but was an aspect of generally held ideas about social reform: "'Eugenics" is still so associated with "Nazism" in our minds that we are blind to the reality that the reformist ideas which grew out of it had a wide geographic but highly differentiated impact.' [14] For left-wing thinkers of the more 'planiste' variety, it became an integral part of their conception of society, along with (indeed part of) schemes for public hygiene and education. The broad political appeal of eugenics, however, does not invalidate the claim that it was essentially reactionary, predicated on fear of degeneration. Although many schemes for both 'positive' and 'negative' eugenics are indistinguishable from public health measures -- in fact the presence of an established public health bureaucracy was key in restraining the growth of the eugenics movement as a single-issue movement [15] -- they all rested on an analysis of society which saw it as somehow in decline, and hence in need of rescue. The split between rightwing thinkers who stressed genetic solutions, and left-wing thinkers who stressed environmental ones did not appear until well into the interwar period, and even then was never fully developed.
That eugenics appealed to the left, and especially to the haughty, technocratic 'socialism' of Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells or the Webbs, is not a priori evidence against eugenics contributing to the growth of fascism. After all, Shaw, perhaps tongue in cheek, was never shy in stating his admiration for Mussolini and Hitler, and Wells wrote considerable amounts about the need for the disappearance of the Jews in order to realise the state of the future. [16] The extent to which in Germany, the USA and Scandinavia the growth of racial science fuelled extremist movements that were founded on notions of the 'social body' is well known. [17] Britain, however, was the birthplace of eugenics. Perhaps it is for this reason -- a more gradualist development of the science -- that eugenics was prevented from becoming a premise of government. But there were extremists among the British eugenicists. Following the chapters on the individuals, Levy and Ludovici, these extremists are investigated. Not, however, in isolation. The term 'extremes of Englishness' is also meant to suggest that these extremes built on more mainstream traditions, and were not aberrations. The extreme eugenicists, for example, shared many basic assumptions with the mainstream geneticists, just as the few paranoid conspiracy theory antisemites shared assumptions with the run-of-the-mill establishment antisemites who permeated the British governing elite. To take a random example: if Tom Segev is correct to argue that Britain supported the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine because it overestimated the extent of Jewish world power, [18] how are we to maintain that Oscar Levy's claims about the world-role of the Jews or Wells's claims about Nazism's supposed Old Testament roots are aberrant or out of the ordinary?
Nowhere is this parabola of prejudice illustrated more clearly than in the concept of the 'lethal chamber'. This concept, nowhere defined in the literature but frighteningly suggestive to a post-Holocaust audience, is a common term of reference for British eugenicists from 1900 to 1939. While few eugenicists seem to have advocated the use of such a 'lethal chamber', most seem to have known what it meant -- a kind of shorthand for the more extreme 'negative' eugenic measures -- and felt obliged to bring it up in order to distance their own ideas from those of the supposed extremists. And besides, there were a few extremists who would have liked nothing better than to have seen their negative eugenic ideals implemented with such ease.
These ideas did not appear out of nowhere. It is perhaps true that every age contains the same cornucopia of ideas, among which some are particularly suited to the zeitgeist. It may just as well be true that every age produces the thinkers that it deserves, or even that the age is defined by its great thinkers. Whatever the case -- and it seems unnecessary to get bogged down in materialist/idealist discussions about the production of knowledge in order to satisfy the demands of this study -- the beginning of the twentieth century undoubtedly saw a rise in pessimistic theories, theories of social decline, of degeneration, of the survival of the unfittest. The thinker who seemed most succinctly to summarise these themes was Friedrich Nietzsche. Whether or not this was a correct reading of the philosopher is not my concern here, though it seems to have more of a textual basis than many an early twenty-first-century commentator would allow. What connects the chapters of this book more than anything else is Nietzsche, and the way in which his ideas motivated so many social theorists of the early twentieth century, driving them to commit their thoughts to public scrutiny. Nietzsche made possible the careers of Levy and Ludovici, and was more or less present in the writings of the eugenicists depending on their philosophical bent, though not on their aspirations, which all accorded with those perceived at the time to be Nietzsche's: the rule of the best, an aristocracy of taste, and a leadership that scorned the call of the weak and degenerate. Chapter 3, specifically on the relationship between the Nietzsche and eugenics movements, explores these links in detail.
Nietzsche, as is well known, has been used to justify philosophical and political arguments of all persuasions, from anarchist to National Socialist, from misogynist to feminist. The examples of this multivocal appropriation, however, come usually from France, Russia, or, especially, Germany. We are aware that Georges Bataille wrote 'Nietzsche and the Fascists', defending Nietzsche's reputation in the face of fascist manipulations, whereas Julien Benda devoted part of his The Treason of the Intellectuals to attacking Nietzsche as an unrestrained advocate of violence or the 'warlike instinct', just as Max Nordau gave over a chapter of his Degeneration to correlating Nietzsche's work with his madness. [19] We know that there were German-Jewish, especially Zionist, writers such as Maximilian Stein and Leo Berg who saw in Nietzsche an advocate of a Jewish revival, just as there were Nazi philosophers such as Heinrich Hartle who appealed to Nietzsche to justify the Nazi programme. [20] The debate as to the accuracy of these positions is still as strong as ever, though the argument put forward by Weaver Santaniello, in Nietzsche, God, and the Jews, that the Nazis knew full well that Nietzsche's opinions on the Jews contradicted their own, and that they misused him deliberately in order to try to hide his real position, is certainly persuasive. [21] The debate about Nietzsche and fascism, however, is just one area over which readers disagree about where Nietzsche's sympathies lay.
What is less well known -- and no doubt more surprising to those whose view of the British life of the mind is based on stereotypes -- is that the reception of Nietzsche in Britain was just as vigorous as it was on the European mainland. This reception is interesting for three reasons. First, it reveals that intellectual activity in Britain at the turn of the century was lively, wide-ranging, and up-to-date. Although Nietzsche's works had not been translated into English with the same speed as they had been into French, numerous readers of German (and not just emigres like Alexander Tille) had made the effort to get to grips with this new, mysterious prophet. Second, the range of attitudes to Nietzsche covers a trajectory that is as wide, if not wider, than that to be found in France or Germany. The authors whose work appears in this volume span the range from libertarian and ultra-progressive (Havelock Ellis) to extreme-right-wing (Anthony Ludovici); in between there are aristocratic revivalists, moral philosophers, and, most importantly, those who considered themselves to be orthodox Nietzscheans, of whom Oscar Levy is the doyen. Third, and most significantly, the reception of Nietzsche in Britain ties in with other themes of early twentieth century thought in which Britain led the way, especially sexology and eugenics. The examinations of Nietzsche's thought that were produced in Britain at the beginning of the twentieth century were not simply explications de texte. Rather they were the means for their authors to proclaim whole new points of view, whether simply a statement of one's avant-garde status, or an assertion of a new morality. Particularly marked in this reception is the connection between the early Nietzscheans and the science of eugenics, the attempt to control human breeding patterns with the aim of producing a stronger race. It is no coincidence that early Nietzscheans included Havelock Ellis, the sexologist, Maximilian Mugge, the eugenicist, and F. C. S. Schiller, the Oxford philosopher and staunch defender of eugenics.
All this means that, far from being of interest merely to antiquarians of the history of ideas, the British Nietzscheans constitute a body of thinkers whose contribution to British intellectual life was wider than a cursory glance suggests. Put simply, the reception of Nietzsche in Britain, though it replicated the extent of the debates in France and Germany, was by no means a reflection of those debates; rather indigenous concerns of all hues found Nietzsche just as useful an ally as did all manner of thinkers elsewhere.
This breadth of interests also explains why this book contains, side by side, passages by utterly disparate writers, or writers whose opposing views would have encouraged one to put the other up against the proverbial wall. Yet I place them together not just because they were all among the rather select band of early readers of Nietzsche, but because they demonstrate how volatile European thought in this period was. When even Britain, bastion of bourgeois respectability and stolidity, could throw up such passionate and contradictory opinions about a mere philosopher, then there must really have been something challenging taking place.
Just what that challenge was becomes clear on examining the works of the Nietzscheans and the eugenicists. As elsewhere in Europe and beyond, Nietzsche represented the call of the new against the established order. Whether that meant the modernist technocrat rebelling against the hypocrisy of hereditary privilege, or whether it meant the aristocratic revivalist railing against the degeneration of 'the herd', Nietzsche provided a suitable starting point. What distinguished the British Nietzscheans' concerns from those of Germany or Russia was the focus on particularly British issues: the enfranchisement of women, the rise of labour, 'alien' immigration, a new science of sex. Sometimes these concerns dovetailed with those of other countries, but whatever the case for the internationalism or insularity of British Nietzscheanism, it was motivated, like its continental counterparts, by the call to understand what Nietzsche meant by the 'transvaluation of values'. And what unites almost all of them is a concern with eugenics and race, understood not in the narrow, Nazi sense, but rather in the broad sense of the new attempts to shape the demography of Europe through technocratic management. Yet this is not a complete break from Nazism, as I argue in Chapter 3, and thus the impact of these strands of thought in British intellectual life should give us pause for thought.
***
What I have tried to do in this book is not simply to present an argument in the history of ideas: that British fascism had an indigenous basis in the writings and actions of the national efficiency movement, the Diehard peers, the military leagues, the Nietzsche and eugenics movements. The reason for putting forward this argument is not solely one that will interest scholars, that is, not one that sets out only to modify the prevalent historiographical picture. I want to make a broader point about the history of ideas: we are so used to pigeonholing thinkers into 'schools', 'movements' and 'trends' that we overlook those who move between schools, who do not easily fit, or whose reputations rest on only a small proportion of their literary output. In combination these reasons account for the loss of Levy, Ludovici and most of the eugenicists to social and intellectual history. For another example, this book is not about literary modernism, but to a large extent it does make use of the New Age, a journal which has still not received the attention it deserves for its role in promoting early modernism (and which, thanks to its editor, A. R. Orage, was one of the early mouthpieces for Nietzscheanism). As a result of this and similar omissions, 'modernism' is still defined by two or three key players, while others, no less influential in facilitating and driving forward 'its' reception (as if modernism were anyway a unitary beast), are overlooked. [22] The historian of ideas can discourage the temptation to make the past more manageable, less complicated. In proferring a past that is suggested to be less complex and polysemic than the present, this temptation both domesticates the past and caricatures it. Reintroducing a sense of contingency and complexity does not prevent the historian from seeing long-term trends or pointing to developments in ideas, politics or economics, but it does mean that these trends cannot be seen to have emerged from nowhere, that the boundaries are always blurred between one trend and another; indeed, that many contradictory or apparently 'nonsynchronous' (to use Ernst Bloch's term) or 'untimely' (to use Nietzsche's) trends can co-exist.
In his explanation of how he set about writing history, R. G. Collingwood demonstrated that, rather than going to one's sources, seeing what was in them, and reproducing it, there was more profit to be derived from approaching one's material with one or more questions in mind. This kind of questioning, which Collingwood contrasted with a 'scissors-and-paste' history-writing, was a way of showing 'that the past which an historian studies is not a dead past, but a past which in some sense is still living in the present'. [23] In this spirit, I have not sought simply to transcribe what I found in my research, but have approached my sources with certain aims in mind, armed with the following questions: Why has the indigenous base of British fascism been overlooked? In what political circumstances did the ideas emerge and relationships develop between individuals and groups that gave rise to anti-democratic and authoritarian ideologies in Britain? What was the influence of Nietzscheanism on these emerging ideologies, and vice-versa? How were theories of degeneration, 'national efficiency' and eugenics linked to ideas about race in the years 1900-1918? Was there really such a large difference between continental eugenics and British eugenics? How thereafter did eugenic ideas develop to allow for wider differentiation between progressive and reactionary eugenicists and racial scientists? Can these British ideas be better understood with a term other than 'fascism', a term which implies their derivation from and imitation of National Socialism and/or Italian Fascism? I have no doubt not been able to answer all of these questions satisfactorily, but they give a thrust to the book which it might otherwise have lacked.
Collingwood believed that his history-as-question methodology would help in making the past relevant to contemporary human action. Few historians now would feel so sure. Nevertheless, studying the ideas that made up the 'extremes of Englishness' is of more relevance now than it has been at any time since the end of the Second World War. Historians now respond, quite understandably, with scepticism to suggestions that their work might be a guide to practical action; yet this aspiration remains part of the justification for devoting so much attention to human-made catastrophes, their causes and backgrounds.
On a more modest scale, if this book has successfully put forward my main historiographical argument, then the wider point about the history of ideas should follow automatically. Studying obscure authors, restoring them to their proper place in British culture (that is, not one where they are granted more influence than they really had, but one where their very existence is acknowledged), is a task well worth the effort if it clarifies the essential unclarity of the past, making complexity and density the norm.