Liars 1 Roots: Hegel, Marx, and the Making of Heaven on Earth Looking into the future we can contemplate a society . . . in which men shall work together for a common purpose, and in which the wholesale cooperation shall take place largely through government. We have reason to believe that we shall yet see great national undertakings with the property of the nation, and managed by the nation, through agents who appreciate the glory of true public service, and feel that it is God's work which they are doing, because church and state are as one. -EARLY AMERICAN PROGRESSIVE RICHARD T. ELY, 1894 Chicago Coliseum July 9, 1896 Moses ascended the mountaintop. Mount Sinai was the podium rising above a sea of delegates.
The two stone tablets decreed that the U.S. government's monetary supply be backed with reserves of silver instead of gold, along with a zealous commitment to heal the wounds that America's "one percent" had inflicted on everyone else. Greedy idolaters had worshipped capitalism's golden calf for far too long. That's why God, in his infinite mercy and wisdom, had finally sent a prophet. Thirty-six years old, his name was William Jennings Bryan. The seething mass of humanity inside Chicago's enormous, brand-new coliseum looked up at Bryan, the Democratic Party's nomination for President of the United States, whose imposing height, massive head, aquiline nose, and piercing brown eyes made him a striking figure. As Bryan held forth on the Democrats' proposed national platform, they shouted and cheered, frantically waving red bandanas in a sign of solidarity with the global workers' movement that had been sweeping Europe for decades.
For the first time at this convention the delegates saw a man of presidential timber on the stage above them. And, for the first time in generations, they saw a savior. The sweltering Chicago heat and the stench of thousands of sweating bodies inside the convention hall threatened to overcome him, but Bryan steadied himself for his moment atop Sinai. His knuckles turned white as he grabbed the sides of the lectern. He had never lacked for confidence, so now that thousands of eyes among the party faithful were upon him, now that reporters were furiously scribbling his every word in their notebooks, now that the moment he'd been waiting for all his life was upon him, William Jennings Bryan knew he would not falter. Bryan had arrived in Chicago uncertain of his chances of becoming his party's presidential nominee. But as his speech progressed he became convinced that victory was his. A new monetary policy based on the coinage of silver-"free silver"-had proven to be an even more enticing message than he'd expected.
The new supply of money would relieve crippling debts for the farmers and other impoverished voters Bryan sought to mobilize. As he neared the climax of his remarks he mustered every last ounce of energy he could and unleashed some of the most famous lines in American political rhetoric. "If they dare to come out in the open field," he thundered, "and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we shall fight them to the uttermost, having behind us the producing masses of the nation and the world. Having behind us the commercial interests and the laboring interests and all the toiling masses." Bryan paused, raised his hands above his head, and continued, "We shall answer their demands for a gold standard by saying to them: you shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns." He brought his hands down around his head, as if he were placing an imaginary crown on top. Then he stretched his arms out to his sides, palms toward the delegates, took a deep breath, and bellowed, "You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold!" Moses had now morphed into Jesus, and the multitude assembled thought they were witnessing the Second Coming. Their shouts thundered through the coliseum, shaking its steel girders and echoing down city blocks in every direction.
"Bedlam broke loose," exclaimed a stunned Washington Post correspondent. "Delirium reigned supreme. In the spoken word of the orator thousands of great men had heard the unexpressed sentiments and hopes of their own inmost souls." ♣ With that speech, William Jennings Bryan-"The Great Commoner"-ignited the first progressive moment in American history. His speech transformed Thomas Jefferson's and Andrew Jackson's Democratic Party-a party famously skeptical of the federal government-into a vehicle for massively expanding the state and making it responsible for redistributing wealth, breaking up businesses, assailing private property, and providing all manner of aid to the poor. Bryan was America's first prophet of progressivism, an ideology that would go on to redefine the Democratic Party for generations and ultimately destroy the experiment in limited government that had begun with the founding of the Republic. But Bryan's progressivism, while new to Americans and antithetical to the American system, was not a new movement at all. In fact, it originated from the very place the Founders had fled: the authoritarian-ruled nations of Europe.
GEORG HEGEL: THE BIRTH OF "PROGRESS" Ninety years before William Jennings Bryan's rapturous reception in Chicago, a German university professor cast his eyes on an emperor. Maybe it was because the commanding figure on horseback contrasted so starkly with his own bent and bookish posture, but the image impressed Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel more than anything he had ever seen. It was October 1806, and Napoleon Bonaparte, the self-declared emperor of France, was on his way to battle outside Jena, where Professor Hegel taught. Napoleon's forces slaughtered tens of thousands of Hegel's Prussian countrymen, defeating their kingdom's army once and for all. But his nation's humiliation hardly lessened Hegel's admiration for the French tyrant. If anything, it increased it. Napoleon sought to build an empire, a vast, ambitious government of planners and administrators. He was, in Hegel's view, an energetic man bringing progress-bloodstained progress, perhaps, but progress nonetheless-to a land that desperately needed it.
He believed this was the kind of strong, forward-thinking leader Europe had been waiting for. FEAR AND SELF-LOATHING The boy lay trembling in his bed, the sheets around him damp with sweat. Near his head, a cool cloth meant to provide relief from the fever had long ago fallen away as he lay half-dreaming. He woke with a start. The room was dimly lit, with the fingers of dawn creeping through the curtains. The house was quiet, eerily so. He wondered if he might still be dreaming. At his bedside sat a bedpan and an untouched cup of tea from the night before.
Wearily, he tried to sit up, his body weak, fever still sapping his strength. He willed himself up, sitting on the edge of his bed for a moment to steady himself. "Mother?" he said softly into the darkness of the hallway. No answer, just the silence. The boy stood, shaky on his feet. A chill ran through him as he gathered his bedclothes in fists at his sides. He took a few timid steps, his vision blurry in the pale light. Down the hall, he saw the doorway to his parents' bedroom was open.
"Mother?" he tried again. Silence again rebuffed him. He slowly worked his way down the hall, occasionally reaching out to the wall for balance. He reached the doorway and peered in. The window was open, curtains swayed slightly in a gentle breeze, but otherwise the room was silent. "Mother?" The query was louder this time, as the form of his parents still under blankets annoyed him. "Father?" No movement. He stepped into the room and took a few steps toward the bed.
Steadying himself for a moment, he shook the bedpost to wake them. He walked around the edge of the bed and reached up to touch his mother's shoulder. "Mother?" The coldness of her skin jolted him. He stepped back from the bed, his breath stuck in his throat. Fear washed over him, freezing him in place for a moment. Then he stepped forward and shook her roughly. "Mother! Mother!" His cries were raspy but loud. He was desperate to wake her, even though he already knew she would never wake up.
Fever had claimed her in the night, just as it had claimed so many others in their village and throughout Germany. Fear turned to nausea and ran through him. He cried and ran around the bed to the other side, where his father lay just as silent. He reached out in terror, tears starting to blur his vision. He touched his father's cheek, expecting the same coldness from the grayish skin. But as he touched him, his father stirred with a slight moan. He was still alive. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, thirteen years old, sank his head into the bl.